# Chapter 10: "Shattered Reflections: The Loss of Self"

Centurion walked, his armored boots echoing loudly against the grimy, rain-slicked alleyways of the South District. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead, focused on one thing: finding something, anything, to lash out at. He tightened his fists, the metal of his gauntlet digging sharply into the flesh of his palm. The pain of the metallic spikes was a welcome distraction. It quieted some of the voices and calmed him down.

The air hung heavy with the familiar scents of stale beer, exhaust fumes, and decay. Neon signs buzzed with a broken, flickering light, and reflecting rain made a reflection on the ground, making the world look like it was upside down. Music was heard somewhere in the distance, in between beats.

He rounded a corner, and two figures appeared. They were huddled beneath a dilapidated awning, their faces partially obscured by shadow. There was a tense conversation happening between the individuals.

"You," Centurion said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. The two figures startled, their heads snapping up, eyes widening incrementally in fear as they recognized the impossible outline of the golden armor. "Where’s the neural interface?"

"We…we don't know anything, man," one of them stammered, his voice cracking with panic. He took a shaky step back, his eyes darting around in a desperate search for an escape route. "We swear!"

Centurion strode forward, his presence looming and casting a long darkness. He grabbed the stammering man by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off the ground with surprising ease. The man choked, his hands flailing uselessly as his feet dangled in the air. His eyes opened wide and he gasped for air, his face already turning a blotchy red. "Don't lie to me," Centurion said, his voice dangerously soft. "I know you're holding out on me. Shackles gave it to you for distribution."

"I-I swear, Centurion, we told you everything!" The second man protested, his voice shrill with terror. He held his hands up, palms forward, as if trying to ward off a blow. "We sold it all! We don't have anything left!"

Centurion tightened his grip, ignoring the second man. He focused all his attention on the one choking in his grip. "Tell me now," he asked in a dangerously low tone, "Or I'll make you wish you were never conceived."

"Okay! Okay! It's…it's in the warehouse a few blocks to the South, near the water," the man choked out, clawing at Centurion's hand. "Please…let me go! I’ll tell the police whatever you need."

Centurion released the man and the body fell on the wet ground with a meaty thud.

"Elm Street," Centurion repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He glanced at the other man who was staring. "Get out of here. Tell anyone I was here, and you both will regret you were ever born."

He turned and strode away, leaving the figures trembling in terror beneath the dilapidated awning. With every step his purpose became clearer. He was not there to save anyone.

He walked to the end of the alley and activated his gauntlets, the familiar hum of energy crackling around his fists. He focused his intent on the destination, a welcome distraction from the pain. And, in one fell swoop, he took off in the air, rapidly approaching Elm Street. This wasn't the Centurion they knew, the hero who saved thousands. Something was lost inside him. He had become something different. A weapon for something twisted.

Across town, in the gleaming, sterile headquarters of the Hero Regulatory Commission, a tense meeting was underway. Figures in brightly coloured spandex outfits huddled, the holographic display looming above their heads. The broadcast showed Centurion's brutal interrogation.

On the screen, everyone could see the faces of their own reflections.

"This has to stop, now," Valiant said, his voice ringing with authority. His silver suit gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, a symbol of unwavering justice. "He's gone too far. This is not what we stand for."

"What do you suggest we do, Valiant?" Aurora asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "Arrest him? Good luck. He's still perhaps the most powerful being on this planet. How much effort would it take to defeat him? Is it worth all the damage that would occur?"

Valiant frowned, clenching his fists. "We have to try something!" he exclaimed, "There are videos going around the web! That makes it our responsibility. He's just going to hurt innocent people!"

"Innocent?" Titan scoffed, his massive frame casting a shadow over the holographic display. "Those were criminals he was interrogating. The worst of the worst. They got what was coming to them."

"Titan, you can't be serious," said Nightingale, her face etched with disapproval. "We're supposed to be heroes, not judges and executioners!"

"Maybe that's what we need," Titan retorted, his voice hard. "Maybe we need to start cracking down on these villains, showing them that we're not afraid to get our hands dirty. The system is broken. Maybe Centurion's right."

"No. That's not the way," Valiant said, his voice firm. "We have to uphold the law, even when it's difficult. Otherwise, we become what we are fighting against. That's why we stand for what is right."

"Easy for you to say, Valiant," Titan spat, his eyes blazing with anger. "You're always playing by the rules. You always got your shiny armor. Maybe Centurion got fed up. Maybe he realized that the system is broken. That, sometimes, you have to take matters into your own hands to get everything done. You are too slow and weak. We are losing!"

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone present. The heroes looked at each other, faces etched with concern and uncertainty. Some condemned Centurion's brutality. Some saw him as a broken necessity.

"He is no longer one of us" Valiant said, looking at everyone in the eye. "We will take the city back."

The moral complexities of their roles were highlighted. A schism forming within the heart of the hero community. A division that threatened to tear them apart.

Centurion landed on the roof of the abandoned warehouse on Elm Street, the metal of the structure groaning ominously beneath his weight. He took a moment, to focus with all of his strength on his goal. And, with one swift motion, he put all his weight on his left foot, ready to barge. He kicked open the reinforced steel door and stepped inside.

He walked into a furious maelstrom of gunfire.

He activated the shields on his gauntlets, the energy shimmering and deflecting the incoming rounds with ease. His eyes scanned the room, identifying the positions of his attackers: a dozen heavily armed men, all wearing the telltale markings of the Shadow Syndicate.

"We have to protect the package! Do not stop! Protect Project Chimera!" yelled one of the soldiers, taking cover near a rusty metal container.

Centurion raised his hands, the energy intensifying around his fists, and ran.

The criminals, members of the Shadow Syndicate, scattered in panic as Centurion tore through their ranks. He grabbed one man and slammed him against the reinforced rusty metal container that held something.

"What is project chimera?" Centurion demanded. "Where's Project Chimera, where's the neural interface?"

The man struggled, gasping for breath; gasping to pry Centurion's fingers off his throat.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" the men yelled, lying.

Centurion tightened his grip, ignoring his words. He turned his attention to to one close to dying. The man's face turned blue in a matter of seconds.

Another charged toward Centurion with a metal pipe, swinging it wildly. Centurion sidestepped the blow, retaliated, and smashed his fist into the man's face. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He has never been here.

Centurion continued his brutal advance through the warehouse, his movements efficient and his blows delivered with brutal precision. With each strike, he felt a surge of raw power, an exhilarating rush of adrenaline. His actions were quick, and lethal. He was invincible. He was unstoppable.

With one last sweep, all his targets were neutralized. The warehouse floor was a mass of bodies.

He looked around the room and took a deep breath.

He unleashed his full power, mercilessly defeating his opponents. The violence and the destruction he caused were unlike anything he had done before. He paused for a breath.

Was this him?

Centurion stood amidst the wreckage of the warehouse, his golden armor now covered in blood. The criminals lay scattered around him that covered the crimson ground. A dark, bitter triumph surged through his veins.

He slowly looked down at his hands, saw his fingers stained red.

He looked to the ground. He had to make sure no one will ever found them.

He closed the door for the outside.

He walked back to his way home. There was no evidence.

He paused, stared at his hands with horror.

He turned back to his armored body.

Everything was chaos.

How would he wash this blood. How would he get rid of this memories?

He no longer recognizes himself.

His reflection was distorted by violence.

It had become something he did not want.

His conscience made him weak.

He saw the bodies, and finally understood what was happening.

How could he stop all these actions. How would he restore the time back, just for a few hours.

He understood there was no turning back.

Anger had taken everything from him.

Anger and desperation.

It was all a game

Centurion. What was that. He ran into the city streets and back to the building. It had become too tough to stand.

He got up and took roof way home. It had become hard to stand.

When he took one last breath, he didn't know what would happen.

He started moving up.

His eyes could not find his destination.

That all meant nothing.

From one building to the other.

All of his problems were about to end.

The city was covered in darkness.

Nothingness.

He could not process to the goal.

He walked away on the rooftops.

Was that hope he found?

As he took one last breath, he had something.

He remembered what he had needed to do.

It had become one last purpose for the first time.

A light that would save even him from falling.

The voice that had saved him.

From high in his distance, at one random rooftop, his vision shifted and finally focused on an outline between shadows.

The face was no longer hidden.

The Clown mask.

He knew who that was. That had all that he needed to know.

There was nothing there. It was over.

The stage was ready for its end.