Chapter Text
/ 1 /
There were voices from the other side of his door. Loud and acting as if he wasn’t there. As if he didn’t have ears. He listened anyway.
“If we can’t push past these scum, we’re never going to win this war.” This first voice sounded bitter. That didn’t bode well for him.
“Scum or not,” the second voice was less angry, and more resigned. “They obviously know how to fight. Esempe might be the bottom of the shit barrel, but they’ve killed enough of our men for us to take them seriously.”
The angry voice from before grunted in response. Their footsteps stopped just outside his door. Only two of them. They underestimated him.
“It’s in here?”
There was no reply. He assumed the second man had nodded.
“Remind me why we got this job again?”
There was a heavy sigh, then the scraping sound of metal, as the heavy bolt in the door was opened. Light streamed through the door, hitting his shoulders. He kept his head bowed to protect his eyes. No other reason.
“Prime… Does it need that much restraint?”
Yes. Every chain and tie wrapped around his body was necessary, tying him to the floor and keeping him there. His handlers knew what they were doing. If even one of them was lost, he could escape. He had experimented before.
“Whatever. Let’s just… be careful.”
The two men stepped around to his sides. He listened to their clothes, brushing against one another and against him. He heard the chains rattling as they unhooked them from the rings on the floor. The man on his left gave a swift kick to his side, and he finally glanced up enough to see their clothes.
Military. Interesting. This would be different.
They kicked him again. “On your feet!”
He obeyed. After all, he knew better than to try and run when he had no clue where he was.
They led him from the room and walked him down a long corridor. There were several halls branching off on either side. He noted each of them and added them to the mental map in his head. It might become useful later.
After a small eternity, their path ended at a wide door, flanked by two soldiers. These were heavily armed and stood with experience. He knew what a killer looked like. These men had seen combat.
They opened the door, and he was led into what looked like a conference room. Except the long wooden table had been pushed against the wall, left cluttered with stacks of papers and what he assumed was radio equipment. In the empty space that was left stood several men.
He scanned their shoes. At least seven sets of military boots, some newer than others. He felt his face twitch as he recognized two sets of polished black dress shoes amongst the others. A safe distance away.
“As you can see, general,” The grating voice of his handler raked on his eardrums. “You’ll need a safe place to keep it. Otherwise, it will try to escape. It’s tried before. But with a firm hand, you’ll be able to control it. It will serve your purposes well.”
Was he… Was he being sold?
A voice that he assumed was the general spoke up.
“That won’t be necessary. While I can see that you have done what you can, I have my own methods of keeping a weapon under control.”
There was a hand in his hair suddenly, yanking his head back by the roots. He didn’t react. Instead, he took advantage of having his eyes raised to scan the room. There were eleven men in total in this room. The two who had brought him in, seven extra soldiers, and then his handler and the weasel he tried to pass off as an assistant. If he counted the two guards outside the door, there were thirteen.
He could take thirteen. He just had to wait for the general’s ego to get the best of him, and the chains to be loosened.
His head was pulled further back, putting extra strain on his neck. Someone approached. He had several medals on his collar, but what truly caught his eye was the sword on his belt. It was so long it almost touched the floor and had no sheath. The diamond blade cast its own light, it was so brightly polished. But there was an extra sheen to it, something he couldn’t place.
In his hands was what looked like a collar. Wouldn’t be the first time he had worn one of those. But this one had a purple sheen to it. It looked like it sparkled. Just like the sword at his belt.
He had seen one or two items like these. Books on the manor shelf. Or ornate daggers, gifted to his handler. But never on something like this.
He watched it warily as it came closer and was raised to click around his throat.
The effect was instant. His legs failed him. For a brief moment he was held suspended by the grip in his hair until that too left and he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He gasped, the air suddenly too thin. Even if his restraints were loosened now, he wasn’t sure he could stand on his own.
“Fascinating… I wish I had heard of such a trick sooner. And it will keep the beast completely immobile?”
“Not entirely.” The General answered. He stood over the mess on the floor, unphased at the display. “All it does is cut off a person’s connection with their powers. Any powered individual will tell you what a torture that is. It will be able to walk in a few minutes. But walking is all it will be able to do.”
They continued to talk over his head, bartering prices and something about a ‘trial period’. He ignored them, trying desperately to move in any way. He barely managed to twitch.
The general and his handler shook hands.
“A pleasure doing business with you!” Prime, he hated that man’s voice. So much. “Soon you’ll see what an asset a weapon like this can be. It may even win you this war!”
“We’ll see.” The general sounded unimpressed at best.
“Remind me, what do you call it again?”
A hand reached under his chin and forced his face up again. He locked eyes with a cold cold gaze and felt fear.
“Angel. It responds to Angel.”
The general nodded, still inspecting his face until he was apparently satisfied.
“Very well. You will be my Angel, and you will bring death for me.”
-//-
When Phil dreamed, it was a 50/50 chance if he would have a good dream, or a nightmare. Sometimes he saw memories, and sometimes he saw memories that were skewed just a little to the left, making them seem much more horrible than they already were. Depending on the memory, that was an impressive feat of his subconscious.
Tonight’s nightmare had him jerk up in bed, rubbing the skin of his neck until it was nearly raw. Reminding himself that there was nothing there. Just his T-shirt.
Most of the time, he just dreamt of her. He dreamt of meeting her, he dreamt of losing her. Sadly, he rarely dreamt of the moments in between. He wrote about those memories in a diary, which he pulled out now. He had enchanted this book long ago, to never open unless he was the one touching it.
Old habits die hard. And paranoia was one of those old habits. But he never wanted to forget these moments. The few good memories he had of those times. The few years they had given him where he really thought everything could work out. The taste of love before… Well. Phil closed the diary and forced himself to lay back down.
Despite having a haunted past and enough battlefield experience to leave him shaking some days, Phil was a peaceful man.
He preferred to keep to his own, with the few friends he had and the large selection of books he had accumulated. To sit in silence or with a good book and a cup of tea. That was the good life, in Phil’s mind. He wasn’t naive or overly optimistic. But he knew how to look for the little things in life, and how to enjoy them. So much of his youth had been spent in violence, using all his strength to just survive. So much of his younger days had been spent fighting someone else’s battles, never having anything to call his own. Even if Phil was only in his late thirties, he felt like he had lived much longer. And he looked it too, as Wilbur liked to point out.
But Phil was happy. Life was good. And he was going to enjoy it.
The decision to move into the city was a hard one, but when Wilbur was 15 and complaining he had no one to play with, Phil decided it would probably be smart to stop being a hermit in the woods, and actually get his son some friends and himself a job. He was worried about his son at first, but he should have known.
Wilbur was the friendliest kid in the world. Not only did he make friends immediately, he made good friends. Ones that wanted to talk about music, and play in a band, just like Wilbur did.
Phil wasn’t as quick. He searched around for jobs that might suit him, before eventually teaching himself what he truly needed to start a career. And when he was offered a position at the hero tower. Well… The irony was not lost on him. He took the job.
And for three years, that was all Phil needed. A steady, boring life, listening to his son play with his band on the weekends, and going to work each morning on the weekdays.
He was happy.
Really, he was.
One of Phil’s favorite things to do was listen to Wilbur play guitar. Thankfully, his son was also a fan of simple pleasures, like music and good company. He was only 18, but Phil knew he was going to go far with the songs he was writing. And that wasn’t just a parent being proud of his child either. Wilbur had a real talent for lyrics and a sound that Phil never could have imagined before hearing Wilbur play and sing.
He loved listening to it.
They had set up an unconscious routine. In the evenings, now that Wilbur was done with school and Phil was bringing home less work from the office, they would clean up dinner after eating together, Phil would make tea, and Wilbur would open his guitar case. And the two of them would spend the evening that way.
Tonight was different.
In fact, the past few nights and the past few weeks had been different. Will had been hanging out with his friends a lot more. Sometimes not coming home until late at night. Sometimes staying out all day. Phil tried not to worry. He didn’t want to be a helicopter parent, and he knew that Will would come to him if he was ever in true trouble.
That was what was making this so hard for Phil. He trusted his son. He knew that he had a good head on his shoulders. But he also knew that he had anxiety, and a bleeding heart, and asthma and-
He did his best to stomp down on that train of thought. What could Wilbur possibly be doing that would be worth so much worry? It’s not like he was out being dangerous!
Phil’s breaking point came almost a month after Wilbur’s odd behavior started. They were cleaning up after dinner and Phil was glad that Will was actually home for once. He was looking forward to a night with his son again. But he was starting to suspect that that wasn’t going to happen.
The bags under Wilbur’s eyes were so deep they could carry groceries, and Phil had to say his name several times before he finally noticed and handed him the dish towel. More than that though, Will was favoring his left arm. He never raised it too high or reached out to far to grab anything. He was hurt.
Maybe a sprain or some bruising at least? On his shoulder if Phil knew anything. And he did, unfortunately, know his way around an injury.
When they finished their kitchen clean up, Phil rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Are you going to bed?”
Wilbur seemed shocked for a moment before it turned into relief.
“Yeah, I think I will. I’m a little tired.”
You look awful. Phil wanted to say, but he was still holding out hope that Wilbur would come to him if he had an issue. Even if it was just that he wasn’t sleeping well or he had twisted his arm the wrong way while playing guitar. Phil was still hoping.
“Alright mate. Get some good rest, alright?”
Wilbur nodded eagerly and set down the towel that he had been using to dry his hands from the dishwater.
He was wearing long sleeves that he hadn’t rolled up to wash the dishes, so the cuffs were slightly damp around the wrists. When he reached out to set down the towel the sleeve pulled up his arm to reveal blue and purple splotches across his wrist.
“Goodnight!” Will called on his way up the stairs, oblivious to his father’s sudden dilemma.
Bruises. Those were absolutely bruises.
Someone had bruised his boy…
Oh boy. Ok. This was an emotion Phil hadn’t felt in a while. He checked and, yup. His hands were shaking.
Deep breathes. In, and out.
Phil spent the next few moments standing in the middle of his kitchen, trying to stomp down the sudden bloodlust that had almost overtaken him. That wasn’t what he needed right now. There was no danger. No need for violence.
He slowly began to move, thoughts racing as he went through the motions of getting ready for bed.
Wilbur had been spending more and more time out. He was obviously exhausted and not sleeping well. His left arm was hurting, and now he had bruises on his wrists?
Phil went through a mental tally of every one of Wilbur’s friends that he knew by name. He had met them all, Will had never been embarrassed to introduce his friends to his dad. And none of them seemed like the dangerous or violent sort. Phil couldn’t believe that his son would get into a fight, so how did he get bruises?
He tried to rationalize it. Maybe Wilbur hit his shoulder on the door, and then his arm right after. Maybe he sprained it… playing guitar!
Phil could tell how ridiculous he was being. He knew what hand shaped bruises looked like. He had seen them before. He just never thought he would see them on his son…
And somehow, that was what finally set Phil off. Someone had hurt his boy, and he was going to find out who.
Phil knocked gently on Wilbur’s door. He could have waited till morning, but his thoughts weren’t going to let him. And he was beginning to worry that he had waited too long already.
“Wilbur?”
Phil cracked open the door into his room, trying to see inside.
The bed was empty.
The window was open.
Wilbur was gone.
Phil would later say that he was proud of how well he handled that panic. He took deep, shuddering breaths and compartmentalized. Panic in this box, with the lid closed. Reason and rationale in this box, with the lid open.
Who knew his military training would be so helpful when it came to parenting?
He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and hit Wilbur’s number on speed dial.
There was a light, followed by a vibrating buzz on the bedside table.
… He had left his phone at home… Great.
With nothing else to do, Phil sat down in Wilbur’s desk chair and waited.
Hours passed, and with each minute Phil could feel the worry shifting into anger, then back into worry. He ran through every single scenario in his head as he sat in the dark.
By the time he heard shuffling outside the window, his muscles had gone stiff, and he didn’t react in time to do anything other than watch as a figure crawled in through the window.
Phil recognized Wilbur’s silhouette but said nothing. He was panting hard when he finally crawled in and sat down hard on the floor. He leaned his back against the wall and breathed for several moments. When he stood up he groaned as if he was in pain. Still, Phil said nothing.
Then, Wilbur reached over to his nightstand and flicked on the light. When he turned, there was Phil, sitting in the light.
Wilbur screamed.
“Oh my god! Dad! You can’t just do that!”
“Where have you been?!” Phil fired back.
Wilbur froze, unsure how to answer. Phil took the moment to look him over, convinced he was going to be covered in even more bruises than he was that evening. What he saw instead was a dark blue track suit, with red patterns stitched into the edges and seems. Wilbur had his hood up hiding his curly hair and under it was…
“Is that a mask?”
“Look,” Wilbur pulled up the mask so he could show his face. “I can explain.”
“Is that a black eye?!”
Will tried to cover his face but Phil was already reaching out, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down so he could see his face in the light. Wilbur was a full head taller than Phil now. Where he got his height, he had no idea.
“It’s really not as bad as it looks!”
“Wilbur,” Wilbur shut up immediately at the tone in his father’s voice. “You are going to tell me exactly where you have been and what you were doing. Right now.”
There was a picture being painted here that Phil would have to be an idiot not to see. Still, he was holding onto hope that he was wrong.
Phil turned on the bigger light in the room and they both sat down on Wilbur’s bed. Phil faced his son, watching him wring his hands with obvious nerves and tried to be patient as he gathered his thoughts.
“So you know—” Wil’s voice cracked and cleared his throat before trying again. “You know how there were reports on the news a couple months ago about the car thieves in the East district?”
Phil nodded. “They were all arrested soon after.”
“Right. Well, remember how I said that Ash had gotten his guitar stolen around that same time?”
Ash was one of the kids in Wilbur’s band. They had all been upset when his guitar got stolen and they’d had to postpone a show. It was already hard for their startup band to get stage space, so canceling hurt them all a lot. But as far as Phil knew, he had found his guitar again since then.
Wilbur continued. “Well it turns out, those same car thieves were the ones who stole Ash’s car, and his guitar. I caught them trying to sell it at a pawn shop.”
“You caught them?”
Will laughed nervously. “I might have… followed them one night. And then I just, encouraged them to give it back.”
Phil straightened.
“I know!” Wilbur rushed out. “I know what you are going to say.” Well, that was good, because Phil wasn’t sure what he had been about to say. But the expression on his face must have said enough.
“But it wasn’t as bad as you think. I didn’t hurt them, and they didn’t hurt me. And I only used my powers a little—”
“You used your powers on them?!”
Wilbur snapped his mouth shut. “No?”
“Wilbur!”
“I was careful! I just told them they should go confess what happened to the police. And they did! And I thought, well, if it was this easy this time, why don’t I stop other robberies and crimes?”
He was rambling, trying to avoid the look of growing horror on Phil’s face as he explained.
“And it was going so well! And I was so careful. I hid my face and tried to never fight unless I was forced to. I’ve helped a lot of people and stopped a lot of robberies.”
Phil grabbed one of Wilbur’s hands as it flailed past his face. “Wil, that’s what the heroes are for.”
Wilbur just scowled. “The heroes don’t do anything. They never come to this side of the city, and when they do they pass over the smaller cases to chase whatever big thing is happening. I’ve seen it happen a few times since I started doing this. The heroes are hardly heroes at all!”
And, well… Phil couldn’t argue with that. Everyone knew that the system was messed up and faulty at best. Downright harmful at worst. Anyone with eyes to see could tell the hero program was hurting the poorer edges of the city and power regulations were splitting families apart. The only reason Wilbur was allowed to stay with Phil when he had a power such as compulsion, the ability to influence anyone to do anything using his voice, was because Phil had managed to keep it a secret. And he himself didn’t have any power. It was easy to convince the regulations office that his son couldn’t inherit a power from a parent who also didn’t have a power.
But if Wilbur was out at night, just using his powers randomly…
“What if someone recognizes what your power is, and they tell the authorities? What if someone stronger than you had fought you, and what if they won?”
“But they didn’t!” He grinned, with a stubborn and wild light in his eyes. “I’m getting stronger each time I practice. And no one can report me if they are too busy reporting themselves.”
He sounded so proud. But the bruise on his cheek stood out against the light of his bedroom lamp and Phil found himself shaking his head before he even started speaking.
“You can’t keep doing this Will. It’s too dangerous.”
Wilbur’s face fell. “But think of all the people I’m helping.”
“You’re going to get hurt!”
“It’s not that bad!”
“LOOK AT YOU!” Phil never yelled, and Wilbur was stunned into silence at the outburst. “You’re covered in bruises and there’s blood under your nose. You haven’t slept in days; you’ve been sneaking out without telling anyone. What if you had disappeared in the middle of the night? What if I woke up and you were gone, and I couldn’t find you Wil? What if—”
Phil didn’t finish. His eyes were aching, and he didn’t want to cry in front of his son. Wilbur was looking at him in shock, stunned by the emotion. He took both his son’s hands in his own and gripped them tight.
“I know you had good intentions Will. And I’m proud of you for trying to help others. But you’re just a kid and I can’t let you keep hurting yourself.”
Will opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again.
“What if you came with me?”
“What?”
Will nodded, rushing on before Phil could shut him down. “Come see what I see. I don’t think you would be able to leave it alone either if you saw what happened in some of these neighborhoods Phil.”
“It's not your responsibility Wilbur.”
Wil grimaced, like he knew what he was about to say was a bad idea.
“That’s not what mom would say.”
Phil dropped their joined hands. It hurt because Wilbur was right. Kristen would have done whatever she damn well pleased, provided it helped someone. She had done it dozens of times since Phil had known her. If only Wil knew that it was the reason she was gone as well.
“Just once.” Wilbur was still pleading, and Phil forced himself to focus again. “Come with me just once. And if you ask me to stop again after that, I will.”
Phil wanted to deny him again, to demand he stay home and never leave again. But Wil was looking at him with so much determination he had to close his eyes for fear he would see her in that stubbornness. He should have remembered that the image of her was always on the inside of his eyelids, waiting for him.
“Not tonight. Tonight, you need sleep. And ice on your eye.”
His son grinned at him. “But tomorrow night?”
“Ice Wilbur, we are getting you ice before we talk about anything else.”
And they did talk. They talked about so much just that night, and then the next morning when they woke late and Phill called off work. He told his boss it was a family emergency. His boss, a kind woman named Puffy, asked about Will by name. Phil couldn’t keep the concern out of his voice and ended up lying and saying he was sick.
Phil couldn’t ignore the irony, when he watched Wilbur explain his vigilantism with more life in his eyes than Phil had ever seen.
They did go out that night. Phil had an old bandana wrapped around his nose and mouth, feeling like a delinquent as he watched his son helplessly stumble his way around the city in a way that he thought was stealthy. He watched him protect a young lady from being mugged and saw him walk her home. He helped him stop a robbery and report the men to the police. He watched his boy, standing proud as he protected others.
“So?” Will asked, standing in their kitchen late that night with his mask gripped tight in his hands. Anxious for his father’s answer.
Phil watched the complete trust in his son’s eyes.
You would be so proud of him.
Finally, he sighed. “I have some conditions.”
Wilbur cheered.