Everything was so . . . dark. This world--this Utopia--was falling apart at the seems. The methods were unclear, but the results were visible to the naked eye. Nations were collapsing, people were dying, and the world as they knew it was coming to an end. The darkness was like a torrential hurricane that could spawn at any point at any time; it only only but a single goal: to feed. The warm flesh of a fresh kill, or a still living being, regardless of its species, race, age, and gender--that was the preference.

The darkness was a mystery; it could not be understood. To look into it was to look into to expanse of the universe and know that nothing could ever truly be explained. The shadows were a primal fear; a discomfort felt by all beings when encountering that which they would never understand.

The fear of the unknown.

It devoured the hearts of men, women, and children alike, it swallowed whole cities, it ravaged nations and destroyed the infrastructure that many held onto as a final hope. Ever since the new year, it had only gotten progressively worse. And then there was the light: an equally as undefined and misunderstood concept that humanity saw hope within, and it--they--seemed every bit of protectors to these people.

And yet, there was still more to come.

Which was exactly why he was here. To survey the damage, look over the scars and shattered lives, and discern if there truly was any life yet unsmothered.

It wasn't long after the not-so-coveted arrival of the albino that a gust of wind stuck him without warning or mercy. The albino, clad in his traditional dress shirt and slacks, looking more like a post-adolescent school-boy than anything else, was notably surprised.

The scenery change was so quick that he could not keep track of it--all Tabris had experienced was a sudden drop onto his rear and back. It hurt, but he didn't think much of it. His eyes opened slowly as he lethargically sat up, his back straight, but body still upon the ground--or floor, it seemed. Indeed, the scenery change was bizarre, but stranger things had happened, correct? No--

--they hadn't.

Lemon had lost his mind.

Stranger things hadn't happened.

Crimson down the walls, moving pictures, frame by frame depicting the last breaths of those that Lemon spent his entire life tormenting. It was as if part of his devotion was gone; those that were to be in a state of eternal happiness were saved, but those that were not were permitted to finally die. The beast, the rage, the madness. Tabris observed it all as he pulled himself to his feet. This was an entirely different Lemon. The End was affecting even a man like him.

"My, my--you're certainly in an interesting mood today," remarked the albino quietly. He had an extremely hesitant method of speaking, though . . .

It was . . . strange. As it was, Tabris could not actually comprehend the human emotion of fear or intimidation. It was a completely foreign experience for him, and yet, for the first time in his life, he found himself almost ready to stumble over his words. The albino was feeling something other than joy.

". . . is it . . ." Tabris was . . . surprised, actually. "It really is . . ."

A shadeling . . .

The Albino stared up at the writhing creature, dumbfounded. He hadn't expected the Garden to possess enough unfortunate men, women, and children for a shadeling to be produced. He was curious, but at the same time, he did not want to see it. That in itself was strange; usually, Tabris could find pleasure in observing anything and everything, from a happy family picnic to a man undergoing the most brutal torture imaginable. And yet, as he felt his heart beating faster, Tabris wanted this creature to go away.

"I've . . . never seen one in person before," Tabris remarked, his awe clouded by the tortures the creature received at Lemon's will.

It was at that moment that Lemon provided the creature the torture of being ripped in two. A black fluid, viscous, its texture a perfect replica of human blood, was spilled in excess, filling the area like a river bursting through a dam, splattering, splotching, staining the walls, the paintings, and the floor just as it had each and every time Lemon unleashed agony upon the creature.

Though he had been clean up until this point, that torture splotched darkness upon the Albino's face. Obsidian droplets spotted down his forehead and right cheek, narrowly missing his eye. For the first time in history, the Albino's eyes grew as wide as they could, and with fair reason:

The shadows were boiling.

But not upon the floor, the walls, or the ceiling. No, it was only upon Tabris in which the splotches of darkness emitted an enriched sizzle, producing steam and a sickening smell--the smell of skin burning. Boiling. For a moment, Tabris simply stood there, eyes wide, lips agape. The feeling from earlier, when he looked upon Lemon and felt intimidation--comparatively, it was no more fear than one felt around an unloaded gun. This new sensation, however, was one he could not possibly ignore; it held no euphoria, no joy. There was no child-like smile upon the Albino's lips. His fingers trembled when the pain finally set in.

His eyes shut tightly and he bent forward, nearly throwing himself to his knees. Using the backs of his arms, then finally his bare hands, he wiped off as much of it as he could. The steam produced from his face was transferred to his arms and palms, but quickly dissipated. The darkness upon him was no more; it had left in its place deep marks of gray where it had touched the Albino. In the end, Tabris found himself standing hunched over, staring at his open palms with wide eyes, watching the gray carve its way into his flesh. He coughed once--twice, his entire body reacting negatively. It felt like every muscle in his body was trembling, while his heart may very well have been thriving more beats per second than could possibly be monitored.

Why am I . . . shaking . . .?

This entire sensation had never been experienced before.

It was terrifying.

Though it was only a construct of the mind in which Tabris had been afflicted, the effects had not gone away: the Albino still felt pain and emptiness where he had been touched by the liquid darkness. It confounded him; an effect physical that carried over from the hallucinations and mental abuse of a creature . . . and into his reality. In what was real, far from a twisted hallucination within a newly formed mind, or a series of thoughts experienced by several minds at once, Tabris still retained injury from the experience.

He had seen vaguely familiar before, yet never experienced it himself. The darkness was susceptible to the light, and vice versa. The Albino's observations were nothing like this, though. All he knew was that a Lumen could defeat a shade just as easily as a shade could a Lumen, and sometimes the effects were catastrophic. But Lumen fared so much better in combat; in all of Tabris's observations, shades were primarily the ones cut down . . .

That did not mean he had ever touched a shade before, though. If he recalled correctly, Tarruen--a fellow of his--had mentioned the pain experienced by touching a shade's skin with his own, that he always hated to fight them because he had to use weapons rather than his bare hands. Is this what was supposed to happen? Even though it happened in his and her mind, the scars of gray were still upon him. Were their existences truly that potent of an opposite? Tabris had lost himself in thought for just a moment, all whilst he stared blankly at the speckles of gray upon his palms. It did not take long for him to straighten up, though.

". . . well . . ." Tabris began to return to his jovial demeanor, but with much shakiness. He found himself needing to put effort behind it. "That was an interesting experience . . ."

Lemon, even in a self aware and conscious state--beyond his blissful insanity which commanded his mental annihilation--could not muster an absurdity beyond his own flagrant sadism; humorless, pitiless (as if he ever had such a thing), and solemn in his own rights, yet enraged and teetering upon madness all the same. Tabris, who lacked in empathy to such a degree that he could not understand the pain of starvation in the human children of the Garden--before their inevitable demise--was even able to discern this.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now . . ." Tabris inhaled once, and exhaled his ill-feelings shortly thereafter, "That the world has quickly set fire."

Set aflame by sparks of achromatic light and shadow--

--but for the garden, it was only the flames flit by shadow which had been witnessed. Tabris had not introduced Lumen into the domain of Zitrone and Lemon's Garden; he had refrained and skipped over the populous, not out of pity, but out of a botched sense of respect for the telepath. They had not experienced the second scourge, nor the agony of being whited out from the face of the planet . . .

That botched sense of respect followed through, and brought Tabris here, when, in truth, he should have been elsewhere, laying preparation and ensuring the course of fate.

Time was all the Albino needed to regain his demeanor. A smile crept upon his lips once again, and empathy and sympathy and sadness, hate, pain, and anger, all ceased to function, and the Albino progressively felt less human and more like the white skinned, well dressed mental and emotional monster that he truly was. And it made him happy. Truly, genuinely happy. The pain, the liquid shadows, and the gray scars that still clung to his face made him feel what it was like to be human--humbled, reduced from his state of divine joy, damned to a fit of disconnected feelings of which he could not comprehend or act upon.

"Lemon," Tabris announced the golden pseudokinetic's name in a state bordering on pride--the first time he ever used his name out loud, "I've come to present you a proposition-- an invitation."

What of the Garden--

Tabris mentally acknowledged his own accuracy. It was easy any of them to tell that much, though--all of Lemon's telepaths. Tabris had been trained by the absurd man of many ears and many eyes, and by observation alone, came to know quite a bit about the man--he even came to respect the entity to a certain extent, which was considerable, as Tabris held little respect for any life. Incidentally, that had lead Tabris here, and kept him from pawning off his own kind to Lemon--those destructive albinos. The Garden was always a focus of Lemon's--of all of theirs. Even Tabris was going to miss it. There, he had been a god--a white god, a light god, a messenger of gods, an angel descendant upon mankind, or average boy; he was whatever he wanted to be.

Fortunately, it seemed as if Lemon was able to reason after venting his frustration--eternal frustration, at that. Just picking up anywhere and creating yet another Garden was illogical; there was no emotional attachment. It would have to be grown--hate would have to develop, and that took time.

"Not a party, 'less you'd wish to call it such--but not a party where formalities matter."

Although he had recently rekindled the spirit of his joy, Tabris had to throw that aside for the time being: he had to be serious. The happiness was still there; only when he found himself scarred had he been able to get rid of it--and sadly, those scars had permanence . . .

But no more permanence that what was to come.

"It's an invitation-- to the End of the World."

And by Tabris's tone, serious, yet jovial, and by historical evidence, this was in no way a ruse or a metaphor. Lemon had seen himself the terror that was tearing the world apart. In the Garden, he witnessed only the dark, but in other nations--Greoul, for example, where he had eyes and ears, he'd have witnessed both the light and dark, and the terror they could unleash when they fought . . . or ignored each other and mutually focused upon the populous--the beings who sought solace in the light . . .

Of course Lemon was interested in the concept of the world's conclusion. A wave of destruction was finally rising to its full potential, and now that shallows that troubled the world had churned into a beast that could swallow their collective reality and leave only a blank in its wake--a blank slate. A blank world. A blank reality.

Nothing.

What more did Lemon desire than the pain of the Garden? Destruction was a hobby for warlords, but a passion to those who ended lives in scant quantity, yet made living a misery far worse than any lengthy demise. What madman with a passion for destruction would pass up the offer for close balcony seats to the play production of Utopia's finale with a world submerged in a sea of flame? No one.

Tabris smiled--this time genuine, with no trace of forcefulness, falsity, or sarcasm. The End of the World would not have been the same without Lemon, and the Albino truly felt that way. Coincidentally, that was the extent of strong feeling he had experienced in potentially an entire lifetime.

"I'm glad."

From his pocket, Tabris withdrew a small, folded up slip of paper. His means were archaic compared to what Lemon could do--literally implant directions into another being's mind, but not only did Tabris lack such an ability, it was simply his preference. With a casual step, he approached his former "master," holding the folded up, somewhat thick cartography paper to Lemon.

"The End will be a convergence upon one point, and if instinct still serves me well, there is still but a week until the show," said the Albino, providing Lemon all the information he'd need, "And this should be all you'll need to find it."