Work Text:
The janitor whistled some Nautilyn folk song as they made their way slowly, slowly down the steel-floored hallway. Tommy was going to explode. He was squished into the ceiling vent, wings protesting painfully at the position, and was squinting down through the oxygen vent at the infuriatingly slow scene below. He’d made it all the way into the JLX Empire, the largest and most heavily guarded trade hub in the Essempii System, and he was being bested by a cleaner. Not that he didn’t appreciate the laborers of the galaxy, no way! But it was very inconvenient.
He tapped the side of his visor and a red circle appeared in the corner of his vision, like a half-eaten pie. He’d spent nearly all of his credits on enough invisibility potions to integrate into his ship’s cooling system and hide the whole thing in plane sight, and then downed the rest to fly the rest of the space between the border of the Empire’s security system and the official entrance.
It was insanely expensive, but it was what he had to do. The Badlands had needed someone to carry out this mission—it was an insane one, probably also suicidal too, which is why they’d asked him to do it. Tommy was the runt of the group. Nobody, especially not a renowned weapon-dealing black market, wanted a canary Elytrian with dumb bird instincts cursing their entire crew, but he was a damn good weapons designer. He had to succeed today to prove it. He had to.
Finally, finally, the whistling faded to background noise. The janitor was gone.
Tommy protracted his talons—they were small, and dumb, but they were really good for unscrewing bolts. He dropped down from the ceiling easily, his talons allowing him to use the seams between metal panels to hold onto the walls. He also had hollow bones, which was pretty neat. (Not great for injuries, though. He’d gotten a lot of those.)
A tiny thud echoed down the hall when he landed. Most trade hubs were set up in similar ways—the closer to the middle you got, the higher security and the more valuable the contents. Tommy was aiming for a specific workshop just west of the engine room; at least, that’s where it had been shown on his maps. The hub might have been remodeled since Tommy acquired the blueprints, but nonetheless the general location would remain the same. Tommy would just have to be more careful about the rooms he tried to enter.
Surprisingly, his prowl through the hub wasn’t nearly as difficult as he’d thought. That was the problem with well-guarded places like the Empire—they were so confident about their ability to keep unwanteds from entering in the first place that the security inside was lax. Tommy saw this as he practically strolled down the hallways: with enough confidence, he could become anybody. No one even gave him a second glance, even when he was in lifts or trolleys or down hallways. He didn’t look intimidating, even with his wings—he didn’t look worth remembering. He was invisible without needing a potion.
Soon, the room numbers approached the number that had been designated to the workshop. Fewer and fewer people roamed these hallways, as there wasn’t much back here that needed constant attendance. When, finally, he arrived at his destination, the hallway was empty.
The airlock was ordinary and unassuming, with a print lock to the right of the doors. Tommy approached the keypad, his near-silent footsteps still uncomfortably loud in the echoing hallway. It looked just like every other print lock, which wasn’t the reassuring sign it should have been. In a trade hub as secure as this one, something that looked simple was anything but. There had to be a trick.
Tommy sheathed his blaster and pulled out his pride and joy. The Mellohi Breaker Four fit perfectly in his hands and buzzed with an eternal comforting warmth. He’d spent years iterating and creating the perfect universal entry: a device that could get him into any room in any system. This was the only reason the Badlands kept him around—if it failed tonight, he’d be a dried-out corpse floating in deep space by morning.
He cast the thought out of his mind. Tommy trusted the MB4. He trusted himself.
It powered on with a special sequence of buttons after reading Tommy’s DNA, and the tiny pixelated face beamed up at him. Scan lock, it instructed, and Tommy passed the infrared sensor over the surface of the print pad.
Thinking…
Thinking…
Lock identified!
“Yes,” Tommy whispered. His wings drooped slightly. This was the part he’d been most anxious about. The MB4 buzzed quietly for a little bit longer before the screen lit up in dim green.
Place breaker on lock, screen facing down.
He did as instructed, and the lock hummed before the airtight seam of the door hissed, releasing a puff of cold air. Tommy pumped his fist, nearly giddy with relief as the doors slid open. It worked! He would live another day!
The airlock was open—the room was dark. Tommy tucked his wings in, before carefully stepping in past the threshold.
BEEEEEEP. Immediately, the whole room—a lab—was flooded with flashing red lights, and Tommy swore, fumbling to pull out his blaster. Shit, shit, shit. It had been going perfectly! He’d tripped into the room in surprise. The airlock was still open behind him but he had to hide in the room somewhere, quickly—he stumbled towards one of the cabinets, hurriedly shoving the MB4 into his pocket—
Something cold and hard pressed against the back of Tommy’s neck, and he froze, wings tensing.
“Drop the blaster,” said an unfamiliar voice. The beeping was pushing into Tommy’s ears and pulsing through his heart.
Tommy exhaled shakily. “Or else?”
The pressure left the back of his neck and the person emerged from behind him, holding their own blaster steadily with both hands. They pushed it into Tommy’s forehead.
“Or else,” they said, in an accent Tommy would probably be able to place to one of his many pit stops if he wasn’t currently one wrong move away from death, “I shoot you between your eyes and keep your teeth as a souvenir.”
Tommy swallowed. “Noted.” He tossed the blaster to the side and it landed on the gleaming floor with a clatter. Tommy took a second to look his captor up and down—they had a beanie pulled over dark hair and a face that looked kind but almost definitely wasn’t. Surprisingly unscarred. They wore an official-looking mechanic’s uniform with two solid white stripes over their left collarbone. Shit. The JLX Empire had different rankings than most military outposts, but stripes usually meant Power and Authority and other words that black market dealers didn’t like very much and therefore that Tommy didn’t like very much.
“What’s a scrawny kid like you sneaking around here?” The person muttered, glancing over at the blaster Tommy had thrown aside. “And with an R8 blaster?” They whistled, just as the airlock doors shut. Shit. “Those are pretty illegal, mate. Where’d you get one of those?”
“Grocery store,” Tommy mumbled.
The blaster pressed harder and Tommy’s back hit the cabinet, wings splayed out behind him. “Watch it,” the person hissed. “Was the teeth thing not threatening enough? I could shoot you in the wings instead.”
Screwing his eyes shut, Tommy said quickly, “Nope, all good here.”
“Are you sure? Cause—”
The airlock was forced open with a horrid scraping noise and Tommy heard footsteps rush into the room. With a loud thunk the beeping stopped and the flashing red vanished from behind Tommy’s eyelids and was replaced with pale, buzzing fluorescents. “Put the gun down, Aimsey.”
Tommy’s eyes flew open. Aw, shit.
Pushing through the doorway was a terrifying large group of people. The entire fucking crew, it seemed. Was this some kind of show? Oh god. Tommy was going to be skinned for entertainment.
At the front of the group stood a short, heavily armed man—the captain, Tommy guessed. He was Elytrian, as indicated by the massive dark wings currently splayed in front of all of the crew, hiding their faces from Tommy’s view. All of the crew, except for another individual—a piglin.
Holy shit. The Badlands hadn’t told him anything about a piglin, much less one like this—every inch of him armored, weapons along his sleeves and waist, teeth practically spilling out his mouth.
They gleamed when he said, in a voice so deep Tommy’s wings shuddered, “Aimsey. He said drop the gun.”
Aimsey scowled but lowered their weapon. “I was gonna.”
Tommy gaped at them. They talked back to a piglin! Who in their right mind would even think about doing such a thing? His eyes flicked frantically between the two of them but the piglin didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes were on the Captain. Waiting for his move.
Tommy was bewildered. He had far too many questions for someone who was going to die any second, but he couldn’t help himself. This was the most renowned trade hub in the galaxy! From behind the Captain’s wings he could see mutants and hybrids of all kinds as part of the crew. It made no sense.
“How’d he get in?” the piglin asked the Captain, who was still staring at Tommy. “This door is print locked to hell and back. The entire ship is.”
“I dunno mate, you should ask him,” the Captain said, a little faintly. Tommy’s row of primary feathers twitched under his beady gaze. In his mind, his instincts were shouting at him: showneck showneck tuckfeathers tucktuck, asking him to submit, and he visualized beating the thoughts back with a machete.
The piglin rolled his eyes but immediately turned to Tommy, who shrunk back even further. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, someone poked his head out from behind the Captain’s wings. A phantom, maybe? At least partially. He had little fins behind his ears, though, and scales down his neck.
“He’s tiny,” he chimed. His voice was melodious and clear. “Could have slipped through the air vent.”
“Hey,” Tommy snapped, voice hoarse from the stress. He shut his mouth immediately. Talking back to capturers/potential torturers was stupid.
The phantom brightened. “Oh, Phil, he bites! Can we keep him?”
The Captain—what kind of name was Phil?—glared. “No.” Then his eyes flicked to Tommy’s wings. “… Maybe.”
“How’d you get in?” the piglin said again. Tommy shrunk under his gaze. His eyes were so brown they looked red.
Instead of answering, Tommy first glanced over. Aimsey was standing like a guard next to him, gun still at their side instead of sheathed. Ready to shoot him at any moment.
“Why’s he looking at me?” they mumbled. Then they cleared their throat. “Tell them.”
The fuck? Tommy didn’t defer to anybody. He was a big, independent man. He still didn’t answer.
Phil sighed. “Wilbur.”
The phantom perked up—again, what kind of name was Wilbur?—and clapped his hands. “Oh, wonderful!” Then he grinned at Tommy. “Tell or show us how you got on the ship.”
Tommy’s throat burned and he heard himself speaking against his will. Oh fucking shit, fucking balls, a siren. He was so fucking screwed. Older, more trained fighters could resist, but he’d never gotten the instruction. His hand pulled the breaker out of his pocket and all of the air in the room vanished.
Tommy tried to swallow but his mouth was still forming words of its own accord. “Invisibility potions and sneakers. Your guard rotation has a flaw that repeats every three and a half hours and most of your vents have loose bolts. The MB4 got me in this room.” Finally the fog underneath his tongue lifted. “Fuck you.”
Wilbur grinned at him, sharp teeth glinting. Techno asked, “How’d you get an MB4? They’re strictly controlled.”
Tommy didn’t want to get forced to answer again, but it was also an incredibly stupid question. He scoffed. “I make them.” Then he frowned. “Wait, how do you know what this is?” Tommy’d never shared the design with anybody except his superiors. Shit, had there been a leak?
“You make them.” The captain’s voice was laced with disbelief. “Wilbur.”
“How did you get one?” Wilbur asked dutifully.
Tommy hissed, but he couldn’t control the answer. He could control how he said it, though. “I told you I made it, you bitch. This is model four. I have the other three prototypes in my workshop.”
The room was silent. Phil then said carefully, “Everybody out.” Then he pointed to the phantom and the piglin. “Except you guys. Stay.”
Oh, shit. A thrum of noise rang—the room was emptying aside from the four of them. The captain wanted to clear the room so he could kill Tommy with as few witnesses as possible. Fuck that. Tommy bent his knees slightly, calculating—if he timed it right he could go for Phil’s wings while he was distracted—
“Don’t move,” Wilbur commanded sharply. Then he looked over at Phil and added, “Unless the captain says you can.”
“You’re a bitch,” Tommy said fiercely. His limbs—they were stuck, like he had metal pins in them. “I hope you die.”
Wilbur just smiled at him with his horrifying teeth.
Phil pressed his hand to his forehead. Holy shit, his talons were sharp. “Okay so you actually make these. What are you doing breaking into our ship? There’s nothing you need here, with the money you get from selling these, I mean Pogtopia alone probably generates enough revenue to—”
Tommy blinked. His vision tunneled. “They’re—they’re selling it?”
Phil frowned. “Uh, yeah? Mate, you’re making a shit ton of money.”
“I haven’t gotten anything,” Tommy said faintly. What the fuck? “You said they’re selling it?”
Techno and Wilbur glanced at each other. “Yes,” Wilbur said. “For a lot of money.” Then he hummed. “The patent itself is actually supposed to be sold later today.”
All of the blood drained out of Tommy’s face as he came to one horrifying realization after another, like a fatal landslide. His patent was being sold today. Patent ownership could only be transferred by the creator—but someone else could register it if they’d been put as secondary owner. And secondary owners were only referenced when—
When the creator has died.
“They thought I would die here,” Tommy voiced out loud. The lab was silent. “They were gonna let you kill me and take my weapons.” The back of his neck crawled. “I. Um.” He was shaking so hard that the edge of his wing knocked one of the empty beakers off the counter, where it hit the floor and rolled in a circle.
“Okay,” Phil said firmly. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You—” he paused. “Um. What’s your name?”
“Tommy.”
“Tommy. Technoblade’s going to take you to the bridge,” Phil said. Techno bowed his head in agreement. “Wilbur, grab Niki, please? And then meet me in Nav. I need to go over our course with Fundy.”
“You got it,” Wilbur said with a faux salute. He spun on his heel and scanned his hand on the airlock, opening it, while Phil followed close behind. Then it was Tommy left in the middle of the room while Technoblade—a piglin—just looked at him.
Tommy’s heart was racing. The MB4, the thing he’d given his lifeblood to, the thing he thought would have raised him in the ranks, proved to everyone that he was worth keeping around… it never mattered how hard he worked on it. The Badlands were already making millions. And if he didn’t die on this ship, he would die the moment he returned.
Techno stepped towards him and Tommy flinched. It was too bright and too cold, but also too warm. His feathers ruffled when Techno stepped forwards again.
Tommy looked up in fear, and Techno examined him, eyes flicking back and forth. “Oh,” the piglin said. “Okay. Um.” He looked around the room, then back at Tommy. “Hey there. You’re doing that thing Phil does sometimes.”
Tommy had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t want to waste any energy thinking about it. Techno was big, and scary—he looked like a predator, and Tommy tucked his wings in even further. He had to be as small as possible.
“We have to go to the bridge,” Techno said carefully. Tommy peered up at him. He wasn’t very good at recognizing piglin expressions—he’d never met one, after all—but Techno looked sort of nervous. At least, his ears were flicking and his tail was dragging back and forth across the tile. “You okay to do that?”
Not really. Tommy hadn’t seen the bridge on his way here, so he assumed it was much further away—he didn’t want to walk, or fly, or even move. Everything around was bigger than him and more than he could handle. “Long walk,” he said hoarsely. If the captain was back, he could just chirp (not that he’d ever do that, how embarrassing), but now he had to use his voice and it hurt. “Cold.”
“Ah, yeah,” Technoblade agreed. Then he hesitated, closed his eyes, and shook his head to himself. “Can’t believe…” he mumbled, before gingerly extending his hand (hoof?) out to Tommy. “You could… sit on my shoulder, if you wanted.”
Tommy blinked very slowly at him. His shoulder? But that—he’d never done that before. Technoblade was a stranger from a scary ship, and very big. Tommy would probably stand at his waist with his chest puffed up. What if he fell off?
Techno kept his arm out patiently. His shoulder was covered in the same leather-canvas material as the rest of his torso. His hair was long and pink, mostly tied back in a braid but some had escaped around his face. His eyes were dark, and a little scary—but there was no malice that Tommy could see.
Tommy was cold. He was afraid. And he was stuck, right now, in a deep place inside his mind.
He moved forward carefully. Technoblade continued to hold his hand out very still.
Then, gently—Tommy placed his hand in Techno’s. Oh, wow. His skin was very warm—it made sense, piglins were from hot systems. But it still caught Tommy off guard.
“Great job,” Techno said, a little awkwardly. “I’m going to lift you up onto my shoulder now, okay?”
Tommy cooed quietly in agreement. Technoblade held him underneath his arms and pulled him easily up onto his shoulder. He carried Tommy like he weighed nothing. And oh—this was nice. Something about being high and able to see everything around him in this shiny room was reassuring and soothed that tiny, panicking part of Tommy’s brain.
“See, there you go,” Techno said. He didn’t seem to mind as Tommy sunk his talons into his braid, a small piece of security.
His hair was very soft. Tommy warbled hoarsely, shifting his feet slightly so he was perched more securely on the piglin’s shoulder. Once he was ready, he chirped. Letsgo!
Technoblade laughed quietly, a strange sort of chuffing amusement. He was a strange person. His shoulder rocked up and down slightly as he started walking, and the sudden movement startled Tommy. But don’t worry, he recovered quickly! He had great balance, and only tugged on Techno’s hair a little bit to right himself.
The hallway looked so different from this high up. It seemed smaller, and darker, which Tommy liked. Big, empty spaces made his feathers ruffle. Unless it was open air. Tommy liked being in the air. He wondered—maybe the bridge was big enough to fly in.
He was lost in his thoughts for most of the walk to the bridge. Some distant, reasonable part of his brain scolded him for not noting every piece of his surroundings, for not cataloging all that he saw—but that seemed like way too much effort. Tommy was very sleepy, and all of his limbs felt big and loose. He tipped to the side, slumping against Technoblade’s head—the piglin’s footsteps stuttered and Tommy giggled.
Tommy had just been about to ask Technoblade where the bridge was when they approached an archway at the end of the hallway. It was made of what looked like warped duranium and crimson wood, with ornate gold detailing. It was the fanciest door Tommy had ever seen.
“Fancy,” he mumbled into Techno’s hair, the words barely audible. He felt rather than heard Techno’s responding laugh.
“Yes, it’s very fancy,” the piglin said. “The wood is from the Nether, so it’s not at risk of overheating when we jump to lightspeed.”
Woah. Tommy didn’t even know wood could do that! Though, if it was from the Nether like Technoblade said, one of the hottest systems out there, it could surely withstand crazy heat.
He was so distracted he didn’t notice that they’d finally entered the bridge—and here Tommy pushed himself off of Techno’s head so he could get a better look at the space around him. It was much brighter than any other part of the ship, with at least two floors that he could see. On the opposite end to where they were, the whole wall was covered in shiny windows that let him see out into the starry space around the ship. And there were people everywhere! People of all species working at stations or roaming around the railings, talking to each other and tapping their fingers on holoscreens and radios.
Tommy wanted to look for longer, but Techno was walking past everybody and into another small wing of the bridge. It looked sort of like one of those circular bench things in station restaurants, except it was split in two with a big computer on the wall in between them.
“We’ll hang out here while we wait for Phil to come back,” Techno explained.
He raised his arms to lift Tommy off, but Tommy squeaked and clung tighter onto his head. “Noooo,” Tommy said fiercely. Technoblade wanted to put him down! How rude. He was very content being up here.
“Fine,” Techno huffed. “Then you’re going to have to stay up there while I do some research on the computer, okay?”
“Mkay.”
Tommy looked aimlessly around the room while Techno bent over and started typing rapidly. This room wasn’t nearly as interesting as the rest of the bridge, but it was still a little cool.
He was in the middle of counting how many stitches were on one of the cushions when Techno interrupted his thoughts. “Tommy,” Technoblade frowned. “Why aren’t you Registered?”
What? Oh, right. Once anybody in the galaxy turned eighteen (or the equivalent age in their species), they had to be registered in the universal database. Why would Technoblade ask Tommy? He wasn’t even eighteen.
“Stupid question,” Tommy mumbled.
“Why’s that?”
“M’ not eighteen yet,” Tommy said. “Duh.”
Technoblade stilled. The computer flashed a message: ‘Timing out in: 30 seconds’ and began counting down, but Techno didn’t move to do anything about it. He said, “You’re not eighteen?”
Tommy furrowed his brow. “Um. No?”
“Okay.” Techno’s voice had gotten all weird and wobbly. Tommy wanted to tell him to stop acting so strangely. “How old are you, then?”
Tommy shrugged. “Dunno. Boss said—maybe fourteen or fifteen. Didn’t do any birth reads.” Not knowing your age was unusual but not uncommon. Kids like Tommy, found on ruined planets and brought up by criminal groups, weren’t typically all too eager to notify the database of their existence anyways.
“Fourteen,” Technoblade repeated under his breath.
Tommy scowled. Techno’s reaction reminded him all too much of how people back at the Badlands treated him, and the reminder was starting to pull him out of the warm, safe place in his mind. “Fuck you. I’m not dumb cause I’m younger.”
“Well yeah, but I thought you were at least registered,” Techno said sharply. “You’re a child.”
Tommy didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure why Technoblade was so concerned about how old he was. He was a big man, no matter if he was eight or fourteen or thirty! He could do what any Registered could do and more. Techno didn’t know shit.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Techno said. Tommy rolled his eyes. He didn’t even need to be here anymore. He could slip out the moment there weren’t any eyes on him. Technoblade assuming he’d be around during this unspecified later was very bold of him.
“Okay,” Tommy said anyway. His brief outburst had drained immeasurable energy from him. He tried to be annoyed—he wanted to wait until Phil came back, and he didn’t want to let his guard down for a moment. But it seemed like he already had. Technoblade’s shoulder was solid and warm, and Tommy’s wings had already draped halfway down his back. His eyelids grew heavier—the dull pain of his aches and bruises was getting stronger. His body, against all of his mental protests, was tired.
“... keep you safe” was the last thing he heard before the lights turned off and he fell into deep, deep, sleep.
(When Tommy woke up, he’d panic a little bit. He’d remember the previous day in pieces—losing himself in his instincts, revealing how vulnerable he really was, falling asleep in an enemy ship. He’d find out that the Empire had already changed course to the Badlands, and that soon only dust would remain where their reign once stood, and that the Empire had plans for him—but all of that was after he woke up. For now, he slept easy, in the warm belly of a great ship drifting forwards and onwards into space.)