Bunker

The sound of steam, the smell of smoke, the sound of metal clanging against metal, and the sound of people chattering and walking filled the man's ears and nose as he walked out of the hole of a tunnel into an open space.

Before him was a somewhat large cavern, and within it, surrounded by metal, wood, and other things, was a hodgepodge of a makeshift town. A town where, in order to make a building in such a recluse area, use strange materials that were scrounged up and placed over one another.

Sometimes, a wall may have bricks, wood, and metal nailed over the other.

If it weren't for the lanterns, strange hanging orange Christmas decorations lights here and there, and some strange neon signs that glowed green and pink or some other color otherwise, then it truly would feel like a rundown town.

This was a place where imaginative, inventive, "homeless" people made after gathering together.

𝗕𝘂𝗻𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝟰.

As he took in the sight of the somewhat bustling town, his eyes followed movement. Speaking of the people...

As soon as Corvus walked into town, stepping on a variety of crunching rubble, cement, stone, and metal plates, he came across those people.

Some, if not most fit the description of being homeless very well, having gaunt, malnourished figures in ragged clothing. They had hopeless eyes as they spent their days walking here and there or simply sitting against a wall, staring blankly at an invisible horizon.

Then there were some who looked vastly different.

While some were old, young, and may have the same gaunt figures and ragged clothing that the hopeless do, it was their eyes that told the others they were different.

The desire to eat; the desire to grow.

The desire to survive in this bleak, hopeless-looking world.

It should also be mentioned that they also wore strange weapons like a spear, a bow, and a sword. A few even had all three strapped onto their backs, while others may carry a simple club.

There was even a scrawny figure with a skull on the top of a staff placed on his back. Without any clothing and tattoos all over his body depicting strange and unidentifiable language, he simply oozed "don't mess with me, or else."

The masked man only gave him a passing glance.

Then there are those who wear strange manners of clothing. Rags, suits, cloaks with a hood that shadows one face...well, the masked man couldn't complain about it.

He was one of those people after all, because others too steered clear from him as well.

Some because he looked strange, and some because they gave him a knowing glance.

Soon enough, he entered through a dark alleyway. Dumpsters lied here and there, as well as litter. Although there were some even on the main roads and streets, in a trash-filled alleyway like this?

Walking around a strangely large puddle, he emerged into a somewhat lit clearing of sorts.

Just like all over town, common lanterns hung off the walls here and there, to help people find their way through this town, along with tarps and blankets that hung high, giving shelter from...well, nothing in particular.

According to common sense, there is no rain, nor is there any sun in the underground.

Perhaps many tarps and other things were hung in order to simulate how people used to live on the surface, judging by how many people used them.

In any case, walking past several doors leading to rooms and such, he happened upon a much larger building.

At least three to four times larger, compared to the buildings around it, it seemed to exude a more an air of importance despite how much of a hobble it appears to be.

Still, he walked up the steps towards the door, which was only a head taller than he is.

Grabbing the doorknob, he gently pushed the tavern door inwards.

Creaking loudly, along with a bell twinkling as though someone entered a grocery store-do those still exist? The masked man doesn't know, but it was a somewhat endearing sound these days.

Anyways, he pushed in the tavern door, giving way to a rectangular room. As soon as he entered, a wave of warmth washed over him.

It was a homely place, this tavern was. From his knowledge he can trust, it was made to 𝘣𝘦 homely.

Pictures hung around the walls; portraits, paintings, and baubles small and large.

Some looked to be painted well, some looked god awful, and some looked as plain as day. As for the baubles, there were a variety of things like a sword or something. One of them was even a deer head with antlers-a stag-plastered against a wall overhead like a trophy of some kind.

In addition to those decorations, there were also a couple lamps hanging off of walls here and there, the flickering flames inside casting shadows of several standing structures and giving the tavern a warm, orange dimly lit hue.

As the masked man made his way through a couple wooden chairs and tables, he found himself in front of a makeshift bar. Wooden stools, at least six, lined up against it, quietly inviting him to sit down on one of them.

The moment he sat down, a glass of water slid towards his hands.

Looking up, a hooded crow-masked man saw who slid it to him.

A woman who seemed to be in her late twenties looked at him with her blue eyes. Wearing blue jeans, a brown wool women's jacket, and a white-gray T-shirt that looks to be washed too many times. She had her light brown hair tied up in a ponytail, and although her face had no wrinkles, there was a stress line on her forehead.

"This one was a bust again?" the barkeeper asked in a somewhat bored, knowing tone and look with raised eyebrows.

"It certainly was," the man agreed. "After all, it was bought cheaply."

"Uh-huh..." she said deadpanned, dragging the "huh" part out. "Never trusted those 𝗕𝘂𝗻𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝟯 cheapskates-don't give me that look. You know as well as I do what sort of people live there. Heh, maybe they're the ones who gave intel to the scavengers about you so they can lay in wait to jump you."

With that said, she eyed the large back that was strung over his shoulders.

'How did she know there was a look on my underneath his mask?' he thought.

The man didn't know, but maybe, just maybe...perhaps it was because they have known each other for a long time.

Before he could get a word in edgewise, the barkeeper continued the momentum.

"Although I know the leader there is a good person, the people who follow him...heh, let's say they're truly horrible. Alas whatever words I speak will go into one ear and out the other, for I also know you'll continue buying their cheap information. How long has it been since you've started trying to find...𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮?"

There was another knowing tone, and the masked man only shook his head for the inevitable conversation that was to appear as he began reaching for the glass of water.

"You..." she said slowly in a very, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 certain way, giving the man pause. "Why don't you give up. It's been so long-"

"I can't," he quietly, but firmly said. Although he said it in a somewhat soft manner, there was a sudden cold in the tavern, as though someone dropped tons of ice right behind their backs. "Not now, and not ever. I can't give up on them. After all...it's all my fault. I'm a sinner, and I must seek redemption."

With that said, he pushed back the stool he sat on, the four ends of its legs scraping against the wooden floor. With a simple nod towards the barkeeper, he swiftly turned to leave, his cloak billowing around him.

"Didn't even take a sip..." the barkeeper muttered, taking back the glass of water with a sigh.

As he opened the tavern door again, making the bell twinkle once more, he heard a faded voice behind him.

"You really can't let them go, can you? Poor, sad crow. Poor, lonely Corvus. Always alone, always searching."

...

Once again, with his hands in his pockets, Corvus found himself walking through the streets with only the company of the echoes of his footsteps.

Of course there were few people here and there, sitting or walking by with dirt and oil all over their hands, faces and clothes, but they too only took a glance before looking elsewhere.

Without looking too conspicuous, even if that was hard enough with his get up, he walked in another alleyway.

This time it was hard to dodge the puddles, and so he inevitably stepped on one, splashing its contents onto the side.

Whether it was water or a different substance, he didn't want to know.

Finally, after walking for some time, he arrived in front of another building.

It was a run down looking place, and only those with esoteric purposes would be here, and yet the dim yellow-blue lights shining from within tell a different story.

Slightly ducking underneath a tilted sliding door, Corvus came into view of what would be a ransacked grocery store. Once a nearly picture perfect store, now filled with grime, dirt, and shadows. The dim, fluorescent lighting on the ceiling flickering on and off, creating the picturesque imagination of the place before him seemingly somewhat eerie to the paranoid.

Litter lay here and there, and many shelves and such were broken, either lying in a tilted manner or laying flat down on the floor.

Then there was the music, which is mostly common in all grocery stores, but alas, this one was like a broken radio. Perhaps it was classical music, or perhaps it was jazz, but nonetheless it is barely discernible due to the terrible, horrid, crackling warbled noises.

As the masked man looked around, he heard a voice to his right.

"This is a pawn shop, not a grocery store," someone said...like a tired, bored, broken record.

Corvus turned to look, and his eyes landed upon a gaunt man who had seen better days.

With greasy, dark brown hair, small eyes, a white shirt, and a dirty green apron, he looked as though he was done with this world. Him having his hands folded together on the counter whilst leaning back against a wall and sitting on a wooden chair helped his seemingly bored outlook on life.

Walking up to the counter, he set the large hiker's backpack onto the counter, and the owner's-or cashier's-hands, with swift and practiced movement, opened it.

Digging his hands here and there, he carelessly laid down on the counter all the items-well, nearly all the items.

He only merely raised an eyebrow as he took hold of a gun from the depths of the ragged backpack.

"Is this a…well, I guess it could be sold for scrap-wait."

The owner's eyebrows reached to the skies as his eyes bugged out.

"It's a working one?!"

"Got it off a scavenger. Well, the corpse of one," Corvus simply said as the round man looked at it in awe.

"Must be a rich one," the owner muttered, giving it a more detailed look over, twisting it here and there. "Well, you're right to bring it here. A working one will sell a lot..."

Then, he took out the magazine and peered into it. With a sigh, he slipped it back into the handgun.

"A pity there are no bullets, as they are pretty expensive these days..."

Saying that, he carefully placed it on the counter along with the rest of the times. With a sigh, he leaned over the counter and crossed his fingers together.

"Let's begin 'bargaining,' shall we?" the gaunt man said with a glint in his eyes.

Corvus leaned over as well, both his gloved hands locking together as a glint flashed within the black, glass eyes of the mask.

...

Later, to the spectators' eyes, they have caught sight of a scene where a smiling gaunt man seeing off a hunched over, hooded, crow-masked man, who appeared to walk listlessly into an alleyway.

...

After a long while, in some random, particularly dark alleyway a little off from a bustling road, Corvus planted his back against the wall and silently sighed.

Although he can still hear the chatters and bustlings of people a little ways off, it was muted enough so he could rest.

Sliding down, he simply plopped down onto the ground.

'Another day, another failure,' he thought, and he closed his eyes while his head leaned back against the wall, using it like an uncomfortably hard pillow.

It has always been like this. Ever since day one, he has been searching unwaveringly. He has always been searching alone, never truly reaching out for help, for it was his sin to atone-

𝘛𝘢𝘱.

𝘛𝘢𝘱.

𝘛𝘢𝘱.

Footsteps.

Footsteps that were growing louder.

Slowly, Corvus's head perked up as he looked towards his right.

From the somewhat busy street, an average-height hooded figure wearing a black cloak that covered the entirety of their body, from the head all the way down to their shoes.

With clear steps that reverberated around the close walls, they steadily walked forward and forward.

Corvus eye's laid on the figure for a second longer before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall once again.

The increasingly loud footsteps grew louder and louder as they approached. Just as it reached its peak it suddenly came to a halt. Corvus, who had looked back down, looked slowly back up, forcing his neck to bend backwards.

His eyes looked deep into the hood, but the dark alleyway shadowed all of the hooded figure's face.

No one with ordinary, human eyes could see through the dark veil that is known as darkness.

"I hear..." they said in a raspy voice. "That you're looking for a...specific type of mutant."

Corvus continued silently looking up at him-a silent gesture to continue. What was one more?

"Is the mutant you seek in particular...one of the 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴? One that some would say...a '𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴?'" the mysterious hooded figure whispered.

The masked man then 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 looked at him.

"How do I know it's not simply a rumor?" he asked. "A piece of information that holds no credib-"

Then, he stopped.

Not like the "stop" where one's mouth hung open, nor is it the kind where the words were caught in one's throat.

Instead, Corvus only looked. He couldn't help but look, for there was something in the informant's outstretched hands.

His heart beated quite loudly, though not in a hurried manner. Just loud enough where only he could hear it.

At the center of their gloved hands was a trace he's been following for a long time.

A black crow's feather.