Within the Hunter's Dream, the separate plain of existence where no harm could come to him, his safe haven, Enjolras told the Doll what had transpired. He thought his bitter confession would unburden his heavy heart, but it did not, and he was left feeling harrowing emptiness, guilt, and sorrow. She was saddened for him, her dark, russet eyes glassed over as if she would weep. He stared at her, hoping for some consolation.

"Does Jehan know of this?" She asked.

Enjolras bristled. He had been so wrapped up in Joly, he had forgotten of Jehan, sick in the prison of his own body. "I'll speak with him."

From the headstone, Enjolras noticed the new words that appeared below "Central Paris", "Hȏtel National des Invalides", where he had fought Joly and a new lantern had sprouted. He sighed, his body suddenly so very heavy and touched "Central Paris" and returned to the Waking World.

"Jehan, my friend." Enjolras said as he briskly jogged to the window, his gloved hands gripping the bars that separated him from the glass. For moments he could hear nothing, and Enjolras found himself panicking, eyeing the red lantern filled with incense, his nostrils flaring at the smell it emitted.

And then he heard Jehan's coughing followed by faint wheezing and relief washed over Enjolras.

"You remember then?"

"Yes," Enjolras replied slowly. "How could I have forgotten? Mon ami, I'm so sorry."

"Don't… Don't a—apologize for the state of y—your wearied mind." Jehan returned slowly, words seemingly becoming more difficult, and Enjolras knew it.

He sighed, "Jehan, I must tell you. I found Joly."

"Ah, Joly! Last I heard… He had gone hunting."

Enjolras let go of the bars, his hands hanging uselessly at his side. "He was a beast. He tried to kill me."

Jehan was quiet behind the window, save for his labored breathing. It grew heavier as the silence between them thickened, and Enjolras swallowed, his heart pounding, waiting with baited breath for him to speak. Jehan then coughed again harshly.

"You did what was necessary."

Enjolras grit his teeth, feeling no less guilty, feeling no less angry at himself and the world that had doomed him and those he loved. But what more could he do? So he hissed out a frustrated sigh, his insides burning with the rage that stirred within him. But then the rage dimmed, and fear took its place.

"Tell me, Jehan. Is there anything that I can give you, anything to at least slow your sickness?"

His breathing was labored, heavy, and then he gave in and coughed. "No, my friend. Besides… Y—You have more pressing matters to at—attend to."

"Jehan, I cannot let you die—"

"You needn't concern yourself with me. What's… Afflicted me is incurable, but—" He wheezed, searching for the energy to speak. "… Blood gave me hope. I-It gave me time, and I've been most fortunate to be unharmed… By the plague of beasts." He paused, wheezing as he struggled to keep from coughing. "I can even die human."

Enjolras's heart slowed as fear turned to grief that festered and rotted the beating organ. He knew he could not prevent his friend's death, and he should feel relieved to know that his death will be more peaceful than becoming a fated beast. But dear Jehan was fated to die nonetheless, and there is nothing for Enjolras to do. His body turned cold, and he could not find his feet. His head quietly ached as his heart did. Two deaths on his hands, and one has yet to close his eyes. His mind lingered, unable to remove himself from the window, from the friend he could not see, could not comfort.

"Go, Chief. Don't you wo-worry about me." Jehan's voice lightened, "You have work to do."

He heard Jehan's words. He heard them and hated them. It assured his uselessness, his helplessness. He could do nothing, and they both knew it. He stood at the window, staring into the white curtains, listening to Jehan's labored breathing and sharp coughs that came. His feet were laden with brick, and he found it nearly impossible to remove himself from the window. But he did so nonetheless, mourning his friend as he went.

He walked through Paris, careful of his surroundings, killing the few beasts that managed to cross him and avoiding those he could not, and returned to the Hȏtel National des Invalides. There, he walked past Joly's body, his stomach boiling and poisoning the blood that rushed through his veins. He glared at the body, at the black fur at his arms and the claws that extended from his hands. Gripping his saw cleaver, he approached the body and knelt down, staring at the inhuman arms attached to his friend. He did not dare touch them and instead lifted his cleaver above his head. He swung down, listening as the blade sliced and crunched, biting flesh and breaking bone. He hacked away at the arm, cutting through the socket, blood squelching with each slice of the blade until it finally gave way. He kicked away the offending limb, watching the blood that seeped from the arm and socket. He did the same with the other arm, growling out his frustration, his rage as he carved into the arm, his mind screaming, "Failure." Enjolras's eyes stung. The arm finally detached from the body, and panting, Enjolras snarled as he kicked it away too. He watched it as it skimmed and rolled across the ground, only to stop mere inches away from the woman Joly had killed.

Enjolras glanced back at Joly, his body so disturbing to look upon without arms and the cool blood that trickled from him. His body grew heavy again, his wrath ebbing to wretched despair. "Murderer," his mind screamed, "You killed your friend. Monster. Fiend. Beast." He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose as he calmed himself. He then looked back over at the woman, recognizing that hair red as blood. He walked over to her, her fair skin sickly green in contrast to the deep crimson that pooled from her.

"Musichetta," Enjolras whispered.

Her emerald eyes, wide and glazed, stared up to the moonlit sky, her lips parted slightly to spy her teeth, and blood dripped a single line from the corner of her mouth, down her jaw and neck.

"Oh, so he is well and truly gone then. The both of them," said a voice.

Enjolras turned, gripping his cleaver and pistol, facing a man in gray rags. He face was covered by a hood, but as the man stepped closer, Enjolras recognized the shadowed face and deep-set eyes.

"Feuilly," Enjolras breathed, unsure whether or not to be relieved or afraid.

"Hello, Chief. Glad to see you still have your wits about you." Feuilly smiled.

Enjrolas smiled too, putting away his weapons and embracing his friend. He was relieved, truly, to feel a warm companion in his arms. They pulled away from each other, and Feuilly patted his shoulder. Enjolras's mind spun with questions, a million and one, and his tongue danced behind his teeth as he stuttered, unable to find himself a single one to ask.

Feuilly glanced about the area and muttered, "He must have been strong for so much blood."

Enjolras winced, looking at the splotches of blood all about the street and stairs. "Some is mine."

"Nevertheless, the stronger the beast the harder the kill. Such a shame," Feuilly said as he looked between Joly and Musichetta. "The plague got him, and he killed her, is that it?"

Enjolras nodded, his joy turning to melancholy, "I couldn't save her. And I was forced to kill him."

"He would have wanted it. He despised beasts. His great fear was becoming one himself. Our poor, dear Joly."

They were quiet a moment, staring down at their fallen friend, and Enjolras was glad to know he would not grieve alone. And then when the moment was gone, Feuilly started to walk, and Enjolras followed at his heels.

"Feuilly, what do you know of this place? Why are we no longer in Paris?" Enjolras asked.

"This is Paris," he replied simply. "Paris within the Hunter's Nightmare."

"Hunter's Nightmare?"

"Why else is the world not as it seems? Districts meshed and mingled that never touched in your Paris, half-remembered buildings and streets all living together as if they belong? Puzzle pieces, snipped and glued back together to form a picture that reveals nothing. This is the Hunter's Nightmare, riddled with secrets. You sense it too, I presume?"

Enjolras nodded. "You must know the secrets then, if you're so open to speak of them."

Feuilly smirked, "Such a pleasure would that be. But I have yet to discover them. I cannot tell you why we are here, why we are no longer in your Paris. I can only share that it is for you to uncover. You must discover the secrets of this place yourself."

"Why me?"

"Because we didn't create this world."

"And who did?"

A genuine smile curled across his lips. Under the shadow of his hood, Enjolras could see his eyes brighten.

"I'm gladdened to see," said his friend, "such inquisition has not left you. But be wary. Secrets are secrets for a reason, and some do not wish to see them uncovered. Especially when the secrets are particularly unseemly."

Enjolras frowned and internally groaned, despising how little he knew, how little anyone was willing to tell him. He felt as if everyone knew, Jehan, Feuilly, the Doll, and even perhaps Joly and the rest of beasts he slaughtered, knew something he did not, a well kept secret just spite him. Secrets. He rolled his eyes at the word.

Walking together, Enjolras looked around at the buildings no longer light by the red lanterns. The streets were still covered with filth and debris, and coffins could be spotted spread about the street. Other than the two of them, the streets were deserted of humans and beasts. Enjolras looked up at the moon, full and bright and bigger than it had any right to be. He thought of Jehan and Joly, wondering if the rest of Les Amis had were suffering the same fate. "A nightmare," Enjolras thought. It was more than fitting.

They were quiet longer than Enjolras preferred and so he spoke. "What brought you here? Was it Joly?"

"I was hoping to find him alive and with his sanity," Feuilly said. "I needed him."

"For what?" He asked.

"I hunt hunters who have gone mad by the plague, as he did. I was hoping for a partner, and Joly was the only one I knew to have not succumbed. But I was wrong."

"I can help you, mon ami," Enjolras said.

Feuilly passed him a glance, "I'm gracious for your help. But you mustn't fear the hunt. And you mustn't hesitate."

"What matter of beasts are we hunting?"

"Courfeyrac and Combeferre."

Enjolras's throat worked, his heart beat skipped, and Feuilly stared at him with such gravity, such determination, that Enjolras would not show emotion, not in front him. Not in front of a friend that looked to him as a leader—back then when their world was so much simpler it seemed. He remembered the revolution and his friends so eager to join him. And now he had to hunt them.

"We will set them free," said Feuilly, "Beasthood is no way of living."

Enjolras gripped his cleaver tightly, feeling the weight of it as he stared down at the teeth. How much blood has already soaked the blade? How much more will he feed to the cleaver? He thought of Joly and the arms of the beast he was slowly transforming into. He thought Courfeyrac and Combeferre. How far along were they? More beast than man? Beasts, blood-drunk fiends unable to recognize friend from foe. He reminded himself of Joly who was driven to madness by the plague, Joly as he killed Musichetta, Joly who tried to kill him again and again no matter who he was, no matter how many times Enjolras called his name.

"We are hunting beasts." Enjolras said, unsure if it was to Feuilly or to himself. "We are hunting beasts, not citizens, not companions, not friends." He looked at his friend, feeling stronger in his company, more assured now that he wasn't alone. "We must kill them before they can do any more harm to us and anyone else."

Feuilly nodded. "To the hunt, my friend."

Enjolras spotted the messengers as they bloomed from the ground as they walked, leading the way, and for a brief moment, he thought of the Doll. He wondered also if Feuilly saw the little white creatures as clearly as he did. Feuilly did not seem to as he looked straight ahead, so very lost in the task at hand. Enjolras turned his attention away from them and listened to the clomping of their boots, the crunching of gravel against stone, how the blood-soaked soles quietly stuck to the ground. The trees' leaves rustled in the wind, some so dry they fell from their branches to scrape across the cobblestone street. And with that wind came growling, low, animalistic, and as they came closer to the source, they could see beasts. Five of them lurked up and down the street, their bodies hunkered over as they walked. They walked upright like that of a human, their faces, arms, and abdomens wrapped in medical cloth. They were black and furred like Joly's arms but all over, their feet clawed like their hands, teeth sharp like wolves, and bright yellow eyes.

"Beast patients," said Feuilly. "Shall we?"

Enjolras watched as Feuilly approached a beast patient from behind, and then with the swiftness of his hand, he activated the blade he had within his gauntlet. He plunged the knife into the beasts back, held him there a moment and then ripped it from him. Silently amazed, Enjolras chastised himself for he had been to fascinated by his saw cleaver and had forgotten of the blades he had in both his left and right gloves. Two beasts took notice of their fallen friend and approached Feuilly, and he pulled out a sword from within his tattered robe. It was short and curved with an odd gap between the blade. And then with a hard yank, Feuilly pulled apart the sword as he ran, transforming the blade into two long daggers. Getting up as close as he could to a beast, he swung his blades, cutting the beast every which way before the creature could growl and raise his large claws. Blood splattered from the beast, and Enjolras moved, transforming his cleaver into the longer version as he approached his own prey. He swung at the beast, a long and heavy strike that cut the beast down from its head straight to its middle. It lodged at the beast's abdomen and Enjolras listened to the crunch of bones as he pried the cleaver from its body. Beasts roared as this one collapsed before him, and Feuilly was already onto his third enemy. Enjolras ran then for the final beast standing, not wanting to appear weak in the eyes of his friend. And he lifted his cleaver at the beast and the monster jumped back. The black creature rose up its claws and Enjolras thought it meant to attack him. But instead, its body hunched over, its arms over its head as if for protection or perhaps surrender, and he heard something akin to a whimper escape it. The creature was shaking, its limbs, exaggerated by the fur, trembled, and Enjolras hesitated. He thought he felt pity.

And then Feuilly came alongside the beast and thrust his blade into the beast's throat. It stiffened and the collapsed as Feuilly pulled his weapon from it. He wiped away the blood, panting. "You all right?"

Enjolras nodded, hardening himself against what he had seen. They are beasts and nothing more.

They continued on, and Feuilly briefly showed him how to activate the knives underneath his gloves. A visceral attack, Feuilly had called it, when he had sneaked behind the beast, grabbed him and unleashed his hidden blade. Enjolras watched as his own knives shot out by a simple pull of a string wrapped around his middle finger. Gingerly he cocked the knives back in, all the while forcing himself not to think of the furred beasts, of Joly who was nearly transformed into one of the same. He thought of the past, of his friends in Paris before the revolution. He thought of them happy and drunk, unspoiled for the night by the horrors of their reality, of the poor that suffered and the rich that spat on them. Courfeyrac, Combefere, Joly, Jehan—Jehan. Jehan who was now lying in bed, sick and alone, and his only comfort, the incense in a red lantern. He glanced at Feuilly.

"Have you seen Jehan as of late?" Enjolras asked.

There was a flicker in Feuilly's eyes, so minuscule that if Enjolras had not been so intent in his gaze, he might have missed it. But it was there, a flash of recognition, and his voice turned somber. "I hadn't the chance to visit him."

"His sickness is taking a hold of him much more rapidly than I imagined," Enjolras said. "He thinks he will die human."

Feuilly was silent a moment, tugging at his hood. "I hope so for his sake."

They did not say any more. Enjolras hid the heaviness of his heart that threatened to show on his face. He thought of the beasts, he thought of death, his own death, and brick by brick he hardened himself. He watched as the messengers budded up from the ground, leading them to the bridge above the Seine River. It was wide enough to support two carriages along with a sidewalk on both sides for pedestrians, and luckily for them, no carriages had been toppled to obstruct their path in any way.

"The blood minister's clinic is on the other side," Enjolras said as they started across the bridge.

"Is that where you're headed?"

"Jehan told me to speak to the minister there."

"Hmm," Feuilly nodded slowly, curiously, "I wonder what you'll find."

As they walked to the center of the bridge, they spotted a man on the other side. His hair was dark and devilishly curled, and his eyes that had once been just a dark as his hair, were now yellow and remained fixed on them, unblinking. "Courfeyrac," Enjolras muttered to himself, gripping his cleaver and pistol. Courfeyrac held a cane in his hand, and with a hard yank of his wrist, he unleashed a large chain from within the cane at least two yards long. Enjolras could feel Feuilly shifting at his side.

"You take Courfeyrac. I'll take Combeferre." He said lowly.

And Enjolras looked behind him, spotting Combeferre who stood tall and broad, an unmovable force to block their escape. A cane was in his hand as well. They slowly approached as Enjolras and Feuilly stood back-to-back, waiting in anticipation as they bounced on the balls of their feet. And then Courfeyrac and Combeferre charged at them, raising their canes, and Enjolras and Feuilly took steps away from each other to prepare to dodge their attacks.

The world seemed to slow for Enjolras, his minding emptying of all thoughts that could distract him from his fight. But these were their friends they were facing, their friends that they had been hunting. His marble mask was cracking.

Courfeyrac's chain whipped through the air, biting into the wind as he swung the threaded cane. Enjolras attempted to dodge, but the long reach of the cane snagged him at his back, eating into his flesh as it tore away chunks of muscle and blood. He groaned out, feeling the fiery sting, and he turned back to face Courfeyrac. He charged at Enjolras again, and Enjolras did too, quickly transforming his cleaver for close combat. His swing was faster than Courfeyrac's, and the cleaver carved into his chest, three long, deep gashes that sent blood splattering onto Enjolras and the ground. Courfeyrac growled and kicked Enjolras away, smacking the cane against the ground to retract the chain inside. His movements were swift, much faster than with the chain, and Enjolras was unprepared. He struck him repeatedly, his stomach, chest, and face, the dull bladed cane cutting into him and Enjolras grunted at such aggressive strikes. But Courfeyrac was tiring, and when he went to strike him again, Enjolras was able to dodge his attack.

Enjolras stepped back, his muscles beginning to ache, and the sweat at his forehead burned the gash above his brow, blood dripping from it and stinging his eye. He wanted for a blood vial, his vision blurred and head ringing with the ache, but Courfeyrac was quick and relentless. Raising his cane, Enjolras quickly went for that small window of opportunity and fired his pistol. The bullet struck Courfeyrac in the chest, and he staggered, falling to his knees by the force of the quicksilver bullet. Enjolras charged at him, sheathing his pistol, and he extended the blade within his glove. He drove the knife into Courfeyrac's chest, listening as the blade squelched past flesh and muscle, spurting out blood, and cracking through bone. Courfeyrac grunted and groaned out in pain, the yellow of his eyes flashing bright as if he recognized his own imminent death. Enjolras tore the blade from him, and he groaned at the force of it, blood flowing through him. Courfeyrac collapsed face down on the ground, blood pooling at Enjolras's feet.

He huffed and panted, the ringing in his ears fading, and he could hear the fight between Feuilly and Combeferre. He turned his head and watched as Combeferre made the tactical error of swinging his chain whip too close to the stone railing. The chain smacked against the stone, unable to complete the swing, and Feuilly dodged the attack and darted around him. He then proceeded to visceral attack Combeferre, cutting into him and then yanking away his hand. The two watched as Combeferre fell to the ground, groaning and gurgling on his blood as he died.

Enjolras sighed in relief and took his blood, feeling his wounds close and energy return. Feuilly walked up to him. "You all right?"

Enjolras nodded, and Feuilly smiled and chuckled lowly. "It doesn't get any easier."

"No," Enjolras agreed. "It certainly does not."