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Theseus is just getting started on picking the lock when he hears a call from across the street.
“Hey!”
Fuck.
Theseus—Tommy—knows that voice. Tommy knows that voice way too well. Goldwing. He’s the city’s favorite superhero and captain of the League of Heroes. He’s also, currently, Tommy’s greatest enemy. As a famous hero himself (some would say unlicensed vigilante, but Tommy would humbly disagree), he refuses to let the fancy-schmancy official guys catch him in the act and ruin his progress. At least if he makes it unclear exactly what he was trying to do, he might be able to come back later.
Tommy takes a running start and launches himself off of the tall roof without a moment’s hesitation. He only free falls for half a second before propelling himself up into the air with simultaneous blasts of fiery energy straight from his palms.
He whoops, twisting in the night sky and bouncing back and forth. He quickly realizes that he’s causing a scene, though, and shoots down closer to the ground, starting to weave back and forth through the alleyways he knows all too well. Goldwing, self-righteous son of a bitch that he is, has got to be right on his tail, and Tommy does not have time to fuck around tonight.
This was supposed to be an easy operation, in actuality. The building he was targeting is the Grand Ram Central, the most profitable hotel in the city—built right over the most populous homeless shelter the city had, at least before. Understandably, Tommy doesn’t take kindly to people who pick on the little guy. Why not kill all their electricity and get out while they scramble to solve the problem and reimburse their guests? They could stand to lose a few bucks. Besides, it’s not like it’s a fucking hospital, Tommy thinks selfishly. Let me do my job!
The worst part? He’s sure they’re not here for him. There’s no way, Tommy reflects to himself glumly. He’s betting they only found him because they were on some other job.
Although it is late to be out on patrol. Tommy shot for nearly midnight on purpose, thought surely they’d be going home by now, those old bastards. Unfortunately he’s never as lucky as he wants to be, and they’re always more observant than he’s ready for. But he’s got one thing up on them: youngness and spryness. Debatably two things, he amends internally.
Tommy glances over his shoulder, swooping low around a couple parked cars and leaving them rocking in his wake. He can’t see anybody. Dodging a lamppost to cruise along the sidewalk, thankfully too late to run into many pedestrians, Tommy is feeling unstoppable—he’s getting away. He’s actually getting away, despite presumably catching Goldwing’s full attention. Every alley he glances into is empty when he passes by, and the only sound he can hear anymore is the flame borne from his own two hands. He grins to himself, pushing himself faster, rocketing onward to freedom.
Or so he thinks. “Oh, shit!”
A long and unwelcome obstacle appears from the nearest alley—is that a fucking hockey stick?!—right in his path. Tommy can’t pump the brakes fast enough. He slams into the hockey stick (which is definitely what it is) shoulder first. Tommy spirals off-course and eats absolute shit on the pavement.
Dizzy, he lays there for a very warm second, waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. His arms burn, skinned on the concrete, and even his knees hurt beneath the makeshift suit he’s made for himself. Rough landing. Tommy gathers his bearings enough to realize he’s been sabotaged and scrambles up to his stinging hands and knees in alarm, desperate not to get caught. He can’t let Goldwing take him in. He can’t.
When he looks up to greet his assailant, Tommy groans—actually, literally, out loud.
He throws his hands up, seething. “Really?!”
The Blade stares down at him, nonplussed, and throws the hockey stick back into the nearest alleyway without looking. Where the hell did that even come from?!
“That was reckless.”
Tommy shoots to his feet instantly, forgetting about the hockey stick. “Reckless?” he says. “Reckless?” Technoblade sighs like his eyes are already glazing over behind his half-mask.
“Eugh, great. Here we go.”
“I’ll tell you what’s reckless, you absolute villain—”
“Factually incorrect,” comes his interrupting drawl.
“—if you think I’m even a little bit forgiving you for this, you’re so wrong—”
“I could make peace with that.”
“—and any good superhero knows—”
“Like you’d have any authority on that.”
“—jeeeesus, Blade, let a man get a word in!” Tommy shakes his head, arms pausing where he’s been gesticulating in the air. “Like, god, you’re washed.”
Technoblade makes an offended sound. “I’m literally in the League of Heroes?”
“And it took you this long to catch—” Tommy checks his hypothetical watch— “a rogue teenager.” He’s gloating, but it’s only fair.
His roommate raises one eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. “Thought you were a superhero.”
“I am a superhero! Ohhh, you motherfucker, so help me—”
Technoblade shushes him just in time for them to hear the thunderous beating of wings. Tommy falls silent and throws himself into the nearest alley headfirst, rolling into a crouch (for stealth purposes). Technoblade shakes his head, emerging out into the street, the opposite direction, and Tommy watches with his chest frozen as he goes. When Techno lifts a hand to his ear, Tommy’s stomach drops.
He launches back to his feet, races forward to try and grab him but it’s too late, it’s over in seconds—“Goldwing,” Technoblade is saying into his comms, hissing into his comms, the fucking snake: “we got him.”
The whoosh of air that follows physically pushes Tommy back. In seconds flat, Goldwing is landing in front of them, light on his feet despite the way his impressively grand namesake curls around his frame. The League’s captain shakes his feathers out and turns his all-seeing eyes onto Tommy, the bottom of his face concealed. It’s then that Tommy notices the hand around his bicep, holding him in place—Technoblade. Coward.
Tommy is kicking himself. He can’t believe he fell for it. His eyes slide to Technoblade and away, back to the real threat—at least, that’s what he assumed. Looks like it made an ass out of him. Both of them are the real threat. All of them are the real threat. The heroes’ legislative grip is ruining this fucking city.
Tommy’s got half a mind to come out and just say that—because really, at this point, how much more trouble can he even get in—and he almost gets started on it, too, if it weren’t for Goldwing interrupting him. “You’ve been causing us quite a few problems lately,” he says, voice modulator chopping the message into digital pieces.
Tommy looks back and forth between the two of them more than once, incredulous. Where usually he would fight fire with fire, Technoblade’s role in this is disarming. All Tommy can muster is, “Okay?”
Goldwing seems to bristle at his attitude towards the situation. Fair enough, Tommy thinks, I’m not chuffed to see you either. “Come on, Theseus, the League’s getting tired of this sort of behavior. It’s time this stopped.”
Stopped? So does Tommy’s heart.
Until now, it’s been fun and games. It’s been dreamlike and routine. Tommy runs around the city causing chaotic good (self-proclaimed), the heroes don’t find out until he’s half done and the catalyst is in motion, and Tommy escapes into the night. Until now.
Goldwing’s gaze is as hot as Tommy’s palms. He feels seen completely through. “So what are you gonna do about it?” he dares, finding his fire, and Technoblade squeezes his arm. Spurred on, Tommy wrenches against him only to reward himself with Technoblade’s other hand at his other shoulder. He curses under his breath.
“Quit that, runt.”
”Don’t call me that—”
Tommy. For the first time all night, Technoblade uses his superpowers to project his voice into Tommy’s head, startling him. His grip is so tight, and the warning so hurried, that Tommy begins to wonder what exactly is running through his head. He casts a sidelong glance over his roommate, who is staring down at him intensely. Like he’s missing something. His mouth sets in a flat line. After sharing a flat with the guy for the better half of a year, Tommy can read it perfectly even without Technoblade projecting the rest into his mind: Shut the hell up.
Tommy squints at him, but he listens, clamming up if only out of frustration. Goldwing sighs, his eyes flicking to the Blade, and Tommy watches them have a silent conversation, envious. Why can’t Technoblade just explain whatever is happening in Tommy’s head, too? The Blade shakes his head, exasperated, and Tommy wonders what Goldwing thought to make it happen.
There’s never a day that goes by where Tommy is sure whether he wants to join the League to beg for reform or tear it down altogether from the outside. Maybe if he knew more of what was going on, he’d be able to make a judgement—but Technoblade is stubborn, refuses to tell him much. Tommy’s burning gaze meets the pavement.
Fuck this. “Oh my god, I don’t have all night. Can you guys hurry up and decide how to kill me or what?”
Goldwing’s eyes flash. “I wouldn’t be rude if I were you, when you’re already in trouble. You know that’s not on the table.”
“Do I?” Tommy challenges, and Technoblade pinches the bridge of his nose in his peripheral vision. Well, shouldn’t have been a dick, then.
“Alright,” Goldwing snaps, “he’s made his decision. Blade, let’s move.” His wings snap open behind him like a paper fan, loud and rustling. Tommy takes a step back, on the verge of another comment, but it’s a moot point; with a heavy rush of wind at their ankles, Goldwing is launching himself back into the air faster than a speeding train.
He disappears into an angry point, becoming another star in the night sky. Immediately, Tommy tries to bolt again, and squawks when Technoblade doesn’t let him go, tripping him up. “Fuck, man, what gives?! I’m just—”
“Congrats,” Technoblade grumbles, effectively cutting him off to deliver the worst news of Tommy’s life. “You just got yourself arrested.”
—
The ride to the tower is silent. Tommy quieted down once Technoblade told him they weren’t going to real jail, but god—staring up at the League of Heroes Headquarters, Tommy gets the sense this isn’t much better.
They—Technoblade—blindfold him before he’s allowed inside and Tommy has never been more humiliated in his life. He’s prodded up stairs and led into elevators, complete with power inhibitor cuffs; he can feel how cool his palms are. “Watch it,” he mouths off to Technoblade at a particularly sharp turn that clips his shoulder, to which he’s met with a scathing voice in his head:
You should’ve watched it an hour ago.
Touché. Tommy keeps moving.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s dumped unceremoniously into a cell with nothing but a cement wall to sit on and a shitty excuse for a half-bathroom in the back corner. League of fucking “Heroes” my ass. Technoblade takes off his blindfold, his eyes shuttered. Tommy can’t read him.
“Man,” he says as his roommate starts to retreat to the cell’s door. “Blade, you’re not—c’mon, man—you’re not really gonna leave me in here.” But Technoblade still isn’t saying anything—or thinking it. His eyes trail to one of the corners and Tommy follows the gaze: cameras. Shit, it makes so much sense that Tommy’s thanking his lucky stars he hasn’t said anything to incriminate them yet.
So that’s it. There’s nothing he can do. It’s really over. He hams up the gimmick, even though his soul is actively being flushed down the toilet: “C’monnnnn, the Blade, you wouldn’t jail an innocent man! I have a life! A family!”
His words feel strained. The humor isn’t there. Technoblade pulls the door shut loud enough to get his attention and thinks, Get it together, and Tommy hears it clear as day, his stomach churning.
“Getting it,” he mutters, crossing his arms, waiting for the click that solidifies his doom.
Then he watches Technoblade fiddle around with the key, make direct eye contact, and proceed to walk away without locking his cell.
Theseus grins, getting to his feet as the Blade’s steps disappear down the hall. Ten minutes, he hears inside his head, Technoblade’s voice firm. Then you go. No sooner, no later.
Tommy thinks, We’re so fucking back.
Technoblade sends back, I’m goin’ to strangle you when you get home.