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Friday Fiction: Birth of a Villain

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of 300 word short story using the following elements.

Character: Sarcastic Butler Setting: Skyscraper Genre: Memoir


The staples in his abdomen had ripped out again, this time purposefully. Master “Gestirn” Goldstein barely flinched as he removed blood drenched, clear plastic bags from his bulging gut. The carpeted floor of the penthouse loft was covered in vital fluids. Schneider Skyscrapers were going to need a good clean-up crew. As a butler, I cringed.

“Pass me the tray.” He wheezed.

I of course obliged, manoeuvring past dead FBI agents strewn about the sparse room to the tray angled awkwardly in one man’s skull.

“Will you be serving me then, for once?”

Master Goldstein merely smiled, and watched amused as I struggled to remove the tray. It was difficult with all the blood. It was also lodged quite deep.

“I didn’t know you took drugs, Kristoff.”

“Only when you’re around, Sir. I may need some after this.”

“You’ll get used to it eventually.” Master Goldstein stood then, skin flapping over the spandex pants he wore – the only item of clothing on him. He had no intestines.

“Well yes, when you were a caped crusader for justice. Who are you now, Robbing Hood?”

He laughed as he casually removed the tray from the man’s skull. His laugh was a breathy, whistling sound from the constrictions in his body; an internal scar and his arch nemesis’ greatest achievement.

“I’ve found other ways to make a living now. A new body with a new function. I’ve been brought back to life.”

“Well that’s good for you Master Franken-Stein.”

Master Goldstein placed the bags on the tray, crushed powder in some, pills in others.

“Franken-Stein. I like it.” He swept a gnarled hand through what was left of his golden mane. The charred scars of his face made him look like the monster he was becoming – or perhaps, had already become.

I may have missed the memoir part. *laughs nervously


Friday Fiction: Quirks

Everyone has their own quirks; common or bizarre. Our characters in our story are no different.

Write a quick short story about something odd your character does, but something that makes them them.

Time to Write: Quirks


“Well. It’s about time you showed up!” I smile. I feel my lips involuntarily curl up into a knowing smile. An evil smile. I keep my hands behind my back.

“What is the meaning of this you fiend!?”

“Weellll…” I shrug my shoulders excessively. I have no idea why I do it, it’s just so natural whenever my evil plots come to fruition.

“That shrug really annoys me.”

“Meh. That’s part of being a villain. I have a unique quirk, and you despise it with your entire justice-saturated being.”

His eyes glance towards the woman tied to the chair, her eyes have rolled back in their sockets

“She’s not dead.”

“Let her go!”

“You’re starting to sound more and more like the Dark Knight himself…” I moved away from the woman, teasing him to come get her, waiting to activate my trap the moment he does… or doesn’t

“Why don’t you come get her then?” My shoulders jerked up and down again as I attempted to suppress my laugh.

“Your little quirk gives you away, why don’t you bring her to me?”

“Now that’s not how the game works. You know how this goes. I call you out, we do the dance, you rescue the hostage yada yada, I try again the next time.”

“So why do we keep dancing, if we know how it ends?”

“Because – ” I stepped up to him. He cautiously moved back. “The dance is why we put our feet forward in the first place!” I pull out the remote control from behind my back, my shoulders once reverberate as a knowing expression etches across my rivals face.

“Perhaps it’s time we did our final dance.”

Friday Fiction: Ambition


Now that we’re a week into the new year, let’s talk about our ambitions and goals.

Write a character that is full of ambition and determination to meet their dreams.

Time to Write: Ambition

The man walked into his office with a slow gait, fatigue etched into his drooping eyebrows and dark matted hair. He gingerly shut the door, the purple and swollen knuckles barely registering as he twisted the key. In the same slow manner, he shrugged the jacket off his shoulders and draped it over the coat hanger before slouching his way to his office desk. His fingers traced over the gleaming mahogany, all around until he fell into the plush leather seat. From within his desk drawer he pulled out a bottle of whiskey, along with a tumbler and set both on the empty desk.

Frankenstein. A name his enemies and work staff had come to call him, and not only because of his amazing stitch work on those who were under him; he was the elixir that gave people life; the scientist who animated the living corpses that straggled his streets.

And at the root of this… madness… well he had ambitions that ran right through the teeming streets of Jozi CBD, along the no-longer-so-dusty streets of Soweto, across the populated Sandton avenues all the way to the quiet walkways of the East Rand. His… monsters, as they referred to themselves, were with him on this ridiculously chaotic road to the top. Top of what, one might ask, and that answer would both overwhelm and seem stupidly ridiculous to the one asking.  But what was ambition if it didn’t seem impossible? Where the odds were tested every waking hour as the country fell into chaos?

He took a sip of his golden drink and grimaced, which in turn became a grin so wide it looked as though his jaws would break. He slammed the glass down on the desk, and as though not satisfied with the action, dragged it over the table and across the office to smash into the far wall.

Alone. Forsaken. Recluse. Fragile. Weak. Brittle. Incompetent. Inadequate. Useless.

He let the words roll around his tongue, spitting each word vehemently as he steeled his mind against the onslaught of doubts plaguing his thoughts. He would punch, sweet talk and stitch up as many as he had to until he was treated like the man he deserved to be; King.

But success SHALL crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man? Robert Walton – Frankenstein

Being a villain is easy

Brain Power
Let’s assume we do, in fact, use only 10% of our brain. If you could unlock the remaining 90%, what would you do with it?


We look at the heroes smashing bad guys on the big screen, the Norse god, the playboy philanthropists kitted out in metallic armour, the black spider or the giant S on the chest of a red and blue costume – heroes. They have a moral compass. They have a conscience. They make decisions with the intention of saving everyone so no one has to suffer.

However imagine the loved blonde god of thunder dropping into the middle of a mall, grabbing the largest television set in the store, an X-Box One with a handful of games and swooping out of there with some new toys for his recently  (and forcibly) acquired home. What moral compass would he work off except one pointing towards self? What conscience would he need when anyone in his way is merely an obstacle towards what he wants? Who would he need to save but himself? Being a villain would make life so much easier.

Read the rest of this entry

Villainous Villainy 4: Destiny


Nouns: Crib Actor Lumber Star Teaching Keyboard Banana Shoelace Pills Knife

They would not have been said about the child, that he’d be of any danger to society, either of the old solemn faces hovering above the newly built crib. They would not have foreseen anything beyond the beauty of the child, as the smell of varnish wafted into their flared nostrils. The visitors gathered within the warm, wooden abode, experiencing the last of the setting sun streaming golden rays into the room, illuminating the bare room. The child was but a babe of deep aquamarine eyes and a swirling crown of dark tresses atop his skull – at the foot of his bed sat a crudely moulted statue of a clown, the jester…an actor for someone’s amusement.

The young man worked on a piece lumber with a carving knife and watched a lone star standing still in the darkened sky. The wooden bench he sat upon, looked out towards a stone building in a deserted stretch of dried grassland; a billboard to the side displayed an open book with the words “Where We Do The Teaching” scribbled along the bottom in dark print. The young man looked down each side of the deserted street, standing when he was sure it was safe; in one fluid movement he had pulled the scarf on his neck up to cover the lower part of his face while speedily moving across the street in a crouch. Stealthily he tracked his way through the field, not caring that his feet crunched dried grass underfoot for no one was around to hear him; the single light shining from one of the lower offices and the lonely car in the parking lot was exactly what he’d been hoping. As he approached the building, he slowed his pace down, his trained senses picking up the clatter of the keyboard as someone typed away furiously and the smell of smoke surely from a cigarette. He approached the window, thankful that it was open and thereby saving him the trouble of sneaking into the building the old fashioned way; once under the window, he pulled out his cellphone and held down one of the keys to speed dial a number. A moment later a ringtone went off within a building, its melodic tone broken by the high pitched babble with the only word comprehensible was the word “banana”. The frantic clatter of the keyboard continued nonetheless, eventually slowing down and then with a sigh from the typist, stopped completely. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor resounded and the footsteps of the typist faded away. The young man chanced a look into the window, taking the opportunity to slip into the building from the open window.

The room was chilly, the aircon humming loudly as it blew cold air into the wide room. The tiled floor gleamed from the glare of fluorescent lights, a glass ashtray glimmered on the desk beside the computer where a smoldering stub dwindled away; the smoke from the stub filtered out through the open window. The young man swept his eyes across the room, looking to find a place to hide and seeing nothing that would help; metallic cabinets stood to the far side of the wall beside a long wooden table littered with papers and another ashtray. On the wall behind him was a ceiling-high bookshelf with glass fronts; the only place to hide, the young man found, would be behind the door leading out. There was hardly any more time to think as a voice rose from the passage way, closer than the young man had anticipated and as noiselessly as he could, he shifted to hide behind the door, realizing from behind the door there would be no way to attack if the man moved to his desk. Now the young man could hear footsteps approaching the room and thinking quick, he crouched down and hastily began to untie his shoelace, thinking of using it to either distract the man or as a choking mechanism. The man entered the room with not so much as a break in his stride, moving to his desk and rummaging through the drawer, pulling out a knife of sorts, a stapler and some pieces of paper before picking up a bottle of pills. He turned around to head back out and noticed the young man crouching behind the door.

There was nothing more than a palpable second of realization before both men recovered from their initial shocks over seeing the other. The older man fumbled for the knife he knew he’d just pulled out, grey eyes wide and frantic at the sight of the intruder. The younger man was still fumbling with his shoelace, looking up to view the man to see if he’d moved when the man suddenly gasped

“It’s…you!” The man froze at the sight, giving the younger man the extra second he needed to loosen the last of the cord and sweep across the floor in one fluid movement. The older man jabbed the knife forward but he was too slow as the younger man side-stepped, twirled around the man while winding the shoelace around the older man’s neck.

“I’m glad you recognize me.” The younger man whispered into the older man’s ear.

“How could…how could I not.” The older man managed to choke out between gasps of breath from the tightening cord around his neck.

“Surely you thought the carved Jester would be a symbol of my destiny huh? Living for you and your company’s amusement while you watch on from your thrones?” The older man, although choking, burst into a fit of laughter turning into hard coughing as the younger man pulled the cord tighter.

“You…you think that…by killing us you… you escape your…your destiny? Ha ha ha!”

“What…what do you mean.” The young man whispered, his grip slackening.

“Ha…everything that you thought you did against us…everything you thought was in rebellion, was expected of you. You’ve been our Jester this whole time.” The older man’s laughter was cut short as the younger man cut it off with the shoelace. Still reeling from the the man’s words, he slipped back out the window and disappeared into the night.


In response to:

In today’s challenge we’ll ask you to write a new post using some nouns from various sources: Your mission is to write a new piece that includes at least five nouns. You can write a paragraph, a story, flash fiction, a poem, a memoir, — whichever you desire. Bonus points for a whole, coherent story/narrative within your piece.

Villainous Villainy Part 3: In pursuit of a hero


When you have been in darkness for as long as I have, any light you see seems brighter than it actually is. Then again, this particular light was made to be intense for people like me – well, us. We the wolves among the sheep, the fingers behind the triggers – the dark in the light. It was as though they were trying to rid the darkness they saw in the pits of our eyes with blistering light; rid the cold blank stares that reminded them of the darkness within themselves. Maybe it was in hope of revealing what little light there was within us… but they were – oh – so wrong. That is why I sat here on this cold metal chair with my arms shackled tightly behind me. The air smelled sterile, hiding the barely imperceptible smell of blood from past interrogations no doubt. And who were they?  S.A.P.D, Hawks, INTERPOL and for those outside of my home country they don the masks of the F.B.I, C.I.A etc. They are all the invariably the same.

And what would they want with me? Well that is a tale for another time…a long tale. In fact relating to that, I once heard someone say “It’s what you do that defines what you are.” but I disagree. The truth is, it’s what we do that reveals who we are. That in itself should say so much about me. But what does that say about the person who tells that one white lie, or takes something small that doesn’t belong to them? Oh but we can’t define people on such trivial matters can we? Well I say yes, yes we can. It is those very trivial things that reveal who we are.

Take for instance a bug born poisonous. One day it realizes that with each step it takes, it poisons whatever it touches. Would its attempts to tread lightly on whatever it touches change the fact that it is poisonous? Is it the action that makes it poisonous or does the action reveal that the bug is poisonous? Is it not the same with us… humans, born corrupt? When we fall, do we not reveal the very nature of what we are? Sure we aren’t as bad as we could be but that doesn’t lessen the potential does it? A lion is dangerous whether it chooses to kill or not – and we are the same.


The crackling of the intercom reverberated through my ears, bringing my attention back to the real world. My arms had grown numb but I wouldn’t let it show, not when I knew that they were watching me. I had an agenda and it had to be brought to their attention and yet even with that, one thing that troubled me deeply was the knowledge that whomever I was dealing with, regardless of voice or face – position…or whatever else they threw at me to assert their authority, I was dealing with a just another fallible, imperfect, depraved human – like me. The voice rose over the intercom, a man’s voice. Recognizable.

“October 17 1998, the Lido hotel was burnt to the ground – 50 casualties. January 20 1999, Meyersdal Mall was attacked by a gang of thieves that left 12 people dead and 63 injured. March 1999 – bridge collapses from explosion, 105 casualties, July 2000, December 2000… February 2001… March 2001…the list goes on and on and on. We know you were behind these attacks, we know you’ve orchestrated each one. We know all there is to know about them…except one thing, why? Money wasn’t the issue you come from a wealthy family, as you have so kindly stated to us. You have been deemed psychologically fit. You have no personal vendettas or motives and yet here we have almost two decades worth of crimes and casualties. And as much as we hate this fact, the only reason we know all of this…is because you told us when you turned yourself in – and that wasn’t due to remorse now was it?”

“Rhetorical questions aren’t going to give you the answers you seek, mister van Rensburg…ask a more direct question.” I knew my reply had rattled the man, the fact that I knew who he was without seeing him put him on the defensive side – the silence told me. He managed to continue however as though unperturbed but there is only so much emotion you can hide in your voice

“So, what was your motive? Why hand yourself in? Do you take pleasure in knowing what you have done you sick psycho?”

You would think that each of those cases would boost my pride, fuel my sick desire for destruction, to see lives taken but in truth it all sickened me. It sickened me right to my core. Not the actions, no, those were purposeful. What sickened me was the overwhelming evidence that regardless of the evil that was present – there was no hero rising to the occasion. No hardened vigilante seeking justice for the crimes committed and the task force employed for such matters were just as corrupt or worse – indifferent. And what punishment would I get if caught? Rehabilitation. Rehabilitation for what? Will that bring back all those lives lost? The livelihood of the people affected? No. Instead I’d be “living” with the guilt of my actions or whatever nonsense psychologists have dreamt up to save their clients, and I can hope to one day recover and become a civilized citizen – what utter nonsense. And the saddest thing about the whole system is in the fact that not even the citizen’s themselves are civilized. They keep hiding behind their petty masks! I ask you where are the heroes combating the crimes, rescuing the kids from desolation, the women from their abusive husbands, the people from the gangs? Oh that’s right, they are staring at me from behind their two way mirror, peering at me under the intense light. I replied to them,

“Plato once said ‘The penalty good men pay for indifference to public affairs, is to be ruled by evil men.’ or for a more potent adaptation of that particular line, ‘All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing.’ So am I implying that you are doing nothing, that is, if you are good men? ” I took that moment to shrug my shoulders both in an effort to relieve the pressure in them and to disgruntle the onlookers. I let the question sink in for a while, then continued,

“Well that is up to your interpretation but that is not the focus here. The focus is on the common man. What are they lacking in themselves that prevents them from standing up? From being the good men who are not indifferent? Surely if one can be as “evil” as I can be, why can there not be one who is the complete opposite, the “good” one, the hero, the good Samaritan that is so popular in Christian Literature. So you ask me what my motive is? That is exactly it – the search for that elusive Samaritan. I mean look at the facts, two decades worth of crime and not a single trace linked back to me, no evidence, not even any effort to try and catch me and even worse…no hero to stop me. This…all of this… was in pursuit of that hero – unfortunately one did not come and I fear that saying I once heard is true that, ‘There is none who does good, no not one.'”

With that last statement hanging in the air, I pulled my wrists out of their shackles, the metallic clasps, unhinged, falling onto the cold hard floor with a loud clang. I stood up and walked to the glass and at that moment the door burst open as armed officers entered the confined room, but I ignored them. They would not touch me. I continued.

“So rather than seeing if one exists, I am here to raise one up, take him along the road less travelled. You see, mister van Rensburg and colleagues, I’m in pursuit of a hero…and you know where to find him. And that is why I am here.”

Villainous Villainy Part 2: The Irked Quirked Quack

Neurosis: a relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease, involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behaviour, hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality.


It was hot. Too hot in fact. The bright green walls seemed to bounce the heat back and forth around the tiny room making my shirt stick to me like a second skin, heavy and… ugh… sticky. The couch I sat on was just as sticky, clinging to my arms and legs and peeling off my skin every time I lifted a leg or an arm. I gazed up at the wooden fan above, spinning lazily, every few seconds tilting as though about to come crashing down but rectifying itself in mid spin. I realized it was there as just a decoration, to give the illusion that this waiting room wasn’t as hot as it actually was, but I’d caught on. I’d caught on quick. That’s what growing boys like myself do, we catch on quick.

I gazed down at my lap, at the old yet still glossy magazine that was flipped open to a page displaying various D.I.Y tips for “the working woman”. As a young boy tinkering away at stuff at home, this was the only page in the entire magazine that was appealing, well that and the media page displaying movies from way back when. Nonetheless this was all a distraction, pulling our attention away from the heat – and the deathly stare from the woman at the reception desk. She was scary. Her makeup was way too thick, her face too pale and her lips too bright with blue shades on her eyelids; surely she was hiding something below all that makeup. Had to be.

I looked up at my mom but she was too engrossed in her own glossy magazine to be disturbed. Her bright brown eyes seemed to be glazed over, her mouth parted in deep concentration. I looked off to the side and almost yelped in freight. Big dark eyes stared down at me, framed by thick round spectacles, metallic and gleaming in the bright light. The man hushed me reassuringly, his thin bony hand reaching out to ruffle my hair. I tried to pull away but could not move. He scared me that much.

“Hi there, I’m the doctor.” he whispered. It was then that I realized how quiet the waiting room had been – there had been no sound, not even the tick of the clock nor the shuffle of a turning page. I tried to speak but gulped instead, the sound louder than I’d expected. He frowned at me, his thin eyebrows furrowed and his lips turning into a frown

“A little control if you don’t mind?” He whispered again, quickly grabbing my arm and lifting me up from my seat; my arms and legs peeled off the couch with a ripping sound, echoing through the entire room. The receptionist’s head swung so quickly towards me I thought she’d get whiplash and my mom’s eyes lifted long enough from the magazine to give me a deathly stare before all three adults simultaneously pouted their lips,



The doctor pulled me into his office, a room slightly bigger than the waiting room but just as hot and even more ghastly. The bright green paint seemed to be trying to blind me along with the metallic utensils and instruments lining the walls like some sort of souvenirs. He plopped me down a backless seat covered in plastic while he hurriedly made his way around his wooden desk to sit cautiously down on his dark leather seat, making no noise at all.

“I’m glad your mom booked you in for this general check up. You never know when germs, viruses and the like could come creeping in to your system and infect it, festering inside your body until you are seeping mucus and spewing more of them with each cough and sneeze. Yuck.” The doctors face cringed at the thought. He immediately reached for a bottle of disinfectant within his desk, spraying his hands and rubbing them together swiftly before spraying the handle of the desk drawer too. Once that was done he softened.

“Well let’s get started hey – I see you…need some cleaning and much much much disinfecting.” He said to me. “Come to the examination room please.” He gestured to a room off to the side, closed off by a bright white cloth. I reached out to open it but a hand quickly snatched the cloth away, startling me.

“Oh don’t touch, please.” The doctor said with a handful of cloth and a bottle of disinfectant in the other. He ushered me in, hurrying to disinfect and then open one of the cabinets to pull out a long sheet of plastic which he then placed and smoothed over his examination table.

“Lie down please” he said. I lay on the plastic, watching him cringe with each wiggle I made on it. His nose scrunched to show disgust and I looked down at myself to see what the issue was about. Not seeing anything dirty I relented to keeping still but a part of me felt rather mischievous. I smiled genuinely at him, watching his face, watching for a reaction as I reached for my nose. At first he eyed me curiously, an amused half-smile on his face. The contortions of his face began as I stuck my finger into my nose, finding a gooey slimy mess before pulling it out and seeing the green-yellow mucuous resting on my finger. The look of disgust and horror on the man’s face was priceless. As he turned to reach for the disinfectant, I reached up towards the man’s crisp white doctors coat, and wiped the gunk on it. He turned quickly in his seat, rising as he did and looking down at his coat where my slimy mess had left a trail. Without pause the doctor reached into his inner pocket to reveal a blade of sorts, his eyes bulging behind his thick glasses. With murderous intent he lifted the knife up into the air, the action freezing my blood cold.

“It’s because of kids like you that I am what I am, a germaphobe. I try always to be meticulous, to be crisp – clean. Oh but no, there is always that one kid but oh… but that all ends today… starting. With. You. Muhahahahahah!”


Well this turned out a bit different. What provokes a person to become a villain anyway?

Villainous Villainy Part 1: A Just Cause

Anti-Hero: a central character in a story, film, or drama who lacks conventional heroic attributes.

He was not hard to track down, the man with the golden scepter. I could see his silhouette from under the orange hue of the setting sun, illuminating the golden scepter that jutted out of the ground at a slight angle. I crept through the tangle of brush that ran along side the path where the man was standing, aware that another body lay at his feet. My beating heart skipped once, the momentary skipped beat allowing a spontaneous anguish to suffuse through my chest and clutch at my heart, before my heart resumed its beating. I crept closer, fending off the rising desperation until I was right behind them. He was standing above the broken and bruised body of a young woman, her dark hair clumped and streaked by dried mud tinged with blood, and the remaining strands draping over her face to cover the deep purple swelling of her cheeks. She clutched in her hands a babe wrapped in frayed, dirt-caked cloth, its heavy breathing visible with each rise and fall of the cloth in her arms. I could not see what the man was doing, nor did I care as I approached them from behind, feeling the warmth of the wooden handle that held the sharp piece of metal fixed into it – the blade curved upwards and gleamed somewhat under the glow of the setting sun. I moved quickly, seeing the woman’s eyes dart up to look up at me, fear filling her dark eyes while her face contorted into an image of both hatred and despair. By the time the man noticed, my blade was lodged deep into the left side of his back, plunging straight through the flimsy shawl and tunic he wore and straight into his heart. He let out a single guttural cry of pain before slumping to the floor on his face in a pool of blood.

“You monster!” The woman screamed at me, pulling away and clutching her child protectively within her bosom. I smiled down at her.

“No – I’m just a man on a mission to change the destiny of his people and free them from their enslavement. This man with golden scepter and others like him have become a burden to all peoples, but I am here to make things different. I will ensure that the people no longer bow down to these pretentious fiends and their oh so grandiose golden scepters.” I pulled the golden scepter out from the ground, the cold metal seeming to invigorate my entire being. I lifted the scepter high above my head so that the fading sun’s rays would gleam off its golden head.

“Ha! So instead they will bow to you? A fiend!?” She hissed at me. A sensation rose from within my gut as I burst into laughter, the howling loud even to my own ears, the sensation heightened as I repeated what she’d said; the thought of them bowing to me was hilarious.

“Oh no no no my dear,” I said to her, bending down over her as she attempted to scramble away from me, the fear and disgust etched distinctly across her face. I endured the look with the last of my amusement still circling my gut, “No they won’t be bowing down to me. That’s the beauty of it all!” I reached over towards her baby, letting her scream and scramble further away but she couldn’t get far, not with her leg mangled as it was and had I not killed the man healing her she might have been able to get away. All she had managed to do, however, was bleed further and as she screeched at me trying to claw my face, I took the opportunity to snatch the child from her clutching hands. She howled in anger and despondency as I rose up to my feet with the babe in my arms

“Give him back!” She screamed, “Give! Him! Back!”

“Hush now, you’ll get him back yes. By then however, he will be the man I could have been, the true keeper of the golden scepter, a king whom you will bow down to. You see…I always believed that in order to change something you have to infiltrate it, sow seeds from within and change its core and by doing that everything else will follow suit. This boy… he will be my seed, my poison seeping into the system, changing from within what these others could not. His rise will be glorious, yes, and I will enjoy the fruits of his labour, see the freedom of my people and I will no longer be powerless against the higher powers. Your son…our son, will restore what I have lost.” I felt the desperation and loss filter out of my system and I clutched the child closer. Indeed this boy would be a hope, my hope and the hope of my people. If I must become a fiend to achieve this goal, then that is the sacrifice I must make.


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