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Hunted: Catalyst

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Cabin fever and sea-sickness don't trouble you; never have, as far as you know. Fortunate, given your circumstances; years of basementdwelling have finally paid off.

For the last week you've been stuck below decks, with nothing but a hard bunk bed and half a terrabyte of anime to keep you company. Six months ago, it would have been enough. Now, the stupid facial expressions and pathetic slapstick humour irritate, rather than entertain you. You've changed.

And it all started with one word.

------------


"Yes."

"...What?"

The merc's orange juice pauses half way to his lips. He's eyeing you curiously, raising an eyebrow; clearly confused. You can't really blame him - you've sat down next to him after running late, and it's the first thing you've said.

"Yes. I'll do it." You tell him firmly.

You're flushed, partly from the cold, and partly from sprinting nonstop. You've been training, but this is something else. You've dashed almost a kilometer and a half; well past your previous record.

Three months have passed since you last saw the merc. It took a week for the poisonous seed of curiosity, planted by his offer, to take root in your subconscious. After another week and a half of soul-destroying MMORPG grinding and shitty dubbed Japanese cartoons, it had germinated and bloomed into a full-blown obsession.

One you couldn't ignore. It was time to stop existing, and start living. No matter the cost.

To your family, it was an overnight transformation. In truth, it had been building inside you for years. Waiting patiently for something, anything to trigger it.

And now, something had.

Every morning, you'd awaken at dawn. You tried drinking eggs from a glass, and threw up all over the place. Instead, it was orange juice and cereal all the way. With the merc's pistol tucked into your belt, you'd step brazenly into the frigid Russian wind and jog. Initially, you were disheartened. The first week was dreadful - the pain was excruciating, but you persisted. You didn't just want this. You needed it.

The internet showed you how to do pushups, situps and other awful 'exercises' for the masochistically inclined. Odds are, the advice it gave was wrong - but to you, that sounded too much like an excuse.

Would Rutano the Gaijinja make excuses? No sir he would not!

After nearly suffering frostbite, you decided that meditating in the snow wasn't such a great idea after all. Instead, it was cardio outdoors, then endless situps and pushups inside.

After slipping on the frozen pavement, you realised agility wasn't your strong point. So you worked on it.

And you didn't stop there; because nothing was your strongpoint. Accordingly, you worked on everything.

Reloading the pistol until it was second nature was the first step. If you were going to join the Merc, you'd have to be good at that, surely. Then there was the matter of your dull senses. Pulling a hoody low over your eyes, constricting your vision to encompass naught but your feet and the area right in front of them was one of several tactics you employed to remedy this. Thusly attired, you'd run through a defoliated forest, dodging trees and other obstacles as they leapt into your field of vision. After hitting your head a dozen times and almost spraining an ankle, you noticed marked improvements in your reaction times and agility.

Then there was strength. Not just any strength either. You needed the kind that'd help you in a fight.

And so, you started using your father's punching bag.

He caught you doing it eventually. You thought he'd be mad, and at first, you were sure he was. After staring at you, expressionless, for a full minute, he actually smiled.

"Son," he grunted amiably, "I am not disappoint."

Heartened by this, you let him teach you how to throw a punch, how to take one - which hurt like hell - and best of all, how to brawl. Being a six foot five brute himself, he'd been in a fair few scraps back in the day. The things he taught you to do with a pool cue left you flabbergasted. And who would have thought the humble credit card was such versatile weapon? Everything from beer scooners to empty bottles and tire irons were, as he showed you, as lethal and wieldy as Rutano's katana. Admittedly, they weren't capable of avenging Hiroshima, but dispensing justice on the filthy round-eyed pig dogs could wait.

After learning more of your efforts to get fit, he took you into the yard - clad as he was in a tank top despite the bitter wind - and threw an old American football at you. The leather object struck you clear in the face, sending you sprawling. As you stood, he laughed at your blood nose.

"Take it like a man, son!"

And you did. Spitting out a blood clot, you grabbed the ball and threw it to him, as hard as you would. He caught it easily, and wasted no time in pegging it back, falconing you in the stomach and winding you. But you got back up, and you kept fighting.

And so it began, and continued. At first you learned to deflect it. Then, to catch it. And finally, to avoid it. The game evolved from throw and catch into a brutal game of dodgeball. This helped you more than anything. Your hand-eye coordination improved, and more importantly, you learned to move.

Your stamina, strength, and cognitive skills were honed. Sure, a giant brute spent days throwing a hard object at you with intent to maim, but it was worth it.

It seemed the merc had been right. You did have potential - and now, at long last, you were harnessing it. For better or for worse.

And then, your training montage was over. Three months of nonstop exertion in just a few paragraphs! Phew! That was fast!

So fast, in fact, that you missed two appointments with the merc while it ran its course. Initially, the arrangement had been rather inconsistent. When you'd first met almost a year ago, he'd posed as a 'history tutor'. Despite home schooling, modern history was your worst subject. His fees were cheap and he was local, so you decided to give him a shot. When the address he offered turned out to be a seedy bar, you almost walked away. But your parents would rage if you came home early, so you went in anyway. The first few times, he'd been so drunk he'd forgotten to ask for his payment. Had anyone else shown up in your stead, you were certain he'd have ranted drunkenly at them, too. But you weren't really a people person back then. It wasn't like anyone else would do you a favour, no matter how nicely you asked them.

Things had changed. Now, he made monthly appointments with you, and expected you to keep them. Which you hadn't been doing. You didn't want him to see you until you were ready. You didn't want history lessons, or subtle religious persecution from a self-hating fellow believer. You wanted to show him what you could do, and wouldn't seek him out until you were ready. You'd let him do the waiting for a change.

But this month was different. The Merc was leaving. You woke up to an email from his coldmail account; registered with the preposterous handle, 'Mohammed Goldberg'. It informed you – somewhat cryptically - that he was going somewhere tomorrow, to do something, and that he wasn't coming back for quite some time. He invited you to meet with him for an early morning drink. If you were late, he couldn't afford to wait. He'd speak with you when he got back. If he got back.

You were already running behind schedule. Your exercise routine was meant to start half an hour before hand, but you'd overslept.

After all these months of preparation, failure simply wasn't an option. You had to have this. It mattered.

You put the peddle to the metal, and gunned it, your mind and body in overdrive. You threw on some warm pants, a shirt, a jumper, and a long jacket, and hit the road at breakneck speed.

You'd burst in just in time, it seemed. He was finishing his drink as you sat down and, fighting to catch your breath, uttered that single word.

But as you knew, it was more than a word. It was a choice. A decision that would shape your future, and the futures of countless others. Like a pebble, you cast yourself into the pond.

For the first time in your life, you made ripples.

And damn it felt good.



-----------

"Yes."

"Heh. So I was right about you." he smirks, finishing his juice and slamming it down on the bar. "Figured you'd either run away from the closest thing to a wakeup call anyone's ever bothered to give you, or... well. Or this. I was a little worried I'd wasted my time, to be honest. So I thought I'd stir you up a little. Send an email, mosey over here at a comfortable pace, buy a drink and see if you made it before I finished it. No flabby weakling geek'd be able to sustain that speed, no matter how motivated he was. So I'm guessing you're in this for real."

"Yep," you wheeze, holding your chest. You've got a stitch. It hurts. Bad.

"To be honest, that was my first drink. I expected to be halfway through my third before you busted in here, all aflutter. And yet, here you are. You must have really pushed yourself."

You shoot him a death glare. He smirks, drumming his long fingers on the bar. He raises one. It's enough to catch the maid's attention. She wanders over, inspecting you as she approaches.

"And here is your little malchik..." she smiles warmly. "He's looking well."

"Heh. Like father like son." the merc chuckles, patting you hard on the back. You tense, but don't wheeze.

"He's not my dad," you tell her firmly.

"Oh? This is just as well," she smirks, leaning over the bar and looking you in the eye. You try to keep your gaze from her bust. You fail. Hard.

"Let me guess," the merc leans back and takes a drag, "You don't date men with children."

"No," she replies, her smirk widening disconcertingly, "I don't date men and their children at the same time..."

The merc damn near falls off his chair he laughs so hard.

"Well I'll be damned. I thought we had something, woman." he grins at her goofily.

"Keep dreaming. There's no such thing as an ex bar fly, as far as I'm concerned." she straightens up, winking at him over her shoulder. "Another orange juice?"

"Yeah. And -"

"One for me, too. I haven't had breakfast," you interject firmly.

"Not one for the old tequila sunrise, are we?" the merc smiles at you. "Last time you couldn't say no. Good to see you've grown some balls at long last. You're gonna need 'em. I'm expecting someone in a little while, and ballsiness is a must if you want to make a good impression. Oh, and I owe you a refund. Your 'history tutorial' is gonna have to wait till another day."

"Well damn," you grin back at him, "Guess we'll have to organise a makeup lesson or two."

"In your dreams, kid. If you make a good impression today we'll both be rolling in it, way more than any poindexter graduate could hope to in a lifetime. Think of this as a long-term investment. In a way, I guess it's a lot like a well-rounded, fully-paid, private education. Only a little more dangerous, and a shitonne more exciting." his eyes flash dangerously, and his smile widens.

Your hackles rise - just like last time. But this time, you know what to do. Spinning on the new fixed bar stool - a sage addition to the establishment since your last visit - you kick savagely at your assailant's nethers and whip your gun from your belt.

Before you can even think about the safety switch, a gloved hand grabs the weapon and tears the slide off it with a brutally swift movement that leaves you breathless. The other hand has caught your feet. Both of your snow boots rest on its outstretched palm. When you played video games, you accused everyone of cheating when they beat you; but now, in the real world, your first instinct is to call hax. It just doesn't make sense! You did everything right, but they didn't play by the rules. You've never seen a human this strong, or this quick. Could that mean -

The barstool spins with blinding speed and suddenly, your face is pressed against the dirty wooden bar. You can't speak, or scream, or breathe. You can't even twitch. Your arms are free, but they just won't move. It's not fear. It's something worse.

Something dirty that pollutes you, paralysing your mind, and with it your body.

"Huh." you can't see the merc, but he sounds a little peeved. "Well. I guess I should be flattered. The big cheese's come all this way to stab me in the back, and she's doing it without even introducing herself. Well ain't that a doozie."

"Don't be stupid. If I wanted you dead, I'd send an agent. Judging by the condition of this hole, one with no sense of smell. Or taste. Or propriety."

The barmaid shouts something in Russian, and the person holding you shouts something right back. Whatever it is, the busty woman doesn't reply.

"I think we're done here. I won't enlist Point Men whose goons shoot first and ask questions later-"

"Point man? Now you're taking liberties. You mightn't know about me but I sure as hell know about you. You and your, 'schism', or whatever you wanna call it. But let me tell you upfront. I'm not your goddamn puppet, woman, however successful you've been in pushing your ideological filth. Sure, you're good at what you do, and, for all intents and purposes, what you do is good. All very noble and lovely, starry-eyed and idealistic. But I work for cash, not for fuzzy feelings or a sense of accomplishment."

"I came here to gauge your skills and demeanour, not to have you lecture me and feed your ego at my expense. Frankly, I'm underwhelmed by you, Grey. Yes, I've heard of you. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't. You hardly live up to your reputation. I heard good things about you. Very good things. I should have known better than to trust the stories. Now. If you don't mind, I've got other places to be. Places that don't stink of grease and death."

The barmaid growls. She's probably reaching for the shotgun by now.
This could be bad.

"Great. Then fuck off. Here's to hoping you find a nice little pussy-whipped I-Jin who'll do anything just to please you, on or off the battlefield."

"I'm too busy to deal with this self aggrandising nonsense. If you want to play 'badass lone wolf mercenary' then do it on someone else's time, with someone else's money. If you aren't going to play ball, then I'll leave. But not before I make a very nasty phonecall to the dumbfuck who put me in contact with you. 'Syndicate' indeed. They told me you weren't a loose cannon, that you were just what I was looking for. Far from it; I'm guessing you're all they had available. Or all they were willing to lose."

"Hold up there. You said the magic word, woman."

Your captor's grip loosens slightly.

"You said, 'money'. Now the next question is - how much?"

"Not 'where' or 'what'?"  The woman asks coldly.

"Nope."

"So if I told you to kill an orphanage full of kids, you'd do it?"

"Depends upon how much you were paying."

"How much for that then?" the woman's disgust is palpable. Her grip on your skull tightens, and sparks flash before your eyes.

"More than a sick fuck like you can afford."

"Then I guess I'll go elsewhere, won't I?"

"No." The merc's voice is reduced to a harsh whisper. An ominous click issues from under the bar. "No. You weren't the one mistaken, Commander. I am Grey Fox, and knowing what the Syndicate does about you and I, they were right to send you to me. But knowing what I do now changes everything. All of the rumours about you, 'Commander', were false. You're a ruthless two faced kid murdering bitch and you're not leaving this bar alive. The only place you're going is down. Straight to hell."

"Then the rumours were true," the woman says quickly. Very quickly. "No orphanages. No children. We're -"

"The good guys, I'm sure. I trust I've passed your little test?" The merc interjects dryly. The woman releases you, and you sit up groggily.

"Why don't you take a seat, 'Commander', and buy yourself a drink. You look a little pale. I think it'd do you good."

The merc raises his glass, and smiles sardonically at your 'guest'. She does as he says, pulling up a stool to your left. The merc sits to your right, smirking into his orange juice.

First impressions? You drag your eyes from her ample bosom and get a proper look at her. She's probably in her thirties. She's fit. Seriously fit. She's wearing jeans and a long sleeve turtleneck jumper. Her eyes are a dreamy greenish-blue. You could get lost in them for days. Her skin is smooth, and somehow radiant; she looks more alive than anyone you've ever seen. Perhaps a little too alive.

You aren't very good with fashion, but you can pick out few weird things about her. She's tied a bright orange polar fleece around her midsection, and her big black boots have buckles on them. She's wearing a pair of big ugly hipster sunglasses with little plastic diamonds set in the frames.

And then there's her hat.

It has ear warmers. Ear warmers. Jesus Shitting Christ.

Despite all that training, all that emotional and physical development, you were just beaten by a hot 30 year old soccer mum in ear warmers and cheap sunglasses.

Your ego instantly hits rock bottom. And this time, you haven't got your Waifu to comfort you. Bummer.

"So. You came for me. Little old me. Out of all the scumbag mercenaries in this crazy goddamn world, I am chosen by the enigmatic 'Commander' to perform an important task at her behest. I guess I should be flattered, given your… 'pious' reputation."

He speaks the earmarked word with emphasis, and, if you're not mistaken, carefully measured contempt. The woman doesn't take the bait, but her nostrils flair a little. The barmaid serves her a vodka cruiser, not bothering to ask if she wants it. She doesn't object, and takes a swig. Her nose wrinkles a little. Evidently, she doesn't approve of sugar water.

"They'll have told you all sorts of things if you went through the Syndicate. 'He's the best! The Grey Fox of the Scar! No one knows how old he is, or even where he comes from! Some say he was born in Romania, that he's a werewolf, that he's a thousand years old!' But they're no longer our concern. What do you think, 'Commander'?"

She leans across you, placing her hand on your leg as she does so. You turn crimson instantly. She lowers her sunglasses, and examines him with those dazzling eyes. Without the largely ineffectual lenses to obscure them, they're almost iridescent. A trick of the light, you tell yourself. After all, what else could it be?

She frowns pensively as she examines him. He, for his part, just sips his orange juice, eyes closed, still smirking smugly.

"If werewolves are real, you sure as hell aren't one of them. And that accent is about as far from Romanian as you can get, though I admit, I can't quite place it."

"You're on the right track so far. For a start, you didn't come here chasing legends. I respect that. But I hate giving flattery, even – no, especially – when it's due. So now, you're going to cut to the chase, and tell me why you're here, in this bar, talking to this mercenary. Because the Syndicate isn't stupid. You don't send greyhounds to hunt bears, and you don't use pitbulls as guide dogs. If they sent you to me, then you've got a very specific set of needs, lady. Needs that only a man like me can hope to satisfy."

She leans closer to him, setting a second hand on your leg. The pressure increases and you're sure you'll burst. Surely your nose will start bleeding any minute. That's what happens in the shit Japanese cartoons you pretend to like, under the pretext that they, 'aren't mainstream'. They can't be that wrong, can they? You look down at her hand. Her nails are clipped short, but she's painted them red. Bright red. And her fingers are so slender and delicate. Oh god. She's touching you. A girl is touching you. Oh shit oh shit oh shit -

At that moment, she pulls away from the Merc, flouncing, her nose in the air. The hands move from your leg; one wraps around her drink, and the other slides her sunglasses back into place, concealing those beautiful eyes. You're almost disappointed. She looked better without them.

"Don't think for a second you can flirt with me, 'Grey'. I'm out of your league."

"No, 'Commander'. I'm out of yours. I don't go for stuck up American dikes. I prefer…" he looks up at the barmaid as she passes, smiling at her. To your surprise, she smiles back. "A woman who knows what she wants. Not to mention, how to get it."

The barmaid winks, and keeps walking.

The 'Commander', to your surprise, actually starts at his crude taunts. To your eyes, she even seems to blush. She's about to retort when he raises his finger, as if to beg pause. Her mouth, once open, snaps shut again. She looks like a goldfish when she does that. A really pretty goldfish … heh ...

"Answer my question. Do you know what you want, 'Commander'? And do you know how to get it?"

The woman swings into action. You've got to hand it to her – she bounces back fast.

"Los Angeles. The Dread City of Fallen Angels. We had an agent there on assignment –"

"Doing what?"

"That's none of your business, Mercenary."

"If you want me, I need details."

"…Fine. He was there to end the meteoric rise of a local bandit leader. They were an I-Jin, but they weren't anything special. Teleportation and telekinesis were their principle abilities. Nothing our agent couldn't handle. The thing is, he hasn't come back, or reported in since he arrived. He's dropped off the radar. As far as we can tell, the bandit leader has vanished, too. We don't know much about this 'bandit leader'. Everything – even their gender – is ambiguous. You know the kind, surely. Hood, gas mask, speech modifier. They're more common than any one of them realises."

"If they're not disfigured, they've usually got something – or someone – to lose." The Merc nods at her, and sips his juice elegantly. He has his 'serious business' face on. His eyes are dark, his countenance is grim, and there's none of that off-key eyebrow-waggling wit about him. You had no idea he could be so professional. It's a total paradigm shift.

"We want to send in an uninterested third party to sort the situation out. That agent is dear to my heart. As you seem fully aware, all of my agents are. But you, as you pointed out, are not. If my man is being held captive, you are to liberate him and bring him home. If the target still lives, you are to eliminate it, regardless of the circumstances. That's the dealbreaker. If he's failed his mission, you're to complete it in his stead. Are we clear?

"Crystal. Now, you've told me what you want. How do you plan to get it?"

"Two thousand crisps, sweet greenbacks, delivered by yours truly in a stylish black leather briefcase."

The Merc's eyes glint a little, but he keeps his cool. "Twenty-five hundred. I know how much you value your agents. You'll pay it if you want the job done."

"I can go elsewhere you know."

"Then let's meet half way. Two thousand two hundred and fifty greenbacks, and I get to keep the sexy briefcase. It's this, or you walk away empty handed. Kapich?"

"I could buy several teams for that much." the blonde-haired woman growls. Her green eyes flash dangerously - even her sunglasses fail to conceal them this time. The bar is too dim for that to be natural. You're sure of it.

"And I'd kill that team for an eighth of the price you'd pay them, single handedly, with nothing but a dragunov and a service pistol. What you're asking here is complicated. You want me to extract an agent - an elite agent, probably one of your pet I-Jin - and eliminate the target it failed to kill. You are sending me on a suicide mission to the other asshole of the earth."

"I didn't say he failed to kill it -"

"So it's a he, is it?" The merc chuckles, "Maybe the rumours about you were wrong. You see, I heard you only went for girls..."

"If you'll let me finish, 'Grey'..." the woman's antipathy is tangible, if not viscous. The merc startles slightly, but you? You're sitting even closer to her. Without warning, you find yourself trembling. Her presence is overpowering - supernaturally so. Could this be an I-Jin? No. No, the Merc would have said something. This is different. And much more frightening.

"Sure, go ahead. You'll have to forgive my sense of humour ... if it's getting on your nerves, I can be a little more ... 'PC' for you." The Merc, despite his alarm, still manages to ooze contempt.

"Political correctness is our mutual enemy, mercenary. That's good. I can't stand people who are easily offended. But you're grating on my nerves. I don't like being interrupted. I never have, and now that I'm a leader, I am entitled to expect your respect. Understood?"

"Expect away. You'll earn it, or you won't get it at all, woman. Don't be coy with me. I work solo because I don't like the Man - or the Woman - looking over my goddamn shoulder and telling me how to run my show. If you're that way inclined, then you can take your business elsewhere. Now."

The woman opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. A truly beautiful goldfish. Of that you're sure.

"W-well I... guh." She adjusts her sunglasses with her index finger, then sighs, resting her elbows on the bar and setting her chin in her hands, "Then I guess it can't be helped. It's not like I'm recruiting you, after all. If you work better without a sitrep or a third-party moral compass, then I guess I should trust your reputation and hope for the best."

"That's right. I'm on your payroll, not your staff. Don't expect a weapon's respect, 'Commander'. Expect it to kill when you pull the trigger. That much I can handle." The merc grins at her - a horrible, murderous, lethal grin. For the first time since hearing it, you realise where he got his name.

Grey Fox.

At first you thought it was a cliched bluff he'd adopted, or been given by his admirers. But it really does suit this grizzled, scarred veteran. He positively exudes vulpine cunning and predatory intent, now more than ever. You've never feared him, but now that you think of it, he can be quite an intimidating fellow.

"Then it's a done deal. There's a boat leaving at midnight." She hands him a fat envelope. "There's twenty five hundred in there, plus the details. Good luck, and god speed." She winks at him. "It's been a pleasure, Fox."

"Just don't ask me to do a barrel roll." he warns her. She frowns at him a little, then reaches for her vile drink. She puts it to her lips and proceeds to gulp down the entire bottle. Slamming it down, she stands, belches daintily, and sweeps toward the door.

"Now that, my boy." he slaps you on the back, "Is what I call a woman."


It's still early morning, so the merc takes you shopping. Yeah, it's true. The bar is in a bad area, frequented by exactly the Merc's sort of people. Them, and posers in gas masks and hoodies who want to 'make the scene'.

Eastern Europe was the only place your family could go. American Refugees fled the new regime in their thousands, and your brood were lucky to make it out alive. Several of the ships that departed alongside yours were destroyed by the US Navy. You heard about it on the news when you arrived.

In perhaps the single greatest civilian naval rescue operation since Dunkirk, both American and European freighters and fishing boats rushed to the aid of stricken American refugees, who crowded the docks of major coastal and river cities. The US military, ever a stone behemoth, was slow to mobilise, but by the end of the third day, clashes between early proto-Organisation cells and Government troops were taking place on the outskirts of these cities. The goal of these 'martyrs' was simple. Protect the refugees until they could board the boats. Even if it cost them their lives. Which it did. Almost to a man. To a woman. Sometimes, to a child.

Their names were forgotten, scratched from history by their murderers. But you, and your family, survived through their sacrifice. You remember seeing one as you fled. It was so many years ago, but the memory is as clear as crystal. You were so young, and it was so scary, but for that moment, everything stopped.

New York was ablaze. Burning scraps of ash and paper filled the air, whilst thick, choking smoke stained the sky as red as blood. Manhattan Island was pockmarked with flames as the Military clashed with separatist elements. High above you, screams of clashing jet fighters filled the air. Not all the armed forces had chosen to play along, and the Air Force had been split into two now-warring factions.

Somehow, in the midst of all that madness, you saw one. The jostling crowds on the waterfront parted, and there she was; stamped into your memory, burned into your corneas like an after image of the sun. She was wearing a pair of ski goggles and a little black beret. She had a tattered scarf wrapped around her face; perhaps to ward off the , or, more than likely, protect her identity if she managed to survive. She wore camouflaged cargosmoke pants, a white tank top,  and a long brown trench coat. Her long, silvery hair flowed freely in the soot-choked wind, and for you, the world stood still.

She was simply captivating. Never in your short life had you seen so dramatic a contrast. She stood strong and bold in the valley of the shadow of death, a beacon of light and hope amid a sea of hate and fear.

For just a moment, she turned to face you. No one else in that heaving throng of people. Just you.

Your mother let go of your hand, for just one crucial second. She was swallowed by the crowd in an instant. She screamed as you were torn from her.

But your eyes were fixed on the paramilitary soldier, standing bravely against the coming storm. You stumbled to a halt still, frozen by her gaze. The sheer magnificence of the silver-haired woman, and the wholesale destruction of your home, quickly overwhelmed your young, frightened mind. It was too much to bear. You'd lost everything. Your parents, your childhood, and even your innocence. And now, you were losing your sanity.

Surely, your life would follow.

But somehow, her presence, the very cause of this madness, was also your salvation.

There stood not merely an insurgent, but an angel. The very picture of iconoclasm and strength, of the human spirit; an avatar of purity and wonder. Of all that you and your species could be, if only you tried and worked together. Her bravery and strength, her posture and elegance, cut through your fear like a knife. All that she symbolised, like an arrow, pierced your tiny heart, at once breaking it, and forging it anew. Filling you with courage; the strength to fight on. The power to live.

With renewed purpose, you hurled yourself fearlessly into the throng. You grasped your mother's hand as her face burst from the crowd, and despite your stature, you dragged her toward the boat. It towered above the rioting masses like a blackened angel, a beacon of hope despite its rusty rigging and intimidating countenance. You found your father as if by instinct, and with his brutish strength as your aid, you forged your way to safety. He threw you and your mother bodily on deck, then vaulted over a fat woman to land by your sides. Seconds later, the gate closed behind you. Miraculously, against all the odds, you were free.

The Statue of Liberty bid you fairwell, broken and burning though she was. Perhaps it was an honour, to witness its demise; however dubious that honour might have been.

Majestically, heart breakingly, it began to topple as its struts gave way. Like a wounded collossus, it teetered, then, with shocking suddenness, plunged to earth. Its torch broke away as it fell, and was swallowed by the sea. The cold, choppy waves, to your eyes, extinguished the flame of freedom and democracy that had burned so long in America's heart.

Many people fell to the deck and wept. They wept not for a steel French statue, but for the fall of a kinder world. They wept for themselves. They wept for their children, and for the uncertain future that awaited them.

It was a bittersweet experience, truth be told. For as uncertain as it was, they still had a future. A tomorrow, with which they could do whatever they pleased. Soon, this would all be behind them. They had that to look forward to.

And so did you.

You'd fallen asleep then and there, lying on the crowded deck amid all that pathos, all those tears,  all those dreams, at once broken and remade, pieced back together by human grit alone. You'd awoken with a blanket thrown over you, blue sky above your head, and the sweet smell of the sea in your nostrils. It had seemed very bright to your weary eyes.

So bright, and so very, very beautiful..

Aboard that ship, there was an incredible sense of purpose. Of faith, that together, you might build a better tomorrow.

Alas, it was not to be.

Grim tidings came from your homeland, and a Europe gripped by chaos greeted you. The trigger for all of this - the emergence of the Scar - had real geopolitical consequences here. Far from the storm of faith and zealous fury that had assailed the United States, a new nightmare awaited many American refugees.

Your family were lucky. Your father had relatives who were able to give him a job, and help him to buy a house.

Most were not so fortunate.


The Statue of Liberty, for its part, would be sold for scrap; a woman of such stature was incompatible with the new American ideology.

You thought nothing of this. It was neither here, nor there for you. Twice in a matter of months, your simple, childish ambitions had been crushed. Thinking hurt, so you thought nothing of the Statue, and nothing of home. Nothing of what you'd lost, or of what you'd gained.

Indeed, for the next decade of your life, you thought nothing of anything at all. You hid from the memories, and the nightmares, in a world of video games, of internet and fetishised Japanese culture. Of fiction and pretend. Sometimes, the image of that silver-haired iconoclast haunted you.

But you'd put it from your mind. Her brave sacrifice, you told yourself, was the work of a baka Gaijin with no honour. Accordingly, it was without meaning.

How swiftly things have changed. How stupid you were, to waste all that time!

As you stroll through a camping store, the merc nodding knowingly toward the fat Russian clerk, you know you've finally stopped running. And as you enter the back room, hidden behind a poster of Padmir Vlutin, you realise something else, too.

It's not just about stopping. It's about turning around, and fighting what was chasing you.

In this back room, spread out before you, are all the tools you'll need to do it.


------


"Holy fucking shit."

"You said it, kid." the Merc sniggers. "Take your pick. We've got enough greenbacks here to buy ourselves a couple of battletanks, so don't be shy. Whatever takes your fancy."

Wall to wall, there are guns. Guns, guns, and more guns. Oh, and other things, too. Gas masks, hazardous environment suits, body armour, rocket launchers, and hello kitty dolls. You name it, it's there.

And then you see it. Regailed to a dingy corner, far from the swinging yellow lamp at the centre of the room, it seems almost pitiful. But you know better.

"Is that... a first-generation exoskeleton?"

The merc looks up from a rather large assault rifle. "Yeah. Why?"

"Uh mah guhd..."

Reverently, you approach it. Here lies the very first battlesuit ever to be mass produced. Of course, it's nothing special. Just heavy body armour, a gas mask and some hydraulics, really. Though cumbersome, first generation exoskeletons remain in service to the present day. They can be upgraded with titanium plating and bulletproof shielding for vulnerable mechanisms, as well as servo boosters to make them more responsive. Indeed, the potential for customisation is almost limitless.

Not to mention, a punch from an exoskeleton can break a man's skull or knock out a grizzly bear. They're serious business.

"Hmm..."

The merc has appeared behind you, and is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Hey kid. Remember I told you, if you got in shape and got your bearings in the Scar, you'd make a decent Adventurer? Well... this thing might be just the ticket to taking luck out of the equation. 'Cause if a stray bullet catches you in a suit of powered armour, you're gonna know about it a whole lot less than you would otherwise. Or a whole lot more, if it catches you in the head or the heart - at least you'll hear a pinging sound, rather than watching your world fade to black. Plus, I like the idea of a great hulk of machinery with a whiney personality following me around. All I'd need is a metal arm and a rudimentary grasp of alchemy, and we'd be playing in the big leagues. Heh."

"My personality is not whiney." You reply sourly.

"Relax. Go pick out a weapon and I'll see if I can convince old Pavlov out there to get the exoskeleton up to date over the next ten hours. He'll hate the work, but he'll love the money. Heheheh."

"Ten hours?! We're leaving in ten hours?! Shit! I've gotta go pack!"

Relax, we've got time  -"

As you bolt out of the shop, you hear him call after you, "Damnit! Just ... don't forget to come back! You haven't even picked out a gun, much less been shown how to fire one!"

Noting this, you run full pelt all the way home. You'll need anime, video games, a laptop and – oh! Toiletries, food and camping gear. You'll also need to explain to your parents – however briefly – that you've found your calling as a mercenary.

Awwwkwwaaard.

But it's more than just an extremely dangerous, highly illegal profession. It's a purpose. For the first time in your life you feel alive. Feel you've found something something you might actually be good at.

At the very least, it might be the beginning of something that might be good; even if it's the end of something mediochre. Something perpetual and predictable, a world of warm blankets, of double-glazed windows and creaking floorboards; of déjà vu and cheetos fingers. Of never quite knowing whether you're awake, or asleep; just existing, from one day to the next. You could live a long life that way, if only you ran on the spot, fearing the horizon, dreading tomorrow. But what kind of life would it be?

No regrets 'cause you've got nothing to lose. You're going to live your life as you choose, until you fall.

It's more than that though. It's not merely that you've nothing to lose.

You've got everything to gain.

The streets seem deserted as you rush home. The cold morning air stains your cheeks a soft shade of pink. Your eyes brighten, and you know it's not the wind at fault. Parked cars line the road. Like mountain ranges crested with glistening white snow, they rush past you at speed, their colours muted by the carpet of ice. Thus far, you've lived your life in permafrost. But today, the heat of tomorrow is melting all you knew. It burns away who you were, and fills who you are with light and vitality. That raging glacial current sweeps aside your apprehension and self doubt, and with it, the life you might have lived. A flip of a coin, a roll of the dice, a path chosen at the expense of all others; today is just one of yesterday's infinite tomorrows, and yet, it is yours to do with as you wish..

You've taken the reigns, and with your destiny firmly in hand, you've made a decisive choice. You might not change the world, but you're about to change a world.

Your world.

And that's definitely a start.

A seed inside you, one that germinated many years ago, has finally burst from the cold earth of your soul. Just a few months ago, it budded, and you set out on this journey of self discovery, nurturing it with hope and determination.

Today, it bloomed. And it's more beautiful than you'd ever imagined.

Without thinking, you whoop and jump for joy, punching at the air.

For the first time in your short life, the future is truly bright, and rather than fearing uncertainty, you're revelling in it.


You're going to live your life as you choose.

'Cause all things fall.
Checked twice over (BUT ITS STILL NOT PERFECT DSFRARGETE) at the expense of sleep and other commitments, dedicated to all the people who've supported me during a particularly awful patch of my manic, self destructive existence, I deliver another branch of the Hunted universe to the few people who still remember me well enough to bother reading my trashfiction.

Allow me to introduce a new Hero to the Hunted universe.

You.

Yes, that's right. You, weeaboo.

You're the star of your very own arc in the Hunted universe. You're a badass normal.


[link]


And you're off on an adventure to the City of Fallen Angels: Los Angeles itself.

Happy trails, camper. Heheheheh. Make sure you bring a packed lunch and a few hand grenades. It's gonna be a *blast*.


Picture? I'd love to have saved it for the climax of this arc, but I'll put it here now because it's just so glorious. It's lifted from Hellsing. It's another badass mercenary, just for the record. Eh kils vampire and doesn't afraid of anything.

Have fun out there, and expect a few familiar faces to crop up during this arc.

It's called Catalyst for a reason. You'll see. I hope. :< If I don't forget how to write again FFFFFFFFUU.


<Saturday, July 10, 2010>

Sunrise. Black gum trees sway against a cold sky dotted with purple-pink clouds. Things are looking up on my end, dear lurker. How about yours?



RECENTLY UPDATED AS OF THIS MOMENT. SO MUCH WRONG. AREGERYGERds
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the1truKaren's avatar

This looks okay...

*"You" are a Male in this fic*

But it's not for me.