Chapter Text
It’s not often that Tommy takes a Dream-shift straight after working at the pub, but a night of spectating the ring and not participating has sparked adrenaline in his bloodstream and he needs to do something.
Quackity knew.
Quackity has seen how jittery he’s been all night, having pulled him into the announcer booth to distract him with conversation and small chores, like counting the betting pool and keeping an eye on idiots that are too into the charged atmosphere and their drinking, likely to cause problems if left to wander.
They play the same game often enough; Quackity keeping Tommy by his side for one reason or another, letting him sit down, chill, eat snacks and down energy drinks that aren’t enough for a growing kid, but certainly better than nothing.
Too many times, it’s not enough to quell the restlessness and Tommy slips away into the darkness, pretending he doesn't see Quackity’s sad eyes following him. He knows more than most, but he doesn’t know the reason why Tommy fights. If he did, maybe he’d be less obstructive.
Fuck, if he knew, he might be more so.
Tonight is one of those nights that sees Tommy slipping away the moment Quackity’s back is turned, grabbing his gear and falling into his ‘Dream’ persona. He kept his goggles in his pocket until he was halfway out the top-floor window, quick to pull them up from where he’d strung them around his neck, pulling up the scarf that acts as a mask, adjusting it as he approaches the back of the building where the garden holds the smoking area for the more well-behaved guests.
Tommy—Dream now, with his mask and goggles firmly hiding his identity—already knows where he’s going, having been unable to think of anything else the last few days as he races over rooftops and leaps the gaps between buildings with a single-minded focus that sees him unaware of his own power soothing the ache of exhaustion before it can become anything more than the weight of movement.
He’s been lending an ear and more attention towards Leviathan’s movements and any mentions of him in the recent days ever since Omen faced off against them near the industrial district which, gratefully, has fewer people nearby to get caught up in their fight.
Dream had met up with Omen the day after; Tommy having trailed after Purpled that night when they’d both been on shift, in which he’d spent the time struggling to keep his mouth shut and not reveal himself out of worry for Purpled, who’d been just as quiet.
Quackity had noticed their lacklustre, and had pulled Tommy aside to ask if the pair of them had fought. Tommy, having known full-well that Purpled had still been in earshot—ears perked, eyes unseeing, having been watching out of his peripheral—Tommy had offered up the excuse of Purpled’s father causing problems that left him stressed and Tommy had simply been giving him space.
That was enough to curb any questions Quackity might’ve thought to ask. He’d accepted the lie, gave an encouraging smile before heading back downstairs, leaving Tommy to hip-bump Purpled as they waited on the tables with a quiet, “you ever need me, I’m here.”
Purpled didn’t exactly come to him, but he didn’t shy away when he donned Omen’s armour and it was Tommy underneath Dream’s smile mask who approached him first.
“Saw the fight,” he’d said, trying to find the line between Dream and Omen’s loose friendship and the worry that had haunted him all night, tracing Purpled’s sleeves and skin for yet-to-heal bruises.
“Wasn’t so much of a fight,” Omen had said in return, more than a little sourly. Which was a fair statement to make for anyone that saw the news report and the way that Leviathan had held the upper hand from the very beginning and didn’t unleash more than two tentacles to fend off Omen’s attacks and eventually pin him to a wall; a singular barb wrapped around his throat like a collar holding him in place.
“You held your own,” Tommy had said, meaning to be encouraging, but Purpled had just snarled, angry and visceral, snatching an empty bottle from the roof they’d met on—somewhere kids and teenagers had once thought a safe place to drink without adult supervision—and launching it towards the next building where it had smashed on a wall and rained glass down into an alley.
“I didn’t hold shit,” he’d snarled, pissed; “Leviathan wasn’t even interested in fighting me from the very start. All he wanted…”
Apparently Leviathan was searching for someone else.
It had taken a little while for Tommy to ease the words out of him, but angry, tired and frustrated with his own weakness had Purpled spitting out words like they were bullets, because Leviathan only entertained Omen attacking him long enough to figure out that he knew nothing about his true enemy.
They’d been interrupted, not by the heroes, but by Predator; another villain that dogged the shadows of the city, who has seemingly gotten caught up in a rivalry with Leviathan, which at least means Dream (Tommy-Dream) and Omen weren’t on his radar.
Neither was the real Dream or the other heroes, but that simply meant he didn’t pick fights with the Dream Team, but was still perfectly willing (and capable) of fighting back when they targeted him.
One piece of information that Tommy did find intriguing, however, wasn’t Leviathan’s focus upon a single target, but that he’d told Omen to stay out of his way—as uninterested in fighting vigilantes as Predator—and that he was hunting someone that Omen would be grateful for him to get rid of.
After Purpled had calmed down enough not to spit words and toss bottles off the roof, he and Tommy had sat down together and had tried to figure out who Leviathan could possibly be after, but it was difficult considering they had practically no information other than the fact Levithan was targeting someone.
It couldn’t be Dream, Makeshift or Spore because Leviathan has never outright targeted them. It might be Predator, maybe, seeing as the pair of them have a past although Levithan runs each time that Predator joins the fight. But that leaves very few other possible targets that Omen would appreciate to be taken off of the playing field.
Tommy knows that he wouldn’t mind it if Leviathan wanted to hunt down his father, but he’s not quite so desperate as to team up with a villain just yet.
And besides, he’d like the satisfaction of killing him himself.
In the end, the only justifiable theory that Omen and Dream are able to come up with is that there is a villain out there somewhere who is far worse than Predator and Leviathan.
And that’s a scary thought to consider.
It’s been two weeks since the pair of them had had that conversation and so far there have been eight more sightings of Leviathan all across the city; far more than what has been in the past and it’s making everyone tense.
For Tommy, he’s found that he’s begun debating his own purpose more and more, unable to shake the words that Purpled had shared with him, rewatching the news broadcast as if he’d be able to pull more from the pixilated over-zoom that had been shared.
Tubbo and Ranboo have caught him a few times—too many for it to be healthy—but they’ve yet to actually bring it up in conversation, so Tommy doesn’t have to worry too much about coming up with an excuse just yet; head too full with the reasons why Leviathan fights, why Omen is rebelling, because he actually is a rich kid like Tubbo thinks Tommy is, except that Purpled dons Omen’s armour to spite his father for reasons Tommy doesn't know.
Tommy’s own are similar to both of them in some ways, as opposed to the heroes who take to the streets to protect those that are unpowered because like Levithan, Tommy is searching too. He wants to find Sam, to save him as Sam had once saved him, but also he wants to prove to himself that he’s worth more than what his father ever thought of him.
And if there’s a chance for it, maybe get a little revenge for all the hell he put him through.
It hasn’t been easy since Sam helped Tommy escape the lab, but it’s certainly been easier than the repetitive tests and experiments and studies that the so-called scientists performed seemingly endlessly. They’d tested his endurance, his stamina, his powers, his ability to heal, the way his body reacted to reduced food and water and studied the way how his body held out for three weeks before he was too weak to move.
It was Sam who had put a stop to it, barging his way into Tommy’s cell, gathering up into his arms and dragging Tommy somewhere safe to care for him, refusing to distance himself even though Tommy knew how dangerous it was.
The last time he’d healed himself from the brink of death, he’d taken his mother’s life in forfeit.
But Sam survived Tommy’s recovery and he started fighting against the constant experiments; the denial of medicine when they hurt Tommy and watched as the skin stitched itself back up; the long days and long nights where they’d force Tommy to walk until he collapsed and other experiments that all told the scientists the same things and made Tommy hate them more and more.
But not enough to want to kill them.
Not until Sam couldn’t stand it anymore and tried to get the pair of them out.
Not until Tommy had watched Sam collapse in a bloody heap, bullets lodged in his back, pain etched across his face and something feral in his voice as he screamed at Tommy to run, run and don’t look back.
Not until Tommy made it out and Sam didn’t.
But he was going to find where the lab had moved their monstrosities and he was going to rescue Sam and he was going to kill his father for having handed him over in the first place.
Tommy is kicked out of his plots of vengeance by footsteps behind him; having been too caught up in his own mind as he watched over the building of Levithan’s latest attack or the perchance the villain might return, so Tommy could beat his ass and keep him from moving his search any closer to his home where Phil, Tech, Wil, Tubbo and Ranboo were at risk of getting caught up in the villain’s schemes.
He was expecting Omen, or maybe even Levithan himself—because Tommy’s luck would see him with a beatdown—except what meets his eye instead of a tentacle ready to skewer and kill him is the deep maroon of Makeshift’s hero costume; the hero himself casually sauntering over like they’re two strangers in a park and not at the top of a high rise overlooking Leviathan's last outburst of destruction.
Tommy is on edge instantly, both figuratively and literally; having hopped up onto the ledge of the building and already mapping out the three possible escape routes as well as the injuries he’ll get from each of them, outweighing risk versus reward.
“Oh come on, I thought we were past this,” Makeshift bemoans playfully, unbothered by Tommy’s tension or the way his hand comes up to reaffirm that his disguise is still firmly in place. It’s not as professional as Makeshift’s armour—or even Omen’s for that matter—considering that Tommy put his together with ski-goggles, a scarf that he uses to hide the bottom half of his face—but it does its job well.
“I already told you, I’m not really looking to arrest you even though technically I should,” Makeshift continues, saying as much the same as what he has each time it’s just been him and Tommy crossing paths.
He comes over to the edge and sitting himself down, still keeping ample between himself and Tommy, using an air duct as support to lean against, golden-lens eyes staring out across the darkened city. “Besides, you’d more than likely jump off the building to get away, and I’m not about to be the reason a kid breaks their leg.”
“Not a kid,” Tommy bristles slightly, but it’s the same way he’d bristle when Wil would tease him, or the way Tech would ruffle his hair after having helped patch up Tommy’s bloody knuckles; he having quoted a fight at Quackity’s pub, which wasn’t technically a lie considering he fights there three of seven a week.
Cautiously, Tommy steps down from the ledge. He doesn’t entirely trust Makeshift, but it’s true that he’s never actually tried to arrest Tommy. Even when Spore is with him although he never really tries to arrest Tommy. The only one that gives half an effort is the real Dream, but that feels more like out of irritation to someone using his hero name as opposed to any obligation.
“So where’s Dream and Spore?” Tommy asks, when his feet are back on a safer level. He’s still far away enough from Makeshift that he’d at least have half a chance to yeet himself off the roof before the hero made a move.
“I thought you were Dream?” Makeshift just grins at him, the motion hidden behind the fabric of his mask, but Tommy can see it clear enough in the way the material sinches. Tommy rolls his eyes, turning away—not completely, not allowing Makeshift to leave his peripheral—but the moment that he does, the hero stops him with a stumbled shout.
“Wait, wait, I just wanted to talk. Just… wanted to check in.”
Tommy’s eyes narrow, fingers curling into fists instinctively. “Why?”
Makeshift shrugs, trying to keep it as casual as he can despite the way Tommy is a breath from launching himself off the side of the building and hoping to whatever higher power that he can heal the damage gained before Makeshift can make to follow.
“You can consider it a favour from a friend,” he says, still casual, like those words alone don’t throw Tommy for a loop, blinking surprisedly at him when Makeshift pulls down the lower half of his mask to free up his mouth and full-blown grins.
“But mainly, because it pisses Dream off—the real Dream—that there’s a vigilante kid—”
“Not a kid,” Tommy says in reflex; Makeshift waving his hand, amending, “—not a kid, running around and using his name. Me and G—Spore thinks it’s fucking hilarious, and honestly, you’re not hurting anyone,” he says, smile softening a touch but it’s no less entertained by the idea of Tommy irritating his friend.
He feels a lick of pride for that fact, and struggles to keep his expression still even if he’s wearing a disguise that keeps his own face perfectly hidden.
“Except, well, maybe yourself when you get into fights,” Makeshift points out, waving a hand like he’s trying to figure out the words before he speaks them, “but I guess you could call that karma? Or something? The main thing is, I don’t have a problem with you. Neither does Spore, though he’ll never admit it.
“Technically Punz gets more upset about it than Dream does, but he also finds it funny. He won’t say anything, same as George, but not because he’s proud, but because his Dad is a real git and a stickler for the rules,” he says, apparently unaware that he’s just revealed Spore’s real name, but Tommy’s not about to point that out. Besides, it’s not like he’d be able to figure out who he was. There has to be hundreds, if not thousands of Georges’ living in the city.
But Tommy’s mind catches on another name that is far more familiar.
“Punz?”
Which is, arguably, a worse name to drop, because there might be hundreds of Georges’ in the city, but Tommy hasn’t ever met anyone called Punz before. He knows Purpled has an older brother called Punz, a detective working under his father, but it would be a hell of a coincidence if it was the same Punz—
“Oh, he’s a detective, his dad is William Evans, the asshole Police Commissioner that keeps giving me, Dream and Spore grief,” Makeshift says, far too casually. “He’s sort of our liaison with the police department, although that’s not like an official title or anything. I just like Karl, his partner, and Punz is sort of a package deal, though he’s a nice guy and he’s not afraid to insult George when he’s being an idiot and no one insults George. They’re all too scared of him.”
Makeshift needs to reread the definition of “secret.”
And maybe think before he speaks.
“Why are you telling me all this?” Tommy hedges cautiously, although he’s far less guarded than he was earlier and he’s no longer thinking about escape routes and how difficult it will be to try and escape with a busted leg; instead wary of Makeshift’s openness and apparent disregard that telling Tommy all this might just come back to bite him in the ass.
“Because like I said,” Makeshift grins, “I don’t think you’re bad. You’re a vigilante, for fuck’s sake, you’re not doing harm and you’re risking yourself to do good. And, well, I wanted to give you a heads up. Leviathan is searching for someone.”
Tommy nods, familiar with that bite of information already. “Omen told you.”
“What? No, they—wait, you talk with Omen?” Makeshift asks, stepping closer, and Tommy doesn’t feel the need to take an equal step back.
It’s his turn to shrug, casual and easy. “Considering that we’re both vigilantes. It’s not like we’re explicitly teamed or anything. Officially,” he says, flashing his own grin, “but we help one another out from time to time when we can.”
Makeshift mulls the words over, nodding to himself as if they make sense. “So how did Omen know Leviathan?”
“Their last fight. The one that televised,” Tommy answers, turning his head to the city and the far-distant parking-lot complex that was half-closed by Leviathan’s destruction and Omen’s attempt to bring the fight to somewhere with fewer people. “I asked Omen about it. Omen told me the same as what you’ve told me; Leviathan is looking for someone. We don’t know who, and we don’t know why.”
“Neither do we. We’re only grateful that he’s not causing any more harm, although stopping him is made harder by not knowing who he’s hunting. If we did, we’d be able to better protect them.”
He’s got his arms folded over his chest, thinking intently, and doesn’t even lift his head when Tommy takes a step closer to the edge of the building. He’s not entirely sure on where he stands with Makeshift; they’re on the same side, technically, and it’s not like he and his partners are actively trying to take him off the streets, so…
“I’ll keep an ear out,” Tommy says, testing the waters. And then, because he wants to ease any tension, teases, “that is, if you promise to stop trying to arrest me.”
At least Makeshift laughs at that, grin back on his face and making no effort to keep Tommy around when he’s said what he wanted to; genuinely having no ulterior motive to meet Tommy on this rooftop other than to give him a head’s up on Levithan’s movements.
“I’d have to start trying to arrest you to stop. Like I said, it’s funny to watch Dream get annoyed, and Spore gets a kick out of it too. See you around kid.”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “I’m not a kid,” he says over his shoulder, before jumping off the roof.