Thus far, the most deadly weapon in all of Heimer Republic history was not the HEC-28 Missile, which was capable of decimating an entire town in one go, mind you. It was not the newest line of carbines rifles or the one and only Crownbreaker itself. It was neither the boots on the ground nor the eyes in the sky, the best sharpshooters nor the bravest grunts, the most elite operatives nor the grizzliest Panzer tanks.
No, rather —
The most deadly weapon in all of Heimer Republic history was none other than a simple contraption which served but one purpose: to erase any trace of the living and breathing, to render their forms wiped and their existence stripped, to clear them from the world, completely, definitely, absolutely — and it was so aptly named the “Organic Deconstructor.”
“Subject Class: Visitor. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams — proceed.”
The Organic Deconstructor was a project decades in the making. It was a machine with countless moving parts; thousands of brains behind its conceptualization; mystery, intrigue, enigma; and the perfect blend of science and psychopath ambition pushing the boundaries of natural law all at once.
How exactly it worked, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could only but speculate. He knew it was a thing of glass and mirrors and bright lights all together. He knew it made this horrendous shrill as it revved up and worked its magic and made disappear all that stood inside. He knew it never failed, no matter the time of day, the faults of its inner mechanism, the operations, the procedures, the science — everything.
The Organic Deconstructor was made to erase.
And it did so.
Without fail.
Without delay.
Without hesitation.
“Subject Class: Visitor. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams — proceed, proceed.”
The Hunter stood still, as if he was frozen in place. He had visited the Cerberus Prison System twice a week, every month, for the past few years or so — that part was accurate. He also had to walk into, through, and out of the Organic Deconstructor with every entry and exit, and that was not at all a thought he relished.
Not one bit.
It had something to do with protocol.
Something to do with precautionary measures.
Safety.
Bureaucracy and whatnot.
It was, after all, one of the prison’s many fine lines of defenses.
And the Heimer Republic was big on defense.
Say someone — something — managed to slip past the battalion of soldiers on standby; the automated machine gun turrets; the 42 inch heavy, blast resistant, solid steel vault doors; and the fifty-tons of concrete altogether which served as both elevator and floor; they’d have to still somehow make it through this. . . Thing.
And if rumors were anything to go by, nothing ever does.
Nothing ever did.
Nothing ever will.
It was an effective machine serving its purpose, no more, no less; thus was trademark Heimer Republic engineering.
“Subject Class: Visitor. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams — warning, proceed, proceed.”
There came that voice again, on the loudspeaker.
To the Hunter, it was his only guide throughout much of the Cerberus Prison System; it was neither his friend nor his foe — simply another machine heeding programming and executing lines of binary ones and zeroes. It gave him directions, orders, three commands and a warning each time, and if Jonathan Wicker Abhrams did not obey by the third, it’d gun him down on the very spot.
Or electrocute him.
Or drop him through the floor and into a 300 mile per hour falling death.
Any number of undesirable, grisly fates, really.
And so he went, one step at a time, breath shaky and hands sweaty.
Step, step, step.
The contraption was constructed intentionally, rightfully, conveniently atop a vast, vast ravine spanning miles in both directions. It was a rectangular, glass hallway some few dozen or so meters, with lots of metal parts and lots of colored cables and lots of other things which Jonathan Wicker Abhrams really did not at all bother understanding. There too were warning lines painted onto the ground screaming “DANGER, DANGER!” denoting life from death, safe from harm, the Organic Deconstructor from the rest of Cerberus, and existence itself from complete, total, absolute annihilation.
It was a truly marvelous creation, yet a rather mundane-looking one had you no knowledge of its function. For those blessed with this little bit of extra information however — for those like the Hunter himself — just knowing was a tad bit too much. The Hunter never feared dying — not while working, at least. He came to embrace it, in fact; he came to accept Gentleman Death’s much unwanted company and anticipate the Divine’s arrival. Everything dies in the end, after all. Now, tomorrow, 10 years from then on — what does it matter? Dead was dead. Six feet under was six feet under.
And yet, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was. . . Afraid of this thing which he did not understand.
Perhaps it was not so much death he feared.
Perhaps it was absolute Oblivion.
The afterlife was one of the world’s greatest secrets.
No one knew whether it was real.
No one knew whether it even existed.
For men like Jonathan Wicker Abhrams — for men who gambled high stakes with their very lives day in, day out — mortality was irrelevant. It was mere currency. There was nothing to fear from death. There was nothing to fear from dying. The end was not the end, so to speak. There was always the afterlife, and the plethora of wondrous — or nightmarish — splendors lying in wait.
There was, however, some place else.
Not Hell.
Not Limbo.
Not the Void or the Black Abyss or the realms in between.
There was a place for the soulless.
For the deconstructed.
For the empty and alone.
There was Oblivion.
Oblivion was not of Father Destiny's creation, so the Books of Old said. It was a place where all that existed was complete nothingness; a place with no concept of life and death, of time and space. There was neither the world nor the afterlife, you nor the emptiness, end nor beginning.
Oblivion was oblivion.
And that was enough to frighten kings and Divines.
Or in this case, one Jonathan Wicker Abhrams himself.
Existing in non-existence was nothing short of pinnacle torture, and the Hunter would much rather not be tortured for all of eternity. Once was enough.
Step, step, step.
He looked down.
Darkness.
He looked left, right.
More darkness.
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams gulped.
There was nothing between him and the endless abyss below but glass. There was nothing between him and the bottom of the ravine but the floor itself, and that did not at all sit well with him.
He could handle Creations well.
Heights? Not so much.
Oblivion? Yikes.
Step, step, step.
At least if the floor broke, he’d plunge straight to his death. At least if the glass shattered and gave way, he wouldn’t have to spend all eternity floating around in emptiness.
Why, he’d die.
Simple as that.
He’d be dead as a doorknob.
He’d be dead as dead could be.
So yes, the fall would do.
It'd be preferable, actually.
“Subject Class: Visitor. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams — proceed, proceed.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m working on it, dickhead.”
Step, step, step.
***
“He’s here. . .”
“The Man. . .”
“The Hunter. . .”
“The Shadow. . .”
“He’s here. . .”
“He comes. . .”
“As was said. . .”
“As was spoken. . .”
"As was told. . ."
“The Shadow Man comes. . .”
“He comes. . .”
“He comes. . .”
“He. Comes!”
***
At first glance, Cerberus was not unlike any other ordinary Heimer Republic government building. Fluorescent bulbs hung high from the ceiling above, humming and buzzing and flickering all day, every day. Water coolers dotted the twisting, gray hallways, complete with their own stacks of paper cups, neatly piled; the occasional, withering, half-dead, clearly neglected potted plant; and perhaps an idling guard or two, staring way off into the dead of space, contemplating life choices with blank stares and constant sighs. There were doors too, steel and thick and double, triple, quadruple locked, but aside from the plated 5-digit combination of randomly assorted letters and numbers, they were identical to one another — perfectly.
What exactly was behind those doors remained a mystery. Some say they were simple storage places; others, more skeptical, suggested the otherwise ludicrous. They whispered of gateways and portals and doorways to the other realms, all kept neatly tucked away and conveniently in the dark. The Hunter wasn’t sure which to believe.
Cerberus was many things.
But it was neither mundane, nor magical.
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“System Alert, Procedure 12-A — Subject September. QRF Tetra-4, respond.”
There went the Man on the Loudspeaker again, barking orders and issuing commands in his ever so monotone, robotic voice. The Hunter never understood the orders. It was impossible. The whole of Cerberus operated mechanically. Staff were expected to adhere to a strict 127-page instructional booklet and make use of their very own codewords. They were expected to be punctual, right down to the very second. They were expected to be uniformly perfect, right down to the very letter. They were expected to be little less than human machines, right down to the very bone.
Metal does not fail; flesh does.
Thus was the Heimer Republic philosophy.
So if one could do away with the flesh, then all that remained would be mind and bone, ready for "augmenting."
Ready for rebuilding.
Ready to be turned machine, and made stronger.
Faster.
Smarter.
Better.
Now, what a ridiculous idea that was.
Or so the Hunter thought.
The Heimer Republic was full of surprises, after all — surprises, and ambition.
Downright deranged, demented, delusional, manic ambition.
Ambition that did not at all seem even the least bit remotely feasible.
Ambition that was no more than mere bedtime stories.
Ambition that was most probably dreamt up by some madman, hiding away in the dark.
And yet, they had their ways.
The United Imperium had magic.
The Republic had science.
And science, advanced enough, resembled the former.
This would not be the first time they succeeded in bringing their fantasies to life.
Machine-men.
What a scary thought.
Jonathan supposed the prison itself was more machine than building as well. Each person, each researcher, each guard and Sentrymen and soldier on site, counted towards a specific purpose, all in service of a grander function. No room, no office, no cell and courtyard and hallway was without use. Everything from the grandest to the miniscule served its purpose in Cerberus.
And they did so systematically.
Always.
“System Alert, Procedure 12-A — Subject September. QRF Hybrid-2, respond.”
Some half a dozen or so armed guards trudged past Jonathan Wicker Abhrams that same instant, faces stern and rifles at the ready. As per usual, they paid no attention to him. They did not bother asking who he was; they did not bother asking for his identification papers; they did not even bother asking whether he belonged there in the first place.
Simply put, it was not their job to.
And if it was not their job, they couldn’t care less.
They were told not to care, as a matter of fact.
The Man in the Loudspeaker — God’s Eye, as the Warden called it — was responsible for everything.
And its job was to care.
Its job was to care about absolutely everything.
Everything.
The machine that ran Cerberus.
God’s Eye.
“John.”
The Hunter turned, stared. Now, what an unpleasant surprise this was.
“Rhanes.”
“Lost, sir?”
“No. Taking my time is all.”
“Ah.”
“Yep.”
The guard glanced about, almost warily. His rifle was loaded; its safety was off.
“What’re you up to?”
“Just some cleanup,” Rhanes said. “Someone spilled something they shouldn’t have.”
“And. . . You need two QRFs for that?”
“Like I said, John. Someone spilled something they shouldn’t have spilled. The Warden likes this place spotless, clean."
“Meaning?”
No answer.
The guard tipped his hat, before saluting.
“Best get going now. The lieutenant colonel’s just right around the corner. He doesn’t like waiting.”
Jonathan said no more.
He knew.
Rhanes knew he knew.
He knew Rhanes knew he knew.
And so he went.
The guard went.
The two Quick Response Forces went.
And once more, the hallways fell silent.
Once more, there was but quiet and still in the air.
“System Alert, Procedure 12-A — Subject September. QRF Chimera-8, respond.”
Three.
Three QRFs.
Three’s a crowd.
***
Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider was a lot of things, but first and foremost, he was not a man to be trifled with. He was the ideal Heimer Republic soldier, always doing what needed to be done without so much as a sliver of hesitation. When he needed to, he made people disappear; when it was necessary, he silenced those that needed silencing; and when the time came, he killed.
And murdered.
And executed.
And butchered.
It was expected of the Warden, after all; Jonathan Wicker Abhrams didn’t hold it against him. Cerberus demanded an exceptional leader at the helm; either you ran the place, or it ran you, and Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider certainly had no interest in the latter.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
The Hunter tried again, louder this time.
Knock. Knock.
“Come in.”
John waited for a bit.
“Come. In.”
Just a little longer.
“Fuck’s sake, John.”
There it was.
And so the Hunter went, freezing hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, very much so still shaking. He stood up straight, announcing his presence with a cough or two, and perhaps an overly dramatic clearing of the throat. “Schneider.”
“Wicker.”
The Hunter stepped in, bearing in mind to close the door behind.
He heard it shut, and the lock click.
And he felt the room shake, if only just a bit.
Good then, they were alone now.
Most definitely.
The office was nothing impressive in itself. It was, more or less, a small box at the end of a small hallway housing a many number of small, rather insignificant, ordinary things. There was a wooden desk right down the middle; a single, bulky, boxy computer propped up atop; a leather office chair, scratchless and pristine; file cabinets; potted plants; sofas and coffee tables and two additional arm chairs opposite the desk; and a rather unimpressive, dated portrait hung slanted upon one side of the room. The man belonging to that particular office space, however, was anything but small or insignificant or ordinary, quite literally and figuratively speaking. He was taller than Jonathan Wicker Abhrams by quite a fair bit, neither built nor lean, old — though you would be forgiven to think otherwise, and certainly an icon of Heimer Republic military prestige.
No matter the day or occasion, he was always in uniform. The beret was staple, the coat was classic, the insignia was golden and the boots were polished to a shine, always. From head to toe, top to bottom, the man was an assemblage of black, red, and perhaps the occasional gold. There was never any white, or blue, or green, or any other color spare for the former three.
He was always oh, so dark, and oh, so foreboding.
And above all, he was terrifying.
Much like his battlefield presence.
This was the Wolf of Mek’shed.
This was the man who led a bloody campaign, outnumbered five to one, and came out on top.
This was the man who struck fear in the hearts of the United Imperiums.
This was the man who would not, could not, will not stay dead.
This was Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider.
And he was sitting just an arm’s reach away.
“Here to see her?” the lieutenant colonel said without so much as even a glance the Hunter’s way. His words were rough, gritty, mechanical. “Here to see your little friend again?”
“The only reason I’d come.”
“So it would seem.”
“How’s the wife?”
“Divorced.”
“And the kid?”
“Dead.”
“And you?”
The scribbling stopped. For the first time that evening, Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider breathed. A sly grin crept up from within, managing its way onto his face; Jonathan Wicker Abhrams didn’t quite like the look. It didn’t suit him. It wasn’t natural.
It wasn’t human, per se.
The Warden looked up.
His eyes followed, a moment later.
They were late.
“Functional.”
Metal with a sense of humor.
Guess it wasn’t just ambition, after all.
Jonathan couldn’t help but crack a smile as well.
“Glad to see you’re holding up, old man.”
“They fixed me a month ago.”
“Were your batteries running low?”
“I was rusting.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Always, John.”
***
“Sprightly chap, isn’t he, that Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.”
“A character.”
“Sure is. Sure is, sure is, sure is. A man of his stature — of his exceptional being — it’s a tragedy I’ve only just known him now, don’t you think? Where have you been my whole life, I wonder, John? Where have you been hiding?”
“I trust you are more than capable, yes?”
“Oh. of course! Of course, sire. Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours. You’ve entrusted me with this much; I shan’t disappoint. Why, I’d rather die! Hah-hah!”
“I do hope so — for your sake, Glaz. I certainly do hope so.”
***
Doctor Angela Pierce was her name. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had known the good doctor for most of his life, even prior to her rather unexpected — and infamous — brush with the law. She was a marvelous figure of the medical field; always conjuring up new innovations on a daily basis, and never once failing to impress. The newspapers applauded her, peers revered her, and government certainly held her in very high regards. To the Hunter, however, she was something far more precious.
Something worth cherishing.
Something, at least, in this world of nothings.
She was a good listener.
Someone he confided in.
A friend, perhaps.
Jonathan Wicker Abhrams trusted the good doctor. She had this aura that seemed to exude calm, that seemed to soothe and heal. The Hunter felt most of his worries and worldly troubles wash away with just a simple chat. He felt at ease, and for men like him to feel at ease — well, it was nothing short of a blessing, really .
A taste of the normal life, one could say.
A taste of heaven.
Simple chats, however, don’t tend to last long.
He couldn’t spend all his life in Cerberus, after all.
Even if he wanted to.
“System alert, Containment Breach 19-C, quarantine successful. Sanitation notified.”
Ah.
So that’s what it was.
Very nice.
As per usual, there wasn’t much talking to be done with Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider. He was, as always, exceptionally busy and exceptionally ever so cranky. Jonathan wanted to ask about the Man on the Loudspeaker; he wanted to ask what exactly needed three QRF’s worth of attention, but by now, he knew better than to try. The answer was never there.
And when it was, it wasn’t really the answer.
It was just more questions.
Their relationship was more transactional than anything else, to begin with. John was a good friend of the dear lieutenant colonel. They met a few years back in a military station up north, and by some miraculous twist of fate, managed to survive a rather grueling siege by the Uniter Imperiums. As it turned out, they were the only two sole survivors to have lived through that rather horrific day — and seemingly unscathed too.
Allowing John weekly visits was, in some sense, the lieutenant colonel’s way of expressing camaraderie and gratitude.
Or so the Hunter convinced himself so.
It was a shame most his relationships were anything but concrete.
They had a habit of breaking apart fairly quickly.
Or never having formed at all.
And even if and when they did, they were purely professional.
But not the good doctor.
The good doctor was perhaps Jonathan’s one and only true friend.
And she was in a cage within a prison.
How cruel the world may be.
“System alert, Containment Breach 19-C, sanitation in progress. All unauthorized personnel are to evict the premises immediately. Repeat—”
Oh, how he should’ve asked.
It would’ve been interesting.
It would’ve been good — fun — to know.
Especially all the juicy, little details, and especially, especially how it happened.
How it happened was always the best part.
Someone tended to go missing the next day.
Or wound up dead.
Slowly, surely, yet very much so steadily, Jonathan made his way throughout much of Cerberus’ cold interior alone. He knew where the turns and drops led, which elevator led to which level and which stairs took him where he needed to be.
After all this time, he ought to.
It’d be a miracle if he hadn’t yet.
Hunters had good memory.
And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams made for a good Hunter.
Step, step, step went his boots on the carpeted floors, thumping and pressing without so much as a squeak or thud.
Left, left, down.
Further and further in he went, making his way deeper into Cerberus — deeper and deeper into the machine prison.
Right, left, down.
It was second nature, at this point. He could navigate with his eyes closed, and he had done so once, as a matter of fact.
Left, left, stop.
And there it was.
The metal door which led into a metal room, in which sat a glass box housing exactly one Doctor Angela Pierce.
Jonathan brought the keycard up.
It had his name on it.
And his picture.
And his thumb print.
And his blood.
And the scanner checked each and every one, just to make absolutely sure.
Beep, beep.
“Scan successful,” it said. “Enter combination.”
He punched in the code, first try, and without so much as even looking at the keypad.
2045.
Beep.
One more time.
2045.
Beep, beep.
“System Alert, Door 12-8, green.”
The metal door opened at once, grinding against its frame and producing this horrendous shriek as it moved about, made way, and came to a full stop. The Hunter winced.
So much walking.
So much suffering in the rain.
So much cold.
All to get here.
All to have this simple chat.
All to talk.
And the good doctor knew as much.
She looked up from her book at once, smiling.
“Been a while, John.”
“Been a while, Angela.”
The Man on the Loudspeaker interrupted.
“System Alert, Door 12-8, red.”
Beep, beep.
The gears crunched.
The door closed.
And they were alone.
With God’s Eye.