Chapter Text
The industrial complex is, at first glance, a city unto itself with fucking named streets – the portal spits them out at the intersection of Horch Alley and Quandt Street, for fuck’s sake – with old warehouses like rotting carcasses and ransacked office towers. Istredd warned them before he sent them through, of course, but it’s one thing to hear it and another to see it, to stand in the midst of the oppressive, hemmed-in streets, surrounded by the gaping holes blown into the side of the building towering over them, the bent lamp poles and shattered bulbs.
Lambert finds himself sticking closer to Aiden without quite meaning to – it’s not like he’s fucking scared, now is he; the landscape is simply a vicious reminder that their lark (one of theirs, yes, and dangerous in his own right, but fragile, too, in ways Lambert had almost forgotten people could fucking be) is in enemy hands and they still don’t quite know who that even is – and promptly almost pushes his kitten behind himself like Aiden’s a fucking damsel when a hooded figure steps out from the shadows like a fucking character on TV.
“Shrike,” Geralt says lowly, inclining his head.
Lambert has to bite down on his lip hard to avoid a low whistle. The Shrike, here? He hadn’t know she had stakes in their Lark’s survival, one way or another. Honestly – they way she had gone after him in the few encounters Lambert’s witnessed between them, he’d have wagered much the opposite.
“Wolf,” the Shrike says. “I heard you … mislaid your songbird.”
Lambert can’t help himself but growl, the sound echoing both from the walls around them and his brothers.
Neither Shrike nor Geralt spare them any heed.
“Insider information?”
The Shrike chuckles. “A little birdie twittered it at me.”
Geralt’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “And?”
“A mage – pale, lanky, black and greasy hair.” Shrike tilts her head so the quirked corner of her mouth becomes briefly visible – ironic, that a fact like this is enough to disqualify a lot of them Ban Ard shits. “Tentatively identified as Rience Tamir, most recently imprisoned for wage theft and tax evasion; preliminary research has has turned up no known affiliations.” Another smirk. “Though since he appears to be hiding here, we consider him a possible suspect in the recent string of disappeared non-human refugees.”
“What’s it to you?” Lambert asks. Aiden’s got a hand around his wrist, now, like he’s afraid Lambert’ll go for the Shrike’s throat, thorn in their side as she may be. He mightn’t be wrong, actually.
“The enemy of my enemy, and so.”
“Not our enemy,” Geralt grumbles. The Shrike, he must be referring to, because Lambert cannot imagine Geralt not making an enemy out of anyone dumb enough to kidnap their lark, and for all their animosity, the Shrike’s never stooped to that level of idiocy.
“I’ll remember that, White Wolf.” The Shrike nods at him. “My sign’s a nightingale’s call – what’s yours?”
To Lambert’s astonishment, it’s Vengerberg who steps forward, holding out a comm piece for their xenovox network. “Channel two.” Her smile is cold, and when she turns around, her irises are still streaked with lightning. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The Shrike stares at the earpiece for a long moment, before pivoting on her heel. “I’m calling dibs on the south east quadrant.”
They’re so busy staring at her nobody thinks to dispute it.
There’s a breath of silence once the Shrike’s footsteps, quiet as they are, have faded from earshot.
“Was that wise?” Triss asks.
“Would it have been wiser to turn down help in finding the Lark?” Yennefer shoots back.
“She already knew we were here and why,” Coën puts in, deceptively mild for all that his hands are flexing at his sides. “And the longer we stand around, the higher the chances she’ll be the one to find him.”
Aiden snorts, but instead of joining the argument, he gives Lambert’s arm a brief tug. “We’ll go south,” he decides, and that appears to be the signal for them all. Within moments the other pairs have also picked directions to disperse in.
Geralt’s with Eskel, to no one’s surprise, and no one even considered suggesting Lambert go with anyone except Aiden, but the other pairs were somewhat less immediately obvious: Aubry has braved Vengerberg’s company, proving that still witchers hold fucking oodles of courage or whatever that saying was, Coën’s with Letho, and Vesemir is guarding Istredd and Triss considering that neither of them are particularly battle-minded and also rather busy setting up a fucking perimeter or something. Lambert doesn’t particularly want to know; all that’s relevant is that they’re somehow countering potential opposing mages and that’s enough for him.
He also doesn’t know why Callonetta’s with them – one more civilian to protect is a fucking liability, is what it is, but who’s Lambert to question Vesemir? (Okay, usually Lambert would be all over questioning Vesemir, but this isn’t usual by any means, and so, for once, he doesn’t. They have bigger concerns at hand than what sure appears to be a regular civilian tagging along to a mission.)
“Potions?” Aiden murmurs as they make their way down Quandt Street, sticking to the shadows of the buildings. It’s eerily quiet; quieter than it ever gets in a city, and lacking the ambient nature sounds found in the mountain lodge Vesemir calls his home.
Lambert hesitates before he nods, and they stop briefly to chug a dose of Cat each. There’s a nauseating moment where the world suddenly sharpens into focus, overwhelming regardless of the number of times Lambert’s experienced it, but it passes. Once it has, the world is there, in their faces, vivid and near searingly bright in the waning light – and still devoid of their lark. Or any other fucking people, for that matter.
“Well, let’s go,” Lambert murmurs.
Aiden flashes him a smile and pads off, sleek like the predator he is, and Lambert follows suit.
Night approaches rapidly this time of the year, and with it something that is awfully close to dread. Not because Lambert fears the dark – fuck no – but because it’s been hours (one and a half, to be precise) now since their Lark’s been taken, and they still haven’t fucking found him.
They haven’t found anything, for that matter. No Lark, no refugees, not even a single measly fucking sign of occupancy since they entered this warehouse district, be it human or not. Which –
Lambert taps his earpiece. “Silver? This is Bombs, currently at the intersection of Halske and Knuth. We’ve found nothing.”
Triss hums in the affirmative. “Archie and I are working on it.”
Archie – that’s Istredd because he’s a fucking nerd, is what he is, and thus has chosen his fucking superhero name to be Archaeologist (no, Lambert doesn’t know how he thinks himself cool, either, unless of course Istredd doesn’t, which is also a possibility, because, well. Nerd) – which means they assume this to be magical in nature.
If it was, Lambert’s medallion should be vibrating to hell and back. When his fist closes around it, it’s still like the inert piece of silver it pretends to be. “No sign of tampering.”
There’s a crackle on the line, and a moment later a new voice says, “Definitely tampered. There’s – a dog somewhere in the distance, and – ugh, is that –?” The Shrike makes a sound of disgust. “If you truly are spared witnessing these sights and impressions – be glad of it.”
“‘D fucking rather have the lark back,” Lambert says darkly.
The Shrike huffs. “Same, dude.” Before Lambert can do more than growl, she adds, “But whatever this – enchantment, or whatever, is, it’s not pure magic. It almost works on me.”
“Tell me exactly what you see,” Triss orders, suddenly in her element again. “And – you can feel the spell? Describe it.”
To Lambert’s surprise, the Shrike does exactly that. Lambert tunes her out for the most part, trying to strain his eyes to see past whatever layer is deceiving them. Predictably, it doesn’t fucking do anything except strengthen his post-Cat headache. Fuck the Shrike and her fucking – magic repelling superpower, from the sounds of it.
He’d always figured it was a weak-ass, boring power, which makes it so much more of an unpleasant surprise to find himself fucking jealous over it.
It doesn’t take long for Triss to exclaim triumphantly, and a moment later, the sky falls. And keeps falling, down and down and down until it crushes Lambert like he is just another insignificant animal.
Lambert comes to on his knees, panting like he’s just run a fucking marathon. Next to him, Aiden doesn’t sound much better, and when Lambert’s eyes finally fucking focus again, he doesn’t look better, either: his dark curls are dishevelled, and his dark skin has gone grey, which is a fucking awful look on him. It’s also pretty similar to how Lambert’s feeling, which is just great.
Oh, and now his fucking medallion is vibrating like it’s going out of style. Fucking terrific.
“Kitten?” Lambert grates out after a moment, and holy shit, his throat feels – and sounds – like he’s swallowed gravel. Several hands full, in fact.
Aiden makes an odd, formless sound in response, pupils blown wide. Whatever this thing was, it was fucking powerful. “Kitten,” Lambert says again. Aiden’s eyes finally focus on him and then they’re both fumbling forward, landing in a heap on the very dirty floor of the warehouse and just… just holding on for a moment. If he never has to feel the sky crushing him again, it’ll be too soon.
Lambert rights himself once he feels a little more… steady again, but it’s Aiden who fiddles with his comm until it goes back online with a beep. “Silver. What the fuck was that?”
By the time Lambert’s own earpiece rejoins the land of the … living electronics, or whatever the fuck the metaphor was, he’s greeted with a cacophony of voices. He sighs, closes his eyes, and then goes to survey their newly revealed surroundings while the others figure themselves out.
The abandoned industrial district isn’t just a fucking city – it’s a godsdamned maze. Or maybe that’s the jolt of walking out the door of the warehouse and being confronted with a full fucking new landscape. The spell evidently hadn’t only hidden signs of humans, which means Lambert’s eyes and his brain disagree over what he should be seeing. It’s fucking nauseating, is what it is.
Aiden makes a disgusted sound as though in agreement, and after a shared look – also disgusted – they make their way through the streets again, opening their senses for the sights and sounds and, unfortunately, smells.
There’s a fuckton of all of them now: skittering rodents and barking dogs, the persistent stink of sewer and rotting shit and actual shit, and the sort of litter Lambert doesn’t really want a closer look at because it’ll only mean more petty crime for him to get angry about.
And while he doesn’t mind being angry, he’s mad enough as is what with their lark missing.
They’re several blocks back towards where they’d been spit out into the city, when the first human sounds filter in.
Aiden and Lambert slow as one, melting back into the shadows. Footsteps in one of the buildings ahead, combined with low chatter, and there – a whiff of pain and fear. Not just any humans, but afraid ones – refugees? Which means the heavy, unhurried tread is most likely a guard. Well. More than two, if the chatter is anything to go b, for all that it is too low to reliably make out distinct voices.
“Silver, this is Bomb,” Lambert murmurs, relaying their new coordinates to Triss. “Permission to move in?”
“Hold a moment.” The line clicks as Triss presumably gathers the locations of the others. “Backup is a quarter of a mile away. Estimate?”
Lambert shares a glance with Aiden, before his kitten sighs. “Silver, this is Panther. Three to five hostiles, unclear designation, at least a dozen additional targets.” Aiden swallows, and then amends, “Most likely refugees.”
“Don’t need fucking backup for that,” Lambert says.
Triss makes a sound like she wants to argue before disconnecting their line with a click.
Aiden and Lambert share another glance and then shrug, reaching for their potions.
They’ve just chugged them when Triss reappears. “Don’t wait for backup.” Lambert snorts. As if they’d just stayed put. Her voice suggests she hadn’t expected them to. “Get the hostages out, and keep your eyes peeled for the Lark.”
“Not our first rodeo, Silver,” Lambert says and tunes out whatever her reply is as the potions flood his system.
Time to go do their job.
Lambert ducks, rolls, and comes up behind his the hostile, neatly knocking him out with a sword handle to the temple. (He’s not a fucking murderer, okay? And maybe these kids made a couple – or a lot – of bad decisions, but that still doesn’t fucking mean they have to fucking die. Lambert’s job is to go after monsters, and fuck if he becomes one himself. He’d rather ask Aiden to slay him than have that happen.)
He pivots, just in time to see Aiden’s raised fist swooping down followed by a quick three-note whistle. Within moments, Lambert has his scarf pulled up and whistles back.
Boom.
Even with the scarf and the warning, the smoke grenade is almost disorienting. But it’s the almost that counts, and that means it doesn’t take them to take the final handful of hostiles out of commission from there.
There’s more refugees down the hall, and Lambert and Aiden make quick work of the doors, herding the terrified people towards the fire exit away from the still-smoking guard room.
The scarf also helps against their fear.
“Is that –” a small child starts before their mother shushes them.
“Pouncing Panther, at your disposal.” Aiden sketches a bow without breaking his stride, eyes crinkling the only sign he’s grinning under his own scarf. The child shrinks back even as their eyes widen, the mother clutching them to their chest tightly.
Lambert suppresses a growl, because that wouldn’t help anything. You’d think a hero name as silly as Pouncing Panther would make people less afraid, but no. Fucking Cats and their utter fucking disregard of the public’s opinion. Aiden’s the best fucking man Lambert’s ever known (and also the best fucking one, if you catch Lambert’s drift, though that’s neither here nor there), and it makes Lambert want to rage how Stygga Academy’s fucked his reputation over without Aiden actually fucking doing anything.
“Clear the building,” Lambert instructs them, tone clipped, which paradoxically appears to calm the civilians. Strange fucking creatures. That’s more than fucking fine by him, because he truly doesn’t have a damned ounce of patience left inside him. “There’s a temporary base if you turn left, and they can see to your needs. Let them know of any injuries or – fuck, anything you need, okay?”
The mother looks vaguely displeased, quite possibly at his language, but nobody’s panicking, so Lambert’s still inclined to count it as a fucking win.
To his surprise, a young half-elf who steps forward before the civilians leave, one finger tugging nervously on a matted braid from his dreads but meeting Lambert’s eyes regardless. Brave little kid. “Thank you.” He smiles a little shakily, and Lambert returns it reflexively even though his scarf is still hiding his face. “Please – stay safe.”
“You stay safe,” Lambert says gruffly and more than a little caught off guard.
Aiden snorts. “No, seriously, the best you can do so we all stay safe is make your way to the base. Shoo.”
The elf gives them another nervous smile and then says something in rapid-fire elder that actually gets the two dozen refugees moving.
Lambert and Aiden wait for them to actually clear the building – it wouldn’t do for them to lose one of them now and then have them fall into enemy hands or, worse, complain to the media about the ruthless heroes of today – and then turn to where they can hear another skirmish.
They’ve just rounded a corner when there’s a might crash somewhere north-west of them, and they turn just in time to see an office building crash down.
“Holy shit,” Lambert breathes. And out of the rubble and dust –
A figure is shooting up into the sky, massive wings at their back and something cradled in their arms that looks an awful lot like a human. In fact, the figure looks suspiciously like –
“Is that our lark?” Aiden whispers, stunned.
“Sure looks like it,” Lambert replies, no more certain how he’s supposed to feel about that. Aiden’s got the right of it: he’s stunned. Stunned, and relieved.
It is their lark, backlit by the last rays of sunlight like a fucking halo, his eyes so blue they appear to glow – no, they are glowing, visible even several blocks away where Aiden and Lambert are standing and staring at him, mouths agape.
Now that the dust is settling, they also get a better picture of the person in his arms: Vengerberg. Lambert sure hopes that their Lark’s powers had just been a well-kept secret and not a manifestation in the face of utter, terrible grief.
They get pulled from their staring by shouts two streets over, and much as they’d like to hurry over to their Lark to ask him what the actual fuck, they still have jobs to do.
“Guess he didn’t actually choose his name for a lark.”
Aiden snorts and elbows him, and then smoothly pivots into grabbing Lambert’s hand. “He probably still did,” he says, just because he’s a fucker who likes to get the last word in.
And Lambert, because he’s a besotted fool, doesn’t argue and instead lets himself be pulled back towards the fighting.
If another wave of relief sweeps over him when Vengerberg’s voice crackles over the comm to let them know that Rience Tamir won’t be a concern any time soon? Well, it’s to be expected; he’d simply hate to see their Lark sad.
Or, as he’s had to learn, would hate to see him truly angry. The way he’d shot up into the sky with Vengerberg cradled in his arms like an angel of vengeance… If he got truly angry, angry enough to lose himself – would Novigrad still be standing afterwards?
It’s probably better they don’t find out.