And so, here -- the movers and shakers of this fine establishment were more than kind in supplying Karbin with a table -- not mentioning the free supply of booze -- was more surprising when he had entered. He was now slumped heavily over a small circular table, in a tight cubicle with a bordering flower-box, thick with creeping fines struggling to touch the roof.

Clattering glasses, duke-box with an unbelievably high level of volume at present (if memory serves: wasn't that loud before) and laughter, all melted together into a horrifying mess in Karbin's eardrums, a small pair of razor-sharp chisels chipping away at his brain. His stomach churned and he tucked his head under his arm and the lip of the table, staring at the ground. His vision heaved; he remained quite interested in the little green and white tiles under the table, pursing his lips with effort as something familiar sloshed up his throat. His trouser pocket began to warm, prickling at his skin.
"Greetings, Hunter." A voice said. Karbin sighed and pulled his head out from under the table, looking at his speaker. "I hope you're enjoying your drinks," the man said dribbling water from his trench coat. He had also trailed a pair of muddy footprints from the door. "They're on the house, I hear." A black ringed eye winked at the drunken man who was rocking gently in his seat.

"Ya - so?" Karbin slurred and tried to grab one of the two of his glasses. One of them was being particularly tricky in grabbing, so he decided on the other.
"May I?" the man said, gesturing to the red leather seat on the other side of the table. Before Karbin had a chance to open his mouth and tell him to get funked, the man slumped into the seat with a wet squelch of clothing. Karbin ignored in the increase of heat that emanated from his pocket, too preoccupied with other more important tasks - such as breathing.
"What you want?" Karbin waved his glass theatrically towards the individual, who had a slight smile crease across his lips.

"You are very hard to find, Hunter." He said, rummaging around the inside of his coat. Karbin gave him a lopsided look and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Arrently, not hard enough."

"This just proves how determined I am in getting what I need." The individual had produced a photograph; it was dog-eared at the corners and bleached yellow, stained with age. Karbin stared at the photograph as if it was some sort of explosive. He reared back, filled with a creeping, alcohol fuelled rage. "I don do stuv like that anymore," he said, downing the rest of the rum in his glass.

"And stop callin' me a freakin' hunter. Not one anymore." The man's smile disappeared suddenly and craned his head over the table, his voice becoming a level tone: "You can't stop being a hunter, just because you've decided to retire or some mundane excuse," he speared his finger at the photo on the table and tapped it. "That warmth you feel rising in your blood, how your very nerves twang to the presence to these certain individuals. It'll continue to seethe for days, weeks, until you feel your blood boil away, that familiar cold, rotting embrace of the eart- the man was interrupted by a hail of glass shards by his head.

"Shut up!" Karbin hissed, his hands gripping the sides of table, knuckles whitening. Some patrons took a few worried glances at the duo in the cubicle. A man detached himself from a smoky shadow of the bar, taking a few advancing steps. "Is everything alright here?" a pair of arms resembling a number of footballs in sacking crossed at chest height, looming over the pair.

"Absolutely." The man gave a little smile up to the bulk of the bouncer. "Just a little argument, that's all."
"I'm sure. I've seen this guy here before," he nodded at Karbin. "Gets pissed then swings his fists at random people, calling them hairy, unholy bastards." The bouncer said, swinging around to catch the pub owner's gaze, who was polishing steins. He stabbed the air over his shoulder with his thumb. The bouncer nodded. "And tonight, you've both had enough and I suggest you leave." Karbin stared up at the bouncer and said: "Ist a shithole, anyway." He stumbled out of his seat and swayed towards the door. The bouncer put a hairy hand on his shoulder. "Before you leave, you've gotta pay for that glass you smashed."

"Fork off." Karbin's foggy eyes tried to fixate on the bouncers nose, but it flew away. "I'm sorry, but you've broken the last six and we would really like to see some sort of replacement before y- he was cut off by the man behind him who tapped in on the shoulder, pocking the yellowing photograph with his free-hand. "What do you want?" the bouncer asked, looking the dripping man up and down. "You want to pay for his fuck-ups?"

"Not quite." He said, straightening up. The lights in the shady, green-skirted lamps made of glass high in the smoke of the pub, flickered and gently waned to a darker tint, yet it was generally unnoticeable by the patrons. "Then get ou- He stopped momentarily, the man clicked his fingers sharply, a blue spark leapt off his fingertips. "There's no need to charge us over the glasses," he said in a velvety voice. "I'm certain you'll just deal with this thing yourself." He smiled his little papery smile and moved around him as politely as possible, leaving the bouncer to blink momentarily, catching himself. "That's right," he murmured. "That's right!" he chimed, looking over his shoulder. The pair had already left. A fat man -- particularly greasier, with a glassy sheen to his skin -- wandered over with a towel over his shoulder. He slapped the bouncer in the stomach with his palm. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" the bouncer felt embarrassed, but came back with an answer: "I'll take care of it. I'll cover the costs." The owner wiped his brow with the towel. "You're damn right you will. It's coming from your salary." He scoffed and paced back to the bar, muttering to himself. "Just freaking standing there, letting anorexic cowboys and druggies sidestep you. What do I freaking pay you for?"

The burning sensation in Karbin's pocket was becoming unbearable now. He tugged the brim of his hat down and scrunched up his pocket into a tight fist, not trying to let the object come in contact with his skin. A faint hissing of water came from within. He turned to see the man with the trench coat following him. He cursed and increased pace or at least attempted to as his world rocked side-to-side in the rain. "Piss off!" he called down the street. He ducked into a small alley, hoping to lose him if he hid behind a bin and waited for him to pass. Chances were, the bastard would smell him, even in this rain, he thought to himself.

A black silhouette at the mouth of the alley was all that Karbin had to see before he decided enough was enough. He slumped by a garbage bin. He tried to compose himself, trying to seek one clear, coherent thought. He stuck his hand in his pocket and winced at a sharp pain that ran up his arm. His veins felt like they were on fire, his flesh peeling away under its metallic surface.

Not yet, he thought. You'll give yourself away if you do it to soon. This has to be perfect!

The man stepped past, flicking away the water on his nose. Karbin struggled upright, his muscles screamed, trying to fight the alcohol in his system. The man sniffed momentarily, with a sharp flare of his nostrils, twirling around in once graceful move.

You're too late, you bastard! His thoughts screamed as he thrust his fist out from his pocket. The alley bloomed into a white-hot light, daylight instantaneously emerging from the darkness. The man staggered back from the light, clutching at his eyes as the object was pressed into his face with a fist, being brought down to his knees. The dirty fighter he was went for a kick to his ribs, but his leg was seized under an arm-lock. Karbin was thrust forward, his feet slipped across the slime-crusted gravel with surprising strength, a left fist making itself apparent to his kneecap. He screamed and went down level with his opponent. Karbin squared his gaze with a face with crackling skin like porcelain and a pair of deep-crimson eyes; then proceeded to thrust his forehead into them. Karbin took advantage of the man's stunned state as he was sprawled over the ground, by grasping the searing metal in both hands held above his head and preparing the impale the foul creature. The metal dimmed, a drawn out metallic clicking began as steam hissed in his hands. The light dimmed to a mere fraction of its earlier brilliance. The creature's eyes glowed and the shadows crept in, choking away what little light remained. "I hope you haven't forgotten who gave you that cross, Hunter?" a pained wheeze came from the man, who felt more like water now than solid muscle. Karbin recoiled back, but it was too late. The shadow bowed like quicksand, swallowing him up in a hot-velvet entombment of darkness along with the man. "I believe we need to have a little talk, Hunter." He said as the darkness choked his conciseness out of him.