The first dead body he ever saw, died at his hands. He felt no remorse. His hand on the chest, feeling it rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall once again, for the last time. It had been a painless death, in the end.
He waited afterwards, sitting with the body in the dark, the imperceptible hard cold of death seeping up through his fingers. It had been the most difficult thing he had had to do in his life, and he would lose himself for years afterwards. No trace of him anywhere, as if he did not exist.
He came from a traditional family; some were even religious. It had been claustrophobic, and provided an easy root for a determined rebellion. He began to Alter.
First, it was just to see if he could get away with it, if they would notice anything. As he grew bolder so did his augmentations. Just as his dad had predicted, he had fallen in with the “wrong crowd”. Fortunately, the ” wrong crowd” was garnering attention from other, more interested and interesting parties.
He was trained to be precise, lethal. He had learned quickly.
But then his grandfather had become ill. It was his father who had contacted him. Tentative bridges were formed in solidarity against the diseases ravaging the elder’s body and mind. They were a traditional family. Nature would take it’s course. His father was deaf to any pleas, and sent grandfather to the hospital instead of getting treatment.
The deterioration was rapid and it tore the family apart as much as it pulled them together.
In that small, dark room, with the ventilators finally silenced, the sharp, constant lights, subdued, he was God. And it hurt like Hell.
He held his grandfather’s hand in his own, placed the other on the frail chest, and waited.
His father would never speak to him again.