Chapter Text
Sapnap had been the one to scout him out. After a not-successful thieving attempt by an ten-year old Tommy, Sapnap had welcomed the kid into their ranks, convincing Dream to take him in.
Seven years later, Sapnap isn't the same welcoming, warm figure he used to be. He keeps out of the way, mostly, and he's gone long hours. George is the same way. Something about the warehouse keeps them returning, although reluctantly. Like they have unfinished business.
Tommy doesn't, though. He's finished his job. Three-hundred dollars, laid out neatly on Dream's desk. He'd even gotten a couple of extra cents, to really show his worth.
Dream smiles, genuinely, and claps him on the back. He says that someday, Tommy would make a great employee, if he kept being so competent. It makes Tommy preen, cheeks flushing proudly and chest puffing, and it doesn't hurt when Dream offers up a small piece of tart.
"For a job well done," the man winks, and then Tommy is dismissed.
He eats his piece hastily, not caring to savor the taste. His stomach has been going wild all day– he can't remember the last time he'd eaten. It's blurry, usually. Between running errands and keeping out of trouble, Tommy's days are too long to keep track of. The only reminder that the seasons change are the slow dips of temperature, and Sam's annual 'Happy Birthday!'s. It becomes hard to keep up with his nutrition.
Once, Tommy had met a boy his age with no dirt covering his face, hair brushed back and neat, wearing clothes so fancy Tommy was almost repulsed by them. He looked well-fed; there was meat on his long arms, and his cheeks were plump. Tommy thinks about him now. Is that what he'd look like if he'd had access to food during his childhood? Or even access to more than a weekly shower?
He thinks not; he wouldn't be fire-fueled, ambitious Tommy without the constant fight with hunger. It keeps him agile and motivated- a reason to live. Despite it, though, Tommy's access to food is limited. The money Dream gives him is mostly stashed in his pillowcase. He's saving up for his own home, one far, far away from Dream's warehouse.
It's a long way to go, though. Tommy returns back to his room, climbing up the ladder and pushing open a withering trapdoor.
It's a small space, just big enough to fit a few shelves, a ratty pillow he'd received for his birthday from Sam, and a matching blanket. There's a small window overlooking the streets of L'Manburg, which are now lit up by flickering streetlights. He's tried his best to make it home by adding some decoration– a broken-down toy car, a bottle of shells, and even a candle he'd managed to slip into his pocket– but his efforts are weak and mostly fruitless. The room is greying, not big enough for Tommy's life.
Today is his day to change that, though. In a break he'd gotten in the past weeks, he'd foraged all through the city in hopes of finding something to plant. He was successful, too. A few tiny, beige seeds sit on top of his desk, waiting to be grown. Tommy finally has time to figure something out.
He gets an old plastic bottle lying on the floor and a dull knife he carries in his pocket. Carefully, he cuts the bottle in half, getting the now-open bottom and taking it with him downstairs.
It's a nice night outside, and Tommy easily finds a patch of wet dirt that he can scoop into his makeshift pot. After filling the bottle halfway, he returns to his room, receiving a questioning look from Dream that Tommy nervously laughs off. He digs some holes for the seeds and then covers them with dirt, setting the bottle on a shelf by the window. They'd receive a steady flow of sunlight- the only resource L'Manburg's government couldn't deprive its citizens off- and Tommy could spare them some water, probably.
Or maybe he'd just set them outside while it rained. Tommy thinks he's biting off more than he can chew. He can barely keep himself up and surviving, maybe trying to raise some plants won't help. Still, he's bored, and this might be a fun project for him.
As he's checking the bottle's stability, he catches movement outside of the window. It's not unusual for people to be out late– in fact, there's lots of people coming home from poor-paying night shifts just an hour or two before the sun rises. This is different, though. The movement catches his eye because something glints under a streetlight.
Nothing in L'Manburg glints. Everything is dull, plastic, and-slash-or too expensive to get. Whoever's outside this late is rich, and that is something that piques Tommy's interest.
For a moment, Tommy tries to figure out who that person is. They're wearing fancy-looking clothing, with big iron shoulder pads and... is that a sword on their back? What the fuck? Who does this guy think he is? A knight or something? Hey, Sir Arthur, the sixteenth century called, Tommy muses to himself, They want their dickhead back.
He sticks out like a sore thumb, not even bothering to hide in the shadows and lingering under the streetlight, armor glinting obnoxiously. He just... waits there. His back is turned to Tommy, and he just stands there. He looks impatient. First his hands twitch at his sides, and then his foot starts tapping, and then his chest heaves up and down, like he's sighing.
Tommy snorts to himself, watching amusedly. What a jackass. Tommy has half the mind to go down there and rob him. The big pointy sword on display keeps him at bay, though. He'll just watch for now.
Eventually, whoever the guy's waiting for arrives. Tommy knows because the guy's head tilts up, as if he hears something, and then something is coming out of the shadows, equally as eye-catching. This time, though, Tommy gives a start.
Now, Tommy doesn't know much about politics. He knows one thing, though; L'Manburg's government is shit. They starve their citizens and don't care about anyone's well-being. The most involved with politics he gets is going to the annual parades; and those are mandatory.
King Philza and his two sons, Prince Wilbur and Prince Techno, are always there, supervising the affair and watching dutifully as money that could've been used to feed families is wasted on a showcase. They're universally known, and notoriously hated. Parades are terrible, aggravating events. If rotten tomatoes weren't salvageable for a nauseating but nutritious stew, they would be thrown straight at the royals' faces.
Tommy knows what the royal family looks at. He's cursed out posters with their faces on it, and he's wished for their demise many times.
So Tommy clearly recognizes that that's Prince Technoblade near his house, a lazy smirk on his face as he chats with... a royal guard. It clicks now. That's a royal guard, protecting Prince Technoblade. That explains the armor, the sword, the impatience. Privileged assholes.
The Prince says something, and Tommy watches as the knight laughs, turning around as they start walking off.
It's irrational. He knows it's irrational, but Tommy feels anger festering inside of him. How dare Prince Technoblade walk through these streets like he owns them, when he's never done anything to help anyone here? The audacity, the fucking nerve. Tommy ought to--
He pauses, looks at the dull knife still sitting on his windowsill from when he'd sliced the bottle in half. There's sharper knives in the kitchen, and if he hurries, he could definitely catch up.
—
He's too far away to register their conversation, but he can hear them speaking. If he needed confirmation that this is Prince Technoblade, this would be it. That's his signature monotone drawl; Tommy could recognize it anywhere. It makes him angrier, fingers clenching on the knife.
He'll fucking show them. He'll show him and his stupid guard. They'll never step foot into these streets again. He just has to maintain the element of surprise.
Tommy trails after them, heart pounding, knife deep in his pocket. He stays in the shadows, feet as light as feathers. He grew up in Dream's warehouse– he knows how to silence his footsteps.
He needs a distraction, a point where he can get up and personal to the Prince without his guard interfering. He can guess that the stupid oaf can barely put up a fight, so maybe Tommy should target the knight first.
Yes, he can do that. As soon as the knight's taken care off, Tommy will strike.
He picks up speed, following closer and closer, and then he pauses, sinking further into the shadows to avoid suspicion.
Prince Technoblade and his guard have stopped. They chat for a bit at a lamppost, and then the Prince goes into some alleyway, leaving the knight behind.
It's too good of an opportunity. Tommy waits a moment, checking that the Prince isn't coming back, and then he slinks closer. The knight has his back to him-- really, is he stupid?-- and it's all too easy for Tommy to approach. All it takes it walking quietly, crossing the distance between them and being just behind him.
He knows he shouldn't, because he's just a yard from the knight and this is a moment where Tommy should charge, but he falters. What's he supposed to do? Slice this guy's neck open? Hit him with the butt of the knife and knock him out? Tommy doesn't wanna kill him or anything, he wants to kill the Prince.
Fuck, should he leave the guard alone and wait for the Prince to come? No, no, it's too late, he's just a few feet away, within arm distance. The knight might turn around at any minute, he needs to do this now.
But.
The knight isn't his target. It's Prince Technoblade, not an innocent bystander. Except, the knight isn't innocent. He's a Royal guard, he's just as corrupt as all of them. But he might have a family, a wife and kids, maybe this is a bad idea.
No. No, the monarchy is corrupt, and anyone who supports it is as well. This isn't the time to debate over morality, this is the time to strike. If he can get rid of the knight, he can get rid of the Prince, and then the government might actually pay attention to how they're starving the citizens of L'Manburg. If anything, the knight will be a martyr, then. Or maybe Tommy will be.
Fuck, he'll get executed as punishment. He's throwing his life away to kill. Does he want to do this? He's just a teenage boy, he doesn't want to kill. Crime is alright, stealing is child's play, but murder is different. He's not ready to take away someone's life, he just isn't.
He continues to argue with himself, so close to the knight but unable to dig the knife into his throat. Fuck. Fuck. He should just go back home, should just stick to raising his simple plant and not worry about this.
He takes a silent step back, hand loosening against the knife's pommel, before a memory strikes him.
He's nine or ten years old, and he's trying to see the parade. He's too short, though, and he can only see when he climbs onto a run-down bench and stands on his tippy toes. It's incredible; the parades are always extraordinarily lavish.
Hundreds of wagons pass by, each glittering with different types of luxurious items; gold, diamonds, crystals, silver, more. It's an endless, prismatic showcase that Tommy can't help but be in awe of. He's a kid, and the pretty colors involved in the spectacle make his jaw drop wide open, audibly 'ooh'ing.
He's naïve. He's transfixed.
Even worse, he's impressed.
That's what the point of the parade is, too gain support for the government. To unite the shattered shards of L'Manburg and put them back in place. Tommy doesn't understand how counterproductive it is until he glances down and sees how gray the city is in comparison to the wagons.
A woman keels over under the blazing sun. A child not much older than Tommy follows her, and suddenly it clicks. What the fuck is the government doing, spending all this money on showing the citizen's their superlative power and wealth instead of helping them?
Suddenly, the parade seems less exciting, and a lot more morose. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he gets off the bench. He doesn't want to be here anymore. The sun is too hot, and it's not worth it.
He tries to leave the area, but a guard grabs the back of his shirt, almost ripping the cloth. Tommy looks up, stunned.
"Where are you going?" The guard demands. "Watching the parade is a mandatory event. Get back to the square."
"It's so hot," Tommy says, because now that it's registered, it's all he can think about. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, and he hurries to wipe it away before it gets in his eyes. "Why can't I leave?"
The guard shrugs. "It's the law, kid. King's orders." He lets go of Tommy's shirt, spins him around, and shoves him in the direction of the street, where Tommy reluctantly gets back onto the bench to watch the parade.
More wagons pass. There's a few with beautiful, elegant dresses; more with colorful glasses carefully constructed into magnificent statues; and there's an elephant, which shocks the population into scattered applause. Tommy doesn't move an inch. He can't clap for an elephant, not when all he can think about is how hot he is, how long it'd been since he'd last eaten.
After a full hour, the last wagon comes. This one is huge, and soldiers march alongside of it. Tommy already knows what it is.
Sure enough, there's the royal family, standing, supervising, condescending. King Phil is at the window, scrutinizing the buildings, never staring at the people. His eyes are pondering, thinking, not watching. Prince Technoblade is sitting beside him, head tilted as he reads a book positioned on his lap. He doesn't even glance outside.
Prince Wilbur, whose unruly mop of thick curly hair almost hides the crown sitting on his head, slouches against the seat of the wagon, as if tired out by the parade. Tommy hates him the most, he thinks. How dare he act bored by the parade, when literally everything in his life was handed to him on a silver platter.
Scratch that. Tommy hates them all the most. Audacious pricks, showing up here like they belong. He promises that one day, he'll show them.
He'll show them all.
Tommy brings the raised knife down on the knight's back with an angry vigor, but just before he can make impact, a hand catches his wrist with lightning-quick speed.
Tommy's heart sinks as he glances to his side. Standing there, an unreadable expression on his face as he wrenches the knife from Tommy's hand, is Prince Technoblade.