He shifts in annoyance and then out of curiosity he looks through the rearview mirror into the backseat.

The entire back end section of the car is shrouded in pitch, a lightless void that seems to swirl in tandem while never retracting or reframing itself. Even with the tinted windows on either side, the darkness refused to move, like a still of inexorable fear that strangles its prey with an unseen force that then drowns them in despair, as they curse their own damnation.

As the car pulled up to its destination, the light turns red, and Wilhelm puts the car on park. Outside, a street lamp opposite their side of the street glowered at them; the light, a sickening hue of orange, stands tall and, as if in offense towards the passenger, dared to beam a single ray into the window, reflecting into the back seat and revealing who exactly they were.

Wilhelm took a deep breath, and then shot a quick glance at the clock.

It was 2:25.

In the backseat of the Lincoln, a gentleman sat standard issue on the leather, every inch of his body perpendicular to the framework of the seat beneath him.

The passenger was an old man of a respectable age, with silvery hair and a finely weathered face. His nose was shaped like a crow’s beak, casting a shadowy hook in response to the light while his cheeks looked visibly perturbed—as if they were under assault with the intent of spontaneously combusting. His hair was slicked back while his muttonchops pointed outwardly in triangular shapes. A long scar drew itself from the top of his left temple all the way to the lower end of the underside of his jaw--a memento of a thousand battles he fought in times long forgotten by mortals. Combined these gave him the appearance of a warlord only he looked very clean and proper—regal, and imposing.

His eyes were closed, and his breathing slow but shallow. His clothes were old, but not too old; venerable in fact in the sense of pride he took is his personal image as befitting a man of his caliber. His suit was rather dull looking, though, with a long suede coat jacket that covered the vest and suit shirt underneath. The color of the coat was an impressively worthless shade of grayish green, while the pants were olive and the shoes, conquistadors, were a fecklessly faded, shade of brown. In all, his fashionable apparel gave him the impressionable visage of a well to do Baron or Count, the tailoring reminiscent of the middle to late Victorian and early Edwardian periods.

He was crisp and clean, and clearly knew that everyone who saw him knew it.

Old money could always be depended upon to properly represent privilege and sophistication at its finest.

Diverted from eyeing the street before him, Wilhelm found himself staring into the mirror, looking intently at his master. For a while, there was a hovering silence between them that suffocated the air with awe and fear. Suddenly a low vibration penetrated the silence as a tremor swayed the car ever so slightly. Looking at his master and focusing on the waves of energy the ground emitted with each tremor, his body drew memories from his past as the sudden sounds of swords clashing and crowds jeering filled his wandering mind as the chanting of one name echoed in his mind. The sounds of horses beating hooves against gravel, and chariots racing across the sandy expanse.

Mathos!

Wilhelm closed his eyes, and steadied his heartbeat, taking slow controlled breaths.

The harsh Mediterranean sun glowered on the soft white sand which steamed as puddles of red liquid dripped from open wounds, and metal bit flesh while cries of anger turned into wails of pain. Rays of silk draped in hundreds of colors swirled in his vision; hues of purple and royal blue, covered by gleaming golden wreaths.

A bronze gladius blazing in the sun, and the sudden taste of blood.

Ah yes, the blood.

So much of it, so much blood.

Mathos!

His grip on the steering wheel lessened and his thumbs massaged the leather cover as he titled his head upward a bit so that his chin pointed at the upper section of the windshield.

A crowd of thousands watches the spectacle below, stinking, sweating, shouting, and hooraying as bodies crumpled to the ground. Their shocked, contorted expressions were frozen forever on their faces as they realized too late the error in their folly and the sudden chilling hand of the final sleep coddling each of their lips waiting to gift them the kiss of eternal damnation.

*rumble*

Mathos!

Mathos!

*rumble*

Math--

*Rumble!*

The car shook again, this time more terribly so.

Above them in the intersection, the streetlights flickered and trees swayed furiously. A flicker of black caught Wilhelm’s attention, and darting a quick glance turned into a full-on stare down. Several blocks away, a shadow fell across the city slowly stomping its way towards the Lincoln. It was small at first, skipping every other block and building, but then the looming wall tightened up, shutting out every speck of light it touched with a profound slap, racing ever faster until it was speeding in the direction of the intersection. Wilhelm turned to his right, then to his left, then behind them.

The veil was no longer a shadow, but now a wave—a living wave of pure darkness—and it was surrounding them.

It was very, very, much alive. In its liveliness, it made sure that the area around the Lincoln distance wise was an entire 16 feet radius.

It’s toying with us, Wilhelm noted.

Wilhelm, unperturbed by the recent events, looked down on the dashboard at the clock.

It was 2:26.

A measly minute had passed, but a minute no less than what it needed. The radius of those 16 feet became as blank as the underside of a corpse. Cars parked along the sides of the streets suddenly bonked to life as their alarms were triggered, before many were soundly crushed or pulverized by the darkness, while others simply continued onward. Animals that happened along the alleyways in the cracks and crevices of buildings were mostly slaughtered; either dropping dead where they were or having their corpses splattered across the pavement.

The shaking increased with a resounding crash and if Wilhelm could guess, had most likely reached a 4.0 on the Richter scale. At this, hundreds of windows cracked while their contents were tossed off their shelves, and metal frames that held together many floors rattled and sporked as their nuts and bolts popped out; the darkness etched ever closer. Wilhelm looked on himself amused but unimpressed, and casually eyed a sleeping bum huddled in an alleyway to the west of their position cradling a bottle of Jack Daniels while a raggedy coat on a makeshift bed made of a chunky old mattress and stuffed with trash bags. The loud snoring the bum made was boisterous and comically boring, but as the shaking intensified Wilhelm’s brow furrowed as his mind thought the obvious.

If the shaking intensifies any more, he thought, then it won’t be long before this homeless sack of shit wakes up.

Contrary to this though, the bum did nothing but sleep (surprisingly). He must’ve been that inexorably drunk off of his ass to sleep during a quake like this, and it was that fact alone that gave Wilhelm a microscopic twinge of respect for the homeless bastard. Not a lot, but enough that Wilhelm would make a personal note to see that no harm came to him.

Well... not completely.

He simply liked to give his victims just a little taste of hope before he killed them.

Then.

Ka-Boom!