[center][img]http://i362.photobucket.com/albums/oo63/NMShape/coollogo_com-1484654_zpsfa280be2.png[/img][/center]

I am Mercy. 

I am the World's Chosen.

Now I must defend it.

I soar through the vastness of space by my will alone. It is strange for until now I had always assumed I had to breath. I spare a moment's thoughts for the ramblings I had heard and felt when I saved others and brought healing. Some had called me divine. Could it be? I need not breath, I need not eat, I need not sleep, my will directs the very World. Perhaps there is something to their words? But there is little time for such rambling thoughts as I near the great corruption where it floats amidst the stars.

Perhaps it would be invisible against the darkness of space. Perhaps it was invisible to those who do not see as I see. But to me it is clear, the vast web of dark threads, of toxic contagion, of annihilation, all of which pulse and throb in a grotesque network. Compared to this the cancer is benign, the parasites symbiotes, the sickness that had invaded Lost Haven a common cold. This was vast and malignant beyond words, and it was... I feel surprise as the sickness pulses and flows towards me directed not by chance but by will. I see it now that have I come closer, the will that dwells within the coils of death and destruction, the will that now speaks to me.

It seethes, it rages, I feel it around and within. But I am strong and I find myself responding as if from instinct. My will hardens solidifies, the sickness' tendrils only brush against it and slip away imparting words to me but little else. It demands, it demands, such arrogance from a sickness, a corruption. I will end this abomination, this cancer with a mind of its own. I do not respond to its demands, instead continuing my approach even as the dark threads begin to close around me. 

It demands again, and again, growing louder, more insistent. But I refuse. I feel the pressure upon my will growing as the sickness laps against my form but finds no purchase. I feel more tendrils  engulf what I had brought with me and my lips form a grim smile. I marshal my will behind the wall within and ready myself even as the corruption swarms around me.

Then I act. I throw aside the shield and my own will and voice resounds. "I am Mercy. And I bring your doom Pestilence!" I issue a name, the truest that comes to mind, for surely this must be the architect of all sickness, of all the plagues that could have come, sickness with a will, sickness that truly lives, and so I name it.

I release it all now, sparking chain reactions in the massive reservoir of matter that I brought with me. Annihilation. I hate to destroy but in the destruction there is cleansing. To those upon the World far below it must seem that a second sun has been born in the sky as the waves of radiation and a cosmic storm sweeps outwards into the Pestilence. 

I am Mercy.

I have brought the World's Wrath.

Has it been enough?