Chapter Text
Warlock’s mind was swimming in a slurry of exhaustion and pain. His eyes slowly heaved open, leaden with exhaustion, as was the rest of his body. Where was he?
A familiar weight was missing from his face. Where… was his mask?
Panic surged almost immediately, spurred by confusion and the exhaustion that weighed down on his form like tungsten, making it impossible for him to turn his head- much less get up and run like the intrusive, anxiety fueled, and irrational thoughts screaming in the back of his skull.
Ground yourself. What is the last thing you remember before you blacked out? He rationalized, warring with the intrusions created by his panicked thoughts.
He remembered… pain. Lot’s of pain. Like being simultaneously being crushed and ripped open by a wild animal clawing out of his insides… and eyes, lots of eyes.
Wait, there was a boy. One in a hoodie, with hair like ink streaked paper and skin that was far too pale to be healthy. The boy held a gun to Warlock, and then dropped it when… Why can’t he remember what happened beyond that?
Warlock’s head throbbed, a deep, biting pain that clawed at his sanity. He felt nauseous, his limbs shook as he pushed himself up. The effort being all he could muster, the weakness preventing him from doing much else.
He recognized the sensation: extreme hunger. The kind that comes from a whole day, if not multiple, without eating.
Warlock looked down at himself, his costume was gone- a spare pair of someone else’s sweatpants covering his overly lengthy, lithe legs- his pale shins being visible due to the shorter outseam compared to what he usually would need to wear. His hands seemed bigger, not dramatically so, but enlarged enough for him to notice. He then gently put the hand to his face, checking his facial features. Gently tracing down his forehead, then down his nose, then softly along his lips, and finally past his chin, almost every feature felt like they were in their place, though his teeth felt a little off as he ran his tongue along them.
His canines were sharper and longer. He needed a mirror, or something reflective.
Warlock struggled to his feet, chest heaving with the effort- his own black hair, longer than it used to be, obscured his vision slightly as the bangs fell over his face. His legs were shaking with the effort to remain upright as he held onto what appeared to be a table bolted down to the ground for dear life. A hunger pang then hit him like a knife to the gut, almost sending him back down, and a dry heave up.
His eyes scanned the “room”. At least, he hoped it was a room. A fridge sat at the other side of the room, 3 agonizing feet away. He staggered over, he was too exhausted and hungry to worry about decorum as he opened the fridge.
There were half a dozen pizzas all with “DAKOTA” scrawled on the boxes in writing that looked like it was done by a 3rd Grader, what appeared to be freeze-dried rats (ew.), and what seemed to be a gas station hoagie.
He opted for the hoagie… until realizing that it was practically putrefying in the back of the fridge, with green mold and brown lettuce. It had to at least be 3 months out of date.
He continued to dig through the fridge for a moment, desperate for anything that looked untouched or left alone enough for the owner(s) not to notice its absence.
“What are you doing?” a semi-familiar voice asked
Warlock yelped, and practically gave himself a concussion on the roof of the fridge as he whipped his head out to the source of the noise.
The boy from earlier was apparently just sitting in the corner, glowering over a beat up laptop at him. Warlock tried to make himself imposing, trying to hide the fact that he was so starved that he could barely stand up… and failing upon attempting to speak as his voice was quickly stopped by another dry heave.
“...need… eat…” was all Warlock could muster for words, rasping out with the slurring of the thick saliva mixed with bile coating his tongue.
The boy raised an eyebrow, before tossing him a granola bar. Warlock practically tore the wrapper off with his teeth and wolfed it down like the starving man he was, barely tasting it as he ate.
It wasn’t a lot, but it at least warded off enough of the nausea for him to speak coherently.
“So, talk. What in the hell are you?” The boy began, prompting a look of confusion from Warlock.
“...Human? What else would I be?” Warlock asked back.
“A giant lizard monster that tore up two whole blocks.” The boy replied flatly, as if it were an obvious statement.
“I… what? I don’t know what you’re talking about- last thing I remember was this pain, you dropping a gun and then I completely blacked out!” Warlock shot back, a subtle defensiveness worming its way into his words.
The boy narrowed his eyes, the silence so tense that one could hear a pin drop. Warlock’s mind began to work… and a horrifying realization crept into view.
The substance- Rush. When it spilled into his eye and he began to feel sick. The memory gap. The pain he felt. The sudden hunger. The boy’s defensive and near hostile posture.
I didn’t just black out, did I?
I mutated.
Click.
The realization hit him like a freight train, leaving him without words for a solid minute. He was one of those… monsters.
But something was horribly different with him- Roarke Hollow, The Warlock, was still here.
He still retained his humanity.
His senses.
Himself.
“Listen, I know this looks… quite frankly, very, very bad.” Roarke began, his tongue finding purchase in the cascade of thoughts, “But, not only was I not in control of myself, but… I was not doing any of that of my own volition.”
The boy continued to stare, eyes narrowed. He wasn’t buying it.
“I have proof… but I don’t have said proof on me.” Roarke continued, “If you give me my mask, I can show you.”
Roarke knew that mask would have residue of that ‘Rush’ on it, especially around the formerly affected eye.
“You mean this?” The boy asked pointedly, holding up the mask, gesturing to the lens on the left side.
“You see a residue in there, right? That was the substance that did that to me, after being poured onto my left eye by a man dressed as an oni.” Roarke explained, gesturing to his now healed brown eye.
The boy’s eyes widened at the last sentence. “What… did he look like exactly?”
“I take it you’ve encountered him too?” Roarke instantly realized, “I encountered him while attempting to take down The Party Animals… though I don’t know where he is now, as I ran off once I got the opportunity, shortly before the incident where we, unfortunately, crossed paths.”
The boy sighed, placing two fingers on the bridge of his nose, “Of course he- Shit.”
“He didn’t follow you, did he?”
Roarke thought for a moment, “No. I hid for a solid 10 minutes after I got away. Even then, oddly, he didn’t give chase… though he seemed to have been expecting me to be there, somehow.”
“Why you?” The boy asked, “If anything, I would have thought he would have expected-”
“I’m a vigilante, easy to pick off compared to someone under WATCH.” Roarke began, “that, and statistically, better chances of staying off of The Prime Force’s radar.”
“You do realize what being a Vigilante can mean, right?” The boy asked, warily.
“Recognition as a villain under WATCH’s radar, and time in prison at best. Depowerment at worst.” Roarke recited, with perfect memory. “Even then, ethically speaking, they can’t depower me. Not because it would kill me, but because it would be only possible via Lobotomy- as my ‘power’, if you could call it that, is superhuman intelligence. My brain is physically far denser than that of a normal person, making me smarter and able to process information more efficiently and accurately, in addition to a photographic memory.”
“Also, it’d be unwise to report me.” Roarke stated, a slight smirk creeping across his face.
“And why is that?” The boy asked, narrowing his eyes again.
“I happen to have information you do not. If you toss me in a cell, you won’t be able to get that, will you? But, I’m willing to help defeat that oni, and The Party Animals… and in exchange, I am exempt from any legal wrongdoing until this point.” Roarke said, with a knowing look in his eyes.
“...fine. But you have to be under our supervision until then, because, I for one, don’t fucking trust you.” The boy spat, a low level of contempt oozing from each syllable.
“Understandable. I accept.” Roarke said, trying to play it cool and composed. In reality his heart was fluttering in his chest. He knew who the boy was now, telling from how he spoke about reporting Roarke, not to mention his body language and voice- The boy was The Wisperer, one of The Prime Defenders. He knew the risk he was taking by making this deal was one of the most dangerous ones he had ever faced, due to the sheer, life ruining, consequences that failing to do so would entail.
All he had to do now, though, is play by their rules for the moment. Then he could worry about continuing on with his illicit work.
“Now, er… Whisperer, I assume? I have three questions.” Roarke asked.
The Whisperer sighed, “What do you want?”
“One, how long was I out for?” Roarke asked
“Half a day, I think.” The pale teenager stated after a moment of thought.
“Two, and this is an awkward question… but do you happen to know of any gas stations in the area? I think my little ‘outburst’ caused my metabolism to go haywire and caused me to develop polyphagia- er…abnormal and extreme hunger, I mean.”
“I can handle that in a sec, now what’s the third one?” The boy asked.
“I need you to help guide me back to a chair or something, as my limbs feel like they’re made of overcooked pasta and I cannot get up on my own, thanks to the previous issue.” Roarke stated with a lilt of slight embarrassment.
“That can happen?” The boy said, surprised.
“Yup. On top of that, I’m lightheaded, only moderately nauseous thanks to your granola bar, I have a headache and I am getting increasingly annoyed at my inability to function normally at the moment.” Roarke continued “It’s common in cases of acute starvation, namely in cases where a person hasn’t eaten in maybe a day or two.”
“Yo, Vyncent, help the guy up?” William asked, clearly to a triple bunkbed.
“Sure thing, Wil.” A third voice rang out before a man jumped down from the top bunk. He had purple hair, and what Roarke could only really place as distinctly elven features, with yellow sclerae and silver eyes.
The elf, Vyncent, walked towards Roarke and helped the man onto a nearby bench, which had been the one Roarke was splayed on previously.
“Thank you.” Roarke huffed as he managed to sit himself down, “also, sorry about our… rather messy first encounter. Let’s hope things go a bit more smoothly from here-”
As Roarke spoke, a sickle-like blade immediately sped towards his head, with Roarke just barely ducking out of the way in time, the blade cutting through the side window and grazing his cheek, a high cackle echoing through the air.