The sun was up, now. It was up and it was golden and it was shining through the glass exterior of Beaford’s Foundation, warming the marbles, the tiles, the people inside — warming especially the one particular Divine with a penchant for exuding raw, unbridled, peak obnoxious energy. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could tolerate this raw, unbridled, peak obnoxious energy, of course; he always had, for the longest time. The Enforcer, on the other hand, he felt had nowhere near the same patience, so it was indeed quite worrying when Wrath grinned from ear to ear, and trotted on over ready to strike the most intellectually damaging conversation known to man.

The Hunter shook his head ever so slightly, as if warning the Divine.

The Divine ignored him.

Or perhaps didn’t notice.

Or simply didn’t quite care the least bit.

He kept on coming.

And coming.

And coming.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could do nothing but watch as catastrophe unfolded.

He felt his blood grow cold.

And his head spin.

And his spine tingle.

This was going to be bad.

Really bad.

Really, really fucking bad.

He knew it.

Wrath had a sly, almost comical grin, spread from ear to ear. He leaned forward, matching both Jonathan and the Enforcer’s gaze from one side. “John, boy-o. You never told me you knew an Enforcer! That’s — that’s really something! I didn’t take you for the social kind, not with all the whining and the complaining and whatnot whenever I come around. Tell you what, the three of us ought to grab a bite sometime, huh? Food, drink, company, the whole smorgishboard. What do you boys say? It’ll be f —”

“Shut. Your. Mouth,” Steiner said without so much as a glance the Divine’s way. “You speak only when spoken to.”

And as to be expected, Wrath did not at all take such comments lightly. He was not the least bit amused, he had lost the smile altogether, and worst still, he was most certainly going to take things too far, far too quickly — Jonathan knew. The Divine stepped forth. “Excuse you?”

“You speak plenty for a man who has so little to say. It irks me; quiet, now.”

“Who do you think you are, pal?”

“I am an Enforcer — servant of the state, protector of the emperor, kingsguard. Remind me again, what — who — you are?”

“The last thing you’ll ever see if you don’t quit it in the next two seconds, buddy.”

“Is that right?”

“Damn straight.”

“Let’s find out then, shall we?” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams blinked. The iconic two-shot revolver was no longer holstered by the Enforcer’s side, but rather, in the comfortable grip of his gloved hands.

Wrath squinted.

And smirked.

And snickered.

And fire came to his hands.

Sygla and Vas flared alive — crackling and sputtering and spitting forth flames from both their glowing, infernal blades. The air grew hot, the atrium grew stuffy, and Jonathan Wicker Abhrams found himself growing very much so uncomfortable. There was the stink of smoke everywhere he turned; there were the tears welling up in his eyes; there was the taste of bitter and char in his mouth.

He was too close.

Much too close.

And his back was already almost to the glass wall.

The Hunter took a step back, then several more afterwards for as far as he could go. Slowly, surely, one at a time, others around took after him, backing way, way off; the Sentrymen too, with their usual outwards stoic composure, had altogether decided to distance themselves in anticipation of the coming squabble. They wanted no part of this, and neither did the Hunters — not that Jonathan could blame them. Even administrator Grant and the director himself kept way clear.

Or rather. . .

They were enjoying the show.

From far, far away.

Where it was safe.

Kind of.

“You know,” Wrath towered over the Enforcer, gritting his teeth, clenching his blades, shaking, growling, grinning, and just about ready to tear an unfortunate man — an unfortunate servant of the Empire — in two. Steiner, much to everyone’s surprise, was not even the least bit fazed. He simply stood there, looking bored, looking annoyed, almost as if some playground punk half his age, half his size, half his everything was barking empty threats.

If only he knew Wrath the way the Foundation — the other Hunters — did.

If only he knew the Divine was ready to rip and tear, bite and dismember.

If only he knew how close he was to dying.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be as nonchalant.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be as brazen.

Or insulting.

Callous.

Cold.

Arrogant.

Or maybe the Enforcer did know.

They knew anything, everything, after all.

Surely he knew how Wrath would react.

Surely he knew how far the Divine would take things.

Which made Jonathan Wicker Abhrams think, for a second.

Could Steiner — this lone Enforcer, this one man — take on Wrath?

Could he best a Divine?

No.

That was impossible.

Was—

Was it?

Wrath stopped an arm’s reach — a blade’s reach — away.

“I never liked you people. Your arrogance, your pride — it’s sickening. You think you’re so far above everyone else. You act like you’re so much better. Makes me want to. . .”

“Devour.”

“Annihilate.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Unmake and consume.”

Sygla and Vas too were growling. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could almost sense their spectral shapes flaring to life, now. He could almost sense the demons come forth — and bring their Hell with. He could see them begin manifesting — as horned creatures of Satan’s very own devious concoction, with big fangs, big wings, bigger claws, and even bigger appetite still. They hovered over the Divine, smiling and laughing and filling the atrium up with their deathly howls.

The Enforcer stood before the swirling, whirling mess of orange and blue. He stood before the fires and the flame and Hell itself. He stood before a god.

And he stepped forth, tilting a head.

“Not arrogance, Divine dog. Not pride. Superiority.”

“Hah-hah! Don’t make me laugh.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you, let’s make that clear. I am better than you.”

“You’d like to really believe that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to really believe your own bullshit. I’ve been here long before any of you fucks learned to walk and talk and stand upright, and I’ll be here long, long after — you pathetic little man.”

“And who are you to lecture me? Less than man, more than monster — your kind are outdated, antiquated, obsolete. You think yourself as gods. You think yourself as rulers. No. You are all but relics of a long forgotten past, waiting to be buried in history, waiting to be set free from your eternity. So come, then, let me set you free. Let me grant you your wish. Rot and wither. Fall. Scream. Die before me.”

Wrath spun Sygla and Vas in hand; the demons raged on behind him.

“The last ever fucking words in your shitty life, and you’ve just wasted them. What pity.”

The Enforcer raised his revolver; its barrel was between both the Divine’s eyes.

“Draw, then.”

“After you.”

Blades up.

Guns too.

“And thus, another falls.”

“Come.”

***

Thud!

Jonathan blinked once more. Both men were still standing, neither one had eviscerated the other, and perhaps most importantly, the floors were still squeaky-shiny clean spare for a burn mark or two. The Foundation was still in one piece, and not a blackened heap of rubble crumbling away in the day — which was good, of course. Otherwise, he’d have to go find a new job, which was not good. The Hunter blinked.

He stared.

Mr. Beauford was standing near, face stern, cane tapping, brows furrowed. He was most certainly displeased, and had done terribly so hiding it.

“Gentlemen.”

Enforcer and Divine looked to the director at once.

Neither had lowered their weapons just yet.

“This is most unacceptable behavior. Look at you two, squabbling much like miscreants — no better than the wild animals and lawless savages we put down. This is my home, and I will tolerate no infighting, understood? So long as you stand under my roof and in my home, you will obey my rules. So long as you stand before me, you will listen. Is that clear?”

Wrath stared at the Enforcer.

And the Enforcer stared right back.

Silence.

Dead silence.

Nothing but silence and the muffled breathing of Cerberus Sentrymen, the occasional squeaking of soles, the clinking of blades, the clicking of guns, and perhaps a coughing fit or two.

And then—

The Divine scowled; he was first to make a move.

All at once, he lowered both blades and slung them over his back, chains wrapped and wound tight round and round his arms and wrists. The flames had completely gone, now. “He started it.”

Steiner too stowed his revolver away, clicking the safety back into place. He said nothing.

And slowly, surely, one step at a time, both Divine and Enforcer turned and walked their opposite ways.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams breathed a sigh of relief. There were so many ways that could’ve turned ugly, but luckily, it seems a director present was enough to keep Wrath restrained, to keep the Divine from violently dismembering a state servant — for the time being, at least.

And that was good.

That was very good.

He didn’t quite like the idea of death by burning, and obviously if the two did go at it right then and there, he’d be absolutely cooked at this distance. There’d be nothing left of Jonathan Wicker Abhrams but cloth and bone — or not even those.

He had a feeling dying like that would’ve been slow and nasty and would hurt the entire time, which was obviously not great. Something fast and painless was the idea.

Something like a bullet to the head, maybe.

Or an explosion.

“Now then,” Beauford said to no one in particular. He pushed the crimson glasses back into place; there was a singular crack streaking across the left lens, Jonathan noticed — a singular crack that was most definitely not there moments before. The Hunter wondered when that happened, or how it even happened in the first place. The director was nowhere near the fight.

Curious, curious thing, indeed.

“Time to go to work.”

He turned to Grant.

Grant nodded.

And so it began.

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, as always, paid utmost attention.

Wrath, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

He was long gone.

Not that he needed to be there, anyways.

He never cared much for the details.

He never cared much for the little bits and pieces of information most other Hunters jotted down and committed to memory and took into careful consideration when hunting.

It bored him.

It made him sleepy, irritable.

And he was a Divine.

Which meant nothing could kill him.

No Creation could, at least.

So to him, this was all just. . .

One big game.

Instead of the life-or-death situation it normally was — for everyone else, that is.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to today’s briefing. I hope you all had a good night’s rest, because this one is going to be. . . Certainly something,” Grant’s voice was loud, yet calm. It exuded authority, above all else. “The mission—”

He stepped up and onto the stage, and every head turned to face him.

The administrator snapped his fingers, once.

The screen to his back lit up.

And there was a picture.

A picture Jonathan had seen before.

“We’ll be taking a castle.”

***

There was a murmur in the audience.

Some whispered amongst themselves and exchanged worrying glances; others simply nodded along and kept quiet and one or two even cracked a grin. It was these groups of Hunters Jonathan Wicker Abhrams feared most — the kind that had no qualms diving headfirst into the unknown, without so much as a sign of worry or a tinge of fear.

The kind that had faced death countless times before, and was ready to do so again, anyday, any place, anytime.

The kind that would challenge the world — that would tempt fate, and spit in the face of the nigh end.

In some way, they were much like him.

They didn’t quite care for the aftermath.

They cared only about getting the job done, and getting the job done right.

They did not fear dying.

And men with nothing to lose were the most dangerous.

He would know.

“For Management’s sake, we’ll be splitting into three teams today,” Grant said, turning and staring and glancing at each Hunter as he went. “I expect you all to work together, and to keep one another breathing, is that understood?”

Silence, once more.

“Splendid, then. Let’s get started.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams glanced around, partly in search of a bathroom and partly in search of a Divine — or Enforcer. He did not feel like accidentally throwing up in front of everyone, and he most definitely did not feel like accidentally running into either man for the second time today.

Once was enough.

Once was more than enough, in fact.

“Hades, Sangria, Beorthwulf — you three will be running Vanguard. Push the front, hold the line, lead the way, and try not to die, please. Clean-up costs us extra.”

“Fuck’s sake.”

“Well. . . ‘Twas nice knowin’ ya fellas.”

“Really, Grant?”

The administrator did not once bother to stop and address the myriad of complaints; simply put, he did not have the time, energy, inclination, nor care to do so. Instead, he flipped to a completely new page, scanned the tiny prints, pushed his glasses back into place, then sucked in a raspy breath. He looked up, and at another, whole new group of Hunters.

“Es and Werner, you’ll be Rearguard. Catch the flank; don’t let them get behind us. I expect you two to watch the team’s backs, clear?”

“I guess. . .”

“Ja, Herr Müller. Crystal.”

“Very good. And now for Main—”

Administrator Grant tore his eyes off the page, and stared right at Jonathan Wicker Abhrams. The Hunter was standing in the back, and he was all alone.

“Wicker, Wrath, Red — you’ll be our Primary. Keep the team together; get us through this. Command and conquer, we’re all counting on you to carry the mission. Understood?”

“Yeah,” said Jonathan, and no one else. “Gotcha.”

“Excellent, that concludes the preliminary briefing, then. You’ll hear more from me on the way there. In the meantime, I suggest you all get acquainted with one another; it’s going to be a long day — might as well.”

The administrator turned and nodded at the director; the director turned and nodded at the lead Sentrymen; the lead Sentrymen turned and nodded at his lessers; and his lessers nodded right back. All at once now, they stomped their boots, gave a salute, then went marching out in step, still maintaining a proper line, still in perfect unison, and still very much so half-asleep. Rhanes in particular was, for a lack of better word, practically dead.

“Grant! Question!”

Someone yelled from the crowd.

“Yes, Hades?”

“Who’s team leader? Wrath, again? For the millionth fucking time?”

The administrator paused, as if he never once considered the question before. He glanced around, flipped through his clipboard, cocked one brow, shrugged, then casually as ever pointed at one particular Hunter slouched over in the corner of the atrium, hung-over, hurting, sleep-deprived, running on morphine, and barely functioning.

“Why, Jonathan, of course.”

The crowd went silent.

The world stopped spinning.

The air grew still.

Hades opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it once more.

No words came from him.

Or anyone else, for that fact of the matter.

It was quiet.

The quietest Foundation ever was.

And then, all at once now, the atrium erupted.

“What the fuck?”

“You ain’t serious.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Uhm. . .”

“Scheisse.”

Beauford cracked a grin.

Jonathan cracked a scowl.

The hunt was on.

And it was going to be a long, long day, indeed.