They say a Lynch Mob is the truest form of democracy. I used to push that idea to the side thinking it was just the paranoid writings of some cynical philosopher from some far off corner of Europe in the 18th or 19th century. That of course wasn't the truth was it? I mean the eggheads tend to look too deep into history, and they'll find some terrible atrocity that was committed hundreds of years ago and try and group all humans together into one group of ruthless monsters.

Well, I believed that was the case until I was by own stupidity manipulated into becoming part of the lynch mob. And I laughed when I saw what I thought was a rapist burn to death. But that man wasn't a rapist, or any other kind of deviant. He was just a simple husband and father of five children. But that didn't stop me from throwing the lighter up to the man who had lit the pyre that night. If only I had not thrown that lighter all those years ago maybe that man who still be with his wife and children, not with his ashes spread across the town square.

I'm a member of the mob you see in the news, a nameless face that hated someone for no reason other than my neighbors and friends hated them. My punishment for this isn't jail time or, to be hated by my peers, instead my punishment is to be haunted by the inhumanity that I showed that night and to hear screams of an innocent man as he slowly burned alive, every time I close my eyes.

I'm forced to endure the guilt and madness, I suffer, because I was too stupid to think for myself. I'm left by myself forced to mull over what could have been if I didn't toss that lighter to the man at the front of our mob of idiots, or if everyone actually believed the jury when they said that the allegations were baseless, or if maybe someone stood up and said that what we were doing was insane.

But in the end when it came out that the girl had lied about the supposed "rape", our mob had changed from the voice of democracy, to the sneer of anger. And I 15 years later am left alone in misery because I know that every voice counts equally, and that each in its own way is the judge, the jury, and the executioner. And I had stopped justice from being served because I let the mob control me.

"Summon the speedster forth. I have a message for him to deliver." 

He's talking about me, Mercury. The wittiest and quickest God of them all. Now, I'm not boisterous, but I was given the task of being the Messenger of the Gods for these qualities, as told by Zeus, Janus, Kukulkan, and various other Gods I only looked up to when I was younger. You may think, "ah, you're a postman". If so, you are mistaken. Here's why.

The ability to think and act at speeds surpassing light is my gift. Others obtain powers concerning elements or properties of the world such as lightning or snakes. I am widely known for being a messenger, but in the war, I was classified as an assassin. The Greek and Chinese pantheons against the Roman and Mayans. In wars, people kill to live. It's what I had to do, but it only left me to mourn fallen brothers. The Council was formed to bring us all to our senses after seven years of chaos. It was seven years too late. I had already killed dozens, and the whereabouts of my father, Jupiter, were unknown. All because of an order from a certain man.

Poseidon.

The message was for Chaac, the second in command of the Mayan pantheon. He, a former acquaintance of my mother, Maia. As a policy, it is none of my business to investigate a message's meaning. But this one needs investigating, and it starts with the God of the Sea.

I have blood on my hands. I thought I was helping people, and be a real-life version of a superhero from a comic book, but it all backfired. I've killed people because I couldn't control myself.

At first I did what it because I wanted to help people, I was a bleeding heart with a knack for investigation and writing. And this was the perfect opportunity for me to make my city, a better place for all. But I never could use my abilities responsibly.

As you can guess I am a former journalist. I ran the paper by myself and I was for the most part non-profit.

When I first started writing, I went to the slums and published articles on the poor educational options and violence there. My paper sold like ice cream in July, and within two weeks the mayor announced there were plans on revitalization projects in "troubled neighborhoods".

These projects had just been a P.R stunt to quiet the public, and I angrily condemned the mayor and the city council in every article I wrote. And when the public found out they threw a Molotov Cocktail into the mayors house, then all his neighbors' houses.

People began to blame me for what had happened. It was all over the news and there were rumors that I was among the angry mob. Now everyone hates me and ignores my paper, and I am alone and voiceless, a fate worse than death for a bleeding heart.