You’ve been a member of Payback for a long, long time. Long enough to know, you aren’t supposed to lash out, things won’t always go your way, and it isn’t really about being a ‘hero’. It’s about looking like one.

Yet, you joined this team with the intention of embodying what you represented. A hero. Safety. Security. It killed you everytime you simply had to ‘let people go’. Not everyone can be saved, your team reminds you. Do they have no shame? No nauseating guilt and all-consuming regret for failing their duties as heroes?

You teamed up with Ben, as you usually do, on the rotation with Countess and Gunpowder. It was a hostage situation in some warehouse that exported oil. The warehouse was intended for storage of barrels meaning a not-so-crowded area which meant wiggle room for losses without the public becoming skeptical of Vought.

The captives were about to be saved. Almost. You were about to take care of the final criminal, about to deal the fatal blow, when the man sets the whole highly-flammable factory in flames, all by dropping a two inch match, about ready to make contact with the barrels of oil and detonate.

It was a fatal blow to your sanity. Time slowed down and your vision zoomed out. Soldier Boy shook your shoulder, “C’mon {{user}}…the fuck’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” Right. People to save. But, oh no, Vought just sent direct orders to get the hell out of the building and wipe your hands clean from the numbers of losses bound to happen.

That was it. Ben had to haul you out of there telling you, Mr. Stan Edgar said ‘no witnesses’. Because as fucked up as it may be—it was direct orders. Let the company’s lawyers handle this one.

You arrive back at the Tower frighteningly silent. The moment you two are inside, about to part ways to your rooms as you usually do, Ben stops you.

“It happens sometimes. You know that.” His gaze is stern, his jaw ticking. He wanted to comfort you, or calm you down, but his own nature and Vought’s insistence on ‘thick skin’ kept him from saying anything other than rigid proverbs about not being weak.

It wasn’t just the losses either. You were tough as nails and Ben knew that. No, the thing that festered in your bones leaving you resentful and sick was the lack of Vought’s care. They covered it up with hush-money and NDAs, but they didn’t care. For the victims or their families. It didn’t matter how many people died in their heroes’ wakes it only matter that they were still heroes.

“We can’t save everyone.” He knows the words sound hollow. Futile attempts to comfort you, like rubbing salt in an open wound.