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perelynnIt’s late when I get back home. I drop my backpack on the floor and start undressing, dreaming of a hot shower. A blue sticky note gets my attention. It wasn’t there a moment ago.
“How about a beer?”
I make a tsk noise with my tongue. It’s late, and I’m back to work tomorrow. It would be wise to call it a day now, if I fancy a night of quality sleep.
But there is one thing I want the Ukrainian to know.
“Ok,” I reply. “One beer.”
We meet in a bar close to my flat. No fancy walks for us this time.
Hedgehog wears the same clothes as yesterday. I’m slightly surprised he has contacted me at all. Usually our infrequent meetings end with us going our separate ways, with no looking back for one last goodbye.
The bartender serves our beverages. I take a sip from my mug and go straight to the point that brought me here.
“I interviewed the people in the village,” I tell the Ukrainian. “They are dumb.”
“No surprise there,” he snorts.
“Too dumb,” I press on. “None of them has the brains to recognize a sorcerer, let alone to hunt one down successfully.”
Hedgehog frowns, possibly thinking of the same thing that bothers me.
“Someone instigated them,” I say. “Someone helped them find this guy and finish him. Do you have any idea, who?”
The Ukrainian shakes his head.
“I told you,” he says. “I didn’t really know the guy.”
I take a long gulp of my beer. I didn’t have much hope, but it’s always annoying to hit a dead end.
“Oh well,’ I say, trying to shake off the melancholy. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Just making sure you’re okay. Dealing with the bloody murder and all that.”
“It’s my job,” I tell him. “I deal with this kind of crap all the time. Up to and including running from creatures that want to tear me apart.”
“I know about your crazy job,” he says. “That’s why I called you here. In the army, when there was a gruesome fight or a particularly nasty outing, we would get together afterwards and drink. You know. Together. Because no one should drink alone.”
I blink at this unexpected reminder of my past. Back in my earliest days as a hunter, we had a similar custom. After a successful mission, we drank. To forget the horrors that we went through. To dull the pain of losses we’d sustained. To stop thinking about the horrors that were still out there, waiting. I have since developed other coping mechanisms, but I can understand the need.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I don’t want to get drunk, but I do appreciate the company.”
We touch our beer mugs in a silent toast.
“Listen,” I say. “I have a question. I wanted to ask it for quite some time. What do your sorcerer friends think of you fraternizing with a witch hunter?”
It’s Hedgehog’s turn to blink in surprise.
“Why would they care?” he asks.
“Isn’t this obvious? I work for Hexenfluch! Most of the sorcerers I ever met I have arrested.”
The Ukrainian shrugs.
“It’s not really much different from talking to any other human,” he says. “For humans, we are freaks. They fear us. They don’t understand us. Talking to a hunter can actually be a refreshing experience. At least, they know who we are, somewhat. And hunters are lonely. They need to talk to someone, just like we do.”
“Cannot sorcerers talk to other sorcerers?’ I ask.
“Sometimes,” he concedes. “But mages are few and far between. We can be lonely. And distrustful. And paranoid.”
I have to laugh.
“Just like hunters!”
He nods.
“We are also busy,” he says. “We have better things than to pay attention to each other’s everyday life.”
“I see.”
We drink again. We talk some more. I ask him if he has news on the breeding factory case. He doesn’t. He just repeats the suspicion he voiced the last time.
“It’s old,” he says. “And it’s secret. Bad combination. Secret means they don’t think the others would approve. Old means they may not be their own creatures anymore.”
“What makes you think so?”
“They achieved something quite impressive,” he explains. “Longevity, if not immortality. A lucrative discovery for any mage to make. But they don’t share. They don’t brag. They don’t behave like we would expect our kind to behave. Now add this: they are, quite probably, working with some unknown entities. They must have, to make the advances that they did. How do we know they are not being controlled?”
“There is no way to know,” I agree.
“Exactly. We have reasons to suspect this, but no reason to think otherwise. And we cannot check it. Not really.”
“Right,” I say. “Pity.”
Another dead end. I am used to that by now. In my line of work, dead ends are much more frequent than solved cases. Oh well. At least, it contributed to a shared history with an interesting acquaintance.
We drink some more, and then my beer is done. It’s time for me to go. I say my goodbye and return to my flat. It’s after midnight, I’m exhausted and sleepy and more than slightly tipsy. One thing is true, though.
I do feel better after talking it through.
“How about a beer?”
I make a tsk noise with my tongue. It’s late, and I’m back to work tomorrow. It would be wise to call it a day now, if I fancy a night of quality sleep.
But there is one thing I want the Ukrainian to know.
“Ok,” I reply. “One beer.”
We meet in a bar close to my flat. No fancy walks for us this time.
Hedgehog wears the same clothes as yesterday. I’m slightly surprised he has contacted me at all. Usually our infrequent meetings end with us going our separate ways, with no looking back for one last goodbye.
The bartender serves our beverages. I take a sip from my mug and go straight to the point that brought me here.
“I interviewed the people in the village,” I tell the Ukrainian. “They are dumb.”
“No surprise there,” he snorts.
“Too dumb,” I press on. “None of them has the brains to recognize a sorcerer, let alone to hunt one down successfully.”
Hedgehog frowns, possibly thinking of the same thing that bothers me.
“Someone instigated them,” I say. “Someone helped them find this guy and finish him. Do you have any idea, who?”
The Ukrainian shakes his head.
“I told you,” he says. “I didn’t really know the guy.”
I take a long gulp of my beer. I didn’t have much hope, but it’s always annoying to hit a dead end.
“Oh well,’ I say, trying to shake off the melancholy. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Just making sure you’re okay. Dealing with the bloody murder and all that.”
“It’s my job,” I tell him. “I deal with this kind of crap all the time. Up to and including running from creatures that want to tear me apart.”
“I know about your crazy job,” he says. “That’s why I called you here. In the army, when there was a gruesome fight or a particularly nasty outing, we would get together afterwards and drink. You know. Together. Because no one should drink alone.”
I blink at this unexpected reminder of my past. Back in my earliest days as a hunter, we had a similar custom. After a successful mission, we drank. To forget the horrors that we went through. To dull the pain of losses we’d sustained. To stop thinking about the horrors that were still out there, waiting. I have since developed other coping mechanisms, but I can understand the need.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I don’t want to get drunk, but I do appreciate the company.”
We touch our beer mugs in a silent toast.
“Listen,” I say. “I have a question. I wanted to ask it for quite some time. What do your sorcerer friends think of you fraternizing with a witch hunter?”
It’s Hedgehog’s turn to blink in surprise.
“Why would they care?” he asks.
“Isn’t this obvious? I work for Hexenfluch! Most of the sorcerers I ever met I have arrested.”
The Ukrainian shrugs.
“It’s not really much different from talking to any other human,” he says. “For humans, we are freaks. They fear us. They don’t understand us. Talking to a hunter can actually be a refreshing experience. At least, they know who we are, somewhat. And hunters are lonely. They need to talk to someone, just like we do.”
“Cannot sorcerers talk to other sorcerers?’ I ask.
“Sometimes,” he concedes. “But mages are few and far between. We can be lonely. And distrustful. And paranoid.”
I have to laugh.
“Just like hunters!”
He nods.
“We are also busy,” he says. “We have better things than to pay attention to each other’s everyday life.”
“I see.”
We drink again. We talk some more. I ask him if he has news on the breeding factory case. He doesn’t. He just repeats the suspicion he voiced the last time.
“It’s old,” he says. “And it’s secret. Bad combination. Secret means they don’t think the others would approve. Old means they may not be their own creatures anymore.”
“What makes you think so?”
“They achieved something quite impressive,” he explains. “Longevity, if not immortality. A lucrative discovery for any mage to make. But they don’t share. They don’t brag. They don’t behave like we would expect our kind to behave. Now add this: they are, quite probably, working with some unknown entities. They must have, to make the advances that they did. How do we know they are not being controlled?”
“There is no way to know,” I agree.
“Exactly. We have reasons to suspect this, but no reason to think otherwise. And we cannot check it. Not really.”
“Right,” I say. “Pity.”
Another dead end. I am used to that by now. In my line of work, dead ends are much more frequent than solved cases. Oh well. At least, it contributed to a shared history with an interesting acquaintance.
We drink some more, and then my beer is done. It’s time for me to go. I say my goodbye and return to my flat. It’s after midnight, I’m exhausted and sleepy and more than slightly tipsy. One thing is true, though.
I do feel better after talking it through.
