mentions of scars, the results/trauma of being in the dsmp, beginnings of a panic attack, explosions, doomsday, tubbo's second death, the sludge villain incident, fighting

please let me know if there's any more!

===

Tari starts. She's taken her time to visit her cafe today. She has The Tone, and when the mentioned teen looks at her, her round face is scrunched in suspicion, fear, and concern with her lips into a frown. Her brown eyes seem to bore into the ex-soldier's very soul that makes him shiver. Tari's aura makes him freeze despite her being 5'4*, short compared to Tommy's 6'3* stature. There's a hand on her hip, her body leaning against the counter a bit, and Tommy knows he's caught for something. Not for the coffee spilt on the counter.

Tommy belatedly freezes, the messy cup he holds shaking in his hands. He sets it down as well as a towel he brought to clean the small mug, the cup having spilled earlier due to the permanent tremor in his hands the SMP gave him. Nerve damage or some shit — something both respawns and totems couldn't heal.

Either way, Tubbo's taught him to fear short people from the few instances he's made the moobloom-hybrid panic for him. It either ended with defenestration or a day to brand a life-lesson into his head with constant reminders. That's why he's scared. (No, no, not because Dream reprimanded the blond just like that, with that convincing disappointed tone and act, Netherite armor and weapons gleaming as he picks up his sword with some trinitrotoluene and a flint 'n' steel and --

Tari will not hurt me, Tommy repeats like a mantra in his head. Tari will not hurt me. It's not an oath, a promise, a condition in a deal, nor a declaration; it's the truth.)

"Tommy," she repeats, more gently as she slowly sets a hand on his shoulder. It snaps him out of it, making him jump in the process.

"...Y-Yes, Big T?"

Tari smiles just like how Tubbo would, yet it still portrays a bit of anger and disappointment. He'll never admit it, but Tommy shies away just a bit. "Why, pray tell, are there bandages around your arms? And why haven't you told me, or gone to the hospital?"

Ah.

Tommy looks down; there, a little part of his bandaged forearm revealed by his long-sleeved uniform. It's a bit stained from the leaked americano, but the strips of fabric intertwining themselves along his arm is glaringly clear. Tommy lets his hand hover over it, as if to hide it like a secret.

Did he not roll the sleeve down enough when he washed his hands? Shit.

"Tommy," Tari stresses. The blond looks around and grins sheepishly; thank Prime the cafe's empty at the moment.

"Well you see, Big Man," Tommy begins eloquently, picking at the edges of his bandages. The coffee seeps into the fabrics like ink to paper. "I'm fine! These were just covering up my old scars from before!"

...Not exactly the truth, but most of it. It was more like the wounds from his vigilante rounds were light, just a few bruises from blocks Clara couldn't get because she was stopping something else. Yet the only thing keeping Tommy from panicking because Dream was back again fuck fuck oh Prime when the admin finds him Tommy's going to die again no no no no NO — was to wrap them tightly until they felt trapped. As well as stuff a few golden apple slices in his mouth (turns out they have the same effect as the full apple) for the regeneration when he knows he shouldn't be wasting them.

She'll understand regardless; Tari knows a bit about the Dream SMP. It was a spur of the moment decision when Tommy told her a few pieces about the server — just vague things like "the war" and "the betrayal." After all, the woman has given him so much shit for free, and he wouldn't — couldn't just accept free things. Everything comes with a price, the entire history of the Dream SMP proof enough. Tommy didn't have anything of good value on him (besides the golden apples; he's still waiting to see if a seed will grown them and not normal ones), so information it was.

As expected, the dark-skinned woman softens. She nods, a look of understanding (not pity, not pity) on her face. "Okay, Tommy. Just... We haven't interacted much, but if you run out of bandages or something, I got some. And tell me when it's a low day or when it's too much, alright?"

Tommy stares at her, observant eyes searching for any lies. He... he doesn't really trust Tari as much as he wants to — probably wont trust anyone as much as he trusts Tubbo ever again — but...

Slowly, he smiles; it's a small but genuine one. "Alright, Big T. Promise."

"Anyway, Tarzan," he jokingly says as he cleans the marble countertop, "what brings you here to my humble cafe?"

Tari huffs, but she's smiling too. "First of all, I'm not Tarzan; men stink."

"You are so correct, Tari Evergreen. Women are poggers, the best, the absolute greatest. That's why I'm the Wife Haver, and how I'm so powerful." The blond teen passes a cup of coffee to her — an extra cappuccino made on impulse beforehand.

"Thank you." Tari sighs after she sips the cup. "For both the cappuchino and the compliments. Second, just because the regulars adore you enough to constantly give you shit, especially when you give them things back, doesn't mean you own the place. Third, this ain't a 'humble cafe' anymore — you're too much of a chaotic little gremlin for that."

Tommy sputters. "I'm not a fucking little gremlin! I'm the biggest, most maturest man you've ever met!" Then, he stops, eyes wide with regret and an apology on his tongue. Oh Prime, what was Tari gonna do?

"Sure," The owner drawls with a lilt of her lips. Tommy relaxes — he's forgiven. It's okay. "I believe you, little man."

"Fuck off, bitch!"

"Moving on," the woman announces, setting her partially-empty cup down with a quiet clink! She looks down at the fluffy froth, her posture straightening. "The thing I wanted to talk about. There's a sludge villain running around somewhere in this area. Appears near or out of manhole covers, sewer grates, that type of shit. It's — he? He's been stealing and robbing cash — petty crimes and such."

Tommy pauses, his head turning to Tari with intrigue. "This has been going on for a few weeks too many, more stores and shops being stolen from as time passes. The villain always goes to the gutter for an escape route and constantly shifts areas; people are saying this one's next. Just be prepared to run away if he comes here, or fight if needed. Suggest you search him up, too."

The woman's posture relaxes, a smirk back on her face. "Who knows? Maybe you could just beat him like you did those robbers, hm? There's a video going around lots ー probably some memes, too. That was on the news for days, by the way; for social media, it's still going."

Tommy gapes. It goes unnoticed when he soon grins and lightly pounds his chest, exclaiming, "If they come here, they've got nothing on Big Man Tommy Innit!"

Tari laughs with mirth. "Sure, little man."

"I'm not a fucking little man!"

===

Tommy starts bringing his vigilante suit to work in an old duffel bag that still smells like seaweed and a small hint of motor oil.

He can't help it. It's just, when Tommy would wake up and set off to the cafe, he'd think about the place severely wrecked. He'd think about a sludge monstrosity with bulging red eyes and a pair of sclera a sickening yellow. Something with the body of tainted green and a smile of too many sharp teeth, and. He blanks. One moment he's exiting Takoda, the next he's dragging himself back to his hanging costume where it lay hidden in a little nook to the side with a random bag in his hands to stuff it in.

It feels like a heavy weight on his shoulders and burns on his side, yet Tommy brings it to and fro the coffeeshop. Of course, customers ask, but the blond can only respond that it holds something important to him. A lame, weak excuse spoken with a whisper, something so unlike him, but it works for most if only for how serious he may look. If it doesn't, the blond refuses to budge.

Even if Eraserhead, now another regular after the robbery, comes early in the morning and stares and stares as if figuring out a puzzle.

(Dream stared like that in the prison, calculative and cold. Tommy knows they aren't the same, but he can't help a flinch or two around the man.)

Tommy knows he shouldn't get attached to this small safe place; every single other was taken away. Plus, the villain only does petty things like stealing and shit, so why worry so much? Yet he clenches the handle of the bag and moves a bit faster through the crowds — because Tommy is nothing if not protective, and he will do anything for this shelter, even if it's temporary.

===

April's just started like a few days ago and Prime, Tommy can already feel dread swirling in his gut.

The cold, unsettling sense of something amiss has him on edge. Hell, even the regulars aren't fooled, presumably from the occasional worried glance and the pressing questions. The blond teen just responds like any other day, not breaking his customer-service facade for a second. Even that's barely together with how his eye won't stop twitching and his smile is a bit too tight.

"I told you I'm fine, dickhead," Tommy grumbles for the nth time that afternoon. He practically shoves their to-go order in the customer's arms. The man in front of him frowns in doubt before hesitantly turning around with his order and leaving. Tommy sighs; Prime, he just wants this feeling to go away already.

Taking his own coffee (he should really drink tea more) and taking a sip, he sighs in slight contentment. No wonder Wilbur liked this so much.

Tommy looks out the door and wonders when he's gotten used to so much peace —

Trinitrotoluene rains down from an obsidian grid, fires alight, in their smoke carrying the wails and pleads of thousands. People are killed by Withers or by their own protectors, a myriad of confusion in the masses. The corpses of hounds and citizens alike pile up on bloodied grounds, something that would make normal teenagers around Tommy's age puke. And yet three stand above it all, three people Tommy once considered friends: the Masked Theopolíisis Dream, the Blood God Technoblade, and the Angel of Death Philza.

They laugh and laugh, preaching of consequences and betrayal. Of one's spiral down the clutches of insanity; of their anarchy and destruction, destruction, destruction. They crave for the walls of L'Manburg — of Tommy's fucking home — and everything it stands for to be torn down just like the anarchists' trust. They tell about Theseus and Icarus and all of these Greek Gods that Tommy has never heard, and they finish with a name for this day: Doomsday.

It is the name for the desecration and chaos they have caused, burned within the pages of history with ink that bleeds through them. And yet.

Doomsday is not that; in fact, it is silent. Doomsday is the flickers of fight in a head-strong boy — a child with a smile as bright as the sun, who always knew that there is hope somewhere — diminishing. Doomsday is the last piece of innocence that falls from his eyes; Doomsday is the realization that even his pseudo-family isn't on his side — they didn't even glance at his views. Doomsday is the thought that he should never trust or love again, yet it will be futile because he is himself with a heart too big, and that Dream is right when he says that attachments cause harm. (And if he thinks that the pain is worth it, no one will know.)

Doomsday is when Tommy Innit "Theseus" Craft dies with a whisper. It's when a traumatized child-soldier takes his place, and how the universe shrieks for its loss.

Another round of explosions nearby snaps Tommy out of it.

Fuck. Fuck, shit, okay. Okay. He's trained for and has fought in situations like this. He's prepared. This isn't the Dream SMP anyway — this server is different. This server is different. The blond breathes in and out, watching as customers scramble out the cafe. Some call out worriedly for him, a jumble of muffled sounds in his ears, and yet he only scowls and barks out, "I'm fucking fine! Stop worrying about me and get to safety!"

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Glass shatters outside as the lingering civilians run, and Tommy is sure he can see smoke ahead, even with his blurry vision. A slam makes sludge splatter on the windows.

Hold. One, two, three, four.

Tommy's eyes latch onto his duffel bag, then back outside. No one is here — they're focused on running and getting away.

Exhale. One, two, three, four.

Repeating the breathing exercise, Tommy practically rips the zipper on his bag open. He sprints to the backroom and pulls his costume out, slipping into it like a glove. Despite the loose exterior the hoodie and pants seem to squeeze the blond for all he's worth — or maybe, it's the seizing panic bubbling in his chest?

Prime, he has to fucking hurry up.

Clara sits at the bottom of it all, and with calloused fingers the vigilante picks it up. Tommy swallows, extending her to her fullest. This would be like his true debut, right? The media's first proper exposure to his vigilante persona. Everyone will watch him.

After this, he's on a fucking wanted list.

Tommy quickly hardens his grasp along with his resolve. He opens the other backroom entrance that leads down winding alleyways and bolts, uncaring of the reputation he'll get.

Because ultimately, when did that ever stop him?

===

When Tommy arrives, he almost thinks it's too late to save anything.

A vortex of mire constantly shifts in front of some heroes and a crowd, turning and twisting to reveal a pair of maroon eyes with yellow sclera and a jaw of smiling sharp teeth. Flames roar across the destroyed area, running rampant and filling the scent of smoke and burning buildings in the air. Broken lampposts, shattered glass and the remains of walls litter the asphalt road and Prime, Tommy doesn't know how to fucking feel about this.

The event is much worse than Tommy thought. Not because of the surrounding area — no, he can handle fire quite well for a non-Blazeborn. But the villain has a fucking hostage trapped in slime-like tendrils of sludge and the villain's own teeth. It was the only inconsistency in the villain, just a head of blonde hair behind its mouth, and shit, the dickhead was controlling his hostage to create the carnage, right?

Tommy halts where he stands in an alleyway, because. Because the hostage looks up with wide, fear-stricken eyes and scrunched eyebrows, and.

And for a moment, Tommy can't fucking breathe.

Tubbo looks at the loaded crossbow pointed to his chest with dread, the tip of a candy-cane striped rocket hovering in front of him. He's stuck and there's nowhere to go in the little box he's trapped in, looking around frantically as Schlatt cackles with insanity. Pleading with the Blood God, the very piglin-hybrid who stands in front of him would be useless.

Tommy can feel his fear from here and yet. Wilbur told him to stay still, to not move because the time wasn't right. And of course, because he loves his brother despite everything, he listens. Techno won't pull the trigger anyway, he thought. Because his second brother figure holds any promise like a sacred oath, and that trait includes now.

(When it doesn't and Tubbo dies, Tommy screams with despair and guilt, guilt, guilt. But more than anything, he feels rage — at himself, at Wilbur, at Techno, and at everyone else who didn't move to stop it.

This time?

No, this time, Tommy won't listen to anybody. History may repeat again, but Tommy knows he can change the outcome.

This is his absolution, after all.)

Before the vigilante can think, he leaps forwards. Pushes through the wreckage, Clara at his side, boosting himself with broken debris with his staff like a hook. It's a bit awkward with the heavy temperature and the blunt ends of his beloved weapon, but he's handled worse. Fire licks his attire and singes the ends, the scent of smoke-trinitrotoluene-rockets whirling in his face and through his lungs, the stench of something atrocious not far behind, though he doesn't care. All Tommy can think about is that struggling victim, his lifeless body and a crushing guilt.

Clenching his teeth, he moves a little bit faster.

Digging up some dirt with a hand, Tommy flings it at the villain's eyes, most of the mud hitting its left. At the same time, a dull, yellow backpack strikes the other side, someone else following close behind.

With a shriek, the villain twists, loosening its hold on the hostage. "Just a little longer..." The villain grins, raising a slimy hand. "Don't get in my way!"

Tommy doesn't know who's helping him, and he can hardly care right now. The vigilante just nods at a head of green hair before running around the villain.

Lunging upwards using more debris as a boost, Tommy makes another quick sweep for the villain's eyes using his staff. Sensing this, the villain changes its hand's trajectory and tries to swat Tommy away — unfortunately for him, his accuracy is shit and only grazes Tommy's arm as he gets the hit in. Regardless, Clara's edge seems to have hit only one of the eyes from the way the right is recovering faster.

Tommy bounds back and repeats. He spins and pivots, swivels and dodges, making fleeting attacks when he can. And yet his style is feral, wild and honed with years of living alone and of fighting in wars. He utilizes his agility and how the villain is distracted doing two things at once as best as he can, making silent taunts that only cause the sludge monstrosity to get more unfocused and enraged.

Out the corner of his eye, Tommy sees Green Hair tug out one of the hostage's legs, popping it free and start pulling the other. The other blond's almost free with the greedy gasps Tommy can hear. That was probably his cue to help, innit?

So before the villain can prevent the opportunity, Tommy pivots back, holds his urge to shout and yell, and sticks his middle fingers up at the bastard.

The reaction he gets is priceless. Too late for him, anyway — Tommy's already moved back to Green Hair, who's moments away from getting the victim out. As Green Hair pulls one arm, the vigilante grabs the other and heaves.

The hostage rips out of his cage with a sickening sound. Him and Green Hair nearly fall to the ground, both partially conscious and weakly standing, while Tommy only stumbles. He quickly grabs the two by their school-uniform collars and practically starts dragging them away as fast as he can. He can't travel as fast as he'd like, the extra weight carrying him down, but Tommy forces them all to lkeep moving. If he didn't want anyone to die right now, then he'd have to.