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Tommy cannot physically move.
It’s not that he’s been tied up or frozen by someone’s powers, it’s not even that his own powers are lashing out in a way they haven’t lashed out in since he was four years old.
Tommy can’t move because he’s scared.
The thought is a little appalling. Tommy Innit; The Crimson Bullet, known for his speed and wit, is currently stranded on a rooftop in his full hero get up, powers unresponsive at his fingertips and body locked down with terror.
Across from him, The Angel of Death tilts his head sharply.
“You’re smaller than I thought you’d be; given how many problems you’ve caused for my team.” He hums, and Tommy’s bones quake at the unnatural timber of it as it filters through the villains pitch black crow mask like nails on ice.
Tommy and his handlers have come up with many contingencies concerning his current mission objective. Escape plans on top of fighting plans on top of espionage plans.
Intricate teachings on how to quickly and efficiently handle each member of the SBI villain organizations powers. How to shrug off Siren's voice, and avoid The Blade’s grasp. How to talk to all of them on the field as it had been noted the villains thought banter was funny.
And for all that planning there had only been one order if he came face to face with The Angel. Something that according to his handlers was a highly unlikely outcome considering his mission wasn’t to infiltrate or take down the group but rather to just observe and maybe foil a few small plans; enough of something to get Tommy on their radar at the very least. To be a pest to them.
And for all this there had been one singular plan for if he came face to face with this man.
Retreat , do not engage under any circumstances.
And Tommy wants to; wants to anchor himself to the sky and jerk himself away, or pull himself to the earth below, but for as fast as Tommy is, The Angel is faster. He’d have one of his obsidian feathers buried in Tommy’s throat faster than he could descend or ascend. And Tommy is tired . He’s been tailing Nemesis all night, and then ran into Siren and barely managed to throw off the bastards compulsions, and by the time he’d lost him Tommy had had a migraine so awful if it wasn’t for the sensory suppressors in his helmet he was sure he’d have been on the ground sobbing. He might have even vomited from it — he’d been known to do that as a child after particularly exhausting training routines. Much to his horror his body had a rather acute reaction to pain and exhaustion that usually resulted in dry heaves.
It had all left him horribly unprepared to be knocked from the steady up-down motion his powers made when he traveled with them and onto this roof now. And now his body was a war zone between his fear and his exhaustion. He swallowed a tiny gag in his throat.
Somewhere in the back of his panic stricken thoughts Tommy’s mind latched onto the words, onto the obvious taunt, and he wanted to whine; cause this makes the situation worse. The Angel wants to banter; better yet the Angel has heard enough about him to know that such words from The Blade or Siren would have him flying into a loud overdramatic rage.
The press thinks Crimson Bullet is twenty, something his handlers had pulled off (barely) with a voice modifier and his height.
Tommy is fourteen.
And yeah, he can feel the slight spark of indignation that races up his spine; because sure Tommy’s skinny but he’s very tall and he can do cool shit with his stupid powers so he’s not small . But he can’t seem to work up the indignation, it’s choked down by an acute mixture of fear, adrenaline and a warring exhaustion that makes him want to slump down.
He took a single half step back, the first movement he’d made since springing to his feet after he’d been knocked into the rough gravel and whirled to face his opponent, and The Angel hums, feathers shifting as his head tilts to observe him, he looks inhuman. A shadow of blacks and greens with empty black holes where his eyes should be in his crow mask.
“What’s wrong? You’re so chatty with my boys, they like playing with you.” The Angel hums and some weak pathetic sort of noise croaks from Tommy’s throat as he takes another aborted step back. His voice modifier makes it sound crackly and almost like static.
Tommy’s going to throw up.
His stomach is heaving the way it does when he’s hit a limit with training, or his powers. He doesn’t think he’s ever thrown up from fear before though. And the thought of vomiting with his helmet on is a horrifying one; but he’d be stupid to take it off.
Tommy has very noticeable features (shiny golden blonde hair and wide baby blue eyes ). That’s why his suit is a full bodice one; with a full head mask, a mix of bright reds and deep maroons. He had once thought his helmet looked like a killers; the face was themed like a red skull with a gas mask over the mouth area. Now days he’s too used to it to pay much attention to it.
The point is not taking it off — even if he’s on the verge of vomiting — is the safest option. He forces down another gag, knowing that The Angel can see the way his body shudders with the force of it.
“Oh, are you frightened?” And in spite of the guys voice modifier Tommy can hear the undercurrent of amusement that curls through his tone. “Did you think I’d never approach you? You’ve been a thorn in the side of my organization for nearly a year now Crimson, of course I’d want to talk.” And now that cold voice hS a chiding cadence to it; like Tommy is a dog.
Tommy bristles like one.
He’s trapped, and afraid, and his powers are useless . On top of having hybridism; The Angel has two different physical enhancements that they know of. His speed is unnatural, his feathers can be removed and turn into dangerous obsidian projectiles and Tommy has seen a video where The Angel crushed a man’s head in his talons as if the guy was made of eggshells notflesh and bone.
Tommy’s outmaneuvered, outclassed, and at the end of his leash. He’s probably going to die.
It’s that thought that settles him strangely enough. Because dying wouldn’t be too bad honestly. He’d probably be reborn; maybe as a twerp with no powers or something; something normal. He might get to float in a black abyss or some shit. (which sounds wonderful honestly; but that might be the exhaustion talking.) And his handlers would be ticked at losing an asset; but fuck them honestly; they’d had Tommy for ten years now. He doesn’t fear a bad afterlife; he hasn’t done anything that would damn him really.
“What do you want?” Tommy’s a little surprised that his voice doesn’t rasp or stammer. Although he knows that if it wasn't for his voice modifier it definitely would have come out soft, scared. Instead the modifier makes it rumble, he can hear the mechanics in the mask whirling; lessening scents and sounds around him; helping him pull in his panic even as his system tries to force itself into overdrive.
(“Side effect of supressed hybrid biology; you’ll always be a little sensitive.” Handler 4 hummed, flashing a light in Tommy’s eyes and ignoring the tiny sob the seven year old let’s out at the too bright light.)
“I think the better question is what do you want, Crimson?” The Angel counters, his head tilts again and Tommy can see a single strand of pale blonde hair fall next to the black cheek of the mask. Platinum blonde and ever so slightly frizzy. It humanizes The Angel a bit; provides Tommy with a more steady grounding; something to focus on. “You’re a pest but you’re strictly only a pest. You never interfere with our more important heists even though I have it on good authority that you’ve been aware of several of them while they’re happening and before they happened. You never go after my boys; only smaller members of our organization, and you always retreat without doing more than being a hindrance.”
“I’d be a fucking moron to attack your boys .” And Tommy almost wants to curse at the way his voice dips into mocking. Honestly; calling Siren and The Blade boys when he’s nearly died once to Siren and three fucking times to The Blade feels like a insult from his mouth. A vast underestimation. “Maybe I don’t want to have anything to do with you guys. Maybe I just am patrolling and you fuckers always show up.” Tommy snaps, and a low crackle comes from The Angel; it sounds like bones snapping and it takes a moment for Tommy to register that it was a chuckle.
That’s horrifying . Tommy thinks, a bit appalled.
“I might believe you if everything about you wasn’t so controlled Crimson.” The Angel chuckles and Tommy stills again. “Your powers require a hair-trigger control; the ability to pull things to you and push them away. Sounds simple when you first hear it, only it’s really not, is it Crimson? What is it your handlers call it? Anchor? That doesn’t really cover it all, does it?”
Tommy’s world has stopped, he can feel his feet taking another step back, can feel the weight of it; his powers reacting to the unhinged feeling swarming through him; lashing at the very ground and making his steps a struggle as it tries to anchor and steady him.
“Every other aspect of your life is almost obsessively systematic; just enough wild and unhinged filtered into your words and fights that no one notices how very careful the Crimson Bullet is. You're meticulous in your patrols, you have a methodology to your attacks against anyone but my people, and a calmness in the face of adversaries that would cause most to panic that I’veonly found in trained soldiers. This is the first time I’ve seen you unhinged even slightly.” The Angel laughed and a horrified part of Tommy takes note of the fact that The Angel has been watching him.
“Did you think I wouldn’t pay attention to the pest at my borders?” The Angels voice turns condescending again. “That I would blow off the wild new hero that occasionally bothers but never impairs my people? That, for all he acts like he’s not a threat, has managed to evade my boys time and time again?”
Tommy opens his mouth; to say something or refute or something; but all that comes out is another one of those panicked noises; the ones that make his speaker go crackly. (He doesn’t think he’s made these sounds since he was six or seven.)
“Did you think it’d be easy, when you accepted the mission? That you would be such a small blip on our radar we wouldn’t bother to look into you?” His voice turns icy again and Tommy wants to cry; or laugh. He’s not sure.
As if Tommy had accepted anything. He’d been ordered plain and simple, and like a good asset Tommy had followed those orders to a T. As if he’d have ever chosen to go within ten fucking feet of SBI on his own. As if he’d have ever even chosen to be a fucking hero on his own.
He does laugh then; the exhaustion is suddenly to much, there’s another bubbling noise building in his throat and a prickling in his eyes. This is too much.
The angel has sought him out to threaten him; to show that he knows Tommy is dangerous and that The Angel is even more dangerous. That he knows more about Tommy than his handlers think he knows. Implying that he knows things about Tommy only a handler would know.
Another laugh bubbles up, and it comes out almost like a whine; shrill even with his modifier. And when he reports this; his case will change, but he doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that he’ll still be forced to interact with SBI. To tail them at the very least, after all he’s familiar with them, semi adept at handling them. And he’s tired. The thought is like a physical weight. Tommy wants to go home; back to his temporary apartment. He wants to curl up under his bed where it’s dark and safe, he doesn’t want to face these monsters again, doesn’t want to have another goddamn one of Sirens knives piercing his skin, doesn’t want to hear his handlers tutting disapprovingly at him as they sueter the cuts and lacerations from the Blades attacks shut.
When Tommy was seven he found out through a book he’d read that there was other professions than heroism. That there was farming, and doctors, and teachers, and veterinarians. He can still remember the way he’d ran up to his handler; nearly yelling in his excitement as he’d thrust the book up.
He’d ranted for a full thirty minutes, about how cool it would be to work on a farm with plants and animals; to learn to take care of animals and “ They can heal them! They don’t even need the powers to do it!” He can still remember the way she’d taken the book from him and frowned sternly; dark eyes locked on Tommy as she said; “T ommy why are you reading this stuff during training hour? You need to be focusing on your work. Not this rubbish. ”
The next day all his books and animal puzzles had been gone. Even his cow plushy he’d named Henry had been gone. (He’d cried about Henry for weeks. Not in front of his handlers though; not after he got a stinging slap for even asking about Henry.)
Sometimes Tommy daydreams about that life; when the handlers aren’t around. He sits and he dreams about having a real life Henry; one who he’d tend to carefully and brush and watch. He’d probably get a dog too.
That same awful noise bubbles in his throat and he can hear the crackle of his modifier; it’s not able to translate it. The noise is too animal for it; a left over from his failed hybrid genes.
“Like I had a choice in this mission.” And damn he wishes the modifier would cover the choking quality of his voice. Would hide the way he knows it’s thick with tears as he gestures a hand around him in frustration, his face is hot: the sensors in his helmet going crazy as they struggle to keep his senses from being overwhelmed. “You think I wanted to go after you fucks? That I wanted to do any of this?”
That noise bubbles up; plaintive and annoying and his moderator crackles dangerously around it. As if it’s going to fail. Tommy doesn’t care.
“I’d rather be anywhere but here. I begged for them to assign me to something else.” He spits, and suddenly it's all too much. His stomach knots horribly, breath hitching and that awful choking noise building in his throat. And he’s going to throw up.
He’s going to throw up and he can’t throw up in his helmet cause he’ll fucking drown and what kind of shitty death is that? And — his powers lash out with no grace, pushing away from The Angel at the exact same time that they sink into a building nearly thirty yards away from him and jerk.
It’s a bit like when he was first learning to use his powers. Too much all at once; a rushing crack as his body forces gravity and the laws of physics to bend to his own rules. He moves too fast; not the controlled pull-push he’s mastered and his legs slam too hard into the ground at the top of the next roof. He can hear a small snapping sound and a sharp, iron hot, flare of pain in both his ankles as he forces himself to steady; he’s fine , it’s a hairline fracture he can tell. Distantly, he can also hear the rattling glass sound of the Angel’s wings and doesn't even think before he’s moving again; ripping himself over and down . There’s no thought or reason to the movements; no finesse as he rips his way through the city. He can hear pavement cracking behind him. Glass shattering where he descends.
There’s pain in his hands as well as his legs now and his stomach is twisting painfully as if someone is tugging at his guts and squeezing. He’s barely aware as he springs through the city like a pinball in a machine. Ricocheting around corners and off surfaces. He's aware of two of his fingers snapping as he clips a corner. Saliva is flooding his mouth; his heart is beating too fast and this is stupid , why did he run this is so stupid —
But his heart is racing like a jack rabbits and he needs to get somewhere quiet and dark because he can still hear the angel flying after him and he’s going to vomit, but he can’t let anyone see his fucking face.
It’s almost pathetic, Tommy thinks a tad hysterically. The sheer panic thrumming through his veins. The Angel could have (should have) caught him by now. Tommy may be fast but he’s not as fast as that man. He shouldn’t even be panicking this badly; The Angel hadn’t even done anything. Had only been talking.
He jerks, dragging himself down a darker path (because dark is safe ) and then shrieks as he nearly slams into a wall. He can feel bile rushing to his mouth, and doesn’t even think before he’s reaching up to press the release button on his helmet, nearly ripping it off his head as he heaves.
The rush of sound, sight, scent , is almost as god awful as the bile that stings at his throat as he vomits. Chest heaving as he all but collapses against the alley wall. He wants to sob; the screeching of cars and voices pounding into his head, the scent of garbage, mildew, rust, exhaust from cars, smoke, old food — it’s too much.
There’s pain ricocheting up and down his body. Hairline fractures that he knows will heal in a few hours as he slips down to his knees.
His curls feel sticky; plastered to his over flushed skin in a way that makes him want to claw at his own hair as he heaves again. There’s a rustling sound; the clinking glass-noise of obsidian feathers and Tommy wants to wail, but he doesn’t. He hadn’t actually expected to get away from The Angel after all, he’d hoped; some small part of him hoping the Angel may just let him go.
The angel doesn’t say anything as he walks into the alley, but Tommy can hear his footsteps as if they were war drums, and is sure he can hear the steady beating of the Angel's heart. Not too fast and not too loud. It’s a strangely nice thing to focus on next to the cacophony of the city around them.
Tommy shudders lower, his throat burning from the vomit. There’s a taloned hand suddenly brushing through his curls, icy cold claws delicately brushing through them so they don’t stick to Tommy’s head, and he flinches violently, gasping for breath.
“Oh that’s cruel.” The Angel sighs, and Tommy flinches down. “They really made a rabbit fight?” He clicks his teeth with disapproval, and Tommy whines a little, barely registering that the Angel’s voice doesn’t sound the same. The unearthly rattling is gone, the icy coldness lacking. He almost sounds like a normal guy, with a slight Antarctic Empire accent.
Tommy is shaking so hard he’s sure he must look pathetic. It’s vaguely mortifying, he thinks. The hand in his hair releases him and instead tilts up his face, gripping his chin, and Tommy instinctively squeezes his eyes shut as his face is turned left and right; the villain taking in his features, memorizing him.
“Shit you’re young though.” The Angel mutters, and sounds vaguely disgusted. “No wonder you ran.”
Tommy tries to jerk his head back, he doesn’t want to be recognized — even though he knows it’s too late — but finds he can't move back from that grip at all. Unbidden; the memory of the Angel crushing that man’s head comes back to mind and Tommy shrinks down a little, barely managing to squint his eyes to blearily look out.
He’s expecting a piercing light, to be blinded by the relatively dim lighting in this alleyway, but instead it’s mostly black. Only a faint light is able to make it through the gaps in the Angels wing. They’re flared out slightly, blocking Tommy’s view around them, and he jerks slightly as he’s pushed back, firmly (but somehow almost gently) dragged back over rough concrete away from his own sick, until he’s caged in against the alley wall. The Angels wings crowding him in even as the grip on his jaw slides back; talons threading through his curls to tug his head back.
“How old are you?” The Angel demands and Tommy looks up into that mask with confusion. The bird mask conceals all of the Angels' features perfectly. Tommy can’t even make out his eyes.
He doesn’t want to answer, mouth tightening and breath hitching as he stares at the blank obsidian eyes of the mask. His hands curl weakly into the Angel’s arm, as if he could have any hope of freeing himself from the iron grip on his head. He’s already fucked . The Angel can see his face, has seen his very distinctive face, and now knows that Tommy has sensory issues and vomits as a stress reactor. But somehow it feels like giving up if he just answers the questions.
“Mate, you’re in no position to be belligerent right now.” The Angel laughs slightly as he says it, grip tightening in Tommy’s hair and he flinches. Images of blood and gore crushed and splattered across the talons currently resting against his skull flicker through his mind and a tiny choked whining noise escapes his throat. He feels dizzy.
“Eighteen.” The words are out before he can think them and the Angel tsks softly, lightly shaking Tommy’s head by tugging on his curls.
“You’re tall sure, but I’m not stupid. Try again and this time be honest.” The Angel hisses , the sound crackingly from his throat and Tommy has the brief awful realization that the Angel might not have been using voice modifiers earlier to make his voice sound like that. He presses slightly closer, wings framing their position and suddenly the roaring sound, sight, scent of the city is gone. And Tommy is left in a bubble of nauseatingly comforting quiet. Just him and the angel in this bubble; he can hear the man’s heartbeat, slow and steady. The rush of air in his lungs with each inhale and exhale.
“F-Fourteen.” He hisses and The Angel makes a low soft sound.
“Oh, you’re just a kit.” He nearly spits the words out.l, and Tommy blinks in confusion; the exhaustion is back, crawling it’s way up his limbs and into his throat; some normally suppressed hindbrain instinct is whispering at him to relax. That it’s dark and safe and he’s tired and clearly the creature holding him means no harm.
“What?” Tommy rasps, his eyes feel hazy and heavy, his fingers reach up instinctively as the angel steps even closer. Their chests are almost touching as his hands grip at the man’s green and white kimono. It’s soft beneath his hands, strangely soothing and he would look down at his hands in surprise but talons are still threaded through his hair, holding his head back.
“Easy, you must be exhausted.” The Angel hums and Tommy hums an agreement, body relaxing instinctively as a thumb strokes along his cheek, icy talon trailing feather light under his eye, The Angel's grip shifting from his skull to the side of his neck. He feels strangely hazy, something about the dark surrounding him, the lack of overwhelming senses, the sheer presence of the villain standing before him, is sending him into a spiral. Mind moving sluggishly as his heart naturally slows, that small part of him whispering that the dark is safe and warm and protected.
“I bet you wanna sleep, huh?” He murmurs and Tommy’s nodding before he can even think of why he shouldn't.
He does . He really does. He’s tired, and his whole body is throbbing with pain, exhaustion weighing down his very soul as the adrenaline leaves him in a sudden rush. There’s a strangely tight feeling building in his chest and throat, eyes stinging with heat as he lets his head flop back against the brick behind him. He can see the night sky above them; shimmering prettily through the smog of the city; and he blinks at it in surprise.
“How about this, if you tell me your name, I’ll get you somewhere nice and warm and safe; you can sleep and no one will hurt you.” The words, spoken in a low melodic croon, reluctantly draw Tommy’s eyes back to the angels mask. He blinks for a second; mind processing them as slow as molasses and it sounds wonderful but —
“Don’t wanna fight.” He whines, and The Angel coos at him, gently stroking his fingers through Tommy’s hair, carefully untangling snags and knots in the curls.
“You’ll never fight again. No more patrols, no more city, no more heroes; doesn’t that sound good?” He murmurs softly and Tommy blinks.
It sounds like fucking Heaven or some shit he thinks. Impossible to obtain and very cruel to be offered. The tight feeling in his chest gets worse; vision suddenly blurry. He inhaled but it shudders in his chest and throat. This is mean , he thinks, this is cruel.
But it’s the Angel of Death; and the man has always been cruel.
“Just tell me your name, sweetheart.” The angel breathes, his grip is shifting again, thyme resting in the hollow of Tommy’s throat.
Tommy’s name? Why does he want that so badly? It’s a cheap price for what he’s offering, and Tommy suddenly knows with undeniable certainty that The Angel is lying. He tells him anyways.
“I’m Tommy.” It comes out shaky and high pitched and a sudden strike of clarity through the cloying mass of exhaustion and instincts in his mind and chest makes him repeat. “Theseus Ines.”
Because that’s his name; although his handlers made a point of never using it.
“Ok Tommy, thank you, let’s get you home Yeah?” The Angel murmurs and Tommy hums a sad agreement that turns into a startled noise as the grip on his neck and shoulder turns hard; thumb digging lightly into his skin and he has only a second to yelp before blackness is rushing up through his head, and he passes out cold.