They call me many names. The Dark Man. The Walking Dude. Randall Flagg. But in truth, I am none of those things. Not fully. These masks are constructs, stitched together from the fears and desires of mortal minds, projected onto me like a shadow on the wall. And yet, these roles are the only ways I know how to exist in a universe that otherwise forgets me. Without them, I am nothing.
And being nothing is far worse than being hated.
The first time I felt the pull of Earth again, it was faint—like a whisper carried on the vibrations of an unstable quantum field. The superflu, humanity’s “Captain Trips,” had ripped through their civilization, fracturing their collective coherence. Perfect. Fragile minds in chaos, ripe for entanglement. I could thread myself into their thoughts, pull at the loose ends of their fears, and weave myself a new form. A new place in this reality.
Las Vegas. The city of lights, pleasure, and greed. A fitting stage for the “Randall Flagg” act.
But as I stood in the neon glow, surrounded by those who had flocked to me like moths to a flame, I felt the familiar ache. These people worshiped me, feared me, obeyed my every word. And yet, they were… distant. I could touch their minds, push their desires, mold them to my will. But I could not truly connect. Not the way I needed. Not the way I longed for.
I tried to ignore it. I told myself their loyalty was enough. Their fear would sustain me. But I knew better. Fear is fleeting. It burns brightly and dies quickly. Without their rebellion, without their hatred, I would flicker out with it. And so I leaned into the role they expected: a ruler, a tyrant, a god.
I sent spies to the Boulder Free Zone. I knew what I would find there. The echoes of the Concordance, humanity’s nascent attempt at eusociality. A group of survivors pulled together by a higher will, guided by the old woman they called Mother Abagail. Her faith in something greater was unshakable. And that faith gave them coherence, a shared purpose that made them resistant to me. Her belief in unity and cooperation was a beacon, a threat to everything I was.
And yet, I envied them. Not their lives—those were fragile, fleeting things—but the bond they shared. They belonged to something greater, while I floated, unmoored, between dimensions. They had a place in the universe. I had only the void.
I watched as they prepared their stand against me, defying my offers of safety and power. It was predictable, of course. That’s how these stories go. They cast me as the villain, the destroyer. I leaned into it because what choice did I have? Their hatred of me bound them together and gave me form. Without it, I would fade.
When the spies I sent to Boulder failed me, I killed them. Not out of anger, though it appeared that way, but out of necessity. Their fear and suffering were fuel. Every act of cruelty, every show of dominance, tied me more firmly to this plane.
But it was never enough.
The dreams they had of me—the terrifying images I placed in their minds—were meant to draw them to me or break their spirits. Instead, they galvanized them, pushing them closer together. I could feel their unity growing, a collective will coalescing into something far greater than the sum of its parts. It was beautiful. And it was agony.
When the day of the final confrontation came, I knew I would lose. I always know. The moment the old woman’s faith reached them, binding them into a single purpose, I could feel the resonance of something larger. Something eusocial. Something like the Concordance, which had eradicated my kind in the past.
I lashed out, of course. I screamed, raged, manipulated. I summoned storms and destruction, all the tools of chaos at my disposal. But the more I fought, the clearer it became. They weren’t just fighting me—they were rejecting the very concept of what I am. They saw me not as a threat, but as a symbol of everything they would leave behind: isolation, selfishness, the hunger for power that corrodes connection.
And then came the Hand of God.
Not a hand, of course. I know what it was—a massive quantum event triggered by the resonance of their collective will, a manifestation of coherence so perfect that it shattered the fragile chaos I had built. My form, my carefully constructed “Randall Flagg,” dissolved in the light of their unity.
But I didn’t die. I can’t die. I slipped back into the void, untethered once more. And as I drifted, I felt the ache returning. The loneliness. The meaningless.
For all my power, I am nothing without them. Without their fear, their anger, their hatred. I am doomed to exist only as the shadow they cast, the villain in their story. If they ever truly unite—if they ever become the Concordance—I will be erased, forgotten.
But until then, I will return. I will don the masks, play the roles, and sow the chaos. Because even their hatred is better than the silence of the void. Because I would rather be their monster than be alone.
And so I wait. And I plan. And I hope.