Jonathan Wicker Abhrams stood in one corner of the atrium, silent, still, clearly dumbfounded. The same, however, could not be said for the rest. His colleagues were nowhere near as silent, still, nor understandably dumbfounded. No, quite the contrary, actually.

They were loud, raging, and very demanding of the administrator, who was busy ignoring them altogether and flipping through his little clipboard in hand.

Being team leader meant leading the mission.

Being team leader meant making the hard decisions.

Being team leader meant you were responsible for everything.

Everyone.

All those poor souls under your command, all those people who looked up to you and trusted you and expected you to have everything under control anytime, everytime, all the time — it’d be good not to disappoint them, lest they might end up in a bodybag.

Lest they might end up dead.

And obviously, a terrible team leader made for a terrible mission, and terrible missions oftentimes resulted in far more blood than was necessary.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams despised quite a bit of the world.

He despised the sight of blood, even if it was not his.

He despised the overzealous, over-chatty clerk working the night shifts at his local liquor store.

He despised funerals.

He despised hot days.

He despised, in this instance, one particular administrator Grant for putting him in a much uncomfortable situation he was most definitely unprepared for — in so many more ways than one.

The Hunter had never been team leader before.

And he had no intention of ever being one.

Usually it was Wrath.

Or Hades.

Or someone equally as arrogant, headstrong, and quite coincidentally higher up in the hierarchy.

Which might explain the reception.

“Grant! Yo, a word?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“We’re dead, I guess.”

And they were right.

Absolutely, they were.

If he couldn’t lead them. . .

If he couldn’t step up. . .

Every single Hunter here would never make it back alive.

They’d be dead before sundown.

Jonathan included.

And for once —

For whatever reason —

He didn’t quite feel like dying.

Not today, at least.

***

There was a whirring noise coming from way off in the distance.

And a spot or two of black in the sky.

Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider recognized the whirring.

It was as loud as he remembered.

As roaring as he remembered.

As menacing.

As terrifying.

As deathly deafening.

And, in some weird, twisted way, as comforting.

The spots of black approached.

They came closer.

And the glint of their metal exterior became evident.

It was Sky Pirate.

An aircraft some 10 tons, fully equipped with dual 50-caliber machine guns, twin motor engines, and space for a dozen or so personnel. To Heimer Republic troops on the field, Sky Pirate was a sight for sore eyes. It meant just about every hostile in a single klick radius would never dare poke their little heads out from hiding — a shower of bullets twice the size of whole fingers made quite sure of that. There were those adventurous, of course, that tried still; and there were those adventurous, of course, that seemed to always find themselves little more than unrecognizable bits and pieces of human flesh before the smoke even cleared.

Truly, they were the pride and joy — crown and jewel — of the Republic Royal Air Force.

And everyone from the navy to the army damn well knew it.

The lieutenant colonel certainly did.

They saved his life once.

And took many dozens more at the same time.

Closer.

Closer.

And closer still.

The two Sky Pirates were near, now.

So very near the lieutenant colonel could hear nothing else but the hum of their engines and the roar of their whirring twin blades.

So very near the sands stirred and jumped and scattered about, like a maelstrom of charred brown and desert yellow.

So very near he could see the faces of the pilots within, the shine of the idle machine guns, the scratch, the tear, the wear, the burn marks all about, and the one particular, deranged, psychopath captain hanging off the open door of a vehicle traveling a hundred feet off the ground, all whilst smiling and laughing and giggling to herself.

“I see the Captain hasn’t changed one bit!”

Schneider turned.

There was a man by his side, thin, tall, white-haired, and droopy eyed. He looked as if he ate too little, smoked too much, hardly slept, and had a penchant for sunglasses. All were true, as a matter of fact, spare for one — the man did not at all eat.

Ever.

He couldn’t.

His body rejected any, every, all kinds of food, and sustained itself on a special concoction administered through injection three times a day — courtesy of Republic Science and an unspecified doctor who shall not be named, but who has most notably committed a very many number of war crimes all relating to the use of live human subjects in trial experimentation.

First Lieutenant Collins was practically yelling over the whirring of the Sky Pirates, chewing on a toothpick, holding his beret down, and looking very much so out of place. He did not possess the demeanor of a hardened soldier. He possessed the demeanor of a corpse.

“No, lieutenant, she has not!”

“Permission to speak candidly, sir?”

“Granted!”

“She scares me!”

“What?”

“She! Scares! Me!”

Schneider offered a snicker, though it was somewhat drowned completely out. He stood before all of Cerberus itself, head held high, back straight, one hand tight on the grip of his holstered revolver. He stood before the two automated human shredding machines beeping and booping by the gate all day, everyday, looking very much so ominous and frightening. He stood before Kerek-456 — before his personal platoon of 24. They were amongst the finest Cerberus had to offer; highly trained, highly disciplined, lethal killing machines itching to shoot something dead.

And even then, he felt slightly uneasy in her presence.

He felt slightly unsafe.

As did the first lieutenant.

“You know she’s clinically insane right, sir?!”

“Yes, Collins!”

“You know she killed a man with an ashtray?!”

“Yes!”

“Bashed his head in — basically dented his skull, made soup from his brains! You should’ve been there; it was. . . Something!”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t bash your brains in with an ashtray, first lieutenant!”

“She could!”

“She would, if you had any in the first place!”

The two men stood side by side, watching and waiting as Sky Pirate one and two circled on above, like vultures over carcasses. Schneider watched as they slowly began their descent, showering him and his platoon in wave after wave of sand, dust, and hot, hot air, and First Lieutenant Collins watched as the Captain stared directly at him, grinned, waved, laughed, then ran a finger along her neck.

He gulped.

Schneider turned to face him once more; the lieutenant colonel was smiling as well.

“First lieutenant! I think you are, in fact, dying today!”

“I think so too, sir!”

***

“Hey, it’s me.”

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“Hey, me. What’s shaking?”

“They’re heading out now, five minute warning. Same people, same numbers, same everything, same, same, same — right down to the letter. Looks like intel was good.”

“Very good, it seems.”

“We got a bit of a problem, though.”

“Now really isn’t really the best time for problems, friend.”

“Bravo’s gone radio silent; they’re not responding to any of our calls. Think they’ve ditched — gone AWOL, maybe?”

“Oh, nevermind, we have what we need. The plan goes forward, with or without them.”

“So, we still doing this?”

“Positively.”

“And what if they don’t bite?”

“They will, relax.”

“What if they don’t?”

“They will.”

“Right — but what if they don’t?”

“Well, if they don’t, we’ll put one between Schneider’s eyes, simple as that. Either way, we’ll have done our job; trust in the rest to do theirs. Don’t you go doubting the plan now. It’s far too late for that.”

“You won’t make it out alive. You won’t make it past the first bullet before they drop 20 into you.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“And you’re ready? You’re ready to die for — for this? You’re ready to give your life for a crack at his?”

“If it means we can make them bleed —”

“Right. . .”

“If it means we can hurt them, turn the Republic into rubble, ash —”

“Yeah?”

“Then I’ll do whatever it takes — anything, everything, just to see them hurt.”

“Duly noted.”

“And besides, it won’t come to that; stop worrying. I mean — you’d have to be crazy to shoot an Enforcer. Schneider’s losing it, but even then he’s not all that. Even then, he’s just a scared little man hiding behind his desk.”

“That’s the Wolf of Mek’shed you’re talking about. He wiped an entire rebel state outnumbered ten to one, you do know this, right?”

“Oh, would you relax? Surely you don’t believe those stories — those overblown rumors. I never pictured you for the kind to swallow up propaganda.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, if I didn’t happen to be there that day — personally.”

“You were?”

“Oh, yeah, and let me tell you something — absolutely zero of his stories were ever watered down. Not one bit.”

“And yet, he’s still human, so quit all this hubbub and let’s go wolf hunting, shall we?”

“If it comes to that.”

‘Sure, whatever.”

***

Captain Petra was not what you would consider a typical Heimer Republic soldier. For starters, very little was known of her, even to Enforcers and Peacekeepers alike. For obvious reasons, this did not quite sit well with High Command. They took a liking to perfect information, and had cultivated a meticulous habit of knowing everything there was to know about anyone.

Anytime.

Any place.

Anywhere.

For obvious reasons, they were not exactly delighted when this habit of theirs was challenged.

Try as they might, they could not dig up more than the dear captain let on. They knew that she was born in the quiet town of Kurgstein. They knew that she led a humble childhood. They knew that she was 25 or so. They knew that she never left the Heimer Republic once in her life.

And they knew that she was borderline psychotic.

Which, to no one’s surprise, made her quite the efficient soldier.

And then, quite the efficient officer.

And very soon — too soon — quite the efficient captain.

And that was the extent of High Command’s collective government knowledge.

Hundreds of agencies, dozens of departments, thousands of the brightest minds brought together — and still they knew no more about her than the lieutenant colonel did.

It was shameful, truly.

Though the Heimer Republic would never admit.

Captain Petra stepped off Sky Pirate.

Her boots met sand.

“Schneider!”

The lieutenant colonel cleared his throat.

“Petra.”

She came up real close, almost as if she was sniffing him.

And she was, in fact.

“Hi, cutie.”

“Afternoon to you too, Captain. I was told that you would be accompanying us for the duration of this mi—”

“Shh — me first. Shut up.”

And so the lieutenant colonel did.

Rather quickly too.

“You never called.”

“Err — yes, I suppose it slipped my mind. I. . . I forgot.”

“Forgot?”

“I’ve been so terribly busy as of late; Cerberus unfortunately demands my fullest attention. My sincerest apologies to you, captain.”

“Mmm. . . Seems everyone’s always so busy, busy, busy these days — no time at all for dear, old me. Not a minute or second to spare for dear, old Petra. Are you gonna forget again? Or do I need to remind you this time, wolfy?”

Schneider took a step back.

Petra took a step forth.

She was just as close.

And the metal collar around her neck beeped once, blinked red.

“No need. I’ll — I’ll remember.”

“Goody! Goody, goody, goody. You better.”

The captain tilted her head.

She stared at the lieutenant colonel.

And then grinned.

And then waltzed on past him.

And pointed.

To amongst the ranks of the 24 Sentrymen on standby.

To one person in particular.

“And you!”

They all held their breaths.

“I see you hiding back there, Collins! C’mere!”

The first lieutenant begrudgingly stepped forth.

He was sweating a whole lot.

And not necessarily because it was hot out.

“Captain.”

He saluted her.

Petra flashed a pearly white smile his way.

“Missed you!”

“I, uhh — missed you. . . Too?”

“As you should.”

“R-Right.”

She poked him on the arm.

“You been eating?”

“Uhm. . .”

“You look. . .”

“Thin?”

“I was thinking something more along the lines of — dead. But yes, that works too. Thin. You look thin.”

“Ah. T-Thank you?”

“No worries! Now, then—!”

The captain turned on her heels and went, kicking up a dust storm in her place — kicking up a dust storm right where First Lieutenant Collins stood. He huffed and puffed and coughed, shaking the sand off his boots and the grains from his trousers. They were persistent, however.

“All aboard the Sky Pirate express! Destination — a very slow, gruesome, and painful death! Climb on in, friends!”

The lieutenant colonel moved.

The first lieutenant moved.

The platoon moved.

And so did the sands beneath their feet.

The wind.

The clouds.

The day.

***

“Alpha — comms check.”

“Go for alpha, we hear you loud and clear, boss.”

“Charlie, respond.”

“Charlie responding, standby and ready.”

“Delta, come in.”

“Delta here! We’re all itchin’ to get goin’, suh! Give us somethin’ to shoot!”

“All teams, you are clear to engage. Remember boys, we’re not up against Sentrymen or Hunters, we’re up against the Heimer Republic, here — don’t you forget. Shoot first, ask questions later, and remember: bring the crown back, or you don’t come back at all — I’ll make sure of it. Clear?”

“Copy.”

“Roger.”

“Crystal, suh!”

“Right, then. Let’s go start a war.”

***

“Grant,” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams — for once — looked the administrator dead in the eye. It took every ounce of himself to put together what shoddy little professional facade, stand way up straight, and keep all of last night’s liquor down. None were easy; all were testing, and the first arguably much, much more so than the latter three. He hated maintaining eye contact.

Grant, as per usual, was very much so disinterested in whatever the Hunter had to say. He had entertained numerous complaints today, and there was without a doubt one more incoming. This one was slightly personal, he felt. “John.”

“A word?”

“Make it quick.”

“Right, well, straight to the point — okay. Here’s the thing: I’m not exactly team leader material. You know this.”

“Agreed.”

“So I was wondering if you could maybe make an exception just this once and — wait, what?”

“I agree.”

“You agree — then what — why the fuck am I team leader?”

There went his professional façade.

And a dribble of the liquor.

“Unfortunately, Jonathan, I did not have the liberty of making today’s decisions. No, that would fall in the hands of our dear Mr. Beauford. He has chosen you — specifically — and I do fear he has grown quite mad in such regards. Believe you me, I would never appoint someone of your. . . Mental fortitude for such a role. I know it is well beyond the scope of your capabilities.”

“Beauford?”

“Beauford, yes. If you have any grievances, you can air them with him.”

Jonathan looked to the director.

He was standing atop the stage, watching his Hunters bicker and squabble and quarrel with one another down below. There was a sly grin creeping up beneath that hat.

“Beauford.”

“John.”

The Hunter approached.

The director turned.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why — the fuck — me?”

“Good question. I’ll do you one better — why not you?”

“I mean, I can think of a lot of reasons why.”

“Oh, go on then. Humor me. Let’s hear it.”

Jonathan felt one eye twitch.

The director was very, very quickly getting on his nerves, and the Hunter was very, very seriously contemplating taking a swing.

The smile.

The cane tapping.

The way Beauford spoke.

It was growing tiresome.

Jonathan turned and stared at a spot on the floor.

“I’ve never led a mission before.”

“What better time to start than now, no?”

“I’m a D-grade Hunter.”

“So was Hades a couple years back. Look at him now, shooting for the stars and beyond. I’d say he’s made quite the man of himself, and I find his transformation rather quite the example to follow Jo—”

“Beauford, I can’t do this — you know I can’t.”

“The way I see it John,” the director took his glasses off; the crack was still there. “You need this.”

“What?”

“You’re not living; you’re just surviving — going through the day and making it to the next. When’s the last time you had a long, long laugh, John? When’s the last time you sat down somewhere proper and had a nice meal? When’s the last time you had a good night’s sleep — or did something meaningful with your life?”

The Hunter didn’t answer.

“I find it shameful — truly embarrassing, really. You’ve been granted the gift of life, and all I see is a pathetic, little man squandering such miracles on booze. So much to do, so much to see, so little time — and yet you choose to drown yourself every night, wallowing in your own filth and misery.”

“How — How fucking dare you?”

“You’re miserable, that’s what you are, John. A miserable, little man stuck in the past. A miserable, little man who can’t put himself back together again, who can’t pull himself out of the gutters and push forth, and in some sense, I empathize with you. Change is indeed scary, experiences are indeed scary, but that is no reason to stop living — for to live is to change, and for to change is to experience."

"Shut the fuck up."

"I understand your past has been one of turmoil. I understand it must not have been easy to. . . Process such things as a child. I’ve been where you are, felt what you feel — and someone forced me back on my feet, once, forced me to start living again, to choose to move on. That man saved my life, John.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams found himself, for once, rather speechless.

“And in turn, he asked only that I help the next person.”

“I. . .”

“So, let me help you.”

“Beauford. . .”

“Let me help you, John. Let me help you start living again — start choosing to be better, to put the past behind. You need this.”

The Hunter didn’t respond.

He didn't blink.

He didn't move.

He didn't so much as even breathe, it seemed.

And then, he simply turned and went, making way for the exit.

Nothing more was said.

Nothing more was done.

The director sighed.

The administrator cleared his throat.

“Was all that necessary, sir?” Grant said, shrugging off his coat. It was hot today, of all days.

“Unfortunately.”

“A tad bit harsh, if I do say so myself. His past is indeed. . . Grueling."

“And? What excuse is that, Grant? Is man defined by his past, or by his present — by what he chooses to do, be, here, now? I understand that it must not have been easy, but he still has with him his future — he still has with him a choice. If only he could see that."

"And what choice would that be, sir?"

"To keep clinging onto a lie, or to finally accept the hurt — the truth — and move on. He's been waiting all this time, and even he knows they're long gone. He knows they'll never be back, yet still he's hoping."

"Hoping. . ."

"Still he's hoping he's wrong — that they'll keep a long forgotten promise. Why else would he choose to stay in that dump?"

They watched him disappear behind the other Hunters.

They watched him walk out and away.

Grant undid his golden tie.

“Will our team leader be returning anytime soon, then, sir?”

“If he’d like his life back, sure.”

“And if not?”

Beauford flicked his glasses back on.

There was another crack.

“Then, I’m afraid, there’s nothing more we can do for him, Grant. It all starts from within; I've done what I can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We all have.”