Chapter Text
Dusk had settled over the city by the time Tommy re-emerged from the Underground, the last glimmer of gold just peeking out above the Walls as he crawled out of a moss-covered pipe in an alleyway. It wasn’t Tommy’s usual entrance to the Underground and it was a distance from his house, but he didn’t mind the walk. Tommy had always thought the city was especially beautiful at night, even in the slums. The streets were mostly empty--everyone without a death wish had holed up somewhere by now--and the pale glow of the moonlight always made the city seem more peaceful than unsettling. In the distance, The Lights twinkled like a galaxy.
Tommy sighed. The sky was startlingly clear tonight, the evening air cool and crisp against his skin. Eastside was quiet. Not quite silent, never silent. There were too many people crammed together for that. But it was quiet, at least, and though Tommy had a hand on his staff and an ear out for patrol bots, he thought this might be one of the most peaceful moments he had ever had.
Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline from the near escape. Maybe it was the satisfaction of another job well done, the anticipation of pay day. Or perhaps it was the pearl moon looking down on him, the cool breeze in his hair. Whatever it was, Tommy felt--well, not quite happy, but he felt not-sad. Or angry. Which was new. Tommy reveled in it.
Maybe things were finally looking up.
Before he knew it, the soft glow of the bakery washed over him. Tommy took a glance through the windows of Bad and Skeppy’s shop, double checking that nothing was amiss in the small brick bakery. To his relief, all was still inside the little store. Tommy lived in fear of the day someone decided--not entirely incorrectly--that the little shop was an easy target. Bad and Skeppy were simply too kind, and it was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of it to learn their weaknesses or manipulate their trust. It was something he scolded Bad about constantly, and they both chose not to mention that Tommy’s small dwelling above the shop was a result of that same kindness. That Tommy being alive in the first place was a result of that kindness all those years ago when he first turned up in Eastside. But the couple wouldn’t budge, and neither would Tommy, so instead he checked in on the shop each night, fending off anyone who might cause it harm. Twice before, he had fought off thugs intent on breaking in. He hadn’t told Bad or Skeppy; didn’t want them to worry.
They already had enough on their plates dealing with him.
Tommy climbed up the metal ladder on the side of the building, walking over to the small, windowless loft on the roof that had once served as the bakery’s storage room. As always, Tommy opened the large, metal door by picking its lock. Bad and Skeppy had given him a key years ago, but being the notorious pickpocket that he was, Tommy knew well enough that keys could be stolen or lost or confiscated by guards. Lockpickers were significantly harder to come across than thieves, and Tommy could always use the practice.
After a minute of fiddling with his lockpicks the door opened with a small click, and finally, Tommy was home.
The room wasn’t big by any means. Tommy could stretch his arms out in any direction and touch both walls, and the ceiling was low enough that jumping would earn him a nasty bump on his head, but the space was his and that was something not often found in Eastside. Against one wall sat his work setup--a ramshackle oak desk Sam had gifted him, complete with several shelves Tommy had drilled into the wall. Sitting on the desk was a tiny, ancient laptop he had scavenged ages ago, a few Prime cards that he had pre-loaded with emergency Primes, and an old but sturdy screwdriver.
Against another wall was a sturdy bookshelf. It didn’t have any books of course; those were nearly impossible to find these days unless you wanted to pay a book dealer's exorbitant prices. Instead Tommy had devoted one shelf to his small store of food, another to his collection of clothes--three dark shirts and pairs of pants, some socks, and one extra pair of thin sneakers--and a final one to his weapons and personal treasures: a steel switchblade, a first aid kid, a pocketbook, an electronic music player that had died ages ago, and a bar of chocolate he was saving for a special occasion.
A small nook jutted out one side of the room, and there Tommy had made a makeshift bed, although it was more like a nest--a small den of worn blankets and flimsy, mismatched pillows on the floor. His walls were bare save for the shelves above his desk, a smudged mirror, and a massive torn flag.
Tommy’s eyes caught on it, like they always did, eyes tracing over the lines on the bold yellow X, following the curve of the black semicircle. It was one of a kind. All the others like it had been burned long ago, Tommy was sure of it. In all his years he had never seen another one of the flags, although Tommy supposed one wouldn’t just go around flaunting the flag of the previous regime, especially not under Schlatt’s regime. It had been 16 years since Lmanburg had fallen to Schlatt, and getting caught with any paraphernalia still meant execution without exception. Tommy thought the whole thing was a tad paranoid.
Sighing, Tommy flopped into his desk chair. It had been a long day and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bed, but there was work to be done and people to be exploited. He powered on his laptop. Despite the exhaustion dragging at his mind, Tommy couldn’t help the small rush of excitement that sprung up in him.
In the real world, he was nothing. Just one of the many faceless kids in an infinite sea of orphans and thieves. No one saw him for the man he really was. They all looked down on him. By Prime, even the Pogtopia bars, the very bars that sold literal hard drugs refused to give him even the mildest of potions, and those were as dangerous as a fizzy drink.
But here, in the den of his apartment on his shitty little scrap of a laptop, he became so much more. He became Theseus.
Outlaw extraordinaire, master thief, relentless mischief-maker. The genius who had never left a job unfinished. A staple of the Underground crime scene.
Not somebody to be trifled with.
Tommy’s business model was simple: the customers gave him Primes, and he gave them whatever item they might request, no holds barred. Unsurprisingly, business was in high demand.
Tommy opened the browser that led to the Underground’s vast network of sites and connections, the very core of their operations.
Of course, the physical version of the Underground was important as well, and the intricate maze was great for a physical escape from the tyrannical government -- the virtually endless system of tunnels and rooms formed a massive labrinth beneath Manburg. Entrances were hidden everywhere across the city, from the most unsuspecting of places -- behind dressing room mirrors, down manholes, through pipes -- to some of the highest-class institutions in the city, most notably by entering a combination of special numbers into the buttons in an elevator at Prime Tower.
But the physical version of the Underground had a massive caveat too: safety.
The highest levels of the Underground were the ones most travelled to, and although nowhere in Pogtopia was ever truly safe, those floors were the closest you could get. Relatively easy to navigate, well-lit, and crowded, the top levels were made for the common delinquent--a way for a factory worker to take the edge off after work, a way for your casual upper-class citizen to feel a little rebellious, and a way for people like Tommy to avoid getting stabbed. There was still a general sense of morality and camaraderie up near the surface, so actual fights were rare, which meant if Tommy was ever forced to risk a trip into the Underground he could traverse those levels with relative ease. As you descended into the depths of the earth, however, things got a little more dicey. Tommy had only been to the mid-levels a few times and the experiences had all been...unpleasant, to say the least. The tunnels were twisted and rigged with traps, and everything was just a bit darker in general. The ground seemed to push on you from above, squeezing your chest just enough that it felt like you couldn’t quite breathe. These levels were mostly home to contraband shops filled with illegal tech, gangs, maybe some book and potion dealers. Dangerous, but nothing compared to what Tommy had heard about the deepest parts of the Underground. Tommy didn’t like to think about those stories, the ones that whispered of child fighting pits and gangs of cannibals.
And then, of course, there were always a few outliers, so even if you felt safe you always had to stay on your toes. The Underground was anything but predictable. Tommy knew for a fact that a death cult had their headquarters hidden somewhere in the top levels, and he had heard rumors of an ordinary pet shop in one of the deepest levels of the labyrinth.
So Tommy mostly stuck to the digital version of the Underground, which was much more suited to business deals and communication. You could make an account under any alias on the network, so it had a level of anonymity to it that was especially appreciated in Tommy’s business: he couldn’t give out his real name for his business, of course. Names had power, and though he was sure he had buried his identity long ago, things usually had a way of coming back to haunt him. A few keystrokes in a restricted database and anyone could unearth his entire life, and more importantly, his weaknesses. Not to mention the other skeletons in his closet that they might stumble on. Tommy couldn’t afford that. If anyone found out he was only 16 it would destroy his reputation. He would just be some kid from the slums again. All of the insane heists, all of the jobs he had worked, would be boiled down to dumb luck. He would never get another job in his life.
So he would stay as Theseus. As far as anyone was concerned, Thomas Innett had died 9 years ago. Even Bad and Skeppy only knew him as Tommy.
Tommy logged in with his Theseus profile, opening his messages with a man known only as 404, the leader of the Feral gang.
21:45
Theseus: I have it.
404: Good. Delivery?
Theseus: You know the rules. No eyes on me, 1000 Primes pre-loaded onto a card, retrieval at 2300. Address?
404: Trash bin at the corner of L street. Card will be in there.
Theseus: Tonight then. No fucking mistakes.
[read]
21:52
404: You know we would recruit you in an instant if you would let us right?
[read]
Tommy sighed, leaving the message unanswered. This must’ve been the 5th time the man had tried to recruit him. Could he not take a fucking hint? Tommy was perfectly fine on his own, he was doing just fine without having to deal with the trouble of a gang there to tell him what to do, and he wasn’t going to change his mind. Did they think he needed their help or some shit? Hadn’t he retrieved enough items for them by now that he could be trusted to handle stuff on his own? If he ever met dumb-fucking 404 you could bet he would give him a piece of his mind.
Tommy’s fingers hovered above his keyboard. Half of him was tempted to just go off on him in the messages. He hesitated.
“UGHHHH.” Tommy groaned, shoving himself away from the computer, and grabbing his black cloak and throwing it over his shoulders. 404’s message glowed up at him tauntingly. “I gotta be all diplomatic and shit. Stupid fucking business manners, I swear if that bitch ever crosses my path IRL I’m gonna mess ‘im up.”
“404, what sort of dumbass name is that?” Tommy mumbled, grabbing the computer chip 404 had requested and shoving it into a small pouch in his cloak, “My name is fuckin’ epic and cool and mysterious. The fuck is 404 supposed to mean?” He snatched his collapsible staff from his bookshelf as he moved toward the door.
Tommy took a quick glance in his mirror, checking that his cloak covered his piercing blue eyes and unruly blond hair. He was always wary to take measures to conceal his appearance--even without his name to expose his true identity, one good look at Tommy’s features and everything would be exposed anyway. Normally he would wear a mask too, but this operation was routine, and the thick piece of fabric would’ve been more likely to get in his way than anything else.
“Fuck you, Feral boy.” Tommy flipped off his still-open computer as he ran out of his room.
He headed west toward the middle-class ring of the city, where Tommy knew the drop off site would be, his feet clanging against the metal rooftops. His legs moved with a mind of their own, steering him toward the location--by now he had done enough jobs that he had memorized the layout of the entire city.
Manburg had been designed in a circular sort of fashion, with most maps separating the city into different rings.
The first ring, and the smallest, was The Lights. The haven of the powerful and the wealthy, filled to the brim with opulent mansions and home to dozens of towering skyscrapers that pierced the veil between land and sky, disappearing above the clouds. Tommy had never been to the top of one of the towers, but Sam had told him once that they were just high enough for you to catch a glimpse of the scarred wasteland outside of the Walls, that at night the entire city was spread out beneath you like a web of lightning. Tommy had long since decided that if he ever was able to snag a job in one of those skyscrapers he would take a detour to the top, no matter how risky it may be. It would be worth it, to touch the sky.
Jobs in The Lights had always been his favorite. Guards didn’t usually want to harass people that had the power to ruin their lives in an instant, which meant that other than a few security bots or the occasional guard squadron, most of the buildings there were entirely unprotected.
The middle ring was, predictably, home to the middle class citizens of the city, serving as a buffer between the snobs of The Lights and the beggars of the poorer districts. It wasn’t quite as shiny as The Lights there, not quite as unsettlingly pristine, but the streets were wide and well-swept and the markets were filled with laughing children, and even if Tommy would never be as happy as they were it still gave him some semblance of comfort. The ring was generally known as the shopping district so, accordingly, the vast majority of Tommy’s jobs were located in that part of the city: raiding a technology manufacturing office or grabbing design plans from the house of some mid-level official or, in one case, nabbing a snow-white wedding gown from a boutique in one of the markets.
The level of security was much higher there than in The Lights, especially near the market areas where roaming thieves and pickpockets (see: Tommy) were likely to strike. It made spending time there a lot riskier, but Tommy couldn’t help but be drawn to it. Some nights, he would sit alone on the rooftops of the small brick condos in the residential areas, just listening to the melody of soft laughter and faint voices from the houses below. Some nights, it left a strange, hollow in his chest. He was never quite sure why.
The last ring, and the biggest by far, was the poor district. The slums. This part of the city clearly hadn’t been planned out--up until the far outside of the middle class ring the streets were orderly and straight, and the buildings were symmetrical, spread evenly across every section. Past that, however, the cobblestone roads twisted and curved without sense, the buildings crammed together like boxy puzzle pieces. Tommy had often heard that The Lights were a miracle of modern architecture. He thought the real miracle was that the entire slums didn’t collapse at the first gust of wind. The buildings were overwhelmingly devoted to housing. There were just too many people and not enough space, and it wasn’t like the Walls were going to budge to make room for expansion, so the overpopulation just got worse and worse. People littered the streets, sleeping on corners or in alleyways or literally any other surface they could fit on. The combination of hungry, tired, cold people and desperation meant that unless you were constantly on guard, you were bound to be shanked at one point or another.
In short, there was no order or law or predictability. There were no constants in the concrete jungle except, perhaps, for the execution squares spread evenly across the slums, manned by guards who made an example of people with daily floggings or murders. The entire ring would have been one massive, endless, district of disorder if not for the 4 small sectors that divided the slums into quarters.
To the northeast was the farm district, full of golden fields and towering fruit trees. It was heavily patrolled, of course, to prevent the starving from snagging anything to fill their stomachs. Fruit was a delicacy only for the rich. Tommy had done a lot of jobs there.
On the opposite side of the city was the factory district, which clogged the air and the people with thick, gray smoke.
To the southeast was the guard training sector, which Tommy avoided like the plague, and opposite of that, in the northwest was the Haven, a small street of lavish mansions that sat on the sides of the river that snaked through the center of the city.
Tommy, living smack in the middle of the Eastside, was directly between the farm district and guard district. Because the increased guard presence was exactly what he needed.
So that was it. Tommy’s entire world. With the massive stone walls towering around the city, it wasn’t like there was much else.
At the very center of it all was Schlatt’s sprawling quartz mansion, surrounded by a festival square. Tommy had never dared to get close enough to catch a glimpse. The place was crawling with security--not just guards, but also with heat cameras, search drones, and crawlers. That was the one type of job he would never take, and trust him, people had tried to get him to take it before. Tommy may have been a bit of an adrenaline junkie and he was a certified risk-taker, but he wasn’t suicidal.
For this trip though, all he needed to do was run to the edge of the Eastside slums, an easy trip as long as he didn’t run into any of the patrol bots. It was why he worked with the Feral gang so often. Easy commute.
Tommy vaulted over a chimney, his cloak waving behind him as he soared across the rooftops, little more than a dark blur in the night sky. Not a minute later, he skidded to a stop, perching himself on the corner of the current rooftop and peering at the streets below.
He could see the drop off site down by the building across from him--an innocuous trash bin sitting in an alleyway. Tommy inspected the area, searching for anyone who might try to intercept him or catch a glimpse of his appearance. He had worked with the Feral gang plenty before and they'd never crossed him, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to build up his trust only to double cross him. You could never be too careful.
Tommy searched the windows of the surrounding buildings, looking for the telltale glint of a video recorder or night-vision goggles. His ears strained for any sign of a drone.
Nothing. The streets were eerily silent.
Tommy flew into action, launching himself over the side of the building and sliding gracefully down a drain pipe, slinking across the street silently. He reached the trash bin in an instant, sliding it open without so much as a single sound. It was empty save for a metallic gray and green card with a crown printed on it and a small, orange ribbon with a parcel attached.
Huh. That wasn’t supposed to be there.
Tommy placed the microchip into the bin, careful not to damage the fragile technology, as he stared at the ribbon. Had he been compromised? The ribbon could be coated in a neurotoxin or some shit for all he knew. A bomb in the package maybe? Or what if it was some sort of incognito bot that would, like, come alive and wrap itself around his neck if he touched it? The smart thing to do would be to take the Primes and run. Tommy snatched the green card and tucked it into his pocket. He turned to leave.
And hesitated.
Ugh. He was too curious for his own good. He turned back and snatched up the little package in a flash, like it might not result in an excruciating death as long as he just grabbed it real quick. The package sat in his hands innocently.
Well. So far so good.
Tommy pulled the bright orange ribbon off, and the package fell open in his hands, revealing a small piece of paper and a small, shiny piece of metal. Tommy unfolded the small note.
Nice job. Found something I thought you’d like.
Bet you’ve never seen a lighter before.
If you feel like committing some casual arson, I won’t tattle.
Don’t tell 404 about this, he thinks I’m a bad influence on you.
-S
Tommy huffed a quiet laugh. Of course it was fucking Sapnap. Had he really resorted to bribery to recruit him? Tommy fiddled with the little piece of metal until he found the button, practically dropping the thing when a small flame spurted out from the top. Now this...could be useful. Tommy’s eyes lit up with the possibilities.
Prime. If this was their way of bribing him, it was definitely working. Tommy gathered up his bounty, grinning in mischievous delight. Finally turning away, he disappeared into the night.
--------
When he finally got home half an hour later, Tommy truly felt like death. The exhaustion of sprinting around, the fear from being chased by guards, the anxiety of being lost in the Underground all caught up to him. All he really wanted was to pass out and never wake up again.
Of course, it was his luck that as soon as he sluggishly pulled his door, the bing of an incoming message sounded from his laptop.
Great. Just great.
What now? What else could 404 possibly need from him?
Tommy threw himself onto his chair, opening his messages.
23:47
Philza: Heard you were the best thief in Pogtopia.
We have a job.
Regards,
The Antarctic Gang