Chapter Text
There was a special type of serenity that came before a hunt, in the way air would quiet before rain rattles down from the sky. Methodical patterns of packing that had become so ingrained in Wilbur’s brain that he didn’t even need to put thought into the process.
Phil had always lectured them on being aware, prepared, and staying vigilant — along with all the other concerned mothering he fretted over during their educations as hunters. Even now, as fully graduated Valourcloaks, Phil couldn’t help but worry over them, despite the many reassurances (and successful mission reports) Wilbur and Techno provided.
Wilbur shrugged on his thick brown coat, proudly clipping his Valourcloak badge onto the front. It had taken 7 years of training to earn that badge and he felt nothing but raw unfiltered honour being able to wear it on missions. A Valourcloak commanded respect. He kept the people of L’manburg safe from the horrors of the creatures which masqueraded alongside them, pretending to be mortal to their unsuspecting prey, only to rip into and feast on their flesh.
“So, you going out tonight?” Tommy leaned over the table, snatching up a ridiculous holy water gun of his own design and squinting his eye shut, pointing it at Wilbur.
Wilbur sighed, pulling the toy from Tommy’s grasp and dumping it into the bag alongside the proper equipment. “You’re not coming along, besides, it’ll most likely a be pretty short hunt.”
“Hey! I never said I wanted to go on your dumb fuckin’ mission!” Tommy rested his chin on his forearms, eyeing Wilbur with a feigned disinterest. “…What is the mission anyway big man?”
“Just Ms Hawkes again, says she saw some ‘suspicious individual’ in some alley. Shocker.”
“Again? She seriously needs to stop wasting your time. Fuckin’ as senile as Phil.” Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically.
A wicked grin spread across Wilbur’s face “Aww Tommy, do you miss us when we’re out on missions?” Wilbur reached over the table to ruffle Tommy’s hair as he batted his hands away.
“No! It’s just that you guys are always busy these days. Its not fair that I can’t go with you just cause I’m ‘too young’ or ‘not a hunter’ or fuckin’ whatever.” Tommy scowled, ears reddening.
Wilbur set his hands into the pockets of his coat and put on an expression of deep contemplation “Well you know Tommy… I’m sure Phil might consider it next time you ask, you’re almost 16 anyway, I doubt he’d be able to deny you any longer, after all, he did take us on missions at your age.”
Tommy’s face lit up “Are you serious? You really reckon he would?”
Poor Phil, he has no idea what he has coming. The demon child would definitely pester him the second he got up tomorrow.
“Oh no doubt for sure! ‘specially if you keep giving him that kicked puppy face, he’s bound to crack soon enough.” He glanced down at his watch. 00:23. “Shit Toms, sorry I gotta get to this, I’ll see you in the morning yeah?”
Tommy gave a thumbs up before resting his head back onto his arms with a small smile as Wilbur pulled his bag over his shoulder and scrambled out of the door to his car.
*****
He drew in an anxious breath to settle his nerves, fidgeting with the straps of the bag resting loosely on his shoulder. There was always a bit of reluctance before walking into a location of a supposed sighting, even if it was given by a doddering old woman like Ms Hawkes. Tip offs like these almost never proved worthwhile (a poor use of resources in Wilbur’s personal opinion), and they were more often than not caused by paranoia or general misjudgement. However, a tip is a tip nonetheless, and he has a job to protect his people as a Valourcloak officer.
Before him stood a decrepit and narrow alleyway which was enveloped between two ramshackle old office buildings, with a small intersection within the alley to an offshoot behind one of the buildings. Not anything particularly out of the ordinary to even the well-trained eye. No visible signs of a struggle, blood, or even a suspicious odour. Yet despite all of this, Wilbur’s hands shook slightly when slipping the silver dagger from his bag into his coat pocket.
A moment of hesitation, a moment to feel anxiety bloom in his gut. He settles his shoulders and becomes Officer Wilbur Soot, Valourcloak, protector of the public and upholder of peace. With newfound confidence he strides forward into the dark, eyes adjusting to the gloom behind round glasses.
The alley walls are covered with an unpleasant muddy mould that stains the wall. Lining the edges of the path are numerous abandoned crates, dumpsters with broken wheels or lids and old water logged cardboard boxes. He’s glad Tommy didn’t beg to go on this trip, he would’ve just complained the entire time about how this ‘wasn’t real vampire hunting shit’. Wilbur snickers at the thought still. Company would’ve been nice; group missions are ultimately better than solo.
As he wanders further down the alley, stepping over the unpleasantly strewn garbage, he moves quietly as to occasionally peer over and behind the particularly large decor, attempting to inspect the area as swiftly as possible. The sooner he was out of here the better, he’d much rather be in bed then here in the middle of the night, and he’d greatly appreciate returning home before the sun rises over the horizon, thank you very much.
As he scrutinised the particularly interesting pattern of rubbish scattered behind a dumpster, the sounds of footsteps rapidly approaching from the offshoot alley alerted Wilbur to turn. A large sickly-looking man grapples him, forcing him to fight back while taken by surprise, all his gear sans dagger tucked into his bag. The skin of the man was pale, and his face was gaunt, yet the strength bearing down on Wilbur was incomparable to anything possible by a living man.
Ah, Fuck.
Wilbur does a quick rough shove with his shoulder and elbow into it, forcing the vampire to stumble back briefly to the other wall of the narrow passage. The brief reprieve giving Wilbur a long enough period of time to dash his hand into his pocket and grip the handle of the silver dagger resting there. The vampire rushes forwards again as Wilbur swings the dagger out, blade catching the light cast by the moon over the passageway. The swing was sloppy and uncoordinated, done in frenzied retaliation, narrowly missing the not-man’s throat or any contact at all in that matter.
The vampire grips onto Wilbur’s upper arms, pressing the his back up aggressively into the mildewy alley walls, pinning him in place. His bag only provided the slightest cushioning, preventing him from being crushed against it fully by the vampires superhuman strength. He is all too aware of how very human he is at this moment.
Wilbur can see directly into the vampire’s hollow bloodshot eyes, can smell the rot of stale blood as it breathes heavily on his throat. The expression on its face was feral, inhuman, desperate. Fear bubbles into Wilbur’s chest, blooming into panic, vision blurring as he tries to wriggle out of the constricting hold on his arms. This was not what was supposed to happen tonight.
Using the force of his forearm and elbow, he drives the silver dagger into the side of the not-man. it stumbles sideways with a hiss of pain, grip loosening enough for Wilbur to rip his arms out of the clawed grasp. He tugs the dagger back out of its wounded side and thrusts it back into its neck, gore splattering across his coat and shirt. The vampire falls, silver dagger buried inside its throat, blood gurgling out onto the alley.
Not sparing a second glance at the body, he runs desperately out of the alleyway, feet tumbling underneath him in his urgency, out onto the street his car waited on. This was not what was supposed to happen tonight.
Adrenaline courses through his veins like lightning. His ears pound with the echoing beats of drums. Doom doom doom.
Hands fumbling over keys as he frantically flicked his head over his shoulder to check for his pursuer, tearing open the car door, not even stopping to take the bag off his shoulder, he drew the door shut tight. His breath is coming in rapid sharp gasps. There are no thoughts that can breach the overwhelming wall of panic other than ‘run’. In a blur of adrenaline, he presses forcefully down on the accelerator to get as far away from here as possible, barely even registering the auto lock flicking on.
*****
This felt dangerous, driving with a steadily blurring vision that was making road tumble beneath the car. His mind felt clouded and the world felt off kilter – unsteady. He tightened his hold on the steering wheel in a vain attempt to steady himself, to find balance through the white knuckles curled around rubberised grip. The adrenaline from struggle in the alley had begun to wear off, letting a steadily growing throb in the side of his neck become apparent. The way Wilbur’s stomach curled in horror as the pain surfaced left him too frozen to look. Too frozen to even consider it.
Yet the fresh red staining the fingertips of his hand was more than answer enough.
*****
The house was quiet as Wilbur stumbled heavily through the front door, elbow on the handle, cautious not to touch anything with his reddened hands. It felt wrong to be here, across the threshold of an innocent slumbering house, without a doubt they would’ve been all asleep by now. He envied his family for their present peace. He drops his bag beside the entrance to sort through later. A fleeting glance at his wrist tells him 02:56. At least he won’t be disturbed at this time. He’s still grateful for the lock on the bathroom door regardless.
Wilbur forces himself to look at his reflection. Brown hair wild. Coat tousled. Neck torn. Blood staining his collar. Prime.
He really can’t stand to look at himself right now. There’s a foul taste on his tongue every time the dark stain scrawled across his throat like a death sentence catches his eye.
It really doesn’t look like a bite. He must’ve just gotten caught by something sharp on the wall honestly. It’s such a large gash something must’ve torn through it instead. Really, it couldn’t be a bite, that’s just delusional. Just a minor gash is all. He’s lucky whatever the object had been that it didn’t get caught deeper otherwise he’d likely need stitches.
He’d probably be best to wrap it though; it’d probably be worrying if he came home from a vampire hunt with a very bloody neck. He doesn’t want his family to get the wrong impression.
Oh fuck. What was he going to say in the morning.
Wilbur takes in a breath and shakes out the remaining jitters in his hands from the adrenaline, in a futile attempt to steady them. At least the bleeding appears to have stopped, clotting on the drive home.
He tugs off the coat and leans under the stream of water from the tap. He grits his teeth as a minor wince escapes him, water running across a still relatively fresh wound. Wilbur washes off the now darkened and dried blood coating gently, as to not reopen the disturbed skin. He wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t only blood that he was rinsing off, possibly some kind of street disease too from whatever grime coated those walls. The sink basin is filled with diluted swirling red patterns, dancing as they slide down the drain.
He sets into the rhythm of his well-practiced motions.
Clean.
Disinfect.
Gauze.
He wraps the bandages around his throat. Around, around, around. Prime, what has he gotten himself into. How is he going to get away with an injury like this.
Wilbur sighs, putting away the supplies back into the cabinet.
Hopefully this objectively basic first aid attempt will suffice for something like this, whatever that something may be. Any more treatment than this would be draining the last remaining energy he has. At least covering it means he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.
Out of sight, out of mind, or so he hopes.
Talking to his family tomorrow would have to be a problem for future him. Tonight, the present him just wanted to go to sleep.