Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy had been warned that this would happen.

"Tommy," Wilbur had said a few weeks ago. Tommy had looked up from where he was scrolling idly through his phone. Wilbur was standing in front of the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping to a melody that nobody else could hear. "Tommy, can you promise me something?"

Tommy had blinked. Wilbur rarely sounded this serious. Jokingly somber, sure, or intense and hyper focused as he worked to put clues together, but never this serious. "Sure, big man," Tommy had replied, sitting up. "What is it?"

Wilbur took a moment to answer, staring out at the middle distance beyond the rain fogged glass. "There's going to be a day when I tell you to run. When I do, I want you to run and not look back. Don't wait for me. Don't turn around to see what's going on. Just run until there's nobody chasing you."

"Wilbur?" Tommy had asked slowly. "What are you on about?"

Wilbur turned to face him. "Can you promise me you won't hesitate, Tommy?" His eyes were sharp under the curly fringe of brown hair. "Can you promise you'll trust me to know the situation? Can you promise me you'll run, no matter what else is happening?"

Tommy looked at him for a moment. "I…yeah. Okay. Sure. But, what brought this on?"

Wilbur shot him a soft smile and turned back to the window. "It's probably nothing. But it'll make me feel better, knowing."

Tommy nodded slowly. "Alright, then. If you say so."

Tommy had been warned that this would happen. But he hadn't expected it to happen so fucking soon.

There were police officers in the study. That wasn't unusual. They were detectives for hire, they worked with the police for more cases than not. Wilbur’s study was where he received clients, be they private citizens or police officers or anyone else who wanted to speak with him. But something in the atmosphere was different. The two officers were standing on either side of the room, in a way that you couldn't see one without turning away from the other. Wilbur, too, was standing, leaning with crafted nonchalance against the wall next to the curtained window instead of reclining in the leather office chair behind his desk. Tommy stepped into the doorway cautiously.

"Ah, Tommy! Good," Wilbur said. "I'm glad you're here." As he spoke he met Tommy's eyes and flicked a tiny glance downward, towards his right hand. "These are officers from the station," he continued. Middle finger crossed over pointer, other three tucked, his hand said. Sign language alphabet. R. "I believe they're here to provide the details of our next case--" Middle and pointer extended, pressed together, other three tucked. U. "-- or to pick up some files from the last one--" Middle and pointer folded over the thumb. N. "--isn't that right, gentlemen?"

Tommy looked up at Wilbur's face, willing his expression to neutrality. What the fuck? Wilbur gave him a tiny, nearly imperceptible, nod.

"Mr. Soot, we need you to come with us--" Left Officer began, but Tommy didn't hear the rest. He turned and ran. He ran, and chaos erupted behind him.

There was a shout and a crash. Tommy snatched his black bag off the hook next to the door (red ribbon on his, yellow ribbon on Wilbur's), thanking every God he could think of that he was wearing shoes. Behind him something thudded loudly to the ground and someone swore. He ripped the door open with one hand and swung the little backpack over his shoulder with the other.

"Stop!" someone shouted behind him, but he didn't look back.

The street outside their dingy apartment was mostly empty. Tommy skipped the steps to the pavement and hit the ground running, quite literally. There was a nondescript black car parked next to the curb and a third officer reached to try and grab him, but Tommy dodged around him and kept running. He was tall as shit, and while he didn't have a lot of muscle mass, he could run faster than most people expected. There were footsteps on the pavement behind him, chasing him. He ducked between a group of people, heart beating hard in his ears.

What the fuck was happening? He'd come downstairs to talk to Wilbur, to see if he would finally explain the case he had been trying to piece together for the past month and a half. Instead, Wilbur had been talking (though 'talking' was a very general term, it felt more like a standoff between two predators) with the police. And now, he was running, because Wilbur had told him to, and the police were chasing him.

Oh, right, idiot, he thought, the police are chasing you. Let's maybe focus on the big problems before we try to sort out the rest of it? Great. Good plan. Okay, so. Now what? He rounded a corner onto a busier street, narrowly avoiding knocking over a woman and her kid. "Stop that boy!" someone shouted behind him. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He couldn't run forever. He needed a way to lose his tail. He scanned the streets, forcing himself to keep his breathing steady. A flash of red caught his eye. The Underground. That could work.

Tommy turned abruptly, running across the street, heedless of the screeches and honks that followed him. He pushed himself off the hood of a car that almost hit him and kept going, ignoring the yelling he left in his wake.

The cool air of the train station swallowed him as he flew down the stairs, feet barely touching the steps. He staggered on the landing but didn’t fall. As an afterthought he tugged the hood of his red hoodie up to hide his face as he darted forward, for whatever good that might do him. Maybe he could blend in among the other tube passengers? But, no, the crowds were sparse and the officer chasing him was still within sight. Speaking of which…he risked a glance over his shoulder. Said officer (Officer Dipshit, Tommy decided) was descending the steps hurriedly but not recklessly, one hand hovering near his belt. They made eye contact for the briefest of moments before Tommy forced himself to keep moving. Fuck. This was really not how today was supposed to go.

He jostled a man out of the way and vaulted over the low turnstiles and onto the platform. "Sorry!" he called over his shoulder. There was a rumble under his feet. Tommy grinned. Luck was with him. He skidded around the last corner. Sure enough, a train was getting ready to leave. The lights flashed, and a woman's voice warned him to stay clear of the doors. He could still make it. He clutched the straps of his bag and sprinted.

Fifteen steps. Ten. He narrowly dodged a woman in a suit. Eight. Five. "Stop him!!" Officer Dipshit yelled from somewhere too close to him. Four. Three. The train doors shuddered and began to slide shut. Two steps. One.

Tommy threw himself through the doors and felt them close a hairsbreadth behind him. He spun, facing the platform. The train began to pull away and Tommy stumbled, but he saw Officer Dipshit on the platform, speaking angrily into a walkie talkie at his shoulder. "WHOOOO!!" Tommy yelled. "Take that, bitch! Yeah! Can't catch, me…" he trailed off, pressing his hands to his knees and gulping in air.

That had been close. Too close for comfort, if he was honest. And he wasn't out of the woods yet, he reminded himself. Dipshit would be calling in reinforcements, there would be people waiting for him at the next platform before he could even set foot off the train. He looked up.

There weren't many people in the car, luckily. It was the last car, and there were maybe half a dozen other riders with him. They were, however, all staring at him. He straightened and tossed them his best smile, the one Wilbur had taught him for diffusing tense situations. "Sorry to disturb you, folks," he said, trying to sound confident and not winded or like he was being chased by the police. "That was part of a, uh, routine training exercise." That was what people said in the movies, and it worked for them, right? It wasn't like he had a better idea. "I'll be out your way momentarily, please, uh, enjoy the rest of your trip." He tossed them a halfhearted salute. Nobody looked especially convinced, but nobody tried to stop him as he walked to the back of the car. He would take what he could get.

Right. Step one: lose the tail. He'd done that, he supposed, but if he wasn't careful he was going to end up right back with them. So…so he had to find a way to get off of the train. The underground train, moving at high velocity through dark, narrow tunnels. Easy. Yeah. He could do that. His name was Tommy “Big Man” Danger Careful Kraken Innit, after all. It would be fine. 

The door at the rear of the car was locked. That wasn't surprising, but it did make things a little bit harder. Only a little, though. He fished his swiss army knife out of his pocket. The door handle was locked, but if the door didn't have a handle… He knew that removing the entire handle would make it pretty obvious where he had gone, but honestly he didn’t really care. Each second that the train flew down the tracks was a second closer to the next station. He was on a bit of a time crunch. So off the handle came. He set it softly on the seat next to him.

The door opened. Out the back was darkness, faint light outlining the walls around them and the tracks below. Tommy hesitated. Was this really the best idea? Jumping out the back of a moving train?

Can you promise me you'll run?

He swallowed. It would be fine. He'd jumped from higher up than this before. All he had to do was take it in a roll. The walls opened up on one side. A passing junction. Perfect. No time like the present.

He stepped off the train.

His feet hit the ground and he immediately toppled, his inertia fully outweighing his bent knees and good intentions. White hot pain lanced through his shoulder and the world went dark.

When he blinked his eyes back open, the last lights of the train were fading from view. He was lying on the ground, between the tracks in the junction. Gritty cement pressed against his cheek. Not ideal. He tried to push himself to his feet, but his shoulder exploded with pain. He sank back to the ground with a gasp. It echoed in the quiet of the tunnel, a sharp contrast to the fading rumble of the train. 

He knew he had to move. It took him a few moments before he was able to raise himself up on one arm and climb to his feet, teeth gritted and fingers shaking. He couldn't move his left arm. Even jostling it slightly was agony. He forced himself to stay upright, to feel his way along the wall in the dim orange safety lights until he found a door. That one, thankfully, was not locked. He stumbled inside.

It was a maintenance hallway. Tommy fumbled for a light switch and found one, illuminating the grimy floors and dust coated pipes on the ceiling. Unused, abandoned by foot traffic, possibly for years. Cool. At least nobody would find him. Carefully, he pulled his backpack off and sank down the wall to sit on the floor. His shoulder throbbed. He tried to focus.

His hoodie was ripped and torn across the front from his fall. Damn. He loved this hoodie. He ripped the last threads and gingerly slid it off, whimpering at the pain whenever he touched his arm wrong. Possible dislocated shoulder, a voice in his head said. It sounded an awful lot like Wilbur. Hard fall resulted in extreme pain and limited range of movement at a joint, but no broken bone visible. Do not attempt to force joint back into place unaided. Immobilize limb and seek medical attention. He grimaced. Well. He'd do what he could.

Some careful rummaging through his backpack revealed a full change of clothes, a zip up jacket, a few shelf stable energy bars, a sealed bottle of water, a little first aid kit, and a cheap wallet with a stack of various notes inside it. Wilbur had called it a "go bag" when he'd introduced them a couple weeks ago. "For if you ever need to leave in a hurry," he had said easily. There was a lot to unpack there (haha, get it? Unpack? Because it was a bag? No, focus, he was focusing, major injury) but he was grateful for Wilbur's foresight. Better this than nothing.

It took him half an hour to fashion a sling out of the remnants of his hoodie and put it on without passing out. He pulled the zip up jacket on and zipped it over his now immobilized arm. The other arm of the jacket flopped loosely so he tucked it into the pocket. It would have to do. He also took a dose of Paracetamol from the first aid kit. Hopefully that would keep him from passing out if he accidentally bumped into something. He pulled the backpack back onto his good shoulder and stood up shakily. He had to get moving. Figure out what to do, where to go. His first order of business was to get to the surface. Then, maybe, he could find a little café or something and sort out the rest of his plan.

It took him another half an hour to find his way out of the maze of unused tunnels. Eventually he popped out onto a new station, just outside of the turnstiles, thankfully in the opposite direction of the platform he had been trying to avoid. From there he made his way up into the streets, trying to blend in with the scant crowds and avoid jostling his arm. The pain in his shoulder made it hard to think, hard to keep moving, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onwards. The door of a cafe, nestled between an office building and a high end restaurant of some kind, seemed like a gift from the heavens.

Tommy stepped inside the little café, relishing the warm air after the windy streets outside. There were a few people sitting inside, some in booths or working at the tables scattered about, but it was far from crowded. He walked up to the counter slowly, careful to keep from bumping his shoulder on anything.

"Welcome to Cuppuccino," the girl behind the counter said in a tone that implied she had said it thousands of times, "what would you like to order?"

"Uh, hi, I'll have a black coffee and an egg and sausage sandwich, please. To go." He’d skipped lunch. And he deserved a hot drink. Tommy pulled some bills out of the wallet as well as he could with one hand and set them on the counter.

"Six eighty seven, it'll be ready in a few minutes," the girl said, counting the bills into the cash register. "Here's your change. Name for the order?"

"Uh…" he shouldn't use his real name, " Henry," Tommy said, taking the change from her. "You have a restroom?"

"Down the hall on the left, you can't miss it."

Tommy nodded his thanks and trudged down the hall. He locked the door of the little toilet behind him and leaned on the sink with his good hand. He looked like shit, he noticed wryly. His hair was wild and tangled and there was a scrape on his left temple. His hands were covered in oil and dust and other kinds of abandoned-hallway-gunk. At least he could fix that.

While he splashed cool water on his face and tried to scrub the muck off, he forced himself to think. The last hour and a half, or however long it had been, was a blur, but…what was actually happening? Why were the police after him? Was it really the police, or was it some other group who had access to uniforms? And why the fuck had Wilbur known this was going to happen?

Because he had known, hadn’t he. It made a certain kind of sense, considering everything. He had warned Tommy to run. He had made the go-bags. He had been working on something for the past couple of months that he'd refused to explain to Tommy. That was probably what all of this was about, if he had to guess. He'd assumed it was a case, since it usually was. There had been one or two times when Wilbur had taken a case without bringing Tommy in on it. It was usually something highly sensitive, or it was something that wasn't worth charging the client for both of them. But…what kind of case would bring the whole damn police force down on their heads?

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint buzz from the backpack. He frowned, shrugging it off carefully and reaching inside. At the bottom of the bag was a small phone, a burner by the look of it. He'd missed it before, but the lit up screen gave it away. He pulled it out.

It was a message, an address, from the only contact in the phone. Even as he opened it another message followed it.

W: Get there ASAP. I'll be there as soon as I can, maybe before you. Don't get followed.

Tommy frowned at the phone. It was obvious that the other contact was another burner, probably one that Wilbur stuffed in his own go bag. But he hadn't seen Wilbur actually leave their apartment, or grab his bag. He typed out a message as well as he could with one hand.

T: prove this is you

W: the stuffed cow you got from the fair when you were six is named henry, not 'theo' like the tag says, and he still lives in the box in the back of your closet. Also you took the last of my cereal this morning.

T: o thank fuck

T: what the actual hell is going on

T: what is that address

W: Stop wasting data. I'll explain when you get here.

T: … see you there i guess

Tommy sighed, stuffing the phone in his pocket. What Wilbur had said was obscure enough to verify that it was him. It could still be a trap, but…Wilbur had earned his trust, no matter what else was happening. Wil was chaotic, and thought faster than anyone could usually keep up with, but he'd always looked out for Tommy, made sure he was okay, kept him from getting hurt when he could. He'd never led Tommy wrong before. Well, aside from that one time, but honestly that wasn't something either of them had seen coming, and it all worked out in the end, so that didn't count.

At least he had a plan now. Eat his food, find that address, get Wil to explain everything to him. It really couldn't be as bad as it seemed. There was a misunderstanding, somewhere, and all he had to do was keep his head down until they worked it out. Simple.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and took one last look in the mirror. It could be worse. At least he didn't look like a homeless man anymore. He shouldered his bag again and walked back out into the café. The girl whose name he didn't care to learn had left his food on the counter, so he collected it and took a seat back in the corner. He didn't want to try managing the sandwich and the drink with one hand while also navigating and staying away from cops. Plus, his shoulder still hurt like a bitch and all he really wanted to do was sit down for a few minutes. So he sat where he could keep an eye on the door and tried to think about anything but the police and the pain in his arm and the gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach. He took a bite of his sandwich. It was good.

A tv on the wall was playing the news quietly. Nobody else was watching it, focused instead on their headphones or books. Something about…dogs? But, no, as he watched the red alert sign popped up. Breaking news.

"Oh, shit," said the girl behind the counter. She produced a remote and bumped the volume up a bit.

"This is a TwitchNews special report," a deep voice said over the music. "Here's Walter Krondale."

"Good day everyone, we are coming to you live with breaking news, don't touch that dial," said the man on the screen. "We are hearing now that there has been a development in the Alex Quackity murder case."

Tommy took another bite of his sandwich. He'd heard about that briefly the other day. The Deputy Mayor had gotten fuckin' bodied over the weekend and the police were still trying to sort it out. It was a shame, really. Tommy'd never met the guy but he seemed nice enough. Big figure on the Mayor's campaign trail, and the Mayor was cool as hell. 

"The head of Mayor Schlatt's campaign and his eventual running mate, Mr. Quackity was found dead in his home last Saturday night," the anchor confirmed. "Until now the police have reported no leads on who may have killed him, but we are hearing that not two hours ago the police attempted to arrest a potential culprit."

Tommy's heart sank. He felt nauseous. Surely not.

"Earlier today new evidence was discovered and a warrant was issued for one Wilbur Soot, a private detective working here in downtown. Soot and his associate Thomas Innit evaded police capture and fled after a brief fight. Police say that they are to be considered armed and dangerous, and advise civilians to call this number with any information…"

Tommy set his sandwich down before his shaking fingers could drop it. The rest of the report faded to static in his ears as he stared at the pictures of him and Wilbur that were being projected on the screen. "Oh Gods, Wil, what did you do?" he whispered under his breath. "What did you get us into?"

Chapter Text

The address that Wilbur had sent him turned out to be a fair distance away. It took Tommy more than an hour of walking, occasionally having to double back or take a new route if he saw security cameras or police officers. Tommy didn’t remember much of the walk. It was a blur of streets and crosswalks, of dodging cameras without looking out of place, of blending into crowds and keeping his head down, all underscored by the continual, bludgeoning pain in his shoulder. He just kept moving, one foot in front of the other, not daring to stop or slow down, fueled by adrenaline and spite. There were people looking for him, hell, the entire city was looking for him, and it was Wilbur's fault. He didn’t want to think that Wilbur had actually killed that guy. Wilbur was the closest thing Tommy had ever had to a brother, he wouldn't do something like that…would he?

Tommy was a wanted criminal, apparently, and Wilbur owed him an explanation.

The city was on alert after the news broadcast, which wasn't helping anything. Luckily the last description of him was of the red hoodie, not his grey zip-up. For all of the hustle and bustle and tense alertness, nobody actually observed. Tommy walked down the street, unable to hide his face, and nobody stopped him. A few people looked at him oddly, but they moved on and didn't seem to question him. It was one of the things that Wilbur disliked about people, he thought idly. They see but they do not observe. Wilbur had drilled it into him to observe, to build on his instincts with rational thought, to use logic and evidence with a drop of intuition to find conclusions. It was their job. They worked through problems, pieced together solutions, where other people saw only a smattering of evidence and a few contradictory clues. They were damn good at it, too. 

Wilbur was the lead, of course. He was the one that put together all their conclusions. He had a knack for seeing all the pieces, sometimes even before they found them. Tommy wasn’t useless, though. He asked questions, poked his nose in places it didn’t belong. He’d let Wilbur bounce ideas off of him, too. They’d stay up too late and toss theories back and forth. Tommy was good at asking the dumb questions that Wilbur sometimes forgot about. He also had the very important job of making sure Wilbur did things like sleep, or eat, or drink water. In the middle of cases he’d been known to lock himself in his office for days on end. It was ridiculous, really, giving Tommy the job of making sure someone else was keeping themselves healthy. He had to remind himself of the same stuff, sometimes. But Wilbur was Wilbur. If Wilbur needed him, he’d do it. And Wilbur helped Tommy, too. They were like brothers! Wil hated it when he said that. Half jokingly, of course. But it was fun to needle him with it. 

He blinked suddenly, drawing himself out of his thoughts. He had arrived. The address had led him to a short flight of steps leading down from the pavement to the door of what looked like a little basement apartment. He wasn't in the nicest neighborhood, from what he could tell. A lot of the windows had bars across them. There was trash in the gutter and a suspicious stain on the sidewalk. He looked around. There wasn't anyone nearby. No suspicious black cars parked down the street or idling near the curb. It could still be a trap , part of him warned. But, Gods. Tommy was tired. If it was a trap then whoever was behind it was doing a good job. He stumbled down the steps and knocked on the door. The paint was peeling, and little flecks of it came off on his knuckles.

There were a few beats of silence. Tommy leaned his good shoulder on the wall, blinking hard to keep his eyes open. He felt like the only thing keeping him up was sheer stubbornness at that point. But he wasn't about to collapse like a pussy. And Wilbur had a lot of explaining to do. His fingers were numb. Actually, a lot of his arm was numb. That probably wasn't a good sign.

The door rattled and then swung open. Wilbur poked his face out, looking around hastily before his eyes alighted on Tommy. "Oh, fuck. Thank the Gods," he said, looking relieved. "I thought something might have happened to you."

Tommy pushed himself off the wall, hiding a wince. "Nope, I'm still standing, big man. Let me in."

Wilbur moved back, letting Tommy through the doorway. The basement apartment was small and dark. Tommy could see a little living room with a couch and television and a tiny kitchen along the back wall. There was a door that he assumed led to a bedroom, and a small table under the solitary window to his left, and that was it. "Nice place," he said. He stood stiffly, focusing on not falling on his face.

Wilbur snorted. "It's a safe house, not a five star hotel. Be grateful there's plumbing." He shut the door. "Right--" he said, then cut himself off, narrowing his eyes at Tommy. "You're hurt."

Tommy grimaced. "I'm fine. You, on the other hand, had better start fucking talking."

Wilbur eyed him, then shook his head. "Okay, I will admit, I owe you an explanation. But, if you're injured--" he reached a hand towards Tommy's arm and Tommy flinched backwards. He had, however, forgotten that there was a wall behind him, and in his haste to avoid Wilbur jostling his arm he bashed it into the wall. Pain shot through him and he collapsed to one knee, teeth clenched around a scream. Black spots danced in his vision. He tried to breathe through it but all he managed was a choked noise that sounded too much like a sob.

"…fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, oh Gods," Wilbur was saying. Tommy felt firm but gentle hands on his good arm, supporting him, helping him up. He was sitting on the couch. Wilbur was in front of him, scrubbing a hand through his curly hair. His shoulder hurt like a bitch. When did he move to the couch? Everything was a little blurry. Fuck. He didn't want to cry. Gods, but he was tired. "What happened? How are you hurt?"

"Shoulder," Tommy managed when he could speak again. "Dislocated it, I think."

Wilbur dragged the coffee table a little closer and sat on it, reaching for Tommy's jacket. "I'm gonna take a look at it, okay? I'm gonna try really hard not to hurt you. Just breathe and tell me if it hurts."

Tommy nodded jerkily.

Wilbur unzipped his jacket gently and pulled it away from his arm. The lanky brown-haired man winced in sympathy. "Oooh, mate, you really did a number on yourself."

"Tried to jump off a train," Tommy muttered. "Must have missed or something." The adrenaline was wearing off. So was the caffeine, he was pretty sure. It was getting harder to focus. Why were they talking about this? Wilbur had promised him an explanation for things. He was mad at Wilbur, or, maybe, he was supposed to be mad. It was all a bit confusing. His brain felt like it was full of cotton.

"Tried to-- you know what, we can figure that out later." Wilbur ran his fingers gently over Tommy's shoulder and arm, whispering apologies whenever Tommy flinched or gasped. Eventually he undid the makeshift sling and supported Tommy's arm with his hand. "Yeah, you've dislocated it. I'm gonna help you reset it, okay?"

Tommy tipped his head back against the couch and willed his breathing to stop shaking. Fuck. That sounded like it was going to hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut. All he wanted was for it to stop hurting . "Do we 'ave to?" he whispered.

"Yeah, Toms, we do," Wilbur murmured. "I'm really sorry. If I could take you to the hospital I would, I promise." Wilbur gently set Tommy's arm down and scrubbed a hand through his hair again. "You stay here, okay? I'm going to grab some things."

Wilbur returned almost before Tommy noticed he was gone, or maybe Tommy had just blanked out for a moment. He set a couple of rolls of compression bandages on the low table, as well as an ice pack and a glass of water. He sat back down on the table in front of Tommy. "Right," he said, holding out a folded rag. "Put this in your mouth."

Tommy squinted at him. "What? Why?"

Wilbur grimaced. "This is gonna hurt. Like, a lot. If you scream the neighbors might call the police. So," he shrugged, eyes apologetic, "put this in your mouth and bite down on it."

Tommy eyed the cloth for a minute but then took it. "You owe me a hell of an explanation for all this, Wilbur Soot," he said. His voice shook more than we wanted it to.

"I know, I do. We'll talk, I promise," Wilbur said. "Okay. Uh, lie down." He shifted forward on the table and gripped Tommy's arm gently as Tommy lay back on the couch. "Ready?"

Tommy put the cloth between his teeth and nodded. Fuck, this was going to hurt, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck--

"Okay. Relax your arm as much as you can, and take deep breaths. I'm right here with you. We'll be done before you know it." Wilbur shifted his grip on Tommy's arm and pulled.

Pain exploded in him. Wilbur pulled and shifted and twisted and it hurt, Gods it hurt , he couldn’t push a thought past the knife-sharp red-hot screaming in his shoulder, he just fought to keep his breathing steady, fought to keep breathing at all, gritted his teeth in the cloth and tried not to yell, clenched his other hand in his hair to keep from punching Wilbur in the jaw, and it hurt so, so much, but Wilbur's voice was there, telling him to keep breathing, that they were almost done, that he was doing great. Wilbur kept pulling, twisting a little harder, and something shifted and ground together and settled, and they were done. They were done. The pain faded, suddenly, from the throbbing agony into a dull ache. Still present, still terrible, but less than before.

There was a hand behind his neck, helping him sit up slightly. His breathing was ragged, catching and choking on the echos of hurt. A gentle tug on the cloth, and he let it go. His cheeks were wet. A calloused thumb brushed the dampness away. Wilbur's voice was still there, filled with affirmations. Something tight wrapped around his shoulder and arm. He was lying back down, this time with his head tucked against someone's chest. "Wilby?" Tommy stuttered out.

"I'm right here, Toms, I've got you." Wilbur's hand brushed soothingly through his hair. "You did so well. Just sleep, now, okay?" His voice was soft but strong, full of sorrow and aching pride. "I've got you."

Tommy couldn't find it in himself to argue.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected], [email protected]

Subject: no subject

You two. My office. Now.

- SG

Phil stared at the email that had just appeared in his inbox. Well. That was…ominous. He glanced across his desk at Techno, his partner, who shrugged.

"Guess we're being summoned," he said dryly.

Phil levered himself out of his chair and lifted his hat to scrub a hand through his hair. "Guess so. Let's not keep him waiting."

Techno nodded, tugging absently at the sleeves of his white button up.

The station was buzzing like a kicked anthill. They wove their way through the hustle and bustle, dodging officers who scurried back and forth. The news channels had just released their announcements about the escaped suspects, and already phones were ringing with concerned and angry citizens calling to ask questions or give bad but well-intentioned information.

"Come in," said a no-nonsense voice when Phil knocked on the door. Phil adjusted his green striped tie and shot a look up at Techno. It was unfair, really. He was a perfectly average height, but next to Techno he looked tiny. His partner looked like he could play american football with Zeus and win. Techno nodded. Phil opened the door.

Chief Sam Greene, head of the police force and overseer of the department, was usually a calm, collected, authoritative figure. He had risen through the ranks on his quick thinking, unwavering ambition, and intrinsic leadership. If the Chief said to jump, you asked 'how high.' He'd gained the nickname "The Warden" among some of the younger officers for reasons that Phil had never really cared to dissect. Not everyone liked him, but there wasn't a person in the station who didn't damn well respect him.

The Chief looked up as Phil and Techno entered and motioned for them to shut the door. He looked…stressed. His hair was mussed, like he had been running his fingers through it. There were papers scattered across his desk. "Good, good. I'm glad you two are here." Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sure you're both aware of what is happening around here."

Phil nodded, electing to let Sam keep talking.

"Yeah. Not an ideal situation. First the Mayor is all over us to try and sort out the murder, even though we're working as fast as we can. Then when we do get evidence and a warrant, the suspect gets away, and I have to deal with the officers who bungled it. And, someone leaked about the evidence to the press before we had statements ready, so we're scrambling. Adding, now, the influx of terrible information from that hotline…" Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling." He leaned forward again,  propping his elbows on the desk. "How much do you know about Soot? About his business, his associate?"

Phil shrugged. "Not much. I know he worked with the department, but I've never been on a case with him. I might have passed him in the hall once. He always gave me a weird vibe, like he was…I dunno. Off balance."

"Yeah," Techno agreed. "Same for me. Never worked with him, only know what other people have told me, and that's not much. He was good at his job, he didn't make a lot of enemies…" Techno trailed off.

"Good," Sam said. "That's good." He pulled a file out of a drawer and set it down on the desk in front of them. "I won't beat around the bush. I'm putting you two in charge of this case now. You two are some of the best detectives on the force, and you won't be biased by any previous experiences with Soot. Track him down. Bring him in. The department will give you any resources or additional manpower you need. At the Mayor's orders, this is our number one priority."

There was a beat of silence. It took Phil a second before he processed what the Chief was saying. He and Techno were going to be the heads of one of the most public cases the department had ever taken. The press and the citizens would be all over this one, not to mention the Mayor's office. And to top it off, they were working against Wilbur Soot, a detective and investigator smart enough for the fucking police department to call him in as a consultant on cases. No pressure, or anything.

But what were they going to say? No? Not exactly an option.

Phil took the file from Sam. He and Techno made brief eye contact. We can do this.

"Excellent," Sam said. "Good luck to both of you, but I hope you don't need it. There's a team sweeping Soot's apartment right now, that would be a good place for you to start."

Phil saw the dismissal for what it was. "Will do. You can count on us." He and Techno stood up and took their leave.

"Well," Techno said. "Guess we've got a case now."

Phil chuckled. "Yeah, mate. Guess we do."

"And here I was thinkin' they'd let me get bored around here."

Phil laughed outright at that. They could do this.

----------

The apartment was about as expected. Blue and white "Police Line" tape marked the door and part of the sidewalk outside. Phil and Techno flashed their badges at the officer outside, who nodded and motioned for them to go on in.

"Hello, gentlemen, we've been expecting you," said the officer who greeted them inside. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun, uniform crisp and neat. "Officer Nihachu, you can call me Niki," she said with a smile. "I've been in charge of clean up here. We haven't found much, but we'll give you what we have."

Techno hummed, eyes flicking around the hallway. They knew this routine. Phil took the lead on the talking, Techno took the lead on the observing, and they compared notes afterward

"What've we got?" Phil asked Niki.

She sighed, leading them further inside. "Nothing incriminating, yet, unfortunately. The apartment's pretty clean. Well," she nodded at the stack of dishes in the sink and the yellow sweater thrown over the back of the couch, "metaphorically, I suppose."

Techno nodded, half listening, still scanning the room.

"Doesn't look like they knew we were coming," Phil said.

Niki shrugged. "No, it doesn't. But appearances can be deceiving. Officers say they saw Soot and Innit grab bags during their escape."

Phil chewed his lip. That could be problematic, if they took everything incriminating with them. "What about the electronic side of things?"

"We've got techs working on it, but so far everything is highly encrypted. We've started getting text and email threads deciphered, but they haven't been much. Just communications about Soot's past cases, all matching his own records and the station's."

"Alright," Phil said. "We'll just take a look around, if that's alright."

"Of course," Niki said. "We'll let you know if we find anything."

Phil thanked her with a smile, and she turned away, moving to check in with one of the other officers sweeping the apartment. He moved to stand beside Techno, looking around. "Well. What do you think?"

Techno sighed. "I think it looks like an apartment. I'm not seeing much out of place. No indications that anything was removed from the walls or shelves, no doors that are locked or unlocked when they shouldn't be…"

"No large bulletin boards full of murderous plans, no bloody knives on the floor," Phil continued.

Techno snorted. "You're joking, but people have done it before."

Phil laughed. "Well, whatever else Soot is, he's smart. He wouldn't do something that stupid."

"Yeah," Techno said. "Makes me think there's something less obvious that we might be missin', though."

Phil hummed his agreement. "I'm going to check the office, want to come?"

Techno grinned and followed him.

The office was less messy than the rest of the apartment. If it weren't for the signs of the investigation, file cabinets and drawers opened, techs working on the heavy computer under the desk, it could have been considered 'neat'. A bookshelf along the back wall provided no real information. It was full of encyclopedias, reference books, and other tools. A few fantasy novels. An old record player. The desk, too, didn't hold much. Aside from the PC, monitors, and keyboard, there was a ledger with case payments (all seeming on the up and up, but they'd cross-reference it with their files), a little address book with some names and phone numbers of clients, and a half-full shredder next to the wastepaper bin.

That could be interesting, actually. "D'you think Soot shredded his notes, if he had any?" Phil asked.

Techno shrugged. "Could have. Can't hurt to try and piece it together."

Phil flagged down Niki, who assured him that they would pass the contents of the shredder to some lab boys to see if it could be reconstructed. Phil liked her, he decided. She was gentle but smart, and not afraid to take initiative. Good.

They took another sweep around the apartment, through the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs, the cramped storage closet under the stairs, and the tiny patio in the back.

Techno shook his head. "I dunno, Phil. I'm not seein' much."

Phil sighed. "Me neither, mate. We might get some stuff off their phones and the computer, but Soot ran a tight ship, it looks like."

"At least there's prints," Techno said.

Phil chuckled. "That's very true. At least there's prints."

They left the apartment, waving goodbye to Niki as they did. Phil pulled his black coat tighter around himself to block the chill as they walked back to the car.

"Well, now what?" Techno said, sliding into the passenger seat.

"The Mayor's giving a speech this evening, I think, but until then, I say we go back to the station, pull files, and start trying to put together a plan."

"Ah, yes, 'Good Old Fashioned Detective Work,' of course you would suggest that," Techno said dryly.

Phil cackled. "This is literally our job, mate! What do you want to do, drive in circles and hope we bump into him at the store?"

"My poor, senile, partner, so stuck in his old person ways…"

"I am eight years older than you!"

"No," Techno deadpanned as Phil started the car, "you are ancient. Centuries old. Unfathomable age. We can tell because you don't know how to use a cell phone."

"That was one time!"

"I should look for a retirement home for you. Somewhere nice, lots of trees."

Phil sighed and kept driving.

----------

Case Number: 559394654

Evidence: Video file, provided to department by Sunrise Security Corp. Video length 83 seconds. 

Description: Camera shows the outside and front yard of a home. Time shows: 1:38am.  A man in a dark sweater and red beanie approaches the door and crouches. His hands, as well as the door and lock, are out of view of the camera. His face is clearly visible. A moment later he stands and enters. Video cuts. Video resumes. Time shows: 1:46am. The man exits, holding a dark stained kitchen knife in his hand. He shuts the door behind him and leaves. His face is visible as he turns. The man walks down the street to the left and out of frame.

Notes: Facial recognition software as well as acquaintances of the subject have confirmed that the man in the footage is Wilbur Soot, private detective. Technicians have been unable to find evidence of tampering with the footage, aside from the obvious cut. Evidence was submitted to the court and used to gain an arrest warrant.

Phil leaned back in his chair. The video was, well. Damning, to say the least. He had had his doubts about whether Soot was being wrongfully accused, but he couldn’t argue with that. 

Techno sat next to him, drumming his fingers on the table. “Lovely,” he muttered.

Phil snorted. “It’s something, at least.”

“Not something useful,” Techno said. He had pulled his pink dyed hair out of the braided crown he usually wore it in and instead had it pulled into a loose ponytail. “We can say he did it, great, but this gives us nothing to help track him down with. Those clothes are probably long gone by now, as is that knife. The hat might be something, but there’s probably a thousand people in the city with a red beanie.”

Phil chewed his lip. Techno was right. They didn’t have much. They were getting more information about his phone records, email thread, bank statements, and other sources of potential clues, but none of it fit together. At least, not yet. 

Techno stood up, pacing back to the whiteboard they were using to organise what little they had to work with. “I dunno, Phil. Any bright ideas?”

Phil leaned back farther and propped his feet on the desk. “Well...the Chief said we could use resources.”

Techno looked at him over his shoulder. “Yes…?”

He grinned. “Let's put together a team.”

Chapter Text

"Okay," Chief Greene said. He stood at a podium emblazoned with the police department logo in front of a sea of seated reporters. Two people sat in chairs behind him on the stage. A broad shouldered man sat to the far left, dyed pink hair woven into an intricate and secure braid around his head. He scanned the crowd carefully, arms crossed over his chest. Next to him sat a man in a green striped tie, blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. He leaned casually in his chair, staring into the middle distance. The camera zoomed in slowly as Chief Green shuffled his notes. "As promised, the Mayor will be taking the stage to make a public statement here shortly. However, he will not be answering questions afterwards, so I'm going to answer some now." A card flashed up on the lower third, displaying his name and rank next to the headline 'Police Dept. answers questions regarding investigation' .

"Is the Alex Quackity investigation the current priority of the Police Department?" one reporter called.

"Yes," the chief responded. "The Department will not rest until the murderer has been brought to justice. However, the public need not fear that they are being left unprotected. The Department is just as capable as it always is to respond to other threats or circumstances that may arise."

"Did Mr. Soot kill Alex Quackity?" a different reporter called.

The chief shot them an unimpressed look. "Mr. Soot is a current suspect in the case. It is for the courts to decide whether Mr. Soot is guilty. However, the evidence we have at present was enough to merit a warrant for his arrest."

"Mr. Soot has worked with the police department before on numerous occasions; does the department have any comment on this?" a woman near the front asked.

The chief glanced at his notes and flashed the woman a dry smile. "Mr. Soot underwent extensive background checks before and during his time as a consultant on police matters. Had there been any signs of previous criminal activity or doubt as to his discretion or judgement, he would not have been hired."

"What was the evidence that allowed the arrest warrant?" someone asked.

The chief blinked. He looked at his notes again, hesitating, then sighed. "Camera footage was provided that placed Mr. Soot at the scene at the estimated time of death and showed him holding a weapon that matched the forensic hypotheses. The footage has been verified by multiple sources." There was a clamor among the reporters as several shouted questions at the same time. The chief raised one hand and waited for them to quiet down. 

"I'm not at liberty to give more details at present. Again, the public should remain vigilant, and inform the authorities if they have any information. Thank you for your time, I'm going to pass the stage to Mayor Schlatt." Chief Greene stepped back from the podium, taking his leather binder with him. The card on the bottom third flashed a new headline: 'Mayor gives remarks about investigation and surrounding situation.'

The mayor entered the stage from the left. He passed the chief and they shared a brief handshake before the chief sat down next to the blonde man with the green tie. The mayor stepped up to the podium and pulled a folded paper from his breast pocket, which he placed on the lectern. His dark wavy hair was slicked back from his face, and his mutton chops and mustache were neatly trimmed. His suit was pressed and his red tie was tucked neatly inside the jacket, and gold glittered at his cuffs. Despite the image of power and authority that his dress and standing radiated, the mayor looked… tired. There were dark bags under his eyes. His shoulders were drawn and tense as he adjusted the microphone. There was a faint tremor in his fingers. He cleared his throat. "Good evening, everyone."

The room was deathly silent.

"I, uh, I wish I didn't have to be here today. Or, I wish I could be here under better circumstances." He took a deep breath. "Alex Quackity was a good man. He was my right hand man, my second in command. I trusted him with, uh, with a hell of a lot. We were partners, and we made a great team. He was…he was my friend." Something flickered across his face, and he looked down. "But I'm not here tonight to give him another eulogy." His voice was hard. "My friend was murdered. He was stabbed sixteen times with a kitchen knife and left to bleed out on the floor. It was a vicious, pre-meditated attack." His hand gripped the side of the podium. "Quackity's voice was always the loudest against crime, against corruption. He was always the one to stand up and fight for what was right." He surveyed the crowd with a gaze harder than stone. "If this was an attack to weaken us, it will not work. I have a duty to this city. I have a duty to the people." His fist slammed into the podium with sudden force. "I will not hesitate! To keep this city safe!" he growled. "Crime will be punished. I will keep order." He stopped and closed his eyes. The silence in the room was deafening. He bowed his head and took a deep breath. The stress was wearing on him, it seemed. He looked back up, directly into the camera. "I can only assume that Mr. Soot and Mr. Innit are watching this broadcast. So I'll speak to you directly for a moment. You have dedicated your careers to fighting criminals in this city. You don't have to become them. If you aren't guilty, then turn yourselves in. Don't make this harder than it has to be." A dry smile flickered across his face. "I am interested in bringing this murderer to justice. If that isn’t you, then great. But if you are responsible, then I'll tell you this." His eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "You will be found. You will be tried. You will be held accountable." He held his gaze on the camera for a moment more before dropping it back to his notes. He nodded sharply, then stepped away from the podium. The room exploded with noise as reporters clamored for their questions to be heard, shouting about the murder and the suspects and the police--

Tommy reached for the remote and turned off the television with a click. The room felt a lot darker without the glaring light of the screen. His left arm was bound tightly against his body with a sling and what felt like an overabundance of elastic bandages. Wilbur had apparently bandaged his arm while he slept and left him to sleep with a blanket pulled up around him. He'd woken up as Wilbur had turned the news to watch the press conference, but he hadn’t moved much. Wilbur sat on the opposite end of the couch from him, elbows on his knees, hands clasped and index fingers pressed against his lips. His brows were drawn together in thought. As the screen darkened he blinked and turned to Tommy. "Oh. You're up."

"Sure am, big dubs," Tommy said quietly. He swung his legs down and sat up.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough." He'd heard all of it. "We need to talk, Wil."

Wilbur dropped his hands and stood. "Yeah. We do." He crossed the room and flicked on the lights.

"You know how just incredibly suspicious this all is, right?" Tommy said. "Because it's really fucking shady."

Wilbur opened his mouth as he settled on the couch again, but Tommy didn't notice. 

"I - I mean, a month ago you get this new case that you refuse to tell me about, and you lock yourself in your study for a while. Then you start telling me about how 'if something bad happens just run' and, and make fuckin' panic bags like you're expecting us to be chased. And now you've got this whole safehouse thing just set up and waiting for us, apparently, and you've not told me anything! It's like you knew this would happen!"

Wilbur just looked at him, expression closed and calculating. His dark hair had flopped over his eyes. His fingers were steepled again. He didn't say anything.

Tommy pulled his legs up again to sit more curled up on the couch. He felt cold, suddenly. "Wilbur…did you know this was going to happen?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He abruptly wasn't sure of a lot of things.

Wilbur opened his mouth, then hesitated. "Yes," he said, "and no. I suspected that something like this would happen, which is why I made preparations. But I didn't know when or how everything would play out."

"You knew this would happen." Tommy's gut twisted. He fought down his fear, his anger and frustration. He willed his face back to neutrality."

"Well, not this exactly," Wilbur said. "I'll readily admit, the circumstances aren't what I expected they would be."

Tommy bit his lip. He, well. He didn't really know what to do. There was a question he hadn't asked yet. Well, there were a lot of questions he hadn't asked yet, but there was one that was more dangerous than the others. He, he trusted Wilbur. He did. But… "The police are saying you killed a man." He risked a glance at Wilbur's face.

"They are," Wilbur said calmly. He didn't look angry. He didn't look happy, either. Wilbur could be very hard to read when he wanted to be.

There was a beat of silence.

Tommy took a breath. "Did you? Kill him?"

"No," Wilbur said. "I didn't."

Tommy looked him dead in the eyes. "Are you lying to me?"

Wilbur met his gaze. "No, I'm not. I did not kill Alex Quackity."

Tommy clenched his jaw. He wanted to believe Wilbur. He really did. "They have security camera footage."

"I have no idea how they got that."

Tommy raised an eyebrow.

"That was a poor choice of words," Wilbur hastened to explain. He gestured vaguely. "I mean, I have no idea how they got that, in that it shouldn't exist. I wasn't there. I didn't do it. So…" He shrugged. "Security footage showing me at the scene of the crime shouldn't exist."

"So it's fake, then." Tommy leaned back.

"Must be," Wilbur said.

"That police bitch said it was 'verified by multiple sources,'" Tommy said skeptically.

Wilbur shot him a half smile. "It would be hard to fake something well enough to fool police software, but it's not impossible."

Tommy nodded slowly. "You didn't do it?"

Wilbur's face softened. He reached forward and grasped Tommy's hand. His hand was cool and smooth, and he had calluses from playing his guitar. He squeezed gently. "I swear it to you. I didn't do it."

Tommy blinked hard and swallowed. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Something lifted from his chest. When he looked back up, Wilbur was smiling softly at him. Tommy nodded again. "Okay." He sniffed and dropped Wilbur's hand to wipe at his face. He wasn't crying. He wasn’t. He had something in his eye. "Right, then. So."

Wilbur leaned back. "So."

"If you didn't do it, then someone's framing you."

"Yep," Wilbur said, popping the 'p'.

"Who is it?" Tommy asked. Wilbur's expression started to shutter again but Tommy pointed a finger at him threateningly. "Don't even think about it, big man. We're in this, now, and we're in this together. No more hiding. If you know something, you fucking tell me."

Wilbur raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. I guess it's about time I filled you in, anyway."

"It's about that case, then?" Tommy asked. "The one you've been hiding from me."

Wilbur nodded. "Yeah, more or less. But, it's not a case. Not really."

Tommy frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Nobody hired me to look into this. I picked it up on my own. I wasn't hiding it from you because it was confidential. I didn't want to tell you because it's, well, it's dangerous. I didn't want you getting mixed up in it if I could help it."

Tommy snorted. "Fat lot of good that did, huh?"

Wilbur looked apologetic. "Yeah. Uh, sorry about that. About all of this, I guess. You don't deserve to get caught up in my problems."

"Oh, shut up," Tommy said. "I wish I had a bit more warning, I guess, but we stick together, big man. You know that." He pushed himself off the couch to go find a glass of water. "You haven't actually told me what this thing is, anyway."

Wilbur sighed. "I told you this isn't an official case. I'm just doing it on my own, because if I think I can help people if I unravel it all."

"For fuck’s sake-- just spit it out, man!" Tommy started opening cabinets in the tiny kitchen to look for a glass.

"I'm investigating the mob."

Tommy froze. The mob? "What?"

"The mob. The mafia. Organized crime," Wilbur said calmly.

Tommy turned back to face him. "There's no mob in this city. Maybe further south, or out west, but not here…right?"

Wilbur grimaced, twisting on the couch so he could face Tommy more easily. "That's what I thought too, but…" He shook his head. "There is one. They're slippery, too. They don't make themselves obvious. No big guys in pinstripe suits wandering down the alleyways with machine guns."

Tommy chewed his lip in thought. "Is that why I haven’t heard of this before?"

"Yes and no. Mostly it's that the government can't talk about it."

"Why not?"

Wilbur shrugged. "It would legitimize them. The government and the police fight the mob, but they can't do it openly. If they do, the mob gains more credibility, and therefore more influence.

Tommy nodded slowly. That made sense, he supposed. He grabbed a glass and filled it awkwardly from the sink. It was hard doing it one handed, but he managed. Despite how jarring he found it to think of a massive organized crime ring in his city, what Wil was saying fit with some of the things that Tommy had found odd about the Mayor Schlatt's speech. "So, when the Mayor said something about an 'attack to weaken us' or whatever it was he said…?" He shut the faucet off with a squeak.

"He was referring to the mafia, yes," Wilbur said. He resettled his beanie on his head.

Tommy nodded. That was probably why he talked about that Quackity guy as one of the strongest voices against crime. Even if a lot of the citizens didn't know what he was talking about, it meant something to him. He sipped the water, staring at the dirty bricks outside the tiny window of their basement hideout. The Mayor had looked pretty shaken by the whole ordeal. Angry, too. Tommy couldn't blame him.

"You all right over there, Toms?"

Tommy shook himself. "Yeah," he said. He set the empty glass down on the counter and walked back to the couch. "So, you're, what, trying to take down the mafia?"

Wilbur nodded. "I didn't think that's what I was doing, at first. I just noticed some things that weren't lining up. Little stuff from some of our cases. People who had no business being connected to each other. Tiny holes that should have had an explanation and didn't. I barely even kept notes on it, just chalked it up to random chance and moved on." He shifted in his seat as Tommy sat down again. "But then I started noticing patterns. A couple of names that popped up more than they should."

"And you couldn't keep your nose out of it," Tommy guessed.

"I mean, you know me. There's always an explanation for things. Always. All I had to do was find it. So I started poking around, asking questions. I, here, wait, I'll show you." He got up and went into the tiny bedroom and reemerged a moment later holding a chapstick with a black label. Or, well, it wasn't really a chapstick. Tommy recognized it as one of Wilbur's USB flash drives. Wilbur liked to hide them in plain sight if there was something important on them. He had one that looked like a cheap cigarette lighter, too.

Wilbur clicked on the television and slotted the little flash drive somewhere on the back of the screen. The screen went black for a moment, then displayed a folder containing a variety of files. Some of them had incomprehensible jumbles of letters and numbers as a title, but some were called "notes" or "research" or "profiles." Tommy had seen these before, many, many times. He and Wilbur worked with them day in and day out. "This is a case file," he said.

"Not a case!" Wilbur said, pointing at him. "A…project."

"Oh, so sorry," Tommy said sarcastically. "Yes, an investigative project, definitely not a case, because this time nobody's paying us to do the dangerous puzzle solving work, no, now we do it for fun, because we didn’t have enough excitement in our lives already."

Wilbur sighed heavily and flopped back next to him on the couch and handed him the remote. "I made this once I realized what I was getting into. Or, well. Once I thought I realized what I was getting into. It only got worse the farther I looked, but I couldn't just put it down. They're hurting people, and I damn well wanted to stop them."

Tommy clicked through the files, leaning forward with his good elbow on his knee. "How bad is it?"

Wilbur's voice was uncharacteristically quiet. "I don't have enough to prove anything, but…it's not good. Drug trades, smuggling, money laundering. Racketeering. There's hints of worse things. Loan sharking, hired hits, maybe human trafficking. Even if they’re not doing it themselves, I feel confident that they're dealing with the people that are. For the most part though, it looks like fraud, drugs, smuggling, and the like."

Tommy swallowed. This was…he was a big enough man to say it was scary. His and Wilbur's cases usually dealt with theft, murder, or simple investigation. Sometimes there was a kidnapping or a blackmailing. A lot of the time it was a housewife who wanted to know if her husband was cheating. This was pretty far outside their normal league. Tommy had always loved movies. In movies, mobs and gangsters had been something to laugh at. Usually the ones to root against. On rare occasions, they had been the ones to root for. Now, hearing it all laid out, hearing what was actually being done, picturing it in his city? It was terrifying. These were bad people. Dangerous people. These weren't the solo criminals they were used to. And Wilbur was right. There was no way he was just going to put it down.

"You see why I wanted to keep you out of this," Wilbur said.

Tommy nodded slowly.

"I started taking precautions around the time I made the file," Wilbur continued. "I knew I wouldn't be able to keep a large scale investigation secret forever. I had hoped to have more time, though. I wanted to bring you in once I got close enough to something solid that it would matter. But then everything escalated faster than I thought they would."

Tommy frowned, starting to put some of the pieces together. "So the mob figures out you're investigating them, realizes they can kill two birds with one stone, kills Quackity, and pins it on you?"

Wilbur nodded. "That's the theory I think is most likely at the minute. Fits with what I know, at any rate."

Tommy blew out a breath. "That's fuckin' cold."

"I mean. It is the Mob."

Tommy shook his head in disbelief. "How'd they even find out about this, anyway? It doesn't look like you have anything that could trace."

Wilbur leaned forward. "Yeah, I know. I honestly have no idea. All I have is public record shipping manifests, some profiles from past cases, stuff like that. I asked Quackity a couple weeks ago if he could pull some files from the Mayor's office for me, and he said he'd look into it, so that maybe could have been traceable, but he died before he could send anything to me."

"I assume you didn't tell him what you needed the files for?" Tommy asked.

"No, of course not. They shouldn't have even been suspicious. I called in a favor from when we verified the dirt on Schlatt's opponent, so it was off the record. Maybe they hacked his email and put the pieces together or something."

"Yeah. That, or they tracked your search history or something. Or maybe they just figured you were a good target."

Wilbur frowned. "How so?"

Tommy shrugged. "We're some of the best detectives in the city. If anyone can string together enough pieces to bring 'em to court, it's us. They probably know that too."

Wilbur blinked. "Oh. I hadn't thought of it like that."

"So, why can't we go to the police with all this?" Tommy asked.

"I don't have enough," Wilbur said sourly. "Right now I can't prove anything more than a few coincidences and a few 'paperwork mistakes.' The police, on the other hand, have enough 'evidence' to put me away for life."

"So we have to clear your name and take down an organized crime ring while being hunted by both the mob and the police?"

"Pretty much."

"Sounds like fun."

Wilbur laughed. A real, genuine laugh. Thinking about it, it had been a while since he'd heard Wilbur laugh. The last couple of weeks had been stressful for him, he was seeing now. "You and I have differing definitions of fun, I think, Tommy," Wilbur said, grinning at him.

"Nah, c'mon big man. It'll be like the moo-vies," he said, drawing the word out. "We can be cool action heroes." He had a sudden thought and turned to Wilbur excitedly, "Hollywood will make movies about us! I'll get played by Dwane 'The Rock' Johnson!"

Wilbur cackled. "Why do you get to be The Rock?"

"Nobody else is a big enough man to play me," he said, beaming.

Wilbur buried his face in his hands, trying to hide his laughter. "I missed you, Tommy," he said when he came up for air. "I'm glad this is all out in the open now."

"You're a sap, Wilbur," Tommy said. He ignored the warmth in his chest. "So. Now what? What do you actually know? What's 'The Plan'?"

Wilbur sobered. "I don’t know a lot. Generally what sorts of things they've got their fingers in. A couple of suspicions about locations they control. But, I do have a meeting set up for tomorrow with someone who might be able to help us."

"Oh? Who?"

"According to rumors and a mutual acquaintance, someone who used to be associated with the mob. More of a hired mercenary than an actual member. They'll tell us what we need to know, for the right price. I set it up a couple of days ago."

Tommy frowned. "Is that, y'know. Safe?"

"It'll be at a safe location. And I'll pay them for their discretion." He shrugged. "We need the information. Hopefully they'll be able to tell us some stuff about the mob, and give us tips on how to go about proving they killed Quackity."

Tommy nodded. It made sense. "That's tomorrow, you said?"

"Yeah," Wilbur said. "Until then, we rest. Take stock. See if we can think of anything else to do. If you're feeling up to it, you can read through the notes and research I have so far. We make a plan for what we need and how we might get there. We treat it like a case."

Tommy looked over at Wilbur. They were both tired. They were on the run from the police and from a group of highly dangerous criminals. But they could do this. It was a case. They were good at cases. And they had each other. "Sounds good to me, big man."

Chapter Text

"Is that it?" Tommy asked. He had his hand stuffed into his pocket, injured arm tied in a sling under his jacket. The grey hood was pulled up to partially cover his face, but Wilbur could still see him. His nose was red with the cold, but his eyes were sharp and alert.

"Yep," Wilbur said. He turned back to look across the street at the shaded entrance of the pub that had been their destination. A painted sign above the door informed them that it was named, creatively, Manifold's Pub, but someone with a stepladder and a sense of humor had adorned the sign with an "e" at the end of the second word. Wilbur was a professional, and he was on a mission. He definitely did not find that incredibly funny.

Beside him, Tommy glanced up and down the street. It was fairly empty, as empty as the city streets got on a weekday. They had been walking for about forty minutes to get there, but had only had one close call with an unobservant patrol car. "Are we gonna go in? Or is he meeting us outside?" Tommy asked. They had spent the walk over talking about what they wanted to learn and what they could afford to reveal. All in hypothetical terms, of course. It wouldn’t do for a passerby to overhear something. 

Wilbur shook his head. "No, he gave me a passphrase and said to meet inside. He assured me that this place is a neutral ground," he said, crossing the street. He kept his head down, slouching a bit, using the length of his dark trench coat to obscure what his height should be. It was hard not to stand out as a two-meter tall human being, but he managed. The cold wind tugged at the beanie perched on the back of his head.

"And we can, what, just, trust that?" Tommy asked, following him.

Wilbur stepped up onto the curb. "Yes. Lying to customers isn't a popular or sustainable business practice. Besides, he has no reason to lie." Wilbur really hoped that was true. If not, things could go downhill very quickly. 

Tommy grumbled something that Wilbur didn't try to decipher and followed. It was good that Tommy was thinking of these things, Wilbur thought. It was better to be paranoid than dead in a ditch somewhere. Wilbur took one last glance up and down the street before pushing open the door and stepping inside.

A tinny bell above the door jingled as they entered. The room that greeted them was dim in an atmospheric sort of way without actually hampering visibility. It was close to empty, with only one or two people sitting at the bar and one gentleman slouched in a booth. A bald man stood behind the bar, tucking glasses onto the shelves. The air smelled of alcohol and some sort of lemony cleaner. A few ceiling fans twirled lazily overhead. Wilbur stepped out of the doorway, letting Tommy enter behind him. He glanced around again, keeping his body language casual. No security cameras, that he could see. Heavy shutters for the windows stored inconspicuously. A hallway near the bar, presumably to the storage, bathrooms, and emergency exit. No signs of something hidden, or of an ambush. Nothing out of place. Nothing that put his instincts on alert. Good.

"Welcome to Manifold's ," said the man behind the bar, not turning as Wilbur approached. "What can I get you?"

"A Cyprus Twist with lime, for table twenty-three, please," Wilbur said.

The man froze, then turned to look at them. He was younger than Wilbur had expected, with high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His nametag read ‘Jack,’ and he regarded them coolly, expression shuttered. "Ah," he said.

Wilbur noticed Tommy tense behind him. From the man's — Jack's — body language, it was quite possible he'd just realized who they were. Wilbur resisted the urge to twitch. They could not afford a scene.

"Table twenty-three neglected to mention that you would be his guests," Jack said.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Wilbur asked, more calmly than he felt.

Tommy shifted his weight, and Wilbur mentally willed him not to bolt or start a fight.

Jack narrowed his eyes at them, then glanced down the bar. The other patrons were engrossed in their own conversation. "Not if you don't make it a problem. I don't want the police crawling around in here. It’s awful inconvenient for everyone involved."

Wilbur inclined his head, smiling slightly. "Neither do we." That was a relief. Perhaps he had been right to trust that this would be neutral ground. For all the confidence he had projected to Tommy, he really hadn't been sure if they were walking into a trap. And it could still be a setup, he knew. There could be half a dozen mafia men around the corner, waiting to jump them, but at least the owner wasn't going to call the police. Or, at least, he wasn’t going to call the police that instant.

It was the little victories.

Jack settled the tray of glasses onto the counter behind the bar and wiped his hands on a rag. "This way, gents," he said, motioning them towards the hallway.

Wilbur followed Jack, keeping an eye on Tommy to make sure he didn't stray from behind him. The narrow hallway turned sharply, past the kitchens, and opened into a smaller dining room. A few high-backed circular booths were nestled into the corners, secluded from each other but not out of sight. There were no windows, only a few lamps on the walls, but there was a push bar door on the back wall. A fire exit, Wilbur assumed. Or a handy escape, should things go south. He was glad he wasn't trapped. The booths were empty except for one. In the far corner, sitting easily with his head tipped back against the seatback, was a man in a white hoodie, black striped sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal well-muscled forearms. His blonde hair was cropped short to fall artfully across his forehead and a heavy gold chain hung from his neck. The man, Punz, Wilbur knew, sat forward then stood as they approached, revealing stylishly ripped black jeans and white high-top sneakers. "Wilbur," he said, extending a hand. "A pleasure to meet you in person, finally."

Jack leaned on the booth, watching them.

Wilbur shook his hand. "Likewise, of course." Punz’s grip wasn't crushing, like so many who felt the need to prove their dominance in an interaction, or loose, like those who were nervous or antisocial. Instead it projected a simple confidence, a strength without the need to prove it. Wilbur matched him on instinct. A handshake could tell him a lot about a person, and people usually responded better when they assumed the person they were speaking with was like them. Matching handshakes was the first step to loosening tongues. Tricks of the trade. He'd taught Tommy that one a long time ago.

"I'll admit, I'm surprised. I didn't expect you to be able to make it, given the, ah, current climate."

Wilbur quirked his lips in a half smile. "If I was going to stand you up, I would have let you know." He and Tommy had considered it, but had decided that the information was worth the risk of leaving their safe house and the possibility of being ratted out or found.

"Who's your companion?" Punz asked. He slid his hands easily into his pockets but Wilbur didn't doubt that he was concealing a weapon.

"Oh, of course!" Wilbur said. He moved aside to let Tommy step forward. "Punz, meet Tommy Innit, my partner and protégé--"

"--I'm not your fucking sidekick, Wilbur--"

"--and Tommy, meet Punz."

Punz grinned and stuck a hand out to Tommy. "Nice to meet you."

Tommy glared at him and didn't take his hand. "Nice to meet you, too."

Punz didn't seem offended, to Wilbur's relief. He gestured to the booth. "Shall we sit?"

"I'll leave you to it, then," Jack said. He flipped open a notepad and clicked his pen. "Drink orders, gents?"

They ordered. Jack left them without a backward glance, saying that their drinks would be ready soon. They made idle chit-chat for a few minutes while they waited. Tommy kept an eye on the door and Wilbur watched Punz. They had talked it over beforehand. Wilbur would take the lead on talking, and Tommy would watch the environment and listen, and jump in if it was needed. They'd compare notes afterward. It was standard for them. The familiarity was comforting, after the tension of the past couple of days.

"So," Punz said once their drinks had arrived and Jack had retreated back to the bar. "Tell me what you need from me, and we can discuss terms and price."

Wilbur sipped his drink. "We're not here to ask you for a job. We need…information."

Punz crossed his arms. "Information? That's not what I usually deal in."

"I'm aware," Wilbur said. He set his glass down carefully. "I heard that you might be uniquely suited to answer the questions I have, which is why I reached out to you, as opposed to my other contacts."

Punz regarded him for a moment. "Elaborate."

Wilbur took a breath. Moment of truth. Revealing their full situation ran the risk of Punz deciding to sell them out, either to the police or to the mob. But Wilbur was more than willing to pay him for his silence, if that was what it took. And he felt somewhat confident that Punz would be interested. At least, he hoped so, if the information he had gotten about Punz's situation was correct. He told Punz their side of the story, about the framing and their suspicions, and their investigation. "So," he said when he finished. "That’s why we're here. I heard that you would be in a position to answer questions for me about the mob." He carefully kept his face blank. Tommy had turned from watching the door to focus on the conversation as well.

Punz nodded slowly, blue eyes focused on the middle distance. "I see. You're in, heh," he grinned, "you're in quite the fuckin’ pickle. Under more normal circumstances, I would be…extremely hesitant. But I've recently terminated my employment with them, and we aren't on the best of terms." A smile ghosted across his lips. "A touch of revenge wouldn't go amiss."

Tommy glanced at Wilbur, a question ready in his eyes. Wilbur knew what he was thinking, and nodded for him to ask.

"What happened between you?" Tommy asked.

Punz hesitated, taking a slow sip from his glass. "They asked me to do some shit that I didn't think should be done. When I refused, I was threatened. I left." He sighed, tracing a line through the condensation on the table. "There's a lot I do in my line of work, but I have rules. Some stuff is just…too far. They've been taking more and more steps recently that I don't agree with. Considering the circumstances, I'm not opposed to helping you."

Wilbur let out a breath, relaxing somewhat. It was still a risk to trust Punz, he knew. But they didn't have a lot of other options. "All right, then."

Punz drew himself out of his thoughts. "Well then. Let's set terms, and we can get down to business."

The agreement they settled on was fair, in Wilbur's opinion. About what he had anticipated, given their respective situations. Punz would answer any and all questions they asked honestly, though only to a depth that he was comfortable with and that wouldn't violate his sense of professional decency, in exchange for a thick roll of bills that Wilbur produced from the pocket of his trench coat. He had expected the price, but he still had to hide a wince handing it over. They only had so much cash that Wilbur had stored, and it wasn't as though he could walk into the bank and make a withdrawal. But it was all right. They had enough. In addition to the money, both sides were expected to maintain confidentiality and forget that they had ever seen each other. After the end of their conversation, neither Wilbur nor Tommy could contact him with more questions without first setting up a new meeting and discussing new terms. Punz took the roll of bills and set it on the table next to his drink, not pocketing it. Wilbur appreciated the gesture. The money was his, Punz was saying, but not before he had answered their questions.

"So," the blonde man said. He leaned back, sipping his drink. "What would you like to know?"

"It would be good to start with the basics, I think," Wilbur said. He pulled a pen and a small leather-bound notebook out of his pocket and thumbed to a new page. "Walk me through how it works. How it's laid out, who's in charge — if you can tell me that — what things I should look into, locations or people to check or to avoid. That sort of thing. I'll ask more specific questions as I have them."

Punz nodded. "Sure. I have to keep some things to myself, of course, but I'll tell you what I can. The mob is bigger than people think it is, but I'm sure you already know that. They have their fingers in just about every illegal pie in this city, and some out of town. There's not a huge amount to know about their structure, it's pretty standard. Lower-level grunts rarely know anything. They often don't know how far up it goes or that they're even working for the mob. Managers know more than that, and their bosses know more than that, and so on. The upper circle is where there's a clear differentiation."

"How so?" Wilbur asked. He kept his eyes on Punz as much as he could while taking notes.

"A lot of mobs are run by a certain family, right? It gets handed down and sometimes new blood comes in, but it's all a dynasty. It's different here. As far as I could tell, the upper circle isn't related to each other at all. Know each other very well, yes, but not related."

Wilbur nodded. "Who's at the top, then? I can't find more than rumors anywhere."

Punz smirked. "That's understandable. Very few people know who it is in any sense, let alone know his name or his face. He wears a mask when he meets with people. That's another thing that's different; usually, the head is present and well known, as an intimidation tactic. Or hubris. Or both." He set his glass down with a soft clink. "However, I worked directly with the inner circle. I met the guy once and heard more about him than most. Does the name 'Dream' mean anything to you?"

"There's a few stories floating around. He made a name for himself in contract work, as an independent, but was strongly suspected to be tied to this stuff. He doesn't have an actual name or a face on anything public. Just rumors and bodies. He dropped off the map a few years ago," Wilbur said. "What does he have to do with it?"

Punz smirked at him. "He's the head. According to what I've heard, he dropped off the map around the time he joined for keeps. As respected as he is, he was high up in the food chain. A few months later, something changes. The old head drops and Dream replaces him."

"Who was the old head?"

Punz shook his head. "Dunno. Nobody talks about him. Not in a 'he's forgettable' kind of way, but more in a 'if we talk about this we'll get our heads cut off' kind of way. Remember, this happened a couple of years ago. I joined a little while after he took power, so I don’t know anything about who was there before. Things were still settling while I was there, though. And Dream…it seems as though he had some different ideas for how things should work. He pushed for more involvement, darker business. He took risks, pushed for more power, more influence. Things got worse with his hands on the wheel."

"Did Dream replace the old head by force? Was it a coup?"

"I couldn't tell you. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don't actually have any idea. Nobody talked about it, and I wasn't about to go ask."

"So either the old head selected him as a replacement, or the old head is dead in a ditch somewhere and Dream took it by force."

Punz nodded at him. "And either way, it makes sense for them to be close-lipped about it. If people see him as weak, or just a replacement, it would be bad."

"What else can you tell me about the upper circle?"

"Not a lot. There's maybe six or so that are the top authorities, including Dream. When I met people face to face, I met with someone called 'George'. It may well not be his real name. But a lot of my interactions were digital or paper, and those came from George, someone called Ant, Dream himself, or were unsigned."

Wilbur hummed thoughtfully. Beside him, Tommy still had his eyes on the door, but he could tell that he was listening closely. He sipped his drink, considering what to ask next. "Is there anything you can tell me about the mob that would help me investigate them? Or that would help me make a case against them?"

Punz grimaced. "It's gonna be hard to get anything to stick, either to Dream, or someone else in the upper circle. Unless you get pretty much a signed confession, I seriously doubt that you'd be able to do it. They've got an army of lawyers, more money than anyone knows, and, apparently, absolutely no morals."

"Still. What can you tell me?"

The mercenary sighed. "They've got several fronts. Y'know, fake-ish companies that they hold but that all tie back to the. But their most used one is the Blackstone Collective. It's a well-known investment and procurement company. Or, at least, well known in those circles."

"Blackstone Collective…I've definitely seen that name in my research," Wilbur said slowly.

"If you see the Blackstone Collective, chances are that something's going on there. They have legitimate ventures, otherwise the government would have caught on by now, but there's an agenda with everything and a lot of hidden dealings. I can't really tell you more than that. Nothing I did was wide enough or far enough out in the open to involve me with their businesses." Punz grinned at him again. "I worked more on a personal, individual level."

Wilbur suppressed a shiver. That smile made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Punz was nice enough, but Wilbur reminded himself to be careful. There was a reason Punz had survived so long, and why those who opposed him didn't. He took the last swallow of his drink and set the empty glass down as he scribbled more notes.

Time passed quickly. Wilbur ran through the list of questions he and Tommy had prepared, asking follow-ups and clarifications as needed. He wrote in shorthand and code, making sure that he had enough to keep track of everything while ensuring that nothing on the pages was incriminating. Tommy continued to keep his eyes on the door, occasionally chiming in with a question or a muttered joke. It was out of character for him to be so quiet, Wilbur knew. Tommy was loud and brash by nature. His energy was one of the numerous things that Wilbur loved about him. But whether through self-restraint and professionalism or weariness, stress, and pain, Tommy was performing his role perfectly. Wilbur did hope it was the former, not the latter. He'd check in with him afterward to make sure he was doing all right.

The ice in their empty glasses was half-melted by the time Wilbur reached the end of the list. He twirled his pen between his fingers for a moment, thinking. "Punz," he said, "you don't have to have an answer to this, but…" he sighed. "Do you think they did it?"

Punz quirked an eyebrow at him. "Do I think the mob killed Quackity and framed you?"

Wilbur nodded.

Punz shrugged. "I think it's possible. I don’t have any evidence either way. It's crafty enough to be something they would do, for sure. But, yeah. I have no way to say for certain."

Wilbur nodded again. That was what he had expected, but it was some comfort that the mercenary didn't think they were on a wild goose chase. "I only have one other question."

Punz gestured for him to continue.

Wilbur watched him carefully. "If you were in our shoes, what would you do?"

Punz snorted. "Honestly? I'd run. You're in a hell of a tight spot here, Wilbur. Unless you've got something huge keeping you tied to this, you should run, and not look back until nobody's chasing you."

I want you to run and not look back. Don't wait for me. Don't turn around to see what's going on. Just run until there's nobody chasing you.

Wilbur shook the echoes of his own words out of his head. "Barring that."

"Barring that?" Punz chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Well, I'd figure out how to get myself clear. So for you, figure out how to get the police off of you. That'll be easier than getting the mob off you, and more likely to give you allies if you succeed. I guess that means clear your name, and in a way that doesn't involve bringing a multilevel criminal organization crashing down on your head." He held up a hand as Wilbur opened his mouth. "I'm not saying don't bring the mob down too, I'm saying that it'll be far easier to do one at a time. But, y'know. You do you."

Wilbur's lips quirked. "I had sort of figured that clearing my name would be a good step. I was wondering what you would do to accomplish that."

"Oh, you want to know what to do next?" Punz asked. He leaned back. "No idea. You're pretty well fucked over, man. Uh…I dunno. Maybe figure out the 'why.' Why you? Why now? Why…any of it? You probably need evidence of that to get anywhere."

They could work with that. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Well," he said. "I think that's all we have. Unless, Tommy, you have anything else to add?"

Tommy glanced at Punz and shook his head. "Nothing from me, big man. I think you covered it."

"In that case," Wilbur said, rising. Punz stood as well, pocketing the roll of cash from the table. He moved with the muscular grace that could only be found in experienced athletes. It was the look of someone who knew the exact limits of their body and knew from experience how to prove that their limits were higher than yours. "A pleasure doing business with you," Wilbur said. "This has been very helpful."

Punz smiled. It looked calculated, but not disingenuous. "Pleasure's all mine." He hesitated. "A piece of advice, on the house?"

Wilbur studied him. "Sure."

Punz licked his lips, choosing his words. "This, where you've found yourself, it's not going to be easy. Don't underestimate anyone. Not even yourselves."

Wilbur blinked. That was…not what he had expected. Did it mean something? Was there something Punz wasn't telling them? Was he trying to warn them? Or was he genuinely interested in their success? Things to consider. Always more angles, always more factors. Nothing was ever simple. "Thank you," Wilbur said simply.

Punz dipped his head. "You know how to get in touch with me." He tugged the hood of his jacket up to frame his face.

"Likewise," Wilbur responded. They shook hands again. Tommy led the way as he and Wilbur walked back down the hallway and out of the pub (or pube, as a voice in the back of Wilbur's head unhelpfully reminded him). They settled their tab with Jack on the way out. He didn't stop to exchange pleasantries, just took their money and nodded at the door.

"Well," Tommy said once they had determined that the coast was clear. "That was just loads of fun, wasn't it, big dubs?"

Wilbur half-smiled. "We learned good things, though."

"Eh," Tommy said. "That Jack fellow was a right bastard, wasn't he? Not very polite. Terrible customer service."

Wilbur laughed outright at that. "What are you going to do, leave one star on Yelp?"

"I could do!" Tommy said. "I can and I will! I'll leave a review so terrible that nobody will go back there again. They'll all look at it and go, no, we won't go there, that awesome poggers handsome guy on Yelp gave it a bad review, we won't go there, also the owner smells and is bald- "

Wilbur covered his mouth with a hand to hide his amusement.

"Stop laughing at me, bitch! You don't know my power!" Tommy shook a fist at him and puffed his chest out for emphasis.

" Manifold's Pub, no, sorry, Manifold's Pube, One Star, " Wilbur said between giggles. " Owner refused to make extended polite conversation with wanted criminals-- "

Tommy nearly doubled over at that, laughing hard enough to startle a nearby pigeon.

It took a few blocks before their mirth subsided. Wilbur wasn't going to shut it down. It had been a horribly stressful few days for both of them. It was nice to walk and talk and laugh like nothing was wrong, even if it was only for a few minutes. Once they did fall back into silence, however, Tommy spoke up.

"So that's step one done, then," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Step one was to meet with Punz and get information. What was step two?"

"We didn't have one," Wilbur replied.

"This is a pretty shit plan, Wil, if we can't even get past step one--"

"Let me finish, you gremlin!"

"I'm just saying! A plan with only one step isn't even a plan really, innit?"

"We didn't have one, yet ," Wilbur cut in. "We wanted to wait to see what we learned from Punz."

"…Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'."

"So what is step two, then?"

Wilbur glanced at him. "You were listening to the conversation. What do you think?"

Tommy thought for a minute. "He said to 'find the why.'"

"That he did."

"So now we find the why, and find evidence of it?"

"Precisely, Tommy," Wilbur said. His grin felt a little feral. He didn't mind. "Step two is getting our hands on some evidence."

Chapter Text

After their initial look at the case files and the Soot residence, Techno and Phil did, in fact, assemble a team. It wasn't a large team, but it was a good one. They had done cases without it before, but they agreed that this time it was necessary, despite Techno's preference for working alone or as just the two of them. After a quick brainstorm about what skills they needed they sent an email to Chief Greene, who immediately responded with the people he was assigning to them.

Techno was happy with it, honestly. There were four of them, in total, with an extra seat at the table if they needed it. He and Phil were in charge of the general investigative leads. Putting together clues, interviewing witnesses, finding evidence, all that stuff they glorified in the movies. One of their new teammates was Niki, the woman who had been in charge of the sweep of Soot's house and office. She was a rising forensics star, as it turned out. The petite woman was a force to be reckoned with. She was smart as a whip, fast, efficient, and seemingly incapable of making enemies. Niki was in charge of any lab work that needed doing, as well as wrangling other department resources for them, which she somehow managed to do without ever raising her voice above the calm and polite cadence she'd had when they met. It had barely been a day since they'd been assigned the case, and already she was invaluable.

Their other teammate was named Ranboo. He was newer on the force, only having graduated less than a year ago, but he, like Niki, was rapidly becoming well recognized for his skills. He was their tech wizard. If anything needed hacking, decoding, or translating, he was their guy. He could work magic with computer programs unlike anything Techno had seen before. Apparently he and his roommate were both tech nerds, and helped keep each other sharp. Techno had seen his work on a case a few months ago; he had taken incomplete data from three separate sources, combined it with digitally enhanced footage and a dash of witchcraft or something, and produced a file strong enough to convict.

Ranboo was why they were gathered, at the moment. He had broken through on something, apparently, while Techno and Phil had been chasing a facial recognition hit from a security camera that morning, and he wanted to show all of them. Techno watched as he fiddled with the projector adapter. The kid was taller than he was, which was saying something, but had the proportions of a stick insect. He was all legs and arms and elbows and knees. His dyed black and white hair flopped across his forehead, and he kept pushing it back out of the way as he clicked and typed at the laptop he had connected to the projector.

"Okay, um," he said, pressing a final button.

Techno sat with his feet planted solidly on the ground, fidgeting idly with one of the plastic cubes that Phil had gotten him for Christmas. Phil sat in the chair to the left of the conference room table, Niki to the right. Phil motioned for him to go on.

Ranboo nodded. "So. During the first sweep of Soot's house, we didn't find much."

"That's right," Niki said. "Nothing that was anything close to evidence, anyway."

"Right. We assume that whatever they had, they took with them. But what they couldn't take was the computer." He clicked something else on the computer, and the projector screen lit up. Ranboo pointed at a sheet of numbers and serial codes that meant absolutely nothing to Techno. "Here were the specifics of what he had, which I…am now realizing does not explain anything to you at all. Uh. Here. Let me --" He clicked something else and the screen switched again, to show a picture of a PC. "This is his computer before we disassembled it. Uh, without giving you all of the details, it's a very good computer. Like, really good."

Niki hummed. "Nobody was able to get anything off of it on scene."

Ranboo nodded. "Exactly. Even basic level stuff was password and fingerprint protected, and anything more than that had several layers of security, including passwords, facial detection, and other encryption. It took me a while to get through it, and once I did, not everything was intact."

Techno frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that whoever set up Soot's computer, whether it was him or someone else, was smart. If I touched the wrong thing or was too slow, it started eating away the data to keep hackers from seeing it. So by the time I fought my way through the defenses…there was a lot of stuff missing. Uh. Some of it looked intentional, like he'd been in the process of wiping the computer when he had to run, but some of it was definitely just a code deleting bits until it thought it wouldn't be salvageable."

High computer security. Much higher than an average citizen, higher than would be expected for his job. Was Soot hiding something? Or just paranoid? 

"But you got something?" Niki asked.

Ranboo grinned. "I did. A lot of the security systems were pretty similar to what I know and what I practice with, which, I want to note, is a lot more advanced than anything we use around here. Honestly we should probably start upgrading our things. It's not that it would be easy to hack into, but, uh, yeah. It's not the best that's out there."

"Okay," Phil said, "noted. But what did you find, Ranboo?"

"Ooh! Right. Okay. So. After a lot of very cool hacking that was very impressive, I pulled together some stuff that we might find useful. First, I got some email logs. A lot of it was corrupted, and a lot of the readable things weren't related to this. But. There was one thread between a secondary, temporary email of his and another temporary email that I traced back to someone you might know." Ranboo switched the projector screen again, showing a file of a man with pale blond hair. The photo was grainy as if shot from a distance. Aside from the photo, the file was, well, lacking in a lot of details.

Techno leaned in. "Punz," he growled. The man had popped up many times in distant connection to some of their cases but there was never enough to arrest him, let alone lock him up for good.

"Who's that?" Niki asked.

"Hired hitman and mercenary," Phil said.

"He's been on contract with the Mob for a while now, accordin' to our sources," Techno added.

"But there's been rumors recently that he cut ties with them," Phil said, nodding.

Techno looked over at him. "Wait, really?"

"Yep," Phil said. "Dunno how much of it is true, mate, but that's what my people are saying."

"Wait, so, you two just…have people? In the mob? That tell you this stuff?" Ranboo asked incredulously.

Techno snorted. "No."

"It's more complicated than that," Phil explained. "It usually boils down to 'a friend of a friend of an ally heard a rumor at a nightclub' or something like that, but if enough of those stack up it can mean something."

Ranboo nodded, glancing between them. "Oh. Okay."

"All right, so," Techno said, "Soot emails back and forth with this guy. Do we know what they said?"

"And how do you know it was him in the first place?" Niki asked.

"I know it was him because of a lot of computer-y stuff I did that would put you to sleep if I explained it. In very simple language, I found a unique footprint connected to him and traced it around until I found something visible, then put the pieces together from there."

"But you're sure it's him?" Phil asked.

"As sure as possible. It would be really freaking hard to duplicate some of this stuff. And, he shouldn’t even know that I know." He clicked another few keys. "As for what it was that he said, unfortunately, a lot of it was corrupted. But what I was able to get has a few snippets about a meeting, presumably between the two of them." The projector screen changed again, showing a transcribed readout frequently interrupted by "[data corrupted]" markers.

Techno read it carefully. Ranboo's assessment had been right. There wasn't a lot to go on, but they were talking about or arranging some sort of meeting. He scanned it again, trying to tease apart what might be missing in the corrupted lines.

"They're dated both before and after Quackity's death," Niki observed.

Phil hummed an agreement.

"So Soot's meetin’ with a Mob enforcer?" Techno asked, partially rhetorically.

"Possibly already has met with 'em," Phil said.

"You have any idea where or when they were supposed to meet?" Techno asked Ranboo.

The young man shook his head. "Not much. There was one date but no time and no location that I was able to retrieve. The date could have been something else entirely, or an out-of-context misread by the computer."

"And the date was…?" Niki asked.

"Uh --" Ranboo scanned the readout. "Oh. Um. Today."

Phil inhaled. "That camera hit could have been accurate, then." That morning Phil and Techno had driven halfway across town after an ATM camera alerted them to a possible sighting. The ATM camera had only gotten a partial frame, not enough to be solid, but a local store camera had clocked a tall, hat-wearing, brown-haired man walking with a younger blonde boy at close to the same time. The angle was wrong to see if it had been them, but it had been possible. Techno had chalked it up to a small data point to try and use to find their possible location but hadn’t gone beyond that.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. More pieces. More puzzles to assemble. "Right. All right. So. Soot gets in contact with a mob enforcer."

"Do we know who contacted whom first?" Phil queried.

Ranboo shook his head. "It's unclear from what I have."

"Soot gets in contact with a mob enforcer," Techno continued. "They discuss a few things, nothing incriminating that we can see, and possibly start to arrange some sort of meeting. A few days later, camera footage puts Soot at the scene of Quackity's death. The next few days, he keeps talkin' with the enforcer, and goes to meet with him today, probably around the time or area we got him on the cameras."

There were a few moments of silence as everyone thought.

"Do we think the mob hired him to kill Quackity, then?" Niki asked.

Phil sighed. "It was something we were considering. But this makes it look a lot more likely. He gets instructions either through these emails or some other means, then needs to meet with the enforcer to get paid."

"Or he was meeting with Punz for some other reason," Ranboo said.

"I don't think he has another open case right now that would warrant that," Niki said.

Techno sighed. "Especially since Punz is not easy to find or contact, and he's currently wanted in at least four cities. I think Phil is right."

Phil shook his head slowly, thinking. "Why hire him for that, though? Why hire a detective to murder someone when you have goons that could do it? I mean, Punz himself could have done it."

"Did Soot have a personal stake in it, maybe?" Niki asked.

Ranboo hummed. "That's not a bad thought. Maybe Soot had, like, other reasons to kill Quackity and was trying to collect a bounty as a bonus. I don't remember seeing any, uh, personal connections between the two of them in the files, but that doesn't mean they don't exist."

"Motive," Techno muttered. "We don't have motive. We need that, otherwise it doesn't work."

"Sure, but," Phil said, "the evidence is strong without it, mate. If we catch him, it would be very hard for him to get out of the charges."

Techno tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Somethin's still not addin' up for me, though."

"What?" Niki asked.

"Ranboo, how many tip calls and facial recognition hits have we gotten in the past 24 hours?"

"Uh," Ranboo typed something, then pulled up a map of the city. "Tips trailed off somewhat overnight, then picked up again this morning, but that's usual. Facial recognition got a couple of partial hits the day he ran first, then nothing, and then the one you chased this morning. No other false alarms or hits.”

"He's--" Techno cut himself off, trying to find the right words. "Soot's not running."

"I mean," Ranboo said, drawing out the word. "Last I checked he wasn't in the holding cells so. Uh. Seems like he's running to me, I dunno--"

"No, no," Techno said, "I know he's not cooperatin' , but he's not running."

Phil raised an eyebrow at him.

"He's not leavin' town. Assuming the security camera was right, he was in downtown meetin' with people this mornin'. A lot of smart criminals would be booking it for the hills."

"And Soot's not dumb," Niki continued, following his train of thought, "so something's keeping him here."

Phil pursed his lips. "Like what?"

Techno shrugged. "Dunno. We don't have a motive for the murder, so I don't know why he might be stickin’ around. Maybe the Mob's gonna protect him. Maybe he doesn't have somewhere to run. Maybe he's got an ego the size of the moon and thinks he doesn't need to run."

"Hubris," Ranboo said slowly, thinking.

"Exactly. Or it could be somethin' else entirely. I don't know."

Phil sighed. "Well. At least we learned new things today."

"Heh," Techno chuckled.

Ranboo closed his laptop. "I'm, uh, gonna see if there's anything else I can scavenge out of Soot's devices. I have a better idea of what I'm up against now."

Niki nodded. "I'll try and find more things about his personal backstory, or Quackity's. Maybe that will help."

Phil nodded. "Keep in touch if you find anything we should know about."

They nodded and left.

Techno stood up, pacing back and forth to let his mind work. Phil stared off into space, also thinking. The room was quiet except for Techno's footfalls and the faint hum of the air conditioning.

"They can't hide forever, mate," Phil said eventually. "We'll get them."

Techno nodded. It was true. Any time they were picked up on a public camera or one that was routed to the police, they'd be spotted. Any time they walked into a store, tried to board a train or a bus, people would see them. They couldn't hide forever. But it wasn't a waiting game, not really. No. It was a strategy game. Where would Soot move? What cards would he play?

Techno sat back down and pulled out his laptop. For the time being, he would read. He would study. Soot was human, same as them. A damn smart human, maybe a little crazy, but human. He would learn as many of the nooks and crannies of his mind as he could get his hands on. If you know your enemy and know yourself, he recited in his head, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

This was a game. It was a battle. A battle of wits, perhaps, played across the city. Techno was not going to lose.

Chapter Text

Evidence, as it turned out, was not easy to find.

That stood to reason, honestly. If it was easy to find, it would have been found already. But still. Why did the evil organized crime ring have to be so careful about their paper trails? It wasn't very cool or considerate or poggers or Big Man of them.

After their meeting with Punz, Wilbur and Tommy had spent the day trying to pull together what scraps they could find to actually build a case. Their goal was to clear Wilbur's name, and, as Punz said, if they could do that without toppling a Jenga crime tower that would probably be simpler. But, they had scarily little to work with. As Wilbur had said, pacing back and forth in front of the couch, they needed something tangible, something foundational. But in order to piece together anything, like who had actually been the one to physically kill Quackity, and who had told them to do it, and who had orchestrated the framing, they needed more information. Specifically, information that was very much not available online. It was all well and good to use public access records and other bits of information to make a case. But, sometimes, there was no substitute for the real deal.

Which was why they were standing in the shadows, staring across a modest parking lot at a large, cinder block warehouse. Tommy shifted his weight, glancing around as subtly as he could. There was still nobody in sight. He grimaced. "Wilbur," he asked, "are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Unless you've come up with anything better in the last forty-five minutes," Wilbur said dryly, "this is what we're doing."

Tommy groaned. He hadn’t come up with anything better, even though he’d spent the whole walk thinking about it. "This is a bad fucking idea, Wilbur."

"Your objections are noted."

The warehouse across the parking lot from them cast a dull shadow in the fading light. The squat, two-story building wasn't an unfamiliar sight to Tommy. He'd been there with Wilbur before, a few months ago, on a different case. The warehouse was one of a few in the area, located at the edge of a large train yard. Others were used by large businesses or shipping companies for storage. This one was emblazoned with the badge and star in dark blue paint over the door.

It was the Police Department Evidence Storage facility.

Any evidence, physical or digital, from any open case, or any case that had been open in the past twenty years, was stored in the warehouse. All of it was digitized, too, of course, so that officers could access it without having to drive down from the precinct. But the actual, tangible evidence, as well as printouts of case files and other documents, were all neatly sorted, packaged, organized, and secured in the evidence lockup warehouse. And it was secure. It had to be, to prevent any random person from tampering with a case. There were small windows high up on the walls, fronted with iron bars. The main door was accessible from the parking lot, but other side doors were locked from the outside, covered by cameras, and would trip alarms if they were opened.

The last motes of sunset painted the parking lot and train yard in dusky indigo. Off to their right, cargo containers sat in blocky piles. Unused train cars waited on long stretches of track, empty of cargo containers or with the boxcar doors standing open. Dusk could make anywhere feel strange, like it had dropped out of time itself, but the warehouses and the parking lot, the train yard with its unfamiliar silhouettes, was unnerving. Or maybe Tommy was just getting paranoid.

Dusk was better than nighttime, Wilbur had said. They weren't going to pull this off without setting off alarms. For just the two of them, with next to no resources, that was impossible. But they could damn well make sure that it was hard to get to them. So. Dusk. Rush hour, for the rest of the city. Even with lights and sirens, streets packed full of cars were hard for cops to maneuver in.

"Are you ready?"

Tommy swallowed. "We stick to the plan, big man."

Wilbur nodded.

Tommy glanced at him. "I'm serious. No fuckin' improv, okay? Something's gonna go wrong anyway, we don't have to make it worse."

Wilbur rolled his neck. "'Course, Toms. We'll keep it simple. In and out."

"I can't believe the things I do for you. I don't get paid enough for this."

"We're not getting paid at all for this."

"I want my wages to double, then."

Wilbur grinned. "I'll triple them."

"Oh, poggers!" Tommy said, smiling humorlessly. "All right. Time?"

"Nineteen forty-three."

"Cool. Our watches are still synced, then." They would be on a time limit from the moment they stepped into view of a camera. It was a good thing Tommy was a verified speedrunner. Obviously, that would help him here. He was truly one of the greats. Just such a fantastic individual. He settled his face, getting into character. "All right. Here we go. I got this. Time for another performance by the great Thomas Innit."

He pulled the hood of his jacket farther over his head, for what little good it would do, as he stepped out and half jogged half walked across the parking lot. He made sure to keep out of direct line of sight of the glass entrance door of the building and kept his face tilted down enough to give the cameras a hard time, but he knew there wasn't any hiding. He sensed more than heard Wilbur behind him. Tommy stepped up to the glass door, fixing his features into his best Innocent Good Samaritan Teenager face. Wilbur leaned on the wall next to the door, out of the line of sight.

"Hello?" Tommy called, rapping his knuckles on the door. He let a bit of a tremor into his voice. "Hello? Hello?? Is someone there? Can you help me? Please??"

Through the glass, he could see a security guard behind the desk. There was a plexiglass shield between him and the entrance room. The desk itself was level with a metal security door which, Tommy knew, was the only way to get into the rest of the warehouse. The guard, a short, rather pudgy, brown-haired fellow, frowned out at him.

Tommy wetted his lips in a nervous fashion and looked over his shoulder at something in the parking lot. Well, there wasn't anything there, really, but the guard didn’t know that. The cameras couldn't see over there. He knocked on the glass again. "Hey, man, you're a police officer, right? I could really use your help out here, please--" He cut himself off, running his hand over his face and looking back to the lot.

The guard hesitated, then pressed a button on the desk. The door buzzed, unlocking. Damn it. That was good, but not what they needed. Tommy smiled with mock relief and stepped away from the door, trying to put an anxious bounce in his step. He turned more of his body to face the parking lot again and looked around before looking back at the guard. "Are you-- can you come help? Please? I really need your help, man." He assumed the guard could hear him.

The guard frowned again, then pushed himself up from his chair. He pressed another button on the desk and pushed the security door open, walking slowly towards the glass door. Tommy made sure to keep his face partially hidden by the hood as much as he could.

The guard pushed open the door and stepped out, one hand resting at something on his belt. "Hey, kid, what's going on--" he started to ask.

He was interrupted by Wilbur, who dodged around the corner and grappled the man with lighting speed. Wilbur was tall, but he was far from skinny. Whipcord muscle from years of training and self-defense powered his strike. The guard had no time to react before Wilbur had him pinned, one arm trapped and the other twisted uncomfortably behind his back. "Sorry about this, mate," Wilbur said, genuinely. "Had to be done. Don't struggle and this won't hurt, okay?"

Tommy grabbed the door and held it open before it could swing shut.

"Gods, fuck!" the man swore, kicking ineffectively at Wilbur's ankle. 

"Come on, in we go," Wilbur said, maneuvering the man back through the doorway.

The guard was struggling, panting hard, but it wasn't much use. Wilbur had a significant height (and leverage) advantage. Tommy pulled the door shut behind them but didn't lock the deadbolt. They were going to need to get out quickly. He grinned at the guard as Wilbur wrestled him into a chair. "I cannot believe you fell for that. I can't believe it. I can't believe this is fucking working."

"Tape his arms, Tommy, we're on the clock here," Wilbur said through gritted teeth, holding the man in place.

Tommy grabbed the roll of duct tape from Wilbur's pocket and started securing the guard as best he could. His shoulder twinged occasionally when he moved too fast or jostled the sling, but he pushed it down.

Wilbur snagged the man's keycard from the front of his shirt once he was secure. "You're not hurt, are you?" he asked.

The guard glared at him. "You are breaking the law. Release me at once."

Tommy snorted. "I think this might be the least of our crimes at the minute."

"Shut up, Tommy," Wilbur said. "The guard isn't hurt," Wilbur continued as he crossed the room to the security door, speaking to nobody in particular. "I can assure you, we aren't here to do any harm."

"Who the fuck are you talking to?" Tommy asked.

"Security cameras are still rolling," Wilbur said. He waved to one up in the corner. "Hi, gents! It’s me!"

"For fuck's sake," Tommy said.

Wilbur buzzed them past the security door with the guard's card. Tommy moved to the far side of the room, pulling open a breaker box. He was greeted by a panel of switches labeled with little letters and numbers that he didn’t understand and didn’t really care about. The master switch was red. Perfect.

Wilbur sat down in the guard's chair and clicked into the desktop, typing rapidly. Tommy checked his watch again. Nineteen forty-seven. Not bad.

"I know who you are," the guard said, glaring at them from his assigned seat.

"Ooo, figured it out, have you?" Wilbur said absently. "Congrats, man. Glad you're caught up."

"The cameras have your faces now. The police will be here in a few minutes."

Tommy shifted at the reminder. Facial detection software was something the police had invested a lot of money into. It was, well, really good. But not perfect, he reminded himself. It needed a couple of minutes to verify images and confirm them with database files. They had time, right? And the police still had to drive all the way down here. They had time.

"I'm well aware," Wilbur said. He clicked something. "Found it," he muttered. "Give me another sec, Toms, there's something else I want to check."

Tommy whirled on him. "Wilbur! What happened to 'we are on the clock,' hmmm??"

"Don't worry, it’s fine!" He typed something else, clicked, and flicked his eyes over the page. "See? Found it already." He glanced up at the camera in the corner. "We're only here to look, not to tamper or steal, okay?"

Tommy sighed. "I'm pulling the switch, now."

"Okay. The computer's probably just about sorted out who we are, anyway." Wilbur stood up, moving back towards the door.

"Let there be darkness," Tommy said, and flicked the master switch.

The room went black.

The sound of an alarm going off shattered the relative silence of the conference room. Phil jumped, pressing a hand over his heart. "Oh, Gods." Then the noise actually sunk in. It had come from his phone, but also from across the room. Phil whipped his head around to look at Techno. "Is that…?"

Techno was staring at something on his phone screen. "See for yourself," he said.

Phil reached over and picked up his phone. A new notification blared at him from the lock screen as he hastily turned off the sound.

[now] !!ALERT!! Facial Detection Systems have recognized

Wilbur Soot

Thomas Innit

with 99% accuracy. Ping originated fro…

[tap to open full message]

"Uh, Phil," Techno said as Phil opened the alert. "Is this address where I think it is?"

Phil read the message, then read it again. "Uh. That's the address for…oh, shit. That's the address for the evidence warehouse."

Techno was moving before Phil even finished the sentence. "Fantastic. Super. What fun."

Phil stood hurriedly and shrugged on his coat. "I'll get reinforcements."

Techno grabbed the keys that Phil tossed his way. "I'll grab our things and meet you at the car."

Phil nodded. It seemed that their night was going to get a lot more interesting.

"This way, I think," Wilbur said, rounding another corner. Tommy followed him, flashlight casting a wide beam around his feet and ankles. The rows of metal shelves on either side of them glinted in the light as they moved past. Tommy glanced at one of the plaques one the end of the row. They were close. "Hurry up, bitch," he muttered. It came out quieter than he meant it to be. Nerves made his shoulders tense and his fingers fidget with his cuticles.

Wilbur padded down the row and stopped, setting his flashlight on the shelf behind him so that it illuminated the boxes stacked before them. Every shelf held lines of large, uniform, plastic tubs, each opaque and snapped carefully closed, each labeled with a series of letters and numbers that corresponded to the case it represented. Wilbur reached up carefully and tugged down one from the shelf level with his head. Other people might have needed a stepstool, but they were just Too Cool For That.

Wilbur set the box on the ground carefully and crouched next to it to unlatch the lid. Tommy pulled their small camera out of his pocket with one hand and aimed his flashlight at the box with the other hand.

They'd struck gold.

Tommy could see printouts of crime scene photos, some kind of day journal, a binder, a few folders, a cut-glass tumbler in an evidence bag, and other assorted odds and ends. He grinned.

Wilbur looked up at him. "I'd say we found some evidence." He dug in his pocket and produced two pairs of nitrile gloves.

Tommy grabbed a pair and fumbled them on. "Yeah, big man, I think we did. Pull it out." He checked his watch again. It was fine. They were making good time. Nothing to worry about.

Wilbur started unloading things from the box. Tommy moved to stand behind him, snapping pictures of things as Wilbur laid them out.

The first things out of the box were crime scene photos. They showed a kitchen, a pretty expensive kitchen, and the surrounding scene. There was a knife block on the counter, knocked over, with a few of the smaller blades scattered where they had fallen across the polished black granite. A slot for one of the larger knives was conspicuously empty. There were a few dishes stacked next to the sink, and a glass tumbler next to them, beads of water on its surface reflecting the light of the camera's flash. A pot on the stove had the handle of a spoon sticking out of it. There was an empty box of mac and cheese on the counter next to it with its empty cheese powder packet tossed haphazardly on top. On the other side of the kitchen, a dining table sat under a hanging light fixture. It looked as though Quackity had been in the middle of working. There were papers laid out in rows on the table, with bright yellow highlighter lines visible from the camera's perspective. Below the papers, that day journal sat open, a few of the pages lifting as though trying to close. There was a novel pushed to the side, marked with a bookmark. Tommy could see the binder on the table too, open to a page near the back. Another of the tumblers sat on the table, containing a few fingers of amber liquid.

And, there was a corpse on the floor. A man, Quackity, lay face down on the ground in a pool of red. He was wearing a beanie that hid most of his hair. He wasn't wearing the sharp suit Tommy had seen in pictures. But that made sense, he supposed. The guy was at home, after all. Surely nobody was up their own arse enough to wear a suit around the house for no reason. Instead, Quackity was wearing a dark blue hoodie and black sweatpants. The hoodie was stained dark around several torn holes across his back. Tommy swallowed hard and glanced away.

Wilbur rose suddenly. "Keep taking pictures of all this, Tommy," he said. He clapped Tommy on the shoulder.

Tommy looked up at him, frowning. "What--?"

Wilbur stepped over the box and grabbed his flashlight from the shelf. "Don't worry about it. I'm just going to go check something else, okay?"

"Wilbur!" Tommy cried. "We don't have time for this! We're supposed to stick to the plan!"

"I had an idea, that's all," Wilbur said, starting to walk back up the aisle.

"Fucking-- no, Wilbur. No improv." Now was not the time. And Wilbur had promised not to do anything stupid. Tommy was feeling tense enough as it was without adding more complications to the plan on the fly.

"It'll be fine, Toms, just trust me, okay? We have plenty of time. I'll be back in, like, three minutes, tops."

"What the fuck are you even doing?? All the evidence is right fucking here, dickhead," Tommy said, gesturing with the flashlight.

Wilbur spun, now walking backward, and flicked his hair out of his face with a toss of his head. His dark trench coat flared as he spread his arms in an apologetic shrug. The light of their flashlights threw harsh shadows across his face. "Every second we spend arguing is a second we're not spending getting this evidence," he said smugly.

Tommy growled in frustration. "You promised me, bitch."

"I'll be back," he said, rounding the corner. The light of his flashlight bobbed out of view as his footsteps echoed away against the concrete floor.

Tommy glared at the corner and tried not to grind his teeth.

"Can't you drive faster, old man?"

"Techno, we are in traffic. I can't fix traffic."

"We're the police, we can go around!"

"I can't drive on the sidewalk, Techno!"

"That's quittin' talk--"

"There's trees in the way! And pedestrians!"

"I don't care! Soot's not just twiddlin' his thumbs! He’s sabotagin’ the case! We gotta go! "

"We have the lights and sirens on! People are trying to get out of the way, but there's not a lot they can do. Niki and Ranboo are right behind us, and so are two more cars full of officers. SWAT will get there a little while after we do. Not much else we can do."

"You drive like a grandpa."

"I drive safely and well enough to suit our needs. You drive like someone convinced they are immortal."

"To be fair, we've never actually proven that I can die--"

"--and we'll keep it that way. We're almost there. Check in with the other cars."

"D'you get a senior citizen discount at stores yet?"

"-- Shut! "

Tommy only wasted a few seconds seething. What a bitch. What an absolute dick move. What could Wilbur possibly have thought of that would require him to fuck with the plan like that? Maybe the same thing he had taken a second to look up, Tommy guessed. That should have tipped him off, but he had had other things to worry about. He growled and turned back to the box. Wilbur would be back. They had time.

Tommy pulled a few more things out of the box. First came a binder, what looked like the same binder he had seen on the table. He thumbed through it quickly. It looked like financial records of some kind. Shit. He didn’t have time to photograph every page. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He glanced at the crime scene photos again. On the table, the binder was open to a page near the back. Well. It was better than nothing. He skimmed through the binder, stopping to photograph any page with highlighted text without really reading it, and tried to find whatever Quackity had been studying. He couldn't tell what page it was, exactly, but the highlights started to get more and more frequent, so he settled for just taking pictures of as many pages as he could. It was tedious, but he tried not to speed through it.

Once he was done, he set the binder to the side and reached into the box again. Out next came the leather-bound day journal. He pulled it open. First, he photographed the page that held the full month spread. There wasn't much there. A few notes about work-related things, meetings and such. He flipped through the weeks. A lot of notes, which he snapped pictures of. Nothing much stood out to him. On one of the Tuesdays, a sentence was circled that read, "pull records for W." Tommy assumed that referred to the things Wilbur had asked Quackity to find for him. He turned the page. Ah, and there was the interesting stuff. Lines in pencil, rather than pen, marked out someone else's schedule alongside his own. The Mayor's schedule, Tommy gathered. It was packed pretty full, with only a few pockets of time left open. One was circled with red and had a note reading "Talk to Schlatt about findings" next to it.

It was scheduled for the morning after he was murdered.

Tommy sat back on his heels, mind reeling. Holy shit. Was that what had gotten him killed? Had he been researching something that the mob didn’t want him to know? Was it a coincidence that he'd been killed the night before that appointment, or were they connected? Who else has access to his schedule? Who else had access to his notes? Had the police put any of this together? Well, he assumed they had. The Police weren’t complete idiots. Usually. But still.

What was the information that people were willing to kill for?

Phil kicked the door of the cruiser shut behind him as he strapped on his tac vest. Techno, beside him, performed similar gear checks. The headlights from the cars lit up the parking lot, casting harsh shadows in the twilight. "Right," Phil called, taking the lead. He pointed to four of the other officers. "You, you, you, and you. Cover the external doors. Anything moves and I hear about it. Anything tries to escape and you detain it." They nodded and moved out, hands near their guns.

Techno handed Phil an earpiece, which he plugged in. "Techno, you and I go through the front with everyone else. If it's clear, we bring in Niki and Ranboo to see what we can see." Said other members of their team were pulling on their own gear as they waited for the muscle to go first. 

The earpiece crackled to life as Ranboo fiddled with a few switches. “Check, check,” the young man said. “Can you hear me? This is D.KAT radio, here to bring you tonight’s hits: best songs for committing crime--”

“Hear you loud and clear, Ranboo,” Niki’s voice said. There was scattered laughter from other officers.

“You’re all set, Phil,” Ranboo said, shooting him a thumbs up from across the lot. 

Phil nodded his thanks. “Anything from the external doors?” he asked.

A chorus of ‘no’s and ‘all clear’s answered him. “Looks like the lights are off inside, though,” one officer said.

Techno nodded. "I'll take point on the main entrance."

"You always do." Phil chuckled. "This feels like the old days."

Techno grinned sharply at him and started walking towards the front doors, pressing the button to mute his comms. "All your days are old days, Phil."

Phil rolled his eyes, also muting himself momentarily. "That joke is going to get--"

"Old?"

"I swear to the Gods."

The remaining officers formed up in a loose V shape in the parking lot. Techno stepped into the front. "No red capes, Phil."

No red capes. It was something they'd started saying years ago but that had stuck. No red capes had two meanings.  No heroics, and watch each other's backs. If you try and wear a red cape, your buddy's cape gets stained red. "No red capes," Phil agreed.

They entered the building with practiced efficiency. Some officers swept high, some swept low, all holding lights and batons steady as they moved aside to let other officers in. Phil followed when he heard Techno call an ‘all clear.’

The lobby was dark except for the lights of the officer’s flashlights. “Took you guys long enough,” an unidentified voice said. Phil turned to regard them. He was in uniform. The desk guard, then. Techno was helping him peel strips of duct tape off of his wrists. “They’re still in the warehouse, I think,” the guard said. “Thick walls, so they might not know you’re here yet.” At that, two officers took up positions on either side of the door.

Phil nodded. “They hurt you?”

The guard shook his head. “Nothing that’ll last.”

“Good.”

“Lights are off,” Techno said to comms. “Looks like someone cut power. Ranboo--”

“I’m on it,” he called. He appeared at the door shortly afterward. Officers finished sweeping the room and he plopped down behind the desk. Niki followed behind him, holding a forensics kit. “Tricksy,” Ranboo mumbled, examining the computer and breaker box. “They cut power to, um, to turn the cameras off. We don’t have any idea where they are.”

“Can you fix it?” Phil asked. 

“Oh, easily,” Ranboo said. “Let me know when you’re, uh, ready to go in, and I’ll give you eyes and lights.” He leaned back in the desk chair, spinning lazily and grinning at them, hands steepled. “I’ll be your ‘guy in the chair.’”

Techno snorted.

Phil nodded, rolling his shoulders. “All right. Let’s go.”

Tommy had finished photographing the last of the evidence and was replacing it carefully when Wilbur reappeared. He was announced by his flashlight and his pattering footsteps against the concrete. Tommy glared up at him. "Welcome back, bitchboy."

Wilbur ignored him. "You ready?"

Tommy snapped the lid back onto the box. "Yes. Took me longer than it would have with two people, dickhead."

"But you're done now, no harm, no foul, now move your arse and let's get out of here." Wilbur helped him lift the box back up onto the shelf.

"Did you find what you were looking for, at least?" Tommy asked sarcastically.

Wilbur smirked loftily. "I did, thank you. I'll show you when we get back to the safehouse."

Tommy nodded. "Let's go--"

There was a series of dull clicks followed by a low hum, and suddenly the warehouse was thrown into sharp illumination. Tommy threw up an arm to shield his eyes and felt his bad shoulder twinge as it tried to do the same.

Then it actually sunk in. The lights were back on.

Someone had turned on the power again.

That was really not good.

Tommy turned to Wilbur, who had frozen as the lights came back. He shook himself out of it in an instant. "Shit," he whispered.

Tommy couldn't agree more.

"Exits are on the left and right," Wilbur rattled off from memory. Tommy nodded along. Wilbur had told all of this to him before they had come in.

At the front of the warehouse, a pair of doors slammed open. "Police!" gruff voices bellowed. "Come out slowly with your hands raised!"

Tommy gulped. Well, fuck.

Chapter Text

Tommy gulped. Well, fuck.

This was not the plan. This had never been the plan. The plan was for them to leave, for them to be long fucking gone before the cops showed up. The plan had been really fucking simple! In, photos, out. And Wilbur had fucked them over.

Godsdamnit.

Wilbur's head whipped towards the sounds of the police. His eyes flickered over the shelves and lights. Tommy could see the gears spinning lightning fast in his head. Despite the instincts telling him to run, to run run runrunrun, he waited. Seconds flickered by too fast to count, yet also slower than honey. "Right," Wilbur muttered, taking a couple of steps backwards and grabbing Tommy's arm. "Right. Okay. Uh. Right."

Tommy stepped backward with him, keeping an ear open for footfalls. "Wil," he murmured, keeping his voice soft. "We need a plan here, big man."

"We know you're here," a voice called from an aisle dangerously close to them, calm but firm. "Come out with your hands up and you will not be hurt."

Wilbur's lips moved as he thought, forming and discarding possible ideas faster than Tommy could track. They kept stepping backward.

"Wilbur," Tommy said urgently. 'Exits to the left and right' wasn't a plan. It was a helpful piece of information, but that was it. Wilbur was the logistics man, for Gods sakes. Tommy felt cold tendrils of panic start to crawl up his gut. He didn't want to get caught. He didn't want to get caught, or shot, or thrown in jail, or separated from Wil. He really, really, did not want to be here. But he held his nerve as bootsteps thudded towards them. Wilbur had a plan. He always had a plan. He always had many plans, layered on top of each other like a plan lasagna with extra thinking sauce and logic cheese.

He had skipped dinner accidentally, but now really wasn't the time to fix that.

"Okay," Wilbur whispered suddenly. "Simple plan. Easy plan. Run."

Tommy stared at him incredulously. As he did, the footsteps rounded the corner, and they were suddenly facing two police officers. One was blonde, with his hair pulled back into a ponytail. The other was tall and muscular, with pink hair curled around his head in a braid. They both had weapons drawn, Blondie pointing low and Pink Boy pointing high. (Tommy recognized them, he thought. Maybe. Had they been on the stage during the Mayor's speech? Maybe that was it.) The officers’ eyes locked onto them instantly. "Freeze!" Blondie shouted, at the same instant as Pink Boy called, "Aisle seventeen!" in a deep baritone.

In the same instant, Wilbur pulled Tommy around the corner and shoved him forward. "Go!" he shouted. Tommy stumbled, but went. Wilbur ran level with him as they pounded down the hallway. Other heavy bootsteps thundered around them, and officers shouted and called to each other.

"'Run' isn't a plan, Wilbur!" Tommy shouted above the din.

"Run, door, split up, get to the train tracks!" Wilbur said back.

"That's not a plan, that's a fucking to-do list!"

" GO! "

Tommy growled and ran faster down the narrow aisle between the shelves and the wall. The camera bounced around his neck, threatening to throw him off balance, but he adjusted and tried to keep a hand on it. His shoulder hurt but he ignored it. He didn’t have the fucking time to be hurt. Not right now.

The closest exit was a fire door on his left, which Tommy literally kicked down. Or, well, kicked open, by kicking the push bar, but 'kicked down' sounded so much cooler. It swung open, triggering a screaming fire alarm that wailed through the warehouse. Not stealthy, but that didn't really matter anymore. Tommy barreled through the doorway, Wilbur hot on his heels and police boots a bare few feet behind them. He didn't dare look back.

The doorway opened into the trainyard. The sun had fully set, but bright industrial lights on high poles lit the area in a jigsaw of harsh light and deep shadow. Empty train cars and piles of cargo containers formed a wide, treacherous maze. The ground was packed dirt and hard gravel, covered with the lines of rails stretching in uneven interlocking patterns, and the air smelled of metal and diesel exhaust under the night's cool mist. Beyond the door itself, two officers were waiting, ready for them. Tommy barely had time to react as one of them threw themselves at him and the other at Wilbur. He dodged to the side, swearing, and tried to spin gracefully as the cop's shoulder connected with his hip. He managed an ungainly semicircle, stumbling over his own feet, but he wriggled out of the cop's attempted grapple and ran for the trainyard. The tracks that Wilbur had probably meant, the line that passenger and freight trains went through at all hours of the day and night, was on the other side of the yard. He didn't really know how that would help, but Wilbur hadn't failed him yet. And if all else failed, he could hide in an empty train car or something.

There was shouting behind him, but he didn’t pay attention. "Go!" Wilbur's voice called again. He risked a glance back. Wilbur had split off slightly, aiming for a different corridor between boxes. Right. Split up. He wasn't exactly keen on that, but he would do it. Wilbur knew what he was doing.

Get to the train tracks. Trust Wilbur. Don't get caught. Run, until there's nobody chasing you.

Phil moved with practiced fluidity, feet gliding one after the other, keeping his torso and gun completely level and smooth. There wasn't much he could do to hide the heavy noises of his boots, but he did his best. Techno was at his shoulder, sweeping high around corners when Phil swept low. Other teams of officers moved in parallel with them as they spread out through the warehouse. Towering shelves of evidence boxes loomed over them. Adrenaline hummed in his veins and his heart pounded in his ears, but he relished the feeling. All senses on high alert, ready to move or observe or dodge.

They rounded another corner, moving down the aisle at the same careful pace once they determined it was safe. A sound caught the edges of Phil's awareness and he halted, throwing up a hand to stop Techno. Techno glanced at him but kept surveying their surroundings, including up above the shelves and in the rafters. They had been doing this for long enough that they didn't need to communicate verbally.

Phil stopped and listened. From the aisle next to them, one they hadn't swept yet, there was quiet talking. Barely loud enough to be heard above footfalls echoing around the warehouse, not at all loud enough to make out the words, but it was there. Phil's heart rate jumped again. Soot and Innit were on the other side of those shelves, barely two meters away. He glanced at Techno.

Techno raised an eyebrow, and Phil tilted his head towards the shelves. Techno grinned. They started moving again, heading for the corner.

"We know you're here," Phil said, projecting his voice. He knew that, around the warehouse, other officers would be converging on them now. "Come out with your hands up, and you will not be hurt."

There was no response from the other side of the shelves.

They reached the end of the aisle. Techno settled his shoulders and nodded. Phil nodded back. If it came down to a gunfight, it would get ugly. Long narrow aisles provided both dangerous sightlines and too much cover. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. They had no proof that Soot or Innit even had weapons of any kind, let alone firearms.

They rounded the corner in tandem.

He had only a moment to observe the scene before it dissolved into chaos. Soot and Innit were near the other end of the aisle, backing away. Soot had a hand wrapped possessively around Innit's upper arm, pulling him with him. Innit was watching Soot, something like fear on his face. There was probably a lot to unpack there, which Phil noted absently for later. Soot was wearing a dark, heavy trench coat -- perfect for hiding weapons, provides possible handholds for grappling, could entangle suspect or officer -- and Innit had a simple hoodie and jeans with a camera around his neck. "Freeze!" Phil said, as Techno bellowed, "Aisle seventeen!"

Before they had finished the words, Soot ducked around the far corner, shoving Innit ahead of him. Phil could hear him yelling something. "Running!" Phil yelled, starting down the hallway. And the chase was on.

Techno ran beside him. Around the warehouse, other officers shouted calls and responses as they tried to coordinate to cut the suspects off. They turned the next corner, sweeping together as safely as they could. Phil's eyes locked on the two men as they ran down the aisle towards a fire door. "Fire door!" he yelled. Officers called incoherently back to him.

Soot and Innit were fast. It helped that they weren't weighed down by vests and belts of heavy gear, but still. They were tall, and they were fast. Phil narrowed his eyes and kept chasing them. Officers spilled out of aisles behind them and joined the chase.

They were still too far behind when Innit kicked (kicked!) open the fire door and sprinted through. Officers were on the side doors, he reminded himself. Soot and Innit wouldn't get far. The fire alarm screamed, grating at Phil's nerves. He hoped Ranboo had the sense to turn the alarm off before the fire brigade tried to swarm the place.

As Phil cleared the doorway he saw the two officers he had stationed there picking themselves up off the ground. Fuck. That had been too much to hope for, apparently. Soot and Innit were running towards the mess of cargo containers and train cars, and were decidedly not handcuffed on the ground. What a fucking mess. He growled and switched his earpiece back into comms mode. "They're on the run into the trainyard," he said, still moving. Techno remained at his shoulder. "Get a perimeter set up as fast as you can. I'm going after them."

"Phil--" Niki's voice said, but Phil switched the earpiece back off again. He was not about to let these two get away. Not a chance.

They were splitting up even as Phil spoke. Soot ran left while Innit ran right.

"I'll take Innit," Techno said, and motioned for another officer to follow him. Phil nodded and they split up. They were on the same page. They had them right here. It ended tonight. They weren't getting away.

Techno kept himself alert as he ran into the corridor between the boxes. A lot of his instincts were screaming that this was a terrible idea. He was running into an unknown area, with minimal back up, chasing a suspect on foot. The trainyard provided limitless opportunities for ambushes or pitfalls. But Techno would be damned if he sat on his ass and waited while Soot and Innit ran again. He didn't like splitting up from Phil, but if the situation called for it he was more than willing. They could both take care of themselves, red capes be damned.

He watched Innit carefully as he rounded corners and tried to throw him off. The man was fast, but Techno trained for this. And, it seemed that Lady Luck was on his side.

Innit made a mistake.

He didn't know it was a mistake until it was too late. He rounded another corner and Techno followed, weapon ready, to see that they had reached a dead end. This turn had taken them into an aisle between an empty box car on one side and a pile of containers on the other. But instead of forking at the end or opening onto more space, there was only another pile of containers. Innit had trapped himself.

He didn't realize it at first. Techno slowed, leveling his weapon. He saw the officer who had followed him do the same in his peripherals. Innit kept running towards the end of the aisle.

"Freeze!" Techno barked. "You're trapped! Put your hands in the air!"

Innit whirled, eyes wide, then backed up a few steps.

And Techno froze.

He hadn’t seen a lot of photos of Innit. Some grainy or badly framed security footage. The mugshot-esque photo in the police database. He knew Innit mostly by the consultant file that the police kept on record. Twenty two years old. Dirty blonde, blue eyes. Six foot three and skinny. Known associate of Wilbur Soot. Innit had always been just that to him: Innit. A name. A criminal. A man on the run from the law.

Seeing him in person was different. It usually wasn't. Usually criminals hissed and spat, or growled and threatened. Usually on good days they went quietly, sullenly, and on bad days they shot at him. Usually Techno's gut screamed that they should be locked up. Usually, seeing a criminal in person meant that Techno knew, with iron certainty, that he had picked the right career.

Usually they didn’t wear hoodies and well-loved tennis shoes. Usually they didn't angle their bodies defensively to protect an arm in a cheap sling. Usually they didn't have a mop of unruly blonde hair, or a smudge of dirt across their nose, or a few spots of acne. Usually their throats didn’t bob and their feet didn’t stumble and their hands didn’t shake with fear. Usually, they weren't kids.

Techno was well known across the police department for his dry humor. He'd developed it when he was much younger, to help lift the burdens and stresses and frankly fucked up shit that had been pressed on him in childhood. His sense of humor was dry and dark and sarcastic and often off-putting, but it worked, and that was what mattered. So, yes, he would often banter about killing orphans or destroying the dreams of children, because it was easier than anything else. He'd scoff at kids when he saw them, or tease them and idly threaten them. But he never really meant it. For all his jokes, when it came down to it, Techno would never hurt a kid.

Even when he had been at his worst and lowest, before the cacophony of voices in his mind had been soothed with medication, when he had been filled with more anger and fear and sadness and pain than anyone should ever have had to deal with, he wouldn't have hurt a kid. He never had, and he never would. They didn’t deserve it. He refused to become the person of his younger self's nightmares.

Technoblade did not hurt children.

But, that was what he was faced with. Thomas Innit, standing in front of him now, was, undeniably, a child. He wasn't a cynical, spiteful, hardened criminal. He wasn't a giggling psychopath or an enraged maniac. He was a twenty two year old boy who looked barely eighteen, caught in the riptide of something huge, who was trying his best. He was a boy either being coerced or who was choosing to follow someone he trusted. He was a boy with blue grey eyes that shone with stubborn defiance and flickering fear. Fear of Techno.

For perhaps the first time in his career, Techno hesitated.

He lowered his gun so that it was aimed at Thomas's feet instead of at his head and took a couple of slow steps forward. The officer with him paused then did the same, following his lead.

Thomas produced a swiss army knife from his pocket and held it in front of him, blade extended. "Don't fucking come near me, bitch," he said emphatically, voice cracking. "I'll fucking clart you!"

Techno didn't dare break eye contact. He was out of his depth. He couldn't shoot the kid, obviously, and he didn't want to have to wrestle him to the ground or incapacitate him some other way. What would Phil do? He took a deep breath and kept his voice steady. "Put the knife down, Thomas."

"It's Tommy, bitch!"

"Tommy, okay," Techno corrected himself. He tried to make his voice gentle but authoritative. He had no idea how well it worked. "My name's Technoblade. Put the knife down, Tommy. Don't make this hard on yourself. It's okay. I don't want to hurt you."

Tommy swallowed hard. He was cornered, and Techno knew that he knew it. "Back the fuck off."

"Easy, Tommy," Techno said, trying to inch forward again. "Just, come with me, an' it'll be okay."

Tommy's eyes darted around, looking for an escape. He kept the short blade in front of him.

Techno took a risk. "You don't have to go back to Wilbur, if you don't want to. You can come with me, an'--"

"Go back to--? Wilbur didn't fucking do it, dipshit," Tommy spat.

Techno inched another step closer, and Tommy stepped backwards again. His back was practically pressed against the cargo containers. "That's okay," Techno said. He wasn't exactly surprised by that reaction. Whether or not it was true, the kid sure believed it. "If he didn't do it, then you can come with me to the station an' tell us about it, okay?"

Tommy narrowed his eyes. "Piss off."

Techno took a deep breath. Push, but not too far. "Look--"

A gunshot sounded from off behind him and to his left, loud and sudden enough to make him jump. In the same instant there was a crash, a brilliant flash of white light, and then utter blackness.

Wilbur ran. He was tall enough that doorways sometimes gave him trouble, and he made it a point to run or jog regularly. It helped to practice running so that, when it counted, he could do it well. When he needed to, like when he was being chased by police through an abandoned trainyard, he could run. Wilbur ran across the trainyard at a flat out sprint, heavy trench coat flaring behind him. Tommy split off from him, which jangled his instincts to keep Tommy close, but he tried to ignore it. This was the plan.  Force the police to spread out their resources, make them wary of traps. It wasn't a good plan, really. There were a lot of things that could go wrong. But he didn't exactly have time to second guess his instincts.

He skidded around the corner of a box car. Heavy footsteps followed, a fair distance behind but not slowing. Shit. He had hoped that the police would be wary of chasing them into the labyrinth of boxes and train tracks, but apparently not. He risked a glance behind him. The officer with the blonde ponytail was rounding the corner, weapon held at his side. There weren't any reinforcements behind him that Wilbur could see. Okay. Good. So. Step one: lose the tail. If there was someone following him, there was someone trying to push him into a trap, or telling others where to find him. He doubted that officer had run in after him with no plan. The police weren't as stupid as that.

He couldn't just run. All that would do was wear him out and give the police more time to track him. No. He had to get the upper hand somehow. He glanced at his surroundings again, adrenaline keying his senses higher and higher. He could do this.

Wilbur dodged around another corner. Then, as quickly and quietly as he could, he dropped flat to his belly and rolled under a train car, twisting so that he was on his back and could plant his feet, legs bent, against one of the spars on the underside. The black shadows enveloped him, a sharp contrast to the bright lights from overhead. He tilted his head back so he could see out across the ground and tried to slow his breathing.

Sure enough, a moment later, the officer rounded the corner. Wilbur could only see his feet and shins, but he saw the moment the man realized he'd lost Wilbur. His feet slowed and he shifted his weight. Wilbur tried not to hold his breath. The officer stepped closer, feet gliding along the ground. Three more steps. Two.

When the man was level with him Wilbur pushed hard on his legs, sending himself sliding out from under the train car on his back, arms bent above his head, ready to grapple. He hit the officer in the knees and grabbed at his legs before heaving with as much leverage and weight as he could manage. The officer, already off balance from Wilbur's disappearance and sudden, forceful reappearance, toppled like a felled tree. He hit the ground with a loud whuff of exhaled breath. Wilbur seized the momentary advantage, clambering on top of the man and trying to reach for the gun. He wasn't shy about digging his knees and elbows in, either. There was a scuffle as the officer tried to shift and throw him off, but Wilbur was faster and the officer was still somewhat stunned from having the wind knocked out of him. Wilbur wrapped long fingers around the handle of the gun and rolled away again, rising to his feet and stepping swiftly backwards.

The officer started to scramble to his feet but when he looked up Wilbur had the gun trained on him. His finger was off the trigger, resting lightly against the guard, but the threat was still there. The officer froze, then stood slowly and raised his hands. He chuckled lightly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "I should have seen that coming," he said, not unkindly.

Wilbur didn't respond. Instead, he tried to survey his surroundings while keeping an eye on the officer. His plan had worked, exceptionally well, even. But he didn’t know what to do next. He couldn't just shoot the man, but he didn’t have another way to incapacitate him. He doubted the officer would play along if Wilbur tried to tape his arms or something. There had to be something else he could do.

"My name is Phil," the officer said. "Detective Philza Minecraft."

Wilbur gritted his teeth and sighed inside his head. The officer -- detective -- had a name, now. Now he really couldn't just shoot him. Godsdamn it. "If you try and tackle me, or yell for help, or reach for something, I'll shoot you," Wilbur said, keeping his voice pitched low. His eyes flickered over the surroundings again.

"Understood," Phil said. He was still smiling slightly. If it wasn't for the dark uniform, the heavy vest, and the gear strapped to him, he could have been someone's dad. Maybe he was someone's dad. Wilbur had no idea. "We can just talk," he continued. He took a slow step forward as he spoke.

Wilbur stepped back, maintaining their distance, and slipped his finger lightly onto the trigger. "Stop it. I don't want to shoot you." He could feel the tension under his trigger finger.

"Then don't," Phil said. His eyes were piercing.

"It's not that simple, is it," Wilbur said shortly, glancing around again.

"Why not, mate?" Phil asked gently. "You don't have to make this harder on yourself."

Wilbur tried to think of a plan. It wasn't working. What in the Gods' names was he supposed to do?

"It's okay, Wilbur," Phil continued. "Put the gun down."

"That's not really an option," Wilbur ground out. He readjusted his grip, steadying himself.

Phil's eyes crinkled around another small smile. He was meeting Wilbur's gaze whenever Wilbur looked at him, but Wilbur knew his peripherals were tracking the handgun. "We always have options, mate," he said.

Wilbur couldn’t think of a good response to that.

Time was ticking out from under him. He could feel it, like an itch on the back of his arms. Phil was stalling him, stalling for time. Wilbur needed to get out, to get to the far train tracks, to meet Tommy there if he wasn't too late already. They shouldn't have split up. What was he thinking? That had been a terrible idea. He needed a way out, and he needed it fast. He could--

"Whatever you're thinking about," Phil interrupted suddenly, "running is your hardest option. I can well guarantee you that, mate. You can save yourself a lot of hardship if you put that gun down, Wilbur."

"Sorry," Wilbur said, dryly, distractedly. "No can do."

"Tell me what you're worried about here, and--"

"No, no, you don't get it," Wilbur spat. His mind felt like it was running in circles. He chuckled, probably too high and fast to be entirely sane. "I'm not giving up, Phil. I'm not going with you because I didn't fucking do it ."

Phil's head tilted to one side. "You don't have to lie, Wilbu-"

"I'm not fucking lying!" Wilbur half shouted. Something hot and angry rose up in him. He met Phil's gaze with as much sincerity as he could summon. "I didn't do it. I didn't fucking kill Alex Quackity."

Phil nodded, holding his gaze. "Okay. Okay, Wilbur, I hear you. But, listen, if you're innocent, isn't a fair trial your best bet?"

Wilbur shifted his weight again. He wanted to pace, to move, scrub his hands through his hair, to run scales and chord progressions on his guitar. He wanted to do all the things he normally did when he was stressed or when his mind was moving too fast for structured thought. But he couldn't. Instead, he stood in the harsh illumination of the trainyard lights, feeling the dust shift under his feet. He shook his head, eyes darting around. He didn't notice as the barrel of the gun fell slightly to point at the ground near Phil's feet. "Fair trial my arse," Wilbur said. "You and I both know what the department has." Phil opened his mouth but Wilbur rolled right over him. "It's fucking fake, Phil. The footage. It's fake. I don't know how, I don't--" he cut himself off, inhaling sharply. "It's fake. I'm being framed. I'm being fucking framed, Phil, and they're doing a damn good job of it."  It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair. He twitched his head to try and move his hair out of his face.

Phil regarded him, a faint frown on his features. "Well, can you prove it?"

Wilbur clenched and unclenched his teeth. "I-- No. I, I…Fuck." His voice broke. He ignored it. "I'm so close, Phil. I'm so close to it, I can taste it." He met the detective's green eyes again. He knew he looked somewhere between a lunatic and a pleading child. He didn't care. "I have so many of the pieces, Phil. I have so much of the puzzle, and it all makes sense, but I'm missing a few of the bits. I'm missing the most important ones. I can't-- I can't fucking prove it. I, I need more time. I need more time. I can prove it. I can. I just need more time." He swallowed. There was a risk he could take, here. But, it wasn't that much of a risk, was it? He didn’t have much to lose. "Look--" he took a breath, "look into the Blackstone Collective. Look into the mob. They're the ones behind it. Not me."

"All right," Phil said slowly, nodding without taking his eyes off him. "Okay. Blackstone Collective. The mob." Phil was doing a good job of hiding the conflict in his head, but Wilbur could see it. The certainty he had carried with him, now warring with the situation. Wilbur could see it. It wasn't much, but it was a spark. Phil hid it almost as soon as it appeared. "Okay. But, listen, Wilbur, if you come with me we can help you. We can--"

"You can what?" Wilbur asked, acid dripping from his words. "You can say, 'oh, sorry, but we can't find anything? Sorry, but this case is too fucking strong? Sorry, but we fucking think you're fucking lying?' That shit the department has would put me away for life, Phil, I can't--" he exhaled harshly, the sound turning into a growl in the back of his throat. "I can't do that. I'm not giving up." He was bluffing, just a little bit. If it came down to it, he would turn himself in. If it was a choice between the hands of the police and the hands of the mob, he would choose the police. Most importantly, he would confess to things he never did in order to save Tommy. He didn’t want to go to jail, but he would be thrice damned if he let it happen to Tommy. He would tell the police he'd taken Tommy hostage. He would confess to a million crimes, condemn himself to a million sentences, if it meant Tommy would walk free and unhurt out of this mess. He would do what it took to save his broth-- his friend.

But it wouldn't come to that. It wouldn't. Wilbur could get them out of this.

"…come to the station with me," Phil was saying, "shed some light on all of this…"

Wilbur didn’t listen to the rest. Shed some light on all of this.. . He had to get out of this trainyard. He had to find Tommy . Shed some light… He had lost way too much time. Some light … The puzzle in his head rotated, and the last piece slid into place. As per usual, it had been in front of him all along. His eyes snapped back to Phil. "Sorry about this," he said, interrupting whatever the man had been saying. Then, in one smooth motion, he raised the gun from its lowered position, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The sound of a gunshot is different from how it's portrayed in movies and television shows. In film, a gunshot is a sudden bang , or a heavy clickboom , or a frantic ratatatat . It's loud, and it's dramatic, and it does very little to capture what an actual gun sounds like.

In reality, a gunshot is loud. A real, live gunshot makes a sound like thunder. Not like the far off rumbles that roll past in the seconds after the flash of light. Gunshots are more comparable to the immense, bone shaking crack of thunder from a lightning strike immediately nearby. It is, after all, an explosion. A gunshot is a controlled explosion designed to hurl a piece of metal at lethal speed in a specific direction.

In reality, a gunshot, like thunder, is something that is felt as much as it is heard. It's a shockwave that reaches down to the bones.

Detective Philza Minecraft had spent his career around gunshots. He knew the thundercrack of a gunshot with intimate familiarity. He knew the sound, the feeling, the echoes and aftershocks.

Phil was standing less than ten feet away from the gun when Wilbur pulled the trigger. He was too far to do anything. Phil saw the gun begin to raise, but he had no time to react. His eyes went wide. He heard a sound like thunder, and then the world flashed to blackness.

He waited for the pain to come. It would, he knew. You couldn't get shot without it hurting. Milliseconds felt like eternities, but no pain arrived. Perhaps he'd died quickly, then. A small mercy.

His ears were ringing. That was odd, for being dead.

He blinked, then realized he could blink. His ears kept ringing. Pain kept not arriving. He blinked again, harder, and realized he could see faint outlines of his hands.

Oh. Oh. Wilbur hadn't shot him . Wilbur had shot the lights.

Phil reached to his belt and grabbed his flashlight, clicking it on with hands that were definitely not shaking. The wide beam showed him the box cars on either side of him and the dusty ground beneath his feet, now showered with broken glass. Wilbur, and Phil's gun, were nowhere to be seen. He wasn't sure how long it had been. Five or ten seconds, maybe. But that was enough. Soot was gone. Fuck.

The industrial light above him flickered with sparks from the shattered bulb. Soot had only shot one of the dozen or so lights spaced around the trainyard, but for whatever reason (a cheap wiring job, if Phil had to guess) all of the lights had gone out, like a string of holiday lights with one bulb removed. He moved the beam of his flashlight around slowly, trying to see where Soot might have run. There were too many footsteps criss-crossing the dusty ground to tell. He let out another low string of curses, then reached up and switched his earpiece back into the radio channels.

"--lost Innit, so get these lights back up, or get some damn spotlights set up," Techno's voice was saying.

"This is Phil," Phil cut in. "Soot shot the lights and ran off with my gun. Suspect is armed and whereabouts are unknown."

"Phil!" Niki's voice exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me," he said tiredly. "How fast can you get a perimeter set up around the yard if you haven’t already?"

"The lights-out is, uh, making this harder," Ranboo said. "I've got to manually rewire some things. Hopefully lights’ll be back soon.”

"We're in the process of it right now," Niki said. "We've got officers moving to circle around to the back, and SWAT is here too. They're going slow and careful…unlike some people," she finished with a mutter.

Phil winced. He had no doubt that he and Techno were going to get absolutely berated for this. Oh well. Too late now. "Okay," he said, switching his flashlight to his other hand and grabbing his baton. Not much use against a gun, but better than nothing. "Techno and I will sweep towards the back of the yard and see what we find. Yes," he said, as Ranboo started to say something, "we will keep our comms on this time. Sorry for worrying you."

"Good," Niki said tartly.

"You ready then, Phil?" Techno asked.

Phil sighed. "Yeah, mate. Let's try this again."

Tommy's heart was beating hard and fast in his chest. After the lights had gone down he had dived under the box car and out the other side (like a fucking action hero, despite his hurt shoulder, because he was just That Cool), and not a moment too soon. Light from Pink Hair's -- Technoblade's? -- flashlight had started sweeping around the space he had been mere seconds after the lights went out. He ran, as quietly and quickly as he could, not standing around to hear what they had to say. He stuffed the little camera into one of his pockets as best as he could and kept moving.

The train tracks were at the far end of the yard, opposite to the warehouse, Tommy knew. But, in the dark it was hard to know which way he was going. He considered using his flashlight, until he realized he'd dropped it at some point. Not that it would have been a good idea to use it, anyway. It would have been like jumping up and down holding a sign that screamed 'here I am!' in flashing neon letters. He resigned himself to darkness until his eyes adjusted, and jogged in the direction he thought was right, keeping his good hand outstretched in front of him or brushing along beside him.

Abruptly, his hand collided with something solid and warm. He jerked back, or tried to, but a hand wrapped around his wrist and dragged him closer. Tommy's mind flashed white with panic. He struggled ineffectually and opened his mouth to scream, but a hand clapped over it before he could make a noise.

"It's me, Toms," Wilbur's voice hissed.

Tommy froze, then relaxed. "Fuckin' hell, big man," he said softly as Wilbur pulled his hand away from his mouth. "I nearly shit my pants. That was not at all poggers of you."

Wilbur snorted. "Sorry. You okay?"

"Okay enough," Tommy said. His hands weren't shaking, he didn't think, but he'd just been held at gunpoint and was currently on the bad end of a high stakes police chase. If he thought about it for too long he was pretty sure he'd just collapse to the ground, and that wouldn't do at all. So, instead, he stared at the faint outline of Wilbur he could see. "How about you? I heard a gun go off."

"That was me, I'm fine," Wilbur said. "Let's keep moving, yeah?"

Tommy had many questions about that, but he decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Absently, he heard a low rumbling from somewhere off to his left. He nodded, hoping Wilbur could see him.

Wilbur grabbed his hand and tugged him through the maze of boxes and cars. They made their way as quickly as they could towards the rumbling, which got louder and louder. "What the fuck's that noise?" he asked quietly.

He could hear the grin in Wilbur's voice as the taller man answered. "That's our ride," he said.

They rounded a final corner and Wilbur stopped him with an arm against his chest. The maze of boxes and cars ended abruptly at the edge of a large, open stretch of packed dirt maybe forty feet wide running what looked like the length of the trainyard. Tommy's eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to be able to see train tracks running parallel to the yard at the far end of the dirt. The rumbling was a lot louder now. "Wait," Wilbur hissed. "We've got to time this right."

Off in the night, next to the tracks, red lights started flashing. Loud warning bells started dinging rapidly. Tommy glared at Wilbur. "You cannot be fucking serious."

Wilbur squeezed his hand in the murky darkness. "C'mon, Toms, it'll be fine."

"I have had enough bad experiences with trains this week--"

A few flashlights bobbed around a far corner and out into the open dirt.

"Our other option is staying here to get caught," Wilbur said.

As if to punctuate his statement, the overhead lights flickered back on with no warning. Wilbur pulled them back so that they were in the shadows, their backs were to a cargo container. Tommy blinked his eyes hard, willing them to adjust faster. "Fuck you and your fucking plans, Wil," he snarled under his breath.

"We're aiming to cross the tracks before we try getting on." Wilbur bounced on the balls of his feet. "Ready?"

"Not really, no!" Tommy whispered hysterically.

Headlights appeared from the edge of the night. The rumbling continued to increase in volume.

"Too bad," Wilbur said. His grin was just short of maniacal. "Let's go."

They ran.

Trains are big. They are huge, and they are heavy. A freight train can weigh more than five thousand tons, which is about the same as thirty blue whales. Something that heavy, moving at speed, didn't stop quickly.

Wilbur knew this.

A freight train, moving at speed, could take almost two and a half kilometers to stop completely. Even if the train was moving at the twenty to twenty five kilometers per hour top speed mandated by the city, as opposed to the fifty kilometers per hour or more it could achieve in the countryside, it could still take more than a kilometer after the emergency brake was pulled for the train to stop moving.

Wilbur knew this, too. In fact, he was rather counting on it.

Wilbur and Tommy burst from the shadows of the cargo containers and sprinted across the dirt towards the train tracks. Officers shouted from either direction, spotting them, and started running to intercept them. The train continued rumbling forward. Its horn blared, cutting through the noise of the warning bells. There was a screech of metal on metal and the train shuddered as the conductor threw the emergency brake, but it continued barreling towards them.

Wilbur's legs ate the distance in long strides. Tommy kept pace with him, barely, huffing and shouting something at him incomprehensibly.

They were going to make it. Wilbur was pretty sure. Like, 95%. Tommy stumbled and Wilbur's heart leapt up into his throat, but they kept running.

The train came rattling and rumbling towards them down the tracks. Headlights glared at them like angry, predatory eyes. The horn and the bells and the shriek of the brakes combined into a hellish roar. Half of Wilbur's brain screamed at him to stop. The other half screamed at him to go faster. Wilbur just screamed. Tommy was yelling beside him. Neither of them were saying words anymore.

The train was right on top of them. It towered over them, an unstoppable wall of metal and light and noise bringing with it certain, inevitable, demise. They crossed the tracks, Wilbur pushing Tommy in front of him as soon as they were across. Instants later the front car of the train blew past them, horn still blaring. The force of it nearly knocked both of them over.

Wilbur stumbled forward and planted his hands on his knees, panting. Tommy stood beside him, shaking and breathing hard. "Holy shit," he was saying under his breath, "holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit-- "

Wilbur couldn't help the little giggles that crept up out of his throat. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins in torrents. He pushed himself back to standing a few seconds later and turned back to face the train still roaring past them. Through the gaps in the cars he could see the police officers that had been chasing them. They had come to a stop on the other side of the train, ten or fifteen feet back from the tracks. There were maybe half a dozen uniformed officers and what looked like a whole SWAT team. A few had guns out, but none of them dared try and shoot through the moving cars. In front of them stood Phil, strands of his blonde hair falling out of his ponytail, and the pink haired officer whose name Wilbur didn't know. Wilbur stared at them for a moment. His hand brushed unconsciously over the pocket in his coat where he had stashed Phil's handgun.

"Now what, Wil?" Tommy asked shakily. "Train's gonna pass eventually."

Wilbur shook himself and nodded. "I know. Come on." He started walking briskly in the same direction  the train was going. Tommy followed him. "Next step is to get on board. If we hang on to the side of the cars, we can drop off whenever we feel like, whenever it's safe, either before or after the train stops. The police won't know where along the track we are, since they won't be able to follow us directly. Make sense?"

Tommy nodded. "You really should tell me your plans before we're in the middle of them, Wil."

Wilbur nodded. Old habits died hard. "You got your breath back?" he asked.

"More or less."

"Wonderful."

Wilbur picked up the pace, running next to the tracks, trying to match the train's speed. Tommy stayed beside him, glancing at him every now and then for direction. "You first!" Wilbur yelled.

Tommy nodded, then eyed the train. He put on a sudden burst of speed and lunged for one of the ladders on the side of a car. He grabbed it with his good arm and swung his feet up after him, wobbling dangerously before steadying himself. Once Wilbur was sure he was settled, he followed suit. It wasn't his first time train hopping, but it had been a few years. The metal handholds were cold under his fingers.

Tommy scootched himself into the gap between two cars, wrapping an arm around the ladder and leaning back against the wall of the car. He tipped his head back in exhaustion. "How the fuck did you know this train would be here?" he asked.

"Looked at train schedules a few days ago to see if it helped with this damn case," Wilbur said over the noise. "Happened to remember that one was passing through tonight." He swallowed, catching his breath. "Stay here, I'll be back in a second."

Tommy nodded tiredly. "Don’t do anything stupid, dipshit," he said back.

Wilbur chuckled, then began clambering his way up the ladder to the roof of the car. Cold wind whipped around his face as he pushed himself onto the metal roof. He stood carefully, feeling the jostling of the car beneath his feet. Looking back down the tracks, he could see the police trying to chase after the train. Phil and his pink haired compatriot were running next to the tracks, but they slowed and stopped as Wilbur watched. Wilbur felt the rumble of the train beneath him, the burn in his lungs from the night's exertion. He smiled.

Phil was still trying to talk into the walkie talkie as they ran next to the train. Techno hadn't bothered, instead just keeping his eyes on Soot and Innit. They managed to keep level with them for a good while. Neither of them could manage the pace for extended time, however, and neither of them dared board the train after the fugitives. Techno slowed to a halt at the edge of the trainyard, feet scuffing in the dirt. Soot had clambered up on top of the train, like an idiot. His coat fluttered and flapped in the wind like a dark cape.

Phil stopped beside him. "…helicopters, and spotlights," he was saying, puffing slightly. "Westbound, that's right. Yes. Good. I have to coordinate here. Get the fuck on it."

Techno pulled out his gun as Phil was speaking and tried to sight on Soot, but the man was too far away. Phil pushed his arm down. "Not worth it," he said.

Techno ground his teeth, breathing hard. "I can't believe this."

Phil put a hand on his shoulder. "Me neither."

Techno watched the train receding. The rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the cars as they went past seemed to mock him. They had failed . He had failed. He had been so close, and he had failed.

He holstered his gun. They were too far, now, to see Soot's face, but Techno watched as the man threw him a lazy salute, silhouetted against the distant lights of the rest of the city, hair whipping in the wind, before climbing back down the train and vanishing into the darkness.

Chapter Text

It took them more than an hour to walk back to the safe house, not counting the time they spent on the train. Tommy didn't remember much of it. He was too exhausted. He remembered the train, the rumbling and the squealing brakes. He remembered jumping and tumbling down a grassy ditch with Wilbur at his side. He remembered that part a little too well for his liking. He'd landed on his bad shoulder. He was getting sick of having a hurt arm. Not at all poggers. He was supposed to be too much of a Big Man to be hurt, but here he was. It couldn’t even give him a cool scar. What a rip off.

He remembered, vaguely, the walk back. Wilbur led them through alleys and back streets, under bridges and away, as far away as they could, from cameras and prying eyes. He remembered Wilbur's arm under his, supporting him, keeping him warm in the rapidly cooling night air. They had been asking each other questions as they went, to try and stay alert. They didn't try and talk about anything serious. Tommy asked Wilbur about anteaters, which had sparked a rant that had taken several blocks to complete. Wilbur asked Tommy what they should name the safehouse. Tommy had decided, grinning wildly, to name it Pogtopia. Wilbur tried to pretend he hated it, but Tommy could see him smiling. Pogtopia: the poggest name for the poggest place. See, it was funny because the safehouse was kind of shit. Not even kind of. It sucked. It was better than nothing, of course, and Tommy didn’t really begrudge it, but it was immensely entertaining to make fun of. Other than exhaustion and light bickering, they didn’t encounter any trouble.

They fell asleep almost as soon as they got back. Wilbur told Tommy to take the bed, and Tommy didn't have the energy to protest. He dropped off to the sounds of Wilbur checking and double-checking the locks on the door.

~*~*~*~*~

When he opened his eyes again, wan sunlight was streaming through the windows high in the wall of their basement hideout. He checked the clock. Half-past one. Whoops. But, no. He deserved the rest, after the fucking chaos of last night. It was fine.

He shuffled out the door to the rest of the safehouse and was greeted by the sight of Wilbur, brown hair still tousled from sleep, poking at something that sizzled on the stove. Something smelled vaguely burnt. Wilbur was perpetrating breakfast, it seemed. Or, lunch, given the time. Whatever. Wilbur was attempting some form of cooking, which was not promising. Tommy grabbed a glass of water and sat down heavily at the tiny table.

"Good morning," Wilbur said without turning around.

"Not morning anymore, innit," Tommy said blearily.

Wilbur snorted. "Close enough. Wake yourself up, we have stuff to talk about. You hungry?"

"Not for whatever you're making."

"It's just eggs, Tommy."

"You literally can't taste anything. I'm not trusting your cooking ever again. I’ve learned my lesson."

"Fine, your loss."

Tommy swallowed the rest of his water and scrubbed a hand through his hair while Wilbur dumped his eggs onto a plate and sat down across from him. The eggs looked slightly grey. He hoped that was just the lighting.

"Right," Wilbur said. "So."

"So," Tommy echoed. Wilbur was right. They had a lot to talk about. Off the top of his head, he wanted to know what had happened while they split up (both times), and they needed to go over the photos from the warehouse. That would most likely lead to a lot of theorizing, which was good because they really didn’t have many theories. Gods, they didn’t even have a plan. Wilbur spoke before Tommy could.

"Give me a recap before we dive into other stuff. What happened when we got separated at the train yard?" Wilbur chewed a bite of his 'food'.

Tommy grimaced. It felt like some sort of terrible nightmare, but it hadn't faded like a bad dream. "Pink hair dude chased me, along with another officer,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Cornered me when I took a bad turn. They both had guns out. I thought--" he ran his fingers through the condensation on his empty glass. "I thought they were gonna fucking shoot me. But then Pink Hair, he said his name was 'Technoblade' or something dumb like that, just…didn't. He was, like, trying to get me to fuckin’ calm down, or something. I dunno. Threw me off but I’m not mad about it. Be pretty stupid if I was mad about not getting shot." He shook his head. "I told him you were innocent, but I don't think he believed me. Then the lights went down and I ran." Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He could almost still feel the cold air and the hard ground under his feet.

Wilbur nodded. "They didn’t hurt you, did they?"

Tommy shot him a level look. "I held a fucking knife out in front of me to keep them from tackling me, Wilbur. They would have grabbed me anyway if I’d stuck around. They--" he clenched his teeth, glancing away. "They fucking held me at gunpoint, Wil." He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the echoes of the fear and adrenaline that had flooded him. He had been through a lot of situations, weird, dangerous situations. That was the first time he had really been afraid for his life. Part of him was pretty sure that he wouldn't get shot, but…it had been dark. He had been running. The cops had had guns and had pointed them at him. It wouldn't have been unreasonable for them to fire. Running through the maze of train cars, he had been waiting for the rapport of gunfire and the burning pain of a bullet in the back. Standing, cornered, shaking like a leaf and heart beating like a jackrabbit, he had been ready for the officers to raise their weapons on him again.

"I'm sorry about that," Wilbur said quietly. "I never meant…I didn't think. I'm sorry. I dunno what I would have done if…"

Tommy shook his head and got up to refill his water. "It's fine, big man. I'm fine."

"I'm serious, Tommy. This --" he gestured vaguely around "--is bigger than anything we've done before. If you get hurt I'll never forgive myself."

Tommy snorted. Wilbur was right. They had taken a lot of cases together, but it had never escalated this far. The occasional chase, sure, or a showdown with someone in the middle of an office building, but, well. Vigilantism was new to Tommy, and it was a lot scarier than the movies made it seem. Still cool as fuck (like, seriously, jumping on a moving train to escape a police chase? He would get so many girlfriends once he started telling people he did that), but it was also stress-inducing. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a superhero. He forced his thoughts back on topic. "Stop martyring yourself, Wil. I can take care of myself. It's fine. This is a fight that needs fighting. If I wanted out of this job, I wouldn't have fucking stuck around, okay? Just--" Tommy turned back to him, brandishing his empty glass, "--don't fucking split up from me again, yeah? You did that twice last night, you bitch. And the second time wouldn’t even have happened if we stuck together the first time! Not fucking funny."

"Okay, in my defense, I had a good reason the first time--"

"--oh, did you?" Tommy asked acidly, turning back to the sink.

"--I did, yes, but... Yeah. In hindsight, splitting up in the trainyard could have gone…badly."

"No shit." Tommy set down his newly filled glass and started making a bowl of cereal.

"No splitting up, from now on," Wilbur said.

"You promise?" Tommy asked. "None of this 'oooh Tommy I just had another Brilliant Idea!' bullshit?"

"It was a brilliant idea!" Wilbur exclaimed from the table.

Tommy opened their fridge before remembering that they didn’t have milk. They couldn’t exactly go grocery shopping as wanted men. "I have yet to see whether it was a good idea or not, you fuckin--"

"Yeah, because your ideas are always top-notch--"

"Shut up, that's not the point--"

"It was a good idea!"

"You haven't even-- uurrghh," Tommy groaned. "Just. Look. You're going to tell me where the fuck you ran off to in the warehouse, but first, fucking promise me that you won't do it again! Or, if you have to, tell me beforehand so we can plan for it, yeah? I'm supposed to be in the loop here, Wil."

"Yes, all right," Wilbur said. "I promise to not run off without an explanation again, and I promise not to split up in a dangerous situation unless we both agree it's necessary."

Tommy turned and glowered at him. "You promised last time too."

Wilbur winced. "Actually, all I said last time was 'we'll keep this simple, in and out.' Which. Y'know. We did do."

"Fuck you," Tommy said tiredly, getting a spoon. "You're promising this time, though, right?"

"On my guitar,” Wilbur said solemnly.

Tommy nodded. It wasn't perfect. He knew Wilbur had given himself loopholes in that promise, as Wilbur usually did, but he didn't care. It was good enough. He brought his depressing, dry cereal back over to the table. "Right. Fine. Just—Don't fuck around like that again. Okay?" He sat back down at the table with his dry cereal and glass of water. It was a breakfast for champions. No, a breakfast for pog champions. 

"Okay," Wilbur said. Tommy was...pretty sure he meant it. Fucking Wilbur. Always too many layers deep in his own paranoia and ego. But...Tommy still trusted him. Even if Wilbur was paranoid, or hid things from Tommy, he’d never done it with intent to hurt him. If anything it was the opposite. And he’d had Tommy’s back through thick and thin. If trusting Wilbur was a mistake, it was one he was damn well going to keep making.

"Great," Tommy said. "What happened on your end of things while we split in the trainyard?"

Wilbur sighed. "A…lot of things. And also not a lot."

"That is so fucking unhelpful."

Wilbur shook his head. "The other officer, the blonde one, Phil, chased me. I surprised him and took his gun."

Tommy accidentally inhaled his cereal and started coughing. "You-- you what?"

"I took his gun," Wilbur said matter-of-factly.

"That's so fucking illegal, Wilbur! What the fuck?!"

Wilbur rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, it's fine. I've got it handled. Just make sure you never touch it, all right?"

Tommy stared at him for a moment, then took another bite. "I swear to the Gods, you just never run out of bad ideas. We didn't need to give the police more reasons to arrest us."

Wilbur's face flickered with a wry half-smile. "The police still aren't our only enemy. I'd rather have any advantage we can get."

Oh. Right. Tommy suppressed a shiver. There were mob people after them, too. Theoretically. Tommy hadn't actually seen one, except for Punz, but Punz had been cool. He supposed it was a good thing he hadn't seen any. Maybe that meant that the Mob hadn’t found them. "Okay. Great. So we have a weapon, now. What else happened?"

"We…talked," Wilbur said.

"You talked."

"Yeah."

"You feel like elaborating on that, big man?" Trying to get Wilbur to actually tell him things was like pulling teeth, as usual.

Wilbur sighed. "Sounds like sort of the same thing as Technoblade or whoever did to you. Phil tried to talk me into giving up. I said no. I told him I didn't kill Quackity. I don't think he believed me. I told him to look into the mob. Then I shot the lights and ran."

Tommy nodded slowly. "So that was you ."

"Yeah."

Tommy kept nodding. Wilbur had said it was him back before they ran onto the train, but frankly Tommy had had no idea what he meant. He swallowed another bite of cereal. "So we both told the police we're innocent."

"Seems like it."

"Think they believe us?"

Wilbur snorted. "No. They're not just going to take our word for it. It's a long shot, anyway. Even if they believe us, if there's a warrant they still have to arrest us."

"Oh. That's true."

Wilbur took one last bite of his eggs and stood up to clean his plate. "Maybe they'll look into the mob, though. If we're lucky they'll find something we didn’t and clear our names for us."

Tommy poked at his cereal. "There's no way we're that lucky."

"Ehhh," Wilbur sighed. "Probably not. Lady Luck never seems to be where we need her." He set his plate in the sink and crossed the room to where they'd put their go bags. Tommy had put the camera there last night before collapsing. Wilbur grabbed the camera and pulled the memory chip out of it. "C'mon, Toms, don't dawdle. We have work to do."

"I'm not dawdling, I'm eating. "

"Slowly. Bring it over here. Let's try and figure this stuff out." Wilbur flicked on the television and clicked the memory chip into a slot on the side. Rows of pictures sprang up on the screen.

Tommy stood up, taking the remnants of his meal. Halfway to the couch he remembered what he had been arguing with Wilbur about not minutes before and scowled. "No, wait. We're not doing any more fucking work until you tell me where you went in the Warehouse."

Wilbur looked back at him. "Okay, I know you're mad at me about that, but it was actually a really good idea."

"Spit it out, then."

Wilbur grinned. "Apparently, in addition to physical evidence, they store printouts of suspect files in the warehouse, too."

Tommy sat down, placing his cereal bowl on the little coffee table. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Wilbur's grin sharpened. "Well…I figured that, y’know, since we were there anyway, I'd have a look and see what the police knew about anyone connected to the mob."

Tommy raised his eyebrows. "Oh! Poggers. That's actually pretty cool."

Wilbur sat on the other end of the worn couch and picked up the remote. "That's what I thought."

"What stopped you from telling me what you were doing before you left?" Tommy asked.

"Well, I knew you'd tell me off," Wilbur said, looking at the television. "Either because you didn't think it was worth the risk, or because it wasn't part of the plan, or because you wanted to come too, or something like that. Also, I wasn't sure if I'd even find anything. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up over a waste of time."

"Okay, admittedly, I probably would have said that," Tommy said, "but I would have been fucking right! It probably wasn't worth the risk, because if you had stayed and fucking helped me with the photos, like the plan , we would have left before the police got there."

Wilbur waved him off, still not looking at him. "We made it out. I won't push our luck next time."

"You'd better fucking not. Did you at least get anything good?"

"Some," Wilbur said. "I couldn't get pictures, and I couldn't take the files with me, but I read as much as I could and I remember it all."

"Of course you remember it all," Tommy sighed. "Freak."

"Some of us are born with good brains, Tommy, what can I say," Wilbur said, smiling.

"Fuck you. I'm cooler than you. Everyone tells me so. What did you read?"

"I started with Dream," Wilbur said, pointedly ignoring Tommy's antics. "The police don't have much on him, mostly just stuff from his independent days. More than I was able to find anywhere else, though. They're not certain, but their top suspect for who 'Dream' really is is this guy named Clay Mitchell. Dirty blonde, green eyes, scar on his chin. They had a photo of him, pulled from security tape at a hotel a few years ago. Pretty tall but not enough to be really out of the ordinary. But, yeah, they're not sure. Not like the guy has his face plastered all over his work."

Tommy rolled his neck, settling back into the familiar role. Talking about suspects, looking at puzzles, taking clues and stitching them together like a patchwork quilt. This was what they were good at. This was their home turf. "Did the police tie him to any Mob stuff?"

"Nothing solid," Wilbur said. "They put down a few rumors and notes, but they don't have anything enough for a warrant or one would be out."

"And Clay Mitchell, as opposed to this Dream persona. What do they know about him?"

"Same stuff they have on us -- or, well, could find on anyone. School names, graduation dates, last known place of residence, that sort of thing. Not much to say about the guy. Didn't go to University, moved around a lot, then dropped off the grid."

Tommy hummed thoughtfully. "Okay. Who else did you look at?"

"Well, I tried to find files for the other people that Punz mentioned," Wilbur said. "The Inner Circle. Unfortunately, while they probably exist, the police haven't flagged them as mob activity, so I couldn't find much."

Tommy groaned. "You fucked up the plan for one file??"

"Well, hang on," Wilbur said. "I went the other direction too."

"What do you mean?"

"I looked at people associated with the Blackstone Collective. They're probably enmeshed in it, if not in the Inner Circle. Or, hey. Maybe they are the inner circle. I dunno."

"Okay, and what did you find?"

"…not a lot--"

"For fucks sake--"

"A few things though! I did find a few things! Some names."

"Names."

Wilbur nodded. "We were on limited time, if you recall. I didn’t get much."

Tommy sighed. "Fine. Whatever. I don’t think we'll be able to brainstorm much if we only have names, though."

Wilbur nodded. "That’s fair enough. Let's look at the other stuff." He clicked the remote and brought up the photos of the evidence that Tommy had taken. Everything looked about the same as he remembered. Wilbur studied them, clicking back and forth through the photos of the crime scene. Tommy studied them too, trying to put together the clues he knew were there. 

"Okay, Toms," Wilbur said after a few minutes. "What do you notice?"

Tommy frowned. Wilbur had something in mind for him to notice. It was a puzzle. "He…he was stabbed in the back, not the front. And it doesn't look like he has defensive wounds on his arms."

"Good," Wilbur said. "Exactly. And what does that tell us?"

Tommy resisted the urge to say something sarcastic and callous. Don’t speak ill of the dead, and all that. He was incredibly sensitive and diplomatic when he tried. "It meant that the knife holder was someone he trusted, or that he was taken by surprise. Or, that he was running away."

"Excellent," Wilbur said. "One of the latter two is the most likely, I’d say, considering everything."

"Okay, yeah, well. That doesn't exactly help us narrow all this down, does it? Knowing more about the situation doesn't tell us who was actually holding the knife." They would need a name, Tommy knew, if Wilbur was going to be considered innocent.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Wilbur said. “Anything we can figure out is better than nothing.”

They continued examining the photos. “What about the two glasses?” Tommy asked. “He’s drinking from one, but there’s another on the counter by the sink.”

Wilbur zoomed in on the image. “Sure enough. I’d say it was just from earlier, though. Maybe he had a drink with dinner, and then another later.”

Tommy hummed under his breath. That made sense. The drops of water on the glass wouldn’t necessarily have dried in the hours between dinner and whenever Quackity was working. Though, wait. The photos had been taken close to twenty-four hours after Quackity had died. Did it take that long for water to dry? He didn’t think so. Maybe the room was humid. Or the sink had a drip and splashed on the glass. Or...something. When he pointed it out to Wilbur, the older man just shook his head. 

“I’m not sure either,” he said. “It’s something to note, though.”

By mutual unspoken agreement, they moved on from the crime scene photos eventually. There was more thinking to be done than what could be facilitated by the scene itself. Wilbur suggested a timeline of events, which Tommy found agreeable. Knowing the timing of things helped to understand why it might have fallen out that way.

Quackity had died on Friday night and wasn't discovered until Saturday night. That previous Tuesday, more than a week before he'd died, Wilbur had asked him for the files. Discouragingly, those were really the only solid points they knew, except for one final detail. Quackity had died the night before he had planned to talk to Schlatt about his findings.

"Do we know for sure that the 'findings' means some of the stuff you asked him to look into, Wilbur?" Tommy asked, tipping his head back against the couch.

"Well, not for certain, but it seems likely," Wilbur responded with a shrug.

"What did you even ask him for?"

"Anything he could find, really. Anything remotely related, but I wasn’t specific about why I needed it. It was a bit of a last ditch effort, honestly. I wasn't sure if he'd even be able to find anything."

Tommy nodded. "So another good place to start would be to see what he was reading or what he found, then, right?"

Wilbur grinned. Tommy opened the photos he'd taken of Quackity's binder.

Wilbur leaned forward. "Well," he said. "Well, well, well. He found stuff after all."

Quackity's binder appeared to be full of different financial and logistical documents. They weren't all the same or even the same style. Some were forms, some were paragraphs of text, some were spreadsheets. But on each of the pages in the photos, the highlighted text stood out. It denoted mentions of the Blackstone Collective, either through name or some sort of abbreviation.

"Holy shit, Big Q," Tommy said appreciatively. "Looks like we would have gotten to these fuckers even if Punz hadn't told us."

“Theoretically, I guess,” Wilbur said. “This stuff here isn’t stuff I would have been able to find without access to government computers, though.” Wilbur got up and went closer to the screen. "It looks like he was trying to detangle who they actually were."

"What, like who the actual owners are and stuff?"

"Yeah," Wilbur said. "He's manually traipsing through ownership manifests and transfers filed with the city to see which companies listed are dummy corporations that can be tied back to these guys."

"Fuuuuck," Tommy said, connecting the dots. "Because…if he could prove which companies were a part of the collective, and prove that those companies dealt to the mob, he had a case."

Wilbur nodded. "Exactly. I have no idea if that was his thought process, given that I didn’t even tip him off about mob stuff when I asked, but it serves well enough for us. And it looked like he was close, if not all the way there. Are there any more pictures?"

Tommy shook his head. "Sorry, big man. I didn't take every page, just the ones that looked important at the time."

"Damn," Wilbur said. "We don’t know if he cracked it or not."

"Why does that matter?" Tommy asked. "He's dead, we know we're right, why do we need to know how far he got?"

"The farther he got, the easier it will be for us to prove it," Wilbur explained. He started pacing. "The question remains, though. What actually happened with the hit?"

Tommy nodded slowly, thinking it through. Did the mob somehow find out he knew, and that was why they killed him? That seemed the most likely, but how? And how did the Mob know to kill Quackity that night, specifically? "Wilbur," he asked, "do you think it was a coincidence he died the night before he would have talked to Schlatt?"

Wilbur hummed thoughtfully. "I'm…not sure. The hit could have been in place for several days and only executed that night because it was convenient. Or, it could have been thrown together after a new piece of information, and set to run as soon as possible." He shrugged. “It might be a coincidence, but I wouldn’t place any bets on it. True coincidence is rare.”

"What if there was a leak in the mayor's office?" Tommy asked suddenly, the idea occurring to him. "Like, if Quackity had found some time to talk to Schlatt and blocked it out on either of their official schedules, then someone could put together the pieces if they knew some of what Quackity was researching."

Wilbur's eyes widened. "That's not crazy, actually. Fuck, and it explains how they knew what he was researching, too. Someone could have logged what records he was pulling and figured it out."

"Then, when they see it’s all about to come crashing down, they pull the trigger on the hit, or, like, accelerate it, or something," Tommy finished.

Wilbur whirled and started pacing again. Tommy could see him turning the idea over in his head. "This holds water," he said, a few moments later. " Damn . A leak in the Mayor's office. That means the Mob could have access to police files, too, since the Mayor’s office can request that sort of thing."

Tommy grimaced. "Shit. So, next step is to figure out who it is?"

"Seems like it."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know who all is on the Mayor's staff, but that won't be hard to find. They don't hide it. The real trick is going to be determining which one is the mole, since we can't access their computers or anything like that."

Tommy nodded slowly, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. "What if we went about it the other direction?"

"What do you mean, the 'other direction'?"

"Well, what if we found whoever was receiving the communication and worked backward to see who sent it?"

Wilbur blinked at him. "What, access the mob computers instead of the mayor’s? How the fuck do you propose we do that? We can't exactly walk in with a thumb drive and start looking at stuff. They'd shoot us."

Tommy leaned back on the couch, propping his good arm behind his head, and grinned at the ceiling. It was about time he got to make the plans instead of Wilbur. "I might know a guy."

Chapter Text

Phil arrived at the precinct exactly on time that morning. 8:30 am, not a second behind. It was a Friday. Good things were supposed to happen on Fridays, right? He hoped so.

It had been just over twelve hours hours since Wilbur Soot had vanished in front of his eyes. It had been seven hours since he'd arrived home, four hours since he'd managed to go to sleep, and an hour and a half since he'd woken up, bleary eyed and cursing the day he'd picked his career. An outsider might have thought that after a decade of sporadic, stressful nights of little sleep, Phil would have been used to it. He was decidedly not. But, sleep or no sleep, he had work to do.

He was surprised to find Techno already at his desk. Usually, the taller man arrived twenty minutes or so after him. But there he sat, hair pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck, a mug at his elbow, and a notebook in front of his laptop. He was wearing a different shirt than he had been the night before, but Phil knew it was the spare shirt he kept at the precinct.

He set his bag down. "Morning, mate," he said.

Techno looked up from his laptop, inhaling deeply, then glanced at the clock on the back wall. "Wow, I lost track of time. Hey, Phil."

"Have you slept?"

Techno grimaced. "No. I changed here an' kept working. Couldn't put it down. Wouldn't have been able t' sleep, anyway."

Phil hummed an acknowledgement. Techno was far more resistant to all-nighters than he was. "Have you eaten?"

Techno sipped from his mug, not looking at him.

"Techno--"

"It's fine, Phil--"

"Coffee is not a substitute for food!"

"Can be if you try hard enough."

"That-- no. No. That's not how this works."

Techno sipped from his mug again.

"I'm texting Ranboo and asking him to pick something up on the way in."

"Phil, you don't have t'…"

"It'll be for sharing, you toddler, but you'd better eat something. You can't help if you pass out."

"Phil, this's nowhere close to the longest I've gone without food--"

"That's not a good thing, Techno!" Phil scolded.

"I mean! Uh-- heh. I mean-- I have a granola bar…in my locker."

Phil looked at him flatly.

"The chief's here," Techno said, changing the subject with the lumbering finesse of an elephant.

Phil glared at him then grimaced as the words actually sunk in. "I'd hoped he might be in later today."

"Nope. He got here half an hour ago. I was conveniently in the bathroom when he arrived, but I heard he was fuming." He glanced towards the chief's office. "He'll notice us--"

A door slammed open down the hallway, followed by brisk, hard footsteps.

"--any second now…" Techno trailed off.

A moment later, the chief appeared, uniform crisp and hands behind his back. "Craft. Blade," he said. His voice was as calm as a frozen lake. "My office. Now. "

~*~*~*~*~

All things considered, Phil considered himself pretty good at getting yelled at. He'd had plenty of experience over the years, unfortunately. He was used to holding his ground, not pushing but not giving in, and letting words roll off his back.

He had never been on the receiving end of Chief Greene's anger before. It was proving more challenging than expected.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!” Chief Greene bellowed. He stood behind his desk, arms crossed, staring at Phil and Techno. “Huh?? Do you have any fucking explanations?? In less than an hour, you broke more regulations and made more poor decisions than I think I have ever seen!"

Techno had his teeth clenched and his hands in parade rest behind him. Phil resisted the urge to bite at the inside of his cheek or pick at his cuticles.

Sam continued. "You ran into an unknown situation, then split up from each other without having any idea of what was waiting for you. You didn't stop to get backup, even though it was readily available. You turned off your headsets and refused to communicate with other officers until the situation had escalated almost beyond saving. Craft, you lost a government issued deadly weapon that is now in the hands of a wanted criminal! Because of your actions, the city's two most wanted men escaped from a situation in which they could have been easily apprehended, and to add insult to fucking injury, you forced a cargo train to stop for an intensive search, which caused back-ups and snarl-ups across the city that won’t be untangled for days. So tell me, gentlemen, what the absolute fucking hell were you thinking??"

Phil took a deep breath, trying not to let any emotion cross his voice or tone. He had known this was coming. He had known it was coming, and he was prepared for it. He wouldn’t run from it. "It was a mistake, on my part, to split off without backup. It is my understanding that Techno did have another officer with him, while I did not. It was also a mistake, on my part, to turn off my headset. At that moment, I wanted to rid myself of distractions. I understand how that jeopardized my own safety and the safety of my fellow officers. I can assure you, I am also--" he cut himself off before his language escaped his measured control, "I am also frustrated and disappointed by Soot and Innit’s disappearance. I did everything in my power to ensure they did not escape and attempted to direct our team in those efforts as well. Some circumstances were beyond our control." He steadied himself with another breath, staring at the wall behind the chief's ear. "I am willing to accept the consequences for these actions."

"As am I," Techno said. "The situation's outcome was as much my fault as Phil's."

"Techno--"

"No, Phil, I was there too. We're partners."

Chief Greene glared at them. "If I had an ounce of sanity, I would remove you two from this case and send you to eight weeks of remedial training. That is,” he growled, “if I didn't just take your badges on the spot." 

Phil held his breath. He would accept it, of course. This was, well. This was a third degree clusterfuck, and a lot of it landed on his shoulders. He hoped Techno would be spared the brunt of it. He was pretty certain Ranboo and Niki would be.

"But," the chief ground out, "despite this mess, you two are still the best options I have. Literally everyone else qualified has reasons why they would not be a good fit for this case. You two have a substantial body of work that holds credit. And, despite the shitshow you two caused, since it happened on and near police property, I can tell the media it was a training exercise gone wrong. This isn't going to blow up like it might have, which is a stroke of fucking luck for both of you. So. Here's what's going to happen." The chief sat down in his chair, still glaring. "You're going to stay in this case. You're going to work it clean , well within the lines. You're going to arrest Soot and Innit, and you're going to do it in full communication with the rest of your team and with me. If I get so much as a whiff of you going rogue, if I hear even a rumor of you not following the book, I will pull you with absolutely zero hesitation and ship you back to bootcamp with your badges up your asses. If you let the suspects slip out of a situation like that again, or if you do something even half as fucking stupid as what you both pulled last night, I will consider it your resignation from the department. Finally, after this concludes, you both are going to go to two weeks of remedial, no matter what. Understand me?"

Phil nodded shakily. Techno nodded too.

"Good," Chief Greene said. He settled back in his seat and sighed. "I don't want this to be the end of your careers, gentlemen. You're damn good cops and damn good people, and we'd be sad to see you go."

"I understand," Phil murmured.

"Do you?" the chief asked. "Do you understand? This is the most public case we've had in decades. A government official is murdered and a police consultant is blamed for it? It's been on the front page since Soot and Innit made themselves scarce. On top of that, The Mayor's office is up my ass about it. You didn’t hear it from me, but Mayor Schlatt is taking everything very poorly. He's grieving because his friend was murdered in cold blood, but he's still balancing everything else that's expected of him, and he wants progress here more than anything. And, now, to top it off, two of my best detectives are pulling cadet level, rookie mistakes on the grand scale. This case is one wrong turn from becoming the most widespread flaming disaster in the department's history."

Phil opened his mouth to say something, anything, but closed it again. He didn't have the right words. It felt like he didn't have any words at all. Beside him, Techno shifted his weight back and forth.

Chief Greene sighed and shook his head tiredly. "I'm still pissed at you, but all of us have work to do. Don't do it again. Get out of here. Make yourselves useful."

Phil nodded. So did Techno. They left as fast as they dared.

~*~*~*~*~

"You survived!" Ranboo said, dropping two bags on the conference room table. "I was half expecting to see you two at your desks packing your things.”

"You're not the only one," Phil said dryly. "We're not out of the woods yet, though, mate."

Niki reached forward and began setting the contents of the bags out on the table. One held an assortment of foil-wrapped breakfast tacos. The other had a few small boxes of donuts. "Donuts, Ranboo? Really?"

The lanky boy shrugged, grinning. "Stereotypes exist for a reason, Niki. I'm calling bull if you tell me you don't like donuts."

"You're a Godsend, Ranboo," Phil said, passing him a few bills.

"Not a problem. I get to, um, reap the rewards too, after all," he said. He grabbed a donut and a taco, sitting next to Niki. "So. The chief didn't strangle you."

"He might've if we stuck around for too long," Techno muttered. At a pointed look from Phil, he took a taco for himself.

"The important part is that we deal with the fallout of this and make sure it doesn't happen again," Phil said, helping himself to food.

There was a muffled round of agreements from the other three.

"All right." Niki spoke up a few minutes later. "Give us the full story. What happened out in the trainyard? Ranboo and I were with tech and forensics during the clean-up. I never got to hear what actually happened, only that Soot and Innit escaped."

Phil sighed, wiping his hands. He wasn’t thrilled to have to recount the tale of his failure -- because that was what it was, he wasn’t going to hide behind calling it a ‘mistake’ or a ‘learning opportunity’ or whatever other bullshit new age teachers were spouting -- to the rest of the group. But he could swallow his pride. And, despite the fact that he’d only been working with Niki and Ranboo for a few days, he trusted them. Intellectually, he didn’t doubt they’d be anything but respectful except maybe for some lighthearted teasing. That did very little to settle the part of him that screamed for him to deny his mistakes and run for the hills. He took a bracing sip of coffee. "Techno and I split up, as you know, to chase Innit and Soot. I took Soot, Tech took Innit. I didn't wait for backup, which, yes," he interrupted as Niki opened her mouth, "was stupid. I know. But that's not the point. Soot ambushed me and tackled me. He took the gun but didn't shoot me. We talked -- briefly -- before he shot the lights and ran. I told you that on the radio, I think. Tech and I met up with SWAT and started the perimeter and searching the cars. We saw them as the lights came back on. They ran in front of the train, boarded it while it was moving, and rode it away."

Ranboo's eyebrows quirked up. "Badass."

Techno snorted.

"Shut up," Phil retorted with no heat. "We didn't jump on the train to try and apprehend them, so they escaped." He tried to push down the frustration gathering in his chest. It wasn't useful. He had failed, but there wasn't anything he could do to change that. He just had to keep going. They couldn't afford to fixate on the what-ifs, not with Soot and Innit still out there.

"I'd gathered a lot of that already," Niki mentioned. "What did he say when you talked with him? That's the first time an officer has been close enough to talk with him since he ran on Tuesday afternoon."

"Well, I was mostly focused on trying not to provoke him and trying to talk him down, given the fact that he was pointing my gun at me," Phil acknowledged. "But…we talked. He, well. He told me he wouldn't be giving up because he didn't kill Quackity. He said that he didn't do it and that he was close to figuring out who did. He told me to look into the mob and a company called the Blackstone Collective. I already told Techno all this, by the way."

Techno nodded. "That's what I was diggin' around in last night, but we'll get there."

Niki pursed her lips. "And what about you, Techno? What happened with Innit?"

"Pretty similar stuff. I tried to calm him down. It didn't work. He told me Soot was innocent. He ran when the lights went out. We lost 'em."

"Both of them separately claimed Soot didn't kill Quackity?" Ranboo asked.

"Yep," Phil said, popping the 'p'.

Techno nodded.

There was a pause.

"Well -- I mean. Do you, um. Do you...believe them?" Ranboo inquired carefully.

Techno grimaced. "I believe that Tom-- Inni believes it, but I don't know if he's right."

"What do you mean?" Niki asked.

Techno shrugged. "Innit is convinced that Soot didn't kill Quackity. I think Soot told him that, and maybe had some way to convince him or back himself up. Maybe he played on their past trust. Maybe he had some kind of physical evidence that we don't have. Maybe Innit's fooling himself. I dunno. Maybe Innit's just a damn good liar, but I wouldn't bet on that. Whether 'r not he's actually right, Innit believes Soot didn't do it. That holds some weight, but not much until we know why."

"So you're still firmly of the belief that Soot is responsible, here?"

"Yeah. If there's a reason to believe otherwise, I haven't seen it yet. But, c'mon." His lips quirked into a small smile. "What I believe doesn't really matter, here. There's a warrant, and this is our job."

Phil nodded.

"What about you, Phil?" Ranboo questioned.

"I'm of a…similar opinion," Phil began slowly, toying with the wrapper of his taco. "Wilbur told me he didn't do it. He seemed…emphatic, but I have no idea if he was lying. He was pointing a gun at me. He never looked anywhere for more than a moment because he was too busy trying to find a way to escape. When he did look at me, his eyes were…manic. He looked like he was one wrong step away from breaking down completely." Phil suppressed a shiver. "Honestly, I wouldn't be able to tell you if he had all his marbles with him or not. He could have been genuine but panicking. He could have been lying his ass off and terrified. He could have, I dunno, deluded himself into thinking what he was saying was true. He could just be a really fucking good actor, and I'd have no way of knowing if any of it was real." He folded the foil carefully and set it aside. "I've seen innocent men before. I've seen innocent men mistakenly caught up in bad situations before. But...I've never seen an innocent man as wild as Wilbur Soot was last night."

Silence fell again as everyone processed that statement.

"I mean," Techno cut in with a dry chuckle. "Soot's not exactly givin' us reasons to believe him, is he? Phil, you offered him the chance to come in with us, and he didn't take it. But, like, even more than that, innocent men don't break into police buildings. Innocent men don't meet with mob enforcers. Innocent men don't have a planned escape from police officers. Right?"

Phil nodded. In all honesty, he was torn in his feelings about Soot. On the one hand, he was almost sympathetic towards the man. Wilbur -- Soot, he had to keep reminding himself, it was Soot, not Wilbur, they should not be on a first name basis -- had been in a state of distress that night. It hurt to see someone that way, even if it wasn’t someone he knew very well. It made him want to get attached, to try and give Soot every possible benefit of the doubt. But, there had been more to it. Phil was willing to bet that Soot’s mental state was not entirely based in the realm of sanity, or, at least, it hadn’t been during their encounter. Phil had known he was smart. The files had told him that much. But when Phil had been facing him, it had been impossible to ignore the sparking, searing intelligence behind his gase. He looked like a man who knew more than he should, and who could rapidly figure out anything that he was missing. But that intelligence had been found in too-wide eyes, in a body that twitched and hummed with off-balance, unstable energy. It made the hairs on the back of Phil’s neck stand up. It was like Soot had been somewhere between predator and prey; full of instinct and ideas, ready to run in any direction, ready to hunt or to be hunted. 

He shook himself out of his thoughts. Techno’s observations were spot on. "Did you see Innit, too?” he added. “The look on his face before they started running?"

Techno grimaced. "Yeah."

Niki lifted an eyebrow.

"He was scared," Phil explained. "It looked like he was scared of Soot as much as he was of us. When we rounded the corner, Soot grabbed him by the arm, pretty roughly, and shoved him to get him moving."

Techno shifted, leaning forward. "I offered Innit a way out, and he didn't want to take it, but I saw it too, Phil."

"So…" Ranboo started, counting things off on his fingers. "We think it's more than possible that Soot is a good actor--"

"Far more than possible," Niki interrupted. "He's been noted to be incredibly charismatic and persuasive. It’s part of what’s made him such a successful investigator. You can't do that without knowing how to control and project your own emotions."

"--Okay, got that. Two, Innit believes Soot but seems scared of him. So, what? Soot is holding Innit against his will?"

Phil scrubbed a hand down his face. "I dunno if it's that explicit. Innit seems like he might run or fight back. I do think it's likely that Soot's manipulating Innit. Maybe he knows how much Innit trusts him and is using it against him. Maybe he's guilting him into staying somehow. Maybe he is threatening him, and T-- Innit just doesn't know how to leave, or if he even should. I doubt that, but…" Phil shook his head. "Lying to Innit, or telling him half-truths, or saying the right thing at the right time, playing on their past or their 'trust', all to make sure Innit keeps following him? That seems well within his capabilities."

Phil saw Techno's hand clench under the table. "Innocent men don't do that," he murmured.

The thoughts settled across the table like a damp blanket.

"To play Devil's advocate, so I guess in Soot's defense," Niki continued after a moment, "nothing was taken. He broke in, but he didn't cause any harm except to the poor desk guard's ego. And the trainyard lights, I guess."

Phil looked up at that, frowning. "Wait, really?"

Niki shook her head. "Forensics went over everything twice. Everything in the files Soot and Innit opened was present and in the same condition as when the forensics team first entered it into the system."

"Wait," Techno said, "How do you know which files he opened?"

"There's sensors on the shelves and box lids, as well as in the drawers in the paper file section," Ranboo explained. "Even though the power was down, the sensors logged everything. They just didn't enter the data until the computers came back online."

"Exactly," Niki confirmed. "Once we had that information, thanks to Ranboo, forensics swept the paper and case files they opened. Everything was there, unchanged. Maybe moved around in the boxes or files a little, but unchanged."

"What did they open, then?" Phil queried, setting his elbows on the conference table.

Niki pulled out a sheet of paper from her bag. "Let me see. I don't want to get anything wrong. This is a print out of what Ranboo found in the sensor data. Ummm, let's see. First, the Quackity evidence box. That has all of the crime scene photos, the binder and journal, all that stuff. That one stayed out and wasn't replaced until right before you found them. About two minutes after the Quackity one was removed, Soot's and Innit's own evidence boxes were removed too. Those have the things relevant to them for this case; the remnants of Soot's computer, his old case files, printouts of frames from the security camera footage, and other stuff we found in their house. Those were replaced fairly quickly. Then, they opened a bunch of drawers of paper files. Let's see--" she squinted at the page. "They removed and then replaced Clay Mitchell and Dream, Punz, Soot and Innit's files, both the consultant ones and their new criminal ones, and some other names that…I don't know how they connect. Those last ones aren't even files, just profiles that came to the department's attention a couple of times." Niki sighed, returning the file to her bag. "But, yes. Everything in those evidence boxes and files was returned safely."

"Y'know, on the security camera footage, he said that would be the case, too," Ranboo mentioned thoughtfully.

"Did he?" Phil was surprised. He hadn’t reconnected with the forensics team after the whole...fiasco, but he had been working under the assumption that they would have to use digital files and photographs of the evidence from then on. They hadn’t seen any tattered remains of evidence on the ground in the warehouse, but that hardly meant anything. If Soot hadn’t destroyed anything...well. It was something to consider, if nothing else. "I would have figured he'd have sabotaged stuff for all the trouble he took to get in."

Techno shook his head. "He's too smart for that. He knows damn well we've got it all digitized. He just wanted to know what we had, and he was willing to break laws to get it."

"Photos, then," Phil concluded. "Innit had a camera around his neck. They took pictures."

"Probably," Ranboo agreed.

"Innocent men don't break into police warehouses, and criminals know to minimize what they can be charged for," Techno muttered.

Phil sighed. "Let's look at this from a different angle. Remember how I said I filled Techno in on some stuff, and he said he'd been digging around?"

Ranboo and Niki nodded.

"Right. Well, when I was talking with Soot, he told me to look into the mob and something called the Blackstone Collective. He said that they were the ones responsible, not him."

"So," Techno said, picking up where Phil left off, "I went lookin'. I dug up as much as I could find. As it turns out, there's a reason why that name might sound familiar to you. Quackity highlighted a bunch of mentions of the Blackstone Collective in that binder.

"Oohhh," Ranboo hummed. "I thought I'd heard it somewhere before."

Niki tipped her head. "So, wait, then what was Quackity doing? Nobody had figured it out, right?"

"Nobody had really been lookin'," Techno responded. "Everyone was more preoccupied with trying to figure out who killed him, not what he'd been reading over the dinner table. I looked into it more last night. From what I could tell, he was trying to trace the Blackstone guys to a bunch of different companies and corporations, some of which we've pegged as possible mob activity. The Blackstone Collective themselves have never come up on our searches as people to investigate, but we've also never had a reason to look into them much."

"So Soot was telling the truth?" Niki asked tentatively.

"Possibly," Techno replied, shrugging. "Or he's trying to send us on some wild goose chase. But I think there's something here. The Blackstone people overlap with some fishy corporations a few too many times to be coincidence. We also don't have a lot of information on who actually runs things there. They have PR representatives and board members and all of that, but there's some weird gaps in the chain of command that I can't find information about. It's not inconceivable that the Blackstone people are a really elaborate front."

Phil leaned back, thinking.

"So, what," Ranboo questioned, "Soot wasn’t lying? He knows, somehow, that the mob and the Collective are connected and that they killed Quackity?"

Phil groaned. "None of it is that simple, though, mate. Whether Soot was right, or whether he was lucky, or whether we're both mistaken, we don't have anything solid that can tie them directly together. Even if we did, we don’t have a way to prove that they were behind it. At best, we have probable motive; that Quackity was researching them or planning something to hurt their prospects, so they decided to have him offed. That's great, sure, but none of that says anything about who was actually holding the knife. That's what our job is about: who killed Quackity, not who told them to." Phil shook his head. "As much as I would like to dismantle the criminal underworld, we have to take this one step at a time."

Niki nodded. "You're right, Phil. Either way, arresting whoever killed Quackity is the first step to untangling everything."

Phil leaned even farther back, staring at the white ceiling and propping his feet on a nearby chair. "So. There are two options here I can see, to start with. Probably a lot more, but two we can start with."

"Go on," Techno prompted.

"Okay. Let's assume, for the moment, that Soot was somehow right, that the Blackstone Collective is connected to the mob, and the mob is responsible for this whole mess. One: Soot killed Quackity at the mob's orders. He followed the mob’s instructions either under coercion, like if the mob threatened him with blackmail or violence, or of his own free will, like if they were paying him to do it. Now he's trying to throw the mob under the bus to cover his own ass. He thinks that if he can establish a link between Quackity and the mob without himself in the middle, we'll drop the charges against him or something. Or maybe he thinks his punishment won’t be as bad if he squeals on the mob, but he has a reason why he can’t turn himself in. That could be threats of blackmail or violence or some other way the mob has to ‘convince’ him not to come to the police, or he knows that he’ll be implicated and he doesn’t want to go to jail." Phil paused, taking a sip of coffee, then continued. "Actually, the other way this could go is that he killed Quackity for some other reason, thinking he could get the mob to protect him, and now he's finding out that that's not the case. But what I think is the most likely out of those, considering how he’s been acting, is that the mob has him by the balls somehow, and he's trying to squirm out of it without being caught by anyone . Everything he's been doing could be him trying to find a way to clear his name by shifting the blame for the actual murder onto someone else."

"What could they have on him that would make him murder a man, though?" Ranboo wondered.

"We don't know a lot about his past," Techno pointed out. "There could be anything there. Maybe he used to be into drugs and owes them money. Maybe he used to have weird, 'revolutionary' political beliefs that could get him doxxed or arrested. Maybe they're just straight up threatenin’ him or Innit with violence, like Phil said. Maybe he hated Quackity for some reason, and this was his way of getting revenge and thinking he could maybe make a profit at it. Phil's right, though. Soot's a professional investigator. He could easily be findin' information against the mob, enough to make some sort of case, with the sole purpose of shiftin' our attention away from him."

"Exactly," Phil affirmed. "That's option one: Soot kills Quackity, finds information, and squeals on the mob to throw us off him."

Niki nodded along thoughtfully, picking at a donut. "Okay. That definitely makes sense. What's option two?"

Phil took a deep breath. "Soot is telling us the whole truth. He didn't kill Quackity, he somehow knows that the mob's responsible for it, and we're chasing the wrong guy. However, that has a lot of holes."

"No kiddin'," Techno muttered. "The security camera footage, for one. Ranboo, nobody's been able to find anything off about it, right?"

"Nothing," Ranboo said. "I've poked at it myself, as well as a bunch of the other techs. It's just…camera footage. No sign of tampering, no sign of editing or visual effects. It's rock solid."

Techno hummed. "That's what got this thing started in the first place. Just 'cause we're battin' around questions doesn't mean we can ignore the evidence we already have. So, goin' by that and everythin' else we've talked about, theory two is dead in the water, and Soot is our man, right?"

"Yup," Phil said. He steepled his fingers. "But let's toss around the hypothetical for a moment, just to see if we're missing something."

"Okay," Niki started. "So, the question becomes, 'if Soot didn't kill Quackity, who did?' Phil is right, we need to make an arrest for this case to unravel."

There was a beat of contemplative silence.

"Well, what can we, um, what can we tell from the crime scene?" Ranboo reached for the projector cord and plugged his laptop in, bringing up the photos. "There's no fingerprints, obviously, except for Quackity's."

"The stab wounds aren't defensive," Techno observed. "He had his back turned to them and didn't block anything with his arms."

"I'd say he was jumped," Phil began. "Someone takes him from behind, he goes down without time to react. Remember, he's not a trained fighter, just a politician."

"So…who would have jumped him?" Niki asked. "A mob hitman?"

"Very possibly," Phil agreed. "Someone with the skill to break in quietly and take him with little struggle."

Techno frowned suddenly. "Niki, did you say earlier that Soot had looked at the file for Dream?"

Niki blinked at him. "Yes. Why?"

Techno's lips twitched. "Dream's got the skills to pull that off. He's done stuff like it in the past, if we're attributin' the right stuff to him. He's dropped off the grid, but that could be because he fell in with the mob. I'm just sayin'. If we're making a list of other possible suspects for who could 've theoretically done this, Dream should be on it."

"That's not crazy, mate," Phil said. "I'd put Punz on that list too, actually. He has known mob contact, known contact with Soot, and he may well have the skillset. But, yeah, no. Dream is honestly more likely than Punz, right? Since Punz has cut contact with the mob now."

"Unless those rumors are false, to throw us off him," Techno countered. "It could also be someone we've never heard of before."

Phil groaned. "Why do murders have to be so complicated?"

Techno snorted. Niki giggled into her donut.

"Right, okay. Is there any other way to look at this?" Phil looked at the other three.

"Knife wounds in the back don't have t' mean he was jumped, though that really is the most likely option," Techno responded.

"The other option being that he willingly turned his back to someone and they stabbed him?" Niki looked at him.

"Sure." Techno shrugged.

"Okay, that's another starting point. Who, then, would Quackity have turned his back on?" Phil rubbed his face again. This conversation was draining him faster than he'd anticipated. It was just the lack of sleep, he reasoned. He could push through it.

"That list might not be that long, actually," Niki said. "He doesn't have family in town, and he wasn't known for having a large group of friends."

"So that leaves…Mayor Schlatt?" Ranboo finished.

"There's no way it was him," Techno stated. "Doesn't make any sense."

"I'm not saying it was," Ranboo defended. "It was just the first person I thought of that Quackity would have trusted."

"You're both right," Phil placated. "Techno, explain your reasoning, though. We're not tossing any ideas in the bin without thinking them through."

Techno nodded an agreement. "First of all, what the hell would Schlatt have to gain? He and Quackity were close. Really close. We know this. Like, ‘the tabloids thought they might have been lovers’ kind of close. So that's one point. Relatedly, Quackity was his right-hand man in the campaign and in office. I feel like I heard the Mayor in some interview talkin' about how he would have no idea how to keep doing his job if Quackity wasn't there. I don't have a source on that right in front of me, but still. Schlatt doesn't seem like the man to throw all that away, especially for nothin'. Also, Phil, you heard what Sam said. Schlatt's been taking this badly, apparently. You saw the speech he gave, too. I'd fully believe he's filled with nothing but anger and sorrow about all this. That's not typical of a murderer." Techno took a sip of his drink and then continued. "Secondly, Schlatt's not tied to the mob. It's, like, the opposite, right? He and Quackity have been the hardest on crime that this city's seen in years. If he were dirty...logically, the mob would have flourished, no matter what rhetoric he was spoutin’." Techno shrugged. "I guess technically he could fall into some of the categories we're talking about, but it doesn't make any damn sense to me for him to be the murderer, assumin’ the murderer has mob connections."

"No, that, um, that all checks out," Ranboo confirmed. "I can't think of anything against that. It just, yeah. Like I said. First name that came to my head."

"Going on the files and notes we have, as well as whatever we know about him from the media, I can't think of any other people who he would have trusted that would also have been in town," Niki added. "So, there goes that, I guess."

Phil smiled grimly. "Well. Not necessarily. The other thing to consider here is that the 'person he trusted' idea doesn't rule out Wi--Soot."

Ranboo frowned at him. "Huh?"

"They were at least acquaintances, from the work Soot's done for the Mayor's office in the past couple years. It wasn't loads, but they would have met. Picture this, right," Phil continued. "Soot breaks into Quackity's house, like we see on the cameras. He finds Quackity working, quickly explains that he just needed a place to go and was out of options or something like that. We've already established that Soot's too charismatic for his own good. Maybe Quackity believes him, maybe not, but he turns around long enough for Soot to slip the knife in, and it's all over."

The room fell quiet.

"Weren't we discussing possibilities where Soot was innocent, Phil?" Techno asked wryly.

Phil spread his hands. "It makes sense, though, doesn't it? Fits with everything we've seen."

Ranboo sighed. "Everywhere we look, it comes back to Soot holding the knife, huh?"

"The only other candidate we came up with was Dream, right?" Niki said. "I'm not saying that's wrong, to be clear. He could well have done it, except the footage says differently. And, either way, Dream deserves to go down if he's done even half of the things we think he did. But that's not the point."

"So it boils down to…" Techno counted things off on his fingers. "Soot did it at the mob's orders, Soot did it and connected with the mob later, or someone else did it, like Dream, and the footage is somehow fake."

Phil nodded. "That sounds right. Anyone else have anything to add?"

Ranboo and Niki shook their heads.

Phil took a heavy breath. "Great. Well. This is fantastic, but it doesn't change a lot, does it? We have a warrant out for Soot. Our job is to catch him, not prosecute him."

"So, um, what comes next, then?" Ranboo asked.

"A lot of what this is hangin' on is that security footage," Techno said. "I know everyone's already said it’s legit but, Ranboo, I say you tackle it as hard as you can. If it's fake, that's gonna throw everything up in the air. Better to know sooner than later."

"Exactly." Phil shifted back. "The other thing is the Blackstone Collective. If we can figure out what's going on with them, that could be a good lead or at least another solid piece of the puzzle."

"So an investigation, then?" Niki shot him a curious look.

"Yep," Phil confirmed. "The issue being, because nothing is ever simple around here, that it's going to be really hard to investigate a company thoroughly, quickly, and quietly."

Techno grimaced. "Ouch. You're not wrong."

Phil clapped his hands together, leaning forward again. He was the lead on this, technically, since he had seniority over Techno. If he was the lead, it was time to act like it. "Okay. Let's do this. Ranboo, tackle the footage and whatever other evidence is foundationally supporting the Soot warrant. Niki, you and Techno keep working on where Soot is and what he might be doing next. I'll take the investigation and pull a couple of other people in with me. We'll check in again tonight. Sound good?"

The atmosphere of the room brightened considerably as Phil spoke. They had a plan. Even if it wasn't very detailed, they could work with it. The four investigators agreed, packed their things, bade each other goodbye, and went on their ways.

Phil returned to his desk. His first order of business was to email a couple of other officers to request their help on the Blackstone investigation. But, while he waited for their responses, his mind wandered. He couldn't help it. He kept replaying the confrontation from the previous night over and over in his head. 

Was there something he had missed? Something he could have done differently that would have secured a better outcome? Despite what he had told the chief, he wouldn't have changed his actions. Well, except he may have waited for an officer to go with him. But everything else was the right choice in a bad situation. At least he hoped so. Maybe it wasn't. Was there something he could have said to Wil-- to Soot to pull him back from that dangerous, half-crazed state? Was there something he could have done to bring him to the station, to justice? Was there something he could have done to help take Tom-- Innit to safety? It rankled at him, knowing that he had been so close and failed. It hurt, too, knowing what it had cost. Not just in department resources, he was well aware of that, but in potential harm. He hoped, genuinely, that Innit was alright. That Soot wouldn't hurt anyone else, or, Gods forbid, kill anyone else.

He hoped, next time he saw the tall, wild-eyed, brown-haired man, that he would know what to do.

Chapter Text

"After you, Tommy," Wilbur murmured, letting Tommy pass him. As he approached the door, Wilbur leaned back against the railing forming  one side of the apartment building’s outdoor hallway. It wasn't one of those fancy establishments with elevators and front desks with doormen and too much chrome. It was plain, with three stories and a large parking lot. Each level was fronted by a covered hallway that allowed access to each apartment and to the staircases at the corners. The building was unassuming and not newly constructed, but it was moderately cheap and fairly close to the city center. Tommy had been here many times, though his last visit had been a few months ago, and some things had changed. The paint on the railing was peeling, more than he recalled, and the afternoon sun made the faint stains on the gutters and floors clearer to the inattentive eye. The door had an umbrella stand next to it and a small bench.

Wilbur kept an eye on the rest of the world from his sentry point at the railing as Tommy stepped up to the door. He took a deep breath and licked his lips. This had been Tommy’s idea, but it didn't mean he wasn't nervous. He steeled himself and rapped on the door. As he did, a small red light flicked on over the peephole. Tommy's eyes locked onto it immediately, and he knew Wilbur would have seen it too.

"Tommy--" Wilbur began urgently.

"Relax, Wil," Tommy returned placatingly. "You know how he works. It'll be a closed system, nothing's gonna trigger. We knew something like this would be here and we said it was worth it, remember?"

Wilbur narrowed his eyes at the light but didn't move. Tommy glanced back at the door.

The door rattled before swinging open. Standing in the gap was a young man with a messy bowl cut of brown hair. His features were kind, with hazel eyes that looked accustomed to laughter. The young man was shorter than Tommy, much shorter than Wilbur. He wore a black hoodie with some red design on the front and a pair of beat up jeans. "Sorry, I don't want--" he started, but then he registered who was standing in front of him. His eyes flew open wide.

"Hey--" Tommy never got to finish because the brown haired boy slammed the door closed. He rocked back on his heels. "Um. Huh."

Wilbur raised an eyebrow at him. Tommy glared at him, then knocked once more with added force.

The door opened again, just a small sliver, and Tommy spied the glint of a brass chain holding the door shut. "Give me one reason," the brown haired young man hissed, "why I shouldn't call the police this fucking instant."

"Hi Tubbo," Tommy drawled. "Long time no see, how's the life, how's the job--"

"Do not test me, Tommy, I will do it--"

"Tubbo, Tubbo, just hear me out, okay. I know the shit you've probably heard, what you've probably been seeing, but I swear it, Tubbo, it's all wrong. It's mistaken, okay?"

Tubbo scowled. "Why the fuck are you here?"

"We need your help," Tommy stated.

"No. Go somewhere else."

Tommy grimaced. "Tubbo, we can't exactly walk into any random office to hire someone, dickhead, for multiple reasons!" He vaguely registered Wilbur shifting behind him and prayed that Wil wouldn't do something stupid. Tommy had insisted that he be the one to do the talking. He didn't want Wil's nerves or paranoia fucking this up. Wilbur could keep watch. He was good at that.

"I don't care, Tommy! I should be calling the police!" Tubbo snapped.

"But you're not, are you?"

"That's not the point. Look--"

"I'm calling in a favor, then," Tommy interrupted.

Tubbo stopped and blinked at him. "What favor?"

Shit. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "The, um…the one from…from the beekeeper incident!" Tommy finished triumphantly.

"The beekeeper incident."

"Yeah. You fucking owe me for that one, big man. And remember that one time you got stuck up North and I had to go get you?" It was true. Tubbo owed him for both of those moments, and probably loads more, if he could ever remember them. The Beekeeper Incident had been a long time ago, but that hardly mattered. The point was, Tubbo owed Tommy favors, because Tommy was a selfless and generous person and he helped out whenever Tubbo got into trouble. (Sure, maybe Tommy sometimes got them into more trouble than Tubbo had originally, and maybe Tommy needed Tubbo’s help just as often as Tubbo needed his, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Tubbo owed him butt tons of favors. Obviously.)

Tubbo grimaced. "Fuck."

"Tubbo," Tommy added, far more gently, "you know I wouldn't do this if I didn’t think it was necessary, right?" That, also, was true. He'd considered backing out of this plan altogether so that Tubbo wouldn’t get tangled in their mess, but they truly  needed him.

Tubbo exhaled heavily through his nose and tipped his head back.

"Besides," Tommy wheedled. "I think you'll actually really like this if you hear us out."

Tubbo looked back at him. "Okay, fine, but look. You're calling in both of those, and you still owe me one. I will hear you out, but if I don't like it, you both leave. Deal?"

"Deal," Tommy agreed swiftly.

Tubbo shut the door and reopened it without the chain, stepping back to let them in. Wilbur pushed himself off the railing and followed as Tommy entered.

"Wilbur," Tubbo greeted stiffly.

"Hey, Tubbo," Wilbur replied from behind him. "Sorry for the situation. We'll explain."

Tubbo sighed. "I should have expected this from Tommy at some point, though, really."

Wilbur grinned.

"Hey!" Tommy exclaimed without malice. "I resent that."

"You resent everything," Tubbo quipped back.

Tommy studied the inside of the apartment. The short hallway from the door quickly opened up into a living room connected to a small dining alcove. From there, he could see a wide doorway that presumably led to the kitchen, as well as another hallway where, assumedly, the bedrooms and bathrooms were. A small table next to the door held an assortment of framed photos of Tubbo and his family and friends. Tommy was in one of them, he noted fondly, standing with Tubbo on a pebbly beach. That had been a fun day. They'd gone to the arcade later and nearly passed out from laughing too hard at claw machines and those dancing games that made everyone look like idiots.

Tommy pointed at another photo. "Who's that? This picture wasn't here last time we hung out."

"That?" Tubbo peered at the picture, where he was wearing a suit with a green tie and standing next to another, much taller man.The taller man was also in a suit but with a red tie, and his hair was dyed, half white and half black. Both men stood in some sort of office and wore serious expressions, but they appeared to be suppressing smiles. "That's Ranboo. That's the photo from the day we got married."

Tommy sensed more than saw Wilbur tense and hid a wince. He hadn't known that Tubbo didn’t live alone. That…complicated things. Whoever this was didn't need to  get trapped in the inescapable web that was their current situation. But he ignored that, as the important part of that sentence properly sunk in a moment later. "P-- Wha -- Married?? " he spluttered.

"Yeah." Tubbo waved a hand airily as he approached the kitchen. 

"And is this 'Ranboo' here now?" Wilbur questioned slowly. Tommy watched his fingers twitch toward his pocket.

"No, he's at work," Tubbo said. "He'll be home this evening."

"No, back up." Tommy followed Tubbo and pointedly ignored Wilbur. "Who the fuck is this guy? Why haven't I heard of him? Why the fuck wasn't I invited to your fucking wedding? "

"It's not a big deal, boss man," Tubbo placated. "We--" Something smashed to the ground in the kitchen, making both Wilbur and Tommy jump. Tubbo swore, then darted forward.

"What the fuck?" Wilbur called.

"Sorry!" There was a scuffling noise from where he’d disappeared into the kitchen. "One second!" 

Wilbur shuffled to stand  in front of Tommy, who didn’t push him away. He had no idea what was going on but something was off. It sounded like glass breaking. If nobody else was around, then...

"Michael!" Tubbo scolded from the kitchen. "Get down from there this instant, young man."

"Tubbo?" Tommy called. Wilbur looked at him, presumably for an explanation, but Tommy just shrugged. He was lost too. He trusted Tubbo, though. Surely it was fine.

"Sorry," Tubbo responded, "my son is just being a little shit because he wants attention. I do have to clean this up, now, though."

"Your son?" Tommy queried, trying not to sound too frantic. What the fuck? Had he heard Tubbo right? This situation was throwing far more curveballs at him than he expected.

"Yeah," Tubbo said distractedly. "You guys can come in, by the way. I'll just be a second."

Tommy hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to drag a young kid into all of this. It was one thing to get Tubbo involved in something slightly illegal (or, well, more than slightly, depending who was asked), but Tommy didn’t want to add 'sending some poor kid’s parents to prison' to his conscience. No kid should have to live through that, in his humble and highly informed opinion. He bit his lip. They could still back out if they needed to, but for the moment, he elected to forge onwards. "When did this happen? Because you sure as hell never bothered to tell me, Big T."

Wilbur stayed quiet, but Tommy knew he was likely conjuring ways to handle this. For all Wilbur's toughness, kids put him on edge. He'd always thought they were unpredictable and hard to read. Tommy didn't mind them, though he could see why Wilbur thought the way he did.

"He was Ranboo's, but he's joined the household now," Tubbo explained. "No, Michael, spit that out--" There was another scuffle and suddenly Tubbo reemerged, holding a wriggling, pink something in his arms.

"What. The fuck. Is that?" Tommy demanded.

"This is Michael," Tubbo introduced. "Michael, meet Tommy and Wilbur. Can you guys hold him for a minute? I need to clean up the glass, and he keeps trying to eat it."

Tommy vaguely registered that Wilbur relaxed, but he didn't pay it any mind. He was too focused on the weird, pink, alien looking thing that Tubbo had called his 'son'. "No, no I figured it was Michael," he responded sourly. "But what is it, Tubbo?"

There was a beat of silence. Wilbur quietly sidestepped so that he could lean on the wall to watch. He was smirking. Tommy ignored him, staring at Tubbo.

Tubbo studied  the squirming bundle of pink skin and pale green eyes in his arms, then back up at Tommy. "I should have led with the fact that Michael's a cat, shouldn't I?"

A cat? "Wh--That--Fuckin' -- Yes!! Tubbo! I thought you had a human child that someone entrusted you to take care of!" Tommy blurted.

Tubbo looked down at Michael again and grinned. "Oh. Um. Yeah. Sorry about that, boss man. Guys, meet Michael, my cat. Well, technically he's still Ranboo's cat, but Ranboo lives here now, and Michael likes me better anyway."

"Tubbo," Tommy began, "I don't know if you've ever seen a cat before, but that is not what cats fucking look like. You can trust me, I am the pussy expert.”

Wilbur chuckled and then turned it into a cough. Tommy flipped him off without looking at him.

Tubbo examined Michael. The wrinkly little animal that was attempting to escape his arms was definitely not cute, Tommy decided. Not in the slightest. It, or he, Tommy supposed, was mostly a pale pink, but had blotches of pale grey-white over its body and head. He had one tall, bat-like ear on the left side of his head, but only a scarred nub on the other side. The eye on that scarred side looked damaged too, cloudy and somewhat out of focus, but it still tracked with the other eye. His large, pale green eyes watched Tubbo and the rest of the room with surprising perception, and he kept mewing indignantly. Okay, maybe he was, somehow, kind of adorable, excluding  the fact that he looked like a freak of nature that crawled out of a cave and was now masquerading as a pet.

"Well, he's a little scarred up because he lived on the streets before Ranboo found him, but you shouldn't bully him for that, Tommy. He's a perfectly healthy sphynx cat, otherwise," Tubbo explained.

"He doesn't have any fur, Tubbo!" Tommy shouted.

"Sphynx cats are supposed to be hairless, Tommy!" Tubbo retorted.

"It looks like a fucking ball sack!"

Tubbo gasped, clapping a hand over Michael's ear. "Tommy! How dare you! Don't be rude. Michael, don't listen to him. You're a very handsome young man."

Wilbur was grinning outright. "I'll hold him, Tubbo, go clean up the glass."

" Thank you, Wilbur," Tubbo responded, handing Wilbur the struggling bundle of skin and muscle.

Tommy groaned. How was Wilbur just smiling at the ludicrous situation they’d been thrown into? "Tubbo, I cannot believe you got married and got a pet without bothering to tell me about any of it."

"It would have been in the Holiday cards, boss man," Tubbo told him as he disappeared into the kitchen again.

It only took a few minutes for Tubbo to sweep up the glass. Tommy and Wilbur settled at Tubbo's battered table while they waited. Wilbur amused himself by cooing over Michael, who eventually hopped off his lap to caper into the living room. Tommy just sat and picked at his nails, going over in his head how he was going to explain everything. He was grateful for the lighthearted banter that he and Tubbo could still share, but the silence as Tubbo cleaned up the mess reminded him of why they were there in the first place. Nerves made his shoulders tense and his legs jiggle under the table.

Tubbo rejoined them and handed them each a cup of water. He settled into a seat where he could see both of them. "So," he began. "Explain yourselves."

Tommy took a deep breath and started talking. He recounted everything Wilbur had told him, about the murder and the mob and the framing. He told Tubbo in vague terms about their escapade at the police warehouse and what they thought was going on. Wilbur nodded along, occasionally contributing details but mostly sticking to his promise to let Tommy do the talking.

Tubbo sat and listened. He occasionally asked for clarification but never stopped Tommy. He didn't look uncomfortable or disbelieving, only interested. Tommy fidgeted with his hands and with his water glass. Tubbo could be very hard to read when he tried. Was he waiting for Tommy to mention something that would send him running? Had he already made his mind up that he wasn't helping them? Had he called the police without them noticing and now he was just stalling? But, no. Tubbo wouldn't do that. He hoped.

When he reached the conclusion of their circumstances, he took a small sip of water and waited.

Tubbo leaned back in his chair, idly spinning his cup between his fingers. "I hear you, boss man. You guys are in a tough spot. I…I think I believe you. I mean, you wouldn't lie to me, right, Tommy?"

Tommy shook his head vigorously. "Never, Tubso. You know me."

Tubbo nodded slowly and regarded Wilbur. "What about you? Are you being level with us?"

Wilbur's lips twitched, and he sighed. "Yeah, I am. I didn't do it."

Tubbo sat quietly for another moment. Tommy held his breath. "All right," Tubbo said. "All right. Cool." He straightened. "I've been an accessory to crime before. This seems like a good cause to do it again. What do you guys need? Who are we scamming? I can do the police but it'll be tough shit to do without a trace."

"No, Tubbo," Tommy cut in. "We got what we need from the police already." He hesitated, then grinned. "We need to hack the mob."

Tubbo laughed, high and hiccupping. "Well, shit, Tommy, why didn't you just say so?" His smile widened, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Crime against criminals? I'm all in. Let's do it."

---------------

Tubbo led them down the hallway to his office. Well, Tommy would call it an office. Tubbo called it his lab. Someone sane would probably just call it a mess.

Against one of the walls was a large desk which held a considerable variety of computers and computer parts. A keyboard and mouse sat in front of three monitors near the far wall. Wires and cables snaked across the ground in organized chaos, bound together with tape or twist ties. A towel spread over the other end of the desk contained a disassembled computer, as well as an open tool kit full of tiny screwdrivers and clippers and things that Tommy would never be able to understand, let alone use. Behind the desk were two monitors which looked more like small televisions than computer screens, as well as a ukulele on a hook and a few movie and video game posters. A shelf of various controllers, joysticks, VR headsets, and other gaming accessories was nestled under the window on the back wall. On the other side of the room, another monitor sat atop amore modest desk, a few folders and files scattered across its surface. Tommy assumed that was Ranboo's desk. On either side was a  set of printers and a tall tower full of cords, plugs, and wires that looked complicated and expensive. 

Tubbo plopped himself into a rolling chair and scooted over in front of the massive monitors. They flared to life when he wiggled the mouse. "Right," Tubbo hummed. "So. Where am I starting?"

"You're the expert," Tommy pointed out. "But we know that the Blackstone Collective is tied to the mob. You could try there and see if anything comes of it?"

Tubbo clicked a few things and began typing. "Sure thing, boss man. Are you guys on a time limit?"

Tommy shrugged. "Not really, but it depends what you mean. We don't have anywhere to be for the next few hours, but we probably shouldn't hang around longer than that."

"Oh, yeah, that'll be fine," Tubbo dismissed. "I just didn't know if you wanted fast and messy or clean and slow."

"The cleaner the better," Wilbur cut in. "I don't want to antagonize anyone more than we have to."

"No problem. I'll see what I can do. Make yourselves comfy, then. We might be here for a while."

---------------

Tubbo explained what he was doing as he went, which Tommy was grateful for, even if he didn't understand half of it. Tubbo, apparently, had to trick the Blackstone Collective servers into granting him permission so that he could snoop around, since if he smashed his way in, it would set off alarms and kick him out. Tubbo mentioned 'trojan horses' a lot, along with 'mask accounts' and 'encryption backlogs', whatever those were.Tommy just nodded and tried not to look too bored. Wilbur seemed to be faring somewhat better. He peered over Tubbo's shoulder a few times as the shorter boy tapped away, or clicked a few things, or projected windows of text and inputs and outputs across his monitors. Eventually Tubbo leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Okay. That should do it. All we have to do now is keep an eye on it and wait."

"It's just…going?" Wilbur tipped his head curiously.

"Pretty much. I have to make sure nothing falls apart, and if something touches an alarm I have to be ready to jump in, but right now, it’s a waiting game. I won't be able to look at anything until the computers decide we're not suspicious."

Tommy relaxed against the wall from his seat on the floor. "Sounds good. We're excellent at waiting."

---------------

Tommy was not good at waiting. He got bored very quickly. He poked around Tubbo's controllers for a while and traced the lines of the cables across the floor. He asked Tubbo a couple of questions about the computers in the room but gave up the second his eyes glazed over when Tubbo started to explain why different brands of memory cards were better or worse.

Wilbur spent much of the time lounging in the other available chair, lost in his thoughts. Tommy didn't bother him. He hoped Wilbur was taking advantage of the time to think about something other than this tangled mess of a case.

Eventually, Tommy ran out of things to think about or do by himself, and he had to resort to properly talking to his friend Tubbo. It was a true shame. "Tubbo!" He crowed from the floor. It had been about twenty minutes since Tubbo had started the program running. "Tubbster. Big T. Tubso."

"Yes, Tommy? What's up?"

"Tell me more about this Ranboob guy."

"It's Ran boo , Tommy."

"Yea, 's what I said. Ranboob. Who's he? How'd you end up getting married?"

Tubbo sighed. "Well, we met through work, actually. You know all my freelancing stuff?”

Tommy nodded. Tubbo’s ‘freelancing stuff’ was his source of income. He did any kind of computery odd job that needed doing, from building or rebuilding machines to designing software (which often ended up being custom malware that companies used against each other) to troubleshooting errors for big systems. He’d designed Tommy’s and Wilbur’s computers, along with the function and protection software they used.

“He was working on something and contacted me because I'd done something similar a few years ago so my name popped up in his searches. We got a coffee, started talking." Tubbo shrugged. "We hit it off. I dunno."

"So you met this guy once and married him?" Tommy asked incredulously.

"Well, we're only sort of married," Tubbo explained.

Wilbur was following the conversation now, too, Tommy noticed.

"He moved in a few weeks after we met because his lease ran out, and I wanted a roommate," Tubbo continued. "Then we realized how much tax benefits we get if we got married. So we did."

Tommy stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. "Wait, you--" He couldn't finish the sentence. "You-- you got married for tax benefits ?"

Tubbo grinned at him. "Yeah, we did. It started out as a joke but neither of us backed out. Ranboo still only calls me his roommate. It's so fucking funny. Whenever we go anywhere I make a point of playing the 'married' bit up."

Wilbur was chuckling too, hiding it behind his hand.

Tommy wheezed, wiping his eyes with one hand. "Holy shit, Tubbo. Oh my god."

When their mirth died down, Wilbur inquired, "So, you two met through work?"

"Yeah," Tubbo replied. "My freelance stuff happened to overlap with something from his job, like I said. He wasn’t allowed to tell me how, though."

Wilbur nodded. "What does Ranboo do?"

Tubbo opened his mouth, then froze. Tommy watched a realization crawl across his face.

The air in the room was suddenly very tense. Tommy swallowed.

"Tubbo," Wilbur murmured, dangerously quiet. "Spit it out."

Tubbo licked his lips. "Okay, this is going to sound bad, but you're already in this, so please don't like, shoot me, or something."

"We're not going to hurt you or Ranboo, Tubbo," Tommy interrupted, directing a glare in Wilbur's direction.

"Right. Okay." Tubbo wiped his hands on his jeans nervously. "Um. Ranboo works as a tech specialist…in the police department."

Oh, shit. If the air had been tense before, it was wound tight now, fraying at the edges. "Your roommate slash husband works in the police department, and you didn’t think that was an important thing to tell us, Tubbo?" Wilbur's voice was as quiet and sharp as a blade in the night.

Tommy pulled his legs back up from where they had been stretched out, preparing to stand up if he needed to. "Wil, it's fine,” he placated. “It's okay. If it was going to be a problem, Tubbo would have thought of it, right, Tubbo?"

Tubbo nodded. "Yeah, boss man. It's not an issue." Tubbo's eyes flicked between Tommy and Wilbur. Tommy didn't miss how Tubbo swallowed nervously. "He's going to be out until, like, dinner time."

Wilbur's attention never slid from Tubbo. "What cases is he working on right now?"

Tubbo shifted, looking at Tommy again. "I don't know. He's not allowed to talk about it. I don't-- I dunno. Um. Sorry."

"That's okay, Tubbo," Tommy reassured. "It's fine."

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. "You're doing illegal things and your roommate is a police officer. You're aiding and abetting us. Is that going to be a problem?"

"If it was gonna be a problem, I wouldn't have done it, Wilbur," Tubbo replied quietly. "I'm not stupid. Ranboo doesn't ask too many questions about my work when he knows he shouldn't. I don’t ask questions about his. We share techniques, we practice together, but we don't share everything. You're safe. And," Tubbo paused, rubbing the back of his neck, "this seems like a risk worth taking. Helping you and Tommy not go to jail? Taking down the criminal underworld?" Tubbo tried to smile, but it melted off his face as fast as it appeared. "That's, like, vigilante shit. That's worth it."

Tommy held his breath. Wilbur studied Tubbo, dark eyes shadowed and calculating. Tubbo bit the inside of his cheek.

A loud chime from the computer made them all jump. The tension in the room shattered, and Tommy found he could breathe again.

"Oh, shit." Tubbo sounded pleasantly surprised, pressing one hand over his heart and turning back to the monitor.

"What is it?" Wilbur queried.

Tubbo looked back over his shoulder. "I'm in."

---------------

"Well, you were right about one thing, guys." Tubbo tapped something on his keyboard.

"What's that?" Tommy asked.

"The servers are way too big to just be for the Blackstone Collective. They go on for ages, down a bunch of rabbit holes and other weird connections. And it's got way too much stuff." Tubbo shook his head. "The 'mob front' thing is looking pretty likely."

Tommy nodded. He hadn't doubted that Punz was telling the truth, and the research that Quackity had done was another point, too, but it was a relief to get solid confirmation.

"How much stuff?" Wilbur lifted an eyebrow.

"Well…enough that it could be the mob, boss man. It’s gonna take a while to sort through." Tubbo spun his chair to face them. "I'm making an executive decision."

"And what might that be?" Wilbur queried dryly.

"I'm kicking you two out of the lab while I work. Go, I dunno, take a nap. Take a shower. Help yourself to any food you find that's not labeled Ranboo's."

"Wha-- Tubbo! C'mon, man," Tommy spluttered. "Why can't we stay and help? This is the biggest find we've had!"

"And it will still be there in two hours." Tubbo crossed his arms and shot him a Look. "I need time to work the systems anyway. You two deserve a break. Just don't do anything stupid."

Tommy glanced at Wilbur. If he was being honest, a shower that wasn't a halfhearted dribble of lukewarm water and something to eat that wasn't stale granola bars, beef jerky, or dry cereal sounded fantastic.

Wilbur opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, but Tubbo rolled right over him. "I will get this done faster if you aren't hanging over my shoulder the whole time. I'll find you when I have everything."

Wilbur pursed his lips, then sighed. "All right. Fine. Thank you, Tubbo. We'll get out of the way."

Tommy mellowed his excited grin into a more nonchalant smile. "Yell if you need us, Tubso. And, yeah. Thanks."

Tubbo flipped him off and turned back to the screen. "Get out of here. I'll see you later."

Tommy left, and Wilbur followed him.

---------------

Just as Tubbo had promised, a couple of hours passed before he re-emerged. Tommy took a shower that was indulgently long, then made boxed mac and cheese that he shared with Wilbur. Through mouthfuls of cheesy pasta, Wilbur discovered a box of cat toys and played with the pink cat-thing for a while. Tommy still thought Michael was fucking weird, but he was happy that Wilbur had lost his edge. Wilbur was smiling, and laughing, and his shoulder's weren't tense, and the shadows under his eyes didn't seem as dark as they normally did, and Tommy decided that whatever was causing it could only be a good thing.

When Tubbo called them back, Tommy felt like a new man. His arm was in its sling, but it barely ached. He was clean and warm and full of energy. Wilbur looked similarly happy. Tommy knew he'd thought about nothing but the damn case for the past week -- probably longer than that. Tommy didn’t doubt that a hot meal and an hour playing with a cat had done him a lot of good.

Tubbo was bouncing on the balls of his feet when he led them back into the office. "I haven’t had a job that juicy in a while," he told them energetically. "Found a lot of stuff. You guys will probably be able to tell better than me what it means, but it's big. I'm so happy you guys came to me. You guys are gonna flip your shit."

Tommy rolled his neck. "Let's see it, then."

"All right." Tubbo plopped down in his chair and slid to his set up. "So. First thing I found was this. Financial records, specifically some campaign donations. There was a lot of other financial stuff that's shady as shit, but we don’t have time to unpack all of it, so I took notes instead. But. The computer flagged this as being related to the Mayor's office." The mouse clicked a few times and one of the wall monitors lit up with a document. "The Blackstone Collective donated to Schlatt's Mayoral campaign."

Wilbur frowned, looking closer. "Does it say how much?"

"A fair amount," Tubbo replied. "Look."

Wilbur leaned forward, then exhaled heavily. "Damn. That's substantial."

Tommy frowned. "Why would the mob contribute to Schlatt's campaign? He's been in the 'hard on crime' stance since the beginning. Wouldn't they want the other guy to win?"

Wilbur hummed. "They might just be covering their tracks. Maybe they donated a lot more to the other campaign but donated here too so they could avoid unnecessary scrutiny if Schlatt won. It’s possible they actually did want Schlatt to win, though."

"Like if they had a plant in Schlatt's team, so they wanted to push Schlatt's team into the Mayor's Office?" Tommy finished.

"Exactly," Wilbur confirmed. "Could be either of those."

"If it helps," Tubbo added, "there is a donation listed here to the opposing party."

"Does it say how much?" Wilbur asked.

"It wouldn't let me see that," Tubbo responded glumly. "Dunno why it's letting me see one but not the other. I wasn't gonna push it, though."

"That's fine," Wilbur responded absently.

Tommy turned the fact over and over in his head. Was there another angle? Another thing it could mean? He wasn't sure.

"What else did you see?" Wilbur prompted.

"Okay, like with the financial stuff, I didn't get everything. This is an art, not a science, and I was playing it safe. But, oh, I did find some things," Tubbo continued, chuckling dramatically. "You're gonna love this." He tapped a few things on his keyboard. "So. I wiggled my way into their email servers, and what do I find? A load of encrypted shit that doesn't correspond to the Blackstone Collective official stuff. I dug around a bit more, obviously. Turns out…it's connected to digital profiles that I'm pretty sure are your 'upper circle'. They've all got codenames  on the emails, but these have to be them. The emails are signed from Dream, someone called George, a Sapnap, an Antfrost, and a BadBoyHalo."

"Holy shit," Tommy whispered.

"And could you read the emails?" Wilbur asked urgently.

"'Could I read the emails?' Oh, I fucking read the emails, boss man. You're not even ready.” Tubbo cracked his knuckles with a smirk. “Okay. So the thing about all this is that they aren't using the emails like we use emails. It looks more like texting. My best guess is that they trust the Blackstone servers more than any kind of cell phone provider, so they do all their communicating there. Which is super fucking convenient for us, because all their illegal conversations are in one tidy little place."

"Tubbo," Wilbur cut in, "can we get to the point, please?"

Tubbo leaned back in his chair, smiling triumphantly. "The point, Wilbur, is that from what I'm reading here, Dream is your culprit. That matches up with what you guys thought, right?"

Tommy stared at Tubbo. His mouth dropped open and he didn’t give a flying fuck. Tubbo had done it. "Holy shit ."

Wilbur was similarly speechless. "It…just like that?"

Tubbo looked back and forth between them. "Yeah. From what I can see here? Dream did it. I can walk you through everything."

"Oh, my Gods," Tommy breathed. "We did it. We fucking did it."

Wilbur laughed, sitting down and leaning his head back against the wall. "Tubbo. Tubbo, you fucking blessing. Holy shit. You found it. You did it. Can you prove it was Dream?"

"Well." Tubbo looked back at one of the monitors. "Circumstantially. But the footage the police used to get the warrant for you? It's fake, and I can show you how they did it."

Wilbur pressed a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck, Tubbo. Holy fuck, man. I…thank you."

Tommy's cheeks hurt from smiling. He crossed the room and sat next to Wilbur, bumping his shoulder with his own. "We did it, Wil. We made it. We've got it now."

Wilbur nudged his shoulder back. He took a breath and pushed his hair out of his eyes, composing himself. "We're not out of the woods yet. Tubbo, you have to show us everything. Then we still have to get the police on our side and actually take down Dream. We're not done yet. But, shit." He passed a hand over his face. "We're a hell of a lot closer now."

Tommy nodded. Wilbur was right. This wasn't the end of anything. Knowing who did it didn’t mean that people would believe them, and it didn't mean that the police wouldn't arrest them.

"Okay, Tubbo." Wilbur spread his hands. "Show us what you've got."

Tubbo nodded, turning back to the monitors. "Like I said, I'm assuming everything they email about with each other could be classified as shady stuff that you’ll want to examine more later. But, like I also said, I couldn't get everything. I wasn't pushing limits, I was trying not to get caught. So. I can show you how they faked the video, and I can show you what really implies that Dream is the one responsible. Is that enough for you?"

"That'll work," Wilbur conceded. "All we need is for the police to drop charges against me. After that, everything gets easier. If you can prove the footage was fake, that'll do the trick."

"Okay. Look here, then. This thread happens over the Friday night and Saturday after Quackity died." Tubbo clicked a few keys, and the monitors in front of him displayed the messages. "Not everything happened where we can see it, unfortunately. I guess they had a meeting where they coordinated all this stuff, and these messages are the aftermath." 

Dream: How's clean-up?

Sapnap: We'll be done before the police figure out anything's up. We're in the clear.

Dream: You planted the camera?

Sapnap: I thought you wanted me to wait until the footage was done?

George: Might have to improvise there. Running into more issues on our end. Ant and I can sort the foundation but masking is gonna be tricky.

Dream: What’s the problem? We've done this sort of thing before.

George: Two things. One, if you want Soot to be holding the knife in the video, I need to know what the knife looks like. Police forensics would probably notice if there were two different types of knives. Two, I don’t have any reference for Soot for the generation to build on. It'll be tough to get masking to stick enough to fool facial detection without that

Dream: I have the knife still. Didn't get rid of it yet in case we needed it.

George: smart. I can use it to model match in the video

Dream: I'll bring it over later. Cleaning it now.

George: what about the reference footage?

Dream: gimme a few hours. I'll see what I can do

George: :D

 

Dream: [Attachment: williams-interrogation_soot_cam1-AV.mp4]

George: perfect

Dream: how long will it take?

Antfrost: dunno. couple days at least if you want it airtight. Monday or Tuesday.

George: what he said

Dream: fine.

 

George: [Attachment: foundation_footage_take3.mp4] here u go sap

Sapnap: awesome

 

Sapnap: camera's planted. Angle should match the footage y'all are working with.

Bad: nobody should be able to tell it's a plant, either

Dream: great

Sapnap: clean-up is p much done. Do we need anything else here or are we good to clear out?

Dream: get out of there. We're cutting it close on time. Mayor's office is starting to figure out something's up.

Sapnap: k

Tommy stared at the screen, trying to understand what was going on. “Is all of that real?”

“Yep,” Tubbo confirmed. “This readout was collected and organized by the computer to make it easy to understand and follow, but yeah. The content is all there on the servers. I dunno how, or even why, they would have faked it.”

Wilbur frowned. "They were stitching videos together for the footage? Why didn't the police catch it?"

Tubbo sighed. "It's really clever, actually. The problem with the police detection softwares is that they scan for the fingerprints of editing software, right? So, instead of trying to figure out if something matches what reality should look like, they look for places where other computers poked around."

"Why is that an issue?" Tommy asked.

"Because the mob wasn't using any of the software the police systems scan for, and they knew how to get around it. They took that base footage, fucked around with it, used the police footage with your face in it to add you to the video, then smoothed it all out." Tubbo leaned back. "It's like… Okay. You know how on, like, fancy drawing tablets and stuff you can make multiple layers and draw on different layers? So that when you look at the whole picture, it looks like one image, but really it's on a bunch of different files all squished together?"

Tommy shrugged. "Sure, okay."

"The police software and the tech experts look at footage and try to find the places where those layers overlap," Tubbo explained. "They try to find the little corners that could be peeled up to show what's underneath, because if there's layers, then that means that someone was editing it."

"With you so far," Wilbur said.

"Okay. What the mob did was trick the computer into thinking that, after they edited it, there were no layers in the first place. That way, any little bugs or glitches were attributed to camera error or file corruption, not to editing."

Wilbur nodded. "That makes sense, I guess. I mean, I don’t know how they did it, but that explanation made sense."

"Yeah, well," Tubbo stated matter-of-factly, "I'm leaving out a lot of the really complicated stuff, but that's the gist of it."

Wilbur half smiled.

"How'd they do the facial detection, though?" Tommy glanced at Tubbo. "It's calibrated to check for computer generated faces, not just signs of editing, right?"

Tubbo drummed a hand on his desk. "That's the other tricky thing they did. They didn't try to have the computer make your face. They just stole your face from that police footage, the 'interrogation.mp4' one, and copy pasted it. The angle and movements are really similar to that 'foundation footage' they shot. The police computers didn't flag it as not being your face because it was your face, just in a different setting."

Wilbur grimaced. "That's clever. That's really damn slippery."

"Yeah," Tubbo agreed. "Once all this mess gets sorted out, the police are going to need to update their softwares."

"Y'know what, though," Tommy added. He recognized that footage. It was from one of the most recent cases Wilbur had done with the police. He'd interviewed one of the suspects in the police interrogation rooms and the police had recorded it because, obviously, it was for a case. "This confirms that there's a mole in either the police department or the mayor's office. Dream had to get that interrogation footage from somewhere."

"Oh, shit, yeah," Wilbur realized aloud. "I hadn't even gotten there yet. You're right, Tommy. Though…" Wilbur studied the messages again. "I still think it's likely in the mayor's office, not the police station. See here?" He pointed to Dream's last message. "If it was just the police he wouldn't have known that."

Tommy nodded. 

Wilbur ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Okay. This is good. This is…this is great. Okay. We know how they faked the footage. We know Dream held the knife."

Tommy shrugged. "Close enough to it. He had the knife, can't think of another reason why he would have had it if he wasn't the one holding it."

"Knife's probably gone, now, too," Wilbur sighed. "Shame. Murder weapon would have been nice."

"Doesn't matter, Wil." Tommy turned to him with a grin. "We have enough now, right? We can go to the police. We can, we can get this all sorted out now." They were so close. They were so close  to going home, to not having to look over their shoulders every moment.

Wilbur looked pensive. "I have another idea."

Oh, perfect. A Wilbur Soot Idea. Just what they needed. But, no. He forced himself to shove away the surge of annoyance. Wilbur knew what he was doing. Tommy could at least hear him out. "What's your plan, then?"

Wilbur chewed the inside of his lip. "If we go right to the police, there's no guarantee they'll listen to us. Most likely they'll lock us up and not listen until a trial, which would take weeks if not months. It might work, eventually, but…I dunno." He steepled his hands in front of him. "What if we go to Schlatt?"

Tommy blinked. "What? Schlatt? Why Schlatt?"

"A few reasons." Wilbur stood abruptly, pacing back and forth in the little office. "What it boils down to is 'he'd be a good ally and I think we can convince him'. You saw the speech, right? He and Quackity were close. He wants to find the killer. If that's not us, he'll help us. And, I bet he wants to find the mole, too. He doesn't seem like the type to take kindly to spies. Schlatt's got a fair amount of influence over the police department’s priorities. If he says he wants to drop the charges, we've got a shot." His gaze slid to Tommy expectantly.

Tommy tilted his head, considering. "And if he decides not to help us…?"

Wilbur shrugged. "We're about in the same boat. Police lock us up, we make our case in a trial. Doesn't seem like a lot to lose."

"I think you're right, Wilbur," Tubbo added. Tommy jumped. He'd forgotten Tubbo was still in the room. Tubbo smiled gently. "If you guys need a ride, my keys are on the counter. But I definitely didn't tell you to take my car, because you are wanted criminals."

Tommy snorted.

"C'mon, Toms," Wilbur wheedled.

Tommy grimaced. "I dunno…"

"Tommy." Wilbur’s voice was cool, and Tommy couldn’t help but feel as though his very soul was being examined. "Tommy, look. This is…this is our chance. We have the evidence, now. If we can get Schlatt on our side... This is our chance to take it all back. Either that, or we get nothing. We lose nothing. This is the right move."

Tommy sighed, leaning against the wall and avoiding Wilbur’s stare. He still had misgivings. Going to the government as a pair of convicts didn’t bode well, but, then again, neither did going directly to the police. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Wilbur's points made sense. They still had a long fight ahead of them to take down Dream, and they needed all the allies they could find to win. 

"All right, big man," Tommy acquiesced. "Let's go."

Chapter Text

Tubbo helped them gear up before they left. 

He printed the least illegal screenshots, a stack of notes and information, and ensured Wilbur knew what everything meant so he could explain it to the police or Schlatt. He also showed them that he'd downloaded everything so they could access it again if needed. He'd pressed a manila folder into Wilbur's hands, walking them to the car and wishing them luck. Before they left, he handed Wilbur a pen. 

"Something I've been working on,” Tubbo said with a smile. Wilbur nodded seriously when Tubbo explained how it worked, then thanked him profusely. Not just for the hefty black ballpoint, but for everything that Tubbo had done.

It was an understatement to say that Wilbur was grateful, though expressing that feeling was unusually difficult. He felt lighter than he had in weeks. In just three hours, Tubbo had given them what Wilbur had been trying to find for weeks, single handedly confirming everything Wilbur had only been able to speculate about. Finally, he had something tangible, something he could use to fight back. It felt like being gifted a sword after fighting a war with nothing but twigs and twine. He had a moment like this with every case, the point where everything shifted and the mountain that had seemed insurmountable crumbled into a field of boulders, but none had been so potent as this one. Victory was so close, and yet he was painfully aware that everything could still come crashing down around them. If the police couldn't verify what Tubbo had found, if the mob hid everything before the police could find it, or if the mob just decided to take him or Tommy before they could get to the police... There were still factors and things could still go wrong, Wilbur had to remind himself. He couldn't run off without thinking. He wouldn't do that to Tommy. There were still factors. But there were always factors. There had been factors in the safehouse plan, in the warehouse plan, in the whole damn case from the very beginning. Wilbur had set out to bring down the mob. That was what he intended to do. And, now, it was nearly within his grasp.

They couldn’t do it alone, though. Like he told Tommy, they needed allies. Schlatt was a great place to start. Assuming, of course, that they could get there.

For all of Tubbo's technological knowledge, his car barely functioned. The battered, faded thing put-putted down the streets and highways in a valiant attempt at gaining speed, but the worn out suspension and constant, uneven clattering in the engine wasn’t reassuring Wilbur in the slightest. Tommy was driving, luckily. He was the better driver of the two of them (which Wilbur no longer disputed after he turned the wrong way down a one way street a few too many times), so Wilbur simply sat back in the passenger seat and tried not to clutch the safety handles every time the car coughed or jumped. The glaring sunset, noisy traffic, and hazy light did nothing to soothe him. Needless to say, he breathed a sigh of relief when they finally arrived.

Schlatt lived in one of the few gated communities scattered across the city. Tubbo found his address following a few dubiously legal internet searches, but Wilbur wasn't going to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. The neighborhood, West Oaks, was well tended, with neatly clipped hedges and blooming flower beds along the roads. Wilbur hopped out of the car at the gate and trudged over to the keypad hanging on the post.

"Wilbur?" Tommy’s voice sounded behind him. "What are you doing? We don’t know the code."

"Time for you to learn another trick of the trade, Tommy." Wilbur popped the back of the box open. "Keypads like this will often write the code inside the wiring box. That way, emergency services or even people like plumbers or exterminators can get in if there's nobody there to let them in." He closed it a moment later and punched the six numbers in.

Tommy hummed. "Clever. That's a good one. I'll remember it." The gate slid open on quiet rollers.

Wilbur clambered back into the car. "It's useful. Don't abuse it though."

"Me? Abusing a loophole? Wilbur, how dare you. I would never." Tommy pulled the car through the gate as Wilbur shut his door.

The house they arrived at was set back from the road, all lean angles and dark colors and clean finishes. It was the largest on the street, competitively edging out its neighbors in height and width. The lawn was immaculate, something manufactured for a movie instead of grown and maintained with care. There was no touch of occupancy, no sign that someone actually made their life there. It was less of a home and more of an estate, designed to say, in bolded font, that Someone Owned This Property.

The sunset was obscured behind a thick bank of clouds when Tommy parked the car across the street, leaving the road enveloped in shadows. Not quite 7:30, if Wilbur had to guess. He wasn’t sure how long the drive had taken. The clock in Tubbo’s car was, unsurprisingly, broken.

Wilbur approached first. His long coat warded away most of the chill, but the cold wind still raked fingers through his hair. Tommy had zipped his hoodie over his sling and pulled the hood up. Their footsteps sounded far too loud in the deserted street.

Wilbur stopped on the porch, illuminated by the faux lantern hanging overhead, and tucked the manila folder under his arm. Tommy hovered behind him, shifting from foot to foot. Wilbur glanced at him. "Last chance to call this off."

Tommy looked away, then shook his head. "Let's just do it. I trust you, Wil." He chuckled dryly. "You get to do the talking, though."

Wilbur nodded, then hesitated. "Here." He passed Tommy Tubbo’s pen and his notebook. "Are you all right with, uh, taking notes?"

Tommy nodded.

"Okay." Wilbur turned away from Tommy. "Showtime." He pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened. Wilbur wasn't quite sure what he expected -- something to jump out at him, he realized, as his shoulders tensed and then slumped. But all he could hear was the faint chime of the doorbell from inside the house and Tommy's breathing behind him.

Somewhere in the dark, an owl called. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Wilbur hoped the owl was a good omen and not a bad one.

Footsteps sounded from behind the door, and Wilbur stepped back, clenching his teeth against a sudden wave of adrenaline. He heard Tommy fiddling with the pen as the door clicked and then opened on silent hinges.

Standing in the foyer, one hand on the doorknob and the other in his pocket, was Mayor Schlatt, looking nothing like the authoritative figure in his campaign posters and press conferences. He was wearing a rumpled off-white button up, the top button undone, and the sleeves rolled lazily up to his forearms. In all the pictures, his tie had been tight to his neck and his brown hair slicked back; neither was the case now. His crimson tie was loosened and his brown hair fell across his forehead. Dark circles dwelled under his eyes, and he needed a shave. His eyes focused on Wilbur as the door opened, then flicked to Tommy and back, expression unreadable. "Well," he murmured finally. "Well, well, well."

"Mayor Schlatt." Wilbur inclined his head. It couldn't hurt to be polite.

"You're a wanted man, Wilbur Soot," the Mayor stated. He didn’t move.

Wilbur's lips twitched upward. "That's very kind of you to say--"

"Shut the fuck up," Schlatt interrupted, face never shifting from his smooth deadpan expression.

Wilbur let the smile drop and made a mental note to avoid trying to lighten the mood.

"Why are you here?" Schlatt inquired icily.

Wilbur took a deep breath. "I didn't kill Quackity. I know who's responsible, and I can prove it. I want your help in getting the police to see that I'm not the right person to chase."

Schlatt narrowed his eyes and his jaw clenched. "You what? "

"I didn't kill Quackity, Schlatt," Wilbur repeated, infusing his words with every ounce of empathy that he could summon. "I swear I didn't do it. It took me a while to figure out who did, but I have it now. I want to see them taken down for what they did, just like you. All I ask is that you hear us out."

Schlatt stared at them. His eyes were full of indecipherable emotions. Exhaustion. Anger. Grief. Fear. Suspicion. Hope. "You can prove you didn't do it?" Schlatt queried, half statement and half question.

"The footage was faked," Wilbur responded gently. "I can show you how they stitched it together."

Schlatt's jaw clenched again. "So you think you know, then, who’s actually behind...everything?"

Wilbur nodded. "I have more than enough to set the police on them. We could take them down, Schlatt. All of them. You could make them pay for what they did."

Schlatt's hand twitched on the doorknob.

"All I'm asking is that you hear us out," Wilbur pressed. "I'm not saying don't call the police. I'm saying listen to what we have to say first and decide if you think we're right."

Schlatt continued to study him, gaze dark. There was a beat of heavy silence. Schlatt inhaled deeply and glanced at his watch. "All right. Fine. Fucking hell." He started to move away from the door but halted. "How do I know you aren't just…waiting for me to turn my back?"

"If we were here to hurt you, we could have done it already," Wilbur replied.

Schlatt licked his lips then rubbed at his forehead. "Fine. Fine. I'll hear you out. But I'm going to be fucking calling the police, no matter what. You got that?"

Wilbur raised his hands in surrender. "That's perfectly understandable."

Schlatt eyed Wilbur and Tommy again, stepping out of the doorway. "My office is down the hall on the left. I'll follow you."

That was only fair, Wilbur supposed. Walking in front of a potential murderer was rarely a good move. He stepped into the tiled foyer and nudged Tommy in front of him. Schlatt closed the door with a quiet click and followed a few paces behind, dress shoes tapping on the hardwood floors.

Schlatt's office was about what Wilbur had expected in terms of décor. Rich, dark colors, polished woods and hints of gleaming metal. Everything was aligned, made to fit together. His desk was the obvious focal point in the room, set in front of the curtained bay window and facing the door. Wilbur’s shoulders twitched. He was used to offices designed for creative brainstorming or a healthy but intense focus. Schlatt’s office was set up to ensure that any newcomer, himself included, felt uncertain and unwelcome. The image was marred only by the papers scattered across the mahogany desk, the suit jacket tossed on the window sill, and the empty liquor bottles on the bar cart against the wall.

Schlatt shut the door behind them and crossed the room, settling in his high backed chair. He picked up a glass of dark liquid and swallowed a mouthful, not wincing at the taste.

Wilbur hesitated, still standing near the door.

"What, you need a gilded invitation?" Schlatt gestured to two low backed chairs, practically stools, that stood in front of his desk. "You wanted to talk. Talk." Elsewhere in the house, a clock sounded the half hour. Schlatt nodded in the direction of the noise. "It's 7:30. You have half an hour to convince me."

Wilbur dipped his head in acknowledgement and took one of the chairs. Tommy took the other, scooting back to be closer to the wall. Wilbur shuffled so that he was more centered with Schlatt. Tommy staying out of the spotlight was ideal. Schlatt took another sip, ice rattling against the side of the glass.

"Well, uh," Wilbur began. "I guess I should start from the beginning. Unless you’d rather start somewhere else?"

Schlatt sighed. "How about this? Skip to the end, tell me the bottom line, then explain how you got there."

Wilbur nodded, sitting overly straight to keep from jittering. "Quackity was killed by the mob because he was close to discovering or had discovered a lot of things that would severely damage them,” he began. “The man who killed him, we think, is named Clay Mitchell, but he goes by the alias 'Dream'."

"Who's 'we'?" Schlatt asked.

"The police," Wilbur clarified.

"The police? How much of what you're about to tell me does the police know?" Schlatt's expression never shifted from the same flat stare.

"I haven't had a chance to lay my case out to the police yet. We wanted to come to you first, like I said earlier. But, of course, I'll tell them everything I'm telling you," Wilbur reassured. He'd never met Schlatt before and had no idea if the poker face was unusual. Either Schlatt was putting it up on purpose because he was still suspicious of Wilbur, which would be understandable, or the man simply didn’t emote. He'd been expressive in his speeches, sure, but Wilbur knew that nobody acted the same with a camera on them.

Schlatt simply nodded. "This 'Dream' guy. Tell me what you know about him."

"Not a lot about him personally," Wilbur admitted. "If he really is Clay Mitchell, then we know more, but that's not certain. Dream, though, is a, well. A mercenary. Or, he used to be. One of the best in the business. We don't know everything he's responsible for, which is a mark of his skill. He may have been affiliated with the mob for a decade or more, but he joined officially a few years ago as their leader. Nobody's quite sure how it came about, but there was a change in leadership. Dream started running things."

"Do you know who the guy before him was?" Schlatt queried.

"No, nobody does that I've been able to find," Wilbur responded. "A full investigation should find more, though. My resources have been, ah. Limited."

Schlatt sipped his drink again. "Sure."

"So. Dream was the one to kill Quackity, because Quackity was close to discovering, or had already discovered, I'm not sure how far he got, that one of the big corporations around here is actually a huge front for organized crime."

Schlatt's eyebrows lifted. "Really?" He drew the word out.

"Yeah," Wilbur confirmed. "The Blackstone Collective. I have proof of it, but it would need to be verified by a more official investigation."

"Show me."

"A lot of it is digital," Wilbur added, but he opened the folder and pulled out one of the sheets that Tubbo printed. "This is a readout of a lot of the information on the Blackstone Collective's servers. These bits --" he pointed to a few spots on the page "-- that look garbled or distorted are places that are heavily encrypted. Way more encrypted than any civilian company should be." He took out another page. "But what's most damning is this. This is a conversation between Dream and the other most powerful members of the mob that confirms that they were responsible for Quackity's death and that the footage of me is fake. It was found on these same Blackstone Collective servers."

Schlatt took the documents from Wilbur, fingers shaking ever so slightly. If it weren't for the faintest tremors in the pages as Schlatt brought them to where he could see, Wilbur wouldn't have noticed at all. "Wow, Wilbur. This is…impressive."

Wilbur stayed silent, unsure of how to respond.

"How do I know these aren't fake? What's to stop me from assuming that you made these to try and push the blame off yourself?"

"Um, a lot of technical jibber-jabber relating to those numbers on the bottoms of the pages." Wilbur chuckled half-heartedly. "Sorry. I know that's not very useful."

"So you had someone else gather this information," Schlatt inferred.

"Mmhmm."

"Who?" Schlatt looked up at him.

Wilbur shook his head. "Doesn't matter." Ratting Tubbo out for helping them was not part of the plan. He owed the boy too much to do that.

"It might matter."

"Then I'll talk about it when it does matter."

Schlatt’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but he glanced at his watch and leaned back against his chair. He sipped his drink once more, staring at the pages.

"So what you're saying is that Al-- Quackity was killed by Dream, because he was close to finding out how important the Blackstone Collective was -- is -- to the mafia."

Wilbur nodded. "Yeah."

"And, you're saying you can prove not only that Dream is the leader of said mafia, but that he faked the footage incriminating you." Schlatt looked up at Wilbur.

"Uh huh," Wilbur confirmed. He pushed his hair out of his face.

Schlatt drained his drink and set it back on the table with a thunk. "Gods, man. This is…. This is a hell of a lot."

"Uhm…thank…you?" Wilbur frowned.

Schlatt waved a hand at him dismissively and stood to refill his glass. "You want a drink?" he asked amicably.

"No, thank you," Wilbur replied. "I'm fine."

"You, Thomas?"

Tommy jumped at being addressed. He was doing a good job at blending into the background. Wilbur was proud of him for that. "Oh. No. I don't…I don't drink."

"Fine. Whatever. Be pussies if you want. I don't give a shit." Schlatt poured more alcohol into his glass. ( Two shots, of vodka, a feminine voice in Wilbur's brain recited. He pushed it away.)

"All right," Schlatt hummed when he was seated again. "So. You've told me the bottom line. Now, explain everything else."

"Okay," Wilbur said. And he did.

He started at the beginning. He told Schlatt about how clues in his cases didn't line up, how it felt like there was something or someone out there pushing pieces around. He explained the start of his investigation, about his decision to leave Tommy in the dark. He described how he did as much as he could on his own, then asked Quackity for some files. He detailed what he wanted and why he didn't think it was a big deal. He spoke of waiting, hearing about Quackity's death on the news and knowing it was the mob but not knowing how they did it. He laid out everything that happened to him and Tommy after the police tried to arrest them. He mentioned the informant they'd talked to and what they'd learned, though he didn't reveal Punz by name. He recalled the adventure to the police’s warehouse, recounted trying to wring every drop of information they could from what the police had found. "It was during our debrief and brainstorming after that whole fiasco that we figured out how the mob knew Quackity was onto them," Wilbur stated.

Schlatt raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Wilbur swallowed. This was one of the bits he'd been dreading; he had no idea how Schlatt would react. It wasn't that he didn’t have any past encounters with Schlatt to draw on. It was the fact that Schlatt was still holding his deadpan expression. Wilbur had no way to determine what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He couldn’t press or pull back based on Schlatt’s response, couldn’t see what struck a nerve and what flew past overlooked. It was like someone had reset the keybinds on his keyboard. He knew how it was supposed to work, but he had to overthink every move he made. He gritted his teeth and forced himself past it. "There's a mole in your cabinet, Schlatt."

"A…mole."

"A mole. A plant. An informant." Wilbur shifted slightly. "Someone on your staff, someone who could have seen what files Quackity was pulling, is in the mob’s pocket."

Schlatt's eyes narrowed. "What does that imply?"

"Someone saw what Quackity was looking at, made the connections, and told the mob. The mob, subsequently, killed Quackity."

Schlatt took another pull from his glass. Wilbur watched his eyes flicker. What he was contemplating, Wilbur had no clue, but Schlatt was certainly thinking very hard about something.

"Do you know who it might be?" Wilbur asked.

Schlatt ignored his question. "Do you have a way to prove there's a plant? Or figure out who the plant is?"

Wilbur hesitated, but forged onwards. "There's strong evidence that there is one, but, no, I don’t have anything concrete. No message logs or anything like that. As for figuring out who, almost certainly. With the police's help, it should be incredibly quick to weed out who it is."

Schlatt set his glass down with more force than was necessary. "Sun and stars. Sun and stars, Wilbur." There was something boiling behind his eyes. Anger? Frustration? Betrayal? Fear? Wilbur wasn't sure, yet it was multifaceted and intense. Schlatt glanced at his watch again. "Keep talking."

Wilbur complied, slowly at first and then quickening as he continued. He explained how they went to a tech specialist (again, not mentioning Tubbo by name) and what they’d found. He detailed how it connected everything they'd learned up to that point. He reported the messages from the upper circle and elaborated on how the footage was faked. Eventually, he found that his well of information had gone dry, so he spread his hands. "And now we're here," Wilbur finished.

"So you are," Schlatt murmured. He checked his watch again. "You are, in fact, here."

Wilbur leaned back in his seat as best as he could. It was hard, since the chair had practically no back. He licked his lips. Now that he wasn’t in the thick of explaining the complicated web of the case, the adrenaline and anxiety was slipping back into his head like a leaking faucet. It’s fine , he told himself. Don’t get in your own head. Nothing is happening. You’re fine. He glanced at Tommy.

Tommy had the pen from Tubbo in his hands still. He had set Wilbur's notebook on his lap, and Wilbur could see scribbled lines of notes -- or maybe they were just lines. He couldn't read Tommy's handwriting on a good day. Tommy shot him a tight smile and a thumbs up. Wilbur smiled back, trying to look hopeful and reassuring and like he absolutely knew what he was doing and wasn’t flying by the seat of his pants.

Schlatt sat up and rolled his neck. "Well. This has been…enlightening, Wilbur."

Wilbur watched him, trying to ignore the pit that had suddenly opened in his stomach. "I'm…glad. So. What's your decision?"

Schlatt looked at him, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. "My decision?"

"You said after half an hour, you'd call the police. Are you going to be on our side when they arrive? Do you…do you believe us?" Wilbur wrapped his ankles around the chair to keep his legs from bouncing.

"Oh! That shit." Schlatt downed the last of his drink again, making a noise of satisfaction. "No, no. I believe you. That's, heh, that's the last thing you should worry about right now."

Wilbur frowned, gut twisting. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Elsewhere in the house, a clock sounded the Westminster Chimes. Their half hour was officially up.

A door closed loudly from down the hall. Wilbur whipped his head toward the noise, alarmed. "What was that?"

Tommy tensed in his seat, gaze flicking from Wilbur to the office door.

Schlatt grinned broadly. "My eight o'clock meeting is here."

Wilbur turned back to face him, eyes wide. Fear and adrenaline turned his veins to ice in a sudden rush. "What?"

There were footsteps in the hallway.

Dtong, intoned the clock.

There was a knock on the office door. Schlatt rose, taking his empty glass with him, and approached the door.

Wilbur turned to Tommy. Tommy stared back at him, blue eyes round with confusion.

Dtong.

Schlatt's body language had shifted, Wilbur realized too late. That was why his stomach had been churning. Schlatt had dropped the face. He'd relaxed. He'd known this, whatever this was, was going to happen. He'd been waiting. He'd been stalling.

Schlatt opened the office door.

Dtong.

"Right on time," Schlatt declared, somewhere between approving and condescending. Wilbur couldn't see Schlatt's face. He couldn't see who was beyond the door. His hands were shaking.

Dtong.

"I always am," another voice replied, low and smooth. "You left your door unlocked."

Dtong.

"I had some unexpected guests. I'm glad you're here to meet them yourself."

Dtong.

Schlatt stepped back from the door, letting the newcomer in. Wilbur watched, unable to move. The man who entered was tall, with a lean, muscular frame. He moved smoothly, like a predator stalking prey. He wore jeans and a dark green button up with heavy combat boots on his feet, but it seemed to fit him like a suit of armor. His blonde hair was artfully messy, falling across the forehead of a sculpted, symmetrical face, and his green eyes scanned the room evenly. A long scar ran down the left side of his face, tugging his lips into a permanent half-smile. Wilbur recognized that face, that scar. He’d seen it in the police files. It was Clay Mitchell. The man Schlatt had just greeted was Dream.

Dtong.

"Oh," Dream said, his voice dripping with mocking laughter as he took in Wilbur and Tommy’s expressions. "This is delicious. "

Dtong .

Wilbur's instincts screamed at him to run, to escape, to hide. They bellowed to push Tommy behind him and save him from the trap that Wilbur had led him into. But he couldn't move. His mind whirled, frantically assembling the puzzle before him. What was happening? Why was this happening?

Then, the last piece snapped into place. He'd missed it. It had been in front of him the whole time, and he'd missed it. The puzzle in his head rotated, shifted, twisted, then came crashing down around him in a thousand glittering shards.

Dtong.

"Oh, fuck, " Wilbur whispered.

Chapter Text

"You're the mole," Wilbur whispered, brain filled with static. Dream. Schlatt and Dream. Dream was here . He tried to pull himself from the spiral hidden behind the cotton in his mind.

"Eh," Schlatt scoffed. The sound of a glass clinking followed his words, but Wilbur felt like he was listening to a movie or a song rather than experiencing it himself. "You're pretty close, though. I'll give you credit for that. I'll give you a lot of credit, actually. I was right to be fuckin' worried about you."

Wilbur gripped the side of his chair, forcing himself to try and think despite the irregular breathing and fuzzy vision that swamped his senses. Everything else in the room sounded like it was underwater. Symptoms of panic, he realized dumbly. Which. That wasn't good. Yes, everything had just collapsed, and everything was very bad, very very bad, fucking terrifying, this was worse than he had ever thought would be possible -- but. But panic never helped anything. Panic never helped. Panic only got in the way. He had to think, damnit.

Tommy was here. Tommy was stuck in this trap with him. He clung to the thought, floating in the burning wreckage of his plans. Tommy was still here. They were both in this, together. Wilbur wasn't going to let Tommy down. He couldn’t fail Tommy. Whatever it took. He forced himself to take a stuttering breath and take stock of what was happening.

Five things he could see. That was what his therapist had told him.

He could see the sleeves of his coat on his arms. Brown leather. His favorite trench coat.

He could see dark paneled wall and the weird, abstract paintings that had been hung on it.

He could see Dream, leaning with his back against the wall, arms crossed and one boot tipped up to rest his heel on the baseboard. Dream with his obnoxious smirk and his hunter's eyes.

He could see Schlatt, who was walking back across the room, glass in hand. He wasn't tense anymore. His expression was clear save for the film of alcohol that covered his gaze.

He could see Tommy, face pale and eyes locked on Wilbur. Tommy, whose breathing faltered just like his. Whose fingers were clenched around the pen.

Four things he could feel. The chair. His coat. His shoes. The floor.

Three things he could hear. His breath. Schlatt. Schlatt’s the mole, he was the mole, he’d-- no. Tommy’s breath.

Two things he could smell. Alcohol. Leather.

Something he could taste. Fear. No. The water he’d had at Tubbo’s house.

The panic faded as he forced himself through the grounding excercise, leaving him only with a shaking rush of adrenaline. His breathing was beginning to come back to normal.

Schlatt settled back into his seat. "Aw, Wilbur," he pouted condescendingly. "You didn’t see this coming, did you? For all your research, all your plans, all your effort, you couldn’t actually do it. You failed.” His voice dripped with scorn. “You dropped yourself into my lap with a fuckin’ bow on your forehead, and you brought Tommy along for the ride. You stupid son of a bitch.”

He's right , a traitorous voice in Wilbur's head sung. You're supposed to figure out the puzzles, but instead you got played. It was right. Wilbur was supposed to be the detective. He was supposed to be the clever one, the one with the plans that worked and the ideas that pulled through. He clenched his teeth, the thoughts threatening to drag him back into his mind’s abyss. He'd failed at the one thing he was supposed to be good at, and he'd dragged Tommy into the quicksand alongside him.

Quicksand was an apt metaphor, though. A conclusion was gradually inching closer to them, and struggling would only make it happen faster. Wilbur knew there was no chance Schlatt would let them go alive. They had seen and heard too much. No. Schlatt wanted them dead, now, and with Dream there, it was going to happen. But he wasn’t giving up. He couldn’t-- he couldn’t let them die. He couldn’t let Tommy die. That was not an option. So, the only thing he could do was scrounge up a few more minutes. How long could he delay the inevitable? How long could they claw their way to the top of the quicksand?

Unless it wasn't inevitable. Maybe there was a way out. He didn't see it right now, but he could blame that on the dulling terror. With more time, maybe he could find it. Wilbur could, he could think of something. They could escape the quicksand. He could figure a way out of this mess. He just needed some time. He'd gotten them out of stickier situations before. (He hadn't. The lie was only a little comforting.)

Get more time. A little victorious spark shot through his mind. If he could boost Schlatt's ego, get the man gloating…it could work. And, if Schlatt told them everything, maybe there would be something useful in his explanation.

He still had to play this smart. Schlatt was relaxed, arrogant. Also kinda drunk. He could use that. All he had to do was play along. If Schlatt realized the jig was up, he and Tommy were dead. But he could play along, and that was what mattered. He could play the part of the captured rabbit. Schlatt was sure he’d won, but Wilbur would be damned if he gave up the battle.

Wilbur glanced at Tommy again, then down at his own hand. Tommy's eyes followed. I--M O--K , Wilbur signed. He tried to keep the movements small and loose, like his hand was simply twitching.

Tommy looked back up at him and gave a tiny jerk of his head. He'd seen. Wilbur hoped it was enough.

His attention slid back to Schlatt. The man was watching him, smirking. Wilbur let a trickle of the fear he'd been suppressing flow back through him. He swallowed, obvious enough for Schlatt to see, and licked his lips. “How long?” he asked, voice weak. That was a nice touch. Unintentional, but it helped. “How long have you been in Dream’s pocket?”

Schlatt burst out laughing, eyes cruel. “Oh, a swing and a miss, Wilbur! You haven’t fuckin’ put it together yet? And you call yourself a detective? Gods above.” He set his drink on the papers Wilbur had brought. Condensation began sinking into the pages. “Let me lay it out for you. It’s never been Dream. I’m in nobody pocket but my fucking own. It’s always been me.”

Wait. What? He'd been expecting Schlatt to start talking about the mob, about Dream, about how Dream bought him during the election or something like that, not this . Wilbur frowned, frantically trying to assemble the pieces. “Huh?”

“Oh, my Gods, you dense motherfucker!” Schlatt cried. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I’ve never been in Dream’s pocket! He’s been in mine!”

Wilbur struggled to keep up, fighting the quickening beat of his heart. Schlatt had never…? But he was the plant, wasn't he? 'You're close,' Schlatt had said. But, no. That didn't fit with what Schlatt was saying. Was Schlatt just that vain? He couldn’t possibly believe that he had some kind of advantage over Dream, the head of the literal mafia -- Oh. Oh. Wilbur's thoughts ground to a halt. "The other mob boss," he breathed. "The first one. The one that -- that died. The one…the one nobody knows, the one people refuse to talk about."

Schlatt spread his hands, leaning back. "He finally gets it." Schlatt grinned at him. "Yes, Wilbur. I ran the Blackstone Collective and its related endeavors for years. I came first. I built this goddamn empire from the ground up !" His palm hit the desk with enough force to make Wilbur jump. "I took next to nothing and built it into something worth remembering. I built success for myself. This city is my own little empire, Wilbur. The mob is the best thing that ever happened here."

Wilbur knitted his brows, working his mouth in faux confusion. "I don't…I don't understand."

Schlatt sighed, pulling from his glass again. "Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur. Cities are like rocks, right? Perfect and smooth on top with sun shining on them. Maybe a few pockmarks here and there. But flip 'em over, and it's nothing but maggots and insects, crawling in filth. Law enforcement does a great job of keeping the top of the rock clean, of squishing whatever bugs are stupid enough to come out of the dark. But they can't ever touch the bottom of the rock." Schlatt's smile widened. His voice dripped with self-aggrandizing glee. "I can, and I did. I took the chaos, the scum fighting their way towards crumbs, and I made them mine. I made order, efficiency. That's what the mob is. It took me years, but I built the underworld into something bigger. Something with power. And it was all me. For all your damn research, you never actually saw what we were. This city is now home to the biggest underworld powerhouse in the country. Soon, we'll be the biggest in the world."

Wilbur tipped his head, widening his eyes and tucking his elbows closer to his ribcage. Dread still hovered in the back of his mind, but it no longer came close to controlling him. The shock of the revelation had worn off. He was back in the game, taking the clues and fitting them together with what he knew. If he was being honest, he was enjoying the part he was playing. This was a role to sell, a character that served a purpose. Wilbur thrived in characters, in well placed words and subtle body language. The right character loosened tongues like nothing else. "But you're the Mayor!" He had to be careful not to oversell it, though. Schlatt was eating it up with a spoon, but Dream was likely less convinced. That didn’t matter as much, because all he needed was for Schlatt to keep talking.

"I am now, dipshit." Schlatt sighed. "That was a very conscious choice. There were things that were in my way, and the best way to change them was as someone other than the head of the Collective. I needed to push a few things that I couldn't get to from where I was. Needed to just…" he gestured vaguely, "turn the rudder a little bit. Put in a few things that, yknow, discouraged competition."

"Discouraged...competition?" Wilbur queried.

Schlatt snorted. "All that campaign shit? The 'hard on crime'? The stuff I've been passing that the media's been going fuckin' ham for? It's not an act. I'm not bluffing that shit. By the time I leave office, there's not gonna be any other crime bids in this city except for what's under my control."

"You got yourself elected to pave the way for the mob," Wilbur murmured.

Schlatt tipped his glass towards him. "Bingo. Easiest to do it myself than to try and buy the whole fuckin' government. The only way to come out on top is to play both sides. It was almost too easy.” He paused, still smiling. “Well, no, that's not true. Y'know I started planning this shit eight years ago? Had to build a cover, had to make a plan. The media would've torn me to shreds if I was a suspicious candidate. My whole career that the world knows? It's a fucking sham!" He cackled. "You make a mask good enough and you don't have to worry about copying reality, because it becomes reality. Knowledge 'n shit. Humans are fucking terrible at knowing things, Wilbur. Truth doesn't exist . There's only what we see and what we remember, and both of those can be changed."

Wilbur suppressed a shiver. He was all too familiar with the fallibility of the human mind. It was what made cases so difficult yet so fulfilling. People never remembered everything they thought they did. Truths always cast different shadows in different lights. His job was to straddle the middle, to take fact and fiction, perception and theory, and blend them into accuracy. It was a constant conflict. But hearing the sentiment from the mouth of the twisted, corrupt man in front of him was vile.

He didn't let himself think about the fact that, this time, he'd been the one that was flawed. He'd been wrong, overconfident in the truth he was seeing. He hadn’t seen the shadows until the lights had already gone out.

"Alex loved that shit," Schlatt continued, oblivious to the turmoil in Wilbur's mind. "He was damn smart, y'know that? Smart as a fuckin' whip." He shook his head, eyes fixed on something far away. "Never would've gotten elected without him. His drive. Cunning little sonofabitch. He always had a plan. Always knew what we were doing next, how to keep making progress. He was always thinking, always planning, always looking for the best way to go."

"That's what got him killed," Dream murmured. Wilbur could hear the smile in his voice without having to turn around.

Schlatt grimaced. "It was never supposed to fucking happen," he growled. "He was never supposed to-- to get caught up in my shit. But he did, and it's all your goddamn fucking fault, Wilbur Soot." Schlatt's gaze snapped to him, full of animosity and torment.

Uh oh. Wilbur had been hoping that Schlatt would just keep rambling about the mob and not about him . He had a terrible, sinking feeling that he knew where Schlatt was going. He swallowed, not having to feign his fright in the slightest anymore. "So what, um." He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "What happened with Quackity?"

"You keep his name out of your fucking mouth!" Schlatt roared suddenly, leaning forward. Wilbur jumped at the volume, leaning back, eyes wide. Schlatt's breath stank of liquor, burnt-caramel-ethanol puffing across his face as he yelled.

"Schlatt," Dream warned.

Schlatt glared at him but sat back down. He took another gulp from his glass. "It wasn't supposed to fucking happen." He shook his head.

Wilbur just waited, trying to look the right amount of nervous.

"I went to his house, that night," Schlatt said after a moment. His voice sounded like clouded smoke, far away from the raging fire that had consumed it just moments before. The mood swings made Wilbur’s hair prickle. "I'd met with Dream earlier, talking about…I don't even remember now. Business. Expansions. No, that's right. We were talking about expanding our street sales. Doesn't matter. I was tipsy,” he explained. “I went to his house to…to see him. To talk to him about our plans. He let me in. Gave me a drink."

The other glass on the counter, Wilbur realized. Quackity had given Schlatt a drink. The mob clean-up crew had washed the glass before the police arrived. That was why it was still wet in the photos.

Schlatt continued speaking, voice level and eyes focused on the past. "He was…excited. And he…he showed me what he'd been working on." Schlatt's jaw clenched and relaxed. "He'd found the mob, he said. He'd done it. He'd uncovered it. He showed me his notes. All of the things I'd worked so hard to build, so hard to hide and protect, spilling from his mouth. He was ready to go. He told me about his plan to, to 'make it all right'. To 'save the city'. He was so fucking happy," Schlatt spat. "So excited to start tearing down my life's work." He shook his head, again, sharper. "I'd had too much to drink. All I knew was that, suddenly, he was a threat."

Wilbur's stomach dropped.

"I didn't realize what I'd done until he was on the ground, coughing blood," Schlatt finished.

The silence that followed choked him, crushing his voice with its weight. "Dream wasn't the one holding the knife?" Wilbur whispered, voice strangled, as the revelation sunk in.

Schlatt didn't look at him, still lost in the memory.

Dream spoke instead. "No, I wasn't." His tone was jarringly mirthful. "Schlatt came to me afterward and explained what happened. I consoled him. We made a plan, and I took over everything from there."

Wilbur exhaled heavily. "You killed him, Schlatt. I should have seen it. It was you." He hesitated. Schlatt was still staring blankly at the wall. Words lay heavy on the tip of Wilbur’s tongue. It was Schlatt’s fault. Quackity’s death. The police chasing him, pushing him and Tommy into hiding, forcing them to scrape and scrounge and hide like rats. The warrant on his head and on Tommy’s. Everything was Schlatt’s fault. Countless deaths at his hands, at the mob's hands. Crime and corruption. Drugs and smuggling and extortion. Danger and death and pain for the people of the city. All Wilbur had wanted to do was find the truth. All he had wanted to do was to help, to solve the problems, and Schlatt blamed him for the dirt and dried blood on his own hands? Wilbur glared at Schlatt, not bothering to mask his contempt, his hatred, any longer. It was all Schlatt’s fault.

How much of a risk was it to push? It would likely anger the man further, but he couldn’t find the will to care. Schlatt had caused so much pain. He deserved to be needled for this. "You're a monster," he scoffed. Just to get him to say more, to get him to keep talking, he justified to himself.

Schlatt blinked, then glared at him, eyes heavy with the remnants of memory. "A monster? A monster?!" He chuckled, halfway to a sob. Wilbur watched as his expression darkened, storm clouds of emotion roiling through sadness and pain and anger. "I'm not the fucking monster, Wilbur. This clusterfuck is your fucking fault and you have the balls to call me the monster?" Schlatt's eyes flashed, voice thunderous. Wilbur almost regretted pushing his buttons. "Do you know what he said to me, while he was explaining everything? Do you know??"

"I--" Wilbur started, but Schlatt cut him off.

"He said, 'I would never have found this without Wilbur Soot.'" Schlatt downed the rest of his glass and slammed it on the desk. "You set him on the fucking trail! Dream helped me put those fucking pieces together when I went to him. He pointed out to me that it was your fault. He said that without you, none of this would have happened, and he was fucking right !"

"It--"

"Do you think I don't fucking regret it? Huh?!" Schlatt bellowed. His eyes burned with bitter liquor and even more bitter rage. "Do you think I've had a single fucking moment where the sight of his blood on my hands wasn't seared into my fucking brain? I have not closed my eyes this week without seeing his fucking face! And you call me the monster?"

"You--"

"No, no, fuck you . I'm done talking to you." Schlatt was breathing heavily, spitting words out like they were poisoning him -- or maybe he wanted the words to poison them. "I should have sent the hitters after you on night one. I should have made you bleed for this, instead of waiting for the police to play catch up with Dream's fucking ideas. I shouldn't have waited, but I'm done fucking waiting, now."

Wilbur swallowed. He'd gotten what he wanted, but had it even helped? They needed more time. He racked his mind for something else, some other card to play, to keep himself and Tommy alive. "The evidence we got from the servers will go to the police if we die," he added hastily. "With that and Quackity's notes, they'll have enough to take you down. It's over for you, don't make it worse."

"The 'evidence'? You mean a few emails that you stole from the private accounts of a legitimate business?" Schlatt cackled in disbelief. "You don't have jack shit, Wilbur. None of that is admissible in court, you fuckwit! You've fucking lost!" He took a steadying breath and then turned to Dream. "Doesn't even matter, though, because it'll be gone before the sun rises."

"Yeah, it'll be easy enough to trace who broke in," Dream confirmed. "Our assets will be recovered and your friend will be…removed from the picture."

Schlatt narrowed his eyes. "Y'know, now that I'm thinking about it, they never should have gotten those fucking conversations in the first place, Dream. Care to explain yourself?"

Wilbur turned so that he could see Dream.

Dream raised a hand and dipped his head in acknowledgement. Despite the tension in the air, his tone remained light and amused. "That's a fair point, Schlatt. Security will be increased from here on out, and whoever slacked on that job will have their employment…terminated." His emerald eyes drifted to Wilbur. "Perhaps we could grant your friend leniency, Wilbur, if you're willing to reveal who they are." He shrugged. "I'd be willing to offer them a position in our digital security team, if they're as good as they seem. But if I have to go track them down myself, I would be less inclined."

Wilbur hesitated.

"You're not doing either of you any fucking favors by hiding it," Schlatt asserted. "We'll find out, one way or the other. Just make this all easier, Wilbur."

Wilbur would like to say that he didn’t believe them. That he didn’t consider it. That he would never sell out a friend and an ally. Because that was what it would be if he told them. Dream was likely lying, trying to get under his guard. But…he did consider it. He considered telling them, in the hopes that Tubbo would be able to live through the clusterfuck that Wilbur had brought down on his head. He considered it not because he wanted to put Tubbo in harm’s way, but because he wanted the opposite.

A flash of blonde hair caught his attention. Wilbur glanced at Tommy. His head twitched in a little shake. 'No,' he mouthed. He looked pointedly at his hands.

He was still holding the pen. The pen. A flicker of hope sparked in Wilbur's chest, and he glanced back at Dream. "No. I won't -- I'm not telling you."

Dream hummed. "Your loss. Well." A smile tugged at his lips. "Their loss too."

"Fuck this," Schlatt announced. "I'm done talking. You just had to make it difficult, didn't you? You couldn't have let the police take you. Couldn’t have kept your sticky fucking fingers to yourself." He chuckled dryly. "I've got to admit, I underestimated you. You've surprised me. That's impressive. But don't worry, Wilbur. I'm a man of my word."

Well, shit. The fear that he'd been suppressing began worming to the front of his mind, dredging up the fuzziness he thought he’d banished.

"I told you I'd call the police when we were finished talking, didn't I?" Schlatt leaned forward, reaching under his desk. There was an audible click. "Well. I'm finished talking with you." He straightened. His smile looked almost relaxed, as if he was simply talking about touching base with a friend to plan a night out. "Did you know that certain city officials get a panic button installed in their homes?” He gathered the papers that Wilbur had brought, the ones Wilbur had handed to him, and pushed them into something at his feet. A motor whirred and crunched. A shredder. “So that, in the event of an emergency, they can summon help?" Schlatt's grin made a shark look friendly. "When the police arrive, I'll explain how two wanted criminals broke into my office, looking to finish the job they started with Quackity." He leaned back in his chair. "I won't be accused of anything but self-defense."

Wilbur's breath stopped. He didn't have a plan, no sly last move to get them out, but he couldn’t let Tommy die, not now. How could he change the situation in their favor, even by an inch? He refused to go down without a fight. Panic be damned, he wasn’t going to roll over and give up. There had to be something . Something in the room, maybe? He could break a bottle, use it to fend them off. Broken glass could be dangerous, could backfire. The bottle could shatter in your hand and cut you. Maybe he could push Tommy behind him, knock the chairs over. How fast would you have to move? Dream’s closer to Tommy than you are. No. He refused to give up. They weren’t going to die. There was something. There was always something. There are two of them , the voice in his crooned. Dream must have a gun. Schlatt likely does too. How long do you think you can hold them off? How many bullets do you really think you could take? He, he still had Phil’s gun. The weight in the pocket of his coat pressed against his thigh. If the cops see it, you’re dead. If Dream sees it, you’re dead faster.

How fast would the police get there? Even if they stalled, if they ran, would they have a chance? Wilbur didn’t know.

He looked frantically at Tommy.  Tommy looked right back at him. He glanced at the pen, then at Wilbur, then clicked the end of the pen and held it down.

"Dream," Schlatt continued, either not noticing or not caring. "Kill them."

Chapter Text

Ranboo was…well. He was tired. He was really, really tired. It had been a long day, okay? After the trainyard fiasco, he'd gotten practically no sleep, and none of their projects felt like they were going anywhere, and all he wanted to do was go home and curl up and pet his cat but that wasn't an option, so... yeah. He was tired. He'd spent the whole day bouncing between different tasks, frantically trying to make progress but just feeling like he was missing something. None of his leads brought up any new data about where Soot and Innit might be hiding. He'd tried attacking it from every angle he could think of. He just didn't have enough data. So, that had been a bust. Poking through Soot's old electronics was similarly useless. The man ran a tight ship. Everything that he could see was organized and neat and well referenced. Absolutely by the books, and not at all useful. Well constructed records of Soot’s perfectly legal activities were awesome, but they were looking for illegitimate activity, or traces of it. Either there wasn’t any, or he couldn’t find it. What bugged him was that he didn’t have access to all of it. The encryptions had eaten holes in a lot of the files, and the most useful information had probably gone first. All he had left was a curdled alphabet soup of corrupted data. Nothing relevant, nothing helpful.

His biggest task was trying to prove or debunk the security footage. The security footage was... uh. It was problematic. Every scan he ran, everywhere he poked and prodded and tried to unravel up loose strings, it came back as authentic. Which, well. It should have made him feel better, right? Especially since it was basically the foundation of their whole case. It should have made him feel more certain about it. But something, some little instinct he couldn't pin down, told him something was wrong with it. It was awful. Frustrating. It was like… something. There was probably a poetically accurate metaphor or simile or whatever but he didn’t care enough to make one. It was hard, and he was tired and frustrated, and, yeah.

He'd been considering packing up early, shooting Phil a message about his progress (or lack thereof) and going home early. It would have been nice. He could have surprised Tubbo, made them dinner. Gone to bed early and gotten some proper rest. But, instead, Phil had said, in his insufferably kind obliviousness, that Ranboo should just push through it. Just keep working a bit longer, mate, he'd said jovially. Stick with us for a bit, yeah? I want to take us all out to dinner tonight as a break from this shit. Just get through until tonight. So Ranboo had nodded, and smiled, and muttered something amicable and nice, because he couldn’t just say 'no.' That would have been rude. He was lucky to be working on this case, really, given how high profile it was and how much pressure everyone was under. It was an incredible opportunity that had been dropped in his lap, whether or not he deserved it. And it would have been bad of him to go home while everyone else was still trying to make progress, even if he felt like he was going to collapse into an exhausted puddle of quivering, Ranboo-colored goo. Right. So. He…pushed through. He'd kept working, kept trying to make progress. He'd forgotten to eat lunch. His feet and back hurt.

He felt a bit numb now. But that was okay. It was fine. 

To be honest, he couldn't really remember a lot from the past hour or so. Phil had rounded them up and bundled them into the car. He'd sat next to Niki in the back seat and had to twist his legs awkwardly because he was too tall. Then he'd blinked, and they were in line at a noodle place, waiting to order. Then he'd blinked again and they were seated, eating. Techno was telling his story of the Potato Farm busts. Niki was laughing. Phil was sipping his drink. His noodles were hot and just the right amount of spicy and tangy. Now they were walking back outside. He felt like he was floating, a bit. The asphalt and the breeze all felt sorta far away. It was twilight, the last remnants of sunset fading as they shuffled back into the car.

Phil's phone blared an alert as Ranboo focused on not hitting his head on the roof while climbing in. "Oh, shit." Phil’s lighthearted tone had evaporated.

"What is it?" Techno demanded.

"Dispatch just assigned us to an active call," Phil said. He put his phone back in his pocket and fumbled his keys into the ignition. "By sheer coincidence, we're one of the closest units." Phil started the engine.

"We're not an active patrol unit, though," Techno stated slowly. "We don't have to respond."

Phil's smile was tight and worried. "Well, we're responding to this one. The Mayor pressed his panic button."

"Soot," Techno growled.

Niki inhaled sharply. "You think it's him?"

“What else would this be?”

"There's a good chance, so we're going," Phil affirmed. "Buckle up."

Techno punched something into the square computer on the dashboard and their GPS told them, in a friendly robotic voice, to turn left and then continue straight.

Ranboo reached for his seatbelt but stopped when his phone buzzed its own alert in his pocket. He pulled it out, forcing his vision to clear.

Message from: [email protected]

To: You, Ranboo Tablet, [email protected], [email protected], Tubbo, Tubbo Tablet, [email protected]

 

ALERT! Tubbo Underscore has called for an emergency rescue. This message has NOT been marked as Test. [Device Tag: Pen01(T)_prototype]

Attachment: 7:29pm_8787309432.mp3

Attachment: 8:14pm_location_activetrack_94374043.gpx

His breath stuttered. Tubbo had been working on these gadgets for a few weeks now. A micro recorder attached to a GPS locator, all wired to ping their devices if they needed help. The idea was that the other person would be able to call the police if the one in trouble couldn't. Low profile, hidden in a pen casing and inconspicuous. Simple, efficient, effective.

And Tubbo had just used it.

When he'd been testing it he'd made sure to let Ranboo know. He'd said that they were basically finished.

This message wasn't marked as a test.

Tubbo was in trouble. Tubbo needed help.

He pressed the GPS locator attachment. His fingers were shaking.

Well. That was. Um. Huh.

He glanced at the GPS on the dashboard.

Yeah. That was. Uhm. Was convenient the right word?

The little dot was exactly over the place they were heading. Tubbo was, apparently, at Mayor Schlatt's house. And he needed Ranboo’s help.

Ranboo's mind spun. Wisps of fog still clung to his consciousness, but he couldn't afford to pay attention to them. He'd known Tubbo and Tommy Innit had been friends. Tubbo had come down to the station after the Soot warrant went out. He'd passed all the questionnaires. He hadn't heard from Tommy in months, and hadn't heard from Soot in longer than that. Ranboo hadn't given it a second thought. And now…now Tubbo was calling for help from the same place that Soot and Innit presumably were. Tubbo needed him. He had to do something, had to keep the cold threads of panic from dragging him into the abyss of his mind.

"Phil." His voice was nothing more than a cracked whisper.

"…more cars on the way but we might be first," Phil was saying.

"Phil," he tried again. His tone was stronger that time, though not by much. It was pure luck that the car had gone mildly silent.

"Yea, mate?" Phil replied, not glancing away from the road. His hands were white from their grip on the wheel.

"I, um. I just got an, um, an emergency message. From, from Tubbo."

Niki's hand landed on his arm, warm and reassuring. "Is he okay, Ranboo?"

"I don't, I don't know. I think Soot and Innit are at the Mayor's house. And I…" he trailed off, taking a deep breath. "I think they took Tubbo hostage."

Tommy had never given much thought to how he would die.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. He'd thought about it before. Everyone had, right? If he didn't die in a car crash or by falling down the stairs or something then he'd die of old age, surrounded by Lots Of Women. That was the plan. Avoid dying in a stupid way (unless it was stupid enough to be really fucking funny, and then maybe he'd consider it) and just keep living. Though, okay, maybe he'd had a few more occasions to consider his own demise than most. He and Wilbur got into shitty, dicey situations on a regular basis, but they always got out of them. High adrenaline and high stakes weren't new to him. He'd been in spots where he'd had to ask himself, 'Is this how I die?' But the answer was, of course, 'no.' He or Wilbur could alway cobble together a solution. Even when their first, second, fuckteenth idea crumbled out from under them, Wilbur would figure out what to do next. He'd talk someone down, or just plain take someone down, or pull some clever trick that would let them win or at least escape. In all those situations, he'd never felt like death had been more than a vague possibility.

Now, sitting trapped in a room with a Mob Boss and, apparently, the Mob Boss's Boss, he was suddenly giving the whole death thing an uncomfortable amount of thought. Because, well…he couldn't really see a way out of this one. Schlatt was rambling about a panic button. The door was shut and he and Wilbur were sitting while Dream was standing. He didn't have a weapon. Theoretically Wilbur did, unless he'd hidden that police fucker's gun somewhere, but it would be hard to reach. They were pretty fucked, to be honest. They'd walked into a trap and the jaws had snapped shut. But it would be fine, right? It would be fine. He still had Tubbo's pen. He could trigger that, for whatever good it would do at this point. Wilbur would stall Schlatt or something. He'd— he'd do something, say something. Yes, okay, he'd given Wilbur a hard time about the improvised bullshittery he'd pulled at the warehouse, but their plans had more than fallen apart now. Their plans had gone up in a column of ash and flame, shredded to smithereens. Their plans couldn’t have been destroyed more effectively if Wilbur had used a hundred pounds of explosives. So, yeah, at this point Tommy was more than ready to play along with whatever Wilbur came up with. It would be fine.

He glanced over at Wilbur. His mentor -- his friend, his brother -- wasn't looking at him. His eyes flicked over things around the room, schemes created and discarded faster than Tommy could catch. Tommy swallowed, waiting. What was their move gonna be?

Wilbur's eyes snapped back to him, and Tommy's stomach dropped. His hands were clenched hard on the chair, eyes flashing  white around the edges. A sheen of sweat beaded under the hair over his forehead. Time felt like it was standing still as he met Wilbur's gaze. Wilbur looked afraid. Collected, confident, charismatic Wilbur was never afraid. Tommy forced his breathing to stay steady. Panic would get him killed. Wilbur was afraid, but he wasn't fucking giving up. Neither of them were. 

Tommy swallowed, glancing down at the pen. Triggering it was supposed to be a last-ditch effort. A way to save their work if things got bad. Tubbo had told them about what it did. "It'll send everything to me, " he'd explained. "It'll keep whatever happens out of their hands. Even if the pen gets destroyed, I'll have the information. It's designed to send it to all my devices. And I'll know where you are. I'll call help, or something like that." The goal had been not to need anything more than a little recorder. But, now…

He looked back up at Wilbur and clicked and held the end of the pen. The pen buzzed ever so slightly, confirming that the failsafe had engaged. Fucker'll go to prison even if we're dead, now, he thought grimly. Tubbo would make sure of it. But they wouldn't die. They'd both make it out of this. They had to.

"Dream," Schlatt ordered, words slightly slurred. Maybe the alcohol was catching up to him. "Kill them."

Everything happened all at once.

Dream reached for the back waistband of his jeans, twisting and stepping forward from the wall to block the door. Tommy pushed himself out of his chair, ducking his head, and used the motion to snap a leg out at Dream with as much force as he could muster. He was rewarded with a solid impact and a loud groan as his foot connected between Dream's legs. "Yeah, bitch!" Tommy crowed as Dream dropped involuntarily to a knee, gun clutched in one hand.

A loud crash snatched his attention away from his minor victory. Wilbur had moved at the same time he had, reaching to grab the tall, elegant lamp that stood near the wall and push it into Schlatt's desk. The fixture toppled over onto Schlatt in a shower of broken glass.

Neither of them stood around to watch. Tommy moved towards the door even as Dream collapsed, and Wilbur followed right after him. Schlatt was swearing up a storm and fighting his way past the now mangled lamp as Tommy turned the knob and yanked the door open.

"Go!" Wilbur yelled. He pushed Tommy through the door and into the darkened hallway.

Tommy went. His breath was already burning in his lungs, adrenaline cold in his veins. He sprinted down the short hallway and skidded out into the foyer, Wilbur on his heels with a hand on his shoulder. Something banged into the door of the office, and two voices shouted in overlapping rage.

"Front door's locked," Tommy hissed without pausing for a second look. He spun, racing the other direction.

"Back door," Wilbur agreed, coat flaring as he followed.

The office door slammed open behind them. "Shit," Tommy muttered.

The foyer led into a stately kitchen, backed by a set of sliding glass doors. In the dark, the only faint light filtering in was through the glass. "Doors!" Tommy called, dodging around the kitchen island.

Wilbur made no argument, moving straight to the handle as Tommy turned to scan the countertops. Surely, somewhere…there! Next to the stove, a carved wooden knife block. He darted toward it, pushing Tubbo's pen into his pocket, and grabbed a few. A big chef's knife, a steak knife, and a little paring knife. It would have to be enough. It was certainly better than nothing. Footsteps thumped down the hallway and Tommy whirled back to the doors, finding Wilbur fumbling the clasp open. Tommy pressed the chef's knife into his hands and stumbled out into the night air.

Schlatt's backyard consisted of a short patio and a manicured lawn sloping down to a pool, tightly clipped bushes scattered artfully near the path. The blue pool lamps were the only source of light except for the soft glow of the streetlights beyond the house. It matched the rest of his house very well, Tommy thought: rich, pretentious, and entirely devoid of personality and life. Perfectly fitting for the evil prick, in Tommy's expert opinion.

"Got a plan?" Tommy asked, slipping the paring knife into his pocket and trying to take stock. There was a fence on the property, which meant that, theoretically, there was a gate. That was probably their best bet, unless they wanted to try climbing the fence while being shot at. Opening a gate while being shot at wasn't good either, but it would be faster. In theory.

As if on cue the glass door shattered in a crack of gunfire, falling outward in a spray of shards.

Tommy screamed, throwing his arms up on instinct to block the glittering fragments of glass. His injured shoulder, which he’d been doing a great job of ignoring until now, screamed in pain at the movement, making his knees wobble. You're going to die, a voice in his head chittered. You're going to die, right here on this patio. He caught a glimpse of Dream standing in the foyer before Wilbur shoved him forward and they dove away.

His ears were ringing. From the gunshot, but also from the spiked, convulsing ball of terror and adrenaline that had taken up residence in the bottom of his stomach. He shook his head, hard, feeling bits of glass fall from his hair. They were uncomfortably sharp as they brushed past his skin. 

"You stone-cursed fuckers!" someone screamed from inside the house. Tommy couldn't tell if it was Schlatt or Dream. It didn't really matter.

"Go, go, go go go ," Wilbur hissed, though Tommy could barely hear him over his quick breaths. Their feet pounded against the dirt and stones as they ducked around the corner of the house.

There was the fence, sure enough. Wood planks, just over two meters high. Relief crackled in his veins for the briefest moment. Oh. No gate. They'd chosen wrong. Tommy swallowed. Was that it? Were they dead? There was a little tree in the corner where the fence met the wall, but he doubted it would support their weight. He shifted his grip on the handle of the steak knife.

"Fuck," Wilbur snapped from beside him. Tommy stumbled as Wilbur grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and swung him back against the wall. His shoulder twinged hard at the impact, and he gritted his teeth. What was--? Oh. He understood. Tommy pressed farther into the shadows, waiting.

Wilbur had his back pressed against the siding just next to the corner, eyes trained on the dim shadows on the path. There was enough time for Tommy to feel one heartbeat thud- thud in his chest, and then Dream rounded the corner.

Wilbur struck like a snake. He shot one hand out to wrench Dream’s gun away and spun, putting his back against the blond man's torso. Dream’s free hand dropped from the weapon to keep from being crushed against his chest, but before he could reach for Wilbur's neck or hair, Wilbur had stabbed the chef's knife in a reverse grip toward Dream's gut. Dream caught his wrist with his free hand before the blade made contact, locking them in a test of strength. Wilbur grunted, muscles strained under his coat as he fought to keep Dream from moving the gun while simultaneously trying to drive the blade into Dream's side.

Tommy pushed himself off the wall, seeing the opportunity that Wilbur had given him. He brought his steak knife onto Dream's hand, and the man yelled in pain, gun falling to the ground with beads of red. A vicious grin surfaced on Tommy’s face. He transferred his knife to his left hand, dropping to one knee long enough to grab the weapon, stand, and hurl it in a high, spinning arc towards the pool.

"Oh, you little shit," Dream growled at the same time as Wilbur ground out, "Tommy, go! "

Tommy only hesitated for an instant. He wanted to help, but Schlatt was unaccounted for and his arm was still injured. Sincehe had to climb the fence, time was essential. He turned and bolted, slipping the handle of his knife between his teeth like a cool action hero pirate or something.

Okay. Okay! Okay. He could do this. Climb a wooden fence with no help, with only one arm, in the dark, as fast as possible, without getting stabbed or shot. Okay! Fun. This was fun. He resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder, tuning out the grunts and feet scuffing in the dirt as Wilbur and Dream struggled to gain the upper hand. This was a fun fucking challenge, that was what this was. A challenge! Big Men had no problems with challenges. He beat challenges into the ground and ate them for an afternoon snack. Pog fucking champ.

He jumped as far as he could, catching the top of the fence with his good arm and bracing a foot on the boards. His shoes scrabbled at the wood for an anxious moment before gripping. Easy. Now he just had to haul himself over.

"Tom--" Wilbur warned, strained.

His movement was abruptly halted when a hand clutched the scruff of his hoodie and yanked hard. Tommy choked, a scream caught under the cloth digging into his throat. Panic flashed white-hot through his mind. Don’t let go. Wilbur had given him an opportunity and he would not lose it. Splinters dug into his skin as he kicked his leg out behind him, trying to strike at whoever was there.

"Oh, no you fuckin' don't," Wilbur growled. There was another harsh tug, and then the pressure disappeared with a thump and groan of bodies hitting grass. Tommy risked a glance over his shoulder. Wilbur had tackled Dream off of him and the two men tussled on the ground, breathing hard. Wilbur had a hand fisted in Dream's hair. Dream had an arm dangerously close to Wilbur's throat. The blade of the chef's knife flashed between them but Tommy couldn't see who was holding the hilt.

He forced himself to focus back on the fence. Wilbur would be fine. He would. He would be fine. He had to be. Wilbur was a damn good fighter, scrappy as hell and not afraid to play dirty. He heaved with his arm, swinging one leg awkwardly over the fence and working his way upright. The other side of the fence sported a set of well-manicured bushes that looked like they'd break his fall. He looked back to the fight.

The two men were still locked in the struggle, rolling on the grass. Neither of them was gaining the upper hand,and a slip could mean losing for either side. Tommy swallowed. There was no way Wilbur would be able to disengage himself safely. He steadied himself on the fence as best he could, transferring his knife from his mouth to his hand, then pulled Tubbo's pen out of his pocket. It wasn't a flimsy thing, as thick around as his thumb with a metal casing and point. It would be a shame to lose it. Tubbo had probably put loads of time into it. But, life or death. And the information was elsewhere, anyway. He hefted it, eyeing the clash. If he timed it right…now. "Wil!" he yelled, flinging the pen at Dream.

It bounced off the blonde man's skull with a satisfying thwack. Dream's head snapped to the side under the impact and Wilbur released him, struggling to his feet and staggering toward the fence. He‘d made it halfway up before Dream started clambering to his feet. Take that, you smug motherfucker, Tommy sneered in his mind. He tossed Wilbur a victorious grin and toppled backwards into the bushes.

Tommy had taken a botany and gardening class in school a few years ago, in one of his last semesters before graduation. He'd needed the credits and all the interesting shit was full, okay? He'd barely paid attention, only tuning in enough to struggle through the final exam, because, honestly, who really needed to be able to identify plants on sight? That was what the internet was fucking made for.

He realized, suddenly, why a passing knowledge of plants might’ve been useful, because the bushes at the base of Schlatt's fence were, in fact, rose bushes. In his defense, it was dark, and he was in a bit of a hurry, so he hadn't seen the thorns. He could identify them plenty well now that they were sinking into his skin and clothes. "Fucking-- shit!" he yelled, fighting his way out of the brambles.

Wilbur dropped down from the fence, landing in front of him and nearly falling. He grabbed Tommy's arm and tugged him the rest of the way out of the bushes as heavy boots slammed into the fence, Dream's arm hooking over the top. "Let's go, you fucking gremlin," Wilbur said, hysterical laughter tinging his voice.

Tommy didn't stop to look behind him when he heard Dream scramble over the fence. He just ran.

He rounded the corner of the house, heart beating frantically in his ears. They had to leave.  The car was within sight, still parked where they had left it, just on the edge of the orange light cast from the streetlamps. All they had to do was get to the car and they could get away. Get to the car. Just get to the car. His arm ached, and his fingers were trembling, but he ignored it. He had a goal.

Tommy skidded onto the pavement of the front walk, Wilbur only a step behind him. Then, behind them, the front door slammed open. The sound was loud in the otherwise quiet night, and Tommy nearly jumped out of his skin because Dream had followed them and there was no way he would’ve gone back into the house. He turned to look, faltering.

Schlatt loomed in the doorway, face twisted in drunken rage. He was listing slightly to one side, blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead. His forearms and hands sported a few similar cuts from the glass in the shattered lamp, Tommy guessed. He had a gun in one red hand, aimed loosely in their direction. "You motherfucking piece of shit, Wilbur Soot!" Schlatt bellowed, breathing heavily despite his slow step onto the porch. "I'm going to kill you!"

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Dream had rounded the corner as Schlatt spoke, now stalking toward them with narrowed eyes. There were a couple of sticks tangled in his blonde hair and something silver flashed at his side.

Tommy's heart dropped straight into his stomach. They were dead. They were so fucking dead. They should send flowers to the funeral home and shit because, holy shit , they were going to fucking die , and there was nothing he could do about it. Schlatt had a gun. Dream had Wilbur's knife. They had nothing, and no time left, and they were actually going to die, he was going to die without having a girlfriend, oh Gods--

Wilbur's arm caught him in the back, knocking him partially out of his thoughts. "Run! Keep fucking moving!" 

If you're not actively under someone else's control, it's always better to run, a voice in his head reminded him. It sounded like Wilbur. That would make sense. Wilbur was the one who taught him. You are always more likely to survive if you run than if you stay. Most people aren't good enough to hit a moving target, and most gunshots aren't lethal. He remembered this. His feet were moving. They were running. Wilbur had a hand on his back. Someone was shouting something behind him.

Can you promise me you'll run, no matter what else is happening?

He swallowed hard, forcing more air into his lungs. He'd promised. He could run. If he was ever going to run, this would be the time. The world snapped back into focus. Crisp night air on his face. Peach toned lamp light. Murky blackness lurking at every corner. Asphalt under his sneakers.

Wilbur was abreast of him now. They'd made it to the street in the seconds Tommy had lost.

"Fuck the car," Wilbur spat. "Not enough time. We're gonna have to outrun them or lose them somehow."

Tommy nodded jerkily, turning to sprint up the street instead.

There weren't shouts behind them, just footsteps. That wasn't promising. Amateurs screamed and shouted during chases, as though the threats and insults would bring their quarry closer. Professionals knew not to waste their breath. He didn't dare look back. Already his arm had started throbbing from the constant jostling, taking his stamina with it. Wilbur was a step ahead of him as they dodged between two parked cars and up onto the pavement. He was three steps ahead when they returned to the street to avoid an overgrown bush.

And, before he realized it, it was over. He stumbled over his own feet and Dream was on him. A hand snagged the back of his hoodie, and Tommy twisted, gasping for breath that wasn't there. Wilbur hadn't noticed yet, still barreling down the street. He tried to throw off the jacket, but his limbs refused to cooperate.

"Got you, you little shit," Dream's voice crooned in his ear.

Tommy struggled, flailing, trying to kick him or punch him or anything. He twisted his arm behind him, slashing with the steak knife, but Dream knocked it from his hands. It rolled out of reach, blade glittering tauntingly in the wan light. As Dream readjusted, Tommy managed to suck in a short breath. "Wilbur!" he screamed, voice raw.

On any other day, he would have groaned shamefully at the palpable fear in his voice. On any other day, he would have mocked himself for it. Today, with his knees against the blacktop and a stinging, cold line suddenly shoved against his neck, he didn't care. There was something wet on his cheeks. He was going to die.

Wilbur stumbled to a stop up the street, spinning as Tommy's voice reached his ears. "Tommy!" he yelled.

Tommy couldn't breathe. His chest was heaving but he couldn't breathe. His head was pinned against Dream's hip, chin tilted up by a blade. His uninjured hand clutched at Dream's wrist, frantically trying to shift the icy metal away from his throat. It was like trying to move the arm of a statue. Dream’s other hand fumbled at Tommy’s shoulder, and he realized that the man had noticed his sling. His sling , his injured arm. Dream had spotted Tommy’s weakness and intended to exploit it. Not that he expected any better of the man, but that was not fucking good. He forced himself to try and think past the notes of anticipatory panic singing in his head.

There was something in his pocket, pressing against his thigh. What-- the other knife, he remembered. The little paring knife. It was something. He let go of Dream's arm, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the small blade, and plunged it toward Dream's leg without hesitation.

Dream shifted faster than Tommy thought possible, catching his wrist and knocking his arm off course with the surety of a machine. The knife grazed past Dream's leg and sunk home…into his own side.

It took him a second to realize it, with his chin forced away. He felt the knife skim past something and then connect. He felt the blade pierce through cloth and into flesh. He felt Dream's hand on his wrist, shoving, forcing the blade harder. He felt an ache in his right side just above his hip, like he'd been punched.

"Hey, what the fuck?" he rasped.

Wilbur was moving, shouting. He couldn't quite parse the words.

Something warm and wet spread down his hip and leg. Odd. He wondered where that was coming from.

The uncomfortable pressure in his side was growing. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

Dream pulled his hand away from Tommy's wrist. It was only then that Tommy noticed that his hand was pressed against his gut, and that his hand was still holding the knife.

Oh, shit, he thought. He stabbed me.

Not poggers.

Dream was tugging at his sling again. Tommy knew what he was doing. He registered it, somewhere in the back of his brain, without being able to put it to words. No matter how hard he tried, though, his arm was like a block of lead. He couldn't even let go of the knife that he'd stabbed himself with.

There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

Wilbur was really good with metaphors and all those wordplay things. Tommy had always been more of a pictures guy.

People were still shouting. He couldn't understand them.

Despite his attempts to move his chin to see his wound, he couldn't quite manage it with a chef's knife against his neck. If he focused all of his energy on staring down through the corners of his vision, he could make out a dark stain creeping down his jeans.

The burning ache hadn't gone away. If anything, it was getting worse, scaling his ribcage like a jungle gym and threading into his heart. The adrenaline that had been in his veins was wearing off, maybe, leaving nothing but trembling fingers, stinging eyes, and pain.

Dream slipped the sling off of Tommy's arm. Tommy wanted to reach for it, to grab it and pull it back. To knock Dream's hand away, fight the man off, run to Wilbur. He couldn't move.

There was a hand on his left wrist. Dream was saying something. Tommy forced himself to concentrate on Wilbur. Wilbur. He had enough time to see Wilbur's eyes blow wide, and then Dream yanked.

Agony flared through him, scorchingly hot and sharper than a thousand knives. He screamed. He couldn't hold it back. He didn't even try. There wasn't anything else, in that moment. He lost all sense of the world except for the agony in his shoulder and the ache in his side and the white that had washed over his blurry vision.

Something popped sickeningly in his shoulder, and the world went black.

-----

The first thing he felt was a hand in his hair.

Well, that wasn't true. The first thing he felt was his arm hurting like someone was tearing his flesh, undoing the stitches that kept him together. The first thing he felt that he cared to focus on was a hand in his hair. It was warm and solid, pushing across his scalp and unweaving tangles. I've got you , the hand said. He felt the hand tip his head back against something solid, holding it there when he didn't have the strength to do so.

Everything hurt. His shoulder was on fire. He couldn't move his arm. He could feel the wound in his gut, the ache having been joined by something far sharper. His knees protested the weight pressing them into the asphalt.

The asphalt?

Something was still resting, sharp and unforgiving, across his throat.

He tried to shift his head, and the hand in his hair tightened its grip.

It wasn't Wilbur's hand in his hair.

He blinked his eyes open.

He was still on his knees in the middle of the street. Wilbur was a bare few meters away, shoulders squared and arms raised. In his hands was the police officer's gun, pointed at Dream. His face was twisted in a snarl only heightened by the sharp shadows cast by the tangerine streetlights, but his eyes were soft when they landed on Tommy.

The hand, Dream's hand, kept scratching at his scalp and pushing through his hair. The motion was a touch too harsh to be truly comforting, but despite how it made his stomach twist he didn't want it to stop.

"…making this harder than it has to be, Wilbur," someone was saying. Schlatt's voice. Tommy rolled his eyes to the side to look. Schlatt had caught up to them, apparently. When had that happened? He stood a few steps away from Dream, his own handgun leveled in Wilbur's direction. "Put the fucking gun down, or we make him scream again." Schlatt's voice was somewhere in the horrible wasteland between apathy and scorn. "What's it gonna be, Wilbur? You can't take us both down or you would have fucking done it already."

Tommy fixed his gaze back on Wilbur, trying to catch up on the few seconds he’d been out. Twenty at the maximum, probably, if he had to guess. Enough time for Schlatt to catch up to them and Wilbur to draw his gun.

Wilbur's eyes met his. His cheeks were wet.

"Go on, Wilbur," Dream said smoothly. "Tommy could be useful to us. I'd hate for him to have to die because of your stubbornness."

This wasn't right. This wasn't fucking right. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Tommy tried to struggle, tried to reach for Dream, but the knife dug into his skin and he had forced to stop. Everything hurt . Everything hurt, and all he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep but he couldn't do that, he couldn't, for a lot of reasons. He had to keep going.

Not that he could go anywhere, but he and Wilbur were going to get out of this. They were. They had to.

He hoped he wasn't just imagining the sirens in the distance.

Wilbur was still staring at him. Tommy hated the weight in Wilbur’s gaze. It wasn’t pity, or sorrow. Well, sorrow was there. Sadness, and anger, and self righteous glory all rolled up into one not-so-tidy bundle. Wilbur’s jaw was tilted up ever so slightly, teeth clenched. It was the look Wilbur used when he was going to do something stupid that he thought was for the greater good. He licked his lips. "Wilbur, don't--"

Dream's hand moved from his head back to his shoulder. It wasn't much, the barest pressure, but pain spiked through him anyway. Tommy grunted, trying not to let it show on his face. His head was spinning. Blood loss? Maybe.

Wilbur’s jaw worked and he twitched in a tiny, aborted movement forward. His eyes flicked from Dream to Tommy to Schlatt. "He goes free," Wilbur started, voice shaking.

Schlatt snorted. "What?"

"Tommy goes free," Wilbur repeated. He swallowed. "Your fight's with me, Schlatt, not with him."

"You're not in any kind of fuckin' position to fuckin' argue, are you kiddin' me?" Schlatt growled.

"Wilbur, do not--" Tommy tried again, but Dream's hand squeezed and white hot agony rushed through him again. He gasped, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure he could bear not seeing Wilbur. It felt like Dream’s hand was ripping Tommy's arm off, and he tried to shift to release the pressure on his shoulder. The movement tugged at the knife wound in his side, and he bit down another scream, teeth sinking into his lip. It hurt, it hurt, Dream was hurting him on purpose . Wilbur was good at hiding it, but Tommy had known him for years. He knew where to look. He could see where Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek, the way his shoulders shuddered with concealed sobs and his breath hitched slightly as he fought to keep it steady. Dream was hurting him to hurt Wilbur, and it was working .

The tension lessened after a moment and Tommy sagged, gulping in air past the blade at his neck.

"Kick it over," Schlatt's voice was saying.

Wilbur’s eyes never left Tommy, even as he spread his hands and kicked his dropped gun to Schlatt. Tears cut obvious trails down his cheeks but when Tommy blinked at him, he smiled. "You're okay, Toms." His tone was soft. "It's okay, everything's okay," Wilbur reassured him, voice twinging, and it was then that Tommy knew he was lying. Wilbur was good at lying. It was part of his job, and Tommy had memorized the telltale signs of carefully-crafted deception. This was not that, but it didn’t matter because it was from Wilbur. If Wilbur said everything was going to be okay, then it would. That was how it worked. Wilbur had never lied to him. Hot tears were on his cheeks and blood had soaked down through his jeans and everything ached and throbbed and hurt, everything hurt, but it was going to be okay. Wilbur was saying that it was going to be okay, and Tommy believed him, because he didn't know what he'd do otherwise. "Everything's gonna be fine, Tommy, just keep breathing, okay?"

Schlatt picked up the gun, handing it to Dream.

Dream took it, tossing the knife to the side and pressing the barrel against Tommy's temple.

He wasn't imagining the sirens. He couldn't be.

The cold gunmetal against his head was difficult to ignore.

"I've been waiting a long fucking time for this, Wilbur Soot," Schlatt cackled, facing Wilbur again and unsteadily twirling the gun between his fingers. "I've been waiting way too fucking long!" The mayor swayed slightly, and Tommy’s heart skipped a beat as he leveled the gun at Wilbur. "You're lucky I don't have the time to make this hurt," Schlatt spat. "You deserve everything I've felt and more!"

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. They’d practically made it. They’d gotten out of Schlatt’s stupid office, they’d found a way out of the house with the locked front door. They’d ran, together, and they’d fucking made it. They weren’t supposed to die if they made it. That would be fucking stupid, and Tommy was not fucking stupid. Wilbur was certainly not fucking stupid. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He couldn’t watch Wilbur die. Wilbur couldn’t watch him die. How fucked up would that be? It would be really fucking fucked up, honestly, so neither of them was dying. They were in the middle of the street, for the Gods’ sakes! They weren't supposed to die. They were supposed to go to the police and show them everything, get them to help, get them to put Schlatt and Dream away and keep him and Wilbur safe. They were supposed to find someone here on the street, anyone , any random person who could help. There were surely people nearby, but nobody was coming to save them. Tommy's breath stuttered. "Wilbur?!" he cried.

"It's okay, Toms," Wilbur breathed. His hands were still raised. He was still smiling, smiling like a fucking idiot. "It's okay. It's okay. Keep breathing, Tommy. It's okay. It's gonna be okay." Tears shone on his cheeks and his brows were knitted close, but Tommy knew the look in his eyes better than anyone. Wilbur had decided something, and he wasn't going to change his mind.

"Wilbur, no!" he shrieked. He was going to kill him if -- when, it was when, it was supposed to be when -- they got out of this.

The sirens were louder now.

"Aww, Tommy," Dream cooed in his ear, sickly sweet like rotting roses. "Don't cry! Be strong for him, Tommy. Wilbur's going to die, right here in front of you. The least you can do is be strong for him." A fierce grip tightened on his jaw, Dream’s thumb stroking his cheek. "Don't fight it. Don't make this harder than it has to be for either of you."

"I hate you!" Tommy screamed. "I hate you, I hate you, you fucking prick! Wilbur! "

Everything hurt. His arms felt like putty. The world was getting fuzzy around the edges.

Wilbur was looking at Schlatt. "I love you, Tommy," he pronounced, as placid and resilient as an ocean on a clear summer’s day. He wasn’t yelling, he wasn’t worked up; he was speaking with the intention of being heard, stating a fact with solid, immovable certainty. "You're my brother and I love you. More than…more than anything."

Blue and red radiance played over the asphalt. Someone was shouting something. The sirens were much, much louder.

"No!" Struggling against Dream was like struggling against iron bars.

It felt, for a moment, like everything was in slow motion. The lights danced against Schlatt and Wilbur's faces. Schlatt's eyes went wide. So did Wilbur's. Schlatt’s finger contracted, expression twisted in a rictus of sadistic, drunken laughter.

Then there was a sound like thunder.

Wilbur stumbled backward, mouth falling open, pressing a hand to his left breast. His fingers came back red. Schlatt fell to the ground, gun tumbling from his fingers.

Tommy's ears were ringing. Everything hurt.

Dream dragged him up, yelling something that Tommy couldn't hear. The gun pressed harder against his temple.

Someone was screaming. Tommy realized belatedly that it was him.

Everything hurt.

Wilbur swayed, then fell to one knee.

There was a loud click from next to his ear, and uniformed figures were rushing in his foggy periphery. Wilbur toppled over, hand still grasping at his chest.

Firm arms pulled Dream away from him and Tommy collapsed a second later, unable to keep himself upright.

Everything hurt.

The last thing he saw, between the boots of the swarming officers, was Wilbur. He lay on the ground, limbs akimbo, hair falling across his forehead, eyes shut. There was a dark stain blossoming over his coat and shirt.

Everything hurt.

The world went dark.

Chapter Text

The world didn't come back to him all at once.

There were a few moments where he felt hands on his arms. Someone lifting him. Voices shouting. Sirens wailing. Someone pressing on his leg. Someone peeling back an eyelid to shine a light into it. He didn't like that. He just wanted to sleep, really. Over it all, an incessant, throbbing, aching pain clung to his senses. 

He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.

Something papery rocked gently beneath him. Every few seconds, the bed, thing, whatever it was, would bounce a little, and the darkness around him would sway.

His leg hurt. So did his arm. So did his head.

He was cold. It wasn't bone-deep, but his skin was covered in goosebumps, like he'd been in a chilly room for too long. Being warm would be nice.

There was something in his left wrist. It tugged on his skin every time the bed-thing moved.

Sirens were blaring from somewhere. They sounded muted. They didn't fade, though.

Someone was talking. Focusing on the words was difficult. They floated in and out of his head, weak waves against a silted, sandy beach. His ears felt like they didn't quite want to cooperate.

It was hard to focus.

Everything hurt.

If he didn't focus, it hurt less.

"…died at the scene, apparently," someone said.

Was it Wilbur talking? It didn’t sound like Wilbur.

Someone else hummed in acknowledgment. "Ambulance wasn't fast enough?"

That definitely wasn't Wilbur. They had the wrong accent. They sounded…Swedish, maybe. His ears were still ringing.

"Not sure they could get any faster. GSW. You know. Bad situation all around."

GSW? What did that mean? He didn't remember. He'd heard it before, though. It was familiar. Wilbur would know. Wilby was good at knowing things. He wished Wilby was here.

There was something else important he was supposed to remember. Something about Wilbur.

"Yeah. Not anyone's fault. Well, someone's," the Swedish man agreed.

It was really important, he was sure of it. What was it?

He'd have to ask Wilbur.

But, no, it was about Wilbur.

Something…something recent. And important.

His ears were still buzzing with phantom noise. Why were they doing that?

Gunfire, a part of his brain supplied. Close gunfire without ear protection.

Oh, right. There had been…the street. And the…the chase. Dream, and...and the knife, and the gun. And Schlatt…

And Schlatt had shot Wilbur in the heart.

Tommy had watched him fall.

There had been blood on his fingers as he clutched at his shirt.

He'd looked at Tommy as he'd collapsed.

There'd been tears in his eyes.

Where was Wilbur? He opened his eyes, squinting at the harsh lights and trying to take stock of his surroundings even with the spinning of his skull.

He was in an ambulance. He'd been in one before. Not frequently, but enough to recognize the close metal walls and the racks of equipment through his blurred vision.

A face floated into view. The man had black hair and a large, well-groomed mustache. "Oh, he's waking up, Iskall," the man said. He'd been the first voice Tommy heard, then. "Hey, Thomas, right? You're okay, you just need to lie right here, all right? You've lost a lot of blood. Just lie back."

Obviously, this man did not understand the gravity of the situation. He glared at him. Wilbur was fucking hurt -- hurt, not dead, Wilbur wasn’t dead-- and this bitch wanted him to just lay there? "Where's Wilbur?" he demanded. Or, well, he tried to. His mouth was dry, and it felt like his tongue was the wrong shape or something. What really came out was a slurred, "wrrr wbrrr?"

The ambulance jolted again, and Tommy winced as the thing in his wrist tugged fiercely at his skin. The mustached man leaned over him, holding a penlight, flashing it in Tommy’s eyes.  Tommy tried to glare at him, but it was hard to make his gaze sharp enough to get his point across. He raised his arm to try and bat the light away, hand hovering mid-air. 

Mustache pressed his wrist down firmly. "Just relax, okay?"

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to clear his head. How was he supposed to relax? Wilbur was hurt, badly, and all anyone was doing was blinding him. Had they even noticed? Wilbur wasn’t in the ambulance and he was. His shoulder really fucking hurt. So did his leg. They both throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, his mind chanted. Wilbur, Tommy agreed.

Except Wilbur wasn't there.

Yes. That was the problem. Wilbur wasn't there, and Wilbur was hurt.

So Tommy would go help Wilbur.

Yes. Good plan. Plans were good, but good plans were better than good. Yeah. That made sense, right? He would help Wilbur, and if the weird ambulance dudes wanted to join him, then they were more than fucking welcome to.

He started to push himself up on the little cot, attempting to prop his arms beneath him. One of them didn’t respond very well. Odd.

"Hey, no," Mustache man huffed, and then the light was gone, and someone was nudging him down again.

He glowered. "G' t' hllp Wlllbrr," Tommy explained. Dumb mustached piece of shit. At least the fucker had lost the light. That was what Tommy called progress.

The hands pressing him became more insistent. "Iskall," Mustache muttered, "we might need to put him back under…"

That was not in the plans. Tommy tried to sit up for a third time, but Mustache held him down firmly. Tommy growled at him.

"Already on it," the other voice assured. Another face materialized in front of him, this one with a neatly trimmed brown beard and short brown hair. "Hold his arm still, Mumbo."

Tommy tried to glare at the second individual too, but his vision blurred and spun. Trying to get up had been too much, apparently. He growled again, louder. "Ge' off," he grunted. Dense motherfuckers. He was being perfectly clear.

The hand on his wrist adjusted slightly, moving his limb to a new angle. There was a prick just above his elbow. Tommy had enough time to feel something icy begin to crawl through his veins, and then the world dissolved.

The aftermath of a murder scene often felt the same. Phil would know. He’d been to a fair number of them, in one capacity or another. The display before him was busier than normal, sure. Given the circumstances, that was understandable. But none of it was out of control. The street in front of him buzzed with highly organized chaos, full of chatter and bustle and the scent of grim importance. Teams strung lines of yellow tape and set up barriers to keep the gathering crowd back. Cruisers, the last ambulance team, and SWAT trucks had parked in haphazard lines, lights flashing red and blue patterns over the crowd. There were uniformed officers with cameras, notepads, and latex gloves, taking photos and collecting evidence. A news van had pulled up outside the barrier and more were following in its wake. Reporters dodged the truck and tried their best to surge forward, babbling into microphones or demanding comments. Three separate pairs of officers guarded the cruiser where the man they thought was Dream sat, cuffed and waiting to be taken to the station.

If Phil was a better man, he'd be directing the forensics teams or pulling a report together. Instead, he sat on the curb simply...watching. 

Two EMTs stepped away from the now zipped body bag, fetching a stretcher from their vehicle. Phil couldn't rip his eyes away from the spot where it had been, even as forensic techs blocked his view.

If Phil was a better man, he'd be in the thick of it. He'd be reassuring the public, or investigating the house, or taking their witnesses to the station. But instead, he was on the curb, trembling hands hidden in his pockets, ears echoing with the sound of past thunder and current commotion. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the wet, dark stains on the pavement.

It wasn't even that he couldn't stop thinking about -- it. He didn't feel like he was thinking at all. His brain had turned into an empty glass model of what should’ve been there. He knew there would be plenty of thinking later. More than enough thinking, dissecting, discussing, reporting, reflecting. For now, he was just sitting. Looking, but maybe not seeing.

Something obstructed his view, his gaze focusing long enough for him to realize it. He glanced up. Broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, brown eyes, and wisps of pink hair falling out of the man’s carefully constructed braid.

"Hey, Techno," Phil greeted.

"Hey," Techno responded. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, studying him quietly.

Phil quirked an eyebrow at him.

"How're you doin’, old man?" Techno asked. His stance was casual, relaxed, except for the way his head tilted as he looked down at Phil. 

"Oh, I'm fine, mate, don't worry," Phil told him, because that was the right answer.

Techno chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment, still considering him. Then he turned and sat on the curb next to Phil with a grunt, close enough for their shoulders to touch. "You don't have to be, you know," he said.

Phil looked back towards the street. "Don't have to be what, mate?" The ambulance with its cargo was moving towards the barriers, siren blipping to warn people out of the way.

"You don't have t’ be fine."

"I am fine," Phil reaffirmed.

"You just shot a man, Phil," Techno cut in bluntly. He took a short breath, narrowing his eyes. "You just shot a man, we both just watched someone die, and someone else come damn close. We both just saw a raving psychopath hold a distraught, badly injured kid hostage and try to shoot him in the head,” he continued, pitch rising, “then saw said psychopath get pinned to the ground ‘n cuffed while shoutin’ threats and profanities as said kid was whisked away by a frantic medical team." Techno inhaled and passed a hand over his slowly unraveling braid, steadying himself.

Phil's jaw clenched. He pinned his gaze to the street, wishing that his vision would blur.

"Neither of us has to be fine, Phil," Techno finished with a sigh. "You especially, but neither of us. I mean, heh. You know…the type of stuff I've seen, and even I know that that was a lot."

Phil leaned on Techno. He was warm and solid, even through the layers of their jackets. They sat like that for a few moments, Phil not trusting himself to speak and Techno seeming, if not content, then at least accepting of the silence.

Techno's phone chimed in their little pocket of stillness. He pulled it out, tapped something, and returned it to its place. Phil only spared a quick glance away from the damned stain on the asphalt.

"Innit just went into surgery," Techno relayed. "They had to sedate him twice, apparently."

Phil huffed out a little half chuckle at that.

"Kid's a fighter," Techno mused.

Phil nodded. Techno was right. That had been established at the trainyard. Even tonight, he'd been struggling when -- red and blue light -- blond, armed, hostage, weapons drawn -- "…your hands up! Put…" -- finger on the trigger -- shouting, screaming -- brown hair in a pool of red --

Phil squeezed his shaking fists tight in his pockets and pressed his knee against Techno's. Techno pressed back.

SWAT teams were loading back into their vans, gear stowed. Reporters still blathered on the sidelines, flitting about like a bunch of bees, trying to find a flower to suck information from. Phil focused on matching his breathing to Techno’s, because trusting himself to steady it was not a good idea.

"How's Ranboo?" Phil asked when he could speak again.

"He's lying down in the car," Techno replied, letting the subject change with ease. "Niki's keepin' an eye on him, I think. Kid's exhausted. Pushed himself too far today. This was just the cherry on top, I guess."

Phil hummed an agreement. "We find Tubbo, then?"

Techno snorted. "He wasn't ever here, apparently. Ranboo followed the SWAT when we got the all clear in the house, had a breakdown searching every room until forensics found whatever tracker they were using in the backyard." Techno shifted, leaning back with a hand on the sidewalk. “Tubbo called him or something, so we know he’s fine, then Ranboo just...shut down, apparently.”

"Well, we'll let him sleep, then," Phil murmured wryly. "I doubt there's anything we need him for before tomorrow, anyway."

Techno nodded.

Phil rolled his shoulders, trying to shed some of the tension that still hung heavy in them. His brain still felt a bit far away from it all. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and scrubbed them over his face. Gods, he was tired. Not that he wanted to sleep. He really wasn't in the mood to face whatever his subconscious had in store for him.

Techno shifted beside him too, stretching one leg and then the other. "They're taking Dream back to the station," he offered.

Phil chuckled, not amused in the slightest. "Let him fucking rot tonight, mate. We'll get to him in the morning."

Techno stood, extending a hand. "Where're we going, then?"

Phil accepted, groaning as a few of his joints popped. Techno smirked, and Phil glared at him halfheartedly. "I'll ask one of the other officers to give Niki and Ranboo a lift home." He fished out his keys, then hesitated. His hands weren't steady. Untouched, undesired thoughts still weighed heavily on his mind. He grabbed Techno's wrist as Techno turned toward the car and pressed the keys into his fingers.

Techno's eyebrows went up, which was practically the same as someone else gaping in surprise. 

Phil avoided his gaze. He was fine. He just wanted Techno to drive, that was all. He deserved to be chauffeured every now and then. "Hospital," he directed, starting to walk back towards his battered vehicle. "Kid shouldn't have to wake up alone." It was probably selfish of him, too, Phil knew. Innit probably didn't want anything to do with them after…everything that had happened. But Phil needed to see the blond-haired young man again. He needed to see that there had been a life saved, not just one (maybe two, a vicious little voice whispered) ended. And the kid was still a suspect, of course. He and Techno would be there to make sure he didn't try and run. Or something.

Techno snorted again, spinning the key ring around one finger. "Whatever you say, old man. Hospital it is."

There were bright lights above him. The thing on which he was laying, that apparently had been moving, had just stopped. "Where to?" said a voice near his head.

"…ty eight year old male, GSW, heavy blood loss, possible head trauma," someone was saying as they scurried past him in a rush of footsteps and wheels. "CPR for eight minutes thirty seven seconds and counting, administered point nine seven…"

"Trauma one is full," responded another voice near his head. "Take him to trauma two with me, we'll get him stitched up. Dr. Tay is on her way."

They started moving again. Tommy didn't hear anything else after that.

Hospitals were never comfortable. The hard sofas and thinly cushioned chairs in the recovery rooms were better than the well-worn plastic and metal in the waiting rooms, but only barely. Phil had never had reason to spend a lot of time in hospitals, which he was, of course, grateful for. A few times, years ago, when Techno had bitten off more than he could chew. Or when a family friend needed someone to be there for them. But it was rare.

Hospitals had always set him on edge. They were too clean, too bright. They smelled too strongly of antiseptic, as if there was something they were trying to hide. He acknowledged how important they were, of course. The world couldn't function without them. That didn't stop him from feeling antsy every time he entered one.

He had been sitting in the same mass-manufactured, easy-to-clean guest chair for the past six and a half hours. He'd gotten up occasionally to stretch, or to use the restroom, or to buy another fucking juice box from the vending machines, but then he'd returned to the chair. Techno had flipped on the news at first and then shut it off again just as fast. He'd flicked through the channel guide until he found some old game show reruns that probably hadn't seen the light of day in more than two decades. They were far from sophisticated television, but it kept the silence at bay.

The nurse had come in a few times to adjust some dials on the bank of steadily beeping machines at the bedside. He seemed nice enough. Sandy hair, brown eyes, red scrubs, and a mischievous grin. He'd made idle conversation as he'd passed through, though Phil could no longer remember about what. Nurse Grian, that was his name.

Time passed in odd intervals in the square hospital room. Phil would lose focus for a few seconds, and then check the clock to see that twenty minutes had passed. He would be deep in thought for close to an hour, then realize that they were still in the same five-minute segment of the game show. The only constant was Techno's quiet breathing from where he sat on the couch against the far wall, and the ceaseless, high-pitched beeping of machines.

The rhythmic little whirs and clicks from the machines on the wall grated on Phil's nerves to an infuriating extent, but despite that, he was glad to have them. It meant that the boy in the hospital bed was still alive. Still alive, still breathing, still safe, even though his arm was in a sling, and there were bandages on his leg and throat, and his eyes had bags the color of bruises underneath. The periodic noises of the room kept him from slipping too far into the thoughts he didn't want to have; thoughts of dark streets and darker stains and the feeling of a trigger under his fingers.

"There's going to need to be a police presence at the funeral, Phil," Techno had said at one point. He had occupied himself with work, somehow. He was messaging back and forth with other officers, organizing and planning and strategizing.

Phil looked up at him, dragging himself from the haze. "Hmm?"

"Police presence at the funeral."

Phil tipped his head back, blowing out a heavy breath. "Shit. You're right. Hadn't even thought of that yet."

"Media's gonna have a field day," Techno muttered.

Phil snorted. "What else is new."

"With this especially, though," Techno continued. "Picture the headlines."

Phil grimaced. "Not sure I fucking want to, mate."

Techno hummed, slipping back into his work.

Time ticked onward.

The kid had woken up once, a couple of hours after Phil and Techno had arrived. He'd been disoriented, bewildered, and terrified. Phil suspected he'd been having a nightmare, but about what, he didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Innit had barely been conscious, mumbling something desperate under his breath. Phil had gone over to the side of the bed, unsure of what to do. Should he wake him? Call for the nurse? He'd reached out gently to rest his hand on the young man's uninjured shoulder and Tommy had grabbed his hand. He'd grabbed his fucking hand like a lifeline and then gone back to sleep, breathing evening out.

Phil hadn't moved from that spot since. His legs had gone numb from being unable to stretch. He didn't dare move. He slipped back into the haze.

The kid woke up properly at some ungodly hour of the morning. He inhaled, shifting, dropping Phil's hand. Phil let him, inching back to give him room. There was a moment of stillness, then Innit opened his eyes.

They were still glassy with the remnants of anesthesia and whatever drugs the nurses had pumped into him already, Phil saw. Innit wasn't on an IV, but that didn't mean a lot.

His blue eyes narrowed against the harsh luminescence of the ceiling lights. He looked around the room and frowned. Then he looked again, like pieces were slotting into place, and shifted up on his pillows.

"Woah, mate, steady," Phil said softly as the boy wavered.

The young man, Thomas, Tommy, watched him. His eyes were wide and dazed. His blond hair was tousled and matted over one side of his face. His arm was in a sling and there were bandages around his throat.

It hit Phil in the center of his chest, then, how real this was. The haze began to fade, evaporating from all but the corners of his mind like fog burning off in the sun. The hospital chair cloth itched the back of his legs. The machines beeped again. And Tommy Innit, not just a face on a file or a name on a screen, stared at him from not three feet away. The gangly, blond young man was real, and so was everything else that had happened. What a fucked up evening. Tommy wasn’t just a suspect anymore. He was a real, breathing, feeling person, waking up in the hospital. It was a scene he’d tried to avoid in his other cases. It was always too raw, too packed with emotions and trust. He’d always felt like an outsider, then. An investigator, trying to close a case. Too distant to be involved, but too close to be detached. But, now, something protective surged in Phil. He’d be damned if he left the boy alone. There had been a lot of bad shit that night, but Tommy had made it out. Phil had gotten him out.

"Hey, mate," Phil murmured, smiling. "You're okay."

Tommy licked his lips, peering around again before letting his attention settle on Phil. He wasn't guarded, wasn't shying away. The not-so-young man before him was just staring pleadingly at him.

"Where’s Wilbur?" Tommy asked, voice thin and rasping, full of trepidation.

Phil could feel his heart fissure. The first thing Tommy had said hadn't been about where he was or what had happened. His first question, lying in a hospital bed, had been to query in a gut-wrenchingly petrified whisper if Soot was there.

What had Soot done to the boy, that Tommy was this frightened of him? Had this situation happened before? Had Tommy gotten injured, needed support, only for Soot to berate him further? Phil could picture it. Tommy in a room just like this one, Soot at the foot of his bed, eyes dark with rage or disappointment. Mocking him for being hurt, or, Gods forbid, hurting him further. Some men were like that, Phil knew. It was never fair, never right. And it was far too common.

He was careful to keep the fury off of his face. It wouldn't help in the slightest. "Oh kid," he murmured. He slid closer gingerly, keeping an eye on Tommy's face. If the boy wanted him to back off, he would, no questions asked. "It's okay," he added gently. Tommy's eyes were still somewhat vacant, but for a moment they flashed with something like hope. Phil sat on the edge of the bed, within arm's reach but not oppressively close. His heart ached for the boy. "It's okay," he said. He tried to imbue the words every ounce of security, of optimism, that he had. "You’re safe now, okay? He's not…" he gestured vaguely toward the door. "He's not coming back for you. He won't ever hurt you again."

Tommy frowned, staring ahead, then looked back at Phil, blue eyes full of some unreadable emotion. "He's…" Tommy's whisper died on his tongue and the boy swallowed, eyes flicking over Phil's face. "He's…gone?"

There was something terrifyingly fragile in the young man's face. Phil hadn't thought his heart could twist further, but the tears that suddenly shimmered in iceberg blue eyes made his chest tighten. He nodded, smiling slightly. The boy needed reassurance. 

Tommy's gaze dropped from his face, eyes darting across the room unseeing, like he was reading something only he could see. His mouth dropped open slightly.

And then he broke.

Tommy curled forward into Phil's chest and Phil caught him on instinct, careful of the pads taped to his arms and chest and the white polyester sling on his arm. Tommy sobbed, face hidden in Phil's sternum. Phil wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hesitantly rubbing gentle circles into his back. He wanted to speak, to reassure the suddenly-very-young man in the hospital bed, but his throat was too tight, too full of emotion. He heard Techno stand and leave from behind him, muttering something about the nurses. Techno had a hard time with displays of emotion like this. It was fine. Phil was more than willing to stay.

After the initial shock of catching Tommy wore off, Phil realized that he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Tommy, Tommy Innit, was, well. He was still a criminal. Phil and Techno had only been allowed in his room because of their badges and their connection to Innit’s and Soot’s case, and even that had been a struggle to achieve. Innit had, in the past week, evaded arrest multiple times, broken onto police property, and assisted in the assault of an officer as well as who knew how many other crimes. And, Phil reminded himself, he’d likely done it all under coercion from his mentor. Innit hadn’t instigated any of the crime, with a possible exception of running away from Techno at the trainyard, but that could sort of be lumped in with the rest. Everything that had happened had been under Soot’s orders. His heart twisted again. Tommy was, obviously, terrified of the man. And now Tommy was here, apprehended at last, whatever that meant. Another criminal caught. The thought left a sour aftertaste. 

The shaking figure in his arms heaved a breath, voice choking on another sob. Phil’s jaw clenched. He carefully resisted the urge to squeeze the boy tightly.

The haze was gone, leaving Phil drenched in the muddied currents of emotion that the evening had left. He had been allowing himself to ignore it, to push all the feelings into a nice tidy little filing cabinet and lock them away. Or, really, stuff them into a hastily knotted sack and hope it worked, but that was beside the point. Sitting on the thin foam mattress, holding the shaking form of a suspect in his arms, Phil realized that he was tired. He bowed his head. He was exhausted down to the bone, running on vending machine juice boxes, which, honestly, were not helping. He was with a shuddering, sobbing boy on a hospital bed at four-thirty in the morning. What was he supposed to do? Be happy about it? He wasn’t heartless, and he didn’t fucking want to be. What kind of person would he be if he saw...everything that had happened and didn’t feel? He wasn’t a statue, cold stone sculpted to mimic reality. He could be strong, he still needed to be strong. But he also needed to be human. And, he realized, being human was, in that moment, sitting on the hospital bed, rubbing circles on the kid’s back and accepting the fury, the terror, the despair and desperation and doubt. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, holding the trembling frame with as much care as he could muster. The machines hummed in the background, undisturbed. The television continued its mindless noise. And Phil sat, solid and warm, and didn’t let go.

Everything was swimmy when he woke up again. Awareness returned in strange, misshapen pieces. He was lying on something. His mouth felt dry and fuzzy. He’d been on anesthesia once, a few years ago when he’d gotten his wisdom teeth taken out. This was...similar. Distantly, he connected the dots. He’d been...in an ambulance. So he was at the hospital, then.

He blinked his eyes open, then squinted them against the bright lights overhead. Something beeped behind him.

Definitely a hospital. Ugly cream-colored walls. His bed had rails. There were little pads taped to his arm. He was wearing one of those horrible paper gown things. It was uncomfortable. 

Why was he at the hospital? Had he tripped down the stairs or something? No, that wasn’t right. His leg and shoulder hurt. Come to think of it, his arm was in a sling. Why was…?

Oh. There had been a street. And...he’d gotten hurt.

Wilbur. Wilbur got hurt too. Somehow?

He...he couldn’t remember how. He couldn’t remember how Wilbur had gotten hurt, but he knew, he knew, that Wilbur was hurt.

But it was okay! He’d been in an ambulance, and they were at the hospital. That meant it was okay. Hospitals fixed things. He looked over to where Wilbur’s bed should be, needing to see Wilbur there, sleeping, resting, breathing, except that there was...nothing there.

That wasn’t right.

He frowned and pushed himself up. They would put them in the same room, right? They would. Surely. He forced his eyes to focus and looked around the room again.

There was a man with pink hair sitting on a pea-green couch. There was a square window in the wall, covered by white blinds. There was a tv playing on the wall, and a man with blond hair sitting next to him.

And there was no Wilbur.

Someone was speaking. It was the blond man.

He was just missing something, obviously. Maybe they just didn’t put them in the same room. They weren’t technically related, even though they were each other's emergency contacts on every form and file in the city. Wilbur was just...in the other room. He must be. That was a conclusion drawn from observation and logic. Wilbur would be proud of that. Cold, heavy knots of apprehension settled in his gut, but he tried to push them away. Everything was okay.

He turned to the blond man. He would know where Wilbur was, right? Someone would tell him that Wilbur was just on the other side of the hall, or in the room next door. “Where’s Wilbur?” His voice rasped harshly against his throat.

The man said something. The words took too long to sink in, spiraling around his awareness like water around a drain.

“It’s okay,” the blond man had said. “...Safe, now…” Hope bloomed in his chest for a moment. Safe. It was okay. It was fine.

But then the man kept talking. “He’s not coming back for you...”

And the world stopped.

What? That wasn’t...that wasn’t right. No, that couldn’t be right. His thoughts weren’t forming right, weren’t forming fast enough. Not coming back…? But that would mean…no...he’s not...

“He’s...gone?” His mouth formed the words and spoke them without any input from him. His mind felt like a thousand torn strips of cloth, fraying and soft and not attached to anything at all. Trying to wade through it was suffocating.

His eyes were blurring. Why were his eyes blurring? He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was nodding.

His body registered it first, somehow. His chest imploded, collapsing into his lungs, forcing the air out. He fell forward, eyes stinging, chest tightening, even as his mind still stuttered with static.

And then the words connected, and Tommy understood.

Wilbur was gone.

Dead. Wilbur was...dead. He had to be dead. There wasn’t any other situation where Wilbur would leave him, so...that was the only option. The words seared his mind like a branding iron. It hurt. Wilbur, his brother, was gone. He wasn’t there anymore. 

Sobs tore from his chest in earnest, and he couldn’t stop them. He wanted to. He tried. It was all too much. Some little fight or flight reflex in his mind screamed at him to stop, to pull himself together. He was weakened, injured, in a room with two strangers. Threads of panic wormed through his mind, but he couldn’t stop. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to fight through the choking wails that continued to pour from him, but they sucked him under with the strength of the tide, and Tommy was helpless.

Wilbur was gone. But Wilbur couldn’t be gone. It was impossible, unimaginable. Wilbur had been a part of his life for so long. How could he be gone? He was more Tommy’s family than any blood relative. He was Tommy’s brother, the brother he’d met in that well-worn diner a decade ago. Wilbur, who’d shared his booth with a skinny, gangly ten-year-old when the other seats were full. Wilbur, who’d been the first person in so long to ask him about his day, to smile at him. Wilbur, who’d been his friend first, and then his brother. How could he have lost the only family he had left in his life?

Tommy had told him, one day, after a few weeks of sharing the same diner booth, about how often he hated staying at his house. Wilbur scribbled his address on a napkin and told him to come study at his place on the weekends, if Tommy’s home was ever too full of alcohol and screaming. And Tommy had. He’d grabbed his algebra textbook and his history notes and trudged through the wind to Wilbur’s shitty apartment that he rented from the dotty old lady with four cats who didn’t care that he was sixteen. And then he visited again the next weekend, and the next week, and then every day. And that became routine. Wilbur meshed into his life like a gear he never knew was missing. Wilbur’s shitty apartment was a home to him. Wilbur was home to him. Wilbur was safety, and kindness, and sanctuary. He’d never wanted a broken home again. To have what he’d longed for and have it ripped away was worse than the days when he’d never had it. His chest heaved. He choked on another sob, on the rubble of his collapsing foundations. 

Weeks became months became years and Wilbur had been his friend, his brother, through every moment. Wilbur had stayed up late to help him pass his geometry exam even though they were both shit at math. He’d forged a parent’s signature on a field trip form. He took Tommy out for ice cream when his first girlfriend had dumped him, and they spent the night making increasingly ludicrous plans for how they would get engaged to different celebrities. When Tommy tried to cook dinner and nearly burned down the flat, Wilbur bought them food at that same old diner where they’d met. When Wilbur got into University, Tommy was the first person he told. Wilbur was his brother. Wilbur had been there for all of it. Everything. And Tommy had been there for him, too. Every moment, every struggle, every shitty day, Tommy was right there for it, paying back everything Wilbur had given him. He’d made a promise to himself, once he’d grown up enough to see how much Wilbur had helped. He remembered realizing how much Wilbur had given him, how hard he’d fight for them. Tommy had promised to do the same. Anything and everything, he’d told himself. Give anything and everything to fight for Wilbur. He’d done it, too. He’d never never hesitated to give his all. He’d never held back. But he hadn’t been enough . Details slipped from his mind like sand through his fingers but that much was obvious. Wilbur had gotten hurt, and Tommy hadn’t been able to keep him safe. He’d failed. The worst part was that Wilbur wouldn’t be mad. He wouldn’t look disappointed. He’d just smile -- he’d never get to see Wilbur’s smile again -- and say that it was alright, even though nothing was alright. Tommy had failed, somehow, somewhere, and now he struggled to catch enough breath to fuel his sobs as a stranger’s shirt soaked up his tears, and nothing was okay, even though Wilbur would have told him it was. 

He’d joked about becoming a detective. It was a running gag; whenever Wilbur noticed how someone’s clothes betrayed their job, or how a simple observation could connect a chain of logical leaps, they’d laugh and joke about Wilbur’s detective career. But when it was time to select a major, he decided on criminal justice and forensics. When he graduated, Tommy cheered louder than anyone else in the auditorium. Walking across the stage, Wilbur had filled the room with pure sunlight just by smiling. He’d worked toward his degrees with every fiber of his being. Tommy had seen him do it. He’d been there for burnout, bad grades, and stupid teachers, and he’d been there willingly. Wilbur had never fucking given up. He’d said he didn’t know what it meant. When Wilbur wanted something, he chased it. And when he chased it, he got it. He hadn’t been able to stop grinning when he held his diploma in his hand. He’d hugged Tommy hard enough to crush the wind out of him, and Tommy had hugged him right back, because Wilbur had finally done it. He’d put every bit of himself into making it happen the way it was supposed to, and that carried to every bit of work they’d done. Wilbur would have done everything he could, so the rest fell to Tommy. Had he not fought hard enough? He didn’t remember. Why didn’t -- why couldn’t -- he remember what had happened? Had he overlooked something, had he missed a chance? He must have. Apparently, when it was the most crucial, when Wilbur’s life was at stake instead of just a fucking case, he couldn’t  keep up. He must have made some mistake. If they’d both done everything right, surely Wilbur would be next to him. 

Tommy gasped for air, cheeks wet. He couldn’t stop crying. He couldn’t stop remembering. He couldn’t shove it away. Wherever he pressed it back, it reformed, swallowing him in a surging wave of sheer, raw, soul bloodied emotion. Wilbur was dead, and he couldn’t find anything to drag himself back to shore. He clung tighter to the man’s polyester shirt. Wilbur had that golden polyester sweater he’d bought at a thrift store, claiming it was good for the soul to have a soft, sun colored top. More often than not, somehow, he’d worn it on the days Tommy struggled the most. He’d cried into that damn polyester sweater more times than he wanted to admit. Sobbing into this man’s dress shirt wasn’t the same, but if he closed his eyes tight enough, maybe he could pretend it was the same fleecy, saffron fabric. 

When, two years after graduating, Wilbur called him with news of his newly acquired detective’s license, finally earned after something that resembled an apprenticeship, there was that same joy in his voice. It had burned, it was so bright. Wilbur’s delight, his passion, radiated from everything he said. And, when he’d hesitantly asked Tommy to join him, Tommy agreed without a second thought. He’d hated University anyway. They’d been working together for three years before this.

It wasn’t fucking fair. Wilbur helped people. He cared about people. He dedicated his career to helping people, to solving cases and problems. They were supposed to get a happy ending. Wilbur deserved a happy ending. 

They’d gone out for milkshakes at that same damn diner when they’d cracked their first official case. Wilbur’s eyes had sparkled with stars and solar systems as he’d sipped his drink. They talked about everything and nothing. The future. The cases they’d solve. The movies Hollywood would make of their adventures. The shit they’d slogged through to make it back to the same red leather booth seats under the same neon sign. Wilbur deserved a happy ending. Tommy had always wanted him to have it. Gods, he thought they’d gotten it. They were safe and fed, working in a field they loved, a job with each other. They were happy. They’d been so fucking happy. So why was this their ending?

More memories flooded him, unbidden. Wilbur, losing his shit laughing at a video of a cat falling off a wheelchair, cheeks red and eyes watering from pure mirth. Wilbur, pacing the room and calling ideas back and forth with him in the early hours of the morning. Wilbur, scrounging through the scraps of last week’s groceries to make dinner for them when their money ran low. Wilbur, plucking notes on his guitar and humming along.

Wilbur deserved a happy ending. There was nobody, nobody in the world, who deserved one more. And instead, Wilbur was gone. Instead, Wilbur was fucking dead. Wilbur had laughed with Tommy on the sidewalk about Jack Manifold’s Pube and fake Yelp reviews. Wilbur had been so insistent, so driven, but even through the stress of the damn case, he’d kept his humor. He’d waved and smiled at the security cameras while they broke into a building. He’d giggled with adrenaline after they’d nearly been hit by a train. Wilbur should have been there with him in the shitty hospital room. They should be cracking stupid jokes for each other about the sheets or the walls or the fact that they’d made it through another day, and -- Oh, gods. He clenched his fists tighter and gave up trying to stem the tears.

Every case they’d taken had been a new adventure. A new set of memories, a new paycheck to collect and spend on essentials just as fast, a new set of lessons learned and skills honed. Every case had been something exciting. And this one had taken Wilbur from him. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Wilbur had always been there to keep him safe. He’d always protected him. He’d found a way to make Tommy laugh when everything felt like too much. He’d pushed Tommy behind him, or in front of him, to keep Tommy out of danger. Everything he did was with Tommy in the forefront of his mind. Even in this case, he’d tried to keep Tommy out of it. That had been misguided, maybe, but the care was evident. He’d told Tommy to run. He’d helped reset his shoulder.

(Tommy wanted that back. He wanted Wilbur’s encouraging voice in his ear. He wanted Wilbur to tell him that it would be okay. He wanted Wilbur to drag his head back above water. He wanted to press his face into Wilbur’s shirt, he wanted Wilbur’s hand to brush through his hair like he was a kid again, crying over his favorite mug that broke on the kitchen floor instead of the bloodied shards of his soul. But Wilbur wasn’t there. The weight of his absence was heavier than anything Tommy had ever felt, and Wilbur wasn’t there to help him carry it.)

Everything Wilbur had done had been to keep Tommy safe, he realized. Even, Gods, even that night -- he squeezed his eyes harder as the memories began to stir again -- Wilbur had done everything to keep Tommy safe. He’d kept Schlatt’s attention, stolen Dream’s focus. Through that nerve-wracking hellscape of a conversation, Wilbur made himself the bigger target to keep their concentration off of Tommy. He’d seen the fear in Wilbur’s eyes, the way his legs twitched in aborted jitters. Wilbur had been scared out of his fucking skull, and he’d still made himself a target just so that Schlatt and Dream wouldn’t focus on Tommy. And Tommy hadn’t stopped him. He hadn’t leaned in to take some of the threat. He’d just...let Wilbur do it. He’d sat there and done nothing, like the coward he was.

Once he touched the memories, they didn’t stop. Wilbur had put himself between Tommy and gunfire. He’d tackled Dream to the ground. He’d dropped his own weapon, made himself an easy target, a perfect, compliant victim on the slim chance that it would keep Tommy alive.

Wilbur had sacrificed himself to save Tommy. He’d looked Tommy in the eyes and smiled at him, with a gun pointed at his chest. He’d known. He’d known he wouldn’t make it. He’d known, and he’d done it anyway. And Tommy had done nothing to stop it. He’d just sat there as Wilbur died in front of him. He hadn’t done anything to save him. He’d sacrificed everything for Tommy, and Tommy hadn’t been able to save him in return. What a fucking failure.

(Had Wilbur died alone? Had he bled to death on the asphalt with nobody next to him?)

But it worked, hadn’t it? Tommy was alive. Somehow, he was alive. It had worked, but did it matter? Had it made a difference? If Tommy had stalled them for another moment, another minute, would Wilbur be next to him still?

Wilbur gets the easy end of this, Tommy realized bitterly. Wilbur doesn’t have to pick up the fucking pieces. He hated himself for thinking it. He was being ungrateful, unappreciative of Wilbur’s sacrifice. He should be honoring his brother. He should be singing his praises to whoever would listen. Wilbur had literally taken bullets for him. And of course he appreciated it. He loved Wilbur so fucking much it hurt, all of it hurt, and Wilbur had loved him just the same.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t anything close to fair. They’d worked so hard. They’d come so far from the teenagers just barely getting by. In this case alone, they’d done so much. They’d sorted through so much evidence. They’d survived Punz, the warehouse, the trainyard . They’d had everything handed to them on a platter by Schlatt, all the missing pieces and unwoven strands of logic. They’d been close enough to taste victory. And then it had been ripped away.

Wilbur had done so much for them. He’d worked so hard, every day. He’d kept Tommy alive, kept Tommy safe more times than either of them could count. Wilbur deserved a fucking happy ending, and he wasn’t getting one.

All that was left was Tommy. Tommy, and his broken soul, and his heaving lungs, and his memories of the brother he couldn’t save. The man could deny it all he wanted, but they were brothers. Wilbur had died to give him another chance, like the stupid, idiotic moron he was, and Tommy loved him and hated him for it. Wilbur had died for him, but Tommy was the one who had to live. Wilbur got to rest, now. Tommy had to keep going. Tommy was the one in the hospital bed, holding the last threads of himself together. Wilbur wouldn’t want him to break, would he? Not after giving up everything to make sure Tommy could see another sunrise.

It was his duty to keep going, and Tommy was failing. It was his duty, his responsibility, to honor Wilbur. He had to keep himself together, had to see their work to its conclusion. He knew how important it was. He knew how much Wilbur cared. He cared, too, of course he did. But he still failed. He was weak, pathetic, a voice in his head taunted him. You couldn’t save him, and now you can’t even honor him? You think you can make him proud when the only thing you can do is sob?

He wanted to make Wilbur proud.

He wanted Wilbur.

Tommy wasn't sure how long he stayed like that. He wasn't sure he cared.

Whoever said grief wasn't a physical thing was a fucking liar. Tommy felt like his heart had ripped in two. Raw emotion flooded him, choked him, drowned him, ripped him to shreds and made the remnants bleed cold fire. 

He stopped crying, eventually. It wasn't that he was done. His chest ached like someone had put a battering ram through it. But, eventually, his hiccuping sobs slowed to tremors. He wasn't done crying. He just…ran out of tears.

He felt scraped clean. Numb. The anesthesia’s fog had lifted at some point and taken with it the comforting blanket of separation between him and his injuries. His shoulder ached. His leg throbbed against the tight bandages. His eyes hurt, and his nose was stuffy, and his throat felt like he’d gargled with sandpaper.

He pulled himself away from Phil's shirt, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He probably looked like a mess. He didn't really care. If anyone wanted to judge him, they could go right ahead.

Phil let him go. Tommy didn't meet his gaze. He folded his good arm across his chest with his fingers curled against his collarbone and leaned back against the papery hospital pillows, staring at the corner where the wall met the ceiling.

"Will you be okay for a minute?" Phil asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Tommy flicked his eyes over to him.

"I'm gonna go tell the nurse you're awake and get some water for you or something, but I can wait here if you want me to," Phil explained. "Are you gonna be alright for a minute or two?"

Tommy nodded slowly, moving his eyes back to the corner.

Phil stood, the weight on the bed shifting. He stepped away. Tommy heard the door open and then close a moment later.

So. This was it. There was supposed to be a happy ending for the two of them. Wilbur had told them they'd be okay. He’d promised. 

And here they were. Here he was, without Wilbur.

Wilbur was gone. Wilbur was dead.

It was just him.

He swallowed, heaving a deep breath. It was just him. He would have to keep going. He would have to pick up the pieces.

The case was over, now. However the hell it was gonna turn out, it was over. Even if he wasn't wearing cuffs, the police had him.

How could he be thinking about the fucking case? Wilbur was-- Wilbur was gone. He should be…something. He should be mourning. Wilbur was more family to him than his blood ever was, and he was just…gone. And Tommy was thinking about the fucking case.

There would be time for more grief later, Tommy knew. The emptiness in his chest would inevitably fill with bottomless despair, but for now, there was nothing. Wilbur would want him to see the fucking case through.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening again. Phil returned, tailed by a nurse in red scrubs and the pink-haired officer that Tommy remembered from the train yard, Techno, he thought.

"Glad to see you're up," the nurse said. He grinned at Tommy. Tommy twitched his lips in an approximate smile in response. "My name's Nurse Grian. How are you feeling?"

"Well--" Tommy started, but his voice caught and rasped in his throat. He coughed. Phil handed him an open bottle of water. Tommy swallowed and tried again. "My arm fuckin' hurts. So does my leg." He hated how flat his voice sounded. He was supposed to be upset.

"Mmm," the nurse hummed. "That's to be expected. The anesthesia should be entirely out of your system, but I can't give you any more pain meds for at least another hour and a half, I'm afraid."

Tommy grimaced but nodded. He'd dealt with worse. Besides, hospital painkillers weren't going to do anything for the rawness in his soul.

"Best thing you can do right now is rest, okay?" the nurse continued.

Tommy nodded again, focusing back on the far wall.

The sandy-haired nurse leaned in conspiratorially. "Do you want me to kick them out?" he asked in a half-whisper, gesturing towards the two officers who loitered awkwardly near the foot of the bed. "I can if you want me to. You don't have to have anyone in here who you don't want to see. Well, except me. And the other nurses."

Tommy gave him whatever smile he could muster and shook his head. "It's fine," he replied. What were they going to do, anyway?

The nurse grinned back at him, infectious and mischievous. It wriggled into the places where he should’ve been upset, where he should’ve wilted beneath the weight of emotions that did not exist, and he found himself only half-grateful.

Nurse Grian stayed for a few more minutes, chatting idly as he flicked a penlight in and out of Tommy's eyes, took his blood pressure, checked the humming machines, and scribbled some things on his clipboard. Then he left, and the room fell back into a stilted silence. The only sounds came from the TV, that was playing some fucking show that Tommy had never seen before, the beeping machines near his head, and breathing of the two men standing in the room with him.

Phil spoke first, shifting his weight awkwardly. "Are you sure you want us to stay?"

Tommy shrugged his good shoulder half-heartedly. "It's fine, innit. Not like I've got anything else to do." He chuckled wryly, halfway to a cough. "Not like I can sleep." He wasn't sure he wanted to, even if he thought he could.

Phil hesitated but sat in the chair next to Tommy's nightstand. Techno dropped onto the tiny sofa against the far wall with a sigh, pulling one leg up underneath him.

He couldn't see both of them at once. He wondered if that was intentional. Maybe they still viewed him as a threat. He almost snorted at that. He was injured, exhausted. Wilbur was fucking dead. It was over.

"Well," Phil spoke up after a moment. "I guess we should introduce ourselves properly. My name is Phil, I'm an investigator with the Police department. That's Techno, my partner."

"I know your names."

"Oh," Phil stuttered. "That's. Okay. Erm, cool. And you go by Tommy, right?"

Tommy nodded.

"Great. Great." There was another beat of thin silence. "Techno and I were the lead investigators on this case. Are the leads."

"Unless the Chief's fired us, which is also a possibility," Techno deadpanned.

"Yes, barring that," Phil agreed, exhaling a small half chuckle.

That made sense, Tommy supposed. He wasn't used to seeing investigators doing field work, but he wasn't fully up to speed on all the ins and outs of police protocol, either. Techno and Phil had been on point at the whole Warehouse Fiasco, though.

"Are you feeling up to talking some, mate?" Phil questioned, though he didn’t sound forceful in the slightest. He didn’t sound like a police officer at all. Tommy’s suspicions were confirmed a second later. "If not, that's fine too."

Tommy shrugged again. He wasn't feeling much of anything. Saying no was sort of unfair. They had a job to do, right?

Phil nodded. "Well. Okay. Would you…" He hesitated again. "We want to know what happened. Everything that happened. We don't think you're the bad guy, Tommy. We want to help you, we want to see this thing come to a good conclusion, but we need to know everything."

Tommy bit his lip, considering. It was a fair request on the investigator’s part. Tommy could understand. It was the first time the men were able to speak to him -- he hesitated to use the word interrogate -- and they must have been curious. He sure would have been. But, more than curious, it was their job. Tommy was still just a case, just a suspect, no matter how well they were treating him. He didn’t let himself think for a moment that Phil’s question and caveat had been motivated purely out of empathy. Everyone has an angle, a tone whispered in his head. He gritted his teeth and pushed the voice away before he had to think about who’s voice it actually was. The investigators claimed they wanted to help, but could he trust them? Tommy didn’t know. He did have a duty, though. He had a duty to the case, a duty to finish what they’d started. He had to see it through. He had to be professional, like Wil-- like he’d learned. That was that, then. He’d talk to them. This case was important. It was massively important, considering everything that it was tied to and everything it could unravel. It was...it was a legacy. He had a duty to make sure it was completed. But, he had to be smart about it. He couldn’t...he couldn’t fail. Not with this.

He picked absently at the skin next to his fingernails, turning the thought over in his head. He was grateful for the relative silence that the two investigators left him in. Phil had leaned forward slightly, awaiting an answer, but he didn’t look impatient. After a few seconds, Tommy sighed. "We can talk, but it’s off the record. I want a fucking lawyer before I say anything that's going to be used in any kind of case."

Phil and Techno shared a look. Techno pursed his lips. Phil, apparently, ignored him. "Okay," the blond officer answered. "You can be off the record tonight."

"Phil--"

"No, Techno." Phil raised a hand at him. "This night's fucked to hell and back already. We aren't here to be the enemy." He slid his attention back to Tommy. "Tonight was some scary shit, mate. You can talk about whatever you need to talk about, and we won't use it against you."

Tommy swallowed again. "Right," he muttered. He bit the inside of his cheek. What was the best place to start? Did he talk about just the evening? The reveal that Schlatt had pulled on them like the overdramatic, alcoholic, egomaniacal -- sadistic, murdering -- bitch he was? Should he talk about the last time he saw the pair of investigators, at the trainyard in the gloom of night? Should he give them only what they would need to write a report, only the facts and the timelines? Should he tell them about...everything? He sighed, shifting his leg to a colder spot under the hospital sheets.

Phil had said to talk about whatever he needed to talk about. Tommy wasn’t entirely sure what that was. Or, really, what that wasn’t. So, for lack of a better plan, Tommy started at the beginning. He talked about Wilbur working on a case without him, how he didn't know whether to mention it or leave it alone. He detailed that first day, when Tommy had no idea what was happening and Wilbur helped him to navigate the terrifying event that spilled out in front of them. He'd realized, later, that Wilbur hadn't known if the police were real when they'd come to arrest him. They could have been mob men with fake badges. The thought made Tommy shiver. He pressed on, mentioning his shoulder and finding Wilbur again at the safe house. Getting it slotted back into place. Then he launched into the details of what had been going on.

Phil and Techno both leaned in for that part, occasionally prompting him or asking him questions. Tommy told them about Wilbur's explanation of the case. About the mob. About…everything. He talked about their struggle to find evidence, Wilbur's continued desperation to prove the theories he'd crafted. He added what they'd learned from Punz (without mentioning his name, of course; a deal was still a deal), and what questions they'd had before going to the Warehouse. He described what happened afterward, trying to sift through the evidence and the theories and the questions that remained. He told them about going to Tubbo (again, without a name), about seeing the files the mob had tried to conceal. He explained the fake footage’s existence and the mole in the mayor's office, about receiving the recorder pen.

“He wasn’t lying, then,” Phil murmured when Tommy stopped to take a drink.

“Hmm?” Tommy queried, sipping the now lukewarm water.

Phil’s lips quirked in begrudging amusement. “In the trainyard he told me the footage was fake. We tried to look into it, but we didn’t find any way it could have been faked. We thought he was lying.”

Tommy shook his head slightly, trying not to jostle his injuries. “He didn’t -- he never lied. Not to me. And I don’t think he would have lied to you, either. It’s not...not like him.” He smiled halfheartedly. 

Then he took a breath and told them about Schlatt. It was supposed to have been the last step. One final person on their side before they brought everything to light.

And instead…instead, they had been horribly, horribly wrong. He described Schlatt’s drunken rant after Dream had entered. He told them that Schlatt had killed Quackity, that he'd been the mob the whole time.

Phil leaned back in his chair, passing a hand down his face. Techno stared at the wall, eyes distant and calculating.

"And you were recordin' it?" The pink-haired officer questioned, tone low.

Tommy nodded, sipping his water absently. It was practically empty now. "Fucking, all of it. Audio, no video. But yeah. It should be in the pen, or with that third party I mentioned." He licked his lips. "I didn't think we'd need it, but yeah, good fucking idea, it was."

Techno and Phil passed a glance between them. Tommy couldn’t read all of it, but the overtones were obvious enough. They were trying to decide how much they believed him. If they came to a conclusion, they didn’t bother to share it out loud.

"What happened then?" Phil inquired softly.

Tommy glanced away then back. He wouldn't shy away from it. Wilbur -- his eyes stung at even the thought of the name, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he had to keep going, he had to be strong -- had always said that history was written by the winners. Technically, then, this wasn’t his story to tell. He hadn’t fucking won. He’d survived. He’d survived, and Wilbur hadn’t. He had a voice, still. Somehow. He’d survived. Wilbur would call that a victory. Dream, fucking Schlatt and Dream, had done their best to make sure he and Wilbur were silenced. But he was still here.

He’d walk through fire, he’d jump from tower in the clouds with no parachute before he’d let Dream or Schlatt tell Wilbur’s fucking story. He grimaced, meeting Phil’s eyes again. "Ah, Phil, my man, that is when it all went to shit."

He told them about the fight. About the chase, with Dream at their backs and kitchen knives in their fists.

"Dream caught up to me on the street." His voice devolved to its flat, emotionless candor. It was easier than filling it with all the emotions that he’d nudged away, and it was easier still than concealing his feelings. "Grabbed me by the back of my jacket, knocked me onto my knees. He fucking, heh. He stabbed me with my own knife. Grabbed my arm and re-broke it or whatever the fuck. Hurt like a bitch." His arm twinged in almost-forgotten agony. "Then he--" His throat clogged with the words, and he cleared it. Don’t. He didn't have the space to shy away from it. He was in charge now. He had to keep being strong. "He threatened me to get to Wilbur." He didn't let his voice break on the name. He couldn’t. "He hurt me to hurt Wil, and it, it worked. Wilbur just…dropped his shit. In the middle of the street. He dropped his weapons because there was a chance they'd…let me go. Schlatt showed up again at that point, I think. He had a gun. Dream picked up Wilbur's gun. I think that was yours, by the way, Phil." Tommy shuddered as phantom metal pressed against his temple. "Then…I don't really remember. There was a gunshot. Wilbur--" he took another breath, steadying himself. "Wilbur fell. A lot of people were shouting. It gets kinda hazy from there, big man." That was a bit of a lie. He could remember more than that, he just didn’t want to face it. The sharp edges of memory were cutting into his blanket of numbness, and fiercely he pushed them aside. He ignored the thoughts of bloodied fingers and red stains under dark jackets and Wilbur's eyes shut against the light, limbs spread awkwardly, shirt stained dark--

He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his chin to his chest and digging his nails into his palms until the memories receded again. He took another breath. In and out. "Then I woke up to your two ugly fucking faces," he tried, hoping the joking tone shone through. It barely glinted. Better than nothing.

Phil shared a look with Techno again. Tommy couldn't decipher it. He took a drink of water instead of attempting to muddle through it.

"Tommy, is there more to the story that you're not sharing with us?" Phil asked.

Tommy quirked an eyebrow at him. "The fuck do you mean by that?"

Phil licked his lips. "About…Wilbur."

Tommy's jaw clenched. His chest hurt. He swallowed, hard, forcing back the emotions that threatened to strangle him. Recenter, refocus. It was what he was supposed to do. Get through the situation. Recenter, refocus. "What about Wilbur?" he inquired, feeling less human than he had in a very long time.

"You were scared of him, at the train yard," Techno offered.

"You were scared when you asked about him when you woke up, too," Phil added. "It's alright to be scared, mate. We just want to understand." Phil looked earnest, brows slightly knitted, face crinkled, frame pitched forward. "We'll believe you."

The fuck did that mean? Tommy frowned at him. "I was scared of you lot in the trainyard, dipshits. I thought you were gonna shoot us. And, yeah, no fucking shit I was scared when I woke up. I'd just--" he stopped, blinking up at the ceiling. He hadn’t had to say it out loud yet. His throat tightened around the words, trying to trap them down. He swallowed, hard. He didn’t have that luxury. He was strong enough to handle it, no matter how it twisted the knife deeper into his soul. "I'd just watched him die in front of me," he whispered. His voice was a lot quieter than he'd intended, in the near silence of the little hospital room. "I was scared…to think that it was true."

A quiet round of cheers and applause filtered from the television on the wall. Phil and Techno were staring at each other again, having a whole conversation that Tommy couldn't read.

Tommy's stomach twisted. What weren't they saying?

Techno broke the moment first. "Tommy," he started, turning back to him. "Tommy, did Wilbur ever hurt you? Even if he apologized, or even if he told you that you deserved it or somethin’?" Techno leaned forward, elbows pressed to his knees and hands clasped in front of him non-threateningly. His head tilted slightly to the side as he spoke, chin lowering, eyes holding Tommy’s. "Did he ever hit you, or raise his voice at you, or grab you, or hurt you?"

What the fuck? Tommy had expected lots of questions, but he certainly had not been expecting that. He scrambled to form something coherent. What were they talking about? "…No?"

The pink-haired man inclined his head, more of an acknowledgement than a nod. "Were you ever scared that he would?"

"No?" Tommy squinted at him, unable to grasp what had spurred this topic. "What the fuck, no. Of course not. He was like -- he was my brother. He never…no."

Techno and Phil were looking at each other again, having another silent conversation. Tommy's stomach churned.

"Guys?" he asked tentatively. "What aren't you telling me?"

"You said you don’t remember what happened after we -- after the police arrived, right?" Phil queried.

Tommy nodded, glancing between the two of them. He could remember more than that, he just didn’t want to face it.

"We arrived in time to see the very end of everything," Phil began. Tommy frowned at him. The investigator's voice had flattened, too. "I saw the Mayor with a gun in his hand. Soot -- Wilbur -- standing in front of him. Tall blond guy, Dream, with an injured hostage, you. I was moving on instinct. We all were. Instinct and training. I was shouting for hands up. Nobody seemed to hear me." Phil stopped, gaze unfocusing. Techno stood and grabbed another bottle of water from the table to hand to him. "Schlatt and Dream both had their fingers on the trigger. Schlatt shot at the same time I did."

The sound of thunder, coming from everywhere at once. Not one gunshot, then. Two.

"Dream hauled you up, pulling you back with him as Schlatt fell," Phil continued, exhaling. "He threatened to shoot you. We were too far back. Then he pulled the trigger, and nothing happened."

A loud click in his ear. Dream had pulled the trigger. Tommy’s hands went cold. He worked his jaw, ignoring the phantom pressure at his temple.

"We pulled him off of you, and you fell down. Knocked your head against the concrete." Phil scrubbed a hand over his face again. "We cuffed him. It took…" he shook his head. "It took too long for the ambulances to arrive."

Tommy looked rapidly between Techno and Phil. He knew all of this already or could have read it between the lines. What were they trying to tell him?

"Schlatt was dead before the medics got there." Techno continued the story when Phil paused.

Tommy tilted his head, mind whirling. Schlatt? But…

"…died at the scene, apparently," someone said. "Not sure they could get any faster. GSW. You know. Bad situation all around."

That was Wilbur. They had been talking about Wilbur. He hadn't been coherent enough to put it together in the ambulance. He hadn't wanted to put it together when Phil had first told him. But they were talking about Wilbur. Weren't they?

Something dangerous beat at the walls of his chest. Something light, something lighter than anything he’d felt in the past hour. Hope. He didn't dare reach for it.

"Soot -- Wilbur had lost a lot of blood when the ambulance got there, Tommy," Techno told him. "He wasn't in good shape. He died--"

-- Tommy was going to break, he was going to break again right there in the hospital bed, he was going to shatter and fly apart and scream until there was nothing left but ashes --

"-- for thirteen and a half minutes before they were able to revive him."

Revive him. Revive him. Revive him. The words echoed in Tommy's mind, in the cavity of his chest. His hands were shaking. The room had gone blurry. "Revive him?" His voice trembled and immediately after speaking he gasped another breath. The room was spinning. He clutched at the sheets, trying to feel the texture under his fingers, but the world went staticky under the torrent of desperate confusion that threatened to drag him under. His chest ached, physically ached, as thought his heart was trying to cave in and explode all at once. Wilbur was dead, Wilbur had died, they’d told him so. Hadn’t they? He’d seen it. He’d heard the shot. He’d seen crimson on fingers, shadowed and gleaming in the orange lamplight, eyes closed, chest not moving, the look of acceptance in his eyes before he’d even fallen, he’d known and he’d done it anyway, he’d seen it and he couldn’t afford to fool himself into some naive hope. He’d seen it. Hadn’t he? But revived, that meant -- it meant he was alive. Didn’t it? Revived. Brought back from the dead. Impossible. Improbable. (Never cling to the improbable, Tommy. The most likely explanation is the most likely answer.) He was fraying at the seams, emotions too threadbare to hold the weight of his whirlwind thoughts.  

Techno nodded, already speaking. "They aren't sure how well he's doing. He's stable, but last I heard he hadn't woken up for longer than a few minutes."

Tommy tried to inhale and found no air. So much for control, a part of him thought hysterically. Tears pooled and fell and he didn't care. Wilbur wasn't dead. Wilbur wasn't dead. He grabbed frantically at the sheets, tearing them off his legs. He ripped off the pads that connected him to the beeping machines, and a whine sounded, shrill and screaming. The edges of his vision spun and darkened.

"Woah, mate--" Phil exclaimed but it just blended in with the rest of the sounds.

His feet hit the tile and his leg screamed, wobbling immediately beneath him. He hissed but ignored the pain, the sudden fire-bright flashes of memory, of knife blade, cold silver on his neck, warm liquid soaking down his pant leg, and straightened. The door was right there. Wilbur was alive.

The door handle was cold under his hand. He felt more than saw an arm come toward him, and he ducked away from it, out into the hallway.

Cold linoleum tiling. Fluorescent lighting. Antiseptic and latex and, faintly, burnt coffee. He turned, hastily surveying the hall. There, near the end, was a door with two uniformed officers outside of it. The door was open. The nurse in the red scrubs was coming out of it, looking toward Tommy's room. Wilbur was alive.

Tommy ran. He didn’t hesitate. It didn’t matter what else was happening. He ran, and he didn't look back.

Someone was shouting his name. The two officers by the door moved to block him, expressions a study in perplexion. The nurse in the red scrubs moved to intercept him too. He didn't care. He made it to the doorframe. It was still ajar, letting him peek into the darkened room beyond. Someone caught him firmly by the shoulders. "Wilbur?" Tommy yelled.

"-- hey, you're okay, Tommy, take a breath --" the nurse in red scrubs was in front of him, holding onto his shoulder and side, careful of his injured arm. Tommy leaned around him, trying to see into the room. "Wilbur?" He called again. His breath was coming in heavy gasps. His leg flared with pain. He didn't care. He didn't give a flying fig's arse cheeks. His chest roared with something too powerful for him to dissect.

People were talking. The nurse in red was pushing him gently, calling out for a wheelchair. Tommy tried to ignore them. Wilbur was alive. He had to be alive.

Something shifted in the room beyond the door. Everyone went silent.

"Wilby?" Tommy asked. His voice shook.

There was a beat of silence. A cough. "…Tommy?" Wilbur's voice responded. It was weak. It was scratchy. And it was undeniably Wilbur.

Tommy pushed at the arms on his shoulder, and after a brief, agonizing eternity, they released him. He stepped forward into the shadowed room, fumbling for the light switch with his good hand. They flicked on.

Across from the door, Wilbur was lying in a bed identical to the one in Tommy's room. His hair was knotted and tangled over his forehead. There were bandages across his bare chest, across his shoulders and ribs. Two lines ran into his wrist, connected to IV bags on stands. There were bags under his eyes. But his eyes were open. They looked at him blearily, through a medicated haze. And then Wilbur smiled.

Tommy didn't remember crossing the room. One moment he was standing in the doorway as the lights flickered on, the next he was sitting at Wilbur's side, grabbing at his hands.

"Tommy," Wilbur whispered.

"Yeah, Wil--" His eyes burned. He choked, half laugh and half sob. "You're alive, Wil. Holy shit."

"I'm alive, Tommy." Wilbur smiled at him. His hand squeezed Tommy's, warm and solid. "We made it."

Tommy rested his forehead against an unbandaged part of Wilbur's shoulder. He didn't try to stop his own shoulders from shaking.

Pale orange light was just beginning to peek into the room from around the cheap blinds. Wilbur was alive, and the sun was rising, and everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Wilbur's memories turned thin and watery after a certain point, and he was sure that some of them were only vague impressions of dreams.

Warmth and moisture on his fingers. Rough asphalt against the side of his face.

Bright, bright light. A hand on his cheek. A hand on his wrist.

Pain. His, or maybe someone else’s, but choking, all-consuming in its intensity.

Bright, bright light. The rumbling, raucous roar of an oncoming train.

A mountain on his chest. Pressure on his lungs, his heart, his ribs, his spine.

An urgent voice. Feminine, perhaps. Pain.

A seagull against a pale blue sky.

The rush of a train speeding by. Ashy grey blue walls. Strips of red light.

Beeping, clicking, whirring.

A soothing darkness.

He was somewhere. His mouth was dry. His head was too heavy to move.

It hurt to breathe. His chest ached, spasmed with lines of shining agony on every inhale. It hurt to breathe, let alone move, let alone think.

He was somewhere. He was…. 

He was.

Someone was saying his name.

He didn't want to wake up. It hurt to breathe.

Someone was saying his name. It sounded like Tommy. He could wake up for Tommy.

Tommy refused to leave Wilbur's room. Nurse Grian protested but Tommy didn’t give a flying fuck. He wasn't going. If they wanted to move him, he'd come right back. Eventually, they lugged the charts and humming machines next to the other bed in Wilbur's room. Phil and Techno came too, settling into the guest furniture arranged in the corners. Tommy wasn't sure why Wilbur had a room with two beds and Tommy had been given a room with only one. Luck of the draw, he supposed. He wasn't complaining.

Wilbur fell back asleep almost immediately after Tommy spoke with him. Tommy didn't care. Wilbur could rest. He fucking deserved it. He didn't let go of Wilbur’s hands, though. They were warm. Even though they were lax with sleep, Tommy could feel the pulse thumping gently under his wrist, twitching slightly as he dreamt. Wilbur was alive. He was alive. The buzzing gadgets on the wall said so. The pulse under his fingertips said so. Wilbur had said so himself, squeezed his hands and told him they made it. He could barely believe it. It didn’t feel like it had really sunk in. After a week of hiding and stress and watching each other’s backs, everything had come crashing to a close. They’d won, and then they’d lost, and then he lost Wilbur , he lost Wilbur, and then he’d gotten him back. And now they were both safe. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to curl up and fall asleep, secure and knowing that everything had worked out in the end, but that knowledge hadn’t set in. If he fell asleep, maybe he would wake up and it would all have been a dream. Maybe he’d wake up and Wilbur wouldn’t be there. He knew it was ridiculous; Wilbur was right next to him, after all. It was easier not to have to worry about it, though. He’d gladly keep vigil over his brother’s bedside. Anyone who wanted him to do differently could rot.

Tommy wasn't sure how long he sat on the edge of the bed, Wilbur's hands in his own, just watching the rise and fall of his chest. His blinks grew longer and heavier the more he tried to fight them. Sunlight crept through the window blinds, bathing the room in a warm golden glow.

When he began to tilt to the side, head too heavy to hold up, smooth hands caught his shoulders and guided him across the room to the other bed. Phil said something, but Tommy was asleep before he could hear it.

The next thing he registered was the sound of a door closing. Upon opening his eyes, he realized that the shadows had crept across the room. He'd been asleep for…a few hours? More than that? He wasn't sure. He frowned, trying to remember what he’d been doing. It felt important. 

He blinked blearily at the ceiling. 

Why did his bed have...were those handrails in his peripheral vision?

Oh. He was in a hospital. Huh.

Wait. Wilbur. He hadn't meant to sleep.

Sitting up set the room spinning, like the world had been abruptly shoved off its axis. Even while rubbing his face clean of sleep and ignoring his mild nausea, he found the room empty. Phil and Techno had gone, apparently. 

"Ooh, careful," said a voice from beside him. Tommy turned to see Wilbur looking at him from his cot. The man smiled languidly, eyes half-lidded, waving clumsily. "Hi Tommy," he murmured.

Tommy exhaled a shaky breath, grinning back at him. "Wil. Hey. Uh. How're…are you okay?"

"Actually," Wilbur said, leaning back against his pillows, "I'm in quite a large amount of pain. But…" he licked his lips and smacked them a few times, "I don't really give a shit."

Tommy frowned. "You're in pain, Wil? I can get the nurse, just hang on a second--"

"Nooo, no, no, no. Don' move. Bad f'r your leg. Nurse said so. No. Don't worry about it. No, I... I'm in pain but I don't care b'cause the nurses already took care 'f it." He looked back at Tommy and waggled his eyebrows dramatically. "They gave me The Good Shit."

Tommy couldn't suppress a tiny giggle. "Wilbur, are you on drugs?"

"Tommy Innit," Wilbur replied soberly, "I am on so many drugs." His voice was hoarse and rough and Tommy wouldn't trade it for the world.

Tommy snorted, then laughed outright. It felt good. It was over. Everything was finally over. They'd done it. They were safe, and they'd cracked the case. He leaned back against the pillows, basking in the moment. They weren’t in hiding anymore. And, Gods, it felt good. Aches and pains be damned, it felt good to be safe. He rolled his neck, taking stock.

His arm was in a sling. It ached pretty bad, but nowhere near the pain that had consumed him when he first dislocated it, or when Dream, that bitch, had broken it or whatever. His leg, too, was...uncomfortable. He must have had stitches or some shit. He tried not to think about that too much. Thank the stars for doctors.  

Overall, though, life was stellar. They’d cracked the case, they’d proven Wilbur’s innocence, and they’d figured out who actually did it. He’d never had any doubts that they would, of course. They were the best damn detectives in the city. Gods, he was sure Wilbur was giddy. He was always ecstatic after they finally put all the pieces together and got a case to its conclusion. He wasn’t chattering about this, but that was probably the drugs. 

Unless… his stomach twisted with anxiety. Wilbur did know what had happened, right? He, well. He might have hit his head on the concrete or something. Or, well. He’d been shot. That probably fucked with a bunch of things. He licked his lips. Only one way to find out. He turned back to his brother, who was blinking lazily at the ceiling. "Do you remember what happened to you, Wil?" Tommy asked gently.

Wilbur frowned. "Uh. Hm. There was… We were on a case."

"Yeah," Tommy prompted.

"Uh. The fucking…the mob shit. Quackity. We were hiding 'n trying to solve it."

"Yeah."

Wilbur blinked hard, squinting. Tommy waited in silence, chewing the inside of his lip. It was difficult to fight through a medicated haze, and, Gods, he knew what memories were waiting on the other side of it, too. Wilbur could take as long as he wanted.

"We went t' Tubbo. N' Schlatt. And Schlatt…told us everything, and we ran, and…Dream grabbed you." Wilbur looked over at him then, concern flashing behind the fogginess of his eyes. "Dream, he-- Toms, you--"

Tommy did not think about orange streetlights or a gun barrel, cold, against his temple. He clenched his teeth and smiled at Wilbur as reassuringly as he could. "I'm okay, Wil, I'm fine.” His leg throbbed under its bandages, but he tilted his head side to side, lifting an arm. “See?" 

"…Oh," Wilbur responded, blinking at Tommy. He nodded slowly. "Good."

Tommy grinned at him, no longer having to force the expression. He was not used to seeing Wilbur so out of it. He'd left his phone behind when they'd first ran from the police, and he was missing it now. He'd been too preoccupied over the week to feel its absence, but Gods he wished he could take a video of Wilbur. He had plenty of other blackmail on the man (not that he'd ever use it as anything other than a joke, of course) but "Wilbur On Drugs" was something he needed to keep forever.

There was a beat of silence. Wilbur licked his lips again.

Okay, no, he had to focus here. Wilbur remembered that something had happened. “Is that all you remember?”

Wilbur squinted at the ceiling, face wrinkling. 

"Do you…do you remember that you got shot, Wil?" Tommy asked hesitantly. He wasn't a fucking therapist. He wasn't cut out for this. But Wilbur deserved to know why he was hurt, right?

"Shots, shots shots shots, shots," Wilbur hummed.

"No, Wil--" Tommy had to fight frantically to keep a straight face. He couldn't laugh at this. Admittedly, laughing at it was better than thinking Wilbur was dead, but it was still serious shit. "No. I mean like, fuckin’ shot shot, big man. Like with a gun. Do you remember that?” He hesitated. “It's okay if you don't."

Wilbur leaned his head back onto the pillows and drew in a deeper breath, then winced harshly and let it out again. "Mmm. I remember…some of it. Schlatt w's drunk. He, uh…heh. Heheh," he chuckled, wincing again. "Bastard shot me, didn't he."

Tommy huffed out a breath between pursed lips. "Yeah. He…yeah.”

Wilbur mumbled noncommittally, and Tommy was certain that he knew there was something else to the story. Somehow, Wilbur always knew. 

He sighed. “I thought…" He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. "I thought he…killed you." He blinked hard. Fuck, his eyes were stinging. Absolutely not. He didn't have anything to cry about. Wilbur’s fine. Wilbur was literally right fucking there, talking to him. It was fine. He wasn't going to think about how Wilbur had looked sprawled on the dark asphalt. He certainly wasn't going to think about Schlatt's laughter, Dream's sickly sweet voice in his ear. He wasn't there. It was gone now. Wilbur was here. Wilbur was here, and neither of them were dead, and they were getting treated for injuries they’d sustained on that bleak road. Tommy glanced at the window, clenching and unclenching his fingers in the sheets. They were on the fourth, maybe fifth floor, judging by the buildings he could see laid out below and around them. The sun was shining, reflecting patterns off the windows.

"Noo, Tommy," Wilbur whined. Tommy risked a peek at him. His face was scrunched up into that uneasy, wistful expression he did sometimes. Damn it. He'd made Wil sad. He didn't want Wilbur to be sad. He shouldn't be sad. Wilbur deserved better than that. "Look, I'm right here, Tommy.” Wilbur picked up a hand and flapped it vaguely. “See?" 

Tommy huffed out a laugh, ducking his chin to his chest long enough to blink the blurriness from his eyes. "Yeah, Wil. I see you." He pulled himself a little farther up on his pillows and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand.

"I wouldn't leave you, Tommy, okay?" Wilbur's tone was less slurred than it had been.

Tommy didn’t even have time to turn and face Wilbur. The words, stinging, were already cutting into the sensitive bits of his brain and settling there, chewing at the raw edges of his mind and memories. Wilbur didn't lie to him, they never lied to each other, they'd promised that so many times, and yet he had to be lying because Wilbur left him. He'd decided to on that fucking street. He understood why, he did, and he hated that he did because he still felt the echoes of the soul-sucking pit of grief that had consumed him the previous night. It ached, physically ached, like it had taken his heart and squeezed mercilessly. "You really don't remember what happened, do you?" he questioned, something ugly and bitter swirling in his chest.

Wilbur tilted his head, frowning.

"You did fucking leave me, Wilbur.” Did he have to spell it out? “You knew you were going to fucking die and you stood there and did it anyway. You looked at me and, and you told me it would be okay, and you knew it wouldn't! You fucking knew !" He took a sharp breath. Whoops. He was yelling, wasn’t he? And was that such a bad thing? He was fucking sick of trying not to think about things. If Wil was going to say dumb shit, Tommy was going to call him out on it, bullet wounds and narcotics be damned. Letting it out was a weight off his shoulders he didn’t even realize had been there. "You, you-- I know you were trying to, like, protect me or some shit, but fucking hell, Wilbur, you--" He cut himself off, choking down a sob because he was angry not sad , he wasn’t sad that Wilbur had lied and then forgotten about it. "It wasn't just that I thought you were gone, Wil! I knew you were gone, I watched you fucking die, and you chose it. I just-- I don't-- you-- fuck--" His gaze had gone blurry from tears. Absolutely unpoggers. His eyes were little unreliable shits. He tried to raise his hand to wipe them away but his shoulder twinged with red hot pain. Tommy clenched his teeth over a whimper and scrubbed his free hand back over his eyes. Stupid fucking sling, stupid dislocated shoulder, stupid Wilbur Goddamn Soot. The turbulent storm of emotions and thoughts in his skull were nearly impossible to form into even a half-comprehensible sentence. Yeah, Wilbur was right next to him. Yeah, they were both alive, battered and bruised, but they were alive. That didn't fucking erase anything, though. Maybe he wasn't fine. Those awful few minutes out on the asphalt, the fleeting frame of time he'd already codenamed in his mind to keep from visualizing, it had happened . He'd lived through it, they both had, and he wasn't going to let anyone tell him he was wrong about it. Schlatt and Dream had been there. Dream could rot in prison and Schlatt could rot in hell, and they'd been there, they'd chosen to hurt him, to hurt Wilbur. But Wilbur had been there too. He'd made choices too. He didn't care how high Wilbur was, he wasn't going to let Wilbur brush it off. He wasn't yelling anymore, but he didn't try to hold back any emotion, either. Tommy had needed to shoulder it alone up until this point. Wilbur could fucking take it. 

"Gods-fucking-damnit, Wilbur. Don't fucking lie to me and say you won't leave because you fucking did. You did, and it-- and it hurt , and it still hurts even though you're right there and- and, and- it's not supposed to hurt anymore.” He sucked in a breath, trembling. “You were right in front of me and you fucking died, Wil! It happened, it fucking happened, and I-- I know you're right here, I know you are-- just--" Misery curled in his stomach, draining him of the minute energy he’d summoned. "Don't sit there and try and tell me you didn't do that because you fuckin’ did, man." He sniffed forcefully, blinking back the tears that pooled in the corners of his eyes. He wasn't going to fucking cry. He just wanted Wilbur to understand. 

For a few moments, the silence of their hospital room was disturbed only by the droning of the machines against the wall. Then--

"You're right, Tommy," came Wilbur's voice.

Tommy didn't look at him.

"I did do that, Toms. I remember it. I'm…I'm sorry. For saying I didn't. You…that was cruel of me. I'm sorry."

Tommy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. That was what he’d wanted Wilbur to say, right? Why did it still hurt? He fucking hated talking about emotions and shit. He always felt dumb and weak, even though Wilbur had always told him he wasn’t because everyone felt things. Feeling things was fucking stupid. He never felt the right things. He wanted to be angry at Wilbur for lying to him, for pulling this terrible near-death shit, not sad. Being sad sucked.

"'M sorry I said it, and I'm really sorry it happened. But, Tommy, I'm not sorry I did it."

His heart jumped into his throat. Tommy’s head jerked to survey Wilbur, eyebrows furrowing. The fuck does that even mean?

Wilbur gazed at him, head propped on the shitty hospital pillows, eyes trained on him and shining more than he would probably ever admit. "I'm not gonna apologize for making that choice, Tommy. I can't. I don't regret it. If there's ever a choice between me and you, I'm always going to choose you. No matter how much that fucking hurts. There is not a damn thing in this world that I wouldn’t do to keep you alive, Toms. Nothing. And if keeping you alive means I have to hurt you, means I have to leave, means you'll hate me forever, I don't give a shit. I'll do it a hundred times."

And wasn’t that just the absolute fucking worst? Because he knew Wilbur meant it. Wilbur had done nothing but try and help Tommy since they’d met. And Tommy, even given a lifetime of opportunities, could never give that back to him. Tommy was...grateful, he supposed. But how could he really be grateful for his brother saying he’d leave him behind? How could he not be thankful for someone willing to give their life, their everything, for him? That was what family did, right? True family, not whatever the fuck his parents had been. Wilbur was his family. He couldn’t just accept that Wilbur would, would do all that shit. He didn’t want Wilbur to do any of that, but that was Wilbur’s point, wasn’t it? It was too fucking confusing. "Godsdamn it, Wil…" Tommy swiped at his eyes again, then swung his legs off the side of the bed. He wasn't connected to any wires this time, luckily. Not that it would have stopped him. 

"Tommy, the nurses--" Wilbur cautioned.

"Fuck the nurses," Tommy grunted. The tiles were icy under his bare feet. He leaned most of his weight on his uninjured leg, bracing himself against  the wall. "Fuck the nurses, and fuck you too, actually. You're an asshole, Wilbur." He made his way across the short gap and sat on the edge of Wilbur's bed. Barely a moment passed before his brother's arms were encircling him. Tommy didn't resist.

It was kind of a shitty hug, if he was being honest. The bed was definitely not big enough for two people, and one of Tommy's arms was in a sling, and he didn't dare lean any weight on Wilbur, and there was still a goddamn IV in Wilbur’s arm, but Tommy couldn't have cared less. He dropped his head down to press gently against Wilbur's shoulder, being careful not to jostle him. Wilbur's hands moved across his back, grounding and very, very real.

"Don't you dare ever do the same for me, Toms, okay?" Wilbur murmured, placid, resilient. "I wouldn't want you to."

Tommy didn't have a response for that. He hadn’t had a response since Wilbur had been joking about drugs. How far they’d fallen. "I hate you so much sometimes, Wilbur Soot," he settled on.

Wilbur chuckled lightly, tone thin. "I love you too, Tommy Innit."

Tommy pulled away when his back started to ache. He brushed unwelcome dampness from his eyes for what felt like the tenth time, staunchly refusing to make eye contact.

Wilbur sighed. "Right, go get back in your bed before Nurse Grian sees you."

"Oh, sorry, yes, wouldn't want to get a fuckin’ Talking To," Tommy grumbled, obliging nonetheless.

"You really don't, actually. He's scary when he's disappointed."

Tommy snorted, maneuvering himself back to his cot. It was a larger job than he anticipated to swing his legs back into bed without falling off the side or jostling his wound too badly, especially with only one arm to balance himself.

"For the record," Wilbur added as Tommy situated himself under the blankets, "it's never going to be my first choice to leave you."

Tommy glanced at him.

"I mean that, Tommy," Wilbur insisted. "Never ever again if I can help it. I'll fight tooth and nail to keep us side by side, you know that."

"Yeah, I know, Wil, I would too." Tommy reassured. He did know, but it was nice to hear him say it. All this talk of ‘ooh, I’ll do anything it takes’ and ‘mehmehmehmeh I’m Wilbur Soot, I’m an overdramatic moron, I’d sell my soul without thinking about it because Tommy is that poggers’ was...well, he hadn’t been worried. He didn’t worry. But it had been a little concerning, maybe, how fast Wilbur had told him he’d do it. They were supposed to stick together, regardless of worst case scenarios. Hearing Wilbur say it too was another blanket of relief on the scorching fire of uncertainty and fear that had been burning since he’d seen Wilbur laying on that fucking asphalt. "…thanks."

"Mmm," Wilbur hummed. There was a tritone beep from one of the wall machines, followed by a click. "Ooooo, tasty…" Wilbur mumbled.

"The fuck?"

Wilbur's eyes fluttered open and shut. "More drugs."

Tommy grinned at him. "You getting high again, Wil?"

"C'n still focus," Wilbur slurred. "He's a bitch, by the way," he intoned sagely.

Tommy wrinkled his nose at him. "Who? The nurse?"

"Schlatt," Wilbur clarified, staring blearily at the ceiling. "Little bitch baby. Dumb dumb idiot baby man."

"No kidding," Tommy snorted, grin widening. The tension had trickled out of the room without him noticing it, replaced by the tenuous, tenacious threads of the trust they’d built over the years.

"Did th' police get him?" Wilbur asked.

"What?"

"Did, y'know. Did they get him? And Dream? Did they figure it all out?"

Tommy nodded. "Yeah, big man. Dream's in jail. Schlatt, well. Uh. Schlatt's dead, actually."

Wilbur's eyes widened like two twin dinner plates, comically large in seconds. "Is he really?"

"Yeah," Tommy confirmed, stifling a laugh with sheer mental strength. Of course Wilbur would be able to make him feel better after that shitshow of a conversation. "One of the officers shot him at the same time he shot you. Guess their aim was better, though."

Wilbur giggled at that, actually fucking giggled like a toddler holding candy. "Their aim was better."

"Yeah."

The room slipped back into imperfect silence.

Tommy stared out the window, studying the streets below. Someone crossed the street on a bike, unsteadily sliding into a bike lane. A couple left a shop, holding bags of probably useless shit. Life continued on, unaware of the little soap opera playing out between the two beds. He watched as a bus pulled up to its stop, letting out a few passengers and taking in a few more. The world just...kept going. It was comforting. A little nihilistic, maybe, or whatever the fuck that long ass word was that Wilbur liked. All their shit was big, and it could hit him in the gut and coil under his skin and refuse to let go, but the rest of the world was still there, and nothing could really be that bad if the world kept going, right? But, well, this time their shit had affected the world. The city, at the very least. 

Tommy shook his head slowly. "There's going to be a hell of a lot of aftermath, Wil," he mused.

"Mhm," Wilbur agreed. "Court case. Evidence."

Tommy nodded.

"We don't have to worry about it right now, though."

"D'you think so?"

"'F course. We got this far. The police can handle it for the next few days. For now we can just rest."

Tommy pulled up one knee and rested his chin on it. "Okay," he murmured. The room was peaceful. Quiet and calm. It was...nice. Safe. They weren’t on the run anymore. They weren’t fighting. He smiled softly, letting himself soak it in. "For now we can rest."

It wasn't raining on the day that the former mayor was buried. It was grey and misty in the predawn, with enough chill to warrant a coat, but it wasn't raining. The funeral was held early, with the sounds of the city only just beginning to stir. A line of officers kept the straggling crowd of protestors and reporters, what few had dragged themselves out of bed to attend, from interrupting the service. More officers, in dress uniforms dictated by tradition, sat in the folding chairs on the grass.

Considering the circumstances, they weren't an honor guard.

It wasn't a long service. There were no tearful speeches about good deeds done or slumber at long last earned. There were no relatives there to weave stories of who the man had been. The police department hadn't even found anyone to contact. His mother and father were both dead. No siblings, never married, no children. Any business partners of his had enough good sense not to show face. So, no, there were no speeches or songs or tearful memories, only the barest, most universal rights of Return. His gravestone, too, was bare. A name and two dates.

There was no one to provide an epitaph.

Phil attended the ceremony. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be there. He wasn't sure if he would regret it. He went anyway. It felt right, no matter how much his hands shook in his pockets.

Niki and Ranboo were there, too. They sat nearby, chatting respectfully with other officers in their row of folding chairs. Techno stayed by his side through the whole ceremony. Neither of them talked about the bullet-shaped elephant in the room. Techno had tried once, the morning prior, uncertainly and clunkily guiding the conversation toward the subject Phil was pointedly avoiding. Phil hadn't meant to snap at him, honestly, he hadn't, but he might have been a little harsher than necessary in telling Techno to change the subject. He was fine. Really! He was. He was just as fine as he needed to be, and he was getting things done, and so that was okay. The rest of it could wait until his appointment with the department counselor. He was almost looking forward to that. Almost.

Phil was uncomfortably present during the funeral. He wished he could daydream or just float in his thoughts. Instead, he was unerringly aware of the feeling of the tie around his neck and the grass under his shoes and the edge of the seat against the back of his legs. He hadn't missed a word of the liturgy. It was a penance, he told himself. It wouldn't be right to shy away from it.

After the ceremony, their tired group of four ended up in a tiny café and bakery squashed between a shoe store and a nail salon. It was the first time all of them had been in the same room since the night it had all come to a head. Phil skimmed his fingers along the well-worn grain of the wood as the waitress brought them coffee and tea. Everything smelled like lemon muffins and fresh coffee, and the hum of patrons and gentle music washed over him until there was nothing else. Not Thinking was a lot better than thinking, he decided. He liked Not Thinking much more.

"Well," Ranboo began after their orders were placed. Phil stirred from his not-thoughts to look at him. "We, uh. We did it, I guess."

Techno grunted. "Eh, sorta."

Niki studied him questioningly over the rim of her mug.

"We solved it, yes," Techno continued. "That doesn't mean we're done."

"Well," Ranboo added dryly, "you two are, right? You're on remedial for the next two weeks starting tomorrow?"

Phil groaned, leaning his head into his hand. "Oh, Gods. I'd forgotten about that." That was going to suck. Two weeks of lectures and retraining, followed by a recertification and a practical exam. Two weeks of being lectured by people younger than him about things he already knew. Absolute hell. And they'd have to miss the aftermath of the Soot case.

"Y'know, if you'd bothered to check your email, Phil, you would have seen the note from the Chief," Techno grumbled.

Phil picked his head back up. Note from the Chief? What note? He checked his email regularly. Actually, had he checked it the day before? He wasn't sure. But a note from the Chief was something he would have noticed. "Since when do you check your email?" his mouth asked without consulting him.

Techno raised an eyebrow at him. "One of us has to."

"Yeah, and that one of us is me. You never read your email, Techno."

Techno took another sip of his coffee. "That-- that is slander, Phil. How dare you. I am a functioning member of society and I check my email at least once a month."

Ranboo snorted into his tea, failing to mask it with a cough.

Niki rolled her eyes. "Arguing later.” Phil opened his mouth, and Niki continued smoothly. “What did the email say?" Phil narrowed his eyes but let it go. He wasn't smiling. He refused to let Techno know that he was funny. The man’s ego was too big already.

"He's postponing our remedial until after the Soot case is officially settled on the department's end, since we're witnesses now," Techno explained.

Phil rocked his head back. "Oh." That was a pleasant surprise. He hadn't thought much about it but he'd assumed that they'd be shipped off as fast as possible. He wasn't complaining, though. More time to deal with the fallout was certainly a good thing. And it would be nice to meet with the counselor a few times before having to go through retraining.

"That's really awesome, actually," Ranboo chimed in, nodding.

"Yeah," Niki agreed. "We'll be happy to have you two around while we sort out all the analysis and filing."

"Oh, Gods, paperwork?" Techno groaned. "Maybe I'll just go to remedial early, I dunno about all this paperwork stuff."

Phil didn't try to hold back his laughter at that. "Oh no, mate, you're not getting out of this shit. If I have to do it then you have to do it."

Techno rolled his eyes, taking another sip. “Anyway, uh, that wasn’t all the email said,” he continued after he swallowed. “He wants us to head the task force when we get back.”

“Wait, task force?” Ranboo inquired.

Phil leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “With something this big, there’s going to be a lot more fallout than what gets covered by Dream’s trial. Shit, we, what, uprooted the mob after a decade of no real leads?” He rubbed a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble. He’d forgotten to shave. “There’s gonna be a lot that needs to get done.”

“Chasin’ down the rest of the top members, unravellin’ all the schemes they had runnin’, that sorta thing,” Techno added.

“And the Chief wants us to run it?” Phil asked. He’d been sure they would only get the most boring cases for a few months. Frankly, it was a miracle they were getting any cases at all.

“Once we get back, yeah,” Techno confirmed. 

Niki shrugged. “It makes sense. You two are the most experienced. That’s why you got the Soot case to begin with. And now you’re this deep in the investigation, it would make sense for the Chief to have you continue it.”

Phil bobbed his head in acquiescence of the point. “Still. I worried we’d lost his trust.”

“I dunno, I think you’d have to do something pretty bad for that to happen,” Ranboo chimed in with a shrug. “Niki’s right. The department needs you.”

Phil almost opened his mouth to remind Ranboo that, actually, he had done something ‘pretty bad.’ It would have been easy. They were all dancing around the subject, after all. The way they kept glancing at him during the funeral. The way they’d tiptoed around him all week, like they were waiting for him to crumble. It didn’t help in the slightest. At least Techno hadn’t treated him differently. But, all told, it had been weighing on him. He knew how simple it would be to remind them of it.

But he didn’t say a word. Ranboo hadn't meant anything by the comment. Phil didn't have to inflict his bitterness on the rest of them.

Their food arrived on pastel plates. Phil let himself focus on the scent of eggs and sausage and coffee, the sound of conversation and chatter. It was alright, he told himself. He could enjoy his meal before they had to pay the bills. 

Wilbur's recovery was…slow. As it turned out, having a very narrow escape from death came with consequences. He had his actual gunshot wound, for one thing. Nasty piece of work. His ribs had been broken, both by the CPR and the surgery. That made it increasingly painful to do, well, anything. Move. Breathe. It was exhausting. Not to mention the mental let down from the absolute hell of stress he'd been under during that week they'd been on the run. When his hands shook, he reassured Tommy it was the medications.

The pair of them remained in the urgent care ward for two nights before being relocated to the recovery wing. There was a police officer outside their door every hour of the day. Wilbur wasn't sure if it was to keep unwanted visitors out or to keep them in. Perhaps it was both. Apparently the media had tried to swarm the hospital with a barrage of questions, but the medical staff hadn’t let them near the stairs or elevator. Wilbur was…grateful, for that. Trying to balance an interview while flat on his back, drugged off his ass, and worrying about them cornering Tommy sounded like a nightmare brought to life. The police could deal with the media. The police could deal with a lot of things. Wilbur still cared about the case, of course. If the police fucked it up, he'd go back after it himself. But Tommy was still hurt, he was very much still hurt, and both of them deserved a chance to rest.

Time was an amorphous thing in their hospital room. Tommy was still in his room, of course. Neither of them wanted to be separated, and each of them had made it clear in their own ways that trying to keep them apart would be more trouble than it was worth. Hours blended together, minutes dragged like anchors, days passed in a flash. Some of that Wilbur attributed to the medications. Drugs, and sleep, and the endless reruns of terrible game shows on the television mounted high on the wall. He'd never wanted to learn the fiddly rules of Deal In Deal Out or Trivia Peril, but it was too late now. The theme music for Hot Or Bought haunted his dreams.

With the move to the new room, however, came a shift in routine. At the nurses’ direction, Tommy left the room for an hour or two each day to do physical therapy on his leg. It was some "weird fuckin' stretches and shit," Tommy had told him.

The other shift that the move had brought was a noticeable downgrade of the strength of Wilbur's medications. They still wanted to ensure that he wasn't in pain, but the nurses had said the faster they could move him away from the really strong stuff, the better. The newer dose took with it the comfortable haze that he had grown to enjoy, but that was the point, he supposed. Besides, having his mental faculties back was quite appreciated. He remembered the conversations he'd had with Tommy and with the two police detectives, but Tommy had… informed him that he'd been more than a little out of it. Which, lovely. Looking like an idiot was wonderful, especially in front of Tommy, who would never let him live it down.

It was in one of those periods, where Tommy was away, that Wilbur had a visitor.

Tommy had barely been gone for five minutes when there was a knock at the door. That was odd, in itself. The nurses didn't knock. Before he could open his mouth to respond, however, the door swung inward.

Sam Greene, Chief of Police, stood in the door frame with a hand on the handle. He was in uniform, a dark suit and tie over a white shirt, a gold badge on the breast and the star insignia on a patch on his sleeve. He looked a little tired; the bags under his eyes were deep enough for a few nights of troubled sleep, but his suit was pressed neatly and his hair was washed and his face was clean shaven. He’d obviously had the time to take care of himself despite everything happening. Or, he’d put in extra effort to make himself seem composed. Either could work. Wilbur would just have to see. There was a line of tension in his shoulders, but that was to be expected. He had nothing in his hands but his coat, no flowers or trivial gifts. And, from the height of the sliver of dark sleeve that Wilbur could see around the doorframe, the officer on guard was standing, not sitting.

So. The Chief of Police, in uniform, without a "get well soon" token. He was here in an official capacity. The timing was unlikely to be a coincidence. He could well have called ahead. And, the officer on duty was now at full alert and attention. The Chief was here to speak to Wilbur and Wilbur alone, and he did not want to be interrupted.

Delightful.

Despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs, he shifted into top gear. They weren’t on the run, but that by no means meant that the police were their friends. He still felt like absolute shit, but he could pull it together for one conversation. If something slipped by him, he wasn’t sure how he could ask for Tommy’s forgiveness in good conscience.

Wilbur reached for the button on the side of the bed and slowly tilted the cot into an upright position as Greene stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Mr. Soot," he greeted.

"Chief Greene," Wilbur responded, not looking away. The bed whirred as it lifted. "I can't say I expected to see you today."

"The nurses told me this would be a good time," the man explained, lips twitching in the hint of a smile. So he had called ahead, then. "May I sit?"

For a moment, Wilbur toyed with the idea of telling him 'no', just to see what he would do. But he knew it would probably pay to be diplomatic. "Go ahead, anywhere's fine."

Greene inclined his head in thanks and took one of the seats next to the bed. "I hope your recovery's been going well."

Small talk was not something Wilbur was in the mood for. Was the man here to tell him they were still suspects? Was he here to formally put him under arrest? There had been plenty of opportunities for it before. Maybe he wanted to hear the whole Godsforsaken story for himself. Whatever it was, he could damn well spit it out. He’d been recovering from near death for a week. One strategic overture was enough. "About as well as could be expected," Wilbur replied, "but I'm sure your guard dogs could tell you that much."

The Chief winced at that. "They haven't been there to keep you from escaping."

Wilbur just raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well," he amended, "partially that, but they've also been there to make sure you did have any…unwelcome visitors."

Like you. Wilbur bit his cheek to halt the words from escaping his mouth.

"We were concerned that after everything that's happened," Greene continued, "there could have been an attempt on your life from, uh." He gestured vaguely. "Outside parties."

"Mob hitters?" Wilbur translated.

"Yes, or fanatic supporters of the late Mayor, or any number of other factors. A case as high profile as this has risks involved, and we wanted to make sure you were safe."

Well, it was a fair point, he could concede that much. He wasn't too keen on random wackjobs wandering into the room to take potshots at them. Defending himself and Tommy was impossible if he could barely walk to the bathroom by himself. The Chief had said the men were there to keep an eye on them too, though. "So we're still wanted men, then?" he queried.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."

"Oh?"

Greene shifted on the seat, leaning forward slightly. "Forensics recovered your recording device at the scene and the files in it. That, combined with a contracted outside source who verified that the security footage was fraudulent, has let the department clear you from the murder of Alex Quackity."

Wilbur let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, wincing at the pain that spiked through his ribs. He was no longer a murder suspect. His heart skipped a beat under the sudden flood of relief. That was it, then. He’d...he’d done it. That was what he’d been focused on since the day they’d had to run: show that he hadn’t killed the man. Everything else had been secondary. And...he’d done it. He’d done it! They’d done it. He didn’t try to stifle his grin. He’d earned it.

And the disastrous meeting at Schlatt’s house had all worked out, then. He'd hoped that the police had been able to recover the pen. If they hadn't, he would have asked Tubbo for the files, but this way there were far fewer questions about whether the audio could have been altered or faked. It was good, too, that the footage had been debunked. From what Tubbo had said, it wouldn’t have been an easy job. He wondered if the 'contracted outside source' had been Tubbo, actually. He wouldn't put it past him to orchestrate something like that, especially if his roommate slash husband worked at the department.

"The footage was finally teased apart last night, and the department officially cleared you this morning," Greene continued.

Wilbur nodded. He sensed a 'but'.

"But."

There it was.

"While you have been cleared of the murder, there are several other charges levied against you and Mr. Innit that you've amassed over the past week. Assaulting an officer, resisting arrest, breaking and entering, and tampering with police property, to name a few."

It was Wilbur's turn to wince. He had forgotten that. Well, not really forgotten but he hadn’t acknowledged that they still had to deal with that. Unfair, really. He’d much rather ignore it and never have to deal with it again. He doubted the police would go along with that, though. Oh well. That was an impressive list, though, and the individual charges on it made sense. He wouldn't change what he did, of course. In the heat of the moment, fighting against threats of the Mob and the police, adding a few more crimes to the list hadn’t seemed like a big deal. But here they were on the other side. It was time to face the consequences. He wouldn’t shy away from them, not when Tommy was counting on him to get them out of it. 

"Chief Greene," he began slowly. He had to choose his words carefully, straddle the line between reality and believable fiction while pushing the right outcome. "I can assure you that none of those crimes were Tommy's idea. He worked under my direction, but it was always at my intense prompting. He never would have done any of it if it weren't for me. He may well try and deny that, but he'd be trying to keep from, I don't know, throwing me under the bus. I'll--" he swallowed and wetted his lips, "--I'll sign a confession, if that would help. These are my mistakes, and Tommy doesn’t deserve to bear them as well." He'd been bothered with Greene for intentionally excluding Tommy from this conversation, but perhaps it was for the best after all. Tommy would’ve made some scene to stop Wilbur. He'd still be pissed as hell, of course. Wilbur’s chest hurt thinking about the outrage and betrayal that would gleam in his eyes. Because Wilbur would be leaving him. Again. By choice. He never wanted to put Tommy through that again, but if it was necessary…Wilbur had meant what he'd said, when Tommy had confronted him about the night on the street. If Wilbur had to walk into flames to keep Tommy free of burns, he’d do it again and again.

Chief Greene tilted his head. "Is that true?"

Wilbur's throat was too tight for him to answer properly, the traitor. He nodded, trying to keep his expression open.

"Hmm." Greene eyed him appraisingly. There was a long moment of silence, thick and heavy, settling into the cracks of Wilbur’s wounds. "Well," he said eventually, "whether that's true or not, I doubt it will come to anything that drastic."

What? That hadn’t been what he was expecting at all. Wilbur frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm here today because I want to offer you a deal," the Chief stated.

It tasted like danger, sour and sweet and familiar all at once. "What sort of deal?"

"Quite an easy one for you, I hope. You and Mr. Innit give your full testimony to the department and serve as witnesses in the trial against Dream. In exchange, the prosecution for your trial drops as many charges as they can and settles with the two of you for the barest minimum penalties on all other charges accrued while this whole fiasco has gone down, instead of playing hardball."

The proposal was like an apple dangled in front of a starving man. The chief was throwing him a lifeline, one better than he’d dared hope for. Several of their charges were not small. If the prosecution went all out and won, which was the likely outcome, it would mean jail time. "What sort of 'minimum penalties'?"

"Community service for you both, maybe a fine or a probation of some kind. No jail time, though."

Wilbur ran his tongue across his teeth. He wanted to say yes, to grab on to the chance to stay with Tommy instead of having to fight through the hell of court cases that the department would put them through. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t just agree, he had to think it through. His guard still had to be up. It had been up for weeks, months. He could hold it together. There were risks, of course. Openly testifying against the leader of the mob would put a massive target on their backs. Though, it could hardly be much bigger than it already was, could it? After all, it was going to come out eventually. "Can you promise no jail time? Is that even something you can promise?"

Greene nodded. "I ran it past the lawyers. They could make it work. If you take the deal, officially, then yeah."

Wilbur looked away. The deal kept him from having to make moves to keep Tommy out of hot water. It kept them together . It let him stay involved in the case. His heart jumped at that. Nerves, maybe. Fear or excitement, he couldn’t tell. Did he still want to be involved? It had nearly gotten both of them killed. It was more than anything they'd ever signed up for, by far.

But that didn't really change his answer, did it? He hadn't backed down when he'd started to realize what danger they were in. Tommy had never been one to retreat, either, even if Wilbur would have to talk it over with him.

And that was assuming the Chief wasn't lying to him. It would be a clever move on the department's part, surely. Secure their testimony, then have something unexpected come up in their trial process, and suddenly it'd be two sets of criminals behind bars. His fingers curled into the sheet beneath him as his gaze returned to Greene. "And you're negotiating in good faith?"

Greene nodded. "I am. Look," he sighed. "As far as I can tell, you and Innit aren't the bad guys here. You went out of your way to keep people from getting hurt wherever you could. You guys were the ones who cracked this, not us. Without you guys, the Mob and everything that Schlatt's done would have stayed buried for decades, if we ever found it at all. And, you're civilians who got hurt during an ongoing investigation." He shrugged, mouth quirking into a wry smile. "I want to keep this from affecting you more than it already has. I want to try and help, I want to see if I can fix any of this. So, yeah. I'm here in good faith, trying to help you. If I could send you out of here with no charges and no testimonies and no trial, I would. But I can't. The department can't just not pursue a case because I don't think the person who committed the crime is a bad person. And the DA can't go easy for no reason either. Hence, testimony. You get what I'm saying?"

Wilbur nodded, struggling to quell the hope that was blossoming in his chest. The deal that Greene was proposing made sense. Greene didn't look like he was lying, and his reasoning was sound. Wilbur had worked with him before, and he'd seen the man's humanity enough to trust that he meant what he said about wanting to help them. He took a measured breath. "I'll have to talk it over with Tommy."

"Naturally," The Chief acquiesced.

"But, yes, at first glance, that sounds…amenable," Wilbur continued, placing both hands in his lap. "We'd want it in writing, of course."

"Yes, of course. Nothing's binding until you sign."

Wilbur nodded carefully. "Okay. Well. That's…thank you."

"Of course," Chief Greene repeated. "I can have something sent to you and Innit as soon as possible."

"Cool."

"Great. Well." The Chief rested his palms on his knees briefly, looking mildly out of place. It was rather amusing, Wilbur thought, to see the typically powerful man look as if he didn’t belong in the crisp environment of a hospital room. Then Greene stood, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I'll, uh, be out of your way, then. Um. Good luck. With the recovering. Both you and Mr. Innit."

Wilbur grinned, letting the bed lower back to its fully reclined position. "Heh. Thanks. And good luck to you, with the…aftermath."

"Thanks." Chief Greene left, closing the door behind him. There was a short conversation outside the door, and then footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Well. Well, well, well. Wasn't that interesting. Hope still beat at the inside of his chest, bright and shining. They could maybe actually pull this off. He’d been careful to hide his worries from Tommy. It was hardly Tommy’s fault that they were in hot water, so it wouldn’t be his problem to solve. But, deep down, he’d had the sinking feeling that things were going to fall apart. They wouldn’t be able to pull the footage apart, or Dream would find a way to slip out from under the charges, or the police would arrive at their recovery room with handcuffs and cold recitations of legal rights. But, now, they were going to be okay. They were going to be okay. He’d make sure of it, no matter what. 

Wilbur glanced at the clock on the wall. He had an hour or so until Tommy showed up. That was plenty of time to stew things over. He wanted to be sure there was no angle he was missing, no hidden barbs or plots that the department could be using. He wouldn't know for sure until they saw the contract, of course, but, well. He could turn the problem over in his head until then.

On the television, someone's prize wheel landed next to the jackpot. He let the sound wash over him as he settled back on the pillows, deep in thought.

"Good evening," announced the man on the television screen, "and welcome to your TwitchNews evening report. Today's headlines: police department explains the full context of the death of Mayor Schlatt, linking him to mob activity; Private Detectives Wilbur Soot and Thomas Innit are cleared of murder charges; a trial date is set for the criminal known as Dream; and more than twenty arrests made in the past 24 hours related to alleged organized crime. I'm Walter Krondale, don't touch that dial."

The screen flashed the logo for the news station as the intro music chimed.

"The police department released several statements today at a press conference, finally beginning to provide clarity on the chaotic case that has rocked the city for the past two weeks."

The screen transitioned to show clips of the Chief of Police at a lectern in front of a crowd of reporters. "Late Mayor Schlatt was killed last week in a standoff with officers outside his home in West Oaks. Officers were summoned to his home when Late Mayor Schlatt used his panic button. When they arrived, officers found the Late Mayor Schlatt and the criminal Clay Mitchell holding fugitives Wilbur Soot and Thomas Innit at gunpoint. Neither Mitchell nor Mayor Schlatt heeded officers' warnings to put down their weapons. Mayor Schlatt was intoxicated and enraged. Soot, Innit, and Mayor Schlatt were injured in the conflict. Mayor Schlatt died at the scene despite the best efforts of those nearby. Soot and Innit were transported to the hospital and treated for their injuries. The hospital has told me they will make a full recovery." The clip cut and shifted to another. "Since then, the department has uncovered evidence clearing Soot and Innit from charges related to the murder of Alex Quackity, and instead indicating that Mayor Schlatt was the one to kill his assistant." The crowd of reporters surrounding the chief began shouting, but the chief held up his hand to silence them. "Furthermore, the department has obtained evidence that indicates Mayor Schlatt’s involvement in a wide variety of organized criminal activities, and that he, in tandem with Mitchell, worked to continue those activities while in office." The crowd once again began to shout. "A full investigation is underway, and the public will be kept informed of major developments."

The screen switched back to the reporter. "The department has Mitchell in custody awaiting trial, which is now set for five months from now. In the meantime, he will be held in Pandora Penitentiary with the full rights of an unconvicted inmate. However, as the main suspect in close to a dozen other cases, it seems unlikely that he will ever set foot outside as a free man. The police department stated they were ready to pursue justice to the full extent of the law."

The screen shifted again, illuminated with photos of Mayor Schlatt during his campaign and time in office, as well as footage from the aftermath of the police encounter. "However, the charges levied against the Late Mayor Schlatt are perhaps the most startling revelation of the evening, and provide insight into the chaos that has run rampant in the city this week. The police appear to have made full use of this new lead on organized crime, with more than twenty arrests in the past twenty four hours, and close to fifty over the course of the week, all tied to alleged mob activity. It is still unclear whether the department has found any other potential ringleaders, and how deep this rabbit hole will go."

The news anchor appeared on screen, arms resting on a small set of papers atop a dark desk. "What evidence could the police have found in Mayor Schlatt's house? When can we expect comments from Private Detectives Soot and Innit? Plus, interviews with expert criminologists Dr. McChill and Dr. Hutt about the extent of organized crime that could be uncovered. All that and more, after the break."

In the rooftop garden of a hospital in the middle of the city, two young men sat side by side, gentle wind brushing across their faces. One was in a wheelchair, at the direction of his physician. The other, younger by a few years, was seated on a bench, a crutch propped up next to him. The blond haired boy on the bench leaned his head back, letting the pleasant saffron sunshine wash over him. "How long do you think we have?" .

The man in the wheelchair brushed brown hair out of his eyes. "Hmm?"

"'till they start grilling us," the first clarified.

"Oh," replied the other. "Uh. I'm not sure. A week or two, probably."

"That's not a lot of fuckin' time, is it?"

"More than the minimum, though. They're trying."

"I guess."

Car horns blared on the streets below them. A bird warbled a happy tune somewhere in a nearby bush.

"Do you think they'll let us help on the case?" the blond one asked after a moment.

"What, the aftermath and stuff?"

"Yeah, rounding up the other big bosses, figuring out their plans n' shit."

The other one hesitated, shifting to look over at him. "…Do you want that?"

The blond darted up like he’d been stabbed by a needle of pure adrenaline. "Fuck yes, are you kidding? That would be so cool."

His companion laughed lightly, gazing back out over the garden. "Yeah, it would. Dangerous, though. I don't want to…I dunno. Jump back into it lightly."

"Oh fuck off. We've lived through this ."

"Barely."

The young man on the bench pointed an accusing finger at him. "Shut the fuck up."

"I am right, though."

"Fuck you, man."

The brown haired man laughed again, then reached over carefully to squeeze one of the others’ hands in his. "Sorry, Toms."

"Fuck off, no you're not."

"No, I'm not."

The younger sighed, squeezing the hand back. "We'd be working with the department, though. Not against them."

"That's true. It would be a nice change of pace."

The younger one cackled at that. "You say that like we've been on the run our whole lives."

"Well it sure feels like it, doesn't it."

"Oh, yes, in the course of one week, you became Wilbur Soot, hardened criminal, outlaw!"

His companion laughed harder at that. "Oh, shut up! You know what I meant."

"Well, are you saying you don't want to, then?"

There was a moment of hesitation. The brown haired man tipped his head side to side, considering. "No, no I'm not. I want to see this through, too. It's bigger than either of us, now. I'm just…worried."

"Heh. You've, you've got a right to be, I guess."

"Mhm."

"But you're in, though?"

"I'd be in, yes. With caution."

"That's, that's so poggers, Wil."

"God, you’re fucking insufferable."

"I'm very sufferable. I'm the most sufferable man alive. That's my middle name. Tommy 'Sufferable' Innit."

"I thought your middle name was 'danger kraken'?"

"Fuck you! Don't mock my name!"

"I'm not mocking anything, I'm just asking!" The man in the wheelchair laughed.

"I should, I should -- uugh. I should burn your house to the ground."

"You won't."

"Only because it's my house too, bitch."

"We should find some time to get away, though," the older said, ignoring him.

"What do you mean?"

"Y'know. Leave. Not have to work. Go rest somewhere, see some sights."

"They won't let us. The department. Too dangerous for us, they'll fuckin' say, but they want to keep us close, I bet. Witnesses n' that."

"Well, now, sure. But maybe after some of this calms down."

The other sighed. "I mean, sounds good to me, big man. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know. Maybe Vienna. I haven't been there in a long time."

The blond boy glanced at him, studied the garden, was quiet for a moment. He nodded slowly. "You know, I think I'd really like that."

"It's a plan, then."

The breeze picked up again, rustling through the leaves and grass. The pair lapsed into a comfortable silence, enjoying the weather. There would be work to do, eventually. But they would do it together, and it would be work worth doing.

. . . 

Authorization accepted. Accessing file…

…

…

File #: 559394654-289-A-evd01

Format: Audio File and Transcription

Attachments: 559394654-289-A_audio.mp3, 559394654-289-A_transcription.pdf

Submitted in conjunction with:

559394654-289-A [Request for tracking and surveillance warrant]

559394654-289-A-add01 [Prison visitation identification and liability forms]

Notes:

Audio and transcription pulled from prison recording equipment of meeting between Prisoner 7-82-1 (Inmate) and Visitor (Visitor). Both parties were aware that the conversation was monitored and recorded.

559394654-289-A_transcription.pdf 

[click]

[click]

Inmate: You came.

Visitor: Genius observation. Congratulations.

Inmate: I take it my letter found you in good time.

Visitor: That's not why I'm here.

Inmate: Isn't it?

Visitor: No, I wanted to see you rotting in here myself.

Inmate: So you would have come anyway? That's so kind of you.

[brief silence, breathing]

Inmate: You're not wearing my ring.

Visitor: It's not your ring, it's my ring.

Inmate: There's a tan line there, though. You have been wearing it but you aren't now.

Visitor: [overlapping] I don't wear it.

Inmate: Why aren't you wearing it? Scared someone would notice?

Visitor: [overlapping] I don't fucking wear it!

Inmate: Sure, okay. You don't wear it.

Visitor: I don't.

Inmate: C'mon, Fundy. You don't have to lie to me.

Visitor: I'm not lying!

Inmate: You are. You can't lie to me, Fundy, I know you too well.

Visitor: You don't know me anymore.

Inmate: Oh, what, you've changed?

Visitor: I have, actually.

Inmate: Oh, come on. People don't change that much, sweetheart.

Visitor: You don't get to fucking call me that anymore.

Inmate: Ooo, did I touch a nerve?

Visitor: I fucking hate you, you know that?

Inmate: And yet, here you are.

Visitor: Y'know what, I don't have to listen to you anymore! I should just walk away.

Inmate: Oh come on, you're not going to do that.

Visitor: Why not? Why not, huh? You're on the other side of that fucking glass. There's nothing, nothing , you can do to me. You can't stop me anymore. I can just walk away.

Inmate: But you're not going to.

Visitor: Why the fuck not? Why am I not going to do that?

Inmate: Well, we still haven't caught up properly yet, have we?

Visitor: The fuck do you--

Inmate: Oh, but so much has happened since we last saw each other! You moved, right?

Visitor: I never told you that.

Inmate: [overlapping] To that little two-bedroom place on Northwest 18th Street. And you haven't even told me about how Dannon's doing! You know how much I just love the little guy. Except, he wouldn't be so little now, would he. You adopted him, what, three years ago? Which would make him five.

[brief silence, breathing]

Inmate: Gosh, how time flies. He just started at a new pre-school this year, didn't he? He gets out at three but sometimes you can't go get him until three thirty, right? But that's alright. More time for him to spend with his new friends.

[silence]

Visitor: I'm out. I told you I was out. For good. I meant that.

Inmate: No, sweetheart, you left . You thought there wouldn't be consequences for that? No. You're out when I fucking say you're out.

Visitor: You're a monster! You're a piece of shit.

Inmate: I'm really not. It's been a while since we've spoken. Your memories might be a bit clouded.

Visitor: Heh. People don't change that much.

Inmate: Hmm.

[silence]

Visitor: [quietly] What do you want?

Inmate: It's really not that big of a deal. You're building it up into something it's not.

Visitor: What. Do you want.

Inmate: I want you to find George and tell him that Phase Two is still a go.

Visitor: I-- wh-- I don't know where George is! The entire police force is trying to find him, Dream! He's not, like, holding office hours.

Inmate: I've got faith in you, Fundy.

Visitor: No, hang on, George hates my guts. You-- you know all the shit that went down. He tried to dismember me last time I saw him.

Inmate: He's expecting a message from me. Faster you find him, less pissy he'll be. I wouldn't dawdle, if I were you.

Visitor: I could just go to the police with this.

Inmate: But you won't. You're not going to take that risk, Fundy. You're going to bet on the competence of the police? You think they can protect you? It's a dangerous world, Fundy. No. You're going to avoid the police. You're not going to get caught, and you're not going to get anyone else caught either.

Visitor: This-- fuck. This conversation's being fucking recorded. They’ve heard all this shit. You've fucking-- they-- I need to--

Inmate: A little extra challenge, I guess. I'm sure you'll be able to deliver, especially with…such high stakes. I know you can do it.

[Silence, uneven breathing]

Visitor: This is going to ruin my life, Dream. I'm going to have to move, change…everything. I'm…I can't…

Inmate: [quietly] The offer's still open, you know.

Visitor: What?

Inmate: Look, I never-- I didn't want us to be on opposite sides. I never wanted to hurt you. I'm not your enemy.

Visitor: Yeah? You've got a shit way of showing it.

Inmate: I'm just-- saying. The offer's still open. You don’t have to run.

[brief silence]

Visitor: Yeah. Yeah, I do.

[brief silence]

Visitor: Am I out after this or are you going to keep your fucking threads on me?

Inmate: We can…we can call this our debt settled.

Visitor: And that means I'm out? I want to hear you say it.

Inmate: Yeah. You-- yeah. After this, you're out. You can tell George I said so.

Visitor: Good. I don't ever want to see you again

Inmate: I'll miss you, too.

Visitor: You-- I hope you rot in here. You deserve it.

[brief silence]

[click]

Inmate: Goodbye, Fundy.

[click]

Audio file ends.