Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Ow.

Phil wakes up and finds that his first coherent thought is just that. Ow. It’s succinct, and quick, and accurate, seeing as every inch of his head is pounding, over and over, with the pain of a thousand concentrated headaches. It feels like someone has shoved an icepick through his eyes. Like they’ve fuckin’ lobotomized him. Like they’ve thrown a brick at his head. 

That thought jogs his memory. He jerks up on the surface he’s on, letting out a broken groan when it sends another pulse of pain through his head. Bringing one hand up to clutch at his skull, he realizes that not only does it not help at all, but he’s also still in his hero costume .

“Ok, grandpa, let’s get you back to bed.”

Opening his eyes open just a crack further reveals that he’s in his room, laid out on his mattress with the lights turned down low. At the edge of his simple king mattress sits Wilbur, sorting through a pile of cards and playing competitive solitaire by himself. He doesn’t look up when Phil stares at him.

“Am I grandpa?” Phil asks, because he’s not entirely sure what his son is referring to. Wilbur just shrugs -- he’s still in his hero costume as well, a long black trenchcoat over reinforced black armor, shining purple with enchantments. 

“You’re the idiot who got hit in the head by a guy with a brick,” says a new voice. Phil finds that whipping around to face someone does not do wonders for his brains, and he winces as Technoblade comes into view, raising one eyebrow to send his father a withering look. “Bruh. Really, Phil? Really? By Nightmare?”

And, because ow, once again, Phil groans and tosses himself back down onto the bed, ignoring the snickers that ensue.

“Seriously though,” Wilbur deadpans, and Phil squeezes his eyes shut when his son’s face appears above him, looming. “How did you get beaten by some up-and-coming Dream lackey? His powers didn’t seem all that powerful, either, really, so I just- don’t quite get it.”

“Wil, get out of my face before I vomit, please,” Phil says in response, relishing in the sound of his son quickly scattering out of the way. He does not enjoy the impulse to chuck his guts up, though, and is very grateful for the trashcan that suddenly finds its way under his face when he does. He wheezes, bile, and chunks of old food that he would rather never eat again coming up. 

“Fuck.”

“That’s- that’s fucking gross- oh God Phil why tonight oh God-”

Phil cracks his eyes open to find that Techno’s holding the trashcan, glaring disapprovingly down at his brother, in the doorway. “Wilbur, you’re bein’ a nuisance. Get outta the room and go get an icepack.”

Once Phil has stopped puking and his regenerative abilities have kicked in -- a bit of water really helps, apparently -- Wilbur re-enters. He’s changed out of his outfit, same as Techno, the two of them in matching sweatpants. Wilbur has on one of his own band t-shirts. Techno is wearing a ridiculously fancy silken button-down that looks like it belongs in a museum. 

“Phil,” Wilbur says, as serious as a brick to the head. “If I give you these, will you vomit on me?”

He looks down at the clothes in his son’s arms. Then he thinks back to how Wilbur had called him grandpa. Phil pretends to gag and Wilbur drops the clothes, running right back out of the room.

Techno, luckily, is far less traitorous, and snorts, leaning over to retrieve the bundle of fabric. He tosses it at Phil and leaves, letting the man change in silence.

It gives him a moment to gather his thoughts, as scattered and dulled as they are, brick-red and just as porous like you could shave off your skin with them. He pulls off his armor and tugs a shirt on over his head, snorting as the bright red of Wilbur’s album cover makes itself known.

Why did he falter, he wonders, when Nightmare spoke? What was it, in his tone, that had given Philza, the Angel of Death, prestigious hero, a pause wide enough to take him down? Phil barely remembers their interaction now, and he looks down at his communicator to realize several hours have passed, making it around 5 in the morning.

Nightmare had sounded… small, somehow. He’s not a particularly large person by any stretch of the imagination, not when villains like Enderwalk or vigilantes like Fool’s Gold exist. But he’s tall for an average human, and his wings make up for any illusion of inferiority he gives off. But for some reason, his voice had sounded quiet. Almost sincere, like he really was just trying his best. He sounded childish.

And how the hell was Phil supposed to respond to that, anyway? Some up-and-coming villain under Dream’s guidance, all insecure and sad about the way he was working? That’s just wrong, when people like George and Sapnap work with the “Masked Menace,” all confidence and cruelty and bravado.

But he supposes there are more important things to be doing now, than feeling awkward about fighting a supervillain with some sort of complex. Maybe, if he’d gotten therapy for whatever his issues are, he wouldn’t be a villain. Or something.

Phil tugs a pair of worn flannel pants on and pretends not to think about it.

---

Ow.

Tommy wakes up and finds that his first coherent thought is just that. Ow. It’s a funny word, and short, and quiet enough that whoever has been assigned to look after him won’t hear it. It bounces around his mouth a few times, muffled by a pillow. 

Where is he? Looking up from his spot reveals his apartment in Dream’s sprawling complex, plaster walls, and low ceilings. There’s a bathroom shoved into the far corner, then his room, and the connected living room - kitchen situation he’s currently lying down in. Someone is sitting at the round, rickety wooden surface of the crafting table next to his stove, humming lightly to themselves.

Enderwalk is always weird to interact with. He’s disconcerting on a good day and disconcerted on a bad. Paranoid, subdued, twitchy. But he’s the closest in age to Tommy, despite their height difference, and they’d both been taken in together, so he’s not one to tell him to leave.

“Oh!” Says the other boy, turning away from the crafting bench to see Tommy staring owlishly at him. His black-white skin stretches into a smile, and he waves, looking as if today is a good day. “You’re up. You’re up! How are you doing?”

“Ow,” Tommy mutters again, sullenly. “Ow, ow, fucking ow, why do I- why do I hurt like a bitch, Enderwalk, I hurt like a bitch.”

“Yup!” Responds his “friend” uselessly, popping the p and then turning back to his workbench. “You sparred with Dream, remember?”

The memories of the night before all hit about as hard as the brick he’d thrown at The Angel. For a moment, he’s tempted to snicker. Then he remembers how angry Dream had been -- the feeling of boots slamming repetitively into Tommy’s chest, his head knocking against the floor as he’d struggled for breath -- and he shoots up in bed, face gone pale. His wings pop out of nowhere a second later, only barely delayed with the pounding in his head.

“Oh- oh fuck, is he still mad?” Tommy demands. “Am- is he kicking me out? I tried my best, man, you- you told him that, right? Right-”

“Hey, woah, its ok! Ni-”

“No, no-” Tommy lets out a shriek of a chuckle. “No, things are not ok, dickhead, things are, monumentally terrible.”

“No, man,” Enderwalk repeats slowly, as if Tommy is some common idiot, some mediocre villain who can't get his thoughts together, can't work properly, and you know what, fuck Enderwalk- “Dream’s not mad. At all. I mean- he was, sure, but he found out about what you did to The Angel of Death-”

“The Angel.”

“The what?”

“The Angel,” Tommy stresses, nodding rapidly and ignoring the pain that builds in the base of his skull at the action. “His real name’s dumb. And long.”

Enderwalk eyes him for a long moment, then rolls his eyes. “Sure. Uh- yeah. Let’s go with that. The Angel, then, how you took him down!” The other boy gestures wildly, sending a small box of screws almost scattering off the table in his wake. “So you two just sparred, that’s all, he didn’t- Eh- get you in any more trouble, I guess. Sapnap dropped you off a few hours ago.”

Tommy looks down, trying to categorize whatever it is that hurts. His head is no longer bleeding -- just throbbing aimlessly -- but there is some of it crusted into his hair, trickling down his neck. His side burns with the sharp feeling of a cut, along with a bruised feeling to the ribs on the other side of his chest. He can feel just where Dream’s boots had fallen, the night before, against his sides, his legs. And, while it hurts, he smiles.

Dream held back. That means one of two things: Tommy genuinely made him proud, or Tommy is improving. 

He’s tired of being bad at his job. Of being a failure. He rambles as much to Enderwalk.

“Aw, buddy, is someone feel sad? Sadpants?” The unsympathetic villain turns back to his crafting table, and Tommy glares. Hard. He hopes it boils a hole in the back of Enderwalks stupid fucking half-and-half hair and his stupid fucking brains.

“But then I wouldn’t get hearing aid replacements,” he mutters, reaching a hand up to feel the curve of the aids behind his ear. Enderwalk looks back up.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking to myself, dickhead!” Tommy snarls back, curling a hand around his ears protectively(?) and leaning back. “I’m considering the outcome of killing you. Morally, it’s a great fucken’ idea. You- you are only fucking ooman, I could kill you so easily, and it would be fun.”

“Half-human!” Says Enderwalk in an irritatingly chipper voice. “That’s how Dream got me here. I’ve got potential evil, or something.”

“I’ve got all the evil,” groans Tommy, flopping back down on the couch and rolling his shirt up. Purple, blue, black, red. It collects, glittering with sweat and blood that has begun to dry, crusting. He pulls the fabric back down and snorts. “You’re about as evil as a butterfly.”

Chapter Text

Tommy is a villain. A big bad evil villain who steals and pillages and does big bad evil crime. 

He also earns a decent wage. 20 bucks a day? Fuck yeah! He can buy himself so much soda with that. And he doesn’t even have to steal it.

So, he walks to the grocery store without the usual pre-heist anxiety. There’s one not far off from Dream’s hidden base, and if Tommy is careful, he’s permitted to leave on his own time. If he’s not careful, though, Dream will murder any witnesses to his arrival. So he prefers to avoid that.

Hands tucked into his pockets, head held high, Tommy hums some long-forgotten tune, ignoring the few people who dare to look up at him. His wings are slotted into that plane between worlds only accessible to avian hybrids, his signature dramatic outfit replaced with a simple red t-shirt and jeans. And, if anyone looks close enough, the same hearing aids that Nightmare wears. He pretty sure no one has figured out his villainous alter-ego’s hearing issues yet -- what reason does he have to be cautious?

None, he thinks cheerily, as he slides his way through the doors of a store. Target. The most awesome yet mediocre store he has ever been to. Also, weirdly enough, Dream’s favorite. He buys all his food here, always rambling about discounts and gift cards and nice service. Tommy has learned to tune him out.

But there is no time to think about that! Tommy has soda money, and he intends to buy the sexiest drinks here. Ranboo would likely argue that soda bottles, objectively, could not be sexy. Tommy ignores this thought and hums, heading immediately towards the food aisles. Ranboo is a fun-killer and a bitch.

Ah- there she is. He skates across linoleum and hops between glaring lights, ignoring the odd looks he gets when he accidentally falls over and eats shit on the scuffed white tiling, barely avoiding smashing his head open. But here is his love, displayed up and down the aisle and cascading with yellow-blue LED light. 

But, as he reaches for his first bottle, he realizes one, awful, problem.

He doesn’t have a cart. 

“How am I supposed to carry all this!” he cries, so sudden that someone in the other aisle yelps. He spreads his arms out wide and tries to see how many bottles it would encompass -- he needs to stock himself for the next few months, who knows when he’ll be able to go shopping next -- but it is not enough. “Fuck- this is bullshit.”

A ridiculously irresponsible idea strikes. Tommy is tall, and skinny, and lanky for his age. He’s gangly. But with his wings, he grows. His legs lengthen, his chest deepens, his ribs bending up against his skin, his jaw sharpening to accommodate the new distance his body accompanies. If he can just let his wings out until he leaves the store, he might be able to carry more. He really does not want to go searching for a cart.

“No. This is a terrible idea. A horrible idea, innit, you are going to get caught and arrested and mur-dered until you are dead, so dead even Dream can’t reach you.” 

Tommy does it.

Swinging his head around to check that no one is around, he sucks in a breath, letting his plumage fall from newly torn slits through the air, a few loose feathers and a ripple of black magic drifting to the ground as he shakes them out. Silvery starlight dust, accumulated with disuse -- avians really aren’t supposed to keep their wings pent up long time -- billows upwards and dissipates.

There. Tommy laughs when he stretches his arms back out, realizing that he can now carry three extra massive soda bottles!

He gets to work without another thought, wings shivering in excitement. He lets out tiny whooping noises with each accumulated bottle, sloshing brown and black and green and orange and every other color. He has a nonsensical urge to start shaking them all. He does, just a little. Then something in his head reminds him that no, he’s not meant to be attracting any unwanted attention, and he pouts at the thought as the bottles still.

“You’re very lucky I like soda enough to buy you all,” Tommy says in a matter-of-fact voice, because yeah, so what if he wants to talk to his purchases? They’re his, aren’t they? “Sprite is so fuckin’ mediocre, too.” He sloshes that one around a bit more for good measure. “It’s all fuckin’ green and nasty and shit. You’re lucky Ranboo likes it.”

“Are you talking to your soda?”

Tommy whirls around. Shit. Either someone is about to figure out who he is or thinks he’s a complete fucking idiot, and he’s not sure which he hates the idea of more. He tenses and shrugs his shoulders defensively, staring at the new person.

They’ve got bright pink hair. They’re wearing a white button-down, a blood-red tie flowing down the front. Their dark black slacks are stained wet, the texture crawling from their knees all the way to their chest, clothes stained a bright crimson. Their face, impassive, is shrouded between a pair of glasses, tusks peaking out from behind their lips. Tommy stifles a shout.

“Aw, man,” huffs the man, rolling his eyes. “It’s not even my blood. Bruh.”

“It’s still-” Tommy lets out an actual shriek as the man steps closer, blood fabric barely moving with him, matted to his chest. “It’s still fucking blood! Who did you murder.”

“I didn’t murder anyone!” Says the man, throwing his arms out wildly and stepping forward. “I’m literally here to buy a new shirt!”

“And security just let you in-“

“Because I’ve got this,” he says to Tommy, flipping a hand up and raising a laminated badge. For a moment, he’s got no clue what the man is holding. What, is he a cop?

Then he realizes it is so much worse.

Because he’s holding a hero badge. 

And it says The Blade.

Tommy must go completely white in the face, because the man flips his badge up and into his sleeve like some sort of carnival magician, shrugging awkwardly. He backs up a step -- and oh God, why did he let his wings out -- and then starts running. 

“Hey!” Shouts The Blade, in a voice that Tommy can only hear as angry, a feral shout through the Target, startling several customers. His wings jerk about anxiously as he shoves through crowds of people, cursing quietly to himself all the while. Why, out of all days, did The Blade have to show up on his shopping trip. “Hey- kid! Stop!”

“No?” Tommy shouts right back, ankle twisting as he throws himself around another corner. He just wants his soda, Ender-damnit, why did he need to get Ranboo the sprite, why didn’t he just get a cart? “Why are you chasing me, you big creep!”

“You took the last bottle of coke!” The Blade bellows, and oh Ender, Tommy was right, his voice is deepening, his footfalls getting louder. Is he about to be murdered for taking too much soda?

No! This is completely legal! Technically, The Blade is way out of line here, seeing as the man presumably thinks he’s just another random citizen with a soda problem, not up-and-coming villain Nightmare. He’s allowed to buy as much soda as he wants, there are absolutely no laws against it. And he finally has the money to.

His feet slip. His wings hit a shelf. He smashes into several rows of cleaning supplies and then onto the ground, chin slamming into the ground with a foul crunch and the feeling of something wet. Tommy’s vision whites out, and someone shouts, and he rolls onto his side, panting out a barely concealed groan.

Ow. Crimson saturates his hands when he lifts a hand up to his chin, the massive hole that has now made itself known. His wings flap uselessly in a growing puddle of red, and he wills them away, trying not to cry out when the effort makes his body strain. 

“Oh, bruh.”

He looks up, chasing away the black spots in his eyes. There stands The Blade, hands on his bloody hips, tusks worrying his upper lip. “This is not what I thought was going to happen.”

“Whab’did you expec’th?” Tommy slurs, holding a hand to the massive hole in his chin. This is definitely going to need stitches. He can feel his fingers going into the wound, and he gags, leaning forward and trying desperately to keep his meager breakfast down. Suddenly, he’d very much like to cry. He just wanted some soda!

“Hey- hey, it’s ok,” says The Blade in a much softer voice, and Tommy realizes the man is now only a few inches from his face. He’s crouched on his haunches, rosy hair reflecting the LED light from above, shirt flat against rippling muscles. Tommy’s starting to feel excessively faint. His head is pounding, and his vision is- is rolling back, rolling away and up and he falls-

“Nope.” Steady hands push him back up, and he groans weakly, smacking at the arms attached. His vision goes dizzy and collapses, swirling in on itself until he slumps wholly forward, into The Blade’s chest. 

With a dull pulse of horror, Tommy realizes he’s literally collapsed in his enemy’s arms. The Blade doesn’t know, sure, but that’s temporary, and Tommy really doesn’t want to get arrested because he tripped on some shitty flooring tiles and ate shit on the floor, again , chin still gushing blood. He feels like a little kid again, falling off of his bike and hitting his head so hard he couldn’t get back up unassisted. It had bruised, but not cut, and his parents had made him stay up for hours to make sure he didn’t die from a concussion.

He feels a bit like that, now, except his father’s arms are The Blade’s, and he can’t reach for his knife because his head feels stuffed full of cotton.

“This is so fucking terrible.” One of The Blade’s hands disappears, and Tommy lists to the side with a moan, watching as the man reaches into his inventory and curses again. “Do you have any healing potions?”

“I jusb’ wam’ed so’ba,” Tommy gurgles, through a mouthful of blood. Oh- shit, he must’ve bit his tongue, too, that’s great. “Sodba.”

“I know, I know, kid, I’ll pay for the stupid fucking soda-”

“No!” he shrieks, convulsing upwards and nearly slamming his forehead into The Blade’s. “‘S My fck’ib sodba, you cock’b!”

“I’ll pay for it for you , you idiot, you just fell over and brained yourself on the ground-” The Blade’s hands are moving, and Tommy feels them, painfully gentle on his own fingers, pulling them away from the cut on his chin. And oh, even if he had the energy to fight, this actually feels nice, no one ever touches him, he’s so fucking touch starved- “I know, kid, I did not expect that to happen. Ok, chat, yes, I made a child smash his face open, I apologized, are you pleased?”

Tommy isn’t entirely sure who The Blade is speaking to, but he feels annoyance shoot through him regardless. “M’nob a kigd.”

“You’re definitely a child,” says The Blade, and he moves his hands away, and Tommy tries to move towards them again, and keens when he falls into nothingness instead, cheek landing on the ground- ow.

Someone is speaking again. But his head is pulsing, and black spots are threading high up into his vision, and maybe he’s not quite healed from the night before, and-

Darkness.

Chapter Text

Shit shit shit-

Techno’s internal dialogue, most of the time, is garbage. It’s a mixed batch of battle plans, city streets, patrol routes, and, most annoying, the Voices. Sure, they come in handy at times, giving him a chance to leap out of the way of a knife or avoid an incoming crossbow bolt, but at every other time, they are loud, and annoying, and violent.

They make up just about all of his brain cells right now, as he picks up the kid from the backseat of his car. The Target workers had let him go once he’d flashed his badge -- which, honestly, was awfully irresponsible -- and now here he is, standing in front of the local ER.

He’s very fortunate that the particular Target he’d gone to had been so close to a hospital that treats heroes. He would’ve taken this kid back home, but honestly, Phil is concussed and Wilbur is criminally stupid. Altogether, they’d probably end up sending the kid to his parents in a bodybag.

Speaking of parents- Techno has no idea who this kid is, who he is related to, or what to do with him. So he flings his back door open, slides gentle arms beneath the kid’s knees, under his back, wincing at the way his head lolls back, gently settling against Techno’s bloodstained shirt.

Well, now he doesn’t have soda, a shirt, or any clue what to do.

Stupidblade, say the voices, annoying, taunting. Stupidblade stupidblade! Protect kid protect boy protect child shush shush shush soda soda! Softblade. Please be softblade.

S O F T B L A D E-

“Shut up about the soda kid, would you?” Techno growls. The people standing at the ER entrance scramble to get away, clearly intimidated by his tusks, his bloodstained front, the kid cradled to his chest and dripping blood from the face. Techno gets a good look at him, though, as he stumbles inside.

He’s tall. He’s thin. Painfully thin, ribs pressing against Techno’s chest, straining through his skin. His face is sharp angles and a thin jaw, mouth barely open, eyes closed and shallow. Techno has not failed to notice the wet spot that has appeared on the kid’s side. Moving a hand up reveals a long gash over his ribs, pausing just below his heart. Techno’s chest pangs with concern -- how the hell did this child get so injured?

“Woah- Technoblade?”

Head jerking over, his eyes catch on the blood-red mask of Ponk, one of the top doctors willing to work with heroes in the city. Not many actually will -- at least not routinely, when so many of them are injured daily -- but Ponk is the husband of the infamous supplies dealer, Awesamdude. The man gives weapons and buildings and materials to most, so long as they stay on his good side, stay with the money.

Crime and heroism are a rickety business, settled on a single scale, threatening to become one at all times. Techno tries his damndest to do what is right, no matter what people think of him.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me,” he says, finding that his voice is a bit strained. “I’ve got a kid.”

“I can see that,” Ponk replies, before he shuffles into motion. The ER room is annoyingly busy, but the kid kind of looks like he’s dying, and he’s bleeding more by the moment, and so Ponk calls over a nurse. Techno unloads his burden onto the gurney they bring, careful to not smack his chin or -- holy shit, he has another head wound now? “Where’d you pick him up?”

“In Target- he wanted soda, I wanted soda, he fell over-”

“Falling over doesn’t make this happen to people!” Ponk snaps. “Is this a discreet thing? Off the records?”

“I- I don’t know who he is, Ponk,” Techno hisses back, because this is entirely below his paygrade. He yanks his phone out of his pocket. “Can you just- fix him? I’ll foot the bill, I just need to call Phil.”

“Yeah, yeah, you do that, Blade, I’ll go fix your John- fell-over- Doe while you call your dad.”

Techno has the sudden urge to claw Ponk’s skin off. He dismisses it as the voices and hurries in the opposite direction of the man, adrenaline still pumping as he leaves the ER and stands just outside. His father -- both his emergency number and casual one -- is on speed dial, and he calls the instant he sees the first.

It rings for about five rings, each one rising his blood pressure a ridiculous amount. Techno has absolutely no idea how to deal with kids. Especially not ones with badly healed head and side wounds, along with a split-open face and absolutely no meat on their bones. This is Phil’s domain, with the way he’d adopted Techno and Wilbur, fixed them and their lives in a way the world couldn’t.

“Mate?”

Techno breathes a sigh of… something, as his dad’s voice comes over the line. Phil sounds confused, but no more concussed than the night before, and so maybe, things won’t be totally out of hand.

“I need you to come down to general,” Techno breathes, immediately regretting his words. “Not for me,” he explains quickly, “I think I kidnapped a child.”

“What.”

“He was a very annoying child!” he cries out, trying to make his case and failing miserably.

Annoyingblade! Retort the voices. They’ve clearly decided to side with the mystery kid today. 

“Why did you kidnap a child, Tech!”

“Because he fell over in Target and split his face open, and then I realized he was a hell of a lot more injured than most children should be,” he says, taking a deep breath at the end. Focus. Now is not the time to get angry. “He’s with Ponk, I just need you down here because I’got no idea what to do here, bruh.”

“So what you’re saying is-”

“-That I might have an abused child’s blood all over my shirt?” he concludes, deciding not to mention the mugger’s blood mixed there as well. “You’ve got it in one, Phil.”

“Great,” groans the other man, as shuffling noises start in the phone. “I should be good to drive, y’think?”

“Yeah. Just don’t bring out your wings, it’s packed. Unless you want to dole out signatures.”

“That I do not want to do.” Phil ends the call with one last disparaging groan, and Techno is left in silence.

---

Phil’s head still fucking hurts.

Who would’ve thought- even with advanced healing powers, getting your skull smashed in by a brick is an unpleasant experience. But his vision is cleared of darkness, white and black spots replaced by clarity, and his body is no longer as sluggish as before. So he makes it down to the hospital in decent time, weaving and bobbing down cleared side streets that only a hero with underground patrol routes would know.

Techno is no longer outside, by the time Phil parks, walking up the pathway that leads to the actual ER. No one spares him a passing glance, not with the wide brim of his hat, the hair that flickers up and onto his face with every brush of the wind. When he enters, it’s far quieter than it had been over the call, only a few people milling about or sitting miserably in the chairs. 

There are no familiar faces at the front desk. Just a few stern-looking nurses, typing at computers or speaking in hushed whispers. The people here are often less hospitable than at a traditional hospital -- they have to be, when their charges drop like flies -- but Phil smiles regardless.

“Hi- I wasn’t sure whether to come in the front or not? I just know that-”

“Name?”

He pauses. The man at the desk looks at him with a dubious, slit, eye. He’s completely unfamiliar. 

“Philza Wa-”

“Oh!” He straightens up, face morphing into a languid grin, still stern, less angry. His nametag reads Nurse Clairborne. Phil nods succinctly. “You’re The Blade’s father’s huh? Yeah, he’s back with the kid now. You need the room number?”

Thank God for secret identities, Phil thinks. He will never understand how Wil so freely reveals himself, and how Techno doesn’t seem to care. It’s best for the world to think of him as their frail, aging father. It’s especially funny if anyone ever tries to target him. 

So many NDAs, so many prisoners. Phil nods, and the man lists a number.

Pretty soon he’s walking through a winding hallway, linoleum tiling and flickering yellow lights trailing him wherever he goes. The wards are only barely familiar, a distant memory from when Phil and his family had much lower success rates.

Techno, as a hero, doesn’t get priority status. He’s not better or worse than any other patient. But his name at least gets him a private room, and Phil opens the door with a heavy sigh.

His elder son is currently leaning up against the window in the room, head tipped against the glass, hands worrying at the lip of the window-bench he sits upon. In the bed sits a boy, an IV tucked into the crook of his arm. He’s got pale, sandy hair, matching the nearly grey palor of his face, growing out into something of a mullet. There’s a large bandage swathing his chin, then more, winding up from beneath the collar of his shirt. Techno, thankfully, is no longer covered in blood.

“What the fuck.”

Techno’s head shoots up, and he glares. Then, when Phil comes into focus, his expression softens, and he huffs out a heavy sigh, bringing a hand up in a wave. 

“Hey, dad.”

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Asks Phil, because his first priority will always be his own children, his family. Techno shakes his head, but he comes forward and presses a palm to his son’s cheek, turning his head around and checking for injuries. Techno pushes lightly against his palm and snort, but the smile on his face is fond. Finding no gashes, bruises, or knots, Phil sighs, releasing his son. “Alright.” 

The taller boy leans up and off the sill. He towers about a foot above his father, and there is next to no resemblance between the two, but they step in tandem, turning to the form on the bed.

“So. You mean to tell me that the only injury he sustained because of you was his chin?” Phil looks at Techno; he nods. “Not the burns? Or the head wound?”

“Nope,” replies his son, popping the p. “Or the malnourishment. Or the six broken ribs. Or the severe concussion. Not to mention the bruising just about everywhere, or the fact that his wings are stuck inside.”

This gets Phil’s attention. He leans over, frowning as he inspects the kid. There are no traditional signs of being an avian to him -- long limbs, stretched past their limits, feathery hair, small markings around the eyes or fanged teeth -- but he’s certainly thin enough.

“I saw his wings,” Techno says, though, and Phil believes him. “They just wanted to inspect them, but nothing will pull them out.”

“Well, he could just be damned good at suppressing it all,” Phil suggests, his own wings bristling, hidden, behind his back. They itch to be released, and he lets them, in this private room where no one can watch. Techno moves away and lets him flex the aching wings, bits of starlight dust cascading downwards and swept up into the AC. “Any new records of underage vigilantes? VIllains?”

“Just Enderwalk and Jschlatt’s sidekick. I don’t think he’s got a name yet, though.”

“Jschlatt is a menace,” Phil grumbles.

“At least he’s not a villain,” Techno reminds him, shrugging. And- well, yeah. If Jschlatt was a villain instead of just a mildly incompetent vigilante in a complicated divorce with Butcher, things would probably be more complicated. “But that’s not the point. What do we do with the child?”

“We look for his parents. Maybe kick an ass or two.”

“Solid plan,” Techno says, with a glint to his eyes. 

---

The plan was not solid.

It was so watery, in fact, that they re-enter the room an hour later when they step out to ask for some more water, the child is gone. His bed has been vacated, and there’s a small trail of blood leading out the window, and-

And there are black flames, licking at the edges of a blanket. And there are red feathers the color of blood on the windowsill. And a car alarm, far below, accompanies the sound of a scream. 

The kid’s hearing aids are still on the table. 

Now- Techno has never taken Nightmare to be a kid snatcher. But today has taught him that maybe he should focus less on soda and more on injured kids. So-

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Oh. Well. Driving is a lot harder than he’d expected.

Holy shit! Holy shit- that man is inches from his bumper, and Tommy can’t tell whether he is speeding, or the truck behind him is. There was a pedestrian in the way in the street, and sure, it would’ve been more villainous to hit the person, but he’d swerved, taking out a fire hydrant instead! He has managed to gain six cops on his tail and lose them all even faster, going through streets he really doesn’t think his car should be able to fit through.

Because it is Tommy’s car. Undeniably. That is his face on the driver’s license, not that of- uhm. Phil Watson? Weird ass name, that one is, who gives themselves a first name as a last name. Not that he’s ever met a Watson, but- you know. 

Zoom- there he goes, past another car, the honk they let out completely muffled. It actually sort of hurts, and he’s really regretting not taking his hearing aids with him. It’s like- someone has stuck a needle-noise in his eardrum, but it’s muffled, fuzzy, and crackling. 

Tommy is also just in pain in general. His entire body aches. From his head to his chin to his ribs to his wings, still tucked away, he’s in full-body pain, trying to ignore it enough to keep driving. Cause yes, holy shit, he’s in a lot of pain, but if he doesn’t get back yesterday, Dream will lop his head off. Literally. Probably with a big ole’ shiny axe, as well, because Tommy is not cool enough for the guillotine.

Nah, he’s just being hyperbolic. (He hopes.)

So he jets through the streets, regretting ever looking for soda. But there is soda in Philip no-last-name’s cupholder! It’s a warm, flat, monster energy, but oh! Oh boy, it is still soda! So he chugs it, get’s violently nauseous, and is forced to pull over. 

Tommy yanks open the driver’s side door with a groan, clutching at his stomach -- both because of the wounds there and the fact that he is seriously regretting drinking warm soda -- and bowing over. His hair falls into his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut, white patterns flickering across the inky darkness of shut eyes. 

“God, that was a fuckin’... really terrible idea.”

His stomach grumbles miserably at him. Hnngg- He needs a health potion, yesterday. But with a deep breath, and a miserable, shivering, sigh, he pulls himself upward, leaning his back up against the edge of the car doorway, letting his head slide back and hit the metal. 

He’s barefoot, wearing a hospital gown, and in the middle of unfamiliar territory. The only thing he has to clothe himself other than that and his underwear is the sweater from The Blade, one that the guy who had been with him had brought in. It’s a soft, dusty, pink, with the word’s Hypixel embroidered across the front, almost like a university’s name. He desperately hopes it isn’t one of a kind. Being tracked down because he wanted a souvenir would just be embarrassing.

Someone speaks to him. It’s muffled, but he can see their legs, their shoes, see them turn to him and stand there. 

His eyes snap open. There’s an old woman. Of course it’s a god-damn elderly woman. She’s smiling at him, eyes sympathetic, one dainty hand curled around the leash of a dog that is eyeing him very suspiciously. And, worst of all, he is getting rusty with his lip-reading, and he can barely hear her at all.

“Uh- hi! I’m- I’m all good,” he says, and he smiles, hoping to go for promising and instead falling right into a grimace. She just keeps smiling, though, something almost familiar about it. 

A beat of silence. The woman’s smile stays firmly in place, pale white skin stretched to its limits, only slightly wrinkled. The lace collar of her dress twists with her head when she shakes it, softly clicking her tongue. 

She looks back up at him, and her eyes are an electric green, something deceitfully sorrowful within them. Her hands, curled about her leash, fall to the ground, the illusion snaking away into little particles of ash, the dog disappearing into the wind. 

Porcelain stretched with the black of an impassive smile. A cloak, tucked about thin shoulders, far too long for any normal being. Bright green, scrawled against skin, wrapping around muscles and tendons that look as if the skin about them has been unwound-

And then the woman is back, and she stretches out a hand, looping it around his wrist. 

“You (should?) (shed?) know (wetter?) (better?) than to be out here (loan?) (along?) (alone?) ,” she says, in a voice that hums with both her own and someone else’s. Someone familiar. Dream’s familiar tone ripples with hers, and her form warbles, revealing exactly what it is that wears her skin. Tommy suppresses a cry of fear when his mentor makes himself clear. Brittle claws dig into his skin. 

“I- I’m just-”

“You can (away?) (always?) come along with me,” she promises, stretching another hand out and ignoring his flinch. The white of her gloves, lacey and thin, just barely reveals blue veins and blackened fingers beneath it, where Dream has grown too quickly, stretched her too thin. The hand pats against his own, and he recoils, head bumping lightly against the car again.

But he nods, because Tommy knows- that though he is weaponized Nightmares, Dream is something that comes before, with an existence that can be cruelty or kindness, manipulative with every clay body he assumes, he forms, he warps to fit his skin.

Dream pulls him up and out of the seat with an ever-present smile, a soft and feminine chuckle falling out of the lips he has borrowed. Tommy wonders who this woman is -- who she was, before her flesh was accepted into the ranks of those who Dream dons, cloaklike. Tommy imagines she was kind. She must’ve been, with a smile that had been so disarming at first.

Or, perhaps Dream has just mastered that type of kindness, as fake as it is. Tommy slams the car door shut and they start to walk. 

The woman lets go of Tommy’s hands, moving them up and signing in unemotional, quick, movements. It’s not perfect -- fucking Dream, never quite enough, only giving Tommy the bare goddamn minimum despite being the primary reason for his hearing loss. Where have you been? 

“I went to target,” Tommy replies automatically, speaking aloud and signing at once. “I just, yknow, wanted some soda, and-”

Doesn’t explain the gown, signs the skinsuit. Or the sweatshirt. Don’t tell me you’ve gone off to Sky Block.

He doesn’t even know what the fuck that is. Skyblock? Skyblock. Sounds like a made-up word. A made-up word signed by a made-up woman, someone who he assumes has been dead for years. Dream very rarely looks for new clothes.

“Not at all, sir,” he replies automatically. ( Speak professionally around your superiors, Nightmare.) “Just- got it! At Target!”

You got a Pig Rank sweater at Target? Signs the woman who is not Dream. They walk through the streets, and Tommy prays his legs don’t give out. You should know better than to lie to me.

There’s no good answer for that. Tommy just nods, swallowing down bile. Dream’s suit nods, short white hair bobbing alongside him. But the illusion of safety has been lost, and Tommy looks back at the car behind him mournfully, fingers digging into the skin of his arm. 

He doesn’t even know who fucking Phil Watson is, with his shitty half-drunk monster and his seat pushed too far forward. But Tommy, for some reason he can’t quite understand, misses the man’s car.

They make it back to the base in record time. At first, Tommy wonders why no one pulls them to the side -- an elderly woman and a boy in a hospital gown, covered in bandages where an IV port had stuck out from his arm, where his wounds had been too extensive. But then he recognizes the soft green shimmer of Dream’s magic, pervading the air. 

But then, they are within.

No one is in the front room when they enter, disguised to look completely ordinary, a shipping depot’s entrance if anyone has ever seen one. The moment they make their way into the back room, though, it exposes itself. There’s no inviting decor or scenery to mask the cold stone entry to their base of operations, long, winding hallways pushing you closer and closer to an unknown destination.

Tommy is extraordinarily fucked. He recognizes the route Dream expertly leads him down -- back to his true form, now, just a man, too thin, too long, with an impassive mask tied to his face -- the twisting maze of tunnels, leading him towards the room Tommy has come to recognize as the sparring room.

This always happens. He fucks up, he gets in trouble, and then Dream teaches him how to fix his mistakes. (Or just teaches him not to make them.) He loses a battle or he misses a target or he loses his hearing aids. Little things, big things -- it doesn’t matter. If he makes a mistake -- and oh boy, he makes them quite a bit -- he learns how not to repeat it. 

Hands lurch up in his peripheral, and he stifles a flinch. But Dream just starts to sign again, rapid movements up and down without any indication of tone. You’ll be leading this one, alright?

It feels like someone has dumped ice water down his back. Oh- no, no, no. Self-lead sparring means only one thing: His partner is going to be Enderwalk. And Tommy’s powers are not made for mercy. They are made for fear, and for harm, and to scare people. His wings are the only thing that make him salvageable, not even a part of his realm-born gifts, but even then, he knows Dream will not allow him to hold back. His breathing quickens, and he swallows, trying not to shake when he nods.

“Can I at least change, big man?” he asks, because a hospital gown and some weirdo hero’s sweater is not what he wants to wear when he’s fighting someone. “I- it can be anything, really, I just-”

Dream pulls a pair of sweatpants out of his inventory, shrugging. His thin black fingers make Tommy flinch as they exchange the fabric, and as the ringing in his ears continues to increase. The muffled underwater sounds of hearing loss are often replaced once he’s inside Dream’s base, pushed out by shriller noises, as if explosions are going off in the distance. 

He pulls the sweatpants on and pulls the sweatshirt off, yanking the gown off with it. He finds, as he removes it, that he wants to chase the warmth, wants to lean into that pink fabric. 

(Why does he miss the man it belonged to so much? Why does he feel like the care he was extended by that hero might have been genuine? Why does Tommy wonder, above anything else, if he might be allowed to keep the sweatshirt?)

But he pulls it back on a moment later, quickening his steps to chase after Dream. The man’s cape floats lightly behind him -- probably some amount of pretentious illusion-work -- and he puts out a hand to stop Tommy in his tracks when they make it to the door he needs. 

It’s an open room, two double doors permanently pressed up to the walls. It opens up into a small, stone entryway, dimly lit by LEDs. Inside are racks of material. Weapons, armor, scoreboards, even, with half-removed tallies of spars lost to time. At the back, though, are windows, the glass opening up to expose a much greater room.

It’s built like an arena with no seats. Curved on all sides to give an almost bowl-like shape, scuffed up with the weathering of hundreds of battles. There are neat gouges on the walls in an almost clock-like shape, slitted, where it might fold down and expose different playing fields. It’s large enough for about five different settings. Water, fire, rocky terrain, gunfight, and aerial combat. 

In the middle, though, is Enderwalk, dressed in a dirty grey jumper, almost like a baggy flightsuit. He isn’t wearing any armor, only holding a metal baseball bat and a helmet, tail swishing around nervously behind him. 

Dream steps forward as Tommy goes rummaging around for a helmet of his own. He presses a hand to the intercom button, leaning over to speak into the microphone beside it. Enderwalk flinches at the noise, though Tommy can’t actually hear any of it, tuning out the mumbling hum of Dream’s speech enough that he doesn’t hear it.

He selects a short police baton and a simple padded helmet, nestling it atop his head and letting out a hiss when it jostles his annoyingly concussed brain. It’s probably not the best idea for him to fight like this and he knows it, but Tommy shuffles towards the door anyways, readying himself to unfold his wings-

Someone claps a hand down on his shoulder. He jumps, a snarl baring his teeth, and then-

And Dream is there, head tilted quizzically. He’s holding something in his other hand. Tommy looks down and his nausea returns.

The dusty brown hearing aids in his mentor’s hands are scuffed and dirtied from the hundreds of times a much younger Tommy had thrown them around. They’re old, and they’re painful, but he accepts them anyways, hands only barely trembling when he hooks them into his ears. 

Tommy flinches, hard, when they erupt into static. They squeal, and he clenches his teeth, hooking them all the way in against the all-encompassing urge to rip them back, to toss them to the ground and say to hell with it. It takes a moment, and his eyes remain shut, his head receding into his hands and his shoulders as he tries to escape the barrage of sharp, white noise.

“-s at work? -an you --er me?”

He looks back up as the static lessens, leaving a steady drone of noise that only barely borders on pain. It’s still enough to send his declining headache straight into a migraine again, but he swallows his protests, nods. “Y- yeah. I’ve got it.”

“Good,” Dream says, with a clarifying nod. It’s 10x harder to communicate with the man, with his ever-present mask, to the point that Tommy sometimes wonders if he might be better off asking for him to use sign language at all times. “Go.”

And Tommy obeys.

When he enters the arena, Enderwalk flinches, a skittering movement that sends his clawed feet across the stone. His shoulder hunch further upwards, the bat between his hands shaking.

“Hi, Tommy,” he says, in a miserable voice. 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says back. (He may not like Enderwalk much. But End, he does not wish what he has to do on most, let alone someone he might tentatively call a friend.) But there’s no time for discussion. A buzzer sounds over the intercom, squealing static, making the two of them jump.

It starts with an unfurling of wings. White-red appendages -- not a part of his power, only avian genetics within them -- split the back of his sweatshirt, and he grimaces as the dirty feathers beat insistently. It starts with a quiet shriek of a thing as the air splits, and as Enderwalk disappears, purple chasing his heels.

It starts with a dance. Tommy turns and meets a bat with his baton, gritting his teeth against the force. 

Enderwalk’s power isn’t his teleportation, though Tommy’s sure that particular hybridic gift is likely enhanced by his own abilities. No- Enderwalk paces through dreams, walking through nightmares and memories and the silence of waking. But this skill is useless here. Tommy whirls around and aims a well-placed kick to the taller-boy’s ankles.

He yelps, tripping and landing hard on his side, only barely recovering and rolling out of the way when Tommy swings another hit down to his skull.

“Tuck yourself in tighter!” Commands the voice over the intercom. It screams, and Tommy winces just long enough for Enderwalk to stand again, to throw a fist that crunches into his jaw, sends his head reeling back. 

He hisses, lurching backward, wings flaring out. Enderwalk looks apologetic for a moment when blood starts to blossom at Tommy’s nose, but then his eyes widen in fear as his opponent advances, kicks into his gut, and leaps onto him when he’s down, straddling his shoulders. Enderwalk’s head makes a loud crack when his helmet hits the ground, when Tommy’s fist goes flying into his nose.

“Au- augh-!” Enderwalk shrieks, a high, warbling vocalization like metal against knife. Then there’s a flash of purple as his teleportation resumes, and Tommy spins around, expecting another hit.

It comes from the opposite direction. Enderwalk, clutching his nose, slams his bat into Tommy’s shoulders, just between his wings, eliciting a gasp, all the air knocked from his lungs. He falls, hands planting down on the ground and then sliding, when another hit lands against him, a foot falling to pin him to the ground.

Tommy’s chest heaves for breaths that won’t come, but he rolls anyways, clutching at his head as it throbs. The air feels charged with static and magic, and his wings beat against it, slapping Enderwalk in the side of the head before they recoil, Tommy already skittering away and preparing to stand.

“You-- toying wi-- each other!”

The crackling of the microphone burns. Tommy lets out a strangled noise, and then another, when Enderwalk’s clawed foot slams into his side, scratches inch-deep gouges into his already cut-up ribs. He shrieks as pain erupts, and then again when the bat smashes down into his leg, just beneath his knee, an agony flooding through the impacted spot.

He rolls onto his back just as another hit lands where his chest had been, heavy enough that it surely would’ve shattered his sternum. Enderwalk’s eyes steam with exertion and rage and terror, tears streaming down the discolored black-white of his flesh, digging painful scars into the skin there.

Tommy wishes he could apologize, when black explodes from his hands, blasts from his fingertips and engulfs the boy’s legs. 

For a moment, there is only the scent of burning fabric and skin, and the sound of wet sizzling, and the impact of a body on the ground. 

And then Enderwalk screams.

It’s a high, thready, shout, something crackling at the edge like flame. It’s the vocalization of an enderman combined with that of a human, something so brokenly living that it makes Tommy wish he could yank his hearing aids out. It makes him wish he could move, could lower his arms, could end the steady stream of black flame that ripples up from his skin.

He never sees what nightmares his flames bring. When they touch you, it's like burning fear combined with fire, forcing people to see their literal nightmares within. He never sees the fears it reveals, and people very rarely are willing to detail them. But he sees figures in those black-white highlighted shadows, twisting, maniacally swirling particles of smokeless fire. He sees masks, and stretched, open, screams, and blood, gushing from open wounds. He sees Enderwalk, beneath him, writhing, voice shattered and tortured and-

And the intercom buzzes with the end of the round, and the flames shoot away into nothingness in an instant, and Tommy falls, squeezing his eyes shut, gripping at his face with his shaking hands, curling up into a ball and willing for it to all go away. 

Enderwalk’s screams continue to repeat until Tommy isn’t sure whether they’re memories or reality. His mind swims, a thousand sins and a thousand fears rolling back, static infinite and wide in his hearing aids, billowing up like biting fog, consuming him. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t even begin to try, as he lies there, begging for it all to end.

It doesn’t. A hand falls on his back, and another on his jaw, and his head is forced up, his eyes forced open by a simple command, drilled into him through the years. Dream’s mask flickers with calm, impassive victory.

“On to round two,” he says softly, and Tommy tries to ignore the scent of burning flesh.

Chapter Text

“You kidnapped a child?”

“Well-”

“And then you lost the kid you kidnapped?”

“He was-”

“And then you stole his hearing aids?”

“Wilbur, enough,” Phil says from the side, sighing. He’s pacing his office, hands held behind his back and eyes stormy with a meditative glare. Techno sits in the chair opposite Wil, worrying his temples with two gloved hands. “What’s done is done. We’ve got bigger priorities now.”

“And- and he’s been kidnapped by Nightmare?” Wilbur groans. “Phil- dad- we know next to nothing about him!”

Phil whirls around. He’s dressed in his armor already, wings fluttering behind his back and the deep black of his outfit melting into his feathers. “Wil- enough.”

It’s enough to force Wilbur into silence. His father is rarely an angry man. He’s not, even now. It’s fear that sharpens his tone, horror that colors his expression. So he just nods, running a hand down his face and accepting that his bickering with Techno isn’t doing anything.

“Right. And so I’m… addressing Nightmare? On tv?” 

A beat of silence, in which Techno and Phil both seem to consider the absurdity of the night. The elder lets out a sharp chuckle and resumes his pacing, speed faster than it ever was.

“Our only choice is to try and draw him out. We’ve made absolutely no progress in finding Dream or Nightmare, and their statuses have been of equal importance up until now.” He stops, shoes squeaking slightly against the hardwood floors as he turns around to place his hands on his desk. “Now , because we have a hostage.”

“Fuck,” mutters Wilbur under his breath. “Ok- ok. Give me an idea of what to say.”

“Something standard. They’ve got cards for you out there already. I think one of the interns scrawled something up-“

Phil is cut off as his office door opens. The intruder stands there, clearly catching on to the fact that he’s interrupted a conversation too late to rectify his mistake. He’s tall and lanky, with skin half black, half white. A large bandaid covered the bridge of his nose, and he has a black eye, a split lip.

“Yes, Ranboo?” Says Phil, his voice soft. He doesn’t sound angry -- only mildly concerned, and clearly at the rough state of his intern. 

“Ah! Ah- sorry Mr.- Mr. Phil, sir, I didn’t realize you were still briefing them, I’ll just- just go-“

“No, no, come in, alright?” Phil spreads his hands across his desk, looking at first down at his papers, then back at the boy in the doorway. He sighs heavily, and his wings twitch at his back, anxiously shuffling. Black flight feathers just barely touch the wall behind him. Technoblade cracks his knuckles, mirroring the twitchy movement in the only way he knows how to. Ranboo steps further within the room and holds up a few papers, smiling awkwardly. “What’ve you got there?”

“I.” He swallows, looking down at his papers and then nodding. “Oh! Yeah- I’ve got the notes on the kid you found. I scanned the nearest hospital records and missing person advisories and- yknow, just anything that had- kids on it. And I found this.”

Ranboo stands there awkwardly for a split second, tail whipping around in the air. Then he steps forward and hands the papers over. 

“I looked for kids around the description you gave. Blonde, tall, some sort of avian hybrid. Hearing-impaired.”

There’s one for each of them. Wilbur looks down at his and squints, reading the info. 

“These were your matches?” He asks, looking back up. Ranboo sends him a nod. “Alright- er, which one is it, you two?”

There’s a moment of silence as both Technoblade and Phil look over it. Wilbur stands there hopelessly -- he feels utterly useless here -- as they look, scanning the pages. Then Phil whistles- stabbing a finger into a spot on the page and nodding. 

“There he is. Thomas Smith.” He scans closed, then frowns in confusion. “He’s been reported as missing?”

A nod. Ranboo shrugs. “Yeah. I uh… found him on the missing person’s report.” 

When Wilbur looks down at Thomas’s photo, he sees a much younger child than a teenager. Grinning wildly, an unruly mop of blonde hair flouncing across his face and tucked behind his ears. There’s a smear of what looks like ketchup on the neckline of his tshirt, making him look even younger. “How long has he been missing for?”

Ranboo winces. Wilbur prepares himself for something not so great. “Since he was… seven, actually.”

Technoblade groans. Phil sucks in a sharp breath and squints, as if trying to compare the tiny boy in the photo to the one he has seen in real life. Wilbur suppresses the urge to let out a dry “called it!” 

“And who are his parents?” Asks Wilbur’s brother, letting out a curse. 

“Clay Smith-“ that’s a stupid fucking name “-and George Davidson. They adopted him when he was three. Apparently, he’s- uhm. A power user, as well as a hybrid? It says here that he manifested with illusionary powers right after he was adopted. It uh-“ Ranboo lets out an awkward, trembling laugh “-it also turns out that his parents had CPS called on them several times, though nothing besides a few bruises ever showed up. Clearly not enough for them to take it seriously, because it’s- its CPS, you know.”

“And they’re sufficiently useless,” Wilbur concludes. He smacks the paper with the back of his palm, a miasma of disgust and anger filling him. “And he’s just been- what? Wandering around? Missing? How old is he now- like, sixteen at the youngest?”

“Bruh,” Techno exhales, groaning. “Yeah. No wonder he tried runnin’ away from me. It seems like he doesn’t want to be caught.”

“Or he can’t be,” Phil suggests. “Maybe Nightmare didn’t steal him. Maybe he was just taking what he thinks is his.”

“And it would go along with what we know about Dream’s crew right now. Lots of illusionary powers, right?” Technoblade squints down at his paper. “What’s the extent’a his talent?”

“Small illusions, mostly,” Ranboo replies. “It first manifested with a small white smile mask that he wore in class -- reportedly something his father gave him. Mr. Smith told the Power Commission Collective that he sometimes played with a similar mask. A toy he’d given Thomas, apparently.”

“And… Dream uses the exact same mask,” Phil’s head lifts, the revelation suddenly coming to him.

“Fucking hell,” Wilbur curses, letting a soft whistle twitch from his lips. “How did this escape everyone’s notice? It’s right there. Literally right there!” He smacks the paper, knuckles rapping against Thomas’s face. He’s pudgy and awkward, smiling at the camera and missing several baby teeth. He looks painfully young. Wilbur doesn’t know this kid, but he sure can sympathize. “Where is this Clay asshole now?”

“Dead.” Ranboo shrugs. “That’s why no one has checked in on the mask, I guess. Says here he died- uhm. Five years ago?”

“Right around Dream’s rise to power.”

Ranboo nods at Technoblade’s words. “Yup. Yes- exactly, that’s what’s so weird about it! So I think- maybe he faked his death, yknow? I do wonder how Nightmare ties into it all, though. Maybe he’s George? He went missing seven years back.”

“I don’t think so. The timeline doesn’t match up-“ Phil gestures vaguely at Thomas’s power’s information. “-If Davidson disappeared seven years ago, why’d he only wait till a year ago to re-emerge? And his powers are the ability to put people to sleep- that’s jack shit compared to Nightmare. What- what are we even calling his powers nowadays?”

“Evil murder stabby flames,” Technoblade says dryly. “And he’s-”

A sudden pause. Technoblade’s face drains of color. He groans. “And oh my god he’s Thomas.”

For a moment, no one in the room registers the words. Wilbur just sits there, staring at his paper, like an actual idiot. Because haha- no, thanks, frail toothless little Thomas on this paper is not Nightmare, big time up and coming supervillain with identical powers and oh he totally is.

“Fuck,” Phil growls, slamming his hands back down on his desk. “Fuck! And we just- just let him go, did we? For fucks sake, he’s just a kid!”

So were we, Wilbur almost says. But Phil probably wouldn’t appreciate that, seeing as Phil has dealt with the people who hurt Technoblade and Wilbur when they were just kids. Severely. Instead, he opts to set his paper down and rub his hands at his eyes, groaning, long and drawn out.

“Right. Well. I’ve gotta change my speech then, haven’t I?” 

Phil, head in his hands, just nods.

---

“Good morning and welcome to Channel 76 news. Today we have many things on our plate to talk about. But first- breaking news, incoming from SHSC. Better known as the Standard Hero Safety Coalition. Top spokesperson Wilbur Soot, would you like to begin?”

The cameras pan over to a tall man, scrawny yet moving with hidden muscle and agility. He’s got an unruly mop of brown hair slicked back with product, thin circular glasses perched atop a thin nose and giving him a handsomely owlish look. He’s standing on a podium outside the SHSC building, a large skyscraper with a split promenade in front, dappled with gardens, fountains, and a few commemorative statues. People mill about, glancing curiously over at him every few seconds. But he looks confident despite the attention, dressed in a proper white button-down and tie, rolled up to his sleeves and unbuttoned at the top. He nods. 

“Thank you, Mary,” Wilbur says, as the first woman’s face disappears with a fast smile. He grips the edges of the podium before him, glancing quickly down to his papers and then taking a deep breath. “Both for your cooperation with the SHSC and your swiftness in these dark situations.” 

Now, he looks up at the camera again, eyes empathetic and wide. They’re imploring an invisible audience to listen. “I am sure that many of you have heard of the rising villain Nightmare. With illusionary powers and wings, he’s a large threat to our society, and to the world at large. Involved in several robberies, tech release scandals, and acts of terrorism, he has now bridged into a new form of crime.”

“Kidnapping.”

He lets the word hang in the air for a long moment. Then, with a heaving sigh and hunch shoulders -- as if the world weighs upon him -- he continues.

“Yesterday, October 26th at 10 am EST, local hero Blade found himself faced with a seriously injured juvenile named Thomas Smith.” A photo of a scrappy and gap-toothed blond child appears on screen, with an artist’s reproduction of an elder version beside it. “He is hearing impaired and an avian hybrid with retractable wings. Upon meeting, Blade realized that the boy was in need of medical attention. There was an incident inside a shopping center and Thomas was promptly transported to the closest emergency room. There he was treated for what at first seemed like an open and shut case of child abuse.”

The reproductions disappear and Wilbur gains an even more serious look to his eyes, leaning ever closer. “He disappeared soon after Blade left the room to find a nurse. The only traces of who took him were black flames and his hearing aids. Nightmare’s black flames, to be specific.”

The newscaster nearby squirms uncomfortably, as if this is something horrifying to them. Wilbur swallows, leaning back.

“We have reason to believe that the villain Nightmare has now taken Thomas Smith as a hostage and has perhaps been abusing him -- as the boy’s parents are dead and missing separately. Now.” He turns a page, pressing a thumb to his lips introspectively. Then, turning to the camera, his glare deepens. His words twist, as if every letter can be seen upon the screen.

“Let this be a warning, Nightmare. If Thomas Smith is not brought to the SHCS or to a hero within the next week, we will start fighting against you and anyone affiliated with deadly prejudice. You have endangered our city, and you have now endangered a child. Watch yourself.”

His words drop into a normal human cadence, no longer burning holes through the air. He lets off a spiel about what to do if Nightmare or Thomas are spotted, along with a few extra details and who to call if you have any information.  He thanks the news informants, and they thank him rather tearfully for his service in delivering his press. The broadcast ends with a click and a flare of bracing music.

---

“Just to clarify once again: We don’t actually murder Nightmare, right?”

Phil sighs heavily as the same exact question is asked for the fifth time. This time it’s Butcher -- who has been on his phone for half of their meeting -- who has decided to pipe up.

“No. Nightmare himself is Thomas Smith. We’re operating as if we don’t know because we want to lure him out, not so we can…” He gestures animatedly how it looks to shoot someone. 

“We want to speak to him,” Technoblade adds. They’re all in a large conference room -- Phil standing front and center, his sons behind him with separate microphones. They’ve all dressed in their professional wear, looking down upon all the other heroes they’ve called there today. Ranboo sits in the back and writes down note, biting his lip as his tail sweeps back and forth. “Just so we can learn more about this situation. There’s no need to arrest him or fight him. Don’t engage. We talk to him.”

A woman in the back with bright white hair coughs into her arm, drawing their attention. Puffy -- or The Captain -- dressed with a prim and proper navy blue outfit and a large captain’s cap -- smiles graciously upward as Phil nods at her to speak.

“Excuse me- but I’m a licensed therapist alongside a hero. I’m sure much of you know that already.” A few heads around the room nod. Phil thanks whoever it is that lives in the Heavens that licensed therapists even exist anymore. This society seems to think heroes can fix everything and it’s all so fucking scuffed. “Well. I’m wondering- we should likely have a meeting about how to negotiate with… terrorists. Before we throw ourselves out there.”

Phil grins. He’s starting to like Puffy. “Great idea, Captain- would you like to head that? Maybe find a few specialists? I know I’m definitely not an expert. My kids are the only ones I really know how to talk to.”

“We know,” deadpans Wilbur into his mic, his voice accompanied by a burst of static. A few laughs ring about the room. 

Yet the atmosphere remains uneasy.