Caught in a snare, he does his best to remain composed. Clever, but naivety came with inexperience. The Rachni Queen was but a nymph – green still behind this puppet’s ear.

     A politician is an actor – a poor player strutting across the field – on the stage. His motives stretch on to infinity, dropping off into the inky abyss of the unknown. Let the universe think him a tyrant or a strategist. In the future, his name will be recorded for history’s sake, if not his title. Allow it to be uttered in hushed whispers of reverence alongside Pompous Maximus.

                                            Humanity’s speaker.

     It nearly brings a smile to his face. He basks in the glow. An old machine hums within his skull like prophecy: You will succeed where others have failed.

     ❝Humanity’s future lies within the palm of OUR hands, Your Highness. I speak of hopes & dreams. Of what humanity will become.❞

                                           He’s a false shepherd.

     The smile fades when revelation crawls from the harmonious albeit discombobulated voice of the Rachni. A deep breath is the calm before the storm. Pupils dilate. Behind his back, a hand grips his wrist. Had there been a dagger, he would have made for the perfect Brutus.

Deception ought to be his name.

     ❝Where there have been victories, there will always be a few lives lost. The cost of living is high. Sacrifices are necessary.❞

     A pragmatist to a fault, he sees the world in one way only: his vision. He feigns sympathy, pinches the bridge of his nose like he actually cares. Long ago, he had a soul, but traded it for prosperity. The gesture’s as fake as can be. Everything about him is.