Chapter Text
If there was one thing to be said about District 87, it was that it fucking sucked. But that was as obvious as an avian could fly. The people sucked, the buildings sucked, the roads sucked, everything about it was one large shithole stacked on top of a shithole. That much could be said.
It got even worse when it got colder. The sidewalks became slick and icy, and the roads became sludgy and gross, as if the sewage system itself had clogged up and spilled through the grates and onto the streets. It was without the smell though, thankfully enough.
The cold itself was bitch-all too, and it was steadily creeping up on them. Showing itself in the lingering morning chill and the taste of autumn that swept through with the wind. With the trees that rarely dotted the pavement being tipped yellow and gold at the edges, and interspersed with green, and the already fallen leaves beginning to litter the sidewalk.
Overall, it was starting to get cold.
However, what sucked even more than the cold, was the building they were in; a decrepit, falling-apart-at-the-beams building that was as much of a shithole as the district it resided in. There was graffiti all over the walls, there was rubble strewn all over the floor, the windows were cracked at best or broken at worst, with its broken pieces scattered like a dance partner with the rubble, and there was no insulation. It was fucking cold, and that was only the beginning of Kal’s list of complaints.
Which he made quite clear to his partner of the night, who was just as much of a bitch as the building was. Loudly and whiningly.
“Would you quit your bitching?” Ames snapped after Kal cursed about the building for the nth time, and kicked a metal pole at his feet. His only saving grace was that he was less of a bitch than Tate was, gods forbid Kal was partnered up with him. “Gods, you’ve been at it all night!”
Kal sneered at him, his fingers curled until his knuckles were white around his elbows. He tugged his jacket closer to him and shifted his weight, his feet were starting to kill him. “Well, so-rry that I’m not so merry about being in one of the shittiest districts in the city. Out of all the places, we had to go to eighty-seven?” Of course, the quality of the district and building was only the icing on the cake.
No, no, the best part was the gods-damn vigilantes in the area. Because of course, no shithole district couldn’t be without its justice-driven, vicious brand of weapon-toting vigilantes. District 83 had it with that Slime fella and his creepier partner, Amythica, and District 87 had its guardian Archangel.
“I’m going to strangle you.” Ames hissed, and Kal didn’t doubt for a moment that he would. He looked ready to, anyways. “You’re the biggest idiot known to man. We’re in District 87 because it’s a rundown shithole. The lack of hero maintenance and city maintenance means that it’s easier to hold and transport cargo around. There aren’t any abandoned buildings in the upper districts that won’t be the immediate target of every hero agency in a ten mile radius when villain activity hits their radar.”
“I know that!” Kal hissed back with as much vitriol as he could manage, “But did we have to be in the district with a vigilante in it?” Seriously, Phantom was here too — Kal had done his research, damn you, he knew who the bastard was — and so was that other hero he couldn't remember the name of, and Philza was here as well! Even just Archangel was enough to make him twitchy, but with three heroes and one vigilante renowned for his grudge against their kinda scene, Kal couldn’t help but be paranoid!
Ames did nothing but sneer at him. Kal sneered back, and started talking again when Ames opened his mouth. “And don’t forget his partners in crime!” Er, that is, fighting crime. “What’s-their-face and what’s-his-name.”
“Archangel doesn’t have partners in crime.” Ames scoffed, and Kal nearly scoffed at him in return. Leave it to Ames to not do his paperwork on the district they’d been inhabiting. “The only other hero we need to worry about is Philza, but by the time he figures out we’re here, we’ll already be long gone.”
“Bullshit, I think—” Whatever he had to say next was interrupted by the familiar static crackle of the walkie-talkie hooked to his and Ames’ jacket’s front pocket. That was probably the comm head, and shooting a withering glare at Ames, Kal pulled it off his jacket and brought the device to his face.
“Group G, report.” Whitlock ordered through the speaker, their voice interspersed with the familiar faint bits of static that came with using a walkie-talkie. Kal rolled his eyes, and pushed an irritated huff through his lips as his thumb drifted over the PTT, before pressing down on it.
It clicked quietly, and the static hummed louder. “Everything’s all quiet here, sir. No signs of nothing.” He said, preening slightly in smug satisfaction that he managed to keep the contempt out of his voice. His thumb came off the button just in time for Ames to scoff at him. Kal shot him another glare. If only looks could kill.
“Good,” Came back as Whit’s curt retort, “in ten minutes rotate to the next group on the north side.” And just like that, the talkie clicked again and fell silent. Short, and straight to the point. Ames rolled his eyes again and shoved it back into its place on his pocket.
“Prick.” He muttered, before loosing a sigh out of his chest, and stretching out his knees. He winced when they popped loudly, and uncomfortably, but couldn’t deny that he felt better afterward. The only reason they had to do these dumb rotations was because of Archangel and his partners. Trafficking wasn’t easy, but of course it could be always made harder. At least Jericho was smart enough to do their damn research and put in some precautions if the guy ever decided to show up.
Surveying the hallway, Kal couldn’t stop the upturn scowl of his mouth at the dump. Their only source of light was the hazy yellow glow of the street lamps and light pollution outside, and even that was muted by the buildings sandwiching the one they were in on all sides. Nonetheless, it filtered poorly through what remained of those grimy windows.
He felt like he was in a damn horror movie, waiting for the monster to jump out and devour him whole. They’d been given flashlights, but were strongly advised using them unless necessary. Probably to avoid drawing attention from stragglers outside. Not that Kal would know anybody who would willingly take a stroll down the city street at bum-fuck o’clock at night. Especially not in district 87.
“I’m going to stretch my legs.” He announced, shaking out his legs again to get rid of some of the stiffies in them, and delightedly ignoring Ames hissy, indignant, what? “I’m losing the feeling in my legs and if I don’t get some blood flowing, I’m gonna pass out.” He said, matching Ames’ glare-for-glare, and an air of you can’t stop me.
“We need to stay at our posts.” Ames argued, as if that was going to stop Kal from doing what he wanted. Truly, Ames was probably reaching the end of his rope, something that Kal took vicious vindication with. Good, he’d been annoying him all night.
“I’m just going down the hallway and back,” he replied, “it won’t take more than five minutes.”
“And we need to be rotating in ten.” Ames said, stressing the word as if it had any little importance to Kal. It didn’t. If they needed to rotate by the time he finished his little walk, then he’d just walk in the north side direction. Easy as that. Ames was being a senseless little worrywart.
“Like I said,” Kal said in a tone of ‘I don't get what you’re saying,’ “less than five.” With that said, he turned on his heel and walked away before Ames could wrap his hands around his throat.
The hallway was as he expected it to be; dark, creepy, and hitting all of his ‘get the hell out now’ buttons. His footsteps echoing against the walls only amped up the creepy factor, and it pricked his spine up as much as it soothed him. Heels clicking against the floor was a good sign, as long as the footsteps belonged to him. Broken glass crunched under his feet every time he passed a window, and rubble pebbles skittered against the floor.
He made it nearly the full length down the hallway before deciding to turn back around. Facing back towards Ames, Kal squinted into the distance to try and make out his figure — the hallway had shrouded itself in shadows like a noble woman’s shawl, taking what had already been black-as-night, into an even finer black that reminded him of silk. Kal rubbed his eyes, trying to convince himself it was just a side effect of standing around for so long; some form of black spots and stars that he hadn’t noticed on his way down.
When the silk-like shadows didn’t fade with the meat of his palms, apprehension began to tickle up his spine like tv static. His eyes flickered between the windows and the hallway, was it possible for the night to have gotten darker? Was there a blackout that happened, and he didn’t notice? No way, Whit would have commed in. Ames would have shouted for him. Or maybe not, he was a dick.
“Ames.” He called down the hall, a wary hand drifting towards the hilt of the gun on his hip. What if it was some kind of trick by Archangel? Could he even do that? Nobody knew what species he was, so no one knew what his abilities were. But he didn’t know any species capable of creating liquid shadow. Kal was just… tired. Yeah, tired. It was late; he’d been awake for hours. Exhaustion was weighing on him like the sky.
Still, he kept his hand near his gun and steadily crept down the hallway, eye flickering to every little nook and cranny he couldn’t see. His once echoing footsteps now fell short, as if the shadows themselves were lapping up the sound before it could even hit the wall. His heart rate spiked without him wanting it to, and his breaths came out shaky.
“Ames.” He called again in a much lower hiss, hunching into himself and feeling too much like a cat creeping forward and trying to catch a mouse. The hairs pricking at the back of his neck whispered that he was the mouse, not the cat, and the cat was something much larger than he could ever hope to be. “Quit being a petty bitch, where did you go?”
His eyes flickered between the windows and the further remaining hallway before him again, his lungs stuttering when his eyes reflected back at him in the murky glass. There was something wrong with it; his pupils were too wide, the hallway too dark. He was going to be swallowed whole and there was nothing he could do about it. Something was wrong, something was wrong, sOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Crunching glass broke him out of his daze, and Kal flinched violently away from the window, swiveling his head frantically as his back hit the wall — since when had he stumbled back so far? “WHO’S THERE!?” He yelled, fingers fumbling for his gun and — and it wasn’t there. It had been right there. Cold horror washed over him like a bucket of ice, his head dropping to the hilt and palms patting over his legs, eyes scouring the ground. Where— where had it gone.
WRONG WRONG WRONG
Static filled his ears, like an old tv that didn’t work had sucked him inside it. It was laughing at him, the shadows were laughing at him. It lurched at him, swirling and swooping like black birds of prey diving and a monstrous storm about to eat everything in its path. He didn’t understand. Kal’s head spun, as if he’d been stuck on an ever-spinning carousel of hell that only stopped to buck him off and laugh.
He was stuck in a room with a monster he couldn’t even see. It was laughing at him, he could hear it. In the corners of his mind and in every nook and cranny and shadow, a monster was laughing at him.
He heard a soft thump behind him, and before he could turn around, his world went black.
“Where the Hells is Team A?” Jericho hissed, their boots clicking in a repetitive cycle across the floor as they paced back-and-forth, back-and-forth in front of the only entrance to the kids inside. Tension lined their shoulders like a board, their face scrunched in a truly vicious scowl that bared their sharp canines.
Whitlock pursed his lips tightly, watching his boss try and become a pendulum from all their back-and-forth. “I haven’t heard word from any other teams either, the last contact I had was with Team C down the west side.” And that had been five minutes before they were due for a rotation. Whitlock had a feeling for the reason why all their groups had gone radio silent, but he wasn’t going to voice it. Jericho looked ready to murder something already.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Jericho snapped, stopping in their tracks to throw Whitlock a nasty glare that would have lesser men shaking. Whitlock wasn't a lesser man, but he did shift uncomfortably under their reflective red eyes. When he didn’t answer, Jericho snarled wordlessly and went back to pacing a hole through the cement.
“We were so fucking careful!” Jericho shouted, their hands clenched into fists before throwing up into the air wildly. “We did everything right, what happened?”
Whitlock, wisely, didn’t comment, and shared a look with a nervous guard stationed by the door. He wouldn’t deny, he’d had some hope that they’d pull it off — a trafficking scheme in District 87, right under the infamous Archangel’s vigilant eye. But, apparently, unsurprisingly, Archangel had found out about it, and was here to unleash his vengeance unto them all. They could probably consider themselves lucky that Archangel, at least, wasn’t a murderous vigilante.
“Things were easier when Asphodel was still lurking around, you know?” And oh, Whitlock rolled his eyes, they were on this tangent again. He checked the mentally tally he kept in his head, this was, what, the hundredth time they’ve ranted about this since Asphodel fell? Three-hundred-and-forty-sixth time, if he wanted to be exact.
“Of course, Jericho.” He said, biting back a tired sigh. From the corner of his eye, he saw both guards stiffen at the mention of Asphodel, their eyes growing wide like a fish’s. He eyed them closely, they didn’t have the same arsenal as they used to when Asphodel was around — many of them either dead or retired, or imprisoned. Asphodel tended to be a tricky subject in the underground, with as many people loving it as much as they hated it. All for different reasons. He’d keep an eye on them, just in case they decided to start problems.
“We didn’t have to worry about justice-loving vigilantes and the heroic ilk. Asphodel would set up a meeting point, and all we’d have to do was gather the brats they wanted to experiment on, ship them off, and get paid. Easy! Now, we have to be careful, like we’re rats scurrying through the shit of the city.” They continued, in the peak of their rant. Their voice echoed through the room, and if Whitlock had the energy, he’d tell them to cut it out before someone heard them.
Archangel was already here though, he could feel it down in his bones. It was only a matter of time before he showed his face.
He continued side-eyeing the guards, and although he’s heard the same rant more times than he cared to admit, Jericho was right. Things had been easier all those years ago when Asphodel was still around. All they needed to do was set up a secure meeting point with Asphodel, kidnap a few kids that they needed (always from a list of species they gave them), meet up, and hand over the brats.
Whitlock didn’t know why they needed kids specifically, he never had the courage to ask — they always dressed the same. Always dressed in painful, stark white suits with the outlines of two asphodel stems over the heart, always wearing white, full-face masks. It was unnerving.
Jericho’s rant was getting long, anyways, so Whitlock cleared his throat and drew their attention on him (and ignoring their razor-sharp “What?”), “I agree, however, I think we should focus on the matter at hand.” He said, flicking his eyes around the room for good measure — he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but that was easily changeable at a moment’s whim. “And that is making sure Archangel doesn’t kick our ass.”
There were three guards stationed here, all three with guns, and then Jericho and Whitlock. However, Archangel had two partners he showed up with during these busts, so that evened out the playing field somewhat. The five of them still had guns though, and a mortal being was still vulnerable to a bullet, no matter how fancy their fighting skills. And, as vigilantes, Whitlock doubted they had access to the same quality of protection that heroes did.
But… the three of them had already taken out their teams, all of them equipped with guns, and nobody knew what Archangel’s ability was, even if he had one, and he didn’t know what his partners’ abilities were either. There was some speculation that one of them was a creeper, but nothing on the other one. It made him uneasy. There were a lot of unknowns in the inevitable fight, Whitlock didn’t like unknowns.
Jericho stared, before they sighed, grumbling quietly under their breath and knocking Whitlock out of his thoughts. “You’re right.” They said, any previous anger melting out of their shoulders as they ran a hand through their hair. “It’s annoying, but you’re right.”
I normally am, he thought smugly, watching as Jericho whirled on the guards with a pointed finger. “You three. Constant. Vigilance.” They said sharply, startling the three (and getting an eye roll out of Whitlock. His eyes were going to lock into the back of his head at some point, honestly.) as they all rapidly stood at attention. The three nodded out of sync.
“If you see anything out of the ordinary, speak up about it.” Jericho continued, eyes narrowing dangerously, “We don’t have the time for you to be too cowardly to talk.” Which was true, Archangel could arrive any moment, or appear at any second. Him and his partners both. They had to be prepared. “And for fuck’s sake, do not shoot unless you know you’ll hit them.”
The guards nodded frantically again, and Jericho turned away. Whitlock eyed them for a few seconds, before also pulling his attention away.
Seconds ticked by into minutes, tension filling the air like ozone before a lightning strike, and Whitlock tried to keep his breathing steady, it helped clear his head of the anxiety stuffed like cotton in his chest. The silence was suffocating, but he didn’t dare make a sound, partially out of fear that it would be swallowed up, and partially from not wanting to miss a single misstep that the vigilantes could make.
Their silence was unnerving. He’s never known vigilantes to wait before striking, especially not after taking out the rest of his people. Something felt wrong. “It’s too quiet.” He muttered, his grip on his gun was uncomfortable and damp, they’d begun sweating. Gross. Whitlock frowned, deeper, deeper, it was really quiet. He turned towards the guards, ignoring their startled tensing as he quickly strode towards the door behind them.
All night, all night, he’s been blocking out the scared cries and whimpers of the pint-sized brats they had locked behind that door. Muffled as it was, but sometimes one kid got a little bold and started to wail, much to the consternation and panic of their companions. A yelled threat or physical violence typically got them to shut up, but there was always some sort of nose buzzing behind him like white noise.
Not anymore, and he doesn’t think it’d been for a while. “What’s the problem, Whitlock?” Jericho asked, their voice low and dangerous.
“It’s too quiet.” He hissed, pointing the gun to the ground and dropping one hand to the doorknob, his fingers curling around the cool metal. His unease skyrocketed, something was wrong behind this door and in more ways than one, his senses hissing low that he shouldn’t open it. It swirled low in his gut, like nausea that followed starvation and made the space behind his eyes pulse with the mock of a headache. Don’t open the door, his instincts warned, instincts that he usually followed because seldom they’ve been wrong.
The door clicked, and he swung it open with a sense of abandon he normally didn’t have, his instincts peaked into a high-pitched wailing that reminded him too much of a siren going off. He almost wished he’d listened, maybe it could have saved him the trouble in the long run. On the other end of the door, there wasn’t a room. Which shouldn’t be right, there was a room of children just a few minutes ago. Although, something told him they hadn’t been inside for a while. Curses fell off his lips, only followed by Jericho and the guards’ cursing as well.
There wasn’t a room on the other side of the door, but a gaping black maw of nothing instead. As if someone had replaced it with a blackhole. It churned revoltingly, slowly, tinges of purple sliding through it before disappearing, like a sea serpent slipping beneath the water. Rising horror crept through his chest like long, creepy hands curling bony, spindly fingers and claws around his heart. It was terrible. Whitlock felt his stomach hitch and turn, like a wave pool slowly pumping out waves and rocking him up and down. It was wrong, disgustingly so. He turned away with a gag, stumbling to try and get back.
“What is that?” One of the guards whispered, sounding curious, but not nearly as horrified as Whitlock felt. What’s wrong with them? He thought, blinking a rise of tears out of his eyes. Can’t they see how disgusting it is? Hadn’t they noticed that Whitlock was about to throw up at the sight of it? He couldn’t even bring himself to look at it, the back of his fist covering his mouth delicately as he threw a glare at the guard who spoke.
“Does it matter?” Jericho snapped, saying what Whitlock was thinking but couldn’t say on account to the tight feeling in his throat. Whitlock felt only marginally vindicated when the guard flinched, his attention snapped away from the portal-vortex- thing to Jericho. “It’s blocking the fucking way to the kids.” They needed access to the brats, for leverage against Archangel and his crones, if anything else.
The guard shrunk back, embarrassed, and turned to the vortex-thing again, eyeing the— the thing warily before approaching slowly. Whitlock kept his back turned away, not trusting himself not to vomit if he laid eyes on it again. What’s wrong with me? He thought, he still felt nauseous. Jericho shot him looks, ranging from insistent to annoyed, to perhaps even a little concerned. Which didn't help their predicament in the slightest, but it was nice to know that Jericho appreciated Whitlock a little.
Soft footsteps stopped, and Whitlock could only assume that the guard was standing in front of the portal now, and the image of it flashing through his brain was enough to nearly make him dry heave. A few seconds passed, and he faintly heard Jericho’s annoyed, ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’.
Not as many seconds passed, but it was enough for Whitlock to squeeze his eyes shut, tense his jaw, and turn back around to face the portal again. He opened his eyes again — ignoring his stomach turning with disgust at the portal, just a few seconds, he needed to see. He needed to — and saw the guard hesitantly tilt the nozzle of his gun forward, dipping it into the liquid black mercury.
Too many things happened at once.
First, the black tar lurched out of the portal, somehow made of slime and vapor at the same time, and grabbed the guard’s gun. Cries of alarm rose out of his and everyone else’s throats, the tarred shadow bubbling and dripping down the neck and barrel, solidifying and melting, before lurching to the side and stealing the gun right out of the guard’s hand. It swallowed the weapon with nothing more than a disgusting squish.
Second, as the guard’s gun was being stolen, the edges of the portal shot forward, covering the wall and floor like a pond freezing over in rapid time. Whitlock threw himself back, tripping over his ankles and landing against the floor with a thud, pain rocketing up his spine and over his shoulders. Before he could even think of moving, a wispy shadow wrapped around his foot and coiled up his leg like a vine, cool and smooth, with a texture he couldn’t recognize but had him dry heaving anyways. Another shadow wrapped around his waist, keeping him to the floor, and a third and final shadow stole his gun as well, and it too, disappeared.
Third, as this was happening, Whitlock watched as the other guards and Jericho threw themselves back as well, trying to stumble away from the black nothing. The guard standing by the once-door didn’t even have the chance or option to get away, as if he was being petrified, liquid shadow inched up his legs, trapping him in place. Terror etched itself like a wrinkle on his face, and he wiggled and yelled, as if that was going to help him. The shadow didn’t swallow him whole, however, it’s silk-like liquidity hardening like sap at his waist.
Dripping spider thread lashed from the liquid mirror beneath their feet, curling tightly around the ankle of one of the guards and lashing him upwards, stealing the ground beneath his feet and dangling him in the air. The guard thrashed and yelled, shouting obscenities as the gun fell from his hands in surprise and was eaten into the ground below.
Another thread, wispy and tendril-like, rose like a tree root in front of the foot of the other guard, tripping her. As she fell to the floor, more shadows rose out and grabbed her wrists, like chains, and forced them to the ground. Her fingers dipped into the shadows, panic flashing over her face as she tugged and pulled in a futile attempt to free herself. The shade chains didn’t let her go, crawling up her arms like an infection and stopping at her elbows, wriggling and twisting like little worms in the mud. Distracted, Whitlock saw her gun being pickpocketed by a thin shadow.
And finally, Jericho, they had gotten the furthest away from the flow, but in the end, nothing could outrun a vast nothing. Like a vengeance, or the snapping jaws of a snake, black tendrils shot forward and grabbed them. It grabbed their wrists, their feet, wrenching their arms behind their back and forcing them to a stop. Jericho yelled and threw their head from side to side, and Whitlock didn’t doubt they’d dislocate their arms if they could. If it meant freeing themself.
In the end, it meant nothing, upon making contact the shadows bubbled like boiling lava, burping out air pockets as it creeped up Jericho’s arms and legs, clawing its way up their limbs like dripping hot tar and mud. The shadows still moved even as it covered Jericho, swirling like a lazy galaxy. It stopped at their shoulders, and all the way up their legs.
From the rafters, two figures dropped to the floor, and all struggling ceased.
Whitlock could recognize one of them. Archangel. His heart sank to his ass, defeat slumping through his bones. He’d never seen the vigilante before, which he supposed had to be a good thing. Well, had being the keyword.
His feet landed on the ground with ease and absolute silence, knees bending into a graceful crouch that could belie a cat. His partner even more so. Whitlock craned his neck to get a better look at Archangel’s partner — although with the dim lighting and the shadows flickering around them like the tip of a fire, it was hard to tell.
Their face was covered with a mask similar to Archangel’s, with a pair of air filters on both sides of their face shaped like hexagons. Although… with the yellow that he could barely see accenting it, Whitlock could probably say a honeycomb pattern would be more fitting. Through the ridiculous bangs covering some of their face, Whitlock could make out similarly honeycomb-shaped goggles as well, a yellow tintage preventing him from seeing through.
They were wearing an aviator jacket, their hands shoved deep into their pockets the moment they were properly standing up, and they were shorter than Archangel by a few inches. Speaking of which, Whitlock couldn’t help but scoff and give Archangel a once over, “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.” He said, tensing as both vigilantes turned their heads to him in eerie unison.
“And yet, somehow, I’m still looking down on you.” Archangel retorted calmly, his voice deep and distorted, like two voices overlapping each other. Probably in no thanks to the voice modulator covering his mouth. Whitlock couldn’t stop the uneasy shiver that crawled up his spine. Everything he’d heard about Archangel made him out to be a sarcastic with the dry quips to spare, except, the vigilante that stood before him now was all silence. Even with the mask and goggles obscuring his face, Whitlock could feel the disdain roiling off him like heat waves.
“Where the fuck are my men, you piece of shit!” Jericho snarled, and Archangel’s reflective gaze turned off Whitlock — much to his relief — and onto the furious Jericho. Not that Whitlock thought it was a good idea for Jericho to be speaking at all, but it did him some favors.
He watched as Archangel’s partner departed from his side, walking over to the various, entrapped guards, and grabbing them by their clothes and pulling them around. The shadows, much to Whitlock’s surprise, and unsurprise, moved with them easily, a small tendril even coiling lovingly around their waist.
It’s one of their doing, then, he thought, switching his gaze between both vigilantes. Was it Archangel’s?
“Alive,” Archangel replied curtly, his voice like ice, “which is more than I think they deserve.”
Whitlock shivered again, Jericho snarled again, sounding like a raging beast as they tried to writhe out of their blackened restraints. “Are you too much of a coward to kill, then?” They sneered. Whitlock’s mind blanked, and he balked at Jericho — it was already a blessing that Archangel wasn’t the murderous sort of vigilante, Whitlock didn’t want to test his mortality by egging him on!
“Are you just as self-righteous as those fucking heroes are? You think you’re better than everyone else just because you choose not to kill?” Jericho sneered again, and bared their teeth in a mock-type smile.
Archangel was silent, which Whitlock thought as the deadliest kind of threat. His head tilted emotionlessly to the side, and Jericho settled back with a smug leer. His silence isn’t a victory, Whitlock thought, swallowing dryly.
“You’re right.” He said, and shock shot through Whitlock’s ribs like a pinball. Out of anything, he wasn’t expecting Archangel to admit so willingly. Vigilantes and heroes alike tend to have the worst of egos and pride, and he knew Jericho was surprised as well. “I do think I’m better than the heroes, but not because I don’t kill.”
The shock faded fast back into unease, there it was. Whitlock tried to keep his breathing steady. He barely noticed as shadows curled over his wrists and held him down, his attention solely on Archangel. He only noticed when he felt a hand grab the scruff of his shirt and begin pulling him across the ground with ease. He made a noise of surprise, and looked up to see Archangel’s partner dragging him, not even bothering to look at him.
“And you’re wrong,” Archangel continued, and Whitlock’s attention was back on him, “there are heroes who kill all the time, it’s just never revealed, and when it is, it’s always unfairly justified. I know how to kill, Jericho, I know how to kill easily. It’s a choice that’s just as much of one as not killing.”
“I could kill you right now.” And oh, if those words didn’t have Whitlock’s blood running cold, and then flashing back hot. Jericho’s face paled, and Archangel’s partner let go of his shirt and moved away. “I could kill you and not even feel guilty for it, I think you’d deserve it. I’m not, though, and I won’t.”
“Why?” Jericho asked, the anger suddenly puffing out of them like vapor. One’s mortality is a fragile thing, and to realize it is a gift and a curse wrapped with a pretty bow.
Archangel was smiling under that mask, Whitlock could feel it. And he knew, it was not a pretty thing in the slightest. Archangel walked forward, a ghost on his feet, until he could stop in front of Jericho and be only a few inches away from being nose-to-nose with them. “There are worse things than death. Prison being one of them.”
With that, Archangel walked away, turning to face his companion. His hand raised, and dipped under his hood, head tilting down and away from Whitlock and the others. The vigilante muttered something indecipherable, and then just like that, he lifted his head and dropped his hand. Whitlock didn’t know who he was talking to, but something reminded him of the third partner Archangel had.
That must be them, then, he thought regrettably.
Barely a minute later, Whitlock’s attention was drawn to the nearby wall, horror returning like bile in his throat as the shadows holding them in place (the guard that had been dangling by the foot had, at some point that Whitlock didn’t realize, been put down) melted grossly off them, leaving only restraints behind that Whitlock didn’t even bother to try and struggle out of.
The shadows coalesced to the wall, slowly beginning to turn and turn like a merry-go-round, or perhaps a galaxy, as he noted slips of purple slipping through again. It grew and grew from a small speck in the center, and then into a proper galactic portal.
“Oh my gods.” Whispered the guard next to him, now sounding properly horrified, a contrast to earlier. Whitlock nodded lamely, his throat thick with fear of the Other. Once the portal stopped growing, a few beats passed where Whitlock could hear his heart pounding on his chest.
Then, a hand appeared out of the portal, an entirely black, gloved one, that reached forward slowly. Whitlock’s breath hitched, irrational terror screeching up his stomach until he had to bite back a cry behind his teeth. An arm appeared, covered in black just as the hand was, nearly blending into the shades behind if it weren’t for the faint glow of the portal. Then, a head pushed through, tilted down as a leg and a foot followed after it.
The portal clung to the new figure, shadows leeching off it, as if trying to pull it back inside, before snapping off like breaking rubber bands. The— the thing was dressed in all black, and Whitlock was half-convinced that it wasn’t just draped in pure shadows. Half its face was covered by a shadowy hood, and it crawled out of the portal like a monster from a horror movie. Panic grew in Whitlock’s chest like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, and he bit his tongue to hold back a whimper.
It emerged fully, and Whitlock could’ve wailed as Archangel walked past him to approach it. He’s going to get us all killed, he thought hysterically, Archangel lied, he’s going to kill us.
“Void.” Archangel addressed the creature, and beneath Whitlock’s panic, he couldn’t help but find the name fitting. Archangel stopped before the tall creature, and it towered over the vigilante, its head bowed to look down at Archangel. Whitlock’s never seen something so tall before. It was terrible.
The thing fucking rumbled, its voice deeper than Archangel’s and seemingly coming from every direction. It sounded like a blackhole. A bone-deep shudder ripped through Whitlock’s chest, and he could see his companions do the same. Its head tilted to the side, and Whitlock couldn’t tell if it was addressing Archangel, or if it was curious about what it had to say.
Archangel was unfazed by the creature’s horrifying noise, and Whitlock didn’t understand how. “Have the police been contacted?” He asked, and Whitlock balked at him. Police. Police? He had whiplash, what a mundane, stupid question to ask a freak of nature. It was nearly laughable, the shock and confusion nearly forcing a hysterical chuckle out of his throat. But above that, he couldn’t help but be relieved. Archangel wasn’t going to get the Void to kill them.
“Yes.” The Void spoke, spoke, its voice low and distorted like Archangel’s was, it was like an earthquake, like a star, and it rattled through Whitlock’s bones much like one. But at the same time as it rumbled, it hissed, coming in through the shadows like an echo, and he could have sworn he heard quiet, hissy laughter. His heart spiked at the sound. “They’re on their way right now.”
Prison seemed like a refuge compared to ever having to face that thing again, and Whitlock could have laughed again, bitterly. Archangel was right, there were some things worse than death. But prison wasn’t one of them.
In the breakroom, Tommy leaned against Wilbur’s chest, casually scrolling through his phone while Wilbur’s arm was hooked over his shoulder. “Hey, Toms?” Wilbur asked, his voice light and curious. Tommy hummed, not pausing to look up from his phone. “Did you hear that Jericho and their gang were arrested last night?”
Okay, now Tommy paused. “Yeah, I saw it on the news on my way to the Agency.” He said, dipping his phone back to tilt his head up at Wilbur. It wasn’t technically a lie either, since he had seen it on his phone while on the subway. Although he conveniently left out that he’d been there to bust them.
Last night was tiring, but rewarding. He didn’t have to fight anyone, something he couldn’t say for every time they went to bust a trafficking ring, and he only had the soreness from running to show for it. No bruises! Ranboo’s umbrakinesis was useful, although he’d used it so much that he was suffering a pretty mean migraine for it, but it didn’t cause nearly as much memory loss as his teleportation did. The memory thing was getting better though, so at least they had that.
They’d taken out the patrolling henchmen before sneaking into the room where the kids were being kept. Jericho and their right-hand had been saved for the very last, and Ranboo used his shadows to block the sound from the room the kids were in. They had to take a few minutes to calm down the especially frightened little ones, but the older kids knew who they were, so they were able to help with calming them down.
There was one kid, a thirteen year old skulker named Ant (short for Anthony, he said), that promised to help keep the group entertained and distracted while Tommy and the others dealt with Jericho. Tommy had ruffled his hair and ignored the fact that Ant was only two years younger than him.
“I heard Archangel was there.” Wilbur continued, leaning down and resting his chin on Tommy’s forehead with a cheeky little smile. Tommy scrunched his nose up and made an annoyed noise, twisting around to rest his cheek on Wilbur’s shoulder instead, the tip of his nose nearly touching his neck. From the corner of his eye, he could see WIlbur begin to smile. “And Philza too.”
Now, Tommy made a really annoyed noise, not bothering to hide the roll of his eyes. Yeah, he remembered, he’d seen the guy arrive with the police, and Tommy had hurried up with his police report as fast as he could. Philza looked like he wanted to talk to him, and that was the last thing Tommy wanted. He booked it out of there just as he saw Philza begin to approach him.
He felt, more than saw, Wilbur pause. He did see him frown though, his brows furrowed in confusion. Tommy was tempted to tell him that he’d get more wrinkles if he kept making that face, and nearly did, but Wilbur spoke before Tommy could. “I thought you liked Philza, Tommy?” He said, looking down at him as he brushed a hand through the back of Tommy’s curls.
“I used to.” He said, scrunching his nose up again. Wilbur’s hand moved through his hair soothingly, which was enough to nearly distract him from his dislike of Philza. Nearly being the keyword, “But then he decided to come into the District. What’s going on here is none of his business, and we all know it's because he wants to arrest Archangel.” Which was the only actual truth he could give Wilbur that didn’t give away who he was.
He didn’t know why Wilbur looked vaguely uncomfortable, his lips pursed into a thin line, but Tommy could recognize the ‘you just made a good point and I don’t know how to refute it’ face from a mile away. Wilbur’s hand drifted to rub behind his ear, and whatever thoughts Tommy had next drifted away with a relaxed sigh, tilting his head into Wilbur’s shoulder and letting his eyes slip closed.
…Only to peel one back open. “I’dunno, Tommy, don’t you work with him?” Wilbur asked. Tommy didn’t know why Wilbur cared so much, usually he didn’t care about the other heroes, and actively hated any that came into the District. He still remembers the ten minute long rants he had when it was a trend amongst the hero agencies to try and catch Archangel. (Which was really nice to hear and firmly cemented Wilbur in Tommy’s ‘Favorite People List’, just below Ranboo and Tubbo.)
(...Something that he was not gonna dwell on nor on what it meant, considering what happened last time. That was a bag of cats he could reopen later — or, hopefully never.)
“I work in the same building as him, Wil,” he corrected, “it doesn’t mean I see him everyday. I’m in the management department, not the hero department. I’m pretty sure the amount of times I’ve talked to him can be counted on one hand.” Not counting the times he’s spoken to him as Archangel, which was less than that.
Wilbur was quiet, and Tommy hummed victoriously, letting his eye close again and snuffling into his shirt, more than happy to end the conversation where it was. “Just…” Wilbur trailed off, his voice quiet and contemplative, “give him a chance, sunshine. Please?”
…Dammit, Wilbur.
Tommy sighed, “I’ll think about it.” He mumbled, “I… I trust you.” Guess that bag of cats had to be opened someday, huh.