Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From the second that Wilbur had been born, the young boy was a magnet for trouble.

As a child, only nine years old, Wilbur had already attracted attention from many criminal organisations from all around the world, and he had done nothing wrong. To others, he was just a farm of potential, not a child that wanted a future. Unfortunately, his parents were one of those people, amongst others.

The second that he had turned ten years old, his parents became harsh and unforgiving and cold and cruel. Every second was time for a lecture, and every mistake was room for a beating, room for a lesson. Every breath, every footstep was too loud, every word too quiet.

One day, the day right after his birthday, Wilbur had been outside, playing on their tree-lined street on a sunny afternoon, driving around the new remote-control car that his grandpa had gotten for him, despite his parents' protests that he didn't need presents. 

The sun was rising high in the sky, that day, but Wilbur remembers nothing of it. That day was his first of many encounters with all the people that would be after him for the rest of his life, and he was only a child.

The only thing that Wilbur remembers, in the present day, nine years later, is his own terrified scream, his sobs when he was driven away in a black car—type of which he can no longer remember—and he, despite his young age, despite how much he, as a child all those years ago, wanted to deny it, some part of him knew that his parents had organised this. His kidnapping, one of many.

The rest for him is but a blur, but a blur is something amongst nothing, and the last few things that he remembers is going through a constant shifting of what had been called, in code, 'parents,' though, in reality, it was the same thing as owners, and with each of these owners, he would most often be given a set of tasks, some easier than others, others a danger that his young mind hadn't even been able to comprehend, and others just plain torture, designed for these 'parents' sadistic pleasure—yeah, he was trafficked, as a child.

When he turned twelve, being recycled to yet another criminal underground, he had begun being defiant and burning or stealing things, all of which he enjoyed. He had quit worrying and fearing the pain, only focusing on the pure glee he felt in watching the fire as it burnt down buildings, big or small, and seeing the panic of the leaders and bosses of the organisation when they couldn't find their precious briefcases and phones, or the look of superior amusement that he got when he denied orders.

They were amused because they got to hit him, hard, and they thought they were superior because they knew that they couldn't hurt him anymore, that he was no longer bothered by the pain they caused him.

They were all just putting on a mask of superiority, even when they knew that they were the ones inferior to him, but that was exactly why they pretended.

Later, he was taught that he had conduct-something-a-shit as a child, but now it was a thing of the past. However, he had also been told that that meant that he had a higher chance of developing AS...AP?—something...something else...disorder. He couldn't remember what it was called.

When he was going throughout criminal organisations, he had a codename: Dionysus, but no one ever called him by that. Instead, they'd call him things like: rat, and servant.

But that was what made him want to become a detective, to help people, to help those who couldn't help themselves, so that they didn't have to go through the same thing that he did, so that's what he did, and he had gotten all the criminal organisations that used and abused him as a mere, weak child arrested. 

The level of amusement that he felt, watching these leaders, these monsters, sat behind bars—just as they deserved—it was indescribable, just how pleased he was to see them, the looks of pure hatred and rage in their eyes, even as they could do nothing. Even as they threatened him and cursed him out, he would just stand there, smirking, for both parties were well aware that the leaders would never be getting out of that jail cell, and that thought made him grin, wide, even to the present.

The heavy rain outside was but a dull thud to Wilbur, safe inside the police station. Or, at least where he usually would've felt safe. Yet, instead of a safe workplace, it was a danger; every footfall was a suspect, every flicker of the lights a deliberate trick, every wall looking smaller and smaller by the second, and every room's confinement factor becoming noticeable.

But now, there was no yelling. There was no pain. There was nothing, just the sound of rain, of footsteps, and his thoughts. It was silent, for the most part, that is.

It was dark out already, the rain clouds only darkening the sky further.

He had to constantly remind his student, Tommy, to remain silent, just in the case that the first officer hadn't detained all threats, or that there was still someone, perhaps multiple someones, lurking in the shadows. 

When Soot asked this small, simple favour of his golden-haired apprentice, however, he'd oftentimes get the same whiny answer, "Come on, it's just a little fun, and besides, being quiet is for pussies," in the loudest tone possible, and it was becoming obvious that this boy was built to annoy him. 

The deep grey walls felt to be closing in on him, the rooms bare of anything that they might have once had.

In some rooms, there was only a table that had been knocked over in the panic, but in others, there were more signs of havoc—each and every second a chill creeping up his spine from the flickering lights and the claustrophobic space, and Tommy's rather...loud version of, quote unquote, silence, only made it worse for him. 

The first second that the information that over ninety-five-thousand officers—all who went to this specific station—oddly disappeared, the public began pointing fingers at the infamous underground crime organisation, The Syndicate, as they called themselves, and that was due to the fact that they had been causing excess trouble around the city. Like, more than usual for a criminal syndicate.

Suddenly, the sound of metal scraping against the tile floor sent bugs crawling under Wilbur's skin, who turned to his apprentice with a half-gloved finger held to his lips, "Stay here, and stay quiet," said the brown-haired in a hushed yet frantic tone, though he quickly stood up and stuck his hands in his long coat pockets, his hand brushing against the cool metal that he always kept there, even though he didn't intend to use it—he didn't feel like going through all the legal processes, even if it was a necessary kill. So, therefore, the weapon was unloaded.

And gods how he hoped that quiver in his tone wasn't audible.

Great. I'm going to get kidnapped. Again. By the fucking Syndicate of all people. Just my luck.

Albeit, this was not time for him to to wallow in his self-pity, nor was it the place for him to allow his racing thoughts to take over, to guide his every move and make every wrong decision. He had a job to do. He was grown. And he had a student to protect. And he had bills to pay. And he had thousands of officers to avenge. And—and—

This is not the time, Wilbur. Just stop thinking, you meathead! Go in there. You'll be fine. You've done this before. You never died. You're still alive, aren't you? Go! Go! Go!

So, slowly, he crept into what would've been the investigation room, windows broken and light only flickering on and off a few times before it was complete darkness, causing him to instinctively reach for his flashlight, beginning to shine it around the room until he saw a thick-looking metal door in the corner, and what appeared to be a shadow dashing around through the small window.

Sharp glass sharps, laid out carefully in lines, propped up against each other like some sort of spikes. He could imagine the pain of those things piercing through his boot, going straight into his foot.

Or if he fell... Let's not think about that.

Wilbur cautiously raised his feet, feeling like one of those cartoon ninjas when he expertly slid to the side and silently avoided the... trap.

He placed his hand on the knob, twisting it with uncertainty and mild hesitance, but managing to do it after squeezing his eyes shut, only opening them when he heard nothing but the clicking along with the opening of the door.

Detective Soot squinted, trying his hardest to see in the pitch-black darkness. Even with broken windows, the night brought no light. It only brought cold breaths and the taps of rain. 

The place was already engraved with the stench of mildew, the sight of dark mold already growing up the walls being enough to make his throat tighten as he gagged, using his shirt to cover his nose. Anything make that toe-curling smell at least somewhat bearable.

But that didn't help with the darkness. His flashlight did that, flickering on with tiny dust particles becoming visible again. 

Carefully, he turns his head all around, looking for anything that could be of use to him in finding out who the murderers were. A torn piece of fabric. A strand of hair. Hell, even a hair tie would be useful.

A flash of pink, of blond, of brown. Red and green and black and white.

"Who's the—"

—CRASH! CRACK! SCRAAAPE! 

A strong arm wrapped around his upper body before he could even load his gun, squeezing like a constrictor strangling its prey. 

Wilbur squirmed, screams muffled behind the hand tasting of metal and dirt, hands twisting and shoulders raising up as high as they could. He kicked his feet, doing anything to get whoever this was to let go of him. Anything not to get hurt again. He'd do anything not get tied up again and... and...

Something wet pressed against his face, his shaking figure beginning to slow as a sort of weightless bliss rose up from his chest, his eyes beginning to droop to a close. The smell of sweets filled his nostrils, but not in a pleasant way. It was in a way that made the air thick, hard to breathe in, like he was trying to breathe with a hand on his throat.

He was only able to feel sandpaper wrapping around him and digging into his wrists before the melodious call of sleep spoke to him, taking him into a place of darkness and bliss, where there was no murders, no Syndicate, no pain, no yelling. A place where there was nothing. A place where he was barely even alive. 

Just before his eyelids closed, Wilbur found himself wondering... What about Tommy? He wasn't sure if he said that aloud or not.

Chapter Text

The metallic taste of old blood and thick ropes were what Wilbur awakened to.

Mind still foggy, the brown-haired rolled himself onto his side in the darkness of the room, lit only by the flickering fire, embers floating around before disappearing shortly.

Pain crept through ever cell in Wilbur's body, feeling like thousands of punches on bruises. White-hot knives felt as though they were carefully pushed under his skin, shoved up and around until it fell off. 

His entire body wrapped in tight rope, he knew it was pointless to struggle. He knew it was pointless to pull and jerk the way he did. He knew it was pointless to keep shouting for help behind that rope. Most of all, he knew that he was doing nothing but earning judgement from those cold blue eyes staring down at him, belonging to two pink-haired people.

Gaze drifting up to them, eyes narrowing in sharp defiance, he could feel the sting of too-tight ropes rubbing his skin raw. He felt like he could already see the pink of his body. Everywhere. The pain was everywhere. The ropes were everywhere. They only made that bruised sensation feel even worse.

"Huh... Lookie there, Nemesis. Little bird's in denial~" beamed a rasping voice, the words making him freeze in place. Nemesis. 

I'm in front of The Syndicate. Shit. Shit. Shit. What—what did that old man tell me about compliance? I should uhm... listen to what they tell me. But that's... they're villains, after all. Murderers. They're dangerous. Let's not get on their bad side, Wil. But... Gods I fucking hate this.

As he tried to use his tongue to force the grime-tasting rope out his mouth, the breath ripped from Wilbur's lungs in a sharp, painful gasp, making him choke on air as tears sprung to his eyes. He felt his stomach churn and tighten, a wave of humiliating mixed with the searing pain washing over him.

His heart jumped up into his throat, his head spinning in nausea as he blinked away his tears, airways tightening when he tasted that first drop of iron.

"Quit, Wilbur, or I'll do it again," there was a demonic smirk in that man's voice as the brown-haired struggled to regain his breath, lying there, trembling and now horrified. If it was even possible, his heart began to beat against his body even faster, body shaking against his confines, every movement sending a fresh ripple of agony through his core.

One kick. A little force. And this is what he was reduced to? A whining, shaking dog? He really was pathetic. Just as those idiots had told him when he was little. He was pathetic and weak and sickly. And useless.

Behind the gag came his muffled pleas, "Mfngh! Hmf! Mmf hm mmh!" He should've simply silenced himself there. He should've gone quiet and stopped his struggling, but he needed to get out of here. These people had no mercy. They'd surely kill him if they got the chance. When they got the chance. If he kept... misbehaving they'd do it. 

But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was still trying his fucking hardest to put on a strong front, trying to keep that defiant spark in his eyes from dying out. He was trying to keep his movements vigorous and expression plain, though he was never any good at acting. 

His muscles strained against the thick restraints, ever part of his skin screaming in a burning agony, as if singing a song so loud that it caused his skin to rub itself raw.

There Wilbur lied on his back, the impact fading into a dull throb as he disregarded that threat. Yeah. It was just a threat. Nothing more. The Syndicate wanted to act big and scary? Then he'd let them think he was scared. He'd let them lie to themselves and think they're just terrifying.

He's not scared.

He's not.

Slowly, exhaustion crept into his very bones, like a fire from his neck to his ankles, burning like a big blue flame under his skin.

Now he simply stares at his captors, whose eyes never left his face, their gaze feeling like hundred pound weights on their own, holding him there like hands on his shoulders when he rolled over once more.

Laughter. Loud, wicked, mocking. Everything he expected of a criminal organisation, but everything that he hated. He hated that laughter, hated that smile, hated that stupid codename. He hated it. He hated everything about this. 

"Hm... Looks like we can get him to listen, no? Welp," a shrug, then the pink-haired man turned around and gestured for his... partner to, presumably, follow him, leaving Wilbur to his lonesome in the dim, albeit comfy-looking, room.

Then they were gone, as if they were never there at all.

Heart beating so fast it was almost painful, body aching in exhaustion, there he lied, shutting his eyes in a last hope that all of this—the trafficking, the murders, and now this—was just a bad dream that he'd wake up from. He'd wake up and he'd be nine years old again.

He'd wished this many times, never had it worked. It wasn't true. It wasn't a dream. It was real. 

But he was still holding onto the fragile, childish hope that it would eventually be okay again. That he'd eventually feel okay again.