Villainous Hero

I don’t think, I just run. Sloppiness casts me into harm’s way, especially when there’s no room for error. There can’t be. But there was. I hold on tightly to the handle of the small cooler as I race through the forbidden area. There’s no time to ponder my mistake, my misstep. The towering shelves are left behind me in a blur of colorless shadows, but I can’t look back. Not when they’re already so close. 

I do this every day. I just never get caught. Like all customers in this underground basement, I seep into the shadows of the Red Market–an illicit market of violence and theft not approved by the government–for hours of each passing day. 

They are always here. They never move their location. I think that part has never sat right with me, but I’m not in a position to question anything. My father sends me on these missions with little information and I do as I’m told. That’s how it works. I’ve spent my whole life stealing from the villains that robbed so many of their lives. Every shelf, every object for sale, it’s all real. And that’s the scary part. My father trained me to be a hero, and he always told me that as long as I fight the Red Market, our bloodthirsty rivals, I would be. 

The ceiling is barely visible through the rows of inventory shelves. I usually go through the racks with medical supplies or surgical tools, but never have I wandered into this part of the basement. 

The rusty stench of human blood fills my nose until I almost gag as I run through the shelves of opened body bags. Although I’m in the basement of what seems to be a hospital, the ceiling stretches so high that even the tallest shelves don’t reach it. I only look back once and catch a glimpse of six, maybe seven men–their frazzled eyes screaming murderer either at themselves or possibly me too–who probably double me in size. I could take them. But not while holding the cooler, and that’s the most important thing. I can’t let them have it back. I won’t. I’ve been trained to fight–and even kill–since I was born. 

As one of the youngest and top thieves in my group, it’s my job to infiltrate the Red Market every day. Stealing is my life. It always has been. Always will be. And I’m good at it, especially when I can come and go undetected. Especially when I can make a difference. Everything I steal, I bring back to him and we sell it together. Never caught, never traced, always in the shadows, I work efficiently and secretly. But today, I messed up. I messed up. I dropped the most important piece of merchandise, not only giving away where I was and what I was stealing but also risking damage to the heart of the mission. 

My father will be furious if he finds out I’ve dropped, well, whatever this is. Before I left this morning, he reminded me of my position, my place, and to his exact words–who I belong to. I force the chills that run down my spine at the memory to disappear, especially when I know there’s no source of a breeze in this basement. 

Pushing away these thoughts and focusing on what needs to be done, I make a sharp turn down one of the aisles between two of the many tall shelves. That slows whoever’s chasing me down just enough for me to drop to the ground and slide under one of the shelves. It’s big enough for my body and the cooler, but nothing else.

I force myself to stop and listen for the men’s footsteps. Too late I realize they’re surrounding the rack I’m under. Thump. I hear a loud boot enter my aisle. Thump. It’s getting closer. Thump. Thump. Thump. Multiple steps now. Again I hear it. Again. 

As soon as a large waterproof shoe stops in front of my face, for the first time since I’d gotten my hands on the cooler, I let it go. Just this once. Now, with both hands free, I can fight like I was trained to do. With my full force, I kick my leg out from under the rack and sweep one of the guys down as I stand. The others are immediately alerted of my presence and come rushing to the alleyway. I punch the first one that runs at me–or runs at the cooler I’m currently guarding–with a nasty right hook, but it barely does anything to him. With pure force alone, I cannot beat them. Instead, I use my agility to my advantage. When two of the guys scramble to advance towards me at once, I don’t hesitate to pull two daggers from my drop-leg sheaths. A blur of weapons comes thrashing near my face and body, but I dodge the best I can. Was that a scalpel? The assassins working for the Red Market always have the strangest weapons. I could never understand why they continuously have surgical weapons on them instead of ones like mine. But I know they can still cause a lot of damage so I don’t think about it too hard. Death doesn’t scare me, but I think that’s because I’ve been close to it for a very long time. I’m not afraid to kill, either. Not anymore. Reality snaps back to me as I remember I’m still in a damp basement, fighting for my life and my stolen cargo. The guys drop like flies until there are only three left. 

As my daggers remain embedded in two of the still bodies, I reach for my longsword attached to a sheath on my back. One of the three prevailing guys shakily holds an Amputation Knife with the intention of using it–for perhaps not the first time today. I take my stance and extend the sword in front of me as it becomes the only thing in between me and the charging man. I know that who I am, and what I fight for is all for my father, but this–this is for myself. If I can stop these evil men, then I’ve accomplished my purpose. 

Metal clashes and makes eerie screeches that most people would cover their ears at. This goes on, clang, for what feels like a while, clang, until it doesn’t. His frantic eyes widen when he sees the opening in my stance. He feebly goes for it. Jabs. Silence. 

Blood leaks onto the floor in front of me. I gasp as my brain registers where I’ve been sliced. But the blood isn’t mine. The man who once towered over me falls back as I let go of the hilt of the longsword that had just impaled his lifeless body. He got me right above my hip bone, but not too deep of a cut; stitches are always a part of my line of work, especially today. My side still hurts like hell, but I’ve got two guys left to dispose of, and an object to successfully steal before I tend to myself. I’ve already failed enough today, I need to do this.

The only two guys who are still alive on the other side of the aisle look from my body to the dead ones. They must see me as a monster, surrounded by pools of blood, and hidden under sticky patches of the same dark liquid. But my hands were covered in blood long before this night. One of them has enough courage to shout something at me, but the words remain tasteless in my mouth. 

“Someone needs that to live; please don’t take it. You don’t know what you’re doing! Please, just give it back to us”! 

My body stops for the shortest second as my mind works in overdrive to figure out what he meant. But there’s no time to think. Only to act. It’s mine. You will never get it back. The two guys stare at me with trembling limbs. Yet, they both still take desperate strides toward me, a knowing look in their eyes of what’s to come, and a determination to get the cooler back no matter what. They know how this will end. And so do I.

Seven more bodies to add to the wall of dead ones.

After I have to firmly pull my blades from the numerous bodies, promising to clean them as soon as I get back, I walk over to the cooler and take it in my hands once again.

I leave the Red Market the same way I came–through the shadows–and with every step, the sloshing of the melted ice slaps the insides of the cooler. I walk home with a hand to my side, a limp from my leg, and a cooler that I can’t let out of my sight.

  . . . 

As soon as I get back on base, I know where to find him. Or, better yet, he knows where to find me. A rasping voice calls out to me.

“Cerberus, did you get it”?

My code name. The one I was given, the one everyone uses. 

“Yeah, they held it in this,” I say, referencing the cooler held tightly in my free hand. His eyes light up at the sight of something so precious, something so valuable, something so close in his reach.

“Give it to me,” his booming voice commands as he sits forward on his throne.

I walk over to my father, the big boss of the Black Market, the King of the illegal business, the enemy of the Red Market, and place the cooler in his hands.

“Hades,” I use his code name. He doesn’t look me in the eyes but I know he’s listening. “What’s in it”?

Then he looks at me–annoyance and a hint of malicious intent in his eyes–then looks back down to the cooler. It doesn’t matter whether I’m his daughter or not. The only reason I’m here–the only reason why everyone’s here–is to serve him. He’s the one in charge. And if we don’t do what we’re told, there’s no doubt about what he’ll do to us. I know what it feels like when he gets angry, or drunk, or wants to release his frustrations on something weaker than himself. I’ve known my whole life how to ignore the pain, to not let people like him know it hurts, because it will only make it worse.

“Come here,” he barks as he snatches my wrist. My eyes practically vibrate with a mixture of anticipation and tension as his fingerprints seem to leave burning tattoos on my skin. He slowly opens the cooler to the object that I risked my life for.

I see the freshly cut tubes before I see anything else. The dull shade of red–which might’ve been a more vibrant color once–doesn’t stand out until I get the full picture. As soon as my eyes take in the sight of the whole organ, my mind screams at me, realization hitting me like a truck. A big truck. Going 85mph on the freeway. 

“Now that you know what it is, you are dismissed,” my father says impassively. When I don’t move–more in fear of what I’ve done rather than him–his dead eyes stare back at me. “Also, Cerberus, you are a good worker but don’t be mistaken. If you fail me again, it’ll be your heart in this cooler, and not the donors. Do you understand me”?

“Yes, sir,” I managed to spit out after gulping down the bile that formed in my throat.

That was no Red Market today. Or any other day. There wasn’t any Red Market. Ever. Those weren’t assassins or murderers that I killed. They were innocent people–surgeons–trying to save lives. He lied to me. Told me I was doing the right thing. But for years–years–I’d been stealing organs that were donated to save people’s lives. I’ve probably killed hundreds of people this way. I stole their lives, their second chances. I’m no hero, I’m the villain.

I’ll kill him for this.