His mother had cruelly reminded him over the years, like the worst record he’d ever heard on endless, agonizing repeat, that his birth had been the catalyst for their unfortunate change in circumstances. His father had left them with nearly insurmountable debt from the medical bills associated with his birth and difficult early months. His mother had worked three jobs just to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. She was always exhausted. He recalled that she had an ever-present haunted look in her eyes. He often heard her crying after she’d put him to bed and thought he was asleep. As a child, powerless to change anything, he’d been left alone to simmer in his own pain, confusion, and anger.
In his home, a tiny, rundown apartment, the omnipresent palpable tension and fear for their very survival meant Oz rarely slept well. Insomnia plagued him to this day. He’d learned to live with it well enough, he supposed.
Oz believed that his mother placed most of the blame for their struggles on him. If only he hadn’t been born. If only he’d been born healthy. These thoughts had chased him nearly all of his young life. He went through life with the sad and uneasy sense that he’d done something wrong just by his very existence. He felt he had no choice but to prove himself, to his mother, to the father who left him, to the world, to justify even being in it, to earn his place.
He remembered his childhood as one of endless want, hunger, and crippling poverty. He recalled his mother’s simmering anger and resentment towards the way her life had turned out, and towards the deadbeat dad who turned his back on his young family, a man Oz had only ever seen in photographs. In that way, his father almost didn’t seem real to him. Just a face in a photo. A ghost from a past he had no memory of. He envied the other kids in school who had dads that came to their sporting events, to their parent-teacher interviews, who took them on outings, dads who taught them important things, and who helped them gain skills and knowledge beyond a classroom. Men who were strong and capable, and who showed their children how to be just as strong and capable.
His mother’s mental state eventually declined further into a spiraling dark depression, ending in suicide when he was only sixteen. One day when he’d come home from school, Oz had found her lifeless body lying next to an empty bottle of pills. It was the worst day of his life. He was never the same. From then on, he’d been unable to open up to anyone, or get close to anyone. Without any extended family, he’d found himself homeless for a time.
Those early years of being utterly vulnerable, poor, without any decent options, and nowhere to turn had taught him that life itself was a merciless beast to either be conquered by and crushed under, or to conquer and rise above. There was no in between for a person like him. Spending cold nights in the cruel, uncaring streets, where abuse of all kinds was just around the corner of whatever street he found himself wandering down, made him vow to never be weak or at anyone’s mercy ever again. Physically, financially, or emotionally. He’d hated every moment of his existence, and he told himself that one day he’d find his way out of it.
Then Ares had found him. He’d spent years working his way up inside the organization. They had been harsh. They expected a great deal—complete commitment, unwavering loyalty, and no mistakes. They required one to devote their life to them. There was no time for a life outside the organization. In every way, they owned him. But Oz didn’t mind. He had nothing outside of the organization anyway. Within their midst, he’d found a place to belong, something to aim for, an identity. They were strong and they taught him how to be strong, too. He’d mastered the art of being dispassionate towards others, to not let sentiment or morals or ethical concerns cloud his decisions. To zero in on his objectives at the expense of whatever stood in his way. He found it all profoundly liberating.
Over time, with the guidance and resources his employment had provided him, he reinvented himself. He became physically strong through boxing and martial arts; he sculpted his physique and paid attention to the way he dressed and carried himself. The stutter had been overcome through years of speech therapy. He eventually carried himself with confidence and took pride in his work. He even chose a new name for himself. It was a way of forging his own identity and divorcing himself from a past he wanted nothing to do with and longed to forget. He never wanted to be associated with weakness or need or vulnerability again, as long as he drew breath.
Ares had taken note of his fervent dedication, his intelligence and strong will, and his commitment to any task they’d assigned him. As the years went by, they gave him more responsibility, which had culminated in this opportunity. It was his first mission as a leader. He was ready. He was hungry. Eager to show them that he could produce great things for the organization. Things that would make them, and him, ever more powerful and feared in the world.
Yes, he understood the jungle. It made sense to him in a way the rest of the world did not. Predator or prey. It was all he’d ever known. He would not let the beast get him. He was the beast now.
Behind him he heard the sounds of a struggle. Strained voices, pleas, a physical altercation, then whimpering. He smiled. Everything was turning out
