Published at 24th of July 2026 10:04 am

Chapter 39 - The Second Funeral

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My phone's alarm goes off, my arm snapping out like a snake gulping up a mouse, and I shut it off before the second ring. I groan, stretching my limbs out under the covers. My sleep hasn’t been the same since being back in my hometown for the funeral. Jean-Luc’s funeral. Another child of New Farford will be laid to rest. Another that died by hand. Marcus, Maria, and now Jean-Luc, from five to two in less than a year. All that is left is Aubrey and me. We haven’t spoken or seen each other since Violet’s party. A party where I thought I would have to murder her. Because Aubrey’s memory is returning, or has returned completely. Her amnesia was only a temporary fix. I should’ve known better than to trust my fate to a chance. I should’ve killed her after Lee Daeshim knocked her out instead of bringing her to the hospital.

Instead, I let her become a vigilante and then join the Heroes’ Union. I gave her superpowers, and she made connections in the Cape world. Connections that have caused me headache after headache. If I hadn’t framed Violet for Jean-Luc’s death, she would’ve remained as part of that team until they all became full-fledged Capes for the Union. Aubrey isn’t the type to let things go, especially not with Davis’ rage filling her, so there’s a nearly one hundred percent chance that she confronts me today. I need to redirect her rage away from me somehow. If Violet hadn’t disappeared suddenly, then I could use her. No, I need to have a different strategy for today. She’s not going to accept anything less than a full explanation for my actions, secrets, and lies. I hop in the shower as I continue to plan for today.

 

 

She’s going to ask why I was at the O’Rourkes’ pub. There isn’t a way to explain the murders as self-defense. What direction should I take it? I start blow-drying my hair as I mull over the correct path to navigate. I could go for a hard anti-crime stance, appealing to her hatred of criminals and those who misuse their powers. That could work, and I might be able to use Jean-Luc’s murder as further justification that my way is the only way. Shutting off the blow-dryer, I begin to put product into my hair, running my fingers across my scalp and massaging the roots. That’s option A.

I spurt some toothpaste onto my toothbrush and start brushing. I could say that I’m being blackmailed and threatened into cooperation. Yes, that could work. I’m not the man in the black mask, Aubrey. It was stolen from me by some Cowls who are now threatening me into cooperating with them or else they’ll hurt those that I care about. The best lies are the ones that are rooted in truth. Technically, I am not the man in the black mask. I’m Nobody, and my current helmet is white.

Should I tell her about Technologica? That android bitch is threatening me, so it’s entirely true to say I’m being coerced into helping her. The problem is how to prove that to Aubrey. I’m guessing less than a hundred people know that she’s still alive and active. No, involving that woman is a recipe for disaster. Robot Bloody Mary likely has a worldwide spyware program listening for mentions of her name. Special Agent Waters is likely to show up and kidnap me the moment I tell someone that isn’t part of my group about her. Or an orbital laser wipes out our town. No, the risks are too high. I’ll kill Aubrey in front of a group of people before I tell an outsider about my personal cybernetic Sword of Damocles. Shifting blame to a mysterious Cowl is option B.

I start buttoning up the white dress shirt as I continue my brainstorming session. Then there’s admitting I am the man in the black mask as option C. I freely admit that I am indeed the man who took down Virtue and that I can do it again. Tell her of my plan to depower the unworthy Capes and Cowls of Quinstin to make things safer and better for everyone. Point to the problems with the Heroes’ Union and the way the BNA handles things. I can reveal the Ares kill squad information to discredit the BNA and the UN. The Heroes’ Union has already soured itself in her eyes by not declaring Violet persona non grata. I could make Aubrey see that the current status quo cannot be fixed; it can only be toppled, burnt to ash, and the ground it was built on salted. Miles might be able to get through to her. He could mold her into the type of hero that the two of them so desperately want to believe exists. The two of them can’t see that there is no such thing as the moral paragon of a hero. But their commitment to the ideal can be molded to fit my designs. I could change Aubrey’s powers so they wouldn’t even recognize her as Stinger anymore.

“Eryk, are you almost ready to go?” Daniel asked from the other side of my door.

“Yeah, Dad, just finishing getting dressed. Be out in a minute,” I yelled back.

I grab my black tie and suit jacket, slipping the jacket on and quickly knotting the tie around my collar. I check myself in the mirror, and I don’t see any issues or potential faux pas. Tilting my head slightly to the right, I raise my cheeks in a pained smile that clearly looks put on. Yeah, that looks good for the funeral. I relax my shoulders, letting them drop, and stare at the ground. Better. This should pass inspection by anyone, and I might even be able to avoid having to deal with Aubrey. I tie my dress shoes and head downstairs to see Daniel wearing a similar suit to mine; it’s slightly big on him, he hasn’t worn it since his wife’s funeral, and he’s lost weight in the years that followed. It looks good on him, the unshaven stubble giving him a rugged outdoorsy vibe to him. Combined with the thick-rimmed glasses and the drinking habit, he’s some women’s ideal type. The more time we spend together, the brighter the light in his eyes has gotten. It’s still dim, but it’s no longer the darkened thousand-yard stare of a man walking to his grave. I don’t love Daniel, but we’ve become friendly enough after starting the garden together. Moments of happiness can be found together with each other.

“I made some food if you’re hungry. I know I’m not the chef you are, but I can make scrambled eggs and bacon just fine,” he said.

“The smell of smoke emanating from the trash can is just a coincidence, then?” I asked.

“Okay, so maybe I burned the first batch of bacon. And eggs. But I figured out the problem and the second batch came out fine,” he protested. “Come on, cut your dad some slack.”

“I’m just messing with you; truthfully, I don’t have much of an appetite today,” I said sadly.

“I know I’ve said a lot lately, but I am really sorry for your loss, Eryk. I know how much your friends meant, mean, to you,” he said, catching himself slipping up.

I very much doubt that, Daniel. There are few people alive who could die, and I would be more than slightly inconvenienced.

“Thank you. Is there any more of that?” I asked, pointing to the cup of coffee in his hands.

“Yes, I made a full pot, so have as much as you want.”

“Alright, let me grab a travel mug, and we can head to the funeral home,” I replied.

 

 

“Did you want me to sit with you?” Daniel asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were sitting with the Duponts or with Aubrey. I understand if you would prefer to sit with them. I understand how tough this can be, so just let me know what you need from me, and I’ll do whatever you pick,” Daniel answered, scratching the back of his neck anxiously.

He’s completely out of his depth when it comes to being a parent. He got lucky to have me as a child. I never needed comfort, attention, or love.

“I didn’t give it much thought, honestly,” I said honestly.

“Alright. Well, we’re here, so let's head inside,” he said, shutting his truck off.

The Williams’ Family Funeral Home is exactly the same as the last time I was here. Jean-Luc’s extended family is grouped together, the older ones sitting in the seats that line the walls as Jean-Luc’s parents stand up and receive people’s condolences. I spot a few familiar faces, mostly townies that I know just by living here for seventeen years. I don’t see Aubrey anywhere, but I see her mom sitting toward the back. Maybe she didn’t come because it was too hard for her. Well, we’re here earlier than I’d planned on, so I'd better make my rounds. Thankfully, I can avoid the Duponts’ extended family. Only Jean-Luc’s parents speak English; the rest of them only speak French. It must’ve cost a fortune to fly all of them here from France. That’s got to be the Graves’ settlement money that paid for all of this. The practicality shown by the Duponts is cognitively surprising to me. Being able to put aside your son’s murder to profit from it is a level of pragmatism that I didn’t know was capable by normal people.

Mrs. Dupont’s eyes are reddened from recent crying, but Mr. Dupont is a wall of emotionless steel. All my life, the two of them have had an ageless quality to them. That’s gone now. It looks like they’ve aged decades in just a few weeks. Grief truly ravages the body. The two French citizens immigrated to America after Noxus took over Paris. Determined to give their son the best possible upbringing, they gave up their entire lives in pursuit of their goal. And in the end, it meant nothing. Their son is dead. They moved continents to a small town to save Jean-Luc from a life altered by Cowls, and he ended up dying at the hands of a Cowl anyway. He died by my hands because it served my agenda.

“Eryk,” Mr. Dupont said sternly.

“Mr. Dupont. Mrs. Dupont, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Cracks form in Mr. Dupont’s armored exterior, a flicker of the grief the man feels seeping out for but a moment. Mrs. Dupont grabs me, pulling me into a tight hug. Her body shakes as she cries into my shoulder, and I hold her comfortingly. My thumb rubs her back, trying to soothe the mourning mother. Mr. Dupont gives me a nod. The signal of approval from one man to another. We both profited from your son’s death, so I don’t mind comforting his mother.

“I miss him too,” I whispered into her ear.

I see a line beginning to form behind me, so I carefully extricate myself from Mrs. Dupont’s grasp. I say sorry for your loss to the rest of the family; whether they understand me is a whole other thing. Communicating sorrow past language barriers is all about physicality. I take a seat in the third row, and Daniel joins me after giving his condolences as well. Still no sign of Aubrey, and I think we’re starting soon. Where is she? More townies file in, taking seats at the back to be respectful.

 

 

Aubrey arrives after the priest has finished delivering his religious brief. It was the usual eternal happiness alongside the angels and God, and how his soul had returned to heaven to watch over us. She’s wearing a black sleeveless dress, an oversized gray satin bow she’s using as a belt, black tights, matching ballet flats, and a black purse. Her makeup is light, her eyes are swollen, and she smells like Daniel after a hard night. Is she drunk? She plops down next to me as Mr. Dupont takes the stage to begin talking about his son.

“You’re late,” I whispered.

“I’ve been here. I just decided to skip the Father’s sermon, okay?” She responded angrily and at a louder volume than necessary.

Unnecessary rudeness.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“N-no. So what if I am? Not everyone can maintain a mask of perfection in front of tragedy like you, Eryk,” she spat.

“I wasn’t criticizing or accusing you. I’m just trying to check on my friend,” I whispered calmly.

“Hah.”

It doesn’t look like she wants to talk anymore, so I focus back on the eulogy being delivered by Mr. Dupont.

“We’ve lost our only child, a pain that this town knows too well. I thought we were lucky because our son had been spared a fate that many children of this town hadn’t, and we had been spared a fate that many of you parents hadn’t. But in truth, it hurts just as much; the grief is just as overwhelming as it would’ve been had he died months ago. My son, Jean-Luc Antoine Dupont, was a bright boy who had his whole life ahead of him. A bright future ripped away by a tragic accident,” he said sadly.

“Bullshit,” Aubrey said loudly.

Oh god. She didn’t whisper it, but I guarantee all the people seated around us heard it. I can feel the room staring in our direction. If I ever needed further proof of the problems that alcohol causes after my stint with addiction, here it is. Mr. Dupont pauses his speech to see what the commotion is about, but Aubrey stays quiet. Small miracles, I suppose.

“His bright future was ripped away by a tragic accident and a hole gouged into our family that can never be filled,” he said sorrowfully.

Maybe I can get out of here without her having another outburst.

“BULLSHIT!” Aubrey screamed, standing up.

Never mind.

“What did you say, Aubrey?” He asked.

“I said it’s fucking bullshit. How dare you call it an accident? HE WAS MURDERED!” She screamed again, a slight slurring of her words. “And the supposed hole gouged into your family? Well, turns out the hole can be filled with money. BLOOD MONEY! Delivered straight to you by your son’s killer. So tell me, Mr. Dupont, how much was Jean-Luc’s life worth?”

Her inebriation isn’t doing anything to soften the venom her words are dripping with and the vitriolic accusation she’s throwing at him. Not exactly an accusation if it’s true. She sways in place, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady herself.

“I asked you a QUESTION. How. Much. Money. Was. Jean-Luc’s. Life. Worth?”

People are starting to stand up at the display. Jean-Luc’s mother is sobbing loudly, and the priest is off to the side, flabbergasted.

“Why don’t you take my truck and take Aubrey home?” Daniel suggested to me, handing me his keys.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I’ll figure something out; don’t worry about me,” he said.

I stand up, putting my arm around Aubrey, and start to steer her drunken body towards the door as she continues to scream and hurl insults at his family. I’m stronger than her normally, let alone when she’s wasted, so I have no trouble getting her outside. She shouts and yells, slamming her fists against me. Friends are nothing but problems.

“Let go of me. LET GO OF ME!”

“No, we’re leaving, and you’re coming with me. You can’t act like that in there. Not today, not ever.”

I open the passenger side door and half-lift, half-push her into the seat. As I’m trying to buckle her, she swings a hand at me, and her nail cuts my cheek. I feel warmth on my face, so she definitely drew blood.

“Stop fighting me, Aubrey. Aubrey, AUBREY!” I shout at her. “I am taking you home.”

“Fuck you, Eryk,” she cried. She stops fighting me, and I buckle her in. I close the door and hop in, starting the truck. She can’t go home like this. I need to take her for a drive. She continues crying and rocking back and forth. “Where are we going? This isn’t the way to my house.”

“You’re a mess, Aubrey. So we’re going to go for a drive. Is there anywhere you’d like to go?” I asked.

“You're the worst; it's your fault. You’re a monster; you did this,” she cried.

I nearly slam on the brakes, but I keep my composure. What does she know? I start driving toward what used to be the Deckler compound. They sold it after everyone died there. It’s deserted, surrounded by woods for miles, and if need be, I can kill and bury her there.

“You aren’t in the right headspace, so I’m going to overlook what you said and that you hit me. I know that you’re hurt, and I’m hurt too, so I’m not going to take any of this personally,” I said lightly.

“Oh, how nice of you to do me a favor. I'm such a lucky charity case. Eryk Blakely, everybody. MISTER PERFECT,” she shouted.

I ignore her and keep driving, staying focused on the road. She continues to berate me, trying and failing to make me react in whatever way she wants. Fifteen minutes of insults, accusations, and emotionally charged barbs later, we arrive. I pull into the property, the burned-down skeletal remains of the mansion in front of us. It started here, and it’s going to end here. One way or another.

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