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Like A Butterfly

22 days ago
Commended by Mizal on 4/18/2025 2:17:11 PM
A piece of fan fiction I wrote a while ago about the Question and his death (and subsequent rebirth). I was six years old the first time I saw a man get killed. My mother was taking me to an ice cream shop a few blocks away from our house in Gordon's Corner, a once promising residential district in Hub City that had devolved into a slum by the time I was born. People called it Lucifer's Corner. That was underselling it. We were leaving the shop, ice cream cones in hand, when a car wrapped itself around a streetlight in the blink of an eye. The driver was killed on impact while the passenger pulled himself out of the window and barely managed to get up on his feet, stumbling in our direction. That was when another car pulled up. A young man in ripped jeans and a tattered hoodie hopped out of the passenger's seat with a gun in his hand and a glint of hatred in his eyes. He marched right towards the man that just survived the crash, grabbed him by the nape of his neck like a puppy, then shot him twice in the back of the head. No hesitation. No time for his victim to get a word out. Didn't even look at us before hopping into the car with his friends and driving off. My mother was screaming but I couldn't hear her. Everything seemed far away, like I had just been fitted with a new pair of concrete boots and tossed into the ocean. She pulled me away while screaming, took off her jacket and used it to wipe my face. She pulled the now bloody coat away and it was only then that I realized my face was covered in blood and brain matter. I didn't cry. I didn't understand what I had just seen. But it never left me. That man breathed his last on November 29th, 2001. People used to ask me if I had nightmares about it for weeks after the fact. I always told them yeah and left it at that. Truth is they never stopped. Matter of fact, I'm having a nightmare about it right now. My surroundings twist and morph, my mother's crying visage fading away as darkness consumes everything. All that's left is me, the man, and the void. His cold, dead eyes peer into my own. There's no emotion there, no life, no spark behind the pupils. As I stare into his eyes, I notice his skin is crawling, almost bubbling up as it consumes his features. It swallows his mouth, then his nostrils, ending with his eyes. His lifeless eyes. And then, as the skin finishes swallowing his features and his blond hair slowly fades into black, I realize that I am looking at myself. I was twenty-six years old when I died. I went to the docks chasing after my latest lead on Wesley Fermin. More proof of his mob ties, some racketeering ring, all the good stuff. When I got there, they were waiting for me. Must have known I'd becoming. About half a dozen mobsters with guns and snarls, ready to blow me away. I broke one's arm. Another probably hasn't walked right since. I think the third man's cornea ruptured as I hit him right in the eye socket. Then a woman stepped forward and they all backed off. She had black silk for hair and obsidian eyes that shined with a reflection of the pure white snow on the ground. A small smile on her face, dangerous, a look that could kill. She took another step forward and I readied my fists, a show of confidence more than an actual invitation to fight. I didn't like hitting girls; still don't. "Back off. I don't want to hurt you," I said, bravado dripping off my tone. "Don't you?" Before I even knew what was going on, I was on the ground. My body was broken, bruised, bloodied. Decimated by the woman with the obsidian eyes. The mobsters stepped forward, laughing, those that I didn't already beat to a pulp at least. One had a pellet gun. His specialty, "didn't need anything stronger", stupid gimmick. Shot me in the head. Threw me into the Hupert River. I breathed my last in the icy cold waters on November 29th, 2021. And then I lived again. She saved me. The woman who killed me. Lady Shiva. Legendary assassin, martial artist, mercenary. She saw in me a kindred spirit, a warrior's spirit, someone who could decimate his opponents the way she did to me. Just needed some guidance, a teacher, and she knew just the man for the job. She took me to Tot's, let him patch me up a bit, and when I was able to walk again she sent me on my way to Richard Dragon. Once, he was a world famous martial artist and adventurer. Now, a hermit with a log cabin, living in the wilderness, chopping wood, meditating. He didn't seem like much. "Gonna be cold tonight," he said when I approached. He grinned. "There's an axe and some logs out back. Get to chopping." I looked at him like he was crazy, then glanced down at the cast my arm was wrapped in. "You're nuts if you think I can chop wood like this. Is this a test or something?" His grin grew. "You could say that. Are you so stubborn that you'll just freeze your ass off rather than try?" I blinked at that. Dragon didn't give me time to answer as he turned around and walked back into the log cabin. I went out back and picked up the axe, trying to find a good way to hold it. Took a bit to figure out how to do it with one hand, but I got the hang of it quicker than I thought. The logs splintered against the axe's blade, growing smaller and smaller, nice chunks for loading up into a fireplace or furnace. It took a few hours, but when I was done, I had a few armfuls of firewood to take back and forth, enough to last a night. "Good work," he said. He got to work on starting the fire as I took a seat at a kitchen table. A kettle and two tea cups sat on it. When he was done, Dragon settled into the chair across from me, grabbed the kettle, and filled the two cups. He grabbed a cup and began to take a sip from it. Hesitantly, I took the other and did the same. As the cup left his lips, he spoke, "Do you want to hear a story?" "Sure," I said. "Tell me a story." He smiled at me. "Once, there was a man who dreamed that he was a butterfly. He fluttered around here and there, carefree, content. He had nothing on his mind but going from flower to flower. But as with all dreams, his came to an end. And when he awoke, he pondered something: was he a man dreaming he was a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?" I snorted. "Everyone's heard that one. It's just hokey pseudo-philosophical shit." "But the question still stands. What was he?" "A man dreaming he was a butterfly. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it." "But what if life, as we know it, is all just part of that butterfly's dream?" "Then I guess that butterfly's got a sick sense of humor." It was Dragon's turn to chuckle. "That he does." Weeks passed. Eventually, my arm was freed from the cast, and I was able to chop wood with two hands. Still no training in the martial arts from Dragon. I'd ask and he'd smile and say that it was coming. One night, we sat on the porch together, the cool breeze soothing my sweat soaked skin. Winter was winding down and giving way to spring. I didn't think Dragon would speak and I wasn't sure if I wanted to either. Eventually he broke the silence. "Why do you think Shiva sent you to me?" he said. I turned to look at him, but saw his eyes were set on the stars rather than myself. I turned my gaze to the stars with him. I didn't have an answer. Didn't want to say that, so I just repeated what she told me. "She thinks that I'm a kindred spirit to her. Some kind of warrior that just needs the training to unlock his potential... Or something like that." I could hear the smile through his tone. "That is why she thinks she sent you to me. Why do you think she did?" Guess I would have to think of something. "... Because without someone to hone my body and my mind, I would have wandered this Earth in search of answers for the rest of my life and never found what I was looking for." "And will you find them now?" "That's the question I keep asking myself. I won't find the answer from you. But maybe... You'll give me a hint." I looked to Dragon and found him looking at me, still holding that content smile on his face. Then, he stood and walked past me and onto the grass. "Get up. I'm gonna show you some moves." I blinked at that, but got up and followed right after him. He showed me some breathing techniques, stances, a few punches and kicks. Practical tools and movements of the body, meant to aid my mind in its trials and tribulations... And to beat the hell out of bad guys with. I stayed with Richard Dragon a few more months before my training came to an end. Everyday started with chopping wood, then stacking it, then studying Zen, working on martial arts, and ending each day with long talks under the night sky with my mentor. When it was time for me to leave, hike back to civilization with my newfound skillset and knowledge, he finally spoke on Shiva's assumption that I held the spirit of a warrior, for the first time since that night so many months prior. "I disagree with her on that," he said. "You fight, yes, but it is not for the joy of fighting. You find no passion in the fight itself. What you find passion in, what you fight for, is the never ending hunt for truth." He paused, meeting my eyes. "In another life, long ago, Shiva would have been a great warrior, crushing armies, leading her flock to victory. You, my friend, would have been a philosopher." "The man dreaming he was the butterfly?" "I think it is more likely you are the butterfly, dreaming you are the man." We said our farewells. He sat down on his porch, watching me go as I started the trek back to civilization. Fifty miles to the nearest town, another fifty after that to reach Hub City. Nothing but the long road ahead of me, barren, no cars or people for miles around. Long way to go with only the clothes on my back. A few years ago, I would have dreaded doing anything like this, like most people. Now? Now I don't care. Butterflies don't sweat distance.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Commended by Mystic_Warrior on 4/23/2025 6:44:25 PM
I really liked this short story!

This is a really fantastic Question origin story. Thanks for reviving the creative corner with a well written and based short story.

The opening sentence: "I was six years old the first time I saw a man get killed." does an excellent job of pulling the reader in. It's short and to the point, and really brutal.

You don't waste too much time setting the world up. I also liked "Lucifer's Corner", an obvious play on Hell's Kitchen. I'm pretty sure this was all you, it's not an actual place in the DC mythos.

Just like in "Life in the fast lane", the writing is quick, snappy, and brutal. I love how you keep the flowery description to a minimum since it really suits the gritty mood you're trying to create; you simply say "he shot him twice in the head" without any fanfare or extra detail.

The transition from the man's death to the dream was so good. This was a particularly good section to read through because of how you balance the gritty realistic ton with the surreal aspect of the dream. In the comics, the question's psuedoderm mask is creepy as hell but its actual origin story(with a scientist designing it so that the question can spook criminals) makes it feel more ordinary. So I think you made a good choice in not really dwelling upon how the question got his mask, since that would have taken away some of the intrigue and mystery of the character. As it is, the body horror aspect of his skin crawling up his face was really well written.

I knew about Lady Shiva and Richard Dragon from Batman comics, so I was really happy to see them again. I know they have a connection with the Question, and you integrated them quite nicely into the story.

The contrast between Lady Shiva's ruthless and cold efficiency as an assassin with Richard Dragon's more methodical style of training was done well. I also enjoyed the integration of the taoist butterfly parable. I laughed when the Question thought it was bullshit.

There's a really strong theme of death and rebirth. Without wasting any precious words, you convey it and you do a really good job of making each scene contributes to the overall theme. I also like the theme of self discovery, this really reminded me of Batman Begins, if you substitute out Ra's Al Ghul for Richard Dragon and Bruce Wayne for Vic Sage.

I think the only thing is that I would have liked to see the fight scene between Lady Shiva. She's said to be one of the best martial artists in the DC universe, so it was a little disappointing that she beat him so quickly with a short description. But then again, that serves the narrative purpose of showing how outclassed he is. If you ever write a sequel to this story, give us a rematch between lady shiva and the question. It would also be so cool if you threw in other high level martial artists like bronze tiger and black canary, maybe even Batman

This story makes me want to write a Rorschach fan fic now lol. Or even a Richard Dragon fan-fic with both pre-crisis Richard dragon and the new 52 one(since Ricardo Diaz in the green arrow comics is known for killing Richard Dragon, so there's lots of potential for a fan fiction there). Maybe back in the days when he and Nite-Owl were partners in crime fighting, before he went nuts. Since at this point in my writing career I don't think I can do full justice to the absolute psycho Rorschach is.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Appreciate the thoughtful reply! As for the fight scene between Question and Shiva, I tried to keep it brief because of how quickly she just demolishes him in the source material I was adapting here. I'll be real, I wrote this for a roleplay on roleplayerguild.com which was basically just writing collaborative comic book fan fiction. I had a few more posts in that particular game that act as continuations to this one, so I might see about cleaning those up and posting them in this thread.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
that makes sense. You should totally post those other role plays, this one is really good!

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Oh, forgot to say, a Rorschach fan fiction would go so hard. I'd read the hell out of that.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Dude thanks man! That’s so nice of you. Admittedly it’s not going to be the “I’m not locked in here with you, you’re locked in here with me”, it’ll be about Rorschach when he was a rookie crime fighter fighting alongside nite owl. The actual watchmen graphic novel didn’t say much about their team up besides the fact that they used to go out on patrols together, so there’s lots of room for imagination. I really appreciate you saying that man!

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Yeah there's a lot of stories ripe for telling during that time in Rorschach's career. There was a Watchmen game that came out around the time of the movie that covered that era, but iirc it kinda sucked lol.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Direct continuation. I should've realized something was wrong about four wrong turns ago, or perhaps when the paved road stopped and transitioned into dirt, but the man within me was too stubborn to come to the epiphany. As I step out of the woods and gaze upon the prairie before me, stretching out endlessly as far as the eye can see, it hits me that I am lost. I want to curse and shout at the realization, let off my steam on the rusted up tractor nearby maybe, but I take a moment to steady my breathing and remind myself that all things must pass. This misfortune, this anger at that misfortune, will pass too. And while the man may be stubborn and angry, the butterfly is content to make the best of this. The track of dirt that one might call a road continues on for a few hundred feet ahead of me, ending at a white farmhouse that stands alone in the vast green sea. A coop sits in a fenced off area behind it, chickens and ducks milling about, pecking at the grass. As I approach the house, I notice a beat up Ford F-150, probably from the 70s or 80s, sitting parked out front. Up close now, I can see that the bumper is rusted and decorated with bumper stickers, all cracked and peeling away save for one in the center, pristine black on white: "John 3:16". I look away from the truck to the front porch which houses an old wooden swing bench and a wooden sign above the front door, proclaiming "As for this house, we will serve The Lord. - Joshua 24:15". And underneath that sign stands an old man in a plaid shirt and faded blue jeans, toting a double barrel shotgun. Not aimed at me, not yet, but ready to be at a moment's notice. The man sets his icy blue eyes on me, his gaze more suspicious than sinister. "You lookin' for somethin', son?" he asks. "Just passing through, sir. Might be in need of directions," I say as I raise my hands in a placating manner. He lowers the gun a bit and I lower my hands just a bit too. "That so? Where you from?" "Hub City. Trying to find my way back." He blinks in surprise at that, quirking an eyebrow at me. "You're far from home. What brought you out here so far?" "Enlightenment." The man snorts at that. "Ha. Guess you might find it better out here than in the Hub," he says, before trading his two handed grip on the scattergun for one hand on the barrel, resting the stock on the ground as the other hand extends outwards. I walk up the porch steps and shake the man's hand. "The name's George. What's yours, son?" "Victor." He smiles at that. "Victor? Had a friend named Victor once. From Hub City, too. Good friend." "Had?" "With the Lord now. Passed a few years back." The smile on George's face grows wistful as he remembers his friend, his gaze setting past me and onto the bright blue sky, no doubt going through memories like an old photobook for a moment before coming back to Earth. He sets his eyes back on me. "Just finished up lunch. Looking for a meal, Victor?" "I'd appreciate it, sir." "Come on in then," he says, opening the door. We step through and into the foyer, a quaint little hallway leading to a staircase at the end, with a doorway on both sides leading into other parts of the house. Framed photos hang on the wall, dotting the room with memories of years past. Most of the photos are of George and a man, going as far back as young adulthood. The last photo with the other man is of him and George sitting on the swing bench out front, the man smiling contently at the camera while George sneaks a look at the man, love in his eyes. Love. George sets the gun down next to the door, carefully. "Sorry 'bout the gun. Get some no good sons of a gun out here sometimes, love to cause a ruckus. Usually that scares 'em off." "Not a problem. Gotta defend your home somehow," I say. George grins at that. "Right you are, son." He moves forward, but I stand in place, still looking at the last photo. "You good there?" "That Victor?" I ask, gesturing to the framed picture. George turns to it, then back to me. "Yep. There he is." "... How long were the two of you together?" George's face goes a bit pale at that. He sputters a bit at my bluntness, letting out a cough, before regaining his composure. "... In the eyes of the law, two years. In the eyes of the Lord, forty-seven." "He looks like he was a wonderful man." George's smile returns at that. "The most wonderful man I could have asked for." He turns back to the doorway, continuing on through it. "C'mon now," he calls to me, "Food must be gettin' cold." We take a seat at the dining table in the kitchen and eat, chatting about nothing in particular. We jump around from subject to subject. Our pasts, our presents, our plans for the immediate and far future. Neither George or I have much to say on the last subject. Both he and I share the same commitment to just living in the now. The topic shifts to my need for directions. "I gotta swing by Highwood tomorrow to pick up some farming supplies," he says, referring to the town just 50 miles south of Hub City. "You can stay the night and come with me in the morning, try and find a ride into the Hub. I'd take you myself but it's been decades since I last set foot there and I ain't too keen on heading back." I give a nod at that. "I understand. I appreciate it a lot, George. Thank you." He waves a hand dismissively at that. "Don't mention it. You'd do the same for me, I'd hope." I give him a smile. "Of course." We finish up our lunch after that. I handle the dishes while George heads out back to tend to his poultry. Gazing out of the window overlooking the kitchen sink, I can see George scattering grains for the chicken and ducks as they crowd around him in excitement. A smile makes its way on my face as I gaze past the scene to examine the rest of the yard. About fifteen yards away from the scene I spot a large oak tree, casting a blobby shadow against the grass. Under it rests a grave. I can barely make out the inscription from this far away. Victor B. Waltson Loving Husband Romans 12:10 1949 - 2016 The man in me can't tell if his mood is lifted or soured upon seeing that, caught between joy for George and Victor's love for each other and sorrow at George's loss. I never knew Victor, but from what George has told me, he loved the man above all else. And while the man in me is conflicted, the butterfly that is dreaming of him is glad that they loved, once and forever. Finding peace and solace in another person, especially in a time when that love was deemed worthy of scorn and hatred, is a beautiful thing. I finish the dishes up and head outside to join George. He shows me the ropes, letting me scatter a bit of grain for the chickens and ducks, before moving on to showing me how to clean their coop while they're distracted by their meal. We spend a few more hours together before heading back inside for a quiet dinner of pot roast and mashed potatoes before George turns in for the night. He shows me to the guest room before heading to his own room. As I lay in the bed, red cotton blanket wrapped around me and a grandfather clock in the hallway slowly ticking away, I stare at the ceiling and contemplate how much might have changed in Hub City in the year I had been absent. Fermin's term wouldn't be up for another two years, so I'd at least still have my hands full with him. But my mind continues being drawn towards other things, other people, people I cared for rather than crusaded against. Tot. The last we spoke was in February, before Shiva escorted me to Richard Dragon's cabin in the woods. He seemed worried for me, at least in his own way, which meant snarky comments about how I "shouldn't try out any mushrooms the strange hippie in the woods might offer you." At the time, I laughed; now, I might actually advise him to rethink that statement. If Dragon offered me any mushrooms, I would've taken part. Sam. My boss, owner, founder, and CEO of Starrstruck Media Inc.. Last we spoke, he was hounding me for another article like the one I did covering Council Chairman Floyd's ties to the Chicago Outfit. "Drove our traffic up by fifteen percent, Vic!" he told me, all excited about it, but I convinced him to give me an extension of a month for the article. I was about to get documented proof of Mayor Fermin's ties to the Sinners, Hub City's answer to the Outfit, when Shiva ended my life. Hopefully, he'll be willing to increase the extension he gave me by another month, if we weren't counting the twelve I wasn't there for of course. Myra. Myra... The clock ticks away. The last time I spoke to Myra was two years ago now, just after my article on her brother for the Gazette was released. She called me to meet at a cafe in Hupert Square, said we needed to talk. I knew what about. When I got there, she had a window table all to herself, waiting for me. She looked absolutely stunning, as she usually did. Her long strawberry blonde hair was pulled tightly into a bun, as it usually was when she was working. It was gorgeous when she let it down. I loved to play with it. The gaze of her striking green eyes was set on the park across the street, watching the children as they played and laughed, a small smile on her face as she spectated. Her smile shifted to a scowl when I announced my presence. "Myra," I said, sliding into the chair across from her. I smirked at her glare. "Not really digging the vibes here. Feels like I need a beanie and an oiled up beard to be able to fit in. Maybe they'll settle for me starting up a tech com-" "Don't. I'm not in the mood for your smartass shit, Vic." She pulled out her phone and unlocked it, before sliding it across the table to me. I picked it up; lo and behold, my very own article, my claim to fame. My smirk widened into a grin as I looked over my work. "What the fuck is this?" "My own Kentucky Derby. Something that will lay the groundwork for all pieces of political journalism to come," I said, sliding the phone back and leaning back in my chair. She didn't seem amused. "What it is is you dragging my brother's name through the mud like he's just some, some-" "Some crooked politician, just like all the other no good bastards in City Hall. Just because he's your brother doesn't mean he's a good man." "Don't you dare say that about him. My brother has done more for this city in the two months he's been mayor than you ever have, or ever will!" "Right, right, really doing a great job at pocketing city funds, taking bribes, getting his mobster friends out of jail while he lets men like Hugo Wernher rot behi-" "Oh, Wernher, again? That man murdered a cop, Vic!" "Because that cop would've shot him and his wife if he didn't!" "It's a miracle he didn't get the death sentence. You know I was the one who lobbied for that, right? Everyone wanted him sent back to Indiana so he could be put on death row there but because you were so insistent on it I pulled some strings to make sure the case remained in Illinois, and I-" she pauses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as she groans in frustration. "... Vic. I love you, but I can't... I can't stay with a man who hates my brother the way you do." "... Then don't," I said, before standing and walking away. In the reflection of the windowpane in the door, I saw her shocked expression, battling between surprise, anger, and sorrow at my response. Finally, she settled on a disgusted scowl, turning away. I walked out of the cafe and never looked back. I never looked back. The only woman I have ever loved. There had been others, before. I slept around a bit in college before I met her. A few women, a man here and there, but no one was like her. No one was able to keep me on my toes as much as she was. I threw that all away. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock... The clock continues its countdown. Tomorrow, I'll be returning to Hub City. But tonight, I am content.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Integrating taoist philosophy into a Question fan fic was a really interesting choice. It paid off.

This story, along with the first one, shows us a look inside of the mind of a man who spiritually died and had to reserruct himself by going on a journey to find himself.

I really like how this story tells us more about the man behind the Question. We get to see what Vic's life was like before this happened, and why he was attacked by Shiva in the first place.

I also like how this story set the stage for the question's showdown with Fermin.

This is really good! I enjoyed this story a lot, and I'm glad Vic was able to find a measure of peace at George's house before he returns to Hub City.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
Once again, the feedback is much appreciated my man! I'll probably hold off on posting more because I don't want to flood the thread with text walls. Part of me wants to get back into writing these again, I had a pretty good run going but stopped writing it after hitting a depressive episode last year.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
I'm really sorry to hear about your depressive episode.It's not easy, dealing with depression I hope you're doing ok now and I'm really glad you're back to writing. You should keep writing these, they're really good! Each one does a great job of advancing the story while leaving the reader wanting more. The pacing is incredible, and I can't wait to read the next ones. I hope you continue to write these, along with your other works.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
... Maybe just one more today. My eyes shoot open at the sound of an engine revving up outside and headlights beaming in through the window, illuminating the room. Blearily, I sit up in bed and take a glance at the clock on the wall: 4:43 AM. I get out of bed and stumble over to the window, setting a hand on the windowsill to lean on, before setting my gaze outside. What I see is a black pickup truck parked a few yards away from the house, four men climbing out of it with guns in hand. Two have hunting rifles, one carries a double barrel shotgun, and the fourth carries a revolver. The one with the shotgun takes the lead, stopping a few feet away from the front porch and shouting, "WALTSON! COME ON OUT YOU OLD FAGGOT!" I tighten my grip on the windowsill at that. Something tells me they're not here for a nice early morning visit. I pull my clothes on as quickly as I can and throw myself through the bedroom door, nearly crashing right into George who's still in a pair of long johns. The old man steadies me with a pair of hands on my shoulders, then looks me in the eyes. His expression is stony and grim but I can see the fear behind his eyes. "Vic, go back to bed. I'll handle this," he says. I shake my head. "No. I'm going out there." He scowls at that. "I've dealt with these little fools before. They'll go running as soon as I head out there with my gun." "Have they brought guns before?" I ask. George freezes at that. "... No." "All four of them are packing heat. I don't think they're playing this time," I say, casting my gaze down the stairs before turning back to George. "Stay here. I can handle this." "Neither of us should go out there. Let's call the cops and stay inside, they won't try coming in." "You really think that? And you're so sure the cops will be able to make it in time? You live, what, an hour away from the nearest town? I don't think our friends," I gesture downstairs, "are inclined to sit outside waiting for us to come out for an hour. They'll break in eventually." George looks unsure at that. I shake his hands off me and start to walk downstairs. "Victor," he calls after me. I stop halfway down the stairs and glance over my shoulder at him and watch as his expression goes through a range of emotions before settling on resolution. He gives a grim nod and follows after me. We continue down the stairs, stopping at the front door where George grabs his shotgun while I stand ready to open the door. "I'll head out first. If you hear me shout, then you come out," I say, my grip on the doorknob tightening. He nods grimly. "... Don't get killed." I nod, then open the door and step out. The headlights nearly blind me. I raise a hand to shield my eyes, slowly lowering it as my eyes adjust to the brightness. I can see the four men more clearly: they look a bit younger than me, early 20s at most, all white with shaved heads, bulky builds and leather jackets. Skinheads, it seems like. These the "no good sons of a gun" that George talked about? The leader looks me over and laughs, looking over his shoulder at his buddies. "Ha, look, the old man's got a new boy toy," he says and they all chuckle. He turns back to me. "Was planning on just putting down one homo today but I guess two is a pleasant surprise." "You might want to reevaluate your expectations," I say, walking forward with a glare. He raises the shotgun and points it right at me. "Back off! I'll blow you away, motherfucker!" I continue my stride, stopping just an inch from the barrel leveled at my heart. "Will you?" The man within me is filled with rage, ready to bubble over and let it out in a violent explosion. Break their knees. Crack their skulls. Bust their noses. He has no fear of death, he's faced these odds before and every time he's come out on top. For once, the butterfly is in agreement with the man's assessment, but he holds no rage. These men have accumulated bad karma their whole lives and now the butterfly is ready to inflict it on them. Make them pay for their crimes. Right now, it feels less like a butterfly and more like a bee. I grab the shotgun by the barrel and divert its aim into the ground. He fires, the shot blowing apart the turf, and I swing an open palm into his nose once, twice, three times. His grip on the gun goes loose and I pry it from his hands, swinging the stock of the gun into his head and knocking him out cold where he stands. The man hasn't even hit the ground before I swiftly jump over him and send the shotgun flying at one of the riflemen, the weapon nailing him in the face and sending him to the ground. I pivot into a side kick aimed at the second rifleman's chin, snapping his head back and giving me an opportunity to grapple him and throw him at the only man still standing, the one with the revolver who's taking aim at me. A shot fires from the revolver, the bullet whizzing right past my head, but he doesn't get a chance to fire again as his friend crashes into him. They both groan in a heap as they attempt to untangle themselves and stand. The first rifleman is standing again, his nose twisted and bloodied. He snarls at me, baring his chipped and bloody teeth, while raising his rifle. I crouch down and dart forward, zigging and zagging so he can't maintain a bead on me. The gun goes off anyways, a bullet clipping my shoulder, but the adrenaline flowing through me keeps me from feeling it. I spring forward and upward the last few feet, sending an uppercut into his throat. He gets sent stumbling back and onto his ass, gasping for a breath. A quick stomp on his face and he goes silent. I twist back around. The gunslinger and the other rifleman are standing now, rifleman missing his gun but gunslinger with revolver in hand. I pick up the rifle at my feet and quickly set my sights on the gunslinger, firing; the shot tears through his calf and he falls to the ground, screaming in pain. I twist the gun in my hand around to use it as a club as I sprint at the final man, who stands with readied fists and terrified eyes. Once close, I swing, and he brings up his forearms to block the hit. The force of the impact staggers him but he remains standing, so I duck into a sweeping kick and knock him onto the ground. One hand holds him down by the shoulder while the other brings the butt of the rifle down onto his face. And then I do it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Aga- I toss the rifle away, forcing myself to stop. His features are distorted, twisted in ways they shouldn't be. Nose folded against left cheek, eyes swollen shut, lips split open, gashes and welts all over the rest of the face. His fair skin isn't even recognizable as skin anymore, more just one giant black and blue bruise. He gurgles up a glob of blood and broken teeth as he tries to breathe. I turn him onto his side and a spew of vomit, saliva and blood spills out of his mouth. Then he can breathe again. I stand up, my whole body shuddering as I take in deep breaths. The man's bloodlust is crying out for more, more, but the butterfly must contain him, tell him that they have gone far enough. This has been enough to ensure the man will never hurt anyone again. There's no need to kill him. No need to kill him. No need to kill. No need... Need... "Victor?" I snap back around to see George standing there, shotgun in hand. He examines the scene on his front lawn with wide eyes, taking in the carnage I had dealt onto these men. Blood has splattered onto the grass which still blows softly in the breeze, unaffected by the battle that had just occurred. George brings his eyes to mine and I can see the fear in them. "How the hell did you..." his voice trails off but I already know the question he's asking. I don't answer. Instead, I start walking towards the truck. I open the driver's door, about to get in when- "Victor!" A hand on my shoulder. I twist around, snarling, seeing George's worried face quickly morph into shock. The man is in control right now with all his feral, violent tendencies. He holds no love for anything, no care, no tenderness. All he knows, all he is, is pain. But the butterfly is greater than him, and it exerts its power over him, sending him away for the time to take over with its bliss. I let the tension leave my shoulders and give a sigh. I look at George with a soft gaze. "... I'm sorry. I can't stay any longer. Have to go before the cops get here." "Why?" "I need to get to Hub City as soon as possible. I'm needed there. I can't spend all day talking to the cops and then keep making court appearances for the next few months." I turn back around and climb into the truck. "Victor." I turn to him. George looks at me with a conflicted expression. Fear. Concern. Apprehension. Finally, his expression morphs into a smile, not too sure of itself but standing on that uneasy ground confidently anyways. "... Godspeed. And take care," he says. I give him the slightest upturn of my lips and a nod, before I close the door and take hold of the steering wheel. George backs up as I back out of his yard and onto the dirt road, heading back through the way I entered this serene little field he calls a home. I gaze into the rearview mirror and see George standing, watching me. I can't make out his expression from this far away. Can't imagine what it could be either. I set my eyes back onto the road, intent on reaching Hub City.

Like A Butterfly

21 days ago
I really like these! I loved the fight scene in this, and how you show the contrast between the man and the butterfly. It's hard to pull off a theme like this in a hardboiled crime fighting story but you do a really great job!

The description of the gunman's injuries was genuinely brutal. It was hard to read in the best way possible.

I really loved this, and I can't wait to find out what happens once he heads back to Hub City.

Like A Butterfly

13 days ago

Not gonna fangirl for another few hours this time, but I did think I should mention how much I enjoy your use of broken repetition to escalate scenes. The lines being their own paragraphs really makes it more fast-paced and simulates a mental spiral well! Giving the reader a visual breakdown and cutting off the final line in both of those sections really seals the deal.

Like A Butterfly

20 days ago
Commended by Mystic_Warrior on 4/21/2025 6:07:03 AM

Hate to interrupt you and RK's lil bonding session, but these are damn good stories and other people should read them!

(also holy fuck I went overboard. I'm sorry. I like writing. TL;DR: Your story is good. Character voice is a standout here.)

paragraph one

That's a killer opening line— pun intended. It's undeniably a good hook, but there's more to it than that. It invites empathy by immediately setting us up in first person and giving us a traumatic experience that happened at a young age. Also, "first time" is wonderful. That implies that there have now been more times, further increasing the intrigue. Start with empathy and then built interest. I now want to know more!

But that's not all! It's also clean-cut. There aren't any fluffy adjectives, and the structure of the sentence makes it to where the emphasis lands heavily on "killed", which is exactly where it should be.

In one singular sentence, you've established the tone of the story and the voice of the main character. Really snazzy stuff.

paragraph two

Deceptively casual. There's trauma happening here, but the narrator is so detached from it now. I can hear it in his voice.

Also, starting with a personal anecdote is a great choice. It's innocent. It's warm. It directly contrasts with the opening sentence, making the upcoming trauma more interesting and kinda shoving the shock value back into the moment in a wonderful way.

Then, the camera zooms out from the narrator's close, personal self to the geographical location of this tale. Here we get our adjectives, slowly building this story up from the punchy beginning to more explanations now. A tried and true technique.

Honestly, the first sentence of this paragraph is also well done, for those reasons and a couple more. It's a lengthy one, but not bloated. Each clause builds tension, keeping it from feeling as though it's dragging on.

Following that long sentence with a short one helps vary the rhythm, too. Also reminds the reader that this isn't a story about ice cream.

Ooh, this next sentence is bitter. Makes the narrator more human and helps with establishing his voice. It also emphasizes the sentence before, assuring the reader that "Lucifer's Corner" is no exaggeration, but rather the opposite.

I love how you incorporate context slowly, so it doesn't dump onto the reader. It makes it easier to follow, as well as allowing the interest to continue building.

I also really enjoy the back and forth between innocence and danger that's displayed here.

And you don't wait too long before introducing the event mentioned in the first line, either! It's neat how you made the narrator seem so nonchalant about it. The passive voice here was a nice touch; makes the crash feel less like a human error and more like an omen.

Also the shift from setup to event is really nicely done; the intentional juxtaposition of the ice cream cone and suddenly a car wrapping around a pole really adds to the effect.

The domino effect is in full swing here in the next sentence. We've gone from slow-paced ice cream grab to a car crash, wrapping around the pole, the driver's dead, the passenger isn't, he's coming our way! Now we're a part of the scene; it's not just happening, it's happening to us! (First person was a good choice for this story.) It's very urgent and fun to read.

Also notice how the sentence delays the final clause. The driver dies; that's quick and final. But the verbs are more drawn out and the pacing gets slower as the passenger stumbles toward our narrator. That's suspense.

paragraph three

Wow, this next paragraph is action-packed. The tight pacing is good for a short story. Keeps it from getting to 5k from pure fluff! Lol. Right from the first line there's more action, more intrigue. But even so, this sentence is a breather. Five words. It sets the next sentence up for greater impact— which it delivers. The vagueness of "another car" also adds to the suspense. Friend or foe? Read on to find out!

Usually I'm not a fan of being told what a character looks like right off the bat, preferring it to be built into the narrative. But this time it's important; you give us a sense for who the character is and what they're like. We already know we're on a sketchy street, so the added description of the young man's clothes really just seal the deal. This is a high-res, efficient character snapshot. First the clothes, then the gun, then the hatred. He goes from sketchy, to threatening, to downright dangerous. The order of these descriptions is immaculate.

Once again, the sentence is long, but it's earned it. We go from the exterior to the interior of this guy in natural succession, so it all flows well.

This next sentence has momentum. The verb progression (marched, grabbed, shot) intensifies with each one, keeping the pace strong and the action going.

"like a puppy" is beautiful. It infantizes the victim, making it clear who's the bad guy here.

The lack of drama here is also telling. This is something the killer is used to.

The shift to sentence fragments is great, and the repetition of "No" really drives the point home. It gives the events that just happened a chance to sink in. And that was some hefty stuff, too, so it's perfect timing.

Now you recenter the narrator and his mother, reminding us that a six-year-old is watching, ice cream in hand. Also the casual "hopping into the car with his friends" is gold, too. This is just their average Tuesday night.

The imagery in this paragraph deserves a shout-out, so here it is.

paragraph four

Now we get the emotional shrapnel of the previous scene! The violence is over (for now?) but the action is not. Glorious.

You start in passive voice, which really emphasizes that this was traumatic. "She's screaming" followed by "I couldn't hear" makes it more detached. Also, sensory shutdown is a classic trauma response. I really do feel like I'm hearing a story from someone who watched a car crash when they were six, and have grown up really jaded.

Ooh, a metaphor! The event you're comparing the narrator's feelings to sounds like a mobster hit, which could be a hint as to what just happened. Either way, it's certainly fitting. It's also just good all around; it tells of the helplessness the narrator is feeling in a poignant way.

Reusing "screaming" in the next sentence creates a more rushed, panicked feel. Again, fitting. The physical activity of the mother removing her jacket ground us back in reality after the metaphor. Neat stuff. Also, the lack of adjectives or embellishments allows the natural drama of the scene to shine through.

"Now bloody coat" is understated but impactful. The delay of the narrator's awareness keeps the emotion and interest of the scene going, even though we're past the event itself now. It's a whole 'nother smack in the face after the actual happening is already done and over with.

Also, a special mention to your choice of words in that: "blood and brain matter". You didn't say "gore", or "skull", you were specific and gruesome. That's a good stylistic choice here.

The next three sentences are short, once again allowing the impact to fully settle in. And the order of them is beautiful, too. You go from emotionless to confused to scarred, the exact order the narrator felt those emotions.

How specific the next sentence is makes it more grounded in reality, like this is a real event that really occured. Like Mercer Gang: "real, not fake." It feels like a gravestone, especially here at the end of the paragraph. And "breathed his last" has something strangely poetic to it, which only adds to the effect.

This paragraph is great because of the slow, dawning horror and stark language. Nothing romantic, like "I'll never forget". No, you go for the more haunting "It never left me." It personifies the trauma, making it seem more heavy and genuine.

paragraph five

With this new paragraph, you turn from the childhood experience to the effect it's had. You also do it in a really controlled way, considering it's a descent into madness.

You start the paragraph out conversationally. "Used to ask me" gives off the implication that this was a routine thing. This is normal. Calling it "the fact" rather than "the shooting" or something of the kind helps drive in the idea that this was, in fact, traumatic.

Excellent character voice in the next sentence. He's dismissive— not being brave, just practiced. I might suggest even splitting this sentence into two just to make it feel more repressed. "Said yeah. Moved on." or something of the sort. Your way works too, though.

Perfect pivot here. Blunt. Confessional. Enforces a sense of intimacy with the narrator— we're being let in on a secret now.

Now there's immediate action again. The casual phrasing underplays what's happening, which makes it hit harder.

Now we're into visual surrealism. I love this kinda stuff. I like the sentence structure of this one: a little drawn out, but in a way that makes us feel like we're being drawn into it with him. It's a cool effect.

The little triad here is great. The rhythm flows well, and it's vague in a way that we still know exactly what it's saying.

Next sentence is a little bit cliché but it does do what it's supposed to do. The drama is tangible.

This sentence restates the previous sentence, which I think is good for effect here. Still, you could maybe escalate it slightly instead of echo.

paragraph six

I really like that this is it's own paragraph. It's grotesque, and splitting it away from the others makes it land harder.

paragraph seven

Three words. Eerie.

paragraph eight

Oh, the trauma gets worse. The intrigue builds. Keeping these as separate paragraphs is smart; it slows the pacing, drawing out the descent. Is this transformative identity horror, or did our narrator die at a later date? The mystery, the intrigue.

paragraph nine

The plot thickens. How much of this is real and how much is delusion? He seemed so sane moments ago. Truly intriguing.

paragraph ten

Now we're going noir-detective. I can here it in that old-timey black-and-white detective voice. You nailed the vibe right on the head.

"all the good stuff" is a great cynical end to the sentence.

The simplicity of the next sentence adds to the noir feel.

This, my good sir, is a typo. "becoming" should be "be coming". No worries.

"Guns and snarls" is poetic in a street-smart way. Very snazzy.

This part is visceral af. The rhythm is a little clunky, but I think it works because this is a fight! And we're not listening to a seasoned storyteller, here, but a man recalling a past brawl. I really think it works with his character voice.

Every good noir detective needs his femme fatale, and here she is.

The first sentence is the perfect beat to reset tension.

The description is visual as well as textural. The alliteration of "silk" and "shined" also adds to the elegant feel.

Next line is menacing. The shift from "a small smile" to "dangerous" is effective. Drives the point in better.

I like the immediacy of "still don't", too. Keeps the character voice.

The dialogue here anchors the moment in real time. The sentence also moves from action to intention to reflection, which is really neat!

paragraph eleven

Dialogue shift to the woman gets its own line, solid. I like that there's no tag. It's clear who's speaking, and it gives her more of a mysterious quality. Also enhances the drama of the moment.

paragraph twelve

I love the allirteration of "broken, bruised, bloodied". It creates a punchy cadence. Each word escalates in both meaning and sound, too.

I also like the repetition of citing dates at the end of the paragraph. It's a nice callback at establishes a steady rhythm.

paragraph thirteen

Very snappy. Another good twist.

ahhhhh this is too long

I may come pack and finish this in detail some other time, though tbh I've already done... too much. As for now, I'll say that this is one hell of a story! It's clean, purposeful storytelling with a strong philosophical undercurrent, strong visuals, and just really, really cool vibes.

some highlights

Voice and Tone: Wry. Grounded. Contemplative. Exactly what you want here!

Characterization: From an excellent narrator voice to Shiva's lethal allure and Dragon's cryptic warmth, you've got yourself an 8/8 in this category.

Dialogue: Believable and sharp. It makes the characters and advances the story. Pop off.

Structure, flow, pacing: The pacing is patient, almost meditative. It mirrors the process of recovery and training without dragging. We’re on a clear arc from broken to reborn.

The butterfly parable. It's not just a reference, it's the thematic glue holding this all together. The narrator's skepticism is a great foil to Dragon's gentle and wise telling. You also retroactively give the earlier convo real meaning. That’s good writing.

You show instead of telling the transformation from anger and skepticism to quiet strength. That whole early wood-chopping section (especially with the one-armed struggle) is pure cinema. It's not about being badass, it’s about discipline, frustration, and choosing to try anyway.

The resolution is definitely earned.

Thanks for this. It was nice.

Oh, and kudos.

Like A Butterfly

19 days ago
This review should be commended. Really good stuff.

Like A Butterfly

19 days ago
Yeah I put in a request on the Discord to get it and your first review commended but so far nobody's biting.

Like A Butterfly

19 days ago
Commended by Mystic_Warrior on 4/21/2025 6:07:21 AM
Another one. The truck rolled steadily along the freeway, exiting the town of Highwood and getting back onto the rural roads leading to Hub City. The forest that Richard Dragon and George Waltson called home was far behind me. I won't be able to return for a while, if I ever will, but my time there will stick with me forever; it's left an imprint on me that no hardship could ever deface, a permanent mural on the walls of my soul that can't be washed away with the fires of- My musings are cut off as I see a sign on the side of the road. I flick my gaze to it quickly and make out "Hub City 31" before setting my eyes back on the road ahead of me. Whatever I was thinking about before I saw the sign leaves my mind as the realization dawns on me: 31 miles from Hub City, traveling at 70 miles per hour... Just under half an hour until I get home. Home... ... Shit. The man is scared of the trials he will have to tackle in the coming days, weeks, months. He is coming back to a city that is familiar, yet foreign; there's no way for him to know how much has changed since he's been gone. All he can know is that he will face adversity from his enemies, people who will try to destroy him, both physically and spiritually. He is uncertain if he can truly retain what he has learned when he is in the face of evil, staring into the gaping maws of corruption. Will the wisdom of Dragon depart from him in that moment? Will the butterfly be blown away by the gusts from the beast's breath? The butterfly... ... Shut up about the butterfly... No. The butterfly knows that all things are temporary. Everything that's good will slowly die off, but so will the evil, and they shall be replaced. An eternal cycle of birth, life, death, rebirth. Never ending. Constant. The only constant in an uncertain universe. The man is scared of that certainty, for he has made due with the uncertain. The butterfly takes heart in it and knows that even if they fail, even if they give it their all and get nothing in return, that their passion was what truly mattered in the end. The destination matters not, only the journey. ... And right now, the journey is boring as hell. I need some sort of stimulation to make sure I don't nod off at the wheel. I glance around the car for anything to keep myself occupied when I spot it: a binder of CDs peaking out from under the passenger seat. I pull over on the side of the road and park the car, grabbing the binder and setting it on my lap to flip through it. As expected, the punks' taste in music is as crappy as their personalities. There's some names I don't recognize but I know the type, hardcore metal bands with merely hypothetical morals, but the names I do recognize make me laugh a bit: Rage Against The Machine (ironic considering their subject matter), System Of A Down (ditto), Nine Inch Nails (three for one!). At least some of those might be able to distract me from the dread building up in my gut, but I'm hoping for something a bit less... Heavy. I flip another page and- No fucking way. Swimming! This is my favorite album! What the hell are skinheads doing listening to Mac Miller? This seems a bit too... Y'know, not vile and disgusting enough for them. I shake my head at that, deciding that I'll just take the blessing without questioning it too much, before sliding the disc out of its sleeve and into the car's CD player. I hit play, taking comfort in the guitar chords and vocals that begin nearly immediately. Time passes. The road rolls along as it so often does. I hum along to the music as I get closer to home. "I switched the time zone, but what do I know? Just spending nights hitch-hiking, where will I go?" I'm closer to Hub City than I have been in over a year. The skyline is on the horizon, peeking out from beyond the hills and over the trees. From this far away it looks like Sodom, or maybe Gomorrah. A city of sin, rivaled only by Vegas or Gotham or Detroit. The way I'm heading into the city I'll be passing by countless homeless camps, shanty towns composed of tents, broken down cars, maybe an abandoned building if they're really lucky. Just a few miles further up the road is Hupert Square, all the law firms and news stations and banks. The most decadent highs of wealth brushing shoulders with the most crushing lows of poverty. When I was a child, my mother and I were only a bad month away from being in those camps, and even then we weren't much better off. We had to count change to buy bread and butter to feed ourselves. And somehow, just a few years ago, I was brushing shoulders with the highest paid newscasters in Hub City, lounging around in leather armchairs and snacking on croissants and drinking gourmet coffee. Amazing how quickly a life can change, how one can go from nothing to everything and then lose it all again. Just one mistake is all it takes. Now, I deny both. I take the middle path, where true virtue lies. Both poverty and power can corrupt, through desperation or greed. When one is content with what they have, they have no desires. Have too little and your needs become wants, have too much and your wants become needs. I've seen it, I've been it. My desire to rise above my status corrupted me, and when I had it all my desire to make my mark took it that much further. I was still corrupted by desire when I was pushed into writing for Starrstruck, might have been corrupted further without intervention. Only through Dragon's teachings have I learned to shun desire and embrace what I have. I am content with what I have. ... And yet still that hunger remains, a low roar echoing through my entire being, something that wants me to crush others underfoot to satiate it. But it doesn't have to remain a weakness, it can be a tool, something I can use to my advantage. Aim the hunger at something that will help people, use it as fuel for a hearth rather than fuel for a tank. Something to warm those who need it, not destroy those I hold animosity towards. Before, my crusade against Fermin and the Sinners was something to make myself feel better, hurt some people and have some excuse to justify it. I'm good at it. Hurting other people. It makes me feel good. When I punch a man so hard that he crumples at my hit, I feel powerful. It's a high like no other. Alcohol, marijuana, cocaine; I've tried them all at least once and nothing can hold a candle to the ecstasy of having a life in your hands. You can snuff out that fire in a person so quickly, end their life so easily. ... I can deny it all I want. I like hurting other people. I'm not a good man. Probably won't ever be. But now, I can truly say that I want to take Fermin down for the sake of Hub City, not my own ego. "I didn't know, I didn't know..." The beat switch pulls me from the depths of my mind, back to reality, back to Earth. I realize that I've stopped in front of a townhouse, on the edge of Lucifer's Corner and Hupert Square. A pleasant little place with plants in the windowsills and a mid 2000s SUV parked in the driveway. Some antique garden gnomes out front, always creeped me out but I guess that's why they're still around. Quaint belongings for a quaint owner: Aristotle Rodor. Tot. I chuckle to myself. Of course I'd drive straight to Tot's. I pull into the driveway and park behind the SUV, taking a moment to steel myself before turning off the truck. I exit the vehicle and walk up to the doorway, searching through my pockets for the spare key before realizing I had left my keyring at home over a year ago. Shiva said she'd take care of my apartment, make sure the rent was paid, all that. I wondered why I hadn't stopped there first... But maybe seeing a familiar face would help ease me back into life in the Hub. I'm standing in front of the door now. I take a deep breath then knock.

Like A Butterfly

18 days ago
Let's keep it going. Tot's eyes widen in surprise as he takes my figure in, his mouth going agape. "Charlie?" I smile. "Tot. Can I come in?" Blinking, Tot opens the door wider and steps aside, muttering "Come in, come in..." I step through the doorway, patting the old man on the arm as I make my way through the foyer and into the living room. Nothing has changed in the room since I was last in Hub City; a large bookcase containing numerous novels, textbooks, and philosophical books is set up against the wall where someone else might put a TV. Two chairs sit a few feet across from each other, a recliner and an armchair, with a double shot glass of scotch and Rand's The Fountainhead sitting on an accent table beside the latter. I take a seat in the recliner while Tot takes up his chair. I motion to the book. "Thought you hated Ayn Rand?" Tot glances at the book then chuckles. "She always was more your speed, wasn't she? I suppose I was curious what you were always going on about." I shake my head. "Not much of a fan anymore. Too... Self-absorbed. Ram Dass has become a favorite lately." Tot nods with an impressed whistle. "Really? The hippie in the woods recommend him?" I chuckle at that, nodding. "Yeah, he gave me a full itinerary of philosophical books to read through during my training. Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, you name it. The Zhuangzi was my favorite, I think, but Dass really..." I trail off, wanting to continue this pleasant conversation on what I had learned, but that wasn't what I was here for. "... I'd love to keep talking about this, Tot, but you and I both know that's not the most important thing to discuss right now." The older man's smile slowly leaves his face, a grim expression taking its place. Tot nods, knocking down his double shot before speaking, "Yes. About Fermin?" "About Fermin. What are things looking like since I left?" Tot mulls it over, tilting his head from side to side as though weighing the thoughts in his mind. "The same as they always have been, Charlie. Only difference is you're back now." I smile at that. "You keep my things like I asked?" "Yes." I stand up, the contented smile on my face betraying the fire burning in my eyes. "Lead the way." Tot stands as well, pressing his back up against the bookcase. I join him and the two of us grunt as we begin to push the heavy hunk of oak aside, revealing the door hidden behind it. Tot pulls out a keyring, flips through until he finds the right one, then unlocks it and opens it, allowing me to enter first. Our secret little haven also hasn't changed much, though there wasn't much to begin with. A simple chemical lab where Tot creates more pseudoderm and bonding gas for my use, though I note the workbench and assortment of tools that have been added opposite of the lab equipment. A trunk in the center of the room draws my eye, and I quickly step forward to open it. Inside are my clothes, but on top of the neatly folded articles is a curious looking gun, the shape of a hair dryer with a three-pronged hook coming out of the barrel. I pull it out, eyeing Tot curiously. "Ah," he says, "I was working on that before you had to leave the city. Was supposed to be a surprise. With that, you'll be able to scale buildings much more easily, rather than relying on fire escapes as you so often have. You can give it a try later." I nod, pulling everything out of the trunk as I leave the room to shower and change. The water on my skin almost feels like a baptism, cleansing me of the sweat and grime of the last few days, and with it my worries about returning to Hub City. I resolve myself to go with the flow, be the butterfly that Dragon called me. The man's worries matter not when against the carefree nature of the butterfly. I start slipping my clothes on. I've lost some weight, so they're a bit bigger than usual, but even then the weight of the suit around me is a familiar comfort. The belt tightens up the pants. I never really needed it to keep my pants up before, but the buckle also housed a little secret: a compartment containing the canisters of bonding gas. I slide on the hat, then the trench coat. I dig around in the coat's pockets and find my leather gloves folded neatly in the inner coat pocket. I slip them on. Only one thing left to complete the ensemble. With the grappling gun tucked inside my coat, I step out of the bathroom, where Tot is waiting for me with a refill of bonding gas and my mask in hand. He passes it off to me and I quickly store the canisters before examining the mask, a small smile on my face as I do so. Two glass eye holes, able to see clearly around the layer of skin covering them up, and a thin filter for dust and toxins over my mouth. Pleased that the mask is the same as always, I pocket it and head to the door. "Ready to go so soon, Charlie?" Tot asks. I stop at the front door, glancing back at Tot from over my shoulder. "Need to remind some people that this city isn't theirs." I open the door. "I'll see you soon." And with that, I take my leave. --- ONE HOUR LATER... A heavy rain drizzles down, soaking the pavement and drenching anyone walking along the sidewalk. Three men in a warehouse are unloading a truck full of crates, grumbling all the while. "Fuckin' hell..." one of the men grunts, setting the last of the crates onto the ground. "Alright, that's that then." They don't even know that I'm watching from the skylight above. I visited one of my contacts, Roscoe, an old hobo with a penchant for hitting the sauce. Despite that, he was a reliable informant most of the time, gave me tips about the Sinners' activities around the city. He told me that he was sleeping in what he thought was an abandoned warehouse, only to be woken up by the voices of a couple of men discussing the truck they were going to receive tonight. A hundred thousand dollars worth of product. "-flood the Wedge and Lucifer's Corner with enough heroin to fill Hupert River," Roscoe recalled one saying. I open the skylight slowly, setting my grappling hook onto the roof and rappelling myself down into the warehouse. I drop down behind a stack of crates and flatten myself up against it. The tension inside me is close to erupting, the knot in my belly tightening and my muscles tensing. In just a moment, I'll commit myself; I'll burst out from behind the crates and do violence or have violence done to me. That I may die is of no interest to me, because in this moment, I am alive. I hear footsteps. One of the men heading my way. Perfect timing. I spring out from around the corner and grab the man by his arm, twisting him around. The other hand grabs the back of his head and slams his face into the crate which cracks from the force. I pull him back and let him go before delivering a roundhouse kick into the side of his head that sends him to the floor. I snap my head back in the direction of the other men who are staring at me in slack-jawed horror. "Holy shit, it's the no-face guy!" I rush and leap forward with a kick into one, sending him flying back. I whip around and throw a punch at the other man, then grab him by the arm and toss him into one of the crates, destroying it and causing plastic packages full of heroin to spill out onto the floor. The one I kicked is back on his feet now, pulling out a pistol from his waistband. I whip out my grappling hook and fire it at the man, the hook hitting him in the face and causing him to drop his gun. Taking the opportunity, I dash ahead and deliver a palm to the man's chest, followed by a sweeping kick that sends him to the floor. I look back over to his buddy to see that he's still splayed on top of the pile of heroin, barely conscious. The one on the floor is trying to get up, so I grab him by the shirt and pull him to his feet. "Let me ask you a question," I say. "What do the Sinners gain in starting a heroin epidemic in Hub City?" "I-I don't know! They never tell me shit!" "Don't know? Or don't want to tell me?" "I would tell you! I promise!" "Alright. Tell me someone who does know." "The Reverend! He's the one who ordered the shipments from Chicago!" The Reverend. I had heard the title before during my investigations into the Gospel of Sinners' activities. He was the head of the organization, and it seemed like everything went through him in the city's criminal underworld. Now I just had to find out who could lead me to him. "The Reverend. How can I find him?" "Jake Mulligan! He's a top dog, one of the Reverend's enforcers!" "Where can I find Mulligan?" "He lives on Lemire Avenue! The fuckin' apartments there!" "That was quick. No loyalty to your cause?" "Man, fuck a cause! I just wanted to get paid, not go up against some faceless fuckin' freak! If sellin' that asshole out means I don't get my shit kicked in then I'll fuckin' do it!" "Typical two-bit thug. Don't care about anyone but yourself." I slam the man into the ground, his head bouncing on the concrete and knocking him out.

Like A Butterfly

14 days ago
And another one. I put my car in park and cut off the engine before stepping out, taking in the sight of the Lemire Avenue Apartments: a four story brick tenement building situated between a drug store and an empty building with a torn and yellowed "FOR LEASE" sign plastered on the window. The facades of all three buildings are lovingly decorated with gang tags and other graffiti. The place was built in the late 60s, originally meant to house single young professionals with its studio and one bedroom apartments. Then the Gospel of Sinners closed in on the property in the early 80s, purchasing the property and driving the residents out in order to house their members. Ever since, the place has been a safe haven for the Sinners. And I'm about to march right in through the front door like an idiot. No. The Man is simple, brutal. He charges headfirst into battle with no thought, no plan of attack. He's just here to crack skulls. The Butterfly is here to get answers. It thinks of how to approach the problem. And the problem is that if they were to walk right in, they'd get killed. So instead, it will find an alternate entrance. Walking around the corner of the building, I find that entrance: a fire escape in the alleyway. I could kick off the wall and pull the ladder dow-wait. The grappling gun. I almost forgot about it. Taking it out, I take aim and fire at the railing, the cord shooting out and the hook latching onto the railing. I retract the cord and zip up into the air, landing on the platform. I tuck the grappling gun back into my coat and step over to the window, finding it unlocked. It barely budges when I try to push it open, but with a bit of elbow grease I force it open and slip inside. The apartment I've entered is barren save for a dirty mattress on the floor and a pile of used needles next to it. I can hear music cranked so loud that the bass is shaking the walls, even though it sounds like it's coming from several rooms away. No one in this room, so I head to the door and open it slowly. The hallway is empty. Small blessings. I walk past a few doors, the music getting louder and louder as I approach the end of the hall. Apartment 210. There's got to be someone in there. I'm gonna kick the door down, charge in and- No. I knock. After a few moments the door opens and I throw my fist into a man's face. He stumbles back and trips onto a glass table, shattering it and sending a cloud of white powder into the air. I step into the room and take it in as quickly as I can: two men sitting on a couch, their heads snapping in my direction. A third standing by a large speaker, eyes wide. The fourth and last one is writhing in pain on top of the shattered table. I slam the door shut behind me and lock it, still facing the men. "Where's Mulligan?" I ask. The two guys spring up from the couch and charge straight at me. I duck into a crouch and deliver a sweeping kick, knocking them to the ground. I stand and kick one in the crotch while he's down, then pick up the other one by the collar. I slam a palm into his nose as I let go of my grip on his shirt and he slams his head on the ground. Blood streams out of his nose and he blinks rapidly in a daze. The third man screams in a battle cry as he rushes to meet me. I duck under a wild haymaker and slam a palm into his gut before sending the palm up into his chin, his head snapping back. I throw a flurry of punches, onetwothreefourfive into his ribs before finishing off with a one inch punch straight to the sternum. He struggles to keep to his feet and I send him to the floor with a high kick straight to the face. I take a moment to catch my brea Arms wrap around my neck. Shit, I forgot about the guy on the floor! I try to elbow my attacker off but he stays firm and squeezes my neck as tight as he can. I find myself struggling to breathe, my elbow jabs to his gut growing weaker and weaker. I throw myself back and slam him into a wall, his grip loosening enough that I can slip out of it and twist around with a punch to the side of his head. He's sent reeling and I slam my fist into his head once, twice, three times. A tooth goes flying out of his mouth with the fourth punch and he collapses. I walk over to the first guy, the one who's still laying on the shards of glass and groaning in pain. I take in his features: a face like a bulldog, a red mullet... Wait. He's one of the guys from the docks that beat me to near death. Is this Jake Mulligan? I grab his shoulders and pull him up. "Jake. Long time no see." "You're supposed to be fucking dead... We killed you!" "Not well enough. Now let me ask you a question. Where can I find the Reverend?" "You think I'd tell you, you faceless fuck?" "No. I don't think you will..." An idea strikes me. "Question: how did I lose my face?" "What?" "Answer: a freak chemical accident. A cloud of acidic gas that caused my flesh to melt over my features." I lower a hand to my belt buckle and press one of the tiny buttons on it before bringing it back up to Mulligan's shoulder. Slowly, a thick yellow gas begins to emit from one of the cartridges hidden within. There were three types of the gas: the bonding gas, the removal gas, and one without either component that Tot developed for me specifically for a situation like this that required some fear. "W-what the fuck!? NO!" Mulligan is squirming in my grasp, trying to escape as the gas slowly creeps up to his shoulders. "Trust me, you'll look better without that ugly mug." "OH GOD DON'T PLEASE!" Tears stream down Mulligan's face. I can pick up the scent of urine too. "Where is the Reverend?" "THE MAYOR'S PLACE! HE'S STAYING THERE!" I perk up a bit at that. "Is that so? Are you lying to me, Jake?" The gas is up to his neck now. "NO! LET ME GO, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LET ME GO!" "Fine." I shove him away from the gas and he stumbles backwards, falling on his ass and slumping against the wall. I kick him in the face and it's lights out. Looks like I'm going to make one more stop tonight. The mayor's mansion is on the outskirts of the city limits, kept under guard by the police. The Reverend would be there, if Jake wasn't lying to me. But I trust his word. Whatever loyalty he has to the Reverend wasn't enough for him to keep his mouth shut when faced with losing, well, his face. I open the door of the apartment and see a crowd of about a dozen men, all lined up and waiting for me with bats and pipes and crowbars. "Aw shit..."

Like A Butterfly

2 days ago
Could've swore it had only been a few days since I posted the last one. Here's another. Nearing the end of what I had written. The mayor's mansion is silent this late into the night. An old man is in a room on the ground floor, sitting at a mahogany desk and writing away, occasionally gazing out the window into the rainy night while listening to the crackle of the fireplace. It was typical for him to be awake until almost the early morning, writing a sermon about the fires of Hell or plotting the next heinous deed his associates would enact. He's the Reverend, head of the Gospel of Sinners and the most powerful man in Hub City. And I'm looming in the shadows behind him, watching and waiting. After getting out of the Lemire Avenue Apartments I gunned it straight for the mayor's mansion. I was covered in bruises, my suit torn and tattered and dirty, but I needed to do this. It was easy enough to break into the mayor's; climb the fence with my grappling gun, take out a few patrolling cops, then slip in through the door to the cellar. After that, it was just a matter of finding out where the Reverend was. I caught one of his thugs heading to the bathroom and began breaking fingers, starting with the pinkie. He caved after the ring finger. "T-the Reverend is in his study! Down the hall!" One knock to the head and he was out like a light. The door was open and I slipped in near silently. I'm here now, watching and waiting from the shadows, pondering what to do. Am I going to kill him? Maybe. The Man wants it to be done, wants to wring the life out of him. The Butterfly wants answers, wants to know who this man is, why he's been terrorizing Hub City for decades. Spreading drugs through the city, rigging elections to put his men in public office, aggressively shutting down businesses that refused to cooperate. The Butterfly wants- no, needs to know. I remember the night at the docks... Shiva throws me to the ground. Every nerve in my body is screaming out in pain. "He is defeated. Shall I kill him?" she asks the old man. "No. Let the brothers have their turn," the old man replies. A hand grips me by the hair and tugs before slamming my head into the concrete. I'm lying face down in the snow, a series of blows striking me all over the body. Every hit to the head feels like it's gonna make my brain seep out of the cracks in my skull. Every kick to the chest feels like my ribs are shattering. Every stomp flattens my organs. "Does this amuse you?" Shiva asks. "Indeed. I am a fair man. I shall let them continue until every bone in his body is broken. Then I shall permit Brother Gun to shoot him in the head. Then we shall dump in the river. And then, if he arises singing Danny Boy, I shall give him anything he wants." The old man smirks. The last thing I hear is a gunshot. "Oh Danny boy..." The Reverend perks up slightly. "The pipes, the pipes are calling..." He begins looking around the room. He doesn't see me in the shadows just beyond the light. "From glen to glen..." He looks over to the television by the bed, turned off. "And down the mountain side..." "Who is that?" he asks. "The summer's gone..." He stands from his desk, looking around the room. "Who's there?" "And all the roses falling..." I emerge from the shadows and he stumbles away from me with a gasp, falling to the floor in the process. "Now you must go... Away... And I must bide..." The Reverend looks up at me with terror in his eyes. The kingpin of the underworld, reduced to nothing but an old man cowering in fear. "You... You are dead..." "Am I? Then what does that make you?" I lean down, closer to him. He's frozen in place, staring at me with awe. "Dreaming, perhaps?" "What do you want?" "I want you, Reverend..." I grab him by the arm and pull him to his feet. "I want you to pray." Will I kill him? His life is worth nothing but the sins he carries out. The Man is screaming for retribution, to end his life. The Butterfly tries to see the value in him, tries to say that every life is sacred, but it withers away at the almost demonic energy the man carries in the very fiber of his being. This man is demented. He's led to the deaths of countless others. But could I kill him? I'm about to answer that question when I hear the door opening behind me. "Hatch, what's with all the noi-" I drop the Reverend and twist around at the voice and see her. Myra. ... She cut her hair. "Who are you? What are you- where's your face?" I'm about to answer when I hear the sound of metal scraping against brick. I twist back around to the Reverend just in time to bring up an arm and block a red hot fire poker that would've smashed right into my head. I can feel the blisters already forming as I kick him in the chest, sending him stumbling into the fire place. He shouts in pain and jumps back to his feet but it's too late; his coat's on fire. He tries to pat it away but the fire just spreads to his sleeve. He panics, looking for something, anything to douse the flames, and after finding nothing he runs straight to the window and leaps out into the rain. As the glass shatters I hear a loud, screeching beeeeeeeeep coming from an alarm on the wall and more coming from down the hall. Shit. I'm gonna have to follow Hatch out that window before every cop on the property comes running. I'm about to start running when I feel a hand gripping my forearm. I twist my head around and see Myra tugging at me. "Hey, faceless guy. Come with me." She leads me out of the room and down the hall, back to the door I came in from. As she shuts the door, I can hear the sound of running boots and clamoring voices from down the hall where we just were. "Why are you helping me?" I ask. Myra didn't have any reason to help someone that had just broken into her family's home, it didn't make sense. "Because you can help me," she says, leading me down the stairs and into the cellar. "Help you do what?" "I overheard a conversation between Hatch and my brother... I..." She takes in a deep breath before she continues. "Hatch moved in a month ago. My brother, Wesley... He's working with him. I... I didn't want to believe it. Wesley said that Hatch is threatening him, that Hatch would have my daughter killed if he doesn't work with him." The Man wants to snort a resentful chuckle at the idea of Wesley Fermin only working with Hatch to defend his sister's daughter. The Butterfly processes what she said. Daughter. "You have a daughter?" "Yes. She lives at St. Catherine's Home For Orphaned Children. Wesley had me give her up for adoption, said that if anyone found out about her it would ruin his chances to become mayor." I want to pry, find out more about this daughter of Myra's I had never heard of, but now isn't the time. "The conversation you overheard. What was it about?" "Hatch wants to get William Spencer out of the picture." "Spencer? The superintendent for the Hub City Unified School District?" Myra looks up at me, widening her eyes slightly in amazement. "You know who he is?" I nod. "Why do they want to get rid of Spencer?" "Spencer's been trying to launch a political career. He wants to challenge Wesley in the next election. Hatch doesn't want that." "What are they planning to do?" "They're going to rig a school bus to explode." "What? When?" "Today." I look down at my watch. 5:09 AM. The school buses would be departing in just under an hour. "Thanks for the help." "Don't mention it. Now get out of here and save those kids." I climb out of the cellar and start sprinting back to my car, hidden in the woods past the fence. I fire my grappling gun at the fence and zip up and over it, landing on two feet and continuing to sprint to my car. I hop in and start it up, pulling out of the woods and back onto the road like a bat out of hell. This night was turning out to just be one long day. Haven't slept since about this time yesterday. And I won't get any more sleep for the rest of my life if I don't get to the bus depot in the next forty-seven minutes. I slam my foot even harder onto the gas pedal. I'm not letting any kids die today.