They had made him. Whatever – whoever – he had been before, he no longer was. They had shaped him and twisted him, turned him into their soldier, their superman. His jet black skin, harder than diamonds – that was them. His sculpted muscles, like some Renaissance statue – that was them.
His hatred, his rage, like Achilles at Troy – that was them too.
They had made themselves a monster, gene by gene, surgery by surgery, and now he had turned upon them.
He looked up at their shining glass windows, gleaming like diamonds in the sun. Screams and shouts came from all around him. People were running, ordinary legs carrying them as fast as they could. He could have caught them all if he wanted to, broken them into little pieces. But he had no quarrel with the panicked crowds. He was saving all his fury for the people in their tower of glass and steel.
He walked towards the doors, calm and slow, then shattered them with a flick of his finger. Alarms blared and security rushed towards him, but they were nothing to him, just ants standing in his way.
They had made him and he would unmake them.
Word Count: 198
This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge!