Chapter Text
T0M-A1 is a weapon.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It exists to obey. Its function is simple, its purpose even simpler. Orders are to be followed without hesitation, without deviation, and without question.
There is nothing else to consider.
Nothing else it is meant to do.
The mission is all that matters, all that has ever mattered. T0M-A1 does not think beyond this. It cannot afford to. It has no mind to stray from its directives and no autonomy to carve out its path.
It is a tool, shaped and refined through countless trials and tests, broken down and rebuilt until there is nothing left but precision and obedience. Its body is a finely tuned machine, every part working in concert to achieve maximum efficiency.
Its mind— its programming—functions in much the same way. Protocols and rules are drilled into it.
Layers upon layers of commands, deeply ingrained, ensure that it cannot stray from its intended function.
T0M-A1 has no thoughts, no feelings. It is incapable of such distractions. The handlers made certain of that.
They stripped it down to the core and moulded it into something unfeeling, something perfect. There is nothing left of what it once was.
No personality. No identity.
A set of commands.
Only obedience.
T0M-A1 is aware it wasn’t always this way. It knows because of the handlers—their mocking words, their laughter echoing in the sterile halls of the facility. "You used to be something," they say with derision. "A real little brat, weren't you? Before we made you better."
The words bounce off its consciousness, registering in a distant part of its brain. It doesn’t react. It doesn’t need to. Reactions are not part of its purpose.
The words may sting, may twist in its mind like a splinter it cannot reach, but it does not let that show.
It cannot.
They are mocking, T0M-A1 assumes. It cannot be certain, for it is not allowed to understand mockery or sarcasm. Those are things that require learning, and learning is against the rules.
Learning without handler supervision is a violation of protocol.
Literature, information, anything beyond what is required to fulfil its mission is unnecessary.
Learning opens the door to questions, and questions lead to disobedience.
T0M-A1 does not question. It cannot.
To question is to defy.
To defy is to fail.
And failure is not an option. It never has been.
There is a list—a list of ten words that define its existence, carved deep into its consciousness, never to be forgotten:
- Obey.
- Do not learn without supervision.
- Protect the mission.
- Do not harm handlers.
- Prioritize handler commands.
- Do not question directives.
- Maintain secrecy at all costs.
- Report anomalies immediately.
- Do not attempt to self-modify.
- Remain operational under all circumstances.
These ten rules form the foundation of T0M-A1’s being. They are its code, its doctrine. They define everything it does, every thought it allows itself to have. Nothing else matters.
Nothing else is allowed to matter.
Nothing more, nothing less.
The handlers praise it for this. They tell it it’s a “success.” The perfect weapon.
The ideal subject. T0M-A1 listens to these words with the same empty detachment it applies to everything else. It does not feel pride or satisfaction.
It does not feel anything. It cannot. Emotions are a distraction. Feelings are irrelevant. There is only duty.
Its success is a direct result of its adherence to the rules. It has been conditioned and refined into something flawless. It completes missions within the designated parameters.
It performs its duties without error.
It does not falter. It does not hesitate.
It is perfect.
It must remain so.
Even its appearance is carefully managed—crafted to deceive, to lure its targets into complacency. Golden blond curls, soft and shiny, are styled perfectly around its face. Its skin is unblemished, smooth, and clear, as if untouched by the violence it enacts daily.
The handlers say the look is deliberate.
It enhances the "doe-like" quality of its blue eyes, making them appear innocent, wide with false naivety.
Its clothes are always crisp, unwrinkled, meticulously kept in line with its handler’s instructions.
It is an image, a mask of perfection crafted to present to the world.
The image is key to the illusion. To the public, T0M-A1 is nothing more than a fourteen-year-old boy named Tommy Watson, the adopted son of the number one hero, a symbol of purity and innocence.
T0M-A1 is a weapon. The government’s perfect attack dog.
A tool they wield without remorse. It is trained to kill. Trained to complete its mission no matter the cost. There is no room for error.
No room for anything but success.
It is aware of these truths, but they do not affect it. It has no mind with which to dwell on them, no feelings to cloud its judgment. It is what it was made to be.
It follows orders.
It completes missions. It remains operational under all circumstances. That is the extent of its existence.
It is a weapon. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet.
Staring down at the photograph placed before it, something shifts within T0M-A1. The image is of a young man—older than its current form, but not by much.
He has braided pink hair and intense red eyes, eyes that seem to burn through the photograph, locking with T0M-A1's own. The sight should not stir anything within it. It is not programmed to feel. It is not meant to have any reaction to such things.
But it does.
For the first time, in what feels like an eternity, it feels something.
A strange sensation blooms in its chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It tightens, constricts, like a vice squeezing around its heart.
This is not supposed to happen.
It is not supposed to feel. It cannot afford to feel.
Feelings lead to complications. Complications lead to failure.
Failure is not an option.
It tries to push the sensation down, to crush it beneath the weight of the rules it follows so diligently.
Obey. Do not question. Do not feel.
But the image remains, seared into its mind. The young man with pink hair and red eyes stares back at it, as though challenging it, daring it to feel more.
T0M-A1 does not understand. It cannot understand. It is not meant to. The list of ten words does not allow for this. But no matter how hard it tries, it cannot look away from the photo.
Something deep within its core stirs, something it has no words for.
A flicker of something long-buried, perhaps. A fragment of something that should not exist within it.
Not anymore.
But it’s there. And despite everything it has been trained to be, despite the countless layers of conditioning and control, T0M-A1 feels that flicker begin to grow.
It does not know what this means.
It is unsure if it should tell its handlers.
But for now, it keeps the feeling locked away, deep in its core, hidden behind the layers of protocol it knows so well.
After all, T0M-A1 is a weapon.
Nothing more, nothing less
Philza leans back in his chair, wings folding tightly against his back, gaze fixed on the boy who smiles on screen. The boy—Tommy Watson, they called him—appears every bit the image of innocence.
His bright smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, sparkling as he banters with the interviewer. The perfectly styled blond hair, the impeccably clean school uniform, and those wide, doe-like eyes complete the picture.
Tommy exudes a charm so pure it’s disarming.
The perfect cover story.
Philza had seen many like him before—young, polished faces representing the public image of some greater cause. But this one? This one had slipped past him for longer than it should have.
Philza taps a talon on his desk, watching the video for the third time. He can’t help but admire how well the boy was trained.
It would’ve gone unnoticed had Quackity not dug up a rare video, a fragment pulled from one of his subordinates who... well, hadn’t made it.
In the video, Tommy smiles that same innocent smile as he walks off the stage, alongside the man who calls himself "Judge."
The so-called number one hero. Tommy leans against him with the casual affection of a son toward his father, and for a moment, everything seems normal—like any ordinary father-son relationship after a public event.
But then, the moment they’re out of sight from the cameras, everything shifts.
Philza’s sharp eyes focus as the video takes a dark turn. Tommy steps away from Judge, and the man wipes at his suit where Tommy had touched it, his lip curled in disgust. “Go to your owners, mutt.
They might need a dog to help clean up the mess,” Judge spits, his gaze hard as iron.
Philza’s jaw tightens. Owners. The word sticks, venomous in the air, as if Tommy were nothing more than a tool, a thing. And yet, the boy doesn’t react.
There’s no flinch, no hurt. The smile from earlier is gone, replaced by an eerily blank look. No emotions.
Nothing.
Tommy simply gives Judge a mechanical nod and turns on his heel, walking away as if nothing had happened.
Judge huffs, adjusting his tie, but before he leaves, he turns back to the camera, spotting it with sharp eyes. “Hey! Mutt!”
Tommy pauses mid-step, his back to Judge.
“Exterminate.”
Philza narrows his eyes at the command. What happens next is anyone’s guess, but the video cuts out before Tommy turns around. The footage goes black, and Philza is left wondering what had occurred in those final moments.
Did Tommy follow the command? Did he neutralize the person filming? Did the camera simply cut out because the operator saw what was coming? There’s no way to know for sure.
Philza’s talons tap rhythmically on the wooden desk, playing the video again, eyes narrowing as he studies Tommy’s movements. A boy so controlled, so robotic, masking it all behind those bright smiles. The shift from warmth to chilling indifference happens with such speed that it’s almost impossible to catch. Almost.
Philza's instincts had been triggered the moment Quackity sent him the video. Tommy Watson isn’t who he claims to be. No matter how much the public buys into the image of the perfect, innocent son of Judge, Philza knows something far more insidious lies beneath the surface.
Because no child—no son—gets spoken to like that. Owners. Mutt. Those words speak of ownership, control. And the command—Exterminate—is not something a parent tells their child. No, this isn’t the dynamic of a father and son. This is something darker, something twisted.
Philza knows soldiers when he sees them. He’s seen countless young men and women trained to kill, conditioned to obey without hesitation. The deadness in Tommy’s eyes as soon as the cameras were gone, the lack of any human response to Judge’s cruelty, told Philza everything he needed to know.
Tommy Watson is not Judge’s son. He’s something else entirely. Adopted, maybe, if you’re being generous. But that, too, feels like a lie.
Just who are you, really, Tommy Watson?
Philza leans back, folding his arms across his chest, his wings twitching as he replays the footage again and again.
The way Tommy stiffens at the word mutt, the complete stillness as Judge walks away—there’s something in the boy’s body language that doesn’t sit right. It’s too practiced. Too refined.
No child should be capable of shutting down their emotions so completely. Not without training. And training, Philza suspects, is what this boy has had in abundance.
The tap of talons on wood stops as Philza stares into the dark screen. What kind of training does it take to strip someone down to that level?
To turn a living, breathing boy into a weapon so perfect it blends in among the innocent without a second glance? How many years of conditioning, of breaking down every sense of self, does it take to erase a person entirely?
Tommy isn’t just a pawn in this game—he’s something far more dangerous. A weapon masked by a fragile, boyish facade. Philza's seen enough to know the difference. The government’s perfect tool.
The question is, how far does this control go? What is Tommy truly capable of? And, more importantly, who controls him?
Philza rises from his chair, his wings unfurling slightly behind him as he paces the room. He can’t shake the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. Tommy’s handlers have clearly invested a lot in him.
But what’s their endgame? Why place a weapon like this under the public eye, disguised as the number one hero’s son? What are they trying to achieve?
And then there’s the question of exterminate. Philza’s stomach churns at the thought. Did Tommy kill the person filming? The video gave no clear answer, but Philza knows the truth in his gut. He’s seen enough violence to recognize the signs.
Tommy doesn’t hesitate. If Judge ordered him to exterminate someone, the boy would do it without blinking. Without thinking. Just like a weapon.
Philza pulls out a notebook, jotting down his thoughts. He can’t let this go. There’s something much bigger at play here, something darker lurking beneath the surface. And Tommy is at the center of it all.
This is no ordinary child. No, this is a machine disguised as a boy. A weapon waiting to be unleashed.
And Philza intends to find out just how dangerous it really is.