Chapter Text
He was right. He was absolutely and utterly right (as always).
As soon as his laughter died down, his fists still raised in front of his face, all hell broke loose. It took a brief moment for the guards to process what had just happened, but they were trained to be quick. They were trained to be fearless, to be fast, to be machines .
But Theseus was all that and more . He was the model machine that everyone else strived to be. He was quicker, faster, and he stared death in the face constantly and does not flinch. He does not hesitate, he does not stutter, for he is the ideal warrior. The one Schlatt tried so hard to mold perfectly.
(He would not be surprised if there were posters of him or dummies modeled after him in their training facilities. He was one of the first, he was one of the best. He was the motivation.)
Lucky for Tyr, those skills transfer over from Theseus quite easily.
Shots fired into the air as soon as he moved a mere inch, and he knew it would. He ducked down to the ground, launching himself forward at the closest guard (a smaller kid, slightly scrawny and short. He wonders why Schlatt would put him at the front. His gut heaves slightly). He tackled them at the knees, dragging them down. Their head hit the floor with a loud thud and they lay motionless on the floor.
Easy takedown. One of the easiest Schlatt has ever, ever given him (He really wonders why Schlatt put them at the front. He thinks he knows why, but he does not want to admit it. His gut heaves again).
Their breathing was constant and unlabored, so they were fine. Just… taking a bit of a nap. A forced nap that was going to give them one hell of a headache once they woke up.
Tyr quickly shot back up again, refraining from grabbing his own gun. He wanted to make this fun for himself, wanting a challenge or a play date. He knows Schlatt wants it too. He’s standing off to the side, still and judgemental, just as he was at the camp (Tommy was transferred back there, still young and hopeful). Might as well give him a show, yeah?
The next guard in line had a tight ponytail to the point where Tyr thought she was trying to give herself a facelift. She was young too, probably around the same age as him (but he wasn’t that young, right?). Her skin was stretched tight to the point it just had to have hurt.
“Is your ponytail too tight?” He asks her. “I can loosen it if you want.”
She didn’t like his offering and was glaring at him, gun pointed unevenly at his neck. He moved his head to the left and a shot rang out, hitting the desk behind him. Splinters shot up as he rushed forwards. He raised his hand and ran the heel of his palm up into her nose.
Facelift.
A sick crunch rang out as a pained screech rang out. Blood was gushing out as she stumbled backward. The guard looked towards him with a terrified look on her face, and in that moment she was a kid all over again. She was a true kid, having gotten roped into something she did not know.
She only wanted help. She was probably in one of the worst situations this city could offer and this was the only other option than to suffer. He thinks suffering out in the cold might’ve been better than this.
She was just a scared kid, and Tommy felt a little sympathy.
Tyr did not. He glared at the guard and, with another screech, she bolted.
Schlatt saw it all and his face dawned a practiced scowl. “What are you all doing?! You're supposed to be my top guards!” It sounded slightly fake, rehearsed, sarcastic even. That told him he was right.
Schlatt wanted to make this fun too. A training exercise for new recruits, to see who they were truly up against. Clock Tyr's new skills, his cockiness, anything useful. He just hopes Schlatt is stupid enough to not realize he knows.
Despite the realization, Tyr laughed again, feeling pretty great. There hasn’t been a single hit on him yet. His skin was clean and his blood was fresh. His nose was intact, as were his ribs. His muscles ached slightly and his heartbeat was in his ears, but that was normal. He’s gotten used to the feeling, he loved the sound.
“Come on, Schlatt,” he teased, leaning forwards tauntingly. “I thought you could do better than that .”
Schlatt glared. That was real, genuine hate for who was standing in front of him, not practiced or fake at all. It fueled the flame all the same. “That was nothing.” He quickly motioned one finger and a bigger, burlier guard came barreling in.
He might have been new too, based on the rage-filled glare and uneven stance he holds himself with. It's sloppy and untrained. As Tyr looked for a second more, he realized his skin was nearly unscathed, and he wondered if the kid used to play football or hockey.
He reminded Tyr— Tommy? The oh, so creative kid?— of a bull. One of the ones in the stadium with the red flag, eyes sharp and body muscular. The guy didn’t hesitate as he clenched his fist and tried to sock his jaw.
As Tyr jumped away quickly, the guy's body kept on moving, sending him right into the desk. It cracked slightly beneath him, a lightning-like crack striking across the desk. He didn’t look twice before he zeroed in on Tyr again and was running toward him.
Yea, definitely a bull. “Do you have a nose ring?” Tyr— Tommy? Again?— asked. “You seem like the type who would.”
Tyr clenched his own fist and sent it into the bull’s chest, right below his rib cage. Tyr (or Tommy, he can’t tell which anymore) tried to pull his punch. Unfortunately for Mr. Bull, he was trained not to do so. He doubled over, coughing and wheezing at the sharp pressure against his diaphragm.
He was coughing hard, sounding like he was about to throw up. He swore he saw a tiny bit of blood mixing with spit. He hesitated for a split second before once again remembering he cannot care about his opponents.
While the bull was doubled over, Tyr pushed him down towards the ground and sent his head into the floor once, twice, three times before he lay motionless like the first kid. This guy might not be as alright as the other one (he can just hope that he only gave him a concussion).
That was more of a challenge, but he was still unscathed. His muscles ached more, the heartbeat a bit more present, and he swore could start to smell copper.
A new fist quickly collides with his cheek, sending sharp bits of glass into his flesh and around the room. He did not notice it, and now he has the scars as punishment.
(His cockiness did not get toned down. He needs to pay more attention, he scolds himself.)
A good piece of his mask falls to the ground and shatters even more. Small bits of a mirror reflecting who he was. He cannot look into the glass, for he will spiral. He will fall and cry and slam into the cold, hard ground.
(He grips the rest of his mask, rips it off, and throws it to the ground. If you asked him why, he would say that it was digging into his skin. That is false, he just didn’t want the machines to see who they have become anymore. It hurts them, it hurts him.)
He looks up, eyes wide and crazed, at who just punched him. He stutters for a moment as he looks him over.
He’s blond, tall, lanky but muscular, and has blue eyes. He might as well be looking at the ground because he swears he's looking in a mirror. Tyr, Tommy– what the hell –tilts his head slightly. It’s weird. There are some differences but it’s enough of a resemblance that it's uncanny.
“Do you really like me that much?” he asks Schlatt, looking over to the man. “Because if you are, that’s kinda creepy, gotta admit.” The three of them are standing slightly dumbfounded, the two fighters loosening their stance slightly.
Schlatt looks as if he just got accused of a crime (which he kinda did). “What?!” he screeches. “Why would you immediately go that route? That’s horrible!”
Tommy gestures to the kid in front of him, who is now just as confused as Original-Tommy. “Look at him! He’s me!” he yells back. “I may not be a minor anymore but I sure as hell was one when we met.”
Schlatt tries to speak, words getting caught in his throat before he just gives up. He pinches the bridge of his nose muttering to himself, “Why do you even try with that kid?”
Tommy snorts. “Not a kid anymore, Jay. ”
Hearing his first name, the man seethes more. He lifts up his hand slightly, jerking his wrist and two fingers as a signal. As if on instinct, Not-Tommy bolts forward toward Tyr. He’s quick, agile. It’s almost a perfect recreation of him.
Almost . This Tommy, or Theseus rather he guesses, does not have Tyrs training.
Tyr has built up his own strength and agility. So much so he considers himself close to being a superhero (like Black Widow or Spider-Man— oh my god being Spider-Man would be so cool ).
He darts to the side to avoid the attack of Not-Tommy, standing at the ready. He’s facing the desk, a few long strides away. His back is towards the door, but he knows well enough that Schlatt won’t do anything. This is training and information gathering. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be giving Schlatt this information, but he can’t help himself.
He was trained to fight, for he is the model machine.
And he is just where he wants to be, where he was trained to be .
Not-Tommy thinks for just a moment before darting again, fist clenched and ready for an attack. His only flaw is that he is not blocking the desk, but rather coming at an angle. It is free, dark and splintered and split in all its glory.
Tyr runs towards it, stepping up quickly before launching himself into the air. He flips backward, propelling himself enough for his head to be right above Not-Tommy’s. And, as they look each other in the eye, they both see remnants of who is lost.
Two young, similar-looking boys cursed to live a life they did not want. They did not want this life, but oh do they crave it. They crave power, the strength, the praise. They crave it all, and it's oh-so addicting. They cannot stop, they do not want to stop.
The moment feels like it is in slow motion. Each action is meticulously planned and thought out down to the millimeter. A twitch of the hand was meant to be there, a shift of weight, a shuffle, a blink, a breath, a grab.
Tyr grips Not-Tommy’s shoulders, using his remaining momentum to flip the other with him. It’s like a deadly Yin and Yang, spiraling for eternity, one doomed to be good and one bad, although he is not sure which is which. It’s a sick sort of beauty (he wonders what this would look like from Schlatt's point of view. Seeing his best two students spiral in unity for one moment, a feat of nature that can never occur again).
In the next second, Not-Tommy is laying on the floor in front of a stumbling Tyr (he is not at all sure where he learned how to do that or how he even did that. Maybe from watching the graceful Wilbur dance as a child, or the powerful Techno learn flips in the backyard). He quickly looks down to see Not-Tommy curled upon himself, sitting in a sizable dent in the wood floor. The floor is mirroring the desk, split and splintered around a body.
It reminds him of his old self. A young boy curled up and crying as his body is broken and aches. He just hopes that Not-Tommy will leave as he did, will destroy Schlatt from the inside out.
“God, I’m surprised I’m not on steroids,” he mutters, terrified of who he has become. He’s scared, he doesn’t want to be this, but he has to. If he isn’t, who else will be?
Who else will right all the wrongs in the world? Who else will learn to love the fire? Who else will put that match out? Nobody. That’s who.
He looks up to Schlatt, who looks equally terrified.
“Me too, kid,” the man mutters in response. It’s actually full of fear, genuine real fear. He hasn’t seen Tyr, Tommy, Theseus, anyone in action in a while.
He’s grown. Taller, stronger, more agile. Both in the physical sense and the mental. He has grown as a person when he was forced to, but god did he want to be a kid again.
He wanted popsicles and juice boxes, scuffed knees and dirty sneakers, a genuine smile missing a front tooth. He wanted to go back in time, never go to that summer camp, live a blissfully ignorant life.
(But if he didn’t, Schlatt would still be there. Purpled would be alone. All those kids wouldn’t be free. Purpled would be alone, left there to wallow on his own, wondering if he’ll be able to make it out alone. )
Tyr straightens himself out, stretching his limbs a bit. “You got anyone else for me?” He asks. He twists himself, wincing slightly at the way cracks ring out down his spine. He’s too young to be this old.
He’s too young to be this ( Model machine , his mind whispers).
Schlatt looks at him for a moment, silent. The only noise is the groans of a broken boy and the shallow breaths of a scared man. A scared, powerful, greedy man who deserves to rot in the depths of hell.
Tyr interrupts before he could say anything else, before he gains his speech again, before he turns back into the man he hates. “Actually, it has been fun but I have to be going now,” he smiles. “I have a date.”
A date with fate, with death, with the world.
Again, before Schlatt could say anything, Tyr interrupted him. Except, this time, it is with a flame. A small, desolate flame, licking his fingers. It’s warm, it’s bright, it’s colorful.
A date with the world, the world that is breaking at its very seams.
He throws the lit lighter towards the dark curtains in the room ( merlot , his— Tommy’s mind supplies). Immediately, they become engulfed with flames, a wonderful coherency. A raging heat and display of color that he feels drawn to, but he cannot give in.
He wants to hug it, to walk into its embrace and be freed from the world. He wants to let the flames curl around his arms and take him whole, but he cannot give in. For if he does, who else will continue his legacy?
Tyr’s legacy.
The warm colors in the room get washed together and the colds stand out. His eyes seem to glow against the flames, and Schlatts gets drawn in. An alive blue reflecting a cool fate, one he was not meant for. A drunken brown gets pulled in.
He must run. He must step away, he must push himself out of there. He knows if he stays there too long, Theseus will step into the fire with Schlatt, dulling his blue eyes into a warm gray.
And as he runs, he realizes that the files were never there. The files don’t exist, they were a flaw in his plan. He gained nothing from this mission but a few scars and a doppelgänger.
He’s not sure which he hates more.
The idea that he is losing himself even more, or the idea that there are more like him out in the world.
Model machines.
—
The flames spread quickly, and the chaos spreads even quicker. Those few remaining inside ran out, leaving the ballroom desolate. The ceiling seems fragile, crumbling from the stress of the day. It seems like hell had raged through.
Food is scattered, glasses shattered, wine spilled. The flames are spreading. There are bodies laid across the floor, blood pooling around them. He can see clean holes, clean slashes, clean breaks dotting their lifeless bodies.
All clean. He wonders who did it. Was it him? His team? His family? Who?
He looks around, spins around, eyes darting for someone standing, someone alive (someone he can cling to and cry. Cry and cry until he gasps for air and cannot see). He can see one amidst the smoke. In his own chaos, he does not remember his mask is gone.
He does not remember how it lays, shattered atop a hardwood floor, reflecting.
“Tyr!” He hears a rough voice shout, accompanied by coughing. “ Tyr! Where are you?!”
He moves towards the voice, pink hair coming into view. He breathes a sigh of relief, and he hates it.
It’s silent for a moment before Kratos, Techno , breathes. “Tommy…” He moves forwards, and Tommy, Tyr, whoever the fuck , tries not the flinch away. Techno studies his face for a moment. “Your bleeding.”
Tommy raises his hands to his face and feels, pulling away as his fingertips are coated with a thin layer of warm, red liquid. It is at this moment when Tyr realizes he is exposed. One of his darkest secrets is out and shown.
Apparently, Tommy is not good at hiding emotions, as Techno picks up on it rather quickly. “Here,” he moves to take off his own mask. “You can wear mine. I’m guessing everyone on your team already knows who I am.”
Tommy cannot speak, so Tyr nods in response. He sets the mask on his face. It is a black, metal mask, the jaw of a pig engraved. Covers what is needed. He schools his expression, darkening his eyes and furrowing his brows.
“We need to get out of here,” Tyr says quickly. “I’m not sure how many more kids Schlatt has got here and he is not happy with me.”
“Did you get the files?” Kratos asks as they speed up towards the exit, jumping over the debris. They are both sure they have stepped in blood, their tracks a gruesome sight, but they do not care.
They have a sink for a reason.
Tyr cringes. “No, they were fake,” he states. “They were never real. It was all just a plan to check up on his favorite machine.” His model machine, his mind screams
Kratos doesn’t respond. Neither does Techno, but he can hear the silent words. What do you mean by ‘favorite machine,’ Tommy? Who are you really? Are you a monster, or are you a boy?
(Can he not be both?)
They step out the door, flames close behind, licking their backs, and run towards the two huddling groups. They are steps away from each other, they are not combined. Why does he wish they were? Why does he wish Tyr and Tommy’s family merged?
Fire is now licking the sky out of the windows, a stark contrast that all parts of the blonde love. Tommy loves the artisticness. His favorite class in school was art, why did he almost forget that? Tyr loves the destruction, his date with the world had gone well. Theseus loves how it reminded him of that day, that day when that match caught a pile of dry leaves.
“What is in there that makes the building so flammable?” Hod asks, more Tubbo seeping through than he notices.
Tyr shrugs in response, quickly signing curtains in response. He knows that is not true. That is how it started, but that is not why. He knows why, but he hates it.
“That’s what you set on fire?” Kratos asks, looking up towards the building as well. “And that led to this ?”
You would think Schlatt planned it this way, he thinks. And he did .
He can see Dolos start to study him. Seeing the way his character is breaking around the edges. Tyr’s emotions, Tommy’s posture, Kratos’ mask. He thinks, he broods, and he realizes.
Tyr can practically hear the thoughts in Dolos’ head, slamming against the sides of his skull. He saw Tyr , he would think. I can find out who knows too much. Who has been through too much. Who is too much .
A thump sounds out, silencing anyone from saying anything further. Tyr's head snaps towards the sound on instinct, eyes landing on a body kneeling on the pavement weakly. He looks a bit more, seeing deep red staining bright colors (he ignores his own blood dripping down his cheek and onto his suit. Red hides blood well).
Frey, Karl.
He is pale, paler than usual, all if his color being slowly drained away onto the pavement. The brightest color there is red, taking over his colorful (now frighteningly dull) outfit.
“Shit,” he mutters to himself, rushing over to the man. He forces him down gently, lifting up his suit to see a deep red hole right in his side. It’s near the edge of his body, but it is still a hole, not a graze.
“Karl!” He hears someone shout. He absentmindedly scolds them for saying his name, but he needs to focus. He can take care of that later.
He turns Karl over, ignoring the pained groans. He sees an exit would, which is good in the sense that he won't have to dig the bullet out. Bad in the sense that he’s bleeding, quick .
He speaks before he can think to do anything else. “Somebody give me a cloth or a jacket!” He yells, thrusting out his hand behind him. His fingers are gripping a navy and gold suit jacket in an instant. He tears the jacket in half, wanting a thinner strip (this suit couldn’t have been too expensive, right? Oh well, sucks to suck bitch). He wraps it around Karl’s body, lining it up so it would give the most pressure on the two— one?— wounds.
“This is gonna hurt, dude,” he says quickly. It’s not quiet, the world can hear him. If you listen, if you really listen , you can hear Tommy. You can hear a scared kid who has been through too much. He shoves it down, being as perfect as he was trained to be. “You ready?”
He gets a quick nod in response, Karl tensing and bracing himself. He pulls it tight and ties it off, getting a sharp gasp and scream in response. Karl tears off his mask, gasping for air. Odur is holding his head against his knees, as a friend would.
As a family would.
He looks at Odur, Sapnap , and Bragi, Quackity . “We need to get him somewhere quick. One or both of you hold pressure and, like-” he stutters for a moment, moving his hands around to communicate a silent sentence. “comfort him until we get somewhere.”
Without another word, both of them were at Karl's side.
He stands up, hating the familiar feel of unfamiliar blood on his hands, looking around at the group in front of him. “We need to get Frey somewhere, fast .” (He speaks like Tyr, not like Tommy).
Some of them look surprised at the spoken words coming out of his mouth. He spoke directly to them, ordering them like he was their boss. He wasn’t, but right now he needed to be and they all needed to grow the fuck up. They all look a bit scared. Doesn’t matter if they are known to be cold, they still are fearful.
They always are when one of them gets hurt.
Boreas raises his hand, speaking calmly but still with a shake. “We live nearby. We have a well-stocked med kit. You can come to our house.”
The other two house members look at him in disbelief, one mild and one biting. “What do you mean they can come to our house?!” Dolos shouts.
Kratos stays quiet, thinking for a moment. He’s always been the most reasonable of the three (he is the one that patched his scrapes and made him lunch. He is the one that helped him with his homework and hid the cruel world from view as long as he could. All parts of the blonde boy are grateful).
“They already know who we are and probably where we live. What’s the harm?” Boreas reasons. “It’s not like they’re going to come and kill us, mate. They need us-”
“Oi!” Tyr shouts, cutting his father off. “Quit your chit-chat, there is quite literally a man bleeding out over here. We’re going to your house and that is final.” He points a finger at his three family members.
Everyone stares in shock at his words (they are laced with impatience and concern. Nobody can tell, right?).
He turns to the three on the ground. “You three, get in the back of a car and someone will drive you.” He turns back towards the first three. “One of you needs to lead the way, I don’t know exactly where you live in comparison to here.” He lies straight through his teeth.
Boreas immediately offers, raising a hand and voicing that he was the one that brought the three here anyways.
“Alright, that’s settled,” he says as looks over to Odur, Bragi, and Frey moving over to a Hellcat with green rims, Vidar already getting in the driver's seat. “Everyone have rides? Good. If you don’t need to be there, don’t be.
“If you don’t offer any help and will just be in the way, don’t even bother coming. Go back to your houses and get some sleep or some shit, I really don’t care,” he snaps. “Now, get out of my hair.”
Everyone else, everyone not needed, rushes towards their own blacked-out cars. If they are smart, they will wait until they leave. If they are smart, they will be respectful of the dying man. If they are smart, they will not test Tyr.
He moves towards his own car, a Mustang, while Hod– Erebus— whoever –and Njord move with him. They came together, they leave together.
(He suspects that Myrkr was still there, sitting off to the side as he always does. He can take care of himself. They did for weeks, years even.
He hears a modded purple bike start in the background.)
“I’m riding with you,” a deep voice says from slightly behind Tyr. It leaves little room for argument. It is laced with something caring, something fearful.
Techno spoke to him. He does not say no. He gets in the passenger seat.
As soon as the car is moving, Tyr rips off the mask and throws it in his brother's lap. Everybody else does the same, ignoring the other presence in the car.
He can hear a faint ‘ Tubbo?’ Laced with disbelief.
“Tubs, can you find out when the building was built and when? Maybe even what its made of somehow”
“On it, boss,” he says in an instant, pulling out a bulky computer and pulling back his hair.
They are still not the teens they mostly are, but traces of them leave through. Like the way Tommy clutches the steering wheel. Like the way Tubbo is sticking his tongue slightly out as he works. The way Ranboo is anxiously bouncing his knee and looking out the window.
“It just got finished building about a month ago. Says some guy named Jay owns it, no last name,” Njord supplies. “There’s nothing in here about regulations or materials, so this guy must be rich-rich.”
“Yes, of course he’s fucking rich-rich that’s Schlatt. His real name is Jay,” he breathes. “Of course he built that. He’s been planning this for months, years .”
He ignores the pain in his chest with the knowledge that Schlatt knows him like the back of his hand. That he knows he would be there, that he knows he would go for those files.
He should have known. He should have . He is supposed to know all, do all , be the model machine god dammit! He squeezes the steering wheel harder, pushing the gas closer and closer to the floor. He refrains from slamming his plam down somewhere in this god- forsaken car.
He tensely sighs, listening for the sound of a motorbike to console him. It’s always nice to know one of his brothers is nearby. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see Myrkr. A black helmet with a reflective purple visor, paired with a dark purple jacket.
Techno speaks again. “Are we gonna talk about, you know , this ?” Even though the blonde isn’t looking, he can see the way Techno's hands flail about and the exasperated look on his face.
Tyr doesn’t respond for a moment, keeping his eyes on the road. He is going well above the limit so he needs to look out for stray pigs.
“Ever?” He asks again.
“Sometime,” Tyr answers tensely. “Sometime.”
That satisfies Techno enough to shut him up for a second.
Only for a second though. A split second of suffocating, blissful silence.
“You know that Wilbur is gonna be on mine and Tyr’s ass for you wearing my mask, right?”
“Of course I know that, dipshit!” They fall into an easy, brother-like rhythm. “I spent literal months analyzing your guys’ personalities n’ shit.”
Techno pauses. “That’s kinda creepy, dude.”
“Shut up!” he snaps. It's more real, genuine, violent than he intended it to be. His heartbeat starts to migrate up to his ears again. He can taste his own blood seeping from his tongue.
Everyone shuts up at that, stunned for a moment before falling back into their professional auras.
(Tommy hates how easily they turn back into brothers. He hates how vulnerable he is right now. He hates how Techno can pick him apart. He hates how he called him Tyr .)
His driving is skilled, controlled, never losing the car in front of him. He cannot, he was trained not to. He was trained to be perfect, to make no mistakes. He has lost that training, he has forgotten when he needed it the most.
(Should he train himself again? Should he force himself to regress back to those horrid days? Should he train himself until collapse, until blood laces his spit? He thinks so— no , he knows so.)
He turns into the driveway of his house without realizing, shutting off the car without realizing, about to get out of the car without realizing before a strong hand gripped his shoulder. He repressed a flinch and looked to his right, the arm leading back to his brother.
He had a sad but serious face on. One that knew what he had to do. He handed Tommy the mask, his mask , and got out himself.
Tommy looked at the mask of his brother, sighed, and dawned the persona once again. Only this time, he is more machine than human.