Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not that ‘supervillain’ had been that high on Tommy’s list of potential careers.

It wasn’t like he talked excitedly to his mom about wanting to become “just like Wither” when he was older. Nor did he walk out of his school’s orientation day with “terrifying the city” as a professional goal.

It’s just that, well, the orientation day in itself was a bit of a fraud, now wasn’t it? Dragging the teenagers through activities, meeting architects and psychologists and designers to ask any questions they might have. Try to figure out what they’d be good at, that would also make them happy-ish.

But everyone knew.

From the teachers to the nice volunteers, everyone knew. That, statistically, two to four of the school’s seniors would never get to work any of those jobs. That their own choices, their aspirations and abilities, didn’t matter.

They’d reach eighteen.

Their powers would develop.

And their lives would fall apart.

Career day ended with a nice little speech from one of Mayor Steve’s assistants. Impersonal and certainly repeated word for word in all secondary schools of the city, but nice, regardless. Tommy made sure to yawn as widely as possible.

“When I look at you, young people of Mectyse Academia, I see you for what you are. The future of this city. But what we all need to remember is that, not so long ago, this future seemed unreachable. Yes, I know, you all must be very tired of your parents retelling this same story. But, as you grow, you’ll start to understand its true importance.”

(He would prove to be right, as much as Tommy despised admitting it.)

“The Power Classification and Restriction Act marked a formidable turning point for our city. It put an end to the chaos and the villainy that used to riddle this part of the world and led the way to peace. It is to this peace, that you owe the privilege of studying, and, eventually, working, safely in this town. Let us not forget it. Let us remember what, and who, it is that keeps us all safe.”

The Power Classification and Restriction Act worked in two phases.

Phase one: Classification

“Mrs. Hertz!” Freddie yelled. “Tommy’s manifesting!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” the teacher assured, her saree swishing as she rushed between the tables. “Deep breaths, Mr. Neeth.”

Manifestation hurt like a bitch. When the school nurse ran in with the Power kit, Tommy was ready to cry in relief. The anesthesia might have actually made him shed a tear or two. In the chaos, he forgot to look at the small scanner the man pointed at him.

It was the silence that ticked him off.

His classmates’ excited chatter, suddenly down to dead silence. Tommy raised his head, just in time to catch the last one of five beeps.

POWER CLASS: FIVE OUT OF FIVE.

Phase two: Restriction

Freddie would have to finish the chemistry lab alone, that day. Because Tommy was leaving in a police car, destination: the superhero training complex.

Somewhere in generic-looking office buildings, three different college counselors would discard his application. Because Tommy Neeth, like one to three of his classmates, wouldn’t get to become a sound engineer or a comedian. He would be a hero.

Or he’d rot in the Vault for the rest of his days.

And, well, being a hero? That ship had sailed. So really, the only question left was: how long would his villain act last?

Because ‘supervillain’ might not have been on Tommy’s list of career options. But it sure beat being a fucking hero.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“Fucking… heroes…”

You should be flattered, Tubbo’s imaginary voice said in Tommy’s mind. They don’t usually assign full-time heroes to villains of your level.

Tommy ducked under a low-hanging fire exit, jumped on a dumpster and over a wall, and scoffed, “What, flattered that they hate me more?” before catching himself and pushing the memory of Tubbo away.

Tommy was all kinds of traumatized, but having fake conversations with his dead friend was one step too far, even for him.

As his fingertips brushed the wall behind him, a map of vibrations formed in his head. He lost contact just as fast, but the mental image lingered. He could “feel” the streets behind him, the weight of the dumpster and the heat coming from the nearby apartments, but no footsteps where it-

A swish of displaced air on his left, and Tommy managed to leap away just enough to avoid the worst of the collision. He was still knocked to the side, palms stinging against the rough bricks of the wall where he caught himself. A new mental map formed from those bloody imprints, and this time he could feel, right behind him…

Tommy ducked to the side, just in time to avoid the potion. This time, instead of running, he whipped around.

Especially someone this terrifying, Tubbo added.

The Alchemist stood in the middle of the alley, wings spread, taller than Tommy even where they were slouching. Most heroes wore mouth-masks – to make it harder for them to communicate with anyone but those hooked on their coms, Tommy had heard – but not Tommy’s personal nightmare. Instead, a bright red visor slashed through their face, hiding their eyes, and Tommy had no hint other than a halt in their panting breaths before they lunged forward again.

Kicking the ground in a small shockwave, Tommy propelled himself upward. His claws gripped the bricks with ease, tail dressed for balance, but as he had learned painfully, his instincts to climb to safety would not help him here. Instead, he jumped over the asshole, risking a hit with one of his disks, and landing on a windowsill. The Alchemist whipped around, blade drawn in an arc – a second too late.

“FUCK OFF,” Tommy yelled.

The soundwave slammed the hero into the wall, wings crumpling behind him and elbow catching the edge of the dumpster with a hollow crack. Half a second later, broken glass from at least four windows rained on them. Tommy didn’t wait around to see the last of it fall: he booked it.

“Shit fuck fucking asshole,” he muttered shakily to himself, switching his disk to his right hand to wipe the sweat in his left. Tommy was a big, strong man, a feared supervillain even! But there was something about the Alchemist that terrified him.

Tommy weaved around the streets, his boots – the only part of his old hero costume he’d kept – silent against the asphalt as he absorbed all sound before it could escape. His current mission had taken him away from his usual playground, but his powers made it easy to get back on track.

He had hoped that his nemesis (not arch-nemesis, Tommy was still young, he needed to leave himself options! Can’t go around calling your first real adversary your arch-nemesis) would stay by district four, searching in vain while Tommy did his thing in two, but someone must’ve reported his presence. Well, he shouldn’t have underestimated himself: the hero’s suits were designed to take a lot of damage, but after a hit like that, Alchemist would have to call the night off.

Tommy’s target was an unassuming office building. At this hour, most workers would have clocked out, which was good, since Tommy wasn’t looking for a fight; he needed that time to snoop around. This was a mission that required finesse.

And patience.

The break in was fun. The alarm system wasn’t activated yet, since a few workers were left burning the midnight oil. The echoing sound of their footsteps against the linoleum made them laughably easy to evade. But then, Tommy reached the archives, and the real task started.

There were so. Many. Books.

Opening the lights was obviously out of the question, and Tommy ended up balancing large books and his little tactical flashlight, squinting to decipher the weird blocky font all those books were printed in. On the one hand, he had to hand it to Foxglove, hacking into the city’s logs so much that they started to print out everything out of desperation was an epic move. On the other, this was such a hassle…

Tommy couldn’t be too mad, though. The fact that all records were printed and hidden in archives like this was essential to his plan. Which, speaking of…

It was with sore eyes and shaky fingers that he finally found exactly what he was here for. Quickly, Tommy snapped a few pictures with his phone, and waited until they uploaded to the cloud. With a short exhale, he put everything back where it came from and tiptoed out of the room.

The alarm had definitely been set now, and as much as Tommy usually liked going out with a bang, this was above all a stealth mission. And so, light on his feet, he headed to the only door he could conceivably force.

There was something sinister in the silence of the bland, brightly lit hallways, flanked by dark windows and doors. The ventilation’s dull vibrations accompanied him up the stairs, all the way to his exit.

Tommy broke the glass as quietly as possible, still wincing at the noise. Wincing at how cool he was, of course. Poggest villainous deeds in town! When no echoing footsteps or yelling answered him, he exhaled, adjusted his mask (the plastic one, not his natural one), and stepped out.

The cold autumn wind welcomed him as he stepped on the roof. Now, he could only hope no one would discover his breakout until after he carried his plan, but Tommy was feeling confident. What reason would they have to climb all the way to the roof exit? And even if they did, they might just attribute the broken window to a wild animal. Maybe a raccoon, that’d be ironic!

Shlink!

… Maybe a bit too confident.

Tommy reacted much, much too late. The glass shattered at his feet, spraying potion on his jeans, and he was moving before the effect hit. One step, a slower one, turn around and-

The slowness potion sunk its claws in Tommy’s muscles, and he had to grip the roof’s railing to keep from collapsing on the gravel. Tail bristled and raised in alarm, teeth bared, he could do nothing but watch the hero approach.

The Alchemist’s steps were unhurried, in a way that could’ve been from their previous injuries or simply them being a melodramatic bastard. What he could tell, was that he wouldn’t be getting off this roof, even if he miraculously regained the use of his legs.

On both sides of the Alchemist rose two enormous wings, like an omen of death taking all of Tommy’s line of sight. They were a pale brown, speckled with white and fawn, and they were the mark of a predator.

Did Tommy mention he hated that guy?

“Hey- hey wait, we can talk about this, right?” He slid a hand in his suit pocket. “C’mon man… Or woman, uh- or or, non-binary… person…”

The Alchemist tried to take another step, and Tommy’s hand whipped forward, backhandedly throwing an experimental grenade. As soon as the metal left his hand, he lifted it to protect his eyes. So it was above his palm that he caught the hero’s movement, one wing lurching forward.

The grenade and the hero’s projectile met halfway between them, too far from anyone to do any significant damage, expect for a whoosh of hot air and some potion-coated glass shards. The Alchemist’s wings folded again, but not before Tommy caught a look at the rest of the glass feathers nestled within them, shimmering potion sloshing inside. Waiting to be flung at unsuspecting villains.

… At least Tommy would die to a cool hero?

His hand gripped the edge of the roof, power scrambling for anything that might help him. He opened his mouth, but the slowness effect had caught up to him, and he could do nothing but whimper and squeak when he finally collapsed to the ground in front of his predator.

The Alchemist resumed their approach, the blood and broken glass on their suit glistening under the moonlight. More than the potions, the chase, the prey instincts, that was what got Tommy’s mind narrowing into thoughtless fight or flight.

They never gave up, not since that first encounter. No trap could stop them, no injuries kept them down. Any moment that Tommy wasn’t running, he could feel them getting closer.

Only a few more steps now.

“Please,” Tommy rasped. I don’t wanna die. I don’t want to… Not like…

The hero’s steps stuttered at his words, but Tommy didn’t have time to be surprised, because an arrow landed into flesh with a shtack.

In the Alchemist’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” they – he? – muttered under his breath. After a half second of hesitation, caught between finishing Tommy off and facing this new threat, he flung his wing, shooting another potion-feather at Tommy’s prone form and whipped around.

Only, the downed villain had just figured out that the slowness effect hadn’t quite reached his left hand. His fingers snapped, sending a tiny shockwave through the air, and the glass fractured before it could reach him.

The last of his strength failing him, Tommy slumped down even further against the wall, every limb feeling like lead, his tail uncomfortably squished under him. He almost wanted to close his eyes and let the frantic beats of his heart measure the time he had left. But fear kept them wide open. And he happened to be turned in just the right direction to witness the fight that’d decide his fate.

Chapter Text

A shadow flew over them, almost indistinguishable from the dark clouds that threatened rain on the city. It was a lot further than Tommy would’ve guessed, and if the arrow had been fired from all the way over there, the amount of precision narrowed down the mystery figure’s identity considerably. The archer circled over them again, getting closer.

With a grunt, the Alchemist tore the arrow out of his shoulder and threw it on the roof, which was an... interesting medical decision, but considering he walked away from Tommy’s sonic smash and continued his chase, he shouldn’t be too surprised. Dude was nuts.

His wings rose against (Tommy didn’t quite manage to stifle a squeak of fear) and in a few powerful beats, he was off the roof.

The two forms danced around each other, weightless-looking compared to the crushing pressure that the slowness potion was still applying to Tommy. The Alchemist struck first, swooping down, but the other – black-winged, short-statured, in a dark mask and tactical suit – bent his wings in an elegant curve and evaded the attack. Only when the hero faltered did Tommy realize that his assailant had hit him as he passed by.

Then, something touched his elbow, and Tommy was promptly distracted from the ongoing fight.

His lips moved stiffly into a yelp, and he fought to turn his head around, to where something dark and cold was pressing into his side. At first, he thought it was a bird.

It hopped in front of him on its little feet, head tilting questioningly to the side. Except, it didn’t have a head, or feet. Because it was a shadow.

A second blob of darkness joined the first, any effort to look birdlike ending as soon as its wings folded in, save for two round, white eyes. For a second, the young villain and the two shadow-birds blinked at each other.

Then they jumped on him.

“Heeey!” Tommy slurred, wishing he at least had the energy to brace.

However, it seemed the night was ready to grace him with a second miracle, because the birds did not even try to peck his eyes out. Instead, they fussed over the potion stains on his pants and the place where his palms were scrapped during his initial confrontation with the Alchemist. A few more birds dripped from Tommy’s fuzzy shadow to join their little pile, to the point where a smaller one couldn’t find anything to do and ended up simply curling under his chin.

Had Tommy been able to talk, he would’ve told it that it was still doing a very good job. That he greatly appreciated the kind touch. And that its feathers were very soft where they rubbed against his skin when it suddenly moved.

In fact, all the birds lifted their heads in unison when a scream echoed on the rooftop.

The Alchemist was getting desperate, movements erratic and wings beating slow and heavy in the night air. But instead of retreating, of diving towards the ground and losing his adversary in the backstreets, he doubled down, throwing feather-potions one after the other.

Only, without fail, the other man danced away from his attacks, dodging the projectiles or having his shadow birds deflect them. And, when an opening appeared (when the Alchemist veered too heavily, exhaustion visible in every line of his silhouette), he struck.

Tommy’s heart jolted in his chest when the hero crashed on the roof, gravel flying to the side. He tried to sit up, get a better look, but suddenly there was a whole person in the way. Again, a squeak escaped his mouth before he could hold it back.

Gulping, Tommy lifted his eyes up to the vigilante known as Corvian.

“Hi,” he breathed.

“Hey, mate.”

The man crouched in front of him, shrugging off a bulky satchel. His suit was a mix of dark green and black, the different sections of leather and fabric connected like a haori. A little row of ten red hearts was stitched on his collar, each of them with two black, diamond-shaped holes.

“I hope the flock’s not bothering you too much,” he said, like that was a reasonable sentence in any way. “They like to feel useful. Ow!”

Another bird-blob had emerged from the shadow he projected on the roof, pecking at his hand.

“Little shits… Ah, there it is.”

Tommy was expecting a lot of things. A weapon to finish him off. Handcuffs. More drugs, enough to send him tumbling out of consciousness, until he’d wake up in Pandora, never to see the sun again. After all, this guy was a vigilante, and Tommy, a villain. Tommy stole and destroyed, and for all Corvian’s good reputation, he was still a wannabe hero, albeit not a legal one.

Instead, he found himself gazing through half-lidded eyes at a carton of chocolate milk.

The vigilante opened it with ease (Tommy always had trouble folding the corner, Eryn used to do it for him) and then his hand was on the villain’s face.

Only a little skin showed through his gloves. But the last time Tommy had gotten any skin-on-skin contact, other than punches, stitches, or attempts to handcuff him, was Tubbo. And that…

He shuddered at the feeling and hoped Corvian would be too focused on aligning the carton with his lips to notice.

Tommy choked on his first gulp of choccy milk, but swallowed the one after that, and blissfully, the weight of slowness eased until he was mostly back to his regular – exhausted, sore – self.

“Chocolate milk works on potion effects?” was the first thing he said.

“Don’t see why not.” Corvian took Tommy’s hand to give him the carton. “There’s milk in it. Cheese also works, and is easier to carry, but that requires more chewing than I thought you could do.”

“Right, uh, I guess. Thanks, Corvian.” He curled up on himself protectively.

“Oh, not you too,” the vigilante sighed. “Is that nickname really sticking?” He didn’t sound mad, in fact, he was almost amused, but Tommy should still be careful. He was at this guy’s mercy, now was the time to butter him up.

“Literally everyone calls you that. I think at this point you all you can do is deal with it.” Well, he tried.

“I guess that’s on me for not choosing a name soon enough. Be honest, how does ‘Hardcore’ sound?”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. That was an awful lot of talking for someone who should be starting the process of arresting him. While, yes, Corvian had technically fought the Alchemist, it might have just been because he didn’t want Tommy to outright die. Was he being nice to lull Tommy into a false sense of security? To get information from him? Maybe to stop Tommy from escaping?

Could Tommy escape?

The shadow still under Tommy’s chin chirped. Hmm. On the one hand, escaping would be the safest option.

It’d also be a bit of a dick move.

“It’s shit.”

“Awn.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad, but it makes you sound like a boxer or a wrestler. Or a… lover.”

“Hmm. You may have a point. Anyways, what’s your name, mate? Are you okay?”

Oh.

Corvian didn’t know who Tommy was. Of course. As much as Tommy loved to brag, he was still relatively new to the scene. Corvian must’ve thought him a fellow vigilante. Tommy relaxed marginally as he got his shaky legs under him, to the disappointment of the shadow birds who fluttered around him. (And his own.)

“I go by Heartfelt,” he said, puffing out his chest. “I, uh, wanted ‘the Red King’ but no one actually called me that, so. The masses can’t handle my greatness.”

Corvian grinned, offering his hand and helping Tommy to his feet. “Maybe you’d have more chances with ‘Red Jack,’ mate. Bit young to be a king, innit?”

“No I’m not!”

The vigilante’s smile fell. Tommy shifted uncomfortably at the weight of his eyes. “Yeah. You are.”

“Uhm…” Ding ding! Time to change the fucking subject! “So anyways, thanks for saving me from… This guy?”

Tommy went on his tiptoes, trying to peek over Corvian’s wings. The Alchemist’s form was still and silent against the ground.

“He’ll be okay, don’t worry,” Corvian said, stepping towards the fallen hero.

Not what I meant! Not what I want!

Still, an ugly sort of curiosity pushed Tommy to follow him, the coolness of a shadow-crow sticking to his shoulder where it had perched.

Despite the stiffness of the Alchemist’s suit, garnet-dark leather hiding most injuries from view, and the scant light the moon threw at them, he managed to look pretty damn miserable. His face was still hidden, behind his googles and the gas mask he must’ve just put on, but his scowl was clear in his voice when he said:

“Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you? Didn’t expect any different from your sort.”

… That was the man that had filled his nightmare? Without the filter of adrenaline, his voice was soft, and his figure, lanky more than imposing. Even that chronically exhausted student at the convenience store had more of a frame. Tommy’s whiskers twitched in contempt.

“At least I’m not one of the bureau’s attack dogs-”

He only noticed he had gotten closer in his indignation when Corvian caught him by the hem of his suit. Tommy yelped at the almost-feeling of being scruffed, turning round eyes towards Corvian. He quickly wrestled his expression into surprised discontent, and hoped the sliver of longing that flashed on his face would be lost to the darkness.

“Careful, there’s a reason why he’s got a gas mask on.”

Reaching a hand into his bag, he launched a handful of white powder into the air. Though it didn’t stay white for long, quickly turning a violent shade of purple as it reached the cloud of potion effect that surrounded the Alchemist, almost invisible in the darkness.

The one he attempted to taunt them into entering.

“Are those drugs?” Tommy asked, impressed.

“Potions aren’t classified as drugs, but the distinction is still-”

“No, I mean what you threw.”

“What? No, it’s flour.”

“You’ve got a whole kitchen in there!” Tommy immediately attempted to get his grubby little hands on the bag, instincts demanding he investigate. Corvian squawked (bird man! bird man!), batting him away. The shadow birds cackled at the scene, not moving an incorporeal feather to help their creator. When Tommy pushed on, the man’s wings opened on instinct, helping him keep his footing.

Tommy’s hands drew back. The wings were-

They were alright, actually. The brown specks that screamed ‘predator’ in the Alchemist’s were absent. Instead, the feathers were a glossy black, purplish-blue at the shoulder and taking on an almost bronze sheen as it reached the primaries.

Tommy could never really understand what his instincts were perceiving. But while the Alchemist always made him recoil, reaching for a hole to burrow in – to a nest that wasn’t there – Corvian just got his instincts muttering about stolen food and to be careful. Even the White Lady’s swan wings elicited more fear in his inner raccoon.

Meanwhile, the Alchemist was looking at them like they were insane.

“You’re insane!”

“Wah…”

For a second, Tommy almost felt bad for him. Now that he could get a good look, the hero seemed in terrible shape. An ashen complexion and brown hair dirtied to almost black, on top of the various glass cuts, bruised elbow and whatever the hell Corvian had done to him up there.

“Why are you working with him? You associate with villains, now?”

Almost.

Tommy leaped to the side.

His claws caught on the edge of the building before Corvian could even blink. He swung himself over the knee-high ledge, only glancing down for a second to time his jump before looking back up.

Corvian had a hand raised in his direction, face unreadable under his mask (not that Tommy wanted to picture the scowl he must have). His posture wasn’t threatening, but that didn’t reassure Tommy in the slightest. Then, the young villain fell, and their eye contact broke.

Pocket heavy with the weight of his phone and of the info it contained, he leaped to a neighboring building, claws grating against brick and stone, and disappeared into the night.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

So the general consensus seemed to be that supervillains weren’t allowed at the hospital.

Which, rude. And dumb: supervillains were some of the most likely to need medical attention! Ever think of that, mayor? Huh?

Admittedly, they might be allowed in, but with some dumb catch like ‘being sent to prison immediately after.’ Defeats the purpose, a little bit.

Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, since Tommy was much too big of a man to be injured. In fact, as soon as he was done looking over his shoulder in case one of Corvian’s weird-ass birds tried to follow him, he gave himself a mental pat on the back for not getting injured.

Unfortunately, it was, in fact, a real-life pat on the back, and it revealed a searing pain in his left shoulder.

Well, shit.

And so, instead of taking the direction of the repurposed warehouse that made for his Epic Evil Villain Lair, he headed to the town’s university.

Now, the university had a medical research department, which Tommy imagined well-furnished in anything he’d need to heal up, while also being less busy at night than a regular hospital, and with less security. That was why he had headed there, the first time that one of his acts of villainy backfired.

(He still had the burn marks on his back. Fire damage potions were a pain, and the Alchemist had way too good of an aim. Though he never used that type of potion again. Maybe he assumed they didn’t have much effect on Tommy… Despite how much he screamed.)

Only, while waiting for the perfect moment to break in (no, he wasn’t stalling, he was preparing!) he had decided to go buy himself a snack, and walked into a small 24/7 convenience store, with a broken surveillance camera and no windows.

In the end, he found a much better deal and the medical complex remained unbroken in. Instead, he came back to the convenience store, like he was doing right now.

“IT’S ME!” he yelled, busting the door open.

“Shut up!” Techno hissed, waving his book at him from over the counter, his sensitive ears twitching back on either side of his head. “There could’ve been someone!”

“I would’ve heard them, big man!” Tommy assured him. “It’s only you and your carrots in here.”

“Leave Steve out of this,” Techno muttered. But next to him, the potted carrot plant didn’t move a leaf in protest, and Tommy knew Steve was on his side. “And you say that, but some people can slow down their heartbeat by meditating.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Tommy laughed. Still, he mentally filed the information. Learning to silence their heartbeat to get the drop on him sounded exactly like something a tryhard hero would do. Externally though, he only snatched an energy bar and, after a second of thought, a pack of string cheese on one of the displays and walked up to the register, smiling innocently at the clerk. Techno sighed but let him into the employee’s room.

“You’re not complaining about my nerdiness much when I’m patching you up…” He sat beside the open door and Tommy dropped his sore body in the break room’s shitty plastic chair, just out of view of the shop. “Was it the Alchemist again?”

“Mhmm.” Tommy didn’t want to talk about that. He wanted to pretend he was just keeping his older friend company at his boring shift, talking shit about their teachers. Instead of having used a mix of being annoying and pitiful to get him to patch Tommy up instead of ringing the cops. He wanted to go home and bundle under his blankets and forget about this night, about Corvian’s niceness turning sour, about the task ahead of him and the very real possibility that he was too late.

The truth always catches up to you, though.

“And if any monk ever comes to the shop and decides to sit down in one of the aisles to meditate, I’ll deal with the consequences, ’kay?” he said, removing the upper half of his armor.

“And what about my consequences?” Techno grumbled, even as he unzipped his plump first aid kit. “I can’t go to prison. My finals are in two weeks!”

“You wouldn’t go to prison for something like that,” Tommy tried to reassure him, even though Techno sounded like he was mostly joking. “Just admit everything immediately, say that I threatened you or some shit-”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Techno interrupted him, pink velvety nose scrunched in contempt.

“… And you’ll get community service or something like that. You’re just a guy.”

Sometimes, Tommy felt bad about asking Techno for help. But he genuinely couldn’t imagine the rabbit hybrid getting in trouble. He was just a permanently tired nursing student, reading crusty old books during his night shift and munching on carrots that he used his life powers to regenerate from the same potted plant. He probably had, like, level one-point-five powers and a lame taste in music.

Techno looked away at that, and Tommy almost thought he’d seen someone in the shop (and his heart jumped a little, but it’s not like Techno could hear it) but there was no one. The man coughed, heartbeat a little fast, even for a rabbit. “Yeah, ehm. Such a guy. Anyway, the Alchemist?”

Tommy winced, both at the reminder and because Techno was digging glass shards out of his skin. “Yeah.”

Tommy had a feeling the guy’s lips weren’t pinched just from concentration.

“You shouldn’t be-”

“But, Corvian actually showed up to help me!” Surprised blue eyes shot to him only for a second before Techno went back to his arm.

“Man, Corvian is so cool.”

“Yeah!” There, subject swiftly changed.

… Wait a minute. “Hey, I’m also cool!”

“C’mon, like you have half his style. Plus, he’s a vigilante, not a villain.” Tommy’s mouth gaped, tail slashing behind him in sheer offense. Techno had to catch his arms to keep him from gesticulating. The touch burned through his clothes. “Bruh, you’re gonna find a way to stab yourself on the stitching needle.”

“You’re literally an anarchist! You’d be a villain too!”

“Robbing a bank does sound nice…” Techno mumbled distractedly. “My rent is due.”

Despite knowing him quite well at this point, Tommy still relaxed marginally at the reminder that Techno’s words were light-hearted. That he wasn’t one of those people, who believed that anyone rebelling from the power registration bureau should be burned at the stake for threatening the fragile order of the city just by existing. Despite being painfully aware of the reasons he made those choices, and the goal he had, the way the press and general public viewed his actions – and his person – still got to him.

And that very well might include Corvian. But not Techno.

“Hasn’t your rent’s been due for like, two weeks?”

“It wouldn’t if this job paid decently,” Techno sighed.

Tommy bit his lip.

“No.”

“But-”

“You’re not paying me.” Techno’s tone was final. “Stolen money can be traced back, and the last thing I need right now is to be part of an investigation.”

“Because of your stupid finals,” Tommy grumbled.

“Uh. Yep.” Techno reached into his beaten-up backpack, and a reusable water bottle was pushed in Tommy’s hands. What was with people and handing him drinks tonight? “Now drink this and let me work, child.”

Tommy chittered in annoyance but sipped at the water while Techno treated the rest of his wounds.

A few minutes, a lot of bandages and a makeshift brace for his wrist later, he was waving goodbye to Techno and Steve-the-potted-carrot-plant. The journey to the docks passed in a blink, but not because Tommy was lost in thought. In fact, his head felt… Empty.

The warehouse was the same as ever. Tommy made his way to his corner and dumped his armor and weapons in a pile beside his sleeping bag.

You’re making a mess, Tubbo said.

With a wince, he removed his mask. Gingerly, his ears extended from where they had been plastered against his head. The mask pressed uncomfortably against their thin membrane, but they were too fragile for him to consider leaving them in the open.

Also, they pinned back against his head at the first sign of danger. With his main adversary being a bird of prey hybrid, he might as well wear a kick-me sign on his back.

Collapsing on his sleeping bag, (and grunting at the dig of the hard floor on his injuries) Tommy plugged his phone into his laptop. The downloaded images showed immediately. His cursor hovered over the tiny vial symbol on the map.

You’ll save him, won’t you?

The laptop was put to sleep. Tommy laid down on his side, shoes still on in case someone broke in, and wished for the same.

The shadows in the corners felt lonelier than usual that night.

Chapter Text

Phil used to be an early bird.

“Well, you’re still at least half of that,” Jack joked. “Get it? Since-”

“Yeah Jack, very funny,” Niki sighed.

“It was!” the man yelled. Frankly, his reaction was much more entertaining than the joke itself, but Phil didn’t have to tell him that. He grabbed the tray of pastries, this time with oven mitts on, and carried it to the front of the café.

“It’s true,” he continued. “I used to wake up early and go run.”

“God, you’re so old.”

“What changed?” Niki asked.

Phil smiled.

“Now, I get my exercise done a bit… later in the day.”

“Well, if you’re tired enough to accidentally grab a hot pan with your bare hands, maybe you should consider going to sleep earlier,” she scolded, snow-white feathers puffing up behind her. He raised his own wings, responding to her playful intimidation display. A shadow hastily moved out of the way, camouflaged in the dark plumage.

“Or you could stop giving me morning shifts,” he joked.

“You know it’s just until Charlie gets back…”

“I’m just kidding, don’t worry.” Niki was too sweet for her own good, sometimes. Unless you got on her bad side; swans were grudgeful. “The caffeine will kick in soon, and then, no more work incident!”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she fake-threatened, before walking back into the kitchen. They weren’t open yet, and Jack was still in the back, bringing over bags of flour. Phil let his smile fall.

The exhaustion clinging to his bones kept the memory of last night at the forefront of his mind.

The mix of adrenaline and pure focus as his opponent and him danced through the air, wings like second heartbeats. The sight of Heartfelt’s silhouette, huddled against the roof wall, surrounded by Chat. His playfulness once Phil managed to make it clear he wasn’t going to hurt him, the involuntary chirp he had let out.

The kid’s haunted face as he jumped off the roof.

Phil ran a hand through his hair, picking at the hem of his apron with the other. For once, he was almost eager for the morning rush to come. Remembering every order and executing them correctly didn’t leave place for any unwanted thoughts.

It’d be even more challenging today, considering his lack of sleep. After watching the young villain leave, he had waited for the Alchemist to get some backup before leaving. And the young man’s teammates certainly hadn’t been in a hurry.

“I won’t tell you anything!” the hero seethed.

“Mate-”

“I am loyal to the city! If you knew your place, you’d have let me capture the villain! Society will triumph and rise over the lowly chaos your sort insists on inflicting on-”

“All I asked was what your favorite candy is,” Phil repeated, mildly worried.

The hero stammered, thrown off his rhythm, before curling a little tighter on his side. The exposed part of his cheek was laid on one of his hands, to avoid the sharp roof gravel from digging into his face, and for a second, Phil had the urge to help him sit up to a more comfortable position.

The cloud of toxic potion served as a good deterrent, though. Enough to keep Phil’s instincts under control.

Unsurprised at the lack of answers, he moved around the prone hero, upwind and safer from the slow-moving potion cloud. Some of his shadows fluttered closer, feeling an opportunity for cuddles, while the rest inspected the perimeter. Phil would get a heads-up early enough to book it before the Alchemist’s teammates could cause him trouble.

“So, what are you waiting for?” he asked, veiled gaze fixated somewhere above Phil’s shoulder. “Your sword is long enough.”

Even with these words, Phil could tell the young avian knew no harm would come to him. The two of them had repeated the steps of this dance enough times to know where it led.

To awkwardness, mostly.

“Well, you still haven’t answered my question,” Phil said lightly.

The man’s eyebrows raised over his visor. “My favorite candy.”

“Yup.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’m ready to do aaaall kinds of illegal deeds to get my hands on this information.”

“But not kill me.”

“There’s a reason I’m a vigilante and not a villain, you know.”

The Alchemist opened and closed his mouth behind his gas mask. When he spoke again, it was in a more even tone. “Both are illegal, so why bother? The sentence is almost the same.”

“Breaking the law is not really the point of it, mate.”

Phil didn’t think he quite managed to convince him.

The morning dragged on sluggishly. At seven sharp, Phil flipped the ‘open’ sign, turned on the coffee machine, and customers began to trickle in. Most of them were tired and distracted, only blinking at Phil’s salutations as they reached for their cup, but a few were awake enough to exchange a few words. That was a part of his job that Phil enjoyed, the back-and-forth, be it with regulars or one-time customers. Some days, it felt like the entire spectrum of human experience could be observed in this little café.

Phil managed to be a totally normal coffee shop employee until just before noon. He was frowning at the amount of oat milk left when something tugged on the edge of his consciousness. Something like a pokey little beak.

Closing his eyes, Phil reached his mind forward, towards his crows. A shaky image formed, a negative made of shadows instead of light, but it was clear enough.

“… Phil?”

“Need more oat milk,” he told Jack.

“Were you trying to manifest your late psychic abilities and make some appear? Would be useful. Wait, no. Do a hot dog instead, I’m starving.”

“I think the missing milk is going to be your problem,” he said lightly. “I’m taking my break.”

“Oh? Okay.”

The slight surprise in Jack’s tone wasn’t unexpected: Phil tended to take his break as late as possible into his shift.

Because he was saving it for something like this.

He deposited his apron on a chair as he went through the back, accepted an apple pie-flavored muffin from Niki as he passed her, and walked out the back of the alley.

Gus was there, of course. Phil raised his hand, smiling, and the stray cat folded himself under his palm, earning a scratch behind the ear and a small piece of muffin.

“There’s your bribe.” He left the cat with his treat and stepped into the shadows of an overhang.

If anyone (other than Gus) had been to set foot in the alley at that moment, they might’ve walked past the café’s unassuming back door without a second thought. They might’ve also given a passing glance to an unusually dark corner, where it looked like shadows had dripped from the night sky and pooled on the concreate. But more likely, a few haphazardly shaped birds would notice them long before they entered the narrow passage.

As it went, the alley stood as calm as usual, and only Gus was there to witness the vigilante known (against his will) as Corvian step out of the darkness. As cozy as Niki’s work uniform was, Phil never felt more comfortable than in his vigilante attire, with its thin, stretchy undersuit and the thicker protective fabric laid on top. He kept it mostly black, gray and dark green, for stealth, except for the ten little hollow hearts stitched on his collar, five on each side. Those shined in the sun as he ascended the emergency stairs.

The city had its fair share of hybrids, and among them, avians were far from the rarest. Throughout the day, it was common to pass strangers mid-flight, whether they be apoides, starborns, elytrians or indeed avians. Phil would’ve never risked flying in full costume near the west-end, so close to the townhall and hero compound.

But this was his turf. And with the reputation he held with its residents, he never got anything other than surprised looks, shy waves and, surprisingly often, shouted encouragement. Same went for his “colleague” the White Lady, whose territory overlapped his. It made the enforcers seethe, but as an apoides (bumblebee hybrid) reporter pointed out, what were random citizens supposed to do? Antagonize him? Then she’d gone on about how if the mayor could put more money into social services and education in the lower districts, maybe the crime rates would go down, and vigilantes would simply be out of job, but her micro cut shortly after that.

Which was how Phil was able to land on a rooftop, in broad daylight, unperturbed. Very few heroes patrolled here, and even fewer winged ones. In fact, Phil could only really think of one… Or one villain.

Following his shadows’ pull, he walked to the edge of the roof and peeked over.

Two bright blue eyes blinked up at him in shock.

Now, Phil had to be careful here. The night before, the little chick had disappeared in a blink at the Alchemist’s comment, certainly thinking Phil would arrest him if given the chance. And he was fast too; Phil had to act quickly if he wanted to talk. So, he opted for a ‘stun’ attack.

“And what do you think you’re doing, young man?”

Heartfelt’s expression fell into even more shock, if possible, mouth agape and clawed hands locked on the roof’s edge.

It was a challenge, but Phil promptly stomped on his instinctive need to grab the chick and smother him under a wing – he’d deserve it, too, running around doing acts of villainism at his age – and instead, stepped back.

“I’m not here to fight, I swear. Can we talk? I’ll step back further if you want.”

Heartfelt hesitated, and for a moment, Phil almost thought he would flee. But he ended up hoisting himself on the edge, mistrustful and low on his feet. His balance was admirable, that with the way his wings were certainly bound under his shirt. Oh, Phil hoped they weren’t too damaged under there. If he wasn’t worried that it’d make the kid run off, he would’ve tried to make him see reason.

Or at least, tell him that if he was going to try to hide his wings, he should refrain from making such obvious bird sounds. Like an avian such as Phil wasn’t going to notice the chirping immediately.

“Just talk?” the kid asked, uncertain. He was crouching near the edge of the roof, obviously ready to leap if need be.

“Just have a calm, adult conversation.” He perked up a little at being called an adult, and Phil had to fight off a smile. That was adorable.

“Okay, but your weird… shadow-bird thingies have to stay away too,” he bargained.

“Of course.”

The pair of crows that had followed Heartfelt along since he left the battle yesterday squished themselves further out of sight behind him. Phil allowed himself 0.2 seconds to feel bad about tricking the kid, then got over it.

“So,” he said. “What are you doing?”

The question wasn’t rhetorical, as Phil really didn’t know what the hell was going on. His shadows had sent him a sense of urgency and danger, but with very little detail. Since Heartfelt didn’t seem to be in danger, though, it felt reasonable to assume he was the danger.

Assumption quickly proven right when he muttered: “It’s just a few explosives…”

“Just-” Phil had to thread carefully. The kid was skittish.

“I’m a supervillain!” he immediately claimed, as loud as he dared. “I do what I want!”

“I know that,” Phil assured, “and as you know, I’m a vigilante, which means it’s my responsibility to make sure no innocent is hurt.”

He almost felt bad when the kid shrunk on himself at those words, sending a glare his way. He pushed back the urge to reach out towards him and kept the tension out of his voice as much as he could. The villain still shifted uneasily, as if he could hear the quickened beats of Phil’s heart.

“Are the charges already in place?”

“… Yeah.”

Prime. “Are they on a timer?”

“No.”

Phil exhaled slowly. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but the risk had shrunk considerably.

“I’ll detonate the charges at night,” Heartfelt promised. “There won’t be anyone in the building.”

“Would you mind telling me which building?”

“I can’t let you stop me,” the villain whispered. “I need to do this.” Phil raised his head at this. He seemed haunted.

“No one talked about stopping anything. Is it that one?”

Heartfelt’s eyes budged comically when Phil pointed to the building he knew to house a branch of the hero commission’s research team, disguised as an office tower. “How-”

“I’ve been doing this for a while now,” Phil said lightly, not quite managing to keep a small smile off his lips. “You learn a thing or two. Now, what’d you say we take a lap around the place and try to predict what your explosion would cause?”

“…”

Heartfelt was eyeing Philza and his crows with distrust, but mostly, he seemed tired. Not for the first time, he wondered what terrible turn of events left this child running around through the night, hunted by the government, lying on skyscrapers with shrapnel in his skin and blood on his hands.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” he guessed (correctly, might Phil add).

“Sometimes, in this line of work, you have to do a bit of teamwork.”

“Oh, so we’re a team, now,” he grumbled, despite the fact he was standing up. “Instead of it being just you, bullying me into…”

“Assessing potential damage.”

 “Ha! You said ass!” And he jumped off the building.

Phil stood there for a few more seconds, rubbing a hand over his face, alone with the chorus of demonic cackling that no one else could hear. The laughs only grew in volume when a hint of smile curved his lip. “Shut up, Chat.”

He dove after the villain.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Something about Phil was that he had wanted to be an architect.

Not always, no. Young, he’d been like the other kids, yelling out he was going to become an astronaut, or a firefighter.

(Not a hero, though. Even at that age, he knew that wasn’t something you should say out loud. He had an aunt taken away.)

And then the city revealed its plans for the new town center, and Phil’s teacher showed the class how the building was being designed. He could still remember the fascination that overcame him at all the subtle ways the different elements harmoniously came together, while also functioning structurally. That day, he stayed after class to ask question after question that his poor teacher didn’t have nearly enough knowledge to answer. And, when he got back home, he sat in a corner and gathered all his stuffed animals to tell them the news. That was it. He had found what he wanted to do with his life.

At that time, he couldn’t know a one-in-a-thousand chance would ruin it. Still, now, that hope felt so naive.

But the bits and pieces of knowledge he managed to gather from his reading proved useful when needing to explain to an overactive teenage supervillain why he couldn’t just blow up “one” building without proper experience.

“Isn’t it just gonna explode the windows?”

“Even then, anyone walking in the street below will get broken glass on them. But no, the way you placed the TNT, if you remembered the amount right, would probably make the building collapse on this side.”

“Probably isn’t that bad,” the kid tried to defend.

“Mate, look what’s down there.”

Heartfelt’s eyes widened when then caught the sign for Miss Rosales’ group home overhanging the smaller building. In hindsight, that was almost certainly why the shadows had notified Phil: they loved this little house, and all its occupants, as much as he did. Had he been blessed with a safer, more stable life, he would’ve considered fostering some of the kids, like fierce Chayanne or playful Tallulah, but they deserved better. Phil had volunteered there a few times, though he still hadn’t been able to catch the owner’s first name.

[Or a date, L]

“Shush,” Phil said to the bird pecking his shoulder. He sighed at the cacophony the flock exploded into, ignoring Heartfelt’s confused glance.

“So, uhm, blowing up is out of the question. But I still need… I can’t stop here,” the kid admitted.

Do I push? Do I not?

Phil decided to try his luck.

“Why? What’s so important in there?”

“None of your business!” he shrieked, puffing out.

Phil backed off, feathers fluffing up at the show of aggression.

“Of course, sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed.” He cooed lowly, both as an apology and as a way of calming the chick. Said chick made a funny face at the sound. Almost like he was surprised.

Phil’s heart broke all over again. The kid didn’t have any avian parents!

Part of him wanted to hope that he had loving, adoptive parents of a different origin, but seeing as the kid was out in the streets at night, getting beaten up while dressed like a goth strawberry… Probably not.

[ADOPT!]

[Our chick <3]

[Guys you know he’s n-]

[Asdjklfghjkl]

[Shush, it’s funnier this way]

Phil frowned. What were they talking about?

It was only then that he caught sight of the kid’s tail. The tail flicking behind him. Very clearly not made of feathers.

“You’re not an avian?!” he squawked.

Hearfelt looked at him like he was crazy. Chat was laughing again. “No? I’m a raccoon hybrid.” He lifted the edge of his mask, showing a second, darker one underneath. Only, made of skin. “Ya weirdo.”

“But you were chirping yesterday!”

“Other animals can chirp too!” He let out a couple squeaks in demonstration. “Don’t act like y’all have a monopoly on it. Besides, d’you see wings anywhere?”

Phil blinked at him. He’d really thought… Oh, Prime. Was he empty-nesting? Was this what this was?

“I thought you were hiding them, to not get recognized,” Phil explained, still a bit stunned. “Some people’s wings are too distinctive.”

Heartfelt frowned, like he was only now considering this. “Yeah, yours are all black, must be hard to ID.”

You don’t say. Maybe Phil should be more indulgent towards the general public…

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The bureau knows who I am.”

Oh. “You’re dodging the hero draft,” Phil guessed. The kid shrugged.

Phil hadn’t thought he could feel worse for him. He’d been wrong.

Meanwhile, the kid being a raccoon had not at all deterred Chat from their desire to take the kid under their wing(s), which made sense if they already knew.

[Who cares if he’s not a birb c’mon]

[Snatch him!]

[You know you want toooo]

[I am once again asking for adoption <Bernie.png>]

I shall be a wise mentor to him, and guide him from afar, Phil thought, over the cries of dismay from Chat.

“Hey, a bit random, but what’s your favorite candy?”

“… You’re a weird dude, Corvian-man. Cormian. It’s SweeTarts.”

“Alright, great! Now, would you like to hear my idea on how to wreck the absolute shit out of this building without endangering anyone?”

Chapter Text

The next day, the children of the group home were woken up in a rather unusual way. When they were done peeking through the window, they rushed to get dressed and tumbled outside.

Phil had come to visit, like he did on most of his days off, and was met with the sight of all the kids running around in rain boots, jumping in puddles and splashing each other.

“What happened?” he asked Miss Rosales, feigning surprise as he walked up to where she was supervising her kids over a cup of coffee.

“Major leak in one of the office buildings,” she explained, tail flickering lazily. “It happened in one of the top rooms, so the whole building was soaked, and at night, with that. Luckily, the sewers are catching the excess water, so the home is still all dry.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I, uh. I brought you a muffin?”

Her eyebrows raised in the awkward silence followed. She spoke while he came back to his senses. “Well, did you?” She smiled, amused, as he hastily rummaged through his bag.

“Yes, sorry! Here.” The brown paper crinkled as he handed her an apple-pie flavored muffin, with little pieces of candied apple on top. “It’s from the bakery I work at.”

“Mr. Watson,” she chastised, “you know I don’t like eating something when I don’t have any to give the kids.” But her jackal ears were pointed forward as she took it.

“You deserve it, with all this chaos. And I’m sure Niki would agree to make you a price if you wanted some for everyone.”

“Señor Phil!” Tallulah cheered, running up to them. Immediately, Phil’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He crouched to get to her level, missing the fond look being sent his way.

“The flood is here!” The little girl bounced in a puddle, her tiny dragon wings flapping excitedly.

“Yes, I noticed,” he smiled, reaching forward to readjust the girl’s beanie. “Some pipes broke, apparently.”

“No, the biblical flood! We have to make an ark!”

“Oh, the biblical flood. Yeah, alright.” Miss Rosales chuckled at his deadpan puzzlement.

“C’mon,” Richarlyson said, rushing by in a series of splashes, their prosthetic leg wrapped in a plastic bag, “the play module will do!”

As Phil watched the children pile up on the small wooden structure in the group home’s yard, he also kept an eye on the flooded building. More specifically, on the unusually high number of policemen and heroes grouped at its base.

At least, unusual for a normal office building.

A few people were busy carrying bulky crates out of the main entrance, and he committed them to memory. Just because he didn’t want to pressure Heartfelt into explaining his reason, didn’t mean he couldn’t conduct his own little investigation. At his silent command, a few shadows sneaked into the space under the boxes.

“So, we need two of every animal,” Chayanne summarized.

“And plant!”

“Tallulah, there weren’t plants on Noah’s ark…”

“How’d you know?” Pomme riposted. “You were not there!”

“I might’ve been!” Chayanne riposted. “How do you know?”

“Parce que tu serais super vieux!”

“The plants will drown if we leave them here!” Tallulah stressed, flapping her hands.

“Can plants drown?”

At Ramon’s questions, every head turned towards Miss Rosales in expectant silence. She smiled at them.

“Plants need air, just like us! But instead of breathing with a mouth and moving it around in their blood, they need to absorb it through every part of them. Most plants can’t live for too long with their roots fully submerged.” The small flock of children nodded at once, thoroughly educated.

“Okay, so we do need plants. We need a mommy and a daddy of everything.”

“Well, for humans we already have Ms. Rosales and Mister Phil!”

The children mercilessly ignored the two adults’ spluttering, instead setting off on a quest to fill their plastic critter cage with as many snails and beetles as possible. Phil’s shadows were screeching in delight. He was going to smother them later.

“Kids have such…” she said.

“Yes, active imagination, it’s very…”

“Yeah.”

“Would you mind watching them until my aids get here?” Ms. Rosales asked, playing with a now-empty muffin wrap. “There’s an important call I need to make…”

“Of course,” Phil agreed easily. His smile widened some more when she thanked him, then dropped it when he crossed Leonarda’s raised eyebrows and unimpressed look. These children were little menaces.

But Phil was a weak man, and he carefully supervised said menaces, helping them catch several bugs and handling a few small conflicts. His attention was only pulled away when yells came from the other side of the street.

“Oh, nice job bleeding heart!”

One of the large crates laid on its side, what looked like glass vials rolling away from it. For a split second, Phil thought the hero was yelling at it.

Then, someone stumbled from behind the crate, hands scrambling to catch the vials and put them back. The other hero yelled some more, and they flinched away, their face angling towards Phil.

And he’d know that visor anywhere.

The Alchemist’s wings twitched and folded tightly against his back as the other hero stepped right in front of where he was crouching, almost uncomfortably close. He stilled, remaining stiff until his superior huffed and moved away. Then, he resumed collecting the vials. Phil frowned. This one never managed to stay off his mind for long.

“Señor!”

But this time, he really shouldn’t have let himself get distracted.

Kind Tallulah, with her leathery wings and bright purple raincoat, was brandishing a tiny glass vial. It must have rolled all the way to this side of the road.

Kind Tallulah was crossing the street.

Phil lurched forward, wings flaring out on instinct, but he was way too far. And the cart, full of heavy crates, piled too high for the person pushing it to see the front, was too close. It happened in the blink of an eye.

Tallulah yelped, but it was in surprise, not in pain. Alchemist winced as the cart bumped into his back, but otherwise didn’t move, crouched low on the wet pavement, arms still wrapped around the little girl where he’d lurched forward to catch her.

“Chay, you’re in charge, stay there!” Phil yelled as he sprinted across the street, leaving all his remaining shadows to watch them.

Thank everything, the little girl seemed completely unharmed. Though she was still coming back from her fright it would seem, with the way she clutched the Alchemist’s arm. Slowly, he brought his wings over and around her.

“Are you okay?” he asked shakily.

Phil reached them just in time to catch her tiny nod. “Tallulah!” he called out, kneeling besides them.

The Alchemist handed her over and slumped ever-so-slightly when she turned around to grip Phil instead.

“It’s alright, oh, this was a fright, wasn’t it?” he asked, letting her hide her face against his shoulder. Then, turning around: “Thank you, mate.”

 “Only doing my duty,” the Alchemist said automatically. He was still kneeling next to them, hands on each side of him, and showed no sign of wanting to resume his job.

Before it could become awkward, Tallulah suddenly turned around in Phil’s grip and handed him the vial.

“Oh, I, thanks you- I mean, thank you. Miss.”

“Wil.”

All three of them looked up, finding Miss Rosales standing right next to them, with her face backlighted and something heavy in her eyes. Phil had no idea when or how she crossed the street.

“Miss K,” the hero murmured.

“You two know each other?” Phil asked, trying not to sound too alarmed.

“Somewhat,” she said.

They stood up, and Phil moved to give Tallulah to her, but she only raised a hand to hold her cheek. “Are you okay to go back inside with Mr. Watson, darling?” The little girl nodded once again, huddling more securely into Phil’s hold. He would die for this kid. “Good. I’ll be there in a moment.”

And when Phil turned around, away from the whispered conversation and towards the edge of the yard, where the other foster kids were looking expectantly at them, he had a feeling that despite the small weight of glass down his coat pocket, he would leave this place with more questions than answers.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Phil was determined not to cry over cabbage tonight.

A sizzling noise filled his apartment as he slid the veggies off the cutting board and into the wok. It used to bother him, the screech of cold food as it met hot oil. When he was younger, he attended a protest against the hero training system with his uncles and cousins, and at the height of it, the enforcers had sprayed fire damage potions on the crowd. Phil had been fortunate enough to get out with only mild wounds, but the sound it had made in the second before the screams covered it up haunted him for a long time. Luckily, despite his considerable arsenal, the Alchemist never seemed to carry any.

That wasn’t what was bothering Phil on this evening, though, as he shuffled onions, carrots, bell peppers, sweet peas and that damn cabbage around. When they were just starting to get tender, he added back cooked chicken and eggs, day-old rice and soy sauce. But when he turned around to grab himself a plate, there it was on the counter.

Three fourths of a frankly enormous cabbage. There was enough fried rice behind him to feed eight people, and he still had a chunk of cabbage bigger than his head left. Because he wasn’t cooking for eight people. Or even just four.

With the sizzling having died down, Phil’s apartment had gone back to complete silence.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the plate and spooned some fried rice into it with maybe a tad more force than strictly necessary. Only when he tried to sit, did he realize just how tightly his wings were pressed against his back. One or two shadows fluttered from them, settling on his shoulders and folding against his collarbone like cuddly puddles of void.

“I’m okay, Chat,” he assured. “It’s okay.”

He ate slowly. Cooking took time, as did meal planning, grocery shopping and dishes, and he never wanted to just scarf food down without taking the time to savor it. Dodging the hero training facility’s poor excuse for a cafeteria was something you had to celebrate in every small way.

The thought made him glance at where the vial was hidden, out of view in case his landlord decided to hit him with another dubiously legal “surprise friendly neighborhood visit” (inspection).

The faulty pipes – sorry, the biblical flood – hadn’t damaged the contents of the vial in any way, acid green liquid held safely behind a thin layer of glass. But it might as well be banana milk, considering how useless it now was.

Because what hadn’t been safe from the flood, and was now destroyed beyond recognition, was the label.

Phil had seen vials like this one exactly once in his life, and that memory was etched in his mind.

The bright side of manifesting at home was that he didn’t have to deal with curious onlookers unsubtly glancing at the scanner’s level. The downside was that it made the anticipation much worse.

“We called immediately,” his dad had assured the employee as he let her into Phil’s room, hand gripping the edge of the door a tad too hard. He had a government job now, and much to lose if everything wasn’t executed perfectly.

Phil wasn’t planning on letting it be so.

“Yes,” the bureau agent said shortly.

With one last anguished look, his dad closed the door. The woman turned back to her scanner.

“Can I see it?” he requested, feigning a disinterested sort of curiosity.

“Why?” The woman frowned at him. He shrugged.

“The technology behind it is fascinating. I’d like to work in that field one day, if I can.” Which was, of course, absolute bullshit, and he was lucky that his parents hadn’t been allowed in the room, or else they would already be calling him out.

“Hard to get in.”

“Well, my dad is a respected member of the law department. I’m sure he can introduce me to the right people. You know.”

The lady blinked in surprise, then sighed. And handed him the scanner.

Hands shaking in contained fear, he curled his fingers around the smooth metal. If this wasn’t the exact model he’d seen online, this would be useless.

And his future would truly be in luck’s hands.

At his signal, one of the black blobs that had appeared an hour ago, when he manifested, knocked the woman’s case over. He winced – that was a whole lot less subtle than he hoped for, but the power running through his veins was still foreign and raw. It did the job, though: frowning, the agent bent down to collect her instruments.

Phil’s fingers moved almost too fast. Like most measuring instruments, these scanners needed to be calibrated to function properly. He had just watched the woman scan herself, then manually enter her own power level to confirm the measure. Quickly, he clicked back a few steps and lowered the value by almost a whole level. When she sat back up, he all but trusted the scanner in her hands.

“There’s no reason to be anxious,” she reminded distractedly. “This test has no good or bad result.”

“Yeah.” She reached for his wrist.

“The chance to serve our government is an honor accorded to only the most exceptional,” she carried on, ignoring his answer in favor of the script.

The scanner beeped. Phil’s heartbeat had been slowing down with the realization that he had done it. In his relief, he almost missed the woman’s mumble.

“Huh…”

She turned the scanner towards him. There, on the small screen, a number was blinking.

POWER CLASS 4.9

“I’m- I’m below five,” he stammered, he lied. He had to be at least 5.7. Holy shit.

“For now,” she nodded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” The dark blobs squirmed in agitation from the safety of his closet.

“Power levels sometimes evolve in the year following presentation. Never much, but since you’re already so close to the limit…”

She raised a small glass vial in front of him. The liquid it contained slushed around menacingly.

“We’re almost done here. I just need a few drops of blood from you.”

Phil barely felt anything when she punctured the tip of his finger. Instead, he watched the vial’s content take an acid green color as his blood dissolved into it.

“This substance has been engineered to reflect your power level. It will be incubated for a year, then tested. If your level rises above the threshold, you will be contacted. Good day. The power registration bureau thanks you for your cooperation.”

Phil remained still as she stood up, grabbed her case, and exited his room. A few muffled words came from downstairs, immediately followed by his mum rushing in to hug him. He didn’t answer her reassurances.

A week later, Phil committed his first act as a vigilante, even though it would never be attributed to his alias. The laboratory never took note of the break-in, nor the disappearance of a few samples. Even then, they would’ve had a hard time pinning it on anyone.

Phil didn’t know who Heartfelt was trying to protect, but he’d be a damn hypocrite to blame him for it. Several of his shadows were still lurking in the crates. If there were any labels still legible, they’d make quick work of them. The bureau could test the vials all they wanted; without information on whose power they followed, it would be useless. And Heartfelt assured him the rest of the paperwork was already dealt with.

The successful operation should’ve been enough to carry his mood for the rest of the day, and yet…

And yet, after washing his plate, he had to acknowledge the fact that he simply didn’t have a big enough plastic container to store all the fried rice he’d made. And that trying to eat all of that by himself throughout the week would do nothing but make him hate it. And the freezer was full, and the apartment was so silent, and that fucking cabbage…

Three of his shadows blobbed together to unlock his front door, turning to look at him expectantly. One of them positioned itself between Phil and the cabbage, wings extended and ready to fight to defend the innocent crucifer. He exhaled slowly.

“You’re right, Chat.”

Staying locked in wouldn’t do him any good. He scooped the fried rice into individual-sized containers, grabbed his coat, and left.

Every time Phil fought heroes, he was reminded why he was so lucky to have dodged the draft. He’d seen more of them die or suffer life-altering injuries that he thought possible. But his secret came with a big downside.

If the slightest offense was ever tied to him, the vaguest suspicion, and he was forced to take another power class test, he was done for. And with him, anyone he associated with too closely.

It was a lonely life.

But Phil wasn’t one for giving up.

“Heya, mate!” he called out, letting the convenience store’s heavy door slam shut behind him.

“Oh, hey Phil,” Techno said, lifting his eyes from his book with a few seconds of delay.

Had such a thing been possible, Phil would be inclined to believe that the teenager lived in the store. Any time he decided he needed a granola bar, energy drink, and other snacks, he headed to this little shop, and every time without fail, none other than Technoblade was sitting behind the register, engrossed in a thick volume, with the dark green plumes of his potted carrot plant swaying in time with the building’s ventilation.

And no matter the day or the hour of Phil’s visit, he looked just as exhausted.

Today, he was wearing a washed-out shirt with the outline of an anatomically correct heart. “How did your project on the cardiovascular system go?” he asked while grabbing a hand basket.

“I have the worst luck with team partners, I swear,” he sighed. “Next time, I’m asking to do it alone, I don’t even care.”

“You just haven’t found the right team yet,” Phil advised, smiling at the dubious twitch of his whiskers. “Efficient teamwork is one of the best things in life, trust me.”

“… And what team is all that for?” the rabbit hybrid asked, eyeing Phil’s ever-growing pile of sweets. “Bruh, Halloween was last month?”

He already had cookie & cream drops for Niki, airheads for Jack and sweetarts for Heartfelt. He got his phone out and scrolled down the list of the group home kids’ favorite sweets. Because “not enough for everyone” might be a deterrent for lesser men, but for Phil, it was nothing but a challenge. Before Bobby was adopted, Phil even got him to discover that Ms. Rosales liked coffee crisps.

“Maybe it’s all for me, you don’t know,” Phil joked. He smiled at Techno’s vaguely horrified look.

“Man, I don’t need to be a nursing student to tell you eating all that by yourself is not a good idea. Ever heard of glycemia, Phil?”

“Relax, I’m joking.” His hand hovered between two brands of licorice. “I just decided to surprise my friends.”

“Last time my roommates tried to surprise me, it was a cockroach in a cup,” Techno muttered, ears pinned back. Phil winced in sympathy as he dropped his basket on the counter.

“You really need to move out…”

“Where?” Techno asked, gesturing with the scanner. “It’s cheap, and this job doesn’t exactly pay well.”

“You know, my boss will need another employee soon, and the bakery isn’t far from here…”

It was also situated in a mildly safer part of town. More than once, Phil had worried about Techno’s safety, considering he was frequently taking the alleyways alone in the middle of the night, but every time, the young adult had brushed him off (“I’m not alone, Phil, what are you talking about. I have Frank”). His boss did the same when Phil brought up the broken security camera at the front of the shop.

“I’d love to, Phil, honest.” The bag was full, Techno reached for another one. “But I need the night shift. I have classes during the day.”

What you need is some sleep, Phil thought. There was no point in saying it, though. He knew the teen was doing his best with the circumstances. Once again, he wondered about Technoblade’s family situation.

Instead, they chatted as he rang up the last few items, and Phil paid.

“Enjoy your bag of cholesterol,” he joked, handing him the second bag.

“You too!”

Phil fished out a snicker’s and a hershey’s milk chocolate bar from the bag and deposited them on Techno’s counter with a shit-eating grin.

“That’s why you wanted to know my- I should know better than sharing personal information with strangers,” he mused, shaking his head. But he was already sneaking a hand towards the chocolate.

“So, do you have any allergies?”

“Phil, I literally just said-”

“Does that mean you don’t want this?”

He placed the container of fried rice on the counter next to the candy.

“What the hell, man?”

Phil snickered at his friend’s face. “The recipes are always something like 6 portions and I live alone. Freezer’s full. So, I thought maybe you’d like some?”

A plume of vapor came out when Techno opened the container. He blinked at it. “Phil, you have my eternal loyalty.”

“It’s just fried rice!” he laughed.

“You don’t want to know what I’ve been eating recently, seriously. This is gonna be so nice. If you need someone dead, just say the word.”

Luckily, the teen was too absorbed by the food to mind him cracking up at the thought. Maybe it was unfair, but Techno looked tired enough that a light breeze would knock him over. And it would still take him a few seconds to realize he was on the ground. Not to mention the fact that a potted carrot plant accompanied him everywhere. Not exactly intimidating.

“I’ll keep you in mind if my neighbors decide to start vacuuming at six AM again,” he joked. Anyway, Philza had tried his best to remain a pacifist throughout his career.

There were barely more than five people that he actually wanted dead!

“Thanks a bunch.”

“You’re welcome!” Phil hauled his bags of candy up and waved with two fingers as he left.

Ever since he had manifested, the shadows of Phil’s parents’ house, then his apartment, never sat still. The darkness wriggled with glossy feathers, pecky little beaks, and a substantial amount of mischief. The cacophony that came with this joyful little troupe only existed within his mind, though.

The bags of candy on the counter, waiting to be delivered to small and less small hands, were certainly encouraging. And yet, the silence, as Phil chased sleep, had a permanent echo to it.

Chapter Text

07h00

This morning, like every other morning, Wilbur woke up at seven o’clock.

And just like every other morning, at the buzzer sound, he rolled over in his bed, stood up, and reached for his uniform. Getting dressed accounted for the first period of the day, from seven to seven-five. Since all of the bureau-regulated haircuts were short, there was no need to style it. The period allocated to shower was in the evening.

He fumbled his way into his daytime uniform – not his hero suit, not yet – eyelids sticking to each other like someone had glued them shut. That was a little too far, even for the senior heroes, though. Their “pranks” were usually much more subtle. Even if they did involve his eyes, a lot.

07h06

By the time he had managed to buckle everything correctly and put his visor in place, he had to half-jog to get to the cafeteria in time.

07h10

Breakfast was only served once every junior hero was present, sat and in silence, so running late meant a walk of shame across the entire room, with every recruit eyeing you with annoyance. Luckily for Wilbur, he had long legs, and there was a free seat close to the door. When 7h10 struck, everyone was sat in silence. The signal was given, and they stood back up to fill their plates.

Wilbur-from-before hated breakfast. His bed was comfy and he much liked to only leave it when he absolutely needed to, and if he had to snatch a random piece of toast as a first meal of the day, so be it.

But Wilbur was a hero now. A servant of the people, keeper of the peace. He needed proper food.

If this protein shake could even be qualified as food, he thought with distaste, watching the lumps of powder evade his insistent stirring. No fruit on his plate – they contained too much sugar. And kale salad with low-fat dressing contained much more fiber than even whole bread.

Honestly, the fact that he still needed to eat even after everything was such a scam.

07h30

After breakfast, every hero who wasn’t on patrol yet headed to the gym for whichever training would be on their agenda that day. But Wilbur had something else on his schedule.

07h35

“You’re late,” one of the physiotherapists claimed as Wilbur sat down on the exam table. He wasn’t, he was just on time, but there was no point in answering.

He started with Wilbur’s right knee. It had been slammed by a metal bat a few months ago, while he was trying to apprehend some tugs, and hadn’t been healing properly. Wilbur had been prescribed exercises to make it better, but they took some of his sleep time, and that was none-negotiable. He was this close to trying to do them on patrol, and just hope no one took the opportunity to attack him.

After a particularly bad session, Wilbur had asked if maybe resting his knee for a few weeks would help. The physio’s raised eyebrows told him don’t play games with me, kid. Not that he expected otherwise.

When the physiotherapist was done massaging and stretching him, he switched to his shoulder. That one had happened while he was training, supposedly because he hadn’t done his warmups properly. The fact that the injury had occurred at the very end of almost an hour of lifts made that less than probable, but implying that the training sets were excessive on the injury report was a no-go. No, Wilbur had simply not been careful enough. As usual.

They switched to Wilbur’s elbow. It was rarely outright painful – even with how Wilbur’s nerve endings were nowadays – but the insistent touch felt invasive and made his skin crawl. Luckily, that one appeared to be healing relatively well, a surprise considering how hard it had slammed into that dumpster during his last fight with Heartfelt. But that meant less time to get ready for the last one.

A gloved hand grabbed his wing and he immediately flinched back.

The doctor was used to this, though. It was why they were gripping the feathers so hard.

“Can you stop moving for a second? You’re making this much harder than it needs to be. And stop gritting your teeth. It’s bad for your jaw.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Wilbur forced his left wing to open enough for the man to grab the shoulder, though it wasn’t in any way relaxed. The other one stayed firmly wrapped around his chest.

This was, by far, the worst part. Wil’s hindbrain insisted that his wings shouldn’t be touched if he wasn’t safe, which only served to make everything more uncomfortable, and so on. Every dig of a finger became a knife slash, every bent feather could’ve been a handful torn off.

I bet when this happens to Corvian, he has a whole flock to take care of him, he thought bitterly. He knew just how pitiful that thought was, being jealous of a wanted criminal like that, but at this point, even envy was better than the violating feeling of hostile hands against his wings.

8h40

The physiotherapist kept him a whole five minutes longer than he was supposed to, claiming Wilbur’s lateness “left him no choice.” As a result, he was running late for his tactical meeting.

Well, at least it wasn’t like he had any reputation left to tarnish.

Still, he ran up the corridor, swerving to avoid another junior hero who sent him an empathetic grimace. Every step made his sensitive knee flare in pain, but that was basically background noise at this point.

8h44

He knocked at the conference room’s door as soon as he reached it, catching his breath during the moment before the “come in.”

Of the three people waiting for him inside, only his trainer, Dream, was looking at him. The two coordinators were both engrossed in their computers, which didn’t stop one of them from speaking up.

“Got anything to say, junior hero W607?”

“My tardiness is unacceptable, and I apologize for wasting your time,” he recited. He watched as the man pulled out his pad and tapped at it. In his Wilbur’s pocket, his communicator beeped with an update to his schedule. If he lost even more sleep time because of this, he was going to fucking lose it. And by “it,” he meant his sanity.

“What made you late?” This one was always a trap.

“I was careless. I will not allow it to happen again.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Dream mocked.

“Graduate hero D273, we must expect only the best from our recruits,” the other coordinator reminded, eyes still glued on her laptop. She missed Dream’s sneer.

He sat down as far away as was acceptable from his trainer and joined his hands on the table, shoulders up and as neutral an expression as he could muster. At least his visor helped with that.

“Junior hero W607,” the first coordinator sighed, “I’m afraid to say your performance in the past month has not been satisfactory.”

“He refuses to apply himself in training,” Dream immediately claimed. If there was one thing that softened the pain of his repeated failures, it was knowing that he could take Dream’ credibility down with his.

While most level fives arrived at the hero training compound in various levels of distress and shock, some (weird) few saw this as an opportunity. They were always the worst to be around, overzealous and ready to step on anyone to get a better rank. When he moved up from recruit to junior hero, he had been glad to at least escape those people.

Getting Dream as his trainer was only his luck.

“Training can only do so much. Report, junior hero, if you will.”

They already had the reports. Wilbur had taken some of his very limited “free” time to describe as precisely and clearly as possible his altercations with Heartfelt, with the hope that it would give the opportunity to older heroes to give advice. A hope that was starting to look pointless.

Still, he summarized his last few encounters. Ending with his personal analysis. If he played this well, he had a very slim chance of being given backup, perhaps even taken off the case entirely.

“Heartfelt’s sound-based powers make it almost impossible to sneak up on him. His scream attacks can consistently nullify my potion throws, and he is quick enough to avoid close-quarter combat. After careful analysis of our previous fights and using the five-step method I was taught-” Using teachings from the hero classes to back up claims worked well for two reasons: they couldn’t speak against it without sounding like hypocrites, but also no higher-up knew a word of what they were taught, so he could say pretty much whatever. “… I have concluded that I need to change the way I approach this fight. I see this as an opportunity to learn and would greatly appreciate any advice.”

“Does your trainer not have advice to give?”

Dream really was terrible at controlling his facial expression. Or maybe he just knew they wouldn’t care about the venomous look he sent Wilbur. The young man shrunk back on instinct.

“I already told you that you need to be more on the offensive!”

“My- the potions- my fighting style is-”

“Oh, is being a fucking coward a fighting style, now?” One of the coordinators tsked at the swearing.

“I almost had him,” he whispered, hopelessness twisting his heart. “I incapacitated him, if Corvian hadn’t shown up-”

“What could’ve been is irrelevant, junior hero W607.” He lowered his head. “You may review performance and plan the next attack with your trainer. If you haven’t completed your assignment in…” The two coordinators exchanged looks, coming to a silent accord. “… Ten days, you will be sent to re-education.”

Wilbur exhaled softly. The life of a junior hero was a walking nightmare, but even that paled in comparison to-

“Junior hero W607? Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sir.”

He stayed still as they both closed their laptops and left the conference room. Exhaustion clung to his bones every hour of the day, but this was a different kind of torpor.

“What the fuck have I done to get stuck with an apprentice this fucking useless,” Dream sneered as soon as the door closed.

“I’m sorry-”

The slap took a moment to register. Wilbur blinked at where his eyes were now looking. He didn’t look up when the yelling started.

10h53

Walking out of the hero complex always felt wrong. Even fully suited up, with the day’s patrol route downloaded on his com and a tracker in his boot. Walking down the lane and stepping on the sidewalk, he felt like there was an enforcer a few feet behind him. A hand hovering over his shoulder, ready to grab and drag him back inside.

Wilbur turned around. On the other side of the street, a woman was pushing a stroller. She waved at him. He waved back.

When he returned to the direction on his itinerary, the hand was back over his shoulder. In ten days, unless a miracle came his way, it wouldn’t be so imaginary.

The mini map on his watch guided Wilbur to the sixth district through unfamiliar streets. Still, the specter of his hometown was hidden in the shape of park benches and in the flickering neon of streetlights. Sometimes, he thought he’d never truly escape it.

The power registration act called for recruited heroes to be moved to a different city to complete their training. Supposedly, it was to lower the chances of having their judgment “troubled” if someone they knew was in danger. In Wilbur’s case, that might be for the better, because he knew many someones. Or, used to.

Wilbur had presented the day of the school election. He had been furious; nothing could afford to go wrong! He was about to deliver the perfect speech and get his team at the head of the student council.

Oh, it was far from actual power. They’d get to suggest themes for the school dances and activities for the fair, mostly, but they were responsibilities and came with an aura of respect too good to pass up on. He was the perfect candidate, too. Between a spotless record, multiple extracurriculars and his very decent grades, he was already the best to run, but he also knew everyone.

He could greet every student from his year by name, and knew almost everyone else by face. He knew how to make everyone feel like talking with them was the most important thing he could possibly be doing, and flattery could get you to the end of this world.

Which was why he was currently attempting to convince the assistant director to still let him give his speech.

“You’re in pain, Wilbur,” she said worryingly. “Go sit down…”

“It’s my turn to talk, and it’s not even that bad!”

“Pushing through the pain is never a good idea.”

“Sometimes, you have to, though.”

At the time, he didn’t know just how long her eyes would haunt him.

A year, many scars and the unthinkable later, Wilbur was halfway across the country and none of his friends had any way of knowing if he was even alive. (He didn’t want to ask himself if they’d want to.) His parents cashed in the compensation for his state-sanctioned abduction with guilt-stained relief, and there was never anything but dial tone on the other end of the very limited phone call time he was allowed at the academy.

Wilbur couldn’t remember the last time he called, he realized dazedly. Couldn’t remember when he stopped.

There were no days anymore. Just a long trail of hours on his timetable, as inescapable and unknowable as the streets around him.

11h12

When he lifted his eyes from his watch, it was to find a familiar building in front of him. Miss Rosales’ group home looked inviting as always.

Well, he supposed some people had it worse.

It was strange. Feelings, specifically, were strange, he mused as his steps slowed. One half of him wanted to head inside. To ring the doorbell, avoid the kid’s curious glances and go talk to Kristin again. Sit in her familiar office, stare at the artwork pinned on the wall. Cry, maybe, if he could bring himself to it.

The other half… Just didn’t care. What would be the point? What would that achieve? A crying session in the company of a woman who, while sympathetic, could do nothing for him? There was no point in feeling sorry for himself as it was, let alone dragging someone else along for the ride.

In the end, it was the thought of how busy she must be that made him resume his trek. He was done being a burden.

“Hey, you! The hero!”

“There’s no one else, here,” he pointed out, his feet dragging to a stop once again as he took in the sight of a child perched on a cardboard box and leaning over the fence. Yellow fabric had been sewn into the hem of his shirt in the shape of a duck floaty.

“And?”

“And you don’t have to specify… Never mind. Is there something wrong?”

Besides everything? A snarky little voice completed in his mind.

The kid leaned down a little further, narrowing his eyes at him.

“You were the one to help ‘Lullah?”

“Her name’s Lullah?” he asked, even though it didn’t matter.

“What? No, it’s Tallulah,” the boy says, like it was obvious. Shamefully, a part of Wilbur recoiled at that. This was just a kid. He shouldn’t care.

“Yeah, it was me. Why?”

For a moment, they stood on both sides of the fence, staring at each other. Wilbur was too tired to fidget. The academy had taught them to save energy, whether they meant to or not. The pause was kind of nice, and when he found his mind wandering…

“I don’t like heroes,” the boys said firmly, arms crossed over his floatie.

“Okay?” Same here, buddy.

“But thank you, I guess.”

Something relieved shuffled along his feathers, that the boy’s gray eyes tracked curiously. His own wings, small and leathery, remained tucked away. “Of course.”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to protect her,” he muttered, mostly to himself. There was some moodiness in his tone, the annoyance Wilbur expected from a kid feeling overshadowed. There was determination, too, but mostly, there was fear.

As much as Wilbur despised his role (it wasn’t officially classified as a job, so that labor laws didn’t apply), for once, he wished he could do more. But the kind of danger this kid was alluding to resided far from busy roads and large crates. Instead, it curled up in houses that’d never feel like home, and hid itself behind closed curtains and justification of childish exaggerations.

“That’s good,” he nodded. “And Ms. Rosales will protect both of you.”

The kid’s eyes glinted knowingly. “Like-”

11h23

The echoless bang of a gunshot halted him. Wilbur whipped his head around, quickly confirming that the danger wasn’t directly next to them, before turning to the wide-eyed, frozen kid with a quick shout.

“Get back inside!” To his credit, the kid quickly shook off his surprise, leaping from the cardboard box to glide a few meters before his feet hit the ground and he took off running. Wilbur stayed long enough to see him halfway to the group home’s door before he sprinted to a nearby alleyway. Clicking his comm open, he sent his position.

“Got it.” Came the crackling response. “Flag us if you need assistance.” He skidded to a stop at the mouth of the alley.

There were four masked men fighting and one dead on the ground.

Wilbur surveyed the situation as best he could as he vaulted over a dumpster. The landing on the sticky asphalt sent a flare of pain up his knee, but despite almost feeling his ligament fray like an old rope, his steps didn’t falter. He didn’t have time for that.

“Pushing through the pain is never a good idea.”

“Sometimes, you have to, though.”

“Sometimes, yes. Like when someone’s life is in danger.”

He leaped over the bloodied body, wings flaring on either side of him. With a quick twist, he sent one of his glass feathers flying forward, breaking on his closest opponent’s (the one with the gun) shoulder. His scream alerted the rest of them to his presence.

Wilbur dodged a right hook by moving closer to a wall, where it’d be harder for them to surround him, and whipped out his baton. The narrow alley made it impossible for him to fly up, and dangerous to use any other potion.

A thing about Wilbur, was that he was shit at combat. In school, he’d gotten through P.E. with a mixture of charisma and help from his friends. Hero training, a much more serious affair, had been this close to giving up on him. And he was currently in worse shape than he’d probably ever been, with several old injuries and a bad case of exhaustion.

He was therefore himself surprised when a well-placed baton hit threw his opponent against the wall. Panting, he swiped a hand over the fresh bruise on his cheek. Unfortunately for Wil, the guy’s friends were just done kicking down their own opponent and whirled around towards him, poised like bloodhounds. And one of them had hands full of fire. Oh, joy.

As if he didn’t already have enough stuff going on, his com chose this moment to crackle to life.

“Junior hero W607, your primary charge has been spotted in district five. Disengage.” Fuck. Heartfelt.

“Civilian at risk,” he grunted, parrying a knife thrown at his throat. He didn’t actually know if the young man on the ground, clutching his leg, was a civilian or part of organized crime, but one thing was made sure by the corpse behind them: he would not survive Wilbur leaving. So what did it matter?

“Assistance is on the way. Disengage.”

This might be his only chance. Heartfelt was usually patrolling the streets every other night, but Wilbur had carefully studied the patterns of his sightings, and he knew he could also disappear for extended periods of time. With only ten days left, he couldn’t waste any opportunity.

In the end, what really unsettled Wilbur, was how easy it felt to reach up and switch off his comm.

The criminal that Wilbur had pushed away shook his head, huffing angrily. Oh, so he wasn’t wearing a fake nose under his mask. He was just a-

He leaped out of the way just in time to avoid being charged.

… A rhinoceros hybrid.

The man slammed face-first into the wall behind Wil, but he didn’t get a moment to breathe, because already, the other two were on him. He had time to fling a splash potion of water – don’t ask – on the one with fire powers, right before they got much too close to use distance weapons without also hurting himself (which he was going to put off as much as possible).

He backed away, swiping his baton in an effort to keep them out of his space, but one of them had a sword much longer than his own weapon, and he wasn’t fast or strong enough to defend himself against two adversaries simultaneously.

Then he heard it. Another huff, coming from right behind him.

The rhino hybrid was not KO yet.

With a short scream, Wil tried to sidestep him. He hissed when something clipped his side, stumbling to the ground. He screamed again when a sword swished just in front of his face.

But the man holding it didn’t try to hit him again. He stopped, puzzled, and stared. Because his blade was golden.

There was a snicker, and then his knees buckled, revealing the person standing behind him.

Wilbur’s first thought was that the sunglasses and beanie (pulled down on his forehead) combo must not be great for visibility, but he still seemed to swing his axe at the other guy with decent accuracy, so it probably wasn’t so bad.

Oh, right. Help had been on the way.

Disregarding the pain in his knee/side/elbow/etc., Wilbur sprung back to his feet and proceeded to deck the man still struggling with his suddenly much heavier sword. It took a few hits, but the guy’s movements had grown frantic with the realization that they were losing.

His savior was still battling the fire guy, bringing up his axe to parry the man’s mace, wings flared open for balance. Only, the crook was growing tired, and when he swung it too far to the side, the newcomer reached forward.

His fingers brushed against his opponent’s shirt, and in a blink, it had taken a dark golden color, a metallic sheen, and a great distaste for folding.

He yelled at finding himself trapped in a heavy, rigid shirt, and the person Wilbur was now recognizing as the vigilante Midas backed away, smirking. He turned to Wilbur, who didn’t see it. Because he was looking at the trapped man’s hands.

Midas flinched back at his sudden movement, but the flying potion wasn’t for him. The criminal collapsed, and the flames in his hands wavered and disappeared before they could do more harm. Silence descended on the alley.

Chapter Text

11h37

“Well, that was dramatic!” Midas exclaimed, though he seemed quite happy about it. Wilbur had met him only once before, but those two encounters were enough to confirm the vigilante’s liking for chaos.

The hero code forbade Wilbur from answering him. For this purpose, most junior heroes wore face masks that discouraged communication with those not hooked to their comms. But given that Wilbur had to wear this visor, he was exempt.

He was also beyond caring about the code, right now.

“You know, I almost thought you were also a hero,” he said, “for a second.”

Midas opened his arms, the white of his teeth almost glinting in the shady alleyway. “What gave it away?”

“Your suit is crappy.”

A rare smile pulled on Wilbur’s lips as the vigilante gasped in offense, smoothing a hand down his dark blue hoodie. Shimmering golden thread traced patterns along the seam (Wilbur wondered if he was imagining the ducks). Paired with baggy, black cargo pants, he was about as far from the bureau’s strict standards as you could get.

“We should move up,” he suggested, keeping careful eyes on Midas as he walked to the gang’s second victim and set to tie a tourniquet around his leg. Just because the vigilante seemed relaxed didn’t mean he wasn’t a potential threat still, though Wilbur found himself lazily considering if it’d really be so bad to get abducted by vigilantes. At this point, he’d take any break from his routine. “Slowness stays close to the ground, but if there’s a bit of wind, we could end up like them.” Four of the five men were now unconscious among the sweet, rotten fumes. The last one was dead.

“Really? I thought you’d love to keep me here until I was too slow to fight back,” Midas taunted, even as he pulled a bandana over his mouth. The black wisps of hair escaping from the edge of his beanie swayed as he jumped on a dumpster and pulled the fire escape down. His red, green and white wings (wood duck, Wilbur thought) flapped a few times, boosting him up.

“Normally I would,” Wilbur found himself saying. Maybe he hit his head a bit hard against the wall. Maybe he was just tired. Of everything. “Unfortunately, that would take a while, and I’m actually needed somewhere else.” His shoulder protested as he grabbed on to the ladder.

“You don’t seem in that much of a hurry,” Midas noted. He had reached the top of the ladder and stopped climbing, instead turning around to look down at Wilbur.

There was no good answer to that. “Why did you help me?”

“Maybe there was something in it for me…” Midas edged, before leaning back and flipping on the roof and out of view. Show off.

“Well, was there?” Wilbur asked, voice raised to reach him.

“God, you’re so bad at banter!” came an annoyed response from out of view. Wilbur made sure any trace of a smile was gone from his lips before getting on the roof.

“Aww. You know, people used to tell me I was quite charming.”

Midas opened his mouth. Then closed it. “Moving on,” he said, a bit too quick. “I helped you because I needed to talk to you, and the fastest way to achieve that was to whack those guys around.”

Wilbur raised his head (when had he lowered it?), amusement cooling back into seriousness. “To me, specifically?” he asked, disbelieve coloring his tone. He was just a cog in the machine, with nothing more or less going on than any other hero of the same rank. The only thing specific to him was-

“Is this about Heartfelt?” he asked, backing up a step.

Midas’s eyes narrowed at the villain’s mention, but he shook his head. “No, it’s not. And you’d do well to stay away from the kid. Corvian has a message for you.”

“Oh.” This was probably bad news, but Wilbur couldn’t find it in himself to be worried. It was just so much effort… “What is it?”

“What? I don’t know, what am I, a messenger pigeon? Corvian wants-”

“I mean, you’re a bit of a pigeon.”

“Absolutely shut up. Corvian wants to meet you near the med school in district four.”

“But why?”

Wilbur raised his hands when the vigilante started swelling up like a bullfrog, smothering his urge to keep poking at him. As much as this conversation had been a breath of fresh air in Wilbur’s day, it was still dangerous. If there was one lesson the academy made sure would stick, it was that heroes could trust no one outside of the bureau. Anyone could be out to get them.

“Med school building in four, noon, ¿entendido?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I didn’t know you delivered messages.”

“I just owned him a favor.” Midas leaned against the wall, fiddling with the collar of his sweater. He seemed to have time to spare. Must be nice.

“I thought, with a power like yours, you’d have an easy time repaying favors.” Wilbur’s resolve had already run out, and he barely felt a shiver of thrill up his spine when he turned his back to the vigilante to look down at the alleyway. That golden sword was still lying next to its fallen wielder.

Forged and sharpened to be deadly. Precious metal glinting quietly in the shade, making it look pretty and invaluable. Too bad that gold was too fragile, too soft to ever make a good weapon.

“Oh, that?” Midas scoffed. “It’s temporary. I mean, I can make it last pretty long if I put in the effort, but it always changes back to what it was before.”

“Does it?” Wilbur mumbled.

“Yeah, you can’t alter something so fundamental.”

“Hmm. Thanks, Midas.” He didn’t turn around when the other came to stand next to him.

“Don’t thank me, I didn’t do it for you.”

“I mean, my supposed backup is taking their sweet time to get here.”

“Don’t tempt me. I know heroes don’t do favors.” And he was gone. Wilbur’s heart was tired.

“Pushing through the pain is never a good idea.”

“Sometimes, you have to, though.”

“Sometimes, yes. Like when someone’s life is in danger. But you can simply give your speech some other time, Wil. Being stubborn will only make the pain worse in the end.”

The half-bored students hadn’t gotten to hear his speech that day. Or any day. What they had heard were his protests as he was dragged away by an enforcer, cries that the scanner mustn’t have been calibrated properly, and to just let him explain-

He hated that this was the last they saw of him. Red-faced and agitated and scared, nothing like the composed, confident soon-to-be student council president they all knew. He hated to think of what was thought and said after his departure.

At the academy, when everything was becoming too much, when he felt like he was flirting with the edges of sanity, he tried to think about the Before-Wilbur. Send himself back to when he was content. Rested, in-control.

It was always off, though. That wasn’t how the people in his daydreams would remember him. They’d only remember the end.

12h15

The cold caress of the wind was more numbing than invigorating as it brushed across Wilbur’s wings.

He wasn’t supposed to fly on patrol, not unless it was necessary for his current mission. That was one of the rare rules that the people-who-were-not-the-bureau were allowed to comment on: Wilbur had seen quite a few bewildered reporters try to get a straight answer as to why the city’s trusted heroes weren’t allowed to use such an efficient method of transportation. Inevitably, the bureau’s polite representative would wax some bullshit about how flying made heroes target, or that it was unfair to other recruits (as if that was ever a concern).

In a way, Wilbur found the rule to be a very symbolic representation of the Power Classification and Restriction Bureau’s mentality. The mindset behind it was the same as the very reason for its existence.

Wilbur’s short flight ended with a quiet landing on a rooftop. The university’s medical center was a sprawling mess of buildings all around him, with sections for both education, research, and healthcare. Good thing he didn’t have to fight Corvus in this mess; as it was, the vigilante would have to find him, and not the other way around.

‘Corvus.’ Wilbur smiled. The name the public had given the vigilante was one of the rare things that managed to amuse him, nowadays. He wondered how much it annoyed the man.

Having chosen a rooftop with no windows to avoid getting gawked at by civilians, Wilbur was free to lean against the wall and breath. The pain in his knee was back to a manageable level, despite having to be kept bent when he was flying. (Flying wasn’t relaxing for the legs, despite what many people thought. You couldn’t just let them dangle.) His shoulder was another story, but oh well. Away from the eyes of the trainers, Wilbur pettily slouched as far as he could and waited.

The air was calm, and the warmth of the midday sun, actually quite pleasant. Wilbur was just feeling his attention drifting off, to his still-quiet earpiece and the trouble he’d get for ignoring orders, when a shadow ran on the ground in front of him.

12h24

Head twitching up, he found the unmistakable silhouette of Corvian, flying overhead once, then a second time, making sure to let his presence known before landing a few meters away.

Despite coming here of his own volition, fully conscious of what would happen, Wilbur found himself tensing up. Technically, Corvian and Midas were both vigilantes (even though Corvian’s threat level was ranked significantly higher), but while Midas had never been more than mildly annoying, the sight of those long black claws made his shoulder and side prickle with phantom pain. At the same time as Corvian greeted him, he blurted:

“I heard you had something to tell me?”

Weirdly enough, the following awkward silence did nothing to help Wilbur relax.

“Uh. Hi,” he corrected himself, earning a huff. Corvian moved to stand a few more steps away, keeping his hands open and away from his weapons. Of course, that wasn’t much of a reassurance, considering the nature of his powers.

Wilbur had chosen the rooftop with the best exposition to the sun, where the man’s shadows would starkly contrast to the concrete, but that didn’t mean he had suddenly developed eyes on the back of his head. So far, though, the only one he could spot was lurking at the edge of the man’s collar, next to the little row of red hearts.

“Hey. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Wilbur snapped, fully aware of how defensive he came as but unable to care. “Can we get on with it?” He was going for menacing, and a hint of bitterness crawled up his throat when the other man didn’t even blink. He was supposed to be a hero, a force of good, confidant and powerful, but he was always the one afraid. No one was scared of him.

No one except Heartfelt, anyway.

“You didn’t even ask how I was doing,” Corvian protested, nearly pouting. Wilbur couldn’t tell if his nonchalance was a good or a very, very bad sign.

“And how are you doing on this fine morning, ô my sworn enemy?” Wilbur asked, leaning down in a half bow, wings flaring prettily behind him.

“Are we, though?”

“Enemies?”

“Sworn enemies. Feels a bit over the top, innit?

Wilbur backed up a step, then came back. Anxiety thrummed in his heart, unending.

“We’re on different sides.”

“I’m not here to hurt people,” Corvian reminded. “We’re not so different.” And Wilbur had to stop himself from yelling, I know. Of throwing his arms open and shouting that he didn’t get to decide what was legal and what wasn’t.

That he didn’t get to decide anything-

“You protect someone who does,” he said instead.

Between the slits of his mask, Corvian’s eyes narrowed, like clouds closing in on the blue of the sky. “I’m not here to talk about Heartfelt. Knowing how the Bureau operates, I don’t assume anything I could tell you would outweigh their orders.”

Rather than peek into that can of worm, Wilbur straightened his shoulder and asked again, with a confidence he wasn’t feeling: “I heard you had something to tell me?”

The iciness remained for a few beats still, before Corvian allowed the change of topic.

“Is that what Midas told you? I- no, hey, don’t worry…”

Wilbur tensed at the hint that he’d been lied to, but he was much too curious to retreat now. “He said you wanted to meet me.”

“I do, I have something for you.”

Looking away from Wilbur for the first time since he landed, Corvian rummaged through his bag. It looked like one of those hiking satchels, with way too many pockets to keep straight, and after the chocolate-milk-carton-and-flour incident, Wilbur assumed it must be full of carefully organized utilities. Like all the bat-named stuff from batman.

And then Corvian pulled out a clear plastic bag, and it was filled with candy.

“Man, what the fuck?” Corvian didn’t laugh, but he looked way too happy with himself. “You really do have a whole kitchen in there!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate, it’s entirely your fault.”

He tossed the bag at Wilbur, who had a brief but painful flashback to softball classes in PE, before the bag crashed on his leg and to the ground. Slowly, without taking his eyes away from Corvian, he bent down to retrieve it.

“My fault how?”

“Well, you refused to tell me what your favorite sweet was. So obviously, I had to get a bit of everything…”

“You lunatic,” Wilbur mumbled. The vigilante, highly competent and unpredictable, was right in front of him. Wilbur’s backup was inexistent, his team didn’t even know he was here. He was supposed to be mature and careful. A professional, and more than that, a hero.

But he was also nineteen, depressed and on a particularly nasty diet, and he couldn’t quite keep himself from peeking inside the bag. There was hard candy, chocolate bars, lollipops and even a small bag of chips.

“I’m too old for the old ‘drugs in the Halloween candy’ trick, man,” he said half-heartedly.

“That’s a myth,” Corvian scoffed. “And they’re all unopened.”

Hero training was shit at the best of times, but Wilbur didn’t think any of his instructors was to blame for not preparing him for what to do in this situation.

“Please tell me this bag of literal candy doesn’t come with strings attached.”

“Of course not,” the man said, in a way Wilbur could’ve described as soft if that hadn’t been so impossible. “They’re a thank you.”

Wilbur’s mouth opened, then closed.

“Alright. Your old age is catching up to you.”

“Hey!”

“A thank you for what? We fought this week! You almost killed me!”

“Yeah, almost.” While Wilbur was busy stuttering, he carried on: “It’s not for anything specific. I don’t know much about the hero program, but I do know that you don’t get nearly enough gratitude for the work you do. And especially not for the work that actually benefits civilians.”

Wilbur played with the handle of the bag, mind moving too fast to settle on a thought. None of his colleagues had given a shit about him saving Kristen’s little girl. Tallulah, he remembered. And then he was going to get in trouble for helping that young man, in the alleyway.

And he certainly wasn’t going after Heartfelt in the hope of any reward or pride. If he could never have to think about the villain ever again, he’d die happy. His terrified face flashed in Wilbur’s mind again.

Wordlessly, he slung the candy in his backpack. “You said we weren’t so different.”

Corvian moved to the side, anticipating Wilbur’s departure. He nodded, standing comfortably in a suit he must’ve made himself. Confident and fit, healthy even after at least six years of this work.

Wilbur had barely lasted a few months before… Well.

12h37

“I disagree. I think the reason for doing something is more important than the actions themselves.”

He flew away before the other man had a chance to answer. And he wasn’t above admitting it was cowardly of him.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

21h14

The time when Wilbur was supposed to retire for the night came and went. His lateness at the meeting, added to his earlier ‘refusal to disengage’, had left whichever asshole oversaw the schedule ‘no choice’ but to extend his patrol by a few hours.

He was idly wondering if getting this little sleep was even legal when a neon eyesore caught his attention.

With its filthy walls and boarded window, this convenience store looked about as welcoming as the bottom of a trash can, and Prime knew Wilbur didn’t need more candy, yet his feet still led him in.

“It’s me,” he called out over the clicking of the door. Techno was in his usual spot, very much looking like he’d barely moved since Wilbur’s last visit. He moved his head in acknowledgment, but without glancing up from his textbook, and grunted a “Hey, Wil.”

“Hi Techno,” Wilbur greeted fondly. His affection for the rabbit hybrid was a bit sad, as it was mostly one-sided, but sue him. At this point, anything short of outright hostility was welcome. He pretended to browse the chips aisle, even though by now Techno had to know he was stalling.

Wilbur had first wandered here about a month ago. Even then, he hadn’t been looking to buy anything – they weren’t allowed to bring any food into the complex, supposedly because of poisoning hazard – only to get out of the cold long enough for some feeling to come back to his fingers.

Techno had been guarded then, eyes shifty as he pretended not to watch the hero too closely. It was nothing new, as the people of the lower districts tended to be suspicious of heroes on principle. Wilbur would still take the customer service flavor of faux friendliness over the cold contempt of his superiors any day.

But as it turned out, hero training hadn’t quite beaten all the people skills out of him yet, and after a few visits, Techno had lost some of his suspicion in favor of something almost akin to friendliness.

He wouldn’t dare to say he had won him over by any means, but it was the most normal conversation he could have in his day-to-day life, so. Small blessings.

“Still on the clock?” the bunny hybrid asked, reaching into Frank’s mesh pot to pluck out a carrot that he tapped against the rim to shake out the soil, then snapped between his teeth.

“I could say the same to you,” Wilbur shot back. “Do your plant powers let you photosynthesize instead of sleeping?”

“Prime I wished,” Techno sighed wistfully, slumping over. He plucked the feathery stems and their little carrot num back into the soil, and the amber light of his powers rippled over the aluminum of the rows of chip bags as he regenerated it. “And you can believe if I got paid half as much as you guys do, I’d be at my apartment, face down on a couch right now.”

Being a hero only really paid well if you were a senior, that with most of the salary going back into schooling, housing, food and other accommodations, not to mention medical care. Wilbur was also trying to squirrel away a small fund in case he got out somehow, but that was more of a distant daydream than a real plan. Speaking of money, he still needed to write his parents out of his will.

“… Yeah.”

There was a long list of topics Wilbur did not want to get into at this time (or any time) and how hero salaries worked was very high on it. “At your apartment, sleeping?”

“Eh.” Techno didn’t quite smile, but his eyes crinkled. “Maybe more like playing video games.”

“So irresponsible. But nah, I’m supposed to be off by now, but my shift got extended,” Wilbur explained.

“Trouble in the district?” Techno asked warily. If Wilbur had any control over his schedule (and knew when / if Techno got off) he’d gladly walk him home. It’d be an infinitely more honorable use of his time than keeping impoverished people from stealing necessities from big corporations.

“Let’s just say I’m on a tough case,” he settled on. If he didn’t specify that he was getting nowhere and getting yelled at about it, it sounded cool and mysterious.

Techno blinked, then squinted at Wilbur. Between his thick nerdy glasses and pink bunny nose, he was about as far from intimidating as possible, but Wilbur still shifted uneasily. For the first time since he walked in, he felt like he had Techno’s full, undivided attention.

That didn’t seem like a good thing as much as a minute prior.

“Anyway!” he said, a tad too loud. He forcibly relaxed his shoulders, trying to muster some of that unearned confidence that Wilbur-from-before was so full of, back when he had mastered the art of conversation. “How are your plants doing?”

Technorule number one: he hated small talk. The weather could get lost as far as he was concerned. Technorule number two: most classic conversation topics (studies, family, friends, work) made him awkward and anxious. Talking about world events, media or his hobbies was best.

But tonight, nothing was cutting it, it seemed, since Wilbur only got a noncommittal grunt in response, Techno’s eyes returning to his textbook, though they didn’t move up the page. He was starting to get worried when he wound up at the register, an energy bar and one small, shiny keychain in hand.

“Tough day?” he fished. The hesitant smile under his visor froze when Techno’s eyes finally dropped on him. Or, well, not quite on him.

“Have you got something… in your feathers there?” Techno asked slowly.

The limbs twitched tighter at the attention, but again Wilbur forced them to relax. “Yeah, I got a couple potions,” he said, faux-casual. He reached and clicked a fingernail over one of the small glass bottles. “Don’t worry though, they’re secure. They take forever to put on, though.” When he glanced back up at his not-quite-friend, he felt his heart sink.

There was something resolute and harsh in the corner of Technoblade’s eyes.

“Wil, what’s your hero name?”

Despite the innocuousness of the question, a cold feeling crawled up Wilbur’s ribs. He was a nobody, too new to the scene to have caused any wave yet. Techno had never looked so serious.

He never even made the news!

His gaze was unescapable.

“It’s Alchemist,” he said. “You know…” He lifted his wings, making the glass feathers twinkle in the flickering neon light, potion sloshing heavily. The word “why?” was on his lips, but already, Technoblade was sneering, something too akin to hatred passing on his face. His rabbit teeth didn’t seem so harmless anymore when he was showing them.

“Get out.”

“But I didn’t- I… Techno-”

The rabbit hybrid took a deep breath in, and it should’ve been a good sign, that he was reining in his anger, but the closed-off, cold air he took instead was somehow more off-putting.

“If you’re not gonna buy anything else, I will ask you to leave, sir.”

Wilbur remained frozen still for a few more seconds, blindsided. All too soon though, the familiar sting of rejection kicked him into action.

“Alright,” he said slowly, backing up. “Umm. Sorry?”

The temptation to stay, ask for an explanation, beg to at least know what he did wrong, buzzed in the back of his mind, but Techno clearly wasn’t going to say anything else now that he’d brought out the customer service voice, and stress was tightening around Wilbur’s ribs. He turned around and left, accusatory eyes prickling on the back of his neck all the while.

21h27

The night felt even colder when the store’s door, heavy with metal bars (that probably deterred about as much crime as Wilbur did), swung shut behind him. The surveillance camera blinked at him almost mockingly from the top of the wall, as Wilbur stopped and turned around. When he tucked his hands back into his pockets, they were still cold.

That night, Wilbur wandered around. Creeping down alleyways in near silence, his folded wings and long coat deforming his shadow. When the streetlights grew dim and distant, his only discernable feature was his visor, a white streak across his face.

And when only darkness waited, all the way up, in a sky polluted with light and smoke alike, Wilbur could only hang on to the hope that somewhere further, where he’d been only once, there were still stars twinkling.

Chapter Text

Against his will, the slamming door made a bit of regret bloom in Techno’s chest. The look of painful uncertainty on Wi- on the Alchemist’s face – or what he could see of it anyway, with those tinted glasses he never took off – danced before his eyes despite his efforts to brush it off.

This would hurt less if the two of them hadn’t interacted so many times. Techno had regulars here, sure, but almost all of them came in a hurry and he was lucky if he got a “good day to you too” before they stormed back outside. And even among the few willing to chat, too many were downright creepy. Heartfelt didn’t really count as a regular, and as much as Techno liked Phil, his visits were sporadic.

Heroes weren’t exactly known to visit convenience stores, so the first time this awkward, overdressed bean pole had walked into the store, looking as though he was expecting the hot dog machine to jump him any second (not completely out of question, mind you, this thing might be haunted), Techno had settled on cold detachment. He did not care for heroes – few people did in this neighborhood – but he had too much to lose to attract any kind of attention.

Not cold enough to deter, it seemed, since “Wil” came back the next week and attempted to strike a conversation.

For the first minute, Techno really thought that was it. He had a good run, but no one escapes the PRB forever. Any second now, the hero would end the charade and arrest him.

Aaaany second now…

But, no matter how curt Techno kept his responses, or how unwelcoming his body language, the small talk stayed just that, small. “Wil” powered through an almost completely one-sided conversation, using an ample number of awkward silences and “well anyways” to jump from the weather to internet gossip, to a sports game neither of them knew anything about. Techno kept expecting the topic to suddenly narrow on him, to connect to whatever he must have done to reveal himself, but the more personal questions he was asked were his favorite season and whether he ever watched a baseball game.

Eventually, out of a mix of pity and bewilderment, he asked a question back. Seeing Wil perk up like a puppy given a scrap of attention made the worst of his fear dissipate, and the two ended up sharing a tense back-and-forth.

That day, after Wil left, Techno stayed perfectly still, in an empty shop. The ventilation kept running, the neon kept flickering, and Technoblade sat in silence behind the counter, waiting.

But even when the adrenaline finally crashed, sending him down to sit on the floor, shaky and lightheaded, there were still no agents rushing in with power-suppressers, reciting his rights.

Of course, the fear didn’t dissipate just like that. It most likely never would. It had been there for long enough that Techno’s bones had grown around it, shaping his self on its canvas. Techno was a nursing student, he was 22 years old, he was lonely, and he was afraid.

No, the background fear remained after that first meeting. But by the time the spectacled hero with the big show-off predator wings that did not match his personality came back to Techno’s convenience store, this specific fear had been snuffed out. And Techno ended up in a strange sort of friendship with him.

He should’ve known better, though.

Even with the hurt in Wil’s eyes as he hunched on himself, Techno could not stop anger from thinning his lips when he remembered Heartfelt.

The kid may be more secretive than even Techno sometimes, but his body couldn’t lie. Techno was intimately familiar with the injuries he collected in his few months of villainy, and now, he knew exactly who to blame.

If Wil was willing to hurt a teenager this much, then he wasn’t the person Techno had thought him to be.

Sighing, he reached into the pot next to him and pulled out a carrot, brushing the soil from it with a napkin. At least, the crunchy flesh giving out under his teeth was comforting in its familiarity. That was a nice bonus.

Not for the first time, he wondered how the hero corp – sorry, the power regulation bureau – would’ve handled his power, had he not managed to evade testing. After nearly thirty years of picking up level five powers, there must not be much they hadn’t encountered, but Techno liked to imagine that he’d been at least a bit of a headache.

Powers were commonly divided into two categories, based on whether they acted on the caster or their environment. The speedsters, the super strengths, the invisible people, etc., were in the first category, while the telekineticists, the zappers and that one annoying dude who could turn stuff into gold were in the second.

Or at least, those were the types of powers the field heroes got. A lesser-known class was made up of “support” heroes. The healers were the most obvious, but Techno had heard there was a secret spy team of mind readers, hypnotists and other psychics running around gathering intel for the government, though that had, of course, never been confirmed.

Imagine getting drafted into hero work and not even being able to tell anyone about what you were really doing…

And then there was Techno. As far as the records were concerned, his minor lifeforce powers were good for growing carrots, temporarily reinvigorating people with mild anemia, earning him a scholarship in a medical field, and not much else. Using them on patients would only have a small effect and tire him quickly. His file noted he might have slightly faster regeneration than the average person, but nothing to write home about.

All in all, it was a particularly lame power set, which suited Techno perfectly. This way, no one would look closer.

And he kind of… Really needed them not to.

Chatting with Wil had been nice-ish while it lasted, but honestly, ditching him probably made Techno significantly safer. The thought that he could’ve come in while Heartfelt was there had always stressed him out, especially with how flippantly the teen acted about it, but now it was enough to make him shudder. Seeing Heartfelt at the end of those fights was more than enough for him; he did not need to be present for one of them.

Techno didn’t regret chasing him off. Honestly, he should’ve expected this: no matter their personal beliefs, heroes all worked to enforce the same unjust laws and uphold the same unjust system. And when a little voice told him that, had the circumstances been different, that could’ve been him, well.

He wasn’t above a bit of self-loathing.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

The rest of the shift went by quietly. Heartfelt didn’t visit, which was good news, Techno told himself firmly. It meant that the kid wasn’t too hurt, but also that Techno wouldn’t be risking getting discovered tonight. The store’s security was nonexistent, and the area, deserted at this hour, but that wasn’t nearly enough to dispel Techno’s anxiety.

Phil didn’t show up either, which Techno felt a bit more comfortable regretting. Phil was just a regular guy, after all, albeit one who gave food away like the witch from Hansel and Gretel if she was based, and bought too many sweets for like… orphans, or something (and to Techno).

Yeah, Techno needed more regular old people who weren’t hiding anything beside a secret passion for cooking in his life.

Which is why, after handing over the shop to a zombie-like coworker in the early hours of the morning, when he noticed Corvian’s silhouette on a nearby roof, Techno tucked his head down and pretended not to have noticed the vigilante.

At least he wouldn’t be getting mugged tonight.

As he got to his apartment, he hesitated briefly, almost turning around. He wasn’t just fucking with Heartfelt – though that was always a plus – when he told him Corvian was his favorite vigilante. Corvian was- well, he was just cool, wasn’t he? Heroes were a no-go, villains were usually too intimidating, setting off Techno’s damn prey instincts he so wished he could get rid of, and most vigilantes were honestly a bit cringe. Corvian was none of those things, and Techno was turning around, a “thanks” on his lips, when reason caught up to him.

He closed the door and traversed the apartment in four hops, only releasing his breath when his bedroom door was safely closed behind him. He fell face down on his bed and sighed, pressing his fingers into the covers to dispel the energy crackling through them. He slowed his breathing until it matched the sound of his roommate’s snoring.

What was he doing? This was all way too dangerous.

He was going to get caught, and he could only blame himself.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Over the course of the next week, Techno continued to ignore Cassandra’s whispers. Heartfelt visited him more frequently than he ever had, every injury worse than the last.

“He never stops. Sometimes, it’s almost like he’s the one being hunted down,” Heartfelt said, one hand gesturing half-heartedly. It fell back on his lap, and he slumped some more. Techno didn’t need level 5 lifeforce powers to tell he was exhausted. Guilt churned in his stomach. Clearly, Wil was mad about Techno cutting him off, and taking it out on Heartfelt… He knew it was the right call, but that didn’t make him feel any less guilty.

“Have you considered laying low for a while?” he offered, softer than he usually talked with Heartfelt. For the sake of both our blood pressure, he mentally completed.

“I’m half scared if I do that, he’ll just keep going until he finds my lair,” Heartfelt said.

“At least run away from him.” Techno would very much appreciate one night without having to pick glass shards out of flesh.

“I told you, he never stops, it’s like the terminator! And he has those big fuckoff hawk wings…”

Techno grunted in commiseration. “My instincts got a lot louder after my powers manifested,” he admitted. “Some customers give me the creeps…” Heartfelt puffed up menacingly, tail doubling in size.

“If anyone tries to fuck with you, point them to me and I’ll take care of it!”

Techno chuckled. “That’s nice, Heart.” The kid’s indignation turned to him, and Techno fought to hide a smile.

“I will! I’m a supervillain!”

“I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need some evil deeds done.”

“Well…” the kid slumped down again, tiredness catching up to him. “I know you won’t be getting in trouble with anything, not with how much of a nerd you are.”

“Bruh.”

“So if you have, uh, morally grey deeds that need doing, you can call me too. As a token of my gratitude.”

“How kind of you.”

“For the last time I am not nice, I am EVIL!”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Nine days after Techno cut off ties with Wil, he arrived at work to find the convenience store closed.

He was wondering if he could get away with going home without investigating, when a text made his phone vibrate.

Boss 👎🏻

Get in from the back

K
Read at 6:54

A feeling of unease was creeping along Techno’s spine as he walked around the block to the store’s back-alley access, but he’d been living with anxiety for years at this point, and strolled over the feeling with practiced ease. Someone must have thrown up in the shop again, and the owner could not afford another health code violation. Balancing Steve in one arm, he pulled the metal door open to squeeze through.

Immediately, the sight of a police officer made his instincts prickle at him with the need to turn tail and bolt, but that was a thing guilty people did.

Instead, he gave a fake smile and let the door close behind him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, rubbing a hand on his jacket though it failed to dispel the static that adrenaline was sending through them. The faint sound of a conversation reached them from further into the store.

The officer didn’t say anything, only looking him up and down. Techno’s ear twitched where it was pushed back against his head, and he had to resist the urge to grab it and force it still. The silence was grating on his nerves, the policewoman’s eyes crawled against his skin like a physical touch, and a wave of energy rose through his veins.

It was a well-practiced reflex to reach for Frank, but this happened to be what finally dragged the cop from her silent contemplation.

“Put your stuff there,” she said, gesturing to the floor next to the door.

Techno grimaced. He knew exactly how often those floors were cleaned. But he was also terrified, and with only a slight hesitation did he place down his bag, heavy with overpriced textbooks, and Frank, on the ground.

“This way.” A real talked, this police officer.

Techno’s boss’s office was proportional to the rest of the store, which was to say, a broom closet minus the brooms. Which, conveniently, meant that Techno didn’t have to join his boss and the hero inside. Instead, he was able to just stand there awkwardly, holding the door open.

If he needed any more evidence that something was very, very wrong, his boss actually looking glad to see him sure would’ve done it.

“This is Terrence,” dude, c’mon, “he was the employee on shift that night.”

The hero turned to appraise him, and his cowl did nothing to hide the mocking smile he sent his way, complete with two sharp canines. Great. A lynx hybrid.

“Sir?” Techno asked. His leg was starting to cramp with how hard he was trying to keep it from stomping nervously.

“There was an incident in a nearby street last night,” the hero informed him lazily. “We’re going to have a few questions.”

“Sure thing.”

“Did you hear anything unusual last night?”

“Uhh...” Techno pretended to think about it. “Couple dumpster lids closing, but that’s not exactly unusual.”

“And did you see anything?”

Fuck. Did they spot Corvian? Then again, his presence in the neighborhood wasn’t exactly unusual. They would rarely go two days without a sighting, and that had never seemed to get the vigilante in trouble.

Still, Techno wouldn’t rat him out if he could avoid it.

“The shop doesn’t have windows, sir.” When the answer came out with more sass than he intended, Techno hurried to add: “And I didn’t see anyone on my way back home.”

“Hmm.” The hero was all in his face. When did he get so close? Techno fought not to step back, but that meant having to crane his neck back to meet the other’s eyes. “You see, a dangerous individual was spotted in the area, recently…”

“Oh, no! Was anyone hurt?” Techno asked, playing up the worry, in the hope that it would camouflage a bit of his fear.

“I think I should be the one asking you that…”

The hero gestured lazily to the police officer, who turned around to pick up the small trashcan that fit behind the counter. Techno already knew what he was going to see in there, but that didn’t make the sight of the bloodied tissues any less nauseating. And Techno hadn’t been scared of blood in a long time.

His heart was beating entirely too fast, now, and the thin strands of the bobcat hybrid’s ears twitched like they could hear it. Maybe if he had a heart attack, he could get out of this interrogation?

“Nosebleed.” The curt answer made the other raise his eyebrows. But it was too little blood, and too old, for a DNA test. As long as Techno kept his story straight, they had nothing on him.

As long as they didn’t check his–

“That much?”

“Bunny hybrid. We have sensitive noses.” It twitched as if in response. Techno’s boss was halfway out of his closet, looking like the conversation had stopped making sense some time ago.

“I do, too…” The next thing he brought up was Techno’s first-aid kit. “Seems a bit overkill for a nosebleed.”

“I’m a nursing student, sir,” Techno attempted to fall back into casualty, and failed miserably. “Besides, this isn’t the safest neighborhood.”

“What,” the officer scoffed, “are you saying we’re bad at our job?”

“Of course not!” Techno’s boss intervened. “The work you do is essential, and we appreciate it all the more! Did you have any more questions, sir?”

Well, would you look at that. He was making himself useful. Truly a day for the records.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” the hero shrugged. His malicious grin spoke otherwise. “We’re just gonna check the tapes, and we’ll be on our way.”

When Techno spoke next, he could hardly hear himself over the blood rushing in his ears. “The camera is broken. Sir.”

“Oh, Terrence.” He never wanted to hear that kind of pity in his boss’s voice. “We installed a new one last week.”

Chapter Text

The hero on guard gave Techno a sideways glance, and he realized somewhat belatedly that the little hysterical giggle he just let out wasn’t helping his case. But then again, at this point, what would?

And, okay, it wasn’t exactly funny, but it was kind of ironic. That he spent six years of his life terrified of his secret coming out, and now he was in trouble for something completely unrelated.

And they hadn’t even thought to check.

His file was still lying upside-down, pages smushed, where the lynx hybrid hero had thrown it earlier after a cursory glance and a quick laugh with his college at Techno’s “level one biological energy powers.”

In different circumstances, Techno would’ve taken offense. People always made a face when he explained his power, and the pity was only marginally better than the laughs. In his current situation, though, he was more bothered that they hadn’t underestimated him enough to skip the handcuffs.

Despite knowing that his powers had nothing to do with electricity, as much as the pins and needles feeling resembled it, Techno was almost scared he would electrocute himself on the table that the metal cuffs were linking him to. The nervous energy buzzed against his skin, and he had nothing to relieve the pressure. Ironically, keeping it contained had left him exhausted.

That and the prolonged stress that all this anticipation was causing him. There was no clock in the interrogation room, only bare concrete and merciless lighting, but he had to have been here for hours, now. They were doing this on purpose.

He should be using this time to prepare, get his story straight, and formulate a plan, but he couldn’t get himself to. That crushing dread of being found out, hanging over his head every moment since he manifested, whispered this was always going to happen. This was the moment he’d been picturing all these years, and the fear had built up so high in his mind that he didn’t even want to try anymore.

Deciding on a strategy meant he could still influence what happened to him, which meant he could fail, and the pressure left him paralyzed, like the watchful gaze of the hero earlier. Still, as a bunny, Techno had experience overcoming the freeze response, enough to make himself speak.

“Don’t I get a phone call?” he asked, as politely as he could make himself. He couldn’t quite keep his nose from scrunching up in disdain when the hero chuckled, though.

“That’s in police custody,” his guard, a wolf hybrid in an honestly embarrassing orange and purple suit, scoffed at him.

“Right.” He turned away from her to hide his scowl, though his face was quick to fall back into discouragement. Did it even matter? Who would he have called if given the chance?

His roommates didn’t care, and even if they did, they only knew how to make a situation worse. His psychology teacher was nice, but not “bail you out of jail” nice. Even if calling Heartfelt hadn’t already been the worst possible idea, he didn’t have his number. Crawling back to ask his parents for help would be humiliating, and even if they got over their resentment, their “give the sheriff some brandy and compliment the deputy’s new car” approach to law enforcement would not be of any help here in L’Manberg. It’d be funny, though.

Alas, not funny enough to distract Techno from the fact that he was entangled in an already bad situation that had the potential to turn life-ruining in about six different ways, and he didn’t have a single person to turn to for help. Fewer than ten people were going to notice he was gone and none would care. What was even the point of all this running and hiding and fearing?

The point is to not get sent to a power-containment camp, he reminded himself firmly. Focus. The phone call doesn’t matter.

Still, he was about 90 % sure this was illegal. Heroes had to right to arrest people, but they needed to go through the normal police procedure first, so that the arrest could be registered properly. Supervillain of level 4 or more were the only exception, one that no one would argue could be applied to Techno, even in bad faith.

Even though the lack of accountability did not bode well for him, in the short term it meant that he had dodged the procedural power-level reading. So if he cooperated, he still had, technically, a chance to get out of this situation with his name clear.

His conscience, however…

He was just starting to figure out his game plan when, as if in a practical joke from the procrastination fairy, the door to the interrogation room banged open.

Keyed up as he was, Techno jumped, the handcuffs rattling and biting into his wrists. The snicker that followed informed him without the need to turn around that the lynx hybrid hero was back.

“Aww, is somebody nervous?” he jeered.

“Somebunny,” the she-wolf mumbled. She shrugged at the unimpressed look her colleague sent her, and left when he waved her out.

To Techno’s dismay, the hero didn’t sit in the chair left vacant, but paced a slow circle around the room.

“So, aiding and abetting a villain, huh? That’s a big crime for a little guy like you.”

Grabbing the line he was inadvertently throwing at him, Techno immediately countered: “He threatened me! What do you expect me to do against a class 2 villain?”

“Class 3, actually.”

“… Shit, for real?”

“The law expects you to report the incident to the police in a timely manner. We have the tapes, we know he came back to see you multiple times.”

Techno hated to do this, even though Heartfelt literally told him to, but he hated the look in the predator’s eyes even more. “He said he would kill me if the heroes found out,” he lied.

“So, you’re saying you don’t trust the hero corp to protect you?”

“Respectfully, sir, I live in district 4.”

For a second, Techno thought he was about to get hit, but the hero only snickered.

“That’s fair, though you didn’t hear that from me, but no chance for that to hold up in court. But court is such a tedious affair…” Techno’s eyes had been following the hero as he made his way around the room, closer and closer, but now he stepped behind him. Techno curled closer to the table, hands tugging reflexively against the cuffs. He didn’t jump when the hero’s voice came right next to his ear, but it was a near thing.

“What do you say we resolve this between us, huh? Less of a hassle for me, and nicer for you.”

Techno hated this, and he hated that this was exactly what he wanted even more. “What do you have in mind?”

“When is Heartfelt supposed to come see you next?”

Ah.

Over the next hour, Techno attempted to navigate the interrogation with just the right balance of “I don’t know”s (honest or not), truths that wouldn’t put Heartfelt in danger, and lies, to satisfy the hero. He seemed to know Techno wasn’t telling him everything, though, because he started repeating questions, making them convoluted or ambiguous, reformulating Techno’s answers to something subtly different. Luckily, Techno’s years of practice in the subtle art of internet arguments came in clutch. Still, when the hero finally called the wolf hybrid back into the room, a headache was pounding at his temples. Prime, he hoped Heartfelt was truly as slippery as he bragged.

“Got anything good?” she asked, unshackling Techno from the table. A hand grabbed his shoulder, tightening when he twitched away.

“We’ll see, won’t we? Lock him up.”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

We did not, apparently, ended up seeing anything.

“You said he came to see you often!”

Techno barely had the energy to jump when the hero banged his fist on the table. The cell they’d put him in had the comfort of a parking lot and about as much privacy and calm as his apartment if his roommates had been outright hostile and not just carelessly antagonistic. Between that and the pressure from his power, which had gotten so bad he was nauseous with it, he could only stare blankly at the lynx hybrid looming over him.

“He did, you saw the tapes,” Techno reminded him. “But it’s not like he tells me his schedule, he’s smarter than that.”

It was probably a good thing that his body reacted on instinct at the sight of a predator, making him look sufficiently cowed, because Techno-the-human-person was too relieved to hear that Heartfelt was safe to be too scared. He was running on power-saving mode, one emotion at a time, please and thank you.

“Then how come he didn’t come a single night in the last four days?!” he thundered. Honestly, he was ruining that smoothly cold, intimidating air he projected last time with this tantrum. Not so calm, collected and in control anymore, huh?

“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” he said. It could be because Heartfelt simply didn’t get hurt, meaning he had no need to request Techno’s services, but most likely, his super-hearing informed him of the trap long in advance. He always looked so careless, barging into Techno’s store like he owned the place, who would’ve thought?

“Not sorry enough,” he growled. “Are you so used to living in a hutch that you forgot how much trouble you’re in?”

Techno pinched his lips, but said nothing. The chances of the hero following on his word and letting him go had always been thin, but he had had enough time to grow numb to his situation by now. It was always going to end up like this, no one could run forever. Not alone against the whole world.

His lack of reaction did not appease the hero, far from it. “If you’re not helpful to me, our deal is off.”

“I thought our deal was for me to tell you everything I knew,” he protested, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. His instincts would not let him take his eyes off the predator for even a second.

“Did I say that?” After waiting a few seconds to rub it in, he turned around and opened the interrogation room’s door. Techno released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. At this point, he’d almost prefer if they surrendered him to the police, get this over with. They were not going to catch Heartfelt, he had answered every question possible, and this was getting tedious.

And yet, the hero was coming back into the room with the wolf hybrid, who hopped on the table. The gang’s all here, woo.

“That little rat is embarrassing the whole hero corp, sliding between everyone’s fingers. He destroyed thousands of dollars of infrastructure and hundreds of records. But I’m gonna be the one to catch him, and if I don’t, I’ll make sure they charge you as an accomplice.”

It doesn’t matter what I get charged as. What I am is worse than anything I can do.  “What am I supposed to do? I already told you everything I know.”

“That would be bad news for you, but don’t worry,” he said, “I can help jog your memory.”

Pain erupted sharp and bright against his temple before he could even try to decipher the words. He flinched back a good few seconds too late.

“Where is Heartfelt based?” the hero pressed, short and authoritarian.

Techno turned his head as far away from his captor as he could without breaking eye contact, as if that would do anything if he decided to punch him again. The point of contact pulsated on his face, red-hot, and he jerked backward, tugging uselessly against the handcuffs, when the hero grabbed his face.

“I’m done playing around. Where?”

“I– I don’t…”

Somehow, the next hit hurt more now that he was expecting it. He half-bent, half-fell forward until his forehead pressed against the cool metal of the table, next to where the other hero was sitting on the table, hunched over her phone. His breath was coming in short, quick pants, almost as fast as his heart. But he could barely hear them over his–

“Stop! He– why would he even tell me that? Agh–”

The hero tugged him up by his hair, his headache coming back with a vengeance at the strain put on his scalp. His ears were pinned so far back they had almost disappeared under his hair.

“You like the little rat, it’s obvious. You’re protecting him, you’re not telling me everything. Spit it out.”

Over the course of the next few minutes, Techno did not spit anything, other than a bit of blood.

“Aw, does that hurt?” the hero mocked. “I wouldn’t know.” He showed the back of his hand, and Techno had cleaned and bandaged Heartfelt’s bloody knuckles enough time to know that they should be bruised, maybe split, by that point. He stared blankly at the unmarred skin.

“Unbreakable skin,” he boasted. “I haven’t felt pain since I manifested. That’s why they call me The Stone.”

… bruh.

In Techno’s defense, he didn’t make any comment. But he probably thought his opinion of that name a bit too hard, because the hero looked very unamused. Techno curled away.

It didn’t help.

Minutes crawled by. Techno wracked his brain for something unimportant he could mention, something plausible he could lie about, but he couldn’t think. He needed to say something, anything.

“You can’t hand me over to the police like that, they’ll ask questions,” he panted.

The hero smirked. Techno couldn’t say he was a fan of that expression, but at least he seemed to have lost some of his initial anger. Though annoyance flashed on his face when he went to talk and was interrupted.

“That’s why I’m here,” the Lycan hero announced, with an enthusiasm that was too flat to be anything other than sarcastic. Her face glowed white, illuminated by the phone screen she still wasn’t looking away from. Her fangs gleamed.

“Actually, Clepya, now might be a good time for a first round,” he suggested.

She reached towards him and Techno jerked away, for what felt like the hundredth time. Just like all the others, it didn’t achieve anything.

A clawed hand touched his jaw, rougher than his skin would’ve liked, but she wasn’t hitting him. In fact…

Techno slowly straightened back up as the pain in his face receded. The sensation of the swelling going down almost made him gag, but it was over in a few seconds, and he could no longer feel any of his injuries.

Gone without a trace.

He looked up, with a quiet sort of horror, to the fanged grin of a monster.

“Let’s take it from the top,” he purred, “shall we?”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Buzzing.

Techno had a lot of reasons to be shaking, right now. Pain, exhaustion, hunger, weakness, fear. The ground had rattled faintly, a few minutes ago. Techno hadn’t had the strength to wonder why, he just took the time his torturer talked about it to breathe.

But he was well aware that none of them were the primary reason.

Buzzing.

“Are your teeth chattering?” The Stone asked, barking a short laugh. “Aw, I’m sorry, should we turn up the thermostat?”

“He’s a bunny, not a hare,” Clepya noted. “They don’t have as much fur.”

“You’d think a good blood circulation would help.”

Prime, his throat hurt. “I’m going into shock,” Techno lied.

“Nah,” the healer denied. He hated them so much. So much and just enough.

The lynx hybrid was saying something. Techno couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in his ears; not that it mattered much. He had accepted that nothing he could say would get this to stop. No one had called to ask about his whereabouts, as his captors cheerfully related. There was no one looking out for him, no one to hold them accountable.

A hand grabbed him by the shoulder, near the neck. Pulled his head up towards the light that he could only see through one eye. The point of contact made his skin crawl; he needed a bit more.

Buzzing.

Techno reached up. The Stone was sitting on the table, next to where his hands were bound. He grabbed the other’s wrist.

“Thank Prime I’m invulnerable,” the hero laughed, “otherwise those little claws would be tearing me apart!”

It’d been too long.

It was too much.

The hero was still holding him up. Good.

So Techno could look him in the eyes, when the dam broke.

His vision almost whited out; the hand on his neck and the wrist under his claws were all we could feel. All at once, the energy left Techno’s body. It wasn’t electricity, it wasn’t heat or radiation. The ear-buzzing, teeth-chattering, skin-crawling force that rushed out of him was pure biological energy. And it only had one place to go.

The Stone flew across the room, thrown away by the force of his own muscles seizing. At least he wouldn’t be bruising his invulnerable skin on the concrete floor of the interrogation room. Not that it mattered much.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Slowly, as if carefully, Techno straightened back up. He almost felt empty, almost felt numb now that the overflow of power had left him. Even his aching face and ribs paled in the face of this overwhelming relief.

Prime, that felt good. Somewhat distantly, he wondered how many carrots he could’ve grown with all of that.

A low thud brought his attention back to the room, and its other remaining living occupant. Clepya’s phone was lying screen-down on the table where it slipped from her hands. Mouth agape, eyes almost bulging out, she stared at the body of her coworker. Which was fair. Even in death, it was still twitching. Or maybe it was the rumbling vibrations going through the building again.

She turned to him. For the first time, she looked at him like he was a person.

“You forgot to check my power level,” he informed her.

But he didn’t get to hear what she had to say about that, because at that moment, the cell door burst open.

“You?” Techno exclaimed.

Chapter Text

The day before

Ranboo had always been a bit paranoid. A jumpy cat, as their ma teasingly put it.

Which was good, because when their anxiety suddenly narrowed down onto one specific, significantly more concrete fear, no one really noticed the difference.

It wasn’t to say it didn’t have its downsides. For example, it could make them look guilty or suspicious.

“Honey, are you okay?” mom asked through the door.

“F-fine!”

“I heard you scream.”

“Well…”

“I told you, no horror games after 8!”

“No, no, it’s just… a bug.”

“A bug?” mom asked.

“A bug?” the guy hanging from their windowsill asked.

Ranboo took a deep breath. “A bug flew through the window and startled me. Sorry if I bothered you.” They bit their lip and waited for her to ponder this.

“… okay.”

The sound of her steps down the hallway informed Ranboo they could now deal with the masked kid halfway squeezed through their window. Joy.

“Code bee,” the kid whispered.

“Code– what? Like the letter, or…”

“Like the bug, you walnut!” Ranboo fell back against their chair, the cocktail of surprise, fear and confusion buzzing around their brain crystallizing into something else. Calmer, sadder.

“You’re Tubbo’s…”

“I was Tubbo’s friend,” the guy nodded gravely. He pushed the window open the rest of the way, little claws clicking against the glass, and landed fluidly in Ranboo’s bedroom. Ranboo, in contrast, almost fell over when they pushed their chair away to give him space.

“Did you…” They licked their lips. Lowered their voice. “Did you do it?” The guy’s nod nearly made them cry with relief. Which would’ve been bad.

“I destroyed all the evidence. Unless you get arrested and they test you, no one will know what your power class is, or that it needs to be tested again.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s really good.”

“Why, though?”

“Why did it need to be tested again?” The boy nodded, leaning towards them. The dark markings around his eyes made the staring all the more intense. Ranboo didn’t like talking about this, but this guy had risked his life to help them, simply because they were Tubbo’s friend. “Well, I’m a chimera–”

“You ate your twin in the womb!” the guy recoiled.

“Shh! Not ate, more like… absorbed…”

“Dude, that’s messed up.”

“No it’s not! Anyway, my moms are quite different, and…”

They rolled back their pajama’s sleeve, exposing a dark, almost iridescent patch marring their otherwise ghastly-white skin.

“Ooooh, so your other half, uh, starborn?”

“Enderian.”

“Your Enderian half has a different power level?”

“Yeah. It messed with the test, and… Well, now it’s fine. Thank Prime.”

“Prime had nothing to do with it!” the kid protested, tail bristling.

“Right, thank you, uh…”

“Hea–” He pinched his lips. “Tommy.”

“Thank you, Tommy. So much.”

“Whatever.” Then, under his breath, as if to himself, he muttered, “Shut up.”

… Well, had Ranboo really been expecting Tubbo’s mysterious contact, the guy willing to commit several federal crimes on their behalf, to be normal? Or any friend of Tubbo, really? (Ranboo knew they were weird; they had made their peace with this fact a long time ago.)

Though “weird” was maybe not all there was to it. While decently put together, Tommy’s suit was torn off, stitched up and stained with blood in various places. His raccoon mask didn’t quite hide the dark circles under his eyes, or his gaunt cheeks.

“If you ever need help with anything…” they ventured.

“Well, actually…”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

The day before (again)

Tommy was pretty sure Corvian actually looked happy to see him for a second there. Before he saw his face.

“What’s wrong?” the vigilante asked, twitching towards him before catching himself. Tommy almost wished he didn’t.

“Corvian, I fucked up,” Tommy whined. “I– I need help.”

It was hard to admit. Getting here had been hard; not physically, there were no corners of this city secure enough to ward off his little raccoon hands, and certainly not this old clocktower, but he had to talk himself out of chickening out the entire way.

Tommy had been a coward many times. He admitted it, he could live with it. This one, on the other hand? Wasn’t about him.

“Okay,” Corvian said, “talk to me. What’s going on?” In other circumstances, Tommy would’ve bristled at the tone he was using: soft, careful, like he was trying not to spook a small animal. Instead, he was pathetically grateful for it.

“There’s this guy who was patching me up,” he explained, playing with the tip of his tail. “Tonight, not only he wasn’t there, but also the place was crawling with heroes and police officers.”

Corvian frowned, only mildly worried, and Tommy wanted to shake him until his feathers fell out. “You think it was a trap for you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he hissed. “He got arrested because of me, and I went to listen in on the police station, and he wasn’t there! I think the heroes–”

“Whoa, okay mate, let’s not jump to conclusion. We don’t know if they linked this guy with you, maybe they just saw you in the area and–”

“No, I do know!” Tommy swung the canvas bag over his shoulder and opened it. “He never goes anywhere without his stupid–”

“Is that Frank?!”

A beat of silence in the clocktower. Just two masked guys in the dark, one of them holding a potted plant they both knew by name.

“Uh, yep. Are you friends with any other carrots?”

“You’re talking about Technoblade?”

“You know him?”

“Heartfelt. Are you?” And there was the worry Tommy wanted to see. He was so relieved to be taken seriously, he couldn’t even muster fear when the shadows on the walls wavered and warped.

“Yeah, but I don’t know why they would’ve arrested him! He doesn’t know anything important!”

Corvian shook his head. He seemed two seconds away from starting to pace. “They must have asked him to help trap you, and he refused. Or they thought he was hiding something.”

“This is Techno we’re talking about! He looks like a light breeze would knock him over!”

“You know how the heroes are… Okay, so let’s go to his apartment first, then if he isn’t there, we’ll make a plan.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “You know where his apartment is? Are you two friends or is this a stalking-kind situation?”

“He always comes back home super late in the most dangerous part of town! I’m just watching out for him!” The banter was good. Tommy felt like he could breathe easier now that he had help, that everything wasn’t lying on his shoulders only.

“I don’t know, man, looks kinda sus to meeeEE!”

One second, Tommy was at the clocktower’s balcony, ready to vault over the banister, and the next he was rolling to the ground with something clinging to him. Well, joke’s on this fucker, ‘cause Tommy clung right back, and he’s got claws.

For a few seconds of hectic melee, the world had no ups or down, only hands grappling at him and leather and skin under his teeth.

“You, again?”

Then the pressure vanished, and Tommy fell back in a heap on the cold stone floor. He rushed to get back up, pulling out his disks and curling protectively to protect his stomach, only to fall still at the sight awaiting him.

An annoyed-looking Corvian was holding Tommy’s attacker like an unruly cat, feet kicking a few centimeters off the ground. Granted, he needed to stand on the stairs to achieve this, but considering he had likely just saved Tommy’s life again, he wasn’t going to mention it.

Especially when he recognized the attacker.

Many seconds too late, Tommy jumped back, hiding behind the clock’s mechanism, the sight of the Alchemist burned into his retina. Then he realized that Corvian might need help, and poked his head back out.

The two didn’t notice him, still stuck in what one might call a scuffle, if one were in the mood to exaggerate slightly. Corvian had his arms wrapped around the Alchemist, keeping his arms pinned flat against his sides. It also meant he had his wings pinned, which seemed to be a bit more of an issue. Tommy couldn’t see him well from where he was, but he sounded like someone with a facefull of flailing feathered forelimb.

“Lemme go!” Alchemist protested, feet kicking, but failing to find a purchase.

“Jeez, would you just stay still?”

A shadow bird popped its head next to Tommy, as if checking in on him. Now that he had calmed down some, the quick shot of adrenaline fading and his breath returning to normal, he could hear the soft clink of glass, and see the other members of the flock extricating the glass feathers (and a piece of taffy, for some reason) out of his wings, one by one, and putting them in a little pile on a cornice overhead.

Corvian readjusted his grip, and the Alchemist just kind of… flopped down, in his arms, as if worn-out. And looking at him, Tommy didn’t have any problem believing that: he looked terrible.

“This isn’t the time for that,” Corvian sighed.

“I’m supposed to be catching him!” the Alchemist nearly whined. The appearance of safety breathed some bravery back into Tommy, and he stepped in front of him.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone!” he yelled, crossing his arms to keep from hugging himself.

“It’s my job!” He had the gall to sound outraged.

“You’re hunting me down like an animal! But joke’s on you, you’re the one who’s coming off as a rabid dog that can’t let go!”

“You think I take pleasure in this?” the Alchemist hissed.

“I don’t give a shit what you feel, if it doesn’t affect what you do.” Tommy hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten, but the Alchemist was just hanging limply in Corvian’s grip by now.

“They’ll send me to reeducation if I don’t get them what they want,” he said, his wavering voice betraying the exhaustion already apparent on his face. He grinded his teeth. “You have no idea how awful it is.”

“Yes I fucking do, bitch,” Tommy spit, but he was losing steam too. “Why’d you think we ran away? For all the honors that come with being an enemy of the state?”

“We?” Corvian questioned from somewhere behind all those feathers. Tommy took a deep breathe.

“My friend. He didn’t– He was murdered by heroes.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick, counted on the clocktower in the silence that followed. Time goes on. Leaving the past further and further away behind. No matter how much you turn around to look at it.

Tubbo didn’t say anything.

“Heartfelt, I’m so sorry,” Corvian whispered. And how bittersweet, to have someone acknowledge what a tragedy this was. Offering sympathies instead of brushing a child’s death away as a dangerous criminal who resisted arrest.

The Alchemist sighed. “Yeah, me too.” And for some fucked up reason, Tommy believed him.

“Why don’t you quit if you hate this so much?” Corvian wisely asked.

“Quit your job,” Tommy muttered. “Join our emo band.”

“Heh?”

“It’s a meme.”

“What’s a meme?” Corvian deadpanned. The other two elected to ignore him.

“You know why.”

“I do know, I’ve lived both lives,” Tommy reminded. “I know what I’m talking about. At what point does it become the better option?”

The hero’s mouth opened and closed. His lips pinched.

“He’s right, mate, you’re killing yourself,” Corvian scolded. “This is now an intervention.”

“Don’t intervent the hero trying to murder me!”

“I wouldn’t murder you!” the Alchemist said like that made any amount of sense. “I’ve gone to great lengths to not murder you!” Corvian silently lowered the hero back into the ground.

“Tell that to those burn scars!”

“Okay, but I only used that one once.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Corvian stressed, “we gotta figure out what happened to Techno!” The Alchemist’s head snapped to the side as he tensed.

“Techno? Convenience store tired bookworm carrot guy Techno?”

“Do you know any other person with a name like Technoblade?” Tommy joked half-heartedly. “How–”

“What happened to him?” And the worry in his voice was so similar to Corvian’s, earlier, it sent Tommy reeling.

“Well, I, uh, may have gone to see him a couple times… In costume…”

“And now heroes are swarming the convenience store and he’s nowhere to be found,” Corivan completed. Sensing that something was shifting, he slowly released the Alchemist, taking care to stay between him and Tommy, and watching him carefully. The shadows at their feet rippled with little beaks.

“But why?” the Alchemist asked, sincerely confused. “He’s harmless!”

“Yeah, but, uh, they might think he collaborated with me…” Heartfelt said, the bitter taste of guilt back in his mouth.

“Just that?” he said, in disbelieve. Then, before either of the others could answer, “Oh, fuck this. Fuck all of this.”

“Alchemist?” Corvian asked, carefully, but with a hint of excitation.

“It’s Wilbur.”

Tommy’s eyes widened. He was even too surprised to call him out on his lame name. Which was a feat, because boy did he have things to say about it.

“Are you saying you’re leaving the hero agency?” Corvian asked, feathers ruffling. Tommy should’ve been the happiest about this, if it meant his personal nightmare was out of a job, but the wariness sticking to him was no match for Corvian bird-dad instincts.

“Not yet,” fucking Wilbur said, letting himself fall more than he sat on the brick steps. “I’ll check where Techno is, shouldn’t be too hard considering I’m on Heartfelt’s case, and I’ll do some recon.” He looked directly at Tommy, who fought not to fidget. It was easier than it’d been; the Alchemist looked more wet cat than bird of prey, now. “And I’ll stop attacking you. Promise.”

“I’m so proud of you!” Corvian crooned.

“Oh, leave it, old crow,” he brushed off, but he was looking away, almost like he was embarrassed. Was this guy trying to steal Tommy’s mentor figure?!

Well. If he did, then Corvian could just tell him not to chase Tommy. So it was probably worth it.

But still! The nerves!

“Alright, alright. Meet you back here? Heartfelt?” Corvian tilted his head at him.

He sighed. “This is crazy.”

“Should be right up your alley, then.” And he had no business sounding this fond. Tommy would allow it, though. Graciously.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m in.”

“You’d work with me?” Wilbur asked, shocked.

“I don’t like this,” he sent him a meaningful glare, “but it’s our best bet to help Tech, and it’s my fault he’s in trouble.”

“No, it’s not,” Wilbur said firmly. For once, he seemed to be looking directly at Tommy, thought his visor made that hard to assess. “It’s the heroes’ fault.”

“I mean, I could get behind that,” Tommy muttered. “Anyways, since we’re doing this, y’all can call me Tommy. I know you already know my name,” (Wilbur nodded. He’d been a hero in training, it was in his file), “and it’s not like I have a secret identity or anything, so I guess you can know it, too. I trust you and stuff.”

“Aww, mate.” And now guess who Corvian was looking at, all soft and shit? One of the little crows fluttered to his shoulder, and he petted its head with a finger.

“Alright, then,” Wilbur said, “I’ll be back with intel.”

“Be careful, Wilbur,” Corvian warned. “If you get caught…”

“I’m not going to re-ed,” he stated, lifting his chin. “This was always going to happen if I stayed, if it wasn’t Tommy, it’d be something else. Well, joke’s on them, I have other plans…”

Tommy thought about pointing out how much life as an outlaw sucked (they’ll send crazy people after you!) but his subtle and profound understanding of not self-sabotaging made him decide to keep that for later. Also, Wilbur looked weirdly solemn. If Tommy respected something, it was people having a moment.

“If Techno is really at the hero complex,” he asked instead, “can you get him out?”

“Not on my own,” Wilbur admitted. “And, not to underestimate either of you–”

“Which would be unwise, considering we’ve both kicked your ass,” Corvian noted sweetly (Tommy had so much to learn from this man).

“… but I’m not sure the three of us will be enough.”

“Alright, then. Why don’t we call up a few people?”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Back to one day before chapter 8. Don’t worry, it’s straightforward from now on

“You want me to do what?”

“You wouldn’t even have to go inside,” Tommy promised. “You just get there, help us get in, and fuck off. Everyone will be running to us, you can just slip away.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that,” Ranboo said, worrying their lip between their teeth. “If I come with you, I’m helping the whole way.”

Now that didn’t make any sense, but Tommy wasn’t dumb enough to point it out. “C’mon, we’ll get you a suit and everything!”

“If my moms find out I’m helping a vigilante I’ll be so terribly grounded. They’ll be very proud, but that won’t save me.” Despite their whining, Tommy’s spectacular persuasion skills had clearly worked.

“I’m a villain, actually,” he corrected. Ranboo turned to look at him in shock and confusion. Alright, maybe Tommy still had to level up his persuasion skills a little. Nobody’s perfect.

“You’re a villain?” the teen asked, disbelieving. Tommy found himself becoming defensive.

“Yeah, I’m dodging the hero draft, why? Never seen a villain as pog as me?”

“You’re telling me the heroes are the people who killed our friend, and you’re recruiting me to help rescue your other friend, who’s been unlawfully arrested. But like, evilly.”

Tommy looked away. “Yeah.” He hoped Ranboo wouldn’t notice the shake in his voice.

So what if being labeled a villain by society at large was getting to him? Being sneered at, hunted down, simply because he’d refused to be abused a second longer. Being feared.

When he was freshly out, grief still sticky on his hands, he’d thought that this part would at least be easy. He knew the sentence he’d get when– if, he was caught. So why should he care about doing other illegal acts? Not like it’d matter, right?

But, even if he’d never admitted it, Tommy didn’t want to be a supervillain. He didn’t want to steal, or attack heroes, or destroy buildings. Sure, he’d done all of those things, but that was different, that was to save Tubbo’s other best friend. Tommy didn’t want to be a criminal, he wanted…

He wanted his parents. His old room, with his old nest-bed and his fish tank. He wanted his old best friend, Freddie, and his new best friend, Tubbo. Tubbo’s stupid twinkiller friend could even come, if they wanted.

Fuck! He was just a kid!

Tommy took a deep breath. He knew better than to ask why this was happening to him, to lament that it wasn’t fair. Even if it wasn’t.

“I made a mistake,” he said, surprising himself with how level his voice came out, “and I’m fixing it. If that makes me a villain, then so be it.”

“Maybe legally,” Ranboo mused. “Maybe even by society’s standards. But that doesn’t mean you’re not doing good.” Their face darkened. “The heroes have never had anything heroic but the name, anyway.”

“Jeez, a five-minute pep talk and you’re ready to commit arson,” Tommy joked. He noticed he’d gotten closer to Ranboo, a hand almost on their arm, and forced himself to back off. No, hindbrain, we are not hugging them. Get lost.

“Unfortunately, I am deeply susceptible to peer pressure,” Ranboo fake-sighed.

Tommy smiled, tail flickering behind him. “Oh, you’ll get along with my friend great.”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Midas smirked. It would’ve been infuriating if it wasn’t so endearing.

“I thought heroes didn’t do favors?” he purred, leaning forward, head tilted.

Wilbur forced his spine to straighten. He didn’t need to make himself appear smaller, to go unnoticed. No, for once, he wanted to exert confidence. (Towering over Midas was but a welcome side effect.)

“Correct.”

“But–”

“Did I stutter?”

Apparently, Midas’ smile could still get wider.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“I heard you were planning a heist.”

Phil managed not to startle, but it was a near thing. His flock usually warned him if someone was getting close, but sometimes they felt like being little shits. Especially since they happened to like Phil’s interlocutor.

He turned around, taking in the silhouette crouched on a railing overhead.

“You have good ears,” he answered. She jumped down to his level, tilting her head to the side.

“Well, they’ve taken one of ours, haven’t they?” The young vigilante patrolled the same neighborhood as him; the sight of her pure white wings was as familiar here as his dark ones.

She also didn’t have any business berating him for going to sleep too late, the hypocrite.

“We just got the confirmation,” he nodded. The White Lady’s smile was like her: as charming as it was dangerous.

“I want in.”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Back to the present. See, that wasn’t so bad

But Techno didn’t get to hear what the wolf hero had to say, because at that moment, the cell door burst open.

“You?” Techno exclaimed in mild distaste.

“Ayyy, Techno, mi amigo!” Midas cheered, throwing finger guns his way.

“Am I concussed?” Techno turned back to the hero watching them dumbly. “Is this what a concussion feels like?”

Instead of answering him, Clepya chose this moment to finally come to her senses and vaulted over the table, claws out. Midas sidestepped her by a few centimeters, wings flaring for balance, and a second later, the hero was collapsing to the floor of the cell, next to her colleague (only, alive and with clothes suddenly a lot heavier).

“You know, the suit almost looks better like this,” Techno noted. Solid gold was definitely gaudy, but it still beat that horrible orange/purple combo by a mile.

“Almost?” Midas took offense. Techno jumped at how close he suddenly was. When did he move? Shit, maybe he did have a concussion.

“Shit, dude.” The vigilante’s smile wavered. “What did they do to you?”

Techno very much did not want to talk about it. He attempted to brush away some of the dried blood on his face with his shoulder. “Never mind that, what are you doing here?”

Midas transmuted his handcuffs, then easily snapped them off, brushing gold dust on his hoodie. “Is it so hard to believe we came to get you out?”

What?

“Uh, yes? And, ‘we’?”

“TECHNO!”

And it was Heartfelt’s turn to leap over the table, with enough momentum that he almost ended up in Techno’s lap. He had to grab the kid’s arms with his recently freed hands and got grabbed right back. Over his shoulder, Midas gestured – completely unnecessarily – to him.

“That’s ‘we’. Well, some of we.” Though he could barely be heard over how fast Heartfelt was talking.

“Prime, I’m so sorry, I should’ve been more careful, but I really didn’t think they’d arrest you! Oh, but you kept telling me to–”

“Heart, slow down, you’re hyperventilating,” Techno requested. “Also, I might be a smidge concussed.”

That did not seem to be the thing to say, since Heartfelt immediately looked about three times as guilty.

“Were they torturing you?” he whispered. Somehow, hearing the words out loud, in a horrified whisper, made the reality of it even worse. Techno firmly brushed the thought away. He could isolate, ignore, ibuprofen his way out of this one.

“Don’t worry about me, okay?” He firmed his hold on Heartfelt’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “I’m just thinking about those finals I won’t have to take.”

“Whatever they were doing, it didn’t end well,” Midas noted. “What the hell happened to this guy?” He poked the body of The Stone with his foot.

Techno shrugged. “Heart attack.”

“That was NOT,” right, Clepya was still conscious, “a fucking heart attack!”

“Well, that’s the part that killed him.” Somewhere deep in, Techno knew he should’ve been freaking out about this. He was being found out! He killed a hero! But, Prime, this felt so good!

Years of looking over his shoulder, worrying about everything, until fear was a second nature. And now, for better or for worse, the cat was out of the bag. He didn’t need to hide anymore. He didn’t care!

He fucking smiled as the other two exchanged confused looks.

Techno was, luckily, saved from having to explain further by a very tall person poking their head in the room.

“Uhh, guys? The others said to hurry the fuck up. Please.”

They were wearing body armor a few sizes too small and a repurposed cloth face mask, which they seemed about as comfortable in as Techno had been in his handcuffs.

“How many of you are there?” Techno muttered.

“Never reveal your effectives,” Midas said, pulling Techno to his feet with surprising strength for his size. Not that Techno was one to talk.

“Right. To confuse your enemy, you must first confuse the guy you’re rescuing.”

“Two incoming,” Heartfelt warned, ears standing up straight, tail twitching behind him. By the time he made it to Techno’s improvised clinic, he was usually weary and sore, but it was no surprise to Techno that he was otherwise a little ball of energy. “Let’s go!”

The halls of the bureau’s detention center were in disarray: scorched marks, debris, various holes in the walls and, occasionally, the floor. One of the likely causes made itself known when the two guards turned the corner behind them. The other vigilante, who introduced themselves as Chimera, pointed a pale finger at them, producing a small spark. It sauntered idly up the hall, twinkling gently.

“Is that a firefly?”

It then zeroed in on the guards like the world’s cutest heat-seeking missile and exploded. They were thrown back against the walls, hard enough to leave a dent and a cloud of dust. A ceiling tile fell on one of them. It was on fire.

“… No.”

“Right.”

“Bit redundant for a ghast, innit?” Heartfelt said.

“Well, ghast hybrids can’t spit fire, even full-blooded ones, so no.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a bit lame that– CAREFUL!”

Being unnecessarily loud was one of Heartfelt’s favorite activities, but this one happened to be justified. The scream produced a shockwave that flew up the corridor behind them, knocking a guard off her feet and sending her gun clattering away. They all ran to the next bend in the hallway. Midas was giggling.

“Dude, be more careful,” Heartfelt berated. He was holding Chimera’s arm with both his hands, claws bunched into the fabric (adorable), but his voice seemed to have returned to a level of decibels compatible with human hearing. Techno’s ears cautiously unstuck from his hair. “You too, Tech.”

“Bruh, I barely even know what’s going on.”

Midas was now holding an axe, which certainly emphasized how much he gestured as he spoke. “You got arrested unlawfully – seriously, this thing violated eight articles across three sections of the code, and that’s before I knew they were beating you up – so a charming young lawyer asked the courts to make them let you out, and the bureau refused, so here we are.”

‘Here’, in this case, was a staircase wrapped around a tall room, leading to two more floors. And one floor up, standing where the railing used to be, was someone that Techno recognized instantly, despite never having seen him up close. He gasped.

“Corvian is there too?” Without waiting for an answer, Techno ran and leaped, easily clearing the distance to the upper level. “Uhm…” Only, in his haste (or maybe it was the concussion; truly a versatile excuse), he forgot an important factor: his chronic inability to talk to people. “Hi?”

“Techno!” Corvian gasped. Techno was too stunned by the familiarity to react when the vigilante took his face in his hands, inspecting his black eye. One of them, anyway. “What happened, mate?”

“Uhh, do you…” When Techno said he’d like to not be the weirdest one in a social interaction, he meant he wanted to be more normal, not for his interlocutor to be less normal.

“Corvian,” called a new voice.

A woman in an elegant white, light blue and pink suit walked up to them, tapping the edge of the masquerade mask covering her face.

“Right!” the vigilante yelped, bringing a hand to his own face. “Hello, uh, citizen?”

“Oh, Prime,” Techno muttered. “Phil, you’re Corvian?”

If he’d needed any confirmation, the way his wings abruptly fluffed up to double their size would’ve been more than enough. The other vigilante politely pretended to not have heard him. After a moment of flailing, he dragged a hand over his face.

“Should I be insulted that this is what gave it away?” Phil, as in Techno’s probably-friend Phil, because apparently he was Corvian, because Prime fucking forbid Techno had a normal life, asked.

Honestly, it was less the awkwardness and more a mix of his voice and the very limited sample of people who might be worried about Techno’s wellbeing. However. “Yes.”

“Aw.”

“I like this guy,” Midas said as he landed on the walkway next to them, wings scattering gold dust in the air like an oversized beanie-wearing fairy. Chimera was almost done floating their way up, while Heartfelt grumpily stomped up the stairs. “Where’s our last accomplice?”

“How many of you are there?”

“Dude, do some quick math,” Chimera quipped.

“It was rhetorical.”

“Dealing with an old acquaintance,” Phil answered. “We should–”

“PISS OFF!”

They all winced at Tommy’s sonic attack, but probably not as much as the heroes he sent flying back from the door they came from. He then hit the one right after them with his disk.

“Remind me when we abandoned the plan where we sneaked in and out quickly?” Chimera sighed.

The new vigilante took off, great white wings carrying her to the center of the stairwell. There, like rips in the air, rods materialized around her, shining a searing golden. When other heroes opened fire, they started revolving faster, blocking the attack. Then, it was her turn.

Two of the rods descended on them in a burst of flames, charring the walls as they went. When she turned towards them, her eyes were embers behind her mask.

“Change of plan,” she called. “I’ll take Midas and Chimera and fly out of here. If there aren’t already enough broken windows, I’m about to make some.”

“But what about you?” Chimera worried, sparks dancing around them.

“Heart and I can’t fly,” Techno reminded. Said villain was scaling the last remaining wall, and he reached down to grab him by the scruff and haul him up to them. He protested the maneuver significantly less than Techno would’ve expected.

Corvian nodded. “You guys try to bait the heroes outside, we’ll go get Revenant and leave together. Okay?”

“All good!” Midas confirmed, leaping off the walkway. Chimera awkwardly patted Tommy’s shoulder before following them.

More people were coming, and the sound of explosions accompanied Techno as he let himself be pulled into the hallway. “This is too much,” he panted, “this is… Chaos. Why did you do all that?”

“To get you out,” Heartfelt said, like it was that simple.

“We were going to do this the stealthy way, but that would’ve made it too obvious we were there for you. This way, we free a bunch more people, steal a few shinies and muddy the water. The heroes will be too busy putting everything in order to figure it out.”

Techno only noticed he’d stopped running when the other two slowed down and turned around. “But why?” The words scrapped and scratched his throat until it came out as more of a plea. “You’re all risking your lives and for what? I’m-”

“Our friend,” Phil completed easily.

“I feel bad for getting you in trouble,” Heartfelt admitted, “but I’d be here even if I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’d like to think I’d be here even if you never helped me at all.”

“The city is being unjust, getting people hurt. None of us will get out of it on our own.”

He looked so earnest. They both did. This was everything Techno had wanted to hear, what he’d yearned for so badly, even when he couldn’t get himself to chase it. Then why did it make him feel so sad?

“It’s okay if you don’t believe us yet.” Heartfelt rubbed the side of his head on Techno’s shoulder (packmate, he said without words). “We should keep moving, though.”

“Yeah, let’s get you to somewhere safe, mate.”

In that moment, Techno thought he would’ve followed them anywhere.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

14h54   minus 18 minutes

Wilbur hadn’t been a violent person, before they made him one. That made two reasons he enjoyed watching this place burn.

He was down to three feather-potions (in his wings, that was): some watered down withering and two blindness. For the umpteenth (maybe last) time, he regretted not being allowed to carry healing. Not that it’d change much, but the burns were annoying.

The power registration bureau had hurt too many people, done too much harm. It couldn’t be saved, or changed; the flames were the only way forward. In that sense, it made sense that the purifying fire would hurt him too.

There was no time to wax poetic, though. Wilbur had teammates now, he couldn’t make them wait. Somehow, that felt like a much nicer constraint than having to follow his schedule.

Wilbur stepped over the body of his unconscious ex-ally and pushed the doors open.

He stepped into the main hall of the hero complex. In the thick cloud of smoke and potions, only the fire reflecting on his visor was visible at first. Then came the hiss of his gas mask. Few people got to see more.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

Why did it have to be this fucker?

As his trainer stepped in the center of the room, Wilbur stayed quiet. Despite what has been said about him, he could learn. As such, he knew nothing he could say – could be – would satisfy this man. But man, did giving up feel good.

“Stand down,” Dream seethed. Between his torn-up suit, singed hair and the red mark where Corvian hit in the face earlier, he looked half-crazed. “What, you think you can just go rogue, like that? Alchemist–”

“It’s Revenant.”

“What,” he mocked, “Bleeding Heart wasn’t good enough for you? You needed a new name?”

“Is it?”

“What?”

“New?”

Wilbur tilted his head. The light slid across his glasses, piercing through the fog.

“This is dumb,” Dream grunted.

14h57   Minus 15 minutes

He surged forward, but Wilbur’s wings were already moving, twirling the smoke as they beat down and propelled him upwards. A cluster of mushrooms grew right where he was standing a second ago.

He didn’t bother trying to fight, they’d sparred enough times to make the outcome obvious. Dream whipped around, sword raised in anticipation for a potion throw, but Wilbur was flying in place, simply looking down at him. Then, Dream took a step back, and something crunched under his foot.

Wilbur had to keep himself from giggling when the man hurriedly stepped away as he felt the potion splashing his legs, only to end up much farther than he expected. Straight into a wall, in fact. Then he remembered he didn’t need to hide anything anymore and laughed. Dream groaned as he pushed himself away from the wall and toppled over.

See, the tricky thing with speed boost potion was that only people with enhanced reflexes could take a full dose. For anyone else, they needed to be considerably watered down, barring which they’d become a safety hazard to themselves and everyone in a 50-meter radius. So, while Dream’s teammate would be having a great time, Dream himself was trying to grow enough bouncy mushrooms to move without instantly bashing his face into a wall, but they were a bit too bouncy.

“This is gonna make you look sooo bad to the higher-ups,” Wilbur tutted. “Really, Dream, where’s your professionalism?”

“You fu– AAH!” Crack!

And with one thing crossed off his bucket list, he flew away.

Minus 7 minutes

“Revenant, there you are!” Wilbur’s wing twitched as a shadow-bird settled under his secondaries. It tickled, but it was also way too cute to protest. His smile softened into relief as the others appeared behind Corvian. Seemed their part of the mission had been a success.

“Heh– Wil?” Techno recoiled as he saw him, and Wilbur braced himself for more anger, but after sending a quick look Tommy’s way, he simply smiled. “I should’ve known.”

Having had his suspicions as to why the other heroes refused so adamantly to let him anywhere near Techno didn’t make it any easier to witness the state he was in. A red stain ran across his face, where he must’ve brushed away some dried blood, right under a painful-looking black eye that forced his left eye halfway close. His rumpled clothes, sporting a few suspicious stains, and the dark bags under his eyes made guilt bloom in Wilbur’s chest at the thought of how long it’d taken them to rescue him. Wilbur carefully held his shoulder, and the shaky rabbit hybrid gratefully leaned into him.

“Oh, so he knew your name this whole time?” Tommy crossed his arms. “But when I, your nemesis–”

 “I thought you were too young for a nemesis,” Wilbur interrupted him. This was surreal.

“Well yeah, you’re not my nemesis, but I’m yours.”

“… This feels insulting, somehow.”

Corvian took both of them by the shoulder and pushed them deeper into the corridor, prompting them all to start jogging towards the exit. “Neither of you are anyone’s nemesis.” Tommy shook his head in played-up dismay.

“Dad says we’re not allowed to have a nemesis…”

“Dad?” he asked incredulously.

“I had a nemesis once…” Techno recalled. He sighed. “Now if I could go back, my potatoes would grow so much faster, he’d never stand a chance.”

“Why does Techno get to have a nemesis?” Wilbur protested. Okay, this was a bit fun. Tommy looked up at him in surprise, not expecting him to join in, and he only felt mildly self-conscious.

“Bruh.”

“… He’s more responsible,” Corvian settled on.

“Techno?”

“No he’s fucking not?”

“Bruh, part two.”

“Just roll with it, mate,” Corvian fake-whispered. “This is the first time I’ve seen them agree on something.” Wilbur would’ve felt bad, had it not been for the lightheartedness of his tone. Like it wasn’t even a question that they were going to get along, and it being a joke was a given.

“Yeah, are you two…” Techno gestured vaguely. He had more dried blood down his arm, but his skin seemed intact. A question for later; he could walk, and for now that was all that mattered.

“We’re trucies,” Heartfelt explained. “Like in Deltarune. Also, my name’s Tommy.”

“Aww, that suits a little guy like you.” Techno reached up to ruffle Tommy’s hair, brushing his ears forward. Tommy grumbled, but leaned into the touch.

“Yeah, I unofficially quit my job, so…” Despite no one acting outright (or inright) hostile anymore, Wilbur still felt the need to explain himself.

“Hey, same.” Techno smiled caustically.

“By the way, your carrot’s at my place,” Corvian said.

“I… Good. Uh, it can be any plant, it doesn’t have to be that one, but I’ll admit I’m still, you know, attached, so…”

“What do you mean, it can be any plant?”

“I’m glad to know Frank is okay.”

“Yeah, I’m almost sure Techno killed a guy, but we don’t have time for that,” Tommy said.

And it seemed he was right, as voices and footsteps came from their left.

“C’mon, we’re almost there,” Wilbur spurred them on. Almost.

Minus 2 minutes

The exit was in sight, and then it wasn’t.

Corvian’s feathers ruffled as the thick, fireproof doors slid close in front of them. Tommy spun around, only to sputter and hiss as the other end of the airlock closed, boxing them in.

“What the fuck?!” He ran his hand along the wall, listening in to the building’s vibrations over the sound of sirens. Wilbur knew what he would find.

“There are doors like that at every exit,” he explained. He felt strangely calm. This was going to be easier than he thought.

“You could’ve told us!” Corvian complained. He pushed Techno behind him and almost smothered the bunny hybrid in feathers. Only his ears peaked out.

“It’s okay, I know how to disable them,” Wilbur assured. He unsheathed a thin knife. “The control panel is behind the wall there, next to the hinges. I just have to damage it without obliterating it.”

Minus 1 minute 15 seconds.

“Wait!”

Wilbur had a full-body flinch when small, clawed fingers grabbed his arm. Tommy almost looked like he was going to back off, but, with that stubborn frown of his, stayed holding on.

“I feel a strong electrical current in there, you’ll get electrocuted if you touch it!”

Wilbur’s face twitched. “What, worried for me? I know what I’m doing, man.”

“Well, if it’s dangerous, maybe there’s another way?” Techno suggested. His eyebrows lifted at Wilbur’s answering scowl.

“Just let me do it! I– We’re so close!”

They argued. Wilbur barely knew what the others were saying, the buzzing in his head made it difficult to think. He was barely able to feel bad when Tommy recoiled from him when he finally snapped.

Minus 30 seconds

“WHY won’t you let me fucking do this?!”

“It’s dangerous–”

“Yes!” he roared. “That’s the point!”

He breathed heavily into the silence that followed. The sirens were still going off, lights flashing red. On the other side of the doors, heroes had to be gathering.

Minus 20 seconds

“Mate…”

“What do you think I have to live for?”

He looked at the three of them, daring them to contradict him.

“You just got your life back,” Techno spoke softly. “Wil, you have everything to live for.”

“You think I can just go back to having a normal life, after all of that? After everything they did to me? That I’vedone?”

10 seconds

Wilbur jerked back when Techno lifted a hand towards him. Corvian’s eyes were blank.

Anger coursed through his body, drawing into the last of his energy. He readjusted his hold on the knife, palm sweaty. So much for easy… Wilbur settled his feathers, took a deep breath. When he spoke next, his voice didn’t shake.

“I deserve it.”

Tommy opened his mouth, hesitated. Looked away.

5

Wilbur turned towards the hidden panel, launching himself forward. He was ready for one of those fools to try and grab him, but the strength with which Corvian tackled him still shocked him. He hit the wall hard.

2

“Your life doesn’t matter less than mine.”

1

So fast that even his own shadow wasn’t able to stop him, Corvian whipped around and stuck a dagger into the slit in the wall. The light, a blinding flash of white, reached them before the sound. Wilbur barely managed to hear the thud of Corvian’s body hitting the floor over the ringing in his ears.

0   

No one, heroes, guards, or police officers, was waiting for them on the other side. No little beaks in the shadows. Only the empty sidewalk, and the distant wailing of sirens. And yet, none of them moved.

0

Techno had been standing the closest to Corvian. When he fell to his knees next to him, Wilbur had the foolish thought that he was a nursing student. Maybe there was… Something? He could do?

15h??

Then he touched the part of his arms left bare by his suit, a deep amber light erupted from his palms, and suddenly it didn’t seem so foolish anymore. Wilbur had trouble seeing him, the shockwave had fractured his visor, but the look on his face when he turned around wasn’t grief.

“He– He’s not dead,” Techno said shakily. His accent was coming through, a hint of countryside drawl. “I’ll give him as much energy as I can, I’m also a class five, it’s a long story… but I can’t heal him, proper.”

“Do we have to bring him to the hospital?” Tommy asked. He sounded so small. How could Wilbur have ever hurt him? He was just a kid. “He’d– We’d never see him again.”

[Time unknown]

Wilbur’s breath hissed, like his throat was closing up. This was his fault. Again.

But maybe, just maybe, it was also a sign.

Wilbur had done so much wrong. It was about time he started fixing it. (That was as good a reason to live as any, right?)

Techno didn’t protest when Wilbur finally stepped forward – seconds and an eternity too late – simply moving to keep skin-to-skin contact as Wilbur hauled Corvian over his shoulder. When he turned to the other two, there was a glow filtering through the cracks in his visor.

“I know where to go.”

Chapter Text

Mr. Watson?

Corvian?

…

“Phil?”

Phil wasn’t sure if it was a canon mythological fact, or from a book series, but he remembered the concept of a love goddess having a different appearance to every mortal, taking the form they would find the most beautiful. He didn’t think that this was something the goddess of death would also do, but what did he know?

Well, maybe it made sense. Miss Rosales’ face was hazy, veiled in darkness, her voice faint and distant. But she sounded so worried as she called for him… How could he not follow her? Even if it felt like a monumental effort.

Phil’s eyes were open.

He wasn’t sure how long that’d been; it was dark in the… where he currently was. He blinked and barely noticed a difference.

Slowly, as if from far away, sensations started returning to his body. Some were pleasant, like the comfortable surface he was lying on, or the cool fingers intertwined with his. Unfortunately, consciousness also awakened a line of pain down his right arm, that had him hissing.

“Careful…”

Slowly, a face came into focus in the semi-darkness. Phil felt himself smile.

“ ‘ello.” The word came crackling through his throat. He was rewarded with a small smile, soft, dark ears perking forward as she leaned towards him.

“You’ll be okay,” she whispered like a secret.

And, like he’d only been waiting for those words, Phil closed his eyes and let the darkness take him back.

When he emerged again, it was to the sound of voices.

“… when he’s better.”

“But us being there would make him better faster!”

“When he’ll be awake, I’m sure. For now, rest is the most important thing.”

“But I don’t like being alone when I’m sick…”

“Me neither!”

“That’s sweet of you, but he’s not alone. I’m here.”

“You’re hogging him, is what you are. That’s bad!”

“You said!”

A soft laugh.

“C’mon, guys, I need someone to take care of our visitors.”

Sleep was a siren call for Phil’s exhausted mind, but he resisted. He wanted to see her again.

“Miss Rosales?” he croaked.

Oh, she was smiling at him. That was nice.

“You can call me Kristin, you know.”

… Kristin?

Wait a fucking second.

“Whoa!” she called out as he pushed himself up. “Take it easy!”

“Where– What…” he stuttered.

“Ah, you’re back with us,” she nodded. “Good.”

Phil was sat on a twin bed in a small bedroom. Gray light filtered through thick black curtains, at the very top of the walls. Two glasses of water adorned the bedside table, one of which acting as a small vase for a handful of dandelions and wild violets.

“The others brought you back here after you were injured,” Miss Rosales– Kristin related. “Everyone else is okay. Worried about you, but okay.”

Phil’s recollection of their mission was spotty at best, but he thought for sure… He brought a shaky right hand to his eyes, flexing his fingers to see the long burn mark that trailed down his arm ripple. It was almost completely healed.

“How long have I been here?”

“A few days.” Then, at his answering disbelief, she explained: “My powers have regenerative effects. With some help from that other boy, the one who keeps regrowing my heads of lettuce, we got you back firmly on this side of the light.”

He let himself be pushed back down at her soft, yet unyielding, insistence, quiet while his brain tried to catch on.

Maybe it wasn’t this surprising, or hard to believe. Miss… Kristin was definitely a surprise, but he knew his disbelief came from elsewhere.

Since he presented, Phil had isolated himself. His nightly heroics had always been a solo act; if he was downed, it was upon him to pick himself back up and put the pieces back together.

But he was sure the help would feel nice once it stopped being so foreign.

The darkness had a firm hold on the room, and it only took a moment for the shadow of Phil’s hand to swell and wiggle.

“Awww!” Kristin cooed, reaching out to pet the little bird. Phil knew his companions enough to discern the smug raise of its beak when it looked towards him. Little shit.

He was distracted when the rest of the flock emerged, pressing against him. “I’m fine,” he assured them, through telepathic shouts of relief and scoldings that accompanied their efforts to smother him. Incoming! a voice called out above the rest.

“Mister Phil!”

A pair of kids he knew very well rushed into the room, too fast for Kristin to intercept them. Chayanne quickly boosted Tallulah on the bed, who then turned and pulled him up. Phil was surprised to realize he felt like crying.

“Hey guys, hope I didn’t worry you too much,” he croaked, sitting up and opening his arms. Kristin politely averted her eyes when a tear slid down his cheek.

“You’re a hero!” Chayanne said, in awe. He bounced on his knees, head threatening to knock into Phil’s chin where the boy was pressed against him.

“An actual one,” Tallulah quickly amended. Her little wings stretched as far as they could around Phil’s own.

“You have to teach me how to fight!”

“No Chay, he has to rest!”

Their presence having brushed away the last of his doubts regarding their location, Phil turned to his savior again.

“How did I get here?” he asked, puzzled. “And why? How did you help me?” Kristin bit her lip, hesitant.

“How about we go see the others?” she offered. “Tommy undoubtedly heard us speaking, and while he’s been following my instructions of letting you rest for now, let’s not test his patience too much.

The kids were more than eager to help him stand, and not at all deterred by the fact that they about came up to his waist and were more a hindrance than a help. Quite honestly, so did the press of Kristen’s hand on his arm. Lucky for him, the dark dissimulated the blush on his face, and his shaky legs were easily explained away by his near-death experience.

Such considerations were quick to leave his mind, however, as they reached a larger room, which Phil recognized as the group home’s basement. Not before he recognized its occupants, though.

When, he wondered, had those three boys become so dear to him?

He had a few seconds to watch them, relieved by the lack of visible injuries, before they caught sign of him.

“Phil!” everyone cheered.

Phil’s smile grew a bit shaky. He’d blame it on his fragile state, but somewhere, he knew he was moved by their obvious worry for him. What had he done to deserve this?

“Hey, everyone!”

And it really was (almost) everyone. Most of the group home kids were scattered through the room, along with Phil’s friends. Tommy was sitting in front of an old TV, playing Mario Kart with Ràmon, Leonarda and Ranboo. When he rushed to Phil, Pomme made quick work of stealing his place and controller.

Techno, whose bruises had paled enough to be barely noticeable, was sat on a couch, reading a book over a sleeping Pepito curled up in his lap. With Empanada pressed against his side, holding her own book, he wouldn’t be standing up anytime soon.

Midas was also present, sitting cross-legged against the wall and preening Tìlin’s downy wings. He had to stretch his neck to grin at Phil over the bow on her head. He wasn’t wearing his mask. None of them were.

This realization drew Phil’s eyes to the last occupants of the room. Richas, Sunny and Dapper were sat around a low table, midway through a game of Catan. Their fourth player was sitting with his back to Phil, who had time to notice that, for the first time, he wasn’t wearing his visor before he turned around.

Oh, he thought, as the last piece of the puzzle slid into place. That’s what happened.

Wilbur’s eyes must have been brown, some time ago. Now, his dark irises were barely visible through the sharp, acid-green light that poured from them.

“Wil,” he breathed.

The man flashed him a bitter smile. “What’s wrong, Phil? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Tommy slapped him behind the head. “That’s not funny!”

“You’re not funny.”

“Bitch, I’m hilarious!”

Not funny, but accurate. Wilbur – worn out, stressed out, unstable Wilbur – was a Phantom. Phil might have brushed death, but he had plunged deep under… and came back.

Phil wished he could burn that place a second time.

Wilbur stood up awkwardly when Phil walked up to him, and he only stiffened more as Phil’s arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“You don’t,” Phil whispered, soft enough to not leave the shelter of their wings.

“What?”

“Deserve it.”

A pause. Wilbur twitched, then folded himself inside Phil’s arms, wings ruffling where they pressed against his. “Don’t do that again,” he muttered, letting go before Phil could return the sentiment.

A hand on his shoulder brought his gaze back to Kristin.

“Wilbur was in a… an accident, soon after he was enrolled. An old friend of mine contacted me.”

“Miss Rosales brought me back,” he said, with a tired kind of peace.

“When you were injured, it was his turn to seek my help.”

“Regenerative abilities, you said,” he recalled numbly. Talk about a euphemism.

She smiled like a sphinx. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

He was led to the couch, where he took place next to Techno. “Hey, Phil,” he drawled. Phil looked down to see he’d hooked an ankle over his. He smiled.

“Hey, Tech. Glad to see you’re okay!”

“Well, since some people had the idea of gatherin’ a commando and doing a coup for me, I felt like I had to.” He hesitated, smile faltering. “But yeah. Thanks for coming for me."

“Anytime. You know that."

“What about me?” Tommy pouted, wilting from the lack of attention. It was adorable.

“Hi Tommy! It’s good to see you.”

He couldn’t resist reaching forward and tousling his hair, which he found fluffy and soft. Freshly showered, with clean clothes free of nicks and dried blood, the boy looked even younger. His cheeks were still a bit gaunt, but he made up for it with a mischievous smile.

“It better be! We’ve got something for you… Here. Thank you, ’Lullah.”

Tallulah rushed to him with a plastic bad, which he took after patting her head and handed to Phil.

The kids, as it turned out, weren’t done surprising him. In appearance, the contents of the bag didn’t have anything unusual. But, as he grabbed the mars bar and peach ring gummies, he found himself blinking quizzically. Seeing the satisfied look on the kid’s (young and less young) faces, they knew why.

“Guys,” he said, touched. Somehow, even as he made those small gifts, his efforts to cheer people up and to connect, he never expected the gesture to be returned. He expected this even less, because…

“How in the world did you know those are my favorites?”

“Elementary, my dear,” Wilbur joked, pretending to smooth a nonexistent mustache. He leaned to the side to avoid getting smacked in the face by the force of Tommy gesturing.

“Techno had the receipt from that time you bought candy for everyone, for some fucking reason–”

“My roommates wouldn’t believe me otherwise,” said man shrugged, but he looked as smug as everyone else.

“From there, it was only a matter of elimination,” Wilbur explained.

“We got some valuable information from a nice lady who brought cupcakes and pastries for you,” Midas noted. “By the way, I’m Quackity.”

“Nice to meet you officially,” Phil said, “and thanks again for all your help.” The man’s feathers fluffed up in pride. “I’d introduce myself, but it seems everyone here is already familiar with my name. Which I have some questions about…”

“Curious as a crow,” Techno joked. He then blinked in confusion as Phil groaned. Wilbur was laughing, the little shit.

“How’d you even get the name ‘Corvian’ man?” he asked.

“Why?” Kristin didn’t understand either. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Guys,” Wilbur said, “Phil’s not a crow.”

“… the fuck?”

Techno put his hands over Pepito’s ears, glaring at Tommy, but he had to lean away when Phil extended his wings along the back of the small couch.

“There, see?”

Wilbur helpfully directed the lamp at him. Under its light, Phil’s wings shined a bright, metallic copper, and the feathers among his hair, a vibrant blue-green.

“I’m a grackle, not a crow,” he explained.

“Wait,” Quackity asked, “was that not obvious?”

“They both have black wings, how are we supposed to tell?!” Techno protested.

“It helped my cover, so I didn’t say anything,” Phil explained. “But, guys… It is kind of obvious.”

“Says the guy who thought I was a fucking bird!” Tommy immediately countered.

“He what now?” Ranboo deadpanned.

“It was dark! He was chirping!”

“To be fair, your mannerisms are kind of pigeon-like,” Techno nodded.

Tommy immediately proved him right by squawking loudly in offense. The argument quickly spread to the whole room, with Phil left to lean back and smile contently at the chaos.

“Adorable, aren’t they?” Kristin asked, leaning on the arm of the couch next to him. Gods, he couldn’t believe this is what it took for him to learn her first name.

“I would apologize for the racket, but I assume this isn’t anything unusual in your line of work.”

“They make sooooo much noise,” Empanada sighed, leaning back far enough for her beret to almost slide off her head. The adults chuckled at the dejected pout she directed at the ceiling.

“The boys have been nothing but charming,” Kristin assured.

“Still, thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You’ve done so much to help this neighborhood. It’s the least I could do.” Phil smiled at her. She smiled back. Her tail thumped against the side of the couch as it wagged a few times.

Leonarda was still  looking knowingly at them.

“Chay,” Phil whispered, leaning towards the little boy, “could you throw a pillow at Leonarda for me?”

“Hell yeah,” Chayanne whispered back, snatching a decorative pillow off the couch. Chat was cackling.

Phil relaxed against the cushions, fatigue catching up to him. It had been one distraction after the other since he woke up, but he couldn’t ignore his body’s call for rest much longer. Before, when he was injured, he had to call off work and then ride it out alone, at home, but now…

He yawned. When his eyes opened back up, Techno was standing right next to him, ears twitching, gaze intense.

“Want a boost?” He offered his hand.

… Now, everything was different.

And when he smiled, as Techno transferred him energy, it was because alongside the fatigue lightening, there was a bigger weight lifted from his heart.

He could get used to this.

Fin