...Heroes!
What had gotten into him to try and pose as one?
'Come out of your comfort zone...' They said.
And he did. Look where it got him now—dead! Dying in the most gruesome of ways. In the middle of the Pacific or whatever damned ocean it was; he couldn't care less. Regret pricked his mind like pins, slightly numbing the pain coursing through his body. His life flashed before his eyes like a black-and-white film on fast forward… Wait, what eyes?
Did he still have his eyes? He couldn't remember anymore. He felt the breeze, salty against his skin. Ah, he didn't have that either!
"CURSES! DAMN THEM ALL!"
"Huh? What is this—he's still alive?!" A voice resounded from his immediate surroundings.
It was male, gruff, and vile to its core. Thank God he couldn't gaze upon the owner of such a voice. Then, he heard footsteps approaching, stopping a few paces before him. Without warning, fresh pain coursed through his abdomen. He coughed violently and instinctively tried to crouch to nurse his aching core, only to realize he could not. His hands were bound, as were his legs. The more he struggled, the more his restraints cut deep into his skinned limbs. Then came the realization—
He was upside down!
As he adjusted to his new orientation, another wave of agony crashed over him.
Eerie laughter filled the space around him, an audience delighted by his suffering. The one-sided beating continued for what felt like an eternity until his consciousness began to waver, and his body—what remained of it—ceased spasming.
"Now, Jalack, that should be enough, should it not?"
A new voice rose above the frenzied applause, silencing the room. A figure strode through the crowd of roughly fifteen rugged men toward the lifeless, bloody excuse of a former human.
The newcomer—just like the rest of the gathered men—wore dull clothing that could pass for rags. His teeth gleamed with the natural gold of rot. Despite his aged appearance, he was slim and athletic, though a noticeable limp marred his steps. The men, each bearing varying degrees of filth, instinctively made way for him.
Jalack, the main entertainer, took a slight bow and stepped back from his 'masterpiece,' allowing all to see his handiwork.
What lay before them made the leader stroke his graying beard contemplatively. This thing—this mutilated corpse—was the cause of the hindrance to their operation?
He and his thirty-man crew had hunted this cruise ship miles away from any nearby islands, planning for a smooth operation. It was supposed to be a simple mission—ransack and leave—with little to no casualties on their side. Everything had gone as planned initially. His pirates, each armed with an AK-47 and other weapons, had swiftly rounded up the unsuspecting passengers. They had jammed the ship's radar, ensuring they remained undetected.
Security personnel? Dealt with discreetly.
Deck? Secured.
Upper deck, middle deck, every section—captured without a hitch.
It was foolproof.
However, among the sheep, there had been a wolf.
Like a shepherd dog protecting its flock, the bartender had fought back. He had ambushed two pirates in the dining sector, wresting away a weapon and turning the tide. With the help of good, quality booze keeping the pirates distracted, he had managed to stab one of them in the eye with a cork opener before unloading half a magazine into the other.
"This one took down five of my men!" the leader exclaimed, astonishment lacing his tone.
He hummed in acknowledgment and made a small prayer to the god of booze for the fallen man. Brave men were rare these days.
Now, what remained of the bartender was an unrecognizable lump of flesh, tied upside down like cattle awaiting slaughter. Not even his mother would recognize him. The hero was stripped pink, his skin flayed from his body.
The pirate leader grimaced the longer he stared. Jalack might have gone overboard. All this, just because his nose had been broken in a brawl with the hero?
"Jalack, dispose of this and get back to work. Time's not on our side," the leader commanded, turning toward the upper deck.
Jalack grinned ominously at the order. At least he could get a few more kicks in before feeding the bastard to the sharks.
As he cut the ropes suspending his victim, he noticed something—the faintest movement in the corpse's chest area. It was rhythmic, like the beat of a…
"Stubborn fucker!" he spat in disgust. Then an idea struck him.
"Hey, fellas! Who wants to watch this punk go up in flames?"
Cheers erupted as Jalack led some of the crew to the upper deck. They propped the somehow-still-alive bastard in a corner, doused him in oil, and prepared the show.
"For our fallen brothers!" he roared, striking a match.
The flames roared in agitation, licking up their sacrifice. The body writhed at first, but soon, it stilled. The pirates cheered, dancing as if victorious.
But they failed to notice the most important thing—better to lose the battle but win the war.
A scent began to rise from the corpse—not the usual stench of burning flesh, but something more chemical, more volatile. Jalack narrowed his eyes, watching as the flames flickered, turning a bright purple. Then, green fumes began to leak from the corpse's abdomen.
"Oh, you gotta be fucking—"
**BOOM!**
A fiery explosion ripped through the deck. The blast was like a tsunami of greenish-purple fire, engulfing the crew before they could react. Not that it would have mattered.
The heat got to them first, melting flesh and tissue in an instant. Then, the flames swallowed the ship whole.
Screams of agony erupted across the decks as chaos ensued. Molten debris rained from above, setting everything ablaze.
In the end, the hero truly did have the last laugh.