The funeral was a basic affair, entirely devoid of pomp or ceremony. Burials had long since been outlawed due to massive over-population, and so the Blanc’s said their goodbyes in a whitewashed crematorium, its chimneys spewing smoke and ash out into the streets, and smearing the outside of the skyscraper it made up two floors of.

A tired priest regurgitated passages he had echoed for decades, whilst a handful of people stood nearby and acted as solemn as they could. It was not that Janet and Gregory Blanc were disliked, merely that the prospect of death was one that everyone in the Pits faced on too regular a basis to really respect anymore.

Simon looked from face to face. The somberness he felt from the assembled was not one of compassion, but of fear. Fear was the only emotion law-abiding citizens were permitted to feel any longer. Love, joy and hope were all just fleeting delusions, which occasionally punctuated their life of terror. In that room, just as in the entirety of the Pits, every tear asked the same question: ‘Will it be me next?’ Simon shook his head. He wanted to hate them, but he knew well the pain they each went through, living a life as uncertain and as changeable as this.

The formalities ended, and the priest gave the signal for the two flimsy coffins to be propelled into the furnace. As the coffins crept through the partition curtains, Paul, the middle brother, aged twenty-three, could be heard choking back a flood of emotion.

Luke, the eldest, stared unblinking until the panels of the coffins were gone from sight, lost to the flames beyond. With a final utterance of farewell, he turned away, and set about dispersing the crowd. Most looked relieved as they walked away, as if somehow the loss were no longer real. To the four Blanc brothers in attendance, though, the day cut a scar that felt like it would never fade.

Anthony was the next to leave his post, then Paul, punching the wall as he made his exit. Only Simon stood staring at the curtains, that unnatural gateway to the realm beyond ours. He began to consider the afterlife. He thought about what lay in store for his parents now, what their next adventure might be. Ideas of fields and small villages came to mind, like those he had heard of from Alex’s books. As usual, he couldn’t picture it, no matter how hard he tried. There was no world other than the urban sprawl of Tartarus. The quaint settlements and friendly communities were as much a joke to him as the heaven he wished he could believe in. None of it felt real. The only thing that was real was the overwhelming pain of finality.

Outside in the grotty street, shadowed by the buildings and roadways above, Luke dealt with the guests. Each feebly offered up variations of the same “I’m sorry for your loss” and “if there’s anything you need”. All were responded to with an equally unfelt, “Thank you, my parents would have appreciated you coming”. The brothers dealt with the pack of liars politely, but each nursed resentment in their heart.

The funeral had been held outside of the densest part of the city, in an area that was a marginally less vast network of towering buildings and walkways. This was a remote corner of Tartarus, known as the Hovels. The government did not bother wasting its time or money on establishing or administering law in the Hovels. The whole area was essentially a squatter camp, with little to colour its drabness save graffiti and the trash which littered its streets.

It was a long drive to the hospital where Alex was convalescing, made all the more painful by the bitter silence in the car. The oppressive lack of noise made each of them uneasy, but none had the will to break it. No one could say anything to erase the pain, or lift the spirit, and so no one tried. All they had for comfort was the rasping of the clutch and the squealing of ancient brakes. Shabby though it was, the scabby scrap pile on wheels was Luke’s pride and joy. The vehicle was a laughingstock next to the sleek transportation units which riddled the dense network of highways high in the Summit, but it suited him fine. As a twenty-eight year old mechanic, Luke shunned the modern designs for their simplicity, and lack of individuality. Also, of course, because he could not afford one.

Normally the brothers took every opportunity to lavish insults upon their elder sibling when granted a trip in his rusting vehicle, but not even Paul could spare a moment for humour today. Instead, he leaned against the door, watching block after concrete block go by, determined not to reveal his tear pricked eyes to his brothers. Every now and then, he would scratch fiercely at his spiked brown hair, immaculately styled and meticulously arranged, even today. Then he would huff and sigh as he repaired his coif in the distorted reflection of the car window.

Anthony toyed with one of the small ceramic urns, rotating it and passing it from hand to hand. He stared intently at the object, as if seeking some hidden meaning in the plain brown clay. His short sandy hair was scruffy, his tie was loose, his shirt sleeves were rolled up, his jacket long since discarded. With his right thumb, Anthony scratched lazily at the stubble coating his chin, eyes set on their target, never wavering. Simon was deadly still beside Anthony, his eyes transfixed on a point on the back of Luke’s chair. He no longer looked apart of this world. He was just an absent shell, whose soul had left in search of greener pastures.

As they entered the hospital ward, the brothers fanned out. Each of them took up a position around their brother’s bed, intent on maximising the space between them. Alex paid them no heed; he was watching the rainwater mixed with effluent that streaked down the window pane.

The rest of the ward was alive with the buzz of residents and visitors laughing and chatting. Staff milled about, jostling trays and trolleys. Alex’s corner existed in a void, which the surrounding joviality failed to permeate.

Disinfectant and cheap food filled their nostrils. It was a putrid smell, which Paul did not disguise his displeasure at having to endure. Luke shot his restless brother a halting glare, then leaned over and lifted one of the two urns from Anthony’s grasp. He opened Alex’s one remaining hand, and placed the container within. Anthony closed his brother’s fingers around the small jar as if Alex lacked the capacity to move.

Eventually, Alex lifted the container which held his deceased father to his face, then agonisingly turned until his one good eye met with it.

No one said a word.

Alex’s forehead wrinkled and relaxed periodically, as if he struggled to focus on the object mere centimeters away. It seemed as though he were challenging the object, sizing it up. Perhaps he was questioning whether or not human life could really be reduced to so little.

----

“What Alex felt whilst holding those remains is a mystery,” Simon told the courtroom, “He never talked about that day, or any of what happened before it. Needless to say, it brought about a change in him, a metamorphosis. From that moment on, a new man was born. A man with a vision of perfection, which, if we are honest with ourselves, I think we all wanted to see made a reality.”

----

“The doctors say you are going to be just fine. You lost a lot of blood. but you held out better than anyone could have expected. How do you feel?” Luke stood over his brother, scratching his shaved head awkwardly as Alex once again settled back to watch the dirty rivulets of rain.

“Don’t listen to those scummy white coats. We’ll sort you out with a new leg, and a new hand,” Anthony interjected excitedly, “even an eye! Arse holes can’t refuse you just ‘cos it’s an expensive treatment. We’ll go somewhere else. Get you the nicest and best on the market. No one will ever know they weren’t the real deal, promise.”

Luke looked back at the twenty-seven-year-old bar tender disapprovingly. The technology existed, but there was no way anyone from their rung of life could possibly afford such things. Alex’s wounds had been severe. He had been tortured by his parents’ murderers, and left deformed. They had blinded him in one eye and removed his fingers, followed by the hand they had been attached to. His leg had been shattered so badly that emergency amputation had been necessary. It would cost a small fortune.

“The hand of justice need not be pretty,” Alex muttered, barely audibly.

The others frowned and looked to the twenty-one-year-old, whose black hair was fast succumbing to greys, which had multiplied tenfold since the ordeal. A down of soft hair had begun to form on his chin and neck, where he had refrained from shaving for a week. Complete with the white pad which served as a temporary eye patch, the young man appeared to far exceed his years, seeming grizzled and unapproachable. It was a far cry from his former image.

Luke cocked his head to the side questioningly, “What do you mean?”

In an instant, Alex had shot up in his bed. His pale, dusty grey eye locked onto Luke’s, “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t pretend you haven’t all been thinking it. We have been robbed. They have taken the most valuable thing we have. Retribution is our divine right.”

The brothers exchanged glances, none of them eager to speak first. They were held back by the guilt of these feelings Alex had correctly judged them to have.

“Exactly, and with the police involved it will only be a matter of ti-” Anthony was cut short.

“The police?” Alex spat, “They wouldn’t waste a second on commoners like us. It’s not in their interest to get involved with the gangs. They are afraid. They have neglected their task as protectors of this city. They have forgotten what that means.”

Silence followed. Each knew this to be the truth.

When nobody objected, Alex continued, “No. For the law to be upheld, for justice to be realised, we must take our own measures.”

Paul looked sheepishly at the ground, “He’s right you know. If we don’t do something about it then no one will.”

Exasperated, Luke wheeled around on his brothers, a mixture of surprise and anger entombing his features, “People die every single day. Innocent people! Just like our parents. If every single person who suffered like us went and took up arms?” he shrugged theatrically, “The entire city would be in turmoil. We would be at war for heaven’s sake.”

“It is the natural order of things. Death is an inevitable part of life, and it should be no less inevitable for those who wield it. They serve as agents to a regime which goes unchecked and unpunished. People will die; this is a fact. People often die at the hands of others, another fact. However, to suggest we must lie down and accept the cruel fate which has been thrust upon us is simply madness. Just because it is the way of our world, doesn’t mean we have to stand for it. Personally, I welcome that war. Perhaps something of such a scale would finally be the catalyst for change. Good people have been forced to live in fear. It seems only fitting that we should return the favour.’

“An eye for an eye, Luke,” Paul said, shooting Alex a semi-apologetic, “Sorry.”

The veins on Luke’s forehead began to pulse. The brothers recognised the tell-tale signs of an outburst of rage.

“I’m in.”

The surprise interruption quelled Luke’s anger. All eyes were on Simon, who had stunned his audience into silence with his unexpected contribution.

“Mum and Dad raised us. They made us the people we are, and they gave us a chance in life. They deserved the same chance. I can’t make that happen. We can’t make that happen,” Simon reflected gloomily, “But I know that if I could do anything to put them at ease, anything to make things right for them, then I would. Now, I don’t buy in to all this life after death stuff, appeasing souls or anything like that, as much as I’d like to right now, but we can make those arse holes know what pain they put us through. They took the lives of innocent people, and I’m not just going to sit here and wait for them to take another person we love,” he looked to Alex for approval and found that it was far from lacking.

Their section of the ward was silent once again. Not a breath or utterance was heard for some time. All eyes were expectantly on Luke.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Let’s do it. You’d better be right though! If any police come sniffing around, or if at any stage this gets too big for us, then we are dropping out, ok? We aren’t killers. We are just a bunch of guys, trying to do right by their parents. Got that?”

Alex smiled coldly, “Absolutely. Relax, if the police got wind of what we were planning then they would probably consider it a blessing. We are, after all, doing them a favour as well. Paul, Anthony, go to the factory, dig up what you can. I can’t imagine it would have just occurred to our father to roam the streets looking for gang lords. He must have been put in contact,” the two brothers nodded and made a move to leave, “You two,” he instructed Simon and Luke, “go and see about getting me a new hand and leg. I’m going to need them, I should imagine.”

They made to leave before Simon stopped just outside and peered back around the curtain, “What about your eye?”

“Never mind the eye for now. It is an expense we can do without. Don’t fret though, I see more clearly now than I ever would have imagined.”

Simon pondered this, then nodded sharply, and followed after Luke.

Alone, Alex once again regarded the small vase. He smiled at it, then placed it on the windowsill, and watched the last threads of water stream down the grubby pane, pooling at the bottom in an ocean of filth.