Chapter Text
A few days had passed, and the weight of everything that had happened hung over Tommy like a storm cloud he couldn’t shake. He stayed in his room almost constantly, hiding away from the world. The news from downstairs was relentless, and his heightened hearing carried every word straight into his skull, echoing across the walls of his bedroom.
“Spider-Man and the Fox—menaces or heroes?”
“The latest footage from the L’Manberg Aquarium shows destruction, not protection.”
“And let’s not forget the bridge incident from a few weeks ago. Innocent lives endangered—how long before they’re stopped for good?”
The words burned at him, stabbing through the walls he tried to build around himself. The city was shouting at him, judging him, and it didn’t know the half of it. None of them did. They didn’t know what he saw or what he felt.
He hardly left his room. Every footstep outside his door, every noise on the street outside felt like a reminder of how fragile his life had become. Phil and Techno began to notice. They didn’t speak much, but their concern was subtle, threaded into the small moments when they peeked into his room or tried to coax a word out of him. Techno, clumsy, and awkward with feelings, would sometimes sit at the edge of the bed or in the desk chair, trying to start a conversation. “You okay?” he’d ask, voice quiet and careful, like approaching a stray animal. Tommy didn’t answer. He just stayed wrapped in himself, chin tucked to chest.
Phil noticed too, though in his quieter way. He would glance at the closed door, lingering just long enough to register Tommy’s isolation before leaving silently. The two adults tried to rationalize it—maybe he was upset about a fight with friends, perhaps he was still processing Foolish’s transformation into a shark hybrid, the images from the aquarium feeds burned into his mind. But they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know he was Spider-Man…which meant that as long as he was Spider-Man…could they really know how he feels?…what he knows? It’s starting to turn into an endless cycle of lying…
The house was quiet one afternoon. Phil and Techno had left for errands, leaving the place still and empty. Tommy felt the first stirrings of freedom in days. He moved carefully, almost reverently, toward the small closet where he kept his Spider-Man suit. Fingers trembling, he pulled it out, the fabric warm from his touch. He hadn’t suited up in days—not since the aquarium incident.
He slid into it, each piece of the suit settling around him like armor and skin all at once. He felt the familiar rush, the surge of confidence and vigilance, the balance between fear and control.
He took to the streets and swung around for a little bit. When he climbed onto the roof, the city stretched out before him like a living map, streets winding below, the faint glow of traffic lights and neon signs reflecting in puddles from a recent rain. The wind tugged at the edges of his mask, cool against his face, and he swung a leg over the ledge, letting his feet dangle freely, the height thrilling and terrifying at the same time.
From here, the city looked different. Smaller, quieter, almost fragile. People below were just moving shapes, oblivious to the chaos of the past weeks, oblivious to the destruction of the aquarium, the bridge, the fights with villains, the undercurrents of power they couldn’t see. He could hear them, faintly—the laughter of a kid chasing a dog, the distant hum of traffic—but it was muted, drowned out by his own thoughts.
He thought of Fang. Of Foolish. Of the chaos that had followed them all. He thought of Tubbo and Ranboo, quietly coordinating from the shadows, eyes on every feed, hoping to protect the people they cared about while keeping their secrets safe. He thought of the city, calling him a menace, calling him a villain.
Tommy stayed perched on the ledge a moment longer, letting the city’s noise wash over him—sirens somewhere far off, the faint rumble of traffic, the occasional bark of a dog. He almost missed it, the faint prickle at the base of his skull, the hairs on his arms standing on end. His tingle.
He snapped his head around, muscles coiling, ready for anything.
Blade was there. Leaning against the roof’s access door like he had all the time in the world. The dim city light reflected off the casing of his metal arm, cold and sharp against the darkness.
“It’s either a coincidence or not,” Blade said, voice low and even, “that I keep finding myself in the same places as you.” His crimson eyes flicked toward Tommy, unreadable. “Tell me, spider—been making note of my schedule? I hear you lot like patterns. Schedules. Studying prey.”
Tommy froze, the words sticking to him like a net. His heart kicked, but he forced his mask lenses to stay steady, unreadable. He didn’t know how to answer that. Didn’t know if there even was an answer that wouldn’t sound incriminating or defensive. So he said nothing. Just sat there, tense, the city sprawling beneath his feet.
To cut through the silence, he shifted the conversation. “Why are you here?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, a little raw.
Blade tilted his head, gaze sliding back toward the skyline. For a long stretch, he didn’t answer, and Tommy thought he might not at all. But then—quietly, like the words were weighed down with something heavy—Blade said, “Trying to clear my head.”
Tommy’s fists tightened slightly against the ledge. He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. But he also didn’t trust this man—not one bit. Not his silence, not his calm, not his presence.
He shifted again, searching for something to keep the conversation moving, to keep control of it. “Where’s Crow?”
Blade didn’t answer right away. He glanced out toward the city lights, his expression unreadable, then slowly pushed off from where he was leaning. His steps were steady, deliberate, until he came to settle beside Tommy on the ledge. The sudden proximity made Tommy tense up, his shoulders knotting beneath the fabric of his suit. His mask lenses narrowed slightly.
Blade didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and said evenly, “We’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”
Tommy blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “What? You’re kidding. You two are—” He stopped himself, but the surprise carried through anyway. “You’re like… joined at the hip, aren’t you? I’ve seen it. You’re close.”
Blade’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand came up, fingers brushing against the casing of his metal arm. His thumb traced one of the faint seams along the plating, slow and absent, almost like it was a nervous tic.
Silence stretched, heavy between them.
Then Blade spoke, his voice rougher now, lower. “Can I ask you something?”
Tommy shifted again, uneasy, lenses narrowing at the question. His tingle buzzed faintly in the back of his skull, warning him to stay sharp. “…Go on.”
“How was it?” his voice low, almost hesitant—so unlike the sharp, commanding tone Blade usually carried. “Before all of this… before you were Spider-Man. Was life…perfect for you?”
Tommy’s throat dried up. His first instinct was to laugh, to throw back some sarcastic remark and hide behind his usual shield of banter, but the words didn’t come. How could he answer that without peeling away the mask that kept him safe? Without letting slip the truth that under the red suit he wasn’t some untouchable symbol but just… Tommy. Just a kid who lost too much and was trying so damn hard not to fall apart.
So he said nothing.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and awkward. Tommy’s fingers twitched against the ledge, gripping the stone tighter, while Blade finally turned his head, studying him briefly before shifting his gaze back toward the city.
“I’m only doing this,” Blade began, his voice deeper now, steadier, “so me and Crow can have a better future.” His words carried a weight to them, one Tommy couldn’t place—anger, regret, and maybe even a shred of hope buried under it all.
Tommy blinked at him, stunned by the bluntness. His jaw tightened, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out:
“There are other ways, y’know. Ways that don’t involve stealing for large companies…putting others in danger….You don’t have to—”
Blade cut him a sharp look, and Tommy’s voice faltered, but he forced himself to finish. “…turn to a life of crime.”
A long exhale left Blade, and for a fleeting moment, he looked almost… tired. His metal fingers flexed slowly, scraping against the plating of his arm before his flesh hand came up to rub over the steel as if grounding himself. His head dipped, his shoulders tense but sagging at the same time.
“We’re too far in now,” Blade muttered. His words were rough, like gravel dragged across concrete, but they were quiet, almost like he didn’t want to admit them aloud. “Too deep to turn back.”
The confession made something twist in Tommy’s chest. The city lights flickered against Blade’s armor, highlighting the edges of the man’s face hidden in the shadows. He wasn’t just talking about himself. He meant Crow, too. They were both stuck, buried in something that wouldn’t let go.
Tommy shifted, uncomfortable, fighting back the urge to push more—to demand answers he didn’t even know he wanted. But he caught himself. He didn’t trust Blade. He couldn’t. And yet, hearing that, seeing the sliver of rawness behind the iron mask of who Blade was supposed to be… it gnawed at him.
Tommy’s voice came out quieter than he expected. “No one’s ever too far gone.”
Blade’s eyes flicked toward him at that, unreadable, but for a heartbeat longer than before, he didn’t look away.
Neither spoke at first. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional car horn and the distant hum of traffic.
Finally, Blade’s voice cut through. “Me and Crow… we’ll keep being villains until we’re done with our mission.”
The words landed like a stone in Tommy’s gut. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to snap back, to call him out, to ask what kind of mission justifies destroying half the bloody city? Instead, he forced a calmer tone, though the edge in his voice couldn’t be hidden.
“Or you could just… stop,” Tommy said, shifting on the ledge to face him more directly. “Whatever you’ve got yourselves stuck in, just walk away from it. You don’t have to keep doing this.”
Blade’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing beneath the shadows. “We can’t.” His voice was sharp, harsh, carrying something raw beneath the bite. “You don’t get it, Spider. We don’t have a choice.”
Tommy tensed, his spider-sense prickling faintly—not from danger, but from the sheer intensity rolling off the man. He didn’t back down. “Then explain it to me. What’s so important that you’d risk—”
“Because there’s something on the line!” Blade’s shout cracked the air, echoing across the rooftop. His flesh hand slammed against the stone ledge, the sound loud and final. His breathing came heavy for a second, like he’d lost control, like he’d revealed more than he intended.
Tommy froze, his heart hammering. His instincts screamed at him to push for answers, but another part—the part that knew Blade wasn’t someone to trust—held him back. He kept his voice steady, cautious. “…What’s on the line?”
Blade hesitated. His gaze fell to the city lights again, avoiding Tommy’s lenses. His jaw clenched, and for a long moment, Tommy thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, almost reluctantly, the words slipped out.
“If we don’t finish the job… someone close to us dies.”
The world seemed to still around them. Tommy’s chest tightened, his fingers loosening against the stone.
Blade’s voice dropped lower, quieter, but it was steady. “One word. That’s all it would take. One order from them, and the person Crow and I care about most is gone. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers, the metallic click from his prosthetic echoing in the night.
Tommy’s stomach churned. He wanted to believe him—wanted to think there was a shred of honesty in the man’s confession. But the distrust sat heavy, cold, and gnawing at the back of his mind. Blade was still a villain, still a threat, and this could just be another twisted way to mess with him.
“…And you expect me to take your word for that?” Tommy finally said, his voice low, guarded.
Blade’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and unreadable. “I don’t expect anything from you, Spider. But you wanted the truth. There it is.”
Tommy stayed quiet, his pulse pounding in his ears. His tingle buzzed faintly again, reminding him—trusting Blade, even a little, was dangerous.
A sudden boom split the night like a gunshot. It wasn’t just noise; it was a deep, shuddering thud that rattled the rooftop under Tommy’s boots and sent a sharp gust of wind past his mask. Orange light blossomed on the horizon, smoke and sparks blooming up between the jagged teeth of L’Manberg’s skyline.
His spider-sense flared hard in the back of his skull—needles of warning—while his heart jumped into a sprint. Without thinking, his hand shot up to the comm in his mask.
“Fang, come in. Are you there?” His voice was low but sharp.
Nothing but static answered him, a harsh crackle like an old radio dying. He adjusted the frequency with a thumb swipe. “Fang?!” Again, only static.
Then another voice cut through, calm and clipped, faint hiss of background noise behind it. “Webhead, are you active?”
Tommy froze. He hadn’t realized they’d opened the line. Before he could even ask, there was a soft digital click—that unmistakable sound of Bee flipping on the camera feed remotely. In the corner of his HUD, the little red icon blinked live. Bee was watching now.
“Webhead,” Bee repeated, firmer, “we’ve got your feed on. Can you confirm your location?”
Tommy’s eyes flicked to his left. Blade was still there, sitting on the ledge of the roof, his massive right arm—metal casing catching the faint glow from the city—flexing slightly as he crossed them. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were on the distant explosion.
Bee must’ve seen him through the live feed, because the next words came sharper, like a knife point: “Why are you standing there with him?”
Tommy didn’t even let himself pause. “We were fighting,” he said quickly, his voice tight but steady. “Trust me.”
Bee didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t push. “Right. Coordinates uploaded. Explosions on the east side. Fang’s already en route. Move fast, Webhead.”
In his HUD, a little arrow blinked, pointing toward the coordinates Bee had just sent. Tommy’s jaw clenched.
He turned back to Blade, meeting his eyes through his mask lenses. “Don’t follow me,” he muttered. The words were quiet but sharp enough to cut.
Blade didn’t respond. He just rolled his shoulders once, the faint scrape of metal audible even over the wind, and kept his gaze fixed on the fire glowing in the distance.
Tommy swung his legs over the edge of the building, fingers curling around the ledge. The city below was alive with sirens now, the faint blue and red flashes already streaking between buildings. He crouched low, body coiling tight.
One last glance at Blade. One last breath. Then Tommy pushed off the ledge. The wind hit him like a wave, cool and sharp, tugging at his suit as he dropped.
A moment later, he was swinging out into the night, the rooftops and streetlights blurring under him as he arrowed toward the explosion.
Tommy swung fast, the acrid smoke stinging his eyes even through the filters of his mask. The explosion site was chaos incarnate: shattered glass, hunks of twisted metal raining from the air, car alarms screaming below. He twisted and flipped through the debris, narrowly avoiding a spiraling chunk of rebar that clanged into the side of the building behind him.
“Webhead, east side roof,” Bee’s voice cut in, crisp and steady. “Fang’s already there. I’ve got his heat signature pulled up—two buildings over, north corner. Move!”
Tommy arced his swing, angled toward the signal, and landed hard on the gravel rooftop Bee had marked. His boots scraped across the stone as he skidded to a stop, crouched low, fingers pressed to the roof for balance.
He glanced up—and there he was. Fang. Standing near the roof’s edge, hood pulled low, tail twitching faintly. His chest heaved, breaths sharp and ragged like he’d sprinted a marathon.
“Long time no see,” Tommy muttered, trying for casual as he straightened. “What’s it been, a few days? Miss me?”
Fang didn’t answer with words at first. He only nodded once, still fighting to catch his breath. His ears flicked back slightly, the way they always did when something was off.
And then Tommy saw it—another shape at the far end of the roof. A silhouette, motionless against the glow of fires raging below. For a second, it looked almost human. But then the glow shifted.
Red veins of light traced themselves across the figure’s armored body, pulsing brighter like molten cracks through stone. Each step forward made the light intensify, circuitry patterns crawling up obsidian-black plating. The trench coat hanging from his shoulders fluttered in the hot wind, tattered edges glowing faintly where the redstone veins snaked through the seams.
The glow spread to his chest, where a cube-shaped core sat embedded in the armor, pulsing like a second heart. Every beat shimmered through the air with a low hum, a resonance that made the rooftop tremble.
Tommy’s stomach sank.
The figure’s boots crunched against gravel. Shackles around his forearms glimmered faintly, cuffs built right into the armor like some twisted badge of authority. A faint haze of red particles drifted from his movements, the air sizzling as if reality itself recoiled from his presence.
Then he lifted his head.
Not fully covered—just a gas mask over mouth and nose, filters glowing faintly like redstone torches. Each breath hissed, mechanical and uneven. His eyes, however, were bare. Bare and burning. They glowed with sharp, molten red intensity, fury, and control mixed into something uncomfortably human.
When he spoke, his voice came filtered, distorted, every word dragging like chains.
“Spider-Man. Fox.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been running wild in my city.”
Fang stiffened beside Tommy. His claws flexed slightly, but he didn’t speak.
The figure stepped closer, the red veins across his body brightening. “I am The Warden. And tonight—” His hand lifted, sparking with raw redstone current. Bolts crackled out, jagged, heavy light arcing between the walls of the roof. “—You will learn what it means to be caged.”
The rooftop shook as his energy surged, outlining them both in red, prison-bar shadows stretching across the smoke.
The metal-like bars crackled with a crimson glow, forming a cage around Tommy and Fang, humming with lethal energy. The sound alone was enough to raise the hair on the back of Tommy’s neck—like static multiplied by a thousand. Sparks danced between the rods, heat rolling off them as though they’d been pulled straight from a forge. The Warden stood just outside, arms lifted slightly, his fingertips threaded with glowing red veins of power.
“Cute trick,” Tommy called, voice bouncing off the rooftop as his eyes darted over the electrified prison. “But, uh—don’t suppose this comes with a bathroom? Or at least a snack bar?”
Fang crouched low, tail flicking with irritation, his staff-bow tightening in his hands. His amber eyes glowed faintly as he muttered, “Not funny, Webs. Those things are charged enough to fry us if we touch them.”
“Oh, relax,” Tommy shot back. “We’ll be fine. I mean—probably. Maybe. Slight chance of instant vaporization, but hey, no pressure.”
The Warden didn’t laugh. His gaze was cold, sharp, and alive with pulsing crimson light that threaded through the lines running under his skin like molten cracks. He tightened his fists, and arcs of red energy leapt from bar to bar, a reminder that this cage was his creation, his domain.
Worse—the familiar voices of Bee and Ender were gone. Silence filled Tommy’s mask where there should’ve been chatter. The barrier was cutting them off completely.
“Fantastic,” Tommy muttered under his breath, bouncing lightly on his heels. “Trapped in a super-heated death cage with a glow-stick cosplayer who doesn’t appreciate good comedy.”
The Warden didn’t waste time. With a sharp motion, he drove his palm outward, and a surge of red energy burst forward, threading along the ground before erupting in a wave that smashed into the cage. The bars retracted long enough to let the attack whip through, forcing Tommy and Fang to scatter in opposite directions.
Fang rolled, staff snapping open as he used a burst of telekinesis to deflect the edge of the energy blast. Sparks hissed against his shield of force, pushing him back across the rooftop. Tommy sprang into the air, twisting mid-spin as the crimson beam scorched past his legs, leaving glowing circuitry-shaped scorch marks across the roof where he had just stood.
“Okay,” Tommy shouted, mid-flip, “that’s officially hotter than my mixtape!”
“Mixtape?” Fang gritted out, shoving his hand forward. His telekinesis yanked at a nearby loose chunk of stone and hurled it toward The Warden. It struck with a sharp crack—but instead of stumbling, The Warden absorbed the impact, redirecting the kinetic force into another pulse of red energy that shot toward Fang.
Fang cursed, vaulting backward with a fox-like bound, tail flicking sparks as he landed.
“Yeah, he’s a tough one,” Tommy quipped, landing on the cage bars themselves. Electricity arced dangerously close to his hands, forcing him to perch like a tightrope walker. “Good thing I’m tougher.”
The Warden snapped his arm to the side, and a construct burst into existence—lines of red energy threading together into a turret-like structure that fired a concentrated beam. Tommy barely had time to leap aside before the beam tore through the rooftop edge, sending debris tumbling into the streets below.
You ever think about, I don’t know, building something useful with those powers?” Tommy called. “Like… I dunno, a toaster that doesn’t burn the bread? A self-washing toilet?”
The Warden’s response was another wave of energy, heavier this time, slamming across the battlefield in an arc that forced both heroes to dive in opposite directions again. Sparks ripped across the rooftop, leaving it fractured and glowing with faint red cracks.
Fang slid across the rooftop, eyes narrowing. “We need to hit him together. He keeps redirecting one of us when we attack alone.”
“Together?” Tommy echoed, bracing himself on the ground. “You mean, like a buddy-cop thing? Do I get to be the loose cannon or the grumpy veteran?”
“Webs—focus!”
“Loose cannon it is!”
They moved at the same time. Fang launched himself forward, illusions flickering to life around him—phantom foxes darting across the rooftop, mirroring his movements, each one glowing faint orange. The Warden’s eyes tracked them, momentarily split between real and false targets. That was when Tommy sprang high into the air, flipping forward to aim a hard kick straight toward the Warden’s chest.
The Warden blocked—his arm glowing red, absorbing the impact like a shield. But Fang’s illusions didn’t stop. Two of the foxes darted from opposite sides, merging into a single phantom that lashed out. The Warden swung wide, destroying it—only to realize too late it wasn’t real. Fang’s staff came down hard, crackling with telekinetic force, slamming against The Warden’s shoulder and forcing him to stumble back.
For a moment, it worked—they pressed the advantage. Tommy and Fang both lashed out, forcing The Warden onto the defensive, red sparks showering around them as constructs flickered into place and shattered under the assault. But then—his veins flared brighter, glowing like molten rivers across his skin.
He surged. The rooftop shook as he slammed his hand down, releasing a violent shockwave that erupted outward. The force flung Tommy into a nearby vent, denting the metal, while Fang tumbled across the ground, skidding dangerously close to the edge of the building.
Tommy groaned, shaking his head. “Ow. Okay, reminder—never, ever let the lava-veins guy get angry.”
The Warden raised his arm again, energy pulsing in a build-up that looked dangerously close to another surge. But then—he froze, hand pressed to his earpiece. His expression shifted, the glow in his veins dimming just slightly.
Whatever command he heard, it made him pause. He lowered his hand, and with a simple wave, the crackling cage around them fizzled out, the bars collapsing into sparks that scattered like dying embers.
The silence inside Tommy’s mask cracked—static bursting to life, followed by Bee’s frantic voice:
“—Webhead?! Are you still alive?! Feed’s back online, finally!”
Tommy groaned as he pushed himself upright, his muscles screaming from the shockwave. “Yeah, yeah—still alive. Just… you know, testing out the new rooftop denting service. Ten outta ten, would not recommend.”
Fang got to his paws too, his staff bow braced in his hand. Both of them kept their eyes locked on The Warden. He wasn’t moving to attack—yet. Instead, the villain’s jaw was clenched tight as he barked words into the device on his ear. His voice was sharp, strained, like he was arguing with someone.
Tommy squinted, reading the body language. Whoever was on the other end wasn’t impressed. Even though The Warden had both of them cornered, his shoulders stiffened like he wasn’t winning the argument. His crimson veins pulsed brighter, anger and frustration glowing under his skin.
Bee’s voice cut through again, quick, a little wild. “Okay—okay, listen, I’ve got an idea. A crazy one. Ender, Webhead, Fang—hear me out.”
Fang’s ears twitched, his eyes flicking sideways, but he didn’t dare look away from The Warden. Tommy muttered back, “This better not be another one of your ‘let’s plug a fork in it and see what happens’ situations.”
“Shut up!” Bee snapped, then rushed on. “Look—I’m gonna try something. If I can piggyback onto his comms, we might hear who’s giving him orders. Maybe even trace them. But, uh… slight chance he notices.”
Ender’s calm voice slid into the channel, grounding Bee’s frenzy. “Bee, that’s a risk. If his system’s running off the same kind of power as his core, you’ll get locked out instantly. Or worse—he’ll know we’re listening.”
Tommy flexed his fingers, keeping his stance low. “Crazy plan or not, it’s better than nothing. Do it.”
“Already on it!” Bee said, determination sharp in his tone. The sound of rapid keystrokes clattered faintly in the background, then a sharp beep echoed across their line.
For a second, Tommy and Fang caught garbled static—snippets of The Warden’s filtered voice overlaying with another, distant one. Then the signal twisted and cut.
“Dammit!” Bee hissed, his frustration raw. “Locked out. He’s running something way tighter than anything I’ve cracked before. And he’s encrypting on the fly. I can’t break it.”
Ender’s voice followed, quieter, a little grim. “And now he probably knows someone tried.”
As if on cue, The Warden’s head tilted slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. He ended his argument with a sharp word, then lowered his arm, turning back toward them. The air around him shimmered faintly with residual power.
“He’s about to move again,” Fang warned, shifting his grip on the staff. His tail lashed behind him, fur bristling.
Tommy bent his knees, tension coiling in his legs. “Yeah, no kidding. Bee—if your crazy plan has a part two, now would be a really good time.
Bee’s voice came back fast, rushed, but steadier now. “There is a part two. I just don’t know if you’re gonna like it…”
Tommy’s mask lenses narrowed as The Warden stepped forward, energy pulsing in his veins like molten fire.
The Warden’s boots scraped against the rooftop gravel, redstone glow rippling hotter with each step. Fang braced, his staff crackling faintly with orange light, while Tommy tightened his stance, heart hammering in his chest.
“Alright, listen up!” Bee’s voice cut sharply over the comms, his words rushed as Tommy and Fang lunged back into the fight. “Part two of the crazy plan: you’ve gotta keep him talking. Ask him questions. Anything that might slip—names, orders, who’s pulling his strings. Just stall him while Ender and I ride the comms he’s using. If we’re lucky, we can trace it.”
“Distract the glowstick, got it!” Tommy muttered as he snapped his wrist forward. A web line shot clean across the roof—only for the redstone crackling through The Warden’s veins to surge brighter.
The second the strand latched onto his arm, the villain snarled and sent a current screaming back along the sticky thread. The shock tore through Tommy’s arm like fire. His whole body convulsed as he ripped the web loose, the ends sizzling and burning away in midair.
“Gah—!” He stumbled back, shaking out his scorched wrist. “Note to self: don’t leash the guy made of walking lightning!”
Fang darted in close, spinning his staff into a slash that forced The Warden to block. Sparks burst where orange met crimson, light colliding with a sharp crack. “So what—” Fang grunted through clenched teeth, shoving against the man’s strength, “—you get off trapping people like this? You’re not just doing this alone. Who’s giving the orders?”
The Warden’s exposed eyes narrowed, fury flickering across his gaze. He shoved Fang back with a blast of energy that tore gouges into the roof, then snapped his focus on Tommy as the boy scrambled upright again.
“You really think I’d waste my time explaining myself to insects?” The Warden’s voice rasped through the mask, mechanical and sharp. His chestpiece pulsed brighter, red veins glowing like molten cracks under obsidian plating.
“C’mon, man! I’m literally an arachnid! And he’s a fox!” Tommy shot back, firing another pair of webs at the ground to vault high above, “You know, guys with shiny power cores don’t usually freelance. You’ve got someone calling the shots, right? Tell me—boss got a name? A discount card? Maybe a punch-in clock?”
The villain snarled, flinging a wide arc of red energy across the roof. Tommy twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding the beam as it carved a molten trench through the rooftop ledge.
Back in his ear, Bee was muttering fast, rapid-fire. “Keep him going, keep him going—I’ve almost got something—just a little more chatter!”
Ender added quietly, calm but tense. “He’s diverting his signal, Bee. You’re losing him—hurry.”
Fang vaulted forward again, illusions sparking around him like flickering fox-fire, forcing The Warden to swipe and blast in multiple directions at once. The hybrid’s voice cut sharply across the roof. “Then why wear the chains if no one’s holding them? Who’s really got you leashed?”
For a moment, the words seemed to strike something—The Warden’s eyes flicked, fury flashing, but he said nothing. Instead, he drove a piston-like construct into the ground, the slam buckling half the rooftop under their feet.
Tommy staggered but didn’t let up. “What, cat got your tongue? Or maybe your boss doesn’t want their shiny new toy making friends on rooftops?”
“Almost there—almost there—” Bee’s voice stammered, then faltered.
There was a long pause. When Bee came back, his tone wasn’t triumphant—it was heavy, worried. “…Webhead, Fang—I got something. But you’re not gonna like it.”
To be continued…