Post-Allpocalypse.

Alone.

Sitting.

Unmoving.

—cataclysm—

—shaking the foundations—

—fell beasts—

—struggle—

—endings—

—death—

—Apocalypse—

It might have been an hour or two since it appeared in the bar. Or perhaps it was a moment ago. Or several weeks. Who knows?

Given the general nature of Milliways and the contemptuous disregard the near-destruction brought with it, it's entirely plausible that some areas may still be in flux.

Now that everything is back to normal, it's quite possible to ignore the existence of one more patron. And an unmoving one at that.

—struggle—

—battle—

—shattering—

People make their way in and out. They talk. They laugh. They comfort each other.

This place can survive anything.

The figure goes ignored. Mostly.

Save for a feeling of spine-crawling dread that flows from it, that is.

It calls to a few, and drives away others.

—RAGE—

Then, at a time when activity in the bar winds down for the day,

More felt than heard,

A low rumble.

An angry vibration.

And the eyes glow.

Narrow.

He is...

...awakened...

And then,

...gone...