The door resisted, then slowly creaked open.  Scales of rust flaked off the grossly oversized hinges and settled on the weathered stonework in little shameful piles.

The man paused briefly in consideration but quickly decided the door had a right to creak - it was an old door.
Scattered light worked its way into the dusty gloom beyond the door and illuminated a tattered pile of rags heaped up in a corner of the cubical stone room.  The pile of rags slowly shifted, spread out, and revealed a human shape meerely draped with a tattered pile of rags.

The man moved into the doorway, paused again in thought and then pushed the door open the rest of the way.  A large flake of rust broke from a hinge and proudly scattered one of the little shameful piles.  The scattered light mustered its courage and revealed a mutilated man in the tattered reminants of what may have once been a uniform.  The rags complained as the man gathered himself into what resembled a lazy sit.

"Bob..." the mutilated man croaked, working his mouth at the taste of the word.  The scattered light had managed to brave the darkness of the room and now revealed the mutilations to be carefully measured scars covering every bit of skin not hidden by the tattered uniform.  The light still shyed away from the face, which again worked in the shadows "So nice of you to visit."

The man in the doorway stood with his hands clasped behind his back.  The scattered light oozed past him through the doorway, silouetting him against an unidentified murk.  He spoke, crisp consanants and an inhuman arrogance "How long has it been?  Ten years?  Fourty Years?  Two hundred years?"

The sitting man laughed.  Parts of his uniform protested by breaking loose and hiding in the stonework floor. The room protested by kicking up a cloud of dust which chased away some of the scattered light.  The light protested by hiding its newly found treasure - the sitting man was scarred in an intricate fillegre tracing out insane patterns on his skin.

"No Bob."  He said.  "You know as well as I that it has been thirteen-thousand years to this day."

"More than enough time to drive any man insane."  Bob began tracing the lines of scars with his eyes.  They were fascinating in a horrid sort of way.  The light was mustering its wits and slowly revealing more detail in the macabre artwork.  "Tell me how you dealt with lifetimes of thought and only yourself to converse with."

"Well," he paused "I don't really remember much after I stopped being hungry.  Those first few centuries were the worst."  He was slowly easing himself up from the floor, small measures at a time against the far wall from the door.
The man in the doorway stood firm, his arrogance a palatable field surrounding him with an absolute confidence.  The scattered light tended to avoid him.  He was inspecting the fine tracery of the scars - such insane devotion.

"And what of the scars?"  He asked.  They were definately artistic, insane, deliberate, but not mad.

"Oh these?  A hobby."  The man was easing himself off the floor, one hand against the wall.  Aside from the laugh, his motions were careful - a timeless practiced ease of movement lest he raise the dusty wrath of the room.  The silent pause betrayed a question.  "Oh, I found my fingernails grew fast enough.  Not fast enough for rock, but fast enough for skin.  Do you like it?"

"It is..."  The man in the doorway briefly searched for an adjective and settled on "Intriguing."

Tattered pieces of uniform occasiionally fell from the man as he steadied himself against the wall.  The scattered light, now curious, revealed dark and alert eyes surrounded by a face of finely scarred flesh.  Less a face than a carefully prepared mask.  The lines shifted and led the eyes as he spoke. "I contemplated altering my mind with my bare hands, but I was never brave enough to preform brain surgury on myself with my bare hands."

The man in the doorway did not cringe. However, small scale of rust did and settled into one of the shameful piles on the floor.  The man leaning against the wall steadied himself and squared his shoulders.  With an easy swipe of one arm the remainder of the uniform shirt fell at ease among the stone.  The light, now assured of its surroundings, accented the fine tracings that covered the man's torso.  They led the eyes and seemed to tell a story.

"You will join me" the man in the doorway commanded.  His voice carried the knowledge that his words did not leave room for doubt.  He was one who Led, there was no question.  Even then, there was a distraction about him, as though he was preoccupied.

"I have a name for this artwork."  The man had taken a small step foward to shift his weight.  The light was well aware of the scars which now stood out with a mind of their own.  Patterns within patters, carefully etched into the dermis, almost hypnotic.

"Oh."  Suprise would never betray itself behind the shield of unbelieving arrogance.

"I call it: Fred is Dead."

Bob said nothing.  His body and mind had betrayed him, there was nothing but the pattern.

"Bob, you will die."

Bob died.  There was no choice, only the pattern.