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Chapter Text

Despite the assurances that his scholarship would fully fund the trip, Tommy was beginning to suspect that he stood out like a sore thumb amongst the others that had been invited. The smell of far too many different colognes and perfumes hung heavy in the air, clogging his already overwhelmed senses as he took in the sight of the Magehold.

It was every witch’s dream, to become part of the Magehold upon graduating the Academy. Only the finest students would be accepted; only the most powerful.

Tommy had power. Enough of it to land a scholarship throughout his entire academic career, regardless of his lack of etiquette or family name.

Power wasn’t enough to secure a spot in the Magehold. It was about politics – a class Tommy had always skipped out of boredom – and the alliances that could be made. Anyone that openly disputed the Syndicate, for example, were automatically dismissed from the Magehold’s shortlist.

‘I didn’t realise they were allowing strays to wander around such an esteemed place,’ one of the other students comments, earning some snickering laughter from the group.

Twenty-four students have been offered a tour. Only two or three of them will make it to the Magehold.

Even if his cheeks burn at the comment, he glares back at the older student. ‘I didn’t realise they were allowing dickheads, but you’re here, so they must be.’

He has no idea who the guy is, but if he’s allowed to stand in the Magehold with magic that weak, then he’s probably the son of somebody important. Insulting him, therefore, is a stupid decision. A reckless one, and Tommy will probably get punished for it later from his mentor.

A low murmuring of oo’s and ahh’s sweep across the gathering of students. The one that he insulted takes a step forward, only to fall silent as his gaze drifts over Tommy’s shoulder.

‘That’s what I thought, bitch,’ Tommy spits, for good measure.

‘Ehem.’

He does not jump at the voice behind him. Nor does he almost trip over his feet in an attempt to spin around sharply.

Blue eyes, tinted with red flecks, peer at him. They’d be rather pretty eyes, if the guy they belonged to didn’t have the most ridiculous shade of pink hair that Tommy’s ever seen. The stranger is tall, broad-shouldered and stacked with spells and curses that bind around him, visible to Tommy’s sensitivity to magic.

One of them is particularly interesting; a strand of death magic woven around his core. Tommy’s dabbled in necromancy before – an obvious choice after losing people – but this is different. It smells like death, but slightly… sweeter? More alive, if death could be described by its antipode.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Tommy says, then curiously stretches out his own magic to nudge at the death magic.

It reacts almost instantly. The guy’s eyes widen, before his brow furrows. ‘Stop touching my magic.’

Tommy tilts his head to the side. Not many can realise when he’s doing that, so he supposes the guy is probably a skilled witch, maybe even a Mageling.

‘Stop sneaking up on people, then,’ Tommy retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

It’s more to hide the fading stain that he can’t quite get out, rather than an attempt to intimidate. His mentor told him that he would be fine to accept the invitation to the Magehold, but he didn’t mention that everyone would be dressed in silks worth more than Tommy’s entire self.

The potentially-powerful stranger blinks. ‘This… you’re the guest. This is my home.’

‘You scare all your guests? Sounds like an uncool thing to do, big man. A violation. I feel violated.’

When Tommy rambles, people usually get angry. His mentor doesn’t let him get away with it at all, and most of the students Tommy interacts with will attempt to curse or hex him.

The stranger just blinks. ‘Why did you say it like that?’

‘What?’

‘Violate,’ the man says, lips quirking up slightly.

‘Violated,’ Tommy repeats, firmer this time. He’s pretty sure he’s winning this argument.

The guy huffs, then looks away from Tommy to the other students. Belatedly, Tommy realises that they’ve all lowered themselves into half-bows.

Tommy’s heard you’re only supposed to do that with a Syndicate member. He frowns, then turns back to the guy in front of him.

‘You’re not Philza, the Greatest Man Ever, are you?’

Philza, leader of the Syndicate, Mage-Keeper, Angel of Death. Tommy’s favourite person, because he saved Tommy’s original clan when Tommy was a baby. It was all his mum had told him; stories about a powerful mage who swept over their village during the raid and defeated the demons that were coming to kill them.

Tommy had gifted Philza with a title, and it had been etched into the side of their village hall. The adults had laughed, ruffling his hair and telling him that he would go far in life if he kept up such strong faith in the Mage-Keeper.

The stranger shakes his head. ‘I am not.’

A disappointment. Tommy sighs, trying not to show just how excited he was at the prospect of meeting the only Mage that had the power to properly kill demons. Most of them just banished the creatures back to their realm, but Philza could do what no other could do.

‘Shame,’ Tommy says with a shrug, then realises he still hasn’t bowed.

He does so awkwardly. He didn’t grow up in the Academy, nor anywhere near it, so he’s not been taught the same as the other students.

‘Apologies for him, my Lord,’ the same guy from earlier says, which is just rude, ‘Master Jschlatt was rather insistent that he be brought along.’

Not-Philza doesn’t bother turning to the other student. He’s still studying Tommy, or more accurately, studying his magic. Tommy’s not met anyone – aside from Jschlatt – that can see his gifts. Like his mentor, the Syndicate member is mostly focused on the shimmering gold that covers Tommy.

‘I see,’ Not-Philza replies. ‘You’re to be taken to your dormitories. Lights are out at ten, breakfast is at dawn. Should any of you be out during the night, you’ll be immediately dismissed.’

People pop up, seemingly out of the shadows. Tommy eyes them up warily; they’re humans. He’s heard about them, of course. A race long forgotten, in a realm that they can no longer roam. Apparently, when their realm fell apart, they made a deal of servitude to protect magic.

‘This way,’ a man says, dressed in clothes that are still far nicer than Tommy’s.

He turns to follow the other students, only for Not-Philza to interrupt. ‘Not you.’

Ah.

The other students look at him with cruel smiles and whispers of amusement, spitting insults that he refuses to listen to as they follow the human away from the entrance to the Magehold. Although they’ve never been kind to him, he didn’t really expect them to abandon him with a Syndicate member. The Academy prides itself on being a community, yet the moment Tommy appeared in his ragged clothes and bare-feet, that value seemed to be tossed out of the nearest window.

‘If this is because I accused you of violation, I can take back that statement. I would never wrongly accuse an innocent man of such crimes, and you are obviously innocent, save for that terrible hair choice, but I suppose—’

‘Do you have any survival instinct?’ Not-Philza inquires, going back to watching him again.

Tommy wonders what he means.

‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘No?’

‘Then why would I need survival instincts?’ Tommy questions, thoroughly confused. ‘Aren’t you just going to send me back to the Academy?’

‘By yourself?’

‘I’m a big man,’ Tommy reiterates, in case the Not-Philza had misunderstood him earlier, ‘I can handle myself.’

He doesn’t get a response. Clearly outsmarted, the not-Philza turns away from him and begins to walk towards what Tommy can only describe as the most expensive looking door he’s ever seen. It’s got gold lining the edge, with a large handle inscribed with words in the old language.

‘Come,’ the stranger says, as he opens the door.

‘I’m not a dog,’ Tommy protests, but he quickly follows the Syndicate member through the door.

On the other side, a long corridor stretches out. Tommy struggles to keep up with the long stride of the man in front, but he doesn’t complain. If he’s about to be kicked out into the dark, where the demons are probably lurking considering the moon is out, Tommy needs to be in a good condition to fight them. Upsetting a Syndicate member and getting beaten up because of it is probably not conducive to good health.

Still, he can’t resist nudging at the man’s magic again. Avoiding the strand of death, he instead moves to the normal colour of everyone’s magic-core. A soft, wispy blue. The stronger the magic, the more loops of blue that make it up.

‘You certainly look like a stray pet,’ the stranger says, without looking back.

Tommy refuses to show how much that hurts.

He’s been a stray since the demons came back. With his village gone, Tommy had no home. Nobody would take a witch that had been struck by a demon, nobody save for Jschlatt. He’d found Tommy, curled up in the backstreets of Essempi, and frowned at him.

‘Why are you starving?’

‘Because I’ve got no food,’ Tommy had bluntly replied, which he thought was obvious.

Later, Jschlatt had told him that, with power as great as his, he could have simply crafted food from nothing. Tommy learned how to do that immediately, and realised he would never have to go hungry again. Not even if the Academy kicked him out, or if the Magehold banished him from the entire Kingdom.

While he could control his magic, Tommy could eat. That was enough for him to survive.

He’s a stray at the Academy, even if his magic was powerful. They didn’t care, because Jschlatt wouldn’t let him prove himself against the older students.

‘I’m not a pet,’ Tommy argues.

Not-Philza reaches the end of the corridor, opening the door with a soft glow of magic around the handle. He doesn’t speak; non-verbal magic is usually the sign of a Mage.

‘Not countering the claim of being a stray?’

Tommy glances down to where he can see his socks peeking out of the holes in his shoes, then ignores the pink-haired man as the next room is revealed.

This one hosts more people. More powerful people. Five in total, with varying wisps of magic surrounding them. One of them, though, is the focus of Tommy’s attention.

‘How were the kids, Tech—you brought a child into the room,’ says a brown-haired Mage, with a similar strand of death-magic coiled around him.

Tommy would be offended. He’d probably start spitting curses, if not for the fact that Tommy is faced with gold threads of magic, just like his own. A colour he’s never seen, yet is mimicked here on a man he can’t help but recognise.

Philza, leader of the Syndicate, Mage-Keeper, Angel of Death. The same titles Tommy had used earlier, only now he doesn’t add Greatest Man Ever, because—

Well, to be blunt, Tommy’s underwhelmed.

Philza’s magic is a perfect copy to Tommy’s. The same golden shimmer, with a burning ball of blue wisp threads. There are some extra curses woven into his soul, and the death strand as opposed to Tommy’s necromancy, but they are ultimately a mirror reflection of each other.

When Tommy’s town burned to the ground, he had been out in the woodlands, trying to tempt fae into circles and trap them. A stupid, childish hobby that had meant he hadn’t been there to fight for his home. Not that he could have done much, because he hadn’t learned how to banish them yet, and the only thing he could do was summon golden fire to his hands. His mum had made him promise to keep that a secret, though.

Considering the first time their home was attacked, Philza had saved them, Tommy expected his magic to be something incredible.

‘He’s got magic like yours, Phil. Thought I should bring him here,’ says the stranger, Tech-something. He’s still standing at Tommy’s side, although he’s frowning again. ‘Thought you’d be a bit more excited, kid. You were just raving about Phil being the “greatest man ever”’.

The brunet snorts, as do the other three people that aren’t Philza.

Tommy just stares.

‘Hey, mate,’ comes the gentle voice of his once-hero, who looks… sad. There’s surprise, and confusion, and something gentle that Tommy doesn’t really understand, but the sadness is what he lingers on. ‘That’s some pretty impressive magic you’ve got.’

‘And an interesting dress-style,’ the brunet adds, nose wrinkled. ‘Did you crawl out of a dumpster? Students of the Academy—’

‘I think he was recruited,’ Tech-something cuts in.

Philza’s magic is like Tommy’s. Ultimately, this means that Tommy had the exact same capability of stopping his town from burning up.

He’s pretty sure he understands why Jschlatt told him that it was never worth it, to meet your heroes.

‘Thanks,’ Tommy says, bluntly, to both Philza and the brunet.

Tech-something nudges him. ‘C’mon, kid, where’s that excitement from earlier?’

Philza takes a step closer. ‘Demons?’

The room falls silent.

Tommy knows what the Mage is asking. He’s got the same magic as Tommy, so he must know that it didn’t appear until after Tommy had done the impossible and killed a demon. One that he found crouching over the very-burnt body of his last blood relative.

‘You’re not as impressive as I thought you’d be,’ Tommy blurts, unable to stop himself. It feels like his heart is cracking, the ache of knowing he could have saved people…

The brunet laughs. ‘You’ve got some nerve, talking—’

‘It’s alright, Wil,’ the man says softly, before he looks back at Tommy. ‘Niki, would you mind finding a room for the night for our Mageling? He can join the others in the morning, and… what’s your name, mate?’

‘Tommy.’

‘Tommy needs some clothes.’

Niki, a woman with black hair and expressive eyes, takes a step towards him. She’s powerful, although missing the death-strain. ‘This way,’ she guides, and Tommy follows.

He wishes he’d never come to the Magehold.

**

His moment of proof comes the next morning. After a breakfast that he skipped, the twenty-four students are led out to a training ring. Lined with stone seating, like an amphitheatre, the structure is caged over the top with mesh. The protective runes carved into the floor warn Tommy that it’s housing something dangerous, something demonic.

‘Watch it, stray.’

He’s knocked out of the way of one of the older students, shoved to the back as they stand in the middle of the ring.

‘Good morning,’ Philza, the not-so-Greatest-Man-Ever, greets. ‘You’re here to demonstrate your abilities, and as such, I thought a small show of power might be a good idea. Each of you will face a singular demon, and must use your skills to combat that.’

The crowd shift uneasily. A demon, a fully fledged demon, is not easy to banish. Especially one-on-one.

Tommy watches as Philza, Wil, Tech-something and Niki, along with the other two unnamed people, exit the ring. They move to the seating, and they’re left with the human from last night.

‘Right, all of you exit the ring. Form a line, one at a time.’

Tommy isn’t surprised to be shoved to the back.

The first student, the one he picked a fight with yesterday, gets beaten into the ground by the black, swirling mass of a young demon. Tommy watches, mostly amused, as three people rush into the ring to assist. Throughout it all, Philza does not move. He sits, eyes trained on the demon, before briefly glancing to Tommy.

The smile he sends is genuine.

He doesn’t really understand why Philza is testing them. None of them do particularly well; even the ones that manage to banish the demons take hits that require medical attention. By the time Tommy steps into the ring, only three of the twenty-three before him have banished their demon. They sit on the stone seats, some being tended to by medics, and others just watching.

He lets his toes curl inside his holey shoes, already filling with sand. He refused the pair Niki tried to give him last night.

The gate opens, just as it did for the others. Tommy watches the demon emerge, eyes flicking over the dark magic. An adult, unlike the juveniles that were brought in before. It moves at a speed far too quickly to be anything close to witchkind, probably intent on ripping him apart.

He slides one foot back, draws both hands up, and calls. Golden light swathes his form, darting around his fingertips and then up his arms, racing over his body as he lunges.

Jschlatt told him that he could use this with a weapon, giving it the ability to kill a demon. Tommy prefers his method of grabbing them, and then ripping them apart. Strands of magic under his fingers, black staining the golden light that he pours into the creature beneath. It twists, howls something foul, but Tommy doesn’t stop until the creature is definitely dead.

Then, he stands up and glances to the only other person that can kill demons.

The amphitheatre is silent. Nobody moves, staring at the dead demon beneath his feet. Philza is the only one to clap, rising from his seat and peering at Tommy through the mesh of the cage.

‘Incredible.’

He scowls. It’s not a word he wants to be called, nor does it fill him with hope.

He thought that Philza would be a way to get revenge on the demons that ruined his home. That, with his all-powerful magic, he would be the hero Tommy needed.

But he isn’t. He’s the same as Tommy, with a power that can kill demons.

Tommy’s not unused to disappointment.

Chapter Text

The lights come on, and the room erupts in elation.

He basks in it. Preens in it.

Out of some sort of sick, self-twisted hatred for himself, Tommy looks at the front seat where he bought two tickets for his parents.

They’re empty.

They exit the stage, and Tommy ends up in his dressing room. He doesn’t have a lot of time to get changed, basically sprinting through the streets of Manburg until he reaches the diner.

‘You’re late,’ calls Jared, and Tommy flips him off.

His boss is a dick. Grade A arsehole, who Tommy ignores as he wraps an apron around him and walks over to the kitchen to greet Cook. Cook, who Tommy named considering his real name was Bartholomew, gives him a friendly wave before going back to doing his job.

The best part of working at the diner is his regular customers. Tommy only has to wait an hour before the door opens, and Tommy grins when familiar voices echo out.

‘Good evening, and welcome to—’

‘Is Tommy working?’ Wilbur Soot, Tommy’s favourite musician, asks. He has no time for Jared, mostly because he keeps insisting that Jared is overworking Tommy and not paying him enough.

Tommy watches as Jared goes tense. ‘If you can take a seat, I’ll grab your server—’

‘Evening, boys,’ Tommy calls, stepping out from the kitchen. Wilbur’s head snaps over to him, grinning over at him and pushing past Jared.

‘Gremlin! How’s your evening going so far?’ Wilbur asks, leaning on the counter as Tommy steps closer.

Wilbur isn’t alone. He’s always accompanied by his platonic soulmates, Philza Watson and Technoblade Craft.

Jared huffs. ‘He turned up late.’

The three men completely ignore Jared, and allow Tommy to lead them to their usual booth. ‘Delightful, Wibbles. How’s your day been? Written any more lyrics about the women you can’t pull?’

The brunet huffs, flipping him off as he slides across the seat. Phil and Techno take the seat opposite, both looking amused by the interaction.

‘Why were you late for work?’ Phil asks curiously, and Tommy shrugs.

‘Busy with all my women, big man.’

It’s not that he’s ashamed of what he does outside his job. He isn’t. But… they’re only his friends at work. Sure, he has Wilbur’s number in his phone and sometimes meets up with him to go to the park. But telling them about his life on the stage… he can’t do it.

He refuses to admit it’s because he couldn’t handle the rejection of them not wanting to come and see him. Of him buying them tickets, like he does for his parents, and the same empty seats staring back.

He gets on with his work. Leaving the platonic soulmates to bicker with each other, Tommy cleans the other tables and serves the elderly couple in the corner.

It isn’t until a family come in that Tommy starts having issues.

‘Mummy, mummy, look!’

Tommy tries to ignore the finger pointing in his direction, cleaning up as the elderly couple leave behind a tip. He grins, pocketing it into his apron.

‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’

‘It’s him, mummy. The one from the big room!’

He tenses, noting that none of the Craft-Soot-Watson family are listening. With any luck, the mother will quietly tell her child to move on.

No such luck.

‘Excuse me,’ the mother calls, drawing attention from the almost-empty diner, ‘Are you Thomas Simons?’

His name, unfortunately, is broadcasted across the programme for Manburg’s Royal Theatre. It’s hardly a surprise, considering he was the main male-lead in tonight’s performance. The youngest ballet dancer to ever make it to the stage.

Tommy falters. ‘Yeah, that’s… that’s me.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Oh! Your performance was mesmerising! Simply stunning, especially with your partner. ‘

Tommy can feel the eyes on the back of his head. ‘Thank you,’ he replies hastily, hoping to turn his back on the conversation.

‘You’re the Theatre’s youngest performer, right?’

Exposed.

He bites his lip, then turns to face the woman properly. ‘I am,’ he agrees, tension lining his form. He’s danced his heart out for three hours, and now has to work just to be able to afford his shitty apartment in the city.

‘Your parents must be so proud,’ the mother says, and Tommy’s fingers curl into fists behind his back.

Proud.

‘They are,’ he lies, and that’s the end of the conversation.

Tommy tends to his duties, before eventually giving in to Wilbur’s stare and heading over to their booth.

‘Wibbles.’

‘Sit, child.’

He does as he’s told, ignoring the look Jared sends him.

‘So, performing for the theatre?’ Wilbur slowly says, chewing on the plate of fries that Tommy bought earlier.

He shrugs. ‘Ballet.’

‘You never told us you performed, mate,’ Phil points out, looking… hurt?

Tommy huffs. ‘Didn’t realise it was an issue.’

‘It’s not,’ Wilbur cuts in, ‘But I want to come and see you. When are you next performing?’

It’s so simple.

Wilbur asks, and Tommy’s head rises so quickly that the brunet actually looks surprised.

‘You want to come?’ he asks, too quickly. Phil’s brow furrows, looking confused as he narrows his eyes.

Wilbur’s smile is soft. ‘Of course, Toms.’

It’s like the tightness in his chest vanishes. He inhales, hungrily sucking in air at the thought of his friend coming to see him. They are friends, they have to be. Wilbur wants to see him perform.

Nobody has ever cared enough to ask, and Tommy buzzes with excitement. ‘Yeah! Yeah, you can come. I’m performing tomorrow evening, or the day after if you can’t make that—’

‘We’ll be there. Can we get tickets on the door?’

Tommy decides that Wilbur Soot is officially the best man to ever walk the earth. He’s never going to say that to his face, but he smiles over at him and tries to silently convey how happy he is with him.

‘Just ask at the desk for me, I’ll grab you some.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Wilbur cuts in, ‘We don’t mind—’

‘It’s okay,’ Tommy insists, ‘I get given a certain number of tickets each show anyway.’

**

Wilbur heads to the counter, with Phil and Techno on either side of him. His heart is hammering away, skin buzzing at the thought of getting to watch Tommy perform.

The kid doesn’t know that they’re bound together yet. He’s not eighteen, so his soulmark doesn’t tie them together like it does with the rest of them.

‘Uh, I’m here to pick up some tickets under Thomas Simons?’ Wilbur awkwardly says, and the lady behind the counter goes very still.

Then, she grins. ‘Of course, sir! Give me a moment.’

When she turns to the tickets in the back, Wilbur notes they’re all staring. Phil and Techno have clearly noticed, giving Wilbur a raised brow as if to ask do you have any idea what we’re missing?

‘Mr Soot? Can I see some ID?’

He hands it over, then watches as she scans it lightly.

‘I hope I’m not too forward here, Mr Soot, but I’m so happy you’ve come to watch Tommy,’ the lady says, and Wilbur blinks.

‘Thanks?’

‘Oh yes,’ one of the other ticketers says, glancing over. ‘A very sad situation, isn’t it?’

‘Sad?’ Phil questions, looking between them.

‘Did you not… have you not heard?’ the lady whispers, like they’re conspiring over a valuable piece of gossip.

Wilbur frowns. ‘Heard what?’

The lady glances around, then leans forward. ‘Poor boy got kicked out by his parents when the Theatre accepted him. He buys them tickets to every show, but they never come.’

Oh, Tommy.

Wilbur met Tommy over a year ago, at the diner. The kid was shouting at a customer that had made one of the waitresses cry, and it was hard not to laugh when he called the customer a “wankstain”. Since then, Wilbur had gone to the diner every Friday evening, just to see the boy that slowly became his friend.

He knew from the moment he met Tommy that they were soulmates. The mark itched under his skin, but even if that hadn’t been a sign, the way they were compatible was.

It took longer for Phil and Techno to agree to come and meet him. They were hesitant, nervous when they found out the boy was clearly not eighteen. But Tommy wormed his way into their hearts just as he had with Wilbur.

So, sitting next to two empty seats at the front of the theatre, Wilbur’s heart aches.

Tommy’s performance is beautiful. He moves like liquid, and his face is more expressive than it has ever been before. Each movement is genuine, and his smile when he works with his partner is incredibly open. When they reach the end, and the crowd deafens out Wilbur’s heartbeat, he watches Tommy’s eyes flick to the empty seats.

Then, the boy looks at him.

Wilbur grins. He knows he’s got tears in his eyes, thinking about how lonely his soulmate must be. Knows that he was affected by the performance.

Tommy returns the smile.

One day, Wilbur vows that Tommy won’t have to look at the empty seats.

He’ll know he has a family beside him.

Chapter Text

Technoblade refuses to do anything other than grimace as he’s forced into the cell. There’s the smug knowledge in the back of his head that they’ll come for him; the Angel of Death and the Siren won’t let him stew in Pandora’s Vault for long. The last thing he sees before the cell door is slammed shut is the grin of a guard, no doubt delighted to have captured the infamous Blade.

He takes in his cell. Four simple walls, one of which is the entrance.

Knowing that he is alone, Technoblade can slump down against the back wall and bring his knees up to his chest. His breathing is slightly rattly, and his mask is fractured in multiple places. It’s still covering his face for the most part, but he doubts it will last.

He’ll have to kill everyone in this prison if they see his face.

‘Do… do you need healing?’ comes a quiet voice, and Technoblade almost jumps out of his skin.

He looks over to his left, only to see a small crack in the wall. The disembodied voice is floating through from that side, and Techno blinks owlishly as pale fingers appear. They skip over the loose stones, then lay still, palm down.

Techno wonders if he’s hallucinating. ‘Who are you?’

‘Your breathing is funny,’ the voice says, quiet and subdued. ‘Your ribs are broken, right?’

He – Techno isn’t sure if he should be presuming that, but he doesn’t want to ask and make the person assume he cares – sounds young. Too young to be stuck in Pandora’s Vault.

‘Potentially,’ Techno drawls, then winces at the pressure in his chest. He shifts his stance, lowering one leg and keeping the other up.

‘Huh,’ the voice says, and the fingers retreat. ‘My first next-door neighbour, and you sound like an asshole.’

Techno is suddenly reminded of his first meeting with Wilbur, when they were both twelve-years-old and newly in the foster system. Their confrontation had been intense; a piglin hybrid trying to protect his gold, versus a phantom hybrid trying to steal items by phasing. He’d been sworn at then, and basically every day after, by his so-called twin.

‘Do you know who I am, kid?’ Techno asks, too curious for his own good. He shifts closer, before slowly lowering down to try and see if he can peek through the hole. He can’t; there isn’t enough light to illuminate the other cell.

The voice hums. ‘A pretentious dickhead?’

He snorts, but it catches into a chuffing sound at the end before he can stop it.

Surprisingly, the voice returns. ‘Oh, you’re a piglin hybrid.’

‘You’ve met one before?’

‘No,’ the man says, ‘But I’ve studied a lot of hybrid types.’

A scholar of some sort?

‘You asked if I needed healing,’ Techno slowly says, not knowing if it is a good idea to trust the mysterious voice.

After a second of silence, his neighbour responds. ‘I did.’

‘You have healing powers?’

‘I can manipulate energy,’ he explains, ‘I can encourage cells to speed up recovery.’

‘They’ve not used a power suppressor on you?’ Techno questions, looking to the clunky one around his ankle.

The voice doesn’t speak for a while, and Techno wonders if he’s overstepped.

Then, the hand reappears. ‘Give me your hand,’ the voice murmurs, and Techno hesitates.

‘Will it hurt you?’ he asks, unsure why he bothers to question it when his ribs are aching and he could do with being healed.

The hand does not retreat. ‘I can heal you.’

It doesn’t answer the question. Techno thinks that’s probably on purpose, so he takes the hand offered.

His skin is cold. Shockingly cold, and Techno flinches as it contrasts his own enhanced body temperature.

‘Sorry, my hybrid side is pretty cold,’ the man says, laughing, before his fingers begin to glow.

Techno slumps. Compared to the cold of his skin, the man’s healing powers are warm. The contrast is startling, and the villain reluctantly gives in to the feeling as he lets his eyes shut.

They stay like that for a while, until Techno can breathe without his ribs aching, and the man’s hand begins to tremble.

‘Sorry, I can’t do more,’ the voice apologises, and Techno chuffs.

‘Don’t worry about it. You did great, kid.’

‘M’not a kid,’ he whines, and Techno glances to the hole in the wall.

‘How old are you?’

Another silence, similar to the one from earlier. Only this time, the voice doesn’t answer until Techno is right on the edge of sleep.

‘M’sixteen.’

His rest in uneasy. 

Chapter Text

It’s warm. The heat is the lazy kind, where he can sprawl out in over the grass and swish his tail around. The kind where he loses some of the inhibitions he should have, and doesn’t protest when the witch settles closer than he usually would.

Tommy’s been living in the valley since winter. The snow drove him towards the lit-up cabin, and the familiar couldn’t help but stay. It had nothing to do with the witch, he told himself. Nothing to do with the way Wilbur would coax him in with gentle words and soft promises.

The witch already has two familiars, a boar and a crow. They’re old, Tommy can tell that much. Old and powerful, but they’re still wary of Tommy’s dragon-form.

In the midday sun, Wilbur settles in the shade. Phil, the crow familiar, is in his human form at the witch’s side. They’re quietly talking, a book in Phil’s hands and a glass of pink liquid in Wilbur’s. The boar familiar, Techno, is happy to doze in the sun a few metres away from them. Every so often, his eyes will flicker open and focus on Tommy, who huffs in response.

Dragons are unaffected by the weather. His magic doesn’t rely on a season, nor does the heat particularly bother him. It just makes him want to doze, even if it would leave him exposed. Tommy may be a very dangerous type of familiar, but he’s young. The witch and his familiars are old enough to know that; they’ve clearly heard tales of dragons before.

When Wilbur first met him in the winter, the witch had insisted that Tommy was too young to stay out during the snow.

Tommy responded by burning down one of his outbuildings with his fire, and then settling in the embers.

‘This heat makes us all lazy, huh?’ Wilbur mutters, shooting Tommy a smile far too fond considering he is imposing in their valley.

Usually, Tommy keeps a bigger distance between them. He tries to stick to the parts that Wilbur doesn’t use, avoiding the lands that he’d domesticated. The only issue is that there’s one source of water in the entire valley.

He stays on the riverbank, rolling over and flicking his tail into the water. He splashes it up over himself, watching as the water almost immediately evaporates off his scales.

Phil hums in agreement with Wilbur’s statement. ‘We’re going to lose the crops if this weather keeps up, mate.’

Both Technoblade and Phil’s magic is lessened in the summer. Tommy can taste it.

‘Techno’s been working on something,’ Wilbur says in response to Phil’s worry.

They’ve been kind to him so far. They let him wander the valley, and snack on some of the mammals that live there. When he can’t find his own food, there’s always something left out for him. Wilbur even offered him a healing potion, when they noted that some of scales had been broken and one of his wings was… damaged.

He could fly if he had to, but it wasn’t easy.

Tommy decides he’s been dozing for too long, and rises up. The witch spares him a glance, but the dragon is too occupied with his new mission. He pads into the river, lowering his snout down into it and drinks as quickly as he can, before he lowers himself a little further.

His magic washes over his body, settling into him as he cools down. Summer is a beautiful season for his skillset, and if Phil is worried about the crops…

He leaves the river, and heads towards the crops that the witch relies on to live. Noting that Wilbur and his two familiars haven’t left their spot, he begins to poke around the farm. As a dragon, Tommy’s not got much interest in the carrots, potatoes and wheat that grow in the fields. He doesn’t even eat that kind of food.

But Wilbur does, and Wilbur has been kind enough to share his valley.

It starts simply. He digs his claws into the dirt, and then swishes his tail out to balance himself. His wings spread slightly, exposing the softer underside of the appendages. He hums low in the back of his throat, lowering his snout to the ground and silently drawing upon the energy in his blood.

It doesn’t take long for it to respond. When Tommy is ready, he swipes his claws across his forearm, and watches the blood drip down the golden scales. Where it hits the ground, water forms.

Chapter Text

Retirement suits him. There’s nothing that can break the peace that falls across the Craft household in the three years since they gave up their suits.

Nothing, aside from the Captain standing at the door to their compound on a Tuesday morning.

When Phil first graduated from the Hero Academy, Puffy had been his closest friend. The two of them, along with Schlatt, had been an unstoppable trio. She had held the rings at his wedding, and stood at his side at the funeral. She watched him accept the twins into his life, and helped teach them to control their gifts.

She also watched as the government decided that they could sacrifice a building full of children, because the villain inside needed to be brought down. Watched, and didn’t say anything. Didn’t fight for the cause that Phil tried campaigning for.

In the end, Phil took his twins out of the government’s grasp. Three years later, Puffy appears.

‘Hello, feathers,’ Puffy greets quietly, eyes flicking from his robe to his bunny slippers, and then to the mug he’s cradling. The World’s Best Dad written across it is a reminder of why Phil left the organisation.

‘Captain,’ Phil replies, neutral. Behind him, he can hear the twins bickering over breakfast. Techno’s probably trying to keep Wilbur from cooking, which makes sense. Leaving Wilbur unsupervised in a kitchen is a recipe for disaster. ‘I wasn’t expecting a visit from Manburg’s number one hero.’

It isn’t a compliment. She doesn’t take it as one.

‘May I come in?’

‘Is this a pleasantry, or business?’ Phil asks, narrowing his eyes on the sheep-hybrid.

Puffy is in uniform. It should be no surprise when she tells him she’s here as part of her job. ‘Official request from the government.’

He steps aside, gesturing for her to enter. Puffy does, taking her shoes off and placing them on the spot on the rack that used to be hers. Unlike her last time in the house, she waits for Phil to walk through into the kitchen before following.

Sure enough, Phil finds the twins causing chaos. Techno is at the stove, a frying pan in one hand and his other wielding a spatula in Wilbur’s face. For his part, the phantom hybrid is glaring menacingly, flour covering his sweater.

‘Boys,’ Phil chides, momentarily forgetting their guest as he stares at the two of them.

‘It wasn’t my fault, dad, Techno was—’ Wilbur cuts himself off, narrowing his gaze on Puffy.

The boys were eighteen when Phil took them out of the government’s grasp. The Academy had already tried to recruit them, and Phil wanted them as far away from that as possible. Now, with them both at twenty-one, he has to remind himself they aren’t children.

It doesn’t stop him from taking a subtle step in between them and Puffy.

‘Why’s she here?’ Techno mutters, instantly on guard. Long, gold-heavy ears flick, the piglin taking a step closer to his brother. The way the two of them instantly guard each other warms Phil’s heart, although he swears that they’ll never need to.

‘Government business, apparently,’ Phil states, moving towards the kettle. ‘Take a seat, Captain. Tea or coffee?’

They both know what she’ll say. Still, he makes a point of waiting for her to reply before he begins the process of making her coffee, black with two sugars.

Techno and Wilbur take their seats, pancakes forgotten as the stove is turned off. Phil will cook for them after, once there isn’t a hero sitting in their house.

Puffy accepts the coffee with a smile. ‘Thank you, Phil.’

‘Why are you here?’

She hesitates, before reaching into her jacket for a manilla folder. Manburg’s government has stamped the cover, along with a symbol he’s far too familiar with. Pandora’s mark, a stamp that he used to put on all villain files once he’d finished a mission.

‘We need a handler.’

He laughs. ‘No.’

A frown crosses her face. ‘You won’t listen to the proposition?’

‘I gave up being a hero, Puffy. I’m not training a fool to work for Manburg.’

‘Yet you’ll train your sons to be two of the most well-known vigilantes?’

Phil shrugs. ‘If they want to protect this city, then they can.’

The sheep-hybrid leans forward in her chair. ‘And the winged-vigilante with them?’

When he smiles, it isn’t kind. ‘Someone has to show them the ropes.’

Ignoring his refusal, she opens the folder. There’s no photo, which is mildly intriguing, but there is a large warning: PACIFIER USED.

A pacifier, more commonly referred to as a suppressor, was used to inhibit powers. Hardly a surprise for half of the individuals in Pandora’s Vault.

‘The government want you to train an individual.’

‘Why Phil?’ Techno questions, arms crossed and his eyes flecked with red. Phil suspects the voices are being unbearable right now, but he shows no obvious signs of it.

Puffy hesitates. ‘They’re a Gold tier.’

Unwillingly, Phil’s gaze flits to his piglin son. He may have managed to keep the twins’ powers under-wraps, but many people in the government had suspected that Technoblade was a Gold tier. The highest class of power, followed by silver, then bronze, and a host of other colours that most of the public fit into. Anybody bronze or silver could attend the Academy.

Phil was a silver. In fact, everyone in the room was a silver, aside from Techno. Gold tiers weren’t common.

Kristin had been a Gold tier. Her power was far too volatile, just like Techno’s.

‘And you’ve put them in Pandora’s Vault,’ Phil points out, staring at the familiar paperwork.

The Captain shakes her head. ‘Out of necessity. The individual was recovered in one of XD’s old compounds.’

She says the name so casually. Phil flinches, fingers clutching at the mug in front of him as the scene flickers behind his eyes. XD, in all his glory, standing in the centre of Manburg’s Gifted and Talented school, viridian wisps of power around his hands.

When the building came down, it took XD with it. All those children, just so that they could kill a Gold tier villain.

‘Then kill them. Is that not what you do?’ he snarls, slightly too aggressively.

Techno and Wilbur both stare at him, quietly asking if they need to intervene.

‘He appears to have been… well, the psych report is here,’ Puffy says calmly, turning the file towards Phil.

Out of curiosity – and nothing else, Phil tells himself – he briefly looks down. The words torture and manipulation are hardly a shock. XD was one of the most dangerous villains that the world has ever seen, if not the most dangerous.

‘Training a broken adult is a bad idea. They’ll make an unreliable hero,’ Phil bluntly says, shutting the folder and shoving it back towards Puffy. ‘The Academy isn’t stupid, they know that won’t work.’

Puffy drains her drink in three long gulps, before putting the mug down. She rises up, zipping her jacket up but leaving the file on the table. ‘Details are in the file. If you change your mind about your answer, give me a call.’

‘You’re going to let a Gold tier out of Pandora’s vault, after they’ve been associated with XD?’ Phil asks, incredulous.

She shrugs. ‘We can’t keep him in there for long. Pandora’s vault was designed for adults, not for a fifteen-year-old boy.’

‘Oh no,’ Techno and Wilbur mutter in unison, and Ph

Chapter Text

As the Angel of Death, Tommy gets the joy of seeing the world, without having to live the horrors of it. He’s not had his title for long; Lady Prime rescued his soul when he died as an infant, raised him in the darkness until he could be reborn. Turning his attention back to his current duty, Tommy scans the situation.

He gets called to souls that are fighting death. They sing to him in a beautiful way, luring him in despite the situation. There’s a fight occurring, a hybrid with a sword valiantly trying to protect two hybrids on the floor. One is screaming, blood covering his hands as he clutches at the dark wings of the second man, an older man.

‘Dad, c’mon dad, hold on,’ the kid pleads, although he’s possibly a man, over a child. Tommy’s not sure how old he is.

The hybrid with the sword is slicing through the group attacking them, but it isn’t working. There’s too many people, and too much blood.

The avian hybrid is dying. Strangely, though, he’s fighting it. Each breath he takes clings to life, fingers threading over the wound as he tries to live. It’s an intriguing situation, made worse when the man speaks.

‘S’okay, my boy, it’s okay,’ the avian soothes, even if blood bubbles from his lips. The boy, the son, clutches at the man tighter.

Tommy understands. The avian is the father of the two hybrids, and he’s trying to reassure his son even as he’s dying.

‘Lady Prime,’ Tommy whispers into the darkness, pleading with her for assistance. She listens to him as she always does, watching the situation through his eyes.

He may be the Angel of Death, but Tommy has a soft spot for families. Maybe because he doesn’t have his own, or maybe because he feels pity for a boy that will become an orphan. It may even be the wings that the avian has, a similar shape to his own.

With Lady Prime’s permission, Tommy moves out of the shadows.

‘Hello,’ he greets, listening to the youngest hybrid yelp. He reaches for his dagger, but in the height of battle, there’s no way he can lunge for Tommy without exposing his father.

‘Who—’

‘Stand aside,’ Tommy politely says, and then decides the easiest way is it push the hybrid away with his gift. The hybrid tries to fight his hold, but the Angel of Death is strong. He crouches down to regard the avian, blocking out the sounds of fighting and the pleading of the youngest avian to his friend, or brother.

‘Tech! Tech help, I don’t know who—’

He places a hand on the wound cautiously, before pushing his gift into the wound. It takes a long time for it to listen, because the man is stubbornly fighting against his hand. Eventually, it works. It heals so slowly, but it’s a beautiful thing to witness. The blabbering of the other hybrid stops, his eyes widening when he sees what Tommy is doing.

‘Wil! Get over here, I need—’

The two of them, Wil and Tech, are overpowered with enemies. Tommy sighs, abandoning the healing avian and looking out across the scene.

‘I offer you their lives, in return for this one,’ Tommy offers, as he stretches his hand out to those hunting the hybrids.

Power floods his veins. It’s addictive in an awful way; Tommy’s never going to get used to this. He wonders what life would have been like, had Lady Prime not chosen to gift him. At the thought, her voice echoes in his head, reminding him that he is safe. Protected by the four Gods that serve Lady Prime.

Tommy isn’t a god. When he died as an infant, Lady Prime told her Goddess of Death to protect Tommy. The deity took him in, raised his soul until he could be transformed into the Angel he is now. Her Angel, and Lady Prime’s Angel, that uses his power to heal a man dying too early.

Silence falls on the battlefield when the hunters drop down dead.

A sword is at Tommy’s throat in a heartbeat.

‘Tech!’

‘Give me one reason why I should not cut you down,’ Tech grunts at him, ignoring his brother’s protest.

Tommy smirks, ‘Bitch boy, I just saved your ass.’

The sword does not lower for a very long time. When it drops, it isn’t sheathed. Tommy knows he’ll be sliced the moment he gives any show of defiance.

‘Tech, we need to get dad back to the house.’

Tech is still glaring at him. Tommy remains kneeling by the avian’s side, returning the gaze with a smile.

‘What do we do with the kid?’

‘I’m not a child, you—’

‘Take him back with us?’

Wait. Wait, what?

He’s being kidnapped? By two hybrids that he just saved? Tommy’s tempted to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he decides to stay quiet for once. This is an interesting turn of events, and perhaps Lady Prime chose to keep the avian alive for a reason.

Either way, Tommy will figure it out.

Chapter Text

Tubbo has eyes all over the city. It’s a safety precaution when his best friend – platonic soulmate, some would say – is an idiotic vigilante that insists on running headfirst into any fight he can. Besides, Tubbo has enough technology to support Tommy’s habits. At first, it was a single, shitty laptop in the apartment that Tubbo lived in. It progressed to a full-on setup, three computers constantly running to scour the city for anything that might interest them.

Tubbo gained legal emancipation over three years ago, on his fourteenth birthday, due to extenuating circumstances. Mostly the sum of money that had been left for him when his father fled the country. A condition of his emancipation was a social worker occasionally coming to visit him, a woman named Niki that worked part-time in the bakery below his apartment.

Together, they formed a sort-of agreement that she would stay out of his life for the most part. That was until Tommy came along, and badgered Tubbo constantly. Honestly, he’s not even sure how Tommy ended up working for Niki, it just sort of happened one day.

Back to his eyes on the city. Tubbo’s job as a software developer helped him befriend an intern from the city’s most elite organisation, Essempi’s Powered Division, or EPD for short. Ranboo – or Boob, as Tommy insisted on calling him – became the third that completed their group. His access codes gave Tubbo power over CCTV across the city, which was why he found the message in the first place.

It’s well known that Karma, Tommy’s vigilante name, roamed the entire city. Although vigilantism was technically illegal, Karma was nothing if not allied with the public’s need. Sure, he had a tendency for chaos. He chatted too long with criminals, and bordered a line between black and white. When people threatened the Essempi government, for example, Karma did little to assist. When a person lost a cat down in the lower district, he was there in a heartbeat.

Karma aided the poorer people of the city. In return, the police usually left him alone for the most part. The public, however, went out of their way to assist. When it was revealed a couple of years ago that Karma had access to cameras across the city, the EPD expected a backlash. Instead, Karma was hailed as their protector.

Honestly, the praise would have gotten to anyone’s head by now. But the thing about Tommy – what made him so different from anyone Tubbo had ever met – was his mind.

He didn’t need powers to save anyone, not when his IQ was higher than average. A lot higher than average. If Tubbo didn’t already know that Tommy had a different power, he’d suspect that his gift was his intelligence.

‘Did you know about this?’ Tubbo accuses, glaring over at Ranboo, who is seated on the couch with a bowl of spaghetti in his hand. It’s slightly odd, because Tubbo doesn’t actually know where the teen keeps finding spaghetti from, but that’s a problem for another time.

Ranboo chokes on the mouthful when he sees what the CCTV is showing him. ‘No? No, I knew there was something about a threat, but…’

They stare at the message, clearly broadcasted for Tubbo’s eyes to see. Across the multi-story car park that stood outside the government building, three clear words written in paint were sprawled out across the tarmac. ‘Why do they want him?’ Tubbo protests, already seeing how badly this is going to end up going for them.

‘Tubbo,’ Ranboo awkwardly says, shuffling forward slightly, ‘You know that Tommy’s mind works—’

Whatever Ranboo was about to say was cut off by the sound of the window opening, and said boy tumbling in off the balcony. He’s not in his suit, but there’s blood smeared across his chin and a nasty bruise forming under his eye. Blond hair is tangled from the wind, looking rather like a bird’s nest, hiding Tommy’s hybrid features for the most part.

Tubbo also takes note that he’s chosen to hide the rest.

‘Evening to the best of men, and you of course Boob. Actually, why are you here?’ Tommy rambles, rising up off the carpet and dusting himself down.

There’s a handprint around his throat.

Ranboo smiles softly in Tommy’s direction. It’s a strange relationship, and definitely not one that Tubbo understands entirely. Tommy pushes everyone away – even Tubbo, occasionally – yet Ranboo takes it all in his stride. ‘I live here,’ Ranboo points out, making room for Tommy to dramatically flop down onto the couch.

‘Much to everyone’s displeasure,’ Tommy says, eyeing up the bowl of spaghetti distastefully. ‘Strange thing happened today, actually—’

Tommy doesn’t live with them. He’s not much younger than they are, sixteen-years-old, but he has a family. A mum and a dad. Ranboo also has parents, but they were happy to let him live with Tubbo due to the fact it was closer to his internship. Tommy’s parents, however, are dickheads. Tubbo’s never personally met them, but considering Tommy was bruised long before he became a vigilante, they’ve all worked out what happens at home.

Tubbo wonders if the current bruises are from his hobby, his school, or his family.

‘—the EPD have sent word out to the public that they want to chat with Karma. Weird, right?’

Tubbo shuffles to the side to expose the computer screen. Tommy glances over, before his eyes narrow in. ‘Pog,’ the boy says, eyes lighting up as he stares at the three words.

His enthusiasm does nothing to ease Tubbo’s nerves. ‘Not pog. You’re not going anywhere near—’

‘Oh, do you think I could meet Philza? That would be so cool,’ Tommy daydreams, far away from whatever warning Tubbo was going to give him.

The oldest of the trio pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘No, Tommy. I forbid you from—’

‘I also got us a pet,’ Tommy states, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a… jar. An entire jar.

A particularly angry looking moth sits inside the jar, fluttering around when Tommy shows it off to the room. Ranboo glances to Tubbo for some sort of support, but he’s just as stumped. ‘Why the fuck have you got a moth in a jar?’

Tommy beams. ‘I found her,’ he proudly states, ‘Her name is Clementine, and together we will fight crime.’

Tubbo wonders if hitting Tommy around the head will injure that incredible brain of his.

‘And all you peasants shall bow down before her,’ Tommy adds, frowning at the two of them as he coos at his new fascination.

Tubbo responds by throwing the nearest item at him, which just so happens to be his water bottle. Tommy yelps, ducking from the blow before shielding Clementine the Moth in his arms. ‘You could have hurt my beloved Clementine! Shame on you, Tubs. Absolute disgrace.’

The boy rises, Clementine in one hand, and the bowl of spaghetti that he’s just snatched from Ranboo in the other. ‘For your hatred, I’m stealing all the hot water. And the food.’

Something in his chest aches at why Tommy comes here to eat and clean, but he doesn’t have the heart to ruin the boy’s mood this evening. Not when he’s so excited about Clementine, and about the EPD, and he hasn’t bullied Ranboo at all. Well, some casual name-calling, which is positively praise from Tommy.

‘Don’t you dare let that moth loose in my house, Tommy,’ Tubbo tries, knowing it’s a fruitless endeavour. Sure enough, the sound of the jar popping open echoes from the bathroom just moments later.

‘Course not, big man!’

Tubbo looks to Ranboo, who is quietly mourning the loss of his spaghetti. ‘Parents?’ Tubbo mouths questioningly, to which Ranboo sadly shrugs.

They both turn their attention back to the screen, wondering how long they can keep Tommy out of danger for when messages like this are being spread across the city.

EPD NEEDS KARMA.

**

There’re a lot of things that Tommy does that he considers stupid, even if he’d never admit that to Tubbo or Ranboo. One of them is his vigilante lifestyle in general. Another is the fact that he had to vault off a building to catch Clementine from falling to her death, after she flew too close to a streetlamp that he’d been staring at from the rooftop.

Another is hiding this from them.

Clementine watches quietly, studying the sticky-pads across his chest from his appointment earlier. He removes each one carefully, ignoring the way they stick to his skin and pull all his very manly chest hairs out. Once he’s done with the last one, he wraps them in toilet paper and shoves them in the bin, before looking back at his reflection.

He became a vigilante to help people. When it became clear that nobody would ever listen to him in classes – he was too loud, to brash and annoying and could never concentrate – he decided that his mind could be used to do something else. In this case, that meant throwing himself into dangerous situations and using his mind to process outcomes.

There’s no way he can change the outcome of this one, though.

Instead, Tommy showers and wipes blood from his face, then steps out and redresses. Making sure Clementine is accompanying him, he exits the bathroom and moves towards Tubbo and Ranboo’s shared bedroom, the place where his suit is kept.

Tonight, Karma has a message to respond to.

‘You’re going patrolling?’ Tubbo speaks up, leaning against the doorway and watching him curiously. Tommy has learned over the years how to not read someone like he usually would. It gives them privacy, a sense that Tommy isn’t scrutinising them. Emotions, he might struggle with, but body language is systematic. The way Tubbo meets his eye, the tell-tale signs of his heartrate picking up, the way he favours keeping his hands busy by fiddling with the hem of his sweater.

Tommy’s regretted his mind for multiple reasons, but this one is always the one that hurts the most.

‘I am, yeah.’

His best friend does not like this idea. ‘You’re injured,’ Tubbo points out, and Tommy internally flinches at how close to the truth it hits.

Tommy’s more than injured.

‘Just a couple bruises, big man. Nothing major,’ he assures his friend, slipping into the synthetic material. His suit was of his own design, with Tubbo’s help to find the materials. An in-built communications system helped regulate the temperature, especially once the mask was pulled over his face and he was completely covered from sight.

Tubbo steps away from the doorway. ‘I presume you’re going to reply to their message?’

Tommy met Tubbo by accident, but he wouldn’t change it for the world. Emancipated on his fourteenth birthday, although Tommy didn’t meet him until the boy was fifteen. Over two years of the two of them facing the world, with the addition of the Boob boy. There are times that he wishes he could live here with them, that this apartment could be a permanent residence. He’s never met someone that accepts his mind before, that doesn’t care that he’s sometimes too smart for his own good.

His parents certainly don’t accept it. Tommy knows how hard it must be, to be told your son isn’t normal. To be told that he can’t react like a normal child would. That he can predict their movements and behavioural patterns, and psychoanalyse everything they do.

‘Not tonight. I need to figure out the threat,’ Tommy explains. It’s taken two years to get to the point where he verbally processes his thoughts, as opposed to keeping them internal. Mostly for Tubbo’s benefit.

Tubbo doesn’t stop him from going, although Tommy notes the way his right arm flexes like he wants to.

The city is beautiful at night, and the music that Tommy chooses as he moves through the streets helps settle the nerves from the day. Tomorrow, he has work, and another appointment, to balance with his vigilante lifestyle. Of course, he also has to return to his parents at some point.

As he moves, his hybrid senses take over his skillset. Better vision in the dark, an increased hearing and scent processing that allows him to navigate the pavements on memory alone.

Hybrids aren’t exactly rare in Essempi. Powers are definitely less common, but Tommy has the unfortunate luck of both, and his mind. Tubbo is a hybrid, evident by the little horns on his head and the tendency to try and head-butt people as a greeting. Ranboo’s also a hybrid, but his gifts come with powers as well. Sometimes they tie together nicely.

Tommy’s power has nothing to do with his raccoon-genetics.

The scene of the crime, or in this case, the message, is the carpark outside the government building. Tommy doesn’t usually come this far into the upper district, but today is the exception to the rule. In his ear, Tubbo connects to the coms. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

Tommy stands in the middle of the message. ‘Something to tie everything together.’

The first clue is the wall of the building. His eyes trace the brickwork, before he calculates the angle. He decides to update Tubbo.

‘There’s a camera on the east wall, newly put in place. Aimed to focus specifically on this spot, so they’re expecting my reply.’

‘A trap?’ Tubbo anxiously asks, but Tommy knows it isn’t.

They want Karma for a specific reason. It’s either his mind, his connections, or his power. Or multiple options of the three. ‘Remember that lower-district villain, Crimson Walker or whatever she was called? The one with the red eyes,’ Tommy clarifies, and hears both Ranboo and Tubbo confirm it.

‘What about her?’ Ranboo’s voice pipes up, and Tommy’s brain is processing everything too fast to be annoyed that the Boob is communicating with him.

‘The papers said Sapnap was injured in a fight last week, that he had a severe fever,’ Tommy muses, turning in circles as he traces the writing on the floor. It’s only written in chalk, so it’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, when the rain washes it away. Only intended for a short time.

‘We can’t work out what leaps you’re making, idiot,’ Tubbo scolds gently, and Tommy crouches down to admire the chalk.

‘Crimson Walker had a fever. I suspect she was infected with something, and that Sapnap was exposed to the same thing.’

Sapnap is one of the EPD’s most prolific heroes, a fire-mage with incredible power. Tommy’s only faced him a few times, and never in direct combat. Usually, they’re on the same side. Out of the whole Dream Team, Sapnap’s the kindest to vigilantes.

‘How do we know Crimson Walker had a fever? She escaped.’

He swipes at the chalk, raising a finger to his lips – under the mask – to taste it. Almost pure calcium carbonate, expensive chalk. If Tommy needed to, he might be able to find the manufacturer, or at least the person that sold it. Not that he’d gain much, the faces of the heroes are known to the public.

He’s never bothered focusing on the faces, or normal identities, of the EPD. It seems rather pointless, when they could throw in an awful lot of money to try and do the same to him, and Tommy doesn’t care about their home-lives. He respects them as heroes, so even if their civilian-name is known to the public, Tommy never uses them. Even with his own attempts to eliminate as many possibilities of them identifying him as he can, it isn’t fool proof, so he never gets too close.

‘Her heartrate was elevated, as was her blood pressure. Her thermoregulation in the suit was working harder than usual, as she had to compromise her communications to give it more power.’

Tubbo exhales heavily. ‘You got all that from the three-minute encounter?’

Tommy will never understand how people don’t pick up on the things he does. A quick glance to Clementine to see if she’s picked up on anything leaves him with nothing to do other than leave the scene. ‘I pay attention.’

‘Aren’t you going to reply?’

‘Tomorrow. I’m going to check to see if any of the networks have picked up on the Crimson Walker.’

He signs off from Tubbo and reaches out to let Clementine settle on his hand. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s just you and me now.’

The moth, if she could, would no doubt be praising his manliness.  

**

Tubbo is on a quest to find Tommy, which isn’t difficult, considering it’s one of the days he isn’t in college. Heading downstairs towards the bakery, Tubbo wonders how long his friend has left on his shift.

Working from home means that Tubbo gets bored in his apartment. Ranboo works all the weekdays, which means he’s never in till the evenings. That leaves Tommy as Tubbo’s main source of companionship, when the boy isn’t at college. He still doesn’t understand why Tommy’s parents make him go, when it’s clear that he doesn’t want to continue in education.

Strange, considering his mind, but Tubbo doesn’t push it. When they both went to the same school, he heard that they refused to move Tommy up any grades because of his attitude, even if he was too advanced for what they were doing.

‘Good morning, Tubbo,’ Niki greets, strangely manning the counter. Tubbo returns her friendliness, before hopping up onto the counter as she begins to prepare his drink. There’re only a couple of other people in the shop, and most of them are regulars, so nobody seems concerned by a teen perched on the granite, swinging his legs.

‘Where’s Tommy?’ Tubbo asks, peering around Niki to try and look in the kitchen. To Tubbo’s surprise, Niki almost falters with preparing his drink, glancing over at him.

‘He said he had a doctor’s appointment today; did he not tell you?’

In all the time that Tubbo has known Tommy, he’s never been to the doctors. Tommy hates all medical professionals with a passion, possibly because his mother was a surgeon. Even when he got sick, Tommy would rather curl up and moan about dying than receive help.

So, it was strange that he was missing work to go to the doctors. ‘Must have forgotten,’ Tubbo replies, already thinking back to Tommy’s strange behaviour yesterday.

He thanks her for the drink, putting money into the tip jar when she refuses to let him pay. With a stolen pastry in hand, he heads back up the stairs only to find the stupid moth sitting on his kitchen counter. ‘What are you looking at?’ Tubbo accuses, then huffs, ‘I’m talking to a fucking moth.’

Clementine, as Tommy insists on calling her, merely watches him. Tubbo figures he should probably shut the windows in the apartment, in case the moth tries to escape. Not that he cares, but Tommy will probably be upset.

The bathroom window is the one he shuts last, because he has to climb up onto the toilet seat to reach it, and stumbles when the window is yanked shut. He manages to land on the bin, annoyingly, and it topples over as he hits the tiled floor. ‘Fuck!’ he yelps, rubbing at the bruise that will probably form on his shin.

Then, he spots the unwrapped toilet paper that’s spilled out of the bin. Usually, he wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, but he catches sight of a strange blue thing. Multiple of them, and as Tubbo picks one up, he realises it’s sticky. He’s watched enough hospital shows to recognise them, and that alone is enough for him to reach for his phone and dial.

Ranboo picks up after the third ring. ‘Tubbo? I’m at work, what’s wrong?’

Tubbo hears a voice in the background. Ranboo is usually assigned to work with the Captain, one of the lead heroes that falls into neither the Dream Team nor the Syndicate. It isn’t a female voice, though, so Tubbo momentarily gets distracted. ‘The Captain’s either had a voice-change, or you’re working with someone else today.’

Ranboo chuckles, ‘I’m working for the Syndicate today, their intern is sick.’ The voice in the back speaks again, and Ranboo answers, ‘Sorry, it’s just my housemate.’

‘No worries, mate. Sorry for disturbing you.’

Tubbo’s brows furrow. ‘Was that the Angel? Tommy’s going to be so mad that you met him,’ Tubbo warns, and Ranboo sighs.

‘Back to the reason for the call? Did the tap break again?’

Tubbo flushes at the memory of calling Ranboo at his work for the first time, because of the incident where the tap broke. How was he supposed to know what to do? Unfortunately, the Captain had picked up the phone and Tubbo had awkwardly explained to one of Essempi’s best heroes that he didn’t know how to shut the water off.

‘No, it wasn’t the fucking tap, it’s Tommy,’ Tubbo says furiously, still turning one of the sticky-pads over in his hands.

Ranboo goes silent for a moment, ‘Is it his… hobby?’

‘No, nothing to do with Karma. I just found some of those pad things from the hospitals in our bathroom, and Niki said Tommy was at a doctor’s appointment.’

‘You think he’s sick?’

He would have told them, right? ‘Might be an injury of some sort? I’ll ask when you get back, he can’t run if we’re both there.’

The sigh echoes through the phone from Ranboo’s end. ‘I’ll see you later.’

**

Tommy collects paint after his appointment, dressed in his vigilante gear so that it can’t be traced back to his face. Not that he thinks the EPD are trying to catch him out with paint, but it’s a situation he doesn’t trust entirely. As he pays for the paint with cash, the man behind the counter eyes him up curiously. ‘Home renovations?’ he asks, as the paint tin is slid across.

He huffs a laugh, then hides the wince that comes from his chest. Apparently, his crying session earlier – not that he was crying, it was more just his eyes leaking – had taken a toll on him. ‘Something like that.’

He carries the paint can to ho- Tubbo’s apartment, careful not to be seen as he clambers up onto the balcony and slides in through the window. It’s only mid-afternoon, so Ranboo won’t be back yet, and Tubbo is probably avoiding work.

Clementine is perched in the kitchen by the window, sitting on a leaf of a fake plant. ‘What do moths eat? What are you hungry for, Clem? Chocolate? Spaghetti? I know where Ranboo hides his collection,’ he tells his friend, who responds by fluttering her wings slightly.

The day has been an exhausting one, so Tommy ends up on the couch, tucked up under one of Ranboo’s sweaters as he lets himself doze. Just for a while, only a couple of minutes, he tells himself.

Only, he wakes to the sound of the apartment door, and Tommy shoots upwards in panic.

Tubbo raises an eyebrow. ‘Boss man, didn’t expect you to be here.’

He forces his racing heart to settle, and relaxes back into the couch as his friend walks into the room. ‘Was waiting for you, I’m going back to answer the EPD’s message.’

Something crosses Tubbo’s face. Tommy tries to understand it, but it’s more emotional that physical, meaning he draws up short of any conclusions. ‘No patrolling, me and Boo want a movie night tonight,’ Tubbo says, chucking the mask of his suit in Tommy’s direction.

Tommy snorts. ‘If you call him Boo, you might as well add the b at the end,’ Tommy convinces, tugging the mask over and letting the fabric and nanotechnology combine with the body of his suit.

When they first made it, Tommy wanted it to be red. Tubbo pointed out he’d be spotted from a mile away, so he reluctantly settled for a dark blue, with red flashes that could be concealed.

Tubbo opens the window. ‘Out, go on. I’ll be on coms in a minute.’

Tommy grabs his paint and climbs back out of the apartment window.

It takes him longer to get to the upper district today, mostly because of the ache in every single one of his limbs as he walks. The grapple-hook at his side could speed things up, but he runs the risk of damaging it, and Tubbo would kill him. Instead, he listens to music and studies the streets quietly, greeting passers-by with a friendly smile.

Sure enough, the chalk is gone when he reaches the spot where the message had been. Tommy makes sure to orientate his message so that the new camera can see it, writing a singular word onto the floor in response.

INFECTED.

‘Are you waiting for anything in particular?’ Tubbo eventually asks, after his message has been sitting on the floor of the carpark for at least fifteen minutes.

Tommy doesn’t reply, because he’s aware of the air shifting around them. ‘You can come out,’ he calls, ‘I know you’re there.’

Tubbo falls silent as he watches, using the camera that first spotted the EPD’s message, to stare at the hero that enters the clearing. Of all the ones Tommy expected, he’s surprised that Dream himself stalks out of the shadows.

He’s dressed in his usual green cloak, complete with the porcelain mask that hides his facial features. Unlike the rest of the hero-squad, Dream is actually faceless. Nobody has seen his face, not even Ranboo when he works for the EPD.

‘Karma,’ Dream greets, halting with an appropriate distance between them.

Tommy hides his fanboying. ‘Dream. You wanted to see me?’

The hero takes another step. ‘You know what’s going on?’ he asks, nodding his head to the written word on the floor.

Tommy shakes his head. ‘No, but I know that Crimson Walker and your Hero were both exposed.’

‘Crimson Walker?’ Dream’s head tilts to the side in confusion, and Tommy has to remind himself that they don’t care about lower-district incidents.

Anger flares up, but he shoves it back down. ‘A villain in the lower district.’

He inclines his head in understanding, before he continues, ‘We need any information and help we can get.’

Tommy expected this. ‘I’ll assist you in any way I can, in return for something.’

There’s a beat of silence, followed by the Hero’s amused laughter. ‘Of course you do. What is it?’

Tommy knows that other vigilantes have tried, and failed, to gain things from the EPD. It’s usually immunity from the law, or money to support. He’s got a different request, and one that he has to reach for his earpiece in order to ask for. The last thing he hears from Tubbo is a muffled protest, before he switches it off and turns back to Dream.

‘I want someone patrolling the lower district.’

Dream pauses, confused. ‘You’re patrolling, I thought you—’

‘If I’m… If I stop, I want you to look after the lower district for me.’

Tommy can hear his heartbeat in his chest, thumping away in proof that he’s still here at the moment.

‘If you stop? Or if… if you have to stop?’ Dream questions, sounding almost concerned.

Thinking back to the graphs he saw earlier, Tommy refrains from answering that. ‘Is there a place you’d like to meet to discuss the infection?’

The hero gestures to the government building behind him. Tommy’s unsurprised by this fact, but he still doesn’t like the thought of going straight into the EPD homeland. Despite that reservation, he agrees easily with the idea.

Then, he returns his coms into his ear, and bids goodbye to the hero.

Tubbo’s going to kill him when he gets home.

**

Tubbo makes sure Tommy’s eating, because it’s the best way to prevent him from running away. Ranboo is sitting in the couch opposite Tommy, and once the youngest of the three is snacking away, Tubbo places the roll of tissue down on the table in front of them, with the sticky pads exposed.

Silence. Tommy’s eyes flick to it, before slowly raising to Tubbo. ‘Didn’t take you as a bin-diver, Tubs.’

Ignoring Tommy’s attempts to get out of this situation, he gestures to them. ‘Want to explain?’

Something flashes across Tommy’s face. If his ears were out, Tubbo knew they’d be flicking back and forth in a desperate attempt to figure out what to say. As it is, Tommy’s fingers curl tighter around the bowl of soup he’s consuming. ‘Not really.’

He fights the anger that comes when Tommy always pushes them away when they try and learn more.

‘That wasn’t actually a question,’ Tubbo snaps back, tone harsh. Ranboo flinches, but Tommy just stares blankly at the table.

‘I had an ECG.’

Tubbo blinks. He’s not entirely familiar with it, but he knows it’s something to do with the heart.

‘Why?’ Tubbo pushes, with Ranboo staying silent. Sometimes, Tommy will freak out if he actually remembers it isn’t just Tubbo in the room. Or he’ll use it as an excuse to change the subject. Either way, they’re not going to let him today.

The boy doesn’t speak for a bit. He sits quietly, leg jittering as his eyes flicker between the bowl of soup, then the sticky-pads, then Tubbo and Ranboo. Finally, he breaks the quiet. ‘I’m sick.’

Something flickers inside Tubbo’s chest, a sliver of worry. Tommy never admits to being sick, even when he looks close to death. Right now, with nothing other than the fading bruises on his body, he’s practically healthy. ‘With what?’

The soup bowl is placed down on the table. Tommy mumbles something under his breath that neither of them catch, so Tubbo asks him to repeat it. Only, rather than doing it normally, Tommy’s head snaps up with anger burning in his eyes. ‘With fucking cancer, Tubbo. Is that what you wanted to hear?’

The world is swept out from under his feet. The apartment is suddenly too cramped, suffocating him as Tommy’s eyes burn with tears and Tubbo knows his own copy that. He’s not sure how he ends up stumbling over to his best friend, collapsing on the floor in front of him to stare up in confusion. ‘What?’

Tommy chokes on a strange sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh. His ears flick out from under golden curls, the tiny, black fluff sticking out. ‘It’s something to do with my pancreas or some shit like that, more likely cause I’m a raccoon and all that,’ Tommy tells him, shaking and pale, and Tubbo reaches for him.

‘But it’s curable? You’re getting better?’ he insists, taking both of Tommy’s hands in his own. They’re clammy, but the youngest doesn’t pull away like he normally would. In fact, Tommy rocks forwards into the touch.

‘I don’t… they don’t know. I had my first chemo appointment two weeks ago, my next one is this weekend.’

He doesn’t know.

Tubbo’s first instinct is to tell him to stop being a vigilante. It’s the logical conclusion, but Tubbo knows how that will go if he pleads with the boy to stop. So, reluctantly, he has to do what nobody else would dream of. ‘You’ll let me come with you to your appointments? And if you feel sick, we need to know so that you can get help on your patrols.’

Ranboo’s eyes widen in shock, but Tubbo can’t explain it now. He needs Tommy to know that he’s trustworthy, that he’s never going to stop Tommy from being who he wants to. That includes his hybrid features, and his vigilante lifestyle, and everything about his mind that his parents clearly hate.

Tommy hesitates, before sighing. ‘Fine. S’not like my parents are coming with me, anyway.’

Hatred burns in his stomach, but he shoves it away in favour of coming to sit by Tommy’s side, squishing the boy between them. A movie is put on, and Tubbo grabs blankets to wrap them up in. Even as Tommy complains about Tubbo being clingy, the younger is getting closer to Tubbo, and then dragging Ranboo with him.

They’re a family, even if Tommy doesn’t realise it.

**

He steps into the EPD with Tubbo jabbering on in his ear, and his mask firmly in place. Being led to a conference room by a receptionist is the easy part, he realises, when the door swings open to reveal everyone. Literally, all of the EPD’s finest heroes in one place, staring at Tommy as he walks right into the room like an idiot. Unfortunately, or fortunately if he’s feeling soft, Ranboo and a couple of other interns are in the room.

Ranboo, however, is an idiot. ‘Karma?’

‘Boo, you fucking idiot, we talked about this,’ Tubbo whines in Tommy’s ear, as all attention turns to them.

‘You know each other?’ Dream asks, glancing between them curiously.

‘I… uh, no, I don’t know—’

‘It’s alright,’ Tommy cuts in, taking a step closer, ‘You can tell them. I passed out once in a convenience store, Ranboo here found me.’

Ranboo, thankfully, goes along with the cover story instantly. He nods frantically, looking to the Syndicate for approval.

Oh my god, the Syndicate. Tommy is standing in the same room as Philza.

‘I didn’t know you were from the lower district,’ Dream comments, before he rises from the table that he was seated at and steps towards Tommy.

‘Karma, thank you for coming. We’ll do a round of introductions.’

Tommy doesn’t technically need to be introduced to any of the heroes in the room, considering he knows each and every one of them. All of them, aside from Dream, are unmasked. The Captain starts, greeting him kindly as she says that he can call her Puffy.

‘404, or George. Part of the Dream Team,’ the bored-looking man in a red cape says, leaning back in his chair. At his side, Sapnap grins.

‘Sapnap! Youngest hero, and the most dashing,’ he teases.

Next to them comes Jack, or Blaze, and Sam, or the Warden. Finally, attention turns to the Syndicate, and Tommy’s heart skips when Philza smiles.

‘Hi, mate. I’m Philza, but just Phil is fine.’

He’s in love. Sworn to respect this man for the rest of his days. His admiration must show, because Dream snorts. ‘Fanboy?’

‘Spot on.’

‘Philza, you are the greatest man ever,’ Tommy informs the hero, who looks just as amused as the rest of the table.

‘I’m Wilbur! Or Siren, and this is my evil twin—’

‘I’m not your twin.’

‘—Technoblade! Or the Blood God, awful name.’

Tommy nods again, unsure whether he needs to introduce himself, or if he can just take a seat. Thankfully, the decision is made when Puffy kicks a seat out for him.

Dream dismisses the interns, including Ranboo, and Tommy is left alone with a division of heroes that could easily challenge his power. ‘So, we’ve obviously brought you in because of the infection. We don’t really know anything,’ Dream admits, pulling up a screen to reveal the case-report on the incident with Sapnap.

As much as Tommy is terrified of the people in the room, his curiosity gets the better of him. ‘Can I?’ he asks, and when he gets permission, snatches the holograph to stare at it.

Downtown location. Toxin in the blood, which faded with time. Exposure came from some sort of biological material.

‘Only a block away from Crimson Walker,’ Tubbo reminds him, and Tommy hums curiously as he flicks through the reports.

Crimson Walker was fully infected. Sapnap’s blood results showed limited effect, and for some reason, it didn’t multiply once in his system. Tommy recalls the moment he gripped Crimson Walker’s arm, during their brief fight downtown, and the way he could feel the pressure under his fingertips.

‘Arm,’ he says, reaching for the fire-hero. Sapnap falters, but with a quick glance to Dream, offers out his arm to Tommy. He reaches under the sleeve, pushing it up to reveal bare skin, before stripping off one of his own gloves until bare skin touches.

Under Sapnap’s skin, the same lingering effects of the infection stir. It’s dormant, but present, and Tommy concludes that whatever made this illness is sentient.

Chapter Text

The letter sits on the kitchen table, a shocking reminder that this is a situation that has never occurred in the Craft household before. Every time Techno forces his gaze down to it, he’s struck with the words written in bold under his name.

‘Why didn’t they warn us about this?’ Phil, his father, mutters. Black wings puff up slightly, before soothing when he casts a wary glance to Techno.

They’ve just moved to Logstedshire. It’s a quaint town on the outskirts of Essempi, a place that allows Phil to work from home, and commute occasionally if he has to. It’s the perfect retreat for Wilbur, who wants to work on his music. The local school provides Techno with his teaching job. The house is big enough that the three adults won’t particularly get in each other’s way, while still being close enough to ‘flock’ for comfort.

Wilbur huffs. ‘Because they wanted us to buy the house. Besides, it says they’ve approved it,’ he points out, nudging the piece of paper like he’s the one that’s offended.

‘Are you comfortable with this, mate?’ Phil asks, directing the question at him.

Techno takes a moment to consider his options.

The letter in front is a warning of another hybrid in the town. Another piglin hybrid.

Essempi law states that piglin hybrids should be kept apart. They’re territorial by nature, and being a mob-hybrid, more likely to start a fight. The only exception is familial piglin sounders, but they’re rare. Piglin hybrids are rare; Techno’s never even heard of another one. As far as he’s aware, he’s one of only fifteen in the entirety of Essempi.

The chances of running into one are slim. The chances of living in the same town as one are basically impossible.

‘Why have they allowed it?’

Phil peers at the letter, re-reading the fateful words. ‘Something about “instincts under control”.’

Techno doubts that. He still struggles with some of the urges of his mob-blood, even with the help from his adoptive brother and father. Many hours of therapy and hundreds of different hobbies weren’t enough to keep the voices at bay.

‘As long as they stay away from me—’ Techno begins, knowing that it was Phil and Wilbur’s dream to move to Logsted, ‘—then I don’t care.’

It’s a cold-faced lie. The thought of another hybrid being in the town makes him uncomfortable. He’s not sure how the voices will react, or his instincts in general.

Phil studies him for a moment. ‘We’re pretty far out of town, so I’m sure the chances of you ever meeting them will be slim.’

With Techno’s luck, he gives it three days.

**

He lasts longer than his own mental prediction. It takes the grand total of nine days for him to finally catch a glimpse of the other piglin hybrid in the town.

‘—and this is the fountain! We host events here, and the children are always playing in the water,’ Puffy, their neighbour, exclaims. A sheep-hybrid with curly horns and thick, white hair. Techno watched the way her eyes had focused on his own features, before she briefly explained that she knew another hybrid like him.

He didn’t ask. He doesn’t care.

‘It’s a beautiful town,’ Phil chats, before nodding over to the small café that Puffy pointed out earlier. ‘Fancy a drink? My treat.’

Puffy hesitates. ‘Uh, sure. Is it… will it be an issue that Tommy’s there?’

Techno glances to his brother, slightly confused but not willing to show it.

‘Tommy?’ Phil asks, and Puffy falters.

‘Did they not introduce you to the other… he’s a piglin hybrid, like you,’ Puffy awkwardly explains, shooting a smile to Techno.

He tenses. Inside the shop is the other hybrid? He can’t smell his scent, nor do Chat warn him about the presence of a threat. Actually, they’re more curious than anything else.

‘They didn’t tell us anything about him,’ Wilbur snaps, defensive. He’s taken a half-step in front of Techno, wings fluttering slightly in anxious nerves.

Techno has to admit, there’s a part of him that wants to meet the other piglin hybrid. He’s never met another of his kind.

As much as Phil and Wilbur can sympathise with being hybrids, they have each other. Phil’s a crow, and Wilbur is a hawk. The two of them share avian genetics, and it makes them pretty easy to read, and to communicate with. Techno had none of the easy guidance from Phil, and instead got gifted a terrible temperament and a bunch of voices in his head.

Puffy falters, then plasters a smile onto her face. ‘We can go somewhere else, it’s no—’

‘It’s fine,’ Techno cuts in, fighting the nerves in his chest. ‘There’s no issue.’

It’s hardly a surprise that both Phil and Wilbur box him in as they walk to the café, keeping an eye on him out of the corner of their eyes as they enter the small shop.

The first thing that hits him is the scent of coffee. It’s overwhelming, and not just because of the drinks, but because of whoever is currently obscured by the drinks machine.

‘Toby, what have I told you about sitting on the counter!’ Puffy calls, voice parental as she approaches a ram-hybrid. He’s probably no older than eighteen, with bright eyes that light up when he spots Puffy.

‘Sorry, Aunt Puff! We were just…’ the kid trails off, flicking his gaze to Techno. ‘Hello! You must be the Craft family.’

There’s a thumping sound from behind the counter, then a distinct fuck that sounds. A second later, Techno gets his first sight of another piglin hybrid.

It takes half a second for his instincts to scream. The voices in his head are loud enough that he can’t hear anything but the chants of gold and runt that echo out.

It’s a kid. Golden hair frames a face with baby-fat clinging to the cheeks of a teen, blue eyes dotted with crimson flecks that Techno knows his own mirrors. A scar stretches over the bridge of the boy’s nose, and there’s another that starts at his jaw and moves down his neck. Floppy ears twitch when they spot Techno, covered in golden fur that matches the shade of his hair.

All of that is completely overtaken by the fact that the kid has a scent collar wrapped firmly around his neck.

They’re not common. Usually reserved for criminals or hospitalised patients, so that their hybrid instincts don’t endanger others. Seeing them on anyone is shocking, let alone a child. Usually paired with a cocktail of drugs to inhibit their other half, Technoblade is suddenly beginning to realise why they were told that the kid was “in control” of his instincts.

‘The fuck are you staring at, dickhead?’ the kid snaps, fingers tapping so quickly on the counter that it’s a surprise that the beat is distinguishable.

‘Tommy—’ Puffy goes to scold, but Techno snorts.

‘Are you old enough to swear like that, kid?’

Whatever he’s said, it’s made Puffy sigh. Toby, the kid on the counter, looks amused. ‘Oh, you’ve started it now,’ he murmurs under his breath, as Tommy goes the shade of the crimson flecks in his eyes.

‘I’m not a kid! I’m a big man,’ the hybrid says, chest puffing up in a clearly territorial act.

Baby, precious baby.

Look at him! Little gold.

Technosoft?

Technobro.

Ignoring the onslaught of voices, Techno frowns. ‘Our definitions must vary.’

‘Hi, mate,’ Phil says, once he’s checked over Techno with a sharp eye. ‘I’m Phil.’

‘Boring name,’ Tommy snaps, but his aggression has softened. ‘I’m Tommy.’

‘These are my sons, Wilbur and Technoblade.’

Blue eyes narrow to each of them in turn, before he shrugs. ‘What do you want? You’re holding up my customers.’

None of them point out that there’s nobody else in the shop. Techno lets Phil order for him, too busy studying the collar around Tommy’s neck. Eventually, they settle for a booth near the window.

‘—chno, are you even listening?’ Wilbur says, nudging him.

Techno blinks. ‘What?’

‘Are you okay, mate?’ Phil quietly asks, looking concerned.

‘The kid’s wearing a collar,’ Techno mutters under his breath, staring at Tommy without trying to make it too obvious.

‘Yeah, I can see that.’

Chapter Text

‘We’re going to be late,’ Wilbur shouts from somewhere downstairs, voice high-pitched and frantic. He’s always been a worrier, usually for absolutely no reason, so Tommy is far too used to ignoring him.

‘We’re going to be late,’ Tommy mocks under his breath, perched on the top step and trying to tie his laces. Of all the things that he struggles with, shoelaces are the worst. He’s about to give up and throw the shoes down the stairs, perhaps even hit his older brother as he does so, when he’s nudged gently to the side.

Techno crouches down in front of him, batting his hands away from the laces and taking over. ‘He’s insufferable, isn’t he,’ Techno agrees, clearly having heard Wilbur’s whining. Unlike Wilbur, who takes every opportunity to tease Tommy’s inability to tie his laces, Techno does no such thing. Sure, he’ll make fun of him for other things, but never something like this.

With the laces done, his older brother vanishes down the stairs. Tommy follows in hot pursuit, finding the other two by the door. Phil has put on his best cloak, a dark forest green with an awful hat. Tommy almost regrets buying it for him as a winter solstice gift, four years prior.

‘Why do we even need to go to this.’ Techno’s words aren’t exactly a question, considering the Designation is mandatory for everyone, regardless of whether or not they’re participating.

Techno used to participate, before Phil found him and brought him off the streets. He never got selected, of course, but most people didn’t. There were thousands of entries, and very few got chosen.

The Designation was designed, in principle, to be entertainment. Anyone between the ages of thirteen to thirty could enter, and in return, they would be gifted with extra oxygen cannisters. For those who worked in the outer domes, Zones 8 through to 10, the extra oxygen was a blessing. Technoblade used to put his name forward, lying about his age to do so, just to get some oxygen. When Phil found him, Techno had put his name in four times, despite only being fourteen.

He stopped after that. Zone 3 was a luxury compared to 10, and Techno wasn’t like those who sought thrills outside the Dome.

Wilbur’s hands clap together, the loud sound breaking the silence. ‘Says the one who used to enter.’

Techno’s glare intensifies. Wilbur claims they’re twins, but there’s very little uniformity between them. Wilbur’s a good four inches taller than Techno, who’s still slightly taller than Tommy. Wil’s curly brown hair never falls past his ears, in comparison to the silky straight strands of pink hair that Techno usually keeps braided. Still, they have some sort of telepathic ability to communicate, and somehow can always find out when Tommy is lying.

It's frustrating.

‘Not all of us grow up with a father who works for the government, Wil-i-am.’

Wilbur huffs at the nickname, but doesn’t poke at Techno any further. A shame, because when they’re bickering between each other, Tommy usually can get away with more. Like sneaking snack bars into his jacket right now.

‘Tommy, let’s go!’

He jumps, sneaking the last bar in and heading to the door. Phil raises an eyebrow at him, clearly having watched the entire thing, but doesn’t say anything as they step out into Zone 3.

‘C’mon, mate,’ Phil says to him, wrapping an arm around Tommy’s shoulder that he quickly ducks out from under, ‘This’ll be done soon, and you and Tubbo can get back to whatever it is you’re up to.’

Tommy grins.

‘Where is that feral teen?’ Wilbur asks, glancing down the street warily like he expects Tubbo to pop up out of the bushes.

In Wilbur’s defence, Tubbo had done that before. It had led to Wilbur falling into the neighbour’s hedge, and Tommy laughing so hard that Phil had to come running out of the house to do breathing exercises.

‘He said he’d meet us there, he’s picking up Ranboo.’

Techno snorts. ‘Stop saying his name like that.’

‘He deserves it.’

Wilbur reaches over to ruffle Tommy’s hair. ‘Aw, don’t worry Toms, Tubbo won’t replace – ow, you bit me!’ His hand snatches back, glaring at Tommy who shows teeth in return.

‘Boys,’ Phil warns, although most of his stare is focused on Wilbur.

‘Yeah, Wil, listen to your dad,’ Tommy teases, skipping along to Techno’s side to avoid the retaliation.

Wilbur kicks a stone at the back of his feet. ‘He’s your dad too, idiot.’

It isn’t technically true. Wilbur’s the bio kid, Tommy and Techno are the additions. Techno joined Wilbur when they were both fourteen, and two years later, Tommy had turned up. He’d been left outside the building where Phil worked one evening. It hadn’t actually been Phil that stumbled into a then-seven-year-old Tommy, but Tubbo’s dad, Schlatt. Unable to deal with two children, Schlatt had called Phil.

Almost eight years later, and Tommy was quite happy to admit that Phil was his dad. He’d admit it, just not out loud. Techno never had, as far as Tommy was aware, and he wasn’t going to risk breaching some invisible barrier just because he was being too needy.

Luckily, Tommy is saved from replying to Wilbur by the crowds of people already queueing to get into the stadium. Zone 3 had expanded its borders over the past two years, stealing bits of space no longer used by Zone 4, so there were more people to fit into the arena. Whilst Wilbur loved the Designation, Tommy hated it. There were far too many people, close enough to touch. Everyone was loud and rowdy and they smelt bad.

Techno, as if hearing his thoughts, takes a step closer. Boxed between his two brothers, they follow Phil into the stadium.

It isn’t hard to find Tubbo, despite the sheer number of people. He’s standing close to the middle walkway, bouncing up and down like a madman. At his side, Ranboo awkwardly stands hunched over, as if he could hide his height by bending his spine.

‘You’re almost late,’ Schlatt says in greeting, a coffee in hand as he leans against the barrier. ‘Only a few minutes till showtime.’

‘You betting on this year’s competition?’

‘Mm, maybe,’ Schlatt replies, ‘I’ve looked in our box, there ain’t much.’

All the people who had entered from Zone 3 stood in a box near the front. Tommy liked to think that they were insane, for entering a competition where they could potentially die, just to secure the thrill of some extra oxygen. Extra oxygen in this Zone meant excursions beyond the Dome, into the wasteland that held far too many dangers to be considered a holiday.

Niki, Ranboo’s older sister and one of Tommy’s brothers’ friends, shrugs. ‘Dream’s entering.’

‘Again?’

Tommy tuned them out. Instead, he turns to Tubbo. ‘You want to go to Pogtopia after?’

The hangout that Tommy and Tubbo had founded years ago, was a secret spot just for them. And Ranboo, Tommy would reluctantly admit.

‘Sure,’ Tubbo agrees easily, wiggling past Tommy so he can stand at the barrier. ‘Did you bring earplugs?’

Dammit. Tommy had been busy tying his shoelaces, and had completely forgotten –

Something presses into the palm of his hand. He doesn’t openly respond to his brother, just curls his fingers around the plugs and then shows them to Tubbo. ‘Of course, Tubs. You know me, I’m always organised. Tommy Danger Kraken Organised Innit, they call me.’

Wilbur bursts out laughing. ‘None of those are your actual name.’

Tommy scowls, shoving the plugs into his ears and then squaring up to his brother. ‘How would you know, dickhead? I’ve seen my birth certificate, all of those are on there.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Wilbur says, grin growing wider. ‘Cause I could have sworn I saw Theseus—’

Tommy kicks his shin in response. Wilbur yelps, then dramatically flops against Phil as if their dad will assist him. Although Tommy gets a warning look, Phil does nothing other than shove Wilbur onto Techno instead.

‘Can you boys not get along for one minute?’ Phil complains, although his lips are twitching at the corners like he’s trying not to smile.

‘No,’ Wilbur says, at the same time that Tommy replies, ‘I hate him.’

They stare at each other, before their fight is broken by the siren signalling the beginning of the event.

Tommy turns to the stage. He’s glad for the plugs, which mostly drown out the static from the speakers. The Designation isn’t really that interesting to him, aside from the entertainment on the screens. It’s nice to see the outside world, even if it is slightly grim to see the competitors try and navigate the dangers just to receive some air. Last year had been particularly bad, with three of the thirty competitors dying during the competition.

Zone 3’s host is on stage, talking through the normal spiel about the competition. Thirty competitors, three from each Zone, fighting to retrieve a golden egg. It was hidden somewhere out in the Badlands, and with nothing other than a map, they had to find it. First to touch the egg wins the competition.

Tommy couldn’t imagine anything worse than stepping outside of the sanctuary of the Dome. The lack of oxygen, the scraps of the old earth, the animals that had been warped by radiation… it wasn’t for the faint hearted.

‘—for our first competitor, please welcome to the stage, Henrietta Schools!’

A round of applause accompanies the first competitor. She’s probably close to the upper age limit, a thin, lithe form that suggests she’s been preparing for this competition. Despite the lower limit of entering being thirteen, Tommy has never seen anyone under the age of eighteen be entered in the competition. If that wasn’t proof that the entire thing was rigged, he didn’t know what was.

Henrietta makes it to the stage, bowing to the crowd amongst the cheering. She takes her place on the pedestal, before the host turns back to the crowd.

‘Our second competitor for Zone 3 is… Dream Wastaken!’

Techno groans loudly at that. The chatter amongst them picks up, Tubbo taking his hand and squeezing.

It’s the first time they’ve known a competitor. Dream was in Wilbur and Techno’s year at school. He had a weird rivalry going on with Tommy’s older brothers, especially Techno.

Tommy doesn’t like Dream. He’s only had a couple of encounters with him, but all of them left a sour taste in his mouth. Or, in one particular case, a mark on his skin.

Dream is more theatrical on stage than Henrietta. He waves, cheers back at the crowd and rials them up. They eat it up, delighted by the performance. No doubt Dream wants the favours that come during the competition, funded by the Zones.

Tommy is so busy glaring at Dream, that he almost misses the final competitor.

‘And last, but by no means least, we have Theseus Craft!’

Tubbo’s grip on his hand tightens. Nails prick into his skin, deep enough to groove.

‘Theseus Craft?’

Techno’s the first to break from the shock. He turns to Tommy in an instant, staring him straight in the eye.

‘Tommy—’

‘There’s been a mistake,’ Phil calls out, voice wavering as he turns to the nearest security. ‘My son didn’t enter the competition.’

Techno is speaking to him. His lips are moving, but the sound isn’t hitting Tommy’s ears.

Someone grabs the back of his jacket. Tommy startles, losing one of his beloved snack bars in the process, trying to squirm away from the hands that are holding him. Techno is there, shoving against the guard holding him, but more of them are pouring forward and Tommy is still motionless.

He lets go of Tubbo’s hand.

‘Well, there appears to be a bit of a commotion over this one!’ Zone 3’s host cheerfully says, even as Tommy is being shoved into the walkway away from his family. ‘A sneaky entry to the competition for some extra oxygen? A rebellion from the family tradition?’

Entries are checked with a blood test. It isn’t 100% accurate, but the only fault comes from immediate family. Tommy remembers the only scandal that the Designation had caused, a woman who had entered her sister into the competition. When the sister had complained, had openly stated that she hadn’t entered the competition, it had been the woman who entered her that ended up competing instead.

She’d died. Tommy hadn’t been alive during that competition, but the story was served as a horror story for those that thought that entering their siblings would be a good idea.

Which is why, as Tommy climbs up the stairs onto the stage, he has to make a choice.

Because he knows who entered him.

‘Well, Theseus Craft? The rest of Zone 3 are dying to know, did you enter the competition?’

The man’s hand is on his shoulder. It burns, especially where his fingers brush against Tommy’s bare neck. The entire stadium is silent, waiting with bated breath for his response.

Tommy meets Techno’s eye, just briefly, before he takes the offered microphone.

‘Of course I did,’ Tommy replies, before he takes his position at Dream’s side.

**

‘Youngest competitor in thirty-seven years, Theseus Craft—’

Tommy tunes the report out. He sits in the room he’d been led into, on the couch opposite Henrietta and Dream. His hands haven’t stopped twitching since his name had been called. There’s blood on the back of his hands, tiny crescent marks where Tubbo’s nails had broken the skin.

‘So, who entered you?’ Dream asks, the first thing any of them have said to each other.

Henrietta glances between them, then focuses on Tommy.

He ignores them both. His heart is loud enough that he swears the whole Dome must be able to hear it, but nothing seems to calm it.

‘Because it can’t be your brothers, you’re adopted. But you took the fall pretty easily, which means you know—’

‘Shut up, Dream,’ Tommy hisses, curling in on himself.

He’s going to die in this competition.

‘Well, you two clearly know each other,’ Henrietta states, eyeing them both up. ‘Henrietta, but I prefer Henny.’

‘Dream. Tommy and I go way back.’

‘He’s an arsehole who got beaten up by my older brothers,’ Tommy spits out of spite, glaring over at Dream.

The guy just watches him back, smirking slightly.

‘You’re fifteen?’ Henny asks, ‘And the uh, shaking thing? Is that—’

‘It’s chronic,’ Dream replies for him, ‘He’s done it ever since I’ve known him.’

The door to the room opens.

Philza Craft stands in the doorway, with a look so deadly that even Tommy recoils slightly. The second his dad spots him, the expression melts into concern.

‘Toms, baby,’ his dad calls, rushing over to the chair.

Tommy lunges into his arms. He’s never really been one for physical affection, but Phil is offering, and Tommy’s so scared.

‘Shh, it’s okay, that’s it. We’re going to get this sorted, you just need to tell them you didn’t enter the competition and they’ll find out what happened.’

He stiffens in Phil’s hold. Soft fingers are carding through his hair, stroking gently like he’s worried Tommy might fall apart under pressure.

There’s a beat where nobody says anything, before Tommy pulls away from Phil’s hold. He swipes at the traitorous tears that threaten to leak from his eyes, before looking down at the couch.

‘I did enter.’

He says it quietly, like it might soften the blow.

Phil’s staring at him. He can feel it, the way the blue eyes are scanning him. Phil knows he’s lying, they both know it. Dream knows it. Henny, despite not knowing him for more than ten minutes, has probably figured it out.

‘Tommy, this is… Whatever this is, Toms, just let me help. Whoever entered you, they need to be punished—’

‘I entered myself,’ Tommy snaps, raising his head to meet Phil’s eye, ‘I entered myself, and I’m competing.’

The devastation on Phil’s face almost makes him change his mind.

‘Who is it, mate? Who… I didn’t think you had any biological family.’

‘I don’t.’ Tommy sits up straighter, hands curling into fists. ‘I entered myself. You… you can leave. You’ll see me once the Designation is over.’

Phil doesn’t move. Unfortunately, whatever strings he pulled to be allowed into this room have ended. A guard appears in the door, along with Zone 3’s host, and a few cameramen.

‘Right,’ the man says, pointing at Phil, ‘You need to leave now. You’ve had your five minutes, and I’ve got my competitors to prep.’

His dad looks back at him, eyes begging Tommy to tell the truth. When Tommy says nothing, he stands. ‘Go into the competition, then quit,’ he pleads, ‘Just tap out.’

There’s nothing to stop that happening. Every year, two of three competitors usually tap out immediately. Each player has a camera and mic on them, and a small flare which they can fire if they want to be removed from the competition. If they fire it within the first four hours, the oxygen they were gifted for entering is revoked.

Tommy didn’t even get the oxygen from entering his name, because he didn’t actually enter. He’s not sure how taking it away would even work, but he’s not going to point that out.

Phil is led out of the door, leaving him to stare at the host for Zone 3.

‘My name is Jared Fletcher, I’ll be walking you through this entire thing. We’ve got a bit of work to do to get you camera ready, and then we’ll do a group interview with the three of you so that the Zones can get to know you!’

This has nothing to do with the oxygen, Tommy thinks. She doesn’t need the oxygen. How did she even get into Zone 3 to put his name into the pot? Did nobody look at her and go, “hey, that doesn’t look like a Theseus” –

He jolts from his thoughts when someone calls his name. Looking up, he sees that the other two competitors have already vanished from the room.

‘Theseus,’ Jared repeats, eyes narrowing on him like he’s a puzzle to unpick, ‘Showers are through that way.’

**

‘So you’ve been training for this?’

Dream leans back on the couch, spreading his arms over the back of it. Henny flicks an eyebrow up slightly, but doesn’t move.

Tommy openly slides further away from the man.

‘I have, yeah. I used to fence at school, and I’ve been boxing since I was a kid. Cardio, stamina, this should be a walk in the park, excuse the pun.’ Dream winks, and Jared smiles along with him.

This entire interview is stupid. Tommy doesn’t care about the public liking him, he cares about the fact that his name has been entered and he can’t work out why.

‘Have you ever met either of your Zonemates?’

Sometimes, competitors from the same team collaborate. It makes sense, for a while, to get every advantage possible. But there can only be one winner, so most partnerships break down easily when the competition actually starts.

Dream shrugs. ‘I’ve not met Henny before, but I know Tommy, Theseus, sorry. He’s the little brother of a… friend of mine at school.’

Tommy would pay to see Techno’s reaction to that statement.

‘Tommy, is it? You’re the Dome’s youngest participant in thirty-seven years, and the third youngest competitor ever. What inspired you to enter the competition? We all saw the moving scenes at the choosing, I imagine you didn’t think you’d get picked!’

He hasn’t actually thought of the best cover story, yet. The oxygen cliché? Nobody would buy it. He’s got enough oxygen that even if he wanted to exit the dome, he would be able to without this competition.

So, logically, there’s a few choices. Boredom, a desire for adventure, or –

‘Dream’s just mentioned that I have an older brother,’ Tommy replies, forcing his fingers to uncurl, ‘Two older brothers, actually. Both straight A students, successful careers, you get the picture.’

Jared nods encouragingly. ‘A lot to live up to, I suppose.’

Tommy barks a laugh. ‘Sure is. I’ve got this, uh, condition,’ he holds both hands out, ignoring the constant trembles, ‘So they’ve always been overprotective.’

He hates relying on this to convince people. The tremors in his hands, his inability to withstand bright lights or loud noises or people have never stopped him before. He’s never let them stop him. But people in the Dome see anything out of the ordinary as an imperfection.

‘A way to prove yourself,’ Jared says, nodding along like he agrees with Tommy’s reasoning.

Tommy thinks of blonde curls, and bright eyes. Of the scent of oranges, ironically, and the way her clothes always were mismatched and clashed horribly.

‘It can be hard to live up to a sibling’s expectations,’ Tommy agrees, shoving the thoughts of her away, ‘Plus, a golden egg would look lovely in my room.’

The host laughs, as does Henny. Jared wraps up the interview, ending with a promise to revisit some of the public’s questions later.

When the cameras are off, Dream turns to him before he can escape.

‘Who are you protecting?’

Tommy brushes past him. ‘Shove off, Dream.’

**

Sleep evades him. The bed in unfamiliar, and there’s no soft light drifting in from under the doorway from the hallway. Every noise has him jumping, every shadow has him clutching at the blankets to try and calm himself.

Breakfast is no better.

Dream and Henny have some sort of allyship already, chatting away about the plans for the recovery of the egg. Tommy, in retaliation to the conversation, stares at his food and tries not to throw up.

‘Are you joining us, Tommy?’

Henny narrows her eyes when Dream asks that question. It’s clear that whilst she sympathises with his situation, she’s here to win. She doesn’t need a fifteen-year-old kid on the verge of a breakdown slowing her down.

‘No thanks.’

‘Tapping out like your dad said?’

Probably. He can’t think of anything worse than having to go out into the Badlands.

The next part of the day is, according to Jared, their chance to show off. A nice gym for them to work out in, a swimming pool and a sauna for relaxation. In the evening, they’re expected to do another interview, this time in front of a crowd, before the game starts tomorrow.

‘There are cameras everywhere, just to keep an eye on anything developing, but don’t worry about that!’

It’s just the three of them. Tommy figures that there could be nothing worse than trying to do cardio, so he heads in the direction of the changing rooms for the pool. At least that might entertain him.

It’s nice. Peaceful. The water is cooler than he expected, but he’s never been in a pool by himself before. The one in Zone 3 is always heaving, and small children never work well with his inability to listen to loud noises.

Tommy is on his third lap of the pool when Henny and Dream walk in. They stand side by side, arms crossed, peering down at him as he floats on the surface.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Dream questions, ruining the peace Tommy had been searching for.

‘I was, before your ugly face appeared.’

Henny glances between them. ‘Are you two about to have a moment? Because I’d rather not have to explain this to anyone if you decide to fight.’

‘We aren’t fighting,’ Dream says, walking closer to the pools edge. ‘It wouldn’t be much of a fight, anyway. Tommy likes to hide in his brothers’ shadow.’

He splashes water straight at the man in retaliation. ‘Suck a dick, Dream.’

‘You’re a little young for me, Toms.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ he spits, heading towards the ladder. His peaceful swim has been ruined by Dream, but he isn’t stupid enough to start a fight.

Dream watches him, smirk growing at Tommy’s obvious annoyance. ‘Why not? Reserved for Wilby? How happy would he be that your keeping secrets?’

Tommy grips the ladder, hauling himself out of the water.

Henny clears her throat. Tommy startles, as does Dream, like they’d forgotten she was standing watching them. Only when Tommy looks at her, does he realise what she’s staring at.

Tommy’s got scars. A few too many to be happy childhood accidents. Dream’s seen them before, hence why he’s hardly phased. But Henny holds out a towel, an offering that Tommy takes.

‘Thanks,’ Tommy mutters, hauling it around his bare shoulders.

She nods her head. ‘Some of those are pretty badass, kid.’

Dream laughs, then yelps when Tommy kicks him in the shins. ‘Yeah well, Dream caused this one, see? Slammed my hand shut in a locker.’

He shows her the small, white line on the back of his hand from the metal scraping against skin. It’s hardly the biggest scar on him, but it is the one that Dream caused, and therefore valuable blackmail material.

Especially when he never told Techno or Wilbur. He’s not an idiot, he knew what they’d do if they found out.

‘You’re bullying the kid?’

‘He’s more annoying than he looks,’ Dream practically snarls, before his face softens. ‘Stick with us tomorrow, Tommy. Your brothers would kill me if I let anything happen to you.’

Tommy stomps away from both of them, not bothering to look back as he calls, ‘Good thing I don’t care if they kill you, then.’

**

Unfortunately, the poolside argument must have made it to the TV screens, because that evening, the audience questions are focused on them.

‘Why didn’t you tell your brothers about the locker incident?’

This is the ninth question that Tommy has had on his brothers. Everyone keeps wanting to know everything about them, things like what’s Techno’s favourite colour and do you like Wilbur’s music and honestly, Tommy is about ready to admit that he’s been lying about all of this, just to get off of the stage.

Dream’s finding it mostly amusing. Sure, a couple of the people speaking have pointed out the age-gap between them and that fighting him seems more like bullying, but Tommy doesn’t let that conversation last for very long.

In response to the latest one, Tommy shrugs. ‘Not much point. I had it handled, and I don’t need them to clean up every mess I make.’

‘Keep telling yourself that,’ Dream mutters under his breath. Henny elbows him, a warning that they are wearing microphones, and the chances are that someone will hear them.

‘You were adopted into the Craft family, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ Tommy replies, although he’s not the biggest fan of the topic, ‘Coming up on eight years.’

‘What were your family like before that?’

Wilbur Soot-Craft leaned back against the beanbag, guitar on his lap. Spread out on Tommy’s bed, Technoblade flicked through his book. The comfortable silence stretched, up until Techno turned towards Tommy.

‘Why the name Theseus?’

Ten-year-old Tommy glared. ‘My name is Tommy.’

Wilbur hummed, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. ‘You’ve never mentioned anything before coming to stay with us. Did… did you have a family?’

Tommy knows that Techno did, up until they died in a warehouse explosion when he was eleven. Tommy also knows that Phil tried to find out some information on Tommy, when he first arrived at the house. But nobody knew who left Tommy at the government building in Zone 3, nor why he had been put there specifically.

‘No,’ Tommy bluntly replies, ‘I didn’t have anyone. I don’t remember anyone.’

‘I don’t remember them,’ Tommy says, looking into the camera and wondering if she’s watching.

He knows how it sounds. Tommy was definitely old enough to have memories from before Phil, and the marks that the TV screens probably showed would imply that he had a rough time before finding the Crafts.

Later, as they’re walking back to their rooms, Dream stops him before he can escape.

‘Who entered you into the competition?’

Tommy exhales, then looks up at the older man. He’s not actually staring at Tommy directly; instead, he focuses on Tommy’s shaking hands.

‘My sister.’

Green eyes flick to him. ‘Older?’

‘Yes. Ten years between us.’

‘Has she been in contact?’

Tommy thinks about the letters over the years, the ones he’s ripped up and burnt and destroyed. ‘I’ve been ignoring her.’

‘Why?’ Dream inquires, and Tommy brushes past him into his room.

**

The oxygen tank strapped to him is annoyingly heavy. The mask is ill-fitting, rubbing against his cheeks. If anyone has noticed that the top of the mask sits perfectly in line with the scar along the bridge of his nose, they don’t mention it. They probably haven’t noticed, aside from Dream, who watches him more than he watches his own life.

Tommy suspects he’s worried that Techno will rain hell down on him if he doesn’t look out for Tommy during the Designation.

‘Remember, you have one flare each. Use it wisely. This’ll be your first time interacting with the other Zones, but try not to hang around the spawning point. Good weapons and tools are by the junkyard on the far side.’

Tommy had briefly glanced at the map earlier, before shoving it into a pocket. His plan is to step into the Badlands, fire the gun, and promptly disappear back into the safety of the Dome.

When the siren sounds, so reminiscent of the arena where Tommy’s life was turned upside down, he regrets the lack of his earplugs. The three of them, him, Henny and Dream, are kicked out the back of the jeep that had driven them to the starting arena.

Henny wastes no time sprinting for the junkyard, although her step is slightly unbalanced with the weight of the oxygen pack. She clearly hasn’t been outside the Dome before, but Tommy isn’t one to judge. Dream is hot on her heels, dust kicking up as they head to the far end of the barren scrubland that surrounds the Dome.

Tommy doesn’t join them. He reaches for his pocket, where his flare sits, before flinching when a bang echoes through the Badlands.

Someone has already fired a flare. The red light shoots up, exploding into the sky and staining it crimson as sparks fly.

If there is one thing Tommy hates about the Badlands, it’s the sound. The Dome is all artificial, the vents that circulate air, the sound of people and buildings and animals and life. The Badlands is, and always has been, wild. Winds nipping at skin, the heat of the sun unfiltered and threatening to blister.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to come back here.

His gaze lowers from the sky, then halts on the woman in front of him. Even with the cargo pants and the long-sleeved shirt, the bandana tied across her lower face and the hate covering her hair, there was no mistaking her. The lettering on her shirt says Zone 1, which probably explains most of the questions he had since he had been chosen.

‘Theseus,’ she calls, over the sound of people shouting, the flare, the jeep returning to pick up the first candidate to give up.

She’s in the Badlands. She’s fighting in the Designation.

She put his name in, and she’s standing right in front of him. She put her own name in.

He takes a step back, hand falling from the pocket with the flair.

‘You wouldn’t return my letters,’ the woman says, eight years older than she was when he last saw her, but no less terrifying. ‘I needed to… she wants to see you, and I wanted to know—’

‘Tommy!’

He spins on his heel, only to find Dream rushing towards him. He has a pack, and an axe attached to his hip. Sweat is already beading across his forehead, blond curls stuck to his skin. Behind him, Henny hasn’t waited for him, too busy making a beeline towards the river that the map showed.

‘Tommy, we need to go. If you’re staying in the competition, we should make some headway before… who’s this?’ His eyes flick over Tommy, to the woman who stayed behind to talk to Tommy rather than getting a pack.

Neither of them answer. She’s looking at him, and he’s trying not to panic.

Dream looks down to Tommy’s hands, perfectly still for the first time in a while, then back up at the woman. Then, without missing a beat, he takes a step between them.

‘You’re Tommy’s sister.’

It sounds terrible, in the open air with nobody to deny it.

‘You put him in the competition.’

Tommy makes a sound, a choked-out breath that catches in his lungs. The oxygen mask is suffocating, pinching into his skin with every attempt at inhaling.

‘I’m Clementine,’ the woman, Clem, offers. ‘I didn’t think… I needed to speak to him.’

‘So you put his name in? How did that even work? You’re Zone 1.’

Zones don’t cross. Movement between them is only for government officials (and the occasional orphan that they stumble across on a mission).

Clementine ignores him. ‘Thes, c’mon, I just need—’

When she reaches, Dream draws the axe. Her movement halts, body tensing at the threat.

‘Tommy has two siblings, two brothers, who would probably kill me if I didn’t get him back to the Dome in one piece. Protecting him is currently my only objective, and that includes protecting him from you.’

Clementine’s expression turns icy. Her hand jerks to her waist, pulling the flare gun from her pocket and aiming it straight at him.

Tommy yells, throwing his weight into Dream as it fires. The light hits both of them, an explosion behind his eyes that has him momentarily blind. He hits the dirt, with Dream’s body under him.

Hands grip him, before he’s being hauled up.

Dream’s eyes are wide, cheeks red and the exposed skin on his neck and arms blistering. He says nothing, just grabs Tommy’s hand and runs.

They don’t look back. Tommy follows, desperate and afraid of the blood-red light behind them and the sound of the jeep. He runs, and runs, and runs, until the beeping of the oxygen tank warns him that his breathing has become too laboured.

It isn’t Tommy that lets go first, though. Dream drops his hand, skidding to a halt by the river that they’ve reached. He wastes no time in wading in far enough to kneel, submerging his arms and desperately cupping water. Tommy watches, staring at the blistered skin.

He then looks down at his own arms. He had the sense to wear long sleeves, though they’ve mostly been charred by the flare.

‘I dropped my flare,’ Tommy tells him, the first words spoken.

Dream audibly inhales. ‘I’ve cracked my mask.’

His voice sounds rough. He’s run far enough that his lungs are probably struggling, especially if his oxygen levels are lower.

When Dream turns to him, Tommy stares at the cracked mask. It isn’t awful, but he can see the loss of pressure.

‘We should swap equipment,’ Tommy finally says, after a long pause.

Dream rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, right. C’mon, lets find some shelter.’

‘Dream, I’m serious.’ Tommy’s hands are shaking again. He hates it, hates the way his heart is thudding.

Clementine was right there. Standing in front of him, watching him, waiting for him.

‘Hi serious, I’m Dream.’

Tommy scowls, before reaching for the clasp of his mask. Dream yelps, trying to batt his hands away from it.

‘Stop it, Tommy! Seriously, this is oxygen we’re talking about, you can’t just—’

‘See this?’ Tommy asks, ripping the mask from his face and pointing to the line on his nose.

Dream’s rambling stops. ‘An oxygen mask line. But it would have had to be on for a while, if it scarred.’

Tommy stares at him, before inhaling. Dream watches.

He exhales. Then inhales again.

The air outside is a lower percentage. Old earth had a percentage of around 21%. The Dome was kept above that, an enriched oxygen environment, especially in the upper Zones. Zone 10 was the worst, sitting at around 19.8%. The outside world currently sat at around 19.2%.

Tommy takes another breath. Living in Zone 3 for so long has made it hard to adjust to the air out here.

‘Tommy,’ Dream murmurs, staring at Tommy’s chest, then looking up.

‘Zone 3 has so much fucking oxygen, man,’ Tommy tells him, sitting down into the river, ‘It was so hard to get used to for the first few months. Out here it sits just above 19, and it was all I’d ever known. When Phil first took me in, the shaking started. The breathing issues, the panicking, it was hard.’

‘You were born out here.’

Tommy unstraps Dream’s mask, replacing it with his own. He slips Dream’s mask over his face, but keeps it lowered and turns the valve off. No point wasting the oxygen just yet.

‘Clementine brought us in. She left me at the offices for the Explorer Division, in the hopes that they’d realise where I came from.’

‘Out here,’ Dream repeats, flicking his gaze out across the surroundings, ‘I didn’t realise that was possible. There… there are other people?’

Tommy laughs, but it sounds weak. ‘I wasn’t a miracle baby, Dream. I’ve got parents. I had parents. My bio dad is definitely dead, but my mother might still be alive.’

‘You want the flare?’ Dream then asks, standing up abruptly.

‘No. You want the egg?’

The two exchange a look, before Dream offers out his hand. ‘It would look good in my room.’

Tommy takes the offering.

‘Stop stealing my lines, you prick.’

**

Progress through the Badlands is limited. Although he hasn’t said anything, Tommy knows that the burns on Dream’s arms and neck must be aching. A quick rummage through the pack provided nothing other than food and water rations, along with a small, silver knife that Tommy had pocketed. Nothing to treat burns, annoyingly.

‘The sun is hot,’ Dream says, looking up at the sky almost wistfully.

Tommy’s tempted to whack him on the back of the head. ‘Don’t look directly at it, dickhead. It’ll burn your eyeballs out.’

Dream’s eyes go wide, staring at him in shock. ‘Is that actually a thing?’

Clearly someone hadn’t been paying attention in school. In Dream’s defence, not many people thought that knowledge of the outside world was useful. Not when the Dome had everything they needed, everything they could ever want.

‘You can damage them, I think,’ Tommy replies, gesturing to his covered skin, ‘Same with exposed skin.’

His companion glares. ‘You could have given me a heads up.’

Tommy eyes up the river, watching it bend back towards the mountains in the distance. They need to cross, and head deeper into the patchy woodland. At the very least, Dream will get some shade from the sun.

‘Are we going to discuss what happened back at spawn?’

Tommy steps through the shallowest part of the river. Even so, the water hits knee-height. Dream follows, pebbles crunching under his boots.

‘No.’

‘She said she needed to talk to you.’

‘You really need to learn the definition of no,’ Tommy mutters. The shade of the trees is nice on his own skin, especially the parts exposed from the flare. ‘Clem’s maintained contact with the outside.’

‘The government know about this?’

‘Yeah,’ Tommy says, ‘Not about me, but they know about Clem. It doesn’t impact the Dome, people born on the inside can’t withstand prolonged exposure to the radiation out here.’

‘In English?’

‘It’s genetic. I could spend the rest of my life out here, and it wouldn’t do much. You’d struggle, even with oxygen, in a few months.’

Dream considers this, then gestures vaguely to Tommy’s hands. ‘Your… condition. Is that—’

‘I already said the shaking didn’t start till I entered the Dome.’

‘The rest of it?’

Tommy glances around the woods. The plants growing here have had the benefit of hiding from the full heat of the sun, so there’s a few species that seem to be thriving. Luckily for him, he didn’t skip the lessons on which plants can help. Soft, yellow flowers catch his attention, tinged with oranges.

‘Sound came after the Dome.’

Dream watches as he starts harvesting some of the flowers. ‘Touch?’

‘Give me one of the water rations,’ Tommy demands, ignoring his question. He takes the leaves as opposed to the flowers, before grabbing one of Dream’s arms. ‘Hold still.’

The man watches him. ‘What are they?’

‘Stalked Bulbine. Keep them wrapped around it, I’ll see if I can find yarrow.’

‘Your scars make more sense, now.’ Dream follows his continued mission through the trees, peering down at Tommy’s attempts to keep his skin cool. ‘I thought you just had a shitty set of parents.’

Tommy rolls his eyes, shifting his oxygen pack. The weight was already getting annoying, but he was trying to keep it in case Dream needed it. ‘I did have a set of shitty parents. There’s a reason I stayed in the Dome.’

‘And here I thought it was the good food.’

Whatever Tommy was going to say was cut off by explosions in the sky.

The first flare burst above the tree canopy, from somewhere in front of them. A greater distance than Tommy expected, but maybe some of the candidates were actually prepared to walk through the Badlands.

The second flare comes a second later. Then another, and another, until Tommy loses count.

When they finally stop, Tommy glances to Dream. The man is watching the sky, teeth gritted. ‘What do you think spooked them?’

‘No idea,’ Tommy replies honestly, ‘But that’s the way to the egg.’

They manage silence for a few hours. At some point, they hear the engines of the jeeps coming close to them, but there are no signs of what caused the mass quitting of candidates. As the sun begins to set, eight more flares go off.

‘That’s got to be over half of the candidates gone.’

The trees have been replaced by scrubland. Tommy is mostly still following the map, although parts of the landscape look slightly familiar.

‘I think I counted eight just then, and maybe ten earlier? Plus the first one, and then Clem.’

‘So ten of us left,’ Dream concludes, ‘Can we take a break?’

Tommy nods, shrugging the straps of the oxygen cannister from his shoulders. ‘We could stay here for the night, then continue in the morning. How far through your oxygen are you?’

‘About a third.’

‘And you’ve got my tank,’ Tommy points out, gesturing to the one that he’s put down. Dream eyes it up, before nodding.

‘This place familiar to you?’

Tommy scowls at Dream yet again. They aren’t friends. Tommy doesn’t want to think too much about life before the Dome.

‘A bit.’

‘C’mon, Toms, give me something more—’

‘Only Wilbur gets to call me that,’ Tommy snaps back, frustrated, ‘And Phil.’

Dream raises an eyebrow. ‘What about Thes?’

The old nickname burns. When Tommy had first joined the Craft household, the nicknames that had been offered to him had been a way of bonding. Wilbur loved to tease him that his cheeks stained the darkest shades of red when they called him something other than his name. Until Wilbur had called him Thes, just once, and Tommy had screamed at him.

‘—and honestly, Thes, you—’

Tommy rounded on Wilbur so quickly that the man actually looked surprised. ‘Don’t call me that!’

 His voice was raised. More raised than usual.

Wilbur paused. Despite being a teenager, he was pretty adept at not pushing boundaries, including Tommy’s.

‘Okay, sorry sunshine.’

‘If you call me that, I’m stabbing you.’

‘Techno calls you Theseus.’

Techno is the only one that does. He once asked Tommy if it bothered him, and Tommy had waved him off. It sounded like less of a death-sentence when Techno said it.

‘Your obsession with my brother is a bit creepy,’ Tommy tells Dream, smirking, ‘If you want his attention, I’m not sure messing with me is the way to go.’

The older blond flips him off. ‘Don’t be an ass.’

‘Sorry, Big D, I’m just stating facts.’

‘Don’t call me that!’

Tommy’s grin grows. ‘Annoying, isn’t it, Big D? D-money? Little D, perhaps.’

A ration pack gets thrown at his head. Tommy laughs, dodging it and watching it hit the ground behind him. Dream’s laughing too, so he figures he’s probably safe to sleep tonight without watching his back.

**

A scream wakes him up. He’s bolt upright before he can think, the knife in his hand as he looks around the clearing.

Dream wakes just as quickly. He’s up on his feet, oxygen pack strapped back to his chest and running in the direction of the sound just as quickly as Tommy. They race over the scrub, back towards a small copse of trees.

The clearing they arrive in is a mess. There’s blood on the ground, blood staining the upright fork-trap that must have embedded straight into Henny’s thigh when she tripped it.

Dream, ever helpful, lifts his mask just in time to lean over and throw up.

Tommy ignores him in favour of rushing to their Zonemate.

Henny’s eyes are glossy with tears, blood smeared over her clothes and hands where she’s holding onto her thigh. The amount of blood pumping out isn’t a good sign, he knows that much.

‘Call the flare,’ he tells her, but she shakes her head.

‘Lost it,’ she chokes, letting out a sob when Tommy presses his own hands over the wound.

‘Dream, give Henny your flare.’

‘Tommy—’

‘The flare, Dream.’

Dream isn’t moving. He’s staring at the amount of blood, and Tommy knows what he’s thinking.

The jeeps will take hours to get here, even if Henny taps out now.

Henny knows it, too. She’s staring between her thigh, and the trap she walked into. Her breathing rate picks up, the mask fogging up with how quickly she’s trying to inhale.

‘Can you carry her?’ Tommy asks, looking at Dream.

The blond stares back. ‘How far?’

‘Half a mile,’ Tommy replies, ‘Maybe less. I’ll take her tank.’

Dream agrees. Tommy glances to her thigh, then between the three of them. None of them exactly have a lot of clothing to spare, but he needs something to bind the wound with.

‘Give me your shirt.’

It’s slow progress. Henny is half-unconscious in Dream’s arms, and Tommy is now carrying both the spare and Henny’s oxygen pack.

‘Tommy—’

‘Shut up, Dream.’

The man huffs. ‘Do you have a plan, or are we—’

‘Shut it,’ Tommy snaps, coming to a halt.

He can feel it, the eyes on the three of them.

‘She’s going to die if we don’t do something,’ Dream exclaims, then makes a noise of disbelief when Tommy drops the oxygen cannister. ‘Tommy, what the hell are you doing?’

‘Can you help her?’ Tommy asks the clearing.

Whatever Dream was about to say is cut off by a smooth voice from behind them.

‘Who are you?’

Tommy turns. He doesn’t immediately recognise the person in front of them, but that isn’t a surprise. He grabs the hem of his shirt, yanking it up to show the tiny, star-shaped scar on his hip.

‘Theseus Simons, son… son of Lycomedes.’

‘Ah, the ironical son,’ the person says, ‘Your companion?’

‘They’re with me,’ Tommy assures, ‘Can you stabilise her? Just until the Dome can collect her.’

The person glances between the three of them, then eventually nods.

‘Follow me, son of Lycomedes.’

**

Henny fires the flare a short while after. The cliff-face that, according to the map, is the final barrier between Tommy and the egg, is host to a small group of people. Fourteen in total, who work quickly to stop the bleeding from Henny’s injury. With her slightly more conscious before, and the jeep on its way to pick her up, Tommy relaxes slightly.

‘Who are you?’

‘Dream Wastaken,’ Tommy’s sort-of enemy/friend replies.

‘I am Ava, and this is my clan.’

Dream smiles to the people in the clearing. ‘Thank you for your help with Henny, and for the dressings.’

Dream’s arms are covered in soft cloth.

Ava nods her head. ‘It is no trouble, for a friend of Theseus.’

He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.

Dream eyes him up warily. He has questions, ones that Tommy isn’t going to answer anytime soon. They’ve just used their last flare on Henny, which means neither of them are quitting until someone gets that goddamned egg.

‘You two know each other?’

‘Not personally,’ Ava replies, her gaze focused on Tommy, ‘But Theseus is the son of Lycomedes, who is known by all the clans.’

‘I see,’ Dream says, looking more confused than before. ‘What does he do?’

Ava smiles. ‘She. Lycomedes took the leadership of the clans nearly ten years ago, now.’

Henny sits up slightly. ‘How many clans are there?’

‘Sixteen in total,’ Ava tells her, ‘But some have more people than others.’

‘She’s missing out the part of the story where Lycomedes killed her husband,’ Tommy cuts in, glaring over the fire at Ava.

‘Your dad?’

‘Your father’s death was hardly what I would call a loss to the community.’

Tommy ignores Ava, and instead stares at Dream. ‘My dad is sitting in the Dome, probably pissed out of his mind that I didn’t fire that stupid flare at the beginning of this.’

‘You have a new family, Theseus?’

Tommy stares at the cliff face. His original plan had been to go over it, but the chances are that the clan know a way through the mountain. It would make it quicker to get to the egg.

‘Do you have a way through the mountain?’

Ava hums, leaning back as she watches him. ‘Indeed. You wish to continue your journey?’

‘I wish for it to be over,’ he retorts. ‘I don’t care much for the Badlands.’

‘You do not wish to see her?’

He thinks about it, just for a moment. He could ask to see her. She might even be happy to see him, even if every second after she killed her husband was spent comparing Tommy to him.

‘I want to go home,’ Tommy admits.

‘You are home,’ Ava states, gesturing to the camp, ‘This is where you belong.’

‘I belong with my family, and my friends, and even this asshole.’

Dream doesn’t even protest at the insult. ‘Then we keep going for the egg.’

‘Theseus—’

‘Look—’ Dream cuts in, smiling at Ava, ‘—you’ve helped Henny, and I’m thankful. But if Tommy says he doesn’t want to be here, then we’re leaving.’

Ava narrows her gaze, before she inclines her head.

‘Havian will show you the tunnel to take you through. Travel well, son of Lycomedes.’

‘See you back in Zone 3, Henny,’ Tommy offers, ignoring Ava entirely.

**

Chapter Text

Over the past six years, Technoblade has heard more about Tommy Soot than he ever needed to hear.

‘Tommy loves playing the piano, he’s really good at it!’

‘He has these freckles that come out in the sun…’

‘—and he’s so loud and boisterous, but you’ll love him—’

‘Toms adores the colour green, like a bright green! Reminds him of the grass right after rain. Oh, Techno, he would always insist we went out in storms to go and play outside.’

The image constructed in his mind of Wilbur’s biological brother is a strange one. Because some things Wilbur cannot predict. He has no idea how tall his brother might have grown, or if his hair stayed the same golden colour. If it was long, like their biological mother’s hair. If he had continued loving history and art. If he still struggled with languages.

Wilbur’s version of Tommy, the nine-year-old boy that entered the system with him, is the one that Wilbur tells Techno about over the years. They had been split unfairly, and although Techno didn’t know what it truly felt like to have that happen, he’d seen enough of Wilbur’s breakdowns to sympathise.

When Phil, who had promised a sixteen-year-old Wilbur that he would do everything in his power to reunite the biological siblings, had to sit them both down one evening and tell them that Tommy had already been adopted, Techno thought Wilbur would never recover. It was a difficult thing for the entire family. Phil, who desperately wanted to adopt another child, knew that he would never fill the hole in Wilbur’s chest that belonged to his mother. Techno, sixteen years old and adopted by Phil two years prior to Wilbur’s arrival, knew that Tommy was Wilbur’s most precious thing.

Over the years, the jealousy in Techno’s chest retreated. Wilbur’s social worker told them that Tommy’s adoptive father had requested they go no-contact, based on Tommy’s abandonment issues. Wilbur threw a strop that evening, screaming in Phil’s face until he’d been sent to his room. Later, Wilbur had crawled into the bed beside Techno, and sobbed for the rest of the night.

Eventually, Wilbur began to change. He spoke more about Tommy to them, tales of his childhood and his baby brother. What started as painful confessions turned into nostalgic stories, which eased the beast inside Techno’s chest. Besides, Wilbur started calling them twins. Techno doesn’t have to fight for Wil’s attention, because he has all of it.

Things change the week that Techno submits his final literary review and manuscript for his final year of college. He returns home after a day assisting his professor with the first-year students, to find Phil sitting at the kitchen table nursing a coffee.

‘Dad?’

Phil glances up at him, then back to the folder in front of him.

A physical, paper folder. Thick, with roughed-up edges and a mug-stain on the front.

Techno knows what that is.

When Techno was first adopted, Phil was new to the foster system. He’d been a medic in the army prior to adopting Techno, before returning to Manberg and specialising in PTSD for veterans. The money he had from his career in the army, combined with a wealthy inheritance from his grandparents, had left him with a large house on the outskirts of Manberg. Apparently, when first asked why he wanted to adopt, Phil had said that six bedrooms seemed excessive for just him.

Techno had never had any misconceptions about his relationship with Phil. The man never insisted Techno call him dad. He’d never demanded to be family. He’d offered it, offered love for as long as Techno wanted it, and beyond that. Techno had worked out quickly that although Phil had fostered and adopted both him and Wil at an older age, he wanted them to stay beyond eighteen. He had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

So, the folder on the table was a surprise. He hadn’t been aware that Phil wanted another child.

‘Feeling broody?’

Phil snorts, taking a gulp of the coffee and then leaning back in the chair.

‘I’m not broody, you little shit.’

Techno kicks a chair out, sitting down and dropping his bag. ‘No? Then what’s with the new kid?’

‘It’s Tommy.’

Techno’s heart seizes. His father is watching him, knowing that Techno struggled for the first couple of months after Wilbur’s arrival with the entire concept of Wilbur’s biological brother.

‘He was adopted.’

Phil hums. ‘His adoptive father was in a car accident.’

He winces. The poor kid, losing his mother, being separated from his brother, and then losing his adoptive father six years after. ‘He’s back in the system?’

Painted-black nails tap the edge of the folder rhythmically. ‘Still in the hospital, currently. The kid was in the backseat of the car.’

Jesus. Techno tucks a stray strand of pink hair behind his ear, nodding to the folder. ‘So we’re taking him in?’

‘I’m asking you, first. I know what Wilbur will say—’

Techno barks a laugh.

‘—but I wanted to check with you. I know you’ve struggled in the past with the idea of Wilbur’s biological brother.’ Phil finishes his sentence with a pointed stare.

‘I’d be a bit of dick to say no to this, Phil. He’s just a kid.’

‘And you’re my kid. I feel bad for Tommy, I do, but my priority will always be you and Wilbur.’

Techno chews on his lip, considering Phil’s words. Phil will be on his side, regardless. But is it right, to keep Wilbur to himself? Tommy had Wilbur for nine years, and Techno has had him for six.

Strangely, Techno’s biggest fear isn’t Wilbur preferring Tommy over him.

‘What if Tommy doesn’t like me?’

Phil doesn’t seem shocked by his question. It’s like he knew that Techno was worried about it. ‘Tommy might not like either of us. Tech, he might not even get along with Wilbur. It’s been a long time since the two of them had to live together. I suspect that the picture that Wilbur painted of his brother isn’t the boy that’ll turn up on our doorstep.’

Phil’s eyes betray him, looking down at the file again.

Techno can’t help but be curious. ‘What’s in it?’

‘A recent psych report. And a few from over the years. Most of the details are excluded, but there’s things Wilbur didn’t mention.’

‘Like?’

Phil narrows his eyes. ‘Autism and ADHD to start. Anxiety, the separation that his adoptive father mentioned. The recent trauma probably has added to that.’

Techno’s surprised. Wilbur has anxiety, which he’s on meds for, but Techno is the one with autism. ‘At least you know how to handle that.’

Phil rolls his eyes, sliding the folder from the counter and walking over to the coffee pot to fill up his mug. ‘I’m not sure handled is the right term. I learned how to assist you both.’

Techno had homes before Phil. He’d met parents that thought they were helping. Parents who tried to throw him into situations as exposure therapy, or tried to force him to be normal. One woman had tried to tie his hands to his thighs so he couldn’t tap his hands.

‘I wouldn’t mind Tommy joining us.’

‘You know you can’t change your mind, once we’ve told Wil. He’s here until he chooses to leave, or he does something to endanger either of you.’

‘I know, dad,’ Techno reassures, knee bouncing under the table.

Phil sighs, running a hand through his hair. ‘I’ll tell Wilbur this evening.’

‘Only two bedrooms left spare after this kid, Phil. You need a bigger house.’

Phil flips him off as he leaves the kitchen.

**

If Tommy had a choice in the matter, he’d be going anywhere other than the house that his brother had been adopted into.

Sitting in the back of his social worker’s car, Tommy chews on his lip. The hoodie strings he’d been eating previously had long since threaded back to nothing, and he doesn’t fancy the sleeves still stained with blood. Apparently, because Dream had been stupid enough to be high when he’d crashed the car, most of Tommy’s items were currently being held in a police investigation.

It left him with very little, not that he had much to begin with. Linda, or Lorna, or maybe Lily, had turned up to the hospital with a bin-bag. In it were a change of clothes (that hadn’t fit him) and a prescription for his ADHD meds. Tommy had made the t-shirt work, but had put on his old hoodie. The sweatpants were being held up by the waistband tied tightly, and the legs rolled up.

He hadn’t been wearing shoes in the car, so Lucy had brought him some slippers. They looked like they’d probably been taken from the old lady in the bed next to him that had sprained her wrist, but Tommy hadn’t pointed that out.

So, Wilbur Craft’s house. Tommy doesn’t know that much about what happened to his biological brother, aside from the fact he’d wanted nothing to do with Tommy six years ago. He’s almost tempted to ask what changed, but he suspects it’s some form of pity. Tommy’s just managed to kill another parent, which is an impressive feat. Two for two.

Either Wilbur doesn’t like the father he currently has, or he’s stupid enough to let Tommy into his home knowing that he has a record of ruining everything he touches.

‘Stop that,’ Larry snaps, glaring at him from the front seat.

Tommy realises that he’s been kicking the back of the chair, rather unintentionally. He stares right at her, kicks it once more, then slumps back. The seatbelt is doing a good job of pressing against his sore ribs.

‘I should have asked the doctor to give you a higher dose,’ Lynn mutters under her breath, probably referring to the ungodly needle that they’d stabbed into him when he freaked out at being shoved into the back of another car.

Wilbur’s got a brother. Technoblade.

Tommy doesn’t want to get in the middle of that. Actually, he doesn’t want to go anywhere near the Craft household at all. Jumping out of the car seems like the optimal solution, but Leah was smart enough to put the child-lock on.

‘We’re here, Thomas.’

He looks out of the window.

Fucking hell.

The house is big. Really big. It has four layers of windows. There’s a huge front lawn, stretching back from the road to the front of the house. There are two cars in the driveway, and a bike parked to one side. Putting Lydia’s crappy Honda civic within a five-mile radius of this place seems like a crime, but Tommy’s tongue is too heavy in his mouth to point that out.

‘Get out.’

He blatantly stares, gesturing to the door that isn’t yet unlocked. She glares at him again, unlocking the door as she gets out of the car. Figuring that if he stays in the car she might end up dragging him out, he grabs the bag with his things and steps out onto the gravel.

Leonardo is already at the door, ringing the bell and patiently waiting.

Tommy reaches the top step just as the door swings open. Behind it, a relatively young-looking man stands, dressed in jeans and a faded band-tee. His hair is blond, a lighter shade than Dream, tied back into a loose ponytail behind his head.

He’s wearing slippers. Slippers like the ones on Tommy’s feet. He’s tempted to ask if he’s been sharing a room with an elderly lady that sprained her wrist, but the joke would be lost.

‘Philza Craft?’

‘That’s me, you must be Abigail Walker.’

Not-Linda nods her head. ‘I am.’

Philza Craft (what kind of name is Philza) barely spares her a glance before he’s looking at Tommy. ‘Which makes you Tommy. It’s nice to meet you, mate.’

Tommy doesn’t meet his eye. ‘And you.’

His social worker elbows him.

‘Sir,’ Tommy adds, tempted to kick not-Lorna and see how she likes physical violence.

‘Come on in, both of you. I’ve kept the boys upstairs for a bit so it’s just us. We’re a shoes-off household, so if you just…’ Philza trails off, looking at Tommy’s feet.

Tommy takes his slippers off. Underneath, his Lightning McQueen socks that definitely came from some other poor foster kid look rather strange on Philza’s cream carpet.

‘I can’t stay long, Mr Craft. You already have Thomas’s record, and he has his prescription for his medication. He was given 15 milligrams of diazepam for the journey here, so—’

‘Diazepam?’

Tommy flinches at the loud exclamation from his foster father.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Philza apologises instantly, before staring back at not-Lucy. ‘Why?’

‘He refused to get in the car,’ not-Larry says, unbothered by Philza’s outburst, ‘You have my number for any issues.’

That is, apparently, all not-Lynn is going to offer. She turns back to the door, briefly tilting her head towards Tommy.

‘Do try and behave, Thomas. You’re lucky Mr Craft is giving you a chance.’

From somewhere behind all of them, in the direction of a big fucking staircase that Tommy had spotted when they first entered the building, he hears someone inhale sharply. The sons that Phil told to stay upstairs are clearly eavesdropping.

‘Got it, Linda. Enjoy your drive. Try not to crash into any trees, they seem to come out of nowhere,’ Tommy snaps back, pleased when she frowns at him. Joking about his dead foster-father seems to get that response a lot.

When the door slams shut, Tommy looks back to his new owner.

Philza smiles at him. ‘A drink, mate? We can chat about you staying here, and then I’ll let the boys come down.’

‘Whiskey would be great,’ Tommy replies, forcing himself not to smile even when Philza laughs.

The open living room that they walk through leads to a kitchen. A kitchen with an island in the middle, and barstools to one side, and a fridge that has so many magnets on it. There are pictures on almost every wall, featuring the three people living in the house.

‘We have squash, juice, a few different fizzy drinks. What do you fancy?’

‘Fancy,’ Tommy mutters under his breath, ‘Just water is fine, sir.’

‘Just Phil. Are you still a Tommy?’

Tommy nods, waiting till Phil gestures to a specific seat before pulling out the chair and sitting there. The glass of water is put in front of him.

‘I wanted to start by saying that I’m happy to have you here, Tommy. I know that it isn’t under the best circumstances, but I’ve heard a lot about you from Wilbur.’

Wilbur, who couldn’t be bothered to contact him for six years? Brilliant.

‘If it’s okay with you, I’ll run through a couple of ground rules?’ When Tommy offers no response other than a jerk of his head, Phil continues, ‘I’d like you to tell me or one of the boys if you’re going out, and where you’re going. If you could be back home by 10, or inform me if you’re running late, that would be a big help. Feel free to grab any of the food in the house, there’s a pantry filled with snacks. I keep a list on the fridge, so if you want something just write it down. You can go anywhere in the house, but knock and wait for an answer before going into rooms, and we’ll offer the same respect.’

Tommy’s mostly zoned out. His head is a bit fuzzy, and swallowing some of the water has just pointed out that he must have bit the inside of his cheek at some point. The metallic taste is rather gross.

‘We’ll go shopping for you tomorrow, seeing as you didn’t come with much. I’m not sure when your belongings will be released, but I’ll keep chasing it up for you.’

‘I didn’t really have anything,’ Tommy mumbles, eyeing up the magnet-fridge. They’re mostly flags, which makes sense, because Wilbur had always been a huge geography nerd.

Phil freezes, then tilts his head to the side, almost like a bird would. ‘No? Books, games consoles, a phone?’

‘No, nada, nil.’

Something flickers in Phil’s gaze, but he can’t identify it. ‘Okay, mate. We can work on that tomorrow. Can I invite the boys down, now? You must be eager to see Wil.’

Tommy would rather go on another four-hour drive with not-Linda. ‘Sure.’

‘Boys!’

Tommy stands up, as does Phil, when the footsteps sound on the stairs.

Wilbur is the first one he sees. He races down the stairs so quickly that Tommy thinks he might trip, all gangly legs. Holy fuck, his brother is tall. Really tall. Why did Tommy not get those genes?

You did, he mind supplies, you just didn’t get the food to support it.

Ironically, their hair is similar. Wilbur’s curls are better kept than Tommy’s, and obviously the colour is different. Wil got their mother’s eyes, whilst Tommy ended up with the sperm-donor look. The ugliest yellow sweater, combined with a set of faded jeans, finish the look.

Behind him, Technoblade is slightly shorter. Still taller than Tommy, with long, straight pink hair. He looks like he could bench-press Tommy before breakfast, which isn’t in the least bit reassuring. The gold-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose are kind of funny, but Tommy isn’t ever going to say that.

‘Tommy,’ Wilbur breathes, his smile stretching across his face. It falters for a second when he actually looks at Tommy, like the scruffy clothes, fading bruises and white line over the bridge of his nose aren’t what he was expecting, before Wilbur continues his path towards him.

His arms come up, and Tommy instinctively flinches back. Nothing good comes from an adult raising a hand at him like that.

Wilbur freezes.

‘Sorry,’ Tommy blurts, forcing his shoulders back down. ‘Hi. It’s nice to see you, Wilbur. You look… good.’

Wilbur’s expression shatters. ‘Toms—’

‘You must be Technoblade,’ Tommy says, ignoring the eyes full of tears and looking to the other brother, ‘Nice to meet you. Cool hair.’

‘Thanks, kid.’

‘Not a fucking kid,’ Tommy retorts, then flinches, ‘Sorry.’

‘You can swear all you like, Phil’s cool with it,’ Technoblade tells him.

Wilbur takes another step forward. Tommy eyes him warily. ‘Tommy, I missed you.’

Missed him?

Anger bubbles in Tommy’s gut, but he’s not stupid enough to let it spill over. What’s he supposed to say to that? I cried every night for the first three months waiting for you, Wilbur, and you never turned up. I wrote you letters nearly every day for weeks.

‘Nice house,’ Tommy instead says, turning away from Wilbur, ‘You secretly mafia? Drugs? Royalty?’

Phil chuckles, ‘No, mate. Just a dead grandfather, and a good paycheck from the army.’

‘Ex-military?’ Tommy says, surprised. ‘You shoot things?’

‘I was a medic,’ Phil says, amused, ‘But yeah, I shot things.’

Tommy nods along, hoping that Wilbur won’t say anything else.

Unfortunately, Wilbur’s always had a big mouth.

‘Do you want me to show you your room? We could hang out for a bit, or if you want to shower first and then come to my room, or—’

‘Wil,’ Wilbur’s dad speaks quietly, but firmly.

Tommy’s heart is speeding up. He’s not sure that should be possible, with the amount of drugs they gave him to get him in the car, but he’s struggling to keep his breathing even at the rambling of his brother.

‘I just want to speak to him, dad,’ Wilbur snaps, voice raised, ‘He’s my brother, and I haven’t seen him in years.’

Years, Tommy things. Years, because Wilbur wanted nothing to do with him.

The magnet fridge looks a lot further away than it was before. Were the edges always that fuzzy? The flags seem to be blending together, France melting into Australia, which is a weird combination that Tommy never thought of before –

‘—hear me, mate? I’m going to need you to take some deep breaths, that’s it. Match my breathing.’

Tommy’s on the floor. It seems a shame, considering how clean this place is, and how dirty he is. Phil is crouched in front of him, brow furrowed but a smile in place as he exaggerates his breathing. Behind him, the two brothers are watching.

Oh, Tommy’s not breathing properly. Huh.

He copies, if only because Phil’s voice is kind of nice and Tommy wants to go back to staring at the flags.

‘That’s better, keep doing that,’ Phil says softly.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Just Phil, Tommy. And you don’t need to apologise. This must be very overwhelming.’

‘I think I’d like to go for a shower, if that’s allowed?’ Tommy asks, fingers tapping against his thighs.

‘Of course. Tech, can you show Tommy to his room? Wil, a word?’

Tommy follows the pink-haired man out of the kitchen, refusing to look at anyone in the eye.

He pretends he can’t hear it when Wilbur’s voice echoes out of the kitchen.

‘Dad, what happened to my Tommy?’

**

Techno is no expert in car crashes, but he’s pretty sure that the handprint bruises around Tommy’s arms and throat aren’t from the incident.

‘Hoodie,’ Techno says, chucking it at the kid. He catches, shoving it over the t-shirt that Wilbur had left for him. Blond curls stick to his skin, still damp from the shower. It gives Techno a moment to scan the boy.

He isn’t anything like the Tommy that Wilbur had described.

‘Thanks, big man.’

‘You hungry?’

The wary expression that Techno had glimpsed in the kitchen returns. Techno has been in enough houses to recognise the fear of not having access to food. The strange thing is, this is only Tommy’s second house.

Which means there was something very wrong at the one he was adopted into.

‘Uh, I mean, I could eat.’

‘Cool. Wil’s probably still down in the kitchen with Phil, is that an issue?’

The kid chews on his lip again. It’s a habit Techno has as well, so he doesn’t scold him for it. ‘Was it Wil that wanted me here?’

Techno pauses, studying him. ‘Phil got called. He’d tried to adopt you back when you first entered the system, but by the time he got the paperwork sorted for multiple residency, you were already placed.’

‘Wilbur said he missed me.’

Techno thought that would have been obvious. ‘Yeah, kid, he did. He speaks about you all the time.’

He’s surprised by the anger that flashes behind the sky-blue eyes. ‘But not enough to write back?’

Write back?

‘Wilbur tried to set up phone calls, but your adoptive father said you weren’t keen on it,’ Techno says slowly, ‘We never got any letters.’

For just a second, Techno thinks the kid is messing with him. But the look of hurt, the anguish that makes Tommy look so similar to his older brother, is like a sinking stone in Techno’s gut. Because the kid thinks that Wilbur should have got letters.

Which means Tommy wrote to Wilbur, and they never got sent.

‘Right, yeah. I must have forgot to send them,’ Tommy quickly replies, shaking his head as if he’s banishing thoughts from his brain, ‘Food?’

Tommy follows him back down to the kitchen. When Techno steps on the creaky step on the staircase, Tommy sidesteps it. When Techno purposefully makes his steps heavier so that Phil can hear them coming, Tommy stays silent like a mouse.

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t want to think of why the kid knows all the tricks of a seasoned foster-kid, when he should have been happily adopted for the past six years.