It's all in the things you pass down to the next generation.
Sometimes the kid tried to pass things back up. More than enough times Stillman had guided those beautiful, pale hands over wires, black and red and grey; more than enough times the same hands had guided him over the same contraptions. More than enough times he'd found objects lying dismantled in the house or put back together better than they ever were, and every time he felt a swell of pride in his stomach. He was shaping this raw uncut talent into something beautiful.
He'd taken him away to practice demolition theory, and they stood near an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the desert, his student portly and damp with sweat and the smell of his cologne, picking apart the radio he'd brought with him for that exact purpose. Stillman eventually told him to put it down, passed over a lump of C4 barely large enough to put a dent in a wall, and sure enough the whole thing came tumbling down in that same wonderful rush of smoke, the detonator waving his arms and whooping, and Stillman felt a pang of love for this. This genius would be his mark on the next generation.
"Since we're alone here," said the new emperor, "want to make some more explosions?"
"That was all the C4 I could smuggle with me."
"Oh," the student smirked, "you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know, I'm a man of pleasure. 'Laugh and grow fat'. There's no-one here and you know how good I am with my hands."
Stillman turned to face the rising dust and thought about which one of them was going to be remembered by the next generation.
The beautiful hands and the smell of RDX and cologne and concrete dust bit into his nostrils as he felt those long manicured nails run down his face. He knew the kid – he was flirting with the fact he had power and nothing would make him stop.
He told him, "no," and walked back to the car.