Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was an ordinary man. Like most, he started his days — always — with a hearty cigarette, and perhaps a cup or two of stale, bitter, coffee. He would then shower, and shave, and go about his morning routine fairly quickly. There was often little time to waste, after all; he was a working man, and every hour not spent working was an hour well wasted — thus was the Heimer Republic way of life. Unfortunately.

Unlike most, however, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams despised public transport. It was a modern-day convenience — and surprisingly affordable, as well — but to him, it was a one-way ticket descent into decadence and indolence. It made people lazy, slow, weak, and he wanted nothing to do with these. He liked the exercise.

No, rather, he needed it.

Being a Hunter was not the easiest thing in the world. It was hard, tiring, arduous work, and more often than not, it was a thankless profession. There were no pats on the back for a job well done, no “congratulations” or “good work.” There was just the satisfaction of having completed a task — an exceptionally dangerous task — and ridding the world of one more unnecessary evil. To many, these were their motives: to keep the Heimer Republic a safer place. To Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, however, this was not it. He was a Hunter simply because it paid the bills. Sometimes.

He was not always a Hunter. Previously, he worked as a part-time security guard for a Heimer Republic weapons manufactory. Before that, he was a marine in the army. And ever further before that, he was a mercenary. None of those ever worked out for him.

It became apparent one day that he was gifted. While some were prodigy musicians, talented painters, and the best of engineers and doctors, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was good — no, excellent — at fighting, and even better at killing. He had a knack for turning living, breathing, growing things into nothing more than lifeless corpses soon to be buried.

When the government took notice of his particular skill sets, they pardoned his past and his crimes, and forced him into the life he now lived. Essentially, they employed him in service of the nation — against his own will, of course.

Jonathan didn’t mind much.

He was not a complainer, and nothing could be done to better his circumstances, so naturally, he took to keeping his head down and doing the job. He’d rather live a meager life than not live at all. It was not too bad, granted. For one, it made for good exercise. For two, it was any gambling addicts’ fantasy: a 50-50 shot of either being voraciously torn apart, limb from limb, body from soul; or cashing out an almost insultingly low paycheck.

So far, he’s won all his gambles.

Except today, of course.

Today, he came very close to losing.

Very, very close.

***

A mansion.

On a hill.

Way off in the distance.

A mansion too large.

Too grand.

Too empty.

A porch.

Too white.

Too clean.

Too much.

Footprints, leading up.

Fresh, fresh footprints.

Mud and grass.

Both fresh, still.

A door, ajar.

It was big.

It was heavy.

It was open.

Swinging in the wind.

And inside, a foyer.

As large.

As grand.

As empty.

Empty spare for the chandelier, also swinging in the wind.

Empty spare for the carpets, also fluttering in the wind.

Empty spare for the blood, pooled on the floors.

And the corpses.

The dead faces.

Still smiling.

Still grinning.

And the man standing atop the stairs.

The man with the top hat.

The man with the suit and tie.

The man who was far too tall.

Far too skinny.

Far too pale.

Also smiling.

Also still grinning.

Also still with a knife in hand.

Jonathan saw him.

And he saw Jonathan.

And the man smiled wider still.

Till his skin split and his flesh tore and his bone showed.

And Jonathan screamed and screamed and screamed.

But nothing came to.

Nothing ever did.

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhram’s eyes shot wide open.

Instinctively, his hands twitched, reaching for the warm familiarity of a shotgun grip. It was always there, at the last dark of night and the first light of day; for better or for worse, it seldom left him, preferring rather to remain by his side at all times. Today, however, the Hunter found his dearly beloved missing.

It was not by his side.

It was not on the bed, five inches exactly right.

It was nowhere to be found, as a matter of fact.

And speaking of the bed, it wasn’t exactly his either.

He did not recognize it.

It was soft — far too soft for Jonathan’s liking. He sank into it, sank through it; it seemed to swallow him up whole, even. His back was used to the hard of wooden floors and to the grit of dirt; it was not so used to comforters and linen sheets and marshmallow soft mattresses. Still, he lay there, quiet, savoring the moment. It was not often he had the privilege of experiencing such fine luxuries; a clean room, a warm bed, food on the table, and air conditioning was beyond what he could normally afford.

But this was all free.

Which made it that much better.

Plus, there were fresh grapes on the nightstand.

The Hunter never had grapes before; he quite liked them.

They were sweet.

Juicy.

Bite-sized, too.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams looked about. It was then that he recognized the place: it was the Foundation infirmary, room 117 to be exact. He had the displeasure of being admitted into care more times than was necessery, and the displeasure of having lived through all his trials and tribulations — even the most painful ones — which ultimately landed him here, in a room far too good, far too clean, and far too big, for a man of his stature.

And of his status.

The scent of perfume hung about, clouding his sense of smell. It wasn’t any ordinary, everyday perfume either; it was the exotic kind, boasting some lavender and citrus and perhaps a dab of vanilla. Jonathan could never tell one from the other; he could never tell apples from oranges. If it was not the stench of rotting flesh, or gangrenous decay, or a myriad of other unpleasantries, he was clueless.

Fluorescent bulbs too hung from the ceiling, humming and buzzing all day, every day, showering the infirmary in dazzling gleams of shimmering white. There were many rooms like his, each with their own rows of hospital beds, and their own rows of neat little sitting areas, complete with leather couches and glass coffee tables and perhaps a small nightstand hosting some dozen or so outdated magazines — or in Jonathan's case, a bowl of grapes. There was a view way out into the Heimer Republic as well.

Way out into the City of Tomorrow, packed to the brim with commoners and workmen, hauling along their suitcases and umbrellas and other such knickknacks; States-guards and Enforcers, carrying out their usual rounds, patrolling and watching and keeping an eye on all their precious sheep; and, of course, the occasional Hunter or two, going about their days with not a care in the world.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

These were Jonathan’s people.

People who lived a solitary life, cast aside by all of society. People who lived in the shadows, paving a better tomorrow, one monstrosity slain at a time. People who made the hard choices and the expected sacrifices.

Or so he convinced himself.

It was most definitely not the itch to kill something, to take something once alive and breathing and render it nothing more than a future grave. It was most definitely not his bloodlust peeking from within. That was his past, and his past was long buried six feet under.

Slowly, surely, and with the grace of an ever resting sloth, Jonathan forced himself up. It took some effort — and some clambering with the many IV tubes stuck into his arms — before he could properly pull himself together and climb out of bed.

“Not too fast, now; wouldn’t want you tripping over yourself.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams craned his neck; there was an audible crack.

“So he lives.”

“What shame.”

Wrath sat in one of those leatherbound sofa chairs, a leg crossed over the other, flipping through issue after issue of The Republic Daily. He looked nonchalant as ever — and as one could possibly be — with both twin blades strapped to his back and greasy, green blood caking the entirety of his coat. It stunk bad, hence the perfume, Jonathan assumed. He thought it was exceptionally, unusually strong, even by Doc’s standards. This made more sense.

“I never get visitors,” Jonathan said, letting the nausea and dizziness kick in. They did — hard. “I like it that way.”

“Well, aren’t you the lonely bird. Most people love visitors; most people love me. I even bought you some flowers.”

Wrath gestured at the nightstand.

And indeed, there were flowers sitting by Jonathan, a bountiful, beautiful bouquet of roses and daffodils and orchids strung together into one, neat, bundled pile. There too was a paper note attached. ‘Don’t die,” it read in bright, bold reds — signed, ‘your knight in shining armor.’

Now, this was a first.

“I don’t like flowers either.”

“Why the hell not?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Reminds me of funerals. Been to too many.”

“Oh, the dying man.”

“The dead man.”

“Death greets the dead man.”

“And the dead man smiles.”

Wrath let a snicker slip his lips. He tossed his stack of Republic Daily's halfway across the room, and perfectly back unto the coffee table without so much as a moment’s hesitation. He fidgeted in seat, fixing his coat straight; bits of entrails and remnants shuffled from their rest, littering the floors down below. “Sorry about that. These two can’t ever seem to shut up.”

“Let the voices consume you.”

“Fall into madness’ embrace.”

“See what I mean? They go on and on and on. You should hear them at night. Drives me crazy."

"Completely normal transition here,” Wrath fiddled with his coat still, digging deep into his pockets in search of something. He found that something rather quick, promptly handing it over to Jonathan with a clean flick of the wrist. “Grant told me to give this to you. It’s your cheque, I think.”

Jonathan stared, hard.

He was not happy.

That much was obvious.

“2500,” he spat the words out, reading the numbers aloud and with heavy, venomous disappointment. Though they were smudged in ink, blood, and a many number of other stains — some of which were far more unsettling than the former two — he could still make the printing out. His eyes did not deceive him. “This is half — fucking half.”

“Mmm,” Wrath picked his coffee up by the lid. “Half.”

“What happened to the other 2500?”

“Went to me, of course.”

“What?”

“What?”

“You just said it went to you.”

“Believe me — not my first decision. I already have enough to get by; I don't need more. You, on the other hand — yikes, yikes, yikes. You look like you could use a break. I’m sure Grant can sort this out for you."

"Fucking Grant."

"You know where to find him.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So you’ll manage. I believe in you.”

And so Jonathan Wicker Abhrams went, out the door and out the infirmary, still woozy and very much so still hurting. The morphine hadn’t done its job, he thought. Either that, or there wasn’t enough of it in his system.

“Name’s Wrath, by the way!”

“Don’t care.”

“You’re welcome! Saved your ass!”

“Shut—”

“A little thank you would go a long way!”

“Up.”

He walked and walked and walked.

He did not know where Grant was.

He did not know where the shotgun was.

All he knew was that he needed to find both.

Preferably soon.

***

There was a certain atmosphere to The Foundation. Everything felt very much so corporate, from the staff, to the Hunters, to the way everyone walked, talked, acted, to even something as miniscule as posture and body language. Foundation personnel were expected to dress in a full suit and tie attire, regardless of occasion, time of day, culture, and whether one could even afford a set. They were expected to address superiors with utmost respect, and to maintain proper etiquette in and out of company grounds. Furthermore, they were professional.

So very professional Jonathan Wicker Abhrams despised them. They were the epitome of bureaucracy, and very much unlike him. Suits and ties, that’s all they were — nothing but cold corporate lackeys with half a brain and not a heart. They were the ones who sat comfortably behind, while he and so many others risked their lives day in, day out, doing the dirty work.

As one could guess, this obviously did not bode well with the Hunters. They were polar opposites.

Whereas Foundation personnel were generally clean, kempt, well-tempered and mannered, Hunters were gruff, no-nonsense brawlers. They were not afraid to get their hands dirty and roll around in the dirt. They were not afraid of a little blood, or a dirty coat, or some scary looking thing, and they certainly were not afraid of speaking against those higher up in the hierarchy.

Welcome to the Foundation, where half were ruthless killing machines, and half were ruthless people machines. He didn’t know which was worse.

As per usual, the lobby was packed.

There were Hunters gathered around notice boards, picking at job offers and contracts, and discussing amongst themselves who got what, and who went with who. There were Foundation personnel tending to clients and guests, answering phone calls and handling paperwork and, just sometimes, upselling their services to the clueless. The normal stuff.

There were also stray dogs: mercenaries and army rejects looking for a quick cash grab; suppliers, weapons designers, and everything between the two trying desperately to sell themselves as potential partners to the Foundation; Enforcers, Peacekeepers, and States-Guards issuing orders from government; and, of course, the occasional Divine tending to their cohort of squealing fans.

The Divine in question was Wrath himself.

Wrath was what The Foundation would call their “trump card,” or “ace of spades.” He was who they sent to dispatch of the most grueling, frightening, dangerous Creations. A person — no, being — of Wrath’s stature was, for obvious reasons, unconcerned with material wealth and measly sums of money, which really made Jonathan wonder. Why was he in the business?

Because it offered him something to rip and tear on a daily basis?

Most probably.

That would make sense.

The lobby itself was huge yet simple, modern yet clean, minimalist yet ever so cramped. It was a wide, circular, open space with tinted glass for walls, glazed marble for floors, high ceilings, many rooms, and an abundance of red tape fences. There were a set of staircases leading to floors above, a counter for personnel in between, a mural of some sort smack dab right in the middle, and benches around said mural. Mostly everything, if not actually everything, was stained slightly yellow — probably from years of copious cigarette smoke — and if it was not yellow, it was marble black.

This was it.

A grand lobby fit for a grand organization.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stood amidst the chaos, and amidst the crowd all around. He was looking for someone — a certain Administrator Grant, perhaps. Administrator Grant was who Jonathan “answered” to, technically speaking. He was his superior, so to speak, which naturally made the man an avid nemesis of the Hunter himself.

The man himself — unlike Wrath — was not someone who stood out from a crowd of dozens; he was the kind of man who could blend right in everywhere, anywhere, and with little effort. He had skin the color of burnt leather, round glasses which sat squarely on his face, not an inch of hair to be seen, and an excessively reserved personality. He barely spoke a word to anyone unless he absolutely had to, in which case he said just the bare minimum. Jonathan did not like that either.

And so the Hunter went, asking and asking and asking some more, trying to find the man who would be on the receiving end of a good yelling — trying to find Administrator Grant. It was tiring, frustrating work, and he was just about ready to throw the towel in until a sparky, young intern — who Jonathan had not yet the pleasure of meeting, whose name he did not bother remembering, but whose hair was a distinct, fiery orange — pointed out exactly, to the room and place, where Administrator Grant was. With an exasperated sigh, a bothersome groan, and what could only be assumed was a tired stare, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams set off for the Archives.

Way, way down.

Down and into the Archives.

Where it was always dark. . .

Lonely. . .

And so very cold.

Like the cement factory.

***

The elevator took him all the way, and without so much as a single stop. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had been in plenty of elevators, but this one, he always dreaded. The ride went for eternities, and the light inside was constantly flickering. There was nothing to the interior — no handrails or carpeting, no posters or motivational quips, no advertisements of any sorts or Foundation “Work Hard. Keep Quiet,” mottos scribbled into the very floors.

No.

There was nothing.

It was a clean, empty elevator.

He counted the seconds until that eventual ding, and somehow, someway, each time was a different count. Some days, it took the elevator as quick as some 90 or so seconds; other times, it took as long as two to three minutes. How it managed this eluded Jonathan, and he could not, for the life of him, wrap his head around it.

It traveled at a constant speed.

It went to the same place back and forth.

And yet, the mystery still remained.

When asked, Administrator Grant told him it was simply his imagination acting up. Being in such confined space with absolutely nothing to do bored people, and bored people were often. . . Unreliable variables, as the man so eloquently put. The flickering light most definitely did not help.

Ding!

There it was.

Finally.

The doors creaked open, one at a time, and in flooded the cold, cold air. Chills ran up Jonathan’s spine.

The Archives were simple, really. They served a purpose, and they served that purpose well.

They were a place for all of the Foundation’s files, from the most famous, well-known tales to the most obscure and unheard of. Everything done, and will be done by the organization was to be documented and saved, and this was, in more ways than one, their dedicated storage unit.

The Archives.

The Vault.

The Dark Rooms.

It had many names.

There were rows and rows and rows of shelves housing some few thousand cardboard boxes and manifests and journals and whatnot. There were light fixtures above doing an awfully poor job at, well, lighting. There were Foundation personnel scattered about in their black jackets and gray suits, whispering to one another, picking through the mounds of mess, handling evidence, and in one instance, hauling along an unusually black, excessively large, but otherwise normal looking book.

Administrator Grant stood in the light, his nose buried in some ancient grimoire. He did not pay heed to the Hunter’s approach, nor did he seem to care one bit.

“Something I can help you with, Mr. Wicker?”

Jonathan had both hands in his pockets; he was shivering. It reminded him of the factory — how the cold seemed to seep through his coat and make its way deep into his bones, how the frost stiffed his joints and his blood, how it almost killed him.

It reminded him of the creature.

It reminded him of The Smiling Man.

“Didn’t think to see you all the way down here, Grant. Getting your hands dirty for once? Rolling in the dirt — like us?”

“There are things in need of my attention.”

“Mmm. So it would seem.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Jonathan?”

“I think you know.”

“Tell me.”

“You know.”

“Speak your mind or don’t. I am rather busy.”

The light above flickered, leaving Jonathan Wicker Abhrams in the dark, and Administrator Grant in the light.

The Hunter began.

“Two things. . . One — whatever happened to “proper intel?” That assignment I took? That was not C-Grade. That was definitely not C-Grade. That was B-Grade, maybe even A, at the very least, so fuck your Scouts, fuck their reports, and fuck you for putting it up there. I almost died.”

It took all his will and fight to restrain himself. It took all of Jonathan’s so-called “professionalism” and “respect” to refrain from yelling at the top of his lungs. Even then, he almost lost it. “Two — this, right here? This is not what I was promised. Does this look like five grand to you? Does it? Because to me it looks like half that, Grant — exactly half that. To me, it looks like 2500, and you know as well as I do. . . That’s complete horseshit.”

“The grading was our mistake; you will be compensated for shortly. As for your financial qualms, 5000 was the agreed upon fee for a one-person party. It has come to my attention that there were two people on the hunt, not one.”

“What?”

“Your little friend, Wrath — it seems — joined you.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“He was on the hunt, was he not, Jonathan?”

“I don’t even know the guy.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“I did not ask for his help. You know me, Grant. I work best alone.”

“Regardless, red herring aside, It was not my decision to make. This was an express command from the great Mr. Beaufort himself. I had no say in the matter.”

Jonathan let a snicker slip his lips. “You never do, do you, Grant?”

“Believe me, Abhrams, I have exhausted the extent of my aid. If I could help you, I would. If I could make your life any easier, I would. Do not make the mistake of thinking you are unvalued here; The Foundation values you, greatly — as do I.”

“Well, the pay says otherwise, but. . . Who needs money these days, right?”

“Don’t play the victim.”

“I am the victim.”

Administrator Grant slapped the grimoire shut, stirring a cloud of dust from the pages between and unto Jonathan’s face. The Hunter held back a cough.

“Be that as it may, Mr. Wicker, this is out of my hands — consider it Foundation policy. There is nothing I can do to help you. I wish I could, but I cannot. Apologies. Now, if you would excuse me, I have work to do. Good day, and farewell.”

The administrator strode right past Jonathan, his boots thumbing on the cold, stone floors, slowly growing more and more distant with each passing step.

“Grant! We’re not done here!”

Ignored.

“Grant!”

No response.

Ding!

Jonathan watched as the doors opened, then shut, and he was left once more in the company of silence. He watched as Foundation personnel came and went, never once paying even the slightest bit of attention to him. He watched as the light above flickered and faded, leaving him, again, in complete darkness.

And there he sat in the middle of the aisle, letting out one, long, exasperated, and quite unprofessional sigh.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

That too, was unprofessional.