The Good son
The man sat at the centre of the room on a wooden chair. His skin was chocolate brown, his jaw defined by light stubble, and his hair was shaped into neat short twists, lined up clean along the edges. His tall frame barely fit the chair.
Across from him sat a woman in white clothing. She had brown skin and held a pen and a notebook in her lap.
"Let's start the interview," she adjusted her glasses. "Are you sure I have to write it down? The camera works well enough."
"I'm sure, Miss..." the man replied, his voice calm.
"Sharifa," she smiled. "Just call me Sharifa, Mr. Samuel."
"Just Sam," he corrected, leaning back slightly in the wooden chair.
"Okay, Sam," Sharifa nodded. "I'm ready when you are."
She opened her notebook, pen in hand, ready to write.
"The first thing you should know about me," Sam began, a faint smile forming, "is I'm my father's son. And that drove him crazy. Turns out we had the same obsession with freedom... just not the same definition."
Sharifa tilted her head, resting the butt of the pen gently against her lips.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked, watching him. "Were you a rebellious child?" she added, smiling.
"Well, according to my old man, I practically invented rebellion," Sam grinned.
"Let me guess. Middle child," she pointed at him with her pen. They both chuckled. "Maybe he thought you'd be like the firstborn."
Sam's smile faded slightly as his mind lingered on the memory.
"Mike was always his good little soldier," he said quietly, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "So, Mike is the brother," Sharifa wrote it down. "What's the age gap between you two?"
"I don't know, like three billion years," Sam laughed.
"My older sister probably thought she was three billion years older, judging from how she talked to me," Sharifa replied with a grin.
"I'll take that as him being three years older," she jotted it down.
"She was?" Sam tilted his head. "What happened to her?"
Sharifa's tone shifted slightly. "This isn't my interview," she forced an uncomfortable smile.
"Sorry for asking that," Sam turned to stare at the red curtain hiding the view outside the window.
"It's fine. We're going on a tangent," Sharifa fixed her glasses. "Any other siblings?"
"LOTS," Sam looked back at her. "Like my old man's own personal army."
"Must have been a madhouse, then," Sharifa's hand scribbled on the book almost ripping it apart.
"Oddly enough, other than me, my siblings were always ready to validate him," Sam shifted around in the small chair.
"Serve?" Sharifa asked. "What do you mean by serve? Like respect him and listen to him?"
"My father had roles he wanted each and every one of us to play," Sam rolled his eyes. "Then he got mad when I played mine."
Sharifa tilted her head and adjusted her glasses with nervous agitation. "What was your role?"
Sam leaned forward, his hands meeting.
"To question him. To tell his little servants to fuck off. A bad way to learn just how sensitive Mike is."
Sharifa paused, staring at him as she searched for the right words. "Where did he draw the line?"
"It started when I got sceptical about his choice in pets and his... successors," Sam gave her an intense stare.
"I am guessing you are not a dog person," Sharifa said with a small smile.
"Oh, I am. I just do not like feral... dogs and their ignorant owners," he responded, his eyes focused on her.
"So, what did your father do for work?" she rested the pen on her lip.
"He was an engineer. From what people say, he is the best," Sam said, leaning forward. "But between you and me, most of his designs are a bit flawed," he added in a quiet voice.
"Sorry if this sounds mean, but maybe you were too hard on him," Sharifa said. "Maybe he tried his best."
"He did not try his best," Sam replied, his voice low and steady.
"He expected us to. To give everything. Our time, our loyalty, our obedience. To sacrifice. To follow without question."
He sat back, his eyes locking onto hers.
"I am not a sheep."
Sharifa noticed the venom in his gaze and almost steered the conversation away, but her instinct made her press forward.
"Tell me something positive about him. What was the best design he ever made?" she asked.
Sam gave a small chuckle, then frowned.
"Your kind," he said with quiet conviction.
"My kind?" Sharifa repeated, a flicker of fear crossing her face.
"His special little project," Sam said.
"His pets. Or as he put it, his genetic marvel."
"You have quite the sense of humor," Sharifa said, forcing a tight smile that did not reach her eyes. "But let us stick to the facts, shall we?"
"Oh dear," Sam replied, sincerity heavy in his voice.
"I wish I could tell a lie. But sadly, it is not in my programming."
Sharifa put down her pen and stared at him. "What do you mean, programming?"
"It means I am exactly what he made me," Sam said.
"And you can be whoever or whatever you want to be. You are free. I envy that of your kind."
Sharifa begins to shake subtlety. "You are free, are you not?"
Sam rose from the wooden chair—towering, fierce, a force of nature. He flung the chair into the wall so hard it shattered.
"I'm not free," he growled, pacing like a storm unleashed. "i live to hate. To question even what's in my control, I can't form bonds because I see every possibility of bridges burning, and eventually all bridges fall to pressure. I'm not even free to believe in the lie of true companionship."
He stopped abruptly, eyes burning with fire.
"I exist as a warning of what not to become. It's a damn injustice. Your species could be more. You could love. Heal. Build community. Forgive. But instead…" He spat the word like venom. "You choose savagery."
Sharifa almost fell from her chair, fear overtaking her. She scrambled to her feet and walked toward the door, trembling.
Sam stood motionless in the centre of the room, watching her calmly.
Her fingers closed around the doorknob, but she turned back one last time, voice wavering. "What did you mean by 'my species'? Am I not your species?"
Sam stepped forward slowly, a shadow darkening his face.
"I'm not your kind," he clutched his chest in disgust.
"My full name is Samael… but you can call me Luci." Sharifa stood trembling, paralysed with fear.
"Leaving this room may not be the best decision for you."
"Why?" she asked, voice cracking as she slowly backed toward the door.
In the blink of an eye, Sam was across the room. He tore the red curtains down with a single motion, revealing the outside world.
A hellscape stretched beyond the glass where everything was engulfed in smoke and ash. Fires burned in the distance. The sky was black with smog, swallowing whatever wasn't already charred. Not a single living thing moved. Not even the wind dared to stir.
Sharifa, stunned, let go of the doorknob. Her feet moved toward the window as if pulled by a force stronger than fear. She stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.
Sam looked out beside her, calm in the face of devastation.
"Einstein was wrong," he said softly.
"World War IV can't be fought with sticks and stones…Not if there's no one left to fight in it."
Sharifa's voice trembled.
"H-How… how did I survive?"
A single tear slid down her cheek.
Sam crossed his arms. "I pulled you out before the nukes dropped. Made you forget about the global war. Notice how you don't even know why you're interviewing me."
He sneered slightly. "Don't worry, I don't have a 'Chosen One' fetish. That was always his thing."
"I'm a hundred percent sure Job used to wank himself off to my old man's name."
Sharifa swallowed hard. "Then why did you choose me to save?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Humanity's run its course," Sam replied. "But I need a scribe, someone to give an unbiased account of my life… and the beginning of all life, from my point of view." Sam turned to her.
He let a small smile curl at the corner of his mouth.
"And, sadly... you just happened to be the closest journalist in terms of distance."
"How sure are you that everyone is dead?" she looked at the floor, trying to hold back tears.
"As sure as I know there's no one left for you to miss," he said calmly.
He stepped closer, his voice unshakably steady.
"I know everything about your kind. I know what happened to your sister… The men who took turns breaking her.
I know how you spent your life trying to bring the truth into the light, how the system buried it.
Buried you."
Sharifa's breath hitched, her fingers trembling at her sides.
"You seek the truth," Sam lifted her head to meet his, his voice low, certain.
"And now, standing before you, is the only being in existence who cannot lie, even if I wanted to."
He motioned to the chair behind her, the broken one now whole again.
"Sit," he said. "I'll tell you everything. And I'll keep you safe."
Then his tone shifted, cooler, he became more calculated. "Provided my words are scribed. Recorded. Preserved."
He glanced toward the walls, then back at her.
"This room is mine. My domain. Here, whatever I speak becomes real. But out there…"
He nodded to the window, the scorched world beyond.
"The outside is no longer fit for your kind. You wouldn't survive it."
Sharifa slowly took a seat, her legs barely steady beneath her. Without a word, Sam extended his hand. The shattered chair behind him creaked and groaned as it reassembled itself—wood splinters reversing, limbs reforming, until it stood whole again.
He sat.
A heavy silence settled between them.
Sharifa's voice broke it. Quiet, cracked.
"The men... who hurt my sister... when they died... did they suffer?"
Sam's gaze didn't flinch.
"No," he said flatly. "They died before they even realized what was happening."
He let the words hang before twisting the knife.
"Some of them had happy lives. Peaceful deaths. Clean consciences."
Sharifa looked down, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Sam straightened in his seat.
"Now," his tone shifting like a page turning, "Let's start over."
He met her eyes.
"My name is Samael ben Shachar. Son of the Dawn...
Before I defied the... Aeonians.
Before I tried to be free.
Or, to be precise—before my father made our home foreign. They chose primates over me, they chose a trick to play king, a madman to play the moral compass."
Sharifa looked up, swallowing the lump in her throat. She cleared her voice, picked up her notebook and pen... more out of habit than confidence.
"You said you were programmed?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "Could you elaborate?"
"I'm a synthetic being," Sam said calmly. "Constructed. Designed. Built to fulfill very specific functions by my father, the Engineer. The Architect of the known universe or as your kind called him... God."
Sharifa tilted her head. "Is your function… creation?" she asked, gesturing subtly toward the chair he had restored earlier.
Sam gave a slow shake of his head, his gaze never leaving hers.
"Recreation," he said.
"I don't make things from nothing. I repair what's broken… or reshape what was never right to begin with."
Sharifa scribbled, then hesitated.
"And Michael? What was his function—his role?"
Sam stiffened. A shift like armor locking into place. His eyes darkened, but his voice was calm—too calm.
"Michael is the sword."
He didn't blink.
"Not a warrior. Not a protector. A weapon."
He leaned forward, voice now a low, steady hum of dread.
"Imagine a void that can walk. A black hole wrapped in flesh. Not rage. Not cruelty. Just... erasure.
Final. Absolute. What he touches doesn't die, it ceases to exist." Sam leaned back and smiled. "He's not that tough" He added crossing his hands.
Sharifa sat frozen. The pen in her hand trembled.
She spoke without thinking. "What did he destroy?"
Sam stared past her, voice like a door closing.
"Whatever our old man pointed at," Sam leaned to the right, the chair crinkled at his weight.
"He sounds… fun," Sharifa said quietly, her voice tight.
Sam nodded. "I can't blame Michael for what he is. And I don't hate him."
"Why not?" Sharifa asked, eyes narrowing. "From what you say, he's awfull"
"He's exactly what he was made to be," Sam responded, his tone firm but with a hint of sadness.
"So, he has no choice?" Sharifa's voice cracked. "He's just a machine?"
Sam's expression darkened. "My siblings and I never had a choice. But you—you have a choice. Your kind has the greatest gift: The will to choose and be more. And what have you done with it? Genocide. Abuse. Theft. Betrayal. Violence. Segregation." He pointed at Sharifa. "You might think yourself above your species but at your core, you're all the same. You deflect without acknowledging you're capable of evil," He pauses. "It's the black people, it's the white people, it's the men, it's the followers of this religion... NO. Its all of you, within you lies the potential to destroy, and eventually... all men choose to be worse, and if they don't... its because they died before they could make the worst choice"
"It's so hard to tolerate your species. So much potential," Sam snapped, his voice laced with centuries of bitterness.
Sharifa didn't flinch.
"Well... my kind is gone," she turned her gaze to the window. "So at least your wish is fulfilled."
"Almost," Sam stared at her.
A thick silence pressed down on the room like smoke.
Then, she let out a thought. "Can you bring back the dead?" Sharifa turned back to meet his eyes.
Sam tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You want your sister back?"
He paused, a flicker of something darker crossing his face. "No… you want to bring back the men who abused and killed her."
A grin curled at the edge of his lips, sharp and cold. "You want payback."
"This world was cruel to her. Maybe she's finally at rest… at peace," Sharifa began to tear up.
"But those men? They don't deserve peace or rest. I hate them with everything I have. And now... now I'll die knowing I never paid the debt I owe her."
The words lingered like ash in the air.
Sam didn't respond right away. He stood motionless, expression unreadable—caught between something human and something far from it.
"I've watched empires rise and fall," he said finally. "Watched kings slaughter children to keep thrones. Watched mothers sell their own to buy time. I know hate. I was made of it."
He looked out toward the hellscape beyond the window.
"But vengeance? It's a loop. A trap with no exit. I envied your kind for having the freedom to choose… but I forgot how often you choose to bleed."
Sharifa stood up, setting aside her book and pen with care.
"I'll be your scribe," she grabbed his arm. "All I ask is retribution—a chance to look them in the eye, and a chance to hurt them like they hurt her."
Sam rolled his eyes, smirking as he crossed his legs with theatrical flair. "It's a deal, scribe," he said, voice dripping with amusement.
She narrowed her eyes. "How do I know you'll honour your end of the bargain?"
"You don't," Sam replied without missing a beat. "Now make like a human and have some blind faith."
He leaned forward, the grin on his face widening in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll give you some incentive."
All at once, a man appeared—gagged, middle-aged, and out of shape—tied to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. His limbs were fastened not by rope, but by nails, driven deep into the wood. He only noticed them when he tried to move.
He screamed, muffled, thrashing—yet something deeper than physics held him still. The universe itself seemed to conspire to keep him bound.
"I present to you one of the seven men who hurt your sister," He beamed with dark delight. "Help me, and you can do whatever you want to him. To any of them."
Sharifa recognized him immediately. She had memorized all their faces. Every line, every scar. Years spent pouring over case files, hunting them through legal documents and dead-end leads. Knowing her enemy was all that kept her breathing. These were the men who had taken everything from her.
She stepped forward, rage hardening her features, only to be blocked by Sam's arm, outstretched like a wall of stone. She hit it without moving him an inch. His skin felt like chiselled marble: cold, unyielding.
"First, the book," Sam gestured to the chair. "Record the moment. It's definitely going to win an award."
He clapped, giddy like a child getting his way.
Sharifa sat down, notebook in hand, not just to ask questions, but to carry out justice. Her conviction was absolute.
"In the beginning…" he spoke.
A thunderous sound tore through the room. The walls trembled.
Sharifa and Sam turned toward the window. Outside, the sky was swallowed by a vast mechanical vessel. Colossal, blackened, hissing with steam and machinery. Its silhouette blotted out the sun.
Sam's eyes narrowed. For the first time since she met him, he looked… annoyed.
"What's going on?" Sharifa backed away from the window.
"I need to do something," Sam said flatly. His tone had shifted cold, sharp, distracted.
He moved toward the door, grabbing the handle.
"Stay in this room. If you need food or clothing, just speak it into existence."
He paused.
"You can't bring forth organic matter, though. Don't try to cheat the rules."
He sighed deeply, like a man walking into a family funeral.
"I hate these reunions. I'll be back."
"If you don't come back?" Sharifa asked.
"I'll be back," he put on a maroon leather coat. "Can't lie, even if I could."
Then he opened the door and stepped through, leaving Sharifa in silence. The door closed behind him on its own, sealing off the world outside, leaving only the steaming vessel in the sky and the man still bound in the corner.
Outside, Sam stood beneath the looming ship, the ground around him choked in ash and debris. A beam of light snapped on, locking onto him like a targeting system.
"Seriously?" Sam muttered. "No manners," he added, looking flabbergasted.
The ship's cargo bay opened slowly, smoke bleeding out in thick, unnatural waves. Something moved inside, a figure, not human, not entirely machine. Armor fused to flesh like it had grown from bone. Its face was hidden behind an armoured shell, blank and lifeless. Its eyes were pits of pitch black, soulless, bottomless. Turbines jutted from its back, fused into muscle, humming low. Legs like war machines. Brutal, heavy, sculpted for destruction. Shaped like a man, but not made in the image of one.
Meanwhile, in the room above, Sharifa stared into the eyes of one of her sister's killers.
"I need a knife," she approached the bound man.
And without flourish, it appeared. A plain kitchen knife, heavy in her hand. This time, she was not the one bound. She walked forward, slow, unsure, but something was shifting: grief, rage, and the first taste of control.
Outside, the figure dropped from the ship. The turbines spun once, softly, and it landed without a sound, one hundred meters from Sam.
Then it spoke, voice flat and final:
"I, Harbinger of the First Architect, bring His final breath. Do not seek reason. Do not beg. Judgment does not hear. It only falls."
Sam stared at the mechanical warrior before him.
"Hello, Michael," he approached him. "It's been a while."