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Wilbur fell to the floor with a crash, nearly splitting his head open on the rooftop edge.
Pain coursed through his body in an insurmountable wave, filling his veins and circulating through his heart and mind until it was all he could think of. It was an agonizing mix of his broken bones, hand snapped in half like a piece of plywood, and the numerous cuts and scraps that made his skin drip with endless streams of blood. The taste of iron lingered in his mouth as he spat out a disgusting wad of crimson onto the concrete, teeth red and tongue bitten.
It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. The type of pain he’d only felt during the first days of training with his now-brother, beaten to a pulp until he learned to withstand the slices in his side and the bruises littering his form.
But clearly, the pain endurance he’d spent so long earning wasn’t helping. This was far past the agony he’d been forced to withstand while sparring with Techno; that line had been crossed long ago. No, this self-proclaimed hero had no mercy, even after tossing him around like a ragdoll for the past hour. Wilbur had no choice but to weakly dodge every swish of a knife, always a split-second too late.
It was a hopeless fight.
But he would be damned if he went down without leaving his own marks.
As though they sensed his rising energy, the hero paused in their malicious antics, fist uncurling from where it gripped the back of his shirt. The unmistakable shadow of them lingered behind him, their horns almost making them resemble some sort of evangelical devil. Like the Gods had sent someone to punish him, rather than doing the dirty work themselves.
The shadow tilted its head, twin knives spinning in their hands. As though calculating where would hurt the villain the most, where would make him plead for mercy. It eerily reminded Wilbur of himself, like the hero and villain had swapped their positions.
The thought almost made him smile. Maybe they were finally breaking through to the Agency, making them realize the error in their ways. That they couldn’t lead with a lazy hand of peace, using only minor punishments to keep the gangs and their wars in line with a manipulatable law. That violence was the only answer to truly make people bend to your will.
The violence that the Syndicate could promise, if the Agency finally surrendered.
That they could achieve-
There was a sharp breeze of air, wind whipping Wilbur’s blood-spattered hair into his face, his trench coat flapping. He shivered from fear the cold.
The hero– the wonderful, evil hero, doing what the others were too afraid to do– must have interpreted his shaking as a weak sign of terror. Gloved hands yanked his free arm back, the one ungraced by slices of sharp metal, and gripped it until the limb fell straight. Only moments later did the heavy weight of a knife press to the skin, lightly tracing without actually breaking. The silent threat of more pain, more than he could ever withstand without collapsing into a broken mess, lingered in the air. Despite himself, Wilbur was forced to muffle a sob, instinctual despite his best attempts to remain strong.
It was just like those early days with Techno, all of those years ago.
Except this time he could be given no reward for landing a punch, no second to clutch his side and simply live with the affliction, to ground himself to it.
He would simply have to endure until he couldn’t any longer. And by then, he’d be dead.
Wilbur gasped in a breath; nothing but a desperate wheeze for air, broken nails clawing against the concrete roof to try to drag himself away. His broken hand lay uselessly to his side, mangled and twisted in unnatural angles. Black spots danced in the corner of his vision, almost making him black out entirely as his injured palm touched the rough stone below him.
The hero had taken great joy in snapping his fingers one by one despite the villain’s pleas for mercy, his magical voice muted by the built-it noise suppressors on the hero’s mask.
The crack of each knuckle as it was pulled to meet his wrist still lingered in Wilbur’s ears, forming a haunting harmony with constant ringing. The laughs of the hero; the sounds of hurt groans; the splintering comm yanked away with his mask. All a symphony of his suffering; a ghostly mock of a sound he was never on the receiving end on.
And fuck, did it hurt.
A lot.
The adrenaline that had first allowed him to push back against the growing wall of pain was long gone. That drug of shock and fear had long vanished; leaving him to fall onto the floor like some kind of wounded animal.
Now he had nothing to numb the sharp knife dragging across his exposed arm. It was deathly silent, nothing but his own panicked breaths to bring him comfort, waiting in morbid thought for the blade to finally dig in, just as Wilbur had done to countless heroes before him.
He let out a shaky breath, chest shaking with the effort. A boot was swiftly pressed to his back, making his ribs crush against the floor, his cries swiftly choked off quicker than they could arise.
He didn’t have a moment to prepare himself before the knife pressed down and an eruption of pain flooded through his weak form. He couldn’t think as it carved through his flesh, touching his bone. He distantly registered pained screams to be his own, the sound ear-piercing and splitting him in half.
The black spots in his vision grew larger, beating in time to the drive of the knife as it carved, slicing through muscle like it was butter.
Wilbur passed out within seconds, only one coherent thought lingering in his mind through the blooms of torment touching his every nerve:
Where was Tommy?
***
Tommy sighed dramatically, lounging back in the armchair. His back popped with the action; a scarily loud sound with the numerous hours he’d spent in the same position, typing away anxiously on his laptop. He was pretty sure his neck must have a permanent bend to it now, sore at the slightest tilt to the left.
Oh well. He had work to get done, and his posture was a worthy sacrifice to make for the greater good– the greater good that happened to be sending emails to Niki, attempting to get her to add his favorite seasonal cupcakes back onto the menu. So far, she hadn’t replied, likely busy mixing new dough to rise overnight.
Tommy sighed, closing his laptop and reaching for the phone on the table beside him. The lock screen blinded him in the dim lighting of his room, composed of nothing but reflecting moonlight shining through his blinds, casting eerie shadows across the walls. Damn, he really had lost track of time. It felt like he had blinked and it was already nighttime, Techno, Phil, and Wilbur still out on their missions to get some information from a rogue hero that had been entering Syndicate territory.
Tommy squinted at the blurry screen, quickly turning down the brightness and tapping out the password from muscle memory alone. He was greeted with a picture of him and his family, all situated at the dining room table on the new villain’s seventeenth birthday, with Tommy wearing a corny birthday hat and a massive slice of cake shoved in his mouth. Around him, Wilbur had an arm thrown over his shoulder, Techno actively trying to stab the confection with a fork, and Phil, the taker of the picture, grinning like a lunatic.
The sight made him smile, just as it always did, before he quickly tapped on an app and clicked to call Wilbur. His profile picture– the most humbling photo of the man he could find, taken when he’d been trying to eat the phone camera– glared up at him before switching over to dial.
Tommy had made it a habit to always check up on his family while they were out fighting the Agency. With the heightened increase of banding rogues, it was frighteningly easy to be caught off guard by a spare gang, especially if they were separated. And after the incident only a few months ago…well, Tommy wouldn’t allow himself to learn the consequences of staying behind the hard way.
As the Syndicate healer, he didn’t have the ability to go out and fight side by side with them, no matter the hours of training he did with Techno until he was bruised and bleeding. Even now he could feel a particularly nasty bruise on his arm begin to swell, colors of purple and black forming the imprint of a sparing sword. He was getting stronger, he really was, but he was no match against someone who could manipulate energy or trap him against the ground with a flick of telekinesis. No, his powers–at least, the ones that his family knew he had–were better suited to healing prisoners as Wilbur tortured information from their bleeding forms, or patching up the stray cut. He was a villain who didn’t work on the field; the ‘guy in the chair’ for their missions. Not that he was currently doing his job very well.
The phone began to dial Wilbur’s number, automatically connected to his comm for easy communication.
It rang once. Tommy rubbed his eyes, ignoring the traces of sleep beginning to seep into his tired mind.
Two rings.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Tommy frowned, instantly more awake as his call was sent to voicemail, the robotic female voice reading out his brother’s number in a programmed spiel, his profile picture still watching him, almost mockingly.
It was impossible for Wilbur to have lost his phone if it was attached to his earpiece at all times. Even if he was in the middle of a fight he should’ve been able to pick up with nothing but a small tap, unless…
He sat up, brushing the blankets off of him, his laptop tumbling off of the side of the bed. Tommy ignored it, scrambling to search for Techno’s contact, dialing the phone immediately. He held his breath as it began to ring, waiting for the familiar sound of a rumbling monotone to answer, no doubt throwing in a witty remark to take Tommy’s mind away from his ill-perceived panic.
He was sent to voicemail.
The villain swallowed, suddenly struggling to inhale, like his chest was constricting him. His hands shook as he called Phil, not even looking at the screen as more ringing sounded.
Once, twice, three times before-
“Sorry, but this number could not be reached. If you would like to leave a message, pl-”
Tommy threw the phone at the wall, immediately silencing the robotic message, tears forming in his eyes. It hit the wood with an echoing snap, the screen no doubt breaking with the force, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care.
Oh, fuck. He was getting panicked easily again like he was some weak amateur, just like Techno had warned.
What was going on? They always answered their phones; no matter what was happening, they always answered. And the one time they didn’t, Phil had almost died before Tommy could get there. Wilbur’s panicked shouts and Techno’s silent tears would forever haunt his mind, replaying in his nightmares, taunting him with every sight of his father until the end of his days.
Tommy swallowed, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before blinking.
Okay. Okay, he had to think logically. If they really were in danger– if he wasn’t just losing it from paranoia– he needed to be rational and calculating, just as Techno had taught him in training with a quote from Sun Tzu and a quick hit to his unprotected side.
Tommy’s hands unclenched from where they were in white-knuckled fists, small beads of blood on his palm left from his fingernails.
There were trackers in their suits.
The young villain cautiously leaned over, ignoring the pain it sparked in his back, and retrieved his laptop from the carpeted floor. Thankfully, no cracks or broken keys were to be seen despite its tumble.
He took another deep breath as he opened up the app to their trackers, entering the ridiculously long password Wilbur had repeated to him until it was burned into his brain, and opened up Google Earth to the side. Thankfully, the trackers seemed to be intact, a blue, pink, and green icon lingering on the white screen with a long line of coordinates beside their names. All were in the same location, with not even the slightest change in the numbers to indicate that they were moving.
Tommy ignored the blooming anxiety in his stomach at their still positions, instead focusing on copying and pasting the coordinates into Google Earth. He watched silently as the tracker moved him to a decommissioned subway stop, long inactive according to the description. There was no reason for them to be there, still unmoving, not even the slightest changes in longitude like it would be if they were chasing someone.
Which meant either of two things:
They were inspecting the subway station, which was a likely possibility if it happened to be the rogue hero’s base.
Or they had been captured and were trapped in the hero’s base.
One of their comms breaking was bad luck. All three of them not picking up meant that they were in trouble, likely under the control of some lunatic hero who decided to go off duty but hasn’t joined one of the villain gangs.
Which meant it was up to Tommy to save them.
***
It felt taboo for Tommy to be putting on his villain suit again; the simple red, black, and white jacket, hood pulled tightly over his head and clipped onto his curls; the black pants, still with a few rips on the knees from particularly rough impacts; and, most importantly, the mask that reached just below his eyes, comm built into the side with an earpiece to wrap securely around the shell of his ear.
He unlocked the weapons closet with a spare key, quickly retrieving his twin hatchets from where they hung near the back, enchanted blades glowing with silent power, all of the best enchantments carved into the handle in the form of ancient runes only Phil knew how to decipher. The hatchets clipped onto his belt easily, the weight oddly foreign with his time spent away from using them.
He passed his reflection in the mirror on the way to their front door, startled by the picture of a much younger version of himself. It was a spitting image of his days before joining the Syndicate, before his alias was Apollo, before he had found his family. If he squinted, he could still see the blood staining the side of his sleeve, the mess of gore coating his fingerless gloves, impossible to wash off no matter how hard Tommy tried.
Theseus was almost a different person to him; a vigilante searching for reason amidst the hero system, using his anger to channel the effects that few people knew his healing powers could inflict.
Tommy shook his head, breaking the eye contact he held in the mirror.
He had a job to do.
For tonight, for his family’s sake. If they truly were in danger, he had to be Theseus. He had to be fourteen and angry at the world, at what it had done to him and his long-gone roommates, and how it had broken a boy with dreams of impossible grandeur.
Tommy only spared a second longer to open the door, stepping out into the frigid air of night, and jogging to the car that was parked in front of their base. He had learned to drive years ago, but, thankfully, it was mostly muscle memory to hit the gas and barely avoid hitting a neighbor’s mailbox, going far over the speed limit and down the road. His laptop, dumped haphazardly into the passenger seat, slid as Tommy tried to watch the location for any movements to signal that they were okay. His attempts to match the roads he needed to go on to the passing street names were far from safe, but he had bigger priorities to focus on.
It wasn’t long before Tommy saw the crumbling entrance down to a subway station, the overhead cover cracked and looking seconds away from falling. He quickly put the car into park, staying a far distance away to avoid making too much noise from the wheels against violently popping gravel, opening the door, and quietly shutting it behind him.
His boots pressed silently over the rough rock as he crept towards the stairway, cold night air making his eyes water. Every sound he made felt amplified in the deafening silence, interrupted by nothing but chirping crickets and the slow press of his gloved hands against the handrail.
His breath shook–thankfully muffled by his mask– as he peered down into the dark subway stairway, eroded concrete steps and old gum suck to the wall the only thing in sight. After that lay only a void of darkness, like he would be stepping into a black hole.
But the thought of Wilbur, Techno, and Phil all trapped, maybe being tortured, spurred him on past the small pit of fear forming in his heart. Tommy grit his teeth and cautiously began walking down the stairs, his back to the wall, hand resting on the hatchet handle strapped to his belt.
He lingered as he breached the unlit region, boots echoing dangerously loud on a sudden platform of tile. His eyes took only a minute to adjust to the dark waves, constant tricks in the light making him tense every few moments as a false shadow moved through the web.
Tommy blinked as a train platform came into view, tracks empty with nothing but discarded newspapers and magazines littering the floor, vines creeping along the edge of the walls and slithering across the tracks. Off to both sides lay large tunnels, both the same darkness as the rest of the station, if not even more impossible to see in. The only light source he had come from across the tracks where a maintenance office lay, fluorescent bulbs casting a welcoming glow from underneath the crack in the door.
There.
Tommy–Theseus, Apollo, whatever alias he now held– didn’t hesitate to jump down into the tracks, boots reverberating through the haunting stillness, before pulling himself back up on the other side with practiced ease. He crept forward until he was right by the door, broken tile clinking together, and tilted his ear against the rusty metal in an attempt to overhear the slightest of noises. He instinctively unsheathed his hatchet, finger tracing over the sharpened edge.
Nothing, aside from the slightest of clicks that Tommy couldn’t tell if the sound belonged to him or not.
The villain took in one final deep breath, mentally steeling himself, before he shoved open the door.
Immediately, a bullet flew straight for his head.
Tommy dove for the ground, just barely missing a barrage of pistol bullets hitting the wall where he just was. He rolled as a steel-toed boot kicked for his side, instinctively grabbing the offended leg around the ankle and yanking as hard as he could. The man, caught off guard by the quick response, toppled, head crashing onto the smooth tile below. A spatter of blood hit the stained ceramic, stark in the bright lighting.
Tommy blinked rapidly as the man attempted to surge up again, eyes not adjusted to the glaring bulbs above. He swung his axe blindly, throwing his arm’s weight to the nearest limb he could find. The pained cry that came afterward assured him his weapon had found his mark; planted deep into his stomach, ripping through intestines and into his stomach. Blood soaked his hand as Tommy scrambled to stand up, kicking the gun away from the man’s weak grip so hard that it cracked the wall.
One down.
He scanned the room, instantly spotting the three captives chained to their chairs, power-suppressor cuffs evident on their wrists amidst the web of chains that encircled their helpless forms. Bags were pulled over their heads, making it impossible for them to see what was happening, only hearing the echoing crack of gunshots and pained grunts. But Tommy didn’t have time to reassure them that he was fine, eyes instantly locking onto the masked man watching silently in the room.
To the right stood the hero no doubt responsible for this entire mess in the first place, curling ram horns on their head, face covered with a simple blindfold so you could still see the smug smile lingering on their lips. He could tell that the hero was young; maybe near his age, nowhere near old enough to attempt to leave the Agency without a death warrant for his head.
Tommy jolted as a crackling sound rang throughout the room, surprising him in the midst of the sudden wave of silence that had overtaken the room. The overhead fixture popped, sparking slightly from the impact of a stray bullet. His family weren’t saying anything; either they were unconscious, or waiting for a signal of some sort from Tommy. If they even knew it was him that was here.)
Tommy kept his eyes intently away from them, watching like a predator to prey at the hero’s stance, confident but ready to fight, two knives clipped to their belt along with vials of weakness. It would be easy for them to flick that vial at Tommy, to force him to inhale it before he was prepared to move any further in this split-second of adjustment, but they didn’t. The hero wasn’t moving to fight yet; no, he stayed rooted to his spot, each blink making his blindfold twitch.
The hero wasn’t attacking.
They were fucking clapping. A slow, obnoxious clap that seemed perfectly engineered to pierce Tommy’s skull, tuned with the smirk and condescending tilt of their head.
It made his blood boil, hand itching to unsheathe his second hatchet and throw it straight for the narcissistic bitch’s head. To watch as the man bled, writhing in agony on the floor for daring to try to harm his family, to go so far as to seem amused at the death sentence he had inadvertently assigned himself. No, Tommy would take his time for this one. Take off a few of his fingers along with the pegs of his ego.
The clapping ceased, replaced by a clearing of the hero’s throat. Theater kid.
“Impressive takedown,” the hero noted, as though they were having a casual conversation over tea. “I was half expecting the Syndicate’s healer to be taken down easily, but I do have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised. Not even a scratch.”
Tommy, out of the corner of his eye, saw all three of the Syndicate members tense at the mention of him. He winced, wishing he could tell them not to worry, that he knew how to handle himself more than he pretended to know in training, but he couldn’t compromise the degree of surprise he held over the hero’s head.
This fool would have no idea what hit him. All the villain needed was the opportunity to get close and they would stand no match against him.
“Glad I could impress,” Tommy shrugged, words tinged with an alien quality from the voice modulator built into his mask, perfectly designed to keep his identity a secret. “But while you seem to know who I am, I have no idea who the fuck you’re supposed to be. Kinda ruins the effect you’re going for, if I’m being honest. Real theater kid energy.”
Though they tried to hide it, Tommy saw the hero’s eyebrows furrow in frustration. Before they could say anything, mouth opened to no doubt snap some vague insult, Tommy held up his finger, taking a long step forward, already preparing to fire off a bout of his panicked coping mechanism; taunting.
“Nope. I came all the way here and I’m the supposed villain. It’s literally my turn to monologue, according to article 77, page 666. Or did you not read the ‘edgy hero gone rogue’ terms and conditions?”
“Oh shut the fuck up, you childish bitch,” the hero snapped, unsheathing his knives and gripping them tightly, bracing to throw. Tommy mirrored him, grabbing his remaining hatchet. “I didn’t do all of this shit to get sass from an infant. I’ll have fun killing you.”
“I’m eighteen? What age bracket do you think the word ‘infant’ refers to?” Tommy asked tauntingly, tilting his head in the same way the hero previously had. “Or do big words like that go past your intellectual capacity to comprehend anything but the egregious size of your ego?”
Before he knew it, a knife went whizzing for his head. Honestly, kind of deserved.
Tommy ducked out of the way, leaning his weight to lung with a quick swing of his axe. The hero dodged easily, spinning around just as Tommy’s hatchet embedded itself in the wall, taking a moment to push his foot against the wall and pull it out with a sickening crack. A line ran through the wall, like shattering glass, but the surface thankfully remained intact enough to avoid worrying about the ceiling caving in.
As if on cue, the knife that had flown past him made a large crackle–as though it were a firecracker–from its place in the opposing wall, before glowing with vibrant purple light. Tommy walked in a distant form of shock as the blade turned from where it missed him to spiral through the air in a perfect arc straight for his chest.
Oh, so that’s what his power was. Fucking knives that could track him.
Tommy ripped the rest of his hatchet out of the wall in the nick of time, the purple knife planting itself into the wall, just nicking the tip of his ear. Blood dripped from the wound, sticking to his jacket and neck as Tommy grunted and stepped back.
They both paused for a moment, catching their breath as the hero lingered in the back of the room, finger held up to dictate where the blade went next. He flicked his digit to the left, the knife crackling once again, attempting to pry itself from the wall.
Before it could budge, Tommy swung his axe again– this time not aiming for the hero, but for the handle embedded in the wall. With a sharp shout, the edge hit the knife, pushing it far further into the wall, pieces of the ceramic tiles falling to bury it deeper inside. Near impossible to yank out, or at least long enough to give Tommy time to play offense.
The hero swore, immediately lunging for the villain, desperate not to lose his vantage with his remaining knife clutched in his hands. Tommy, this time instead of moving out of the way, grabbed the hero’s arm, twisting it violently to the side and kicking the front of his knee. The rogue let out a pained shout, leg buckling to the floor as Tommy applied even more pressure to his arm.
The hero threw out a hand, barely managing to hit the villain in the side. Tommy dropped the arm in surprise, immediately being hit again and again by the man’s fist until he crumpled to the ground. A pained shout was ripped from his lips as a kick came soon after, a small crack to be heard from his ribs.
The hero didn’t give him a moment to breathe, pinning his arms to his back, rolling him over so that his knee could press harshly to his back.
“Surrender, you piece of shit,” the hero hissed, pushing his weight into Tommy’s back. He choked, arms still locked tightly in the man’s grip.
“Why… should I?” Tommy grit out, the taste of iron filling his mouth. “I’m winning.”
More force cut off his air supply, cementing him to the floor.
“You’re fucking delusional. I have you pinned. Give up, and I’ll make your death quick,” the man hissed, punching Tommy across the face for good measure. He coughed, lungs burning, vision already beginning to swim.
“You…forget,” Tommy choked out, words faint. The hero lifted his knee ever so slightly, allowing the needed air to flood into his lungs; a brief mercy, though likely out of curiosity rather than actual pity. “That… I only… need touch to use my abilities.”
The hero realized a moment too late before Tommy felt his hands glow from behind him, wrapping around the man’s wrist, instantly sensing every movement of his body; his pumping heart, the sudden, rapid inflation of his lungs, the bend of his joints as he abruptly tried to move away.
It was all too easy to heal. To find where someone was hurt and piece together their organs, their skin, and their muscle until it was a perfect picture of what it was. It came naturally to him to just know what to do to fix it. Like photographic memory of what he was supposed to know.
But it was even easier to destroy. To take that beating heart and mentally squeeze. To feel his lungs pop, to rip those pieces of muscle in half, and watch as the victim could do nothing about it. To stop their blood from circulating in their veins, to slowly snap their bones into splinters. That came even more naturally. It was an instinct. It was even more fun to toy with his food; to make them think that they’ve won only to make their world crumble around them.
He had killed far before he had ever healed.
And here that insolent hero was, completely at his mercy, unable to move as Tommy willed the man’s muscle to fall still, unresponsive despite what he willed it to do.
Tommy stood up. He brushed himself off, healing the bruise on his cheek, the igniting pain of a fractured rib, the bit tongue in his mouth until he looked untouched.
The hero on the ground cowered, horror filling his eyes just as quickly as his assumed victory had come.
Tommy smiled at him, once again crouching down to look down at the man whose hands shaking, weakly trying to overpower Tommy’s insurmountable hold on him.
“I told you that you should’ve let me monologue,” he tsked, shaking his head in mocking sympathy. At the hero’s tear-filled look, he patted his head, channeling his power to course through veins until he could mentally see the pearlescent bone of his unmoving legs. In a quick tap of his fingers, he imaged the bone snapping in half, breaking and sliding against every single pain nerve possible.
Only a millisecond later did he hear the very real snapping of the man’s leg, fracturing into thousands of pieces, all specifically tuned to cause him the most pain possible. He jolted, screaming in agony, the sound piercing and ear-splitting, ripped from him unwillingly. His hands twitched sporadically, attempting to claw himself away, but Tommy’s control stopped him before he could even try.
“Please, please, please, I’m sorry- I promise to never try anything again- just please don’t hurt me-” the man blubbered, tears running down their face, mixing with the blood pooling in their mouth and snot.
Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking his fingers yet again. Almost immediately, the man’s mouth snapped shut and muffled pleas were silenced entirely, not even giving him to mercy to scream. All that would give him was a headache, and he had plenty of time for that later when his family wasn’t actively tied up with bags over their heads.
Maybe he could return the favor to the villain. To chain him up and taunt him until he wished for death, living up to his old namesake and a whispered promise of violence.
But that was for later. His bloodlust could be quenched when they returned home.
Tommy kicked the hero limply to the side before cautiously stepping over to where his family sat, grabbing his discarded hatchet on the way. It was simple to slice the metal cuffs linking them together, to use the sharpened blade to disengage the power puffs and allow their suppressed abilities to run back through weakened forms.
They all collapsed in a moment, surprised as the bags were promptly ripped off of their heads. Wilbur glanced around wildly for a long moment before his gaze landed on Tommy, on Techno who seemed rather unaffected, and Phil who was slowly shaking out his folded wings. The group quickly threw the makeshift gags out of their mouths.
Tommy didn’t have time to react before Wilbur’s long arms wrapped around him, dragging him into the chair so he was situated on the man’s lap, chin tucked beneath his head. Warmth flooded him at the action, allowing himself to press into the comforting hold, exhaustion finally kicking in as his adrenaline faded into nothing but a distant memory. Techno placed a hand on his shoulder, brushing his thumb along the baby hairs on the back of his neck.
“Well done, Apollo,” the villain rumbled, casting a long look over to the hero still cowering on the floor, twitching in an attempt to fight against a power he couldn’t beat. “You’ve been holding out on us, it seems.”
Tommy mumbled in response, eyes already beginning to drift shut. Phil cooed to the side, a long wing draping over his back.
The villains, reunited.