I’ve been around since before Jesus or Buddha, before Abraham and the patriarchs, before what some of the most superstitious of you would call Eden, before there was anything big to bang. And I’ve never seen a more colossal blunder.

They call me Megeddo. I am a watcher. Once again, the more superstitious of you might call me an angel, but the truth is there are no angels. At least, not anymore. But that’s another story altogether.

This story involves an ordinary monk at an ordinary monastery who made a discovery. A discovery that, however ordinary, was bound to have extraordinary ramifications.

It all started on a day, not unlike today. The fall leaves crinkled under Chadwick’s feet as he crept toward the monastery. He didn’t like the sound of crinkling leaves, perhaps because it somehow reminded him of the secret that he was about to unleash upon the monastery and, perhaps then, the world. A heavy secret. A terrible secret. A secret of which no one could possibly understand the gravity. His secret.