“So.  You’ve won.  Now what?”

    The end of the world had long passed.  It was, in all senses of the word, overblown.  By now, the world was just old news.  Hell was in fashion, and there were no plans to change that.  It was a loving hell, though, at least in the mind of its leader--its Lucifer.  This Lucifer did not have a name.  Instead, he identified with a moniker.  He was The Saviour.
The Saviour was not a particularly daunting man.  He was tall, but his limbs seemed too long even for his stretched waist.  He walked with a noticeable hunch, his arms slightly bent at the elbows.  His skeletal features were for the most part blocked out, though, by his rather strange attire.  He wore a thick black cloak, its hood pointed toward the sky with enthusiasm.  He wore leather gloves that fit perfectly to his boney fingers, lovingly trapping each of them like an extra layer of skin.  He wore a mask.  To him, this mask symbolised everything he stood for--Hence why it was blank.  The Saviour stood for nothing.  He stood for nothing in a world where everything needed purpose, a world where everything had to have some reason to be.  In his own mind, his blank mask made perfect sense.  He was nothing, nothing but matter.  Matter that existed.  Matter that existed because it felt the will to exist.
It was matter that allowed The Saviour to create his hell.  His followers were matter.  The bomb was matter.  Everything was matter.  All of it had a purpose, which was to have no purpose.  To revert to dust.  To begin the cycle of creation for creation’s sake once again.