Assume a world, our planet, in full destruction.......the total outcome of nuclear war. The
ultimate battle is now over and all in sight is in ashes, a gray mist in eerie silence broken by
the tired wisp of wind without a target to bend.
The questionable token of victory is a lone survivor. His face is in shadow as his identity is
meaningless, his lines a grimace known only to his soul that perhaps may rename Adam. He
stands in garb of rag, desolate and forlorn, an empty sheath, wondering of his next step, his
direction, a wander of path. A thought occurs to him. Could there be one more monster to
slay and, if so, where is his sword? He thinks, 'could he be the monster, the vestige of ill
directed humanity?' Never before, had he thought of himself that way. Now, he is not sure.
He had made a pact with Death, a prayer of sorts. He wished being on the victorious side,
not ever thinking he would be the lone survivor. Life was to be his reward, but not in demise,
a wish now hoping he had never asked.
Man is tired with anger spent, wondering why his ire was ever ablaze. Are the vanquished
the losers, he wonders. What has he won? The sound of taps is no more.... Nevermore, a
Death does not ask for more. The Last Warrior is the vanquished!