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The Heroes is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All depictions of violence, threats, political tension, or moral conflict exist only for storytelling purposes. I do not condone or encourage harmful or unethical behavior.
This story is meant to be taken seriously. It explores moral, emotional, and ethical struggles with a realistic, unfiltered tone meant to promote awareness, empathy, and reflection—not to glorify or trivialize serious issues.
Political themes and references may resemble real events or figures, but all characters and events are fictional and serve as commentary or symbolism. This Scene is Rated 16+
Four days after Alex was taken, the city felt like a wound left open.
Night crouched low over the streets, dragging a heavy fog into every gutter and alley. The air tasted chemical—weed smoke drifting out of cracked apartment windows, nicotine hanging stale and sour near the sidewalks. Streetlights shimmered behind the haze as if underwater, turning everything yellow and bruised.
Sarah pulled her late husband's trench coat tighter around her shoulders. She almost never wore it—not since the fight that tore their marriage apart. Tonight, though, it felt like armor. Or maybe a ghost. The fabric clung to her, heavy, smelling faintly of old cologne and regret.
Her fingers shook inside her pockets, wrapped around her house keys like they were the only weapon she had. She stepped deeper into the graffiti-choked alley, boots splashing through puddles that reflected distorted neon.
Red, black, and neon paint screamed across the brick walls.
"F— INFERNO."
"THE HEROES LIE."
"THE HEROES ARE—r@pists
She stopped abruptly. The last word was slashed across the wall in thick, violent strokes. She didn't know if it was true, but the possibility crawled icy fingers up her spine.
She swallowed and forced herself to keep walking. Every few steps she glanced over her shoulder, posture tight—chin tucked, shoulders raised, breath sharp and shallow. Fear walked with her, hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, urging her forward.
What if they're following me? What if they come for me next?
Her eyes stung. She blinked, but a tear escaped anyway, cutting a warm trail down her cold cheek.
"Alex…" Her voice cracked. "Oh, Alex… baby, I—"
Her lips trembled, trying to hold the rest inside. She reached for memories like a lifeline — Alex's laughter at the park, the two of them racing shopping carts down mall aisles, their
stupid arguments, their even stupider hugs afterward. All of it felt too bright, too alive for the world she was walking through now.
"I miss you… Alex," she whispered, barely forming the words.
Finally, she reached the hidden metal door wedged between two dumpsters. It was small, rusted, something you'd overlook unless you knew exactly where to look. She checked both ends of the alley twice more, chest rising and falling like she'd sprinted a mile.
Then she knocked—once… twice… and stepped back.
A muffled voice answered, breathless.
"I'm… coming!"
Metal scraped, a lock turned, and the door cracked open. Peter immediately pulled her into a sloppy, eager hug. His beard scratched her cheek, and his breath hit her with a sharp slap of wine and mint gum.
"O-okay—easy," Sarah muttered as she gently peeled his arms away. Her gaze flicked around anxiously while Peter shut the door behind them and threw the lock.
Inside, the room was dim and cluttered. The smell of sweat, old metal, and stale alcohol clung to the air. Shelves bowed under the weight of tech scraps and weapon parts. Newspapers littered a scarred wooden table, and lying on top of them were several sleek objects—military-grade weapons, polished and waiting, glinting under a single flickering bulb.
Sarah's breath hitched. "My God… are they real?"
Peter grinned proudly as he picked up a compact, pistol-shaped device.
"Oh, they're real. Brand new. Prototype-level stuff."
He held it reverently, like it was a holy artifact.
"This baby looks like a regular sidearm, but trust me—it hits like a truck."
He set it down with a soft clack and lifted a bulkier, rifle-like device next.
"And this one? If—let's say—it hit someone like Vortex? She wouldn't walk for a long time."
Sarah froze mid-step.
"Wait… V-Vortex is here?"
Peter's smile widened. He gestured for her to follow.
They passed the cluttered front room and stopped at a disguised metal panel in the wall. Peter pressed a hidden latch, revealing a narrow corridor leading to a staircase descending underground.
The deeper they walked, the colder and darker it became. The walls dampened the sound of their footsteps until the only noise was Sarah's breathing—uneven, quickening. She gripped her coat tightly, feeling suddenly small, suddenly unprepared.
Halfway down the stairs, Peter slowed and turned.
"I know it's been five days since Alex was taken." His voice softened but didn't steady. "But whatever Vortex says… be ready. She'll twist anything."
Sarah nodded, though her knees wobbled.
At the bottom, Peter flipped a switch.
Lights snapped on—harsh, sterile white.
The basement was small and bare. Concrete floor. Exposed pipes. No furniture.
Except her.
Vortex—the untouchable, the televised hero, one of the Nine—stood (or more accurately, hung) against the far wall. Her head drooped, blond hair usually perfect reduced to ragged, tangled strands falling over her bruised face. Her suit was shredded, burnt in places, stained with dried blood. Thick industrial chains pinned her arms wide against the concrete, metal biting deep into her skin. Shackles gripped her ankles.
She looked like a fallen god.
Sarah stepped forward, awe and terror wrestling in her expression. "My God… you actually did it," she whispered. "The military's tried for years—and you…"
Peter gave a casual shrug and pulled out a shock baton, spinning it between his fingers.
"All I did was track her. Months of watching, digging into her private porn chats. Playing to her ego." He smirked. "We met up a few times. She believed what she wanted to believe. And when the moment came—" He mimed a gun firing. "Bang. Super tranquilizer. Dropped her like a sack of bricks."
"W-wait—" Sarah lifted both hands. "Vortex has… porn sites? Seriously?"
Peter barked a short laugh, shaking his head.
"Sweetheart, these heroes pretend they're saints—baby kissers, master bidders, icons. But her?" He lifted Vortex's chin with the baton tip. "She's nothing but a wh*re trying to sell purity."
Vortex's breath deepened. Slow. Controlled. Her battered face rose inch by inch until her cold blue eyes stared up from beneath her tangled hair.
Sarah flinched backward, her hands trembling.
"A-and… the chains? Are they… secure? She won't escape, right?"
"They're solid. Relax." Peter grabbed one and tugged it sharply. It rang against the wall with a heavy metallic clang.
Sarah's voice dropped to a whisper. "So… what now? Do we turn her in? Or…"
Peter scoffed. "Turn her in? Sarah—if Inferno hears even a rumor someone sabotaged the Nine, he'll level half of Congress." He gestured to Vortex. "No. We either kill her… or we get answers."
Sarah's stomach twisted.
"You said you'd tell me where Alex could be."
"And this," Peter said, tapping Vortex's leg with the baton, "is how we find her."
Sarah's throat tightened. She stepped closer—slowly, like approaching a wild animal. She bent down, her voice cracking.
"Vortex… hi. My daughter is missing. Her name is Alex. C-can you tell me where she is?"
For the first time, Vortex smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It was a wound splitting open.
Her eyes, sharp and glacial, focused on Sarah. Her lips curled into a feral, blood-crusted smirk.
Her voice rasped, low and broken.
"Oh… that kid."
She turned her head and spat blood at the floor.
"She's been… taken care of."
A dry laugh scraped out of her chest.
"You'll never see her again."
Sarah staggered back like she'd been struck. Her fear twisted—tightened—then ignited. Her fists balled until her nails dug into her palms, knuckles bleaching white.
"Where's Alex, you—"
She lunged. Her punch cracked against Vortex's jaw.
Vortex barely blinked.
Her grin widened, teeth stained red.
"That all you got, bitch?"
"Oh, I'll show you—!"
Sarah reared back for another punch—
Peter grabbed her, arms locking around her shoulders.
"Sarah—stop!" he hissed. "If you want Alex back, don't let her control you."
"Then what IS the answer, Peter?!"
He inhaled to respond—
CRACK.
The chains ripped free from the wall.
In an instant, Vortex was upright.
Sarah froze, heart slamming against her ribs.
Vortex moved in a blur—her arm shooting forward, impossibly fast.
It pierced into Peter's torso with a sickening, fleshy impact.
His breath left him in a wet choke as blood bubbled up into his mouth. He collapsed, eyes wide, body twitching.
Sarah screamed as he hit the floor, blood spreading fast beneath him.
Vortex's shadow stretched over her.
Sarah backed up until her heel hit the wall, hands raised, shaking violently.
"Please—please—don't—"
Vortex tilted her head. Her smirk returned, cruel and pleased.
"I don't accept apologies."
Her arm flashed again—
And Sarah's world was swallowed in black.