23. HERO
During the night, when the moon is at its apex and the streets are dimmest, beasts crawl out of their human forms. They claw and scratch and laugh and howl as they pick apart their prey like a murder of crows. Alcohol taints their breath, and darkness swells in their hearts. They prowl through the alley, unfettered. Evil doesn't originate from the light. Evil comes from the shadows. It is unapologetic and surreptitious.
Their victim is a young boy, abandoned by a family who never wanted him in the first place. With the influence of alcohol and poor judgement, the monsters crowd around the youth, spitting insults at him as they kick and push him into the wall. And oddly, their victim doesn't fight back, doesn't even scream, doesn't bother doing anything that might drawn more attention.
"The kid's probably dead."
"The little shit's homeless. Look at the bones on him." One beast lifts the boy's tattered sweater up to reveal his ribs.
Even if the boy knew how to scream, his pleas would fall on deaf ears. The world has no sympathy for the feeble. There's no good to be found here. The only world he could possibly find salvation is the one beyond the living. And even that won't eliminate years of torment.
Once the beasts have made their rounds, they compose themselves—fixing their neckties and buckling their belts—to form the façades they carry with them during daylight hours. They replace their primal forms with the faces of affluent family men as they have done so many times before. A couple of them reapply their wedding rings to their fingers. The stench of alcohol wavers on their breath. They prepare to take their leave when a figure manifests in their path.
"Who the hell are you?"
The boy looks up from the cold ground and past his assailants. Shaken and demoralized, he has no strength to stand.
"You won't live long enough to remember," the hooded figure replies with an amused tone.
The pack of beasts exchanges looks. Guffaws burst from all of them until they sound like a symphony of hyenas.
"Get the fuck out of our way," one of the beasts steps forward and grabs the figure by the collar, pushing him against the wall. His hood slips off upon impact to reveal a forest of dark hair and pasty white skin.
The beast lifts his fist and it seems like the end for the mysterious man. But the man snatches his fist just as it's about to make contact with his face. The beast wiggles his arm, hoping to break free to no avail. Something snaps. The beast roars in agony, dropping to his knees.
"W-what the fuck did you do?" In the dim light, his right hand hangs limp. A bone in his wrist protrudes out. "Who do you think you are?"
"I told you, you won't live long enough to remember." He raises his head and faces the others. "Who's next?"
Another beast nudges his accomplice. "Let's just go the other way."
The rest of the pack step back together and turn, only to meet the same man at the other end of the alley.
"Did he just teleport?"
"Maybe they're two of them," one beast says, looking behind them.
"You're not leaving," the man says, raising his head to reveal a pair of red eyes beneath the curtain of black hair.
"Fuck you, you psycho!"
A chortle escapes his throat. "Oh, am I? And what are you men supposed to be? Married? Rich? Pristine?" The stranger nods to the boy lying on the ground. "What will your wives think when they hear you've preyed on a child?"
Silence wedges in between the pack.
"So who's next?"
"Kill him," someone blurts out.
A grin crawls up the stranger's face. "Thought so."
The boy lifts his head from the gravel. The winter chill has caught up to him. His body shakes uncontrollably. His fingers and toes have gone numb. But what he witnesses makes the blood in his veins pump warmth. A great shadow hovers above the stranger's head. The pack of beasts halts. The boy notices the shadow is a pair of black wings that reach out like arms to snatch the beasts.
The pack shrinks back screaming profanities and hastily turning around. They're capsized by a fierce gust of wind. A few of them hit the ground so hard, their heads split open and blood pours out.
"What the actual FUUU—?"
"He's a fuckin' monster!"
"Monster?" The stranger shakes his head and takes a few idle steps forward. "Actually, I'm the exterminator, and you're all roaches." He gestures with his head to the beast with a broken wrist.
The beast rises from his agony with little effort, as if someone were pulling him to his feet like a puppet on strings. He saunters over to the nearest pack member and removes something from his back pocket. The boy can't attain a sufficient angle before the real screaming starts.
The beast's arm lifts and falls at a quick pace. Each time it falls, the screaming rises in pitch for a second. When the screaming dies, the beast stands and ambles over to the next stunned pack member and follows the same protocol at the first one. Eventually, all five other pack members have received the same level of care and attention. The sixth beast stands last and lifts his hand to his throat. Something glimmers in the faint moonlight. A blade slides across his skin, creating an incision from ear to ear. Dark blood pours out, staining his collar. He slumps to the ground. The weapon clanks and slides across the gravel, coming to a stop near the boy. It's reachable.
Footsteps approach. A hand lowers and plucks the bloody knife from the ground. "Thought they'd put up more of a fight." A sigh escapes the stranger. "Oh well, this won't get his attention."
He's thinking aloud. Does he know the boy's still alive? Does he care? Does he plan to give him the same treatment?
The boy tenses when the stranger kneels to his level. He feels those demonic eyes inspect him like a piece of meat. If he's to die, he hopes it's quick and with little pain. Though compared to the beating he had endured, anything else seems miniscule.
The stranger hisses something inaudible under his breath. The boy flinches when fingers touch the back of his head. "Too bad. If I had been here sooner, then you might have been saved. But I'm no angel either." He rises and turns.
The boy senses he's about to leave him here a shriveling pile of broken spirit and tainted flesh. But a sliver of courage digs inside of him. He lifts his hand and catches the cuff of the stranger's jeans between his fingers.
"Let go."
He doesn't.
"If you think I came here for you, you're wrong. Just because you're a kid doesn't mean I won't hurt you."
His grip tightens as he tries to form the word. His head rises so his face meets those piercing eyes. He feels like he's talking to the Devil. But the word he tries to articulate is the complete opposite. He mouths, "Hero."
The eyes shimmer, as if taken aback. The stranger lowers to the boy's level once again. "You're stupid to think that of me." The stranger lifts his chin. "And you're even stupider to have that hopeful look in your eyes." He purses his lips. "Maybe I can use you."
His wings flex as his hands slide underneath the boy's naked body and pick him up. The taut arms, though savage in nature and capable of strangling the boy with ease, cradle him like an infant. The stranger's wings flap once, and then they're higher than the surrounding buildings. The world beneath them flies by as they soar through the black night. Where the stranger is taking him, he doesn't know. But the boy presses his face against his savior's chest and shuts his eyes. The once chilling breeze feels refreshing. The soreness across his body wavers. This has to be the first time in a long time that he feels safe.
"Don't get comfortable, kid."
His eyes open. They land at the top of the Tokyo Tower. It feels as if he's on top of the highest mountain peak overlooking the world. City lights sparkle like stars, and the distant sounds of car horns blaring catch in the wind.
"What's your name?"
The boy opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
"I take it from your lack of speech, you don't have one," the stranger says. "Family?"
The boy shakes his head. At least he's capable of communicating that much information.
His savior's grin resurfaces. "Shame. I had hoped someone would come looking for you. The chase makes everything taste sweeter."
The boy cocks his head to the side.
"I'm not your father," the stranger says with a bite in his tone. "I'm not your guardian or friend or hero. I'm not here to babysit you or raise you. But I can give you a purpose. You have a choice." He steps to the edge. "Accept that you're nothing more than a tool for me to use, or reject my offer, and I drop you."
The boy's heart stutters. The lovely view of the city at night dissolves beneath a sickening twist in his stomach. Earlier, he had yearned for a quick death. But now that the option rests in front of him, he hesitates. Fear pricks at his thoughts.
"Well?"
He meets the fearsome gaze and presses his cheek back into the stranger's chest. His fingers clench his savior's hoodie so tight that his knuckles turn white. A meek whimper arises in his throat.
"You've made a poor decision."
The stranger steps away from the edge, his wings folding to form a protective barrier between the boy and the elements. The black feathers brush against the boy's skin, encasing him in a warm embrace.
"Since you can't speak, I want you to repeat what I say to yourself in your mind. Blink twice after you do. Understand?"
The boy nods.
"You're nothing."
I am nothing. He blinks.
"You have no home."
I have no home. He blinks.
"You're mine."
I am yours. He blinks.
"If you betray me, you die."
If I betray you, I die. He blinks.
"You are a boy without a name."
I am a boy without name. He blinks. Though he's never had a name that's stuck. He's been called many things in the past. However, a name—a form of identification, a personal keepsake that makes him whole—has yet to fall into his lap. Then again, all that has fallen into his lap up until now has been despair and disownment.
The stranger hums something. The tune is upbeat, somewhat ironic given the stranger's behavior earlier. It sounds like a nursery rhyme:
"There once was a boy without a name,
Who knew no family, only pain.
And the boy wandered far and wide,
For he never stayed long, like the tide…"
The boy listens to the rest of the rhyme. It closes on a shocking note. The boy finds himself crying for the character.
The stranger scoffs. "Crying won't do you any good. If you want to survive as my underling, you're going to have to put your emotions into a box and throw the box overboard."
The boy promptly wipes his face with the heel of his hand and imagines a cardboard box where he places a sheaf of papers with emotions scribbled onto them inside. He picks the box up and tosses it into a black sea. The cardboard box floats at first, until the boy imagines finding a rock to weigh it down and drops it onto the box. He watches his emotions drift into nothingness.
An inexplicable weight lifts from his shoulders. Warmth encompasses the boy's body. The stranger's wings are doing well to protect him.
"Ever heard that story?" The stranger asks in a low voice.
It takes the boy a moment to snap out of his reverie. He shakes his head vehemently.
The black wings curl around the boy tighter as a gust of wind hits them. "Good. It's a terrible story." But then he shakes his head as if disappointed with something. "I read it many times, and I've always hated it."
The story, though tragic, is reminiscent of the boy's life. Wandering day by day with no home to speak of and tainted by misfortune. Who would want him?
"Perhaps I should explain what I'm doing here. There's someone I'm waiting for," the stranger says as his eyes survey the city. "He's someone I've known for many years. I grew up with him, but I grew up as his shadow. Do you know what that means?"
The boy stares.
"I was just a Plan B." A sardonic laugh forms from his throat. "Plan B. Right. How fitting of you L..." His voice grows inaudible. It seems like he's talking to himself again as his eyes continue to watch the world.
The moonlight outlines the stranger's face. His eyes glow like a pair of rubies, and a sudden desire swells inside the boy's heart.
He reaches up to touch the stranger's face. Those red eyes flash back to him. He hesitates until a sliver of courage burrows into his body. Their eyes never stray from one another. If the boy takes his gaze away, he may lose this chance. His fingers spread and stroke along the stranger's cheekbone. His skin's warm against the January chill. Beneath the boy's fingers, the stranger tenses but doesn't recoil or snap at him. The red glow in his eyes wavers, and the boy catches the evidence of a bitter soul trapped in his mortal shell.
Beautiful, he thinks.
"Are you quite finished?"
The boy lowers his hand.
"Now that we've gotten through the awkward proceedings, why don't we find some clothes for you and some strawberry jam for me."
Despite what he had said earlier in the evening, his words sound oddly comforting. Something appears between his skin and hoodie's zipper. The boy's eyes squint, mistaking it for a shadow at first but soon recognizing it as a notebook.
The clock strikes midnight, and the bell tolls.
The stranger looks back out at the city. "This truly is a beautiful night, K."
22 DAYS REMAINING