Heroes and Monsters

Axl waved to the bartender for another drink.

The glass was set in front of him with a friendly nod. "I fancy the tea myself. Hope you enjoy it."

Axl smiled politely and took a sip. Bitter. He suppressed a wince. The tea was fine, but the water still held onto that post-war bitterness—like the town itself hadn’t quite healed. Still, it helped calm him while allowing him to stay clear headed.

He scanned the bar. Smoky air hung thick as the patrons laughed, cursed, and stumbled through a haze of booze and fading memories. Pool balls cracked in the background. Cigarette smoke curled like ghosts around dim lights. The floor was sticky, the wood beneath his boots scarred by time and violence. Five years had passed and yet, the scars of battle could be found in every corner.

But still... they try.

The bell above the bar's door jingled. Axl didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

"You're late, John," he said without looking.

The tall, hooded figure slipped into the seat beside him.

John smirked. "The bell gave me away, didn’t it?."

He pulled his hood back. Long black hair rested on his shoulders, while his tanned bronze skin did well to hide the scar barely visible under his right eye.

Axl grinned. "I knew you were coming before the bell rang. I’d know your footsteps anywhere."

John slid a small coin pouch onto the counter.

"From the mayor," he said.

Axl opened it. His face tightened.

"Twenty-five? I told him ten was more than enough."

"I told him you said ten. He said twenty-five. I tried to insist we didn’t need more, but he wouldn't hear it."

Axl sighed but smiled. "Mayor Jackson always did have a generous streak."

John gave a rare, small smile. Progress.

Axl leaned in. "I found another outpost. Northwest of the ridge. It might be—"

SLAM.

The bar door burst open, slamming heavy against the wall. Three men swaggered in, wearing cracked leather jackets with the emblem of a horse enveloped in flames.

The Blazing Stallions.

Conversation died instantly. The clink of glasses, the shuffle of cards, even the drunken singing—all silenced. Fear gripped the air like a sudden frost.

The ringleader stood a head taller than his cronies. Bald, smug, and exuding confidence. Axl noted the gleam in his eyes—a hunter after his prey.

They sauntered over to the bar.

"Carl! Couple of drinks for me and the boys. Been quite a long trip and we’re parched. It’d be real hospitable of you, don’t ya think?"

Carl, the bartender, scrambled. "R-r-right away, Vincent."

He grabbed three glasses from under the counter. Axl noticed a subtle tremble in Carl’s hands as he poured the golden liquid. He picked up one of the glasses, hand shaking visibly now, and tried to hand it directly to Vincent.

But it slipped, spilling all across his jacket.

Carl turned white.

Vincent stood slowly. His face was calm. Too calm.

"Well now," he said. "Let’s just double up this month's protection fee so I can get my skins cleaned. It ain’t cheap, you know."

"W-we can't afford that," Carl pleaded. "Please, Vincent. My wife and I barely—"

Vincent tilted his head. "Where is the little lady, anyway?"

Carl’s words caught in his throat. Eyes flicked toward the back room.

Vincent grinned and snapped his fingers. One of his men vanished behind the door.

The crash of a glass. Muffled scream.

The man returned, dragging a woman by the arm.

"Lauren!" Carl shouted.

Vincent loomed over her. "Still as feisty as ever, huh?"

She spat in his face.

“Still strutting around like a leather-wrapped hog, huh?”

Vincent wiped his cheek. The grin dropped. Picking up Lauren, he pressed a blade to her throat.

“Three seconds Carl, or I ruin that pretty little neck of hers.”

Carl collapsed. Begging for his wife's life.

“One. Two…”

FWOOOSH.

A blur.

Vincent’s wrist stopped mid-slice. A cold blade pressed against his own throat.

It was Axl.

"Let go of the knife and the lady, Vinnie."

Vincent dropped the blade as Lauren scurried to Carl.

Axl turned him around. Their eyes locked.

"From what I’ve seen, you seem like a reasonable guy, minus the almost throat slicing" Axl said. "So let’s make a deal. You beat me? I triple Carl’s payment. I win? You leave. Forever."

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “I assume no weapons?”

Axl nodded and stuck out his hand. "Only fists, just like our forefathers used to do things. Keeps things fair."

Vincent shrugged and shook Axl's hand.

The crowd cleared space. John stood watch by Carl and Lauren. Patrons whispered nervously, unsure whether to watch or run.

Axl took position, mind focused.

He didn’t want to fight—he’d done enough of that during the war. But as he glanced back and saw John guarding Carl and Lauren, his eyes landed on her hand resting protectively over her stomach. That was when he knew… this wasn’t just about the bar anymore.

Vincent swung wild, but Axl danced around him like he was swatting at smoke. Axl moved with grace, every motion calculated, efficient. He considered closing his eyes or fighting one-handed—just for fun—but decided it’d raise too many eyebrows. The eyes of the bar patrons were on him from every direction—fear, curiosity, awe. He hated it.

Vincent's rage built. He drew a hidden dagger from his boot.

“Shocking, really. The thug who shakes down bartenders doesn’t play fair," Axl said, deadpan. "Didn’t see that coming at all."

Vincent lunged, dagger high—but in that same instant, Axl vanished from sight. A gust of wind kicked up, and then—CLINK—the blade clattered across the floor. Vincent was face-down, arm twisted behind him, howling in pain.

Many patrons in the bar rubbed their eyes in disbelief, trying to make sense of what they had just witnessed. To them, it looked as if Axl had just appeared behind Vincent.

"Listen," Axl whispered. "If you ever threaten anyone in this town again, I will end you. Got it?"

Vincent nodded.

Axl let go. Vincent rose, gasping.

"You’re fast," he muttered. "You one of them ain’tcha? Divine?"

Gasps broke the stillness, followed by a heavy silence that felt like the whole bar was holding its breath.

Axl glanced around the room, hesitant to confirm or deny this revelation. He slowly raised his right arm with the back of his hand toward the onlookers. A glowing crest appeared—a birthmark signifying Divine lineage, swirling with energy as if alive. It cast a faint white light over the dusty floor.

Axl noticed John looking down at his own hand for a moment, something unreadable passing through his expression—something like wonder, or longing. But that was a conversation for another time.

He looked back at Vincent, eyes sharper than knives.

"You tell your boss," Axl said, "I'm coming for him."

The Stallions ran.

The door slammed shut behind them with a wooden thud that echoed across the bar.

The silence left in their wake was thick—reluctant to break, as if the bar itself needed time to recover.

Carl wept openly, his shoulders trembling as he clutched Lauren close. Her face was streaked with tears, but she held her husband tightly, whispering something soothing into his ear. Around them, the crowd remained hushed, watching the aftermath of violence turned miracle. No one dared interrupt.

Axl approached quietly and knelt beside the couple, his presence now less a threat and more a pillar of safety.

He placed the pouch Mayor Jackson had given him into Carl’s hands and looked between them. "For the baby," he said softly, his voice stripped of bravado.

Lauren was the first to rise.

“Thank you, sir. This means more to us than we could ever express.” She bowed her head and reached down to pull Carl up.

Carl made eye contact with Axl, his lip quivering. "You saved us. I—I don't know how to—"

"You don’t have to," Axl interrupted gently. "Just take care of each other. That’s enough."

A few patrons clapped softly, others simply watched with wide eyes and tightened grips on their drinks. Reverence. Caution. A strange, quiet shift in how they saw him.

John and Axl walked out into the cool night.

The street outside was quiet, lined with lanterns that flickered softly in the breeze. Only the whistle of the wind that flowed between the buildings could be heard.

"Are you okay? Your face is red," John asked.

"It's just... different."

"Different how?"

Axl turned. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

"It's different…being seen as a hero instead of a monster."

Without another word, he took off running, chasing the direction the Stallions had fled.

John watched him disappear into the night, his chest heavy with a pang of envy.

He looked down at his right hand–scarred, trembling–and clenched it into a fist. No light, no crest. Just skin that never felt like his own.

“You’ve always been a hero, Axl,” he whispered. “Sometimes, heroes need time to heal too.”

His voice dropped lower, bitter but quiet.

“And me…? I’m just the monster who followed you out of the dark.”