Chapter Text
Tommy had always known that he wasn’t fully human. No one in his family was. His mother had long ears, soft and velvety like a rabbit’s. They perfectly matched her sleek gray hair, quick hands, and nervous temperament. She came from a long line of woodland hybrids, birds and deer and wild critters, always at home in gardens or on forest paths.
His father was a bit gruffer. His people hailed from the sea, complete with sharp teeth and stormy dispositions. The man had scales running up and down his limbs in patches, shining like opal whenever the sun hit them, and his neck had gills that Tommy loved to ask questions about.
Both parents had endless photographs of grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, matriarchs and family friends, all with something a little unhuman about them. A snout in place of a nose. Webbing between fingers. A tail poking out from underneath a dress.
“We’re hybrids,” Tommy’s mother explained, holding him close and kissing his forehead, “And someday, when your traits appear, we’ll finally know what type you are.”
Tommy had been excited. Maybe he’d be like his mother, able to run faster than anyone else in the village. Maybe he’d be like his father, able to breathe underwater for hours at a time. Or maybe he’d be something entirely new, with wings or claws or pointy teeth to show off to the other kids. Waiting to manifest his traits was like waiting for his birthday, only this time, he couldn’t sneak an early peak at the presents.
Tommy’s hybrid features first appeared when he was seven. He had been playing with the girl next door, chasing her through their families’ backyards in a game that was half tag, half hide-and-seek. It wasn’t a new activity for them. They had been playing it for years, every hiding spot and pathway discovered and well-worn.
Except for this one. Tommy’s most recent growth spurt had finally granted him access to the trees, fingers just barely wrapping around the branches as he hoisted himself into the air. Hidden in the canopy, he was perfectly out of sight, shielded from all predators and would-be taggers.
His neighbor had found him almost instantly. Tommy had been too busy congratulating himself to notice her tiptoeing underneath him.
“Tag!” she shrieked, startling Tommy out of his skin, “You’re it!”
Her hand wrapped around his ankle, yanking Tommy to the ground. He fell on his shoulder hard, shouting out at the sudden impact.
The girl fell to the ground a moment later, just in time for Tommy to regain his bearings.
“Don’t do that!” he huffed, “You hurt me!”
But she wasn’t responding. The girl was on her knees, arms wrapped around her stomach as she sobbed.
Tommy immediately forgot about his own injury. “Are you okay?” He asked, reaching out for the girl’s shoulder.
She pushed herself back from him, visibly terrified. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, scrambling to her feet and rushing to her parents’ house.
In the end, she got sick, confined to her bed for three whole days. Tommy wasn’t allowed to play with her again. Not after it became clear that he was a pufferfish hybrid.
The tells were subtle. Most other hybrids in their village were obvious, with horns or fangs that set them apart. Tommy didn’t have anything like that. His hair was an average blond. His eyes were a normal blue. Walking past him on the street, there were no obvious features that made him look anything other than human.
The only difference was that sometimes, if someone touched him too suddenly, tiny spines would shoot up from his skin, injecting poison into whatever hapless victim tried to shake his hand or pat his shoulder. The thicker ones laid flat against his arms, legs, and torso, easy to cover up with long sleeves and gloves, but the tinier one on his face and neck were just as dangerous, even if they were too small for most people to notice.
Tommy’s parents genuinely tried their best, but it was hard to raise a child you couldn’t touch. Tommy had understood. He was dangerous. There was nothing to be done about it.
Instead of hugging him, his father would give him heavy sweaters and leather gloves. Instead of kissing him on the forehead, Tommy’s mother would pass him a small bottle of milk, just in case. Tommy took what he could get.
“Remember,” his mother would say, hands pinned firmly to her sides, “You’re not allowed to touch anyone, ever, okay? You can’t control your spines. You’ll hurt them.”
Tommy would nod, and then run off to play alone. He could climb a lot higher in the trees now, especially without the girl next door to distract him.
His parents reasoned that as Tommy grew older, he’d get better at keeping his spines flat and safe. He’d grow out of accidentally hurting people, like a teething baby. But every time they tested his control, Tommy would get nervous and prick whoever was unlucky enough to be running their fingers across his skin.
Eventually, his parents gave up. He was never going to be safe to touch. Hell, he was hardly even safe to be around. It wasn’t a surprise when they asked him to leave on his 14th birthday. It still stung, though.
Tommy had always been a bit prone to panicking, puffing up his chest and squaring back his shoulders whenever anyone new approached him. If he was big and loud and a little bit intimidating, always shouting and keeping his distance, then he was safe. Even more importantly, the people around him would be safe. That’s how things had always worked.
That wasn’t how they worked here.
The SMP was dangerous, and Wilbur wouldn’t let Tommy forget it. After the two of them were exiled, the former president saw enemies and traitors around every corner, and that paranoia was beginning to seep into Tommy’s everyday life. Sometimes, the kid would find his spines raised even when he was alone, as though it could protect him from the suffocating aura of Pogtopia.
As always, Tommy made sure to wear thick sweaters and heavy overalls, covering every spare inch of skin with fabric. For the most part, it worked. No one knew he was a pufferfish hybrid. They just thought he was a loud, boisterous kid who didn’t like being touched. They didn't even notice the tiny spines on his face, now that puberty and stress had mercifully covered his cheeks in acne.
One morning, Tubbo tried to grab Tommy’s hand. The ram hybrid ended up heaving over a bucket for the next few hours. There was no fresh milk in Pogtopia, so there was nothing they could do but wait for the nausea to pass.
It was the last time Tommy let anyone get close enough to make that mistake.
Tubbo kept his best friend’s secret, even as he exiled Tommy to Logstedshire, but despite the president's final act of goodwill, it didn’t take long for Dream to learn what Tommy was. Less than 24 hours in, the man slapped him, pulling away with a gasp as poison shot into his hand.
Tommy, still burning with a fresh and righteous anger, had hoped it would be enough to keep Dream away.
It hadn’t. Tommy’s biology just made the man more creative.
In some ways, Logstedshire had been kind of nice. It was tropical and by the ocean, which made Tommy’s hybrid half buzz with delight. He had always loved swimming, feeling the warm, salty water brush against his spines.
The arctic was nothing like that at all. It was cold and harsh. All the water was frozen solid, and all the fish underneath were sleeping against the murky riverbeds. Sometimes, a gust of wind would hit Tommy the wrong way, leaving his teeth chattering and his spines on edge. It was bitter and awful and freezing.
It was the safest Tommy had felt in months.
Dream would never look for him here. After checking all the obvious places, the man would probably comb the coastlines. With any luck, Tommy would be written off as dead within the next few weeks. If he hadn’t found Techno’s cabin, that might have even been true.
These days, Tommy spent his time hiding. If he didn’t think about it too hard, it felt a little bit like a game. He could easily pretend that he was playing tag again, just like when he was a kid, staying out of sight and hollowing out a hole under Techno’s basement floors. He hadn’t been caught yet. Maybe he’d manage to keep hidden forever.
But Tommy had never been very good at this kind of game. The proof of that was standing right in front of him, nearly seven feet tall and deeply unhappy to find a kid rifling through his chests.
“What are you doing in my house, Tommy?”
Tommy gulped. “Techno! How are you?”
“What are you doing in my house, Tommy?” Techno repeated, a bit more forcefully this time.
“I…” Tommy said, trying to decide his next few words, “... am enjoying the decor.”
Frankly, Techno looked awful. There was blood all over the piglin hybrid's clothes, which were completely unsuitable for the arctic weather. Honestly, it was a bit of a rookie move to not wear a coat out here, but maybe Techno knew something that Tommy didn’t.
“The what?” Techno asked, shoulders slumping. His face had shifted from anger to confusion.
“The decor! You know…” Tommy glanced around the room quickly, eventually settling on the wall of storage. “I like these chests! You did a lovely job stacking them. And all the exposed wood? Hardwood floors? Very fancy. Timeless, even. Honestly, I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s really… cabin-y.”
Tommy was an expert at rambling, but even he was quickly running out of things to say. To be honest, Techno’s decor was atrocious. The man didn’t even have a couch.
Techno just looked at Tommy in complete disbelief.
“Right!” Tommy said, clapping his hands together and taking a step to the side, “Good talk!”
Without another word, Tommy pushed past Techno, sliding down the ladder into the basement. Unsure of where else to go, he just hid in the hole he had been living in, hoping that the man upstairs wouldn’t bother to follow.
It took Techno about five seconds to find him.
“Bruh…” Techno said, looking around, “Have you been living in my basement? Like a raccoon?”
“Why do you care?” Tommy shot back, standing his ground and puffing up his chest.
Techno huffed. “Alright, I’m done with this.” He reached out to grab Tommy’s arm. “You’re going to—”
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Tommy shouted, jumping back so far that he had to press himself up against the wall. By some miracle, it was enough for Techno to pull his hand back entirely. “That’s— Shit. Have you ever heard of a thing called personal space?”
“Bruh, how am I supposed to kick you out of my house if I’m not allowed to touch you?” Techno shouted, sounding absolutely incredulous, “Have you considered that maybe you’re invading my personal space by breaking into my home?”
“Ugh, I—” Tommy fumbled, stepping away from Techno. The kid tried to make himself look bigger, more intimidating. “Why are you even here? I was having such a pleasant evening before you showed up.”
“I live here!” Techno shouted, disbelief coating every syllable. He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, a full-body flinch shook Techno so hard that he crashed onto Tommy’s makeshift bed.
Tommy stepped forward, suddenly desperate to help, but there was nothing he could do. Anything he tried would only make things worse.
“Techno?” he asked, nervously hovering as the man turned himself over, “Are you alright?”
Techno was very much not alright. Red was seeping through the front of his ripped shirt, and now some of it was smeared across Tommy’s blankets. The bleeding gash looked at least a foot long, straight and horrible across the man’s stomach. How had Tommy not noticed this?
“You should see the other guy,” Techno joked, smiling slightly. The expression was quickly replaced by something more pained.
“Techno!” Tommy gasped, instinctually surging forward again. He immediately took another step back.
“Ah,” Techno panted, breathing in sharply, “Quackity, that bastard…”
“Quackity did this?” Tommy asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice, “I didn’t think he was a fighter. You must have really pissed him off—”
“Tommy,” Techno interrupted, suddenly serious, “I need you to get my first aid kit. It’s under the sink in the kitchen.”
Tommy knew an order when he heard one, clicking his mouth shut and setting off at once. As he dashed up the ladder, he considered shouting a belated protest, but ultimately decided against it. Techno’s wound looked pretty gnarly. Getting the first aid kit was probably a good idea.
Tommy knew where the supplies were. He had explored every corner of the cabin, and had in fact already stolen some of Techno’s bandages. A cut on his ankle, courtesy of Dream, had gotten mildly infected. It was thanks to Techno’s first aid kit that Tommy was able to use that foot at all.
So, within a minute, Tommy had scrambled up and down the ladders, holding the kit out to his less-than-gracious host. Techno was lying on Tommy’s makeshift bed, taking slow and measured breaths.
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Techno said. Embarrassingly, Tommy had to bite back a smile at that, practically glowing under the slightest hint of praise.
“Don’t mention it, big man,” Tommy said, laying the box down beside the piglin hybrid.
“Do you mind helping me with this?” Techno asked, “It’s the least you can do, after squatting in my basement.”
Tommy froze. Techno was asking for help with his injury, but if Tommy tried to touch him, he’d just hurt Techno even more. Shit, knowing Tommy's luck, he'd probably get poison straight into the cut. If Techno had lost enough blood, a single touch might kill the him outright.
“There’s a healing potion in there,” Tommy noted, trying to keep his voice casual, “Just use that.”
“Gotta clean it up before we do that,” Techno said, “I don’t want it closing wrong. I’m trying to avoid another scar here.”
Tommy was unable to stop himself from panicking. “I—” he started, words drying up on his tongue, “I— I don’t—”
Techno stiffened slightly, brow tight with concern. “Tommy—?” he said, reaching out to pat the teen's hand.
“No!” Tommy gasped, pulling back before Techno could get closer. In his panic, the kid tripped over his own feet, sending himself sprawling across the floor.
For a few moments, no one said anything. Tommy just laid there, panting and wary as he waited for Techno to… to do something. Yell at him, maybe. Reach out for him again.
But Techno just kept looking at Tommy, face deep in thought.
“Okay,” the man eventually said, “I can do it myself.”
Turning away from the kid, Techno moved to open the first aid kit. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began cleaning the cut, hissing slightly each time he even slightly grazed the wound.
Tommy felt awful. Techno probably thought he was some kind of spoiled brat, too scared or too selfish to bother helping. Tommy knew how to stitch things up. He had a month-old scar on his right calf to prove it. But what could he possible give that would help instead of hurt?
He watched as Techno, with a deep breath, took a needle out from his kit, threading it carefully. Then, Tommy kept watching as the man took the first few stitches slow, inhaling and exhaling in equal, measured counts. His shaking hands prevented him from going very fast.
A moment later, a weight appeared on Techno's shoulder.
Arms trembling, Tommy had wrapped a blanket tightly around his own hand. Now, the swaddled limb pressed against Techno, a small and grounding comfort in such a sparse basement.
Techno looked at Tommy’s hand for a moment before returning to his stitches. Against all odds, he seemed a little more sure this time, hands steady instead of shaking. Within a few blessedly short minutes, the man was done. Only then did Techno take out the healing potion, draining it quickly and slamming its empty vial down onto the floor.
Carefully, Tommy pulled back, unwrapping the blanket and setting it down. His heart was racing. Why had he risked something like that? What if he had messed up and tied the fabric too thin? His spines sometimes broke through his clothes, and the same might have been true for this blanket. He could have genuinely hurt Techno, and then what?
But it was hard to linger on such thoughts. Tommy's hand felt surprisingly warm, even after the blanket was gone. Slowly, he pressed it against his chest, breathing quickly as he tried to memorize what it had felt like to touch someone.
He glanced up at Techno. The man in question was cleaning up his supplies, closing his first aid kit with a final click. Then, leaning back, the piglin hybrid sighed.
The wound on Techno's stomach still looked pretty gnarly, but between the stitches and the potion, it had closed up in a shockingly neat way. With a couple more potions and a few good months, the scar would be nothing more than a faint line, easy to ignore.
But Techno wasn’t looking at his stomach. He was looking at Tommy.
“I’m not getting rid of you anytime soon, am I?” Techno muttered, pinching his brow.
Tommy didn’t respond. Instead, he just watched Techno carefully, doing his best to weigh the hybrid’s expression. Despite not wearing a mask, Techno could be exceptionally hard to read at times.
The man huffed. “I don’t have the energy for this right now,” Techno said, slowly heaving himself onto his feet. After a few deep breaths, he started climbing out of Tommy’s nook. “You can stay in the guest room. We’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow.”
Tentatively, Tommy grabbed his blanket, throwing a few of his items into the middle and slinging it over his shoulder like a sack. Then, making sure to stay several rungs behind, he carefully followed Techno out of the basement.