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Stepping onto the Miskatonic University campus felt as natural as anything to Vincent. He might not have studied there himself, but there was a universality to the rhythm of academic life that was nonetheless familiar. He had been by a few times in the past; they had students over at St. Mary's sometimes, and seeing the bustle always made him feel nostalgic.
The comfort of it came so easily to him that Vincent hadn't considered that the others might not feel the same. He nodded a greeting at a harried student who was too concerned with wrangling the stack of papers tucked in her arms to acknowledge him in return, and, once she was out of earshot, turned to his companions.
Tommy Muldoon-- just a boy, that one-- surveyed the buildings with wide eyes, his chin tipped up and his arms tucked into his sides in a way that made him look uncommonly small. His head swiveled from side to side, gaze sweeping the same scenery again with each step. Skids had his elbows bent with his hands at waist level, his arms no longer swinging in the easy arcs that accompanied his usual swagger. His steps were careful, but he was one increment from breaking into a run. Vincent was reminded of a cat with its hackles raised. Wilson, at least, didn't look like he was waiting for one of the buildings to reach down and pluck him from where he stood, though his gait had slowed considerably.
Vincent supposed some level of caution was reasonable anywhere there was rumor of cultist activity. Actually, it was almost refreshing to see fear that wasn't primal, but silly.
Vincent smiled. He had spent enough time comforting children he was about to stick with large needles to have a few tricks up his sleeve. He put a hand on Tommy's shoulder and cleared his throat. "You know, these buildings have far fewer guns than you."
"They-- what?" Tommy blinked, falling out of his trance.
"It's true. Were you to find yourself in an even match with any of these buildings, I'd put money on you coming out on top. They don't even have hands with which to hold guns. Can you believe it?"
Skids cackled. "Is that what your fancy degree taught you, doc?"
"Oh, yes." Vincent nodded soberly. "I took Anatomy of Architectural Structures as a third year. Had a horrible professor."
Vincent continued building on his joke. While they were laughing at the idea of these buildings in boxing matches, they could forget to be afraid of what they might find inside.
--
Wilson was the one who had first discovered Vincent, in a manner of speaking. Once Vincent had decided that the mysteries of Arkham needed solving, he had been prepared for a grim and isolating journey in search of the truth. He hadn’t expected one of his first leads to bring him to a stranger who would look him up and down once before declaring that they had the same scars.
The way he said it, Wilson may as well have said same blood. They were one clan, one whole, every investigator connected by something more than their desperate curiosity in a vital, almost umbilical way.
--
“We can meet back here in twenty minutes,” Wilson decided.
Skids nodded. He had a couple investigations under his belt. He didn’t expect that they would be in a position to follow a plan in twenty minutes. Talking was treading water, though, so he wasn’t about to argue.
“And should we need each other sooner?” Vincent asked.
Wilson shrugged. “Follow the screams and gunfire.”
Vincent rubbed his forehead, a motion that did nothing to smooth the furrow in his brow. “Right.”
Skids softened. “We could do bird calls, if you’re looking for something more discreet.” It still wasn’t a plan, but tools were more useful than plans, anyway. He trilled a few elaborate whistles as a demonstration, lingering on the flourishes.
Tommy tried to copy him, and while he could manage a strong, steady tone, every attempt to make the song skip and leap ended in a stream of empty air. “It’s nighttime, anyway. It would be more normal to hear people than birds.”
“Normal isn’t always the goal,” Skids said. “Someone hears people shouting, they want to know why people are shouting, but if they hear a bird, they’re gonna take a little extra time to wonder: did my neighbor get a new pet? Has there been some strange weather lately to disturb the poor birds? Some construction? After that, it’s just as likely they take the lack of an explanation to be an intellectual failing as they are to suspect a person as the cause, and that’s all before they start to consider what the call might even mean.”
“Huh. That’s good to know,” Tommy remarked.
Skids blinked, then turned a bashful smile on Tommy. “Any chance you’ll forget about it in the morning?”
Tommy, suddenly shedding the boyish cluelessness for the poise and authority of a policeman, said, “Not on your life.”
It was all too easy to forget how different the other investigators were, and all too easy to be reminded. Skids was happy to talk, especially then, especially with the other investigators, but he needed some discretion. It was just his luck that the one he trusted least to have it was the one who needed it most.
“No, see, I’m not part of that life anymore, but I still got enemies to make if people think I’m in bed with an officer,” Skids pleaded.
“Woah, slow down. I haven’t even invited you to my bed yet.”
Skids choked.
--
Vincent pulled open the door of the university’s science building and ushered Wilson inside before him. Its halls stretched out before them, dark and silent.
“So, sir, can you tell me where I might find the leak?” Wilson asked, suddenly sounding formal.
“The-- do you need to take a leak? I’m sure we can find a toilet around here somewhere, though I--”
“The leak,” Wilson repeated with extra emphasis. “The one I was hired to fix. These pipes don’t get inspected often enough. It’s easy to tell.”
Vincent chuckled. “Of course, sir, how could I have forgotten about the leak? I must admit that I do not know where it is, though I shall do my best to help you find it.”
“Many thanks. Yes, we will look, and if we open a few wrong doors, I’m sure there will be no harm done.” Wilson paused to observe a door near the entrance. A plaque declaring the room’s number sat above the frame, making it likely to be a classroom. Wilson shrugged and continued on.
Vincent followed him, watching the area for any movement or light. A primal corner of his mind told him he needed to be afraid, to shrink into the shadows, but with his companion trotting ahead of him and holding his half of a ludicrous conversation, he couldn’t quite muster the fear. “Of course. Why, it would be more harmful to allow this leak to hide. If we are truly lost, however, I’m sure someone will be kind enough to direct us to Professor Drake.”
“Certainly. The one who filed the complaint must know where the leak is, after all,” Wilson said.
“Indeed.”
“Indeed.”
“It seems we have come upon another door, although we don’t know to where it leads. Allow me to open it for you,” Vincent said, bowing just because.
“Thank you kindly! We shall learn what is inside.”
--
Tommy was fun to watch. The simplest things he did, the way he’d peer around corners, the gestures he’d make-- they were fluid, decided, and ill-fitting. Skids could picture this kid getting a gold star on the looking around corners unit in cop class, his dad--a cop, too, he decided--ruffling his hair and saying he’s proud. Now, to this kid, every problem was a nail, and every corner was hiding secrets special for cop eyes.
Tommy gestured for Skids to follow him inside a building, so he did.
“Good work,” Skids whispered, just to see what sort of reaction he’d get, and was rewarded with a curt nod and a creeping blush.
--
It’s Skids’ fault they’re distracted when the beast attacks. He was chattering pointlessly, saying things he didn’t quite mean, trying to figure out what made Tommy tick while Tommy was trying very hard not to tick. Sheer luck had Tommy turning to tell Skids off just before a giant claw swiped at him.
Tommy fell more than dodged. He wasn’t down a second before he rolled onto his back and unholstered his gun. Cop training in action. Didn’t miss a beat.
Skids backpedaled, putting distance between himself and the beast to give Tommy a better shot. The rifle’s muzzle flashed twice, the beast roared, glass shattered, Skids’ ears rang. He didn’t notice the cloaked figure in the doorway until it raised a hand toward him, and a concussive blast lifted Skids from the ground, throwing him against a wall.
Inertia made enemies of his insides and outsides as he ricocheted onto the floor. There was a cracking noise, though Skids couldn’t tell if it traveled through the air or if it was from inside his own head.
The pain didn’t catch up with the rest of the sensations until later.
--
Wilson said something about searching the room next door, something that lingered in Vincent’s mind only long enough for him to mumble his assent before vanishing entirely. The notes they had found were fascinating. Utter nonsense, of course, completely contrary to modern knowledge, but they had such strong internal consistency and conviction. There was a sense of grandeur to it. An ecstasy in evil. It was captivating.
“Well, I don’t think our answer on how to stop the ritual is here,” Vincent declared to what he then realized was an empty room. Moments later, he also realized he could hear a faint yet pervading chanting in the air coming from no source in particular.
A desperate thumping approached the room. Vincent grabbed his medical bag, searching for something sharp and sturdy. By the time the door swung open, he had a scalpel leveled and ready for whatever horror might appear.
“--unlocked.” Tommy slipped through the doorway, Skids staggering behind him, one hand on his shoulder to steady himself.
“Hey, doc!” Skids slurred. “Maybe you can help my head… brain… thoughts… pain.” He presented a series of opaque gestures to accompany his words.
“He took a bad hit,” Tommy explained. He guided Skids forward, a steadying hand at the small of his back. “Got thrown against a wall.”
Vincent watched as Skids, glassy-eyed, was lowered into a seat in front of him, but he could only shake his head. “I’m sorry to say the only treatment for a concussion is time.”
“Pain, then. Stop the pain,” Skids insisted.
“Alright. Where do you hurt?”
Skids gestured at his thorax. He winced when Vincent had him take a deep breath.
“I’m going to need you to undress,” Vincent announced. Skids nodded and set to work on his buttons with shaking fingers. “Do you need assistance?”
“Someone should guard the door,” Tommy said brusquely. He gave each of them a businesslike nod before departing.
“Wouldn’t mind his assistance, if you know what I mean.” Skids winked, then blinked several times as if to wash away the sensation.
“You’re concussed.”
“Yeah, you get me.” At long last, Skids freed himself of his shirt and Vincent was able to palpate the area.
Vincent watched Skid’s face as he ran his hand across his ribs, noting every twinge of pain.
“You know, I never really liked doctors. Pay a lot of money just to get treated like a pile of meat.”
Vincent supposed that was fair. Most people would claim they didn’t like convicts, after all. “Cracked ribs,” Vincent concluded. “Not broken. As a doctor, I recommend a month of rest. The concussion would require a few days as well, perhaps more depending upon the course of your recovery. As myself, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to ignore my advice, at least for the night. We have… a lot ahead of us yet.”
Skids waved a hand. “I do worse to myself on purpose with whiskey. ‘S fine. Is arrogance part of the med school curriculum?”
Vincent’s hand was still on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, pounding steady, the flush of warm, living blood. When he spoke, the words came out softer than he intended. “I have the skill and knowledge to peel back your skin and name everything I find beneath. Intercostals. Serratus anterior. I could take you apart, piece by tender piece, the tendons, the cartilage, knowing just how it would break you. All cadavers are equal, and you have power over them all.” Victor pulled back, the phrase ‘ecstacy in evil’ echoing through his head. He wondered what he must look like to a concussed mind. Nothing good, he imagined, yet he couldn’t help himself. He wondered if Skids could hear the chanting. “It’s not part of the curriculum. You learn it nonetheless.”
--
Wilson appeared in the doorway. “I started a fire.”
“In here?” Vincent wilted, his shoulders sagging. With some of the wind knocked out of his sails, he looked almost human again. “On purpose?”
“It’s possible,” Wilson agreed.
Fire meant escape. Skids pulled himself to his feet, arms out to help him balance. He barely staggered a step before three sets of arms were extended to help steady him. Vincent, being closest, won out, and he pulled one of Skids’ arms over his shoulders.
Tommy stared at Vincent for a second too long, then turned to lead the group out. “Where is the fire?”
“On the first floor. We might be able to see it from the balcony,” Wilson replied.
The fire itself wasn’t visible, but a faint orange glow flickered across the walls, throwing wide shadows.
Vincent paused at the threshold. “The notes. I need the notes.” He dropped Skids’ arm.
“There’s a fire,” Tommy called uselessly after Vincent as he disappeared back into the room. “Or we can just wait.”
“The rest is nice,” Skids said. He had barely walked five yards, but still, it was the truth.
Tommy stared off at the far wall.
Wilson, apparently unconcerned that they were waiting on someone, continued to trudge down the stairs. Skids watched. It would have been smart to follow him.
“I’m the reason we were caught unprepared back there,” Skids said, because someone needed to say something.
“I’m not upset with you,” Tommy sighed. “I can’t be.”
Skids understood.
Over the balcony, they could see the first breath of smoke crawling through the entryway. Vincent would need to be damn fast if he wanted them to be able to hobble all the way out without choking. “It’s my own fault I’m not in any condition for… whatever comes next.”
“I can protect you.” The way the muscles in Tommy Muldoon’s neck tensed as he hefted his rifle made Skids’ mouth go dry.
“Drinks on me after this. As thanks,” Skids said. He was relieved to find, saying it, that he still believed in an after.
“Drinks,” the policeman repeated.
Skids grimaced. He was too comfortable with Tommy. Kept forgetting who he was talking to. Or maybe that was just the concussion. “Do you never drink? Never let loose? Right, then. Let’s make it dinner.”
“If we survive, I’ll hold you to that,” Tommy promised. The barest trace of a smile broke through his grim expression.
“This is the worst time to be a person,” Skids declared. Likely doom awaited him. He couldn’t do worse if he tried to get himself killed. He had already been called a cadaver (though he wasn’t taking it personally.) Still, the way Tommy looked at him was so, so important. It was connection, it was desperate and vital, it was growth and warmth and life, a bulwark, a bastion, a prayer, a dream, it was want and need, all tangled up together, both meaningless and potent beyond measure. Against what they fought, they were nothing, insignificant. To each other, they could be everything. He wanted them to be everything.
“The worst,” Skids repeated. Then he laughed, because the futility of fighting ineffable cosmic forces was funny, in an ineffable cosmic way.
Skids put a hand on the railing to steady himself. The laughter was upsetting his still delicate equilibrium. Tommy covered the hand with one of his own.
They were people nonetheless.