The city slums were dark and gloomy at night, neatly hiding those that dwelled within. If you didn’t live there, you would swear that it was quiet. Inactive even. But to those who survive in the slums of Melbourne, night is when all the scariest come out to play.

Maybe it was to do with alcohol, drugs or other recreational activities that caused those with power to wander the streets, looking for a wench to rape or man to kill. Mirah couldn’t tell you for sure. Not really anyways. What she could tell you, was that each night was filled with ears that would never stop picking up the slight scuff of a shoe on the ill-maintained footpaths that sprawl through the city like a cobweb.

It was just another night of a heightened sense of danger. Nothing any different than that of any of the hundreds of other nights Mirah had spent hiding within a pile of rags, or sleeping in trash, cleverly disguising herself to stow away from the dangers of the night.

She sat there in deep contemplation of nothing important, simply food for her mind to chew on to pass time, when she heard a soft footstep and a clack of a heel to follow. Mirah stiffened, her ears suddenly becoming aware of every single sound in her little corner of a damp and dingy street.

There was a surprising amount of information you could derive from something as simple as a footstep. The usual ones around these parts were the scuffing of runners, maybe drunk from drinking whatever swill they could get their hands on. Sometimes it was a footstep with more purpose, heavily placed footsteps that lead towards a place.

Mirah had become excellent at learning which footsteps were dangerous, and which were of a bumbling drunk or just a person that wanted to get out of the filthy slums as fast as possible.

These footsteps though, they made Mirah’s body become as tense as a drawn bow.

Someone is hunting tonight.

The night was in its latest hour, and those sorts of footsteps came from someone with malicious ideas in mind for those that they found. There was another footstep, a soft placement of the toe against the ground, and then the following clack of the heel.

Mirah hadn’t heard a shoe like it in years, not in these parts of town. Immediately her mind went to a business shoe, but the sound of the heel was all wrong. Another footstep moved the hunter closer to the streets where Mirah lay, hidden in her pile of trash.

Mirah knew that all the others in these streets could hear this pursuer, feel their presence like prey could feel a predator’s eyes on them. Like a hivemind created from years of repetition, the thought that went through everyone’s head in that street was ‘as soon as they find someone, we scatter’.

There was no honour in staying to try and protect those that were caught by the predators that walk the streets, it only serves to add an extra victim to the predator’s hunt. So, quietly, the prey waited in their bins, rags and trash, hidden away from even the barest glint of moonlight.

The steps were slow and methodical, something that only increased the understanding of how much danger those that hid were in. A patient hunter was rare in these parts, most inebriated and playing like a cub would with a small, injured bird. This time, it seemed like mother was out to hunt.

Mirah’s anxiety was palpable, she could swear that her heat, the exhalation of her breath was drawing the predator ever closer, each step a little louder, a little more prominent.

Mirah began to realise that the footsteps truly were moving closer to her. She always chose the hiding spots the furthest away from the main pathways, the most obfuscated by other objects, diminishing line of sight. She had never truly feared that she would be the one to be found.

The footsteps seemed to gain purpose as they drew closer. The sound of the toe touching the ground and then the clack of the heel began to be all that Mirah could focus on, the individual nuances of each footstep becoming more poignant, more important than the last.

Each footstep whispered to her, telling her of the next step that would come. The footsteps were still twenty paces away, but everything in her told her that each step would simply lead one closer to her. She could tell, for they told her so.

In realisation of the inevitability of the predator reaching her she froze, just for a moment. The sort of indecision that you knew was nothing but detrimental but locked you up anyway. Then the moment passed, and she knew that there was only one chance to escape, and it was now.

Mirah leaped from her place in the trash and began to run like she had only a few times, even in her life predicated on her ability to run from danger. She could hear behind her the explosion of at least ten others burst from their hiding spots to bolt away from the predator, but she ignored their desperate dashes and honed in on the sound of the footsteps in pursuit of her.

The footsteps had vanished.

Mirah’s pounding heart almost stopped in that moment. She raced towards a fence, one blocking the entrance to the slightly nicer districts of Melbourne. Mirah always found running away to those parts was slightly safer, the worst that would happen was that she’d be beaten bloody by the ‘police’ instead of killed for sick amusement.

She reached the fence, jumping onto it at a full sprint, her body slamming into the chain links. She desperately scrabbled up, and when her hand reached the sharp edges of chain link at the top, she was elated, even with the damage being done to her hands.

She managed to pull herself over the fence falling roughly to the ground, scrabbling to her feet and trying to run further out into the street where more bars would be when she slammed face first into what felt like a wall of muscle.

Mirah fell to the ground, her premature elation becoming a terrible foreboding. As her body hit the ground, she curled up in a ball, tightly encasing her torso with her limbs. She could live with a bum leg or broken and destroyed fingers, but if they got to her organs she was as good as dead.

She stayed like that a moment, the sound of her panting, laboured breath permeating her hearing, the pounding in her ears pervading her thoughts.

“You had good sense to run. Most would have frozen in fear until I was looking at them in the eyes. Gives you a pretty good chance at surviving an untrained idiot.” The was a pause. The voice was feminine, something that made sense now with relation to the shoe. It must have been a high heel.

“But against a Linked, running does nothing except excite them.” A shallow laugh from the surprisingly bright voice. It definitely doesn’t sound like the sort of tone you’d use when you are looking to kill someone.

Mirah slowly looked up towards the female form that stood over her. The woman was dressed in a full suit, expertly fitted to her body to cut a striking and almost imposing figure. The woman stood bold straight and sported a gentle smile on her face, counter to the atmosphere of the situation. Her features were obscured in the moonlight, but it was obvious enough that she took care of herself, unlike Mirah.

The increasing oddity of the situation made Mirah’s instincts scream at her to run, run like no tomorrow. But as she began to soak more and more of the details in, she began to realise just how fruitless it’d be.

Footsteps that suddenly lacked sound, somehow vaulting over a fence before Mirah herself could climb over with extraordinarily little to no sound. All this in a suit and high heels.

“You’re a Linked.” There was no question in Mirah’s voice, even as she slurred her words a little from the adrenalin that was still rushing through her veins. The dark-haired woman bobbed her head happily.

“Of course. I go by Tracker. I’ve been ordered to bring you in.” She said, the small smile lengthening into a wider, blinding white smile the likes she hadn’t seen since her youth and on billboards.

“Bring me in?” Mirah asked, anxiety spiking. Did they know? How did they find out? Her body tensed once again, but Tracker only laughed.

“Of course, dear.” Tracker squatted next to Mirah, her face coming close to the girl laying on the ground.

“But I’m-”

“Oh hush, there is no point in lying to me. I earn my money finding those who don’t want to be found.” A kind smile forced its way onto Tracker’s face, but Mirah knew it was fake.

“Who are you taking me in to?” Tracker’s face underwent a moment of mock confusion before her left eyebrow raised jovially, her face splitting into a genuine smile.

“To your new team, of course!”

The world was slow out here, just the way Ajax liked it.

It simply moved at whatever pace he wished, a slow crawl or a productive jog. He had never truly managed to work his way up to a run. He had wondered, late at night, if it was because he had lost motivation after all that had happened. That maybe he had simply resigned himself to living out in these woods, content to live each day to the next.

There was a soft feeling of discontent pressing on Ajax’s mind and he sighed.

“I know, I know. One day soon. I promise.” He patted the bright red painted head of axe that he held in his left hand. There was a resigned feeling in his mind before it slipped away, and his mind refocused again.

He moved further into the forest today, looking for good trees to cut. He had spent a long time out here, and he knew these woods quite well, each collection of trees a point in his mental map of the place he’d pieced together through memories alone.

He walked deeper and deeper, where the trees grew thicker and thicker. Before long, it became actively difficult to navigate, and easy to lose your sense of direction. In fact, he had a few times, more worried about finding food or a tree, before remembering what direction to walk back in once he’d found it.

Now, he wondered if it was possible for him to lose his way in here anymore. Maybe if he was inebriated or had been hit hard enough on the head. He would have to be hit pretty damn hard, he figured.

The purposeful walk would seem like slow meandering to anyone that was watching. His strange path through the trees, beelining towards a recollection of a tree he’d once seen on his way to do something else.

Indeed, there was someone watching.

Ajax knew, of course. The difference between total isolation and having another person around was painfully obvious. The quiet footsteps that followed his odd winding path through the dense forest were like someone was banging pots and pans together as they walked down the main street of town.

The pursuer knew Ajax knew, of course. It was all really just a game of cat and mouse they were playing with each other. Tracker stopped to think for a moment, maybe tag was more accurate. Cat and mouse made it sound almost malicious.

She shrugged and continued to follow the receding form of Ajax as he made his way towards a particularly thick tree, standing tall amongst its shorter brethren.

As Ajax approached the tree, he rolled his shoulder, big and powerful on a frame that was already as massive as his. Tracker was impressed just how well built the man was, even with a life built upon back breaking labour.

Ajax slowly considered the tree in front of him as he gently warmed his joints. Tracker wasn’t sure what it was that he was considering, she’d never cut down a tree, so she wouldn’t know.

Ajax sighed and mumbled something and patted the head of the axe in his other hand.

“Good evening, mysterious visitor.” A large, booming voice sang out. His voice matched his frame almost perfectly, Tracker thought.

“Good evening, woodsman.” Ajax chuckled at that.

“I guess that’s true enough,” he paused for a moment before speaking again, maybe a moment of contemplation, “mind telling me why you’re all the way out here?”

It was Tracker’s turn to chuckle.

“Society wants you back, woodsman.” There was a long pause from Ajax. He wasn’t a big deal, and he couldn’t think of any special reason someone would want him back in the concrete jungle.

“What has she got in store for me?”

Tracker let the silence drag for a moment before answering.

“A team.”

A short and simple answer. An answer that would only really create more questions, but it seemed to be enough for the goliath of a man. He nodded curtly and then turned back to the tree in front of him.

Ajax took a deep breath and in one quick movement, the axe moved from his left hand to his right, the axe head passing through the wooden trunk of the tree, chopping it neatly from the now created stump.

Ajax extended a hand to steady the wobbling tree, stabilising on its perfectly level stump surface. He seemed to think a moment, before finally turning to face Tracker, his face sporting a calm and inviting smile.

“Want to lend a hand in finishing up my house before I go back?”

Tracker grinned.