Chapter Text
Hugo finds his father exactly where he expects a sociopathic, ruthless figure of power to retreat to after an assassination attempt: in the study on the highest floor of the manor – private, defensible, and with an expansive view of both the grounds outside and the hall within, where he can oversee his men systematically rooting out unfamiliar guests and then killing them, as if he were an emperor idly watching a gladiatorial fight to the death for his own amusement.
This time, Hugo doesn’t hesitate.
He knocks out the guards in perfect synch to the gunshots below, and does not repeat his previous mistake – when he slips past the door into the study, Hugo goes for his father’s limbs first.
A knife, stabbed straight through the dominant hand, pinning that arm to the armchair, then a grab, twist and whip-fast snap backwards, to break the other wrist. Then, ducking low, two quick slices of his switch blade severs the Achilles tendons on both legs, and then Hugo rises to his feet, looming over the collapsed form of his father – still conscious, eyes full of contempt, but disarmed and disabled.
There is no chance for a second escape for the head of the Ravenlock family.
His father is speaking, but Hugo isn’t listening. He’s had enough of his father’s venomous words, and although he’s dreamed a thousand times of all the things he wants to say before his father finally dies, right now, right here, Hugo has no words of his own to offer.
Mockingbird would. The world is Mockingbird’s stage, with theatrical gestures and poetic monologues to leave a lasting mark on those they hunt for justice. Hugo has always been the driving force for that facet of Mockingbird.
But tonight, there is no Mockingbird. It’s just Hugo, standing before the man who had made children plot and hurt each other, and felt no grief or remorse when his own daughter was killed.
Hugo lifts his blade to slit his father’s throat, and—
—can’t.
His hand is perfectly steady, the blade turned towards his father’s neck, but Hugo doesn’t – cannot – complete the move.
Why? Why?
Jack believed Hugo would always succumb to his origins as a child born and raised amongst evil, and Lycaon already thinks Hugo a murderer, an oath breaker. So why doesn’t he just live down to their expectations?
So many have already died, because Hugo didn’t manage to do this an hour earlier.
But his hand doesn’t move.
Frustrated, Hugo retracts his arm and redirects his blade, stabbing it directly into his father’s knee, between the joints.
Hugo’s mind still doesn’t register his father’s speech, but it doesn’t matter, since the scream the man lets out doesn’t contain words anyway.
So, Hugo has no qualms about causing massive injury; he just can’t finish the final step.
It seems Jack and Lycaon might be right about him, after all.
Through the expansive balcony windows, the spectre of the expanding Hollow looms ever nearer. Even if the Hollow doesn’t end up swallowing the manor, it’s only a matter of time before the corruption kills them all.
Hugo looks down at his father. With a knife in his knee and his calves and tendons cut, he can’t walk. And even if he’s able to drag his body across the floor, he won’t out-crawl an actively expanding Hollow.
He’s as good as dead.
Turning, Hugo leaves his father behind, shutting and locking the door behind him.
In the darkness, he takes a moment to breathe.
The manor has gone quiet, now, although the entire building trembles from the expanding Hollow. Hugo had knocked out every Ravenlock member he’d crossed paths with, but he couldn’t take the time to hunt them all down, prioritizing cutting off the head of the snake instead. The gunshots he heard earlier is proof that more innocents have paid the price for Hugo’s decision – he hopes the silence now means that the rest managed to escape, or that the Ravenlocks have decided that saving their own skins is more important than continuing their rampage.
Hugo needs to leave as well.
The entire ground floor is a mess, the chandelier shattered in the center of the hall, furniture – and bodies – strewn everywhere. The far end of the hall has collapsed, creating a makeshift exit after the Ravenlocks had locked everyone within the building.
Perhaps, he should check for survivors. But Mockingbird’s assertive moral compass has abandoned Hugo for the Mayflowers, and Hugo’s first inclination has always been towards his own survival, an instinct borne from years of enduring his siblings’ murderous intentions.
The outside world beckons; turning away from the carnage, Hugo slips through the shadows, making for the jagged hole in the wall.
It shouldn’t have caught his attention, not with his focus split between watching his step in the dark and staying alert for movement, in case he needs to defend himself from any lingering Ravenlocks.
There’s a shape there, however, in the rubble.
Hugo freezes.
And then, he runs.
The person trapped in the rubble is near unrecognizable, fur turned grey from dust and debris, his tall, stalwart figure curled up defensively, face down, and his legs pinned under the heavy stone remnants of the collapsed wall.
But Hugo knows Lycaon like his own heartbeat, would know him in any shape or form, and his breath stutters sharp and painful in his chest, like someone has dug their claws past the protection of his ribs and tried to rip out his heart.
There’s so much blood.
Hugo doesn’t see it so much as feel it; the moment he crashes to his knees beside Lycaon, the blood – Lycaon’s blood – soaks the fabric of his trousers immediately, warm, tacky, the tang of copper heavy in the air.
Up close, it becomes obvious that Lycaon’s legs aren’t just pinned – they’re so mangled by the heavy stone that Hugo, as inured to violence and gruesome wounds as he is from his time with the Ravenlock family, feels bile rising in his throat.
Forcing himself to swallow, Hugo leans over Lycaon’s back and reaches for his throat—
—only to find himself staring into a pair of young and terrified eyes, barely visible under Lycaon’s thick ruff.
Hugo doesn’t break eye contact with the child even as his fingers continue their journey, sliding with familiar ease beneath the spiked collar, under fur. There, he finds what he’s looking for.
A precious thump of Lycaon’s heart.
Alive.
Phones don’t work this close to an active Hollow, not with all the volatile Etheric energy in the air. For now, all Hugo can do is pull the belts off himself and Lycaon to fasten as makeshift tourniquets around Lycaon’s thighs to try to slow the flow of blood.
Then, he finally turns his attention to the child.
It takes some maneuvering, to safely drag the boy from beneath Lycaon’s weight – Hugo doesn’t want to risk jarring Lycaon and exacerbating any other hidden injuries, and his partner had clearly been hellbent on protecting the child before the wall collapsed on them. But Lycaon’s grip has slacken in unconsciousness and with blood loss, and with enough force, Hugo manages to pull the boy free.
The child doesn’t seem harmed beyond bruises and scrapes; when Hugo hoists him onto his feet, the child doesn’t cry out or collapse.
He does look rather glassy-eyed, however.
But Hugo doesn’t have time for panic attacks. He pinches the boy’s cheek – not meanly, but enough that the small pain should hopefully distract him from any imminent hysterics – and then demands, his voice rising sharp and authoritative, “Look at me.”
The child’s eyes snap up. Good.
“Listen carefully to every word I say. You need to leave this building. When you get out to the garden, follow the path down until you hit the main road. Go right, in the direction of the river, away from the Hollow. Take this with you.” Sparing a moment to punch in the emergency line number, Hugo then shoves his phone into the boy’s hand. “The phone will beep when you get far away enough to catch a signal. Dial the number immediately. Tell the on-call staff your name, and tell them that there are people still trapped here, in Solstice manor. Do you remember all of that? Repeat it back to me.”
The boy nods, but instead of repeating the instructions back to Hugo, he just whispers, in a small and trembling voice, “My mom. She works here, in the kitchens. I was helping out a bit, bringing out some dishes when the servers are too busy, but—I don’t know where she is now.”
“She’ll find you.” That’s a lie. Hugo has no experience of kindly parental figures, but he knows that if this boy’s mother loves her son, then the likeliest reason why she hasn’t searched for her child would be because she is incapable of doing so. “But you have to be safe first, and that means you have to leave.”
The boy seems to deflate, and his eyes dart restlessly across the hall, only stilling when his gaze catches on Lycaon’s form. “He protected me.”
“Yes, he does that. Now please, go.”
Perhaps it’s the bite of desperation in his voice that Hugo can’t quite hide, but the boy finally moves. He scrambles over the broken pieces of the collapsed wall and out into the garden. Hugo watches until he disappears from sight, and then turns his full attention back to Lycaon.
There is nothing to do but wait, and hope that Public Security is already on the scene so help comes swiftly. Hugo sits beside Lycaon and reaches to pull his partner’s head into his lap—
—only to freeze again at the feeling of matted, bloodied fur.
Carefully, so very carefully, Hugo tips Lycaon’s face towards him.
Oh.
His eye.
Hugo doesn’t know how to bind eye injuries. He hardly knows what to do about Lycaon’s legs, entirely aware that the tourniquets are just the most rudimentary of stop gaps, not when he can see the jut of broken bone piercing clean through torn, raw flesh.
Can he even touch Lycaon without making things worse?
In the end, Hugo settles for cradling Lycaon’s face – the side opposite from his ruined eye – in one hand, his other set lightly over Lycaon’s throat, fingertips under the collar.
It’s so very quiet.
When Hugo speaks, his voice is hushed, like a prayer whispered into the sanctity of a church.
“I would never betray my companion. You’ve already betrayed me once, Lycaon. You do not get to leave me a second time, not ever like this.”
The slow, faint thump of Lycaon’s heartbeat against Hugo’s fingertips is his only reply.
---
Hugo has never had to sit by anyone’s bedside, before this.
Jack had passed peacefully in his sleep, and Serena – dear, sweet Serena had slipped away so quickly that she never had the chance to make it to a doctor, to a hospital bed. He and Lycaon get banged up on their missions, certainly, but never anything serious enough that they couldn’t treat it themselves in the privacy of their attic hideaway.
Although perhaps their definition for what counts as a serious injury is horribly skewed compared to most normal people – not with Hugo’s exceptionally high pain tolerances and deeply ingrained aversion to showing weakness, and Lycaon with his stronger, more durable wolf Thiren’s constitution.
That constitution, the doctors inform Hugo, is one of the main reasons why Lycaon hadn’t succumbed to his accumulated injuries, especially the blood loss.
It’s also a good indicator that Lycaon will be capable of adapting to the loss of his eye and both legs, at least physically.
Hugo is not one to shy away from hard truths, and so he doesn’t avert his gaze now. He sweeps his eyes over Lycaon’s form for the hundredth, thousandth time – his right eye bound heavily under bandages and the thicker fur on his head shorn short now from the surgery; his torso, rising faintly up and down with each breath, then down the rest of Lycaon’s body, the strong line of his thighs ending abruptly near the knee, the dip of the blanket so clearly highlighting the empty space where Lycaon’s lower legs should be.
Hugo’s grip tightens involuntarily around Lycaon’s hand, lying limp and unresponsive in his own.
He was the one to make that decision, although truthfully, it was never really a choice. The doctors made it very clear that the damage was too severe to save either leg; instead, their discussion with Hugo was more on the minutiae of the amputations – the surgical approach, whether Hugo thought Lycaon would want prosthetics, and finding the balance of removing the most damaged flesh while ensuring what remains is best prepared for a future prosthetic fitting.
It's what Lycaon wanted – Hugo having the authority to make medical decisions on his behalf, that is. Preparing the paperwork, wrangling Hugo into going along with it, filing the documents with the relevant authorities; Lycaon was the one to ensure that in the eyes of the law he and Hugo are legally connected – not just close friends, not next-of-kin, but bound by deliberate, conscious choice.
Is that still what Lycaon wants, now that he’s chosen to leave Mockingbird?
Too late now. It’s Hugo’s signature on the surgery consent forms, him deciding the way forward when a variable pops up with regards to Lycaon’s immediate care, of which there are surprisingly many.
There are more decisions to be made – long-term treatment plans, physical rehabilitation, therapy to deal with the emotional and psychological trauma of losing half his vision and not just one but two limbs, and further into the future, the possibility of prosthetics. But those can wait until Lycaon wakes up and is lucid, to choose for himself.
The recovery will be lengthy and arduous.
Hugo doesn’t think he’s the right person to support Lycaon through it.
Lycaon’s words keep ringing in Hugo’s head. Not from their confrontation at Solstice manor, and not even the conversation Hugo had overheard between Lycaon and Jack.
Things don’t end well for people who break their oaths, Lycaon said the day they gave Mockingbird its name, when Hugo promised not to cause harm to other people’s lives.
And now, half of Mockingbird has abandoned their cause, and Lycaon has paid the price for Hugo’s—everything.
His hesitation. His pride and hubris. His deep, unceasing need for vengeance.
Hugo’s hands are stained in blood. In his father’s, and now again in Lycaon’s.
Lifting his gaze, Hugo studies Lycaon’s face, the tension in his features obvious even with the bandages. Hugo’s resentment at Lycaon’s decision to leave Mockingbird, his hatred towards his father, the fear as he sat at Lycaon’s side, waiting – for either help to come, or for Lycaon’s heartbeat to fade away – all of that has been smothered by sheer exhaustion, leaving Hugo numb and empty.
Without his emotions getting in the way, Hugo’s thoughts are startlingly clear.
Betrayals and abandonment, secrets and broken promises – none of those matter. All that matters is Lycaon, and who he is to Hugo.
His dearest partner, now turned his greatest traitor.
And yet—
—still his, always.
Before the surgeries, the nurses had left Lycaon’s personal effects in Hugo’s care, the most valuable of which are the set of rings that usually adorn Lycaon’s fingers, and Lycaon’s phone, which had miraculously survived everything, sporting only a minor crack across the bottom of the screen.
Hugo pulls the device out now. He taps out the passcode and scrolls through Lycaon’s contact list. The names are coded, of course, but it’s their code, and it only takes Hugo a minute to find the one he’s looking for.
Mayflower.
Hugo stares down at the coded entry for a long, long while. Lycaon didn’t even bother obscuring it further; if Hugo cared to snoop, he would have found it easily.
Does that mean that—
It doesn’t matter.
Hugo dials the number and lifts the phone to his ear.
One ring. Two rings. A third—
The call connects. There’s a pause, and then the person on the other end says, “Mr. Von Lycaon.”
It’s familiar enough, that voice. Hugo and Lycaon always made it a point to listen to the city administration’s press conferences, the same way they keep tabs on TOPS’s announcements. It is, indeed, the mayor.
Hugo doesn’t let go of Lycaon’s hand, but he pulls his posture up from its tired slump, spine straightening, shoulders pulled back, his head lifting as if he is a lawyer preparing to defend his case before the court of the people.
It’s a good analogy; Hugo is playing at greater stakes than ever before.
He doesn’t let a single hint of personal sentiment into his voice when he says, “Lycaon is in the hospital.”
The phone goes silent for a long, long while.
“Mr. Mockingbird, I presume.”
Hugo’s lips peel back before he can help it, near snarling. The presumption. The gall. As if Mockingbird had ever been just one person, as if Lycaon isn’t intrinsic to its creation.
He swallows all of that back and continues as though Mayflower hadn’t spoken at all.
“Lycaon’s condition is critical, but his life is out of danger. He has undergone several surgeries – one, for his eye, and another, for his legs. They have been amputated, just above the knee.”
To Mayflower’s credit, he doesn’t display any audible reaction to the Hugo’s statement, nor does he rush to offer empty platitudes. Instead, after a short pause, he asks, “How did it happen?”
“A building collapsed on him. He was pinned under a wall. We had to wait for emergency services to extract him, but by then the damage was done.”
“I see. And that building… it wouldn’t happen to be Solstice manor, would it?”
It’s Hugo’s turn to pause, surprised. His silence is as good as an answer.
“So, you are two of the survivors of that disaster,” Mayflower continues, as if confirming the fact to himself. “Our primary focus was on containing the Hollow manifestation and evacuating the surrounding streets, but I did get a brief report of the rescue operation at Solstice manor before it was swallowed up by the Hollow, although it did not contain the identities of the survivors. The window for rescue was very tight; I’m glad that it was enough, to save the both of you.”
Hugo ignores all of that, homing in on Mayflower’s particular phrasing. “‘Two of the survivors.’ Were there others?”
“Yes. One of the survivors on scene directed the rescue team to search the kitchens. There were several personnel there, who had barricaded themselves in the industrial cold room and ended up trapped. Other than exposure to Ether radiation and mild cases of hypothermia, they are unharmed. I presume that it was you, who gave the rescue team that information.”
One of the tight knots in Hugo’s chest eases, just the slightest. That young boy – Hugo hopes his mother is amongst the saved kitchen staff.
“I’m glad.” Hugo’s voice comes out softer than he intended, and he straightens immediately, regaining focus. Time to move along.
“Lycaon will need a stable and safe environment to recuperate. A caretaker who can stay at his side constantly, at least until he recovers and adapts enough to his disabilities to be able to care for himself. Extensive rehabilitation, treatment, and resources for advanced prosthetics, customized for a wolf Thiren and combatant.”
Everything, more or less, that Hugo cannot provide.
“So, Mr. Mayor,” Hugo continues, his voice silken smooth like a slip of poison added to a drink, elegantly presented in a delicate cocktail glass. “Does your offer for Lycaon to join the Mayflowers still stand? Or are you going to abandon him now that he is no longer useful to you?”
A quiet sigh, this time. Hugo can’t tell if it’s an act.
“I did not try to recruit Lycaon based on his physical prowess alone. He possesses many admirable qualities, of which I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate to you on. Yes, the offer stands, and yes, I can provide the resources needed for Lycaon’s recovery. And no, I will not require anything from you. I would help Lycaon even without your intervention, after all.”
It sounds far too good to be true – no one, in Hugo’s experience, is simply that benevolent. But Hugo has little leverage to force the issue right now; whatever favours Lycaon ends up owing to Mayflower after this will have to be settled between the two of them in the future.
“Then,” Hugo says, as though the words aren’t tearing up his throat on the way out, “Lycaon is one of your people now.”
Mayflower lets out a thoughtful hum. “I do have one concern, however. What does Lycaon think about all this?”
“No need to worry, Mr. Mayor,” Hugo drawls, “Lycaon made this decision himself. He chose you over me, he made that very clear. He’s just unlucky. If he’d left the manor right then, he wouldn’t have been caught in the building when the Hollow manifested.”
Truly, Hugo is an impeccable actor, his airy flippant tone masking all his regrets and frustrations. He meant every word – if only Lycaon had ran straight to the Mayflowers after their fight. If only he’d chosen to prioritize his own safety instead of trying to rescue others. If only he hadn’t seen that young boy, if only he’d been a little faster, to get out of range of those falling stone walls.
If only.
But Lycaon wouldn’t be Lycaon, without his compassionate heart.
“I can, however, give you one piece of intel. Consider it payment for your… consideration, towards Lycaon.” Hugo glances briefly out the wide observational windows that make up half the wall of Lycaon’s ward. The nurses seem occupied; good. The last thing Hugo needs is someone walking in and overhearing everything.
“I’m listening.”
“The majority of the people within Solstice manor did not perish from the Hollow disaster. They were all locked in the manor and killed by the Ravenlocks in retaliation for an assassination attempt against the head of the Ravenlock family. The Ravenlocks simply used the Hollow disaster to obscure the true culprits – themselves.”
“The rescue personnel on scene said as much – that many of the bodies in the building didn’t look like they’d died from Ether corruption or from the building’s destabilization. But the Hollow has consumed the manor now, and we can’t investigate further or hold the Ravenlocks accountable for those deaths.” Then, Mayflower adds consideringly, “Unless a witness steps forward to testify against them.”
Hugo scoffs. “Do you think me stupid? An unknown person with no connections accusing one of the main families that controls TOPS. My word alone means nothing against a powerful, scheming and ruthless family, and I doubt the kitchen staff truly saw anything, if they were smart enough to hide at the first sign of the chaos. If you want to prosecute the Ravenlocks, we’ll need hard, undisputable evidence.”
Tipping his head back, Hugo stares right up at the overhead lights, his vision whiting out briefly from the glare. “On the bright side, the head of the Ravenlock family is dead. So that should weaken them, at least for some time.”
“Thank you for sharing that information.” Mayflower is smart. He doesn’t ask how that death happened.
The line goes quiet. Hugo has said everything he needs to say to Mayflower; just as he’s contemplating hanging up, however, Mayflower speaks up.
“If I offered you the same opportunity as Lycaon, to join my cause, I don’t suppose you’d accept.”
Hugo’s reply is immediate, instinctive. “Never.”
His scathing response doesn’t faze Mayflower one bit. “When we last spoke, Lycaon didn’t reject my offer, but neither did he agree. I sensed that he was reluctant to part with Mockingbird and that that hesitance would outweigh any advantages of joining the Mayflowers, but obviously that’s changed. Who is to say that you won’t change your mind as well?”
“I won’t,” Hugo bites out. “Lycaon made his decision, and I’ve made mine. I will never abandon Mockingbird.”
“All right,” Mayflower says easily, as if he expected the result. “As mayor, however, I cannot condone Mockingbird’s actions.”
Hugo could take that as a threat. He’s not an idiot – if Mayflower knows Lycaon’s identity, then he undoubtedly knows Hugo’s. He and Lycaon are linked in too many ways for it not to be obvious; other than the legal documents appointing them the other’s designated surrogate if one is incapacitated, Jack’s will named Lycaon and Hugo his heirs; the property that houses their attic hideaway belongs to the both of them because of it.
Mayflower doesn’t even need to arrest Hugo; to ruin him, all Mayflower has to do is leak Hugo’s identity as a member of Mockingbird to the public. A phantom thief’s greatest advantage is their anonymity, after all.
But Hugo has never backed down in the face of power, much less authority, and he won’t do so now.
“Mockingbird’s creed has never changed – we steal from the undeserving rich and give to those in need, uplifting the downtrodden and fighting against evil. If you find yourself a target of Mockingbird, Mr. Mayor, then the solution is obvious – do better.”
There’s an inhale of breath, like Mayflower is preparing to respond. But Hugo is tired, abruptly, achingly so, and he’s had enough of this conversation.
“Lycaon is one of yours, now. Take care of him.”
Hugo hangs up, and for good measure, turns off the phone entirely. It badly needs charging, anyway.
His other hand is clutched so tightly around Lycaon’s that his own fingers hurt. Hugo lets out a deep breath; he has to force himself to slacken that grip, finger by finger.
Lycaon needs his hands left unharmed, not when he must already make do without his legs. Hugo should just… let go.
He tries. It takes him a long moment to realize, his mind sluggish from too many hours without rest, through their rescue and the long hours of the surgeries – the reason Hugo can’t let go of Lycaon’s hand because Lycaon is gripping back.
Hugo’s eyes dart up to Lycaon’s face, his throat tight. But no – Lycaon isn’t awake. He’s turned his head towards Hugo, however, possibly in an unconscious reaction to Hugo’s voice, and very, very quietly, Lycaon is letting out subvocal whines of distress, only discernible because Hugo’s hearing is unnaturally sharp.
The analgesic medication must be wearing off.
It’s a little selfish, but Hugo takes some time to just… memorize Lycaon, to commit to memory this version of his partner. Lowering his head, Hugo presses his forehead against the warm and familiar line of Lycaon’s knuckles—
—then he gently sets Lycaon’s hand back on the bed, and reaches for the call button to alert the nurses.
There are a million, myriad ways in which Lycaon and Hugo are connected, careful, intentional stitches that sutured two lives into one shared purpose.
Now, it’s time to sever the ties that bind them, like a scythe shearing through golden, bountiful wheat, leaving only the lonely stalks behind.
There’s a quiet tap at the door, and then the head nurse steps in. Hugo likes her. She brooks absolutely no nonsense and had barred Hugo's entry to Lycaon’s room until he’d changed, scrubbed himself clean of all the dust and debris and blood, and allowed her to test him for Ether corruption. She’d also stood over Hugo until he swallowed every bite of the energy bar she shoved in his hands, her eyes just daring Hugo to protest.
Hugo hadn’t dared.
She’ll keep Lycaon safe until Mayflower can make arrangements.
The nurse moves straight into action, not needing Hugo to tell her the issue; she adjusts the medication in Lycaon’s intravenous line and checks over the rest of the monitors, making notations on Lycaon’s chart.
“Mr. Vlad,” the nurse says. “I'll remind you that visiting hours will end in about an hour. You really should go home and rest.”
“You’re right,” Hugo capitulates easily. The nurse’s grey eyes flick up. “I’ll go.”
He leaves Lycaon’s rings on the bedside cabinet, but decides, at the last moment, to keep Lycaon’s phone. Hugo has lost his own, after all.
When he turns back to the nurse, she’s staring at the cluster of rings with an air of concern.
“Visiting hours start again tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll see you then?”
Oh, she knows.
Hugo spares her a smile. He’s aware that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you, Ms. Head Nurse, for everything.”
When Hugo walks out of Lycaon’s hospital ward, he doesn’t look back.