Chapter Text
Tommy did not sign up for any of this.
He’s serious. He knows the Heroes think differently -- surely Dream’s top lackey would’ve asked to be as much, right? Right? -- but Tommy did not ask to be a villain. Not once.
Now- that isn’t to say he hates his job. There are things he likes. Government and the Hero establishment can be… Pretty shit. Fighting certain heroes can be fun, as well, when he’s too busy fanboying to get his hair singed off and Butcher lets him get an autograph. Enderwalk is pretty fun to hang out with, too. George is a huge asshole, but Sapnap is tolerable. Tommy’s boss is… Better left undiscussed, in his expert opinion. But generally, Tommy has quite a bit of fun breaking his bones falling off roofs.
But right now? He wishes he could tell every hero within a mile vicinity to piss off. He’s tired, and dehydrated, and frankly, his costume is exceedingly hot. Exceedingly.
He scrambles for purchase on another rooftop, gloved hands digging into the bricks and swinging him upwards. The wings on his back shuffle with the urge to flap, but he stifles it, reminding himself just how much it hurts to be shot out of the skies. (Especially when the punishment for failure from his boss is even worse than being shot.)
Several heroes run after him, shouting his name, all anger and angst and responsibility . But the black mask over his face keeps him unidentifiable, and the red-white suit he wears, while uncomfortable, is very useful at keeping any of his more noticeable features hidden.
“Nightmare!” They shout, as he vaults over a fence and scurries off. So far tonight, he’s been lucky. Only three people have been radioed in to chase him so far. But still, there’s no time to stay and banter and shout at the heroes behind him tonight -- Dream wants him home and home yesterday.
Speaking of the supervillain -- Tommy’s comm rattles to a start, and he winces as it screeches at him. George, boring as ever, evasive as always, annoying and stupid and dumb and - sighs.
“Tommy, you were supposed to be back… Thirty minutes ago?”
“I know!” He blurts, hoping the second in command can’t hear the sound of his sprinting through alleyways. “I know, I know I know I- I got caught up, ok? I got caught up! I’ll be back soon, I swear to Prime-”
“Hey! It’s not me you should be worried about!” George says with a snort. “Dream’s getting antsy.”
And if that doesn’t send a cold, familiar thrill of panic through his system, nothing does. Wonderful. Not only is his head throbbing, his side wet with blood, his hair surely matted down with the same dripping substance by now, his employer is angry. And Dream, as a supervillain, doesn’t demote you, or cut your pay, or just shout a little. There’s a reason he’s as notorious as he is, and it isn’t by being nice. Tommy doesn’t even get paid.
“Just get home soon,” George croons, taking Tommy’s silence as a moment to answer. “And-”
There’s no time left to hear what he says. A lamp behind Tommy flickers out, and he curses, tapping at the commlink in his ear. It fuzzes, then dies, with a miserable wail of a noise that has him flinching and yanking it out.
Shoving it in his pocket -- he really does not want to tell Enderwalk he needs another replacement -- he kicks off the wall before him and swerves to face the incoming heroes, relishing in the noise his boots make. Whatever sort of EMP or controlled power these people are using, it isn’t enough to knock out his hearing aids.
The alleyway is dark, but his eyes adjust quickly. There are three figures -- two in front, one in back, standing on a fire escape where they clearly think they’ve evaded his notice. The ground is all concrete and trash and heroin needles, the walls bricks and moss.
“Stand down, Nightmare!” shouts the first one, in an irritatingly familiar voice.
Soot. Bane of Tommy’s existence, really. Some sort of siren-phantom hybrid power. Turns invisible on a whim, with the ability to use his annoyingly suggestive voice for super-heroing and a career in music. His only weakness: water, as far as Tommy can tell. Either can’t or won’t touch the stuff. (And excessive amounts of arguing. He’ll drop an entire fight to debate with Tommy about stupid, useless shit.)
“No can do!” He shouts right back, watching with rising panic as the other person starts to step forward.
“It’s better if y’just surrender now, really,” drawls the one in the far left, hands on his hips.
The Blade. If he wasn’t one of Tommy’s idols, he’d probably be a bit more anxious. The Blade has an odd concoction of superhuman strength and abilities, along with preternatural powers of prediction. Tommy’s heard him talking to himself before, and often wonders if he’s not the only person listening. Weakness: Peer pressure. Get something to convince him to be on your side, and if it’s strong enough, he’ll drop anything and listen. But you’d better be careful. He’s always got some sort of plan. (And will fuck you over so hard you feel it for weeks.)
And, before Tommy can even start on a plan:
There’s a whooshing of wind and a rush of limbs as the man on the fire escape falls. Heavy boots hit the ground without a noise to be heard, silent and catlike. Huge, inky-black appendages rise, twisting and writhing in the shadows of the alleyway.
The Angel of Death.
By far Tommy’s least and most favorite hero. He’s incredible -- wings, just like Tommy’s own, along with enhanced abilities just like the Blade, and some sort of regenerative power -- but far too dangerous for Tommy to admire in the moment. He has a nearly 100% success rate, an astronomically high rate for someone so underground. Typically, heroes such as Butcher or Soot or even Captain Puffy, who prefer the spotlight, don’t even have that high of rates. The Angel of Death is famous, sure, but he’s not a moneymaker. He’s a silent killer, and his history is just as quiet. There are no weaknesses for Tommy to catalog. He blanches.
“Nightmare.” The man’s voice is firm and soft, but in the way that the space between stars is, so vast you could die in it. “Is this going to be a fight?”
It’s a redundant question. Tommy is off and running the second the hero lands, twisting back around to meet the endless black maze of alleyways that awaits him. There are no more shouts, no more pounding footsteps, and he has no doubt that Blade and Soot have stepped back to allow their senior to handle him.
There is only the whistling wind, and the sound of his heartbeat, and all the regret and praying he’s ever done and felt in his life.
Fuck.
He vaults over a chain fence and up onto a dumpster, scaling the uneven stone of the building beside it. He’s not even sure how he managed to get the attention of a big-hitter like The Angel of Death -- and really, that does not roll off his tongue -- but he does know that Dream has been getting increasingly pushy by the day, so maybe his schemes are catching up to him.
But The Angel -- that works, it’s so much shorter -- is fast. Tommy barely has a moment to breathe on top of his roof until his opponent is there. In the moonlight, no longer shrouded by the skyline, he’s a formidable figure.
A long, black cloak flutters out behind him. There’s a turtleneck of the same shade in the hollow of his collarbones and chest, only partially covered by the green of his open-tunic. His pants billow, joining the airy black of his feathers. Up close, Tommy can see that small white feathers dot the bottom of his wings.
But he only has a second to look before the man is raising his crossbow. It shines with the purple light of deep-rooted enchantments, and Tommy is only barely given a chance to leap out of the way before a spiral of purple flame lands right where he’d just stood.
He’s not called Nightmare for nothing, though.
The antithesis of flame crawls down his arms. It sucks all the light from the world and crawls forward out of his palms, its heat so overpowering that it suffocates that of the crossbow bolt just fired.
The Angel dances a step backward and lowers his bow, wings flickering up, a span that suddenly seems all that much more daunting. There are holes, between his feathers, but he flies regardless, feet lifting off the ground and avoiding the blaze.
“Is that really the best you can do?”
His voice is just as soft as before. If Tommy were an idiot, he might’ve even called it humorous. But any mirth in it is swallowed by the sound of a blade drawn. By the glint of fangs in the moonlight, the black veil that shrouds his face not quite hiding the white grin beneath it.
But yknow what- Actually , that fucking hurts.
And knowing himself, Tommy is decently sure either The Angel or he will be dead by the end of the night. Knowing himself even better, he’s about 99% sure that person will be him. He’s already bloody and exhausted and he has two other superheroes on his trail. He may also be a tiny bit delirious- so he groans, and says the first thing that comes to mind.
“Uh- yeah.” Tommy chokes down a cough and his shoulders suddenly sag with the weight of the night. That exhaustion hits hard when it does, doesn’t it? The Angel pauses for a moment, peering down into the black nothingness curling beneath them. “I’m actually trying really hard here, dickhead.”
Then- The Angel comes to a complete stop. His toothy smile drops, going into a thin line that could be angry, could be anything else. Tommy doesn’t care. What he does care about is the fact that his absolutely ridiculous bluff worked.
Tommy leans over, picks up a brick, and tosses it right into The Angel’s brains.
The other heroes are too busy checking their mentor for brain damage to chase him by the time they arrive. Nightmare scatters into the wind.