“You know, if thing carry on this way then we’ll have to switch to half-pints,” Anthony was prodding a few grubby coins in his palm as he spoke, “We have no income, we’re not getting any more famous and, yep…” he did an exaggerated scan of his surroundings, “The world is still shit.”

“It’s not about fame,” Polias was surprised to hear himself speak and was a little embarrassed to see Ultor regarding him with a degree of pride.

The four were sat in a booth in at the edge of a gloomy pool bar. The garish red mock-leather seats were torn, and the wooden tables were chipped and discoloured. It was a busy night, and voices and tinny music filled the air. Men laughed gruffly, and some women with particularly shrill voices could be heard taking mock offence at some inappropriate comment or another. All of the tables were occupied, and every stool had an owner. There were dozens more people pin-balling around the floor space.

“Whatever it’s about, we’re sucking at it. We’re barely making rent and we are on final warning for damn near all our utilities.”

Paul leaned in, “And while we’re on it, I’m not too keen on living off money pilfered from muggers. Doesn’t sit well with me,” he fidgeted, “Seems a bit hypocritical, is all.”

Ultor gave him a thoughtful smile, “If all were right with the world then we wouldn’t have to perform this service, let alone provide our own salary. Sadly, for the time being, needs must, and I for one work better without an empty stomach.”

“Suppose this all goes well, though,” Paul mused aloud, “Suppose that one day we became these flipping beacons of hope you want us to be. Then what? I mean, it’s hardly exemplary behavior to be scoring cash from our victims now, is it? What’ll people think of us?”

“Victims? We’re just reclaiming what has already neem stolen. Besides, I have greater plans with respect to that. When the time comes, we will be in a position to set the ultimate example.”

“By all means, speak plainly. Glad to see we are avoiding riddles,” when he failed to get a rise, Paul looked over at his younger brother to find him staring across the room.

Paul followed Alex’s gaze.

At the far end of the pool hall there was a man standing defensively in front of a slight, but beautiful, young woman. The man wore a shirt and jeans, and his hair was carefully and deliberately styled. His stance was wide, his fists clenched, but, most noticeably, the man was trembling. The woman behind him was clutching at his shirt nervously. She wore a sleek, fitted, shimmering blue dress, which emphasized her delicate skin and rolling golden hair. Her face would have been pretty, if it were not scrunched up with an unmistakable look of fear. Her eyes welled with tears and her makeup, previously immaculate, had begun to streak.

Paul was starting to get a picture.

“Don’t you touch her, you-y-you scumbag!” any menace which may have been elicited was lost amidst the stuttering.

His command provoked laughter.

Ahead of and surrounding the young man, was a myriad of all the filth Tartarus had to offer. Men with bulging muscles and pulsing biceps, sleazebags in sharp suits and ostentatious jewelry, barrel-chested goliaths of enormous height and girth, they were all there, united and cemented by one glorious bond - money. The wallet, in this case, was a snub-nosed youth in a buttoned-down shirt and a pin-stripe suit. He had a heavy, fur-lined coat draped over one shoulder and a brandy tumbler in hand. Black spikes adorned his head, above an arrogant smile and a pair of dusty grey eyes.

Brandy-swiller’s voice betrayed his age as somewhere in his teens, certainly too young to be drinking, “Can you believe this guy? Maybe you don’t get how this works. Let me educate you.”

The boy took a long glug of amber liquid before swinging his glass at the taller man, shattering the vessel against his temple. A scream accompanied the smash, and the man fell to one knee, trembling hands cradling his wounded, blood-sodden face.

The dapper looking teen leaned in close, “I do what I want, when I want. Do you understand? If I think your wife is worth fucking, then that’s what I’ll do. If I think you’re worth killing, and you should be proud of yourself if that’s the case, then that is what I’ll do,” saying this, he rose to his full and unimpressive height, and motioned to his men.

Two of the gaggle lurched forward and hauled the wounded chivalrous soul onto a pool table, while another strolled forward and effortlessly restrained the desperately thrashing woman. They made the woman watch as they pummeled the man mercilessly.

Blood sprayed across the green felt. Gasps and vicious thuds punctuated the now all-pervading silence.

People watched without looking, chatting voicelessly. They made all kinds of attempts to seem disinterested whilst relishing the bloodbath at hand. Music still played, but it was muffled background noise against the desperate sobs of the young lady watching the colour drain from her moaning husband.

Ultor decided the time was ripe to make his move.

Paul did a double take when he noticed Alex strolling nonchalantly towards the small crowd. He rose to his feet with a quiet curse and motioned to Anthony to take the left-hand side while he moved towards the right. Polias had already bounded off.

Ultor approached the two attackers and, with all the ceremony and grace of someone peeling chewing gum off their shoe, he brought down a prosthetic fist on the back of the largest man’s head. An otherworldly shattering was produced as the man’s cheek bones exploded against the wooden rim of the table.

Ultor’s removed his metal talons from the man’s decimated cranium.

The deceased made no sound as he slumped to the floor.

Not a second later, Ultor grabbed at the bleach blonde hair of the second man, wrenching his head backwards and exposing his throat. Ultor drove a vicious, toothed combat knife into the man’s windpipe, eliciting a garbled cry. Moments later Ultor had discarded his dagger in the chest of a vest clad brawny sort, who now squealed pitifully on his knees, albeit briefly.

By this time, hands had begun to shoot towards weapons, and the lifeless picture soon burst with action. Faces gnarled with fury or clenched with fear, many more still stretched with the tension of pure shock. Everyone raced to either get into or away from the carnage.

With a vicious backhand Ultor felled the teenage leader and launched his metal leg into the diaphragm of the titan behind him. The kid’s bodyguard crumpled at the waist and exhaled every bit of breath which had been in his lungs. As he folded forward, Ultor met his pain-stricken face with an iron knee, preventing the man from recoiling by steadying his head with a broad hand. His skull fractured as easily as if it had been made of fine porcelain.

Had he been alone, then Alexander Blanc would by now no doubt be staring down an arsenal of gun barrels and knife edges. He had faith in his brothers, though, and it proved not to be misplaced.

Polias caught his first victim entirely off guard, submerging a blade into the mobster’s spine before he even knew he had company. The second man was fumbling in his jacket for a weapon which never emerged. He died gripping a scarlet gash across the soft flesh of his throat.

Anthony had approached from the same side as his youngest brother, and so lost the element of stealth which had been afforded the others. Nonetheless, he still firmly had the advantage, and did an admirable job of utilizing this. He felled a stubble-haired thug with minimal resistance and then moved to protect the flanks.

Paul had taken a different approach, launching his entire body at the backs of three unsuspecting goons, tumbling heavily to the ground with them. The move lacked the efficiency and effectiveness of his brothers’ methods, but did afford Ultor the opportunity to dispatch two of the villains easily enough. One was felled with a brutal stamp to the neck, the other with a powerful kick to the jaw. The third man was engaged in a sloppy scrap with Paul, who had notably failed to produce a weapon.

A flamboyant sort had managed to unholster an expensive looking firearm, which he leveled hurriedly at Paul’s head. Despite the speed of his draw, the gangster lost his firearm, and the accompanying hand, before he managed to loose a round. A second swipe from Anthony’s machete did away with the man entirely.

The fight seemed to have lasted mere seconds. The brothers concluded their individual battles, Paul eventually rendering his opponent unconscious with the aid of the gnarled wooden floor, while Ultor saw to any stragglers who had retained any semblance of life.

When Ultor got to the suave youth, he smiled to see panic in those previously merciless eyes. Bits of spittle wormed their way down the young fool’s chin, and his whites were glazed with the suggestion of tears.

“Do you have any idea who I am? Any idea who my father is?’ the threat sounded as weak as the thin child looked, scrambling backwards on his palms, trapping himself by placing a clumsy hand down on the edge of his own jacket.

Ultor leaned in close and smiled with genuine excitement. “Oh, do tell!”

*

The teenager flailed pitifully as Ultor burst through the exit of the pool hall, into the bustling street outside. A few heads turned as the door nearly rattled off its hinges, but mostly people carried on about their business. It was not until Ultor had made it some fifteen feet down the road, and the patrons of the bar began to swamp out in pursuit, that the passersby began to pay them any attention.

With a few scores of men and women now training their gazes upon him, Ultor hoisted the boy up for all to survey, “This is Marcus Asher. He is the son of the man who is known as the Grey Wolf, Lucus ‘Lupus’ Asher, the tyrant and murderer. For those who would see justice done, follow me.”

Ultor set off immediately, amidst the chirping of hurried chatter. There were a few moments of hesitation but soon gaggles of people began to join the growing throng.

Every few minutes Ultor would pause on his journey and make the same speech, gathering yet more followers behind him. His efforts soon became unnecessary, as his new disciples began to openly advertise the event to any they passed.

After fifteen minutes, Ultor reached his destination - the Square of the Unknown Marshal, so called because of the all but destroyed statue in the center of the square, whose nameplate had long since been irreversibly vandalized. By this point, Ultor’s company could comfortably be called a horde.

The square was cobbled. It was a quaint design, one not seen in centuries. Around the outside a handful of ancient town houses made up the foundations of the crooked skyscrapers above. The ancient architecture was uncanny, giving an impression of trapped souls shrieking within their steely confines. Despite its somewhat sinister appearance, the Square of the Unknown Marshal was as close to an attraction as The Pits had; its weekend markets offering some semblance of humanity in a hive of corruption and squalor.

Ultor climbed onto the central plinth. He stood astride the marshal’s two severed legs, all that was left of the forgotten hero; the torso had been plundered in Ultor’s own lifetime, a trophy for some band of miscreants. Ultor wrenched Marcus to his feet at his side, displaying him to the assembled.

Members of the audience began to hush one another.

“People of Tartarus, of The Pits, of the putrid catacombs of a wealthy city. We have been robbed. We have been robbed of our right to live as free folk, robbed of our rights, robbed of our humanity.”

People began to mutter among themselves as Ultor went on.

“We live in fear. We live in poverty. A thousand tales of tragedy are woven each day, and a thousand lives cut short each night. Power and riches lie in the hands of the few - the greedy and the merciless. We are left to fend for ourselves whilst wolves roam our streets and pick off our children, siblings and friends at will, unchallenged,” he looked from face to face, “Those days are coming to an end.”

Ultor thrust Marcus in front of him.

“People like Marcus Asher and Lucus Asher squeeze the honest and the innocent. They extort us, bleed us dry. They walk all over us as if they were gods among mere mortals.”

Someone yelled in approval.

“Who here has felt the pressure of these self-elected emperors?”

There was a good deal of murmuring, and a few cheers.

“Who here has suffered unjustly at the hands of those, scum, who have the audacity call themselves our betters?”

More yells this time.

“Who here walks through the streets with one eye over their shoulder, for fear that this day may be their last?”

Nearly everyone was roaring their support now.

“Gentlemen, ladies, there is another way. For too long we have been told that change is impossible. We are so downtrodden that even the prospect of hope seems a wild and cruelly tantalizing fantasy. Let me tell you, change is never out of reach. If we want it, if we fight for it, there is nothing that we cannot achieve!”

Whatever allies Marcus Asher may have had among the masses present, they wisely stayed quiet. The crowd was invigorated, swept up in the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

“I do not claim to be able to change the world but, by God, we, we can! Every man, every woman, every person here is an instigator, a catalyst. Let nobody tell you that you are without power, for the strength to move a metropolis lies in us all. Trust that there can be something better, and you can make it happen.

“Together. we will forge a new world, a just world. I am not talking of creating something new and unknown to us. I am talking about restoration. I am talking about taking something back. I am talking about rebuilding the Eden that is rightfully owed to us.”

People were stomping and screaming, entranced and enraptured by this vibrant, colourful tear in the grey monotony of their bleak lives.

“It starts today, my kin. It starts by upsetting the balance, by challenging the cruel convention we have come to accept.”

Ultor lifted Marcus Asher almost a clean foot from the ground, to excited cheers. The crowd hurled insults at the boy as he dangled like a puppet before them, with some throwing more than just that.

Ultor looked down gleefully at the pack of ravenous beasts he had created. They bayed for blood, and would not leave un-sated.

“The power to change lies not in my hands, but in our hands,” with this, Ultor hoisted Marcus as high as his strength would allow him, waited for a small clearing in the crowd to appear, and dashed his frail body against the cobblestones.

Marcus hit the paving hard, squealing as bones shattered in his elbows, and his head struck the slimy, damp stone.

The young Asher looked up, dazed, eyes misting with pain. He looked up at the ranks of feet surrounding him, shuffling tentatively.

The people fell quiet and tension thickened the air. Some were eyeing their prey hungrily, while others were looking to Ultor for instructions.

Ultor let the anticipation build.

Marcus had hoisted himself on to his side, gazing around expectantly. When nothing came, he allowed himself a short laugh. It was only short.

Gently easing his way through the crowd, Polias emerged at the front of the pack. He raised an arm and let out a rallying cry. Then he set forward to rend and kill.

With one of their own seemingly in the fray, the cubs quickly grew to become wolves themselves. Marcus Asher laughed no more as the crowd closed around him, eyes ravenous and jaws salivating with lust for the kill.

Ultor watched pitilessly as the mob vied and competed to get a piece of Marcus Asher. It was a reverie of carnage. They struck, bludgeoned, kicked and tore at the body long after all warmth of life had departed.

When finally they had had their fill, the children of The Pits stepped away from their prize and looked to Ultor, presenting the remains as an unspoken offering, a hopeful look in their eyes. They wanted his approval. They wanted to hear they had served him well, that they had done right by him. They were desperate for some kind of appreciation, some recognition.

Ultor stepped down from his podium and walked over to the carcass. Leaning down he fumbled in the jacket pockets until his probing hand emerged with a thick leather wallet. Opening the wallet, he withdrew the contents, fanning out the money for all to see.

“Now, who among you can tell me where I might find the Grey Wolf?”