Some lights turn on in a black room. A lone coat stand is in the middle, barely illuminated.
Footsteps are heard, echoing throughout this eternal void, and soon a lone figure enters.
It doesn't take long to look upon the shirt and jacket hung up.
His upperclass coat comes off quickly, and he carefully hangs it up. Soon, his hat comes off and he hangs it up near it.
Next, the waistcoat. He has difficultly, and with a slight grunt he jabs it. Two buttons fly off and land on the floor; the noise and it's reverb being picked up by the microphone.
The shirt, easy enough, and upon taking it off his shoulders, the frame sees the left arm completely bandaged up from near the neck. Not a single sign of skin. He tosses the shirt to the side.
A new shirt, pure white, skin tight.
Sunglasses on his head.
He was ready.
SILAS ARTORIA: The psychotic aristocrat is dead...
He turns to face the frame with a smirk on his face.
SILAS ARTORIA: Long live Silas Artoria...
SILAS ARTORIA: The CWF's fixer.
The neon outline turns on in his jacket's lining, and slowly he points his fingers to the frame, gun.
SILAS ARTORIA: Time to die, Marksman.
SILAS ARTORIA: BANG!
The whole frame glitches instantly through a garish array of red, blue, and green channels, distorting the final image it broadcasted.
And through the brokenness, a deep, relaxed, raw chuckle seep through.
"The concession stands are now selling those cheap hotel room round soap disks that I have personally blessed for $100’s a bar….AND SINNERS….I suggest you buy one, and use it, because if you think your God wants you in his heaven smelling like a 3am New York City uber ride you got another thing coming."