Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy wakes to the sound of shattering glass, long before the sun is set to rise. He doesn’t exactly remember falling asleep on whoever’s concrete rooftop this is, but apparently he’s been out long enough for his back to scream at it’s twisted position. Judging by the fact that the sky is pitch black now, he’d guess a good couple of hours.

Call him a cliche, but Tommy has always found it a bit unnerving to stare out during the dark hours. You hear all these stories about how it’s brimming with galaxies, somehow infinite while simultaneously getting bigger (seriously, what the hell is it expanding into??) by the second. A glance up above is to wish for something new, something brighter.

Really, you’d expect it to be chock-full of flitting lights and waves of color, but it’s just.. there. Nothing. Empty.

Ranboo always says it’s because of the city’s light pollution, whatever the hell that means. Something about having too many bright-ass billboards and not enough areas without streetlights. It’s a pretty stupid concept if you ask Tommy, considering every alleyway he’s ever been in has been damn near pitch black. Sometimes, when he stares too far into the nothing, he can’t help but feel like he’ll end this way. Nothing more than a body against stone, forgotten.

“What do you want?” a shaky voice says from below, probably in the alley.

Right. The glass.

Repressing an annoyed groan as he gets up, Tommy fixes his beanie and mask before crawling over. Rooftops clearly don’t make for good resting places; something he’ll have to remember for the next time he’s out patrolling on two hours of sleep. 

Below, a man is frantically trying to empty his pockets, staring dead at the business end of a dagger. Opposite him, the owner of said dagger, stands nervous. He’s worried about something, probably getting caught. In all honesty, that fact might make him all the more impulsive.

Just fucking great. 

Tommy tries to take one nap, perhaps have a quick crisis about the size of space, when some dick goes and gets robbed right next to him. Seriously, what do these people think they’re doing by walking outside -in the dead of night- without any self-defense skills? Could’ve at least waited an hour or two.

The one getting robbed starts to speak, starting out strong but clearly losing composure, “Look man, I- My wallet, it’s- I left it at home. Please, you have to believe me.” 

The robber -like an utter fool- believes him. Come on, man, the guy’s in a suit for fuck’s sake, does he look like the type of person to forget their wallet at home? Either this robber’s an amateur, or he’s too nice to say anything -which, considering he’s literally holding someone at knifepoint, Tommy’s guess is on it being the former.

Dagger Guy starts bringing the metal a bit closer to the other one. Nervous, but not in a rush. “Fine, just- Give me whatever you do have, then. And don’t forget your damn watch.”

Tommy makes no comment as he silently drops down behind the robber. Except maybe he’s more tired than he thought because he immediately gets noticed. 

The fear-filled swing of sharp metal is more than expected, already being redirected by Tommy’s quick arm. In what feels like two seconds, the robber is sitting on the ground against the wall, and Tommy’s picking up the dagger to keep for himself. 

“That,” the vigilante starts. “Was the lamest fight I’ve ever had.”

The suited guy is already gone, meaning Tommy doesn’t have much time. With his luck, the man’s already running to find whatever hero he can find and whine to. The folk around here don’t take too kindly to vigilantes. At least, not the typical vigilantes that beat them within an inch of their lives and fuckin’ leave as if they’d fixed everything. The pricks.

Apparently, Dagger Guy has a second dagger, because there’s suddenly another one swinging in his direction. It is, once again, entirely too easy to just redirect the attack. This guy attacked another person like this in his life, there’s no doubt about it now. 

After getting his second dagger taken almost immediately, the man starts to plead with him. He’s practically begging Tommy not to take his money and leave, something about how he’ll turn himself in if Tommy’ll just let him give the money to his wife.

Which- understandable, really. 

Some fuckers like to take the earnings from robbers in an attempt to “give them a taste of their own medicine”. It’s really just some ploy so the vigilante can have some money of their own --not like this is exactly a paying job. But to steal from civilians, robber or not? In Tommy’s mind, it makes them just as bad, probably worse since they think they’re doing good. 

Besides, what’s taking their shit going to do other than make the person need more shit?

So he promises not to take any of the man’s belongings, with the exception of his weapons. It’s clear the man doesn’t fully believe him yet, but he still becomes less tense.

A look of confusion crosses his face as Tommy continues standing there. “Then why are- What are you still doing here?” The words aren’t spoken unkindly, more scared than anything else. “You’re not gonna.. I don’t know, turn me in, or something, right?”

Tommy goes to pull a pen and pad of sticky notes from one of his pockets, ink moving quickly across the paper in the makings of an address. 

He flicks the small paper around a few times, drying the ink, before folding it up.

“This is the address to a restaurant a couple streets down,” he says, speaking for only the second time since he woke up. “The owner doesn’t care much for criminal backgrounds, as long as you’re actively trying to do better now.” The sticky note changes owners as Tommy hands it over. He still needs to watch the time. If a hero isn’t already here, they’re either on their way or not coming; he’d rather not take any chances. 

Dagger Guy still looks apprehensive, like he’s sure that this is all an elaborate ruse, some plot to get him in worse trouble than he could now.

“Listen, man,” the vigilante continues. “If I see you back out on these streets, I will turn you in, which I really don’t want to do. There are better ways to make cash. Head straight over there as soon as I leave, you got it?”

The man’s eyes go wide with realization and Tommy braces for what knows will come next, “Holy shit.. You’re Phantom, aren’t you?” That stupid fucking name. “God, am I glad that you stopped me instead of some- Oh my god..”

Quickened footsteps start to approach, using the same pattern that practically every hero follows, urbanely plastic and versatile. Tommy needs to get the hell out of here before he has to fight someone actually worth his strength, it’d be way too much of a bother right now.

“Go now.”

With that, Phantom leaves..

—-

If there’s one thing Tommy’s learned from running across rooftops in the middle of the night, it’s that footsteps don’t echo. Not up there, anyway. With nothing for his shoes’ criticism to bounce off of, any sound left behind is simply someone else’s.

That fact is why he starts to slow down, reaching down to grab the bat that’s been poorly strapped to his leg since he left the apartment yesterday morning. He keeps every footstep deliberate and loud, hoping the hero would rather follow him than commit to a fight immediately. Quick, arduous jumps leave Tommy in the exact position he wants to be in- he knows this area like the back of his hand. Every part of him hopes that the hero doesn’t.

Tommy grips the wood in a way that only house intruders and self-defense experts could understand, knuckles probably going white under his gloves. With that, he’s flicking around and jabbing the neck of his bat into where the hero stands. Correction: Where the hero should have been standing.

Seems they caught onto the little game then. 

“Just surrender! This doesn’t have to be a fight,” the hero yells, a little too hopeful to be anything but a plea. A look of poorly disguised realization crosses the hero’s face when he sees Tommy’s mask.

Finally, the moment of pause increases, Tommy manages to get a better look at the guy. 

He looks to be a daytime hero if the swirling purple and blue uniform is anything to go by. Not to mention the fact that he lacks all skills of a nighttime hero with virtually no volume control and the loudest fucking footsteps known to man. Heroes have an odd habit off basing their uniform off of their own power, but if you ask Tommy, he has no fucking idea what this guy might have.

Clearly he needs to brush up on his hero recognition skills.

The hero’s arm moves to block part of his face. Tommy nearly prepares for an attack until he realizes that the man is simply speaking into a microphone, probably in his sleeve or something. How stereotypical, really. “Hey! Uh, this is Timepiece, I have Phantom in sight. Sending my location now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Tommy decides that their standstill needs to be brought to whatever the hell the opposite of a standstill is.

He turns to run away, one foot already in the other direction, eyes keeping on the hero in case the guy catches on too quickly. He could probably get off of this roof in three seconds flat, and by then, he’ll be far too long gone for any call to matter. That is, until he notices a white ball of something being thrown in his direction.

Turning at just the right moment, he manages to hit it with his bat (he could probably be a professional baseball player if he really wanted to. Just you wait, one day you’ll turn on the TV and there will be Tommy, hitting a fuckin’ homerun with all he’s worth, sending it farther than you’ve ever seen before). It would’ve been cool as hell too, if it weren’t for the matter just completely fucking up his weapon.

He can feel it growing cold under his hands, stinging as red-stained wood fades into the white of a blameless existence, free of blood-related metaphors. Tommy really hopes that the white doesn’t translate into brittleness, this bat is expensive as hell. Sure, he stole sweet old Susan here, but that doesn’t do anything to diminish her value.

Instinct strikes him out of his thoughts, causing Tommy move out of the way as another ball of whatever-the-fuck from comes straight at him. It grazes the edge of his hoodie despite making no contact, turning that bit white as well. What the hell is this? Some fuckin’ white-inator?

Hah. White-inator. Doofenshmirtz would be so-

“Sorry!” The hero yells, interrupting Tommy’s perfectly crafted joke. “I wasn’t trying to- I just thought you’d dodge it easier!”

What? “What?”

The very act of an apology almost makes Tommy pause, absolute confusion weaving between every thought. His first conclusion is that Timepiece is scared of him, but that doesn’t line up with the man attacking in the first place. So why the fuck..?

The hero doesn’t answer, instead giving another look of concern and regret. With it, comes the realization that this hero isn’t even trying right now, he’s literally just trying to keep Tommy in place until backup gets here. Tommy seriously needs to get the hell out of here; he isn’t sure how many heroes are willing to hold back their strength on account of keeping him alive, and doesn’t know whether these people will be willing to unmask him before taking him to the station. Iif he never finds out the answer to that question, it’d be completely fine.

A glance around the area, and Tommy’s pulling down his mask.

As expected, the hero (what was his name again?) is bewildered at the fact, to the point that he comes to a near-full cease in movement. There’s nothing to stop Tommy from simply stepping off the ledge of the building, even as footsteps chase after him closer and closer and-

Feet finally rest against the white concrete of a sidewalk.

The tap-tap of shoes from above slows to a confused stop, as if walking into a room and forgetting why they were there in the first place. It’s a sound that Tommy’s heard countless times before; a sound that he’ll probably hear countless more. The hero must have someone talking through his earpiece again, because the next thing Tommy hears is, “Update? An update on what, exactly?”

Ears aren’t around to hear the rest of the conversation.

—-

To Puffy: another one’s on the way rn

To Puffy: for the kitchen i mean

He gets back a simple thanks , as well as a wish for him to get home safely. The conversation doesn’t continue any longer than that- it never does. 

She’s pretty cool, Puffy. There’s always a free meal waiting for him when he swings by her restaurant, so that’s pretty nice, even if it’s usually just a kid’s meal. Plus, aside from her knowing looks, she never mentions the way his skin is covered in new marks each week. It’s one less thing he has to lie about when he talks to the normal public.

On some occasions though… It’s almost disconcerting. Despite never telling her of his circumstances, Puffy always seems to be keenly aware of what he’s going through. Really, he doesn’t mind the occasional odd glance, but every time? He swears he could walk in there with a huge smile on his face, cracking jokes and doing whatever else people do when they’re happy –and she’d still see right through him.

Tommy loves Puffy’s company, he really does, but sometimes he can’t help but feel as if he’s sitting under a spyglass. Maybe it’d be better to avoid her every now and then.

—-

As per usual, the street’s empty this time of night (morning?). The promise of darkness under broken streetlights and violence seems to ward people away, not wanting to be caught up in something they aren’t big enough to handle. Gee, wonder why that is. 

Either way, it at least makes it easier to listen for footsteps attempting to follow him. And even if the mystery person had footsteps light as a field mouse, they wouldn’t be able to follow anyways, on account of Tommy doubling back three or four times.

Tubbo always says that he needs to calm his paranoia before he’s to the point of doubling back twenty times. But really, wouldn’t every vigilante -every criminal- have been caught by now if it weren’t for paranoia? Sure, he may get a bit tired, but at least he’s not leading a team of hero suits to their home.

Besides, when Tommy gets home, he already knows that Tubbo’s going to hound him with questions. It’s better that Tommy comes up with a few good lies now, rather than on the spot later.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Tommy knows for a fact, it’s that you always go for the booth seat when you’re in Captain Puffy’s. That’s not to say that the other seats are bad or anything, but the booster seats are painted like pirate ships, which makes them a thousand times better than the rest.

It’s not often that he gets to genuinely come here with the intent of sitting down for a meal (money doesn’t fall from the sky, y’know), menus and all. But sometimes, every so often, a civilian will give him money for saving them from something. Usually, he just refuses it, spouting some bullshit about how he doesn’t want someone to track the serial number (how the fuck does that even work?), or sneaking it back into their belongings at some point. 

After all, it’s illegal to “fraternize” (yet another word that he has to have Ranboo constantly explain to him) with vigilantes, meaning some random fuck could literally get arrested for handing him anything, never mind handing him money.

In situations where the hero’s already on-site, Tommy can’t exactly hand the cash back to the person without throwing them under the bus, so he’s forced to keep it in those situations. It makes him feel a bit like a thief, but there’s not much he can do past that point.

So, he chooses to spend it on a great goddamn meal. Gods know they all need it.

“Uh, hey?” Ranboo cuts in, “You look a little concentrated there.”

Tommy looks up (mind you, he is fully prepared to deflect any word of worry that Ranboo throws at him, the prick) only to see multi-colored eyes trained on Tubbo, instead. And by gods, Ranboo’s right.

Rather than keeping a watchful eye on any asshole who thinks they can sit near them, Tubbo stays focused on his phone. There’s no fidgeting with his fingers as if he should be building or typing or trying to clean that one stain on the carpet- he’s just still.

It’s worrying.

Something starts to form in the bottom of Tommy’s chest, thoughts screaming at him to get the fuck out of here before something bad happens. Before he gets found out. Fingertips twitch with the urge to pull down his mask and run.

He hates being in public without his extra gear on. There’s always something grabbing at the back of his throat, an unmistakable inkling of fear telling him that he’s too visible, too bare, too exposed. Anyone could walk in at any moment, see the blue of his eye and suddenly remember a night of red knuckles and forgotten threats. 

It’s only happened a few times, all of them consisting of regular people. But who’s to say this isn’t the favourite hangout spot of some hero? Considering the fact that Tommy only knows a handful of their civilian identities, he can’t even say for sure if any of these people would know him at a glance. 

“Hey, boys, haven’t seen you guys down here in a bit,” Puffy says. She slides a glass of water over to Tommy’s side of the table. There’s a straw so he can drink it through his facemask, and a slice of lemon across the rim, something she always adds when he’s on the brink of panicking (how she knew to bring it, he chooses not to question).

Apparently, her sudden appearance only surprised Tommy, as much as it shouldn’t, because Ranboo’s immediately engaging her in a conversation. “Yeah, business still seems to be booming, though.”

She laughs and flips up her notepad, “All thanks to the good reviews, I guess. So, anything for you guys to eat?”

Just as they have the other dozen times they’ve been here, Ranboo orders something small while Tubbo gets some weird chicken and vegetable thing. Though Tommy’d rather get nothing at all, he knows Puffy will only give him another handout if he doesn’t order anything, so he gets the cheapest thing one can find on the menu.

Luckily, she takes their orders and leaves without further conversation. Tommy doesn’t know what he would’ve done if she let his midnight “charity” slip.

Tubbo chooses this moment to show his phone screen to Ranboo, still blank-faced. It’s a bit unsettling to see Tubbo’s face without its usual emotion. It reminds him of a different time, back when he and Tubbo first started drifting apart; becoming so goddamn different from one another. Tommy hates shit like that- when something’s supposed to be one way, only for it to end up being a completely different way. Things shouldn’t do that. 

But then again, he wouldn’t be here if the world were how he wanted it to be.

Of course, because the universe is fucking obsessed with tension and theatrics, that motherfucker doesn’t say anything about what it could be either. In place of the words that could have been used to fill Tommy in on whatever the hell happened, Ranboo just falls silent and reads closer. 

“Is this real..?” he asks, clearly worried. Tommy wonders what expression he’d be wearing if not for the face mask and glasses. 

The question goes unanswered, seemingly obvious in the light of things. For what must be the millionth time that afternoon, the table falls into a tense silence. Tommy’s tired of it. 

“Jesus fucking- Will you two stop with the whole ‘dramatic reveal’ thing and just give me the damn thing,” he says.

Fingers scroll the screen to the top of the page before, fucking finally, the phone gets given to him. He flips it around, his eyes taking a moment to adjust from just looking at the screen to actually reading what words are on the page. It’s some news article, talking about-

“Former Hero, Blackbird, Comes Out of Retirement” by Maz Quik (Nesquik News)

Blackbird, a previously retired Top Hero, returned to his assignment in The Hero Association just this morning. While he has declined any comment at this time, sources believe this has something to do with the city’s rising crime rates within the last few months. Reports of hero impersonators have become more frequent among the… [Read More]

RECOMMENDED ARTICLES:

“The Underlying Issue with Reactivating Retirees” : By Malt D. Fall

“How Old is Too Old for Heroism?” : By En Cee (Adiad Review)

“The Return of a Legend: Blackbird” : By Rory Cee (Adiad Review)

“Safety: A Guarantee or A Hope?” : By Tako Ya (Traffic Lighter News Source)

______

For half a moment, the world feels empty. Nothing but him and the cold, dead metal in his hands. It’s interpersonal, the way the air seems to cling to Tommy’s lungs, holding on for dear life as if another breath out will take his life with it. 

But instead of death, comes the rush of everyone else’s presence in the room. 

A family of three sitting a few booths down from them, the little girl clearly upset about the lack of color choices in her kid’s meal crayon box. A handful of lone singles scattered among the restaurant, eating food and scrolling through their phones without regard for much else. Groups of friends laugh over nonsense that only they understand.

Too many people. All of them with the innate ability to ruin Tommy’s everything on the sole chance that they aren’t who they pretend to be and vice-versa.

So the panic is shoved down. It can wait until another late night comes around, lit by the neon of billboard lights, dirt under his nails, and thorn-red trails down his fists.

“Tommy?”

But Tubbo’s already reaching for the glass of ice water and Ranboo’s giving him that look. Meaning Tommy has to let himself fall before they figure out his tells.

He has to give in.

“They brought out fuckin’ Blackbird?” he says, trying to appear somewhat nervous as if he didn’t just pull himself out of an anxiety attack like nothing. The only thing he can do now is play it up. “Do they really hate me that much..?”

Really, it isn’t much of a stretch. 

Empty threats had always been shared between him and the heroes, leaving harsh fists to hit like a bullet train right after. He’d thought they were simply playing it up for the officials- they never actually wanted Tommy to die.  

Well at least, not that he knows of.

“We don’t know that. I mean, there could always be some end-of-the-universe job that only he can do, roll end credits and everything.” Ranboo starts. If Tommy couldn’t read him so well, he might’ve thought Ranboo believed his own words. “We just have to keep an eye on him. If we’re careful enough, we’ll never even be in the same district as Blackbird.”

A group of people on the other side of the restaurant start to laugh at some joke told between them. The sound can’t help but echo beneath Tommy’s ears. 

Tubbo starts tapping his fingers against the table. It’s a habit Tommy’s noticed more than a few times, he assumes it’s out of nerves. “There’s more to it than that,” the boy says. “And if worse comes to worst, we can always just kill the bastard.”

The words strike a sour note, leaving the bottom of his stomach bittered and empty. He hears the other laugh at the assumed joke, but Tommy knows better. He’s seen exactly what the brunet’s capable of; exactly what he believes is okay. Back before he settled into the role of the tech guy, afternoons were full of rattling metal and the sound of crunching. 

Everything he knows now had been learned during those nights. How to run faster than the heroes. Where to hit so that his enemy can’t chase after him. Which part not to hit so the person will stay alive.

Then Ranboo joined, and suddenly Tubbo didn’t care to have blood under his nails anymore. 

Fucking weird.

Puffy comes back with their food. From that moment on, the table falls to useless chatter and silence. Tommy tunes most of it out to listen to the other patrons and their own conversations- who knows, maybe some of it will be useful one day.

___

Later in the day, Tommy and Tubbo stay sitting in their not-quite-legal apartment. 

They’ve been searching for anything they can find on Blackbird for nearly two hours now. Tubbo’s going through whatever analysis videos he can find talking about the hero, while Tommy searches around in articles and fan pages. This would really be easier with Ranboo helping, seeing as how the fucker’s well versed with every social media app known to man- Tumblr especially. The guy could recognize a reference to “none pizza left beef” from a mile away. 

“Why does this website have the shittiest search function known to man?” Tommy complains, trying to find anything worthwhile on the hellsite. It’s been fucking ages, and he still hasn’t found a way to filter out posts about actual blackbirds. 

Every post ranges from analysis dumps about how the hero’s uniform isn’t practical, to u-quizzes that see into Tommy’s very soul, to pictures of some fighter jet that apparently has the same name. That’s not even mentioning the sheer amount of posts just talking about him (seriously, who has so much time on their hands, that they decide to literally talk about this guy for pages??).  It’s an absolute nightmare.

He can’t understand why anyone would want to stay on Tumblr for more than a few minutes, it’s confusing as all hell. 

Eventually, the vigilante puts down the phone in a fit of annoyance. “I don’t think this is working, Big T.”

Tubbo lifts one of his headphones off with a sigh, pausing whatever video essay he’s watching this time. Tommy can’t tell if he’s annoyed at the interruption or the work. “There has to be something we can use in these. There’s no way all of this is useless, surely not.”

“I guess.”

He once again considers the fact that Ranboo would probably be able to do this in no time. His mind pulls back to the anxious way the other had left them, claiming that he just had to be home soon. Tommy didn’t mention the fact that he wouldn’t usually have to be home for another 2 hours, nor the anxiety-filled typing he’d seen from Ranboo not even five minutes earlier. 

He picks up the phone again. Better to just get this over with now, he supposes.

Leaving the hellsite that is Tumblr, Tommy goes back to looking through random news articles for something they can take advantage of. Maybe Blackbird is bad at fighting at certain times during the day, or struggles with his left punch, or has a tell before his harder hits. Anything.

But no. The motherfucker is good at practically everything.

The problem isn’t even the fact that he’s back, either. If Tommy’s being honest, it’s quite nice; means less work for him and better lives for the people. According to the info, the hero’s never even had a lasting scandal in his time as Number One, which is a huge feat in any context. 

What the problem is, is that heroes don’t just get pulled back into the field for no reason. There isn’t some board of directors somewhere that just decided ‘Hey! Let’s bring back someone who’s possibly the strongest hero on the planet!’ . Where’s the logic in that decision?

From what Tommy can tell by the strange wording of announcements and the way Blackbird brushes off every question with a hint of bitterness, the hero wasn’t reactivated by choice. 

That doesn’t make the trio any safer than they would’ve been if he had chosen to come back, but it does mean that the Association wanted him back for something specific. Something they can’t do with another hero. Something like catching the vigilante that they’ve been scrounging after for months now.

Other than their problems with Tommy himself, the only other issue they have is with the public. Steadily, albeit slowly, the lack of public support for heroes has been growing. They may be keeping most of their opinions online and anonymous, but it’s definitely becoming something more than a general distaste. Hordes of people, all advocating for the legalization of vigilantes, the disbanding of the Hero Association. Something about the company monopolizing on the usage of powers, as well as the biased requirements to become a hero in the first place. 

They seem to think that vigilantism is better for the country than any hero could ever be.

What they don’t understand is that it’s the worst idea Tommy’s ever fucking heard. 

He’s all for the idea of not getting arrested or killed for so much as existing as Phantom, but giving that right to everybody? Yeah, that’s a no from him, thank you.

Far too many loopholes could be made for other criminals, claiming they’d only done something as a way to help when in reality they’re just some prick. He can see it now, people getting beaten up in the streets, only for the perpetrator to get away under the guise of ‘My bad bro, I thought you were a criminal ahaha, no hard feelings right?’

Absolutely mad.

But, now that he thinks about it, it’s pretty similar to what the heroes have been doing for years now. There’s a solution somewhere in the plan to disband them, but full-out power usage legalization isn’t the right answer.

“Hello? Tommy?” Tubbo cuts through his thoughts.

Tommy picks his gaze up from where it’s been apparently resting against the wall, trying to look productive. “Yeah?”

“This isn’t working for you, is it?”

“God, no.”

He adjusts his position on their ratty couch (happily taken from the curbside of some house) in a way that puts the laptop screen in Tommy’s field of vision. Apparently, he’s gone from the video essays to doing something with code. There’s a logo on-screen that’s eerily similar to that of the HA’s website.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh,” he says, turning the screen so it’s a bit easier to see. The blond was right, it is the Hero Association’s logo. “This is the beta site for the HA. It’s not important how I found it, but it’s going to make it easier for me to get into the main site. It’ll help us in the long run, but right now I’m trying to get into the communication server so we’ll know more about Blackbird’s patrol route sooner.”

Yeah, whatever that all means.

“Alright, you should probably go to sleep for the night. For all we know, we might have a lot to do tomorrow,” Tubbo says.

Words flash in his head ‘We could always just kill the bastard.’

A deep breath. Artificial light glints from the laptop, red hero logo flashing in Tommy’s eye. “Right... A lot to do.”

___

That night, the moon finds Phantom sneaking out of an apartment window. Besides, running from roof to roof has always helped with his delayed anxiety attacks.

Chapter Text

Unnumbered pebbles lay under Tommy and Ranboo’s -Phantom and Allium’s- feet. Really, they’re just small pieces of gravel and asphalt, kicked up to mock the flat ground that it probably used to be a part of. Truthfully, rooftops are a stupid place for this shit and if it weren’t so damn funny to watch the heroes slip on it from time to time, Tommy would file a complaint with whoever you file city complaints to.

Torrents of artificial light pour down from a billboard across from them. The design is glaringly attractive, reds and blues swirling around yellow, an almost egotistical display of the primary colors. Some guy is on the front (a bigshot hero that Tommy’s never had to fight, so he doesn’t care for the man’s name) standing proud, practically begging for a dictionary definition of ‘strong’ to sponsor him.

Eyes trace the bolded lines, glorifying the idea of being in some government-assigned uniform. Tommy leans his head closer to Ranboo, not wanting to be too loud when he asks, “Is this what you mean when you talk about propagation?” 

He’s only heard the other talk about it a billion times, but it’s hard to listen closely when he has no fucking clue what any of the words mean. Maybe that’s why he’s better at the fighting than the actual information gathering, that’s more Tubbo’s forte. 

“Propa- Wha- You mean propaganda?”

“Whatever the fuck you just said, yeah.”

Ranboo looks back to the billboard for a moment- the blond’ll be surprised if they're not both blind by the end of this. He knows damn well that there’ll be some weird billboard-shaped spot in his vision for the next two decades. “Pretty much, yeah. This is just actually biased. But I mean, what do you expect with a company so powerful?”

Honestly, it’s pretty bold of them to put an ad for that shit in this part of town. The people around here despise heroes, made obvious by the way the residents scrutinize their every move. So to run a campaign for some specialized hero training school? Bold.

“That’s fuckin’ stupid.”

“Yeah, but I guess that’s what we’re here for, right?” the other asks, somewhat disheartened. He raises his fist to the air, light glaring harshly against the metal around his fingers. “To bring back optimism.”

A small huff of laughter.

“Such a big word for such a terrible soiree,” Tommy says in return.

Clearly Ranboo doesn’t get it though, because he turns in what can only be confusion, “What?”

“You heard me, Big Man, I said what I said,” he pats his hand against the other’s shoulder, almost immediately regretting it when he realizes how weird the interaction feels. Who -other than dads that are too obsessed with baseball- pats people on the shoulder? No, because why did he do that??

Thankfully, Ranboo doesn’t seem to be affected by his inability to act like a normal person, “I don’t think that makes sense in the way you think it does, but uh, yeah, okay.”

Both of them move to sit down, swinging their legs over the edge of the building and kicking back and forth while the conversation continues. There hasn’t been much to do tonight, which usually means something bad is happening soon, but for now Tommy will enjoy this short-lived moment of peace. Even as someone with barely anyone or anything, he doesn’t seem to get a lot of time to just be. 

The topic continues into the narcissism of most heroes; how they're taught that they’re the best of the best, only for that rhetoric to take over all other rationales. At some point, Ranboo brings up how there are a few good ones among the bunch. Apparently, he used to learn everything he could about heroes as a kid, all taught by his sister.

It makes sense, knowing how supportive Niki is. She’s a hero herself, why wouldn’t she be supportive of what they’ve done? It makes him wonder what her reaction would be if she ever found out about Ranboo’s second persona whenever he’s shifting through districts.

Tommy continues listening to the other, different recountings of memories, most of them surrounding his asinine obsession with hero work in general. How the other’s room used to be full of hero comics, toys, merch. At some point, he’d even had a shelf full of autobiographies by the top heroes at the time. 

He never took Ranboo for the fan type, but maybe there’s something to learn about everyone.

It’s during a gap in the conversation that Tommy hesitates. He wants to respond with words of his own, how the hero world had been shaped for his own young mind, but it’s… hard. 

Some paranoid part of him feels like Tubbo could be listening in. Or maybe he’ll find out that this was all a trick planned by them both, having Ranboo get Tommy to talk while he recorded it for later blackmail. Catch on to what makes him tick, only to use it against him later.

Because that’s how these things usually work-- he tells of something meaningful to him, only for all hope gets ripped away in a shred of metal and bone.

But Ranboo’s a better person than most, strangely enough. They say you're only as good as the people you put around you, and Ranboo doesn't exactly surround himself with the greatest of people, not if Tubbo or Tommy has anything to do with it. Really, it’s only a matter of time before They drag the boy down with them, leveling him with their shitty personalities and even shittier morals.

A ticking time bomb, if you will.

“Y’know,” Tommy ends up saying. “I never actually wanted to be a hero.” There’s truth to his words, but it’s nothing like what he wanted to say. “Not even as a kid. Not really now, either.”

The words settle between them. The anxiety he feels inside doesn’t feel sated by the admission, not like it would have been if he were capable of saying more. Perhaps he never will be.

“Why is that?” Ranboo asks.

Is it weird that Tommy can’t think of something to answer with? At least, not anything that won’t end up ruining him.

And really, he wants to be honest. To say that it’s because of decrepit living room walls, and orderly grey eyes turned bitter, and a smile worn down by misfortune. To bring up flicking lights every time he plugged something into the wall, still feeling happy regardless of baths that felt like ice.

He wants to let out the fact that he’s never been good enough for that work, that he wasn’t even good enough to save himself so how the hell could he possibly save anyone else? The face of a hero has never been one similar to his own, happy, brave, something to remember when times start to weigh down on your shoulders. 

He’s none of that. Even if he were, he’s too fucking scared of becoming something bigger than himself.

Tommy wants to scream, if not for any other reason than to hear his own voice.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, quieter than his mind needs for him to be. “Maybe I’ve just never seen the heroes as being something we needed.”

Ranboo hums in response.

“That’s a pretty good reason, I’d say.” A few empty seconds go by before he speaks again. “You know, there’s actually someone I know that you might, uh…” he trails off looking unsure. The tone of his voice is the same as it had been the other day, back when he’d snuck off under the guise of a curfew.

Tommy’s about to say something, ask what the fuck any of that is supposed to mean, when finally-

“Do you want to go somewhere on Saturday --out of uniform, I mean?”

And how the hell is he supposed to answer that? 

Social interaction has never been Tommy’s strong suit. His immediate reaction is to say no, tell Ranboo to fuck off, and ask some accusing question to get the attention off his own back. Say something in regards to the “family emergency” from back then, say something just bitter enough to make the other mad at him for just a day or two..

But for some reason, he still finds himself saying, “Okay.”

Ranboo only gives a small nod in return, as if he understands how difficult the single word was. For a moment, Tommy’s brought back to the dilemma of keeping good people around. He wonders how the worst people are supposed to get better if the good only keep other good people around them, leaving everyone else to fester and rot on the fifth floor of an abandoned apartment building.

“Get the hell away from me, you fucking-” a slam rings out from across the way.

With it, Tommy disappears and Phantom takes over, instincts filling his mind and chasing away any thought from before. He gets up, triple checking that all of his weapons are in place. Loose hair is stuffed up into his beanie again, just as a precaution, and the earpiece against his head is turned up.

Ranboo- Allium, he means, simply stands and prepares to teleport away. As much as fighting with a partner would increase the chances of winning, it’s better if there’s nothing to prove that they’re working together. There’s also the chance that Phantom will have to take down his mask, which would obviously have bad results with a partner there.

A shirt with the graphics of a fake suit (“Really? That’s what you’re choosing to be your brand?” “What? I think it’s nice.”) is dusted off by Allium before he’s gone with a vwoop. Not even a goodbye, the prick.

Ignoring the way artificial light fucked with his vision, Phantom runs across close-knit rooftops --this time, without the echo of footsteps. It’s not long before his earpiece leads him to the altercation.

Voices become easier to understand as Phantom slows, “...get found out, then what? You need to think these things through, Wil.”

“Always with the negativity, man! You need to start looking on the bright side of things-”

“The bright side?!” The other voice (deeper, raspier, maybe a bit familiar) interrupts. His words baffled at the very concept of whatever they’re on about. He continues, speech a bit more concerned, “You could get arrested! Phil could get arrested! Is that really what you want?”

It’s an argument, Phantom realizes. Whatever the slam from earlier was, the moment for him to step in has already. The only thing left for him to do is either wait for another sound of angry movement, or leave as if he were never there. But there’s something about the way they’re talking, speaking in hushed whispers as if whatever said between those walls could easily destroy them.

Namely their use of the word ‘arrested’.

“Well, for one, Blade,” the first person (Wil, right?) says mockingly. Such a weird thing to use as an insult, really. “I know what I’m doing. Just because I didn’t get officiated like you, doesn’t mean I don’t have the skill to-”

“Quiet,” the other guy says. His tone is serious, almost dark, knowing.

It cuts through the air as if a flying dagger, striking deep into whatever prey may surround. Phantom chooses that moment to peek over the edge of the roof, trying to get any semblance of an understanding as to whatever just happened.

It’s then that he realizes, because of fucking course he does, he’s been hearing The Blade. 

Like, the real Blade. As in the infamous superhero, known for his ability in taking down quick-on-their-feet vigilantes, Blade. You know, vigilantes like Phantom.

Fuck.

Mechanically, Tommy backs the hell up and ducks back over the roof. He needs to run. Blade has instincts like a wild fucking animal, always managing to know everyone’s next move before they even make it. Dozens of rumors float around about the guy, most of them claiming that he was made to fight, probably born and raised by trackers out in the Badlands.

They can’t even be that far-fetched, either. Tommy’s seen the clips, the ones where Blade throws his weapons (thick, iron-forged weapons that were never made with the intention of being thrown) with pinpoint accuracy. Videos where he’s held fully grown men by the collars of their very shirts like nothing, videos where even the most dangerous of villains fall to surrender in front of him. He watched as Dream, easily the strongest and most calculated motherfucker anyone’s ever met, got pummeled into the ground like a piece of scrap paper that no longer has any use.

If Phantom stays here any longer, he’s surely going to be killed.

He gets to his feet, trying to move away in any fraction of a moment he can get. Every pause is to time his footsteps with loud gusts of wind, every movement to get as far away as possible. If he can just leave without being noticed, everything will be fine. If he can get more than a few feet away, he’ll be golden. 

Guarantee goes against hope, the winner made obvious by voices that don’t pick back up beneath alleyway openings. Despite knowing that he hadn’t made a single sound, eyes burn on the back of his neck. Gravel crumbles behind him.

The wind starts to pick up again, warning of the soon-to-be winter season. By the shiver that racks its way up Tommy’s spine, surely the next few months will be cold enough to freeze some poor kid without a proper place to sleep. Or maybe it’s telling of something more fearful.

He turns his head slowly, regrettably locking his eyes with red ones. Each pair holds stockstill. 

Phantom shouldn’t be as terrified as he is. He’s fought the Blade before, even if only a handful of times, but that was always with onlookers in the area. People to keep the hero angrier, tougher, lethal. You see, the system is fucked up like that-- one wrong move in the public eye and you’re ruined; one pulled punch when faced with someone as “violent” as Phantom, and a hero’s career is done for; one jab too hard, and a hero faces trial.

He gets it. Phantom understands, and he doesn’t hold it against the man, really, he doesn’t. 

This time, though, there are no cameras. No civilians to watch every hit, no industry to scrutinize them both, nothing that’ll supposedly keep Blade in check.

The only thing he can do is hope. He prays to any deity out there that Blade’s one of the good heroes like Phantom desperately wants him to be. Someone that’ll just let him continue on with a passing nod as if nothing ever happened- or at least take him without the hard hits and knuckles to his temple.

He doesn’t want to fight, but he will if it’s the only option.

“Hello, Phantom. We meet again, it seems.” If those words don’t haunt his nightmares for the rest of his goddamn life, he’s a liar.

“So we do.”

Phantom makes the first move, a step backward. If he has to face off with the hero, he’ll at least make an effort to get away first. As much as he hates to admit it, if Blade goes all out, this is a fight that hope isn’t going to win.

Said hero just continues looking at him, face calculating. He raises a brow at the backed away leg but doesn’t exactly make a move to do anything about it. The vigilante almost thinks he’s being let go, until, “So uh, what exactly did ya’ hear?”

It wasn’t even something Tommy thought about as a problem at first. He’d been so focused on the fact that this is The fucking Blade, that he hadn’t even stopped to consider the weight of the words that had been said.

He’s about to just pull down his mask and run, despite knowing how easily the hero can (and will) outrun him, but Blade’s face drops into one of abrupt emptiness. His expression morphs into realization and annoyance for a moment, before looking down to glare at the civilian --who’s now casually watching the scene go down over the edge of the rooftop, as if this isn’t something that would scare the shit out of anyone else.

“Knock it off,” Blade demands.

Wil just smiles, turning to Tommy with a glint of something dark in his eye, “You’d be wise to run right about now.”

Tommy fucking bolts.

___

He doesn’t stop running until he’s half a kilometer away from the apartment complex.

Tommy isn’t even sure if he’s being chased, or if he ever was to begin with. Though, seeing as how he doesn’t see flashes of red behind him and there’s a severe lack of shackles around his wrists, the blond assumes not. 

It’s probably bad that he doesn’t even remember if he doubled back to shake off possible tails, or if he just ran straight here. 

Rather than leaving himself in the openness of concrete rooftops, Tommy heads to a drift between buildings, a tight space that he’s hidden in too many times before. He feels almost stupid for hiding in the same place, but he’s never been found here and he needs a moment to calm the fuck down.

Black and red fabric gets pulled from his head, allowing his hair to breathe and exist in peace. The mask stays on though. Since the moment he first put it on, it only comes off in the comfort of his locked bedroom door.

Parts of the wall seem to crawl with blunt edges, some of them pointy enough to prick at the back of his neck and pull at strands of hair. It does nothing more than remind him that he’ll need to chop off some of the longer pieces sometime soon, hopefully with something better than his own knife this time. He’ll have to look when he’s back home, no point in leaving his stupid fuckin’ DNA and shit everywhere after a close call like that.

Actually… Now that he even thinks about it, why had Blade even been there in the first place?. Tommy wasn’t anywhere near the guy’s patrol route, he’s not that stupid. Blade has always been a big city hero where all the cameras and flashing lights remain, not sanctioned to the breaking down trash-hole that is L’manburg. Unless he came specifically to argue with- literally just some guy. Wil, wasn’t it?

Wait a fucking- that too! Blade knew the guy’s name! So obviously they knew each other to some extent, because really, who would give their name to a hero that’s trying to arrest them? Wil definitely didn’t seem like the type of guy to buckle under authority, so it couldn’t be that. 

It had sounded like a pretty personal argument to begin with, Tommy wishes he could remember the full extent of it, just enough to piece together what they had been talking about in the first place. He keeps running through the bits he can pick out of his memory as if it’ll somehow force everything into a spot where it all makes sense. The words only ever manage to twist around in a web of corruption and secrets and streaks of grey.

No matter how he looks at it, something shady was going on in that alleyway. And two people know that he knows about it, even if one of them seemed slightly less concerned.

He pulls out his phone, shooting a text to Tubbo and asking him to put Blade on their priority list of people to find shit out about. How many other people will be added to that list, Tommy doesn’t want to know.

___

That morning, Tommy doesn’t go home. Instead, he lays along the inner edge of the forest, watching shimmers of a rising sun shaking through the trees. He usually only comes here when his mind is running bleak and confused, unsure of which direction to follow in order to put itself back together. 

This visit might not be that far off from its usual reasoning.

He might have just uncovered the biggest scandal of all time, and he didn’t even mean to do it. So yeah, a little rest is nice.

Henry curls a little closer against Tommy’s stomach, throat rumbling in that not-quite-purring thing he always does. Ah, Henry, the only fucker that’s ever stayed by his side despite seeing what’s under the mask. 

The cat reminds him of a different time, back when his life was just a mix of the clock, rather than endless Fridays. Canned food being set against cold concrete and the thankful growl of a cat that doesn’t quite know how to meow. Puzzles put together around the house, all to make up for their lack of pricier entertainment.

Lately, he’s been finding himself more fond of those memories than he used to. They seem to lack their usual angry bite, instead choosing to run down his back in guilt.

Even the small rocks and twigs beneath him aren’t as irritating as they once were. Maybe it’s the temperature making him numb to their edges, or his lack of energy driving away any need to care. Henry doesn’t seem to curl as tightly as he usually does for warmth though, so it’s probably just Tommy.

His phone lights up next to him, presumably an update from Tubbo. He’s been getting further into the database lately, more information than they’ll ever need right at his fingertips.

Instead, it’s a message from Ranboo. In hindsight, Tommy never exactly met up with him at their rendezvous point after the whole Blade thing, so it makes sense. 

He should probably tell Ranboo what happened (you know, just in case Tommy mysteriously disappears within the next few days as a result of knowing too much), but the thought of Tubbo possibly standing right there is enough to make him rethink it. He finds himself sending back a simple yup in its place.

This whole ‘hiding from tubbo’ thing is starting to become bigger than he intended it to be...

A small leaf falls next to him. Most people seem to think the leaves fall off on their own, trying to save the tree from certain death if it were to stay. In reality, the leaf is brittle and probably dead already, forced off of its residing branch at the first sight of becoming a burden. Maybe that’s where his anger has wandered off to, pushed away by the cold touch of unjust guilt. 

All Tommy needs to do is learn to survive without it.