Chapter Text
It was well past sunset by the time Ryan left the Spirit of the Lake, and snow was falling again. Willow River was well on its way to a record snowfall this year. He'd spent his afternoon letting his tea get cold, as he was re-introduced to a dozen people – all residents of Willow River he had met before, of course, with a couple exceptions: he hadn't had the opportunity to meet either of the doctors at the medical clinic, and he'd only said hello to Becky Habersberger in passing. But everyone else who sat in Steven, Andrew, and Adam's living room was familiar to him: or at least, so he'd thought.
It turns out they all hunted monsters.
In Willow River.
Regularly.
Ryan still felt like his world had tilted about thirty degrees. Everything he'd suspected, his whole life, was true: as much as he'd hoped he'd prove it eventually, he hadn't expected it to... fall into his lap quite like this.
As far as the Willow Guard (“Real imaginative name, folks,” he'd groused, “you couldn't even make it a reference to something?” No, apparently the name had been around longer than any of them remembered, and it was the one tradition that didn't seem to need breaking) could tell, Ash, Nic, and Christine had straight-up been abducted. He wasn't the only one who had seen the lights in the sky around two in the morning: Andrew had seen them, too, and Francesca.
“Has anyone else disappeared since the lights started?” he had asked, once he'd found his voice.
“Not for this long,” Cecilia had said, “but there are the instances of missing time you were looking at.”
Right, of course. Ryan could have smacked himself. Everyone in the room was patiently waiting for him to get his shit together, drinking their tea casually. “Aren't any of you worried?“ he asked, a vague tinge of unease colouring his voice. “Two kids and a tourist just disappearing like this?”
“We've all long since learned that it doesn't do to fret,” Banjo said, setting his teacup down on the coffee table. “Wastes energy that could be put to better use.”
“Like what?” he'd asked.
“Like going and getting them back,” Shane had replied.
Shane. Now there was a surprise. The avowed skeptic, the man who barely believed in his own shadow, was a monster hunter?
Yep. He was. And he wasn't giving any more information than that, it would seem.
“So... How are we doing that? And how are we getting around the RCMP? Or do the RCMP know?” His brain had come back, slowly but surely, and he'd turned into his regular bundle of questions.
“We don't go around the RCMP,” Cecilia had said, “we work with them.”
“It's a long-standing agreement,” Banjo had cut in, “dating from decades ago. We're a tiny town and we've always been weird – weirder than the RCMP can handle on a regular basis. They have more than enough to be dealing with, so ... we deal with Willow River. And we tell them when the threat is gone, and they don't ask too many questions.”
Ryan had shaken his head slowly. “But this is a missing persons case. Two kids went missing. And someone from out of town. You can't hush this up.”
“No, we can't,” Banjo had agreed, “which is why we work fast. You ready for the hardest crash course you've ever had, Bergara?”
Three days later, after the RCMP had taken all their statements and cleared out of town, Ryan sure hopes he's ready. (“What do you say to the O'Meara's and the Sergios? Do they know?” “They don't. Neither family has been here long enough to know.” “So...” “They wait.” “God.”) He's standing in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the snow, in new winter gear – “You'll need something less bulky,” Cecilia had said, “let's go into Prince George.” – waiting for ... something. He wasn't sure what.
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, watching the trees. Andrew and Adam had dropped him off here, about a kilometre from town, with nothing but his weapons of choice and the promise that they'd have a hot dinner waiting for him when he got back.
It's cold. At least minus twenty-five, though standing in the middle of a forest clearing, knee-deep in snow, it's hard to tell really. He shivered once, shook himself, clapped his hands together, and thought about taking his gloves off. Why did he need his weapons? He thought it was a good question. He thought lots of his questions were good questions, but nobody seemed to want to answer any of them.
The next thought he has is cut off by something large and solid slamming into him from the side, and throwing him into the snow. He manages to tuck and roll at least halfway, and so he's not completely prone when his head snaps up and he scrapes at his face, pulling the snow away, looking for his attacker.
There's no-one there. Ryan's about to pull himself up and look, but then thinks better of it, and instead stays low, crouching in the snow. He looks around. It's still light out, thank God, and he sees the tracks of whatever it was that ran into him – or, well, he sees the trench in the snow from where they ran. Straight off past him. Hit and run, as it were.
He watches and waits, looking left and right, listening intently for anything at all. He hears a twig snap behind him, and he leaps aside, watching as something tall blurs past him into the trees on the other side of the clearing. He gets a flash of red on the top half just as whatever it is seems to ... leap into a tree.
He squints at it. It's good at hiding: the tree it's picked is just the right size and shape to hide itself in. He catches a glimpse of dark denim, maybe, along the bottom half. So: a person, then. A tall person, who's skinny enough to hide in a— Shane. The motherfucker was Shane.
“What the hell, Shane, are you wearing rocket boots or something?” he calls out, keeping his eyes on the figure mostly hidden in the tree.
Shane laughs, then slips down out of the tree and onto the ground. “Nope,” he calls, “no fancy rocket boots here, Bergara.”
“So what, are you Sonic the Hedgehog then?” He's still not taking his eyes off Shane, not a chance.
“What's the first rule of combat?” the other man calls, completely ignoring Ryan's question.
“I haven't got a fucking clue,” Ryan mutters, “I'm a film and journalism student, not a fucking martial artist.” He raises his voice. “I don't know— know thine enemy?”
“Good,” Shane replies. “What do you know so far?”
“You're goddamn fast,” Ryan replies immediately. “Faster than I can catch but not faster than I can dodge if I'm smart.”
Shane chuckles a little. “Good, good,” he says. “What's the plan?”
“Trick you if I can, outlast you if I can't,” Ryan reasons. “Depending on the resources available.”
“Excellent. Unfortunately for you, I doubt you'll be able to do either.”
“You cocky son-of-a—” Ryan is thrown sideways again. How Shane managed to move without Ryan seeing is beyond him, but it hardly matters. As Ryan flies into the snow, he makes a grab at Shane, trying to catch him around the torso, or at least snag his clothing.
He succeeds, and is dragged across the clearing roughly. He feels Shane's arms come under his own, and he's being lifted, and then thrown back into the center of the clearing, shortly followed by Shane, who pins him in the snow. Ryan can feel it melting down the back of his collar.
The fucker isn't even breathing hard. “What do you do if your enemy changes tactics?”
Ryan's pissed. “Fucking improvise,” he snarls, and rams his head up into Shane's smug face. He feels Shane's nose move, if not break, and he hears the tall man growl. He takes advantage of the moment to hook his leg around Shane's and shove and twist, and suddenly their positions are reversed: Shane's on the ground and Ryan's on top of him. And, sure enough, Shane's nose is bleeding and it looks like he's got a split lip.
The growl must have been instinctive, however, because Shane's grinning fit to scare a small child. “Oh well done, Ryan,” he says, spitting out blood, “no one's managed to do so well so quickly.”
Ryan huffs, breathing hard. “Yeah well,” he says, at a bit of a loss, “what am I supposed to be doing here?”
Shane's grin turns into a smirk, and Ryan is almost fast enough, but instead of rolling off of Shane into the snow, he's launched across the clearing in an awkward spiral and lands, hard, in the snow.
“Ow,” he grunts, “fucking ow...” But he hauls himself up, and looks around: no Shane. Back into the trees again, making use of his superspeed, however the fuck that works. “Are you a superhero?“ he calls out. “Do those exist too?!”
“Nah,” comes a voice from behind him, unsettlingly close to Ryan's ear, “not so lucky as that.” Shane's right forearm is suddenly against Ryan's throat, pushing hard, and the other arm is reaching to grab Ryan's wrists— but Ryan's faster, this time, and he slips the garrote out from his sleeve and reaches up and behind him, looping the wire over Shane's head, twisting his body around in Shane's grip to cross the wires and then shove back, kicking at his knees.
The big man goes down with a surprised look on his face as his legs give out, and he falls to his knees and clutches at his throat, where Ryan's got the garrote tight enough to choke just a little, and his arms ready to pull more if he needs to. They hold the position for one... two... three seconds... then Shane, who's beginning to turn red, slaps his thigh three times.
Ryan lets go of one end of the garrote, and the wire falls loose. He winds it up and sticks it in his pocket, and holds out his hand to Shane. Shane takes it and pulls himself to his feet with a cough, rubbing at his throat with his other hand. “Well done,” he says again, a little croaky, “well done.” He sounds genuinely impressed, and almost proud.
“So the initiation's, what, a hazing?” Ryan says, testily. “What happens to the folks who can't cut it?”
Shane shakes his head. “Nah. Not how it works. This is just a proficiency test of sorts. I'm one of our best hand-to-hand specialists, and ... well, let's just say I'm one of the more surprising members. When we induct someone – which is rare – we need to know how they handle themselves in unfamiliar situations, with little to no intel, and an enemy who's unpredictable and smart. Basically: we toss you into a worst-case scenario and see how you do. We've never had someone fail – but we've only ever had one other person win.”
“Who?” Ryan can't help himself. He has to ask.
Shane chuckles, still rubbing at the angry red line on his throat. “Can't tell you all our secrets that quickly, Bergara.” He begins walking in the direction of town, and Ryan follows. “This little experiment lets us see what your strengths and weaknesses are, what you need the most help with, where you can help us, that sort of thing. Keeps everyone from wasting time – ours and yours.”
“Makes sense,” Ryan says, nodding. “And? What'd you learn from little ol' me?”
Shane hums. “You think fast. You adapt quickly, and you improvise well. Even when you're pissed off, you can focus. You're analytical and logical, but you don't overthink. Also, you're good at using an enemy's natural advantages against them. Like my poor knees,” he says with a grimace.
Ryan feels his heart swell a little with pride. “And what do I need to work on?”
The other man snorts. “Well, I mean, if I had been trying...”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, rub it in, seriously, are you fucking Superman or something?”
He laughs. “Nah, that'd be boring. But you should see me and Adam spar someday. I've been told it's fun.”
Ryan furrows his brow in puzzlement. “Adam? Adam Bianchi? The baker from the cafe? I know he was there last night but he's a literal cinnamon roll, and you're, like ... I don't even fucking know, the Sorcerer Supreme from Doctor Strange or something. Or Black Widow. Or—”
“Y'know,” Shane says, cutting him off, “I don't think I would have pegged you for a Marvel man.”
He laughs. “No? More DC?”
“Yeah, you kinda strike me as the Batman type. No, no, even better, the Riddler.”
“He's a villain!”
Shane's turn to laugh. “So?”
“I'll have you know I pride myself on having a positive effect on the world, mister Madej,” Ryan says.
Shane raises his eyebrows. “Oh, buddy, you're in for a wild ride, aren't you.”