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It was broken. The clock. Or metronome or speaker or leaky pipe – it sounded like a clock and it sounded broken, but he didn't actually–
(breathe)
For all Tommy knew it was just a hallucination, a disjointed constant conjured up by stress and the aftermath of exhaustion. But he supposed it didn't really matter: the effect was the same.
Every stuttering tick lagged behind the last, slower and slower until they all caught up in a rushing buzz. It meant Tommy couldn't tune it out; that he had to suffer through every second he sat here; that every time he started nodding off, he was jolted back to awareness by uneven minutes.
Honestly, it was starting to get old. He'd been sitting here for a while now. In silence. In stillness. Awake and aware and utterly alone. His only company was the laboured pace of his heart and the sting in his eyes as he waited for the relief of a clicking lock; of a low, apathetic voice; of their verdict, currently being discussed in the other room. Or so he hoped.
The manacles affixing him to the chair weighed heavily on his ankles and wrists, and his spine ached something fierce, forced straight by an unforgiving backrest that dug under his shoulder blades. Wherever steel touched, skin burned, sapped of warmth and life and feeling no matter what he tried.
So if they were in here, with him, watching him, standing by as his blindfold soaked with tears and he didn't even know they were there, he didn't–
Tommy's breath hitched. He forced down the pathetic mewl threatening to break the room's – his cell's – uncanny peace.
He could imagine them doing that, actually – vividly. It just seemed like something they would do.
They’d thrown a bag over Tommy’s head before he even realised he'd been caught, then a blindfold after he was strapped down, so he didn’t really know where he was or what it looked like. But it was so easy to pretend he did.
There was probably a couch just opposite him. One of those wide-cushioned ones with a sloping backrest and shallow armrests and pillows like luxury quicksand. A white one. Pure white, like it was brand new.
Maybe there was some other furniture in here, too. A fluffy rug. Some paintings. Things that made it cosier, warmer, than it felt. Tommy could feel his heart begin to slow, relaxing as he let his mind wander.
Then, them.
He could see them, blindfold be damned, sprawled all over the couch. Their eyes were half-lidded, lazy, as fingers curled through hair, heads leaned on shoulders, and legs splayed over laps. They had small smiles, hidden behind soft palms and glittering forearms, sharp teeth glinting with dark delight. The picture of despotic indulgence.
The thought made Tommy's jaw tremble.
He wanted it. So bad. So bad it hurt. It hurt more than the cruel, cold steel searing his skin. It hurt more than the bruises grapevining his sides. It hurt more than the crippling guilt coiling about his heart, strangling his every breath.
The day he first saw the Crafts, head bowed at Dream's heel, he'd wanted it, and fuck it – even after they killed the man and forced Tommy into their ranks, his nightmares were filled with nothing but ravenous desire for a glimpse of something he knew he'd never have.
His every waking hour was wasted on climbing the ranks, earning trust, building himself up into more than he had any right to be, learning everything he possibly could in the desperate hope that, one day, he'd get the chance.
Now, he never would.
A woosh of cool air was all the warning he had before a hand caught him by the throat.
Tommy gasped, heart rocketing into his jaw and thudding through his face, mind a mess of panic and pure, unadulterated terror. He couldn’t breathe. He threw his head back in some vain attempt to get away, bashing his skull against the backrest and whiting his vision. He couldn’t breathe. The hand squeezed, claws digging into the delicate skin under his ears, lifting his head up, up, up until his throat was stretched so thin he couldn't swallow. The front chair legs rose up off of the floor as the hand tugged him back, suspending it by his neck; his wrists screamed at the pressure. A tear slipped down his cheek and this time he couldn’t stop the whimper. He couldn’t–
And then he could.
He yelped as the hand disappeared, oxygen rushing into his lungs as his head dropped and the chair crashed back to the ground. It rocked back and forth unsteadily, sending his head spinning, and iron blossomed between his teeth as his tongue exploded with pain. If it weren't for the icy palms catching his face just in the nick of time, he would have bitten clear through.
But now he couldn't breathe again, mouth shut tight under the thumbs swiping over his cheekbones. He panted through his nose, air hissing through his teeth whenever the grip relaxed.
Another swipe, claw tips dangerously close to his eyes. Tommy flinched back with a muffled squeak.
"Oh, it's crying," a warm voice cooed, following his movements easily, seemingly fascinated as another wave of tears escaped Tommy's blindfold.
Wilbur – because who else would it be; who else could convey loathing and apathy and adoration in just three words – drew back, ghosting his fingertips over Tommy's throat as he slung his arms over the boy's shoulders.
Tommy knew better than to resist the man's touch. He froze as Wilbur's nose nuzzled into his hair, breaths coming through short and shallow as he forced himself to stay in place. Wilbur laughed. Goosebumps scattered across Tommy's skin as the icy air brushed past the tips of his ears.
"Why are you crying, Toms?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Fuck. He should have been able to breathe now; Wilbur's hands were off his face. Why was it so hard?
"Feeling regret?" Wilbur continued, sly and all too knowing, tone undercut by something painfully sharp. Quick as a whip, Tommy's head was yanked back, an unforgiving grip pinching his chin. The unmistakable stink of iron and death washed over his face. "I sure know I do."
Tommy didn't dare to move even as the man pulled away, trembling as he forced himself to stare straight up at the ceiling.
It felt like an age until Technoblade – of course Technoblade was here too; just as quiet, just as angry – gave the command to ease.
In a reaction more instinct-driven than anything else, Tommy slumped, sagging into the unforgiving steel of his chair.
Another command. Tommy straightened up, squeezing his pants into slow, painful breaths. Technoblade hummed and the boy wished he didn’t feel as relieved as he did. But Technoblade was honest, straight to the point, demanding – the steady voice behind every single mission Tommy had ever taken.
Technoblade was easier to deal with than Wilbur, if only just.
They gave him a moment to catch his breath, a mercy seldom afforded to anyone but their favourites, and Tommy let himself feel a little pride at the thought. It was squashed ruthlessly the next second.
Wilbur laughed a cruel, cold laugh. "I'll be honest, when Niki said we had a mole, I didn't think it was you–"
"We should've, though," Technoblade muttered, voice far closer than it had been just precious seconds before, "considerin', you know."
Tommy's heart sank, something like rage and disgust curdling in his gut.
"No, no, I. I didn't. I wouldn't. Wil, you know I wouldn't–" he tried.
"Would I, Toms?" Wilbur purred, "Would I really? Between you and Fundy, I've made some terrible calls as of late."
Fear fermented into loathing as the man taunted him, and Tommy couldn't have stopped the resulting snarl if he tried. Fundy. They were comparing him to Fundy. Really? Of all the backstabbing traitors, why did it have to be him?
"I'm nothing like that ungrateful bitch," he spat, struggling to reign in his flaring temper, glaring heatedly through his blindfold.
"That isn't what the reports say."
Tommy gave an involuntary shudder, pausing his defence. He'd been unfortunate enough to get shot on a job before. Technoblade had taken just one look at him before consigning Tommy to paperwork duty, so he’d gotten far too acquainted with traitor reports than he was comfortable with. Those things were unkind at best and downright malicious at their worst. If they were bringing reports into this, he was screwed.
"Who cares what they say,” Tommy said, words practically falling over themselves as he rushed to fill the sudden lull in the conversation, “I didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do what, Toms? Look through confidential information? Copy it down? Feed it to our rivals? Is ‘no’ your final answer?”
“What the fuck? I didn’t copy down shit–”
“So you don’t deny the rest.”
Fuck. A trap – he’d fallen right for it. Tommy jerked about, whipping his head wildly in an attempt to find Wilbur’s gaze in spite of the fabric over his eyes. “I’m not a fucking mole,” he insisted. “I’d never– no. Never. Sure I looked, but–”
Wilbur cut him off. “Then who did?”
"I didn't–" Tommy paused– "what?"
"I know it wasn't you, Tommy."
A spark of hope fluttered in Tommy’s chest and he stilled. Technoblade snorted, muttering something under his breath. He went ignored.
“Then. Then if you know– then I’m innocent. C’mon, Wil. Wilbur? Please.” He trailed off as he was met with no response, hope flickering feebly. He flinched with a squeak as a hand, Wilbur’s hand, delicately pinched his earlobe.
“But if you didn’t,” the man whispered slyly, all notes of betrayal wiped from his voice, “someone else did.”
“Who?” Tommy whispered back. Wilbur dug his nails into Tommy’s skin. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to feel pressure.
“Well, that’s just the question, isn’t it?” Wilbur pulled away with a flourish, sending Tommy rocking from side to side like a shitty misshapen seesaw. “We already have a list of suspects. All you need to do is say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
Another trap. He wasn’t falling for it this time. “I didn’t do it, Wil.”
“I know. Someone else did.”
“But why are you asking me–?”
“Because you’re smart, Tommy.”
Tommy couldn’t bring himself to ignore the man’s warning tone this time. He didn’t respond, biting back the urge to glow at the praise – now really wasn’t the time.
There was a sound of crinkling paper. “Are you ready?”
“Wait! Wait–” Wilbur waited; Tommy could practically feel his judgemental gaze– “so. You read out suspects, I say yes or no. That’s it? That’s all I have to do?”
“That’s all you have to do.”
Fuck. It sounded so simple; so easy. There had to be a catch. There was no way he was getting off this lightly, just for a few words, was there? The Syndicate didn’t do second chances – by all means, he should have been gutted where he stood the moment they found him. But he hadn’t been. He was alive. He had options. He…
Damn it, he had to try.
“Okay. Okay, yeah, I can do that. Just yes or no.”
“Just yes or no,” Wilbur cooed. It should have sounded patronising and it did, in a way. But it was also so unfairly comforting that he didn’t know how to react. Tommy just swallowed, nodding his head with a few more muttered self-assurances.
Technoblade cleared his throat; Tommy damn near jumped out of his seat, restraints and all. He’d completely forgotten the man was there. If either man noticed his trepidation, they didn’t mention it, easing the room into another spell of uneasy silence as papers shuffled.
“Tubbo Underscore.”
The world stopped.
…what?
“Yes or no, Tommy,” Wilbur reminded.
Yes or no. Tubbo Underscore.
A trap.
“No,” Tommy whispered.
“Yes?” Wilbur teased. Tommy hurried to repeat himself, louder. Technoblade sounded almost disappointed at the verdict.
“Ranboo Beloved.”
“No.”
And on it went.
Every suspect’s name was one Tommy knew all too well. His friends, his coworkers, his saviours, his enemies. There wasn’t a single person whose face didn’t immediately pop up.
There wasn’t a single person he’d said yes to.
There was a moment of peace before– “That’s it?” Wilbur asked, sounding a little confused.
“Yup.”
“Wait, let me see–” papers shuffled; Tommy held his breath, screwing up his eyes. It didn’t matter whether he did or not, the blindfold was still insufferably effective, but it made him feel… not safer, no. But more secure. Even if he knew, logically, nothing changed.
The papers stopped shuffling. “Huh,” Wilbur muttered to himself. Then, louder, “No-one, Toms? No-one at all?”
Tommy slowly shook his head.
Wilbur hummed. “Are you sure?”
Tommy nodded, even slower.
He was a criminal, simply put. A murderer, a scam artist, and a general asshole. But he couldn’t… he couldn’t do that to someone he knew. Even if he despised them, he just couldn’t.
The boy was ready for reprisal. For a mocking laugh, a gloating jeer, maybe even dismissive silence as they picked a name at random to suffer in his place anyway. They had already given him a second chance, after all – something that was practically unheard of – so it wasn’t too far of a stretch to believe they didn’t want to punish him at all.
What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for them to move on like nothing happened.
“Oh well,” Wilbur sighed, not seeming the least bit bothered by this turn of events. “So, Toms! How did you find the files, anyway?”
If Tommy wasn’t strapped down, he would have recoiled with the whiplash Wilbur’s mood swing gave him. From apathy to… this, he didn’t know what the hell was going on. Only that he needed to answer the man as soon as possible.
Except, he didn’t know how.
To put it in perspective: Tommy had been looking for those files for months by now. It took endless hours of finding the right people, badgering them, and saying the right things to learn where they were, let alone get access to them. But he was in trouble because of them. He couldn’t very well just admit that it was all premeditated, could he?
“...by accident,” he decided, at last.
Wilbur scoffed. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”
He was right; Tommy couldn’t. He still tried.
“Seriously, Tommy. There’s nothing to worry about.”
By the sound of a pen scratching further away, Tommy would call that a lie. He didn’t know what kind of notes they could possibly be making right now, but the fact that there were any being made in the first place didn’t exactly bode well for him.
Tommy grimaced. “Doubt that, big man,” he replied, if only to placate the man.
Which was, evidently, the wrong move.
Wilbur acted like a shark smelling blood in the water, winding his way back to Tommy’s side and draping himself all over the boy like a lumpy coat. “C’mon Toms, you can tell me,” he coaxed. Technoblade coughed. “Us,” Wilbur amended. “You can tell us. We’ll keep you safe, you know we will.”
Tommy didn’t doubt that in the slightest – they’d already proven themselves to him several times over – but he still couldn’t bring himself to answer; to lie. Or worse, tell the truth. Somehow, telling Wilbur that he was the only danger facing him right now didn’t seem like a wise choice.
“Who is it? Is it Quackity?”
Technoblade honest to god growled.
Tommy wasn’t as surprised as he maybe should have been.
“I’m sure Tech’s more than happy to take out his other eye,” Wilbur cooed, stroking a finger along Tommy’s creased brow.
“I’ve been meaning to get back into hunting,” Technoblade mused, voice still unnaturally low.
“What about Sam? He’s been looking for you, you know.”
Tommy tensed.
Sam was a difficult topic for the boy. On one hand, he used to work directly under Dream, following the monster’s every command. On the other, he was the one to betray them – Dream and Tommy – to the Syndicate. The fact that he’d been looking for Tommy didn’t exactly surprise him, but it wasn’t welcome news in the least.
Wilbur stilled.
“He can’t touch you, sweetheart,” he murmured, sending a shiver down Tommy’s spine. “We won’t let him. Never.”
– Tommy still didn’t want Sam to die.
“It’s– it’s not. Sam,” Tommy barely managed to say. Wilbur didn’t give any sign of hearing him. “Please, Wil, it isn’t. There’s no-one. I did it myself. I’m not a mole. I was just–”
Wilbur’s voice dipped several levels below freezing and two sharp knifepoints danced above Tommy’s jugular as the man spoke. “So,” he began, deadly soft, “you admit to betraying us.”
Tommy’s heart began to sink again.
“You admit to doing this of your own free will.”
Breathing was getting hard again. He could feel his heart in his throat, rabbitting away like a hummingbird under the blade of certain death as Wilbur loomed over him.
“And you admit to doing so alone.”
Tommy whimpered.
“Is that correct?”
Fuck.
Yes, yes, that was correct. He wasn’t coerced, he wasn’t peer-pressured or whatever the hell else they thought was going on. He was just selfish. Selfish and stupid and way, way, way too overconfident for his own good. He’d gotten complacent, at the top. Like a housecat. Well-fed, well-kept, well-liked, and he’d still wanted more, rummaging through things that didn’t belong to him in the hopes of getting something he didn’t deserve.
But when Wilbur said it like that, like this – he was repeating the key points over and over again, like a mantra, worming the words into Tommy’s brain in a guilt-tripping brand – it sounded wrong.
He just wanted–
Shit. All he’d ever wanted was them. Love. Sprawling over couches with hands over his neck, chins in his hair, people at his back who would do anything for him, just as he’d do for them.
Wilbur growled, like Technoblade had before him, freezing skin brushing Tommy’s and practically burning him with the contact. “Well, Tommy?”
Tommy shook, preparing himself for the worst.
“...yeah.”
Wilbur grinned an ugly, evil grin that Tommy could feel press against his skin. Apart from Tommy’s haggard breathing, there wasn’t a single other sound in the room. Even the clock had gone silent, if it was ever there in the first place.
“Then you understand what needs to happen, right?”
A pitiful whimper slipped past Tommy’s guard. Wilbur didn’t react. Tommy’s eyes burned.
“...yeah,” he repeated, voice cracking partway through the affirmation and turning it into a whisper.
“Good,” Technoblade rumbled. Tommy didn’t flinch at the man’s sudden proximity, even going so far as to lean into his touch as Technoblade fiddled with Tommy’s earlobe. The same one Wilbur had been fucking with earlier.
Tommy was under no illusion that his life wasn’t under threat right now. He’d just denied every single out offered to him. Even if he wasn’t already in trouble, refusing their charity like this was more than enough to see a cement block tied around his waist.
He still couldn’t see anything. Obviously. Obviously he couldn’t see, he still had the blindfold on. He couldn’t see their faces; their disdainful expressions; their calculating eyes, flitting over every part of him and wondering how he’d shatter. He couldn’t see the monsters hiding under their human skins.
Then again, he didn’t know what they were until he’d betrayed their trust.
His shoulders jolted in a half-swallowed sob. Two coos of reassurance sounded from either side of him, sickeningly effective.
“Please, I’ll– I’ll leave,” Tommy choked, wrenching his heart in two, “I promise. You don’t have to do this because I’ll leave and I’ll never come back and you won’t have to worry–”
A bruising grip struck his jaw, wrenching his head up. The blindfold was peeled up – not off; not quite – just enough to force him to face a single unforgiving red eye. Wilbur grinned at Tommy, vampire fangs flashing in the dim light, cheek curving his eyes into cheery crescents that belie the venom in his tone. “That’s funny. He’s funny, right? Fucking hilarious. You’re never leaving, Toms.”
The blindfold snapped down again.
Something pressed against his lips before he could fully comprehend the man’s decree. Something cold. Tommy squeezed his mouth shut and relaxed it in weird, contradicting pulses as he struggled with indecision, fighting against himself for reasons he didn’t fully understand. “Now come on, darling,” Wilbur hummed, surprisingly gentle, “take a sip.”
And, well. That sounded like an order to him.
Tommy opened his mouth, tipping his head back obediently as the bitter liquid slid down his throat, the distinctive tang of weakness hitting him the moment it touched his tongue. He swallowed, marvelling at how quickly the potion’s effects began setting in. Wilbur took the bottle away after just one mouthful – just enough to confuse him. Not enough to let him go peacefully.
Shoes clicked closer, like small heels against tile. It sounded familiar, though Tommy couldn’t quite grasp why. Between the increasing fuzz over his thoughts and the insistent tugging at his ear, he was far too preoccupied to remember. A thumb swiped over Tommy’s eyebrow, messing up the hairs.
Bitch.
“Well done, boys,” a voice who wasn’t Wilbur or Technoblade murmured. Philza, probably. “You did an amazing job – just look at him.” The thumb moved down, circling the tip of Tommy’s nose and teasing the edges of his blindfold.
Philza Craft, his boss. His big boss, even. The head boss, Mr. Minecraft.
…yeah, that sounded about right. Philza was probably the sneakiest of the three of them. Even though he’d suspected it, Tommy didn’t realise he was there.
Maybe that was the point.
“We’re nearly done,” someone said. Tommy didn’t get the chance to register who, as a piercing, blinding pain shot through his ear and rippled over his entire body. Tommy screeched, thrashing – trying to. Soft, icy palms barely had to move at all to keep him perfectly still, helpless as something clicked sharply, right next to his ear. It felt heavy. It hurt. It throbbed. His heart was in there, beating heavily. It hurt. Oh, gods, it hurt so much.
Not enough weakness to prevent the pain. Just enough weakness that he couldn’t do anything about it.
“Tech–!” Tommy whined, trying to reach up for his– for Technoblade. He was strong. He saved Tommy more times than he could count. He’d help him. He’d stop it from hurting. He would. He always did. But Tommy’s hands couldn’t move. He was stuck. He was stuck and he was hurt. He whined louder.
He was answered by two laughs and one rumbling hum as some of the weight on his ear disappeared, moving to caress Tommy’s jaw. “Better get used to it, Thes,” Technoblade said, “because this one’s just the first.”
Tommy whimpered as something batted at the heavy thing hanging from his ear, sending a flare of pain through the side of his face. It went a long way into helping him overcome the weakness potion swimming in his system, as little as there may have been. As his mind cleared, the situation only seemed to get worse.
While Technoblade fucked with his… whatever they’d done to him, on the other side Wilbur started nuzzling into Tommy’s neck, coming up to press small kisses against the boy’s temple whenever a tear managed to escape the blindfold. Whenever Tommy tried to push away, one of them would gently steer him back into the other and cuddle closer, boxing him in.
“When are we turning him?” Wilbur asked, brushing his knifepoints – no, they were fangs, not blades; fangs – against Tommy’s veins delicately. A threat he’d never follow through on.
“Soon,” Philza answered. Tommy heard a few distinctive clicks as the pressure around his wrists and ankles released, spine tingling as he was lifted into the air. “Very soon.”
“But not today,” Technoblade and Wilbur recited in unison, as if they’d heard the phrase a thousand times.
They probably had.
