"??? ??? ??? ???????, ???????? ?? ??? ????."
"??? ???, ? ?? ?????."
It seems so long ago now, that final battle of ours.
Such a glorious fight, wasn't it? You nearly killed me on a distant planet, after I had murdered everyone on it. I tracked you down to your homeworld, and made you bleed. A fair exchange, I would say. Except - you left. You disappeared, robbing me of my vengeance - my only purpose in this misbegotten reality. It wasn't fair, Earth-Man. Not fair at all.
I still remember you decimating my armies, plunging my ships into the surface of that doomed world from high orbit, you killed thousands - and it was beautiful. The fire and the pain, the agonizing screams of the dying as their lives were extinguished upon contact with the vacuum of space. A symphony, my friend, an orchestral masterpiece that shall never be replaced!
Yet, when you did that, my first reaction could only ever be anger. I had felt rage before, but not the pulsating thunder in my throat that begged to snap out your heart and feast upon it. Gods of distant worlds trembled at my approach, and you soon learned why. For in that one motion of arrogance you displayed in hunting me down, you deprived me of something that I will never get back. You deprived me of my entire race - the Symaarians, of which I am the last.
Every man, woman, and child on board those ships were meant to colonize the freshly-broken world, stew in the genocide, and grow stronger from it. My people had very few warriors, as they were sent in behind me in the first few days on conflict. The orbital guns designed to obliterate ships that could blot out the sun were instead aimed at targets no much larger than you, pulping many on impact. At the end of the fight, we numbered less than a handful. Even those few were unable to even compare to what I had become, however, as the blood of deities ran deep in my belly.
I had feasted on the rulers of alien civilizations, sent their empires crumbling to dust. Such irony, then, that you should happen upon my latest conquests and see them in such disorder. They were meant to be colonized, rebuilt, but you stole that from me. At first I blamed you, and only you, Earth-Man. But I should have expected something like that, and now I have paid the price.
But, oddly, that wasn't where it all ended. No, in fact, the very scope of reality itself began to fold over and reconstruct itself - a new beginning.
I could do nothing, at first. My blood was unnatural to the landscape, my heritage flawed and undesirable. I became empty in that void of purpose. Lost, confused... perhaps even a little frightened. Not of what had happened or what was happening, but of the possibility of the future itself. The prospect of being alone never dawned on me before. I hated it, almost as much as I hate you. It was as if the universe itself was mocking me for being a failure to my people, for being a callous shell of a creature obsessed only with fighting and bloodshed.
When the cracks poured together again, it became entirely possible that I had received a divine message. When I awoke again in the coldness of space, the first thing that provided warmth to my body pounded louder than ever in my chest.
I knew that I had found what I was meant to do. The cold corners of reality kissed my mind, telling me why I was not dead as of this moment.
"I was meant to find you again, Earth-Man," the being known as Typhon muttered in the emptiness of the frozen wastes of Antarctica, glaring across the surface at the specks of cities and the further ant-like congregations of human beings.
Sheets of impacted ice shuddered from the surface of his armor, armor meant as a status symbol for warrior-types of his stock - a status now null and bereft of meaning.
The grave he tunneled out from was indeed meant to keep him there forever, away from light and nature; away from vengeance.
But Typhon understood a creeping sensation to the back of his neck. This is not the revenge I want, he thought. No, if he just came back now it wouldn't mean anything. He wouldn't have learned anything from his previous... defeat.
He spat on the ice below him as soon as he comprehended that he was, indeed, bested by his nemesis in their previous encounter - in no small way thanks to intervening forces. If left to their own devices, Typhon assured himself that he would have killed Reynard. But on Earth, there was no level playing field.
There was always going to be interference.
Through the cracks in reality, he had perceived something of a vision. He could look through the fogged lense, just not interact beyond it - so to speak. As he clung to relevancy and physical existence, he could see a man breaking the farce. However, it was a different illusion altogether. This man had been haunted by something that he, too, understood and felt as real. The Warsman, made flesh, and Typhon instantly became intrigued by this particular man's life.
The life of Johann von Derfflinger.
Time and time again, he resisted the call of oblivion sent out by the Warsman, culminating in the beast's ultimate destruction. When Johann finally released himself - and, by extension, all others who shared the same moniker as well as fate - Typhon connected with something else from far away, instantly coming to terms with what he would become.
"Kaligar Roxom... that is my real name," he would mutter for the rest of his time imprisoned in the zone beyond space, the empty void where he would incubate until now.
Now he was ready, tied to purpose and thought.
Tied to not only vengeance, but resurrection.
Resurrection of an idea, and the culling of many others. This would be his Odyssey, and he made for the gates of NeoCorp with these concepts intact, and unspoiled.