Chapter Text
From the moment Tommy turned to the voice to find two red, glowing pinpricks to the moment he crashed into a tree trunk, he felt like he was ten seconds behind everything.
Was it the speed? Or was it the fact that, for a moment, he found himself in a busy, wet, neon-drenched intersection?
His eyes blurred as pain screeched across his back. A quick jerk of his shoulder told him that everything below his neck had caved inward. He bit his tongue to keep himself from passing out immediately.
When green sparks smelling like fresh grass and wildflowers started mending his body back together, he thanked everything out there that Tubbo was beside him. He watched the boy frown in concentration, counting under his breath while sweat beaded on his face.
Once the green light faded, Tommy finally took a deep, sharp breath. His vision flickered back on.
"Holy shit, man!" Tubbo hissed. "Are you alright? Your bones should be back, but—"
"Yeah, I am. This prick hits like a train."
Said prick sauntered toward them, a humanoid cursed spirit donning fur all over its upper body. It had the look of a young man, at once curious yet dripping with ill intent. Even its high, boyish voice belied the wicked strength emanating from its limbs.
The boys heard the owl screech and then fly away into the night. They wondered if the curse understood its cry because its curious face shifted to an annoyed one while its eyes traced the bird's path.
It folded its arms and huffed at its bangs. "That's convenient. Is that a reverse cursed technique or something?"
Tubbo tensed, gripping the Stinger tightly in his hands. "Tommy, this one talks plain," he whispered. "It's definitely a Special-Class."
"I know," Tommy concurred in dismay. He quickly shoved that feeling aside as he renewed his hold on the Wrangler. The pricks of hard cold on his hands set his insides alight.
"No chit-chat, huh?" the curse went on, sounding like it had its feelings slighted. "That's fine. I can barely register you guys from far away, so I wanted to liven things up a bit."
Its foot shifted an inch toward them. A bitter chill slammed into the boy's chests, nearly choking their breaths.
It smiled as it watched them falter back. Chuckling darkly, it hunched like a cat ready to pounce, spreading out its arms as the nails lengthened into sharp points.
"Considering how easy it would be to crush you!" it snarled.
Then, it lunged. It took a straight path in front of it, expecting little to no resistance. What it said was true; compared to its companions and the Endermen that stalked the woods, the boys' presences were mere blips.
It crashed into a tree trunk, driving its hand deep into the core. It popped it out without a struggle, knowing that one of the boys would be focusing on its next move.
With relish, it locked eyes with Tommy again.
The boy yelped in surprise as he teetered into the mouth of a volcano, the heat from the distant, fuming magma pit below searing his face.
He righted himself, then felt stupid for struggling to do so. This was much like the crowded intersection before: a mirage that played with every single sense.
He drew back his mind into itself, focusing on instinct. He snapped the Wrangler straight behind his head while bracing his stomach.
It caught the curse's downswing, and the volcanic landscape faded back into the forest gloom.
Without missing a beat, he made it loop around the curse's wrist. Then, turning sharply, he tugged and swung, sending it flying into the distance with a surprised, furious yelp.
"Tubzo, it's got some illusion technique," he whispered urgently while pulling his friend along in a jog toward their earlier course.
"What?"
"It uses it to blindside us so it can get close and attack," Tommy explained with a pointed nod. "We can't hope to beat it ourselves. So, best we can do is fend it off while making our way to Jordan and Minx."
Tommy quickened his steps, Tubbo grimacing at his last point while trying to catch up. He lifted the Glock to his face, checking if it was loaded.
"Fend him off, huh?" he muttered morosely. Tommy snickered at his tone.
Hearing him, Tubbo shook his head and fixed his grip again. "Guess we'll have to try."
"Hey! I wanna talk, too. Don't leave me out!"
They watched in horror as the curse gained on them, leaping from one branch or trunk to another, tearing out clumps of bark along the way. It crossed overhead before immediately shooting to the ground with a whoop.
Tommy barely had time to dodge when it zipped right next to Tubbo, aiming to swipe at his neck. He promptly whipped the chain at his poised arm, yanking it back as they both skidded to a halt.
They pressed on each other, one seeking to slice and stab while the other blocked and bobbed for his life. The Wrangler eventually bound both of the curse's arms. Yet, to Tommy's chagrin, it did not seem hindered by it, continuing its onslaught with a look of fierce glee.
The boy tried to knock a blow aside, only to find a single claw hurtling toward his eyes.
The Stinger rang. The curse snarled as its hand burst into chunks, spraying harmless drops of blood onto his face.
His muscles thrilling, he pulled the curse in with the chain and drove his knee deep into its stomach. Then, he turned and swung again, this time making sure it crashed hard into something before going back to running.
"Clutched it!" he cried, coiling the Wrangler around him. "Now, take point. I'll watch your six. Follow the big gun sounds!"
"Gotcha!"
Again, they focused on finding their path to Jordan and Minx. The flashes and sounds of their own battle were getting closer, and already, the boys felt a modicum of safety within reach.
But the cursed spirit was persistent. It dogged them once more, cackling wildly.
"Running away already?" it jeered. "I've been holding back so we could fight squarely. You rats are no fun."
In answer, Tommy grabbed a pebble he kicked up in the middle of running, filled it with his cursed energy, and sent it zipping like a bullet behind him. Tubbo joined in, shooting actual bullets of cursed energy.
The curse growled as it was forced to soak some of the hits just to keep up. Its eyes zeroed in on Tubbo as he slowed a bit to reload.
It bared its teeth. "Here's something that'll keep you still."
It waited for the moment when Tubbo slammed his palm into the grip, refilling his gun with cursed energy. As the barrel pointed at his face, it leveled one of its fingers into its left eyeball.
Sensory Sabotage - Maximum Technique: Chamber of Reflection
Tommy twisted around as Tubbo tripped and rolled to the ground. He quickly drew close to him but found him pawing about blindly. The Glock lied useless on the soil.
Eventually, Tubbo's eyes went wild as he drew to his feet, swiping and grabbing at something unseen and intangible. He began to curse and call out in desperation.
Tommy tried holding his arms down. "Tubbo? Tubbo! Calm down, man!"
But the boy just shrugged him off, continuing to reach at nothing while ambling about, the Stinger dangling uselessly from his finger. "Tommy?" he yelled. "What's going on?! Everything's just... everything just keeps going!"
Tommy felt a pit open in his guts. Then, he ground his teeth. "What the hell did you d—"
Tubbo fell with a cry, grasping his face as it bled. The curse was on him, giggling as it circled about like a vulture.
Rage burned bright in Tommy as he pounced in turn. He brought out the Wrangler and pressed on him again, trying to bind him and send him flying like before.
The curse threw a punch. So much force was behind it that the fist got bisected by the chain as Tommy tried to shield himself with it.
The boy was astounded at how the curse just took it in stride. It curdled to fear as he looked at its face. Its left eye was hanging out of the socket, deflated like a punctured balloon and oozing fluid.
The curse took this chance to send him flying back. Tommy avoided breaking his bones by an inch by catching the Wrangler on a nearby root.
"Still holding back~!" it taunted. "You should start paying back my kindness before I change my mind."
Tommy seethed as the chain's links dug into his palm. He looked at Tubbo, who now took to his feet unsteadily, face already healed. In this situation, he could fare better than Tommy thanks to his technique. So long as he remained conscious and capable of mustering strength, he could take any amount of damage and remain in one piece.
But Tommy was not about to let him keep getting hurt, not after watching him struggle under their enemy's new trick.
"Stay there, Tubs," he said in an undertone, gathering the Wrangler in tight loops around his arms. "I'm sure it'll stop once this fucker's dust."
"Worrying over your friend? Classic human behavior. You'll slow down to help someone even if it puts you in more danger."
"It's how we survive, you ghostly piece of shit."
"Sure about that?" the curse replied, whacking its shivered arm back in one piece. "Let's test it."
It darted toward Tommy only to quickly change course to land a kick square in Tubbo's stomach.
Tommy leaped right at him, fire surging in his veins.
Every second that passed without them getting closer to Jordan was another second putting them in more danger. But at that moment, Tommy stopped caring.
All he wanted to do was make sure the cursed spirit regretted the choice it just made.
On Reeves's part, he found this display of fury funny. He did not even have to try. Humans who lashed angrily at the prospect of pain or death made much more game than the ones who simply ran only to die anyway.
A giggle bubbled in his chest. It turned into a chortle, and then a full-blown bird crow, as he continued peppering the hapless fool bound with his technique with scratches and holes and blows while the boy before him continued to rage uselessly.
"Now that's more like it!" he goaded. "Keep struggling!"
The blond kid was trying to tangle him in his chains as usual. But his movements became stiffer and more rash, fueled no doubt by a fit of bone-shaking anger.
Reeves decided he had played enough with him. Valkyrae insisted they deal with the intruders as quickly as possible lest they get forced to abandon their hideout.
With his Maximum Technique activated, he could not induce a mirage into the boy's mind. So, he decided to create the illusion himself.
He flagged for a moment, leaving his left leg stretched too far while stepping back. As he hoped, the blond took the chance to wind the chain around it and yank him forward.
As he happily let the momentum take him, he relished the look of surprise on the boy's face. He could picture the many minute calculations zipping around the bag of fat bubbles inside the boy's skull, the desperate, adrenaline-driven attempts to figure out what to do as his own clawed hand zoomed toward his thin neck.
Reeve's head rang with giddiness, preparing itself for the satisfying squelch of blood and flesh.
But instead, the boy disappeared in a flash.
Reeves felt metal links close around his throat. Before he realized what was happening, he was flung on his back, the ground caving beneath him from the impact. He barely had time to register that when the blond proceeded to sit on him and rain down punches into his face.
For fifteen straight seconds, he saw nothing but sore knuckles, crackling blue eyes, and a face open in one long, angry scream.
Reeves gritted his teeth (or what he had left at the moment). He leaned forward, meeting the boy's swing halfway. It cracked his face open, but he did not mind, taking the sudden loss of momentum as his window to kick the boy away.
He seethed as he got up, watching the boy roll back to his feet with only a couple of winces. His jaw stung, and he felt it squelch as he regenerated it.
Yet, despite the pain and frustration, his enjoyment of the fight did not wane.
"I like you, blondie. You remind me of someone a friend of mine had quite a run-in with."
Tommy snorted. "Things like you have friends?"
Now, he wants to chat.
"Oh, we do," Reeves replied icily. "They come in all shapes and sizes. This one's green and slimy and fond of dumb jokes."
He expected the boy to shoot another quip.
Instead, he looked like a lightbulb on the verge of exploding. The chain rustled as he shook violently, his jaw clenching tight.
Huh. Does he know Slimecicle?
Now that he thought of it, he fully remembered the time Slimecicle mentioned squaring with some blond, upstart sorcerer twice. He claimed he set a Binding Vow on himself for him, urging the boy to get stronger so they could have a true fight to the death.
Slimecicle's eyes shone as he described it to them. His voice even turned soft, almost melancholic, like he was recalling the memory of an old friend.
Reeves found it dumb.
Welp. I hope he doesn't mind me killing this shrimp first.
He shrugged. It was not like Slimecicle could never find another self-made human rival. This kid may be tenacious, but his actual capabilities were nothing to write home about.
As he prepared to lunge, he noticed that the blond kid's attention was off somewhere else. His eyes were wide in disbelief.
Huh?
Pfft. Rookie mistake, getting distracted.
Over the wind whistling in his ears, he heard the boy cry, "Tubbo? What are you doing!?"
Shit.
It took everything Tubbo had not to barf. Everywhere he looked, he saw an image of himself in the same posture he was in: half-crouching, hands forward, the Glock hanging loose on one hand.
Next to that image was yet another image of him. And that one stood next to another. And another, and another, and another. Everything was this nauseating series of reflections spreading out from all angles. He heard no other sound except his own panicked pulse and breaths and felt nothing but a suffocating emptiness around him.
He struggled to think of any way out of it. Tommy was probably fighting the curse at this very moment. The others were busy on their ends, too. He cannot risk remaining idle for this long.
To his frustration, he could not think of a way out of this illusion.
Or could he? There were times when it broke. Those were when the curse struck him, leaving a bruise or slice that stung like hell until he healed it. His surroundings would turn clear for a moment, and then the box of reflections would close once his hurts faded.
His insides lurched. Was that it? Was pain the key?
Tubbo thought of an argument against it but to no avail. After all his encounters with cursed spirits, he understood that they never cared about soothing the humans they happened to target. It was always an exchange between one bad turn for another with them.
If that was indeed the solution, he needed something to cause him pain.
The Glock brushed Tubbo's palm. He gasped as an absurd thought popped into his head.
No way. No fucking way.
The Stinger was right there in his grasp. One pull of the trigger, and a searing, gushing wound would appear on any part of his body. That would provide all the pain he needed.
But would it be enough? Would holding out the resulting wound give him the push he needed to break through this spell? What if it did not? He would be giving himself a painful injury for nothing.
Thank Mum for this technique, I guess.
He shook his head. Anything was better than getting stuck where he was, waiting for an abrupt death. He brought to mind his promise to himself to stop being a scared bystander, to find a way out of the most absurd circumstances and outcomes.
Tommy's got this far thanks to making gutsy moves like these. So did Phil, Tech, and Minx. Bet Jordan's the same way, too, and he's not even a sorcerer.
How can I stand by his side if I can't do the same thing?
It's shit. But that's just how it is!
Tubbo took a deep breath, held it, and placed the muzzle against his left palm. It sapped the last bit of warmth on his slippery skin. His fingers trembled, and his heart slammed wildly in his throat.
Here goes!
Bang!
Tommy froze as blood squirted from Tubbo's hand.
A terrible choice; he was now being upended by a sharp uppercut to his belly.
Air fled from his lungs in the impact. He reached out, trying to wrench himself free. But no, the curse's fist continued digging into his stomach, leaving him without purchase mid-air.
He could feel sharp points start to prick into his shirt.
Is he going to stick me from here? Tubbo just shot himself, and this guy looks like he won't let go of me until he completely runs me through.
Fuck. Is this it?
Despair flooded his body.
But as he prepared to have the curse's sneering face be the last thing he saw, he felt the wind zap a few feet away.
Tubbo loosed a cry and fired several shots into the curse's shocked face.
Techno hunched over from the weight of Wilbur's guitar and paralyzed body on his back and the soreness in his limbs.
He surveyed his surroundings while trying to catch his breath. All around him, the disintegrating bodies of two dozen thrall spirits had yet to fully disappear. Turning his head further, he confirmed what he thought had transpired in the previous minute.
The curse had thrown aside the head it dragged about, then broke off the arm that held it, regrowing another in its place. Then, it locked eyes with him.
From the moment he noticed the flash of recognition on its face, he went on the back foot, hauling Wilbur on his back to keep him from being crushed by the onslaught of summoned thralls attacking him. They only appeared one by one—a limitation on the curse's technique?—but they put him to work, their cotton candy, frilly, fanciful forms masking hideous strength.
Worse still, some had cursed techniques of their own. By the time Techno struck down the last one, they leveled the patch of forest around him, letting in a sad breeze from the starless sky outside.
He tried to grit his teeth, only for his jaw to lax from exhaustion.
"Tired already?"
He glared at the cursed spirit, noting cynically that it had summoned yet another thrall, looking no worse for wear. This one looked like a massive nesting doll, swaying gently next to its summoner while its gentle eyes focused on him.
Techno rolled his shoulders and fixed his grip on the Ax of Peace.
"... T-Techno..."
His stomach lurched. "Can you move?" he whispered urgently. In response, Wilbur's fingers twitched.
And that was all.
"You have... to rejoin the others...," he told Techno in halting breaths. "You have to... run."
Techno raised his free hand to squeeze Wilbur's arm. "Can't," he rumbled. "This one ain't letting me."
"Then... put me down."
Techno's brows knitted. "I can carry you just fine."
"And slowing yourself in the process."
"..."
"I'm sorry," Wilbur went on. "Just when you need help, I can't even lift a finger. I'm weak, as usual."
"No."
The thrall heaved and lunged, striking at Techno with the force of a wrecking ball. But he leaped out of the way. He readjusted Wilbur's weight on his shoulders upon landing.
" I'm weak," Techno pressed. "I'm the one who should be sorry. If I was stronger, we would have left this place and joined the others a minute ago. If I was stronger, I wouldn't be this slow while carrying you. If I was stronger..."
I could've saved them all.
He felt Wilbur's jaw tense. "Stop playing the hero, you prat."
Through the sludge that dragged down his whole body, he felt a thrill of lightness. It soothed him for a little while.
"Don't you worry about a thing, Will. Leave the choices to me. That way, you won't have to feel guilty about not being able to do a thing when thing's go bad."
The thrall hopped toward them, wasting no time to bring down its head and crush them both.
Techno flash-stepped out of the way, leaping high over its back. He lifted the Ax of Peace with a grunt and brought it down as he fell. It cracked through the thrall's shell, revealing another layer. And another, and another.
When he broke through the last one, a massive mouth leaped out, ringed with row upon row of sharp teeth. It closed around him, only to be blocked by a thin layer of brown sparks.
It grunted in confusion, then burst into a fountain of goo as the ax cleaved it through the core.
Techno landed on the ground, then swayed from all the effort. But he pointed his weapon at the infuriated curse anyway, his gaze glinting with steel.
I'm so tired.
"Please, count on me."