Slaying the Hydra
Eric Byer is a realist, a pragmatist unfettered by the dogma of society's moral doctrines. The world is what it is, and his job is to see that the excrement evacuated from a society sick with evil, not unlike cancer, is quickly cleaned up. His sole goal of late has been to contain an infection before it can taint his life's work any further. Byer is absolute in his belief that no one can fill his shoes or walk his line. In his eyes he is the only one truly strong enough to do whatever it takes to defend his country.
Because Eric Byer is a patriot, a man so enthralled with his country's heritage that he has become blinded to the gray areas which fade into black. He would fight for his country and he would kill to protect the ideals of men that sacrificed family and fortune to establish one of the greatest nations in the world. Byer is an American bolstered by the tales of obscure but great men like Gouverneur Morris who helped form the government, that Byer serves, and physically pen the Constitution of the United States of America.
Byer is powerful, untouchable. The stroke of his pen wipes clean many a slate with the destructive force of a nuclear explosion. One word falling from his lips, like a mythological deity, and lives become acceptable expenses. Inwardly, he revels in his place, but outwardly he portrays grim determination as though he is doing a dirty but needed job because it has to be done. Thankless and bloody that is what should be inked in red across his dossier.
His idealism led him here to this place through a maze of clandestine meetings and government sanctioned murders, gray areas blotted with black and mottled with crimson life blood.
Pulling his hand away from his side as he straightened up Eric stared uncomprehending at the bright smear blood on his fingers. Suddenly he is not untouchable. Gods don't bleed but men do; it is clear to him in that moment. Every step he has taken in the last week was not by his will but orchestrated by a lab rat of a man that refused to stay down.
"Cross," he mutters, darkness speckling his periphery as he looks off into the distance to a place he is sure his executioner lay. The name barely left his lips before the tell-tale whine-thunk of another bullet finding its target dead center of the man's forehead. Eric Byer dropped where he stood.