CHAPTER 11: CONCRETE AND SCREAMS - PART 2
POV: Alaric
The Salvatore School infirmary at dawn felt like a field hospital after a battle that hadn't officially been declared. Emergency lighting cast harsh shadows across medical equipment that hummed with both mundane and magical diagnostics, while the air carried the antiseptic smell of healing potions mixed with something darker—the lingering psychic residue of prolonged trauma.
Alaric stood in the doorway, watching Emma Tig move between seventeen rescued supernatural beings with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd seen too much suffering. The werewolf boy—Marcus, according to his intake form—sat on an examination table while she carefully cleaned silver burns that had branded permanent scars into his wrists. His eyes held the hollow look of someone who'd learned not to hope for rescue.
Thirteen years old, Alaric thought, his hands clenching into fists. They tortured a thirteen-year-old boy with silver just to see how much pain he could endure before breaking.
The other prisoners showed similar signs of systematic abuse. A young vampire whose magical signature barely registered, her system so flooded with vervain that recovery would take months. Twin witches whose power had been burned out through forced spellcasting until their magical cores cracked like overheated glass. A phoenix who'd been killed and resurrected repeatedly, each cycle carefully documented for research purposes.
This is what my children risked their lives to stop, he realized. This is what they saw and decided they couldn't ignore.
Four figures approached down the hallway—Hope, Alen, Josie, and Lizzie, moving with the exhausted determination of soldiers returning from a successful but costly mission. They were covered in concrete dust and soot from the facility's explosion, their clothes torn and stained with substances Alaric preferred not to identify. But they walked with their heads high, carrying themselves like people who'd done something necessary and right.
When did they stop being children? Alaric wondered, studying his son's face. When did Alen become someone who could plan tactical operations and lead rescue missions against corporate black sites?
The boy who'd cowered before Klaus Mikaelson three years ago would never have conceived such a plan, much less executed it successfully. This version of Alen moved with quiet confidence, his green eyes carrying the weight of command decisions and their consequences.
"You disobeyed direct orders," Alaric said as they reached him, his voice carefully controlled.
"We saved seventeen lives," Alen replied evenly, meeting his father's gaze without flinching.
"You could've died. All of you. Triad Industries has resources and expertise specifically designed to capture or kill supernatural beings."
"But we didn't die," Hope said, stepping slightly closer to Alen in a gesture of solidarity that didn't go unnoticed. "And those people," she gestured toward the infirmary, "would have died if we'd waited for official responses."
Alaric looked at his children—blood and chosen family standing together with the unity of people who'd faced hell and emerged intact. They expected punishment, were prepared for it, but wouldn't apologize for their choices.
They're right, he realized with a mixture of pride and terror. They did the right thing. The necessary thing. The thing I should have organized myself instead of waiting for bureaucratic coordination.
"You're all suspended from extracurricular activities for a month," he said finally. "And if you ever again undertake a mission of this magnitude without informing faculty, I'll personally ensure you spend the rest of the semester in detention."
The four teenagers accepted the punishment with grace—it was lighter than they'd expected and they knew it.
"But," Alaric continued, his voice softening slightly, "I'm proud of you. All of you. You saw atrocity and chose to act rather than ignore it. That takes courage I'm not sure I possessed at your age."
His phone buzzed with an incoming call from Caroline. He answered it, putting the conversation on speaker so his children could hear their mother's voice.
"Ric?" Caroline's voice carried across the ocean from whatever European city she was currently visiting. "I got your message about the raid. Are the kids okay? Are they hurt? Should I fly home immediately?"
"They're fine," Alaric said, watching his children's faces brighten at the sound of their mother's concern. "Exhausted, probably traumatized, but physically unharmed."
"And they really rescued seventeen people from that... place?"
"They did."
Caroline was quiet for a moment, processing the implications. When she spoke again, her voice carried the complex mixture of pride and terror that defined supernatural parenting.
"Ric, they're heroes. Our children are actual heroes."
"They're children, Caroline. Children who took on corporate-funded torturers and somehow survived."
"Children grow up fast in our world. You know that." Caroline's voice grew gentler. "Are you okay? You sound..."
"Terrified," Alaric admitted. "Proud, but terrified. They're becoming the kind of people who run toward danger instead of away from it."
"Good. The world needs more people like that."
After Caroline ended the call with promises to fly home as soon as her negotiations concluded, Alaric found himself alone with the knowledge that his family had fundamentally changed overnight. They were no longer just students at a supernatural school—they were active participants in the hidden war between good and evil that defined their world.
I should be more worried about this development, he thought. Instead, I'm proud that they chose to be heroes when it mattered.
The choice said something important about the people he and Caroline had raised.
POV: Alen
The werewolf boy—Marcus—clung to Alen with the desperate grip of someone who'd learned that safety was temporary and rescue was usually illusion. His small frame shook with exhaustion and something deeper—the bone-deep trauma of someone who'd been reduced to a research subject for weeks.
"You came for us," Marcus whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming that no one had been meant to hear. "No one comes for us. We just... disappear. And nobody cares because we're monsters."
Alen's heart broke for the child in his arms—thirteen years old and already convinced that his life had no value beyond what scientists could learn from torturing him. The silver burns on Marcus's wrists would heal eventually, but the psychological scars would take much longer to fade.
This is why the coins exist, he realized with sudden, crystalline clarity. Not just to bring back the dead, but to prevent more deaths. To ensure that people like Marcus never have to suffer because monsters like Dr. Greasley are allowed to continue existing.
"What happened to your family?" Alen asked gently.
Marcus's grip tightened. "Triad killed them. Mom, Dad, my little sister. They wanted to study our pack bonds, so they murdered everyone I loved and then watched to see how I'd react." His voice cracked. "I'm the last one. There's nobody left."
Emma approached with paperwork and the careful expression of someone delivering bad news. "I've contacted social services about placement options. There are several foster families in the area with experience handling supernatural children—"
"No." Marcus's reaction was immediate and visceral, his entire body going rigid with panic. "No foster homes. They'll find me there. Triad will find me and take me back to the labs."
"The facility was destroyed," Emma said gently. "You're safe now."
"There are other facilities. Other doctors. They don't stop. They never stop."
Before Emma could respond, Hope stepped forward with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to making difficult decisions.
"He stays here," she said firmly. "Salvatore School protects supernatural children. That's what we do. Marcus is family now."
Alaric, who'd been observing the conversation from across the room, nodded slowly. "We'll need to formalize the arrangements, but yes. The school can serve as his guardian until he's of age."
Relief flooded Marcus's face—the first genuinely positive emotion Alen had seen from him since the rescue. "I can stay? Really?"
"You can stay," Alen confirmed. "You're safe here. And if anyone tries to hurt you again, they'll have to go through all of us first."
As Emma began the paperwork to establish Marcus as a ward of the school, Alen found himself cataloging the other rescued prisoners. Seventeen lives saved, seventeen families who would see their children again, seventeen people who would never again have to fear Dr. Veronica Greasley's particular brand of scientific curiosity.
But Greasley is still out there, he thought, the incomplete nature of his mission gnawing at him like acid. Still free to set up new facilities, capture new victims, continue her atrocities with corporate funding and legal protection.
The rescue had been a tactical success but a strategic failure. He'd saved the current victims without addressing the underlying threat. It was like pulling people from a burning building while the arsonist escaped to set more fires.
Later that evening, when the rescued supernaturals had been settled into temporary housing and the immediate crisis had passed, Alen found himself alone in his dorm room with the weight of incomplete victory pressing down on him like lead.
"Seventeen lives saved," he thought, turning the resurrection coin over in his palm. "But how many more will die while Greasley remains free? How many other corporate scientists are conducting similar experiments in facilities I haven't located yet?"
The single coin felt inadequate—one perfect resurrection in a world where death was common and justice was rare. Stefan Salvatore deserved to be brought back, but so did Marcus's family. So did every innocent person who'd died in Triad laboratories. So did the countless victims of supernatural violence who would never see justice because their killers were too powerful or too well-connected to face consequences.
One isn't enough, he whispered to the golden disc. I need an army of these. I need enough coins to resurrect everyone who deserves a second chance.
The coin pulsed with warmth, as if responding to his determination. In the faint light emanating from its surface, Alen could almost see patterns—possibilities, potential futures where justice was more than just a concept.
Dr. Veronica Greasley, he thought, adding her name to the growing list in his mind. Triad operatives. Corporate executives who fund torture programs. Dark covens that prey on innocent families. Anyone who qualifies for soul harvesting.
The hunt list was extensive and would only grow longer as he learned more about the supernatural world's hidden cruelties. But that was acceptable—necessary, even. Every villain he harvested meant one more coin, one more chance to bring back someone who mattered.
The Entity was right, he realized. Power comes with weight. But the weight is worth carrying if it means preventing suffering like what Marcus endured.
A soft knock interrupted his planning. Hope entered without waiting for permission, her presence immediately calming the Hollow's distant whispers and filling the room with a sense of completeness he'd been missing.
"You're brooding," she observed, settling beside him on the narrow dorm bed.
"Thinking," Alen corrected. "Reviewing what we accomplished and what we didn't."
"We saved seventeen people. That's not nothing."
"But it's not everything either. Greasley escaped. Other facilities probably exist. We treated the symptom without addressing the disease."
Hope studied his profile in the coin's faint golden light. "You can't save everyone, Alen. No one can. But you can save the people in front of you, when it matters."
I can do more than that, he thought. I can harvest villain souls and use them to resurrect the innocent dead. I can ensure that evil actions have cosmic consequences. I can rewrite the rules of justice to favor the worthy over the powerful.
But those truths were locked behind the Entity's curse, inaccessible to direct communication.
"Maybe," he said instead, closing his hand around the coin. "But I'm going to try anyway."
Hope leaned her head against his shoulder—the first genuine physical intimacy they'd shared since their reconciliation. The simple gesture carried more weight than words, acknowledgment of partnership forged through shared trauma and common purpose.
This is what I almost lost, Alen thought, the warmth of her presence steadying something fractured inside him. This connection, this trust, this sense of belonging somewhere. Whatever prices I have to pay for the power to protect her, they're worth it.
Outside their window, Virginia night settled over the Salvatore School like a protective blanket. But Alen knew the darkness held threats they hadn't yet faced—Malivore stirring in its dimensional prison, ancient evils preparing to test their defenses, and somewhere in the distance, Dr. Veronica Greasley planning her next atrocity.
The hunt for harvestable souls would continue. The resurrection coin pulsed patiently against his palm, ready to transform villain essence into innocent life when the opportunity presented itself.
For now, Hope's warmth was enough. But tomorrow, the real work would begin.
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