“Happy?”

“Careful with that tone, lieutenant colonel. Many have disappeared for much less. We have allowed you to sit at the helm of Cerberus; do not make the mistake of thinking you are beyond us, now. Nothing and no one is beyond us.”

“You’re threatening me in — in my home? Are you serious? You do realize I can snap my fingers and cut you down into itty-bitty little, bite-sized pieces of fucking Enforcer, right? I can make steak cubes out of you faster than you can make the door; don’t test me.”

“You would never.”

“Want to find out?”

“You are willing to die for this man — for this insignificant, wretched filth not even worth your gaze and words? Your life, as commander in chief of Cerberus, is worth his, is it? I don’t quite understand.”

“You people never do. It’s called fucking respect — something you know very little about.”

“I know respect.”

“No. You know fear, discipline, duty. That’s not respect; that’s obligation. That’s all you Enforcers are and ever will be — little fucking lapdogs on your little fucking leashes.”

“Yet we can unmake you any second of any day of any week, month, year.”

“And even then, you won’t have my respect.”

“Your respect means nothing to me, lieutenant colonel.”

“Neither does your presence. Now get the fuck out before I have you carried out.”

***

Once again, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams found himself standing in the rain, cold and miserable and wet and still very much so sore all over. He had begun chittering, in fact. The chills had made its way through his coat, into his skin, past his flesh, and right down to the very bone. There wasn’t much left to freeze but the soul itself, and his was already far gone.

Fortunately for the Hunter, his day was almost at an end; there was just one thing left to do before, which unfortunately required quite a great deal of walking to and from yet again. If he was lucky, he’d reach home by midnight.

Or not.

“Need a ride, sir?”

“John.”

“Need a ride, John?”

Jonathan looked to the newbie.

He looked to the rain.

He looked to the armored, military humvee most definitely not meant for his kind, but also most definitely all things warm and pleasant and a rather attractive alternative to walking in the rain.

And so he sighed, rather loudly.

And in he went.

“Fine.”

“Great.”

“Drive fast.”

“I drive fast.”

“And don’t talk.”

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had never been to the inside of an armored, military humvee before. Correction: Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had never been to the inside of an armored, military humvee this nice before. The seats were leather, which he didn’t think were practical considering all the blood, sand, mud, and wet, field troopers track in on the daily; there was air conditioning, which came as a surprise since all of the Heimer Republic was basically doom, gloom, rain and cold, and never any spot of meaningful sunshine; and, to top it all off, there was a small screen propped right up the middle of the dashboard. The Hunter assumed it was GPS, though he suspected it more often than not doubled as entertainment.

Made sense.

Being out on the field wasn’t all adventure and action. Most days, there was plenty of sitting around and doing nothing because there was little else to do but sit around and do nothing.

Kind of like right now.

Except there was sand in the seats and on the dashboard and on the carpeted floors, for whatever reason.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, went rain on the windshield.

“Quite the weather we’re having, eh?” That was Rhanes, who was, much to Jonathan Wicker Abhram’s dismay, the one behind the wheel, going far too slowly, far too late into the night, and being far too noisy himself. He did not, as a matter of fact, drive fast, nor did he keep quiet and to himself. “Nothing but rain these past few days.”

The Hunter shifted in his seat; he was getting the leather all wet and nasty. He didn’t care. “You couldn’t think of anything better to talk about at least?”

“Not exactly.”

“I can.”

“Oh, very nice. Let’s hear it.”

“Yep, here goes — why exactly are you driving me home?”

The rookie fell silent. It seemed like the kind of question he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t, was strictly ordered not to answer, and yet, he did so anyway — in as vague a way possible. “Schneider's orders, John.”

“What, does he think I can’t find my own way back?”

“That’s not it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then why does he have your sorry-ass babysitting me?”

Rhanes slammed on the brakes hard; the lights had just turned red. The Hunter slid forth.

“Reasons, John.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Reasons you can’t share with me?”

“Reasons.”

“Right. . .”

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

“I’m not too familiar with the lieutenant colonel, but take my word for it — he’s looking out for you in some way or another. He sticks his neck out more times than he should, and I think that’s a mighty fine thing to do. I mean, after what you did for him? Makes sense, I guess.”

“What I did for him?”

Rhanes glanced at the light; it was still red.

“You saved his life.”

“He told you?”

“Word gets around.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Green.

The humvee lurched.

They were getting real close, real quick to home, but there was one more stop before, and this one was real important.

“Turn down left here,” Jonathan said.

The rookie hesitated, if only for a bit. He slowed down. “That’s not the way, John.”

“I know that; I need to make a stop real quick.”

“I’m not authorized—”

“Rhanes, it’s one stop. It won’t kill us, I promise.”

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

The rookie considered.

The Hunter waited.

The rain drummed on.

“Fine, make it quick. Where’re we headed?”

“The store.”

“What kind of store?”

"The kind that sells liquor."

"Oh."

***

The liquor store was not at all what Rhanes had in mind. He supposed it only made sense, after all. In many ways, being a Hunter was much like being a soldier. They were expected to shoot and kill and murder things, and not have a problem shooting and killing and murdering things. But alas, the human mind was not so easily suppressed. No matter how much conditioning one underwent, it was nigh impossible to completely shut off everything. Empathy, sympathy, guilt and pity — all were surprisingly quite persistent, and surprisingly quite distracting.

And Rhanes supposed when they got to be a little too much to handle, it'd be reasonable to turn to something that helped numb the. . .

Voices and pain.

What wasn't as reasonable was buying 5 whole bottles of tequila in one go. That was certainly something.

It's a wonder this man could still afford a place to stay and food to feed himself. It's a miracle he hadn't yet died of alcohol poisoning. Liquor did not at all come cheap these days, and if rumors were anything to go by, Hunters were not exactly well off themselves.

Or so he heard.

This one was clearly evidence.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Rhanes watched as Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stumbled out of the little, road-side store, bottle upon bottle in hand, barely able to keep them and himself from toppling on over and come altogether crashing down. He watched as the wet drenched this poor man's already rugged coat and made his boots gleam in the neon lights. He watched as the Hunter made his way quick across the parking lot, not even bothering to step over and aside puddles, but deciding rather to step into and through them.

He was a mess.

And in more ways than one too.

Click.

The door opened.

And in went the rain.

As well as one exceptionally miserable Hunter.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stepped off wet concrete and unto dry carpeting. His hair was dripping wet. "Fuck's sake. Couldn't you have parked closer?"

"Do you see the size of this thing?" Rhanes said. He did not bother helping with the bottles. "I’m not making my way in there."

"The sidewalk is wide enough."

"The sidewalk is — is absolutely not wide enough."

Click.

The door closed.

Out went the rain.

In stayed Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.

"Right then," Rhanes worked the stick shift, slowly reversing them back out into the street. There was nobody else out this late; the lanes were barren. "Home?"

"Yeah."

"And you're going to drink that all by yourself?"

"Why, you going to help?"

"I'm on the clock."

"Nobody has to know."

“I’m on the clock, John.”

“Suit yourself. More for me.”

***

The rest of the drive back was lacking in conversation. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams dozed off and on, keeping himself just barely awake with the help of fine Heimer Republic civil engineering, which in this case, amounted to a not so insignificant amount of potholes, and a not so insignificant amount of bumps. Rhanes, on the other hand, and much to the Hunter’s surprise, kept to himself from then on as well. Spare for the occasional “here?” and “down this way?” there wasn’t much of an attempt to keep the talk going. Perhaps he too was tired, Jonathan thought.

Not that he minded the silence, of course.

The peace and quiet was always welcome.

He was familiar with the streets now. He was familiar with the banged up, bent out of shape signs in this neighborhood, as well as the slow yet gradual transition from respectable housing to not so respectable slums. He was familiar with the winding roads that pooled with vermin and pests when the rain came, and the ever so dreary feel of hopelessness. He was familiar with it all — if a little too well.

Skrrrt.

A final pothole.

A final bump.

The humvee grinded to a halt.

And so did the Hunter’s little dreamland retreat.

“Here?”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams looked around, half awake, half asleep, half alive and half wishing he was dead.

Trash bags lining the sidewalks? Check.

Rubbish and bits of plastic clogging the drains? Check.

An old, rickety, dilapidated shack rented out for far more than it was worth? Also check.

This was home.

“Yeah,” the Hunter said. “This is it, alright.”

“Sure?”

“You don’t have to rub it in, dickhead.”

“Just checking is all.”

Click.

Click.

Door open, door close.

Rhanes lowered his side of the window and the balaclava obscuring everything but both eyes. He called out through the rain. “John!”

Jonathan turned; he was almost at the door, now. He was almost out of the rain, now. “What?”

“You, uhh. . .”

The Hunter stared hard.

“You going to be alright?”

And he kept on staring, still.

“You know. . . Just — you going to be alright?”

Jonathan considered. Truth be told, he didn’t know how to reply. The answer was obvious, yes, and yet, there really was no choice in the response. He couldn't say otherwise; he could only but agree. “Yeah, of course.”

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Rhanes blinked. He was getting wet too, now; the spray was making its way in, one drop at a time. "Sure?"

"I'll be fine."

"If you're not, I could—"

"I'll be fine."

There was no more. There was nothing more the recruit could offer but that same old look Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was presented with all throughout his life, and oh, how he hated it.

How he despised it.

Pity.

That's what it was.

The same look you would give a dying animal, or a suffering pet, or someone on their deathbed.

"Quit worrying; it's just another Tuesday."

"Monday."

"What?"

"It's still a Monday."

"Right."

Rhanes gave one last look to Jonathan Wicker Abhrams. He gave one last look to the dilapidated shack. He gave one last look to the neighborhood and to the sidewalks and to the myriad of unpleasantries anywhere, everywhere, all at once.

The recruit gave a nod, and a thumbs up, and a salute. "Take care, sir."

"John."

"Take care, John."

And he was off.

Way into the night.

Way away from John's neck of the woods.

He didn't talk much, this time.

He drove fast, this time.

He drove so fast he didn't notice the man standing in the shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

Smiling.