H.U.N.T.E.R.

Chapter 1: Night Shift

“I’ll kill you!” The shout thunders through the room as John steps through the glass door. A burly moon elf with facial tattoos charges at him. More out of reflex than conscious choice, John lunges and sweeps the oncoming elf’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing into the doorframe.
An officer who was sitting at the reception desk a moment ago immediately pins him down and cuffs him.
“Hey, John. Sorry. He was a little upset.”

Seriously? In the lobby? Before my fourth coffee?

He raises a hand in greeting. “Busy tonight?”
The other officer laughs. “Same paradise, every day.”
John’s gaze passes over the others in the waiting area. They seem unimpressed by the commotion, absorbed in their phones instead.
He heads for the door separating the public waiting area from the officers’ work area.
With a hearty yawn, John inserts his card into the reader. It’s old, it whirs, and sometimes it reboots, but eventually the system accepts that he’s arrived. Switching from the early shift to the late shift is a challenge every time, like crossing time zones.

As he shuffles down the agency corridor, his eyes keep landing on the large letters: H.U.N.T.E.R., the acronym displayed at regular intervals along the wall. Most people see nothing but a few letters. For him, it’s the only thing that still gets him out of bed in the morning.

They used to be called simply Hexguard. Different times. Witch hunters with firepower. More cowboy than cop.

After the merger with Urban Nightwatch, formed during the war years, came the rebranding:

Hexguard, Urban Nightwatch, Tactical Enforcement and Response, H.U.N.T.E.R. for short.

The podcast in his ears is more of a morning ritual than something that actually interests him. Entertainment rather than information, something to get him through the drive and the first few hours of his day.
“Roe, listen! I was with this fish girl…”
The host interrupts. “Oh, another one of those stories.”
The man goes on. “Just hear me out. So I’ve got this girl, and we try this new stuff. Doesn’t do a thing to me, but her… She goes wild, I’m telling you.”
“What kind of stuff was it?”

The man laughs like a chain-smoker. “No idea, Roe! It was in one of my lucky bags.”

“Think the Hunters will get the drug problem under control?”
The smoky-voiced man gives a long laugh. “The Hunters? Is that even their department? Aren’t they supposed to be handing out tickets and hassling a few orcs? I’ll tell you something, Roe. They don’t bring anything to the table anymore.”
The host sounds thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think they took a lot of pressure off the police at the start, especially when the police were facing new problems.”
His guest laughs. “Yeah, at the start. Now they’re weird cops. Everyone knows how to handle their cases. Myths aren’t exactly new anymore, Roe. Everyone knows them, and everyone knows how to deal with them.”
Myths. I’ll never get used to that word. They’re not that mythical. Still, not the worst thing you hear on the streets.
John walks slowly into the tiled locker room, soon reaches his locker, and takes out his earbuds.

With a practiced motion, he opens it, hangs his jacket inside, and puts on his bulletproof vest. They used to have those soft stab-resistant vests, but it took a few deaths before they started looking like soldiers in a war zone. Comes with the territory when vampires, werewolves, and the like are part of everyday life.
Then he takes off his watch and studies the old, scratched case in his hand. Why don’t you run backward?

For a moment, he holds it to his ear to listen to it tick. Old, but still running. More of a keepsake, since it needs resetting after just one day. In a digital age, people tend to check their phones rather than their wristwatches anyway.
He replaces it with the agency’s regulation model, one that monitors both his vital signs and his location.
The GPS is particularly important. John has no desire to spend days searching the woods for another colleague who’s helped himself to dryad mushrooms and no longer knows where he is, or what he is.

Next comes the belt, loaded with everything he needs: his service weapon and spare magazines for when things get rough. A Taser and animal repellent spray for when he’d rather things didn’t get dangerous. Though the spray is rarely used on animals. Mostly on people who act like them.
Last comes the most feared weapon in the entire arsenal: a ticket book. Thanks to it, no illegally parked broom or illegal spell goes unpunished.

Finally, he picks up the accessories his employer considers every bit as important as his weapons: the stylish cowboy hat, because style is nonnegotiable, and the sunglasses, which, thanks to arcane programming, do more than block the sun. They also detect traces of magic and provide night vision. The agency has selected and tested every item, and insists they use all of it. John has used enough equipment over the years to know they’ve never had better gear than they do now.
After a quick glance in the mirror, he slams the locker shut. Then he takes a deep breath and steps outside.

Let’s see what today has in store. The usual madness, I suppose.

He keeps passing colleagues, greeting them with a brief nod. Without stopping, he heads for what they call the Loading Zone.

Smith is standing there. His mind already seems to be on the end of his shift. His eyes are glued to his phone as John signs into the system and signs the necessary documents.

After waiting a moment while Smith keeps ignoring him, he sighs. “Hey. I need my equipment.”
Am I the only one who actually works around here?

Smith jumps as if he’s just woken up. “Shit. I’m bidding on tickets for tonight’s game. I promised my nephew and completely forgot.”

John glances at his watch and raises an eyebrow. “That’s in two hours. You should’ve gotten the tickets weeks ago. Same as my equipment.”

Smith lets out a pained sigh, twitches his mustache thoughtfully, and shuffles over to the rifle cabinet. Taking his time, he retrieves the bag and John’s weapon. Another form, another signature. Then everything changes hands.

He takes the semiautomatic rifle. After all those years in service, nothing about it is standard anymore. A holographic sight, paired magazines, and a larger caliber. Because few things stop an angry troll faster than armor-piercing rounds to the kneecaps. Smith also affectionately calls it the Witch Hammer, after the thorough job it did on a criminal ring of witches.

John checks every function and gathers everything up.
“Good luck with the tickets,” he says before leaving.
“It’ll work out. Don’t let the wendigo bite,” Smith says with a smile.

The next door takes John into the workshop. No one’s working at this hour, but his vehicle has just had its annual routine inspection. Freshly polished and ready for the shift, it sits on the lowered lift.

When he reaches the car, he opens the trunk and stows the bag.
His rifle goes on the passenger seat.

Now for the tedious vehicle check.

Tires and lights?
Good enough. Nobody has time to check properly.
Then he switches on the radio and makes sure the connection to dispatch works.

“8-23, ready to begin shift.”
“Copy, 8-23.”
Next he checks the fuel gauge. Full, just how he likes it.
A quick look at the emergency equipment.
Probably hasn’t moved since yesterday.
Finally, he makes sure his bodycam and personal equipment are within reach.
The camera has already saved him from false accusations once. It does more for the Hunters than many people realize.

He turns the ignition key.
Nothing. He tries again. Everything stays quiet, as though the car isn’t even trying.
He looks straight ahead at the workshop door.

He lets out a disappointed sigh. The vehicle has just been inspected, after all. Then his head drops onto the steering wheel. He breathes out heavily again.
Nice to know the mechanics take their work seriously.

He gets out and opens the hood. Looking around, he finds the clipboard listing the completed work on a rolling tool cabinet.
There wasn’t much to do. Where could the problem be?
He goes through the list, from the visual inspection to the oil change. None of it would explain the problem. He gets back in and turns the key again. Still nothing.
Power? Is it that simple?
He checks the battery, and sure enough, the cable is loose. Back in the driver’s seat, he turns the key, and the engine roars to life.

The radio comes on immediately, too. John likes listening to music while he boots up the computer system. It takes its time. As soon as it loads, he’s hit with a flood of calls.
“As if I’d get bored out here…” John mutters, scrolling through the call list.

I wish I could be everywhere at once.