Archive of Our Own ^beta

Niki opens the door to her apartment to the smell of blood.  

At first, she doesn’t question it.  She’s coming off a nightmare of ten hour shift that ending with a wonderful bridezilla who absolutely needed a six-tier lemon elderberry cake with a waterfall of real flowers in a week for a sixth of what most bakeries on this side of Manberg charge and would not stop talking long enough for Niki to get a word in edgewise.  Her brain’s more than a little fried, so fucking sue her.  

Plus, blood isn’t all that unusual in her apartment.  Not with the hidden vault behind the bookcase and the gear scattered around her living room.  Being a villain, especially one involved with the Syndicate of all things, has definitely skewed her worldview enough to make the faint metallic smell seem almost normal. As she throws her keys into the bowl by the door and kicks off her shoes, she thinks it's just one of the others come back from a mission gone wrong: a lucky knife between armor plating, a broken nose from a stray elbow, the usual things.  Wilbur’s been particularly clumsy recently, and she assumes it’s him sleeping off some kind of fight until he can slink back home without Phil and Techno noticing.  Until she remembers.

No one’s run solo missions in weeks.  Not since someone nearly tore Phil’s wing off during a solo flight.  They go in pairs, and take great pains to get people back to base for medical attention.  They wouldn’t be running through the city to her apartment, not at the risk of both of them getting caught.  If there was someone in her apartment bleeding, it’s not a member of the Syndicate.   

There’s an intruder bleeding in her apartment.

The general irritation from the day drains away, leaving her on high alert.  She drops her bag silently and walks on whisper-quiet feet.  There are no lights on, no sound from further inside, no sign that whoever the fuck decided to break into her apartment heard her enter.  Sparks crackle and pop in her palms as she peeks around the corner from her entryway into the living room.  The apartment isn’t all that big (a baker’s salary isn’t all that great, and villainy doesn’t pay as well as one might think), so there are only so many places for the intruder to hide.

A slight breeze pushes at a loose piece of hair hanging by her eye.  She inches towards the living room.  They got in through the window by the fire escape.  She prays to whatever god happens to be listening (Prime, XD, it doesn’t really matter at this point) that the fucker didn’t break her fucking window.  The security deposit is never coming back, but hopefully she doesn’t have to shell out for a new goddamn window.  She moves towards the living room, bracing herself for a fight.

The smell of blood is stronger now, and she can just barely make out a whistling breath.  It’s muffled by some kind of fabric, and at the end of each inhale she can hear the slightest creak of what sounds like leather.  The intruder doesn’t make any other sounds, doesn’t seem to make any other movement.  Just breathes and bleeds.

Niki decides enough is enough.  White fire coats her hands and arms, licking at the edges of her work uniform as she whirls around the corner, every inch of her itching for a fight.  Only to stop the second she catches sight of the living room.  Her hands fall to her sides, flames flickering out, and her jaw drops.

It’s a kid.

Or at least, she thinks it’s a kid.  She can’t tell with the darkness of the room.  He’s wiry and lanky in the way only teenagers can be, the end result of awkward growth spurt after awkward growth spurt.  He’s curled on his side in a patch of moonlight, the curtains from her open window fluttering behind him.  A dark puddle spreads out on the floor, seeping into the fibers of her off-white rug.  But what catches her attention is what he’s wearing.

It’s a black form-fitting suit, all too similar to the one Niki has stashed behind the bookcase, though this one is accented in red and white rather than her own pink.  Where hers is expertly crafted and tailored, though, his is anything but.  It sags around his elbows and knees, with the barest of padding sewn around his chest and abdomen.  A thin domino mask sits skewed on his face, just barely showing the edge of a rapidly darkening black eye.  A vigilante.  Heroes have the best gear, the highest caliber armor and weapons.  Villains don’t have nearly the same resources, but they have a certain air about them that’s impossible to miss.  There’s a distinctive flair for the dramatic missing from this kid.  So, a vigilante.  A vigilante that crossed the wrong person, judging by the blood trailing from his nose and down his lip and chin, staining his teeth a rusty red.  Niki creeps closer, noting crooked fingers and wheezing breaths.  Whoever this kid is, whatever his power (or lack thereof), he royally pissed someone off.  Enough to beat him bloody.  She crouches down and reaches a hand out, only to stop herself at the last second.

What is she doing?  This is a vigilante.  An injured vigilante.  In her apartment.  A villain’s apartment.  If she helps him, who knows what will happen?  Worst case scenarios run rampant through her mind, all ending with someone dead in a ditch or locked in a max security cellblock.  She’s not just putting herself at risk, but every member of the Syndicate, by keeping him here.  Keeping him alive.  Technoblade’s voice echoes in her head.  It’s just an injured vigilante.  This isn’t her problem.  Just leave him.  He’s not worth it.

The vigilante hacks a bone-shaking cough, blood spilling down his chin.  She can see the dark bags hanging heavy under his exposed eye, the tight line of his shoulders even in unconsciousness, the unstoppable trembling.  Paper thin skin, wrapped around stick-like bones.  A high, thin whine of pain hisses through clenched teeth.  He sounds so young.

It snaps her out of her daze.  He is young.  

This isn’t just an injured vigilante.  This is an injured kid.  A teenager, potentially bleeding out on the cheap rug she forced Wilbur to haul back to her apartment.  A teenager, probably no older than Ranboo, wheezing through broken ribs and possible internal bleeding.  A teenager, trying to do exactly what the Syndicate is, trying to change a broken, rigged system but with absolutely nothing to fall back on.  

A teenager she can still help.

She stands suddenly, angry caution exchanged for frantic determination.  Sooty hands smack at the light switch, drenching the room in the fuzzy warmth of the old iridescent lightbulbs.  She tears her eyes away from the deep red puddle that now sparkles in the light and sprints for the bathroom.  They’ve had enough close calls over the years to warrant exceedingly well stocked first aid kits in all member’s apartments, and Niki’s is particularly brimming.  She yanks it out of the cupboard beneath the sink, uncaring of the noise complaint that will almost certainly be lodged in the morning, and falls back down at the vigilante’s side.  She slowly, steadily turns him on his back, exposing the wet fabric across his abdomen.  There, on the left side just under his ribs, is a neat, straight tear through the material.  

Years of muscle memory take over, and she doesn’t truly feel present in her own body, distantly watching her gloved hands (where did those come from?) gently pull apart shredded black fabric to reveal the puncture in his abdomen, now no longer bleeding.  The placement is careful.  Exact.  Purposeful.  Made by a clean, straight edge.  The edge is slightly puffy, the telltale red of infection creeping into the bloodstream.  The wound probably a good few inches deep, a breeding ground for any sort of bacteria.  It can’t stay open.  She steels herself for what comes next.  

Wipe away the blood.  Remove any debris from inside.  Sterilize the area.  Prep the sutures.  

The feeling of needle and thread pulling through muscle and flesh never feels right, even after all this time.  She’s somewhat relieved that she’s still floating slightly above herself, watching wisps of faded pink and blonde shift with each tense exhale.  She really needs to use that box of dye soon.   The vigilante breathes under her fingertips, chest stuttering and hitching with each tug and catch on the thread, but never stirs.  She absently whispers unheard apologies each time, eyes laser focused on the task at hand. 

Soon enough, the stab wound is cleaned, sewn shut, and wrapped in clean bandages.  Niki sits back on her heels, wiping the back of her hand across her sweat-drenched forehead.  Her eyes catch on the domino mask once more, and a harsh, insistent voice in the back of her head whispers to take it off.  He’s already in her debt, what’s one more secret to hold over his head?  She watches the furrow in the vigilante’s brow.  The way he shivers from blood loss and chill.  The shallow puffs of breath quickly raising and dropping his chest.  Carefully, she reaches out and tugs the mask down over his exposed eye.  She doesn’t need to know.  She doesn’t care to know.

But what to do?  She can’t keep a vigilante in her apartment, not with the vault hidden behind her bookshelf and the scattered pieces of equipment all over her living room.  But she can’t just dump an unconscious kid, one with a freshly sutured stab wound no less, out the fire escape and wash her hands of him.  He’s an obvious threat, but he’s also hurting.  And despite everything, despite her villainy and her friends and her plans, she can’t just leave someone hurting.  

So, she hooks her arms under lanky knees and a thin back and lifts.  Nearly topples backwards when the weight in her arms doesn’t match the weight she’d braced for.  She’s strong, sure, everyone who goes through Technoblade’s training is.  But she’s not Technoblade, a walking wall of muscle.  She’s not Phil, short but stocky and packed with surprising strength.  Still, she holds the vigilante easily, dirty matted curls tucked under her chin.

She deposits the vigilante on her couch, checking to see if the stitches popped before throwing a thick knitted throw blanket over his shivering form.  Satisfied that he is asleep, somewhat comfortable, and not in immediate danger of death, she drops heavily into her well worn, well loved armchair, curls up with her head pillowed on her arms, and falls into a dreamless sleep.

The thud of wood hitting wood and footsteps on metal shock Niki out of her light doze, eyes wide and hand outstretched to attack.  Her gaze darts around the room, seeing but not fully comprehending the empty couch, the bloodstained rug, and the watery, early morning sunlight streaming through the nearby window.  She blinks once, twice, three times.

The empty couch.  The bloodstain.  The vigilante.  

She jumps up from the armchair, feet tingling with pins and needles left over from her awkward sleeping position, and runs to the open window.  Peering out, she catches a faint glimpse of blond hair disappearing over the nearby apartment block.  She gapes, fingers flexing against the chipped white paint of the windowsill.  

Turning back to the living room, she sees something crumpled on the stained coffee table.  The one covered in strange stickers Wil bought during his many travels down strange internet rabbit holes, knick knacks Ranboo and Tubbo found in places they won’t talk about, and a few mugs Phil and Techno gifted to her during birthdays and holidays and just because.  There’s a couple of sheets of crumpled looseleaf paper, and some scattered pens.  Next to it, are a pile of crumpled bills.  She unfurls them, and finds several well-worn twenties.  At least a hundred dollars worth.  Picking up the papers, she deciphers the messy chicken scratch scrawled across the sheet.  A lot of the sheets are covered in scratched out scribbles, but the very last one is at least somewhat legible enough to make out.

Thanks for the help.  Sorry about the rug.  Hope this is enough to replace it.

She blinks.  Huh.  Not exactly what she expected, to be honest.  She knew the rug was a goner, even with all of her experience in bloodstain removal.  But of all the people who’d bled on her stuff, it was the vigilante that was the first to offer money to replace anything.

She doesn’t think long about it, though.  The clock on the microwave shows 5:22 AM, the bakery opens at 7 AM, and it’s at least an hour’s commute from her apartment.  She tucks the papers and folded bills in a drawer to deal with later, and starts to get ready for the day.  

The rug is thrown in the dumpster out back when she leaves.  No one will look twice, not in this neighborhood.

In the days and weeks at follow, she forgets about the vigilante.  She goes about her familiar, comfortable routine.  Catch the train from Eighteen to Three.  Open the bakery.  Get berated by entitled assholes who want the products of hours of labor for free.  Close the bakery.  Gather the leftover inventory to offer the nearby shelters.  Head to Syndicate meetings.  Train with Techno.  Plan with Phil.  Chat with Wilbur.  Help Tubbo and Ranboo.  Check in with Jack.  Head home.  Get ready to do it all again.

The only real disturbance in her routine comes during an evening with the Syndicate.  They’re all sitting around HQ’s dining room table, Techno puttering in the kitchen behind them.  Team dinners are a weekly tradition, a chance to relax and reconnect with one another.  They rotate who does what, though after the Great Spaghetti Incident, Wilbur is stuck with dishwashing duty only.  They still can’t seem to get the marinara stain out of the ceiling, months later.

Ranboo, Phil, and Wilbur are chatting in the corner about something she can’t quite make out.  Jack is somewhere in back in the labs, begging off dinner and citing some kind of breakthrough with his and Tubbo’s latest invention.  Next to her, Tubbo types frantically on his phone.  His eyebrows are furrowed as he gnaws on his lower lip.  Niki lays a gentle hand on his upper arm.  He jumps, banging his knee on the the underside of the table.  Silverware and glasses rattle at the sudden movement.  All conversation stops.  Everyone looks at Tubbo with varying degrees of concern, worry, and confusion.  

“You okay?”  She asks, concern warm in her voice.  Her hand rubs small circles on his upper arm, hoping to offer at least a little bit of comfort.

Tubbo blinks at her from behind thick brown bangs like he wasn’t expecting the question.  There are heavy purple rings under his eyes, and his face is tight with worry.  “Hm?  Oh, yeah… I’m fine.  Peachy.  A-okay.”

Niki raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.  She knows Tubbo.  She knows him better than most.  And she knows when something’s bothering him.  “But…?”  She prompts.

Tubbo heaves a heavy sigh, taking a long look at his darkened phone screen before dropping it facedown on the dark oak wood of the tabletop.  From over his shoulder, Niki can see Ranboo’s ears and tail flicking rapidly, wringing his fingers as he looks between the two of them.  

“It’s…,” Tubbo starts, before cutting himself off with a harsh exhale.  “It’s our roommate.”

“Wait, roommate?  What roommate?”  Wilbur perks up, eyes brightening.

“No.”  Ranboo barks, uncharacteristically harsh and forceful.  Niki blinks back surprise.  Ranboo’s a villain, sure, but he’s always been a softy.  Backbone of a chocolate eclair and all.  But here he sits, glaring daggers at Wilbur, with his ears pinned back and lip curled in warning.  His claws dig deep into the lacquer of the tabletop.  “No recruitment talk.  No villany.  Nothing.  He’s off limits.  That was the deal.”  He pins Phil with a withering look, daring him to say something.  Wilbur’s wide eyes dart from Ranboo to Phil, mouth agape and disbelieving.  Phil gives Ranboo a pinched smile and a nod.

“That was the deal,” Phil confirms.

“But-“  Wilbur starts, but he’s cut off with a hiss.

“No.  Buts.”  Ranboo snarls.  A low droning hum starts up as glowing purple particles float through the air.  A harsh buzz joins as Tubbo pins Wilbur with his own derisive look, fingers flexing in threat.  A long, wickedly sharp stinger shines in the light.  Wilbur visibly pales, swallowing roughly.

In the face of the combined might of both teenagers’ wrath (not to mention, teenagers that could level the entire city block if pushed), Wilbur holds up his hands in surrender, leaning back out of Ranboo’s space.  The clattering from the kitchen stops as Techno steps out to lean against a nearby wall, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.  

“Is your roommate okay?”  Niki tries to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand.  She doesn’t remember them ever mentioning having a roommate, but whoever it must be very important to the both of them if Ranboo gets that aggressively protective.  Tubbo’s shoulders tense even more and Ranboo’s fidgeting gets more pronounced.  The two share a brief look, have a conversation without words, before breaking eye contact.  

“He…”  Tubbo grimaces, wings buzzing in irritation behind him.  His antennae droop.  “He got hurt the other night.  On the way back from his job.  He said it was a mugging.”  His fingers dig into the table and Ranboo makes a strangled chirp of distress.

“But you don’t think it was?”  Niki asks.  

“No.  No we don’t.”  Tubbo makes a vague gesture towards his face.  “He- He doesn’t usually lie about shit like this, but there’s no way it was just a mugging.  His shift ends at around eleven, and it’s only about an hour’s walk away.  He was supposed to be back a little after midnight.  He didn’t come back until six the next morning.  And it just- it didn’t look like a mugging.  The bruising looked… Weird.  It was too, I don’t know, clustered?  Concentrated?  Around his eye and throat.  Like someone was trying to choke him.”

“And he was stabbed.”  Ranboo adds with a growl.

“Wait, what?!  Stabbed?!”  Phil looked panicked.  “Don’t you live in a safer part of town now?  I thought we moved you up from Twenty to Eighteen a few months ago.”

“Well, yeah, but he works in Twenty Two.”  Ranboo says.  Phil grimaces, and Niki winces in sympathy.  Twenty Two is a notorious shitshow, even for the outer districts.  Reports of attacks are commonplace, and it’s not a place the pro heroes are too keen on patrolling.  

“It’s his own damn fault for walking home from Twenty Two at midnight.  Surely there’s work in Eighteen.”  Wilbur scoffs.  Ranboo growls, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants.  Niki can see the tension strung tight in his shoulders, like he’s physically keeping himself from lunging for Wilbur’s throat.  

“Not for sixteen year olds.”  Tubbo spits.  “And we have to pay rent somehow, dickhead.”  A shadow of remorse flashes over Wilbur’s expression, but his mouth stays firmly shut.  

“Is he okay?”  Niki asks.  Worry curls in her gut.  She’s never met their roommate (doubts she ever will, with how they reacted to Wilbur’s brief questioning), but she can’t help picturing a scrawny teenager, rail thin and haggard, in a dark alley at midnight.

Ranboo sighs.  His tail curls in anxious shapes as he picks at his claws.  “He is now.  Apparently, he stopped at the free clinic in Nineteen- y’know, the one on Maple- and got it stitched up.  He passed out there and came home as soon as he could.  But still… It feels wrong.”  Tubbo nudges him with an elbow when one of his cuticles starts to bleed.  

Techno hums from his position near the kitchen.  It’s the first noise he’s made the whole conversation.  “You think it was targeted.  Someone sought him out.”

Tubbo and Ranboo share a look.  “Yeah.  Yeah, we do.  He’s a civilian, working the night shift at a shit coffee chain in Twenty Two.  If it wasn’t a mugging, then someone was looking for him.”

Techno nods and turns back to the kitchen.  “We’ll keep an eye on it.”

Wilbur blinks, then gapes at Techno.  “Wait, what?”  His voice is shrill with disbelief and petulant anger.  

Techno rolls his eyes at the dramatics, ignoring Wilbur and addressing the teenagers.  “If it’s a targeted attack, there’s a chance someone may know or suspect you’re involved with us.”

“But it could still be random.  Just some moron with anger issues taking it out on some random kid.”  Phil points out.

Techno shrugs.  “Still.  If someone’s out there, stabbing random people in alleys, we need to keep a look out.”

Wilbur doesn’t look all that happy with the answer.  “Why?  Isn’t that the whole point of heroes?  Take care of crime, save the civilians, all that fun shit?”

Techno levels him a carefully blank look, under which Wilbur visibly wilts.  He speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly fussy toddler.  “You know better than the rest of us the heroes don’t freakin’ care about the outer districts, let alone one like Twenty Two.  They barely go farther than Ten, and even that’s rare.  If it’s not a big, flashy public event, they’re not touchin’ it with a ten foot pole.  Civilians can’t rely on them for anythin’.  Especially not kids working the graveyard shifts at some dead-end job.”

Niki’s mind flashes to a baggy black bodysuit and bloody rugs.  Domino masks and desperation.  “What about vigilantes?  Aren’t they an option?”

Techno frowns, absently brushing a loose piece of long hair behind his ear.  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it.  They’re scrappy in a fight, sure, but there aren’t enough of them.  With the heroes out doin’ who knows what, vigilantes are stretched pretty thin.  And there’s no guarantee of quality.  One from Twelve is gonna be way different skills-wise than one from Twenty Three.”

She thinks of Vulpis from Sixteen, with his wiles and quick-wit, who does his best to cover his lone district.  She thinks of Moth from Twenty Five, with his gossamer wings and trident, who struggles against the corruption running rampant.  She thinks of Dryad and the Captains and all of the other vigilantes doing what little they can to change a broken system.

“So that just leaves us.”  She nods in understanding.

Phil seems to agree.  Arms crossed in front of him, he leans back in his seat and says, “It’s not like we have a lot going on, anyway.  Founder’s Day is still a ways away.  We can add a couple of patrols here and there easily.”

“I guess I wouldn’t mind putting a little fear of Prime in some assholes.”  Wilbur smirks.

“I’ll let Jack know later.”  Niki adds.  She’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind getting out of HQ more often, especially with the big job coming soon.  

Techno goes to return to cooking, when Ranboo asks, “Why?”

Techno freezes.  He looks over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in question.  Ranboo stares him down, unflinching.  

“Why what?”

“Why help?  Why are you doing this for someone you’ve never met?  I mean, not that we don’t appreciate it, but I… I just don’t get it.”

Techno pauses.  After a long moment, he turns to face Ranboo fully.  He asks, voice deadpan, “Do you know why we started the Syndicate?”

“To take down the government, right?”  Ranboo tilts his head, confused.  Niki is confused as well, unsure of where the conversation was going.  

“Well, yeah.  Obviously.  But that’s not really the only reason.  We did it to help the little guy.  To try and tip the scales as much as we can.  Heroes don’t care about them, not really.  Politicians sure won’t lift a finger to change things.  Corporations only care about themselves.  Most people don’t always have the power or the resources to do anything.  So, we’re here to do the things most people can’t, or won’t.”

“Legality optional.”  Tubbo quips, a weak smile tugging at his lips.

Techno huffs a laugh.  “Legality optional.”

The tension in the room breaks, and both teenagers relax a little bit.  Techno returns to his meal prep, and Phil drags Wilbur out of the dining room by the elbow for an important ‘father-son discussion.’  Niki hears him ask “What the fuck, Wil?” before the door shuts firmly.  

They come back inside a few minutes later, Wilbur looking significantly more chastised, and all conversation about mysterious roommates and city politics stop.  Dinner goes off without a hitch, with warm conversation all around and Techno’s infamous potato and leek soup delicious as always, but Niki can’t help thinking about tangled blond hair and bone-deep bruises the entire night.  Can’t help seeing sharp bones against pale skin and tight, pained grimace in place of laughing faces and easy company.  She excuses herself early, claiming an early morning order (which isn’t exactly a lie, but isn’t nearly as important as she claims).  Wilbur looks ready to question her about it, but Phil sends her off with a brief hug and a comforting smile.

The phantom smell of blood haunts her all the way home.  She falls asleep with surrounded by rust.

She doesn’t expect to see the vigilante again.  His side job is just as illegal as hers (not that he knows that, of course), and there’s no way in hell he’d come back to the apartment of a random civilian who happened to have some kind of moral code.  Of course, like rules and bones and pasta in a small pot, expectations are meant to be broken.

It happens on a Thursday night.  Niki’s laid up on the couch (the new one she bribed Techno and Wilbur into moving in to her sixth floor apartment with promises of copious baked goods), nursing a nasty headache.  Her skull is throbbing in time with her heartbeat from the hit, but it’s nothing too serious.  Just a training accident, that’s all.  Ranboo’s lanky limbs are a blessing and a curse at times.  She can tell it’s not a concussion, thankfully.  The persistent ache of those is all too familiar.  Techno doesn’t go easy on any of them, even if they are friends.

She has a carton of reheated fried rice next to her, alongside a few trays of dumplings and a half-empty thermos of tea.  The television is on, volume turned down to a low buzz, playing some sort of fantastical drama she hasn’t really been paying attention to.  Something about alliances and factions and boogeymen and lives, she’s not too sure.  It’s white noise, the comforting familiarity of voices to shoo away the creeping loneliness of the night.  

It’s only because of the low volume that she hears it.  The faint scrape-scrabble of fingers against wood.  The creak of metal.  The soft panting of breath.  

Before she can move, the window (the same fucking window) by the fire escape flies up and something large and dark tumbles in from the night.  She gapes, dumbstruck as the vigilante lays in a heap on her floor again, eyes bleary but awake.

He’s tangled all around himself, long limbs wrapped around each other in a complicated human knot.  There’s no rusty iron smell filling the room this time, no bone-chilling gurgle-gasp following each breath.  But there’s still an open window, and a vigilante in her apartment.

She’s stuck, frozen on the couch, as the vigilante (she really needs to ask him is name if this is going to be a regular occurrence, as vigilante is a bit of a mouthful) untangles himself from the knot he’s made himself into.  As he stumbles to his feet, Niki has enough presence of mind to note the mismatched pupils and the deep purple bruising on his temple under the mask.  Concussion.  Fuck.

“Shit, fuck, goddamnit, why the fuck.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t- I fucking- I’m-“  The vigilante’s words are slurring, syllables sliding together as he scrabbles at the wall for purchase.  “I thought this was- I- I meant to- oh fuck- fucking-“

There are bloody fingerprints on the wall.  Spattering on the hardwood.  On the vigilante’s suit.  He’s injured again.

He tries to turn for the window, only to trip on his feet and fall to his knees.  He yelps as he falls, and that’s what breaks Niki out of her trance.  

She scrambles to her feet, knocking her rice all over her couch in her haste to get to the bathroom.  But she doesn’t care.  Thank Prime she had enough forethought to restock the kit last week before Jack and Wilbur came over for ‘cooking lessons’.  She’s never been happier for their combined ineptitude in the kitchen.  The top of the kit slams against the sink when she yanks it out.  The cheap plastic is probably dented, maybe even broken, but it doesn’t matter.  Not when there’s a kid, bleeding in her living room.  Again.

What is her fucking life now?

The vigilante is standing on his feet when she runs back into the living room, hanging heavily against the windowsill.  It looks like he was trying to heave himself back out the window, but what little energy he had mustered has left him.  He’s breathing heavily as he struggles to stay standing, knees quaking under his weight.  From across the room, she can see the sweat clinging to his hairline, the pale clamminess of his skin, the dirt and mud clinging to his suit.  He looks even worse than the previous time, if that’s even possible.  There’s a hollowness in his cheeks and an exhaustion clinging to his frame that weren’t there all those weeks ago.  

She pushes down the burning rage that lights in her gut at the sight of the haggard teenager shaking in her living room, swallows it and tries to give him a reassuring smile.  It feels tight and wrong and forced, but she tries anyway.  

The vigilante blinks at her, lip quivering just slightly.  His voice wobbles when he speaks, sounding so young.  Her heart pangs.  He’s so young.  “I’ll go.  ‘M sorry.  I didn’ mean to come back. ‘M sorry.”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,”  She soothes, carefully dropping the kit on the couch.  “You’re fine.  It’s okay.”  Her hands are outstretched, placating a cornered animal.  He’s injured, he’s delirious, but he’s still a vigilante.  He’s more than capable of doing some damage.  She may be a villain, but she’s off kilter.  Better to treat him carefully, quietly, calmly.  

“I can help you.  See?”  She gestures to the first aid kid, watching sluggish eyes slide over her to the couch before dragging back.  “I can help.”

He takes a stunted step back, bumping against the wall.  There’s tension running through his spine.  He holds his left arm close to his chest, and she notes the awkward way it hangs.  Broken, possibly dislocated.  She needs to hurry or they’re risking possible nerve damage.  Time to speed things up.

“I promise, I won’t look.  I won’t tell anyone you came.  Okay?  I didn’t tell anyone the last time.  Remember last time?”

“I r’member.”  She didn’t expect him to answer.  It doesn’t seem like he’s fully in control of his thoughts.  “Y’ were nice.  Helped.  No one else does.”

“I promise you I’ll help.  I promise.”  She takes a cautious step forward.  He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.  Just watches her with half-lidded eyes, sagging against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.  It probably is.  “Can I touch you?  I just want to help.”

“Mhm…” He hums, eyes closing.  His head falls forward suddenly, and Niki springs forward when he crumples.  She grunts when she has to support his full weight all at once, very thankful for the Syndicate’s grueling training regimen.  He’s still too light, too thin and malnourished, but there’s still a good bit of muscle on his frame.  As gently as she can, she deposits him on the couch.  A bit of red stains the fabric, but she can’t find it in herself to care.  With her friends and her many lines of work, it was bound to happen eventually.  

The vigilante blinks open his eyes when he’s seated, looking somewhere over her shoulder.  She ducks into his light of sight, flashing him a tight smile.  “Hi there.”

“Hi…” His voice is a hoarse whisper.  He shifts slightly against the back of the couch, wincing when the movement tugs on his dislocated shoulder.  Right.  Better fix that first.

“Can I fix your shoulder?”  She’s going to do it anyway, but it feels better to ask first.  

“Hm?  Yeah.”  He’s delirious from the concussion, clearly not fully present.  Oh well.  She’ll take what she can get.

“Okay.  Okay.”  She sits lightly on the edge of the couch cushion, placing a firm hand against his shoulder and gripping his upper arm with the other.  “This is gonna hurt, but only for a little.  I’ll count down from three.  Ready?”

“Done this b’fore.”  She doesn’t doubt that.  “Ready.”

“Alright.  Here goes.  Three… Two…” She pulls and shift and pops the joint back into place.  The vigilante takes a sharp inhale but doesn’t let out a peep.  Huh.  He probably has done this before.  “There we go.  All done.”

She grabs a sling from the kit and secures it around his arm, pulling the strap snug against his neck.  “There we go.  Is there anything else?”

The vigilante shakes his head.  Niki frowns, eyebrows furrowing.  “You sure?  I thought I saw you bleeding?”

“Is fine.  Jus’ a cut.  Didn’ get me too bad this time.”  He slurs, head falling back against the couch when he can’t hold it up any longer.

“This time?”  The fire in her chest burns brighter.  “What do you mean, this time?”

“The… the h’ro guy.  H’ didn’ get me t’ bad this time.  Las’ time he stabbed me, bu’ this time he jus’ cut me.”

“A hero attacked you?”  That’s a first.  Sure, heroes and vigilantes don’t exactly get along too well, but they’ve never been outright antagonistic towards each other.  Not like heroes and villains.  If there’s a hero out there taking out vigilantes, they’ll need to look into it.  “Which hero?”

“Th… th’ green one… Wit’ the… the pointy thin’.”  And with that, the vigilante slackens, completely out cold.  Niki sighs and scrubs a hand across her face in frustration before searching for the various cuts littering the vigilante.  The green one, with the pointy thing.  There are only two ‘green’ heroes running around Manberg: Dream and Warden.  Both of them have their ‘pointy things’:  Warden with his trident, Dream with his axe.  And Niki can hazard a guess as to who it is.

Warden’s a bit of a softy when it comes to vigilantes, despite his supposed duties as a peacekeeper.  He’s big, and smart, and scary as shit, but he actually cares (which is more than you can say for some people running around calling themselves ‘heroes’).  Hell, he’s one of the only heroes to venture out beyond the safety of the inner ring of districts to help the more dangerous parts of town.  From what she’s heard winding through the rumor mill, he’s even got some sort of deal with Blackjack down in Twenty Nine, too.  If there’s a green hero beating teenage vigilantes nearly to death in the back-alleys of Manberg, it’s probably not Warden.

Which leaves Dream.  Niki’s hackles raise at even the thought of that smiley faced prick.  The number two hero and his little squad of goons seem to have it in their heads that the only way to get rid of crime in Manberg is to beat the living shit out of ‘criminals’.  Never mind of said criminals are almost always victims of circumstance or of a broken system, never mind that the powerful flaunt their corruption and crimes, never mind that he could actually do some good if he gave a shit.  No, all he seems to care about is his little pissing contest with Technoblade (who would sooner become President of the fucking world than give the neon green piss baby the time of day).  

The sight of a battered and bruised teenager passed out on her couch for the second time, both times at the hands of Dream, has sparks flying from her hands.  Her fingernails dig into her palms as she grits her teeth.  Breathe.  Breathe, Niki.  Just breathe.  Don’t burn the building down.  You still need to live here.  It’s fine.

She tosses the throw over the vigilante again before retreating into her room, suddenly exhausted.  Caring for herself is hard enough, let alone caring for some random teenager who decided the best place to go if he’s seriously injured is her apartment.  She flops face first onto her bed, dreading what’s to come in the morning.  She can only hope that the damn building is still standing.

Niki wakes up to the blaring of the smoke alarm, followed by rapid fire cursing and the smash of metal on wood.  Smoke wafts through her open bedroom door.  Shit.  She scrambles to her feet, struggling to untangle her lower legs from the mess of blankets on her bed.  Did Dream follow the vigilante here?  She doesn’t have time to call for backup.  The others are pretty far out from her, there’s not much they could do to get to her in time.  She flexes her wrist as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, palms alight and ready to throw the fuck down.

The vigilante stands there, alone, in front of her shitty stovetop.  Sheepish blue eyes watch her from behind the black mask.  Blond curls stick up in every direction.  He’s wearing a thin tee-shirt and his suit pants, jacket draped across the back of the couch.  His good hand is cradled to his chest, a bright red burn stretched across the palm.  There’s something burning in her sink, a blackish lump of charcoaled… something caked to her frying pan.  

They stare at each other, silence stretched tight over the room.  The vigilante’s jaw works, eyes flicking from Niki’s face, to her ruined pan, to the fire in her palms, to the blood on the couch, and back.

“Uhhhhh… surprise?”  He laughs awkwardly.

“Wha-“  Her brain short circuits, the flames in her hands sputter and die.  

“Sorry ‘bout the- the pans ’n shit.  I’m usually not this fucking bad at cooking, but never had to do it with one hand before, y’know?  Dexterity and all that.”  His laugh shakes with anxiety.  He’s jittery and high-strung, which makes Niki’s already foggy head spin.

“So, what, you were stealing my food to cook breakfast?”  She doesn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but she’s tired, she’s sore, and she’s coming down off a wicked adrenaline high.  So sue her for being a bit snappy.  

The vigilante pales under the mask, shaking his head.  “I wasn’t stealing it, promise!  I was trying to make something for you.”

That gives Niki pause.  What?  “For me?”

“Yeah, y’know, to apologize.”

“Apologize?”  Why would he need to apologize?  It’s not his fault for getting hurt.  

“For the couch.  And the window.  And the supplies.  I know those can’t be cheap, especially not the good shit.  And the wall too, fuck I fucking forgot about the wall.”  She glances at the bloody fingerprints on the wall.  “I was gonna just leave some money like last time, y’know, to replace all your shit - your rug’s really comfortable now, not like the other one - but I don’t get paid until next week and we’re kinda running low on cash as it is and I didn’t want to just leave without making it up to you, that would be just rude and I’m not a wrong’en, so I thought breakfast would be a good idea-“  He’s rambling, bouncing in place, nervous energy radiating from him in waves.  She quickly cuts off the deluge of words.  

“It’s okay.  Thank you for…trying, but you don’t need to do this, you know?  You’re still pretty hurt.”  She motions towards the sling.  He looks down at it, before scoffing.

“Hm?  Oh I’m fine, don’t worry about it.  Big Men like me don’t let a stupid concussion stop them.  Only I decide what stops me!”  He strikes a cocky pose, only to wince and curl in on himself when it tugs at the tendons in his injured shoulder.

“Uh huh.  So you just decided to pass out on my couch?”  She laughs lightly, annoyance melting away to a strange sort of fondness.  She should be kicking him out, should send him on his way, but the sight of blue eyes lit with mischief and the raucous energy running through him of today layers over the image of the exhausted slump of shoulders and the dull sheen of defeat and she can’t find it in herself to turn him away.

“Exactly!  It was pretty comfortable, so I made the executive decision to sleep there last night. ‘Sides, gotta sleep to heal.  Energy and shit.”  The vigilante grins, cheeky and sure of himself.

“Heal?”  She notes the color in his cheeks, the way the bruises look days old instead of hours, the clarity in his eyes that was missing last night.  “You’re a healer?”

The vigilante shakes his head.  “Nah, not really.  Can’t do shit for anyone else, I’ve tried.  Just a slightly faster healing factor.  Nothing too crazy, not like Deimos or anything.”  The way he says Technoblade’s villain name, full of awe and admiration, has her biting back a snort.  Of course he’s a fanboy.

She nudges him out of the way with her hip, motioning towards the counter.  “Go.  Sit.  I’ll try to salvage… whatever this was.”

“Scrambled eggs…” He mutters under his breath, pouting slightly.

She glances at the charcoal brown lump of something, still smoldering on the edges of the pan.  “Sure.  You’re lucky I have another pan stored away somewhere in here.  I’ll make us some breakfast, you sit down.  Even with your ‘healing factor,’ you need to take it easy.  And not burn my kitchen down.”  For the second time.  She still remembers the Egg Sandwich Fiasco.  Never let Wilbur Soot be in a kitchen unsupervised.  Ever.

Silence stretches over the room, with an undercurrent of tension zinging through it.  Niki pointedly looks anywhere but the vigilante, determined to at least get some food in the kid if nothing else.  From the corner of her eye, she sees the way his leg bounces rapidly, the fingers of his uninjured hand tapping an arrhythmic beat against his thigh.  His eyes dart around her apartment, lingering on the picture frames above the mantel.  There’s a tightness in his shoulders suddenly as he stares, and she decides to redirect.

“You got a name?”

The vigilante startles, arms windmilling around him as he tries his best not to fall.  She smirks a little, noting how similar the action is to Wilbur.

He gapes at her, mouth opening and closing without a sound.  After a long moment, he squeaks out a strangled, “Huh?”

She doesn’t acknowledge the tone, choosing to focus on dipping pieces of sliced bread into egg wash before dropping them onto the new pan.  “A name.  Or do I just call you ‘kid’?”

He bristles at that, hair practically fluffing up in indignation.  “Oi!  I’m not a kid!  I’m an incredibly handsome, talented, powerful vigilante!”

“Uh huh,”  She deadpans.  “And does this handsome, talented, powerful vigilante have a name?”

“Do you??”  He demands, cheeks red under his mask.  His fingers move from his thigh to drum against the countertop.  

“Do I… have a name?”  She’s a little confused, and looks over to him with an eyebrow raised.  What is he talking about?

“Yes.”  He’s nervous again.  His hands never stop moving.  Fiddling with his fingers, drumming them on the counter, picking a loose seam on his sleeve.  His eyes never leave the chipped countertop.  Teeth dig into chapped lips.  All at once, the pieces click into place and Niki wants to smack herself.  He’s a vigilante.  To him, she’s nothing more than a civilian.  A civilian that could snatch back this kindness at any moment.  With a single call, she could hand him over to his doom.  

But she’s not just a civilian.  And she refuses to become what so many want her to be.  

“I do.  It’s Niki.”  She offers, shoulders relaxed and open.  She doesn’t prompt him for more, simply lets him choose to act.  An olive branch.  A reassurance.  A promise.  

“Niki.  That’s a pretty name.”  He’s completely sincere, which is sweet.  Behind the bluster and bravado, he seems like a sweet kid.  A sweet kid with a hero’s target on his back for some reason.  She shakes that thought away.  Another time.

“Thank you.”  A beat passes.  Another.  The vigilante takes a deep breath, steadying himself, before opening his mouth again.

“I’m T-“  He chokes on his words, eyes bugging out as he coughs.  She starts, ready to run across the kitchen to help, but he waves her off.  When his airways are clear, he tries again.

“Red Rocket.  That’s my name.  Red Rocket.  Nothing else.”  Huh.  It fits, she thinks.  Better than some of the other vigilante names she’s seen.  Hell, before joining the Syndicate, Tubbo was running around as Bee Boy.  

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Red Rocket.”  She catches his eye with a soft smile.  A desperate sort of hunger fills his eyes as he watches her, and she knows its not because of the French toast sitting in the plates.  All too quickly, it disappears, shuddered behind a persona he needs to survive.  

“You too Niki.”  He shoots her a weak, shaky smile.  The one on her own grows brighter.  A tentative thread of something more stretches between them.  Something full of potential and promise.  

Both of them lapse into a comfortable silence.  Breakfast is a calm, quiet affair.  Niki and Red Rocket sit across from one another, only the soft sounds of bodies shifting in stools, the click of silverware against ceramic, the distant noises of a city waking up filling the room.  

It should be a one-time thing.  A fluke, a flub, a strange twist of fate.  The oddity of a villain-in-civilian-disguise having a pleasant breakfast with a vigilante should mean it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.  But for some reason, it’s not.

Niki finds Red stumbling in through her fire escape window at least once a week, a bag of still-steaming takeout clutched in bruised fingers and a wry grin painted from ear to ear.  She should be confused, should be concerned, but she finds herself welcoming him in every time.  She finds herself waiting with bated breath for the telltale rattle-thump of fingers against the window, the screech-scrape of rusted metal against metal, the muffled curses hissed under breath as Red got his fingers caught under the sill.  Waiting for an evening of comfortable conversation.  Of shitty television and belly laughter.  

Sure, there was the issue of masks, both physical and not.  Of a flimsy piece of plastic and a hidden case behind the bedroom wall.  Of villainy and vigilantism and the whole nasty mess.  But here, in the warmth of Niki’s living room, on her stained couch in front of her television, with booted feet on her lap and Red’s solid presence at her side, there’s a bubble of sanctuary.  Neither of them need to worry about the world outside.  About the politics that tangle everything, about the Hero’s Guild, about Founder’s Day rapidly approaching.  The only things that matters are which movie to choose, and which place to order from for next time.  (Because there’s always the offer of a next time.)

Niki feels the questions crowding against the back of her teeth, desperate to see the light of day.  Where does he go after this?  Who does he go home to?  Does he even have a place to go back to?  Why does he come here, time and again?  She swallows them down, lets them flutter and strain against her breastbone alongside the still simmering rage.  It’s not her place to ask.  She wants to know.  Prime does she want to know.  But she waits.  If he wants to, he’ll tell her.  But for now, she’s content to sit, letting his cackle wash over her like a balm.

She’s not going anywhere.  He shoves his toes under her thigh with a cheeky grin.  And it seems, neither is he.

Even with the addition to her routine, time passes swiftly, and all too soon it’s nearly Founder’s Day.  HQ is abuzz with nervous energy as the day approaches.

Jack and Tubbo huddle over devices and equipment, muttering to each other as they check mechanisms and recheck and check again.  Techno and Phil have their heads pressed together, planning for contingency after contingency.  Escape routes on escape routes on escape routes.  Wilbur and Ranboo clash in the training room, drenched in sweat and panting heavily.  They aren’t front-line fighters, not like Technoblade, but they practice all the same.  It never hurts to be prepared.

Throughout it all, Niki flits about.  She drags Tubbo and Jack away from their workshops, forcing food into their hands with a stern look and a sharply downturned eyebrow.  She shoves herself between the tacked up blueprints and Phil, bodily pushing him away to spend time outside.  Away from artificial lighting and concrete.  She manhandles Techno to the couch to undo the tangled mess that was once a braid, gently but firmly working her way through knots until it lays silky smooth down his back.  She sits with Wilbur and talks for hours, pulling him from the endless anxious loops his mind creates.  She locks Ranboo in the spare bedroom, promising to let him out once he’s taken a nap.  

She keeps busy, distracting them and herself from the pit of worry sitting heavy in their guts.  In the back of her head, she hears Red chiding her.  Gotta take care of yourself too.

She hasn’t seen her vigilante in weeks.  It gnaws at her, not knows where he’s gone and who he’s with.  If he’s safe.  She avoids those thoughts by asking Ranboo and Tubbo how their roommate is doing.  (Never anything more.  Not if she wants to be on the receiving end of a stressed out, protective Enderman and bee).

“He’s… he’s doing better.  I think.  Working longer hours.”  Ranboo admits, fiddling with the juicebox on his lap.  “But there’s.  There’s something he’s not telling us.  It’s just so aggravating.  He won’t tell us anything about it.  And I hate the fact that I’m angry about it, because there’s so much we haven’t told him, but-“

She thinks of wild blond curls, cackling laughter, a crooked grin, a thin piece of plastic across brilliant blue eyes.  “But you don’t want him to get caught up in everything this,” She gestures to the massive training room, “entails.”

“Right.”  Ranboo nods, looking just under her chin.

She sighs heavily through her nose.  “Sometimes people have secrets.  If they want to tell you, they will.”

“And what if he never does?”

Bloodstained blond.  A knife to pale skin.  Betrayal in blue eyes.  Her throat is tight, choked around the words.  “I don’t know.”

Founder’s Day.  A celebration of everything that Manberg claims to stand for.  A day of decadence and opulence, a day of revelry and merriment.  A day that embodies everything dark and twisted and rotten about the city.  A day to make a stand, to send a message.  A day to cause some chaos.

The Syndicate descends on the Manberg Mall, a massive sprawling structure of gleaming chrome and glass.  Filled to the brim with shoppers, helpless under the watchful eye of the villains.

Technoblade and Philza stand in their full glory atop the garish statue of President Schlatt, staring down at the fearful faces of civilians.  Their postures are relaxed.  At ease.  In control.  They have nothing to fear.  No reason to fret.  Niki stands below them, surveying.  Watching for anyone who tries to play hero.  She’s tense, coiled, ready and waiting for anything.  Wilbur, Tubbo, and Ranboo stalk the crowd.  Buzzes and vwoops echo through the cavernous space alongside steady, even footsteps.  Jack is hidden somewhere beyond, surveilling from a distance.  An eye in the sky.

Niki’s tuned out Technoblade’s grand speech.  She’s heard him rehearse enough times to recite it from memory.  She scans the faces of the crowd, observing any minute twitch that could mean foolhardy heroism.  For a moment, she sees blazing blue framed by golden blond, and her heart stutters.  A teenager sits in the crowd, staring up at Technoblade with a hardened frown and furrowed brow.  He’s scrawny, but the set of his jaw and the white knuckled hold on his bag tells her everything she needs to know. He’s the kind to watch. The kind who’ll play hero.  Who’ll make the dumbest choice if he thinks it’ll save the world.  She shifts her weight slightly, and rubble under her feet crunches.  His eyes snap from Techno to her.  And he blanches.  Eyes roving over her face, a strange sort of disbelief stark across his expression.  Disbelief, and something like recognition. It sends a shiver up Niki’s spine, but she ignores it.  His mouth gapes like a fish as he stares at her, seeing something she doesn’t understand.  Her eyes narrow as she watches him, waiting for him to make an inevitably stupid move.  

“Deimos.”

The new voice shocks her out of her focus, and she whips her head to the source.  There, standing backlit by a ring of light (honestly, how cliche can you be at this point?), is the Dream Team.

Dream steps forward, porcelain mask as impassive as ever, blank black eyes locked on the eye sockets of Technoblade’s boar mask.  Behind him, Blaze’s hands light with red flames, and 404 bounces on the balls of his feet.  

“Dream.”  Techno’s voice has no infection, no sign of any outward change in his emotions.  But Niki can feel the bloodlust rising behind her, the desire to put a fist through his skull.  She grits her teeth.  

There’s no warning.  No dramatic speech or drawn out battle of wits.  In a flash, the two collide.  Techno’s sword screeches against the blade of Dream’s axe, grinding against it with an unholy, hair raising sound.  The mall descends into chaos.

People scream as hero clashes with villain.  Blaze leaps at her, grinning maniacally as he aims a flaming fist for her head.  She ducks easily, and the concrete behind her crumbles to dust.  White flames lick up her arms as she drops into fighting stance, smirking.

“Bring it.”  She dares.  And he does.

The battle is brutal.  For all their bravado and show, the Syndicate does their best to keep civilians out of the fray.  Aiming strikes away from crowds.  Tossing heroes towards sturdier sections of the building.  Teleporting bystanders away from the fray.  The heroes have no such care.  They strike without abandon, uncaring for the potential harm they may cause.  The battle is wild, and loud, and frenzied.  Everyone is screaming, moving, desperate to survive.  Blaze pulls no punches, dark hair shining with sweat as he hits and hits and hits.  Niki blocks Blaze’s strikes with practiced ease, bright white flames meeting burning red blow for blow.  And then she hears it.  

She shouldn’t be able to hear it.  The soft click of a magazine into a gun should be drowned out by the chaos of the battle around her.  But she still hears it.  

She tears her full attention from the fight, assured that Syndicate training was far and away superior to whatever bullshit the heroes have, to look for the source.  All at once, she sees it.

All sound falls away.  Techno’s brawl with Dream, Wilbur and Phil taking on 404, Ranboo, Tubbo, and Jack flitting around the sidelines.  All of it narrows to a pinpoint.  Across the mall, from one of the upper levels, she sees him.  A white clad hero, accented with gold, is pointing a rifle at her.  The moment stretches on for what feels like hours.  She memorizes each nick and scratch on the muzzle.  The paint etched on the sides.  The dark shine of the metal in the harsh florescence of the mall lighting.  She knows where the muzzle is aimed.  Any marksman worth their salt knows exactly where to aim.  Center mass.

He squeezes the trigger.  She squeezes her eyes shut.  The gun fires.

The sound of the shot ricochets across the mall.

She falls backwards with the force of the impact.

Her breath is knocked clean from her lungs as she collapses to the floor.  White fire snuffs out.  She wheezes, expecting the blooming pain of a gunshot.  It never comes.  Nothing hurts.  Why does nothing hurt?  The bullet was right on target, there’s no way it could have gone off course and hit Blaze.  There’s shouting from just beyond her awareness, sounds of a struggle and a slight wheezing.  Something soft cushions the back of her head so it didn’t crack against the linoleum floor as she fell.  What is going on?  She shifts, but finds herself pinned.  She can’t move.  Something heavy, warm, and wet lays sprawled across her legs and chest.  Something that moves ever so slightly.  Something that breathes.

Oh.  Oh no.

Her eyes fly open with a gasp as she looks down.  Curly blond hair, streaked with dirt and ash.  Long, lanky limbs sprawled across her legs.  A dark red hoodie with a growing stain on the back.  A circular tear right over the left shoulder blade.  Weak, wheezing breaths against her collarbone.

A civilian.  A civilian took the bullet.  For her.

The civilian lifts his head up, peering at her with bleary blue eyes.  Familiar blue eyes.  Blue eyes that look so tired. so worn down without the cheap plastic that she’s so used to see framing them.  He gives her a weak attempt at a familiar cocksure grin, and wheezes, “Now we’re even.”  His voice is ragged and thin, but it’s his.  Red’s.  Her vigilante’s.

The civilian is Red.  Red, who recognized her behind the mask.  Red, who took a bullet for her.  Red, who once told her in the quiet of her apartment that he’d die to save a life.

(“If I can save one person, if I can be helpful just once, then it’ll be worth it.  No big loss if I die.  I’ve never been much use otherwise.”  Shock and horror choke her words, and the moment passes in a blur.)

Red, whose eyes roll back in his head as blood loss and shock steal his consciousness away.  Red, who falls limp and lifeless in her lap.  Red, whose blood swiftly puddles around them.

Red, who is hers.

The rage, once simmering under her ribcage, bursts out.  The floor around her cracks and crumbles from the heat as jettisons of blazing white fire shoot from the earth.  It wreathes around her, barricading her and Red from the world.  She clutches him close, desperately pressing his nose into her neck where she can feel the barest puffs of breath against her collarbone.  Blood slick fingers dig into him, no doubt leaving deep purple bruises, but she doesn’t care.  Someone is screaming, animalistic howls of wrath and hate and terror.  She tastes blood and knows it’s her.  Blaze stumbles back from her, face pale and shivering at the sight.  She presses Red closer and screams.

“LETHE!”

Ranboo teleports to her side in a flurry of purple particles, stumbling slightly from disorientation.  He flinches back when he sees the wall of flame, the wild look in Niki’s eyes, and the figure cradled close to her chest.  Then he catches sight of Red’s face.  He stills.  Niki can’t tell if he’s even breathing.

And he shrieks.

Jaw unhinged.  Eyes deep purple.  Tail lashing.  Claws extended.  He shrieks, bone chilling and bloodcurdling.  A sound of pure fury, of world-ending rage and the desire for blood.  Niki doesn’t have to say another word before long arms wrap around her and she feels the tug of teleportation.

She blinks and they’re sitting in the medical wing of HQ.  Red is draped across her legs, nose terrifyingly cold against the skin of her neck.  Ranboo kneels next to her, making fearful chirps and trills and warbles, eyes still an unending purple.  His hands flutter about Red’s prone form, like he’s afraid too hard of a touch will shatter him into a thousand pieces.  She has no idea why he’s reacted to Red like this, but now’s not the time to worry about that.

Now’s the time to worry about the gunshot in Red’s back.

She hefts Red into her arms, wincing at the bitten off whine she gets when she jostles him.  Ranboo hisses in warning, ears pinned back.  

“Enough.” She barks.  Ranboo clicks angrily, tail lashing.  She takes a deep breath, before saying firmly, “I’m not hurting him.  But if we don’t do something, he might die.”

That seems to click something together in Ranboo’s head, and he warbles low in his throat as he tugs Red out of Niki’s arms.  She doesn’t fight him as he carefully, carefully lowers Red to the cot.  She rummages around the medical supplies as he trills lowly, brushing a piece of Red’s fringe from his eyes with a gentle tenderness.  A part of her wants to leave him alone, hesitant to fracture the fragile moment between them.  But another, louder part of her knows she can’t.  Knows she has to act now.  So she nudges Ranboo away and gets to work.

The two of them fall into the familiar rhythm of disinfecting, stitching, bandaging.  The extracted bullet rattles around in a small metal bowl set next to the bed.  Eventually, Ranboo comes back to himself, trills and whistles falling away to an uneasy silence.  Soon enough, they’re sitting beside the unconscious Red, as stabilized as they can make him.  

“His name is Tommy.”  Niki almost misses the whisper.  Probably would have, had she not been straining to listen to the wheezing exhales and whistling inhales.  

She glances to Ranboo, question on the tip of her lips.  He’s picking at the skin around his claws again.  His tail twists into anxious shapes.  “His name is Tommy.  He’s our roommate.  Did… how did you find out about him?”

“I didn’t.”  She huffs a watery laugh, wiping at the tears gathering on her lash line.  “At least, not that.  I knew him as Red Rocket.”

“Wait, the vigilante?  The one that’s been running around Eighteen?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  I wish I did.”

“When he wakes up, we’ll ask him.”  It’s not an if.  It’s a when.

“Yeah.”

The door to the medical wing slams open and the rest of the Syndicate comes rushing in.  All are drenched in blood, but most of it looks like other people’s.  Tubbo pushes past the others to stand in front of Ranboo, face set in a furious frown.

“What the fuck was that?!”  He demands, wings buzzing to bring him to Ranboo’s eye level.  “You better have a good fucking explanation for what just happened, Boo, or so help me-“  He cuts himself off abruptly, staring down at the battered boy laying in the bed.

“What?”  His voice is fragile.  Disbelieving.  Terrified.

“He was at the mall.”  Ranboo says, and that’s all he needs to say before Tubbo crumbles, faces pinched and eyes shining with tears.  

“Does someone want to explain what’s going on?”  Technoblade asks, gruff annoyance coating each syllable.  Niki’s lip draws back in a snarl as she stalks forward, unafraid of the massive man before her.  She reaches up and yanks at a braid dangling by the side of his face, bringing him to stare right into her eyes.  

She hisses low and deadly.  “Listen to me Technoblade, because I won’t be saying this again.  If anything.  Anything.  Happens to that boy, I will not hesitate to burn this entire fucking city to the ground.  And you and I both know, there’s nothing any of you can do to stop me.”

Ranboo stands to her right, stance firm and unyielding.  To her left, Tubbo plants his feet and crosses his arms, chin held high as if daring them to try something.  Behind her, Tommy sleeps on.  Techno looks between the four of them, jaw muscles tight and eyebrows furrowed.  Niki does not budge.  Tommy is Ranboo’s, and Tubbo’s, and hers.  Techno will not touch a hair on his head, not while she still draws breath and her heart still beats.  He seems to realize it too.

He nods sharply, and Niki releases the braid, turning on her heel too sit at Tommy’s bedside once more.  She’ll have to explain everything later: the midnight visits, the breakfasts, the easy comfort.  They all will, it seems, as Tubbo fusses with the blankets and Ranboo stands vigil beside them.  But for now, Niki sits, cradling Tommy’s hand in hers and waits for him to wake up.

Days later, she’s sitting alone in the medical wing.  A large book of fairy tales is propped up on her lap as she reads them out in the soft stillness of the room.  The only light comes from the tabletop lamp, drenching the room in a muted golden light.  

Red Tommy shifts slightly, a low groan following the aborted movement.  Niki shuts the book softly, setting aside as she leans forward to grab Tommy’s hand.  She squeezes it just a bit, and can’t help the shaky smile when he weakly squeezes back.

Blue eyes, glazed with pain and bone-deep fatigue, squint open.  When he sees the unfamiliar ceiling, he tenses, prepping for a fight.  She ducks down into his sight and whispers, “Hey, you.”

He exhales, tension falling from his limbs as he recognizes her.  A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.  “Hi.”

“That wasn’t your smartest move, now was it?”  She teases, brushing a thumb under his eye.  He leans into it, chasing the soft affection.  

“Worth it.”  That sends a shot of guilt and fury through Niki’s heart, but later.  They can deal with that later.  For now, there are more pressing matters.  

“Go back to sleep.  We’ll talk this over in the morning.”

The hand in hers grips impossibly tighter.  Tommy’s voice wobbles dangerously as he asks, hesitant and afraid, “You’ll still be here, right?”

Niki smiles, sight blurred by tears.  “Of course.  I’m not going anywhere.”

Like everything, it all ends in a whisper.

It’s months after the Founder’s Day Massacre as the press is calling it.  (No one died during the chaos, not even the heroes, but that doesn’t make a good story does it?) The Syndicate takes over a bridge, the main connection between Manberg and the rest of the continent.  The only land based way in and out of the city.

Red Rocket comes in guns blazing, declaring to the world his intention to destroy them once and for all.  Deimos laughs, taunting, as Orpheus sings his sickly sweet song.  Zephyrus watches from above, eyes impassive, as they clash, the tune of metal against metal ringing in the clear afternoon.  Nemesis clutches to Lethe’s hand, eyes hard as Deimos drives his blade home in Red Rocket’s chest.  Watches with trembling lips as he shoves the vigilante off, watches as he tumbles down, down, down, into the frigid water below.

He never rises.  The Syndicate leaves, their mission done.  

They never find his body.  Never tell a mother who doesn’t live, a father that never cared that their son lays dead in the harbor.  Never put to rest a child who fought so desperately to change the world.  Never bring his story to a satisfactory conclusion.  Never fan the dead flames to life.

From those bitter ashes, a new face rises.  Smudged in mud and dirt and seawater, eyes blazing and hands ready, Theseus takes his place besides Nemesis and Orpheus and Lethe and Soter.  They stand together, ready to watch the world tremble.

And Prime help those who stand in their way.