Chapter Text
CASH&CONSULTING4MAGICVICTIMSNOW
INJURED? TRANSFORMED?
HUSBAND LEFT U?
MEDICAL BILL$? BROKE?
CASH&CONSULTING4MAGICVICTIMSNOW
FIND US AT THE CENTRAL DEPARTMENT STORE!!!
It’s one of the shittier magic victim consulting ads he’s seen, but Soul has to give them credit for plastering it onto the light pole so goddamn well. He’s been sitting on the bench next to it for maybe eight minutes now, chipping away at its edges with his nails. Another minute passes before he realizes the gluey paper is building up on his fingertips. He wipes the sticky gunk off on his pants and stares back at the ad, bored.
Sometimes he wonders why people even bother with consulting agencies. They promise the impossible: Solutions to All Your Problems. But they never solve squat. Most times, magic victims just end up in more debt than they went in with.
Someone’s always selling something, though. Usually, a better life. And who wouldn’t want that?
No better than his parents, if he’s being honest. Them and their fucking fundraisers. Them and their fucking Neighborhood Association. Them and all their ‘we’re victors, not victims’ bullshit, their ‘patrols for peace’ crap. Yeah, the chances of survival increase in numbers, but it’s not like off-ing low-grade Sorcerers in one dinky corner of the Hole is gonna stop Sorcerers from coming to the Hole all together. And it’s definitely not like it’s gonna stop magic from messing people up. It’s how things are. It’s how they’ve always been.
He was five when he first saw something really bad. Well, really bloody at any rate. Wes was eight at the time, and four inches taller than him. Soul remembers this particular detail out of a childish sense of jealousy that had seared itself into his mind all those years ago — that if he had had the vantage of four extra inches, it would have been him who caught sight of the Sorcerer first, and him who would have pulled Wes to the side of that dumpster to hide.
While it was natural that Wes be taller than him, because it was only natural for eight year olds to be taller than five year olds, Soul still recalls how silly and frustrated he felt crouching down there with Wes’ hand clapped over his mouth, telling him to shush.
He remembers looking over to the woman cowering in the middle of the street, the Sorcerer standing over her, smoke coming out of his mouth, then shrouding her body entirely in a black cloud. When it dissipated, she wasn’t there anymore. Or rather, she was there, only her body had been reduced to a pile of thinly sliced pieces — a slab of fresh deli meat plattered on the ground, hair chopped to fluff for garnish.
Soul had never seen magic like that before. Not up close and personal. The worst he’d seen previously were transformed types of magic victims. Plenty of those walking around, trying to carry on with their lives after having their bodies — in most cases — irrevocably changed by a Sorcerer’s practice (such as the person sitting on the opposite Soul right now, on the other side of the bench; lobster tails coming out of their ears, crustacean claws for hands — kinda a botched transformation, if you ask Soul).
The Sorcerer he saw that day, though…dude was on a different level. Soul thinks himself a decent fighter, but he definitely couldn’t take on anything like that. The guy merely yawned after he was done, like he’d just gotten up from a nap, before shooting some more smoke out to make his door back to the Sorcerer’s world. Then, both him and his door disappeared. Poof.
Kicking up from the bench with a long sigh, Soul begins to walk. He’s tired of sitting. The headphones resting around his neck spit out a guitar riff. He doesn’t bother fixing them back over his ears.
The sun tries to weed its way through the jumbled mass of electric cables, and factory pipes, and scaffolding, and mostly square block buildings that rise into the sky. Unfortunately, for the sun, the thick, steely haze of fog that clothes the city never completely breaks. It’s a nearly permanent feature. Same goes for the filth that coats the city’s surfaces. All courtesy of Sorcerer’s smoke, polluting the place to hell and back.
At least it’s not raining. Soul doesn’t like the rain.
Four more songs play before he presses pause on the walkman in his pocket. Four more songs before he realizes he’s being followed. Turning the corner, he sees in his periphery that it’s not his parents, and it’s not Wes like he expects it to be, either. There’s two of them. They’re kids around his age. Probably just a pair of inexperienced eighteen-year-old dumbasses. Still, he doesn’t particularly want to deal with them.
He loosens his tie and tosses it in with the beers in the plastic bag swinging at his side. He hasn’t actually had alcohol before, but that’s what most other people do when they’re upset: they drink. Not in the best of moods today (though, he normally isn’t anyway), he thought he’d give it a try. Shit, all he wanted to do was get away from another damn Neighborhood Association fundraiser. All he wanted was to get away, get a drink, and keep his head down.
And fuck he was keeping his head down. So why does he have to deal with this shit? he asks himself.
Ahhh stop complaining, another part of him answers. You’ve never had to go hungry, asshole. You’re a pretty lucky guy. All anyone wants is a piece of the goddamn pie.
True enough. It's all about survival, right? Survival, or something like it. Everyone’s trying to do their best — trying to get that better life. And, yeah, at least he’s never had to go hungry. He’s lucky. For that, he knows he has to be—
“Hey, man! You look a little lost!” shouts a voice from behind, one of the followers no doubt.
Soul rolls his eyes and continues forward, ignoring the jerk. He should be fine if he doesn't give the guy the time of day and runs fast enough.
“Hey! Dude, I’m talking to you. You good?”
The next corner. Start running at the next corner.
“My friend’s trying to say hi. Stop being rude,” says a new voice, joining in with the first.
Almost there. Almost to the corner.
“Bruh…”
One, two, THREE.
Soul’s shoe scrapes against the pavement beneath him and he nearly slips on a sheet of grime-caked newspaper. The plastic bag rustles in his left hand. The beer cans clink together, ting-ting-ting. He runs, runs, runs.
A short while later, he glances back briefly to check if he’s lost them when something big and tall shaped suddenly appears at the end of the block and thud — he’s knocked back, stumbling. Looking up, Soul sees that it’s not a something at all, but rather, a someone. Someone larger and very likely tougher than the two dicks that had been tailing him. And she’s smiling at him.
“In a hurry?” she asks.
He tries to put on the sharpest snarl he can manage, hoping it’ll help him get out of here before those guys catch up to him. “Yeah…”
“I don’t think so,” she says, reaching out and gripping his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re in a hurry to go anywhere.”
“Yeah, actually, I am,” Soul growls, knocking her hand away, making to move.
“You in a race or something? We just wanna say hi!” shouts one of the voices from behind.
Soul steps to the side with a slight turn of his head. The two that were following him had gotten much closer and…they’re together, aren’t they? This girl is their ace, isn’t she?
“You were ignoring my friends, huh?” the Ace says. “You can’t afford to say hi, but you can afford fancy rings like this?” She grabs his wrist in a firm clutch to get a better look. “Seems like you have plenty to go around, pal. Why not be friendly and this doesn’t have to get ugly, yeah?”
They couldn’t take the ring. Or, at least, he has to try to keep it. He thumbs the side of it on his middle finger. Polished and platinum and not his. It was his brother’s and it had cost a pretty penny, which meant that if his parents found out how it was lost, they might actually kill him.
Tugging his wrist away, Soul finds himself surrounded by all three of his potential assailants. Damnit. He doesn’t get into outright fights often. Unless, of course, he’s provoked. Hah. Well, it might be dumb, but if he’s gonna get the shit kicked outta him one way or another, might as well have fun with it.
So he flashes a smile. “Why, exactly, would I waste my time saying hi to fucks like you? Take my wallet if you want. The ring’s not worth much anyway.”
The first kid to shout out to him (a short dude with admittedly cool piercings lining his ears) lets out a short laugh. The Ace who’d detained him lets one out of her own. The third one, however, narrows his eyes and pulls out a knife from his worn, brown leather jacket. Ahhhhh, really now?
“Got a pretty high opinion of yourself there. Must be pretty valuable, huh? For you to act all high and mighty about it. You’re only making me more curious,” Brown Jacket says.
Three to one are bad odds to start with. The knife, though — if Soul could get his hands on that knife, he might be able to leverage his way out. “Nice toy,” he says, nodding to the thing.
Brown Jacket chuckles. “Heh. You’re one to talk. Nice ring, nice attitude…nice family. It’s Evans, right?”
Soul only glares at him. What’s he supposed to do, congratulate the dude on knowing the Hole’s-Who’s-Who? Though, it does explain why he was cornered like this.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Brown Jacket continues, taking another step forward.
Think. Think. Think! The Ace is to his right and behind him. Piercings is more or less in front of him. Brown Jacket to his left.
Alright then.
Soul barrels forward, pretending to aim his shoulder for Piercing’s gut, but feinting and lifting his right hand to deck him instead. His fist slams into the side of Piercing’s head. Using the momentum from the punch, Soul grips the bag in his left hand tight and swings it round, aiming for the Ace’s head. It was his best chance of doing her any damage at all.
“Motherfucking rich boy!” Brown Jacket shouts. Out of the corner of his eye, Soul sees him coming forward with the blade, but not before the beer cans connect with the Ace’s head (actually knocking her down). The bag tears from the impact and the cans fly through the air. One slams into the nearest building and explodes (fuck, he was looking forward to those!).
Soul makes his next move a side step, narrowly missing the trajectory of the knife. It gives him enough space to get behind Brown Jacket and lock him into an improvised nelson. Brown Jacket drops the knife, and Soul makes to grab it, but he’s too slow — the Ace has gotten back up.
She pries Soul off of her friend and throws him on the ground. He only stops himself from eating total shit by sticking his palm out, thin layers of skin gritting and grinding against the pavement.
“I’m not even gonna bother taking that ring off, pal,” she sneers. “After that stunt, I think I’ll just take your whole finger.”
Scrambling to his feet, he tries to make another run for it and it flashes before his eyes — the knife — that shiny, starving smile, that glint of metal. It’s so sharp, he doesn’t even notice at first. The pain splits through his arm two seconds after the blade plunges in — slicing deep and clean into a good portion of his right arm, cleaving on entry a groove from his shoulder to his inner elbow.
And three seconds after that, everything changes.
A more searing pain bursts through his flesh, a tearing of his muscle in little ruptures. It’s real violence, this pain. Like he’d never experienced before.
Soul falls to his knees with a broken scream. He clutches his wounded arm and what the…? Blood is pouring out between his fingers. No. Not just blood. Blood and something that was very much not blood, simmering up in plumes. Something dark and dusty and damn damn no no NO what the fuck what the FUCK?! What the FUUUCK IS THAT?!!
“Is…i-i-is that…?” Brown Jacket guy stutters.
“Smoke…” the Ace says, anxiety and fear in her voice.
It is, isn’t it? It’s fucking smoke. Hahahahaha!!!!! His brain short-circuits and he tries to actually laugh. Another scream is what comes out in its place, and he can’t be sure, but the smoke does something really weird then, like it’s reacting to his voice, his scream. It expands and contracts and bursts out in several directions with a big BOOM that shakes the buildings.
Now Soul isn’t the only one screaming. Brown Jacket is screaming, too. Well, it’s more like he’s gurgling. Because blood is coming out of his mouth. It’s also coming out of his ears. And he’s clutching his side like he’s dying.
Piercings darts his eyes from his injured friend to Soul. “H-h-hey, buddy, w-we didn’t mean—” he starts to reason.
“Just run, dumbass!” the Ace shouts out, hauling Brown Jacket over her shoulder.
All three of them disappear down the street.
Soul wants to sigh in relief. However, on account of the pain and the shock and the goddamn magic pouring out of his body, he finds it rather difficult to do even that. Lightheaded, he slumps over. Shit’s getting all fuzzy in his eyes, in his head. And he swears he’s hearing things. Far away things. Like his name. Why is his name so far away?
“So…Soul!”
His cheek is cold. Oh. The pavement. He must’ve fallen over. Then there’s a smattering of white hair and hazel colored eyes, and hands gripping his shoulders. Wes. No, Wes can’t be here. There’s all this smoke around, and he thinks somebody got hurt real bad by it. It’s dangerous. The fucker should really stop trying to save him all the time — annoying asshole. Soul gathers the remaining wits he has and pulls himself together.
“Soul, what the fuck happened?!” Wes rips off Soul’s left shirt sleeve and wraps it tight around the wound on his right. Soul sucks his teeth at the pressure. He looks up and there are two of Wes looking back at him, panic stricken.
“Gotta get out of here…” he manages. “…I-I-I’m. Smoke—”
“We’re gonna. I’ll get you outta here. Try to stay awake, yeah?”
“Mmm.”
Wes lifts him up, puts Soul’s good arm over his shoulder. Soul tries to push him off but he’s woozy, woozy, like super woozy, and his limbs don’t wanna follow instructions.
“Soul?”
There are three of Wes now.
“Soul, come on, stay—”
When he wakes up, he’s lying on his bed, and everything is really, really foggy. Vague-ish, muffled voices crawl in from under the door. He hadn’t died, then. He’s alive and ahhhh he feels like absolute dog crap. He decides to lie there for a while. Moving doesn’t seem like a good idea. After a moment or two, the crawling voices become more distinct.
“—no. I just don’t think it’s the best idea. As I said two hours ago.”
“He needs medical attention. Real medical attention!”
“No hospitals. No doctors. How do you think that would play out for all of us, Wesley?”
“Fuck off! So our image is more important than Soul’s life? It could get infected.”
“Language! Don’t so carelessly imply that your mother and I don’t care about—”
“We have to look out for all of us, Wesley. Not just one of us. It’d be the same if it were you or I. How do you think the rest of the Neighborhood Association will react if they find out that our own son is a-a…Sorcerer ?!”
“Well, it’d confirm the rumors about great grandpa wouldn’t it? What? You’re afraid that they’d come after us with axes like you do with all the others? And who promoted that practice, I wond—”
“You know what we do with the Neighborhood Association keeps us safe! Soul might be different from the rest, but you know we do what we do because they’re a threat. Always have been.”
“We’ve discussed this for the last two hours. We can handle this on our—”
Wes, Mom, and Dad. His stomach churns. He wants to throw up. This was going to be so much worse than getting grounded. No-yeah, he’s actually going to throw up. Get to the bathroom. Get to the bathroom. He begins to edge forward with his elbows and a sharp pain shoots through his right arm which, until that point, had felt quite numb. Groaning, he drops the pressure from his right arm and pushes himself up with his left. His stomach lurches and he heaves and oh god oh god he’s gonna hurl all over himself. When he heaves again and nothing comes up, he’s never been more grateful for an empty stomach in his life.
“Soul!” Wes shouts, rushing down the hall and bursting into the room.
“Hi,” his voice croaks with a hoarse tremble, dry and scratchy. “Water?”
Wes takes a step towards the bedside table and hands him a pre-filled glass he hadn’t noticed sitting there.
Soul takes the glass and sputters a little as the water wets the back of his throat. “Thanks,” he says, setting the glass back down.
In the doorway, his parents stand, faces flitting between shock and concern and something that, to Soul, looks an awful lot like fear. What almost feels worse is that he can’t find it in himself to blame them. And he blames them for quite a lot. Stifling him with their own ambitions and giving him probably half the praise they give Wes, for starters. Still, he can't blame them for being afraid.
Then another thought digs its way in — maybe Soul should be a little scared of them, too. They’re leaders in the community. They advocate for the killing of Sorcerers. However much all of this feels like a bad trip, he one-hundred percent can’t deny that smoke had been coming out of his body back there. He felt it — still feels it. Whatever that means, he suspects it can’t be good.
His mother makes her way over and sits tentatively on the edge of his mattress. “Soul…”
Soul shifts an inch to the left, completely unsure who he’s actually making the space for. “Mom…”
She’s staring at him in that weird way that she does. Like she’s trying to be understanding, but doesn’t know what to say, so she stares at him in silence hoping that eye contact alone will suffice. It only ever makes him uncomfortable.
His father sighs. Mom takes that as her cue to start speaking again. “So, with this…incident—”
“How did I get here?” He doesn’t mean to cut her off, but now that he’s awake, and alive, he’s curious.
Dad clears his throat. “Wesley brought you home.” Right. He tied up the wound, told him to stay awake. “When you didn’t show up for your performance at the…” he pauses, and Soul gets the feeling he’s nervous to say it “…Neighborhood Association fundraiser…he went to find you.”
“What happened, Soul?” Wes asks.
Soul looks down at his arm. Throbbing, bandaged, seeping red. “I dunno. Took a walk. Almost got robbed. You brought me home, I guess.”
“Yeah, but Soul. I found you and those kids were running away, and…“ his brother paused, looking at him with knitted brows, concerned.
“I…it was coming out of my arm. One of them stabbed me and it started coming out of—.”
“Soul,” his mother interrupts, her face lighting up a little like it does when she thinks she has a good idea — like it does when she thinks she’s the smartest person in the room. “Do you remember anything about the Sorcerer who did this to you?”
His brows furrow. What?
“You see,” she goes on, “Wesley is saying that there was all this smoke around when he found you, and some broken windows, and people in a panic, running away. That sounds like a Sorcerer practicing magic, no? You must have gotten caught in the middle of it—”
“Are you seriously trying to convince me that I was attacked by a Sorcerer right—”
“I’m sure this whole experience has been very stressful.” She has a frantic look in her eye. “If only you hadn’t run away from your responsibilities…” she mutters.
Dad wastes no time in taking her lead. “That’s right. This has been very stressful, I’m sure Soul needs more rest—”
“Oh, come on! You guys were just talking about it down the hall! It was me you called a Sorcerer, not anyone else, for fuck’s sake!”
“Language!” his mother snaps.
Silence falls across all four of them and for a moment, Soul marvels at how tenacious his parents are at saving face. “If this is nothing, why am I not at a hospital right now? Huh?”
Mom blanches. She makes to leave the room but pauses at the door next to Dad. She turns to look at him again and actually manages to look sad. “We’ll get you something to eat.”
He sinks down into his pillow. “Yeah.”
Then it’s only him and Wes, who takes up the spot on the edge of the mattress his mother had left vacant. “We’ll figure this out. Okay?”
Soul clenches his fist, which was a mistake because it sends more shooting pains through his damaged arm. Relaxing his fist, he bites his tongue and nods.
Three days pass and Soul hasn’t left the house. Mom and Dad wouldn’t let him even if he tried. Not that he felt up to trying. If anything, he feels worse. He can only use his left arm. And his right goes in and out of numbness. He can’t sleep. To top it off, he broke out in a fever yesterday.
He’d like to keep his mind off of the whole black-smoke-suddenly-appearing-out-of-nowhere situation. But whenever they try to clean the wound, there’s little flecks of the stuff mixed in with the blood, sticking to the gooey pus crusting up on the swollen, bruisey edges of the cut. They all know he needs a doctor. No one calls one, though.
In equal measure, he’s relieved and worried that there’s a numbness settling in over the arm. It’s better than the itchiness, irritation, and pain that’s been plaguing him otherwise. It’s also definitely not a good sign.
Bright side of things, no one’s turned up at the door with pitchforks, demanding his head. It’d be a shame if they caught him like this, in his current state. He looks like absolute shit. His skin has taken on a gray tone, and so has his hair, all matted and oily from sweat. And if it really is in the cards for him to die young, he hopes that he’ll be doing something more important than looking like a wet sock.
Feeling his temperature rise again, Soul gets up to get some ice. Ugh. Wet sock. Yeah, that’s exactly it. That’s exactly how he feels. He has to pause on the way back to his room. Getting up has made him dizzy, and now he’s wobbling between one foot and the other in the hallway. He’s reaching out for the wall to balance him when the ice cubes fall from his grasp and scatter across the floor. Fuck , he thinks, before he faints and hits the floor himself.
Next thing he knows, he’s lying in the back of the car.
“Where we going?” he manages to mumble.
“You’re awake,” Wes says, whipping his head around from the driver's seat.
“Where are Mom and Dad?”
“Don’t worry, Soul. Mom and Dad don’t know….” He’s so nauseous and tired. Wes is telling him something but he can’t focus. “…he’ll help…” He’s trying to pay attention, but his vision goes fuzzy and he passes out for the third time in one week.