And that's how it starts - a man with a deluded mind, a wicked heart, and a fire that cannot be extinguished. He talks, just like he always has and always will, and he does not fall back. It's feverish, how he argues for his cause. He argues for his creation. He argues for each and every bit and piece that went into the machine. He has a vision. He has a dream. If the world will not accept him, it is a failure attributed to its own hubris. He will fulfill it regardless.
But he argues and he fights. This creation - it is his. He has built it with his own two hands, steel meticulously crafted, and his name should be the one it is credited to. He argues but his peers will not listen. His professor will not listen. The college and the court do not listen, either. The world turns on him, and what is left?
Nothing, anymore.
He withdraws from college, and the days are dark and bleak - empty in a way they never had been before. He had always busied his mind with plans and aspirations and dreams. Now, the machinations of his mind are fleeting and he does not have the strength to reach out for them. His floor is cold but he cannot argue with himself to get up. (get up. get up.)
He can sleep. He's tired, a weariness that sits heavily in his bones and demands he lay down and never rise. He cannot recall sleeping for more than a few hours since his childhood. He no longer has college. There is no more work to be done. His creation belongs to someone else now. He is a nobody.
He can close his eyes and forget about the world that condemned him. It is a strong argument and, truthfully, he can rest for a day. He watches the sun set, closes his eyes, and hopes it never rises.
Unfortunately - it does. The sun rises, and he rises with it. There is work to be done. He cannot wallow away in his own self-pity, angry at the world. He is still angry - very much so - but he must rise. He must work.
He is needed. His brain is too valuable to waste, and it would be a shame if his vision died prematurely in an old laboratory. There is a sudden flare of willpower and he latches onto it before it can dissipate; he gets to his feet, combats the weariness, and he works. He cannot allow his woes to pull him down. He struggles against the heavy pull of unconsciousness, the powerful waves of sadness and hatred and everything in between, and he fights and he fights and he fights.
He starts again. This time, he is his own test subject. His work cannot be stolen from him if he is his own experiment. They can steal his project, but they can never take his aspirations.
The world had turned on him when he needed it most. He has no need for humanity. Other humans and the connection between them are just that - bonds, tying him down and sinking him further into the depths of despair. He rips off the shackles, and dedicates himself to a new cause -
The combat against humanity and the frailty of mortality. A war where he is the only casualty.
It matters little. He will fight for his cause - and there's a good chance he'll die for it, too.
After cuts and incisions, skin and flesh and bones removed and replaced with the reliability of metal - he is reborn. More machine than man, he will show the world what it has personally fostered. He is but another creation of its failures, its weak and blinded views - but he has been born anew.
His weakness has been removed and he is naïve no longer. Hearts fail. Bones break. Emotions weigh you down, down, down - and he has picked himself up and risen above it all. He has evolved, and perhaps the rest of humanity should be offered the same opportunity. His enlightenment had been effected by humanity's condemnation - why not reward the world for creating its new savior?
And so he does.
The crusade begins with him - a single man machine vying for attention and acknowledgement. Pleas to ditch the shackles of humanity, the frailty of flesh and bone. Steel may not fix all of humanity's flaws - not quite - but it is something close. He is the herald of a new age, and he preaches to crowds who are as skeptical as they are dismissive.
He is a miracle. He is a tragedy.
But he continues on because he must.
He will improve humanity. He will work tirelessly, feverishly, endlessly until it is done. A prophet cannot rest. He has a purpose now. He will raise humanity to a new level, mercilessly shatter the delusion of humans and the confines of flesh, and pave the way towards immortality.
With every word, he takes another step further into eternity.
He preaches and belabors his evolution. He is the future of science, the pinnacle of development. He is proof of machinery and steel working in tandem with flesh and bone. He is the machine herald of a glorious evolution. He has transcended humanity. He will overcome the obstacles of age and achieve immortality. If he can ascend, what is stopping the rest of the world?
He gains acolytes, of course. Those who have lost limbs or have weak vital organs - he fixes them, and they live again. He never operates on the unwilling, and he certainly will not manipulate anyone into his cause. It is not brainwashing; preaching the glories and wonders of augmentation and metal is enlightenment.
He is no longer alone, but humanity continues to turn a blind eye on his evolution, on him. He is ignored, not unlike the dismissal of his claims of ownership. His creation is still gone, stolen away from him and credited to the wrong name, and he is unacknowledged once again.
But he persists. He continues his preaching, his passionate speeches. It is all for his glorious evolution. It is all that matters now.
He cannot rest. He must enlighten humanity on his cause. He is but a fervent mouthpiece, carrying the message of his own tragedy, miracle, evolution and everything in between. He is the herald of a new age.
The road to hell has always been paved with good intentions. He has known this since his very first breath.
It matters little. He has already been condemned. He will simply burn until the rest of humanity meets him again.