Can you taste it?
Power.
The frothy mixture of desire and manipulation that clings to the tongue like the lingering touch of death?
The corruption of power, it seeps into each crevice, each pathway of your heart, and fills the void with a hollow sense of achievement. It’s a seductive, deadly dance, one that ensnares the weak and taints the strong, painting them all with the same, broad strokes of arrogance and entitlement.
Roderick Pym, a man who bartered his family for fortune, could tell you a thing or two about that dance. He craved power, influence, wealth. A deal made in the youthful naivety of ambition cost him everything he would later hold dear.
The ghosts of his children, the eerie remnants of a pitiful barter, follow him like shadows of guilt. They’re reminders of a power he once coveted, and the havoc it wreaked.
Then there’s Dahlia Black, the epitome of ambition gone astray. A woman who scaled the social ladder not on the rungs of hard work, but on those built by manipulation. A treacherous road she navigated, one that promised glamour, affluence, and adoration.
But the power she sought, the control she craved, deluded her husband to the point of unfaithfulness. It shattered her, unhinged something in her that now hunts the ‘unfaithful’ with a macabre thirst for vengeance.
And of course, we can’t forget Victor Doom, an experiment of power turned into a monstrosity. Conceived to be a clone of unimaginable strength and intelligence, Victor turned out to be a peaceful creature, plagued with the side effect of a lust for blood and death, too repulsive for even his creator.
Shunned, he was sentenced to the pits of Deathrow, where he lay waiting with his uncontrollable urges.
Now they find their way into the arms of Hera and the Uprising. Their thirst for power has intertwined and become one.
I see you all, I feel the bubbling crude of vengeance beneath the surface of your hearts.
A thirst that has driven you to wage a war, a futile struggle against Zeus. A quest clouded by the false belief that your cause is just, your rebellion righteous.
But power, like an insidious infection, has crept into your ranks. It has twisted your ideals into a grotesque display of insatiable ambition.
You claim to liberate Arcadia from the clutches of Zeus, yet the power you so vehemently fight against has made puppets out of you. You dance on its strings, frenzied and delusional, not realizing that every step you take, every move you make, you fall deeper into its maze.
Power, such a cruel, vindictive mistress. It promises change, seduces with the allure of control, and masks the destructive spiral that awaits at its core.
I see you.
Pym, haunted by your past mistakes.
Dahlia, driven by your destructive vengeance.
And Victor, a powerful creature reduced to a bloodthirsty beast.
The power you craved consumed you. Why do you seek more?
For power is not a victory but a sentence.
Not a feast, but a famine.
That’s why you now stand before Pestilence.
Choking on your so-called power.