Eye of the Striker
A/N: Thank you all for the kind words, I'm really happy so many people are still enjoying this story!
Chapter 37: Deal with the Devil
"Help him. You got to help him. I can't do this. Not again. Please, not again."
Spitelout's voice crackled through the line, the shaky reception slicing holes in his mumbled pleas. Stoick grit his teeth, hardening his jaw. His hold on the steering wheel cemented, gripping so tight that sizable dents imprinted in the metal. As he drove, a bitter anger swirled inside him, an all-encompassing hatred that brought bubbles to the skin. Why had no-one told him Drago had been moved back to Berk? How had this situation ever been allowed to happen?
Miles and miles of road flew by under the tires, but the destination never seemed to get any closer. His heart was betraying him, leaping erratically from his chest, but for his brother's sake he kept his voice calm and confident, portraying some sense of control. At the very least, he had to commit to his own phony reassurances. Had to hope the situation wasn't as dire as his gut truly believed. But a storm was raging on the horizon; his home once more darkened by the ever present spectre. No matter what, this family could not lose anyone else.
As his wheels squealed to a stop outside the entrance, Berk Asylum was on the highest of alerts. Alarms blared their harrowing chorus; lights of red and yellow pulsating from the walls. Stoick marched steadfast into the chaos, a flash of his badge sufficient to establish his unrestricted authority. He stormed through the familiar corridors at such a pace, his armed escort struggled to maintain their shape around him. Not that he needed them. His own safety was so far down the priorities list he hadn't even given it a second thought. He was here solely to bring Snotlout home. Nothing else mattered.
At the end of another winding corridor, another set of double doors swung open, revealing a gloomy, deserted visitor's waiting room. A flickering light shone down, tainting the room in an encroaching darkness which already smothered the corners. Aged grey seats lined the walls, their black cushions ripped and wrinkled; so worn their colour almost blended with the metal frame. The years hadn't been kind it seemed. Some things could never be restored. Could never be fully whole again. And as Stoick's eyes landed on the gaunt figure of his brother, that truth could not be more transparent.
Spitelout had aged fifteen years in mere weeks. Worry had dug trenches into his forehead, grooves so deep beads of sweat had room to pool. As he rose from his seat next to the door, his chair groaned with an aching creak. At least Stoick hoped it was the chair. Spitelout took a step towards him, only for his foot to quake under the weight. He stumbled, doddering forward. Thankfully, he managed to regain his balance, but he was unable to raise his head back above his shoulders. With a few steps he was infront of Stoick, but as he tried to talk, he couldn't speak a single word. His lips shivered, unspoken prayers uttered in dry breaths. Only as he fell into his brother's hold did he manage to make a sound – a single, heaving sob that burned his throat as it escaped.
Stoick planted himself, clamping an arm round Spitelout's back. His eyes flashed upwards, rapidly blinking in perfect sync with the broken light. Crinkled grimaces contorted his face, pulling at his cheeks. He was the older brother, it had always been his job to be protector. But he had failed. Again. Promises had not been kept. Again. His family, hurting, all because of a mistake he made. A stupid, dumb mistake that had cost… everything. Twenty years and he still couldn't break its shackles. Couldn't quell its wrath. And time had only added fuel to the fire. Everything was burning; now it was just a matter of who he could push from the flames.
His hands heavy on his brother's shoulders, Stoick steadied Spitelout back onto his feet. Terrified eyes stared up at him, and all he could offer was one firm nod, before he stepped on towards the inevitable crucible. The room wasn't particular large, but even still, it grew to be a daunting task to reach the doors on the other end. They mocked him. And they were right to. His foolishness had led him here, and if he didn't return through those doors, nephew in tow, this family would forever be broken.
He increased his speed, as if striding with purpose would make the fake confidence feel any more real. He had almost made it too, when a flash of white poked out from the darkest corner, stopping him dead. He couldn't believe he almost missed her. Knees scrunched tight to her chest, Cami was buried in the corner-most chair, the tips of her sneakers all that touched the light. Her face was a blank canvas, empty of even the slightest sign of emotion. Cold, as if preserved in ice.
"Camicazi?" His tone was soft, yet she shuddered sharply as if he had reached out and struck her.
"Mr Haddock. Sir." The words dripped out completely lifeless, like water from a leaky tap.
"Are you alright? What are you even…" She sucked in her lips, dropping her head back down to her knees. Stoick blinked, slowly turning his head back to face where he had come from. Past the armed guards who had followed him into the room, all the way to his brother who had already slumped back into his seat. Spitelout only needed a glimpse of the vague outline of Cami in the corner and immediately his own head dropped into his hands. He wouldn't look across the room again.
Stoick swallowed the lump in his throat as he turned back to face her. Stuck in the limbo of hopelessness, she couldn't even look up at him. With a heavy sigh, he took a further step towards her, before carefully staggering himself down onto one knee. Most of her face was covered, but even the protection of her knees couldn't hide her eyes. They reached out for him, clinging onto anything that could bring the slightest shred of hope. He offered her a smile, and the shaking in her legs slowed. Then stilled completely.
"I'll get him back," he promised her, as he climbed back to his feet. A few strides later and he was at the door, hauling it open. "I'll get him back." This time the words travelled to the far side of the room, though by the time Spitelout dragged finally dragged his head back up, Stoick was long gone.
He ploughed on through the maze, down another long connecting corridor where he joined an increasingly congested stream of guards. All rushing, bitten by the same venomous panic. From the frantic yells and constant alarms blaring on the walls, it was clear Drago had started much more than first thought. But prison riot or not, Stoick could not veer from his objective. He coiled his fists, slamming his way through sets after sets of double doors, until finally he reached ground zero.
The control room had been cordoned off, access restricted, but with Stoick's clearance he waltzed straight in. Instantly the man whose authority Stoick had just supplanted bombarded him with the latest update on the situation. Snotlout was alive, thank God, but how long he stayed that way depended solely on if certain demands were met. The man continued on and on, discussing strategy, the tools at their disposal, and how best they could neutralise the situation. He gestured to the row of men on the far side of the room, their guns primed at the door and the target beyond it.
"We only need a moment," he stated with upmost confidence. "If we get a shot, we have to take it."
"No." The response was emphatic. "Not a single bullet will be fired tonight. That is an order."
Stoick walked straight past him. Operators were fiddling with wires, trying to establish an audio link inside the room to speak to Drago at a safe distance. He ignored their calls to wait. The armed guards at the room's end, fingers on triggers, questioned him through narrowed eyes. With an open palm and a single order, they were dismissed from their post. He knew there was only one way this was going to end. He was the one Drago wanted. A life for a life. He pushed open the doors fully aware of the bargain he would have to strike.
What laid beyond was the most discomforting of interrogation rooms. White tiles lined the walls, and the lights shone far too bright. A metal desk gleamed in the middle, and an empty chair sat waiting. Waiting just for him. Across from it, the statuesque figure of his nephew was perched high in his seat. Snotlout didn't attempt to stand, didn't move a single muscle. The only indication he still lived at all was the briefest flick up of his eyes.
Drago hung like a devil on the Snotlout's shoulder, the knife in his hand making a puppet out of the boy. With each twist, each gentle kiss of the blade to Snotlout's neck, Drago's lips widened, exposing the grimiest of smiles. Stoick hardened his stare, and in slow, purposeful strides he began to close the distance between them. Drago was unperturbed, in fact he seemed to welcome it, encouraging Stoick to take a seat. And Stoick had no choice but to oblige, for in this room, the rank on his badge meant absolutely nothing. He had no power here. None at all.
"What do you want?" Stoick asked through gritted teeth.
"Really?" Drago tutted, shaking his head. "I've made all this effort to get my old friend to come and visit, and you don't even have the decency to greet me with a proper welcome. I am so disappointed in-"
"-I'm not here to play games, Drago." Stoick's hands clamped onto the end of the table. "Just tell me what you want, and then let my nephew go."
Drago pulled the knife away from Snotlout, twiddling it for a few moments between his fingers. "Do you recognise this place?" He asked, glancing into the corners of the room. He took a few steps to the left, before strolling back across, all the while dragging the tip of the blade lightly across the length of Snotlout's shoulders.
"I don't."
"Hmmm." Drago stopped pacing, and stroked his finger down the length of the knife. "It was here you thought you were finally rid of me. Thought forcing my confession would put me away forever. How did that work out for you?"
"You took my wife from me. You deserved to rot."
"And I did," Drago roared. "10 years I rotted within the walls of this cesspool. Do you know what that does to a person?" He leaned over Snotlout's shoulder and wiped the flat face of the blade down his cheek. "It gives them time. A whole lot of time. To think about how they ended up here. The people to blame. The so-called friends that brought nothing but ruin." He nonchalantly poked the point of his knife into his prosthetic arm, before directing it across the table. "You have no idea how far I'll go to see that the debt is paid."
"So that's it – revenge? All these years and still the same old story." Stoick spat the words out. "You weren't the only one whose life was ruined that night. Gobber lost an arm and a leg. Faye's spine was damaged so severely it was lucky she could ever walk again. Spitelout, still to this day he gets flashbacks. Probably PTSD, but it's not like he'd go to a therapist for it. And yet, here you are, twenty-five years later, thinking you're the only one that suffered."
"You." The word scraped from his throat. "You caused this."
"And here I am. You put four bodies in the ground and still the person who started it all lives and breathes." Stoick climbed to his feet, planted both his palms on the table and stretched his neck forward. He didn't stop until he felt cold steel against his skin. "This must end, now. It's me you want. No-one else needs to die. Let this be over. I will pay the price."
"Don't!" Snotlout pleaded. He wanted to help. To jump up and tackle Drago to the ground, but there was no way he could act in time. The man had one hand locked on the back of his neck, the other holding the knife still inches from his eye. His Uncle couldn't be saved.
"It's alright, lad," Stoick assured, heavy eyelashes batting down over tired eyes. "I knew this day would come."
He raised his chin high and stared into the emptiness of Drago's eyes. If this meant Snotlout would get to live, to one day have a family, it would be worth it. If this meant the promise to Astrid's father, the vow to keep her safe had been fulfilled, it would be worth it. If this meant Hiccup would be free to grow old and have kids… kids who would never have to go sleep wondering if their father would be coming home. Yes, It would all be worth it.
Drago cocked his head to the side, tightened his hold of the blade, and then… pulled it away. It left Stoick's skin without as much as a pinprick. Not a single drop of blood drawn. It made no sense. Drago drew the knife back towards himself, and a suffocating silence dropped on the room. Three sets of eyes flashed between each other and the steel who's word was law. This was the madman's game; one that would not be over so prematurely.
"Typical Stoick," Drago breathed, an entitled sense of smugness hanging on his words. "Always trying to play hero." He pointed the knife back at Snotlout, a cruel motivation to put his old friend back in his place. Grudgingly, Stoick retook his seat. "You still don't get it. Do you?" A laugh squeezed through his smirk. "You will die, yes, one day. But not before you lose what is most dear to you. As I did. Only then will I grant you the relief of death."
"Enough of this farce, Drago." Stoick scoffed, flipping his hand up. "Just tell me what you hope to achieve with this little stunt of yours. What does harming the boy accomplish?"
"I have no intention of any harm coming to dear Snotlout here," he said, even as the tip of his knife strolled across Snotlout's collarbone.
"Then what do you hope to gain?"
"How about full immunity. For all crimes past and present."
Stoick's chuckle was honest, but it fell flat in an instant. "You're joking."
"Have you ever known me to tell jokes?"
"No." An answer to both the question and the prior demand. "I will die before I let you escape justice. That is not an ask I am ever willing to give."
"And what are you willing to give?" Drago pinched his fingers tight around the back Snotlout's neck, forcing the boy's head forward until his chin jarred up towards the ceiling. "Will he have to share the fate of his mother?"
"If he dies, you lose all your leverage. You'll see nothing but blank walls for the rest of your life."
"And still…" He once more leaned over his hostage's shoulder, his voice grating against Snotlout's ear. "We both know that is not how this will end."
"And why is that?"
Drago paused, taking a breath, before answering with the precision of a speech well rehearsed. "Because I have something you don't. Time. I can wait. I'm good at it. Days. months. Decades, if needs be. I can stay, right here, just like this. You, well, you don't have that luxury" His glare hardened. "How long will it be before the guards outside get impatient, take a risky shot, and poor Snotlout here has an extra hole in his skull? How long before the boy himself tries something, and, oops, my knife just happens to slip? The clock is ticking, Stoick, better decide quickly."
"What do you expect me to do? Just let you walk out of here."
"Way I see it, you don't have a choice."
"You're mad."
"Doesn't mean I'm wrong."
Stoick's face remained impassive, even as his fists dug into his thighs beneath the table. Every word was true. The only way Snotlout would leave this room still drawing breath was if Drago was also shown the door. An impossible choice. Snotlout's life now at the cost of many more down the line. But down one of those paths, never again could he look Spitelout in the face. If he turned his back on Snotlout now, Drago had already won. He would not let that happen. His eyes met his nephew's, and in them, all he saw was his brother. And the promise he was making sure was kept.
"I will never stop hunting you," Stoick vowed.
Drago's smile brimmed full. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Just agreeing made Stoick feel dirty, but actually standing up and walking to the door made the stench even more putrid. As if he was caked head to toe in some invisible filth that could never be washed clean. So many bad decisions had led to here. He could still refuse. Turn back. But with a single look over his shoulder, he knew the course was set. His palm locked around the handle, and with that, he set the monster free.
His calls of stand down were more than mystifying to the guards outside, but the orders were followed, nonetheless. He led the way to Drago's poisoned freedom, stripping his own away in the process. Each face he passed seemed more startled than the last, but Stoick held himself tall. He had to keep going. Had to play his role. Behind him, the shuffled footsteps never dimmed, always on his heel. Drago chirped his snide little remarks, acidic gloats with no other purpose than to draw a rise. But Stoick had to walk on in silence. The knife back at Snotlout's throat made sure to that.
A quick and clean handover. Stoick needed that. So every effort was made to ensure the exit was reached without running into anything or anyone that would shatter the already delicate situation. That especially meant Spitelout. And as fresh air first kissed his face, he believed he had actually been successful. The three of them made their way out into the dusky parking lot, and the ordeal of Drago's human shield was almost over.
"Keys!" Drago ordered. At Stoick's bemusement, he puffed his shoulders out. "Well I'm not going to just walk out of here, am I?" Stoick grumbled under his breath as he slowly reached into his pocket. A slight jingle or two and the ticket to Drago's escape was glistening under the floodlights. "Well don't just stand there, hand them over!"
Another demand. Not one that would be complied with so easily. Stoick turned to face him, planting himself between his car and Drago. "Snotlout first. The boy for the keys, that's the deal."
"Take me for a fool? Soon as I let the boy go, I'm as good as dead."
"I can't let you leave with him."
"Soon as I'm far enough away, I'll let him go. He can run back home to daddy, without a scratch on his head."
Stoick took a step towards him. "Now who's taking who for a fool. Like I would trust you to keep your end of that deal."
Drago's laugh was genuine. "I may not exactly align with your fractured perception of honour, but I'll tell you what-" He craned his neck forward, smiling without a single movement of his lips. "-I keep my promises."
Stoick had perhaps a second to consider; to, even against all better judgement, believe in Drago's words. Only for disciplined negotiation to make way for sheer anarchy. Spitelout battered his way out the front doors, a string of expletives frothing from his mouth. Instantly, Drago hauled Snotlout back, scraping the boy's heels across the concrete, and he didn't stop until both Spitelout and Stoick were in full view without needing a turn of the head. The three parties had almost formed a triangle, but Spitelout just couldn't stop. Each rage-fuelled step, each frenzied shriek, brought him closer to his son.
But as he closed in, the knife at Snotlout's neck only pinched tighter. And still far too many steps away to intervene, he was forced to stop in his tracks. His swollen eyes washed over both captor and captive, but the silent plea was even less effective than the screaming. His head snapped to the side; Stoick was going to make this right. Stoick had to make this right.
Snotlout had to watch on as his father's faith faltered, then flatlined completely. He stared from his Dad to his Uncle. Back to his Dad. Back to his Uncle. Neither was going to be able to save him. It seemed Drago would be getting the only get out of jail free card tonight. Snotlout's fate seemed all but sealed.
That alone should have been enough to weaken his legs, but in reality, everything was all getting ridiculously surreal. Even the knife's biting sting had become but an uncomfortable itch, no longer even cold on his skin. Nothing was guaranteed. Nothing set in stone. Everything could be given or taken away in the blink of an eye. And that was only made clearer as, a distance behind his father, Cami's terrified face silently poked through the Asylum's doors. He met her eyes, and in that moment, he smiled. There was a pure solace in the knowledge that if this was the end, he would go out as the person he wanted to be.
"I'll go!" The statement was a certain one. Stoick and Spitelout barely had the chance to exchange their disbelieving glances, before Snotlout made his intentions irrefutably clear. "Just give him the keys."
Spitelout shook his head. "You think I would let-"
"-You have to."
"Listen to the kid, Spitelout," Drago piped up. "Looks like he's got more sense than the both of you combined."
Spitelout jabbed out a finger at him. "Shut it." Then his head, and voice both dropped. He stared at his son, head still shaking. "No."
"It'll be alright, Dad. It'll be alright."
Spitelout once more turned to his brother. "Tell him." Not a word. "Tell him!" But Stoick kept quiet. There was just the painful clink of metal.
Spitelout was frozen on the spot. As Stoick stepped forward. As his palm opened. As the keys dropped into Drago's grasp. As Snotlout was stolen away and the first bitter rev of the engine tore through the air. Only at the squeal of tires did everything suddenly snap back into place. Spitelout lumbered forward, a depressing sprint with a certainty of failure. The car was long gone, but he kept running. Until concrete turned to dirt beneath his feet, and the final flicker of the taillights had faded from view. Only then did his legs give way, and he fell to the Earth, as broken as a brother's promise.
