Chapter Text
The rain comes down heavily, much heavier than usual. With the ferocity of an angry god, it is thrown from the clouds to cover the earth. There is no slowing it and certainly no stopping it. No, the storm will only cease once the heavens are at peace again. But, for the time being, the rain comes down heavily.
The rain is also loud. It almost sounds like hail as it hits the car’s windshield, the wipers useless at making a clear line of vision for the driver. Mathias sits forward in his seat, clutching the steering wheel tightly, staring at the road ahead with wide eyes. The headlights are equally useless—he can hardly see a thing through the rain. The sky is pitch black, the stars hidden by storm clouds. It is nearing ten at night. He had thought about pulling over to wait out the storm, but it is only a short way to Bayeux. He still has to find a hostel.
Mathias considers himself a confident driver. After all, at twenty years old, he has already driven across most of Europe at least once. However, the sky’s ongoing temper tantrum has him holding his breath, and his grip on the steering wheel has his knuckles turning white.
Thick droplets roll down each of the windows in an endless stream, and Mathias instinctively removes a hand from the wheel to mess with the window crank, ensuring that no water would leak in. He drives deliberately slow, much slower than he normally would in good weather. Not that he ever drives particularly fast, as he likes to take in the sights around him when he travels, but he makes sure to be extra careful when driving through storms.
He is exhausted, but keeps his eyes on the road. There isn’t much around him, at least not that he can see. The occasional building, road sign, and roundabout, but the roads are mostly empty, because not even an idiot would get themselves caught in Normandy’s huge downpour without a clear place to stay for the night.
And then, up ahead, he thinks he sees movement on the side of the road. His foot taps the break, in case an animal decides to jump out in front of him from the roadside brush. The car crawls on at a snail’s pace, and Mathias squints at the windshield as if it will help him see better through the rain that refuses to let up. Then, movement again. And again. Finally, the headlights bring into view a silhouette—or is it an actual person, dressed in all black? Yes, it is definitely a real person; Mathias sees two pale hands carrying two bulky tool cases in their grasp. The person is slumped over, like whatever they are carrying is too heavy to hold. Their black hood does a poor job at shielding them from the downpour, and their combat boots are covered with mud, probably soaked through to their feet. Mathias can’t see the person’s face, but he can tell that they are miserable.
Empathetic (and quite honestly intrigued), Mathias rolls to a stop when he reaches the stranger and awkwardly shoves himself sideways to crank the passenger side window down. He ignores the way the rain immediately begins splattering the inside of his car, and leans over to offer his assistance.
“Puis-je vous aider?” he asks, cringing at the way his Danish accent butchered his French. “Avez-vous besoin d’aide?”
The stranger doesn’t seem to understand, keeping their gaze downward as they try to adjust the cases to be more comfortable. Mathias tries again, this time in English.
“Can I help you?” He almost has to shout to be louder than the rain. But, the stranger turns to him fully this time, and Mathias is met with a young man who looks soaked to the bone. His sweatshirt and pants are heavy with rainwater, and his blond hair, although covered by his hood, is plastered around the edges of his face. He seems tired, and cold, and maybe a little sick as well. Mathias feels bad for the guy.
The young man looks over at the road, then at the cases that were weighing him down, then up at Mathias. He takes a step toward the car, and leans down to peer in through the window.
“Can you take me to Caen?” he asks, in an undeniable Norwegian accent that Mathias is a little surprised to hear in France.
Mathias is a little taken back at the man’s request. “Caen? We’re right outside Bayeux, Caen is another thirty minute drive,” he responds.
“I know that,” the stranger sounds insulted. “Can you take me there?” he asks again.
Mathias just wants to reach Bayeux and find a roof to sleep under for the night—he is hoping this person is looking to do the same, not go all the way to Caen! What is he even doing out here at this time of night, anyway? And what is with the cases? What is inside them?
The man is waiting for Mathias to answer, looking at him expectantly. As much as Mathias is not interested in making the trip (so what if it is only thirty minutes away? He’s tired!), he can’t fathom leaving this poor guy on the side of the road after stopping to offer him help. So, he nods his head, and agrees to take him to Caen.
Before getting into the car, the stranger asks him something else: “Can I put these in the trunk?” He lifts his arms to show Mathias the cases.
“Sure, if you can find room for them. I’ve got a lot of stuff back there,” Mathias answers. It’s the truth; he keeps all of his belongings—his clothes, toiletries, souvenirs—in his car as he travels from place to place. It’s not as if he has many other options—he lives out of hotels and hostels, and so his car is the place that keeps his stuff safe. He likes it, though, even if the weight of his belongings weighs the car down, and he sometimes can’t see out of his back window from all the junk piled up in the backseat.
He waits for the familiar slam of the trunk closing shut and the sound of footsteps approaching the side of the car. The stranger pulls the door open and slides into the passenger seat, immediately working on cranking the window back up. Mathias wonders if he should worry about the stranger’s muddy boots dirtying his car, but he holds his tongue. It’s just a little rain and mud; it can be cleaned.
“A Mustang, huh?” the stranger observes, looking around at the ceiling of the car and running his hand across the dash as Mathias begins driving again. “1970?”
“’75,” Mathias corrected. So, this guy knows his cars. He’s impressed, even if his American-manufactured vehicle stood out from the more common European makes that he has seen.
“And how’d a guy like you get your hands on a car like this?” says the man in the passenger seat. Mathias isn’t sure what the question means—is the stranger trying to imply that a man with a bunch of shit in his trunk shouldn’t have an expensive, vintage car?
“I just saved up for it,” Mathias says, which earns what sounds like a snicker from his passenger. Or perhaps it’s a scoff under his breath. Mathias does not understand this guy at all, and he wants to get to Caen as soon as possible so that this interaction can end.
The conversation dies after that, and Mathias finds the silence significantly more uncomfortable than the stranger not believing that he actually purchased his car himself. “I’m Mathias, by the way,” he says after a moment. “Køhler. From Aarhus.” He hopes that their relatively shared geographical location can be a topic of discussion; it’d been several months since he’d last been home in Denmark, and he’d met few other Scandinavians as he traveled around the continent. He wonders if the stranger travels around a lot, too.
But the stranger doesn’t respond, or even acknowledge his introduction. Embarrassment heats his face, and he doesn't know what to do. Should he repeat himself? Ask for his name instead? Just sit there in silence?
He opts for the second option. “Can I get your name?” Mathias asks, trying to sound as polite as possible as he puts himself out a little. He listens to the stranger breathe beside him.
“No,” is the reply, and Mathias is confused. What’s so hard about telling someone your name? In all honesty, what he is really interested in isn’t the guy’s name at all, but rather the contents of the cases he had been carrying. He fights the urge to inquire, however. If the guy won’t even give him his name, there is no way Mathias is learning about anything deeper in his life. What if he’s a criminal, and the cases contain some illegal drugs or smuggled products, and that’s why he won’t reveal his name? What if Mathias is now an accomplice to a crime because he casually picks up strangers on the side of the road?!
To shake his growing anxieties from his mind, he tries to focus solely on their destination. They have driven through Bayeux and are on their way to Caen, but Mathias isn’t sure where the stranger actually wants to go.
“Where am I taking you, exactly?” he asks, praying to receive an answer this time around.
“Rue Nicolas Oresme,” the man replies with a sigh, like he isn’t happy about it. Mathias ignores his unhappiness and thinks about where he is going. His navigational skills are fine-tuned from years of traveling, but he doesn’t know the exact street itself. He contemplates pulling over to check his map for directions, but imagines that his passenger wouldn’t be very thrilled, so he’ll have to rely on him instead to show him the way, which also doesn’t seem to thrill him.
The stranger’s mud-slicked boots squeak against the floor mat as he adjusts himself in his seat. He doesn’t bother with the seatbelt, and Mathias watches him out of his peripheral vision stretch and bend his arms, trying to ease the soreness. Mathias tries to relax and focus on driving (it was still raining, after all), but this stranger makes him nervous. Who is he and why is he so closed-off?
…
By the time they reach Caen, the ferocious rain has turned into a light shower, to Mathias’s relief. The stranger had refused to make conversation with him, only speaking to point out specific directions to the street he was looking to go. He has Mathias pull into an apartment complex, where small white buildings a few stories high are scattered around the parking lot. Mathias is directed to pull up in front of one of the buildings, so he does, and waits for the stranger to get out.
“Think you could help me carry my stuff up?” the stranger asks, and it shocks Mathias. The entire drive, this guy didn’t so much as look at him, or thank him for the lift. But he still wants Mathias to help him carry his tool cases?
“My arms hurt,” he says when Mathias doesn’t respond right away. Mathias thinks about saying no; he doesn’t know the guy, he’s exhausted from driving all day, he’s supposed to be in Bayeux and now has no idea where he’ll be staying for the night.
He thinks about saying no, but he doesn’t. He looks over at the stranger slouched over in the passenger seat, with a look that triggers Mathias’s empathy. The man had been walking alone during a downpour for who knows how long, and had probably had a terrible day, Mathias thinks. All he’s asking for is some assistance in carrying a tool box.
“Sure,” Mathias says at last, putting the car in park and opening the door. The air is chilly and the ground is wet, but some of the stars are finally visible, and Mathias takes a moment to stare up at the sky and allow a few water droplets to fall on his face. He hears a few quiet voices from above him—some people standing on an apartment balcony. It sounds like English, but the sounds are a little too distant to tell.
He’s taken out of his stargazing by the slam of the trunk, and walks over to take one of the cases that had been set on the ground. He lifts it and grunts—they are heavy. How far did this guy walk carrying both of them?
The stranger takes up the other one and leads him into the entrance of the apartment building. They lug the cases up two flights of stairs before stopping at a white door. Mathias watches curiously as the man tries the doorknob, which doesn’t turn, and then proceeds to bang on the surface with his fists four or five times. He looks through the peephole for a few seconds, then backs away.
“Bastard,” the stranger curses under his breath, before reaching into his sweatshirt pocket and pulling out a piece of…wire? The stranger goes straight to picking the lock, and Mathias is even more suspicious that this guy probably has a criminal record.
The lock clicks and the door is pushed open. “Welcome to the Dump,” says the stranger sarcastically as he walks into the apartment. Mathias follows. The apartment is more like a single room, he observes. Upon entering, there is a red couch situated right in front of the door, and the smallest TV Mathias has ever seen hanging on the wall. To his left, a small table with two chairs. An open doorway stands next to the table, and although he can’t see into the room, he presumes it was a miniature kitchen. A double bed is positioned on the far wall, with the sheets unmade and wrinkled. A glass door leads to a balcony, where Mathias can see the backs of three people leaning on the railing, blowing cigarette smoke into the night (those must be the voices he heard from the parking lot). The walls of the apartment are white and empty, and he sees no real belongings anywhere. Other than the messy bed and the people smoking on the balcony, it seems like nobody lives there.
The stranger hauls the case he’s holding up onto the table, but doesn't open it. Mathias sets the other beside it and pauses, wondering if he should just leave or wait to be dismissed.
“So, what’s the deal with these?” he asks, gesturing to the cases. Before he can get an answer, however, a figure emerges from the kitchen. A tall man, dressed mostly in black (Mathias is noticing a theme here), walks into the main area of the apartment with his hands in his pockets. His blond curls touch his shoulders, and he makes brief eye contact with Mathias before turning his attention to the stranger and smiling nicely at him, like welcoming him home.
The stranger does not return the other man’s smile. “Oh, so you’ve been here the whole time and couldn’t open the fucking door?” he says, his voice heavy with frustration, but Mathias also thinks it sounds like a frequent occurrence.
“Sorry,” comes the reply, although he clearly isn’t. Mathias takes note of his thick French accent.
“Why are you here?” the stranger asks, completely ignoring Mathias’s awkward stance in the doorway and moving to the kitchen.
“Waiting for Michelle.” He tosses his head in the direction of the balcony, and Mathias’s eyes instinctively follow. The three folks remain as they were, the sounds of their chuckling voices making it through the glass, but otherwise their conversation is muted.
“Who are you?” the man asks, and Mathias shoots his gaze to meet him. The man looks at him skeptically.
“Mathias,” he answers simply.
“He was just helping me with my stuff,” the stranger says from the kitchen. “He gave me a ride.”
Humming, the man turns back to him. “Francis,” he introduces himself. “I own the building.”
Mathias nods, as if all his questions have just been answered. Francis was the landlord, huh? He supposes it makes sense why he has access to the apartment, but Mathias can’t understand why he’s there. Although they seem close; the stranger doesn’t seem shocked or upset that his renter is hanging out in his living space.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the sliding door. Two of the three people from the balcony step into the room, while the third stands in the open doorway, allowing a nighttime chill to run through the apartment. Mathias can hear the soft fall of the rain hitting the pavement below. They are all dressed in black, and Mathias feels horribly out of place in his blue jeans and yellow sweatshirt.
Mathias knows the three are staring at him, and he feels hopelessly lost, unsure of what to do. The first to step into the room, a girl with long, curly hair and darker skin, looks at him before turning to Francis and speaking in French, although it’s too fast and advanced for Mathias to comprehend. He assumes that she is the aforementioned Michelle.
After her quick conversation with Francis, the girl turns back to Mathias and offers him a warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Michelle,” she says, and Mathias can’t help but smile in return at her bubbly tone.
The second person, a short Asian kid with shaggy brown hair, steps forward, reaching out to shake his hand. “Leon,” was all he said, and once he retracts his hand, he points to the person standing in the doorway. “And they’re Emil.”
Emil leans against the doorframe and nods in greeting. Mathias notes that they have the same relative face as the stranger, with watered-down features. Younger, fresher. Their hair is the same light blond, although most of it is hidden by a beanie. The two of them have to be related.
“You brought him back here?” Emil asks him, referring to the stranger, who is still in the kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah I did. Name’s Mathias, by the way.” He feels like he has introduced himself a hundred times in the past hour, but it’s difficult to keep track of everything that is going on around him.
“I’m so sorry for you,” Emil says, their tone sincere with underlying sarcasm. “That must have been torturous.”
Mathias chuckles awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it. Um, can I ask who he is?” Everyone else has been quick to introduce themselves, yet the stranger had spent over thirty minutes in his car with him, and wouldn’t reveal anything.
The apartment stills, and everyone looks to the stranger for an answer. Mathias still can’t see him from his position by the front door, but he imagines the guy staring back at his audience, deadpan.
“Not telling,” comes the stranger’s voice at last, and Mathias deflates a little on the inside.
“It’s okay,” Emil tells him, as if able to sense his disappointment. “He’s just difficult.”
It’s late, and Mathias feels more like a bother the longer he stays, and figures it’s time for him to leave and find a new place in Caen to spend the night. Tiredness is setting in from being awake all day, and the sooner he gets to lay down on a bed and fall asleep, the better. He sighs, and begins to bid his new acquaintances a good night. “Well, I should—“
He is interrupted by a shout from the pavement below, and the subsequent slam of a car door. Startled, Emil turns onto the balcony and peers over the railing to observe what is happening, everyone else following suit. Even the stranger emerges from the kitchen, his hood down and sweatshirt unzipped, and Mathias can’t stop himself from taking a step forward either.
“Holy shit,” Emil says as the shouting continues, three or four more voices adding to the mix. “I think someone’s stealing a car. Looks like a black Mustang.”
Fear strikes every nerve in Mathias’s body as he processes Emil’s words. He never took the key out of the ignition, he realizes. He left his expensive ass car unlocked and running in the parking lot because he assumed it would only take a minute to bring the stranger’s cases up to the apartment. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of someone stealing it!
“Fuck!” he curses as he shoves his way onto the balcony, bending over the railing just in time to see his car being driven speedily out of the lot and down the street, the tires screeching as the car rounds the curb. Mathias turns around and stumbles back into the apartment, pulling at his hair hard enough to make his scalp sting like sunburn. The stranger stands at the foot of the unmade bed and stares at him.
“You left your car running? Are you stupid?” he asks incredulously. Mathias ignores him.
“I just lost my phone, my wallet, my clothes…” He begins to pace around the limited space, still clutching at his hair and trying to keep himself from crying. Yet the tears prick at his eyes and his cheeks inflame, his throat dries up and his breathing becomes slightly more labored. “Everything.”
The stranger looks like he wants to say something, although Mathias can’t quite tell through his blurred vision. The shouting from the parking lot becomes louder, and Michelle gasps from the balcony.
“What’s happening?” the stranger asks.
“Oh my God,” Michelle says.
“Knife fight,” answers Leon.
“Get inside,” orders the stranger. “Lights off, doors locked, answer for no one. I’m not trying to get caught up in this.”
Everyone hurries back in the apartment, Francis killing the lights and Emil and Leon taking care of the doors. Mathias stops his pacing for a moment to ask, “What is going on?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we live in a pretty shady area, where shit goes south a lot,” the stranger explains. “I don’t know if the police will respond to this, but if they do, I don’t want any of us to be involved.”
Mathias doesn’t understand. “Why? Who are you? What are you even doing here?” He can’t stand the vagueness and mysteriousness from these people. The short answers, the little-to-no explanations.
“To put it simply, we work together,” Emil starts, flicking a pocket lighter on to cast a tiny, orange glow around the room. It didn’t do much to counter the darkness, but it was something. “A pact. Can’t really say more if you’re not one of us.”
“Yeah,” says the stranger. “But, I have rules. I don’t let people stay here unless they’re in the pact.”
Mathias looks at him, almost in shock. After everything that’s happened that night, he won’t give Mathias a fucking break? “But—“
“But,” the stranger continues. “I also don’t want you to walk outside and get stabbed.” Mathias waits as he picks at the skin around his fingernails. “So, you have to join the pact.”
Mathias breathes out a laugh. There was no way he’s becoming a part of…whatever they were. They’re secretive, and probably criminal, and Mathias wants nothing to do with it. He was just trying to be nice to the poor guy he saw walking alone on the side of the road, that was all. He doesn’t need to join a pact.
“No, no, that’s alright,” he says, shaking his head. He just needs to wait for the outside world to calm down, and then he’ll head downstairs, hop in his car, and—oh. Right.
“You just got your car stolen. It’s not like you have anywhere else to go. You have nothing.”
He’s right. Everything that Mathias possesses is in his car. And, it’s dark, cold, and raining still. He doesn’t know how to get out of the mess he has created for himself, and the stranger and his crew seem pretty confident in how to handle themselves.
“Alright, fine, I’ll join your little pact,” Mathias says, a little defiantly, to make it clear that he isn’t excited about it. Not that the others are excited to have him there.
“No, no, no,” the stranger chuckles lowly, digging through his sweatshirt pocket. “It’s a blood pact.” He brandishes a silver sewing needle that Mathias can hardly see in the dim light. He feels himself go pale anyway. This guy keeps a lot of sharp objects in his pockets.
“Absolutely not.” Mathias tries to back away, but the stranger is already moving toward him, Emil by his side with the lighter. The tip of the needle glimmers for a moment in the heat of the flame. Mathias feels sick. “I’m terrified of blood. Seriously, I’ll faint if I so much as see it.”
“Then I suggest not looking,” Emil states, holding the lighter out as the stranger grabs hold of his arm, moving his sleeve up to his elbow. The stranger is strong, and Mathias can’t escape his grasp as he squeezes his eyes shut and prepares for the worst.
“Welcome to the pact. I’m Lukas, by the way.” Mathias opens his eyes again to look at the stranger—or, Lukas, apparently—shocked to finally hear a name. He notices Emil giving their brother a strange look that he can’t quite place, but forgets it immediately afterward as the needle pricks his arm, causing him to wince. He feels the grip on his arm relax, then disappear entirely, and against his better judgment, he looks down at his arm to see a small dot of red leaking from the puncture.
It’s just a little bit of blood, but even still, Mathias feels the world spin faster, his head growing foggy and his hearing fading to white noise. He can hardly see or hear anything around him, and he thinks it’s only a matter of time until—
His head hits the floor.