once a hero always a…

by Tyler Efford

The supermarket doors slide open with a tired hiss, and I step inside, greeted by the dull hum of fluorescent lights. They flicker a little, like they’re not sure if they want to stay on. Society’s the same way—always teetering on the edge, pretending everything’s fine while the cracks keep spreading underneath.

I steer my cart forward, wheels wobbling like they’ve seen better days. People shuffle past, eyes down, lost in their own little worlds. Used to be folks would nod at each other, maybe even smile. Now? It’s all screens and self-checkouts. No one wants to acknowledge anyone else unless they have to.

“People think they’re in control,” I mutter. “They think if they follow the rules, keep their heads down, life’ll just work out. But the rules don’t mean much when the ones making ‘em don’t have to follow ‘em.”

I catch a woman giving me a sideways glance. Right. Talking to myself again. Well, talking to you, really, but from the outside, I probably just look like some old guy losing his marbles in the cereal aisle.

I grab a box of the cheap brand. It all tastes the same once you add milk. Then it’s on to the next thing—bread, canned soup, coffee. Can’t forget the coffee.

Almost done, but I veer toward the meat section. Gotta grab a couple of steaks. Not the overpriced grass-fed stuff—just something decent enough to throw on a grill. My buddy doesn’t ask for much, but if I show up empty-handed, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I swing by the beer aisle next. Something cold, something strong. I don’t waste time reading labels. If it does the job, that’s all that matters.

As I turn the corner, I dodge a kid who’s too busy staring at a tablet to see where he’s going. His mom doesn’t even notice; she’s scrolling through something on her phone. The world’s gotten quieter, even with all the noise.

Through the check out, with barely enough money. Groceries in hand, I step back out into the world, the air thick with exhaust and faded sunlight. There’s somewhere else I need to be. And as much as I’d rather go home, put my feet up, and forget about it all... I know I won’t.

Not yet.

The paper grocery bag crinkles in my arms as I make my way down the sidewalk. The city’s got that evening haze settling in, a mix of pollution, distant sirens, and the hum of people just trying to get through their day. I could’ve taken a cab, but I like the walk. Gives me time to think.

The steaks and beer weigh light in my grip, but my thoughts feel heavier. Used to be, I had places to be, people to save, fights to win. Now, my biggest concern is whether I grabbed the right cut of meat.

This city’s always been like this. People crashing into each other, wreckage left in their wake. And me? I’m just passing through.

By the time I reach my destination, the chaos is two blocks behind me. I shift the bag in my arms and knock on the door. Three solid raps. No hesitation.

The door swings open, and there he is—Mack "the Titan" Lawson.

He’s broader than me, even with the years making our muscles turn to gristle. Gray stubble covers his square jaw, and his old t-shirt barely hides the faded emblem he used to wear on his chest. Used to be, that symbol meant something. Now, it’s just another relic of a time people barely remember.

“Well, well,” Mack rumbles, eyeing my bag. “You bring me something good, or am I throwing the door in your face?”

I lift the steaks slightly. “Better not burn ‘em this time.”

He snorts, stepping aside. “Get in here, you old bastard.”

 For the first time today, I actually feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be.

Mack kicks the door shut behind me and heads straight for the kitchen. The place is small, lived-in. A real bachelor pad if you ignore the trophies of another life—old photos, newspaper clippings, a cracked mask resting on a dusty shelf. We don’t talk about those much. Not outright, anyway.

He grabs two beers from the fridge, pops the caps off with his thumb like they’re nothing, and hands me one.

“Steaks first or are we getting drunk?” I ask.

He scoffs. “I'm already old. You want me to be old and hungry?”

I don’t argue. We head out to the back, where his rusted old grill sits under the dim porch light. 

Flips the lid open and sparks it up, Click! Click! Poof.

Mack tosses the steaks on, after a bit and they sizzle loud in the quiet. We stood there for a bit, drinking, listening to the faint hum of the city beyond the fence.

Then, he exhales. “Saw something the other day.”

I glance at him. “Yeah?”

He stares at the flames licking the meat. “Kid getting mugged outside a liquor store. Some punk had a knife to his ribs, demanding his wallet. The kid—maybe seventeen—looked frozen solid.” He takes a long drink, then mutters, “I almost stepped in.”

I don’t say anything.

“I had my hand on the door,” he continues. “Was gonna go out there, take the guy’s wrist, twist it back till it popped out of place. Just like the old days. But before I could, someone else stepped in. Big guy. Civilian. He just barked at the punk, ‘Hey! Get lost!’ And you know what? The guy ran.”

He shakes his head, staring into his beer. “Didn’t even need me.”

I let out a small chuckle. “They never needed us, Mack. We just made things louder.”

He gives me a look. “Are you saying all that work we did was useless?”

I take a swig of my beer, thinking about it. “Not useless. Just… temporary.”

That hangs between us for a moment before Mack flips the steaks, their flames licking at the juices like it was hungry.

You gotta understand something about Mack “The Titan” Lawson. He wasn’t just a hero—he was one of the big heroes, the kind kids wore on their t-shirts and backpacks. The kind who’d walk into a burning building and come out carrying three people under each arm. Strength of a damn freight train, and a heart to match.

I met him back when I was just starting out. I was a nobody, running rooftops, getting my ass handed to me by two-bit crooks. I didn’t have powers—just quick hands and a knack for getting into places I shouldn’t. One night, I bit off more than I could chew. A gang caught me trying to break into their stash house, and let’s just say they weren’t going to let me walk away.

Then Mack showed up.

I’ll never forget it—he landed right in front of me like a goddamn meteor, cracked his knuckles, and asked, “You boys looking for a fight, or do I got to make one?”

They ran.

And me? I figured if a guy like that was sticking around, I might as well, too.

We fought side by side for years. Him and his sidekick ‘figure eight’ and me and magnus. Our heroes took the big hits, and we played the scrappy sidekicks. We weren’t just teammates—we were brothers. But time’s funny like that. One day, the fights stop. The calls dry up. And before you know it, you’re just two men grilling steaks, talking about the past like its some story that happened to someone else.

Mack exhales, poking at the meat with his fork. “Guess we all slow down eventually.”

“Yeah,” I say, raising my beer. “But we had one hell of a run.”

We clink bottles, and for a moment, it’s almost like nothing ever changed.

*****

I wake up with my face mashed into a couch cushion that smells like old leather and cheap cleaner. My skull pounds like someone’s inside it, testing out a jackhammer. The taste in my mouth is something between abused alcohol and regret.

Yeah, yeah. Don’t judge me. You drink a dozen beers with an old friend and see how well you hold up.

I groan and push myself up, blinking against the sunlight creeping through the dusty blinds. The air’s thick with the smell of charred steak, leftover smoke from the grill, and something else—something I can’t quite place yet.

Across the room, Mack is slumped back in his oversized lazy boy, mouth half-open, snoring loud enough to shake the damn walls. Around him is a battlefield of empty beer bottles, a pizza box we definitely didn’t order, and what I’m pretty sure is his old championship belt from some underground fight league he used to mess around in.

I stand up, stretch, and immediately regret it as my back cracks like a firecracker. Being retired is a cruel joke.

Since Mack’s still dead to the world, I decide to take a little walk. Not that I’m snooping exactly—I’m just… reacquainting myself with the place, plus I needed to piss like I was on a ten hour road trip 

Still half-blind from sleep, I stumble my way toward the bathroom, gripping the walls like they might slip out from under me. “Alright, folks,” I mumble to you, waving a lazy hand. “Gonna need you to give me a little privacy here.”

I reach for the door and pause, cracking a half-smirk. “I might still be a little drunk, but if you’re expecting a full show, you’re gonna have to buy me a lot more drinks first.”

With that, I step in and shut the door behind me.

Silence.

Then— zip!

The loudest stream in the history of mankind. “What the frick is with everything at night, being louder?”

It echoes like I’m trying to put out a fire, and just when I think I’m in the clear—

My foot slips.

CRASH!BANG!SMASH!

Something shatters. My ass hits the floor.

“Shit—damn it—my bad, Mack!” I call out, staring at the broken glass scattered around me. I think it was a soap dish. Or maybe something important. Eh. Too late now.

Grumbling, I push myself up, shake off the lingering dizziness, and reach for the door handle.

Just as i step out.

I freeze.

Right.

I glance back at the sink.

With a sigh, I turn the faucet on, grab some soap and start scrubbing. “Can’t have you thinking less of me than you already do.”

Finally stepping out.

I continued my venture.

The walls are covered in memories. Newspaper clippings of old battles, faded photos of us standing shoulder to shoulder, bruised but grinning. There’s even a key to the city in a cracked frame. Funny. Neither of us ever locked our doors. We welcomed anybody who dared to enter.

I chuckle under my breath and take a step. Big mistake. My knees buckle, and I stagger forward, hands reaching for anything to steady myself.

I slam into the wall. Hard.

But instead of just catching myself, I feel something shift under my palm.

A deep click echoes through the room.

I stop.

Then, right in front of me, the wall sinks in.

A thin seam appears, dust spilling out as an entire panel slides, revealing a hidden door.

I stare at it, my heart suddenly beating a little faster.

“Mack,” I mutter, glancing at him. He doesn’t stir.

Of course he has a secret door. Because why wouldn’t he?

The question is—do I open it?

I already know the answer.

I reach out and push. The door swings inward, revealing a dimly lit staircase leading down. Cold air seeps up from below, carrying a scent I can’t quite place—metal, oil, something old.

I swallow hard.

Now, Mack might be a slob, but he’s never been careless. If he’s got something tucked away like this, it’s something important.

I glance over my shoulder. Still snoring.

The stairs groan under my weight as I stumble down, each step taking me deeper into the cold, stale air below the house. My breath is slow, steady, but my gut twists with something I can’t quite place. Something’s wrong down here.

When I reach the bottom, I freeze.

The room is bigger than I expected—wide and filled with workbenches, tools, and racks of old gear. But it’s the suits that grab my attention first.

Lined up like ghosts of another life, Titan’s old costumes stand along the far wall. I recognize most of them—the golden era suit, the reinforced exo-frame he used in the Blackout Riots, even the patchwork one we built in a motel room after a particularly bad scrap.

But then there’s one I don’t recognize.

A deep, jet-black suit with no insignia. Heavier plating, reinforced gauntlets, and a helmet with no visor. Just a smooth, featureless mask.

I step closer, running a hand over the armor. It’s cold. Newer than the rest. This wasn’t from back in the day. This was made after.

That’s when I see it—the door.

Steel, locked with a keypad. This isn’t just another storage room.

My pulse quickens.

Mack isn’t the kind of guy who locks things away. If it’s behind a door like this, it’s because it’s something nobody’s meant to see.

I glance around, and find a crowbar near the workbench. A little force, a little leverage—

CRACK.

The lock snaps, the door creaks open, and the smell hits me first.

Sweat. Metal. Something else—something rotten. 

How far does this house go into the ground? Usually its two floors us, not down am i right?

The darkness below is absolute. Not the soft dark of a closed room—this is thick, light-devouring black. I can’t see a single step. Cold air seeps up from below, stale and heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that makes my nose wrinkle.

I flick my phone screen on instinct.

Nothing. Dead battery.

“Of course,” I mutter. “You would happen to have a light would you? Of course not you dont have hands or a body for that matter. Wait…do you?” 

Never mind thats for a later time, when im not in a potential horror movie.

I grip the railing and start down blind, one foot at a time. The stairs creak louder than they should, each groan sounding like a deterrent to turn around. My free hand skims the wall, fingers brushing over peeling paint, cobwebs, something damp. The farther I go, the colder it gets.

Halfway down, my hand touches something that moves.

I freeze.

It’s gone the next second—maybe a hanging wire, maybe my imagination—but my pulse doesn’t slow. My mind starts filling the dark with shapes it has no business inventing. I keep going anyway, because stopping feels worse.

At the bottom, my shoes hit concrete.

The space around me feels big. Open. I can tell by the way sound doesn’t bounce back right. I take a cautious step forward, then another, hands out like a sleepwalker. I brush against a table edge, then metal—racks, maybe. Something tall looms to my left.

I swallow hard. “Where is your lights mack? Geez you a vampire or something too?”

My hand finally hits a cord dangling from above.

I don’t think. I just yank.

The world slams back into existence.

A network of fluorescent boxes flicker to life.

The light is sterile, bright, almost debilitating.

I almost hit the floor.

I catch myself on a metal table, fingers skidding through a fine layer of grime as my knees threaten to fold. My pulse roars so loud it drowns out everything else.

The room isn’t random. It’s organized.

Too organized.

Beams reinforced with steel brackets. Chains rated for weight, not decoration. A lattice of pulleys and locking mechanisms arranged around a central frame, all aligned with disturbing precision. This isn’t storage. It’s design.

And at the center of it—

A woman hangs upside down.

Her ankles are secured in heavy restraints, the metal biting deep into swollen, discolored skin. Gravity has dragged her body into a cruel parody of stillness, blood pooling where it shouldn’t, her arms hanging uselessly toward the concrete. Her fingers twitch now and then, small, involuntary movements, like signals from a body that hasn’t accepted what’s happened to it.

She’s naked. Not exposed for shock, but stripped of everything human—clothes, dignity, protection. Just flesh bearing evidence of what’s been done to it. Bruises overlap in sickening layers, some fresh and livid, others faded into yellow and green. Dried blood streaks along her ribs and neck, cracked and flaking, like she’s been left this way for a long time.

The smell hits me a second later.

Metal. Sweat. Something sour and unmistakably wrong.

I choke on a breath.

“No,” I whisper, but the word feels childish down here. Useless.

This isn’t a basement.

It’s a dungeon.

My stomach heaves, my hands shaking so badly I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. I can’t look away. My eyes betray me, cataloging everything—the precise angle of the chains, the way her body has been balanced to keep circulation just barely going, the padding placed not for comfort, but to prevent anything vital from failing too soon.

This wasn’t done in rage.

It was done with intent.

A sound reaches me then.

Not from her.

From behind me.

A faint scrape. Metal shifting against concrete.

I turn slowly, every muscle screaming, and the far edge of the room comes into focus. The light barely touches it, but it’s enough.

Cages.

Six of them, lined neatly along the walls like a collection. Inside—

Women.

More of them.

They’re chained to narrow beds bolted to the floor, restraints biting into wrists rubbed raw and swollen. Skin stretched tight over bone, eyes too big for their faces. Some shrink back when the light hits them, flinching hard, chains rattling in panicked reflex. Others don’t move at all, staring straight ahead, unblinking, like whatever part of them that reacted is already gone.

The smell is worse here. Stale sweat. Old blood. Something chemical, layered over decay.

My chest tightens until it hurts.

“Jesus Christ…” The words fall out of me, useless.

One of the women lifts her head with visible effort. Her lips tremble, struggling to form sound.

“Help…” she whispers. Then, barely audible: “Please.”

I stagger toward them, horror crashing over me in waves—but then I stop.

Because she’s still there.

Hanging.

Alive.

Every instinct snaps into focus, sharp and screaming. The others matter—God, they matter—but she won’t last like this. Not much longer.

“I’m coming back,” I say hoarsely, though I don’t know who I’m promising. “I swear.”

I turn and rush to the apparatus, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. Up close, it’s even worse—the restraints engineered for quick release and reattachment, the chains rated for weight far beyond what they’re holding.

I scan the room wildly until I spot it: a heavy steel bar resting against a workbench. I grab it, hands slick with sweat, and wedge it against the locking mechanism around her ankle.

“Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Okay. Easy. I’ve got you.”

I brace my foot, put my weight into it.

The shackle doesn’t budge.

I try again, harder. Metal shrieks softly, protesting.

Her body twitches, a weak sound tearing from her throat.

“I know,” I say quickly, panic clawing up my spine. “I know—just hold on.”

I adjust the angle, slam the bar down with everything I have.

CRACK.

The lock gives.

I barely have time to react before her weight shifts. I throw myself forward, arms wrapping around her torso as the second restraint snaps free. She collapses into me, light and terrifyingly fragile.

“Got you,” I breathe, staggering under her weight as I lower us both to the floor. My knees slam into concrete, pain flaring, but I don’t let go. I ease her down as gently as I can, cradling her head, trying not to jostle bruised skin, trying not to look too closely.

She’s breathing. Shallow. Uneven.

Alive.

Relief hits me so hard I almost sob.

Then—

A voice behind me.

Calm.

Too calm.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

My blood turns to ice.

My body locks up completely, every muscle frozen mid-motion, her weight still in my arms. I don’t turn. I can’t. The sound of that voice—familiar, steady, utterly out of place down here—pins me where I kneel.

I was never meant to get this far..

I turn, and there, standing in the doorway, is Mack.

Not drunk. Not groggy.

Awake. Alert. And looking at me like I’m something he needs to put down.

I swallow hard. “Mack… what the hell is this?”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “I'm the one who will ask the questions.”

I shake my head. “This… this isn’t you. Tell me this isn’t you.”

His hands flex, muscles shifting under his skin, “you were always blind to it, weren't you?” His voice is almost calm, like he’s explaining something obvious. “All the years we spent out there, fighting the same scum over and over again… how many times did we really make a difference?”

I don’t answer.

He gestures toward the cages. “These? These are the real villians. Worse than the ones we used to fight. The ones who can manipulate even the strongest of heros. Not with strength or power but with emotions. Almost rip the heart right out of your chest.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “And what, Mack? Just because you got your heart broken once or twice? You can Play judge, jury, jailor?”

His eyes darken. “It’s what they deserve.”

Before I can even think, Mack moves. Faster than thought. Faster than sight. His fist slams into my chest with the force of a battering ram. My ribs fold under the impact, the air leaving my lungs in a scream I can’t make.

The girl in my arms is ripped away. She’s flung across the room like a ragdoll, hitting the wall with a bone-jarring crack. Her body skids along the concrete before crumpling into a heap. Pain and fear writhe across her face.

I’m hurled the opposite way. My back slams into a metal cabinet with a deafening clang. Tools fly into the air, metal and wood bouncing like shrapnel. Pain spikes through my ribs, every breath a serrated knife slicing into my chest. My head snaps back, and for a moment the world tilts sideways.

Mack’s boot crashes down where my head just was. The floor vibrates under the impact, dust and debris spraying like a storm around us. Pain lances through my skull. My vision swims with sparks and shadows.

I roll instinctively, barely dodging another blow. My hands scrape across the floor, catching on metal and jagged edges. Every muscle screams. My lungs burn. My body shakes from adrenaline and fear.

I barely have time to move before he’s on me. Mack hits like a freight train, his fist smashing into my chest with a force that shatters air and bone alike. My ribs scream. I’m lifted off my feet, the world spinning violently.

The girl I’m holding is ripped from my arms. She flies across the room, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack. Concrete scrapes her skin, and she collapses, crumpled and still. My stomach drops, my chest tightening in panic. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t cry. She’s just… broken.

I crash the other way, back slamming into a metal cabinet. Tools explode from drawers, scattering in a storm of steel and wood. Pain slices through my ribs with every breath, stabbing, unrelenting. My head snaps back, vision streaked with dust and sparks.

Mack’s boot lands where my head just was. The shock rattles through me, throwing me forward. I roll instinctively, hands scraping across the floor, lungs burning. Dust and debris swirl like a tornado, obscuring the chaos around me.

And then I see her.

Lifeless. Crumpled. Almost saved.

The bitter truth bites: why am I doing this? Why risk everything? Over a broken heart? Over someone I couldn’t protect? Over myself, over pride, over—what?

Mack lunges again, unstoppable, but the fire in me answers. The fight is no longer just survival—it’s fury, its grief, it’s proof that I won’t be powerless. Every movement is sharper, faster, heavier. Every blow is fueled by the rage that surged the moment I saw her lying there.

The room is chaos incarnate. Metal clangs, tools scatter, dust fills the air, debris flies like bullets. But in the center, I’m alive. I’m furious. I’m relentless. And I will not let this end like this—not for her, not for me.

Mack comes at me like a wrecking ball, shoving cabinets aside and crushing tools underfoot. Metal screams. Wood snaps. Dust fills my lungs. I’m bruised, bleeding, and I know one mistake ends me.

He’s strong. Too strong.

I force myself up, lungs burning. “You juicing, old man?”

He cracks his neck. “Had to adapt.”

He swings. I barely slip past, his fist tearing the air where my head was. If he grabs me, I’m done. I duck behind a workbench, buying seconds I don’t have.

“You going to kill me?” I shout.

“I don’t want to,” he says. “But I will.”

He vaults the bench and smashes it flat like cardboard. No pause. No strain. This isn’t a fight—it’s an execution.

I see it: a half-built gauntlet. Exposed wires. Live power cell.

I grab it as he lunges. I don’t think. I swing.

The hit detonates.

The shockwave throws me across the floor. My arm screams. Mack slams into a steel shelf, warping it, and still stands, blood running from a split lip.

He grins.

Then he breaks me.

A fist caves my ribs—something cracks. Another smashes my jaw. I slam into the bench, choking on blood, spitting red onto concrete while he watches like I’m a bug.

“You were never meant to win.”

Water spreads across the floor. A live wire sparks, snapping and sizzling. I stagger to the bench. He charges. At the last second I kick off. He hits the wall hard enough to shake the house.

I grab the wire. It burns my hand.

“Power trip,” I snarl.

I drop it.

Electricity rips through the water. Mack convulses, screaming, muscles locking, body smoking. The fuse box blows. Silence.

I check his pulse.

Alive.

That’s enough.

I turn to the cages. The women inside stare at me, wide-eyed, like they don’t know if I’m here to save them or lock them back up.

I swallow hard and start looking for the keys. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The house is eerily quiet as we step out of the basement. The women move slowly, still weak from God knows how long in those cages. I stay close, guiding them through the darkened hallways, past the living room where Mack and I had laughed over beers just a few hours ago.

The smell of the night still lingers.

Empty bottles sit on the table, a frozen snapshot of a night that was never supposed to end like this.

I glance back toward the basement door, still open, the darkness below swallowing the wreck of a man I left down there. I swear I didn't know he was anything like this.

I don’t feel victorious.

Just tired.

I push forward, leading the women outside. The air is sharp, cold, biting against my busted lip and bruised ribs. We don’t go far—just enough to put the yard between us and him

I help the women over the uneven ground, keeping my ears open for sirens. It won’t be long now. The SHTF—Superhuman Task Force—always shows up when someone like him goes down.

So we wait.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Then—

A deep hum in the distance. A ripple through the air. The sound of them arriving.

A dark aircraft, sleek and silent, cuts through the sky and hovers just above the trees. The side doors slide open, and black-armored figures drop down in perfect sync. No wasted movement, no hesitation.

These guys don’t hesitate.

They don’t flinch.

They fan out, eyes sweeping the area, weapons humming with that low, unstable charge meant for people like Mack. People who don’t stay down without some extra persuasion.

One of them approaches me. Their visor clicks as it scans me, then shifts past me to the house behind us. “Titan Lawson?”

I nod. “Not so much a Titan anymore.”

The agent gives a short nod and motions to their team. In seconds, they barrel through the house  and are on him, locking reinforced chains around his wrists, ankles, chest. Enough restraints to hold down a real monster.

They drag him up. His head lolls to the side, barely conscious. His face—

I used to see that face on billboards. On TV. On action figures kids carried around like he was some kind of god.

Now he’s just another fallen legend.

Another name added to the list of heroes who couldn’t let go.

One of the women behind me speaks, voice hoarse. “What’ll happen to him?”

The agent doesn’t answer. Just secures the last restraint and steps back as they lift Mack into the aircraft.

I already know, anyway.

He’ll disappear.

They’ll lock him away in some deep, dark hole, somewhere the world won’t have to remember him.

Maybe that’s the best thing for him.

Maybe that’s the best thing for all of us.

I watch as the ship ascends, the man who once stood for everything now just a caged animal, lost to time.

And I can’t help but wonder—

Is this what becomes of all heroes?

Photo of Tyler Efford

BIO: Tyler Efford is a long time writer, lover of stories, movies and anything
that draws you into a world to explore.
He has not been published yet, but hopes to get his chance with alot of stories in the works. He lives in Saskatoon Saskatchewan, Canada with his fiancé, 2 kids and dog Thor.