Four
New York City, 1984
With his job as a waste collector, Leroy was used to working nights. Many people screwed their noses up at the idea of it whenever he told them his working hours, but he liked it. He wasn't a people-person and most people weren't night people. It was quieter at night. More peaceful. Sitting comfortably in his yellow garbage truck, Leroy drove up to the latest dumpster on his rounds. Located at the end of a dead-end street with very poor street-lighting, Leroy's only lighting came from the headlights of his own truck.
Leroy pressed the button on the control panel to bring the front loader mechanism down onto the dumpster. There was a thud as the loader connected with the dumpster, signalling that it was ready to lift it. Leroy reached for the button to lift the dumpster. His finger hovered over the button as the engine cut out, dead. The truck's headlights died at the same time, plunging him into the night's darkness.
"What the hell?" Leroy sighed as he reached for the key in the ignition. He turned it, trying to restart the engine as he grumbled to himself. The engine gave him nothing back, not even a splutter in an attempt to roar back to life. It was completely dead.
Outside his garbage truck, the wind suddenly picked up, going unnoticed by Leroy whose attention was transfixed on the truck's ignition. The littered newspapers and coffee cups on the floor blew frantically across the hard tarmac in the wind, bashing against the garbage trucks wheels. The wind only increased in strength, blowing the newspapers up into the air around Leroy's truck.
The cold chill of the wind blowing through his open window eventually caught Leroy's attention at the same time that a huge bright blue ball of light appeared in the sky only a few feet from his truck. Leroy stared out of his open window, squinting at the blinding light. There was an eruption of bright white light which blinded Leroy completely. When it faded, the dead-end street was filled by a light smoke, through which Leroy could make out the figure of a crouched, naked man in what looked to be a small crater.
"Forget this," Leroy mumbled to himself. No job was worth the craziness of whatever it was he was witnessing. Without a second thought, Leroy opened the door of his truck, jumping down from it and running as far away from whatever the hell was going on back in that street.
In the small crater, the Huntsman slowly rose to its feet. Its face was void of emotion, robotic, and its blue eyes hid the deadly red ones underneath. Its head moved slowly from left to right as it scanned its surrounding, checking for any signs of potential threat.
Potential threat: 0
It had one mission, one purpose; eliminate Emma Swan.
To do that, it needed to get close to her without raising suspicion. It could do that with ease. Infiltration was what it had been designed for; infiltration and elimination. Clothes were a top priority. Human behavior was strange, its years of analysis told it. Where it covered its vulnerable parts with coltan, a near indestructible, heat-resistant alloy, humans deemed mere fabric an appropriate choice. Infiltration without clothes was not impossible, but unlikely. To get close enough to Emma Swan to kill her without panicking her, it needed clothes.
It moved forward, each step rigidly precise as it strode towards the entrance of the dead-end street. It halted in place immediately when three fully-grown male humans rounded the corner. Each were completely oblivious to its presence, holding a glass bottle containing an alcoholic substance in their hands whilst deep in conversation, laughing amongst themselves. It studied the three of them as they continued their unsteady approach towards him.
"You two go ahead to the next bar," the one in the middle spoke as the laughter died down and the Huntsman judged him to be slightly too short to be of any use to it, "I ought to be heading home."
"Oh come on!" The shortest of the three piped up. The Huntsman ruled him out immediately with no need for analysis. "We're celebrating!"
"You need to enjoy it whilst you can," the third spoke up, turning the Huntsman's attention onto him. "As soon as this kid comes along, you can wave goodbye to the freedom you have now. Forget nightlife! It'll be all about the night feeds."
The Huntsman's attention was fixed on the third human, the tallest of the three and the most muscular, a build not too dissimilar from its own. The human's clothes would suffice, it decided. It took one single strict step forward, its movement capturing the attention of one of the smallest human who dared to laugh at the sight of him.
"Hey," the small human nudged his two friends, bringing the Huntsman's presence to their attention, "what's up with this guy?"
The man in the middle didn't share his friend's amusement. A faintly furrowed brow, the lowered eyebrows, narrowed blue eyes and tight lips. Facial expression analysis depicted concern. "Are you okay, there, man?" The man asked. "Did lowlifes target you?"
"I am not prey for low lives," the Huntsman countered the apparent misconception immediately. It spoke with an Irish accent but there was no inflection or expression in its speech. It was disconnected, emotionless and robotic. "I target low lives. Like you."
"Lowlifes? Us?" The smallest human let out another laugh before glancing at the man in the middle. "Do you realise who you're talking to?"
"Identities are irrelevant," the Huntsman retorted disinterested. "Your lives are irrelevant. Humanity is a threat which will be eliminated."
The largest human, the one the Huntsman had targeted for dispossession of clothes, laughed. Loud. Disbelieving. Oblivious. He sauntered forward, looking the Huntsman up and down. "This guy's a couple of bricks short," he chuckled to himself, pointing to the Huntsman as he looked back at his friends.
The Huntsman grabbed ahold of the man's outstretched arm, grip tightening around his wrist. Its actions successfully regained the man's attention. He turned to stare at the Huntsman with wide eyes, a stare it returned with deadly blue ones.
"Your clothes. Give them to me," the Huntsman demanded from the large human before releasing his arm. Clothes were a priority, it reminded itself; get clothes, eliminate Emma Swan. The human held his stare defiantly, a scoff escaping his lips as he made no move to obey its orders. "Now," it insisted coldly.
"Fuck you, asshole!" The smallest human yelled out, tone filled with hostility which the Huntsman easily analysed. Out of the corner of its eye, it saw the human charge towards it, fists raised.
Punch imminent.
In a swift movement, the Huntsman stuck its powerful arm out, its hand clasping around the human's puny neck with inhuman grip. Slowly, it broke its eye contact with the large human, turning to face the small one as it lifted him off the ground effortlessly. The human struggled and withered punitively in its grip, his eyes bulging wide and the veins in his neck standing out against the pressure.
The Huntsman flung the human through the air across the street, its feeble body colliding with a fire escape then collapsing to the ground in a heap. The human groaned, eyes open but twitching.
One down.
The Huntsman turned to find the concerned one approaching it. The concern was still evident on his face but it was no longer for the Huntsman. It was for himself. The human held a knife in his shaking hand.
Potential Threat: Low
The human lurched for it with the knife. It dodged, gripping the human's wrist with its inhuman grip. The knife clattered to the floor instantly. The Huntsman's free hand plunged into the human's chest then kicked him away effortlessly. The human dropped to the floor, his lifeless heart in the Huntsman's hand. Emotionlessly, it discarded the heart on the ground beside the lifeless body.
Two down.
The Huntsman rounded on the final human. The one who shared its build. It found the large man shirtless, his shirt and jacket discarded on the floor and hastily unfastening his trousers.
A few moments later, the Huntsman emerged from the dead-end street wearing a dark gray shirt, a black leather jacket, khaki trousers and black boots. In the street behind it, it left one dead human and two casualties in its wake.
They were irrelevant. Emma Swan was its mission.
Out on the slightly busier, and better lit street, the Huntsman's eyes fell on a phone box. A retro, insignificant invention in the grand scheme of things but a device which would be useful in helping it complete its mission.
Yet another insignificant human stood in its way, slowing its progress. The man stood in the phone box, the phone to his ear, rambling on about pathetic, trivial concerns. Impatient, the Huntsman clenched the man's jacket in its hand, pulling him out of the phone box.
"Hey!" The human yelled at it incredulously as the Huntsman stepped into the phone box, the abandoned phone gangling by its wire, hitting against its leg.
The Huntsman pulled the phone box door shut as the man stepped towards it, not ready to give up the phone box without a fight. The man banged on the glass. The Huntsman pushed the door open with force. The door opened so fast the man had no time to react. It hit him square in the face and the man dropped to the floor, unconscious.
The Huntsman remained uninterested in the dangling phone, turning to the phonebook. It methodically riffled through the book, landing on the end of the S's. Its finger traced down the list of names, addresses and phone numbers until it landed on the names of interest.
There were three.
Swan, Emma Elizabeth
Swan, Emma Penelope
Swan, Emma Sandra
It stared at the names, blue eyes turning red as it searched through its own memory banks for records on the Emma Swan of relevance. The information it retrieved flashed up in red lettering.
Name: Emma Swan
Birthdate: October 22nd, 1963
Location: 1984 – New York City
Status: Alive, targeted for elimination
The Huntsman searched the records for a middle name.
Middle name unknown
Its red eyes faded, natural human blue returning. It gave the phone book one last glance, taking in the addresses of all three Emma Swan's in New York. To ensure its mission was accomplished, it would eliminate all three.
New York, 1984
Blue light engulfed Killian as his fellow Resistance fighters disappeared from view. Bright light blinded him and he would have used his hand to shield his eyes were it not frozen in place by the indescribably pain coursing through his body. He could almost feel his blood vessels constricting and the hairs on his arms standing on end as an intense chill consumed him. His mind couldn't focus on anything other than pain and cold as the bright blue lights danced around him.
It seemed to last an eternity. Frozen between time.
Without warning, the lights vanished. Killian's stomach lurched as he dropped the few feet onto the ground beneath him, landing in a heap. He lay there for a few seconds, allowing himself time to catch his breath after the painful ordeal. His breathing regulated, Killian slowly reached out, placing his hand down on the cold, hard tarmac beneath him. He stared at it in fascination; there were no dusty remnants of destroyed buildings and no blood-stained patches. Just gray-black tarmac, warm under his freezing cold touch.
He forced himself up onto his feet. He had no time to lose. The Huntsman was already there, no doubt searching for Emma as he lay on the floor, marvelling over the ground. He needed to get to her. He needed to make sure he found her first. Looking around, Killian worked out that he was in some kind of alley. Buildings towered over him on either side and he didn't like it. He felt trapped in the narrow space. It was too much cover, almost cornered. The only obvious exit was the way out onto the main street. If an enemy were to appear there, his only option would be to vault the chain link gate behind him which cut the alley off.
An older man poked his head out from behind one of the many dumpsters which lined the alley walls. He looked out of it, dazed yet relaxed, sitting on the floor of the alley, a bottle in his hand and his hat pulled firmly on his head for warmth. His eyes fell on Killian and he didn't even react to the strange, naked man who had appeared in the alley. Instead, his thoughts were focused on one thing. "Say, buddy, did you see those bright lights?" He questioned, his speech drawn out and words slurring into each other.
Killian ignored his question. The man had turned his attention to the bottle in his own hands, staring at it inquisitively and suspiciously. The man looked like he would easily accept that it was his own imagination and if that were the conclusion he wanted to reach, Killian left him to it. He walked over to the man, crouching down before him, all the while studying him. They were around a similar build but the man was giving off a strong vibe that, in his state, he was nowhere near as agile as Killian was. Killian decided it was worth taking his chance.
"Sorry, mate," Killian apologised, it was the least he could do, "but I'm going to need your clothes."
He went for the trousers first, doing his best to ignore how wrong it felt to be taking another man's clothes from him. Killian was no stranger to second-hand clothes. He'd taken clothes from dead men before but never from someone who could potentially fight back. As suspected, however, the man hardly put up a fight, too out of it to present much of a threat other than to grumble. Killian pulled the trousers on, discovering himself to be a tad bit taller than the man as the trousers cut off just above his ankles. Accepting that it would have to make do for the time being, he turned his attention to fastening them around his waist.
There was a chirp of a siren and the dimly lit alley was filled with flashing red and blue lights. Killian's head shot up at the change, looking to the end of the alley to find a vehicle had pulled up at it. It was a blue and white car, complete with big bold lettering which read POLICE. The law enforcement of the old world, Killian recalled the General telling him about them once.
"We learned to avoid the police," General Swan had told him. "They just weren't equipped for ruthless killing machines. They liked to ask questions, slowed everything right down."
Killian couldn't afford slow. He didn't have time for questions. He had to get eyes on Emma Swan. Until he did, he couldn't ensure she was safe.
One of the doors of the police car flung open and a police officer emerged from it. Killian met the officer's eyes as the man took a few steps into the alley. He wasn't quite sure how he had managed to attract the attention of law enforcement within a few minutes of his arrival, but the officer's gaze was fixed on him. They were definitely there for him.
"Hold it right there!" The officer called out.
Killian never was one for following orders he didn't agree with. He bolted.
His earlier reconnaissance of his surroundings meant Killian knew exactly what his escape plan was. He charged towards the chain-link fence, glancing over his shoulder to check on the officer. The officer was in pursuit of him and had pulled a gun, bringing Killian's attention to the fact that he really needed to get his hands on one of those.
Killian vaulted the chain-link fence with ease, confident, from his brief assessment of the officer's larger build, that it would allow him to pull away from his pursuer a little more. The moment his feet hit the ground on the other side of the fence, Killian was sprinting again.
He found himself in a maze of alleys, benefitting his aim to shake the office off him. Despite the obstacle of the chain-link fence, the police officer remained hot on his heels. Killian dashed from left to right, taking the first turns he came across to cross into a new alley.
Making a right turn, Killian dove into a small alcove, pressing himself up against the brick wall to hide himself within the shadows. A few seconds later, the officer came into view, a puzzled look on his face as he reached a stop. The man's breath was heavy, panting as he did a full three-sixty in an effort to determine where Killian had gone. The officer held a torch in one hand, his gun in the other. He was far too relaxed, Killian criticised the way the man's gun was pointing towards the floor rather than being ready to use it.
Regardless, the officer's unsuspecting manner aided Killian's plan. He leapt from his hiding place, catapulting into the man and slamming him into a dumpster. In response to the attack, the officer tried to raise his gun to defend himself. Killian's hand clamped around the officer's wrist, using his strength to keep the end of the gun pointing away from him as they fought over it. In the midst of their struggle, a shot rang out, the gun firing into the night's sky. The unexpected recoil of the gun seemed to loosen the officer's grip on it and Killian wasted no time in freeing the gun from the officer's hand.
Gun tightly secured in his own hand, Killian turned it on the police officer. His finger hovered dangerously over the trigger. He didn't want to take another human's life if he could help it. His fight was with the machines but if his hand was forced, he wouldn't hesitate. He hadn't when he had taken lives before, he certainly wouldn't when it was Emma's life at stake. Emma Swan was his mission and he was going to accomplish it, no matter what it took.
"What day is it?" Killian demanded from the officer he held at gunpoint. He needed confirmation that Mills had gotten the machine to work properly, otherwise his entire plan of attack would be forced to change. When the officer didn't respond immediately, Killian purposely readjusted the aim of his gun, reminding the officer of his possession of it. "What's the date?" He exclaimed impatiently.
"Saturday! May twelfth," the officer finally answered him.
The response confirmed Mills had at least gotten the first part of the date right. Killian hoped he had gotten the year right and all. "And the year?" He necessitated from the officer.
The police officer stared at him like he'd gone crazy, letting out an inaudible gasp of, "What?!"
Killian couldn't really blame him for the reaction. Even he hadn't really had the time to let the reality of time travel sink in. Still, he had no time to marvel at it. He needed confirmation. "The year!" Killian growled, demanding the information once more.
"Eighty-four!" The officer provided him with the confirmation he had been searching for. Mills had done it!
The sound of sirens filled his ears as another police vehicle pulled up only a few feet from them. Killian's eyes went wide at the sight and he scarpered immediately. As he scurried into a nearby alley, he just about overheard the officer he left behind warning the newcomers that he was armed.
If growing up evading ruthless machines had taught Killian anything, it was not to be predictable. The machines could analyse patterns and use the data to predict his next move before he had even thought of it. Darting across and between alleys was become all too predictable. He was sure even the police officers on his tail could follow that trail.
A door which backed onto the alley he was sprinting down was locked only by an aging padlock, rusted from exposure to the weather. Killian turned suddenly, hurling himself towards the door and barging it open with his shoulder. The door gave way immediately and Killian stumbled inside, catching himself from falling as the door unexpectedly yielded on his first attempt. In an effort to cover his tracks, Killian kicked the door shut behind him.
No time to waste, he ploughed on forward, flying through the building he had stumbled into. Despite being inside, the area felt freer than the narrow constricted alleyways he had found himself in a maze of. The building was more open, a large indoor space lined with railings around chest height. Countless clothes hung on the railings and Killian deduced that he found himself in some kind of clothes store. He'd never seen a store before. At least not a functioning one. All the ones he had ever come across in his time were all-but-destroyed and completely looted. He and Liam had once seeked shelter in the remains of a store with their father when they were young. Their father had put them to sleep that night with confusing tales about exchanging paper, of all things, for items within a store. A young Killian had struggled to understand the logic behind exchanging something as useless and flimsy as paper for valuable things such as food.
As he stood in the dark store, shirtless and looking through the array of clothes available, Killian still couldn't get his head around it. The utopian society's value of a piece of paper was something that he was pretty sure he would never understand. He grabbed a black t-shirt and a long, black coat off the railings, hastily pulling the shirt over his head and shrugging on the coat. He had no paper to leave in exchange for the items but he was pretty sure the owner of the store would hardly miss it. By his calculations, they only had thirteen years anyway until humanity's survivors would realise paper was worthless. Food, water, medical supplies and weapons would soon be the only items of any value.
Killian dropped to the ground at the sound of doors opening and officer's voices filling the opening space, calling out orders and communicating their approaches. Using the railings of clothes for cover, Killian edged across the store floor. He needed to determine a way out. From the number of voices he could make out, the number of officers in pursuit of him had more than doubled. He couldn't risk assuming that there weren't more on their way. He had to lose them.
Cautiously, he poked his head around the end of the aisle, his eyes locking on the front door. He knew instantly that he had no chance of getting out that way. The police weren't stupid; they had placed two guards on the door. He could hear footsteps approaching form behind him. They would be on him in no time. He had to move.
Killian pushed himself into a crouching position, readied himself and then charged past the break in the railings and into the aisle opposite. His move did not go unnoticed by one of the two officers posted on the door who called out before initiating his own pursuit. Killian didn't slow down. He maintained his run, keeping his head low behind the cover of the railings. He charged up a flight of stairs positioned at the end of the aisle. The moment he reached the top of the stairs, Killian flung himself to the floor on his right, lunging out of view of his pursuers.
He remained frozen in place as the second floor was lit up slightly by a torch being shone up the stairs. He didn't dare move, even holding his breath, until the light from the torch disappeared. Killian let out a sight of relief as he stood. He grabbed a pair of tennis shoes off a nearby shelf, sizing them up to the sole of his feet before slipping them on. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. His eyes fell on red lit up lettering which read EXIT. Killian didn't think twice, heading straight for it.
The fire escape led him back down to the ground and he found himself in yet another alley. He knew he needed to get out of the alleys, onto the main street and blend into the city night life as best as he could. A busier street was in view, just at the end of the alley, a steady stream of cars passing by and people walking past every no and then. The street was his next destination but first, Killian's attention had fallen upon an unaccompanied police vehicle, left just a few feet away from him. Or rather, the Ithaca 37 pump gun which lay on the dashboard.
Moving to the vehicle and discovering some rookie had made the mistake of leaving the car unlocked, Killian wasted no time in commandeering the gun for himself. He cradled it under his long black coat, the gun essentially hidden from view, and stepped out onto the city's streets. He slowed his frantic pace immediately, falling into step with the city's nightgoers and hiding in plain view. A police car, sirens blasting and lights flashing, sped past, the officer's inside not even giving him a second look.
Killian kept his head down for the next few minutes, putting a decent distance between himself and the law enforcement. Once he was confident he had lost them, he sidestepped into a phone box. He grabbed the phone book of the side, thumbing through the pages until he found the name he was looking for.
Swan, Emma Sandra
His finger traced along the line with her name on it, circling the address she was listed under. He made a mental note of it, then ripped out the page for good measure, pocketing it in case he needed to check the address later.
Stepping out of the phone box, he eyes up the gray car parked in front of it. Killian shrugged, not fussed about what kind of car he drove. He smashed the window, unlocked the door and climbed inside. He checked the glovebox for keys but wasn't so lucky. Instead, he came across a wad of the paper the utopian society put so much value on, and a thick car manual. He pocketed the paper and then tossed the manual on the floor, the booklet far too much for his own reading capabilities.
Keys nowhere to be found, Killian resorted to hotwiring the car instead. Vehicle acquired, he was finally getting somewhere with his mission and halfway towards his first step. The plan was simple, in theory;
Step One: Locate Emma Swan
Step Two: Swan Surveillance
Step Three: Identify the Huntsman model
Step Four: Eliminate the Huntsman
As the car engine roared to life, something told Killian things weren't going to run quite so simply. When it came to the machines, nothing ever did.
