Chapter Text
Charlie hunches his shoulders tight against his ears, bracing against the gusting wind that whips down the back streets of the industrial district. It’s nearly May, but winter’s grip hasn’t loosened at all. Frost clings to awnings and window panes, tracing delicate patterns along the glass. The sky is gray and cloudy, with thin sunlight just barely creeping through the thick coverage. Barely budding flowers cling stubbornly to wildly flailing tree branches, desperate to break through and bring spring roaring back. But for now, they lay dormant and still.
His boots crunch against the thin layer of frost coating the sidewalks, careful to avoid slipping and falling on his ass. There’s no worry about someone seeing him land face first on the concrete should he actually slip. The streets are totally empty on this side of town, safe for a stray cat pawing through a dumpster and a group of raccoons chattering angrily to one another in a nearby alley. The only real worry is potentially dropping his precious cargo. Steam slowly curls from the pizza boxes, only to be swept away by the frigid wind blowing from the nearby river.
Three extra large pies and an order of garlic knots from the nice place up on Sixteenth. It’s a bit of a hike there and back, but he lost, hard , and now he has to pay the price. So, one extra cheese, one pepperoni and sausage, and for some godforsaken reason, one black olive and anchovy (blasphemy and heresy, if you ask him) it is.
It’s honestly not the worst punishment for losing a bet. He’s definitely had worse. The time he and his crew were locked in the abandoned mental hospital for a night and had to break out without Schlatt and his Administration finding out was a nightmare. And the time they had to literally escape from prison, hungover and handcuffed together, with the entire Bakery on their asses. Condi still has a scar from a close call with one of Bad’s knives. He’d take heathenous pizza delivery over Drunken Jailbreak any fucking day.
A particularly strong gust of wind nearly flips the greasy cardboard up onto his face, and he struggles against it for a long moment before he finally gets it under control. He never promised perfect pizza delivery, just delivery.
He gets to his destination fairly quickly. Not many people are coming around the old factories near the riverfront, anyway. The warehouse sits tucked away in an especially abandoned part of the property, practically dripping in overgrowth and vegetation. Not a single window is still intact, and most can barely even be called windows anymore. The bricks are a faded, sunbleached sort of pinkish-gray, dulled with a thick layer of dirt and ash. The pavement surrounding it is nearly all crumbled to nothing, with just scraggly dandelions braving the last bit of winter chill left. It’s eerily quiet, with barely even a whisper of movement or noise in the entire vicinity.
But if you know what to look for, you can find small discrepancies in the whole scene. The windows are shattered to shit, with cracks spider-webbing from every corner, but no matter how close you look, you can’t see inside. The entire structure is dilapidated and in disrepair, but the door is standing firm and solid despite its age. There’s a heavy layer of dust and ash coating everything, even the barely-visible lights on the breaker box and the generator hooked up nearby.
There are footprints in the mud and fingerprints along the sills. Good, looks like at least someone’s home.
Charlie ducks into the threshold of the door, hiding from the harsh wind behind the building. He juggles with the pizza boxes for a moment, the garlic knots teetering dangerously over a puddle of… something nasty looking. Whatever it is, it's definitely not water. Numb fingers fumble with the keypad tucked against the wall, hidden to everyone but those who already know it’s there (or were told by someone else). He curses under his breath as he fucks up the code twice before finally, finally getting it right on the third try. God knows what sort of nightmare shit is hooked up to this thing to keep intruders out. At least he didn’t insta-explode. That would not have been ideal.
He practically falls over himself to get inside, just barely avoiding dumping the pizzas all over the worn rug just inside the threshold. Slamming the heavy door behind him, he slumps against it for a moment and breathes, relishing the warmth that envelopes him all around. The door vibrates against his back as tumblers and pistons lock back into place, a shrill beep alerting him that the lock was engaged once more.
As he pants slightly, cheeks and fingers tingling as feeling and blood slowly returns to them, he can just barely pick out the sounds of voices and laughter through the walls. Warm light spills through a doorway nearby, illuminating a tangle of black climbing rope knotted all around itself, a backpack with its contents scattered across the floor, and a pair of muddy dress shoes tossed carelessly in a corner. A small smile tugs at the corner of Charlie’s lips and he heaves himself up off the door. The stack of pizza wobbles just a tad before he rights himself and strides off towards the noise.
The moment he rounds the corner, he’s greeted with five matching grins and a wall of shouts.
“CHARLIE SLIMECICLE!!!”
His face is split in two with the size of his own smile, head cocked to the side and hand not holding the pizzas outstretched. “The one and only!” He crows.
The Exiled are scattered across their kitchen and living room, surrounded by the aftermath of a trademarked Teenage Hurricane. Tommy sits at the table with Ranboo, a deck of cards scattered between them. Charlie can’t quite tell what they’re playing. From the doorway, it looks like a demented mix of poker, Go Fish, and, for some ungodly reason, Monopoly. Ranboo seems just as confused and lost as Charlie feels, and looks half a second ready to pass out. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie can see a few cards tucked between Tommy and his seat, but dutifully keeps his mouth shut. Drista is sitting on the countertop, snug in an oversized emerald green hoodie with a large bowl of cereal in her hands and dangling heels whacking into the cabinet every so often. Her long hair is pulled into a mess of a bun with a screwdriver stuck inside. Tubbo is in front of his computer setup, various screens blinking behind him. The amount of code makes Charlie’s head spin, and Tubbo has a feral glint in his eye that sends a shiver down his spine. Across from Tubbo, Purpled stretches out on the couch, head hanging upside down from the armrest. The television in front of him shows the pause screen for some sort of fighting game, though Charlie can’t quite make it out from where he stands.
“Took you long enough,” Drista chirps from where she’s seated, fiddling with her spoon as she levels him a deadpan look. “Thought we were gonna have to pay you a little visit to get you to pay up.”
“Naaaah, you know me! I’m Mr. Trusty! I always pay up. Eventually.” Charlie drops his cargo down on the table, ignoring Tommy’s outraged squawk when it pushes his cards out of the way. Ranboo breathes an audible sigh of relief.
“You got the good stuff, right?” Purpled swings himself up from the couch gracefully, quickly saving his game before shutting it down and setting the controller down on the coffee table. “Because I swear to god if you got the nasty shit from Antonelli’s, I’m out.”
“And disrespect my dear friends with subpar pies? Absolutely not! I only get the best of the best, and the best of the best is always from DiAngelo’s!” Charlie scoffs. How dare he think he’d stoop so low as to bring back improper offerings. For shame!
“Fuck yes!” Tubbo whoops and springs forward, snatching the box with the pepperoni and sausage from the table before immediately devouring two pieces. Ranboo looks at him aghast, watching sauce drip from the corner of his mouth as he continues his methodical pizza annihilation.
“Tommy, toss me the garlic knots!” Drista waves a hand from the counter.
“Fuck you!” Tommy snags one from the bag and shoves it in his mouth before throwing the rest of it at her, just barely missing smacking her across the jaw with it. She deftly catches it out of the air and flashes him an angelic smile.
“Love you too, Tomathy!”
Tommy snorts and rolls his eyes before shoving a slice of extra cheese in his mouth, barely hiding the bright crimson flush growing across his cheekbones.
“You want any?” Ranboo asks Charlie, gingerly picking at a slice of black olive and anchovy.
“Well if you’re offering, I gladly accept!” He plops himself down in an empty seat far away from Ranboo’s monstrosity, dutifully ignoring Tubbo snarling at Purpled from the floor. He notes from the corner of his eye as Purpled levels Tubbo a carefully blank look, totally unimpressed, before walking away with a few slices of pepperoni and sausage on a plate. Tubbo looks between the box, now several slices emptier, and the thief’s retreating back, dumbstruck. Satisfied with his prize, Purpled balances cross-legged on the back of the couch, watching the whole scene with an air of barely concealed smugness.
Charlie grabs a couple of hefty slices of cheese for himself, settling comfortably in the ratty chair. One leg is slightly shorter than the rest, and with each movement it wobbles just a tad. He raises his slice to his mouth just as he wobbles, and a large glob of sauce splatters on his pristine white t-shirt. Snickers surround him as he hangs his head. Of course.
The feral teenagers tear into their pizza offerings, sauce and dough flying through the air. Soon enough, all of the boxes are empty, their shredded carcasses scattered across the living area. The beasts lay dormant, sleepy from their kill and dozing quietly. A piece of still-warm crust dangles from Charlie’s fingertips, his second slice cooling on the plate in his hand.
He would find the scene concerning if he wasn’t so used to it. But all he could feel was pride.
“So,” He breaks the comfortable silence, tearing off a piece of crust and shoving it into his mouth. “What’ve you chucklefucks been up to recently?”
Drista’s eyes glitter in the warm yellow kitchen light. “You see us on the news?”
“But of course! Both the Museum AND the Mason Fundraiser. Quite a show you all pulled off, eh?” Charlie couldn’t keep a beaming smile off his face. And he wasn’t lying! These kids were a hell of a group, and their sheer talent would blow the socks off anyone in their line of work. It’s probably for the best that they haven’t announced the whole ‘the big bad Exiled, scourge of the criminal underworld and boogeyman to every crew in existence are actually a ragtag bunch of teenagers with more intelligence than they know what to do with, and far less impulse control than should be allowed’ thing yet. Not because they’d be a target. They can handle themselves perfectly well under pressure. Tubbo’s body count alone speaks volumes on that front.
No, Charlie knows that the moment it comes to light that these kids have been running circles around the biggest, baddest crews in the city, a lot of people aren’t going to be able to show their faces in public for a long, long time.
“Oh shit, Charlie!” Tommy brightens, bouncing in his seat with a surprising amount of energy for someone who ate half an extra large pizza by himself. “You gotta run a job with us!”
All four kids perk up at that, looking at him with a starry-eyed sort of joy that usually follows presents on Christmas or secret ice cream runs behind Mom’s back.
“Oh my god, that would be AMAZING!” Ranboo flaps his hands, looking between Tommy and Charlie with unreserved excitement.
“You sure?” He’s touched, he really is. There’s warmth blooming through his core at the thought of them inviting him on a job. He knows how insular crews are, how tight-knit they can get from constant life-and-death scenarios. From his own experience, he’s only ever run as an addition on another crew once, when the Administration’s grifter came down with the flu right before a massive, time sensitive job. Which was fun, as all jobs with Schlatt tend to be, but there’s a distinct off-kilter feeling that comes with joining an already established crew.
“Come oooooooooooon Charlie, don’t be a bitch!” Drista whines, throwing her head back dramatically and nearly falling off the counter.
“What, are you scared or something?” Purpled quirks an eyebrow at him, challenging him to shut up or nut up.
Charlie shrugs. “Hey, I’d love to join you. Just don’t get mad when things get fucking crazy.”
Tommy barks a laugh. “Like that doesn’t already happen every fucking time. So you in?”
“Fuck yeah I’m in! What are we yoinking tonight, boys?”
“Hell yeah! Slime on the squad!” Tubbo fistpumps from where he’s laying facedown on the tile.
Tommy leans in close. "Okay, so here's the plan..."
This is definitely going to be fun.
Two hours later, a shitty paneled van tears through the backstreets, smoking slightly as sirens wail in the distance. Tires squeal as cop cars go roaring past, totally ignorant of the occupants inside. The Asbury Bank is a pile of rubble in the distance, still smoldering in the rearview mirrors.
Charlie is covered in dirt, probably has a black eye and a broken nose for the third time this year, and can’t feel his face with how much he’s laughing. There are jeers and insults hurled throughout the inside of the van. A converse-clad foot nearly whacks Ranboo upside the face while he drives as Tommy tries to strangle Tubbo with a spare tie he found lying around. Drista and Purpled count money in the backseat, sneaking bills here and there into their pockets when they think no one is looking.
The guys are going to have a lot of questions when he gets home, and he won’t have a lot of answers, but hey. It’s not like he can say his life is uneventful. Who knew pulling a dirty teenager out of an air duct would lead to all of this?