“His name is Harold Marks, a production line lackey who worked beneath our dad,” Anthony proudly proclaimed amidst mouthfuls of sauce soaked, soggy noodles, “Got the info from some guy whose friend mysteriously cropped up paralysed from the neck down one day, conveniently after a run in with this guy and his so called buddies. It was declared that he couldn’t do his job properly, and so he was laid off with barely enough money to feed himself. Less than a month later, he committed suicide and this Marks guy walks away scot-free.”

Anthony wiped his mouth with a grotty sleeve and took a gulp of some sugary canned beverage that pretended to be fruit filled. After forking more of the noodle-soup concoction into his mouth, he continued.

“Rumour has it he’s a gambling junky. Spends all his time down the bookies or at amateur boxing matches, that kind of thing. Anyway, he seems to have taken his hobby a little too far. Blew all his cash and future wages on some outside tip off which clearly didn’t pay off. He went to those same guys for money, inevitably couldn’t pay them back, but instead of squaring the debt with his life, he gave them his soul instead. He’s been serving as their lap dog for a while now, leading poor unsuspecting chumps to their deaths, all so that he this gang can make some change and he can carry on his miserable life.”

“Watch it, man, our dad was one of those chumps,” Paul said, turning from his own meal to look scornfully at his brother.

Anthony looked ready to go on the defensive defensive, but a moment of reflection saw him return his attention to his poor excuse for a meal.

Somberly, Luke lent back and clasped his hands behind his head, “Good work, guys. Take it you have an address?”

Without looking up, Anthony handed him a slip of paper, “Exodus block, section B6. Flat number 236.”

Luke scrutinised the slither of paper, despite having just been told its contents.

Feeling left out, Paul added, “I had the numbskull here,” indicating Anthony, “create a diversion with senior management, while I snuck into the floor supervisor’s office. They’ve got files on everyone in there,” after several seconds went by devoid of congratulations, he changed the subject swiftly, “How’s Alex doing?”

Luke sighed heavily, pocketing the note and settling back in his seat. For a moment, he let his eyes drift along the grime covered tiles of the ceiling and over to the packed booths of fellow diners. The clientele was a rag-tag ensemble of blue-collar workers, most of whom ate silently and with the zeal of the half-starved. For the most part, the individuals looked as though they had less meat on their bones than they did on the plates before them. The red synthetic leather seats were torn in places, and stained everywhere else. The counter was populated by a few vagrants and street urchins who had clearly saved up for the privilege of a hot meal. Not one member of staff wore a smile, they just milled lifelessly from table to table, customer to customer, with the same glass-eyed expression. The place was in a sorry state. It was even more pitiful to think that this haunt was one of the better outlets which encrusted the Pits.

“You know him,” Luke finally said, “putting on a brave face. Didn’t make a peep throughout the operation. God only knows how. He’s resting up at the moment. The doctor - well, he called himself a doctor - said he should be up and running in a few days. He’ll have basic motor functions, at least.”

“Are we gonna wait for him?”

“We’d better. He would go crazy if he knew we’d gone behind his back on this. He obsesses over it.”

“It’s only fair, really,” Simon stepped in, “He’s as much a part of this as any of us, maybe even more so. It’s only right that he sees justice is done.”

One by one they gave in and showed their gestures of agreement. Only Luke still looked sceptical. “Are you certain that’s what this is though? I mean, sure, it’s probably justice, but does that make it right? I’m not sure how comfortable I am deciding who lives who dies.”

The brothers were silent. Anthony held an unchewed mass of starch in his cheek, and Paul sat rigid. Luke studied each of them, waiting to be either challenged or reassured.

After a long pause, Simon exhaled heavily, staring straight down at a chip in the smooth surface of the table, “Someone has to,” He rose to meet his brother’s gaze, “Would you rather it was them or us?”

By the end of the week, Alex was back living with his brothers. They were crammed together in Luke’s small flat. None of them wanted to return to their family home, and living together offered them some small degree of security, both financial and physical.

The three eldest brothers spent most of their time at work, maintaining their full-time jobs so that they could support Alex. Simon had been forced to give up any hope of pursuing an education. Instead, he busied himself with the various menial tasks which came up, assisting Anthony in the bar trade where necessary, and doing chores when no paying work was available.

Alex was making rapid progress as the days went by. He quickly re-learned how to walk, and now possessed the ability to grasp large objects. The metal limbs made him slightly clumsy, and he still had an obvious limp, but for the most part he was reaching a stage where he could lead a fairly normal life. His days were spent studying old texts and documents, or going through self-dictated physiotherapy routines. The comparatively great weight of his new attachments meant that he still tired very easily. However, Alex insisted on forgoing sleep, functioning on as little as he could possibly manage. He considered rest to be a waste of time, which could be spent honing his body and mind.

Luke had convinced his brothers to postpone the interrogation of Harold Marks for a fortnight, on the pretence of waiting for Alex to sufficiently heal. The idea was welcomed by the majority. As well as he was doing, it was still clear that Alex was struggling. Besides that, Paul and Anthony’s fervor for the task to come wavered on a daily basis, and they seemed content to postpone the inevitable.

When they did finally decide to proceed, it was with mixed levels of enthusiasm.

The brothers ascended the Exodus block in a tubular, windowless lift. Not one of them had spoken since they left the house. It would be too easy to talk each other out of it now. An ominous chiming indicated they had reached their floor; several hearts skipped a beat.

Hesitantly, Luke shuffled forward, taking the lead. He looked down the obscenely long corridor, his hands balled into fists. Slowly, at first, he strode forward. His heavy work boots thudded monotonously as he walked. He held his head high, attempting to show a determination he did not feel, and kept his chin jutting forward. He didn’t dare look back at his brothers.

Last to leave the lift was Alex, dragging himself along with uneven steps. He also fought to compose himself, but his battle was one of physical limitations, not resolve. He wanted more than anything to walk proudly and determinedly. He wanted to show he knew full well what he intended to do, and to prove he had faith in their course.

They reached the door. Flat number 236. Luke extended his hand, his curled fingers hovering centimeters from the gun-metal grey surface. On either side of him, Paul and Anthony had taken up positions. Neither of the two was unfamiliar with the occasional scrap, so they had been picked as the muscle. Simon hung a little further back, standing as tall as he could, and steeling his features. Alex leaned against the opposite wall, his dishevelled hair hanging loose, and the hint of a smile plastered on his porcelain-pale face.

Luke knocked.

Some clamouring could be heard from within, shortly after which the door swung open to reveal a grubby, unshaven man of around fifty. He sported a receding hairline of messy grey. No one moved or said anything, allowing the dull-skinned, flat-nosed man to study them. His mouth was slightly agape, as if he had intended to say something but could no longer find the words.

Once again Luke took the lead, looking through his target, rather than at him, “Harold Marks?”

He frowned, “Whose asking?”

At that, Paul and Anthony leapt forward, shuffling past Luke, who remained fixed motionless in the doorway. They grabbed Harold by the shoulders and arms, launching him back into the tiny, cluttered room. Paul sank a punch into Marks’ stomach, winding him, while Anthony reached for some cord he had attached to the back of his belt. They proceeded to tie the bewildered factory workers arms behind his back as he gasped for air, curled in a ball on the floor of his own home. When Marks was restrained, and the situation firmly in their control, Luke strolled into the room. Casually Simon and then Alex followed, who closed the door behind them without looking back.

They hauled their victim so that he was sitting upright against a wall, dazed by the suddenness of the attack. Luke squatted, massaging his temples with his thumbs. He kept his head lowered so that only his thin brown eyebrows could be seen over the shadowy caves of his sunken sockets.

They remained like this for some time, with Harold stretched against the wall, looking at each of his assailants in turn. Fear peeked through the cracks of his mask of confidence.

“Who are you punks, and what the hell do you think you’re doing in my house?”

Anthony frowned, leaning in close enough that Marks could smell the whiskey on his breath, “I think you ought to be nicer to us, don’t you? You address us with manners, or we start cutting off body parts. How does that sound?”

Marks sneered at the sadistically smiling youth, but he had the presence of mind to refrain from endangering himself with an ill-placed retort.

“Does the name Gregory Blanc mean anything to you?” Luke asked, face still downcast.

“Never heard of him,” Marks instinctively and definitively answered.

His evasiveness earned him a blow to the head from Paul, “You goddamn liar! You know damn well who he is you bastard. He’s the supposed friend you sold out. The man who is dead because of you!’

Anger did not suit Paul. It was jarring for Simon to see his normally passive, calm brother a mixture of adrenaline and rage.

Anthony stooped so that he was once again level with his captive, “Perhaps you should try again,” with this, he threw a punch at Harold’s already bruised ribs.

Marks spluttered for a bit before giving his response through choked coughs, “Ok, maybe I’ve heard of him. What’s it to you anyway?”

It was again left to Luke to take charge, “Listen carefully. We hold all the cards here, Marks. We need information, and it would be in your best interest not to try and lie to us. That, I think you’ve seen. It is vital that you tell us everything you know,” absently, Luke fingered the lighter in his pocket, “Gregory worked with you at the Ghobi factory, correct? Just nod.”

A nod.

“You like to gamble, don’t you, Harold?”

Another nod, this time slightly hesitantly. Marks began to see where this line of interrogation was going.

“Approximately two years ago you fell into debt with a street gang who disregarded the money you owed in exchange for the deliverance of others. Others like you. Is this, also, correct?”

Harold Marks sighed, “Look I-” Anthony again clobbered the man.

No longer sitting tall, Harold now curled as much as his restraints would allow. He looked more like a tortured puppy than an accessory to murder.

“Answer the question,” Anthony said.

Grudgingly and with a shiver of regret, Marks nodded.

“You advised Gregory Blanc, our father, to meet with these men. You told him that they could help him settle his debts. Correct?”

Marks’ head raised in an instant, attempting to stare pleadingly into Luke’s eyes with his own watering, dilated pupils. Marks’ brow quivered, and his lip trembled ever so slightly, “You’re his kids? I’m so sorry. It’s all true, but it was never meant to be like this, you have to believe me. I never wanted anyone to come to any harm. He needed money, they needed clients, I was just trying to help!” he looked desperately from face to face, “Your father was a good man, a great man! You’re the eldest right?” he swung back to Luke, “Why, I remember seeing you when you was a nipper. You were a cute lad. He was always so proud of you. Spoke very proudly of all his boys, he did. He wouldn’t want you to be this way, you know, hung up on grief for his sake.”

There was some fidgeting in the room. Paul, in particular, shifted uneasily; he had not anticipated such a personal plea.

But they could not back down now.

Luke put his hands on the shoulders of his father’s former friend. His hazel eyes were boring straight into Marks’ deep, almost black irises. It was not a menacing look, but it was filled with obvious determination. It was a look which demanded satisfaction, one way or another.

“Now answer clearly and carefully. Who killed our parents, and where can we find them?”

Marks was horrified, “No, no I can’t. They’ll kill you! I can’t have that. I don’t want there to be any more bloodshed. Please, you stay away from them, ya hear? Please!’

Unflinchingly, Luke repeated, “Where can we find them?”

Anthony and Paul moved in closer, so that Marks’ entire view was dominated by the three.

Harold could feel the sweat pricking on his forehead, streaming down his craggy cheeks to leave a bitter salty taste in the corner of his dry mouth. He licked his lips, and gulped.

“They call themselves the Gutter Vipers. They’re nothing but a bunch of low life robbers and vandals. They do it more for kicks than money. Their place is at this Casino in the 12th District East, ‘The Lucky Table’. Their boss owns the joint and gives ‘em free reign. They basically enforce their own law there. Anyone who wins too much disappears, anyone low-balling gets encouraged to slam down their life savings.”

After a few moments of loaded silence whilst the brothers digested and dissected this information, Luke jolted his head towards the door, signalling the others to leave.

Briefly, Luke lingered motionless in front of the cowering turncoat who had sold his father’s life to the highest bidder, until, finally, he rose. He too, strode towards the door.

“Could you at least untie me, lads?”

The brothers kept walking until they reached the hallway, only then realising that Alex was not amongst them. Looking back, they saw their brother standing over Marks.

“At least?” Alex hissed, “Certainly think we have a lot of rights, don’t we?”

“Well it’s just that –”

“It’s just that you’ve been granted mercy so generously, and now you lap up our gifts like a greedy rat.”

Marks stayed silent. Unlike the others he had seen, this face was emotionless, cold. There was no sign of anger, fear, or rage, and certainly not a hint of compassion. The calculated calm of Alex’s voice was far more haunting than the menacing tones of his interrogators.

Alex went on, “You evade danger through prudent speech and offering scapegoats, letting others take the fall when you made the leap. Your kind is the most despicable of all. You hide in the shadows, offering information from your knees so that you may prolong your pitiful life. And still all the while, after death, after death, after death, you say to yourself, ‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill those people. I am just a blameless victim of a broken world’,” Alex snorted, “I would have respected you more if you had been uncooperative. At least then I could say you had stood by your beliefs. I suppose the only thing a rat believes is that it should live, no matter the cost.’

Noticing the gleam of metal as Alex ran a hand casually through his mottled hair, Marks’ guessed who it was who now addressed him.

“You must be Alex. I know you’ve been hurt more than any other in all this. It must have been so hard. To see what you saw,” Marks shook his head, “Nobody should have to go through that. I’m amazed you can even stand to be here. Most would give up, snap even. It’s incredible. Most would forget how to be human. Forget how to be kind.”

Alex kicked back his head and laughed chillingly, “Sly indeed, my friend. You think I have a point to prove? You think I need to express humanity in order to feel good about myself? You are mistaken to appeal to my ego and my pride, and mistaken again to presume you may call me by name,” He launched forward and clasped Marks’ jaw in his synthetic hand, forcing the now petrified man to look directly at him.

“Alex,” he tested the sound of his own name and grimaced, “No, that’s not right. Names are something we ascribe to people. You will find that for you, and those like you, there is nothing left of a person within me. Perhaps others would have been placated by these petty attempts at flattery, but not I. In your presence, I feel none of the remorse or pity which would mark me as a man, I feel only contempt for all you are and all you represent. To you, I am not a person; I am the face of a heartless concept. I am an idea. An idea has no need for scum like you to tell it whether it is good or bad.”

Alex’s single eye twinkled, “I am Ultor; I am the avenger. Not just the avenger to my parents, I am the avenger to the people. For every wronged innocent soul who cannot fend for itself, I am here. You do not tell me I am right; I represent right. For too long, vermin like yourself have been allowed to spread, unchecked, across our beautiful city,’ Ultor pried open Marks’ mouth and pried his tongue from behind the bars of its prison of decaying teeth, “This has weaved disaster and hate for long enough. This tongue, so cunning in the ways of crafting misery, is nothing but a tool of malice. This is a poisonous snake, one which has leaked its venom into too many ears.”

Ultor pressed down hard with his good hand, digging his nails in until blood filled Marks’ mouth. In one motion, he pulled with all his might, uprooting the tongue and tearing it from its wailing owner.

Marks’ screamed and wept to the best of his ability, bubbles of his own blood foaming from his contorted lips.

Ultor stood over him, oblivious to his horrified brothers, watching from the doorway transfixed. He let the gore soaked prize slip from his hand and land lifeless in front of its previous master. Harold Marks looked up at the demon before him, nothing but fear wracking his mutilated body now.

“There is no place for you in the future I wish to build, Marks. I’m sorry.”

With more control than anger, Ultor kicked the feebly protesting man onto his side, before bringing his metal leg crushing down upon Marks’ fragile skull. Instantly, the bone caved in, offering little resistance. Alex continued stamping and kicking until only a puddle remained of Harold Marks, an indiscernible mess of destruction at the end of a still twitching body.

Alex wiped his foot carelessly on a fake animal skin rug, and then marched out of the desecrated den He swept past his disbelieving brethren, now accessories to murder.