Shynkon had never felt more hopeless in his admittedly short existence. Hopeless, but not powerless. Powerlessness would have been a blessing. That was the problem: the terrible power he spent almost every moment of every day working to unlock; to unleash on a populace no more deserving than the last. Or any of those before them.
Over and over again he had told himself that he had no choice, that they were forcing him to do their deplorable work against his own will. The latter might have been true, but not the former. Shynkon knew he had a choice. He could simply choose to refuse to assist them any longer. The only price he would have to pay was his own termination. Was his own existence worth more than the lives of countless innocent people? No, of course it wasn't.
He was just so afraid.
So it went on. A cycle of needless death that he was an integral part of. That made him a murderer. A monster. There were so many words to describe a being like him. His own personal favourite was 'coward'. Sure, there was that vague threat against his kin, and in his more positive moments he liked to think that he was protecting them. But were they worth more than the millions who would perish when his task had been completed? Deep down, all things being equal, he knew they weren't.
'Selfish'. There was another word.
There wasn't much time left until the city beyond his confines would be torn from the earth by its roots. Millions of stars would flare desperately and burn out in an instant. Then they'd be moving on, to another place and another unsuspecting population, to do it all again. Perhaps next time, he'd have the courage to stop.
Next time.
Perhaps.
Each night brought a brief respite from his work. In this time, hidden from his hateful captors, he was able to reach out and learn more about this place and its people. What had initially seemed a welcome chance to study now served only to upset him further. Why discover more about the people whose blood would soon be on his proverbial hands? But then, what else was there to do with his ironically named "leisure" time? To consider his own worth and ignore the inexorable conclusion each time? To think of a way to stop this cycle from completing itself once more?
Hopeless. It was all hopeless.
'Alone.'
Not for the first time, he found himself longing for somebody to talk to. Not that anybody could help him. Not that anybody could end this ordeal. Just somebody to talk to, for just a little while, so he wouldn't be alone. Somebody kind. But was there anybody like that out there?
Anybody at all?