"So, do you want to know why you are here?" The speaker looked at Wynter through dark wraparound sunglasses. Grey highlights making their way into the scalp along with barely noticeable wrinkles gave the impression that this man was middle-aged. A smile appeared etched permanently on his face. The man's hand gripped a glass of beer. The grip seemed to strain the glass under the stress. A gold ring and a Rolex watch were on the same arm. Those items, along with the Armani suit, completed the man's flashy look. In a crowded, tobacco stained local bar, contrasted against Wynter's t-shirt and jeans, the man's look could hardly be more out of place. "Of course you do. Otherwise you'd never have come, and I would be drinking alone tonight." The glass of beer slowly met his lips. A long drink followed, draining the glass. Wynter's glass lay full on the table; he never touched it.

Wynter stared at the hand that gripped the glass. He had an alchemist's hand: Blotchy, discolored skin that could only come from chemical burns covered his hand. Wynter couldn't throw off the feeling that the man had hands just like him; big and strong, and often sending the wrong message about his current emotion. A heavy 'thud' on the table woke Wynter up from this thought. His alchemist drinker had placed his glass on the table a little too hard.

"You are here because you are not happy. Not at all pleased with your life, job, the government, and the world. Of course most people aren't happy either. But what makes your complaint special, absolutely unique, is in its way that it may change the world. Your complaint is not some lazy, uneducated trailer park dolt that screams for bigger welfare checks, a high- school kid angry at the system for so called 'forced-studying,' nor an 80 year old entreating for increased Medicare because he or she fears death. Those people complain because they take the saying, 'natural rights' too far. They think it is owed to them that life should be good; because they think their part in making the world a better place is done. They keep saying, 'The world owes me one.' Why does it? Does being a good citizen make a difference? I've actually heard one man say he wouldn't have to work so hard if the rich paid their share. The people wish not to do even what is necessary to keep the world going, and they want to be rewarded for doing the work. They want a reward for doing something they must if they want to survive." The man spoke quietly, as if trying to mask his anger. Each word was spoken slowly, with force, but he looked completely composed. From what was shown through the dark sunglasses, his eyes were directly on Wynter, unwavering. The smile never seemed to go away, even when he talked. It was enough to unnerve anyone. Wynter merely picked up his glass and drank for the first time. It wet his throat, which he was surprised to find was parched. The man continued on.

"Two days ago, a yellow manila folder made its way into your home. Inside were several papers and a diskette; all were labeled 'Project VARGAS.' It was sent by an official in the CIA, in hopes of it being put to better use. In other words, he was a mole: Dr. Ardenta was his name. Now he's in Siberia repairing old antennas a thousand feet up in the air. Only reason he's alive is because by charging him with this crime, then we prove the existence of VARGAS, which we're not in a hurry to do. Ardenta knew that there was no plausible way of getting VARGAS to you through the red tape, so he stole them. Unfortunately for you, he couldn't actually give you the real VARGAS. He'd never make it out the front door. The CIA has adequate measures for protecting that kind of thing. Heat sensors, chemical sniffers; you dream it, they've got it. So what he did give you were blueprints; blueprints detailing how to genetically invent VARGAS on your own."
Wynter was in shock; he had indeed received the package, and seen the diskette, it was filled with precise instructions. But he had only had a glimpse of the letter that came with it, and had not told a soul about it.

"But why me? Why couldn't he build it for himself?" He worded it carefully trying to conceal that he had no information on what VARGAS actually was.
"Because he was afraid, for VARGAS holds a secret that even he couldn't explain: A sheer impossibility that traced its grasp into everyone's knowledge." The man answered curtly, as if a whole stream of explanation lay at hand, and he couldn't wait to get to it. "Nicholas Flamel was the inventor of VARGAS, or should I say, its recipient. You might have heard of him in the Harry Potter books, but he actually did exist. In the 14th century, Nicholas Flamel was to have received the book of Abraham the Jew, which possessed the knowledge of immortality and how to turn all substances into gold. That legend is public knowledge. No secret is safe in the hands of man. But thankfully, Nicholas Flamel wasn't able to decipher most of the book. They lay encrypted, but the cipher was written down by Nicholas himself. When he died, knowing the pains of immortality and choosing rather to die, the book of Abraham the Jew and its cipher were passed on in secret. The holders of the information tried many ways to keep it out of evil hands, or any hands at all for that matter. They tried to bury it in a deserted island off the coast of Africa, which was recently discovered. But the ship's magazine compartment blew up during the voyage. The book caught aflame, and it was so close to being over right there. A crewmember saved the book, but most of it was curled into ashes. Just a few pages were left. The new owners decided to keep the book in Europe so a close watch could be kept. Genoa, to be specific, for it was a stable and rich country. It was here the rest of the passages were translated into English. VARGAS was made by an alchemist in secret, although he weren't sure what it was suppose to do. By the way, the alchemist's name was Vargas. We decided to immortalize his name this way, because he missed his great chance by dying before he could use it on himself. Vargas decided to test it on a baby. Nobody important, just a son of a wool merchant. If the baby died, nothing would matter much. Mysterious deaths were common at the time. That baby was Christopher Columbus, and you must surely know his story. Information on VARGAS was quickly snatched up by the protectors; those that knew of it were killed, and the secret holders quickly moved it to a small island called Corsica. Here they thought it was safe, if not secret. For Corsica was a warring nation. The protectors believed they could bury it in the turmoil of the times. But men are easily corrupted. Unknown to the keepers of the book of Abraham the Jew, a small vial of VARGAS was passed down in as much secrecy as the actual book itself; it was the remains of the original concoction in Genoa. But then, in Ajaccio, a protector of the vial decided that since it gave Columbus great prestige he would give his own son VARGAS, hoping it would do the same. That baby's name was Napoleon Bonaparte. You see where I'm going with this?" Wynter was shocked. He had understood. VARGAS gave not life, nor intelligence, but a purpose. It made sure the drinker did something great, and was written down in history books forever.
"The info immediately left Corsica. It made a few more trips and a few more alchemists tried their hand at making VARGAS. Eventually a few more fathers gave it to their sons. Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein, the list goes on."
"And now I have in my hands greatness." Wynter spoke, with glee embedded in every word.
"No, you have the blueprints. I have the actual greatness." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside it was dark and thick, appearing as if made of liquefied smoke.
"This is VARGAS. Truly the stuff dreams are made of." The man carefully handed Wynter the vial across the table. Wynter took it, and merely stared at it for a while.
"And why are you giving this to me?"
"Call it fate. Call it whatever you'd like to convince yourself. This is your one chance to bring your life up beyond your wildest dreams. Fame and fortune. Many people would kill, and have done so, to try and get into your position right now."
"But in the beginning, you said that I was unhappy, but it would change the world. Why'd you say it was my complaint? Why not VARGAS from the start?" Wynter said this in almost an interjecting manner, beginning to be suspicious.
"You remembered that?" The visage seemed stretched as he grinned. "Your complaint actually did lead you to get VARGAS. You think this was some random choice that the plans went out to you? We have eyes in every home, ears on every phone, and a hand in every pocket. The CIA knew, and our little rat, Dr. Ardenta also knew about you. You wrote a passage on your online diary about life. A long and lengthy description on how your life could be so much better. He took special interest in your life after he read it. We don't know why he read your entry, or why he thought you special enough to receive VARGAS. Like I said, call it fate. In fact, what is this whole situation, if not a miraculous act of fate?" He gesticulated towards the vial in Wynter's hand. "What else can we use to describe how a sailor thought of nothing better than to save a burning book from an exploding ship? What else can we use to explain how VARGAS has influenced thousands of years of history, by basically making heroes, but less than a dozen people know of it? What else can you use to describe a man giving up fame and fortune to someone he's never met?" Wynter sensed the man getting impatient. It seemed like the right emotion. Wynter had stubbornly kept the cap on the vial. He must have looked as if he would almost flat out refused to drink it.
"So are you saying all those really famous people, all the historical figures I've read about since kindergarten, have been traced back to this substance?" Wynter held up the vial and gave it a little shake. The liquid inside bubbled slightly.
"Yes. Why is that so hard to believe? Is it not in the heart of all people to become what those historical figures are? Are not millions trying impossibly hard to reach that position? But why did only these people reach the position of immortal fame? Why not those whom have sacrificed their entire lives to be famous and rich? How come those people are dying while regretting their lives? Take it, Wynter."
"No." Wynter said this with a firm resolution. He pushed back the vial to the man. He recoiled as though Wynter was holding a knife rather than a vial. "I believe I am not worthy, to take my place in history so simply."
"Not worthy? A wool salesman gave this to his son for crying out loud. Problem is, most of these people were not born into richness. They weren't prophesized by a great wizard, nor born into a house as a prince. Who are you to decide if you are worthy or not? Think about what you're pushing away. This is what people live for. This is the meaning of life. All the riches and fame you can ever comprehend! Why would you ever throw away something like this?" The man moved back into his original position while saying this, and seemed a bit angrier judging by his tone.
"Fine. I believe I am worthy, but I am still not taking this. I do not trust a stranger for something like this." The man gave a great laugh that made some patrons turn and stare for a second.
"Haven't you read any fairy tales? This is the part where you get the sacred object capable of making you great. This is your Excalibur, your genie's lamp, whatever. Those people took it without a question. They saw what it could do, and they took it. In reality, do you know why that never happens? Why even if there ever existed an object of great power, no one seized the chance and took it? Mistrust ruined many dreams. Are you really going to let something ruin your life, and a whole epoch of traditions, because you couldn't get over your feelings of mistrust? Are you really going to let some grade-school brainwashing stop you from making history?" The man stopped for a moment, knowing a question was in store.
"Brainwashing in grade school is going to stop me?" Wynter was willing to listen to the man's reasoning, but only just.
"When was the last time you heard a teacher say, 'good luck and infinite fortune may just drop on your lap'? Society tries to teach you that hard work leads to richness and happiness, which in my opinion is just a lie to get you to accept work, and tries to mislead you from the instant happiness that comes with luck. They show you that this instant gratification is just a ruse for something evil. The stranger offering you candy, a person offering you money, all viable excuses to get you to hate luck, but it may cause you to miss your one big chance." Wynter was still very suspicious. He pushed VARGAS all the way towards the man, who now looked shocked, as if he didn't expect this in a million years. Wynter stood up. The man snatched it up and thrust it in a pincer grip back at him.
"Did Joan of Ark ever doubt the word of God when he told her to lead the French to victory?" Wynter sighed. He picked up the offered vial, and merely looked at it for a long time. Then, with one swift gesture, it ended on the ground, a puddle and shattered glass being all that remained.

"I read part of Dr. Ardenta's letter to me. And you left out a very important part of VARGAS. It creates Napoleons and Lincolns, but it also makes Hitlers and Mussolinis. He warned that you might be remembered in history forever for your deeds, but not necessarily in what people call 'a historical figure.' I would rather give up fame and fortune if there were a risk of being remembered that way. With that, Wynter walked out of the bar, leaving the man there with a curious expression. Right before he reached the door, he heard the man shout from the table.
"All the rich have been persecuted from the beginning of civilization, some more than others. What you don't understand is fortune is still fortune, even if it's been gotten with blood." Wynter walked out, determined not to look back. He would burn the folder as soon as he got home. The man sat there and ordered another beer. Then his phone rang. He took it out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Like everything else, it was a needlessly expensive phone. He didn't even say hello.
"You gave it to him. Even when you knew." The voice was scratchy, as if from somewhere far away, and he knew whom the voice belonged to now.
"Dr. Ardenta. Surprised you got this number."
"I never appreciated your chit-chat. But what matters is you gave it to him, even after knowing of its consequences."
"Actually he refused to take it. But never mind. I put some in his beer. Stuff tastes so nasty he never knew a thing."
"How can you do that? He's your son! You might have sentenced him to eternity of misery."
"A father always gives VARGAS to their son. Whether in his lessons, or just expectations; they wanted their sons to be rich and famous, just like they weren't. My way was a bit more definite."
"You know that I sent that folder for him to destroy it, in hopes of wiping VARGAS out forever, but you used it to your advantage."
"That reminds me, why did you give the one and only plans to my son?" Said the man, sipping his new glass of beer.
"I can say that it is fate, just like the many times you said it to explain your actions when you worked in the CIA right alongside me. But I know better. A totally random choice that no sane man would have done. Strange, isn't it? That the one random person turned out to be your long lost son. I expected it all to end now, but I can only smile in bitter defeat."
"And the cycle continues. And it always shall. For great heroes need great villains to balance out the worlds."
"Yeah. The wheel has been started. And it will never stop spinning. But one of us, the real truth holders bent on never bringing back another Hitler, will stop it. What are you going to do when the End of Days comes? When everything you built comes crashing down and VARGAS vanishes like water cupped in the palm. What will you do then?"

"What will I do then? Dr. Ardenta. I know for a fact that such day will never come."
"And why not?" The man hung up, but not before saying the last few words he depended his life on, and the idea which Dr. Ardenta tried to shatter.
"Maybe it is our destiny. Call it fate."