Chapter Text
While it is a very strange situation to find oneself in, as it turns out, this kidnapping falls far below the bar of what one would consider ‘distressing.’
Exhibit A: In the two (maybe three?) hours he’s been trapped in this room, not once has he been harmed, tortured, or been a victim to some other fucked up villain-thing that most would believe to happen during a kidnapping. Guess that idiot kept to his word—Then again, he has yet to come across any of the other ‘syndicate’ members, and he hasn’t seen Siren since he dragged him into this room.
All things considered, it’s a little disconcerting. He hopes someone will come with food soon, since he very clearly did not have the time or energy to grab breakfast before leaving his apartment. Now that he’s stuck here with nothing else to think about except the ancient-ass walls of his room, he realizes just how hungry he is. Geez, the last thing he ate was probably the mango milkshake from Sam.
Oh yeah, if this captivity continues, Sam’s gonna be pretty damn concerned about his whereabouts by the end of the night. Unless he has the opportunity of contacting Sam, he’s not going to bring it up to the Syndicate. As an adult™, Sam probably knows to call some kind of law enforcement after a child is a no-show for more than one night.
Well, one good thing to look forward to.
Exhibit B: Although he would describe his accommodation as ancient, he wouldn’t say that it wasn’t livable. There aren’t any windows, which is inconvenient for Tommy but sensible for the Syndicate. But Tommy can still feel obvious air conditioning wafting throughout the room, which isn’t too hot or too cool, in relation to the spring weather. The room is about the same size as his own, but the grandish-looking furniture somehow makes it feel bigger. There’s a washroom, at least. It had a toothbrush, as if they believed Tommy would be staying for a while. Ha. He still brushed his teeth, for the sake of it. His mouth felt gross from sleep and the screaming.
Right after the food to this room locked shut, he immediately went pacing around, examining the simple dresser (empty) next to the bed, a yellowing lamp barely hanging on to it’s last dregs of electricity, and the gross looking rug lying half under the bed. It has a really weird looking stain, reddish liquid, but definitely not blood. It’s too bright and spread to be something as viscous as blood. More like kool-aid, he thinks absently.
Exhibit C: He has a bed. (yay!) It’s pretty cushy, four posters, and a squeakiness that can only be explained by age. It is where he finds himself in the moment, on his stomach and kicking his legs back and forth while he rests on his hands like a eighties schoolgirl doodling love-hearts in a scrapbook. He doesn’t dare fall asleep, (despite desperately wanting to) keeping himself high on adrenaline and alert for what might enter his room next.
Outwardly, he stares at the wall, glancing at the door on occasion for some kind of food to be delivered. But inside, he is brainstorming very hard. Who the hell could he be connected to for the fucking Syndicate to be after him, then subsequently kidnapping him? Not one of his roommates, it seems. They were confirmed not guilty by the convictions of Siren, apparently. So who else does he know? He isn’t really ‘friends’ with anyone except Sam and his roommates, not that he himself would admit it—That would just be kind of sad. With these facts, he would say Sam, but it has recently come to light that Siren himself has been in Pandora’s vault, so if he is after Sam or someone related to Sam, he could have skipped a step and snatched Sam instead of Tommy.
Wait…
They meant to kidnap Tubbo or Ranboo or the other vigilante guy in the first place, right? That’s why the tracker was placed on one of them, but by a pure stroke of bad luck, washed up ashore on himself. The Syndicate clearly got the wrong person, but Siren seemed to think he would still be able to steer his plan, even with the wrong captive. They hadn’t been thwarted from fulfilling the plan completely, just pushed a step back.
What he’s trying to say is—It’s not Tommy they’re after, but it’s not one of his roommates either. It’s… Very likely someone his roommates know. And if kidnapping Tommy can literally influence his roommates into giving someone on their side over, then his roommates and this mystery person must be extremely close.
Problem is… He has no idea who this mystery person could be. Look, he doesn’t know much about his roommates backstories, he hasn’t asked or pushed them to give him an answer. They’ve already been undoubtedly hospitable, giving Tommy an apartment to live in and people that he can kind-of consider ‘family’, so he’s not going to take advantage of that by pestering them to tell him something private. And he had literally learned that his roommates were vigilantes less than a couple hours ago, and Tommy doesn’t want to get more involved in that than he already is.
But back to the point: Damn, he’s smart for figuring that out. His five active brain cells fired fucking hard for that to be solved. He should be a detective or something.
Aaaand… Back to boredom.
He wasn’t able to grab his phone before he left. He thinks, if he did, he would probably get fucking splintered by fire or knives or interdimensional sludge or something like that. Then again, Siren did ask him if he had some kind of device on him before he threw him in here, so he probably wouldn’t have access to any kind of communication device anyway.
That brings up another question: How does the Syndicate even expect Tubbo and Ranboo to know he’s here, kidnapped by the fucking Syndicate? Well… That is, if they haven’t been beaten by the Dream Team, but Tommy won’t let himself believe that. Dream Team might be ‘superheroes’ or whatever government slang they’re christened with, but Tubbo and Ranboo are damn resilient, and they won’t go down (they probably can’t go down) without a fight.
His internal clock tells him it is probably about eight in the morning at this point, which is about the time when he shuffles onto the public bus to get to school. It’s kind of like how it feels to stay home sick on a school day and to think about what you would be doing at school during certain times of the day. His current situation is just a little bit to the left, but it’s still there.
With little to no warning, his door creaks open, quickly shutting, and he slowly turns his head to see the newcomer. And—Oh, it’s some fucking Peppa pig wannabe. Pink hair, red outfit, checks all the boxes. Tommy wants to cry. He has been kidnapped by Peppa Pig and a theatre kid. Fantastic. His day is going fantastic.
Something else that stands out to him is that this dude is an absolute fucking unit. He probably stands like, a fucking foot over Tommy—And Tommy had once in his life believed he was pretty tall. To clarify, that was before he met Ranboo. But the guy is still shorter than Ranboo, Tommy thinks. On the other hand, Ranboo is literally the opposite in build as this guy. Lanky bitch.
Tommy tries not to let concern show on his face as he thinks back to the two names Siren gave him. What were they again? Angel and Blade, appears in his mind quicker than most things do. Strange. Okay, he has a hunch that this guy is not named Angel, because this guy has the masked face of someone who would pour milk before cereal or put bread in the fridge just because they can. He is also assuming that this is ‘Blade’: One, when Siren had described Blade as intimidating, and two: The literal fucking sparta sword that hangs from his hip, unsheathed.
Anyways, they carry a tray with a bowl of what Tommy assumes to be food, along with a glass of water. Tommy locks eyes with the guy through his mask, and matches Blades' probably deadpan stare. It is probably very awkward, but Tommy continues to stare intensely at the man. After like, ten seconds, Blade glances away like a fucking loser, and Tommy chalks it up as a win for him. Tommy: 1, Syndicate: 0. Ha, he’s eviler than literal fucking supervillains.
Blade clears his throat. “Wil’s out, so, here’s your food.”
Already? Didn’t this bitch say he would be here most of the time or something? Liar. Well, it’s not like Tommy was expecting much from him anyway. He snickers. “What, is he at recitals or someshit?”
Blade fixes a long, awkward look at him. Geez, this guy barely knows how to communicate with homo sapien-human beings. Tommy imagines that this is the first time he interacted with a human being physically in weeks. Still, Tommy makes little grabby hands towards the food, mumbling gimme under his breath, and Blade obliges, passing the silver-antique looking tray (once again, old shit) into Tommy’s hands. It’s some kind of chicken soup, so Tommy is careful with it. The first thing Tommy realizes is that it doesn’t look poisoned, the soup is still soup coloured and the water is still, well, not coloured, and for all they are, explicitly poisoning someone seems like the last thing a sword-wielding voice-commanding looking villain organization would do.
“Anyways,” He says flatly. “When he comes back, you’ll make the ransom call to Widow and Void and we’ll see what happens from there. Bye.”
Well, he guesses the next opportunity to talk to Tubbo and Ranboo isn’t so far after all. Joy. But Tommy isn’t about to return to just him and the shitty walls just yet. “Prime, wait one second, won’t you?” Tommy groans exasperatedly, which only makes Blade raise an eyebrow underneath his mask. “Keep me company, eh? I’m your humble guest—”
“—Captive.”
“And I just feel like I haven’t been treated with as much respect a typical guest should have.”
“—Still a captive.”
“Y’know what? I would leave a very negative Yelp review if I had an account or internet or a phone or any idea how to use the website—I’d think like, one and a half stars, and that’s me being generous.”
Blade takes a long pause, and Tommy thinks for a moment he might have won, but alas, Blade tacks on: “Where’d the extra half come from?”
“Well, the water systems work, so that’s something. And also, although the ride here was less than safe or pleasant, I am thankful that it has allowed me to escape the Prime Awful situation going on in my apartment, along with school. But still, I’m being quite generous.”
Tommy smiles politely, not breaking eye contact with Blade’s deadpan stare.
“Okaaaay… Well, I’m sorry we can’t make things better for you. I’m gonna leave now. W—Siren, will probably be here in a couple of hours or so.” Blade starts towards the door, and Tommy can’t help but give his back a dirty look. Coward.
“For someone who tries to be intimidating, you are very shitty at social situations, just saying.” Tommy hums, tapping his fingers against the edge of his tray. Blade pauses in his tracks, as if contemplating. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves?—Or at least, you introduce yourself to me, mister. I don’t know what that bitch Siren has told you already, but whatever. Hello. My name is Tommy. Three things you probably didn’t know about me are that—”
Blade turns around, giving an expectant look. “And what makes you think I should stay and humor you? I’m a villain, ain’t I? I can do whatever I want, plus, you’re supposed to be our captive. If you don’t have the intellectual capacity to understand what that means, a captive means someone at the mercy of their captor—So it’s not like you can go around bossin’ me on what I can and cannot do.”
Tommy huffs a laugh, which he thinks catches Blade off guard, just a bit. It’s really just a game to him now—Siren promised not to hurt him, and Tommy is almost a hundred percent sure he’s the kind of guy to take promises pretty seriously. At the very least, Tommy can kind of grasp the memo that harming children is not one of their core values. Something about not being a hypocrite.
“If I’m going to be honest, Blade—Can I call you that? You aren’t Angel?” A subtle tilt of the head is enough for Tommy to be glad he wasn’t completely wrong. “Okay, Blade, I don’t know if Siren has filled you in, but I don’t know shit about this whole ‘superpowered community’ that thrives inside of the twenty-four hour news stations.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Okay, good. So! Admittedly? If you and Siren had hid the fact you were supervillains from me, I wouldn’t have suspected shit.” Blade tilts his head, intrigued. “Someone’s societal status as a supervillain, superhero, Peppa pig lookalike… It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“That is about one of the stupidest philosophies I’ve ever heard, but go off.”
“Yeah you’re right, I lied—I do actually care whether someone is a Peppa pig lookalike, but that’s not the point. I know other people—you—might believe I’m crazy for wanting a villain for company. But I mean, I’m not other people, and unlike them, I don’t perceive you as a villain.”
“But haven’t other people seen us in action? You can’t say nor deny anything about us if you’ve never experienced it.”
“Yeah? Sure, I haven’t seen you or any of the others do villainesque things, which obviously means I have no right to say you guys are harmless, just—It isn’t until I see you guys do something completely unforgivable, that I might begin to see you as a villain rather than just some normal, muscular guy.”
“And you ignore what everyone else says in favor of your own opinion. If you haven’t seen it yet, it didn't happen—That’s your whole idea?” Blade retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. His looming cape shifts, but Tommy doesn’t falter.
“You might think it’s wrong, and maybe it is. Maybe I am just focusing on what I can believe rather than the blabbers of everyone else—But isn’t it better this way? I’m not afraid of you like the rest are accustomed to being. And ignorance isn’t dangerous, at least in this situation, because from the short amount of experience I’ve gotten with you guys, you haven’t made any move to harm me, and I can’t really believe you will—So honestly? I see you staying here as having company over, and that’s it. Not a supervillain-coded dude and their captive, just some kid and some other guy having a philosophical debate.”
“So basically you’re taking your short-lived experience—an outlier—over the accounts of hundreds of other witnesses. You’d ignore my role as supervillain and your role as captive, all because you trust that I’m not the kind to harm children.” Blade states, taking a couple steps back. Tommy relaxes in relief when the guy just pulls out a chair against the wall near the door, dragging it a meter away from where Tommy is seated on the bed. He’s interested, Tommy thinks victoriously.
(And he doesn’t disappreciate this kind of deep kind of chat all too much, a part of himself he wasn’t aware of admits.)
“I just think, that apathy can be a comfort—”
And Blade actually smirks. “More like narcissism.”
“Yeah, that’s what people like to think at first.” Tommy snarks back, rolling his eyes. He then realizes he hasn’t touched his food yet. His hunger had kind of gone to the other hand when this whole conversation began. He picks up the spoon, dipping and stirring it in the yellowish chicken soup. “Hey, even if you’re too scared to admit it, you can’t admit deep, philosophical conversations like these aren’t at least a little interesting.”
“I ain’t scared to admit it.” Blade chuckles. “Wil and Phil are too chicken to engage in debates like these with me.”
Blade stills, eyes behind the mask probably widening significantly in horror and regret. Tommy’s spoon clatters out of his hands and into the bowl—Goddammit. If it were another occasion, Tommy would unleash his aggravation against everyone in the fucking building. However, he is busy processing what has just been said to him, so his fury might have to come again later.
“Who’s Wil and Phil?—If you don’t mind me asking.” Tommy mumbles shyly, although he’s certain he already knows.
Blade exhales a deep sigh that starts in the throat. “Alright, I guess it isn’t so bad since you’re—You. However, it would be uh, very nice of you to not disclose that. To anyone. And absolutely not them themselves. They’d give me the end of it. I’m just. Used to calling them that, we haven't, uhh, kidnapped anyone for a while.”
“Yeah, sure. You know me, I don’t really care.” Tommy replies, a promise. Contrary to what one might think, he accepted this request for multiple reasons, not just because he didn’t care. One, he felt bad for the dudes fuck-up, two, it would make great blackmail material—Now for sure they couldn’t harm him, three, he can lie and disclosing something like that will most definitely rope him into more superhero shit than he already wades in, four… The list goes on.
The silence becomes far too awkward for either of their comfort, so while Techno breaks eye contact by massaging his temples with his pointer and middle fingers, Tommy lifts the bowl up to his mouth, now that he’s spoonless, (He’ll have a late riot when he gets the chance.) and takes a miniscule sip.
Not only does the fallen spoon reappear and almost fall onto his face, but to his dismay, the soup tastes exceedingly stale, and Tommy isn’t sure if that's because it’s been sitting out in the open for too long, or because the people living here are just that shit of cooks. Nevertheless, he slowly lowers the bowl back to the tray, clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and goes for the glass of water. He makes sure to shoot a sympathetic look towards Blade through the transparency of the cup.
Then, a brilliant idea flashes in his mind, and he sets the cup down in a hurry. Blade looks up, clearly caught off guard, but still ears.
“We should start a philosophy club!” Tommy suggests, lightly bouncing on the bed and jostling his soup. Techno makes an aborted move to save it, but it doesn’t fall. “I’ll print flyers.”
Blade snorts, despite his anguish. “Yeah, sorry kid, I’m not joining.”
“Nope, it’s already canonized. We’re both club presidents and the first meeting begins next week.”
Blade huffs, leaning back. “Darn, guess I’ll have to quit early—But it’s not like there are any members to honor my leave.”
“Exactly! You bring up a fantastic point.” Blade sags. Ha, bitch ain’t getting out of this that easily. “See mister, the first step to creating this club is to gather more members.” Tommy says, scrambling around for his phone, before realizing he doesn’t have it on him. “Nevermind, I’ll ask later.”
“Well, I would say something about you establishing a philosophy club with one of the city's most infamous supervillains within the first five minutes of meeting them, but I think it’s already been made clear how much you wouldn’t care.” Blade says all-too fondly. Tommy stares ominously, as if daring him to even try calling him a weirdo. “...Alright then, it’s been a blast talkin’ to ya, but I think I’m gonna have to leave you now.”
Does this dumbass think he can flee? Fucking hilarious. Before Blade can even make a move to get up, Tommy is faster. He tosses the tray beside him, knocking bits of soup onto his bed in the process. (Oh well, not like he planned on sleeping here anyway.) He’s on his feet, hand already grasping at Techno’s wrist, uncaring of any dangers that might arise from this.
From there, they proceed to make deadpan eye contact with each other for what Tommy can only estimate to be a minute straight. While the look Blade shoots at him is more of a ‘really?’ kind of stare, the look Tommy reflects right back is contrastingly, ‘do you even have anything better to do you fucking shithead? Yes, really,’ kind of stare. Blade relents and takes his seat. Ha, two; Tommy, zero; The Syndicate. If he keeps up this streak he’ll be even more evil than Satan himself.
“Believe me, it’s so fucking boring and greasy in this room. Also, I am a minor so it could be considered child neglect or something. Not that I am a child.” Tommy rambles absently to further prove his point. At least his mind doesn’t convince him to be hungry or bored now. “Let’s talk a little more, shall we?”
Blade feigns disinterest, but they both know just how much they want to keep this going. “Alright, five minutes.”
(They talk for a while.)
It all goes by in a blur, but Tommy can list three of the most remarkable events that occur during his and Blade’s—no, Techno’s—Don’t worry, he’ll touch upon that bit later—conversation. They proceed in this exact order:
Twenty-five-ish minutes into their back and forth, a firm knock raps against the door. Too enraptured in conversation, neither of them answer, and the door unceremoniously swings open.
Tommy whips his head around to meet the intruder, and what he is met with might be one of the sixth or seventh most shocking things he’s ever witnessed in his lifetime. The man has wings, pitch black and in full extension, could probably touch both sides of an alley's walls. Bleached blonde hair longer than Tommy’s, but shorter than Techno’s, green attire and black domino mask that does a decent job in covering his eyes.
So… This is Angel? Siren was… Kind of right (only a little!) right when he said Tommy could figure the Angel out easily. It would probably have been a lot simpler if the Angel had come before Blade, but who is he to complain?
“Oh, hey.” Techno says casually, eyes flicking between Tommy and Angel in quick succession. Angel waves, opening his mouth, but quickly shuts it when he sees Tommy staring.
Tommy does not stop staring in order to assert dominance, instead, opening his mouth and mistakenly asking, “Are you Wil or Phil?”
Techno’s head jerks towards him, as if saying, “What the heck.” And that’s probably because he does voice such remarks to Tommy, and all Tommy does is shrug. It won’t cost harm against anyone but Techno’s dignity, and he’s not really concerned with taking shots against that. It would be treason against his other club president for Techno to sic his elongated knife against him, and also they promised. Still, he’s working on limited knowledge here, and he hasn’t had that long of a look towards Angel to know whether he’s a bitch or not.
“What the fuck?” Phil or Wil chokes out, and for some odd reason, it sounds like he is about to burst into laughter. “Did you tell him that?”
Techno looks pointedly downwards, breaking eye contact. “It just slipped out, sorry Phil. Not much I could do about it, but it’s not like he’d tell anyone, anyway.” Techno huffs, shooting (maybe endearing? Hopefully?) glare at Tommy before looking up at Phil.
So it’s confirmed, Angel is Phil, and bitch Siren is Wil. Wow, Wil is such a horrible, horrible name compared to Phil. Oh, wait—And if Techno was lying and switched up their names to fool Tommy, then he supposes the name Phil is also very awful, but Tommy doesn’t think Techno is lying, at least.
“How has Techno been treating you, mate? Hopefully he hasn’t bored you to insanity yet with his long, long rants about Greek mythology and shit?” Techno sputters indignantly at that, and the sound is enough to make Tommy snicker. So, that’s where the second revelation comes in. Blade’s name is, apparently, Techno. Both pseudos are quite strange, but he’s not going to question it.
“Oh, it’s just been terrible. I bet he’s such a fucking nerd under all of that villainy bravado.” Tommy whispers, a secret to absolutely no-one.
“Says you.” Techno refutes, and what Phil doesn’t know is more benefit to himself, at least. “And I didn’t even bring up anythin’ about Greek mythology yet—”
“See? You just did again!” Tommy says in very obvious faux annoyance, and he can feel Techno rolling his eyes behind the mask. He turns to see Phil pulling up another chair across from Techno’s, tucking his wings behind him and taking a seat. Oh, so he’s joining in as well.
Tommy and Techno lapse into passive-aggressive silence. Tommy wonders, what Techno’s relationship to Phil and Wil is? He isn’t sure yet, but they must be closer than associates for Phil to be looking at Techno so endearingly. He looks back to Techno, who honest-to-Prime looks like he’s having a full on conversation with Phil via eye-contact, although he doubts either of them can read minds. Huh, they must be closer than Tommy taught.
Phil breaks the silence by inquiring to Tommy, “So… Do you have any questions we might be able to answer? Maybe Techno has filled you in a bit since, I’ve noticed he spent a while here.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says slowly. “But we were just talking about, uh, deep shit.” He doesn’t add-on to that, because he doesn’t think Phil would want to join their philosophy club from what Techno had told him.
“Alright.” Phil says, suspicious but not prying. “Well, Wil just got back, so when he comes in we’ll get things going.” And as if Phil had summoned him, the door swings open once more and Wil/Siren comes marching in, probably from recitals.
“Hello, Wil.” Tommy says in complete deadpan, and Wil’s neck almost snaps flinching to the side.
“What? Who told him that?” Wil says, frantically looking between Techno and Phil.
Phil eyes Techno, and Wil shakes his head. “Fuck, you know what, I don’t care. He’s not going to tell anyone, right?”
“Nope, swore an oath and he also doesn’t really care about our business.” Techno replies, and Wil looks slightly more relaxed.
And that is the third revelation, Wil entering the room and triggering the beginning of this so-called ransom call. And although that happened less than thirty seconds ago, it is still the past and the present is making room for something new. More specifically…
“Soooo, weren’t you gonna make me make a ransom call or something?” Tommy inquires, gaze skimming over the masked faces of his captors, before moving down to their pockets. There’s only something distinctly phone-shaped in Siren’s—Wil’s pocket, but it seems a little too chunky to be—Wait, oh shit—Is he about to make ransom call on a fucking Nokia? He knows it wouldn’t be unbefitting of their ‘aesthetic’, but the thought of having to put one of those ancient things in his young hands makes him shudder. It would be like touching a piece of preserved history.
(Or like carrying a sack of bricks, Tommy supplies in his head, but it doesn’t make much of a difference.)
Siren takes it out of his pocket, and to absolutely nobodies surprise, it is indeed, a fucking Nokia. Tommy scrunches his face up in disgust as if he had drunk another spoonful of that god awful rancid soup.
Siren holds the phone out expectantly, but all he does is scoff at the item extended to him.
“You’re kidding, right?” Tommy jeers, taking the opportunity to cautiously poke at the piece of junk. “Did we just fall back several centuries of evolution? Does this look like the renaissance era to you?”
Techno shrugs, fixing him with a pointed glare. “If it were the renaissance era, you’d probably be writing a letter or somethin’. But either way, you’re gonna have to use the Nokia.” Tommy continues to scowl. He doesn’t have the first goddamn idea how to work either of those things, and he doesn’t want to look like an idiot in front of these guys.
“It can’t be helped, mate. Modern technology can be tracked fucking easily these days.” Phil adds, looking amused. “We can help you if you’ve never—”
“Fuck off,” Tommy grunts, snatching the phone far too aggressively from Siren’s grasp. “These days,” he murmurs as he tries to figure out which button turns the phone on. “Fuck, how old even are you? Don’t tell me you’re the kind of Grandpa to grunt ‘back in my day,’ everytime a generation zed is remotely interested in something.” He’s rambling now, trying to cover up his inability to turn the fucking phone on.
“I guess one could say we’re older than most,” Phil replies, and Tommy can hear the amusement seeping from his tone, don’t need to fucking rub it in, bitch—“But we can adapt to the times just as well. We try to keep a few belongings for every couple of years.”
Tommy doesn’t even have the first clue what that means, nor does he want to know. Instead, he focuses on what he thinks could be the ‘on’ button on this thing.
He feels a hand rest on his shoulder, but strangely, he doesn’t jerk back. Still, he looks upwards with the most offended look he can muster, glaring at, as it turns out, Wil, the bitch himself. Tommy rolls his eyes in defeat, begrudgingly extending the phone in his hand slowly, as a naughty child would when caught by their mother. Wil pushes and holds down a very different button than the one he was fussing over, which definitely does not make Tommy’s cheeks heat up. No, of course not—He would never sink to such a low.
After a few more clicks by Wil, the phone is tossed back into his hands, which he nearly misses. Whatever, not like it would break the phone anyway. It might break through the floor and injure the real-estate-value or something, but it’s not like the house is worth much in the first place.
“Put in your roommates' phone number, and then press the ‘call’ button over there.” The bitch has the gall to point at it. “See? That one.”
“Yeah, I’m not blind or old, dickhead—Unlike you guys.” Tommy hovers his fingers over the numbers, debating which number he could call. “Wait, what’s stopping me from calling nine-one-one?” Tommy thinks out loud, before realizing his mistake. Darn, there’s one opportunity gone.
“Uhhh, because we’re all watching you and can take the phone back at any moment?” Techno says, and hm, that sounds a little bit like a threat. “Also, the speaker is on.”
After another pause to think, he comes up with a number and dials it in, feeling the Syndicate’s eyes glued on to his movements.
“Wait, isn’t that—?” Wil begins, but it is too late, and Tommy has already hit call. An evil grin makes itself apparent on his face as the receiver picks up almost immediately.
“Good afternoon, valued customer from across the telephone line! This is Charlie from Las Nevadas Pizzeria, can I please hear your order?”
“Yeah, can I have a pineapple pizza with—” Tommy orders, but is cut off by Wil yanking back the phone from his hands, effectively shutting down the call.
Wil sighs deeply, although the sound he makes is either one of endearment or aggravation—Tommy isn’t sure. “We give you a few opportunities to call your roommates and yet you choose to call a pizzeria. Why?”
Before Tommy can answer, Techno cuts in, “And pineapple? Disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting,” Tommy spits back with added vigor. “And I did it because I can, and you dumbasses need to be taught a lesson. Now give me back the phone, I’ll call them for real this time.”
Wil looks contemplative, glancing at Phil’s and Techno’s odd expressions before finally, handing him back the phone. “I would say no more funny business, but reverse psychology exists and I’ve already given you a warning.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Tommy hums, but then pauses. “Wait, which roommate's phone number do I put in?”
“I dunno, whichever one will answer quicker?” Wil replies.
Tommy makes a pained noise. “Oh c’mon, don’t make me decide between the two of them like that. That’s like only calling one of your parents and completely disregarding the other while you’re out of country.”
“Fine! Call uh, I dunno, Ultraviolet or something.”
“He’s not one of my roommates. He’s the one you and Dream, like the idiots you are, mistook me for, remember?”
“I’m not an idiot!” Siren seethes, throwing his hands in the air, but not exactly looking ‘villainous’ just yet.
“Chill, Wil. Just call… Void, then.” Phil suggests slowly, pulling Wil back a bit.
Tommy huffs, and aggressively punches in Ranboo’s number. At least he thinks Ranboo is ‘Void’…? Oh right, yeah, he was.
After three very slow rings that are each punctuated with an ever-increasing silence, someone picks up—the confused ‘Hello?’ distinctly Ranboo’s.
Before Tommy can reply with a ‘heyyy Ranboob,’ the phone is stolen from his hands by Wil, who takes calculated steps back from where Tommy is situated on the bed. Techno and Phil watch him with a look that screams; ‘don’t you dare, or else…’ Uh, or else something.
“Hello Void,” Siren starts ominously, and it sounds like a completely different person compared to who was talking to Tommy moments before.
Tommy is surprised when Tubbo’s voice erupts from the call next—”Who is this?” Tubbo says with underlying darkness—Something only Tommy knows is a signature dominance move of Tubbo. Siren looks at him, and Tommy shrugs back nonchalantly.
“This is the Syndicate calling. You’re… Widow and Void, correct?”
“Mhm. What’s it to you? Why are you calling?”
Wil—Actually, maybe he should refer to him as the actual Siren now with how deep in he is with his persona. Anyways, Siren grins with teeth, despite it being pretty damn obvious that this is a phone call. Can Nokias even have face-times? A question for later.
“Well, Widow. We just happen to have your fellow roommate—Tommy—Right here with us.” A sharp inhale of breath crackles from the device's speakers.
“Is he really?” Tubbo replies, sounding doubtful. “Tommy? Are you there?”
Before Tommy can say anything, Siren is beckoning him to reply. Tommy sniffs, not quite the reunion he wanted, but he’ll take what he can get.
“Hey Tu—Uh, Widow? And Void.” Tommy says loudly, looking up at Siren and down at the phone.
Twin gasps from Tubbo and Ranboo, and to Tommy’s best guess, they’re relieved. “Fuck, Tommy—Hi.” Tubbo laughs shallowly, a beat passes. “Uhm. So. Sorry about that.”
The Syndicate hasn’t made any moves to stop him, so he assumes he can still speak. “Dude, it’s fine. You know I didn’t want anything to do with it, so I guess I can forgive you two for keeping it a secret.”
“But you’ve been—”
“Kidnapped, I know. That whole ordeal was probably not the best thing for 4am in the morning, but I suppose it’s not the worst thing that’s happened today.” Siren has the gall to look offended by that.
The other side of the line goes silent for a bit, before Ranboo speaks. “They haven’t… Hurt you or anything, have they? They’re supervillains, so I know—”
“I’m afraid that’s all you’ll get for a reunion for now.” Wil cuts in, and geez, what the heck? An absolute dick move, sure, but not really out of character. “Why don’t we discuss the ransom? I’m sure you’ll have time to catch up once we get our hands on what we want.” Siren’s words don’t sound very genuine, but he’s a ‘supervillain’, so what can Tommy really expect? He’s definitely not innocent, and Tommy is sure of that.
“No, we’re not discussing anything until you let us speak to Tommy.” Tubbo replies stubbornly, trying to regain the reins on this situation.
Tommy holds his breath. “Well, it seems we are at an impasse, then.” Wil states, looking just as stubborn. The line goes silent for a minute, as each side patiently awaits the other to break. Sooner or later, the silence will become less dense and more stupid, almost borderline awkward considering how quickly two stubborn bulls came to a headlock. Tommy exhales his breath, not because anything happened, but because it was getting a little uncomfortable holding it for so long.
“Just let him speak, Siren.” Phil huffs after what seems like forever. “It’ll be easier to come to a deal that way, and it’s not like much has happened, anyway.”
“Fine.” Wil says at last, resigning, and hands the phone back to Tommy for the millionth time.
“Tommy?” Ranboo says from the phone.
“Hey Ra—Uh, Hey. To answer your question from earlier, no, they aren’t hurting me—And no, that’s not something they’ve told me to say.” Tommy pauses. “Actually, if boredom is a form of pain, and slash or if the stale as shit soup they’ve fed me can be considered a safety hazard, then maybe.” Tommy lists off, briefly imagining the appalled faces behind the masks of the Syndicate. “But other than those discrepancies, it’s been pretty good.”
“...Good?” Tubbo repeats, mostly to himself.
Techno chuckles, “Darn, our entire evil reputation ruined, by just a word.” Siren sends him a look that tells him to stop.
“Uh… Yeah?” Tommy isn’t sure why it’s so hard to believe if it’s coming from his own experience. Maybe it’s just recency bias. Or maybe he’s speaking about the three worst supervillains in the district. Either way, Tubbo and Ranboo know he’s fine now, so that’s something. “Anyways, do you want to join our philosophy club? It’s kind of lame with only two members.”
Tubbo is startled by that. “Your what? When did you make a philosophy club? And—Who the fuck could be the other member?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Tommy says curtly, beaming over at Techno. Techno looks away, as if embarrassed. Pussy, he was even nice enough to not mention Techno’s name or role in the club yet. Siren and Phil both have raised eyebrows, but it’s something they’ll probably go over later.
“Tommy, wait—”
Tommy giggles. Oh, Tubbo is going to absolutely desecrate him when he gets back, but it’s worth it for the expansion of his (and Techno’s) philosophy club. Siren clears his throat, a clear warning. So, Tommy asks without reluctance, since he’d kind of like to know as well. “What’s the whole ransom thing about? I’d kind of like to stop being a captive.”
“Alright, fine. What do you want?” Tubbo says gruffly, now more to Siren than Tommy.
Wil looks absolutely gleeful, ecstatic that things are finally going to plan. “Widow. Do you know anyone that goes by the name of ‘Schlatt’, by any chance?” He is met with suspicious sounding silence at the other end of the line. “Actually no, I shouldn’t be asking—Let me make this fucking clear. I already know you are in ‘close qualms’ with ‘Schlatt’, so if you don’t let us meet with him sometime in the next Goddamn week, we’ll slit Tommy’s throat where he stands.”
Uh.
Uhhhh.
All in favour for Siren to take a fucking Xanax and chill?
He’s about to object, but his eyes meet Siren’s, and he mouths what Tommy assumes is ‘we won’t’ but Tommy also sees ‘ee-oo’ like the siren-siren that isn’t Siren, or ‘ev-il’ which is a little more out of place, but still plausible. But despite that, they made a promise to not hurt him, and everything they say and do can be used against them—according to the law, probably. Buuutttt, it’s not like he can sue them if he’s dead. Maybe, just maybe, he should start taking this a little more seriously.
“Hold on, let’s go over the offer a bit,” Tubbo demands icily through the speakers, obviously unhappy for so many things being used against him. “So if we bring… ‘Schlatt’ over to you guys—Just for a meeting—You’ll release Tommy.”
Wil rubs his temple with two fingers. Another testament to his Xanax statement. “Yeah you can try,—but Schlatt has obviously been avoiding us ever since—ever since doomsd… ”
And thus, Tommy zones the fuck out of that conversation. He’s too tired for this shit—But at least Tubbo and Wil will distract themselves for a while, they’re both stubborn as fuck. Huh. Schlatt is a funny name, although quite discriminatory to people with braces. Who the hell puts so many consonant sounds before the vowel? He silently mouths the word. Yeah no, Schatt or Slatt, take it or leave it.
If Tommy could take anyone in the world out for dinner, he would probably choose the God XD or some other higher being. Not only would it be interesting to see whether his abilities could extend as far as being a menace to a fucking God, but they would probably be capable of answering a fuck ton of questions nobody has bothered to understand before. Like, if they know if time travel will exist in the future (haha.) Or how cows have their babies. (it’s not too difficult to find, he just doesn’t have the guts to search it up.)
Imagine if everybody in your life just, suddenly forgot you. (Not like he has that many people in his life, but still.) Where would one go from there? If it were him, he would endlessly torment Tubbo and Ranboo by ‘reading their minds’ and just know things about them despite being completely unfamiliar. And hey, it’s not like they can do shit about it, because it’s not like psychics don’t exist in this fucked up world. It’d be funny, and he’d finally get the upper hand against Tubbo for once. But… It would kind of suck for every memory they’ve had with each other to be forgotten or erased—And also, how the hell would that even work? This generation is built on digitalization, so would every single memento of his face like, disappear? Deep shit.—Oh hey, Wil and Tubbo are finished now.
By the time his brain travels back to the living world, Siren concludes with an arrogant, “It’s a deal, then.” But doesn’t hang up.
Siren turns back towards Tommy, fixing him with a victorious stare.
Tommy blinks, because he doesn’t feel like getting into a staring contest at the moment. “Sooo… What’s happening? Who the fuck is ‘Schlatt’?”
“You weren’t listening?” Techno asks flatly. “Bruh, vital information about your own kidnapping and you didn’t even bother to listen.”
“It’s fine. In essence, Tubbo will let us meet with ‘Schlatt’ in five days—Who is a close acquaintance of your roommates, from what we know—And we’ll return you back to them after the meeting.”
“Okay? But what do you even want with ‘Schlatt’? Why has he been avoiding you like you said?”
“So you were listening to that part and not—” Techno begins, cut off by Wil once more.
“Because he is a fucking coward.” Wil sneers with vitriol, taking Tommy aback. “And we need to settle this ongoing quarrel once and for all.”
Ongoing quarrel?
Something tells Tommy the Syndicate is going to try much more than just talk to this ‘Schlatt’ guy, which is… Not ideal. He doesn’t know who ‘Schlatt’ is, but if he’s friends with Tubbo and Ranboo or whatever, he should probably try his best to prevent ‘Schlatt’ from being the victim of whatever the Syndicate has against him. And yeah, if it were any different, he would walk right past it and pretend it doesn’t concern him—But now, he’s far too entangled in it to deny involvement, so omission really wouldn’t serve him much good in this situation.
Ranboo’s staticky voice cuts him off from his scheming. “Great, now that things are settled, can we uh, please talk to Tommy like you promised?”
Siren nods, because apparently that’s another part of the deal Siren just conveniently forgot to mention. Siren passes him back the phone.
Tommy deadpans. “So are you going to give us our privacy?”
Siren scoffs disbelievingly. What a prick. “No, because we wouldn’t want you three to get cocky. I have places to be, So Tech’ and Phil can watch over, if it’s fine with you two.”
“Yeah, I’m good with it, mate.” Phil sighs, looking back over at Tommy. “Go where you need to go.”
Just as Siren pivots on his heel and exits the room, leaving the door ajar. Tommy calls out, “Hope you trip and fall during recitals, fucker.” And despite being out of the room, Wil’s pause is louder than any, an obvious sign Tommy is right.
He picks up the phone to his ear and covers it with a hand, which is not advantageous in any sense but gets his point across. “Okay you two, let’s be very inconspicuous, because there are currently two bitches poking their ears where they shouldn’t be—”
“Yeah Tommy, we know,” Ranboo says awkwardly with a crackling sigh. “Hello, uh, Blade and Angel.” Techno and Phil say hi back, albeit unpleasantly. “So anyways. Uhm, how have things been there? Have you eaten much?”
“Geez, don’t mother-hen me you fucking boob,” Tommy remarks, a wry attempt in enlightening this situation. “Yeah, they gave me soup, like I mentioned.” Tommy’s voice drops to a whisper as he leans farther away from the remaining Syndicate. “Don’t tell them, but I think there might have been something like pneumoconiosis or asbestos in the soup, because that shit was musty as fuck.”
“Rude,” Techno adds, very rudely butting into the conversation.
“I’m just speaking facts, man. I know chicken noodle soup is supposed to like, never expire or something, but it tastes like it’s been rotting in your pantry ever since sliced bread.”
Techno and Phil share a look. “Something like that,” Phil says again.
“Somehow, that frightens me more.” Tommy replies truthfully. “Honestly guys? And I say this to both you guys through the phone and the disgusting wronguns sitting across from me, this fucking place could double as a historic art museum. There, I said it.”
“Maybe we’re just going for a more retro style?” Techno suggests.
“Yeah, if your definition of retro is a medieval castle—horses, trebuchets, Nokia phones—If I didn’t know any better, I would think I had time traveled.” Tommy continues to rant. The Nokia shifts in his hand.
“So the Syndicate is disgustingly ancient, got it.” Tubbo jokes. “Yep, give me like, two hours and I’ll track them down. I can count on my hands the number of people who still know what a Tamagotchi is.”
Tommy snickers at that, and to their surprise, Techno and Phil can’t quite suppress their chuckles either. He shifts on his bed so his feet touch the ground, putting him in perfect line of the door. Dumbasses suspect nothing.
“Okay, well, I think I’m going to leave now.” Tommy states, but it’s more directed towards Techno and Phil than to Tubbo and Ranboo—But it’s not like they know that yet. “I would turn off the call before I… But I don’t really know how to, so.”
“Hold on—Tommy!” Tubbo warns, the voice he uses when Tommy is seconds away from doing something stupid. Techno and Phil rise with a start, too realizing that something is up.
He’ll be the first to admit, yeah, something is indeed, up.
And by that, ‘something’ is the Nokia Brick Phone.
The Nokia flies through the air via Tommy’s hand, taking it’s landing smack against Techno’s brow. The man collapses against the carpets kool-aid stain with a heavy thud, incapacitated and probably concussed.
Holy shit. Did he just kill a fucking Syndicate villain?
Well, he didn’t exactly bank on that happening, but it’s not like he can ask many questions in the thick of the moment, because he’s already flinging himself off the bed, over Techno’s body, past Phil, who looks like he is about to go into shock, and out the ajar door, Tubbo’s and Ranboo’s calls becoming fainter and fainter behind him.
Right, where was the damn door again? Uh, left, right, right—
He is halfway through the flat’s endless, dusty halls when two sturdy arms wrap around him from the back, and with nothing left to lose, he thrashes.
Fight or flight kicks in, and Tommy chooses to fight as he swings his arms wildly, kicking and biting in every direction. Nails scratch against thick wings and his teeth meet cloth once or twice, but suddenly—
“Mate,” Phil attempts, before Tommy’s hand swings harshly against his face and black domino mask flies off.
Blue meets blue in an almost jarring clash of colour.
Phil frees him almost immediately, an attempt to shade his face from Tommy’s panicked eyes, but his endeavors have come centuries late, Tommy opening and closing his mouth like a fucking fish as he knows—
—they’re gone and he’s—
—he and they are—
—he’s running and running and running and running and—
.gone—
A blinding flash of unbearable pain slices through his skull, cutting him off from whatever that was, but leaving him more panicked than before.
Ow, holy fuck. Okay, shit, he has to leave. He-He has to leave this place now, whatever this fucking is, because it isn’t letting him stay another second in this hellhole before it actually rips his mind apart.
Phil is on the floor, mask in hands and wide eyes looking up at Tommy, unwavering. Just making eye contact with those blueblueblue—eyes are enough to send his head into another spiral of striking pain. Whatever Phil had seen of him, it’s startled him enough that Tommy earns the opportunity to turn around and flee without the threat of a Syndicate villain at his heels.
He reaches the garage, eventually, although he’s not sure how long because the house's presence is shutting in around him, and it’s enough to pull him into the realm of dizziness and dissociation once more. As he predicted, the crumbling garage door swings open easily enough, nearly falling into pieces of its age and also his own desperation to escape.
The harsh evening sunlight pounds against his own ears and eyes, and he makes it about two steps before he collapses on the driveway, and the last thing he sees before his headache drops him into unconsciousness are two women speaking to him with voices deaf to his own ears.