Chapter Text
“Emiel, Dettlaff, meet Geralt and Eskel. They will be your escort.”
The room is small and concrete, lit with harsh, underground lighting that forces sharp shadows onto the vampires’ features and the witcher’s eyes into sharp slits.
The white haired, taller one, Geralt, Regis thinks, looks tense. His expression is carefully closed and his arms are folded as though trying to give an impression of ease. It’s not working. Behind the kevlar and bite-resistant bodysuit his heartbeat is muffled, but Regis can still hear clearly that it’s elevated. A sound of someone dropping an instrument two floors up reverberates down and Geralt twitches, his fingers tightening.
“A pleasure to meet you, Geralt, Eskel. Please, call me Regis,” Regis says, extending a hand tipped with claws to shake. Geralt’s nostrils twitch and he glances down at the hand, but he ends up clasping it firmly.
Eskel is less hesitant, offering a polite nod of the head along with the greeting. His heartbeat, Regis notes, is much closer to the almost lazy plod he’s come to expect from Witcher subjects. He also seems to think his kevlar breastplate and sternum are protection enough.
Dettlaff keeps his hands to himself, and neither witcher seems particularly upset about it.
“You have a long, nasty trek ahead gentlemen, so I would attempt to relax a little,” the director says, frowning at their interactions over her glasses and her clipboard. “I know you guys used to be on opposite sides but the outbreak has….severed old alliances shall we say.”
“Never anything personal,” Eskel says, ever the diplomat. “We hunt monsters. Seems that’s a varied definition now.”
The director looks weary and she rubs at her eyes. “Indeed it does, master witcher.” She glances over at Geralt and frowns slightly at him. “Will you be able to handle this assignment, Geralt?”
His expression is still tight, his arms still crossed, a deceiving position for anyone not familiar with a Witcher’s real abilities. Other men might assume that Geralt wouldn’t be able to reach his sword before someone else pulled a trigger, but they’d pay for that assumption dearly.
“They pass their vetting?” he grunts, those thin, black slits of pupil glancing at Regis and Dettlaff before turning back on the director. She pushes her glasses back up her nose and nods.
“They did, master Witcher. Neither has ingested human blood in the past twelve months.”
“Then no. No problems. Just don’t like being in a box.”
Ah, Regis thinks, glancing away so Geralt won’t feel as if he’s being studied. Claustrophobic. Or, at the very least, painfully tactical. Fighting two higher vampires in a space like this would be a suicidal endeavor.
“Alright. Shall we for the briefing then?” she asks, gesturing to the table. All four men take a seat. Two vampires on one side of the table, two witchers on the other. The director steps to the head and lowers the lights, clicking on an old projector that coughs dust as it sputters to life.
“Regis is a class A immune carrier and a highly experienced surgeon. He has been developing cure research in his lab in private but can get no further on his own. There is another physician on the other side of the outlands, Shani, who has had a recent breakthrough. We have hope that, with Regis’ work, they can come up with something to at least push back. Shani is a class C human, which means it’s a lot safer to send an escort with Regis to get him to her rather than her to him.”
“Dettlaff is a class B immune non-carrier,” she continues, gesturing to Dettlaff as a fuzzy map of their intended route is projected behind her. “As per our code of acknowledgement for vampire societal bonds, Dettlaff is being respected as Regis’ blood brother and will not be separated from him. He’s a more than capable warrior and can serve as life support for Regis should something dire occur. As a non carrier, his blood may also serve as another factor to help us towards a cure.”
“Geralt is a class W subclass X non carrier. He has run many supply and rescue missions and has proven after several exposures that his mutations firmly mark him as immune to all strains of the virus. As a subclass X, he has proven to have slightly better stamina and recovery time against fatigue and infection. He’s our best agent, Dr. Emiel,” she says less professionally. “Please, don’t get him killed.”
Regis nods respectfully. “I will do my utmost.”
Geralt’s arms are crossed again but he makes no comment. The sword handle over his shoulder catches the edge of the projection light and Regis doesn’t miss the silver glint of it.
“Eskel is also a class W non carrier. He and Geralt went through the same training program and were part of the same batch of boys, but Eskel was not vetted as safe to go through experimental trials. He has, however, also proved immune to all strains of the virus. He has no subclass X traits but he is as capable a swordsman and witcher as his brother. As per their code, Eskel and Geralt will be allowed to make tactical decisions together or split up as they deem appropriate.”
She folds her hands, looking over the four men. “Any questions?”
“Yes,” Dettlaff says, his voice a rough baritone that rivals even Geralt’s. “When do we leave?”