Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shivering, Tommy basked in the mild autumn chill which flooded through his coat (easy enough, the threadbare thing it was) revealing to him the full charm of Logstedshire’s cool autumns wind. It was quiet, which Tommy had quickly learned was not unusual for the evenings when the sun had set and a looming danger seemed ever-present, though nothing stood out at all. Of course, he wasn’t scared of the dark – he was a big man, someone who could definitely walk home after dark and certainly in the calm twilight that Logstedshire received, a great royal shade stretching out across the endless sky, promising adventure.

There was little wildlife here, by no fault of those who lived here. Tommy had tried to keep some plants in his own window box, had cared so deeply about those tiny little carrots he’d called his own, but soon the great Log-Smog had gotten to it, just how it weaselled its way into the minds and bodies of everyone in the not-so-sleeping city.

He looked out at the street, surveying the group of three men and two women on the opposite side of the pavement heading the opposite direction and wondered if they were coming to kill him. Surely not – the false wings on his back, the wingy shit on his face- they were very convincing, right? He had everyone at work convinced he was just a normal avian, like he’d never been a pet at all. But Tommy knew that Dream or Technoblade would find him again – it was just a matter of time.

He pulled his hood over his head, a brilliant scarlet that felt so beautifully him: he wasn’t wearing what Wilbur or Techno or Quackity had given him; he almost felt like his own person, as though he could do everything he wanted to, as though he wouldn’t need to go to work and pay his bills and do all that boring shit that almost made him want to go back. Almost.

He had a holiday booked shortly – the first one he’d ever been on. He’d be going out to the woods for a few weeks, get out of the miasmatic smog which clung to his throat, threatening to choke the life out of him as it had his carrots. And that was one of the ways his life was forever improved: he could make the choice; he’d painstakingly saved up the money for it, researched and chose where to go. It had all been his choice, to choose where he wanted to go for his treat. Nothing was forced on him – he had options, he made things for himself to look forward to, his own motivation rather than a shitty chew-toy or something else which made him feel like he was nothing.

Yet, despite his freedom, all he could think about was the two people he knew for a fact weren’t free: Tubbo and Ranboo, probably still trapped in Jack and Niki’s cabin, waiting for some slight variation to their day to give them any joy. They had each other and that was great, yes, but he could imagine the way that they’d laugh with him and Freddie at work; how they’d appreciate Aimsey’s games…

Why him? Why was it he, Tommy Innit, who had this great opportunity, a freedom no other human had? It baffled him, along with the obvious and undeserved charity Quackity had given him. Tommy wasn’t stupid – Quackity had used him for publicity a little; he hadn’t exactly hidden him when he’d worked in Las Nevadas, but he’d still treated him a shitload better than what most humans were in their whole lifetime.

Even now, working at one of Quackity’s more minor front businesses for his strange gambling operations, fifty miles away from Quackity, he still had his bills and his rent paid for by a man who could have him taken in for Dream’s bounty in an instant – he could see it go up, day by day, hour by hour, as Dream slowly grew more impatient. No doubt some of his co-workers would be tempted if they knew who he was – if they knew what he was. So it was his life on the line if they found out that Thomas ‘Tom’ Pog was anything other than your textbook dull avian teenager, probably in some suspicious shit, possibly not.

He passed a lamppost and stared down at his fully separated fingers which had full mobility, only a few scars to show what had ever been there. He was normal now – natural. The surgery on his voice was, unfortunately, permanent, so he’d always have a little pain but it did lessen the more he spoke and he spoke a lot.

The lamplight faded and Tommy had to turn his phone’s torch out because somehow the council had run out of money for lamp posts after a certain point, in the depths of the sprawling housing of Logstedshire. Tommy could hardly see the stars: a few dots which might have been planes or stars for how poorly they were visible flickered in the sky like a million winking eyes, kindly looking at him as if to say everything would be okay. And it would be, right?

Tommy looked behind him cautiously only to find nothing but the same sight he’d seen a few strides ago; someone’s knocked-over bin, revealing a few bags which looked suspiciously drug-related, and a deflated ball which appeared brand-new, as though someone had crushed it only moments after getting their hands on it. Tommy ignored it; the ball wasn’t his to fix, nor could he fix it even if he’d wanted to. Still, a guilt entered his gut, the feeling that he had to do something.

So, it was that night, when he’d climbed up the three flights of slippery stairs, bravely wandered through the liminal space that was the corridor to his apartment, unlocked his door and flicked his shoes right off without even thinking about it, that he unlocked his phone and hovered over the ‘phone’ app.

It was funny – he texted people all the time, yet calling sounded so strange – his voice, shared around to anyone like anyone actually wanted to hear it. And they did – that was odd, too – people wanted to hear what he had to say; he had privilege; he was, ostensibly a man; an avian; white; cis; straight… Of course, Quackity knew what he really was but he was alone in that, after that night that Dream had attacked, Techno in tow.

He still didn’t want to think about what had happened that night, even as his phone noted that it was ringing, a Las Nevadas number clearly visible.

One moment, he was silent in his flat, voiceless and doubting that Quackity would even answer his call. Phone-light alone illuminated his pale face, his sole light in the world aside from his torch which beamed brashly against his cardboard walls.

In the next, Quackity’s name was on the screen and he was Tom Pog, the worst (but funniest) cook that Logstedshire had ever seen; bold, brash and excited, as he’d always wanted to be, his great performance which he knew entertained very well – as all Big Men could.

“Heyy, Big Q!” Tommy cheered, brash and excited as though even the thought of existence was enough to give him great glee.

“Eyyy, Tommy, how are you, man?” Quackity exhaled, an audible smile on his face; the sound of slots echoing in the background.

Oh – Quackity didn’t usually take calls outside his office, so if he was in the actual casino then… Tommy blushed, relieved silently that he wasn’t on videocall, and tried to figure out how to calm Quackity down.

“Fuckin… I’m great, Big Q, that’s not- before anything, you don’t need to be worried. I’m not… fuckin’... I’m not bleeding out,” Tommy informed him in the most jovial voice he could manage.

“That’s great, that’s great!” Quackity cheered, sharing his mood till it felt like a weird false-joy which was uniform in the casino, as though he intended to steal millions with a smile on his face.

“This isn’t about my shit, this is… Well, it’s a bit related, but… Fuckin’... You know how I do online learning and I’m getting all educated and shit?” Tommy asked, staring instinctively over at his laptop which was powered off yet stood up, the desk itself bare for his next lesson.

Quackity hummed in response,”Yeah. If it’s too much or too little for you, I can figure that out,” he insisted.

Tommy didn’t doubt that he could – he had the money to buy millions of online lessons – but that wasn’t the issue.

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine. Just… You know how I used to have, uhh… friends… at- the old place?” Tommy asked, choosing his words carefully. It was common knowledge that Quackity’s phones probably weren’t safe but there really was no other way to contact Quackity in a way that wouldn’t leave a permanent record or have to go through some system that could get Tommy legal attention.

So it wasn’t surprising when Quackity sang “Tommy, Tommy, not on the phone, kid… If this is about getting your friends around, we’re gonna need to talk about this in-person, okay?” he laughed, his voice disarmingly innocent to the point of sarcasm.

“Oh- okay,” Tommy nodded, before realising that Quackity couldn’t see when he nodded,”Should I come over?”

Quackity hummed,”I’ll give you three days off work to get here and negotiate – after that it comes out of your paycheck, okay?” Quackity asked, that same irritatingly nice voice which Tommy had to consider Quackity’s ‘shut the fuck up, my phones are tapped’ voice, though Tommy ignored the slight desperation in his voice in favour of punching up in the air,

“You know I can drive now, right?” Tommy asked, moments before pressing the button to hang up.

Quackity went silent, laughed, and said “I want you here in five hours.”

Tommy had been hesitant to drive at night, not only because his drivers license was complete shit or that he hadn’t been driving for longer than a month, but because there would be few people on the road to help if something did go wrong. Of course, in sleepy Logstedshire, the chance of coming across someone dodgy enough to know him was almost nothing, more paranoia though he hated to admit it. But at night, when there was nobody about but some truckers and strange people of the night (like him, of course, except not massive men like he was) who probably wouldn’t have any problem in ramming into his shitty Pogtopia ‘92 and getting that bounty.

It was worse that his radio refused to work, and his light as well, meaning his journey was in darkness with only the poor quality of his phone’s speakers for company. Tommy had been trying to figure out what music he liked, starting from what Quackity called ‘the pop shit all the idiots liked’ and slowly branching out till he found what he actually liked. It was fun, really – like he was making himself from scratch.

From the beginning, he’d known he liked songs with lots of instruments, that classic stuff where someone seemed to have decided ‘lets throw cannon noises there’ or ‘this song is lacking random cymbals crashing in this bit’. There was never a lull for too long in the stuff he liked: a constant cacophony that seemed neverending till, of course, it did end, leading into another song of its kind.

Even then, he was spiralling – those avian wings which kept him safe were less prominent and despite the wings on his face, he’d seen the estimates of how much Dream was spending to find him – possibly more out of hatred than anything. Techno, too, was spending a lot to find him, as though it was about more than him – it was about their rivalry. Apparently, they’d had a whole pissing contest back in the day, something overblown and dramatic which had culminated in a duel won easily by Techno. And for a few hours, half the criminal underworld was silent as people betted on whether Technoblade, the blood god (which was a shock for him to find out as Techno hadn’t thought to tell him for all the years he’d lived with him) or Dream, the greatest hunter ever, would reign supreme. It sounded like boring shit to Tommy but that wasn’t important – they had sway over a lot of people, and a lot of dangerous people at that.

Tommy checked himself over in the mirror, the lanes empty for miles around him. There were no lamp posts to guide him here: he could hardly see the road, only the barriers proving he was still there. Ten miles left to Las Nevadas, the fake desert which had risen from the dirt, sand and blood compounded till a great casino surged out onto the world stage. Oh, Quackity could wax poetic about it for hours – one of the benefits of ‘leaving’ – and Tommy knew that the shit about how great his country was (and, by extension, his casino) made up about 90% of his job, something Quackity seemed to hold great pride in.

Yet despite the almost comedic advertisement of his own country, there was so much that Tommy looked up to in Quackity: if he could carve out his own home from nothing but dirt, well… he could do anything. Sometimes, it felt like building his own place for his species was something he could do; rescuing Tubbo and Ranboo and bringing them to somewhere that was just a few particularly nice trees and a lake, turning it into a wonderland for humans from everywhere.

The thought remained with him as the sky darkened, great wisps of cloud invisible because if Tommy looked up, he could literally see nothing. Of course, a few miles ago there’d been a small patch where the Log-smog and Las Nevadas’ drug-obsessed haze had waived, the pass-over between those two methods of pollution, but areas like that few far and few between. Instead, Tommy was greeted with nothing.

Before long, this effect reversed and the sky was orange at midnight: great jets of light streamed up from the ground, Las Nevadas a beacon in the nothingness, a flaming torch in a dark room. Tommy almost didn’t want to go near it as it seemed so unclean; impure. Still, he persisted, driving on as the roads became more occupied, though he still couldn’t imagine that there was anyone that wasn’t strange like him on the roads, the speed limit a myth to him.

Finally, he reached the raised road that sent those who were willing up to Las Nevadas, allowing those who weren’t to pass right by before they could smell the thick smell of nicotine and fraud. Behind him, the shining sign of Las Nevadas invited him to return as drunken laughter echoed from the rooftops, dancing through every building like the drunks themselves, falling onto each other with the coordination of babies.

It was a world so familiar yet entirely different; sights he’d never seen in the midst of the casino, practically trapped in those four walls like it was his new cage. The drunkenness, the smell… it was all the same, extensions of the casino proving how far Quackity’s domain stretched.

Tommy wondered if he could ever fit in there – it seemed so unlikely, even with his fake wings. If he managed to save Tubbo and Ranboo – if – there would be hell to pay from Techno, burning his bridges with him so certainly that there would be no chance of him surviving their next meeting. Still, selfishly, Tommy’s mind returned to that crisp winter’s chill; the way the snow had piled up on the windows; the vastness of the immortal trees, livelier than even the residents of Las Nevadas; the slight quiet, though never without the calls of the innocent creatures of the forest inviting something here and there… He’d loved Techno’s cabin in many ways – it truly was a brilliant place to live – but it would never be where he belonged – could never be when he was so thoroughly human.

A great cacophony of beeping stole any further thoughts, returning him to where he (and by extension his car) was stopped, along with a million other angry cars. Eager to join in the fun, Tommy pressed down on his horn only for nothing to happen. Well, he had hit it a bit hard when that asshole a few miles ago cut him off…

He tapped his left hand on the wheel for a moment, sticking his freed middle finger up at the bastard cars in front and behind him. Of course they were in a traffic jam, cars stretching on as far as Techno’s mountains, but Tommy, like most of them, was fucking impatient. Really, did all those other cars need to be there? Unlike everyone else, he had a meeting with Big Q – Quackity – the owner of Las Nevadas. Really, if Tommy needed to play that card, he was willing to call someone when the car in front of him began to move… a few inches, before stopping again.

Groaning, Tommy slammed his head dramatically into his seat, transformed suddenly into a posh Victorian woman. Clearly, it would be a long time before he actually got anywhere.

He took the time he had, inching slowly forward, to look around at the advertisements that Quackity had made – half of them informing its captive audience about a really cool casino (not many people knew about it) that took up about half of Las Nevadas, Quackity’s grinning face plastered across a few of them, shining and flashing as though he was possessed by the devil. He held a chip in his hand, his signature chips he sold for a premium price. His glasses were coloured and dramatic and he wore something that was more of a costume than a typical outfit. Really, the Quackity that Tommy knew seemed drunk more often than not, fitting in with the casino crowd better than he probably realised, almost a different man entirely to the confident, powerful bachelor he presented himself as.

Tommy grabbed for his phone which drifted slowly around the passenger seat, only to jolt back suddenly at the sight of green.

For that moment, Dream was there – right in front of him, ready to slaughter him like an animal. He was dying – or about to, anyway – and he was forced to wonder if he’d done enough. He imagined Quackity’s pissed-off face when he didn’t show up, the annoyance of the cars behind him, the way he’d failed Tubbo and Ranboo…

And he saw his life, then – every inch of it – every minute he’d spent living or waiting to live, the days he’d wasted wasting away like one of Techno’s sacks of potatoes he stockpiled for some unknown reason, his weeks (months?) with Dream and the pain it came with – those days he couldn’t do anything at all but scream and cry and wait for death – and finally it was there.

…Or, it wasn’t, because that wasn’t Dream that was next to him. Instead, he looked down and saw a little blob of slime, so small and insignificant that it seemed like nothing at all but an oversized piece of snot. Yet it had those unmistakable Charlieish parts to it; eyes and stuff and that gloopy, fluid movement.

Tommy’s heart didn’t seem to get the message because it was still running far, far away, already right beside Quackity, almost stopping because of the induced heart-attack alone.

“Fuck, man, you scared me!” Tommy exclaimed, visibly shaking though he tried to at least feign normalcy – knowing Charlie, he’d believe it, too.

Charlie squished himself down and up again, till he was a full-sized goop creature, none of that small man shit. He smiled, waving his fluid arms in an uncanny manner.

“But I didn’t mean to scare you?” Charlie stated innocently, though, like most things he said, it came out like a question, because Charlie didn’t seem to know how hybrids spoke even after… however long he’d lived around them. Really, Tommy didn’t know what the fuck was going on with Charlie and Charlie didn’t know what was going on with them. It was almost fair.

“I know, man- fuck- you’re- I mean, you fuckin’ appeared, Charlie, like a green booger, except like Dream and Dream’s- I know Dream’s a bit like a booger, ‘cos I can never get rid of him, he always sticks to me, you know, Charlie?” Tommy asked, knowing that Charlie probably wouldn’t get half of what he was saying. But that was fine – Charlie wasn’t someone who cared about knowing stuff: he was the one person Tommy knew who loved the idea of a participation trophy, not for the teamwork but simply for the being there.

“I’m not a booger – Quackity from Las Nevadas says that’s a ‘slur’,” Charlie announced, and it was at that moment that Tommy’s hand slammed down on his horn, somehow triggering it so loudly that his laughter was almost drowned, out, only getting louder at the horn itself.

Charlie watched him with owlish amusement, entirely unaware of the comedy behind what he said. That didn’t matter – Charlie was a funny bastard whether he knew it or not, and hopefully someone who had some idea how to get out of their 11 o’clock traffic jam.

“What’s a slur?” Charlie asked, and the horn went off again.

One switch of driver and ten broken laws later, Tommy and Charlie were at the steps of Quackity’s grand casino, Tommy’s car sent off with some posh bastard who seemed trustworthy enough and apparently worked for Quackity. Well, if Charlie thought it was okay.

Tommy hadn’t spent much time looking at the outside last time but it really was a grand thing: buildings, none identical and each nonsensical, towered around them in a ring, forcing the attention onto the casino itself as though they were only an extension of the main attraction. The pools of water were assisted with hundreds of intricate fountains; some carved with the faces of some short and fat flying creatures that looked almost like avians, others with casino-related stuff, guided them in, columns of water spraying out in all directions yet managing to be perfectly self-contained.

It was weird – Tommy remembered there being a building with a spaceship there last time he’d walked through those doors, though now it was (ostensibly) destroyed, replaced instead by a building advertising 360 degree views of the city (see, Tommy could read… a bit). Tommy had to question the decision-making skills there; it was much less cool because what could beat a spaceship, even if it was fake?

Charlie put a hand in front of his face cautiously and Tommy remembered suddenly he was there on a mission – the pretty sights would have to wait for another time.

“Tommy Innit from Logstedshire, are you okay?” Charlie asked.

Tommy nodded, internally preening at his new address. “Yep, better get inside quickly, Big Man, you never know what wrong’uns might be here.”

With that (and without anything resembling an ID check from the ‘vigilant’ bouncers at the door), Tommy was inside the casino he’d worked at for months, a year older and far wiser than he could ever have anticipated. Tommy wondered if the bloodstains were still there – surely not, right? There were fights in that casino every day and yet he’d barely seen a drop – and made a conscious effort to avoid looking at the ground.

It sounded exactly like what you’d expect from a casino: a great wail of machines; losers and fools bemoaning the loss of another ten diamonds; a joyous shriek of the winning few; the souls of the damned floating around, cashless and bagless and altogether without, mentally and physically. For the lucky deaf gamblers, the other senses were made victim to the thick smell of alcohol which permeated the air, along with a distinct rot that Tommy suspected was coming from either the back-rooms, the basement or the kitchen. Or, alternatively, all three at once, in that order.

A man slipped over in a pile of his own piss onto the floor, though he seemed more concerned about the ten diamonds in his slot machine as he scrambled up to order another drink; a man pointed at his trousers as though making an offer (for the body part itself or whatever he could do with it, Tommy didn’t know) and a sweat-drenched, smoke-scented, downtrodden woman offered a cigarette to someone who looked too young to be there, perhaps commiserating or, what was less likely, trying to warn him.

Breathing in the warm air, Tommy ignored the constant yells and suspicious smells in favour of hunting down Quackity, who was supposed to be… somewhere in the multi-level casino.
Thankfully, Charlie grabbed at his goopy hand, seemingly having some idea about where he was. Tommy trusted him: if anyone knew where anything was in the casino, it was Charlie.

They walked over to the bar, where Tommy had been made useful for a few months. Recognition sparked as he spotted a man he hadn’t seen in ages! His eyes widened – with relief or joy, Tommy didn’t know – and he practically ran over to Quackity, who was hunched over a half-drank bottle of whiskey which, from the fumes alone, clearly wasn’t his first.

“Heyy, Big Q!” Tommy greeted, grinning at his ex-(and, technically present) boss.

Quackity returned the favour, a slow yet wide, toothy smile appearing,”Eyy, Tommy, man! I’ve missed you! Why are you here?” Quackity asked bluntly yet cheerfully, as though he didn’t remember their previous conversation at all. Well ‘as if’...

“You… invited me here, Big Man, I’m gonna get Tubbo, and Ranboo, and we’re gonna…” Tommy began, grabbing awkwardly at his arms as Quackity inspected the situation.

“I’m not even gonna question that – it seems like something I’d do. Look, I only have one of you, okay – walking, talking humans are rare, you know that? So if I can get more of you, that’s great – then you humans can have, I don’t know, another human?”

Tommy’s face contorted and Quackity seemed to recognise that he’d overstepped because he raised his hands with caution,”Fine, fine, just… Take Charlie, take a good car – not your shit one, there’s no way you’re outdriving someone in that,” Quackity announced.

Once again, Quackity received a less than favourable look back for that, this time a nose-squishing glare. This time, however, he seemed unconcerned.

“-If it’s you or the other humans, it’s you, and… I don’t know… Take a few netherite, go wild, get fucked – come back wiser, okay?” Quackity offered.

Tommy nodded, uncertain of the first rule. Still, Quackity couldn’t read minds, especially not while drunk. Tommy had no doubt about it that a sober Quackity wouldn’t be so lax but 100 netherite was 100 netherite – and it didn’t even feel like pity shit.

“I will, Big Q – promise you, I’ll do so much cool shit!” he grinned, standing up eagerly.

But before he could do anything else, he was accosted by Quackity’s firm grip.

“One last thing – If I see you fucking kids on the news, I swear,” Quackity rolled his eyes.

Tommy gave him a salute,”I’ll be in and out,” he declared, finally released from Quackity’s deceptively strong grip.

Chapter Text

It was strangely nostalgic to be on the road once again with Charlie, this time in a car that looked to be worth more than the bounty on his head. If Tommy put his foot down on the pedal, the electric beast would take off at speeds incomprehensible – and he did.

“Charlie, this is so cool!” Tommy cheered, not for the last time in the half-hour he’d been sat in the car.

“I know, Tommy Innit from Logstedshire – you keep saying that!” Charlie beamed, not sarcastically but in that wonderful endless joy which could only be found in something that wasn’t human or hybrid. Charlie was wearing a trenchcoat which apparently hid some of his more slimely features but considering the green blob which came out of the top, it was clear it wasn’t exactly doing the best job.

Tommy laughed, remembering to focus once again on the Sat-Nav which told him he had around ten miles longer on the road before they ended up in L’manberg, the only possible place they could rest between Niki’s cabin and Las Nevadas.

Though it was convenient, Tommy had to admit that It forced up strange memories, dreams about Wilbur who had once been President of that ‘nation’ and had came to him in the strangest hallucination he’d ever had on that day he’d been on the floor, bleeding out in front of almost everyone he’d ever met – something he didn’t intend to do again. Hopefully then he wouldn’t feel trapped in some fucking void with Wilbur, a place which very obviously wasn’t real because there was nowhere it could have been. Even now he couldn’t go a night without remembering his worst nightmare or whatever the fuck it was – the way the darkness had taken over his senses; the sheer nothingness which he floated in; the way Wilbur had spoken to him like he was a little fucking dog. But it was a good stop, so they were going there.

His back was freed; no fake wings weighing him down and he almost felt unbalanced from the lack of pressure on his back, like he’d grown so used to being an ‘avian’. Tommy knew that if someone asked him what species he was, he’d lie without even thinking about it after Quackity’s constant drillings and the constant reminders to lie at every opportunity.

Somehow, it never felt deceitful but that didn’t mean he was without guilt: as humans went, he was so fucking privilaged: the fact that Quackity basically let him do whatever he wanted was something almost no humans would ever be able to understand; if he wanted to quit, he could have done so. Quackity didn’t own him; Techno didn’t own him; not even Dream owned him. Sure, it was hard – he had to make so many choices – but there was a great relief in that, as though he’d been waiting his entire life for the freedom he’d just been given.

He could give Tubbo and Ranboo that, too: he could give them a world where they didn’t need to keep their heads low and pretend they couldn’t speak and act fucking stupid; they wouldn’t need to eat out of dog bowls like they couldn’t use forks; they’d live together, in a small apartment that was theirs (the landlord could go fuck herself) and neither of them would need to worry. Safety in numbers, too – Tommy wondered if he’d feel safer out on the streets if he had friends there – people he could truly count on to not rat him out if they found out the truth. Tommy couldn’t describe it but there was something so magical about the concept of living with members of his own species. Still, he had to find them, first. And if things got violent, well…

Waving his knife around playfully, Tommy’s mind went back to the gun and crossbow in the boot. No matter what happened, he’d make it out – Quackity said not to worry about the consequences of what he did – he’d be murdered in most places for running, anyway – what was adding more crimes to the list. Besides, Quackity would help them – you’d have to be blind or have your head in a hole to not see that.

“Tommy, are you sure that’s safe for a human to do?” Charlie asked politely, though Tommy could tell even he had enough experience to know that playing with guns wasn’t perhaps the best idea.

Tommy nodded,”Yeah, ‘fuck are you on about, man? I’m Tommy Innit, destroyer of men – of course I can handle a knife,” he grinned, flashing his signature smile (or, a smile, anyway) and dropped the knife into the deepest cup-holder between them.

It was weird that he trusted Charlie like that – he’d felt so stupid after Dream had let him down yet Charlie was so painfully disarming that even if it had been almost a year since he’d last seen him, there was no discontent at all, their dynamic hardly changed even if he felt very different – he’d been working out (he had a two kg weight set to improve the muscular health of his arms) and he could use a gun (a few videogames had them) so it wasn’t like he was weak – and he’d been practicing with a sword like mad, whenever he wasn’t working or going to online school or all his other shit. Of course, he’d never be able to take out Charlie if he wanted to, because Charlie was made out of slime and whatever the fuck else, but it was a small comfort to know he could fight back against anything else that came his way.

“So, have you seen Moana?”

Where Las Nevadas had felt like a long drive, this was insane – it was a good ten hours of driving if you drove like a normal person (e.g: not Charlie).

It wasn’t long before the roads shrank and the houses shot up, all the marks of a city doing well. L’manberg was just as he remembered: a healthy mid-point between the poverty of Logstedshire and the posturing grandeur of Las Nevadas; warm, homely and soft in a way that reminded him of their cabin back before Phil left and Wilbur died; a soft embrace that seemed like it could never turn around to hurt him.

L’manberg was a city of many places, even debatable as a city: some called it a village (and it certainly fit the size), others a city and more, still, considered it a country of its own. It was a wonder how peace lasted in the city though surely it hadn’t been long considering the fresh paint on most of the buildings; the way the tarmac was uncracked and easy beneath the car, allowing it to roll without resistance. In many ways, it felt like the calm before the storm: somewhere that was soon to suffer through the horrors of war once more, the screams of the dying once again echoing through bombed streets. Oh, Tommy could imagine each fresh cottage going down; the re-building parties stopping in their tracks to evacuate from the very city they’d just been rebuilding.

For now, things were quiet: the roads had a stream of pedestrians, most roads fully in their favour, and so Tommy found himself parking in a quaint little car park called Party Island. At least it was cheap.

Like a fool, Tommy’s nerves climbed as he peered at the back, where his giant fake wings sat waiting for him to put them on. He’d need to, as well – though he felt strong and like he could take a few bastards on, people recognised Charlie and if they recognised Charlie, they’d recognise him as well – or, the more seedy people would recognise him. At least with the wings he had plausible deniability.

As the car rolled to a stop, he grabbed his knife and threw it into his pocket, hands shaking and eyes alert as though someone was sneaking up from behind: a spider, perhaps, or one of Dream’s cronies. Oh, Tommy knew he had people out for him; men, women and children alike prepared to drag him back kicking and screaming all for the money. He could see it in his mind – a thousand hungry faces all clamouring for their cut in whatever gang decided to chase after him, the way he’d be gagged or tied or stabbed or injected or whatever the fuck gangs even did.

Undoubtedly, Tommy found that he’d rather die than suffer through any of that again – the constant belittlement; the rejection of his sentience. He’d lived on his own for about a year, give or take a bit, and it had taught him a hell of a lot about his own capabilities and he knew he could do a lot better than Techno or even Dream liked to pretend. Yes, it was true that on some weak days he wished to be back there, under the thumb of people who liked to control his actions and tell him that he wasn’t strong enough, that he should give up control, but at the end of the day, it was unequivocally false – he was his own person, as much as the sky was blue and the grass was green.

Groaning, Tommy prepared for his back to once again be weighed down by the harness in the back, the great mass of false feathers practically half his body weight. It was no wonder he hadn’t put on all that much weight (though he’d definitely gained a good stone, much to his relief) as clearly the muscles on his back were working overtime.

Tommy stripped off his shirt, not embarrassed at all about the skin he was showing. It was still a bit of an issue, getting used to the boundaries he was supposed to have. The Crafts at least had the decency to clothe him, though when he’d had a bath or needed a change of clothes, it had never been him doing it for himself. The former was less of an issue – he’d quickly become used to showering by himself (Hot water on command? How could he see that as anything but one of life’s greatest pleasures?) but it was easy to forget that he was supposed to act like a hybrid with all the etiquette that it came with.

“Charlie, I hate that fucking thing, it’s so shit…” he complained, grabbing the clump of tangled feathers with a grunt.

Charlie helped him carry it towards his back, the feathers digging into the seat. With that, Tommy got to work, easily clasping it around his bruised-up waist, ignoring the thick, ugly bruises which threatened to consume his entire body. The bits below his chest were also suffering with marks and scars which littered the area like Dream, constantly haunting his life.

The ache – he’d almost managed to forget about it entirely – resumed, though Tommy was well-practiced in pretending that nothing was happening. He grimaced as he stood up, grabbing the knife and feeling it up, careful to keep his finger away from the blade (his fingers had enough scars from failed cooking attempts to last a lifetime – thank fuck for Youtube) lest he injure himself again.

Then, finally, he placed his shirt back on, conscious now of the slits for his ‘wings’ as he pushed everything so that it was in perfect place. Tommy hummed, stealing a look of himself in the mirror. Prime, he was almost a true avian. He hadn’t bothered removing the feathers which coated part of his ears and face – those hardly ever came off, even when he slept – though his wings weren’t safe to wear for more than a few hours a day because they fucked up his lungs so he was used to taking them on and off when his lungs felt like giving up completely.

Finally, closing the overhead mirror, Tommy removed the key from the car, rising to his feet as though he was ascending to godhood.

“Charlie, we’re just stopping for a bit, okay? I don’t want Dream to… fuckin’... I don’t want him to find out I’m here.” Tommy declared, looking down at his slimy friend who was bouncing up and down – either that or sucking in and out.

He nodded, saying something in response but Tommy wasn’t really listening, instead thinking about all the things he needed and where he’d need to go to get them. Food was a must – his stomach had been in a right state about not getting his usual breakfast – and he knew that he needed water and maybe some other supplies for Tubbo and Ranboo, so clearly they needed to go to one or two shops.

Still, Charlie was distinctive – obviously not human or hybrid, an anomaly which attracted much unwanted attention. And Quackity was a collector, their freak-show parading unwelcomed around L’manberg though he clearly didn’t belong. Tommy wondered if there was any possibility of getting out without a fuss, especially considering everyone knew that Quackity was sheltering him there was no doubt that the sight of Charlie meant that the sight of him could follow, so all the dodgy bastards were going to be out and about from the first whispers of his being there.

The walk into the city was only short and Charlie still managed to turn quite a few heads. Tommy noticed a mother drag her child away from Charlie, who was beaming and humming a song that Tommy vaguely recognised from a crime TV show that Techno always used to watch. He’d thrown a fit when it had been cancelled: Tommy could still remember with startling vividity the day his door had come down, only a few weeks after his first massive growth spurt.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asked cheerfully, as though the possibility of him being the opposite was more of a joke than anything.

“Of course, Charlie – why wouldn’t I be?” Tommy lied, conscious of the dead-weight of his wings; his unnatural posture; the distinctly flat texture of his facial wings…

With that, Tommy tuned Charlie out, following the brick path that everyone seemed to be taking through a field, large verges on each side, as they all ventured into L’manberg.

It was nice seeing L’manberg from inside a car, a million glorious sights flying past you at thirty miles an hour, but there was something glorious about going at a third of the speed, allowing yourself time to see each little beam of wood L’manberg had to offer: the way it curved; the caterpillar which had made its home in the weaker bits; the cheap, copy-pasted design of a city which had suffered a horrible few years and yet had bounced back with ease.

The roads being mostly pedestrianised, Tommy was free to roam in any direction he wanted, the crossroads taking him back to the sea where he knew that the shingles would allow him somewhere to put his feet up. A few children grabbed at their icecream cones, taking refreshed licks as though it wasn’t coat weather at least and though logic had its place, Tommy felt strangely envious of them. But he was a Big Man – a massive man, if you will – and they didn’t go for ice creams at the wrong time of year like a child – that was the rules most hybrids followed and if anything, Tommy knew he wanted to follow the rules.

“Charlie, how do we get to the beach – quickly?” Tommy asked, ignoring how the people stared at them. Paying attention wouldn’t do anything, would it? If anything, it would make them more suspicious, make it more certain that Tommy knew he needed to be on guard for some reason. In fact, the last thing he needed was for the police to start paying attention because if anyone checked the texture of his wings or wanted to strip-search him or any of the other million things they could want from him, he’d be dead by noon.

Uhh… I think that alleyway’s fast,” Charlie pointed at a small piss-scented path which looked about four feet tall. Tommy assumed it was supposed to be for inchlings or hybrids of smaller varieties, species that were bashed around a bit by taller hybrids. It would be a bit rude to encroach on their space but then again, there were no specific rules for that stuff and it wasn’t like he wasn’t discriminated against a ton (because that’s all it was – discrimination, not his fault at all that he’d had his voice and his autonomy stolen from him as a child) and-

Well, he was allowed to be chaotic sometimes, wasn’t he?

Grinning, Tommy nodded,”Looks great, Charlie,” he replied eagerly, running over to the small-species path.

They hadn’t had anything like that in Las Nevadas – not that Tommy could recall, anyway – though he typically only worked the ground floor and he had no clue what the smaller species were up to. Las Nevadas probably wasn’t the safest place for shorter hybrids, not when there were gangs everywhere and more drugs than anyone could count up in their lifetime. Realistically, it made sense that smaller species would stick to places that were a bit more peaceful considering people like Techno and Dream liked to run around with weapons like it was the 1600s.

Tommy only nearly cleared the ceiling, ducking down to avoid hitting his head. It was dark and tunnel-like, a few small torches lighting the way. There were indeed shorter hybrids walking through – whole families of mice hybrids and rats and raccoons and cats… Well, it was a bit hard for him to get past them, considering his height was a lot more than theirs. And his wings – though they were fake, they were bulky as, only made worse by the fact that he couldn’t tuck them in like a normal avian.

It was only after the second time he’d been flipped off that he realised that he looked like a fucking twat. Still, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel and as he didn’t feel like he was dying just yet, Tommy could only assume that he was getting out on the other side.

Charlie, following eagerly behind him, was almost invisible when Tommy turned to see where he was. He was far smaller than usual, this tiny little ball about the size of a dying slime cube. He looked like something you could bottle up and keep as a pet; something low-maintenance that parents would buy for their kids. Tommy grimaced at the idea but at least Charlie could grow larger and defend himself, easily able to overpower people if directed properly.

And then Tommy wondered – Charlie was probably easy to keep as a pet but wasn’t that just what everyone thought about him? When he was a child, he’d been found by the Crafts and though that had felt like a magical story of a rescue from feralcy when he was younger, the years made him question it all – how had they seen him, an infant, and thought that they should keep him as a pet? He’d wasted years under their roof, part of the family but not a family member, his sentience disguised with surgeries and treats and harsh words.

Tubbo and Ranboo were still being treated like that – though they lived under the same roof, though they had the benefit of companionship, they were being stripped of even the simplest of pleasures in life: they were trapped, forced to live the same day on repeat while their owners did what they felt like, free in ways unfathomable to Tubbo and Ranboo, under the same thumb as he had been. It disgusted him – that two minds and bodies that could be doing so much; enjoying and experiencing the world in the most freeing ways were forced to watch, their life playing out for them as they wasted what short time they had on earth, a future of suffering all that awaited them, ready to be thrown out whenever they weren’t adorable enough anymore.

In just a few hours, he could change all of that – in the shadow of the night, he would charge with Charlie and make it clear to Jack and Niki that they had fucked Tubbo and Ranboo over in the worst of ways. And they’d be free, together – only three of the millions of humans around the world but it was a start at least. Tommy, for once, would have companionship with someone he was truly on equal-footing with, able to say whatever he liked to these people with minds so similar to his own.

Tommy only realised that he’d made his way out of the tunnel when he bumped into a strange figure who looked more mushroom than man. His head appeared fused with a giant ‘shroom and spores poked out of every pore, his casual blue shirt and trousers dirt-covered and ruined with layers of mushrooms covering them, barely allowing the slightest shimmer of light through. His eyes were more bag than eye, closed so that the darkness of the man’s pupils was all that Tommy could see from where he stumbled below him.

“Ouch!” the man huffed, brushing the dirt off him as though he wasn’t practically fused with the stuff.

Tommy winced at the man’s dirt which had rubbed off on him, leaving a great brown streak over his shirt. What the fuck was he on? Really – most people’s eyes weren’t so vacant and Tommy had seen what people on drugs looked like. Back at the casino, it had kind of been his issue if someone looked close to overdosing on anything and he didn’t seem that fucked up, but still… He needed help.

“George!” Charlie smiled, running (or whatever you could call it) and outstretching his goopy hand,”It’s been a while!”

George nodded, though Tommy could tell he had no fucking clue who Charlie was. How many people made of slime did that George bastard know, and why was he running into people like a fucking idiot? Or maybe that was just the drugs he was on, whatever he was taking – maybe that was what magic mushrooms were?

“How’s… how’s your stuff going?” George asked, and Tommy could tell he was probing for information. Fortunately, Charlie clearly didn’t have this knowledge so it seemed that George was off the hook.

“It’s going well – we’re going to the mountains to help save Tommy’s friends – they’re human like him,” he said, far too loudly for any sane person to do.

Tommy’s eyes widened as he looked right up at Charlie, shock burning in his eyes like dying candles. What was going on in his brain that said that was a good idea, fucking up their whole plan just for a chat with someone who clearly didn’t know him that well? In fact, Tommy didn’t know if they even knew each other at all – from how confused George was (if that even was his name) Tommy wouldn’t have been surprised if Charlie was entirely mistaken.

“-So how did you and Charlie meet?” Tommy asked before George could say anything.

George shrugged,”I think we met… through Quackity. But everyone knew everyone in those days, it was quite peaceful, you know?” he said, eyeing Tommy with… suspicion?

Tommy hummed,”What do you do for a living?” Tommy asked, because he’d heard that was what you were supposed to say to people and because he didn’t really interact with people outside work and online school, he hadn’t had the chance to use it yet.

“I make potions, heal a bit – whatever I have the energy for,” George yawned, staring wistfully in another direction.

Nodding awkwardly, Tommy seized the opportunity to get out of the conversation with a quick “Cool, good luck with that.”

It came out a bit harsher than he intended but George looked at him with incredible, obvious relief, as though he was a teacher allowing him to finally go to the toilet (which some people bothered with, even in online school. Clearly, Tommy wasn’t one of those swots).

“Have a good morning,” George yawned, taking his hasty exit while he still could.

If Charlie noticed anything, he didn’t show it. Tommy walked onwards, ignoring the burning annoyance at Charlie’s admittance of everything they were up to.

Tommy finally allowed himself to look around at this new area – they were back on the docks, decrepit wooden boards separating them from the sea. Where everything else held the beauty of newness, though he didn’t doubt the boards he stood on were just as new, the sea had clearly been allowed its way with the wood for a good few years resulting in a great green stain which looked to have fused itself entirely with the innocent wood.

Looking out, Tommy could see a few islands off in the distance, perhaps a clearer day than their last visit – or, alternatively, it had been Tommy’s overwhelming, confusing mass of emotions at his freedom that had stolen the knowledge from him. Clouds loomed overhead and though Tommy had never been anywhere like that island, he knew that he’d never dare go there himself.

“So, where to next?” Tommy hummed, staring across the boardwalk. There were many tourists milling around, though as usual they’d attracted a significant amount of attention. It was a good thing that he was armed and fucking dangerous, then.

And then, Tommy spotted it. Or, rather, he smelt it: the glorious essence of pure sugar danced through the air to the tune of a violin, a subtle yet distracting piece which instantly set his eyes over to a palace of plump, bulging pies and rich pastries; the display cabinet held about twenty of each thing, and hands hastily grabbed at them as though there was an impending shortage. Transfixed, Tommy watched for a few moments as someone grabbed a particularly appealing pasty.

“-Never mind, I think I know where we need to go,” Tommy interrupted, speaking over Charlie who was probably saying something perfectly insightful. But that didn’t matter when it got between him and his food.

As he walked over, Tommy’s eyes drifted briefly to the sign. Now, he wasn’t the best at reading but he could certainly read the N-I-K-I-S (Niki’s) part, and the rest meant bakery, though he wasn’t sure how to put the word together very well.

Tommy amused himself with the idea that this Niki, who owned a bakery in L’manberg, was the same one as the Niki he’d seen all that time ago, parading a real human person around like she owned him. It couldn’t be, right?

No, that was ridiculous.

So, calmly, (confidently) he marched through the door, ringing the soft, lilting bell which hung calmly over the door.

Inside, a ginger woman in a witches’ hat was bagging up some of the bakery’s finest. The overpowering aroma of every delicious scent imaginable congealed into one; forcing him to sway slightly like one of Quackity’s latest victims. Oh, it was a wonderland of sugar, the kind of place it hurt to stay for too long. And yet the shopkeep (Niki, he wondered) seemed entirely unaffected – or perhaps it was merely the might of her million piercings which fended off the wrath of sheer scent?

“Oy, can I get you anything?” she called sweetly.

Tommy, awestruck, nodded, “Yeah, a… is that chicken and chorizo?” he managed, sniffing the air preemptively.

She nodded an affirmative and grabbed one of the many paper bags on the desk.

As she worked, Tommy looked around the cramped little room. It was just her, him (obviously), Charlie, and…

Scanning for faces, he locked eyes with a photo of a young merling woman with eyes that exuded innocence with every detail, clearly labelled at the bottom ‘Niki Nihachu, 20XX’.

Fuck.

“How often does Niki come here?” Tommy’s mouth asked before the rest of him could do anything about it.

The baker stopped in her bagging, glaring at him in confusion,”Niki? I haven’t seen her in… she’s my boss- ex-boss, I suppose…” She trailed off, haunted somehow. “She’s legally dead, anyway. Nobody’s seen her in years – have you seen her?” she asked desperately, transfixed somehow by Tommy’s comment alone.

Taken aback, Tommy stared for a moment, trying to form a suitable answer. Clearly, he knew where Niki was – in fact, he was going to her house right now. But he couldn’t say that despite her clear concern for Niki, who had ostensibly just… wandered off one day with Jack? Weird shit.

Tommy didn’t get hybrids, really – they seemed to fuck up a lot of stuff and then spend all their time after that pretending that they never fucked up at all. It was actually really impressive if you were heavily in denial.

“No, just- I like when a shop that has someone’s name in it actually has them working there, you know?” Tommy lied, smooth as ever.

“...Okay…?” she replied cautiously, clearly unable to believe him, “What does he want?” she asked, pointing at Charlie, who was moving pieces of himself around cheerfully.

Tommy shrugged,”I’m not sure if he really needs to eat? Where would it go? He doesn’t shit, I don’t think?”

Scrunching her nose up, the baker handed him his food, plastering her typical customer service smile back on.

“Thank you for stopping at Niki’s Bakery, where we make every day your finest,” she said, clearly attempting to be bored though she looked so alert – and lost. Was this really who Niki had left behind?

With that, Tommy left with Charlie in tow. He didn’t dare return when he noticed that it was a cupcake in his bag instead.

The journey continued with Tommy driving, entirely in control of the vehicle. It comforted him to know that fact – that it was his choice where the car went next, even the destination his choice. He could turn back in an instant and Charlie couldn’t do shit about it if he tried – which was unlikely. Knowing him, he’d just accept that they were going back passively, though Quackity wouldn’t exactly share the feeling.

Tommy marked the passage of time with each massive sign he came across, those ones that were so massive that the International Committee of Signs made it illegal for them to be placed anywhere but a motorway and only one per mile. Seeing as he was on the largest road for miles, guess what that meant?

Origins sponsored a few – it was this new place called Origins up in the mountains, apparently it welcomed all species but Tommy didn’t believe it at all – and there were a few boring as shit drinks advertisements (what the fuck was an ‘angst’ drink?). But at one particularly terrorised area of road, Tommy came upon a sign that looked like no other: scraps of wood showed each nail they had left; wetness seeped so deep into the oak that you could swim in it, and on the front, it said only one word: ‘Pogtopia’.

Tommy tried to think nothing of it but something about the sign chilled him to his very core.

Gradually, the lanes thinned and the number of cars decreased. It was when the road began to incline that Tommy realised there was no turning back: in only an hour, he’d be on the very mountains which had set him free, the place which could set free two others as well.

He just hoped he could do it.

Chapter Text

The trees were quiet, unease dripping from each creeping branch like meltwater. The sky was an unwelcoming nothing yet Tommy felt right at home. Indeed, there was some solace to be found in the quiet, only the sound of their engines and the rare haunting call of an animal for miles.

Tommy didn’t dare to turn on the radio: he needed to be alert, so in the moment that it hurt. His hands (each finger separated – and wasn’t that brilliant, even after all these months?) gripped the wheel desperately, each bump and corner churning vomit up his throat. His eyes were wide and alert, prepared to swerve desperately away from any opposing car or enemy he may find on the road. Tommy didn’t doubt that there were at least a few people on his trail – he’d seen the way people had looked at him with eager eyes, the knowing looks…

Or maybe he was just being paranoid – he’d gone through a lot of shit, he knew that much, and Quackity had been trying to make him get help. He’d refused, of course, because who would want to tell all their secrets to someone working for their boss, but he knew there was a lot of shit wrong with him.

How couldn’t there be? He’d been living as a pet for most of his life, owned and controlled by a group of people. He’d been tortured, manipulated, forced to do shit for scraps; he’d been belittled and used his whole fucking life and he was barely okay now, but that was why he needed to get Tubbo and Ranboo – he needed others to get the space and the freedoms he had, and he was sure he was up for the task, especially with Quackity’s cool car and Charlie’s sliminess.

He looked out at the calming land that surrounded him on all sides: to his left was a massive cliff-like drop which went down about a hundred miles. The mountains danced out across the distance, visible even in the near-pitch darkness. It was like he knew every inch of this space intimately; like he was coming home.

A small wooden structure appeared in the distance and Tommy’s heart sank. Oh, they were going past there? Tommy sped up, eager to get past his old prison as quickly as possible in fear of it dragging him back in. He hated Techno in many ways for many reasons but he’d done so much for him: Techno had been the one who’d defended him, fed him and looked after him for so many years; though Techno never see him as even capable of that much thought, would he?

It occurred to Tommy then that whether he wanted to admit it or not, he missed that place – he missed the warmth and the comfort he’d felt on those days where he’d had all the attention he wanted; he missed the way that Techno looked to him as his biggest comfort; he missed the longing that he’d felt for nature and that iced-out numbness of being an outsider to the world because he’d been so optimistic, so full of hope that things could only get better. And it had – it had, but his work wasn’t complete, it could never be complete because there was no chance he could free every human from a second-rate existence. The future had seemed bright back then, and some part of Tommy would always long for that idealistic naivety which had carried him through the winter’s snow all the way down a river, down a cave….some other places… then to his home, Logstedshire.

Tommy looked down at his own hands which shook with nameless emotions. He looked behind him. The house was far off in the distance somewhere, out of his line of sight. That place was no longer his only world – he had options, he had anywhere the light touched to explore. But first, he had to allow some more people that same freedom: drag them head-first into a wide range of experiences, good and bad; allow them to escape the numbness he’d barely survived in for so long.

“Charlie,” he said, grabbing his knife with passion,”I think I can do this.”

Charlie agreed, adding “That’s why Quackity let you come here!”

“Thanks,” Tommy smiled, his bagged eyes and weighted back still tormented by the events of the day before.

It was only a few more unbearably winding hills till he escaped the constant mess of mountain and entered a quiet plateau. This was where his knowledge of the area ended – he’d gone the opposite way when running away from Techno so he had no idea where he’d turn up next. But he suspected that if there were any other houses here, they’d belong to his targets.

In the distance, a large cottage made of stone called out for attention. It was at least twice the size of Techno’s yet just as cosy, perhaps even more so considering the slow wisps of smoke steaming out from the tiny chimney. It was almost somewhere he might have wanted to stay; compact, isolated and surrounded by nature. Yet as much as he basked in the winter winds and the tired grass poking desperately out of the winds, the persistent trees and the joyous, crowing birds, Tommy knew this place would never be somewhere he’d stay willingly, not after what had happened here. Surely, with Dream and Techno so nearby, it could only mean trouble, even if both of them somehow died.

But they weren’t dead, and the only other humans he’d ever met were still trapped: he had a job to do. Tommy made an effort to make the car quieter as he continued to drive, in the slim chance that Jack or Niki could hear over 200 metres away.

“I assume that’s their house?” Tommy asked, narrowing his eyes at the cosy cottage.

Charlie hummed,”It’s the right address…” he replied curiously.

“‘S good enough for me,” Tommy shrugged, indicating and turning off the road onto a patch without trees.

The boot swung up under Tommy’s force, allowing him to retrieve a little cart he’d asked Quackity for last-minute. Naturally, Tubbo and Ranboo would need practice walking – his own affinity for it was nothing short of a miracle, though according to his therapist it was ‘ADHD’ but it was apparently nothing to worry about and he had other shit going on in his life so he didn’t really care about that at the moment. So, the cart it was.

It was the kind of thing you’d take to the beach: metal; sturdy and large enough to fit several large bags or, more conveniently, a small bag and two humans. They’d had to get a large one because from what he remembered, Ranboo was lanky as fuck so there was no chance he was getting into something smaller than that. It wasn’t too heavy to pull along, especially not with two of them, and they had enough weapons on-hand that any threats could be dealt with efficiently.

“I think we need to make sure they can’t see us from any windows – maybe we could go through the forest a bit?” Tommy offered, looking over at Charlie who was picking up a starting quantity of ammo for the gun.

Tommy selected the crossbow, if only because he was more proficient at it, and gathered two fireworks to put in his pocket, alongside about ten arrows just in case. If he needed to, Tommy knew he’d aim for the kill: he’d make sure those ‘owners’ could never own anything ever again, whether Tubbo or Ranboo felt shitty about it in the end or not.

“Charlie, what would happen if I actually killed someone? What- would Quackity deal with it?” Tommy whispered into Charlie’s gloopy form, sending vibrations through it.

“Las Nevadas has many good laundrettes for cleaning up anything Quackity doesn’t want people seeing,” he said calmly, his demeanor not changing a bit.

Tommy nodded,”So it’s okay to- to use whatever force I need?”

His hands shook, his eyes distant and blurred. He wasn’t going to kill someone, realistically – Tommy couldn’t imagine anyone giving up their life for their pets, even if they weren't really pets. But on the off chance he did…

No, he wasn’t allowing that thought any more space.

Without further comment, Tommy stepped forward, admiring the forests he’d once ran through, bloodied and scared. It had been a task and a half to escape Technoblade, something he still couldn’t believe possible. That rage in his ex-owners’ eyes as he became possessed by something else, every trace of the hybrid he’d cared about so much gone, replaced only with visceral violence that snapped and threatened his very existence.

“I’m never coming back here after this,” Tommy groaned, stretching his arms out experimentally as he dragged Charlie onwards.

It wasn’t long before they could see the house which had open windows, allowing Tommy to see into a room of excess. There were parts strewn about everywhere, half-melted as they made and remade themselves with the assistance of some strange machine. And all of this heat seemed to be billowed into a tank which took up half the house, a great hundred-thousand litre mass of glass which looked very breakable if he tried hard enough. All it would take was one rock for the whole house to come down under torrents of salinated water.

But below all of it – crawling, fearful – there sat two humans. The first, a lanky boy who looked like he’d been genetically modified to be the most disproportionate organism that had ever been created, towered a good two food over his hoofed friend, aided further in his massiveness by two giant horns which protruded so far from his skull that if he’d stood up he’d have brushed his head on the ceiling. Tubbo, unable to walk like a human, and Ranboo left looking like something else entirely… Prime, he’d suffered with his fucked up hands and feet; he’d been subject to just as much vocal torment as Tubbo and Ranboo, yet it shocked him yet again that hybrids were so greedy that they gave humanity their traits, only to treat them like shit, an attraction to throw things or gawk stupidly at.

It was like they were the ones in the tank, trapped in a world which refused to bend to their will like it so easily could, the Earth’s two twin species at odds for no discernible reason at all other than mindless cruelty. To Tommy, it was sickening. To Jack, and to Niki, it was life.

Tommy pulled at the cart and hid behind a tree as Jack came into the picture, gesturing frantically for Charlie to do the same. If Jack looked out of the window, it was uncertain whether they’d be seen or not. Tommy found that he wasn’t willing to put his trust in foliage alone.

Niki appeared too, busy as she busted in, grabbed something placed on the rack to dry, and off to do whatever else she might do. Was that… a towel?

Tommy narrowed his eyes at Niki: she was a merling, right? Did Merlings even need showers? They were fish people, right? Surely that was enough?

His questions were soon answered as some strange contraption began to pump and wheeze, a noise Tommy highly suspected was coming from the strange DIY water tanks which they’d hidden just behind the house, to Tommy’s left.

It haunted Tommy that this was their moment: one less fish to fry, leaving Tommy with an opportunity that he didn’t want to take yet – not when it seemed so early. He’d barely been there for a moment but what if Niki didn’t shower again? Netherborns didn’t need showers, right?

“TommyInnit from Logstedshire, I think we should go now,” Charlie insisted, clearly picking up on the same things he had.

Tommy nodded,”I know, Charlie, I’m just…” he hesitated, turning to look at two sentient humans who were relegated to the floor while Jack lounged lazily on the sofa, gazing at the TV. This was what his inaction would condemn them to a life of.

So with the security of Jack’s distraction, Tommy turned his attention to the window. Clearly, if he used a firework, it would explode, right? He could smash it and unlock it himself so easily with his opposable thumbs and cool gaps between his fingers. And if he couldn’t, surely Charlie could squish himself under it, gooping through to pick them up.

“I’ll smash it with a firework, right? And when I do, you open the window from the inside, okay?” he whispered, his breath freezing in the cold air.

Charlie nodded,”I can do that.”

“Okay, on three?” Tommy whispered, venturing closer, one foot kicking the cart as he eyed his target, and…

Crashing, glass exploded in a sharp, shrill performance mimicking the fall of the snow he loved so much. At the bottom, those white pieces gathered, fallen from a gaping hole easily the size of his head.

A moment of hesitation, inaction: nothing.

And then, spurred on by the mounting shock on Jack Manifold’s face, Tommy was coming forward, grinning as he broke into a run, charging for a man he despised on principle alone.

When Jack saw him, fearful flames rose in his palms and he backed away from the window – good, Tommy liked someone else being scared for once. It was almost fun, wasn’t it? He was there out of choice, out of revenge – this wasn’t something that had been forced on him. If he failed, this was his own fault and Tommy could find nothing but elation within that fact.

“You- You’re Techno’s pet?!” Jack asked, though it wasn’t really clear if it was a question after all. He rubbed at his eyes, not believing himself. Good, that made it easier for him.

Shouting through the smashed window, Tommy declared “Haven’t been, never was, Big Man.”

A grin appeared on his face and Tommy added “Either you give me my friends or you die – painfully.”

Jack somehow seemed more at ease at that statement and furious, Tommy realised that Jack didn’t believe him. Even when Tommy, crossbow-aimed, was glaring at him through his smashed fucking window, Jack was able to delude himself into

You know how many people Quackity’s had me shoot today alone?” Tommy lied, glaring at Jack as best he could, his eyes frenzied with false rage.

Jack quivered suddenly, perhaps realising that he might actually be truthful. Good – in the end, he didn’t want to kill anyone. All he wanted were the two people shaking on the floor.

…Wait, shaking?

Tommy scanned the ground only to see the two faces he’d known for a brief time, still perfectly imprinted in his memory as though it had only been a day. They’d grown – only natural, really – and he had as well. They were all taller now, outgrowing this small cottage in the middle of nowhere, practically adults and with all they’d been through, maybe even older.

“I’m not gunna hurt you,” Tommy said clearly, eyeing them both with concern.

Their eyes connected, like two machines sending data to one-another. Tubbo’s eyes said one thing, Ranboo’s another – no facial movements, no nothing to signify they were talking aside from the slight nods they allowed each other.

And, a moment later, Tubbo’s mouth was open: “You came back for us?” Tubbo’s shaking voice asked,”We thought you were gone forever.”

With those words alone, Jack’s face contorted into something vile: he sneered, as though disgusted by their hybrid-like conversation, or perhaps it was the momentary lack of attention paid to him that pissed him off. Either way, Tommy hated the guy and they’d barely spent a moment around each other.

“How dare you get my pets to speak! Do you know how hard it is to get them to shut the fuck up? Harder than it should be, that’s what!” he complained, glaring at Tommy like it was his fault that he thought that owning people was a bad thing.

Tommy shrugged,”I dunno, Big Man. I don’t think they’re your pets. Tubso, Ranboob?” Tommy said as casually as he could, just to piss Jack off even further.

If Jack was furious, he wasn’t being very subtle about it. And before long, Tubbo had released a small burst of laughter. This ignited Ranboo, then Tommy, too, was caught in the sheer stupidity of the situation.

“I’ve had it with you- coming into my house? Saying you’re gunna steal my pets? Covering my house in- in slime? That’s not on, man,” Jack said angrily, gesturing at Charlie, who waved cheerfully at him like Jack wasn’t at gunpoint at all.

“Look, Jack, I don’t mean to be funny or anything, but…” Tommy paused for effect,”I have a gun… and you don’t.”

With that, Jack threw the table into Tommy’s face, glaring at him like he’d burned his christmas tree.

Time slowed as plates clattered and smashed to the floor, louder than even the window breaking. A shared gasp consumed the room as they each took a moment to assess the damages; two plates and a cup, their corpses mashed together in a million pieces.

Tommy, taken briefly off-guard, found his gun jumping in his hand as he desperately tried to avoid losing his balance. The gun jolted from his hands, like it had a mind of its own entirely. He could respect that, sure: it was fine for things to have free will, but did it have to decide that right when he’d just entered a gun-fight?

Jack fearfully jumped for it but it was too late: it had decided its trajectory, bouncing with enthusiasm over a mountain of smashed plates, eagerly spinning in mid-air as it evaded Jack’s scrambling hands by a good metre.

Tommy ducked down beside a chair, mindful of Jack’s presence almost right behind him, as he pondered the likelihood of the gun going off. Knowing his luck… And if it did, Ranboo and Tubbo were right there: they were sitting ducks, entirely at its mercy. Who knew if force would be kind to them, if physics decided that their fate would be to live or to die.

Then, a quiet click interrupted the room’s silent atmosphere, the sound of a shower droning on in the background.

…Nothing had happened.

Or, at least, nothing happened on its own. Before long, Tubbo was sitting up, using Ranboo as support. Ranboo gave him a nod and Tommy could tell what that meant.

The gun didn’t try to escape Tubbo at all. Instead, it obediently allowed him to click the trigger, shattering Tommy’s eardrums as a great crash envelopped the room.

And for a moment, he was in that… that void again. It was like he’d been dead: really dead. It was like he was dead. Was he dead? Surely he was, if all he could see was the darkness of the void, Wilbur’s muted taunts and a million unknowable, incomprehensible noises that were more alien than anything he’d knew of.

Quackity’s casino was a million miles away: he was inside the jaws of death, his life torn from him if he’d ever had one at all. He was real, and he was not: he was alive and dead. He was nothing and everything.

And there was a gun, and the gun had been fired, and Charlie’s unmistakable slimy, slimy body was around his, and he was being carried – carried? – and he was moving.

And Tubbo and Ranboo?

Tommy lifted himself up, tearing away from Charlie’s grasp. “Thanks, man,” Tommy nodded, “but I’m fine. You get Ranboo, I’ll get Tubbo, okay?” he asked, surveying their different sizes. Well, neither of them had much weight on them (a consequence of eating the least nutritious shit on the planet in frankly concerningly small quantities) but if Tommy could lift any of them, it wouldn’t be the lankiest human on the planet. He almost passed as an enderman, if you squinted a lot.

Tommy was glad he had Tubbo, because the look in his eyes said he needed something he’d seen before. In that moment, he realised he hadn’t looked back – what had Tubbo done to Jack? Surely, the gun hadn’t given him more than a scratch? Surely, it had only been something slight?

…Oh.

On the floor was something resembling a blaze hybrid. It was more red than orange, in a pool of its own blood coming right out of its eyesocket, his other eye totally absent of thought or life. Tommy could imagine the millions of moments it had seen: the days it had spent living and thriving and seeing life and everything it held.

Now, it was undoubtedly, irrevocably dead. There was no coming back, not when his eye was nowhere to be seen, his brains blown out around him like he’d never had any at all. If there was any still left in his head (which there was, dangling out lazily, but Tommy wasn’t in the mood to think about that) he wasn’t using it again – not in that state. And they were leaving him like that – it was the only option, after all. What else could they do anyway?

“Tub-Tubbo, it’s not your fault, you know that, right? We were threatened, and- and-” Tommy’s face was as white as Jack’s was, and Tubbo’s eyes were as vacant as Jack’s. Tommy wondered for a moment whether a similar fate had befallen Tubbo, who had been holding the gun. But there were no bullet wounds on him, not like that gaping, spurting geyser of blood which had once been Jack’s eyes.

No response. Tubbo’s mouth was as silent and unquestioning as a model human’s, mouth shut forever with the promise of love and care that would never be real. Tommy wondered if he could love Tubbo, when they’d killed a man – a real, hybrid man – together. There was no way, right? He’d hate him for forcing him to do that, right?

Tommy was just about to drop Tubbo when: “...What…?”

Niki, gills rapidly dilating and expanding, stared in shock at the gory scenery which had tarnished the living room she’d once owned with Jack Manifold in all his bastardly glory. Or, at least, it was better to think he was a bastard, wasn’t it?

“I-I can explain…” Tommy muttered, awkwardly stilling as Niki’s concern turned to something more passionate, more wild, more instinctive.

“Run!” Ranboo called distantly, his voice followed by the familiar squelching of a man made of slime.

Ranboo perhaps didn’t realise it but that made things a million times easier: no longer was he forced to concentrate on the image trapped in his mind of an exploded skull; a man who would never come back. No longer was he between life and death, witnessing both of it in dreadful detail. Instead, he was running. He could run. It was simple enough for him.

His feet moved, and faster than Niki’s, too, because suddenly he was back in the car, Tubbo in the backseat and his seatbelt around his waist. The car was moving, and he wasn’t driving. Charlie? Yes, Charlie was driving. Charlie was a good driver.

Cautiously, Tommy looked behind him to see their passengers looking like almost different species entirely. Tubbo was a blank slate: his mind was gone, replaced with a blank stare that spoke of a day poorly-spent. It was like he, too, was cursed with Jack’s bloodied face, brains exploding out of an eye, a pool of blood forming rapidly around him, that blank fucking look which his brain refused to let go. Conversely, Ranboo was an explosion of emotion: prime, he could see every thought that went through his head as his expressions hopped between one-another like he was struggling to choose. How could he react, when his closest friend was a murderer and some random human had helped them escape? Did he, too, want Jack or Niki dead or was he more sympathetic?

Tommy couldn’t tell yet neither could Ranboo. It was unfortunate, really: that would make it a bit harder for his therapist at some point.

He laughed quietly as the hills went by, that cursed cottage flying away from them, never to be seen again.

The road was as quiet as they were, each tree shaded red like Jack’s head; each tree shaking like Jack had before he’d died; each leaf falling from him like he knew Jack had fallen to the floor. Jack was inescapable as he looked back, then back, then back again. Why wasn’t anything happening? Why was everything so peaceful, so calm? It would be so much easier if there was a fight, a battle. Instead, there was silence.

He’d killed someone. Or, well, he’d intended to, then someone else had. Fuck, this wasn’t a good start to the whole ‘friendship’ thing, was it? Getting a friend to kill someone the first time you hung out? Not poggers, was it?

“You, uhm- you okay?” Tommy asked, because what else could he say? ‘GG’? ‘Hope we do this again’?

Tubbo nodded slowly and weakly, his head slow like he’d been the one shot after all, glassy-eyed and dulled, his eyes a cruel mockery of the sunset. And it was all his fault.

Tommy nodded, because there was nothing else he could do about that. There was nothing else he could do about anything, not to bring Jack back. Death was permanent, because it had to be. Death had to be permanent, because he’d never died and if death wasn’t permanent he might have died but he hadn’t. He was alive. Dream had never killed him: he’d never been revived.

“TommyInnit from Logstedshire, are you doing okay?” Charlie asked, forcing a jolt from both Ranboo and Tubbo.

Clearly, they weren’t used to a huge creature made solely out of slime talking to a human. What were they doing with their lives? Sitting at home not doing anything?

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, Big Man. Very good. Why do you ask?” Tommy lied.

“You’re usually telling a lot of jokes when it gets quiet – that’s what they liked you for back home. Why aren’t you joking now?” Charlie asked curiously.

Tommy hesitated. Did Charlie understand death? Was he going to be the one to ruin things for him? Had Quackity not told him the truth about Father Christmas, or how magic was fully explainable through physics?

In the end, he went for the safe option: “It’s fine, Charlie – I just don’t see guns used every day and… It reminded me of something,” Tommy explained casually, though there was nothing casual about the shaking, quaking movements of his arms, the way he cried out for something, anything but the horrible silence of the car.

The radio worked in Quackity’s car, didn’t it?

“Do you want music?” Tommy asked, turning it on before Charlie had any time to even contemplate the question.

“Got me feelin’ suicidal…” the person on the radio sang, and Tommy switched to the next station without further thought. Nobody was going to be feeling suicidal in that car because nothing bad was happening because everything was okay. It had to be – he’d done everything he’d wanted to do.

Yes, at the end of the day, Ranboo and Tubbo were free and nothing could change that: over his dead fucking body (and Jack’s) that was ever going to change.

And then Tommy noticed the car coming the other way: that shitty van he’d seen the insides of so many times; the car he’d researched, googled online to match the boot and the horrors he’d seen to a real, tangible car he could swear never to look at or buy for his own.

Driving at high speeds in the opposite direction, a whole bend away, was a car exactly like Techno’s, a car that couldn’t be a coincidence. And, with horror, Tommy knew: stomach sinking; hair tearing; eyes blinking, that it was unmistakably Techno’s.