There are no right decisions — they say — there are only decisions that bring more and less losses. You can't shoot without losing a round, the amount of loss is equivalent to the price of your aim. And their goal comes at a price — freedom, a seemingly basic thing that any intelligent being should possess, but in a bitter irony, they, the most evolved beings on this planet, are destined to lose their lives fighting for it.

The end justifies the means — that's how Markus should have thought as a leader. Such a simple phrase, often heard on television from the mouths of important people dressed up in grand suits with faces full of determination. Markus should have made this decision as a leader. The one with their goal on one side of the scale and the people, their lives, futures and hopes on the other. To choose where the loss would be least.

But how could Markus call those who in his eyes were so human, who only yesterday had sat before him pondering the changes to come, losses? Pondering the ones he had promised, for he was the one who had given them that hope, as Prometheus had given people fire along with the idea of freedom from oppression.

His eyebrows are furrowed, the expression on his face what people call uncertain — pensive. A cool wind blows against his synthetic skin as he closes his eyes. Blood, bodies, shouting slogans and the noise of gunfire — he opens his eyes, running his open palm over his face. Does he regret? Yes, sometimes, at times when there is no one around, he does, wishing he could go back there and not push that domino forward.

"I wanted to be alone," he says in response to the sound of the door clicking shut. What he will do, they will do. And every splatter of blue blood on the pavement, every failed plan is his responsibility. Every failure of theirs is his failure, because he's the one these all of them follow, stumble he will, stumble every one of them if he— "Had to get my head straight. After...everything. This,"