Horizon, Prologue: The Darkness Returns
Horizon, Prologue: The Darkness Returns

"Welcome to L'hotel du Summers. My name is Risosha Richmonde, and I am the assistant manager."

Risosha smiled amicably from under his dark, bushy mustache and laughed through squinted eyelids. It was summertime; the best season for the exotic and elegant resort, and Risosha couldn't have been happier. It meant endless cascades of money flowing from gullible tourists' pockets. He rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. All he had to do was smile, extend his hand, and the ignorant vacationers would more than willingly fork over their hard-earned cash. It was all too easy for him.

The day was coming to a close, and what a day it had been. The money did not seem to stop flowing. Dollar signs danced in Risosha's eyes as he counted the register. Credit receipts, traveler's checks, and pure green -- the stuff that dreams were made of, and that which marked his very livelihood. He gazed out the window, and noted the sun descending below the calm ocean waves, below the horizon, casting eerie orange hues intermingled with the deep blue of a starry night sky. The boardwalks were thinning now; not many more customers, to be sure. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though. It gave Risosha time to count his hard-earned money. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand...

"Mr. Richmonde, you don't look too well."

Four thousand, five thousand...

"What?" Risosha looked up into the eyes of one of his bellboys. They were concerned eyes. He considered them a moment, then replied. "Oh, I'll be fine. It's been a long day, after all. I guess the summer heat is taking its toll on me." He resumed his counting. Six thousand, seven thousand...

He paused. Dancing about the dollar signs in his mind was a red baseball cap. He did not know where it came from, or what had put it there. All he knew was that he felt a distinct wave of nausea encompass him as he stood there, counting the bills. He tried to shrug it off and continue. Eight thousand, nine thousand...

A shrill voice echoed through his mind, piercing his eardrums. He couldn't have imagined it. Risosha stumbled, and the bellboy reached out an arm to help. "Mr. Richmonde, are you all right?" Risosha stared at him, his eyes somewhat vacant.

"Maybe not...here." He looked into the bellboy's glistening brown eyes. "You take over counting for now. I'll be right back." Risosha left the counter and walked down the hallway, toward the bathroom.

As he stumbled down the hall, bloody images assaulted his consciousness. Images of shattered gold, and starting flashes of neon erupted in his mind's eye. Military personnel dashed across his view, and an ever-present, eerie yellow moon hung in a void of blackness.

Ten thousand, eleven thousand...

Risosha quickened his pace, the nauseating feeling in his stomach intensifying, and he crashed through the bathroom door. He grasped the sink for balance, and slowly picked himself up to look into the mirror.

What he saw there was not his own face. Instead, tongues of fire licked at him before his very eyes. Flames that engulfed neon-rimmed buildings, flames encircling a small band of individuals -- most notably, a boy in a red cap and a yellow backpack, clutching a baseball bat in his right hand. A flash of purple blinded Risosha briefly, and then an uneven shard of violet rock appeared before him, replacing his reflection, and it slowly grew larger, encompassing his field of view. Risosha involuntarily, unnaturally moved his hand to his hair, meticulously combing the bushes of black on either side quite uncharacteristically, as if trying to align a line that simply was not there.

Twelve thousand, thirteen thousand...

His knuckles grew white as they gripped the porcelain sink. He heard a melancholy voice echo through the expanse of his mind. It spoke of the Young Protector, always the Young Protector. Risosha blinked. a thin-lipped mouth appeared before him while all around him seemed to blacken, and framed within these twisted lips were the most yellow of decayed teeth. It smiled at him, growing larger, opening wider as if it planned to consume him.

Fourteen thousand, fifteen thousand...

Risosha screamed.

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At seven o'clock, a solitary figure traversed the empty streets, heading toward the Port town of Toto, while L'hotel du Summers burned quietly behind him, encased in a fiery orange horizon. A sickeningly twisted grin enveloped Risosha's face. His eyes were a startling shade of crimson.