he left an Icarus, in flight towards the blinding son. when he reached it, it was so much colder than he expected. like the prodigal son, he returned. torn between two masters, he is the devil's advocate and God's right hand. a weapon either way, he slaughters carelessly without blood on his hands. indirect conflict, a genius in the laboratory. if not for his infamy, the crimes would be untraceable. he cannot sleep at night, a luxury he allows himself reluctant to allow, as images trace behind his eyelids, figures falling before him parting like the red sea. in his dreamy state, it leans towards the dramatics. the guilt takes it's toll, and he finds control harder to manage. like Eve, the serpent whispered it's sweet promises, and just as Eve did he bites into the apple yellow teeth through red flesh with a crunch that makes him sick as his excitement rises. even now in his suffering, perhaps because of his suffering, he cannot imagine a different choice. he sways like a pendulum. neither master is kind.
he is the closest they have for a martyr, and even then...