Harold White, the White Herald of the Cult of Brass, loved violence. He loved seeing bones crack, he loved seeing blood spill, he loved seeing flesh beaten into jelly. He well and truly loved violence. One day, he found he had the superpower to bestow incredible physical strength to whoever he wished, and started up the Cult of Brass.

At first, it had been easy to find desperate and stupid people to buy into the nonsensical story over the Cult of Brass and the White Herald. How violence and combat would bring them supernatural strength and glory. Before long, Harold found himself in a blood soaked paradise of titans punching cleanly through people. Truely, it was wonderful.

Harold was always careful to separate his work life from his life as the White Herald, he rarely arrived in person to the cult meetings. Once the cult grew, there were so many meetings that Harold simply couldn’t show up to all of them even if he wanted to.

Then, things took a turn for the worse. Someone, Harold had no idea who, had been killing his champions. Normally, Harold couldn’t care less about this. The cultists were the dregs of society, Harold had a well paying office job and lived in a nice apartment. He had no time for the homeless and downtrodden. But whoever was killing the brass champions, they seemed to be experts at it. They had killed an entire chapter of his cult, and Harold knew that eventually they would be coming for him.

An acute fear for his own life had led to drastic measures. Harold had pulled a few strings around the office, scheduling a long vacation on short notice.

Harold didn’t look forward to a month of live action role playing in the country. The best Harold could hope for was a broken finger. Still, some time spent out in the country was much better than certain death in the city.

“Come on, Alice!” Felicia said, elbowing her best friend, “Why are you looking so glum?”

“I already told you,” Alice Courlan mumbled, slumping forward in her bus seat, “My life is over.”

“It is not,” Felicia said, “Just because you’re feeling down now doesn’t mean you’ll be feeling down forever. Do you want-”

“I do not want a pot brownie,” Alice said, “Or any brownie. Or anything that came out of your oven.”

“I’m not that bad,” Felicia said, “It’s just, cooking has so many rules and timers! How am I supposed to keep track of all of that?”

“Usually, you at least have a smoke alarm,” Alice said.

“Smoke alarms suppress free spirits,” Felicia retorted.

“They also help suppress fires,” Alice said, “Felicia, you don’t understand.”

“Here we go again,” Felicia grumbled.

“I was going to have it all,” Alice said, “I was top of my class in college, I graduated with a Master's, I had jobs lined up before I graduated, Bright Futures had offered me a position years ahead of other people! Felicia, I was going to break new ground in medicine and chemistry! I had everything, and then- then I was mind controlled! Or- Or- Felilcia, I woke up behind dumpsters in my underwear! I had to ask some biker thug for his jacket! When I was finally able to ask about the interview, I was told that I would never find work there!” Alice slumped forward. “I have loans to pay off, people who rely on me, and what am I doing? Felicia, what am I doing!"

"You're going on a month-long LARPing trip," Felicia said, "You're going to vent your frustrations by beating people with a foam sword and looking at the hot dudes dressed as barbarians. When the month is up, you will be relaxed, you will be ready, and you will have a plan."

"Why can't I just make a plan now?" Alice asked.

"Because right now, you're a bundle of nerves, stress and panic," Felicia said, "You'd probably end up selling your organs to some crime ring."

"I'm not actually using all of them," Alice muttered.

"Yes, you literally are," Felicia barked.

…

"It's still that way?" the barbarian asked, the sun just barely dawning.

"Yes," the cleric said.

"I'll cast haste on everyone," the wizard said.

"Thank you," the bard said.

"Did Artificer ever get that armor for you?" the fighter asked.

"Not yet, he says he's still working on it," the bard said, "Supposedly, "nano-carbon-fiber" tubes and titanium are hard to get a hold of or something."We haven’t seen one titan since we got here.

"And I don't see how the tiny tubes could be better than dragon scales," the rogue said.

"Well, he did say that the haste ring was more than enough for payment,” the bard said, “I should’ve asked for more.”

“What else would you have asked for?” the barbarian asked.

“A sword?” the bard guessed.

“That thing you have already works fine,” the rogue said.

“Either way, time to get moving,” the fighter ordered.

…

Hank was having the best day he had ever had in eight long, tiring years. After so much time spent as a mutant of the Underlanders, trapped in Mikey’s sadistic army, it was only natural that Hank was taking a moment to flex and smile in front of a mirror. Yes, the mirror was in a public bathroom, and people were giving him odd looks, but Hank had a wildly distended jaw and frog eyes for eight years. He could handle strangers staring at him, and Hank knew that he would be an idiot to not indulge himself after so long. He wondered if that girl, she called herself “The Cleric” or something, had de-aged him. The powerful body of an ironworker, complete with a sharp jawline and pearly white teeth. Hank looked closer, opening his mouth wide. The root canal he had gotten was gone. Hank jabbed at the tooth with his tongue. He had all his pearly white teeth.

He found himself humming a happy tune, something jazzy, as Hank strode home. He was going to see his wife again, he was going to see his son again, have his favorite steak dinner, and make sweet, sweet love to Helen, followed by a long bath in the morning. Hank never realized how much he enjoyed showers after spending years without them.

There was a car Hank didn’t recognize in his driveway, but that was fine. Helen was a smart, industrious woman, and Hank figured she had probably bought that herself after his old truck inevitably broke down.

Hank paused at the door. Everything would be fine, Hank assured himself. Miracles do happen, and he was walking proof of that. His wife would be overjoyed to see him again. Why wouldn’t she be? Miracles, Hank thought, do happen.

He knocked on the door.

Nothing.

They had been out grocery shopping, Hank recalled, last time Hank had gotten a chance to see her. The Underlanders had attacked while Hank was supposed to be getting milk. Should he have brought milk? Helen had probably been grocery shopping since then. And it was, what, a Tuesday? Hank didn’t need to track days of the week for a long time, it felt weird trying to do that again.

Hank knocked on the door again.

He could hear murmured conversation inside.

Aw shucks, Helen didn’t sell the house, did she? He and her had so many good memories in the house. Would the mortgage have been paid off by now? Hank did have life insurance, and he was pretty sure getting turned into a hideous mutant and forced to live in a sewer for eight years was close enough to dead for that to pay out.

Hank knocked on the door a third time, adding a bit more force, and a man opened the door.

A man opened the door.

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A man, Hank thought, opened his wife’s door.

“Listen here,” the man said, a few inches shorter than Hank and with scruffy, black hair, “My wife and I were about to sit down for dinner. Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”

Hank looked at the man, his face blank with confusion.

“Are you high?” the man asked.

“My apologies,” Hank said, “I happen to know someone from this neighborhood, and I was wondering if you knew them? Last I recall, folks ‘round here tended to be rather neighborly.”

“Well, I might be able to help you with that,” the man said, “Does your friend have a name?”

Hank noticed the glint of a gold ring on the man’s finger, a wedding ring to be exact.

“Helen Walters,” Hank answered, “Or Helen DuPoe, if she’s going by her maiden name.”

The man’s face turned into the beginnings of a snarl. “Have you been seeing-” came out in a low growl. A clatter of silverware, the clank of heavy pots, the shattering crash of plates, and a high pitched yelp from inside interrupted Hank and the man.

“Honey?” the man called out, “Are you okay?”

Helen appeared at the top of the stairs. Her hands and apron were stained with hot sauce, her face was streaked with tears, her eyes were turning puffy, and Hank looked in awe as a ceiling light ringed her head in a glorious halo. Helen charged down the stairs, catching Hank in a tight hug as tears flowed freely down her face.

“I thought you were dead,” Helen choked out between sobs, “Everyone told me it would be better that way, to say that you weren’t coming back!”

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

“Hank Walters,” Hank answered, idly rubbing at his fingers. “I am-” Hank caught himself, noticing his wedding ring was missing, “I- I was Helen’s husband.”

“Please, come in,” Helen said, “I have- there’s dinner on the stove! Please!”

“Honey- I-” the man started, looking from Helen to Hank and back, “Alright. Hope you like chicken wings.”

Hank strode inside, and took a seat at the dinner table. The decor was different, the walls had new paint, the pictures Helen liked to hang were different. Helen brought out a bowl of chicken wings, and served up three plates.

“W-well,” Helen said, passing a plate to Hank, “Eat up.”

All three ate in silence. Hank could see Helen exchanging glances with her new husband, and before dinner was half finished, Helen gave Hank a strained smile.

“So,” Helen said, grasping for pleasant conversation, “This is exciting. A chance to reinvent yourself!”

“To meet new people,” the man said, “Go new places.”

“Mmhmm,” Hank grunted, glaring down at the man.

The conversation died, and silence returned. Helen and her husband met back to exchanging worried and angry looks.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Helen said, “Christopher and I need to talk about- need to talk about something.”

“Take your time,” Hank replied, picking at a bone.

It wasn’t steak, and the chicken was still good. Hank was glad to know Helen’s cooking had only gotten better with time.

But it still wasn’t steak. Hank took another look around, picking sharp whispers coming down the hall from Christopher and Helen. The air felt tense, not the relaxing feel of coming home after a hard day’s work. He had been invited in, Hank realized, but he was still intruding. A picture on the wall caught his eye, a little girl dressed in her Sunday best.

Hank had a son, not a daughter.

“Hey, Mom!” a voice came from downstairs, not quite sounding like a boy, but not quite an adult, “I’m heading to Eric’s party.”

“Oh! Um, dinner is on the table!” Helen called out, “I made enough to share, feel free to bring the bowl! Make sure Samantha has some. You can take my car.”

“Thanks Mom!” the teenager called out, thumping up the stairs, “She always loves your-”

Hank turned away from the picture, seeing the teenager for the first time.

“Ethan?” Hank asked, memories of a little boy fussing against button shirts and shorts flashing through Hank’s mind.

Ethan froze, stunned by a ghost from his past. His last memory of Hank was watching terrified as his father, a man Ethan had always thought of as invincible, was dragged away by a hideous, pus covered, warty tentacle. Hank had screamed at Ethan to run, shoving him away as the tentacle caught Hank by the ankle. Helen had scooped up Ethan and ran for the car, and Ethan watched over her shoulder as monsters tore apart the grocery store. He was always told that his father was dead, that nobody ever came back from the Underlanders, that the mutations couldn’t be reversed, that even if his father did come back Ethan wouldn’t want to see him.

“Dad?” It came out barely more than a whisper, like the brain didn’t believe the eyes and the tongue didn’t believe the brain.

“Hey son,” Hank said. The pat on the back Hank gave him felt alien to Hank, like Ethan had become a stranger. “Been a while.”

“How are you-” Ethan sputtered, “How are you here?”

“I met a young woman named Mrs. The Cleric,” Hank explained, “She said she called on the power of her goddess to restore me to my human form. So, I came back here. Uh, how’s school going?” It came out as more of a guess, something that was only said because a father was supposed to say it to his son.

“I graduated,” Ethan said, struggling to sound like all of this was normal, “The party I was going to is a graduation party. My friend Eric and I have been saving up for a while.”

“Oh,” Hank said, just how much of Ethan’s life had Hank missed out on? “Did you play any sports?”

“Basketball,” Ethan said, “I got to play in a state championship.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hank said. He liked football, and had always dreamed of getting to watch his son play. In Hank’s dreams, Ethan was seven feet tall and had shoulders like cinder blocks. “Listen, I’m sorry for barging back into your life like this, but I think you should head off to your party. I’m- Well, I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but I don’t think I’ll be sticking around here.”

“I- alright,” Ethan said.

“Dinner was nice,” Hank called out, “But I think I’d best be going.”

Hank stepped out the front door. His favorite rocking chair was still there, creaking in familiarity as Hank sat down, watching the sun set. He could hear a game of basketball coming through the window.

Christopher stepped outside to greet Hank, a six pack of beer in one hand. He offered one to Hank, and Hank gladly took it. It was watery and tasted cheap, just the way Hank liked it.

“So-” Christopher started, pausing when Hank drank the beer in one go and reached for another. Christopher passed Hank another beer, watching as the man drank the second beer in one go.

“Another?” Christophe asked.

“Nah,” Hank said, waving him off.

“So,” Christopher said, “I understand this is awkward, me being your ex wife’s husband, and I realize we didn’t exactly meet on good terms, but I figure since I’m Helen’s best friend, I should at least make an effort to be your friend.”

“I know,” Hank said.

“And, I know it will be awkward,” Christopher continued, “But, we were planning a vacation. Take the kids out to stay with the grandparents for a while while Helen and I have our own fun. There’s this sporting event I like to attend, medieval combat in full gear, and a, uh, live action role playing group nearby.”

“Mmhm,” Hank muttered.

“And I know you’re important to Helen,” Christopher said, “So, I was wondering if you wanted to join us.”

“I suppose I might as well,” Hank admitted, “And while we’re here, there’s a few things I want to ask you.”

“Go ahead,” Christopher said.

“Are you good to my wife?” Hank asked.

“I reckon so,” Christopher said, “I work hard to provide for her, for your son and my daughter. I work hard to be her lover, best friend, and husband.”

“Good,” Hank said, “What do the grandparents think of you?”

“I think it took them a while to come around to me,” Christopher said, “But I think they were glad to see their daughter so happy again.”

“Good,” Hank said, “What do you do?”

“I’m a sergeant,” Christopher said, “Currently in the reserves. You?”

“I’m- I was an ironworker,” Hank said, “Ugh, this really didn’t go the way I thought it would.”

“How’d you think it’d go?” Christopher asked.

“I thought I would come home, and Helen would be overjoyed to see me again,” Hank said, “She’d have my favorite steak dinner hot and ready for me, we’d make sweet love till the sun came up, and I’d go play catch with my son after a long shower. I thought things would be the same.”

“She does still love you,” Christopher said.

“Which is why I can’t stay here, can’t stay with her,” Hank explained, “I’d be intruding in what you and her built. As much as it pains me to say, I’m not a part of her life anymore. But that’s not the worst part.”

“What is?” Christopher asked.

“The worst part is that seeing you made me feel anger towards my wife,” Hank admitted, “For a moment, I hated her, and hating her made me hate myself. I feel stupid even getting mad!”

“Really?” Christopher asked.

“Of course!” Hank said, “If I was gone, of course I’d want her to remarry! Of course I’d want her to be happy! Hell, I’d do the same!”

“You could stay for a while,” Christopher offered, “At least for a few weeks.”

“I will,” Hank said, “It’d be cruel of me to walk back in on her only to leave again. But I know I can’t stay.”

“Why?” Christopher asked.

“Helen said it was an opportunity to reinvent myself,” Hank explained, “Go to new places, meet new people, make new memories. But you know what an opportunity to reinvent myself isn’t? It isn’t a chance to go back to how things were.”

“I suppose it’s not,” Christopher said, cracking open a beer.

“How’s your team doing?” Hank asked.

“Pfft! I’ve seen dogs play better,” Christopher grumbled, “And a blind ref would at least hear the ball!”

“Heh, glad to know some things never change,” Hank said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Christopher said.