Chapter Text
Chapter Two
Tommy had always hated stories about the outside world.
In the lab, there were little stories to be told. There was little talking to begin with. From wake time to sleep time, the lab rats were shuffled along with precision. Tommy had always been the most talkative - others not so much. He was the only one who knew talking was worth whatever punishment the scientists had in store.
Despite the demand for silence, stories made it through. The older rats would talk of memories from before they were uprooted from homes. Tommy and Tubbo weren’t fortunate enough to remember what the “before” had been like. They were too young.
The elders, however, had many stories.
Tubbo would sit in front of them. When the scientists weren’t looking - a rare occasion, he would sneak to sit in their lap and soak up their warmth. They would wrap their arms around him - a cherished moment of forbidden contact - and told stories.
They weren’t ever any good.
That’s why Tommy never sat around to listen. (He always would sit in the corner. He always pretended not to listen.)
(He always made it for storytime.)
Of all the tales he’s heard, he had never expected the outside to be so… big.
Tommy was tall for his age. Taller than Tubbo! They compared heights often. It was a fun challenge, and Tommy always took pride in being taller. Tubbo’s gotten lucky with a growth spurt, as of late. His head is just above Tommy’s.
They haven’t checked heights lately because of it. Tommy’s trying to work on a plan to make him short again.
Height shouldn’t really matter - not if you’re a flighted creature. Tubbo and Tommy are both birds of prey. They’re two winged little things, but they do the least flying of them all.
Tommy’s plenty good at it. He would be flying away from his attacker if not for the shambles on his wings.
Even running for his life, he doesn’t mind being on the ground. The trees and the roots prove to be a disadvantage for his feet, but… it’s so beautiful down here. He can’t care too much about not being in the sky right now after being met with such a lovely sight.
The stories never told him about this.
The stories never captured the beauty of overgrown trees that go neck and neck with the clouds.
He only wishes he had more time to stop and take it all apart.
He’s in the middle of fighting a trained professional’s gunfire to stop and smell the roses. It doesn’t stop him from craning his head to the side at the sight of the… was that the sky?
Tommy’s feet drag against the floor. The view is hidden by the trees, and he can’t double back. There’s footsteps behind him and branches rustling.
Whatever it is, he has to see it again.
He can almost hear Tubbo’s, “You’ll have to be alive to see it. Don’tcha think?”
(Stupid Tubbo. Stupid Moral Compass Tubbo.)
He does have good points at times.
So, Tommy runs for his life.
He picks one foot up, then the other. In a cycle, he runs - chest heaving and entire body shivering under the effort of keep moving.
The ground gets harder underneath his bare feet. With every step comes white, sharp pain, but it’s nothing compared to what’s been done to him before. Years of endurance and practiced matched with his adrenaline allows him to ignore the thorns on the soles of his feet and run.
The ground shifts uphill. The pain builds in his thighs, but he can’t stop. He can’t wait for the pain to subside.
“It’s ‘cause they gave you chicken genes,” Tubbo had said to him once after a trial.
“I’m no chicken. I’m the coolest bird - a phoenix!”
Tubbo had scoffed. “You run way faster than me. You’re a goddamn chicken, dude.”
Whether or not he’s a chicken, he is super fast. (For the record, phoenixes could be fast on the ground too. There’s a lot unknown about phoenixes.)
For the record though… Tommy’s feathers are red.
Like a phoenix’s should be.
He catches a glimpse of the sky he’s never known before. It’s ironic, huh? Funny to think he’s lived under something so beautiful his whole life, yet he never got the opportunity to see it.
The illuminating blue breaks through the cracks in the thick wood, and it and the rustling alone keep him going.
A sharp jolt of pain sends him reeling over a stray branch. His hands fly to clamp down on his thigh, surging in fiery sparks. “S…Shit!” he curses, chest heaving with an impossible weight against his lungs. He forces his hand off of his thigh to grab onto a tree.
He pulls himself up with his hands and forces his leg to move despite the stiffness. “Faster…!” he demands, huffing at his own body. “Fuck.”
A red bird nearby tilts his head at Tommy. He’s a small little thing, perched up on top of a rose bush. Tommy flashes him a smile. Yeah, maybe Tubbo was right (as he often is). He wouldn’t mind if he shared DNA with something as beautiful as him.
They never saw free birds, of course. They’re much more beautiful than the pinned creatures in the lab.
A little more time outside… Will Tommy look as beautiful as him? Will he share those vibrant red feathers? Will he, too, know what it’s like to fly free with no bindings attached to his wings?
Could he be like this bird?
Does he even deserve to?
“Oh, hello,” he coos. “Are you on the run, too?” The bird flaps its wings and soars in front of Tommy’s face. “Oh, gonna rub it in, are you?” he says, rolling his eyes. “What an asshole you are, si--”
Tommy watches the bird fly with a jealous fury deep in his chest before a ringing takes over his view. His left ear screeches feedback at him, and his eyes flutter shut at a loud boom far too close. He reels, forcing his vision to rebalance.
“No…” he begins, voice inaudible over the sharp ringing. Distantly he recognizes the feeling of something wet on his face. Hesitantly, he drags a finger across his cheek and lowers his hand.
His finger is coated in blood.
“Oh,” he says, examining the bold red color. His knees buckle underneath him and he slides into the welcoming earth. A short gasp escapes his dry lips at the sight of the mangled corpse. His hands itch to scoop him up and whisper condolences, but there’s nothing to hold. There’s nothing even left. “Oh, little bird, I’m so sorry.”
He ignores the mess of feathers and staggers to his feet. Behind him, a gun reloads, and he has to move. There is no time to mourn. “Better you than me.”
Tommy pushes up off the ground to land against a tree. He wraps his arms around it to steady himself, but he’s already sliding against it. Acid builds at the top of his throat. He closes his eyes, but he can still see the bits of bone and feather.
If his hunter had any sort of decent aim, he would’ve been in the same situation.
And you will if you don’t fucking move.
Tubbo really does make the worst Moral Compass. With as much nagging as he does, his brain can autofill what he’d nag him about in any situation.
But he’s right, as per usual, so he stands. He lifts one foot in front of the other, and he moves.
The sky is close enough he can almost touch it. The clouds must feel like cotton. He wonders if he had gotten shot - like the bird - if he could have used the cloud to clog the bleeding.
Thankfully, he won’t ever have to find out.
His feet catch against the earth as the sky reaches him.
Except, the sky isn’t a sky.
“Whoa.” A giggle this time spills out. Again, against his will. “Are you seeing this?”
The sky is just below him. It’s moving. The sound it makes is heavy in his ears. It overpowers his panting and his own laughter.
He turns just in time to catch his hunter. He’s covered in green, but his face is covered by a pale white mask. Green ass teletubby bitch
It’s too bad.
Tommy would’ve loved to see the look on his face as he launched himself over the sky.
He backs himself up against the ledge, and his wings spread out behind them. They can’t expand fully against the bindings.
The hunter lowers his rifle.
“Yeah, that’s right, bitch,” Tommy taunts, cackling. “Bet you wish you could fly, too.”
“Bet you wish you could fly, too,” the hunter says, surprising Tommy. Whitecoats talk - sure - but they don’t taunt. Not like this. They’re too stuckup and analytical for it. Even as Tommy would scream and cry, they would be silent. “Too bad they’re clipped. Huh, Tommy?”
Tommy crosses his arms over his chest.
“Preparing to be buried?” the hunter jeers.
“You’re not taking back a corpse,” he counters. “It’s why you didn’t hit my head when you tried to shoot me. Not that it mattered - since you hit that bird anyways.”
“One thing you should know about me, Tommy,” the hunter drawls, cackling. “I never miss.”
“Oh. Well. I do!” Tommy says, keeping his hands in coffin position as he backsteps off of the cliff.
Falling and flying has never looked so similar.
His wings attempt to stretch in survival instinct. Tommy whoops and hollers as the wind passes through his feathers. His matted locks pry off of his head under the air.
“Fuck you!” Tommy screams, grinning all the while. Chasing a winged creature towards the sky?
Really.
What was he thinking?
Tommy cranes his head as the sky gets louder and louder. Then, it grabs his leg, and before he knows it - his breath is gone.
He succumbs under the pull, and Tommy is pushed and rolled over.
The sky is full of water.
His hands scramble to catch purchase on anything, but the water is heavy against his whole body. He’s never known water to be so strong and merciless.
He falls and falls until the water shallows out. His head breaks above the surface after thrashing around, and oh, his lungs expand. His chest burns cold, and he hacks until he can’t anymore. His wings, heavy on his back, fold against his skin as his arms wade out of the heavy stream.
Tommy grabs ahold of the rock and pulls himself on top of it.
The air is still moving, but he can see it. He can see the blue and the bubbling of foam on top of its surface. It’s a different shade of blue than the blanketing sky.
It was… water.
All of it.
His dry throat makes itself known in the face of so much water. He cups his hands underneath it and eagerly raises it to his lips. Most of it spills out underneath his fingers, but he laps it up before all of it is lost.
Dissatisfying, the water burns at his throat. His arms wrap around his stomach, and he rolls to his side.
First it tricks him into thinking it’s air.
Then, it’s not even drinkable water.
Tommy’s been in the outside world less than an hour now, and it’s already awful. It’s lucky it’s so beautiful - makes it worth it.
Even then, it’s not enough.
He was hoping, somehow, that his mom would’ve been right there. Everyone has one. He knows all about the birds and the bees. An older rat told him. He said when two people love each other very much, the stork hybrid will come and bless them with a family.
He had laughed really hard after telling him, so Tommy didn’t believe it at first.
However, in all of the stories the elders told, they spoke of a “mom” and a “dad.” Sometimes, only one.
He was hoping he had one that looked like him. One that would’ve been waiting for him as soon as he broke out.
He never told Tubbo about it. He would’ve thought it to be stupid.
…It was stupid.
“Oh, Tubbo,” he murmurs, heart wrenching. “Did you expect someone to be waiting for us, too?”
He gives up on the thought as soon as it comes.
Nobody was waiting on them. Nobody ever would.
Except, a little ways behind him, Tubbo had to be waiting too. He’s probably tucked away safe somewhere in a clever little hiding spot.
Tommy picks himself up.
Even if no one else is waiting, he knows Tubbo is.
“I’m coming, Tubbo,” he promises, shaking his legs to rid himself of the freezing water. “Hang in there for me.”
-
“Just enjoy it!”
A clatter. A crash. One very big giant fuckup.
Wilbur stares at the mess he’s made.
“It’s a nice little vacation!”
He grabs the books on the coffee table and throws them off.
“It’s for your own good!”
He pants, picking up the table and throwing it to the side. The glass shatters over the floor, and he reveils in the price tag over it.
“Hah,” he announces, stepping back.
In a matter of an hour, Wilbur’s fucked up his father’s vacation home.
It’s his own damn fault. Phil - yeah, he deserves to be first named - was the bastard with the grand idea to send him here.
Wilbur’s pissed, to say the least. (It’s why he’s been quoting him aloud for the whole time he’s been here.)
Really. You try and kill yourself, and your dad’s suggestion is some “time alone.” Really. Great thinking, Dad.
“As soon as I get back from this trip, I’ll be staying with you,” he had said over the phone just a night ago. “You’re to stay in that cabin and not move. Got it?”
“Where else would I go, Dad?” he had asked. Really. Wilbur’s got nowhere left after he pulled the funds for his apartment. Something about teaching him a lesson. “I’m stuck here.”
A heavy sigh had followed. “Good. It’ll give me time to think of how to deal with you. Just… just enjoy it. Spend some time with nature. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
A pause. “Why did you do it, Wilbur?”
That time it had been Wilbur’s turn to be quiet.
“I love you.”
Wilbur finally snapped after that and shut off the phone.
He did end up listening. He took the train, then the taxi. He had to be driven by a park ranger just to get here.
The cabin is a modern, expensive place. It’s gigantic, clearly meant for families of eight to spend on vacations. There’s a play room that Wilbur hasn’t touched. The kitchen’s table has room for at least six people. Now, it’s bent over the side. It seats no one.
God.
What a complete, fucking waste.
But he’s here, isn’t he? He made it this far. He’s still alive. Even after downing a handful of pills, he’s alive.
…
And on fucking vacation.
Wilbur steps over the mess of broken glass and opens the balcony’s screen door.
Well, at least the rich man has some taste. The view is breathtaking. The sky is already getting dark, so he can’t see much. There’s a thick wood of trees surrounding the house, but he can see the beginnings of a waterfall not too far.
He’d have to do a little bit of investigating.
If he’s gonna be stuck in prison here, well, he’s sure as hell going to make it worthwhile.
…If he can survive it.