All copyright belongs to Noam and Boaz Naiman. Publishing or reprinting of this novel in part or in whole is prohibited without the written permission of the authors. All unauthorized reprinting, publishing, or copying is punishable by shotgun to the face, or legal action, or… something.



by Noam and Boaz Naiman

"The words of the prophet are written on the cindered walls."

Prologue: A Choir of Humanity


The sky was orange and the ocean bluer than it had ever been. The world was finally calm. In the distance, you can hear the slight whistle of wind, but there was no sound. There was no life. Everything that had ever been and will ever be had now been turned to silence. Nature was the only sound now, singing like a choir. The howling of the wind were the haunting sopranos singing a tune of what once was. The silent crackling of leaves were the calm and soothing altos of what could have been. Whatever was left of industrial sounds such as metal clinking together were the lost tenors of what would never be. Finally, the crashing of waves were the ambitious basses of what all could make of what was to come: a choir of humanity.

In the middle of the haunting concerto, one audience member woke up. He looked around the beautiful wasteland. He was tired, he was shaken, and he did not wish to stay awake, but knew he must. Before he fell back into the waters that he stood in, before he would fall into the pit that people had dug for him all of his life, he said a few calming words in common courtesy of his home: "Good night, Earth."


It was an unusually hot summer day in London. The children were playing in the streets or just simply enjoying their holiday in the comfort of the air conditioning indoors. The horns of cars beeped loudly in the distance. The colors of the city were primarily white and various shades of neon. Chrome provided by the hovering cars added to its splendor. Only Berlin, Tokyo, Hong Kong, New York, and Paris had matched the city's beauty. London was truly a safe city for the first time in many centuries.

A strangely-dressed man walked up to the front garden of a modest sized house where a group of children played a game of football. He was a tall burly man with red hair and a beard. His distant blue eyes somehow made him seem much older than his thirty years of age. "Tristram, come here!" he called to a tall red-haired boy. Confused, the boy slowly approached the man.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?" he asked, his light blue eyes widening in curiosity. The man did not answer; he only placed his hand on the boy's head, kneeling in front of him. "S-Sir," the boy stammered nervously, "what are you doing?"

"Let us have our moment one last time," the man responded vaguely and the boy shut his eyes tightly, trembling in inexplicable terror. "The prophet's words have been fulfilled." The man suddenly faded away and the boy opens his eyes, looking around frantically at where the man once stood.

"Tristram!" one of Tristram's friends called to him. "What are you doing?"

"You didn't see the man?" Tristram said pointing to the gate. "He touched my head and then just disappeared. He looked like... me, but grown up."

"Tristram," a girl said looking at him with concern, "what man?"

A/N: So, now we begin the central and most important part of the Argon trilogy. Cryptic prologue is cryptic, but it has to be. Show no mercy, pull no punches, and nitpick the hell out of this story.

Until next chapter, Darth Ultor out.