“And that was that,” Simon smiled wistfully, “Every so often Ultor would select a target, prepare a file, and then together we would carry out the task. The first one was an arms runner, as I recall, but they varied. Drug dealers, mobsters, muggers, murderers, none were above or below Ultor’s law.”

*

“I don’t know about this, Alex. I mean, the guy isn’t exactly muscle material, is he?” Anthony shuffled awkwardly on the spot.

Paul gave an exaggerated laugh, “And you think you are? Even with a gun in your hand you still look about as scary as a girl scout.”

Anthony looked mildly irritated but made no attempt to correct his brother.

“I don’t claim to be a natural at this. Hell, I know I’m not exactly first choice enforcer, but, well…” Anthony gave Mr. Edding a sideways glance, “Really?”

The balding, middle-aged man seemed not to take offence at Anthony’s grimacing; Arthur simply shifted his plump, rosy fingers a little higher up his generous pot belly and made a sound which could have been either clearing his throat or suppressing a belch.

Paul smirked and joined his brother in scrutinizing their guest. A few moments later, his face fell and he turned back to Alex, still sitting comfortably in his decaying armchair, facing their new arrival.

“Actually, yeah, Anthony has a point, Alex. The guy is going to get himself killed.”

A squeaking noise from across the room drew their attention, “Um, I couldn’t help but overhear you talking.”

Anthony’s cheeks flushed.

“I know what I am,” Mr. Edding assured them, “I know that, working for you, I probably won’t live to see my next birthday. Truth be told, this city is no place for me. I have been mugged three times in the past six months alone. Those times they just took my money and possessions. In the past, they’ve sometimes beat me a bit too. I have only to cross someone on a day when they feel like they fancy taking a life and, well, mine is forfeit.”

They all knew it to be true. People like Arthur C. Edding only survived as long as the wolves decided he wasn’t worth the effort of eating. People died all the time in Tartarus, and usually just on a whim. In Tartarus, Arthur was a dead man walking.

“Each of those times, confronted by these men, I felt only one thing - Fear. I gave in. I accepted the loss and the shame, and I went home to either try and console myself or simply forget it had ever happened. The shame doesn’t go away, though. If I stand with you,” this time he did clear his throat, “If I stand against them. Well, even if it’s only for a moment then it will be a moment I can treasure. It would be a moment where I proved to myself that I can be more than this,” he waved a pudgy hand over his body and sunk back into himself, rolls forming above his too tight collar, “More than just a detestable coward.”

Paul choked back a lump in his throat, turning away. Anthony nodded empathetically. Alex smiled. It was a fatherly kind of expression.

“Iustus,” Alex addressed Anthony, “It is not the strong and the merciless who need us. Mr. Edding here is the perfect example of what is wrong with this wretched world. He works hard, lives hard, sleeps hard. all while the callous and cruel enjoy ill-gotten fortunes and peace of mind, content in the knowledge that they are untouchable. If people like Mr. Edding cannot be given a voice, cannot be given a chance to teach the morality they are burdened with, then our efforts will have been in vain. Look not to the strong, Iustus. Rather, find strength in what is right.”

“Fucking poetic,” Anthony whispered under his breath.

Arthur, though, gawked. Clearly, he had expected rejection. His swollen, pink cheeks soon rose in a tremendous smile, “Oh, thank you. Thank you! I will not disappoint you.”

Ultor strode over and laid a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, “No, you won’t. This is not for me, Arthur, but for you. You and all of those who suffer like you. Now, meet me tomorrow on the corner of Weston Street at midnight. Tomorrow I will show you what it is like to live for something greater than yourself.”

Arthur Edding nodded enthusiastically and allowed himself to be escorted from the dingy apartment.

Paul frowned, “Hey, Alex. Where did you find that guy?”

“Ultor,” Alex corrected, “He was being mugged.”

Paul laughed to himself as Ultor went and poured a glass of some ruby liquid which sat in a dusty decanter on a chipped, warped mantelpiece.

Before long, Paul’s frown returned, “Alex, what happened to the muggers?”

*

Arthur Edding would have liked to have told himself that Weston Street was an atypically horrible place, but in truth it was just like every other part of the central slums. Everywhere he looked, he saw threats, debauchery, scandal and extortion.

Arthur shared the urine-stained pavement with half a dozen prostitutes, bearing virtually everything despite the bitter chill of the evening. The street seemed to sit lie in fog, there was so much smoke billowing out of the numerous bars and clubs. The more affluent establishments brandished garish lighting, which illuminated the surrounding smog, but most of the hole-in-the-wall style joints had nothing but a tatty poster or paint scrawled sign proclaiming their existence.

Ultor had arrived and left a few moments ago, at precisely half past midnight. Arthur supposed he had been made to wait as some sort of test of his resolve. It was unnecessary; Arthur’s resolve was stronger than ever, as was his fear. He fingered the knife in his pocket restlessly, vaguely wondering if he would wear down the blade’s metal handle with his incessant fondling. Despite being irritated by his own nervous tick, he dare not let go of the weapon, lest he cut his hand trying to retrieve it again later. It was a silly concern, but one that seemed vitally important as he considered the million ways in which his ascent to bravery could go wrong.

Arthur had been assured that he was not alone, that one of the brothers would be nearby, but still he was battered by a wave of nauseating isolation. He swallowed back another shot of spittle.

“Why am I salivating so damned much?” Arthur half muttered to himself.

Utor’s instructions had been very clear. Now all Arthur had to do was will his body into action. He set off down the street to find his mark.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ultor had adamantly reminded him that virtually anyone he saw tonight was a criminal. They all played different games, and maybe some had vague rules, but, when it came down to it, Weston Street was not a home for the honest and hardworking. At the back of his mind Arthur knew this to be true, but that did little to stop the questions rolling through his mind. What if he met another person like himself? What if they weren’t all bad people? What if they hadn’t chosen this life? They can’t all be repeat offenders. The first offence isn’t so bad, is it? People can be forgiven one misdemeanour, right?

Arthur knew he was trying to find an out. He knew it, and it sickened him. No one he stood against would be an innocent man. He had to believe that.

Edding paused for a moment and took several controlled breaths. Ultor had given him a sure-fire lure. The rest was up to him.

When Arthur opened his eyes again, they landed on the perfect target. Leaning against a water-stained, peeling wall was a mousey girl with eyes as dark as coal. Her face was taut, the features too pronounced, too gaunt to be attractive. Skin which had probably once been a beautiful alabaster now looked like a translucent film, stretched to breaking point. Her hair was oily, and her lips were cracked, encrusted with day old blood.

An addict.

Arthur approached the girl tentatively.

“Excuse me…” he cleared his throat, annoyed at how shrill his voice had sounded, “Miss?”

When she looked up into the dim light, squinting painfully, Arthur could see she was little more than a child, probably barely seventeen. She seemed upset at having been spoken to, but dutifully set into her routine.

“For the night or by the hour?”

Arthur knew who she was, and how she would respond, but somehow could not help but be offended by the assumption.

“Umm, actually no. I would rather like to chat with you, if that’s ok?”

The girl looked around conspiratorially, “We’re not allowed to ‘chat’, mister. You pay, or you leave; that’s the deal. What you wanna do when you’ve paid, well, that’s your business,” she looked ashamed at this moment, like some past horror had reared its head.

“How did this happen?” Arthur gave an apologetic look, aware of how pitiful the question had sounded, “What I mean to say is, you are young, and a pretty girl. There must have been so much more you could have become.”

The girl’s creamy eyes locked on to Arthur from the bottom of their dark pits.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t know me,” there was accusation in every word, “The price is fifty an hour, and we don’t ‘chat’. Pay or go.”

Arthur shuffled nervously but continued his task, “What is your name?”

The girl rolled her eyes, “Unbelievable. Candy.”

“I mean your real name.”

Candy gave another annoyed look but none the less softened her tone, “Look, mister, you’re not the first person to do this, to come over all sympathetic and try and treat me like I’m just another girl. I’ve seen it before and it always ends the same way. I don’t know what your game is, I don’t know what you are trying to achieve, but believe me, you’re playing with fire.”

Arthur’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He suddenly felt very, very insignificant.

“Hey, you,” a gruff voice knocked Arthur from his stupor.

Arthur’s sense of worthlessness lifted to make way for a renewed and empowered sense of helplessness. That was an improvement, he supposed.

The plan had worked.

Arthur turned sharply to see four men ahead of him. The three at the back looked bored, mostly, but the suit-clad thug at the front had a very deliberate look of contempt. The man had gel-plastered hair, slicked back from his greasy beak-nosed face. He certainly was not the most naturally intimidating person Arthur had ever seen, being fairly slim, and seemingly only an inch or two taller than Arthur’s own five foot and seven inches. Nonetheless, Arthur felt he could be staring down the devil himself and not feel as much fear and uncertainty as he did right now.

“Hey I’m talking to you, fat cunt,” The man stretched out ten wiry fingers and closed them around the lapel of Arthur’s tweed jacket, “You causing this girl grief?”

Edding’s head pounded repeatedly with just one word – ‘No’.

Just say no. Apologise. Leave. Do what you do best, and turn your back. Swallow the shame, and live.

Just live.

The words sounded pathetic even to him. For the briefest of moments he forgot the man in front of him and focused on this new feeling, disgust.

Meanwhile, the thug was growing bored, “Fucking low life,” he spat.

With this, the pimp headbutted Arthur’s already squashed nose.

Arthur fell to the pavement and clutched his bloodied face. As he gently probed his pulped nose, he felt a sharp pain wrench through his body where the thug had kicked his exposed ribs.

Again, Arthur felt the burn of pain. He reeled from a third ferocious blow.

A fourth.

A fifth.

Then it stopped.

Arthur opened his eyes to find he was facing the piss-stained wall. He braced still, but no blow came.

“What the fuck is that?” he heard one of the men say from behind him.

“Holy shit. Was the suit carrying?”

They had noticed the knife.

Howls of laughter followed as the four men fell into hysterics at the prospect of Arthur thinking he could possibly pose a threat to them. To anyone. Each laugh was a reminder of his failure. A reminder of how pathetic he must seem to them, curled in a ball nursing, his wounds like an injured fawn.

The heat of pain rose through Arthur’s body and transformed into the blaze of pure fury. Arthur felt only hate. The purity and clarity of genuine hate.

Self-hate.

No matter what resentment he felt towards his attackers, no matter what bitterness he felt towards the criminals and vandals who made countless lives miserable, no feeling could compare to the loathing he had for himself.

Arthur rolled around and stretched a purposeful hand towards the knife which lay a mere two foot away. His attackers had felt so unthreatened that they had left the weapon laying within arms’ reach.

His fingers closed around the now familiar metal. With all his might, Arthur arched his fist towards the nearest leg he could find and buried the blade deep within the man’s calf. The force of the blow knocked the slick-haired thug to the ground.

The thug’s head cracked the pavement and he let out an almighty cry. Hands hovered as the fallen man debated which of his wounds to comfort first. The laughter of the pimp’s companions died in their throats, but were slow to react. Their faces were a picture of disbelief.

Arthur utilized this opportunity, removing the blade from his victim with both hands and lunging forward on his knees towards the next challenger. With his body weight behind it, the stab was a vicious one. He plunged the knife into the man’s lower abdomen.

The two fell together.

The wounded man’s face contorted in a silent cry as he clutched at his torn belly.

Arthur’s hands fumbled to find the security of the pavement, with which he could hoist himself to his feet. His lack of skill cost him dearly this time, though. A heavy boot collided with the side of Arthur’s head, yielding a horrific crunching noise. Arthur back crashed onto the sidewalk, completely dazed. He was vaguely aware of the man above him reaching into his jacket. His actions were accompanied by a symphony of curses.

Arthur was not even sure if he heard the gun shots.

There were two sharp, quick, almost mistakable, bangs, followed by a third a few moments later.

A man placed a foot against Arthur Edding’s upturned shoulder and gently pushed him on to his back.

Focusing was beyond Arthur’s capability now, but he cared little.

He had done it.

“Hey, you ok?” the tall, long-haired speaker pocketed his firearm in the depths of a billowing leather duster, “I’m Polias. Ultor told me to look out for you. How do you feel?”

Arthur took a long while to come to terms with this turn of events. When he did, he responded in the only way he knew how to; he laughed. He laughed so hard he almost choked on the blood streaming from his pulverized nose.

“I feel like I could change the world,” Arthur wheezed.

Polias smiled back.

They were unchallenged as Polias helped his new comrade up, having to stoop so that he could support the shorter man. As they hobbled away, a thought occurred to Arthur, causing him to pause in his tracks. He turned as best as his broken ribs would allow.

“Miss? You can go home now.”

The prostitute was huddled against the wall, surveying the horror before her.

After a time, she shook her head.

“No. No, no, no. You fool,” she practically whispered, “You fucking idiot. This doesn’t change anything. There’ll be another one, just like him, only maybe not half as gentle. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day.’

This struck Arthur harder than the headbutt. He nodded, knowing it to be true, and continued to hobble away.

“But...’ the girl offered between sobs, “I might take the rest of the night off.”