Chapter Text
At first he just refuses to sleep, and he’s delighted to discover that humans have created a special potion specifically for that purpose. But Hunter’s heartbeat feels funny after the sixth cup, he wheezes a bit, the plate he was carrying rattles on the floor, and suddenly Mrs. Noceda forbids him from even standing near the “coffee” machine. It’s okay, he can manage without the human potions, he has experience.
But after three days, his body gives out on him. The scenery is familiar. Hunter wishes it wasn't. Alas, when he finds himself falling down, he knows very well how it's going to play out.
Here’s how it goes: it starts right after Uncle has made the earth open up under his feet. He drowns, the ground suddenly liquid and sucking Hunter in, shifting around him every time he tries to grab something and hold onto it. He thrashes around and accomplishes nothing. And then he falls.
Hunter has heard that falling is a very common occurrence in nightmares. He finds that reassuring. But the problem, you see, is not with the falling. Hunter would love to remain falling, seriously, nothing would make him happier because he knows what comes next. When he dreams, he recognizes the events he has seen transpire so many times. It’s all very metaphorical. Hunter would scoff at his subconscious for laying it on a bit thick, but he can’t. When he’s inside the nightmare, he’s just terrified, and it doesn’t matter how cliché it gets, he can’t distance himself from what he’s seeing. He can rationalize it all he wants when he wakes up. But for now, this is what’s happening.
So here’s how it goes: there are hands shooting up for him, yanking at his cloak. He mechanically unclasps it and lets it fall off his shoulders, knowing every movement by heart. He knows it doesn't change what's coming, and yet he can't make himself stop, he has to repeat every futile action and he can't just be done with it. It must play out the way it has before. So the hands take his cloak first, tearing it to shreds. Then they grab his ankles, another hand yanks him by the elbow, others start clawing at his shins, and soon a separate set of hands wraps around his waist, pulling him down. He tries to break away, but there’s nothing he could grab onto, and so the hands drag him to the bottom of the pit. He tries to close his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see what’s around him, but the logic of a nightmare doesn’t grant him that small mercy. It’s pitch-dark and there’s no source of light, but somehow he can still see very clearly. He would rather not.
The floor is covered in corpses. There are hundreds, thousands of them. Some of them are just bones, grinning at Hunter. Those are the nicer ones. But there are also the others, the ones still covered in flesh. Well, at least partially. They rot, their bodies crawl with maggots, their skin peels off their fingers, taking the muscles along. They’re covered in mucus, and they ooze putrid sludge from their mouths and eyeholes. Some of their bones peek out. If they have fingernails, they’re unnaturally long, more akin to claws than to anything Hunter has ever seen on a witch. They’re missing limbs, teeth, eyeballs. None of these bodies is complete, there are always some parts that are just not there. The problem is, even though they’re damaged and decayed beyond recognition, they share some similarities with each other. If any of them still have eyes, they’re always red. If their nose hasn’t fallen off, it’s humped. If they have retained hair on their cranium, there’s a cowlick. Their frame is familiar, and some of the skulls smile at him, exposing a gap between the incisors. They’re all wearing the same uniform.
And all they want is the mask he’s gripping in his hands. He didn’t know he had it. He thought he had left it somewhere else, but apparently it’s been in his hands the whole time. They reach for him, they try to peel his fingers off the cold metal, the only thing in this pit that is solid and unable to rot away. Hunter knows he can’t let them have it. He wants to, oh he wants to. They would leave him alone. But he clings to the golden mask as dents appear under his fingers, and he can’t let go even while the corpses are yanking at him, knocking him over and crawling over him. Every part of him they touch starts turning to rot, rapidly peeling away. It could end. He could end it, he just needs to turn the mask over to them. But he physically can’t let go, even as he hears the metal crack, and he knows that in a few seconds the mask is going to break into pieces and there will be no way to repair it. He’s aware he has to stop it from breaking, and yet he’s still actively damaging the item.
Luz is somewhere up there. He can hear her call his name, and he wants to yell back to let her know where he is. Scratch that. He just wants to scream, it doesn’t matter what and for what purpose. But the rot has already reached his lungs and his throat, and he starts drowning in it, unable to make a sound. Luz reaches out to him, suddenly much closer than the length of his previous fall would suggest. He can’t hold onto her arm, his hands are busy because he can’t let go of the mask, the cracks on its surface getting deeper and longer.
When the mask shatters, Hunter comes round. He usually covers his mouth with a hand so that his panting doesn’t wake up the rest of them. His heart pounds against his ribcage at a rate that is certainly not healthy, his mouth is dry, his entire skin disgusting and clammy. He calms Flapjack down if the palisman startles awake when Hunter does. If not, he keeps extra quiet. He spends a few minutes trying to get his breathing under control, one, two, three, four, three, two, one. Repeat. Then he usually slips into the bathroom to take a shower and wash the rot, no, the sweat, to wash the sweat away. Mrs. Noceda is not going to be happy when she sees the bills.
.
The man is wearing a clip-on tie, and yet he is the one looking at Hunter with disdain, not the other way around.
“It says here you have experience in finding the enemies of the state and that you have driven a mine cart once. And under abilities you have listed typing and—” The man squints. “Being impervious to heat?”
“No, sir,” Hunter corrects him, his gaze lowered respectfully. “Not heat in general. Just boiling water. It’s clearly stated in my resume.”
The man sighs and props his chin on his knuckles.
“Look. I’m obviously not going to give you the job,” he says, and Hunter’s heart sinks. “I’ve decided to call you here just to give you some scolding because jokes like that are not funny. There are people out there who really need jobs, and this kind of pranks makes it harder to get to their resumes. But—“
Hunter dares to look up, his ears perking up with hope at the hesitation in the man’s voice.
“Now that I look at you, actually coming to the interview and doing that in full, what’s the word? You know, the contact lenses, the gloves, the—“ He gestures in the direction of Hunter’s ear. “What do you call those?”
“Ears,” Hunter supplies helpfully.
“The word’s cosplay, right?” the man carries on, ignoring him. “Anyway, I look at all that, and I’m beginning to think you’re actually serious.”
“I am,” Hunter assures him, earnest. “Very much so”.
He really is. Mrs. Noceda says she has some savings and, provided they don’t go on vacation, they should be alright. She tells Hunter he absolutely doesn’t need to get a job, and that she’s happy to have them there. But when Hunter goes with her to the mall, he sees her lips tighten when she compares the price tags on cereal boxes. He sees her hunched over a notebook in the middle of the night, and notices how worried she gets when Luz spills something on her clothes or when Gus tears his sleeve on accident. She says it’s okay, but when she thinks nobody’s looking, she scrunches her nose in distaste at a cheaper yoghurt she has started buying for herself. The rest of them still get the good stuff.
And then one day Luz asks her where’s the engagement ring dad has given Mrs. Noceda. Amity has never heard of that human tradition, and Luz wants to show the item to her girlfriend. Mrs. Noceda looks alarmed, even though her daughter bursts out laughing and explains that she doesn’t intend to give it to Amity, they’re not there yet, Luz hopes that’s where they’re headed but if she’s going to propose, she’s going to do it right and with a ring that’s more them, you get it mami? She just wants to show it to Amity. And Gus, probably, he’s going to love it and take a lot of notes on human mating rituals. Somehow Mrs. Noceda doesn’t look less worried. Sorry, mija, she says. She must have lost it some time ago. It’s a shame, it was so pretty, not to mention the sentimental value. But these things happen, it’s not the first piece of jewelry she has lost, she’s going to lose her own head one of these days. Good thing it’s attached to her shoulders, huh?
Luz suddenly starts sobbing, and Mrs. Noceda frantically tries to calm her down, telling her it’s no big deal, and that no material thing is worth crying. She doesn’t understand why her daughter’s breath hitches and why the tears keep coming. But Hunter knows the reasons of their distress. He’s seen the Owl Lady detach her limbs. She had tried to smack him with an arm she held in her hand, actually. He’s pretty sure she can take off her head and that Luz has witnessed her do it. It's odd how some phrases mean something completely different when taken literally.
He’s also seen Mrs. Noceda enter a pawn shop in the mall a week ago, when he was supposed to look for giraffe pajamas for Gus. The money’s tight. He doesn’t say anything to make it better. There’s nothing to say.
So now he looks at the man on the other side of the desk, and he shuffles his feet uneasily. The man’s expression shifts into something akin to sympathy.
“I think you should get some help,” he tells Hunter.
“No, no,” Hunter explains hurriedly. “You’re looking for help.” He fishes out the sheet of paper from his bag and presents it to the man. “See?”
“Did you take that down? It was supposed to hang on the door!”
Hunter just stares at him, disoriented.
“I know your generation has some serious problems with telling fantasy and reality apart,” the man continues. “But I think this—” He makes a vague gesture which is supposed to encompass the boy, and then he smacks the resume. “This is carrying things too far. You should talk to your parents about getting you a therapist.”
“So that’s a no on the job?” Hunter makes sure, still clinging to the last shred of hope, and it’s pathetic, really.
The man sighs. “Definitely a no.”
.
Here’s how it goes: he falls, and the corpses in the Golden Guard uniform, all dressed up and nowhere to go, are already waiting, grabbing and dragging him down. But this time it’s a bit different. Luz doesn’t appear at all, and somehow that makes the sound of the mask shattering even worse.
She’s not there the next time, and the next one as well. Apparently he needs to get used to that, that’s the new routine. So what if sometimes he throws up before he takes his midnight shower, and maybe he spends a few additional seconds wheezing on the tiles before he manages to drag himself towards the curtain. He’s quiet and discreet about it, and nobody wakes up. It’s not like it’s a big deal.
So he just goes back to not sleeping at all. Easy. They try to do something called an intervention on him, and it’s bizarre. They all gather in one room and recite some rehearsed lines about how they really care about Hunter. He would be touched because their concern seems genuine, but it’s really difficult to treat them seriously while Gus squeals with excitement every two sentences because it’s just like on human TV.
.
The second interview goes better. This time Luz has helped with the resume. She says him being undocumented shouldn’t pose a problem because he’s pale and blond. Hunter doesn’t understand what being undocumented means. Do pale people get some kind of special treatment? Yeah, they kinda do, Luz laughs, but it sounds mirthless.
He still gets some funny looks but not that many, now that his ears are hidden underneath a beanie.
“Are you a team player?” the woman asks.
“Oh yes!” he says, smiling, his hands neatly folded on his lap. But then he falters. There’s the Captain, Gus, and him. The team requires at least five members and their palismen. So is there even a team? Where are Viney and Skara? Are they alive? “At least I’d like to think so,” he adds.
The woman gives him a perfunctory nod, checks some box, and looks up at him again.
“And where do you see yourself in five years?”
Hunter gulps.
“That’s a … difficult question,” he manages.
She flashes him a smile that is supposed to be reassuring.
“Okay. So where do you see yourself in two years?”
His palms get sweaty. It’s funny if you think about it. The Golden Guard, the head of the Emperor’s Coven, reduced to this.
“You’re asking about precognition? My apologies, I didn’t know it was a requirement. Unfortunately, I’m not gifted in this area. But I’m certain I could make up for this deficiency with other skills.”
She sighs. Do all of them sigh? Do they do this all the time, or just when Hunter’s around?
“Where do you want to be two years from now?” she says very slowly, and even Hunter can notice annoyance in the way she pinches the bridge of her nose.
They’ve been here for over a month. They were expecting to be back in the demon realm in two days. Four, tops. They have no idea what’s happening back there. If there even is a back there. The Collector might have turned the entire world into nothingness with a snap of their fingers. Everyone Hunter has known might already be dead. Or tortured. The search for a new portal is not going well, even though they spend endless hours at the local library every day. The world is ending, their world is ending, and they’re not even there to watch helplessly. They’re stuck here, with the alien technology, weird food, and a blue sky over their heads. They cover their ears, but everyone keeps staring at Hunter nonetheless because of his eyes and his scars. For some reason people here don’t consider hooded cloaks inconspicuous. They’ve been forbidden from going on walks or playing outside unsupervised for two weeks after Amity’s abomination incident at the mall. Gus’ illusions help with passing for humans, but it turns out he tends to forget about maintaining them when he gets excited. And there are so many things Gus finds exciting in the human realm.
The house is overcrowded, and an infinite sleepover loses its appeal when you realize there’s only one bathroom and that everyone is used to going to sleep at a slightly different hour. Or, in Hunter’s case, not going to sleep at all. Most of them miss their parents. Hunter thinks he’s heard the Captain’s quiet sniffles in the darkness at one point. The daily walks to the library turn into exercises in futility. And Hunter’s in the middle of it all, the oldest one, the big brother, the guard, the commander of the defeated army, supposed to pick up the pieces. But he can’t. He doesn’t know how. Out of all of them, he’s the most useless one. At least back home he had a purpose. Yes, it was a fictional purpose invented by a false prophet, by a man who had created Hunter in order to just lie to him and eventually kill him like the ones that came before him. But it was still a purpose. Hunter needs to do something, anything to get them back and fix whatever is left of their home. And no, it’s not about him being unable to live in the human realm, with its loud noises, alien textures, and weird social conventions which render his entire training useless. Of course not.
“Well, definitely not here,” Hunter finally answers the woman’s question.
She tells him they’ll call him, but for some reason they don’t.
.
Managing expectations, that’s the trick. He doesn’t hope for Luz’s voice when he finds himself among his own corpses, not anymore. The key to not being disappointed is being ready for disappointment. And so here’s how it goes: Hunter is ready for the absence of a familiar voice. He’s not ready for the presence of another, though.
“Hello, Hunter,” he hears. While Luz sounded frantic, the owner of this voice is eerily calm, and Hunter would recognize that tenor anywhere.
This time Hunter’s screaming wakes up the entire house.
.
He covers his ears and replaces the gloves with very long sleeves. His spine is ramrod straight. Amity tries to cover his eyebags with makeup, though the effects are mostly grotesque. Third time’s the charm, Luz claims. It’s another human thing apparently. All this time, Hunter has thought humans didn’t practice magic.
“Aren’t you a bit too scrawny to be lifting boxes?” the man asks him.
“Well, aren’t you too tall to sit cooped up behind such a small desk?” Hunter implores. “Is it like a toy desk for children? Or are your body proportions this wrong?”
The man stands up and circles around the desk. He’s tall, almost as tall as Uncle. Hunter sets his jaw and refuses to look away. Not this time. This time he’s here to get the job, not to cower and leave empty-handed. Mrs. Noceda has complained about the prices of gas yesterday, and it’s the first time she’s brought up the subject of money. Things must be really getting bad, and thus failure is not an option.
Then the man actually laughs. “I like you, kid,” he says, slapping his back a bit too forcefully. Hunter stumbles.
“I’m not a kid.”
“Sure thing, kid.” The man shrugs.
Hunter’s not a kid. He’s sixteen. He has led regiments on missions. He has been the Emperor’s right hand man, he has filed countless reports, compiled inventories, and ran numerous coven meetings.
“If you consider me a kid, then you are willing to profit off child labor,” he says.
The man snorts and tightens his grip on Hunter’s shoulder.
“Well, in that case I’m in good company!” he bellows. “Most CEOs do that, so I guess my business must be pretty successful if I’m among them. Don’t worry, though. We’re not talking about cobalt mining here, kid.”
Hunter doesn’t know what a CEO is. He glances around the man’s office. It’s cramped. The furniture seems ancient, but not ancient enough to be classy ancient. The rug on the floor is disgusting.
“Your business doesn’t seem successful at all,” Hunter hazards saying. So far, being assertive has been working out for him today. Then he hesitates. Maybe that business is doing well? How would he know? Maybe in the human realm success is measured differently, or, without magic, they live in such a scarcity this man is considered wildly successful? Even if he isn’t, he probably won’t appreciate being called out on his failure. “But I’m sure it is, now that I think of it,” Hunter says hurriedly. “Very successful. In fact, I’m sure you’re swimming in snails.”
The man lets go of him, and gives him an alarmed look.
“Snails?”
Ah, shit. Different currency.
“No judgment!” He flashes the man a grin. Maybe he can turn it into a joke. Oh Titan, please, it was going so well. “I’ve heard wealthy people are into some really messed-up stuff, so swimming in snails is nothing even mildly concerning.”
The man’s disorientation gives way to amusement.
“I’d love to have a dive in snails myself,” Hunter continues. “Or slugs, even better. Skinny dipping in all that … goo. I’m very much into slime. Who isn’t!” He laughs nervously. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. “Slime, ooze, muck, sludge, guck, mucus, you pick one. They all have really weird names when you say them out loud, have you noticed?”
Overdoing it, Hunter.
“Kid, are you on drugs?” the man inquires with genuine concern in his voice.
“Should I be?” Hunter asks, and he really doesn’t know which answer would be the correct one in this particular case.
“I can’t tell with those contact lenses from afar but your pupils should—” the man starts saying, and makes a movement as if to crouch next to Hunter and grip his chin.
Hunter has no idea how it happened. It must have been the automatic response of a coven scout. His boot collides with the man’s crotch, and now it’s fight or flight.
And so, not having brought his staff and not knowing the layout of the battlefield, the Golden Guard retreats like any good tactician would, runs out of the office, leaves the building, and doesn’t stop for two blocks.
They collectively decide to send Vee in his place for the next interview.