#evaura forever

On December 21st, the winter solstice, Sebastian Shaw usually celebrated the longest night of the year in complete privacy. It was his time, the hour of darkness when he could hide his crimes from all eyes, maintaining the appearance of a wealthy philanthropist in the eyes of society. After all, it's far more important to have the approval of your concierge than your conscience. Especially when you murdered your conscience long ago.

In 2004, he had chosen William Stryker as his guest. He only ever invited one person for the night of the winter solstice. Last year, it was Emma Frost, but her conversation had less appeal than her face, and the beauty of perfection quickly tires, unlike the resources of the mind.

And so it was that, a little before midnight, in one of those modern palaces known as skyscrapers, Sebastian Shaw was waiting for his guest in a large, dimly lit living room, listening to the ticking of the clock on the console table. Then, a little before midnight, the two doors opened, and two liveried footmen appeared, lit candelabras in hand. From the end of the corridor, emerging from the darkness, William Stryker entered. He had a keen eye and a serious step. His gaze enveloped the billionaire perched on his velvet throne, who regarded him with a smile.

"I expected you earlier, Stryker. Were you detained?"

"By the Under Secretary of State, I'm afraid. He wanted my opinion on Project Sentinel, you see…"

Sebastian Shaw's face lit up with a thin smile stretching his eager lips. Everyone had associated Bolivar Trask's name with the Sentinel Project, unaware that the giant robots had been manufactured by Shaw's factories. Shaw had pocketed a tidy sum when S.H.I.E.L.D. purchased a dozen of these robots to fight the mutant Apocalypse, but if the government signed a long-term contract to be supplied with electronic golems, Sebastian Shaw's hegemony over the military-industrial complex would be assured for a good decade. Ah, wealth and the power it brings! They were the only cures on earth for the despair that had gnawed at the billionaire's heart since his youth.

"And what did you think of the secretary, Stryker?" Shaw asked, rising from his chair.

Stryker joined him around the table covered with food and pulled out a chair for his guest.

"I found him quite hollow." The perfect bureaucratic puppet of democratic governments, who, when a problem arises, begin by forming a "State Commission," with the sole objective of appointing a "subcommittee," which, months later, will produce a "Report," which the minister concerned will quickly read, only to ultimately fail to take any responsible action if the conclusions of said report prove even remotely likely to disrupt his re-election.

Shaw filled two champagne flutes and handed one to his guest.

« Alors, Monsieur Stryker, comme disait Balzac : « Buvons à l'imbécillité du pouvoir qui nous donne tant de pouvoir sur les imbéciles. »