Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is a discount a possibility, or...?” he asked, showing the most charming smile that he could muster up.

The cashier stared back at him, probably thinking something along the lines of I'm too old for this.

“Kid, there is a line. Do not waste my time.” The women said, glancing behind him at the line.

Why were gas stations so crowded at 3am? Who was buying snacks at this hour?

Well, he was, but that was beside the point. He was an irresponsible 17-year-old, these adults had no excuse for their stupid decisions like he did. It had only been a week since he ran away from home, and it had been both the best and worst week of his life.

The first day was perfect. His escape plan was genius—if he did say so himself—and it would’ve worked perfectly if she didn’t-

It worked perfectly! He got out of that hellhole and went into the world, finally free. Freedom was everything he’d dreamed it would be. With the money he’d saved up for the past four years he bought a cheap hotel, one of the run down ones in the alleyways of Brighton, a random 17-year-old kid shouldn’t be wandering through. But he wasn’t just a random 17-year-old kid.

He was Tommy Innit, the biggest man that ever walked the planet.

He was Tommy Innit, and he was completely out of money.

Turns out money goes quickly, and motels are more expensive than they look. He lasted two weeks before he hit rock bottom. She would’ve forced him to pick himself back up.

But she wasn’t here, so he could do it himself.

He slept in alleyways, on benches, anywhere but go back there. Back to that place. The only thing that kept him there was his brother, and after that he was just staying to save enough to survive.

That was the thing about Tommy. Life was shit, and life was always gonna be shit, but he survives.

He was still surviving, but just barely.

“Kid, are you gonna pay or not?” The women snapped, bringing him back to reality.

He ran his fingers through his hair, blonde and dirty, in need of a shower.

“I, uhh- yeah, here...” He said rummaging in his faded jean pockets for a ten dollar bill. He had ten dollars, right? Oh, ok, few, there it is. “Keep the change.” He said placing the money on the counter, winking at her and grabbing his chips and Gatorade.

“You’re total was 10.98.” She deadpanned, but he was already gone.

He felt guilty for stealing—that was a lie—but he also didn’t care what people thought about him—that was also a lie—so he ran through the streets of Brighton shamelessly, avoiding people and getting as far away from the gas station as he could. He saw a tube station sign glowing and ran to it, slipping past the brick buildings and down the concrete stairs.

The familiar smell of rust and still water filled his senses, and he blended in with the crowd of the underground system, walking quickly. He knew these stations like the back of his hand, he’d grown up here after all.

Once he got to the station, he collapsed onto a bench, his lungs burning. He’d been running so much these past couple months, from gas station ladies, from his old home, from his old life. His heaved, breathing in and out, trying to catch his breath. He opened his Gatorade, hearing the familiar crack of the plastic breaking on the lid, and taking a sip of the sweet, sugary liquid.

The taste brought him back to a memory, back to when things were easier, when he was still there, and everything was okay. Back when he had a place to call home.

He blinked rapidly, not letting his mind wander to thoughts like that. He could never go back there. There wasn’t a place to go back to, not anymore.

He had more important things to dwell on, like where he would sleep tonight.

“Sir, would you like to play a game?”

Sir? What pretentious bastard was calling him sir? He glanced up, seeing a man with a too-clean suit and a too-bright smile. Freshly combed hair, a shiny breifcase—this guy was undoubtedly not from around here. Pretentious bastard.

“A game.” Tommy repeated, not bothering to stand up from his bench. The guy was probably trying to sell him something, or convert him to some religion--

“Ddakji. Are you familiar?” The man asked.

Ddakji. The game he’d played every day as a child to pass the time while his mother was at work. Was he familiar?

“I’ve heard of it.” Tommy scoffed, standing up. This guy had piqued his interest, now. As he stood, he noticed how short the man was, at least a couple inches shorter than him. But he still stood tall, the posture you knew belonged to someone who thought they were better than everyone else.

“I’ll play you a round in Ddakji, winner gets 10,000 won.” The man said, already pulling out the papers from his pockets, as if Tommy had already agreed.

Like he’d said, pretentious bastard.

But Tommy had never backed down from a bet and today wouldn’t be the first time. Wi- he used to make fun of him for it, saying he had a future in gambling his life savings away. But Tommy was already screwed up for the night, so how much worse could it get?

He held the red, folded paper in his hand, feeling the familiar ridges. It was muscle memory, he’d done this a thousand times. He raised his hand, preparing himself, then threw it down, and prayed.

Sure enough, the little blue paper square, flipped over, first try. The man raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“First try, congratulations.” The man said, not a drop of sincerity in his words. “Well, as promised, here is your prize.”

Then the man opened his briefcase, and Tommy nearly fainted. There, inside the little black pocket, was more money than Tommy had ever seen in his entire life. Stacks and stacks of won, all perfectly lined and ridged to be even and precise. It looked like a movie. The man grabbed a crisp stack and handed it over, and Tommy gawked. The man let out a little chuckle.

“What, did you think I was lying?”

“I thought you were a bastard, but not a rich bastard.” Tommy breathed out, pocketing the money.

“You could win more, you know.” The man said, handing over a small paper card, before closing the briefcase and walking away. He felt a little part of him die as the money filled briefcase disappeared into the crowd.

He glanced down at the business card. It was mostly blank, except for three shapes in the middle, a circle, triangle, and square. On the back, a phone number.

Pretentious bastard.

Chapter Text

He woke up to the sound of violins.

The melody drifted through the air like something from a dream—soft, elegant, and deeply, deeply wrong. It wasn’t the kind of music you expected to wake up to, not when you’re last memory was a cold alleyway and the sting of a needle in your neck. Yet here it was, smooth and classical, rising in a slow crescendo.

Tommy kept his eyes shut for a moment longer, hoping, praying that this was some kind of bad dream. The kind where you wake up sweaty, grasping, and grateful that reality is still reality. But the stiff mattress beneath him was real. The scent of metal and old fabric was real. And the murmurs-whispers, gasps, someone cursing under their breath-was definitely real.

Tommy’s stomach twisted as he opened his eyes.

The ceiling stretched impossibly high, a pale, industrial white. The room itself was massive, a maze of metal bunk beds, stacked in rows like storage shelves, filled with people who looked just as lost as he felt. The first thing Tommy thought was that this place was ugly as hell. Where's the glamor, where's the wow factor? They didn't even get to keep their clothes either. Strangers in identical green tracksuits sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes, glancing around in growing panic. Numbers—stitched white on their chests-marked them like inventory in a factory.

Tommy looked down. 007

He prayed they had his clothes somewhere. He was wearing his favorite red hoodie, and it was the last thing he had from his brother. She had burnt everything else of his.

Tommy shook his head, glancing around to clear his mind, anything to avoid thinking about that.

Luckily, there were easy distractions at every turn. Across the room, a boy with a shaved head was yelling out someone, cursing like sailor. An older man with blonde hair and a beard was sitting on the bed beside Tommy, and seeing his panic he gave him a small smile. Someone else—a man with soft pink hair tied in a braid and a long scar down his cheek—wasn't panicking at all. He just sat there, staring at the ceiling, lips slightly curled in what might just have been amusement.

Fucking weirdo.

People began to stand up, making their way down to the center of the room, and Tommy joined them, his body feeling like it was squished into a pancake then ran over 78 times. Strangers all around him walked to the center of the room, a large open space in the middle of the beds. He glanced around, trying to get a rough idea of how many people there were. 400? Maybe 500?

He stepped off the metal and onto solid ground, hearing the murmurs around him. No one knew where the fuck they were, and panic was rising. A man with black hair tucked under a blue beanie stepped past him, holding something in his hand that Tommy couldn’t make out. Tommy glanced back hesitantly, to see the anime pink-haired man from earlier still sat in his bed, looking at the crowd like a challenge he had to win.

They made eye contact for a moment, before Tommy broke it.

Then he saw him from across the room.

Short, brown hair, and innocent doe eyes. It had to be him, right? The boy turned, and the pair locked eyes for a moment.

“Tubbo?” He breathed out, glancing at his childhood best friend up and down with uncertainty. In an instant Tubbo had ran over, rushing Tommy with a hug. He gasped, not used to the feeling. Before he could blink, Tubbo had pulled away, awe in his eyes.

Tommy laughed, the feeling familiar, but cold. “You haven’t changed.”

“You have.” Tubbo mumbled, looking up at him. “Are you okay?”

Tommy blinked. “Are you? How did you manage to get in this place, Tubs? Your family always had enough to go around.”

Tubbo’s face fell, the previous joy and wonder gone in an instant. He tapped his foot, hiding his shaking hands behind him, and clearly thought for a moment, before answering.

“A lot has changed in the last couple years, huh?”

Well, no shit.

Before Tommy could answer, he heard yelling to his right and quickly turned. People were stepping back, forming a circle around two boys. The buzzcut from earlier, and a man with curly blonde hair and a wicked grin.

“You say that again to my face, prick.” Buzzcut said, not a hint of remorse in his tone. He had a thick British accent, and though he was much smaller in stature to the curly haired guy, he held his ground surprisingly well.

Curly-head scoffed, his green eyes looking at Buzzcut like prey. “What, are you scared of a little fight?”

Buzzcut, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “You’re in this shithole too, Dream, don’t act as if you’re above me.”

The guy—Dream, apparently—rolled his eyes. “Still on the defensive, I see.”

“Still picking fights you can’t win, I see.”

“You wanna bet?”

Suddenly the loud creaking of metal against metal came from one side of the room, catching everyone’s attention. Buzzcut still looked very wound up, but Dream (what kind of a name is ‘Dream’?) just scoffed and turned to face where the noise came from. Only one wall of the massive room was not taken up by the massive bed structures, and there was a short staircase in the wall leading to a sort-of stage, and a metal door behind it. There were two identical doors on either side of the stage, presumably bathrooms?

The doors swung open, and a dozen men walked out wearing matching pink jumpsuits and black belts, full covered and protected. They also had black masks, with squares or circles on them, similar to the notecard. In short, they looked like fucking idiots. The only thing that stopped Tommy from bursting out laughing was the tension in the room. He glanced around him, seeing most everybody looking forward with fear, or anger. Tubbo still stands beside him, giving him a little nod, but there’s undeniable terror in his eyes.

One of the jumpsuit men stepped forward, and Tommy could tell he had a powerful aura about him, probably some sort of leader? He spoke, though you couldn’t see his lips moving through the fuckass mask.

“I would like to extend a heartfelt welcome to you all.” He started, and not a single person moved. “Everyone here will participate in different games over six days, and those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.”

Okay, this place was weird.

“What makes you think we’ll believe that?” Someone calls out, and Tommy and Tubbo both turn to see a man with black hair under a bright blue beanie that Tommy saw before, but this time his hands were empty, crossed against his chest as he leans against one of the bedposts. Another man next to him nods, with dark hair and brown eyes so dark they almost looked red. “He’s right, you assholes took all our stuff and basically kidnapped us, and now you’re saying we can only leave if we ‘play games’?”

“You expect us to believe that?” A third man finishes, with messy light brown hair and a strange look in his eyes.

A beat of silence. Everyone in the room seems to agree, nodding their heads and staring back at the pink guys.

The leader speaks again, “We reluctantly took all of those measures to maintain confidentiality as we brought you here. We will return everything once the games are over.”

Okay, this place was really fucking weird.

The beanie guy shrugged, while the dark haired man rolled his eyes and sat down on one of the beds.

Before Tommy could react, another person spoke up, and he turned to face them. It was a girl, with blond hair and some sort of pink highlights, around Tommy’s age or maybe a bit older.

“You all...” she started, tutting, “You all have those masks, why are you wearing those things?”

“We do not disclose the faces or any information about our staff to any participates. It’s a measure we take to ensure fair games and confidentiality. We-”

“I don’t trust anything you just said.” Dream spoke up, and Tommy saw Buzzcut mutter something under his breath. “You tricked us,” he continued, “kidnapped us, imprisoned us. And now you’re making excuses to not show your faces.” He smirked, “Give us one reason why we should believe anything you say.”

Fair, Tommy thought to himself.

“Player 001. Clayton Huff, Dream.” The masked man said, before pulling out a little black remote and pressing a button. He clicked a button and suddenly the room went dark, and a massive TV above the stage glowed with a video of Dream being slapped, and Tommy presumed he was playing the Ddakji. As the video played, the man spoke.

“Aged 24 years. Former team leader and high ranking official at Feral Industries. Stole money from his clients balances and then invested it in derivatives and failed. Current loss, 700 million won.”

Just then, another video played, of the pink haired girl being slapped. “301, Nikki Nihachu, 540 million in debt.”

Next, Buzzcut, “212, Jack Manifold, 1.04 billion in debt.”

He continued listing off each player who had spoken up, with beanie guy being called Alex Quackity, the dark haired man, Nicholas Sapnap, and the brunette, Karl Jacbobs.

Tommy swallowed and was glad he stayed quiet for once.

“Every person standing here in this room is living on the brink of financial ruin.” The man continued, and Tommy shared and wary look with Tubbo. “You all have debts that you can't pay off. When we first went to see each of you, not a single one of you trusted us, but as you all know, we played a game, and as we promised, gave you money when you won/ Suddenly, everyone here trusted us. You called and volunteered to participate in this game of your own free will. So, this is it. I’ll give you one last chance to choose.”

Nobody spoke.

This place, Tommy decided, was completely batshit insane.

“Will you go back to your old, hopeless lives, Or will you act and seize this last opportunity we’re offering here?”

Again, silence, and Tommy blinked.

“What kind of games are we playing here?” Karl asked, breaking the silence.

“We cannot disclose any information about the games ahead of time, to maintain confidentiality.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, then thought, fuck it, and spoke up.

“If we win, just how much do we get?” As soon as he said it, all eyes turned to him. Tommy glanced at Tubbo, who was staring at him in shock, the three loud guys in the corner who nodded, and anime man who raised an eyebrow.

Without saying anything, the main pink man pulled out his remote and pressed something. Metal banged above them, and every person turned their eyes to the ceiling, where a hatch had opened, and some sort of carnival music had begun to play.

Okay, where the fuck was he?

A massive piggybank lowered from the ceiling, shining gold lights on everyone’s faces. It was made out of glass, hung by four ropes, and currently empty.

“Your prize money will be accumulated in there after every game.” The man said, “We will reveal the amount to everyone after the first game. If you do not wish to take part, please let us know at this time.”

For what felt like the hundredth time, nobody spoke.

Okay, one game, Tommy thought. He’d play one game and then get the fuck out of this circus. Get some cash, get away from his old life, and never see any of these people again.

Besides, how bad can one game truly be?