The regional DNR office was downtown. That meant parking as close as she could get without attracting too much attention - her choice being a 24/7 laundromat - and busting out her duffel bag. Into the bag went the remains of skinwalker cranium, along with some old clothing (including her old socks, which she switched out for the new ones. Thanks, dead hikers). She slung the strap over her shoulder and hopped out of her van, triple-checking the lock before heading down the sidewalk.

Green Bay wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with the unhoused and unemployed, but few people gave Tabitha more than a passing glance as she made her way down the street. Her shaggy black mop of hair helped keep the winter sun out of her face, and her green bomber jacket kept her relatively warm; despite the fact that she both looked and was an unwashed vagrant, she toughed it out pretty well. Or so she hoped.

Walks like this helped, in a way. They kept her grounded and allowed her to see 'society', as it were - see the people she was fighting to save. Sure, there were probably other hunters around here, especially given Wisconsin's inclination towards outdoorsmanship as a hobby... But that didn't mean that her efforts were any less impactful or any less real. Who knows? She often would find herself thinking about it, maybe during a long drive to a hunt locale or heading back from a particularly rough shake-up. What if she was the deciding vote of sorts? What if, without her, this place would get overrun?

It was a scene she'd witnessed before.

-

Not in such a grand scale, no, but two years ago up in the Upper Peninsula, a small rural village'd had some issues with a wendigo. Wendigo aren't the type of thing you fuck about with, but small-town mindsets had put it to anything else: bears, wolves, an angry moose, poachers, even up to a serial killer. Their little local police station had set up rotating patrols around town, searching abandoned buildings during the day and keeping watch at night. People kept dying further out of town, and the patrol line was drawn further and further in until the sons of bitches didn't leave their station when the real party began.

Tabitha'd been invited up there by their regional DNR office, at Thatcher's recommendation. He was a bit of an ass, but he'd been just as good to her as B when it came to getting her work. Said there was a wendigo that needed culling, that it had been 'terrorizing' a little village out in the sticks. 'Couldn't have grown to be too strong', he said; 'after all, wendigo get stronger the more they eat, and there ain't anyone out there to eat!'.

God, he thought that was funny.

When she had arrived, three other hunters met her at the outskirts: two brothers, twins, who got into the job as kids when a long-dog ate their cat, so they stole their daddy's rifle and took care of it themselves; and an old fudge who laughed like a steam engine and who woodcarved on the side. He'd helped Tab make some of the adjustments on the Doktor, even, since she had her tools right in her van. The four of them set off into town, steeled for the inevitable conversations that came between hunters and the hunted.

Except this time, the only words were anguish. Town was fucked, almost completely: corpses in the streets, half-eaten and crawling with maggots; windows shattered, doorframes smashed, cars gutted, pets devoured. Only people left alive were, ironically, the cops - they were out of ammo and sanity, babbling and terrified and bone-thin from wasting. The twins lobbied for putting them out of their misery, as it was down to just the sheriff and the deputy, but Tab and the old fudge said no.

The fight was bad. Real bad. Wendigo are associated with a lot of things - being spiritual in nature, they've got more powers than just 'be strong and hard to kill' - but just like cannibalism, murder, and greed, they embody cold. A wendigo's heart is ice and they have some of the strongest chilling auras of all monsterkind, due to the primal reality of how unnatural and base they've become from their human origins. An unseasonable blizzard started just as they were baiting it with a fresh elk body, and things only got worse from there.

Lights from some of the houses flickered on and off, and without a practicioner there to feel for it, they had no idea it was just Craft influence from their quarry - the twins went off with their shotguns and modified rifles to check it out, hoping to secure some survivors they might've missed. Meanwhile, the old fudge took a quick run back to his car for energy drinks. They were all still underestimating this thing - after all, nowadays wendigo rarely got to feast so freely, whereas in the past they'd need a genuine shaman and skilled medicine-man present to even set off to take it down.

Bloodbath was a good word for what came next. Tabitha had plenty of nightmares from her career, and had long since diagnosed herself with PTSD, but she liked thinking of this part the least. Twin one never came back from those houses - when they found him later he'd been eaten alive from the feet to the ribcage, a key point in his spine broken to paralyze him so he would stay alive for as long as possible. Twin two survived, but would never use the right side of his face again, and he's got an empty sleeve and a pump in his stomach now. The old fudge's chocolatey center was painted all over the inside of his work-truck, chest split open like opening a citrus, the energy drinks he'd gone to grab both drained as icing on the cake.

Tab had a new scar cause of that fight, but with Twin two's help they'd managed to pin the thing under a truck while Tabitha made to saw it apart. Just like a skinwalker, wendigo can speak in human tongues, generally those they eat - but like a werewolf, they can turn back into their human form (or a close semblance). Watching an eight-foot-tall horror covered in the blood of at least a hundred human beings warp back into a teary-eyed young man just as you're about to put a whirring saw to his neck does something wrong to your heart. She'd screamed almost as loud as he did, just to drown out the noises.

-

Tabitha blinked and she had arrived: the Green Bay regional DNR office stood before her, all brick and grey concrete, surrounded by what was normally a frankly pretty bit of greenery. Winter white stood atop it as a cruel conqueror, drowning out any hope for vegetation one could have. Nature's cruel blanket never saw fit to be denied in these cold months, after all, especially not up here.

Up the cold cement outer steps and up into the building she went, pushing through glass double-doors and entering a tiled lobby. Inside, the place looked a bit like a bank, but way smaller; most of the shit they did here was office-work and training, and not as much on the services-side.

A bored-looking man at the counter perked up when she entered - and immediately let his expression fall when he saw who it was. Tall, blonde, and country as fuck, he wore a grey business-casual ensemble with a camo-print tie and cufflinks shaped like a buck's head. His left eye had a small few scars beneath it - they were nasty and jagged, but not particularly big.

This, of course, was Jeremiah Arnault Thatcher, DNR representative and unofficial head of the Green Bay, Wisconsin Paranormal Incident Bookkeeping Bureau - PIBB. He'd been a hunter himself about ten years ago, but now he preferred the bureaucracy of humankind to the vicious needles of beasts, or so he said. He was slightly heavyset in the way that farm living might do to you; despite the beginnings of a gut and some softness to the forearms and biceps and chin, he could lift a calf with one hand and shoot a rifle with the other.

"What the fuck d'you want, Tabitha? I've got better shit t'do t'day than listen to you cry about field work again." He sneered at her, crossing both arms and posting up like he was trying to decide whether or not he should come beat her ass. She followed suit after gingerly setting her duffel on the floor, narrowing her eyes at him in a contest that continued until the both of them just closed their eyes. This got Thatcher to break, and he cracked up with laughter.

"Pshhh! Alright, alright, bitch, I'll listen. What do you want? Got something for me? The guys upstairs are happy with your work, you know - even if your forgetful ass NEVER writes a god damn report on your kills. We've gotta know what happens, y'know." He reaches to a small and scant-used drawer in the massive desk he's stationed at, procuring a small key to unlock it before sliding out a single sheet of paper. A hunting report.

"Skinwalker, about thirty miles out of town, cooped up in some farming house no one lived in anymore. Headcount is probably nearly ten from what I saw - I didn't check any wallets, as per requested, but it was more of a 'creamy center' sort of eater so most of them still had their pants on. Might even be able to do open casket if stuff 'em."

"Yeah, yeah, open casket, ha-ha, your cold detachment to the nature of your work is comical. Right?" Thatcher smirked as he said it, but the jab was intentional - he was laughing at her, not with her on this one. She stuck her tongue out at the minor barb, leaning down to lift the duffel onto the counter and unzip it. Thatch, with a sigh, took a pair of medical gloves from that little drawer and snapped them on before reaching in. He made a sour face as the soured meat touched his digits.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuckkkkk, Tab, you couldn't have killed, like, a tree-monster or something? A hodag, maybe?"

"No, dipshit, those live 'round Rhinelander. We don't live in Rhinelander, or anywhere near it. Same state, I guess..." Tab rolled her eyes, taking her own turn to be sassy. Thatch sighed again as he got some kind of grip on the head, making a foul expression as he drew the rotten-meat-and-bone bust up and out of the duffel. The scent was not good after being warmed up from its initial icy state.

"Eugh... Ok, well, it's genuine, I can tell just from lookin'. Guh, they're creepy fucks, ain't they? Can't imagine what it talked to ya about. Probably pretended to be your family or something, right?" He shot Tab a quizzical look, starting to bag up the head as best he could in a long plastic air-tight sack. A little vacuum whirred before Tabitha could give her answer, so she began with a wry nod.

"...yeah. Something like that. How could you tell? You don't seem the kind of guy to take on walkers, or really any kind of man-eater. Except 'wolves, maybe."

"I'm not. I wasn't, I mean. I had one run-in with one when I first started... Tried to sell itself off as my little brother, pulled some lines out from the night before he... 'fore he went missing. Last thing he said to me. A phone message, shit that no monster should have... could have ever known he said. S'part of why I didn't ever go after another after that, because I knew I couldn't take it again." Thatcher's expression had dulled to slush, eyes fallen but distant, reliving that memory for the millionth time.

"Ah... I've, uh... I've been there before, Thatch. My... Back in Seattle, I... Er, fuck. Back home, someone I cared about a lot..." Just like that her tongue felt thick and her lungs were heavy. It was always hard to talk about: what few people were in the Community called them 'origin stories' like a dark joke, like they were superheroes. They were the reason a person got into hunting. And, as we've already said, hunters are born more from sorrow and pain and loss than anything else.

Thatcher nodded, his expression doing little to lighten, though he still slapped on a smile so fake it looked tiring. "Yeah, don't worry, Art, we've all got our little secrets. Your Seattle shit is in the past as far as I'm concerned; you're a Wisconsinite now, and that's what matters. Let those West-coast motherfuckers deal with their own monsters, y'know?" The smile grew some meaning now, though it was rueful and bitter - smiling at misfortune, both Tabitha's and his own.

She gave him the same kind of black-coffee grin, putting a hand out now. Time for talk was over - she was here to get paid, after all, and this conversation benefited neither of them. Thatcher sighed once more before nodding, reaching into that small drawer again and procuring a wallet. It was, of course, brimming with money - it always was. Had to be ready to pay a hunter on a moment's notice, and checks (or any real sort of paper trail) was anathema to hunters, or anyone in the Community. A world of secrecy found truth and accountability as banes, and so paper money or barter were the only two real options.

He counted out money, looking at the head and then the bills, bills and then the head, $20 notes (easier to spend) laid out into stacks one after another. Eventually he'd finished and wrapped a rubber band around them, pushing them towards Tabitha.

"There. Two-thousand dollars, minus three hundred as collateral for the missing eye, minus one hundred for lack of valid report, and minus two hundred for processing, shipping, and quality assurance. Here's your cash, field agent Artemis." He said the spiel with all the gusto of a jaded supermarket greeter, but Artemis's alias was spoken with venom. She grit her teeth and grabbed the money, throwing it in wads into the duffel bag.

"Yeah, yeah, fucker. You're bleeding me dry, you know? Keep shafting me on these payouts and they'll put your ass back out in the field, and they've got you on a leash, Thatch."

"Oh, piss off, Tab. I'm being generous, ok? Down in Madison they'd make you pay double for that missing eye. I think I've got a pretty good fucking idea where it went, though, so I'm cutting you some slack on it. You've gotta pay for your medical bills somehow, right?"

Tabitha was shocked, jaw dropping indignantly. How the fuck did he know about that? About Venefica? She was unlicensed as fuck, and that was bad news for witches - jailtime wasn't the alternative, and depending on how prolific a witch you were, even a death sentence could be a blessing. Her self-isolation out in Leafy Greens was out of necessity as much as it was out of desire to be alone.

"How the fuck do you know about that, Thatch? You better tell me right now, or I swear to God I'll-" Her right hand was already balling into a fist, her left going to lay flat onto the counter. A large portion of her was considering hopping straight up there and drop-kicking Thatcher right in his stupid face, but he would still be a hard fight for her, and if he got her in a grapple she'd be doomed from the size advantage. Thatcher relented, though, and put his hands up in a gesture of appeasement.

"Yeesh, sorry, calm down - I was a hunter too, remember? I know what it's like. I know a hunter can find a witch when they need one, and I know how that relationship tends to go. If they're a good witch, or at least a good friend, the hunter tends to stay alive after hunts. If they're a shit witch or bad for a worse reason, well, those hunters tend not to stick around so long. You've been hunting for years now. I put the pieces together. Whoever your contact is cares about you enough to cut you deals to keep you alive and returning."

This took the wind from Tab's sails, her fist absentmindedly unfurling, her temper waning. She nodded. Fuck, that made sense, yeah... If it wasn't abundantly clear already, hunters couldn't exactly head in to the ER with wounds incurred from dealing with the paranomal unless they wanted to enter the Witness Protection Program at the speed of fucking sound. Witches, medicine-men, shamans, really any sort of alternative or spiritual healer with truth to their wares and teachings provided much-needed alternatives to the paranormal Community.

"...yeah. Sorry. I'm... I'm gonna go, Thatch. Thanks for the talk or whatever. I've got a hunt to go set up." She re-slung her duffel and turned back towards the doors without waiting for a reply. She got all the way to said doors, in fact, before she received one.

"Bye, Tabitha. Be safe out there. I mean it. You might think you're invincible, but every hunter does until they're getting their liver ripped out by a yeti."

Any chance for a final parting shot was ruined by two men dressed head-to-toe in camo pushing their way into the building, scrambling for hunting licenses. Thatcher had already stowed the skinwalker's head and removed the medical gloves, the wallet placed away and the report filed - he was efficient for sure. Artemis bit her lower lip with muted emotion and words left unsaid, walking outside into the fresh air.

She was back to her truck without worry and without a ticket, her bag of money thrown inside. When she sat down to count it she found Thatch had thrown in an extra $100, along with some hunting forms with a sticky note that said 'FILL THIS OUT NEXT TIME' on the top of them. This time she couldn't repress her smile, some emotion welling in her eyes that she quickly blinked away. No time to be a sad little bitch. She had taken her emotional break for the day; maybe she could rest after this next score.

For now, she had a lumber mill to stake out.