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Glasses of champagne click together. Tinkling laughter floats through the air of the ballroom. The rich and powerful make small talk, draped in the finest fabrics and jewels money could by. The whole room is extravagant, with marble pillars and gilded carvings. A massive crystal and gold chandelier swings overhead, sending sparkles of brilliant light scattering across the room. The scents of imported cigars, pungent perfumes, and overpriced liquor mix in the air and lay heavy over the whole room.
Uniformed staff filter in and out, carrying trays of drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and other fancy rich people foods. They mingle between the attendees and serve their every need. When not needed, they blend into the beige paint on the walls, acting more like props than people. The partygoers barely give them a glance, deeming them unworthy of their valuable time and attention.
Ranboo tugs at the stiff, starched collar of the uniform shirt, a large bead of sweat trickling down his neck. His scalp twinges under his wig. As much as he wishes he’d grabbed a better fitting one before they left, he was running low on time. A lock of synthetic brown hair falls into his artificially brown eyes. He tries to resist the urge to rub at them, his fingers twitching under the heavy serving platter, piled high with some sort of weird fish and fruit pastry thing. Gross rich people food. The stupid contact lenses are an unfortunate necessity for his line of work, but still beyond irritating. And giving into the urge to rub would smear the heavy layer of foundation Tommy had helped him apply. Which would make this whole plan a lot harder than it already is.
“Eyes on the prize, Blinky Boy.” Drista’s voice crackles in his ear, dragging him out of his thoughts. He stamps down the urge to flinch, though his heart jumps straight into his throat. Apparently he didn’t stamp down hard enough, as a giggle fliters through the speaker. “Politician dude is on the move.”
The man of the hour, Mason Cartwright, wanders his way through the crowd, shaking hands and chatting. Running for office takes money, and money means fundraisers. He commands the attention of the room, drawing eyes away from the gaudy decor and preening crowd. Ranboo can’t help but roll his eyes at the laughable display. His smile is blinding, if unbelievably fake, and his eyes just barely conceal his utter contempt. Anyone attempting to run for any political office has to do the “schmooze and smile” bullshit with the rich, but they’re usually a little bit better with the “schmooze” part.
“Oooooh, and there’s shady businesses man. Lurking in the corners all shady-like.” Drista comments.
Alexander Percy leans against a far wall, champagne flute held loose in his left hand and right hand tucked in his pants pocket. He watches over the whole scene with a careful indifference. His eyes track Mason as he schmoozes and charms. While his whole body is relaxed and carefree, Ranboo can see the calculating look in his eye. The way he surveys the crowd looking for weak points and vulnerabilities. He tenses when Percy glances over him, and only lets his muscles relax when his gaze slides right off. Like it always does.
“So Blink, you still remember the plan?” Drista asks.
“Get close to Percy, snag his phone, insert the dongle, get the hell out of dodge.” Ranboo recites, the fingers of his free hand messing with the little plastic and metal wedge in his jacket pocket. Someone snickers at the word dongle. Drista ignores them.
“At least one of you listens during debriefs.”
“Wait, what was Blink’s alias again? Joe something.” Tubbo questions. He can hear the clack of the hacker’s keyboard as he bulldozes through whatever security programs are in the way.
“It’s John.” Ranboo whispers in response. A passing woman gives him a disgusted look down her nose, the sapphire fabric of her dress swishing in her wake and jewelry tinkling. He grimaces and swallows the reflexive apology. Drista and Tommy have been trying to get him to stop, going on about the “backbone of a chocolate eclair” or something. He doesn’t quite understand their efforts, but he’s willing to try.
“Did you think of a surname at least?” Purpled snarks. There’s a metallic echo while he talks. He's on the rooftop, waiting to make his way down.
Embarrassment bubbles up Ranboo’s throat. He just hopes he’s not as red as he feels he is. Hopefully the makeup is hiding most of it. “… John.”
“John what?” Drista questions, voice suddenly distant. Probably leaning away from her mic to speak to Tubbo back at base. He doesn’t reply. His face is burning.
His face grows even hotter at a familiar bark of laughter. “Wait, you’re joking. You can’t be serious.” Tommy snickers. “Of all the possible names you could have come up with, you named yourself John John?!”
“I was panicking! And you people didn’t help!” He struggled to keep his voice down, eyes roaming the ballroom. Everyone still ignores him. His chest looses slightly.
“What’s wrong with Terrance? Or Henry? Or Clementine?” Tommy’s voice pitches in outrage. Ranboo cringes as the audio peaks and feedback screeches in his ear.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Sarcasm drips from every syllable Purpled speaks. There’s a garbled shout of something from Tommy’s end, followed by Tubbo’s cackles. Vaguely, Ranboo can hear wind and car horns through his earpiece, as well as the soft hiss of rope through a carabiner. No doubt Purpled rappeling from the rooftop, getting in position to breach Percy’s office.
“At least it wasn’t Ranbob.” Drista sing-songs.
Ranboo groans under his breath. “That was one time.”
Drista snorts. “Doesn’t matter. Still funny.”
“I hate you all.”
“No you don’t!” Tubbo crows. If he wasn’t in the middle of a massive, crowded ballroom, he’d be curled up in a corner trying to avoid his problems.
“You love us.”
“Get your heads outta your asses. Percy’s moving.” Drista snaps. Ice water floods Ranboo’s veins. He's doing this. He's really doing this. A fog of panic starts swirling in his head. His breathing speeds up, near hyperventilating, until familiar voices cut through.
“Don’t die. That would be less than ideal.”
“You got this, Boob Man!”
“Go get ‘im Blinky!”
“Kick his ass!”
“You guys are ridiculous.” Despite his exasperation, his embarrassment, and his overwhelming anxiety, each quip sent a shot of warmth through his core. He’d been running with this group for a few months, and while he’s had decent luck with the ones before, the idea that there were people willing to stand behind him and cheer was novel. Novel, but far from unwelcome.
He squares his shoulders, hefts the serving platter higher, and starts towards Percy.
Percy doesn’t even notice when Ranboo nears, engrossed in a conversation with some bank owner. The words “inflation” and “short” and “embezzlement” filter in one ear and out the other. Sweat collects under his white gloves as he positions himself behind the businessman. A deep breath.
Go time.
He digs his toe into the rug as deep as he can, flailing his arms around as he topples to the floor. The serving platter goes flying, fish and fruit and pastry raining down on the nearby partygoers. Champagne flutes shatter as they’re dropped, women shriek and scatter, the band crashes to a halt.
In the middle of it all, Percy stands frozen, covered in fish mousse and fruit chunks. He levels a terrifying glare at Ranboo.
Ranboo plays up the cowering and sniveling as other servers come rushing to Percy’s aid. In his ear, Drista is howling with laugher. Ranboo has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from joining. He rushes towards Percy, making a big show of brushing off all of the food. A crowd gathers to see the commotion.
“Sir, I am so, so sorry about that. Please, let me help you with your coat.”
“Do not touch me, you insignificant fool!” Percy snaps. As Ranboo brushes down Percy’s jacket, he deftly grasps the edge of a cellphone from his pocket. He backs off, eyes lowered in submission as Percy berates him. Nimble fingers quickly plug Tubbo’s device into the phone.
Ranboo can’t help but smirk.
Hook, line, sinker.
“Gotcha!”
As soon as Ranboo inserts the device, Tubbo sets to work. The password encryption is laughably weak, especially for some paranoid businessman. It barely takes a second before he’s in, combing through files.
While his cellphone’s protection is basic, his network isn’t. The whole building is disconnected from the internet, closed off from the outside world. Which means to get into the files they need, they have to access Percy’s computer itself. Which has a failsafe that would wipe the whole thing if it senses tampering. It’s hardly the most complicated system, but just complicated enough that it’s fun. A little treat just for him.
Plus he has a little present for the guy. A thank you for the fun.
“Alrighty, server bomb thingy’s all set up and ready to go.” Tommy reports.
“Oh sweet!”
Press a button, and every computer connected to the servers is bricked. And if he’s lucky, the building will explode.
Drista types away beside him, blond hair lit green. She and Tommy chatter about something the server bomb does as she guides him back to the car. Or at least, says she’s guiding him to the car.
Tubbo rolls his eyes, a foreign fondness rising in his chest. He never expected to care for a crew, never thought he’d fight tooth and nail for other people. Never thought he’d have someone to pull him back from the darkness, keep him grounded and stable and steady, care for him when no one else did. Now he does. And while it’s weird and kind of unnerving having someone care about him, he wouldn’t want to trade any of them for the world.
Purpled grouches. “Any day now would be ideal, Buzz. Not like I’m freezing on the outside of a building or anything.”
“We told you to bring a coat you moron!”
“Well I didn’t listen!”
“The alarms are disabled. You can go in the office, dumbass.”
“No one told me that!”
Tubbo tunes out the bickering, humming to himself as he copies various files, quickly sending the password to Purpled’s cell. Now that part is all in their thief’s hands. Download the files, upload the virus, and presto!
This Percy guy really thought he was king of the world or something. Nothing on here had any kind of protection beyond a simple passcode, and each one was “password123”. People like this should not be in charge of multinational corporations. Extortion, smuggling, conspiracy, you name it, Tubbo found evidence connected to it. He has to admit, he is a little impressed by the sheer number of crimes being committed. That kind of dedication is rare. Of course, the fact that he kept every single shred of evidence wasn’t lost on him. Even the stupidest criminals try to hide their paper trails, some more successfully than others. Percy seems to be either incredible stupid, incredibly arrogant, or both. Probably both.
Tommy and Drista are bitching about something over the coms. Drista probably lead Tommy into a dead end again. Tubbo snorts. The files they need are almost copied and secure. Let them have their fun.
And that’s when he sees a file and a string of messages and his heart stops dead.
Drista is having the time of her life. Her touch screens are covered in various security camera feeds and location data. Tommy is screaming in her ear about being lead into a random part of the building. It’s not her fault it’s so funny when he’s mad.
“You have to be fucking kidding me!” Drista flinches at Tubbo’s sudden outburst. She looks over to see his fingers flying over the keyboard faster than ever, hitting each key far more aggressively than normal. She can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyebrows are pinched, and knows that whatever he’s found, it can’t be good. The others start shouting over the coms when they hear him. Three voices layer over one another, the feedback crackling so she can’t tell who says what.
“What?”
“What’s going on?”
“Did something happen?”
“You’re not serious!” He squints at one of his screens, mouth curled in a snarl. Drista wheels her chair over, peering at whatever he’s looking at.
“Let me see-“ Her eyes grow wide and her heart stops. Her voice wavers slightly when she speaks. “Oh shit. That’s not good.” That’s one hell of an understatement.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Tommy demands, breaking through the noise. The concern in his voice is obvious, even through the slight static of his microphone. It’s a concern the others never want to hear. The kind that only shows up when he knows, almost instinctively, that something has gone very, very wrong.
“Nightmare sent a fucking calling card!” Tubbo spits the words like a curse. Drista chews her lip as she stares at the line of messages on the screen, emails between Percy and his head of security.
“Wait, what?” Ranboo’s whispering, still stuck in the crowded ballroom, but panic is starting to bleed into his tone.
“Of course he fucking did!” The quiet tak-tak-tak of the keyboard stops on Purpled’s line. She can almost see him throwing his hands up in frustration.
“When?” Tommy demands. There’s a sliver of something in his voice that sends a shiver crawling up Drista’s spine. Something dangerous and angry. She always forgets how long Tommy’s been in the game. And that under the jokes and the volume, he has the skills necessary to survive.
“Two days ago. Percy apparently beefed up his security since then. There’s receipts here from every contractor in the business. You name it, he’s installed it.” Tubbo clicks through screen after screen of email chains and text messages. The images blur as they fly past Drista’s eyes, almost making her nauseous.
“That shouldn’t be a problem though?” Ranboo questions.
“It’s not. We prepped for that kinda bullshit. What is a problem…” Tubbo trails off, eyes fixated on something on her setup. She glances back over her shoulder and her stomach drops. As if things couldn’t get any worse.
“…Is the thirty-odd meatheads headed Swipe’s way,” She finishes, staring at the security feed. They lumber through the monochrome office hallways, slowly but surely making their way to the penthouse office. The office where Purpled is. Completely outnumbered. Completely vulnerable.
Completely alone.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tommy mutters under his breath.
Purpled sighs, frustration radiating through his com. “Of course they are. This whole job was starting to feel way too fucking easy.”
“Just bail. We can try again some other time.” Ranboo suggests.
“No can do.” Carpet-muffled footsteps echo over Purpled’s com. “The virus is still uploading.”
Tubbo and Drista share a horrified look. Blood drains from both of their faces, leaving them pale and ghostly in the light of their screens. Tommy makes a strangled noise.
“Shit.”
“Oh fuck.”
“Goddamnit.”
“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds bad. Is it bad?” Ranboo whispers. Through her feed of the ballroom, she can see him running nervous fingers through the synthetic hair of his wig.
“It means he’s stuck there until it’s done.” Tommy answers as Tubbo continues to type furiously.
“Well, why can’t he just leave it there? It’s not like we can’t afford another thumb drive.”
“That’s not the problem.” Tubbo bites out. He’s vibrating with rage, shoulders drawn up to his ears. “If they manage to get to the computer before it finishes the upload, they can reverse any damage it may have done. And they’ll know someone was here.”
“Making this whole effort absolutely fucking pointless.” Drista interjects.
Purpled groans. “We are so fucked.”
“So what the hell do we do?!” Ranboo whisper-yells.
The question hangs in the silence. No one dares to say anything. Drista’s stomach rolls with anxiety, trying desperately not to puke on the computers. She could care less about the job, about the potential paycheck or the reputation boost. There are plenty of other jobs, and they aren’t going to just stop stealing shit for the fun of it. But one of their own, one of their family, is trapped between a rock and a hard place, with the wolves steadily closing in. Ranboo breathes shakily in the mic, teetering on the edge of some kind of anxiety attack. Drista feels something similar coil in her stomach, growing larger by the second. Tubbo’s hands shake from where they hover over his keyboard, eyes locked on his screens. She can hear Purpled start pacing in the office, footsteps muffled on the carpet.
Tommy shatters the silence. “What we always do. We improvise.”
His voice is steely, leaving no room for argument. Gone is Tommy the hitter, full of lighthearted bragging and banter. In his place is Tommy the strategist, deadly serious and laser-focused. Whose only goal is to keep everyone alive and in one piece. When she hears the switch, Drista can feel the panic that had been blooming in her gut shrivel up and die. In the corner of her eye, she sees Tubbo straighten in his chair, face determined and hands balled into fists. Ranboo’s erratic breathing over the mic steadies significantly, and the sound of Purpled’s pacing halts. When he speaks again, he has their full attention.
“Swipe, are you still in the office?”
“No, I’m chilling on a beach in Tahiti — Yes I’m still in the goddamn office!” Through the thick blanket of sarcasm, Drista can pick up on the slight wobble in Purpled’s tone. Not that she blames him. Anyone stuck in a tiny box with three dozen hired thugs just outside the door is allowed to be a little bit anxious.
“Hide. I’m on my way up to you.”
Purpled groans again, but they can all hear the hint of relief lacing the edge. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” he mutters before his com goes quiet.
Tommy doesn’t acknowledge the quip. He’s all business, moving on to Drista with a curt, “Grin, you still have the building schematics up, right?“
“Yeah.” She wheels back over to her desk, flicking through file after file until she finds the one she’s looking for. “Yeah, I have them.”
“Find me the quickest way upstairs as fast as possible. I’m gonna need you to tell me where the fuck I’m going. It’s a goddamn maze down here.” She lets out a strained laugh.
“Will do, boss man.” After a quick search through her open programs, she finds her GPS tracker. Tommy’s steady red dot pulses on the screen, still down in the building’s basement. At least thirty stories below Purpled. She plugs in some data and plots the quickest route up. “You’re about fifteen minutes away. If you book it, we can cut it to five. Head to the right, there’s a service elevator. The third door on the left hand side.”
Tubbo pipes up. “We’ll do what we can to slow them down from here.”
“Good. Keep those fuckers occupied. Blink.” Ranboo makes a small questioning noise. “Everyone downstairs needs to stay downstairs. Especially Percy. Find a way to keep them there. If anyone comes up, we’re fucked.”
“We’re pretty fucked already,” Tubbo points out. He sounds far from his usual level of sass, but the quip breaks a little bit of the tension.
Tommy snorts. “Then we’ll be even more fucked. Fucked beyond belief. Fucked into another plane of existence.”
“What do you want me to do? Its not like I can shout ‘Hey, all you fancy and powerful people! Don’t go upstairs, that would be a very bad idea I think!’ or something.” Despite Tubbo’s remark, Ranboo still sounds near tears.
Tommy makes a sound like he’s going to respond, but something in Drista snaps. She slams a hand on her desk and snarls, “We don’t have time for this, just think of something! Cause some kind of disturbance! Left at the next corridor, Crash, then take the second staircase up fourteen floors.” Focus now, panic later. When everyone’s back home. Safe.
“Pull it back, Grin.” Tommy orders has he throws himself through the stairwell door. “We’re all freaked, but don’t lose your cool.” Drista rubs at her eyes and continues to guide him upstairs. Her cool is long gone at this point, probably somewhere in the stratosphere, but she doesn’t have the time or energy to say something.
“What kind of disturbance?” Ranboo sounds… well, not calm. He still sounds terrified. But he’s stopped hyperventilating, at least. She makes a note in the back of her head to apologize for snapping. When none of them are in immediate danger of dying.
“You could always blow something up.” Tubbo points out, typing away at some kind of chaos.
“Why is that always your first idea!?”
“I mean, it works! Most of the time. Well, some of the time…”
“For the love of all that is holy, do not blow something up. The absolute last thing we need right now is a ton of cops skulking around.” Tommy stresses. He’s panting a little. Drista thinks he’s most likely taking the stairs two at a time.
“Well, what do you suggest?” Tubbo demands. “Pretending to faint isn’t gonna cut it, and I really doubt yelling ‘fire’ will do much of anything.”
“Probably not.” Ranboo is quiet for a moment. They all can hear the gears turning in his head. “But I know what will… and it’s gonna suck so much.”
The tension in the room skyrockets. There’s no noise aside from Tommy’s harsh breathing and the low hum of an air conditioner from Purpled’s com. Tubbo’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. Drista peeks over and sees a strange, almost horrified look on his face. His voice is nothing but a rasp when he asks, “Wait, what are you planning?”
Ranboo doesn’t respond. Drista chances a glance at the ballroom feed. His shoulders are set, and he’s staring at the refreshment table. And the full pitcher of water. Her blood turns to ice.
Oh fuck.
“Please tell me you’re joking.” Tubbo practically begs. All he gets in response is silence. “Of course you’re not. Fuck.”
“Just trust me on this.”
“I hope to god you know what you’re doing.”
“Honestly, me too.”
Drista digs her teeth into her lip as Tubbo gnaws on his thumbnail. Dread fills her lungs as she watches Tommy’s location dot slowly move closer and closer to Purpled’s, and as Ranboo moves closer and closer to the water pitcher. Please, please, please let this work. She can’t lose another crew. Not again.
“What is Blink doing?” Tommy demands. He loathes multipart jobs like this, hates being so far from the others than he can’t get to them if something goes wrong. He can’t even see what Ranboo’s doing. His mind is running at a million minds an hour, worst case scenarios flashing behind his eyes. Why were the server rooms so fucking far from the rest of the offices? Seems like poor design if you asked him. He skids around the corner, the rubber soles of his Converse squeaking in protest.
Drista whispers in his ear a moment later. “He’s getting a water pitcher.”
Fuck.
“Fuck.”
“I’ll be fine.” Ranboo doesn’t sound sure. “It’s just my arms.”
“We can figure out something else!” Drista insists. Tommy throws the door open with a little more force than necessary. It bangs against the wall with a metallic clang as he shoots past. His heart pounds in his head, feet in time with the rhythm. Every fucking hall in this stupid fucking place looks the fucking same it’s absolutely ridiculous. He’s going to have a talk with the interior designer later.
“No time.” Tubbo says. His voice is devoid of emotion. “There’s someone headed to the elevators.”
“How do we know if they’re on the way up?! They could just be going to the bathroom or something?” Drista asks.
“Do you really want to take that chance?” Tubbo spits. “There’s nothing else we can do from here!”
“Shut off the lights! Turn on the fire alarm! There has to be something!”
“It’ll take too long. I’m doing this.”
Tommy cringes and speeds up and barrels up the staircase. He counts each flight as he goes. His lungs are tight, his legs ach, but he can’t afford to stop. If he stops, they’re dead.
Remember, kid. This is your fault.
You were too slow.
And they paid for it.
Your fault.
Your fault.
Your fault.
A pained gasp from the com throws Tommy back to the present just in time to keep from smashing face first into a wall. His com explodes with voices.
“Blink are you - wait, what?!”
“Surely not!”
“You did NOT just do what I think you did!”
“What happened?! Is he okay?” He has no idea what’s going on, or whether the disbelief from Tubbo and Drista is good or bad.
“He’s fucking dead when he gets home, that’s what he is!” Tubbo is furious.
“What. Happened.” He bites out. Drista answers, awe coloring her words.
“He fucking did! He shorted out the breaker! Everything’s down! Elevator, security cams, alarms, everything! I’m just barely getting a feed from in the ballroom but I can see him!” She giggles in glee at the chaos.
“Wait, what?”
“He’s fine, I think some of the water got on his arms but he’s okay. Probably have a rash for a few days, but nothing to serious.”
“FOR NOW!” Tubbo roars.
“His earpiece shorted out, we aren’t getting any audio from his end, but I think he can hear us.”
“IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, YOU FUCKING PRICK, I’M GONNA KILL YOU! CHOP YOU UP INTO LITTLE PIECES AND FEED YOU TO THE DOGS!”
“Buzz, we don’t even have dogs.” Tommy’s chest loosens significantly, taking a moment to relish the fact that Ranboo’s okay. Before swiftly pivoting back into recovery mode. “Blink, get back to the car. Make sure you patch yourself up. And good job.”
“He gave a thumb’s up and ducked out.”
One problem down, one very large one to go.
“Can you still see Swipe?”
“Yeah, it’s pixellated to all hell, but I can see him. They’re getting closer but they haven’t found him yet. We shut down the overhead lights so they shouldn’t be able to spot him for a while.”
“How far am I?”
“Couple more floors. Exit here and take the stairs all the way down the hall. It’s a straight shot to the top then.”
The door opens with a clang and he falls through, panting and searching with wild eyes for the right staircase. He finds it quickly.
A random guy is standing in the middle of it, completely oblivious to everything around him. Tommy takes a second to rage about the guy’s height. The dude’s a fucking pole or something, tall and skinnier than hell. His eyes are trained on the phone in his hand, lips pursed as he types out a message. He looks like an idiot, wearing a long brown coat with a pair of round metal glasses perched on his nose. A curtain of brown curls fall into his face. Tommy doesn’t have time to wonder how he’s able to see through all that hair. He pushes the guy out of the way with a shout.
“Outta the way, Baldie!”
“What the- WHO ARE YOU CALLING BALDIE?“ Baldie probably shouts something else, but Tommy doesn’t stick around and listen. He has better things to do. Better people to see. He smashes into the door and thunders up the stairs.
He reaches the top quickly, and presses himself against the wall next to the door. A small, dirty glass window shows the dark space inside. Vague shapes weave through the cubicles. Tommy’s lip curls. A hell of a lot of goons right there.
A lot have their hands resting on their hips, no doubt where their pistols sit. His chest throbs once, old wounds flaring in memory. He shoves back the cloud that tries to wrap around his head, trying to drag him back to before. He can’t afford to make mistakes. Purpled can’t afford his mistakes.
He balls his fists, wishes he didn’t leave his Bonk Stick in the car. Fucking Ranboo said he wouldn’t need the lead pipe for this kind of job, but Ranboo is stupid. Tommy is not stupid, no matter what Drista says. Going up against these many goons unarmed was probably a bad idea, but he’s Tommy Fucking Innit. Danger is one of his middle names!
One of the goons passes by the door, and Tommy shrinks away. If he gets caught now, he’ll never hear the end of it. He bumps into something thin and cold leaning up against the wall, but he manages to catch it before it falls to the ground. It’s a nasty looking push-broom, with all sorts of shit tangled in the bristles. He goes to lean it against the wall again when he pauses.
A toothy grin stretches across his face.
He has the best ideas ever.
Crammed in the the space beneath the desk, Purpled curses whatever god may be listening. The office is dark, the only sounds the humming of the air conditioning unit and his own ragged breathing.
He’s no slouch when it comes to a brawl. You don’t survive in the Pit or on the streets for years without skill. His win streak is a testament to that. He’s very, very good at what he does. But he’s not stupid. He’ll readily admit, taking on thirty randos in a tiny office space is a very, very dumb idea.
So here he is, stuffed under a desk in some asshole’s office, neck bent at a painful angle, legs pulled into his chest, ears straining to hear every little movement from beyond the glass walls of Percy’s office. Above him, the glow of screen reflects off the window pane, bright light contrasting against the dark city skyline. There’s a soft breeze from his entry point, cable thumping softly against the edge.
His com is silent. No clues as to where everyone else is. Or if someone is even coming to get him. He wishes the silence in his ear didn’t scare him as much as it did. Wishes he didn’t rely on his team so much. He’s better than this. He’s a fucking thief. One of the best. Better than Nightmare. (After this fiasco, it’s on fucking sight. No mercy). He doesn’t need someone feeding him intel from behind a screen, doesn’t need someone walking him through complicated computer bullshit, doesn’t need a distraction to draw suspicion away from him. Doesn’t need a rescue.
He’d really appreciate one though.
A radio crackles from out in the office space. He jumps, smacking the top of his head against the desk. Biting back a pained noise, he prods at the sore spot. Fuck. He needs coffee. A lot of it.
No one gets to lecture him about his addiction for at least a week after this. Maybe two.
Voices mumble and mutter amongst themselves. The goons are on the move. He swallows, willing the slight tremble in his hands. The knife tucked into his boot is looking very appealing right now. He’s not stupid, but he has a reputation to uphold. If he goes out fighting thirty meatheads, he goes out a legend.
The voices are closer now. Booted footsteps heavy against the carpet. Shaking fingers grasp the hilt of his knife and slide it from the sheath. Time for a blaze of glory.
One of the stairwell doors creaks open. All of the goons stop their advance. Purpled holds his breath. Doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t dare hope.
“Ayup, lads!”
He’ll take the rush of relief flooding his bloodstream to his fucking grave. God knows Tommy has a bloated ego as it stands. Purpled creeps out from beneath the desk, keeping to the shadows, and peers into the dimly lit office.
When Drista called them meatheads, she wasn’t kidding. All of them are massive, with biceps the size of his head. They’re spread out across the office, wielding heavy duty flashlights. He can see some have pistols strapped to their belts.
And there Tommy stands in all his scrawny glory, cocksure grin stretched across his face, lazily spinning a broomstick handle in his right hand. He looks like a toothpick in the middle of a forest. He shouts, “Let’s dance, pussies!” and pounces.
The handle cracks over the closest goon’s skull and he drops like a rock. All hell breaks loose. The goons are shouting, scrambling to get at him. Tommy cackles and dances away, smacking away with abandon. Several goons topple into heaps, whimpering in pain. Purpled scoffs from his hiding place. Not the most delicate way to handle things, but Tommy’s not called Crash for nothing. Delicate isn’t really in his vocabulary.
Tommy’s voice rises above the cacophony of broken limbs and pain. “You gonna hide for the rest of the night, or are you gonna help!?”
Purpled snorts. “And here I thought a big man such as yourself didn’t need my help.” He still vaults over the desk, taking out the nearest goon at the knees. There’s a sickening crunch and the goon squeals as he falls.
“I don’t need anyone’s fuckin’ help! But if you’re gonna sit on your lazy ass and do nothing, I’ll just leave you here!” Tommy snarls, no heat behind it. There’s blood dribbling from his nose when a goon got a lucky shot, and his lip is split again, but he’s grinning with a wild spark in his eye.
“Please shut up.” Purpled huffs. The two of them fall into an easy dance, striking and defending in sync. It’s been years since the Pit, but muscle memory hasn’t failed them yet. He almost forgets the reason they’re in this mess, the thumb drive and the virus and the fundraiser lost to the rush of blood in his skull.
He doesn’t hear the goon sneaking up behind him until it’s too late. Something heavy and metal smacks across the back of his head and he staggers to his knees. Everything is pain. The world falls away and all he knows is pain. His vision whites out and he squeezes his eyes shut, gagging. He can just barely hear Tommy roar in rage over the tinny ringing in his ears. He pants, trying not to puke all over his shoes. Slowly, the static in his head fades until he can think again.
“Swipe. Swipe. Purp.” Purpled lays flat on his back. When did he get on the ground? Is he even on the ground. There’s something scratchy under his cheek and something soft on the back of his head. He moves a hand slightly and feels the fibers of a cheap carpet. Yep, on the ground. He groaned, cutting off when the sound sent a wave of agony through his head. Ugh. How cringe is this? “Look at me, c’mon big man lemme see those freaky purple eyes of yours.” If it weren’t for the hand squeezing his shoulder and fingers prodding at the throbbing spot on the back of his head, he would have thought his com was working again with how Tommy’s voice cracked and fizzled. “I mean, they’re not that freaky. They’re pretty pog. But it’d be even more pog if you opened them. Please don’t be dead.”
Every part of him screams to keep his eyes shut and fall back into the hazy of unconscious, but the thread of worry pulls him back to the surface. Purpled swallows, his tongue gritty and dry, and peels open his eyes. A blurry Tommy hovers over him, nose bent at an unnatural angle, blood coating his lips, concern and a little bit of fear in bright blue eyes. He grumbles, voice far more airy and weak than he’d like. “‘M not dead yet, asshole.”
He gets small, relieved smile and a breathless, shaky laugh in return. “And here I thought we were finally rid of you.” There’s a flash of bright red in the corner of Purpled’s eye. He turns his head slightly, ignoring the twinge of nausea. There’s a hoodie balled under his head. Tommy’s signature hoodie. He chooses not to comment on it, not because his head feels like a plate of burned scrambled eggs, but because he doesn’t need to know.
“You aren’t getting rid of me that easily. If I die, I’m haunting all of you forever.” Purpled shifts, trying to get a hand under himself. “Help me up.”
“Take it easy. You got your bell rung pretty bad.” Tommy winds an arm around Purpled’s back and heaves him up. The world dips and blurs as they stand, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to not black out right then and there. Despite his scrawny arms and zero visible muscle, Tommy’s hold is firm and comforting. He doesn’t even stagger when taking on Purpled’s weight.
“I’ll ring your bell.” He blinks away the spots growing on the edge of his vision. When it clears, he sees the goons are scattered around the room, limbs skewed every which way. “You kill anyone?”
“Nope.”
“Oh. That sucks. Did the virus get uploaded?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Let’s get the hell outta here.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The two trudge through the office, winding through the scattered goons. Tommy mutters insults under his breath, kicking a few on his way past. He props Purpled against the office desk, making sure he doesn’t topple over and reintroduce himself to the floor, before running over to the computer. He presses a few keys, a devilish smirk on his face, and rips the thumb drive out of the port with a flourish. His eyebrows furrow as he pockets the drive. Purpled blinks.
“Yes, I made sure everyone’s unconscious. I’m not stupid.” Tommy huffs. A pause. “You’re so fuckin’ clingy all the time.”
Talking to Tubbo then. Purpled reaches up to prod at his earpiece. It shorted out a while ago. Hopefully it won’t electrocute him. Or maybe it will and he’ll get to sleep. Sleep would be nice. Quiet. He drifts along the edge of unconscious, skating just above the tide threatening to drag him under.
Tommy pulls him back up from where he was starting to lean forward. He’s wearing a harness, another dangling from his hands. The cable is clipped into both of them. “Let’s get outta here. I’ve had ‘bout enough of these fuckin’ pricks.” Purpled doesn’t fumble with the harness, letting his arms move without thinking.
“Can you even climb a building this tall? Thought children need to be supervised for shit like this.”
“Shut it dick’ead and climb on.”
“I hope your twig arms break on the way up and we both fall to our deaths.”
Tommy laughs, but it’s less of a cackle and more of a wheeze. “You and me both.”
It takes some maneuvering and a lot of snark, but soon they’re scaling back up the side of the building. Tommy trails behind Purpled, and he can feel eyes burning into his back. It doesn’t send goosebumps trailing down his spine like it usually does, though. Instead, he almost feels comforted at the thought of someone keeping a close eye on him, watching out for him. He ignores the feeling, focusing instead on keeping his unfocused eyes above him instead of below him.
It takes forever, but soon enough, they collapse in their shitty van parked three blocks away from the building. Ranboo whirls around in his spot in the driver’s seat, artificially brown contacts long gone. His mismatched eyes are wide, one brilliant green and one nearly red. He relaxes as the two throw themselves into the back and slam the door. Purpled’s hoodie is drenched in sweat and his legs are shaking. Tommy doesn’t look much better. His entire front is covered in blood, and the beginnings of nasty bruises bloom across his knuckles. He sags against Purpled’s thigh, eyes shut.
Ranboo stretches out a hand and settles it against Purpled’s shoulder. It’s warm and heavy, but not constricting. Grounding. They take a moment to breathe.
There’s a shriek of feedback in his ear, breaking the fragile calm and sending an icepick through Purpled’s skull. He fumbles to rip the earpiece out when Tubbo and Drista screech at them, words overlapping one another. Against his leg, Tommy jolts and growls. Ranboo flinches, but doesn’t move his hand.
“Are you okay? Hello! Will you assholes answer us? At least let us know if you’re dead so we can plan your funerals!” Even with the earpiece in his hand instead of his ear, Purpled can hear the raw desperation and anger coming from the tiny speaker.
Tommy speaks. He’s obviously tired, a brutal adrenaline crash incoming, but his smile is audible. “We’re alive. We’re okay.”
Purpled wheezes, trying to breathe through a muscle stitch in his side. “You owe me coffee. So much goddamn coffee. And I want Chinese for dinner. The good place, not the cheap shit.”
There is a brief shocked silence, just the three of them trying to catch their breaths, before they burst into hysterics. The van is old, musty and damp, smelling like a strange mix of week old takeout and dried blood. It’s cramped and almost overwhelmingly warm. A seatbelt buckle digs into Purpled’s side, and his foot is tangled on something in the footwell. They’re bruised and battered, Ranboo’s arms are covered in irritated red patches, Tommy’s nose is crooked and most likely broken for the third time this month, and Purpled’s pretty sure his concussion is a lot worse than he thought based on the increased ringing in his ears. But they’re alive. Tubbo and Drista are chattering away, voices relieved and joyful. Ranboo’s hand curls around his shoulder, and Tommy’s head leans against his thigh, and air streams in and out of his lungs. They’re alive.
They’re alive.
Purpled coughs as his laughter dies down. He’s boneless in the backseat, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Tommy’s head is bobbing from exhaustion, chin dipping against his chest before jerking up again. Tension lines Ranboo’s eyes and the fingers of his free hand flex in his lap, working through the lingering pain. Purpled mumbles into the warm air, voicing all of their thoughts. “Let’s go home.”
He feels Ranboo’s hand squeeze then leave his shoulder, hears him turn in the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition, feels the engine hum and vibrate and the wheels turn on the pavement.
Percy stalks through the halls of his building, running his fingers through messy, greased hair. The heels of his dress shoes click on the marble as he tugs on the disgusting stained tie around his neck. He sneers at the damp fabric when it comes loose, throwing it into a bin as he passes. Absolutely ruined by that child. A sharp grin stretches across his face as he remembers the horror and fear pooling in the brat’s eyes. His toe taps against the ground as he waits for the elevator. He’s going to enjoy suing the bastard and his pathetic excuse for a catering company into the ground. That tie was silk. It’s not like he doesn’t have an entire closet of similar ties, but it's the principle of the matter.
He swipes his keycard and jabs the top floor button when the elevator doors open. His mind wanders as the elevator rises and he snarls under his breath. Politicians were always useful for men like him, greasing all kinds of wheels and opening countless doors. He’d hoped Cartwright was the perfect fit, someone he could mold into his perfect little puppet to do with what he pleased. And then he had to go and grow a spine. Tell him off like he’s some kind of misbehaving toddler. His face is thunderous as the door opens and he steps off. Another useless piece of trash to crush under his heel. All that hard work it took to get to this point. Wasted.
He pats at his pockets, trying to find his phone before throwing his hands up with a snarl. Probably on the floor of the ballroom, trampled by some idiot trying to get out when the lights went dark. He’ll be having several words with facilities after this. Hopefully he’ll make someone cry. A perfect way to destress and unwind.
A harried security guard whose name he can’t be bothered to remember comes running down the hall to as Percy exits the elevator car. There’s a thick sheen of sweat over his forehead, and his eyes seem to bug out of his head when he notices Percy. A blossoming bruise stretches from his temple to his jaw, and blood stains the pale blue button up under his bulletproof vest. Percy cocks an eyebrow when the guard takes an aborted step back. He opens his mouth to say something, either some kind of tirade or question on the tip of his tongue, but it never comes to light.
A small box plugged into the servers stories below him beeps once, twice, three times before the whole building goes dark. It’s still standing, unfortunately, but even the emergency lights flicker off. The only light that remains is the blinking message on Percy’s computer screen, glowing green in the darkness of his office.
( ) ( )
:(III)- Get fucked my good bitch -(III):
( ) ( )
Far across town, in a not-so-abandoned abandoned warehouse, a thumb drive sits in a corner, hidden beneath a pile of bloody hoodies, stiff uniforms, and climbing gear tossed aside carelessly after a energetic reunion. Five teenagers seated around a dark wood table and bicker over cartons of lukewarm Chinese takeout, chopsticks waving in the air as their voices rise and fall. Elbows are thrown, teasing insults are hurled, and laughter weaves throughout the room.
They’re alive. They’re together. And come hell or high water, they plan to keep it that way.