Magic Murder Cube Marine

Francis saw a black mountain rising from the forest. A perfect circle of death surrounded it, killing even the grass that dared creep too close.

Bad things had happened here. Like a nuclear bomb or some other unspeakable horror. Nothing grew, even birds avoided flying over the blackened area. Then, men came.

They cut a road through the forest and laid the foundations of what would become Brexis. As they died or fell ill, corpses were raised to continue the work. Soon, the dead outnumbered the living. They carved away at the mountain like pale white ants.

Walls made from black stone appeared around the city. Then came the skeleton of infrastructure, roads, and buildings. A familiar city began to take shape.

Wagons traveled down the black road through the forest, bringing supplies and food for the workers. Barges traveled down the river, loading or unloading cargo at the docks outside the city. The city thrived, the flow of goods and people moving through it like water on a wheel.

Gradually, then suddenly, the black aura of death began to fade. Plants grew and birds circled overhead. Life, it seemed, had won. But it didn't last.

One day the wagons and barges stopped. Then the city closed its gates and slowly began to rot. Without fresh life to keep it at bay, the creeping black death returned to kill those who remained, and the city died with them.

Francis snapped out of the vision, breathing hard as he processed the deaths of nearly half a million people. Whatever evil cursed the land seemed to have been manageable, at least until the population started to fall.

He wondered if the original builders had chosen the spot for a reason. Maybe the black death was like oil, a resource to be harvested. That made sense to Francis. Why else would they build here?

Relativity sent him a feeling of overwhelming regret, like a bullet that couldn't ever be taken back. Francis didn't know what part Relativity had played in the city’s downfall. But he understood that the artifact blamed itself.

“Do better, this time.” Francis said as he looked out over the city. If Jack was right and his world was lost, this was his home now. He would need to make sure history didn't repeat itself.

The Marine retrieved one of the bottles of beer from his bag and took a sip. It was warm and sweet, but he drank it anyway. When it was finished he pulled out the second bottle. But this one wasn't for him.

“To absent friends, and a chance to honor them.” He said as he poured one out for the fallen. It splashed against the black stone and ran towards the storm drain. He would build something from this decaying ruin, a home to replace the one he lost.

Francis looked at the brown glass bottle, hefting it to get a feel before throwing it as hard as he could towards the setting sun. He watched it sail through the air. “And that one is for every son of a bitch I'm going to have to kill to make it happen.”

***

Francis reviewed his goals on the way back to base. Or rather, the palace.

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