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“You need to find God.”
Tommy should have never opened the door. “Fuck off! Fucking– no!” He goes to slam the door when the man’s foot shoves itself in the doorway, unsettled by the erratic man on his doorstep.
“Please!” The man’s fingers start to force the door open. Damn it, Tommy should’ve taken Tubbo up on weightlifting when his friend asked two months ago. Tommy vehemently said a big man such as himself doesn’t need to lift weights. He is wrong.
“Go the fuck away! Fuck you and fuck your god!” The man is prying the door open, centimeter by centimeter. Tommy’s a bit scared, if he’s going to be honest.
“Please!” The man begs, fingers clutching the door, “They’re going to kill us all if you don’t find Momus! He’s missing!”
“I don’t give a shit,” Tommy grits through his teeth, releasing some of his weight off the door before slamming into it and crushing the guy’s fingers and feet. He locks the door, turning his back and sliding down it, chest heaving.
“I don’t even care that you hurt me, or, or that you’re a rude son of a bitch,” the man groans through the door. “Just find him, please, Zeus and Ares will kill us all.”
Tommy doesn’t reply. He sits there, trying to catch his breath and for the man to go away. For an indescribable amount of time, he doesn’t move. At one point, the man walked away, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
Why the man came to Tommy’s apartment is beyond him, especially when there are a billion other apartments in his building, and another billion houses a few streets down. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. It was just some crazed lunatic ranting off about some false gods. He knows they’re Greek Gods, but that doesn’t mean they’re real.
Doesn’t mean that some dude trying to knock his door down isn’t unsettling, though.
Standing up, Tommy brushes his pants in a shaky attempt to calm his nerves. He’s a seventeen year old living alone, of course he’s fucking scared. He’s never heard of a god going “missing” before, though. But since the gods aren’t real, it doesn’t matter. Plus, the man ruined his nice Tuesday evening.
He returns to his dinner, previously abandoned due to the asshole banging on his door. He spoons a little into his mouth, the mac n’ cheese isn’t too disgusting yet, and he’s broke. That too.
Soon enough, the mac n’ cheese gets uncomfortably cold, to the point where Tommy is gagging with every bite. He doesn’t really want to waste food, so he puts his leftovers in tupperware. It’s only about 8pm, but he’s already feeling fatigued.
Sitting down in his worn recliner, he clicks the tv on, settling on the first channel that pops up. The announcer lady looks frazzled, almost as if she were struck by lightning on her way to work.
“Breaking News! Reports of high wind and sudden deaths from lightning are ravaging the nation. Stay in—”
“Fucking hell,” Tommy mutters, turning the tv back off. “Can’t a man just enjoy his evening?” Leaning back in his chair, Tommy closes his eyes, not sleeping just resting.
He’s got work tomorrow—today was his day off. Sure, Tommy likes working at the cafe, but damn, people can be annoying. Nevermind he deals with these shitty-ass people, and then comes home to an empty apartment, lonely as ever. Not his fucking fault his parents had to die on him and the foster system is shit. Of course he would run away and start his life over.
Okay, his mind is rambling.
He’s supposed to be resting, relaxing and preparing for returning to work tomorrow. Don’t blame him, customer service is hard. His eyes start to slip shut, quiet fatigue taking over his bones.
Suddenly, glass shatters, the crash sounding from his bedroom. He cautiously gets up—he doesn’t have a death wish—and makes his way into the kitchen, grabbing a chef’s knife before slowly making his way to his room.
First a fucking weird-ass Jehovah-type witness, and now some intruder? Give him a break.
Creaking his bedroom door open, Tommy holds the knife in front of him like he’s holding a hotdog—badly. He definitely should’ve taken Tubbo’s weightlifting suggestion. Definitely should have.
Nothing happens.
Nothing jumps out in front of him, nothing bolts out of his broken window, nothing moves. Tommy might shit his pants, though. This is fucking terrifying. Tommy might also just lay down and die. But that’s for pussies, and Tommy’s no pussy. (Of course, women are fucking strong and awesome, and Tommy respects them, but pussy is a funny word.)
He creeps around his room, heart hammering with every step he takes. Suddenly, the floor is rushing up to meet him and he falls, inhaling sharply. The knife clatters when his hand hits the ground, dislodging his irontight grip. His knees and hands hurt from catching him, but nobody charges at him as he’s trying to catch his breath.
“What the fuck?” Tommy mumbles, recollecting his bearings. He should just burn the damn house down at this point. The person above him flips him on his back, and his eyes don’t adjust fast enough to see anything besides a dark silhouette.
Hands grab at his throat, and Tommy knows as his air leaves his body that he doesn’t stand a chance anymore. He claws at the unfamiliar hands, and oh god, is this his punishment for shoving all his clothes in his drawers instead of folding them earlier? Oh fuck, it probably is.
“Ple–” he gasps, words cutting off as the fingers squeeze harder. Tommy’s going to wake up with bruises mottling his skin and phantom feelings of indents tomorrow, if he even wakes up.
Right when he’s about to pass out, the fingers release his throat, and he falls to all fours, right hand grasping his neck as he attempts to put air into his lungs. The culprit stands over him, and Tommy’s scared, not knowing what to do.
Now, Tommy is not known for self-preservation, so he goes, “Wot the fuck, man,” drawing out the last word. His voice is all raspy and it’s a struggle to talk, words coming out at a whisper. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to bitch at his attempted murderer, strangulation is so not cool. That should be the new PSA video they show at schools: Don’t Strangle, Kids! School Is Too Cool For Strangulation.
Oh wait. There’s a random guy in his apartment.
He shoots to his feet, wielding his arms in front of him like he saw Po do in Kung Fu Panda. Whatever bravery he’s feeling dissipates when a low laugh sounds behind him, and he spins on one heel, chest rattling with his heavy effort breathing.
“How did you do that?” The man asks, and Tommy would be inclined to answer if the guy didn’t just try to fucking strangle the shit out of him. “How did you not die?”
“King, no, actually not king considering you just tried to fucking murder me, the fuck do you mean?” Tommy says, top lip curling at the stupid questions.
Light suddenly invades the room, not a corner in the dark, and Tommy knows this dude is a wrongen’ now; his lightbulbs are not that high end. The man in front of him looks like he should be an eighth grader in school: all emo and shit. Maybe not emo, again, Tommy didn’t pay attention in school, to anything. A red beanie covering most of brunette hair; a long, oversized jacket over a soft looking dark red sweater; shin-high black boots over not exactly black skinny jeans but close enough for Tommy to want to make fun of him.
Not to mention this guy is fucking tall. Tommy’s proud of his solid 6 feet, but this guy must be 6 foot 5 at least. No way would Tommy have stood a chance.
“You don’t know?” The man stares at him in admonishment, one gloved hand settled on his waist as he leans on one leg. “Holy shit,” the man whispers to himself, “Holy shit, he doesn’t fucking know.” And okay, rude, ignoring Tommy? How dare thee.
“Aye bitch, I can fuckin’ hear you talking about me,” Tommy puffs out his chest, “face me like a man.” Maybe Tommy should be taking his almost death more seriously since this guy seems to be able to finish the job if he wants to. Nah.
The man breathes heavily through his nose, the hand not on his hip coming up and rubbing in between his eyebrows. “Gods, what am I going to tell Phil.” He finally looks at Tommy, looking him up and down and Tommy tries not to be embarrassed by his noticeably less… privileged clothes. Read: clothes that have definitely seen better days and Tommy definitely didn’t fish for in second-hand stores.
“Who’s Phil,” Tommy asks curiously, cracking his knuckles mindlessly. “And what was I able to resist?”
The man sighs, “I was trying to kill you. I should’ve killed you.”
Tommy nods, understandable. He thinks he should’ve died too.
“And you didn’t die.” True. “So now I think you have god-blood in you.” The man throws out a hand that Tommy eyes distrustfully; he takes it anyway. “Name’s Wilbur, formally known by mortals as Momus, god of poets, writers, satire, and most importantly, evil-spirited blame. You should’ve died ‘cause someone blames you for something—that I don’t care about—and wished enough for your death that I decided to stop their fucking prayers.”
Ah, that’s probably the meat butcher Tommy regularly steels little ham slices from. When all of his money goes into affording a place to sleep, he has to turn to alternative options for sustenance. But wait, something Wilbur said rings a bell from earlier. “Aren’t you missing or some shit?”
Wilbur’s eyes lighten up, “So you have heard of me!” Tommy can’t burst this poor man’s—god’s— bubble. He just can’t. “Yes, that’ll show Techno!” The god comes down from his momentary giddiness, “You haven’t told me your name yet, gremlin.”
“S’Tommy, god of your mom and your dad. At the same time.” In the same breath, Tommy asks: “Who’s Phil and Techno?”
Wilbur’s mouth thins, “I hate you.” The god relaxes his pose, a finger waving back and forth as a smile grows despite his earlier declaration. “Phil’s Zeus, and Techno’s known as Ares, heard of them at least?” Tommy nods, Zeus and Ares sure do ring a bell. “Also known as my dad and brother. Techno’s adopted.”
“So how’s the literal king of the gods actual kid be some weird-ass low level god no one’s ever heard about, then?” Tommy’s just here to piss this guy off again. He needs some more entertainment.
“I hate you,” Wilbur repeats, smile falling slightly before returning a split second later. He grabs Tommy’s hand, pulling him close to his body, light falling from Wilbur’s eyes and swirling on the ground beneath them. Tommy can feel his being drawn towards the magic swirl thing, every atom trying to push through the portal. The last words Tommy hears before everything goes black is: “Plus, you’re gonna meet them!”
Shit. What?
Tommy wakes up to something sweet under his nose, the floral scent pleasant to smell after a deep sleep. Something, petals, brush his nose, and he twitches it, trying his best to show his discontent with being awoken.
The person trying to wake him up doesn’t listen to him, and he shoots up from his sleeping position as if electrocuted, standing to his feet. Because he fucking was. Something literally shot through his spine, and his brain and body are both wide awake, dreariness nonexistent.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Attis, er, gods,” a strange voice declares, voice booming to the very corners of Tommy’s bones.
“Who the fuck is Attis?” He retorts with no care for his wellbeing. The power radiating from the presence in front of him stalls, before returning to its ever-moving prowl. He searches the room he’s in, and he doesn’t see anyone, nor does he see any speakers. Gods, what did he sign up for?
“You don’t know?” The voice says, curiosity lacing its words, “I guess Wilbur was right. Look to your right.” Tommy does, and what was previously an uninhabited spot of glossy quartz, there is a man, power seeping from every cell on his body.
He has golden hair, similar to Tommy’s but straighter, less curly. Blue eyes spark like lightning, and the tips of his fingers actually do spark like lightning. He’s dressed in robes, white with green bolts of electricity woven into the fabric, and floating above his head is a crown of lightning bolts, circling his head.
This dude just seems awesome.
“I am Philza, but humans call me Zeus for some reason,” Philza chuckles good-naturedly, “Not sure where they got that name from.” The god strides over to Tommy, power flooding the ground with every step. “Sorry if this is all confusing, but you’re in Olympia right now, and my son, Wilbur brought you here under the idea that you’re an undiscovered god.”
Tommy nods, semi-following Philza’s explanation. “I’m a fuckin’ god?” He wonders out loud, “Attic or some shit?”
“Attis,” Philza corrects, “minor god of vegetation, fruits of the earth, and most importantly right now, rebirth. You’ve technically always been a god, always been alive as a god, but the rebirth part of your godhood sends you through reincarnation, something other gods don’t do, to put it simply.”
“Ah, so I’m fuckin’ pog and shit.”
Philza sighs—why do all these gods do this around him? “Yes, ‘pog and shit.’ Wilbur and Techno—Ares—are waiting outside for us. They want to see their new brother.”
Tommy tilts his head to the side, “Aren’t I a minor god?” Philza nods in confirmation, “So how are Wilbur and I your’s and Techno’s ‘family.’” He puts air quotes around family, not too keen to call some random god-dudes he just met his dad and brother.
“Just how Fate works, mate, in fact your mother is Kristen, better known as Hera. Let’s go meet them, and explain why Wilbur was missing.”
That is true. Tommy hasn’t received an explanation why some random dude interrupted his evening with the missing Momus crap, so he’s fucking ready to meet the fucking god of war. And Wilbur… he guesses. The two exit the ornate room, Tommy almost mourning having to leave the most expensive shit he’s ever seen in his life. Being a god isn’t so bad.
The solid gold door, real solid gold, swings open slowly, the movement of the door just as sophisticated as the rest of this place. Gods, Tommy does not belong here. On the other side is Wilbur, dressed the same as before, and a man with pink hair, Tommy assuming it’s the Ares guy.
He’s right when Philza greets both gods by name, informality in every word despite their statuses. The room they’re in is even bigger than the last, somehow even more extravagant than it too. Vines crawl up the sides of the pillars, everything seems to be made out of white quartz as well. Murals and carvings are painted on and etched in the pure white walls, marbling interrupted by the art pieces. Tommy returns his attention to the three gods in front of him, marveling at how royal-looking Philza and Techno are. Wilbur’s also there.
The god with pink hair is more impressive than Wilbur for sure, and Philza only in the sense of style. While Philza looks every part the god he is, Techno looks like a king, a deep velvet red cape flowing from his shoulders, black boots shining as much as the floor is. Techno looks like he stepped out of the fairy tale books Tommy used to read when he was younger, when he had less responsibilities. The only thing missing from Techno’s attire that Philza has is not wearable: power.
Philza emanates power, like one word from him can level a city, can level a continent. It’s terrifying to be close to, and Tommy knows it’s the minor god in him that cowers to the pulsing power, wanting to submit to his superior. But the bitch in Tommy says not to, and Tommy’s always listened to his gut before his head.
“‘Ello?” Tommy demands attention, mind connecting to the conversation the three gods were having in front of him. Three heads turn to him, with various levels of amusement, Philza’s by far the highest and Techno’s the lowest. “Anyone care to tell me why I’m fuckin’ here?”
“That’s what we were discussin’,” A low voice drawls, and Tommy’s not surprised to hear it coming from Techno, “before you rudely interrupted us after not payin’ attention.”
Tommy shrugs. “Not my fault, you fuckers didn’t wait for me.”
Wilbur shakes his head, “I swear he was just this bratty when I met him too. Tommy didn’t even know he’s a god yet still didn’t question why he was getting murdered.”
“Shoulda finished the job,” Techno murmurs. Philza smacks him on the shoulder while Wilbur snickers and Tommy elects to ignore the remark.
“But he fuckin’ didn’t!” Tommy slings an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders, “So now you lot are stuck with me. Right Philza?”
Dramatically, Techno lowers onto one knee in front of Philza, surrendering his sword to the king of gods. “Please save me from this hell, Father.”
Philza snorts, “Stop it Techno, I’m sure Dream would love to see you again though.” He turns to Tommy, who recovers quickly from the surge of power Philza radiates. Or he hopes so. “And call me Phil, Tommy, Philza’s awfully formal.”
“Anyways,” Wilbur changes subjects quickly, gathering everyone’s attention. “I am known as Momus, and I was summoned by some devout followers that wanted me to do some shit, yada yada, and Phil and Techno over here,” He points at them, “went batshit and decided to try to get me back even though I am a fully grown god that can make my own decisions and almost sent the world in apocalypse number 139.” Wilbur shakes a hand, considering. “And a half.”
“Makes sense to me,” Tommy says. It does not all make sense especially since he considered himself an atheist prior to these events but that information is unneeded. “One question, why does it feel like I’ve known you three for like, fuckin’ forever?”
“‘Cause you have,” Techno says matter-of-factly. “We’ve known you, and you’ve known us since the Titans and the Creation.”
Phil further explains: “What Techno means is the Fates have been written since the beginning of Time, and so our Fate together is natural.” Phil shrugs. “And I’m not complaining.”
“Me neither,” Wilbur pipes in, “Even though you act like a little bitch.”
Tommy scowls. “I am not a bitch. You are.” He softens, “but I think I’m okay with this whole arrangement. Care to explain this Attis god thing-y? I’m not too sure what it means.”
“You’re just a minor god,” Techno shrugs, “you have power over vegetation, fruits of the earth, rebirth, everythin’ your godhood entails. But you’re also connected to us, despite bein’ a ‘lowly god.’” Techno does air quotes around lowly god, and Tommy gets the vibes that Techno doesn’t like the words. “The designations of ‘high’ and ‘low’ gods are meaningless here, only Phil’s and Kristen’s ranks matter, and that’s mostly to mortals.”
“Ah,” Tommy exclaims, thinking. “S’that means I’m just as fuckin’ powerful—if not fuckin’ more—as you bitch!”
Techno’s left corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement and nonchalance in the movement. “Are those fightin’ words, Attis?”
Tommy scowls, deigning to not respond and instead launches himself at Techno, arms raised similar to how he tried to defend himself against Wilbur earlier. Badly. Techno easily catches both arms in one hand, a smug grin overtaking Techno’s previously small smile. Tommy raises his top lip before breaking into a smile as well.
“Even I know not to go against the fucking god of war, Tommy,” Wilbur croons, hands clasped in excitement at the show—well, rather a beatdown. “I learned my lesson to not fight Techno a few centuries ago, you idiot.” Techno punches him in the arm he’s not using to hold Tommy in place, and Wilbur whines, rubbing where he got punched and looking at Phil for sympathy.
“Be nice Techno,” Phil scolds, the biggest, poggest man ever. “And this is Tommy’s first time getting his ass handed to him, there’s more to come of his arrogance.” And suddenly, Phil has lost the title, reducing back to a measly god.
Techno releases Tommy, smirking at him. “That’ll teach ya, nerd.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy says playfully. He turns to Phil, “What now?”
Phil dramatically throws his arms to either side of him, grinning so brightly there could be lightning instead of teeth. “Well, you do what any god does.”
“Absolutely fucking nothing.”