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He wasn't on patrol today. He hadn't been for a while.
Tommy, nowadays, barely ever sleeps. He struggles to do just about anything without medication, no matter how worn out he was.
For the past seven weeks, he has been on a forced, very extended medical leave, struggling with a perpetual illness that left him wasting away in his apartment. Half the time, he feels like a captive in his own home, with nothing to distract him from his agonizing thoughts that seem to be rotting him from the inside out.
So, for no apparent reason and for the first time in a long time, he went for a walk.
He goes down the side entrance to his apartment building and through the gate, with no end point or goal in mind other than to finally get some fresh air in his lungs after an embarrassingly lengthy period. He just wanders ahead.
One of his hands was in his hoodie pocket, where his thumb was fiddling with the handle of a sleek throwing knife, while the other—
...
—The city surrounding him was alive with people going about their usual routines. Tommy envied their normalcy, yet the notion of people enjoying such ordinary things made him feel even more isolated.
Perhaps he should search for other interests. Like hiking. Tommy could go for a stroll; he's been spending too much time in his flat anyway. He should definitely go out more, pick a woodland path or something like that, and just spend the day walking. That would be nice.
Wait.
Pause for a moment.
He is literally walking as he thinks. He's actively thinking about walking while walking, yet he forgets he's walking. Furthermore, where was he? Did he already pass by the secondhand store? He doesn't really recognize the street he's on.
God, his memory was getting bad. Or maybe his mind in general is just considerably worse than he originally thought. Hiking? Him? He doesn't even own a car. If he did want to go on a hike in the woods or up a stupid mountain, he'd probably have to walk to whatever destination one hikes to, effectively defeating the purpose of the hike because he'd already walked, like, twelve kilometres to get anywhere near a patch of grass.
Yeah, forget it.
His initial intent was to be out for roughly fifteen minutes, but time seemed to slip by. What began as a short stroll became considerably longer; fifteen minutes grew into thirty, thirty turned into an hour, and before he knew it, the sun was sinking over the city. Casting the buildings in warm bronze.
And yet, despite being told to avoid any unnecessary exertion, including any sort of exercise beyond reason, Tommy didn't immediately return home when he noticed the sun was dipping. Despite a dull soreness in his calves and a faint hammering in his temples, he chose to head down towards the seaside for another twenty minutes. He merely sat on a random bench and let the smell of the ocean lull him into a false reality—an alternate reality where he hadn't been sent home for his own health and safety, one where he wasn't terrified to return to work. Perhaps even one where he didn't work at all.
"Medical leave, huh?" A voice begins behind him. "Red, if I'd known this was what finally got you to resign, I would have done it ages ago."
And, yep. There it was. The feeling of dread and uneasiness in his stomach returns full force, like whiplash. Though he doesn't believe he could stomach turning around to confront it head-on. At the very least, not yet.
And maybe if he works hard enough, he'll never have to.
...
The villain continues, perhaps using Tommy's silence as an invitation to do so.
"It's one thing to tear you down so badly that you don't show up to work for a day or two. It's happened to you on multiple occasions; I'll grant you that much."
"However," the voice adds, "forever? I must have hit you pretty hard that day."
He was taunting, adding salt to an already open wound. A feeble attempt to provoke a reaction from him. And, to Tommy's dismay, it was working.
"I didn't quit," Tommy mumbles almost inaudibly, his attention locked on the seashore, where the waves crash against the stony and sandy beach before receding back into the ocean, leaving only foamy bubbles that disintegrate into nothing. He wished nothing more than to be a blob of sea foam right then and there.
The villain chuckled lightly. Mockingly.
From behind, a cold hand snakes over his cheek. "Of course. Officially, no. But in here," Tommy tries, and fails, not to flinch when a finger taps his temple, "I'd say a decent amount of damage has already been done, yeah? A good start, I must say."
"...Good start?" Tommy inquires anxiously. He receives no response. Rather, he is completely ignored all together.
Asshole.
"Right then, let's get a move on. I've become far too impatient over the past few weeks."
The hand, once resting on his cheek, swiftly lowered down to grip his... arm. He couldn't necessarily feel it, but the villain definitely had a sturdy grip on it. A tight one at that.
That was enough to get a reaction from Tommy.
Twisting his shoulder as far as it would let him, Tommy fires his hand towards the ground, palm down. As his fingers just barely graze the sand, he sends a pulse of energy through his fingertips and into the ground, disrupting it and causing it to burst into a cloud of dust. The commotion and distraction gave Tommy just enough time to wrench his arm free from the villain's grip and gain some distance from him.
Eyes fluttering from the dust and senses heightened, he anxiously waits for something. Then, as if on cue, a tall figure steps from the clouds, sporting a sickening grin. This was the source of the sickness—the monster who had left him with nothing but pure agony that felt as fresh as if it had happened only days ago.
This was the one who left him half-dead.
"A mercy," he'd explained that day.
"I'm glad you found a way to work around that new prosthetic of yours, Red." He says, "I'm not sure what you'd have done if you'd lost both of your, quote unquote, weapons." The Blade states almost proudly, another slap in the face to add to Tommy's collection.
He was on patrol that night.
He worked on a team that had a system. Each member was always evenly spaced from the others; it was a safety precaution that they were all fully aware of. If one was in danger or needed assistance, several would arrive within minutes. Many of his teammates depended significantly on this system.
He'd been pacing around the edge of a random shop's roof, listening for any distress signals from his coms. He is always willing to help any of his teammates. He'd just completed running everyone's coordinates through his head for the fourth time that night when he heard quiet steps behind him. The sounds of the city almost completely drowing them out.
Tommy instinctually whips a throwing knife from his sleeve, charging it with his power and sending it flying towards the source of the sound. But then, the throwing knife was caught in place, a hand grasping it by its handle, a literal centimetre from its target's face.
Panic sets in as he realizes his mistake.
Oh shit. He just threw a knife at the Blade's face. Love that for himself.
"Oh, good evening, Mr. Blade, sir." Tommy blurts out before his brain can even catch up. "Lovely night for a stroll, yes?"
Seriously???
The aforesaid man lets out a light huff of air from behind his skull mask, one that could possibly resemble amusement if one were delusional enough.
The Blade's gaze shifts from Tommy to the thin knife now in his possession, holding it down in his palm and admiring the craftsmanship before slipping it into his belt and returning his attention back to Tommy.
"Good evening to you as well, Red. It's wonderful to catch you alone this time."
The villain is participating in whatever bit this was. But, with his monotonous voice, who could actually tell what was and wasn't sarcasm from the guy? "Though I apologize for having to cut our time together short, but it appears you've found yourself a little too close to my territory."
"Oh shit, am I?" Was he?? "I'm so sorry; I had no idea. Let me get out of your hair, and you can enjoy the rest of your night. Have a safe journey home, yeah?" Tommy word vomits.
The blonde then pivots on his heel and speeds towards the far edge of the roof. As he reaches the concrete ledge, he sends a charge to his fingertips, ready to shoot energy out of his hand and send himself flying away from the oncoming disaster behind him. Then, just as he was ready to send it, something seized his movements, deeply burrowing itself into his gloved hand, causing the hero to stifle a yelp.
Tommy grips his wrist with his non-injured hand, teeth clinched hard, and eyes slightly watering from the pain. His gaze fixated on the object now embedded in his leather glove and flesh; he recognized the design of the expertly crafted throwing knife instantly. The exact same knife he'd sent flying at the Blade's face just moments before.
"Oh, my fucking— What the hell!?"
Tommy turns to face the source, but instead is met with the gleam of an axe barreling towards him, inches from his face.
As the axe swings down, he flings himself backwards, arching his back as far as possible. The blade miraculously misses his face by just a few centimetres and instead grazes a few strands of his blonde hair, effortlessly slicing through them. The axe then slams into the concrete beneath, striking exactly where his head would have been if he hadn't moved.
Whatever quick reaction Tommy just displayed is short lived as he frantically tries to get away before the villain follows up the attack. He seizes the chance and takes the knife, pulling it out of his skin with a heavy grunt, and a quick thank you to adrenaline, before sliding it back up his sleeve amongst the others. He races to the edge of the building and, with his other hand, shoots himself across to the next one. He charges ahead as he lands on the second building. Hand already powered and ready to repeat the same action.
He repeats the same song and dance for a minute before attempting to grab the com from his belt. Failing once, twice, and then a third time before pushing himself through the pain, and grabbing the device with his mangled hand, smashing his thumb on the pad, and alerting his teammates to his location.
"Red, you pinged; three others are on standby. What's the problem?" A crackling voice answers through his earpeice instantaneously.
"Eh-uhm. I ran into the Blade between Clovers and Strithe St. I'm requesting help, like, now." He was breathing pretty heavy now, slightly dizzy from all the running, power usage, and blood leaking from his wound, as all of his words came out airy and rushed. "The situation is pretty lethal; he's trying to kill me. Copy?"
For a few seconds, there is no response—nothing but radio stillness except for a thick static on the other end.
"Copy!?" He calls again, his patience already waning.
"Red, please state your course PIN." A voice replies a little too robotically for his liking,
He leaps onto another roof, knees buckling for a second before sprinting to the next. "What? Why is that required right now? I've already given the coordinates. I'm literally just asking for help." He was really trying here, though he could have said it nicer, but that wasn't important; he had every right to feel stressed.
"Red," his co-worker responds, having the bold audacity to sound annoyed with him.
"Oh my god—GY4-1206-423M. Now, please. Could you send someone? Literally anyone?"
Another several seconds pass, and the only sounds he picks up are his heavy breathing and the alarm of a car going off somewhere in the distance before he finally receives an answer. "Red, I want you to go to the outskirts of the city. Keep damage to the area as minimal as possible. Is the threat in pursuit?"
"Uhm--" Tommy leaps onto the next building, his direction shifting to head towards the city's outskirts. He risks a quick peek behind him but finds no one. And there isn't anyone for a few more seconds, so he uncounciously begins slowing his sprinting to a slightly lighter speed, still searching for the villain but finding no one. Just as he was about to respond to the question, all words get lodged in his throat as he watches a figure land on the roof Tommy had just launched from.
Now, to explain: The Blade doesn't have the powers or devices, for that matter, that he could use to just launch or grapple himself over ledges. Meaning he jumped. The pink fucker somehow has the raw-dog leg strength to jump several stories high easily.
"Yes! Yes, he is still in pursuit. I'm making my way to the outskirts now. How far is the backup?"
"Continue moving out. Avoid major roads. Ping in when you get there." Then the line goes dead, and all that’s left is the sound of static in his earpiece.
"Are you actually shitting me!?" Tommy hisses through gritted teeth at the now-dead call.
To say the entire headquarters was negligent would be a massive understatement. While their priorities are where they should be, the people he means, the higher-ups, seem to have overlooked the fact that those working under them are also human beings. For example, a brutal killer is literally hunting him down, and his superiors are providing little to no assistance whatsoever.
Continuing his run towards the edges of the city. Doing as he was told, and avoiding main roads. Instead, he kept to the rooftops, hopping from one building to the next. He can still sense the Blade's presence behind him as he travels, but lacks the courage to look behind him again.
Despite his stamina being strong, his breathing had become embarrassingly heavy. He didn't want to acknowledge how light-headed he had become over the past few minutes, and he had already made the detrimental mistake of glancing at his bad hand. He had gagged at the sight of the deep gash that continued to leak blood off of his gloved fingertips. He kept running, slowing briefly when he recognized his apartment building from a block away, but then continuing to speed ahead.
He soon arrives on the outskirts of the city. Pulling out the device and pinging his location, he immediately locates a nearby alleyway and backs into it, pausing to lean against the wall and wipe the sweat from his forehead before carefully removing the glove from his wounded right hand.
Through the glove, the wound looked pretty gnarly. But with it off, he felt cold dread seep into his spine.
The impact of the knife thrown at him was unbelievable: his glove was literally built to withstand such force, but the knife had somehow penetrated straight through the leather fabric, into his skin, and out the other side. So now he's sporting a lovely hole in his hand. And truth be told, he was just as amazed as anyone would be in this situation that he wasn't curled over himself, dry heaving from the pain.
Abandoning the sight of his mangled hand, he turns his view to the villain who had just landed not far behind him. The villain in question, remarkably, because he's literally been on his ass the entire time, doesn't immediately go after Tommy; he just stands where he landed and watches him.
"Why'd you stop running, Red? I thought heroes loved their cardio," the villain quips.
Tommy doesn't really think it's funny, but reluctantly doesn't say anything. He didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings.
He goes to make a snarky retort, propping his hand against the alleyway wall to add sass to his defence before immediately snatching it back, completely forgetting about the gaping hole he was sporting. Recoiling from the literally blinding agony, he nearly trips over some trash in the midst of the insanity.
And, yep, Pinky had clearly watched the entire thing, judging by the villain's amused huff and slight jump of his shoulders.
"You know, it was your fault!" Tommy calls out from his awkwardly propped-up position against the alleyway. Raising his ruined hand to show the villain.
"You say that like I haven't done worse," the Blade responds, grinning. "I have my reasons, and you have yours. The only difference was that mine was simply superior--"
"Superior reason, my ass."
"--because I couldn't bear the thought of you leaving so soon. I needed to talk to you more."
That was sarcasm. The guy was being sarcastic.
"I think the pink hair's making you delusional, man!"
"Wow? That was a pretty low blow. What'd I ever do to you?"
"You literally almost split my head open with your axe...?"
"I remember that differently--"
"--Red?" Tommy literally jumps when he hears the static voice from before. Only much louder and no longer coming from his earpiece. Instead, it was blasting from his belt, where his com was hanging.
The Blade doesn't finish what he was saying, his focus switching from Tommy to the noise now coming from the com. Tommy reaches up to his right ear, where his earpiece should be, but there is nothing there. The earpiece undoubtedly fell out between the time his colleague ended the call and now.
"Red, who was that on the other end?"
Tommy's eyes only leave the Blade for a second. Barely even. Just enough time for him to attempt to muffle the sounds escaping from the small gadget on his hip. When he returns his gaze to the villain, he is noticeably closer than before, getting closer to where he stood in the alleyway.
"Red," the villain declares, his voice no longer light and cynical. He sounded serious. "I'm going to make things extremely simple for you. I'm asking you to come here with your sleeves rolled up and your palms facing towards you. You will give me your com, and you will do as I ask. Understand?" The villain directs. Directs and not asks, because the word directs accurately conveys Tommy's lack of choice in this situation.
Though, that doesn’t mean he can't prolong the inevitable.
"Awh, shoot. Hate to break it to you, man-- but these things are pretty expensive. We wouldn't want them to deduct the cost of one of these bad boys from my paycheck, would we?" Tommy laughs awkwardly.
"Red was that? —god, hold on."
There’s a lot of shuffling in the background and a muffled conversation.
"I'm not playing games any more, hero. I don't hand out mercy lightly."
Tommy stood his ground, staring down the villain who'd abruptly come to stop. "I don't need your mercy," he says, his voice only slightly wavering.
The villain huffs a laugh, devoid of genuine amusement. "You're an idiot, Red. When you die, you will receive no justice. And you, like the rest of your team, will be forgotten. The only existing memory of you will be centred around me. You, Red, will forever be remembered as the young firecracker hero who was torn apart limb from limb."
That was concerning.
"Red," his com buzzes to life again, "the Citizens Priority Code has been issued. All teams are evacuating residents in the area. We thank you for your aid, Thomas. You are dismissed from your duties."
No fucking way.
He grabs the com from his belt, having long forgotten the importance of silencing the device. "Wait a minute, hold on—"
And just like that, he can only watch helplessly as the little red light on the communicator dims out. Device no longer even relaying static.
That was it. There was no hesitation whatsoever, and he was relieved from his duties just like that.
Well, that sucked.
Tommy doesn't even flinch when the com is gently pried out of his hand. He pays no mind when the communicator is tossed to the ground and doesn't even blink when a gloved hand grabs ahold of his chin, tilting it up, and forcing him to look into the villain's eyes.
The Blade huffs as he studies the distant expression probably plastered on his face. The villain muttered a casual "Bummer" before stomping on the com, crushing it beneath his shoe and scattering fragments of the device across the concrete. He then watches as the villain kicks the device's remnants out of the way before returning his attention to him.
"They abandoned you," the Blade states, because it's true. The whole point of the code is the sacrifice of one person in the hopes that the rest of them make it home for dinner. Still stings nonetheless. See, the "Citizens Priority Code" is simply a fancy way of saying, "Yo, the guy you're fighting is a death sentence, so we're going to evacuate everyone while you try your hardest to give us enough time to do so. See you at the funeral, buddy!" So forgive Tommy when he's quite literally paralyzed with disbelief.
"Alright, little hero. I'll give you a break and speed this up."
That night, remarkably, the Blade didn't kill him.
"Consider it a mercy." He'd said before plunging his axe into his arm. Evening things out by going for his uninjured arm.
And as he lay on the ground, barely able to move and breathing shallowly, the villain explained that he felt that sparing his life would be a better punishment than murdering him. That he would have the honour of living with the scars, a constant reminder that he had been pitied out of death.
"I hope to meet with you again, Thomas," the Blade adds, mimicking earlier. Then he walked away.
Tommy spent the next few hours on the dirty ground, bleeding out and struggling to stay awake. Despite his best efforts, however, his will to live began to wane. He passed out from exhaustion and weakness, succumbing to his injuries.
He awoke in the heroes' headquarters' medical wing the following week. When he awoke, there was no one to greet him except a stack of paperwork, an acceptance by silence contract for him to sign, and a cheque.
And, indeed, they deducted approximately four hundred dollars from his paycheque because of the broken com.
Fuckers, all of them.
The villain's eyes narrow, clearly annoyed at the massive sand cloud obstructing his vision, yet it doesn't deter his advances towards Tommy.
"I applaud your resilience, Red. To be honest, I had no plans to let you live that day. But, well," says the villain. "I couldn't allow them to have the satisfaction of leaving you for dead. Especially after what happened between you and the headquarters."
Despite being incredibly disoriented from the crap ton of pain meds he’s been on, Tommy keeps his guard up. Taking another step backwards.
"And as for you, death would treat you too kindly. I'd rather you live with a permanent memory of, well, who let you live," the villain repeats from that time ago, subtly motioning to his prosthetic with his chin.
"That's a little messed up, pinky. Even for you." Tommy says monotonously.
The villain chuckles once more before drawing out his axe. "I want you to tell me how this is going to turn out, Red. Tell me how this is going to end."
"I suppose, hopefully, with one of us dead." Tommy states plainly, accompanied by a feeble grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The two circled each other, with Tommy almost stumbling a few times but never breaking eye contact with the other.
Then he made his first move. Pulling the knife from his pocket and sending it flying towards the villain, who effortlessly blocked it with his axe. While preoccupied with blocking his knife, Tommy follows up immediately, laying a punch to the Blades face.
The villain was clearly the better fighter, and Tommy was at a distinct disadvantage in pretty much every scenario. The villain swung his axe at Tommy, who just managed to avoid it. He leapt forward, a charge coursing through his hand as he aimed for the villain's face again. The Blade's forearm halted his blow, causing a rush of force to surround them, nearly sending Tommy flying. He doesn't have time to recover before a powerful kick to the gut sends him reeling backward. Tommy gasped for air as the collision shook his lungs.
He was unyielding. Tommy had no time to attack himself since he was avoiding every strike the Blade was sending his way.
Just as he goes to sidestep another attack, he misses the leg sweep beneath him. Caught off guard, he rotates his body to dodge the blow, but is too late. The axe hit him squarely in the back, and the impact sent him tumbling to the ground. Throbbing pain was already spreading throughout his back, and blood was dampening the hoodie fabric around it. Vision blurry as he watches the villain approach, axe raised for the finishing blow.
Just as he is about to be hit with the axe, he strikes the air in front of him, delivering enough energy to propel him back, plummeting into the sand beneath him. The gash on his back was significant. However, landing on it with full force knocks the wind right out of him.
While attempting to recover from the initial shock of pain, Tommy only watches with blurry eyes as the villain moves closer to him, closing the gap he'd just created, axe in hand, glinting in the moonlight.
If Tommy hadn't been in such excruciating pain, it would have been a truly poetic image. Another warm trickle of blood ran down his spine, now unmistakably visible beneath his sweatshirt.
"Red, calm down. It would be a wise choice on behalf of both of us if you stay where you are and don't move."
Tommy doesn't attempt to get up from where he was propped up on his elbows, but he also does not explicitly agree to surrender either.
"I hate you, you son of a--" A hand grips his face, fingers pressing into Tommy's jaw, before his head is slammed into the ground once, twice, and then once again.
Groaning from the impact, he's then forced down onto his injured back. His right hand remains gripping Blade's wrist from when he attempted to pry it off of him earlier.
"I’m proud of you for getting this far. You did good. Just quit struggling, and you can rest for a bit."
"I'm dead serious when I say I've never wished death upon someone so badly." The villain squishes Tommy's cheeks together, causing his words to come out mumbled and slurred. That or it was the concussion speaking, he’s then cut off again by a hand covering both his nose and mouth, blocking off his air supply.
"Just relax. It'll be quick, but I need you to be awake for this." The Blade says coolly, his grasp tightening on Tommy's face as he starts to panic in his dizzy state.
"Quit it." The villain urges.
Tommy retaliates by whacking the villain on the head with his prosthetic.
"Y'know what? That's fair. I suppose I shouldn't have really expected you to comply," he sighs, tone reminiscent of what someone would use on a mildly irritated toddler. He then turns around and begins fiddling with something behind him for a moment.
"And three... two..."
Tommy didn't understand the counting at first, though he didn't really care either since he was slowly becoming even more lightheaded from the lack of oxygen to his probably concussed head. At least he didn’t care until he noticed a glimpse of silver in the villain's hand.
A needle.
Tommy’s struggle against the hand picks up a notch at the sight, his hand weakly clawing at the villains.
"One."
The villain plunged the syringe into Tommy, a prick followed by a slight burn on the side of his neck. The needle was then quickly taken from his sight and discarded it somewhere.
The hand that had previously blocked both of his airways was finally lifted from his face. Tommy takes a deep breath, not so much focused on fighting back as on blinking away the tears welling up in his eyes.
Now, what they don't tell you about tranquillizers is that, unlike movies, books, or literally anything else, is that they don't fucking work instantaneously.
It was actually quite awkward for the next few minutes. He kind of just laid on the ground, held down by a single hand on his chest, while his back throbbed painfully. He was unable to move or do anything except lay there in a daze.
And the villain was...
"Are you seriously on your phone right now?"
For a minute, the villain just stared down at Tommy, saying nothing.
"I'm keeping track of how long it takes the tranquillizer to set in." "I had to guess your dose because I didn't know your weight," he continues after a little pause.
"That- that's a pretty weird, man. You just had a needle in your pocket the entire time? Maybe you should take a vacation. Like, forever."
Once more, the villain disregards him, although he is almost certain he can see the corners of the guy's mouth turn up.
Mouth? Hold up.
"Where’d your mask go!?"
"I wasn’t wearing it the entire time, kid. Go to sleep."
"I thought people who saw your face died instantly, or some random shit like that."
"Hm. Something like that."
"Oh, well, I guess that wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I enjoy the idea of having my skull ripped open by a villain. Better than going out in a lame way, y'know?" Tommy rambles slightly out of it. "Like being hit by a car. Do you realize how humiliating it is to get hit by a car? Because you're in the centre of the road, and all directions of traffic have to stop and look at you—"
He thinks the villain has drowned out his voice by this point, but nonetheless, he continues to ramble. Uttering nonsense until his own voice is drowned out in his own ears. Then, according to the Blades timer at least, he falls asleep at exactly seven minutes and thirty-three seconds.
With that, the Blade snatches up the blonde, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Technoblade sighed and turned his gaze towards the younger. "This time, I was supposed to kill you, just like the first time," he said. He paused for another moment before continuing in a lighter tone, "But how is it that you've managed to change my mind twice now?"
As he begins to walk away from the beach, he returns his gaze to the young hero. He couldn't have been older than eighteen. He was practically the ideal candidate to mould into something greater than what he was.
He observes the red stain on the blonde's back as it continues to infect the yellow fabric around it. "I can see why everyone wanted to break you apart only to keep a piece of you after," he sighs. "Before he got arrested, all my brother could speak about was you." He pauses, contemplating his next words. "When I get him out next week, do you think he'll be jealous that I'll have the honour of tapping into your lovely mind first?"
With that, he started walking away again.
His obsession with the little hero continued to burn brightly. Finally having the hero in his grasp only fueled his desire to keep him closer. He knew he wasn't finished with the little hero yet, and it seemed like he wouldn't be anytime soon.