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"Today, in World News. United States President Donald Glover said that the bombings in New Israel would not be tolerated. He has enacted plans to counter the Christians assaults with peace keeping missions.

North Korean Queen Fook Yu's second son was married, giving him a fourth wife in what has become the central location of Mormonism on the planet.

And finally, tech conglomerate Facebook has decided to shut down their social media presence, after it was discovered to be a den of pedophiles and black marketeers."

The television snapped off with the click of the remote, and the barman turned from it. His grunt showed his disapproval, considering he was probably one of the pedophiles using Facebook most often. The denizens of the bar didn't care, many of them were too drunk to have told you their own names. The raucous laughter of the crowd drowned out any individual conversation. Hard men, these were. Gangbangers and thugs, men who came back from their personal and governmental wars changed. They were here because this place was dark, drab, and the bartender didn't cut you off when you were too drunk to walk.

The drinks just kept coming, and they kept drinking. They all seemed to fit in pretty well, though in the far corner, nestled into a booth with a couple girls and a fella holding a pair of dice, sat one who stuck out like a sore thumb. His flowing grey hair, long enough to rest in the mid of his back. The way his eyes sparkled, despite the iris holding no semblance of color. The way his lips upturned to smile a smile that never touched his eyes. He was cold, and he was hard - but he didn't fit in. The other members of the bar paid him no mind, though sideways glances in his direction were frequent.

Probably to get a glance at his sword, the behemoth weapon rested on the wall behind him - leant there with its tip buried a full inch into the hardwood floor. The man's cold eyes checked each person in turn, catching their gaze before they even decided to look it seemed. A perfect mirror of their actions. It unsettled them, and their eyes averted almost immediately. It was a loud night at the bar, but it was interrupted pretty quick. And in a pretty horrible way.

The door thundered off its hinges, breaking a table and breaking the neck of the poor old fool who sat there. The man was a member of the bar's regular crowd. Well liked, well regarded. He was a friend to everyone, even newcomers felt some sense of comfort around him. A great tragedy his death was, and it riled the anger in many of them when the door tumbled on him. The surprise of it notwithstanding, everyone immediately became on edge. Hands clenched into fists, conversation stopped. Everyone turned their eyes to the door, except the white-haired man with the giant sword. He watched the rolling die on the table, They tumbled, end over end, for a few seconds before coming to a rest.

"Snake eyes, you lose" he whispered, lifting his glass and taking the amber liquid in - draining it all before swallowing. Finally, he turned his attention to the man at the door - his long-winded pause meant for effect having no affect. He met the others gaze, as the words left his lips. His hand canted to the side, trying to remember if he'd ever met anyone who bore any faint resemblance to someone as ugly as this guy was, before something clicked.

"Uh...you're not from around these parts, eh, Pundambayan? You know these people don't even know what faster than light travel is? Much less would they have had any dealings with a race as isolated as your own. Now...I don't think I'm the one who killed him....but honestly, I've killed a lot of people. I mean... a lot and all the ugly ones kind of bleed together."

His body turned as he spoke, shifting so that he could let one knee pull up on the cushion of the booth - his back against the wall and one arm draped over the back. The hilt of Caldecise sat within easy reach, but for a man such as him he could have reached it easily even if it were on the other side of the country. As he spoke, his words seethed with venom. Not at the man for wanting vengeance, but for interrupting his good time. The cock-blocking son of a bitch was definitely going to end up paying for that, if he didn't turn right around and leave.

He could have said as much, but he preferred the diplomatic approach these days. "Now, considering you're clearly not on my level, and these people couldn't have possibly left the surface of this planet to have been anywhere near your reclusive bunch of pathetic, ignorant people. I'm going to give you this one chance. Get out. While you can still move under your own power."

As he spoke those final words, the room seemed to darken. Shadows shimmered, shifting and moving in ways that weren't possible - and yet seemed to be just that. The sword forged in the blood of stars sat at the ready, though he doubted he'd need to rely on the particular strength it would offer - bolstering his own magic and might to Godlike levels was, often, overkill. Not that he didn't like a bit of overkill from time to time, but why bother wasting his energy if it wasn't required.

-

"Hm, that's it, eh? A half-insult and you turn and leave? That was the easiest win I've ever been handed...though not sure why you had to kill those random dudes to give that assessment, but hey - whatever man. I love a good murder myself. Maybe when I'm done here, I'll track down your people and give them a taste of my blade. Or not...depends on the mood I'm in, I suppose. A lot of it depends on mood, you know. Killing, I mean. It's not willy-nilly, well not for most people. Sometimes it's just because I can, I won't lie about it. But, people in general. Well, not just people. Since you're not really a person, aye? Or do you consider aliens people? That's be a weird dichotomy to deal with, I'd think. What is and isn't a person...I wonder...does it have anything to do with souls? I have twelve of those, you know.

"Then again, I'm not sure that does it. Because I'm certainly not a person, at least not in the way most people think of someone as a person. I'm more of a...a monster, really. At least that's what the last few races I slaughtered called me. A monster. Some herald me as their God, too, though. So, I'm really not sure. You know these guys thought of me as a God once, when I first came here. Long time ago, been around these parts from time to time to check in on things. I really liked them, I taught them some things. They gave me their shinies and their women. A lot of that, women I mean. Not so much the shinies, not much use for them when you can just slit the throat of someone and take what you want. But, the women...mmm...I love women. Speaking of, your mom still alive? Aunt? Sister? Do you guys even have family like humans, or is it kind of the same thing with different made up names?"

He spoke nearly nonstop, ensuring that the other heard his words - even as he walked away carrying the door he'd just used to commit that most atrocious sin of murder. His words simply grew louder, more pompous. It was like he was trying to entice the guy into turning around and chunking the door at him, and the pale glow of light illuminating the area where he held the door only furthered that innate knowledge of what he intended to do. After all, why make a glow outside of a rave without a reason, right? Well, it didn't really matter. Lysander simply sat at his table, one knee propped up on the booth and his eyes watching the others back. While he spoke, his mouth moved - but no other part of his body made any perceptible movement. For all intents and purposes, he wasn't moving and he had no intention of moving.

All the while, though, as the words hung in the air and the other continued walking toward the door...which was taking an insanely long time for someone as brutish as he - the room continued to quiet down. It was like something was happening to each person, like some part of themselves was going missing. What was happening? Well, that wasn't really something that could be missed - if one were to look in the right place. The question was, would he? Would his eyes take in the room, or would he trip over his own feet. Probably the latter, they always did the latter. Honestly, Lysander could have killed him when he snapped on his nifty little lightbox thing. Just a slight movement of his fingers, and his skull would have been crushed under the weight of a star. But, he hadn't. He actually hoped this guy would give him something of a bit of fun before he died.

And they always died. Either slowly and painfully, or quickly and painless. That choice, ultimately, was one for them to make though. It all depended on what the guy did next. Would he turn and fight, like a man, or would he continue to cower and run? It didn't actually matter, his first attack would find itself useless either way you looked at it. With his eyes on the other person, his body made a faint shimmer - like darkness closing over it for only a slight second - and with the other looking away from him, unable to see him - it would go completely unnoticed.

Once more, his voice hung in the open air - the only sound other than the faint, heart-rate elevated breathing of a few members in the bar. "So, do you guys have families or not? I need to know who I'm going to be raping and murdering when I'm done flaying you open from stem to sternum."

"Hm, that's it, eh? A half-insult and you turn and leave? That was the easiest win I've ever been handed...though not sure why you had to kill those random dudes to give that assessment, but hey - whatever man. I love a good murder myself. Maybe when I'm done here, I'll track down your people and give them a taste of my blade. Or not...depends on the mood I'm in, I suppose. A lot of it depends on mood, you know. Killing, I mean. It's not willy-nilly, well not for most people. Sometimes it's just because I can, I won't lie about it. But, people in general. Well, not just people. Since you're not really a person, aye? Or do you consider aliens people? That's be a weird dichotomy to deal with, I'd think. What is and isn't a person...I wonder...does it have anything to do with souls? I have twelve of those, you know.

"Then again, I'm not sure that does it. Because I'm certainly not a person, at least not in the way most people think of someone as a person. I'm more of a...a monster, really. At least that's what the last few races I slaughtered called me. A monster. Some herald me as their God, too, though. So, I'm really not sure. You know these guys thought of me as a God once, when I first came here. Long time ago, been around these parts from time to time to check in on things. I really liked them, I taught them some things. They gave me their shinies and their women. A lot of that, women I mean. Not so much the shinies, not much use for them when you can just slit the throat of someone and take what you want. But, the women...mmm...I love women. Speaking of, your mom still alive? Aunt? Sister? Do you guys even have family like humans, or is it kind of the same thing with different made up names?"

He spoke nearly nonstop, ensuring that the other heard his words - even as he walked away carrying the door he'd just used to commit that most atrocious sin of murder. His words simply grew louder, more pompous. It was like he was trying to entice the guy into turning around and chunking the door at him, and the pale glow of light illuminating the area where he held the door only furthered that innate knowledge of what he intended to do. After all, why make a glow outside of a rave without a reason, right? Well, it didn't really matter. Lysander simply sat at his table, one knee propped up on the booth and his eyes watching the others back. While he spoke, his mouth moved - but no other part of his body made any perceptible movement. For all intents and purposes, he wasn't moving and he had no intention of moving.

All the while, though, as the words hung in the air and the other continued walking toward the door...which was taking an insanely long time for someone as brutish as he - the room continued to quiet down. It was like something was happening to each person, like some part of themselves was going missing. What was happening? Well, that wasn't really something that could be missed - if one were to look in the right place. The question was, would he? Would his eyes take in the room, or would he trip over his own feet. Probably the latter, they always did the latter. Honestly, Lysander could have killed him when he snapped on his nifty little lightbox thing. Just a slight movement of his fingers, and his skull would have been crushed under the weight of a star. But, he hadn't. He actually hoped this guy would give him something of a bit of fun before he died.

And they always died. Either slowly and painfully, or quickly and painless. That choice, ultimately, was one for them to make though. It all depended on what the guy did next. Would he turn and fight, like a man, or would he continue to cower and run? It didn't actually matter, his first attack would find itself useless either way you looked at it. With his eyes on the other person, his body made a faint shimmer - like darkness closing over it for only a slight second - and with the other looking away from him, unable to see him - it would go completely unnoticed.

Once more, his voice hung in the open air - the only sound other than the faint, heart-rate elevated breathing of a few members in the bar. "So, do you guys have families or not? I need to know who I'm going to be raping and murdering when I'm done flaying you open from stem to sternum."

-

Even as he spoke, the other began to move - and honestly that was just rude. Interrupting a man mid-sentence, especially when all they wanted to do was drink beer, dick down some hookers, and enjoy an evening out without the madness of some upstart warrior trying to tackle him to the ground and pummel his head in. Eh, you can't win 'em all, they say, and they'd be right in most circumstances. This wasn't most circumstances. Even as the man began to turn his body, the shadows around them began to react. Not just his own, but every single shadow in the room. All of them. The people standing, the chairs, tables, even the shadow of the door itself. They all reached out, moving imperceptibly fast. The Flash himself couldn't catch those shadows on his best day. They all latched onto a singular point - and that point was their master. The man who wielded them with such insane efficiency, that it would be almost impossible to wretch them away from him. All the math in the world, all the strength in the world, wouldn't be of any use here.

The shadow of the door itself reacted at the speed of instinctual though - which is to say that even as the brutish man began to turn, and it became all the more clear what was happening - it began to create the biggest drag effect a man could have ever seen. That same drag amplified itself as it left the others hand, as the monstrous man's own shadow reached from behind him and grasped it - putting as much force the opposite way as it had going forward. The man had no need to move his body from the shrapnel, because by the time the shrapnel reached him its velocity was less than that of your average tree-sloth. The shards of wooden door meant nothing, and the concussive blast of the other's hands was strong - he'd give him that. But, Lysander once stood in the event horizon of a black hole, turned, and then walked away. That concussive wave had nothing on the force of that particular singularity.

It reached him, and he withstood it. His arms shifted a bit, his hair blew back - but other than that he came out of it completely unscathed. Not too shabby, really. Good thing he didn't rely on reaction times or complicated mathematical issues to determine how he moved or what he did. He was a warrior, born and raised. From the moment of his birth, he began training. Fighting, and the control over his magic, was an instinct. And nothing happens faster than instinct. The other would do well to learn that, but that was something that came with time. With experience, and this one? He was still fresh to the scene. Anyway, as the sharpnel came to its halt - the shadows released and they fell one by one to the floor in front of him. Though, the same couldn't be said for the people in the room. Afterall, they weren't really all that important. They lay dead, their bodies pierced or shattered. Their blood seeped out onto the floor, pooling beneath themselves - some touching others. It was a pretty gory mess, but a mess none theless.

All in all, the man put a lot of power into his attack - and Lysander did feel kind of bad about it being so insanely ineffectual. So, to make up for it in some small way, he reached to the table and grabbed a splinter. Pricking himself on the pad of his left thumb, allowing a minor amount of blood to drain, and then the wound resealed. Finally, though, he was beginning to consider this guy something more than a minor annoyance. He shifted his body a bit, pulling himself out of the booth. His sword remained unharmed on the wall, the precious materials making it up far stronger, and nearly as durable as Lysander himself. His eyes closed for a moment, and he took a deep breath. And though he could have done it with nothing more than a thought - he decided to voice the command.

"Come," was all he said, and come they did. The shadows coelesced upon him. Coming in droves, hordes. Thousands, millions. Shadows from the rain, shadows from the building. Shadows from the place where shadows were but moved. They bore down upon him furiously, some coating his body - shifting theirselves over his flesh. They formed not his Shadow Queen Armor, but the Godhand himself. Wrapping over him, clothing him in their darkness. Finally, they settled - at least the ones upon himself. If this one wanted to go all out, then he - to - would go all out. The sword floated on a sliver of shadow, touching his right hand before the wrappings fell away revealing the blackened blade. A sinuous red line the only contrast to it, as the gargantuan sword forged in the very spaces between Universes, with the blood of those 'verses themselves shimmered. The bar no longer held light, no, the lights were gone - and yet the shadows remained.

"You want a fight, gruesome? Well, you got one. I just hope you know what you're asking for."

The shadows not laying upon him floated behind him, tendril-like whips shifting to and fro constantly moving, constantly acting. Almost as if they held their own sentience, and maybe they did - or maybe they reacted on the pure instinct that Lysander harbored in his centuries old mind. Regardless, their constant motion created the perfect defense. Always ready to lash out, always ready to strike. Lysander, himself, was ready. His right foot shifted - and in the span of a heartbeat he was upon the other. His sword shifted behind him - the tip buried in the monstrous mass of the Shadow Well, and just as he began to swing the sword forward he shifted. That shimmering blackness overtook him, and as the sword swung toward the other something seemed...different.