Archive of Our Own ^beta

Apo had only joined the military because she had to.

Nobody in Oakhurst seemed to understand that- she wasn’t a soldier, she wasn’t a fighter or anyone who really knew what they were doing; she was an architect. Her skills involved building, and she was decent at gathering resources, but she wasn’t really a good soldier, and, if she was being entirely honest, she wanted to avoid fighting anyone if at all possible.

Watching blood drain out of them, having it stain her weapon, her hands, having them die because of her- she didn’t like it (she’d been responsible for death before, knew what it was like firsthand, they never wanted to witness it again).

They were armed, of course- sword sharp and at the ready, a wooden stake within easy reach on their belt, and armour covering their skin, and they could make quick work of mobs, but zombies, skeletons, spiders… they weren’t people. It was different.

People just kept going missing on them, and they were tired of it all- every time it happened, they had to panic, wonder whether that person would make it back, whether there’d be blood on their hands because they weren’t good enough, they hadn’t protected everyone well enough, and they didn’t even like these people, but they were a soldier- they were stationed here to help prevent littering, sure- but also to protect anyone who did wander in. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that the eleven stupidest people in the entire world had decided to make an appearance at the same time as them, just an unfortunate coincidence.

Most recently, it was Martyn again. Despite them telling him to never go out by himself again, that they’d been worried, despite the way he’d agreed, said he wouldn’t, despite everything, he’d gone again, and, predictably, they were worried.

Nobody more so than Avid, they supposed, who was pushing the idea that Scott had killed Martyn now, although he seemed much more subdued this time. His eyes had flitted around the crowd, seeing the disinterested or occasionally outright irritated expressions on everyone’s faces and shrinking into himself, stuttering out an apology but pleading with everyone to believe him, at least, that there was danger, even if it wasn’t Scott specifically.

The rest of them weren’t soldiers, and if anyone had to go out into the night, it was going to be Apo, so they’d left to deal with it- they’d find Scott and Martyn, send the both of them home, snap at Martyn more than they meant to, feel bad about it, and then remember that there were real actual lives on the line, and, just because vampires weren’t real didn’t mean that zombies, skeletons, wolves weren’t, and never apologise for it. It felt routine- as much as they hoped it wouldn’t be, because their heart would give out at some point if this kept happening for the next six months, they were pretty sure.

The night air was bitingly cold, winds howling across the water as they reached the area they’d been aiming for- the bridge that stretched across the water, over to the ruins of… something, a castle, or something else, they didn’t know for sure. Whatever it was, though, Avid seemed fixated on there being something vampiric about it, and, since Martyn was still believing Avid’s ramblings for the minute, they had to assume he was here- they’d checked crypts on the way, called his name onto the winds, but there’d been nothing so far.

They half-hoped they were going to spend the entire night searching for him, only to come back to town and find out that he and Scott had returned hours before, that they’d wasted all the time they’d spend dropping into crypts to look around, shouting into caves, climbing hills to glance around for any specks of light. At least that would mean he was okay.

But, for now, her best guess as to where he could be was the castle.

One of these days, she decided, as she peered into the darkness of the staircase leading down into whatever crypt might have lay below, she was going to mandate that people asked permission to go outside the town walls or something, because this was all getting ridiculous, she’d spend her entire day herding people around and trying to avoid any bodies.

But, for the moment, she took a deep breath and then began the process of descending the stairs.

She didn’t flinch at the vast tunnels that greeted her once she reached the bottom, didn’t hesitate for a moment. They were just tunnels, there was nothing inherently ominous about them.

“Martyn?” She called.

There was no response, but, then, that would have made her job too easy.

The tunnel was long, dark, covered in skulls and unlit candles, and inevitably opened up into a single room.

She didn’t think to extinguish her torch, didn’t see any reason to. Maybe she should have.

Because the sight that greeted her as she brought her torch to eliminate the area below…

Martyn was collapsed on his side, blood coating his neck, but splatters of it on his clothes as well, unmoving, and the person that stood above him… well, the outfit was unmistakable, and the expression on Scott’s face, the bland irritation blended with amusement, even more so.

There was so much blood, on Martyn, on Scott, on Scott’s fangs- because Scott had fangs, now, or maybe he had all along- and there was a frozen moment as she stared at the blood, at Martyn’s still form, sword still in her hand but unmoving, Scott just sitting back to stare up at her, and then one of them moved, and the stand-off was broken.

Whether it was Scott who first launched himself upright or Apo who first turned to run, she didn’t know or care, just that she was trapped in an absolute nightmare scenario, and maybe the worst part of the whole thing was that Avid had warned her, she could have avoided this, or maybe the worst part of it was that Martyn was probably dead, that she was going to be next, that she was a failure- or, more realistically, the worst part of the situation didn’t matter, because Scott had climbed the ladder with inhuman speed, or turned into a bat, or something, because he was right behind her, closer than he should have been, and she didn’t want to die, boots pounding against the ground as she ran with abandon, towards the staircase, towards escape, towards anything but being stuck to die down here.

By the time she reached the staircase, she already knew that it was either fight or die. She wasn’t going to successfully run away from this; the stairs would take too long to climb, and Scott was already too close.

And, as much as she’d never wanted to fight- she’d signed up here and everyone had made fun of her for not actually wanting to deal with anything, and they were right, she hadn’t even wanted to be in the military in the first place- she was good at it.

Them whirling around, ending the chase, seemed to take Scott off guard, red (and they were bright scarlet, they should have known that it was suspicious that he was wearing that skull all the time, should have asked, maybe then they would have known in advance) eyes widening, before a lazy grin stretched across his face.

“So, the soldier’s finally decided to fight back.”

They set their jaw. “Avid was right about you.”

A cruel sort of laugh. “Don’t look at me, I wasn’t the one who didn’t believe him.”

They lunged forward, and he dodged out of the way easily, ignoring their frustrated growl.

“You know, Martyn did say you might come around, but I guess I was expecting someone a bit more… competent. But, because I’m so nice, if you don’t fight me, I’ll turn you instead of draining you.” He flashed her a smile, red still coating his fangs.

Apo’s hand found the wooden stake in their pocket, and they ignored the way it shook. “I’ll take my chances.”

He came to them first, claws slashing at them, the smell of copper flooding the air, and they gagged, but swung to get a hit of their own, sharpened stone cutting deep into his side.

He didn’t even seem to feel the pain, not the way their arm felt like they’d been lit on fire where he’d touched, a burning sensation that made them wonder if the venom was only in his fangs, or if it was in his claws as well, just roughly shoving the sword away, and then shoving them, hard enough that they unbalanced, falling backwards to the stone below with a sharp hiss of pain.

Their head hit the ground, and they were sure they’d have to check that for injury later, but, for the moment, they had more pressing things, like the vampire crouching over them, grabbing their sword and- despite their best efforts- pulling it away from them, though they took a grim satisfaction in his wince of pain as he grabbed onto the blade itself, tossing it carelessly to the side.

“I guess I’ll be draining you, then.” His voice was casual, as he crouched down as well, leaning over her, and her heart was pounding in her ears, but there was still a wooden stake in her pocket, still a hope, and, as he prepared to feed, she pulled it out, and, with all the force she could, shoved it through his chest.

She wasn’t sure if it hit his heart exactly. It didn’t seem to matter either way, from how he froze, mouth still open, but the idea of feeding seemingly having left his mind from how he reached for the stake, grasping it-

He couldn’t pull it out. She didn’t know if he’d survive, if he pulled it out, and one of them had to die here, and she couldn’t let it be here, let Scott control the narrative, let him kill other people.

She grabbed his hands, uncaring of the claws that sliced her palms and fingers open, even as blood spilled out of her, shoving him over and sending the both of them tumbling again, her on top this time, there to press down on the stake, to watch as every drop of light bled from his eyes, as he let out a scream, as his body went still in her hands, and she stayed, making sure, a few tears escaping her, but nothing as important as making sure he was actually gone, and, when she was finally sure that he couldn’t possibly still be alive, she stood up shakily.

Their entire body was trembling, they were exhausted, everything hurt and they were coated in blood, though they had no clue how much of it was their own, but they managed to get themself to cross the room, grab their sword, and, closing their eyes as a small mercy to themself, so they didn’t have to see it happen, bringing it down on Scott, severing his neck from his body.

They didn’t know what else they had to do, if it was still possible to bring him back. If there was a way, they were going to make it as difficult as possible. They never wanted to see him again as long as they lived.

Garlic crushed and poured onto his body, shoved into the bloody wound the stake had left. Some silver they’d had with them placed on top of him.

And he was dead- they were sure of it. Head severed from body, stake through the heart, covered in silver and garlic and blood, and maybe they couldn’t stop shaking, and they wanted to cry (they wanted Cherri to be here, and they wanted to not be here at all, and they wanted someone to be in charge of everything so they didn’t have to be), but Martyn was still in the other room, turned, or dead, or-

Or maybe he was alive. Maybe he’d survived, and they’d done something right, even though they weren’t fast enough and-

And God, there was so much blood-

A blank sort of fuzziness filled their head, cotton-y and comforting, enough to allow them to put one foot in front of another, to arrive back in the room they’d initially spotted Scott and Martyn in.

Somewhere in there, they’d lost their torch, but they had others, and, once they reached the bottom of the ladder, they struck one until it lit.

“Martyn?” They called.

He didn’t move. The lump in their throat told them that they already knew the truth.

“Martyn?” Their voice broke, a soft, gasping sob accompanying the word.

They crouched beside him, bringing a hand to his wrist, unwilling to touch his mangled neck, trying to feel for a heartbeat, for anything, but they knew, didn’t they? They-

A weak, fluttery, but still there sensation hit them, and the fact that he was alive sent everything back into high definition, into clarity, suddenly very aware of everything, because they could save him, here.

They cut off a strip of fabric, pressing it against his blood-soaked throat. There were other, smaller injuries on him, a scratch that probably came from Scott’s claws, and they tied fabric around that bigger one, but left the others. They didn’t have the time.

A glance around the room, trying to find wherever bodies were brought into the crypt, and a narrow staircase revealed itself- anything but a ladder. They didn’t know if they could bring him up the ladder, even with the adrenaline coursing through them, but up stairs?

Anything, if it meant he’d survive.

He didn’t stir as she picked him up (trying to adjust him so that the cuts on her hands didn’t hurt quite so much, before giving up on that entirely and just deciding to force herself through the pain- her pain didn’t matter, she didn’t matter, as long as he was alive), didn’t stir as she awkwardly pulled him up the staircase, up into and through the tunnels, or when she paused to stare at Scott for just a moment, image burning into her mind. She wouldn’t be forgetting that any time soon. Or ever, really, she was pretty sure she’d still be having nightmares about this when she was old, if she ever got the chance to become old.

The rest of the journey was… hazy.

She’d taken her jacket off and wrapped it around him, hoping that the warmth would help, because she vaguely recalled that you were meant to keep people warm if they’d lost a lot of blood, but she didn’t really know what she was doing, and she remembered pausing halfway, everything in pain, to press fingers to his wrist again, check that he was alive, and, once she felt that it was still there, continuing on, but everything else faded into a blur until she reached the open field just outside Oakhurst, and she could see the walls, and she could have sobbed for relief if it felt like there was any air in her lungs at all, but, as it was, she forced out a shout: “Someone come help! Please, can anyone hear me?”

“Apo? Is that you?” Sausage’s voice came in response.

She swallowed. “Yes!” She shouted in response “It’s me! Martyn’s hurt!”

And then there were people outside, a rush of light and sound, and someone- Renhardt- was taking Martyn out of her arms, rushing him to Dr. Legs’.

She followed close behind, ignoring any questions everyone else was asking, silently following, entering along with them.

“Everyone out,” Dr. Legs ordered sharply, shooing everyone away, and, for a moment, Apo thought he was going to fight them, try to make them leave- they wouldn’t, they had to know if he was alive, they had to, but he just added, more gently, “And someone get the girl a blanket and some water. But stay away from me, this is a delicate operation.”

Warmth was draped around them at some point, a drink that tasted like ash and copper placed in their hands and coaxed to their lips, but, mostly, they just watched as Dr. Legs worked, occasionally fading into a haze of near-unconsciousness before snapping themself back awake, keeping a silent vigil.

The sun was beginning to rise by the time Dr. Legs finally stepped away from Martyn’s small form on the bed, doctor’s robes now bearing unmistakable bloodstains, eyes exhausted, but announced, to Apo befor eanyone else, “He’s going to survive.”

They might have cried. It was all a blur.

He left, for a minute, and there was a clamour outside of relief, and then he was back.

“You’re covered in blood,” He noted, rifling through his doctor’s supplies, “How much of it is yours?”

“I…” Apo glanced away. “I don’t know, I- I killed someone.”

Dr. Legs, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch. “Right. Do you know anywhere you are definitively injured?”

“My arm, I cut my palms and fingers, and I- I hit my head, I guess. Nothing too important, you’re probably already exhausted-”

He frowned down at them, taking in a slow breath before speaking. “Look, you did a good job last night, okay? You saved ri- Martyn, but you’re, like, nineteen-”

“Twenty one.”

“And injured. Let the actual adults deal with this, I know my limits. Now, which arm was it?”

It was… a little nice to not have to do much, Dr. Legs quietly narrating what he was doing so that there were no surprises. He pronounced them head injury free and said that the scratch seemed relatively mild, unlikely to become a large problem, the only thing that seemed to give him pause the deep scratches in their hand. “It might cause problems later,” He informed them, and they were sure it would, but at least they were alive, and then they were done.

There was still blood encrusted on them by the end, but some of it was gone. It wasn’t completely coating them, they weren’t staring at bodies covered in blood anymore.

“It’s best sanitary practice to get all the blood off of you,” Dr. Legs told them, once he was finally done, “But, also, you’re probably exhausted and need some sleep. One night won’t kill you. Get some rest and then wash it all off, okay? And come back to see me tomorrow.”

On autopilot, they made their way back to their shared home, ignoring Dr. Legs talking in hushed tones to some of the others, even when they heard killed and murdered and definitely a fight, knowing there was nothing they could actually say.

She didn’t want to even think about it, let alone tell them all, let alone have all of the gentleness fade away and be replaced by horror once she said she’d killed Scott- because none of them would believe her, just like they didn’t believe Avid.

She just wanted to sleep, and wake up with everyone being okay, with her being okay.

She was pretty sure that was too much to ask for, but maybe there was a world where, when she woke up, everything was alright and none of it had actually happened.

For the moment, though, her eyes drifted shut and her consciousness gave way to blissful darkness.