Chapter Text
Tommy was fucking tired of space.
These are words that he would have never expected to say if you had asked him a year ago, but it’s true. What Tommy had learned in his short stay in the vast arms of the universe was the simple realization that space was like being the main character in an action movie–Cool In theory, sucky in reality, because when kids sit down and say they want to be astronauts, they don’t typically account for the fact that there is only so long you can be stuck in a small metal container jettisoned faster than human comprehension before you start to drive yourself absolutely and irrevocably nuts.
That’s where Tommy had found himself, before recent events; just a degree cooler than cabin fever. It wasn’t horrible, per say, but after the fear, and the accident, and the sudden cold, slap-in-the-face reality of his situation had passed, there was just simply the constrained, schedule-ridden, limited potential of his now everyday life on a ship.
His days had followed the same general rhythm:
First, eat the breakfast so kindly provided by Philza, left outside his door.
Next, assault someone (anyone, really) with his magnificent presence until dinner time. This time period potentially includes, but is not limited too: language-lessons with Wilbur, breaking shit with Tubbo, getting Ranboo to help hide the broken shit, and fixing the broken shit with Philza. Trust him, this wasn’t all that happened, but like many things in his crumbling life, it held a pattern.
Then, after that was done, he would talk with the crew while they eat, and join whatever “crew-bonding” activity (Philza was deluding himself if he thought these were productive–Tommy had just resorted to calling them “alien game-nights” in his head).
After this, he’d grab food and go eat in the privacy of his room, gas-mask in arms reach, as he watched the stars peek through the glass of long-sweeping windows, swirling like a private painting, just for him. The most surprising thing about this was the fact he had somehow picked up a relatively-human hobby from his stay: journaling. Each cycle, he would record his day and everything he felt was important to include. Tubbo had recommended it, with the weird-notebook-thing Ranboo had given him.
Tommy, secretly, thought it was a great idea. If (not if, when, Tommy. When.) he made it back, Tommy would want to have this; a perfect log of his journey, the first person back from the great expanse of the unseen universe. The boy who exposed the plot of aliens choosing to use earth as their own personal pétri dish; a hero.
Tommy knew he wasn’t a hero, but he dreamt anyways.
Finally, after all that, Tommy would fall asleep to the soft light of the galaxy. His eyes would slowly flutter shut while the warm song of Wilbur’s whistling hums leak from underneath his door like a lullaby. And he would finally get the rest.
And then, hours minutes seconds later, Tommy would wake up smelling fires that could no longer burn him, yet he would still choke on the fumes.
Repeat. Repeat. Re-fucking-peat. Just like the red planet, except this time, he had nothing to do. Well, barely anything.
The crew had been, honestly, a godsend. They were probably the only thing keeping him from jumping out the airlock. Or, at least stopping him from putting more explosive objects in the food-waste-annihilation-thing. They would let him tag along to whatever they were doing, or just…hang out. It was a bit odd, but after the third time of just talking to Tubbo while he fixed something or helped Ranboo find their journal, it just started to be…
Normal. It, somehow, felt pretty normal.
After he had finally been let off of bedrest–where he had to insist, yes Phil, he’s fine, His ribs don’t even hurt that much, Phil you’re not my fuckin’ dad, Ranboo if you try and give me another vial of that pink shit I’m going to start rioting–the days had fallen into a mosaic of a million mundane things, assembled into countless cycles stretched languidly behind him like the planet he left behind. And although it was boring, and made stagnating, and sometimes gave Tommy the shakes when the reality of his situation caught up to him, there were good things in it.
Like Philza waxing poetic about his wife. Trying to teach Ranboo and Tubbo how to sew (with no sewing supplies, because of course there wasn’t). Helping Wilbur build up a grand scheme worthy of scamming the masses, only to end up laughing so hard he thought his throat would collapse and his grin be permanently etched onto his face.
There was… good. Tommy sometimes felt good.
This is how Tommy’s day had used to go. But all of that was now a moot point, because it was like something had shifted on the ship, something that Tommy couldn’t see. It was driving him up the walls
Tommy had remembered the first day, right after Tubbo had dragged them through a jagged hole in space time that made Tommy’s insides feel like they were turning out–something about them being “space pirates”. It might have been a little dumb of him in retrospect, but in complete honesty, he hadn’t really thought about it that much.
Which makes him feel kinda stupid, because that’s probably something he should have focused on. Asked one or two more questions about–about the fact that he was living with pirates, beyond the fact that it sounded fucking sick.
Tommy was now tripping over a lot of silent questions he wished he would have yelled. In the dusty corners of the ship, in the quiet plucking of Wilbur toying with his not-guitar, overly snappy and tense, and in the silver-lined door of Phil’s quarters being sealed tight, only for him to walk out later with his feathers standing on end and eyes stained a haunted, hardened blue.
Tommy wished he had asked more about being pirates, because now, after Philza had gone in with that flashdrive, his peaceful, tranquil, boring life had been disrupted–like a pebble thrown into a lake. Tommy could smell it like blood in the water.
Phil had gone in with a flashdrive, and came out with nothing. Phil refused to tell him what was going on. Philza said that he wasn’t allowed too.
And in a single day, everything had changed.
It was like the ship was on lockdown; Ranboo and Tubbo remained relatively the same, but they still knew shit he didn’t. Apparently, they were both technically “apprentices'' (bullshit–Tommy knew for a fact that Tubbo was learning engineering through the equivalent of alien youtube tutorials) who didn’t start their jobs until a full alien equivalent of a year after they joined the ship. Now with stuff apparently happening they were being sneaky too: Not telling him shit! Exchanging obvious glances when he asked about it! Fucking changing translator channels when he was in the room! What good fuckin’ friends they were.
On the other end, Wilbur was too snappy to spend time with now. It alarmed him a little how quickly he fell into routine, but Tommy had gotten used to spending time with him after dinner in impromptu Phantymite lessons. Or not, because Tommy would usually needle Wilbur into doing something actually interesting–It didn’t take much to annoy him. It was pretty funny.
It didn’t take much to make him laugh, either. Or to cheer him up. Or to drape a wing over his shoulder like it was nothing. Nothing ever took much, with Wilbur. It was refreshing.
But for a couple cycles now Wilbur was just all, all teethwhen he talked. It made Tommy want to smack him in the head. He started getting all mopey and viscous and anxious and was actually doing his job.
What the fuck, he hadn’t even known that Wilbur had a job. The guy was like Phil’s son–right? He had thought Wilbur was just a nepo baby or something.
But now his time was spent between calls with his translator turned off because apparently the prick knew six languages for “Privacy” or something–which would be fine, honestly. Tommy would get not having any time for him…if he wasn’t an ass every time they saw each other–and his pressed-lip smile edged a little too close to the grins he would see on the screen of a TV as some new bill was passed. It was a politician's smile–all fake and rubber on a face not-quite human.
He had done his best to pester, to needle, to get any information, because Philza’s bullshit “you don’t need to do anything” mantra couldn’t apply here, where they were clearly in need of something
He was an adult for pete's sake (probably–the dates were blurry but he had probably crossed the threshold from 17 into 18, he was pretty sure, at some point in this journey–) he could do things! He wasn’t even scared, or paranoid, which was weird because if this had happened a couple alien weeks ago, he would have probably freaked out at them being all secretive, but now it was just…annoying!
It was fucking annoying, and while he didn’t feel left out, he… did feel something. And while he wasn’t freaking out (he wasn’t!) something at the edge of his mind was nipping at him and making him all…jumpy. He didn’t know what it was, even with all his journaling.
…
Wilbur had yelled at him, yesterday. Resolve snapped like a twig beneath his boot. It made Tommy’s soul blanche and gasp inside his skeleton.
It never took much, with Wilbur.
It never took much.
So if the prick was going to be like that, fine. If he was sick of Tommy, fine! If no one would tell him anything, fine. Fine, fucking, just, fine! Ranboo and Tubbo were still… kind of normal. Philza was still pretty normal, just busy. Stupidly busy. If Wilbur was going to be like that, then fine. Tommy would keep on living his circle-life and be none the wiser.
And thus, without further ado, began Tommy’s restless dive into finding entertainment. If he was bored and running a high fever of the cabin variety, then he was going to make it everyone else's problem.
“Hey, Techno!” He called. Tommy jogged past the Lapiglin, who simply raised a hand in greeting from his position crouched over the freshly-tended soil of their greenhouse.
Soles of new, fitted shoes that Tommy did not quite know the material of slapped on the floor. Phil, along with a new hoodie-like-poncho-thing, had insisted on it when he, Ranboo and Techno had gone planet-side for a supply run. He claimed it was “hazard pay”. This was news to Tommy, who wasn’t aware he was getting paid.
Tommy ran past the dining room, down the corridor to the left, where the sterile white walls were now buried under holographic drawings and notes and pictures of the crew–laughing and pushing the camera away, or simply unaware the camera was there; He had been the one to suggest it; his skin no longer crawled when he had to go from room to room. He passed the commons area, jogged past the cockpit, down another left corridor, to a new stretch. He ignored the new, 3-week (or 3-quadcycle, as Phil kept correcting him) old glaringly bright tape surrounding the engine hatch and steamrolled by the crew's living quarters, breath starting to shutter. He took another left, passing the MedBay, passed a room he wasn’t allowed in, passed the entrance to the storage hull and-
“Hey Techno!”
The Lapiglin, still tenderly plucking sprouts from the soil, raised a hand, before pausing. His head whipped up, something uncannily like a human double take gracing his body language–
But Tommy was already in the next area, footsteps and breathing lifting a cloud from his thoughts that he had been fighting with for a month. Maybe two. Who knows–it’s fucking space!
His heart began to pump. It was loud. Tommy’s aching body, stuck on bedrest for a week (quadcycle, the Philza-voice reminded him) and crouched in his room and behind corners before that, began to breathe again. His ribs burned with each jostled step. It felt good.
Down the hallway, to the left, two more lefts-
“Hey Techno!”
Techno, this time, stood in the middle of the pathway through the garden, a wall of flesh and muscle and slightly squinted eyes that had Tommy’s mind and body screeching to a halt.
Tommy skidded on the floor so hard that his new shoes (really, what were they made out of?) squeaked on the metal. He still slid, arms pinwheeling, and Tommy yelped because oh fuck as he came to a stop inches away from the lapiglin.
Oh shit. He took a rapid, respectful step back from him, heartbeat still pounding in his ears.
Oh fuck.
He had almost ran into The Blade.
Now, Technoblade fit in an…odd sort of way into Tommy’s mosiac.
He had interacted with him, sure, at dinner or group conversations or the equivalent of weird alien game-nights, but never one-on-one like with the rest of the crew. Which was odd, because Tommy would bet his remaining little finger that Techno was, somehow, watching him.
He would turn corners, and he would be there. He would accidentally do something stupid (I.E, explode the garbage disposal. Which he still hadn’t lived down, for the record) and he would just…conveniently already be in the room. He would be putting up new holo-pictures, a skill Tubbo had been all too happy to show him, and boom, pig man sitting in the living space, casually reading on his communicator, that Tommy somehow hadn’t even noticed. Truly, someone so big should be in no logical way that quiet and that unnoticeable. It was baffling.
Now, it wasn’t really creepy or anything, it was just…odd. There was something in his eyes when he looked at Tommy–despite being, by far, the hardest of the aliens to get a good read on–that set him on edge.
The guy's reputation hadn’t exactly been comforting, either.
Tommy discovering “The Blade” had been entirely not his fault. But Philza had mentioned it offhand, and Wilbur had this certain little squint of his eyes (one that Tommy was quickly coming to associate with a smug sort of mischief that only Wilbur could seem to achieve. That expression meant nothing good, ever, trust him), and Tubbo had buzzed with excitement and so he had to ask Ranboo who was apparently really close to Techno and–
Well, he learned about The Blade. The anarchist, pirate, swashbuckling mercenary. The description of the coolest possible person Tommy could even fathom: Toppler of governments, starter of communes, and certified Boba Fett of the real, actual space odyssey Tommy had been dragged–literally kicking and screaming–into.
Luckily, when he’d learned this, he’d been living with the guy long enough to not want to shit himself when he saw his hulking frame enter the room (not that he’d ever be scared. Tommy Innit was never scared. Just…tactically wary.) and seeing any person in pink pajamas with slippers that looked vaguely like bunnies immediately decreased their intimidation factor, especially if that person is somehow losing to Ranboo at space-poker.
But he still hadn’t really clicked with Techno yet; and bunny slippers were cute until you realized the man probably killed and skinned them himself. There was also that, while Tommy wasn’t sure (and maybe it was his anxiety getting the teensiest-bit ahead of him), whenever The Blade looked at him, it was always for a single beat too long. A second too uneasy.
He was the security officer. It made sense why he would be wary. They really didn’t know anything about Tommy–and, for his own sake and theirs, he would like to keep it that way.
(He sometimes wondered, even when he didn’t want to, what would the punishment be for letting a human onto your crew?
It was another, silent question Tommy had tripped over. This one he doesn’t think he ever wants to ask.)
“Tommy,” Techno said in a slow drawl. His arms were still drawn over his chest. His ears flicked slightly–the movement would be a little funny, if it didn’t make the heapings of probably-plundered jewely hanging from them rattle.“what are you doing?”
“I’m running, big man.” He said, automatically, because his mouth would never stop sprinting even if it was already at the finish line. His fingers twitched to rub up and down his arms, heart still beating from the workout and making him shift his weight from side to side. Techno’s eyes, piercing into his, and tusks the length of Tommy’s hand didn’t help.
Yet, he didn’t run. His feet stayed firmly on the ground, his breathing stayed level, and it was…relieving. Tommy, somehow, didn’t feel terrified. And the thought made him uneasy.
“So, if you would excuse me…” He said. Tommy slipped to the side and began to walk forward.
Techno’s arm shot out and blocked his path.
He flinched back before he could stop it. Techno didn’t yield, but his head tilted slightly to the side. The arm remained.
“And you’re running… why?” Techno said, same questioning, unwavering tone. It slicked like ice down the conversation, and Tommy got the feeling that with one wrong step, he would be sent careening down a path of…suspicion. And judgement, probably.
…or maybe Tommy was being paranoid. Another thing Tommy had realized in his journey was that he was very, very paranoid.
“Because I can, big man.” He said. Big man. Big man. Why did he call him “big man” again? Fuck, he was spending to much time with Tubbo.
Techno huffed, ears flicking. Tommy for the life of him couldn’t get a read on his face.
Tommy could take on most of the crew. He wasn’t being cocky when he said this–it was just true.
Ranboo looked like a strong wind could blow him over. Tubbo was, like, half his height. Wilbur had sensitive eyes (he told Tommy so himself) and Phil was a fucking bird. It was comforting as it was sickening–if it came down to it, Tommy could probably claw his way through them until he reached the ships controls, (or preferably an escape pod, which he hoped to heaven were automated because he still had no fucking clue how to read whatever language he was apparently speaking.)
But, in the small cavity in Tommy’s heart where he was (stars forbid) honest with himself, he had no clue if he could take The Blade.
The thought made him shift, but Tommy remained.
The crew wouldn’t let Techno do anything, even if he wanted to. Tommy, somehow, was sure of it.
Technoblade opened his snout. Then closed it. Then his ears flicked again, the same old motion. Finally, after painful silence accompanied by just the base-drum beating of Tommy’s heart, he asked–
“Are you…” He paused. “Are you…going through something?”
“...What?” Tommy said, before he could even register the question.
“Like, is this…” Techno grumbled. He made a noise, like sandpaper across his vocal chords, almost a grunt. It made Tommy want to laugh, underneath the tension.
“… is this a Creeparian thing? Is it like a ritual, or something? Are you…” his eyes suddenly couldn’t meet Tommy’s, instead flicking to his outstretched hands from where he barely stopped from running into him. “…ok?”
“What?” Tommy repeated, feeling like this conversation was whizzing over his head, arching so far over that it circled all the way back around to the floor beneath his feet, just to smack him upside the head.
Was Technoblade…checking on him? Was this like a security method? Some sort of weird, psychological warfare? He has had enough of that in his life already, actually.
“… yeah? I’m… yeah? I’m just running.”
“But why?” Techno said, and Tommy could hear a slight bit of bewilderment in his tone. “And also, how?”
“With my legs, Big man.” He winced at the additional big man. Fuck. He really was spending too much with Tubbo. “And I’m just feeling a bit cooped-up. That’s all. Nothing to worry about. Now, if you could stop taking up the entire fucking hallway and excuse me–”
Techno gave Tommy a… look. A look that one might give a particularly interesting bug. Tommy felt sweat bead up in the hot chamber of his mask.
“Just running, huh?” He said, and Tommy bit his tongue because, yeah bitch, that’s what he just said. “Well…”
Techno cast a forlorn gaze at the half-buried plant shoots. He seemed to take a moment, before he sighed, a very weighty, exasperated thing. It was the kind of sigh that Tommy let out when he knew he had to go get Tubbo out of prison, when he had to trudge out of his warm bed to grab Ranboo from whatever Prime-forsaken corner of the ship he’d enderwalked too, and when Philza came up to him with a sparkle in his eye and flight manuals in his hands; he wondered if the action meant the same thing to Technoblade as it did to him. “I can’t just have you running through here. While I'm, uh, planting.” He said.
Tommy winced as Techno got up.
“Well, ok, uh, I’ll just avoid this area. No harm no foul, right big man? Really, I didn’t mean to disturb your planting or…whatever you’re doing.” He paused, looking at the bright pink thing (fruit?) in Technoblade’s hand. Knot and eyes and lumps–It looked oddly like a potato. He looked back at Technoblade, pink fur (hair?) and all.
“...It’s planting, right?” He asked. “You’re not like, burying babies? You guys don’t come from plants, I’m pretty sure, but hey it’s fucking alien shit who knows–” He winced, “Uh, I mean, uh” He scrabbled, “–Is this like, a murdering ritual? Do you guys murder babies or-“
Techno held up a hoofed hand, and another a long, long breath, escaped his nostrils.
Holy crap. Tommy though. I just accused The Blade of curb stomping children.
“Tommy, we need to talk, anyways. Follow me.” Techno said, and without further preamble, started to lumber away.
Tommy stood there for a second. Techno disappeared beyond the cold metal threshold before his brain reminded him of two very important facts: one that Philza would probably force the two to sit down and have a conversation if he made a run for it at this point, and two, that he probably shouldn’t disobey the ship's security officer.
“Hey, wait the fuck up!” He yelled, and his footsteps echoed down the memory-filled hallways.
The Blade ducked into a room across from the tape-covered engine room, and Tommy followed. He found himself in an area he had never really spent much time in before, aside from just passing through. He stared, soaking in the still screamingly white walls and the dull scent of mothballs and stale staining the air.
There were panels along the walls, sections of white lined with glowing blue soaking from underneath the cracks. They looked like the ones in the kitchen that could open up to cabinet-like things–closets and such. Under his shoes the floor had become soft, plush; almost like foam, but spongier. Stiffer? He gave a little hop–it reminded him of the mats they laid out in the gym under rock walls, so kids wouldn’t fall and crack their heads on the glossy hardwood.
One thing Tommy learned fast was that life in space was purely made from comparisons, all stitched together into something resembling normalcy; if you didn’t compare things to what you know, then how do you even know things in the first place?
Tommy didn't know. But what he did know was that the food he ate would remind him of apples or beef or milk, that the material of his poncho was like cotton slightly to the left, and that when he put his face in his arms and closed his eyes as everyone sat and laughed and chatted around the dinner table, the sound was still unfamiliar.
Techno crossed the room, to a few of the screens lining the walls. With a few taps, the Lapiglins mouth remained closed and Tommy shifted on his feet. Even with the angle, Tommy could still see his teeth, jutting out of the side of his lips.
“Okay, big man,” He said, “you said we needed to talk? I mean, no disrespect intended, but I don’t…what do we need to talk about?” He winced. “You know, I'm…an incredibly busy man. So, so many ladies and things I need to do, y’know, could this, uh…could this wait?”
Techno just grunted. “You were quite literally runnin’ in circles,'' He said, “I would appreciate that, if you’re going to lie, you make it less obvious.”
Tommy sputtered and glared at the back of the Lapiglin–it wasn’t like the bitch could see it. It was with a jolt, though, that Tommy realized he wasn’t about to bolt. That somewhere along the line, he had lost the edge of his nervousness. Even Techno, the person he hadn’t really connected with, was afforded a small spark of…
Trust?
Tommy couldn’t quite parse out how he felt about that. What he could feel was a stomach-twisting hint of sickness as he thought of medical tables and trust gone cold.
Techno continued, not paying attention to Tommy’s word vomit, “This is the training room. If I saw you jog around the ship one more time I think I would collapse.”
Tommy scoffed. “Hey, You think I want to see your ugly mug every time I want to go on a run?” He said, tilting his head up.
“That’s not even what I- y’know what? I’m gonna let that one slide.”
Tommy grinned, nodding and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Good. Good for you, I mean, because I would have started chomping.”
“I think you’re forgettin’ you can’t really go around biting stuff, Tommy.” Techno said. His keratin-covered fingers clacked against the screen- The noise made Tommy jump a bit. Annoying, that’s what it was.
“I think I can do whatever I want, bitch.” He said, the words slipping out of his mouth like sand.
He carefully watched Techno’s response, but the guy just grunted again, like a particularly bemused snort.
Tommy felt himself relax.
“Not with that mask, you’re not.” Techno said over his shoulder. “Do you guys even have teeth?”
The relaxedness of his shoulders was lost as Tommy froze. Techno seemed to sense he made an error, freezing, before making another grunting sound, almost like he was clearing his throat.
An awkward, heavy weight filled the air. Tommy’s fingers clenched and unclenched at his side.
“Uh. Nevermind.” Techno said, and without another word turned back to his monitor.
Tommy barely even noticed when he started typing again.
What the fuck, man? Apparently, his crew had caught on to his aversion to talking about the mask. Which wasn’t good. Not good at all. What was actually suspicious as hell, that’s what it is.
There is absolutely no reason for a Creeparian to hate its own mask, c’mon Tommy!
Techno chuffed a little awkwardly. His hoof-hand-thing let out one last loud clack against the screen and—
The walls slid open. The floor moved and lowered and raised. The lights buzzed above.
Weapons.
Weapons, countless weapons, were unveiled and bathed in blue light as the cabinets glided open. Guns, axes, contraptions Tommy didn’t even understand. Machines popped up from the edges of the room, things like treadmills and punching bags.
Tommy’s eyes were elsewhere. His excitement reached a low drone in his ears along with anxiety as Techno paced along the walls, passing more and more weapons. Guns, swords that looked suspiciously like lightsabers, more guns, bombs–he stopped at the guns (phasers’, the Phil voice reminded him) as Techno grabbed one off the wall, cradled in a special rack lined with something akin to velvet, and skimmed a single scarred hand over the barrel like an old, faithful dog.
Techno glanced over at him with a single black eye. His expression didn’t move. Tommy could only watch as his hands trailed the gun, drawing it out of the case. Tommy was frozen in place as he slid the gun into his holster, laying discrete on his hip, with an oil-slick type of ease. Like an extension; like it was barely a thought. He turned to the cabinets and began to examine their contents, back to Tommy. With a deft swipe of hands, he swiped at rolls of tape, or maybe clear-looking gauze, hanging from clear holders.
He began to walk back towards him, something powerful in his stride, his footsteps plodding with soft weight against the sponge mats. He looked… strong. Assured. Put-together. Tommy didn’t know how he did it–he wasn’t intimidated, of course not. Him? Intimidated? Please.
But Techno had scars sliced through the fur of his arms, and one carved into his snout, and yet they were displayed for all the world to see. His head wasn’t held down with the weight of gravity, but held high by the hands of the stars. He walked with confidence, with menace, with strength; people were scared of him.
Not Tommy, though. Obviously not him, no matter how much his hands shook.
Tommy, and he refused to say this to anyone but himself, maybe wanted to be him. Just a little.
After all, he can’t picture Technoblade, strong, regal, Technoblade, shivering and broken backwards into some tiny cage. It just went against the principle of everything Tommy knew.
Techno stopped in front of Tommy, looking down on him. It made Tommy bristle, his back straightening up to make him taller.
I am not scared. He thought. I am not intimidated
(and oddly enough, for one in his life, this wasn’t totally a lie. And he couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.)
“Tommy,” He started, still as a stone, but a ripple-maker all the same. Something in his voice had Tommy holding his breath–the kind of tone someone has before an announcement. “What do you know about our job?”
Tommy sucked in a breath. “Well,” He started. “I know you’re pirates…?”
“I mean, I prefer “anarchists” or “revolutionaries” or “the people who made the Intergalaxial Alliance cry like little babies,” Techno said, waving his hands around vaguely. “But, yeah. We’re pirates. But, Tommy…what do you think we do.”
Tommy sucked in a breath, his mind going blank.
“Stealing.” He said, confidently. “Stealing, plundering, uh, and…whatever…pirates…do…?”
Techno just looked at him. Tommy huffed.
“Well it’s not my fucking--spacking--fucking fault, it’s not like you guys are exactly forthcoming with information!” He said. “You guys don’t actually do anything!”
“Well, we’re about to.” Techno said, and that shut Tommy up.
He fucking knew something was about to go down. He fucking knew it. And he hoped, desperately, that Techno would actually finally tell him.
“I knew it.” he said. “I knew it! Everyone is acting so…weird.” He jumped the slightest bit, boosting himself up on the mat even farther.
“So what are we doing, tell me! Are we invading somewhere, or–or stealing from the rich, or–!”
Techno blade held up a hand. “Now hold on a minute, I didn’t say I was going to tell you. And it’s none of those things. It’s a lot more boring, actually.”
Tommy grit his teeth, and deflated slightly. “And why won’t you tell me?” He asked.
Techno grunted again, but it sounded more like a hum. “Well, to be frank, I just don’t know if you’re ready.” He said.
“Oh please, i’ve been healed for cycles now, I’m fucking ready.”
“Not like that.” Techno said. “I’m thinking more along the lines of…skill.”
He scoffed. “You heard Tubbo. I’m very skilled at pickpocketing. Trust me, I’ve had years of practice. Whatever you need stolen, I can do it, if you guys would just tell me what’s up.”
“You’re really not really lettin’ me explain what I mean here.” Techno blade said quietly. “No, I mean in dealing with what, or who, we meet when we get there. It’s a data drop-off of something very, very valuable. When I said it was boring, I didn’t mean it wasn’t potentially dangerous.”
Tommy perked up a bit. “Dangerous…?” He trailed off.
Techno seemed to think, scratching at the side of his face with one finger–hoof–thing. “I’m going to level with you a bit,” he said, “our next mission is coming up soon, and honestly, we kind of need one more person, because I can’t go.” He admitted it like he was pulling teeth. “Phil and Wilbur may have issues and think it’s unnecessary, but I think it would be good if we could have extra support on the ground. Even if our guy is…reliable.”
“Reliable…wait, why can’t you go?” Tommy asked, “Who exactly is?”
“I can’t go as a part of the deal. Me and our contact aren’t exactly…on great terms.” Techno’s teeth lips drew back at that, showing teeth. “We agreed that we each have three people at the meet up. And as of now, only Phil and Wilbur are. Tubbo and Ranboo can’t because they aren’t crucial, and it’s a frozen planet–those two don’t do great in the cold. Which is why I think you’re a good candidate.”
“So, like, as a body-gaurd?” He asked, and honestly, he didn’t exactly know what to think of that.
“Something like that.” He replied. “The risk is admittedly pretty low, and I can’t see our contact double-crossin’ us. Hopefully. Probably.” He added on as an afterthought. “So this is why you’re here–if you’re going to be put on a mission, I need to make sure you can handle yourself. I’ll need to test what you can do, and give you some training, but…” He grunted. “If you do good, we get our third person, and you’ll get self-defense training. And stop looking like you’re going to start bouncing off the walls. It’s a win-win situation for everyone. Sound good?”
Tommy stood there, gnawing on his lips–they were chapped and cracking. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if they had chapstick in space.
A bodyguard. A mission. It was what Tommy had signed on to do, but…he would say, he wasn't exactly thrilled to be at the hands of hostile aliens. Again. The very thought made him nervous.
Yet, something about the idea was…exciting.
Tommy would get to go off planet, breathe in air that isn't recycled. Tommy would get to be useful, get to fulfill his end of the contract, get to pay off his debt. Tommy would get to stop running holes into the ships walkways.
Tommy would get to learn self defense from the scariest man in the galaxy.
…It shouldn’t be too big of a deal, right? Unless who they were meeting had, like, a squad of Technoblades, he could fight his way through them, like he always had. This was why he was here, anyways–it’s not like Tommy could say no, even, now could he?
His eyes narrowed at how Techno’s silhouette stood steady, and yeah, maybe, just maybe, he should learn self defense. Just in case. He could never be too careful–it was his middle name for a reason, wasn’t it?
(Besides, holy crap, he was going to learn self defense from The Blade, holy crap-!)
“I mean, I guess–” He cleared his voice. Keep it cool, Tommy. He would not act like an excited schoolgirl about this. He could not.
“—I would very much like that, yes.” He said, the epitome of manners.
Techno grunted again. “Oh wow. I didn’t really think you knew how to be polite.” He said.
Nevermind, Tommy takes back any nice thing he ever said about The Blade.
“Hey, I am plenty polite, you piece of jumbo-fuckin-hog!” He said. “Just watch me. I will be the politest, most gentlemanly bastard you’ve ever seen!”
Techno just looks at him, face untwitching besides a curl in his snout.
“Uh-huh,” He said. “Sure, Tommy.”
…Tommy couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“Okay, then, uh, gentleman. Gentlepig.” He said. “What's' first, my good sir?”
Techno snorted. “Nevermind, I preferred you when you weren’t bein’ polite.” and before Tommy could get offended, Techo held up a hand.
“First, we’ll check out your baselines.” He said. “I need to know where we’re starting from before I know where we’re going. Once we have that, we can make up a training regimen, so you’re not totally useless on the field.”
“What, are you like my gym teacher or something?” Tommy scoffed.
“What?”
“What?”
“What’s a gym teacher?” Techno asked, snout wrinkling.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His ears flicked again, more aggressively than before. “Just… start runnin’ laps like you were before.”
Tommy, under his mask, grinned.
“Let the training begin!” He yelled, pumping his fist in the air.
And Tommy may be nervous, and he may be lying to himself, just a little, he was actually…fucking excited.
This could be great— learning how to defend himself, getting to hang out with an A-grade space pirate, getting to prove to his crew that he was capable, that he was trustworthy–even if that motivation doesn't seem quite right–and finally getting to go out and run.
Tommy let out a whoop as he sprinted around the room like he never wanted to touch the ground again.
_____
Tommy wanted to sit on the ground and never get back up again.
Right now, after what he could only assume was a solid hour after playing gym had stopped being fun and started being bone-deep exhausting, he was holding himself in a plank with Techno's watchful eyes above him.
His arms burned as they held him off of the ground, shoulders trembling. He could feel that they were about to give way, breath hissing as it escaped his lips, but there was no way he was going to let it win. No, his stupid biology would have to wait.
“Ok, ok.” Techno said from beside him. He had his holopad in hand, with what Tommy thinks is a timer counting stuff off in symbols that shifted and turned into new ones. “That’s… well, that’s enough.”
Tommy collapsed to the ground. He pressed his head to what he hoped would be the sweet, sweet cold of the floor, but instead of his cheek kissing the foam, it just met plastic. Tommy groaned.
Stupid fucking mask He wiped at it, trying to get rid of the sticky feeling building up underneath, the fog filling up the goggle-esque eyes. It was…gross.
“So…” He sat up. “I did great, right? Big man shit.” He wheezed, and looked up grinning, even if Techno couldn’t see it.
In his humble opinion, he did fucking amazing— running, holding his breath, squeezing this foam-like thing as hard as he could until it read out a number. It was kind of fun; among the things he did daily, this definitely stood out. For once, instead of drifting aimlessly, day to day (cycle to cycle), he had something that felt productive. It was a feeling he hadn’t known he’d missed, and one he hadn’t really gotten to fulfill since he got to space.
Techno didn’t say anything, just filled the air with the sound of his fingers tapping away at his communicator.
“Techno?”
Tommy moved to look at him, but the Lapiglin’s face betrayed nothing. His feet, though, shifted, like the ship was rolling with unease. His ears pressed down briefly as he blinked at the screen.
“Yep. You, uh, well… it’s something.”
Something in his blank tone made something in Tommy’s chest wither.
“It’s… something?”
“It’s good.” Techno amended, and Tommy fought a traitorous sigh of relief. “Your endurance…” He paused. “Is that a Creeparian thing?”
“What?”
“It's… well. It’s high. Like, I’m-slightly-worried-you-cheated-somehow-high.”
“Uhh…” Tommy paused, and honestly, he wasn’t totally sure how to answer that question. “...sure.” Tommy said. “Creeparian thing. But I'm also just special. And cool.”
Techno made a small, barely-there grunt. “Sure, kid.”
“Not a kid.” He glared, because he quite literally wasn’t, and peeled himself away from the floor. But something in his chest flickered and puffed up, warm. It reminded him vaguely of what Phil’s feathers would do if you complimented him.
“How are my strength scores?” He asked, only hesitating a moment before putting himself directly in the Lapiglin’s personal space, reaching his hands forwards to try and pry down the screen.“Pretty poggers, ey?”
in a flash Techno had the screen powering down, and turned to Tommy with an impassive look. His ears flicked once, and his eyes flicked over him, then back. His hoof scuffed the floor once again, and–
“Eh.” He said.
Silence. No elaboration.
“EH?!” Tommy shrieked. “Just EH?!”
“Could be better.” Techno grunted.
And oh, that boiled Tommy’s insides. Because he knows, he knows for a fact that he’s pretty damn strong, at least for fuckin’ alien standards. That’s one of the reasons he was all plucked up, for fucks sake!
“Endurance this, endurance that, blah blah blah blah– I don’t give a shit. What’s my strength? If I, theoretically, punched a fucker, how much would it do?” He said, as if he couldn’t remember exactly what it could do
Techno grunted, then after a moment's hesitation, relit the screen with the press of a button and a weighty sigh. There was a thud as he sat down on the floor, giving Tommy just enough room to peek over his shoulder.
“These are your scores,” He said, “and this one’s endurance.” And he pointed at a symbol that Tommy knew was supposed to be a number, yet his voice froze in his throat before he could ask what it meant.
Tommy stared at the columns of symbols he couldn’t understand lining the screen, yet he knew exactly what it was. The old ship had used a similar format—not quite the same, but similar enough—with each few symbols finding themselves home in a hexagonal unit that he now knew to be an universal indicator of one thing:
It was data.
It was data, and it was about him.
Tommy stopped reading as his stomach twisted. He felt himself puff up, instinctively, his heart beginning to buck in his chest, and–
And he stopped, took a deep breath, and counted to four. He remembered Ranboo, with his notebook, and his gentle smile and the weight of a palm on his chest, and deflated, slowly pushing the air out of his nose that his mask let out as a hiss as he grit his teeth and let the screaming, head-roaring panic pass through him like a wave.
Notice things around him, Ranboo had told him. Focus on them. So Tommy noticed how his spit tasted like iron after all the running he did, how the room had started to smell like gunpowder after the cabinets had opened, how his clothes felt against his skin, against each other.
These–these were just baselines. It wasn’t a test like that, it was like… like fucking gym class.
It was just gym class.
Naseau still stuck, heavy, in his gut, and he crossed his arms across his chest. He took a deep breath, and let it out one more time.
“…are you alright?” Techno asked simply after a moment, and Tommy nodded, head rolled to the ceiling. With another breath, he looked back at the screen, but Techno had already beaten him to it. Instead of the stark numbers, the digits came together, then bloomed out into a dozen colorful graphs. They looked like simple bar graphs—was the design of a bar graph just simple enough to be universal? Either way, it was different enough, normal enough, that Tommy’s heart stopped kicking, and went back to a weak trot.
“…thanks.” Tommy said. Techno, after a pause, just shrugged.
(Tommy, internally, felt proud.
He was doing better, day by day, hour by hour. Peice by peice, Tommy was feeling better.)
“This one’s endurance.” Techno said, taping the screen on the first graph. “This one’s jump height, grip strength, skin viscosity—uh, we skipped that one, for obvious reasons—amount of resistance output, resting heart rate…”
Tommy’s eyes widened as Techno went on.
…All of his bars were at least halfway up the screen, about average, he would guess. His endurance was through the roof.
Oh, fuck yeah.
“…And these are everyone else's.”
Techno tapped the screen, and there was a chime and a flash as the bars thinned out and divided into new colors– green, pink, blue, yellow, purple. Tommy squinted at how stout some of the bars were– the yellow endurance bar almost hugged the ground, and the red bar towered above all in that segment, only barely threatened by purple.
He breathed a small sigh that turned into a small chuckle.
He could outrun all of them.
“Why’s this one so low?” He said, pointing to a short blue bar in one of the categories. Temperature resistance, Tommy thought. He didn’t have a bar in that one yet, and he was a little grateful. He didn’t know if they would do it. Maybe just stick him in the freezer and call it a day?
“Wilbur’s species’ is an exothermic poikilotherm.” Techno said, words perfectly plain like Tommy was supposed to know what the fuck he meant. At Tommy’s blank stare, he elaborated; “He’s Cold-blooded.”
“Is that why he wears that dumb coat all the time? And that sweater?”
Techno dipped his head–almost like a nod, but not quite. “His jacket has cooling and heating devices in it because his body can’t regulate his temperature much.” He snorted. “He’s also kind of allergic to light. He’s fine on the ship, but in the sun–” He waved a hand. “Gets crispy. Like a loser.”
Tommy’s intake caught in his throat as he barked out a laugh. But something snagged his eyes—something bright, and pink, and obviously out of place.
“Woah, what the fuck, man!” Tommy scrambled for Techno’s arm where the communicator was perched, zooming in–
The pink bar on the Strength category reached far above the others–even the red. Far, far, above the red.
“Pog.” Tommy breathed.
Techno, swiftly, turned the device off.
“Oi, what the fuck!”
“Uh. Mm.” He made a gravely throat-clearing noise.” Combat time. Now.”
And Techno turned away, lumbering towards the wall once again, and leaving Tommy in the dust.
After that interaction, Techno showed Tommy the weird, clear bandages. He taught him how to wrap his hands properly, before taking one look at Tommy’s gloves and turning around because, in his words: “I would rather not get my brain fried today, thanks.” Tommy wrapped them over his hands in bands. They’re cool against his skin, slightly sticky and spongy—like that mail-paste gunk that comes on the post. Tommy can’t quite say he’s fond.
“Have you ever gotten in a fight before, Tommy?” Techno said after he was done. He fiddled with his bandages, scrunching his hands and feeling how they tightened and relaxed around his fingers like sponge.
“Oh, yeah, loads.” Tommy said.
Ok, so this was a lie. Kind of. He’d gotten into tussels and wrestles with foster siblings, but those didn’t really count, and most of the time it ended with him running and them yelling. But, that was…kind of the extent of Tommy’s fighting knowledge. If he was being honest with himself, which he usually wasn’t, most of his expertise was in two main categories: acting big, and talking big shit. Despite being a street kid, L’Manburg was generally pretty peaceful, and he could count the number of actual brawls—schoolyard-scuffles didn’t count—he’s got into on one hand. The one he was missing a pinkie on, even.
The number he’d won? Well, that was the pinkie.
(There was one other fight that Tommy could technically count, but he just… didn’t want to. It didn’t feel too much like a “fight”. It felt like a struggle, and then it felt like a slaughter. It felt like blood on his tongue and the snap of a mask under his hands and alarms searing his ears and claws sliding into skin and Tommy wished it didn’t feel like much of anything at all, really.)
“You’re talking to the Big Man of Prime Path!” He said. “I am so incredibly experienced in fights. The people, they would go running if they saw me.” He nodded decisively. “They feared me. And as they should.”
Techno grunted. “Sure. I guess then we can skip the forms and go right into sparring.”
And the words made Tommy freeze. This throat bobbed.
“Sparring…?”
“Yep, sparring.” Techno turned around and blinked, hair (fur? Mane?) shifting as he turned to look Tommy in the “eyes”. “Unless you don’t feel up to it, ‘course.”
“No, no, no, I'm always up to fight. Fighting? Yeah, I love it. Eat it. Breathe it, almost.” Tommy shifted from foot to foot, widening his stance. “I’m the king of fighting.”
Techno snorted. “I'm the one who wears the crown…?”
“Se-man-tics.” Tommy said, the word rolling nervous down his tongue. “Down with the monarchy, viva-la-revolution style, bitch.”
“I’m an anarchist, Tommy.” The Lapiglin said.
Tommy found himself on the mat, feet sinking into the sponge with finality. Techno stood on the other side. The pigman stretched, and yet, where Tommy came to expect the popping of ligaments, there was silence, and a stiffness to the motion.
Tommy watched as Techno stretched his arm straight in the crook of his other elbow, but the limb could only go about 120 degrees. Tommy scrambled to copy the motion, arm going flat and pressing against his collarbone.
“We’ll go easy. First to hit the ground loses. No going for the eyes, no breaking bones, no permanent damage, you know the drill—“ He said, like indeed Tommy should know the drill.
Tommy did not know the drill. Tommy could feel himself get a little more pale with every word.
“—no hitting in stifle joints for me, that’s, uh, a lapiglin weak spot. It’s like–.” He stopped stretching, and pointed vaugley to Tommy’s knees. “You ready? Anywhere I should avoid hitting?”
“No, uh, I’m good everywhere. I’m ready. I’m SO ready.” Tommy said.
And with that, Techno launched himself across the mat like a mad bull and Tommy’s vision was suddenly flooded with pink.
A yelp ripped its way out of his throat as Tommy threw himself to the back, barely avoiding hard-hitting knuckles as they flew a hair's-breadth from his face. His feet stumbled backwards, and then his ass was on the mat.
It felt like a blur of a second.
Techno stood above him. Solid. A perfect target, unmoving and unhurting.
Tommy’s breath heaved. His fingers cinched into a fist. The bandages creaked underway of his palms.
And then Techno, face impassive, quirked his head, and looked down his snout at Tommy. “Down with the monarchy, huh?” He said, and Tommy could mistake the glowing overhead lights as a crown.
Tommy launched himself off the mat.
“You fuckin’ cheated.” He yelped. “You must have…used your pig-like attributes to…to… I don't know but something!” He screeched, and Techno let out a series of grunts—and Tommy imagined that it must be a laugh.
“So again?” Techno said, a few seconds after.
“…Again.” Tommy conceded, and put his fists up, one after the other.
And Techno looked at him, really looked at him, with those heavy skeptical eyes. And Tommy could only watch as his lips lifted up to reveal his tusks, his eyes squint, and his head tilt in a grinning, wild smile.
It looked like he had found what he had wanted. Or like he was about too.
“Again.” Techno confirmed, and the world was reduced to a blur.