"You're nothing." Hot sticky breath slid from my ear to my neck and the rancid stench of alcohol invaded my nostrils as his iron grip pinned me in place. I could feel his bulking figure pressed so close to mine that his sweat beaded up on his chin and dripped onto my face. He smeared it in, filling my senses with human filth as he sneered at me, the fucking failure that I am.

Then that fist, that god damned fist, flew down and smacked my jaw. The world flashed white and pain rocketed through my skull, blinding me. I reeled, but he wouldn't let go. He kneed me in the stomach and I curled up as the breath left my body. He let go of me then, dangled like a puppet that I was, and I fell hard to the ground.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fucking KILL you!" I screamed and railed, but it came out as a whimper and a groan.

"The fuck did you just say Mercury?" He growled then took another swig of the label-less poison he pumped through his veins every night. But it made him no less terrifying. Maybe even more. I tried to defy. I tried to talk back. I wanted the courage to say something, but I was powerless. Against the world's most feared wetboy - they called him an assassin, but they were drivelling idiots - what could I do? Black eyes stared right into my soul, dared me to say I was better than him, that I was somehow more of a man than he.

And I wasn't. He may have been evil and fucked in more ways than a hooker on a saturday night, but that didn't make me good. Just made him bad. Maybe made me worse for staying.

"Nothing," I spat the word, and I guess that was too much contempt for good 'ol pops, because he scooped me right up by my neck and spat in my face, right in my fucking eye. I yelled and reached around me, found one of his old bottles, and smashed it on the counter, swung it at his washboard flat stomach.

For a drunk, the old man moves fast. He's two steps back in a moment, the front of his shirt torn but no blood showing underneath. His chest heaved slightly from the adrenaline-alcohol combination (suppressant and stimulants are a bad mix, he taught me that right after telling me how to stab someone through the spine and heart in one go). A look at the bottle in my hand, and he stills. The fight instinct overtaken by what he knows: I just dared to take a swing at him.

His eyes look at mine, the near obsidian hue icing over. Some thought that rage was hot, but they were wrong. Anger, fury, abuse - those were hot. But rage was a point past all those things. It was when the human brain was so loaded with absolute hatred and passionate disdain and fucking pride - always with the fucking pride - that it shut down. The emotion left. Everything was over.

This was no tantrum. This was no drunken slapping. This was not going to be pain. This would be a lesson. And lessons hurt worse than anything.

"Mercury, m'boy," He almost sang the words, though they dripped with venom as he moved forward, pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and flicked it open. If this were regular teaching, it would be a straight blade, well honed, sharp, and true. But this one was serrated. Dad told me that there was no reason to use a serrated knife. It was more likely to get caught, y'see? No use to you stuck halfway into a deader's stomach. No use when it gets tangled in their armor either. The only reason to use a serrated blade is when you know they won't fight, and you want them to scream a lot. You want them to hurt.

Dad always carried one. Sometimes, they were the only things he took with him. The bastard.

And it was lesson time.

"Do you know the most important thing is?"

"Yeah, never buy the extended warranty on anything." Father's face was an impassive mask now. I could say whatever I wanted, and nothing would change. Couldn't get worse. Why not be a snarky little shit? "No? Wrap it before you sack it?"

"It's to understand. An assassin thinks he knows. A wetboy knows. That's the difference." He snapped into motion, grabbed my shoulders, flipped me over his hip, and pinned me to the table before I could so much as twitch. He got his fist on one shoulder and his elbow on the other, leaning drunkenly on me half for support and half to stop my writhing. I screamed, then felt the blade cut into my side, and stopped. If I kept screaming, he'd start sawing. "A wetboy can take any job, because he'll be damn well smart enough to figure out the right time to act. And you know what? You don't know shit. I'm bigger than you, and I'm stronger than you, and I'm faster than you. That means I can kill you. You're not going to kill me, because you don't know enough yet. Because I haven't taught you. You're not a wetboy yet."

"I know enough."

"No. You don't. If you did, you'd have stabbed me in the back by now, or poisoned my drinks. But you won't do it, because you're still too weak. Someday, you'll kill me, but not until I've taught you everything." He trailed off for a moment. Then he got a wicked, sadistic grin. "Y'know,"

I tensed. This would be it. This would be those words he's lorded over my head since the day I was born.

"I don't see your mother around."

Yeah, not since she had died giving birth to me.

"Fuck you," I spat in his face.

Then he sawed and I screamed.

I panted. He had cut away at me like some lab rat, meticulous as a surgeon. It only lasted ten minutes or so. I only had so much aura to heal with. But there was blood everywhere. It was all fucking over.

He sat in the corner a few steps away, polishing the serrated blade and looking at me coolly, no rage left. No anger. Still drunk though. Piece of shit.

Next to me there's a sword. It's in its sheath so I don't know if he's blunted it. Is this a test? I said I'd fucking kill him, and here he was, giving me the chance. It wasn't the first time he had done shit like this. Wasn't the first time I'd said I'd kill him, either. The first time he had put an arrow beside me. His back was turned. When I tried to stab him, the rubber tip bounced right off.

That night taught me that nothing he did was accidental. As much as he was a bastard he was clever; I wouldn't underestimate him again.

The next time was the exact same setup. I thought I might test the tip first, but he'd hear the rustling of the sheets. It was one motion, or none at all. I didn't try and stab him. It had hurt enough the first time I had tried, and three full weeks for the bruises to die. Only one for the black eye to go down enough that I could see, but three in total.

He laughed when I sat up. Told me it was real. I didn't believe him. He shafted me right in the hand to prove himself right.

Last time I said I'd get justice. He had laughed in my face, uproariously. He laughed as he smacked me left and right, into the table. Broke a vase over my head. There's no justice in the world, he said. We were justice. We got to choose who lived and who died. We were the wet boys, gods amongst men. We were the hand of justice, and the arbiter was gold.

He's right. Justice is a fool's ideal. You want it? Too fucking bad. It's not real, and even if it was, none of the human filth that permeates the world would deserve it. At most, we can ask for revenge. And I would get mine.

But not today.

It would be sharp this time. I know that. He's challenging me, silently. Do I think I know enough? Is there more that he hasn't taught me? Even if it's sharp, does he know some way of making that moot? He probably did. He always said there was no such thing as an advantage, just a changing of the circumstances. People got overconfident with a weapon, and that could be used against them. Their reach got longer, but so too did the space inside their guard. The true power in the world was understanding. It was knowing. A wetboy's whole body was a weapon. I could do with my hands and feet what a master swordsman could do with the finest blade in the four kingdoms.

And my dad was better. I'd kill the rat bastard, I would, but not until I knew that there was no one else in the world who could hurt me. I'd kill him, then I guess I'd have my taste of useless justice.

"Here," I said, presenting him the handle like a squire to a knight. He smiled.

"Mercury, you might have just learned a thing or two after all." He unsheathed the sword and swung, cleanly knocking the neck off a wine bottle next to me, sending the red liquid splashing over my face. I passed it to him as my clothes were stained red for the second time that day.

It was today. It's gotta be today.

I rub my hands together as I walk back up to our hut. Just the two of us and a grave out back for mom. Might've been the most sentimental thing my dad had ever done. I kind of wish I'd met her.

I opened the door and dad was sitting in his chair, already halfway through a bottle. It was a bad day, I guess. I threw the gold on the counter and pulled up a seat across from him. I leaned on my knee and studied his pockmarked old face, covered in a thin stubble. His eyes met mine, and a silent understanding passed between us. He knew this was coming. He had known for a long time. I think he'd known longer than I had.

He laughed. I leaned back, wary.

"Sorry Mercury, not today. Got word that a client's gonna be wantin' our help. Figure I'd give 'em a special surprise. One last thing to teach you."

"Is it always going to be one more thing? Because I'm done learning."

"Mercury, I need you." The way he said it… This wasn't a ploy. Not an appeal to my sentiment. There was something I didn't know. If I wanted to win this, I had to know what it was.

"Why?" Dad sighed and stood.

"Still so damn ignorant, son." He said as he wobbled towards me. Then, on the last step, his cadence changed. He stood straight up and dropped the bottle. It smashed and I was moving, but it was too late. I got knocked back and before I could do anything, the needle was in my neck.

"Oh, I could do this nice." My old man sneered, for the first time not stinking of alcohol. "But I won't. After this, nothing's ever gonna feel like pain. That's how bad this is going to be. But I'm doing you a favour."

I started to panic. This was not a normal dope. I wasn't going to pass out. I couldn't move anything from my neck down, but I could still feel everything as I slunk against the ground.

"Guuuh," I slurred. Trying to say something. Probably sounded even dumber than it felt.

Then I noticed my dad was wearing steel soled boots. He walked towards me, blotting out the sickly yellow light of the lamp.

"You've never used your legs quite as much as you should." He said. "Wonder if that'll change now."

He stomped on my shin and I felt the bones snap like dry twigs as I tried to scream.

I don't know when I passed out from pain, I'm just glad I did. People can actually die from pain, but my body was smart enough to just give in and let it happen while I slept through it.

Last I remember, my dad was smashing my legs into pulp. I don't know why, never do with the sadistic bastard. But I can't feel any pain past my thighs, so I assume something's up. There is some killer pain in my femur though. Damn, it feels like someone stabbed me through with a metal rod.

"This probably hurts something awful son. But you're going to need this. Whoever this new client is, she wants some serious legwork done, so you're going to have to be better than you were." He smirked, as if he had made some subtle joke I didn't get.

"What the fuck did you do?" I spat.

"I did what I always do. I made you better."

I flung the covers off and looked down at my legs.

But they weren't my legs.

Two sleek, metal, artificial limbs were in the place of my usual limbs with glowing blue crystals acting as power supplies on its sides. That explained why I couldn't feel them. I tried to move my, foot, and to my surprise, my ankle responded. It acted exactly as I thought it would, or it would have if my real leg was still there. Except maybe a bit faster. Bloody bandages covered the top of my leg, where the real stuff met the new stuff, and it hurt like a bitch.

I took a shaky breath.

"You took my legs."

"I gave you better ones instead." He said with a shrug, no remorse.

This was fucking sick. I had been cut, beaten, bruised and pushed to the breaking point more times than I could count. But my leg? He had just sawed off my fucking leg? Because we had a new client?

A chill fell over me. I knew what this was. I had been to frustration more times than I could count. Angered countless times. I had even snapped into fury a couple times. But not like this.

This was rage.

I thought it would force me into action, but it didn't. I just settled into a calm rhythm. Scanned everything. The old man was dying today. Just had to figure out how.

"That was torture." My voice was icy and low, and I couldn't help but think about how similar it was to dear old dad's.

"Pain is temporary. The funny thing about it is the more you put your body through trials, the stronger it gets. You workout, your muscles break down, and they come back stronger. You get hurt, and when you heal, you can take a bigger hit. Nothing in the world is ever going to hurt you worse than me, son, and that's an advantage."

I seethed. He sighed.

"Son, I've been stabbed, burned, and beaten as much as you have. And you know what happens when someone slides a blade into my stomach? I look them in the eyes, shove the knife further in and laugh. And that's when you see real fear.

"We're successful because we're ghosts. We're monsters. The only way to make someone really fear you is to redefine what they think a human is capable of. When they realize that you can't be hurt, that no matter how much they fight, you'll just keep coming, they feel real fear. We're the phantoms that haunt people's dreams, and that is the real power in the world."

I wondered if he knew how close he was to being a phantom. What he did wouldn't make me better. Maybe it made me a monster - only half human anymore - but he was still right in a way. It made me strong. Strong enough to kill him. And these new legs would do just that.

"Here," He held out a green bottle filled with amber liquid. "It helps."

I smile. Maybe I can be just a bit more like dear old dad. I grab the bottle and take a small swig, feeling the liquid burn on the way down. Once I had thought I had some moral stance against drinking. Truth is, I've got no leg to stand on anymore. I laughed a bit at the irony of everything. The only way I could kill him was to be just as bad as he was.

Today, I was going to have to be as much like him as possible. No man can kill a monster. Only monsters can. I took another swig, feinted a swallow, and held the liquid in my mouth.

I got up off the table. The legs worked wonderfully. Everything was smooth. With my dad's anatomy knowledge, it didn't really surprise me. Man was probably a better surgeon than the best paid doctor in Atlas.

I walked over to the fire and knelt before it, grabbing a thin piece of wood that was sitting halfway out and prodding the fire with it. Got it right in the coals, pretending to look contemplative. My dad walked up behind me, each footfall as obvious as the last.

"Are you not going to thank me?"

Of course he expects thanks. I shouldn't be surprised anymore. He'll get all the thanks he deserves.

I rose, brought the burning stick with me as I turned to face him, keeping it hidden behind my back. He smiled at me, like a proud dad. That set me off.

This is what he was proud of? Two titanium twigs? Not the dozens of contracts I'd brought home. Not every single mastered technique he had taught me. Not the hours spent recanting poisons and toxins. Not the completion of years of his sick, twisted training regimen.

No, he had never been proud of anything I'd done. All he was proud of was me now, and the surgical implantation. On what he had physically crafted with his own hands. As if moulding every scrap of my psyche to be the most efficient killer possible wasn't enough. As if years of perverting my mind wasn't enough, so he had to own my body too. And that's what made him proud. He had finally violated every last bit of me. I was his project, complete.

I'm exactly what he always wanted. I am his vision, come to reality.

He wasn't going to get to see it for long.

I spewed the alcohol at him and he jerked back. I flung the stick at his clothes and they lit up like dry grass in the middle of July. He yelled, trying to put it out. I stamped my leg into the fire (that whole 'feel no pain' thing is pretty useful) and flung the logs at him.

His eyes burned as he glared at me, and then we were moving, surging against one another, and he got a hold of me and flung me out the window. He dove out after me as the house went up in flames.

He's dead. I almost laughed, but I'm panting too hard.

I wanted to kill him again. It felt that good.

A twig snaps and I look up. Two women - well, one of them was closer to my age - stood in front of me. The younger one had green hair, pulled back tightly against her head and tight fitting clothes. She held herself with the proud fragility of a street rat. The kind of girl that would shatter into violence at the slightest provocation. She had a temper, I could tell just by looking at her.

The other was cool, but burned under the surface. She wore red, with almost glowing amber eyes. She looked at the scene curiously, as if everything was some sort of equation, and she was taking in new variables. She was the one to be wary of. That was the icy cold of rage, but this wasn't temporary. Whoever she was, this woman had been driven to the edge, and now she was balanced on the precipice of rage and reason.

"What're you looking at?" I growled between huffs. Dad hadn't gone out without a fight. The new legs made the match no chance though. His own fucking experiment come to bite him in the ass. And I'm not talking about the legs.

"I'm looking for Marcus Black."

I stilled. I looked over my shoulder at the old man, laying face down in the dirt. Right where he belonged, right where I had ground his face into the mud after he was already dead. That was just my little brand of justice. Bastard didn't deserve a clean death.

I spat. The blood from my mouth thickening the saliva so it splattered against his snow white hair messily. As I said, no clean death. Not for him.

"There you go." My voice was laced with disgust.

"That's… the assassin?" The green-haired girl asked as she relaxed a little.

"And you're his son." The older woman seemed amused. I didn't give enough of a shit about her to care, so I wiped the blood from my lip. "We saw your fight from the treeline. He's taught you well."

Everything he knew. Enough to put him down like the dog he was.

"Guess so."

"What's your name?" She sounded interested still. I eyed her warily. I had just had the fight of a lifetime, I wasn't in for another. And something told me this woman was fierce.

"Mercury."

"Mercury… Tell me, are you anything like your father?"

I laughed.

A/N

Next round for my daily challenge. For the record, I won't be publishing a story every day, just writing one. If it's not good, it won't be published.

Hope you enjoyed the read.

Unjax