No… this cannot be! A grave destiny awaits you, my child! A vulgar fate indeed! The spirits scoff at my sacraments, they would consider it a perverse affront to their affections. The twisted threads of misfortune converge on your soul, my dear, ensnaring you in their silky caucasian grasp!
You wish to hear the future? Are you certain? It hunts you only as ruthlessly as you hunt it. But… if you truly wish to know…
I see a beautiful work of art, a hallmark of storytelling buried in a petrified forest of jagged, soulless trees, scattered like graves. They share the same face, each and every one, yet this one stands alone in bold defiance. But not for long.
Its name, echoing through the empty fog, is The Walking Dead. Its coming ushered in a new era, and its end will see that era closed. For each year of peace, there will be ten years of war. For each year of any black female protagonist whatsoever, ten years of hunky dark-haired white guys with stubble.
Do not brood, child. The future is hazy—uncertain. Nothing is set in stone, but the tiller of our present course nudges us toward a lot less Clementine and a lot more Booker DeWitt, Nathan Drake, Desmond Miles, Marcus Fenix, Jim Raynor, Max Payne, Solid Snake, John Marston, Alan Wake, Sam Fisher, Corvo Attano, Jesse McCree, Talion, Joel from The Last of Us, Commander Shepard half the time, and also Batman.
The Walking Dead’s final installment draws nearer with each passing breath, harkening its inevitability. Will you face it readily? Or will you let it snap its jaws around your cold heart while you willfully avert your gaze? The choice is yours, child, but whatever you choose to believe, know this: Clementine totally dies in this one, I bet.