Chapter Text
“He saved an entire block from collapsing and then vanished?”
“Some say he’s dead.”
“Some say he’s just a kid.”
“Who is Spider-Man?”
The news anchors’ voices overlapped—recordings from different stations, layered one after the other. Frantic tones, concerned citizens, shaky street-cam footage of a masked figure disappearing into the smoke.
“We still don’t know his identity. No name. No age. Not even a clear photo.”
“After the L’Manberg Incident, the city’s been holding its breath.”
“If you’re watching this—Spider-Man—we need you.”
🕷 🕸 🕷
The low rumble of a beat-up truck engine filled the silence, tires humming against the pavement as the city skyline slowly approached. Tommy slouched in the back seat, forehead pressed against the window, headphones in, hood up. The buildings of L’Manberg loomed in the distance—taller than their last city, somehow colder.
Phil glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “We’re almost there, mate.”
No response.
In the passenger seat, Techno flipped a page of whatever book he’d been reading since they left—something thick, probably ancient, and definitely not fun. His feet were up on the dash, boots caked in dried mud from their last stop.
“You’ll like this one,” Phil tried again. “Bigger city. New school. New people. Could be good for you.”
Tommy tugged one earbud out. “Does it even matter?”
Phil sighed. “I know it’s been a lot of moving—”
“A lot?” Tommy cut in. “Phil, I’ve had like three birthdays in three different towns. I’m pretty sure I’m still enrolled at two other schools.”
Techno smirked but said nothing, eyes still on his book.
Phil didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Tommy wasn’t wrong. “This time’s different.”
Tommy muttered under his breath, “That’s what you said last time.”
The truck rolled past the Welcome to L’Manberg sign, faded and chipped. A few distant skyscrapers pierced the hazy sky. The city wasn’t loud yet, but it buzzed—like it was waiting for something.
Tommy watched it all with tired eyes.
Somewhere out there, he’d make friends he’d eventually leave. Somewhere out there, he’d unpack and never fully settle. Just the same endless cycle he’s been in ever since he was little.
The truck rattled along the road, every pothole sending a low clunk through the rusting frame. Tommy didn’t flinch—just pressed his forehead harder against the glass, letting the cool pane ground him as the city came into view.
“Look,” Phil said, his tone laced with that same tired optimism he always pulled out during moves, “L’Manberg’s got potential. Bigger schools, proper neighborhoods, and actual job openings this time. Might finally be able to settle down, yeah?”
Tommy’s eyes traced the skyline. Concrete towers reached for the clouds like they were daring the sky to strike them down. Distant cranes hung frozen over half-finished buildings, and neon signs flickered to life even though the sun was still up. Below that, narrow streets curled between brick apartments, corner stores, small cafés, and graffiti-covered underpasses.
He could already tell—this place never really slept.
“I liked the mountain town better,” Tommy muttered.
Phil chuckled quietly. “You mean the one that flooded every time it rained?”
“At least it had a river and no one looked like they wanted to stab me.”
“Yet,” Techno offered without looking up from his book.
Phil ignored him. “What about the city before that? With the park?”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Where our apartment had a raccoon living in the walls?”
Phil sighed. “Okay, not that one.”
Tommy went back to staring out the window. They passed a rundown gas station, its sign missing half the letters, followed by a food truck lot where kids huddled around tables, laughing and pushing each other. A street musician strummed a guitar at the corner, his open case collecting coins and a few small bills.
It wasn’t a bad city. Just another one he wouldn’t get to stay in.
“Phil,” Tommy said suddenly, “why do we keep moving?”
Phil didn’t answer right away.
“Jobs come and go,” he said eventually. “Sometimes it’s just… better to start over than stay somewhere that’s falling apart.”
Tommy didn’t push. He wanted to. But it would just lead to more vague answers, more promises that this one would be different.
“We just need a bit of time,” Phil added, trying again. “L’Manberg might be the one, yeah? Give it a chance.”
Tommy leaned back in his seat and pulled his hood up again.
Outside, L’Manberg passed by in pieces—rusty scaffolding, kids riding bikes too fast through traffic, old women yelling across balconies, and the shimmer of something just a bit strange in the air. Like the city was hiding something behind its cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlights.
“Turn’s coming up,” Techno said, finally closing his book and pointing toward a narrow street squeezed between two apartment buildings.
Phil made the turn. The road dipped slightly, then wound uphill through a quieter neighborhood. The houses were small and older, but not falling apart. Brick chimneys. Overgrown lawns. That kind of charm meant the neighborhood hadn’t completely given up yet.
They pulled up to a little house on the corner.
“Home sweet home,” Phil said with a smile, even if his eyes looked tired.
Tommy stared at it, arms folded. Same look. Same speech. Different zip code.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Sure.”
Phil turned off the engine. The truck went silent.
Tommy shoved open the door with a creak and hopped out, his boots hitting the cracked driveway. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, already feeling the weight of disappointment settling in his chest.
The house looked even sadder up close.
Peeling paint. A crooked gutter hanging off one side. One shutter already missing from the upstairs window. The kind of place that looked like it had stories—and not the good kind.
Techno stepped out of the passenger side and stretched, spine cracking audibly. He glanced at the house and muttered, “Cozy.”
Tommy shot him a look. “It looks like it’s one strong breeze away from collapsing.”
Phil rounded the truck and clapped a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s got character. And four walls. And plumbing, probably. What more could you ask for?”
Tommy didn’t answer. He just started trudging up the driveway, sneakers scraping against gravel.
The front door stuck a little when he opened it, squealing on its hinges. Inside, the air was stale—like dust and old wood—but it was dry, at least. Light filtered in through smudged windows, casting soft golden beams across the scuffed-up hardwood floor.
Tommy stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the living room.
It was small, boxy, but kind of open. A faded brown couch sat against one wall, left behind by whoever lived here last. An ancient ceiling fan creaked above, wobbling slightly. There were built-in shelves with chipped paint and a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t seen fire in years.
Off to the left, was a narrow kitchen with yellowed counters and cabinets that didn’t quite shut all the way. The fridge hummed quietly—one of those old white ones with a handle that stuck.
He wandered past it and up the stairs to find a short hallway with three doors.
He opened the first—tiny bathroom, cracked tile, slightly rust-stained sink. Lovely.
Second—bedroom. Not too big, but the window faced the street, and the closet wasn’t falling apart. The walls were off-white, maybe beige, but they’d been scuffed by bedframes or chairs over the years. Tommy stepped inside and gave it a once-over.
He dropped his backpack on the floor by the closet.
“This one’s mine!” he called out.
From somewhere in the hallway, Techno mumbled, “You didn’t even check the third one.”
“Don’t care,” Tommy shot back. “This one’s farthest from all the other rooms!”
“Fair.”
Phil appeared in the doorway a moment later, arms crossed, taking in the room with a small nod. “Could do with a bit of paint. Maybe posters. We’ll make it yours.”
Tommy shrugged and flopped down on the floor, arms behind his head, eyes on the cracked ceiling.
He didn’t want to make it his. Not really. It was just another house. Another place to unpack and repack. But for now, it was what he had.
🕷 🕸 🕷
That night, the air in the house still smelled like cardboard and old wood. Every room was half-full—boxes stacked in corners, stray packing tape stuck to the floor, and the dull ache of sore backs hanging in the air.
They’d spent the last few hours dragging in everything they could fit in the truck, sweating through dust and splinters. Tommy had tossed his boxes near the closet before helping with the rest. Techno worked in silence, lifting everything like it weighed nothing. Phil kept checking the time and muttering about “settling in properly.”
Takeout containers now littered the kitchen counter—greasy bags of fries, a couple of cold burgers, and a pizza box that was already half-empty. Tommy leaned against the counter, chewing slowly, already dreading the next day.
Phil stepped back into the kitchen, phone still in hand, a tight smile on his face.
“Movers are delayed till tomorrow morning,” he announced like it wasn’t the worst news in the world.
Tommy groaned, letting his head fall back dramatically. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not their fault this time,” Phil said, clearly trying to stay positive. “City traffic. New route. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is,” Tommy muttered, mouth full of fries. “I’ve never lived here.”
Techno walked past, grabbing another slice of pizza with zero expression. “I don’t see the problem. You sleep in a bag instead of a bed. Same thing. One just has more springs.”
Tommy scowled. “You’re a freak.”
Phil clapped his hands together. “Alright, alright—grab your sleeping bags. We’ll each set up in our rooms for tonight. Then tomorrow, we’ll unpack”
Tommy dragged his feet down the hallway, kicking a stray sock out of the way as he went. His room was dim, moonlight slipping through the window and casting long shadows across the floor. He tossed his sleeping bag near the wall, unzipping it with a little more aggression than necessary.
He didn’t even bother changing out of his clothes. Just kicked off his shoes, dropped his hoodie beside him, and flopped into the bag with a huff.
The floor creaked with every breath he took. The walls groaned like they were settling into the weight of a new life. Outside, the street was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the smallest noises echo ten times louder.
He stared up at the ceiling. Tomorrow was school.
New faces. New teachers. New hallways to get lost in. And, of course, more pretending he was okay with it all.
He rolled onto his side, pulling the sleeping bag tighter around him.
🕷 🕸 🕷
Morning came too fast, dragging Tommy out of a restless sleep and into a cold, unfamiliar room. His neck ached from the floor, and his back felt like it had been stomped on by elephants in the night. The pale morning light slipped through the window blinds, cutting across the boxes stacked near the closet—the few they’d managed to haul in from the truck. Everything else, the furniture, the actual beds, was still MIA.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. First day at a new school, and already it was off to a crap start.
Down the hall, he could hear Phil’s voice through the thin walls, tense and sharp on the phone.
“No, you said this morning… I don’t care about traffic, mate, we’re sleeping on floors here—yes, I do understand, but that doesn’t change—hello?”
Tommy shoved himself out of the sleeping bag and began rummaging through the one duffel bag that held most of his clothes. His new school shirt was wrinkled as prell, and his jeans had dust on them from the floor, but it was good enough. He grabbed his hoodie from the corner and shoved it over his head before stuffing his sketchy school schedule into the front pocket.
His backpack sat against the wall, half-zipped and sagging. He gave it a quick glance, double-checked for his notebooks and pencils, then slung it over one shoulder and headed down the hall.
Phil was in the living room, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, phone hanging loosely in the other.
“They’re not coming today,” he muttered without looking up. “Tomorrow morning now. Swear to prime, if they’re late again—”
Tommy didn’t bother answering. He walked into the kitchen instead, which was still mostly bare except for a few grocery bags they’d brought in from the truck. He dug into one of them and pulled out a squished granola bar. Breakfast of champions.
He was halfway through the wrapper when Techno wandered in, hoodie halfway on, hair tied back in a messy bun. “Are you ready for school or whatever?”
Tommy gave him a look. “Does it look like I’m ready for school?”
Techno shrugged. “You’re upright and chewing. Close enough.”
Tommy rolled his eyes and leaned against the counter, finishing off the granola bar with a sigh. “I was gonna walk.”
Techno grabbed a water bottle from the counter and twisted it open. “I can give you a ride. Gotta go into the city anyway.”
Tommy blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
“Don’t get excited. I’m not walking you in or anything. I stop at the curb, you roll out.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not five.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Tommy tossed the granola wrapper at him. It missed.
Techno grabbed Phil’s truck keys from the hook near the front door and nodded toward it. “Let’s go. Don’t wanna be stuck in L’Manberg traffic. You’ll be late to your new nightmare.”
Tommy snorted, adjusted his bag, and followed him out the door.
The sun was higher now, casting gold over the rooftops and glinting off car windshields. The streets buzzed with quiet energy—neighbors stepping out for work, city buses wheezing at stops, dogs barking from fenced-in yards.
Phil’s truck sat crooked in the driveway, just like they left it.
Tommy climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Techno didn’t even flinch.
The ride was mostly silent. Music played low through the crackling speakers—some moody instrumental that Techno probably found off some niche playlist—and Tommy stared out the window as the city passed by. L’Manberg wasn’t what he expected. It was a mix of old brick and sleek glass, of tiny corner bakeries beside towering offices, of alleyways and ivy-covered fences and construction zones that never seemed finished.
The school came into view at the end of a long road. Not too big, not too small. Just… new.
Techno slowed to a stop at the curb and didn’t say anything.
Tommy hesitated. ““Thanks.”
Techno just nodded and took a sip of his water.
Tommy climbed out and slammed the door. The truck idled for a second longer before pulling away, blending back into the city traffic.
Tommy adjusted his backpack, sighed, and turned toward the school’s front doors.
Tommy stepped through the front doors of the school, and the first thing that hit him was the noise. The sharp screech of sneakers on tile, the low hum of dozens of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter all merged into a chaotic blur of sound. It was like walking into a beehive where every bee had too much caffeine.
He adjusted his backpack and tried not to look completely lost as he moved through the halls. Lockers lined both sides, already decorated with stickers and magnets and the kind of crap people used to mark territory. Tommy weaved through crowds of students who were clearly more confident about where they were going, clutching the slightly crumpled schedule in his hoodie pocket.
First mission: locker.
It was near the history wing—bottom row, too, which was just another small insult from the universe. He twisted the combination with mild suspicion. Was it really going to open? And was pleasantly surprised when it clicked open. Inside was empty metal, plain and cold. He shoved a couple of notebooks in and tried not to feel the weight of the silence when he stepped back.
Everyone had a group. People were standing in little circles, laughing, chatting, and comparing something on their phones. Even the teachers walking by looked like they belonged. And here he was—some new kid from nowhere, trying not to look like he cared.
He found his first class, Room 1B, and slipped inside before the bell. It was a basic-looking classroom, with desks in even rows, windows cracked open for fresh air, and posters on the wall with motivational slogans like “Shoot for the stars!” and “Success starts here!”
Tommy made a beeline for the back corner desk and dropped into it without making eye contact with anyone. If he was lucky, he could coast through the morning and not have to talk to a single soul.
Of course, luck wasn’t exactly his thing.
“Class!” the teacher called out in a cheery, lilting tone that didn’t match Tommy’s current vibe at all. “Before we begin, we’ve got a new student joining us today!”
Tommy’s stomach sank.
The teacher—a man with a bright red tie and an even brighter smile—turned to him with eyes far too excited for this early in the morning. “Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself to everyone? Tell us your name and maybe something fun!”
Tommy blinked. “I—uh…” He could feel the entire class turning to look at him. All eyes. Every single one.
“…Right. Cool.” He stood up slowly, awkwardly, and shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “I’m Tommy. We just moved here. I guess I like music and—uh—sleep.”
A few people chuckled. Someone in the front row muttered something under their breath, earning a few snickers.
Tommy sat down before he could make it worse.
The teacher—Mr. Halo, according to the nameplate on the desk—clapped his hands once. “Excellent! We’re right in the middle of a group project on local history, so we’ll slot you in with a pair who could use an extra hand.”
He scanned the room, then pointed toward two desks near the middle. “Tubbo and Ranboo—he’s with you!”
Tommy watched as two boys turned in their seats to look at him. One of them—shorter, with messy brown curls and an oversized dark green hoodie—grinned brightly and waved him over. The other—tall, pale, with black and white hair that was spilt down the middle—nodded in a quieter sort of way.
Tommy sighed, grabbed his stuff, and made his way to the empty seat next to them.
“Hey!” the curly-haired one said as soon as he sat down. “I’m Tubbo. That’s Ranboo. Welcome to the prellscape.”
“Seconded,” Ranboo said without missing a beat.
“Thanks,” Tommy said, slouching a bit in the chair.
“So!” Tubbo leaned in conspiratorially, already scooting his notes over. “Mr. Halo’s got us doing this dumb project on L’Manberg’s founding and local landmarks, which is all super riveting, obviously.”
Ranboo handed him a packet with scribbled margins. “We’re doing the old clocktower. Or what’s left of it? Most people just hang out there after school.”
Tubbo nodded. “It’s kind of sketchy but weirdly cool. We were gonna go check it out this week if you wanna come.”
Tommy blinked. “Oh. Uh… sure?”
“Cool!” Tubbo beamed. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
Tommy sat back in his chair, a little stunned by how fast they’d taken him in. He wasn’t used to people being so… friendly right away.
Maybe—maybe—this wouldn’t be the worst first day after all.
🕷 🕸 🕷
Time slipped by faster than Tommy expected.
Tubbo and Ranboo had taken the lead on the project almost immediately, pulling out scribbled notes and half-done outlines like they’d been prepping for days. Tommy, meanwhile, mostly sat back and listened, nodding along and throwing in a comment here and there when he thought it might help.
But mostly? He just felt… useless.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help. It was just that everything felt like it was moving a mile a minute. He hadn’t even been in L’Manberg for a full twenty-four hours and already he was supposed to know what the old clocktower was, why it mattered, and what it meant to the town. He barely knew how to get from one side of the school to the other without checking the hallway signs.
Tubbo didn’t seem to mind, though. He filled in the gaps with jokes and sarcastic commentary, dragging Ranboo into a back-and-forth rhythm that made Tommy feel like he was watching a very chaotic talk show. Ranboo, for his part, would occasionally nudge Tommy’s paper and whisper things like “Just write this down, he’s on a roll” or “You’re doing fine, don’t worry.”
When the bell rang, both Tubbo and Ranboo waved a quick goodbye—Tubbo shouting something about “tracking down blueprints” while Ranboo mumbled something about chemistry—and disappeared into the flow of students moving through the hallway.
Tommy wandered through the rest of his classes with the same quiet detachment. English was okay. The teacher spoke like she’d had enough caffeine to power a spaceship. Science was just a blur of how life functions…or something like that. Math was painfully boring, but at least the classroom was warm.
Every room looked the same after a while. Same off-white walls, same chairs that squeaked when you moved wrong, same tired teachers trying to get a dozen half-awake teenagers to care about algebra or poetry.
By the time lunch rolled around, Tommy was more exhausted than he wanted to admit.
He made his way to his locker, eager to grab his lunch and just… sit somewhere quiet. He spun the lock lazily, opened it up, and reached into his backpack, fishing around for the sandwich he thought he packed that morning.
But there was nothing.
No sandwich. No granola bar. No apple. Just some loose pencils, his schedule, and an empty water bottle.
“What the—” he muttered under his breath, unzipping every pocket like maybe—just maybe—he’d shoved something in the wrong place without thinking.
But nope. His lunch was nonexistent. He hadn’t packed one at all.
He groaned and leaned his forehead against the inside of the locker. “What the heck am I supposed to do now…”
“Tommy!”
Tommy turned at the sound of his name, pulling back from the inside of his locker just in time to see Tubbo weaving through the crowd, Ranboo right behind him.
Tubbo squinted slightly as he approached. “Wait—uh, that is your name, right? Tommy?”
Tommy blinked. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“Phew,” Tubbo said, grinning in relief. “I’m so bad with names, dude. Thought I was about to shout at a total stranger.”
Ranboo gave a small wave. “Hey again.”
Before Tommy could say much else, Tubbo motioned toward the hallway. “Anyway! Me and Ranboo were about to head to lunch and figured you might wanna come with us. I mean—unless you’ve got other plans or, like, mystery friends we haven’t seen yet.”
Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t expected anyone to ask him to eat lunch with them. Definitely not after just one class and a weird, mumbly introduction. The offer caught him off guard enough that it took him a second to respond.
“I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t bring anything. Kinda forgot to pack lunch.”
Tubbo waved a hand like that was the least important detail in the world. “That’s fine! C’mon, grab your stuff, and let’s go—” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. You didn’t bring lunch?”
Tommy scratched his cheek. “Nope. Guess I kinda spaced. Didn’t even realize ‘til just now.”
Tubbo gasped like this was the most tragic thing he’d ever heard. “Unacceptable. Nope. Not on my watch.”
Ranboo raised an eyebrow. “Here it comes…”
“Come on,” Tubbo said, turning on his heel and gesturing dramatically. “We’re going to the cafeteria, and I’m buying you lunch.”
“What? No—no, that’s alright,” Tommy stammered as he closed his locker, following after them anyway. “Seriously, I’m good. I don’t need—”
“You do need to eat,” Tubbo said over his shoulder. “And besides, this is a one-time-only, welcome-to-the-friend-group lunch. No take-backs.”
Tommy tried again. “I can just wait ‘til I get home—”
Ranboo gave him a look. “It’s either accept the food or listen to Tubbo guilt-trip you about it for the next week.”
“I will,” Tubbo confirmed proudly.
Somehow, despite all his attempts to say no, Tommy found himself being herded toward the cafeteria, completely failing to stop a grin from tugging at the corners of his mouth.
The cafeteria was exactly what Tommy expected—loud, chaotic, and way too bright for his liking. The walls were painted in faded blues and yellows, trying to look cheery but mostly just made the place feel like it was stuck in a weird time warp. Tables were scattered across the room in no real order, each one crowded with noisy groups already well into their lunch routines.
Tubbo led the way, practically bouncing as he pointed to the line near the back where the food was set up. “Alright, rookie—cafeteria crash course. Grab a tray, slide down the line, pick what you want, and try not to think too hard about what any of it actually is.”
Tommy grabbed a tray hesitantly. “Reassuring…”
“Hey, it’s edible. Most of the time,” Tubbo said with a grin.
Tommy eyed the options carefully. There wasn’t much that looked great, but his stomach wasn’t picky right now—just hungry. He went with a slice of pizza that looked halfway decent, a bag of chips, an apple, and a bottle of water. Safe choices. Nothing weird. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about this whole thing, and he wasn’t about to make it worse by picking some radioactive green slop from the mystery tray.
He turned to Tubbo. “You sure about this?”
Tubbo had already pulled out his student ID card and was standing at the register. “Absolutely. Don’t worry about it, man.”
Tommy opened his mouth to argue again, but Ranboo cut in smoothly from behind, “He’s already committed. It’s easier to just let it happen.”
“Exactly,” Tubbo said as he tapped the card against the reader. A soft beep confirmed the payment, and just like that, Tommy’s tray was covered.
Tommy blinked. “Thanks. Seriously.”
Tubbo just shrugged like it was no big deal. “You can pay me back by surviving your first week. Now come on, I’ve got a prime table picked out.”
The three of them made their way across the cafeteria, dodging bustling tables, spilled drinks, and someone aggressively breakdancing in the middle of the room for some unknown reason. Tubbo led them to a table near the back corner—far from most of the chaos. It was pressed up against the windows, slightly isolated, and looked like it hadn’t been claimed by any other social group.
“This is the spot,” Tubbo said, sliding into the seat like he owned the place.
Ranboo sat across from him and gave Tommy a small nod. “Tubbo’s claimed this as neutral territory. No drama. No nonsense. Just food and questionable jokes.”
Tommy set his tray down and sat beside Tubbo, glancing around the room one last time before focusing on his food.
They settled into the corner table like they’d done this a thousand times before—Tubbo instantly tearing into his lunch with zero hesitation, Ranboo carefully unwrapping a sandwich from a brown paper bag, and Tommy watching them both for a second before deciding it was safe to eat.
Tubbo spoke up with his usual energy. “Okay, now that we’ve fed you, I think it’s time for some actual introductions. Y’know, the kind where we aren’t whispering about dusty history projects and hoping Mr. Halo doesn’t hear us.”
Ranboo nodded. “Fair’s fair.”
Tubbo leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m Tubbo. You probably guessed that by now. Full name’s Toby, but literally no one calls me that unless I’m in serious trouble.”
“His Aunt Puffy does,” Ranboo added helpfully.
“She’s got the mom voice,” Tubbo said, nodding like it was a known fact. “I live with her. My parents… uh, they died when I was really little. Car crash. Don’t really remember them, to be honest.” He shrugged like he’d said it a hundred times before. “But Puffy’s great. She works with the city on like, disaster response stuff. Kinda cool, kinda terrifying.”
Tommy blinked. “Oh. Wow.”
“It’s not as dramatic as it sounds,” Tubbo said quickly, brushing it off. “Anyway—your turn, Ranboo.”
Ranboo looked up from his sandwich, chewing slowly before answering. “Ranboo. Just Ranboo. My parents are alive, I think.”
Tubbo snorted.
“They’re just… always working. Business stuff, meetings, traveling. I’m an only child, so it’s just me and a lot of silence at home. I hang out here with Tubbo most of the time to avoid slowly going insane.”
“Which means you’re stuck with me,” Tubbo grinned.
Ranboo smirked. “Terrifying thought.”
They both turned their attention to Tommy expectantly. Tubbo tilted his head. “What about you, mystery boy? Got a tragic backstory to complete the trio or what?”
Ranboo nudged him. “Dude—”
Tommy held up a hand, a small grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Nah, it’s alright.”
He set his water bottle down and leaned back a little. “I’m Tommy. Full name’s Tommy Innit—don’t ask, it’s a thing. I live with my dad and my older brother. We’ve moved around a lot. Don’t usually stay in one place long.”
Tubbo’s eyebrows shot up. “Military family or something?”
Tommy shook his head. “Not exactly. Just… life stuff, I guess.”
Ranboo gave him a knowing look. “That's why you looked so thrilled to be here this morning?”
Tommy snorted. “Was it that obvious?”
“Like, painfully,” Tubbo said with a grin.
Tommy smiled faintly, pushing his tray forward and folding his arms on the table. “Well. Wasn’t expecting to get lunch handed to me or to actually talk to anyone, so… this isn’t the worst start.”
Tubbo grinned wider. “We’re growing on you already.”
“Like mold,” Ranboo added.
Tommy let out a laugh—short, but real.
🕷 🕸 🕷
Lunch slipped by quicker than Tommy expected, the three of them bouncing between casual chatter and dumb jokes, occasionally pausing to actually take bites of food. Tubbo did most of the talking, of course, but Ranboo chimed in with dry commentary that kept Tommy laughing more than he cared to admit.
Somewhere between the conversation about which teachers were secretly robots and Ranboo claiming he once saw a squirrel steal someone’s entire sandwich, Tubbo reached into his pocket and slid a folded-up piece of paper across the table to Tommy.
“What’s this?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Our numbers,” Tubbo said casually like it wasn’t a big deal. “Y’know, in case you need help with homework. Or wanna hang out? Or get stuck in a vending machine and need backup. That happens sometimes.”
Ranboo nodded solemnly. “It’s true. We speak from experience.”
Tommy stared at the paper for a second before tucking it into his pocket with a small nod. “Thanks.”
When the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, the cafeteria erupted into noise as students began flooding the exits. The trio split up after that, tossed into the chaos of their class schedules.
Tommy’s last two periods dragged on painfully slow.
Art class wasn’t bad, but he didn’t have any of his supplies yet, and the teacher had him sit in the back with a worn-out pencil and a sheet of printer paper. He mostly doodled stick figures dramatically stabbing each other.
Gym was worse.
The locker room was packed, loud, and smelled like it had never once been cleaned. He didn’t have proper gym clothes yet, so the teacher just had him walk laps around the gym while everyone else played basketball. A ball hit him in the shoulder at one point, and he seriously debated pretending to be unconscious just to skip the rest of class.
By the time the final bell rang, Tommy was more than ready to escape.
He grabbed his stuff from his locker—still light but he had a feeling that over time his bag would get heavier—and pushed through the crowd of students pouring out of the building.
Standing by the curb, leaning against a beat-up old truck, was Techno. He had one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other holding his phone, looking exactly like someone who could win a fight and not even smudge his glasses.
Tommy made his way over, slinging his backpack onto one shoulder. “Hey.”
Techno glanced up from his phone. “Survived?”
“Barely,” Tommy muttered. “I think one of those gym balls had a personal vendetta against me.”
“Brutal,” Techno said, deadpan. “Want revenge?”
Tommy snorted. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Techno pushed off the truck and opened the passenger door for him. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the traffic sucks.”
Tommy climbed in, the familiar scent of the truck—old leather and worn-out air fresheners—immediately more comforting than he expected. As Techno got in and started the engine, Tommy leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes for a second.
The drive home was mostly quiet, the hum of the engine mixing with some indie rock song playing softly through the truck’s old speakers. The windows were cracked slightly, letting in the cool afternoon air, and for the first time all day, Tommy felt himself starting to relax.
He pulled out his phone and fished the folded piece of paper from his pocket—the one Tubbo had slipped him at lunch. Carefully unfolding it, he saw both numbers scrawled in messy handwriting: one labeled “Tubbo (talks too much)” and the other “Ranboo (tall guy).” Classic.
Tommy added them to his contacts and shot them both a quick text: hey it’s Tommy .
Not even two seconds later, his phone buzzed with a notification:
Tubbo added you to “The Coolest Trio (WIP Name)”
Tubbo: WOOOO new member acquired!!
Ranboo: Welcome to the chaos
Tubbo: we need a better name
Ranboo: agreed
Tommy: you guys are quick with this huh
Tubbo: we’ve been planning your arrival since lunch lol
Tommy smirked, shaking his head fondly as he locked his phone and tucked it away.
From the driver’s seat, Techno glanced over. “So? How was it?”
Tommy shrugged, watching the trees blur past the window. “Wasn’t terrible.”
“Mm.” Techno waited for a beat. “So it was a good day then?.”
Tommy huffed a laugh. “I met some people. Got stuck in a group project first period. Got hit in the shoulder during gym. Forgot to pack a lunch. Tubbo bought me one anyway.”
“Tubbo?” Techno echoed, turning the wheel smoothly as they approached their neighborhood.
“Guy from school. Kinda loud. Kinda cool.”
“Friends already, huh?”
Tommy looked out the window again, trying not to let the smile creep too much into his voice. “Something like that.”
As they turned onto their street, Tommy sat up a little straighter.
“Yo—is that the moving truck?”
Sure enough, parked in their driveway was a large, rumbling moving truck with the company name slapped on the side in big bold letters. Two workers stood near the back, one with a clipboard, the other opening the latch to start unloading.
Techno parked at the curb and leaned over the steering wheel. “Guess the movers finally figured out what day it is.”
Tommy groaned, already dreading the unpacking chaos. “And here I thought I’d get one more day of not doing anything.”
“Not a chance,” Techno said, smirking.”At least you won’t be sleeping on the floor tonight”
They both climbed out of the truck, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the driveway. The once-empty house now felt a little more real, a little more lived-in—and a whole lot more full of cardboard.
Phil looked up from a half-opened box as Tommy and Techno stepped through the front door, brushing off the late spring breeze. The living room was already starting to take shape—couch cushions leaning against the wall, a pile of tangled cords and wrapped-up electronics scattered near the TV stand.
“Hey, there’s my boy!” Phil called, grinning as he stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Welcome home. How was school?”
Tommy dropped his bag near the stairs and shrugged. “Not as crap as I expected.”
Phil raised an eyebrow as he pulled a blanket out of a box and started folding it. “That’s as close to a compliment as I’m gonna get, huh?”
Tommy smirked. “Probably.”
Phil chuckled and gestured toward the open boxes beside him. “Come give me a hand, then. Might as well unpack while you tell me more.”
“Ugh, fine,” Tommy groaned but made his way over and started pulling things out of a box labeled LIVING ROOM – FRAGILE. “Met two people—Tubbo and Ranboo. Got tossed into a project with them.”
“Made friends already?” Phil asked, sounding both surprised and proud. “Not bad for your first day.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Tommy said, carefully unwrapping a glass picture frame. “They’re weird. But not in a bad way.”
“Sounds like your kind of people,” Techno called from the kitchen, where he was already elbow-deep in unpacking mugs and dishes onto the shelves.
“You don’t even know them,” Tommy called back.
“Don’t have to. You stuck around them, didn’t you?”
Tommy didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and handed Phil a stack of coasters.
Together, the three worked in a quiet rhythm—Phil in the living room setting up books and electronics, Techno organizing the kitchen with practiced efficiency, and Tommy floating between the two, helping wherever he was told.
The sounds of boxes rustling, tape tearing, and the distant thump of the movers bringing in the last few items filled the space. The house, which had felt so empty and foreign the night before, was starting to feel like… something. Not quite home. Not yet. But it was getting there.
By the time the sun started dipping behind the houses across the street, the main floor looked more or less livable. Couches were set up, the kitchen was usable, and the Wi-Fi router—blessedly—was plugged in and working.
Phil stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the progress with a satisfied nod. “Not bad, lads. Not bad at all.”
Tommy flopped down onto the couch with a sigh. “Can we order dinner?”
Techno poked his head in from the kitchen. “We still got leftovers.”
Tommy groaned. “Not leftovers.”
Phil laughed. “Alright, alright. We’ll figure it out. But first—break. You earned it.”
🕷 🕸 🕷
Later that night, after the chaos of unpacking had died down and the last pizza box had been tossed into the recycling bin, Tommy stood in the middle of his new room, rubbing his eyes.
It looked… somewhat like a bedroom now. His bed was finally set up—thanks to the movers bringing in the frame and mattress earlier in the evening—and while the room was still cluttered with boxes he hadn’t gotten around to unpacking, it felt less like a stranger’s space and more like his own. At least a little.
He tossed his backpack onto the desk and unzipped it, double-checking that everything was packed for school tomorrow. Notebook. Pencil case. Schedule. Headphones. He tapped through a couple of texts from the group chat—Tubbo had spammed at least three memes and a blurry picture of his cat before Ranboo told him to go to sleep.
Tommy dropped his phone onto the nightstand, then pulled a t-shirt over his head and swapped out his jeans for a pair of plaid pajama pants. He kicked off his socks, gave the room one last glance, and then crawled into bed.
He sighed into the warmth of the blankets. Not bad. Actually, it felt kind of nice to be in a real bed after the sleeping bag situation last night. His eyes fluttered shut, muscles relaxing—
Tommy flinched violently, his body tensing in a flash of pain as something sharp dug into his forearm.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, sitting up and clutching his arm. It burned—sharp and hot for a second, then dulled to a pulsing ache.
He turned on the lamp and peeled back the covers. There, crawling along the sheets like it hadn’t just attacked him, was a spider. Small. Sleek. Black with strange red markings on its back.
Tommy made a face. “Seriously?”
He grabbed a tissue from the desk, scooped up the little menace carefully—half-tempted to squish it, but thinking better of it—and crossed the room to crack open the window.
“Get outta here, you creepy freak,” he muttered, flicking the spider outside and watching it disappear into the night.
He shut the window and returned to bed, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. It wasn’t swelling. Not really. Just sore.
“Stupid spider,” he mumbled into his pillow, already half-asleep again.
To be continued…