Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy had been imprisoned under the Administration Headquarters for three days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes. 

The hero that smelt of blood and metal was staring at him. Tommy shifted, chains around his wrists clinking. The frigid air of the cell sent goosebumps down his arms. 

“This is a sad sight to see,” the hero said, drily and emotionlessly as he always seemed to be. “I didn’t think you’d give up that easily.”

Tommy said nothing. He couldn’t say anything, the obsidian muzzle around his mouth blocking him from speaking—or using his powers.

The quiet clicking of steps came closer, until The Blade was standing right in front of him, most likely staring down at Tommy. Tommy kept his eyes facing the ground.

“So, Theseus?” he said, amused. “Anything you’d like to say for yourself?”

Tommy bit the inside of his cheek, the tangy taste of blood filling his mouth. Fingernails dug crescents into his palms. He didn’t care to hear the hero’s gloating. 

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, voice still muzzled by the clamp, impossible to discern.

“What was that? Didn’t quite hear you.”

Tommy looked up in The Blade’s general direction and narrowed his eyes into a glare. A chuckle.

“Listen, Shade,” The Blade said, “I didn’t come here just to make fun of you, although you are kinda pathetic—” A snarl, which the hero ignored. “—I’m here to give you a choice.”

A choice. A choice, when he had been beaten bloody, captured, and shoved into a cell under the Administration Headquarters, after the heroes had probably been boasting about finally catching the dangerous vigilante Shade , after—

Tommy didn’t have a choice , anymore. 

“We can’t let you out. I mean, that’s obvious. You pretty much screwed your life over, and now there’s no going back. But hey, think of it this way. We can lock you into Pandora’s Box and let The Warden take care of you. The entire thing’s made of obsidian, powers are rendered useless. I’ve seen what happens to people put in the prison. You know what it would be like in there. I’m sure The Warden would be more than happy to put you in your place.” A pause, as he let the message sink in. Tommy had expected this, had expected threats of Pandora’s Box, the place where captured villains or hybrids with powers deemed ‘too dangerous’ were thrown in, either dying within it’s walls or coming out different . He’d expected the threats, but hearing them didn’t make it any better. 

“Or,” The Blade continued, and there it was, “ Or you could give in. Take off the mask. Stop working on the other side of the law. You’re powerful, Theseus, I’ll admit it. Not powerful enough to evade us, of course, but still. I hate to give you a “join the dark side” speech, Shade, but you’re a valuable asset, whether you know it or not, and—” a hand snaking through the metal bars to tap his cheek, “—I’d hate to see so much potential sent to rot.”

Tommy considering simply smashing the obsidian muzzle open just to bite the man. As if he could read his thoughts, the hand retreated, and The Blade drew backward. “Just think about it,” he said, voice as amused and unconcerned as it always was, as if he didn’t care what happened either way, and then he was gone, taking the oppressive smell of iron rust with him. 

Think about it, The Blade had said, in his smug certainty that there was only one option for Tommy. Think about it, he said, as if Tommy hadn’t made his mind ages ago.

The taste of blood was thick in his mouth, and a shudder went through him at the cold air. Fuck this, he thought. Fuck the Hero Administration, fuck heroes , fuck goddamn villains and stupid fucking sound powers and The Blade especially, for having the gal to offer Tommy some fucked-up alliance after years of beating him bloody, especially after—

Tommy stopped. Inhaled, the smell of cleaning product in the air filling his lungs.

Fuck this, he thought.

It had been three days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes since he’d been imprisoned under the Administration Headquarters, and Tommy was tired. 

-

“The Hero Administration is proud to say—I, Schlatt, am also proud to say—we have finally captured and arrested vigilante Shade, informally known as Banshee. He has wreaked havoc on our proud state for far too long, but now we will get justice. Many people have called this man a ‘hero’, while he is anything but. The dangerous vigilante has harmed far more people than he has helped, and constantly worked outside the law with unsolicited use of dangerous powers. Shade’s long list of crimes are included but not limited to; first, second, and felony murder, kidnapping, arson, robbery, terrorism, and—”

-

“So?” Phil asked as Techno padded quietly into the room, still in full hero regula. “How was the talk with Shade?”

“Oh, it was excellent. I talked at the guy for a full five minutes and he couldn’t do anything but sit there in silence. I gotta say, Banshee is much more pleasant when he’s not trying to scream my ears off.”

Wilbur snickered while Phil stifled a smile. 

“How did he react?” Wilbur asked, amused. 

Techno shrugged. “Tensed the whole time. He had the blindfold and muzzle on, so I couldn’t exactly see his reaction, but I don’t think it was entirely positive.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why we don’t just take off his excuse for a mask and get this over and done with.”

“Because, mate,” Phil said, with all the patience that came with having the exact same conversation twenty different times. “That’s not how we work. Common decency, Wilbur.”

“He’s a fucking criminal.”

“So? We’re not stopping down to the villain’s level, trying to unmask every hero and vigilante in sight, alright? Everyone has their reasons for keeping the mask on, and like it or not, Shade is one of the people we’re protecting.”

“Right. Sure. Fine, have it your way.”

An awkward silence fell as the three heroes stared at each other. While they may have gotten closer in the past few months after a recent disaster which had caused them to see each other’s faces behind the mask, there was still the underlying tension that came with their job and the knowledge that one day, they might never see the other again. 

“So, how’re we planning on breakin’ this to the public?” Techno said in a clear attempt to change the subject. “Just, real casually, ‘oh yeah we finally detained the most dangerous vigilante, and we’re planning on just kinda havin’ him around?’”

Wilbur grimaced. “Ah…we’re not really planning on telling them about the…proposal, quite yet.”

“So people are just gonna randomly see Banshee fighting by our side during a battle?”

“Techno…” Wilbur said carefully. “I feel like you need to consider the idea that he might not accept your offer.”

“What, and doom himself to a lifetime in Pandora’s Vault?” Phil scoffed. “He’s a stubborn bastard, I’ll give him that, but he’s not that much of a stubborn bastard.”

“Well—”

“No one,” Techno rumbled, turning his gaze to Wilbur as his eyes slowly seeped red. “No one would choose to go to Pandora’s Vault. People would rather die then be sent there.”

And what could Wilbur do in front of Techno’s angry face that spoke of terrors he would never know then acquiesce?

-

Here’s the thing. Between contemplating his life decisions and having a panic attack every few hours, there wasn’t much to do in the shitty underground prison cell.

The only visitors he’d had since The Blade had so kindly decided to stop by were the two guards who were constantly watching him that occasionally passed him food and water.

He didn’t know their names, because none of them responded when he’d asked, so Tommy had dubbed them Clarence and Frank. The guards were constantly rotating, but Tommy didn’t care enough to name them all, so they were all Clarence and Frank. 

“Prime, this is boring as fuck,” he complained for maybe the tenth time. They had removed his muzzle so he could eat, and he made it his personal mission to annoy them as much as possible as he slowly chewed on his food. “Come on, man, I’ve just been sitting here for eternity. I can’t feel my legs.”

The guards did not respond, just like the past twelve rotations hadn’t. Assholes. That was fine. Tommy was well-versed on carrying long conversations with himself, due to the long hours he spent patrolling Logstedshire. 

Which he would never be doing again.

He needed something else to think about. “So do you guys have a book or something I could read?” 

Clarence sighed. Frank did as well, but quieter, probably hoping Tommy wouldn’t know how much he irritated them. Jokes on the fucker, Tommy could hear all. Nothing escaped the incredible hearing of Shade, Number 1 Vigilante. 

Granted, vigilantes didn’t have a ranking system like heroes did for how many puppies they saved from trees or whatever, but if they did, he would be at the top. Maybe he would make one. His lasting legacy.

You know, if he didn’t die in Pandora’s Vault first.

Hopefully, that wouldn’t happen. Tommy resumed his work.

(Slowly, painfully, red bruises began to form around where netherite shackles met skin.)

Chapter Text

VIGILANTE XVII

ALIAS (S): Shade, Banshee (informal)

SPECIES: Inhuman, most likely part unknown hybrid,

AGE: unknown, presumed young, around mid-20’s

APPEARANCE: dark blue black poncho draped over figure with white designs on the edges; dark pants; grey combat boots; light blue blindfold; glowing cyan horns from head; pointed, uncovered ears; thin, tall build; reports say Shade has blonde hair

ABILITIES [OFFENSIVE]: enhanced strength; incredible hearing; can create and control sound waves; using sound powers, is able to create a Sonic Boom that travels through walls and can break most objects + knock down humans; possible night vision due to being able to move well in the dark; can detect other people using a some kind of echolocation; can blind people when they get into a near enough radius; can track down living creatures including people by scent alone

ABILITIES [DEFENSIVE]: highly resistant skin unaffected by most weapons except bullets; fast; can jump incredibly high, which Shade often uses to escape battles

WEAKNESSES: although Shade’s skin is resistant to most weapons, pure force can knock him over; easily distracted; has difficulty engaging in combat with more than one person at a time; has difficulty climbing and navigating wide spaces; incredibly sensitive hearing to the point that high volumes cause sensory overload

TRAITS: overly talkative; commonly uses foul language; laughs at his own jokes; when using echolocation emits a strange cooing/clicking noise known in some areas as ‘Death’s Call’

-

It had started when Tubbo had gotten fired.

He may have been Tommy’s best friend and roommate, but he also had an immune system that was shot to hell. Constantly sniffling, always falling under one  illness or another. Usually Tubbo would go work in his lovely job as an underpaid gas station worker despite whatever sickness he’d gotten that week, but sometimes he got so sick  he couldn’t even leave the house. Apparently his shitty boss had decided that the Monday Tubbo had taken off was one too many and he  had gotten fired.

Tubbo hadn’t even told Tommy the first week, desperately trying to find a job somewhere else and scrape by enough food for them to eat at least once a day. 

Of course, Tommy had found out. He was incredibly intelligent and his deduction skills were legendary. 

Also he had overheard Tubbo whisper-fighting with the landlord over the phone when he’d thought Tommy was asleep, which was a big oversight on Tubbo’s part as he knew that a) Tommy never slept and b) Tommy could hear basically everything in the house all the time, even when Tubbo stepped outside. The walls of the apartment were paper-thin and half eroded, so it wasn’t like Tommy meant to hear the frantic conversation. 

“Look, look, just give us one more week, I just need a week, it’s—we can hardly scrape by something to eat, I’ve just been fired from my job—”

Tommy sat up from where he’d been lying on the mattress on the floor, tilting his head so he could listen.

“--my roommate is blind , he can’t get a job, even if he could he wouldn’t be able to find someone who would hire him—”

The next morning, while Tommy was laying casually on the couch, listening to the drone of Jeopardy playing on the TV, he casually asked, “So how’s your job going?”

He heard Tubbo freeze in the tiny kitchen, the clattering of mugs coming to a halt. “It’s good,” he said, voice strained. “Good. The boss is still an asshole, though.”

Tommy hummed. “You’re a shit liar, Tubs.”

Silence. Tubbo sighed. “Yeah,” he said glumly. “I know. You heard me last night, huh?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tommy grumbled as Tubbo set two pieces of cutlery on the coffee table beside the couch.

“Cereal in the bowl, coffee in the mug,” Tubbo said offhandedly, “I didn’t want to worry you,” he added.

Tommy gulped down the coffee, ignoring the way it burnt down his throat and scalded his tongue. “I’m fucking pissed that you didn’t tell me. We’re supposed to be in this together.”

“I thought I’d find a new job and then tell you,” Tubbo said miserably. “But no one wants to hire an eighteen year old who dropped out of high school and has no experience other than shit coffee shops.”

“An eighteen year old with a shitty immune system who got fired from his last job,” Tommy added. 

“Thanks, Tommy. That really helped.”

“Hey, you know me. I’m the beacon of positive life in your otherwise dreary existence.”

“You’re certainly a beacon of something ,” Tubbo sighed, amused. “But seriously, Tommy, don’t worry about it. I got it handled. We’ll be fine, alright?”

“We always are,” Tommy said confidently, even as he heard Tubbo’s rapid, anxious heartbeat, even as worry made his inside’s clench and a distressed warble want to push out of his throat.. Surely, there was something he could do to help. Anything. He didn’t care if he’d have to watch the city burn, Tommy would do anything to stay with Tubbo, and he knew that his friend would do the same for him. 

-

The next day, Tommy was pointing a knife at someone’s neck. “ You,” he barked, and the person, presumably a male, squeaked nervously. “Empty your pockets. Give me your fucking cash.”

“I—I don’t have anything,” the guy stammered. Tommy had cornered him in an alleyway, a quick coo bouncing off the walls making sure there were no cameras or anyone else watching that his enhanced hearing had been unable to pick up.

“ Nothing?” Tommy spat out, hoping the guy would be unable to hear the tremor in his voice. “Are you fucking sure about that?”

“I gave my credit card for my daughter to use for the day with her friends—”

“That’s a terrible decision. You don’t have any money on you?” Tommy asked, dismayed. 

“Um—” the man fumbled into his pocket. Tommy hissed. “I’m just pulling out my wallet! I—uh—I have this McDonalds gift card?” 

Tommy held out his hand. The man passed him the card. 

“You really have nothing else?” he said, not sounding pitiful, he never sounded pitiful, he was the bravest and strongest of men, the enemy, he was robbing this guy at knifepoint—

“Are you okay, kid?”

“I’m fine,” Tommy snapped, pushing the man away, out of the alleyway. “ Go , get out, dickhead, and you better not tell anyone about this or I’ll come into your house while you’re sleeping and snap your fucking kneecaps, leave—”

“Okay, okay, I’m going, great, bye, it was nice meeting you!” The man called as he rushed away.

“ I fucking mugged you!” Tommy screeched after him. “ It should not have been nice to meet me, I am your worst fucking nightmare, bitch!”

When he got home, Tommy showed Tubbo the gift card, saying he’d been sitting on a bench and some random old lady had taken pity on them.

They had their first full meal in days, and as Tommy chewed thoughtfully on his burger, he decided he needed to go bigger. 

-

The next week, dressed in an all-black hoodie and ski mask that he totally hadn’t fished out of a dumpster, he robbed a bank.

It was a resounding success.

Tubbo, of course, found out a day later, and was extremely pissed.

“We can’t—we can’t use this, Tommy!” Tubbo said in dismay, probably still staring at the piles of cash Tommy had dropped onto the couch. “What the hell?”

“Its not like we can just fucking give it back to the bank,” Tommy pointed out.

Tubbo made a few incomprehensible sounds before his mouth shut with a click . “I—fine,” he said grudgingly. “But just this one time. You’re stopping this, alright? No more—mugging people and robbing banks.”

If only he’d listened to Tubbo, Tommy thought now. He had instead decided to keep going, much to his friend’s disapproval, and now he was here.

It had been two days since The Bitch Blade had visited him, and since then Tommy had only gotten worse. His fingers were trembling from the cold, and his appetite had been slowly leaving him. The lunch they’d given him—and Tommy knew it had been lunch because if there was one thing he was good at it was keeping track of time—had remained mostly uneaten as after a few bites he’d already felt sick. 

He knew that not eating was only going to make him weaker when he started his plan, but the idea of putting food down his throat disgusted him. Besides, it was hard to think of eating when his wrists and ankles were currently oozing red and aching .

In hindsight, Tommy’s plan was a rather obvious one. There wasn’t a way he could convince the Administration that he wasn’t dangerous—his reputation as Shade preceded him, which Tomym was slightly proud of—but he could make himself less dangerous. 

Theoretically, The Hero Administration had a medbay so they could treat their heroes. If Tommy managed to injure himself severely enough, they would have to take him out of his cell to treat his injuries, preferably in an area less severely monitored. And then he would book it. Granted, it wasn’t a very well-thought out plan, but he was too nauseous and dizzy to plan out the finer details. He just hoped that when the suppressants were out, he would be strong enough to get away.

So that was why he had been pulling at the shackles around his wrists and ankles for the past few days. Not to escape, for they were made out of netherite ( fuck that millionaire who had a netherite mining business—what was his name?— Philza Minecraft ), but to force cuts onto his skin. It was a slow, painful process; usually he was grateful for his more resistance skin but it was just more infuriating now. However, time proved that his enhanced strength was stronger than his enhanced healing, leaving jagged, inflamed wounds along his arms and legs that his guards had yet to notice.

They really fucking hurt , metal digging into flesh, but Tommy informing them about his injuries would bring undo suspicion. So all he had to do was wait.

He didn’t have to wait very long.

Chapter Text

Amelia was not paid enough for this. To be fair, none of the Noxcrew were paid enough for this, to protect the heroes while they were too caught up in their own issues, to be constantly dealing with the angry media, to make sure nothing went to shit during brawls and chases, to keep the civilians safe as entire buildings were trashed. 

But the last few weeks had really topped the cake.

The chase for Shade had been long, and intense, and aggravating, trackers and cameras and agents everywhere in the city. The conflicting orders of the Angel of Death reminding them not to try and jeopardize the vigilante’s identity while the Blade barked that they needed to find him at any possible cost . Even the Dream Team had gone searching for him, 404 and Blaze and Dream, the Elite, spending their patrols in the lower town area unprotected by the blackstone walls of L’manburg. 

The heroes had gotten Banshee, finally , and no one knew exactly how. It had all been silent, kept under wraps, but there was the line of Banshee’s shoulders as they brought him in and the sidelong glances Spectre and Angel gave each other said enough.

He’d been put in the damp underground prison in the Administration Tower, and Amelia had been one of the guards tasked with watching over him.

Banshee was — loud, at a first impression. His name made sense as the second the muzzle came off for food, his mouth would be running. Within the span of ten seconds he had insulted the entire Administration, insulted the guards personally, and complained about their ‘hospitality.’ Cursing and angry until with much struggle the muzzle was shoved back on his face.

Disconcertertingly, he reminded her of her teenage daughter, young and full of snark. She tried to push that thought out of her head.

Harmless, really, he was, not doing much other than talking. 

It was another shift in the prison cells, when she was bored and listening to the steady drip drip drip of the leaking ceiling, when that changed. 

The other Noxcrew agent, Ivan, had stepped forward to the cell to push the food tray through the slot. He paused. “Amelia?” 

“Hm?” She hummed lazily.

“You should come see this.”

She sat up, alarmed by the worry in Ivan’s tone, and came closer to the cell where the boy sat, reaching into her jacket for her taser. The smell of blood hit her, and she had a moment of alarm before she saw it.

In the dim fluorescent light she could make out the boy was sitting on the bench as always, mop of blond hair matted and greasy, head slumped and looking at the floor. It was impossible to tell whether he was asleep or not. The muzzle covered his mouth, slotting over the bridge of his nose and ending under his jaw, a replacement for the usual mask he wore; this one had netherite implants and didn’t keep out toxins. Over his eyes was a blindfold, a part of Banshee’s usual costume they had chosen to let him keep. 

The shackles around his arms and legs were intact; but he was not.

Where the netherite chains met his skin there were not just cuts; but long, jagged red wounds, inflamed and angry. They were bleeding, running down his pale skin and leaving puddles on the grey floor. The skin had been split over the course of several days. How the fuck had they not seen this? As bile rose in her throat, she noticed she could see the inside of his flesh . 

“Prime,” she whispered. Had he done this to himself? Trying to escape? Or trying to… She flinched away from the thought. 

“We need to get him to the medbay,” she said.

Ivan nodded, looking unaffected. “Shade,” he barked. The boy startled awake. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to do this to yourself, but if you try to escape we’ll give you something a lot worse,” he warned. Banshee nodded. 

The chains fell away, but the shackles stayed on — they had the power suppressants in them.

This was the first mistake.

Amelia and Ivan hauled the boy up, Ivan calling for two extra guards to assist them over his mic as they walked him to the elevator. 

Slowly, slowly the elevator dragged up, music playing quietly over the speakers. Amelia kept a hand on Banshee and an eye on the blinking numbers over the elevator doors as they flipped from 0 to 3 to 7 to, finally, 9.

The elevator doors opened. “We’re getting him to Pomonal,” Amelia told the guards in front of the elevator who nodded and let them aside.

Banshee followed their directions numbly, not even twitching. Inside the medbay, they deposited him onto a stretcher where Banshee sat still. Pomonal, someone who was not really a Hero but not truly a civilian, but who defaulted as the title of Healer, stood calmly, not phased by the state the vigilante was in.

Carefully, they approached Banshee, who still wasn’t moving. “You’ll need to get the shackles off,” they said.

Ivan scowled. “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “But the muzzle stays on.” He stepped forward, pulling out his keys to snap off the shackles. With a click, one by one they fell to the ground.

This was the second mistake.

He leveled his gun at the boy’s head. “No funny business,” Ivan snarled.

Pomonal gathered a golden glow in their hands, and gently pressed on one of the boy’s wrists. Within seconds, one of his hands was fully healed.

This was the third and final mistake.

The boy twisted, and in a flash had ripped the gun out of Ivan’s hands. Ivan snarled, reaching for his taser, and Banshee punched at his ribs, disarmed him again, threw him to the floor. Pomonal reached out to stop him and he elbowed them square in the head, and they fell to the floor. Amelia regained her wits enough to pick up the stool next to her and throw it at him. 

It hit him in the chest and he stumbled. Snarling, he backed away, hands going up to his face, and Amelia advanced forward, razor raised threateningly. Banshee’s hands curled around the clasps of his mask, made of pure metal, and ripped them off. Slipped off the muzzle, and he was grinning, now, sharp teeth twisted in a mockery of a smile. 

Ivan, from the ground, twisted upward and fired his gun.

The shot rang out, missing Banshee’s head by an inch. 

The boy shrieked, loud and piercing, and ran . Turning widely, he reached the door and slammed it open, still shrieking. It was not a loud enough sound, with his weakness, to incapacitate anyone, but there was such a desperate wail in it that she almost felt compelled to halt in her tracks after him anyway. Almost.

Banshee was clearly disoriented, unsteady and dizzy from the injury and blood loss, stumbling barefoot through the hallways, leaving splatters of blood smeared over the smooth tiles. He was still fast, running swiftly and without direction. Another shriek, and then a low, warbling coo, followed by a steady clicking noise. Amelia felt a chill go down her spine. Death’s Call.

Again he made the noise, and again, still running, and from behind her she heard Ivan finally pull out his walkie-talkie and call for assistance. Her hand drifted down to her side where her gun lay, strapped in its holster. She did not like to use it, even on dangerous vigilantes who would wreak havoc when provoked. But tasers didn’t work on Shade’s resistant skin. Only bullets.

She swallowed. Only bullets.

From below, she heard the alarmed commands of the Noxcrew guards, and the stamping of heavy boots, and the clicking of various weapons. Far ahead of her, still the boy’s call echoed. She followed it, reached the end of the hallway just in time to see him jump off the top banister of the stairs to the floor below, to suppress a flinch at the sound he made as he fell to the floor. Gun cocked, finger resting above the trigger, Amelia warily stepped down the staircase, eyes trained on the vigilante who had now stood up, letting out a long coo that wasn’t stopping as he sprinted through the empty area of the lower floor. 

Here was the thing about heroes: they were rash fools, most of the time, and stubborn, and full of some strange kind of anger that never left them, but most of all they were violent, and strong, and did not take well to being dragged to a hospital to be healed after their most recent scrap with a villain.

Here was the thing about the Hero Administration: they knew this. They knew this and they planned for it.

If Shade had paid attention, he would’ve noticed how there were no windows in the floors above and below the hospital ward. Maybe he would’ve noticed a lot of things, if he looked, but he hadn’t, and as a hulking Noxcrew agent came up behind him and grabbed his shoulders while another three surrounded Shade, Amelia wondered why.

Wondered why the boy bothered to keep struggling, breaking free of the agent’s grip and kicking at one of the guard’s in front of him, bearing his teeth, shouting, while tens of guards poured into the space, boots clicking against tile, while Amelia watched from her place on the staircase.

Wondered what, as a blow was dealt to his stomach by an armored knee, and someone kicked the feet out from under him, as multiple taser hits were dealt upon him that provided nothing but pain, could have made him surrender as he had to the Heroes, while even now, gravely injured, he snarled and bit. 

A shot finally rang out, echoing through the building, hitting him somewhere in the arm, and they carried him up, still shrieking , always shrieking, a desperate, angry wail, and Amelia ignored the guilt pooling in her stomach as she watched them shove him back, back into the hospital ward, back into the bruising hands of his benevolent captors. 

-

Tommy was vaguely aware of hands on him, of the bleeding bullet wound on his side, of a million other bruises and injuries, of the dull thrumming of his feet and hands.

So Tommy’s escape attempt had not gone to plan. 

That was, as Tubbo might say, an understatement .

Tubbo might also say what the fuck were you thinking, you dumbass , but you know. Whatever.

He felt everything happen around him dimly, as if he was just a spectator in his own battered body. His body was marched half-unconscious back to the medbay, this time to a room in the corner he assumed must be for particularly unwilling patients. He was strapped down to the stretcher with metal bands snapping around his stomach, arms, and legs. Injected with something, and Tommy had only a moment to blearily think, ha, that shit doesn’t even work on me before he was knocked out. 

Beeping. Humming of medical instruments. Snatches of conversation.

“Heart rate slowing—”

“Temperature—”

“Swelling—”

“Amputation—”

He tried to sit up at that last one. “What the fuck did you just say?” he meant to say, but all that came out was a low groan.

Raised voices. “He’s awake—” “Put him under.”

Into the welcoming dark he fell again.

The second time he woke up, it was to blinding pain. He tried to scream. No sound came out.

A prick in his arm. Not again.

The third time, he was knocked out immediately. 

The fourth time, there were no more doctors. Instead, he heard the steady breathing of two guards a few feet away from him. It was over. Thank Prime. 

He felt numb and cold, and all around him was the smell of antiseptic and bleach. He was still strapped down — all four of his limbs. No amputation for him, then.

“You’re awake,” said a voice. He recognized it — the healer that he’d knocked out. “That was a  pretty nasty set of injuries you had.”

Tommy didn’t bother opening his mouth, didn’t even know if he had the energy to speak at all. The healer continued talking.

“They almost had to amputate you, it was so bad. You’re lucky I got up in time, or you’d be missing an arm.” 

An arm . 

“They’re wondering whether or not you self-inflicted those injuries because you were trying to escape, you know. You’ve gotten yourself in big trouble.” The healer dropped their voice into a whisper. “They put a tracker in you.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. A tracker. Where? In his skin ?

From the corner of the room, a guard cleared their throat meaningfully. 

The healer stood, and the two guards advanced to stand on both sides of Tommy’s stretcher, wrapping their hands around his arms. The bands around him snapped open, and the guards’ grip tightened. “Can you stand?” the healer asked.

In the end, it didn’t matter if he could stand or not, because he was hauled up by the guards and as they shoved him out of the now-broken medbay entrance, he could hear four other guards behind them.

“Someone’s been getting into trouble,” said an amused voice as Tommy was being marched across the HQ, aching all over. Tommy’s head shot up so fast that he almost pulled a muscle. He recognized that pompous accent. Spectre.

He could do nothing but stay silent as the guards all stopped in place at the appearance of the Hero and Spectre stepped forward. A hand came up to grab a hold of his chin, and Tommy resisted the urge to flinch backward. His head was tilted to the side, a single finger tapping against his jaw. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there,” Spectre said in amusement. Tommy almost laughed as he worked his sore jaw, the stitches around his wrists and ankles and the recently healed bullet wound and the blood all over him speaking of more than a nasty bruise .

A guard behind him—a previous Clarence—cleared their throat awkwardly. “There was an—altercation.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Spectre said, and Tommy very much wanted to strangle the hero so he’d never have to hear that annoyingly smug voice again. “Come now, Banshee, it hasn’t even been a full week yet, and you’re already making fruitless escape attempts.”

“Don’t call me that,” Tommy growled. He hated that fucking nickname. Stupid fucking—he wasn’t a banshee .

A hum. “The Blade has given you an offer.” It wasn’t a question. 

“He sure did.”

“And?”

“And if I could have said anything, I would’ve told him to stick his fucking proposal up his arse.”

A laugh, well, more like a cackle. What was with this guy’s laugh, he should be the one called Banshee. “Where did your lovely muzzle go? I think I much prefer you with it.”

“It was… damaged during the attempted escape,” said Clarence. “We’re working on making a replacement, but it had netherite implants. We’re currently waiting for a shipment from the ruined portal.”

“Well, make it quick.”

Tommy snarled.

Spectre laughed again. “One last thing before you’re taken off to whatever high-security prison they’re planning on putting you in.” The lightly trailing fingers on his face suddenly turned to a clawing, almost painful grip. Spectre leaned forward, breathing getting closer, and whispered so quietly that someone else might not have even been able to hear it, “Don’t forget that we could have had you killed the second we caught you. But my partner has a strange obsession with you, something about ‘potential’. Personally, I don’t see it.”

His grip tightened. “He thinks that you’ll have no choice but to accept. I know better. You’re a stubborn bitch, Shade, and you think you might be able to survive the prison. Trust me, you won’t. Maybe you don’t like his offer now , but we have all the time in the world. We can leave you in Pandora’s Vault for a month, a year, a decade —until you give in. Until you accept. The Blade wants something from you, little Banshee, and I am more than happy to do whatever it takes to get it.” And then he stepped back and walked away, humming a cheerful tune to himself, leaving Tommy trembling after him, heartbeat pounding in his head.

“Fuck you,” he spat into the silence.

And then Tommy was dragged, snarling and weak, into his new prison, and shoved into crushing silence.

Tommy did not know how long he’d been trapped in the silence.

Time seemed to stretch on for eternity, wrapping around the base of his skull and stretching , his thoughts slipping from him like grains of sand.

It was a tube he was in, and from the feel of the walls around him it was some kind of resistant glass or plastic — something transparent, so everyone outside could see him like an animal in a zoo. He did not know if it was made so he could see outside of it, didn’t really care. 

He couldn’t hear anything from outside his prison, no voices, no buzzing of electronics, no footsteps, or breathing, or any kind of sound you might here in a building. He could not speak, could not scream — he had to resort to tapping on the glass to know he had not lost his hearing, that this was simply the cruel design of the Administration. There was no smell, either, the entire place completely sterilized. 

The tube was small, stiflingly small — he could only walk one or two steps in any given direction. 

The worst part was the cold.

Where the rest of Tommy’s senses were left bereft, his skin was racked with shivers as the vents somewhere above him constantly pumped in cold air. Freezing air, and he didn’t understand the purpose of it. To weaken him? Keep him docile? It was not enough to harm him, or cause damage, or even make him catch pneumonia. It served no purpose other then to keep him constantly shivering.

He was given food in IV tubes — the guards marched into the tube first, pulling him only a few steps out of the cell, strapping him onto a stretcher and feeding in food and liquid. They didn’t risk removing the muzzle, anymore.

Small and uncomfortable, and he was trapped here, in the darkness that he was used to and the silence that frightened him. 

His mind buzzed and shuddered, and his skin felt too tight on him, an itching inside his flesh to go, to move , to do something , and he could do nothing, nothing except press himself against the perfectly smooth, perfectly room temperature glass and let his mind wander and carry him away from the quiet.

And there was that promise, always that promise, given to him under the clawing hands of Spectre. Weeks, months, years. However long it took. 

He had been near Pandora’s Vault up close only once, far closer than any sane person would go. Had crept near as Shade, despite Tubbo’s frantic voice in his ear telling him not to go any further. Had pressed a hand against blackstone walls.

It had burned .

Lava, Tubbo had said. Molten heat along the cells to keep prisoners in. Archaic, he admitted, but effective. 

Tommy—

Tommy wondered what was going to happen to Tubbo, now. Now that his plan had failed. He’d been so sure he could get out in time, warn his best friend, and the two of them would hop on a plane and run , changing their identities so no one could ever find them. Find refuge in the Greater Esempi, maybe.

Hands, pressing down on him, twisting his shoulder so pain sprouted there. His face shoved onto rough concrete. A steady, growling voice in his ear. The smell of blood and iron. “Stand down, Theseus. Someone has a message for you.”

A paper. Written on a fucking white piece of paper, folded twice. Just two fucking folds protecting his biggest-kept secret. 

The Blade hadn’t looked at the paper. Said no one else had, said they hadn’t needed to. “We don’t care for it, not now,” he said with a smug shrug. “But you do. Got any family you care for?”

Heroes really weren’t that much better then villains, when you got down to it.

Tommy was going insane, he was certain. He could hardly think anything except for that, that he was certainly losing his mind, that his sanity was slipping. He was trying to keep himself busy by counting down from a thousand.

765, 764, 763, 762.

His foot tapped against the floor, making a tinny sound that echoed throughout the tube. Tip tip tip.

759, 758, 757—

A low buzzing filled his ears. Now he was having auditory hallucinations. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

Tommy sat up. He wasn’t imagining the sound. It crackled from the top of the cell. From a speaker? He listened intently. Even the static noise was a blessing, was something to fill the silence. Maybe something broke?

Then, from within the static, the low sound of breathing. His head shot up. Someone was — someone was there , coming from an intercom of some sort, about to speak to him .

And then, breaking through the static, a voice.

“Hey, mate.”

- 

“While some people are relieved over the capture of Shade, others are not as happy. Online, a small community of people are arguing over whether or not he could be called a villain or a vigilante. ‘He’s completely decreased the crime rates in my neighborhood,’ said one poster. ‘To me, he’s more of a hero than anyone in that tower.’ However, it can’t be said Shade’s methods were ethical. Numerous —”

“Turn it off,” Tubbo said with a sigh, turning away from the TV. Ranboo switched it off. 

He turned to look at Tubbo, who was scowling at a letter clutched in his hands. “They’re threatening to turn off the water,” he complained. “Goddammit, why do they need my money so bad, anyway? They’ve got more than enough.” Despite his complaining, worry gathered on the lines of his forehead. 

Ranboo knew Tubbo wasn’t nearly as put together as he was pretending to be.

From the wall, laughing blue eyes stared at him.

“Still no sign of him?” Ranboo asked.

“Not a fucking glimpse ,” Tubbo muttered, eyes flicking over to the dead TV screen. “I’ve looked everywhere, tried everything. Nothing.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually,” Ranboo said, even as his gut twisted. Even though he knew a blind seventeen year old orphan disappearing off the streets wasn’t likely to reappear. Still, he had to hope. For Tubbo.

He didn’t know Tommy personally, hadn’t even met him yet — he’d only been Tubbo’s friend a few weeks before his roommate disappeared, but Tubbo never stopped talking about him. Optimistic to a fault, rude, smarter then seemed, and “loud as fuck”, although, Tubbo had pointed out with a smile that twisted the scar down his face and left ear, that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. They’d matched, he’d said simply, when they met in the foster care system. Felt more at home with each other then they had with others who kept looking at them as if they were something to be pitied or fixed.

Ranboo, with scars under his eyes, understood. 

A missing person’s report had been filed, of course, but of course nothing would be done about it. The police were too busy protecting the powerful and wealthy.

It was ridiculous. It was one of the reason’s Ender existed, had applied for the hero-in-training program, had been chosen to work under Dream himself. Soon, he promised himself, things would be better. Soon, people like him and Tubbo and Tommy wouldn’t have to fear.

Soon, the world would change.

-

Deep underneath the ground, something awoke.

Chapter Text

Techno paced the living room nervously while Phil watched. His boots were tracking dirt onto the rug. Phil would have to buy a new one.

The hero was making a long, low grumbling sound Wilbur had dubbed his “sulking noise.” Wilbur himself was lounging on the couch across from the armchair Phil sat in, mask and trenchcoat still on from his previous altercation with Banshee. “What did you even fucking expect?” he asked, amused. 

“I thought—” Techno growled, then cleared his throat. “I thought he’d be smarter than that.”

“You overestimate his intelligence,” Wilbur said.

“Clearly,” Techno snorted. “Come on, man. It’s like he didn’t know the entire place would be surrounded by Noxcrew.”

“They really fucked up him up, too,” Spectre said. “He looked pretty beat up, even after Pomonal healed him. Although half of it was probably himself.”

Techno’s head jerked up. “Did he hurt himself while fighting his guards?”

Phil sighed, interrupting before Wilbur could make it worse. “He—he pulled on the netherite chains to injure himself,” he explained. “Probably so they would take him to the medbay so he could escape.”

Techno’s shoulders were so tensed Phil thought he might just crack himself in half. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t send him to Pandora’s Vault,” Wilbur said musingly. “He’d probably throw himself into the lava within a week.”

Techno snarled, and Wilbur laughed, shrill and piercing. He took some strange joy in instigating everyone around him, especially the usually unflappable Techno on the subject of Shade. Truth be told, Phil didn’t really remember when Spectre had joined the Hero Administration. One day he wasn’t there and one day he was, snipping at the Heroes with acerbic remarks. His power of turning discorporal at will was useful, sure, but Spectre’s power came from his intelligence and his perception — his ability to get into his enemies’ heads and figure out their next move. Paired with The Blade’s extensive knowledge of military tactics, the two were a dangerous team.

He was somewhat held back by his strange obsession with the part-time-vigilante-part-time-businessman Jester, however. Phil… didn’t really understand what was going on between them. 

Phil already knew what was going to happen — Wilbur would continue poking Techno for a reaction while Techno made increasingly irritated dry responses until he huffed and went out to deal with the problem by himself, leaving Wilbur cackling behind him. 

However, this time the problem was a stubborn vigilante who had just tried to escape . Techno trying his form of conversation on a very unstable criminal was not going to end well in any version.

“I’ll deal with it,” Phil said abruptly.

Techno and Wilbur turned to stare at him. “Phil, I can handle it by myself,” Techno said.

“Right,” Phil said. “Handle it by yourself by threatening the poor fucker’s with a life sentence in Pandora’s fucking Vault?”

His friend grimaced. “Not… my finest moment, alright, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to instigate him again.”

“I’m not going to instigate him,” Phil said calmly. “Which is why I should deal with him.”

Wilbur shrugged. “Let the old man handle it, Techno.

Phil smiled. 

Techno sighed. “You’re going to go whether I like it or not, aren’t you.”

“Yep,” Phil chuckled, standing. 

He arrived at the floor where the vigilante was being kept, dressed in fool hero regalia, boots clicking against the marble tiles as the elevator dings to announce his arrival. The Noxcrew agents posted alongside the hall stepped back in neat rows to let him through, ducking their heads as he passed. It was entirely unnecessary, but Schlatt had an ego that, for better or worse, extended to all of Noxcrew’s treatment of the Hero Administration.

Zephyrus stopped in front of the new prison cell, sharp eyes taking in the sight. A tube, in the center of the room, bolted to the floor and ceiling with netherite that doubled as power suppressors. The walls were clear bullet proof glass, giving everyone a glaring view of the figure slumped inside, head bowed. It was, for lack of a better word, an enclosure. The kind of thing you’d keep a rowdy zoo animal in. His mouth, hidden from sight, twisted in displeasure.

To the side, a booth with a control panel, monitoring Shade’s vitals and controlling the atmosphere of the prison. He peered at the flashing numbers, noting the strangely cold temperature the guards had put the vigilante under. “Can he hear me?” Zephyrus asked the guard standing nervously next to him.

The agent shook his head. “Uh, no sir,” he mumbled. “There’s uh—you activate that button to talk through the speaker.”

Zephyrus hummed. Pushed a knuckle against the silver button.

“Hey, mate,” he said over the speakers. Shade’s head shot up. He didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply

“I heard you got into a — pretty rough situation,” he continued. “Got banged up. Sent to medbay twice . Almost amputated, if Pomonal hadn’t stepped in. That wasn’t very smart of you.”

Shade’s shoulders were tensed, and Zephyrus was certain that if his eyes weren’t covered, he would be glaring.

“Get that muzzle off him,” Zephyrus told the guards, and shuffling nervously, they did so, a pane of the tube sliding down with a hiss to let them in. Shade remained pliant as two guards shoved him onto his feet, keeping him at arms length and carefully prying off the restraint as the third guard warily kept his gun pointed straight at him. Muzzle in hand, the guards quickly exited the tube. At a motion from Zephyrus, they didn’t close the open pane. 

Shade slid back down to the ground, head resting against the tube wall. He started to tap against the ground, clawed hand making clicking sounds against the reinforced metal.

“Here’s the thing, mate,” Zephyrus said. “Pandora’s Vault is how we usually — deal with people like you. Y’know, lock you guys up, no one has to worry anymore. But right now — that’s not what the public wants.”

Shade kept tapping.

“Now, I don’t think I need to list out all your crimes for you, but you did do some fucked up shit.”

Shade snorted, inclining his head in a nod. 

“You’ve killed Prime knows how many people—”

“15,” Shade interrupted. It was the first thing he’d said. “15 people. All—” he said, “Arseholes who fuckin’ deserved it.”

This was more in line with the snappish personality Zephyrus had come to know. “Over half of them were law enforcement officers.”

Shade grinned. “Like I said.”

Zephyrus huffed despite himself. “Yeah, alright. L’manburg is clamoring for your head. They want you gone. They want you dead .”

“Then why don’t you just fucking kill me then?” Shade snapped. 

Zephyrus had — 

Zephyrus had been alive for a very long time. So long that he was unsure if it counted as living. He had seen nations rise and fall, had watched people crumble. Had taken a part in that destruction. He could kill Shade, right now. He won’t, of course. But he could.

He just shrugs, a casual roll of his shoulders. “I’d rather not,” he said. “The Blade is pretty attached to you.”

Shade’s jaw clenched. “You three,” he spat, “Keep fucking saying that .”

“Because it’s true,” Zephyrus said. “Because there’s really not much else to say.”

The vigilante turned away, hiding his face.

“So, I’ll make the offer again,” he said, gently, like talking to a spooked animal. “You can join the Hero Administration. Play nice. You’ll be enlisted as a Hero-in-training under The Blade, probably, and under watch, and we’ll reintroduce you to the public. A reformed criminal. A Hero. That’s the easy way. Or…” Zephyrus let his voice trail off with a shrug. He didn’t have to finish his sentence. “This is your last chance, mate.”

A silence stretched out between them, heavy with the unspoken offer.

Zephyrus took the time to look over the bruises and dried blood draping the corners of the vigilante’s figure, at the slump of his shoulders. The grime layered on the areas of his face that remain visible. He knows what the answer is before Shade says it.

“Okay.” A soft croak, almost a whisper. Barely discernible. The vigilante straightens, repeats louder, “Okay. Alright. I’ll do it.” His voice is hoard from disuse. Or screaming. 

Phil smiles, inclining his head into a nod that might’ve been noticeable if not for the large hat that rustles with his ever movement. “Great,” he said cheerfully. “Fantastic.”

He strode forward, ducking to let himself into the cell, mechanical wings scraping against the entrance. Shade startled, looking up. Zephyrus paused, gazing back down at the sitting vigilante. He held out a gloved hand down to him, an olive branch extended. A saint helping a sinner repent.

Shade pushed himself onto his feet without even a glance at it. 

“After you,” he said. With a grin, Zephyrus turned and walked out. Shade followed.

Chapter Text

Tommy had a plan. Well, sort of. He had the vague building blocks of a plan that, when stacked on top of each other like legos and squinted at from an angle could maybe be perceived as a plan. 

We know how well your last plans went, boss man, he hears Tubbo say in his mind. You’re not really in any fit state to be scheming right now.

Shut up, Tubbo.

The Plan was simple:

1. Survive. Very important. The rest of the Plan could not be conducted without this step.
2. Gain the trust of the Heroes. A little more difficult. They were a bunch of bastards, and Tommy would have to use his incredible charm and cunning to complete this step.
3. ???
4. Escape
5. Profit

So maybe there were a few holes in the Plan. It was fine. This was fine. He could do this. Right now he was mostly focusing on the Survive step, but gaining the trust of the Heroes could be done. They were Heroes, for Prime’s sake. All about… love and hope and holding hands in a circle singing. 

Tommy imagined the Blade singing and snorted.

Zephyrus turned, hat and wings rustling. “Something, funny, mate?” he asked lightly.

“No.”

The hero hummed, continuing his steady walk. Tommy followed his footsteps. One good thing about Zephyrus, at least, was that he was loud . Airy clothes and a huge fucking hat and loud boots and of course, his famous mechanical wings that rustled as if they were really feathers. Stealth wasn’t really Zephyrus’ thing. Probably because it didn’t need to be.

Out of all the Heroes, Zephyrus was, in Tommy’s opinion, the most dangerous. He had been there since the very beginning of the Hero Administration, a figure so old there were rumors of his immortality. No one knew what kind of hybrid he was, or even the extent of his powers — only that he had the ability to manipulate air and some whispered darker abilities. There was speculation that his mechanical wings —  an invention by the Warden —  were a replacement for his own actual wings that had been damaged in a battle years ago. 

However, despite all of this, Zephyrus would probably be the easiest to win over. Between him and the Blade or Spectre, Tommy at least preferred him. He was straightforward. No long threats of torture. No amused insults. Join us or die . Tommy could respect that. 

They stopped in front of the elevator where Tommy could hear the heartbeats of two guards. 

“Why is Vigilante 17 out of his containment?” one of them asked sharply. Vigilante 17? Tommy thought in outrage. 

“Because I’m bring him out of his containment,” the Hero responded easily.

“Zephyrus,” the other started, strained. “Without an official order—”

“My word ,” Zephyrus said icily, “Is the fucking official order. If anyone has a problem with it, tell them to come see me. Shade has agreed to join the Hero Administration as an in-training agent. I thought the official policy was that we welcome all of those willing and capable of joining with open arms?”

“Well, yes, but there is the matter of—” the first agent fell silent. The matter of what? 

“I won’t ask again, mate,” Zephyrus said with false cheer. “Let us through.”

The Noxcrew agents stepped aside. Tommy followed Zephyrus into the elevator. He kept silent. His hands were each sporting a power suppressor, slammed onto his wrists as he left the room where his prison had been by one of his guards. As the elevator doors still to a close, he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Just to the enlistment office to sign some papers. Usually there’s a whole application process but,” Zephyrus chuckled, “You got to speedrun through it.”

“Hooray,” Tommy said flatly.

Another laugh. Zephyrus laughed a lot. He reckoned that the Hero also laughed at The Blade’s shitty jokes, and that’s how the asshole had gotten it into his head that he was halfway funny. 

“Listen, mate, I know it’s not the best situation, but it’s kind of the only one you’ve got. And I know you won’t throw away your only chance, right?” His tone had taken a warning edge. “Because then we’d have to deal with you.”

“I know,” Tommy snapped. “I know,” he repeated, softer.

“I know you know. Just… reminding you. This really is your last chance.”

Tommy swallowed back another I know .

The elevator doors slid open again and he followed Zephyrus’ swishing, past guards whose gaze he could feel boring into his side and hushed, suspicious whispers he could hear clear as day. No one tried to stop them. He guessed they’d already gotten the warning. They stopped, and Tommy discreetly let his fingers trail the object in front of them. A metal desk, and behind it, he could hear someone’s anxious heartbeat. 

“Hi, Martha,” Zephyrus said casually, the light click of his elbow resting on the desk. “How are you?”

“Fine,” the receptionist replied, voice pitching into a terrified squeak at the sight of the Agent of Death and (equally terrifying) vigilante Shade in front of her. 

“Could you get me the forms for new Hero-in-training admissions?”

“Uhm—of course,” a scramble. “The uh— the sign-u-ups, or —”

“No, not that, the NDA and the terms of service—all that bullshit.”

“Of course,” Martha repeated, flipping through papers. Tommy felt a rising sense of both glee and terror. He was going to have to sign legal documents. He was going to have to sign legal documents. 

Wait a fucking minute.

Another rustle, and then the sound of paper being placed on the desk and slid toward him. 

“Just sign here.”

“Where?” Tommy asked stupidly.

An amused sigh, and the sound of a sharp talon tapping on the paper in front of him. “Here, mate.”

“Right,” Tommy said, fingers curling around the pen. “I’m not uh—using my real name.”

Another amused sigh. “You could literally make whatever mark and it would still count. You’re bound to it no matter what you sign it with.” 

“Right,” Tommy repeated. He was — 17. 16? 17 on paper, but he didn’t know how old he exactly was. But he wasn’t — he was a minor. Contracts signed by minors weren’t — they weren’t valid, right? Unless he was misremembering. They couldn’t be. So — huh. 

He lowered his head in what he hoped made a good impression of reading the document in front of him. He waited. How long did they expect it to take him to read it? Was he taking to long? It was just one page. But they could’ve crammed stuff in with smaller text. A minute. Two. After five minutes, Zephyrus cleared his throat.

“Right,” Tommy said for the third time, and then made some kind of squiggle on the area Zephyrus had tapped, that, if one squinted, could maybe be read as Shade . 

“Great,” Zephyrus said, laughter in his voice. Tommy squared his shoulders, scowling. 

“Now what?” 

“Well,” Zephyrus said speculatively. “This isn’t the last of the paperwork, but it’ll — do for now. It just means you’re now a part of the program, can’t talk about what takes place in the building or on future missions to anyone else, a Hero is going to need to train you, you know, shit like that. We’re going to have to issue a new press release soon. Fuck, so much to do. This is going to be a pain in the ass,” the last sentence was muttered more to himself then to Tommy.

“Sorry,” he offered. He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying sorry for. Sorry for being a dangerous criminal? He wasn’t really that apologetic, to be honest. Tubbo always said he shouldn’t apologize unless it meant he wasn’t going to do it again.

“I suppose we need to get you somewhere new to stay for now, huh? You can’t just stay in that fucking tube.”

“It’s quite a lovely tube, actually,” Tommy said. “Very homely. Great air circulation.”

Zephyrus didn’t laugh this time. Just let out an irritated exhale. Whoops. “What happened,” the Hero said, all levity gone from his voice, “To you shouldn’t have happened. That’s not how we do things here.”

Tommy didn’t know how to respond to that. A silence stretched between them.

“Right,” Zephyrus said abruptly. “A place for you to stay. Er… oh! We have the barracks. There’s like 20 fucking huge rooms, and you can have your own. It’s pretty big, and there’s probably like way too many beds then you’ll ever need, but I think that should work, yeah?”

“Sure…? Are there cameras?”

“What, in the barracks? Of course not, that’s ridiculous. There are cameras like, right outside though. Just a heads up. But no, you’re fine. Is that good?”

“Yeah,” Tommy mumbled, disoriented.

“Great!” Zephyrus clapped his hands. “I’ve got to go take care of official Hero business, er, Tim, could you show Shade to the barracks? Thanks, mate.” And with that, he was off.

Another guard, presumably ‘Tim’, stepped forward. “Come on, then,” he said gruffly. 

Tommy blinked. “ Frank ?”

“The fuck? My name is Tim.”

It was Frank, one of the first guards that had been assigned patrol back in his underground cell. How long ago was that? Tommy realized his usually immaculate internal clock had been interrupted, what with getting knocked out by the Noxcrew agents. “What day is it?”

“Uh… June 2nd?” 

“Oh,” Tommy muttered, blinking. Wow. It had been just over a week of being captured. “Alright. Lead the way, Frank.”

“It’s Tim ,” the guard muttered, and stormed off, boots stomping against the floor. Tommy followed, replaying the Plan in his mind. Survive.

The barracks he were given was a long room, empty but for the 10 or so different rows of bunk beds. The guard shoved him inside and locked the door. Tommy heard the click. Apparently being a new hero-in-training (or something, he wasn’t sure how the process even worked, who was he training under?) didn’t stop him from being locked up. But that was the least of his problems. 

Tommy paced around the rooms, his footsteps echoing weirdly. He realized with a start that he could remove his blindfold, take off his hood. There were no longer any cameras monitoring his every move. He slid off the cloth and sighed, unused to the feeling of fresh air on his face. How many days had it been since he’d removed his disguise? Gross. But he couldn’t worry about that right now. He needed to focus on the more pressing issue: what the hell he was going to do now.

There had been no way out of the corner the heroes had pressed him into. But he could use this to his advantage.

Trust, Tommy reassured himself, could be earned.

He tried not to think about Tubbo, alone in their apartment, watching the endless stream of TV obsessively as the news flashed with reports of his capture. If he was smart, Tubbo would book it out of L’manberg as soon as he could, change his identity, and never look back.

Tubbo was smart. Tommy knew this.

Tommy also knew that Tubbo was loyal. He would not leave. He would keep waiting. And plotting. Probably get himself killed. 

Tommy could hardly blame him. It’s what he would’ve done.

It was stupid, fucking idiotic of him, to ever get his friend involved in this. Tubbo had eventually caught him — it didn’t take very long, Tommy’s skill was never subtlety — and given him a long, long lecture, and there were weeks of arguments, and then came The Compromise.

Tommy perched awkwardly of his apartment windowsill, hand pressed to his bleeding side, other hand desperately trying to jiggle the lift to get it to loosen and open as discreetly as possible. Across the street, the stray dogs started howling and barking loudly. He winced. “Fuck,” he muttered, still fumbling with the frame. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit! ” 

He raised his leg to press the weight of his foot against the fiddly frame, pushing with all his might. On his last push, the window opened suddenly, and Tommy yelped, falling through and onto the kitchen floor with a loud thud. Shit. Tubbo might be half-deaf, but there’s no way he hadn’t heard that . He tried to push himself off the floor, hand still clutching at his torn side.

“Ahem.” Tommy let out a shout, falling backwards from the voice. “Tubbo?” he said hesitantly.

“Tommy.” Tubbo replied flatly, next to the window. The one he must’ve just opened.

Fuck. Fuck, shit, fucking shit . Tommy was suddenly aware of how he must seem to Tubbo, fallen on the floor, blood leaking through his all-black head to toe covering. “Hey, big man,” he said weakly.

“What, and I’m so serious right now, what the actual fuck .”

“Uh… I was planning a surprise for your birthday?”

“Tommy. My birthday is in December.”

“So?”

“It’s February.”

“I’m an early planner?” Silence. “I mean, have you seen the wait list on Niki’s bakery? Besides, I wanted to get in a pre-order because it’s going to be a really extravagant cake, and—”

“Shut up.”

Tommy shut up.

“This is the last straw. This is the last fucking straw. For days , you’ve been disappearing at night and then crawling back hours later through the window — you think you’re subtle? You’re really not. I thought you were getting roped in a street gang or something, I check your clothes for Blue, and instead I found one of your hoodies, covered in blood. I check the fucking news, and there’s news of some new criminal running around!” Tubbo grew more and more angry, voice pitching hire, pacing the kitchen. Tommy drew himself to a sitting position, leaning against a cupboard with a wince, content to let Tubbo run out of steam. 

“Hey, you have no proof that that criminal was me!”

“Tommy, he had on your black and white socks.”

“Oh.” He thought for sure he’d put on a matching pair. 

“ Oh? Tommy, you — you killed someone!” 

“He was going to kill a guy for no reason! I didn’t have another choice!”

“You didn’t have to kill him!” Tubbo snarled.

Tommy swallowed, fingers twitching. Tubbo fell silent too. It had been — an accident. Too much brute strength. He’d always been a little too strong for a normal hybrid — a little too separated from humanity, even without a hybrid form. They both remembered another incident, where his anger got the better of him. A gardening spade in his hands. The cold crack slicing through the air. Hands that had been raised to strike now limp.

Tubbo inhaled wetly. Tommy realized with a start that his friend had been on the brink of crying. “Please don’t cry.”

“Fuck off,” Tubbo said, muffled. “You—you can’t fucking do shit like this, man. Oh, god. You can’t. I can’t let you get hurt. You’re—we—”

Tommy tried to get to his feet, to comfort his friend. “Look—”

Tubbo took a step back. “ Tommy?” he said, horrified. 

“What?”

“Are you—are you bleeding ?”

“Oh,” Tommy worried at the edges of his torn hoodie. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it, it’ll heal.”

“ What do you mean, it’ll heal?” Tubbo’s voice had gotten that high-pitched, hysterical quality again. 

“Don’t freak out again,” Tommy said desperately, “I discovered that I have crazy fucking healing powers, it’s just a scratch, it’s just a scratch, it’ll heal in like, twenty minutes, I’m fine , see?”

That was the wrong thing to say. There probably wasn’t a wronger thing ever said in the history of Bad Things You Shouldn’t Say In An Already Bad Situation.

“I’m going to kill you,” Tubbo said, very quietly, “I’m going to kill you but first I’m going to stitch you up.”

And he did, ranting and raving the whole time, voice steadily pitching higher and higher until Tommy had to tell him to chill out, which only got him started all over again.

“Chill out? Tommy, you’ve been putting your life in danger for weeks now, and for what? To fucking—pay our rent? I’ll work three jobs, we’ll figure something out, you don’t need to—”

“That’s not why I’m doing this,” Tommy interrupted. “Or that’s not—why I’m doing this anymore.” He swallowed. “I—fucking—I was really fucking mad, right? Because everything — our whole situation is so fucking shitty.” Orphans, both of them, Tubbo with the burnt half of his face and Tommy’s blindness and the two of them stumbling around for years, meeting in the same foster family and then the crack of a shovel and an investigation — and then Tubbo, newly eighteen, with the worst idea in the world that somehow works because L’manburg’s legal system is catastrophic, and then Tubbo working three jobs and agreeing to suspicious favors and they’re in a shitty apartment with an even shittier landlord. And then. Tommy. Still stumbling, sore with the knowledge that if even he wanted to he could never truly live independently, anger bubbling in his throat. 

Half of his plan (or most of the plan) to rob the bank had been fueled by the bubbling rage inside him and the desire to prove he could , if he wanted. If he wanted he could get past twenty armed guards, if he wanted he could take down a Hero by himself— and then somewhere along the way it became less about what he wanted. It became about fending off the weird fuck who’d been following a young woman down the street, or stopping an officer for shooting someone just for light theft, or — “I just wanted to help people,” he says, finally.

Tubbo’s hand curled around his wrist. “I know,” he sighed. “I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Tubbo said, laughing weakly.

“Well—” Tommy snorted, “Well, I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“You’re not going to stop, though.”

“No.”

Tubbo sighed, head thumping on Tommy’s shoulder. “Just promise me you’ll be more careful, boss man.”

“Yeah, okay, Big T. Whatever you say.”

Tubbo had never been one to run away from anything. His solution was always to tough it out. If Tommy tried to make another ramshackle escape attempt — Tubbo would be in danger. He’d always been in danger. Tommy was a fucking idiot.

There was nothing he could do. He was stuck. They’d won.

Tommy sat, in the empty barracks of the Hero Administration, no longer a prisoner but something else, something worse, and he started to cry.