Jonathan Wicker Abhrams breathed long and hard.
He leaned against an inconspicuous stone pillar, hunched on over, somewhere in the shadows of the Foundation headquarter — somewhere under the portico — out of the sun, out of the heat, and yet no less drenched in sweat. His hands were shaky, his knees were weak, his eyes were blurry; the Hunter was feeling a whole lot of things he’d much rather not be feeling at all.
Nausea was one of them.
Pain, too.
And the heat of the sun beating down all around was another.
It was a truly exceptional start to the day. Somehow, someway, it was all bad and no good, and somehow, someway, it was all getting worse and worse and worse. Him being team leader most definitely did not help. The morphine in his veins, the alcohol in his system, the sleep deprivation, the dehydration, the nausea, the pain, the sun — it was just too much, too soon, all at once, altogether.
The Hunter was close to losing his wits.
He was close to passing out, and he knew it.
He knew it.
He knew it.
He just knew i—
“You look terrible.”
That voice, again.
That damned voice.
Jonathan recognized it.
And all too well, by now.
Most days it irked him.
Most days he’d kill never to hear it again.
But some days — much like today — he didn’t mind it as much.
“I am, of course, talking to you, John.”
The Hunter offered a weak snicker. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, it felt as if all of his guts would come rushing out as well. Still, he managed a word or two. “Figures.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in briefing? I know you are awfully fond of such tiresome. . . Traditions. Me, personally? I can't stand all that — too many words, too much standing around, and far too little slicing and dicing for my liking.”
“You’re — ugh — a fucking animal, Wrath.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it, John — especially when people push me the wrong way.”
“People?”
“Person.”
“Person?”
“Enforcer.”
“Ah.”
“You saw how he kept egging me on in there. Makes me want to. . . Stab something.”
Jonathan forced himself upright once more; it was getting harder and harder to do each time. “Don’t — don’t look at me when you say that.”
“I didn’t mean you, of course.”
“Thanks.”
They stood side by side, the Divine cool, calm, collected, and the man a bumbling, stumbling mess reeking of old sweat, new drink, and perhaps a tinge of monster innards.
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams did not seem good; he seemed very much so not good, as a matter of fact. He needed a shower, he needed some rest, he perhaps needed a day off, and some bags of ice or two, though Wrath kept all that to himself.
“We’re leaving in a bit, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re headed for the desert?”
“Yeah.”
“A castle, was it?”
“Yep.”
“And who’s leading — me or Hades?”
“Not you two. Guess.”
“Oh? A new team leader — for once? Now, this — this should be interesting! Who is it, John? Go on, tell me! Is it Sangria? It’s Sangria, isn’t it? Hah-Hah! About time! I’ve been telling her for the longest time to step up and take some charge; good to know she’s finally listening, for once. Good to know I’ve gotten through to that—”
“It’s me.”
Wrath cut himself off.
He turned and stared, as if he was waiting for Jonathan Wicker Abhrams to grin, crack a laugh, then mumble something along the lines of, “hah, gotcha good.”
Nothing of sorts ever came to, of course.
And so Wrath burst out laughing.
And he kept on laughing, and laughing, and laughing some more.
Until Jonathan Wicker Abhrams went back to hunching on over.
Until Jonathan Wicker Abhrams went back to sitting down and shooting his Divine friend a nasty, nasty look.
Which promptly quieted all the hooting and hollering.
And rather quickly, too.
“I can’t. . . Do this.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, I can’t. You — you don’t understand.”
Wrath said nothing. He simply smiled, leaned against the same inconspicuous stone pillar, and closed his eyes. The wind blew through all around, lifting his hair, flaunting his coattails about, fanning his skin cool — it was a welcome change for once, and one much appreciated. The heat could certainly use a rest.
“You’re going to have to, John. We’re all counting on you, now.”
“Yeah, that’s the — ow — worst part.”
“That’s the best part.”
“What if I’m not ready?”
“No one really is, so how about instead of worrying, we go find out together?”
Silence.
Silence.
More silence.
The wind died down.
The sun beat on.
“Okay. . .”
“Okay?”
“Okay, yeah. I’ll. . . I’ll give it a shot.”
“Great.”
“And if it doesn’t go well, you’re taking over for me.”
“Done deal.”
Wrath extended a hand, offering what seemed much like a handshake.
Jonathan stared at it.
Jonathan slapped it away.
“Oh, well, that’s alright; we’ll figure that one out slowly. It’s called a handshake, you see — they’re nice. People do it a lot.”
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
There was a whirring in the distant skies.
It drowned Wrath out.
Jonathan didn’t complain.
***
“Is that them, wolfy?”
“That’s them.”
“They look nasty.”
“They are, I’m afraid. They’re more of the. . . Uncivilized crowd.”
“And we’re gonna be working with them?”
“We’re going to be overseeing them.”
“And. . . Why would we ever do that?”
“Because unfortunately, captain, one of them happens to be my — my friend. And he asked.”
“Asked?”
“Asked.”
“And you said yes?”
“Regrettably.”
“Ah. . . So sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. Now would you kindly radio me to ground; the day’s long and I prefer we get a move on.”
***
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had seen a Sky Pirate only once before. It was during his time in the army, when he was first stationed in some far-away outpost; fending off the Imperium; munching on gruel day in, day out; patrolling; reporting; shooting; and being rather close to rock bottom. He had seen a Sky Pirate only once before, when it streaked across the sky at the very last second and decimated the Imperium siege of a lifetime.
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He had seen one lay out a stream of bullets which very quickly turned what was once a revered Cloud Wyvern into nothing more than the plummeting, bloody, dismembered corpse of a mighty beast.
He had seen one single handedly crush the will, the drive, the resolve of an entire battalion so very close to victory.
They were. . .
For lack of a better word.
Terrifying.
A simple, terrifying machine serving its one, true purpose.
Without fault.
Without flaw.
Without hesitation.
Rhyme nor reason.
Thus was the Heimer Republic.
And all its machines.
They hovered just above Foundation, scattering about the autumn leaves, blowing coats from shoulders, hats from heads, and in the case of one particularly unfortunate administrator, papers from clipboards.
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sniffed the air.
There was the unmistakable stench of oil.
And rust.
“Beautiful, huh?”
Wrath was staring way up at them, with a child-like grin splayed from ear to ear. The wind was most furiously assaulting him and his hair.
“I was there when they first started making these.”
“Making. . . Sky Pirates?” Jonathan said, more than just slightly bothered by the gust.
“Aircraft, planes — flying machines, really. I was there when they first managed to keep it from crashing and burning. I was there when they first drew up plans. I was there when the idea first came to them — came to that madman, and he made it real.”
“Sir Siegfried?”
Wrath shot the stinking, belching, miserable Hunter a look; he cocked an eyebrow. “Someone knows their history.”
“A bit.”
“Mmm. . . Good to know a thing or two about the past, John.”
“And why — ugh — might that be?”
The Divine didn’t answer. He simply turned from Jonathan Wicker Abhrams and gazed way off into the horizon — gazed way off into the warm, yellowing skies; and the slowly waking, city streets; and the many mish-mashed, mumble-jumbled buildings making up a great deal of Eros, the City of Tomorrow.
And from where the Hunter sat, he could perhaps see the sparkle of the sun and the gleam of its rays in Wrath’s eyes. He could see the orange and the blue, the purple and the green, the red, black, white, silver, gold, and every other conceivable shade of color known to man dancing, prancing, intertwined together in one refined, spectacle ballad of pure aesthetic perfection.
He could see the life in them — in both the Divine’s eyes.
And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams realized right then and there, he couldn’t remember the last time his eyes looked anything like that.
He couldn’t remember the last time his eyes weren’t—
Dull.
And dead.
Clouded.
And tired.
Barely getting by.
Barely surviving.
Barely living.
Much like him.
And much unlike Wrath.
“Helps us walk the future. You’ll understand one day, John.”
There were quite a number of people gathering by the sides of the road down below, and by the sides of the many black humvees parked neatly behind one another. From where the two men stood, they could perhaps begin to make out the silhouette of Cerberus Sentrymen standing at attention, or Foundation staff going about ensuring a smooth sailing ahead, or Hunters sitting by the grass chatting, or maybe — just maybe — a certain Enforcer lurking at the very back of an alleyway, barely moving, barely even breathing, but always keeping a vigilant watch on everything, everyone, all at once.
No one seemed to notice the Enforcer.
No one but the Divine, that is.
He had an eye for detail.
And for things hiding in the dark.
“Wrath!” Someone called out from the assembly.
It sounded gruff, rough, but very much so authoritative and strict.
It sounded a lot like a man who was well-feared and well-respected.
It sounded a lot like Hades.
“Time to go! Tick, tock!”
Wrath cracked a smile.
The hunt had begun.
Finally.
And he was itching to plunge his blades deep into something.
Something breathing.
And alive.
And still wriggling.
Squirming.
Struggling.
“Coming!” he yelled right back.
The Divine flashed a pearly white smile back Jonathan Wicker Abhrams’ way; he waved for his friend to follow.
And John did just that.
He followed after, slowly and painfully and rather unwillingly.
But still, he followed.
Because he was their leader, after all.
And they depended on him.
They looked to him.
They needed him.
“Coming too,” he said to no one in particular.
The wind picked up.
***
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stood by his Divine friend, watching administrator Grant go from humvee to humvee, counting heads, marking attendance, and making absolutely certain that anything, everything, and indeed everyone, was accounted for. This time, he was carrying something other than his usual clipboard in hand. This time, he had a large burlap sack, torn and dirty, slung over one shoulder, and something was sticking out the opening.
Something that seemed to very much so resemble a gun barrel.
A gun barrel that Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could’ve sworn looked. . .
Familiar.
The administrator trudged on over.
He was standing with Wrath.
Rhanes.
And the girl in the red hood.
“Right, our Mains,” Grant said, glancing from Hunter to Divine to Sentryman and back to Hunter again. “John, you’ll be working closely with Wrath and little Red over here today; I expect a clean operation which means no accidents, no mistakes, and absolutely no casualties — understood?”
“Yes.”
“Private Rhanes will be taking you to and from our target destination; he’ll be responsible for your safety en route. If you need anything, kindly ask him to radio me in, yes?”
“Yep.”
“Fantastic. And one last thing —”
The administrator held out his burlap sack.
“Wrath stumbled upon this yesterday; I believe it’s yours.”
The Hunter stared at the bag.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t even so much as blink.
He simply stood there, like a deer in the headlights.
Unmoving.
Still.
Frozen.
Grant cleared his throat.
Loudly.
And still, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams did not respond.
“We took the liberty of refurbishing it. We hope you don’t mind.”
“I. . .”
“Free of charge, of course. Think of it as an occupational perk; we can’t have a Hunter running around carrying glorified antiques, after all. The Foundation has an image to uphold.”
“Uh. . ..”
“And you are part of Foundation, which unfortunately means you share the burden as well. Considering your present circumstance however, Beauford has instructed us to. . . Help out where we can. We hope you don’t mind. Now, please, John. Take it; my arms are growing numb.”
Slowly, surely, the Hunter reached one hand out, clutching the bag by its strings.
It was heavy.
Just as he remembered.
“T-Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it; off you go, now. We’re five minutes behind schedule.”
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams found himself still stuck standing, frozen, clutching onto the bag, and staring intently at the ground.
He never thought he’d see it again.
The last thing belonging to his family, and he thought he’d lost it for good.
He thought it was long gone.
Just another thing swallowed up by the world.
Disappeared.
Vanished.
And yet, there it was.
Once more.
By his side.
In his hands.
Ready for action.
Ready for battle.
He stared down the barrel of his old shotgun, gazing deep into the black abyss — deep into the face of death itself and the gaping maw of Father Destiny’s afterlife.
He didn’t mean to, of course.
He just. . .
Was.
And he found the sight rather familiar.
Rather comforting.
As grim as that was to admit.
“John,” Wrath rolled his window down.
“Y-Yeah?”
“Not today, please.”
“I wasn’t—”
“And not in front of everyone. Have some decency.”
The Hunter blinked.
Once, twice, thrice.
He slung the burlap sack over one shoulder and shook his head clear, joining Rhanes in the front.
Click, click, click.
The door opened.
The door closed.
The door locked.
And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sank into his seat, sucking in the cold, cold air.
This was good.
More than good, actually.
It was great.
Amazing.
Absolutely terrific.
Blessed be technology.
Blessed be unnecessary luxuries in a military vehicle.
And blessed be Rhanes for turning the air conditioning way, way up.
He gave the Hunter a wave, a nod, and a smile from behind the balaclava.
“Seems we’re running into each other an awful lot, John,” the Sentryman said, glancing at his rearview mirror, and at the two other Hunters seated in the back. One flashed a pearly white, smile his way; the other was staring out the window and crossing both arms and keeping rather quietly to herself. She looked slightly annoyed, more than anything. “Are these your friends?”
“Yes!" Wrath answered for him, shifting in place, trying desperately to keep both his demon, twin blades from making strips of the leather. He finally decided on leaning forth. “Why yes, we are.”
“That’s nice. I’m Rhanes — private Rhanes Morrison. Pleasure to meet you two.”
“Wrath, likewise. This here’s Little Red; she’s not big on talking — or making friends.”
“So a lot like John here then, huh?”
“Oh, definitely. They’re made for each other.”
Both men snickered.
The two other Hunters did not.
One was already dozing off.
The other was still staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.
And he himself didn’t know exactly why.
He just was.
For whatever reason.
And he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
The Sentrymen looked on over.
Saw Jonathan.
Saw his face.
Saw what he had in hand.
And where it was pointed.
And slowly, surely, Rhanes nudged the barrel away with a gloved finger.
“Not. . . Here, John.”
“That’s what I told him,” Wrath chimed in.
“They’ll make me clean it, and I hate scrubbing blood. It’s hard to get out of leather.”
“Lemon water helps.”
“Does it?”
“Yep.”
The Sentrymen twisted a key, pushed a button.
Ignition kicked in.
And his humvee stirred to life.
He glanced on over again.
“You alright, John?”
John didn’t answer.
John simply nodded.
And looked away.
“Just making sure.”
One beep.
Two beeps.
A radio stirred from its slumber.
“Kerek-456, this is your lieutenant colonel speaking. Be advised, mission is a go; I repeat — be advised, mission is a go. All stand-by troops prepare for departure.”
Two beeps.
One beep.
The radio returned to its silence.
“And off we go,” Rhanes said to no one in particular. “It’s going to be a long day, today, so I suggest you all get some rest while you can.”
Wrath watched a crow fly by.
Little Red was sound asleep.
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stared blankly ahead.
"That means you too, John."
The Hunter said nothing.
"Especially you."