It was raining by then, and raining hard.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stood barely just beneath the portico, wet and miserable and contemplating the decisions leading to his inevitably sad, sorry excuse for a life. He had with himself an old cigarette in one hand, and was trying desperately, over and over and over again, to light the piece aflame. No success. His hands were stiff, numb.

The wind did not help.

The wet did not help.

His mood certainly did not help.

And so he stood there — like an idiot out in the cold and pouring rain — muttering under his breath, cursing and cursing and cursing some more. To Jonathan’s surprise however, announcing his disdain for cheap, knock-off brand lighters in what one could consider excessively creative use of the English language, did not, in fact, magically light his cigarette.

He sighed, long and hard, eventually tossing the whole pack aside and into a puddle. It sank.

Alright then, the rain won.

No more smoking.

Today was most definitely not his day. Nothing was going right, and the few things that were going right certainly did not outweigh those that went wrong, and those that went wrong went really, really wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Wrong as wrong could get.

He was still hurting all over, and every slight move only seemed to sting and jab and prick him in one too many places, making the pain that much worse. He was shivering, too, partly from the rain, and perhaps partly from the fever. It was not pleasant, to say the least. It was very much so unpleasant.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sat alone, hungry and stewing, staring way off into the distance and way off into the dead of space. The rain was not letting up anytime soon, which, again, did nothing to better his mood. He needed to be somewhere in a bit, and the Hunter did not at all like walking in the cold and dark, all wet and depressed. He waited by the steps, weighing his options. He could choose to walk, still — walk the long, long mile from here to there, from the Foundation to the Cerberus Prison System — or he could choose to go by transport. He could choose to go by bus.

He supposed one bus ride wouldn’t hurt, even if that meant mingling with them — with the general public. He supposed, even if that meant sharing a common space with those that absolutely hated him and his kind, those that cast glances and stares and would much rather see him lying dead in a ditch than in the same row of seat — he supposed it would beat the walk.

He supposed just once wouldn’t kill him.

“Love it when it’s pouring out.”

Jonathan did not turn; the voice was becoming ever so familiar, and ever so obnoxious. “I told you to stop following me.”

“Well, you should know by now — I don’t listen.”

“Clearly.”

The Divine dropped by his side, smiling bright. Sygla and Vas were uncharacteristically quiet. "Care for company?"

"No."

“Great.”

Even though they were both Hunters, and both nothing more than ruthless killing machines, the two could not be any more different. Jonathan could not, for the life of him, recall an instance or remember a time when Wrath did not have an eager, child-like, almost comical grin splayed from ear to ear. The rain and storm did not seem to bother him. Nothing, in fact, seemed to bother The Divine. He was always ever so cheery, and always ever so happy.

And how he was always ever so cheery and always ever so happy boggled Jonathan. It must be a Divine thing. Surely. Immortality and a slew of other godly powers came with its own fair share of perks, after all; Wrath didn’t have to worry about dying.

Dying was a human thing.

And Divines weren't human.

Not even close.

"Where are you headed?" Wrath was picking at the wet dirt with a stick he found, poking and prodding and drawing faces onto the ground. They were not great faces, granted, but they were happy faces. "Home, is it?"

Jonathan watched the water drip and drop and spill from the portico above, splishing and splashing unto the puddles underneath. He leaned against a stone column. It was wet. He did not lean on it a second time. "No. I have somewhere to be."

"And where's that?"

"Somewhere."

"Where somewhere?"

“Not here.”

“Mmm. . . Where, though?”

"God, you are annoying."

A distant rumble, a stray flash streaking across the sky, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams knew it was time to go. He did not want to be late.

“Here,” Wrath held out an envelope in one hand, brown, clean, untainted. It wasn’t even so much as creased. “This is for you.”

Jonathan did not move one inch. In his line of work, there was a saying to live by: curiosity kills — always. Being overly eager and overly inquisitive did not generally bode well for most Hunters; Creations were smart, crafty things. Even the most savage, brainless, crudest of monstrosities have but one instinct ingrained deep in every fiber of their being: to lure prey close, and then to devour. Their webs were tightly spun, leaving little room for error, and when you stepped even the least bit too close — poof.

Gone.

From the face of the earth.

And in a mere instance.

Thus was the fate of many Hunters who let their curiosity get the better of them. Do the job carefully, do the job right, and most importantly, don’t lose focus; the Foundation modus operandi made simple. It was most definitely easier said than done, however. Hunter casualties were amongst the highest in any field of work, and for good reason too. Training was what you would consider excessively. . . Hands on. And when you managed to survive the first month or so, all it took was one mistake.

One mistake to end up on the autopsy table, or in a closed casket.

Whichever one.

It was a wonder there were any new Hunters at all. Most did not make it past the first weeks.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stared at the envelope, as if it was something of claws and fangs waiting to pounce. “What is it?”

Wrath too stared at him, one eyebrow cocked, like a parent would to a child asking peculiar, peculiar questions. “It’s. . . An envelope, John. Obviously.”

“What’s in it?”

“Money.”

“What?”

Only now, standing this close to the Divine, did Jonathan Wicker Abhrams take notice of Wrath’s eyes. They were not like any others he ever saw; they were different. Both matched his blades perfectly; one was a bright orange, and the other, a deep blue. And when he moved, they seemed to glint and glow and shine much like fire opals. They were. . . Certainly something.

Certainly not human eyes.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“It’s money — the other 25,” the Divine said, finishing the last of his drawings. “I thought you might need it more than I do.”

Jonathan said nothing. He just stood there, quiet and still.

And then, without another word, he took off.

Way out into the rain, and way out into the cold.

He had a bus to catch.

“I don’t need your charity,” he said to no one in particular. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

“And I sure as hell don’t need your pity.”

***

The bus stunk of old food and new sweat.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sat at the very back, and at the very corner, hoping he went by unnoticed. He did not, in fact, went by unnoticed: a couple casted him worrying glances; a states-guard glared, hard; an old lady muttered something under her breath — something about “the new generation” and something about “disappointments.” Still, the Hunter sat, quiet as ever.

There was a kid too, peaking at him from amongst the crowd. He ignored her.

“Za, don’t stare at the man.”

“Why mommy?”

“Just don’t, okay? Be a good girl.”

Oh, well. He was used to it, anyway.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams despised the common folk. Here they sat, comfortable and safe, and oblivious to the dangers of the outside world. Here they sat, thinking ill will of people like him — the very same people who protected them from things they did not know even existed.

From things that went bump in the night.

From things that were nothing short of horror fuel.

Here they sat, looking down upon him, as if he was some mongrel pup, waiting to bite and scratch. He put his life on the line. He made sacrifices. He was the ideal soldier.

The only difference being?

The label.

He was no states-guard.

He was no Enforcer.

He was no Peacekeeper or Sentrymen.

He was a Hunter.

And that was enough to warrant the hate, apparently. Lowest of the low, some called him; bottom of the barrel, others said. Regardless, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was no different in the eyes of the public, so naturally, they were no different in his as well. They were ungrateful, pampered, entitled milksops, and that was that. They did not deserve his respect.

“A Hunter, hmm? Your kind are dearly endangered.”

Someone slid into the empty seat next to his.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams turned, looked; he choked, if just a bit, and suddenly found himself rather short on breath.

The Enforcer waved.

He was neither particularly tall nor short, burly nor skinny, built nor lean. By all accounts, he was a rather inconspicuous man; he did not stand out from a crowd, he did not draw attention, and with the smiling stone mask on, there was certainly no way of knowing who was underneath. He looked the exact same as any other one of his colleagues, and acted like it too — as was to be expected of Enforcers.

Job well done.

They were frightening, Jonathan admitted — so very, very frightening. Dressed from head to toe in every possible shade of black, they struck fear in the hearts of many, his included. The mere sight of one would make you sweat and freeze up, and the Hunter was most definitely sweating and freezing up. The man could put a bullet between Jonathan’s skull right this instance, and nobody would dare bat an eye.

They were invisible.

They were ruthless.

They were the Heimer Republic secret police, anywhere and everywhere all at once. They walked in the shadows, worked in the dark, and when it came time to intervene, they did not disappoint. Unlike most other servants of the empire, Enforcers did not bear such menacing weaponry. Simply put, they had no need. All they had was a specially-made, state-sanctioned revolver able to fire up to two shots a time. Why they were issued an almost all-too specific firearm eluded Jonathan. It almost seemed more of a showpiece than an actual gun — more of a trademark, if you may — but their overwhelming success in just about every single operation proved otherwise, evidently. If they could get by on such limitations, imagine what they could do — what they could be — let loose.

Ding!

First stop, seven more to go.

The Enforcer was unusually still. He did not move, he did not sway with the bus, he did not even seem to breathe. He was a statue, in more ways than one, and that did not at all sit well with Jonathan. The man's demeanor reminded him of one creation he tussled with some time back. They were aptly named the Living Stones. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wicker.”

Jonathan struggled to form words. Understandably, he was nervous. Enforcer visits were never random. They came with purpose. “How. . . How do you know my name?”

“Because that’s what we do, Mr. Wicker. We know a lot about a lot of people.”

The Hunter did not know how exactly to respond. He stayed quiet.

“We know far more than you can ever imagine. We know things about you, you don’t even know yourself. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Let’s keep your questions to a minimum.”

Ding!

Stop two. Woburn Point. There was a famous bookbinding store around the corner. Little known fact about said famous bookbinding store: it was a hideout for a few, small time, small fry thieves. Jonathan knew only because a friend sought him out for some job which did not exactly fall within the Heimer Republic bounds of what was considered generally “legal.”

“Cerberus Prison System, is it, Mr. Wicker?”

“Yes — Yes, sir.”

“Oh, come now. No need for formalities, Abhrams. You treat me no less different than you would a friend; you address me as Steiner 25-61. Either one will suffice.”

“You don’t have a proper name?”

“That is my name.”

“If you. . . Insist.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Alright then.”

Ding!

Stop three. Ochil Close. A states-guard outpost sat squarely by the side of the main road; coincidentally, this was also the safest neighborhood around for miles. Jonathan remembered when Ochil Close was nothing more than dangerous, gangland territory. Well, that was before the government decided to do something about it. That was before they sent the Sentrymen. Nobody knew where all the thugs went, after. They seemed to just. . . Vanish. Disappear into thin air. Perhaps they left. Perhaps they were prisoned. Perhaps they found jobs. The Hunter knew better than to believe that.

“What is it exactly do you do up there? A prison can’t be that interesting, now can it, Mr. Wicker?”

“Are you asking me. . .” the Hunter hesitated. “Because you don’t know, or because you do know?”

Steiner let out a laugh. It came out eerie from underneath the stone mask. It made the Hunter's skin crawl. “I’m simply making conversation, Mr. Wicker — please, no need for the hostility, now. I don’t bite. Do answer the question, however. Humor me.”

The Hunter swallowed, hard. “I’m seeing a friend.”

“Oh, well! How thoughtful of you, Abhrams. How thoughtful of you, indeed. Seeing a friend, why isn’t that nice? And this friend of yours — this lady friend, I presume — just who is she? I’m dying to know.”

“She’s just a friend. There’s nothing more to know.”

“Mmm. Go on. She works there, does she? She’s certainly not some inmate, is she, Mr. Wicker?”

Ding! Stop four. Newnham Quadrant. There was a park here, maybe a few years back. They tore it all down to build a government quarter or something along those lines. Jonathan could not remember. It was so, so long ago.

“Surely, she’s not some enemy of the state, is she, Mr. Wicker? Surely she’s not sentenced to life. Surely, she’s not Doctor Angela Zeiffer — the Doctor Angela Zeiffer — is she, Mr. Wicker? No, that would be absurd, wouldn’t it? That would be preposterous. Why, some would even call it crazy! Imagine!”

Jonathan was, once again, quiet. The bus was beginning to empty out. “What do you want?”

“I want what you want, of course, Abhrams. The security of our future. The safety of our nation. The triumph of our empire. I dream of a day when we can leave our doors unlocked, and worry not about what comes lurking in the night. I dream of a day when we can look to our neighbors, and worry not about who they truly are. I dream of a day where there is only the Heimer Republic, and nothing else. Don’t you too dream of that day, Mr. Wicker?”

The Hunter shrugged. “I. . . I guess.”

“But until then, until such a utopian dream can be constructed, there are things to be done first — tyrannies to be toppled, enemies to be conquered. . . Dangerous people to be kept watch of. I wonder, Mr. Abhrams. Are you one of those people? Do I need to keep watch of you?”

The bus hit a bump on the road. Passengers murmured their disapproval in grunts and moans.

From somewhere deep down, Jonathan mustered the bravado to practically spit his answer out. “No. I kill monsters, not. . . People.”

“Ha-Hah! Clever, Mr. Wicker. Very clever. I have to disagree, however. Oftentimes I find the most disturbing of monsters roaming the streets, not locked away in some abandoned, Creationist dungeon waiting for its Hunter. You kill, Mr. Wicker, therefore you are — by definition — a killer, and killers are to be kept careful watch of.”

Ding! Stop five. Birkinheim Street. There was nothing of interest here, only houses and houses and rows of more houses. It was a quiet and peaceful neighborhood; Jonathan liked it.

“You haven’t answered my question, Steiner.”

“Oh?”

“I asked you what you wanted.”

“And I obliged, did I not?”

“What do you want?"

"I want —"

"From me?”

Ding! Stop six. Jonathan did not recognize the street. The bus must have taken a detour.

"Nothing in particular. Just checking, of course."

"C-Checking?"

"A shepherd must keep firm watch of his flock, don't you think? Else there might be wolves in sheep's clothing. We wouldn't want any wolves, would we, Mr. Wicker? We wouldn’t want any. . . Mishaps, would we?"

"I. . . I don't understand."

"That's for the better, I suppose. Remember what I said about questions?”

“The less I ask—”

“The better off you’ll be — yes, correct. Bravo, John! Keep your head down; you just might wriggle your way to the ripeful age of 60. Or, perhaps, on second thought. . . Maybe not."

Ding! Final stop. Cerberus Prison System. Here he was.

“We'll be in touch, Mr. Wicker; I assure you."

The Enforcer stood; he fixed the beret back into place, right and center. Jonathan stayed seated.

"Tread carefully, Abhrams. Tread very carefully. You never know who's watching."

And with that, the man disappeared — way off into the streets and crowd, way off into the night and rain. He was gone in the blink of an eye.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sat, alone as always. He did not know what happened. He did not know what the Enforcer wanted. All he knew was that now, he was on some kind of list.

A government list.

A watch list.

Be it good or bad was irrelevant.

His name was on it.

And there was no way of getting it off.

“Aye!” the bus driver yelled from up ahead. “End of the line, it’s ya stop! Off ya go!”

Jonathan breathed long and hard, and realized just then and there that he hadn't been breathing much at all.

He went.