Dark secrets have a way of making it out into the light. However, when you belong to the 1% of the 1% those secrets tend to stay buried alongside the shattered hope of decaying and unsuspecting victims. Those secrets become currency. Those secrets become weapons. They become power.
Have you ever asked yourself "What don't we (the public) know? Or What aren't they (those in power) telling us?"
They say the world is a beautiful place, with warm, sunlight-saturated waters that bend and buckle at the will of land. Waves, rowing out to sea, in search of a blissful shore to lay its burdens on, only to be pulled back to the magnetic paradise of beaches adorned with white sand. Forests full, with trees who's darkened branches - coated with leaves shades of colors unnamed by man - reach out to the Heavens while their thick trunks, tunnel roots through the earth in search of Hell. Waterfalls hidden in the deep crevices of caves - an oasis where rocky walls echo peace.
But in reality, the world is dark and cold. It doesn't hide its dangers with the facade of bright lights and cleverly advertised landscapes. It's honest and raw. It's the people in power that hide the truth. They taunt us with postcard destinations saturated by tall palm trees and vibrantly colored cocktails whose names sing in onomatopoeia. They distract us with fast cars and architecture that tangos with the laws of physics. Food designed to bridge the worlds of bitter and sweet. They sell us an iceberg lifestyle where the dark consequences of luxury hide beneath the surface.
Then you start to think "There can't only be bad people in the world. There are good people too."
Well then I say to you, power is the most addictive drug. Power is alive - heartbeat and all, it's a living breathing menace. It whispers honey coated lies that permeates your moral resolve leaving you at its mercy. Charles Hill was seduced by power. His multi-billion dollar corporation had tentacles of shell companies that reached all corners of the globe. His mind corrupted by the benefits of roaming the earth freely without challenge. The seed of his empire, photosynthesized by the trauma and destruction of innocents. The roots of his success, fertilized by the compost of hundreds of decaying bodies. His fortune, built on the foundation of broken backs, broken hearts and broken families.
But in the wreckage of his wealth was born an agent of darkness whose purpose serves the light: Sebastian Prescott.
The Concierge of Death.
The Hellhound of Justice.
Sebastian Prescott was a member of a shadow organization known as "The Prometheus Progeny."
To 99% of the world they were a myth, a rumor wrapped in a murmur of conspiracy theories. But to the wickedly rich they were the champions that defend the defenseless. The Goliaths that protect David - making it a fair fight.
The Prometheus Progeny observed and referee'd the illicit underworld of the wealthy and prosecuted those who's greed potbellied. Their aim: to rid the world of the scum whose vileness knew no bounds. They were the only ones -really- willing to dedicate their lives in service of actual peace and equality. Their acts of valor and bravery, sacrificial in tone was thankless and not properly appreciated due to their residence in the shadows. These were individuals who had no country. Their loyalty was to honor balance and life. Where, when a life was wrongly taken, that life had to repaid. Where, when evil breeds and infects, a remedy in kind must purge it's toxic effects. They abided no laws made by men in tailored suits, living in ivory towers. The Prometheus Progeny lived and died by one motto: "in absentia lucis, tenebrae vincunt" in the absence of light, darkness prevails. They took it upon themselves to serve as the eternal flame that keeps the torch of truth lit. Ironically, with the way the world has evolved they've had to serve the light, in the dark. Sacrificing their few souls for the many.
Sebastian Prescott was the most efficient member of the organization. His identity unknown to anyone outside their enterprise. He was a king, a ruler of the shadows - a ghost, leaving only a matte black calling-card with the word Prometheus in brail, at every site of the aftermath of his devastating carnage.
A man whose own brothers-in-arms believed had no soul. His executions were always precise, the punishment tenfold the crime. He was methodical and paranoid - two qualities needed for the version of the world he lived in. Sebastian's kill count had surpassed any number that was comfortable enough to pallet. The remnants of his victims tormenting his every moment. Their screams whispering against the walls of his brain, all of them. All the time. Their presence flirting with the hair on the back of his neck, constantly reaching out just a hair width distance. Hovering but never touching. His ankles, weighed down where they'd wrap themselves twice over, calling his real name. Not the "Nom de guerre" of: Sin-eater, the concierge of death, but his real name. The name given to him by his mother. A name that's accompanied by innocence and happy memories but a name that even he dare not call himself.
It had baffled everyone who knew him, how he could remain fluid with the number of souls that followed him and not project mental instability. Sure, Sebastian was a sleeping-pill addicted insomniac but he never spoke about his time with his victims and the effects of it. Every other member of The Prometheus Progeny had routine sessions with a therapist, to help keep them mentally stable because in reality when dealing with sadistic monsters who murder innocents and sell their body parts for something as trivial as money, a bullet to the head isn't enough justice. The art of torture was a dark and dangerous skill to perfect. The creativity and imagination that came with pushing your victim's understanding of pain and fear to a realm that supersedes death - can only be conjured up by the vilest parts your mind. Sebastian Prescott had mastered that art. One can even go as far as to say he revolutionized the entire art form. He was well educated on the limitations of the mind and the human body. Not only was he well-versed, he was resilient as an innovator.
Sebastian had personally met death. He sat and dined with her vicious allure, he'd heard her sweet voice as she sang blood-soaked promises. Their time together had been tattooed on his soul, making her his first love - a toxic dance between lovers forced by fate. His body marred by her caress and his mind twisted by the taste of her sinfully, intoxicating lips. Sebastian had survived death's love. He'd understood it and found a way to live with the tattered pieces of what one, would call his heart. This was his sacrifice. This was his cross to bare. Sebastian knew that in order to serve his purpose as The Sin-eater, The Hellhound of Justice and The Concierge of Death, he had to purge his soul and drink from a cup overflowing Hell-fire that drips pain-tainted blood, soaking the riverbeds wet. He lead the remnants of his victims, using their haunting as justification for his purpose. He knew that for every person he killed, an innocent life was saved or in some cases avenged. There was a meaning to his torment. So long as he drew breath as did the eternal flame of light.