Canon Hub » From 120's Archives Hub / The Man Who Wasn't There Hub / No Return Hub » GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS Hub » Jäger, Part 1
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Info
Co-written by
Ralliston and
Trotskyeet
The following article is a part of the GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.
Jäger, Part 1
22/11/2021
Esterberg's Sewer District, Częstochowa, Poland
Roisin Dar'ren feared no man.
For many years, he led the forces obeying Queen Mab's command. He stood by her side during the Sixth War, relentlessly guiding her cavalry to break the measly forces of the scattered humanity. He stood by her side during the Great Purge, helping her — the spider at the center of the web of conspiracies spanning the whole of reality — feed with as many souls as she needed to finish her final, most beautiful goal. Even tonight, with a bleeding arm and heart, he was still by her side. And he feared not the being that dared to hunt him, for to admit worry about a human would be an utmost act treason against his beloved Starlight.
But Nobody was as far from a man as they got.
Dar'ren could feel that inhuman quality in every moment of his relentless pursuit. He could feel Nobody's nostrils sense the smell of his ichor, dripping ever-so-beautifully upon the dark cobblestone of the City of the East. He could feel his wolf-like eyes, never stopping their trail, always just two steps behind him. Worst of all, though, he could also feel his ears, their subtle, almost nonexistent structure following the echoes of his steps no matter where he tried to escape.
And he was pretty damn sure skeletons didn't have no fucking ears.
Unable to do anything but pray, Roisin ran. He didn't like playing the prey — after all, he was used to being the hunter — but tonight, he had exhausted all other options. He couldn't fight Nobody, for to face an unstoppable force like him would require an equally immovable object to halt his unceasing chase. He couldn't call his brethren for help, either, Triumviraté — the closest thing he had to friends inside of Esterberg — had already been beaten by Nobody at their own game of chess long ago. So, bereft of choice, he ran — both in body and spirit — until there was nothing left inside his brain but the will to outrun his opponent.
Soon, however, he found that he had exhausted even that option.
As the cold streets of Esterberg's Sewer District came to a sudden stop, an unexpected wall of cobblestone rose up before the Fae general's face. Even before he noticed the barrier blocked his only way out, his heartbeat doubled — the multiplication then rose to a triple when the realization that he was trapped truly hit him. With panic in his eyes, he tried to scan the surrounding square, searching for any way out. He had no time, now, he knew that, he had to— he had to run, he— FUCK there was no— FUCK FUCK FUCK, he—
BANG!
With a sickening, wet thud, his face met the stone wall at the speed of sound. Before he could even react, the skeletal hand doubled down, grabbing him by his long, red hair, and repeating the gesture.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
As he felt his teeth crack, bones break, and skin bleed, his vision became blurry. But not nearly blurry enough to not notice the skull of Nobody, emerging from the darkness of the Esterbergian night into the dimly lit aura of the lamp hanging loosely above the wounded Fae. The face grinned — how the fuck could a skeleton even grin? — and the hunter's fingers let go.
In an attempt to laugh nervously, Dar'ren let out a pathetic, wet little whimper. It barely came out as anything more than spat blood and tears.
"Where is it?" Nobody whispered, quickly closing the gap between the faces of himself and his adversary. When after two seconds, no response came, he repeated, this time more firmly: "The Palace. Where. Is. It?"
Roisin tried to laugh, again, much to a similarly failed fit of coughs.
"WHERE IS IT?!" Nobody exploded, forcing another meeting between the Fae's head and the bloody cobblestone behind him.
This time, he even managed to make his organism allow to let out a snicker. Knowing the deed was already done and that there was nothing that could prevent his end, he mentally shrugged, and waved with his index finger that Nobody should come closer. To his delight, that he did. "F-Fughk you, cunt," he spat out when his head was close enough, putting up one final, final smile through the tears. "That's," he coughed again. "Thath's where it fhuckhin is." He was barely able to even pronounce those syllables well with the few teeth that he had left. Either way, he couldn't care less. Not about that, and not about what was about to come next
Already anticipating the latter, he closed his eyes. The satisfaction plastered all over his face remained for a few more moments, fading only when Nobody's silver bolt punctured the surface of Dar'ren's otherwise pitch-perfect lips.
22/11/2021
Esterberg's Market District, Częstochowa, Poland
Above all else, the Impasse was quiet.
Ever since he was born among the roaring pits of endless war and misery at the bottom of the world, Nobody had always imagined that the end would be something grand, something special. It only felt appropriate, he thought, that something of such magnitude would come in and out with the scream of a dying sun, concluding the story of everything that existed to a finale truly worthy of what came before the epilogue.
But the Impasse wasn't grand. Instead, it was something much, much worse: it was as quiet as the night.
It was silent when it first came so many years ago, patiently creeping into the houses of anomalous societies worldwide. It was silent when it began to take its toll on everything magical, slowly but surely strangling the babies of wonder in their sleep. And it was silent when it echoed through the empty streets of Esterberg, grinning widely as it saw the graves of its peaceful slaughter.
And throughout all of that, it remained nothing but hush. Nobody saw it in all of its terrifying glory, each step of the way there, each equally terrible phase of the gradual collapse of the anomalous ecosystem worse than the one that came before it. And tonight, he was here as a witness tonight, too.
The once-busy Grand Market was nothing but a shadow of its former self, awkward debris and discarded pieces of paper tumbling down its worn pavement. Its roads were empty, now; not a single soul — not Yeren, not Fae, and not even human — treaded the area. There were no Insurgency newspaper boys screaming the crimes of the Foundation atop their lungs, hoping their very best to spark a revolution worldwide; there were no MC&D brokers, arguing loudly with people they openly stole life savings from; there were no Hand, Manna Charitable, or AWCY? folk, manifesting their need for freedom and justice with all the means possible and necessary; there were no Anderson products, advertising the genius of their father and the low low price you could get it at; and there were no GOC and City patrols, swinging their paraweapons in a futile attempt at striking fear.
Worst of all, however, there were no people.
No friends laughed, cheering to whatever unimportant achievement one of them just told them about; no enemies fought, threatening each other with fists over trivial nonsense so that everyone in the city could hear their problems; and no simple people walked towards whatever unspecified destinations they had in mind, trying to live their everyday life the best they could.
For all intents and purposes, Esterberg was a grave, and among all of those living corpses hiding and rotting away in their homes, Nobody was its last remaining survivor.
Once upon a time, Inventor's Ingredients was a thriving establishment. Providing not-exactly-legal things to not-exactly-lawful people, it supplied those that weren't really dangerous but weren't friends of the law either a discreet place to work their — often times literal — magic in. For those that weren't that shady, though, it also offered a good snack and place to sleep the night away at a price that didn't feel like robbery. The woman that ran it — a fifty-something Fae named Cad'hla Gwyneth — was just like her establishment: tough, but fair, and kind to those she cared about.
Tonight, however, there was another similarity made them frighteningly alike: the fact that both of them were dying.
Just as he had many times before, Nobody entered the nearly-empty tavern without knocking. The only person besides him and the place's one-man staff was some tired Yeren, drowning his sorrows away in a mug of Golden Ground Ale, his fur balding to reveal pink skin underneath. If Nobody still could, he would shiver — both at the uncanny view of a furless Yeren and his depressing state. Instead, he put all of his weapons in their respective places, and headed toward the spiral stairs leading to the small, stone tower apartment located next to the Ingredients' roof.
The room was more than enough for a regular person. For a bookworm, though, it was paradise; its many bookshelves scattered around two tables combined with a fireplace and a large sofa made for an extremely comfy library for the main archivist and historian of the Sidhe Lounge. Olivié Gwyneth wasn't the tallest woman, but what she lacked in height she made up with wits, and a genius collection of historical information others couldn't even begin to comprehend. Her body didn't need this much space to live in, but for her mind, such a library was the bare minimum required to survive.
By tonight's standards, even its current population felt like a crowd.
Laying atop her sofa was a pale imitation of her mother. For the many years he'd known them both, Cad'hla was nothing but a prime example of health, a spirit both too healthy and too stubborn to ever fall ill. Right now, though, she was a lanky ghost of her former self, laying like she was on her deathbed.
Seeing her state, Nobody could almost believe that she was.
Her once-ethereal, sprawling butterfly wings now felt like leather, awkwardly flapping to the sound of her irregular heartbeat. Her skin was rough, no longer looking like that beautiful faerie pale, now replaced with a sickening gray. And her eyes — her eyes. They were much smaller than before, as if they were scared of something. Perhaps they even were — it would be a natural reaction to the series of coughs and shivers which twisted her body almost every second.
And above her, her daughter stood.
Truth be told, Olivié wasn't much better than the one she was carefully giving water to, though Nobody guessed it was less the Impasse and more sacrificing sleep and health for the sake of her own mother. A soul like her could perhaps even avoid the now-worldwide death of wonder, but it could not avoid the consequences of sacrificing every moment of freedom to tend to and worry about someone she loved. And because of that, Nobody could see, she suffered — both physically and spiritually.
The two might've been associated with the GOC, but judging from the looks of it all, the Impasse-caused chaos within the Council of 108 definitely made that relationship only one-sided.
When she felt him approach, she didn't do so much as flinch. Sighing, she wet a towel
"So?" She asked, her tone worryingly quiet. "How went the hunt?"
Nobody's expression remained just as indifferent as before. "Not well. He didn't want to tell anything. That, or he just didn't know. Can't tell." He paused. "Either way, he's dead now."
She sighed once more. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I was sure it was gonna be the one, this time."
"It's okay."
For a moment that felt like an eternity, they stood there, alone, buried underneath the raindrops tapping away at the window overlooking the rest of the equally silent city. They didn't speak, but no words were necessary. Now, the only thing they could cause is harm. Eventually, though, the historian looked up towards the skeleton in a trenchcoat and wide hat that stood inside her parlor, and she slowly exhaled.
"I…" she began, very carefully choosing her words; either that, or she was just too tired to craft together complex sentences at the speed of thought. Nobody wasn't really sure which one would concern him more. "I don't know what to do more. I'm sorry." She threw her hands in the air. "That was the final lead I had. The last general, captain, whoever that knew her in a way that wasn't just blind worship. If that one and the ones that came before it didn't have anything, then… I dunno. I don't have the books nor the time. I'm sorry. I really am."
He remained silent.
"It's a dead end, Nobody." She didn't really show it, but from the slight hesitation in the pronunciation of the name, it was very clear she was still uncomfortable using it. "My archives have run dry. And," with her head, she very gently pointed towards her slowly breathing mother. "I cannot find any more. Not now, at least. If there even are any more left out there."
She looked outside the Esterbergian night, letting her sight wander towards the city's Parliament, where her beloved grand library and archive rested under dazzling lights and chandeliers. Though she didn't say a word, it was very clear its total darkness worried her. What should worry her even more, though — at least in Nobody's eyes — the total lack of the gigantic flame which sat atop a tower on Esterberg's horizon.
There was a legend, she once told him, about the burning building at the edge of the city. Once the city's primary lighthouse, the flame inside burned long after it was abandoned, leading many to believe it to be the city's holy protector. It was said that for as long as that flame burned, for as long as it was alive, so long would the city thrive. It was just a silly legend and everyone knew that, but the citizens of the city still kept it and the flame up as a visible tradition that didn't really hurt anybody. It had once shown the brave sailors of Lake Arlande their way back home, and Nobody did not think it really cared all that much for some more, though now purely symbolic, work.
Tonight, however, it was just as dark as the unnaturally faded sky around it.
"Have you… tried reaching out to somebody else?" The Fae historian suddenly broke the silence. This time, she looked up to meet the cold gaze of Nobody's empty eye sockets. "My hands are tied. But the hands of others — not necessarily."
"Who?" He asked, no sign of emotion noticeable within the question. "Everyone I know is either an en—"
"Foundation."
It took him a moment to gather up a response. "No."
"But—"
"Categorically no." He tried his very best to sign the almost subtle shaking of his voice. He failed. "You know what they did. What they still do. No. They wouldn't help me."
She didn't have enough energy left in her to sigh. "I just… I just thought if you could give them a chance, they could prove… useful, at the very least. I'm not saying they're good, obviously, but… they're desperate to get this under control, too."
"They're desperate to get it under their control. That's not the same thing."
She turned away. "I guess."
But Nobody wasn't listening, not anymore. With the rattle of his bones and the shake of his coat following shortly behind, he headed for the stairs down, his hands in one of his jacket's many pockets. With a void of emotion inside of him, he took the first step forward. Before he fully committed to coming down, though, he stopped for a moment, and looked directly at Olivié.
"Take care of her," he muttered out, his hand already going down the railing.
She nodded appreciatingly, and then added: "And you, reconsider."
He didn't reply. He was already somewhere else.
22/11/2021
Esterberg's Port District, Częstochowa, Poland
That time of the year, the Polish spring already began slowly turning into quiet, gentle winter. And Nobody's breath — he still had a breath, and no, he did not know why, but then again, he still did not know many things about himself — reflected it very much, letting out a warm breeze every time his irreal lungs longed to take a breath. He didn't stop to consider that, though; instead, he simply continued his slow stroll through Estreberg's Port District, the area already succumbing to the ever-changing cycle of seasons in its own, strange way.
As the field of what had once been used as warehouses ended to reveal the open harbor so titular to the whole place, Nobody stopped for a moment. Without giving it much thought, as if he was running on pure animalistic instinct, he turned left, locking eyes with the entry to one of the shacks. It was run down, just like the rest of them; unsimilarly to its cousins, though, this very specific warehouse wasn't just indifferent to him. This one was a bit special.
For a brief moment, scenes of obnoxiously loud anartists ran through his mind, coinciding with the memories of the battle with Mab fought beneath the whole complex nearly two decades ago. In just seconds, the gray world suddenly gained color, coming alive with the memories of the beginning of his hunt. If he had emotions, he would even let himself spend a moment on that thought, but—
But what, exactly?
Just as he was about to ignore the call of nostalgia and walk forward, a thought stroke him. For a terribly long millisecond, he fought that thought, not wanting to explore it, not willing to give in. But it was stronger — so, so much stronger than his subconscious liked to pretend. And so, recognizing the honor in giving up, he forfeited to his embarrassingly human nature, and let himself consider the memory as fond for just a minute.
Once, that warehouse meant something. Its awful state had then been its point, a sign to authorities that the entry to the secret world of anart was no such thing at all, hiding behind failed cargo manifest. Right now, though, it felt more like a sad wound rather than real glamour. His trained eyes could see it, noticing the differences between what he had remembered it as and what he was seeing before himself. It was abandoned, left behind by all of the good kids that once staffed it with their nonsensical creations and political statements. He let himself wonder what happened to them. Did the Critic take any of them on, or did they find fame along different paths? Did they ever make it out of their metaphorical artistic garages at all? Were they even still alive?
He found no answer. But deep down, he wasn't sure if he even wanted one. He didn't know if he could stomach it.
Taking a slow breath, he picked up his pace once more, doing whatever it took to get away from that awful, awful den of memories.
After a few seconds, that will paid off. He found himself standing in the middle of the three-kilometer-long Plaza of Freedom. At this point unsurprisingly, the once hotspot for tourism was a graveyard in more sense than one, allowing the chilling wind to blow through it, uninterrupted by anything and anyone. In the distance, River Arlande leaked into the fake sea engulfing Esterberg's port and stretching towards infinity, ever so slowly pouring cold water into a basin that could once even call itself a harbor.
Taking his time, he walked up towards its banks and sat down, letting his legs hang above the drop separating him from the water. No boats sat in the docks. Even MC&D's navy, the infamous Pepsi Fleet, had now fled back to the dark towers employed by its nefarious masters. There was nothing truly separating him from the full moon, so dimly hanging on the horizon before him. The white circle in the sky reflected itself in the cold waters below, illuminating the city with an aura of equally chilling light. The wind and air blowing through the empty port shared the same temperature quality. Even Nobody could notice that.
With a heavy heart that wasn't there, he looked out into the grey infinity before him. Grateful that the fake sky hanging in the heavens above Esterberg wasn't broken, he noticed the magic that still ran its artificial weather patterns seemed to still function. As the first flake of snow this year fall down his exposed hand, he took off his hat, and put it beside him. There was a moment, a very short moment, during which he wanted to take out his knife and start polishing it, but he did not feel like it would be appropriate to steal any part of the reflected moon from the sea of faked tranquility.
Fake sky and fake sea, he sadly scoffed, thinking about how truly ironic it was that out of all things still alive in the City of the East, that dead part of the environment still did not share the inevitable fate of its other citizens. He hated that sight, despite its indescribable beauty. Hated it, like nothing in the world. He struggled to know whether even the holy fury against the Mad Queen could combat that anger for… what, exactly? For allowing himself to fail them? For allowing others to fail them? Or just for his own inability to take action, to eat his own pride and go to the only people that still knew how to help?
He knew what he had to do, he supposed. He didn't like it.
Nobody sighed. "And how is that fair?" He silently asked, letting his quiet voice die against the forming blizzard.
The darkness of the night found no answer.
23/11/2021
Site-120, Częstochowa, Poland
The aboveground building of Site-120 was so mundane that, for a moment, Nobody feared that in the wake of the Impasse the true structure hidden beneath it would prove equally normal. When he saw the states of the two people they sent to talk to him, he first sighed, and then immediately turned to fear his worries would be true.
Both Daniel Asheworth and Jessie Rivera were looking like walking corpses. Their skin was faded, their hair was graying, and their arms were lanky. They weren't that far off from being thin on a standard day, but tonight, that slimness felt unnatural. It felt… It felt sick. Like something that was causing it was eating them from the inside. And their faces — they weren't much different. Bags under eyes of fading color, the two didn't look anything like they had when he had last seen them. Deep down, it worried even Nobody; to see members of such a bastion of normalcy, such a bastion of strength and perseverance slowly fade away, it felt wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong.
From the looks on their faces, it was clear that even the presence of a few security guards behind them wasn't enough to make them calm being here.
He recognized the irony of sending the two people that had stopped him when he had still been human to talk to his resurrected self, of course. Instead of acting on it, though, he just closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and came closer to the two unnaturally thin figures, not allowing himself not even a thought of a comment. It was his will to be here, and they were here on Nobody's terms, not theirs. Though forcefully, that did indeed bring just a little relief to him.
Besides, there wasn't anything the mentally, spiritually, physically, and magically exhausted mage and reality bender could ever do to him, if things went south. They were as used up as the rest of the magical world — the only difference was they could at least find shelter in their bunkers of stolen magic, allowing themselves for at least a moment of respite among the raging storm.
Finally having reached an appropriate talking distance, Nobody stopped in his tracks. His heavy boots went rough against the gravel path leading to Site-120. The plants decorating the park which surrounded the facility did nothing to calm his equally rough nerves. The two others didn't come any closer, instead choosing to stand quietly in their jackets and hats against the relentless wind of what looked like an incoming snowstorm. Nobody returned the gesture, and remained equally silent and still.
"I need information," he suddenly began, barely moving any part of his body to say this out loud. "Information you have. Information that could help both of us."
Worryingly, Asheworth didn't find enough energy left inside him to sigh. Instead, he just corrected his now-graying hair back beneath his hat, and crossed his arms. "Give me specifics." He didn't mean it, but from the tone of his voice, it was very clear he wasn't comfortable at all talking to the entity that had once been Damien Nowak. For him, the skeleton in a hat and a trenchcoat was still the thaumaturge he had fought at the end of the world so many years ago.
Nobody didn't mirror the gesture. "Mab. Your whole dossier on her."
Rivera just shook her head. She too did not consider Nobody the best conversation partner. "We cannot give you that, you know that. I… I'm not even sure I have the access—"
"I am simply trying to help."
"I know," she looked down. "And so are we. But…"
Nobody's hat waddled against the raging wind, now fully displaying its might upon his clothing. "But what? You're trying, but not enough to actually give it an attempt? You're trying so that you can appear to not look complicit? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"No," Asheworth interjected. "We sent out our men. We gave our own to your hunt, too. We're both desperate. We are both the victims here." He let his words die against the cold air.
"…But?"
"But doing what you're doing won't help anybody," Daniel tightened his lips. "You wobble about, unable to decide who you are and what you want to do, mumbling something about a holy hunt like it's ever achievable. Instead of sitting down and helping out those in need, in the wake of the final hour you continue your little chase like a cat unable to let go of a laser pointer." He sighed, and proceeded Nobody's next question by adding: "You haven't changed. You're still the old you, just in new clothing." From his stance, it was very clear he was starting to want to leave.
"But—"
"There is no but, Nowak," the mage spat out the words like a slur. He was getting angry, now; Nobody wasn't sure just how much of it was caused by the present, and how much by the past. "I'm doing my part. So is she, and so is everyone down at 120." He pointed at the gray building behind him with his head. "If you're willing to put down your crossbow and take care of people in need, then we can always use a few spare hands preparing beds and meals down at the cafeteria. I haven't slept well in days, spending them instead on shuffling shit and bread. But you can also continue your stupid little hunt. The choice is yours."
Nobody tightened his knuckles. "I am trying to help. I am doing my job. Don't you think that this exact moment is the best time to strike M—"
Asheworth scoffed. "How, exactly? By continuing to be the same insane maniac you've always been, always chasing something beyond he horizon? No. Fuck you. If you want to wear the title of hero, fucking earn it." Angrily, he pointed at the insides of the Site behind him.
"Daniel…" Rivera looked at him, tightening her lips.
"What?" He returned the gaze, just a drop of anger inside his eyes. "Am I wrong? Am I—"
"We have the same goals. We both want to stop the Impasse. To slay the Queen," Nobody retorted, ignoring the insult. "I can help you. But I am out of options. And you — you possess nothing but options."
"Yes, you're right." Daniel furrowed his brows. "We possess nothing but options. Not you. Not your insane fucking hunt monster nonsense that brought you back from the dead and keeps you on your feet. We do. And we do use them. We do help. We do give shelter and medicine to the people, even when we're the ones affected, too. We take night shifts when we're supposed to be with our loved ones just to make sure the final spark of magic in our lifes doesn't die out. We take positions we aren't trained for and take the fucking responsibility we have to take to at least goddamn try to make a difference." He paused. "Do you?"
Nobody waited a moment for the insult to him the hardest it could: "Do you intentionally try to bring this to be about me, so that you can ignore the obvious inability to act you yourself are suffering from? Are you that much of a slave of the past, Asheworth?"
At a moment's notice, the thaumaturge turned away. He began to walk forward, back towards the Site, his face almost shaking with anger. Not wanting to be left behind, Rivera sighed, and followed him along. If he didn't know there was nothing they could have ever done to help him, Nobody would even mourn his supposedly lost chance.
Before he truly departed, though, Asheworth turned back one more time. "I'm at least honest with myself." He paused. "Are you?"
In a sea of confusion he called his soul, Nobody did not find an appropriate answer.
23/11/2021
Esterberg's Sewer District, Częstochowa, Poland
No matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise, Nobody was no stranger to emotions. For years, he was tortured by guilt, anger, determination, the inability to move on, and many other things generally considered human. For most of that existence, though, he would at least try to suppress said feelings, in an attempt to dedicate no energy to anything that wasn't his holy hunt. But even then, there were times when he simply could not ignore that part of him that was still terribly human.
And tonight the doors to his true soul were wide open.
He could feel it as he walked down the streets of Esterberg once more, the movement bereft of any real purpose. In all of his pretended glory, he did not know where he was going or for what reason. He didn't even know if those questions had any answers in the first place. The only thing occupying his mind right now was anger, mixed with just a drop of sadness, exhaustion, and the weight of the hollow pit relentlessly occupying his stomach.
As his heavy steps reached one street of the city after another, his mind slowly went numb. Truth be told, there was no reason in him, no conscious and logical chain of command ruling his train of thought. Instead, that unholy brewing soup of passion decided to rule supreme, declaring itself the sole ruler of Nobody's mind as he gave in to his human instincts once more. If his face was built to reflect his mental state well, right now it would be on the verge of tears.
Why, he did not truly know. Maybe it was because he realized that Asheworth was right. Maybe it was because he realized that he himself was just wrong. And maybe — but just maybe — because in an attempt to figure it out, the part of him that was Damien Nowak clashed with the part of him that was the Hunter, and maybe they did what they always did: they were incapable of ever reaching a consensus.
Either way, he knew one thing — he needed time to cool off. And there was no better place to do so than the chilling, snow-ridden alleyways of an empty city. Especially when one was traversing them alone, acting purely on instinct instead of logic. Instead of doing what said logic would have wanted, though, said instinct did exactly what it has always done — it carried Nobody to the only place he attended regularly, bringing his steps to repeat an almost religious pattern it knew better than anything else.
It carried him to the only place in the entire world he could ever reasonably call 'home'.
Truth be told, Nobody's lair was far away from anything anyone should ever call home. But something in Nobody almost liked calling that memetically-masqueraded stash of weapons, maps, and notes hidden behind some ran down buildings a place of rest. It wasn't like he had anything else closer to him anywhere else, anyways, So, he supposed, he might just as well give in to that tingling sensation behind his eyes and call it what it represented for him. It helped, when a particularly bad day hit him so bad he didn't want to do anything but give up.
And tonight was indeed one of those days.
Overwhelmed by everything, overwhelmed by the whole weight of the world around him, Nobody sat down, absentmindedly. The cold pavement below made itself felt to his irreal nerves even through his old trench coat, but he couldn't care less about it. He was far too gone to give any thought to such mundane, down-to-earth things. Instead, as he numbly looked into the sky above him, he only thought about one thing: he thought about just how much he wanted to cry.
You never really consider the relief tears bring you until you lose your tear ducts. And Nobody had lost so much more than that. He lost everything, if he ever had anything to begin with. And right now, that infinitely heavy realization dawned on him, crushing his shoulders under its incomprehensible weight. And Nobody was no heavy lifter. So he did the only thing he ever could, really — he let it crush his mind, his body, and his soul.
He closed his eyes, ready to wave a white flag above his very being.
When he opened them back up again, he was no longer sitting at the edge of Esterberg's real estate. Instead, the hooded battlemage he now was was standing inside a tent, buried kilometers underground. Within his veins, he could feel it just like he had felt it so many years ago — there was no mistaking the self-thaumaturgic cave below Stargard for anything else. The arcane particles practically thriving inside it made themselves more than known to his equally magic-tuned soul.
He was himself once more, back in his prime, back in his Nowak years. He could feel the burn scar decorating half of his face and the ponytail tied behind it. As he felt the mass of his muscular hands weight down on the table before him, he suddenly blinked twice, snapping back into this new irreality.
"—sir? Sir? Are you alright?"
He blinked again, and realized that there was a figure standing in front of him. One of the young Yeren he trusted as his closest during his revolutionary years, he quickly made the connection. The figure was tall and strong, confidence practically leaking out of its furred posture. Not wanting to make the interaction seem any more awkward, Nobody Nowak shot him a glance, making sure to play off his confusion as just a momentary lapse of thought.
"Yes, I… I apologize. I let myself get carried away by thoughts," he quietly concluded.
The young lieutenant cleared his throat, and pointed at one location on the large map of Poland that lay before them. Much to Nobody's Nowak's surprise, the thing he was showing wasn't one of their five primary goals, the places they could unlock their Seals in. Instead, it was a seemingly insignificant point of land in the Greater Poland Vovoidenship, pinpointed with a singular, red dot.
"As I was saying," the Yeren continued. "the Palace stands open, in case we wanted to go through it before attempting our next Seal. My men made sure to break the antimemetic spells, but just for us — the rest of the world should still see it in its full, hidden glory."
The Palace?
Nobody gulped, his focus going into overdrive, but he did not show it; instead, he let the Nowak inside him take the lead, and allowed him to play out the memory from a life long lost just as he had remembered it.
"That's no concern of ours," the actor that now took the lead said, scratching his head. "Even now, she is mostly inactive and harmless. We will take care of it after we're done with our own Seals. We simply don't have the time or the need for that, now."
His assistant nodded.
"Besides, with the power we will be able to yield once we're done, taking care of the Queen will be a formality. Her hatred will have no power in the Heaven we seek to establish, captain." This time, Nowak was the one to nod. "So let's make sure we even have a way to take her out before we attempt it, shall we?"
Before the Yeren could accept the orders and carry on, Nobody's whole soul started to hyperventilate. The memory, now bereft of an emotional anchor tying it down to Nobody's senses, began its journey down deterioration. First, the finer details failed; then, as the corruption spread, so did the general shape of everything. Everything except that red dot, piercing the heart of Europe in an almost mocking manner, pointing Nobody to the single most important place he could ever wish to find.
The lair of the beast.
As the answer to a question unasked seeped into his soul, Nobody violently opened his eyes.
With a short breath, he put his bony hand towards his equally bare face. It came almost as a shock for him to realize it wasn't that of the cult leader, instead now replaced by the Hunter. With all his will, Nobody's brain went into full reason mode, attempting to calm his universal hyperventilation. And, after a while, it even succeeded.
Now, he could feel the world around him again. Its cold, unforgiving breeze. Its dark, looming night. And the Mad Queen living beyond it, laughing at his attempts to take her down. He tightened his metaphorical lips, then did the same with his knuckles, and stood up. Nobody looked into the sky, seeing the Starlight that mocked him.
This time, though, he did not react with anger. No. This time, he returned the sneering gesture, and took the first step forward, loading his holy crossbow with the strongest bolt he could find. He knew its hiding place, its lair of nothing but evil. He had her practically open before him. There was nothing separating Nobody from its pray, after so many, many years.
He knew exactly what he needed to do to end her, too.
With a silent buzz, the portal buzzed to life before him, carving its round shape from nothing but the fabric of reality itself.
He wasn't sure if it was going to work, but he had enough trust in this specific wizard to hope their words that they could do it despite the Impasse were true. Without asking any questions, he nodded in appreciation at the hatted figure standing in the corner, and took a deep breath.
On the other side, he could feel revenge. He could feel closure, finally bringing him to a conclusion of his story. After almost twenty years, he would be done. All he needed to do is take a step forward, and write the finale to his own story, to his own hunt.
Were he to stay, though, he felt something much different. He felt love. He felt connection to those he pretended not to care about, and the ability to aid them at their lowest point. After so, so long, he would finally have a place in this twisted world, slowly helping reality come back from the consequences of Mab. All he needed to do is stay, and close the book of Nobody before it replaced the Nowak who wrote it.
For a while, he stood there, silent, unable to make a decision, unable to choose between two things he both desperately wanted. But when he looked into that floating green wormhole once more, he already knew what needed to be done.
With a shockingly human foot, he took the first step forward, and disappeared into thin air.
