In the center of the room, under a brilliantly white spot of light, is the inventor himself. Behind him is a massive circular stained glass window. He sits inside a metal box with two oxygen-pumping apparatuses on either side, forming some sort of iron lung. A tube leads from the pumps into his nostrils. His faded blue eyes are full of life and intelligence. They focus on us, filling with contempt as a sneer breaks out on his ancient face.
The old man stops and contemplates the question. “Most simply call me the Inventor. Few know my real name. Truth is, it’s a long time since I’ve said it out loud.” He stops, adrift in his own thoughts. “Daedalus.” He says it slowly, as though recalling each syllable.