A metallic crackling rings out through the air, like hundreds of soda cans being crushed all at once. Spec looks around, surveying his new environment as red currents of excess liminal energy diffuse into the air around him. Not his cleanest noclip, but better than most.
Trees sway as a light wind sweeps over the temperate landscape of The Grove. Spec takes a deep breath as he adjusts his worn sack, and begins the trek towards the center of the ethereal plane. If this were any other mundane level, he'd just use his contacts to track a quick route through. Unfortunately, in areas oversaturated with liminal energy and "magic," the immediate feedback would blind him. He learned that the hard way years ago, when he turned them on in Level 389 and almost had a seizure.
Leaves crunch underneath Spec's sneakers as he makes his way forward. Even though he did his homework on the Wild Hunt and Herne, he still isn't convinced this level is entirely safe. Perhaps it's just the setting, or maybe it's because the idea of a level of hunters with nothing to hunt seems… off.
For this reason, he keeps his head on a swivel. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as a 'leisurely walk through the woods' in the Backrooms. As Spec ponders why he bothered getting himself into this situation, he sees a pair of antlers poking over the top of a fallen tree trunk.
"Finally. I was getting tired of the nothingness."
"Hello?" Spec calls out to the figure. "Shit… nothing? really? Dude, I'm here to chat with Herne… have you seen him around?" He tries again. Still nothing. "Well fuck, man. Be like that. I mean, I don't know what I did to you, bu—"
Spec's voice trails off as he approaches the hunter, realizing why he wasn't getting a response. The poor thing had been completely gored against a tree branch, seemingly having been dead for hours, maybe even days.
"Fuck this." Spec mutters, promptly doing a 360 to check his surroundings again. Nothing yet… but he can't shake the feeling something is watching him. He swears under his breath once more, silently cursing the properties of this place. It'd be so much easier to just give the area a quick scan to know what he's dealing with, but he can't. Fortunately, he doesn't have to wait long to get an answer, as a choked howl pierces his eardrums.
Spec does a double take, turning around once more. Sure enough, he finds himself staring down none other than the bane of wanderers itself: The Hound. Spec squints at the creature in the distance, trying to make out any other details. It seems like it's injured… the thing is limping, but its eyes still blaze with hatred. The hunter must have done quite a number on it.
"If it's injured, I might stand a chance of actually fighti— what the fuck am I saying. I ain't about to turn into a statistic."
Spec removes the glove from his right hand, exposing the silver metal of his prosthetic. He extends his hand palm forward, and the circle in the center begins to glow. "All right you gangly fuck, you want me? Come get me." Spec's palm illuminates, as the flashlight within begins to strobe rapidly. The bright flashes completely throw the lone hound off of its feet, disorienting it with head-splitting brightness. As the hound continues to writhe on the ground, Spec steps over the tree branch and continues walking away.
"The things you pick up from people here…" Spec thinks to himself, remembering a time Tom pulled the same trick on a pack of hounds that had interrupted them on one of their many escapades. Good times.
Spec reminisces about the good old days as he finds his way into the center encampment of The Grove, bringing himself back to reality. As he steps into the clearing, he feels the eyes of various humans and hunters alike bearing into his soul. This is far from his first encounter with the Hunt, and everyone seems to be wondering the same thing: "What the hell is he doing here?"
Not particularly interested in what the riffraff has to say, Spec makes his way over to Herne's hunting lodge, promptly rapping on the door a few times and patiently waiting for someone to answer. It isn't long before the door opens, revealing none other than Herne himself.
"Greetings. How may I be of— Ah. Spec. Whatever brings you to The Grove? It is not for refuge… Your time for a hunt is not for another season. So what brings you across my path?" The deer-headed man asks.
"It's a bit of a long story… may I come in?" Spec asks politely, his eyes flicking from left to right. The complete shift in behavior of Hunters in The Grove as opposed to the rest of the Backrooms makes him incredibly uneasy.
"But of course! It's always my pleasure to host such esteemed survivors of our hunts. Please, come inside and make yourself comfortable!" Herne steps aside, gesturing broadly for Spec to enter the lodge.
As Spec crosses the threshold, he finds himself in a well-furnished living room, decorated with various different furs, and with the heads of various different game animals mounted above the fireplace. It'd look like your average cozy winter residence, if it wasn't for the stuffed corpses of various different wanderers mounted on pedestals all around the house. Spec stares at the floor, fearing at any moment he might gaze upon the face of a long-lost friend or two. He tries to scrape the thoughts out of his mind as he sits down on a couch across from Herne.
"I'm just going to cut to the chase. I need a favor." Spec starts. "I've been trying for years at this point to make some god damn sense of everything— to really understand this… prison, place, whateverthefuck. I've harassed pretty much every reality warper in the phone book, traversed almost every level you can think of, all to no avail. I was about ready to give up, when I had a realization. I needed to start at the source. I needed to speak with someone who not only knew their stuff, but had the scars to prove it. I needed to speak with someone old. Someone who could remember the earliest days of this place."
Spec pauses for emphasis.
"Now, I couldn't go to the Lost. The Roman Legion still thinks I'm the god Vulcan, and refuses to change their mind. The rest of the lot just has a general distaste for me due to the… company I keep. I can't talk to anything on the Pantheon list. I mean fuck, I've already tried that. I was at least able to lock down Argos, but Kirai would only talk if I agreed to give him my body… creepy fuck. Anyways, I was out of options. Information all too inconsistent and contradictory, none of it helping in my goal of understanding this place's mechanics either. Just as I was starting to give up hope, it hit me: After all this time, I still hadn't talked to you. Sure, I'd survived your hunts a few times, and we'd exchanged words, but I never actually had a full-on interview."
Spec leans back, letting the words sink in.
"So, Herne. What do you say? Think you can do me a solid here?"
Herne gives Spec a knowing look. "Oh I would be delighted to… 'do you a solid.' But you know the rules. Everything for a price."
"Really? Even for a conversation between… acquaintances?" Spec says with a flat smile, tilting his head to the side. "Ah well… I kind of figured you would say that. So, what can I do you for?"
Herne emits a low chuckle before giving his reply. "You are entertaining. Why deny my Hunters such a fearsome quarry? This hunt will be… different."
Spec raises an eyebrow. "Fearsome quarry? Are you sure we're talking about the same guy here?" He sighs. In over his head again… what a surprise. "What do you mean by 'different?'"
Herne lowers his head, meeting Spec at eye level. "You are clever. But perhaps you rely too much on tricks, rather than your own ingenuity. For the information you seek, you would be stripped of all the power you horde to survive. You would be left with the clothes on your back and your wits. Although anything you scavenge, you can use."
Spec nods. "I see… so no flicking my wrist and sending your squad flying like usual. Are you going to make me go at this with only one arm, too?" Spec asks, holding up his right hand for emphasis.
Herne shakes his head. "Do you really think so little of me? An arm will be provided for you. Do you prefer wood, or bone?"
Spec rolls his eyes, waving his hand around. "Please. You already know this thing is fused to my flesh." Spec's eyes flash a bright shade of blue, and his forearm goes limp. "I suppose I'll have to take these out too…" He says, begrudgingly removing his contact lenses.
Herne gives a slight nod as he watches Spec disable or remove anything that would help him 'cheat.' From his prosthetic to his contacts, everything must go. The Huntmaster had no qualms with the technology, but this would be a special occasion… "We'll get the rest of your affairs in order on our end. It shall take me a few moments to gather those excited to hunt Spec the Clever. If you would excuse me, I shall find your opponents for the next two days."
Spec presses his remaining hand against his temple. "Now I remember why I fucking hate talking to this guy. 'Spec the Clever?' God I just want to crawl into a hole and die right now…" Despite his internal cringing, he speaks up one last time. "So do I get a grace period or something? A head start? How does this work?"
Herne smiles at him as he opens the door. "Oh, the game starts now. Once I gather the Hunters, they will immediately start seeking you out."
Spec decides this is good enough reason as any to make his leave. He's about to clip out, but he stops himself. "Am I allowed to clip myself out of here, or are you going to make me walk?" He inquires in a mildly annoyed tone.
Herne clicks his tongue. "Clip if you wish. Walk if you desire. It makes no difference to my Hunters how you choose to vacate the premises." Just as he's about to leave, Herne turns toward Spec one last time. "Oh, and Spec? Good luck on your hunt. I much look forward to seeing the outcome of this wonderous exchange!" With that, Herne exits his lodge, shutting the door on Spec.
Not wanting to waste a single second, Spec tears into his worn sack, grabbing the file on Leo Castellos and skimming through it as fast as he can. He was going to wait a while before opening it, but with the hunt in full swing, he absolutely had to speak with him.
"Leo Castellos is the curator and manager of his personal museum level… yadda yadda yadda… notes and bullshit, notes and bullshit, attempted interview logs… AH! here we are, known locations! Level 222…"
Spec curses, and shuts the file. Level 222 has extremely inconvenient exits for running from Hunters. Oh well, he supposes he'll have to get creative. He packs up his things, and after mentally running through a checklist of all he has to accomplish before being found, he makes his leave via noclipping himself into the center of Leo's museum.