Midnight Hunt -1. - 5. (ENG)

1. Midnight Hunt

That shit was everywhere. It ran down the walls in thin strips, formed puddles on the floor, and not a single piece of furniture, probably brought in from the dump, including a leaky couch with rat droppings all over the upholstery, was left unstained by this amazing perfume. Gasoline. All around. The sweet aromatic scent momentarily dulled his perception and made him dizzy. One spark and he would fly. It wasn't his doing, but whoever did this was a goddamn genius.

Atreus covered his airway with his sleeve and gripped his hunting knife in his hand. Not only was his nervous system not allowed to succumb to this anaesthetic, but he also wasn't about to chase this Mr. Genius, or rather absolute maniac, drugged to the heights of the heavens here.

"Whoever you are, I'm coming for you!" He chanted into the half-light, grinning sinisterly. No one would escape him, but he must hurry. He's ripping him apart before he can strike a match.

Slowly he began to walk through the abandoned warehouse. It was a warm summer night. Even the concrete walls of this shelter didn't prevent beads of sweat from forming on the man's forehead.

From his right, he heard a rustling. He turned in a flash, but found only a pair of drugged rats.

"Don't hide," he laughed into the echo, "I just want to play a little! You like to play too, don't you? All those toys on the news, are those yours? Come out!"

He heard the noise again. This time it was breathing. Quick, frightened. On purpose, Atreus rounded the shelter behind the big crate, calm and patient, like a vulture waiting for a pack of lions to eat the tasty parts of a dismembered bison. He revelled in it. The thought of his victim's blood filling with high doses of adrenaline, adding a specific flavor to the heart muscle that would soon be ripped from his rib cage.

He was a bit of a gambler himself. Some games, however, disgusted him. Pointless games.

He preferred to play in a clean pond, not a petrol cesspool.

"Gotcha!" He snapped at the scruffy guy in glasses, who was helplessly trying to hide behind his own arms. It totally backfired on him. Atreus Finch knocked the matches out of his palm and, with a simple grab, turned his back on him. Tripping his legs, he knocked him to his knees in a puddle of gasoline and slashed his throat with a hunting knife. Hot blood spilled on his hand. It wrapped the knife in a thick liquid sheath only to be licked like pudding by the man with the darkness in his face. But he didn't let the corpse fall into the puddle. Not yet.

He caught it before it fell and let it splatter next to the gasoline puddle. He still had a mission to carry out. He sat down the old guy's body. The man gasped in horrified shock. He wasn't going to breath again, Finch smiled. The food in front of him was rolling its eyes, white-red as in the fairy tale of Snow White. The Hunter sliced open his wet T-shirt and, expertly, as if he were butchering a wild animal, opened the man's chest. Without undue surgical hardship, with superhuman strength, he tore the still-beating muscle away from the tendons and arteries and bit into it hungrily.

His mission had nothing to do with justice or the status of a human being. Atreus chewed through the chunks of flesh with his eyes closed, letting the life of his victim seep into his own existence. His chest burned with the last thoughts of the corpse he had just been sitting on, in a daze from the pleasure of regaining his life force and the effect of the gasoline fumes.

In his euphoria, a low laugh overcame him. It cut through the silence of the dark warehouse like a razor and grew louder, shrieking like a maniac, while Atreus clutched the gnawed heart of the human beast in his bloody hands. Black memories of the murders from the news flashed before his eyes like a sped-up movie. Mutilated bodies, eyes gouged out, organs removed. Gallons upon gallons of blood and pleasure that wasn't his own. Blackness seeped into every vein, despair into every cell in his body. Laughter turned to angry roars.

I'll get him... We'll get him together...

2. Daily in the balance

They always resist at first. But eventually they give in and abandon their former life, which now belonged to him. He took their time and their abilities. Not their consciousness. Finch hadn't slept all night, instead trying to scrub the smell of smoke and gasoline from him. Memories flashed before his eyes. Pairs of pale blue irises piercing straight through his pupils and their stares, oh, those intent, scandalized stares, drilling right into his soul. Smooth childlike lips, whispering, "I know what you did."

Finch knew those words didn't belong to him. They belonged to the man known as the Blinder. The nickname had been made up for him by the news media, and from them the name had been adopted by all the crime analysts who'd worked the case. There have been many, but so far they haven't found the Blinder. So another man, whom the same media called the Hunter, decided to go out into the world and start his own investigation. He couldn't bear to see anyone kill children. They had so many more years ahead of them, healthy and happy years... He finally found him by the dirt on his boots and tracked him to the town docks, where the rat had found his hiding place.

Atreus rolled into bed just before dawn and managed to close his eyes for only a moment before dreams washed over him. He saw in them a pair of piercing blue eyes, as he might have expected. They belonged to a dark-haired boy of about seventeen with a gentle smile. He didn't realize the setting of the memory, but he was almost dazzled by the sun's rays and the unearthly beauty of the blue irises. An angel, he thought.

I'll get him...

The alarm went off.

"You won't. You're dead, you bastard."

Atreus Finch, already washed, changed, and ready for a new day, grabbed his red backpack and hurried to work. He walked a few streets a day, peering out the streetcar windows and buying his newspaper at a newsstand directly across the street from the Dough Re Mi pizza place where he worked. "You know, there's the Internet," the bearded newsstand clerk joked when Finch shoved a five-dollar bill through the window. "I prefer paper. That one can't be traced, sir. More cigarettes, please," Finch smiled sweetly. He rolled the newspaper under his arm, shoved the cigarettes into his pocket, and hopped across the road to work.

He was greeted by the delicious smell of the breakfast menu and a brief angry look from the manager. She was an elderly lady in a red uniform, and she had just placed a beautiful tower of flapjacks with whipped cream and a cherry on top in front of a young man. In an instant her eyes softened and wished the customer a bon appetit.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dougherty, on time today!" Finch beamed, taking off the ragged beige cap his manager hated with all her heart.

"Good morning, Artie. Please change quickly, Anna isn't coming today and we have so much to do! The doughnuts are already frying, but I need someone in the service. Will you be such a sweetheart?" She blew out at him, managing to pinch his cheek on the way.

"Sure, Mrs. Dougherty. Has Mr. Mackenzie arrived yet?"

"Yes, he's already making pizza dough. What do you need? Hope you don't want a raise!"

"I wouldn't dare," smiled Atreus, bowing his head meekly. The pizzeria was in enough financial trouble for a rent increase anyway. They don't need a freeloader. Finch quickly changed into his uniform and had four customers as soon as he appeared behind the counter. He greeted each one with a smile and tried to process orders as quickly as possible. At the same time, he watched the morning news on a screen in the far corner of the room.

"A fire broke out in the port district of Madeleine tonight. Supposedly it was caused by a massive explosion in one of the warehouses..."

"Three double lattes, one cinnamon cappuccino with five sugars, and a box of doughnuts, please, eight strawberry and eight chocolate," a stocky man in a blue shirt and police cap interrupted. Despite the appearance of a blushing layabout, he had bright eyes and a friendly tone.

"Sure, right away," Finch smiled, "for the whole department, as usual?"

"Exactly. Won't you join the force, Artie? We could use one like you."

"For me to bring you donuts?" Atreus laughed as he briskly prepared coffee in cups, "No thanks, James, I'm not looking for a new job."

"Mate, you look awful in that apron."

"Are you recruiting again, Mr. Carrow?" Old Mrs. Dougherty appeared, accompanied by the fresh scent of chocolate doughnuts, "Give it up. Artie's such a good boy, he wouldn't leave me here. And in my opinion," she turned Atreus towards her, sizing him up carefully, "that apron fits him like a glove! At least that way the ladies know he can cook!"

"Thank you, ma'am," Finch blushed and quickly turned to finish the last cup of his extra sweetened cappuccino. He glanced briefly at Carrow, casting him a disapproving look.

"The strawberry ones?" The policeman reminded with a smile, and Mrs. Dougherty grabbed the back of her head.

"Any minute, honey, any minute!" She scurried off to the kitchen, leaving Carrow and Finch alone.

"Still playing matchmaker?" Carrow grinned, leaning against the counter.

" She wants to set me up with Anna. She blind dated us last week, god, that was embarrassing!" Atreus complained, leaning in close to James to keep their conversation private, "We didn't have anything to say to each other for about ten minutes and then we started dealing with you know what?"

"What?" Carrow chuckled.

"Tofu."

"Tofu?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Bro, do I look like a vegetarian?"

"Anna's a vegetarian?" Carrow inquired.

"And all yours, Jimmy," Finch laughed, nudging his friend on the shoulder, "she won't talk to me anymore."

3. The Path and the Fall

The morning hours passed like water and the calm was replaced by the lunch rush. Between the tables he was like a wandering paper airplane, and while the manager had to go help in the kitchen, he was in charge of deliveries and orders. If it weren't for the Memory Olympics champion he'd consumed a few years back for cheating at poker, he wouldn't have been able to match orders to tables and faces. He did it for fun and practice. Memory goes bad if you don't use it.

He imagined the path along the waterfront where he used to go jogging. There wasn't a spot on it that he hadn't remembered over the years. He hung the face of the tall guy in the corner of the room on the grey tenement and put a piece of muddled Quattro Formaggi on his tie instead. He planted a barn and a wide lady and her kids in a nearby park, who ordered farmer's pizza and pepperoni. The cow by the barn had pepperoni for horns. Next, he imagined a bunch of punks coming out of a nearby grocery store from the front door, with a clown standing among them. That's how he remembered they wanted burgers. Extra bacon pitched in for the boy's spiky haircut.

"Coming up, Quatro Staggioni for the young gentleman," with acne like toadstool, "a specialty for the lady, for Mr. husband one Capricciosa," quite mediocre, not deserving of such a jewel for a wife, "and Margherita for this little flower," Finch smiled and placed the last plate in front of the little girl in a flowered dress, "Bon appetit!"

And so it went on. Item by item, he worked like a machine. He didn't make a single mistake, but that didn't mean he didn't feel under pressure. He had to think very quickly. The movements were automatic, gathered through years of experience. And he knew from past experience that two hands weren't enough for a rush like this. Where in hell was Anna hanging around? People are needed like salt, and she'll calmly call in a no-show! Is she angry with him? Has he said something bad to her? He disagreed with her arguments, that's all, he doesn't need to punish the whole business for that!

Atreus has lost his footing. In his stress, he didn't even have time to think about keeping his balance. He was deafened by the shattering glass and suddenly sprawled on the ground. Pain shot through his abdomen. He curled up in a ball in shock, trying to breathe through this unexpected experience. It wasn't supposed to happen. He had regained life in the night, he was completely fresh and strong. Finch wasn't supposed to feel pain for the next week.

Maybe he'd miscalculated with the Blinder.

He realized that half the restaurant was staring at him, shards of broken glass sticking out of his hand. He gritted his teeth. He glared angrily at the bag that was just lying in his path and its owner, who came over to him swiftly. "Are you all right, sir? God, I didn't mean to!"

"Fine," he got out in a choked voice.

He tried to remember. Unsuccessfully. The road was gone, as if bleach had been poured over it.

"I'm fine, really," he shook off the cause of his misfortune, his hands still a little numb, and like lightning he began to gather shards. He completely ignored his wounds and refused help. Even so, he felt rather embarrassed that he was stalling while his orders were cold in the kitchen. Blood smeared with water all over his hands.

He froze. The blue irises flashed through his mind again, his face in the sunshine.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. THIS was what he was missing...

"Artie, what is it?!" He heard a man's shriek from the kitchen, and Mrs. Dougherty peeked out to take look on the situation. She only came back inside for a moment, then went to check on her colleague. Atreus was already on his feet. Though shaken, he ran for the mop, casually shoving his bloody hands under the water, and on the way he deftly carried away two burning orders in one hand. He no longer set the plates down with a smile, but let out a sigh. For a moment the manager also took the initiative in serving. The crisis was averted.

At least for the time being.

"Is she coming tonight?" Finch murmured.

"Who?" Mrs. Dougherty looked back at him like a meerkat.

"Anna. Is she coming for the evening shift?"

" Yeah, she's supposed to show up, but... I don't know, honey."

Finch alerted. Her whole absence today was suspicious to him.

"Did she say anything to you? Is she okay?"

"She sounded a little upset, but I really don't know," the manager shook her head, which was even more suspicious. She didn't even bother to fantasize about the reasons - she who liked to read between the lines so much.

4. Doubts

Finch sat in the aisle near the back entrance. A puff of toxic fumes exhaled from his lungs, carried on the evening breeze. It was getting dark. But the heat wasn't receding, and it weighed heavily on the waiter, twisting in spasms and with a head full of questions.

It had never happened before that she hadn't come to work. She wasn't the type. Even if she had a broken leg or a concussion, even if there was an earthquake or a hurricane, she'd show up and bare her soul to keep the pizzeria running like a Swiss watch. It wasn't like her. He inhaled the nicotine deeply and let the ashes fall on the stairs. He didn't feel good about it. It wasn't just the fact that he hadn't kept up for lunch, he'd grazed his knee badly and cut his palm. He didn't feel comfortable here without Anna, and even though he'd tried his best to push her away on their unexpected date, she was his friend. He missed her laughter today. Her motivation. He needed both of those things like salt every day to forget the pain, at least for a few hours.

The pain of dying, which he managed to silence by sucking in the fresh lives of the people who had taken so many of them. He was always able to tame them within himself and make the most of them, at the same time demonstrating his service to society. But today, the pain not only surfaced when it shouldn't have, but even multiplied, and the blue eyes... Oh, those blue eyes in the sunshine that he couldn't get out of his head. He knew that the Blinder had a relationship with them. He could feel his desire to possess them and be the last one they looked at. Atreus resisted. He wanted to protect them. From the sick memories of the inferior creature's thoughts and his own hands that could turn them into reality. He was horrified. He had encountered many monsters and none had defeated him yet. But now he was beginning to doubt himself.

The creaky door beside him opened, and Finch lifted his cap to see a burly older gentleman in a Hawaiian shirt and a sparse hair in a ponytail. His tanned skin was slick with frying oil, his hands most likely smelled of pepper. He sat down next to Finch. He had him light a cigar. "You okay?" He asked, "'Supposedly you fell today."

Finch didn't answer, just nodded gently and turned his face away.

"Did you go to the doctor like I told you to?" He nudged his shoulder lightly.

"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped.

"At least take the medicine he prescribed, okay? I don't want you to faint on my watch," the cook and owner in one admonished him, "do you have enough money for medicine? Don't you need more?"

"No, Mr. Mackenzie, I'm all right. I don't need anything. Only a little help. Whats the matter with her?"

"Are you talking about Anna?" Finch nodded, " You know what that explosion in the harbor was. They found her father there. The one who disappeared for ten years and now they've found him. As a mush. He was right at the epicenter of the explosion. Irene didn't want to tell you so you wouldn't worry. You've been very pale lately."

"Enough about me, sir, how's she handling it? She never mentioned her father!"

"He ran away from his family a long time ago, such a scum isn't worth half a word," he shook his head.

"What did he do? Why did he run away?"

"He was a high school teacher and it turned out he had a weakness for young boys. Sixteen. When they found out, he packed his suitcase and never came back. How lucky he left our Anna alone, that pervert! He didn't seem to have gone far - perhaps he was in port all these years!" He grumbled, red and as a caricature waving his cigar around.

"I should call her," Finch gloomed. Mackanzie calmed himself with a deep breath.

"You better, Artie. But don't get upset. I don't know what's wrong with you, but stress isn't doing you any good. Listen, I'm going to give you a day off tomorrow, you run to the doctor and he'll prescribe something stronger..."

"I'm all right," Finch muttered discontentedly, stubbing out his cigarette on the step, "You and Mrs. Dougherty needn't worry about me. I've found something that helps me. I don't need anything new."

"A pill?"

"Something like that."

"Very well. In that case, you can still manage to hang up the chairs and mop the floor..." he gave him a mighty tap on the shoulder, "Get to work. But save yourself, please."

"I'll save myself just as you're saving me, Mr. Owner."

5. Ally

He clutched his cell phone in his hand during the entire tram ride. He had already opened the chat with Anna, but he thought for a long time before he texted her. He was confused. He wondered and hunted in his mind for thoughts of Anna that didn't belong to him. The Blinder wouldn't forget his daughter after all! Whether he remembered her or not, there was a possibility that he had just killed his friend's father. It must be a blow, whoever it was.

In the end, Finch could only use the words: " Hi, you ok?"

It wasn't very empathetic. But at the same time, he was aware of the situation they'd been in last week. They had been looking at each other, smiling and holding hands. He reluctantly pushed her away from him with talk of hunting and dissecting deers, the uses of fox fur and the process of making sausage. But he mustn't let her close to him. He didn't want to become another monster in her life, and now, on top of that, he felt strange, with memories of her own father.

Outside the block of flats, he hid his cell phone in his jeans and continued on his way to his apartment. The otherwise smelly elevator was out of service. He had to climb to the fifth floor, stopping after every other staircase to breathe through the cramps. He didn't understand why this particular murder had the opposite effect. He cursed his act. He cursed his curse.

"You're moaning so loud I can hear you in the living room," came a young voice from the staircase above him, the last barrier separating him from the apartment. The motion sensor clicked and a yellow light came on. Finch saw a man in a suit. The dark hair and dark eyes behind the fake glasses looked very average, and overall he appeared to be an ordinary probationary clerk. In reality, he was in his early thirties and not nearly as innocent as he seemed. He was, after all, a journalist. River Ross.

"Hello, Ross," Finch panted, waving his hand in greeting. After catching his breath and letting the spasm pass for a moment, he climbed the stairs and allowed himself to be propped up.

"Rough day? Rough night?" River smiled, leading him to his apartment at the end of the hall. Finch remained silent. The reporter was aware of all his actions and work, so there was no point in answering or lying to him. Nor did Ross sneak into his apartment merely out of politeness, though he knew how to unlock a door with a simple paperclip or a paring knife. With a sigh, Finch unlocked and let himself be dragged up to his living room, bedroom, and kitchen all in one. He had a bed made up lazily in the middle of the large room, an old, unused television set across from it, and a small kitchenette with a counter opposite the window. He didn't need a couch, didn't need a dining table. Visitors didn't come to him.

He sat Atreus down on the bed and while he foamed in immense pain, moaning like an abused cat, the accomplice began to rummage through the dusty medicine basket on the kitchen counter. He knew exactly what his kindest employer needed. He prepared about five of the different colored pills in his palm and brought them to Atreus along with a glass of water. He didn't protest. Artie swallowed them in a second, with full trust in his companion.

"It was a big boom last night. I was afraid you'd been swept away by the pressure wave," River stated monotonously, and lay down in Atreus's bed, letting the man crawl up on the mattress and cuddle up to him.

"I found four more canisters of gasoline, so I made a line all the way to the beach," he explained, laying his head against his neighbor's chest.

"Good idea," River smiled and began to ruffle his thick black hair.

"I was out of my mind from the fumes. I'm glad to be alive."

"I'm glad, too," the reporter kissed him on the forehead.

They had a special relationship. It wasn't about love. At least not the kind of love people encounter in romantic comedies, family shows and soap operas. Finch had never even considered that his relationship with Ross would ever be taken as romantic, though they both noticed and exploited different aspects of such a relationship. They were fulfilling each other's physiological needs. Needs for understanding and intimacy. But instead of love, they had a closer, more sincere commitment to each other. Sharing the same goal and view of society, of themselves. Their own world. Moreover, Atreus was convinced that River was incapable of loving someone romantically. He always speaks coldly and disregards feelings. All of his speeches seemed rote. It was only his warm palms and tender touches that reminded him that he too was flesh and bone.

"I've started work on a new case," Ross announced, "The rape and murder of a fifteen-year-old girl. The police brushed everything off the table because she was whoring on the street. In fact, she was trying to take care of her grandfather. When he heard the news, he had a stroke. The perpetrator remains unknown, but I already have several suspects."

"Spoken like a cop," Finch muttered discontentedly, his eyelids already closing.

"When I get him, I'll send you his address."

"I think I need a break. The one yesterday didn't do me any good."

"You've got time, I can take care of this myself," Ross smiled. Atreus gave him a tired look.

"You'd make me very happy. I only buy newspapers because of your contributions, you know?"

"I know. I know everything about my Hunter."

"You're not going to use that against me, are you?" Anxiety washed over him.

"Never," River said, more gently than usual, "that would send us both to our death sentences. I'd rather end it myself and you could run away. We leave no evidence, they wouldn't have anything on you..."

"Does that mean you feel something?" Finch joked, but he still had no idea what he was about to do to himself by this question. River rolled him over under his body, and their faces were only inches apart. His eyes hadn't changed, they were still as cold as an empty train station underpass, but there was something about them that was different from the Ross P20 Pro's. At the end of the empty tunnel, a single ray of sunlight shone. Finch froze.

"Never. I'll never betray you," River got out in a choked voice. His breath smelled of menthol. He was so mediocre. So robotic. He couldn't show a single honest emotion. Sighing, Atreus smiled and pulled his face into a long, passionate kiss. Though deep affection and physical pleasure dominated their actions, Finch knew that with Ross's restraint to emotion and his own reluctance for a long-term relationship, he would never taste the words 'I love you'. It was impossible. And even if his accomplice was determined to express them, he wouldn't do so. He wouldn't have had the courage.

His cell phone buzzed loudly in his bag. Atreus immediately broke the kiss and reached into the bag for it. The screen lit up: "No."