Jonathan Wicker Abhrams did not sleep a wink.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, in fact, did the exact opposite of sleeping, which was staying up all night, sitting in the corner of his bedroom, staring hard, blinking fast, breathing slow, and sweating buckets. The Hunter had not moved an inch since the director left, and he had absolutely no intention of doing so — not until seven in the morning, at least.

Seven in the morning was when the sun rose.

Seven in the morning was when he blinked and it was no longer there.

Seven in the morning was when it left — when it was gone for the day.

He saw the clock from the corner of one eye.

6:45.

15 minutes to go.

He could do that.

He always had, anyways.

***

“We found the castle.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yeah.”

“How far?”

“20 west from Cerberus.”

“Splendid! And how long do we have?”

“12 hours at best. They’re ahead.”

“Beauford and the lot?”

“Beauford and the lot.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. How many are coming?”

“Seven now, plus that asshole Wrath and shitloads of Cerberus Sentrymen. They’ve set up perimeter and everything.”

“Ooh, well, nevermind what I said. That is indeed a problem. Any chance we might outgun them?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“Ambush?”

“No cover for miles.”

“Sneaky beaky like? ”

“God’s Eye.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah, yikes for you people — now, where’s my money?”

“Hang on there bucko, no need to rush; you’ll get your money — promise. I’ve just thought of something is all. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

“What?”

“Papers.”

“What?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“I will, won’t I?”

“Sure will. Speaking of, what’s the time?”

“Seven sharp.”

“Good then, let’s get going. You have a briefing to attend to, no?”

***

There was a man, sitting at the very top and at the very edge of the Foundation building. From the distance, he was a mere speck of orange and blue in a city of red bricks, black smog, and gray buildings. From the distance, he looked much like a salaryman who’s had enough — who’s had too many late night hours, too few vacation days, and too little time for both life and himself. From the distance, he looked much like a man on a ledge, ready to do something quite drastic, quite dramatic, and very much so quite upsetting.

Closer up, however. you’d begin to realize otherwise.

This man was smiling.

And humming.

And singing.

And despite sitting just inches from a falling death, and just inches from the hard, hard pavement a few dozen or so meters down, he couldn’t seem to be any more at ease. He couldn’t seem to be any more comfortable.

For this man could not, would not die.

For this man was no man at all.

But rather, a Divine.

And this Divine was, for once, not flaunting about in front of an audience, or going about deconstructing life’s many vile creations, or swinging about two blades which were less blades and more so confines for two of Hell’s most wicked demons.

Wrath liked the peace and quiet.

He liked the sunrise over the horizon.

He liked getting away from it all.

The hassle.

The people.

The city.

Life.

It was times like these when he felt most free. It was times like these when he could drown out the voices in his head and embrace the serenity of solitude. It was times like these that made him forget the twitching in his fingers; the tapping of both feet; the gritting of once clean, white, unchipped teeth; and the unbridled, primal ferality receding in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind. Amidst the blur and chaos of everyday Divine — and Hunter — life, Wrath sought refuge in such ever fleeting moments.

For once, he could rest.

For once, he was allowed escape from himself.

For once, he needed not become the bloodthirsty, rampant destroyer he always was.

He could choose to be anyone.

Anything.

Perhaps even a simple man watching the sunrise.

Though Sygla and Vas whispered and whispered and whispered, always there to remind him of his true nature — of who he really was, and the things he’d done.

They would never let him forget.

They were as much his prisoner as he was theirs.

“An instrument of war.”

“An instrument of carnage.”

“Rejoicing in the desecration of life.”

“Rejoicing in terror and absolution.”

“And yet it yearns for peace, Sygla.”

“And yet, serenity it seeks, Vas.”

“Peace it will never know.”

“Serenity it will never find.”

“Well,” the Divine let a dry snicker slip his lips. “We can all dream, can’t we, boys?”

Wrath took in the scenery. The sun had begun casting shadows over the streets and over the sidewalks way, way below.

He looked to one particular streak of black.

He looked to the sun.

And then back to that one particular shadow again.

7:15.

He didn’t need a watch, still.

***

“Will you be attending, sir?”

“Of course, Grant! This is a most momentous discovery, and I’ve been so very bored as of late. I’ve never seen a castle before, and I think I’d quite like to.”

“It is ways away, sir.”

“I don’t mind the drive.”

"And scorching."

"Shouldn't be a problem."

“And in the daytime.”

“Oh, quit your worrying, Grant. It’ll be fine; I have an umbrella.”

“Understood."

“Now then, time?”

“0730, sir.”

“Perfect. Let’s get going, you and I. We wouldn’t want to be late, now do we?”

“No, sir.”

***

It had been so very long since Lieutenant Colonel Schneider himself had to step away from his lofty office space, and unto an active military zone. It had been so very long since his time on the field, and even longer still since he held onto a firearm — onto a sizable one too, chambered and at the ready. The grip felt off, the trigger felt light, and Lieutenant Colonel Schneider could’ve sworn revolvers were never this heavy in the past — nor as big, bulky, and ugly. But then again, it had been some time.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Things change.

Time waits for no one.

Perhaps he had forgotten the weight of a killing instrument.

It had been decades, after all — decades since he last felt the kick of recoil, or smelled the gunpowder, or seen the blood splatter and spill and cascade into an ornate display of perfected artistry. In this day and age, a signature on paper was all it took. In this day and age, a few words to a few of the right people sufficed — and he had so many of the right people under his direct command.

Perks of being further up in the food chain, he supposed.

It was preferable, truth be told.

There was no need for blood on coats and uniforms.

There was no need to go about cleaning up such mess afterwards.

There was no need to duck and dive and run for cover as fire and brimstone rained down from the skies above, decimating all that stood, laying bare to the once impenetrable stone fortress you were tasked specifically to protect, charring flesh to a blackened crisp, and incinerating ever other soul in the battalion save for two — save for you yourself and one other cowardly trooper too foolish to simply die that day, instead choosing to carry on living with the guilt and shame and all of the horrors.

Yes, there was no need for any of that, now.

That was all in the past, or so Lieutenant Colonel Schneider convinced himself so.

He could still feel the fire on his skin.

He could still taste the essence of death — of lost, tormented souls.

He could still hear them screaming, begging him for orders — begging him to rise up and lead, and yet he did nothing but run and hide because he was a coward.

A fool.

A man who was no leader, and yet managed to delude himself into thinking he was one.

And all those poor. innocent souls — with long lives left to live — paid the ultimate price.

They paid his price.

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider looked down — to the heavy caliber revolver pistol in hand.

And for a second, there went a thought through his mind.

The same thought that came when he had been left alone for too long.

Or when he had nothing to think about.

Or when he remembered.

And as always, he considered it.

It would be a fitting end, admittedly.

One last cowardly act.

For the fool and the coward sitting on a throne.

Gentleman Death was in the room, now. The lieutenant colonel could sense the Divine waiting. He could sense the Reapers alongside itching to harvest his soul — to claim what was rightfully theirs.

Truth be told, the world would be better off without him.

What had he done worth mentioning anyways?

He was no model citizen.

He was no saint.

Or giver.

Or anything even lying remotely within the spectrum of what was to be considered "good."

He was a soldier.

That's all he was.

All his life, he murdered and murdered and murdered some more, and he reveled in his exceptional ability to do so. But truth be told, there were countless others like him.

There were millions of other soldiers, all going about living the same dreams and nightmares — all going about being some of the most horrible, vile people the world ever spat out.

And that too was exactly what he was.

Horrible.

Vile.

Replaceable.

If not now, it'd be tomorrow.

And if not tomorrow, it'd be later on in the future.

What difference does it make?

They were all headed to the same place.

But. . .

No.

Schneider holstered his weapon.

No.

Not today.

If he went now, their deaths would mean nothing. They trusted him to carry on their legacy — to be the leader he never was. They sacrificed everything — the one life that they had — to give him a second fighting chance.

He was the product of that sacrifice.

And he would not fail them all.

Not a second time.

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider straightened the black coat sitting complacently atop his shoulders.

He was not who he once was.

He straightened the darkened beret.

The collar.

The insignia.

The medals.

He was not a coward.

He would prove the Divine wrong.

Himself wrong.

Everyone else wrong.

And his fallen comrades right.

If it was the last thing he did.

Lieutenant Colonel Schneidar gazed at the mirror, and forced a smile. It came out bleak and lifeless, but it was a smile still nonetheless. He was happy with it.

“Lieutenant colonel,” there went the Man on the Loudspeaker. Its voice was ever so loud, ever so monotonous, ever so robotic, and ever so booming within the small, small glass office space. Schneider didn’t mind; he had grown quite accustomed to it.

“Yes, Atlas?”

“The time is 0745. Captain Petra is scheduled to arrive.”

“Understood. I’ll be back shortly; until then, keep things in check, will you?”

“Directive acquired. Godspeed, lieutenant colonel.”

“Thank you, Atlas.”

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was a stumbling, bumbling, mumbling mess, that much was obvious. Firstly, his coat was still wet, still bloody, still nasty, and most definitely still leaking bits and pieces of entrails all over. Secondly, he had not had proper sleep in so very long; there were eyebags under his eyes, and some — particularly one pestering Divine — would even go as far as to say his eyebags had eyebags and that they altogether made him look more racoon than human. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, he was hungover.

Or rather, still drunk.

He was certainly a sight for the morning commuters and general passersby. Some stared and held their breath and raised an eyebrow or two; others hurried away, ushering their families and friends and children and preferring rather to avoid him altogether.

Not that he blamed them.

Or minded.

He didn’t like them either.

The stares were starting to irritate him, so it was good that his part of the journey was done and over with. It was good that he was finally at Foundation doorsteps, more or less in one piece.

He forced his head up, and was greeted by the glare of the morning sun. He was greeted by the clean, black glass exterior, by the rows of pine leading to a rather ordinary double door entrance, by the circular lawn of grass extending in all directions from the main building, and perhaps most importantly, by a figure of blue and orange sitting at the very top and at the very edge of the crumbling roof.

A figure of blue and orange with hair like fire, blowing in the wind.

A figure of blue and orange with his coat fluttering about in the breeze.

A figure of blue and orange belonging to one celebrity Hunter Divine.

Jonathan paused.

He recognized the figure.

It recognized him.

There was a smile on its face, a wave from one hand.

And then, it stood.

Stretched.

And leapt.

Way off the ledge and way off the roof.

The Hunter groaned.

It was going to be a long, long day.

***

Wrath landed with a thud. There was no bloody splotch on the sidewalk, nor were there disembodied limbs and the telltale remnants of a successful suicide attempt. No, rather, the Divine was alive and in one piece, having leapt off a seven story building, having landed on the bare pavement with both knees intact, and having survived all together with not so much as a scratch upon skin or a hair out of place.

For Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, and many other onlookers alike, this miraculous feat was akin to circus magic trickery. For the Divine, however, it was just another Tuesday — it was just another normal thing much like breathing and drinking and going about a walk in the park.

The Hunter decided to treat it as such.

He didn’t comment.

He didn't speak.

He didn’t even say his morning greetings.

But Wrath did.

And he was cheery as ever.

“Morning, John!”

“Ugh. . .”

“Swell day for some spelunking, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Means cave exploring! Means going way, way down into a crack in the earth and — you know — crawling, and squeezing, and whatever’ing our way around until we find something interesting!”

Wrath draped an arm around his more human counterpart.

Said more human counterpart growled — rather loudly too.

“Like a castle.”

“Like a castle — bravo!”

“How are you this fucking annoying this fucking early in the d—”

“It’s exciting, wouldn’t you say? Ooh, I can’t wait to get going; I bet it’ll be a blast, John!”

“For you.”

“What’s that?”

“It’ll be a blast for you; it’ll be work for the rest of us — as always.”

“Oh, well, yes — of course. Right. Obviously. Who’s us, anyway? Do you know?”

“No clue.”

“Sure?”

“No one told me shit. We’re all in the dark, here.”

“Not for long now, we’re not. Here comes Grant; stand up straight, John.”

“Shut up.”

“And smile.”

“Shut. Up.”

“And could you stop swearing, while you’re at it? Be professional.”

“I will fucking kill you.”

“Heh. No you won’t.”

John casted the Divine a most deathly stare.

The Divine smirked.

***

Administrator Grant was, as always, in a delightful three-piece suit and tie. The fact that they were headed way out into the desert and way out into the scorching heat of the dunes didn’t seem to bother the man one bit. The administrator was a stickler for the rules, and the rules dictated that all Foundation non-combatant staff personnel wore something as such.

And so Grant did, every hour of every day of every week, month, year he was on the clock.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could not, for the life of him, remember the administrator in anything but his plethora of fancy suits. He was the very definition of the word “formal.”

“Good morning, gentleman,” Grant pushed his glasses up. “I assume you two have yet to be briefed?”

“Indeed-o,” Wrath answered for the both of them.

“Very well then. Come along now.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“You too, John.”

Jonathan was bent over, feeling the world around him spin round and round and round some more. He forced his head up. “Right behind — ugh — you.”

Both Hunters followed close behind their administrator, like children on a field trip. One was hurting all over, dazed, and just about ready to hurl; the other was beaming, smiling to himself and bugging his much more miserable friend with constant mumbo-jumbo and perhaps a joke or two.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams tuned out all that Wrath had to say; it was mostly gibberish and random chitter-chatter, anyways. He was too busy concentrating to humor the Divine. Turns out, putting one foot in front of the other proved to be quite the challenge when you were inebriated, pumped full of morphine, still hurting, still dazed, and very much so still tipsy.

“Grant!” Wrath was loud; much too loud for Jonathan, much too loud for the administrator, much too loud for the occasional janitor or two, and especially much too loud for what little faculty staff were roaming the halls, half-dead, half-asleep, and fully wishing they were still in bed. Still, no one objected — or bothered objecting. At least, not yet.

“What is it, Wrath?”

“Are you coming with?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, fun! Haven’t seen you on the field before.”

“I’m only here to overwatch.”

“Question!”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you won’t be joining us, joining us?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well that sucks. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of you in action! I’ve never so much as even seen you fire a gun.”

“Those days are behind me.”

“How far behind?”

“Well before you.”

“Before my time time or before my Hunter ti—?”

“Hush. Quiet, now. We’re here.”

And they were.

So was everyone else.

***

“Everyone” was a rather broad term to describe what Jonathan Wicker Abhrams assumed was the task force for today. There was himself and Wrath, standing in one corner of the atrium, looking most out of place. There was Beaford and Grant, talking over a clipboard in hand, presumably making quite sure things that were supposed to happen happened, and things that were supposed to go right went right as rain. There were surveyers. There were medics. There were scientists in their fancy white coats. There were also a couple other Hunters Jonathan had seen around, but had not the pleasure of knowing personally — except for one.

This one he had never seen around.

And never knew.

He was sure.

No one else in the entire Foundation had such a ridiculously oversized hood on. No one else in the entire Foundation hauled along a rickety, almost makeshift bow. No one else in the entire Foundation, as a matter of fact, would ever consider such a thing as a suitable hunting weapon — especially since it wasn’t wild deer or pack boars that were being hunted.

It was Creations.

Nasty, nasty things.

And she seemed young, Jonathan couldn’t help but notice. She seemed far too young for this line of work, and that didn’t quite at all sit well with him. But, oh well—

Not like it was any of his business, anyway.

The Hunter scanned the rest of the atrium.

It was good to get a lay of the land.

It was good to understand what — who — he was working with.

It was good to gauge the gravity of the situation — the seriousness of the mission, if you may.

There were a few Cerberus Sentrymen on stand by.

There was private Rhanes lined up with the rest of his squadmates, also being briefed, also looking quite dead and dejected, and also presumably wishing he was quite literally anywhere else.

And then, there was him.

Jonathan’s heart practically sank when he saw the smiling, stone mask.

It was Steiner — obviously.

It had to be.

Of course, it had to be. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and neither did they.

The mask was the same.

And he was staring right at the Hunter, as if he knew him.

As if they met before.

And they had.

Once.

On a bus.

And that was enough to leave quite the lasting impression.

The Enforcer tilted his head ever so slightly.

And then, he started walking on over.

Slowly.

Surely.

Step by step.

Jonathan froze.

He looked away.

But still, he heard the footsteps.

And they were growing close.

Close.

Close.

Much too close.

And then they came to a stop.

“Jonathan. Wicker. Abhrams.”

The Hunter forced his head up.

He didn’t feel like vomiting anymore.

He felt like running far, far away.

Oh, it was Steiner, alright.

The Hunter could sense the smile from way behind the mask.

And it was still cold as ever.

“Funny running into you here, John.”