--

  As they walked in as actors and players in a story named fittingly "Broken Windows", the audience gets ready as the bickering ends and the lights dim to open way for the story about to be played. Malfonz chained up in ropes once more, the vaccine dropped his only chance at what he wanted, all he could ever want was the pity he thought he was entitled too. As if one of him wasn't enough he saw him everywhere, he saw two of him in front of himself and as he lost this battle by one of Neova's goons the ropes not holding anyone anymore. He simply crawls begging at another chance at things, a new answer to his old, what will he do to become king? He had everything, but he had his code, not a code of his humanity but of what he considers honorable. A higher being should not grovel at the feet of a peasant, for he made the peasant not a puppet.

  He lost this fight or atleast the first round of it. It wasn't even a tie anymore like it was before, kicked down as he tried to climb up these men didn't even resemble the man he hated, however what can he do now? He wishing it was a dream, would only come to see his soldiers as tens of thousands rather than prisoners taken care of by him. He was asking groveling climbing up again, but when both sides see the other as enemies the soldiers of the leaders follow their belief. The gas was leaked and as tens of thousands screamed falling down one by one, Malfonz could only be seen begging, begging for someones forgiveness.

  As the two men leave not even a last resort was left, a last motivation to take action of what felt unjust. He laid headfirst looking at the splinter on the ground noticing it for the first time. It was his everything at the moment not even a glance at the vaccine, the world was better off without em it felt, but it was also true. People died left and right, bodies carried by the people in charge of clean-up, and only a portion of that was your doing. You didn't even dent the world, not even a number on the chart, all that happened is your own men died, your own loss, and the world continued to die but still never remember you.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The splinter was sharp, it was sticking out diagonally, brown and rugged as well as miss shapen. As his house started to smell like dumpster about to reek for weeks he didn't move, there was no explotion, no big bang, no nothing. All this was, was a kids game. And then I stood there, not the narrator, yet all he did was grovel ... not even ask or notice.

  "Why you make me have enough empathy that I can envy what I don't have and yet no sympathy enough to distance me from them", he thought he asked and yet no word was said.

  "I wanted to prove that not all evil was from nurture", I said.

  "Why make me different then, dead like the rest of them", he asked.

  "There is a point in having nothing and yet also a lesson in no change, I can't see that lesson for myself, so I see you as a guiding light of my now mortality", I said.

  "Does it hurt to have no face, no mouth, no eyes, nothing to make you someone of importance in an endless struggle, my boredom made you, my passion drove you here, yet all I want you to see is that splinter because in me there is you, the one you I can't do anything but put on page for", and yet even in struggle to prove to myself in making something that never changes, I was unwilling to change, I ended up talking to the notes I was writing. Fin.