Dear Mun . . .

Even if I wanted to help them, I can't disassemble their ideologies as relative to their situations as they are. Even Jon can't de-construct human hatred down to its very atoms, nothing could possibly reinvent the way one of these new worlds views itself because there will never been an implosion within them great enough to rock the very foundations upon which they were built. Made. If we can't dismantle the bomb into whose belly we are thrust, then all we are left with is the posturing of frightened human beings who will raze their realms of sex, intrigue and horror until all that remains is charred ash; it's unimaginatively all a death march. Punching a man in the face for beating his wife and seeing him convicted through the judicial system is like holding up a hand against an avalanche.

My point is, what lasting difference can you possibly imagine I will make for the better? Tallying up robbers and thieves as they fill up a prison? Meaningless efforts in the grand scheme of things, even if I would see to it that no one came to harm. The futility would still be present, intrinsic, and it's that I can't bear. Taking from what Jon said, I would be less effectual in another world than a termite reaching for the stars.

[ He sighs, gloved hands sinking into his elbows as he folds his arms. A purple cape sways heavily on golden heels as he pauses. To look beyond and to anticipate eventualities is Adrian's real superpower, not the one cultivated in the strength of his fists; in a perfect world, perhaps that truth would ring closer to home.

But it doesn't, and he's simply one frustrated man. ]

Don't you understand? I'm not the savior in the shadows that you would have me be nor do I seek out such distinction. I've said it before and I'll say it again, since it clearly needs reiterating: I'm not a comic-book villain.

And I doubt anyone would call me a hero.