Chapter Text
Tommy is fifteen years old when he relearns what it means to be a free man.
The room he usually stays in, tightly packed with eight beds to fit sixteen involuntary guests, is unavailable to him now. They’re keeping him in a small, one-person chamber in the darkest corners of the Pit, where the grasping hands of men with money cannot reach him. He’s fed once daily, yes, but it’s not much, and wolfing down every meal so far hasn’t been very good for him. It’s hard to save his meals to space them out, though, knowing they’ll take the food from him if they find out.
With a sigh, Tommy rolls over in his cot. The room is barely as wide as he is tall, and he has to duck when he stands to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. They thought it’d do the trick, probably, but their last recorded height check from him was two years ago, which doesn’t really match up now. In fact, he’s been starving lately— plagued with hunger pangs from a growth spurt that he never asked to have.
Whatever. He’ll live. Tommy buries his head in his pillow and wonders if they’re ever going to let him play games again. Wonders if he’s ever going to see his roommates again.
Of course, he’s heard of the Boar’s escape. It was the same day they forced him in here. He was not blind to the way that the guests stared when Tommy was dragged away, thrown into a locked safe and told to keep fucking quiet. He screamed at first, but he knows better now. A raw throat won’t help him— all that brings is pain while he’s eating. Where they once would have come solely to punish him, they now completely ignore him altogether.
Contradictory to this sentiment, though, footsteps sound outside his door, and Tommy’s eyebrows leap up as he throws himself up into a sitting position. Inclining his head towards the sound, Tommy leans against the wall in wait of somebody to show their face outside what seems to have become his cell. It’s too early for them to be bringing him food, and he hasn’t been paid in days (weeks? How long has it been since the Boar’s departure? Tommy aches so badly through each passing second without him that the days have begun to blur). He has no idea why they’re coming for him now.
It doesn’t matter, though. He aches for a taste of fresh air, tired of breathing the same circulated oxygen in this tiny room with the tiny cot. It reeks of body odor and piss, thanks to the pan under the bed that they’ve given him to use and the fact that they refuse to risk letting him out to bathe.
They know he’ll run. They know he’ll throw himself at the first guard he can get his hands on, once he’s sure of a plan. They know the Badger will search to the ends of the earth for the Boar.
Tommy can only hope that he wasn’t abandoned.
The door clicks, and he shuffles backwards towards his pillow with wide eyes, bracing himself with a hand on the wall. They never open the door to feed him; they slide it through the slot near the bottom. They’re either here to hurt him or to drag him back to his living quarters. When the door swings open a sliver and the dim but present light from the hallway meets his eyes, Tommy sneezes, and then his stomach grumbles loudly in protest.
If he goes back to his living quarters, they’ll probably feed him more. Tommy sits up straighter, and when a face appears from the other side of the door once it’s opened wide enough, Tommy stares it straight in its eyes.
“Clean yourself up,” the man barks, and Tommy narrows his eyes, gesturing to the tiny fucking room. Is he serious?
“With what?” he replies snarkily. The man steps forward, and Tommy jerks back, staring past his shoulder and at the height of the ceiling outside his room. Oh, what he would do to stand up straight. Claustrophobia has never really been his weakness, but after days (weeks) of this living situation, the stifling circumstances are starting to get to him. He’s pretty sure that’s the point.
“At least fix your hair,” the guard replies, and Tommy crosses his arms.
“Let me shower, then.”
“Ungrateful brat.”
Tommy’s lips turn down at the corners, a deep frown etching its way into his features once again. It’s not like they’ve been so benevolent as to give him new clothes, or a hairbrush, or even just a washcloth. Tommy’s fairly certain that his face is streaked with dirt, and there’s a high chance that his hair is full of it, too. In fact, he hopes he looks disgusting. He hopes it makes them feel bad.
Before, he was defiant because the thrill of rebellion was the only thing keeping him going. Now, the fury that swirls inside of him is what drives his desire to spit in every face he sees.
“Somebody is here to see you,” says the man, and Tommy’s stomach drops far out of his body, the excitement and longing so strong that his ears begin to ring. The guard reaches into his room and takes hold of his arm. Tommy struggles for just a moment, but he can see each and every weapon that lines this man’s belt (including the infamous and most used stun baton), and there are more footsteps echoing in the hall around his room. If he really wanted, he could knock this guy out, but he’d be swarmed in an instant. They’d dogpile him.
The Boar is back for him, he thinks giddily, despite the way that it makes no sense. It doesn’t matter that they’d never let him see the Boar. It doesn’t matter that that’s the whole reason they locked him up. It doesn’t matter that Tommy aches for a shower, for a full meal, for a real conversation with the people he has learned to call friends.
All that matters is that he has not been abandoned.
It is for this reason and this reason only that he lets the guard pull him out of his room, cuffing his hands together behind his back lest he be tempted to try anything. Smart man. The temptation is ingrained into Tommy, no matter how hard they beat him when they catch him breaking rules and no matter how many times they shock him when he steps out of line.
Tommy revels in the way that he can straighten his spine, immediately leaning backwards to pop his back and rubbing his face on his shoulder to try and mitigate the sharpness of the new light on his eyes. The guard is impatient, though, and keeps him moving, stumbling over his feet on weak legs that have not been properly used for too many days.
They pass the exit that leads to the Arena, and they pass the mess hall, where visions of red rubies still dance behind his eyes. He’ll never forgive them for that. He’ll never forgive them for a lot of things, actually. Nine years is a hell of a long time, and he’ll always favor his right foot.
Tommy expects to be dumped off in his old living quarters. He expects the guard to shove him forward and let him loose in his dinky old room full of eight beds, where he can at least see Purpled (unless he’s progressed or fallen a rank in the time that Tommy has been locked up). They turn down the hallway to the rooms, and Tommy walks instinctively on a diagonal, assuming a position of repetition. He is a wheelbarrow traveling on two deep lines in the soil.
The guard knocks him to the side, and Tommy stumbles. “What—” he begins, and then pauses as they pass completely by the room. Through the small window, he catches pairs upon pairs of eyes that watch for him. He fixates on the purple ones as he continues on, and stares until he cannot see them anymore, a familiar fear creeping onto his shoulders that he is sure is obvious in his gaze.
He does not stop. In fact, they climb sets of stairs that Tommy has never seen, and they turn corners that Tommy has never been around, and then a second guard joins them, and then a third, until he has amassed a total of six guards flanking him on all sides. The confinement isn’t unusual, however; he’s well accustomed to being boxed in.
What he is not accustomed to is the door they stop in front of after what feels like hours of walking. Tommy is starving, and he has to piss, and he could really use a shower, but when the door swings open to reveal a well-kempt man he’s never seen before in a coat that doesn’t have the Pit logo, he forgets all grievances and instantly begins to feel like a lab rat under a hot lamp and a magnifying glass.
One of the guards, thankfully not the first, speaks up. “Tommy,” she says, “this is Wilbur Soot.”
“Very nice to meet you,” the man says, beaming, although Tommy can see his eyes. Tommy can see the way Wilbur Soot searches for any semblance of dignity left in him. He wonders if this man knows the intricacies of the Pit. He wonders if this man knows what they have done to him.
Probably not. They’ll shock him if he says anything; Tommy keeps his mouth firmly shut.
The door leads into a room that is uncomfortably warm for the Pit. Tommy is used to freezing cold temperatures, and he knows that his body tends to regulate accordingly, so this throws him off. He eyes the walls, and then the door that’s at the other end. It’s a long room, more of a hall, and Tommy starts to examine it, but guards block his view of most of the room. All he can see is what looks to be a counter similar to the one in the mess hall.
It does not have bars. He squints at this freedom and then turns his attention back to Wilbur Soot, who has begun to talk again, seeing as the guards will not elaborate.
“I’ve actually come to have a meeting with you,” Wilbur says, beckoning him forward. “Walk with me? And Prime, won’t you unhand him?”
Tommy’s not sure where they’re going, but anywhere is better than here. He eyes the guards, who seem reluctant, and smugly, he offers his hands. “You heard the man,” he presses, and then his expression sours. “Unhand me.”
The guard closest to his left does the job, taking the handcuffs off of him. Apparently, they’re confident he won’t try anything, because he can’t remember the last time he was allowed to walk freely in a hall without his hands bound or some restriction of the sort. Tommy massages his wrists and takes one experimental step towards Mr. Soot. When he is not stopped, he proceeds, and Wilbur nods, appeased.
“Thank you. Tommy, it’s nice to meet you,” he reiterates, extending a hand. Tommy stares at him in disbelief before slowly offering his own. His grip is loose— guarded— but Wilbur shakes it firmly anyway, smiling down at him. “I’m told you’re proficient in fighting,” the man goes on. “I hope I’ve not been lied to?”
Tommy watches him blankly. He can’t be serious. “Are you kidding? I’m the best in my class.” For added effect, he stands up straighter, eyeing Wilbur distrustfully— but anything is better than the guards. Anything is better than the tiny room. Anything is better than the measly rations, the fighting, the near nonexistent income.
Anything is better than the Pit, and Tommy is sensing a possible escape route in the works.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Wilbur replies with a hum. “You should be proud of yourself.” Gee, thanks. “I’m just wondering, Tommy— I have a proposal for you. And of course, you’re under no obligation to accept, if you like it here, but I’d like you to consider it.”
Tommy stares at him, deadpan, and wonders how Wilbur Soot does not notice the body language of a boy who has been confined in the same walls for nine years. They definitely didn’t tell him.
“Right,” says Tommy, despite himself, because he really does want to know. He really does want to taste fresh air. The kids get commissioned, sometimes. They let the eldest ones out sometimes. They always come back, but… Tommy’s certain he could find a way to escape. Tommy’s certain they’d never find him again, if he planned ahead enough.
His stomach rolls with anticipation as Wilbur Soot takes a breath.
“I have a dream,” Wilbur says seriously, and Tommy resists the urge to snort. “I’d like to form a small country. There’s a server—” this will involve server hopping?— “called the DREAM SMP. It stands for something fancy, I don’t exactly have it memorized— the point is that I’d like to live there, but under my own parameters rather than their dominion. And I’ve been looking for a sort of running mate, if you will. If I’m going to be the president of a nation, I’d like to have a partner.”
Tommy is lost. The prospect of freedom tastes sweet on his lips, but if this will be digging his own grave, he needs to know in advance. He needs enough information to start forming a method of escape before he even arrives. From whispers through the grapevine, he knows what an SMP is: Survival Multiperson Server. It will have more liberties than this hellhole, that’s for sure. But… “Why me?” he asks, on edge, and smooths his hair down self-consciously.
He should have cleaned up. The guard was right.
“Why not you?” Wilbur exclaims. “They tell stories of you across servers, Tommy. There’s so much to be said about you— you’re intelligent, hard-working, and you’re the most advanced combatant Hypixel has ever seen for your age.”
Hypixel. The true name of the Pit rings in his ears; Tommy blocks it out. This place will always be the Pit to him. Even so, when he ignores that, Wilbur’s words are enticing. Stories about him? Is he famous? The outside world is a curious place, one Tommy has not experienced in nearly a decade, and this piques his interest greatly. He can’t let on, though. He can’t let Wilbur Soot know how badly he wants to know.
“You want me because you’ve heard the rumors,” Tommy says flatly, still closed-off, and Wilbur’s eyebrow raises. He leans closer to Tommy’s ear, and Tommy, hyper aware of every movement in the room, watches the guards go on high alert. No matter; they’ll only step in if Tommy misbehaves, and he’s smarter than to fuck things up now.
“I also want you because I asked for their strongest occupant, and you were the one they recommended,” Wilbur whispers to him. Tommy’s chest stirs with burning hatred for the Pit workers, a hurricane of vile rage that he’s been harboring for years and years. Of course they’d do anything to get him out of here, away from his roots, away from anywhere the Boar might possibly return to.
But it’s tempting, and Tommy can’t hold onto a shattered hope forever.
Tommy faces Wilbur now, narrowing his eyes. His head spins. “This… can’t be a permanent trip,” he says, choosing his words carefully and decisively. He doesn’t want Wilbur to know how trapped he is. He doesn’t want Wilbur to realize that the image the Pit has painted of him on the outside will never match up with what is happening under the surface. “I can’t leave the— can’t leave Hypixel forever. This is where I…” He pauses, gagging internally at such a far-fetched idea. “This is where I get my income,” he says finally, though the small sum they reward him with every once in a while is laughable.
Wilbur doesn’t seem bothered, despite his stuttering. “Something can be arranged,” he assures, and then winks. “You’ve got spirit. I like that in a running mate.”
Did this bitch just fucking wink at me?
Tommy keeps his profanities to himself, like they’ve taught him, because on the inside, he’s as giddy as a boy can be. “And if I say no?”
“Well,” Wilbur says, faux-gravely, like he already knows how desperate Tommy is to agree. “That would be a shame. I think we’d get along great, Tommy, don’t you?”
There are too many possibilities. Wilbur Soot could be a loose cannon, or a complete fucking idiot, or a narcissist, or a loser, or a failure, or a pompous, greedy bastard— but Tommy will take anybody’s hand if it’ll pull him up and out of the Pit.
Holy fuck, he thinks, extending his hand to Wilbur, dizzily elated, I’m really doing this. I’m really going to get out. I’m really going to be free. He’s never been so excited in his life— it’s not like they’ve ever given him anything to look forward to. Though adrenaline runs through his veins, and his head aches with anticipation, and his chest is tight with the knowledge that this could just be some trap that they’re testing him with, he can’t help it. Anyone would want out of here. He just has to cross his fingers and hope they don’t use this as an excuse to break his ankle again. If it’s true, and Wilbur Soot isn’t some stupid fucking made-up man to lure him into a mind game he can’t escape, then he’ll finally be free.
And once he is, once he’s far from this wretched, abominable abyss, he’ll spend his days searching for the Boar, whether Wilbur Soot wants to help him or not.
The man takes his hand, and his eyes sparkle with enthusiasm, and then several things happen at once. “I can’t wait for you to join me,” says Wilbur, and then the guards surge forward to pull Tommy away from the new man, into a room off to the side, where he leaves his new business partner waiting with clearly bated breath.
One of the guards faces him once the door is closed behind them, expression chilling. “This is a temporary assignment,” he says, slowly and definitively, as if Tommy is fucking stupid. “Do you understand?”
Tommy sneers instantly. “Of course I understand,” he spits. “I’d expect nothing less of the company that treats me like their property. Fuck— ow, y’ cock!” he barks when the worker nearest him reaches out to tug on his hair, and his head is held firmly at a sharp angle as she presses something searing into his neck. “Fuck,” he hisses again, and her grip does not loosen.
“Behave yourself,” she snaps, “and watch your language. You’re being rented out. Don’t embarrass yourself now.” There’s a new source of pain then, in his arm, worse than whatever they did to his neck, and Tommy gasps, jerking back.
“What the fuck!” he yelps, cradling his arm to his chest and leaning down to inspect what they’ve just done to him, wiping tiny spots of blood away.
A faint red light blinks under the surface of his skin. Fucking tracker. He’ll have to dig it out somehow later; he knows there has to be more to it than that, but he has to at least try. When he’s finally unhanded, he stands up straight and then runs a hand along his neck, feeling new ridges.
The Pit has branded him like cattle and chipped him like a pet dog. How fitting.
“Your stay will last you a month, until you are re-evaluated,” the head guard says, staring straight at him, “and we will monitor your movements along the way. You’ll be happy to know that this chip can and will administer controlled shocks, should you attempt to remove it or attempt to set foot outside the boundaries that we have set.”
Nausea builds in his throat, and he feels like he’s been punched in the gut, but Tommy pushes it down. He doesn’t know what he expected. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes too high. He’s getting out of the building, at least. That’s better than nothing. “And the boundaries?” he mutters, eyeing the guard, who raises his eyebrows.
“Here and the Dream SMP,” the man says simply. “Subject to change if Wilbur contacts us, of course.”
Ah. So Wilbur controls his fate, then, at least for a month or so. Tommy will be sure to stay on his good side. “Fuck you,” he says to the guards, because what can they do while Wilbur is waiting just a thin wall away? “Wankstains, all of you. I hope you fucking choke. One by one, I hope you kick the fucking bucket,” he finishes, voice wavering out of sheer habit (because on any normal day, he’d get a proper beating for all of this).
Relishing in the feeling of freedom of speech, Tommy smiles smugly at the guard across from him. He makes no move to attack, knowing they’d outmaneuver him with their weapons, but he’s sure his words and his eyes get the job done: I never want to see any of you again in my life.
To Tommy’s chagrin, the head guard smiles right back at him, gesturing to the door, and he is not punished. “Enjoy yourself, Tommy. Hypixel will be watching.”
He opens the door of his own volition, one of the first things he’s done himself in years, and greets his new running mate with a slight upward nod. Already, his head is swarming with tracker removal methods. He’s sure he can manage it somehow. He will not let this brief escape go to waste. He will not let his freedom be temporary. He will not surrender again to the Pit.
“Right,” says Wilbur, pulling him from his own violently desperate thoughts, and then the man glances past Tommy’s shoulder. A roll of his eyes follows, and Tommy quirks a questioning eyebrow as Wilbur continues, “Thank fuck. They’ve been breathing down both our necks this entire time,” he snorts, and wow, Tommy instantly likes this guy a lot better than he did five seconds ago.
“You’d be surprised,” he mutters, and Wilbur shakes his head.
“I’m sure. We’ll get better acquainted once we’re out of this place— Prime, it gives me the creeps.” Wilbur laughs, like it’s funny, and Tommy is tempted to say something, anything, but he keeps his head down and his mouth shut after that. Wilbur doesn’t need to know it all. Not yet. Not until Tommy can be sure that he’s not a complete asshole, or something like that. (He doesn’t seem the type, but Tommy is no idiot. The Boar didn’t seem the type to abandon, and here he is, alone again.)
“Need to grab your things?” Wilbur prompts when he receives no response. Tommy shakes his head deftly and refuses to elaborate, beside himself with anticipation and so eager that he’s made himself nauseous. Keep your head on straight, he reminds himself as Wilbur’s brow creases. The man doesn’t comment. “We’ll get cleaned up after we hop,” he says, leading Tommy forward and towards the door and holy fuck, Tommy realizes why it’s so fucking warm in here.
He runs for the door before Wilbur can hold it for him. It’s stupid, and reckless, and completely uncalculated, but Tommy throws it open with a burst of energy he didn’t know he had in him, and he stops dead in his tracks, head tilted back in what feels like a permanent position of awe.
Glory, glory, glory. The stars are out. He can hear crickets in the bushes lining the building. Tommy inhales deeply, only then realizing that he is shaking. The scent of dirt and fresh air hits him hard, ripping the roots up from his chest and planting new seeds where the old, shriveled plants were slowly dying.
Tears roll down his cheeks before he can stop them, and Tommy wipes his face, swallowing bile in this vast, open world he has found himself in. The Badger is a worthless title now— Tommy is a caged bird set free, no matter whether he is on a long chain connected to a heavy ball or not.
Wilbur’s footsteps are obvious behind him, and Tommy is prepared for the arm that is slung around his shoulders. He’s herded carefully toward a portal he didn’t even notice earlier. Immediately, he stares into the swirling colors, mouth agape despite the spitfire, calculating front that it is imperative to keep up. Tommy steps forward on wobbly legs, forced to wrap a hand in the material of Wilbur Soot’s overcoat to keep himself stable. He can hear grass. The feeling of the wind on his face is one he knows he will never take for granted, and even though it’s as quiet as possible, even though he’s trained himself not to make a sound when he cries, Wilbur feels him tremble and leans forward to check.
“Oh, Tommy, are you crying? What’s wrong?” asks Wilbur gently, and holy fuck, that makes it so much worse. It’s the kindest anybody has been to him in years, not counting the warmth of the Boar. It’s the softest, the most respectful anyone has treated him for as long as he can remember. Tommy chokes on his own emotion and swallows hard, turning his pale face once again to the sky.
“It’s just really nice out.”
Tommy’s first night out of the Pit is spent breathing air full of stars. Tommy’s second night out of the Pit is spent in a village he doesn’t recognize, living on more than just borrowed time. And Tommy’s third night out of the Pit is spent in a house that he thinks he might finally be able to call home.