Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maybe leaving him alone at home was a bad idea.

Though, he can’t be blamed for this. He personally had no idea that he’d wake up to a scarily quiet apartment at ass-o-clock in the morning, and yet he has this underlying feeling he’ll be blamed for whatever he blows up later.

No, he is not going to explode something on purpose. Now, by accident? That’s free game.

But yes. He’s been left alone for the day, a couple of messages in his communicator informing him that it will be for a little bit. A long bit. Longer than Tomathy Innes’ keeping-entertained-without-resorting-to-crime abilities can last. So, it’s actually not his fault if things go wrong!

He needs enrichment. ..Or whatever his roommate reasoned to the officer that one day.

As of right now, Tommy was getting said enrichment by doom scrolling on twitter and making fun of idiots. Fun little bursts of dopamine do wonders for the soul! The boy scowls at the screen like he read something nasty, which knowing twitter it’s more than likely, and taps angrily at the communicator.

Along with that there was the rickety TV bolted to the wall with sheer hopes and duct tape, blabbering about some industry plants' odd malfunction and fire outbreak. He only barely listened to it, treating it like white noise for what should be an overstimulating mess.

He flips off the wall, odd enough.

The blonde stayed sprawled on the couch, knees and elbows bent in a way that will definitely cause him arthritis in the future, and he shuffled deeper into the lumpy couch. His roommate found it in an RV park, all in its lonesome, and yoinked it for the two of them.

The couch…. had its ups. For one, it was usable. And Tommy hadn’t gotten infected by any of the mystery stains yet, so that’s always a plus. It was good enough for Tommy to be lounging on, anyhow.

As if interrupting him before he could glare any harder at his phone, the TV fizzled into static, sparking Tommy’s interest. Right when he managed to pull himself upright, it glitches and flickers back to a distinguishable scene.

A news reporter, holding a rusty mic, looking roughed up. Their glasses were skewed and they had dirt resting everywhere a surface could be. Tommy rolls his eyes when they jump and start talking.

“Hello– Hello citizens of Manburg!” The reported squeaks, shaking their head and they quickly settle into a publicized calm. “I’m coming in live from the Upper Levels, where a staggering discovery was made on the secret underground group of villains terrorizing our lands for the past two years!”

He grits his teeth, absentmindedly clicking his phone off even though his intrigue was extinguished pretty quick.

“It’s said that one of these deceitful villain bases has been pinpointed to Level 8! As a result, patrols from our country’s Heroes have been mainly centered around the place for the day, and possibly tomorrow.”

The TV is shut down and off before the yapping reporter gets any more words out, courtesy of one bored Tommy Innes. He makes a disgusted face just at the thought of some Low-Rank Heroes getting put on hound duty. Especially in the Middle Levels.

Not even because they’re bloody pricks, but because of their stupid snobby way of going about things. Protocols this, laws that, it makes his head spin. And don’t get him started on their whole a-fucking-mazing powers that were a blessing from Prime Herself.

Losers, the lot of them. And some didn’t even have cool powers! Most of them were fucking shit! Tommy nodded to this as he stretched and rose from the couch—If he remembers, one Hero he saw on TV just could.. make bubbles. That was it.

Hey, cool for the kids though! Tommy thinks they’re benched right now…or maybe they just never get any publicity. The government likes to pick and choose, and having a flashy ability does that for you.

He’d know. Quite personally, I could add, but I hate your guts so fuck you.

Tommy did not have a superpower that was abnormal to his non-human DNA.

Wow. Real big Einstein there, genius.

Ignoring his own snarky thoughts, it was the truth. His power consisted of the regular aspects of something that couldn’t be described with the term ‘ordinary.’ It had a glowy part, did cool things, and helped him out when he needed it. Check, check, check.

Especially in a world where powers were increasingly becoming more common. It was the norm to have an awakening—At least, in the last decade or so, and in this universe. Tommy just happened to be part of the 15 percent, just with the group of kids born with a certain set of genes.

The side effect of having such a power seemed to weigh heavily on the blonde’s shoulders, as the teenager young adult huffed dramatically. There was an annoyed jerk in his steps while he walked towards the kitchen, painfully aware of his body screeching for sustenance.

He acted like he was listening to something, flipping off the empty air, not even looking at what he offered the rude sign to while he approached the dusty counter and grabbed a cereal box.

“Oh har har, now we’re back to insulting my furniture, fuck off.”

It seemed the powerful Tomathy Innes was now reduced to talking out loud to.. virtually nothing. He scoffed, now properly pissed off as he reaches into the freezer, pulling out a carton of milk. His appliances wouldn’t work properly, so the fridge acted as a pantry and the freezer worked like its refrigerator counterpart.

Yes, yes, his roommate already cursed out the gods about their luck for this. Beat him to the punch, actually.

Tommy groaned in exasperation as he poured the milk into his cereal, screwing the cap back on after he was done to put it back. He slammed the freezer shut before going back to his singular seat, grumbling to himself the entire way.

“What’s got you in this fuckin’ chatty mood? Usually you just narrate the important shit.” The blonde grunted, waving one hand around as the other shoveled cereal into his mouth, dismissing the fact it was 6pm and late evening.

“Now we’re doing dialogue, wonderful,” Tommy remarked sarcastically, though slowed his inhaling of the breakfast food. A quick look at his own watch, and the time 3:00pm blinked right back at him. Bastard.

“I don’t even need this stupid shit. You’ll just remind me every time I miss something!” He spoke, muffled by a particularly large bite of cereal in his mouth. Scrunching his face, he swallowed it whole and shouted a large profanity in the air. Looking insane.

Then, a buzz entered his mind, starting small but even then it silenced him. As the hum of his mind grew slowly, Tommy sighed.

“Really, now my powers? You’re seriously telling me what’s happenin’ in my own fuckin’ head?” Tommy snarked, though it bit less. He tuned in to the tune inside his mind, weaving like a song, growing until he could translate what it was saying.

Though, it wasn’t decipherable by any regular person. It was a melody of hums and sparks, something only a person used to its song could ever hope to understand—And, well, Tommy was extremely used to the familiar symphony.

Pushing away his bowl of finished food, technically breakfast, he stood with a new purpose. When he blinked slowly, a glimmer of red energy seeped into the floorboards until they shaped into footsteps. His footsteps, right in front of him, formed a path to the front door.

Why do you want me to follow you?

{ Hum. }

As Tommy spoke to his power, he tugged the stool back into place and looked around just in case. He was able to communicate quite well with his abnormality, almost like he was speaking to another person, just in undesirable circumstances. His head tilts upwards, frowning at nothing.

That’s literally no information at all.

{ Impatient Humming. }

Fine, fucker.

The annoyed teenager adult followed the footprints, his feet landing exactly in the forms of energy, and as he left behind the power, it dissipated with his foot lifting from the floor. He grumbled under his breath, something about a bitch with no mother, and was soon pulling on a dim cyan jacket per his power’s orders.

After situating his messenger bag and a couple more things on his person, like looking in the mirror and shuffling his hair back into place, he was opening the door and leaving the shabby place.

He followed the trail of red.

That’s how it begins.

And how it will end.

–

Stupid omnipotent, dramatic, paranoid mother fucker.

–

He didn’t usually like walking around outside. As much as he was an extrovert, who thrived in social interaction, he was.. perfectly content with only his roommate and a couple of neighbors.

His area was pretty alright. Couple of gangs and cheap stores selling most likely consumable food, maybe a few plot holes, and a certain anarchist aura. It definitely was not the best place for a person to live, gods it probably was close to the bottom, but it was home.

Well, he’s biased ‘cause he barely remembers anything past his Home, basically been there his entire life. Gets easy to defend the one place you belong in.

From Level Fourteen, you can see everything upwards. Tall structures, faraway landmarks, nearly nothing gets blocked. Where Tommy lives, he could snag a car and shoot up in an almost straight line all the way to the tippity top.

As he let the pathway of energy guide without a care in the world, he noticed how he was going closer and closer to a specific towering structure that almost broke the cloudline. His steps were starting to stutter, and he gained more tension in his shoulders once he realized that the building was the destination his power had in mind.

Shut up! How’d you feel if you’re going into ‘arrest me’ central?!

It was still a mystery, however, of who Tommy was frustrated with.

He walked along the paths and streets, occasionally waving at people that he knew from their faces, and others he knew from experiences. Tommy weaved left and right, a complex path that he only paid attention to so he could remember the same path home.

The streets were slightly tilted up, so as he walked it was like he was cutting through levels of different towns. And soon, 20 minutes had gone by and he knew he was in an entirely new area, with no familiar people around. He snorted underneath his breath, a mumbled no shit genius not heard by anyone else.

It was filled with ashy streets and smog covering the clouds. Houses were more like storage apartments, living quarters more like basements, to make room for different warehouses and factories. Corner stores selling processed food and vendors trying to make a living on cooked venison. It seemed deers were common around these parts.

The entire place looked like it ran on pollution alone. When Tommy looked up, he could only spot a few streaks of blue amongst the light gray clouds or inky smoke. He shifts his messenger bag uncomfortably; Despite living somewhere on par with this Level, maybe even a bit worse, it still gives him a deep discomfort to be strolling about this area.

He soon found that his power led to a certain bus stop sign that had gray stains and scratched out letters. It was missing graffiti—A staple back in his local community. Tommy easily took a seat at a spare bench, saving the battery on his phone while he people-watched.

Well… whatever people were actually here. Mostly workers, and the majority were only sticking around for cheap jobs that paid okay. He’s never really met a native from here, since the living conditions are near horrendous. The only time Tommy truly met someone born and raised around these parts was–

What level are we on?

{A confident hum.}

Okay, shit, that’s what I expected. What level are we going to?

{A less-confident hum.}

…

Well. Is it important?

{..Buzzing.}

I’ll take that as a yes.

Tommy had found himself smack dab in the middle of Level Nine. While it was right near the middle, it was still considered part of the Lower Levels, due to its atmosphere and origin. Similar to Tommy’s home: Level Fourteen.

It was in one of the more poorer sides of the already crippled place, his district being one of the last ones converted into the country of Manburg. Level Fourteen entirely is known for its.. rather fierce will to survive, and his district even more so.

In this world, you would find yourself on a level on a hill, where a country named Manburg ruled the large land. It was almost an exact circle, and all around it were levels—Self explanatory, in common sense.

From the richest Level One at the top of the hill, to Level Nine where pure manufacturing occurred to supply all of the country's needs, all the way to the bottom; The slums of Level Fourteen.

Bullshit, Tommy mutters. Level 14 was usually greatly exaggerated as the slums. In general it still resembles the rest of the Levels, yet was stigmatized beyond belief due to its past. And, with its background of first being nicknamed Pogtopia, for its old culture. 

Great. You’re a history nerd too.

It grew and grew as an independent nation at first, made up of outcasted children and runaway adults. The place was home to many, despite its older ways and more unconventional methods of ruling. In all honesty the country could’ve lived on its own and thrived, separate from its meddling neighbor.

Yet, the old nation was hurriedly adopted by the larger, more advanced L’manburg turned now Manburg. Throughout its existence, Manburg was rumored to have extreme ties to the reason Pogtopia suffered famine and starvation, almost entirely blamed—If it wasn’t for the growing Hero population, they probably would’ve been.

Pogtopia fought for equal rights like its Level counterparts, and it took an entire revolution before it could even be regarded in the same sentence.

Tommy, now inside a bus, cringed and seemed to shrink into himself while his thoughts were wandering.

Perhaps the revolution is a sensitive subject.

The bus sped past factories and highways, climbing up the hill in a circular motion. As it went past different gates and Points, Tommy had plugged in earphones and turned up his choice of music.

He almost snarled, like he heard something particularly aggravating, increasing the volume as he waited until the buzzing of his power returned. It would mean that his stop was approaching.

The longer he stayed on the bus, the more Tommy’s mind roamed and wondered. He knew at this point he was heading for the heart of Manburg, the Heroic Excellence of Region Organization. Or, the H.E.R.O federation, which resided in the large, towering building that marked the center of the entirety of Manburg.

It was the most prized and secure facility, the only area in this entire country that has never been broken into, or even attacked by any Villains. It had grown from the original organization, which most had abbreviated into S.B.I. Not many people knew its original name, and it’s mostly regarded as though there is none.

Sleepy Bois Inc.

Tommy enjoyed making new names for the abbreviation, sometimes treating it as a game.

No, its name is literally Sleepy Bois Inc, it was presented by Steelwing but Warhead officiated it formally. Even if he officiated it in a discreet manner with no mainstream press, it still happened. People just don’t know it because the Upper Management always keeps stuff like that on the down low.

It looked like Tommy’s power not only physically helped, but it could provide information that shouldn’t be possible to obtain. His ego seemed to be able to grow, which some would say wouldn’t be plausible.

..You just figured out how to be pissed off and polite, didn’t you.

The bus jerked to a sudden stop, the wheels hissing air and the door groaned open. Tommy jolted in his seat, being thrown forward from the sudden stop while his seatbelt yanked him back into place jarringly. His mind was quiet as a mouse though, signaling this wasn’t his stop yet. Asshole.

Tommy still managed to curse at nothing, however, before the bus closed its doors and surged to a new start. The people left in the bus were either important, rich, or both. Snotty conversations and haughty laughter drifted around Tommy, who had strategically made it almost all the way to Level One.

I hate Level One. Stupid important little fuckers.

As the bus turned at a green light, a small hum entered Tommy’s mind. Automatically, his hand shot upwards and tugged on a thin yellow wire, not a single thought behind it. A ding, a beep, a few minutes going by, and Tommy was stepping off of a clean bus with no problems.

Another few steps, and he was walking along an unfamiliar path around tall houses that looked like they came out of a sci-fi movie. The people he passes pay no mind to the odd boy with a light blue jacket, dark blue pants, and now a pitch-black face mask that covers his mouth and nose.

He rose up the stairs, now walking closer and closer to the city’s Center Plaza. Sometimes, he would earn an odd look for the mask, but perhaps he would blame it on COVID.

What the fuck is a COVID?

{Exasperated Hums.}

I don't care about a disea– Holy shit that’s a lot of deaths.

…

3 YEARS??

Wowo.

Pedestrians who passed by Tommy would slightly cringe at the blonde's expressions, especially since it looked as though the child was surprised at nothing. Tommy suddenly straightened his back, schooling himself into a more neutral, happy face.

Fuck you.

The teenager remembered to keep his emotions under lock and key, continuing to walk along the path that led to the H.E.R.O tower. Occasionally, he would tug on his mask or fidget with the hems of his jacket, showing his nerves to those with a trained eye.

Tommy’s power illuminated the directions he needed to take, the footsteps seen clearly against polished concrete. After scooting around the very large Plaza, he was approaching the gateway for the H.E.R.O tower, and he steeled himself for what he needed to do.

He had no idea exactly what that was.

What should I do?

No answer from his powers, not a hum nor a buzz.

Oh right, the fucking hypotheticals.

How do I enter and check-in without getting caught?

{Buzzing.}

..

Well, if I die, I hope you know I blame you.

He shook out his hands, and pushed up his mask back onto his mouth, ignoring any indignation from his mind. Pushing open the doors, his hand came up to brush back a blonde lock of hair away, and he remembered to keep his eyes from showcasing at least most of his feelings.

There was a line of pure red energy leading towards a reception desk, past a decorated lobby filled with couches and chairs, magazines and even a small water fountain for the dehydrated folk. The string connected the middle of his chest to the lady, though nothing was disturbed.

It was like it didn’t exist to anyone but Tommy. His feet followed the line subconsciously, despite still not understanding why the fuck his power was leading him here, of all places.

Out of everywhere a Pogtopian would and could be, the H.E.R.O Tower was never even an fathomed thought. Meaning Tommy was in the equivalent of enemy territory, except like ten times worse.

Going to the desk, he slapped on a familiar customer service smile, which helped his eyes crinkle in a convincing grin. The woman sitting at the reception blinked upwards before slipping into an eased posture.

“Welcome to the Hero Tower! Can I help you sir?” She started, though even Tommy could see her slight hesitancy with how young he seemed. Though, a quick sift through his hair and a change of stance helped solidify his position as a very young adult.

Which he was not. In fact, it was a stretch to even consider him close to being an adult.

Fuck you too.

What do I say to appear normal?

{Hum.}

“Hello!” Tommy greeted with a pleasantry, and faked a quick glance around so he could focus on the holographic lines of info coming up on sides of his vision. Of course, only visible to him as with the rest of his mental power, but it was better to play it safe and not seem like a crazy person.

Tommy, hiding a scoff under his breath, read through what appeared to be a script before continuing. 

“Do you know where the people applying for the—” He chokes, covering it with a cough. “..Internship program go for the initial interviews?” He continued with a crinkle of his eyes, though he was fighting to keep his voice leaking how stunned he was with the swift turn of events.

You’re signing me up for a fucking internship?!

No response from his power.

STOP IGNORING ME YOU BITCH–

“Oh, that’ll be on the 7th floor, where you’ll take a seat in the waiting room as the interviews take place.” The lady easily took over the conversation, oblivious to the inner turmoil of Tommy’s hectic mind. “I’ll just need a form of I.D, then you’ll be good to go!”

Tommy sighed silently, and nodded to her words. He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old wallet, fishing a Driver's License from the piece of leather.

Handing over the identification under a barely concealed sneer (Oh how happy he is he wears a face mask), he took the small opportunity to glance around the Lobby floor by glancing in other directions.

He noticed some business men lounging in some couches, with a stray cat wandering outside with its tail raised in the air. The men sometimes would crack a joke and laugh with their haughty cackle, a few fingers pointed to the black cat.

There was also a pair of low class trainees drinking from a water fountain to his far right. At least, he suspected it was a group of Trainees with their costumes and how one of them was messing around with the water, having some form of aquatic ability. Great, yeah. Thanks for having my back, dick.

Overall, the Tower was what he expected. The little security raised some questions, though.

Usually what happens when you enter Level One—Or, well, any Level higher than 6—is that suddenly, poor people don’t exist. Which means typically, people originating from any Level lower than Nine are suddenly required to bring excessive documents for.. virtually anything.

Job, school, wanting to buy a bit of bread, housing. It’s why the transfer rates from the lower Levels are quite literally non-existent. Half the people in Lower Levels definitely do not have ‘proper’ documentation, nor would said documentation be actually.. legal. Definitely nobody from Level Fourteen, if Tommy is an example. HEY?!

But the Tower.. let him in. He just waltzed right into the building, no guards or Watchers or even any sort of Minority Heroes. He would’ve thought it pathetic, if it didn’t set Tommy on edge.

His identification was given back with a smile. Tommy thanked the receptionist lady with a grin of his own before stuffing his wallet away, and fixing up his jacket. Soon, he was heading over to the elevator that was clear from the outside, stepping in with an exhale of relief and the push of the button labeled seven.

Taking the moment of silence as a reprieve from the influx of emotions, he tried to reign in his nerves. Messing around with his hair and fixing his pants, he supposed he looked decent enough for an important interview. His messenger bag, with patches and stitches, could use a bit of an upgrade.

As he scoffed at nothing for the tenth time today, clutching his bag a bit closer, the elevator gave a ding and the doors opened to a clean hallway. Tommy inhaled to slow his heart rate down, walking along the pathway of carpet.

During the short walk, he realized most of the people on this floor were dressed to impress, which gave him the idea that they weren’t actual workers here. At least not yet, since interviews were taking place in around ten minutes.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

TEN MINUTES?!

Tommy seemed to not understand what the word “emergent” means. For if he did, he may not have had this reaction to this new development.

Excuse me, but it’s not my fault that your long fuckin’ rambles about my own life aren’t too fuckin’ interesting!

No response from his power.

He grumbled to himself, something about a dickhead, before continuing his now-quickened pace down the hallway. Before he knew it, he had arrived at a waiting room which had a bunch of stressed out job seekers filling the chairs.

Biting back an exasperated sigh, he claimed a seat at the far corner, annoyed once more. The boy couldn’t catch a break.

Soon, however, his eyes slipped shut as he waited for the heroes in charge to start calling people in for the likely questionnaire. With a final huff of frustration, snapping his head to the side, his mind faded into black.

…

…

…

…

..

“–TOMATHY INNES?”

He yelped, startled from his small slumber. On instinct, his posture went rigid and he leapt to his feet. Tommy’s hands shot to his waist near a non-existent belt, reaching for a weapon.

But then he blinked, and there was a brunette looking around the room, oblivious to Tommy’s stunned state. The blonde stiffened, releasing his white-knuckled grip on a hidden waistband before forcefully relaxing his strained body.

Shut it.

He thought, to nobody.

Dusting his pants off, he walked over to the brunette with a carefully placed mask on his face. The man blinked, and seemed to skip over him, still searching for Tomathy. Most likely due to the boy’s appearance

…

“Excuse me–” Tommy began, clearing his throat to gain the man’s attention. “Tomathy? That’s me.”

The brunette spun around, and from Tommy’s eyes went through many stages of grief before settling on acceptance. He refrained from tilting his head in confusion. 

“I– I’m sorry, you’re …” The man took a double take at the piece of paper in his hands, holding a long list of names, “... Tomathy Innes?”

Ugh. That damn name, he grumbles in his mind.

“Well actually, full name is–”

“Did not ask, like at all.”

“Hey?!”

“Follow me!”

Tommy could only huff and seeth silently, watching the supposed bitchy (He is! You two would get along) brunette turn around and walk back where he had emerged from a pair of double doors. Tommy didn’t have any other choice but to follow, steps silent.

Can’t be too careful.

The brunette took him along a small hallway before he reached yet another, smaller door. Tommy eyed the steely metal, staying a good two feet from the other man at all times.

I need a list of possible scenarios.

{Short hum.}

…that’s a long list. Wait who’s– Okay. Identify Wilbur Soot?

{Melody.}

Tommy’s eyes flicked to the side as he silently read, entering the opened room. The list is long enough, sectioned and categorized by importance; Tommy already can feel himself whispering the details to commit in his memory.

>> Wilbur Gold. 

• Age: 27. A brunette adult with prescription glasses. Social media manager of the SBI H.E.R.O unit, PR person, handles the ins and outs for all things public.

• Powers: Melodic Voice and a minor with invisibility. 
• Melodic Voice increases charismatic abilities, and allows the user to persuade others with vocal abilities. Requirements include it must be in a melodic tune, must be exact, and must be within hearing distance.

• Invisibility is less useful. It allows him to disappear for exactly six point eight minutes, and during that time he “doesn’t exist.” He is still tangible, yet cannot be heard at all. Requirements include needing extra energy, unallowed to wear excessive clothing / weight, and must hold breath.

• Strength: Medium. Height: 6’6. Dexterity: Above average. Speed: Average. Endurance: Normal. Training: Slight.

• Positions with the H.E.R.O personnel are strong; Wilbur was given the PR role in response to the outstanding work he did while a freelancer. Wilbur also apparently had ties to the Hero named Tranquil.

• Recommended to be wary, as most other data and recordings are spotty at best. He is hiding something – perhaps something related to his abilities.

Tranquil? The Dead Hero?

{Buzzing.}

Tommy huffs, a bit shocked and a bit annoyed. Apparently, Wilbur’s documents were extremely scattered especially around anything relating to Tranquil. That meant the brunette either killed him, knows him, or is him.

Yet another win for Detective Innit, the world remarks with sarcasm.

His lip curls a bit, and he’s happy his mask covers half his expression. Okay, so he already doesn’t like this one. Though.. Tommy is mildly impressed. At least some idiots can be smart about putting the bitch with voice powers on PR.

Eventually he’s seated, in a very obvious spare room. It holds a desk, an office chair, a visitor chair, and a couple of monitors on said desk. The room is small enough that it’s unimportant, big enough to house maybe five people comfortably.

Exit is behind Tommy, there’s a window behind the office chair, and a vent left of the ceiling. Helpfully, red illuminated a quick path in case he needed to leave with haste. The light disappears once it’s confident he has it memorized.

Tommy’s fingers drum on his lap, a leg bouncing with the instant effect having to stay still has. Wilbur – shit ass name – has gracefully strided around and over to where his seat is, the office chair.

All things considered, the atmosphere is one thousand percent awkward. Tommy scowls, expressions masked thanks to his useful cover, the two adults (Loose term) in silence.

“So,” Wilbur breaks the quiet, “First things first, I need to double check your info.”

Tommy stays silent, nodding his head curtly as he sinks comfortably into the chair. Ah, rich people's furniture will never be hated in his eyes.

“Cool! Alright, recite your name, age, birthday, and address.”

“Tomathy Innes,” Tommy starts, shifting his arms as the details easily flow out. “Twenty years old, my birthday is April 7th, and I live in Level Fourteen, Logstedchire district.”

The atmosphere drops around ten degrees, and Wilbur’s fingers go still on the keyboard. Tommy, expecting this, doesn’t react.

“I’m sorry, repeat that last part?”

“Level Fourteen. Logstedchire district.” Tommy’s gaze sharpens, and he can feel his mouth dip into a slight snarl. “If you wanna be a pretentious fuck, I live to the corner of the sun.”

That was a specific phrase. It directly means he lives right beside where the November 16th Rebellion occurred, a place that was—

Don’t.

It means he’s not lying. Wilbur seems to just barely recognize the phrase, because his lips pressed together and his eyes swim with the beginnings of understanding.

“..R– Right,” He continues, drawing his face to the main monitor, trying to ignore the cold feeling in his stomach. “Now, Tomathy–”

“Tommy.”

“But your name is Tomathy?”

“Call me Tommy. I would change my name if it wasn’t expensive as all fuck.” Tommy rolls his eyes, and in his lap he flips off air.

“Okay then, Tommy. Let’s cut to the chase, your main reason for applying?”

Ah shit.

What is a good response list?

{Distracted buzz.}

You put me here. Suffer.

“Ahhh, well,” Tommy drawls a little, looking away for a bit. All the responses given were either too instant, too long, or too bland. Tommy flicks the words away, covering it with a wave of his hand as if ensensuating his words. “Y’know..”

Okay, no panic. Find something–

“Money.”

..okay, not what people would typically respond with but. Sure. He can deal. Haha.

He’s so fucked.

DON’T AGREE WITH ME?!

“Oh?” Wilbur seems to be slightly surprised at the bluntness, paying a bit more close attention.

“Yeah,” If he’s gonna try his hand at this, might as well go the full mile. “I mean, you opened the position for all levels, which hasn’t been done in a solid decade, and then put a shit ton of money as the precedent. Mainly rich people already have a good job somewhere else and people who have a steady income wouldn’t go to somewhere as unpredictable as the Hero tower, so that leaves people who need the money.”

Okay, pop off Tommy. He’s slightly proud of himself for remembering all the details his powers gave him before entering.

“Also, it will always mainly be about money. I would be a shitty liar if I came here all ‘oh for the betterment of our country!’ and Tommy Innes is everything but a liar.”

As his minor rant slowly ends, he notices he gave a much longer answer than he originally wanted to give. He can feel the buzz underneath his skin, the reminder of his powers threading his veins.

He tightens his fists in his lap. His leg bounces.

“Hm..” Wilbur hums, fingers flying over the keyboard as he typed swiftly. Tommy shrinks only the tiniest bit. “Interesting answer.”

“The fuck’s interesting about it?” He holds himself from snapping, instead giving a less than friendly stare. Yes, Tommy, snap at the person who could decide—

Shut. up.

“Oh my Prime, someone living on Level Fourteen wants money? Man, never knew that the poorest level would even fathom such a selfish desire!”

Maybe you should shut up, Tommy.

Personally? Keep yourself safe.

Now that’s just mean! Tommy seems to be quite rude to inanimate things.

“.....ah.” Wilbur tugs a bit at his collar, obviously keeping himself from meeting Tommy’s eyes. For great reason. “Yes, I– Should consider.. that.”

“This isn’t your only question, I’m pissed, get on with it.” Tommy kicks his foot so now his legs are crossed, as he leans back in the chair, arm propped up on the side rest.

It seems politeness isn’t exactly found here. At least not anymore.

“Right! Right, right right, well–” Wilbur shoots off back into work, wringing a hand out while the other taps at keys. “Next one! How’d you find out about this position?”

How did I find out about this position?

{Quick buzz.}

“Uuhhh, internet?”

Yeah, Tom. Intellectual response.

“Could you be a bit more– Specific?” Wilbur immediately asked, turning his head to face Tommy. “Just, that’s too vague.”

“What are you expecting.”

“Pardon..?”

“Like,” Tommy leans a bit, raising a hand to wave absentmindedly, “Okaaaay, I scrolled while looking for job interviews on upper levels, dug a bit too far, found out some idiot got fired and now I’m here! What, you want the exact date and time?”

“Okay, I guess that answers it, but–”

“April 21st at 10:04 pm.” He props his elbows up on his knees.

“N- No, that’s not necessary–”

Tommy’s head drops into his awaiting hands, a big sigh leaving him.

“I.. Alright, y’know what, I’ll skip a couple of boring ones. Tell me about yourself!”

No. No go back to the boring ones. Please.

“...about myself?”

“Yeah! I mean, if I’m gonna hire someone for the SBI team, I’ll need to know them—At least enough to have a vague idea of how personalities will clash.”

Huh. Wilbur actually has a brain. That’s extremely surprising. 

“So, what, you want me to go on about my Big Man awesomeness?” Tommy sniffs, but grins under his mask.

Wilbur snorts, trying to bite back a large laugh, and clears his throat. “I mean, if that’s how you’ll put it.”

“Well, for obvious reasons you can see I’m quite amazing. Get a lot of wives, yeah?”

“Mmmm, somehow there’s doubt in my mind.”

“But that’s because you have an old mind, Wilbah, you simply can’t understand my handsome muscles.”

“..I’m not old?”

“Dude, you’re balding AND are a wrinkly bitch, I’m surprised nobodies made a grave yet.”

“I’M NOT OLD!”

“It’s okay, you’re in denial, I’m sure you’ll come to terms soon.” Tommy smirks at Wilbur’s impending aneurysm. “Hopefully before the retirement home.”

“I retract everything I’ve said. I’m declining your application.”

“C’maaaannn Wilbaaaaahhhhhhhhh!”

“It’s Wilbur. Wilbur. There is no A.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Wilbah.”

“Wilbur.”

“Wilbah.”

“Wilbur.”

“Wilbah.”

“I– Okay, fine, Tomathy.”

“...

..Fuck you.”

Wilbur grins like a cheshire cat, gathering a random stack of papers and proudly fixing them. Before long, the two of them fall into a fit of giggles, and the atmosphere feels less formal.

“Okay, listen, most of these questions are on your capabilities and wants and just overall background stuff. I got some of the important ones out the way, and the rest are as I said, boring.”

Ugh, he’s mansplaining now, Tommy groans in his mind, not understanding what that word means. How long is thi– I KNOW WHAT THAT FUCKING WORD MEANS.

Poor Tommy. He’s already gone insane with Wilbur’s drawls.

He hisses silently, muttering curses as he glances around, trying to find something of interest while Wilbur goes on about some sorts of protocol.

Blue eyes meet black orbs.

Tommy blinks, sitting up straighter as he focuses on the window behind Wilbur. On the outside, hopping about some jutting out piece of metal, is a crow. The black feathers, lacking a glossy, blue-ish finish distinguishes it from its cousin, the raven.

Huh. Weird, Tommy’s never seen a crow in person before.

Once. One time I saw a crow.

He’s seen a crow once, then.

“But yeah, I’ve completed most of the introductory questions. The rest are either personality based or just to see how you’d manage in this environment.”

“What, the environment of computers and stuck-up wealthy people?” Tommy’s instincts snark back, like a game of ping pong. He pulls himself from a staring contest with the corvid.

The other snickers, covering his mouth with his hand for a second. 

“No, in the case you’re somewhere with the Heroes, and something goes wrong. Basically, how you deal with stressful environments, how you manage dangerous situations, how well you listen, that kinda jazz.”

Shrieks of mothers, fathers, guardians behind the line. Fighter jets descending from the sky, releasing medical crates that have parachutes. They float down, the children hold their hands out greedily, desperately. Their parents are forced down. They watch.

The steel explodes on impact.

“I can handle big man shit, don’t worry your bald head off.” Tommy rolls his eyes, relaxing back into his chair even though his leg is bouncing like a formula one racing car.

He grits his teeth. Adjusts his mask.

“I’m not bald?!” Wilbur retorts, a hand jolting up in order to confirm that statement. “My hair is perfectly intact!”

“Yeah, the few strands left,” Tommy mutters with a faux narrow of his eyes, making no effort to keep his voice down. Wilbur gives an offended noise.

Tommy’s powers boil his blood with unease. He shrugs a shoulder subconsciously, foot tapping to try and give background noise.

“Okay, okay so, all that’s left is for you to pull down your mask,” Wilbur’s voice returns to a smooth, charismatic tone. It reminds Tommy he still feels distrustful of him. “Just so I can cross reference with your I.D given by the receptionist.”

Oh boy. The real test.

“Alright Wilbitch, but I have to warn you that many have died from my charms,” Tommy’s eyes crinkle, matching Wilbur’s amused scoff.

Slowly, his hands raise to the sides of his face. Tugging at the elastics, pulling the fabric, and letting his hands fall with the mask following.

If the room was cold before, it’s frigid now. Tommy shifts uncomfortably, thinking nasty curses at, again, the imaginary person.

He subconsciously ticks a finger on the corner of his lip, his frown palpable. Wilbur was staring like a deer in headlights, blinking rapidly as if he’d make sense of the sight that way.

Tommy’s face, for the most part, was simple. A dust of light freckles on his nose and under his dim eyes. A couple of blemishes. The faded evidence of small, everyday scars.

The main kicker was the lower half. Two jagged scars cut across Tommy’s mouth in a mocking X, obviously purposeful and slowly done. The scarred skin was set in place, old, and no unnatural healing would rid it from him.

His eyebrows furrow, glaring at the brunette who was growing pity in those chocolate eyes.

Blood pooling into his mouth. Fire from his lips.

Cauterized. Slashed. Torn and cut. Slow, painful.

He was the example.

“Isn’t.. I only heard of it in the safety meetings, that they’d.. they would…” Wilbur stammered, gaze shooting back and forth from the monitor and Tommy, double– triple checking if it was real. There was a bit of genuine shock, different to the surprise Wilbur had shown before.

“They’d what?” Tommy glowered, tightening his grip on the mask in his lap. “Put a dagger to your lip? Cross you out?”

A Cross Out. The act of slicing an X over someone’s mouth with a jagged blade. Meant to be a warning, typically your final one if the death counts were anything to go by. By The Valiguard. Bastards, all of them.

The Valiguard weren’t the only ones who’d do such a thing. They only picked it up after another group started the practice.

Die.

“But, Cross Out’s only happened in the early times of–”

“–Watch it.” Tommy’s face darkens, crossing his arms over his stomach. If he convinces himself he’s not hugging himself, then he’s not.

Literally what is your use? What the fuck are you useful for. All you do is be a BITCH.

Tommy is quite rude to the imaginary person in his mind.

“..Right,” Wilbur whispers, shaking his head out. “W– Well, your details match. No fraud here.. other than that, I guess, ah, you’re finished here with the interview.”

As Wilbur finishes, Tommy’s eyes catch the crow fanning its wings out, flapping quickly before it shoots upwards and out of his sight. His ears hear the distant caw of his winged friend. He feels a bit sad, the loss of the crow admirer.

Hey? Asshole??!

“Welp, that’s perfect! Gonna be home in time for dinner,” Tommy responds, kicking out his feet and placing his hands on his knees. Dinner was a very, very vague word. More so a snack. In a few days, if lucky.

Tommy glares at the wall, standing with a grumble. “The wives will be missing me dearly.”

“Kid, you’d be lucky to have one.”

“I AM NOT A KI—”

Oh. That’s an explosion.

Things happen in rapid succession. Faster than it takes for even Wilbur to recognize the safety of the tower went from 100 to 50. The minute a loud BOOM echoes in the building, Tommy’s instincts strangle him.

One. Tommy leaps forward to tackle Wilbur to the ground, yanking the brunette under the desk with him.

Two. The shockwave from the explosion makes everything tremble violently; Tommy grunts as he pushes Wilbur tightly to the side and shuffles deeper.

Three. The final parts of whatever bomb (Because just the way the walls trembles gave away the nature of this attack) set off, and suddenly it is very, very hot.

Wilbur apparently catches up, a short scream escaping the frightened man when the entire building shudders dangerously. Tommy throws his mask on, flinching at the monitor toppling over and hitting the floor.

Distantly, he can hear the screeches of civilians, maybe a couple of workers from the tower. Alarms slowly fade into his hearing, and he notices over the smoke that’s begun to pool above that there are red flashes. Security system seems to finally be activating, a few seconds later than Tommy would’ve liked.

Memories thrust themself up to the forefront of his mind, and he snarls at thin air. He could feel his fear be shoved far down, ignoring any sort of anxiety that comes from the familiar sight of fire.

“Is there anything important here?!” The boy shouts over the panicking background, pulling his elbow over his mouth. His mask was barely any protection against the smog forming. “Documents, artifacts, any? ‘Cause we gotta bolt, Wilbur!”

His accent, Logstedchire, was coming full force, but he couldn’t focus on the prim and proper thing right now. He could feel the heat, feel how everyone’s frantic running outside the room was messing with the Tower’s stability.

He swears crudely to any Diety that’ll listen, now realizing the explosion must’ve weakened the Tower significantly. He can’t put any chances—especially since whatever or whoever set that bomb off could be here—On how long the floor will last.

“N– No! This is just an office!” Wilbur stutters, yelping and ducking his head when a piece of debris crumbles to the ground in front.

Tommy barely registers it, snatching Wilburs wrist and yanking the both of them up to their feet. He tightly signals at Wilbur to keep his head down, before dragging the distracted man out of the room.

Okay, they were definitely on the floor where the explosion happened. His breathing was tiny puffs of dark gray air, people shoving and rushing and surviving, atmosphere red with the growing flames.

Green fire flashes past his vision. He stands in the middle of the wreckage. Burns lace his arms.

Everyone screams. Everyone pleads.

Everyone dies.

He lives.

“Oh my Prime..” Wilbur whispers with horror in his eyes, regretting it when he nearly hacks up a lung. Tommy knocks him with his own shoulder, making a pointed gesture with his elbow over his mouth.

Copy him, follow him, listen to him.

“We have to find the stairs,” Tommy’s voice is muffled by his arm and the overstimulation of the noises surrounding them. Something’s glazed over his eyes, like he’s acting on experience rather than panic. “Stay low to the ground, follow me!”

He’s trying to keep Wilbur close, tight to his side as the people hurtle themselves in any direction away from the blistering heat. Was it a fire bomb? A scare tactic. The Valiguard would use them as scare tactics.

Where are the stairs?

{Immediate hum.}

Tommy curses loudly, tightening his hold on Wilbur. He effectively guides him and his cargo over to the wall, trying to stay along the red line of string taking him towards freedom. The wall offered little cover, and the sprinting people made his life much worse than he’d prefer.

He could barely breathe—the smoke filling the air beats his flimsy elbow defense. And it was obvious Wilbur was heavily struggling behind, hacking and coughing with a lingering rasp that had Tommy’s heart plunged with ice.

Actually, his veins felt cold. Very cold. He numbly recognized the feeling, and gave a weak middle finger to the wall that was half-hearted.

Tommy gets knocked to the ground; some lady, who was screeching like a banshee, had shoved him out of her way. Wilbur collapses with him, curled up and spitting out blood. Tommy hisses, whirling around on the ground and into a low crouch, on his knees.

The lady’s foot, by some fate of karma, got stuck between some discarded rock and hard metal– She hit the ground hard, panicked wails coming from her. And now the three of them were stuck huddled together, some cruel thing of fate laughing in their faces.

His head swivels to face Wilbur, the brunette’s eyes scarily hazy. Smoke inhalation was no joke, and Tommy has first-hand knowledge of this. They could pass out– Wilbur most likely first, with how the man barely recognized anything.

“Wilbur, I need you to give me permission to use my ability,” Tommy hurriedly spoke before grabbing the media specialist by his shoulders. He barely registered the command, looking blearily at Tommy—Panic burrowed in his eyes. “Wilbur!”

He gives the other a hard shake, with frustration and urgency. That seems to do a trick, because Wilbur shudders and finally, finally a sense of clearness coats his gaze. A bit scary, how quick he could slip into calm, but Tommy couldn’t say anything.

“I– With my given c- clearance, I grant Tom- Tomathy Innes permission to use his ability,” Wilbur gasps for the blackened air, choking on his words. Tommy doesn’t hear the rest of what he says, all he can see is Wilbur raising his wrist to his mouth–probably to record himself saying such.

He bites at his inner cheek, bouncing onto his feet yet keeping crouched. Tommy can just barely see a glimpse of the stairs, unharmed by any sort of bomb or fire. That was on purpose, then; any villain would’ve gone for the stairs first, to prevent any Heroes from entering and people leaving.

Meaning this wasn’t a Villain attack. A mole? He can’t worry about that! He sucks in a dirty breath when the Tower shakes again, and that’s his clue that at least some reinforcements have arrived. On the lower floors first, to stabilize the building.

No time, Tommy. No time!

“Defense switch!” Tommy shouts, his tone sharp and filled with.. something supernatural. Like a premature echo, and it was spinning, weaving together layers and layers of harmonies. His voice had the underlying feeling of a warble, so loud yet quiet at the same time.

Buzz.

The red energy guiding Tommy alone flickers, before zipping right into his heart. He squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling sharply as the feeling of a cold wind washes over him, and he somehow can feel the crimson energy morph into its counterpart.

Humming melodies fade away, the songs swirling within his heart as it melts into an opposite. The sounds of rushing water fills his ears, and his lungs breathe blue shapes: Ice in his veins transforms to lava in his lungs.

Behind Tommy, Wilbur stares in confusion and muted horror—A piece of the ceiling is falling, cracking from the metal supports damage. Tommy whips his head up, and throws his arms above right when the concrete crumbles and crashes down, the lady giving a terrified shriek.

CLANG!

Someone screams.

.

>> Tomathy Innes.

• Age: 20. A blonde young adult native to the Lower Levels. Details on him are scarce, just the basic Highschool Diploma and records of his parents—Currently on an indefinite business trip.

• Power: Energized Forcefield.
• Using energized atoms in the air and currents, he can solidify holographic presenting shields, of any size / velocity / shape. Depending on his skill, he could realistically coat himself in said shards of energy. 
• Requirements include needing a diet (To keep up with the demands), more focus, and activation. Any other requirements are unknown or unneeded to be written.

• Strength: Average. Height: 6’1. Dexterity: High. Speed: High. Endurance: Average. Training: Unknown.

• His abilities, while minutely impressive, have been recorded to be small and untrained, which is why he never was considered for a job within H.E.R.O.

• Infamous for his reputation within the Lower Levels. Is known as Theseus, simply as an endearing nickname by his community.

• Logstedchire Native, and was unpresent during the Pogtopia Revolution. The only time period where his papers seemingly have gaps.

• Records are up to date.

.

“Holy shit?!” Wilbur yells, eyes wide as he gawks, the rude woman from before on her knees praising whatever Deity she believes in. He’s propped himself on his hands behind him, staring at a light blue barrier—the only reason the lot of them are alive, currently.

The forcefield was made of tiny hexagons, so tightly woven it gave the feeling of Netherite. It wavered with a strength that made any sort of attack pale in comparison, if pressed close you’d hear whispers of tech. And it was currently shrouding their group, bathing them in sky blue, shaped as a hemisphere.

Tommy gives a sharp sound of strain, his hands that were crossed over his head trembling a little. He shook himself out, eyes hardening in pure stubborn spite. The sudden switch had his body reeling in whiplash, but it’s fine. It has to be fine.

Wilbur, seeming to get over his shock, looks at Tommy with concern, trying to catch his breath in order to check on the young adult. The lady gains a sort of awareness, folding in on herself as she blabbers apologies and gratitude.

The ceiling debris crumbles and falls to the sides, every touch against the forcefield sending small ripples across it. Tommy sighs deeply, flicking a wrist as the shield spots out, starting from the ground going up until it fully popped away. His body relaxes, only for a moment.

The soft cyan glow on his hands shimmers to a stop. He wastes no time to snatch Wilbur’s bicep, locking eyes with the stunned man.

“Just stick close to me, okay? I can get us out.”

Fuck, fuck fuck. I can’t ask for directions anymore—Fuck!

As a second thought, he makes a few tiny hexagons wrap around the sobbing mess of a woman’s wrist, connected to him by a thin yet sturdy leash.

“Come on!”

Tommy starts forward again, swiftly vaulting over any obstacle. He paused every now and then, helping Wilbur over and basically dragging both his allies. The stairs were just a ways away.

He can feel the smoke make a home in his lungs, and from the strangled sounds behind him the others aren’t doing much better. A quick glance around, and the fire roars just to their side. Thankfully far away enough for it to not be a problem.

Wilbur trips, catching himself harshly on his shoulder. Tommy yelps as he spins around, the weight of Wilbur’s arm gone from his grip. He reaches for the brunette, fingers just brushing his sleeve.

“Poor little birdies got lost from their nest..”

Stars burst into Tommy’s vision, as he’s sent hurtling backwards—Blue light tethering him to the lady snapping. 

He pulls his arms across his chest, and a forcefield decorates his back right when it crashes against a wall, effectively protecting him. He chokes on his tongue, feeling an unnatural weight pin him to the concrete, and a headache begin to form

He opens an instinctively closed eye, gasping and coughing up what he hopes isn’t blood. Wilbur was laying a little bit up ahead, clutching his stomach like he’d been kneed hard. Tommy tries to shout a warning, but nothing can leave his mouth. Fuck, that’s density shifting–

“Honestly, I thought this floor was cleared already. I suppose the Higher Ups wanted to give me some entertainment, then!”

Tommy pales, and a sudden nausea overwhelms him. Standing over Wilbur was a tall, imposing person, someone who Tommy can’t recognize at all. A trench coat, high collar, buttoned up shirt and straight pants, all black and ironed. Blood splattered everything. Soaked everything.

They look like the beginning of a superhero manga, Tommy thinks. Said Tommy writhes in his pinned place, cyan spasming around his hands but unable to form anything of use. Far away he hears weak crying from– Oh my Prime can she do anything but that?!

This definitely wasn’t a registered Villain. Whatever they were, they couldn’t be human. Their face was covered by almost costume-y goggles, ones that glimmered with a toxic green undertone. They wore long black gloves, one unnaturally long hand raised lazily.

“I must say, your silly trick with shields is very, very interesting.. you don’t look like a Trainee.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m n– ot, you prick!” Tommy rasps, almost gargling on his own spit with the effort it was to speak. Stupid pressure on nearly all of his body, he gives up straining to keep an eye on Wilbur.

In response to this, the newcomer hums. Somehow that sound is what sparks the girl from her catatonic state, and she scrambles a bit backward before hitting a collapsed wall.

Black trench coat person seems unimpressed, as they sigh long and loud. Their other hand comes out from within a pocket, spinning a short pistol like a dramatic flair.

“W– Wait wait wait- N- No pl–!”

A bullet in her head shuts her up quickly.

He doesn’t know if she screamed. Tommy can’t hear anything but the reverberations from the gunshot, loud and high-pitched. Thrumming like his speeding heartbeat. Her head wacks the ground, and she’s dead before it even touches.

But she was alive just two minutes ago. She was just there?

Tommy knows death personally.

He knows how death takes, and takes, and takes. There is no stopping the Reaper, no pausing the natural course of life ebbing. He understands death like he understands his powers. 

He understands that the lady was never going to survive. He convinces himself she was dead when the bomb went off. He lies to himself that it was just another dead person, like the tens that’ll be recorded tomorrow.

“Ah, collateral damage. I do hope you didn’t foster any relationships with this one,” The other pipes up, brandishing the weapon before slipping it back into some inner pocket.

Blood trickles in a small puddle around the lifeless raven-haired woman. Something in Tommy is cold, too cold, and he can’t hear much.

Death was such a repeated plotline.

They kick at her body, making a disgusted sound when it gives a final spasm. The killer strides forward, slowly, taking their time as they approach Tommy. “Now. I’m more than certain you are a bit more special than you’re letting on.”

Tommy wants to cry, he thinks. Fear, a familiar one, has his breaths coming in short, strained puffs.

“After all, a defense power? My my, where have you been hiding?”

“U– Up your ass.” Tommy hisses with such venom that has his own mind leaning back. He hopes Wilbur’s already ran, because Tommy can’t move his head to see if he did.

Mr. Murderer tilts their head mockingly, just a few steps away from the pinned blonde. “A rather vulgar way of talking, don’t you think?”

“Vulgar your mum, b– bitch!”

They give a disappointed tsk, and Tommy realizes that he can’t make out anything of the person. He can’t tell what their hair color is, or their skin tone, or even their build. It’s like it was warped, unknown, ungiven.

That’s no power, or ability. Tommy knows what can make that happen. Thing is, who gave them an artifact?

“Hm. I recognize you.”

Oh that is ten times more terrifying than the fact a corpse is bleeding out in front of him. His breathing nearly stops entirely, and he has to physically stop himself from screaming a very unprompted, ‘No you don’t!’

“Yes, yes I do… Oh how fun! That means we get to start impressions off with a chase!”

It takes all his willpower to not flinch. Distantly he can notice that feeling has returned to his hands, by proxy his arms as well. From how the other hasn’t made any expression that they’ve noticed, Tommy makes the assumption their powers have a timer. Maybe a limit.

Sweat dribbled down the side of his head, and his mask felt suffocating. He strains to see where he last saw Wilbur’s pained position, but the power was heavy on his head and torso specifically. Probably to prevent just that. Bastard, bastards all of you.

“I’d rath- rather not, actually,” Tommy tries to say, but with how his voice cracks it barely gets through. The figure cackles loudly, throwing their head back so far it had Tommy wincing.

Within, he can feel familiar hot atoms bubbling. His ability returning, the pressure lessening, and the familiar claws of hope sink into his soul. He just needs them to step closer, one more step.

“See, I don’t remember giving you a choice!” Tommy doesn’t focus on the singsong reply, only on the singular pointed boot stepping an inch closer. An inch is all he needed.

Step.

Tommy presses the soles of his shoes against the wall he was pinned to, his hands flipping and bracing him on it. Tensing himself, he pushes off the wall just as the density shifting goes away.

He pulls an arm in front of him, covering his face right when he splays open his hand, catching a glimpse of what he hopes is the other’s falling expression.

Azure colors burst into the air, popping and sizzling, warping and glittering. Tommy just barely sees the killer whip their pistol high, maybe to try and get rid of Tommy while they’re here.

The bullet ricochets off a forming shield, crackling apart as the cyan ripples once, twice in response. The energized atoms curl out tightly, almost acting on their own accord—Protecting Tommy with a fierce glow.

“You insignificant worm!” The Murderer cries, their constantly shifting form bending with what he can only know as rage. Tommy feels a sick grin pull at his lips, only the crinkling of his eyes giving away his tainted mirth.

Tommy’s energy surrounds, instead of himself, the opposing other. It encases them in a sturdy hemisphere, doing the opposite of what previously housed Tommy, Wilbur and– And her. No longer keeping dangers out, but one within.

He hits the ground, tucking his head and catching himself with a roll. The blonde manages to keep his arms in front of him, pushing himself up to a hunched standing position.

“Not all cocky now, h- huh?” Tommy manages with a half-smile, yet keeping up his newfound confidence. If you’re confident, you can do anything. If you’re smart, you can do everything.

His arms tremble, and the veins racing up his fingers, hands, forearms are pigmented a sickly ocean blue. Wisps of holographic-like light twirl around his hands, which are held in front of him like he’s pushing against something. Iron fills his taste buds.

He just needs to hold the field until backup. There has to be backup—The alarm system should have alerted at least multiple Heroes. And, y’know, H.E.R.O Tower. You’d think the government would catch a hint by now, right.

Even if help takes a bit too long, he can feel the weight of a panic button in his messenger bag. It’s an extreme final resort, but a resort nonetheless.

His trains of thought are derailed, though, by an increasingly furious villainous entity. They were banging their arms and hands on the light blue prison, causing sparks to fly and some atoms to make dangerous sounds.

Tommy’s eyes widen slightly, as he feels every hit make his hands jerk like it's personally harming him. If the guy keeps that up, eventually Tommy’s stamina will wear down. And he’d much rather have that not happen. At all, actually.

He shakes his head out sharply, even when a particularly nasty whack nearly causes him to lose his footing, an unconscious whine leaving him. He won’t last forever; nobody can. But he has a hell of a lot of endurance. At least—Hopefully enough to wear he won’t die before he gets to flip off a Hero.

Wait, should he flip one off? Can’t they like, jail him for that?

..actually I never looked into the whole laws and shit. That seems more like Purp’s sort of research.

Tommy really should. He really, really should.

I hate when you get ominous.

Just then, the sound of glass shattering and a fire being sizzled out interrupt Tommy’s bantering with his own mind. Said blonde scowls at the air, only minor relief settling into his posture. He can’t tear himself away from keeping the field up, because the minute he does it’s over.

There’s a presence near him. Tommy draws blood from his tongue, whirling his head around to try and bite open air as if that’ll ward off whoever snuck up on him. Despite nothing being there, his teeth latch onto something soft and flesh-like.

A very bitchy pained yell sounds out. Tommy’s blazing, ice-pigmented eyes widen like saucers, the unnatural glow fading out immediately. He releases, working his jaw as his gaze flickers between the shield and.. nothing?

“Oh fuck! Ow ow OW Ow FUCKING ASS–” A long string of curses escape thin air, before—Wilbur, in all his bald glory, materialized out of nowhere. Tommy physically does a double take, reeling back even though his movements are sluggish. Smoke inhaling, exertion, injuries, sore.

Then he remembers Wilbur’s secondary power. It clicks, and relief muddled with half-hearted annoyance brews.

“Fucking Prime dude, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Tommy yells, covering the way his shoulders loosened with a borderline scream. Said Wilbur cradles his hand to his heaving chest, hissing swears through gritted teeth.

“I wasn’t trying to!? Just needed to get your attenti–” Before Wilbur can finish his excuses, a crack splinters across the cyan hexagons. Tommy cries out, legs wobbling before he falls to his knee, gasps leaving his lips.

Wilbur's worry skyrockets, crouching beside Tommy to figure out wherever an injury could be. “Tommy?! Hey, hey what’s– What’s happening?” 

The bitch Tommy was keeping trapped laughs maniacally, ramming his shoulder hard into the energized walls over and over with a grating, psychotic mirth emanating from him.

Tommy coughs harshly, throat raspy and irritated. He was swaying, especially with the smog harming his lungs. No oxygen means a lot of horrible, bad possibilities. The dull whimper of pain isn’t helping his case.

“Need– Backup, now–” Tommy’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, but he doesn’t have enough energy to try and project. “That glass, was that..?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur affirms immediately with a shaky nod, hands hovering over Tommy like he wanted to help but doesn’t know how. “I found a distress signal, that was definitely P– Steelwing getting in.”

The rest of the apprehension melts from Tommy’s tired form, as he shakily pushes himself up. Wilbur cracks an amused smile.

“Am I not enough protection?” Wilbur tries to lighten the mood, even if the threat of Mr. Pistol Man was high and prominent. Every bang or slam had Tommy shaking a bit more, a bit harsher.

“I think you here makes me less safe,” Tommy grits, trying to give a half smile, but it looks more like a grimace. Wilbur helps Tommy with a cough-interrupted snicker.

“You wound me, Tommy.” He held his hand, with a reddening bite mark, to his chest dramatically.

“Ey, I s– saved your bald ass!”

“I AM NOT BALD.”

“Tell that to your– your receding hairline.”

It was only when a shadow fell over the two that Tommy tensed, already pulling one hand in order to summon sharp pentagons of tight energy, in consequence pushing Wilbur behind him.

“Woah, mate, at ease.”

He recoils a little, nearly bumping into Wilbur who was barely holding back a laugh. Tommy looks at his hand in horror, which had some twirling cyan shield bits—Poised to act both defensive and as a weapon.

Tommy wrings that hand out hurriedly, shooing the particles away with a fever that matched a crazed man. The Trenchcoat man, within his cage, seemed to have calmed down slightly. Or, err, just satiated for now. He still keeps one hand up, as a precaution.

“Steelwing?”

“Right here,” The Number 2 Hero replies, as if it were a casual conversation. His ink-dipped wings are held behind him as though he were a royal, tilted and curled loosely. All Tommy has to do is glance at a feather, and be reminded just how the crow masked Hero rose in ranks.

>> Steelwing: True identity unknown.

• Age: ~35. A blonde adult who holds the title of Number 2 Hero, clinging to the rank for a decade and a half. Most of his public recognition is positive, and he is one out of two Heroes who willingly patrol in lower levels.

• Powers: Wings of Death, Unknown.
• Steelwing, by birth, is an Elytrian Hybrid meaning he was always gifted wings. However, unlike his kin, he has the ability to sharpen any and every feather, and his wings are as durable as Netherite: Fireproof, rip proof, near everything proof.
• Requirements are unknown.

• He had a secret second ability. To the public eye, it is up for speculation.

• Strength: Below average. Height: 5’11. Dexterity: Above average. Speed: Extremely high. Endurance: Above average. Training: Complete.

• Steelwing is majorly famous for his kind spirit towards young ones, and his involvement with granting Pogtopians rights in higher Levels.

• He was the mentor to Warhead, and is widely recognized by his nickname, Angel of Death; Despite being a Hero. 

• Native to the Middle Levels, and rumors say he was originally a Vigilante publically named Zephyrus. This has not been proven in the slightest.

“Holy shit..” Tommy mumbles, feeling starstruck and amazed and awed all at once. Beside him, Wilbur rolled his eyes.

Steelwing, in all his Biggest Man Glory, stretches a single wing out; gently pressed to the back of Tommy and Wilbur. Ready to pull them out of harm's way at a moment's notice.

“I guess the forcefield is your doing, right?” Steelwing addresses Tommy personally, something akin to interest, and the teen adult thinks he could die peacefully right then and there.

“Y– Yeah, all me!” He responds a bit too quickly with a breathy smile, ducking his head to cough when smoke enters his lungs. Wilbur, wherever he was, was probably fighting to keep his giggles in check, making the tips of Tommy’s ears tinge with red.

Then a bit of panic sets into Tommy, as he makes his head fully face the older man, a bit of misplaced fear in his icy eyes. The realization that, holy shit, he’s using his ability—Which is completely illegal without clearance—In front of a freaking Hero. Not only that, Steelwing. Like it wasn’t already bad enough.

“I mean– Well, yes this is my– I swear I have permission!” Tommy stammers, waving his free hand at the forcefield while the other was decorated in a cyan glow. He almost looked cartoonish, with how he smiled awkwardly and sweat dribbled down his forehead.

Though, most could be blamed on the fact the trio were still within the H.E.R.O Tower. Which, by all accounts, was on fire. And bombed recently. Does Tommy have a concussion?

I did not hit my head THAT hard, dumbass.

…

..I’ll check later.

“I know, I know mate,” Steelwing soothes, the supporting wing giving a soft flap with his words. “I checked with Wil, and he’s cleared you on everything. No lawsuits here.”

Inwardly, Tommy gives a massive sigh of relief. He doesn’t exactly know what he’d do if he got caught breaking a law, borderline committing a felony. He might’ve just accepted his fate and waltzed right into Pandora’s right then and there. Cut the chase, if you know what he’s talking about. Dramatic, but you’re right so fuck you.

“See Tommy, if you ignore the homicidal maniac over there, pretty good all around!” Wilbur unhelpfully adds, going to sling an arm around Tommy gently, like they were friends.

He ends up on the floor, courtesy of Tommy ducking and sidestepping. The brunette yelps, groaning and rubbing his elbow that hit the ground hard. “Oookay, noted…”

Steelwing laughs, close to a wheeze, feathers rustling with his shoulder's shaking. Wilbur makes another offended noise, throwing up the middle finger at the Hero without even a single care. And thus, Tommy’s previous question was answered.

“Is the floor really stable?” Tommy finds himself asking, sparing a quick look around at the tamed fires and messy debris. It looked like absolute mayhem occured for days straight, all caused by a bomb and people panicked.

Beside him, Wilbur stands up swiftly, hands on hips following Tommy’s gaze with a wince. Steelwing shares the sentiment if the tighter bend of his wings was anything. “Pretty much. Powerscale is below looking at the supports, and Warhead already double checked for any other bombs.”

Tommy blinks a little, quickly reminding himself of the other Heroes and their powers. He’d love to ask his own for the info, but it was currently set to Defense. Which meant, sadly, he was stuck doing it the old fashioned way. You know, you can just go suck a dick alright.

As if on cue, the mole rams into the shield again, screeching something about rueing a day. Tommy doesn’t hear, because he feels black spots splatter his vision, his arms spasming as he fights to keep the forcefield standing.

The cyan flickers, giving a shudder but keeps strong. However, Tommy’s allies immediately become more concerned.

“Woah woah, mate, you’re pushing yourself!” Steelwing presses closer, curling the wing behind them to act as support. “How long can you typically hold a field up?”

“Depends,” Tommy grits, even with Wilbur on his right doing the hand-hovering thing again. “Usually, I’ll hold it for more than 10 minutes–”

Tommy winces, biting down a particularly bad cough. “But I think my energy’s run down, man. Bastard won’t give up.”

“I’ll make him, don’t worry,” The Hero nods, and Tommy can just see his eyes through the mask—resolved and icy. “You can let go, ‘kay?”

He sighs, long and loud, but inwardly he cheers happily. “Right, right.”

Tommy’s arms, which weren’t going to last much longer, go limp to his sides just as the glow fades and the energy twirling around them flickers off. Soon the forcefield follows suit, blinking and glitching out until nothing remains.

He can feel the ice in his veins calm, and his heart gets to smoothen out, but from how his vision isn’t cooperating he can dimly notice there’s something wrong. Was Wilbur shouting something?

Gravity takes hold of him, and the ground greets him with open arms.

—

When Tommy finally gets a hold of consciousness, he first notices a weird tingly feeling throughout his body. Like he was dipped in a pool of static electricity, then hung out to dry.

Next, he’s very, very energized, but his body is slow to respond. Kinda like he doesn’t know what to do with the extreme boost.

And last, he’s not the only one here—Wherever ‘here’ is.

“–iots! Just take him to a damn hospital!”

A British, Upper Level accent. Wilbur?

“We can’t,” someone muffled in the background stressed. “His I.D says he’s from the Lower Levels, and the nearest medical center that’ll accept him without documents is over an hour away!”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, what bloody law says that?!” Oh, Wilbah is angry. That’s a shame. “Forcing unnatural healing onto someone is one thing, not taking them to a fucking Hospital afterwards is a lawsuit waiting to happen!”

“Mr. Soot, I truly am sorry– but my hands are tied. I can’t do anymore than I already have.” Okay, a new person. Tommy recognizes it a little, but only by second hand hearing. “If I hadn’t healed him, he might’ve slipped into a coma.”

Oh. Was it that serious?

Fuck if I know.

“And so what, you’re just gonna leave him like this?” Wilbur hisses, and Tommy notices a pressure on his arm.

“If there was more I could do, strings I could pull, I promise you I would. But as of right now, Tomathy is better off going back home.”

Well, Tomathy would like it if they stopped talking about him like he wasn’t there.

He groans, blinking his eyes open before regretting it as he’s blinded. He snaps a hand up to cover his vision, as the other pushes him up slowly.

Tommy pauses a little. His eyes adjust to the newfound area, and lock onto a difference on his hand.

Some sort of lightning scar, curving around the back of his hand and looping around his wrist. It fades away jaggedly at his forearm. Tommy hums, examining it as the people notice he’s awake.

“Ah, Tomathy you’re–”

“Tommy!” Wilbur interrupts who Tommy suspects is his medic. “Tommy, are you okay? Do you feel well? Dear Prime, don’t just go limp like that!”

The blonde blinks dumbly. Now he can properly see a frazzled Wilbur who looks a bit worse for wear, but similar nonetheless. To the left of him stands a Hero. Tommy stiffens.

Medical Hero Pinok stands before him. He can’t even hold his gaze on them, before being forced to look away. The interesting thing about the Hero was that they were allowed an artifact.

The only Hero allowed one. Particularly because their only ability was that they could heal.. anything. It was extremely valuable, so obviously the government wouldn’t want their precious doctor harmed.

Thus the artifact. It was a Warding class, meaning it acted as a sort of repellent. You can’t linger on Pinok, lose track of them, and forget exactly what they look like the minute you lose sight.

It meant the Hero didn’t need a disguise, either.

“Hello, Tomathy,” Pinok smiles—At least, from the inflection in their voice. Tommy swallows, trying to direct his attention to the worrying Wilbur. “I see you’re doing a bit better.”

He shifts awkwardly, waving away Wilbur’s attempt to help him over the edge of the bed. He swings his legs over, able to move on his own.

“Yeah..” Tommy mumbles, kicking his feet a bit. Steelwing was the only Hero Tommy found he enjoyed, other than Warhead. Any other made him wary.

Uncomfortable.

“I’m glad. My healing can sometimes be.. unpredictable,” Pinok nods along to their words, walking around to the end of the cot and picking up a chart. “We moved you to this Federal police station just to keep an eye. Nothing of this will be charged, since you didn’t go to a government-issued Medical Center.”

Straight to the point, Pinok easily reassured Tommy. He physically relaxed once he knew the healing wouldn’t drain his extremely limited bank. But Wilbur didn’t seem all happy about this.

“Pinok,” Wilbur starts, a sneer to his voice.

“Wilbur.” The other firmly interrupts. “I cannot change our legislation as of right now. And right now, it says all hospitals have a right to ask for certain papers.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. He knew this. He probably knew this ever since he got a brain—That the government would give itself loophole after loophole.

Wilbur and Pinok seemed to glare at each other, but Pinok won by a large margin. And, Wilbur was just a media specialist. What could he do against a Ten Top Hero?

“Ooookay,” Tommy draws out the O sound, trying to immediately run from this tense stalemate. “Since that’s all fine and dandy, and I don’t got any more injuries, can I fuckin’ leave?”

Pinok faced him, and blinked, before giving a chuckle. “Well, I don’t have any reasons to keep you here. Make sure to contact a local Center if you experience migraines or nausea, since those can happen after my sort of healing.”

Tommy gives a mock salute, pushing at Wilbur’s shoulder to stop the man from biting another remark at the Hero. “Yeah, will do, man. Thanks for not letting me go into a coma.”

With the two of them tense, now knowing Tommy heard a bit of their previous argument, the young adult takes the opportunity to stand and wobble his way to the door. Ah, his bag! Lovely to see it in one piece.

“W– Wait, Tommy let me walk you–”

“Wilbah, if you touch me, I will remove your ankles.”

Immediately, the brunette yanks his hand back, pouting. “Fine, then, geez, you gremlin. Let me at least guide you to the waiting area.”

“Alrighty bitchboy, lead on.”

“I– Y’know, I’ll take what I can get.”

After the two of them wave a goodbye to Pinok, they’ve exited what Tommy learned was a examination medical room, typically used for injured people who still need to be watched by police.

Hopefully, the only reason they brought Tommy here was because it was closest.

Once they’re out of eyesight from the Medical Hero, Tommy releases a large breath. Wilbur notices with a sympathetic smile.

“Seeing Pinok in person for the first time is always really stressful,” Wilbur sighs, glancing over at the boy man. “I don’t even think I’m used to the whole artifact thing.”

Tommy shivers, nodding along. “I get the whole hidin’ them shtick, but fuck that was weird!”

“Trying waiting 2 hours with them,” Wilbur jokes, getting another shove on the shoulder for that one. “Hey, hey seriously! You were out for a while, dude.”

“Wait– what?!” Tommy whips to the side, wide-eyed. “I was out for two hours?!”

“Two and a half,” Wilbur clarified with a more solemn look. They've reached the end of the hallway. “When you collapsed, it took a bit before Pinok could get to you. Your overuse of your power, plus how bad your smoke inhalation was, well..”

Tommy can fill in the blanks, and he groans loudly. His roommate is going to actually murder him. Kill him where he stands. He doesn’t even have a will!

Yes I do, bitch????

He’s utterly doomed.

“Just– I need to head home,” Tommy follows Wilbur into a large lobby room. “It’s late and I think I might get killed by my roommate.”

“Oh, you have a roommate?” Wilbur asks, like a friendly conversation starter. Tommy’s glare is enough to ward him off.

Since they’re in the lobby room now, it just takes a bit to get Tommy over to the waiting area—A bunch of chairs lined against a wall, some office desks nearby, a reception, and the entry doors to the left.

Wilbur finally gets Tommy over to the chairs, shuffling on his feet. He opens his mouth a few times, like he wants to say something, but by the time Tommy’s sat down he abandons his original thought.

“You’ll have to wait to be dismissed, since you were a witness.” Wilbur stuffs his hands into his pockets. “But it’s not too big, you’ll just be handed some stuff and sent away once they process you through the system.”

Okay, so now he has homework once he gets home. Amazing.

“And you?” Tommy instinctually asks, tilting his head. Wilbur blinks, before realizing something and smiling.

“Since I’m in a high ranking within the Tower, I was put on priority for the system, so it got through me quicker. Plus I already gave a full statement, both to the police and press. I’m being sent on leave for the rest of the day.”

“Ah,” He nods, pursing his lips as he looks around the room once, twice. “Of course the bald bitches get freed first.”

“Okay all concern I had for you just vanished.”

“You know, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Wilbur laughs quietly, before turning to head to the doors. When he reaches them, he looks back.

“See you later, Tommy.”

And he leaves. Tommy hums softly, crossing his legs as he sinks into the chair. It was just how he said the words, how confidently he spoke of a future meeting, that Tommy believed he would see the brunette in the future.

What an odd, odd man. Tommy snickers a little, crossing his arms over his chest after adjusting his mask, fully intent on daydreaming the minutes away. He might be here for a bit.

.

Okay, thirty minutes wasn’t really a long bit, but a bit nonetheless.

Tommy hadn’t expected for the officers to release him so soon, yet here he was being handed discharge papers.

“We’ll contact you further if more evidence or important details are found,” The kind one spoke. She was the one who gave him the papers.

Now he was standing outside the station, blinking in the waning sun, basically night by now. On Level Four. Three hours since the Tower was somehow bombed from the inside. Three hours since he added a new death to the many he’s witnessed. Forty-five minutes since a new scar was added to his list.

Well. He supposes this sure is a way to go home.

It isn’t long before Tommy is able to find another bus stop, plopping himself down on the pristine bench as he hums distractedly. For someone who just went through what most would regard as a traumatic event, he seems perfectly fine.

Death is a repeated plotline.

His fingers drum along his phone, the black screen showing his warped reflection. He scowls at it, clicking the phone on as he tries to busy himself. He decides to do so by ignoring the long stream of missed messages from his roommate, and instead starts a new conversation.

tom the innes < hey

tom the innes < hey

tom the innes < heyyyyy

tom the innes < h eyy

tom the innes < hey!

tom the innes < heeey!!!

tom the innes < hey

Tommy snickers, pausing another batch of the spammed message when a tiny wheel starts spinning on the screen—indicating someone else is typing a response.

colored bitch > Ok so you answer me NOW you fucking dick

tom the innes < i do not care

tom the innes < anyways

colored bitch > ???

tom the innes < ANYWAYS r u at the lowers rn

colored bitch > Yeah? got back from errands a while ago

colored bitch > Going to that costume party in 5

That makes Tommy pause. Ah, codes, his favorite way of communicating. It wasn’t hard to decipher, nor did it make him any less anxious.

tom the innes < wait now?

tom the innes < wdym now

tom the innes < fuck wait check the news il be at home 2 sec rq

colored bitch > Sure, ok, completely understood you and your horrible grammar

tom the innes < STFU YOUR DPELLING WASSHIT LIKE TTWO MONTHS AGO

He furiously closes his phone and shoves it into his pocket, yanking his messenger bag up and around his shoulder right when the bus comes rolling in.

It isn’t long before he enters the vehicle, sliding over to a window seat, almost in an exact parallel to the afternoon’s bus ride. Tommy’s leg bounces, and he mutters an insult to nobody. He wouldn’t tell anybody this, not even at threat of death, but the minute he’s able he clicks on the location for the person he was talking to.

To keep watch, or to protect. He doesn’t know. If he ignores the lifeless eyes of the lady in the Tower staring at him when he closes his own, maybe he’ll catch a nap.

–

colored bitch > WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU BLEW UP THE HERO TOWER?!

colored bitch > ANSWER ME TOMMY OR I SWEAR TO ALL THE DEITIES I WILL KILL YOU THEN KILL YOU AHAIN

20+ messages from: Colored bitch.

11 missed calls from: Colored bitch.

–

Yesterday, he said, ‘That’s future Purpled’s problem! Right now, I have bigger things to worry about.’

Well. Future Purpled currently wants to strangle his past self, if not for the blatant asshole move but for forcing him to deal with this. Currently being said Future Purpled. Prime he hates the future.

See, yesterday he had an entire thing. He got fired from his job due to the place going into bankruptcy — Big tip, do not work at the sketchy library that has an odd basement — so he lost his own source of income, which meant he and his roommate had to find at least one legal method of getting cash quickly. 

Past Purpled decided to leave Future Purpled with that responsibility. Which is the reason for his fury, currently, at least.

Now that it was tomorrow, Purpled was planning on doing the typical errands to at least keep the remnants of a schedule, though that was hard when money was tight. A look at their freezer showed that much—Which turned the job-hunting day into a finding-food day. 

So what if he completely forgot about that certain responsibility while on the prowl for any sort of store that takes less than fifty credits? He’ll make his roommate find a job, or something.

But.. his roommate was not at the apartment when Purpled came home from the short grocery run. When he reasonably asked where the FUCK he was, he politely got completely ghosted, save for the read receipt. So that’s reason number two for the shitty days olympic winner.

Reason number three? When his roommate finally answered him, he told Purpled to check the news. Which, coming from Mr. Tomathy Danger Innes, was absolutely horrible and Purpled should’ve just tied him up and locked him in the apartment.

Because what do you mean check the news, and the first thing he sees is the H.E.R.O Tower blown up? What do you mean that the President of Manburg situated a minor curfew due to an act of terrorism so severe it’s impacted all Levels?

Now, obviously Tommy couldn’t have done this. The Tower is all the way on Level One. Their goal apartment is smack in the middle of Level Fourteen, which last he checked was over 60 miles separate. Plus, despite the blonde's fiery nature, Purpled knew him like the back of his hand, and in no way would he try to do something this insanely stupid. In all senses, it was impossible for Tommy to be even related to this completely unfathomable event.

So seeing a familiar figure dressed in a signature cyan jacket walk out the front doors of a burning building with multiple Heroes and nationwide press around quite literally being broadcasted to live fucking television?

Well. Purpled thinks he deserves at least a minor crashout. Safe to say that the living room chair—One that has been pieced back together for the umpteenth time—Currently lays in pieces.

Purpled pulls at his hair, inhaling harshly as he tries to reel himself back in. Not once has Tommy replied to his…Less than savory texts. He hasn’t even read them, which is not helping his anxiety right now given the shorter blonde isn’t in the fucking house.

They have a rule. Two, specifically.

Tell each other everything; Crimes don’t matter, they’re both technically illegal by Manburg standards, murder will be talked about, the main stuff. In any situation, whether it be as small as where they are or where they’re going, or as big as something that could affect the entire world, they tell each other everything.

And number two, always read your messages. Yes you can ignore them, but read. the fucking messages. It was a subconscious habit the two of them got into, and it was one that was extremely rarely broken. It meant the other was safe, just busy if they didn’t respond immediately.

The two of them tended to reply to messages quickly. Startling quickly, even when they were debating harshly. So even then it was rare for a message spree to go unanswered past a good 10 minutes.

Now. Compiling all of this into one grotesque, horrid burger of his troubles today, his anger could probably be worse! After all, he could just go track his roommate down, kill him, go to hell, bring him back, then kill him again, but he’s merciful.

He’ll wait for Tommy to get back home.

As Purpled began to pace, hard enough to burn a hole within the creaky wood, he had to resist the urge to toss his communicator out the window. This entire spiral has been going on for roughly half an hour, which is nowhere near the record-holder of 5 hours and 47 minutes.

He still wonders if Tommy is okay after that, but any thought of Tommy right now has him seething and wishing it was allowed to murder your best friend.

Just then, Purpled’s ear flicks. Slowly — as if he’s having to pull himself from his homicidal plotting — he slows down. Pauses in his next bout of less than happy spam texts, and tilts his head to the door, where he hears something outside.

The footsteps are barely audible; not the neighbors then. Absolutely not the landlord, the soft thumps aren’t like their long strides. One double check, and Purpled rules out any other person he knows. And the closer they get, the more it sounds like the source of his problems.

He subconsciously finds himself going to the door, slipping out his switchblade from his purple sleeve. Now he can make out a sort of muffled chattering, as if someone were cursing at themself, and the jingle of a frantic search for keys. Violet eyes narrow, and antennae curl in apprehension.

It doesn’t take him much effort to press against the wall beside the door; easily bent under the rusty coat hook, with his eyes tracing the little gap under the doorframe.

And, Tommy is none the wiser as the telltale noise of a key entering a lock sounds out, jiggling it a bit before he hits the door hard—The only actual way to get it open.

He doesn’t even get a chance to glimpse into the apartment before a certain alien hybrid pounces, slamming them both to the ground with a knee on Tommy’s chest. The blonde shrieks, terror drowning his eyes as he realizes quickly what’s happened and falls silent.

Tommy opens his scarred mouth, maybe to plead for mercy, but Purpled always beats him to the punch.

“What the FUCK have you been DOING WHILE I WAS GONE?!” A scream leaves him, and his hands shake Tommy’s shoulders violently. The boy blanches, wincing with the volume.

“I didn’t mean to!! I swear I was only there for an interview–”

“A FUCKING INTERVIEW?!”

He swallows, giving this sheepish shrug that makes Purpled’s eye twitch. “If I say I don’t know either, would you believe me?”

Yes. Yes he would, because that sentence is so Tommy-like it makes the bloodlust die down only enough for him to still be allowed to breathe.

“You..” Purpled inhales sharply, and the knee increases in pressure much to Tommy’s dismay. “You idiotic, stupid, small-brained slow–”

Later, when the two roommates migrated into the apartment, they got a call from the nearly broken-down landline on the wall; A typical noise complaint.

Tommy was currently stationed on the couch, sitting upright and looking like he was seconds from melting into the floor never to be seen again. Whenever Purpled glared in his direction, he shuddered and ducked his head.

Purpled sighs, long and loud, walking over to sit unceremoniously on the creaky coffee table.

“So. I just– wanna recap,” Purpled holds his hands together, staring at them like they’ll explain this nonsense. “Not only did you leave while I was gone, without telling me, you went all the way to Level One, applied for an internship, had an interview with someone named Willow–”

“Wilbitch.” An interruption from the increasingly embarrassed Tomathy Innes.

“Wilbur,” Purpled grits, “Then was a witness of a terrorist attack on the same floor, got caught by the terrorist, then he tells you he recognizes you, you trap him, and none other than Steelwing descends and saves your ass?”

For a moment, the place is shockingly silent save for ambient sound.

“..You’re missing how I was recorded into the Upper Police database.”

“Ah, yeah,” Purpled smiles and there is no joy in his eyes. “My mistake.”

Tommy gives a large exhale, pulling his legs up to get back to sitting comfortably. Despite the ongoing lecture, he seems to have recovered from the initial attack from his best friend.

Purpled, however, is trying to reign in his urge to remove Tommy from the living population.

“Just– Did you figure out why your power wanted you over there?” He falls into the couch, looking more tired than anything. “Like– ‘cause out of the many job opportunities I’d think Hero Tower intern is pretty out there.”

“Nope,” Tommy pops the P, leaning back. “All I got ‘s maybe it knew the bomb was gonna happen."

That makes a sort of sense, Purpled vaguely recognizes that Tommy’s ability could function like so. But the only worrying part was that the last time Tommy’s lovely power made him do something without explaining, Purpled ended up as his roommate and half of Life Street blown to bits.

It could be nothing. It could be that Tommy’s power subconsciously picked up the feeling something was wrong, and sent Tommy to sort it out. It could just be as simple as that, with nothing new coming from this.

Oh what the fuck am I talking about. This is the end.

“Okay, so, I have an emergency fund, and I’m positive that the nearest airport should take last minute flights– you have your bag right?”

“Wh? Purpled, wait–”

“Of course you do, why am I asking—I might have to call in a few favors but we can be out of the country in half an hour.” Purpled’s already brought up flight scheduling on his phone, rapidly scrolling. “Ah fuck, cheapest place is America.”

“We’re not goin’ to fuckin’ America!?” Tommy incredulously squeaks, waving his hands to get Purpled’s attention with his nose scrunched.

“You’re right. Too bigoted.”

“Well– Yes, but–”

“How about Canada? That’s far enough, and the flight isn’t too bad, I think there’s one leaving today.. let me go get our things.”

“PURPLED.”

The non-human shouts, panting a little as he grabs Purpled’s shoulders. The other in question startles a bit and finally quiets down enough for Tommy to speak.

“We are not leaving Manburg,” He starts with, making sure the other keeps eye contact. “And we don’t need to fuckin’ panic, ‘right?”

Purpled blinks a bit, as if taking in what his roommate was saying.

“Sure, all that shit happened, and maybe my ability could be bringing me to some fuckass moral-damaging thing, but it’s not too bad.” He narrows his eyes at that, disbelief written all over his expression.

As if backing him up, the TV that Purpled had left on pipes up. “Now in other news, the media have been leaving questions left and right on who that mysterious blonde was! He was last seen with Steelwing at the Level One federal station!”

Tommy, now a statue, feels sweat drip down the side of his face. “That’s not bad, I already explained that part to you!”

“But, insider information tells us that the young adult was on the same floor as the Tower Bombing, and is the reason famed SBI Media Specialist Wilbur Soot is alive. Here’s an on site statement–”

Purpled slowly turns his head to the TV. He physically feels Tommy think of at least 10 new curse words.

“Oh,” A new voice is introduced, and now there’s a brunette on screen. He wears glasses, there’s ash on his face, and he’s in front of the Tower with a fire blanket on his shoulders. “Hello?”

“Could you explain who was that man who was with you?” Ah, an interviewer. Purpled can’t deny how the screen had his rapt attention. “I mean, he definitely doesn’t look like he’d work here!”

Tommy scowls, and Purpled nudges him subconsciously.

“Oh, Tommy?” Wilbur tilts his head, but Purpled can see the glint in his eyes. That man knows what he’s doing. “Ah, he’s someone I was interviewing at the time. I wouldn’t be alive right now if he didn’t save me with those forcefields of his.”

“Forcefields?” Both roommates stiffen, and their hands find each other tightly. “You mean he used his power?”

“Yeah, his ability kept me safe. I owe him my life,” And Wilbur seems genuine, his eyes flicking to the camera for only a second. “Even though I knew him only for a few minutes, he still protected me.”

Purpled glances at Tommy, who doesn’t meet his question.

“Anything else you can share with the media?”

“No.” The instant response causes both of them to blink in surprise. “Everything else is between Tommy, me, and any Heroes who were a part of rescuing us. That’s all.”

The interviewer apparently can take a hint, because they pull the camera to face themself now, giving some sort of comment and returning the screentime to the HQ of the news outlet.

Once Purpled finally tears his focus from the blabbering News, he faces Tommy fully with a Look™️. Tommy gulps, but keeps his hand within Purpled’s.

“...not bad?” The alien whispers, and Tommy slightly sort of kinda thinks he may be a dead man standing.

“Well! It could be worse?”

He inhales, and bites his tongue. He cares about Tommy. He cares about Tommy. He cares about Tommy.

His free hand comes up to rub at his forehead, trying to ward away the headache forming. Okay, new rule. Rule three. Tommy is no longer allowed alone. Ever. Ever ever.

“Tommy I hate you.”

“Love you too Purps.”

–

A few hours later..

–

“Hey, you think I could still get the job?”

“Absolutely not. If you even manage to score it.”

“But–”

“Tommy.”

“Yeah that’s fair.”

A pause.

“..Hey Purpled, where’s the chair?”

“Oh that’s what I forgot.”

Chapter Text

“Hey Purps, you’ve got a mugging down a few blocks. Care to deal with that?”

“Oh gee, Tom. It’s like that’s my job.”

“You know– sometimes I feel severely under-appreciated here. I will file a complaint to HR.”

Tommy grins maniacally at the long sigh over the comm line. He spins in the spinny chair, leaning against the back of it.

“Can I pay you to shut up.” A crackle of static shows Tommy that his friend is on the move.

“But Purpled, that’s my charm! It’s how we became friends!”

“Don’t remind me,” The other grumbles, wind in the background making his voice slightly muffled. “One of the worst decisions of my life.”

“Wowwwwww. Ok then. Guess you don’t wanna know how many bastards there are.”

Silence over the line. Tommy whistles absentmindedly, typing a few nonsense things into the keyboard.

“I seriously don’t know why I chose you as my help.” Tommy snickers as Purpled continues to complain. “You just make my life extremely difficult.”

“That doesn’t sound like an apology, big man.”

He feels minutely victorious when he hears Purpled snipe curses and swears. “....I. Am sorry. That I called your friendship as one of my worst decisions.”

“Thank you,” Tommy smugly nods, bringing up a camera view on another monitor.

“I was wrong for that. My actual worst decision was meeting you.”

“Okay first kill yourself, and second—”

“Cancelled. Canceling on twitter. You just told me to kill myself you’re getting cancelled.”

“You don’t HAVE twitter you DELETED it after I demolished you in an argument!”

“I won that debate and you fucking know it—”

“Oh my Prime!” Tommy swears, throwing his hands up as Purpled laughs over the comms. He focuses his newfound hatred on organizing all the camera footage he got access to.

Tommy, as of that moment, was situated in some odd, rundown warehouse small enough to not echo. There were obvious signs of life there; bean bag chairs, cool chairs, a mini fridge that actually works, and a plethora of other miniscule things from everyday life.

It acted as a tiny hideout. The windows were barred shut, the only entry point being two doors at the front easily locked with this big metal pole stuffed within the handles. 

Tommy scowls at the screens in front of him, and if you looked closer it was like he was currently listening into police chatter.

Fuck you, can’t you leave me alone for a DAY?

No response from his power.

There were 3 blinking monitors in front of him, all with a mess of wires connecting together and to an encrypted PC. Purpled had commissioned it by some tech-savvy friend he used to have. The charge was only a favor, which Tommy heard he’s already paid.

Tommy has his own favors he’s owed, but that’s not important. He’s too focused on making sure he’s at the right place with his bird eyes.

“Tom, how many guys did you say were there again?” Purpled’s voice drags him back from his spiraling frustration, and he shakes his head out.

“Uh, lemme double check–” Tommy’s fingers fly across a discounted keyboard, and one of the monitors lights up with a thermal filter. “Three, four if you include the one by what’s a getaway car.”

Geez, all that for a mugging? Tommy mutters in thought, scrunching his nose. On Level 12, too. Damn. More like a robbery at that point.

“To my right, right?” Tommy giggles at the play on words, before humming his affirmation. “Anything else to let me know before I go in?”

“Mmmm, don’t fuck up?”

“Great. Thanks for the confidence dipshit.”

“You asked!” He defends himself, flipping the bird at some wall. When he spots a new dot on the screen, most likely Purpled, he yawns and switches the view to watch Purpled’s back.

Watching his best friend work was always interesting to him. Especially since Purpled looked nothing like his usual self. It was the gimmick, for his vigilante persona.

Never look the same twice. Not even his voice was the same — This patrol, he went for a sort of dry humor sort. Never fails to make Tommy wince.

But the gimmick stays. Or, at least until everyone forgets a look. Then you can use it again.

The only staple was that damned veil..

{Hum.}

…

Okay, well that’s not ominous at all.

{More, impatient humming.}

Tommy, albeit slowly, reaches and snatches his black face mask off the side of the desk. While he hears the familiar sounds of Purpled obliterating those poor souls, he tugs it on and settles back into his chair.

Though now he’s a bit more tense. He hadn’t asked his ability to do anything, it asked him of its own volition. Therefore there was a reason. And usually it can never be a good one.

Example given; the Hero Tower Bombing.

Maybe it could be something to do with Purpled? Tommy frowns deeper, quickly scooting forward in the chair and presses his comms back on.

“Purpled?” He makes his voice known, not fazed by the distant, muffled sound of people grunting and crying out.

A loud smack reverberates in Tommy’s ears. Purpled then clicks his mic on. “Yeah Tom? Bit busy.”

“My power just told me to put my mask on,” He cuts to the chase. It comes so easily, the information. 

Purpled is… probably the only one who knows everything about Tommy.

Everything. From powers, to his past in Pogtopia, to the now. Tommy flinches at the mention of his old nation. If there was anyone he’d ever call his best friend, it’s Purpled.

“Your mask?” That draws Purpled’s attention. A punch and a kick can be heard over the line. “But you’re alone.”

“Yeah,” he affirms, but glances around just in case. “That’s the weird part. Didn’t detect anything ‘round me.”

There’s a break in conversation, with Tommy skimming over the words and videos on the monitor. His job as Purpled’s eyes and ears was much more than stimulating.

“So you think it’s bigger than usual?”

Tommy can’t answer to begin with, as he gives a double check to his cameras around the warehouse. He responds after soothing his paranoia.

“..maybe. I mean, weird time for it to happen. Neutral Switch usually only detects for me. Keeping me safe, which is why this is bothering me.”

Lifestreet was the exception. And now, Tower Bombing too.

He’s noticing a bad pattern.

“Well.. I’m mostly finished here. Think I’ll tie the rest of ‘em up and head back–”

Tommy’s eyes widened a little when he clicked back to watching Purpled. That’s a different heat signature. That wasn’t there before.

That was an extra person. That was a new person.

“Vanish,” He says, and his voice is tight. The codename makes a hitch of breath register over the comms. “I think you have a guest.”

Crap. Crap, crap crap. There were no reports logged into the police database of any patrol cars around that area, Tommy double checked. That couldn’t be an officer.

So it’s definitely not law enforcement– probably not a random civilian either. Normal people bolt at the sight of a vigilante knocking out muggers

“I see that, Jukebox.” His friend replies with a guarded tone.

Oh fuck fuck fuck Purpled could see them too. Tommy was standing from the chair now, swiping the screen from thermal back to regular view, switching camera views to peek into what was happening.

No heroes patrol Levels 12 and under. That was common knowledge—So common even the damn government actively knew this. Did they do anything about it? Fuck no!

Everyone thought those Levels could handle themselves. Thought that since there were a couple of Police Bases around the parts, the crime rates didn’t super matter, because they were lower than expected—no need for Hero intervention.

Except it’s not the Police doing that. Take a wild guess as to who is.

Purpled was using Tommy’s code name, and sure the blonde could dismiss it as a response to his own use of the others, but the way he said it.. It had Tommy tensely gripping the edge of the desk, hunting for any sign of a new presence.

It was just Purpled, save for the four goons he had beaten up minutes prior. It was unsettling. Like it was wrong, but Tommy couldn’t shake it. 

He was glaring at a spot outside what looked to be an open alleyway. A dark spot, and Tommy doesn’t have to check to know that’s where the new dot is. He just can’t see it. Or them.

“ — —ude, — license—, —?”

Tommy knows Purpled’s heart dropped ten feet right that second, because his heart did. He can’t think straight– He can’t really think. This shouldn’t be happening.

He double checked. He triple checked. No patrols, no outings, not even the dark side of the internet mentioned any Heroes going farther than Level 9. This can’t be real, or it is and Purpled isn’t the only one breaking a law.

A law, or two, or multiple. Disobeying government orders, probable ability abuse to straight up violating jurisdiction from Higher Authorities is serious. What the fuck was this guy doing?

“Not often you see certain people in these parts,” Purpled breaks Tommy’s spiral, and he can hear how the other was purposefully making his voice pointed and loud. “Especially a gold-heart like you.”

Even Tommy winced at the insult, said with such toxic sincerity it had him tensing. His ears rang with static, his focus entirely on the one side of the conversation he could hear. “You know this is definitely breaking a law, right?”

He needs a name. He needs at least some form of identifying who’s the straggler—if not for trying to find out weaknesses, then to at least know just how screwed Purpled was.

Tommy grits his teeth, noticing the opposing dot shift, shuffling slowly towards Purpled’s violet one. He hears a hitch, and a scoff. “Dude, thought you were much more talkative, Warhead.”

Warhead? What the actual fuck? What? What??

“Vanish, Vanish there’s a blind spot around your left, with the fire escape.” Now he’s much more panicked than he was ten seconds ago, holding a hand up to his earpiece; voice changer a precaution. “If you get to the fire escape and get up–“

“So you’re the infamous Jukebox.”

Tommy’s heart stops. He thinks he can imagine Purpled blanch.

The War Hero’s voice rang in both their ears.

“I thought Powerscale was pulling my leg, what with his new toy that can leach into nearby comms.” The voice is affected and pitched, deep and horribly monotone. “Guess I owe Pinok a couple of reports.”

“What the fuck..” He whispered, before hurriedly trying to go back to the cameras. Curses were flung from his mouth, each more violent than the last. 

He should’ve upped the security on their communication line. He should’ve upgraded that stupid, stupid firewall.

As a sort of discounted panic button, he mutes himself and disconnects his audio from the comm line. Making sure Purpled still came through, but that Tommy couldn’t be heard. At all. Even by his partner in crime.

Purpled– Vanish makes a sort of contemplative sound, sounding a bit choked over the line. “Nice job at dodging my question. You’re not allowed out here, right?”

“Are you?” Oh it is so weird to hear Warhead, of all Heroes, in his ear . “I mean, last I checked, vigilantism is a felony. Unless you’re goin’ to some really weird costume party.”

There’s the sound of somebody being kicked. “..with unconscious bodies of a coupl’a muggers.”

“Says the one disobeying government orders.”

“We both know that doesn’t matter here.”

Oh, Tommy numbly realizes. This is why I was told to put my mask on.

Purpled can’t get away by himself. He’ll get arrested, and turned in.

I can’t let that happen.

“Seriously, are you really not gonna answer me straight?” Vanish hisses, stepping backwards again, at least from Tommy’s messy view of the camera. “This really seems hypocritical.”

“What’s hypocritical is your existence,” The immediate counter has Tommy’s lip curling in a snarl. “Vigilantes preach being uncorrupt, but I’ve seen what your limited records show, Vanish.”

He watches as Warhead flickers in and out of camera visibility, occasionally catching glimpses of pink hair flitting in threads or the sheen of a Netherite axe. That’s not like any of his documented abilities—That doesn’t feel like an ability at all.

And maybe he is focusing on the other details rather than the conversation. Maybe the distraction helps.

“You’d put down a family if you got a high enough boon from it, wouldn’t you?”

Tommy wishes he could warn Vanish, that he could reassure him he would be there, but anything he could say would tip off the bloodied Hero. So he sets off the emergency shut-off procedure, whipping around without sparing a glance at the blackening monitors.

He’s grabbed a hoodie, reaching for a spare bag when the comms crackle again. “What would you do for safety, Warhead?”

Without the cameras nor his eyes in the sky, Tommy doesn’t know how Mister Gold-heart reacts. He doesn’t even know what he says, because he says nothing.

Yet he can assume how Vanish feels and looks. Behind his identity. Boiling until the pot his emotions are in cracks in half.

“What about for someone?” Vanish keeps going, and Tommy– Jukebox takes that as an appropriate time to scurry off, rushing to the bolted doors. “If someone had a gun to your family’s head, wouldn’t you do anything to stop ‘em from pulling the trigger?”

He throws the doors open, a bag slung on his back, hood pulled over his eyes.

Two minutes, Purpled.

Just two minutes.

—

—

“Again, Vanish, just show me a license of any sort, and I can leave you be.”

Purpled would’ve liked to have a nice night. Like the typical one; Going out to prevent the death tolls rising too high, mock Tommy yet again for his horrible jokes, get home, watch a movie with the insufferable blonde, sleep.

An amazing routine, one he’s grown used to in the past month. And given one of his main professions, it was rare for him to get such a blessing.

He doesn’t remember the last time he felt so secure within a place of living. Or when the last time was where he didn’t have to watch his back—Because Tommy would. And he trusts him full heartedly.

“Okay yeah let me just pull it outta my ass.” Now, if this were any other hero, Purpled (Known as Vanish, currently) would’ve been behind bars before he could blink.

But, this was Warhead. Famously known as the first Pogtopian accepted into the Youth Organization for Underdeveloped abilities Thorough Heroism.

..known as Y.O.U.T.H. Or better yet, the ‘we make it legal!’ children kidnapping program originating from the government. Who woulda thunk it?

“C’mon, kid,” Warhead starts again, dragging a jewelry adorned hand down his face, “Couldn’t you at least fake an I.D or persuade me? You’re killin’ me here.”

“And you’d believe me?”

“No.” The instant answer makes Vanish blow a breath. “But the effort counts– Or, would count. At least then you could argue your way out of Pandora’s.”

Vanish curls a lip, even if the other can’t see. His entire face is shrouded under a thick purple veil, clipped to a swirling deep purple headband—looped around his head. His hair, looking oddly natural, is a dark black, poking out at odd angles.

But wasn’t he blonde last–

“Disappointing,” Vanish mutters. He kicks a rock as if to demonstrate that. “And here I thought we’d’ve agreed this government needed changing.”

That definitely causes a reaction. The imposing hybrid startles a little, and from behind the sharp, dead boar's mask, his blood red eyes narrow. Score.

“Or, what? They beat the reason we stood up outta you?” He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but damn it all, he’s pissed now. And yet the only thing close to violence he rises out of Warhead is a shuffle.

The Hero purses his lips, hard when tusks protrude in an upward direction. Warhead shrugs a shoulder, jostling his flourished cape, gold decor tinkling in the moonlight.

“..You're a Pogtopian?” He steps a more hesitant step closer. Vanish wants to rip that mask off his face. His heavy black hunters jacket feels like its holding him in place.

This time, he was tall. Maybe 6’1. Lanky but muscle in his legs. The last patrol he was on he had red hair with a short statue.

Constant confusion was his strong suit.

“The vibe didn’t give it away?” He responds instead, cringing at how his back hits the brick wall. “Or maybe– Maybe how I stick around Lower Levels? Think I do it for show?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Warhead mutters. He rolls the Netherite axe in his hand, as if it were a plastic toy. “Garner pity points, save a couple of souls, get home publicly loved. Solid plan.”

Vanish really wants to punch this dude. Is that how he sees him? Seriously? So much for leaving his old merc job.

He really wants to punch him.

Warhead seems to notice how insensitive his words were, because he attempts to backpedal. “That doesn’t mean I think you’re only–”

“Don’t even,” Vanish snarls—thankful for the veil shielding his face. “You made your point. The only thing I’m sorry for is seeing how far you’ve fallen.”

He half hopes Jukebox is still listening in. The selfless part in him hopes Jukebox disconnected before this part in the conversation. Warhead’s almost on the same esteemed level as Steelwing.

Or, was.

Luckily the harsh tone from Vanish tells Warhead to back off. He stops approaching the caged animal, instead holding his axe slightly behind him while the other hand raises placatingly.

It doesn’t achieve the intended effect. It just makes Vanish want to sock the Hero even more.

“I still gotta arrest you,” Warhead's warped voice has Vanish scoffing. It's surrounded with pauses. “Sorta in my job description, ya’know?”

Vanish’s eyes flit to the side, then behind Warhead where there was the opening of the alley.

“I know what that means for me.” He hates sugar coating. He knows he’ll be tried for improper use of abilities, a bajillion other crimes and charges, then plopped into Pandora’s pretty little box.

He shifts on his feet, once, twice. His powers aren’t typical. They won’t help him get out of this unscathed. Maybe give him a fighting chance, but that’s against a typical Hero.

Warhead is not a typical Hero. He’s a Piglin Brute hybrid. The opposite of typical. A lot of things here are not typical.

But the Hero could snap Vanish in half, like a brittle twig in autumn. Vanish prefers not being bent the opposite way, spine obliterated. Which means he either pulls a miracle out of his ass or he lets Jukebox find his will.

“I am sorry,” Warhead says, and his axe is brought up into a defensive lay. “You did seem like one of the okay ones.”

Vanish feels something sick curdle in his stomach.

“You’re one of the.. okay ones. That’s better than a lot of people could say.” A younger Purpled smiles at the compliment. He’s holding a baton, still a novice. “Keep like that. Don’t let them take it.”

He remembers the long hair in the wind. A violin. Swords. A brother to a friend, almost a brother of his own. Kind, if blunt. He was important. His words were important.

That person has been long gone. Vanish grits his fangs, still uncomfortable by his lack of antennae. Falls into a boxing stance. He eyes the Hero from between his hands. He makes a flimsy prayer to Prime when he sees the other tense.

Pitter patter pitter THUD SLAM!

A trash can lid crashes against Warhead’s.. head. He grunts, blood red eyes widening before he folds in on himself, clutching the side of his head.

Vanish blinks rapidly, for a second looking at his hands with a dazed expression. Prime?

“No– Bitch, that’s your thanks?!” Another voice manages to speak up. It’s a bit crackled through a voice changer, but a stabbing familiar one.

He snaps his gaze behind Warhead, to the right. Another person, with a dark red hoodie and loose black pants. He was gasping for air with a hospital dark colored mask, the hood pulled over his eyes.

(If Purpled wasn’t so blinded by a sudden surge of adrenaline, he would’ve noticed the odd color of the mask. Like Tommy had dipped it into a bucket of random paints.

Effectively disguising it. His hoodie was a startling pink, too, looking tie-dyed with other colors.)

In general, looking like he moved heaven and hell to get here. Vanish can’t tell if he wants to go limp with relief or punch a wall in frustration.

“T– Jukebox?”  He whispers incredulously, eyeing Warhead’s temporarily subdued body before rushing around to crash into his best friend. “Holy– Holy Prime , what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Jukebox, infamously known as the Unknown vigilante, laughs before hugging Vanish back. “Well I can’t really let you…you get hauled off to the Vault, yeah?”

His breath is ragged, and Vanish gains common sense. He pulls away sharply to scan Jukebox for any sort of physical injury.

“Did you run here?” He questions, tense with the pained Hero still in radius. If he ever got the chance to tell past him what was happening, he’s sure his younger self would laugh in his face.

“Didn’t have time to catch a bus,” Jukebox quips through gulped inhales. “And hey, I needed the exercise.”

“Idiot,” Purpled mutters, gathering Jukebox in another tight hug, moreso just to make sure he’s alive.

“Dumbass,” Tommy replies, grinning before letting Vanish get his physical affection quota for the day filled.

The two vigilantes had a small, touching moment. Though Tommy isn’t one—for all things considered.

He never came out in public with a disguise nor an alias. It was only when Vanish was seen talking to seemingly nobody that they needed a codename for the non-human.

Thus, Jukebox. Tommy chose it himself, if it wasn’t obvious.

“Why hasn’t Warhead focused on us yet?” Vanish hushed voice pipes up, keeping the hug going now to have a half-private discussion. Jukebox gets the hint.

“Hit him hard,” He responds in the same volume. “Did you know if you get whacked with enough strength and in the right spot, it’s like a concussion, just shorter?”

Vanish hums, mulling it over. “Thought we agreed to not use that ability in an obvious way?”

“It’s not obvious! I could know pressure points off the top of my head, you never know.” A shrug of a shoulder.

“At a specific speed? Place?”

“Luck.”

“Oh yeah, because your power is luck. ”

“I legally can’t call it anything else–“

A pained groan cuts off Tommy. Warhead slowly picks himself up from his curled up crouched position, hand to his head coming away slightly bloody. When his boot hits the ground, stabilizing him, Vanish and Jukebox spring away from each other.

Vanish falls back into his stance. Jukebox stands to the side a bit awkwardly.

“Vanish, we can just go, come on,” He tries, reaching to pull at the other vigilante. “I don’t want to try your ‘luck’ against fuckin’ Warhead of all Heroes.”

The longer the two take, the more the Pogtopian Hero gains his bearings. Before Vanish can even reply, he’s shaken out of what's probably his throbbing head, swaying on unsteady feet.

His gaze seems to pick up the lid in a heap on the floor, because he stills and his head tilts down to get a better look.

“..Did you hit me with a.. trash can lid?” He incredulously mutters, boar skull making his expression hard to distinguish. “What the fuck is this thing made out of? Titanium?”

“Actually, just stainless steel.” Jukebox unhelpfully corrects, earning him a sharp elbow from Vanish in his stomach.

“And it was more of a throw. A lucky one.” The elusive vigilante felt it necessary to add. Now Jukebox turns to stare at him (albeit slightly pained), which was fair because he also didn’t know what he was saying. “Just to, y’know, clear the air.”

The best way to describe Jukebox’s expression is just a stream of ?????? repeated. Thankfully, only Vanish would be able to know.

“...” As expected, Warhead has no response. Jukebox, again, attempts to goad his friend to leave. 

Pulling at the sleeve of Vanish, with increasingly worried faces being made. Maybe it was because of Warhead’s uptake in gaining his footing. The worry gets a bit more panicked.

“Vanish. Seriously.” The ravenette barely budges, and in the distance thunder bellows. “Seriously! This isn’t funny, man—”

“We still have business, right?”

And no, Vanish doesn’t know when exactly he went psycho. Because no sane person would be staying put after getting caught in an illegal position by the one of the only Heroes with a confirmed kill count.

Particularly the one on a higher rank. Which should be mentioned. Especially in this situation. Bad situation.

“(I know it’s a fucking bad situation, dumbass!)” There’s no indication Vanish heard the hissed, aimless whisper from Jukebox, and neither did Warhead—who was actively knocking at his head.

Warhead definitely heard Vanish though. “Business?”

“Business.” For the break of a second, the Disappearing Vigilante’s arms ripple. The confidence is only viable because nobody can see the fear in his veiled face. “After all, you said some things that really, really pissed me off.”

“ Fuck no, Pu– Vanish.”

“Stitch it, Jukebox.”

“Vanish!”

Ah, a couple of schoolyard boys with one trying to protect his honor—and the other trying to make sure the two live to have some.

Jukebox curses violently under his breath. Odd enough, it seems aimed at multiple people.

“...And you’re gonna…fix that, how?” It’s not even that Warhead is being purposefully argumentative; it’s just genuinely a ludicrous connotation. A vigilante with only the wisp of a recorded Ability against a record breaking nonhuman.

Jukebox shares his sentiment, as he contemplates forcing Vanish to the side and out. Which is also a bad idea. Vanish kinda wished he would, because holy fuck is he being stupid.

“Oh for crying out—” Jukebox throws his hands up, and goes into what looks like stressed pacing. Huh. Deja vu. Even his rambled mutterings that are barely audible.

And Vanish stares Warhead down, shaking his arms out. “How most actual Pogtopians do. Then again, you’ve probably forgotten.”

Vanish thinks he should get his mouth punched. Jukebox thinks so too, if his stiffened body language is any showing of that. Warhead goes still. Everything is cold.

A cold, cold room with little salvation.

Salvation. An infuriating word, it makes his blood boil enough that it starves off the cold.

And there will be no warmth until he is saved.

But nobody will save the juvenile rebel.

He grits his teeth. Feeling the frigid glare from Warhead is nothing compared to the past he abandoned.

“I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt.” Vanish wants to cry at the sight of Warhead slinging his axe on his shoulder. “And let you clarify whatever you could mean by that.”

“Exactly that,” he bites back, arms tensed as his hands curl into fists. “But maybe I do need to remind you.”

Maybe Vanish does need an audience. An audience that will yell at him to run off screen and call him stupid for even entertaining this idea. It almost seems unnatural, the way he’s so set on this. Unnatural even to himself.

Everyone around him can see that, all expect Warhead. The hero takes him seriously, extremely so. A strained grip on his axe, and Vanish can just barely spot a pulled taunt mouth. Irritation at its best.

Or its worst. Probably the worst.

It’s fine. Definitely fine. I’ll get him spun around, then cosplay Steelwing and pretend I captured Tommy. Maybe that’ll confuse him enough to let us go.

(“Vanish? Vanissshhh!!! Hey! C’mon dumbass, c’mon!!”)

But what if he asks where I– Er, Vanish, went? And Steelwing doesn’t like the arrests of Vigilante’s, fuck. Powerscale, then. Do I know how he looks? Damn it, I’ll get something wrong.

(“Hey, hey the big guy looks really, really upset and You’re not even listening to me. Fuck.”)

(“Ok. Okay. Sorry in advance.”)

(“HEY! OVER HERE!”)

(“Oh what the fu–”)

I think I can just wing it, right? Warhead isn’t shown all buddy-buddy with him anyhow. It should work—but what about the problem of me disappearing? And this’ll officially reveal my ability. That’s dangerous, even Tommy knows that. But there’s not many other options. So this–

The thud of a body makes his mind screech to a halt.

Like in a comedy show, Vanish slowly turns his head, eyes flitting downward at an almost snail pace.

He was honestly expecting to find Tommy’s body, but somehow seeing the crumpled form of a Top Hero on the floor is ten times worse.

Having to register this, Vanish gapes. Even through his veil, he could just spot a crack in Warhead’s boar mask—where he had hit the ground hard.

Before he can splutter some nonsense and yelp out a curse or two, his stupid partner decides to chime in.

“Ouch. I, uh.. uhm. Didn’t mean to hit him that hard..”

There was a second trash can lid to the side of the body.

…

Oh dear Prime Almighty what the fuck did–

“—YOU DO?!”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!”

“YOU KNOCKED OUT WARHEAD AS AN ACCIDENT???”

“YOU were about to FIGHT the bastard! I panicked!!”

“ That’s what you do when you PANIC?!”

“I’m SORRY.”

Vanish– Purpled wants to shout something along the lines of how apologizing is going to fix the unconscious problem they have but he decides to deflate instead. And, well, now he doesn’t have to see his life flash before his eyes. Always a plus.

Just. Come on, Tommy. Really? In this way?

“It’s not like I– Had Other Choices.” Tommy sounds strained, and he kicks a pebble awkwardly before zeroing in on Purpled. “After all, you decided to go Revenge on the Fucking Sith randomly. What was that dude??”

“I..” The purple veiled vigilante tries to explain himself, and fails drastically. Giving up barely a word in. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?”

He gets a sigh for his troubles. It’s a sad imitation of the problems from yesterday. Except this time it’s followed by Ju– Tommy dragging his hands down his covered face.

“Fuuuck. I do.” He groans. “But– But Warhead? Really?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe I am tired.”

That’s an understatement, but also a problem for later. There’s little faith that a steel lid can knock out a strength powered Hero for longer than a few minutes.

Obviously, the one who threw said metal knows this. Tommy grabs Purpled’s arm tight, already speed walking them the other direction.

“We are going to go now,” and he leaves no room for argument. Purpled doesn’t want to argue. “We are going to change in an alley, and we are going to walk back home.”

There is no explanation needed for why they can’t immediately go home. They both know when a Hero goes down, it brings more like a storm of ants.

Better to not risk it. Purpled agrees with a dull nod. He needs some sleep.

It takes some time, but eventually Tommy gets Purpled walking at a regular pace beside him. They don’t talk, just quiet confirmations and checks, even as they approach an alley with a spare change of clothes.

Tommy had set it up a year ago. Coupled with extra locations just like it– those being courtesy of Purpled himself.

Tommy changes quicker than it took to get there, and Purpled morphs back into his base form. In good time, too, because the first of the police sirens echo in the distance. Along with muffled chatter that sounded like a couple of Heroes had arrived.

The two friends stick close together. Time to go.

Purpled leads the way this time, while Tommy switches to Defense to act as a precaution. The  night was dark, only a few stars dotting the smokey sky, a foggy moon illuminating their trek back down two levels. Barely anybody was around at these times, save for the occasional whisper of a shadow, or flash of the resident.. “Helper.”

When they both spot their apartment on the horizon, Tommy calls for a break. Turns out, running at top speed uphill across two whole levels without pausing to breathe does hurt. A lot.

“Hey, woah–” Purpled inhales sharply in worry, guiding Tommy to sit against a brick wall. Still on the sidewalk, but shrouded against light. “Dude, you’re trembling.”

“Kinda.. Uh, obvious,” Tommy grins shakily, but gulps down air nonetheless. “Just need a– A sec to catch my breath.”

Purpled’s face contorts, in disbelief and concern. His mind had been clouded with the events that literally just transpired over the last hour, so it had slipped from him that Tommy was probably exhausted.

Then again, they both were. Just in different fonts.

“Let’s stay here a bit.” He decides, sliding down the wall right beside Tommy. Drawing a raised eyebrow. “My legs are tired too.”

It was a sneaky way of saying he’ll give Tommy time to both process and actually recover. At least, for maybe five minutes. The more time spent out here, the less safe they both are.

Tommy frowns, but is too focused on the thundering in his chest and the way his lungs weren’t grabbing air right. So, he concedes. And after the first two minutes, his head slowly tips over to rest on Purpled’s broad shoulder.

And if Purpled leans back, it’s just for the two of them. The night is quiet, save for the sirens that slowly fade away and the chattering of the nocturnal birds.

It’s not a long, private moment. It’s a catch of reprieve – a pocket of rest. Eventually they both realize that they can’t relax yet. After Purpled asks Tommy for an update, and Tommy explains he can feel his legs again, they help each other up.

Tommy asks if he can lead this time. Purpled allows it, and watches Tommy— Hears Tommy—switch back to Neutral. Then he’s stepping forward, testing himself, then saying he’s good. Purpled nods, and soon he’s following his best friend down the darkened streets.

It takes another 20 minutes before the duo reaches the apartment. A good 15 minutes of just struggling with keys – “How did you forget the key?!” “It wasn’t something important on my mind!” – and then spending 5 just settling back home.

It took 5 more minutes for the first of them to break. He was just surprised it was himself. He was more surprised that Tommy noticed it before he did.

“Purpled?” A voice questions, and he has to remind himself that Tommy is in front of him, standing, while he tries to sit on the couch calmly. “Hey, Purp?”

All that is echoing in Purpled’s mind is not how angry he is.

It’s how scared he is. And he hasn’t noticed it’s a lot higher than he would like. It’s making audio hard to hear, and his ears ring. Somehow Tommy can tell. Somehow, Tommy just knows what to say– and what not to.

Because he climbs onto the couch beside Purpled. Not hugging him, but pressing into his side like a sturdy rock. A reminder that he was there, and he wasn’t bleeding out in a dark nowhere alley somewhere. He hates when his fears choke him like this.

He hates more that they were caused by Warhead. By the gleam in cruel blood red eyes, by how just two seconds later and he would’ve been sliced in half like he was nothing more than butter.

How three seconds later, Tommy would be dying beside him.

Or locked up beside him. Or not beside him. Or–

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to not drown in your thoughts, big man,” Tommy whispers, but his tone is firm. A bit floaty, but maybe that’s just Purpled. “Let’s focus where we are, yeah? Hate to see you locked up in some fucked up past. That didn’t happen, mind you.”

He laughs. Breathless, and suspiciously wet like he was teary. It was short but it was something.

Damn mind-reading Tommy.

“Sure,” he answers instead, and he’s still staring at a blank spot in the wall with a faraway look. But Tommy is keeping him grounded. From falling into those scary parts in his mind that look a bit too much like a too dark room.

Tommy clicks on the TV. Purpled relaxes.

—

—

Tommy, for around the 50th time, sighs loudly into the phone speaker.

“No, Purpled. I have not been randomly attacked or stalked. I am still walking. I am perfectly safe.”

From the way his roommate makes the mix of a hiss and click, he’s still not exactly believed. Which he would love to be angry at. If it wasn’t justified.

…barely.

“You don’t know!” Tommy hears shuffling on the line, before Purpled’s voice is clearer. “H.E.R.O people have literally abducted ‘criminals’ via helicopter in broad daylight—no witnesses at all.”

“Amazing. I’ll stay in the shade.” When he veers left, he dodges a stroller to the left, shifting his phone more comfortably by his ear.

He can understand his alien friend, and he can even agree. Hell, he’d probably be doing the exact same thing if it was Purpled out in public, especially after a night like that.

But fuck he can’t breathe like this.

Purpled groans, sounding like he just pressed his forehead to the screen. “That’s not the point , you moron.”

Tommy snorts, dry and already done with this conversation. Though, he’s been done with it for half an hour now—he throws a middle finger to the sky as the thought registers.

“Then what other points could you be making, Purpled?” He spoke, exasperated. He makes a quick decision to cut through an alley instead of risking it down the street. “Yeah. Ok. We almost got caught and arrested. You almost got pummeled, and I probably have an assault charge under my fake name. But is that really enough to warrant all this?”

Purpled had forced Tommy to be on call with him while heading to Level 10 for a thrift run. Normally this is done on the weekend, but with recent events they both decided to get it over with before Warhead decides it’s better to be personally searching for them himself.

“ Yes!” He shouts, making Tommy flinch back from the peaking microphone. “Of course it’s warranted! Why would it not be?!”

Tommy has half a mind to mock the words under his breath, but he’s already testing his luck. Better not to push it.

Man, whatever. Directions to the thrift shop?

{ Ring. }

“You ever wonder why Warhead’s a hero?”

Okay, Tommy. Drastic mood shift and topic change.

I hope something eats you alive.

“..what?” Purpled obviously questions. Tommy was already unpredictable in a sane sense, but he truly wasn’t expecting that.

Tommy sighs a bit, then clarifies. “I mean.. It’s fuckin’ obvious he wasn’t always. We don’t need proof to know that. And he’s the only guy up there with an actual legal document from Pogtopia.”

With no answer yet from his best friend, he hesitantly continues.

“And, well, I’m pretty sure everyone knows his methods are…not usually in favor of the government. So why the H.E.R.O route?”

“Did you miss the part of that agency literally plucking people from the streets like they’re bits of paper?” Purpled isn’t pleased with this new conversation shift, but at least Tommy isn’t fighting against the phone call anymore.

“No, I’m not a fuckin’ idiot.” Tommy scowls as the whispered debatable that comes from the line, but pushes farther. “I know that. The thing is, he seems relatively content in his position. You sure someone like him would just– accept that?”

“No,” is Purpled’s immediate answer, shocking Tommy enough to listen (even as he misses a turn and curses). “Definitely not. Pogtopians have a thing in common: not standing for bullshit, and the government is the most nauseous thing of crap I’ve really ever seen.”

“So why?” The blonde outside finally makes the right turn this time, spotting the shop another few blocks down. “I can get that a decade can change a person, but—Really? That much?”

It’s clear he’s referencing the night excursion the two had a bit ago, meeting the Boar Hero in less than pleasant senses. 

But it also feels like Tommy’s questioning of his motives has some other reasons tied to it.

Purpled makes a breathing noise on the call, probably rubbing his forehead. “What’s with the sudden asking on this stuff, Tom? Pretty sure a few days ago you were going on again about how much good he does on the daily.”

“Propaganda’s a bitch.”

And also, I didn’t have major reasons to focus on him.

Thought there would be no reason; that he was only one of the good ones.

Hah. Good ones.

Like there’s such a thing.

“Wowww. The great Tommy Innes falling for social manipulation . How the mighty fall.”

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m the mighty and awesome one and you’re the loser.”

“Dead man walking.”

“Clingy bastard.”

“ You couldn’t sleep until I held you and we passed out together.”

“SHUT THE FUCK U–”

Tommy has arrived at his destination. Politely quieting himself to nod in greeting at the storeowner.. Who was giving him a side eye from within the shop. Great!

“Purpled, please , I am already about to go through a torture no young adult should and that is the curse of thrift shopping in a place that probably won’t have things to fit you. Please.”

He feels hope dwindle when he gets a frustrated huff as his answer, but he holds out with a flimsy prayer. “I swear, it’ll only be half an hour. I can even call you when I get back.”

That seems to sway his friend, at least enough for him to not sound so disgruntled the next few moments. Tommy was about to sigh and sign himself to this cruel hell, but then the gods offer him a glorious blessing.

“... Fine. Fine. I will hang up– On conditions.” Tommy was immediately silently cheering to himself, looking like a sunflower reintroduced to the sun. “You call me when you’re on the way back, you keep yourself low profile, and use the fucking panic button. I swear to fuck. It’s like I commissioned it for no reason.”

“I swear, no promises, and sure thing big man!” He waves a hand, already swinging the door open and hastily walking inside. Timer set.

“Hey, no, yes promises, there has to be promises–”

“Okay love you talk to you soon bye Purpled byeeee!”

“Tomm—”

His frail thread to life snips with a cheerful jingle. Maybe he would regret it if he didn’t have his eyes set on a horrifically pretty black jacket with red electric zaps embroidered all over. Purpled could wait. He had much more important things taking his attention.

He dashes forward, swiping the jacket into his arms, and then quickly gets distracted by a pair of twinkling golden-styled fake glasses to his right on a shelf. When he steps to grab, his eyes catch a fluffy purple sweater.

Yeah he should not have been given a credit card.

Haha. Absolutely not.

“Hey Claraaaaaaaa,” He sings with a smile, ignoring the dismayed sigh from the register—the store owner from before. “I would love a second opinion, pleaaaase!”

“I wish I set up my shop in a higher level.”

Ah, the old woman missed him. Such a lovely thing to see.

—

When Tommy finally leaves the shop, he has two bags with a bundle of clothes in each. Honestly, a much better haul than last time.

He’s even sure maybe half could fit!

But, yes. 30 minutes on the dot. He’s walking right on the sidewalk outside the shop, glaring at a blank wall with a crude expression.

“Seriously. Can’t I enjoy a good shopping trip?” He sounds exasperated, 

Tommy could, you see, but that would have to include keeping up to a promise with Purpled.

“What do you mOh fuck.”

It was almost comical, the way Tommy scrambled to pull his phone out and up. He hisses curses, and even some creative ones, clicking Purpled’s contact almost scarily quick as he shifts the bags to one arm.

Maybe it was scarier when Purpled picked up on the first ring.

“Heyyyy boss man, finished my shopping!” He greets, giving a quiet sigh of relief when he isn’t immediately put on the spot.

But it is a nice feeling. Purpled, caring enough that he gets absolutely panicked when there is no contact or sign of life. It.. it was a stark contrast to their first few meetings.

“Why haven’t you died yet?”

Tommy would laugh at the question, if it wasn’t so genuine.

“Well ’m pretty good at survivin’.” His accent is much different than the purple boy’s. The purple boy sounds more secure.

Yet so, so lost.

“You shouldn’t be,” he scoffs. “If you died, you’d leave me alone.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t,” says Tommy in response. His young voice doesn’t match his gray eyes. “I’ll figure ou’ sum way t’ haunt ya.”

The kid, older by a month, frowns.

It’s almost not genuine.

Almost.

“Whatever. They’ll kill you soon enough. Scrawny ones like you don’t make it.”

“My brother saids the opp’site. And he’s super smart. Like, he was gonna go t’ school!”

That makes the hoodie kid pause and consider. They both were only six. Seven? Too young. But the prospect of school was almost unheard of there.

“...hm. Doubt it.”

Tommy wonders why this boy is so pessimistic. Even when he tries to turn and leave, he feels like bits and pieces try to linger. So Tommy follows.

“You like purple?”

The kid scowls when he notes his follower, but makes no move to shoo him away. It takes a bit for him to wanna answer.

“Only thing I got. My brother got it for me.”

“So you like purple?”

“...”

“..?”

“....sure. I like it.”

“I’m Tommy!” He grins with a tooth gap. Stopping in front of the purple kid with a grimy hand outstretched.

Both of them were decorated with soot and smoke. It was sanitary, sort of.

The kid purses chapped lips and sighs loudly. His antennae betray him, swiveling with interest.

“Okay. I’m Grayso–”

“Nope,” Tommy pops the word, scrunching his nose and shaking his head. Making the other close his mouth solely because he was stunned.

“..No?”

“Too bland. You need something cooler! More… Purple-y – your favorite color. So.. like..”

A lightbulb flashes in his eyes, and it was like the sun danced over his face. He gasps and squeals, and it doesn’t hurt his ears.

“Purpled! Yes! That’s your name!”

And the young kid blinks rapidly.

He’s never seen the sun so bright. He hasn’t seen its rays ever since they were moved to the underground.

So why was it here, so prominent before his eyes?

Why was it singing in his ears?

“Oh. Um..

Okay. I’m Purpled.

Nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown.

Tommy makes a joke about how they’ve already met so many times already.

Purpled shakes his head. And continues walking.

When Tommy comes back to the now, he’s walked a good distance. Checking his surroundings to make sure he didn’t stray into oncoming traffic, he relaxes slightly.

He’s still on the call with Purpled, but sometime during his minor flashback he had swapped to wire headphones. Huh.

I’m just built like that.

More like he’s built like a twig with legs.

Choke on your favorite meal.

“You still there, big man?”

A nonconforming hum is his answer. Purpled sounded like he was looking at something else, which Tommy was expecting. He doesn’t need more than that, and puts his phone within its pocket. Putting both earbuds on.

There was nothing interesting in the route Tommy was taking. It actually was one of the few that didn’t have a bus stop on the way. A wind of streets mixed with paths, too many turns for someone who didn’t live there to figure out.

A nice way to get lost, and an even better way to zone out. Either way, win win. Tommy makes sure he’s on the right street, and makes a left just in case.

What level am I on?

{Humming.}

Sweet. He’s not too far from home. Level 12 was mainly housing and living, a stunning three restaurants actually located on it. A similar situation with Level 11, but at least they had a grocery area.

There weren’t laws that required a set amount of shops or things that people might need to survive. You were just.. Sort of expected to find it. Even if you had to walk half an hour.

But it also meant it was a good place to stroll through. Lots of people hunker down around the place, and over half are too busy figuring out their own lives to worry about people breezing through. Surprisingly, Level’s 12 and 11 had lower crime rates than most middle levels. Tommy thinks it's the community house at work, but maybe it’s just the way the place was formed.

Either way, good for Tommy. He doesn’t have to worry about much while heading home; which was half the reason for his slight irritation with being forced on a call with Purpled. To him, it was overkill. Even without considering his powers.

Two, if you get technical.

No. Not really? Err. Kinda.

Tommy’s ability is where it gets complicated. In the legal sense, he has the ability to create and control forcefields that act as Netherite. Though, it's not recorded how well he can. But he can control them very, very well. 

So he was good in the defense department.

But where it gets weird is his actual power. The forcefields are just a bonus, at least in his eyes. They only formed when he was around thirteen. But he got his main ability when he was seven. 

It was like his own personal dictionary. Except if the dictionary was also a GPS. And a biography as long as he knew the person. And a computer. And a survival guide.

…again, it’s complicated.

Idiot. Why the fuck are you talking about this? We both already know how it works.

And you're missing the power where I talk to you.

Hearing a voice would rarely be considered an ability, but Tommy enjoys finding bright sides. He glowers at empty air as he continues straight.

His power could be considered.. Rare. Or at least, unique. Extremely so, as he hasn’t found documents on any that resemble it. The ability to ask himself a question, and get the most probable answer back. The ability that has the power to learn and grow with him.

Ever changing. Ever performing.

People would kill for that. And that’s ignoring the fact he can switch his power back and forth as he pleases. Just, with limitations. No rapid switching, and he can’t use both at the same time.

He tried. He didn’t wake up for a good week. 

So his power was special. Probably one of a kind. Probably could nail him all the way to the top of the H.E.R.O charts if he tried with it. The one problem is that, well.. The obvious danger.

Which apparently didn’t stop him from becoming a Vigilante.

I’m not a fuckin’ vigilante. I barely count. I just have a code name– and that’s ONLY because Purpled can’t just name drop me in the middle of patrol.

And yet Tommy is marked as one.

Yeah well that’s the hero's problem if they’re gonna try that shit. Jukebox is just the man in the chair. That was a one time occurrence, and it won’t happen again.

I’m already way too public than comfortable. Let alone trying to patrol around with Vanish of all people at midnight. Most Lower Level people already know his name.

I am not a vigilante.

Tommy is not a vigilante. He is the accomplice to one, though. He makes a disgruntled face but accepts it — In the eyes of the law, it’s a similar charge and sentence.

“Oh hey, we’re good with food right? I could stop by a vendor for dinner.” Tommy speaks again, strolling past a couple clusters of apartments.

“Nah, we’re good,” Purpled replies through the phone. “I went grocery shopping a few days ago. The real problem is our credits.”

He sighs. Yeah, he expected that. Their credits, despite being shared and saved, were always a tough subject to deal with. Even more difficult since the loss of Purpled’s job.

“Still no luck on getting that favor?” Purpled has a few favors that he’s owed from multiple people. People Tommy doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to know. “I mean, by tonight we’re gonna be in the negatives.”

“I know. I know. It– He hasn’t responded to me, yet.” As Tommy goes down yet another new street, entering the Primepath district of Level 13, he makes a worried face at Purpled’s words. “I’ll try again another way, but I don’t have big hopes.”

“Well it’s either that or the Intern thing for me,” Tommy shrugs, quietly nodding at a familiar passerby. “I read it makes okay money.”

“Are you still considering that?” Purpled asks, incredulous. “Why not just put a big target on your forehead? It would do the same thing.”

“C’mon, Purp, there aren't a ton of options here. Plus, it’d be pretty nifty to have direct access to some of the strongest people in this country.”

Tommy hears an irritated noise from his earbuds, and he can’t even disagree. He doesn’t like it either. His faith in Heroes wasn’t the highest, and it was unlikely this would fix it.

“But does it have to be in the H.E.R.O Tower? Like, out of all places?” Purpled continues to make valid points. “That’s the one area filled to the brim with ways to catch people like us.”

“Hey it’s not like I wanna be there either.” He glances up at a sign, signaling a steeper descent—he’s almost at Level 14. “If we’re desperate, I think I have one or two favors I could call in.”

“Absolutely not,” the phone snaps, leaving no ability for discussion. “We both agreed those are for extreme emergencies or cases. This barely counts.”

Tommy would try to disagree, but that would require him having a good counterclaim. Which he doesn’t; the idea of cashing in a debt makes him frown.

Those were valuable just as is. Let alone multiple and from important figures.

“Okay. You’re right.” The words make the tension in the crackling air die down. “But if I can’t do that, then our next bet is the intern job.”

He can feel the way Purpled wants to bite back. Wants to yell about how stupid he is, or how stupid this is. But he can also feel how he isn’t wrong. Hell, the credits they would earn from his first paycheck would be enough for the next batch of rent. That’s priceless.

And, as the universe is, it always comes with a catch. This time at the expense of Tommy’s safety.

“You know if anybody, anybody, finds out about your correlation with Vanish, you’re finished?”

Purpled’s voice, to anybody, is stern.

Purpled’s voice, to Tommy, is terrified.

“Yeah,” Tommy replies, watching his apartment come into view just as the sun peeks from a cloud. It’s a nice place. “I know.”

And, Purpled deflates over the line. Defeated, and now willing. Except now is the new struggle; actually getting the job. Tommy glares at the pavement in front of his steps, but says nothing else. It marks the end of that topic.

He keeps his direction to the apartment, but there’s still a good block to go. If he looks to the right, he’ll just spot where he and Purpled sat to catch their breath. Or, well, where he took a break. His legs are still sore.

But he doesn’t glance right. If he did, he would have to acknowledge more of what happened last night. And that’s just a bit too much for Tommy to do right now, especially in broad daylight. So he doesn’t look right.

He looks at his phone instead. Tempted to open a game, but he notes how his news app is begging for attention.

“Don’t look at the News yet, Tom.”

“Well that’s bullcrap. Did you even—”

“No. I haven’t seen anything. But if we try to find any sort of press about it, it’s just.. It’s just gonna do worse for us.”

Tommy bites down a sigh, flitting his eyes to where the white chord dangles, connecting his earbuds.

It’s worse to not know.

He clicks the app open, and there’s nothing. Reports on Level 8, articles about Level 9, talks about enforcing new Federal Laws across the Levels, but they were the same from a few days ago.

Then he checks out a straggler. Posted just this morning, around 7 AM. “ Level 12’s new Star? Authorities speculate.”

Like an idiot, he taps.

[  In a startling discovery during one of his timely patrols—   ]  Tommy snorts under his breath. Liars.  [  —Warhead, who is known for Lower Level watching, encountered who the public nicknamed Jukebox , the Unknown Vigilante . There was limited to absolutely zero detail about his appearance, or if he even has obtained an ability, but there are reports from Warhead himself about him working with Level 14 and 13’s Vanish.   ]

[  Video.WarInterview.MP4  ]

Like a bigger idiot, he taps again.

[  Warhead is seen trying to gruffly push past any cameras to his face. It’s the dead of the night, and obviously very recent after the Vigilante sighting.  ]

[  “Warhead! Warhead!!” An interviewer, probably a new-coming journalist, shouts from the crowd. She’s loud enough and determined enough that she forces her way to the front. By some luck, right beside the hero. “Warhead, some pictures that were taken soon after the Vigilantes escaped showed the supposed Jukebox there, which reason to believe he knocked you out?”   ]

[  “It was a handled situation–” Warhead tries to defend, but that brings at least five other journalists to sprout and yell for attention with more questions.  ]

[  “So it’s true?” The woman inquires further, and it’s clear Warhead isn’t in any sort of move. He makes a growling chuff that’s barely picked up on the mic, and the glare from the lighting makes his red eyes behind his mask pop.  ]

[  “Like I said. It’s handled.”   He looks like he’s close to snarling at the next person that invades his personal space, and she’s first with how he towers over her a good few inches. Though maybe that’s because of his Hero Suit’s heels.  ]

[  “Okay, okay! That’s it! No more questions!” A new voice pipes up from behind a few crowded cameras. It’s British, and when it comes into view it’s obvious who it is. “You all are interfering with a current rescue and assist, so unless you want me to put you on blast for my lovely friends in court, I suggest you move it.”  ]

[  Wilbur comes into frame. The camera gets blurry around this point, probably because the person manning it took the warning and backed up. The SBI Media Specialist immediately makes a beeline to Warhead, slotting in neatly behind him to ward off any unwanted personnel. Trying to guide him to the side, and away from all the—  ]

Tommy practically hisses as he clicks off the video, but his irritation isn’t done. Because right below the video is a blurry, barely comprehensible shot of him behind a corner. In that stupid get up. Vanish isn’t visible, only the left side of Tommy. To the bottom of the picture, Warhead is visible sprawled on the dirty floor with ziptied muggers scattered about.

The only clear visible thing of Tommy—or Jukebox, for clarification—is the swirling mess of colors along his hoodie, which didn’t even look like a hoodie. It looked like a disk but dunked in graffiti.

He thinks he can bet on twitter being an absolute mess right about now. If not for the ‘Warhead getting beaten by random person’ thing, then absolutely on Jukebox actually having a person to the name.

All of it is bad. Bad bad bad. Lose lose. Bad.

Wow. Could never have guessed.

Before Tommy can insult his mind once more, he notices he’s reached the tall building. It’s actually an okay place. Built sturdy, and relied on its strong foundation. Decorative aesthetics came in last place, but that wasn’t really a concern for Tommy or Purpled.

A rickety sign behind him, when you’d enter the street, would read ‘Logstedchire district.’ The very beginning of it, he guesses. A glance to the right shows the rest of the winding paths and streets. To the left, less active. More.. ashy. He doesn’t really like the left part.

But still. He makes a disgruntled sound, pocketing his phone. Purpled, still on call, makes his own hum. Questioning, but not pushing.

“Nothin’ nothin’ I’m home.” He waves off any concern. Moving once more, this time forward through recently oiled doors. His companion makes another hum, this time in acceptance.

Tommy gives a tired wave to the receptionist. She offers a compassionate smile in return, even as she continues to click and clack at her keyboard, sometime in between opening the elevator for Tommy from her sat position behind monitors– probably with her control of everything remote. He would make his usual joke about it, but he’s not energized for it right now.

He just mutters a wordless thank you, and drags himself to the right side elevator. Watching the metal doors slide shut. Pressing the button for floor 7. Waiting.

Waiting, waiting, waiting..

Ding!

Tommy’s movements are rehearsed, memorized, turning left immediately then heading straight. He passes some familiar doors, other unfamiliar, before landing right as his quaint place of life. Room 669. Beautiful.

He doesn’t even have to open the door, because Purpled beats him to it by hanging up. The door swings open, and Tommy snickers at the ominous creak. About to sigh dramatically and begin an onslaught of complaining with the bags on his arms, Purpled’s face stops him.

He looks.. Tense. Apprehensive.

Tommy wordlessly enters. Purpled closes the door and locks it behind him, before speedwalking right back to the living room. He had a laptop there, his personal one he got two years ago as a gift. Tommy watches as he picks it up gingerly and walks back to the curious blonde. Handing it to him just as quietly.

“I dunno what contact you gave that British guy,” he mutters to a person who’s British, and he’s definitely closing off what he’s really feeling. “But this somehow was sent to me.”

That makes him frown. He doesn’t remember handing out contact information to people recently. At least not purposefully. Unless..

Oh. Oh crap. Big crap. Tommy grabs the laptop and turns it around, clicking the mousepad to wake up the screen. An email is blinking back at him, recently opened by Purpled. Recently as in during Tommy’s return after shopping.

-

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: Tomathy – Interview Results.

Received: 10:02 AM

-

Tommy almost short circuits and he doesn’t read further. His head snaps upward to Purpled, shock and confusion written all over his expression.

“They emailed back already?!” He nearly shouts in stunned disbelief. Purpled only shrugs, crosses his arms, and eyes the laptop nervously. He had to have read the reply. Tommy wants to ask him, but he won’t get a clear answer until he reads.

He’s been rejected by multiple, multiple jobs. Organizations and companies and even the occasional family owned business. This will be no different. He inhales deeply, closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself, and secures himself.

Scrolling to see the message in its entirety.

-

Hello Tommy,

I’m reaching out to the E-mail under your ID and files. This is just to follow up from the interview you had with us a few days ago. I don’t like to prolong these, especially since there’s more to be done, so I’ll be short.

We, the SBI team and group, enjoyed your presence and application at the interview I held to assess your skill set and potential. I would like to formally explain that you’ve been approved for a follow up and final interview with the full SBI Team, including Steelwing and Warhead.

Any worries surrounding how the Terrorist Attack could affect this job opportunity have been Federally dismissed.

The details will be in the attached encrypted file sent with this email. Please reply, so I can know you’ve seen this and that this is the correct email. I look forward to seeing you again, Tomathy :) 

Sincerely,

Wilbur.

IMG.04ZIP.PDF

-

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

“I.. I got it?” Tommy whispers. He can’t believe anything he’s seeing. He has to be unconscious. Maybe the past few days have been a hallucination. “They– They liked my application? They accepted the interview?? H– There was a bomb! The floor exploded! They– They????”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know why.” Purpled shares the sentiment. “Hell, that’s not even a guarantee. But.. it’s real. That’s his email and the PDF has actual info.”

“But how?!” Tommy asks the Deities, not getting an answer as expected. “That’s like– This was number zero on things possible today.”

“I really, really don’t know.”

Tommy blows a breath, long and deflating. He can’t tell if the buzzing under his skin is excitement or anxiety. Probably both. Definitely both.

Holding the laptop carefully like it was going to detonate, he slowly walks over to the couch and falls onto it. Purpled soon follows, more graceful than him. He looks… Tommy doesn’t know how he looks. He’s better at hiding his expressions than Tommy is.

“Do..” Tommy starts, but trails off. It’s obvious what he wants to ask.

Do I take it? Do I try?

“I don’t know,” Purpled still answers, a broken record. “I already said my cents. At this point, it’s up to you.”

He sighs, feeling like he’s done that action a bit too much lately, and closes the laptop with hesitance. That’s a hard decision. Even if this wasn’t really a Yes to the job, it wasn’t a flat out no. It was a chance to actually have it. And that shakes him to his core.

So Tommy breathes for a bit. Thinking about the consequences of every option he could take, and Purpled turns on the TV.

“I’ll.. I’ll think about this more later,” Tommy murmurs, setting the laptop on a rickety coffee table with a lingering touch. “I think just coming home was tiring enough.”

He ignores how it’s only 4 PM. So does Purpled.

“Fair enough,” his roommate responds, still the same tone. Still a bit tense. “We finished most of our shows. Wanna put UP on?”

Tommy tries to not tear up. Of course Purpled is going to try and cheer him up. This was a good way to do so.

“If I ever say no,” Tommy speaks as he shuffles more comfortably onto the couch, “I have a hunting knife in my pillow. Use it to kill me, because that’s not me.”

Purpled finally smiles a bit. Tommy counts it as a win even as he clicks on the downloaded movie.

Movie nights in the middle of the afternoon are awesome.

Subject:  Tomathy – Reply.

Sent: 8:09 PM

Hey Wilber,

I accept your challenge. My better EMAIL is [email protected] so use that more. Will be there 👍

Me,

Tommy.

Chapter Text

The first time he had stared up at this tall, tall tower, he had been five years old. Around 12 years ago, by now.

At the time, the Level’s were.. different. Less exact borders and more smooth crossings. Tommy remembers holding a hand as he was told all the interesting facts about the tallest building in the country.

It looked more quaint, if that was possible. From a five year old’s perspective, anyhow. It was filled with smiling people just getting their careers started up, and sparkling costumes, and kind adults offering him candy as he and his–

“Oh! Oh!! Look! Tha’ guy can shoo’ fire!!!”

The young Tommy squeals in delight, seeing the Hero flash a grin and make a safe flare of embers in his hands. His hand was tugged back, by his caretaker.

“Really, Toms, do you have to go to the most dangerous of the groups?”

He snaps his eyes up to shoulder length hair and intelligent eyes.

“Yes!! It’s fire!”

The late teenager sighs long and hard, trying to refocus on his mission here. Tommy returns his attention to gawk at the eyesore of a place.

The H.E.R.O Tower has changed a lot since then. First the shift into Manburg, then the creation of Pogtopia. The need for super-powered enforcement grew almost in tandem with the unrest.

So, the Tower evolved. Into sleek elegance and modernized safety. A powerhouse. A machine. Everything even related to security and Hero work happened within these walls.

Until it was so big, it needed more than just spark making powers or flower blooming abilities. It needed more sustenance, people. Y.O.U.T.H helped with that. A booming success.

Tommy continues to stare at the towering building with a now faded sense of amazement, like how he felt all those years ago.

The second time he’d entered this tower, it had exploded. He thinks it’s fair if he has a bit of apprehension, coming back a week after a.. terrorist attack.

Even YOU hesitated saying it. All these people saying it was just an attack on the government have learned literally nothing from the 16th.

Idiots. I’m about to work for idiots.

Gotta get that bag, bro.

……Did you just use informal language with me??

His power doesn’t respond. It does, however, sing within his ears to warn him he’s taking too long.

Tommy frowns. Tugs on his mask to adjust, situating his satchel correctly, and walks through the doors. There were construction workers scattered about the place, and at least three times the amount of higher level Heroes lingering.

Okay.. Definitely a bit more stifling than he remembered. His neck hairs raise, and when he looks behind him he can spot some security personnel coupled with your usual cops.

They look like the Valiguard.

No, the Valiguard looked stupidly extravagant to be the worst peace-keeping force to ever grace this Earth.

These guys just look stupid.

He focuses back forward, locking onto where the receptionist was. Familiarity pokes at him even as he approaches the counter, noticing its the same person as last time.

“Hello Miss,” Tommy starts with an awkward wave. He pulls out a slip of paper from his jacket pocket, clean and new. “I, uh, I’m here for a return interview for theeeee SBI intern position?”

Tommy was expecting a ‘oh sure! Same floor, have a wonderful day!’ or maybe a ‘Right you are sir, the floor is this number, good luck!’

“I’m sorry, huh?” was really low on the list, though. It makes Tommy pause. Even his power.

“...Yeah, um.” He rocks on his heels, dropping the slip over to her and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Did that panic interview a couple weeks ago. Y’know, the one that ended pretty badly? But I got called in for a return one, so.”

“They’re accepting returns?” She questions almost incredulously, but then catches herself. Clearing her throat near dramatically, she furiously types at her keyboard until she’s blank-faced staring at the monitor. “...oh wow they are.”

“Yes,” he nods slowly. His power whistles confusedly in his ears, and he tugs his mask a bit. “I’m pretty sure.”

It takes another moment for the lady to hand him his next paper slip and new destination, all with a sort of distant look. Tommy is quick to make a beeline for the elevator.

As he settles in and presses the 9 button, he exhales through gritted teeth. Making a point to glare upward where the sky would be.

“I don’t like that you’re narrating again.” This time he speaks out loud to the voice. “The entire way here you’re quiet but when I reach the tower suddenly you love yapping?”

The elevator hums while it climbs, the walls silent. Tommy grumbles.

“Whatever. Not like you answer me directly anyways.”

For some reason there was bitterness lacing his words. The lights dimmed slightly before returning to full brightness.

Tommy frowns again. The walls ding.

He’s only just begun stepping out of the machine before he hears a song in his head and suddenly, he’s leaping forward and whirling around into a crouched defensive position. His power was yelling about a danger, and already Tommy was filing through new paranoid possibilities.

A slam echoes where he was just standing, by the metal doors. If Tommy was a second late, he’s afraid that slam would’ve sent him to Prime Herself.

His eyes blink rapidly, trying to focus again, registering a form now in front of him and the closing elevator. A shockingly full white outfit with only a few breaks in red stitching or gold dangles of accessories.

All topped off with a patterned white mask with thin slits for eyes. Tommy gets himself more up, eyes a bit wide, fists clenched and mouth pulled taunt. The new unknown cants his head like he was intrigued by Tommy’s instincts. Nobody gets the option to speak, though—not before someone hurriedly rushes to Tommy.

“Oh, fuck– Z, stop, he has clearance–!” Wilbur, who came from nowhere similar to Z, waves his hands worriedly. Tommy was still in a flight and fight mode, but with a familiar face beside him he could at least relax his tensed knuckles.

Z, being assumed as a .. hero, turns his covered head to Wilbur. The brunette shudders, frowning heavily.

“He wasn’t included in the details this morning.” Tommy also shudders, at the sound of a heavily masked and artificial voice. Z sounds nothing like a human; there was definitely overkill involving his identity concealment.

“That is.. My fault,” Wilbur assures him. When the atmosphere finally stops being a hundred degrees below zero, Tommy shifts into an awkward standing position. “I didn’t debrief anyone on Tommy coming for returns today. My bad?”

The masked person makes a sound. Tommy is only vaguely sure it's a confirmation noise. “Sure.”

There’s a breath of relief. It isn’t clear from who.

“Perfect!” Wilbur claps his hands together, much brighter than before, and the almost-intern has the urge to strangle him. “Well. I’ll take it from here, Z, yes?”

There was something familiar about the oddly clothed person. Something that put a bell in Tommy’s mind, but he didn’t know how to ring it.

Who is Z?

{ Buzz. }

Oh. That’s just a sentence. I already know he likes the color white. What the fuck, is that it?

{ Low hum. }

There’s nothing else?????

No more responses. Not very encouraging.

All Z does is nod, and lean back.

…and then he just leaves? Walks backwards until he somehow knows the wall is there, before turning down a separate hall Tommy didn’t even see earlier. He can’t hear any more footsteps.

His mind and eyes blink dumbfounded. “Uh. I didn’t.. know there were new recruits being taken in?”

“Oh, Z isn’t a recruit.” Ah, yay, answers. Wilbur walks back to Tommy, rolling his shoulders as if ridding himself of tension. “Since the attack and a person was taken for questioning, the corp. wanted to make sure employees had better protection.”

The sickly sweet tilt of his voice makes Tommy think he was given a script to memorize. So, to be safe, he doesn’t push.

“So you guys hired a maybe-Hero?”

Wilbur frowns. Beginning to walk the opposite direction, and it takes a second for Tommy to scramble forward too. “Just an asset. Plus I’m not the one who handles.. that stuff. I’m strictly for the SBI department.”

With the way he said that, it’s clear there’s no more questioning. The two men fall into a smooth pace, with Wilbur leading Tommy down a few twists and turns. Most doors were locked offices, and he only saw the occasional worker milling about.

It felt.. weird-peaceful. But mainly weird. The floor felt like there should be more souls lingering, but it was rare to even see more than two past the walls he and Wilbur were strolling through.

It definitely set a mood. Thankfully, Wilbur was wise enough to notice.

“It isn’t really supposed to be this quiet,” he speaks up, drawing Tommy back to look at him. “Some people called in sick, and others were advised to try and avoid this place for a bit longer.” He turns a corner, slowing down. “Which I don’t blame. I took a couple days off too.”

Tommy opens his mouth to start another barrel of questions, but a door in front of them greets with a wide swing. He doesn’t question it when Wilbur strides through like it’s the normalest thing here, because it very well could be.

A thing to note, about Tomathy and his.. knowledge of the Tower; He doesn’t like coming here. Not really inside; that’s only happened three times with the third happening now—First when he was five, then when it exploded—but just being around it always set his nerves on fire.

Maybe it’s why Purpled reacted so harshly when he left this morning. Then again, he couldn’t tell if it was a harsh reaction or a Purpled reaction. His friend was straight faced and only gave a clipped goodbye, but that could just be him and his aversion to … well. Anything verbal.

On the safe side, he’ll check in later. Totally not because if he doesn’t Purpled will get a new charge for murder under his belt, and absolutely from just the goodness of his heart

“Tommy?”

Oh, right, he just entered the room. Get it together.

“Sorry, sorry!” He clears his throat to stop himself from yelping, shaking his head out. “Got distracted. Uh, what were you sayi–”

A snicker interrupts him. Damn it, can people stop doing that? Doesn’t make for a very seamless train of thought.

But, alas. Tommy notices he’s not the only one present, separate from Wilbur. And he’s quickly reminded who makes up the public SBI team.

Or, duo.

Not looking a thread different from when he descended to rescue Tommy weeks ago, Steelwing politely raises a hand to his mouth as if to stifle his laughter. Tommy never noticed this in that adrenaline-filled moment, but Steelwing has a pitch black veil rimmed around his long brimmed hat.

The only thing truly visible, once he opened them, were his striking blue eyes, almost glowing against the contrast of the thin mesh. It concealed every other feature, and it makes sense why there were no records on how he could look.

A form shuffles behind him, larger, imposing, but somehow less intimidating. Maybe it was because Tommy still had the memory of knocking him out still fresh in his mind.

The War Hero. Rising from the ashes of a fallen dictatorship. The face of change. Dark, brooding, only a few words ever spoken to the public every month or so.

Warhead. A bit on the nose name, Tommy’s realizing. He has an odd feeling the Hero didn’t choose it—his eyes flicker with an emotion at that before calming himself.

Steelwing eventually goes back to his calm, clasping his hands quietly in front of him, the tilt of his hat the only indicator of his attention. Nobody really wanted to stare into those eyes for any extended period of time.

They’re definitely an odd pair. Almost opposites, if you look solely at their repertoire with the media—which, as many know, isn’t a good source of information.

“I was saying,” Wilbur emphasized with a glance, “That this interview is a lot different than the other one. It’s not.. uh, very conventional.”

“He’s trying to say you’re not gonna like it.”

Tommy bites hard on his tongue, tasting iron. His power immediately rang in his ears, demanding him to flee, to pay attention to the red in the corners of his vision. Fight or flight kicked in, and flight was trying to win.

Warhead’s voice, as simple as it was, still made Tommy’s heart feel like it was getting asphyxiated. He hates his brain for shoving to the forefront memories of that excursion. His code name singing as the ringleader.

And then his words actually make it through his walls, and he gets hit with a wave of confusion. He could give the Heroes an exception; of course interviewing procedures were going to be different. But the way Warhead said that made the red in his chest coil tighter.

“Wilbur, uh, what does he mean?” He smiles nervously, looking back to the only familiar face here. “You’re not gonna stick me in an obstacle course, right?”

“No, nothing like that–” Wilbur assures while shooting Warhead a nasty glare, “We just have to be a bit more cautious since you’ll be seeing identities and–”

“Identities?” Tommy splutters, eyes wide and shooting to Steelwing and Warhead. He was expecting something like dangerous scenarios, not private information. “You—I’m gonna be what?!”

Are they moronic? Stupid? Idiotic? All three????

Warhead makes a noise, and Tommy’s too distracted to decode it.

“Our identities.” Steelwing joins the conversation again, feathers fluttering to rest behind him. “Joining the media department under Wilbur means you’re gonna see us a lot more often, so the identities become, uh, inconvenient.”

…

What was this job again?

{ Confused hum? }

I WASN’T PAYING ATTENTION DAMN IT.

{ Singing. }

Oh fuck you too.

“And you– You guys are just— Okay with this?”

“No,” Warhead monotones right when Steelwing gives a so-so motion. The older glances over, eye slits widening a bit before crinkling. He shrugs aimlessly.

“Yes,” The brunette beside Tommy grits, looking like someone losing a 1v2 verbal match. “Because that was the agreement for finding a new hire.”

“We had a hire. They were perfectly fine.”

“Mate, they had to switch positions, remember?” Steelwing shrugs again, wings curling and unfolding. “You can’t have a Recruit position and be an Intern underneath an established team. They’re also on leave anyways.”

Tommy feels like he’s walked into a preexisting conversation. From the way Warhead’s boar mask tilts, it’s safe to say it’s a larger disagreement than Tommy would like to witness.

And Wilbur agrees. Stepping forward so he’s awkwardly in between the two Heroes, looking back and forth to Tommy, who’s fiddling with his mask anxiously.

“It’s just– They’re making it seem really bad. The real difference is we aren’t looking for massive experience or fancy certificates.” Wilbur relaxes a bit when Warhead looks away. “Think of it like 20 questions. Icebreakers. If you clash well, then it’s simple.”

“And the part I might dislike is..?” Tommy questions with a raised eyebrow. Wilbur winces.

“The requirement is that you gotta answer our questions.” A pause, one that the younger blonde dislikes. “We’ll know if you lie, and if you do at any point, the interview's over.”

Oh. So, either Tommy kills himself now, or he gets questioned on things he barely even told his best friend in the whole world.

Cool. Cool cool cool, cool. Awesome.

Can ONE of us be calm? Please? It can’t be me. I’m literally the one who has to be here.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight between his legs. Now that all three were looking at him, he felt much more in the spotlight. Which would be okay, if it wasn’t inside an area that would put him in bars the minute they discovered his past.

“Ssssuuree,” Tommy grits through a smile. He doesn’t know why he agreed, but then again he has a habit of signing death warrants. “Is there uh, a lie detector here or something?”

“That would actually be my job,” Wilbur continues, taking a seat at a table Tommy ignored. He begrudgingly follows to sit across. “My power’s advertised in a way that it doesn’t really seem big, but it’s a damn good help for questioning.”

I’m so fucking cooked it’s not even funny.

“Alright then.” Tommy nods, like an idiot. “We start now? I have wives to go home to.”

Ah, good, the room’s tension lightens a little. Though that could just be Wilbur chuckling at the familiar joke.

“Yes, yes, we do.” Another shift of his chair, and Wilbur props himself up by his elbows on the table. Steelwing pulls up a seat to Tommy’s right, somehow sitting comfortably with two large wings on his back, and nods.

(He hasn’t gotten over the fact that the Steelwing was in the same room as him. The Steelwing!!!)

Warhead doesn’t sit down. But he does stand awkwardly to the left of Tommy. Wilbur takes this as a good time as any to fix himself up and begin.

“What do you want from the H.E.R.O Tower?”

There is nothing in his mind.

The red strings making webs within his heart tear apart. Silent, quiet melodies in his ears go muffled, and it’s like he was put underwater with nothing but Wilbur’s words replacing the songs in his head.

The lyrics echoing the question, until it grows so quickly unbearable the truth tumbles out as easy as molten lava.

“A job,” is his response. It slips almost similarly to Wilbur’s mused words. Tommy shakes his head out, going suddenly tense when he snaps back to reality.

Wilbur looks.. fine. Calm. Accepting the answer with a smile like he knew Tommy was being truthful from the start. “Good.”

The answer feels pointed to a certain Hero who had finally decided to sit down, but Tommy says nothing. Actually, he doesn’t want to say anything at all right now.

“Do you work for any terrorist groups?” The words echo again, a symphony seeped into his very tone.

“No.” Tommy doesn’t even let the power take effect. It was a simple one. All three others are similarly not surprised. —Well, maybe Warhead was content after that. Then again, it was unclear what the Piglin Brute was truly thinking.

“Great, another of the serious ones finished. How does your forcefield power work?”

Tommy can get two things from the phrasing question and how he asked. For one, Wilbur doesn’t understand the limitations for Mental Abilities. And for two, he doesn’t know the wording affects the outcome.

Or he does, and he’s stupid. Tommy is leaning towards that option.

Mental Abilities are much different than Physical ones, for the obvious reasons first and foremost. They take energy a bit quicker, they need more focus, and more often than not they’re not useful in battle unless its something like telekinesis—which is both Mental and physical

But they work a lot differently, is the main point. Most of them are going to have requirements. A set of parameters that boldly outline what can happen and what can’t. Impossible, versus possible.

For Tommy, his Neutral Switch can’t answer things that are hypothetical or that contain too many branched options. It takes more to decipher complex details not commonly known, the more unknown the more energy.

Plus a bunch of other things. A lot of other things. From what Tommy gathered on Wilbur’s own limited, limited list, he can basically get a person to listen with a singing voice. Today, he’s discovering his ability is more than that.

It commands people. Coerces them. Convinces them that Wilbur’s words are a song worth listening to. But there was a pattern Tommy noticed; his power only enforced the truth to the specific question asked.

So, Tommy could do things like this.

“Energized atoms.” He gives a large exhale when the fog in his head clears. “I pressurize them, and they form. I can control every one of them, basically. Really, my only power.”

Everything is the truth but that last part. Because Wilbur didn’t ask if it was his only power, Tommy didn’t have to fight against the agonizing songs.

The what. Hey. Hey what does that mean.

Steelwing leans in a bit, shaking Tommy back into the conversation. “That’s.. not what I was expecting. They looked like holograms, or something.”

“Jugular wouldn’t have been trapped in them, though.” Warhead hums. Tommy perks up.

“You were told that?” He questions, looking between the duo. Then he blinks. “Wait, Jugular?”

“The name of the terrorist,” Wilbur interjects. Clasping his hands on the table in front. He seems more tense with this topic. “We’re like, ninety percent sure they’re lying to our faces.”

Warhead snorts. It’s the first true emotion Tommy’s garnered from him. “Not that we were expecting anything different.”

The name is … ringing no bells. Damn it.

They might’ve been one of the Faceless, that would make sense why he could recognize me.

But they haven’t said anything about me? Otherwise Wilbur would be asking specifically about that. Or they would’ve pulled me in for actual questioning.

So they don’t want the Heroes to know they know me.

That’s… That’s so much worse.

Wilbur waves a hand, getting the three of them to focus back. Taking a quick peak at his notepad, he relaxes slightly.

“Okay Tommy, last one actually,” Wilbur smiles again. He wasn’t kidding about this interview being quick. “Are you tied to Vigilante’s in any way?”

Oh.

Fuck.

Immediately, Tommy’s first mission is to keep his face the same, which is easy because a side effect of Wilbur’s power was making him zoned out.

Tommy’s second mission was to ignore the whispers that had begun. Like Wilbur’s first question, the sentences and poems were repeats of the sentence, poking and prodding at Tommy to correctly answer.

When he tried opening his mouth to answer the opposite of the truth, his body didn’t move. Ah. Okay. Double fuck.

The longer it took for him to think about an escape plan, the louder the whispers grew. It was like a siren song, murmuring into his ear drums with promises and begs, growing high-pitched and wailing when he ignored.

It hurt. His face looked blank, but inwardly he was yelling and screaming for the damn echoes to stop. Fog clouding his eyes, choking his throat, trying to drag the words out forcefully.

And, in a desperate panic, Tommy snapped back to attention and opened his mouth.

“I used to be,” he chokes, gasping a bit when the imaginary pressure loosened around his neck—just barely. “After– After Pogtopia was merged, but that stopped. Not anymore.”

Not a lie. It doesn’t break the terms of Wilbur’s power, whatever it truly was. It releases its vice grip, and the familiar melodies of Tommy’s own ability thankfully return to their volume.

So what if it was a lie by omission? If it didn’t flag Wilbur’s senses, it didn’t matter. He could feel a rush of energy through his veins, seeing Wilbur nod and grin, writing in a small notepad, it made him feel accomplished.

Lying to a lie detector. He can definitely cross that off the bucket list.

“Amazing, alright, that officially finishes the last of the questions!” Wilbur says with finality, stretching his back out with a few pops. “I already did a personality check in our first interview, and you’ve been acquainted with Steelwing and Warhead, so–”

“So,” Steelwing interrupts, deftly ignoring the sharp narrowed eyes sent his way. “We can legally say we want to let you join the team. Media team, specifically– PR and stuff.”

Was. Was that? Was that them saying he got the job?

“You got the job, Tommy,” Wilbur pipes in again, and oh he said that outloud. Wait, he what? “We’ll say we’re considering you, but legally you can start.. Let's say May 3rd? 8:00am?”

“I– I got the job?!” Tommy almost shouts incredulously, wide eyes going between Wilbur and the two Heroes. Neither of them were exactly wearing their heart on their sleeves.

Not only that, they want him on their team? Sure, could just be a polite way of saying things, but Tommy cannot deny how serotonin makes bursts along his brain cells.

“You still need a rundown,” Warhead clarifies, shuffling his arms which makes jewelry clink and tink. “Like, uh, how everything's gonna work, y’know.”

“And oh! Introductions, proper ones.” Tommy glances back to Steelwing who was standing and flitting about to different areas of the room, shifting around who knows what. “For us, since we haven’t really done that properly.”

“Basics. Simple things about us, and simple things about you.” Warhead speaks again, with that air of distrust Tommy has a feeling will take a bit to dismantle. “This is all business. Favors.”

“Anyways,” Steelwing’s hat turns, and Tommy winces again at the veil. It practically reached his chest, and it made looking at a featureless face uncanny. “I’m the public leader of the SBI team. I’ll handle most of the media appearances, so I might be talking with you a lot.”

“You know what I do,” Wilbur eventually stands as well, pocketing the notepad correctly. “Press conferences, appointments, social stats and media, the gist. You’ll help me with all that plus whatever else we decide.”

“Oh, and the team isn’t just us.” Tommy turns his head, and finds Steelwing with his talons on the backrest of his chair. “You’ve got the rest of the PR team and Archavists that usually help in the background, but since you're applying to work directly under Wilbur, more often than not you’re with us.”

Wilbur coughs, pointedly. Warhead grunts something under his breath and readjusts his cape.

“..I’m the private leader. Patrols, missions, expeditions. I train recruits. I don’t do media.”

Short, not sweet, to the point. Wonderful.

Tommy makes a quiet list in his head, but it’s barely needed; Neutral will remember it for him. He looks once at all three of them, then deflates as his nerves taper into a lesser anxiety. His heart hurt.

“Fuck. Fuuuuuuck. That was stressful and not stressful.” He runs his hands down his face, groaning, leaning back in his chair. “Fuck. My roommate is never gonna believe me.”

Of course this couldn’t just be it. There’s always a catch.

Steelwing pauses in the next thing he was going to say, and Tommy’s almost convinced his hat tilting downward is his version of a frown.

“Did Wilbur not tell you the requirements?” Warhead is the one to ask this time, blunt. The newfound intern blinks.

“..not, uh, not really. Is there something I’m missing?”

“Sure, you saved Wilbur. You passed most of the early tests in the interviews. But that doesn’t mean we’re gonna trust you so easily and that includes your.. roommate.”

Tommy bristles at the way Warhead says the word roommate. He’s about to launch a few creative swears at him before Wilbur saves him.

“What he’s saying is that, well, you really shouldn’t tell people you're close with you work here, now.” The words make the golden haired boy scowl. “If it was, like, one position lower it might not matter too much, but..”

“Everyone who joins this Tower is basically like more ammunition for the Villains.” Steelwing pipes in, like they all weren’t giving him a horrible ultimatum. “They don’t go after everyone, but your position? It’s definitely an eyed one, mate.

Anybody who knows who you are here will be considered collateral. Tell people carefully.”

He steps back from the world for a moment. Going within his mind for a second in real time but hours on his own.

Purpled is not just people. He’s not a passerby friend, or a blip in Tommy’s life.

He spent five years clarifying that. Fighting for that. Getting into arguing matches so big and painful it felt like he was never going to be a person again.

Five. Years.

It’s his fault for making the word roommate sound casual. It is. Tommy glowers in a void.

And then he’s back.

“My fr– My best friend probably should know though, right?” He spoke, desperately trying to keep his tone polite. He failed. “I get the whole ‘in danger’ thing but it’s not like—”

“It is like that.” Rude. Warhead interrupts Tommy, making him snap his mouth shut with a sharp glare. “You’re going to be working in an area some people want to run into the ground. You shouldn’t lump someone in on the pretense of simple trust.”

Simple trust.

He doesn’t know how he looked up to this guy. He hates how he’s right, for the wrong reasons.

“If you’re worried about attacks or– or putting myself in danger, this is nothing.” He leans forward in his chair, and his arms tighten around himself. “This wouldn’t even rank in the top ten for me.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Warhead sighs roughly as Wilbur mutters ‘that’s not good either.’ “Any new variable will add to the stack, and it will topple, and you will have to deal.”

“Then I’ll fucking deal.” Tommy almost feels happy, noticing red eyes narrowing. “Nobody, especially a Hero, will tell me how I live my life. Thought maybe you’d understand that best.”

A tense, tense silence engulfs the room. Tommy would regret his words if he wasn’t himself. Thankfully, he was.

Wilbur looks like he wants to take leave early. Steelwing is as emotionless as the veil allows him to be. Warhead isn’t responding.

“There is no way you are Pogtopian.” He remarks, incredulous and wary. Wilbur gets dealt 25 psychic damage.

Tommy just sighs quietly, mimicking how Warhead did a few minutes ago. “Did you not bother to look at my file? Notice the cool awesome Level 14 native? Geez. Wonder why.”

“What the fuck. Really? Two times, now? Are you serious?”

He pretends to not know what the first time probably was.

“Mate, we gotta work on your reading people skills,” Steelwing says, sounding like he was wincing.

“That can’t be a coincidence though, right??” Warhead turns towards his partner, acting like he didn’t just send a spike of terror through the younger’s chest. “First a vigilante randomly drops that they’re Pogtopian, then an Intern does– What are you doing in the Hero Tower???”

“I dunno. Why are you a Hero?”

Owch, Tommy. Right for the jugular.

Pun intended. Tommy doesn’t laugh.

Another silence, but this time it seems pointed to Tommy himself. Even Wilbur was quietly sitting back down, uncomfortable with the mood plummeting.

Warhead stands. Steelwing reaches a clawed, gloved hand, one that he declines by stepping backward.

The War Hero looks down at Tommy, and he gets drowned in this sense of cold, cold fear. His power shrieks at him to move, throwing escape ideas in his face, yelling defensive maneuvers.

And all he can garner from those sharp blood eyes is the look of suspicion. Of a guess.

He couldn’t. Could he?

Tommy doesn’t get an answer. Warhead turns around and leaves the room.

Steelwing makes a breathing noise that sounds worried. Tommy isn’t looking at Wilbur.

Tommy isn’t looking at anyone. Tommy isn’t thinking about anything other than the swing of the door.

He thinks the first warning sign should’ve been him letting Steelwing rest a soothing hand on his shoulder. He usually shoves off any contact, growling under his breath about personal space.

The room felt smaller. His heart was doing the anxiety thing again, but that didn’t make sense. He got away with it, lying to a lie detector. Nobody knew about the extra parts of his past. Nobody will know.

Warhead had left the room. Warhead left. That can’t be good. Does he know?

Does he know?

No answer, Tommy. His power can’t answer those hypotheticals.

I need to know if he could know.

His mind was silent for a moment, before the onslaught of thoughts and streams of consciousness continued. When did they start talking about goodbyes?

He can’t be here. This is no longer a safe space, and Tommy thinks it never was.

“I should leave,” he manages to say, but his voice is stilted. He doesn’t really see anybody’s reaction. “Thanks for the job, guys.”

Tommy curses himself for sounding so disconnected. He salvages it by giving a tense wave with a tight smile, spinning on his foot and pushing the door open with a half-loud thump.

A voice calls his name, worried. Tommy ignores it and by the time he’s turned and starts walking, they’re too far away to give chase.

He didn’t realize when he started speedwalking. Then jogging. Then running.

He knows. Tommy, he knows. He knows.

How could he know?

He knows.

He knows what?

He knows.

Me, he knows me. No he doesn’t.

Tommy slams open the nearest room he could find. His ears are ringing so loudly he can’t even hear the chatter inside die, as he stumbles inside with his head hung low, breaths coming in uneven pants.

Nobody knows me.

Purpled—

Nobody knows me. Nobody!

He wasn’t there. He didn’t see–

When did he breathe last? He sucks in a sharp inhale, back hitting a wall before he slips to his knees. His hair feels wrong. His back feels wrong.

The air’s wrong. There’s people here.

“———? —. ——?”

“——?!”

Tommy’s hands snap up to his haie, seeing if he could rip the offending strands off, crumpling his curls in his unforgiving grip. There’s a shift in front of him.

He’s had episodes like this before, moments where nothing is right and it’s as if he’s drowning in boiling tar. All for what, a misunderstanding? It could be completely wrong, too. Someone kneels in front of him.

His eyes are blurry with a liquid he forgot the name of, and his thoughts start to sound more like separate voices. Plaguing every train of thought like a mold infestation.

A slender hand on his knee. Tommy’s head snaps upward, eyes flared wide with anger and terror.

“——..”  None of the words register, but the kindness in the tone is almost enough to make him cry. “———.”

Who is this? I can’t see them? I can’t see a face!

His eyes were too blurry. Too fogged with tears and too unfocused.

I– I can’t—

He's familiar.

None of this really made sense. The kindness in the person’s eyes, nor the patience he was being given. A quiet hush over the room, even as he grips his hair and curls in tighter.

Tommy didn't like it when things didn't make sense. It's something that's been haunting him since he could breathe clean air.

It made everything too much. Wailing in his ears a horrible mimicry of memories he hates. How could this have been caused by some stupid anxiety?

"Stop," a hissed whisper. It doesn't sound like him anymore, but the words still rip at his throat. "Stop it."

He hated this. He never liked episodes like this, where air feels like toxic acid in his throat and his vision felt like static.

And when Tommy didn't like things, he lashed out.

The words to activate his ability are specific. He doesn’t need to say anything to flip back to Neutral Switch, because he’s accustomed to it. But he still needs to speak out loud for Defense.

He doesn’t know when he uttered the words. When his voice vibrated in the air and seeped into the walls, warped and unreal.

When there was a shimmering, translucent hexagon pointed to the person’s throat. An instinctual craving to have protection, force fields glittering around him like faux particles.

He gasps.

“Fuck– Fuck!” He curses, unable to scrabble himself backwards. It’s okay, though, because the disguised person yanks themself back, and Tommy can just barely catch a glimpse of mismatched eyes. “Damnit–”

In a quick motion, the cyan atoms form tighter, a more sturdy shield around him. They shove the helper farther away, and Tommy doesn’t focus on the pained noise before he’s shooting to his feet, swallowing gulps of cold air, and sprinting the other direction.

"No, wait! It's okay–"

Back out the door he entered. Had a panic attack, got comforted for two seconds, and left. Awesome way to greet your possible future coworkers.

Tommy doesn’t focus on that. His legs keep him running, running, running, the familiar motion like second nature to him. He will run until his heart gives out. He will run until there is no more land for his feet to hit.

And he will run on water if he needs to. Eventually he jerks to the side, shoulder hitting a wall before he falls down in some supply closet. His breathing is much steadier than before, but then that means there’s a clear path for new thoughts to start.

Which he won’t think about. Not for a few chapters more; he just can’t handle it right now.

What?

What?

Another blink. With his breathing stable, and the cyan glow dimming around his hands, he wretches himself from the claws of paranoia. It is fine.

This will be fine. Warhead got called away, he wasn’t quietly plotting Tommy’s demise. It is ok.

It’s ok.

It’s ok.

It’s ok.

It’s ok.

Everything is ok, Toms.

–

–

–

–

–

It takes a bit for the call to go through, but the wifi holds up and a click sounds out. He scowls at the wall.

“Tommy?” Purpled’s voice is immediate, before Tommy can even say hello. “Why are you calling.”

Maybe the first thing after experiencing a panic attack shouldn’t be put himself into the crossfire but he still needed to assure his friend he was alive. Also, screw you in particular.

A sigh echoes. “I was going to explain how it went, but..”

The earlier events weigh his shoulders a bit down. The excitement is still there, and the adrenaline of acceptance was bubbling in his veins, it just also meant a whole new bucket Tommy really didn’t want to spill.

And his attack on some random person.

YOU KNOW HE’S NOT RANDO—

Tommy blinks. What was he talking about again?

“..they’re still only considering me.”

Right! The words already taste bad on his tongue. Somehow, Purpled tastes it too.

“Only considering?” He questions, with that air of wariness that can only come from disbelief. “You’ve been there for over an hour. Were there other candidates?”

“Not really, no.” Tommy doesn’t lie, not to Purpled, this felt unbearably unnatural. And it isn’t a lie! Technically, Wilbur did say they’re ‘considering’ him.

He’s just not mentioning the part where, two seconds later, he was given a start date. He skillfully ignores that bit.

“These guys are really, really big on security. At least– now, after that whole bombing thing.” His feet pivot to the right, a red string guiding him alone. “So apparently I gotta make sure I’m trustworthy before they accept me.”

Also not a lie. Warhead—Tommy curses the name in his mind—was the one who specifically mentioned that. But for different reasons.

“Sure, you saved Wilbur. You passed most of the early tests in the interviews. But that doesn’t mean we’re gonna trust you so easily.”

He scoffs. Understanding where the Hero comes from can coexist with his frustration at the implications.

Then again, he also doesn’t trust them. So it’s a mutual stand-off.

“Hm.” Purpled’s mic blared a bit with what sounded like wind. “Okay. Expected.”

Purpled believes him. Tommy doesn’t know why that just makes him feel worse.

“I know where you are, so just call me back when you’re heading home.” His friend continues, oblivious to Tommy’s more recent moral dilemma. “And I swear, the minute I find you on another News channel–”

“Okay yep love you bye yep!” Tommy is quick to pull the phone speaker from his ear and hang up. With a cheery ding in his head, he pockets the device.

Deceit.

Friendly deceit, he argues. The lights he passes in the final hallway disagree. Tommy isn’t looking for validation from inanimate objects, though, he’s just looking for a good way to keep his roommate safe.

It’s like the vigilante gig. This time the roles were reversed, but it’s a similar concept. He spots the elevator in view.

Sometimes, knowing details could do more harm than good. This was one of those cases where if Tommy told the truth it would end worse than better. As much as he wants to freak out to Purpled about the job, it’s..

“Everyone who joins this Tower is basically like more ammunition for the Villains.

They don’t go after everyone, but your position? It’s definitely an eyed one, mate.

Anybody who knows who you are here will be considered collateral.

Tell people carefully.”

He purses his lips. Presses the call button then steps back, waiting for their metal steed. This is one of the times where Tommy should go against what Steelwing says, but he’s still one of the good ones. He at least has some credit to his name.

But that means he has to go against everything he and Purpled swore together. Either option sucked ass.. but one of them at least guaranteed the safety of his roommate. Even if it didn’t assure him the alien wouldn’t hate his guts in the long run, it was for Purpled’s safety.

For his safety. Yeah, for his safety. Nothing big can happen, right? I’ll say I got some lower job here and … I dunno yet.

His mind pockets that for later to think about. Because he’ll probably need that answer soon. The elevator arrives with a ding that mocks his phone, and the blonde boards it with a quiet hiss.

He’d like to get good news without feeling like his world just got another chip in it, digging into his side agonizingly slow. But his luck hasn’t been the best lately.

…

…

What if he’s wrong?

“Huh?” Tommy looks up at nothing. Ear flicking like he heard something. A frown climbs onto his face, as he leans against a wall. “I don’t remember asking you.”

The walls shudder a bit as the elevator climbs downward. Poking fun at his stationary life and the fact it was getting uprooted so seamlessly.

“Fuck off.”

Rude! Then again, when was Tommy not? The doors slide open before he can bite another insult to the air.

It’s fine.

He’ll just have another movie night with Purpled.

Nothing to worry about.

–

–

–

There were too many things to worry about.

Which is funny! He’s not really supposed to be worrying about things, at least right now. He was technically supposed to actually be relaxing.

Then again, it's hard to relax when your day went inexplicably wrong. For reasons that were hard to pinpoint. Bad luck? Probably.

Anyways. Lots of things to worry about. Yeah.

Scheduled appointments, trips to Level 9, and media appearances. Just those top three things take up the majority of their day. Or, will. Recently he’s just been kinda preparing.

And he was actually in the middle of practicing a debut speech when the Odd Thing happened. Discussing verbs and terminology with Powerscale, before the slam of a door.

A blonde boy with a grungy face mask.

Panicking, barely breathing, slumping into a curled up heap against a wall. Of course, they couldn’t just watch. So he tried to comfort, to get the guy to at least come back to consciousness.

He rubs his throat a bit. There was a little scab where the tip of a tiny, energized hexagon had pressed against. It’s already healed and everything, but he can’t get the events out of his mind

Very, very odd. The young adult reacted in such a painfully familiar way to his own bouts of anxiety that he had to take a few minutes to compose himself afterward.

He never even got the name of the person. His brain easily soothes that with the thought of meeting him again. And their brain is never wrong!

Ranboo hums.

Maybe he won’t call in sick tomorrow.