Chapter Text
This is rather awkward.
As much as Tommy would totally enjoy being in a room surrounded by villains on any other day, he’s not exactly in any form of hero outfit at the moment that could potentially save him. Not like he’s been in one before, but it would be a great coincidence if one day he was thinking, ‘Hey, what if I signed up to be a hero?’ and on that day, he would get kidnapped.
Unfortunately for him, such things like plot coincidences don’t just fall out of thin air.
Tommy begins to tap the tip of his shoe against the cement floor in boredom. If he had a watch, he’d probably check it aggressively like a CEO waiting for their underpaid intern to arrive with their daily black-coffee-no-milk-or-you’re-fired.
It’s been around ten minutes since the leader of the group had thrown him in here and they still haven’t returned. What they want out of him, he could understand just about as far as he could throw the Blade. (Which is a couple feet, give or take. Whatever.)
Right on cue, the door creaks open and Tommy’s head snaps up. Instead of it being who he’d expected—which had been Zephyrus, the very villain that had snatched him off of the streets in a rather unceremonious kidnapping type way—it’s someone that was… probably around the last on his list of who could possibly walk through that door.
The villain—Willful, the dumbest pseudonym out of all of the Syndicate in Tommy’s opinion—pauses in the doorway, staring at Tommy as though he’s something on display at a museum.
Eugh, Zephyrus had stared at him exactly like that, too. It’s actually starting to get on his nerves at this point. Didn’t they know that staring for an inconsiderable amount of time is classified as rude?
“You’re…” Willful begins, blinking owlishly behind his half-moon opera mask. He glances down at the clipboard he’s holding, then back up at Tommy. “You’re Thomas Inn?”
Tommy shudders at the name. God, he’s always despised that. ‘Thomas Inn’. What is he, a fuckin’ hotel named after some old dead guy?
“It’s just Tommy.” he responds, leaning his back against the metal of the chair he’s tied to. Jesus, one would think that supervillains had comfier seating arrangements with the amount of money that they’ve got. Or, well, stolen. Whatever. Not Tommy’s problem.
Willful lets out a sharp exhale, stepping further into the room. Unwillingly—haha, that’s kind of a pun—Tommy shrinks back a bit at the man’s height. The guy’s about the same height as the Blade which is a whole head or so taller than Tommy. That alone is offensive. At least Zephyrus is only a couple inches taller than him. That’s called class.
From the other side of the room, Willful pulls another aluminum chair in front of Tommy with a loud scraping sound similar to that of nails on a chalkboard.
Swiftly, like he’s practiced this, Willful takes a seat in the chair and faces Tommy. Uh oh. Here comes the intimidation tactics that he’s seen so much on television. If this were anyone but himself, he’d probably be on the edge of his seat back at home.
“How old are you, Tommy?” Willful begins, clasping his hands together in front of him; fingers interlocked, chin resting on the knuckles.
Tommy has to resist the urge to snort. He looks like every stereotypical animated villain to ever exist. Tommy almost feels like this fucker’s going to ask him about where Perry the Platypus is or some shit.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Tommy blinks and Willful is staring at him, eyes clouded with an emotion that Tommy can’t understand.
Oh, yikes. He’d said all of that out loud.
Ranboo did try to tell him that he tended to do that sort of thing.
Coughing awkwardly, Tommy starts to tap his foot against the floor again.
“I mean, it’s rather true, innit?” He laughs, averting his eyes. “You are pretty stereotypical. The whole…” he nods his head towards Willful’s outfit. “Y’know. Outfit. Getup, if you will. It kind of screams early 2000’s villain that Tumblr decided was cool sometime around the 2012 era, don’t you think?”
Willful continues to stare at him. This is going so well.
“I mean no disrespect obviously,” Tommy lifts his hands from where they’re tied behind his back in an attempt to raise them in mock surrender. “I think it’s cool as hell, big man. If I were still twelve years old, I’d probably be you for Hallow’s Eve. I was different from the other boys when I was twelve. They’d all want to be Dream, because he’s the number one hero and whatnot, but I’d totally want to be you.”
Here, Tommy shrugs, still rattling off about whatnot. “I mean, I’d probably get bullied by anyone dressed as Dream or Imaginary, but I could take them in a fight, anyone who dresses up as them is a category 5 pussy—”
“Tommy.” Willful interjects. He sounds so exasperated that Tommy risks a glance in his direction. The poor guy’s rubbing his hands down the front of his face, hair slightly tousled from underneath his cloak hood.
Tommy shouldn’t feel bad for this guy. His creepy villain circle leader literally kidnapped him. But it does look like he’s having a bad day, so Tommy decides to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“What’s up, king?” He taps his fingers against the backside of the chair. Oh, how he wishes to pick at the thread loose on the hem of his work shirt. It’s been annoying him for what feels like hours now.
Willful’s voice is a bit muffled when he speaks again, but Tommy can just barely make out the words, “How old are you?”
Damn. He’d almost distracted him, too.
“I’m eighteen.” Tommy lies smoothly. That’s his go-to age when anyone asks him. That one robber in the alleyway that he’d beat the shit out of, his manager at work, a middle-aged lady that looked five seconds from grabbing his ear and dragging him off to Niki or something.
None of them typically believe him, but they never ask more than twice. According to Google, that would make them a wrong’un. Translation: dangerous.
As he’d expected, Willful’s face shows nothing but disbelief.
“There’s no way you’re eighteen,” he mutters, eyeing Tommy’s attire with disgust. Right after Tommy had given him a compliment of his villain outfit, too. What a bitch. The cherry on top is when he adds on, “You’re like… you’ve got to be still twelve, right?”
Tommy bristles immediately, nose wrinkling. There’s no way that this fucker’s serious.
“I’m not twelve, what the fuck?” He hisses, fingers flexing in the ropes he’s tied down in. Willful’s real lucky that Tommy’s tied up, too, otherwise he’d probably put his knee up the guy’s nose.
“Oh, my fucking God, you are, aren’t you?” Willful shakes his head and runs a hand through his front fringe. “Jesus Christ, Dad kidnapped a literal child.”
“I’m not a child— wait,” Tommy frowns. “Dad?”
It does kind of make sense, Zephyrus being Willful’s father. If he’d been told this information a week ago, he’d probably laugh in the messenger’s face or tell them to piss off because he doesn’t give a shit.
Now, though… he can see it.
The swirling rage concealed with thick layers of grief in Willful’s eyes are the exact same as Zephyrus’s. And the Blade’s, although him being Willful’s twin brother was an easy clock from miles away. Tommy finds it even funnier that the media hasn’t figured that bit out yet.
Across from him, Willful’s eyes are wide behind the mask. It’s surprisingly not difficult to see with all the dark eyeshadow piled harshly onto his eyelids.
“It’s cool, man, it’s cool,” Tommy tries to placate before Willful murders him simply for knowing too much information. “Really. I already, er, had an inkling that was going on”—not really, but it sounds cooler if he says that he did—“So you don’t have to get all pissy or anything. If I already knew, it’s not like, your fault for letting it slip. Definitely not.” It’s totally this idiot’s fault, but Tommy hopes by taking the blame, be also might have less of a chance of being murdered where he stands. Or, well, sits.
Now that he’s thinking about it, he probably dug a deeper hole than he’d meant to.
“How the fuck did you know about it before?” Willful’s tugging his hands through his hair, letting out a very dramatic groan. “Fucking hell, Zephyrus is going to kill me. He’s going to murder me where I stand.”
“Sit,” Tommy adds unhelpfully.
Willful lets out another dramatic groan.
Tommy sucks air in through his teeth. This has taken quite a sharp turn into a direction that he did not expect. If there’s one thing that Tommy’s not, it’s a therapist. He does happen to know one, though. They’re not a family counselor or anything—actually, they’re some sort of psychiatrist or whatnot—but maybe Willful would have a fun appointment by himself.
(Tommy thinks that he should bring the whole Syndicate, but really, who is he to try and say what does and does not go with someone else’s family? That’d make him a right hypocrite if he wasn’t cosplaying the Manbergian government for presentation day at school.)
“That’s pretty fucked up if your dad’s gonna kill you,” he begins with a shrug, trying to recall the basics that he can remember from the last time he had therapy (which was seven years ago, but who’s counting?) “I mean, I wasn’t gonna say anything before now, but maybe you guys should invest in family therapy. I know a good counsellor, I could totally get you a referral.”
Willful’s eyes narrow at him. Shit, maybe that was the wrong thing to say after all.
For a few seconds, Tommy’s beginning to think that he’s dead where he stands—or, well, sits—but Willful doesn’t move. When he finally does, it’s simply to press his head into his hands again and exhale greatly.
“You have absolutely no self preservation, do you?” He mumbles into his palms.
“Ha. Jack tells me that all the time.” Tommy chirps, leaning his head back against the chair. Ugh, that’s uncomfortable. At least he doesn’t have to see Willful’s stupid face now, though.
The villain hums in confusion. “Jack?”
“Yeah, he’s my coworker.” Tommy lifts his head to frown at Willful. “I thought your dad said he knew everything about me? He was being super ominous about it, too. All like…” he lowers his voice to a deeper tone, “Grrr, I know where you live and all your friends, grrrr, if you don’t come with me I’m gonna eat them all.”
To his surprise, Willful bursts into laughter.
It’s a strange laugh that Tommy hasn’t heard from the villain before.
Usually on television, Willful only seems to laugh when he’s… well, committed a crime of some sort. It’s a dark, sickening laugh, sharp at the corners and twisted around the middle. Tommy had sworn to himself that he’d be the only person in a horror movie to book it in the opposite direction if he heard a laugh like that.
“He does sort of sound like that, doesn’t he?” Willful muses once he’s caught his breath. He shakes his head, the smile still plastered on his face a bit. “The truth is, he does know a lot about you. It’s kind of just me that’s out of the loop.”
Tommy snorts. “What, too busy trying to stop Dream to pay any attention to the civilian you’ve now got tied up in your super secret supervillain lair?”
Willful’s nose wrinkles, as though offended by this.
“I’m not the only one that wants to stop Dream,” he defends, crossing his arms in front of his chest. After a second, he adds, “Why’re you looking at me like that? What, do you idolise him or something?”
Ha. Idolise Dream.
That’s funny.
Tommy couldn’t think of anything more he’d hate doing. Maybe once upon a time, in some other line of life, he could’ve idolised him.
Here, though, Dream’s just another guy.
Okay, that’s a bit rude to the number one hero. It is true, though. Dream’s a celebrity that Tommy sees on the television. He can’t exactly idolise someone he doesn’t know unless it’s a fictional character.
Unfortunately, Dream isn’t fictional. At least, Tommy doesn’t think he’s fictional.
“No, I don’t idolise Dream,” Tommy scoffs at this. “Do you just assume that everyone in Manberg looks up to the guy merely ‘cause he’s a hero or something? Didn’t you hear what I said earlier about not being like the other boys? It’s called having spice to your life.” Last time he said this, Tubbo punched him in the face. He can almost feel the phantom pain of his cheekbone sporting a new bruise when he says it.
Willful stares at him. Tommy resists the urge to roll his eyes again.
“Well, sorry to burst your stereotypical bubble, but no. I don’t idolise him. Never had, never will.” Tommy eases back against the chair, then grimaces. This chair sucks so bad. He tries shuffling a bit on the aluminium chair to try and get comfortable, but it seems pretty futile. “God, how do you even sit in this thing? It’s so fuckin’ awful.”
“I’m used to it,” Willful’s replies simply. A squeak makes Tommy’s head shoot up glare at the man who is now apparently walking towards him. Another ruh roh moment.
“What’re you doing?” Tommy asks, trying to control the very obvious concern in his voice. The last thing he wants is to die here. He probably wouldn’t, he’s much too cool for that, but it’s possible. “Back the hell up—”
“I’m untying you, relax.” Willful rolls his eyes, walking around the chair and bending down behind it.
Taken aback, Tommy blinks a few times.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
Tommy cranes his neck over his shoulder to stare at the man. Willful doesn’t meet his eyes, taking a knife from his pocket to slice the ropes with.
Once he’s free, Tommy rubs the rope burns on his wrists and glares at the villain.
“You know that’s probably a stupid idea you just pulled, right?”
Willful shrugs, taking a few steps back. “Yeah, I know. It’d be rude to have an esteemed guest tied up, though. At least, that’s what Zephyrus says.”
Tommy’s nose wrinkles in confusion. “‘Esteemed guest’? Are you- big man, are you high right now?”
It’s a surprise to both of them when Willful snorts. “No, I’m not high, Tommy. I’m simply stating a fact.”
“Yeah, but you make it sound like I’m some guest at a rich assembly designed to take everyone’s money rather than your literal prisoner,” Tommy points out astutely, raising a finger. Then, he pauses with a frown. “Although, I guess that kinda makes sense, because if you put me in some meeting like that, I’d call myself a prisoner too. I’d be king prisoner, though, because I’m the best. And I’d probably beat the shit out of the CEO and steal his wife—”
“Tommy.” Willful’s exasperated tone is back. Tommy internally marks another dash on his metaphorical chalkboard that says Tommy and Willful on it. All points are currently in his favour, of course. “If you’d let me speak for two seconds, I can tell you why we even kidnapped you in the first place.”
Tommy lights up, an aha! expression on his face. “So you admit that you kidnapped me!”
Willful’s expression doesn’t change. Honestly, he just looks more unimpressed and slightly on the precipice of more-or-less kicking Tommy’s ass. Not that he could, but he looks like he wants to. It’s only slightly worrying.
“As I was saying,” Willful begins, deciding to completely evade Tommy’s comment (which, honestly? Rude). “The reason why we kidnapped you— and why we’ve been trying to get in contact with you for a while, actually— is because we’ve got an assignment for you. An opportunity, I guess you could say.”
Tommy stares. “What?”
“We have an assignment—”
“I heard you,” Tommy interrupts, tone uneasy. “When you say that, though, do you mean one with the Syndicate? Like— something the Syndicate needs done?”
Willful hums, very unphased by this. “Yep. It’d be low-profile, of course, and you’d be free to go after the mission’s completed—”
“Woah, woah, wait,” Tommy holds his hands up, confusion colouring his tone. “You’re being serious? Like, this isn’t some big prank or anything? Not some funny haha that you’re having with your family before you kill me? I mean, to be fair, that would be kinda funny in theory. Kidnap some random guy off of the streets, lock him up in your scary smelly cellar, force him to sit through the most awkward conversation alive, and then trick him into believing he’s gonna work for you when in reality you’re gonna eat him and his friends?”
When Tommy’s through with rambling—although he’s never truly finished—Willful looks as though he’s aged thirty or so years. It’s almost funny, if it weren’t slightly terrifying. Tommy figures that he’s fucked.
Maybe he should’ve listened last time he got kidnapped and was told that he talks too much. Then again, nothing had come of it last time (Tubbo and Ranboo had found his location and all but blew the place up), and his hands are actually not tied up this time, so he’ll probably stand a chance in beating the absolute shit out of this guy (who looks like he needs to be knocked down a couple of pegs anyways).
“I can’t do this,” Willful mutters suddenly, raking his hands through his hair. “I– Jesus Christ, I cannot do this. It’s too much. You’re too much. How fucking– how Phil and Technoblade ever thought it was a bright idea to recruit a literal twelve year old onto a job like this, I’ll never understand. I simply won’t.”
“Two questions,” Tommy holds up two fingers, resting his back against the chair. “Number one, I’m not twelve years old, asshole. Number two, who are Technoblade and Phil? And is Technoblade their like, real name? Because that’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard in my life, and I know a guy named Skeppy.”
“That was a statement and a question.” Willful corrects pretentiously before paling. Like, completely paling. He looks like he’s one Happy Birthday punch in the shoulder blade from disintegrating. Not that it’s his birthday or anything.
Actually, it might be. Oh, that would suck. If it’s his birthday and he’s been put on interrogation duty, Tommy would understand why he’s being such a fucking asshole.
Tommy coughs out a laugh after a few uncomfortable moments of the guy just staring at him. “You alright there, big man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Wilbur laughs weakly, like he’s just heard some inside joke that Tommy is, regretfully, not in on.
Tommy sucks air in through his teeth, arms crossing over his chest. This would probably be a good time to run—the guy’s distracted and the path to the door is pretty much unblocked. Tommy could totally make it if he went now, but he’s a little too entertained by this situation.
“Well, if you’re, you know,” Tommy gestures to the air wildly, as if that says anything. “Caught up with something or anything—you know, like being a dickhead— then I’ll just be on my way. I’ve got things to do, groceries to ring up…”
The door behind Willful clicks, freezing Tommy into silence. The villain himself looks up expectantly, a mixture of relief and worry intermingling on his face.
“Zephyrus,” he greets breathlessly, standing from his chair as the top Syndicate leader walks into the room. “Thank fucking gods. I thought you and Te— the Blade— had left me here to deal with this absolute gremlin for the whole night.”
To Tommy’s surprise, Zephyrus snorts. Snorts. Wow. This is truly a day. Tommy is suddenly wishing that he’d followed his childhood dream of becoming a reporter instead because this would be a great story to document.
Of course, he’d have to leave out certain details—could call himself an anonymous tip, really—but it would be funny to see the looks on the Syndicate’s faces when they see the morning paper’s bolded title of Zephyrus has Humour—Not Clickbait?
“What are you talking about?” Zephyrus interrupts, startling Tommy again. He looks up, blinking; Willful’s leaning against the wall, eyes alight with amusement, while Zephyrus' own expression is… more than amused, to say the least.
“Huh?” Tommy stares at him. “What do you mean?”
“You were talking about how you should’ve been a journalist,” Zephyrus points out, tilting his head. Whenever Tommy watches the way he fights on television, that typically means he’s preparing to strike—he doesn’t know if it’s so much the same as right now. “Something about wanting to expose me for… uh, having humour.”
Tommy flushes as Willful chokes on a laugh.
“Ah,” he begins, voice thick. He really needs to learn how to stop doing that. “Well, uhm… yeah.”
“Do you do that often, then?” Willful speaks up, and Tommy turns to scowl at him. The man is watching him with something glinting in his eye, but whatever smirk he’d been wearing has softened around the edges. “Talk to yourself and whatnot?”
“Weren’t you leaving?” Tommy goads sweetly, motioning towards Zephyrus with his hands. “Your father’s here now, you can fuck off and celebrate your birthday or whatever it was you were doing before this.”
Zephyrus stiffens, feathers standing up a bit. “You— mate.”
Willful dips before he can get any form of punishment from Zephyrus, which makes Tommy giggle to himself a little. Honestly, though, he probably shouldn’t have even mentioned that he’d known that. It’s only another reason for the Syndicate to kill him here and now (which is entirely possible for them to do).
Oh, well. Tommy doesn’t care much for self preservation, no matter how much Tubbo and Ranboo harp on him for having at least a grain of it. Which he doesn’t, because what fun would it be to? Not that he’d admit that to them; as far as they’re aware, Tommy is very responsible and dependent, thank you very much.
“Well, cat’s out of the bag, then,” he announces cheerily, tapping his hands against his knees. “If it makes you feel any better, my friends wrote down during an English lesson where we had to design these stupid ass picture books of our friends and shit that we liked that the most apparent trait that I have is my amazing ability to forget anything and everything five seconds after you told me. Like- okay, this one time, Tubbo told me a secret and then was like, ‘Please don’t tell Ranboo,’ and then I was like yeah totally man, but what he doesn’t need to know is that I can’t even remember the secret he told me to tell—”
“Okay then,” Zephyrus interrupts loudly. Tommy pauses, mouth slightly agape. The villain is rubbing the space between his eyes with clear anguish. He’s starting to look a bit like Ranboo now, too. “Look, kid, I’m sorry for kidnapping you and everything”—wow, that’s certainly a first in the books. A kidnapper apologising for said kidnapping? Tommy should call every book author ever and tell them they’re out of a job—“but we really need to know if you’re able to partake in the mission we need done.
“And before you say anything—” Zephyrus interjects again, eyes blowing wide as Tommy opens his mouth to speak. “Try not to give an entire fucking encyclopedia’s worth of an explanation as to why or why not, okay? I’ve already got enough gray hairs from my sons as it is and I’d need an extra shot of espresso to keep up with everything that you say.”
Tommy huffs, crossing his arms over his chest in a slight pout. “Whatever, old man. You’re just not fast enough to keep up with my voice. It’s not my fault that my default playback speed is two.”
To his surprise, Zephyrus snorts again. That’s a second time! At least, Tommy is pretty sure that’s a second time. “I’m not even that old! It's just the stress of the job, that’s all. It’s getting to me and shit.”
“I dunno,” Tommy glances down at Zephyrus’s shoes, then up at his definitely-got-a-sunglasses-tan-underneath-that-mask face. “It’s giving middle aged crisis.”
“I-” Zephyrus sighs. “I’m just going to ignore that comment. Can we get back to the topic at hand, please? If we get this over and done with, you’ll be able to go home faster.”
“I’m going home?” Tommy tries not to sound shocked. “I thought you guys like… killed people or held the hostage until they did whatever they need to.”
Zephyrus hums. “It depends.”
Tommy’s nose wrinkles. He doesn’t like the probability of that depends.
“Well, alright,” Tommy is not about to go down that rabbit hole. Even though he is quite literally sitting in a cellar, he is hoping to do anything to not be murdered, despite this being a literal murder lair. Surely it’s fine. “In that case, what’s the mission?”
“Did Willful not tell you?”
“Nah,” Tommy leans back in his chair, wincing a bit. Why the hell did they pick these fucking chairs? They’re so uncomfortable. They could’ve just bought a bean bag or some shit for £30 and it would’ve been worth the damn money. “He was too busy revealing all of your family secrets.”
“Ah,” Zephyrus, again, doesn’t sound too surprised. “That’s… honestly, that’s a bit like him.”
“Glad it’s not just me for real.” Tommy exhales dramatically.
“Right,” Zephyrus nods along. “Right. Okay— heads up, I suppose— this mission is one that you need to buckle in for. It’s a long haul.”
Tommy gestures rather ceremoniously towards the barren white walls. “Clearly, I have time.”
Zephyrus gives him a look and clasps his hands gently in his lap. “We’re infiltrating the Hero Tower.”
To anyone else, this would probably hold a lot of weight. Zephyrus is probably expecting him to start freaking out. Maybe bolt for the door. Perhaps die in this incredibly uncomfortable chair and then haunt this disgusting ass room for the rest of his incorporeal existence.
Instead, Tommy nods. Slowly, because he is trying very hard not to freak out.
“Okay,” Tommy taps his fingers together, feeling so much like a stinky little businessman discussing terrible practises. He takes a deep breath in through his nose. “Okay. The Hero Tower… for reasons that I hope aren’t obvious, why?”
Zephyrus leans back in his chair, crossing his leg over the other. “They have something of ours.”
“Ooh, a motive that isn’t ‘They killed my fucking cat’,” Tommy grins, leaning forwards in his very uncomfortable chair to put his hands together. “Fascinating. Do tell me all about this ominous thing they have—” He then gasps, stopping Zephyrus before the man can even open his mouth. “Wait, don’t tell me. Is it a fucking bomb? No, that’s boring— oh! A family heirloom? No, also boring… maybe blackmail—?”
“It’s nothing you should be concerned about,” Zephyrus interrupts, his lips pursed in an expression that Tommy can’t quite decipher. Amusement, or annoyance? Tommy always has trouble differentiating the two. “All you need to do is retrieve it and bring it safely back to me and my team and the job is through.”
“Easy enough,” Tommy says with a shrug. “Why do you need me to do it, though? Can’t one of you guys go undercover or some shit?”
“The Syndicate is currently on 24/7 security watch,” Zephyrus explains, sounding exhausted. “If one of us don’t show up during the months that the file goes missing, they’ll be on us before we can even make it back to base.” Then, he grimaces. “Not to mention, I feel as though we’d have some… ah… trouble holding ourselves back from causing havoc behind the walls. We need an unbiased perspective, such as your own.”
“I am very unbiased,” Tommy nods aggressively. “I definitely have no opinion at all whatsoever.” He smiles sweetly. He’s so very glad that the action figure of Dream he’d burnt at three am with Tubbo, Ranboo, and Purpled has long since been buried.
“It’s important that we get it back,” the villain continues after a short pause, watching Tommy carefully behind his mask. “And it’s even more important that you are able to retrieve it for us. Do you think that you can do this?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fiiiine,” Tommy waves his hand to the side. It is definitely not going to be fine. “So where in the Tower exactly is this ‘important piece of information’?”
To his surprise, Zephyrus grimaces. Well, Tommy can’t exactly see his face, but he assumes that the villain is making some sort of expression similar to it, as his wings close tight against his back and his shoulders droop.
“Well,” Zephyrus begins, seeming nervous. Uh oh. A super villain that’s nervous. That’s never good. “That’s the difficult part about it. The file is in the highest part of the Hero’s Tower, which is Schlatt’s office.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot that dickhead worked there instead of the literal mayor’s office. Y’know, like a normal person,” Tommy scoffs, shaking his head. Then, Zephryus’s words click. “Wait- you fucking want me to do what?”
“I know it’s a bit risky—”
“A bit? My brother in Christ, you might as well pay me upfront and use it all to pay for my funeral,” Tommy lights up suddenly. “Oh, speaking of which, I have that shit all planned out. I want you to hire Pitbull to sing Firework by Katy Perry and I want everyone to wear very certain clothing, oh and maybe if you could get catering from that one Thai restaurant—”
“Tommy,” Zephyrus interjects. He’s rubbing his face again. Wow, he really is a dad. “Will you just hear me out for a minute, please?”
Tommy raises an eyebrow. As much as he really does not want to hear this guy out, he can’t help but quiet and listen. After all, he did pay attention—mostly, at least—to his spiel about the appropriate attire to his funeral.
Well… okay, he didn’t, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Look,” Zephyrus takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to agree to the mission. It’s not required or anything, and we’re certainly not going to hurt you just because you decline it, but it is important. Not just to us, but the entirety of Manberg.”
“Wait, wait,” Tommy frowns. “How can something that’s supposedly yours be important to the rest of the city as well?”
“That one is more difficult to explain,” Zephyrus responds sheepishly. “In due time, though, you’ll know all of the information that we have to share.”
Tommy hums, leaning back in his chair to think for a minute. “How much am I getting paid for this exactly, again?”
“Around one hundred thousand primes, if all goes well.”
Tommy about falls out of his fucking chair.
“One hundred—” he squeaks, scrambling to stabilise himself. “One hundred thousand primes? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Zephyrus snorts at him again. “No, Tommy, I’m not kidding. I can put it in writing, if you’d like.”
“Oh, I would very much like,” Tommy nods very aggressively, his eyes wide enough that it almost hurts. He’s never seen that many primes written out on paper, much less has that many primes to his name. He doubts that he’s ever even had half of that in his whole life.
Zephyrus tilts his head, clearly considering him. That’s almost intimidating. Tommy is definitely not uncomfortable. “Does that mean you’re taking the job?”
“I mean…” Tommy shrugs. “It would be great if I knew more information, but like my role model the Mandalorian always says, uh…” he blinks. Fuck, he forgot. “Uh… something about not asking questions because it’s protocol. You get it. Imagine I said something super cool and inspiring.”
“You are literally a child,” Zephyrus mutters under his breath, shaking his head.
“Fuck you, I’m eighteen, dickhead!”
Zephyrus runs a hand down the side of his face and stands from his chair. “I’ll go inform the others that you’ve decided to take up the job. We’ll prepare a bunk for you here in our base and start planning out your cover story in the morning.”
“Wait,” Tommy begins, frowning again. He’s been doing this a lot today, but he supposes that’s what happens when you get fucking kidnapped. You frown a lot. “I am the cover image, big man. Tommy Innit— not Inn, because fuck that name— supervillain extraordinaire! It’s brilliant, big man, fucking brilliant, I’ll have them fooled in no time.”
“Tommy, you’re going undercover in a Hero’s Tower,” Zephyrus reminds him, giving him a look of slight bewilderment. “You’re not going as a supervillain, and you sure as hell aren’t going as yourself.”
“But I’m fucking poggers n’ shit,” Tommy whines.
Zephyrus coughs, barely concealing a laugh. “Unfortunately, being, uh— poggers n’ shit— does not let you maintain a secret identity. This sort of thing… it’s dangerous, kid. If your identity isn’t concealed, you might as well walk in there and say, ‘I’m going to steal your files!’”
Ignoring the fact that hearing Zephyrus say the words poggers n’ shit has been the absolute highlight of Tommy’s year, he scoffs.
“Fucking— fine. But if you give me some stupid ass bright neon costume like Dream’s got, then I’m walking.” Tommy pauses, and quickly adds on, “Oh, and if my bunk doesn’t have a Nintendo Switch with Animal Crossing already installed, then I’m walking. Again. Swiftly.”
Zephyrus sighs, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Alright, Tommy. It’s a deal.”
Tommy narrows his eyes at the villain before sticking out his hand. “Shake on it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Shake on it,” Tommy repeats sternly, eyes boring into Zephyrus’s.
The villain stares at him in mild disbelief for a few more moments before gingerly reaching out and shaking Tommy’s hand.
“Great!” Tommy grins, shaking the villain’s hand aggressively. “Pleasure to be working with you, big man.”
“Not really sure if this mission is a pleasure, but okay,” Zephyrus gives his hand a slight squeeze. “Welcome on to the team, Tommy.”