The world came back to Lieutenant Colonel Schneider at once. There were the lush, blue skies above; the yellow, golden sands all around; the shining, burning, ever-scorching sun way overhead; and his own two hands — bloodied, bruised, scratched, and torn.

And then there was the masked man dangling from his grasps, teetering the line between life and death — consciousness and the worlds beyond.

The lieutenant colonel couldn’t feel his fingertips, but he knew he was pressing excessively hard, and if he squeezed just a teensy, tiny bit more, the Enforcer’s neck would have crumbled and splitted and snapped in twine — which would not have been an entirely terrible thing to see happen, granted.

Except the man owed him answers.

And answers had value.

Unlike the voice in his head.

“Wolfy?”

Schneider turned, letting his grasp loosen and the Enforcer free; there came the usual cacophony of choking and coughing and gagging shortly after.

“You alrighty?” Captain Petra had a worried look on her face, oddly enough. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You — You sure?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

She looked down to his hands.

They were shaking.

And twitching.

And not entirely his own.

And he had his claws out.

“Just. . . Checking.”

“Your concern is appreciated, captain.”

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider rolled his sleeves.

And fixed his beret.

And dusted himself clean.

The Wolf came close today.

Very close.

And he managed — even if just barely — to shut that thing down in the nick of time.

Which was good.

Because otherwise the platoon would have spent an entire afternoon picking after the scattered, disembodied, diced-up remains of one Captain Petra — and that was not entirely preferable.

That would have been bad, actually.

He would have been upset.

And the gun would have once more started to look very, very endearing.

Which only made his thoughts — and the voice in his head — that much louder.

“Collins?” Lieutenant Colonel Schneider was swallowing much, and blinking fast, and breathing hard. He was not his usual composed self, and he was hoping — for the sake of everyone — the first lieutenant didn’t take notice.

The first lieutenant did, of course — as did the captain — though they made absolutely no mention of it. “Yes, sir?”

“Take this one back to Cerberus. I want answers.”

“What about the convention, sir?”

Schneider took one last look at the Enforcer.

The Wolf came close today.

Very close.

And that was not allowed to happen again.

Ever.

“Fuck the convention.”

“Understood, sir.”

***

“They failed.”

“Of course, they did; can’t trust those idiots with anything. What’s the count?”

“All sixteen, except Kaenic. They took him in for questioning.”

“Oh, that’s just — just terrific. Perfect. Some good, at least — that boy.”

“Should I send in the rest?”

“Oh, no. No, no, that would be pointless; we need the bodies. They’d be nothing but fodder.”

“Then?”

“Then, I think it’s time I made an appearance, wouldn’t you say?”

***

“Lieutenant Colonel,” a Hunter offered his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance; I’m Hades.”

Schneider stopped in his tracks, then stared and stared and stared some more, deciding right then and there he would never be caught associating with this man who dressed much like Gentleman Death, who walked and talked and acted out — very poorly — the Divine’s exact mannerisms, and who had gone through the great trouble of painting his face to resemble that of a skull. It was a truly pathetic attempt at imitation, however commendable the effort. “Fantastic — another moron. This day just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“You are excused, Hunter — move,” the lieutenant colonel brushed past him, making certain their shoulders hit. Hades’ hood drooped. “Now I ask — once, loudly and politely — who’s leading this party?”

Quiet.

No answer.

A cough.

A whisper.

Far off, in the distance, someone cleared their throat.

And Hades spoke first.

“Abhrams.”

More silence.

More whispers.

And this time, Schneider broke silence.

“Someone I can trust, finally. Where’s the director?”

“He’s already in.”

“Of course, he is.”

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider glanced from Hunter to Hunter, forcing the grimace from his face and the trembling from his bones. For the longest time, he simply stood there — still, frozen, unmoving — almost as if he was taking note of each unfortunate soul to brave the dangers ahead, and he was indeed apologizing profusely from the deepest, darkest corners of his heart and soul.

And then he brought his fingers up to his lips.

And produced a whistle.

Loud.

Shrill.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Ringing.

“Hunters!”

He called out to none in particular.

Though all eyes turned to him at once.

“Time to work.”

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams’ group was second to enter, and they were all awaiting the call rather anxiously — or in the case of a certain Divine, rather excitedly.

This was nothing like the typical hunt.

The typical hunt consisted of one or two Hunters — maybe three or four at best. There were eight in this case, including the esteemed director himself who had, by all accounts, managed miraculously to clear his eternally, perpetually, forever clouded schedule just this once.

The typical hunt had no need for Sentrymen running parameter watch and security control. There was an entire platoon tagging along today.

Most notably, perhaps, the typical hunt did not concern the likes of Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider, director of Cerberus Penitentiary and commanding officer of Kerek-456. It did not warrant the oversight of two Sky Pirates, several artillery pieces, and an Enforcer.

Which led Jonathan Wicker Abhrams to conclude today was indeed no ordinary hunt.

Obviously.

It was the furthest thing from one.

“Exciting, yes?”

There was a man standing beside the Divine, a particularly unremarkable man dressed in standard issue Foundation uniform — except his seemed much too large and much too long, which indeed made him look a tad bit comical at times. The round glasses certainly did not help, nor did the mismatched pair of socks and the occasional stray band of silver hair jutting, peeking, protruding from way underneath his boonie hat.

“Never seen anything like it,” he said, producing a journal from within his coat pockets and jotting down squiggly-squoggly, barely legible lines of pencil. There was a sketch too — black, white, gray and depicting a gothic castle. “One for the picture wall, yes, yes.”

“And you are?” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams held back a rather insulting snicker; the man was indeed hard to look at, and harder to take seriously. “You’re not with us, are you?”

“Err. . . Yes, and no.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m with you, yes, in a sense — but also, no. Not for the fighting part, at least — heh; these bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“Ah,” the Hunter slung his shotgun way over one shoulder, making certain it wouldn’t slip off and come undone and perhaps even fire a round accidentally straight through his chest. “You’re with the science division, aren’t you?”

“Astute observation, young man; I am impressed.”

“Do I call you mister?”

“Doctor.”

“Doctor. . .”

“Vanheim. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. . .?”

The man extended a hand.

The Hunter accepted.

“Jonathan. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.”

“Sir Abhrams — has a nice ring to it.”

“Thank you.”

The wind picked up.

The two fell silent.

And for a moment, the desert was all quiet — all peaceful.

“Say. . .” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams glanced over at his two to-be team members. One was still very much so sound asleep, sitting straight upright; the other was stabbing at the sands and spraying all those around in grains of yellow and a shower of gold. “What is it you. . . People do?”

“For the most part,” the doctor answered, scratching at his chin, at his head, at his brows, and trying to make sense of his own gibberish handwritten notes. “We study them.”

“Them?”

“What you — the Foundation — calls Creations. We study them.”

“What is there to study? They’re killing machines, and we put them down — that’s as far as it goes. Not that deep, doc.”

“Ah, but understand, sir Abhrams — where you see a bloodthirsty monster, I see answers to questions never before even considered. I see potential to further study this world around us — make sense of. . . Everything.”

“And you’re going to make sense of the world by. . . What — evaluating Creations? Like a therapist?”

“Perhaps. Might I humor you with a theoretical?”

“Shoot.”

“Where do you think they come from?”

“Creationists. Filthy Imperium rejects with their filthy Imperium magic. They send them here; we do the returning, and sometimes we find the bastard and string him up right and tight.”

“You don’t think they are. . . Products of nature?”

“Like animals?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“And why not?”

Little Red shifted; her eyes fluttered.

Wrath ceased his stabbing.

“The world can’t make things like that — they’re. . . Unnatural. Not meant to be here. It’s why they’re always decaying; trying to keep themselves together.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, doc. I’ve been hunting them for the better part of my life.”

“Well, hunting — yes. Studying? I think not.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point, sir Abhrams,” Vanheim shut his journal, stuffing it way back down his coat pockets. “Is we do not know enough about them to reach a reasonable conclusion. They are an enigma — an anomaly of recent times. We owe it to ourselves to at least try and understand.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was perhaps taking a very mild, very slight interest in the conversation at hand. It was a rather refreshing feeling — to want to continue talking.

“Explain it to me like I’m six.”

“Well, for instance — why is one’s behavior radically different from that of another’s? Why is their habitat — their choice of shelter — seemingly arbitrary? Why are they predetermined to cease existing after varying times? These are not the actions of a species.”

“What?”

“A species acts accordingly as one another does. If I were to take a dozen flood wyrms and subject them through nature’s rigorous test, we establish parameters to identify what exactly a flood wyrm is and isn’t — what it can and cannot survive, where it sleeps, where it eats, how it acts, how it hunts, what it looks like. These are actions, measurements, limitations, instincts set in their every fiber of being — that which cannot radically differ from one specimen to another. All of these descriptions compile to create a singular species.”

“You lost me.”

“What I mean by this, sir Abhrams, is that an animal behaves how an animal is supposed to behave. An animal lives and breathes and dies and acts and looks how an animal is supposed to live and breathe and die and act and look. A Creation, on the other hand, cannot be labeled as such. It is not an animal — nor is it any species of this world, for that fact of the matter, and if it cannot be classified as a species, then what is it? A single Creation is so very different from another that no two can truly be called alike.”

Little Red leaned against Jonathan’s shoulder; he was far too deep in thought to care — to notice.

Wrath certainly did, though.

And he was smiling, wide and proud.

“Well, you’re right there. They’re different.”

“Precisely. They are nothing like anything else in this world. They deserve to be studied.”

“And what exactly are you studying today?”

“Correlation.”

“Correlation?”

“Yes, correlation. We’ve. . . Discovered quite the unsettling connection recently, and I am here today to confirm.”

From far off, there came the beep of a radio.

Followed by the chatter of Sentrymen.

“What connection?”

“Well, we’ve discovered that — at times — different Creations come together to live as one. We refer to this phenomenon as “nesting.”

“Huh.”

“There is a problem, of course. When Creations nest, they attract others of their kind and — well, one plus one, two plus two, three plus three and soon the whole thing will grow way, way out of control, very, very quickly.”

“Seems. . . Normal.”

“Fairly. Here’s the catch.”

“Go.”

“Normally, when Creations decide to nest, they find an adequately large space. The larger the space, the more Creations. It’s either that, or. . .”

“Or?”

“The larger the space, the more Creations — or the larger the space, the stronger the Creation. Singular.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams tore his gaze off the man.

And he thought.

And thought.

And thought.

And then the realization hit.

Like a truck.

“Doctor.”

“Yes, sir Abhrams?”

“There is an entire castle down there, and it’s fucking massive.”

“Precisely. . .”

Vanheim scribbled and scribbled and scribbled.

And then he stopped.

And looked up.

And pinched his glasses off.

“Oh.”

Seems he realized too, Jonathan thought.

“Now that is indeed a problem.”

“We have to — we have to warn them.”

And as if on queue, Private Rhanes descended the sandy slopes, coming to a full stop beside all three Hunters and the newly acquainted doctor. Sand sprayed from his boots.

“Vanguard gave the green light. You’re all clear.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams rose to his feet all too quickly, all too soon. His head hurt for a moment, though it hurt much less than Little Red’s; hers slid right off his shoulder and bumped the rocks.

She woke straight up then.

And shot him a look.

And if he had to guess, it was one of mild irritation.

“Rhanes, listen — you have to call them, right now.”

“Pardon?”

“Vanguard, Beauford — the lot, you have to call them. Right fucking now, please.”

The Sentryman ran a hand through his hair, scrunched his chin, and then nodded ever so slightly.

He clicked the radio to life.

Beep!

“Vanguard One, come in.”

Silence.

No answer.

“Vanguard One, come in, come in.”

Quiet.

Buzzing.

Static.

And then—

Beep!

“Vanguard Actual, go for Vanguard One.”

“We have a Hunter requesting clear comms for the director.”

“A what?”

“A — A Hunter. Copy?’

“A Hunter. Full copy.”

“A Hunter requesting to speak to director Beauford. Priority.”

“Copy that. Handing comms over.”

“Roger.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams waited.

He swallowed hard.

And sweated.

And froze.

And all the whilst, Wrath and Little Red looked on in confusion — as did Private Rhanes.

Beep!

“Beauford here; who’s this?”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams grabbed the radio straight out of the Sentryman’s hand; there was no protest, only a raise of the brow.

“Beauford! It’s John.”

“John? What’s the problem? They told me it was urgent. Signal’s kind of sketchy down here, so we’re having some difficulties reaching y—”

“Listen — just listen and answer. How many Creations have you run into so far?’

“What?”

“Beauford! Listen! How many Creations so far?”

“None, John. Zero.”

The Hunter gulped.

He squeezed the radio hard — so very hard it might as well have broken wide open and crumbled to dust.

“John?”

“Beauford.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to pull them back — right now.”

“Uhh — can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

“John, Vanguard went on ahead. They’re already in.”