"Ten years," I thought as the cameras pointed at me, but hadn't taken any pictures yet. "I was the Hero for ten years."
"And for what?"
On either side of me was a masked special agent armed with an FX-05 rifle. In front of me was a table filled with drug packages and various weapons. G17s, R9s, M4s, R15s—I'd seen plenty of those during my missions.
And the vast majority of them were used by children no older than 20, all of them under the influence of drugs.
"No, no, no," said a commander from behind the cameras. "That's a lot of guns already, now add more bricks," he was referring to packages of drugs, which look like bricks. Several officers approached with said packages and arranged them on the table. "Perfect. Now smile, Herobert. Now you really look like Dark's henchman."
The officers laughed and started taking pictures. They all knew I wasn't a Dark's ally, but that didn't matter; they needed to show the town that the city was safe and that they always caught the criminals, and if they couldn't catch Dark this time, then they had to find someone else.
And if they couldn't find it, they had to come up with one.
"Ten years without breaks, without vacations, without insurance, without a budget," I thought.
"And this is how it all ends."
The photos they were taking would fill all the local, regional, and maybe even national newspapers.
"Herobert the traitor is arrested," the headlines might say.
The photo shoot ended after a few minutes, and the officers took the weapons and drugs back to the evidence room where they had taken them. One of them grabbed me by my clothes and dragged me down a dark hallway. Several of his colleagues were with him, pushing and hitting me unnecessarily.
We soon left the police station through the back door and boarded a plane. Inside were several special agents who handcuffed me and made me sit on the floor. The plane soon took off and flew straight for about a minute, only to make a wide 180° turn, continue straight for about two minutes, make another wide 180° turn, and land in front of the main entrance of the same station.
The special agents grabbed me by the clothes to pull me up and took me off the plane. As soon as I stepped out, a bunch of cameramen started taking pictures of me. There was a press conference in front of the station, and the governor was giving a speech.
"We've long suspected the connection between Dark and Herobert VII. Only someone with his power and influence could circumvent the extreme vigilance of our upright and incorruptible police force to get Dark out of prison so many times. It's the only reasonable explanation for his multiple escapes," he was using me as a scapegoat to clear the name of his government and his police force.
Also General Tantrum, Heartrice, Toffson, and Brainard were there, and they were looking towards the cameras and acting as if I did not exist.
"The capture of Herobert sends a clear message to the people of Saint Money," the governor continued. "We work every single day to ensure that corruption and impunity have no place here. We are so committed to justice and honesty that we will never, EVER, protect or work with any criminal, whoever they may be. Saint Money is a safe and honest place."
The special agents put me next to the governor so he could show me off to the press.
"At this very moment, our new Hero, Lancel, is investigating Dark's whereabouts. We have no doubt he'll find him soon so he can pay for his crimes. He won the battle, but not the war. And I want to send a message to him and all the criminals who think they can do whatever they want in our city, who think they can come in and murder people as distinguished and upstanding as former Governor Dipshet and get away with it: attacking not only the people, but also their politicians and business leaders, the main drivers of Saint Money's growth, has severe consequences. Just look at him," he pointed at me. "Anyone who attacks our politicians and business leaders, the cornerstone of our society, will end up like this."
Heartrice then took the floor.
"First of all, we would like to clarify that we, as former colleagues of Herobert, completely condemn his decisions and disassociate ourselves from any opinion or action he may have taken during his time as Hero. We were unaware of his betrayal and, upon suspecting it, fully cooperated with the police to bring him to justice.
"It's a shame that someone from such a long line of heroes has decided to betray us all in this way."
That's how the conference ended, and the press began to ask their questions.
"Miss Heatrice," a reporter spoke up. "How is it possible that you didn't know about Herobert's many betrayals if you and he were in a romantic relationship?"
"Our relationship was strictly professional," he said sharply, and although it was true, it sounded as if she despised me. "We were just colleagues. Nothing more."
At that moment I was aware that she had said that to avoid at all costs being associated with me and my alleged crimes, but a part of me wondered if she really felt that way, if she never saw me as a friend.
The questions continued, and I simply stopped listening. None of them were directed at me because everyone had already declared me guilty. Anything I did or said had no validity whatsoever.
Shortly afterward, the questioning ended, and the special agents escorting me took me back to the police station, where they put me in a small room, took out my clothes, and tied me to a chair. I didn't try to resist at any point because I knew that would only make things worse.
Then they started beating and torturing me for fun. They had already taken pictures of me, the press had already seen me; if they left me with visible injuries, they could easily say I got them in prison, where they were about to take me.
They struck me with their fists or the hilts of their weapons. Because I was wearing the Bephelometh's collar, I couldn't use any kind of magic to protect myself, so pain soon overwhelmed all my senses. It wasn't long before my body was covered in blood.
I just closed my eyes and waited for it all to be over.
But before that, General Tantrum, accompanied by several soldiers, paid me a visit.
"Don't worry," he told me. "We're just going to ask you a few questions."
"You know I didn't do anything," I replied, and he punched me in the face so hard I fell to the ground. It was clear for me that he was the hero a long time ago because he didn't have to use any magic to hit me that hard. I immediately felt my jaw break, and my mouth was soon filled with blood and the teeth he'd knocked out.
The soldiers lifted me up. He looked at me and smirked.
"Speak when I tell you to, you fuck," he said, and with a little bit of magic, he healed me from the blow he'd given me. My jaw reattached, and my missing teeth grew back. He did it in a couple of seconds, much faster than Heartrice usually took.
But he only did it to hit me again, even harder.
Once again I fell to the ground with a broken jaw. I vomited. I felt weak and dizzy.
"And yes. You didn't do anything. That was the problem," he healed and hit me multiple times, each time harder than the last one.
Each time he healed me, the pain disappeared completely, only to come back in full force with the next blow.
"You were supposed to catch him, you fuck, and did you?" He healed my wounds and hit me again. "How many people did you let him kill?" He healed and hit me again, and I couldn't help but remember the bodies we found along the way. "How many houses did you let him destroy?" He healed and hit me again, and I remember the houses burning and with those circular holes.
He turned to one of the soldiers who had come with him, and the latter handed him a folder.
"Do you want to know the forensics' report? Do you want to know how many people died, how many were injured?"
Hundreds, perhaps. There was only fire and silence. No one screamed, no one called for help. The only thing that ran through those streets was their blood.
Red, bright, arterial blood.
"Now Dark is who knows where the hell he is, and whose fault is it?"
Mine.
He continued hitting me and healing me until he got tired. Unfortunately, I did not lose consciousness at any time.
"Just kill him, sir," said one of the soldiers there, and soon the others began to repeat the same. Tantrum then drew his gun and held it right in my head.
"You let it happen," he told me, now calmer. "You're a terrorist, just like him."
"Kill him, kill him," everyone there repeated.
I closed my eyes. I breathed slowly to try to calm down.
"Do it," I thought.
The seconds passed by in utter silence.
"Do it!"
And in that silence I remembered all those clandestine graves we found in abandoned land, the house where the father killed his family and then committed suicide, the woman who was tortured and killed in a hotel room.
In all those moments there was only silence.
Only goddamned silence.
"Just do it already!"
Tantrum then pulled the trigger.
But we only heard the empty clang of the hammer because there was no bullet in the barrel.
Everyone there laughed at me.
At that moment I felt like an idiot. It was obvious Tantrum wasn't going to kill me; he wasn't that merciful.
Tantrum hit me again and left. I fell to the ground for the umpteenth time.
A couple of my torturers untied my hands and legs because they knew I was too weak and injured to move. Then they grabbed both my arms and dragged me out of there.