Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Technoblade didn't bring a book to pass the time. Techno regrets that choice now.

See, he had thought about it, briefly, before deciding it was too much of a risk. Too much chance of it somehow being used against him by the enemy. Techno knows exactly how quickly tables can turn, how quickly the scales of power can be imbalanced. He will not allow it to happen again.

L.

Technolame.

Boring.

Do something interesting!

E.

Tell us a story!

E.

Make Morpheus bleed!

BLOOD!

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

"Shut." Techno grunts, disguising the word beneath the rumble of his voice. Chat erupts into laughter and spammed letters, pleased at getting the reaction they had been needling him for since he took over babysitting the hostage.

Morpheus glances over at him from where he sits across the room. The eyeholes of the Hero's white mask boring into the side of his head.

Techno never understood why the eye holes were so small. If he didn't have so much experience fighting the man, Techno would assume that the poorly designed visibility would affect the Hero's capabilities. Morpheus can almost match him though, so he chalks the odd eye holes and thin, curved smile up to another terrible, tasteless aesthetic choice up there with the horrible shade of lime green coloring all of the Hero's costume variants.

Honestly, when Morpheus wears his hood up with that stupid mask, Techno thinks he looks like a pea pod.

Who wants to look like a pea pod?

He looks like key lime go-yurt.

He looks like a kiwi

Green bean boy.

Lime boy

Lame boy

E.

E.

E.

So he looks like a snack?

Boo!

Boo!

What kinda snack looks like that? Damn.

Techno's lips quirk up in the shadow of his mask. (Shaped like a boar skull, elegant and terrifying, just like Technoblade). Morpheus, who has been watching him since his last noise, notices immediately.

"What's so funny, villain?" Morpheus questions, something defensive and angry creeping into his tone. He crosses his arms, flinching almost imperceptibly when he finds no bracers. They made sure to remove everything he could use against them before locking him down. Techno assumes the Hero had forgotten.

"Your fashion sense, Hero." Technoblade responds, if only to find some amusement in this whole situation.

Honestly, when he found out that the Hero Commission had taken Ranboo into custody, Techno had been out for blood. How dare they? He had thought, gearing up to storm the damn place. After The Syndicate graciously allows their Heroes to walk away with all limbs, time and time again.

He had never expected the government to let an opposer go free when they had the chance to arrest them; Ranboo, however? Not a villain, not even an anarchist really. The only reason they grabbed him was because of Techno.

Ha. He would show them what happens when you cross The Blood God. Or, well, he would have, if Phil hadn't stopped him with the promise of something better.

Instead, Wilbur called his informant on the inside to orchestrate a situation in their favor. They could take a Commission agent to bargain Ranboo back with, while still keeping the upper hand. A diversion here, a crime in progress there, and The Syndicate was in possession of the leader of the Hero Commission's most effective team.

All that was left was for Phil to finish negotiations with the Commission head while Techno guarded the prisoner. The Commission has to hand over their latest conquest in humiliated defeat, while the syndicate shows they have more power than just brute force. Truly a win-win situation, except…

Techno finds himself egregiously bored. He blames Morpheus.

The man in question scoffs."What?"

Techno can practically feel Morpheus glaring through those little eyeholes. How exciting.

"And your moral code." Techno drawls, just to poke the bear. He kind of hopes the Hero will jump him, power suppressing room notwithstanding.

"Wha- you don't get to say that to me!" The green bean splutters, sitting up straight in the alcove that serves as a cot for occupants.

"Bruh, who exactly is the prisoner here?"

Morpheus jumps to his feet, pointing an accusing finger towards Techno. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my morals, Mr Blood God-I-kill-orphans-and-laugh."

Heh. Techno did do that. To be fair, they were very corrupt government orphans. "At least I don't support a societal system that makes slaves out of the common citizen and arrests teenagers for knowing people."

Morpheus barks a laugh, unamused and self-righteous. "Colluding with criminals is more like it. You knew exactly what you were doing when you started using a kid for your dirty work. At least the Hero Commission doesn't use children"

Techno snarls. Morpheus doesn't know anything, just as brainwashed as any other government drone. He tells him as much. "Bold words from the pawn. Tell me, Morpheus, how does it feel knowing that even your fighting skills don't save you from being nothing more than a game piece to be traded?"

Morpheus falls silent, and Technoblade laments the blankness of the mask. How can he tell if he managed to verbally annihilate someone if there are no tells to tell from? Finally, Morpheus shakes his head, sitting back on the cot with an air of something Technoblade couldn't name. Disappointment, maybe?

"Fuck off Blood God. At least they want me." He says, and yeah, that sounds like disappointment. Technoblade can't help but bristle as chat crows in his ears.

Ooh. He told you. Get owned.

Haha. Green boy feisty.

Guys no, support Techno, Phil cares.

Philza.

Dadza.

Crowza. Caw caw!

But like? Morpheus is kinda dreamy.

Boo

Boo

Boo. No spoilers.

Techno cringes as chat devolves into arguing. The two men lapse into a stony silence. Techno shuffles against the wall awkwardly, shifting his weight to find a comfortable standing position. Unfortunately for Techno, Morpheus occupies the only seating in the room. (Techno makes a note to bully someone into putting a chair in there for future prisoner guarding sessions).

Tap Tap Tap Tap

Technoblade regrets not just storming the place, consequences be damned. At least that would be fun. As things are now, he finds himself stuck in limited space with his mortal enemy.

Tap Tap Tap Tap

Now, Techno can appreciate a good scheme, plots and plans are, of course, a tactician's modus operandi; but see, the room, which, if used for its intended purpose would be a cooldown room for a Syndicate member's powers going haywire, had not been made for keeping hostages. Something, as it happens, Techno relates to.

Tap Tap Tap Tap

He has always been more of a "kill the people who get in his way" type of guy.

Tap Tap Tap Tap

On an unrelated note, The Syndicate may not have a hostage Hero to trade if said hostage doesn't stop making that noise.

Tap Tap Tap Tap Ta-

"Will you stop that!" Techno growls irritably, staring Morpheus down with his shoulders raised.

The man freezes, foot halfway down in an aborted attempt to continue his irritating tapping. Slowly, making the closest thing to eye contact he can through two masks, Morpheus finishes the gesture deliberately, placing the toe of his boot down flush with the floor then lifting it defiantly.

Techno stares in disbelief. "Bruh."

Morpheus begins tapping rapidly, obnoxiously loud in the barren room.

Techno's jaw drops. "Are you kidding me? Stop!"

Morpheus wheezes like a tea kettle, startling chat into a frenzy too fast for Techno to follow. "Make me," He responds, thumping the floor like a particularly happy puppy.

Technoblade splutters. "You are a grown man! What is wrong with you?"

Morpheus shrugs. "I'm bored."

"You're bored." Technoblade deadpans, fully agreeing with the sentiment.

Morpheus stops tapping, turning his full attention towards Technoblade. When he speaks, he sounds distinctly like his expression includes a raised eyebrow. "Well, I hardly planned to be kidnapped today. I'm an active guy Blood God, I'd honestly much rather be fighting you."

"Let's fight then." Techno blurts a little desperately, because honestly? Same.

Morpheus splutters incredulously. "What?"

Technoblade shrugs, going for nonchalant. "You're a decent fighter and we probably have a few hours left to wait. Might as well go a few rounds."

Even just the offer wars with his better judgment. Techno wouldn't even be in here if Morpheus didn't have a strength-level matched to his. They honestly couldn't afford to lose the Hero because Techno's boredom results in him being overpowered.

However,

Since he heard about Ranboo, Technoblade has craved a fight. The adrenaline, the movement; his bloodlust calls to him like a war drum. Even now, the mere suggestion of a fight makes his saliva pool in his mouth. Chat only eggs him on.

Fight?

FIghT!!!

fight pog.

Beat his ass!

Fight fight fight!!

BLoOD FoR ThE BLOod goD!!

Morpheus laughs a bit, at least entertained by the idea. "And get my ass handed to me by your creepy-ass blood blending? No thanks, we can fight when I get my powers back."

Techno snorts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "This room cancels both our powers, coward. It's fine though, You couldn't beat me either way."

Morpheus squawks angrily, taking the bait with little fuss. "Hah! You can't even beat me with your powers half the time!" He stands, striding over to Techno with long legs. "We'll fight, but if I win I want something from you."

Techno widens his stance, rolling back his shoulders and squaring his chest. It doesn't do much to intimidate the Hero, whose towering height and musculature match Techno's closely enough to pose a threat in all the interactions they have.

"Oh?" He asks curiously. "And what is that?"

Morpheus shrugs a green-clad shoulder. "Something I wouldn't get otherwise. Let's say the mystery is an incentive to try harder."

Well, never let it be said that Techno doesn't jump on an advantage when presented. "I would, of course, be extended the same courtesy. Three rounds. Whoever gets pinned first will fulfill one request of the winner. That's up to three requests total."

Morpheus visibly hesitates, obviously nervous at the rising stakes. Then, he squares his shoulders, breathing in deeply. "Deal. But it can only be something applicable to and achievable by the loser. Nothing to sabotage either of our organizations. "

"Damn, there goes my chance to learn all the Commission's secrets." Techno monotones dryly. Morpheus snorts inelegantly.

"Do we have a deal?" The Hero prompts.

Techno briefly considers backing out. Gambling has always been Quackity's forte, not his, and in this case, the risks almost outweigh the benefits. At heart, however, Techno enjoys a high-stakes game almost as much as a good fight. Given that this counts as both, he supposes he just needs to win.

"Three rounds, one request per round, requests have to pertain to the loser and the loser's direct ability. Requests cannot continue outside this room. No weapons or powers. Winning is determined by a five second pin, shoulders touching the ground. Are you prepared to lose?" Techno responds, already reaching up to unclasp his cape.

Morpheus scoffs, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. "Are you?"

Techno grins savagely at the other man, fully aware that Morpheus can see the lower part of his face where that mask doesn't cover. "I'll be right back."

He goes for the door with his cape draped over his arm, covering the keypad with his bulk and scanning his fingerprint into the system. The doors open, and Technoblade slips out.

--₩¥£€------\(÷o÷)/---♤♡◇♧

When they begin, Morpheus, with his tactile gloves secured over his wrists, boots laced and mask firmly in place beneath his hood, stands in the far corner of the room, braced and waiting.

Technoblade, freshly devoid of any weapons from his stint in the hall, with his long hair pulled up in a messy, careless bun and sans his cape and crown, stands opposite, tightening the straps on his mask one last time.

On some cue imperceptible to an outside perspective, the men begin circling each other like sharks scenting blood.

Morpheus shifts his right foot forward in a tell Techno recognizes from their skirmishes. Impatient to start, Techno thinks, it will be his downfall. When Morpheus finally lunges forward, Techno parries easily, kicking out in a wide arc to sweep Morpheus off his feet.

Morpheus jumps back, narrowly avoiding a make-out with the floor. He surges forward, throwing a punch at Techno's right cheek. Techno blocks quickly, jabbing out with his left fist to try to catch Morpheus in the side.

Morpheus throws himself backwards, catching himself with a hand to the floor before using the pushback to launch an impressive kick towards Techno's chest mid momentum. Techno grunts as the kick connects, wrapping his arms around the Hero's legs even as he stumbles into a twist, thrown off-balance by the motion.

He throws Morpheus against the wall and the Hero lets out a rough noise as the air punches out of his lungs. The man catches himself as he drops, leaping forward from the crouch he found himself in.

As they exchange blows, Technoblade finds himself laughing openly, exhilarated by the challenge. "That all you got, Green-Bean?" He mocks, flashing Morpheus a gleaming, goading grin.

The Hero chuckles and tilts his head (It reminds Techno of a dog). "Not even close, Bacon Boy."

Techno resists the urge to throw his head back and cackle.

Techno rarely gets the chance to spar with hand to hand combat given his aptitude and propensity towards weapons. The majority of real battles are long range, relying on weapons or powers to end things quickly or die trying. Mock battles with The Syndicate are similar, with most of the sessions focusing on preparing for real battle. Of the people he spars with, Philza comes the closest to providing a challenge to his skill-level; however, Philza also relies on weapons and physics to counteract the weaknesses that come from his Elytrian heritage. Tussling with a close range fighter like Morpheus comes as a welcome change. Techno enjoys the raw physicality of it, the primal need to break each other into any bloody pieces that can be ripped bodily from their beings.

Morpheus doesn't pull his punches, fighting to win the agreed prize. It reminds Techno of the arena fights, where one's limits were the only true opponent besides the ones in the ring, and the fighters broke both for the payout at the end.

Techno begrudgingly admits (in the semi-privacy of his own mind, of course) that Morpheus has skill. He's lithe and confident, and fluidly graceful the way that acrobats tend towards. Techno would even say he admires the other man's style if he didn't know to expect merciless mocking by his phantasmal audience.

Techno's contemplation distracts him enough for Morpheus to land a solid kick to the back of his knee, and he winces into it, bending said knee and grabbing for Morpheus as the Hero attempts to take him to the ground. It becomes a grappling match for a moment, with both men fighting to remain on top, but with a couple quick strikes to Morpheus' arm joints, Technoblade successfully ends up on top.

He holds Morpheus down by his shoulders, straddling the Hero's waist with thighs of steel to prevent any serpentine evasion. His breath comes out heavy, huffing, as he counts to five.

"One, two, three, four-"

Morpheus gives a token struggle, straining to lift himself off the floor, but Techno's grip holds firm. "-Five. I win this round, Hero."

Morpheus slumps with a defeated groan. "Fuck." He utters emphatically, tossing his head back onto the floor. His hood had fallen sometime during the fight, revealing a spill of sweaty blond curls beneath.

"Fuck me. Okay, what do you want?" He continues, chest heaving as he slowly gets his breath back. Techno sits back, bracing himself until his position can support his own weight better. He ends up more crouching over his adversaries' splayed form instead of sitting on him.

Chat, who spent the entire spar oscillating wildly between cheering on Technoblade and cheering on Morpheus, are rather unhelpful as he muses over his request.

Imagine needing to catch your breath. Cringe.

Suffocate him with your thighs

Press E if you want a lap dance

E

E

E

Stop guys, this is serious. Techno could request almost anything! We need to brainstorm.

Ask for his deepest secret

Ask if he is dating Gogy

Dnf!

Ew, who invited these guys?

Ask for his mask

Techno shakes his head. Why would he want Morpheus' mask? Certainly not to wear. However… He eyes it critically, assessing how much it actually covers the Hero's face. Techno realizes he has never seen even the barest glimpse of the man's features, despite fighting against him for almost two years.

Seems a little unfair if you ask him.

"I want to see your face, take off your mask." He finally responds, knowing he made the right choice as Morpheus tenses underneath him. Perhaps Morpheus hides beneath a slightly less ugly mask to save the world's mirrors from his hideous face.

Or perhaps, like the late Schlatt, Morpheus secretly moonlights as a celebrity, and Technoblade will recognize him on sight.

Morpheus hesitates. Hands flexing into aborted fists, as if he wants to fight Techno off him. Techno sits on him spitefully, willing all his weight to congregate and crush any deal-breaking out of the other man. Not a power he possesses, but a nice thought.

Morpheus wheezes.

"Can I ask why?" The Hero stalls through the pressure on his stomach.

Technoblade snorts. "Nah."

Techno waits patiently for the Hero to fulfill his end of the bargain, content to stay put lest he ends up having to chase the other man around to get his due. When it seems like Morpheus would rather waffle till the negotiations were done than take off his mask, Techno sighs.

"Would it help if I did it?" He asks finally, reaching towards Morpheus' face. Morpheus makes a noise like a deflating balloon as Technoblade's fingers make contact. His hands immediately fly up to cover Techno's hands with his own, halting them in their path.

Techno lets him, merely quirking his head curiously as Morpheus rushes to explain. "Sorry, sorry, I can do it myself. Just training, you know? 'Don't take off your mask in front of a hostile. Or ever.' That type of thing. I'll do it though, I agreed."

Techno hums at the thin excuse, but backs off of the other man's mask regardless. "Not even to bathe? Pretty cringe. Don't know if I want to see your filthy maskless face in that case. Seems kinda weirdchamp."

Morpheus splutters. "My face is clean!"

"I don't know if I believe you." Techno says dubiously. "I guess you'll have to prove it."

With an indignant cry, Morpheus pulls the mask off his face, dropping it to the side and spreading his arms in a clear presentation. "See. Are you satisfied?"

Taking in the features that have been hidden from him for so long, Techno honestly doesn't know. See, despite his tanned skin and shapely eyebrows, his abnormally green eyes framed by long, tawny lashes, his sharp jawline and the spattering of iridescent freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his straight nose, Morpheus can be no recognizable public figure; nor, to Techno's consternation, could he be considered terribly ugly.

The level of 'just some guy' Morpheus exudes without his mask causes Techno to feel distinctly cheated. Honestly, with how Morpheus reacted to the request, one would think Techno had ready access to the imaging database for the entire city implanted inside his mind.

He doesn't. His mind magic limits itself to thousands of voices in his head who mock him mercilessly at every turn and occasionally give him bad advice.

Morpheus shifts nervously under him, more visibly uncomfortable with each passing moment in which Technoblade stays silent. In his careful study, Techno notices the expressiveness of the Hero's face. The mask makes sense in that regard at least.

Techno takes pity on the blond and lifts himself up, rocking on his heels in order to balance and rise to his feet. He brushes his shirt off (out of habit more than any actual dirt) and hesitates, then offers a hand to Morpheus.

"Alright, guess you're not a dirty, shower-deprived toddler man," He drawls, as the Hero cautiously reaches upward. "Are you ready for round two?"

Chapter Text

The first time Dream saw the second most dangerous Villain in Essempi, two years prior, the (then) rising Hero immediately understood why they referred to the man as The Blood God.

He was terrifying. A picture of royalty in the throes of a castle siege. Fine poets shirt and velvet cape stained and glistening with the blood of the slew of Commission agents he had slaughtered. He had worn a crown then too, and more jewelry than the queen of a mining country. The person then had been blood and fire and death, fury in the form of a man.

In the time after, when the streets were no longer red and when the times he clashed with the Villain became practice in subduing hostile forces instead of a fight to the death, The Blood God had grown on him. Kinda. Like mold.

Just, of all the criminals Dream has arrested, subdued, and even on rare occasions killed, none of them would treat it as casually as The Blood God. Dream long since realized that the man sees their battles as some sort of game, seeing how close they can come to defeating the other before running off when things end in a draw. He never goes easy on Dream, of course not; and yet, Dream knows exactly how savage the man can be if he truly wants someone dead. Sure, the Villain will banter with him, all sarcasm and dry humor, before leaving him to bleed in an alleyway, but he doesn't try to kill him, not really.

Despite this however, the man in the cell with him genuinely surprises him.

The sharp, jagged Villain who laughs as he murders a building's worth of people with only a sword has been replaced with a playfully snarky hybrid with a mean right hook and pink hair. (Pink hair!)

Okay, Dream did objectively already know the Villain's hair color. He has seen the same small bit of uncorrupted, salvaged footage from The Execution as any other Hero trainee above tier three. Just like he objectively knows the man has blood-red eyes and small tusks that denote him as a Piglin hybrid.

But knowing those things exist and seeing them… that pink hair pulled up casually instead of tied back and covered, shirt loose enough to show some skin without hiding the, frankly impressive, muscles beneath, free of adornment besides a single emerald earring and that morbid mask; well, Dream just feels like they're different.

Additionally, besides being horribly, terribly aware of the consequences earned from losing that first request to The Blood God, Dream actually might be having fun.

Well, he would prefer if he still had his mask on while squaring off against his opponent for round two, but he had left it off deliberately to draw attention away from how important he deems it. Any move towards it now would show obvious weakness.

Dream knows exactly how expressive he can be, has spent hours attempting to school his features when fighting so as not to give any tells with his face.

He also knows it all went out the window years ago when Tommy gifted him his first mask as a pre-debut memento. The then thirteen year old had signed it: "To keep your fucking stupid face covered when kicking Villain ass. Bitch." And Dream has treasured it ever since.

He sees the inscription now (barely visible and faded to the point of illegibility), out of the corner of his eye, even from where the mask sits on the floor by the wall. A sense of frustration fizzles up before the Hero can stop it.

He knows how much danger he put himself and Tommy in by accepting this foolish fight, for suggesting prizes in the first place. Even George and Sapnap might be in danger if The Blood God correctly identifies Dream outside of his Hero persona.

Yet, he can't bring himself to call it all off now.

Dream considers the Villain in front of him with narrowed eyes, the detailed boar mask, and wonders if he could even the playing field a bit.

He knows he has been too obvious when The Blood God tilts his head curiously. "What? Scared to lose again?" The man drawls in that deep monotone. Dream smiles innocently, fighting the automatic scowl that appears with each dig the Villain makes.

"Just wondering if you would be willing to even things up a bit. Take off your mask so we can fight face to face. Just seems a little unfair now, don't you think?"

Dream can see the man digesting his words, and for a second he holds out hope.

"Nah." The Blood God hums finally, sending those hopes plummeting into the abyss. "You can have my mask off if you win the next round, no freebies."

Fine, Dream thinks. Nothing stopping him from being a petty bitch about it though.

"I understand completely." Dream responds with a serious nod. "It's your emotional support mask. It's okay to admit you can't win without it."

The Blood God points at him accusingly. "That won't work on me, Morpheus. I practically invented that technique."

Dream snorts, dropping into a ready pose. "Worth a try. It's okay though-" He leaps forward, feinting a lunge for the Villain's middle before twisting up to grab for the mask. "-I'll do it the hard way."

The Blood God jumps back, clearly surprised by Dream's intended target. Dream can see the smile creeping onto his lips from his angle, obviously pleased by the new challenge. "Bruh, is that how it's gonna be now? Not even emotional support masks are sacred to you Heroes?"

A startled chortle erupts from Dreams throat, and he aims a kick at The Blood God's ankles while going again for the mask. "You talk too much." He says as his attempts are both blocked.

The Villain throws a couple jabs towards his sternum, dancing closer as Dream blocks each in turn. "Then you're just going to have to shut me up."

A chill travels down his spine at the playful growl, and Dream throws himself at the other man even more viciously. They become a whirlwind of fists and kicks, grabs and punches that would be banned in a civilized ring. Dream feels his blood heating with excitement, even as sweat drips down his brow.

Finally, spotting an opening, Dream arcs a roundhouse kick just enough to catch the other man's mask. In an attempt to save himself from an unfortunate case of whiplash, The Blood God follows the momentum. This, to Dream's delight, has the side effect of knocking the mask clean off.

"YES!" Dream crows, throwing his fists in the air triumphantly.

For a moment, the Blood God just stills, face turned at the same angle at which he lost his mask, obscured by loosened strands of his petal-colored hair.

Then, his shoulders begin to tremble.

In that instance, Dream forgets the murder, the crime, the general lack of concern for human life. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Just as his panic reaches a crescendo, he hears a sound that cuts it down to nothing. "Are you laughing?"

The almost silent chuckles muffled by the Villain's hand trickle forth into the air as the man turns towards him. The Blood God's eyes are alight with mirth, a smile stretching over his sharp tusks. "I can't believe you did that. Oh Prime. What the heck." He devolves into further giggles, an odd snuffing snort interspersing the infectious fit. It's oddly cute.

Dream finds himself letting out a few snickers into his own fist. As their combined glee tapers out, Dream finds himself grinning at the criminal. He finds he can't even be irritated at how unfairly pretty the mass murder looks despite the two rounds they had already gone.

A thought occurs to him. "Did I win this one?"

The Blood God looks amused for a moment, rusty-brown eyes (weren't they supposed to be bright crimson? Dream might have to rewatch the footage-) crinkling slightly at the edges and brow ticking upward. Finally, he shrugs.

"Call it a draw? We'll trade questions," He suggests.

"How many?"

"....three."

Dream hums quietly. A question springs to mind, impulsive and loud. "Sure, good enough. Me first… Is your hair naturally pink?"

Prime, what a stupid question to ask, Dream thinks, kicking himself mentally. Of all the questions he could ask one of the biggest thorns in the Commission's sides, Dream chose the one with the easiest answer to predict.

Nevertheless, The Blood God only looks surprised for a beat, tilting his head in the way Dream has come to think of as his 'curious pose'. There's a moment where Dream thinks the criminal might try to evade the question, but he just shakes his head slowly.

"Wasn't born with it, if that's what you're asking. It's here to stay, though." He responds in the same cadence he has used since Dream met him.

"Why? Wouldn't a more neutral color be harder to identify?" Dream questions, curious. Dream would definitely dye his hair something boring if he had a hair color that identifiable as a Villain. He supposes that explains the hair veil.

"No freebies, sorry Hero. My turn." The Blood God studies him for a moment, intense gaze searching Dream's face for- well, something, Dream doesn't know. Finally he gestures ambiguously towards Dream's upper half. "Your freckles are- why are they glittery?"

Glittery, Dream mouths to himself, inexplicably pleased by the non-complement. He thinks of a response that won't give too much away. "Genetics I think. They've been like that as long as I can remember. It's not like I did it as a cosmetics choice." With that he laughs a bit, at the ludicrous idea he would apply iridescent freckles to himself before going out to fight crime in a mask. That would be like Batman putting on eyeliner.

By The Blood God's suddenly shifty look, this may not be a foregone conclusion.

"Oh Prime, did you actually think I did?" Dream asks, amused. The slight flush to the Villain's pointed ears gives Dream confirmation enough. "Just because you are extra as all get out before every battle doesn't mean everyone is." He teases, remembering the many, many different pieces of fine jewelry he had seen on the other man throughout the years.

The Blood God shrugs awkwardly, not quite meeting Dream's eyes. He clears his throat. "It's your turn again."

Dream perks up. "Are you and Siren brothers?" He asks, much more pleased with this question. The answer to it will make or break multiple Commission theories about the two Villains.

The other man actually relaxes, as if this type of question falls more along the lines of what he expected. "Not legally, biologically, or magically. If you ask him you may get a different answer." He responds cryptically.

Dream furrows his brows. "What does that even mean?"

The Blood God shakes his head in false exasperation, placing his hands on his hips like a disapproving parent. "Not your turn again, when will you learn? I suppose I can count that as your last question if you'd like though."

Dream protests quickly, blanching at the thought of wasting his last question on another non-answer. "No, no that's alright. Go ahead."

The predatory smile that breaks out across the Villain's face makes Dream shiver. In a good way, like feeding a tiger. "Do you have any siblings, Morpheus?"

Damn. That- that sounds like a yes or no question. No way of misdirecting that. "Yes." Dream replies reluctantly.

At the very least, the Blood God has no way of knowing Tommy's age or gender. Not that that protects either of them if the Villain can put a name to Dream's face. Still, it stings to have to admit to a weakness. (He never considers lying).

The Blood God looks smug, as if he just got confirmation that his favorite brand of marshmallows had gone on sale and he bought the entire stock before anyone else could get some.

(Dream wonders if he would count as the other buyers or the marshmallows.)

"What is a weakness to your power?" He asks quickly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, hoping to draw the man's focus away from whatever scheme might be brewing inside that dangerous head.

The Blood God frowns, leaning back on the wall contemplatively. "Dang." He says finally. "I don't know what to say to that."

"You don't know your own weaknesses?" Dream questions doubtfully. "Or are you trying to say you don't have any?"

The Villain shrugs. "No, I definitely have weaknesses. I am just unsure what counts in this context." He says, surprisingly candid.

"You can list them all and I'll tell you when to stop?" Dream offers hopefully, only partially joking.

The man laughs, casually amused. "You'd like that wouldn't you? Hmm. Let me think. How about this? I can only control blood when there is an… access point. From outside a body."

What.

"What?" Dream asks hollowly, speed running his memories of every Blood God encounter ever. "Bullshit."

Dream refuses to believe it could be as simple as extra padding, extra stab-proof, slice-proof armor. He refuses to believe the Villain would volunteer that information so easily.

"Bruh, how can you not believe me when I can't even prove it." The Man in question scoffs, still looking far too pleased for the bombshell he just dropped on Dream's head.

"You wouldn't tell me if that were true, if just playing keep away from sharp objects would stop you." Dream argues. He knows he should shut up now and thank Prime for the information; however, he just cannot believe it.

"Oh but Morpheus," The Blood God practically purrs, voice dropping an octave as he leans forward, a wicked smirk on his lips. "How many people can play keep away with me? I hope you tell The Commission, perhaps they'll send something that constitutes a challenge for once."

Dream thinks of bloody corpses left in the wake of the man's weapons, men and women hewn not only by The Blood God's powers, but instead by the inhuman, murderous proficiency in everything he does.

Dream no longer doubts the Villain's claims; yet, he finds himself unsure if he should even report it.

Almost quickly as the weirdly heavy atmosphere had come, The Blood God drives it away with a clap of his hands. "My turn. What is the most out of place item in your magical subspace pocket?"

Uh oh.

Dream feels his mouth go dry as he curses Sapnap and his family back six generations. "Um, like, one of these things is not like the other, or, oops I shouldn't have stuck that sandwich in my pocket?"

Seriously, fuck Sapnap and his tendency to hand random objects to Dream when he manages his inventory pre-patrol.

"Whatever item you wouldn't be able to appropriately explain away to a news-crew, or as close to it as possible."

Dream really can't answer that if he wants to leave here with his pride intact.

"Are you sure you don't want to ask a different question?" He checks, attempting to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants despite the gloves in the way.

The Blood God raises an eyebrow. "Nope." He intones mercilessly, reveling in Dream's misery. "Spit it out."

Dream cringes, cheeks flushing crimson and clashing terribly with his freckles. "Well…" He scratches his neck. "It's... lube."

The Blood God barks a laugh, like it's been punched out of him, and Dream dies a little inside.

"It's because of Inferno!" He blurts. The Villain laughs a little harder, and Dream backtracks quickly when he realizes what he implied. "Wait, not like- not because- we're just friends! He just likes to see if he can get me to stick random shit in there when I'm distracted!"

The Blood God grins at him, baring sharper-than-average teeth (and tusks that suit his face oddly well) in a delighted expression.

"No no, go ahead and tell me about your completely platonic relationship with the Hero who wants you to carry lubricant while on missions. I'm sure there's nothing scandalous going on there, nuh-uh, not at all. Must just be in case you get stuck somewhere."

"Oh my god-"

"It's Blood God."

Dream wheezes out a distressed laugh and buries his face in his hands. His ears feel like they're on fire, and he wants to tackle the Villain in front of him and cover his stupid smart-ass mouth so that he'll stop speaking in that dumb, deliberately infuriating deadpan drawl.

"UUAGGHHHH." He responds, putting all his embarrassment into one non-word. His face feels hotter than Sapnap's flames.

In an attempt to salvage his tattered pride, he straightens and points aggressively at his chortling cell buddy. "Shut your filthy mouth. We have another round to go. You better be ready."

The Blood God perks up with interest, as expected. Dream thinks he might be a bit of an adrenaline junkie. "Oh lube-boy, I was ready yesterday."

Dream squawks angrily, flushing right back up to the tips of his ears.

The Blood God moves first this time, as efficient and aggressive as always. He telegraphs a blow to Dream's face, and Dream automatically brings his defenses up to block it, only for the Villain to aim the blow lower, grazing Dream's ribs as Dream twists away instinctively. That proves to be for naught, because the Blood God snaps his arm back toward Dream and nails him in the ribs with an elbow of fucking titanium. Dream bites back a curse and whips his fist across the Villain's exposed face.

The Blood God reels back, staggering like he hadn't expected the return strike.

Dream exhales sharply and dances backward, putting some distance between himself and his opponent.

Usually, in fights like this, The Blood God strikes a much more dramatic picture: Long, flowing cape billowing behind him not unlike the Crowfather's shadowy wings; favored sword flashing with silvery lethality and purpled enchantments; mask casting his silhouette into something other.

He carries that same imposing aura right now, still a powerhouse, still ferocious, but Dream feels an intimacy in this last round that sends a thrill dancing down his spine.

He watches the criminal straighten and turn back towards him, and he cringes slightly at the sight of blood trickling down from the Blood God's nose.

The Blood God reaches up a hand and carefully swipes a finger through the thin dampness. His grin stretches slowly back into place as he looks back up at Dream, and Dream's breath catches as the man in front of him flicks his tongue out to lick the blood off his finger.

He's distracted enough by this that he almost misses the way the other man's weight shifts back before he kicks out, again at Dream's ribs. Dream lets him, only to grab his opponent's leg and whirl around, forcing the Blood God to move with him or feel the brunt of Dream's weight yanking his limb out of place.

He chooses to twist, obviously, and knocks Dream to the ground just as much as Dream pulls him down. There's a heart-racing moment where the Villain starts to dive down toward Dream, close to forcing the Hero's shoulders down again, but Dream uses one last burst of agility to use the man's momentum against him.

He rolls, flipping the Blood God on to his back. One knee gets planted on the floor between the Villain's thighs, and he forcefully twists the man's hands up above his head, taking away some of his leverage.

"One, two, three, four, FIVE-!" Dream practically shouts the end of the countdown, and when he finishes, he drops his head down to grin triumphantly at the man pinned below him.

Tawny blonde curls bounce into his periphery, aided by gravity, but even as they do, and as his chest heaves with the pursuit of sweet oxygen, he barely notices.

Instead, the Hero looks down at the Villain on the floor (whose hair had fallen from its lazy updo and now lays in a rosy wreath framing his face) (whose eyes are gleaming with untamed excitement that makes them shine) (whose lips are still tinged blood red) and thinks: 'wow, he's fucking gorgeous.'

Dream relaxes into the position, just kind of staring at the man; a bit awed and amazed that he actually has this fearsome creature beneath him.

The Blood God meets his gaze with those shining eyes, pupils wide and inky black underneath rosy lashes. His tongue flicks out again over his partially parted lips, and he abruptly glances away.

When Dream feels him shift his hips away from where Dream's knee rests, the Hero immediately knows why.

"Your request?" The Blood God rasps, still not making eye contact. Dream can't bring himself to mind, he has plenty of contact with an even more interesting part of the man.

Tentatively, Dream grinds his own half-hard erection on the one pressing against him. The sound that the Villain releases just reaffirms the insane thought forming inside his mind.

"Can I suck you off?" He asks, a bit impulsively, hungrily taking in every one of his enemy's features.

The Blood God's gaze snaps whiplash-fast back to his own. The man looks absolutely speechless, eyes wide and mouth falling open to reveal more of those too-sharp teeth. When no answer leaves the Villain's gaping mouth, Dream quickly backtracks, lifting himself onto all fours over the Villain in an attempt to give him space. "You don't have to say yes, I can make a different request. It's up to you."

The Blood God blinks rapidly up at him, still looking rather dumbstruck. "Um," He clears his throat when it comes out a bit strangled. "Sure. You can...suck me off."

Dream just about falls over in surprise. "Yeah?" He breathes hopefully.

The Villain blinks up at him. "Yeah."

Neither of them seem sure how to proceed from there and finally, The Blood God wiggles his hips. "You're uh, gonna have to let me up if you want to do that, though."

Dream scrambles back and the Piglin hybrid sits up, bracing his weight on his arms as his legs fall open invitingly. Dream automatically glances down to see the bulge between them. He swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. "Right here?" He asks, fully willing to go down in that exact spot.

The pink-haired man hums, sounding a little amused, as if he can read Dream's desires from two feet away. "Cot is the wrong height. There aren't any cameras in here if that's what you're worried about."

Dream accepts that surprisingly easily. He hadn't actually been worried about cameras, and he ignores the little voice inside his head that screams about how potentially life ruining this could be.

"Okay." Dream responds, shuffling in-between The Blood God's spread thighs. This close, he can feel the warmth emanating from the nether-spawn hybrid, urging him to purr with instincts long lost to his genetic roulette. He chokes down that desire at least, and reaches for the other man's trouser buttons.

The Blood God watches him, attentive and intense, obviously intending to let the Hero do all the work while he watches the show. Dream can't help but find it arousing, the thought of pleasing his partner with his performance. When the second button pops loose through Dream's careful manipulations, he feels a hand on his cheek.

When he looks up, the Blood God smirks at him. "Fair warning," the Villain says, eyes half-lidded and filled with a lust that makes Dream's knees weak, "I have thousands of voyeuristic voices in my head at any given time who watch everything I do."

Dream rolls with it, a bit too confused and impatient to get the punchline, but amused by the odd non-sequitur anyway. The Villain has a strange sense of humor sometimes.

"Okay?" He says bemusedly with a light laugh when it seems like the man wants a response. He hovers over the last button, searching The Blood God's gaze for permission to continue.

The Piglin-hybrid stares at him for a second as if judging his sincerity; Dream tries to look as desirable as possible while hunched between another man's thighs. It must work, because the Blood God huffs out a pleased breath, irises merely a ring of rust around a bottomless black pit.

"Carry on then." The pink-haired fighter prompts, raising his knees to provide more access.

Well, how could Dream resist an order like that?

So, as requested, he carries on.

●□■□○○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎●●□■●●□■●●□○■□○○□■■▪︎▪︎○●□□○

Later, when all evidence of the deed has been cleaned and covered, (So no Syndicate member would stumble across it later and ask unfortunate questions), the men sit in a comfortable silence, and a thought occurs to Technoblade.

"Do you actually have a sandwich in your subspace pocket?" He asks, startling the Hero from where he had been relaxing against the wall.

Lol. Pocket shrimp.

Really Techno? Way to kill the mood.

Well sue him for being curious. Techno had been wondering since the end of the QnA.

"What?" Morpheus looks at him like Techno just started speaking Gaelic.Technoblade sighs.

"My last question. You asked if it was a 'sandwich in the pocket' type of item." He clarifies, and watches as the Hero's expression clears from confusion into incredulity. "So do you have one?"

"What?" The Hero repeats, as if Technoblade hadn't been very clear just now. "No, of course not."

Technoblade's eyes narrow. "Then why would you use it as an example?"

"Why would I-, why wouldn't I?" The Hero splutters, looking so very lost.

Technoblade raises both brows. "Why would anyone stick a sandwich in their pocket in the first place?" He asks, ignoring the rising chant of 'pocket shrimp' by the members of chat that stuck around after the decidedly X-rated content warning.

Just as the Hero begins to respond, (not with anything approaching a satisfactory answer), Technoblade's com crackles to life in his ear.

"-Negotiations are done, mate. Bring up Morpheus so we can make the exchange.-" Philza's staticky voice says, blissfully unaware of the last few hours.

Techno holds up a finger to quiet Morpheus as he reaches up to flip himself off of mute. "Affirmative, we will be there in a few minutes."

"-Copy. See you soon.-" Philza replies, before closing the connection. Technoblade puts himself back on mute and turns to where the Hero stands with a questioning look on his face.

"Congratulations, you've been successfully ransomed. Wait here while I get your stuff." Techno says, sending the Hero scrabbling for his mask.

Techno moves towards the door. He needs to re-arm himself before anything, and get his own gear back on before he appears in front of anyone else. He also probably needs a pair of handcuffs and a blindfold, since Morpheus remained unconscious during transport into the room.

When he locates what he needs, as well as the gear they had stripped off their hostage, he re-equips himself quickly before returning to the Hero.

His crown and cape are comfortable weights as he re-enters the makeshift cell, sword fastened back onto his hip.

Techno tosses the Hero his support gear as the pink-haired man heads for where his mask had gotten kicked during their second round. Thankfully, the thin, enchanted netherite plating embedded in the mask protects it from most damage.

Technoblade ties it back on before turning towards Morpheus, who has finished putting on his lightweight armor and moved on to buckling his shin guards. Morpheus' mask hangs around his neck, not yet put into place covering his features.

When Technoblade reveals the handcuffs and blindfold, he gets a raised eyebrow in return. "Kinky, but I don't think we have time for that." Morpheus says casually.

Hahaha haha

Does the Commission really need him back? Press E if we should keep him.

E

E

E

No stop voting. Morpheus sucks.

Literally.

Omg.

E

Techno shakes his head. "Sorry, but I'm not gonna let you see our base, Hero. Now are you gonna make this difficult or are you gonna cooperate so we can all go home?"

Morpheus sighs but doesn't argue, pulling his mask into place and holding out his arms with no fuss. Techno ties the blindfold first, a thick fabric he trusts to obscure the Hero's vision, before clicking the cuffs closed on bracer-covered wrists.

The spells on the cuffs are much more unpleasant than the general warding on the room, Techno knows, although they won't hurt the wearer in the long run. Nevertheless, Morpheus' arms drop heavily as soon as the cuffs close, and he lets out an audible oomph of discomfort. Techno steps closer, ostensibly to check the fit. When he gets near enough, he leans close to the Hero's ear.

"Good boy" He whispers, a hair's breadth from the blindfolded Hero. When he hears the man's breath hitch, he steps back with a low chuckle, tugging gently on the handcuffs' chain.

The man falls into step, only stumbling once or twice as Techno pulls him along the maze of corridors, forced to trust an enemy to lead him properly.

They do not speak of the events in the room in the time it takes to meet with the others.

In fact, it will be many weeks until they speak at all.

Chapter Text

The Syndicate has scarcely whisked away their half of the exchange and vanished before Dream rips off his blindfold.

However, before he can so much as greet the exchange group, (at least half of whom look ready to pull out the interrogation lamps), He gets body-checked by the frantic Blaze hybrid pushing aside agents like a particularly fiery whirlwind.

"Dream!" Sapnap cries frantically, as he almost bowls Dream over.

Dream just barely sees an agent pinch the bridge of their nose in resignation over his friend's trembling shoulder. "Dude, I'm so sorry! I should've known it was a setup, I shouldn't have gone to answer that call, it wasn't even real- are you okay? I'm gonna kill the Syndicate, I swear, I'm gonna find them and burn their stupid fucking secret base down-!"

"For the love of god please use fucking codenames, Inferno, we're still in uniform. And let him go, you're smothering him." A smooth, accented voice breaks through Sapnap's rambling, and Dream turns to see a familiar pair of goggles approaching, with a familiar man wearing them.

"Geor- 404!" Dream corrects himself as George raises an immaculate (if exasperated) eyebrow at him. The smiley-face masked Hero just laughs before dragging his clingy hothead friend over to his more level-headed one, and scooping George into a tight hug right alongside Sapnap. George relaxes into it for a moment, relief overruling his innate need to play off his desire for affection, before he squirms away from the two younger Heroes.

"Alright, idiots, that's enough gooeyness. You good, Morpheus?" George lifts his goggles up and lets them rest on his head, and Dream finds himself touched by the genuine concern he sees in the pretty brunette's heterochromatic gaze.

"Yeah," he says, "I'm good. They didn't hurt me any more than usual, just knocked me out with Siren's bullshit magic voice." He says, with the added advantage of speaking the truth.

Mostly.

The Blood God had gotten in some hits (that would definitely hurt like a bitch tomorrow) during their- ah- sparring, but other than that the Villains had been surprisingly careful in his handling. Don't get him wrong, he absolutely preferred it to any sort of bat-to-the-head tomfuckery, but even he could admit the oddity of it.

"Was your identity compromised at all to your knowledge?" One of the agents finally butts it, asking what they obviously deem 'The Important Question'. Which, yeah, fair, but Dream decides to take offense at their brusqueness anyway. Well, internally. It wouldn't do him or Tommy any good to get on the Commission's bad side after this.

He shakes his head, unsure how to phrase it without incriminating himself. "They didn't take off my mask as far as I know, and I wouldn't have given them my name even if they asked." He settles on finally.

He briefly thanks Past Dream for taking the mask off of his own volition, as ill advised as it had been. If he hadn't, Dream would be either lying right now or labeled as a compromised agent. As of now, his phrasing holds no lie.

Although he can't attest for the period of time he was unconscious, no Syndicate member removed Dreams mask while he was awake. Besides, he doesn't know why the Blood God would waste a request like that if anyone had already peeked.

"Blood God was the one playing prison guard, and he mostly seemed bored." He continues when the Commission grunt doesn't seem satisfied. He omits exactly what they did to cure that boredom.

Sapnap seems surprised at that, and a little dubious. "What, so you were actually just being held for ransom? No torture devices or interrogation or… threatening?"

Dream snorts, amused by the metaphorical picture his friend was painting. "It was just a plain holding cell. Bare room with a bed and some sort of power suppression system. They don't have the place souped up with Megamind inventions, Pandas, they're not that lame. Besides, I'm sure they figured if they kept me in one piece I would fetch a better price than my parts."

George rolls his eyes next to them, "Or they realized you were too annoying to do anything to. Poor Blood God." He says in a distinctly George-like way, faux irritated and sarcastic.

Despite his words, Dream can still see the worry in the creases of his pretty face. "I know you love me George! And the Blood God couldn't handle my charm, I'll have you know."

George scoffs, unaware of how true that statement actually may be; but, before he can respond the unnamed agent cuts them off.

"Alright, Gentlemen. Let's get back to Headquarters, so Morpheus can write a report and get some rest. This has been a stressful weekend for everyone."

Dream grimaces, suddenly guilty. While he feels as if he could simultaneously run five miles and melt like jelly as soon as he touches the next available horizontal surface, the rest of them have been frantically working to get him back, terrified at what the enemy might do to him. He falls into step at the agent's prompting.

"Wait, what about the kid? The one the Syndicate wanted back?" Dream queries before they leave, whipping around towards his friends mid step.

George scowls, and Dream recognizes true irritation in it. "Tsk. They got what they wanted. Our guys tried to ask the kid questions, but they triggered some sort of Enderman version of a nervous breakdown and he went completely silent. Stared at a bloody wall with his eyes glowing purple for a few hours, then passed out. He was back to normal by the time the negotiations were done, but even after he woke up the little shit still wouldn't talk. He just asked to go home and clammed up when nobody said he could."

Dream sighs. Poor kid. He didn't know why the Syndicate wanted the kid involved in their operations in the first place, but he doubts it was to follow the law.

Still, The Blood God had seemed more upset than angry, like a cat who just had their special soft sleeping place taken away.

Dream can't help but wonder what exactly the kid means.

But a hot shower sounds really nice right now (he's sweaty and aching and he can't stop thinking about how the Blood God's fingers twisted into his curls), and so he wonders quietly to himself as he's escorted home by a melodramatic security detail.

*_*_*]*×*]×*+^+<]÷,=*+*+*+*+*+*+**++

"Dream?"

A tentative voice sounds from the apartment as soon as he opens the door. He frowns at how unlike his little brother the call sounds, tremulous and hesitant, as if not being Dream would crush whatever hope exists into a million pieces.

"Tommy?" Dream calls back, sliding his shoes off at the door. He finally escaped the reports the Commission insisted on him filling out after his check-out. He's beginning to think paperwork will probably kill him before the Syndicate. At this point, the Hero wants nothing more than a bath and a cup of hot chocolate.

He still hasn't reported what the Blood God revealed to him in that cell. He doesn't know if he should.

When Dream looks back up, the blond teenager stands before him, something vulnerable in his expression. Concerned, Dream steps forward, socked feet padding softly on the entry-way carpet. "Tommy, wha-"

His little brother throws himself forward in a blur of feathers with a badly concealed sob, arms clenching around the man's ribs. "You bitch! How could you get kidnapped!?" Tommy cries, squeezing Dream past the point of comfort (damn Blood God). Dream wheezes, but wraps his arms around the boy regardless, noting the younger's ruffled wings.

"Whoa! I'm okay, Tommy. See, they didn't even hurt me." Dream soothes, at a bit of a loss. He probably should have insisted on seeing Tommy immediately, reports be damned, but he hadn't known Tommy would react this way.

Another reason to feel guilty, Dream thinks, as his little brother hiccups in his arms. He wonders how disappointed everyone would be if they knew exactly what he had willingly done in the time he was gone.

Tommy pulls back, glaring through wet lashes up at him, blue eyes narrowed to accompany his pouting scowl. "They wouldn't even let me see you when you got back, they said you needed to be examined first."

Dream shakes his head, leading Tommy to the couch in the small apartment. He heads to the small kitchen, where he can still talk to Tommy over the island. "Routine stuff, nothing serious. Mostly they just kept me in a cell."

Tommy frowns, resting his head on his arms where they sit on the back of the couch. "Those wrong-uns left you alone in a cell? Why didn't you just escape?"

Oh to be fifteen and so assured of people's capabilities.

"I appreciate your confidence in me, but no, Blood God was there the whole time." Dream responds, amused.

Tommy scoffs, although his eyes light up with interest. Dream knows that the Villain has always been Tommy's not-so-secret favorite of the Syndicate. He couldn't begrudge him of it before, when he had first hand experience with the hybrid's terrifying power.

Now?

Well, Dream has never considered himself a hypocrite.

"You could've taken that wanker." Tommy grumbles, waving his hand dismissively. His eyes narrow at Dream's current task. "Oi, you better be making me some of that."

Dream stirs the hot cocoa in front of him with a small chuckle, Tommy's general Tommy-ness putting him at an ease he hasn't felt since before he got yoinked to act as leverage.

"Not at all Tommy. It's aaaaaaall for me" He smiles at the offended squawk as he ladles the concoction into two mugs.

As he carries them over to his little brother, Dream can't help but wonder if The Blood God has something similar in the Enderman kid.

He ruffles Tommy's hair and tries not to think about the lengths he would go to if Tommy got arrested for trying to help him.

He knows it wouldn't be pretty.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{{{{{{{{{{{{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}{}{}{}{}{}{

As soon as Technoblade sees Ranboo, looking extra nervous and far too small between a pair of Commission employees (his tail is wrapped around his own leg, for goodness' sake, how can these people treat him like a danger?), he has to tamp down the snarl that threatens to bubble up.

The possessiveness that swirls up inside him screams at them in rage. How dare they frighten and manhandle his kid, his runt, like that?

It was fine, though. Everything was fiiiine. The Commission actually keeps their word and trades hostages without a fuss; and, although it had been an agonizingly long time for Techno, he finally has his boy back home.

"They didn't hurt you at all?" Techno asks again. He shifts anxiously as his gaze flits around the dimly lit room that Ranboo calls his own. There in the corner sits a little pot with alliums in it, and charming little faerie lights are strung up to give the room some ambiance.

"No, I'm really okay. I, uh… think I was Enderwalking there for a little while though, because they were asking me so many questions, and I was getting really nervous, because I didn't want to say anything that would get us in trouble, because I know you guys have trusted me a lot, and I promise I didn't tell them anything-" His speech starts to garble, jaw working overtime and switching in and out of Enderian as he confuses himself.

Techno's brain goes haywire, and the rumbling that has been building in his chest since Ranboo returned home comes tumbling out. Ranboo's shoulders lower from where they had been creeping up, and he sounds a quiet warble back that pleases part of Techno's instincts.

Techno lowers himself down next to Ranboo on the boy's bed, and Ranboo immediately shifts to be as close as physically possible without touching Technoblade.

"Can I, uh…?" He glances up at the Piglin hybrid, who hums his assent, and the lanky teen curls into Techno's side.

"You're okay, kid. You didn't betray us, and you're not gonna."

Ranboo hums a note of agreement, but from the way his tail now hangs lazily off the edge of the bed, he's probably not hearing much of the conversation now. Techno chuffs and turns until Ranboo lays partially on the mound of plush pillows that he has hoarded over the last few months. The young hybrid churrs contentedly, watching his mentor arrange the blankets before Techno covers the boy in the fluffiest one he can find.

Awww. So cute!!

Technosoft

Babyboo

Dadnoblade!

Chat coos nonsensically in his head and Techno finds that he doesn't actually mind this time, just happy to have everything back where it should be.

The door opening draws his attention and he blinks at the figure standing in the doorway.

"How's he doing?" The Elytrian asks quietly, blond hair backlit by the golden light spilling in from behind him. His wings are put away for now, relegated to the Elytra marks on his back. It makes the man seem softer, less Angel of Death and more Philza.

"He's okay. Tired. They couldn't get anything out of him." Techno returns in the same hushed tone. If pride happens to pull his voice out of its normal bored monotone, Phil has the courtesy not to mention it.

Phil smiles a little, weary from the long negotiations yet so genuinely pleased that his boys are safe. "That's good, mate. He's a trooper. You picked a good one."

Technoblade rolls his eyes at the blond, petting the dual-coloured locks of hair attached to the sleeping boy next to him. "He's not my kid Phil. I'm just mentoring him. I ain't the one with an adoption problem."

"Oi," Phil sputters a laugh, and a pleased buzz starts in Techno's mind.

Truly, it isn't difficult to make the Elytrian laugh, yet every time Techno causes it he feels a little warm inside.

"I've only technically got two of you little shits on my roster, don't go calling me out."

"Oh yeah, of course, it's only me and Wil-" Techno starts.

Phil nods, "Exactly."

Technoblade continues without pause. "-And Fundy, of course, and Niki." Phil starts to protest, but Techno keeps on, "Ranboo too, if you're being honest, and half of the crew at Las Nevadas… Is it an Elytrian thing, or just an old man with Dad vibes thing?"

(Techno won't admit it aloud, but it might be a Piglin thing too, according to one of Phil's positively ancient first-edition books about Mobs and their instincts. Apparently it wasn't uncommon for young Enderman or Ender-hybrids to get themselves adopted by Piglins in the Nether. The author inferred the cause to be a similarity in the bonding noises they made, but nobody was actually sure. Techno and Ranboo both had unusually prominent hybrid traits and instincts, so if the theory holds any accuracy, Techno was blaming that.)

Phil sighs, though he's grinning "Alright, alright, Prime. You're fatherly towards, like, a half dozen people and suddenly you have a 'problem'."

Techno rolls his eyes, though his lips quirk upward as well. Phil straightens suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of me having a bunch of heathens to look after! Wil is hovering in the other room waiting to ambush you."

Techno groans. "Bruh. He didn't even want to guard Morpheus with me, why is he being clingy?"

Techno ignores the mixed feelings he has at the thought of Wilbur's presence preventing what transpired in the cell.

Phil chuckles. "Techno," He admonishes, "He may pretend to be indifferent, but he was worried too. He knows how you are with your projects."

"Yeah yeah, I know Old man. I'll go talk to him." Techno pushes himself up, and Ranboo gives a sleepy, protesting churr. Technoblade chuffs quietly in response (staunchly ignoring Phil's smile) and strokes his hair one last time, letting the boy settle back down before he moves away.

《♡°°°°°♤°°°°◇°°°°♧》

Four weeks later….

Wilbur adores his little brother.

Wilbur appreciates how clever Techno can be; truly a brilliant tactician. Wilbur enjoys his brother's wit, and finds his scathing humor funny even when directed at Wilbur himself. He admires how loyal he knows Techno to be, knows he would level a country before letting the ones he cares about die.

Regardless of the differences in personality, age, hybrid species, and general looks, Wilbur loves his twin.

Now, if one were to ask him what on earth he means by 'twin', he would laugh charmingly and wave them off, asking 'isn't it obvious?' then steal their wallet for daring to question him.

(Just for shits and giggles, of course, and he might even return it after their money oh-so-graciously treats him to lunch! After all, being forced to replace identification documents constitutes a form of torture, and he would hesitate to subject even his worst enemies to the Department of Motor Vehicles.)

(Hesitate, not refuse. He might have said refuse, if he weren't currently getting his ass kicked by 404 of all people.)

Normally, he could absolutely hold his own against the staff-wielding Hero, and he enjoyed doing so. Unfortunately, today, with Morpheus being an annoying little shit playing 'guess what random fucking item I'm going to throw at you next' from the building across the street; and 404's proclivity toward zapping Wilbur with the electric cattle-prod ends of his stupid staff, Wilbur feels a tad bit overwhelmed.

Wilbur should have cheated when they were drawing "distraction" straws. At least Philza or Niki would have fun with luring the both Heroes away from the location the Syndicate decided to target. Instead, Wilbur plays fair and gets himself stuck fending off two Heroes with little more than a set of throwing knives.

At least Morpheus can only attack from a distance.

Bastard.

What was Wilbur thinking about before?

Oh right, Technoblade. Technoblade, whom Wilbur loves a great deal and who should really be here occupying Morpheus' attention!

Wilbur lashes out, launching his wickedly sharp twin daggers at the Hero. 404 yelps and dances out of the way, and Wilbur quickly touches a hand to the earpiece he wears.

"Blood God, right now would be a really good time for you to get Morpheus out of- oh shit-" Wilbur cuts off mid-sentence as a shock of electricity nearly makes contact with his collarbone. He chokes as his upper half lights up in pain.

Technoblade's voice crackles to life in his ear, a note of concern in his droll tone. "Siren? We got it secured, I'll be right there."

"Hurry please." Wilbur grunts as he risks a swing at the Hero closer to him. 404 jumps back and Wilbur scowls beneath his mask.

"Oi fucker, stop fighting." Wilber tries, despite knowing how futile the attempt will be. He dodges one of Morpheus' projectiles, cursing the Hero out internally.

Unfortunately, Wilbur's Siren voice doesn't work on people with most other mental powers, and 404 merely snorts, whipping his staff towards Wilbur's face.

"Nah. But you know what I will do?" 404 taunts, accented voice lilting and falsely sweet. He follows up the question with a whirlwind of blows, and Wilbur summons his daggers back, using them to frantically block the strikes.

He mentally urges Techno to move his ass.

If he only had to fight one of the Heroes, Wilbur feels relatively confident he would win, either with his powers (Morpheus) or his reasonably successful fighting style, however, as of current, Morpheus seems to be taking great pains to stay out of range of where Wilbur can reasonably yell out commands.

Normally, this wouldn't be an issue; Wilbur has an amplifier built into his mask to extend his range, however, every attempt to reach for the on switch has been blocked by one of 404's attacks.

He briefly wonders how they figured out which side he has his amplification on, as he successfully reaches his com-line.

"Blood God-" Wilbur starts, just as his brother appears, swinging his axe at Morpheus.

He watches for a moment, as Techno attempts to murder the Hero in full regalia, cape fluttering behind him epically while the dying daylight illuminates the many glittering adornments on his costume.

His twin, so dramatic.

404 takes back his attention with a growl, not so cocky now that The Blood God showed up. Before he throws himself fully back into it, Wilbur presses his com one more time. "Blood God, Take Morpheus away from here, buy me some time to get to Crowfather."

An affirmative, if staticky, hum sounds from his ear. "I hear you, comm me when you're done."

As the connection cuts out, Wilbur sees Techno toss Morpheus off the building they had been fighting on, before jumping down after him, quickly disappearing from Wilbur's sight.

He grins, satisfied. Good, he thinks as he dodges another blow from the forever tenacious 404, Techno will keep him distracted long enough for Wilbur to escape.

Probably enjoy it too; Techno always loves a good fight.

●○●○●○□■□■□○●○●●□■□■□■《☆》

When they hit the ground, Morpheus leaps toward the side of the building in a determined scramble to get back to the roof. Techno grabs him by his hood when he gets off the ground, throwing him into a nearby alley.

It tends to be a little difficult to fight someone and lead them away from somewhere; so, although Technoblade knows he has the skill, he prefers to play the modified cat and mouse game Morpheus tends to engage in.

As expected, the alleyway's emptiness only amplifies chat's excitement.

Manhunt time!

Where did he come from, where did he go~

Where is he going, nobody knows?

That's not the song

What if he doubles back around to Wilbur??

"Oh Morpheus~" Technoblade croons, as he mirrors his opponent through the city towards the warehouse district. He subtly directs them both away from their teammates; eyes glinting red, tusks bared dangerously beneath his mask. "Come and fight, Hero, or I'll just have to go see what amusement I can stir up for myself."

Anyone who knows anything about the Syndicate knows that when they're left unattended, their amusement usually ends up pretty illegal. Morpheus won't just let him run off and wreak havoc, he will try to intervene and drive Techno back into hiding.

Heroes. So predictable.

He can smell Morpheus, can hear him jumping off objects like some sort of adrenaline junkie parkour artist. He closes his eyes, letting his other senses creep outward, and slows his steps.

"I know you're there, Morpheus" He calls, as the sounds of the fight behind them fade. Chat chitters energetically inside his head.

Look, diamonds!

Wrong stream dummy.

Techno look out!

Behind you!

Techno chuckles to himself. Helpful as always.

He feels the air shift behind him and spins, grabbing his attacker by the collar and slamming him against the wall, pressing the full mass of his body against the Hero to keep him still. "Hello Morpheus. Trying to catch me by surprise?"

The Hero gasps when his chest hits the wall, stilling when he feels the sharp edge of Techno's tusk at his neck. "Whatever your goal is, Villain, you won't succeed."

Techno exhales heavily against the exposed skin at the junction of Morpheus' collar and brassy hair. "Oh Hero," He sighs, mocking and amused. "We already have."

Morpheus, honest to Prime, growls beneath him, and Technoblade recalls the last encounter he had with the man. A new idea whispers to life in his mind.

Well, Wilbur never specified how to distract Morpheus.

He hums deep in his throat, and finds himself immensely gratified by the Hero's shudder. "But, there's nothing more to be said about that." He makes as if to release Morpheus, then presses him down again before the man can struggle.

"Although," Techno laughs, as if the thought just came to him. "It occurs to me that I never got to repay you for your performance during the negotiations. I do like to keep my scores settled."

Warning warning! Get the minors out of the chat.

How is brutal murder okay but not this?

Uhuhuhuhu.

Get some, Technobabe!

Morpheus stops breathing. "O-oh?" He chokes out, strangled and disbelieving. Technoblade can see the slightly pointed tips of his ears reddening.

To emphasize his offer he grinds gently against the Hero's canvas covered rump. "What do you say, Morpheus? Are you interested?"

He waits patiently as Morpheus makes up his mind. Finally the Hero speaks, a strain of hesitation in his tone. "Only if you promise to be careful with those teeth of yours."

Technoblade grins victoriously.

"For you, Hero?" He murmurs, leaning back enough to let the other man turn around. "I'll be nothing less."

Chapter Text

Tommy lied.

He didn't mean to, really; but, when Dream asked what he kept sneaking out to do, well, Tommy had to tell his older brother something.

So Tommy told him he got a job.

Tommy does not actually have a job, because Tommy fabricated said job to hide his very-much-illegal vigilante activities from his very-much-a-Hero older brother.

Sue him, Tommy can make a change too.

Either way, the dark, dismal, soul-sucking dungeon in which he currently sits trapped must be considered a direct result of that lie.

An office. Tommy shudders.

"So will this be your first job?" The friendly demon-hybrid asks, tapping his clipboard with his sparkly pink gel pen.

"Er, yes." Tommy responds, clutching his knees and tucking his wings a little closer to his back to keep them from jittering nervously. "I'm a quick learner though, Big Man, I can handle whatever you give me!"

The shop owner, 'Call me Bad', laughs lightly, waving an ebony hand dismissively. "No no, I'm not worried about that." The horned man crosses his ankles, leaning forward in his seat. "Do you have any baking experience?"

Tommy cringes, almost ready to just get up and leave, he already feels his failure creeping in his bones. But he stays, because Big Men do not give up and Tommy happens to be the biggest man around.

(Certainly not because he feels guilty about how happy Dream had seemed at Tommy being "responsible and grown-up")

For now Tommy needs something to get Bad to hire him regardless of his lack of experience.

"...No." He replies finally, just like his response to have you ever dealt with a cash register, and, Are you available for early morning shifts?

Nailed it.

Bad chuckles, as if Tommy just told a moderately funny joke. He pushes up his glasses with one clawed hand, the thin red rims complementing his pupil-less eyes. "Well, I suppose that can be trained. For now, you can just work the front in the afternoon. What days do you prefer to work?"

If Tommy said either of the weekend days, he would have to balance schooling, work, and his 'night job'. He would much rather do it during the week and- wait, maybe Tommy can?

"What days are you busiest during the weekdays? I can… help on those days and work on my school the rest of the week?" Or Vigilante stuff, but Bad didn't need to hear that part.

Bad blinks, then smiles broadly at Tommy.

"How clever. That's very considerate of you, Tommy! Let me see… I'm guessing you'll want Fridays and Saturdays off?"

Friday and Saturday are major crime days. Sheepishly, Tommy nods. Bad nods right along with him, clearly unsurprised.

"That's fine, I know how teenagers are about working on the weekends. My son always wanted weekends free too. I have Velvet and Skeppy to help out then anyway. How about Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

At Tommy's blank expression, he explains further; "We get a supply truck in on Tuesday, around noon, and a lot of people treat themselves and their friends to coffee and pastries on Thursdays, since most businesses around here process their payrolls then…" Bad pauses. "I do my employees' payroll on Wednesdays. Does that work for you?

Tommy perks up, reading between the lines.

"Yeah, that works! Does- Does that mean I'm hired?"

Crinkles form at the edges of Bad’s white eyes, and he nods with a smile, holding out his hand. "It does. You're a charismatic young man, Tommy, and I think you'll do just fine working with customers. You can start this Tuesday."

Tommy grasps it eagerly, shaking it as politely as he can.

"Fuck yeah! Er-" He and Bad wince simultaneously, "I mean… heck yeah?"

Bad sighs, not unkindly. "Please try to keep the swearing to a minimum? I prefer the cafe to be a more… family-friendly environment."

Tommy nods. "Yes sir! I will do my very best to speak in the friendly-est family manner ever."

Internally, as a very massive man who can, Tommy says every swear word he knows, and makes up a couple new ones.

Bad smiles at him one more time, before standing up and dusting off his black-wash jeans "Thank you… and Welcome to Muffinhead Bakery and Cafe!"

As Tommy stands to mirror his new boss, stretching his wings with no small sense of relief, a voice pipes up behind him. "We were gonna add a rock-shop at one point but Bad didn't like how Stones and Moans, Rock Shop and Cafe sounded."

Tommy jumps reflexively at the sudden interruption, before the words catch up to him. He snorts loudly as he turns around. Behind him stands a Golem-hybrid, easily identified by the precious gems embedded in the man's shining skin. The man wears a sky blue suit, the collar and cuffs of which are also studded with gleaming diamonds.

"I'm Skeppy, Bad's platonic life-partner and the financial manager for the Bakery. Pleased to meet you." The other hybrid states, offering his hand as well.

As expected, the texture of the Golem's skin differs wildly from other more common hybrids, but Tommy shakes it vigorously anyway. "Pleased to be here, Big Man. My name's Tommy. I'm starting Tuesday."

Skeppy nods agreeably, turning to look at his voidal friend. "Well, I guess we need to give him a tour, huh Bad?"

The Demon hybrid smiles, clapping his hands together as his spade shaped tail swishes behind him. "Yep! Let's start with the kitchen."

As the two men begin leading Tommy through their shop, he feels a great relief come over him. If he can just keep this job, Dream won't question a thing and Tommy can continue to do what he cares about.

It should be easy. After all, how hard can it be to keep a few coffee addicts and sugar hounds happy? According to Tommy’s calculations, not very hard at all.

**☆⊙°°°°•☆••°•••\(◇○◇)/°°°°°°⊙⊙••⊙••

Tommy may have miscalculated.

"Excuse me, I ordered, like, an hour ago, where is my drink?" A cow hybrid snarls from the counter opposite him.

No, Tommy took her order ten minutes ago, and he has a line about six people long. "Sorry for the wait, it'll be right out."

"Can I get a caramel sticky nut Frappuccino with oat milk? Two pumps of espresso." The goldfish hybrid in front of him asks, large eyes unblinking.

Tommy tries not to scream.

"Sorry Sir, we don't carry that." Go try the Seabucks down the street.

After four rush hour shifts, Tommy finally understands why people hate retail jobs. Sure, Bad does well enough as manager, and Tommy genuinely enjoys working with the different goods they sell, but, the customers are some of the most entitled, non-wife-having people Tommy has had the displeasure to meet.

(And Tommy fights criminals at night! The irony!)

Yet, Tommy must persevere, too much on the line to give up because of a few assholes. So, just like every shift prior, Tommy dutifully fills orders and serves the treats and pastries that Bad and Velvet make in the back. When it hits seven pm, Tommy looks up to find a blessedly empty Cafe.

"Fucking finally." Tommy sighs, stretching his shoulders and yawning. He needs to get started closing now, to finish by nine. Tommy thanks Prime that the rush didn't go until seven tonight; The cafe technically closes at eight, but Tommy got permission to close early if there weren't any customers, and he wants to hit the streets as early as possible.

Except, just as he gets set to start cleaning, washing the mugs and plates and wiping the counters, the bell above the door chimes once again.

"Noo, Fuck you. Prime. I hope you get no bitches." Tommy growls under his breath as the customer waltzes up to the counter.

The man hears him.

"My, my, what vulgar language from such a little boy." The stranger (who, for the record is only a little taller than Tommy) coos, tucking his gloved hands into the pockets of his brown trench coat. Behind round glasses, his amber-yellow eyes are alight with a sort of malicious amusement, like molten gold before it burns your flesh to the bone. “You really ought to watch your mouth around customers, don’t you think?”

"Fuck off, I do not take correction from homeless hipster piss-boys that can't even tell ages right." Tommy responds primly. After a moment of silence, he adds, for good measure: "Bitch."

The Man’s dark eyebrows creep up in astonishment before a gleaming grin overtakes his face. The expression looks wrong somehow, too dark and intense to truly be considered happy. Tommy's instincts scream at him to run when faced with this predator. “Oh?”

"Yeah. So you here to order or not, fucker? If not, get out, you're loitering." Tommy says instead, because he's completely done with people for the day, and because he refuses to back down (even when he should).

The bastard has the audacity to laugh, slapping one hand on the counter between them as the other runs through his mahogany curls. "You’re certainly brash, aren't you? Does Bad really let you talk to customers like that, or am I special?"

Tommy bristles even as he panics internally.

Crap, Tommy thinks, did he just insult Bad's friend? He needs to say something to fix it. Dream would be so disappointed in him if he lost his (cover) job for something this stupid.

A good old-fashioned 'sorry' perhaps? Tommy opens his mouth.

"You set off my cringe-radar, this is what you get. And Bad thinks I’m a delight, actually," Comes out of his mouth, rather than the apology he had been constructing mentally. Fuck.

The customer raises a brow and leans onto the counter, closing the distance between them in a way that Tommy dislikes.

“You’re certainly a refreshing personality. Tell you what…” His eyes flick down to the nametag Tommy wears (Tommy has to fight the urge to bring a hand up and cover it), and he tilts his head with an amused smile, “Tommy. You do look like a Tommy. I’ll tell you what, Tommy, If you can make me a drink I’ll like, I won’t tell Bad that I was treated with such deplorable customer service.”

The brunette stresses the word like a high-society Georgian heiress and flutters his eyelashes once, playing up his ‘distress’.

Tommy blinks.

“Are you- Is this blackmail? Are you blackmailing me??” he asks incredulously, wings snapping out in a furious flare.

The man's eyes track the movement curiously, and he shrugs, a smug smirk curling on his lips. “Suppose I am. Think of it more like... A challenge with consequences. So?”

“Fine. You’re on, bitch.” Tommy glares at him. “Name for the order?”

“Wilbur. To-go, if you would, Tommy.” He draws his name out pretentiously, and Tommy openly rolls his eyes, patience already singed.

He grabs a paper cup and writes ‘Wil-bitch’ on it. With a glance around at the various syrups, he pauses, then nods to himself. Deftly (it had been the easiest thing to learn), Tommy rings up ‘Wilbur’s' order on the register, and he grins a little spitefully as he reads out the total.

The theatre kid in front of him looks startled, then he shakes his head ruefully, eyeing Tommy. “Bad’s prices have gone up, have they?”

Tommy narrows his eyes at the man, smiling passive-aggressively. “Inflation or some shit, innit?”

Wilbur snorts and swipes his card.

Tommy flits around to the various machines and cabinets, spite driving his every move. He brews the blonde espresso (He hopes the man can’t sleep tonight. Bastard.), then moves on to the cream, milk, and extra flavourings (extra expenses for an extra bitch).

Once he’s done, he slides the cup carefully across the counter to Wilbur. Now that he’s finished, his logical brain kicks in and he feels a spike of anxiety. He hopes the guy doesn’t actually hate it, what if he gets Tommy fired?

Wilbur chuckles as he reads the cup, then takes a long sip. He stops, lowers the cup to stare at it, and takes another sip.

Oh Prime. He hates it, doesn’t he? Well, the job was nice for the month that it lasted, Tommy hopes Bad won’t be too disappointed in him. He hopes Dream won’t.

“Well. Color me impressed, child. What is it?” Wilbur asks, breaking Tommy out of his despair.

“I’m not a child, you wrong’un, I’m a very massive man. And it’s, uh- a cappuccino, with hazelnut, vanilla bean, and cinnamon. Two shots of espresso,” he recites, pleased at recalling Skeppy’s training so well.

Wilbur nods. “Right, well, consider yourself pardoned, Tommy.” He walks over to the empty tip jar, fishes in his pocket, and drops a crumpled note in, not even bothering to look at it. He flashes Tommy another shining smile and turns to leave, trenchcoat swishing dramatically. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Wh- Bye?” Tommy manages, but Wilbur has already walked out the door. He leans over and plucks the bill out of the tip jar, unfolding it. “Oh, holy shit-”

The tip in his hand triples the cost of the already over-priced drink Tommy had just sold.

He snorts, not feeling overly bad about it, the bitch deserves to accidentally tip the wrong amount.

Tommy goes back to cleaning.

&*^#&^&$&*******~/\/(○◇○)\/\~*****%#!%$!%@

What does Dream take more pride in than the impact his team has had on the city of Essempi?

Well, his little brother of course.

Dream hasn't always been able to be there for Tommy, too busy trying to keep a roof over their heads, or training to take on one of the most fatal jobs in the city, or, upon getting that job, rising in the ranks until he and Tommy could live comfortably.

Yet, Tommy shows Dream time and time again his strength and capability as a fifteen year old; taking responsibility for whatever Dream can't provide as his pseudo-parent figure.

He knows they've had their ups and downs, Prime knows he wasn't prepared to take over as Tommy's guardian at eighteen; but, seeing his baby brother growing up and getting a job-

-Well, Dream couldn't possibly be prouder. He does wonder why on earth Tommy wanted to keep it a secret, though.

(Dream jumps across to another rooftop, careful despite the night-vision built into his mask. His patrol tonight will lead him around the shopping district, then towards the warehouse quarter, where….)

Dream stalls on the rooftop, blushing beneath his mask as he recalls their encounter a few days prior. The Blood God hadn't stuck around long after the fact, called back by his Villainous teammates before Dream even had time to button up his trousers. The man stayed long enough to pass along a final comment before running off to wherever Villains go when they aren't committing crime.

("Let's do this again sometime." The Blood God says, licking his reddened lips. Dream agrees breathlessly, willingly, and feels all the more damned.)

Dream shakes his head to dispel the intrusive thoughts, valiantly attempting not to think about the decidedly seductive nature of his enemy, or said enemy with his mouth wrapped around Dream's-

Nope.

Dream needs to keep calm and stop crime. Mentally backtracking, he continues his patrol towards the plaza on Redegg St and Empire Blvd.

Tommy said his new workplace was around there, Dream muses thoughtfully, thinking about visiting his little brother at work sometime. Dream should get him a gift if nothing else, to congratulate the kid on his first job.

Something to think about, but for now...

Dream continues on.

€♡●○●○●○□■□■□■□■□□■♡€

The Hero pauses on top of an old three story apartment building just past the entrance to one of Las Nevadas' legal casinos. He sits on the rooftop with a sigh, pushing up his mask to catch a breath of the cool night air in the city.

Crime decided to sleep for once, Dream thinks as he closes his eyes for a moment. Or, more likely, the crime just stayed in another Hero's patrol sector tonight.

Dream sighs again, looking over his night-lit city. He wonders what it would be like if he never chose to become a hero, if someone else would have picked up the slack and saved all the lives he failed over the years.

The Hero shakes his head solemnly, responding to a thought no one else can hear. Dream would take the world on his shoulders if it meant one less child would have to grow up without a parent, one less person without their spouse.

Prime knows he does his best.

Prime knows he falls short time and time again.

Yet, Dream will keep fighting until the city makes him obsolete, for every parent who reunites with their child outside a burning building, for every man or woman who prays with bated breath for their loved ones to survive the next Villain attack or natural disaster. For Tommy, who grew up too fast after the cruelty of the world took their birth parents from them.

Dream smiles, suddenly feeling the urge to see his little brother. Tommy would be asleep right now, but Dream could still check on him. Mind made up, Dream goes to notify base that he decided to head back early. He thinks Fundy might be on monitor duty tonight, so his excuse of it being a slow night should fly just fine.

But, just as he presses his com he sees something out of the corner of his eye that pauses him in his tracks.

"-Morpheus, what's going on?-" Fundy's voice comes to life in his ear.

Dream clicks on his talk switch, eyes tracking a familiar figure in the street below. "Hey Vulpine, I was gonna call in for the night but I just saw something suspicious. I'm gonna go check it out."

"-Do you need backup sent to your location?-" Fundy sounds a bit concerned.

"No, it's just a hunch. I'll check back in an hour." Dream says distractedly, creeping closer to the edge of the roof. He flicks off his com as soon as he gets an acknowledgement from Fundy.

All plans to head home are smothered underneath the burning need to follow the figure walking below him. He jumps across one roof, two roofs, shadowing his prey as silently as possible.

Suddenly, the figure stops in front of a two story apartment complex, long abandoned with signs advertising sale and lease in the windows. Dream leans as close as he dares in an attempt to figure out his target's goal. The person stands there for a moment, looking around casually. Dream narrows his eyes.

A shuffling sound behind him causes him to turn, sure he's been led into a trap. He tenses, searching for an enemy in the dark when-

-a yellow eyed cat blinks at him, just as startled to find other life on the rooftop. Dream relaxes, mouthing a 'sorry' at the feline before turning back to watch the figure.

The Blood God's russet eyes stare up at him from the man on the street, maskless and out of costume, pink hair braided down his back and an inscrutable expression on his criminally handsome face.

Dream freezes, enraptured and horrified in equal measure as the Villain slowly smirks, eyes locked on the Hero, before turning and pushing into the apartment building with nary a backwards glance.

I know you're there and you already came this far, the action calls, daring Dream to come inside the darkened building.

Are you bold enough to walk in after me, Hero? It challenges, salivating and hungry like a feral dog.

Dream bites his lip. He presses the talk switch on his comms.

"Vulpine?"

"-Morpheus? Everything alright?-"

"Nothing to worry about, just a false alarm. I'm officially done for the night, so I'm calling in."

"-...Okay, have a good one.-"

Dream thanks him, then turns off his com completely. He knows how ill-advised his actions are, but temptation means he can't bring himself to care. After he finishes, Dream scales the four story drop to the ground and sidles up to the side of the apartment, heart beating out of his chest.

It surprises him how easily the door opens, no lock, no blockade. It only confirms what Dream already knows.

The Blood God invited him.

He exhales as he closes the door behind him, sealing the building away from the fragile moonlight. He blinks as the night vision film on his mask adjusts to the deeper darkness, and mentally thanks Prime for Sam's foresight and ingenuity.

The bottom floor of the complex looks to have been torn out a while ago; dusty pipes and wiring exposed in the otherwise empty space. Dream guesses, with the drywall dust settled across the floor sticking to his boots and the fiberglass batts spilling out of the ceiling like a group of amorphous corpses, that the building owner had attempted a remodel, before either time or lack of money had exhausted them.

Either way, the room hides no Villains in its shadows.

Dream carries on towards the old staircase, praying desperately it keeps under his weight. How embarrassing would it be to wipe out in the same building as his enemy?

When the first stair creaks he hesitates, waiting for the step to crumble. When it doesn't break, Dream continues up, tightly gripping the railing on his right side.

As he emerges into the second floor, Dream braces for an attack, guard up against the row of apartments. Nothing jumps out at him, not a rat or a ghost, and most certainly not a Blood God. He stalls, a bit confused.

Dream positively knows the first floor had been empty, and unless the Blood God jumped out of a window, he should be somewhere on the second floor. Does he want Dream to find him?

Dream nods, amused despite himself. That sounds like his enemy; Always arrogantly confident in himself no matter the disadvantage.

Well, Dream can play along. Just until he finds out what the Villain actually wants from this. (He thinks he already knows)

Most of the apartments are empty, the lack of intact doors giving Dream easy access. One or two have furniture still inside them; a table here, a couch or bed-frame there. When he gets to the end of the hall, frustration creeping up in him like a spider, Dream almost thinks the other man really did jump out a window.

But, well, Dream has one more apartment to check, the only one with a proper barrier. Apartment 7B the plate on the wooden door reads, next to a brass peephole.

Dream reaches for the knob, fingers almost trembling with anticipation. He knows he has the disadvantage here, if the Blood God decides to ambush him from behind the door.

Dream turns the knob anyway.

Of course, just like the front door of the building it swings open smoothly, unlocked and welcoming. Dream steps into the apartment.

Oddly enough, apartment 7B contains more furniture than the other apartments, as if the developer gave up on clearing things out, or any pillagers were unmotivated to steal from it.

A grey couch sits askew in the middle of the room, out of place and out of shape, with lumpy cushions and the padding missing from the arms. Reasonably intact appliances are left in the kitchenette, a propane stovetop, a fridge, all framed by lacquered wood cabinets.

Even a potted plant lays withered sadly beside a window.

Dream can see an open door leading to a little bathroom with a pink shower curtain. Finally, directly across from the front door sits what must be the apartment's bedroom. The true nature of the room remains concealed behind the last painted door in front of him.

Steeling himself against the atmosphere of a poor man's haunted house, Dream huffs and strides over to this last obstacle. On edge, still half prepared for a terrible jump scare, he turns the door's knob, pushing it slowly open.

The scene that awaits him almost causes him to startle anyway, so unexpected to his psyched-out nerves.

The Blood God sits primly on the coverlet of a twin sized bed, backlit by the moonlight peeking in from a double-paned window behind him. His primrose braid tints a fetching lavender in the blueish beam of night, and the gold framed reading glasses perched on his nose glint mysteriously in the shadows of the room.

As expected, The Blood God wears none of his battle regalia. Instead, the man has opted for a pair of dressy burgundy trousers and a fitted black turtleneck. He looks like a sexy English professor, all cut muscles and academic prowess. The leather satchel on the side table only adds to this aesthetic.

Unexpectedly, The Blood God seems to be reading a book.

The man in question glances up over the top of the book as Dream enters. Dream's heart skips a little beat as the Villain's lips curl into a smirk around his tusks.

"Ah, hullo Morpheus. Was wonderin' if you were gonna show up." The Blood God drawls, casual and relaxed as all get out. He continues flipping through the novel in his lap, as if Dream's presence holds no note to him.

Dream suddenly finds it hard to swallow. "What are you doing here?" He asks, eyes trailing over his nemesis' shoulders, masculine width cupped and contoured by the tight black fabric stretching over them. He forces his gaze back up to the Villain's face.

The Blood God shrugs. "Waiting for you, what else?" He leans back, setting his book aside and resting his weight on his palms. The half-lidded look he levels at Dream screams sinful amusement. "Do you think I normally come into abandoned buildings for crime purposes?"

"I don't know." Dream cautiously closes the distance between them, until he stands in front of the other man's crossed legs, "You might. I wasn't talking about this building though"

The Blood God laughs, throaty and deep, and uncrosses his legs. "Yeah, but that's where we are now. How are you going to foil my evil scheme?"

Dream pulls off his mask, and sets it onto the side table with the Blood God's satchel before stepping into the open gap between the Villain's firm thighs. The Blood God cranes his neck upward to look at him, exposing his pale, shapely throat to Dream's gaze. It satisfies a deeply primal part of him, sending arousal curling through his stomach.

This close, Dream can see each breath the man takes, each flutter of those sultry lashes.

"Well," Dream starts, lifting a hand to his rival's jaw. He traces his thumb across the other man's cheek until it rests at the corner of warm lips. "I'm guessing you'll need a clear mind to execute whatever mastermind plan you've come up with, so distraction should be a successful tactic."

"Oh?" The Blood God whispers huskily, relocating his fingers to Dream's belt-loops. When the Blood God leans back, unsupported by all except his own impressive core strength, Dream follows the gentle pull easily. He ends up leaning over the Villain, half caging that troublesome head with his supporting arm. His right knee has found leverage on the bed between the other man's open thighs, close enough to feel the warmth emitting from the nether-hybrid.

"And what will you do to distract me?" Warm, calloused hands find new purchase on Dream's abdomen, crawling up beneath layers of thermal cotton and reinforced leather armor, and Dream feels heat creeping across his skin.

Dream leans into the touch and down, down until they are close enough to kiss. "I'm open to suggestions." He purrs into the Blood God's pointed ear.

The Villain presses their cheeks together, mouth to ear, and Dream can feel the sharp grin across the man's face. "Well, do you still have that lube?"

Dream barks out a laugh, even as he blushes. "A month and a half later? Maybe." He leans back as he contemplates whether he ever managed to take the cursed thing out of his inventory. Well, he thinks as he takes his free hand to The Blood God's toned chest, maybe not cursed.

The Blood God raises a brow, hands graduating to Dream's back. "You use it for someone else?"

Dream most certainly has not; but, well, what can he even say to that?

"Must have been all the other Villains I met in abandoned apartments," He responds coyly as he summons his inventory,

The glowing, electric green screen that pops up in front of his eyes goes unseen by the other party in the room, too based in an odd combination of soul magic and power roulette to be visible to any but the owner. He can see The Blood God's intrigued expression out of the corner of his eye, obviously curious about the only physical sign of his powers at work:

Dream's eyes glow a matching green to his inventory screen, an unusual and inhuman color. Another thing he hides behind his mask. When no remarks come forth, Dream manifests the requested item and blinks down at his enemy. "Oh look," He teases, shaking the bottle in his hand. "I guess I still have it."

The Blood God snorts. "Shame for those other Villains..." He removes his hands from the inside of Dream's clothing and wraps his arms around the hero's neck, pulling the man towards him.

"But very good for me." The Villain growls, when Dream can see each individual speck of red in his irises through those glasses. Too pretty for such a violent man, Dream thinks off-handedly, before their lips meet and even Dream's subconscious wouldn't dare interrupt.

Chapter Text

Philza likes to think of himself as a simple man. He loves his wife, loves his sons, and of course, loves getting his way.

Simple.

Parenting, however? Prime, Philza could laugh.

"Wil, mate, I know you're an adult, but why, please explain this to me, why did you come back with coffee at seven o'clock at night instead of the new potions batch Bad brewed for us?" He massages his temples to ward off the incoming headache, careful of the tiny feathers that frame his face. "The batch that I specifically sent you out for an hour and a half ago."

His eldest stares at him with a distinctly deer-in-the-headlights expression, eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses and mouth startled open. Wilbur's keys dangle from the hand clutching the Muffinhead branded throwaway cup.

At least he knows Wilbur made it to the shop, Philza thinks, exasperated. Now he just needs to know where it went wrong.

"Uh," his brilliant son starts, seemingly at a loss for words. "I forgot?"

"You forgot." Philza tries to keep his screaming internal; it makes the echoed question sound flat. "Mate, you had one job."

Wilbur shrugs, setting his coffee cup on the entry table like a coasterless heathen. "Sorry Phil, you should send Techno since I'm already back though."

Phil sighs, wondering if he already passed the point where he could surrender Wilbur for adoption. Probably, most people don't adopt twenty-five year old Villains.

At least Technoblade doesn't cause Phil nearly so much stress nowadays.

"Techno-," Phil emphasizes, forcefully keeping his arms down so he doesn't strangle his son. "-is visiting his favorite bookstore because you were supposed to be visiting Bad."

"Oh." Wilbur states, looking stumped for a moment. Then, his expression brightens and he pulls his phone out. "I'll text him!"

Cheer returned, Wilbur begins typing without waiting for a response, kicking off his boots as he walks towards the kitchen, drink and keys forgotten in the entry.

Knowing a losing argument when he sees one, Philza just sighs and goes to remove Wilbur's belongings from their current occupation as tripping hazards.

He stares accusingly at the coffee cup when he gets to it, spitefully taking a sip.

"Huh." Phil eyes the brew curiously, pleasantly surprised at the flavorings. He doesn't think Wilbur has ever ordered something with both cinnamon and hazelnut in it. He honestly didn't know Wil could think of a combination that wouldn't be considered a biohazard.

"Huh." Philza repeats, pleased with his new acquisition. He takes another sip as he leaves the room, chuckling to himself when he hears Wilbur's offended squawk.

"Oh, wait- Dad- that's mine-! Phil! That's my coffee. Philza!"

(By some miracle of fate, and the placement of his hand, Phil doesn't notice the scrawled 'Wil-bitch' on the side of the cup.)

(His reaction would have been very different if he had.)

~~~~~(⊙•⊙)~~~~~

Hours later, when the city has long gone to bed, Techno glides quietly into the house. He pauses briefly when he sees Philza still up, reading by the yellowish light of a lamp.

"Hey Phil," the Piglin-hybrid whispers, toeing off his shoes and padding over to his adopted father.

"Hey Mate, have fun?" Phil whispers back, setting aside his book to take the canvas bag Techno offers him, also branded with the Muffinhead Bakery logo. When Phil pulls apart the handles, he sees the bag packed with carefully padded potions of all colors and sizes. Perfect. (Naturally the inner Syndicate are all talented brewers, but sourcing ingredients and taking the steps to brew can be time-consuming. Plus, Bad's work speaks for itself, and it doesn't hurt to build rapport.)

At Techno's ensuing hum of agreement Philza looks up, taking in his younger son's appearance.

His carefully braided hair has come apart slightly, loosened and tousled as if re-done without a brush. Otherwise, Techno looks rather the same as when he left hours ago, boredly expressionless; although naturally relaxed in his own home.

Still. "Did everything go okay? You were gone an awful long time."

Techno shakes his head, plopping down beside Philza on the couch. "'S fine, I'm thinking about buyin' an apartment building I've had my eye on for a safe house. I'll probably be in and out getting it fixed up if I do."

Phil nods understandingly. His younger son likes to keep busy; having a project with an actual end goal will help keep him occupied. "Has chat been getting loud again?"

He knows how hard Techno has it when chat really starts going, knows that clashes with Heroes like Morpheus help keep them at bay. Projects like that godawful potato farm also help, so he doesn't question Techno's newest plan.

Techno gives a noncommittal shrug and Phil lets it lie. His own experience with a voidal chorus has always been limited to his crows; beings he can shut on or off depending on the situation. Techno doesn't have that luxury.

"How was Skeppy? Did you get to see him?" Phil questions softly, reaching a hand out to gently trail through Techno's hair. His son melts against the couch, closing his eyes and rumbling out a quiet purr.

"He's good, Bad's been trying out all his new muffin recipes on him, so he's complaining about getting fat. As if his metabolism isn't more efficient than even Wilbur's." Techno murmurs. "Is Ranboo asleep?"

Philza smiles. "Go check for yourself, Mate. You know he waits for you sometimes."

Technoblade grumbles half-heartedly, but picks himself off the couch anyway, plodding towards the bedrooms. He stops, turning back towards Phil before he gets too far. "Thanks Phil. Have a good night."

Phil nods, picking his book back up and turning towards where he left off. "Night Mate, sleep tight."

○●□■▪︎♡◇▪︎♧♡▪︎◇♧○♡○♤◇▪︎◇○

Two weeks later…

Quackity frowns, scar pulling on his cheek as he reviews the numbers for the third time. If they are as accurate as they look, someone in his Eastside casino has been dealing under the table for almost a month.

Unacceptable, but the numbers don't lie.

Quackity slides his thumbs through his suspenders, biting his lip pensively. If he gets Purpled to look into the trail, he can get a list of names, but the kid's age stops him from investigating on the floor.

Unfortunately, Charlie and Foolish are too well known in Las Nevadas to fly under the radar, and Quackity won't jeopardize Fundy's role in the Hero Commission. He supposes he may need to call in a favor from The Syndicate.

He winces, feathers bristling behind him. They wouldn't judge him for it, wouldn't think he failed or can't handle it. He knows that now. Still, the opinions of the Syndicate have little bearing compared to the opinion of Technoblade.

Flock! The little bird inside his head chirps at the thought of the Piglin-hybrid. Protector!

Quackity smothers it quickly before it insists he leaves his casino lobby to go find the man. He can't quite quash the desire to gain the Villain's approval, however, despite his logical mind. Quackity needs to get this resolved quickly.

Wilbur perhaps? He knows the man can play whatever role Quackity needs. The chance of him taking an opportunity to rub something in his brother's face makes him a liability though, and Quackity knows anything involving himself ends up a popularity pissing contest between them.

Something that hasn't changed despite the years his relationship with that family has weathered.

Still, Niki and Connor are often too busy for even Syndicate business, much less Quackity business. Wilbur may be his best bet, even if Quackity has to bribe him to keep his mouth shut.

Or blackmail. Quackity likes blackmail.

The sound of the lobby doors sliding open with a chime draws him out of his thoughts. The duck-hybrid glances out of the casino cage in which he had been auditing.

A nervous looking bunny-hybrid skitters towards the window, and Quackity puts on his best smile. "Hello!" He calls once they come close enough to hear him through the holes in the reinforced glass. "Do you need an exchange?"

With the friendly smile fixed on his face, he leans forward encouragingly, patiently waiting for the response.

He recoils when the gun comes out.

"Whoa!" Quackity holds his hands up placatingly. An act, mostly, but he came here as Quackity not Jester, and Quackity takes great pains to just be an underling.

The rabbit quakes, but something flinty infects their eyes. "I don't want your chips, I want your cash. Hand it over."

Uh. Absolutely the fuck not.

"I can't do that." Quackity demures, angling for the panic button with his knee and missing. He knew he should have included bulletproof glass in this casino's cage, not just reinforced glass.

Granted, he hadn't expected to meet anyone crazy enough to rob Jester. Like, Quackity owns all of Las Nevadas' gambling and underground crime. Who tries to rob that?

This guy, clearly.

"Y-you can, just open the lockbox and hand it over. I won't hurt you if you cooperate." Bunny-boy insists, shifting his weight nervously.

Quackity sighs. Of all his rotten luck, the one location he decided to visit today. Good news for Quackity, if his luck turned out this bad, his chances of getting shot are practically nonexistent.

Or maybe not? Would it be better or worse for Rebel Rabbit if he shoots Quackity? Quackity doesn't feel like finding out. Honestly, Luck of the Draw can be such a useless power sometimes. He never knows what Prime will consider Good or Bad luck.

Luckily, pun intended, today won't be the day he dies.

"Hello, Quackity of Las Nevadas and Stranger from Somewhere! Is there a problem?"

Quackity's leporine assailant whirls toward the source of the voice. An unassuming man with glasses; a simple dress shirt; suspenders holding up brown slacks; and floofy, light brown hair that seems to defy gravity in a fluid, uncanny way; merely smiles widely at him.

Charlie. Prime, Quackity loves that guy. Really, he should name him Employee of the Month. Or year. Quackity hadn't even managed to press the panic button, and yet here his friend was! A stand up guy, really.

The bunny hybrid points the gun toward Charlie, who tilts his head. Charlie's jello-green eyes narrow, but he keeps smiling pleasantly.

"Oh dear! Careful with that, guns are dangerous to flesh-people! Like me, as a perfect, accurate example!"

"Wh- what are you talking about?" The bunny demands, then shakes their head impatiently, "You know what? No, nevermind, shut up!" They turn to glare at Quackity, who bites back the amused grin threatening to creep onto his face. "I'll shoot both of you if you don't open that till right now!"

Quackity lowers his hands slowly, as if complying with the order, then sets them on the counter, lacing his fingers together. The bunny opens his mouth to speak, confused and angry, but Quackity cuts them off. "Charlie?"

"Yes, Quackity from Las Nevadas?"

"Would you mind taking that gun away?"

"Not at all!"

Charlie strides toward the bunny, who gasps and pulls the trigger.

-Bang! Bang!

Charlie freezes, and looks slowly down at the two holes now present in his dress shirt.

Quackity's ears ring with the aftereffects of hearing a firearm go off, but he still hears Charlie's voice clearly when he announces, with clear dissatisfaction: "Ah. Quackity, I believe this article of clothing may be in unfortunate need of repair now."

A drop of green oozes from each bullet hole.

The bunny-hybrid's jaw drops open.

Charlie closes the remaining distance between them in the blink of an eye, and the bunny shrieks, jerking back in horror. Quackity feels a laugh escape him at the noise, a slightly sadistic part of his brain cooing with delight, even as he moves to exit the cage.

Peter Cotton-ass turns and tries to book it, but Charlie catches the back of his black jacket with ease.

"Well now, hold on! We haven't made introductions yet, and I believe it's impolite to kill someone's clothing and leave!"

Charlie seizes the robber's elbows smoothly, twisting them behind their back and snatching the gun. He tosses it away without a care (Quackity cringes, that safety was NOT on). From around his neck, Charlie removes his slime green tie, and loops it around the bunny's captive wrists before cinching it tight.

A moment later, he drops the other to the ground and sits on him.

Quackity exits the casino cage and shuts the door behind him. He knows for a fact that Charlie's weight is subject to as much fuckery as the rest of him, and so despite the bunny-boy's frantic struggling, he's not moving.

Good.

"Thanks, Charlie. You're so fucking awesome, have I ever told you that?"

Charlie beams.

Quackity reaches over to ruffle Charlie's hair teasingly (he's used to the sensation of pseudo-solid that slips through his fingers at the action) and opens his mouth to continue, to suggest that they maybe they should haul this guy into the back and ask him some questions, when the lobby doors chime and slide open in quick succession.

The Hero Inferno bounds in, dark hair wild and palms glowing with embers. The Hero's masked gaze takes in the scene, and he relaxes a bit when he sees a lack of horrible violence or employees dying on the floor. Quackity scrambles for an excuse as he realizes how strange it must appear.

Inferno doesn’t seem to mind the oddity, though, taking his duty as a Hero seriously. "Is everything alright in here? I heard gunshots!"

"Everyone's okay!" Quackity chirps, trying to figure out how to explain the situation. He glides over toward the Hero and smiles 'nervously' up at him.

"That guy tried to rob us, so we had a bit of a scare… I didn't even have time to call for help!" Quackity lets relief and gratitude slip onto his face (only a little fake) as he settles a hand on the Hero's arm. "You're here anyway, though. Thank you."

Quackity truly appreciates the Hero coming in, regardless of his presence being relatively unnecessary.

Despite the shadows cast by The Hero's mask, Quackity can see slightly pointed ears reddened with what Quackity can only assume to be flattered pride.

"Oh, uh, I- yeah! Of course, I'm happy to help!" He smiles back at the avian with gleaming teeth and sharp canines. Inferno instinctively places a hand atop Quackity's, then jumps as he seems to remember the situation. "Wait, sorry- you said everyone is okay? I heard gunshots though-"

Quackity sees Charlie tune in from where he's been quietly talking to his grounded captive, and raise a hand up to cover the two bullet holes. After a moment, he removes his hand, revealing an apparently undamaged material. Quackity knows the trick, (Charlie disguising some of his matter to look like cloth), but still feels relieved at Charlie's quick thinking.

He shakes his head at Inferno, hoping the Hero hadn't seen Charlie, "They did fire at Charlie, but missed, thank Prime. They freaked out and tried to run afterwards, but Charlie tripped them up-"

The bunny starts to struggle again, and they twist beneath Charlie to try and look at Inferno. Immediately, they protest Quackity's story.

"No! That's not true, I did shoot him, It didn't do anything! He's some kind of freaky mutant-"

Charlie frowns, as does Inferno. The Hero breaks away from Quackity's touch and storms over to the bunny hybrid, motioning for Charlie to get up.

The cheerful brunette complies, patting the bunny's head, and Inferno hauls the frantic robber up by one arm.

"What's your name?" He demands, with none of the politeness he'd directed at Quackity.

"Warren! My name is Warren, listen, I don't care if you arrest me, I know this was stupid, but you have to believe me, these two are crazy! Look- he has bullet holes in his shir- what?" Both the Hero and robber looked at Charlie's 'undamaged' shirt.. "But it was- how- I saw-" The rabbit-hybrid devolves into frantic snuffing, eyes wild and nose twitching.

Inferno glances questioningly at Quackity, who shrugs. "I don't know what he's talking about."

Charlie intercedes, smiling again despite Warren's anxious protesting noises. "I assure you I am not the least bit crazy, Inferno of the Hero Commission!" Charlie turns to Quackity, eyes conveying a depth to his words that Quackity picks up on. "He is correct about one thing though, Quackity of Las Nevadas. It was quite silly of him to attempt a robbery here."

Quackity hums, and Inferno furrows his brow, looking lost.

"I don't get it." He turns, still holding on to Warren (which, totally great. Quackity can appreciate a man who can multitask), and says, "Quackity? That's your name?"

Quackity nods. At this point Warren has fallen silent, obviously sensing his word being dismissed. Serves them right for shooting Charlie. (Also admitting to it, Quackity has no words to describe how few brain cells he thinks the Bunny hybrid has).They hang limp in Inferno's grasp, something hollow in their defeated expression.

"Why was it stupid for him to rob this casino? Besides it being a criminal act, obviously. I doubt you knew I was coming."

The avian gives the Hero a wry smile, anticipation creeping up his spine. "Inferno," Quackity starts gently, as if reluctant to break the news, "This casino, well, most of the ones around here-" he pauses, only for dramatic effect. "They're owned by Jester."

Inferno's eyebrows shoot up, even Warren jerks in surprise (Inferno simply tightens his grip) and Quackity suppresses a laugh. He does like to see how his influence and reputation have spread.

(It scratches the never satisfied itch for power he used to hide deep enough that only a dangerously perceptive Blood God could find it).

"The crime lord?" Inferno blurts, looking for all the world like if he didn't have a grasp on the rabbit criminal, he would be flailing incredulously. "And you're okay working here? He's a criminal!"

Quackity exchanges a glance with Charlie, then returns his gaze to Inferno. "Owning property isn't a crime, and neither is hiring employees for legitimate businesses. As long as both of those are legal… Well, I don't see myself doing much else."

When the thought that he may have implied too much hits him, Quackity quickly adds: "I do like working here."

After all, while Jester the Villain may not have any plans to change the way he operates as long as he can wave the 'legal' flag, Quackity the employee just likes working in an above-board business.

Charlie nods emphatically, clasping his hands in front of him. "Me too! Being Security is quite entertaining!"

Quackity ignores the way the 'flesh' momentarily fuses together before splitting apart into two hands. Thankfully, Inferno seems more caught up on Charlie's words than his limbs.

"You're the security? But you're…" Inferno gawks, trailing off as he remembers himself.

Quackity raises an eyebrow, and Charlie blinks.

Inferno glances awkwardly between them, "Uh. You're… not armed." He finishes, a bit lamely.

Charlie laughs obliviously, and Quackity snorts into his hand.

Nice save, Hero.

In not quite the right inflection, Charlie attempts to reassure the Fire Hero. "Do not worry, Inferno from the Hero Commission! I have two perfectly good arms like any normal human!"

Inferno grins, embarrassment coloring his ears again beneath his white bandana. Quackity finds it charming.

"Fair enough." The Hero responds with a laugh, scratching the back of his chocolate hair with the hand not gripping the now silent Warren. He opens his mouth, turning back to Quackity with an oddly hopeful expression.

A quiet, glitchy noise from the Hero's earpiece cuts in, causing Inferno to straighten as he listens for whatever the com might be relaying.

As he presses his earpiece, he flashes Quackity a handsome, apologetic smile. "Inferno here, I'll be right over. Please send a police car to the eastern section of Las Nevadas by Duckbill street for a pick up. Thank you."

When Inferno finishes he shifts closer to Quackity, smiling down at the smaller man. "Sorry, but I have to go, get this guy locked up and stuff. Are you going to be here tomorrow? I still need to get your statement." The hero blushes for no conceivable reason. "Uh, and the security's."

Quackity's wings rustle behind him traitorously as he steps closer to the fiery Hero. "I can be here" He says, ignoring the captive bunny's disgusted expression. Quackity tilts his head as a thought occurs to him. "Shouldn't the police get our statements though?"

Inferno waits a beat too long before responding, head faced a bit to the side, away from eye contact. "Well, since this place belongs to a technical Villain, It would be best if a Hero investigates the crime."

Quackity nods. That checks out.

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then. Thank you so much!" He smiles and graciously doesn't mention the Hero's stuttered acknowledgement.

(He knows they won't find anything besides a horde of people swearing up and down that Jester owns everything in Essempi's version of a gambler's Chinatown, and that they don't know a thing about any illegality. Nothing pointing back to Quackity. Las Nevadas belongs to him and whoever has been messing with his numbers will learn that first hand.)

When the Hero leaves, Rabbit Robber in tow, Quackity pulls out his phone. He smiles as he scrolls down his list of contacts.

He needs to clean house if Jester has guests coming over.

¤¤¤¤¤°°°°°°¤¤¤¤¤¤¤°°°°°¤¤¤¤¤

Elsewhere…

Wilbur lounges on Niki's marble countertop, slowly inching toward the fresh tray of cookies cooling on top.

Closer and closer he subtly slides, making the appropriate affirmative noises to the story Niki's been telling about a ram-hybrid boy she met when volunteering at the library. Wilbur sticks his tongue out in concentration.

Alas, just when the gooey, chocolatey, delicious cookies are within reach, a wooden spatula comes down hard on the back of his hand.

SMACK!

"Ow! Niki!" Wilbur cries as he snatches his hand back, clutching it to his chest.

The woman brandishes her utensil fiercely, fins flaring as she scolds him. "Those are for the bake sale, you thief. Don't you have anything better to do than steal cookies from me?"

Wilbur pouts.

"But you only make them for the bake sale!" The phantom-hybrid protests. "I can beg if you want!"

Wilbur may be prideful, but even shame can't cut through his desire for those cookies. "Oh magnificent, beautiful, generous Niki, can this poor crime-boy have one of your amazing, flavorful cookies? Please?"

Niki laughs and pats his dark curls. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Wil. If you really want one you can come to the bake sale."

Wilbur slumps, draping over the counter in dismay. "But they won't be warm! Wait, I've got it." He nods decisively. "I'll help you! Niki, you can pay me in sweets."

"Definitely not." Niki disagrees immediately, shaking her head in a way that makes the light dance off her scales. "You're lucky you even get to be in my kitchen after the monstrosities I've seen you eat."

"Then I'll pay you!"

For a gratifying moment, Niki seems to consider it, but before she responds Wilbur's phone sounds from his pocket. She smirks as his ringtone blares. "Aren't you going to get that?" She asks innocently.

Wilbur pulls out the device, set on declining the call. However, when he sees the name on the screen he can't stop the grin overtaking his face.

He excuses himself from the room with a small wave to Niki as he swipes 'accept'.

"Quack-i-ty~" Wilbur coos into the receptor, a dark and dangerously giddy smile plastered across his face and voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Chapter Text

Same place, same time, Hero?

I'll be waiting.

The Blood God signed it with a stylized boar skull; as if Dream needed assistance in figuring out who tucked the note into his pocket.

He wipes the blood off his cheek with a sniff, still focused on the slip of paper he found sometime between the end of his encounter with the known Syndicate members and the beginning of Medical's check up.

The curtain shifting open in front of Dream forces him to shove the scrap into his trouser pocket. He knows he doesn't need to worry about the security of the room, (wouldn't have taken his mask off if just anyone could walk in), yet, Dream knows he can't answer any questions the message might incur.

George hisses in sympathy when he sees the marks left on Dreams' bared skin. "Fucker got you good." The attractive man states, eyeing the purpling abrasion stretching from Dreams shoulder to his lower ribs.

Dream smiles tiredly. "Would have been worse if I hadn't been wearing armor, Blood God definitely plays rough."

Not that he would mind in the right setting.

Dream tries not to think of the note burning a metaphorical hole in his pocket.

George scoffs, crossing his arms over his lean chest. "What do they even want? Half the time they're organized crime and half the time they're robbing museums and shit, like cartoon bad guys!"

"Yeah, but if the Syndicate just wanted to take over the city or commit terrorist acts we would have gotten them already." Sapnap interjects as he pokes his head into the medical area.

He has a bruise under his eye from one of Angel of Death's demon birds, and Dream winces. He knows how much the shadow crows can hurt.

George shakes his head, pointing to the damage across Dream's bare chest. "The Blood God has committed multiple acts of mass terrorism. They're dangerous. Just because we can stop nut jobs who want to play megalomaniacal-world-domination doesn't mean The Syndicate isn't also taking over the city one scheme at a time."

"The mass destruction was all years ago." Dream interjects, not really defending Blood God as much as himself. The last mass murder that the Villain committed coincided with Dream's first couple months of hero-ing over two years prior. The crimes on The Blood God's roster have been much more mild since.

Like, Dream has standards for who he sleeps with.

Low standards obviously, but standards nonetheless.

Sapnap looks a bit confused. "Bro, I love you, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Dream rolls his eyes. "I'm just saying, that's de-escalating if anything. That means if he is planning a takeover, he's doing so… y'know, methodically."

George doesn't appreciate his sound reasoning.

"I know you fight him the most, but we weren't just talking about Blood God, Dream. Syndicate encounters have almost doubled since the hostage debacle. We've seen Blood God twice in the past two months alone, and that fucker is like a cryptid. Clear escalation. They're planning something."

"Twice?" Dream echoes without thinking.

George shoots him a puzzled look. Dream tries not to cringe at his mistake. "Yeah. Twice. Once when we were fighting Siren and Blood God threw you off that building, and again literally today. Did you hide having a concussion under that piss-hoodie of yours?"

No, Dream just forgot that unreported dalliances with supervillains remain unreported for a reason. Not that he can tell these two that.

Sapnap snorts.

Dream shakes his head, frowning with faux-irritation as he attempts to deflect. "Wh- stop calling it piss-colored! It's green, what is wrong with you?"

George rolls his eyes. "I'm colorblind, obviously; therefore, everything you wear is ugly. But seriously, how many sightings were you thinking?"

Three, if I'm counting the apartment.

"Uh, no, two is right. I just didn't realize they were that recent."

George sighs. "Only you would get stuck fighting that beast the most and forget how often you have to do it."

Sapnap, who had been distracted by one of the elaborate scientific diagrams on the wall, tunes back in. "Prime, it sucks that we can't just switch up with you, give you a break when he shows up."

"I prefer not to be snapped in half by that brute actually. Dream can keep him. Siren is bad enough when I have to fight him at close range. Like, my powers aren't even useful because I spend the entire time forcing him not to use his voice on everyone else around." George bemoans, collapsing in the visitor chair as if the mere thought of fighting the Voice Villain weighed him down.

Despite there being no official pair-up between Dream and the Blood God in their fights, past battles had proven Dream to be the most evenly matched against (potentially even the only Hero capable of subduing) the Villain. Hence, whenever clashes with Syndicate members occurred, Dream usually found himself fighting the Blood God. Things were the same with Sapnap and the Angel of Death, as well as with George and Siren. 'Playing to their strengths', the Commission called it, but Dream had found that it was just the only way to keep the Villains truly occupied. Also, despite their recent private encounters, the Blood God has neither pulled punches nor showed mercy to Dream, so Dream had a feeling it would be even worse for his teammates.

Dream laughs. "At least we don't see them that often. Anyway, did anyone find out what they stole tonight?"

"A fuck ton of ancient Empire jewelry that the museum had just acquired and a set of Pogtopian long swords. Millions of dollars worth of artifacts. Thousands more in damages from the fight." Sapnap responds, sitting on the edge of the medical cot and crossing his ankle over his knee.

"Damn. Did we get anything?" Dream winces, thinking of the wall he crashed through with the Blood God. He thinks they knocked over a display on their way; hopefully something unshatterable.

Sapnap nods cheerfully. "I got the museum clerk's phone number."

George smacks the other brunette on the back of his head. "Dream wasn't asking about Barl or whatever he's called." The colorblind Hero ignores Sapnap's protesting. "We managed to keep one of the two crates on the grounds. Security has been posted in case they come for it."

Dream nods thoughtfully. He knows as well as the other two that the Syndicate won't be foolish enough to return to an item they've already shown an interest in. They'll wait months until they try again, if at all.

Wait.

"Barl?" Dream asks slyly, enjoying Sapnap's blush.

Sapnap waves a hand, going for nonchalant even as his beaming grin betrays him. "Karl actually. He didn't mean to be there so late, just got caught up in work. He has trouble with time management."

"Oh?" Dream prompts teasingly. "And what does he look like?"

"He's so cute, Dream. He has this floofy brown hair and a great smile. I wanna ask him out." Sapnap gushes, flopping backwards over the cot. Dream scootches his legs out of the flop zone.

George rolls his eyes.

"Like I told you with the casino boy, dating as Inferno is just too risky. Approach them as a civilian first so you don't end up waking up in a warehouse as they negotiate the price for a lovestruck Hero." George scolds, practical and pessimistic as usual. "Just go to a bar if you want to sleep with someone."

He has a good point, and Dream would follow it himself if he were looking to date someone. Currently, with Tommy and everything else, Dream hasn't tried dating for a while.

He thinks of hooking up in a club or something, finding a stranger to spend the night with and never seeing them again. He thinks of the last person he slept with, pink hair and muscular thighs.

Dream fingers the paper in his pocket.

Sapnap shakes his head, oblivious to Dream's internal dilemma. "I don't need to do that. He already knows my identity."

"What?" George cries, clutching his scalp as Dream looks over in alarm. "Sapnap!"

Sapnap sits up, waving his hands frantically before George starts frothing at the mouth. "No, no! Not like that. He has a standing government issued gag order. His power allows him to see through time, so unless he wants to sign on with the Commission, or be locked up for life, he can't tell anyone the stuff he sees. He only told me accidentally because his power told him my name."

George doesn't look appeased, opening his mouth to argue.

"That literally means he broke the law. Does that not raise any red flags for you?"

Sapnap whines pitifully. "It's only because we're meant to be. Why else would future me reveal my identity!"

"He didn't! You did! By confirming it! That's how they get you!"

"But-"

As his two best friends begin to squabble about the mysteries of time travel paradoxes, Dream thinks about the note.

Will he really risk everything to meet up with his enemy again? It shouldn't even be a question. Dream knows the correct answer.

~♧♧~♧~♧♧~♧~♧~♧♧~

"I should call you in." Dream gasps later that night, as Blood God mouths up the line of flesh he bruised earlier. "Report your whereabouts."

The Blood God's eyebrow raises as his lust-dark eyes flick upwards. "Are you going to?" He asks as he runs his calloused hands up Dream's legs. Dream raises them obligingly.

"I don't know." Dream replies honestly, blinking up at the ceiling, "I- ah!" He cries out, when Blood God's sharp teeth nip at the conjunction between his unblemished shoulder and the ink stain of burgundy

"Tell me when you decide," The Blood God murmurs close to Dream's ear as their bodies intertwine as close as humanly possible.

"I'd hate to have to find a different building on short notice," he growls.

Dream clings to him desperately, mouthing his teeth along the man's scarred shoulder retailiatorily (even as he whimpers with heady appreciation at the other man's skilled touch).

Next time, Dream thinks, I'll report.

○●□●●

"Is this a new couch?" Dream asks breathlessly next time, as he presses the Blood God to the unfamiliar, sky blue upholstery.

"Nah, not- hah, not at all." The Blood God moans as he arches up from the lumpless, padded new furniture.

(The Hero doesn't bother to find the time to contest that statement when the pretty sounds of the man beneath him would make an erotica author weep).

□■□■□■□■□■□•□■□■□□■

"You can call me Blade if you want" Blood God whispers the time after that, after Dream has called out his Villain title for the world (or the rest of the empty apartment) to hear. "Bit easier than 'Blood God'."

"Blade?" Dream repeats questioningly, tasting the word on his tongue as he slumps against soft cotton sheets on the newly queen-sized bed.

Blood God hums against the fresh blooming bruise on Dream's collar. "It's what I was gonna use before the media named me Blood God. Close enough to my actual name that it won't be weird for me." He smirks against Dream's skin. "Protesilaus works as well. I went by that for a while. But I'd hate for that to be the only mouthful you get during our meetings."

Dream gives him a scandalized look and Blood God bursts out laughing.

♡◇♤◇♤♡◇♤♡♡♡

"You aren't in our systems." Dream admits some time after that, tangling his fingers into loose pink locks. He had checked the Commission Database twice over, trying every variation of Blade and similar names that he could think of. He gave up when Fundy started sending him questioning, concerned glances from the monitor over.

It had been a couple hours.

Blade snorts between kisses "I wouldn't have told you anything if I was."

"Aren't you angry I looked?" Dream asks, straddling the Piglin hybrid amidst the twisted sheets.

The Villain rolls his hips up, grinding against the plush of Dream's ass. "I figured you would look when I told you. Although I can be angry if you want. Furious, even."

The Blood God shoots Dream an exaggeratedly sultry look, deepening his voice to a growl. "Have you been a bad boy, Morpheus?"

Dream laughs and meets him for another kiss, adjusting his position on top of Blade. "Maybe for round three."

The Blood God groans approvingly.

□●■●■●■●€££¥₩£¥£¥£■●■●○□○□○□

The apartment changes more each time Dream enters it, like the homeowner's version of the twilight zone.

"Isn't it a bit cost prohibitive to renovate a for-sale building? What are you gonna do when it sells?" Dream calls as he exits the bathroom onto new hardwood flooring. Cherrywood, Dream guesses, only a shade or two lighter than the new cupboards.

Blade pulls the hair tie from his mouth as he fastens his long hair into a bun. "Building has already been bought." He drawls.

"What?" Dream couldn't have heard that right. "By who?"

"Whom." Blade corrects absent-mindedly as he sits on the blue couch to fasten his boots. Unlike the last couch with its undetermined fate, this couch sits fashionably in the open concept living room with a rustic coffee table in front.

"By whom then, you snob." Dream pulls his hoodie (not his reinforced hero 'hoodie', but a regular green one) off the coat hooks on the newly painted entryway wall.

(Blue as well, Dream thinks there might be a trend).

Blade stands, striding over to the off-duty Hero. "By me, of course. Who do you think?"

Dream shifts as the Blood God approaches. He might be a little surprised that Blade bought an entire building, but he knows how possessive the Villain can be over the things he claims. Dream doesn't have to think too hard about whether a building Blade frequents counts under the same jurisdiction. However..."You actually bought the entire building?"

Blade pauses where he had been reaching for Dream's waist, probably about to derail their plans to part ways. "Under a pseudonym and everything." He levels a look at Dream. "You can't just steal a building, Morpheus."

Dream scoffs. "I know that, I would be the one to stop any idiot that tried. I just didn't think you would actually take the risk and buy it. Even false identities can be traced." The Blood God curls his fingers in Dream's belt loops, anchoring them together.

Blade smirks, unperturbed; exuding the same smug confidence that causes half of Dream's problems. "Not mine. Don't worry, this building completely belongs to me, no interruptions." The Piglin-hybrid cocks his head to one side. "Or… maybe you like the risk? Does golden boy Morpheus get hot at the thought of some poor unsuspecting civilian stumbling in on us while scouting properties? Careful Hero, your exhibitionistic tendencies are showing."

Morpheus flushes brilliantly. "I'm not an exhibitionist!"

Blade adopts a look of exaggerated disbelief. "Okay."

"Wha- I'm not!"

"Okay Morpheus, I believe you."

"Don't say it like that!" Dream screeches, face flaming.

"Like what, Morpheus? I'm just telling you I believe you. No exhibitionism in this one. Nah-ah, not at all. Definitely never got off in a public alleyway." Blade monotones infuriatingly as he makes his way towards the door.

Dream chases after him as the Villain exits apartment 7B. "You were the one-! Hey, come back!"

The Villain moves fast, Dream has to run to catch him before he reaches the down stairs. Giving up on the subject, Dream falls into step beside the Blood God at the top of the stair.

When Blade looks over questioningly, Dream just shrugs.

"So how close to your real name is the pseudonym?" The Hero asks, leaning back to sneak a surreptitious glimpse of the other man's toned hindquarters. When he catches Blade's unimpressed side-eye, he offers a cheeky grin.

"You're gonna have to figure that out for yourself, Hero" Blood God responds as they descend into the first floor.

Dream sighs. He figured that would be the case.

As they exit the stairwell, which still creaks ominously under their combined weight, Blade whirls towards Dream, crowding him against the wall.

"Wha-"

Click

"Sorry Morpheus, I don't have time for our cat and mouse today. Crimes to commit and all that." Blade murmurs as he clicks closed a handcuff around Dream's left wrist. The other connects to the rail of the stairs.

"Oh." Dream blinks down at the cuff then back up at Blade, whose hair glows like the sunset in the golden light of evening that streams through the bottom floor windows. "Damn."

The Blood God's stoic eyes crinkle in amusement as he presses a small case into Dream's right hand. Before Dream can look at it, Blade leans in close enough to nip Dream's earlobe.

"I hope you know how to pick locks, Hero." The Villain purrs. He pats Dream's shoulder as he turns away, sauntering towards the door with his attractive backside in full, taunting view.

Infuriating man.

"Later, Morpheus. Keep the cuffs if you want to use them next time." Blade throws over his shoulder before he disappears out the complex entrance, and Dream can't even muster up the desire to be indignant.

Taking one look at the lockpick set he didn't own five minutes prior, Dream sighs. At least the Blood God left him that.

As he mourns his limited experience lock-picking, Dream counts himself lucky that he didn't have plans later.

Hopefully Tommy doesn't wait up.

¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤¤°¤°¤¤°¤⊙¤⊙¤°°¤¤°¤°

(¿¡)

"Techno!" A pink-haired merling cries happily upon seeing the similarly pink-haired Piglin-hybrid.

She slides a pile of papers towards him when he reaches the desk she sits at. "Here are the compiled reports from the network that you requested. You were right, we aren't getting accurate headcounts from the Vanoss gang."

Techno nods as he flicks through the first couple pages. "Thanks Niki, I'll look into it. Find anything out about what's going on with the old railroad yard?"

Niki's expression sobers, and she sighs, pursing her lips as she leans forward on the desk. Not good news then.

"Yes. You know how I'm trying to get our people into that trafficking organization, so we can end it?"

Technoblade nods. The ring they were in the process of taking down had recently started making a big name for itself and its... merchandise.

Niki had been outraged to find out that they were operating right beneath the Syndicate's collective nose, and when she approached Philza about it, shaking with righteous indignation and quiet titanous fury, the blonde had promised her anything she needed to eradicate the operation completely.

So far, the ring was evading her efforts solely because they always seemed to know when a move was being made on the Syndicate's end. Techno had discussed concerns about a potential mole with Philza, the two deciding to keep an ear to the ground for the time being.

Niki brings a hand up to rub tiredly at her eyes, and Technoblade ignores the little part of his mind that cries for him to take her into a safe, quiet place and guard her while she rests. She's the best of them all at knowing her own limits and staying healthy, though, so Technoblade knows he can trust her to come to him if she needs him.

He also ignores the louder part of his mind that calls for him to sweep all the members of his sounder up in a bundle and take them away on a vacation.

Technooooo you should force everyone to take a break.

Run away with them for the summer and go upstate~

Dude, that ref is like seven years old news

Obligatory beach episode time!!!!!!

Beach man bucket hat dadza

We should bring Morpheus and see him in a bikini.

E

OMG literally please I'll DIE but I'll die happy

Isty bitsy teeny weenie lime green teletubby bikini

Technoblade never tires

Have a kitkat

Then PERISH HAHAHH

Wilbur could eat more sand

Y'all really sleeping on Ranboo's enderman half huh?

"I haven't been able to...they had an auction, Techno." Niki says quietly, and when he hears the quaver in her voice Techno tunes out Chat's apparent inability to be serious. "Another auction and I'm moving too slow to stop them! They were right there in the old yard. They had been keeping the victims in the cars last week. If I had just been a little faster-"

Technoblade shakes his head. "It has nothing to do with how fast you're working, Niki. These people are tyrants. Sick, twisted tyrants who don't care if they grind others into the dirt for their money."

He knows all too well what individuals who view people as stock are like, and he knows that the sound of their bones snapping beneath his heel is as sharp as anyone else's. "We'll get there, and we'll kill every last one of those bastards if possible. I promise."

Technoblade doesn't make vows, doesn't have fond views of them. Hates the placation and lies that people use to control others. So when Technoblade makes a promise? He'll raze the earth to keep it.

Niki offers a wet smile to the larger hybrid.

"Thanks, Techno. I know we will, it's just… so hard to wait. It's hard to remember we're making a difference."

The Piglin-hybrid hums his agreement, face stony.

Technoblade knows objectively that the Syndicate's goals are slowly being achieved. He personally has interacted with the goon-level members plenty, knows how oddly cheerful they are when they greet Philza and Wilbur and even him.

Those people have better lives because of The Syndicate's work. Better chances, safety. Techno knows the Syndicate does well with its purpose.

But the sheer amount of tragedy that the Commission simply cannot prevent, or doesn't care to… it still exists. Technoblade still sees it, and it still brings about difficult nights, where he hears pleading from the pits, and hears crying children whose parents have been stripped from them by the government's neglect.

Those nights, he does wonder. Wonders if he can really be Protesilaus, first to the fight for justice and willing to die for his cause. Maybe he has always actually been Sisyphus, blind to the futility of everything he does.

A gentle touch on his arm slips him from his brooding, and he looks over to see Niki has come around the desk to stand next to him.

"Don't forget it, though."

Techno blinks down at her, and she clarifies:

"Don't forget that we're making a difference. We're the 'Villains' because we don't follow the rules in order to change things, but at least we are changing them. I talk to the people whose lives we're improving. Seeing the kids who get a chance to heal from everything, hearing people sing even after they had their voice stolen… that's what helps me remember. Even if we can't fix the world, we can help rid it of some evils."

Techno sighs, expression softening as the younger woman talks some hope into him.

She has always been good at that.

Niki sees the slight change in his expression, and her earnest seriousness fades into a more pleased calm.

She steps toward him; and Technoblade, recognizing her body language, lifts his arms so she can hug him. He returns the gesture carefully, allowing her to take some comfort in the embrace (and secretly pleased with it himself). Techno's frame dwarfs Niki's easily, but they both know he's far too soft toward her to harm her. She's one of the few people Techno will hug without at least a little half-hearted grumbling.

Niki sighs, a contented, faint noise, and gives Techno one final squeeze before she draws back.

"Thanks, Techno."

"Ehh, Don't mention it." His lips quirk upward slightly, "Seriously, don't. Got a reputation to maintain, y'know?"

Niki rolls her eyes at the gentle teasing, and smiles back at him. "Whatever you say, Techno."

After a moment where the somber subject passes to the backburner, she nudges him, and he meets her eyes to find a conspiratorial glint in her gaze.

"I know your sweet tooth isn't as unending as Wil's, but I saved some cookies from Tuesday's bakesale... I thought I could use them to bribe your brother, but maybe they're better suited with you."

Technoblade grins down at her. "Niki, you are my favorite and a goddess. Show me the loot so I may worship your craft, oh divine mistress of baking."

Niki laughs.

○■□○■●

Chapter Text

Something about the President's office has always put Dream on edge.

Maybe the lighting, which the man keeps artificially low. The shadows stretching across the carved, sleek furniture seemed ominous to a younger Dream, like the grasping claws of the monsters he saw around every corner.

The President gets migraines, Dream had reminded himself time and time again as the feeling didn't fade, nothing unusual about that. Yet, Dream's uneasiness clung even on the rare visits that the curtains were open.

So he thought about the view. Perhaps Dream simply disliked the way the President's office looms over the city from the very top of the Hero Commission. He can see everything. Every building, tower, car, and apartment from the 360 degree glass panel view. Hundreds of thousands of people as miniscule as ants scurry below, barely noticeable to the god-like perspective.

But Dream knows how amazing he feels when he gets to patrol high above the streets of Essempi. The freedom he feels in the heights of the city. If he had been born with wings like Tommy, not even the Angel of Death could get him down.

So he blames the decor, the atmosphere, the odd, genetically modified ficus in the corner laden with blackened fruits. Through it all Dream ignores the niggling voice insisting that the problem lies with the man in charge.

"Ah, Dream, you're here." The President greets from behind his black oak desk, hands folded before him and verdant eyes glinting in the low light. As his gaze skirts over Dream's attire he tsks disdainfully. "Please, you know how I feel about masks in my office."

Dream bites his lip. Damn. He had been hoping the President would let it slide. He carefully reaches up, sliding his mask off in a smooth motion and missing the flicker of satisfaction across The President's face.

The room descends into silence as Dream waits for The President to speak. When nothing is forthcoming, Dream hesitantly starts, "You wanted to see me, President?"

The Man sighs with faux exasperation, leaning back in his chair. "How many times have I told you to call me Uncle? You might hurt my feelings with all this formality."

"Of course, Uncle Xavier. I'm sorry." Dream responds stiffly. The President smiles, all teeth, and Dream looks away.

The man prefers that title, as if acknowledging the loose relation between the Innit-WasTaken brothers and himself would create some sort of family bond. Regardless of the similarities, the familiar green eyes and blond waves (more akin to Dream's brassy locks than Tommy's sunflower curls), Dream's 'Uncle' has never been a sibling to either of Dream's parents.

Guilt creeping in, Dream dismisses the bitterness that comes with the thought that he and his brother are orphans in a world that provided only President Dee as their next of kin.

It shouldn't matter whether the man who claims them as his nephews should really be called cousin, or relative, or even (to be truthful) stranger; Xavier Dee exists as the last remaining connection to their family on the planet.

A family that Dream has never considered his Uncle a part of (even though Dream tries so hard to make this work).

"You wanted to see me?" He prompts again, pretending he can't possibly tear his gaze away from the painted vase in the corner.

(Dream actually hates it a little bit, having spent so much time staring at it these past few years.)

He startles when the President claps a hand on his shoulder; the man had rounded his desk when Dream's attention was diverted. When Dream's startled eyes snap back forward, a matching green gaze crinkles in amusement. "Come now, nephew, can't an uncle just want to see his kin? How is Thomas? He doesn't seem to have much time for Uncle X. anymore."

You didn't seem to care about us the first decade Tommy existed. Dream thinks uncharitably. He kicks himself mentally. How ungrateful must Dream be to the man who gave him and Tommy shelter even before Dream had completed his training in his uncle's organization?

It doesn't matter how distant his estranged uncle seems, he obviously cares about the brothers. Even if he doesn't bother to make time for them outside of scheduled performance meetings, even if the last time Dream saw him was three months prior when a mistake on Dream's part had led to a civilian's death.

As far as Dream knows, Tommy hasn't seen their uncle in even longer. (The man doesn't care to know how well his younger nephew does in his studies, accepting a report at the end of each year from Tommy's Commission-paid tutors and calling it good).

Dream tries for a smile. "Tommy is fine, keeping busy. Are you sure there isn't anything you wanted? You called me in on the Commission's Network. Wouldn't want to be accused of nepotism in the workplace."

A valid fear of Dream's actually, though few people know about the genetic relationship he shares with his employer. Morpheus' Team gets the most funding out of any in the district, best healing, best equipment. All approved by the Commission president.

Dream can only imagine the outrage from the other Heroes if they found out he has blood-ties to the man green-stamping budget requests.

Given that this meeting request had come over Dream's official commission email, Dream knows better than to expect a personal meeting. The President knows which apartment Dream lives in if he really wants to just see the brothers.

The president scoffs teasingly, leaning back on his heels. "I fund your team because you are the best Heroes this city has. I would hardly call that nepotism."

Leaning back against the desk, the President sighs. "Although…" He holds his hand up in a 'you got me' gesture. "I'll admit that I did have ulterior motives for calling you here."

Dream nods expectantly, unsurprised. His uncle rarely just wants to 'check up on him'. (Dream thinks his ears still ring occasionally from the lecture he had received at their last meeting). Dream wouldn't have believed it even if the president had dismissed him right then.

This time, however, Dream has little idea what the man wants.

Dream's behavior has been exemplary. He hasn't gotten heavily injured in months. Civilian casualties as a result of Villain and Hero clashes have been almost non-existent. Crime rates have gone down. Dream has been on duty six days a week since he got cleared for active duty after the Syndicate situation.

The Syndicate.

Oh shit.

Dream prays fervently that the President has an innocent, easily explainable complaint for Dream. Maybe Dream had accidentally tripped another Hero, or dropped something on a civilian's head.

Anything but-

"I am truly sorry it has taken me so long to call you in." The President starts, looking so apologetic that Dream feels faint. "Especially after such an experience."

"Experience?" Dream squeaks, before clearing his throat. Dream refuses to give himself away out of nerves.

Surely the man hasn't been monitoring him to the point that he knows what (or who) Dream does in his spare time. The President wouldn't have let it go on this long.

(His meetings with Blood God aren't hurting anyone, something inside him whispers. Dream knows he hasn't been compromised despite the enemy knowing his face. No one should even know about any of it).

A chilling thought occurs to Dream. The thought of being ordered to continue as a spy, breaking that fragile unspoken relationship that allows Dream to forget his problems for a moment.

Or worse, maybe the president sees it as some kind of forced relationship. Like Dream might be a victim instead of a fully consenting adult. That thought stings. His decisions are his own, even the bad ones.

Like, of course Dream wouldn't be so arrogant as to say it couldn't happen, but, in this scenario? Dream one hundred percent takes responsibility for his choices.

But no, the President wouldn't be so casual about all this if he thought Dream was engaging in untoward behavior.

Subsequently proving Dream right, the president throws him an odd look. "When you were held hostage by the Syndicate."

Dream relaxes immediately. "Oh... I already put my report in for that."

The President hums. "Yes, I read it. That is what I wanted to discuss with you, of course. It sounds quite harrowing, don't tell me you've moved past it so quickly?"

Dream chuckles nervously, covering the inappropriate noise with a cough

Sure, when Dream first woke up he had very much believed his life was over; but, even with the company of the Blood God, (who, in hindsight, clearly had many other things on his mind) Dream quickly realized that his temporary cell had none of the outfittings of a torture chamber.

There had been more possibility of dying from boredom than the Syndicate in that stupid room.

"I'm pretty tough, Uncle X." He says with a fake smile.

"Anyway," Dream continues, waving a hand dismissively, "The Syndicate was mostly preoccupied during my stay."

Dream waits for the usual concerned pleasantries. The 'Well I'm glad you're alright, at least' 's and 'those dastardly Villains, how dare they take you' 's people have given him since he returned. Surely there can't be anything the man wants to know that Dream didn't already cover in his report.

"Except the Blood God of course."

Dream's blood freezes as warning bells ring in his head.

"You reported that he was your sole guard." Dream really doesn't like the look in the President's eyes.

"Yeah?" Dream agrees warily, defensively. "We tend to get matched up the most because of our similar skill levels. I assume they didn't want any chance of me escaping."

The President doesn't look satisfied, tilting his head like a particularly predatory bird. "Tell me, did he reveal anything in the hours you spent together?"

Now, Dream has no loyalty to Blood God. Absolutely none. The Villain has enough blood staining his hands to paint a house.

When they aren't on the battlefield, Dream and the Blood God occasionally fuck. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn't matter if Dream laughs at the Villain's jokes, or if Dream likes the man's ass; Dream would sell that Criminal out for a stale chip if it came down to it.

However, for pure self-preservation, (and the preservation of the good people in the city), Dream has found himself keeping certain information a secret.

Back when he first made his report, Dream realized that, even if he wanted to, given the high likelihood the information would get a lot of people killed, explaining exactly how he discovered a 'weakness' to Blood God's powers would require him to explain the essential game he had played with one of his captors. It would require him to reveal what he lost in return.

Absolutely no one could know that one of the most dangerous men in the city had seen his bare face. No one could know that Dream gave away any personal information at all.

(No one could know that he gave more than information)

So Dream claimed the Blood God had let it slip that his hair wasn't naturally pink, that his relationship with Siren falls outside the realm of anything useful to the Commission's eternal search for the Syndicate's identities. Little things that Dream could have hypothetically goaded the normally untalkative Villain into revealing.

He had tried to be helpful since, investigating any scrap of potential the Blood God drops during their meetings.

Dream knows the Blood God doesn't care (has irrefutable proof in the bite marks on his thighs), but he still tries to find something that can get the Syndicate off the streets permanently. If the Villain admitted to some sort of heinous plan in action, Dream would absolutely report it.

(Hence why Dream spent three hours handcuffed to a rail instead of his futile attempts at following the Criminal's path to whatever base or crime the man always heads to after they part ways).

(The Blood God sees it as a game, Dream thinks, and always manages to lose the Hero within a mere block of their separation).

The fact of the matter remains that the Commission would have the same amount of information whether Dream screws the Blood God or not because, regardless of the jokes the Criminal makes, neither he nor Dream discuss anything to do with their chosen professions.

They just don't.

So unless the President wants to know the size shoe the Villain wears or the color of the man's pubic hair (Pink, which raises multiple questions about the man's claims of his hair color's unnatural state. Does he dye it? Dream needs to know), Dream has nothing to tell him.

"Only what was in my report." Dream lies, trying not to spiral down a rabbit hole mentally as his mind conjures up some of his favorite memories of his enemy's splayed form.

An unreadable expression crosses the President's face as the man folds his arms. "Six hours and the Villain merely remarked on his own physical appearance? The Blood God loves to monologue, are you sure he didn't say anything else?"

Dream hesitates. "He tried at the beginning I think, mostly just insulted me, he doesn't believe in Government or something. " A bit of a simplification. "I wasn't really listening."

The President looks dubious, mouth opening like he wants to keep pushing before his expression smooths out suddenly. Dream can hear what sounds like the slightest note of concern in his next words:

"If you're sure…" The President trails off, like he genuinely doubts Dream's sureness but doesn't want to outright say it.

Dream nods, prepared to assure the man of his truthfulness. Before he can, the president adopts a mildly beseeching look.

"Just…"

Xavier looks nervous, almost sad, and it looks so viscerally wrong on the unflappable man's face that Dream almost flinches.

When his Uncle steps forward again, clapping both hands on Dream's shoulders, Dream can only meet the green gaze with a kind of startled bewilderment.

"Villain's lie, Dream. You can't trust a word that comes out of their mouths." The President sounds so serious, so afraid, that Dream sort of wants to run away. "Just- just promise me you won't trust a Villain. Don't believe anything they say."

Dream gapes for a moment, unsure and slightly awestruck at the President's fervent demands. He takes too long and his shoulders begin to ache beneath Xaviers tightening grip.

"I-" Dream starts, only to gasp as his uncle's fingers dig in painfully. The President immediately releases him, allowing him to stumble back a step. His uncle looks remorseful, the closest thing to an apology Dream will ever get from the man.

"I know Villains can't be trusted." Dream says, uncomfortable, watching the relief ripple over the President. "I don't particularly want to believe whatever twisted narrative they have for why they choose crime either."

However, everyone lies and, although Dream definitely won't trust the infallibility of the pseudonym Blood God chose for the apartment (Dave Blud, which Dream finds equally horrible and ridiculous), Dream does believe that at least Blade chooses to be confusing instead of dishonest.

It seems like an overreaction to lump all Villains under the same label, but Dream doesn't intend to discover whether or not other criminals act like his current reference model.

His words are enough for the Commission's president though, and Dream lets the topic drop.

His uncle sighs, at ease like that unusual exchange never happened and flashes Dream a quick smile. "One more thing before you go. Have you given more thought to what we discussed before?"

Dream's reflexive smile sours."I already said no."

Xavier couldn't seriously be bringing this up again.

"Really nephew, this could change everything we know about your power, I don't understand why you refuse to consider it." The President says; like Dream's refusal holds no more weight than a child's tantrum. Dream bristles.

"With all due respect, I'm not comfortable experimenting with living things. We have no idea what my inventory would do to them." Which Dream has stated before, in his first, second, and third refusal of the President's proposition.

Dream can see the irritation that crosses his Uncle's face for a split second, though the man does his best to hide it. "Dream, please consider the immense benefits of storing a living thing in your inventory. If you could pull a civilian out of danger, or bring extra agents into a hostile territory-"

Dream interrupts him. "If. That's the thing, Uncle, if I could. We have no proof that whatever poor sap gets pulled in won't come back a corpse, or something worse. I'm just not comfortable doing that. There's no science that proves it won't end horribly."

The President turns, facing away from Dream and splaying a hand on his desk. "We wouldn't start with people, my dear nephew. There are lab rats and rabbits a plenty to begin the trials on, and-" he lifts his other hand in a stop motion as Dream makes a noise of protest. "I already have a full team of educated scientists prepared to prove or disprove the idea."

Dream comes to the sudden realization that his Uncle doesn't care about his consent. Xavier has already set up the experiments, paid the team as well by the sound of it. With nauseating sureness, Dream believes that if his powers were any more accessible, he wouldn't even have the ability to stall.

But why stall at all? If the President's theory holds any weight, Dream's power absolutely could save even more people, tucking injured civilians into a potential stasis pocket until medical help arrives, or transporting more conspicuous heavy hitters into stealth missions.

He should just agree, be a better Hero but-

"I'm just not comfortable with it." Prime, he already sounds defeated, and his uncle can tell, circling around his imposing desk to face Dream.

"We can ease in." Xavier promises, lowering himself back into his desk chair. "Start with insects- grasshoppers perhaps- then move on to small rodents. This won't be terrible, Dream, you will be amazed by how easily it all happens."

How can you be so sure it will work at all? Dream wants to shout, already feeling the oppressive push for more more more closing in around him.

Dream fears the President's unrepentant surety more than his disappointment. Will his Uncle let Dream stop the experiments if his hypothesis proves correct, if Dream can actually store living things in his inventory?

Dream dreads the answer, dreads the loss of the little control he has in just saying no. He dreads his Uncle latching on to the tiny thread of curiosity that even Dream has about his powers' limit and tugging it, dragging Dream down a path he fears.

He can keep refusing, the President doesn't have the authority to force him into the experiments; Captain Puffy would stop Xavier from infringing on Dream's rights.

But-

What does it matter if Dream feels uncomfortable when pushing the known limits of his powers could save lives.

Dream swore to protect the people of his city to the best of his abilities, what right does he have to renege on that because of discomfort?

"We can work out a start date later, I know you must be eager to get back to things." His uncle says when no more protests leave Dream's pursed lips. When he begins flipping through the papers on his desk, Dream knows he's been dismissed.

Dream nods once then pivots on his heel, ignoring the miserable prickling at the corners of his eyes. The mask goes back on a few feet from the door.

"Oh, and Dream?"

Dream turns back towards the president, one hand on the door.

Xavier looks up, briefly, before looking back to his paperwork. "You're a good Hero, Dream. I'm going to make you a great one."

Dream nods again, sharply. Biting his lip against the surprising bitter feeling gripping his chest like a vice. He pushes out of the door before he can say anything he'd regret.

It might not work, Dream assures himself as he closes the penthouse office behind him. Xavier doesn't know everything.

His footsteps stutter as he realizes the truth in the statement.

Xavier doesn't know everything.

Dream stifles a giggle, mind made up to change his plans for the evening. His patrol reports can wait until tomorrow, Dream decides, resuming his pace.

Dream has a pink-haired 'everything' to find.

■■■■■■■■■■■□□□□□□□□□□□□□□ (Ranboo line break)

"Oops- Shit!" Tommy hisses violently as he scrabbles for purchase on the roof.

His wings strain against the bindings of his vigilante costume in an attempt to balance their owner. They fail, obviously, and Tommy calls on the wind in a last ditch attempt not to fall to his death.

When he stabilizes, finding a foothold past the blood-rushing in his ears and his nausea-inducing heartbeats, he presses a finger to the screeching com in his ear. (A com that Tommy borrowed a couple months back from Sam's workshop).

"-'Oops'? You dont get to say oops, Tommy, what the fuck happened??-" Tubbo wails.

Tommy winces. "Codenames, Hive. I just slipped is all."

The inhuman noise of angry exasperation that erupts from the earpiece almost causes Tommy to fall again.

When Tubbo actually speaks, though, his voice is scarily pleasant, "-Boss Man, this is already stressful enough without having to scrape you off the pavement. We are fighting crime, not gravity."- The older boy's tone drops suddenly, abandoning the false cheer. -"Fall one more time and I'll drag you back here faster than your brother can kill me for letting you do this.-" Tubbo hisses. Tommy knows very well how serious the goat boy's threats are.

He shudders. Not out of fear of course; the roof has just gotten a bit chilly in the past thirty seconds..

"Fine, fine. I'll be more careful. Hit me with my next target, Big Man. Anything on the police scanner?"

There's a considering hum, and Tubbo mutters:

-"Minor fire somewhere outside the district, being handled by the fire department and Inferno. Someone's reporting graffiti on a stop sign, auto theft near the Southwest airport, but there's a police chase ongoing already so nothing we can do, Triton is handling some small-scale armed robbery with the cops, on the east side of the county…"- he rattles off, more to himself than to Tommy. -"Someone's calling in a possible breaking-and-entering incident, dispatch just sent out an officer… Everything's being covered. You probably have to patrol for a bit, try to find someone to help in-person.-"

"Will do. I'll be heading towards West Park for now. Theseus out."

Tommy can hear Tubbo snicker in his ear; He flushes but decides to be the eternally bigger man by ignoring his friend.

He launches himself across the rooftop, kicking off and boosting his jump with his powers. The young vigilante repeats the process, running and jumping between buildings and using the wind to clear the distances. He laughs at the exhilarated feeling the wind gives him. He loves it, really, as it dances around him and pauses to cup his cheek and tousle his hair beneath his bright red hood.

Tommy cannot wait until his wings finish developing so he can fly up into the air and stay there, up with the wind, without needing to concentrate on his powers. He knows he'll never want to come down, but he will anyway, if only to tell Dream how happy he is.

Ponk said it should only be another few years at most until his wings are ready to take him up into the sky, and that he could glide short distances and do exercises to strengthen them for the time being, so Tommy bets that if he gets his wings super strong he can cut that time by at least half. And then Sam can build him some of the cool wing weapons and inventions Tommy had seen him working on once, and Tommy will basically be unstoppable.

He can already picture his brother's pride, and it makes him more determined to get to that point.

Someday, when he's finished his training and been declared a professional, Tommy will have his wings and the freedom to be a Hero right alongside Dream.

For now, though, he simply roof-hops and does his best to help people anonymously. He can be patient and wait for his time for fame and glory. He will.

The warm hues of sunset beginning are a helpful cover for his pseudo-flight (the sun only projects his shadow down for people to see if it's overhead, after all), and as long as he doesn't jump across crowded plazas, nobody really looks up and sees him.

Tommy travels several dozen blocks, pausing every so often to glance down at the streets and sidewalks, keeping an ear out for any disturbances in the ambient city sounds.

To the young vigilante's guilty disappointment, the city keeps its placid calm throughout his patrol. Finally, with a sigh, Tommy stops on the edge of a rooftop and reaches for his comm to check back in with Tubbo.

Voices in the alley below him make him pause.

A familiar smooth, British voice speaks lowly but clearly, obviously trying to placate. "-just, back off, okay fellas? I really don't want us to have any trouble, you-"

The speaker's attempts to diffuse the situation are interrupted by a lower-pitch, raspy voice.

"Shut it. We don't want trouble either, 'fella', so just hand over your wallet, phone and that guitar and you can walk away safe n' sound. Simple. I'd hate to have to cut up that pretty face."

Well, that doesn't sound good at all.

Tommy peeks cautiously over the edge of the roof.

Two people with gleaming switchblades stand menacingly between another man and the exit of the alleyway between the building Tommy's on and the next one over.

A mugging?

From his bird's-eye view, Tommy can see the yellow beanie topping the victim's fluffy brown curls and the guitar case strapped to his caged back. Aside from those, and a khaki coat that swishes about as the brunette moves, Tommy can't see much in the way of distinguishing features.

The two aggressors appear to be a human duo; one, masculine with mousy-brown hair, is smaller and lithe, and the other, a tall, super-buff feminine figure with short-cropped purple and black hair, carries most of the height and bulk. And also a switchblade.

The victim shakes his head, stance shifting into something a little less defensive and a little more angry.

"No. I'm not giving you shit, mate, so you can piss right off."

The smaller mugger laughs. "Oh, you some sort of tough guy? Trust me buddy, your words ain't gonna be so sharp when you're bleeding out on the ground. Last chance."

"Right, no. D'you want to find out how sharp my words can feel? This isn't going to turn out the way you think."

Wow.

What a weird threat to make when being threatened with stabbing. Tommy thinks the guy should shut up before he makes Tommy's job harder.

As expected, the threat only enrages the already tetchy male-mugger. With a snort like a furious bull, the small man squares his shoulders and tosses his head at his companion. "Alright, have it your way. 'El?"

The taller mugger steps forward at the indication and flips her blade in the air, probably trying to intimidate the victim.

Tommy takes that as his opening.

With as much accuracy as he can, the blonde uses his wind to knock the blade out of the air, sending it clattering down the alley behind the guitarist.

The guitarist snorts.

"Right, well, you missed. Now, let's try this a different way. Both of you listen very carefully,"

Tommy huffs at the brunette man again trying to boss around two people who are clearly willing to turn him into a makeshift colander, this time with some weird, insistent tone that makes Tommy's brain itch, and decides, before the guy actually does get stabbed, Theseus should drop in.

Literally.

He jumps down from the roof and lands right behind the skinny mugger. The tall one turns her head at the sound, seconds too slow to stop Tommy from striking points on the man that render him unconscious.

The man crumples to the ground with a thud of his head, and ooh, Tommy hopes he doesn't earn a concussion from that. Oops.

See, with one notable exception, the Hero Commission won't enter anyone under the age of eighteen into their trainee program.

Which, Tommy would totally respect if the outstanding exception had been anybody but his older brother.

If sixteen-year-old Dream could be scouted and trained to do good for their city, Tommy can think of no conceivable reason that he, himself, with powers that were physically combat useful, shouldn't be allowed the same opportunity.

Unfortunately, the Commission didn't agree.

But hey, Tommy, the biggest man ever, has access to multiple high ranking Heroes who absolutely jump out of their combat boots for a chance to train him.

Well, not really, but even Sam eventually buckled under Tommy's unrelenting spirit and taught the teen several self-defense techniques and exercises he could use to keep himself from being hurt by someone. Between the Creeper-hybrid and Dream's Team, Tommy would say he has a solid defense against most amateur to moderate fighters.

This, he found when he began his nightly excursions, could get him out of a tough situation but rarely allow him to win. With his fall-back trainers busy, Ponk, the Commission's contracted Healer, bridged the gap for Tommy's rough technique.

Unlike Sam, Dream, or Sapnap, Ponk explained the anatomical side of things as he taught Tommy. Of course, the teen had been disappointed to learn that no, you could not karate chop someone's side and paralyze half their body with pressure points, but Ponk had shown him that there did exist some 'last-resort' ways of getting someone to go down without being a heavy hitter or even in their weight class.

Thus, Tommy knows how to hit someone's carotid artery and disrupt blood flow to the brain so that they pass out, or to make an arm or a leg absolute dead weight for a time with a few hits to sensitive nerves.

Of course, none of the active Heroes deemed it necessary to teach a civilian actual offensive techniques, so Tommy's arsenal of moves relies heavily on not getting hit or grabbed unless he actually wants to kill someone.

Unfortunately, 'El' the Mugger seems to take offense at Tommy's desire not to use lethal moves on his opponents.

She lunges for him, full body mass swiping for his head. Tommy ducks with a yelp, calling the wind to push her back a little. Just until she stumbles; Tommy doesn't want people to associate his power with his persona.

The woman curses, running a frustrated hand through her dyed hair as she drops into a defensive stance, eyeing her partner on the ground. "Fuck! Jay, get up you ugly bastard!"

Jay doesn't respond, knocked out cold next to the brick wall of the alley.

"Fuck!" The agitated woman repeats, eyes darting wildly between Tommy and her attempted victim.

Tommy squares his shoulders, putting his fists up in the boxing stance Sapnap had taught him last week, hoping his presence as a costumed participant will deter the woman now that he has lost the element of surprise.

He hasn't had a chance to actually learn more than the beginner forms, so if the woman has any experience….

Well, boxing can't be that hard right?

"Leave now and I won't drop you like your buddy. Unless you want to go to jail for attempted assault with a deadly weapon?" Tommy bluffs, twitching at the strangled noise of protest behind him.

Please, random civilian, Tommy knows it doesn't feel like justice when an attacker gets to walk away, but if she doesn't, Tommy probably won't win this!

Mercifully the victim stays silent long enough for El to make her decision.

"No. Fuck this. This isn't what I signed up for. Fuck you." The last might be directed at the mugger on the ground, Tommy can't quite tell with how the woman turns sharply on her heel and bolts down the alley. When she disappears down the darkened street Tommy drops his tense fists.

"Huh." He says, nudging the left behind mugger with his foot. "No loyalty among thieves, I guess."

A breeze blows through the alley, unrelated to Tommy’s powers, and ruffles his clothes. He drops down beside the criminals, fishing a zip-tie from a pocket and tying the Man's wrists together securely.

They're red, a little marker for his own amusement. Kind-of like a calling card. Tubbo insists the distinct color will get him caught, but so far Tommy has been undeterred.

When he finishes temporarily securing the man, he turns to check on the victim, sure the poor man, despite his bravado, must be unnerved by the near-mutilalation.

Through the shadows stretching between the two buildings, Tommy can't see much more than the man's dark curls and the pale street-light glint of maybe glasses on the hidden face.

When the man stays silent, neither tears nor thanks spilling forth, Tommy begins to approach.

It must be shock, Tommy thinks as he gets closer.

He doesn't have very much experience with people in shock, leaves the worst crimes and events to the trained professionals, but Tommy has heard of victims having pretty bad adrenaline crashes when the threats had been removed.

Given the lack of movement (and praise, Tommy doesn't like to brag, but the people he has saved before are always really grateful), Tommy thinks this might be it.

Something feels familiar about the man as he gets closer, though Tommy can't place where he might have seen him before.

"Oi, you okay?" Tommy asks when he gets close enough, snapping to get the would-be-victim's attention. He doesn't think the guy got hurt, had intervened early enough that the man luckily didn't get stabbed for running his mouth. Either way, it doesn't hurt to check.

Immediately, the Man's gaze flicks towards Tommy's face, eyes a gleaming goldenrod even in the dark alley and-

"My, my, what vulgar language from such a little boy."

-Round glasses, amber-yellow eyes alight with a sort of malicious amusement, like molten gold before it burns your flesh to the bone.

Tommy's instincts scream at him to run when faced with this predator.

"You’re certainly brash, aren't you? Does Bad really let you talk to customers like that, or am I special?"

“Tommy. You do look like a Tommy."

“-Think of it more like... A challenge with consequences-”

Oh shit.

Tommy freezes as dread overtakes him, fear gripping his limbs in a vice. He hadn't ever interacted with someone as a vigilante who had already met his civilian self.

Tommy hadn't prepared.

"What's the name for the order?"

Tommy doesn't know what to do, because right now Tommy can't be Tommy.

Because Bad's maybe-friend left a lasting impression on Tommy, and if Tommy left any sort of impression on the man?

Wilbur might be the end of Theseus.

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long time, Wilbur finds himself struck speechless.

A terrible position to be in with his type of powers, really; but Wilbur likes to be adaptable.

Not this adaptable perhaps, he thinks with a muted sense of disappointment as he watches one of his would-be muggers hit the ground.

Like, Technoblade for sure definitely holds the title for Most Bloodthirsty out of all of them, but Wilbur had been sorta looking forward to watching the two dumbass thieves tear each other to pieces at his command.

Just a little.

However, although Wilbur can absolutely justify temporarily outing himself as Siren to two unlucky souls destined for the consequential chopping block, the red-clad Vigilante who dropped in to rescue Wilbur remains protected under the Syndicate's unspoken code.

Wilbur certainly wouldn't attack someone trying to help him even if their help robbed him of his sweet vengeance.

The Vigilante had certainly been a surprise, dropping in atop the bastard thief's head like a particularly wrathful Frigatebird.

Wilbur hadn't been sure at first, watching his impromptu savior carefully to see any of the Commission-style moves all new Heroes relied on.

Mostly the Vigilante seemed to favor staying quick and on guard, if what Wilbur had seen from less than a minute of fighting was enough to judge by. He didn't see any of the classic, guns-blazing bravado that many Commission trained Heroes (Cough, Inferno, cough) tended to adopt, but maybe it was because he was a newbie hero?

But no, the Commission released a list of all public Heroes specifically so there was no caped crusader confusion, (Wilbur checked it fairly regularly, and this fellow wasn't on it.) and Wilbur can see the hesitation in the Vigilante's movements; the greenness in the yelp the red-clad crime fighter releases as he dodges a vicious swing from the mugger still standing.

Even the government knows better than to send amateurs out with Villains like Wilbur lurking around their precious streets.

Honestly, Wilbur probably needs to see the Vigilante fight properly to assess him, but even he can see how sloppily some of those moves were executed.

The Vigilante has undeniable potential, and a clear basic understanding of fighting a person; However, Wilbur doubts the unlicensed crime-fighter has had the intensive training Heroes need to survive in the city.

Which Wilbur knows from Technoblade and Phil's mandatory crash course on Fucking Someone Up™, both with weapons and without.

Wil personally prefers to use his voice and sharp, shiny toys to do the job, but if he really had to, Wilbur could, in fact, win a fistfight.

"Fuck!" The woman screeches, obviously frustrated by the turn of events. "Jay, get up you ugly bastard!"

Wilbur watches her downed partner with interest. It would certainly be an exciting turn of events to see how the Vigilante handled himself against two fully aware opponents.

Alas, to Wilbur's disappointment, Jay-the-mugger stays unconscious.

The purple-haired purse pirate curses again. She looks unsure, no longer certain that the odds are in her favor.

(Not that they were in the first place)

The Vigilante drops into a stance. Boxing, if Wilbur wanted to guess. His feet are too close together, and Wilbur knows that if the poor guy tries to throw a punch like that he'll be lucky if it even lands.

Prime, Wilbur could laugh. He hasn't had this much fun since Techno decided to dispose of his excess potatoes via firework launcher.

(A delightfully horrifying example of what his brother's genius could devolve into when Wilbur has full license to egg him on. Despite Phil's subsequent ban on fireworks and the full blame being shouldered onto Wilbur, Wilbur regrets nothing).

(What else are older siblings for?)

Sensing weakness, the Vigilante starts to speak. "Leave now and I won't drop you like your buddy. Unless you want to go to jail for attempted-"

Wilbur tunes the rest out as he strangles his automatic protest. Although his first instinct will never be to show mercy, he doesn't want to undermine the baby Vigilante's bluff.

As Techno would say:

"When a strategy is successful, only a fool denigrates the results….or whatever"

Well. Maybe not quite that, but Wilbur knows the gist. He won't intervene unless the Vigilante gets overwhelmed by the clearly stronger woman criminal.

Thankfully, the woman doesn't seem to recognize the faults in the Vigilante's stance, and the bluff wins out. She turns tail and runs for her freedom, leaving her companion on the ground.

Wilbur smirks, he has seen many of her type before in the work the Syndicate does. Grunts and thugs, good for quick and easy jobs where they can earn a nice payout; absolutely no loyalty when things get sticky.

The Vigilante did rather well, however, despite his roughshod technique.

Wilbur wonders if Phil would accept another stray fighter into their ranks. It wouldn't be the first time one of them recruited a Vigilante or do-gooder for the Syndicate's ranks.

Wilbur has continuously been surprised by how many people will join a Villain organization for the chance to make a difference in a way the Heroes cannot. After all, part of the reason there aren't more wannabe-Heros running around is because the Syndicate gets to them first, and their 'join us the hero side is shite' pitch is persuasive.

Well, he supposes the protection and gear incentives are also a motivator.

He would have to talk to the Vigilante first, probably as Siren. Which means hunting the costumed crime-fighter down another night and getting him to stay still around a notorious Villain long enough for Wilbur to give the recruitment speech.

If, of course, this guy has better motives than being some delusional thrill seeker like half the Vigilante's out there.

Now, Wilbur should figure out the best angle to approach his savior in his pitch. Most Vigilante's have pretty shit gear starting out, (Prime, do not get him started on the hoodies. Yes, Wilbur knows that Morpheus wears a hoodie to battle. Are you Morpheus? No. Wilbur didn't think so. Besides, every Villain knows that Morpheus' 'hoodie' has been reinforced and armored to hell and back, nevermind the Hero's skill level) so Wilbur feels relatively confident that the Syndicate's resources will be a good carrot to dangle.

As Wilbur casts another mournful glance at the downed mugger (easy prey, but Wilbur must leave it be for the bigger target at hand), his sight line fills with red.

"Oi, You okay?" A surprisingly young sounding voice inquires from the Vigilante snapping his fingers in front of Wilbur's nose.

Wilbur blinks.

" 'M fine. Who are you, then?" He asks (a bit rudely), swatting at the fingers. When he looks fully at the Vigilante, some quiet part of his brain notes that the fellow criminal has stilled significantly upon meeting his gaze.

Like, the guy hadn't seemed overly twitchy before Wilbur made eye-contact, but the way the heroics-inclined lawbreaker almost unnaturally stalls puts Wilbur on edge.

(Alas, Wilbur's opinion had not been asked when the government decided to label all but their sanctioned agents as enemies. Oh well, more bodies for the Syndicate's ranks)

The Vigilante puffs up incredulously, the red bandana across his nose and mouth flaring as he huffs angrily. "Bitch, what kind of thank you is that?"

Wilbur's jaw slackens, an odd, unplacable sense of deja vu gripping him. He blinks again, staring at the black ski goggles in something quickly approaching dismay as the Vigilante continues with his hands on his hips, something exaggeratedly boisterous in his voice compared to his previous interaction:

"I did not leave my house today to tolerate this disrespect. You know they put a wrong-un in jail last week for that type of-"

"You are a Vigilante, yes?" Wilbur interrupts, watching the display with morbid amusement. He wonders if he might be imagining the odd tone to the Vigilante's voice. As if the one line the Vigilante had uttered to the muggers had been enough for Wilbur to judge by.

Could he be reading too much into it? Hoping for some explanation to excuse how completely off guard this Vigilante has caught him.

Said Vigilante scoffs, crossing his arms indignantly. "Best one you'll ever meet, innit. What's it to ya."

"Right. Right." Wilbur kinda wants to laugh at the guy. The hero-wannabe certainly has spunk. Wilbur's gut instincts are waffling wildly between keeping him far, far away from the other chaotic presences in the Syndicate's upper echelons and introducing him to everyone.

(Just to watch them squirm trying not to insult Siren's potential new recruit).

That nagging sense of deja-vu rings in the back of his head again; Wilbur ignores it.

The Vigilante, seemingly sensing Wilbur's mirth, looks about ready to rage-pounce Wilbur into a similar position as the mugger on the ground. Wilbur can't help but push a little further.

"Is this how you talk to all the people you save?" He drawls, and notices a slight tension enter his savior's shoulders.

Wilbur honestly can’t help needling the Vigilante. Worst comes to worst, Siren can play good cop and the fresh meat will never even meet Wilbur the Civilian again.

"Uh. Y'know what? Yeah. You're not special," comes the immediate retort, and Wilbur- actually feels a tad insulted. "I mean, most folks are actually chill after being helped out of a situation where they might've been stabbed, but I suppose society is just degrading like that, innit?" The Vigilante snarks.

Wilbur snorts, and says, "Sure, man, whatever you say." Then, voice dripping with sarcasm, continues, "But fine, Thank you ever so much for defeating precisely one half of my two assailants, truly, I am indebted to you."

The red-clad wannabe-hero stares at him for a long moment, then cups his hands around his mouth, turns, and begins to march down the alleyway "Hey, mugger lady, wait up, you can have him!"

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Wil, and he strides forward to clasp a halting hand on the Vigilante's shoulder. "No, mate, come back- I'm sorry, I'm just joking. C'mon."

He doesn't actually want to drive the other male off yet, fully aware that any ease in which the Vigilante interacts with civilians will evaporate the next time Wilbur hunts him down in a costume of his own.

The Vigilante tenses under his touch, but does stop walking. He huffs. "Fine. I gotta make sure the mugger guy isn't dead anyway."

It's a weak justification, given said mugger is clearly breathing and Wilbur had literally watched the Vigilante zip-tie 'Jay's wrists, but Wilbur decides to keep that observation to himself as the Vigilante walks over and crouches next to the downed criminal.

"So. What's your name then, Mate?" Wilbur questions, leaning his shoulder against a wall as he watches.

The Vigilante hesitates. "Dunno if I should tell you, since you're a bit of a weird'un, but whatever. You can call me Theseus."

"'Theseus'?" Wilbur repeats incredulously. Theseus looks sharply up at him, and Wil gets the impression he's glaring. Wilbur holds his hands up placatingly. "Not that there's anything wrong with that name, calm down. I just meant- my brother's a massive mythology buff, so it was weird to hear someone besides him know the name."

"Yeah, well, it's pog as fuck and I am the biggest man, so really that's all the explanation you need."

Wilbur blinks.

"Huh."

What an odd phrase.

"What?"

"Do you- Have we met before? Do I know you?"

The Vigilante freezes again, not looking at Wilbur. When he speaks, voice pitched up and a little strained, Wilbur cocks his head curiously. "Ehhh? No. Nah, think I would have remembered you. Definitely never met before."

"No, I'm pretty sure we have. You sound familiar." Wilbur narrows his eyes. "Hmm."

"Oi, don't 'Hmm'." The hooded Vigilante snaps, "Listen man, the whole point of a secret identity is to keep it secret, don't go around trying to figure out people's-" Wilbur cuts him off with a sharp snap of his fingers.

"Ah, I know who you are! Tim, right? Timmy?"

The Vigilante stutters a few incoherent consonants, then settles on a squeaky "What?"

"Yeah, Timmy! From the convenience store. I'm Wilbur, remember? Don't tell me you've still got ruffled feathers over the napkin incident? In my defense, I asked and you did say they were free, so it isn't as if I stole them, really. You can't just give a man an answer and then go on and get pissed when he acts on it, mate, don't be like that."

Now, Wilbur knows Thesus can't actually be Timmy (may Prime rest his poor overworked petrol station soul); too tall and (from the bangs he can see peeking out from under the Vigilante's hood) blonde, but he still finds the bewilderment funny.

It also has the added benefit of putting Theseus at ease, ensuring the Vigilante believes that Wilbur is simply too dumb to be a threat.

He certainly won't forget the abstract familiarity he feels when interacting with the Vigilante, nor the odd response Theseus had when Wilbur addressed it.

For now, however, Wilbur will let it lie.

The Vigilante stares at Wilbur for a long moment, then slowly shakes his head.

"I have. No fucking clue what you're on about, dude. Are you on drugs or something?"

Rude.

Wilbur frowns. "No, I am not on drugs. You're sure you're not Timmy?"

"So incredibly sure, man."

"Hmph. Fine." Wilbur sighs in false disappointment, taking a moment to try to suss out any identifying features. Unfortunately, Theseus' outfit has full coverage, and reasonable reinforcement at the joints and weak spots.

When he catches the Vigilante's gaze (as well as he can through the tinted glass) Wilbur winks exaggeratedly to mask his mild frustration. "Don't worry, Not-Timmy. I won't tell anyone your secret."

The Vigilante tilts his head in a way that indicates a probable eye roll, crossing his black and red clad arms.

Wilbur considers it a success.

"I'm not- you know what, nevermind. Look, are you sure you aren't injured?"

Aw. How sweet. Wilbur tries not to coo at the baby Vigilante.

Despite Theseus' obvious irritation and short temper, he still wants to make sure the source of his discontent has the care it needs. What a shining example of the Heroes he emulates.

Wilbur might keep this one regardless of the Syndicate.

"Just my pride. Thank you though." Wilbur says, because he can be polite.

The Vigilante nods, taking a cautious step backwards in a clear attempt to begin his escape. "Yeah well, just, don't go walking around at night like this again. Or at least carry something to defend yourself."

Oh, he has no idea how well Wilbur can defend himself.

Wilbur grins. "Sure."

Theseus stops in his tracks, a strangled noise escaping him. "Please don't kill anyone."

Wilbur laughs.

"What the fuck." The Vigilante whispers, almost too quietly for Wilbur's ears. Wilbur's grin widens.

Theseus shakes his head, pointing a gloved finger accusingly. "Nope. I don't care. Just- just don't get mugged again."

Wilbur salutes. "Will do, Theseus."

He watches in amusement as the Vigilante cringes before plainly deciding that he has had enough of Wilbur.

"Ugh. Whatever." Theseus says like a particularly bratty teenager (this guy can't be older than Techno, no way. Maybe early twenties at most).

The Vigilante turns without further ado, bounding over the alleyway wall. He begins to climb, quicker than expected, lanky limbs sticking to the wall in places they absolutely should not be able to grip.

It-

Well. It's a little disturbing. Like some sort of giant four legged spider.

Wilbur shudders.

The Vigilante disappears over the edge of the building, into shadows that no normal person could see through.

However, Wilbur has long since rejected normal and, with the superior night vision granted by his Phantom heritage he can easily see the hooded head pop back over the roof's ledge

Wilbur chuckles quietly as the Vigilante startles. Delightfully, Theseus holds his ground for the long moment Wilbur watches him.

Wilbur smirks, resolve hardening as he turns to walk out of the alleyway. He pulls out his phone as he leaves, taking just a second to dig his heel into his restrained assailant's arm.

Wilbur sneers at the pained grunt that escapes his prey. He knew the mugger had been faking unconsciousness since a little before the Vigilante had left.

Disappointingly, the cowardly little snake continues to play dead, eyes clenched shut in the face of a predator like Wilbur.

A shame. Wilbur would love to show his precious audience how to properly deal with the scum of the city.

With a sigh, Wilbur taps the well used contact at the top of his favorites list. It rings once, twice, and connects right as Wilbur steps out of the alleyway.

"- Wilbur. I'm working. You have 60 seconds.-"

Wilbur rolls his eyes. "I'm cashing in my favor. You know, from when you asked for my help a few weeks ago."

The line goes quiet. "-That was certainly quick.-"

Wilbur just hums.

A heavy sigh echoes through the phone. "-Okay. What do you need?-"

Wilbur smiles. "I met someone interesting just now. I need you to find out as much about them as possible. Full confidentiality. Can you do that for me, Q?"

Quackity laughs, confident and cruel. Wilbur would bet good money that whatever work Wilbur interrupted has been pushed to the backburner. Just the way it should be.

"-Oh Wilbur~-" The duck hybrid coos.. "-I'm insulted you even have to ask.-"

Wilbur may not meet the Vigilante again, but Theseus would very soon hear the Siren call of one of the most dangerous Villains in the city.

And he will have no choice but to answer.

●○●○●}{○●○●○}{○●○●

Tommy scales the building with a sigh of relief, calling the wind to boost him past the points where there are no footholds. It takes mere seconds with his powers, although he has seen Dream do it quicker with parkour.

When he peeks back down into the alleyway, Tommy almost jumps out of his skin when, through the shadow, Wilbur's upturned gaze meets his.

"Fuck," Tommy whispers violently, chest thrumming with his startled heart. When Wilbur's head slides away from Tommy's position after a painfully long moment, Tommy realizes the guitar player must not have actually seen him in the shadows.

Creepy fucking bastard.

Finally, Wilbur turns, deliberately stepping on the Jay-the-mugger as he exits the alleyway. It looks like he grinds the heel of his combat boot into the man's shoulder as he goes and Tommy winces from his perch.

Ouch. What a jerk.

Thankfully, Wilbur pulls his phone out as he goes, pressing a quickly dialed call to his ear in what Tommy assumes to be a report to the local law enforcement. Good.

Tommy has gotten sick of making anonymous tips at nearby phone booths.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how one looks at it), most victims run off when they get a chance, removing themselves from danger and what not. This means that Tommy either calls the police himself or lets the criminals go.

One problem was solved tonight. One hundred problems made for tomorrow.

Wilbur being the most demanding.

Tommy doesn't think Wilbur connected the dots between Theseus and the barista who insulted him well over a month prior but-

Well, who can tell with that wrong-un? (Prime, that hipster looking fucker tops Tommy's list for weird ass people; and Tommy knows Dream).

Regardless, Tommy tried very hard to act normal with the civilian despite the immediate rage the guitarist invoked when he opened his rat bastard mouth. Given that Wilbur suspected some other poor sap instead of Tommy himself, Tommy believes he should get a pat on the back for his amazing composure.

Tommy pauses.

He pats himself on the back.

"A job well done. Two for one. I stopped a mugging and threw Wilbur the barista blackmailer off my trail." Pleased with himself, Tommy grins as he finally moves away from the ledge, eager to finally put some distance between himself and the crime scene before the cops show up.

When he gets a couple blocks away, somewhere into the business district, Tommy decides to share the news.

"Put another tally on the Chart, Big-H; Theseus just stopped another crime!" He whispers giddily into his com.

Tommy can't help but wiggle in glee. He's actually helping people; being a hero just like Dream.

Tubbo's voice crackles to life, "-Got it, Boss Man. One Tommy Tally coming right up. I'll also put a star on the board for another patrol stab free.-"

Tommy frowns. "That's not what we're calling it."

"- Calling what?-" Tubbo asks innocently. Like he doesn't know exactly what he said. Tommy can see right through that cherubic demeanor.

"You know I can't say it out here, Bitch-Boy. We are not using my name for the tally chart! And you shouldn't be using it on the comms, either!" Tommy crosses his arms, stalling on the roof he had been preparing his next jump from.

Tubbo laughs evilly in his ear. "-I don't know what you mean, Big Man. I can't change something if you won't tell me what I'm supposed to change.-"

What a gremlin.

"You know exactly what I mean." Tommy hisses, striding toward the edge of the roof.

"-I'm sure I don't. Maybe you can tell me when you're back. Big Brother may not be watching, but even he will notice if you're not in bed when he gets off patrol.-"

Tommy rolls his eyes as he braces, crouching to start his run. "Big D won't notice. He's been stressing about some tests or shit lately. Besides, he's been getting home later than me some nights. I fucking know he doesn't like paperwork enough to stay late for it. Oomph."

He clears the distance with little fanfare, grunting as he makes contact with the next building. Tubbo responds as he starts his next run.

"-Unlike your freaky uncle. Prime, I think that man accessorizes with office supplies. Just don't say I didn't warn you when you have to explain to Dream why Theseus is crawling through his little brothers window at one AM.-"

Tommy lands just as well on the rough panels of the next roof, boots easily gripping the tiles. "He's kinda your uncle too, ey? Since your mom adopted me and Big D. I'm heading back now anyway, you big worrier."

The ram hybrid snorts, sounding slightly disgusted. "-Hell no. Even If the logistics worked like that, President Dee is one hundred percent your issue. Even mom couldn't convince me to call him Uncle. I seriously think he hates me.-"

Tommy laughs, making another confident leap. "He only-"

The remaining thought gets choked beneath Tommy's dropping stomach as his foot slips on the edge of the roof. Unlike the tar or concrete roof buildings, the one he just jumped to had been roofed with metal. Metal that, after the condensation of the night had started to gather, became treacherously slick even to his combat boots.

Tommy scrabbles desperately, high pitched cursing cutting off as his legs slip off the roof. He hits his ribs hard against the paneling, clawing at the metal sheeting for a grip that simply doesn't exist.

He can hear Tubbo talking, maybe shouting, but his friend's voice doesn't cut through his overwhelming fear.

Tommy tries to call the wind to aid him, but his panic rebuffs his concentration. The dew seeps into his gloves and Tommy feels his torso sliding without any traction. He kicks his legs towards the building, hoping to brace himself against gravity.

Too late, Tommy realizes the eaves are too far from the building for him to make contact and his bid for salvation has just jerked him further off the roof.

Unlike earlier, when the buildings were shorter and had fire escapes clinging to them like the world's worst jungle gyms, Tommy knows with utmost certainty that he will die here when he falls.

He hopes Tubbo doesn't keep listening.

He clings to the edge, knowing he has mere seconds left before his fingers release. Tommy closes his eyes, a scream bubbling out of his mouth as his hands separate from the roof and-

"Vroop?"

Tommy gasps as a hand clenches around his wrist, halting him in mid-air.

His eyes snap open.

The hand pulls Tommy back on to the roof with little effort as the young Vigilante waits patiently for his heart to stop racing in his chest. For a long moment, Tommy stares blankly at the unusually long fingers still clinging loosely to his wrist.

His savior wears a glove on their right hand, a stark white in contrast to the raven skin peeking out from their exposed wrist.

When Tommy's eyes travel up, past a white cuff and the violet sleeves of the person's jacket, he finds his gaze met with glowing purple framed by black and white bangs.

"Vroop?" His savior repeats, tilting their bi-chromatic head to the side as Tommy gapes at them.

They are a hybrid, obvious from their odd colouration and luminescent eyes. Yet, Tommy has never seen a hybrid like the one before him.

Something rare, nether-born if Tommy had to guess. Enderman perhaps, from the unusually long slender limbs and towering height, but-

Tommy has never heard of a white enderman and everyone knows that hybrid genetics don't mix. It doesn't matter if someone's parents are two different types of hybrids, a child always only expresses one type or another.

Tommy himself exists as a prime example, with the wings and instincts of his mother's avian heritage while Dream turned out with a completely separate set of genetics from somewhere up the family lineage.

So whatever hybrid type his savior claims must just be something Tommy hasn't heard of.

Said hybrid churrs at him, drawing his attention back. Tommy feels a little odd still, like his mind hasn't quite caught up to the fact that his body is no longer losing to gravity.

"Thanks." He manages to stutter out anyway, focusing on where the other hybrid's skin splits between white and black. There are freckles of opposing colors on each cheek, with a few spots of disruption on the bridge of their nose where the white and black dots fight for dominance on the otherwise straight line.

They aren't an Essempi Hero, nor a Villain that Tommy recognizes (and he absolutely would recognize any known player in the city, good or bad), but they sure as hell dress like one.

With some measure of surprise, Tommy realizes that, despite the tactile-looking violet bodysuit (accented in white and black) and the metallic black armor protecting the vital points, the purple-eyed hybrid has no face covering.

Which means that Tommy's impromptu savior either has no need to hide their identity or-

They don't have an identity to hide.

The hybrid nods in acknowledgement of Tommy's gratitude, looking just on the edge of familiar to Tommy’s racing thoughts; as if Tommy has seen this odd looking creature somewhere before.

"Vroop." The two-tone hybrid states, using one unnaturally long arm to pat Tommy gently on the head. Their glowing eyes crinkle a bit as they smile briefly (and, yeah, Tommy will definitely lean toward enderman on this one. The other hybrid's smiles wide and jagged, expression stretching across their face like the pictures of endermen he'd seen in books. Tommy would hazard a guess that their jaw can unhinge) before disappearing in a flash of purple sparks quicker than Tommy can open his mouth.

Tommy blinks.

He reaches up to the com in his ear, which went suspiciously silent around the time Tommy got dragged back onto the roof.

"Tubbo?" Tommy whispers, shaky and shocked despite his best efforts.

"-Yeah, Tommy?-" Tubbo responds, a bit pitchy and unnaturally calm.

"I uh- I think there might be a new Vigilante around."

Tubbo laughs in Tommy's ear, a short, sharp sound that devolves into a hysterical sounding sob. " -That's- That's great, Tommy, I'm going to come get you now. Just- just wait there.-"

The com clicks.

Tommy sits down on the dewy roof.

Wilbur and Theseus. Near death experiences. Unmasked Vigilantes. Tommy thinks it all can wait for tomorrow.

Tommy has had enough excitement tonight.

Chapter Text

1:22 pm, Sapnap's wristwatch proudly displays in a cool, digital font. Approximately 3 hours earlier than when Sapnap's hero shift would start if it weren't his day off. He could be anywhere but here. He should be anywhere but here.

Yet, despite his better judgment, Sapnap still stands staring up at a casino.

Jester's casino.

A nervousness grips him- No.

Not nervousness, more like: anticipation.

Sapnap has already been back once after the foiled robbery to take official statements from the two employees (Quackity had been as charming and sweetly helpful as last time, and the Charlie guy had been… equally strange.) but he had found no more information regarding Jester.

If he were following protocol, he would leave it at that, file his paperwork and be done. However, It doesn't matter what Quackity claims, Sapnap knows a Villain wouldn't just let people under him do good honest work.

As a Hero, Sapnap has to investigate further.

Only, Sapnap hasn't opened an official request for an undercover investigation.

Why?

Mostly because when he'd included the tidbit about the casino's ownership in his initial report about the robbery, the response had essentially been 'Maybe so, but we have to catch him in a crime, and the casino remains frustratingly above-board. We'll get him and all his underlings one of these days'.

Which, fair, because while Jester typically just does his own thing in the Las Nevadas area, the man also has a list of serious crimes to his name (Destruction of property, transactions involving various drug deals, and several unproven but suspected counts of abduction and/or murder? Yeesh, Sapnap definitely can't go in arms ablaze).

But, surely all the people who work for him aren't criminals. Probably misguided, maybe desperate. People like Quackity don't deserve to go down with Villains like Jester.

(Avians already get such a bad rep with two of the most notorious of an already rare hybrid type being Villains. Sapnap refuses to let the stigma of The Angel of Death and Jester affect good people like Quackity and Tommy).

Consequently, Sapnap has decided to do his own sort of soft investigation, just poke around a bit and see if anyone will talk to him as himself and not a known hero.

Unfortunately Sapnap couldn't find much record of Jester being involved with major problems in the greater city districts; and, well, he has a bit of a concern that kicking up a fuss and getting the casino raided by the Law wouldn't do anything but harm the livelihoods of the employees.

In the end, Sapnap decided just to toss a stone; investigate and (hopefully) arrest one bird and get to know another. Ideally, he won't have to involve Quackity at all, he definitely doesn't want to put him in a position of choosing between his livelihood and the law; but the Avian hybrid happens to be the only familiar face in Las Nevadas.

He just needs an in, nothing more.

(His heart definitely doesn't skip a beat when he thinks of meeting the pretty casino worker again).

So, Sapnap stands in front of the casino where this all started, feeling very out of place in the unfamiliar part of town.

He winces at his own cowardice, at hesitating like Jester will pop out from behind a pillar and say 'gotcha!'; Sapnap doesn't even technically count as a Hero at the moment, nobody should be able to identify him.

But Sapnap stalls outside a moment longer anyway, before deciding fuck it. He IS a Hero, with or without his uniform, and he'll be damned before he hems-and-haws just because a Villain might be lurking somewhere near a building.

He straightens up and strides in, tugging sharply on the hem of his black denim jacket as the tinted automated doors hiss quietly open.

Despite the hour, the inside of the Casino proves to be just as raucous and distracting as the last time he'd been. Just beyond the doors sits a money-changing cage built into the wall, and then a sprawling floor of jangling, chiming machinery.

Sapnap can't see past the first bend in the main walkway, but he guesses that there are some playing tables too, likely near a source of alcohol.

Sapnap glances over toward the cage hopefully, but he only sees a redheaded woman inside, looking bored and writing something. No dark-haired men in sight. He approaches the cage anyway, smiling cheerfully.

"Hello!" He greets, and the woman looks up from the piece of paper she'd been scribbling on. She straightens up and offers him a tame smile in return, her matte black lipstick and dark eye makeup outlining the expression dramatically.

"Hello, welcome to the Señora de Suerte Casino. How can I help you?" She recites.

Sapnap leans on the little counter in front of the cage. Her name tag, decorated with a cartoonish little winking skull, says 'Holly' in a perky block print.

"Well, could you tell me if Quackity is working today?" He says, and Holly's smile drops slightly.

"Not as far as I know. You might check the blackjack tables, though, some days he's a dealer."

"Oh. Okay, that's alright," A disappointment for sure, but Sapnap won't give up, "I'll take a look. If he's not there, do you know when he works next?"

Holly shrugs apologetically. "I don't, and we're not allowed to share employee's schedules with patrons, either. Sorry."

Sapnap nods, backtracking a little. "No, it's okay, not your fault. It's good that they're keeping you guys safe." He glances toward the casino floor, then offers the woman an easy smile. "I guess I'll go check it out. Thank you for your time."

"Of course, hon. Good luck." Holly says, and then Sapnap sets off, strolling deeper into the casino.

Having never been in a casino outside of Crime-stopping, Sapnap discovers two things immediately.

One: Casinos are loud.

The stone archway between the lobby and main gambling floor dampens the sound tremendously. As soon as the brunette passes through he's taken off guard by the sheer amount of stimuli around him. He takes a moment to orient himself against the bright colors, flashing lights of various machines, and barrage of noise. Chiming, beeping, jingling, and individual background melodies from the different slot machines make for a cacophonous orchestra when paired with the low murmurs, bright laughter, and conversations of the patrons.

Two: The smell of cigarette smoke clogs the airways even when someone isn't actively smoking.

Sapnap's hand twitches toward his nose automatically, though he catches himself from raising it all the way. The cool air of the casino itself doesn't look smokey, and Sapnap thinks the quiet hum of the air conditioning may be the cause of that, but his sensitive hybrid nose still picks up on the third-hand smoke that has absorbed into the carpeting and settled on every surface like a coat of spray paint.

(Suddenly, Sapnap wonders if this could be what George means when he mentions Sapnap's clothes smelling like smoke... But no, probably not, Sapnap had never consumed nicotine in his life, and Dream had explained that his scent was more like charcoal: wood smoke, ash and, occasionally, faint sulfur.)

Sapnap takes a moment to adjust to the environment, glad being a Blaze hybrid means the smoke doesn't make his lungs seize with coughing, and he has a sinking feeling that he'll have to get used to it if he's going to keep visiting- er, investigating.

Once the overload passes, Sapnap blinks and glances around to find the blackjack tables.

He doesn't see them immediately, so he takes a guess; heading right, around the wide array of slot machines situated in the middle of the sprawling floor. The hybrid man passes by a few roulette tables, and the people in turn who flit about the tables like hopeful moths waiting on a gamble to win them a fortune.

There's a bar further in, set into the wall, and Sapnap can see waitstaff dropping by to pick up cocktails and pricey drinks, which they then whisk away to some (probably already intoxicated) patrons somewhere.

Sapnap keeps walking.

He sees an archway leading to a different section of the casino, against the wall opposite the entrance, and strides over to poke his head in.

It looks to be a quieter section of the building, with a path leading to a little restaurant, another entrance through which he can just barely see a lounge with a short stage, and several other doors he can't see into.

Opting to leave investigations of those areas for later, Sapnap returns to his previous course, slowly making a full circle back toward the front doors.

He comes upon a series of blackjack and poker tables a moment later, and realizes with irritation that he should have gone left to arrive at his desired destination quicker.

Lesson (and floor plan) suitably learned, Sapnap strides toward the tables, blowing a strand of hair out of his face from where it had defied the restriction of his bandana.

The dealers stand or sit at every table, all dressed in the same uniform as the waitstaff, and Sapnap sees a dizzying array of diversity when he glances at each table in turn.

At one, a pretty, tall woman with short cropped hair and vitiligo flashes a smile at a patron, and the girl she smiles at flushes, drooping cow ears flicking once and betraying her flattered pride.

At another, a short, wide-eyed frog hybrid with brown skin and teal curls winks at the man with all the chips at their table, earning a snort from said man.

A third table has a gaggle of what Sapnap assumes are sorority girls giggling and engaged with a white-haired, shockingly muscular dealer, who has dark eyes and two extra sets of (equally muscular) arms. Sapnap can see a faint sheen on the man's cheeks and joints, and guesses the majority hybrid probably has a faux exoskeleton in spots.

He sees no Quackity.

As his plan to talk to the shorter hybrid falls to pieces, Sapnap debates on his next course of action.

He could spend more of his day looking for the Avian, who in all likelihood has the day off like any normal employee- (Why didn't Sapnap consider that? Stupid) -or he could find something else to do.

He skirts around the tables and moves back toward the door, a sense of disappointment prickling at his mood. He has been looking forward to seeing- no, starting his investigation.

There's always next time, he reminds himself. Always another day.

As he gives Holly a small wave goodbye, Sapnap considers his options. He doesn't want to waste his day off, nor can he bother his teammates, even if they're his best friends.

Dream wouldn't be available either way, waiting as backup for some bust later today. George also has the day off, but Sapnap knows he likes to check on his mushroom farm in the afternoon.

He could always go visit his fathers, but Muffinhead Café sits all the way across town, closer to the Commission building than Las Nevadas. Additionally, Sapnap already texted Skeppy yesterday that he'd be by next  weekend, so he thinks the two might have made plans.

Once he has stepped out into the sunlit street, though, Sapnap's stomach decides his next destination for him. It growls loudly, and the brunette murmurs a quiet 'oh, shit'.

He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket.

Me: 1:48pm

Hey, Ponk? Question for yo.

Me: 1:49pm

*You

DoctorDoctor: 1:51pm

Hello Sapnap! Whats up?

Me: 1:51pm

Do you still have that list of places to check out? Im in the Las Nevadas district and dunno the area well enough to know what food is good. Know anywhere I can get decent grub?

Me: 1:52pm

And maybe a drink?

DoctorDoctor: 1:52pm

Sure, any specific kind?

Me: 1:53pm

Nah.

DoctorDoctor: 1:55pm

Alright well Sam brought me some takeout from a bar a couple weeks ago. It was a burger and some onion rings, how's that sound?

Me: 1:55pm

I owe you my life, Ponky.

DoctorDoctor: 1:57pm

Yeah yeah

You dork

Here: <Link>

DoctorDoctor: 1:57pm

Tell me what you think, yeah?

Doctor's orders. :}

Me: 1:57pm

Yessir

But really, thanks, i hate looki g at reviews online to find restaurants.

DoctorDoctor: 1:58pm

Np, Sapnap. <3

Me: 1:58pm

:)

!

Clicking on the location link Ponk sent, Sapnap breathes a sigh of relief. At least he doesn't have to spend another half hour hunting for a business in an unfamiliar area.

Now he just needs some food to counter the gruff irritation beginning to settle like coals beneath his skin.

His phone reads out the directions to him, and Sapnap hails a cab.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

The King's Bar has a gentle ambience in the afternoon, with the same subtle card theme as the majority of businesses in Las Nevadas.

Sapnap had only hesitated for a moment prior to entering, comforted by the day's happy hour menu plastered in the window. At least he won't look like some sad sap getting drunk alone long before happy hour.

At nearly 2:30pm, not many citizens mill about near the establishment. A few people come and go from the surrounding restaurants and shops, but the lunchtime rush has slowed down significantly as people head back to their various entertainments.

Sapnap appreciates this, glad to mope alone in the low lights and wooden furniture he can see around the corner of the entry.

A wall blocks Sapnap's view of the main bar, a nice touch of interior design to make the main room of the business a bit cozier.

Unfortunately, it also blocks Sapnap's line of sight to the actual bar, where a quiet conversation filters around the corner. One voice rings out so familiar to Sapnap that his heart quickens unwittingly.

"-arlie, Just check it out-... -okay."

The other party's response drowns beneath Sapnap's growing excitement.

Could it be?

"-ait, no. Charlie, not like that. Charlie!"

Sapnap quickly rounds the corner at the panicked hiss of admonishment, so sure of his suspicion he positively skids.

"Uh?" Quackity says in all his beanie-and-suspenders glory, staring at Sapnap with a distinctly deer-like startlement, wings fluffed behind him. "Hello."

Sapnap opens his mouth, blinks, then looks around to see an empty bar. His brow furrows as he looks back at the man he had been searching for.

"Hi." Sapnap's gaze drops to the counter where a truly bizarre sight greets him.

"What is that?" The Blaze hybrid asks, pointing to the lurid green puddle slowly oozing off the bar in front of the avian. It looks like jello, perhaps, if jello had the color of toxic waste.

Quackity straightens from where he'd been leaning over the substance, and shoots Sapnap a flustered smile. He looks down, hands hovering over the puddle like it might come alive at any moment. "I was, uh, mixing cocktails. Yeah. I spilled this one."

Rather than finding a towel to clean up said spill (or making any move to stop the steady gloop-gloop onto the hardwood floor), the other dark-haired man looks up, meeting Sapnap's gaze with an expectant look in his dark eyes.

Prime above, Sapnap's heart stops in the face of those long dark lashes and pouty pink lips. The scar twisting its way up Quackity's cheek looks softer in the tungsten lighting of the bar, not as stark as it had been in the fluorescents of the casino's lobby.

It doesn't detract from the avian's attractiveness, merely adding a focal point to the mystery of the man.

Sapnap suddenly has the ridiculous notion that this man, with his raven hair curling like an inky collar around his slender neck and arching yellow and brown feathers, can not be a mere underling; a mere wage worker in the depths of the city.

Someone like Quackity has destiny.

The thought flutters away as soon as it comes and Sapnap mentally scoffs. He has a mission, he reminds himself as his eyes catch again on Quackity's pretty, soft jawline.

A cough pulls his gaze back to appropriate eye contact, and Sapnap flushes at the bemused, mildly strained smile playing across the Avian's face.

"So, uh-" Quackity says, dropping his hands to his sides behind the bar. "Can I help you with something?"

Sapnap could slap himself.

Of course a bartender would expect a customer they had never met before to want something besides a creepy stare session.

Sapnap has to remember that Quackity has never met him before. Geez, Inferno might actually have a better chance of getting an 'in' after this first impression.

So as not to linger by the entry, Sapnap hesitantly walks towards the bar. "Yeah, sorry. I haven't been here before? What do people normally get?"

Quackity raises an amused eyebrow, wings relaxing behind his back as Sapnap stops on the opposite side of the wooden divide. "Well, it is a bar. You can always order a drink."

Sapnap automatically casts a look at the puddle in front of him.

"What type of cocktail is that one?" He asks, reaching out on autopilot and swiping a finger through the puddle. As soon as he does it, he realizes how absolutely scuffed it must look to his audience.

However, Sapnap's body moves slower than his brain at the worst of times; so despite his mind screaming "Oh my Prime, don't taste counter puddles in front of cute guys" his body has already committed to bringing the sample to his mouth.

Goodbye first impression.

Quackity lurches forward and grabs Sapnap's hand before it reaches the blaze hybrid's lips.

"CHEMICALS!" The Avian yelps with a horrified expression, practically draped across the bar. He barely avoids the puddle. "A cocktail of chemicals!"

Sapnap feels his ears go hot, a flushed pink to match the blush that flares across his cheeks.

"I- What- Why were you mixing chemicals??" He manages to choke out. He immediately feels like facepalming, prevented only by Quackity's hand still clutching his."I mean-"

The dark-haired man across from him cringes at the question, and Sapnap hopes he didn't offend him.

(He'd be lucky if 'rude' is the worst Quackity thinks of him)

"Uh. They're cleaning chemicals." He pauses, then shrugs helplessly at Sapnap. "Listen, I was trying to get a stain out of the sink, and I figured hitting it hard would do the trick, y'know man?"

He grins sheepishly, and Sapnap finds himself offering a small, still-embarrassed grin of his own.

"I'll take your word for it. Thanks for the save, though, that would've been nasty as hell. "

Don't remind him of it! Inner Sapnap screams in dismay.

Quackity winces at the idea, something deeply unsettled and probably disgusted flashing across his face; and yet, rather than saying anything about Sapnap's faux-pass, simply nods, abruptly letting Sapnap's wrist go and sliding back off the counter.

(Sapnap resists the urge to hum sadly at the loss of contact.)

The blaze man drops his hand down and wipes the goo on his leg, hoping belatedly that it won't bleach the fabric there.

It honestly didn't feel like anything but slime, but with his luck, Sapnap wouldn't be surprised if it turned his jeans pink out of chemical spite.

Oh well, a problem for future Sapnap.

"So," Sapnap starts, eager to change the subject. It might be better to stop before he humiliates himself more, but Bad and Skeppy never raised no quitter. "Do you normally work as a bartender?"

Now that he thinks about it, he can't remember if Quackity ever actually told Inferno that he specifically works in the casino, but surely the average Las Nevadas employee doesn't work jobs at multiple establishments.

Quackity smiles a bit oddly, as if privately laughing at some inside joke. "I help out here and there. I can definitely mix a drink though, promise."

Sapnap grins, pulling out a stool a couple seats away from the puddle (which Quackity also seems to be avoiding) and leaning forward on his elbows. "Surprise me then. I was hoping to get a bite to eat as well, but I can do with just your presence."

Oh Prime, what if that came off too flirty? Sapnap wants to get to know Quackity, not scare him off.

"Unless you have food." Sapnap blurts in a panic, watching as Quackity's expression does a few interesting jumps.

"I'm Sapnap." Sapnap continues lamely, when Quackity's eyebrows start to look like two very unimpressed arches. "It's nice to meet you."

"Quackity." The duck hybrid introduces in turn. "I'm only here until three today, and our food options are kinda limited until closer to happy hour, but I can still make you a drink?"

2:45pm, his watch reads.

Sapnap sighs. It figures that right when he finds the Avian, fate splits them apart again.

"No," He says, slumping against the counter in mock despair. "That's fine, I'll just wallow in my miserable, lonely state. Don't mind me."

Quackity laughs brightly, "That's loitering, my man."

Sapnap's stomach takes that moment to let its displeasure be known at Sapnap's continued refusal to feed it. Sapnap flushes.

"Look, there's a restaurant about a block away that serves some pretty damn good Mexican food. Authenticity guaranteed. Tell them Quackity sent you and they'll get you something special. Okay?" Quackity holds out the slip of paper he had just scribbled on, an address written in black ink.

Sapnap takes it gratefully. "Thanks dude! Uh-" He pauses, trying not to seem too eager "-is there any chance you'll be here if I come back tomorrow?"

Quackity studies him, lips quirked in consideration. Sapnap tries not to fidget.

"No." Quackity says finally, and Sapnap feels his spirits drop. "But, I will be over at the casino on Main St. around noon."

Sapnap smiles broadly, resisting the urge to fist pump. "Great!" He exclaims, standing with a new pep. "I'll be there!"

He takes a step away from the bar, shaking the slip of paper in the air. "Thank you, by the way."

Quackity waves goodbye as Sapnap moves to exit. "No problem, man. Have fun."

Sapnap flashes him a grin, practically bouncing towards the door. "Will do! Have a good day!"

The day didn't quite turn out the way he wanted, Sapnap thinks as he pushes out the door, but he'll still count it as a success.

(Behind him, inside the bar. The puddle reforms into a man, green and dripping the ooze he formed from.

"I checked." Charlie chirps as he slowly colors the tans and browns of a normal human.

Quackity sighs. "Thank you, Charlie. What did you find?")

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

4:50pm

Quackity straightens his black bow tie in the mirror, careful not to jostle the suit jacket hung on his shoulders. Sticking his hands in his pockets he double checks himself in the reflection.

Jester smirks back from the mirror, cool and confident in all the ways Quackity still sometimes struggles to achieve.

He needs all his clever wit and luck to get his way this meeting.

Flaring his covered wings behind him he takes a deep breath, relaxing as he falls into the role he created with his own sweat and blood.

Jester grabs the full-face mask from the table, locking it under his jaw as the yellow-gold LED display lights up into a simple rectangular smiley face; pixels forming right angles where a normal smile would curve.

Jester's outfit doesn't differ much from Quackity's preferred style, the same slacks and suspenders that all Las Nevadas employees wear when on the job. Unlike Quackity, Jester often wears a golden dress shirt in place of the normal white, and he typically forgoes the beanie.

Besides that and a mask, nothing much differs between the duck-hybrid and his Villainous identity.

They are the same person after all.

Jester turns towards the door, striding over and yanking it open carelessly.

"Mierda! What the fuck!" He yelps as he stumbles backwards, away from the boar skull bearing down at him from directly outside his office. When his heart beat starts back up from its terrified stop, he scowls.

Technoblade has a distinctly amused look in his deep, rouge eyes.

"You think that's funny, Cerdo? What are you even doing here?" Quackity hisses, wings puffing up angrily.

Technoblade tilts his head, distinctive braid falling over the thick fur neck of his cape like a lazy snake. His crown looks different today, with sharper peaks and a full band of inlaid gems where it sits on his head.

One of the pieces from the museum, if Quackity remembers correctly.

"Hullo Jester. Don't you remember?" The Piglin-hybrid says in his normal deep drawl, earrings gleaming under the low lights in the hallway. "The Syndicate did agree to back you in your dealings with the Paul family."

Quackity steps back, gesturing the Blood God into his office and closing the door behind them both. He whirls around, fisting a gloved hand into the material of the taller man's shirt and pulling down.

The much larger Villain goes easily, submitting to Quackity's posturing in a way that fills his duck-brain with glee. Still, the Piglin-hybrid's general presence sours the feeling, even as his instincts chirp happily that flock is here!.

"I'm capable of negotiating without your interference, Technoblade. I don't need you babysitting me." Quackity states seriously, injecting as much indignant anger into his tone as he can muster. Despite the man stooping to not dislodge Quackity's grip, the duck hybrid still has to look up to meet his eyes.

Even after two years, Quackity still finds it hard to be genuinely angry at the Piglin-hybrid, which, in retrospect, may be the exact reason the Syndicate sent him instead of someone less protected from Jester's wrath.

It still hurts that they didn't consult him first.

"Quackity," The Blood God intones like an admonishment as their masks almost touch. "You should have no question about exactly how capable I think you are."

He gently removes Quackity's hands as he straightens back to his full height. Quackity reluctantly takes a step back to keep eye contact and crosses his arms. "Then why are you here? We agreed last meeting that I would see what the Paul family wants with Essempi and the Syndicate would support any decision I make."

Did you change your mind? Goes unspoken

Techno just hums as he motions for Quackity to turn around. Quackity does so with a huff, unsurprised by the request. The Piglin-hybrid does like to inspect his work when he gets a chance.

"How have these been treating you?" Technoblade asks as he strokes a finger over the wing covers. They are enchanted, thin gold that almost melds to each feather individually. Quackity can still use his wings while wearing them, though too much flying strains the enchantments and his muscles. (Gold weighs on you when you have enough of it.)

The Piglin-hybrid presses on a clump of feathers, testing how well the hidden blade releases. He makes a pleased chuff when the razor-sharp knife slides out with no resistance. "I know you liked how light the other set was, but these have much better protection."

Quackity shrugs. "I like the blades, haven't gotten much chance to test these otherwise."

Jester has been lying low in Las Nevadas, playing safe from the shadows while the threat of Inferno prowls around. The fire hero hadn't been around as much as expected, though, and Quackity feels secure enough to resurface.

Not in any of his casinos, not yet, but his night clubs have been more than accommodating to their boss. Today's meeting will happen in Club Diamond, one of the four in Las Nevadas. No one besides a handful of staff and whatever bodyguards his guest brings will be around before 7pm, so Quackity will have plenty of time to get the very best deal.

"They aren't uncomfortable? I can always-"

Quackity cuts him off, irritation mounting. "Technoblade. The meeting."

The Villain sighs, sounding very put out as he feels for the other sharpened weapons hidden among the feathers. "The Paul mob respects shows of power. We thought it would be easier to pressure them if there was a clear threat of Syndicate involvement, since they know how forceful we can be. Wilbur was supposed to tell you days ago."

Of course. Fucking Wilbur.

Quackity spitefully decides then and there that when he finds Wilbur's little Vigilante, Wilbur won't be notified until Quackity has had every opportunity to recruit them himself.

"He didn't tell me." The duck-hybrid mutters, a bit petulantly.

Techno snorts. "Obviously."

The Piglin-hybrid circles around until he faces Quackity. He doesn't speak immediately, a rare show of hesitation from the indomitable man. When he does, voice soft in a way he only directs at his people, Quackity pays attention.

"I'm not here to take this from you, Ducky. I won't even say a word if you don't want me to; just a big, scary, silent prop while you do your thing."

Rusty eyes burrow insistently into Quackity's skull, so intense that Quackity believes with surety that the Blood God can see right through his mask.

Quackity clicks his tongue dubiously. "You'd really willingly be my attack dog for this?"

Techno shrugs almost nonchalantly, a bit too tense in the shoulders for Quackity to buy it. Does it really mean that much to him that Quackity accepts his help?

"Guard Dog, Attack Dog. Looming bad guy in the corner. Whatever you need, Quackity. I promised you that, didn't I?" The Piglin-hybrid cocks his head, sounding on the edge of being hurt by Quackity's hesitation.

Quackity bites his lip, already feeling his resolve failing. It would be useful to have Technoblade there, even if it rankles Quackity to lose his long streak of expanding the Las Nevadas underground by his own merit.

However, if the Syndicate's Intel reads correctly, Quackity might need a bit more than his own reputation to get a good deal in this meeting.

(The perks of having a known murderous supervillain in one's corner instead of merely Quackity's shadow workers. Both are great, but occasionally a gun works better than slow poison).

He sighs, uncrossing his arms. "Fine. But I'm going to be leading the discussion."

Technoblade inclines his head in acknowledgement.

"Of course," He says, like anything else hasn't even crossed his mind; like any other high-powered individual wouldn't expect to take charge of the situation based on strength and notoriety alone.

"You do good work, Quackity."

And-

Fuck him for sounding so sincere, Quackity thinks, even as a pleased flush spreads across his cheeks. Thankfully the mask covers his embarrassing reaction, hiding exactly how much he needed to hear that.

Alas, his wings betray him, fluffing up at the praise with a mind of their own. Quackity quickly forces them smooth, hoping the Piglin-hybrid didn't notice.

The toothy grin Quackity can just barely see under the skull mask sends his hopes crashing against the rocks of reality.

"Shut the fuck-"

"Oh Ducky, if I had known you needed more affirmations-"

"I fucking don't!"

"Then I shouldn't tell you how incredibly talented you are to have gotten Las Nevadas under your thumb in just two years? Or how absolutely lucky the Syndicate is to have you on our side? Or how-"

Quackity waves a gloved hand in front of himself, face flaming under the onslaught. "I get it! I get it! Prime, I'm surprised anyone takes you seriously when you say shit like that with a straight face."

Technoblade laughs. "I say everything with a straight face. I am being serious, though; you wouldn't have half as many people loyal to you if you weren't doing something right."

Quackity thinks of Charlie and Foolish; of Purpled and Fundy and all the people he's found and formed into his own little team.

"They're good people." He says finally, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Techno stays silent, always good at sensing the subtlest of mood shifts. Quackity hums as his phone chimes with an arrival notice; his guests are in the lobby. "We should get going. Don Paul won't wait forever."

"Ah, how late are we?"

Quackity chuckles as he messages a response to his underlings. "Too late for the Dr. Evil greeting, not that you would make a very good cat. Still, I think we can make a pretty good entrance."

"Oh, we can certainly make an entrance."

--○~~~~~~○------

5:07pm

Quackity's smirk widens with every uneasy glance the mobsters take towards Technoblade as soft classical music flits up from the floor below.

Outwardly, Jester embodies the very definition of ease: an ankle crossed lazily over his knee, one forearm resting on the arm of his custom-made half-backless chair and golden wings lazily sprawled about in a picture of relaxation.

It puts his guests on edge, but nothing more so than the silently looming form of the Blood God over his shoulder.

"Jester…" Don Paul starts, the bravado in his tone offset by the pale cast to his face; no less blanched than when Jester had first flounced into the meeting room with the criminal underground's notorious number two Villain in tow. "We were not informed a Syndicate Member would be joining the discussion today."

One of his goons nods in agreement from his place against the rail. The other one, the older one, doesn't react, staring straight ahead as his boss talks. That one had cased the room when they entered, wolf ears twitching to and fro in displeasure at the open balcony the meeting room had been designed around.

The room overlooks the lounge floor of Club Diamond. A little private overhanging for VIPs and Jester himself. As the one backed up to the diamond patterned wall, Quackity quite likes the layout; however, he can understand why his paranoid guests prefer his more enclosed rooms.

Quackity shrugs, tone level through the slight voice changer installed in his mask. "You bring your people, I'll bring mine. it's only fair"

The blonde Don scowls, clutching the gin-and-tonic he had been served while waiting for Quackity to arrive. "I hardly think the Blood God counts as one of your people. If this meeting was open to more parties, I should have been allowed to-"

Jester laughs, the cold, cruel sound cutting through the Don's posturing. He mantles his wings as he leans forward, a mocking grin pixelated across his mask. "The Syndicate has always had a… close relationship with Las Nevadas. You deal with me, you deal with them."

Quackity lowers his voice, sickly sweet and condescending. "If you don't like it, well, you're always welcome to leave." He lets that hang in the air for a mere second before leaning back again, resuming his unbothered posture and bored tone. "However, if you leave now I won't accept another meeting request from you, so decide what's more important to you."

A lesser man would quail at the glower Paul sends his way; but Quackity has years of experience dealing with Essempi's worst and he simply waits patiently for the man to make his choice.

"Las Nevadas has held the monopoly on opiods, gambling, and prostitution in Essempi for the better part of the last few years." The Don declares, obviously deciding to ignore his reservations.

Quackity can feel Techno shifting closer to him, clearly listening just as closely as Quackity himself.

"That's common knowledge, Don Paul. What are you proposing?" Jester asks impatiently.

Truly, Las Nevadas has a bit of a reputation for being the (illegal) entertainment district of the city, with most, if not all, of the drugs and illicit pleasures running in Essempi. Jester keeps things as clean as they can possibly be, keeping everything in a closed circuit of import, export, and distribution.

The sex workers are hired (not trafficked) in Las Nevadas, the drugs aren't laced or cut with deadly fillers. Jester advertises it as quality; the criminal underground calls it control.

None of the clients particularly care as long as they get their fix.

The Don sneers, swirling his drink in one hand. He keeps eyeing Techno with a sort of wariness that ruins whatever intimidation technique he wants to achieve.

If Quackity remembers correctly, the man in front of him has only been the head of the Family for a short while, after his predecessor had a fatal encounter with a wild boar.

Ah, actually that might have been Technoblade. That explains why they've been so nervous.

Fixing his eyes on Quackity, the Don seems to build enough courage to attempt his speech. "Yes, well. You might have a finger in every pie, but you only have one baker. The Paul mob can help with that. You let us run through your territory and I can guarantee you stock you don't have access to right now. You'll triple your profits in weeks. The fillings might taste different, but I can guarantee I'll find a flavor you like."

Techno stiffens behind him, and Quackity can feel the sudden danger radiating off the Piglin-hybrid. He mentally runs through the proposal for what could have set the tall Villain off. Disappointingly, he can't think of what it could have been; just the same lackluster offer Jester has received from half the upstart gangsters in the Greater Essempi.

Well, the pie analogy hasn't happened before.

He could just decline, show the man out before he ends up like his predecessor and ask Techno about it later, or-

Deliberately loosening his posture further to put the Don at ease, he waves a casual hand over his shoulder. "Hmm. That's certainly a guarantee. Blood God, what do you think? Should I, let's see, expand my palate?"

Techno takes the cue gracefully, stepping up to the table with a nonchalance that has killed many a fool. "I suppose that depends. Tell me, Paul, what does this 'stock' consist of."

Oh.

Suddenly Quackity remembers the last Syndicate meeting, Niki frustrated by a new trafficking ring that had snuck into the city beneath their noses. Drugs or people, he couldn't remember, just that it didn't require his involvement, operating strictly outside Las Nevadas.

He supposes that may no longer be the case.

The Don chuckles, arrogance bleeding into his self-preservation at a lethal rate. "Oh, we've got all sorts. You name it, I can get it."

'Can get it', Quackity notes. Not 'I have it'.

Quackity briefly wonders who proposed that the Don should talk to Jester, a Villain who has never once dabbled in the things being implied here.

Suddenly, Quackity feels immensely grateful for Technoblade's presence. See, Jester has a reputation for keeping his hands clean of the grisy bits of the criminal underground. There are rumors, of course, of what happens to the people who cross him, of the bits and pieces left of the poor souls who didn't follow his rules.

Nothing that can be proved, nothing that can point back to Jester without a doubt. Getting caught just doesn't agree with Quackity.

The Blood God has never cared who knows about his wicked deeds being known; and, from the way his eyes are slowly starting to burn an angry, bloody red, Quackity suspects he still doesn't quite care about getting his hands dirty.

Quackity will apologize to his cleaners later.

"Are you selling people?" Technoblade asks, voice deceptively cool. He tosses a dagger into the air, twirling it in his hand when it comes back down. As he pretends to inspect it, he continues in that same calm drawl. "That's the stock, isn't it?"

Like the absolute worst of train wrecks, Quackity watches as the Don completely misinterprets Technoblade's tone. The man leans closer, eyes roving over the Piglin-hybrid with a new intrigue.

Oh Prime. Quackity almost wants to cover his eyes.

"I knew you couldn't be as hard-assed as people say. You seem like the type to like some kinky shit. How do you like them, Blood? Male, female, something else?" The Don digs himself into a deeper hole with each word, running his lewd gaze up Techno's body.

Techno lashes out like a snake, throwing his full body over the table and at the head of the Paul family, quicker than anyone can blink. His knife draws a bead of blood from where it presses into the soft underside of The Don's jaw and the man's chair stays stationary under the weight of the knee Technoblade has placed to keep it down.

"Willing." Techno snarls, tusks bared like the beast he embodies. "Not that you would know anything about that."

The younger bodyguard makes an aborted shout, stepping forward before the wolf-eared one holds out a hand to stop him.

Don Paul raises both his hands in surrender, the terror filling his expression a sweet balm to the small remainder of Quackity's displeasure. "H- hold on, we can talk about this."

Jester clears his throat, drawing the attention in the room back to himself before he has to make a quick retreat out of the spray zone.

"Sure." He says cheerfully, linking his fingers together on top of the table. "Let's talk. Blood God."

Techno steps back, sheathing his dagger. The Don, feeling the danger has passed, makes a break for the door as soon as he has some space. Technoblade doesn't even bother lunging after him.

Instead, all parties watch as the Mobster jerks to a halt only a couple steps from where he started. Gasping, he whirls around, almost losing his balance.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Quackity chirps at Wolf-goon, or more specifically, the pistol he has trained at Techno's head. He must have snuck it in; Quackity will have to re-education his staff on armed business partners.

Techno ignores the bodyguards, glowing eyes still trained on the quailing mob boss, still frozen in fear as his own blood keeps him tethered like a dog on a leash. The gun doesn't even phase him.

(Quackity has seen the Blood God survive worse than a bullet).

"Let him go and I won't do anything." The bodyguard shoots back, aim steady.

Quackity stands slowly, sliding his gloved hand along the edge of the table as he skirts it.

His dress shoes tap against the solid oak floors as he goes, Click, click, click, until he comes to a stop a few feet from the armed goon. Quackity hops backwards onto the table, crossing his legs as he looks out over the bottom floor of the night club.

"Do you know why they call him the Blood God?" He asks softly, picking up the dissuaded drink and giving it a swirl. The ice clinks against the sides as he makes eye contact with the Wolf hybrid.

The pistol has lowered slightly in the time it took Jester to re-master the situation, the bodyguard unsure and distracted by Quackity's theatrics. Quackity sets the glass down.

"You see-" Quackity starts, shaking out his wings hops off the table. The blades slide out easily, indistinguishable from his golden feathers. "It's not because he can kill you with a flick of his pinky, or-"

The barrel points at him when he steps closer, before whipping back towards Technoblade. A panic starts to grow in the Bodyguard's eyes, ears laid flat against his skull.

"Stop." he utters, eyes darting between the two Villains with the terror his companions have already succumbed to.

Quackity continues as if he hadn't heard, clasping his arms behind his back. "-because of the truly ridiculous amount of people he's killed, though both are good reasons."

The barrel greets him again and he can hear Techno's barely audible chuckle from where he stands, as if Quackity won't be out for his fucking tendons if Quackity gets another facial scar because of him.

The Wolf-hybrid growls at them both, no longer trying to get them to back down verbally. He seems to have forgotten about his boss, who stares open-mouthed from his position by Techno. His own life hangs in the balance now, caught between the shaky threads of who can move faster.

It won't be him.

See, when people think of avians, they think of birds. Delicate little things that survive only by the speeds in which they can flee. Weak, fragile.

People forget that harpy eagles can lift 200% of their body weight against the pull of gravity and windforce. That waterfowl are some of the most aggressive defenders of bird kind.

That birds of all species will use their claws and beaks and wings to bruise and batter their opponents, sometimes to death.

Swans may not be capable of actually breaking bones with their wings, but Quackity has wings that can carry a full grown man into the air.

Quackity has weapons.

"The reason," Quackity drawls as he flares his wing forward with all the human sized force of a duck-wing, slicing the hidden razors upwards across the body guards front and slamming his wingbone into the hand holding the gun.

"Bang!"

The trigger pulls even as the shot goes wide, the goon losing his grip on the weapon as he shouts in pain, blood seeping through the brand new cuts in his shirt. The gun goes flying into open air, clattering down to the first floor.

Wolf-goon clutches his bludgeoned hand with a gasp, stumbling backwards into the other bodyguard in an attempt to escape Quackity's deadly wingspan.

Quackity only has to tilt his head to his companion before Technoblade brings the bleeding hybrid to his knees with a glowing glance. The other goon, so obviously inexperienced in dealing with true Villains, looks about ready to throw himself off the balcony after the gun.

Quackity nods downward and the henchman drops to his knees besides his gasping coworker.

"The reason." Quackity repeats, lifting the goon's chin with a gloved finger. The man looks nauseous, trembling and lightheaded as the life-force running through his veins pumps to someone else's tune. "Is because every single artery, every single organ that keeps you alive? Belongs to him. He owns every single fucking drop of blood in each of your pathetic little bodies; and I? Well, I currently have the Blood God on lease. So!"

He spins, clapping his hands together as he turns to face Techno and Don Paul.

"You-" He points at the Don. "-are going to tell us everything about this little operation of yours and then, if your answers are good enough-"

"No!"

Quackity falters, the protest so unexpected he can't help but pause. Thankfully, Technoblade seamlessly picks up the slack.

"No?" Techno pulls the Don up by his collar. "I can send you into cardiac arrest with a thought, you worthless little man. If you want to walk out of here alive, you will answer every question we have about your operation."

Deeming Jester the more reasonable of the pair, Techno's captive futility tries to meet Quackity eyes through the LED Mask. "Please, you have to believe me. It's not even mine. "

Ah. That makes sense. Quackity had wondered why a previously rather weak mob family had suddenly been confident enough to approach the criminal face of Las Nevadas.

"What do you mean?" Quackity asks, leaning against the table and crossing his arms. "What's not yours?"

"Listen, I was just told that I needed to get the goods into Las Nevadas. Just get a deal with an agent of Las Nevadas and get the market saturated."

Techno drops the criminal like a sack of potatoes. (Or well, maybe rocks since Techno would never treat potatoes so callously).

"Who told you?" The Piglin-hybrid gruffs out, glaring daggers into the downed Don.

Don Paul looks up as well as he can while scrabbling away from the pair of Villains. He stands up and dusts off his trousers as he responds rather reluctantly. "I don't know. Just some guy. He used a voice modifier and wore a mask."

A new player perhaps? Yet, the excuse feels a bit convenient.

Quackity snorts dubiously, keeping the now quiet bodyguards in his periphery. "Some random man approached you and you just decided to be his bitch? Bullshit. What actually happened?"

The Don scowls, some of his previous bravado reentering his expression. "Look. I don't know what you want from me. He made some promises, yeah, but it was supposed to be beneficial to all parties involved. He didn't fucking warn me you Villains are all-"

He clamps his jaw shut with a mulish click, teeth gritted in a blend of anger and healthy fear.

Techno exhales with a dark amusement. Turning his attention away from the Don in a clear snub.

"Are all what? Not scum like you?" He swivels towards the balcony, disdainful sneer audible in his voice as he stares out over the nightclub floor. "You've already made dangerous assumptions once by coming here, Don Paul. The Syndicate and Las Nevadas have goals far beyond anything you can offer and you'd be a fool to believe otherwise."

"Tell me where your benefactor is running his rings." Quackity demands. Even If the Don hasn't participated in the actual sales yet, Quackity has been around long enough to know that men like him prefer to 'sample' the products they engage with.

"I don't know!" The Don insists, crossing his arms.

Quackity bristles, stalking towards the mobster with vicious purpose. Don Paul backs up until his back hits the wall and Quackity jabs a vicious finger into his chest.

"I don't fucking believe you. Tell me where the operation is." Quackity hisses, trusting Techno to watch his back. The whole meeting has turned into something of a shit show, but Quackity will still consider it a success if the Syndicate can get the information they need.

The Don caves with little pressure, eyes darting between his two goons and the Villains. He can see no help arriving.

"Look," He starts, hands help up in surrender. "I can tell you a warehouse, maybe a bar or two, but I seriously don't know anything else. But, you have to swear to let me and my men walk out of here before I tell you anything."

Jester reluctantly steps back, vaguely impressed by the balls the Don has to demand anything in this circumstance. The majority of Quackity simply feels disgusted by a man so immoral as to sell other humans for pleasure.

Quackity may be a Villain, he may be a criminal, but he has never condoned the evil it takes to see innocents as zeros in a bank account.

Quackity exhales with annoyance, a brief crackle of static echoing from his modifier. Get the information and deal with him later, he thinks bitterly.

He stays still for another long moment, watching the mob boss squirm. Finally, he opens his mouth. "If you even think about giving us the wrong addresses-"

"Jester." The Blood God interrupts, deadly serious as he stares over the rail. Quackity's mouth clicks shut as he silently gives the other Villain his full attention.

"Jester." Technoblade repeats in that same dangerous tone. "Were you expecting company today?"

"What?" Quackity asks as he strides to the rail, forgetting his pseudo-captives completely. Technoblade wouldn't joke at a time like this.

Techno nods downward and Quackity watches in horror as a crowd of uniformed men flood into his nightclub.

The screams of his staff hit his ears a second later, as the armed Commission agents force them to the ground with cruel precision.

What the fuck.

"What the fuck." Quackity emphatically whispers, like a swivel, he looks back at the confused Don and then again towards the chaos on the ground floor.

Technoblade growls besides him, tusks snapping. "What did you do?"

I don't know, Quackity thinks hysterically, before realizing the Piglin-hybrid had been addressing Don Paul.

"I-"

At that moment, a Commission agent looks up, locking eyes with Jester before their gaze slips over to the Blood God standing beside him.

Quackity watches as they pale, blood draining faster than even Techno could achieve. They press their com, frantically repeating the same phrase over and over:

"The Blood God is here, we need reinforcements. The Blood God is here, we need reinforcements."

Suddenly everything makes sense, a bit of clarity cutting through the numbing haze gripping Quackity.

This meeting had set Jester up. The Don-

No. Don Paul looks just as startled as Quackity from where Technoblade shakes him violently. Quackity can hear the Piglin-hybrid demanding answers, but the Don truly doesn't know anything.

Then who?

Quackity catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye; the younger, less experienced bodyguard, slipping something that looks like a modified pager into his pocket as he shifts to his feet.

Quackity barely manages to make out the odd, simplified laughing face engraved on the device before it disappears from view.

He doesn't have time to think about it as the shouting from below moves closer to the elevators below, black and green uniforms now intermingled with the random color choices of one or two low level heroes.

Thoughts racing, he spins back towards Techno. Why did this happen now? He wonders as he goes to tug Techno's cape.

They need to leave before the Commission can confirm their presence, before Jester gets caught with the Blood God and a known Mob boss in a high traffic night club.

If the Commission knew the two Villains were going to be present and cornered, they definitely would have brought the tools to take them down.

"Blood God." He calls as he looks for the best escape. He has a back door down the hall, but they have very little time before the intruders make their way up the stairs.

"We need to go." He says when Technoblade's attention turns.

How did they know Jester and the Blood God would be at Club Diamond? Why are they risking a confrontation with Blood God when even Morpheus can't take him down alone?

Or maybe they hadn't intended to.

Nobody knew the meeting would include the Syndicate's heaviest hitter until right before it started. Even Quackity himself. Technoblade just happens to be a wildcard that nobody could have predicted; an ace up Quackity's sleeve.

After all-

"It's a set up." Quackity utters as he pulls Technoblade towards the door. Screw the Don, he can jump over the balcony for all Quackity cares. "Blood God. It's a setup for me."

He hopes Technoblade understands what he's trying to say, the conclusions he came to in the past few minutes. Yet, despite the urgency, Technoblade pulls him to a stop before they reach the door.

"Wait."

Quackity shakes his wings impatiently. "Didn't you hear me? We need to-"

The Blood God shakes his head, eyes fixated on the door. "Wait. I hear something."

Suddenly he stiffens, "Jester, get back."

Quackity hesitates, starting to backpedal.

Not fast enough, Quackity stumbles as Technoblade pulls him backwards. The Blood God pivots them both away as the door explodes inward in a shower of splintered wood.

Boom!

The pieces bounce harmlessly against Techno's cape and less harmlessly against the unprotected occupants of the room. Quackity hears the Don yelp.

Technoblade laughs humorlessly. "Sorry Ducky." He says as he unsheaths his gleaming sword in one smooth motion and turns towards the swarm of fully geared commission agents.

"I think we're going to have to fight our way out of this one."

Chapter Text

As the sleek wooden door to the balcony shatters like painted porcelain, Technoblade lets his powers reach out, dragging a half liter of blood out of the still-bleeding bodyguard's form.

The lackey makes a choked noise as crimson liquid snakes out from the injuries like a macabre party streamer. Technoblade ignores him. He hasn't taken enough to kill the man (not that he particularly cares at this point), so he doesn't want to hear any complaints.

The blood separates into two dozen tiny, bullet-sized drops and shoots toward the frontmost Commission agents at Techno's nonverbal command. As the drops make contact with the cloth of the uniforms, near the collars, Technoblade uses the surface area of the blood spots to force the agents back into their comrades.

Cries of shock and gasps of blunt force pain resound from the collapsed crowd. Unfortunately, the sheer number of Commission grunts spilling into the balcony room makes the move less effective than Techno would prefer as the further agents push the affected ones back upright.

Damn. There are simply too many to fight in this close of a space.

Uh oh, lots of enemies.

Kill them all!

Fight scene pog.

Without there being collateral damage, anyway.

Technoblade tunes chat out, weighing the odds of getting out through the mass of black-clad agents. Techno could probably achieve it through his skill alone; yet every moment he spends wading through a few enemies at a time due to the limited space, more agents can arrive as reinforcements.

Oh well, Techno thinks, a new plan forming in his mind as he casts a glance at the ground floor, where the horde of agents has mostly dispersed as they corrall the few security guards and employees still left in the club; the Villain's do need to leave before the 'backup' drops in.

Holding his sword between the enemy and himself, Techno begins to crowd his feathered companion towards the balcony rail.

"Jester," He mutters, low and clear. Quackity's attention snaps to him with a trained swiftness; responsive and ready to work with Techno. Such a good Sounder-mate."We need to get gone and call for a ride. You have emergency exits on the ground floor, correct?"

Quackity nods sharply, mask glowing with the same false smile as it has the whole time, and sends Techno a cocky little set of finger guns before turning towards the rail.

"Gotcha, big guy. Let's wreck some agents' shit, yeah?" The duck-hybrid responds, before spreading his glinting, golden wings and slipping over the rail.

Technoblade snorts a laugh, watching the other Villain descend on the unsuspecting enemy in a vengeful flurry of wings for a split second before he turns back to the crowd bottlenecked in the doorway.

More have arrived in the precious seconds ticking away, with a few of the uniforms breaking off to roughly subdue Don Paul and his goons.

The foolhardy rest still rush at Techno, each one stupid enough to believe they can maybe just maybe defeat the Blood God.

Idiots.

Many men have doubted Technoblade's true power; many men have died.

However, beyond Chat's call for Blood, Blood Blood, Techno can't justify staying up here any longer; especially not with his teammate on the ground floor. Deciding to cut his losses, Techno grasps the rail with his unoccupied hand, throwing himself after Quackity.

Technoblade hears the agents' alarmed shouts behind him as he falls; and delights in the panicked screams of the agents below as he lands with a ground-cracking thud beside the weaponized wings of Jester.

Quackity turns slightly, a faint gleaming of bright crimson already edging his feather-blades. Techno offers him a nod. Quackity shakes his feathers in greeting, before turning away to face the enemy group.

They both click on their coms in the seconds it takes the Commission agents to recover from the shock of having to engage not one but two notorious Villains.

"You go left, I'll go right?" Techno asks, dropping into an offensive stance. He clicks the panic button attached to his arm-brace once. Hopefully the signal will reach a Syndicate Member soon enough for a rescue.

Jester shrugs. "Sure. Bonus points if you don't break shit."

"Don't worry, I'll just aim for bones."

Techno smirks as Quackity barks a laugh, and they both raise their weapons towards the incoming enemies.

Both Villains dart forward, hitting the agents mercilessly in a flurry of blades. Technoblade's sword slashes through the tactical armor the agents wear easily, layered with as many enchantments as he could possibly have applied, and the agents are only just barely smart enough to try and dodge, pushing forward in an attempt to complete their objective.

From info Fundy had shared with the Syndicate, the Commission had opted to arm and train their raid teams with melee weapons instead of projectile ones, because the public were concerned about the specialized teams going in literally guns blazing, regardless of villain involvement.

Firearms could kill people just as efficiently as the Blood God, after all.

After The Execution Incident, Techno had crafted his cape to withstand even the impact of a bullet; however, the less Techno has to use that facet of his uniform, the happier he will be.

Crossbows are better anyway.

(Especially, he had once learned, if the arrows are enchanted with Knockback, Or, even better, loaded with live explosives.)

Regardless of the weapons involved, Techno easily flows into the fighting, focus tinting red with each swing of his blade. A few fighters hold their own for an impressive handful of seconds, clashing with Techno like their lives depend on it.

They do, for the most part. Techno doesn't hold back, aiming to seriously maim his assailants. Modern medicine and potions ensure the agents won't necessarily die from a knife wound or a severed vein, but hopefully his hits will keep them down long enough to slow or stop their dogged determination.

The black-clad men and women are screaming around him, yelling orders and calling codes into hand-held radios. Save for the agents holding subdued club staff, none retreat.

Techno knows the building has likely been surrounded at this point.

He checks on his fellow Villain out of the corner of his eye when he gets a chance. Quackity's own blades flash a lethal silver amongst gleaming gold as he twirls through his opponents.

The duck typically prefers axes to knives, Techno knows, but he holds his own just fine amongst the crowd.

Techno throws an agent backwards as they try to sneak up on him, growling under his breath. The sheer amount of them has slowed his progress significantly, and Technoblade has the sinking suspicion that this group might merely be stalling for time.

"Jester." Techno murmurs into his com, "have you been able to reach anyone?"

His own long distance line has been quiet, no response or questions from any of his allied Villains. A bad sign.

Hopefully Quackity has had better luck; Techno knows his more technologically advanced mask comes equipped with a decent hands free comm system. Greater chance to call reinforcements.

However, Quackity's response doesn't inspire much confidence.

"- I can't get through to Siren. I called my guys for backup, but they don't have the firepower to get us out if it comes to a full confrontation."

Techno frowns, scanning the room as he blocks another swing. "Keep trying. I'm going to clear a path towards the back exit. Follow as close as you can."

At the noise of affirmation, Techno turns, slashing in an arc at the much humbled agents. Most are keeping further from his swing range, darting forward to try to hit him before backing off. A good strategy, but not good enough to stop him.

"You would think the Commission values their headcount for more than cannon fodder." Techno announces to the room as he advances towards a heavily geared woman with his sword raised. He can feel the fear wafting off her; hear the blood pumping rabbit-quick in her veins.

Chat wants to see her red spill like a waterfall. They want him to rip these people apart for daring to oppose him.

Blood

E

Crush the weak little bugs.

Blood!

Let's feast, boys

Kill them, Techno!!

Dude.

He wants to. Not out of anger, no, he knows they are merely following orders; he can respect those who fight for their cause and coin even if they do so for a Government.

However, Technoblade's foes are weak; making up for lack of skill with quantity. Like a horde of ants attacking a larger enemy.

Their determination has quickly grown wearisome. Annoying and borderline insulting. His bloodlust has grown since the meeting with Don Paul and neither he nor chat are satiated by the poor performance of the Commission agents.

"If the Commission wants me to act as quality control for their ranks." Techno sneers. "They should be prepared to lose them."

He raises his sword, unsure even now whether he will cave to Chat's pressure and strike her down. Whether he will play god in more ways than his title.

Unexpectedly, she takes a step back and braces herself, eyes flicking over Techno's shoulder so quickly he almost thinks it didn't happen. In his periphery, Techno sees most of the other agents retreating as well, hauling the wounded agents and apprehended employees out of the room.

None of it quite registers under the rising chant of his voices.

He brings his blade down in a wide arc, lazy and open and sloppy. Philza would chide him for his form, but Techno's vision has tinted the pink of water-diluted blood, pushing him not to fight it, when-

Blood for the Blood God

GET THEM,

BLOOD

Look out!

RIP THEM TO SHREDS

BLOOD FOR US ALL

BEHIND!

TURN AROUND

LOOK-

"Behind you, Blood God!"

Quackity's voice in his earpiece, though crying the same message as his legion, snaps him from his momentary fixation. Techno spins on his heel and uses the momentum to cut through the air and block the incoming strike with a teeth-gritting clang.

His new opponent grins up at him from behind the gleaming metal of a klewang cutlass, one that Technoblade recognizes well.

Vulpine's toothy muzzle shouldn't be able to grin, not like that, But Techno knows by now that Fundy's not prone to following rules.

"Vulpine," He growls out, and he sees Fundy's ear flick attentively before the fox-man narrows his eyes, then, for the most fleeting of moments, winks.

"Blood God, I see you're having fun." He responds cheekily; accent making the words flit from his tongue. Of all the Heroes they could have sent, they chose Vulpine?

Good, the smaller hybrid knows how to put on a show.

Fundy!!

Furry boy?

Oh- does this mean no blood?

Fight fight fight

Get the popcorn ready

Technoblade twists his blade, disengaging from Fundy's own with a flourish. He goes on the defense as Fundy leaps at him, putting their past sparring sessions (And Phil's mother-bird-must-teach-you-life-skills attitude toward Fundy and the rest of his little flock) to good use.

The fox shifter moves quickly, lithe and agile thanks to his hybrid status. He dances around Techno easily; and though Technoblade has the experience, reflexes, and skill to keep up, he can't treat this as a real fight with an enemy. The red in his vision even starts to recede as he focuses on controlling the force he uses against his ally.

Thing is, Technoblade doesn't want to actually hurt Fundy. The guy basically counts as a sounder-mate at this point, and Technoblade knows that if he gives the other hybrid anything more serious than a surface-level cut, gnawing guilt won't be the only reason he regrets it. Wilbur and Phil will rain fury down on him, hell, even Niki might join in. The family loves Fundy just as much as they love Techno.

With this in mind, Techno telegraphs his moves more than usual. He only uses a fraction of his strength when he rears back and swings down, and sees Fundy's own blade come up just a little too slowly to block properly.

Yet, gravity works against them both as the blade already knows its path. Oof. Techno tries too late to will his arm off target.

Fundy seems to realize this, and Techno watches in slow motion as he tries to make up for it: Fundy braces his feet, and-

*CLANG*

Technoblade feels the sharp, recoiling vibrations all the way up into his neck as a green-clad figure meets his sword with the forceful upward swing of a battleaxe.

Morpheus.

Ah. If Fundy's wide eyes are anything to go by, he hadn't been expecting Morpheus to drop into the middle of their fight either. The fox recovers quickly, though, and he darts around behind Morpheus.

"Thanks, man. I've got Jester." Fundy murmurs quickly, before he dodges and weaves between a couple of retreating Agents, then lunges at the avian with a flurry of strikes that Quackity counters easily with his own whirlwind of blades.

The agents are securing the room now, backing off now that the 'qualified' members of society have arrived.

If the agents were trained to work with the Heroes instead of separately, they would be a formidable foe.

Techno hopes they never realize.

Thankfully, as long as the number of Villain's in a room match the number of Heroes, most altercations will end in a draw at worst.

Especially when one of the Heroes works hand in hand with the Villains.

Techno watches with a pleased eye as the Crime-lord villain and the Villain-in-hiding trade blows.

They'll be fine, Fundy will occupy Quackity until they can fabricate a believable end to the "fight" where Jester escapes.

Any more attention Technoblade may have paid that fight diverts rapidly towards his own Hero opponent. Morpheus rudely slashes at him, causing Technoblade to parry awkwardly.

He narrows his eyes.

Morpheus's head quirks in a way that Technoblade now recognizes as him offering a daring smile behind the mask.

(Technoblade has had the pleasure of experiencing that expression multiple times in the past months. It guarantees the adrenaline and challenge Techno craves; he hasn't gotten tired of it yet)

(In this context or any….other)

"Hello, Blood God. Come here often?" The Hero purrs when Techno focuses fully on him, and Technoblade bites back an answering grin.

The question sounds terribly suggestive, a mockery of the overused pick up line; Techno, however can read between the lines.

"Well, now that would be telling, wouldn't it, Morpheus," he counters sweetly, and he hears Morpheus snort faintly before he deflects Techno's next strike. "I need more persuasion than that to admit to something so.. verboten."

I'm not going to tell you the places I frequent as a Villain. Techno doesn't say, though the message rings clearly between them. It carries the same playful note as their private interactions, and Techno feels a pavlovian tingle of excitement.

Chat explodes into a frenzy of quiet squeals and whispers, like school children watching a risqué movie.

Morpheus's shoulders straighten, and Techno braces for the blow that comes immediately afterward, catching the hilt of the Hero's axe and hooking his sword beneath the blade, trying to disarm his opponent. Morpheus uses the motion to move the wicked blade closer to Technoblade's neck, though, and Techno finds himself having to fight the force so as not to lose his head.

"I don't suppose I could convince you by introducing my axe to your neck?" The Hero coos, pressing forward.

Techno bares his teeth in a savage, tusk-laden grin, eyes glowing and head buzzing with eager anticipation.

His, and Chat's.

------

Across the room, Jester nearly takes a hit from Vulpine's blade as he registers the conversation he can hear over the comm link he shares with Technoblade..

-"How forward, should I be blushing?"- The Blood God himself growls, voice dripping like melted chocolate.

What the fuck? Quackity thinks, the focused expression he wears behind his mask screwing into one of utter bafflement. He knows he didn't hear that correctly.

-"How about you surrender instead? I promise the restraints won't be too tight… unless you'd like them to be." Comes the barely audible reply from Morpheus, sounding awfully close to meaning his words as sexual as they sound.

What.

The fuck?

Quackity feels a strange amount of relief at the sight of Vulpine's fox-face twisting with confusion as the fox hybrid darts a glance, and then another, toward the battle taking place between Morpheus and the Blood God. Quackity guesses that the fox's enhanced hearing means he doesn’t need a comm to hear the bizarre conversation.

-"You offerin' to tie me up, Hero? Tempting, but I think I'd rather just put my blade through your gut."-

Quackity glances at Fundy and tilts his head slightly, trying to convey his absolute lack of comprehension regarding the strange little- conversation? Flirting battle? Whatever the hell has infected Mr. stab-any-bastard-who-looks-at-me-wrong and his lime-clad nemesis.

Quackity has never known Technoblade to flirt, much less with someone he's actively trying to maim. Fundy looks back and shrugs one shoulder, a puzzled expression on his animalistic face. They stand still for a moment, each one trying to muddle through the confusion, before the lull in their weaponized conflict catches up to them.

Fundy drops back into a fighting stance and narrows his vulpine eyes.

Right, they have to make this look believable. Vulpine, fighting Jester, trying to keep him from escaping.

He just has to ignore the noise from his comm.

(Seriously, what the fuck.)

-----------

"You offerin' to tie me up, Hero? Tempting, but I think I'd rather just put my blade through your gut." The words are a threat, in context, but he and Morpheus both know that the entire conversation simply bathes in innuendo.

Morpheus lunges, trying to take Technoblade off guard with a feint that he changes at the last moment.

"Hah- I'll pass, for now." He breathes out, voice tight with the strain of speaking during battle and maybe a little flustered. "Too busy trying to arrest a Villain, you know how it is. Maybe later."

Ooh, Maybe later?

I don't get the joke guys.

Yeah, put your *blade* through his gut!

Oh…I get it now

Scandalous! Deviant!

Techno blocks a blow with a teeth-shattering clash of their weapons. It takes a moment before he registers the invitation. He had been joking, mostly, but if Morpheus wants to take it seriously…

"Ah, well, I'll be free around nine," Techno informs amidst Chat's roars. He feels the tips of his ears heat at their rather descriptive suggestions on what to do if the hero accepts.

What hypocrites. Despite their complaints at every turn, they like Techno's new relationship with Morpheus almost more than Techno does.

"That's what you think. I say you'll be locked up nice and secure," the Hero taunts aloud. Yet, for the barest second, Morpheus hesitates before he responds, and Techno almost laughs.

Aww, he wants to f*ck Techno more than he wants to arrest Techno.

He hesitated!

Come to the dark side Morpheus! We have cookies….and Techno.

Regardless of Chat's disembodied taunting, Techno actually appreciates the hero sticking to his moral code despite their trysts.

He would think much less of Morpheus if the hero managed to be swayed by a mere swish of Techno's tail.

(Techno doesn't play that game, he doesn't need to use his body to get information or persuade someone. It would be an insult to him and Morpheus to assume otherwise).

Yoo

EEEEEE

You can lock me up nice and secure Daddy~

WE ARE NOT BRINGING THE D WORD INTO THIS, YOU HEATHEN

Techno rolls his eyes at the increasingly unhinged statements from chat and kicks out to trip Morpheus as the man steps backward. "Unlikely," he retorts, "You-"

-"Blood God, it's time to go!"- interrupts his banter; he goes silent for a moment.

"Heh. Sorry, Morpheus, gonna have to take that rain check." Techno dodges hits

from a pair of ballsy Commission agents who have left their stations by the exit, then grabs the back of their armor and bodily throws them both at Morpheus.

The Hero shouts in surprise and his axe vanishes in a flash of green particles as he attempts to avoid injuring the people. He ends up getting bowled over by their flailing limbs in the process.

Ha. Classic.

Morpheus will get over it when he meets Techno later. If he meets Techno later.

…Nah. When had been correct.

Techno takes the opportunity to book it, turning tail and sprinting after Quackity, who looks to have pinned Vulpine's armor to a nearby table with a few of the smaller knives he keeps on his person.

(Technoblade knows they're finely crafted and razor sharp, as all well-maintained blades are, (clearly the fox hybrid does too, as he contorts his spine away to avoid touching them while also struggling to free himself from the wood) so he hopes Quackity doesn't terribly mind them being confiscated by the Commission.)

Considering the greyish fluid (a slowness splash, presumably) dripping from Fundy's body, getting free will take a while without help. A perfect excuse for not pursuing the Villain's. Technoblade appreciates Quackity's foresight.

They make it out of the building through an emergency exit and, as they shove through, Technoblade hears the shrieking security alarm begin to sound before cutting off abruptly.

Quackity's guys at work, then. Technoblade doesn't doubt that if anyone checks the systems, they won't even register as having been triggered.

Don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious,

Run boys run

Oh look, a fellow Chatter!

Out of the corner of his eye, Technoblade sees a blur of shadow and feathers solidify into a crow, who caws once then flies silently alongside them as Techno and Quackity take a back route, winding through alleyways and staying beneath awnings, Technoblade following Quackity's lead.

Quackity, the clever, quick-minded man, knows the streets of Las Nevadas even more intimately than the Blood God knows the veins beneath his skin. Technoblade trusts Quackity to get them out.

Honestly, the Piglin-hybrid had expected this to be an easy meeting.

He stands in Quackity's corner, helps intimidate a weak-willed family head into giving Quackity whatever sweet little deal Quackity wants, and gets to see his golden duck in person.

All in all, a Win for Techno.

(Techno knows better than to push the space Quackity puts between them. It rankles him, both parts of him (piglin and human) are social with the ones they care about, but he remembers well the agreement he made when Quackity joined the fold. Prime help them all if he willingly breaks that trust).

That said, he hadn't fully expected Quackity's displeasure at seeing him (Wilbur owes Techno for that one, as well as not picking up his comm), and he certainly didn't expect the raid on the nightclub.

After they've run far enough, the crow caws, a handful of sharp sounds that has Technoblade slowing to an eventual stop and calling for Quackity to do the same. The crow lands on Technoblade's newly outstretched arm. Nobody except Philza himself can understand the things (Except perhaps Kristen, Technoblade still doesn't know) but Techno knows they're essentially Phil's eyes, ears, and mouthpiece when he can't be there.

Speaking of.

"Hey," He says to the bird, who makes a clicking noise and tilts its head, "Tell Crowfather to call me, please."

The bird bobs its head once, eyes glittering, then doesn't move. Technoblade sighs. Despite them not being real, nature-born crows, the creatures have a penchant for demanding treats and special things from the inner Syndicate members. Usually Phil just bops them on the head if they become too obnoxious in their insistence, but Technoblade knows they usually just flutter off to bother someone else.

He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a little drawstring bag. The crow eyes him curiously. From within, Techno withdraws a pea-sized, shiny lump of metal, one of several things he keeps on his person to toy with when his thoughts begin to wander every which way.

He has found it helps the restless movement of his mind; to have something moving in his hands.

He offers the metal to the crow, who caws delightedly and plucks it out of his grasp with a small, taloned foot. Quackity snorts beside them, and just as Technoblade turns to look at the man, the crow takes off in a flurry of feathers and jubilant calling that actually vaguely startles him.

Quackity rolls his eyes at the display, muttering something in Spanish, then strides over to Techno, voice low but clear.

"I've got a guy coming to pick us up. Apparently Crowfather had some of those demon birds keeping the Commission fuckers from pursuing us."

Quackity's stands like a bow-string strung taught; tension and irritation laced through the set of his shoulders as any amusement slips away like oil.

Technoblade finds himself unsurprised. "Hm. He probably sent them with me when I arrived. You know he likes to keep tabs on-"

"I know," Quackity snaps, and Technoblade falls silent patiently. A moment passes in which the alleyway seems devoid of sound. Then, Quackity swears loudly and kicks a plastic crate further down the alleyway.

"What the fuck even happened?" He rages, LED grin incongruous with the ire in his voice, "Everything was fine, that shithead was going to tell us what he knew! It was supposed to be a simple meeting!"

He whirls around and faces Technoblade.

"Someone set me the fuck up. They had my club raided. I'm going to find out who it was and make sure they never interfere again," He spits.

Techno nods, once, and lets out a single quiet chuff, trying to calm Quackity. The avian stills, somewhat, masked face tilted up toward Technoblade's own.

"And if you need me, I'll be right behind you when you do, Ducky. For now, though, we need to get out of here. How much longer until your driver gets-?" In his periphery, he sees a black Mazda roll to a stop at the mouth of the alleyway, sitting idle. "Well. That's good timin'."

Quackity huffs, but Technoblade can hear the pride in his voice when he responds:

"My people do their jobs well."

Technoblade follows Quackity to the vehicle. The windows are tinted, dark enough that he can't make out the interior, and when he drops down and climbs into the back seat, he notes that the privacy divider between the front and back seats shares the same darkened display.

The little window in said divider hasn't been closed, however, and Quackity murmurs an address and thanks to the driver before shutting it.

The duck hybrid slumps back against the seat and reaches up to remove his mask with a long exhale.

Sweat-soaked strands of black hair cling to Jester's face as he tosses his mask to the side, letting it bounce carelessly against the cushions. Technoblade takes the opportunity to lift his own mask up to rest atop his head.

"That was a total shit-show." Quackity states as he stares forward blankly, head resting back against the seat.

"Yup." Technoblade considers the repercussions to their reputations. After all, if a raid could happen while meeting with Jester and Blood God…could they really be trusted to do business with?

"I'm still pissed."

"Mmhm."

Quackity had made that abundantly clear with all the unspoken promise of consequences for the parties involved. No matter how aberrant, the duck-hybrid has never been quiet about his feelings for the things important to him.

In Technoblade's humble opinion, Quackity's passion (both ambitious and benign) has always been one of the more endearing parts of his personality.

Quackity glances at Techno. "I'm going to kick your brother's knees in the next time I see him."

Ah, yes. Technoblade can't forget the charming nature of violent tendencies as well. Ducks are truly vicious creatures when scorned.

"Sure." Technoblade responds agreeably. He too had expected Wilbur to be on speed dial, should anything happen, but remains fully aware of the possibility his brother had allowed his phone to die. Unlikely, but possible.

Wilbur has many good qualities. Passion, charisma, creativity, musical talent. Unfortunately, despite all that, Wilbur can be distracted as easily as a three month old puppy with a chew toy.

It can be charming on the occasions when Technoblade doesn't have a threat to his life or freedom.

"..." Quackity's gaze falls away.

Technoblade raises an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic show of hesitance, and waits.

"...I'm glad you were there." Quackity finally says, quiet and withdrawn.

Despite the car being customized to include as much leg and head space as possible, Technoblade finds himself still somewhat hunched in his seat. That doesn’t matter as he shuffles over, closer to Quackity, and rests his chin gently atop the man's slicked-back black locks. Quackity sighs, ending the sound with a quiet, frustrated avian noise in the back of his throat, and leans into Technoblade's chest.

"So am I, Ducky," Techno rumbles.

They stay like that for a moment, letting the tension of the fight drip away, then Quackity pulls back enough to look up at Technoblade, a strange expression on his face.

"So."

Technoblade tilts his head. "So?" He echoes, a bit unnerved by the suddenly pointed tone.

Quackity narrows his dark eyes.

"What was up with you and Morpheus?"

Crap.

Techno forgot his comm had been active the entire fight.

Like a buffoon.

"...what?" Techno twitches, trying desperately to sound confused instead of guilty.

"'Come here often?' 'Are you offering to tie me up?' 'Should I be blushing?'" Quackity quotes, as Technoblade cringes with every word.

Shoot. Dang. What should Techno even say? "Ah, y'know…" He trails off as he tries to think of an excuse.

Uh oh. Busted.

Abort! Abort!

Scatter, he's onto us!

L

L

Honey! Where is my super CoNveNienT ExcUSe?

Play dumb!

"...Banter." Techno says finally, picking up the end of the sentence with a higher tone than he intended. "You know, throwing your opponent off with a few good quips?"

Not… that dumb.

Smh

Banter????

CRINGEDEGEUG

Lordy lord, we're done for

LLLLLLLLL

Can we go back to Q yelling? It's funny.

Quackity, unknowingly, agrees with Chat.

"Banter?" His eyebrows shoot up, then fall to crinkle judgmentally. "Bullshit. You were cracking jokes!"

Technoblade shrugs incredibly awkwardly under Quackity's watchful gaze. Chat continues to heckle him.

"Morpheus runs his mouth a lot, sometimes I gotta reply." He attempts to defend.

"That was flirting," Quackity accuses.

"Nahhh," Techno denies, like a liar. It absolutely had been flirting. A little verbal foreplay to proposition another rendezvous while enjoying the knowledge of the delightful flush that surely sat beneath Morpheus' mask.

Sue him, Techno has always liked pretty things.

"You were flirting with Morpheus." He eyes Technoblade suspiciously. "Don't tell me you have the hots for a Hero…"

Technoblade rolls his eyes. He doesn't even need to pretend for that one. Of all the ridiculous things.

"I don't 'have the hots' for anyone." Techno insists. He truly doesn't! The only feelings he has for Morpheus are lust and aggression! "I just enjoy the challenge of battle."

"Techno-"

Brrriing

Technoblade has never been so glad to hear his phone ring. He answers immediately, ignoring the scrutiny on Quackity's face.

"Hullo, Crowfather. I'm puttin' you on speaker."

-"Alright, boys,"- Comes Philza's voice as soon as Technoblade gives the okay. Techno hears him shuffling, and the faint sound of an engine. -"Debrief me. What happened?"-

Technoblade glances at Quackity, who takes the cue with a disgruntled glare, recounting the meeting and subsequent interruption to Phil.

Techno takes the opportunity to muse.

Perhaps the ruined meeting will be a good thing. It certainly wouldn't do to have the criminal underground thinking the punishment for attempted takeover of the Syndicate's territory was leniency; and a raid on the most recent instance of some upstart thinking they had the situation under their control would prove precisely the opposite given the Syndicate member's successful escape.

However. If even the completely untouchable gods that represent Syndicate and Las Nevadas leadership could be raided, betrayed and nearly arrested, then how untouchable are they really?

The car drags to a halt in perfect conjunction with Techno's thoughts. He straightens as he tunes into the tail-end of Quackity's conversation with Philza.

"-Yeah, We're here. Okay. Okay."

Quackity ends the call with a gentle press of a button. He turns towards Techno and shoots him a commiserating smile as he pulls his mask back on. "Crowdaddy isn't pleased. He thinks the Don set it up."

Yooooo. Daddy's mad!

Philza's CRAFTING a BeLT!

DADZA'S GONNA BEAT SOME GOONS!

E.

Quackity continues without shame for his word choice, reaching for the car door. "I don't think it was him, he looked genuinely-

Techno recoils as Quackity's words catch up to him. "Please don't call him daddy." He interrupts, pleading to both Quackity and chat.

Quackity stills, one hand still outstretched towards the door. When his head turns, LED smile still stretched across his blank mask, Techno knows with certainty that he should not have said anything.

"-Surprised. Additionally, I doubt he would have set himself up to be arrested if that was the case. Papi Caw-Caw is sending his crows to see if he stays arrested or if he has a deal with the Commission."

Techno grimaces, pushing his own door open hastily. "We should go meet with Crowfather."

Hah. Weak.

Technorun

Technoflee

Technocringe.

Technocringe.

Technocringe

"Chat, I am not the cringe one. Stop spamming that!" Techno vehemently protests as he closes the car door behind him. Quackity chuckles as he rounds the vehicle.

"Chat knows what's up." Quackity states with an air of amusement.

Techno huffs with faux irritation as they both turn towards their base. "Bullies, the lot of them. See if I do any shout-outs to new members again."

(He ignores the frantic begging and apologies that flood from his voices. They change their tunes awfully quickly when it suits them. Little brats).

Quackity opens his mouth, some clever quip likely to spill forth when-

"Are you guys just going to stand out here all day?" A voice asks from in front of them, in the space where no one had previously stood.

Jester startles; lurching back before catching himself as his jaw snaps shut so loudly he might have broken something. Techno just blinks.

Connor blinks back, brown bangs falling messily around his face due to the weight of his spiky blue hood.

Connor!

EAT PANT CO-NAR!

Gotta go fast!

The hedgehog-hybrid's round ears poke up from beneath the hood, and they twitch lazily as Connor waits.

"Shit, Man." Quackity says after a moment, recovered from his surprise."Lead the way I guess."

Connor smiles and turns on his heel, zipping towards the door of the nondescript building so fast he leaves a blur of blue in his wake.

The other two Villains stare for a moment, then exchange masked glances of detached amusement.

Connor appears in front of them again, a sheepish grin plastered across his face. "Sorry."

"I forgot how fast you are." Quackity says as he makes his way towards the building.

"It is my power." Connor reminds as he positively skips after the duck-hybrid.

Techno trails behind them, two ears out for any suspicious noises in the area. This base has always been quiet, tucked away in a less popular part of the business district on the fringe of Las Nevadas. Few Cops or Heroes ever come around.

"Say," Connor starts with a considering frown as they file into the building. "Why didn't you two call me for extraction?"

A good question. Techno wonders that as well.

At the expectant looks leveled towards him, Quackity's wings bristle. "Uh…I forgot."

Techno raises an eyebrow. "You…forgot to call him?"

Quackity's head turns towards the wall as he crosses his arms. He had lost his blazer somewhere in the fight, it seems. "I forgot he… existed."

Lollol.

He forgot Connor. L

Bish, we all forgot Connor.

Oof, cringe, Techno thinks with a wince out of sight behind his mask.

In all fairness to Quackity, Connor has always been a reserve member of the Syndicate, invaluable for input on the operations and planning, but almost never in the field. Techno himself probably wouldn't call the speedster onto a mission unless things were dire.

Quackity had been preoccupied as well.

Regardless, Connor makes a wounded noise, a pout forming on his round face. "Wha- how? Dude! You saw me last week!"

Techno chuckles, prompting the two shorter Villains forward further into the building. Quackity huffs as he acquiesces to the piglin-hybrid's herding.

"It was a very stressful situation. I can't be expected to remember every contact in my reserve." Quackity argues, sounding very much like Wilbur. Techno has no idea how they can be so antagonistic to each other when they have such similar personalities.

Oh well. Better each other than any innocent Syndicate recruit (or Techno himself).

"You just forgot me?" Connor asks sadly, looking hurt; his lip wobbles just a hair. Techno knows the hedgehog-hybrid has thicker skin than he likes to pretend, but he keeps an ear on the two just in case. "So no one was like 'hey, where's Connor?' Or- or 'Maybe Conner can help?'"

Quackity looks hunted, shooting glances back at Technoblade like he expects the Piglin-hybrid to intervene. Techno pretends not to see.

Shut up, Chat. Techno can't see Quackity's eyes through the mask, how should he know what those minuscule head movements mean?

"...Yeah, basically. " Quackity confirms, sounding horribly blunt through his voice filter.

"Oh." Connor whispers, turning away, ears flat against his skull. "...Okay."

Oof. He's guilt-tripping hard.

Aww. Poor baby.

He's faking guys. Lol.

L.

Take the L, Big Q. He's getting good.

Quackity whips his head towards Techno, making helpless gestures with his splayed palms. Technoblade decides to take pity on the poor bird.

"He's messing with you." Technoblade drawls, reaching past them both to turn the handle of a nondescript door.

Quackity whirls on the speedster, catching the poorly concealed grin on his downturned face. "You-"

Connor laughs, straightening as his ears perk back up. "Yeah. It's fine. Call me next time, though. How's Charlie doing?"

"Yeah, uh… he's doin' good. He learned what a high-five was last week, and now he won't stop asking people to 'Dap him up'," Quackity responds, shooting his rarely used angry face mask setting at Technoblade between each word.

Connor snorts, but any response he might have given dissolves under the greeting from one of the figures inside the room.

"Boys!" Crowfather calls from the head of the Syndicate meeting table. "Come on in. Glad to see you made it in one piece."

Antipode waves cheerfully from her chair next to him, hair elegantly braided back away from her masked face. "We have a lot to talk about, yeah? Come on."

Quackity groans. Sinking into his chair at the table. Connor had zipped over before Niki had started speaking.

Techno hesitates, looking over all the members of the Syndicate's inner circle, sans one…

"Where's Siren? He didn't pick up when I called him." Quackity wonders, crossing his ankle over his knee.

Philza shrugs. "He said he had something to do a couple hours ago. Around the time Protesilaus left for the meeting. None of us expected it to go so sideways." The man's veiled head turns toward Techno and tilts sharply. "Come sit down, Blood God; he'll be here later."

Techno sighs, a bit annoyed at his last sounder-mate being MIA after that mess of a meeting.

He probably won't be able to see Wilbur until much much later tonight if he wants to keep his date with Morpheus.

Ah well, if he doesn't want his own actions monitored, he ought to leave Wilbur to his own devices, inconvenient though they may be.

Fighting a frown, Techno opts not to invoke more than Phil's questioning stare with his reluctance to join the others.

He shuts the door behind him.

○●○●○●○●○(A few hours earlier)

The door chimes as it swings open, announcing a new customer cheerfully.

Tommy stands from the crouched position the lower cabinets demand from any poor soul who needs a new bottle of vanilla syrup and doesn’t feel like kneeling.

Seriously, who decided that Antfrost should be the only employee to comfortably reach those short-ass shelves?

He puts on his customer service smile as he straightens, preparing to greet whatever random joe has entered the cafe. Only, when he actually looks at the patron he finds himself face-to-face with a familiar, smirking man and his mop of tousled brown curls.

Tommy starts, biting back the reflexive curse that threatens to tumble out, and presses the syrup bottle against his chest.

Do NOT swear at this man while Bad's in the cafe, he reminds himself. The teen chances a glance at Bad, who, busy replacing the signs in the pastry case, doesn't pay any attention to the newcomer.

Which, unfortunately, means Tommy himself has to deal with Wilbur.

Wilbur, who just last week had encountered Tommy's Vigilante identity. Shit. Tommy will have to act differently than Theseus to throw the brunette off his scent.

Really, Tommy reasons with a tentative hope, it has been long enough since Wilbur came in during his shift that as long as he doesn't do or say anything odd, he should be able to Customer Service himself out of this with little issue. He just has to act normal.

(After all, retail workers are downright invisible unless they make someone mad).

He sighs, then, for the sake of his identity and due diligence while his boss works a mere stride away, puts on a friendly smile. "Hullo and welcome to Muffinhead Café, what can I get you today?"

Tommy watches Wilbur's posture stutter and the grin drop from his face.

"What?" The brunette asks, voice pitched slightly higher in what can only be surprise.

"What can I get you today, Sir?" Tommy repeats in his politest voice, dread pooling in his stomach like mercury. Fuck. Does Wilbur already recognize him from the alley? The way Wilbur tilts his head like a hungry bird does nothing to inform him either way.

Wilbur's eyes narrow, corvid smart and fox-cunning. Shit.

Something Tommy did or said made the man suspicious. Tommy should never have talked to him in the alley.

"What happened to your voice?" The golden-eyed man asks, an indignant pout forming beneath his intense gaze. "Why are you being so pleasant?"

The man spits the last word like a curse, and-

What?

Wilbur….wants Tommy to be rude to him? After he threatened Tommy last time? Is he kidding?

Tommy's facade of cordiality almost falters as he fiercely resists the urge to throw something at the brown-haired beanpole in front of him regardless of keeping his cover. Before he can say anything, though, Bad finally flounces over.

"Wilbur, hello! How are you today?" Bad chirps, and Wilbur blinks. "Hullo Bad, I'm swell, yeah, quick question? What's wrong with your barista boy?"

Bad tilts his head, smile turning confused.

"What do you mean?" He asks, patiently friendly with that too familiar tone. Bad glances at Tommy, a question in his eyes. "He's doing a great job, nothing is wrong… Or, well, is something wrong, Tommy?"

When Bad keeps looking to Tommy for some sort of clarification, Tommy shrugs with an easy grin, hoping Wilbur will keep his mouth shut for once in the history of their interactions. "Nah, I feel great, Big B."

When Bad doesn't look quite convinced, Tommy looks Wilbur dead in the eyes and glues his Customer Service smile back on his face.

"I appreciate your concern," Asshole tendencies more like. "sir,-" bitch "but I'm doing fine. What can I get you?" Play along, you wanker.

Of course, because life can't be easy for Tommy, the musician simply refuses to follow the universal script and gestures at Tommy with a sweeping hand. "No, Bad, look, you've broken him. What's your name, child?"

Tommy twitches with irritation. 'What's it to you' He want to say, or 'you already know it, fucker'

He doesn't say either of those and maturely resists gesturing flatly at his nametag like he would do in any other situation; instead, he offers Wilbur the same, frozen smile. "Tommy."

Wilbur's smiles stiffly back, looking thoroughly displeased by Tommy's refusal to engage. Does he really come off as that easy to rile up? Bitch please, Tommy can be spite polite all fucking day. (He's learned things working in the cafe. Tommy has evolved).

Tommy can see the exact moment Wilbur decides to push harder.

"How old are you, like thirteen? You're tall for a child," Wilbur snips, and Tommy knows the rat bastard wants a reaction; he wants Tommy to curse at him and look rude in front of Bad, but Tommy, ever the epitome of politeness and control, simply says: "Sure. Would you like a suggestion from the menu, or did you already have a drink in mind?"

"Broken!" The man exclaims again, ignoring the question, and Tommy-

Just….

keeps smiling.

(Firmly pushing down the internal scream threatening to burst forth).

"Look, he's like a little cashier robot. Are you even the same kid who served me last time? Where's that fiery attitude gone?" Wilbur plants his hands on the counter and leans in toward Tommy, ignoring Bad's furrowing brow. "Blink twice if you're in there, Toms."

Tommy stares at Wilbur, letting spite (and some long-buried avian ability) overrule his need to blink.

They hold eye contact for a long moment.

Wilbur opens his mouth again, but Bad intercedes with a shake of his head. The blank white shapes of his eyes are narrowed in a distinctly irritated way.

"Alright, I think that's enough. Wilbur, quit it please. If this is a joke then I don't think either of us get the punchline. Tommy, go ahead and finish refilling everything, I can take his order."

Tommy blinks, then nods, shooting Bad a half-smile and mock-saluting. "You got it, Big B."

Bad steps up to the register. Behind his back, Tommy cannot resist flipping Wilbur one, singular bird. Wilbur's jaw drops indignantly, a vindicated fury written in the finger he points accusingly at Tommy.

"Hold on, Bad, Tommy has to do it. I want the same thing he made last time." The bespectacled man insists.

Bad raises an eyebrow and turns to Tommy. Tommy's middle finger drops immediately and he gives his boss the most innocent, unassuming expression he can manage. With a helpless shrug, Tommy glances at Wilbur.

"Sorry boss man, I don't remember serving you," A lie, Tommy knows it; Wilbur definitely knows it from the incredulous respect growing in his eyes. However, Tommy thinks he deserves a little bit of gaslighting. As a treat..

"We do have a list of flavors right up there on the board, if you want to try something new." Tommy helpfully points out to really drive the point home. He smiles cheerfully at the sour expression that gets him; prickling with petty glee.

Wilbur harrumphs, looking ready to argue. Bad puts his hands on his hips with a click of his tongue.

"Wilbur…" the demon hybrid utters in caution. Against expectation, Wilbur stiffens like he's been scolded and concedes with a reluctant order from the menu.

What a weirdo.

Once Tommy tears his attention away, he makes quick work of restocking and filling everything behind the counter. He watches, out of the corner of his eye, as Bad makes some random, overly sugary concoction for Wilbur (A double strength black tea with two shots each of vanilla and raspberry syrup, and how does this actual manchild survive?) anxiety buzzing beneath his skin as he waits for the older man to rat him out to Bad.

Wilbur does not, in fact, rat him out to Bad. He simply takes his drink and goes to sit near one of the windows, pulling out his mobile and scrolling through some app or another.

An hour or so passes, and during a quiet few minutes with no other customers, Tommy soon forgets his wariness of the similarly accented man in favor of going out and wiping down all the tables.

He nearly forgets Wilbur altogether, and by the time Tommy has wiped down every horizontal surface in the Café and straightened up distractedly, he realizes that the Café has emptied of all but himself and Wilbur.

Bad must be in the office, working on those god awful money-tracking spreadsheets he'd once attempted to show Tommy. (Tommy has decided that spreadsheets are his sixth most dreaded enemy.)

Glancing cautiously over, the teen sees the older man occupied with his phone.

He hums consideringly to himself before deciding not to bother with that table unless Wilbur leaves before closing. Mind made up, he turns away…

…Just slow enough to watch Wilbur reach for his tea without looking and knock it over. A sort of awkward, guilty glee overtakes Tommy as the lid pops off the top of the paper cup, releasing a gush of tea.

Wilbur swears aloud and leaps to his feet to avoid the stream of watery brownish liquid that races toward him, causing his chair to make an awful grating screech. He quickly rights the cup, but the damage has already been done.

Tommy stifles a snort of laughter and grabs a dry rag from his little cleaning caddy.

He practically skips over, smirking judgmentally at the brunette the whole time.

"Nice one, big man," Tommy taunts casually, "real pog of you." He begins to wipe up the spill, resolving to just get the small pool on the floor when he mops later.

Wilbur blinks, but instead of being offended by the blatant sarcasm, he grins, all pearly teeth and satisfaction. "I knew you were faking. Where's your plastic little employee voice now, hmm?"

Tommy's smirk drops a little as he debates continuing the previous act. In the end, he just huffs and rolls his eyes.

"At your mom's place, innit?" He snips, and Wilbur gasps, raising a hand to his chest.

"You lie. My mother would never allow such a grungy little boy into her lovely home."

Tommy's mouth drops open, aghast.

"Wha- I'm nearly sixteen, you bastard! And I'm not that much shorter than you! Quit calling me a child!!"

Wilbur laughs, the sound not nearly as unnerving as the last time Tommy heard it.

"I had been wondering," Wilbur says, tone musing, and the blonde's levity abruptly vanishes. Why had Wilbur been wondering?

Thoughts of Theseus come back to mind. But Wilbur hadn't asked Theseus' age, had he?

"Yeah, well. Could've just asked." Tommy says abruptly, then turns abruptly to continue wiping down the table.

"Suppose I could've…" Wilbur replies as he watches Tommy, clearly confused by the tone shift.

When he sees Tommy return to cleaning his mess, Wilbur shrugs and tosses the soaked paper tea cup into the nearest rubbish bin. After a beat, he moves over to a neighboring table and seats himself, glancing at Tommy a couple times before becoming re-immersed in whatever he has on his phone screen.

Tommy goes back and forth a couple times, to retrieve his cleaning spray and another dry rag, but eventually he runs out of ways to stall, so he casually sidles back over to Wilbur's (new) table.

He pulls up a chair and plops down, watching Wilbur for a moment. The guitarist's gaze flicks up to meet Tommy’s, and he raises a brow over one amber-brown eye, but Tommy simply stays quiet, testing the waters and wondering if this will be the point where the older man gets fed up with his presence and complains to Bad.

Wilbur earns himself a point by hesitating, then returning to his phone. Tommy sees his eyes traveling back and forth as he reads some sort of post (Something, if Tommy’s guessing correctly from the format he sees on screen, on a Read.it community).

Eventually, bored and agonizingly curious, Tommy gives in.

"So… whatcha readin, there, big man?"

Wilbur's gaze lifts. "Some people's encounters with a new vigilante."

Tommy just barely manages to sound nonchalant when he says, "Oh? Why the interest?"

Nailed it.

Wilbur shrugs. "I like to keep track of all the major players in the city. Plus, he dropped in while I was getting mugged, the other night. Brash fellow, but he seems like he's got his priorities mostly straight. He actually reminded me of you, a bit."

"What? Why?" Tommy queries, aiming for 'disgruntled-but-curious' instead of 'busted'. It must work because Wilbur just chuckles.

"You're both very… direct. He seemed a little more irritable, though, and less loud." Wilbur eyes Tommy thoughtfully. "But, you're younger than he is."

Well. No, but if Wilbur believes that then Tommy has nothing to worry about.

"Sounds like a pog dude if he's anything like me. I'm obviously better though." Tommy simply answers, because he can't resist promoting himself. He peers at the phone screen, at the odd angle of his seat next to Wilbur, unashamedly reading the post.

r/HeroesVigilantesVillains

u/Mr.Kalamari

New Vigilante in town?

Hello mates. I met a new (?) Vigilante in Essempi on Tuesday, and I was wondering if anyone had info on them? They were male presenting, with face coverings and black and red costume. They actually scared off a guy who wouldn't leave me alone when I got off work, like two seconds before I was gonna bust out the pepper spray. Any other info would be cool, thank you!

[Edit: For people asking, no, I didn't notice anything distinguishing physically. All I can say for certain is that they were a good bit taller than me (I'm 5'4"/162cm) and their voice was masc. but kinda higher pitched, with… a Midlands accent, I think? I'm Not great with regional accents.]

[Edit 2: Thank you guys for all of your comments! It's really good to know that other people have met this chap, and your theories are super useful in coming up with questions for if I ever see them again.]

A buzzing coming from Wilbur's pocket startles him from his reading. As he glances over, Wilbur snags a second phone from his pocket and silences it without looking.

Tommy's brow scrunches. "You have two phones?"

Wilbur shrugs, "It's a work phone. Probably not important, though, I'll check it out later."

"O-kay…" Tommy says, uncertainly. After a moment, though, he remembers that this man's eccentricities are, in fact, Not His Problem, and forgets about it in favor of finding out more about… well, himself. "What are the people saying about him? The Vigilante, I mean."

Wilbur actually tilts the screen toward Tommy this time, and the teen speed reads through with poorly-concealed interest.

"They're saying he might have some sort of unofficial Hero training," Wilbur recounts, like Tommy can't see that exact comment in front of him. "And a couple people came up with some creative aliases, but nobody saw any hybrid features that worked with the names. That, and he's already been using a name."

A lot of details have been noticed by these people. Not as pog as Tommy thought having a fanbase would be.

Tommy’s eyes drag up to meet Wilbur's golden orbs. They stare back at him, unreadable. Are they accusing? Unassuming? Tommy doesn't know.

"What was it?" He asks, mouth dry.

"Theseus." Wilbur shrugs, attention sliding back to his screen like the very man in question doesn't sit before him. But Wilbur doesn't know that, does he?. "Maybe he's trying to copy Morpheus. Who knows. It's Greek mythology related, at least."

Hah. If anyone had copied anyone, Big D definitely copied Tommy's Massive Naming skills when he debuted. (Seriously, the bitch named his sword nightmare. Probably would have used Dream as his hero name if Tommy hadn't been there).

(Tommy purposefully ignores the fact that Foolish decided on the name Triton long before either Morpheus or Theseus came into existence. Shut up. They have a theme going).

Tommy hums agreeably anyway, still hunched to read the endless threads of opinions on his Vigilante identity. Most of the comments that had initially been left were kind or curious ones from people he'd actually saved, and the rest were speculation.

Questions about his voice, height, gear, outfit, and gender all appear, and they seem to be building a pretty solid profile on him despite the way he obscures his features beneath his costume. At least they got his hero name right, from the times he'd given it out.

(Er, well, not everyone. One poster has somehow heard Tree Mistress instead of Theseus and insisted on referring to Tommy as such despite many commenters' attempts to correct them.

Tree Mistress. Tommy doesn't even wear green.)

Scary. Tommy should talk to Tubbo about something to hide his voice, too. Just in case.

"Tommy?"

Wilbur nudges him, and Tommy realizes with a start that the man had asked him a question.

"Uh- Huh?"

"I asked your opinion on Vigilantes." Wilbur's gaze flicks between Tommy’s eyes, a tiny, calculating crease at the corner of his own eyes.

Tommy fidgets under the scrutiny, but plays it cool.

"Depends on the person, eh? They're mostly okay. Technically breaking the law, but… for a good reason." He frowns. "Not everyone gets to be a hero, even if they'd be a good one."

Wilbur hums. "Yes, well. Some people don't realize that you can do good without being on 'the good side'."

Brows furrowed, the blonde tilts his head.

"Yeah but- doing good means you are on the good side, Big Man."

Wilbur looks surprised at that, and he quirks a brow.

"And what if a Villain does good?"

Tommy takes a beat to think about it, before realizing he doesn't have a concrete answer. "I guess… well, it depends on why someone is a Villain, yeah? If they steal a diamond from some fuckin' rich wanker one day, and volunteer to help at a homeless shelter another day, then… I think they're still pretty pogchamp. My friend likes to say, 'eat the rich'."

He grins at the joke, at Tubbo's ridiculous rants on the matter, and Wilbur offers him an amused smile in return; but Tommy's expression wavers as he continues.

"But someone who does shit like murder a bunch of people for no reason… it doesn't matter if they do a few good things…" Tommy cuts off, falling quiet as he tries to get his thoughts together.

"I dunno. I guess it depends on the person. My brother told me that the Hero Commission classifies all Vigilantes as Villains, so I guess even Theseus counts as a Villain. Morals n' shit are… complicated."

Tommy had thought through the Vigilante thing before he started, he really had. He knew he would be breaking the law, and he knew he could get into big trouble, but… Tommy likes to think the good he does outweighs the risk. He hopes, if Dream ever finds out, he would be proud of Tommy for helping people, and not just disappointed by the lawbreaking and secrets.

Tommy absolutely feels proud of Dream.

"They certainly are." Wilbur agrees. For a moment, Tommy dreads being dragged into a full discussion on said complicated morals, but Wilbur moves on with an abrupt subject change.

"So. How many siblings have you got? And are you the older brother, or the baby?"

Tommy scowls at the older man, without any real heat behind it.

"Younger, but I'm not a baby. I'm a big man, unlike yourself. And I have one blood brother, and two that are technically my adopted brothers."

"Technically?"

"It's… a bit complicated."

Wilbur smiles, looking much more friendly than Tommy thought previously. "Is a lot complicated with you, then?"

Tommy… doesn't have a reply to that.

They end up chattering back and forth for a bit while Tommy should be closing down. He has long since learned that Bad could not care less what Tommy does during closing, bar leaving the cafe open and unattended.

Such a pog boss that one.

Tommy finds out that Wilbur also has a brother (a twin, he says), that the taller man can play guitar (which Tommy knew) and writes songs (which Tommy did not know).

When the teen asks about the songs, Wilbur offers him a little smile and promises to play for him one day. In return, Tommy tells Wilbur that his favorite color has to be the poggest color of all (red) (followed closely by blue).

"-and cows are totally pogchamp." Tommy says at one point; in-between his rant about the language of flowers and the dangers of selling a foot online.

Wilbur listens attentively to all of it, even nodding in agreement during Tommy’s tangent about the benefits of livestock living indoors.

"Sheep are better." The man claims as he absent-mindedly silences the phone in his pocket for the second time, enraptured by the animated hand gestures and cussing his comment sets off in the teen.

Wilbur asks about Tommy's hobbies, his interests, his education.

Tommy does his schooling at home, the blonde boy reveals after a round of hysterical laughter prompted by Wilbur's absolutely terrible impression of Bad's 'Dictatorship Management'; and he can work on 'school days' as long as his assignments are done.

No, he isn't a homeless destitute wretch who must work to feed himself. He likes his job, thank you very much. Yes, he's sure.

The conversation ends after what feels like minutes, when Tommy chances a look at the clock on the wall. Oh, look at the time.

Wait.

Tommy does a double take. He checks his phone immediately after for confirmation because no way did he just spend an hour and a half talking to the man he'd initially intended to avoid.

Turns out, he definitely did do that. He stands quickly, realizing he'll have to speedrun the closing process if he wants to clock out on time and take to the streets.

As he replaces the chair back at another table, Tommy pauses.

He sets it down, then turns back to Wilbur, who has also stood from his seat.

"By the way, Wilbur" he starts, and Wilbur tilts his head inquisitively. "I thought you were a wanker and a weirdo last time you came here. You're… not so bad, though." Tommy fidgets, then, before he can regret it: "So yeah. Good seeing you."

Wilbur's eyebrows do their best imitation of a pair of rockets, shooting up toward his hairline. He opens his mouth to respond, but stops without actually saying anything. After a moment, he just chuckles and sticks a hand in the pocket of his coat.

"Yeah, alright, you little menace. Good seeing you too." He grins, and it's contagious. "I'll admit, I did kind of hate the Retail Boy™ thing, though, so kindly never do that again."

Tommy gasps in mock outrage, a grin spread across his face; teeth and gleeful mischief. It had been a fun bit when weaponized. "How dare you imply that that was anything less than genuine. Just for that, I'll save it for if you act like a weirdo again."

Wilbur snorts.

"Brat."

Tommy simply smiles.

Chapter Text

IS OUR DREAM TEAM TURNING INTO A NIGHTMARE SCENARIO? With rising Villain-related crime rates being recorded, how Heroic are Essempi's Heroes really proving to be?

Over the last year, Essempi has had more than its fair share of Villain-related criminal activity and fights. Within the last six months alone, we have seen a major theft at the Essempi Museum of History (^{see related article}), several fires set in an arsonist case that has left law enforcement scrambling (^{see related article}), an increase in police force injury rates, and numerous public sightings of known Villains, both minor and major. The question on our minds?

Why aren't these dangerous situations and individuals being stopped by our resident Commission-trained (and funded) Heroes?

To focus our sights more specifically; let's talk about the optimistically-named 'Dream Team'. Our journalists did a bit of digging, and what we found was hardly shocking: the Hero trio in question has received some of the highest funding of any Hero team in the last decade.

Now, let it not be said that our Heroes are useless any more than our police force, however we as a country ought to question their true worth as servants to the safety of the public.

We'll start with our most recent hot topic: the fire-fueled Hero Inferno. The source of much debate with his potentially overly-chaotic abilities, Inferno's recent activities certainly weigh heavily into this discussion. Despite the inherently destructive nature of Inferno's powers, the Hero is well-known for his tendency to rush into dangerous situations in a bold attempt to shield others from harm. He has been working with fellow Hero Polarity to aid fire-fighting crews across several counties in containing the damage done by the aforementioned arson cases and various, more mundane fires. In this, we believe he is doing his due diligence, and commend his efforts.

However; with powerful abilities and a heroic career come certain obligations. One such obligation is care and consideration taken while doing Hero work. We encourage all of our readers to do some research: How many videos, clips, and news reports featuring Inferno include evidence of destruction of personal or public property? Collateral damage may be unavoidable sometimes, but an attitude of carelessness makes situations far more costly. For the city, and for the personal livelihoods of its citizens. We encourage Inferno to take that fact to heart.

Moving on from the hotheaded Hero, let's review the second member of the Dream team. 404, dark-haired darling of the media, is widely regarded as a pretty face hidden by an unfortunate disguise. Certain members of our journalism team can admit to a fondness for the powered Pro, but does a handsome exterior truly override the need for a kind streetside manner?

404 attends plenty of photoshoots and interviews for the sake of public opinion polls. Unfortunately, dear readers, we uncovered some less heard individuals who have mentioned a different side to the beloved Hero. We hesitate, though, to even say 'beloved' when honest citizens use terms like 'cold', 'apathetic', 'unenthusiastic' and 'forced' to describe their encounters with a Hero who supposedly receives such glowing reviews. Our city needs Heroes who care, not metaphorical icemen, and we certainly hope that these heartbroken fans were merely bearing witness to a series of off days.

Now that we've addressed the other two, let's talk about the lime-clad limelight lover himself, Morpheus. His signature frozen smile and eye-catching color are impossible to miss; indeed, it happens to be some of the most highly recognizable branding of any professional Hero.

Morpheus, like most Heroes, has been shown to be in full possession of the resources he needs to incapacitate and apprehend criminals. Our question, readers, is why those resources aren't being put to use.

Now, of course Morpheus is doing some good as a Hero, the recorded number of thefts and small-scale crimes he has stopped is impressive. Truly, though, is stopping convenience store robberies and minor Villains looking for their fifteen minutes of fame really good enough for such a renowned Hero?

As mentioned before, sightings of dangerous Villain individuals (such as members related to the unnamed terroristic anti-government syndicate which the Hero Commission seems unconcerned with taking down). Large-scale attacks on the city's infrastructure are increasing, and very little seems to be underway to stop them.

Despite only debuting a few years ago, Morpheus has one of the highest arrest rates of any Essempi hero. As the one of the only Heroes who can currently match our more heavy-hitting Villains ^{(see related article)} the public looks to our green gladiator for much more than our safety.

However, is Morpheus really giving his all to our fair city? With the aforementioned disastrous heist at the museum, plus the tragic incident last year ^{(see related article)} , public confidence in our Heroes is understandably wavering. After all, if Villains like Revenant and The Technician feel safe roaming our streets with no fear… should we?

We can only hope that Morpheus (and all the other Heroes who have sworn to protect Essempi with everything they have) will do what is necessary to keep Essempi a safe haven for all.

Until next time, readers,

Stay critical.

_{[This article written by Elvyra Emcee, edited by Jon Gallaher, and Published by the Critical Journalism Post. To see more, check us out at Criticalposts.org. We strive for the hard truth.]}

Dream tries not to hiss as a medical-tech tugs a needle from his vein none too gently.

"Shit! Can you be a little more gentle?" He exclaims shortly; then withers under the poisonous look the girl sends his way.

A couple of the conscripts for the experimental trials of Dream's powers have been unsurprisingly displeased with his months of refusal to start the project. Dream suspects that Xavier contracted them as soon as he thought of the concept.

Well, Dream thinks sourly, if they didn't want to be left on reserve, they shouldn't have jumped aboard a project Dream hadn't yet agreed to.

The tech finishes transfering the sample, thin wrists almost translucent next to the sterile-white of her protective coat. Despite her clear ill-temper, she still takes the time to stick a little plaster over the bead of blood welling from his arm.

When she stalks off, limp ponytail bouncing behind her, Dream frowns at her back behind his mask.

"Don't mind Jovee." Dr. Modmin remarks boredly from where they are reviewing their notes beside him. The Head Researcher hasn't looked up from the clipboard once in the past ten minutes.

"She's just bitter that we've been contractually obligated not to take on other projects while this one was ongoing. Put a bit of a pull on the ol' purse since the trials took so long to start."

Guilt starts to trickle in past Dream's prior resolve. "Were you guys not getting paid?"

Because of me? Goes unsaid.

Dr. Modmin shrugs. "Not as much as now." Before Dream can respond, they finally look up from their papers. "It doesn't matter, most of us are just glad to be doing the research now. It isn't every day we get to experiment with the number one Hero's powers."

The guilt dies rapidly beneath the heel of discomfort.

"We don't have rankings." Dream refutes in lieu of a better response, squashing the part of him that screams at the idea of being an experiment.

Dr. Modmin raises a bushy brow, nodding pointedly at the article still open on Dream's phone. "The results speak for themselves, Morpheus. This entire city knows you're our hero. I mean, look where you are right now."

Dream does. He looks around the cavernous room filled with equipment and scanners for the experiments ahead. He sees the scientists and researchers milling about, discussing the readings from his preliminary display of his powers and packing away sensitive tools.

He lifts his eyes to the observation deck, where Xavier stands in a crisp three-piece suit. Observing.

I'm doing it for the city, for the people I swore to protect, Dream reminds himself. It doesn't stop the clenching around his lungs, the awful feeling of being caged depleting the oxygen from his lungs.

He fucking hates himself for feeling like that at all, for not just coming in with a real, non-mask-made smile and a desire to discover more about himself and his powers.

How shitty can he be to worry about his own comfort when people are dying everyday? Dream shouldn't even have this reaction in the first place when people are going through much worse than a few harmless experiments.

"Anyway, today was just for the preliminary readings and base data collection. The goal is to start on plants next week if your schedule permits," Dr. Modmin continues, obviously done with whatever pep talk they had been attempting.

Dream purses his lips.

"I'll have to check." He can't help but say, unable to commit when he still really doesn't want to.

Dr. Modmin hums noncommittally, unbothered by Dream's reluctance. "I'll set it up through President Dee, don't stress about it. I'm sure you'll be too busy saving lives out there to worry about in here."

Dream stares at Xavier.

Xavier gives him a nod of acknowledgement, something pleased in his placid expression.

Dream looks away.

"Right."

Dr Modmin bobs their head distractedly. "Anyway, I think we're all done for today. Have a good day, Morpheus."

Dream takes the dismissal as it comes, hopping off the exam table without a word.

"Have a good day, Doctor." He says quickly as he makes for the exit with as dignified a scurry as possible.

By the time Dream makes it to the Hero Apartments, the breath comes easier to his lungs despite the agitation creeping into his bones.

He tosses his mask onto the couch carelessly, stripping his hero costume off on his way to the bedroom.

Dream replaces his work trousers with dark-wash jeans, his armor for a light sweater, and vanishes his gear into his Inventory without a second thought.

The Commission would be on his ass about it if they knew how often he throws procedure out the window, but Dream knows his Inventory beats Commision lockers in terms of security.

Given the fact that the entire floor of apartments (as well as the elevator that accesses them) can only be accessed by very specific personnel, he doesn't have to worry about anyone seeing Dream exit his apartment after a well known hero entered it.

The entire floor belongs to his team anyway, (not that George or Sapnap were in the communal space when he entered).

The restless feeling fueling his costume change drives him back out the door almost as soon as he finishes changing.

Dream can't seem to stand still as the elevator brings him down to the Commission's garage. He taps a rhythm-less tune out against his leg, skin crawling like it can't fit him anymore.

He feels trapped.

A drive will do him good, maybe; he can just grab his bike and head out. Clear his head.

By the time he gets to the garage, Dream realizes his plans are severely lacking a major component.

Shit. He forgot his keys.

With a frustrated glance at his motorcycle, Dream seriously debates going back for them.

Damn. Why didn't he put them in his Inventory when he had the chance?

His head buzzes, restless, and he paces a few short steps in either direction, trying to decide.

Prime. Why did that whole thing make him feel so bad? If it weren't for the looming threat of the next trials, Dream wouldn't have been able to distinguish the earlier study from any other hero examination.

Why can't he just move on?

Fuck!

Unable to stand being in the building any longer, Dream turns on his heel and makes for the exit. Perhaps he can just walk around for a bit, get some fresh air.

Where to, where to? He chants mentally as he steps out of the street side exit. Dream finds himself unsurprised when no answer magically appears.

He wishes Tommy were there to distract him, make him laugh and get his mind off of things; but no, Dream knows better than to put his burdens on Tommy to solve.

Dream would never do that to his baby brother. He needs to protect Tommy like he protects the city; no, better than he protects the city.

But….

Maybe Dream can still visit him?

Tommy's shift should be almost over and Dream knows he had plans to spend the night with Tubbo, at their mom's house; however, that doesn’t mean Dream can't walk his little brother to his little brother's destination.

It would be a nice bit of bonding. Dream can catch up with Puffy for a while.

Er. Well. Maybe he'll just drop Tommy off in front of the house. Dream knows with certainty that if Puffy takes one look at him right now, she'll feel obligated to ask what upset him.

Don't get him wrong, Dream loves the Ex-Heroine as if she were his own mother (not that he really has any reason to distinguish the two) but he does not want to talk about feelings that he himself doesn't really understand at the moment, especially with someone who is a licensed therapist.

Oh! Maybe Dream can take Tommy to dinner beforehand and drop him off a little later than expected. He hadn't eaten before his appointment and he knows Tommy wouldn't protest filling his bottomless pit of a teenage stomach.

(Not that Puffy minds feeding the Terrible Two when Tubbo invites Tommy over, but it would give Dream a convenient reason not to be invited to stay for dinner).

Mind made up, Dream turns in the direction of Muffinhead Bakery.

He tries not to think as he walks, tries to enjoy the fresh Essempi air and evening breeze. Still, despite his best attempts, Dream finds his thoughts wandering.

Back to the Experiments and his own stupid aversion, back to that news article.

See, Dream should know better than to think even a Hero can please everyone. He never should have opened that article in the first place.

However, what type of a hero would he be if not for the people he saves? Doesn't every opinion matter when people's lives are on the line? Why should Morpheus even exist if Dream can't become the best version of himself?

The guilt creeps back in, oily and black like a poisonous mold. What an asshole Dream must be to have refused Uncle Xavier all this time. Dream and Tommy literally live off of the money that the Commission pays for Dream to be a hero.

Money from taxes from people who could die the next time rescue efforts can't muster the manpower to carry them all out.

Dream could, maybe. Except he doesn't know yet because he spent so long being fucking uncomfortable.

(He ignores the thought that their lives aren't the only ones at stake every time he puts on his uniform).

And-

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The scream pulls Dream from his spiraling thoughts.

He whips towards the darkened alleyway the voice emerged from; alarm raising his awareness to a razor-sharp focus.

Dream can see two figures by the mouth of the alleyway, partially illuminated by the evening light. The smaller one struggles against the larger, fighting for something Dream can't make out.

"Hey!" Dream barks, making towards the two. Shit, where are the Heroes on duty in this area?

When the larger one, a cat hybrid from what Dream can tell, whips around towards Dream with a snarl, the smaller figure attempts to use the distraction to yank the object (now clearly a small backpack) away.

Obviously they don't succeed, far too small to do more than piss their attacker off. Dream rushes forward, reaching out to try to stop the violence.

"Oof" Dream grunts, unintentionally thwarted by the very person he had been attempting to protect as the feline-hybrid shoves the smaller person into him.

The impact makes them both stumble, and as Dream catches them so they don't fall, their assailant rips the bag away and moves to shove the victim.

Without thinking, Dream uses his hold on the person to spin them out of the way. Unfortunately, this leaves a perfect opening for the presumed thief to sprint past them both, backpack in hand.

"No! No no no no!" The victim cries and reaches out, visibly upset. She must be fully human, or at least her hybrid traits aren't visible in her chocolate hair and dark eyes. "Damn it! No no!"

She lets out a hysterical sob, hitting halfheartedly at Dream's chest until he steps away from her apologetically. He hadn't meant to crowd her.

"Ma'am-"

"Fuck! FUCK!" She cries, overcome by emotion. Her voice cracks. "He took my bag- my laptop, I can't afford a new laptop-"

Her voice pitches up, suddenly panicked, and Dream notes the way her breathing quickens.

"Oh, god- shit, I'm gonna fail all my courses- I-" The woman's hands fly up to the sides of her head, and she begins crying in earnest, breathing shuddery and staccato.

"No, no-"

Concerned, Dream steps in front of her and bends to try and make eye contact.

"Hey, hey, it's going to be alright. I need you to breathe, then we can call the police. They can catch him. First just breathe, okay? Just in and out."

He fumbles a little bit, still unnerved by seeing an emotional breakdown despite his years of Hero work.

The woman does, thankfully, attempt to calm herself from the shallow panic attack she slipped into, mimicking Dream's slow breaths shakily.

When the woman reaches for her pocket, however, she bursts into tears again.

Dream winces.

"My phone!" She sobs, burying her face in her hands.

Oh, Dream realizes immediately that her phone must have been inside her bag along with her laptop and who knows what else.

Again, he can't help but wonder why no Hero has appeared in all the commotion.

"I can-" Dream starts, only for the distressed woman to whirl on him.

"You!" She interrupts, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. She shakes her head violently. "It's your fault! Why did you have to show up!"

"Wha-" Dream's eyebrows fly up, shocked. Even when he first started as a hero, people never blamed him for showing up. "I was trying to help you."

"You're not-" Her voice comes out like a whine, like some pitiful animal. "You're not a Hero!"

Dream recoils like he's been slapped. It hurts more than it should, hitting all the insecurities of the past few hours with one sentence. The woman looks like she regrets it as soon as she says it, obviously aware she upset him even if she doesn't know why.

She opens her mouth- gaping like a fish as the angry air leaves her sails. They stare at each other for a moment before the woman flushes and tears well back up in her eyes.

She turns and runs before Dream can stop her, disappearing around the building in a matter of seconds.

Well. Okay then.

Forcing a smile until he doesn't feel like continuing the lingering remnants of the cry fest, Dream pulls out his Commission-issued phone.

"Hi! This is Morpheus!" He says with a false cheer when the dispatch agent picks up, speaking quietly in an attempt to exercise caution. "Yes, a woman was just mugged in district three. By the old video store, intersection of twenty-third and North Mainstreet. Yeah. No, I'm a civilian right now. She took off west, towards the mall center. Okay. Thanks. I will."

The call disconnects with a click and Dream's smile falls. His feet start moving before he can think too hard about it, distancing himself from the scene before any active Hero's show up.

(Seriously, one more person gaining knowledge of his secret identity and Dream might just scream).

((Not that any of the people who currently know are using that knowledge for evil (despite one such person quite possibly being evil) but Dream's emotional limit has been reached for the day)).

Suddenly the thought of doing anything seems overwhelming, and Dream can't quite convince his body to turn towards the shortest route for his previous destination.

He just needs to clear his head a bit, Dream thinks in an echo of his previous sentiment maybe 30 minutes prior.

However, the restlessness from before the mugging has faded, replaced by a sort of aching numbness that feels one hundred times worse.

Dream replays the mugging in his head, cursing everything he could have done differently.

She had been right. Not that Dream shouldn't have interrupted, no, (anyone could see that a girl that size wouldn't win a fight like that without serious powers or training), but Dream has stopped hundreds of mugging.

Dream has a top tier hero license and years of combat training; a mugging like that shouldn't have given him any trouble whatsoever.

So what happened?

His thoughts fall back to that article, the one so harshly judging his teammates despite the good they do.

Dream had been so angry when he read it.

Sapnap has always been a fantastic hero! So passionate and well-liked despite his proclivity toward bounding headfirst into dangerous situations. How can they so unfairly call him innately destructive when Sapnap spent so long really gaining mastery over his powers? Inferno exists not as a tornado of chaos, but because Sapnap has the most amazing type of intensity.

Dream had been offended on George's behalf as well. How could they call him apathetic or cold? How could anyone meet George and think of him as unenthusiastic when it comes to Heroism?

George simply has a very low social battery for interacting with Civilians in his Hero persona. Part of it naturally sources from his vision impairment, or overuse of his powers. Dream knows that too many fans and victims attempting to get the brunette's attention at once tends to cause overstimulation, leaving the Hero tired and dazed, with headaches or threats of blackouts tugging at his focus; especially after major fights or disaster relief shifts.

404 tries so hard to interact with his fans in a way that brings joy. How dare those journalists try to tear him down?

His teammates, his best friends, are amazing heroes.

Dream, however?

Dream tries! Anyone could tell that from his arrest history and success percentage, but-

'You're a good hero, Dream. I'm going to make you a great one.'

-he has to work harder.

Because Dream can't just ask Tommy, Sapnap or George (or Sam, Ponk, Fundy) or anyone to allow him to settle as the Morpheus everyone currently expects.

Dream knows that the only way he will get rid of this horrible feeling of not being enough, of not doing enough (of not saving enough people to assuage the pain of losing his parents)...

Dream has to do better.

Dream has to-

"Oof!"

-Not trip over that crack in the sidewalk.

Dream whips his head around. Did anyone see that? Thank Prime he changed out of his Morpheus gear back at the Commission. How embarrassing.

Luckily, no one seems to be around this part of town. Unluckily, judging by the rows of skinny shade trees that now tower over him, Dream had traveled farther off course than he had anticipated while lost in his thoughts.

What a place to have ended up, Dream thinks as a self-admonishing blush spreads across his face, unhindered by any facial covering.

Flustered, He scratches his jaw with one hand, (making a mental note to actually remember to shave next time he gets a chance), as he takes in the familiar apartment building looming like some great judge before him.

Peering up at the window of the apartment that Blade had allocated the most effort toward, Dream can see a bright pink figurine sitting in the window. He can't make out details from here, but he knows what he's seeing all the same: A small plastic pig figurine, complete with a tophat and logic-defying bowtie.

Blade had suggested the object as a signal of sorts, one to signify that someone's presence should either man come looking. That way neither man had to poke their head in unnecessarily, and they didn't have to have a public fight just to relay availability.

Dream had protested at first, unwilling to lose the chance to (very purposefully) pretend these dalliances are anything but deliberate

Blade… very efficiently… convinced him otherwise. (Dream himself reluctantly agreed that chasing an SS-tier Villain down on his patrol without ever managing to 'catch' him put more suspicion on both of them then their meetings really required)

(Besides, Blade had informed him, this hardly the illegal part, and anyway hero, aren't you doing your sworn duty to keep Villains off the streets by keeping me distracted? Oh, is that bad? I guess someone will have to….correct me).

Hence, the pink-haired man selected one for Dream as well; A glass orb containing a little air plant, hanging from a neon green cord, the color of which put even Dream's Hero outfit to shame. The Villain had installed a hook in the windowsill for Dream to hang the plant in, should the Hero ever decide to use the signal.

This all means that the Blood God should be in the building if Dream wanted to 'see' him.

…Dream could go in.

He stands for a moment, deliberating.

On one hand, he could still go and visit Tommy, and take his little brother out for some quality time. Tommy would get a little less time with Tubbo, but they would be able to catch up on some of the interactionDream had lost recently with how busy he had been.

On the other hand, Tommy deserves better than being used as a cheap distraction for an older brother who can't keep his shit together. Also, he's been doing so well with his studies and his new job, and Dream wants to let him have the break without interference.

(The kid even signed up to work weekends. If that doesn't scream a desire for responsibility and independence, Dream doesn't know what does).

Plus, he knows that despite his best efforts, Tommy can read him like a children's book. If Dream tries to distract himself with jokes and food, his little brother will notice, always too damn keen for his own good.

Maybe, just maybe, Dream could instead wrench his spiraling thoughts into shape with a different sort of distraction. He could let his brother have his fun, and could count on the Blood God to successfully dull the hurricane of doubt wreaking havoc in his head.

His cheeks are already warm at the idea, and suddenly Dream can't think of anything else, stuck on the idea like a fly.

He wants Blade to take him apart and drag his mind into that hazy place where he thinks of nothing but the searing physicality of their meetings. He wants Blood God to validate that part of him that rages at the platitudes and praises sung by the other Heroes.

(He wants to ignore the little voice insisting he'd rather have someone treat him gently, with an embrace and a warm drink and a quiet closeness. Dream can't palate gentle right now. Can't handle being fragile.)

((He doesn't necessarily want teeth marking his skin, he just wants the crawling, tense sense of failure that feels tattooed into it to go away.))

Decision already made, Dream walks over to the door. He reaches up to drag his fingertips across the ridge above the door frame and snags the key that he feels resting atop it.

Dream lets himself into the apartment complex and flicks the key into his Inventory with half a thought. For once, he might not replace it when he leaves.

It looks different from the first time Morpheus and Blade met within. The lower apartments have no doors, and Dream can see that several of them have had sections gutted and redone; fiberglass tucked away and electrical tied in its place.

Blade genuinely seems to be treating the place as a safehouse of sorts. Or he intends to rent the building out at some point in the future, Dream wouldn't know.

Because despite how mundane both options seem, Dream simply has no idea what Blade does in his free time, (Landlording or otherwise). However, the piglin hybrid obviously doesn't just sprint around as Blood God 24/7.

Hm.

Ignoring the remodeling work, he quickens his pace, jogging up the stairs two by two. He darts as silently as possible down the upper hallway and turns the handle to the usual door, heartbeat quickening.

An embarrassing eagerness overtakes him as he grasps the handle, anticipation driving him through the door without hesitation.

He finds Blade sitting with his reading glasses on at the edge of the sofa; attaching a handle to a drawer for the accompanied half-assembled dresser that sits innocuously on the rug beside him. Dream has mere milliseconds to admire how ridiculously domestic the whole scene looks, before the Villain’s head snaps up in surprise as he springs to his feet in the same smooth motion.

Dream thinks it might be the first time his entry has caught the other man off-guard.

"Hi," Dream breathes, and he sees Blade relax, setting the screwdriver he'd been holding on the smooth surface of the coffee table. (Distantly, Dream thinks that the other man could probably kill someone with a screwdriver if he wanted. Unexpectedly, no feelings come at the thought, no righteous anger or disapproval, just the knowledge that the Villain has the capability to kill)

(But Dream also has that capability….)

"Hullo," the Piglin drawls, tilting his head minisculely, "wasn't expecting you to drop by tonight."

Dream shrugs at the flat statement, and Blade watches impassively as the currently-plain clothed Hero beelines closer.

Maybe he expects an answer of some sort, a justification to slip from the Hero's lips. Instead, Dream simply presses his lips against his companion's; snaking his arms around the Blood God’s muscular abdomen to pull the man closer.

Blade goes willingly, warm and firm in all the right places, and Dream doesn’t hesitate to prod his tongue into the kiss, prompting things a little further.

Perhaps the man pressed against him is surprised by his immediate escalation, because Blade returns the kiss gently in a way Dream didn’t anticipate; Pliantly taking what Dream offers without demanding more and infinitely careful with his smooth tusks.

Frustrated, Dream pushes harder, until Blade starts to push back. Dream smirks into the man’s mouth, releasing a quiet moan when the Villain catches the Hero's lip in his sharp teeth.

After a long minute, Dream reluctantly breaks the kiss, body reminding him that it does need air to function properly. He pants, a bit breathless, against Blood God's chest, then tilts his head up to catch that russet gaze.

Any ease he had found in their embrace disappears under the intense stare of those searching eyes; Blade studies Dream’s face too acutely for comfort. Dream much prefers the loosely lustful shine that always looks so attractive on that dangerous face. (At the very least, that expression hasn't let Dream down yet).

Always a master of distraction, he just smiles coquettishly.

"Been busy here?" he asks, then recaptures the piglin-hybrid's lips before a reply can be delivered.

This time, Blade hums, low and deliberate. He separates from the contact before their tongues have a chance to tangle together again. Unhurried even as Dream’s mouth chases after him, Blade pulls away. Dream’s eyes catch on the saliva glistening over Blade's lips and a flush of warmth spreads across his cheeks with the knowledge of who it belonged to.

"Mmhm," The brute intones, and Dream has to blink back into the conversation he'd started, mind hooked on the slick taste of the Villain's mouth. "Got a better water heater installed, and hooked everything up perfectly…"

Dream releases a pleased, somewhat indifferent hum of his own as the Blood God recaptures his lips, pressing himself up into the other man's chest.

When the taller man pulls back again, Dream can’t help the upset whine that escapes him.

“Hey,” Blood God murmurs, catching Dream’s jaw in hand to prevent any further action. Startled, Dream meets his gaze. Blade’s brow furrows the longer he looks at Dream and all too soon the Hero knows he’s been caught.

Dream flushes up to his ears, shame and embarrassment forcing his gaze away. He feels so stupid all the sudden, coming to a Villain to drown his insecurities about heroism. Even if the Blood God doesn’t know, Dream’s weakness shines plainly in the unasked questions reflected in the man’s carmine eyes.

“Hey,” Blade repeats, trying to catch the Hero’s eye. Dream stubbornly refuses to look at him, already humiliated by the man’s soft tone.

Blood God chuffs and then, quicker than Dream expects, maneuvers around to lock lips once more. Despite the short length of contact, the kiss effectively draws Dream’s attention back to the Villain.

As they split apart once more, Dream finally glances up, feeling the mood slipping away and being replaced with something awkward, like warmth seeping from skin as it makes contact with cool gravel, not painful, but stark and shockingly present.

As he meets his enemy’s eyes, Dream tries to ignore the sting of rejection that he feels, instead awaiting the other’s words.

Chapter Text

Warnings blare through Technoblade's mind. Quite literally, in fact, as chat seems unable to agree on the situation at hand.

Or rather, the very passionate Hero in his arms.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!!!

Something seems off.

Sad Man hours

Is our dreen bean boy okay?

Gosh, you guys make kissing seem so explicit!

Kiss kiss and fall in love??? Not clickbait????

It's been so LONG since we saw our Hero guys I'm so excited to see these two together again.

hey techno i know you're kinda emotionally constipated but maybe you should ask if he's okay.

Yeah, they're not entirely wrong (except Techno has not been emotionally constipated a day in his life, thanks).

See, even without the sudden (very startling, Techno almost had a heart attack, definitely could've died there) entrance and immediate (not unwelcome) affection, Techno himself can definitely admit that the hero seems a bit…off kilter.

Listen, Techno considers himself a Piglin of habit, which means he notices when people deviate from routine. In almost three years, their most recent trysts included, Morpheus has always greeted Techno with some sort of banter.

Sure, Techno certainly doesn't mind the insistent, very sexy, tongue attempting to crawl down his throat but today the Hero seems….off.

Almost…desperate.

A word that Technoblade has not ever attributed to his rival, not even when the man lays begging for his cock.

"Hey," He says finally when Chat's urging gets too much to ignore. (Distinctly not because of that almost sad expression drawing Morpheus' pretty features down).

Techno lifts a hand to catch the Hero's jaw, preventing any more kissing. It still thrills him every time the Hero lets Techno put his hands somewhere as frangible as his face.

Techno knows better than to call it trust, knows better than to do anything but enjoy the pulse of a living person beneath his fingertips.

Morpheus might call it reciprocity, mutual destruction. They've been playing a dangerous game since the cell and neither of them are fool enough to think their rivalry ends when they both have weapons in hand.

His hero can play dirty too, just as eager to one up Techno in the bedroom as on the battlefield. Techno enjoys the challenge, enjoys knowing what to expect.

He doesn't enjoy the idea that there might be something wrong with that status quo.

Morpheus peers up at him, eyes wide. They aren't that different in height, maybe a couple inches, but today the Hero seems smaller, less confident; like he doesn't want to take up too much space.

Techno's brow furrows as he studies the Hero's face, reading the lines of guilt and shame as if they're words in the books he loves so much.

Busted.

He knows he's caught guys

Technoemotionalbloodhound

Perceptiveblade.

Chat's whispers are correct for once, Techno thinks with a sinking in his stomach.

Why? He searches for the answer in Morpheus's eyes, and finds none. He tries not to think the worst.

The blonde looks away, and Techno deliberately keeps his expression neutral.

"Hey," He says again. Morpheus keeps his gaze steadily fixed away from Techno, obviously refusing to make eye-contact.

An angry blush has tinted the Hero's cheeks, still vibrantly complementing those emerald freckles despite the contrasting situation it normally appears in.

He sighs, partially amused and mildly put out by the other man's unwillingness to cooperate. Well, at least he knows how to catch the other man's attention by now.

He bends, twisting his torso to the side, and captures Morpheus's lips again for one more short, sweet kiss. This time the Hero's gaze lingers properly, meeting Technoblade's own long enough for the Piglin to catch glimpse of an odd and unfamiliar turmoil brewing within.

It feels uncomfortably vulnerable, unexpectedly raw despite the closed-off expression and Techno can't help the strange feelings welling inside him. Making a decision, he lifts a hand to run one of Morpheus's curls between his fingers.

It straightens beneath his ministrations, a bit coarse from its obviously all-day loose state, and Techno thinks of his own words a few kisses prior.

(‘Got a better water heater installed, and hooked everything up perfectly…’ Techno says, before Morpheus catches his lips again).

Well, that'll work.

"Feel like testing it out for me, Hero?" He murmurs, magnanimously choosing to neither attempt an awkward discussion about feelings nor continue the clearly ill-fated engagement Morpheus started.

The blonde blinks, then lets out a breath of what might have been laughter if not for the note of hesitation, a spark of hurt and confusion fighting the strange tension on his face.

(Technoblade wonders for a moment if he should have clarified before asking his question. Chat certainly thinks so).

"Is this your way of telling me I reek?" Morpheus jokes; and ah, that deflection won't work for Techno.

(Seriously, what a ridiculous thing to say when over half the times they've fallen into bed together they've both come directly from a fight).

((A fight with each other no less!))

The Piglin-hybrid leans back in and presses his nose into the crook of Morpheus' neck, huffing against the skin and inhaling the blonde's scent. Sure the Hero comes off as a little sweaty, and Techno can smell traces of the city and its inhabitants lingering on the man's clothes, but he finds nothing wrong with that.

Techno's been around much worse.

(Honestly if the mood hadn't shifted when the kissing stopped, then Techno would say the man smelled lickable).

"Nah," He denies, instead of speaking any degenerate thoughts, "You smell the same as you normally do. But I already know how it feels, and now I could use your review, seeing as you're the other person who's gonna be usin' it."

Morpheus's breath catches as Techno exhales hotly against his neck, and Techno suppresses a smug grin when the blush travels down to meet him.

"But eyyy, you don't have to," Techno clarifies lazily as he once more removes himself from the other man's personal bubble. "Just thought I'd offer you a chance to unwind. No skin off my nose either way." He taps his nose to emphasize his point.

(He hopes Morpheus will accept, the man clearly has something on his mind that Technoblade thinks would be better solved in the shower than on a mattress)

Shoulders slumping a little, Morpheus reaches up and runs a hand through his unruly hair. "No, I- sorry. That- actually sounds nice. You don't mind?"

He peers up at Techno from beneath brassy lashes, and Techno, an incredibly controlled and unjealous individual, resists the urge to pull Morpheus close and use his teeth and tongue and clever skill to distract him from whatever dares steal his attention in Technoblade's presence.

Instead, he gives Morpheus an easy nod.

"Don't mind at all. Nobody's expecting me home tonight, so I have time."

Morpheus's eyes crinkle at the edges, and Techno sees a flash of a dimple at the corner of his mouth before it vanishes again.

"Yeah," he says with an undertone Techno can't interpret, "Same here."

Techno steps deliberately around Morpheus, bare feet making the same muffled clicking noise that they usually do on hardwood (Thin keratin covering hominid-shaped distal phalanges in place of hooves tends to do that).

He waits as Morpheus shuffles off to the restroom (he hears a soft 'Oh', presumably as the other man sees the new tile floor and discovers the tremendously fluffy towels that Techno had found and immediately purchased) before making his way to the kitchen. As he hears the shower start up, Technoblade can't help the pleased chuff that escapes his chest.

Awww

Technosoft

Softnoblade?

I'm hungry

E

What are we making, big guy?

Potatoes

Guys I wanna keep Morpheus. Can we keep Morpheus?

SurE BUd, bUt yoU HaVe to FeEd hIm AnD grOOm hiM and CLean Up aFtEr hiM.

Mr man is down BAD

Techno scoffs. "Nah nah nah, don't make it weird. Morpheus isn't a pet, and I am not 'down bad', we're simply both here with the intention of letting off some steam together 'n feeling good. Which he obviously isn't today. Besides, I didn't have lunch, so I'm making soup. Potato soup. Whoever said that gets ten points."

TEN POINTS, WOO!

We might as well use them up, since we can't rocket launch them any more

Simp

Good soup? Good soup.

Aww, I want 10 points

Cooking with Technoblade, woo!!

E

The pojnts arent even FOR anuthing.

cooking stream lets gooo

Spoken like a noob who HASN'T earned TEN POINTS

You absolutely ARE down bad. What kind of Rivals With Benefits relationship has people making soup for each other because they seem sad?

Don't forget the butter!

"Don't be ridiculous guys, I'm not making him food because he seems sad. I'm making myself food. I just have enough ingredients for two people."

Sure.

Sure.

Sure.

"Chat, c'mon, what am I supposed to do? Stand here until he gets out of the shower? Do you know how awkward that would be for both of us? Just standing there like: 'hey Morpheus, did you enjoy your shower? Yeah, good. No I wasn't waiting for you, I just didn't have anything else to do. Are your emotions gone yet?' The mood is gone, chat. No, I'm just saving myself from the trauma."

Chat jeers and Techno rolls his eyes.

"Bruh, all your opinions are invalid."

Diplomatically ignoring his spectral audience, Techno begins fishing ingredients out of the refrigerator he'd strategically cleaned out and filled with food a couple weeks prior.

Butter, carrots, garlic, onions. Technoblade really does want to use this as a safehouse of sorts at some point, he hadn't lied about that to Phil. Hence, he had stocked the place with his crop, and then done some other light shopping. He'd even planned on making himself dinner tonight, so he actually does have enough to cook for two.

Dinner for two, Ooo-

Weren't you gonna do baked potatoes?

Now, Technoblade certainly could not be considered the next 5-star Michelin chef, nor can he cook very well at all; however, after years of practice and attempts, he has found one thing he can really work with.

Potatoes.

Chat cracks infinite jokes about it, but it has genuinely been the one ingredient Technoblade can consistently cook. He can make due with most root vegetables really, and most dishes that include them. He just struggles with everything else.

(Shocking, Techno knows, since he excels at every other aspect of his life, but what can he do, he has to leave some talents for other people)

Tonight, (okay, every night since his early cooking disasters) Techno decides to stick to his cooking strengths. Techno retrieves a little bag of flour he'd bought on impulse (and a box of vegetable broth that he'd dropped in the cart on the same impulse), then digs a small armful of potatoes out of a large bag in a cupboard beneath the counters (one of many, many bags).

He drops them on the counter beside the sink. Once he washes the lot of them, the Piglin hybrid makes quick work of peeling and chopping them. He works fluidly, falling easily into the routine of the recipe.

Normally he would slow-cook the potatoes, taking his time; however, wanting it done a little quicker today, Technoblade gets out the set of cast iron cookware he'd found and selects two pots, rather than his usual one. Into one pot goes water and the cut potatoes, and he adds salt before setting that to boil on the back burner. In his other, slightly shallower pot, he drops a stick of butter and sets a low heat beneath it.

With practiced ease, Technoblade cuts the carrot, onion, and garlic into thin slices, small diced pieces, and tiny minced cubes (respectively). Phil usually uses jarred, pre-minced garlic for convenience's sake, but Technoblade hadn't really planned for cooking, and thus hadn't bought any.

(The aromatics and spices sitting patiently in the kitchen are really just something he'd bought to make himself feel more balanced when thinking about the hundreds of pounds of potatoes he had also stored in the apartment. If the freshness timer wound too far down, Techno would eat the raw carrots, onions, and garlic without a second thought.)

We should add mint.

Cooking with Technoblade, having such fun, walking around in… no apron.

Potatoes!

E

I'd rather be fighting

Cooking pog Techno do a British accent and call people mean names, Yeah?

Boil em mash em stick em in a stew

Why the heck would we add mint you weirdo?

By the time Techno finishes his knifework, the butter had formed a pretty puddle in the heated pan, complete with a pale foam from the butter solids. With a flick of his wrist, he turns the heat up beneath the pan, then scrapes the carrots and onions in. They hit the oil with a satisfying hiss of heat.

Techno waits for the vegetables to sauté, staring with laser-sharp focus to be sure he cooks them correctly. After a few minutes, and a hesitant stir with a spatula, Techno adds in his garlic, salt, pepper, a shake of the first few spices he grabs from the little spice rack hanging on the wall.

(Parsley flakes, reads one label, paprika, reads another. Chat chants for him to add dried chives, oregano, and basil too, so he does; with only the bare minimum amount of trust) and some flour, stirring to make a roux. He tunes out the jokes about rats inside chef hats.

On one occasion, where Phil had gotten it into his brain to teach a younger Technoblade to cook, he'd explained the technique and use of making a roux ('Remember, mate, flour plus oil makes a roux. Butter works great, but you can use fat renderings or whatever else you've got. A roux thickens things like gravy and soup. You'll get the hang of it.').

Technoblade, frustrated by his inability to produce the same smooth roux as Phil, ended up staying up for several hours after Phil eventually retired to bed, scouring through every cookbook in the house to learn for himself how to make a roux that wasn't runny, burnt, or lumpy.

Eventually, Techno succeeded.

Unfortunately, after finding nearly all the butter used up in Techno's practice, Phil has ever since strictly held culinary lessons in the morning so he could better instruct Techno. At some point Kristen, bless her patience, had taken to utilizing the Piglin hybrid's skill with a blade, dubbing him her 'sous chef' and having him help her with all the prep for meals. He enjoys that part well enough, since cutting and meticulous measuring are skills that he has long mastered.

Since Technoblade doesn't have milk or a convenient cow on hand, he pours a portion of the broth into the pan instead. Then he lowers the heat, letting the mixture simmer slowly as he removes his potatoes from the other burner and drains the starchy water away. A third of his cubes of potato he adds directly back into the simmering pan, and the rest he smashes into smooth, thick mashed potatoes. (He would puree them if he had a machine to do so, but mashing works this time.)

He hears the water shut off as he adds the mash back to the pot, and an illogical desire to hurry overtakes him.

Refusing his impulses, he pours in the rest of the broth at a normal pace. When everything starts to simmer satisfactorily, Techno covers it with a lid while he begins the tedious process of returning all the components to their designated rack or cupboard (or rather, stuffing them in one specific cupboard between two bags of potatoes).

The pink-haired man shuts the cupboard just as he detects the bathroom door opening.

He takes the time to stir the soup one more time and give it a taste. Without cheese, it tastes a little less exciting than usual, but not terribly so. Still thick and hearty, which Techno deems good enough.

Techno shrugs to himself and reaches over to grab the only two bowls in the kitchen.

°~°◇○♡¥◇°□●○■°《♡•《》•♡♡♡

Dream exits the shower, steam dancing through the air as if in a sauna, and muscles relaxed for the first time since he awoke this morning.

He hadn't realized how much tension he had been carrying around, knotting his shoulders to the point of pain. The half hour shower certainly wouldn't be winning him any guest of the year awards, but Dream doesn't particularly care if the Blood God forgives him when he feels so much better.

(Hey, the Villain told him to test it out. He can't fault Dream for being thorough).

As an added perk, the frantic spiral of his thoughts had ebbed a bit as he poked around the newly furnished bathroom. He had begun to suspect that Blade was a bit overzealous when it came to stocking the place up, too, because he found a fully stocked first-aid kit beneath the sink, complete with sterile packages of blades and materials needed for stitches.

(That, and a little padded box with four potions within. Why on earth would the Villain think potions were a necessary stock to have? Surely the man didn't intend to come here after any particularly brutal fights?)

It was thorough, to be sure, but strangely paranoid.

Additionally, Dream found a thorough supply of self-grooming products. Dream located a few different brushes in a drawer beneath the sink as well, and a line of high-end shampoo, conditioner, and body soap bottles settled in a wire caddy on the wall.

It makes Dream want to laugh. Sapnap had mocked George for a similar assortment of products, and George had in turn sniped back about Sapnap using men's-three-in-one and retch-inducing body spray like a teenage jock. This caused Sapnap to sputter out an indignant denial about his perfectly adequate, individual shampoo and conditioner, and his total lack of body spray, he actually only uses cologne, on special occasions, George, he just doesn't have a whole fucking hair salon in his bathroom.

(Dream had happily kept himself and his dual-pack bottles of normal shampoo and conditioner out of the argument.)

Dream refrains from laughing, though, instead picking the products most familiar to him and finishing his shower. Once he exits, steam turning the mirror opaque and his reflection an abstract blur, he grabs one of the absurdly fluffy towels hanging from a bar across from the toilet and dries himself, scrubbing at his face and hair before he moves on to his body.

He feels more human when finished, and more than relieved that he changed into fresh clothes before leaving the Commission tower, because no one likes the experience of tugging back on gear or dirty clothes after a cleansing shower.

Dream pauses as he pulls on his socks, regret washing over him as he thinks about facing the Blood God after that mess of a greeting earlier.

(He can hear the man puttering about in the apartment, talking to himself in low tones. The man does that quite often when he thinks Dream can't hear him, a cute kind of tic that Dream didn’t expect).

Dream takes a moment to groan into his hands before steeling himself. With a sense of determination, he stands up tall, mustering the courage to leave the bathroom with confidence.

He'll give some excuse to Blade and head out, go back home while his shower-regained sanity still holds firm. Tommy has likely already headed over to Tubbo's house by now, but Sapnap should be off shift.

Starting now, Dream will deal with his issues in a normal, healthy way instead of galavanting off to touch tiddies with his nemesis.

…right after he puts on his other sock.

He leaves the towel hanging over the same rod that holds the ridiculous curtain with the ridiculous pig print (and why had that been the one thing that Blade left alone?) and steps out of the bathroom, steam billowing out around him.

Immediately, a delightful fragrance hits his nose, the obvious aroma of something savory cooking. Almost unconsciously, he tilts his head to sniff at the air like a common dog.

His stomach rumbles, reminding him of his extremely calorie-demanding job and the criminally low amount of food he consumed before coming here.

Dream finds himself moving automatically; drawn to the kitchen.

He stops in the entryway and stares blankly at the sight of the Blood God ladling soup into two large earthenware bowls.

The Villain turns and raises an eyebrow at Dream, a bowl portioned out in each hand. He nods to a drawer below the counter.

"Utensils are in there. Mind grabbin' us a couple, Hero?"

Dream's previous resolution flies out the window at the promise of sustenance. It would be rude to just dip out when Blade already served him.

Well. He can leave after he eats.

Wordlessly, Dream pads into the kitchen and opens the drawer the man had gestured at. As he does so, Blade skirts past, bowls in hand.

The Piglin-hybrid hesitates when he realizes the lack of a dining table; tail swishing freely through the air. Dream watches as he comes to an obvious decision, trodding over and setting the bowls on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Blade shoves the partially-complete dresser and box of tools away, making room for the two of them to sit, and Dream follows with the two spoons that he'd retrieved.

Finally, as the Piglin-hybrid settles down on one side of the couch, Dream can no longer hold it in.

"I didn't know you could cook."

The rosy-haired man before him stares up at him for a brief moment before snorting. "Can't, actually, I just pulled this outta my subspace pocket."

He says it so nonchalantly that Dream startles, only calming when he sees the Villain's lips quirk up.

"Very funny." He grumbles, and sits on the free side of the sofa. Dream hands the spare spoon to the Piglin man and picks up his own bowl. As he raises it up to inhale the scent wafting off, a small bit of his consciousness reminds him of the existence of poison.

He barely entertains the idea before discarding it. The Blood God doesn’t use such underhanded tactics. Not with Dream.

(Dream won't trust him, no way, but even he can see the man has some level of rules he follows in his interpersonal relations).

((He can't trust the man's morals for shit, but he feels relatively safe in the assumption that he won't be poisoned by a home-cooked meal when the man has access to splash potions.))

"I'm only kinda kidding," the Villain admits, and Dream's eyebrows tick upward as he blows lightly on a spoonful of soup. (Which tastes fucking delicious after the day Dream had, hearty and so clearly made from scratch… Dream feels vaguely flattered that the criminal had decided to cook for him).

"I am a man of infinite skill, but, eh- heh, I've only got a handful of recipes I can cook well. My- I mean, the Angel is the best at cooking out of all of us." He glances away, clearly aware of his near slip-up, too late to escape Dream's interest.

"'Your'…?" He presses gently, curiosity biting his plans to eat and leave in the ass. Bad Dream. Stop making conversation.

Blade shrugs lopsidedly. He seems sort of shifty. Dream holds his breath, fully aware that he may not like the answer.

His what? His Lover? His boyfriend?

(Is Dream a side hoe???)

"My coworker. Or friend, take your pick." Blade answers after he takes a moment to choose his words.

"Huh," Torn between relief and disappointment, Dream sets his bowl down so he can pull his legs up criss-cross and face the Blood God. He retrieves his food again and leans against the arm of the couch behind him. "I thought you were gonna say something else."

Blade's head tilts, ever so slightly, the way he does when curious.

"Like what?" The Villain asks as he raises a spoonful to his mouth.

"Your sexy ex, maybe?" Dream half jokes, chasing a chunk of potato with his spoon.

It clearly doesn't land as Blade almost spits out his food, coughing heavily with a horrified look in his eyes.

(Dream also feels a little horrified at the unexpected reaction. At unintentionally breaking man's legendary composure).

"Never say or imply that again." The Villain chokes out, eyes watering.

Dream blinks uneasily. "Okay?" He doesn't understand the look on the other's face. "Why?"

Blade scrutinizes him for a moment before replying. "...Because- okay, he's essentially the closest thing I have to a father and I never want to think of him in that context. And on top of that, he's married."

Dream cringes, sympathizing with the vaguely traumatized expression Blade now sports."Oh, fuck, yeah, that'd do it. Sorry."

He imagines how he would feel about someone thinking of Puffy as anything besides his parental figure or boss and grimaces. Ew. Definitely not.

Clunkily, Dream changes the subject before either of them can dwell. "Anyway… thank you. It's- good soup."

The Blood God's lips pull into a small smile.

"Yeah. Good soup. You're welcome."

They eat in relative silence for a few minutes after that, only filling the absence with clinking spoons and quiet puffs of air to cool the meal.

"So what's the matter?" Blade asks suddenly, and Dream's shoulders lift ever so slightly towards his ears.

"What do you mean?" He responds lamely, trying to scrape up an adequate defense against the unexpected interrogation.

Blade stares at him, face frustratingly blank beside the miniscule furrow on his brow. "Morpheus, I'm not an idiot- and neither are you, or I wouldn't be here. There's obviously somethin'..."

He gestures at Dream, trailing off for a moment, "...upsetting you. Has been since you walked through the door. I can drop it, if you desperately don't want to talk to me about it, but I'm askin' you now, first."

Dream's jaw drops slightly, not expecting the bluntness of the other man's speech. Mentally fumbling, he raises a hand to run it through his hair.

"Fuck. No, you're right…" He sighs sharply, glancing down at his soup. "I just- had a shit day, and I ended up going for a walk, and…" He pauses, realizing abruptly how difficult verbalizing the events of his day had seemed before he started talking.

He looks back up, meeting Blade's eyes. "I stopped to help a girl who was in the process of getting her bag stolen, but I ended up letting the thief get away anyway."

The other man's gaze narrows slightly. "And?"

Dream does a half-shrug in response. "And the girl blamed me for it. Which is understandable, I guess, because I could have fucking caught the guy, even if I wasn't on duty-"

"What exactly did she say, Hero?" Interrupts his companion.

Dream frowns, a bit put out by the blunt tone. "She said it was my fault, I shouldn't have showed up, and that I wasn't even a Hero, and then she ran off. Apparently her computer, phone and stuff were in the bag. She seemed to regret saying it, afterwards, but…"

He shrugs awkwardly. (Dream doesn't mention how much it hurt to hear that; how much her reaction shocked him. Or how Dream sometimes feels like no matter what he does, he won't be able to protect anyone he cares about. The Blood God will not be privy to any of that).

Blade rolls his eyes. "Ungrateful."

Dream startles. "What? She wasn't-"

"She was ungrateful," The pink-haired man repeats firmly, "She was in a state of emotional high in response to a stressful situation, sure; however instead of reacting to said situation, in which she experienced a loss of control, logically, she reacted with emotion. Lashing out at you gave her a temporary sense of regaining control, a place to focus her grief and frustration. She didn't consider how you had absolutely no obligation to stop and help her."

"I do have an obligation, I'm a Hero!"

"You weren't on the clock as one, from what you said. And it sounds like you tried to protect her, at the very least. Did you do anything aside from interceding?"

"Of course, I called it into the Commission and let them know what happened so they could send someone on-duty after the guy."

"Then you did more than your due diligence, Morpheus." States the hybrid, and something frosty in Dream's chest melts a little upon hearing it said so simply.

"You proved that by being willing to step in, and by trying to ensure she was helped even after she threw your efforts back in your face. That's more than I would do. But I think you might have a bit of a skewed definition of what a Hero is. You're not a god, or a titan. You're a man."

The Piglin pauses, then continues almost too quiet for Dream's ears. "A good man, better than most, but still a man."

He says it contemplatively, as if weighing Dream against some invisible measure.

Dream's throat feels tight as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and he takes a deep breath. He refuses to cry because his rival said something kind, that would be embarrassing as hell.

"Okay." He cracks a small, wobbly smile toward Blade. "Thank you."

The hybrid nods, shallowly, then clears his throat and waves a hand as if to clear the air. "Yeah, whatever, you're welcome, now eat your soup. That's my emotional conversation limit for the week."

The Piglin man lifts the bowl to his mouth, forgoing the spoon completely in such an obvious attempt to hide his face that Dream has to stifle a snort.

"Okay, Blade. But really, Thank you."

"Mmhm."

Dream's smile grows a little stronger, but he concedes and eats his soup.

Once they're both finished, Blade stands and scoops up Dream's bowl before striding over to the kitchen and depositing both in the sink.

He returns to the sofa a moment later, in time to catch Dream attempting to smother a yawn with his hand.

"Heh," Blade chuckles, amusement painted across his pretty face. Dream feels a blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Don't laugh, asshole, it's late!" He pauses, then tugs his phone from his pocket. "What time is- see, it's almost nine!"

He shows the man the glowing numbers on his screen, and the man waves it away. "Yeah, alright Hero, point made. It is late."

Suddenly aware of the strange tone in Blade's voice, Dream glances up to meet the man's russet gaze, only to find it locked on him.

-------@***@***@--------

Technoblade holds eye contact with Morpheus for a moment longer, preparing to offer to leave Morpheus the apartment for the night. Techno could head back home early. Phil and Wilbur are long used to his odd hours and wouldn't question it.

However, he wants to phrase the offer properly, without making things awkward or implying the wrong things. Before he can, something sharpens in that keen viridian.

"You know," The blonde starts teasingly. "It's really cool that you actually cooked something tonight…"

"Oh yeah?" Techno's brow raises at the tone in Morpheus's voice. The Hero grins, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze.

"Yeah. Most people take the phrase 'buy me dinner first' at face value."

Techno snorts at the joke, a bit of pleasure blooming in his chest when he sees the other man's smile widen.

Ha!

He's not wrong.

Technoblade isnt basic, he goes all the way and Im so proud T-T.

"Mm, I think I may be a bit late on that front regardless," he deadpans, and Morpheus chuckles, pushing himself off the sofa.

"True, but that's easily forgiven if-" The hero draws closer, finger pressing cheekily into Techno's chest. "-and only if you kiss me. Right now."

Technoblade makes a show of consideration. "Wasn't aware I had to earn forgiveness for that, but alright."

He makes a beckoning motion at his companion, who perks up and presses close enough for Techno to feel the heat of his lean, muscular body.

Technoblade catches him around the waist with one arm, and brings the other up to cup the man's well-defined jaw in a gentle grip. Morpheus relaxes into the touch easily, and Techno relishes in the sight of those pretty eyes fluttering.

He steals the man's lips into a kiss, pleased to find that the anxious desperation from earlier has fled. Exactly how it should be.

Techno doesn't mind being an escape, but he would prefer not to be anyone's late night regret. He likes the way the Hero looks as he enthusiastically breaks multiple government's rules on fraternization. Likes to see the unrepentant acknowledgement of sin in those otherworldly green eyes every time their bare skin brushes. He likes the way the Hero kisses him in secret after chasing him down on patrol.

He would have ditched Morpheus a long time ago if any hint of regret had appeared between them.

Hot

Aww, they're so cute. Relationship goals.

Enemies with benefits is your relationship goal?

A moment later, though, Morpheus pulls back. Something searching in his gaze. Whatever he finds must pass snuff because he shoots Techno an over exaggerated, ridiculously sultry smirk.

"So, you don't have anything to do tonight, right?" The Hero purrs, confidently sliding his hands under the hem of Techno's shirt and over the planes of his back.

Techno stares the man dead in the eyes, expression as serious as possible despite the fingers running up his spin. "No, I do."

The hands pause, Morpheus' lips parting as he struggles to figure out how much Techno might be screwing with him.

"...you do?"

Techno fights not to laugh at the dubiety in the other man's tone. "Yeah."

When Technoblade doesn't provide anything else, Morpheus narrows his eyes. "What?"

"What what?"

The eyes roll.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Well," Techno drawls, "I've got a hot little Hero with his hands up my shirt, so I was thinking I was gonna do him. What do you think? Good plan?"

Morpheus' jaw drops indignantly, a comical furrow between his brow. Techno's tight grip on his composure cracks.

"Oh, you bastard!" The Hero says as he smacks Techno on the chest. An angry blush burns across his nose, highlighting those iridescent freckles. Like a display of cherries with fresh spring leaves overtop.

Techno bursts out laughing, a staccato, higher-pitched thing, more genuine than usual.

Morpheus growls, thumping the Villain like a particularly unenthused rabbit. "No, stop laughing! I was literally going to make that joke, you dick!"

Techno laughs harder.

(They get to the bedroom eventually).

--@@----@@----@@---@@--

Later, when Blade falls back on the bed, flushed, sweaty skin pressed against Dream's own and seemingly perfectly comfortable in the nudity of their post-coital embrace, Dream can't help but chuckle.

"What?" The Blood God murmurs questioningly, muffled from his position nose-deep in the crook of Dream's neck.

Dream bites gently at the arm thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and Blade's nose travels slightly, dragging up Dream's neck and grazing the skin with his tusks.

"I'm just thinking about how much walking home is gonna suck," Dream admits.

His pink-haired bedfellow goes strangely silent.

Just as Dream starts to worry, Blade exhales softly into his hair.

"Y'know…" He starts, and it sounds so tentative that Dream can't help but listen intently. The Villain has never been a tentative person. "You don't have to leave. This bed is big enough for two people to sleep in pretty comfortably, so unless you've got some sort of curfew you haven't mentioned…"

"Blade…" Dream's eyes narrow, and he cranes his neck back to look at the rosy-haired hybrid. He can tell the moment Blade's eyes catch on the slowly growing, knowing smirk that he doesn’t care to hide.

"What is that smile- okay, listen, I just meant-" The man stumbles further over the words he's usually so eloquent with, and Dream sees a gratifying tint of pink creep across his cheeks.

"Blade, you cad, are you asking me to sleep with you?" He interrupts gleefully.

The cad in question's face drops into a deadpan, though the blush remains, (to Dream's delight).

"Bruh. Morpheus, I want you to take a good look at yourself right now. Kinda seems like we're past that point, to me."

He lifts the draped arm and gestures at Dream's naked form, referencing the marks and mess Blade had made of Dream's body, and this time Dream flushes pink. Nevertheless, he shrugs cheerfully, feeling a hickey at the base of his neck tingle at the motion.

"Okay, fair enough," He concedes, "Yeah. I'll stay."

He twists back to get more comfortable, whining at the twinges shooting up his spine.

"Prime, I am going to feel this tomorrow." He groans, and as Blade settles his arm back over him the man snorts.

"Rather thought you'd have felt it tonight, but I guess you're the expert this time," the Piglin jests.

Dream bares his teeth, despite not facing the other. "Ha ha."

"Ha ha." Blade agrees, settling in behind Dream like his heroic back and thighs are free real-estate. "Goodnight Morpheus."

"Night, Blade… thank you."

"Mmhm."

Chapter Text

*◇¥¥•¥¥•¥•¥•¥•¥¥¥•¥•¥¥•¥•¥¥¥•¥•¥•¥

The next morning, Dream wakes with a hand buried in his hair and a criminal's bicep in place of a pillow.

The temperature drags his eyes open first, too warm to belong in his apartment despite the top-of-the-line heating and cooling system the Commission had installed.

Next, the texture of the blankets pulls the heat-induced grog from his mind. They are soft, plush and smell faintly of cedar wood.

(His bed feels different, still soft, still comfortable, but in a manner that stems from familiarity and routine, years of falling asleep after hours of draining Hero-work).

The man under him smells much the same, like wood and warmth and that masculine sort of musk that Dream likely mirrors after the natural perspiration of nighttime torpor.

Lastly, when his senses fully kick in and force him to open his eyes, Dream notices his still peacefully sleeping bedmate, who Dream had somehow wrapped himself around in the middle of the night like some sort of demented octopus.

Dream lifts his head from the Blood God’s shoulder, dislodging the sedentary hand from his curls at the same time. His scalp mourns the loss of contact, those long fingers buried in his mane; but Dream merely thanks Prime that Blade remains undisturbed by his movement.

The Villain's pretty pink lashes are closed, appearing longer than ever in the golden light of morning, and he breathes gently in the throes of unconsciousness.

They had shifted during the night, sometime in the ebb and flow of slumber, and while Blade had naturally turned to sleep flat on his back, Dream’s dead-to-the-world self had ended up half on top of the man, legs intertwined and arm cinched tight around the Piglin-hybrid's toned waist.

Dream has always been a very tactile sleeper.

Still, regardless of their intimate relationships, clinging to his adversary while fully conscious feels like a step too far.

Too familiar maybe?

Dream tended to allow previous partners to set the limit for non-sexual intimacy, never pushing for more than they indicated being comfortable with.

During his very brief dating phase, (shortly before he had gotten over his embarrassing crush on George and long before he had become the unofficial face of the Hero Commission) Dream's ex preferred cuddling more often than intercourse; liked Dream to hold him in their down time.

(Fundy had been a sweet boyfriend, too sweet for them to actually last. At the time, Dream genuinely hadn't understood why they weren't clicking. He had needed Fundy to (very patiently) spell it out for him).

(Given the notorious supervillain Dream has repeatedly fallen into bed with lately, Dream probably shouldn't have been so surprised by the revelation that nice guys are not his type).

Up until the hostage situation, Dream's private personal relations have mainly comprised of extremely rare one night stands with people he scarcely stuck around to fuck, much less snuggle.

(The one recurring exception to this rule pops in and out of the Commission so randomly he might as well be a ghost. Even then, the pale-haired mercenary hardly counts when Dream hasn't even seen him in well over 10 months).

(Not the best booty call to use as a reference point).

Regardless of all that, staying in bed with his adversary seems too…friendly; pushing the boundaries of their purely physical relationship into something less superficial.

With this in mind, Dream carefully extracts himself from the Villain; muscles all notably sore; especially up his back and hips. Honestly, he can feel every part of himself that had tensed and quivered and fallen to pleading, pleasured pieces beneath Blade.

By some miracle, Blade stays asleep, looking incorrigibly peaceful and breathtakingly attractive.

Another crime, Dream thinks with a decisive nod. The man has no business looking like that in the morning. A truly despicable addition to the list of misdeeds the Villain has perpetrated.

Straight to jail with him, your honor

Dream cracks a smile as he creeps carefully away from the bed, retrieving his boxer-briefs from where they ended up the night before.

His shirt has disappeared from immediate line of sight and Dream really doesn't want to wake Blood God up by looking for it.

Not out of thoughtfulness for his fellow, less awake man; nor out of some sort of sympathy or affection.

No, Dream has an ulterior motive.

See, Dream came to a wild realization after recent events, after the shower and the food and the many times Blade has sought consent before engaging Dream in non-Commission-approved fraternization.

Because despite his unpleasantly long rap-sheet and general asshole-ery, The Blood God, scourge of Essempi and one of the deadliest Villains in the past decade….

…happens to be oddly considerate.

It would be cute if the man weren't so morally corrupt.

Blade doesn't even seem to realize when it happens, when he chooses to do something humane and mindful instead of being the immoral bastard he normally parades around as.

It comes as such a juxtaposition to the Commission reports, to the words on file under the warning signs and bright red stamp labeling him as a dangerous, violent Villain.

Extremely low empathy, suspected Psychopathy, do not engage unless absolutely necessary.

Antisocial personality disorder maybe, definitely not normal in the head, but low empathy? Nah. Not quite.

Hence, Dream needs to up his game.

See, Dream can’t just let Blade seduce him with sweet gestures and soup. He needs to meet the Villain punch for punch; and now that the bar has been raised to include more than basic decency, Dream refuses to fall behind.

So he pulls a spare hoodie out of his Inventory and, with a quick detour to the bathroom, heads to the kitchen to cook breakfast.

He'll have to figure out a meal based on what ingredients the Blood God already has on hand, hopefully something hearty enough for the both of them.

When he steps into the newly tiled cooking area, Dream takes a moment to admire the wall of cherry wood cabinets newly installed over cream colored countertops.

A bit extra for a non-permanent residence, yet somehow completely in line with Blade's personality.

(The man likes luxury. Sure, Dream has seen him splattered in blood, and on his knees in a filthy back alley. However, even a blind man could see how Blood God prefers a certain level of opulence).

After a quick glance around for any obvious utensils or spices, (of which Dream finds a single spatula on the wall next to a magnetic knife rack) Dream chooses an upper cabinet at random.

First try yields nothing of interest, merely a couple cooking pans and two familiar earthenware bowls, one with a band of red glaze, one with green.

(Did the Blood God actually get one just for Dream? How gallant).

He ignores the cutlery drawer from the previous night, moving on to the next top cupboard. He doubts the Villain would have fully stocked the place with how infrequently they are both there, but hopefully Dream can find some flour or something without too much trouble.

Moving on to the next cupboard, the Hero pulls open the door with little fanfare, truly not expecting much.

"Oookay." Dream mutters when he comes face to face with an unexpected sight.

Or rather, face to tuber.

From each wall of the cabinet up to the ceiling, Potatoes are crammed like sardines in the wooden shelf space, the round root vegetable filling every centimeter of available volume. There are at least twice the amount that a single family would store at one time.

(Dream himself has only one small bag at home. Unless he ends up cooking for Sapnap and George as well, he and Tommy don't really eat that many).

Dream blinks at the brown lumps, a bit dumbfounded by the sheer amount. (How many potatoes can one Blood God eat?)

Thankfully, despite being known for their eyes, the potatoes do not blink back.

Perhaps Blade had found a really good deal and decided to stock up? A bit strange but better than explosives or other Villain things.

Dream reaches for the next door.

"Wha-?" Dream mumbles questioningly when the next cupboard spits a tater out at him, even more overcrowded then the last.

Quickly, he opens the next, and the next, horror rising as he finds himself greeted with nothing. But. Potatoes.

Aghast, Dream moves his search to the lower cupboards, flinging open doors with reckless abandon. Each one reveals more potatoes, more starchy root vegetables than any one man has a right to own.

When every single cabinet's innards have been bared to his gobsmacked gaze, Dream sets his sights on the one space he has yet to touch.

The refrigerator.

With a sense of foreboding, Dream lifts his trembling hand to the door of the appliance.

Surely not, Dream thinks as his fingers wrap around the handle, Surely it can't be…

It can. Oh, it can.

Potatoes are stuffed together on every glass shelf in the fridge, from the crisper to the butter cubby. Dream sees more potatoes than he ever has in his life. Even the door storage has potatoes lined up in the place of condiments.

No cheese, or milk, or fruit or eggs or anything normal.

Just.

Potatoes.

"What the fuck?" Dream questions a little hysterically, disturbed and confused in equal measure.

He feels like he walked into an alternate universe, or someone's weird dungeon; but instead of torture devices or like, undergarments, Dream just gets to see a fuck-ton of oblong brown roots.

With trepidation, Dream looks lower, towards the freezer.

For a moment, he refuses to entertain the notion. Something so viscerally wrong with the thought that he almost dismisses it entirely.

Yet…Dream had been wrong before.

He opens the freezer and-

Yep.

Dream should have expected that.

"He's unhinged." The Hero whispers mournfully to the crime scene of poor, frozen spuds below him.

Burying his face in his hands, Dream releases a quiet noise of pure anguish and despair.

"Whaswrong?" A deep voice sounds from the doorway, still rough from sleep.

Dream whirls around, backlit by hundreds of potatoes. His enemy’s sweatpant-clad form greets him, chest bare save for a mess of silky pink curls and the love bite Dream had left on his right pectoral the night before.

He must have just barely woken up, mid yawn and eyes scrunched closed as he blearily blinks.

With his hair falling in his face from a messy updo and a sleepily drooping fur-tipped tail, Blade takes in the scene almost comically slow.

Dream watches as he registers the still open cabinets, face shifting through multiple emotions when he finally gets to the fridge.

"Oh." The pink-haired Villain blurts, looking nearly nervous as he follows Dream's accusing, pointed gaze to the freezer drawer.

"Uh…I parboiled those?"

--□●□•♤¤□♤▪︎■♤---

"-And I couldn't just let him win, Morpheus." Techno insists reasonably. Chat agrees!

I mean, you could have tho techno

Those were such good times

Eh, needed more blood.

our clout was on the line!!!

….Well, partially.

Regardless of his top form argument, said Hero gives him an unimpressed look from across the island in the (almost completely) renovated kitchen.

"So you met a farmer-" he starts, sounding awfully incredulous and mildly skeptical. How rude.

"A potato farmer." Techno interrupts pedantically.

Morpheus ignores him, much to chat's growing delight. Traitors, the whole lot.

"-and decided to, unprovoked, start a potato-based greenhouse operation to out-produce a dude whose literal job was to farm potatoes?"

"He said he was the top producer. He was. Now he's not." Techno feels particularly proud of that, actually.

Smugnoblade

Get good cephalochild.

Literally just call him Skwidkid.

E

Tentacle boy

It's spelled Squid* idiot.

Morpheus's eyes widen.

"Is this still happening?"

"Nahhh, this was years ago. I just still have the greenhouses. They're pretty automatic."

"Why don't you just…I don't know, stop growing them?"

"Stop growing them?" Techno echoes, aghast. Horror genuine and visceral, if exaggerated. "Just rip them from the ground prematurely and end their little vegetable lives? I could never, Morpheus. What about self-sustainability? Climate change!"

Prime, why does Techno have to explain this so often? People like potatoes, they eat potatoes all the time! He just has a couple more than the average citizen.

He doesn't have a problem, no matter what the others say.

"Wha-"

"Also," Technoblade's dramatics melt away, replaced by a small, smug smirk. "I can't send a bag to my arch nemesis every harvest season if I stop growing them. How will I taunt him every year? 'The greatest victory is one that requires no battle', Morpheus!"

"Arch NEM- Right. That's crazy. You're ridiculous."

Throwing his hands up, the shorter man turns to face the cabinets. Techno winces as chat roars.

Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. A rubber room. A rubber room with rats. The rats made me crazy.

Sweet Trixtin above plEASE LET THAT DIE

Technomeme

im hungry are we gonna eat soon techno

E

Tell us a story

Once upon a time there was a Hero and a villain and they canoodled

I've already heard that one

"I guess we're having potatoes for breakfast."

Technoblade blinks, pulled from the chaos of his legion at Morpheus' statement.

"Uh…." He starts hesitantly. "I only made enough soup for last night, Hero."

"Yes. I know. Which is why I'm making something else. Some… other potato dish."

"Ah, well. They're… nice 'n versatile." Techno offers with an agreeable nod. He'll never turn down potatoes. Unmoved by this wisdom, Morpheus raises his brows judgmentally.

Yeesh, why's he mad?

Potatoes? Potato cult pog?

He's just jealous he can't provide all those magnificent spuds like Techno.

Technoblade is like a potato sugar daddy

A starch daddy?

STARCH DADDY LMAO

Potatoes are actually fairly high in natural sugars themselves.

Technoblade tries to tune Chat's commentary out, he really does, but at the word 'provide' his instincts suddenly rear their very much unnecessary head, reminding him of his duties as a Piglin brute to protectprovidedefend his sounder.

Declaring the potatoes as providingforsounderabundanceplenty despite the lack of a bastion's worth of mouths to feed.

Piglins are extremely social creatures, sometimes living in sounders with members in the double if not triple digits; if resources allow. His modest sounder size really doesn't compare.

Yet, if his instincts are pleased with Morpheus making use of Techno's crop, he must subconsciously be extremely desperate to expand his sounder.

Yeah no, He'll just mash those instincts down like, well, potatoes. No good to adopt strays off the street. (Especially not when they come in Heroic lime green packages).

Techno, are you zoning out? Jingle jingle, pay attention, pspspsp

Chat calls him back to focus, directing him to look forward. A pile of potatoes stares tauntingly up at Techno from their place on the island. What could Morpheus be making?

Bet lime boy buys potatoes, what a noob.

Yay, food!

I could eat

But what issss it? What's he making?

Despite his (and Chat's) innate desire to question Morpheus's breakfast quest, Techno refrains from the temptation.

Instead he stands with his back to the sink and observes the other man at work, letting chat fizzle into background noise.

He had woken up alone, disgruntled by the lack of warmth at his side and, despite the scene he had walked in on, finding Morpheus in the kitchen had been a pleasant surprise.

(None of Techno's previous partners had ever left without leaving some form of goodbye; yet, all of his previous lovers have been somewhere in the ranks of ally or friend.)

(He hadn't known what to expect with a Hero).

He watches Morpheus closely, eyes catching on details he hadn't quite noticed the previous night.

In the morning light, Techno can see a nice shadow of stubble clinging fiercely to his jaw, a shade darker than his hair. Probably a couple days old (not that Techno sees him maskless enough to predict his beard-growth rate) and a stark contrast to his normally smooth face.

That, when paired with his oversized hoodie (rolled up at the sleeves to reveal attractively muscular forearms) and short, form-fitting boxer briefs, provides an odd contrast to the Morpheus that Technoblade has grown familiar with.

Suddenly, Essempi's top Hero appears strikingly young; like some tired, college-age frat boy instead of one of the strongest men in the city.

Does Phil see that when he looks at Techno and Wilbur? At Fundy and Quackity? Young men fighting wars while their peers dope up and party and whine about their unfair, parent-paid course-load?

The world has never been fair, not to the disadvantaged, not to the impoverished, and certainly not to Technoblade.

…perhaps not even to Morpheus.

It leaves a sour taste in mouth, the bitterness of realism; because despite the institute Morpheus pledges himself to and their very different ideologies, both Techno and the Hero are working towards the same goal.

(Morpheus can't be blamed for his ineffective approach any more than he can be swayed from it. See, where Techno seeks to eradicate the infection, his Heroic counterpart has only ever learned to soothe the symptoms).

(They are rivals, not enemies; not to Technoblade at least. Unless the Hero stands in his way, Techno has no quarrel with him).

However, Techno can not allow himself to empathize with Morpheus, not when the man still sees his alliances as righteous. Techno will not betray his own loyalties for sentimentality.

Yet, empathy has nothing to do with attraction; with admiration of a beautiful human form. Hence, Technoblade feels no shame in greedily taking his fill. Of memorizing how his so-called enemy looks half dressed and face-bare.

The man paints a tantalizing picture even out of Techno's bedroom, and this faux vulnerability ignites an appreciation that Techno has no qualms entertaining.

Even as the man has moved on from his emphatic dissing of Technoblade's hard-won farming victory to engage in a battle with various bags of potatoes.

With a hard hand, Morpheus bats aside the starchy contents of various cupboards in search of… something.

Techno, help he is abusing our potato brethren.

Are you a potato??

Techno could eat me<3

Betcha ten emeralds he's looking for more potatoes.

Okay WHO LET THE SIMP IN?

"Whatcha lookin' for?" He questions when Morpheus starts looking fraught. He receives a frustrated, long-suffering glance in return.

"Literally any other fucking ingredients besides potatoes, Blade!" His voice raises, but despite everything he seems to be taking some level of tragicomic amusement from his (so-far) fruitless endeavor. "You can't have used them all in the soup. I at least need oil and spices, but other substance would be peachy."

Technoblade covers a snort with a poor imitation of a cough and gestures at the cupboard nearest the refrigerator.

"Spices and flour are in that one. Butter's in the fridge, top shelf behind, uh… the first row. Of potatoes."

Chat laughs.

"And I left an onion with the butter, if you want it. Eggs too." Techno finishes, cheeks warming to a faint pink.

It had been a little overkill to fill the fridge, huh?

…oh well.

Morpheus opens the fridge and shoves some potatoes aside to reveal the aforementioned ingredients, which he gathers in his arms. He shuts the door with a sharp bump of his hips and lays his reward out on the counter.

He places a cheese grater next to his stack of potatoes, then grabs one at random, picking a paring knife from Techno's stash with nimble fingers.

Morpheus starts to peel each potato with the paring knife, attractively efficient with the razor sharp blade. The pile of unpeeled potatoes quickly starts to dwindle under Morpheus' skilled hands.

Once the vegetables are peeled, Technoblade watches curiously as the other man uses the cheese grater to shred them into a pile of short, thin pieces.

"...Do you want some help with that?" He offers.

The Hero growls and shreds more aggressively, though the facetious set to his expression belies his true feelings.

"Aight" Techno lifts his hands in surrender.

He watches Morpheus massacre the potatoes for a moment longer.

"Prime, this is insane." Morpheus mutters under his breath as he grabs another peeled root. "Potatoes. What the hell?"

"You know, I really feel like this is a different side of you I'm seeing right now," Techno jokes waggishly, "I'm not sure I like it. Does the Commission know how much of a po-Hater you are?"

(About half of chat boos him, the other half laughs).

Morpheus pauses in his movement and makes an exaggerated face of disgust at the pun, "That was….ungodly."

"I'm an atheist." Techno retorts, to avoid the way the Hero's ridiculous expression brings a smile to his lips.

Morpheus' expressive face crinkles into an image of bemused curiosity. "Really?"

"Eh. Basically. I'm sure there were beings resembling gods at some point, but I sincerely doubt they were as cracked as people said. I mean, we live in a world of superpowers and magic, so anything is possible I guess."

Techno, we literally exist. Who do you think made us?

Can confirm that the goddess of death is real.

She's so cool I lovehersomuch.

Prime is a dick

Oop, let's not tell him about the god AU's

Regardless of what Chat claims, Techno feels like he would have been smote a long time ago if gods truly existed. None of the myths have led him to believe that all-powerful deities hold good feelings towards mortals running around under monikers like 'The Blood God'.

(Better than stealing their actual names, he supposes, but he hasn't died for that either so…)

"Huh." Morpheus considers it for a few seconds before shrugging. "Fair enough."

He resumes shredding, and once he finishes he gathers the pile of shredded spud and drops it on one of the clean hand towels he'd apparently found hanging on the oven.

The Hero, with his shredded potatoes now bundled in the cloth, migrates over toward Techno, who simply stares impassively until Morpheus makes a nudging motion toward him.

"Scoot, I need the sink."

Technoblade complies wordlessly, allowing the other man to brush past and lean over the sink.

To wash the fragments of starchy perfection, perhaps? But no, Morpheus surprises the Piglin by using his firm grip on the makeshift bag to squeeze the potatoes, effectively wringing them of their liquid and sending it trickling down the drain.

Techno cranes his head, registering the way Morpheus's hoodie rides up in the back. Heh. Nice.

Technoblade moves closer, plastering his chest against the other man's back and resting his chin on one sturdy shoulder.

Morpheus stills, the muscles in his arms rippling as he finishes the motion. Then he turns his head until their noses almost touch. "...Hi."

"Hullo." Techno responds, voice rumbling and still rough with the last wisps of sleep still clinging to him. On an impulse, he tilts his head down and nips lightly at the skin of Morpheus's neck.

He feels the man shudder and grins minutely against the same spot.

"Blade."

"Mm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Watchin' you obliterate those potatoes." He states, deliberately obtuse; he feels the Hero's sigh just as much as he hears it.

"You're being distracting is what you're doing. I'm trying to cook."

Techno shrugs and sneaks his hands around to snake beneath the other man's hoodie. "Don't let me stop you."

Despite his amicable words, Technoblade takes a vicious sort of pleasure in sliding his hands up and tracing the shape of Morpheus' pecs.

The man still hasn't resumed squeezing the life out of the towel bundle, clearly more focused on Technoblade's touch.

Part of the Piglin-hybrid likes that, so he brings one hand up and brushes past Morpheus' nipple. That gets no reaction past an inhale, so Techno delivers another small bite to Morpheus's shoulder and simultaneously flicks the man's other nipple.

Perhaps a bit harder than he intended, because Morpheus makes a strangled squeak and wriggles out of Technoblade's grasp, using his elbows to remove Techno's hands from his torso.

Dang. Technoblade had been enjoying himself.

"Fuck, okay, that's it. Get away, you menace, you can watch from the other side of the island."

When Techno's gaze narrows, flicking between Morpheus' clothed chest and his face, the man glares and brandishes the dripping bundle at him; a scolding expression undermined only by the fierce blush beneath the blonde’s freckles.

"I'm serious. I'll squeeze starch water on you." He threatens.

Technoblade huffs, tails flicking obstinately, but concedes. He trods around the counter and leans against it on the opposite side.

"Happy?" He queries sarcastically, and Morpheus rolls his eyes.

Cooking admittedly goes far smoother after that, with Morpheus sprinkling the grated pieces in a variety of spices. Garlic, onion, salt, and pepper all make it in; so does half of the onion, chopped so thin that, had he not watched it be cut, Technoblade would think the Hero had simply added more potato shreds.

Morpheus moves with the same graceful ease that he does in battle, even when he only grabs a cooking pan or drops a cube of butter in, so too when he flicks on the heat of the stove top or drops half the potatoes into the bubbling oil.

Technoblade cannot claim he has that sort of fluidity outside battle, and he finds it almost fascinating how easily the other man falls into the flow of cooking.

Somehow, Morpheus ends up with two immaculate, golden, pancake-shaped rounds of hashbrowns, which he plates (on the only two plates Technoblade had bought) and garnishes (garnishes, like one of Wilbur's fancy lad cooking shows) with paprika and dried parsley.

The hero pauses, then, and quickly retrieves two eggs, which he fries (perfectly, a sort of witchcraft Techno has long since given up trying to learn) and lays, one each, atop the potato pancakes.

He turns and sets the plates on the island, sliding one across it to rest in front of Technoblade. The rosy-haired man takes the proffered fork that Morpheus holds out, and mimics the other man's motions.

Using the tines to stab the middle of the egg, Techno drags the creamy yellow yolk across the crunchy surface of the pancake, coating the crispy, crackling potatoes with the golden film.

It, admittedly, looks delicious.

Ohhhhmyyyygod that looks so good.

Fancy hash browns

I WANNA BITE SKSJSJAJ

would be better with catsup i bet

Eat the whole thing in one bite

Yum!

Gotta say, I think he beat you this time, Tech. That looks really tasty. You get points for emotional support, though.

Who the hell spells it 'catsup'?????

Ignoring his phantom critics, Technoblade digs in, delighted by the crispness that he feels beneath his fork as he cuts off a piece.

As he eats it, he has to reluctantly concede that Chat might be right.

Techno may be a potato master, but Morpheus can have his kitchen anytime, no contest.

"Damn, Morpheus," he says, and looks up to find the man staring at him, "Why are you a Hero instead of a professional chef?"

Morpheus snorts a laugh, but Technoblade can see the way he preens at the buried compliment.

"Oh, you know, I figured I could do better with an axe than with a kitchen knife." The man jokes. "Why are you a Villain instead of an interior contractor?"

The Hero pats the newly installed countertop to make a point, and Techno laughs. Touché.

Techno hardly has the urge to spill his life story to the Hero but-

"Well, I suppose I wouldn't have anyone to terrorize me on the battlefield if you had only focused on your third skill set."

"Third?" Morpheus asks, entertained. "What are the first two?"

"Well the first is obviously your fighting. Axe included." Techno takes a bite. Mmm. Techno will have to try and recreate this recipe at some point.

"And the second?" Morpheus prompts when it becomes obvious Techno has no intention of continuing.

"Well…" Techno starts slowly, taking great pains to very obviously look the Hero over. "I suppose you're not too bad of a lay."

Morpheus barks out a laugh, seeming torn between taking the words as a compliment or an insult.

"So my sex is better than my cooking, good to know. I'll put that on my resume if I ever want to get a different job."

Techno snorts, smirking around his tusks as they fall into silence, both focusing on their respective plates.

Jokes aside, Morpheus has a surprising amount of cooking prowess, on par with Kristen and Phil. Technoblade, for just a moment, wonders what it would look like to have Mumza and the top hero into the same kitchen.

….Not good probably. Too different in terms of, uh, compliance with the law. (Kristen may not be an active member of the Syndicate, but Phil hadn't married her just for her beauty).

Techno shoves that line of thinking away and determines to enjoy his meal instead. They stand in pleasant silence, eating their food together. The only sounds come from the clink of their silverware against their plates.

Techno takes each bite slowly, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere across from the silently chewing hero.

He tenses when the Hero's shoulders suddenly slump dramatically.

"Prime" Morpheus bites out, sounding genuinely distressed as he drops his fork on to his plate. Techno looks up in concern as the Hero buries his face in one hand.

"There's just so many potatoes."

Techno blinks, lowering his own fork even as the tension drains from his shoulders. No threat, just Morpheus coming to terms with the proper order of the world.

Still, Techno doesn't quite see the issue. "Uh…Yeah? We established that."

Morpheus doesn't seem to hear him, shoulders shaking in despair. "Who has this many potatoes? You- You Villain…"

"Really not sure why you're using that as an insult." Techno deadpans, at a bit of a loss.

Startlingly fast, Morpheus whips his head up, pointing his reclaimed fork tines-first towards Techno.

"You," he starts, sounding deadly serious. "need an intervention."

Techno sighs, torn between amusement and disbelief. "I had one. That's why they're here. I'm not allowed to store them in Crowfather's kitchen anymore, and Antipode said the shelter we brought them to can't cook them fast enough to need more."

"Have… you tried a food bank?"

"Uh, I just said the shelter couldn't use them all?"

Morpheus shakes his head. "No, they're different. A food bank distributes the donations they receive to families in need all across the city. Then the recipients prepare whatever foods they are given, so the burden of cooking isn't on the organization. Shelters house people and typically provide already cooked meals."

"You seem to know quite a bit about this." Techno states, impressed despite himself.

"Well yeah," Morpheus shrugs, sending Techno an odd look across the island. "I'm a Hero, it's kinda my job to know how to help people. Plus, before they- um. When I was a kid, my parents volunteered at one, so I've seen how they operate first hand."

Techno takes a bite, thinking through a mouthful of flavorful potato pancake. He finds the Hero's matter-of-factness strange; too candid and above board.

Yet, the Hero genuinely believes that his job extends past stopping enough crime to collect his paycheck; and, he has the knowledge and commitment to back it up.

Nostalgia might explain it but, damn, Techno has never thought about Morpheus having parents.

(Having? What had Morpheus almost revealed before cutting himself off?)

"You know," The Hero clears his throat across from Techno, waiting until the Villain meets his gaze to continue. "There's a distribution center not too far from here. It's an independent charity I think, not government run…."

"Hm. I'm listenin'"

-*-**-*-**-*♧0^0♧-**-*-*-*

Noodle sighs, tapping her talons on the intake desk as another slow minute ticks by.

The clock keeps time in the corner, a constant noise in the otherwise tomb-silent reception room.

The chicken hybrid would be lying if she said she regrets taking the volunteer position at the distribution center; however, with how few donations they've seen lately, each shift has been dragging a little more.

She sighs again, wishing not for the first time thats she was part of the 0.000008% of the population that had wings to go along with their hybridization.

It wouldn't be worth much as a chicken avian, but she thinks she would appreciate the hundreds of feathers to pick through and straighten. Something to occupy her hands and mind in these dull hours, since her phone is charging at the outlet across the room and she hadn't thought to bring, like, a puzzle.

Shifting the donation logs to one side, Noodle settles in for another couple hours of absolutely nothing.

She almost falls off the chair when the front door swings open.

Two well-built men step in through the doorway, looking around the distribution centers reception hall with interest.

The first man, a tall, casually dressed blonde with a black face mask concealing the bottom half of his face, locks eyes with Noodle from across the room.

With a light tap on the other man's shoulder, the blonde makes a rather aggressive beeline towards her.

The other man, an equally tall (if not taller) pig-hybrid with a stunningly handsome face and long, loosely pulled back pink hair, follows his companion with a sigh.

The blonde's gorgeous green eyes crinkle in a smile as the two draw closer. He pulls down his mask to reveal an equally attractive, slightly scruffy, face and Noodle has to smother an appreciative cluck before it can betray her.

"Hi!" Noodle bocks nervously, eyes darting to the pink-haired hybrid's stoic gaze then back to the blonde. "W- welcome to the Prime Charities Food Pantry distribution center, My name is Noodle. Can I apodyopsis- er- ASSIST! you?"

The taller one pauses behind the blonde's back, mouths the word she absolutely hadn't meant to say, then raises a brow at her.

Noodle flushes, one word away from spontaneously combusting out of sheer embarrassment.

Thankfully, the one with the shockingly bright green eyes doesn't seem to catch her slip, barreling on with an obliviousness Noodle could worship.

"Hello, Noodle, sorry to bother, but are you accepting donations?" Green-eyes asks, still smiling politely

"Uh- uh, donations?" Noodle stutters, sneaking distracted glances at his unenthused pink-haired partner.

She has never seen a pig-hybrid that big before! (Or that muscular. Most pig-hybrids are softer, with more fat and stockier builds).

This one shares characteristics with a (breathtakingly beautiful) brick house (even if his disinterested stare comes off as more intimidating than a 30 year mortgage.

Not to say the blonde (hybrid species undetermined, perhaps something aquatic from the scale-like dots across the bridge of his nose) has any less bodily mass.

Like, wow, what parents produced those perfect genetics?

Noodle feels slightly jealous actually.

"Er- Yes. We are accepting donations." Noodle manages under the patient gaze of Green-eyes. She fumbles with the intake forms. "C- could I get your names, please? For our records."

The two men exchange a meaningful glance, the rosy-haired one suddenly way too invested in the conversation.

Well, that's not worrisome at all, Noodle thinks with a frozen smile on her face, pen poised above the forms.

(Noodle may need to rethink her priorities if she ends up getting robbed or something because of this).

Almost in sync, the two men begin to speak.

"I'm- er- well he's-"

"We're uh-"

"That is-"

"Mr-"

"And Mr!"

"Er…Emcee?" The pig-hybrid finishes, pleasantly deep voice raising questioningly at the last syllable.

Noodle blinks. "Mr. and Mr…Emcee?

A moment of silence passes between the two men.

"..Yep." Green-eyes confirms with a miniscule wince. Small enough that, If not for the volunteer's chicken traits, she likely wouldn't have caught it at all.

"Married?" Noodle asks awkwardly.

"....Sure." The pig-hybrid agrees after another pause. His companion shoots him a wide-eyed look, almost startled. (Newlyweds, perhaps?)

"Anyway," the pink haired man continues brusquely, ignoring the viridian gaze boring into his skull. "Donations?"

"Oh, of course, of course." Noodle clucks, already seeing the couple in a new, matrimonial, light. They do look good together, like lightning against storm clouds. "You can just bring the donation in and I'll do the intake."

"Perfect! We'll be right back."

With that, the blonde Mr. Emcee grabs his husband by the sleeve of his jacket and makes for the door.

Noodle waits, fully expecting them to pop back up with a box or two of canned goods, maybe a bit of dried fruit or some produce from a city garden.

When a few minutes pass by without reentry, Noodle begins to get concerned. Did they get lost somehow?

Biting her lip, Noodle gets up from the desk, resolving to check if they need any help.

She heads to the door, opening just a crack when she hears a quiet argument on the street outside.

The smooth tenor voice of Mr. Emcee, (green edition), filters in through the opening. "You can't lift that much."

Mr. Emcee's (pink edition) deep baritone responds, sounding bored. "Uh, I obviously can."

"You can't!" Green-eyes insists, audibly irritated. “Hey!”

Gosh, how cute. They argue like Noodle's grandparents.

Suddenly, Noodle hears a yelp, then-

"We are in public!" Green-eyes hisses emphatically, sounding horribly, adorably flustered.

Oh, oh! Noodle has to see this.

She blushes, flinging the door open before she can think about it and-

Two startled sets of eyes stare at her from in front of the open rolling door of a large moving truck.

The two men are standing delightfully close to each other, obviously seconds past a scandalous display of affection if the blonde’s panicked expression means anything.

Or…she might be reading into things and the panicked expression comes from the impending fall of the absolutely massive stack of lumpy, heavy-looking burlap bags piled in his hoodie clad arms.

A stack that looks laughably miniscule compared to the innards of the moving truck.

Noodle stares for a moment, just taking in the floor to ceiling burlap bags packed into the 15-foot truck. One has spilled out by the entrance, revealing dozens of small, brown lumps.

Potatoes.

“Oh.” Noodle utters faintly, eyes wide. That explains why they hadn’t come back sooner. “I’ll… go grab a hand cart?”

Despite the offer, Noodle stays firmly planted in place, unable to take her eyes off the life-changing amount of potatoes.

A moment passes where nobody moves. Then one of the sacks in Mr. Emcee’s arms falls to the ground with a dull thud. The other Mr. Emcee snorts in amusement.

"Please." Green-eyes responds eventually, smiling at Noodle graciously as his husband grins for the first time since they've appeared.

With a face redder than a rooster's comb, Noodle makes for the door.

~₩~₩`₩₩~₩~♧~♧◇•♧°◇°♧•○♧•♧°€€`€`

Elsewhere….

Sam's work phone chimes from its place on his desk.

While this occurrence happens fairly regularly with all the updates and texts he receives through the day, this particular notification sound had only been set for one special person.

He lifts the device off the flat surface and opens his messages.

Ponkie<3: 3:23pm

Babe are u a creeper hybrid?

Sam's flat expression twists into one of bafflement. Ponk knows Sam's status as a creeper-hybrid. Why would he deem that an important enough question to text Sam?

Me: 3:23pm

Yes. You know this. Why?

He watches the three little dots that indicate his boyfriend typing appear for a split second, then:

Ponkie<3: 3:24 pm

Because u blow me away

Oh. Sam can't help the smile that pulls at his lips. What a goof.

Me: 3:24 pm

Aw, Ponkie <3.

Trust Ponk to send him a silly little pickup line while he was working. The green-haired mob-hybrid sighs, oozing fond amusement. As Sam goes to set the phone back down, however, another message comes through.

Ponkie<3: 3:24 pm

Although…

Sam's brow furrows, a sudden nervousness overtaking him. Although? Although what, Ponk?!

Me: 3:24 pm

?

Ponkie<3: 3:24 pm

U could just blow me ;)

Sam's face burns; he brings a hand up to cover his mortification as he quickly types a response.

Me: 3:24 pm

PONK. THIS IS MY WORK NUMBER.

I AM AT W O RK!

Ponk's response takes much longer to arrive than a flustered Sam would like.

Ponkie<3: 3:25 pm

When u get home then, hot stuff ;))

Sam hastily deletes the messages and puts his phone on vibrate, blushing and embarrassingly distracted.

Damn it.

He caves and takes a break, after that, because his wonderful, attractive, bratty boyfriend has effectively broken his flow of concentration for at least the next twenty minutes.

Also, Sam thinks Ponk packed him a nice lunch anyway, but he hasn't had time to check, too absorbed in his work for the last six hours.

(It turns out Ponk had sent him off with a container of gimbap and gyeran mari, as well as a slice of lemon pie, which might be a strange combination, but so obviously Ponk that Sam has to smile.)

((Any irritation he might've felt at the messages runs at the return of the sheer crushing affection he feels for his boyfriend. Can any person legally feel as smitten as Sam does?))

((Gosh, he can only be grateful he works alone.))

Chapter Text

"Nope, no crimes." Tubbo boredly repeats for the seventeenth time.

"-Are you sure, Big-T? Actually positive? This is Essempi. No one is calling anything in?-" His dumbarse of a best friend asks again.

Tubbo sighs, swiveling a full circle in his desk chair as he clicks through a couple tabs on his computer.

"Nope." He says, popping the p. "All I can do is listen to police call-ins. Otherwise you just have to keep trottin' around until something shows up."

Tommy groans through the comm, "-Essempi is so massive though, bee-boy; and not in a good way! How am I meant to find crime in all these alleys?-"

"Well, you could go over to Las Nevadas, I suppose." Tubbo snarks, launching a mining rpg on his second monitor. "Oooor you could head back over here and hang out with me like we told Puffy and Dream we would tonight. By the way, I'm surprised he didn't walk you over from the Café. He was only scheduled till like five, right?"

Tubbo can almost hear the shrug Tommy does. "-Dunno, didn't tell me anything. Guess he's finally starting to relax a bit. Been kinda stressed lately. Er- Big D. that is, not me. I'm like a swamp.-"

"Stinky and gross?"

"-No! Calm and peaceful, you prick. That's it, you- Ah, hold that thought.-"

Tubbo hears the comm-line click off, indicative of something catching Tommy's attention.

A moment, and five blocks of pixelated iron ore later, the comm-line reopens.

"-Bitch! Wanker! Prat! Why I ought-a…-" Tommy devolves into staticky grumbles on the other side of the line.

"...is this directed at me?" Tubbo asks, a little distracted as his avatar narrowly avoids some lava.

"-No, not everything's about you, boom-boy! This bastard just-

The ram-hybrid only half listens as Tommy recounts, step by step, the crime he had just stopped. Something, if Tubbo understands between the vibrant language choices and embellishments, involving a piece of litter and a rude litterbug.

Riveting.

"Sounds pog, Big Man. Are you heading back now?" Tubbo interrupts when Tommy transfers to ranting about conservation and saving the turtles. Tubbo refuses to go through a vegan phase again because of Tommy; he refuses.

"- I'll be back soon. Just a little bit longer yeah? Oh, hey, there's something now-"

Tubbo hears a rustle of cloth, most likely Tommy's hood shifting as the blonde hunkers down to watch. Tubbo kills an in-game mob with his digital sword. Whoop.

"Well?" Tubbo prompts when he hears nothing further but Tommy's breaths

"-Some boy, about our age. Wearing, I don't know, a purple sweatshirt? He's looking around a lot.-" Tommy whispers.

Tubbo runs his avatar forward. "That's not necessarily suspicious, T-man."

"-He just walked up to a group of people. They seem to be arguing. Oh shit. One of them just swung for him. I gotta-"

"I hear you, Big Man, check in when you're done."

The comm clicks off and Tubbo sets in to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

(Tommy doesn't check back in).

---^--^^-^^^-^^-^------

Like many minor street skirmishes, the crowd disperses quickly once Theseus drops in; unwilling to stick around and risked getting caught up in masked drama.

The only one remaining happens to be the boy who originally caught Tommy's very discerning eye.

He stands in the middle of the street, posture relaxed as he stares straight at Tommy; hands deep in the pockets of his black jeans.

The other boy may have started it (whatever it had been to get those people so riled up), but Tommy didn't jump in to pass judgment.

"You alright then?" Tommy asks the other boy, lowering his voice to try and sound a little older as he steps a bit closer.

The boy, blonde in a similar hue to Tommy, (if not a shade lighter and a fair bit straighter), squints his brilliant purple eyes.

"Are you…Theseus?" He asks oddly, scrutinously studying Tommy.

"Oh!" Tommy leans back, proudly puffing out his chest with a wide grin beneath his bandana. "You've heard of me, then? That's pogchamp, innit."

Prime, Tommy hasn't had any immediate recognition before. He feels like something of a celebrity now. Tubbo ought to be appropriately awed when Tommy tells him.

Purple-eyes frowns. "I-"

"Not, of course, that anyone hasn't heard of me. I'm a pretty big deal you know."

Weirdly enough, the other blonde starts to scowl. Probably jealous in the face of Tommy's poggness.

"Hey-"

Tommy benevolently ignores the obvious insecurity, cutting it off before his new fan can put himself down. "I'm sure you're a pretty big man too, but obviously you'd know of a Massive Man like me."

Purple-boy starts to look frazzled. Poor sod. "Are you seri-"

"Because I am an absolutely massive man." Tommy interrupts primly, folding his hands behind his back as he bounces on his toes.

The shorter boy stares into Tommy's dark-lensed motorcross goggles with an expression that Tommy might call a glare in any other circumstance. Tommy smiles back.

Suddenly, Purple-Place sighs harshly, pressing two fingers to the furrow in his thick eyebrows.

"I don't have time for this." He mutters under his breath, almost too quiet for Tommy's ears.

Time for wh-

Quicker than Tommy can react, the purple-clothed boy leans forward, yanking the comm free from Tommy's ear before turning and sprinting down the street.

"Oi!" Tommy yelps as soon as he registers what had happened. Belatedly his hand reaches his ear, feeling the empty space his comm had been in just milliseconds prior.

Oh, that bastard.

"Oi!" Tommy repeats at the back of the retreating thief. "Hey, what the fuck? COME BACK HERE!"

The purple bitch turns around at the end of the street, wiggling his fingers mockingly and sticking his tongue out before taking off again.

Tommy's jaw drops, cheeks flushing and rage building. That- That Purple Prick. With a yell, Tommy bolts off after him, indignation and fury mixing with the wind at his heels to keep the Purple Thief in his sights.

He took Tommy's comm!

Shit. He took Tommy's comm. Tommy's Commission-tech, Warden-made, Tubbo-modified, irreplaceable comm.

It doesn't matter if the stupid thing had just been a repurposed prototype, Tommy has to get it back.

So he runs like his life depends on it, chasing the other blonde with a single-minded focus. Hot on his heels, he barely notices when his fellow teenager turns into the more crowded areas of city nightlife.

Normally, Tommy avoids Las Nevadas, fully willing to admit that the district might be a bit too intense for a new vigilante like Theseus. Additionally, even the Heroes don't have regular patrol routes into the gambling district, too high of a chance of some poor sop running into Jester.

At the moment, meeting a supervillain would be the waxy icing on top of a shitty snack cake for Tommy.

However, right now Tommy has no choice but to follow his prey into the unknown. So Tommy buckles down and runs like he trained, keeping his breath even and his feet far enough apart not to trip. The adrenaline helps too, pushing him even when the chase drags on longer than any of his previous runs.

Frustratingly, no matter what he does, purple sweatshirt seems to be able to run just that much faster than Tommy.

It becomes a problem when the throngs of people become denser, angry pedestrians pushed and shoved by Tommy's efforts to follow the thief.

With all the bodies milling about, Tommy doesn't dare lose his quarry by taking to the rooftops, especially without Tubbo tucked in his ear. Still, miraculously, Tommy keeps sight of his new nemesis throughout the neon signs and twisting streets of Las Nevadas.

A car honks at them as it screeches to a halt inches from their chase. Tommy pays it no mind, hyper focused on the back of the other blonde’s head.

He reaches out, just close enough to brush the hairs on the comm-thief's neck. Just a little closer and-

Tommy's hand grasps empty air as he skids to a stop, frantically recalibrating to follow the purple-wearing teen's sharp right-turn down a nearby alley.

That slippery twit!

With a tired growl, Tommy changes course, charging down the alley just in time to see those purple sneakers kick their owner over a chain link fence.

Tommy scrabbles after him, boosting himself with his powers and landing heavily on the other side. Oof. The pace has started wearing on him in a way the purple pirate seems unaffected by.

Still, Tommy can't go home empty-handed, not when only Prime and luck had given him access to that technology in the first place. He pushes on.

Finally, he sees the other teenager duck into a covered back doorway, squeezing in between two burly bouncers; twin bull-hybrids with absolutely colossal horns.

Tommy hesitates, slowing to as jog as the two beefy (literally) bouncers look in his direction.

"Uh," Tommy squeaks, panicking just a little under their combined stare. He points at the doors behind them. "I'm with him! The boy that just went in."

Internally, Tommy hopes to Prime that the purple pissboy doesn’t just have some magical psuedo-invisibility power like that pasty bitch Punz.

The bouncers exchange a glance; then the one on the right rolls his eyes and huffs. In sync, both men step aside, clearing the way for Tommy.

"Uh, …thanks?" Tommy utters, tentatively creeping past them and placing his hand on the door. When nobody yells 'sike' and tries to grab for him, Tommy slips into the building.

Had that been….too easy?

Nah. People just must finally be recognizing Tommy's awesomeness. Of course they're gonna let him walk right into a casino.

A casino?

Tommy bites his lip underneath his bandana, shrinking in on himself as he takes in the gambling den. Crap. Dream definitely wouldn't be happy to know Tommy ended up in a place like this.

…which explains why Tommy won't tell him; besides, it'll just be a quick in and out. Tommy just has to find his comm and get back on the streets (preferably before he misses his hourly comm check in with Tubbo).

Right. Where did that wanker go?

Tommy looks around, a new determination fueling his confidence. At only half past nine, the casino has only just started filling up for the night, people with various hybrid traits milling about among full-blooded humans.

Strangely enough, most of the patrons are wearing some form of business wear; suits and pencil skirts with a few more colorful outfit choices intermingled.

A bit odd, innit? Tommy didn't know casinos had a dress code.

With a mental shrug, Tommy scans the crowd, carefully looking at each person for a trace of-

There!

Tommy sees a flash of purple duck behind an attractively busty woman in a peacock-blue party dress. Tommy narrows his eyes, sidestepping a staff member who does a double-take when she sees him.

Marching forward, Tommy heads for the woman in blue, skirting around her to catch another glimpse of the purple.

He sees the other boy heading for a large group of well-dressed people, ducking underneath a server's alcohol laden arm and around a weasel-hybrid with slick brown hair.

"Oh, no you don't." Tommy mutters, quickening his pace before Purple-boy can disappear.

It gets louder as he approaches, everyone muttering to themselves and shifting about with an energy that puts Tommy on edge.

"'Scuse me. Coming through. Lovely suit ma'am, looks wonderful on you. Move. Look, I really need to get by-"

When he pushes through the crowd, Tommy's words shrivel like raisins in his throat

Oh shit.

Tommy swallows heavily, barely registering the familiar, purple-wearing blonde standing only a few feet in front of him with the smuggest smirk in the history of Essempi.

Oh fuck.

Why? Because three feet in front of him, gleaming golden wings reflecting light in all directions around a deceptively small frame and pixelated smile faced directly at Tommy, stands the most dangerous Villain in Las Nevadas.

The only Villain in Las Nevadas.

Tommy thinks he might actually fucking die tonight and Jester-

Jester will be the one to kill him.

==○○===○○○====○○

One hour earlier…

"-and so then my friend walks in and says: hey, have you seen my oak log? And I'm like, oh shit, how do I tell him I just burned that?"

Quackity laughs, resting his chin on the hand he has propped on the bar. "Was he pissed?"

The brunette blaze-hybrid chuckles, eyes twinkling under dark eyebrows. "Oh, he was so pissed. Apparently it was a special 'prepared' log. He had just ordered it."

"Prepared?" Quackity asks, tilting his head questioningly. "What was he gonna use it for?"

Sapnap sighs, a toothy grin still stretching his cheeks wide as he sorta swivels on his bar stool. (Quackity smiles behind his fingers at the sight. The blaze-hybrid can't sit still at all, like a big puppy).

"He grows mushrooms. Kinda obsessive about it actually. Supposedly you need really specific wood to grow them properly, because they're fungus, and bacteria will kill them." The blaze hybrid shrugs, like he doesn't really believe it. "I don't really know, seems to me like they do fine in nature; well, I'm no mushroom expert."

Quackity hums agreeably, more invested in the man talking than the topic. "What are you an expert in?"

Sapnap's long lashes flutter. "Uh," he starts, staring at Quackity a moment too long. Quackity smiles encouragingly, hoping to overwrite whatever might be causing the stall.

Surprisingly, this does nothing to help the soft reboot his question obviously caused. In fact, the floundering seems to have worsened.

Quackity tries not to feel disappointed; he knows he has far too many secrets of his own to be offended over whatever excuse will exit Sapnap's mouth but-

Well, He just thought the blaze had been getting more comfortable with him; especially after seeking Quackity out so many times in the past few weeks.

Obviously the question hadn't been as innocent as Quackity had meant it to be, and now Sapnap feels the need to think of something that he thinks Quackity won't judge.

Before Quackity can backtrack or change the subject to something Sapnap might be more comfortable with, the blaze hybrid continues.

"Um…..fire?"

Quackity blinks. "Fire?"

"Yeah. I know a lot about fire." Sapnap nods almost bashfully, scratching the back of his head. "Sorry, it's stupid, but it's the only thing I could think of."

"That's fucking hot." Quackity blurts before he can stop himself. "Are you an arsonist?"

Sapnap's jaw drops, a brilliant flush overtaking his face. "Oh! Wait- Arsonist?"

Quackity knows his face looks just as red, but he tries for a smirk. "Yeah man, like, setting things on fire for fun."

"Uh, arson involves setting other people's property on fire." Sapnap corrects, laughing nervously at the end.

"Oh, for sure. So are you?"

Quackity watches as the blaze immediately goes to deny it, before some thought closes his mouth. Sapnap seems to consider it for a moment, face shifting through multiple emotions before he settles on some form of horrified realization.

His silence says enough.

Quackity grins. "Mr. Bad Boy up in here. Can't say I expected that."

Sapnap groans buying his face in his hands. "Please," he says with a note of humor interjected through whatever mental crisis Quackity accidentally caused. "Mr. Badboy is my father. Just call me Sapnap."

Quackity pats the top of Sapnap's fluffy, dark hair comfortingly. "Relax, dude. It's all good. Most of the people around here have committed some sort of crime."

Sapnap looks alarmed. "Is that okay?"

Quackity pauses, leaning back. Not such a 'bad boy' after all, huh? Sapnap does come off as concerningly naive for how often he travels into the Las Nevadas district.

Or maybe Quackity's worldview has just been warped so drastically that his version of normal shouldn't be allowed near the general populace.

Rather than following that thought train, Quackity focuses on Sapnap. "Is what okay?"

Sapnap makes an ambiguous gesture into the air, looking equal parts frustrated and concerned.

"Being surrounded by criminals! Do you really feel safe in that sort of environment? I don't understand why the people around here don't ask for help from the Commission, the crime levels are awful!"

Quackity sighs and folds his arms.

"Did you grow up poor, Sapnap?"

The blaze-hybrid's handsome face drops in surprise. "What?"

"Did your parents ever struggle to pay the electricity? Have you ever walked home in the first intact pair of shoes you've had in years, praying to whatever god you trust that tonight isn't the night someone with a knife decides they're more desperate for sneakers than you? Has your family ever had to choose between keeping the heat on for the winter and eating for the next week?" Quackity feels bad, being so harshly blunt in his questioning, but he needs the other man to understand.

"I- uh…" Sapnap frowns, looking altogether too much like a scorned puppy. "No…"

"Sometimes when people break the law," Quackity continues, "When they become criminals, it's because they've hit a wall, and they're scared, and people do stupid things when they're scared; impulsive, irrational things. They put on a mask and wave a gun around, thinking the bank isn't a person, I'm not hurting anyone, or it's the only way to get my daughter the medication she needs. Sometimes, it's believing someone when they say all you have to do is run this contraband, then you're that much richer and freer. The Heroes are just like the police. They're paid to stop people who break the law. It's black and white, on paper. They're not paid to decide who falls into the grey, or who deserves a second chance, or a blind eye"

Sapnap stays silent, eyes wide and attention fixed on Quackity. Quackity shrugs.

"I don't think law enforcement, Heroes or police, are useless. I mean, a bit ago I had some asshole hold me at gunpoint and try to rob the casino. Dunno what his story was, and I don't actually care-" Quackity refrains from mentioning that Warren was hardly the worst danger he's ever been in. "As far as I'm concerned, he deserves none of my pity. In cases like that, sure, it's good to know that Heroes like Inferno are on call if things get out of control. But the rest of the time? People in Las Nevadas have thicker skin, they gotta be pretty helpless to call a Hero. Mostly things get handled internally."

Sapnap has a pink tint to his cheeks that Quackity didn't notice appearing, and the avian lets his lips quirk up wryly. "Besides, most of the smaller crime is easy to deal with when big bads like Jester are scaring away all the other wannabe supervillains, y'know?"

He leans over and lightly slugs Sapnap's (solid, muscular. Hot damn!) arm, getting a small smile in return.

"Don't worry about it, arson boy, this district is safer than it's ever been. And hey, if we ever get caught up in a big scary crime, maybe you'll get to see me give someone the classic Las Nevadas treatment."

He brings his fists up and pantomimes punching someone, like a boxer.

Sapnap snorts. "Sure. I'd like to see that."

"That sounds an awful lot like doubt, dude." Quackity teases, affecting a comically offended expression. "Are you doubting me? Imma go find a crime right now, you'll see."

"Pff-" Sapnap waves one hand in a 'stop' motion, laughing into the other. "No, no, I'm sorry. Please don't do that."

Quackity sighs dramatically, as if very put out by the request. "Fiiiiiine. Just for you."

Sapnap beams at Quackity, sharp canines gleaming under the artificial lights. Quackity feels his face warm, heartbeat suddenly far too loud in his ears. He looks away.

After a moment of silence, Sapnap makes a hesitant noise. Quackity glances up to see the blaze hybrid biting his lip.

"Have you ever…." The dark haired nether-hybrid trails off, fiddling with the drawstrings of his hood. Quackity waits patiently for him to finish his thought.

"..Have you ever met Jester?"

Quackity can't stop the way his lips turn down into an automatic frown. Why does Sapnap need to know about Jester?

He can feel his wings, previously relaxed behind him throughout this conversation, start to mantle defensively as a thousand possibilities run through his head.

Could Sapnap be in trouble? Does he need protection from something? Why is he asking Quackity? For a brief moment, Quackity considers the possibility Sapnap might be a plant, someone sent by the same unknown group that targeted Jester at Club Diamond.

But…Sapnap has an earnestness, an innocence about him that just wouldn't make sense if he had bad intentions. Quackity refuses to entertain the idea any further.

No, Quackity must just be on edge right now, seeing ghosts and jumping at shadows. Sapnap just has the same curiosity any civilian would have when a safe distance from danger.

Quackity pastes on a smile in the seconds the question hangs in the air, tilting his head as if he had been considering the question. His wings are forced to settle. "I've seen him before, sure. He doesn't show up as much nowadays since the Commission labeled him a Villain last year. Why?"

(Quackity actually still feels a little bitter about that. He had been clinging to his crime-lord status pretty hard after all; made working out in the open a lot easier as long as law enforcement couldn't pin anything on him. Now the Heroes can try to arrest him if he shows one feather in their vicinity).

"Oh! Well, I was just-" before Sapnap can finish his thought, Quackity's phone chimes loudly in his pocket.

"Er- sorry, hold that thought." Quackity says, opening his texts as quickly as possible. He can count on one hand the people who prefer to text him instead of calling and none of them are currently being ignored by him.

#1 Responsibility (Purpled) : 9:09pm

Q, where r u

#1 Responsibility (Purpled): 9:09pm

I'm bringing u smtgh

Me: 9:09pm

I'm at Tres Gatos. What are you doing?

#1 Responsibility (Purpled): 9:09pm

? Tres Gato closes at 8, y r u there?

#1 Responsibility (Purpled): 9:09pm

Nvrmd idc, Go to Casino Bonita I'll be there in 20 min

#1 Responsibility (Purpled): 9:09pm

Wear ur suit

Me: 9:10pm

Purpled what? Why do I need my suit

Me: 9:10pm

Purpled?

#1 Responsibility (Purpled): 9:10pm

19 min.

Quackity scowls, already grabbing his jacket from where it sits behind the bar. As he shrugs it on, he flashes a confused looking Sapnap an apologetic grin. "Sorry man, imma have to head out. A friend of mine needs help with something."

Sapnap gets up as well, shoving his hands into his pockets a bit dejectedly. "Nah dude, you're good. I should probably head out too."

Quackity feels a twinge of guilt at the almost crestfallen look on the other man's face. He really can't stay, (Especially not with how cryptic his underage charge insists on being), but he does actually enjoy talking to the blaze.

(Not in the least because the man possesses multiple qualities that would make a younger Quackity swoon. Even if Sapnap hasn't made it clear why he goes out of his way to seek Quackity out, Quackity wouldn't mind staying friends in the long run).

Mind made up, Quackity grabs a blank receipt paper, scribbling out the string of digits that constitute his phone number.

"Here" He says as he offers the paper to a startled looking Sapnap. "So you don't have to waste your time trying to find me on my days off."

Quackity sees the exact moment Sapnap realizes what he's been handed. The slight widening of his eyes; the sweet, awed smile that he ducks his face to hide from Quackity's gaze.

"Thanks" Sapnap says as Quackity desperately tries to remember the last time something he did made an expression like that appear on someone's face. "I'll text you!"

"Okay!" Quackity says, embarrassingly loudly in the empty restaurant. "But you gotta leave now, I need to head out."

Sapnap laughs, trotting towards the door at Quackity's shooing. When the door swings shut, lock automatically engaging as it clicks closed, Quackity practically sprints into the back.

He checks his phone as he goes, pushing out the back door and locking it behind him. Pocketing the key, he makes for his motorcycle in the parking lot.

No new messages. 9:13pm.

Okay, Quackity has 16 minutes. He can do this.

He shoves his phone into his pocket one handed, sliding his helmet over his beanie-clad head and popping his kick stand up. Seconds later, with his wings held tight to his back, Quackity tears out of the parking lot.

If he had more time, Quackity would enjoy the nighttime drive a little more; because Quackity loves Las Nevadas during the day, but at night? Las Nevadas shines.

A rainbow of neon signs adorn every building and business down each bustling street. Music streams from nightclubs and bars and Quackity's many, many casinos. Illuminated windows advertising strip clubs and smoke shops are interspersed with streams of laughing, glittering people of all shapes and sizes.

Quackity weaves through traffic like his feathers are on fire, speeding through his section of Essempi with furious determination. He might be breaking multiple traffic laws right now, but in Las Nevadas, he knows no one will stop him.

He loves it with all his treacherous little heart, loves that he carved out a piece of a city for himself and made it his own. Loves that the only illegal activities that happen in his borders are the ones he himself allows.

A glorious legacy, glitter and gold to hide the gritty, bloody mess of the city underbelly. A little playground for the people who are willing to pay the price for power or protection.

The masses flock to his creation, the worst of society intermingling with all the heathens Essempi can offer; all bound by Jester's rules of conduct. Quackity has done ten times what the Syndicate ever could have even before they handed him the reins, built a scattered handful of concepts into a monolith of hedonistic pleasures and criminal control.

A monolith that, if last month's events are any indication, may very well be under attack.

A thought for later, not something to dwell on when one of his people needs him. With a shake of his head, Quackity pulls into Casino Bonita's private garage.

9:15pm. 14 minutes.

Typing in his personal code on the keypad installed in the elevator, Quackity heads to his private office. (All Las Nevadas Casinos and Clubs have one, hidden away behind security codes and private entrances. His space, that only his closest and most trusted can enter).

The elevator takes far too long for the nerves creeping up his throat, the anxiety and questions he has for his wayward charge.

Quackity swears whatever Purpled wants to show him better be worth it for the stress the little extortionist sent him along with those texts.

Secretly, he knows that Purpled wouldn't demand he wear 'the suit' unless he deemed it important; but in that case, what does Purpled need Jester for?

(All the possibilities send more spikes of worry through Quackity, building on top of what had already poofed into existence with the words 'I got you something'. Purpled doesn't just get Quackity stuff. Much less stuff that requires Quackity to don full Villain garb)

(Prime, no wonder Phil acts the way he does, kids are stressful as fuck).

When the elevator doors open, Quackity almost falls out of them with his haste to exit. He scrambles down the short hallway, jabbing his key into the lock on his office door hard enough to break something.

Quackity doesn't bother closing it behind him, secure in his privacy precautions holding as well as they ever have. He slips his key into the pocket of his slacks.

The duck hybrid tosses the motorcycle helmet on the office's couch along with his beanie, shedding his jacket next. His suspenders come off as well, then his white work shirt and his black bowtie.

Like a man possessed, Quackity beelines for his safe, entering the combination with quick fingers.

8-3-2-4-6-6

Upon pressing the pound key, the safe clicks open. The clock on the wall reads 9:20. Nine minutes left.

Hissing through his teeth, Quackity pulls a button up out of the safe, this one in a dark, midnight blue that will look almost black in the casino proper. He ties the gold bow tie around his neck as well and hastily grabs the golden wing covers as he makes his way back to the couch.

Wishing he had more hands, Quackity slips his wings through each cover, shivering as they meld to his feathers. These are his older pair, lighter and blade-less. If his Luck works in his favor today, whatever Purpled wanted won't involve fighting.

He grabs his suspenders from the couch, clipping them on as he casts another glance at the clock. 9:23. Six minutes left.

Quackity runs for the safe again, grabbing his spare mask and waiting the five never ending seconds for it to power on. When it displays his infamous LED smile, he pulls it over his head. Finally, Quackity grabs a black blazer from the suit rack by the door, quickly running his fingers over it to make sure the fabric will match his slacks before tossing it over his shoulder.

9:25. Four minutes left.

Okay, good enough. Quackity spins out of his office, turning the lock on the knob as he goes so it catches on the doorframe.

He makes for the elevator in a dead sprint, mashing the key for the first floor almost violently.

Slowly, the machine descends, just in time for Quackity to wonder if Purpled actually expected to meet him on the first floor. The texts didn't specify. What if Purpled wanted to meet Quackity in the office? Oh no, maybe he should-

Positioned in the leftmost center of the casino, the elevator dings open almost directly into the lounge area. Here, the in-house bar and seating area are speckled with the early patrons of the night crowd, obviously getting started on their drinks for a pleasant number of hours on the gambling floor.

Quackity automatically moves forward, stepping out with the lazy, confident gait of a man who owns the world.

"J- Jester?" A man squeaks from a table next to him as he passes into the ambient lights.

The room goes silent.

9:26. Three minutes left.

"Jester!" A familiar voice exclaims to his right, a strain of uncertainty infecting the deep baritone of Quackity's normally confident Casino Manager. "I didn't know you were here."

"Brietta." Quackity replies, subtly scanning the room for any sign of Purpled as he turns to meet his employee. "I decided to drop by, I trust it's no trouble."

This he says in the manner of: I don't really care if it inconveniences you, you had better accommodate me. Brietta, a man perfectly suited for the kind of politics Quackity's business demands, perfectly reads the subtext.

"Of course not, please let me know if you need anything." He says, with a polite shake of the black curls atop his head.

Quackity nods, just a sharp incline of his head, and the room takes a breath all at once. The clock on the wall ticks forward.

9:27. Two minutes left.

When Quackity doesn't start executing people, the bolder patrons start murmuring.

"He must be-"

"My boss wants to-

"-can't believe-"

"-representing-"

"-a huge fan-"

These ones clamor amongst themselves like overeager feeder fish, biting at his patience as if he couldn't consume them with a word. The rest stare from their spots a safe distance away, eyes wide like they see a loose tiger instead of the well-known owner of the Establishment they willingly visited.

Despite the obvious fear in some of the less composed faces, no one makes a move to do anything but simper.

Why?

Because although the majority of Quackity's businesses are above board in all the most important ways, much of Quackity's most networked clientele are extremely wealthy and…. less than savory.

Mercenaries, drug lords, wanted criminals, right-hand men of organized crime families, all in dire need of a place to mingle away from the more innocent, thrill-seeking population.

Which Quackity happily provides in Casino Bonita, offering secure entertainment to People who know better than to call outside eyes to his presence when it might bring attention to their own heads.

The upsides of keeping this exclusive criminal client base in specific Jester-owned buildings are that Quackity not only has a certain freedom of movement, he can also network certain off the grid 'business partners' with words to a few mutual acquaintances.

The downsides…

Well. By the peak of the night Casino Bonita will host a full house of dangerous people who would love a favor from Jester. The small group brave enough to watch him now will only grow the longer he stays.

(If it weren't such a secure meeting site, Quackity would be having words with Purpled).

((He still might if whatever scheme Purpled concocted doesn't necessitate Quackity donning the Jester suit. If nothing else, Quackity wouldn't have minded picking up gossip as a relatively invisible Casino Bonita waiter. None of the bosses or underlings in the area are stupid enough to spill their secrets with Jester around)).

9:28. One minute left.

At least Purpled shouldn't have any problems finding Quackity in all the commotion. (Controlled commotion of course; he doesn't just let everyone walk in when so many high-profile customers are around).

"Are you planning on staying long, Jester?" A clear, curt voice cuts above the rest. The others go silent, obviously wondering what he might say.

He recognizes the cat-hybrid by her voice, a cold, no-nonsense calico with an attitude like a brick wall and the honor of playing personal assistant for the head of a smuggling group that Quackity has deliberately been ignoring for the past few weeks.

Unfortunately, from how she seems to be rapidly texting while waiting for his response, that might end tonight.

Damn. Quackity hates those bastards. A shame they're too important to outright snub if they catch him in person.

"We'll see, I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone." Quackity replies coolly, still searching the open room for his charge. No one pushes further, though Quackity sees many more devices discretely notifying bosses.

He almost laughs when some of the newer looking client-base (stiff-suits and stiffer hair) averts their gaze in his periphery. Still no Purpled.

Someone says something to his right, someone laughs across the room. Everyone nearby still quietly whispers as more people congregate around the perimeter; curious but unwilling to approach.

They cautiously sip their drinks, stiltedly going back to their conversations as his staff deliberately start to engage the patrons with drinks and betting menus.

Brietta appears back at his side like a wraith, accompanied by two more of Quackity's employees.

"Sir."

Quackity turns his head, noting the tablet screen in his manager's hand. Oh joy. Nevermind the clientele, Quackity should stop hiring such opportunistic, work-motivated sharks.

"We are hosting the sixth triannual gamblers tournament next month, however, recently Señora De Suerte booked our catering service for those allotted days. Additionally-"

The clock strikes 9:29, and Quackity sees a flash of familiar purple slipping in through the guarded back entrance.

Finally.

He cuts Brietta off when he loses sight of the kid. "Pull the staff from Club Diamond since we still don't have a reopening date set. Have them work with one of our local restaurants to cater the event. Expedite the expansion of the event hall as well. Anyone who has an issue can take it up with me. I'll take a look in about an hour for the rest."

Quackity takes a step back as he finishes his sentence, eyes peeled and half-distracted. He pulls his wings in just as a presence approaches from behind.

"Hi J," Purpled whispers, sliding close to Quackity like a satisfied feline.

Quackity's suspicions rise dramatically "What did you do, kid?"

Purpled smiles, eyes crinkling up until they become dark slivers. "I got you a present."

Quackity waits for a beat, spreading his wings enough to give them a smidgen of privacy in the slowly filling casino. "Well?"

Purpled cranes his head towards the door he had entered through, already a few inches taller than Quackity despite his age. "Hmm, It'll be here in about….3..2…annnd-"

Quackity's eyes widen beneath his mask as a relatively tall, gangly figure pushes through the crowd, golden-blonde hair peeking out beneath a bright red hood and tickling the edges of dark, souped-up motorcross goggles.

The figure has a bandana wrapped around the lower-half of his face, black and red like the rest of the outfit, from the sturdy jacket to the heavy-duty combat boots.

A costume worn by the Vigilante Wilbur had described in great detail over the phone just a few weeks prior.

Theseus.

Holy shit.

What the hell? Why the fuck does Quackity have a fully-uniformed Vigilante standing inside his casino? What-

Ah. Wait.

Quackity can almost feel the smugness radiating off of Purpled.

"Hey, Purpled?" The avian asks, disconcertingly calm as he keeps the frozen Vigilante in his sights. The sixteen year old menace beside him just hums. "Yeah, um, why is Theseus standing in front of me?"

"Well." Purpled starts, at the same quiet, slow pitch as Quackity. "You were looking for him weren't you?"

"Shit, kid," Quackity exhales, darkly amused despite the logical voice inside screaming at him nor to encourage bad behavior. "Don't expect me to raise your allowance for this."

"Sure." Purpled snorts inelegantly, unbothered by the (admittedly weightless) threat. "But I'm not dragging him back here when he inevitably decides to run in the next thirty seconds."

Right. The Vigilante.

Quackity sighs so hard his voice modifier crackles and, keeping his gaze set on the baby-crimefighter only steps away, starts forward as casually as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Purpled slide away, fading into the various patrons milling about.

Thankfully, the so-called Theseus stays put as he approaches one measured step at time; the Vigilantes' fight or flight having graciously made way for freeze in face of an actual threat. (Did Wilbur ever say how he met the wannabe hero? Surely not as Siren with a reaction like this awaiting him).

Quackity manages to get within arms distance before he can see the poor thing start to tremble. He draws close with the same even gait, aiming to the left as if to pass by. A step more and Quackity pauses mid-step, almost shoulder to shoulder with the stone-still Vigilante.

Theseus has more height to him than expected, but in a skinny, lanky way; like a deer given human form. His jacket gives him extra bulk, almost too much around the shoulders for the otherwise narrow frame.

Nevertheless, compared to Ranboo or Wilbur or even Technoblade (all freakishly tall giants), Quackity has no problem dropping a heavy hand on the Vigilante's shoulder and raising his wing just enough to obfuscate any outside ears.

Theseus stiffens under his touch, concealed face stubbornly set forward as Quackity leans in just enough to whisper.

"There are very many eyes here, Theseus. We should…talk in private."

Trusting the man to understand, Quackity pats his red-clad shoulder just once before gliding past. After just a moment of hesitation, Theseus follows.

Quackity leads them through the casino, heading for the private meeting rooms further back. It'll be best to have any conversation as far from prying ears as possible. Especially if Wilbur actually wants to keep this one once Quackity finishes with him.

(Quackity might recruit the Vigilante himself if his questions are answered satisfactorily. After all, he only promised Wilbur information; never that he wouldn't put his own cards on the table if an opportunity presented itself)

(What's a little poaching between friends, right? Especially after that stunt with Club Diamond).

So Quackity punches in the code to one of his more secure rooms as soon as they arrive, ushering the Vigilante in with a wave of his hand.

Just as he goes to follow after, a familiar, purple-sleeved arm reappears in front of him, fist clenched around something.

With a raised eyebrow (invisible under his mask but clearly translated if the mocking mirror indicates anything) at his young friend, Quackity holds out his palm.

A small, ear-shaped communication device plops into the middle of his hand, sleek and top of the line tech. Very specifically, Commission tech.

By the time Quackity looks up a second later, Purpled has disappeared again, likely off to raid the casino kitchen.

Hmm. Okay then.

A bit confused, Quackity follows Theseus into the room, closing the door firmly behind him and swanning over to the room's sitting area. The avian lowers himself onto the couch, spreading his wings and crossing his ankle over his knee.

Theseus hovers by the door as Quackity reclines silently for a long moment, just studying the other as he notes the quiet, barely perceptible notes of conversation drifting in from the casino proper.

He'll have to try and wrap this up before the night gets too busy, before people start running their mouths about Jester meeting with a new red and black-costumed player in the underground stage.

"Me perdonas, you'll have to excuse me." Quackity starts, rolling the earpiece Purpled had handed him between his fingers. "I don't often host Vigilantes."

"Oi! That's- That's mine! " Theseus exclaims angrily as soon as he sees the comm, pointing at the little device. His voice cracks on the last word, making him sound younger than it should.

Interesting. Well, that explains why Purpled handed it to Quackity (and how he managed to lure the Vigilante to Casino Bonita in the first place).

"Is it?" Quackity asks, glacial and pointed. Theseus takes a step back, attitude shriveling under the rhetorical question's warning.

"Heyyy no, man, relax." Quackity shifts his tone to something friendly, almost cajoling. He slips the earpiece into the breast pocket of his blazer, ignoring the upset noise Theseus makes. "Take a seat. I don't bite."

(Quackity winces beneath his mask as soon as the words leave his lips, suddenly recalling every instance in which he did, in fact, bite. He doesn't bite often, okay? And he's never bitten a vigilante. So the words aren't actually a lie).

Thankfully not privy to Quackity's internal monologue, Theseus obediently (if trepidatiously) takes a seat across from the Villain on the edge of one of the chairs.

A lounge table separates them, dark oak with a crystal decanter and drink tray set between them. Standard for any of Jester's private meeting rooms with a special twist that cemented this particular one as the room Quackity led Theseus to.

When Quackity just tilts his head, Theseus starts to fiddle with his fingers like a scolded schoolchild. He doesn't seem to be willing to face Quackity, clearly intimidated by the Avian Villain. (Not a bad thing if Quackity manages to recruit him. After all, he himself has first hand experience in how fear can turn into respect and admiration if treated properly).

"Look, Big Man- Big J, I really, really didn't mean to intrude on your whole thing, but I need that back. I'll get right out of your hair, swear to Prime."

Theseus talks fast, with an accent similar to Philza's and Wilbur's and a youthful lilt. Different then them both in the same way they're different from each other, but very likely to have spent some time living in the old L'manburg area.

Quackity had never really picked up the accent, despite his years in L'Manburg before he became Jester, but he recognizes the dialect differences enough to know the speech patterns and some slang.

Another piece to the puzzle of the mysterious Theseus.

"I'm curious." Quackity leans forward, uncrossing his legs and steepling his fingers. "Why does a Vigilante have access to Commission tech?"

"Er…I have a….friend." Theseus responds stiffly, a note of panic infecting the blatant lie.

Quackity scoffs. "Please, a talented guy like you has connections with the Commission? Why aren't you in their program, then? They're hiring, you know."

Always hiring, in fact, because no army would be complete without disposable foot soldiers. They have pretty low standards as well, snatching up almost any talent as long as it meets the age requirements. Theseus has to have a pretty darn intriguing reason not to have joined their program.

(Maybe he doesn't trust the government, another anarchist like Techno, or perhaps he just hates how stagnant justice seems in this city, a visionary for a better future like Niki).

"If you must know, J-Man, I don't meet all their req-uire-ments." Theseus responds primly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Really?" Quackity laughs, a little meaner than he means to, "What is it then? Did you fail your psych eval? Or was it the drug test? You can tell me, we're both criminals after all."

"Hey, I'm not a criminal," Theseus barks, sounding about as offended as Quackity expected. (Vigilantes hate to be reminded which side of the law they're actually on). "I just have…other stuff going on. The Commission would be begging for my presence otherwise. I'm just too pog for them to handle right now."

Quackity hums agreeably, noting the deflection. So not only does Theseus support the Commission, he would very likely join them if he could. (But he can't. Why?)

"Ah! Where are my manners?" Quackity exclaims out of the blue, pretending not to notice the way Theseus jumps.

Quackity reaches for the decanter on the side of the table between them, swishing the amber liquid inside before pouring two shot glasses. He slides one across the table towards the Vigilante. "Please, let me offer you a drink."

Theseus immediately waves his hands in front of him, shaking his head emphatically. "No thank you, big man, I can't- Er- I mean, I don't drink. Yeah, I'm alcohol, uh- intolerant. "

At that moment, all the pieces align.

All the things that had bothered Quackity (the voice, the speech pattern, the fidgeting not unlike a nervous Purpled, the gangly limbs and ungraceful gait, the divagation), combine to form one absolutely ludicrous conclusion.

Quackity can barely keep his composure as he asks the final damning question. (No, it can't be, but…he has to be sure). "Theseus… How old are you?"

"Twenty-five!" Theseus responds, far too quickly, too openly, and just a pitch too high to be anywhere close to true.

And Quackity just-

"Oh shit, you're a fucking child."

(Because Quackity will eat his prime-damned beanie if this Vigilante falls anywhere near Wilbur Soot in age).

The avian finds himself on his feet before he realizes he stood up, wings flaring behind him in agitation. "You're a kid, oh my god."

Of course Theseus doesn't meet the Commission's requirements; no one under eighteen years can even sign up for the hero program. It makes sense.

"Hey!" Theseus jumps up as well, somehow managing to sound indignant despite his visible alarm and fear. "Okay, I- that was a lie, I'm actually, uh- nineteen. I am not a child! "

Quackity ignores the literal baby's second lie, (Prime, how did he not see it sooner?), pacing a couple steps and placing a fist in front of his mouth in dismay.

Shit. What should he do now?

(Not for the first time, Quackity curses his powers for arbitrarily giving him the worst fucking luck in the history of mankind).

"¡Ah, chinga!" Quackity swears under his breath. "Fuck!"

"...are you…uh, okay?" Theseus asks leerily.

"Sit. Down." Quackity hisses, attempting to figure out the best course of action now that all his plans just crumbled to shitty pieces. He barely notices when the Vigilante almost throws himself into a chair.

The slowly increasing babble filtering in from the main part of the casino no longer lightly tickles Quackity's ears, now a roaring rush of water demanding his attention.

He won't have long until his absence will be questioned by the many higher-ups whose underlings notified them of his presence. Rumors will start to fly the longer he stays hidden from sight, until everyone in the Criminal underworld will be turning their eyes towards the Vigilante that caught his attention.

The type of situation that any person who dons a mask can be expected to weather at some point in their careers; that Quackity would normally feel no guilt in watching them ride the currents or sink beneath the waves, trusting that any adult who chose something so dangerous could deal with the consequences.

If only Theseus were an adult.

(Ranboo and Purpled are hardly allowed outside without fifteen different safety methods and contingency plans, because (as proved earlier that same year in every heart-stopping moment the Commission had Ranboo in their possession), sixteen year olds aren't meant to be expected to succeed against people with years of maturity and experience over them).

((Even the Commission knows better than to throw child soldiers into the fray, so why the hell does Quackity have one in the same room as him?))

Could Quackity allow the target to be painted anyway? Perhaps just call up Wilbur and send the kid away to some uncertain fate, washing his hands of the whole thing? His debt would be paid, he could pretend he simply didn't know if things went south.

But… could Quackity even sleep with that on his conscience? If something terrible happens because Quackity willfully handed Theseus to the wolves?

No. He couldn't. Especially not when Quackity's associates are the only reason the young Vigilante might now be more than just a speck on anyone's radar.

Not for the first time, Quackity regrettably finds himself with the moral obligation to be a responsible fucking adult.

"Kid, why-"

A knock interrupts his question, pulling both their heads towards the door like synchronized swivels. Quackity takes a deep breath as he steps forward, pulling the door open just enough for his body to block the way.

"Sir." Brietta nods respectfully on the other side, making no move to look past Quackity into the room in a way that calms the avian's spiked heart rate. "The high-rollers are wondering why the betting limit is lower than the buy-in."

Translation: Jester's VIP clientele are wondering when he will reappear in the casino.

They're getting impatient. Quackity has no more time to waste trying to figure out how to salvage his plans.

"Thank you, Brie. I'll be right out."

His casino manager inclines his head in acknowledgement, taking the dismissal as it comes. Quackity closes the door. Whirling around, he stalks towards the seated crime-fighter. Theseus shrinks more and more the closer he gets.

"I-"

"Listen kid, here's what's gonna happen." Quackity says, stern and unrelenting. "You are gonna stay put until I come for you in a couple hours. Don't leave the room, don't try to run. If you do what I say, I'll give back your earpiece at the end of the night and let you leave."

Theseus stays silent for a second, considering Quackity's words. "What if I… don't?"

Wings snapping out in a show of avian posturing, Quackity smacks the table with the palm of his hand; ignoring the way Theseus practically jumps out of his skin and lowering his voice to a menacing growl that would make Technoblade proud. "For the next few hours this casino will be stuffed to the gills with the types of people you've been putting behind bars. People who would pay for a chance to rip an unaffiliated Vigilante apart. Since you clearly have no self preservation, I am going to go play damage control until none of them remember seeing your happy, underage ass in this part of town. If you want to keep your property or your life you will. Stay. Here."

When Quackity finishes, Theseus stays silent, assuredly wide-eyed beneath his tinted goggles. Quackity studies him for any sign of disobedience; letting out a final avian click when he finds none. (Theseus twitches at the noise, and damn Quackity wishes he could see the kid's expression).

Then, with a deep sigh, Quackity straightens, adjusting his bow-tie and fixing his blazer. He pays no more heed to the Vigilante hunched ashamedly in the chair, striding to the door and exiting the room in one smooth motion.

He takes a moment to type in the lock code for good measure, waiting till he hears it click to turn away. The earpiece weighs heavy in his pocket, and for a beat Quackity wonders (worries) about who might be on the other side.

(He decides it doesn't matter. Let them come if they want the conflict. Quackity will personally deal with whoever thought of sending an adolescent to fight crime).

The clock strikes ten as he enters the casino, and for the second time the room turns to meet him. Quackity's wings smooth down behind him as he searches the crowd for his first target.

There. A well known illegal enchantments broker. Or there, a small gang leader operating just outside Las Nevadas. It doesn't really matter which one Quackity chooses, only how many eyes are on their interaction.

Tonight, Jester will star in the performance of the year.

--------

40 minutes earlier…

Karl scribbles on another sticky note, pressing it to the whiteboard in his room amid a sea of others.

Sapnap, one older one says in the shape of a neon orange flame. A pink one, fresh from the pad, hangs below it. Finally met him, so that's how I knew!

Karl bites his lip, giddiness bubbling up as he moves a blue sticky note closer. He giggles, falling back on his bedspread just as his phone buzzes.

His fluffy, overgrown bangs partially obscure his vision as he unlocks his phone, and he accidentally opens his search engine twice before managing to tap his messaging app.

Sapnap(*^♡^*): 9:15 pm

Karllllll Quackity is so wonderful

Me: 9:17 pm

Haha, hello to you too. Where are you?

Sapnap(*^♡^*): 9:17 pm

Outside Tres Gatos. Q was closing the place up and let me stay after he closed so we could chat while he worked!!

He's so sweet

Sapnap(*^♡^*): 9:18 pm

I can't wait for you to meet himml

Me: 9:19 pm

Hold up are you with him right now? Are yocu messaging me while you're talking to him??

Sapnap(*^♡^*): 9:20 pm

Noo a friend texted that they needed his help, so he left. He cares a lot about people, you know?

Sapnap(*^♡^*): 9:21 pm

He wouldn't just ditch me. Plus we were just hanging out, it wasn't like an official date.

Sapnap(*^♡^*): 9:21pm

I havent worked up the courage to ask him yet. :(

Me: 9:24 pm

Awww Sapnap. You'll do great.

Me: 9:24 pm

^-^ I can't wait to meet Q either.

For the first time, Karl doesn't add, because he has met (will meet) Quackity a hundred times but never yet for the first.

But how amazing, how special will his first meeting be with the second man he already wholly, desperately loves? With whom he'll spend the rest of his tragic, timeless life with?

(Karl really, really can't wait).

Chapter Text

(1:41am, in the bedroom of Tubbo Underscore)

Tubbo paces back and forth across the floor of his room, nails bitten short enough to cause pain. They had been long enough at the beginning of the night, and painted a nice dark green that now looks tattered and scratchy after hours of worrying.

(Tubbo feels like he might cry).

Tommy still hasn't contacted him, despite the many times the ram boy desperately reset the connection from his end. Hacking it has similar results, the comm only picking up on muffled noises and shifting fabric from Tommy's end.

For the first time in almost three years, Tubbo feels the same helplessness that he felt on the day his father died.

Again, again Tubbo sits behind a screen, helpless, useless as someone close to him stays out of his reach. Tommy could be-

Tubbo doesn't know, doesn't want to think about it. (But he has to, because only Tubbo even knows that Tommy and Theseus are the same person; only Tubbo knows that Tommy even left his house tonight. Only Tubbo knows that Tommy went silent four hours earlier and hasn't checked in once).

Tubbo wasted the first hour assuming Tommy had just gotten held up, playing his stupid rpg as he waited for Tommy to check in. The second hour he had convinced himself to just wait a little longer, that Tommy's comm had broken or Tommy had just gotten distracted while heading home.

Hour three Tubbo started to worry, frantically trying to make contact, to receive any news from his friend. He had started pulling from the street camera database, looking for any trace of Theseus.

Only, whatever happened to Tommy seems to have happened out of the view of any city cameras. Maybe the closed circuit security systems picked something up, far out of Tubbo's wireless reach; however, the chances of Tommy deliberately avoiding all of Tubbo's technological eyes are astronomically slim.

Tubbo never should have given Tommy the okay on heading out tonight.

After yet another minute passes with only ruffling and static, Tubbo rips his gaming headset off and stands from his desk, running his hands through his thick hair and displacing his floofy bangs as he avoids the short, smooth horns jutting out from his skull.

“Primedamnit-” He hisses, not for the first time tonight.

He should tell Puffy. He needs to tell Puffy. If Tommy has found himself in trouble or worse, they need an adult involved. Someone trustworthy, who can bring Tommy back in a way Tubbo can't. Like a Hero! Like Puffy.

(Even if, technically, his aunt/adopted mom stepped down from active duty the day she took a newly orphaned Tubbo under her roof. However, just because she mostly works on the Commission's Board doesn't mean Puffy ever really stopped being The Captain.)

So. Tubbo really ought to come clean to his mum.

Yet, if Tommy hasn't been kidnapped or hurt or any number of horrid things that Tubbo can think of; if the mountain Tubbo sees actually turns out to be a molehill and Tommy simply got caught up in something (or- Tubbo doesn't know, fell asleep in a dumpster? He wouldn't put anything past his friend, honestly), and Tubbo outs their campaign as Theseus and Hive… Tommy will be absolutely devastated.

It might ruin the blonde's chances of ever becoming a Hero.

However, if something serious did happen, and Tubbo waits too long to get help because they might get in trouble, Dream will be…. absolutely destroyed. The blondes are both Tubbo's brothers as much as they are one another's, and he would never wish that despair on the older. Dream would absolutely blame himself, despite it being Tubbo's own fault.

Tubbo can't let either of them get hurt.

The ram hybrid snatches a pillow from his bed and screams into it, muffling the noise so as not to accidentally wake Puffy prematurely.

Once he finishes, the brunette flops to sit cross-legged on the bed.

How the hell can Tubbo choose? How can he possibly decide with these fucked up Shrodinger-esque options?

Despairingly, he cranes his head back to look up at the few stars he can see out of the glass dome that makes up his ceiling.

(His bedroom had been an old observatory once upon a time, quickly repurposed into a habitable living space once Puffy had bought the building from some wealthy old astronomer. Tubbo still has the telescope, not that it does any good through Essempi's terrible light pollution).

“What do I do?” He asks, to nobody.

What would Puffy do? Probably get help immediately, regardless of how much trouble Tommy could get in. His mum follows the path of lawful good to its fullest extent, she would put Tommy's life and safety first.

What would his father have done? After a lengthy career of Heroism, the man had been a politician, he knew how to make difficult decisions and defend them. (Dad had a spine, he had grit; unlike… Tubbo).

Would The Ram wait for the possibility that the situation would resolve itself, or would he just- make a choice? Maybe, if Tubbo-

Movement in his periphery splinters his train of thought. Tubbo freezes, whipping his head around with the aching, fragile hope that he'll see a familiar red-clad avian-hybrid standing across the street.

He sees a figure, suddenly standing atop the unlit nearby rooftop with their back to him and, for a moment, Tubbo almost celebrates but… they are too tall to be Tommy, (incredibly so in fact) and far skinnier than Tubbo would think healthy.

With a sinking disappointment, Tubbo leans a bit closer. From here, he can't see much detail, only the absence of the bright colors and bulky jacket that would assuage all his fears. His limited dark-vision does pick up a splotch of snow-white hair atop their head, and another at the end of what must be a tail, whipping lazily back and forth.

Tubbo's eyes narrow.

“Who…?” He murmurs to himself. Then, abruptly, the person turns; face swiveling toward Tubbo and revealing an unmasked, half-pale face and brightly glowing purple eyes. “Oh, holy shit-”

Tubbo recognizes that guy! The one Tommy described after he was saved from a gruesome splat on the concrete. (Saved, he'd said, by a tall vigilante bloke; two-toned and purple eyed).

Making a split second decision, Tubbo scrambles off his bed to open the roof hatch. It swings open silently, well-oiled by Tubbo himself, and Tubbo peeks out quickly.

“Hey!” He calls quietly, waving to get the other Vigilante's attention. “Over here!”

He squints out the window, thinking he sees the guy tilt their head. From the roof over, they raise a white hand in an uncertain wave of their own.

“Come here!” He whisper-yells when it becomes clear that the other hybrid has missed his meaning. Tubbo beckons them over with one hand.

In a split-second, a blink of his eyes, the willowy figure disappears from the roof.

A millisecond later, they reappear on the platform outside his window in a swirl of purple magic-particles.

The window that Tubbo had half emerged from only seconds prior, that he still leans out just enough to find himself hairs away from the abrupt materialization.

"Oh Shi-!"

(#)#*#)@)@()#)

(In the Backrooms of Casino Bonita, 9:55pm)

Jester leaves in a swirl of feathers and unquestionable authority, shutting the door firmly behind him. It sounds like a cannon in the otherwise silent room.

Tommy deflates, air leaving his chest faster than a balloon animal beneath a squeezed orange peel.

"God-" He wheezes out, astutely ignoring the slight tremble in his hands.

What a scary fucking bastard.

Even without the intimidation, even without Tommy essentially being at his mercy- Jester reads as a threat to every part of Tommy's being. More dangerous than the news ever reported, more ominous than the Commission's files made him out as.

Horrifying intelligent. Insanely perceptive.

(How did he know everything Tommy attempted to conceal? Would all Villains be able to read him that easily? Prime, Tommy might be sick).

Despite Tommy's height, the red-winged avian felt as helpless and small as a lone chick in the wrong nest as Jester loomed over him; glinting, golden wings spread in what Tommy's instincts immediately recognized as a dominant posturing stance.

His own wings prickle beneath his clothes even now as he remembers the way the older avian's satisfied noise had startled him, a firm statement that said Jester expected Tommy to obey.

(Tommy has never met another winged avian before, though he knows of a couple. Besides the Angel of Death, (another Villain who Tommy will hopefully not meet until Commission-trained and fighting alongside Dream), a nearby city hosts a parrot avian with brilliant, tricolor wings).

((The blonde boy has studied the pictures of the Hero in flight a million times. Despite the low-grade terror buzzing beneath his skin, part of him can't help the excitement. Does Jester fly? Tommy desperately wonders what color those feathers are underneath that veneer of glimmering gold. The bird in his brain croons sadly at the man's Villain status; at yet another avian who Tommy can never preen with, socialize with, relate to)).

Tommy swallows down a distressed chirp as his thoughts spiral in that depressing direction, at how far out of his league Dream's opponents actually are. Prime, did Tommy even ever have a chance? Did-

He stands abruptly.

Well, big men don't just mope about ey? They solve their problems and look pog doing so. Since Tommy happens to be the biggest man he knows, he needs to do exactly that.

First problem: Tommy can't leave.

Of course, to prove this, he checks the door; studying the internal knob (one of those fancy lever handles, with a heavy metallic sturdiness to it, and a little swirl at the end) with a keen eye. Finding nothing amiss, Tommy decides to try it.

A little spike of anxious adrenaline swoops in Tommy's stomach as the handle presses down beneath his palm and…

…nothing happens. The handle swings down smoothly as Tommy carefully pulls inward, but the door itself doesn't budge.

He huffs at the sheer audacity that Jester has, to actually lock Tommy into the room, but decides not to linger near the door just in case.

(Listen, Tommy wouldn't say his hesitance just results out of fear, of course not; merely… a healthy bit of self preservation).

Problem 1: Currently unsolvable.

However, Tommy wouldn't be a Wife-haver if he gave up that easily; hence, keeping a careful ear out for any movement from the opposite side of said door, he creeps very sneaky-like around the large table on one side of the room to the other door.

This one sways open with little fuss, revealing a tidy restroom, no more than a sink and toilet, with a vent high up on the wall.

Nothing useful unless Jester decides to keep Tommy here longer than a handful of hours.

Tommy… really hopes Jester doesn't plan to keep him here more than a couple hours. (Not that Tommy could stop him either way, not with no current escape routes and his comm still in Jester's gloved hands. A true sitting duck for all that his avian DNA denotes him as a Cardinalidae).

Prime! Tommy hates being helpless, hates that Jester could go back on his word and screw Tommy over at any moment. (He hates because anger protects Tommy better than terror; because Heroes fight back instead of trembling in the face of danger.)

((Tommy desperately wants to be a hero)).

Tommy glowers at the fancy, patterned carpet in the middle of the room; fists clenched at his sides.

Can he really just sit here and wait for the potential guillotine to come crashing down on his neck? Tommy shouldn't trust Jester, but-

What can he even do but wait?

@$@♡$@$@◇$@$@○$

(Tubbo's bedroom, 1:55am)

Heart racing at the sudden close proximity, Tubbo jerks backwards; barely managing to catch himself from toppling. The tall hybrid recoils with a soft ‘chrrp’, alarm written on their face as their long ears pin back; tail wrapping tightly around one long leg.

“Sorry-!” Tubbo yelps quietly, “Sorry, man, you just startled me!”

The taller hybrid blinks cautiously as Tubbo peers up at them through his bangs. Despite their height, they have a youthful, boyish face. With the strange duality of their features, age hardly translates, yet, Tubbo feels like the other may be around his age.

Their physical traits and build suggest Enderman heritage, as does the way the taller makes no effort to find Tubbo's eyes with their own. However, the presence of stark white skin and hair contradicts that, as Enderman hybrids are typically monochromatically dark. Vitiligo maybe?

For the second time that night, despite the tremulous anxiety screaming at him to not invite a stranger into his private space, the ram boy makes a choice. He moves back and gestures inward to his room.

“Wanna come in, boss man?"

It might not be a good idea, legally Tubbo should report the other boy for Vigilantism instead of inviting him to his house but-

Well, a bit like glass houses and stones, innit?

After all, even if most Vigilante are 'extremely dangerous' and 'too unstable to pass Commission entrance exams' Tubbo happens to know first hand at least one that passes snuff. (Okay, Tommy might be a bit off-his-rocker, but the Commission will totally take him in a couple years, and not just because of nepotism)!

(Also, this Vigilante saved Tommy once before so…Tubbo can trust him at least a little, right)?

He expects the hybrid to step inside, but instead gets another eyeful of purple sparks; the guy again appearing right in front of him, though this time with a little extra distance between them.

With a brief moment of hesitation, Tubbo sticks out a hand. He really shouldn't be doing this, in fact, this choice might be his worst one yet, but-

“My name is Tubbo.”

Well. In for a penny…

The hybrid stares at the sheep-boy’s hand for a moment, then raises both their own to gently grasp Tubbo's, turning it palm down and cupping it carefully. They smile at him, with closed eyes and thin, upturned lips that don't show their teeth. No words leave their mouth, just a cheerful ‘vroop’ sound (like a hum from their throat). Tubbo snorts, amused despite the way his heartbeat quickens.

“I heard about you!” He blurts, then hurries to clarify as he realizes how that might sound without context. “I mean, you saved my friend! From falling off a roof. Tall- shorter than you, though- with a red and black getup, and a hood and mask and goggles?”

Voice cracking, Tubbo speaks faster, suddenly needing to describe his best friend to this new person.

“He- he swears a lot, and he's got blonde hair, and- kind of a stupid sense of humor, but he can also be really funny- and he's smart as all hell but he doesn't show it-” Tubbo's mouth shuts with a click of his teeth as he sees a black-gloved hand enter his blurring vision, below his bangs.

He stills, realizing that in his rambling he'd teared up. Prime, how embarrassing. The Enderman hybrid touches his face, gently wiping a wet streak from his cheek with their sleeve as they chitter in another language.

“I can't understand you. Sorry,” Tubbo murmurs, lifting his own sleeve to scrub the damp away.

The Enderman speaks again despite Tubbo's words, something alien and otherworldly, (it must be Enderian, though Tubbo hasn't ever heard it in person… Can- can they not speak Common?). The other hybrid still holds Tubbo's hand, and, when they see they have his attention, they bring their free hand up to rest lightly on their own cheek.

There, Tubbo can see thin, slightly off-color scars, like someone dripped a chemical along the skin and burned it. Tubbo's brow furrows, and he stares at the marks for what likely counts as a very rude length of time. When he raises his gaze back to the purple of the Enderman's, and the other (probably) teenager glances nervously away, everything clicks.

“Water,” He realizes aloud, “Tears are water… and water burns Enderman…” He touches his own cheek, mirroring his guest, who tilts their neck with an inquisitive humming sound.

Tubbo shakes his head, cheeks warm.

“Oh. Oh, no, I'm okay! It doesn't hurt me, I'm just-” He laughs humorlessly. “I'm just worried. He's been gone too long. Sorry. Gods, what a brilliant impression I've made, ey?”

The Enderman hybrid releases his hand (after a final, gentle squeeze) and pats Tubbo's head. Tubbo decides he will let the mild condescension slide, if only because the guy seems so genuine.

For the time being, Tubbo simply drags his feet over to his loveseat and perches on the edge, patting the space beside him.

“D’you wanna sit down, big man?”

The taller follows, less walk and more stroll; a graceful, feline strut, all long strides and toe-steps that give the impression of the Enderman-hybrid dancing across the space.

Midway through the last step toward Tubbo, however, the split-dyed Vigilante makes an abrupt turn. Tubbo watches with antsy curiosity as they bend at the waist to peer at his computer screensaver: a montage of various pictures of himself and Tommy from the last couple years.

The Enderman hybrid churrs curiously, then turns to Tubbo and babbles in his language. When Tubbo simply stares, trying to use context clues to figure out what the hell they're saying, the hybrid taps Tommy's face on the screen.

“That's Tommy,” Tubbo explains, a bit lamely, and the achromatic hybrid hums. They straighten and bring their hands to their eyes, making circles with their fingers in the shape of glasses… or goggles.

“Theseus?” Tubbo guesses, then realizes with some embarrassment that the tall being likely doesn't know shit about Tommy's Vigilante persona. “I mean- the one you saved, yeah? My friend?”

The hybrid garbles something and nods, eyes luminescent in the dark room. Tubbo pauses only momentarily. “Uh. Y'know what? Yeah, that's- They're the same person.”

Not as if this guy was gonna snitch to anyone, right? “He's a Vigilante too. He helps people, like- well, like you do. Wants to be a Hero someday, and uh, work for the Commission.”

The tall fellow makes a sharp, staticky noise that raises the hair on Tubbo's neck. His visitor's eyes are narrowed, pupils small and mouth split to reveal purple-tinted saliva strings and large fangs.

“Oh!" Tubbo squeaks. "You… don't like the Heroes? Or you don't like… the Commission?”

The inky freelancer holds up two fingers, and Tubbo nods agreeably, raising up his hands in a gesture of placation.

“Okay, uh, that's pog. No judgment here, man. You're obviously a Vigilante for a reason.”

Tubbo falls quiet, letting his eyes drop down to follow the slow, hypnotic back-and-forth of the other hybrid's tail. It, oddly, helps calm his chafed nerves. After a moment he sighs, rubbing at his eyes once more.

“I'm bloody useless here,” Tubbo mutters to himself, dropping his face into his hands.

A weight settles on the little sofa to his side, careful and a comfortable distance from Tubbo.

"Vrr?" His companion asks quietly, knees tucked close to their chest, watching him.

Tubbo looks away almost as soon as he glances up, grasping on to the first subject that comes to mind. “Tommy and I gave you a nickname, you know.”

He doesn't have to look to hear the curious ‘vroop’ that emerges from his towering companion. “At first we were calling you ‘That vigilante guy’, but that didn't work for too long. Then Tommy suggested we call you ‘Blip’ and I vetoed that cause it's dumb. Besides, not everyone has to have a name based on their power, y'know? I chose ‘Hive’ for my codename, because I like bees and I thought it would be funny, like me being a hivemind with all my computer stuff; not because I mind-control ants or some bullcrap.”

He offers a half-hearted smile up to the other boy, who simply blinks. They're listening, at least.

“I eventually decided to call you Enderglow. Figured it's aesthetic enough to sound cool and match your whole thing while not actively shouting that you go popping around the city, y'know? Tommy complained about it, but he still calls you Enderglow too.” Tubbo hesitates, then glances up at them. “Is that okay? We can change it, if you've already got a Vigilante name.”

They tilt their head, as if considering, and say something in Enderian. It sounds a bit like ‘Enderglow’, (if someone put the word through a sound effects program and then microwaved it like popcorn).

The taller hybrid murmurs it again, then nods. They look Tubbo in the eyes, just for a second, and say it a third time, as if cementing it in place.

“Yeah? Enderglow?” Tubbo confirms, and they nod once more before letting their gaze slide away from his.

A soft, more genuine smile stretches lightly across the ram boy's lips. “Glad you like it.”

Enderglow chirrups from somewhere in their chest, and Tubbo straightens from where he's begun to curl into himself, stretching. He glances at the glowing clock on his wall and feels his heart sink a little more.

2:06 AM.

“Prime- What am I going to do?” He says aloud, and Enderglow makes a questioning noise.

“Tommy's still gone! It's been nearly five hours, and he hasn't even checked in or anything. I mean- he didn't really have a deadline for being out tonight, and he usually does because he's gotta be home by like midnight so he doesn't get found out- but I still thought he'd be back by now. I should never have given him permission to go out tonight, I should've made him stay here and actually hang out." Tubbo shakes his head, continuing quietly, "..he was just so excited.”

Tommy's excitement has always been persuasive. His friend has a brightness to him that makes people want to see him happy; and, well, Tubbo can hardly claim to be the exception.

Agitated, He stands and begins to pace next to his desk as Enderglow watches attentively.

“I've tried hacking into his comm, but it's just muffled noise, and he doesn't have his phone because he was worried about losing it- I don't know what else to do!” Tubbo crosses his arms across his chest, wishing he were wearing his bomber jacket; heavy and bulky, because right now he can feel every maddening bit of skin even slightly exposed to the air of his room.

A long-fingered hand settles tentatively on his shoulder and he jumps. Enderglow, standing next to him, lightly pats it in an obvious attempt to comfort him: when he blinks up at them they open their arms in the universal offer of a hug.

They're a lot like Tommy, he thinks, and immediately caves.

“Sure, boss man.” Tubbo sniffs wetly, and steps closer. He loops his arms around their chest (one tall motherfucker, they are), as they hum softly; carefully winding their own long arms around his shoulders with a gentle squeeze. Tubbo feels their tail wind loosely around his ankle, as well.

When Tubbo steps back from the embrace (a bit reluctantly, more so than he's ever felt with a stranger before), a tender bolt of hope strikes into his chest on the back of an occurring thought.

“Could… Could you bring him back, do you think? Can you teleport someone else with you?”

Enderglow opens their mouth (a normal amount this time), then closes it. Slowly, they shrug.

Tubbo's brows creep up his forehead. “You don't know?”

Enderglow nods, hands clasping together in what Tubbo thinks must be a nervous habit.

“Try,” Tubbo demands, sticking his hands out. Enderglow tenses, minutely, and Tubbo falters. “I'm sorry. Please? Just once.”

Enderglow stares for a long moment, and the brunette's pulse jumps with the fear that the lanky beanpole will now refuse to help at all. Rather than that, though, Enderglow reaches out to grasp Tubbo's forearms with an unnerving, glowing blink and garbles something in Enderian. Tubbo opens his mouth to remind the other that he doesn't understand, only to rapidly infer it as a warning when the world twists.

Tubbo finds himself on the roof he'd first spotted Enderglow on, cool night air shocking his senses as faintly glowing purple particles dissipate around them.

“Oh, fuck-” He utters, and rips away from Enderglow's hold to slap a hand over his mouth as his stomach lurches. Grasping one of their sleeves for dear life, he takes a slow, deep breath, trying to calm his gut enough to not taste his dinner for a second time.

Once the churning nausea has subsided into low grade discomfort, Tubbo gives a shaky laugh. “That is god awful. How do you do that so often?”

In his periphery, he sees Enderglow shrug.

“Right, At least we know you can, now.” The sheep takes another deep breath and looks with little excitement back to the glass dome of his room. “Ugh. I wonder if I can just jump across.”

At the motion he makes (little legs depicted by his fingers running and leaping across the large gap between buildings), his companion makes a screechy noise of alarm. Tubbo waves him off.

“Kidding, I'm kidding, man, I'm not an idiot. Just give me a minute.”

With a noise suspiciously like a grumble, Enderglow does exactly that, and soon enough Tubbo materializes back in his room, staggering toward his desk chair.

“Okay,” He says when the swell of teleportation-related disorientation once more fades. “Okay, so you can get him. I just have to find him.” Tubbo flips a hand through his bangs, then drums his fingers on the desk. Having another person around, a technical ally, has boosted his morale a bit, dragging him from despair back into determination.

(Tubbo has people on his side. He can do this).

“I already tried forcing the connection open from Tommy's end,” Tubbo recounts, attempting to work through his problem again (this time with a sounding board). If he can just figure this out logically…

(He learned from a young age that letting himself get over-emotional only leads to situations blowing up in his face (sometimes literally), yet, sometimes he still can't help himself).

“I haven't tried tracking the signal… I think I could, but it'll likely take some time. I've never done it with a piece of tech that's so bloody specialized.”

The ram boy pulls up the open connection he has with Tommy's comm and cranks the volume up so he can hear any noise that may sound from his headset without actually putting it on. With a couple clicks, Tubbo opens up a satellite map beside the connection.

“If I can get a proper read on the signal from different directions, I can narrow down his location, but I can't exactly be running ‘round the city. Technically triangulation requires multiple angles of directional analysis, which is usually done with…”

Tubbo trails off, then leaps to his feet, eyes alight with realization. “Oh! Wait wait wait, I have a radio! Fuck yes! Stay there!”

Enderglow chirps in agreement, watching the newly enthused sheep with wide, encouraging eyes.

@!@!@!@!@!@!@!!@!!

The Casino, 10:22pm

Less than thirty minutes after Tommy began poking around, and about ten minutes after he'd finished investigating every drawer and shelf in the room (which had been fucking boring, who has an entire drawer full of pens and stationary? Do people actually sit in a casino and play chess with fancy chess sets like the one Tommy had nearly dropped? Why were so many of the items on the shelves so antique and lame?), Tommy sits on the softest chair in the corner and bemoans his existence.

He should have just ignored that purple jerk, and let him get beat up, or mugged, or whatever would have happened. If only he hadn't stopped to help, he could be back with Tubbo, eating junk snacks and listening to his friend rant about his latest code developments as they tried to stay quiet and not wake Ms. Puffy. He wouldn't have been lured to the crime underbelly of Essempi, and he wouldn't be bored out of his godforsaken mind and-

Tommy freezes as he hears the door handle turn. He plants his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to jump for the door if need be.

However, contrary to his fears, Jester doesn't walk through the door to interrogate Tommy further, nor does some random thug or criminal; rather, instead of any of those, the person who Tommy sees makes his blood immediately boil.

The purple-eyed cause-of-Tommy's-troubles shuts the door behind himself and turns, seeking Tommy out with that terrible, ungrateful gaze.

“Sup," The boy says, as if Tommy and him are mates or something instead of soon to be sworn enemies. Then, without breaking eye-contact, the purple bastard takes an obnoxious slurp from a… juice box? (A legitimate, cardboard-with-plastic-straw and cartoon-grapes-on-the-front juice box.)

“You.” Tommy seethes, choosing to ignore the children's drink as he stands from his seat and stalks over.

“Me.” The boy deadpans; deliberately obtuse and raising a thick brow. He sucks loudly from the tiny straw again.

“You're a right twat, you know that?” Tommy announces, poking a finger at the other's chest, “I was trying to help you, and you turned around and stole my fucking comm! What the shit?!”

The boy's other eyebrow climbs to match its twin. “Dude, are you just using every swear you know?”

Tommy bares his teeth. “Bitch-boy. Pussy. Wanker, twat, cunt, cock-smear, asshole, piss-bastard, dickwipe, dumbarse, idiot, twit, shithead, bollock-buggering son of a bitch!”

The other boy looks unimpressed. “You done?”

(What a wrong-un! That litany would have sent Bad into cardiac arrest!)

“Die.” Tommy punctuates this with a fiery scowl (covered by his bandana) and his two long middle fingers (covered by gloves).

“...Cool." The boy responds flatly. "Want one?"

Tommy stares blankly.

Almost as if hearing Tommy's confusion, the agate-eyed boy reaches into his pocket and withdraws a second juicebox, then holds it out to Tommy.

Tommy lifts his middle fingers up a little higher.

The purple-clad menace shrugs and draws the box back toward himself like he plans to keep it. Instantly overcome by petty spite, Tommy snatches the stupid box from the other boy's hand.

“Why did you bring me here?” He demands, squeezing the fruit decorated box in one gloved hand.

He receives an unsatisfactory shrug in return. “Uh, you’re Theseus. I wanted to introduce you to Jester. I'm Purpled, by the way.”

“Why did you-” Tommy starts, before he processes the second set of words that had come from the other teen's mouth. “What?”

“My name. It's Purpled.” ‘Purpled’ repeats.

Tommy gapes, before chuckling a little. “What, actually? Hold on- like, your code name, right?”

Purpled's lips twitch downward. “No, man. my actual, real name. I'm Purpled.”

Tommy can't stop the snort that escapes him. Purpled (and who names their kid after a regular color? Tommy gets Violet or Indigo or whatever, those are flowers; but purple? Really?) sighs.

“Okay, well, you don't have to be a dick. I can take the juice back.”

Tommy clutches the box closer and quickly rips off the straw, stabbing it through the little foil hole and sneaking it beneath his bandana to take a massive gulp.

He sneers at Purpled. “Do it, bitch.”

Purpled scoffs and tosses himself on the settee situated by the low table. “You're such a charmer, wow.” Once settled, he glances up at Tommy. “That was sarcasm, by the way. In case you need it dumbed down.”

“Prime, why are you such a little dick??” Tommy demands, sitting automatically across from the other blonde. Purpled smirks.

“Because it's funny seeing people like you get so pissed.”

On one hand, fair. On the other, Tommy decides he now has another mortal enemy.

“Whatever, mate.” Tommy snarks, deciding to deprive Purpled of his fun. After a long moment in which he begrudgingly sips at his juice, Tommy asks another question. “Why would Jester wanna meet me? What did I do?”

Purpled's smug expression drops slightly.

“Honestly, man? I don't know. I just know he mentioned you, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to do him a favor.”

Tommy frowns. “And, what, you get extra cash or something?”

Purpled makes a so-so motion with his hand. “I mean, nah. My allowance is pretty set, I just figured it would make him happy. He'll usually give me more if I ask nicely anyway.”

“He your dad, then?” The avian prods, curiosity overwhelming his animosity for a moment.

“Nope,” Purpled denies, “My parents are dead. He's more like my guardian. I've got a brother, but he works a lot.”

Ah, Tommy thinks, me too. (Then instantly cringes at having anything in common with the comm-thief).

Aloud he ‘tsks', not even trying to keep the scorn out of his tone. “And what, he just doesn't care? ditches you to work for a criminal? Seems like a fucked arrangement to me.”

Purpled's face goes stony, the most serious Tommy has seen yet, and Tommy catches a flicker of anger in those purple eyes.

“You don't know what you're talking about, dude. I'm safer with Jester than I would be anywhere else, and at least I'm not running around playing superhero.”

Tommy grits his teeth. “I'm not playing anything. I'm helping people, I'm just not-”

“Doing it legally?” Purpled interrupts, voice flat and frigid. “Yeah, cool, so's Jester. He's helping me and my brother by letting me stay, so get the fuck off your high horse.”

Tommy falls quiet for a moment; chastized and unhappy about it. Finally, when it becomes clear that Purpled has no intention of breaking the icy silence, Tommy slumps in defeat.

“Sorry, Big Man,” he mumbles apologetically “I shouldn't've said that.”

Purpled eyes him, gauging his sincerity. After a beat, the paler blonde relaxes a bit.

“Yeah.” The other boy huffs, but Tommy feels forgiven in the way Purpled noisily sucks down the rest of his drink before flinging the container into the little trash bin in the corner of the room.

“I'm out of juice.” He announces, as if the minor spat hadn't happened, and Tommy blinks. Avoidance can solve conflict just as well as anything else, he supposes.

Purpled reaches for one of the glasses of amber liquid that Jester had poured during his conversation with Tommy, and Tommy jolts.

“You're going to drink that?” He squawks, and Purpled raises a brow.

“Yeah.”

“But- It's-” Tommy flounders, not wanting to pick another fight at the moment. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” Purpled responds primly before taking a long, unflinching drink from the fancy crystal glass. Tommy gawks, eyes practically bulging out of his goggles.

(He remembers drinking beer, once, after Dream and Sapnap and George had all debuted and were celebrating. Dream had given him permission to try a bit, and though he'd been excited to join in on the Adult™ activity, Tommy had disliked it immensely. It had been sour, weird, and generally unpleasant. Sapnap had laughed at Tommy's disgusted expression, informing him that most other alcoholic drinks were even stronger. Tommy had vowed not to try again until he had grown the proper taste-buds for alcohol because ew.)

At his shocked silence, Purpled snorts. “It's just apple juice.”

Tommy squints suspiciously. “Ey?”

“It's not alcohol. Jester keeps it full of apple juice because it kinda looks like whiskey, and he thinks it's funny.”

Tommy's head tilts as he processes this.

“He poured me a glass, though. Does he-”

“Trick people into thinking it's booze and then watch their reactions? Yup.”

“That… is kinda funny,” The avian admits reluctantly.

“It is,” Purpled agrees with a small grin. “Also I hang out here a lot, so I drink it if nobody else does.”

Tommy hums. Finishing the rest of his own juice box (far less obnoxiously than Purpled had), he sets it on the table and removes the little straw. Tentatively, he picks up the other glass of juice that Jester poured and slips the straw in. Purpled watches him again sneak it beneath his bandana to drink.

Huh. It does taste like apple juice.

“You don't have to keep your mask on, you know.” The other boy says, and Tommy must be losing his mind because, for a moment, he actually considers removing it.

Then his rational mind returns bearing a metal pipe and chases away that insanity.

He scoffs, “Yeah, no offense, mate, but I actually do not trust you enough for that.”

Purpled shrugs. “I get it. But, if-”

His words are cut off by a knock at the door.

Tommy tenses, but the other teen simply stands and strides over to open it. Tommy hears Purpled murmur gratitudes, sees his shoulders shift as he accepts something, then hears a muffled feminine voice asking if he needs anything else. Once he answers in the negative and shuts the door, Purpled turns around to reveal a covered silver tray, similar to the massive fuck-off domed platters one might see on television.

“You hungry?” Purpled casually queries. Tommy laughs.

“For what, a fuckin’ roast duck or sommat? When did you order food??”

Purpled shrugs, though Tommy reads the smirk on his face like a picture book.

“Before I came in. And it's not anything crazy- I don't think we even serve duck here?- just fruit and goldfish crackers and other snack stuff.”

“Then why's it in a massive platter? That's very overkill, innit?” And what the fuck, Tommy wonders, are goldfish crackers? Is this jerk trying to feed Tommy fish food?

“Jester had them do it the first time as a joke, then turned it into a snack platter because he thinks-”

“‘It's funny?’ Tommy guesses in a deadpan. Purpled nods and sets the tray on the table.

“Exactly.” He whisks off the cover via the little loop welded to the top.

“Ta-da.” the other boy drawls when the contents are revealed.

Tommy stares.

On the tray, artfully arranged like some sort of playground charcuterie, sits a fancy array of sliced fruit pieces, cubes of cheese, a handful of dried meat slices, some chocolate biscuits, and finally: tiny yellow crackers shaped like smiling fish.

“Fuckin’ Finz, really?”

Purpled shrugs and snags a strawberry from the tray. “What, you too much of a little bitch to eat cheese crackers?”

Tommy's jaw drops at the blatant baiting,

“Wha- That doesn't even make sense!” Tommy protests, rather than answering the question. Purpled simply chews pointedly and raises a brow at Tommy.

Flipping up his middle finger, the avian grabs a fistful of the crackers, settling backward on his seat.

“You are the single most bitchless person I know,” Tommy decides aloud.

Purpled snorts as if Tommy made a joke.

“Not true. All the girls I know are crazy for me.” He simpers theatrically, and Tommy stifles a laugh. “When they see me they say ‘awooga, Purpled’ and swoon just cause I smile at them.”

“Pfft-” Tommy snickers, and finds himself only marginally annoyed by the genuinely proud grin that lights up the other boy's face. “Yeah right,” He retorts instead of giving the other any more accidental encouragement.

Purpled cackles despite Tommy's efforts, quietly plucking a piece of fruit from the tray.

“Hey, where's your accent from?” The less heroically inclined boy questions suddenly, through the food in his mouth.

Tommy eyes him, suspicious. He knows the other might just be making small talk, but after Jester's immediate deduction earlier, the idea of divulging too much personal information makes him uneasy.

Still. It probably won't hurt as long as he stays vague, right? (Doesn't hurt to play nice with his only foreseeable company for the indeterminate future.)

“Here n’ there,” He says, “Mostly L'Manburg area. My parents moved around a lot when I was a kid, but this is the one that stuck, innit?”

“Cool.” Purpled says, seemingly satisfied. For a while they eat in silence; then, without preamble Purpled shifts, not quite looking at Tommy.

“You sound like a teenager, you know.”

Tommy's jaw drops in indignation “I don't sound-”

Purpled glances up with a slight, irritated tic in his eyebrow, waving a hand as he cuts Tommy off.

“Not as an insult, man, jeez. Chill out. I mean I can tell you're close to my age. Why don't you use a voice modifier like Jester's?”

Tommy's raised hackles smooth at the clarification, and he considers the question seriously.

“Well… I didn't expect to be talking this much as Theseus, did I?” Tommy shrugs. “Usually it's just-” He deepens his voice into the one he uses for the people he saves. “‘Hey, you seem traumatized, you alright?’, ‘n telling people to call the cops on the wrong-uns I stop.”

Purpled's lips purse. “You don't use that voice,” He declares.

Tommy flushes beneath his bandana.

“I mean,” he hedges self-consciously, “Sometimes. When it's people I might know, or- or who might recognize me!”

“Prime,” The older boy winces, “You really need to consider a voice changer. You can set it to deepen your voice, even.”

Tommy huffs and sticks a fancy slice of some manner of rolled dried pork in his mouth, cheeks burning beneath his bandana. “...Maybe.”

(Begrudgingly, Tommy must admit that It would be better than trying to voice-act every time he meets someone like Wilbur. Perhaps he can ask Tubbo about it, when he gets home.)

(...if he gets home)

After a long minute of silence, Tommy glances at the other boy.

“What about you?” He quizzes, dubious. “You don't cover your face or change your voice, but you work for- er- I mean. You're seen. With Jester. Doesn't that make you a target or some such?”

“Eh,” Purpled makes a face. “It's kinda hard to explain.”

He eyes Tommy, judging something Tommy can't even begin to decipher. “I suppose I can show you.”

And Tommy…

Sue him, curiosity about the opposite side of the playing field hardly constitutes a crime.

“O-kay…?” He replies, trying not to sound too eager.

Purpled nods briskly as soon as Tommy agrees, reaching down the front of his shirt to pull loose a necklace, with a metal pendant shaped a bit like a reversed teardrop, with a rounded top and slightly pointed bottom.

The pendant has a strange dullness, silvery-blue and metallic; and, when Purpled holds it flat, Tommy can see a faint purplish sheen of magic.

The Vigilante scoots forward, to the edge of his seat, leaning closer with a sense of anticipation.

Purpled flashes Tommy a grin, then runs his thumb along the back of the flat part. It lights up, two almond-shaped outlines glowing a bit brighter on the otherwise nondescript surface. They look a bit like eyes, in an artsy sort of way.

“Close your eyes,” Purpled prompts, and Tommy does so with the very least faith possible. (Hopefully he hasn't fallen for a prank).

“Okay. Now open them.”

Tommy does, and when his gaze settles on the face across from him, he gasps in surprise.

Purpled still sits across from him, but the other boy's face has morphed into something startling and inhuman. Wide, glowing eyes take up a large portion of the face, with no mouth that Tommy can see. The face itself is a dull, bruised sort of purple (go figure), and two antenna-like appendages curl up from the top, where Tommy can no longer see hair, only the vague impression of flaxen color.

“That's fuckin’ epic!” Tommy blurts impulsively, gripping his knees in awe.

The alien face tilts, and Tommy realizes with a spark of alarm that he recognizes the motion as Purpled being amused.

(Oh no, Tommy can't possibly be picking up on behavioral patterns this early. He needs to get out of here before he bloody well pack-bonds or some shit with the other boy).

“It is,” Purpled agrees, and Tommy still cannot see a mouth move. “Now try looking away and remembering the face.”

Tommy does, staring at the bookshelf across the room and trying to recall the eyes- were there eyes? Or, no… the… mouth? Something atop the face…?

He blanches as he realizes he cannot recall more than a faint impression of what he literally just saw.

“What the hell? How does it do that?” He demands, and whips his head back in time to see Purpled deactivate the magic.

In a blink, Purpled (along with Tommy's short-term memory) returns to normal.

"Magic~" He sings, wiggling his fingers sarcastically yet refusing to fully meet Tommy’s goggle-covered gaze.

Tommy rolls his eyes in response, realizing from the sudden avoidance of eye-contact that he will not likely get an explanation of how it works.

(Bitchboy probably doesn't even know. Well, no skin off Tommy's back).

Luckily, Purpled saves him the awkward conversational transition by pulling from his pocket… a deck of playing cards.

“Anyway, it'll probably be a while until Jester comes back so... Do you know how to play Slapjack?”

(No, But Tommy feels certain he can win regardless.)

#^#^#^^#^#^#^#^#^

An hour after setting up and calibrating the amateur high-tech radio he'd purchased long ago in a fit of spontaneity, Tubbo sits cross-legged on the floor as he adjusts the directional antenna on said radio.

It had taken some fiddling, and some tweaks that likely weren't manual-approved, but Tubbo had been the one to finish and program Tommy's comm (thanks to Sam unwittingly laying the foundations, of course), so he'll be damned if he can't adjust the rest of his equipment to work with the tech.

Finally, Tubbo's work pays off, and he gets a read on Tommy's general direction.

From there, he traces and bypasses and hacks his way into accessing the nearby frequencies so he can bring his friend home.

He's just snagged on some sort of authorization blockade and set one of his programs on it to brute force him through when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Startled, Tubbo looks up at the room's (forgotten) other occupant.

"Fuck” Tumbles abruptly from his lips, “You spooked me, boss man. Everything alright?”

Enderglow chirps something in Enderian and nods in assent.

Tubbo blinks, the fuzziness of who knows how many hours without sleep making him process at a snail's pace. “...Ah. ‘kay, that's good.”

The taller hybrid hesitates, clearly considering something, then tugs lightly on Tubbo's shirt sleeve and motions at the bed.

Blearily, Tubbo stares in the gestured direction; at the mess of green and yellow blankets he had never gotten around to making the previous morning.

“Huh?” He questions eloquently.

The Enderman points again, then begins to enact a series of charades that Tubbo barely comprehends as meaning… something about sleeping on the bed.

Sleep-deprived and confused, Tubbo shrugs one shoulder.

“Er- if you wanna sleep you can,” He offers, rubbing at his suddenly prickly eyes with the heels of his palms.

Pressing hard enough to see strobes of white behind his eyelids, he sighs. The sigh turns into a yawn, and Tubbo focuses on the stretch of his jaw rather than the exhaustion slowly seeping his attention away.

He hears an aggravated, crackling exhale and lets his eyes snap open.

For once, Enderglow stares directly at him, eyes narrowed. Again they say something he can't understand, gesturing at the bed.

His brows scrunch helplessly.

“Yeah, my bed. You can sleep on it, mate.”

Enderglow stomps a foot and points at Tubbo.

“Sorry, I don't… what?” He says, feeling oddly out of the loop.

Enderglow grasps Tubbo's desk chair and rolls him toward the bed. Finally, Tubbo's spinning thoughts align.

“Oh, me? No no, I gotta- I have to keep looking for Tommy.”

Enderglow frowns and glances at the program still running on Tubbo's monitor. They tilt their head and raise a hand to tap the back of their wrist, murmuring inquisitively.

“How long?” Tubbo guesses and Ender chirps what Tubbo now takes as an affirmative. “Uh. Twenty minutes? Thirty, maybe.”

The taller hybrid pats the bed, and Tubbo sighs.

“Promise you'll wake me when it's done?” Tubbo bargains, only mildly suspicious when his companion immediately agrees. “...Okay. Fine, bossman, I'll sleep. You gotta wake me up when the progress box says complete, though,” He reiterates, receiving a nod in return.

Heaving himself from his spinning chair feels like a Herculean task, and by the time he flops down onto his bed, Tubbo barely has the wherewithal to drag a pillow beneath his head. He doesn't bother with a blanket (despite the still-open hatch window), simply curling up with his back to the wall and letting his heavy eyelids fall.

It takes a long minute, but eventually his awareness dances swiftly from the realm of the wakeful. Tubbo hears one last quiet churr and, ever-so-lightly, the weight of a blanket settles over his shoulders.

Then he knows no more.

~

Waking from his impromptu nap causes agony like none before. Tubbo wants nothing but to curl back beneath the soft blanket that covers him. Alas, he cannot due to a very insistent something shaking his shoulder and making a repetitive, soft, inhuman noise.

“Mmnm-” Tubbo complains, and reaches out to halfheartedly bat the offending touch away.

A gloved hand catches his own, and all sound from above him dies abruptly.

Tubbo's sleepy state evaporates as a low grating static builds next to him. It grows and grows, louder and louder, until Tubbo can practically feel it in his teeth.

Danger! Danger!

The ram in Tubbo's brain bleats in panic at the predatory, angry noise. Eyes shooting open, he looks up with wide eyes to see Enderglow, mouth unhinged and snarling as they glare down at him.

“What the fuck?” He whispers, still as a statue.

For some reason, Tubbo's voice sets off a particularly harsh spike in static; setting his heart rabbiting in his chest as survival adrenaline floods his system. Yet, as he tries to parse what exactly he'd done to invoke the other teen's ire, Tubbo realizes Enderglow's gaze doesn't meet his own.

No, Enderglow has set their sights on Tubbo's arm (which they still hold in a firm, but painless grip). Specifically, Tubbo's non-dominant arm, the one whose sleeve had ridden up in his sleep to reveal the slightly bulky, commision-designed, power-suppressing cuff Tubbo never takes off.

(What has Tubbo gotten himself into?)

Still hissing, the Endborn hybrid removes one hand from Tubbo's shoulder, raising it to join its partner at Tubbo's wrist.

They still aren't looking at Tubbo himself, and the bemused fear begins to bleed into tense realization.

“H-” Tubbo's voice breaks, so he swallows and tries again, voice high and tight. “Hey, bossman, you good?”

Enderglow snarls something in Enderian, curling their fingertips beneath the edge of the cuff with retractable claws decidedly not retracted.

They twist it, testing the give, trying to remove it, and Tubbo…

Well, he promptly freaks out.

“No-!” He attempts to yank his arm back, but Enderglow's hold tightens, jaw widening as he startles them. This, in turn, drops Tubbo's already panicked senses directly into his instincts, and he lurches up to butt his horns hard into the taller hybrid's diaphragm.

With a sharp crackle, Enderglow pops out of existence and rematerializes on the opposite side of the room, hunched into themself and looking more upset then hurt despite the arms protectively crossed over their surely bruising torso. Their tail lashes from side to side like an angry cat, but the static noise, at least, cuts off as their jaw shuts.

“Fuck-” Tubbo wheezes, clutching his cuffed wrist defensively to his collarbone. His eyes dart about, repeatedly returning to the ‘threat’ across the room.

After a beat with nothing happening, Tubbo shakes his head, seeking to get his head out of scared sheep mode.

(Enderglow watches warily from across the room).

Finally he just closes his eyes and forcibly slows his breathing, willing his heart to slow. After what feels like an eternity, he reopens his eyes to see Enderglow still stood in place, expression wounded.

“I'm- I'm sorry,” Tubbo manages shakily. “I'm sorry. I didn't- I need it.”

Enderglow sways forward but keeps their distance. They snap something sharp and unhappy at him, gesturing (presumably) at the cuff he wears with a guarded glare.

Tubbo shakes his head, almost frantically. “I need it, you can't take it off! It helps me- I'll-”

He huffs, frustration tying his tongue in knots. “I have powers, and- and they're dangerous. They can really fucking hurt people, they have hurt people- I need the cuff to null them.”

Enderglow snaps their jaw once, twice; making a high whining sound, like tinnitus personified. They motion as if to remove his cuff again, then grip their own wrists, twisting anxiously. After a moment, they shake their head and speak, a garbled, quick mess of words Tubbo still cannot understand, with certain sounds repeated over and over.

He stills as he notices that their hands are shaking, sees how they cross their arms so as to squeeze their own biceps.

Guilt creeps in and unravels the sense of betrayal that had knotted through Tubbo's chest.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, quieter. “You- you were trying to help, weren't you?”

Enderglow gives him a shallow nod, eyes aimed at the floor, and warbles pathetically.

Tubbo kicks off the blanket.

“C'mere, boss man.”

After a moment of hesitation, they approach Tubbo, who pats the bed beside him. The taller hybrid waffles before him for a solid beat before folding and depositing himself lightly atop the duvet.

Neither of them speak immediately, uncomfortably silent in the dark room. Finally, Tubbo sighs, burying his head in his hands.

“My power is Irradiation,” He starts, voice barely higher than a whisper. “I can't control it, but it's bloody powerful, and- and it can do a lot of harm.”

Tubbo slumps a little more as he explains, letting his bangs block his view of Enderglow so he can't see whatever expression rests on their face.

“I've been wearing it since I was little, because I- I learned really early that my power is unpredictable. I don't want to take it off. It's not hurting me, and it's keeping me from hurting other people.” Tubbo drops his hands down to his lap and clasps them together. He still hears nothing from the taller, and if he didn't know that their teleportation included sounds and particles, he would assume they'd simply left him behind.

Tubbo doesn't expect the tentative hand that enters his vision and nudges his own. He blinks, swiveling to look at his companion.

Enderglow watches him with sad purple eyes. Averting his gaze, The Endborn murmurs something and reaches over toward Tubbo's suppressor. A second passes where the black-gloved hand hesitates, before lightly patting the cuff and quickly withdrawing.

Enderglow examines their fingertips, then meets Tubbo's eyes; which widen as they bring the hand that had touched the enchanted tech to their own wrist.

They begin to speak, then give up halfway through, instead beginning to pantomime; gently touching their own chest and looking at Tubbo.

“You?” The ram boy guesses with a tilt of his head.

A nod. They motion at the cuff.

“The… suppressor?”

One gloved hand closes around their other wrist.

“You… wore a suppressor.” Tubbo guesses with a sinking feeling deep in his stomach.

Enderglow nods slowly, gaze distant. They act as if to bite the imaginary cuff, then look to Tubbo.

“You tried to get it off? It wasn't… your choice?” Tubbo asks, voice small.

Another nod.

Tubbo feels sick, because in a world of sheer variety and magic, forced power nullification can only be allowed in very specific occurrences. Such things are considered cruel, dehumanizing, and completely illegal without extenuating circumstances.

(Who could justify preventing people from fully using their natural-born connection with the lifeforce of the Server? No moral person would think to deny a Merling their control over water, or a blaze hybrid their natural fire. No Enderman hybrid should be forced to make eye contact, or prevented from teleporting. The same holds true for unspecified powers; to permanently deprive someone of their Prime-given abilities… Well, even the worst Villains don't go that far).

No wonder Enderglow tried to remove Tubbo's cuff.

“Oh…” Tubbo mutters. “I'm sorry, Enderglow. I just- I panicked. Thank you, for trying to help me.”

Ender ‘vroop's near-silently as Tubbo raises his arms in an awkward replay of earlier. (Tommy could do this so much better…Tubbo misses him).

He fidgets in regret when Enderglow merely blinks at him.

“Do you… want a hug?” Tubbo offers stiltedly, finding himself surprised when the taller's ears perk up from their drooping state. The Enderman leans down, accepting the embrace; and, out of the corner of his eye, Tubbo sees their tail now thumping slowly behind them.

(Well, he didn't completely fuck this up, then).

Suddenly, they straighten, holding his shoulders, and chirrup loudly.

“Shh!” Tubbo shushes them, raising a frantic finger to his lips. “My mum's asleep!”

Enderglow raises a finger to their lips in acknowledgement, but flaps their other hand excitedly and prances over to his computer.

They point at the small ‘100% Complete’ glowing bold on his screen, and Tubbo leaps to his feet with wide eyes.

Moments later, Tubbo clicks his mouse one final time to view the district outlined by his work. He pales, triumph crushed beneath a new dread.

At Enderglow's questioning hum, Tubbo lets out a thin, humorless giggle.

“... He’s in Las Nevadas.”

!@!@!!@!@!@!@!@!

Three minutes after the clock strikes 4am, Jester strides back into the room.

His abrupt entry startles Tommy from his position upside-down on the lounge couch; enough so, in fact, that Tommy startles himself right on to the floor with an embarrassingly loud thud.

He springs up with a swear, flipping a vulgar sign at a snickering Purpled before he can help himself.

Oops. Probably shouldn't do that infront of the guy's boss (older brother? Father-figure?). Tommy hopes Jester didn't see.

"I wondered why the door was unlocked." Jester's electronical voice crackles out, sounding a bit miffed; yet, not at what Tommy expected.

What? Tommy thinks anxiously. The door had very much been locked when Tommy tried it earlier. Does Jester somehow know that Tommy attempted to leave?

Tommy opens his mouth to defend himself on instinct, only to realize who the Villain had actually been addressing. Unlike the resident Vigilante in the room, Purpled looks unbothered by the Criminals' attention and potential ire.

(The avian part of Tommy screams to appease the other, more dangerous bird-hybrid, and for a long moment Tommy waits for Purpled to start spewing apologies).

"But Boss, It's kinda my room. How else were the servers supposed to find me?" Purpled says instead, not even bothering to sit up from his position draped over the settee.

Casually, Purpled rolls a chess piece between the fingers of one hand, throwing it up in the air at lazy intervals like he had for the past thirty minutes as its companion pieces lay dormant on the table.

(The piece belongs to that heavy set Tommy had found hours early; one of the black tower figurines, which they had taken to tossing back and forth around hour five when they got bored of all of the card games in the amethyst-eyed boys repertoire).

Tommy watches nervously as Jester turns his attention to the mostly empty platter of snacks sitting on the table. The Villain stares for a moment; pixelated smile more eerie than it has any right to be.

Tommy really can't read him at all.

Finally Jester sighs, tossing his blazer on a nearby chair as he stalks further into the room. The Villain taps Purpled on the head as he passes the settee, catching the miniature castle in midair on its upward path. With his other hand, he juts a gloved thumb towards the door.

"Go get something real to eat before I tell the kitchen staff to cut you off." The avian-hybrid orders as he sits himself across from Tommy, legs crossed and one fist holding his tilted head from the armrest as he lounges. "Brat."

(Jester adds this last word like an afterthought, the only remaining note of exasperation in his otherwise nonchalant tone).

Purpled obliges far more easily than Tommy would have expected, even in the face of such a terrifying criminal. He slinks off the settee with a mocking salute. "Aye aye, boss. You know how to find me if you need anything."

Tommy watches as the other blonde trots to the door with a feeling of uneasiness. Despite the other boy's truly infuriating personality, Tommy can't help but wish Purpled wouldn't just leave him with Jester. Really, surely Jester's "foster child" could stand to stick around a bit longer. (Jester didn't even really insist or anything. Why did Purpled acquiesce so easily? Why-)

Purpled turns just before he opens the door, somehow making eye-contact despite Tommy's thick goggles. The purple-eyed boy smirks. "Hey J, try not to be too mean, yeah?"

Jester makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough as Tommy stiffens, heart dropping into his stomach. Oh.

"Bye, Theseus. Maybe we'll talk again sometime." Then, with a wink and a catty wave, Purpled slips out of the room as quietly as he entered all those hours prior.

Oh shit.

Suddenly Tommy can feel Jester's gaze like it has physical presence, weighing him and his sins while Tommy barely chances breathing. The promises Jester had made at the beginning of the night seem so distant. Tommy feels naive, like a stupid little lamb as he sits before his final judgment.

(Will Jester really keep his word?)

How could Tommy have been so foolish as to think the notorious Crime-lord had genuinely been telling his teenage charge to simply go eat dinner? How could Tommy have missed the Villain issuing a clear 'Get Out' to his underling?

(He had been tricked into a false sense of security by how casually Jester talked to Purpled, believing the other boy's claims that the Criminal acted as his guardian in place of his brother. Just- for a second there, Jester had sounded just like Dream; telling Tommy not to ruin his appetite because ‘snacks are no replacement for a proper meal'. Jester and Dream are nothing alike, though, because unlike Dream, Jester has his name on the Commission's most wanted list as a violent Villain).

(And…now Tommy's alone with him).

"Er-, listen Big J," Tommy starts nervously, starting to shift towards the door as Jester stares at him, mask still blankly smiling in that unsettling way. "I should probably head out as well, get home and kiss my wives, you know how it is. Uh, thanks for having me and all that but-"

"Sit down, Theseus."

(For the first time, Tommy can empathize with the Criminals who tremble in the face of Dream's hero mask, as ridiculous as being afraid of a smiley face had seemed only a day prior. Obviously younger Tommy had been on to something when creating Morpheus' iconic look; that shit's actually terrifying.)

Tommy sits down.

Jester sighs again, sounding so much more tired than he had when Tommy had come crashing into his casino. "Fuck, kid."

Tommy stays silent, waiting for Jester to speak. Unfortunately, it doesn't feel like a good time to argue that fifteen years old hardly counts as a child. Not….that Tommy would admit his actual age just to win an argument. Definitely not.

(Well, maybe..but not right now!)

"Look.." Jester trails off, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. Tommy shifts uncomfortably the longer the Villain stays quiet.

"Look, here's the deal." Jester starts again after what feels like an eternity. "I don't know why you started this Vigilante gig and at this point I don't have the time to care. My advice? Stop tonight. Wait until you're old enough to join the Commission and do that. Hell, come back and see me in a couple years and I'll take you myself, you've clearly got moxie. Right now? There are plenty of people fighting this battle. We don't need a kid's death on our hands."

Tommy makes a noise in the back of his throat, upset and ready to argue. A warning hand tells him to wait.

"Don't argue. You have already put yourself in more danger than most adults do in their entire Vigilante career. Theseus, you have eyes on you that I have neither the willingness nor the power to turn away."

Jester tosses something small on the table between them. It clatters a little, like a marble on a hard surface… or perhaps a comm on wood. Tommy inhales sharply when he sees it, fervently lunging forward to take hold of his earpiece.

He cradles it in his hand when he gets it in his grasp, holding it gently like something precious. The whole time, Jester watches him with clasped hands, waiting until Tommy tucks his property away to continue.

"Kid, I have an obligation to alert some of those eyes of your presence here tonight, however- Ah! Let me finish. However, I am going to give you half of an hour to get out of my territory. Thirty minutes from the time you walk out of my doors. After that, I am going to make my calls. I will not be responsible for anything else that happens."

"WHAT?" Tommy explodes, leaping to his feet angrily. Fear and horror war inside him, crushing the triumph of getting his comm back. (He can't navigate his way out of Las Nevadas’ twisted maze of streets in thirty minutes!) "No! You can't-"

Jester stands as well, wings snapping open; twin harbingers of doom. He has an abrupt intensity to him, something darker and ominous that shuts Tommy's silly little mouth with a clack.

"Hear me now, Theseus. I have absolutely no reason to hold off on calling my associates except the desire to give you one more chance not to ruin your own life before it even begins. Thirty minutes is more than generous. Especially after I've spent the last six fucking hours doing damage control for you. Now. Here's what gonna happen: You-"

Jester jabs a finger towards Tommy. "-are going to follow me to the back door, quietly. Then, you will take your ass out of Las Nevadas and, so help me Prime, if I find you here again I will not be so lenient. Capisce?"

Tommy nods quickly, miserably stifling the warbling chirps in his throat. He wants to rage, scream about how unfair the Villain's terms are when Tommy would have left hours and hours before if he could've.

(Tommy knows, underneath the whirlwind of frustration and fear, that Jester has actually done quite a bit for him; that he could have called six hours ago. That even thirty minutes could get the Villain crucified if his "associates" find out).

(Tommy shudders to think of what sort of people make Jester nervous. Are they really interested in Theseus? Fuck).

Jester doesn't say anything for a long moment, wings dipping back down as Tommy looks away stubbornly. The Villain seems to hesitate for a moment, probably waiting for another outburst.

When nothing comes forth, Jester grabs his blazer from the chair, stalking towards the door.

"Come on, kid" he says, sounding somehow even more tired despite the voice modifier in the way. After a moment of hesitation, Tommy follows like a scolded puppy.

Jester leads him a completely different way than Tommy had come in, through a 'staff-only' door and into the casino's winding back hallways.

Two familiar bull twins stand at the final door, labeled with a neon 'EXIT'. One of them pushes open the left, staring straight ahead as if Tommy doesn't even exist past being accessory to their boss.

Cautiously, Tommy takes a step towards the dark street outside, hyperaware of Jester's eyes on his back.

One step, then another…

Tommy just about jumps out of his skin when a hand lands on his shoulder.

"Hey Theseus?" Jester coolly calls from behind him, calm and oh so foreboding. Tommy's blood stills in his veins.

"...Yeah?"

"Don't come back."

"Yeah."

Jester pats Tommy's shoulder firmly, once, twice, then, with one solid push, shoves Tommy out into the dark of early, early morning.

"30 minutes, Theseus. Starting now."

Then, the door slams shut, leaving only Tommy and his dwindling time limit in the slowly waking city.

Well, Tommy thinks with a hysterical giggle; adrenaline pushing his heart into his throat and then back down into his stomach in a nausea-inducing cycle.

Guess he had better start running.

~

After a moment of logical thought, Tommy decides not to draw extra unwanted attention by booking it through the streets like a madman.

Rather, Tommy creeps away as quickly and quietly as he can manage while in a time crunch. He doesn't dare pull off his mask in an attempt to disappear; all too aware of how impossible it will be to blend in with the few people out at this time (almost five am at this point. An hour that seems almost unreal for someone already off-kilter and wrong footed by the events of the night).

Tommy…can hardly believe he survived meeting Jester, much less that the wanted criminal just let him walk away without a fuss.

Tommy won't even be mad that the Villain refused to believe his fabricated age. (Especially since being under 18 apparently gave Tommy enough leeway to not get handed over to some mysterious big name that has it out for him. Whoo).

…Which Tommy probably needs to tell Tubbo about as soon as possible, given that neither of them ever intended to tussle with higher rank enem-

Oh Prime. Tubbo!

Tommy darts into a dark alley, fumbling for the comm in his pocket with ridiculously ungraceful fingers. As soon he grasps it, Tommy shoves it in his ear like his life depends on it. (It might. Maybe. Tommy holds out hope for anything at this point).

A faint 'pop' sounds out behind him just as he presses the earpiece's 'on' button.

"Tub-"

Purple particles glimmer out of the corner of his eye. A long, bone-white wrist peeking out from beneath a black glove lands on his arm.

The world shifts before Tommy's eyes, warping and twisting until the alleyway becomes a very familiar observatory-turned-bedroom with a very familiar ram-boy staring wide eyed at Tommy and his impromptu kidnapper.

"-bo" Tommy finishes, faintly echoed by Tubbo's headset on his desk. Tommy wobbles for a moment, queasily staring into his friend's eyes.

Then, with barely a glance at the third party in the room (Holy shit, Enderglow? Why are they here?) Tommy runs for Tubbo's trash can with a hand over his mouth.

Blergh. (If all teleportation feels like going three rounds with a washing machine, Tommy will pass in the future. Please and fuck you).

"Tommy!" Tubbo exclaims, unsubtly sliding out of the splash zone. Tommy hears a curious 'vroop' from the other side of the observatory as he hacks up the partially digested snacks and apple juice from earlier.

When Tommy finishes he leans back, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. With the other, Tommy gives Tubbo a shaky thumbs up.

"Wazzup, Big Man?" Tommy watches with queasy delight as his friends face goes through multiple emotions. (What a sight for sore eyes after the night Tommy had. Prime, he missed Tubbo).

"Tommy!" Tubbo repeats dramatically, lurching forward to shake his friend by the shoulders. "Why the hell were you in Las Nevadas‽"

"Hrrp!" Tommy replies as the violent motion brings his nausea right back into existence. Tubbo quickly hands him the bin.

Enderglow 'chrrs' in the corner, sounding oddly concerned. Tubbo waves a hand dismissively. "It's not your fault, Boss-man. Don't worry about it."

Tommy gasps in mock offense, a little less green at his metaphorical gills. "Ey? What's this then? You can understand them? How long have you two been together? Are you cheating on me?"

Tubbo scoffs, kicking out at Tommy with a socked foot. "You and I are not in a relationship. Stop saying that. Also, I can understand him plenty, what I don't understand is why you have been awol for almost seven hours! I thought…"

Tubbo's mouth clicks closed as he trails off; hiding the wetness in his voice as he refuses to meet Tommy’s eyes.

"Were you worried?" Tommy softens, fully aware that this time, Tubbo had full cause to shut down their entire operation. (Oh Prime, Tommy could have died). Somehow, he has to convince Tubbo that the benefits will outweigh the risks; that Tommy can still be a Hero even without the Commission.

First, however, Tommy needs Tubbo to relax.

"Aww, Tubs." He coos before Tubbo can respond to his earlier statement. "It's okay. I would miss me too, but we mustn't act clingy."

"Shut up, asshole." Tubbo shoots back, scrubbing his reddening eyes with the heel of his palm. "I just didn't want to have to spill everything to Puffy and Dream because you got your stupid self killed."

Ah. Tubbo doesn't really mean it. The silly sheep-boy just likes being Emotional. (Also, fuck, Tommy hadn't even thought of Tubbo telling their respective guardians when he went MIA. Forget Jester, Tommy would be dead twice over via parental interference).

Tommy laughs uneasily, a little 'ha-ha-ha' as he tries to smoothly change the subject. "Er- whatever you say, Big-T! And I promise I have a valid reason for everything that happened tonight. But before I admit to anything, tell me; why is tall, two toned, and teleport-y over there, well, here?"

Tubbo blinks, turning to face the looming ender-something hybrid in the corner. "Oh, er- you can sit down, man. You've helped a lot."

Tommy impatiently crosses his arms as the lanky hybrid settles themselves on Tubbo's loveseat; drawing their knees up to their chest and curling their tail around themselves.

"Well?"

Tubbo frowns, steepling his fingers in front of him. "I think…we all have a lot to talk about. Why don't you start?"

Tommy opens his mouth to argue, but, upon catching sight of the rather steely, unforgiving look on his short friend's face, just plops himself cross-legged on the floor.

"Right, well, there I was-"

○•○•○●••●••○••○°•○•○°••○○○○

Thirty minutes after Theseus walks out the door, Quackity locks himself in his office and picks up his phone.

He listens to it ring once, twice; pulling off and powering down his helmet as the seconds tick by.

*Click*

"Wilbur! Yes hello, listen, about your request. Yes. There was a sighting in Las Nevadas. About half an hour ago. I just sent you the location. Yes, of course. …..You're welcome."

The call clicks off, and with it Quackity's remaining energy.

He sighs tiredly as he slumps back in his chair, massaging his temples against the rising headache within. A slight guilt creeps up beside the pain; nagging regret at choosing some kid over one of the closest things he has to family.

Did Quackity make the right choice?

…Yes. He did. He gave Theseus ample warning and opportunity to make his own decisions. If Theseus chooses not to listen, well, Quackity's hands are washed of him. No harm, no foul.

As for Wilbur, Quackity hasn't betrayed him, (Despite what his ridiculous conscience declares). Quackity kept the name Siren out of the conversation deliberately, keeping his warning vague enough that Theseus won't know who to avoid. Additionally, depending on how Theseus makes his next moves, Quackity gave Wilbur ample time to catch up to him. Hypothetically. If Wilbur really tries.

More than fair to all parties.

In fact, if Wilbur hurries, Quackity might even throw in a few more goon-provided location updates to point him in the right direction. Just to keep his nose clean. Theseus will probably be fine and-

“Brrring!”

His phone rings on his desk; contact icon showing the leader of the group Quackity had sent to tail the Vigilante.

"What is it?" Quackity asks, immediately jumping to the worst case scenarios. (Did that dumb kid really go looking for trouble in Jester's territory?)

"-Boss! The Vigilante disappeared!-"

What. "...what?"

"-Right outside the casino, he went through an alley and never came out. We had men on both sides to make sure he got out of the area, like you said. We combed through the entire area but…there's no trace of him!-"

Quackity groans, forehead hitting the table with a dull thunk. "Great. Thanks."

Nevermind his previous statement. Quackity has to call Wilbur again.

--●○●○●----□○●○●○-----

One week later:

Dream gets one foot into the briefing office before he nearly gets bowled right back out by another hero. (Finnester, if Dream remembers correctly; a shape-shifter whose specific powers are kept pretty hush-hush by the Commission).

The entire hall seems to be in a state of chaos when Dream actually manages to step inside. People are running about like their (in some cases literal) tails are on fire; Heroes and agents alike moving similar to whirlwinds.

Hmm.

(He hasn't heard any news yet, however, the last time Dream had seen the briefing office in this state, the Commission had revealed a pretty large-scale mission. Should he be concerned?)

Gingerly, Dream steps up to the next available window, rapping gently on the partition to get the agent's attention. "Hi, I'm here for my patrol route?"

The Commission requires twice-weekly route changes, solely handled by the briefing department, and received by their assigned Hero via direct contact. For security purposes, of course. (Also to allow for more flexible schedules, just in case more hands are needed last minute for something serious).

The agent blinks, looking frazzled. "Of course, Morpheus, sir, one moment."

Dream nods, casting a glance about the hectic hall as he waits. "Hey, do you know what's happening? Why is everyone so…?"

The agent doesn't look away from their screen. "The higher ups got a tip."

"A tip?"

The agent ignores his overt prodding, (though more from distraction than any malicious intent), and makes one more click on their computer.

"Hero license?"

Dream fishes it out with a sigh, sliding across the partition. He can't begrudge protocol with so many masks around, still, the whole process tends to exasperate him.

"Okay, it looks here like- oh. Um-"

A hand lands on the partition between them. "Thank you Dae, I'll take it from here."

The voice belongs to the head of the briefing department: Ludwig Ütube. Given that Dream rarely sees him outside of his private office, whatever tip they had received must be pretty serious.

"Is there an issue with my patrol route?" Dream asks as he falls into step on Ludwig's cue, waving goodbye to Dae the agent.

Ludwig shakes his head, pulling a thin sheaf of paper from his suit jacket. "You're not patrolling tonight. We need you on the mission team."

"The tip, right? What was it even about?" Dream asks, flipping open the first page. His eyes widen as he reads the printed words. Oh.

What? He blinks in disbelief, flipping through the rest of the thin packet. Dream can hardly believe it. Who the hell tipped them off to-

"Yes." Ludwig nods, sounding so serious that Dream's shock must be permeating through his mask.

"It's the Syndicate."

Chapter Text

"Crowfather." The owl avian greets from the video call screen as soon as the connection secures. He gives a succinct nod to the rest of the room in acknowledgement. "Syndicate."

"Evan." Phil responds with a polite inclination of his veiled hat, adjusting the waterfall of shadowy feathers cascading over his chair. "I trust you resolved the issues Antipode brought to your attention earlier this year?"

Niki tilts her head at the sound of her Villain title, casting her masked gaze on the screen from her position next to Wilbur.

Evan Vanoss bows his head, dark-lined golden eyes as intense as aways. "Yes, Wildcat and Delirious looked into the issue. The perpetrator has been dealt with. Nogla has taken over his duties for the time being."

"Good." Philza taps his sharp nails on the table. "Now, please recount what you told me yesterday."

The owl hybrid looks down, typing something out of sight of the camera. "Okay, I've just sent you the report and the maps. You said you received the blueprints?"

Philza unlocks his tablet, scrolling to the correct files and sharing it with the other Syndicate members sitting at the table. When he sees confirmation that each of them have opened it, he waves for Vanoss to continue.

"Right. So, about a week ago, Terroriser picked up on some activity around the warehouse district. Strange stuff, unregistered shipments and some faces we haven't seen before. We didn't really think anything of it, you know, there's always new 'entrepreneurs' bringing shipments in." Vanoss clears his throat.

"But then, about 72 hours ago, Moo came across a guy in our territory real shaken, with some sort of camera glitch power. Only, Moo thought he was on drugs or something because of how he was acting. Kept repeating things about 'specimens' and 'transport'. Couldn't walk either, falling over and disappearing-"

"I'm sorry, disappearing?" Wilbur interjects. "I thought his power was electronic disruption?"

"He was a phantom-hybrid. Had the invisibility but no phasing. I guess it went with his surveillance jamming powers. Pretty stealth if used correctly."

Phil can feel the frown twisting Wilbur's face despite the mask that covers it. Of course, how could he not when his own face matches that of his son. After all, with Kristen and Wilbur both being phantom-hybrids, the thought of one being targeted puts a sour taste in all their mouths.

"What happened to him?" Technoblade grunts from beside Phil, eyes almost bloody in the shadows of his boar-skull mask. He has his files open to the Phantom's profile, thumb lingering next to the bolded 'Autopsy'.

"Someone sniped him. Almost got Moo as well 'cept that Moo had just stepped back to call us. If that wasn't crazy enough, it turns out that our phantom-guy had been dosed with a weakness potion. Moo only found out when he went to check the dude's pulse and got his hand covered in it."

"Did you manage to catch the sniper?" Asks Connor, voice unnaturally raspy through the technology of his blue and white mask.

Vanoss shakes his head. "No, the fucker got away. However, we did, thanks to our late gun-violence victim, find out what those unusual shipments are."

"Potion ingredients." Technoblade reads from the report, voice cold.

"Bingo." Vanoss snaps, pointing in the Piglin's direction. "Specifically, ingredients for Weakness and Harming. We asked around on the down-low. One of those new faces at the warehouse is a nether-hopper specializing in the smuggling trade."

"But what did our phantom friend have to do with that? Why did he have to die?" Wilbur wonders aloud, tracing anxious patterns on his leg underneath the table.

Phil hums, propping his elbows on the smooth wood and steepling his fingers. "Someone wanted him silenced. He had seen too much. Perhaps a defector? Why do they need illegal potions?"

"He wasn't a defector." Niki disagrees softly, placing her tablet face up in the middle of the table. "He was a victim."

Philza peers over right along with the others in the room, reading the screen with keen eyes. He sees the header first, the damning letters.

Re: Compiled list of Suspected Persons Missing via Hybrid and Human Trafficking

Syndicate database ID: Antipode

Below it, a face fills up much of the screen, blue scales climbing up the sides of a relatively masculine profile. He looks friendly enough in the photo, green eyes bright and welcoming.

A pity, Phil thinks, that the light had left him so soon.

(More than a pity. A tragedy, one that Philza has witnessed time and time again. He can't dwell on the tragedy, though; with the knowledge that, while they go to her too soon, his wife's Goddess will be a kind one. They are lost to the mortal coil, but they will find peace in her arms.)

The photo has a name underneath, something short and forgettable, but Phil has already seen enough.

"Weakness potions are rather extreme, don't you think? Expensive as well."

Wilbur tilts his head. "Unless your merchandise is worth the cost, of course. The government authorizes weakness potions for transporting dangerous animals. Or, in recent years, for certain criminals."

Technoblade smirks wryly beside Phil, finding some humor in the otherwise dour topic. Philza lets him be, as aware as anyone else in the room, that the Piglin himself solely carried the blame for that last law.

"Well we already know they aren't government sanctioned. Not working with illegal smugglers at least." Connor muses, scrolling through the report. "But with this phantom guy involved…"

"Valuable enough to dose but not enough to retrieve instead of eliminating. What did you say he told your guy?"

Vanoss blinks, nictitating membranes eerily flickering over his gleaming eyes. "Moo reported the victim repeating the words 'Specimens' and 'Transport.' He really couldn't get much out of the guy before….well, you know."

Technoblade leans back, casting his shadowed gaze towards the screen. "So we have a warehouse full of smuggled Potion ingredients. Ingredients that are rare and only used to make illegal potions. Presumably, the Phantom had first hand experience with said potions, but likely not as a willing test subject."

"But who would be using them? The only group moving anything living lately is-"

"The Trafficking ring." Niki interjects, looking furious beneath her mask. "Or one of their buyers. I heard whispers that the last auction had a large sale. I assumed it was just a subset moving the stock around. But specimens…"

Wilbur and Technoblade exchange significant glances across the table, obviously sharing a similar thought. Vanoss waits patiently on the screen and Phil considers dismissing him. It wouldn't do to have sensitive conversations with an Outer Syndicate member.

"Hmm." Phil thinks for a moment, before nodding to himself. "Right. Thank you Evan. Keep us updated."

The gang leader agrees quickly, taking the dismissal and ending the call without fuss. Phil waits until the screen goes dark before he turns to the rest of his team.

Wilbur speaks first. "Could they be starting up again? The ones that…"

"Experimented on Ranboo?" Technoblade interjects, crossing his arms. "Maybe. I suppose I never got to kill the one running it."

"We have to stop the shipment." Niki insists, standing up from the table emphatically. "If we let them slip away then we will be in the same position as before. This might be our only lead"

"Worst case scenario we can just destroy the ingredients." Connor agrees. "Set them back far enough that they might make a mistake."

"We should try to get information as well. There has to be some trail as to who wants the potions. They might even know who started the Trafficking ring." Wilbur types as he speaks, creating some sort of document from what Phil can see. "You said that Don Paul had ties with that leader right, Technoblade?"

Techno shrugs. "He claimed to have been approached by a man promising human merchandise. We lost him to the Commission before he could reveal anything else."

"It's all very convoluted." Phil states rather unhappily. He hates when his enemies are organized. "But Niki is correct. We need to act. Wilbur, please update Fundy on the situation. Techno, you can notify Quackity."

With a gesture, Phil summons a singular crow, calling it into existence from the inky shadows of his wings. It perches on his wrist with a tilt of its head, intelligent eyes glittering in its glossy head.

"Go to the warehouse listed here. Report back what you find immediately. We can't have them move before we act."

"Alone?" The crow caws, looking as displeased as a bird can look. "Dadza why Alone?"

Phil rolls his eyes. "You don't need a murder for reconnaissance, you little shit. Just do it."

"Alone?" The crow repeats, flapping its wings defiantly.

Philza sighs, pressing a hand beneath his veil to rub at his temple. "Fine."

More crows drip from his wings, one, four, seven. All as black as obsidian, with glossy, shadowy feathers.

"Yoooo, spy mission!"

"Let's go boiiiz"

"Dadza!"

"Balls!"

"Ballz!"

"You all better not get caught." Philza warns his chat seriously as they hop and flutter towards the roof where they can squeeze out of the vents. They cackle at his words, cawing loudly.

When they're gone, Phil claps his hands together, facing the amused Syndicate with faux cheer. "Righto lads- and Niki- if all goes well we'll strike tonight."

○°○°○○○°○○°

In the high crossbeams of the warehouse, everything stinks of dust and rat droppings. The air has a staleness about it as well, cold in the early ides of fall.

Niki slips through the shadows quietly, observing the movement below with tense muscles. Just as the crows had reported, around twenty or so people mill about on the warehouse floor.

Twelve of them are clearly guards, standing stiffly by every visible entrance with sharp bladed weapons. About six can be observed by the makeshift brewing station in the corner, slicing and mashing Potion ingredients from large crates and adding them to simmering brews.

The whole process takes time, even for an accomplished Potion maker, so Niki finds herself unsurprised by the insubstantial amount of completed grey and purple potions.

Unsurprised, yet, certainly not displeased.

Objectively, the ingredients are worth more than the potions to the Syndicate (the volatile blaze rods alone could furnish a dozen houses if sold at their maximum), however, Niki can only focus on the last two people unaccounted for.

"-That tall one is Illumina. He's the nether-hopper Vanoss told us about.- Phil whispers over the comms. "-I'm surprised it's him. His services are pretty damn expensive since he has the skill to back it up.-"

Technoblade's line crackles open next. "-Do we need to worry about him, Crowfather? What's the priority here?"

"-No-" Phil responds as Niki catches a glimpse of his shadowy form to her left. "-Illumina doesn't get involved in his employer's business. He should leave as soon as we drop in.-"

"Crowfather, should we not attempt to get information from him?" Niki asks, narrowing her masked eyes at the hooded, horned brunette below.

Phil makes a noise of disagreement. "-Best not to make an enemy of him. Depending on how things go we may be able to sway him to our side.-"

"-What about the man beside him?-" Techno asks, white skull mask glinting in the darkness to her right.

"-That's our main target, the overseer for this operation. Antipode and I will secure the crates and disrupt the production. Blood God, you aim for him. Siren-"

"-In position outside the warehouse. I'll take care of any stragglers.-"

"-Good, you stay connected with our lower group members. One of us will call them in to move the crates if all goes well. Okay, when I give the signal we go.-"

Niki takes a deep breath, steeling her nerves and preparing to make the jump. A certain anticipation creeps into her veins, overwriting the stench and stress of the warehouse.

Despite what the Commission believes, each member of the Syndicate operates under slightly different morals. Sure, they work together to achieve their goals and they certainly contribute to the overall mission, however, where someone like Wilbur enjoys his romanticized self-image of a Revolutionary more than the righteous take-down of corruption and Quackity keeps to his neon fiefdom, Niki's only purpose lies in the people under the Syndicate's far-reaching shadow.

The citizens overlooked by the Commission, by the police, by the Heroes. Those victimized by the corruption in the city; suffering as the wealthy and powerful inflict more grief on them.

Those who can merely wave money around and steal someone's livelihood, someone's innocence, someone's justice.

People like her grandparents, whose wealth and prestige protected their wicked dealings at the cost of so many lives. (How much more must the people cry out before those with power listen? How many must die before those stone-hearted plutocrats become human enough to stand against each other?)

Niki created Antipode as penance for her family's sin. When she became a Villain she swore she would be the opposite of them. She would be willing to stand up to injustice instead of perpetrating it; she would protect the helpless rather than extort them.

(She will never choose prestige over her chosen family).

Yet, even the resources of the Syndicate have thus far been worthless on stopping these new players creeping into the city. Months of being just steps behind, of failing to uphold her few morals, had long started to wear on her.

Niki exhausted every lead she could get her hands on, even going through channels Antipode wouldn't normally dare to intrude.

The potions tip came as a breath of fresh air.

If they pull this off, Niki will be one step closer to catching those who have evaded her so slyly. Finally, after so much grief and so many dead ends, Niki will find them.

Then, she will slaughter each and every one of them.

A short, quiet chirp-chirp comes over the comm-line, pulling her out of her thoughts, Phil spreading his shadowy wings nearby.

The signal.

On cue, Niki jumps from the rafters, calling the water molecules in the air to ease her fall and pulling her boar sword from its sheath. Landing on the balls of her feet in front of the potion station, Niki points her blade directly at the six startled brewers.

"Oh my god." One whispers breathlessly, breaking the horrified pause that had gripped the others.

The next second Niki finds herself blade to blade with two of the twelve guards as the brewers run to secure their product; frantically pouring finished product into vials and packing away raw ingredients.

Their boss must be unforgiving indeed if they are willing to forfeit their lives over potions.

With a snarl, Niki kicks one goon in the stomach with the turning momentum from her strike at the other. When he doubles over with a cry of pain, Niki activates her powers, forcing the water in the nearby potions past their boiling point. She can feel it respond to her, already excited by the low brewing simmer.

With a heavy clash of blades that echoes through the already clamoring warehouse, Niki pushes the uninjured thug backwards towards the six scurrying potion makers.

With a thought, just in time to fend off another blow from the now recovered first goon, Niki calls the boiling potions forth from their flasks in a sizzling spray.

She has no pity for their screams as the scalding Weakness and Harming seep into their flesh. From personal experience, she knows the unfinished ones burn worse.

Regardless, their suffering, while not fatal, works well to distract the only uninjured from amidst her personal opponents; the one previously hindered by the bite of her steel tipped boot.

This one she makes quick work of, stabbing his shoulder and sending him down with his writhing fellows in a spray of crimson. None of them will bounce back quickly with the potent brews coating them, leaving plenty of time for Niki's team to finish their objective.

Satisfied with her handiwork, Niki turns away to catch sight of the other Syndicate members, ignoring the gasping groans of her felled adversaries.

Her victory comes just in time to catch sight of Philza bombarding four of the remaining guards with low level shadow crows while he trades quiet conversation with the man he called Illumina.

Niki's position by the potion table keeps her from hearing the exchange, yet she can plainly see Illumina nod at Phil's words, short and succinct, before slipping away into the shadows.

With Illumina gone, Phil turns to save his dwindling crows from their (harmless) fate. One of the four goons takes a nervous step back as his attention shifts towards them. Unconcerned with Phil's capabilities, Niki turns again.

Techno has the remaining six thugs bombarding him, though he barely seems to acknowledge them as he goes for his prey.

While the smuggling crew remains distracted (or otherwise incapacitated), Niki takes a chance to peek at the cargo they so desperately guard.

With things wrapping up so well, Niki thinks they'll be able to call in their moving crews very soon. (With the uncertainty of their opponent's fighting prowess, Phil had agreed that they should leave their men on standby a couple blocks away, just in case things went poorly. Unlike the Commission, the Syndicate prefers not to throw their underlings into unnecessary danger like canon fodder).

Grabbing a handy crowbar, Niki wedges it into the lid of a small crate, prying it off while keeping an eye on the room for any surprises. Everything seems almost….too easy so far.

It makes her a bit nervous, paranoia mixing with the blood pumping through her veins. Only twenty people in the entire warehouse? Only twelve trained for combat? It seems like a major oversight, especially if all the goods are as valuable as the ones in front of her.

Because even Niki can't stop the gasp that escapes her when she sees the contents; the blaze rods packed together among heavy padding.

Each rod could buy a motor vehicle straight off the manufacturing belt. Yet…even one could catch the entire warehouse on fire if handled incorrectly.

(Blaze rods are extremely volatile. Even the most foolhardy criminal would think twice before agreeing to handle this many in one batch. Hmm, maybe they can separate the rods while transporting them).

"You people don't know who you're dealing with." A slurred voice calls behind her just as she moves to the next crate.

Niki looks over her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

The brewer waves a weak, reddened hand, using whatever strength she has left after the cocktail bathe to staunch the oozing sanguine flow on her groaning comrades shoulder. "You're gonna- You'll lose."

Niki takes a menacing step towards the woman, already on edge by the clinging sense of 'wrong, wrong, wrong'. "What-"

"Auurgh!"

Niki whips around to see the Technoblade stumble back, a cochineal spray staining the front of his dark, flowing shirt.

Only, neither the horrible, choked scream nor the splattering blood had come from her Piglin friend. Yet the relief that hit her dissolves instantaneously when she finds the source of both. When she sees the impaled, gushing form of the overseer.

No.

No.

Niki feels her heart drop further with every hopeless, glistening scrabble of the overseer's hands against the gleaming blade sticking out of his chest.

His feet barely touch the ground, forced onto his tiptoes in his dying moments from the force with which his assailant drove the sword through his back.

From her distance, Niki can only imagine how he gurgles, mouth filling with the blood from a bitten tongue, secrets dying with his slowing heartbeat. She can't seem to tear her eyes away as he spasms, once, twice, then slides off the lowering blade, falling into a lifeless heap at the feet of a speechless, shocked Blood God.

The offending weapon gleams almost black in the low lights, and its owner wipes it off almost casually. The interloper wears a helmet, dark blue just like the accent of their dark suit.

It looks sturdy, simple and well made like any funded masked player in the city. Except-

Niki knows the symbol on the arm of the suit. She helped design the cut and armor of that very combat uniform.

The Syndicate combat uniform.

(Only… none of the backup ought to have been combat. They specifically needed underlings to move the cargo, why-)

With rising horror, Niki watches as the bodies in the room double, silent Syndicate underlings appearing out of the shadows like Phil's crows.

"-Crowfather, did you call our backup?-" Techno's bewildered, angry voice crackles urgently over the comm.

(Niki sympathizes, although with a numbness born of unpleasant panic. Even a Syndicate member trained in combat should know better than to take out Blood God's targets, even if they were trying to be helpful).

(Techno didn't even need help. He and Phil had just about finished subduing the smugglers).

"-No?-" Philza croaks, sounding equally confused, shifting into a subtle defensive crouch. "-Antipode?-"

"No." Niki affirms breathlessly, steadying herself on the crate as fury and despair war for dominance in her pitiful little heart. "Blood God-"

Then, before she can finish her sentence, before she can demand Techno grab that foolish, impulsive underling who dared to interfere with their objective and make him cower at her wrathful feet…

"-um, guys?-" Wilbur's panicked voice starts, before cutting off with a growl to some other party. "-Hey, All of you, freeze-"

…and the doors to the warehouse slam open.

"Members of the Syndicate, you have one chance to surrender! Drop your weapons!" The ocelot-hybrid (and Hero) Bomber cries with an amplified voice as he brandishes an axe and glowing shield from the entrance.

Niki tenses, wondering hysterically how everything went so quickly to shit as Phil (who stands approximately 30 feet closer to the hero than she does), takes a step forward.

Yet, before he can do more than lift his left wing, one of the lower Syndicate members unpromptedly calls out from the others in a massive breach of Syndicate protocol."Do what you will Heroes! We'll never surrender!"

(What? Who in Prime's name let these untrained underlings anywhere near a mission)?

"So be it!" Bomber proclaims, releasing a sudden whistle into the night. He tilts his head as it peters off, eyes glinting menacingly over his bulky metal mouth guard "Then we shall show no mercy."

Then, from the very same rooftop access the Syndicate had snuck in by, no less than six high level heroes drop right on top of their heads.

Niki lifts her sword on instinct, blocking the downward slash of an enemy she hardly sees through her distracted, racing thoughts.

They can't just leave the shipments, not even to the Commission. With her lead dead on the floor, Niki needs to achieve something here. She needs-

Bang!

A gunshot sounds out across the room and everyone falls deadly silent; Heroes and Villains alike turning towards the Syndicate underling holding a single handheld firearm aimed toward the Heroes.

Oh. Niki thinks with a numb sort of realization as the other blue-uniformed combatants pull their own shiny automatic weapons from within their gear; as the room fills with the sound of cocking firearms.

Those are not Syndicate.

(And they're not just aiming for the Heroes)

\□□\□□\□□□\□■\□□\□□\

Dream shoves one of his teammates (Consequencer, if he remembers correctly) behind a metal support beam with a curse; gunshots ricocheting overhead like the world's most dangerous tag.

Guns, he thinks with a bit of indignation, were not in the report.

"-All Heroes exercise extreme caution, the Syndicate members are armed and dangerous. Priority to safely subdue most dangerous members first. I repeat, extreme caution, subdue any armed enemies.-" Hbomb, the mission leader states over the comm system. The man's normally cheeky, cheerful voice has plummeted into a far lower, more serious one.

Dream can relate.

Most major Villains don't use guns. Given the funding and general manpower of the Commission, and the dirty dealings and unpredictability of the various Villainous organizations, not a single sane fighter wants their war to escalate into an arms race.

They all fight battles of a different sort. Gone are the days of cannons and catapults and artillery, gone are the lands ravaged and pockmarked by violence.

Instead; the Heroes of the country, of the Server as a whole, don their armor and skill weapons and go blade to blade with the fearsome criminals who do the very same.

When that status quo falls apart, as normalcy often does, at the hands of advanced technology like firearms, both sides lose.

So why in hell has the Syndicate suddenly upped the ante?

"-Damn, these guys are shooting like everyone's their enemy, what the fuck?-" Sapnap's voice mutters in his ear. "-Can anyone get in the middle of that without getting shot?-"

Dream frowns as he considers his teammates, quickly assigning them the best positions in his mind with regards to their limited protection against bullets.

He snaps a hand to his Comm, with Consequencer watching sharply.

“Alright,” He announces hastily over the Comms, “I've got a plan.”

He faces the fox-masked hybrid beside him, who tilts his own head back. Dream continues, speech staccato and rapid beneath the noise of the weapons. “Consequencer and I will create a smokescreen around the goons with guns, but vision's gonna get pretty dicey pretty quick for a minute after that. Litoria, Rosethorn, Dokkeabi, if you can drop behind the firewall and take out some of the gunmen, that should give us enough cover that Bomber can flank me and we can head for the Syndicate members and engage before they get away. Inferno, if you bring up the rear for us you'll both be able to provide return-fire cover, then guard the shipment with Consequencer so they can't snatch it and run while we pursue the named Villains. Once you've got most of the ranged weapons down, come give us backup. That work, Bomber?”

“-Sounds- oh fuck-” The mission leader swears as a new round of bullets carve little holes into the wood and sheet metal walls, shattering packing materials. “-Sounds as good a plan as any. Just waiting for your cover, Morpheus.-”

“Copy that.” Dream says, already retrieving a dozen small, heavy smoke bombs from his Inventory. He hands two to Consequencer. “Press the buttons, then swap them for guns,” he orders, and watches as the other man's shoulders square with a determined nod.

Dream activates the bombs he himself holds, then nods at Consequencer once the other man does the same.

“Now,” he says, and sees a flash before the red-clad Hero in front of him suddenly holds two pistols. He sees the man drop them as he springs up and lobs the bombs in his hands toward the Syndicate lackeys.

There's a bang, then another, then shouts as another ten explosions happen in rapid succession.

The warehouse erupts into motion.

Dream leaps over the line of short, metal-loaded pallets he'd been sheltered behind and moves for the open section of the tall divider-wall nearby, snapping his own shield into existence even as he moves. Heart pounding, especially as he feels bullets whiz by so close they make a breeze, the hooded Hero darts forward towards the Villain's last location.

He almost stumbles over a lump on the floor, visibility limited by the smoke. With no time to stop, Dream barely gives the impediment a glance as he continues to move.

His mind only registers what he saw seconds later, lagging behind the continued movement of his feet.

Oh hell. That was a body.

His finger snaps to his comm.

"Hey, there's a corpse on the floor towards the back, very bloody. Looks like the minions aren't afraid of friendly fire casualties. " Dream warns before banishing the sickening image of red-soaked human from his mind to focus on his task.

He falters just a little when the second portion of the warehouse divides into further smaller rooms with lower ceilings. Even with the stench of gunpowder misting the air and the lingering smoke, Dream miraculously manages to catch a glimpse of familiar red turning a corner into the room right off the main floor.

“I'm in pursuit of Blood God, heading to the right. Bomber, take the left!” He barks, finger to his earpiece.

“-Oh, holy hell-” He hears, “These Syndicate bastards are spreading out! We’ll be behind you in a minute, Morpheus, don't lose visual!-”

Without replying, Dream dismisses his shield and creeps forward, breathing slowly to avoid revealing his presence.

"Yes, I'm sure." Blood God's familiar voice floats from behind a wall just a bit away from the main floor. He sounds harried. A pause. "No, I don't know either. Just go."

Dream peeks around the corner, peering into the dark room.

He can see the large form of Blood God across the room; back to Dream and cape cascading down his broad back like an amaranth waterfall.

The Villain seems to be looking around the second doorway, focused on something in the warehouse's main battleground as he continues his one sided comm conversation.

"I think I can, either way you need to get out of here. I'll be fine." The Blood God insists gruffly, starting to sound irritated.

( Dream's own comm pops to life on and off as his teammates desperately try to contain the situation. "-I can't get close enough, Dokkeabi can you--" "-Inferno, watch out!-")

Dream treads softly into the room, slowly drawing near until he can see past the Blood God to the cargo in direct line of sight.

Huh. Interesting.

But not so interesting as to halt the hero when he sees the man begin shifting forward.

Lunging forward, Dream tears the distracted Villain backwards by his maroon cape. He quickly spins them, shoving the Blood God against the shadow shrouded wall; sword to throat.

"Guns, Blood God? Really?" He snarls as Blood God pays him no attention, more focused on his Comm, which he presses a hand to.

"No Crowfather, I'm serious. Get out of here." The Villain demands, craning his neck towards the doorway as if Dream doesn't exist; as if Dream doesn't literally have him at his mercy. "Take Antipode and go, now. I'll deal with the shipment."

Deal with the shipment? Over Dream's dead body.

"Hey!" Dream barks, smacking the Villain's chest with the flat of his blade to steal his attention. "You motherfucker-”

"Back off." Blood God shoves him, unconcerned with the razor-sharp blade between them as he attempts to step past. "I don't have time for you right now."

Dream forces him back, lifting his sword again to the other man's throat and caging him against the wall. For once, livid and overwhelmed by the chaos mere feet away, the position does nothing for him.

"What the fuck are you even doing? Are you trying to get us all shot?" Dream barrels on, ignoring a well-timed cry of pain in the background. "Call your men off-"

(A crackle of static. "-Shit! Rosethorn, cover Consequencer, he can't-")

"They're not my men!" Blood God snaps, brows knitted tightly and dark eyes glinting through the eye holes of his bone mask. "Morpheus, you have to let me deal with this."

Dream blinks, almost startled enough to believe it. He comes to his senses quickly.

"What are you talking about?" He hisses. "They're literally wearing Syndicate uniforms. In a Syndicate smuggling operation. I'm not fucking stupid, so-"

"What?" The Blood God hisses back, sounding genuinely offended. "What are you talking about? This isn't our smuggling operation. Who told you that?"

Confusion starts to creep in, wavering Dream's surety. "No- It was in the tip. Besides, you said you were going to deal with the shipment!"

(The pop, pop, pop of rapid gunfire, echoing in a feedback loop between comms. "-I got two down but we have more incoming! They're driving us back, move-")

"A tip?" The Blood God murmurs with narrowed eyes. His words aren't meant for Dream, muttered under his breath with a serious, befuddled disbelief. "The hell?"

The next second he grips Dream by the shoulders, heedless of the thin beads of blood drawn by Dream's jostled blade; a severe look in his glimmering eyes.

"Listen to me, Morpheus, No- Listen." He starts quickly, "Those people aren't Syndicate. They're impostors and if you don't let me destroy it they're gonna disappear with all the cargo."

Destroy? Imposters? It sounds fake enough to be a novel.

("-Does anyone have eyes on the main Syndicate members? Where-" Litoria sounds frazzled)

"We can confiscate it then." He states bluntly, attempting to call the Blood God's bluff. Could the Syndicate really not be running this? "If the Commission has it then they won't."

Blood God shakes his head immediately, then stops as the motion traces a thin choker of red across the delicate surface of his throat. "I can't do that. We both know you can't guarantee it won't go 'missing' in the Commission's hands even if you muster the forces quick enough to win this. The longer you keep me here the less chance you're gonna have to stop them from getting away while the Syndicate takes the fall."

(Cshhht, cshht, the commlink opens. "-Oh Prime. Inferno, back off a minute, these crates are full of-")

Dream growls as his frustration mounts, the decision resting on his shoulders like a devil. He remembers his uncle's words so vividly, brought to life by the hands on his shoulders and the dark shadows of the warehouse.

(‘Villains lie, Dream. Promise me..’)

"You're lying to me." Dream insists, hearing his own voice as if from underwater. "You're trying to trick me."

"I've never lied to you." Blood God claims fervently, resolutely. "When have I ever lied to you?"

Dream shakes his head, uncertain even as his resolve slips out of his grasp. If Blood God hasn't lied….

(Better the enemy you know than the one you don't, right? Does Dream really want to let these potential new players go just to end in another draw with the Blood God)?

But…

(Villains lie, Dream)

"Please, Morpheus." Blade says, holding his hands up in surrender as Dream's sword draws just a bit more blood. "Don't make me fight you for this. Not today."

…Please?

("-we need reinforcements. How do they even still have bullets? We're already down three Heroes-" Everyone sounds so frantic, Dream needs to help them).

"Shit." Dream curses as he steps back, dropping his sword arm to his side. Prime, He can't be doing this. The Commission will crucify him if they find out.

"Thank you." Blade utters softly, stepping away from the wall.

Dream lifts his sword again before the Villain can leave. "If this is a trick- I won't be fooled a second time, Blood God. I really won't."

Once bitten, twice shy. Dream will never trust the Villain again if this had all been some ploy to make Dream break the law for the Syndicate's gain. He already feels stupid for trusting the man at all.

(But.. please? Would the Blood God really resort to begging just to win? Just to make an easy escape? Dream's gut says no).

Blade inclines his head in agreement, mask unreadable. "I wouldn't expect you to, Hero."

Unsatisfied (he needs more than that, he needs something to make this worth it) Dream throws caution to the wind with his next words.

"Six AM. I swear-" He cuts himself off. “Six AM.”

After a beat Blade nods in understanding. "Fine."

"Fine." Dream bites back. Then, after just a moment of hesitation, he turns his back on the Villain, ready to push his comm and reconnect with his team. Only, he pauses one last time, finger hovering over his earpiece.

"...Good luck." The hero offers over his shoulder, then, without waiting for a response Dream springs out of the shadows without another glance.

"Morpheus here." He says as soon as his comm crackles, striding out of the room as quickly as he can, "Antipode and Crowfather are no longer in the building. I think we should arrest as many armed individuals as possible, they may not be Syndicate."

"-Pretty sure they are, my guy, -got one- but you're right in that we need to de-escalate this. What about Blood God?-" Bomber asks, sounding only half-interested and extremely stressed.

Dream barely even needs to think about his answer, even if he feels like a traitor when it leaves his lips, eyes fixed on the room in front of him and not the motion he feels behind his back.

"Sorry, Bomber… I lost him."

Chapter Text

(One hour after the events of the warehouse….)

The smell of smoke lingers in the singed edges of Technoblade's cape, mingling with the night air as Techno leaves the burning warehouse far behind him.

It follows him while he makes his way towards the rendezvous point, wafting through the early morning air as he stalks through the city streets. The early commuters pay him no mind, bundled up against the fall chill and glassy-eyed with lost sleep as they shuffle to their trains and buses.

A few look up, hybrids with strong senses and flicking ears, towards the crackling of fire and scream of sirens behind him; yet, so unleery of danger when Heroes roam the streets, Techno manages to slip past unnoticed in the shadows.

They forget how much cruelty the night hides in its darkness, that even past the witching hours criminals and Villains still roam free.

It provides enough cover at least, one of the main reasons they had hit the warehouse just past the first hour. (The only thing that actually went to plan in that whole mess).

Wow I love Fire

Techno Let's Burn More Things Down

Blood and Arson? This was a good night.

Shut up dummy, Techno is obviously upset.

Aww poor Techno

gotta take the L sometimes, my man.

"I'm not upset, chat." Techno denies as he sends his ETA to Phil. "I'm angry, sure, because someone killed our information source right in front of me, but it could have been worse."

(Morpheus could have fought him every step of the way and ruined any chance to put a wrench in the smuggler's plans).

Optimismblade.

Looking on the bright side of things, that's our boy

Are you sure? Morpheus thought you were lying…

Yeah, that's upsetting!

Techno glances around for any potential tails. All clear. He keeps moving.

"Our green friend has a right to believe whatever he wants," The Piglin-hybrid mutters charitably, at odds with the swirl of affront he had felt at the other man's accusation. (He carefully avoids the man's name, just in case he missed some listening ears in his paranoid surveillance).

Techno may be a murderer, a kidnapper, an arsonist, and any number of other things however… being called a liar rankles him above all else, even if Morpheus had every reason not to trust him.

"Besides," Technoblade ducks into an alleyway as a firetruck barrels past to clean up his mess. "He let me go. I can't hold it against him."

Hero breaking the law for Techno

Guys I don't think the arson was what Morpheus had in mind tho…

Think he'll be mad?

Techno you just think he's cute

"...And I do think he's cute." Techno admits, because chat can hardly tattle even if the resulting shocked screaming aggravates the stress headache building between his temples. "Bruh, please, do you really think my standards are that low? Of course I think he's attractive!"

I dunno Techno, sometimes you surprise us /neg

Yeah, we don't approve of just everyone, you know.

I mean….I personally just like watching Techno, no matter who else is there.

I like watching Techno with Morpheus, hehe

"Okaaay that's enough of that." Techno immediately negates with a shake of his head. "We're here anyway so the next one of you to talk about Morpheus loses ten points."

Chat gasps collectively, which Techno takes as a hint to tune them out as he takes to the dark roof that they had designated as the rendezvous point.

"Blood God, good to see you." Phil's accented tenor filters quietly from the shadows. He sounds relieved.

"Crowfather, I burned all the cargo. Are Siren and Antipode-"

"We're fine." Wilbur states bluntly, stepping out from behind Phil's great wings with Niki in tow. "You are too, if I'm not mistaken. How did you manage to avoid all the Heroes?

Techno forces a chuckle, hollow and fake to his own ears as he wonders the exact same thing.

Why did Morpheus listen to him?

"The Heroes were all preoccupied. Our armed intruders made themselves useful for something at least."

Techno regrets his words when he sees the slump of Niki's shoulders. Of course his careless comment would only make her feel worse about the whole situation.

"Sorry, Antipode" He says softly, apologizing for more than his implication that anything good came from that mess.

For once, Technoblade can offer nothing to ease her burden, despite how hard he knows she must be taking it. (Prime, Techno wishes he had gotten his hands on even one of those faux Syndicate members).

Her mask glints in the wane light of the moon, looking oddly despondent in solidarity with its owner.

"It's not your fault, Protesalius." Niki responds, ever graciously, in the same gentle way she says his real name. She sounds tired, yet, hopefully not defeated. "Thank you for destroying their shipment."

"Of course," Techno utters, emotion choking the words in his throat. "I would've killed them all for you if I could've."

"I know." Niki softly says, with such conviction that Techno can't help but love her with all his heart. "I'm glad to have a friend like you."

Techno chuffs quietly; nothing more needing to be said.

"Righto." Wilbur whispers loudly with a clap of his hands, breaking the air and making them both jump in one fell swoop. "I'm glad to have you both but we really ought to get on."

"Mate." Phil sighs reproachfully, hand beneath his veil, presumably pinching the bridge of his nose. "Unfortunately, Siren is correct, we need to get back before the Heroes start looking for us.

"Right." Technoblade agrees. "But how are we getting back?"

-%$!%--%$%@$%---

Early, very early, in his 30 years of life, in the Essempi General hospital's obstetrics ward, Ben the driver received the name 'Oswald Selery III' from his dear mama Sylvia and his papa Oswald Selery Jr.

In fact, if Ben were to be pulled over for a speeding infraction or some such, the name Oswald Selery III would still be printed neatly on the official Essempi driver's license handed over to the officer.

Only, if Ben did something as stupid as speeding with a full car of passengers at 4:22 am, Ben would also be dead.

(Or as good as it).

Why?

Because today Ben the driver received the covetable, exclusive job of providing get-away transport to four of the most infamous (and deadly) members of the Syndicate.

" -happened to our crew on standby?" The literal Blood God, Terror of the Underground, Bloody Boar, Unkillable Weaponmaster questions as he slips his red-splattered frame into the vehicle.

"They were right where we left them, hadn't heard a thing about it," The inescapable Siren, Son of Death, Song of Doom, responds from the side of the vehicle, sliding into the middle with a swish of his dark coat.

"We sent them home." The terrifying yet alluring Antipode, Queen of the Shadows, Goddess of Victory and Vengeance, adds in as she slips her almost comically smaller frame next to her companions.

That just leaves…

"Hi, Ben, right?" The Crowfather himself, Winged Fury of the Abyss, Angel of Death and Despair, KING OF VILLAINY-

Ehem.

Crowfather asks, settling into the front passenger seat beside Ben.

"Yes sir!" Ben the driver exclaims in complete awe, amazed that the winged Villain remembers his name. (despite the fact that his name has actually always been Oswald III).

See, the lower Syndicate has two main rules for routine engagement with the inner. (As presented by Ben's Supervisor David (formerly "Willard Kelplin"))

One: Never try to impress Siren, it never ends well.

Two: The Blood God may re-name you should you catch his attention. No one knows why he does this, however, if this honor befalls you, you shall be referred to by this name for so long as you belong to the Syndicate.

(The unofficial third rule is: Behave in front of Crowfather's crows. Crowfather's crows are spies, and they know what you do. Why is this relevant? Because, somehow, Crowfather knows what they know.)

This second rule came to Ben's attention about two months prior, when the Blood God had stopped in on a weapons intake to re-assign some Syndicate assets.

Ben, then Oswald, had met the Villain for approximately 30 seconds, in which time the Blood Good had bestowed four words upon his unworthy head.

"Ah. Ben, right? …Right."

Hence, Oswald III had abandoned his generational name to embrace the life of Ben, who, with his recent promotion to driver, now may interact with the literal highest person on the Syndicate payroll.

"Right then, Mate, just drop us off here." Crowfather instructs, kind-sounding voice filtering through his absolute fashion statement of a veil as he types an address into the GPS.

Ben the driver nods seriously, determined not to let his Big Boss down. He puts the car in drive, takes his foot off the brake and pulls into the main road.

He only got this opportunity because the Blood God deemed him worthy of being Ben. So this Ben will be the best driver the Syndicate has ever seen.

==/=//===/===/==

"I think you scared the driver." Wilbur remarks, once said driver can no longer hear them (left behind to bring the car back to the Syndicate's garage).

"Ben?" Technoblade asks curiously, lagging behind Niki and Phil as he listens to Wilbur. (He feels pretty confident about the underling's name being Ben. After all, the guy hadn't corrected him; and, well.. he looked very much like a Ben).

Wilbur shrugs. "Was that his name? Anyway, yeah, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack when you thanked him for getting us here."

"Oh." Techno frowns; he hadn't intended to intimidate the man. Uncertainly, the Piglin-hybrid casts a look back in the direction they came from. "Should I-?"

Lmaooooo

Technoblivious

Uh. I dont think he was scared of you..

no snitching no snit hinsg

Don't even tell him. Smh

nobody tell

Uh, i'm with Wilbur? What are you guys talking about??

Technoblade's frown deepens as chat laughs at him. Although he has no idea what they mean, he doesn't particularly care to encourage their mocking.

"-nevermind." He finally says under Wilbur's questioning stare (easily sighted with Wilbur's mask removed). "I'll send him a bonus or something later, let's go."

Techno sets off after the others, Wilbur following a step behind as they make their way to the meeting room.

Phil and Niki have already taken their places when the two men arrive, Phil at the head and Niki in her place in between a casually dressed Connor and tired-looking Quackity. Fundy sits alone on the other side of the table besides Technoblade and Wilbur's empty chairs.

The only remaining seat, directly opposite Phil, stays empty for the rare occasions Kristen drops in to consult on Syndicate business.

"Oh! My Little Champion!" Wilbur cries loudly as soon as he sees the shape-shifter fox-hybrid at the table, throwing himself forward to cling to the other full grown man like a limpet. "You've escaped the wicked grasp of Heroism to visit?"

"Flikker op! Asshole! Cunt!" Fundy sputters as he attempts to fend the much taller man off by pressing up against Wilbur's ribcage. Wilbur just folds in half like a wet noodle, using his abnormally long arms to keep hold of the angry fox.

Wilbur fakes a sob, betrayed by the shit-eating grin plastered across his face. "Oh, how could my precious son treat me this way, when I haven't seen him in ages!"

"You're not my fucking dad!" Fundy cries emphatically, shifting his mouth into a fox muzzle in an attempt to bite the slippery phantom-hybrid. "And we saw each other last month! Ga weg! Rot op!"

Technoblade sighs.

Years ago, when Fundy had first joined the fold as an (at the time) Vigilante, he made the first mistake of jokingly calling Wilbur 'Dad' during a period of time Techno refers to as 'Wilbur's mother-hen' arc.

(The second mistake came about the moment Fundy continued the joke after seeing the Phantom-hybrid flounder in embarrassment).

Now, the two do this song and dance every occasion they see each other. Normally, Techno would allow them to tire each other out, however, this time, Techno has had a very trying night.

Stepping forward, Techno takes hold of the scruff of Wilbur's Siren coat, lifting him upward into the air like an unruly, squawking kitten. With a few tugs to dislodge him from Fundy, Techno turns and deposits his brother in the furthest chair and quickly takes a seat between the two.

Yoinked! snatched!

E

Wilbur Soot acts like a sad, wet cat, not clickbait?

Fundy, more like furniture with how Wilbur was holding on.

E

Youre nah my daaad (ugly ahs bish)

E

Funditure.

Dadbur canon now we just need the fish wife

"Right." Phil says the moment everyone settles, completely ignoring the look Techno shoots him as the pink-haired man pulls off his mask. (Rude. Phil totally could have helped out there, they're his children after all) "Thank you for coming, everyone."

Quackity pauses mid-yawn to stare incredulously at the notorious Villain. Techno sympathizes, that opener did sound an awful lot like the start of some white collar revenue review rather than a pre-dawn Criminal debrief.

Phil continues on pleasantly without pause. (Techno knows he saw; that ornery old man).

"So as we all know, tonight's mission did not go as planned."

Quackity picks at his feathers absent-mindedly. Due to the hour, the duck-hybrid has forgone his usual professional attire and his Jester outfit, instead opting for a casual blue tracksuit and beanie. "Right. That was the.. Smuggling Operation? Wilbur sent me the information but I don't really see-?"

"It was a set up." Wilbur interjects with none of the levity of moments earlier. "The Commission again, just like Club Diamond."

Techno frowns at the same time as Quackity, but for vastly different reasons. Yet, even he might have believed Wilbur's oversimplification if not for Morpheus.

("-Your smuggling operation!")

Could the Commission have been set up as well?

Thankfully the burden of breaching the idea slips off his shoulders as their resident spy shakes his furry-eared head.

"This was different,” Fundy insists. "The mission department was really scrambling. I wasn't on shift, but I went in early to keep an ear out for any Heroes patrolling near the warehouse- but, Prime. It was a fucking nightmare. I didn't even have a chance to volunteer like last time, because nobody could tell me shit about what was going on."

Wilbur frowns without reply.

"I just don't understand." Niki murmurs, running a hand through her pink hair. Her mask sits face-up in front of her. "Why were they dressed like our people?"

Techno laughs humorlessly. "Someone wanted us to take the fall. The 'Syndicate' using firearms to defend smuggled cargo? No one will believe it wasn't us."

The perfect set up.

Who'd'a thunk it?

How dare they try to frame us!

…No one will believe it?...

"Hold up. Time out" Connor interjects, crossing his hands into a T-shape. "Guns? Dressed like us? It was supposed to be an easy in, get the cargo and get out. What exactly happened tonight?"

"We followed the plan." Niki answers, looking as stormy and cold as a winter sea. "The warehouse was barely guarded. Techno literally had the overseer in hand."

"Then-?" Connor prompts, eyes narrowed and unobscured by his usual mask.

“Then a group of idiotic, untrained ‘Syndicate goons’ dropped in, and one of them conveniently ran him through with a blade while I held him.” Technoblade intones flatly, with a bit of a sneer at the end. Honestly, the rage he'd felt when he watched the fake underling kill the man… It still burns a bit.

“They weren't ours, though.” Wilbur corrects, making the hedgehog hybrid glance at him, “That's the trouble, Connor, our actual crew were still waiting on standby. Whoever those lot belonged to, whatever imposter group is at play wearing our uniform, they weren't Syndicate. I couldn't even warn anyone, because I got jumped outside, and the bloody Heroes showed up.”

"The impersonators made sure we wouldn't get any information from the overseer." Philza states bluntly, tapping his metal talons on the table. "In fact, if I'm not mistaken, they wanted the Heroes to engage as well. They had our uniforms on, sure, but far too much firepower to be some new group just trying to cause us trouble."

There's a long moment of silence.

"Fundy…" Quackity finally pipes up, looking deep in thought. "How did the Heroes know the Syndicate would be there?"

Fundy's ears flatten back on his skull at the sudden attention from everyone in the room.

"I don't know;” he admits reluctantly, “An anonymous tip I think. I might be able to find out if I can get access to the original call-in."

He frowns, ears flicking lopsidedly as he seems to remember something. "Last time, with the club- I didn't think it was important, but the mission was actually planned in advance, however they only debriefed everyone just before. It happens, though, that's why I didn't mention it. I volunteered because I had no time to let you know.” His brow furrows. “Somehow, someone higher up found out about the meeting with Don Paul."

Connor hums, considering it. "It seems a bit odd that this mystery group is trying to frame the Syndicate only a month after the Commission raided your club, Quackity. Don Paul was taken into custody right as he promised to provide information on the trafficking ring, wasn't he?"

Quackity nods.

(Upon investigation by the crows and then later, Fundy, they found that the Don had neither been offered a deal, nor pardoned by the Commission. No matter how they looked at it, he couldn't have been the one to sell out the meeting)

"Yeah. That's been a bitch to clean up by the way. I still have no fucking clue who leaked my meeting time to the Heroes." Quackity gripes. Techno can sympathize. “I assumed we had some group attempting to move in on our territory, get a foot in the door by offering things we refuse to. But two outright attacks have been made against us so far."

The shorter Avian makes a vague gesture with his hand. "Club Diamond, and now the shipment. Except… well, I didn't think this was important before so I didn't say anything,” He and Fundy grimace as one as they realize they are in the same boat, “But… a couple months ago someone tried to rob one of my casinos. Broad daylight. Charlie and I dealt with it easily. I thought maybe they were just- stupid as fuck… but- well. It seems a bit odd in retrospect."

“What are you saying, Q?" Wilbur presses.

"I'm saying someone is trying to shake us out of power. Weaken our footholds and take whatever ground we leave behind while trying to source the fucking vermin gnawing at us." His feathers have ruffled behind him, agitation clear in the set of his wings. “And they know the Commission already has a target on us.”

"That's certainly a why this is happening, but we aren't gonna stop this until we figure out a who." Techno drawls. His frustration has only grown, in the time they've been talking.

Oof, imagine being set up by a traitor.

We got a who and a why now what about the where what when and how.

i want breakfast. pancakes or waffles?

“We've been gettin’ complacent, lads.” Phil declares, pulling Technoblade's attention from Chat's rambling, “The Syndicate's been top dog for long enough that our structure is slipping. Quackity I know you're undercover in your ranks relatively often… Wil, Niki, when was the last time you made rounds of the street-level members? Checked in with some of the less-prominent figures?”

Wilbur frowns, and Niki's shoulders fall with disappointed realization.

“Too long ago,” She says. “I've visited the refuge houses, and the safehouses I developed, but I haven't-” She bites her lip. “I've been busy with other things; and I've been distracted too.”

Wilbur reaches out across the table, palm turned up, “Not your fault, love, we all have been.”

Niki takes his hand and offers him a sad smile when he squeezes her hand lightly.

(The refuge houses in question stand firmly under Niki's care. As a matter of principle, and for a sense of security, she had set up a series of safe places for the more vulnerable victims that the Syndicate ended up helping, and she herself is the only one capable of giving out the location. Even the other Syndicate heads have no idea where the places are, even Techno himself wouldn't know unless she told him. Antipode provides a haven for those who have been harmed by the powers meant to help; those hurt people who don't feel safe turning to the corrupt 'justices' in the city; anyone who needed a safe refuge from the evil they encountered without reporting eyes watching their every move).

Philza straightens, slipping back into his role as the head of the Syndicate. "Right. Let's get our fucking city back in order. Fundy, if you can find the source of that tip without getting caught, please do. Quackity, you might turn some eyes towards the weapons smuggling in your territory, see who's buying up the stock. Techno and Wilbur, I need you to start looking for a spy in our organization. Parse through the lower ranks, recent recruits, do a bit of undercover work. Anyone suspicious, tag ‘em. I trust your discretion. I am going to contact Illumina, see if he is willing to talk with some incentive. Niki, please forward me the information you have so far on the missing people. No information should be dismissed, even if it doesn't seem relevant. That goes for all of us. I think it's time we acknowledge that this is more than a simple trafficking ring."

He receives a round of affirmative nods, and a couple particularly determined expressions.

"Good. Alright." Phil sighs, leaning back in his chair. His wings droop, and suddenly Technoblade becomes aware of the heavy air of exhaustion and dwindling adrenaline that has draped itself over all the occupants of the room.

Phil runs a hand through his hair, letting the pale golden locks fall into a tousled disarray. “We aren't gonna get further than this today, mates. Everybody go ahead and get some rest. I think we all need it."

●○°•○●°○●●○°•●

As they make their way deeper into the base, Techno falls into step besides his brother down the hall towards their rooms. (Each base has a set, somewhere for the Villain's to recuperate and store their gear after missions. Useful for the 'rest' Phil had wanted them to get, although Techno has no intention of doing so).

He only needs to grab a change of clothes from his room before he heads out to meet Morpheus (Techno has about half an hour to get there if he wants to make it by 6am); however, from the look in the phantom hybrid's eye, Wilbur also has no inclination to follow Phil's suggestion either.

"You're not gonna go sleep either, are you?" Techno asks, just for surety's sake.

As expected, Wilbur throws him a knowing glance, then shakes his head, "No… I'm too awake for that now. I think I'll just head to Bad's, get some sort of pick me up. Do you want to come? We can go to your little bookstore after."

Techno sympathizes. Night missions disrupt his sleep schedule just as badly, cyclical insomnia not-withstanding. Unfortunately, as much as he wants to try, to drop into his bed and laze away the rest of the day, he has somewhere else to be.

Techno refuses to go back on his word.

"Nah." He drawls calmly. "You have fun, take it easy. Say hullo to the Halos for me.”

Wilbur chuckles tiredly, splitting off from Technoblade when he reaches his room. "Sure, Techno. I'll bring you something back."

" ‘ppreciate it." The piglin murmurs gratefully. He'll hardly turn down free café items.

Wilbur pauses, one hand on the handle to his door. Uh oh. Techno braces internally.

"Hey, what are you going to do?” the Phantom-hybrid asks, turning back curiously.

Techno huffs mentally. He knew Wilbur would be nosy the second his brother didn't just enter his room. Yet, Techno had been foolishly hopeful that he could escape unscathed by that blasted curiosity.

Resigned, he lets his face fall blank, a skill he's all but perfected over the years, and one that he uses when absolutely set on not sharing his plans with anyone. “I have something I need to take care of."

Wilbur rolls his eyes good-naturedly, one hand primed to push on his door. "Fine, keep your secrets. Prime, you're so dramatic. Will you be free later?"

Technoblade definitely hopes so. Would be a shame if Morpheus betrays him after everything. However, if things go well, Technoblade wouldn't mind keeping the hero company for a few hours.

Hmm.

"....If you need me." Techno settles on, raising an eyebrow.

Wilbur grins winningly, "Of course I need you, you're my precious twin."

Awww, Twinsduo

Sappybur

No, Sweetbur is better, Sappybur sounds like-

Be Queit!

How did you make a typo? We are voices?

hey hey no meta humor allowed

"Wilbur.” Techno intones, having none of his brother's nor chat's theatrics at the moment. The sooner he can get to the safehouse to meet Morpheus, the sooner he can return home to spend time with his sounder.

“Okay, alright.” Wilbur sighs defeatedly, removing his hand from the door to run it through his brunette curls."I dunno, perhaps we should have a movie night or something. Invite the others. I feel like we're all just stressed lately. We should spend some time relaxing. I'll even convince Quackity to come~”

He sing-songs the last bit, as if Techno needs any more incentive to agree.

Techno considers it, finding the idea quite satisfying as he pictures all his most important people in one room for something more pleasant than battle strategy. "...it's not a bad idea. Ask the others when you get back."

Wilbur beams, tilting his head. "And you?"

"Text me what time you decide. I'll be back before then,” The piglin promises.

Wilbur nods, looking just a tad too friendly for Technoblade's sensitive palate as he swings open his door.

"If you aren't, I'm gonna choose something horribly colorful and sappy,” He threatens lightly. Technoblade knows he'd likely do so anyway, but doesn't call him on it.

"Prime Forbid.” He says, flat and sarcastic, then continues with a soft chuff: "Send me a list and I'll pick up some stuff to eat on my way back."

"Oh ho," Wilbur exclaims with immediate fervor, eyes glinting delightedly. He always likes when Techno does him favors. (It also has the added benefit of diverting any further questions about his plans).

"I knew you were my favorite twin for a reason. Have fun Techno, I'll see you later."

“See ya, Wilbur. Don't get into trouble.” The rosy-haired hybrid teases.

“Pfft. Says you.” Retorts his brother with a scoff. Techno doesn't waste time by replying, both men rapidly disappearing from one another's sight.

Once he hears Wilbur's door shut, Techno quickens his pace. He doesn't have time to dally any longer.

◇°◇°◇°◇◇°◇°◇

Techno hasn't taken two steps into the apartment when, for the second time in the same day, he finds himself pinned against a hard surface like some petty criminal informant.

Irritatingly, this surface happens to be the very apartment door Technoblade just closed behind him.

Morpheus' gaze meets his, brilliant and dark, a forest's shining foliage after a rainstorm; furious and impassioned and alluring like violence itself. Techno admires it despite his own growing ire; the true glimpse of rage that Techno has never seen unmasked.

“You burned down the warehouse,” Morpheus hisses through gritted teeth, digging his knuckles deeper into Technoblade's collarbone to emphasize his anger.

Technoblade narrows his eyes, raising his hands to close around the blonde's wrists with more patience than he feels.

“I destroyed the shipment,” He retorts, voice low in warning. “Whatever happened afterwards was collateral damage.”

Morpheus growls, clenching the fabric tighter in his fists and pushing his hard, gloved knuckles into Techno's collarbone punishingly. It bites a bit, thin reinforced plating in the gloves digging into the thin flesh beneath thinner fabric.

(The hero, unlike Techno, retained his full, iconic gear in the hours they've spent apart. A perk of not being publicly wanted by the government).

Damn, what crawled up his ass and died

Oof. Their first fight.

Bruh. Wdym. They fight all the time.

oopsie doopsei

Not like this

Ew

Oh no oh no, this ship better not sink.

Technomad.

Contemptuously, Techno curls his lip. Technomad indeed if Morpheus doesn't take his hands elsewhere very soon.

“Primedamnit. You bastard, I can't believe-” Morpheus trails off, looking so incredibly frustrated. Yet, by whom? The Syndicate? Technoblade? Or…

“I let you go.”

Ah. Himself then.

Techno sighs, irritability budging to make room for weariness. With the burden of the prior hours still weighing on his shoulders, he wanted to avoid this conversation.

(Of course Morpheus wouldn't drop it that easily).

“You did.” He releases one of the Hero's wrists and raises a hand to thoughtlessly sweep one wild, errant curl behind the man's ear. The rest still sticks up at varying angles and Techno should-

Morpheus leans ever so slightly into the touch as it lingers on his jaw and Techno remembers in the next moment why he decidedly should not.

(Truly, if Technoblade wanted to play with fire he would have nabbed Inferno all those months ago).

Even with, or perhaps despite, the infinitely subtle bias in the motion, Morpheus remains as frigid and unmoved as a stone quarry in a blizzard. “I shouldn't have done that.”

Technoblade scoffs, right back on his way to annoyance. “If you're looking for pity or judgment, Hero, you won't find any with me. Ruminate on it if you like, self-flagellate over the possible objective failure to follow your moral code, but don't expect that I'm going to encourage you to do anything differently.”

“Awesome, thanks so much, Blood God,” the green-eyed man seethes, shoving Techno against the door until the Piglin-hybrid snarls quietly. Morpheus ignores him. “Really, I feel so much better about betraying my entire code of ethics by just taking your word for it when you claimed to not be breaking the fucking law!”

“Swell,” Techno retorts testily, matching the heavy sarcasm as he squeezes Morpheus' wrists hard. “Glad I could help settle that for you.”

Morpheus snaps at Techno, canines flashing in a manifestation of some long buried hybrid-instinct behavior; Techno bares his own sharp tusks right back. “Enough, Morpheus. If you have something to say, say it. I told you nothing but the truth, so don't direct this insecurity at me just because you regret it.”

“I don't!” Morpheus exclaims, forcing Technoblade to falter in his righteous defense. “I don't fucking regret it, and that's the problem! I actually believe that whatever spawned that shitshow wasn't the Syndicate's fault!”

Aww

Pet him

He let Technoblade goooo im cryingg

Green boy sure is handsy today

E

Y'know there's a perfectly good door there for you two to sully…

BANNED

Lmaooo

E

Morpheus' glares beyond Techno, stubbornly into the woodgrain of the door “I do believe you! I shouldn't, but- I fucking do okay?"

"Oookay?" Techno blinks, at a loss. Brow furrowed, he focuses the best he can through Chat's sudden screaming. "I…don't understand why we're having a problem then."

Morpheus slumps suddenly, pressing his forehead to the fists still resting on Technoblade's clavicle.

"Believing you mean someone besides you is literally bringing guns to a swordfight, Blade." The hero mutters while Techno stays as straight as possible to avoid accidentally burying his face in Morpheus' blonde hair. "-While dressed as your people. It means I have more to worry about than whether you're burning down warehouses, as crazy as that is.”

Technoblade nods with a noise of agreement. He'd been thinking much the same over the last several hours, albeit for different reasons.

“If it helps,” He offers in a drawl, an olive branch since the hero clearly has more issues than however he feels about Techno. “The way those blaze rods were being transported, there was a high chance of a fire starting without my interference.”

After a tense moment, Morpheus pulls away with a roll of his verdant eyes. He releases Technoblade's collar with a flick of his wrists, begrudgingly accepting the attempt to bring a bit of levity to the room.

Chat cheers softly.

“Potion ingredients,” Morpheus says, changing tact, and Techno raises a brow. “If not the Syndicate, then who?”

(Whom, Techno doesn't correct, though he wants to).

Technoblade's lips tug into a grimace. If only he knew. “...We're still figuring that out.”

Morpheus steps back fully with a huff, running a hand through his curls as Techno takes the opportunity to shrug off his coat and hang it beside the door.

“You know,” He drones, turning back to the frustrated Hero, “If I had known you wanted to play rough today, I might have worn something less complex.”

Techno tugs loosely at the laced-up collar and sleeves of his flowing grey shirt, going through the motions of fixing the wrinkles left by the Hero's fists.

Morpheus huffs a half-laugh, eyeing the fabric, and moves to perch on one end of the sofa. He does it half as relaxed as Techno would like, still agitated by the revelation; but not half as aggressive as Techno expected, which bodes well for potential mutual stress-relief.

As Techno watches, the hero crosses one ankle across his opposite knee and leans back with an unenthused snort. “No you wouldn't. You'd probably just choose something more ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Technoblade sneers dramatically, “Bold words from someone who looks like a greenscreen most of the time.”

“You only hate the color because you're jealous that my gear works so well,” Morpheus retorts, and Techno rolls his eyes, playing along with the half-hearted bickering. (As close to an apology as Techno will likely get for the rough treatment).

“I'm more jealous of the people who don't have to see it. ”

Receiving no reply, Techno falls quiet, leaning against the wall and watching Morpheus' knee bounce as the other man sinks back into his thoughts.

Technoblade folds his arms, leaning against the wall as he lets the Hero think in silence. He breathes, in, out as chat's voices wash over him; an eternal torrent.

(...Techno does not remember what silence sounds like...)

Pretty boy

were i venus, this fair adonis would i adore.

Man the things I would let that man do

E

Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.

I'd let him commit war crimes

Oh no the Shakespeare nerds are here Techno send help

Woo, war crimes!!

He's literally an english major idiot

The man's freckles glitter in the afternoon light streaming into the room, iridescent flecks of green; this, combined with those dark eyelashes fluttering up and down as Morpheus blinks, again reminds Techno of precious trinkets. Emerald and tourmaline, lively green diamonds inlaid in the precious metals desired by hybrids and humans alike. (Desired and pursued. The foundations of society had been laid around magic and mining, after all.)

Though Technoblade has tangled his greedy fingers in the Hero's metallic curls many times at this point, the urge to do so now rears its head, spurred on by the golden hue that the morning sunlight laces through.

His lips twitch toward a frown, and he tilts his head to rid himself of the urge. (Chat harrumphs and whines nearly in unison, but Technoblade refuses to cave that easily, despite their pleading).

Technoblade snaps back to attention when Morpheus' vibrant, startling eyes meet his.

“Tell me about your teammates,” The Hero orders, like he has the right, guileless and blunt. Techno stills; a statue of disbelief.

How could Morpheus push the fragile unspoken rule; the code of conduct that makes these meetings some semblance of safe? Even through the teasing, the wordplay and banter, neither of them dare to seek such personal information. (Morpheus has a sibling, has a family; how could he expect Techno to speak of his)?

They both know better than to mention upcoming missions, or meetings, or information. Any details outside of their own personal preferences and individual opinions remain on that unofficial blacklist.

Or so he thought.

No, if his private-rendezvous partner wants to change that, to shatter that delicate trust and put Technoblade's family in danger…Well, the piglin will not hesitate to drop the Hero and abandon this safehouse.

(Not true, murmurs one member of Chat quietly, above the rest (he has to believe it's Chat, how could it possibly be his own mind?), you'll hesitate. You will. Calm down Techno. Hear him out).

Techno bristles a bit at the incorporeal traitors before deliberately forcing his expression to settle into something more blank.

“What?” He demands, like the words haven't been playing in his head almost louder than chat.

Tellmeaboutyourteamatestellme-

“The upper Syndicate. Inner Syndicate.,” Morpheus clarifies unnecessarily. “Tell me about them.”

When Technoblade speaks, his voice rumbles with stony disapproval and cautious warning. “Morpheus…”

Morpheus' brow crinkles with light confusion for a moment, then his eyes widen.

“No. I mean- not like that.” A flicker of something passes through his eyes; incredulity, embarrassment perhaps. “I wouldn't ask you to give me fucking intel on your team, Blade, Prime. I mean- what sort of people are they? Antipode was there, today- and the Angel and Siren, according to the debrief… I just-”

The Hero fidgets, but doesn't break eye contact with Techno, guilt written across his face. “I let them go, too, Blade. I just want to know who I let go.”

Technoblade…

Well. He understands now.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, Morpheus decided to justify his actions to himself. Only, he can't justify trusting a Villain's word even in the privacy of his thoughts. His morals simply won't allow it.

(Because the Commission, the government, teaches that anyone who opposes it has no soul, no love or empathy or good inside them; and if Morpheus let enemies like that go without a fight…).

But if Techno pleads a good enough case, if he can humanize his very human team in the shades of grey all people exist in…

He might just want to take the chance and humor Morpheus' request. Purely for strategy purposes, insurance for the future. Techno can't always be there to advocate for their actions..

(Not because he wants Morpheus to know how amazing his chosen family are, how kind and perfect and worthy of more than a jail cell. Techno knows better than to trust a Hero to see their intrinsic value).

Mind made up, Techno pushes away from the wall; closing the distance between himself and Morpheus in a few long steps.

Morpheus cranes his neck back to meet Technoblade's gaze, expectation clear in the set of his face, and Technoblade drops his arms from their folded rest against his chest. He lets his hands fall to the Hero's face, splayed enough to curl his outer fingers beneath the edge of the man's slightly shadowed jaw and rest his thumbs beneath his eyes.

Morpheus' pupils dilate, half-swallowing the green of his irises until Techno feels a twist in his chest at the sight. For a second, just one, he wants to be mean, to dig his nails in and pay the Hero back for his presumptuous, disrespectful behavior.

Instead, he bends slowly, until their faces are a mere breath apart, then lightly taps his forehead against the other man's with a long exhale.

“Were you anyone else, Hero…” He begins lowly, then trails into silence, closing his eyes against the question in his partner's green.

Techno has no inclination to explain himself, not for this. Let Morpheus make assumptions or attribute it to one of Techno's quirks; the piglin will not correct him.

(How can one explain something so deeply ingrained inside their soul? How can one describe a behavior they themselves did not understand until meeting their own rare kind? Should a dog clarify why it wags its tail? Why should a Piglin justify how it chooses to connect?).

So Technoblade merely breathes, in and out, absorbing the pressure where their skulls meet and thinking of nether-warmth and years long gone; of those who listened to him when he came to them far more out of sorts than some do-gooder Hero.

Morpheus feels nothing like the Piglins Techno remembers, no tusks far too deadly for kissing nor fur in the place of tangled bangs and tender flesh. The hero smells nothing like Techno's sounder either, not like safety or scales or salt.

Yet, still in his gear from the warehouse, the odor of smoke clings to Morpheus (like Wilbur, blaze rods and acrid explosives and that warm, warm, warm smell that Bad also shares). Under that, Techno can smell a hint of feathers so faint that he must rack his brain for any avian Heroes Morpheus might have met recently.

(He can't think of any, doesn't give the thought more than a half-assed touch beyond the reminder of his own feathered family members).

Lastly…Technoblade can smell himself, hints here and there, where repeated contact has mixed their scents. This, more than anything, helps the Piglin-hybrid to calm the last embers of his aggravation, clearing his head for the words to come.

Morpheus waits patiently in Techno's hold, still and quiet until the Villain knows he ought to put it off no longer. With a sigh, Technoblade releases his hold, pulling back and straightening while Morpheus makes a startled noise the moment they break apart.

Hgbbbhsbhs omg

Pet him pet him pet him

Ooo, talk about Dadza first!

E

Dog boy pog

No, Niki! Niki is my favorite!

“Alright.” Technoblade says, and Morpheus' eyebrows tic upward in anticipation in the same moment as Chat begins buzzing with excitement.

Technoblade (weak to his desires, just for the moment; feeling oddly liquid after his rival's silent malleability) reaches to run his fingers through Morpheus's curls as he settles in the space next to the hero.

To Techno's faint amusement, Morpheus allows the Piglin-hybrid's hand to guide his head, leaning into the touch as the pressure increases just a tad with the downward motion.

(Soft! Chat cries. Soft just for Techno!)

Techno clears his throat.

“Do you know what the word antipode means, Morpheus?”

Morpheus’ lashes flit as he glances through them at Techno, gaze keen despite Technoblade's distracting hand. (He doesn't pull away as Techno rests his arm on the back of the couch, winding his fingers through the stray hairs at the base of Morpheus's neck).

(So confrontational one moment and accommodating the next. How infuriatingly complicated)

“It means a polar opposite.” The blonde responds quickly, blinking those green eyes in consideration.

Techno nods, pleased at his rival's knowledge. “Mhm. Antipode is… one of the strongest women I know. Ambitious, kindhearted. She's the opposite of what her- of what society would have had her be, before she joined the Syndicate.”

Technoblade pauses, rolling his next words around in his head.

Niki means goodness. She represents as much grace and benevolence as Phil, yet with a heart hard-pressed to show mercy once set firmly against someone. Still, she once confided in Technoblade that she thought herself far too passive. The weakest of the Syndicate; the softest, and thus the least influential.

“She's stronger than she knows.” He states firmly, “She turns her determination into kindness, which is more than many are willing to do. She bears witness to the brokenness of the world and longs to mend it.”

Techno smiles wryly.

“Antipode is a more persuasive person than most I know, too. She's got a quiet sort of intensity. Like a rainstorm. It seems harmless, beautiful too, but if you're caught in the middle for longer than you expect…” He trails off, recalling the most recent, non-mission example of this. “If you saw her next to Siren you'd understand. He's got a full head of height on her and yet she can threaten to smack him with a wooden spoon and he’ll just… pale.”

Queen

Niki Beloved

WE LOVE US A SHORT GODDESS

The thought of Wilbur gives Techno his next words."Siren?..Well, he's my best friend. My brother."

Morpheus perks up with a noise of confusion. "Hold on- What?"

Techno raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Bruh, I'm pouring out my platonic admirations here. Can you not interrupt?"

Morpheus doesn't even hesitate.

"No, nope." The hero insists, making a T with his hands and shaking his head. "Time out. You explicitly told me Siren is not at all your brother."

Techno sighs. "False. I told you that Siren is not biologically, magically or legally related to me. Those are all true."

Nevermind the others, Phil would have had to legitimately adopt Technoblade for the last one; (kinda hard to do when one doesn't have any documentation of one's existence).

Morpheus' expression of bemused disbelief says more than his words ever will.

"Look, you can't blame me for that. I answered as truthfully as possible when you asked." Techno defends, "But regardless, he is my brother, I don't care what metric other people use to define it. It's different for Nether-hybrids. The Nether is no place to cling to biological relations,”

He sees a spark of recognition enter Morpheus's eyes.

"Ah… Inferno says the same kind of thing, sometimes,” The freckled Hero murmurs, obviously thinking back to his blaze-hybrid teammate. Techno wonders how close they must be for the heroic netherborn to confide such a thing to Morpheus.

Filing the thought away for later, Techno continues. "Siren is passionate. He considers himself a revolutionary, of sorts, and trust me, he's unrelenting and incredibly driven when he has a goal in mind. I never…."

Techno trails off. He never understood, before Wilbur's Incident, how wholeheartedly his twin threw his entire being into his passions.

(Be it the arts or one of his people-projects, Wilbur pours his entire being into them…even if it means he unintentionally empties himself out in the process).

Techno shakes his head as if to diverge the memories. "Well. He's always stood by the people he cares about, even if his methodologies are unconventional. He's the one who taught me to… keep people close."

Wilbur taught him not to let the emotions drive him to isolate himself. A pause hangs in the air between them, and Technoblade finds himself toying more with Morpheus’ curls.

(Easier than putting his thoughts to the air, easier than attempting whatever he hopes to achieve here. Techno hardly worships Prime, yet he almost wants to pray that his words won't be in vain here).

Morpheus prompts him again when the silence stretches on, looking more relaxed than he did prior. "What about the Angel of Death?"

Angel of death.

Technoblade's brow furrows, ever so slightly. "You know, I've never understood why you Heroes call him that."

"What? What do you mean?" Morpheus' head tilts, though not enough to dislodge Techno's touch.

Techno hums. “Calling him an angel, callin’ me a god. It seems a bit counterproductive doesn't it? Puts us on a pedestal."

A pedestal that Technoblade is altogether too used to. He doesn't mind the violent moniker, not at all, but it's reminiscent of another battlestained title which was bestowed upon him so long ago. He just… wonders at the similarities. (Hates them. Must fate be so cruel as to not grant him even a little reprieve? Techno has never been a god).

"Maybe we're hoping it'll create some sort of easily exploitable complex.” Morpheus offers jokingly, “Most of you are all frustratingly level-headed compared to a lot of Villains."

"Most?" Techno quirks a brow, wondering which of his Sounder mates screwed up enough to not be included. (Honestly, Techno feels shocked that the Commission considers any of them level-headed. That hardly sounds like the normal propaganda they spew).

Morpheus blinks owlishly. "Er- Siren. It's the uh.. Maniacal tendencies."

"Ah."

Yeah, Techno thinks, that tracks.

L.

What an embarrassment

Tries to be politically correct: "The maniacal tendencies"

E

Fair

i'm stealing that one.

"Yeah." Dream agrees with a slightly dead look in his eyes, likely remembering one of Wilbur's more exciting Villain outings. "But anyway, I think that calling Angel a father of any sort would kinda do the same thing."

"Hmm." Techno says, neither agreeing nor otherwise. (Sounds like a problem for someone with daddy issues).

He thinks for a moment, about Phil. How can he explain Phil in a way the Hero will understand? Phil-

"Crowfather saved my life, you know." He blurts before he can help himself, mind miles away, set in a much darker time of his life.

All at once he regrets it, feeling vulnerable under Morpheus' sharp gaze. Suddenly, Technoblade wants it gone, burdened with the inescapable urge to bury his disgusting rawness in humor.

"Now, this is top secret information, Hero.” The Villain starts awkwardly, yet sincere enough that Morpheus' eyes widen slightly. “I know it's unbelievable. There would be riots if people found out; however! I am just as human as the rest of them.”

Immediately, Morpheus' brows flatten, unimpressed and clearly a bit disappointed at the joke; yet, feeling safer, less open and exposed, Techno can hardly muster the will to regret it.

The Hero huffs a laugh anyway, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Right. Let me just head to the nearest news station and claim that the top of the Commission's Wanted List told me the inner Syndicate's Myer-Briggs results. I'll add that you braided my hair while I painted your nails just to make it more believable."

"Next time maybe," Techno agrees softly, now openly running his fingers through Morpheus' hair. He feels terribly weary out of the blue, exhausted and wrung dry like an old washcloth. His own voice sounds musing when he continues his thought. "You have good hair for braids, but the nail polish would have to wait until I finished."

Morpheus does have nice hair, thick and curled enough to make a solid couple braids. It feels a bit dry on the ends, nowhere near as well-kept as Techno's, but the hero obviously gets it trimmed regularly enough not to have split ends.

Techno drops his hand into his lap with a sigh, resting his head on the couch's backrest.

"Crowfather is…He's…" Technoblade frowns, frustrated by his inability to form his thoughts. "Morpheus, have you ever had something completely change your worldview?"

Morpheus looks curious, sitting up with new intrigue. Techno rushes to explain, inconceivably concerned that somehow his meaning will be misunderstood. "Just- just, restore your faith in something you had given up on or pull you out of some never-ending cycle you could never have left on your own?"

He shakes his head, unsure what he's even disagreeing with. "I- Crowfather is that for me. He's…. He's a good man."

It feels like a lame ending, trite and useless when Technoblade feels so much more, when Phil embodies so much more than a 'Good Man'.

Chat coos, quietly for once. They know Philza's importance enough not to disrespect it, not this time.

(Even if they don't understand anything past their own entertainment, they know more about Techno than any person in the world. After all, they've been there in his darkest moments).

"You know…" Morpheus murmurs with an odd tone, studying Techno with a soft sort of intensity. Some heavier meaning weighting his voice. "..I think I have."

"Hmm?" Techno hums, still partially lost in his thoughts. The hero makes as much sense as chat sometimes.

Rather than responding, Morpheus asks his own question, cheeks lightly dusted pink for some inconceivable reason. "Hey, why didn't the others stay behind to help you? With the uh- crates."

Techno chuffs out a laugh, thankful for the easier subject."They aren't as durable as me, hero. Besides, it's not the first time I've been shot, is it?"

Techno wears a bulletproof cape to every battle since they tried to execute him, he doesn't say, and finds the look of realization on Morpheus' face satisfying.

Good. It would do well for the hero to remember that more powerful people than Villains commit atrocities.

Chat mutters derisively at the reminder, for once not excited at the memory of blood.

Well, at least it wasn't an anvil right?

Who the fuck uses an anvil to execute a criminal?

Someone who doesn't have to clean up the mess lmao.

Ngl I almost shit myself back then too, guns are scary.

Obviously eager to change the subject, Morpheus opens his mouth quickly, "What about um, that kid? The-"

"He's not a Villain." Technoblade snaps, harsher than he means to. "He never should have been anywhere near that fight and he certainly wasn't there tonight."

Ranboo could have been killed all those months ago, untrained as they are; and, if that had happened, Technoblade would never have forgiven the Commission… or himself.

Regardless, Morpheus has no right to ask about Technoblade's child, not now, not ever. Ranboo has been hurt too much for Technoblade to bend that boundary for a man on the enemy's side.

Yet, when Morpheus recoils, lips parting in surprise, Techno has the presence of mind to attempt a guilty appeasement in his next words

"Listen…" he sighs, softening his tone apologetically, "They're good people. You could've done worse than dealing with the real threat while we happened to retreat."

"You burned down the warehouse." Morpheus shoots back, with none of the anger of before. Now it merely carries a sort of soft exasperation, like Morpheus has made his peace with Technoblade's methods. "I wouldn't say you aren't a threat."

"Oh?" Technoblade arches a brow, leaning forward with a smirk and a playful tilt to his head. "Do you feel threatened right now, Hero?"

He lifts his hand, trailing one finger across the Hero's jaw until it rests beneath the Hero's chin.

Morpheus laughs distractedly, eyes darting indecisively between Technoblade's eyes, lips, and (due to the loose neckline of his blouse) now-exposed collarbone. "I- I certainly feel something right now. Not threatened, though."

Technoblade grins.

The Villain shifts closer and lets his hands drop down to Morpheus' belt. Morpheus' eyes widen, and Technoblade watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, clearly understanding what Techno attempts to telegraph.

"Oh? And how about now?" The Piglin-hybrid hums, one hand slipping beneath the hem of Morpheus' damnable hoodie as the other undoes the belt itself.

The Hero's suddenly eager hands move up to help him, unbuckling the belt with nimble, practiced fingers. Techno allows it, refocusing on accessing the bare skin of his partner's torso. He tugs at the undershirt, slipping his fingers beneath the waist of Morpheus's trousers to unhook the little looped straps he knows from experience are there to prevent the article from riding up.

Once free, Technoblade wastes no time in shoving the undershirt up. Ever helpful, Morpheus shimmies a bit as the layers of his uniform catch at his shoulders, then gives up and yanks the whole bundle of armor and fabric over his head.

He drops it on the sofa beside him, and Techno immediately leans in to press a heavy kiss to the other man's jaw.

Morpheus flushes pink beneath the attention in a way that never loses Technoblade's hungry attention.

“You're sure eager,” The blonde observes teasingly. Technoblade bends to nips at his clavicle in retaliation.

“I have had a very trying night, Hero,” Techno informs him lowly, resonant enough to be a growl. Morpheus chuckles, cutting off into a sharp inhale as Techno drags his tusks lightly down the man's pec, delivering another small bite.

"Shit, Don't- Don't leave marks." Morpheus blurts frantically when Techno's teeth dig in a little too hard. He releases a little ‘eep-’ of surprise as Techno's head swivels up, grazing the edge of one of the freckled man's areolae with a sharp tusk.

That's… different.

What?

Eh?

Oh no, Morpheus has been replaced.

BUT WHY NOT

Nahhh definitely leave marks

/pod person

Sharing Chat's confusion, Technoblade makes a questioning noise deep in his throat; lightening the press of his teeth to an open mouthed kiss, then leaning back.

"I have a physical coming up soon; don't want any questions." Morpheus explains, sounding suitably reluctant enough for Techno to forgive him.

This time.

"Fine, Hero. If you insist." Techno begrudges, leaning back in to very generously not leave marks.

Morpheus brings his hands up to tangle in Techno's loose hair, and Technoblade chuffs deep in his chest as he feels the pressure of a harmless tug.

“Now, Hero,” Techno murmurs against his skin, “Unless you have a preference, I've got an idea of how this can go.”

To emphasize his words, Technoblade slips his hands down, past the loosened waistband of Morpheus' trousers, and hooks his fingers beneath the elastic of his underwear, stroking his hips lightly in the process.

“I could-”

Techno's offer cuts off as Morpheus jumps practically out of his skin in time with the faint crackle from the comm still nestled in his ear

‘Morpheus, come in Morpheus-’ a staticky voice calls barely loud enough for Technoblade's enhanced hearing.

"Ah, son of a bitch-." The Hero swears.

Techno blinks incredulously and

straightens. "Heh? Are you still on shift?"

The blonde places his hand over Techno's mouth. "Shh.”

Techno stares, deadpan, as the idiotic Hero raises a finger to his comm. “Yes, hello, Morpheus here."

(Really? This idiot could have saved them both the trouble if he had just told Techno a different time).

More muffled speech chatters on the other end, but Technoblade cannot decipher it, nor does he care to.

"Alright, I'll be there in ten minutes,” The Hero switches the communication device back off, meeting Technoblade's eyes with sheepish regret as he lets his hand fall. “Blade, I-"

"I can't believe you told me to meet you while you were still on shift,” Techno huffs, a bit amused.

"It's not- it's not like that. Mission shifts are different-” His rival tries to protest.

"Bruuhh, the corruption! Oh, I feel faint.” Techno interrupts. He removes his hand from the other man's pants only to raise it to his forehead like a hysterical Victorian housewife. “Even the number one hero has fallen victim to the sweet lure of screwing around on company time. Oh, the tax-payer money! Oh, what would the public think?”

Morpheus splutters, voice high and embarrassed. "No- what? Blade-"

"Nah. You're gonna shirk your duties completely if you don't hurry up.” Techno removes his hands completely, watching as the upset settles on Morpheus's face.

“Go on, go do your Hero stuff,” He prompts.

If Morpheus hadn't wanted to leave them both with a mild case of blue balls, he should have waited until he no longer had an obligation to respond to his job.

"Right. I will. I am. Damnit.” The Hero wrestles his uniform back on, not bothering to fiddle with the undershirt. He stands quickly, snatching his mask from his Inventory with a flash of luminescent green. “Yep. Leaving now. Stay out of trouble."

"Your concern astounds me. Goodbye Morpheus." Technoblade drawls. Hmm. Maybe he'll just take a nap. Right on the couch.

Morpheus strides toward the window (an escape route that Techno finds annoying, if efficient).

Suddenly, Techno remembers something important. Something he had almost forgotten.

Techno stands. "Wait- Morpheus. Can I ask you something?"

The Hero pauses and turns back around, expression cautiously curious. "..It's only fair, I suppose."

"The club, Club Diamond… how did the Commission know we would be there?" Fundy had said it came from the higher ups. Techno needs a different perspective. Someone with more clearance than Vulpine.

Morpheus tilts his head, unassuming and honest when he speaks. "I mean, we didn't know you would be there but, for Jester and the mob boss? …Well, there was a tip. Why?"

It…. doesn't sound like a lie. Does Morpheus not know?

…or did Fundy have the wrong information?

"Nah, nothing important." Techno downplays lightly. "I just wondered.”

Morpheus shrugs, then sends Techno a two-finger salute. "I would say anytime but we both know that isn't true. Ciao Blood God."

Technoblade waves him off, already deep in thought as the Hero slips out the window.

Twice the Commission receives a tip, and twice a Syndicate mission goes awry.

(Someone has targeted the Syndicate).

This time there was a third party involved, someone who wanted to hurt the Commission and blame it on the Syndicate.

(They would have achieved it if Morpheus hadn't listened).

Somewhere, somehow, a new obstacle has crept into the city under all their noses, a multi-stalked plant with invasive, creeping roots.

(They have no idea how far reaching it might be, cracking the foundation of the work they put into the city, much bigger than a mere trafficking ring)

The Syndicate might be in genuine danger this time. Techno's family might be in danger.

(…And they no idea who they can trust.)

^!^^!^!^^!0000000p^!^

For once, Wilbur genuinely just intends to get a coffee.

Only habit leads him to Muffinhead as the dawn breaks open the sky, freshly changed into a relatively clean civilian outfit.

As he shoves open the door to the empty cafe with a stifled, Pavlovian yawn, he spots a flash of blonde atop the head of the person behind the counter.

He strolls up to the register, shocked when the sight before his eyes stays the same despite rapid blinks.

“You're here early,” he remarks to the red-winged teenager, who eyes him with a slow, delayed blink of his own.

‘He hasn't slept’, whispers the Phantom in his head. ‘Snatches of sleep the last few nights, not enough. He's weak.’

Wilbur ignores it. Unlike what his hindbrain likes to suggest to him, Wilbur hardly spends time hunting people down to pick off the ones who are sleepless and paranoid. That may be what actual mob phantoms do, but Wilbur simply wants to interact with people like a human, damnit.

Speaking of.

“So're you, you utter twat,” Tommy grumbles, with perhaps a bit more true venom than Wilbur actually expected. “What, got tired of your freakish fuckin’ caffeine schedule?”

Tommy stares at the clean white counter as if it personally kicked him in the back of the head and spat on him. Wilbur's brows creep upward, in the beat the silence that hangs between them.

Then,Tommy's eyes snap up to his, catching sight of Wilbur's off-put surprise, and his cheeks darken.

“....Sorry, Wilbur” He mutters, eyes dropping with regret. “That was- um. Yeah. Forget I said that.”

“Are you… alright?” Wilbur prods, scanning the dark circles beneath Tommy's eyes. They're stark against his pale skin, making Tommy look remarkably sick.

Tommy shrugs lopsidedly.

“Just got shit sleep last night,” He lies.

Wilbur calls him on it without hesitation. “Any sleep, you mean.”

Tommy looks at him with startled eyes, and Wilbur's lips quirk wryly. He lifts a hand to tap a finger at his temple. “Phantom hybrid. I can tell when people haven't slept, and you, my good lad, pulled an all-nighter.”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Fuckin’ snitch power, innit? But fine, yeah, I was up all night, and I agreed to switch my shift to morning today so Bad could do… summat, I dunno. I don't-”

He cuts off with a yawn, one that makes Wilbur want to snicker. “Don't remember. What about you? You look tired too. Didn't get all your old-man beauty sleep?”

“I was getting some work done early- Wait, Old?- child, I've not even” Wilbur, too, interrupts himself with a yawn, “-turned 26 yet..- fuck, you've passed it on.”

“Ha. Deserved. Anyway, what do you want, mate? You're-" Tommy stops, looking past Wilbur with a sudden excited gasp. "Gogy!"

With a frown, Wilbur turns around to see who dared make him invisible in a conversation he had started.

"Hi Tommy," 'Gogy" drawls in a prissily accented tenor, lifting his round, white-rimmed sunglasses up his head to reveal an infuriatingly beautiful face.

Wilbur glowers as the darker-haired male flounces up to the counter, coming to a stop Next to Wilbur and leaning on the pale surface of it as if Wilbur doesn't exist.

Icy dislike curls around Wil's spine.

“What're you doing here, Big G?” Tommy questions, looking more cheerful than Wilbur has seen him in the last few months. The other brunette sends Tommy a bored smile.

“Had something come up early this morning at work. Everyone's tired and busy, so I figured I could be a knight in shining armor and do a coffee run.” He smiles, and jealousy coils beside the dislike within Wilbur.

Tommy snorts, something mischievous in his bright blue eyes. “Oh, that's real heroic of you, innit?”

The conversation-thief narrows his eyes at Tommy, then smirks. “I know, right? I'm a real lifesaver, everyone at work thinks so.”

Tommy barks a laugh, shaking his head at some inside joke that Wilbur irritatingly has no part in. How…lovely.

Having had enough, Wilbur butts in with his most persuasive smile. “Gogy, was it? How d'you know Tommy, then? You look a bit old to be a schoolmate.”

The man laughs, a light sound accompanied by a flick of the straight strands of hair falling into his eyes. Wilbur's smile doesn't falter.

See, Wilbur would be a fool not to recognize a fellow dangerous man when he stands only four feet from one. George has fighting muscles under that pretty-boy facade, and keen eyes that watch Wilbur just as closely as Wilbur watches him.

(He doesn't intend to back down).

“Oh, no. It's George, actually, Gogy is a nickname. I'm not-”

“He's not my schoolmate, Wil. I'm homeschooled, remember?” Tommy interrupts, “He's my brother's friend. And my friend by ex-ten-si-on, right Gogs?”

“Right, Tommy.” The newly-introduced George agrees easily, then grins and glances at Wilbur conspiratorially before returning his gaze to the teen behind the counter. “And as your friend it's my legal right to bother you at your big-boy job.”

Tommy's jaw drops and he squawks out an indignant bird-like note. “Don't say it like that, what the fuck!? I'm a big man!”

Wilbur's smile reshapes into something a little more genuine at the familiarity of Tommy’s reply, and he seizes the opportunity to reclaim the conversation. “You certainly are, Toms. The question is would a man as big as yourself be up to letting me order, before I waste away without caffeine?”

Tommy blinks, brows dropping into an unimpressed expression. “Prime, you're such an addict.”

Wilbur chuckles, placing a hand dramatically to his chest. “You wound me. I am the addict, and you are my supplier.”

Tommy huffs in amusement, and George pipes up from where he's been watching the exchange.

“Wow.”

Wilbur looks over with a raised brow.

George shrugs nonchalantly under Wilbur's questioning gaze. “I can't believe Tommy met someone as dramatic as he is.”

Tommy gasps, then points a finger at George. “I am not dramatic! You're officially not my best mate anymore, Gogy.” He twists to look at Wilbur, who tries not to preen at the turnabout. “What's your order?”

“I'd like something with vanilla, but otherwise surprise me. You ought to know what I like by now,” Wilbur says airily.

Tommy makes a face.

“‘You ought to know mimimi’” he mocks in a high-pitched, completely incorrect voice. “You're such a prat, don't be one of those regulars.”

However, the irritation from earlier has disappeared and Tommy has already began punching a drink order into the register, so Wilbur accepts the teasing with grace. Once Tommy rattles off the total, though, George interrupts again.

“Wil, was your name?”

“Wilbur.” The curly-haired musician corrects. Tommy could call him Wil, not this frustratingly suave stranger.

The man bobs his head in a relaxed nod, turning back towards the counter. “Hey, Tommy, I'll pay for his as well.”

Wilbur's brows creep up.

“Awfully generous of you,” he states, inflection suggesting a question despite the simple statement. George shrugs, batting his eyelashes in a hypnotic way that the curly-haired phantom thinks might be accidental.

“Eh, it's not my money, so why not?" George flashes Wilbur another charming smile, waving a credit card through the air. Wilbur blinks. "No one checks my spending anyway."

Oh, how lovely actually. Perhaps Wilbur's initial assessment was hasty.

Had the pretty man noticed Wilbur's hidden aggravation? Could this be a gesture of goodwill? Or perhaps he simply wants look good in front of his friend's kid brother. Regardless, it works, and the Villain's desire to command the other man to jump into a lake has suddenly lessened.

Ah well, Wilbur has historically been easily won over by pretty faces and prettier bribes.

“Sure, mate,” He allows, “I won't say no to sticking it to a corporation.”

George laughs like Wilbur made a joke.

Without hesitation, George proceeds to place an order for approximately two dozen more drinks and various baked goods, swiping his company card at the end to pay.

Tommy grouses about it being a quiet morning before they both showed up with a smile beneath the dark circles under his eyes. (The dark circles that George clearly hasn't noticed. Maybe they're common for Tommy and Wilbur just hasn't seen them before? Phil still always notices when Wilbur pulls all-nighters.)

While they wait for the avian to dash around and fill the to-go order, Wilbur finds himself once more caught in conversation with George.

“So you a 404 fan then?" The Villain starts when the silence gets uncomfortable, leaning against the counter nonchalantly.

"..Sorry?" George asks, flashing Wilbur a handsome grin after just a beat too long of pause.

Wilbur blinks, gesturing to the accessory resting on the other man's head. "The, uh- glasses. They're 404 merch are they not?"

(Wilbur would recognize 404 merch from a mile away; after all, the Commission sics the bastard on him every chance they get. It will be a crying shame if George turns out to be a fanboy).

George pauses at Wilbur's words, stilling as some sort of irritated realization contorts his face for a split second before smoothing.

"Are they?" The handsome man asks, something in his eyes promising a retribution at odds with his light, blaisé tone. "They were given to me by my roommate, I didn't realize."

Wilbur understands immediately.

"Ah, I see. Get 'em back for it, Mate" He offers cheerfully.

“Oh, I will.” George says, and despite his placid smile Wilbur sees a glint of cold calculation. Definitely not just a pretty boy, then. “This isn't the first time he's pulled this sort of prank,”

"Oh?" Wilbur prompts curiously

“Last time it was a cardboard cutout of Morpheus in my bloody closet. Scared the shit out of me.” George's lips purse in a memory of displeasure beforing curling into a wicked smirk. “He laughed his ass off, so the next week I filled his room with off-brand, Inferno-themed scented candles.”

Wilbur, who had once endured a rant from Techno about Callahan lighting several of said candles in his bookshop and aggravating the Piglin-hybrid's extremely sensitive nose, can't help but grimace; torn between sympathy for the roommate and pride for the well-deserved revenge enacted. George scans his expression and shrugs awkwardly, schadenfreude fading from his countenance.

“He was fine, don't worry. He was simply a big baby about it.”

Wilbur opens his mouth, but startles when Tommy loudly pops up between them, leaning over the counter with a drink in his hand, which he shoves at George.

“‘Ello! What're we talking about, boys?” The teen demands with a grin directed at Wilbur when the other glares at him for the deliberate jumpscare.

“Remember when I filled Pandas’ room with those godawful Inferno candles?” George laughs, plucking the to-go cup from Tommy's hands and Tommy's curious scrutiny lightens.

“Oh- Prime, yes, ugh.” The young blonde makes a fake gagging motion, wings sagging dramatically. It reminds Wilbur of Quackity. “I can't understand why it took that wanker so long to air the place out! He was all ‘wah wah Tommy you should use your wings to help’ and I was like bitch, you have a fan! I don't wanna smell like shitty stinky candles too!”

Wilbur stares at the boy for a long moment.

Tommy stares back, doing that unnerving, uncanny avian thing where he doesn't blink. Phil does it, sometimes, but it's usually when his birdbrain takes over, not to challenge Wilbur.

Wilbur does his best to stare back, but Tommy ends up losing anyway when George reaches over to flick his nose. Tommy squawks, hands flying up to cover his face.

“Oi, what the fuck Gogy?!” He shrieks, flipping his middle finger up in a way that showcases the bright red plaster on it. George raises an eyebrow. “I have to get back, you obnoxious child. Are you done with the order?”

Tommy grumbles something vulgur and colorful about shoving George's order somewhere crude, but he turns and retrieves four bags, all of which look like they're holding something flat and straining.

The drink caddies, if Wilbur guesses correctly.

"Here, bitch." Tommy thrusts the order over the counter, into George's waiting hands.

"Thanks, brat." George responds, nodding goodbye to Wilbur as he leaves with his load.

As soon as the cafe doors swing shut behind the man, Wilbur turns back to the tired teenager.

"He seems nice."

"Gogy is out of your league."

Wilbur's sputters, instantly offended. “What the- first of all, you unhinged little shit: I wasn't hitting on him.”

Tommy shoves Wilbur's beverage towards him with a roll of his eyes at Wilbur's defensiveness.

"Secondly-," Wilbur blazes on as he takes his drink.“-Rude. I'm a fucking prize, and Gogy would be privileged to have me. Why wouldn't he?”

He means it rhetorically, but forgets the mouthy teen in his presence.

“Pssh, George rejected my brother,and they're practically soulmates. You haven't a chance, Wil-bah. Very sorry to break the bad news, I know you are a sad, lonely man.”

Wilbur reaches over and shoves the shorter boy's head. Tommy cackles in response, and the phantom hybrid takes a drink of his coffee. After a beat, though Wilbur tilts his head.

“Did he actually turn down your brother?” Wilbur asks, interest peaked. Tommy's face screws into a grimace.

“Yeah, unfortunately. Apparently George is a-ro-mantic. They're still friends, but my brother was more than a touch torn up over it.” Tommy frowns, and it's so serious that Wilbur's expression falls in sympathy. “That was a rough couple months afterwards, let me tell you.”

Wilbur's stomach does an anxious little flip at that. What could that mean? (He hardly likes the scenarios that play through his head)

“What do you-” Wilbur starts, but Tommy has apparently decided to change the subject.

”Anyway, romance is all overrated, innit? I personally don't need to romance anyone.” He blinks, then quickly tacks on an addendum. “Except for my many many wives, of course. They all cry for my attention, all hours of the day. Other than that, my friendship charm is enough.”

Wilbur scoffs at the bravado, but lets the subject lie for now. He can tell just fine when someone deliberately dances around a straight answer.

“Right. Well, what do your many many wives have to say about you staying up all night?”

Tommy pauses, surprise flitting across his features, but realization replaces it quickly. “I forgot you mentioned you could that, earlier. ‘S weird.”

Wilbur nods, quirking a brow. “Uh huh. Are you sure you're alright?”

Tommy huffs. “Prime, you're as bad as my best friend's mum. Yeah, I'm good, I just stayed up late talking to my friend Tubbo, discussing… stuff.”

“Stuff?” Wilbur echoes proddingly.

“I, uh-” He pauses, blue eyes flicking around the cafe shiftily. Wil leans closer, intrigued.

“We met someone, last week, and- well, I dunno. He- they? Helped me out, then ran off suddenly without saying goodbye. We were talking about him. Tubbo likes the guy, but I get… weird vibes. Not bad weird, more like…”

The boy trails off, rolling his wrist in a circular motion, as if to keep his train of thought moving. “They're real nervous. Jumpy like. About my age, I think, and they seem friendly enough, but they're also sketchy. I think they might be, like, running away from somewhere? I haven't seen them again, but I want…”

He stops again, fumbling and snapping his teeth in a typical avian display of frustration. “I'd help him, if I knew what was wrong.”

Wilbur smiles a bit despite himself. Tommy… has a good heart. He sees it more and more as he gets to know the kid, a soft inside to the gremlin exterior.

But…

"You're not getting into any trouble are you?" Wilbur asks, concerned. What did Tommy need help with that put him in this person's circle. "You're being safe?"

Tommy scrunches his nose, shooting Wilbur a judgmental look. It carries the most teenage disdain Wilbur has seen since he met Technoblade for the first time.

(Quite a feat given that Wilbur lives with a teenager. Yet, Ranboo has the opposite disposition of Wilbur's favorite barista. Ranboo lulls innocent people into a false sense of security with his timid, sweet act and then wham! Blindsides 'em, with some horribly sarcastic, witty remark. No wonder Techno likes him).

Wilbur clears his throat awkwardly in face of the silent scorn. Tommy obviously has no intention of pouring his heart out to Wilbur nor revealing any more personal information.

In all fairness, Wilbur doesn't think he would be able to stop himself if Tommy admitted to being in danger. Not when Siren could-

No.

Wilbur knows better. Unless Tommy really needs help, Wilbur will keep things well enough where they are.

(Nothing good comes of bringing civilians into the fold. Wilbur learned that lesson… personally).

Anyway, Tommy clearly doesn't want to be parented any more than Wilbur wants to parent him. (Adopting random children happens to fall under his Sleeping's jurisdiction, thank you very much. Quackity and the others can keep their pseudo parent-child relationships, Wilbur will continue to be a stunning example to all the child-shaped people in the world. Starting, of course, with Tommy)

"Anyway." Wilbur quickly chirps. "This fellow? My brother was like that for a while when he was younger."

"You have a brother?" Tommy seems surprised.

"My little baby brother." Wilbur agrees with a nod. "When we adopted him he would barely let anyone but my dad near. Half feral."

Come to think of it, Ranboo had been of a kin when Techno had found him. Huh. Birds of a feather do flock together.

"What did you do?" The avian asks, sounding intrigued.

"You have to kinda treat them like a cat. The kind you find half-dead next to a trash bin behind a care home." Wilbur instructs wisely, thinking back to how long it had taken for Techno to finally feel safe enough to approach him. Tommy nods along with wide eyes. "Feed them, let them know they are safe, but most importantly give them space."

"Then what?" Tommy questions, leaning on the counter towards Wilbur, who has pulled out his wallet during his speech.

"Then..." Wilbur starts, dropping a few large bills in the tip jar in a grandiose gesture. Hah! Take that Gogy. "If you're patient they'll come to you."

Tommy nods, looking deep in thought. The unreasonable tip no longer phases him after the many times Wilbur has done it.

"Alright, Big Man. I think I'll try-" he cuts off with another yawn, feathers lifting and falling with the uncontrolled stretch of his mouth. "Try that. Thanks."

To Wilbur's consternation, he again automatically yawns in response, definitely feeling the hours he has been awake.

"Seems like you need some sleep, Wil." Tommy offers, looking far too pleased and awake after passing his curse onto Wilbur. "If your work is done and all that."

With a playful growl, Wilbur lunges forward to roughly ruffle Tommy's blonde hair. "You brat."

Tommy makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a squawk, those avian genetics making it a proper bird noise as he wriggles out of the reach of Wilbur's hand. "Wil! Ha- you wrong-un. I'll bite you!"

"I'm sure you will you gremlin." Wilbur laughs, subtly retracting his arm as he remembers the many times one of his fellow ally Villains made good on that threat.

(Wilbur doesn't even trust the relatively harmless hybrid species to protect his poor limbs. Birds aren't fucking harmless. Quackity left scars).

"But uh-," Wilbur yawns again. "-Dammit Tommy- I ought to go. Tell Bad hi for me, yeah?"

"Sure." Tommy agrees. "Only because I'm taking pity on you though. I'm no ones errands boy, Wil-Bitch."

Wilbur laughs, taking a pensive sip of his drink as a wave of exhaustion creeps up on him like the tide

"Get some rest, Tommy." He says seriously as the door chimes behind him, signaling the start of the morning coffee rush and his cue to leave. "I mean it. I'll see you later, gremlin."

Tommy waves goodbye, already preoccupied with the first customer beginning their order.

Wilbur pulls out his phone as he pushes through the door, shooting a quick list to Technoblade before opening the Syndicate Group Chat.

PhantomMenace, 6:54 am:

Movie night tonight?

(….Dadza and four others are typing)

Chapter Text

Not a Chapter, but an Important update Nonetheless.

Hello, Beloveds.

This year has been a fiery shitshow, as many of us know. The big question in the fandom currently is: Do we continue writing fanfiction for the Dream SMP characters?

Obviously this answer is going to differ from author to author, but for Erato and myself, the answer is yes.

We are not writing Real Person Fiction.

The content creators of the DSMP created for the story characters that became very beloved to the fandom.

Then we took those characters, and we transformed them, and put pieces of ourselves in. They're ours now. The Wilbur Soot I write, the George NotFound I write, the Dream Wastaken, Technoblade and TommyInnit and Philza fucking Minecraft I write are MINE now.

William Gold didn't give Wilbur a love for his family and amber eyes and a fondness for caffeine, we did. Nick Armstrong didn't give Sapnap a romantic belief in destiny and a sensitivity to scented candles and a firestorm desire to protect his city, we did. George Davidson didn't give George Notfound aromanticism and a kindness toward civilians and a nerdy passion for fungus, we did.

They're ours now, and the content creators don't get anything from them, so we're damn well going to keep them.

The behavior is disappointing, and the loss the fans are feeling is real, but remember that most of us had no real relationship with these people.

Erato and I have never donated to, or financially supported, any CCs.

We have never Chattered in their streams, or paid to meet them at con, or seen their liveshows or concerts. (The singular exception to all this being Technoblade). We have no support to pull from any of these people. I don't even think I'm subscribed to most of them. I don't think Erato is either.

We do not support abuse, assault, or anything akin to those things. The things that are coming to light are grotesque, and we hope the people who have actually been harmed can heal.

Just remember: Verify everything. Get the full story. Form your own opinions, don't just borrow others’.

Anyway, the More Than Fraternization series will continue, we will keep writing Dreamnoblade because it brings comfort, and We hope it can do the same to you all.

See you next Chapter, and feel free to join the Discord if you feel like talking about some positive stuff and/or seeing all the silly memes we send. <3 -Cal

(p.s. Next chapter is taking us a little longer than average. Life has been kicking our free time in the shins. It will get done eventually I promise)

--------------

ALSO!!! IF YOU WERE INTERESTED IN SOMETHING CHEERFUL TO OFFSET THIS YEAR SO FAR, ERATO WROTE TWO SHORT DRABBLES! YOU CAN FIND THEM:

HERE (Incubus Techno DnB)

And

HERE (Cute Domestic Christmas DnB)

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the warehouse, very little changes.

The debrief marks the mission as an overall failure with no mention of how Dream contributed to such an outcome, and Dream, with just a little more weight on his shoulders, has no choice but to put it behind him.

Thus, life continues on just the same, days passing in the same drudge of hero-work and home until the bimonthly medical exam comes knocking less than a week later.

Dream, for once, finishes his duties a good hour before the time Ponk scheduled for him (and Tommy, best to get both brother's health checks done at the same time, though Dream suspects it's more out of Ponk taking the opportunity to include Tommy for fondness' sake rather than any real concern for the avian's health). This, and a desire to skip the crowd of other heros and agents clocking off and on, leads Dream beelining for the elevator at a speed that would make Velocity blush.

(Was the speedster there last week? To help the Syndicate get away so quicky? Dream wonders- Well. It hardly helps to think about it now).

Yet as Dream makes his way to the elevator, on his way to rouse his brother from whatever Tommy does on a class-free, work-free Monday, he feels a hand land on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

Reluctantly turning his head, the masked hero catches sight of a bicolor-visor.

“Ayup, green boy, ‘ow do?” greets his fellow Hero, winking one eye behind the blue-to-red lenses.

Jack Manifold, better known by the public as Polarity. He has worked with Dream's team on multiple occasions in the past, often paired with Sapnap due to his fire-resistance as a relatively rare magma-cube hybrid.

His powers themselves are rather useful, if highly unusual, allowing the man to magnetize any two objects he touches, no matter the distance. Quite dangerous if used with bad intentions, but thankfully, Jack has always been an exemplary hero.

Dream offers a small nod to the other man, itching to keep moving. “Hello, Polarity.”

Jack scoffs a little at the formality of the greeting, despite knowing as well as any other Hero that protocol demands aliases be used in any low-to-mid level clearance areas.

They aren't really close enough for the familiarity Jack always seems to approach Dream with nowadays (ever since learning Morpheus' real name courtesy of Tommy), but Dream finds the man pleasant enough company most days.

"One of these days you'll lighten up a bit, yeah?" Jack asks rhetorically as he gives Dream a couple heavy handed thumps on the shoulder. “But no more time for that right now, We've got a Player briefing to attend, mate.”

Dream's brow crinkles behind his mask. “I didn't receive any notification.”

Player briefings are meetings in which the Commission makes mention of all the current and new powerful figures classified as Villain or Vigilante. "Knowing all the players on the field" being one of the most emphasized parts of Commission training.

(Which makes the shitshow of the warehouse even stranger. Who were those Villains if not Syndicate)?

Most Villains, of course, are marked as a mandatory Incapacitate On Sight, while Vigilantes are typically to be detained and escorted to the Commission building for a fine and a stern Cease-and-Desist order.

Only the higher-clearance Commission members know that some… promising Vigilantes are also offered a chance at an official Hero title, should they pass the grueling training course. (Better to accept well intentioned, if misguided, individuals into the Commission's ranks than to see them trot down the path of villainy when their vigilante gig inevitably fails).

Of course, most recruits join the ranks of agents, powers or prowess never quite as strong as a Hero but occasionally, sometimes, an individual will prove they have what it takes to join the front-line.

(Diviner, if Dream remembers correctly, fell under this latter category years before Dream had even debuted, as they, in an unusual turn of events, approached the Commission).

“They didn't send one out.” Jack shrugs as he herds Dream toward the elevator. “Ludwig figured he'd just get anyone in the building for an impromptu meeting then do a secondary one with answers to whatever questions this lot asks.”

Dream sighs as Jack presses the elevator button, resigned to never ever be on time to a mandatory checkup. (Should've known it seemed too good to be true). “I guess Ponk is gonna have to wait a little longer.”

Jack's gaze whips around to look him up and down as the elevator doors glide closed, headset bobbing with his head.

“Are you injured? Man, you should've said-”

Dream waves a hand dismissively to cut off the impending lecture.

“I'm not hurt, Jack. I have a physical assessment scheduled. Routine, for the files.” He nudges Jack with his elbow, a smirk in his voice. “It's good to know you care, though.”

“Prick,” Jack shoots back without any real heat, shoving him back (no wonder he and Tommy seem to get along, they're so similar-) “I'm allowed to worry. And just for that you get to walk in first and get everyone staring.”

“Oh no,” Dream deadpans lowly, “I have to show up to the meeting I wasn't told about until five minutes before it started. How horrible everyone's judgments will be.”

The elevator doors slide near-silently open.

“Oh ho," Jack barks a laugh as he steps out, Dream following behind, "You sounded like a stolid L'Manburgian there. Very Trenchant. I approve.”

..What?

Dream stares for a moment at a loss for what Jack found so amusing. When the dots finally connect, the blonde hero flushes a brilliant pink under his mask. Did he really mimic Blade?

Oh Prime. Dream can never tell anyone.

He opens his mouth to make some excuse, but within the moment they've already arrived at the meeting room. Jack makes an ‘after you’ gesture, and Dream makes sure to flip him off before opening the door and strolling in.

Ludwig Utübe stands at the front of the room, a tablet in hand. He glances at the men as they enter and nods in greeting, clearly taking their straggled entrance as a cue to start.

“Everyone, thank you for coming, I'll try to make this meeting quick. If you want to read along, I have the files prepared digitally on the tablets there, and if you feel the need to review later, everything is already updated in the system, and should be accessible with your security codes and logins. As always, I'm available for questions later if there are any issues."

He waits a long moment for the Heroes to distribute the touchscreens amongst themselves and flip through the files before continuing.

"As I am sure you all remember from the last briefing, Vigilantes are a continuous obstacle in our mission to improve Essempi's welfare. These criminals are often misguided citizens who are either unable to join the Commission's many recruitment programs, or unwilling to be held responsible for their actions in the eyes of the law. Firstly I would like to thank you all for your hard work out, as all of the previous meeting's Vigilantes have been successfully apprehended. Secondly-"

Dream…. has heard this spiel hundreds of times throughout his career. Repeated and reiterated over and over as vigilantes fade in and out of public view.

He himself has arrested quite a few, getting them off the streets before they can do more harm than good. They are hardly the worst type of criminal out there, yet, with no training, no code of conduct, and a disregard for Essempi laws, they are criminals (and somewhat more dangerous with their disregard for their own safety).

“-and unfortunately we do have a few newer additions to our gallery. First up: A so far nameless individual, power level unknown."

Ludwig starts the slideshow, clicking to a slide of a black and purple clad, feminine figure with a purple mask on the lower half of her face and swirling pink designs all over one half of her outfit. The picture clearly came off of someone's phone, picture just clear enough to catch the light coloured strands of hair peeking out from the vigilantes hood, but too blurry to see much in the way of proper identification.

“Given eyewitness testimony, we believe the suspect is female, of merling origin, and most likely host to some sort of physical enhancement. She has been reported multiple times deliberately intercepting and halting crimes in progress, and has been spotted several other times traveling the city at night, most likely on a self-imposed patrol route. Victims of the stopped crimes claim she spoke very little, but had a slight accent when she did speak.”

Ludwig sighs,

“Unfortunately, there are signs of her attempting to emulate the Villain Antipode.”

Dream takes in a sharp little inhale, and hears several other heroes echo the sound.

Vigilantes who mimic villains, who mock their image, thinking they can do better with the same theme, nearly always end up stepping on those same Villains’ toes and disappearing shortly after. Antipode specifically has never been known as particularly merciful, often ruthless and unrelenting when she has a goal.

(Dream thinks about the Antipode that Blade described and wonders how the two versions of the Villainess can mesh, wonders how far the Merling will actually go if she feels slighted by some stupid vigilante trying to copy her)

(Will the Blood God be proven wrong so soon)?

At the same time, Dream hears Jack make a low, disapproving hum beside him. The masked hero turns his head enough to see the magnetic hero press a fisted hand to his frowning lips. The man's visor obscures his eyes quite a bit, but Dream thinks he can see a furrow in the man's brow.

What a strangely… intense reaction.

Ludwig nods, obviously catching the group's dismay and not Jack's suddenly somber mood. “Yes. As a result, this individual has been flagged as potentially having a target on her back, so exercise caution when interacting with her, and make bringing her in priority so she doesn't get herself killed.”