Isshiki Makoto pulled the trigger and the Foundation guard fell down. The magazine from his pistol was already missing 7 bullets and the eight one shattered the guard’s helmet.

"Anyone who calls me a D dies."

The former Foundation member walked slowly towards his fallen victim, a macabre curiosity pulling him to the sprawled corpse on the floor that resembled a discarded rag doll. Makoto's hawkish eyes almost came out of its orbits as they fixated on the man's features. The blood-drenched face that stared at an empty space with steel-colored eyes was his.

"You're only a D type instrumentalist Makoto. Never forget that." The words Helena delighted so much in repeating echoed inside his head. For that fact alone, Isshiki Makoto had been indoctrinated to be content in being just another anonymous face in the crowd, one out of a multitude of generic copies that had come before him and were to follow him. But Isshiki Makoto could never be satisfied with such a mediocre life. No, he aspired for more, he KNEW he was destined for greatness far beyond his handlers thought it could ever be possible. Despite their efforts to hinder his actions, he’d climbed to the top by his own volition. He had proved everyone wrong and for that he had been punished but he was determined to have they hear him speak his mind.

He walked away from the dead clone with a single thought: “I swear I will not end up like you.”