Chapter Text
It was dark outside- clear, but windy, when he found his target atop an abandoned apartment building-.
A circle member, targeting (as always) vulnerable Downworlders. Sometimes by butchering, or robbing, or scamming them. Specifically, Thomas Ashmark- a man well known for peddling warlock marks on the black market- to superstitious Mundanes, Shadowhunters for trophies, or other warlocks for spells, he didn't seem to care- but they were always sold for a high price. He'd never been arrested. Never even charged. The warlocks' requests for help were always denied by the Clave, who seemed to believe the slaughtered warlocks less than worthwhile.
Currently he was targeting a teenage warlock girl with a scaled tail, named Alicia Harrow. She was born thirteen short years ago, barely a teenager.
Alicia struggled against Thomas's arms, barely breathing for the knife pressed to her throat. The razor sharp blade barely touched with a feather's weight, but the edge still managed to draw a pencil line of blood.
He stomped on the tip of her tail, pulling a yelp of pain from the warlock girl. "P-please!" she begged. "I'll do whatever! My uncle- he- he has gold! Please, he'll give you whatever you want!"
Ashmark smirked at her pleas. "Aw, Miss, I wish I could take you up on that offer. But you've only got one thing I want, and I'm standing right on it."
"Drop your weapon," came a booming, distorted voice from above, commanding and firm. Then, a light thump, and dark wings swallowed up the night sky, a perfect picture of an avenging angel. A man stepped forward, dark green hood swallowing his features, and pointed a green-tipped arrow at the murderer in front of him. "Thomas Ashmark," he said, staring into the Circle member's eyes with spite and rage. "You have failed the Shadow World."
Ashmark's hands loosened on the girl, allowing her to slip away. She didn't turn, didn't look at him. Didn't cast a spell. The hooded man was glad. She didn't need to see what would happen next.
"Do you have any last words?"
Thomas didn't seem scared. Rather, he smiled at him- not something he hadn't seen before, but this… this was different.
"Yeah, I got something to say." A grin broke Ashmark's face. "Duck."
Something hit the archer, hard enough to knock him sideways, off the building. His wings wouldn't work- why wouldn't they work?
He had only seconds to panic.
Then the world darkened in a flash of pain.
For once, Simon felt on top of the world. His interview at his first-choice college had gone just about perfectly, his band had a gig for the following night, and he had picked out the absolute perfect birthday present for his best friend (which, granted, was in just under a month, but Simon liked to be prepared for these things.)
It was a nice evening out, rather cool for late August, and he was walking home from grabbing Chinese with Clary. She had split off a couple minutes ago to head back home, but he still had another few blocks to go. But… it would be less if he took a shortcut, he thought, as he turned down an alley. It wasn't a shortcut he took often , per se- it wasn't an uncommon place for drug deals to be made and fights to take place, but he would much rather deal with a gang than his mother getting on him again for being even later for movie night than he already was.
The alley was darker than the streets, the last bit of sunlight gone behind the abandoned buildings on either side. It was silent, at least- no drug dealers, as far as he could tell.
… Except for a quiet groan from the dumpster located halfway down the alley. It was probably nothing, right? Maybe a racoon. Or a cat! Definitely a cat. Then the pained sound came again, a bit louder, and he could tell it was not, in fact, a cat.
Damn it.
He couldn’t ignore that, could he? With a heavy sigh, he crept slowly towards the dumpster.
“Hey, uh- you okay? Assuming you aren’t, yanno, a cat, because I thought you might be, but better safe than sorry?”
The following sound was more exasperated than pained, at least.
“Do you need help? I don’t think there's anything I can use to climb up there and pull you out, but I can use whatever you used, if you can point me in the direction? Unless you don’t, at which point I will gladly leave you alone.”
One heavy combat boot swung over the side of the dumpster. Even in the dark alley, Simon could easily see how shredded the pants were. He took a guess, grabbed the boot, and yanked, earning a somewhat undignified yelp from the dumpstered human as he was dragged from the dumpster, landing hard on the ground.
Simon turned on his phone’s flashlight, making the man cringe, but he was finally able to get a good look at him. Green oil paint covered his eyes under the dark hood, also green. As were his pants and half-shredded leather jacket, with gashes staining the green with blood. He also seemed to be wearing some sort of dark cloak- odd, but this was New York. Simon didn’t question it.
“What the fuck ,” the guy on the ground hissed. “ Ow. ”
“Hi! I’m Simon, and you are… Definitely in need of a hospital. I’m gonna call an ambulance-”
“Don’t!”
Simon lowered his phone. “You definitely need a hospital, man.”
The guy inhaled harshly and winced. “I don’t need a munda- there’s this little… Silver stick somewhere. Whitish tip. Symbols all over it. I dropped it when I fell. Can you-” Another pained gasp, “-give it to me?”
It only took a brief glance around to realize he wasn’t going to find it. There was a lot of debris, and he didn’t really know what he was looking for. “Wait, you- you fell? From-” He looked up and gulped. The hooded man nodded weakly. “Yeah, you need a hospital. Like, now.”
“ No. Hospital.” The tone of voice let him know that there would be no arguments. “Do you know... Uh. How to sew?”
Simon nodded, beginning to dread this next question. “I have this little kit in my bag? I had this one summer where I constantly tore my-” He glanced at the guy, who was somehow giving him a more deadly glare than before. “Yeah, you don’t wanna hear about that, huh?”
“Get that out. Hand sanitizer, if you have it?”
Oh no.
Was he seriously going to be the guy who has to do this? Maybe he should’ve just been late to movie night. Wouldn’t be any later than he would be from this.
He gulped, then pulled out the sewing kit and a bottle of hand sanitizer, as the man in front of him took a deep breath and unzipped the jacket, pulling it away to reveal a deep, gorey slash.
“Oh- man. That is not good.”
“Yeah, you think?”
“And you want me, a random guy, to sew up your gaping injury? With- hand sanitizer and a sewing kit. Over a trained medical professional?”
The now not-so-hooded man huffed out a laugh, then groaned from the jarring of his wound. “Want is a strong word. But Mundane doctors ask too many questions. Too many tests.”
The question of “ What the fuck is a Mundane?” pinged through Simon’s head for a second before he refocused on the task at hand. “Okay, so, hand sanitizer on, well… That, and just sew? Like fabric ?”
“Hey, skin’s just fabric and flesh is just stuffing, if you really think about it.”
Simon shook his head and hesitantly poured a fair bit of the goop onto the (gaping, gross, bleeding) gash. Surprisingly, the guy barely flinched, just closed his eyes and hissed quietly instead. With shaky hands, the needle was threaded, then knotted. He said a quick prayer as it plunged into flesh, barely able to keep himself from fainting at the, frankly, horrible sight.
“Can you just get on with it? It isn’t that bad.”
“Yeah, you’re not putting a needle in a guy! ”
“It may be a bit odd to think you’re in a worse position, considering I am the guy the needle’s in.”
“Just-” Simon didn’t bother to say anything else, instead leaning closer and continuing to (albeit roughly) stitch the wound closed.
It was over surprisingly quickly, and before he knew it he had tied off the thread and dumped more hand sanitizer on it. The guy immediately grabbed his jacket and tugged it back on.
“You really sure you don’t want a doctor? It still looks… Really, really bad.”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“I never did catch your name-?”
“And you’re never going to.”
“Okay, so, how’s Hood sound?”
“Fuck off.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who stitched your gross wound shut. I kinda earned an answer.”
“You want what you’re owed? Here’s this- forget you saw me, forget you helped me. Otherwise, you’re dead.”
Suddenly, Simon could see something he hadn’t before. Some things he hadn’t before. One: green fletched arrows sitting in a quiver on the man’s back- at least a dozen of them. Two: a bow to go with it. While Simon had no real clue about bows, he did know that the one sitting beside the guy had to have a draw weight of at least a hundred pounds. Three: and this was the biggest of them all-
The guy had wings.
Not a tattoo of wings- and boy did he have a lot of tattoos- but actual, massive, wings. Simon realized he’d mistaken them for a cloak earlier (and how on earth had he managed that?), but now he could see them for what they were. Dark in color, green where the light from his phone flashlight hit them. Even folded up against his back, Simon could tell they would easily reach from one side of the alley to the other.
“What the hell-?” he demanded. “You- wings!” For a second he paused to consider what was going on. “Are you an angel ? Holy shit! I gotta tell- Wait, where are you going?!”
Because the guy was, indeed, walking quickly away, obviously eager to get away from Simon. But, at a light tap to his shoulder, he spun around, instantly putting Simon in a headlock. “Don’t follow me. Don’t say anything about me. If you tell anyone, I promise you, I’ll know.” Then, he turned again, leaving Simon to gather his breath on the alley floor.
Alec had barely managed to limp two blocks before the annoying ass Mundane was yelling after him.
“Hey! Arrow guy!” the Mundane (Simon, he had said) shouted. “Really, just- tell me what’s going on!”
“Will you leave me alone, if I do?” he grumbled, glaring daggers.
Simon seemed baffled. “I- probably, sure. You’re really gonna tell me?”
“Nope. Hypothetical only. I haven’t even told my brother, that’s all you’re ever gonna know.”
The Mundane sped up a bit, walking beside him now. “You can’t really go that fast right now, I think. I can always just follow you to- do you have a secret lair? You seem very… Comic-vigilante-esque.”
Alec rolled his eyes. “No, and if I did, why would I tell you?”
“Fine, so I know nothing about you. Why do you have arrows?”
“Again, why would I tell you?”
“Becauussseee I found your fancy pen?”
That caught Alec’s attention. “What? Where? Give it!” he demanded.
“Nope! Answer literally one question I asked. Then you get the pen.”
“First of all, it’s called a stele. Not a pen. Second…” He hesitated. On one hand, he could easily take his stele back from Simon. On the other… He would never see this Mundane again. And it would be really nice to just say one thing about what he’d been up to all these months. “I hunt poachers.”
That seemed to confuse Simon even more. “Uh? Buddy? There’s no animals to poach in New York. It’s a city. Not like… Africa.”
“Not those sorts of people. Criminals who hunt innocent people. Hurt them. Take advantage of them. You’ve probably met one, or at least heard of them- they’re not so shy about the overlap of our worlds.”
“Wait, who ? What’re you even talking about? ‘Our worlds’? Cause,” he laughed nervously, “we both live in the same city!”
“I answered one of your questions. Give it back. Now.” Alec looked around, then drew a small dagger from a holster hidden under his jacket.
“Woah, what the fuck, man!” Simon immediately went to fumble in his pocket, taking out Alec’s stele and tossing it clumsily. “Just- don’t stab me!”
With a relieved sigh, Alec pulled up his sleeve and ran the stele over the healing rune on his arm. The wounds almost immediately began to close, with the exception of the deep gash Simon had sewn up, which would definitely leave a nasty scar.
As he watched the bruises fade and the scratches seal to tiny marks of blood, Simon openly gaped. “What the fuck ? Is that magic?”
Dammit. “Nope. Runes. Not explaining more to a Mundane.”
With that last word, and a glance around the empty street, he took off into the night sky, massive wings flapping.
As he left, he heard a quiet curse, then, “How did I forget he had wings?”
Alec made a quick pit stop at the abandoned building he utilized as a base of operations and a location to store gear- not a lair. Definitely not a lair. He stripped from his torn pants and shredded green jacket, wincing as he got a good look at his injury for the first time. It was several inches long, and at least half an inch deep at his best guess. Probably from something he fell on- he hadn’t felt anything when he was knocked off the building, and, besides, the edges were too jagged for a knife or sword. “Fuck,” he growled out as he prodded it. No way was he going to get back to the institute without his siblings noticing. He usually healed reasonably quickly, especially with an Iratze, but he’d almost certainly be limping once the sedative used when he was knocked off the roof wore off.
On the bright side, he’d managed to stop Ashmark from murdering the warlock girl. On the less bright side… He had been prepared for Alec. How? He didn’t work with anyone who could give him away. His own parabatai didn’t even know. Was Ashmark just that good?
It was worrying. Both to Alec’s own safety, and for the downworlders he had promised himself to protect. He knew the clave was aware of the vigilante killer. But they didn’t know it was him. What if they’d tipped off the poacher, to try to catch Alec?
No, he told himself. He couldn’t think like that. Ashmark was just well prepared, that was all. But Alec would be more prepared the next time.
He had to be prepared.