Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world returned to him in pieces.

He was sitting upright, head tipped back and to one side, resting against something hard. His neck ached. So did his ribs. So did his legs. Everything ached, actually, and some of the achy bits also hurt in other, less desirable ways. 

So. He wasn’t dead. Or, if he was, his body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. 

Still alive. Good start. He didn’t have to work hard to remember what had happened. The fight, and the chase, and the distraction, and…his failure. He’d been sure that would be the end of him. He’d done what he could, given his life for the cause. That was supposed to be the end of it.

But he was still alive. 

That meant that someone had saved him. Well, maybe ‘saved’ was the wrong word. Someone had moved him. And the villains hadn’t killed him.

Given the circumstances of, uh, everything , he didn’t have high hopes that it had been a rescue. Dream and NotFound and Sapnap had gotten away. That had been the plan. They hadn’t doubled back to save him. That had been the plan.

Just because he wasn’t dead didn’t mean he was safe. 

Why else would the villains keep him alive unless they planned to use him? What other possible incentive could they have for not killing him?

The hero corps had discussed this with the apprentices. Villains were never above pressing an advantage. They never hesitated to twist the knife when they had an opportunity. They would do anything to get a scrap of power or a hint of new information. It was the main reason why the corps were so careful about the hero's identities. If a villain got their hands on a hero’s name, their face, their backstory, they could use it to tear them apart. They’d kill civilians, they’d hurt the people a hero cared about. Villains were more relaxed about their own identities. Most of the world knew their faces, not just the facades and costumes and evil deeds. They, quite frankly, were safer revealing their identities than heroes were. Heroes wouldn’t stoop to their level of manipulation, and few of them had attachments to worry about in any case. And, any attachments they might have had only extended as far as the villain actually cared. 

Villains never have limits, he’d been taught. Villains don’t hesitate. Villains never care about who they hurt in the crossfire. 

Tommy was a game piece to them. He knew it. He was a hostage, a source of information. He didn’t know exactly what they would do with him, or do to him, but it didn’t matter.

As long as he was alive, he had a duty to the corps. Protect, endure. Theoretically he was supposed to, like, actually stop the villains from doing shit, but he’d already fucked that up. For lack of anything better, he could certainly make their jobs harder. 

All the thoughts flashed through his mind in a few seconds as he pulled his consciousness back from the groggy haze. He steadied himself, mentally. As long as he was breathing, he wasn’t out of the fucking fight. Tubbo, Ranboo, Freddie, any of them would be using their brains, trying to plan, getting ready. He was a fucking corps-trained apprentice. He could do this.

With that settled, he took stock. The chair beneath him, he assumed it was a chair, was hard, pressing against the backs of his thighs through the thick cloth of his suit. His mouth tasted like he was eating carpet fuzz. His mask was still on, though; he could feel it brushing over his cheeks. 

Scrunching his eyes shut and then reopening them didn’t dull the brightness of the room. He blinked hard, adjusting, and lifted an arm to rub at his gaze, but found them trapped at his wrist and elbow by bands of the same dark gray metal that made up the chair. The bands didn’t look like they had any kind of clasp; instead, it was as if someone had taken the flat bars of metal and wrapped them around his arm from where they were welded or fastened to the arm of the chair itself. The ends weren’t even connected, just bent over themselves. He could feel the edges of more bands around his ankles.

Steel, or whatever the fuck kind of metal it was, maybe an eighth of an inch thick, crossed over his limbs like twist ties. No obvious sign of tool marks, just strength. 

Well. Very few people could have gotten out of that without some kind of trick. He was sure as hell not one of them. So much for escaping.

He surveyed the rest of the room. It looked eerily similar to the training rooms at the Headquarters. The floor was covered by white and gray foam training mats, some of them scuffed or scorched in places. The walls of the room, too, were paneled in foam mats, similarly well used. There were no windows, but fluorescent lights were set into the high ceilings. Thicker mats were folded by the walls, next to racks of weapons. At this distance, he had no way to tell if they were real or training fakes, but a wide assortment of guns, knives, swords, staves, batons, and other various accouterments were arranged on shelves and racks. There were a few training dummies next to the walls as well, the weird ‘fleshy pink torso on a stick’ kind that the Training Masters had used for hand to hand combat practice. These were heavily scarred, though. Slashes decorated the chests, shoulders, and necks, as well as dents and puncture wounds. 

The villains were training, then, possibly as hard as the apprentices and heroes were. He shuddered. It was good that the corps kept them to such high standards. 

A few benches were pushed against the wall in front of him, flanked on one side by a squat mini fridge and a sturdy looking table. Sitting on the table, one boot pulled up under his thigh and one swinging freely over the edge, was Halo. The man was still in his full costume, heavy leather coat and dark pants and fingerless gloves and bronze dice floating around his head. He was playing with some kind of plastic chain tied in loops between his fingers. His focus wasn’t on the plastic toy, however, but rather on the rubix cube that floated about two feet in front of his face, twisting and clicking in midair with nothing but his gaze supporting it. 

Tommy lifted his head, watching the cube as it flipped and spun. It was mesmerizing. If it had been anyone except FuckFace the Mega Villain, it might have been a really cool trick. As it was, Halo looked far more…normal than Tommy had expected. The corps had a few pictures of him, sure, and Tommy had seen him in fights a couple times, but without punches flying and lives on the line, just sitting and fiddling with things, he looked like some random dude. His fluffy, curly brown hair fell over his forehead and almost into his eyes. He was clean shaven, with clear skin and a sharp jawline. He looked more like some coffee shop guitarist than a supervillain, save for the dark coat. That was maybe the only mark of his true character at all. 

Halo looked over as he stirred. The rubix cube halted its twirling. “You awake yet, or no?” 

Tommy rolled his neck and flexed his jaw, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. No point in pretending to be asleep. If shit was going to happen, he wasn’t going to run from it. “More or less, bitch boy,” he grumbled. It came out a lot more gravelly than he’d intended.

Halo snorted, letting the rubix cube fall into his hand. He reached over to a panel on the wall next to the table and pressed something on it. “He’s up,” he told it. He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to some sort of noise. “Yeah. I’ll see you in a sec.” He lifted his finger from the box and faced Tommy again.

Tommy looked back at him through the mesh of his mask. The silence stretched, and Tommy shifted his weight. “So, uh. I’m not dead,” he offered as a way to break the quiet.

“Nope,” the man responded, popping the ‘p’. “We sedated you after the fight so we could get you back here, but we took care of that slash in your leg too, so it evens out, really.”

Tommy looked down. Sure enough, the deep gash in his leg was wrapped with heavier bandages and a soft flex of his thigh let him feel stitches there. He pursed his lips, biting the inside of his cheek. “So you guys wanted me alive.”

Halo grinned at him with entirely too many teeth. “Alive and coherent.” He slid off the table and stood, leaving the toys behind, then started crossing the room toward him without preamble. 

Tommy stiffened, trying to lean back. “Hey–”

“Don’t worry,” Halo sighed, halting next to him. “I’m just checking you over for weapons or injuries again. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Oi, fuck you! Don’t touch me!” Tommy tugged against the metal bands but they didn’t budge. 

Halo scoffed, leaning over him to run his hands up and down Tommy’s limbs a few inches above his skin. His suit lifted under Halo’s powers, tightening and stretching oddly. “Get the fuck off of me,” he snarled.

“Oh, you are in entirely the wrong position to be making demands, you little shit,” Halo replied, voice softer than nightshade, “especially after that fuckery you pulled on us. My ears still hurt.” He stepped back, apparently satisfied that Tommy hadn’t managed to conceal a sword or some shit.

“Good,” Tommy spat. “Serves you fucking right. Next time don’t be villains.”

Halo tilted his head back at that as if shocked, then laughed abruptly, shoulders relaxing a little bit. “Oh, it’s that simple, is it?”

Tommy scowled at him, though unfortunately the mask hid the brunt of the sneer. “Yes. You’re a fucking wrong’un.” 

Halo laughed again, but not in the mocking way that Tommy had expected. He looked delighted. Tommy wanted to slap the expression right off his stupid fucking face. “Well, either way,” he said, moving back onto the table as his mirth subsided, “don’t try any of the shit you did back at the office block. It’s in nobody's interest, yeah? All you’ll do is tire yourself out whilst we leave the room, so…” he shrugged. “Personally, I don’t give a shit. Knock yourself out. I’d love a reason for Ph– Daedalus to be more pissed with you. It would be really fucking funny. But I’ve been instructed to tell you not to, so. Message delivered.”

Well, fuck that. Tommy glared at him, inhaled, and then puffed out a casting. A loud bang went off right next to the man’s ears, making the villain jump. He recovered after only a moment and stared deadpan at Tommy, then shook his head. “Are you done?”

Tommy clenched his teeth. He wanted to spite the man, to make himself vanish, or fill the room with spiders or something, but Halo was right. He hated that he was right, but his common sense agreed. Despite his involuntary nap, he could still feel the exhaustion lurking at the edges of his mind, pressing on him harder from just that small casting. What could he even do? Pretend the chair was empty? They’d know he was still there. Summon nightmares and demons to throw at them? All they had to do was walk through them and they’d dissipate.  

He was fucked. Wearing himself out on a fruitless endeavor would be stupid, emotional, nonstrategic, a voice that sounded like Dream reminded him. Inexperienced mistake. Be better than your emotions. He wouldn’t give in to the urge to scream and fight. He had to stay calm, save his strength for the best moment. He had to keep his head in the game. This was just another test he needed to pass. 

Halo had already turned back to the table. “Want some water?”

Tommy blinked, frowning. Why was his captor, a fucking supervillain, asking him if he wanted water like he was some old friend over for tea? It was a trap, it had to be. “Fuck off.”

Halo opened the mini fridge from a few steps away and caught the bottle that flew from it to his hand. “You sure? It’s not poisoned. You sound pretty parched.”

“Mememememe, it’s not poisoned, says the man on the city’s wanted lists. Fuck off, dickhead.”

Halo sighed, raising an eyebrow. “If we wanted you dead that would be the slowest, dumbest way to do it.”

“Well then it’s drugged or something!” Tommy spluttered. “You’ve spiked it with something to try and get me to talk. That’s fucking disgusting, man. How dare you drug my drink like you’re some dipshit at a bar, that’s fucked up–”

The man rolled his eyes, leaning on the table with one hand. “Again, if it was our plan to drug you, and admittedly, it’s not a bad plan, this is not how we’d do it. We’d just shove it down your throat and leave you to suffer.”

Tommy…didn’t have a response to that.

“But, again,” Halo said lightly, setting the bottle on the table and picking up the chain. “Not our plan. Daedalus has some strange moral compunction against shit like that.”

What the hell was Halo on about? Villains didn’t have fucking morals. It was probably some kind of joke, like they were making light of the ideas of having morals at all. Or, Halo was just straight up lying to him. That was also a very strong possibility. He squinted at the man from behind his mask. “...morals. Right.”

Halo gave him a funny look, but continued. “Yeah. So do you want the water or not? I personally could not give less of a shit if you take it, so. Your call.”

Tommy weighed his options, then shook his head. He’d fucking make do. He didn’t need the water, even if it looked awfully cold and fresh. He’d been through way worse in training. He wasn’t going to cave just because he was a little thirsty. Hell, he’d taken hours of hunger or thirst even with Dream, and that was miles better than training. They’d designed him to be tough, to be the best, and he wouldn’t shame the corps (after failing already ) by asking a supervillain for a sip of water. 

Halo shrugged again, uncapping the bottle and taking a swig. “Suit yourself.”

Tommy tried not to stare at the water. He wasn’t a fucking dog. He looked away as Halo put the bottle down again. “So, what, you’re the good cop?”

“Nah,” Halo said. “I’m just the babysitter on shift. We all took turns while you were out. I’m just unlucky enough to be stuck with you now.”

“Fuck you, I’m excellent company, I’ll have you know. All my wives say so.”

“Do they, now,” Halo deadpanned. 

He was saved from further conversation by the sound of a door opening behind him. Tommy turned as much as he could, wiggling to try and see, but it didn’t do much. Footsteps padded across the mats and a moment later Daedalus and Aeolus entered his field of view, crossing around either side of his chair. He tried not to shiver. Daedalus’s wings shifted as he moved, the mechanical feathers humming and whirring softly. Aeolus’s cloak moved about his ankles as if being tugged by a breeze that only he could feel. Villains were always melodramatic fuckers.

Daedalus had removed his helmet. Instead of the gray and silver shell with the glowing green eyes, Tommy was met with a plain faced, blonde man. Unlike Halo, Daedalus had been known on the world stage before his, ahem, career change. Phil Craft had been a visionary architect and engineer, the founder of the Endlantis company. The profits he’d squirreled away had funded his wingsuit, base of operations, and the various gadgets that had become his mainstays as a villain. Unlike the security camera shots of Halo, Tommy knew Daedalus' face from magazine covers and professional photoshoots. Hell, he'd seen the man on television before he'd gone rogue. That would have been a few years before he was recruited.

“Halo,” Daedalus greeted. “Any troubles?”

Halo shook his head in return, standing up straighter. “Nothing worth noting.”

Tommy swallowed. Maybe he had miscalculated his chances. He had kind of forgotten that he had to deal with more than just Halo. Fuck, maybe he should have tried to fight after all. Shit. Well, too late to do anything about it. He’d just have to endure.

He’d seen some of what the heroes did – what they needed to do – when they had someone to take information from. He’d heard of worse than he’d seen. And, the villains were always worse than the heroes.  

Daedalus hummed, turning to the control panel on the wall. The other two took that as some sort of cue, each moving to stand on either side of Tommy's chair.

He twisted as well as he could, craning his neck to look up first at Halo, who stood on his left, and then Aeolus on his right. God, they were both tall as shit. He tried not to think about the previous night, about Aeolus’s sword slicing through his thigh, or Halo crushing him with the railing of the staircase. "Uh, hey, gents," he offered.

"Shut up.” Aeolus replied. His voice was deep, deeper than his slim frame and angled cheekbones would have suggested, and tinged with disdain. He wasn't even looking at Tommy, just watching Daedalus. Yeah, he was fucked.

Tommy forcibly rolled his eyes, not that they could see it with his mask on, and turned to stare at Halo instead. "So, come here often?" he asked. If he was going to die in horrible agony, he didn't have to take them seriously while doing it, right? Halo glanced at him, one corner of his mouth quirking up, but didn't deign to respond.

The positions that they'd chosen on either side of him were intentional, he was sure. He couldn't see either of them except as shadows in his peripherals unless he turned his head, and that would require him to take his eyes off of Daedalus. No matter where he was looking, he would be unable to see two of the villains. He’d watched Dream do something similar in interrogations, sometimes, but it was different when he was the victim of the tactic. He swallowed, trying to stifle the cold tendrils of fear that had begun to worm through his gut. They were meaning to get down to business.

He glanced between the trio again before focusing on Daedalus. The body language of the other two told him that they considered him the authority figure, at least in this interaction. “I’m not telling you anything,” he stated. His voice didn’t shake, through some benevolent act of god.

Daedalus turned back to him, cocking his head inquisitively. “You don’t even know what we want.” He looked Tommy up and down, eyes like chips of blue ice.

“Doesn’t matter. Not fucking telling you.” Tommy raised his chin.

The villain's lips twisted with disappointment. “Aeolus,” Daedalus directed, settling himself on the edge of the table with his wings spread loosely to either side. “His mask.”

Oh, shit. Tommy twisted his head away on reflex as the man’s massive hand came toward him, only to be caught by Halo’s palm on the other side. “Oh, fuck you, dickheads!” he yelled. This was not good. This was not fucking good! Logically, he hadn’t really thought that they would let him get away with keeping his mask on, but that didn’t prepare him for the visceral panic that clawed at him as the two men on either side of him pinned his head back and tugged at the cloth. Identities were a big fucking deal. They’d had whole boot camps dedicated to defending their masked faces. Heros had died to protect their faces and the faces of their apprentices, and these fuckers were going to just pull his mask off and stare at him like he was a zoo animal. He wanted to scream or shout or bite them. They had him pinned like a butterfly to a board, but he had to do something. He gasped in a breath as the cloth lifted and exhaled it just as fast, throwing a hastily made casting up like a parasol before a hurricane. 

He expected it to shatter, to dissolve into curls of mist and leave his face bare to the room. He’d barely had anything to put in it, but he held on as hard as he could. But, through luck or sheer spite, the casting twisted and wavered and then caught, settling over his features as his mask was pulled away. He hadn’t had a clear thought when he formed it, and it had manifested as swirling white-gray clouds that flowed over his face. He wiggled his eyebrows and nose, testing it, and it held, shifting to accommodate. He could feel it settling there, lightly touching  his lips and eyelashes, needing only a few drops of his power at a time to maintain. He grinned to himself. Take that. 

There was a hand gripping his hair suddenly and his head was wrenched back, colliding with the back of the chair. Halo stared down at him, metal shapes frozen in arcs above his head and his face only a few scant inches from Tommy’s own. “Drop the clouds,” the man growled.

Tommy’s stomach lurched with fear but he fought to maintain control. He’d surprised them. He still had a scrap of power in this exchange. He met the villain's eyes through the wispy mask. “No.”

“Oh, leave it, mate,” Daedalus sighed, and after a moment Halo released him. “If he wants to sap his own strength, let him. His face isn’t what’s important here and forcing him on that is a waste of our time.”

Tommy brought his head back to level, working his jaw. His scalp ached from Halo’s grip on his hair. His head ached, too, just sort of in general, but he ignored it. A headache was the last fucking thing he had to worry about.

Halo was still for a moment, then bobbed his head in acknowledgement and retreated. The bronze shapes around his head were spinning faster than they had been before, and while his face was cool and stonily neutral, his eyes burned with something deadly. 

Tommy looked away from him as Daedalus spoke again. “That being said, you are going to tell us what we want.” He didn’t phrase it as a threat, just a statement. Tommy’s stomach flipped again. That kind of surety was… a bad sign.

“And what exactly is that?” he asked cautiously. Maybe he could lie, or give a half truth, enough for them to believe him. Maybe then they’d make his death shorter.

Because, after all, there was no way he was getting out of this. He’d known it intellectually from the moment Dream had called honor to him. Dead as a distraction, or dead as he ran, or, apparently, dead in a chair in the villains basement, protecting the corps. It was okay, he told himself. He wasn’t scared of it. He shouldn’t be, couldn’t be scared of it. Every apprentice knew there was a chance they could one day end up in this situation, or one like it, either as apprentices or heroes. He would die for the good of the corps, because any other member would do it too. It was drilled in. He didn’t have to be scared of it. 

He was a big enough man to admit that he was still scared, though. Scared of the pain that would have to come first. Scared of never seeing Tubbo or Ranboo or Eryn or Freddie again. Scared of disappointing Dream, of the man being angry at him, even though he would never see him again. Scared of whatever would come Next. He was scared enough to set his legs trembling if he thought about it too hard. So that was the trick. He just had to not think about it too hard. Maybe at all.

Daedalus tipped his head in an acknowledgement. “We want to know what you know. Everything the heroes know about us and about other villains. We want to know if they’re planning any big moves and what they are. If you can’t give us that, tell us about the hero accommodations complex. Layouts, populations, defenses. That sort of thing. And, identities. Names and descriptions. Maybe benefactors.” Daedalus hesitated, taking a breath, then pursed his lips. “I’m not an unkind man, mate,” he said, almost gently, “and I don’t want to see you hurt. But–” his voice hardened “-- I have no reservations against it if it’s necessary. Do you understand?”

Tommy swallowed, working moisture back into his mouth, and glanced up at Aeolus and Halo. He found no mercy in Aeolus’s eyes; the man just stared back at him, brown eyes cold and barren of sympathy. Halo, though, glanced away, refusing to meet his eyes. His mouth had drawn a little tighter, and he kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Daedalus’s chest. However, he didn’t voice any dissent. 

“Well?” Daedalus asked. Tommy refocused on him. “What will it be?”

Tommy chewed the inside of his lip, trying to think it through. If that was what they wanted to know…he couldn’t lie about that. Even a carefully crafted lie would have threads of truth in it, or it would be seen through instantly. It was too much of a risk. He lifted his chin and shook his head. He wouldn’t let them see his fear. “I can’t tell you any of that,” he said. “Besides,” he added hastily, clutching at one last thread, “I’m just an apprentice. They don’t let me near any of the really important things.” That was true, to an extent. There were whole wings of the Headquarters that he’d never seen, and he didn’t know jack shit about the benefactors or whatever Daedalus had meant by that. Identities, however, were tricky. He didn’t know much about Dream or NotFound or Sapnap, but he’d seen them and many of the other heroes without their masks.

Halo scoffed. “Oh, right, sorry, yeah. An apprentice . I forgot.” The man sounded almost bitter, and Tommy frowned. Why was he so hostile about it? It was true. His suit was the standard cut and form of all the apprentices, designed to protect them but be distinct from the hero outfits. The corps made sure that apprentices couldn’t be mistaken for heroes, even in the heat of battle. 

“Even apprentices would know the inside of the Headquarters,” Aeolus growled.

He was opening his mouth to deny it when he remembered. Aeolus used to work for the corps. He was double fucked. Aeolus may have quit before apprentices were fully phased in but he would have a very good idea of what sorts of things they would know. Oh fuck. Anything he said, anything at all untrue, might be something Aeolus would know. He had no way to tell what the man knew and what had changed since he’d left. His stomach curled into a tiny, unpleasant ball. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just shook his head.

“No?” Daedalus asked, tone dripping with disappointment.  “Right, fine. Boys,” he gestured to the other two villains.

Without any more warning than that, Tommy’s chair lifted off the ground and flipped, putting him head first five feet above the ground. Even with the mats, with the full weight of his body and the chair and no way to catch himself, that was going to hurt. He squawked indignantly, ready to curse Halo with every word he had ever learned, but as he tried to speak, the air was gone from his lungs. It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak. The air was gone. 

He gasped, trying to inhale. There was nothing. His mouth worked on nothing, lungs trying to expand on nothing. 

Next to him, Aeolus had his fist clenched, holding something invisible. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Halo, hold it steady. Don’t let it shift at all.”

Tommy tried to force down the panic, the sheer animal instinct of run, run, swim, fight, hide, can’t breathe, dying, but it was a losing battle. He was an apprentice, he was supposed to be able to control any instinct, fight through any fear. He tried to remember his training, anything he could use, but the fear drowned it all. He thrashed his limbs against the metal bonds, feeling the metal dig into his skin. He couldn’t break free, he couldn’t run. He was trapped, trapped without air . He was going to die. His head twisted back and forth, searching for air that was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t like holding his breath for a little too long at the pool, or diving under without enough air and knowing that he had to surface before he could inhale. No, he could try to inhale all he wanted, but there was nothing there. His mind was nothing but a blaring scream of dangerdangerdangerdanger deathdeathdeathdeath. He had no air to exhale, and his frantic attempts at casting died in his throat. 

He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. There was something touching his face, his eyes and his lips, it was in the way, he had to breathe, he needed air, he had to breathe, he had to get rid of it–

Before he realized he’d done it, the mask of clouds dissolved. He thrashed, squeezing his eyes shut. He was going to die.

There was air back in his lungs. 

He heaved, wheezing, choking and coughing as his body reeled. There was air back in his lungs, filling his mouth and nose. He coughed again, gasping, eyes screwed shut. His chair was back on the ground. He hadn’t noticed. His lungs burned as his body fought to catch up. He could breathe again . Whatever he’d been expecting, torture or pain or starvation or, or whatever shit they came up with, it hadn’t been that. 

The corps had done several different kinds of breath holding drills, from being trapped underwater to being held underwater to fighting in rooms filled with gasses or smoke. He had apparently been genetically gifted in the lungs department because he’d generally had enough breath capacity to pass with flying colors. But being underwater or knowing that breathing was a bad idea was nothing compared to literally having the air sucked from his lungs and being unable to breathe. 

Leave it to the villains to come up with something that the heroes simply wouldn’t even think of.

His body was still fighting to catch up, inhales and exhales practically overlapping as he slumped forward, gulping air.

The corps had taken pride in teaching the apprentices how to overcome instinct and reflex. As an apprentice, Tommy had needed to face fears he hadn’t even known he had, and face them until they were wholly scraped from his brain. Every apprentice that graduated had to be ready for active duty, and on the field, panic meant death. But, those few seconds, or however long it had really been, had ignited a level of primal fear that he thought had been scrubbed from his mind years ago. Holy fuck.

His hands were shaking in the metal cuffs, fingers trembling and pale as he fought to get himself back under control. He clenched them, forcing his lungs to slow their labored panting. Control the breath to calm the mind, and the body will follow after, he recited to himself. In for two, hold for two. Out for two, hold for two. Over a few cycles, the tension in his chest began to ease. 

“That was a dick move, man,” he wheezed once his composure was half-restored. 

Nobody said anything. 

He blinked his eyes back open, looking around. Were they fucking with him? Were they waiting for him to start spilling information? Were– oh. Huh. The villains were clustered around him, no longer spread off to the sides out of his view. They were staring at him with open shock on their faces. Halo had a hand pressed to his mouth, eyes blown wide. The metal shapes around his head lay scattered on the floor where they had fallen without Tommy’s notice. Aeolus’ jaw was clenched, set in a hard line, and his eyes scanned Tommy up and down. One hand was clenched in a fist over his sword hilt. Tommy gulped. Only Daedalus still looked composed. He was frowning, blond eyebrows knitted together and head tilted as if he simply couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

Tommy glanced between the three of them. He knew that there would have been some display of emotion regarding his face. It was a major victory for them, after all. He’d expected them to gloat, to act all satisfied and shit. He had not expected them to be staring at him like he was a three legged horse begging for circus scraps. He licked his lips. “What, am I just that ugly, or something?” he ventured. 

“Oh my god,” Halo breathed, voice cracking. “Tell me that’s another mask. Tell me that’s a fucking mask.”

What the fuck?

“It’s not,” Aeolus growled. “I could feel it when he made somethin’ last time. I don’t feel anythin’ here.”

Tommy looked between the two of them again. “The fuck are you on about?” 

Daedalus was still just staring at him, looking troubled. 

“There’s no way he’s over eighteen,” Halo muttered, his hand dragging down his face and then moving back up to rest on his cheek. 

Well, that was just downright offensive, even if it happened to be true. “Hey, fuck you!” Tommy gave him his best glare. It was the one he’d gotten good at when Billzo had been in the latest of his Dumbass Phases. It was an absolutely killer glare. “How dare you, I’m–”

“Kid–” Daedalus tried to forestall him, raising a hand.

Tommy didn’t give a shit. If they were going to sit there all high and mighty and bully him the least he could do would be to return the favor. Not like it could get him in a worse situation than the one he was already in, right? “--biggest fucking man, thank you very much, not an old piece of shit like you lot–”

“Kid.” 

“--fucking dic- deck- decrepit, all crusty and shit–”

“ Kid. ” Daedalus’ wings flared and then mantled, rasping and rattling over the whir of the electronics, and Tommy nearly bit his tongue with how fast his mouth snapped shut. The room went silent. Daedalus stared at him, face stony. 

Tommy shrunk back in the chair as much as the bonds allowed him to. Okay, so maybe pissing off the supervillains wasn’t a good plan after all!  They had just almost strangled him to death a few minutes ago. How the fuck did he forget that? He was fucking stupid some of the time. He bit his lips between his teeth. Maybe they wouldn’t use his outburst as reason to fuck with him more. God, they did not have any kind of attachment to him or responsibility for him, not like Dream did, and Dream had gotten pissed at him for a lot less than that. He was a fucking dunce to push his luck like that.

“How old are you?” Daedalus asked, as calmly as the frozen surface of a river.

Tommy hesitated. On the one hand, this was a piece of information that he could give up without much in the way of ramifications. His face was already exposed, so his name and age wouldn’t be far behind. On the other hand, he hated the thought of giving them anything. They were villains. His whole job was to make sure they didn’t have an easy time of it. What kind of a fucking disgrace would he be if he just started blabbing confidential information to the first people to ever take him captive?

Daedalus took a step forward, not looking away. “How. Old. Are. You.”

Tommy flinched – weak – then lifted his chin. “Fifteen.” He wasn’t ashamed of it. If anything, he was proud. He was one of the younger apprentices, but he’d earned his place. 

“What?” Halo whispered. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“You’re fifteen? ” Aeolus asked in the same moment, voice shrill. 

Tommy nodded slowly. What the fuck was happening? Why were they acting so shocked? Was there something odd about being fifteen that he didn’t realize? Sure, the villains and the full heroes were older than that, but they were acting like he’d proven the sky was green and all banks were using chocolate coins.

Halo turned, coat flaring, and pressed a few things into the panel on the wall. There was a beat of silence, in which he glanced back and forth between Tommy and the screen a few times, before the panel beeped and flashed something. Halo turned back, looking sick to his stomach. “Tommy, formerly Tom Simons, first sighted on field duty last February. Recruited at age twelve…three years ago.”

Daedalus looked away, staring into the middle distance towards the far wall, eyebrows still knitted.

Well, fuck. They had some kind of access to hero files, or at least knowledge of recruited kids. That was bad. There was no use denying what Halo had said, he was sure. His gut twisted. How many other apprentices did they know about? How many of his friends were in danger? He kicked the dull pit of worry into a box and locked it. He would figure out how to help them, but he wouldn’t let his fear show on his face. Instead, he waved back at Halo as well as he could with his wrists pinned. “That’s me.”

Aeolus had his arms crossed in front of him, one hand gripping his bicep and the other tucked tight against his side. “We’ve been fighting teenagers,” he said eventually, eyes unfocused.

Daedalus tipped his head back. “Fuck.”

“Yeaaah, bitch,” Tommy said. He wasn’t quite sure why they were being so weird but he wasn’t about to question it. The villains were thrown off balance. Maybe he could leverage it somehow. People were more likely to make mistakes when they were upset, or at least that was what Dream had said. What was the worst that would happen if he pushed his luck? They’d kill him? They were going to do that anyway, eventually. He had to try something. “You got your ass beat by teenagers!” he crowed, forcing a grin onto his face. “How does it feel, bitch? Bitch boy!”

Halo was staring at Tommy with a very strange expression. It almost looked like pity, but why the fuck would a villain be pitying him? It was probably some weird villain-y thing that Tommy was too awesome to ever have experienced. Until now. Daedalus stepped back far enough to lean against the table, staring at the floor. “How old are the other apprentices?” he asked quietly. 

Tommy looked between them all again. Ages…ages weren’t enough to identify people, right? Maybe he could use the situation after all. Some kind of a strange give and take. If he told them about the apprentices' ages, they wouldn’t ask him the ones he couldn't answer. It still didn’t answer the question about why it was surprising them, though. “It varies,” he replied slowly. “I’m on the younger end but there’s some younger than me. It’s rare to see an apprentice older than 18, though. If we, y’know.” He bobbed his head vaguely. “If we make it that far, we’re usually experienced enough to Name ourselves and join as full heroes.” 

Halo sat down on the floor, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he whispered. Aeolus’ arms clenched in their folded position. There was rage building behind his eyes like a thunderhead. Tommy carefully avoided his eyes. Dream had looked like that once. Tommy had no desire to repeat that experience. His arm itched where the bruise had long since faded. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it, though. He had to press on if he had any hope of learning anything. “How did you guys not know this?” he queried. “Heroes recruit kids as soon as they develop powers. Surely you fuckin’ know this? As soon as we prove to be field capable we’re put on the field. That’s how it works. They’ve been up front about that, it’s fucking– everywhere.” Were the villains really that out of touch, that they’d never seen the posters and the advertisements? The friendly-faced recruiters that went to all the schools and tested kids for their aptitudes? It was somewhat recent, he guessed; they’d only started active recruiting about five years ago. But even so. Were they truly that oblivious?

Halo had both hands in his hair now, elbows resting on his knees. Tommy couldn’t see his face. The wind in Aeolus’ cape had strengthened, making it flare and twist. 

“We had always thought,” Daedalus spoke carefully, “that the heroes were stretching the truth in that regard, in an attempt to make criminals not fight as hard.”

“Yeah.” Halo’s voice dripped with bitterness. “We’d thought, oh, the hero corps think they’re the good guys, surely they won’t use child fucking soldiers .”

“Wil,” Daedalus cautioned, but it was half-hearted at best. 

“We, we thought that active duty meant patrols, or meant tiny, minor things,” Halo continued. “We thought, surely! Surely they’re not fucking sending kids into this shit!”

“Wilbur,” Daedalus repeated, and Tommy blinked at the use of his real name. 

Halo settled again, breathing uneven.

Tommy shook his head. “Yeah, no. Uh. No. There’s not a minimum age for an apprentice to be on the field, and active duty is anything that a mentor decides it is.” He shrugged. “It’s how it is, innit? More crime means they need more heroes.”

“That’s not–” Halo cut off with a growl, standing up again. “That’s not ‘how it is.’ That’s fucked. That’s fucked up! Training kids, sure, making sure they’re safe and teaching them gently how to use their powers, great. But, fuck, man. They’re– they’re responsible for these kids! They’re supposed to keep them safe but instead they’re using kids as soldiers .”

Tommy bit the inside of his lip. How the fuck did they really not know this? If it was this big of a deal then they should have gone to the fucking trouble to find out! But he wasn’t even sure it was that big of a deal. The corps were doing everything they should do. They were teaching kids to use their powers. That was a good thing. Training was good . It was designed to help them! Field work was a necessity, and it was a necessity they were trained for. It was fine! As long as they didn’t die, it was fine. Some people died, but– they died for good reasons. Unless they didn’t. But that was all how it should be!

“I mean, the rest of the world has laws against this shit for a reason,” Halo continued. He pushed himself up to standing, brushing a hand across his scalp. “That’s fucked up! They– they sent kids into the equivalent of fucking war zones!”

Tommy frowned. He’d never heard of laws against children doing things before. He hadn’t exactly been well versed in anything like that before the heroes picked him, but that would have come up at some point. Right? Then the rest of Halo’s points caught up to him. “Well, who’s fucking fault is it then, huh?” Tommy sputtered. “Who’s fault is it that there are war zones to begin with? Who’s fault is it that the heroes are spread too thin to protect people? Huh? Who’s fucking fault is it?” How dare Halo sit there and complain when he and the villains were the reason the hero corps had been created in the first place? “The heroes are trying to help people. They’re doing their fucking best for the common good.”

Halo shook his head, shoulders hunching under his coat and hair falling partially into his eyes. “That doesn’t change what they’re doing,” he spat. 

Halo was looking for reasons to justify going after the heroes, Tommy realized. “The hero corps is a fucking necessity! Heroes are the last line of defense between society and, and chaos! Evil! So, yeah, I think they’re fucking justified in doing whatever’s fucking required. If the streets are a war zone then they need a fucking army,” he snarled. “You and the rest of the fucking villains hurt people. You take their lives and their livelihoods from them. You break their property and take their money and you don’t fucking care who you hurt. They care about people. All they–  all we want to keep people safe. So we do what we fucking have to.” He realized how far forward he was leaning in his chair, arms trying to lift against the metal bands, and forced himself to settle back into the seat. “It’s an honor to serve,” he told Halo, not breaking eye contact. 

Halo glared at him, closing the distance between them by a step. “How can they really care about people if they’re sending children into active combat? Huh?” He spread one hand in a terse mockery of invitation. “How can they fucking care?” he cried. “It seems pretty goddamn selfish to me. They’d do it themselves if they cared even a little bit about their supposed goals of keeping people safe.”

“The hero corps is the last thing from selfish, you prick!” he yelled back. Halo was the most egotistical bastard he’d ever fucking met. “And we aren’t fucking children!” Tommy didn’t care that he was shouting. “Nobody comes out of training as a fucking child no matter how old you are when you go in. I’m not fucking weak. They don’t just push us into the field without any tools. They train us so that we can serve and protect and help. ”

Halo rocked back as he spoke, then recovered. “They train you?” He quirked an eyebrow, though out of mockery or intrigue Tommy didn’t know. “What kind of shit–”

Tommy didn’t even wait for the man to finish. He didn’t care what he was going to say. The heroes were right, they had to be right, and he wouldn’t just sit there and let a villain walk all over him when he was part of the fucking problem in the first place. “Yes they fucking train us,” he snapped. “From day one they get us ready for the hellscape that you and the rest of the people like you created. We learned our powers as fast as we fucking could because they were what could save us. They made it hard, because we knew that active duty would be harder.” 

Halo opened his mouth but Tommy didn’t let him speak. He leaned as far forward as he could again, letting his voice quiet from a yell to something far more deadly. “Unlike the villains, they never killed us,” he seethed. “They hurt us, and they scared us, and then they picked us up and put us back on our feet and told us to ‘do better next time’ and we fucking did, because it’s always better to be hurt in training than on the field where it actually matters.” His voice broke but he didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care anymore. “Yeah, some of us fall, and some of us don’t come back, but it’s their fault, not the corps! They give us all the tools we need and if I can’t use them right then that’s my own fucking fault. They…they gave us all the tools we were supposed to need.”

He let himself fall back in the chair, lips twisting. “I’m not a fucking child, Wilbur Soot,” he sneered, relishing the way the man startled at the use of his name. “I’ve been through more hell since I was recruited than you’ve probably ever seen in your cushy, entitled, privileged life. I’ve been hurt. I’ve patched up my friend’s wounds. I learned to follow orders because it’s an honor to serve. We’re doing the right thing, we’re helping people , and that’s what matters. You cause problems and we have to fix them.” He felt a laugh rise in his throat and didn't bother stifling it. It tasted bitter on his tongue. “It doesn’t matter how we fucking feel! It doesn’t fucking matter that Tubbo can’t sleep without nightmares, and that Eryn almost lost his hand, and that we all have fucking scars. The heroes are doing what they have to. We’re doing what we have to. This is– it makes sense! It’s the only fucking choice, and it– it makes sense! Our mentors– they care about us. They fucking care. They wouldn’t hurt us if they didn’t have to. So if my mentor leaves me to fucking die then–” He cut off, blinking hard. His nose felt like it was stuffing up. His chest ached. “--then I’ll follow the plan because they’re doing what they have to.” 

There was a moment of deathly quiet. The fury remaining in his mouth, mixed with a tinge of misery, swirled down into his chest and settled comfortably there, stretching into all the unused corners.

“Right, that’s enough,” Daedalus said. Tommy jumped, looking away from Halo, and the tension shattered. “We’re done here.” Daedalus’s wings were mantled and twitching against his back. His face was glacier cold, unmoving. 

Tommy inhaled, exhaustion lining his throat and infecting the oxygen in his lungs. He’d forgotten the other heroes were there. 

Oh, god. 

He’d forgotten the other heroes were there. He’d lost track of his surroundings. He’d let emotion get the better of him. 

How much had he just revealed? How many secrets had he given away, just because they had goaded him into talking? Oh, fucking shit. He’d failed not once but twice . Getting captured was bad enough; giving up information was worse.

“-- him to a guest room while we arrange things,” Daedalus was saying. “I trust you can handle that much without our supervision?”

Halo broke his gaze away from Tommy long enough to nod jerkily. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.” The two shared a look for a moment that Tommy couldn’t decipher. 

“Good.” Daedalus placed a hand on Halo’s shoulder then retreated out of Tommy’s field of view. Aeolus had already left sometime without Tommy noticing.

He couldn’t remember everything that he’d said. How could he have been so stupid , to let the villains goad him into revealing so much? He might have just sentenced his friends to death for his own childish mistakes. His lungs felt too tight. He’d slipped. He’d made the mistake he never should have made. God, they’d never forgive him. They’d turn their backs on him. They’d hate him. Well, Tubbo might not. Tubbo would forgive him for almost anything, but that didn’t mean he deserved it. For this, they’d all be in the right to want him dead.

Not that what they wanted mattered. He’d already fucked up. He’d hammered the nails into their coffins himself, and he’d be the first to be buried. He’d told the villains what they wanted. He’d been stupid, thoughtless, childish enough to answer their questions. No more reasons to leave him alive. He clenched his teeth, trying to keep his breath even.

There was the sound of a door shutting. He snapped his head back up, focusing on the room again. The other two had left. He and Halo were alone. Oh, God, Halo was going to be the one to kill him. A bit of poetic justice, he thought, borderline hysterically. He was the one who got me to answer. He’s the one who gets to kill me for it. 

Halo regarded him for a moment, then shook his head. “If I let you out, are you going to try and attack me?” He’d backed up a few steps, half-sitting on the table, hunched forward slightly with his fingers splayed across the edge.

Tommy blinked. Huh? “Wh– what?” He hated how weak his voice sounded. 

“I don’t feel like carrying the chair and you, or you at all, for that matter. So. If I let you out, are you going to try and kill me?”  

Tommy stared at him, trying to wrestle his thoughts back into order. Halo wasn’t…ordering him, or threatening. He wasn’t gloating, or vindictive, or triumphant in the face of Tommy’s glaring fuck-ups. What the hell was Halo’s angle? God, the man looked vaguely apologetic , of all things. It didn’t make any sense. Nothing made any sense. He’d fucked up, and everything was going wrong, and he couldn’t think enough to get out of it. If Halo was feigning an emotion, why would it be that one? “That– uh, it depends,” he stuttered after a moment. When you get asked a question, you better hurry up and fucking answer it, boy. No, he wasn’t supposed to answer their questions, was he? He was, he was supposed to fight it. His hands ached. He glanced down at them, then forced them to release their white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair. His breathing kept trying to tangle up and choke him. He was supposed to be fucking fighting them. He lifted his chin. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” Halo replied calmly, almost gently. The hostility, the tension, the bitterness and mockery, everything that Tommy had seen of him from earlier had faded away like water sinking through sand. “I’m going to take you to a room where you can rest and sleep and shit without being strapped to this fucking chair.”

Tommy flickered his eyes over the man, looking for any sign that he was lying. How did he sound so fucking sincere? There was no way in hell the villains were going to keep him alive, let alone leave him somewhere unsupervised. It was…it had to be a trap. Right? “What’s the catch?” It had to be a trap. Halo couldn’t really mean any of this. 

“Uh. No real catch,” the man shrugged one shoulder, eyes flitting from Tommy’s forehead to his hands and back. “If you try to escape, we bring you back. Other than that, yeah. No real catch. Food, water, a bed. It’s not– yeah.”

He gritted his teeth. Why was Halo making it so damn hard for him? Why was he trying to trick him like this? Hadn’t he just gotten what he wanted? Tommy had just spilled his fucking guts, made a mistake anyone should have been able to avoid. He’d failed at the most basic part of his training. God, it was all so fucking much. He felt like he was clinging onto composure like a rope on a waterfall; any tiny slip and his own mind would push him over the precipice to be battered on the rocks below. He just had to keep fucking hanging on until he had the space to figure it out. Strapped to a chair with villains around him was not that space.

Halo didn’t seem like he was lying. He wasn’t grinning, or being sarcastic, or shifting around at the very least, so fuck it. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe the villains were going to leave him alone for a while as some kind of pressure tactic, a fucked up dance of minds as they tried to force him back into failure. Maybe they wanted to ransom him back to the heroes. Whatever their fucking deal was, he was done giving a shit. If they left him alone for long enough to him to stuff all his emotions back into their fucking cabinets, he’d take it. Tommy flexed his wrists against the bonds, avoiding Halo’s gaze, then nodded. “I’ll play nice if you do,” he muttered. 

Halo hesitated, then nodded back. “Right, here we go then.” Halo stepped closer, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and gestured with his hands. The bands around his arms and ankles un-bent themselves, pulling back and away as if they were made of paper. He pulled his arms up to his chest as he stood, massaging his wrists. He could feel his heartbeat under his skin. He was still alive, for whatever that meant to him. For whatever that meant to anyone, anymore.  

He just had to keep hanging on. He was fine.

Halo stepped back as soon as Tommy stood, watching him carefully. Tommy glared at him, then looked away. He wasn’t avoiding eye contact, he was just – surveying his surroundings. Staying alert.

Halo led the way out of the room and Tommy followed him, their feet padding across the foam training mats and out into the wood floored hallway. He just…followed him, a few feet behind, like a fucking dog. There was no way for him to fight, he reminded himself. It was the smart option, but he still felt like a coward. He should be fighting, he should be hissing and spitting and yelling and kicking Halo’s ass but instead he was here, trailing along with his shoulders too tense and his breathing too shaky and his arms too tightly crossed, holding the threads of himself together with the pressure. He was a coward, appeasing the villains to try and make it hurt less for himself. 

He just had to hold on. One foot after the other. Deep breaths. Control the breath to fucking control the shit, whatever the fuck the thingy was. It was fine! He was fine. He was handling it.

God, what would Tubbo think of him? Tubbo was one of the strongest of their bunch, even if he didn’t often show it. Tubbo…Tubbo was always that slight edge stronger than him, more focused, more driven, able to carry so much without ever showing the weight. 

Tubbo would do that Tubbo thing that he did, where he smiled and nodded and forgave. He wouldn’t look away from Tommy in disgust or fill his gaze with scalding pity. He’d tell Tommy to keep going, reassure him that he was doing his best, that he was being smart and keeping himself safe. Tubbo would forgive him, no matter how badly Tommy fucked shit up. This time he knew he didn’t deserve it.

His breathing hitched again and he clenched his jaw. Halo turned another corner and Tommy followed him, nearly clipping his shoulder on the wall 

He’d revealed so much. So, so much. Their training regimes, at the very least. He’d said a few names, too, hadn’t he. God, he was so stupid. He shouldn’t have made that kind of mistake. He was better than that. Dream would be so angry at him. God, Dream. All he ever fucking tried to do was to make his mentor proud. That was how he knew he was doing something good, when Dream smiled or agreed or told him to ‘keep up the good work.’ Dream had gone through it all before him, after all. He was one of the strongest heroes and he’d chosen to take Tommy under his wing. Tommy was supposed Instead, he’d failed. Again. Dream would be so angry with him. It was always worse when Dream was angry. He’d avoided it as much as possible. But this time not even he could deny that he deserved it. 

Of course, all of that went under the assumption that he would even see Dream again. That wasn’t likely. He was still trapped, captured by the villains and entirely at their mercy. He was still fucking trapped. He couldn’t do anything about it.

He pushed that thought away as much as he could. He wasn’t trapped. He was walking. His arms were free, curled around his chest. He tapped his fingers in an unsteady beat, just to feel them move. 

He was just– tired of it all. There was no end in sight. He was trapped. He was going to have to do this shit again, every day, dance back and forth with the villains until they slit his throat or left him to starve. He could feel it all stretching out before him, the weight of those new daily prospects settling across his shoulders like a barbed yoke. Sit in a chair, try to play their fucking games, fail, break, shatter , tell them more. Sit in a chair, ignore their games, get hurt for it, resist, fail, break, shatter, try and put his pieces back together. Sit, resist, fail, break. Again, and again. Dying a half-death every day, only to be dragged back to the torment again.

His breathing stuttered in his lungs and he forced himself away from the edge of panic. He just had to hold on a few more minutes. 

Why did it have to fucking be him? Other teenagers got to, to go to school. They got to have friends, and families, and bean bag chairs instead of hard metal, and homework instead of drills and trainings, and god, he just wanted that. He didn’t want to be hurt. He’d never wanted to be hurt. He never wanted to be wiping his own blood off the ground or pressing cold packs against his friends' bruises. He didn’t want to fucking hurt. He didn’t want this. 

Traitor once already, now traitor again, his mind hissed at him. He couldn’t– he was an apprentice. This was what he was supposed to be. This was his duty. God, he was pathetic. How could he want to run from duty? He was– he was helping people. That was their whole job. He wasn’t a coward, so why was everything in him screaming for him to run from his purpose?

He dug his fingers into his side, letting the almost-pain keep him from sinking into the whirlpool that threatened to drag him under. One foot after the other, following Halo’s dark coat and soft footsteps. 

Tommy shook himself out of his thoughts as they stopped in front of a plain door made of heavy wood. Stupid, stupid; he had been too wrapped up in his thoughts to pay attention to where they were going. Halo had been leading him through their lair, or house, or wherever this was, completely unblindfolded and he hadn’t paid attention at all. That could have been a chance for him to plot an escape route, or gather information to bring back to Dream, and instead he’d wasted it on his own weakness. He didn’t deserve to be a fucking apprentice.

“Okay, here we are.” Halo pulled a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the deadbolt on the door. Well. So much for escape plans, anyway. He turned the knob and swung the door open – out into the hallway, no way to barricade from the inside – before standing aside to let Tommy in. 

Tommy hadn’t spent a lot of time building an expectation of what would be awaiting him, but he’d assumed it would be the bare essentials. A low cot, a thin blanket, maybe a basin of water. Concrete floors, no windows, lights set into the ceiling. A place made to wear down the person who inhabited it. That was what the cells at the hero corps had been like. That was what solitary had been like, the one time he fucked up during training in a way that deserved it. 

Instead, he was met with a suite that would have been in a movie set. He stepped inside, feeling his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. A small plush sofa sat near the door, facing a television on the far wall. There was a squat coffee table in the middle, with a tissue box and a bowl of some colorful candy placed neatly on top. A large bed with navy blue blankets was pushed into the corner, next to a dresser and a door that looked like it led to a bathroom. Most surprisingly of all, wide windows allowed sunlight to filter through the limbs of trees outside and paint patterns on the floor and bedspread. 

This was a prisoner's cell? What the fuck? Were the villains really that fucking naive? There were so many ways he could make a weapon, so many ways he could escape. He could use the remote as a club, smash the bowl and grab the pieces, tie sheets into lines and ropes, scatter candies on the floor to trip over. How fast could he flip the table to use as a barricade? Would it be enough to cover him and Tubbo, or would they have to split up–

Except, no; it was just him. God, was he really that fucked up, that he couldn’t see a room without thinking of how it could hurt him, or how he could hurt others with it? But wasn’t it good that he could do that? Why the fuck did it have to be him? He was just a fifteen year old kid. He wasn’t anything different. Why was it him? Why wasn’t he strong enough? Why wasn’t he smart enough? Why did he keep getting hurt when he tried to do everything right? Why couldn’t he fucking fix anything, if all he could do was think about how everything was falling apart, think about every fucking thing that had ever happened to him? Why wasn’t he good enough?

It was all just...too much. He wanted Halo to fuck off and leave him alone so he could have a nice peaceful breakdown and then shove all his emotions back into the rusted filing cabinets in the corners of his mind and get back to work. He just had to wait until Halo closed the door. He could make it. He just had to breathe and not think. He walked carefully to the bed and sat down, pressing his fingers against the mattress.

Halo was tapping some things on a panel next to the door, similar to the one that had been on the wall of the training room. “Okay,” he said. “So this is where you’re staying. The door and windows are alarmed, so if you touch them or try to open them, the whole house will know. There is also a camera,” he gestured vaguely toward a corner of the ceiling, “because we want to make sure you aren’t doing anything stupid, but, listen, none of us are here to, like, spy on you. Uh.” 

Tommy pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, staring at a point somewhere next to Halo’s sternum. He wasn’t sure he could handle looking the man in the eyes if he happened to turn around. He wrapped his arms around his legs and gripped tightly, focusing on the pressure. Hold it together. He was fine. He was okay. He was thinking about how his hands felt on his shins, and not about every hurt that the hero corps had ever etched into his bones. He was not thinking about that. He bit the inside of his cheek to feel the sting. Control the breath to calm the mind. He forced himself to inhale, slowly, and release it.

“There’s a remote for the tv in one of the drawers,” Halo continued, oblivious to his turmoil. “It’s not internet connected and physically can’t do that, so don’t bother trying to hack it or something. Feel free to, uh, slurp from the tap in the sink if you get really thirsty, but we’ll bring you food and water later.” The man turned back to face him. “That’s about it, I–” he cut himself off, looking at Tommy. Tommy flicked a glance at his face, then away. He wasn’t thinking about anything. He didn’t need any fucking pity. He was not thinking. His head was empty. He was just breathing. He was fine. Halo pulled the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed it for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Then he took a step closer. “Hey, Tommy,” he began.

Please don’t ask if I’m okay, Tommy mentally begged, squeezing his eyes shut. Please don’t fucking ask. Don’t do it. Just fuck off. Don’t ask me if I’m okay.

“You okay, kid?” Halo’s voice was soft, almost gentle except for how completely out of his depth he sounded.

And the dam broke. Tommy pressed his face into his knees, trying to catch the suddenly welling tears on the cloth of his uniform. He felt his throat tighten and tensed his shoulders, trying to keep them from shaking. 

“Aw, fuck,” Halo muttered. There was a sound of something shifting, a few footsteps, and then he felt the other end of the bed dip as Halo sat on it. 

He dug his fingers harder into his calves. This was not fucking okay. He was trapped in a room with Halo, a supervillain, who had helped kidnap him and tried to torture him for information not half an hour ago. He didn’t want to cry in front of the man. He was supposed to be strong, the brave apprentice who gave no ground and took no mercy. Instead, here he was, sniveling into his knees like a toddler with his feelings hurt. God, he felt so small. 

A hand touched his shoulder gently and Tommy twitched. The hand retreated slightly, then settled on his shoulder, warm and solid, not gripping or grasping or forceful, just a steady touch. Comforting. Concerned. When was the last time someone had done that? When he and the other apprentices had scraped moments together to comfort each other, it was always hasty words and hugs that clung too tightly and ended too quickly. Even amongst themselves, too much softness would bring everything tumbling down. 

He leaned into the hand on his shoulder before he could think to stop himself, falling over onto his side. He didn’t want to push himself upright again. He pushed his face harder into his knees and tried to breathe normally. He couldn’t– he couldn’t break. He had to hold on to something, some shred of control.

The hand came back, hesitantly petting down the back of his hair. “Oh, kid,” Halo murmured. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re okay. You can let it out.”

He didn’t sound pitying, exactly. At least, it wasn’t the mocking, cutting pity he’d heard more often than he liked. It was something else, warmer and stronger. Compassionate, maybe, was the word he wanted. But it– it had to be a ruse. It had been far too long since he’d been allowed to cry, to process without needing to pack it away to get back to work. He couldn’t fall for this, no matter how tempting it seemed. “You’re– you’re a villain–” he began, voice wet. God but he hated crying. He hated feeling weak and out of control. But, hey! The day had already fucking done that, right? What was one more straw? 

“No, no, hey,” Halo responded, hand pressing a little harder against his hair. “God, no, not right now. I’m so far from being on duty right now. Okay? I’m, I’m just Wilbur right now. I’m not– nobody’s gonna hurt you. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m gonna make sure you’re safe.”

Tommy couldn’t stop the sob that came from him at that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. When was the last time he’d been safe? Really, truly safe? Not just waiting for the next call and tiptoeing around the heroes?

“You’ve been through so much, Tommy. It’s okay.”

He had been through so much. He’d never thought about it all at once. He’d never stepped back from it. Training had been a hell on earth that he didn’t dare acknowledge, fear and pain all steeped in the thought that since it was for the right cause, that made it okay. Active duty was better but also worse, facing death or disappointment every day, clinging to hope like a drowning man.

“They hurt us,” he whispered between sobs. “They hurt us, they hurt me and my friends. I had to help them and protect us because I cared but they also cared. They cared about us too, but they hurt us anyway.” He felt like he was being incoherent but he didn’t care. If he tried to push it all back down again he felt sure that he would crack open, that his chest would simply break from the force of the thoughts he didn’t dare think and couldn’t bear to forget. 

The hand in his hair didn’t stop moving, gently brushing fingers through the locks and scratching lightly at his scalp. It was a reminder of someone else’s presence, someone listening to him, someone hearing him and caring about what he was saying. The bed dipped and shifted again as Halo – Wilbur – settled himself against the wall. 

“We just wanted to help people.” He barely recognized his own voice from how laden it was with emotion. “We wanted to help people. I wanted to help people, and I wanted to help my friends. We, we wanted to be heroes, to be a team, and– and they–”

“They twisted an ideology into a weapon? They cared more about hypothetical strangers than the people right in front of them?” Halo – Wilbur offered softly. 

Tommy sobbed again instead of answering. He’d…he’d thought about it a little bit before, in snatches and rare quiet moments. He’d always denied it, told himself that he was blowing it out of proportion, forgetting all the good things the heroes did, all the reasons the heroes gave for the way things were. They were older, they were far more experienced, and they were the heroes. The good guys. How could they be wrong? How could they be lying to him? It was confusing, and overwhelming, and he didn’t have any idea how to fix it. When it was a nightmare, or an injury, or a day where one of them had too many memories and not enough strength, he knew what to do. He would sit and hold their hand and tell them not to cry, or push them into a shower and a quick meal, or distract them until they could keep moving. It was always keep moving, don’t worry about it, don’t think about it, it will be okay. But now, how was he supposed to run from this? 

Apprentices couldn’t hide from what scared them. 

He didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to help. He didn’t know how to make it stop hurting , but he wouldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. There was nothing he could do but cry, so he let himself sob. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, letting his shoulders shake and tears soak into his uniform as fingers brushed through his hair. He didn’t bother to keep track of time and he felt no need to force himself back to consciousness before he was well and truly ready. The bed beneath him was soft, and there were sunbeams falling into the room, and one of the strongest villains in the city had promised to keep him safe, somehow. Despite what part of him thought was right, he trusted the man. His demeanor had switched so fully from the dangerous, intelligent villain that had hunted him the night before to, now, a man a few years older than him who cared and wanted to make things right. Even when they had yelled at each other, his arguments had been nothing more than pointing out the flaws that Tommy had been hiding from himself. It didn’t mean that Wilbur wasn’t still Halo, wasn’t still worthy of the fear that the city held for him. But Tommy’s instincts were telling him that this was real too. 

He didn’t know what the future would hold, or what all of this would mean, so he let himself sink into the bedding and simply be as he cried himself out.

“When I was younger,” Wilbur remarked as Tommy’s sobs eased, “I didn’t have a lot going for me. I was in and out of foster care and homeless shelters, keeping what scraps of belongings I could. It, uh. It sucked pretty bad, to say the least.” His hand didn’t stop moving on Tommy’s head. He wasn’t sure if Wilbur was talking to him directly or just filling the silence, but he listened anyway. “I had to fight for anything I wanted, anything I needed . This was before my powers manifested, of course. I was just another street rat. I was…angry, and bitter. And then I met this kid. He was, hmm, a few years younger than me. Eight when I was ten, or something like that. And I, I got to be friends with him. He was just… happy, all of the time. We could be freezing our asses off, or hungry enough to steal, or scraped up from a fall, or whatever, and he’d just…smile. He’d, like, point out something colorful, or make some little joke. He’d just made it his personal mission to find joy in anything, no matter what. It was almost an act of spite, for him. He’d, he’d look at the world and decide that it couldn’t stop him from smiling, because there was always something to smile about. And then he’d share those things with me. He’d make me smile, too.” Wilbur paused, then continued. 

“His, uh. His name was Milo. He was my little brother, basically. It was just the two of us against the world. I looked out for him, and he looked out for me. We tried to stay out of trouble but I remember, this one time there were these boys, a few years older than us. They pushed him into the gutter, while I wasn’t looking, into this big, half frozen puddle in the middle of winter, so they could take some food from him. God, I was the angriest I’d ever been. I just. I saw red. I picked up some stones and threw them at those kids. They were, they were hurting the best person I’d ever met. They were hurting this innocent kid. So I threw rocks at them.” He chuckled dryly. “You know, looking back, I think that was the first time my powers manifested? Because I threw those rocks harder and faster than I’d ever thrown anything in my life. Hard enough to hurt them back for what they did.”

Tommy uncurled a little. His sobs had pretty much stopped, and he just felt tired. He reached for a tissue from the box that Wilbur had brought over. 

“I went back and picked him up out of the puddle, after that,” Wilbur continued, removing his hand from Tommy’s head to proffer the tissues. “Tried to dry him off. Let him wear my coat for the rest of the day. That wasn’t…it wasn’t the first time I’d ever hated someone, not really. There were assholes in the foster system, or there were other asshole kids, or whatever. But, god, I don’t think I hated anyone as much as I hated those kids for hurting Milo.”

Tommy sat up, trying not to feel regretful about the loss of Wilbur’s hand in his hair. He sniffed, wiping his nose again, and leaned back against the wall. His shoulder was only a few inches from Wilbur’s. “What happened next?”

The man puffed out a breath. “We were friends – we were family for a couple years after that. I looked out for him, tried to do everything I could for him. He– I knew he deserved so much more than we had. But I wasn’t enough.” His fingers tapped a staccato pattern in his lap. “There was…I didn’t protect him well enough, from some things. He, uh. He died. We both almost didn’t make it, but. He died, and I didn’t.”

Tommy pulled one of his knees under his chin again, letting the other one stretch out until his foot hung off the edge. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Milo sounds like he was a really great person. I bet he was lucky to have you.”

Wilbur chuckled under his breath, reaching up to push his hair out of his face. “I– thanks. Uh. He– yeah. Anyway. I, uh, I manifested my powers around that time, too. So when that happened, I…I told myself that I’d never let it happen again. I wanted to make sure that I could always provide for myself and for anyone that I cared about, no matter what it took or no matter what else was happening. I was hurting, and I was scared, and I was angry, and I wanted…I wanted to protect myself. I wanted to make sure nobody I cared about, including myself, would get hurt if I could ever prevent it.”

“That’s why you became a villain,” Tommy realized. Halo – Wilbur – the persona, the man, whoever – wasn’t evil. He was trying to protect himself, in every sense of the word. It didn’t erase what he’d done, but Tommy understood. He’d never considered why the villains were villains before, beyond greed or pure unfettered malice, but this…made sense.

The man beside him hummed assent. 

Tommy nodded slowly. “I can…understand that, I think. You wanted to be safe, so you fought for it, even if it hurt other people.”

“Mhm. I…sometimes I wish I hadn’t hurt people, but I also can’t say I regret it. Because, now, I’ve got a family. I’ve got me, and Techno, and Phil, and I can look out for them. I get to protect them, every day, and we all provide for each other. We all take care of each other.”

Tommy blinked back a few more tears that threatened to fall. When Wilbur said it that way he it made all the sense in the world. It was what he’d wanted from the first time he’d met Tubbo, and Ranboo, and all the others. “That sounds really nice, when you put it like that.” 

“It is, to be honest.”

“I always…I always wanted to protect my friends. The other apprentices. I did what I could to help them, even though…even though everything sucked. Well. Not everything sucked. The, heh. The food’s pretty good.” He shook his head. “But, uh. I couldn’t do a lot. I always… I dunno. I wanted us all to be safe, I think, even though I was convinced that we were safe. I tried to make it better, y’know?”

Wilbur nodded. “It sounds like you did a lot for them. That’s really, really admirable.” He tipped his head back against the wall, looking over at Tommy. “They were lucky to have you, right? The apprentices, not the heroes,” he clarified hastily. “The heroes can eat shit for all that.”

Tommy barked a laugh, surprised. He wasn’t used to hearing people insult the heroes. “I…I guess. I’m uh. I’m conflicted. It’s all, fuckin’...” he waved a hand vaguely near his forehead. “It’s all tangled up in there. I don’t really know what to do.”

The other man hummed. “That’s understandable, I think. I mean, you got, like, indoctrinated into that shit for a few years.”

He managed a weak smile before letting it fall. There was a lot he still needed to know. He hesitantly mustered his courage and flicked a glance at Wilbur before asking, “What happens now?”

Wilbur sighed, stretching his frankly absurdly long legs out and crossing one over the other. “Well, that remains to be seen. But, it’s safe to bet that we’ll be focusing our efforts on the hero corp, now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, most of the time we focus our, uh, ‘villainous activities’ on making our own lives better, or on giving back where we can.”

Tommy frowned. “What?”

“Like, okay,” Wilbur gestured vaguely. “I guess they wouldn’t give you guys a lot of information about what we’re up to, except that we’re bad. So, that makes sense. Look. Uh. Do you remember when we staged that bank robbery?”

Tommy nodded. He’d still been in training, but it had been all over the news for what felt like weeks. The heroes had arrived in time to get all of the hostages out safely and keep the trio from ransacking the whole vault.

“We were never there to rob the whole bank. We were after some documents and valuables that one particular person had in that particular bank. Some old enemy of Phil’s, who worked high up in the Sahara corporation. But, we had to basically…rob the bank. And, okay, we might have taken some other things…and maybe a lot of money while we were there, but we are dirty crime boys and we have to maintain our reputation. It’s beside the point. We donated a fair chunk of it to a hospital nearby.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “The TDM hospital, that recieved a large anonymous donation, then bought a chunk of land that Sahara had its eye on, which pissed them off and kept them from expanding their factory in the city?”

Wilbur grinned. “Maybe.”

Tommy bit his lip to keep from smiling. It wasn’t funny. There was nothing at all funny about using stolen money to indirectly fuck over the company it was stolen from. 

“But, anyway, yeah, we keep to ourselves for the most part. We don’t have any real desire to go out looking for trouble. I mean, you’ve read our files. We aren’t, I dunno, stalking the streets at night kidnapping or killing random people. We’ve never blown something up just to watch it burn. Well. I haven’t, and Techno hasn’t done it for ages, and it was abandoned anyway, so.”

That was…true. The corps classified them in the same threat level as some of the villains with far higher kill counts, but that was because they were far harder to anticipate and far harder to stop. 

“Now, though…” Wilbur shook his head. “We’ve tried to fly under the radar, for the most part. But there have been a lot of other villains that have talked about pulling the hero corps down. I knew they were probably corrupt, I mean, you can’t have a system that big and that powerful without it being fucked up ten ways from Sunday, but I’d never really…cared? I was just sorta fine to let them go about their shit and take care of the other threats.”

“But something’s changed your mind?” Tommy queried. Something had, obviously, but the question was what. Was it everything he’d said, everything he’d revealed? Maybe…if it had changed his mind, maybe it wasn’t such a shitshow, after all. 

Wilbur looked over at him, eyeing him steadily. “You’ve just told us how they’ve been systematically recruiting, manipulating, and abusing child soldiers, Tommy. Like, we do some fucked up shit. I’m not denying that. The city’s not wrong to think of us as the ‘bad guys’, all things considered. But, god. That’s genuinely despicable.” 

Tommy looked away, twisting his fingers in his lap. “Oh.” He was still having trouble coming to grips with it all, but…he thought he understood. Certainly, when Wilbur put it like that, and when he tallied up all the things, he could see it. 

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Wilbur huffed. “I’m not just going to, to sit here and let them do that shit, okay? Techno’s been itching for a reason to go after the corps for a few years, and Phil’s with him on that. I was holding them back, but now?” He stared across the room into the middle distance, face darkening with thunder. “I’m not going to stop until I tear them down brick by fucking brick.”

Tommy’s gut sank. Oh, god. He could picture it, far more vividly than he wanted to. Villains swarming the complex, kicking open every door. No prisoners, no mercy. Villains never care about who they hurt in the crossfire. His friends were all still there. “Are you going to–” he blurted, and Wilbur’s gaze snapped back to him. Tommy flinched, but it had softened again. He licked his lips, then continued. “You’re not going to hurt them, right?”

“What, the other apprentices?”

Tommy nodded hesitantly.

“Oh, no, Tommy, no!” He looked mortified at the very idea, thank fucking God. Tommy wasn’t sure what he would have done if Wilbur had answered differently. “No, we’re not just going to go in there guns blazing. I guess you missed it, Tech and Phil went to go call everyone we know and tell them to avoid apprentices on the field. A lot of people are going to feel the same way we do, so the apprentices will be a lot safer until we get everything else coordinated. Fuck, no, the last thing we want is more kids getting hurt.”

Tommy nodded. “I…okay.”

Wilbur hesitated, then spoke again, carefully. “When we do go in to fight, because we’re going to have to, eventually, we’re going to be really careful. But…anything that you could tell us would make it easier.”

Tommy dipped his head down. He…despite everything, he wasn’t sure he could tell them. It would be such a betrayal. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to help his friends, but what would be better? Which deal with the devil was worse?

“You don’t have to decide right now, obviously,” Wilbur said, standing and stretching. “You’re not under any obligation to tell us, actually. And, hey,” he looked over at Tommy again, face serious, “we’re not going to try and force you to tell us. I had reservations about that shit when we thought you were a grown adult, but now there’s no chance at all. Phil and Tech feel just as shitty about that as I do, but if for some dumbass reason they even look in your direction with that again, I’ll knock them into the fucking ground, okay? That’s a promise.”

Tommy nodded. “Thank you.” He had hoped that would be the case, but hearing it said calmed his jangled nerves further. 

Wilbur nodded back. “Yeah. So, like I said. No obligations to tell us. Stay here under protest, refuse to speak another word to us, whatever the fuck you want. But–” the man grinned at him, lopsided and infectious, “offer’s open, at least from me.”

Tommy blinked at him. “Offer?”

Wilbur spread his arms wide, bending slightly as if he were bowing to a large crowd. “Join me. Join us. Tell us what you know, help us rescue your friends. Be a part of the absolute coolest group in the city. Come on.” His voice would have fit on a stage or a president's podium, dripping with charisma and genuine excitement. “We could work together. We could, we could be the ‘bad guys’ together. Huh?”

Tommy smiled back at him. “Oh, I dunno, you guys aren’t all that cool.”

Wilbur scoffed. “Wrong. You are just simply incorrect. How dare you.”

Tommy snorted. “Okay, bitch boy.”

Wilbur sighed dramatically, walking back toward the door. He opened it, then looked back, humor replaced by sincerity. “I’m serious, though. You’d be welcome, I think. You and any of your friends that wanted to really, seriously team up with us. I’d…I’d look out for you guys. You would have someone else to watch your backs.”

Tommy dipped his head, rubbing at his eyes again. He wasn’t crying, it was just leftover from earlier. The offer was horribly tempting. Everything he’d seen of Wilbur so far, different from what he thought he knew about Halo, made him want to trust the man. He wanted so badly to have what he offered; a family, people who cared about him, a safe place to stay, agency over what he did. 

“Just consider it?” Wilbur entreated.

Tommy nodded. “I’ll…I’ll think about it.”

Wilbur nodded, then tapped the door frame with one hand and left. The door clicked shut behind him, and the lock ground closed a moment later

Tommy leaned back against the wall, running his fingers over the blanket. It was warm from the sun, and far softer than the blankets he was used to. Well. He was alone again, except for the camera in the corner. He scrubbed at his eyes and cheeks once more, trying to get rid of the vestigial feeling of dampness. 

He felt…lighter, he thought. He usually did after a good cry, the few times he’d been able to indulge in them. It wasn’t like any of the problems had gone away, really. But, even with them all laid out in front of him, now, they felt a little farther away from crushing him. Maybe that was just the exhaustion. Now that everything was well and truly over, at least for the moment, he could feel the tiredness weighing on him. Forced unconsciousness apparently hadn’t done much to replenish his powers, let alone remove the aches and sore muscles and sheer stress that the past twelve or so hours had caused. Adding on top of it the… realizations he’d made, well. He felt like he’d pulled a fourteen hour training exam day all over again. Actually, no. He didn’t want to think about training. He didn’t want to think about Dream, or the corps, or– or his friends, waiting back at the Headquarters, waiting to see if he’d stumble his way back through the doors. He…he really didn’t want to think about that.

Frankly, he didn’t want to think about much of anything. He’d done quite enough brain shit for today, thanks, he told himself. His brain was massive and truly exceptional, practically the next great wonder of the world, but even the biggest and most fantastic of brains could afford not to think big manly thoughts every now and then. He just wanted to sleep, really. That sounded incredible. 

He couldn’t just sack the fuck out, though. He was all grubby and shit, still in his uniform and all dirty from the fight the previous evening. He’d clean up if he could, maybe look around a little, and then nap. And along the way, he would do as little thinking as possible. Plan thusly settled, he dragged himself off of the bed and set to exploring the room.

The bowl of candy on the coffee table proved to be little candy-coated chocolates with crunchy centers. They tasted a lot better than the cheap shit they scrounged up around the Headquarters, that was for sure. And, he realized belatedly, he hadn’t eaten since before he left with Dream to respond to the call, so after stuffing several in his mouth he scooped up a handful and took them with him.

The dresser was more fruitful than he’d anticipated, yielding some gray t-shirts and sweatpants that looked like they might vaguely fit him as well as a large, fluffy bath towel and two washcloths. He gathered his loot into his arms and headed towards the door-that-looked-like-a-bathroom.

And, what a fucking surprise, it was a bathroom! A good one, too. The apprentices all had to share bathrooms and showers, so he’d gotten used to the non-slip floors with drains and the flimsy curtains and narrow stalls. This looked more like what he’d pictured the heroes getting; a deep tub under a gleaming showerhead, dark tiles on the floor, and a full countertop and sink next to the toilet. 

God, a fucking shower sounded like heaven. Eugh. He checked the ceiling quickly but didn’t see any obvious camera, so he stripped as fast as he dared and started running water into the tub. He still had stitches in his leg so he didn’t think he could have a proper soak, but he’d scrub himself down with a washcloth and make do. 

He lingered perhaps a few moments longer than necessary, sloshing the hot water around with his feet and letting his mind drift in the warmth and the white noise. He was ready to pass out. A part of him rebelled at the thought of sleeping In Enemy Territory, but, frankly, he was done giving a shit. It could be his first little ‘fuck you’ to the corps. He’d leave his situation up to circumstance and all their training could fuck right the hell off for a few hours. Maybe it was stupid, but then again, if nothing happened that sure said a lot about the whole situation, didn’t it? And, if he woke up dead, well, he’d know then, too. He shook his head, taking another breath of the steamy air before stepping out and drying off. He’d be fine. He’d told himself that a lot even when he didn’t know it, but this time…this time he felt good about it. 

The clothes were a pretty good fit, as it turned out. They’d emptied anything useful out of his suit, so he didn’t really have a reason not to change. He didn’t know if they’d stocked the clothes specifically for him or if it was just chance, but he was too tired to think about the implications of it. He tugged them on. 

The mirror had fogged up from the hot water. He wiped at it with the palm of one hand, clearing enough space to see his face. He looked at himself, studying the shape of his eyes and the slope of his nose. He pressed his fingers gently under his eyes, then against his cheeks, then beneath his ears. It was still him, staring back at him. He wasn’t sure when he’d last taken the time to look. 

He inhaled, letting his fingers trace across his face, and exhaled, letting the casting flow languidly from his lips. The scar on the side of his chin faded beneath his fingertips, as did the bags under his eyes. He looked back at himself, watching his own face. He looked…young. 

He looked like a kid. 

His stomach twisted, and he clenched his jaw.

The mirror was fogging back over again. He let it, stepping back and shaking off the casting. He draped his towel over a hook on the wall, then stepped back into the main room.

It was very quiet, he realized. There were no sounds of traffic, no footsteps or muffled talking. No hum of generators, no beeps of card scanners. It was just him, standing barefoot in a bedroom. He shivered, walking over to the bed and pulling the blanket off. He’d use the fucking tv, then. He couldn’t be bothered to sit and have an existential crisis just because he was alone for once in his life. He grabbed a pillow from the bed too and sat on the couch with the remote, pulling his feet up onto the cushions and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

The channel that came on first was playing some old hospital drama that he didn’t recognize. He didn’t care, though. It was louder than his thoughts, and that was what mattered. He placed the remote back on the coffee table and shifted down against the cushions.

Less than a minute later the screen blinked, the audio dimming and video blurring. An overlay covered the display reading, “Broadcast from: Phil, downstairs office.”

“-- the fuck did they think it would help?” Daedalus’ – Phil’s? If he was calling Wilbur ‘Wilbur’ maybe he could say Phil’s – voice said through the speakers. “They recruited him at twelve! Fucking twelve ! What do they mean ?? What kind of shit–”

“– Phil, Phil! You turned your broadcast on, Phil,” Wilbur’s voice interrupted, filtering through the same microphone.

“Oh, shit, ” Phil’s voice replied. There was a cackle in the background. “Sorry, Tommy. Have a good rest, mate.” The overlay vanished and the show’s audio resumed.

Despite it all, Tommy laughed. “Thank you,” he chuckled to the room at large. “I will.”