Chapter Text
There is a woman, with hair as black as the abyss and eyes like shining stars. His memories of her are light, ones that wisps are thin and hard to grasp, floating away before he can grab at them but he does remember being held by her, having her hands in his hair.
She tells him that he is her son and that he is her best creation so far.
He does not remember his father, or any sibling (apart from Dream, but when he thinks too hard about his brother, the memories begin to fade) but he remembers his mother’s kind smile.
“No,” Tommy whispers into the mirror, hands shaking on the porcelain of the sink, “that’s not quite right.”
There is a woman and she raises a cold hand to his cheek, wiping the blood from his split lip. There’s a darkness to her eyes, one that matches the colour of hair.
She tells him that he is the best of his class and that he is her best creation so far.
He doesn’t remember the boy’s name on the floor, or if he’s even breathing, but he remembers her maniacal, almost hungry smile.
“Stop,” Tommy shudders, blinking away the haze from his mind. His fingers are almost as white as the sink from how hard he’s gripping the sink and he cautiously uncurls them, watching blood rush through blue veins. “It’s not real. It’s not real.”
Something in his mind twists. It sounds like Dream’s laugh. When he looks up, back to the mirror, he’s standing at his shoulder, green eyes filled with mirth as he flips his dagger. The scar across his face - from eyebrow, across the bridge of a straight nose, to cheek - looks crimson in the bathroom’s terrible lighting.
“How do you know it wasn’t real, little spider?” Dream asks, voice light and soft. “Am I not real?”
Tommy closes his eyes, shudders at the term of endearment, shakes his head, fingers curling to grip the sink. “No. You’re not.”
When he blinks open his eyes, he’s alone in the bathroom, no sign of a green hoodie anywhere. Tommy once again uncurls his fingers, tries to regulate his breathing.
Looking at himself now, his blue eyes are dull, washed out and the bags under said eyes are nearly black. He would have another shower, try and somehow wake himself back up from that horrid dream but the water pressure and freezing temperature is almost as bad as the Room’s.
He swallows, shakes his head. He’s free from them. He doesn’t have to think of that anymore.
But as he pulls away from the sink, sleep shirt sticking to his back from the sweat, he can’t help but wonder if he made the right choice-
He catches himself, nearly laughs.
Choice. God, how long has it been since he had that?
He slips from the bathroom, switching off the yellow lights and walks across the cold wooden floor to his single bed, pushed into the wall. He rolls his eyes. Hands grab at the gun under his pillow and he shifts so his body is curled up protectively.
Did he ever have the ability to choose? Or was that something else stolen from him since birth?
Snowflakes flutter atop his blond curls as he walks to his nightly nine to five. Snow crunches under his feet and yet he does not shiver. That was something beaten out of him, years ago in Siberia. The elements meant nothing against sheer force of will.
Tommy turns the corner and is met with blinding flashing lights. He winces, having not slept the night before, but he keeps going. He has things to do and people to see.
He tried the doing nothing route. He tried to be a normal everyday citizen. Six months and no murder or bloodshed or even minor crime. He got a job in a cafe - so maybe he faked his paperwork but that’s the least of his problems - and served normal people and bought an apartment from his Swiss bank account and was normal.
He tried. He did.
But the nightmares only got worse and the insomnia is rather annoying when sleep is essential to keeping sharp. So here he is, convincing a businessman he’s a street kid turned petty thief.
Less serving people and more crime.
He passes the flashing signs signifying the entrance to the casino - more like little nation considering it’s also a shopping centre, hotel, nightclub, theme park and water park - and dodges the long line of eager people trying to enter.
Las Nevadas, Quackity’s empire. According to the businessman, he has a couple more of scattered across not only America but also the world. Something about taking over the world through capitalism.
Tommy doesn’t really care. He doesn’t get paid enough to judge who’s paying him. Even if he’s slightly impressed that the man went from corrupt lawyer for the local crime ring - the Syndicate - to running his own nation worth billions.
In L’Manberg, Heroes and Villains fight shading each other night and day. The Heroes Committee, with Captain Puffy as the number one hero, tries to stop the crime rings, tries to limit the Syndicate’s power but crime has always paid more.
Tommy slips in through the side door, thankful for the lack of metal detectors and makes his way through the worker’s back doors. He hates dealing with crowds - too many possibilities, too many variables he can’t calculate quick enough - and so sticks to these walkways to avoid them.
Down the hall, he spots Charlie leaning his head around a door, glasses sliding down his face as his fingers keep slipping through the wooden door. Intangibility can be dangerous in a fight, Tommy thinks, rubbing at the bone in his right wrist, remembering his own fight years back.
Not that he considers Charlie a threat. The man rarely pays attention to his surroundings so getting the jump on him would be easy.
It’s why Tommy makes it close enough to touch and Charlie is still none the wiser. It isn’t until Tommy coughs that the man jumps and then slips through the floor, body turning see-through.
Tommy watches him go and then swings his head around the door to find Quackity in his office, amusement on his face.
“Sneak up on him again?” Quackity asks, waving a hand to usher him in.
He sits behind a marble desk, walls white and ceilings high. His dark hair is hidden behind his signature beanie while the scar from eyebrow across eye to lip is startling obvious.
Tommy is always more cautious around people with scars. They prove that a person has lived through something that could be the worst day in their entire lives and has somehow survived.
Tommy would know. There’s a reason he wears long sleeves.
“He’s too easy.” Tommy replies, smile tugging at his lips as he drops to sit on the comfortable chair in front of Quackity’s desk. “Never fucking looks around.”
Quackity snorts. “He’ll learn eventually. How are you? Doing good? How’s the apartment?”
Tommy leans back in faux relaxation, the gun in his waistband digging into his spine. “I’m good, the apartment’s still standing. What’s my next job?”
Quackity rolls his eyes, pushing forward to rest his head in his hands, elbows on his desk. “You worry me, kid, y’know that?”
“Worry doesn’t pay my bills, Big Q,” Tommy replies.
“See that- that is what I mean!” Quackity shouts, pointing at him. “Tommy, you’re so eager to commit crime! Man, take a breather, maybe hang out at a pool or something. We have kid friendly areas here.”
Tommy raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you like two years older than me, dickhead? I don’t need kid-friendly shit.”
“What about school?” Quackity continues. “I swear I tried to find you some school to go to.”
Tommy groans. Quackity wouldn’t stop pushing, especially after their second meeting when he clearly tried to find Tommy’s background and come up empty handed.
Hell, Tommy didn’t even know his background.
“And how many times have I told you that I have a formal education. I’m eighteen.”
Quackity rolls his eyes. “If you’re eighteen then I’m married to the Angel of Death.”
“I’m married to the grind,” Tommy says and then leans forward, widening his eyes. “Please, Big Q. I’m bored and I can’t find a job anywhere else and I don’t want to be on the street again-“
“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ, fucking hell.” Quackity hisses, leaning back to open a drawer in his desk and pull out a picture of someone.
Tommy, a few weeks back, snuck in and rifled through his drawers and cabinets. He found a safe behind the large picture of a white dog, a plaque beside it naming the dog Rat. Inside the safe was a couple of guns, fake ID’s and stacks of money in all different currencies.
Tommy was ever so slightly impressed.
“I need you to steal his watch.” Quackity says and Tommy leans forward, studying the picture.
Tall, lean, brown curls and English Professor outfit. From where the photo has been taken, outside of a cafe, the man looks harmless. His eyes are amused as he speaks to a woman in an apron, pink hair tied up.
“Just his watch?” Tommy asks, confused and Quackity nods.
“Wilbur has been… dodging my calls. He used to be a street kid so be quick - like you normally are - and if he catches you-“
“I don’t know you. I’m just a poor boy looking for some quick cash.” Tommy replies, rolling his eyes. “Where and when?”
“He frequents that cafe on the main street in L’Manberg’s city centre Mondays to Thursdays. Punz couldn’t find any pattern but he’s normally early in the morning or early afternoon.”
Tommy nods, mind already coming up with ideas. “You’ll pay me the same?” He asks and Quackity smiles at him, softer than usual.
“Course. Bills and shit.”
Tommy smiles back and finds that it’s not forced. He likes Quackity, he’s an easy person to like. Sure, he’s a master manipulator when he wants to be but Tommy has been trained for any and all possibilities.
He rises from his seat. “I’ll be seeing you, Q.”
“Good luck, Tommy.”
Just as he turns for the door, Charlie appears, frown to his face. His eyes narrow at Tommy.
“Why’d you always make me do that, dude? It fucking sucks!”
Tommy laughs. Las Nevadas is going to make him soft at this rate because god, he likes Charlie, too.
“Make sure to check your fucking surroundings, man, and we wouldn’t get into these messes.”
Charlie pouts as Tommy walks away. “You’re mean.”
“And you’re a man.”
“So are you!”
Tommy pauses at the corner and gives Charlie a sharp grin. “But I’m cooler.”
With that, Charlie spluttering over his laughter as Quackity giggles in the background, Tommy makes his way out of Las Nevadas.
The chair sits, bolted to the floor, harsh metal in the all white room.
Theseus shivers but does not resist as he’s led into the room, two guards dressed in all grey either side of them, guns in holsters, faces hidden behind reflective glass.
To the side of him, the man shifts and says, “the ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world.”
Theseus shudders, mind falling blank as he collapses into the chair. Straight back, eyes forward, hands on the chair’s arms.
“I have no place in the world,” he responds, voice monotone.
The man grins as Theseus is strapped down, electrodes placed on his temples. “Exactly.”
He hears the crackling of electricity, feels his body lurch. A burn, a twitch, a gasp.
Then nothing.
The cafe is quaint. Flower pots overflow at the edges, vines climbing around the sign stating in cursive: Niki’s Bakery. It’s all pastel and softness, delicate and unassuming.
Tommy is instantly tense. Places that look nice normally have something sinister going on underneath. He would know. The Room was something of a beauty despite all of the death.
Mahogany wood staircases, blood red rugs, pillars of white and thick wooden flooring. Gold lighting and high arches. Large windows and the beautiful black piano.
Tommy shakes his head. He’s not there anymore.
With his baggy sweater and torn jeans, Tommy pulls his shoulders up to his ears and shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s no gun today but he has a switchblade in his pocket and two throwing stars in his trainers.
Walking forward, he slowly pushes open the door and a bell chimes his entrance. From the counter, the woman with pink hair looks up from where she’s placing cakes in the glass display. Tommy won’t lie, he would gladly stuff his face with all of them.
“Hello!” The woman, he assumes is Niki, greets, waving with flour on her hands. She has a German accent. “I’m Niki. What can I do for you?”
He blinks and then slowly says, “I, uh, I saw some of the displays outside. I have four dollars so what can that get me?”
She smiles at him and begins to point. “Well, if you don’t have any allergies, I have the pistachio brownies. I also have red velvet bites, some cookie dough balls and chocolate strawberries.”
“Holy fuck, it all looks so good.” He whispers, honesty lining his words and then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Fuck- I’m sorry, shit- oh I mean I don’t mean to swear. I’m so-“
“No, please,” she laughs at him, the sound is warm. Tommy wants to drown in it. “I don’t normally have people complimenting my goods without even trying one.”
“Seriously?” He asks. “They look amazing, Niki. I bet they taste fucking heavenly.”
Niki’s eyes crinkle. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Tommy.” He replies, easily handing out the name, knowing its as untraceable as his face.
“Well, Tommy, how about you try them and then give me your thoughts?”
Tommy grins. “That sounds like the best plan I’ve ever heard.”
The first time Tommy ever tasted chocolate, he was twelve. The mission was to infiltrate a young boy’s house and while there, the boy’s mother had given him a bar of the stuff.
He remembers the way his eyes widened at the taste, thrown by something so sweet. The Room never gave out chocolate. His meals consisted of only the bare necessities, enough to keep him fit and growing.
He remembers leaving the house through the back door and scaling the fence to the alleyway, entering the car that waited on the curb.
He remembers picking at the blood under his nails, the taste of chocolate lingering in his mouth.
Tommy shakes his head as he accepts the offered bites of goodness. Each one has a distinct flavour and each is better than the rest.
Niki keeps laughing every time he groans at the taste of a new one. “Good?”
“Niki,” he praises. “You are officially the second best woman in the world. These are the fucking best, fucking hell. I could die happily here.”
She grins. “Who’s the first best woman in the world?”
“The Queen.” Tommy replies, chewing at the toffee brownie.
Niki laughs again and Tommy almost forgets why he’s here. It’s easy, in the warm lighting, under the gentle gaze of her eyes to forget that she’s a mark, a target. Tommy isn’t here to make friends. He’s here to do a job.
He goes to open his mouth when she says, “Wil would love you.”
He pauses. Quackity mentioned something about a Wilbur. “Wil?”
“Wilbur, my friend. He stops by the gush over my food.”
So Punz does have the correct information about Wilbur frequenting this cafe. Tommy narrows his eyes playfully. “He sounds like a bitch. Only I can tell you how amazing your food is.”
The bell chimes. Tommy freezes as a crisp voice asks, “who’s a bitch?”
Tommy turns and is met with a tall (taller than Dream, definitely) man wearing a long, brown trench coat and thin glasses on the bridge of his nose. His hair is a brown mess that falls across his eyes and Tommy can just make out a flash of silver when he pulls his hands from his pockets.
“Are you Wilbur?” He asks and the man nods. Tommy grins. Target has been successfully sighted. “You’re the bitch.”
Wilbur’s eyes widen considerably as Niki hides her laugh in her hand. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.” Tommy replies, cheekily and when Wilbur continues to stare, mouth opening and closing like a fish with no sound coming out, Tommy’s grin widens. To Niki, he says, “thank you for these.”
He pulls out his four dollars and hands them over, ignoring the way she tries to hand them back to him. He pushes away from the counter, towards Wilbur and brushes past him, leaning in to make sure he nudges at his feet, bumping his shoulder and jostling his elbow.
Under his breath, he whispers, “fucking lanky bastard.”
As he steps out from the cafe, bell chiming his exit, an expensive gold watch dangles from his fingertips. He smiles and makes his way to Las Nevadas for his pay check.