I’d been a hero, once upon a time. A punisher of the wicked and protector of the righteous.

I had been weak, so I learned what parts of the body subdued someone when hit. I had been caught and shot sneaking up, so I joined a local archery club to work from afar. I had some of the wicked I punished come back when they healed, so I started maiming instead of subduing. I had ‘heroes’ begin complaining about my methods, so I avoided working with them.

I’d had problems, so I had solved them. And Deimos, he had been a problem. One that grew stronger the longer it went unchecked, who the heroes could not and would not solve. And so I had tracked him, hunted him… And when the chance had come to solve the problem of Deimos once and for all, it was stolen from me by a self-righteous ‘hero’ who dared to claim moral superiority over me. My quarry escaped, and it returned worse than ever before as the latest Butcher. ‘No one can be allowed to kill him,’ the pretenders had cried, afraid to do what needed to be done, afraid they would be too weak willed to resist.

But I’d had a problem, and so I had solved it. I killed Deimos, the thirteenth Butcher, took on the burden; just another problem to solve. And in the days that followed, I finally realized there were no wicked, no righteous. There were only problems, and I could either solve them or be solved by them.

I’d been a hero, once upon a time. What a fool.