Chapter Text
Tommy knew death. He was no stranger to almost falling victim to her touch: be it from cold, starvation, sickness, or cruel hands and empty promises. She followed him like a bloodhound after a running fox, or the lingering smell of ash after the flames swallowed Essempe’s sister nation. He’d seen it claim the lives of countless during his time on the streets; watching the life fade from a person's eyes as disease finally won over, or a splatter of crimson as a street cat was crushed under the wheels of a careless driver. Red had stained his skin, his clothes, his hair–it had seeped under his nails and flowed from open wounds, be it stranger or his own. It coated his tongue and bled into harsh words and violent outbursts, and it had dripped into scarlet puddles in dirty alleyways over a scrap of food no bigger than his palm.
So when Tommy’s abilities finally manifested at the ripe age of 16, he wasn’t surprised when they reflected the color that had haunted both his nightmares and reality for as long as he could remember. Scared and facing a top hero with fiery intent in his eyes, something inside him broke free; and went for the kill.
It felt like serpents writhing under his skin in a race towards his fingertips, burning his flesh and snapping their teeth at his veins until they spilled out in a red caustic light that shimmered like fresh blood in the sunlight. The glorious red shine wrapped around his hands like a glove, sparking with electricity as it jumped over his skin in arcing spikes and made the air around him crackle with energy . He couldn’t remember the look on the hero's face, but for a moment, their eyes met–confused brown against wide, stormy blue–before a wild cry left his throat, launching himself forward with his hands outstretched.
And the world turned red.
⟷
It had been almost a year since Tommy took up the title of Kókkino, the most highly feared and revered individual in the entirety of Essempe. It wasn’t as if he wanted this title–hell, he hadn't meant to fall to vilainny. But after murdering the number one hero and leveling an entire district, he hadn't been given much of a choice–death, or join P.I.E.; ‘Powered Individuals of Essempe’, the government-run corporation that took any enhanced individual deemed a ‘danger to the public’ and forced them to give their lives to ‘the cause’. Worse than death, if you ask him. But P.I.E. was relentless, sending countless heroes to attempt to bring him in–forcing his hand in the cycle of death created by their own jurisdiction.
And it was getting old. Many of the heroes sent after him were mediocre at best, barely trainees at worst–some barely his own age. Thýra was one of the best examples of this, them and their partner, Atsáli, were forced to go after his head in order to graduate from the training program and finally be paid enough to support themselves. The two were newly eighteen, and yet, were one of the only dubbed ‘tributes’ to manage to deal any significant damage to him. And, somewhere inside himself, a young child wailed for the relationship they had. So he offered them his hand instead of his fist, and they took it–at least, kind of–joining him as vigilantes. He knows he’ll never be as close to them as the two are to each other, but he’s perfectly content with where he stands–and he’ll sooner kill them both than let them go back to the Heroes.
He had to pause a moment at that thought, red electricity licking up against his palms in ruby curls, yearning for something to destroy. His powers had a mind of their own, and it had become more apparent lately–always hissing and writhing beneath his skin, begging to be released, to tear through flesh and bathe him in fresh blood. It seems they had no preference either, uncaring of where their decided ‘prey’ stands in Tommy’s eyes. Of course, he would never kill Thýra or Atsáli, they were his allies, and powerful ones at that. He may be a villain, but he still possessed some form of self control–and he had more than enough to reign in his overzealous abilities, even on particularly bad days. And by the look of things, this may be one of them.
A frustrated exhale leaves his lips, brow knotted together in exasperation. The small black band on his throat, responsible for disguising his voice, makes it sound staticy and robotic–like nails on a chalkboard. His ability, ever the helpful thing, continues to seep through his fractured wall of control–but he can’t be bothered to patch it, not with the pounding in his skull. Despite his half-hearted efforts, it continues to dance gleefully over his skin, shedding red sparks as it goes. It sizzles and pops like specks of water in a pool of hot oil, steadily worsening his growing headache–though the pain is only partially caused by his stubbornly active power, the larger portion being the effect of whatever the fuck Atsáli is doing on the other side of the warehouse.
He–mournfully–opens his eyes, turning his head in an attempt to gauge the extremity of the creation his ally has decided to put to work this time. Now that he’s actually focused on the clanging and whirring that reverberates throughout the building, he can also hear the sound of idle conversation, broken up by bouts of silence and the telltale drone of Thýra’s Gateways opening and closing as he travels. Atsáli is rushing about his workbench, an array of metal tools alive with his power and completing various tasks as he furiously types on a keyboard before returning to his newest design.
He’s rambling on about something as Thýra comes and goes, though his exact words are lost to the incessant buzzing and screeching of metal-on-metal. Though, by the way he’s waving his hands around–causing bits of scrap metal to fly off the table as his ability focuses and unfocuses on the smaller pieces due to his inattention–He’s probably lecturing his partner about the machine slowly coming to life beneath his gaze. Eventually, the noise dies down marginally–leaving Atsáli to hum at what looks to be a small steel ball, no bigger than his fist. He tosses it between his hands, muttering to himself as Thýra once again stops back, giving their own input as the shorter of the two points to different areas of the likely murder weapon. Atsáli then looks up at Thýra with a cheeky grin, declaring something, and Tommy can basically feel the distress that the Traveler immediately starts to radiate. But by the time Tommy realizes what's going on, Thýra has gone–or rather, escaped–and Atsáli has already turned towards him with his hand–the one holding the sphere–raised as if he’s about to throw it.
Which is exactly what the ex-hero does, sending it hurdling at Tommy’s current horizontal resting place atop the beat-up old couch. He doesn’t move out of the way, though, some sort of sick interest keeping him rooted to the spot–that is until it bursts open, expanding into a huge metal net only around 10 feet away from him. Being comfortable was his downfall in the end, as the net hits and pins him to the cushions–promptly causing the couch to tip backwards, a garbled scream leaving his throat before the back hits the floor and manages to knock the air out of his lungs. He can somewhat make out the sound of his assailant’s laughter drawing closer through the blood rushing in his ears, cheeks reddening as that familiar cheeky grin looks down at him.
“The Red Angel himself, brought down by a vigilante. Who would’a thought.” Atsáli giggles, before pressing his thumb against the main body of the contraption, the net slowly receding with a hum and a click. But Tommy is nothing if not spiteful, immediately shooting out his hand and grabbing Astáli by the wrist. The boy lets out a curse as red light envelops him, easily lifting him off the ground and holding him suspended in the air. Tommy then gets up as well, dusting off his outfit for show before leveling a playful glare at his newfound opponent, hands placed on his hips. He then flicks his wrist, rotating the airborne vigilante 180º until they’re eye-level with each other–plucking the once-again compact circle from his grasp, and shoving it in his pocket with a cheeky grin that rivals the one Atsáli adorned before being put on the receiving end.
“I’m going to dunk you in the bay.” Tommy threatens with a wide grin, clapping his hands together as Atsáli’s face goes pale–his eyes obviously wide beneath his opaque goggles. He lets out a nervous laugh, beginning to squirm around at the threat of the cold waters–if it was anyone else, Tommy would keep them in a vice grip, frozen above the ground–but he is fond of his ally, and humors him–watching with a muffled snort as he only manages to spin himself in a circle, arms pinwheeling as a subtle kind of panic settles into his movements when Tommy doesn’t immediately let up.
“..I’m not really in the mood for waterboarding today, bossman. Or hypothermia. Care to let me go?” He asks wryly, struggling to stop himself now that he’s started spinning. Tommy only grins wider at the request, the placating smile on Atsáli’s face soon turning down in panic as he realizes what he just asked for. Tommy nods his head sweetly, slowly beginning to lower the boy–before throwing him at the wall and causing a screech of terror to leave the Inventor. Of course, he stops him before he actually hits the wall, turning him right-side-up and placing him on his feet, effectively releasing the hold of his powers–the bright red bleeding back into his skin, apparently satisfied with the act of mock-violence.
“You bitch! Fuck you, Kókkino.” The boy yells, arms still spread to keep his balance now that he's back on solid ground. Tommy just cackles, shaking his head at the indignant expression on Atsáli’s face. “You’re just a sore loser.” He snickers, gesturing vaguely at the disgruntled vigilante. He then fishes around in his pocket, grabbing the small metal contraption. He tentatively lets his powers wrap around it, tossing it up and down a few times–before tossing it back at its still-pouting creator, who catches it and tucks it into his own pocket. Tommy is a bit disappointed that it hadn’t turned into a net when he had thrown it, but Atsáli was smart–he probably made it some internal lever or button he had to use his metal-warping ability to trigger. With enough time, he could probably manipulate his own ability to do it–whether that be zapping it or just pressuring it–but that’s besides the point, because Atsáli is starting to look murderous.Which means he has around 10 seconds to run.
He chooses life, and immediately scrambles to his feet, letting out an admittedly-high pitched scream as Astáli lunges forward. The engineer is scarily quiet despite a few breathless giggles as he chases him around the building, squealing shrieks leaving Tommy’s throat as he zig-zags around any available object, vaulting the (still upside down) couch and wrapping his powers around a few cushions to then launch at the unsuspecting vigilante. He hears him yelp in surprise as one misses him, and then an ‘oomph!’ as the other makes contact. Tommy prays that the former has hit the ground when he spins around on his heel, all but throwing himself towards the (thankfully) grounded boy. He tries to kick him off, flailing his limbs, but Tommy manages to brush his pointer finger against his exposed ankle, red light rushing forward and sending the vigilante into the air while yelled curses spill from the captured’s lips.
“You’re like a fucking cat. Air jail.” Tommy pants, a stupid smile stretching his lips despite his best efforts. His hold is finicky at best though, slowly lowering the vigilante–said vigilante then beginning to claw at the air, effectively moving himself to a point where he can kick Tommy in the head–which he wastes no time mulling over, the sole of his shoe making contact with the blonde’s forehead with a resounding smack and invoking a yell of surprise from the villain. It wasn’t painful–the vigilante had been careful, but it was still a surprise to be struck in the head–surprising enough for his hold to fully fail, dropping the vigilante on his chest and finally eliciting a groan of pain.
Atsáli looks as if he’s about to say something, but ends up not–instead just staying perched on Tommy’s rib cage and smiling sweetly as Tommy groans once more, aiming a weak jab to his side. His powers spark at this, looking for something to grab onto–But he holds them back, he doesn't want to accidentally cause actual harm to the vigilante with the pounding in his head now back with vengeance. So instead, he decides to give up. He’s not really in the mood for an actual fight anyway. He gives the ground two quick taps, signaling his surrender. Atsáli raises an eyebrow–clearly not expecting him to give up so easily–but gets off, holding out his hand for Tommy to take.
“..You alright?” He asks once they’re both back on their feet. Tommy waves him off, sighing and adjusting the red veil responsible for hiding the upper portion of his face. “I’m fine. Just didn’t feel like fighting, ‘s all.” He replies, brushing himself off–he’s definitely tired now, if he wasn’t before. Atsáli is still frowning as Tommy walks back to the upturned couch, his powers a more pinkish shade now as they wrap lazily around the seat and lift it back to its previous position. He then collapses on it, head on one side with his legs resting over the arm of the other.
But the vigilante isn't done yet, apparently, walking over and shoving Tommy's legs off the couch to sit down in the space they were occupying. “You’re not acting right. What’s happened?” He asks, ignoring the villain’s huff of protest. Nothing happened. He just has a headache, and his powers are being bitchy. It’s not abnormal. “Nothing’s happened , Atsáli . I’m just tired .” He insists, kicking at the vigilante’s side half-heartedly. The vigilante holds his breath before sighing–leaning his head back against the cushions. “I told you to call me Tubbo. ” He says quietly, turning his head to the villain. He looks a bit dejected now, very different from his demeanor not five minutes ago. Tommy feels something cold curl in his gut.
“..What?” He asks hoarsely–they both know that Tommy knew what the vigilante had said, but the brunette repeats himself anyway. “Thýra–Ranboo and I have both given you our names. I don’t care that you don’t want to tell us yours, but stop acting like you barely even know us.” He says once more, shifting to fully face Tommy. The cold feeling worms up his throat, powers tingling in his fingertips. He had told Tub– Atsáli to drop the subject. It was already dangerous enough to allow himself to hang around the two when they’re not on the streets, but knowing each other's identities? That was solidifying their relationship with each other. And nothing good comes with associating yourself with villains, let alone calling them your friend. He knew his reign wouldn't last forever–his powers would either fail, or some hero would get a lucky shot–and then he’d be gone. And he refused to drag the two of them down with him. So they were just allies–nothing more.
He realizes belatedly he had said the last part out loud when Atsáli winces, standing up with his hands clenched at his sides. “Well, when you come to your senses and realize we’re here for you, we’ll be waiting. Or at least I will.” He says, voice laced with hurt. Tommy wants to take it back–but it’s better if things stay professional. He can’t give him any sort of hope for what could be, despite how much he yearns for it. So he lets the Inventor walk away, and whispers an apology.
“I’m sorry.”