Chapter Text
This is where Tommy was born to be.
The wind in his hair, the familiar weightlessness in his belly—it’s exhilarating. The streets blur around him, shades of white and copper and silver blending into one, flickering street lights scarcely illuminating the road before him. He holds a hand out and lets it cut through the air, fingers outstretched as though to catch the wind itself. He tips his head back and laughs, wild and carefree, and for a moment he imagines he has wings, carrying him across the open sky, bright and blue, fingers dragging through the puffy white clouds.
Somewhere up ahead, he hears an echoing shout, full of manic joy and adrenaline. He blinks the city streets back into view, his hoverboard rumbling beneath his feet and his stomach lurching as he leans into a tight turn, hurtling around the corner of the street and into the narrow alley of the race’s last leg.
“C’mon, Sparrow!” Someone shouts, and he turns to catch a flash of familiar green eyes beneath a smear of dark grease paint.
Wasp.
“You gonna let him beat you?” his friend challenges, gesturing ahead.
Tommy grits his teeth. As his hoverboard starts to dip, the engine’s hum slowing, he gives the pedal another good kick. The board surges forward beneath his feet with another burst, and he hears Tubbo give a delighted whoop behind him as he starts to catch up. Ahead, Ranboo is little more than a black and white blur in the darkness of night. He shoots Tommy a cheeky grin and a mocking salute, and then his grappling hooks are shooting forward again, propelling him toward the finish line far ahead. All around him, there are men shouting—cries of joy and frustration at the sight of Eclipse pulling ahead.
It’s time for Tommy’s last trick—the last card up his sleeve.
“Right, old girl,” he says, crouching and giving his hoverboard a pat. His leg groans a little beneath him, securely attached to the board. “Let’s give it everything we’ve got, yeah? Can’t let this dickhead get all the glory.”
He flips the little switch on the side of his board, and the world jumps into motion.
The engine roars to life, the jet kicking forward and throwing him up off of the ground. He launches into the air with a delighted shout, weightless as he soars above fences, and windows, and then the rooftops, landing along the narrow edge with a flurry of sparks as the edge of his board scrapes against cement. Below him, the streets are like a wildfire, a blur of colored light and sound, claps and cheers echoing up to him. No doubt, they’re going to draw a lot of attention with this race—maybe even enough to get the authorities off of their asses to try (and fail) to stop them.
Tommy just hopes it’ll fill up his pockets a little fuller.
From above, he’s gaining ground—no more pedestrians or obstacles to get in his way. Ranboo, on the other hand, is having trouble, his board’s stabilizers flaring to life as his grappling hooks miss their next shot, forcing him to slow. Tommy takes his chance, careening back over the edge with another blast from his jet, kissing the dark night sky goodbye as he returns to the earth. He cackles triumphantly, flipping Ranboo off as he crashes back down to the ground in front of him, just in time for the home stretch. Ranboo glares at him behind his mask, but Tommy knows he’s probably grinning, too. He reaches down and flips the switch again, and the roar of his engine dulls into a familiar hum, carrying smoothly across the finish line and toward the crowd of spectators that cheer and boo at his victory.
“Another win for the Sparrow,” one man says, cutting Tommy a smug grin as he collects his winnings from his partner, who looks devastated. Poor guy must have bet his week’s earnings on this race. Tommy can’t bring himself to feel bad for him, though—not when he’d made the very stupid decision to bet against the Sparrow, the Underground’s reigning hover racing champion. Someone else claps him on the shoulder, and he shoots them a roguish grin. He can hear the other racers starting to arrive at the finish line. Ranboo had been only a few meters behind him. He’s getting closer, Tommy will give him that.
He won’t beat him, though.
Tommy’s the best there is. The fastest, too.
He gives his board an approving pat. Tubbo had helped to make it fast—dangerously fast, at the cost of being a bit unstable. While Tubbo’s board is well-balanced, and Ranboo’s safe, Tommy prefers to live on the edge. He doesn’t care if his board is a little rough around the edges, or if it has the possibility to, well, up and explode if he crashes too hard. What’s life without a little danger, right? He’s already lost one leg doing this shit, so what’s one more?
Tommy takes his share of the winnings from every bet with a smile and a wave, filling a red velvet pouch with coins. There’s nobody here to regulate it, so the system runs on trust. Most of the men here, despite the less-than-legal nature of hover racing, are honorable enough. It’s good fun, and their problems usually aren’t with the racers themselves, but the poor fools who bet more than they could afford.
If they don’t pay, the races stop. That’s incentive enough to keep this whole operation running.
Normally, he’d stop to talk to his fans—and to taunt his opponents, who nip at his heels like a bunch of annoying dogs, vying for his spot. But today, it seems, they’ve drawn too much attention to themselves, if the wailing sirens far in the distance are anything to go by. Tommy’s quick to collect the rest of his prize, the crowd vanishing swiftly into nearby homes and alleys, leaving behind little trace that they were ever there at all. Tubbo and Ranboo are already gone, and aren’t here to scold him, so Tommy waits just a little longer, just to feel that familiar rush of adrenaline as the militia grows near, close enough to be dangerous.
And then lights are flashing in the distance, and he hops on his hoverboard and gets the hell out of there.
The city of Babel is beautiful at night.
It’s pretty in the day, too, but at night it belongs to Tommy and the other miscreants who wander these streets, alone and forgotten amidst the wealth and prosperity. Tommy walks along white stone streets trimmed with copper and gold, and beneath his feet he can feel the steady, constant hum of Babel’s engines, the very thing that keeps their city aloft. It’s sometimes hard to imagine the earth far below them—the world uninhabitable, save for the city in the sky, far above the devastated landscape. But Tommy’s been to the edge of the city—has sat out on the docks overlooking the wastelands, dangling his feet over the edge until he’d been chased away. He’s seen it with his own eyes.
He was born here, in the sky. He’s never known the feeling of steady ground beneath his feet. He’s never known a day without a steady breeze, without buildings that touch the clouds themselves, without the hum of the engines far below. All he’s ever known is Babel, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He’s happy to call these streets his home.
Quite literally, too.
He should be getting back to Tubbo and Ranboo, back to the little alleyway they’ve made their own. Ranboo’s bound to be cross if he stays out too late, but Tommy’s got places to be, people to see—or, rather, bother. He grins wickedly as he climbs up the polished white steps that lead to the lavish, grandiose building, uncaring for the late hour of the night as he reaches up to the door and raps on it incessantly. The library’s windows are dark, save for the soft glow deep within, a familiar, comforting sight.
“Wil?” he calls, knocking a little harder. “Wilbur. I know you’re there. Wilburrr. Open up, or I’ll break your door again. I’ll do it, I fucking will, just you—!”
The door opens.
“For fuck’s sake,” Wilbur breathes, glaring down at Tommy through his spectacles. “Tommy, it’s almost midnight, what are you doing?”
Tommy grins.
“Can’t a boy visit his brother?” he asks innocently, pushing past, ignoring the young man’s indignant protests. “I’m hurt, Wilbur. Didn’t you tell me your door was always open to me?”
“When I said that, I meant if you finally decided to stop being a little street gremlin,” Wilbur huffs, closing the door behind him and leaning against it with a long, dramatic sigh. “You better not be running from the militia again, brat, or I’ll turn you in. This is not a fucking safehouse for your crimes. You should go, really, I—”
“Relax,” Tommy says. “They stopped chasing me a few minutes ago.”
“What? Tommy, I swear to—”
“Only joking.” Tommy plops down into a plush armchair, kicking his feet up onto one of the library’s polished tables. “...Mostly.” His prosthetic squeaks against the wood with an awful, piercing sound. He grins as Wilbur grimaces, and folds his arms behind his head. “Relax, man. I’ve never gotten caught before. I’m too fast for ‘em.” Smugly, he takes out the pouch of coins from his coat pocket, dangling it around in front of his friend. “Guess who won again? I’m unstoppable, man! Ranboo didn’t stand a fucking chance!”
“Tommy…”
“You should’ve seen the look on his face when I passed him! He really thought he had the race in the bag this time!”
“Tommy—”
“Dude, I think with some new modifications to my board, I could—”
“Hey, Tommy.”
Tommy’s jaws snap shut. He turns to see none other than Technoblade himself standing in the doorway, arms folded and expression cross. The admiral’s personal guard steps into the room with a small, awkward little wave, and Tommy turns to face Wilbur, aghast.
“You bastard! Why didn’t you tell me he was here!”
“I was trying, idiot.”
Tommy clams up as Technoblade sinks into the chair beside him, cradling a cup of tea in his hands. He curls up with his knees tucked to his chest, his hair a little messy, and Tommy can’t help but snort at the sight of the drowsy man, normally so put together. Even that isn’t enough to keep him from being a little wary, though, despite Wilbur’s cheery nature as he joins them, offering Tommy his own cup of hot chocolate, which he begrudgingly takes.
“Relax, kid,” Technoblade mutters. “I’m not gonna turn you in.” He takes a sip of his tea and heaves a long, weary sigh. “Just stopped by Wilbur’s place after my shift. I don’t care what you do when I’m not clocked in.”
“You gonna stay the night, Techno?” Wilbur asks. Tommy splutters.
“What? Wilbur, you can’t—you can’t house the enemy!”
Technoblade raises a brow. Wilbur snorts, folding his arms.
“He’s my mum’s guard, Tommy. He’s around me all the time—more than you! He’s practically like—like my fucking uncle, or big brother, or something.”
“No, he’s not! I’m your brother, dickhead! I don’t wanna be related to him! ”
“I don't think that’s how any of this works,” Technoblade deadpans.
“Shut up, Techno,” they both snap. He goes quiet.
Tommy tugs a blanket around his shoulders glowering. The mug of hot chocolate is warm in his hands, soothing his wind-bitten fingers. He can’t bring himself to stay mad at Wilbur for long, even if he doesn’t show that on the outside. He settles for flipping the man off one more time before chugging his drink, ignoring the burn and the watering in his eyes. He breaks off coughing after a moment, and does his best to maintain his dignity. He fails. Technoblade chuckles beside him, and he shoots him a withering glare.
“Th’ fuck are you laughing at?” he challenges. The man holds up his hands placatingly, though that stupid smirk remains.
“Quit being a dick, Tommy,” Wilbur says firmly. He reaches out and cuffs him around the ears, and Tommy squawks, slapping his hand away. “He’s a guest, and a friend of mine, just like you. He can also have your ass arrested, so maybe, y’know, don’t try and piss him off at every opportunity?”
Right. Probably a good idea. Tommy finishes off his drink and slams his mug down, ignoring Wilbur’s glare. The older boy shoves his glasses a little further up his nose and heaves a long sigh, fixing Technoblade with an apologetic look.
“Sorry about him,” Wilbur says. “He’s a jealous little shit. Clingy.”
“I am not—!” A pillow hits him in the face.
“It’s fine,” Technoblade says, sounding a little distant. He waves them off, leaning back in his chair. Tommy, meanwhile, bares his teeth at Wilbur, fully prepared to escalate this pillow fight into a full-blown war—one that Wilbur’s going to lose. Only Wilbur isn’t playing anymore, apparently, because his shoulders are stiff and he’s looking straight at Tommy with a look that could cut steel.
Read the room, Wilbur's glare says. Tommy’s gaze cuts back to Technoblade, and for the first time he notices the shadows beneath the man’s eyes, and the tightness in his jaw. His hands are unusually tense around the teacup he holds, and Tommy half-expects it to shatter in his grip. He’s certainly strong enough to do it, the beefy bastard. Probably wouldn’t even notice. Still, Tommy’s not a complete asshole—not like Wilbur—so he shuts his mouth and waits expectantly, a little curious to figure out what could be bothering the guy so much.
“‘S been almost five years,” Technoblade murmurs. He heaves a steadying breath, and Wilbur hums softly, soothingly. “Wonder if that crazy bastard’s still alive out there.”
“Would you want him to be?” Wilbur asks.
Technoblade doesn’t answer right away. And when he does—
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s ‘he?’” Tommy demands. “You guys are being fucking weird.”
Technoblade’s gaze lifts slowly to him. He looks annoyed now, and a little distressed—a faint shine to his eyes that he quickly rubs away with his sleeve.
“Phil,” he says simply.
“Philza,” Wilbur adds, and Tommy blinks. He launches to his feet in an instant, wide-eyed and flabbergasted as he stares at Technoblade.
“Philza? Philza Craft? The inventor, the fucking—the fucking terrorist? You knew him?”
Technoblade’s glare sharpens, lips tugging into a tight frown.
“He’s my best friend,” he growls, and then falters. “Or—was.”
Tommy settles. Technoblade’s voice is suddenly heavy with grief, and Tommy can tell he’s treading a dangerous line. He opts to keep his mouth shut, sinking back into his chair and eyeing Technoblade distrustfully.
Everyone knows about Philza Craft. The man who was the city’s shining star, the very person who got Babel to move across the sky. A legendary inventor, the man who inspired Tommy’s own designs for his hoverboard. He’d been the admiral’s right hand, and Babel’s pilot, keeping her engines in top shape and charting a course across the sky. He’d been at the top, glorified and praised, one of the most well-known and beloved people in Babel.
And then one day, he’d snapped.
He’d gone and blown up one of the engines. The city had been thrown into chaos—smoke billowing across the city’s west side, the ground trembling beneath everyone’s feet. Tommy had still been in school when it happened, when the news headlines became something devastating and dark, when the whole city mourned. Phil and the admiral had both been down there, apparently—a routine inspection, checking in with the workers there. Nobody had seen the attack coming, not until the world shook and the air filled with the screams of workers and civilians alike.
Nearly two dozen people had died in the explosion.
Phil and the admiral were miraculously unhurt.
They’d led Phil away in cuffs. He’d screamed and shouted obscenities, his face plastered all over the news broadcasts. Murderer, they’d called him. A terrorist. The admiral himself had seen him cause the explosion, and as the days passed, the survivors of the explosion had come forward with their own accounts. Tommy had watched the trails that followed. Everyone had. The results had been unanimous, no matter how much the man had pled his innocence.
Exile.
Phil had been sentenced to exile.
It’s a sentence as grim as death in Babel. The world below is impossible to live in—the ground cracked and dry and void of life. Nobody who’s been sent away has ever returned, and Tommy remembers all too clearly the look in the man’s eyes when he’d been read his sentence—the horror and devastation there, as well as the hollow acceptance that had followed.
Phil hadn’t made it to his public exile.
He’d vanished before they could, leaving of his own accord. They’d found his house empty, the guards protecting it unconscious by the door. He’d disappeared without a trace, his glider missing and his house practically untouched, valuables left behind. The last traces of him were found at the docks, overlooking the wastelands far below. A tattered green coat, and far below, the crumpled remains of a ruined glider against the ground.
Nobody’s seen him in five years.
He’d been presumed dead after three.
Tommy didn’t know that Technoblade knew Phil. He wonders, if he reviewed the footage from the trials now, if he’d see pink hair sitting amidst the crowd.
“Do you think he’s still out there?” Technoblade asks, and he’s looking—pleading with Wilbur. Wilbur hesitates for a long time, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair, his face unreadable. Tommy wonders what sort of stuff Wilbur’s heard about Philza from his mother. She’s the new admiral, after all, and she’s bound to have all kinds of stories to tell. Tommy’s heard some of them—the kind of rumors spread around the streets. Phil’s become somewhat of a legend in the city, a threat mothers tell their children to make them behave, the type of story that just keeps growing in absurdity with each person that tells it. But Wilbur can’t exactly say that sort of stuff to Technoblade’s face. It’d be rude. Not that that’s ever really stopped him before.
“I don’t know,” Wilbur eventually says, an echo of Technoblade’s earlier words. “It’s hard to imagine anyone making it out there, Techno. And I think—I think it’s better if he didn’t.”
Technoblade is quiet after that. The air is stiff and uncomfortable, and Tommy wants none of it.
“Well. Sorry boys, but I’m gonna have to cut this visit short,” he says, pushing himself up and out of his seat, leaving his dirty mug behind for Wilbur to deal with. “It’s been great, really, but—uh,” he cuts a quick look over at Technoblade, who’s not really paying attention to him, staring down into his mug with a lost expression. “Yeah. It’s been great. I’ll, uh, see you around?” He’s not really equipped for this sort of conversation, and, besides, he came here for food, not a fucking therapy session. Wilbur can deal with all that emotional shit on his own, thanks. He snags a few snacks from Wilbur’s pantry on his way out, slipping them easily into the pocket of his coat. If Wilbur notices, he doesn’t mention it. He murmurs a soft goodbye, ruffling Tommy’s hair as he passes, laughing softly as he hisses and squirms away like an angry cat.
“Take care of yourself, Tommy,” Wilbur calls after him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a flippant hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“Tommy?” Technoblade calls after him.
“Yeah?”
“You might wanna be more discreet about where you talk about the races. I don’t really care what you do in your free time, but the militia does, and I don’t wanna see you gettin’ in trouble for something like that.” Tommy swears he can hear a bit of genuine concern in the man’s voice. Gross. He shudders, and moves to slip out the door, but Technoblade isn’t done yet. “Seriously, kid. Stay safe out there, alright?”
“Will do, big man,” Tommy grumbles, rolling his eyes.
He salutes lazily, and leaves without another word.
He finds Ranboo and Tubbo where they always are—tucked away in the little alleyway their trio calls home. Curtains and tarps drape across the space from the white walls that line either side, providing shelter and privacy, the entrance hidden away behind a hologram of Tubbo’s making. At a quick glance it looks just like any other wall. The militia don’t really come around these parts, so it does the job alright. They’ve got bigger fish to fry than a couple of kids living out on the streets, anyway. Tommy slips through the false wall, and it flickers only for a moment before sliding back into place.
Tubbo and Ranboo sit on one of the blankets stretched across the earth, counting their meager winnings between them. They’re engrossed in their conversation, shoulders bumping, playful insults exchanged. They’d swept the leaderboard, Ranboo coming in second while Tubbo had crossed the finish line at third. Together, the three of them had collected all of the prize money, which, unfortunately, isn’t nearly as much as they’d like.
He approaches as quietly as he can, taking his place by the entrance and watching them with his back pressed up against the wall, arms folded.
“Good race, boys,” he drawls, weighing the sack of coins in one hand. They both startle violently, Tubbo’s head jerking up to smack Ranboo in the chin, eliciting a pained yelp. Tubbo’s face breaks out into a wide grin, immediately leaping to his feet while Tommy shoots Ranboo a smug smile. The other boy looks a little disgruntled, but he’s smiling as he jogs up, reaching up to high five Tommy. Tubbo claps him on the shoulder, hair hanging into his face and his board balanced on his hip.
“You did your best,” Tommy says, “—but I guess you'll just have to keep trying. Better luck next time.”
“Oh, shut it,” Tubbo shoots back, elbowing him in the side. Tommy yelps, wriggling away, and Tubbo snatches the coins out of his hand to count them. “You were lost in your own head, man! If it weren’t for me, Ranboo would have kicked your ass today.”
“I was fine!” Tommy protests.
“You were daydreaming,” Tubbo insists. “One of these days you’re gonna crash, dude.”
“‘S already happened,” Tommy says with a grin, wiggling his leg. Tubbo winces, and he snorts. “Nah, man, I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself, dude, you came in third place today. Fucking Beau nearly caught up with you tonight, you’re falling behind!” He collapses dramatically into the pile of pillows pressed up against the wall, dropping his pouch of coins into the center of the pile. “But, hey, we got the money, right? We could have a fucking feast tomorrow! Break out the big bucks, treat ourselves!”
Tubbo makes a delighted sound, crouching down beside him to paw through the winnings. He seems to forget about Tommy’s insult almost instantly, too caught up in the bright, shining coins in his hands. Ranboo laughs, sinking down into the pillows beside Tommy with his head tipped back and eyes shut.
“Where were you, by the way?” he asks Tommy while Tubbo starts counting.
“Went to Wil’s,” he answers. “Man, you should have seen it! I walked in, telling him all about the race, and—guess who was there with him? Fucking Technoblade.”
“The admiral’s guard?” Ranboo asks.
“Shit, dude,” Tubbo breathes. “And he didn’t arrest you?”
“He’s threatened it before,” Tommy says brightly. “Don’t think he actually has it in him. Wilbur would probably break his stupid nose if he did. I don’t think he has the balls to piss off the admiral’s son.” He waves a hand. “Besides, he was having his own issues. Dude was a fucking mess, going on and on about his old friend Philza.”
“Philza?” Tubbo asks. “Technoblade was friends with Philza Craft?”
“Apparently,” Tommy says, disgruntled. “Guy was practically in tears, talking about how much he misses his old terrorist buddy.” Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating a bit, but Tubbo and Ranboo are enthralled, hanging on his every word, and he’s not about to stop now. “Can you believe it? They let a guy who was friends with Philza be the admiral’s guard?” He scoffs. “I don’t trust that guy. Wilbur was—Wilbur was practically coddling him!”
“Sounds like you’re just jealous,” Tubbo says with a smirk.
Tommy splutters.
“I am not!”
Tubbo’s smile widens.
“Awww, Tommy. If you don’t want to share Wilbur, you could just say so!” His eyes glint teasingly beneath his bangs. “We won’t judge. Well—Ranboo might.”
“I sure will,” Ranboo chirps.
Tommy swings at him. Ranboo ducks.
“Seriously, though,” Tubbo says after a moment, brow furrowing in thought. “You’d think after everything, Technoblade would be happy he’s dead. I mean, shit, didn’t he kill a ton of people?”
“That’s the thing, though,” Tommy interjects. “I don’t think he thinks Phil is dead.”
Tubbo scoffs.
“There’s no way he isn’t,” Ranboo says. “Nobody’s ever survived the wastelands—let alone for five years! He’s probably long gone. I bet Technoblade just misses his friend, that’s all. People believe some crazy stuff when they lose people.”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “I mean, c’mon, Tommy. You’ve seen what it’s like down there. The guy’s glider was a wreck when they found it! Wouldn’t be surprised if some fucked up creature dragged him off and ate him, or something.”
“Dude,” Ranboo says, disgusted.
Tommy, meanwhile, is deep in thought.
“But what if he is out there?” he asks. “What if he’s just—I don’t know—lying in wait, or some shit? Waiting for the perfect time to strike again?”
“You sound just like a little kid,” Tubbo jibes. “Better watch out, and always brush your teeth, or big bad Philza’s gonna get you!” He pounces on Tommy, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Tommy swats him off with a grumpy hiss.
“No, guys —be serious for a minute, c’mon,” he whines. His pleas have no effect, and soon enough, the tension in his chest is easing into laughter. He leans onto Tubbo’s shoulder, smiling so wide it hurts, and as their conversation dissolves into easy teasing and joking tall tales, it’s easy to push his worries to the side, and to dismiss his anxiety as just that—pointless stress over nothing at all. He’s being childish, worrying so much over something that doesn’t even concern him.
Still, he can’t quite forget it entirely, and as he falls asleep that night, tossing and turning beside his sleeping friends, a tiny voice nags in the back of his mind, and it sounds an awful lot like Technoblade.
‘Do you think he’s still out there?’