His name was Lawerence Beaudoin, but he was known simply as the one in power. The one at the head. And more recently, the old man. He was determined to stamp that one out, because it didn’t fit. But what did fit? Did it matter what they called you, as long as they feared you?
The old man was unaware of the power of the individual mind.He had been aware many years ago, when it was necessary.But it no longer was necessary.
He had forgotten that It was the very thing he had used to get here. Forgotten that it was the only danger he ever faced anymore. He was old. But he had the mind of a ruler.
James Powell should have come tonight, and he should have brought Max with him. The old man believed in Powell's loyalty. Could James have gotten killed by his own explosion? The young man was foolish sometimes. Just like the rest of the world.
He did not like the situation wherever it would take them, but he hoped that James had blown himself up accidentally rather than have betrayed him. The man would die either way. It was a shame. He had been useful.
The man numbed his thoughts about Powell, because there was no point to continue.He simply sat in his bed and stared out the window, his brain completely blank, staring.
When he was younger he had wondered if it was possible to think of nothing. His brain was so full that it was impossible. He had then discovered that thoughts are not permanent things. They are powerful things, but not permanent. They could be changed with another thought. A more appropriate one.
Precisely this is what made the man the way he was. He would shove any thoughts of emotion out with other thoughts. Ones that he would call practical ones. Ones that gave him the right mind for the job.
The right words.
The right soul.