Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The problem wasn’t that the only bus Tommy could take out of the city was nearly four hundred bucks. The problem was that it didn’t leave until tomorrow afternoon.

Sprinting down the street with a fire in his lungs, tearing across the concrete as his eyes bore down into the glowing screen of his phone, there was a certain panic in Tommy’s chest. Before he’d even thought of a plan, his heart had beaten him to it and searched for the easiest way out of Reno. And perhaps rather stupidly, the easiest way to Boise.

He didn’t have the time to think about why he chose that as his exit point. He only had time to run. To get as far away from the house as possible.

So he ran.

Even if Kristin called the police, there’d be some time between then and when they actually started looking. And if Wilbur or Techno were to try and find Tommy, he’d still have a headstart as he pulled his eyes up, looking around the intersection he’d found himself at. Even in the late evening, the roads were bustling with cars.

Back when he’d plan to run away from Dream, it had always been a rather simple idea. Tommy would wait for one of the many times Dream left for a week, and he would grab his bag and go. He’d walk north until he reached Boise and hitchhike from there, until he was nearly at the border. He was sure, so close to the edge of the country, he’d be able to find some rickety town where someone would offer him a job for room and board. Slave labour, he was sure, cleaning old trucks or working seventeen hours a day, but he’d live. And he’d charm his way out of it eventually.

All in all, things hadn’t really changed. Here he was, running, going to Boise, and sticking his thumb out at the road.

Cars drove by all the same. Tommy didn’t know how far from his house he was, maybe half a dozen blocks by the way his whole body ached in pain and exhaustion and he panted like a wild animal, but hopefully someone would offer him a ride. In the heart of the city or on the outskirts, someone had to be willing to stop.

For growing up in a small, rural town, Tommy really thought that there would’ve been more ‘knowing all your neighbours and playing in the street’ and less being told that strangers were dangerous and everyone wanted to kidnap you, even when the reality was parents posed a bigger threat.

Well, Tommy supposed he was the exception that made the rule. He was, quite literally, the poster child of stranger danger.

Regardless, he was well informed about the dangers of hitchhiking, for both the driver and the hiker. In both cases it was ‘but what if they’re a murderer?’ , and Tommy did have to admit that getting into the car of someone who saw him and was willing to drive him somewhere was probably more dangerous than saying hello to someone walking by on the street.

Maybe they’d kill him. Or sell him for parts. Or hell, maybe he’d be lucky enough to get sold into labour slavery. That was practically his plan already.

And just maybe, the driver would be like Dream. There’d be a purpose Tommy could serve for them alone, and serve it he would. Punching bag or free worker or anything in between.

Because then it would be right again. All his problems would be fixed, and life would go right back to what it was meant to be. Tommy would be back in his place.

Eventually, there was a small honk, and Tommy glanced over his shoulder to see a truck pulling up along the sidewalk. He stopped walking as the truck came to a halt, and he watched as the window rolled down.

A man, maybe as old as his parents, with dark green hair stuck his head out, an odd look on his face. His eyebrows were furrowed and he seemed perturbed, looking at Tommy like he was something weird.

“Need a ride?” The man asked after a moment. Tommy nodded and followed the guy’s motion to go around to the shotgun seat, careful not to run into traffic as he stepped around. When he tried to step into the car, the guy waved him to the back seats.

Tommy had to step up to get into the truck, the tall ass shit that it was, and once he was inside and had slammed the door shut behind him, he took a look around. There was a dog in the shotgun seat, a rather large one, and he wouldn’t say it made him feel much better.

The truck looked well maintained and clean, which was a good sign, hopefully. Though maybe the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror was just to cover the smell of blood from previously murdered hitchhikers.

“What’s your name?”

Right, a name. If the police came asking, he didn’t need a trail.

“Ranboo.” Tommy answered casually. “You got one?”

“My name’s Sam.”

Tommy nodded. His name sounded fake too. Such a great sign.

“So, Ranboo , where are you headed?”

Tommy crossed his arms. “Why do you need to know, huh? Don’t you know about stranger danger?”

Sam paused. “So I know where to drive you.”

God fucking damn his entire life to hell. Tommy fought against the embarrassed flush in his cheeks.

“The airport. I’m getting on a plane, gonna try my luck in Vegas.”

With nothing but the backpack he was carrying, obviously. God, he was bad at this. What the hell had thrown him off his rhythm so much?

Right, he’d murdered his dad.

That meant Sam was picking up a hitchhiker who was actually a murderer. Crazy shit.

Hopefully that meant Sam wasn’t a murderer, since the likelihood of them both being in a car together was really small. Not impossible, but less so.

Sam began to drive, and in a performance that Tommy would give him five stars for, Sam did not speak to him for several minutes. It allowed Tommy to breathe, which he hadn’t noticed he wasn’t doing.

While his head cleared a slight bit more with each breath, he became aware of how his body ached with the pain of having run street after street to make it to the intersection Sam had found him on. As if on queue, a stinging pain shot through his knee.

“Fuck!” Tommy bit down on his shout, grabbing his knee with a squeeze. He knew his trick knee had been kind to him recently, but did it have to fucking bother him just because he’d bothered it?

Sam glanced at him. “Are you alright?”

Tommy nodded quickly, giving him the best smile he could. “Got a muscle cramp. Gotta eat more bananas, you know? Might as well have scurvy.”

It seemed that Sam wanted to comment, with how he stared for a moment, but he decided against it.

The streets began to widen as Sam continued to drive north according to the compass on his rearview mirror. Though the cars around them never stopped, the traffic did begin to thin, and as Tommy checked the map he’d pulled up on his phone, north was the right direction. It all seemed fine, until at an intersection where he very well could have gone forward, Sam turned east.

Tommy kept his mouth shut until he realised they’d been going east for several minutes, and the buildings were starting to thin. He could see the desert beginning to find its way into view, the moon clearer without the lights of the city. Tommy checked his map once more, and sure enough, they were past the airport.

Sam was taking him out of the city, the wrong way.

Fuckin’ hell, there truly was no rest for the wicked.

Sam began to pull over, reaching for something in his pocket. If Tommy flinched at the thought of it being a gun, no one had to know.

“I need to make a call, I’ll be back in a moment.” Sam pulled a phone out of his pocket and stopped the truck, turning it all the way off and taking his keys with him as he stepped out onto the road. He leaned against the door, actually making a call.

Silently, Tommy scooted closer as Sam began to speak. Clearly, he must not have realised how perfect, downright godly Tommy’s hearing was, or the fact that Tommy could turn his head the other way to use his ear that worked.

“Late teens, blond hair. Yeah, he’s tall. Said his name was Ranboo. Uh, yeah. Okay. I can bring him there, if you want.” Sam paused. “He said he was going to the airport. I can stall him until one of you get here, just tell me when you’re leaving the hospital.”

Oh, he was definitely getting his organs sold on the black market. Or worse.

Perhaps there had been a moment where Tommy had let that hyperbolic part of himself win. Where instead of thinking clearly, sanely, he’d instead chosen to both rebel and revel in that rebellion of logic, taking his feelings and deciding they were an obvious indicator of what to choose. Because all Tommy made were good choices, duh.

He was scared of Dream, but it was all he knew. So, why not let himself fall right back into that pattern with anyone he could? That would be better. Tommy just needed that life again.

Except that pattern only meant what it did because he was Dream . The one person who had stuck it out for Tommy and stayed with him through thick and thin—the question of who thickened their lives hung heavy—and tried to help Tommy. To make him perfect. Or hell, less of a problem.

This new person, they would just be—somebody. Somebody who was hurting Tommy. They wouldn’t actually care about him, they’d be picking him off the street!

Tommy wouldn’t let it happen again. He couldn’t. This time, he’d fight back. If he was willing to let himself suffer once again, he would’ve just stayed at home with his parents.

Tommy squeezed his hands together, a nervous sweat pressed between them as he scurried back into his seat, Sam’s words lost on his dizzy head. He needed to get out of this car.

How the hell would he get out of a truck and not get caught running?

He could always take a page out of Technoblade’s book, crash them. Except there was no oncoming traffic right now, and the last thing Tommy wanted to do was kill a second person tonight, especially if Sam wasn’t a human trafficker.

Tommy’s breathing was starting to grow heavy in his chest. He could feel it fanning the lithe embers tucked under his heart with the only purpose to burn a hole through the door at his side.

He reached for the handle and pulled it back. It clicked and didn’t move.

God, maybe he would kill another person today. He was certainly on the verge of it.

There had to be an unlock button near the front. Probably on the driver’s side, where Sam was only separated from Tommy by glass and metal that clearly failed to block sound. Not to mention that even if life decided Tommy deserved a break, there was a large dog with teeth bigger than Tommy’s sitting in the passenger seat. Though the dog was silently curled up in its seat, the idea of those teeth bared in his direction wasn’t one Tommy wanted to see come to fruition.

But between having his organs sold to the highest bidder, and having a dog bite off his hand, Tommy wouldn’t call it a hard choice.

Slowly, he lifted his arm between the front seats, sliding his body forward with it. He eyed the dog more than where he was grabbing, letting his fingers blindly tap against the plastic buttons.

The dog did not even look up at the sound.

The risk of getting his hand bitten off seemed smaller.

Tommy looked where he was touching, finding a button that tilted either which way with a little lock stamped on. He clicked it the other way, flinching at how the truck clicked loudly.

For a change, Tommy had a little bit of luck. It seemed that in the moment he’d crawled forward, unable to see out the windows, Sam had stepped further onto the road, and his raised voice covered any sound from Tommy’s escape.

Tommy wasted no time opening his door, cringing at the clunk it made. He only gave himself enough space to slide down onto the road, not closing it as he stepped away from the truck. Hunched over, moving inch by inch while he watched for any sign of Sam turning to look back, Tommy made his way into the field beside them.

Sam continued to speak loudly, distracted by the lack of connection he seemed to have on his phone as he tried to see if the person on the other end could hear him.

When Tommy was far enough away that Sam’s voice was beginning to fall quieter, he turned and sprinted, running back the way he’d come.

Miracles abound, it seemed, as Tommy managed to walk his way to the airport without getting nabbed once more. Perhaps that was because he chose to walk the rest of the way and not stick his thumb out. It seemed simple enough to get away so long as he kept his head down any time he saw a police officer walk past him on the sidewalk, and in the end, Tommy had quite a few hours until he was meant to be on that bus.

Would they let him board beforehand?

Tommy pulled his phone out once more. The screen glowed brightly, revealing a plethora of messages and missed calls. It took all the strength Tommy had in his weak, dying body to not read them, scrolling up to unlock his phone.

The bus ticket was opened right away, and Tommy pressed order before he could think about it—he did have to find an ATM and deposit all of his cash back onto his card to do so.

The receipt read clearly that Tommy was not getting what he wanted.

‘Bus boarding begins twenty minutes before departure.’

Shit. Fucking hell.

Was he just supposed to sit in the airport until two in the afternoon, tomorrow? It was barely ten past eight! That was… a lot of fucking hours.

He could sleep for some of it, and with how his body ached, he definitely would, but that still left a while of doing nothing. Probably. He supposed it depended on how much he slept, and if he would be kicked out for looking like a homeless guy finding somewhere dry for the night.

Shit, he was a homeless guy finding somewhere dry for the night.

Tommy entered further into the airport regardless of how bored he would be, because bored was always going to be better than arrested for patricide.

Tommy marched through the building rather blindly, following the blue signs above as best as he could. It was a huge place, with white floors and whiter walls, tiled and lined, bordering long and tall windows that stared out into the dark of the night.

For every step further into the airport Tommy took, there seemed to be more and more people. It could have had something to do with the fact that he’d never been in an airport before, but the place was crowded beyond belief. How many people really needed flights in and out of Reno at this hour? Didn’t they understand that Tommy was here, and that obviously, beyond obviously, he needed a bit of thinking space right now? Were their trips really more important?

How had his ego ever gotten quite so big against Dream’s best efforts to make him a good person?

Tommy stalled at the thought. It was not the return of Dream’s mocking laughs, but it did send a shock down his spine that left his hands fiddling with the straps of his backpack.

A man bumped into Tommy, pushing him just a step, and Tommy spun around so quickly that he may have startled the man more than the bump ever could have.

Dream was in prison. Surely.

Tommy swallowed roughly, manoeuvring through the crowd to a small set of benches along the windowed wall. Only one person was sitting there, far enough away that Tommy took a seat and still felt that he could breathe.

This was bullshit. All of it.

Tommy pulled the bag off his back and set it on the ground between his legs, leaning against the back of the bench and looking down at his hands.

He could find the bus station later—he had more than half a day to do that.

All he had to do right now was wait. And Tommy could wait. They didn’t call him time tolerant Tommy for nothing.

It was just that time usually meant something that Tommy didn’t like, because like always, he and time sat alone. There was no Tubbo or Ranboo, no Technoblade or Kristin, hell, there wasn’t even a Sapnap or Dream to lull him into some sort of interesting conversation.

Tommy and time would sit there, and he could do it, he could, but he was just… not the best company.

For all the ego he did his best to have, Tommy could not stomach the thought of a conversation with himself. It was a good way to get lost.

Tommy pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on once again, looking at the messages that flooded his screen. Just below the time—because it might as well have been a fan of him, following him around and around—there were several texts from Technoblade. Each one cut off after just a few words, though Tommy could barely stomach the ones he could read.

‘Tommy’

‘Don’t do anything stu…’

‘You need to come take…’

If he hadn’t been so nauseous, Tommy might have laughed. ‘Don’t do anything stupid’ , what a message. Really, it was a miracle that Techno hadn’t had a famous author approach him yet and beg to fund a memoir to so much as try to understand the inner workings of his stupid fucking mind. A downright muddy, shitty, pile of dirt that grew between two posts of bone.

Everyone was fucking stupid, Tommy had a right to be just as well.

Maybe Tommy was a murderer, but he hadn’t been trying to kill Phil. And it wasn’t like the mug had been what had cracked his head into a billion bits. Between Tommy and Techno, only one of them had tried to beat a man into the earth in a blinding rage in the middle of an antiques store. Techno clearly had fucking problems. Tommy had just been scared, he hadn’t meant to.

For the relief that that moment of righteous frustration had brought from the stinging ache in his chest, the feeling quickly left Tommy with nothing but a cold burn.

He couldn’t think of what had happened. Because if it was not the fear of punishment, or the anger that he had no right to feel, then it was the weak cowardice of a child that met him. The same cowardice that he’d met a long time ago and accepted blindly. 

The first time Tommy could find it in himself was the night before he nearly died. Not the suicide attempt—or rather the not-suicide suicide attempt—but the good day where he would have given up everything he had and could have had with his real family, just because Dream had been nice to him.

It was sometime during dinner on that good night that he’d found his weakness. Staring out into the fire, watching how it burned and danced, and maybe, how a flicker of the flame had reached out to him. A hand, almost, with a body attached that he hadn’t bothered to look at.

Weakness. The thought that things could get better.

Tommy had grabbed that hand blindly like a drowning man and let it pull him into asking Dream for mercy, like he’d earned it.

And then he had drowned. Rather literally for his liking, waking up on the shore the following morning, a sopping wet Quackity pressing down on his chest, screaming for help.

Tommy had sleepwalked then, and not long ago now, he’d sleepwalked once more.

Maybe that should have been the first sign that his life was going to hell once again. Maybe if he’d paid it more mind, he wouldn’t be in an airport right now, staring at his hands, knowing that that weakness had reached out to him from the fire that had burned through his chest before bursting. The hand had offered itself to him back on that couch, a pill bottle held out, and Tommy had once more blindly grabbed it.

For all his life, he’d reached into fire. And he wanted to say that Dream’s hand had been the one reaching out this time, pulling him into it, burning him apart. But it was a lie. Tommy knew what he was, no matter how much he hated it to be true.

Dream was a raging hurricane. He was violent and angry, he would tear through lives and destroy homes, and the only thing you could do at a certain point was try to run from it. At the end of it, there was nothing but a grey day, the dripping of rainwater off of roofs, and the clouds above. All you could do was watch the sky and wait for the next storm. 

And yet, Tommy could not see that in himself. Because he could still feel the low burning fire inside of his chest. Because Tommy was no tempest. No, Tommy was not a storm, he was not the sharp rain hitting the ground nor the harsh wind pushing people around. 

Tommy was a wildfire. He burned everything he touched to ash, and while a storm became clouds and returned once it grew too heavy, ash never lit twice. Were it not for the oxygen still entering his lungs, the fire would have burnt out. Maybe that was why Tommy hated when his breath cut short in a panic—he didn't want to let the fire go out. He was scared to become ash.

And Phil was dead for it.

Because Tommy was a coward.

Tommy sunk into his seat on the bench, not missing how his breath shook as he curled his head into his chest, lifting his bag into his lap just to have something to squeeze. His arms were going numb, oddly enough.

Another god awful conversation with himself. Tommy wanted nothing more than to pass out right away, to simply blink and have it be morning. Every part of his body ached, his damn knee still hurt, for fuck’s sake. How was he so exhausted, and yet he’d never been so awake? Each blink was heavier than the last but he could barely bring himself to blink.

Tommy looked down at his phone again, at the plethora of messages.

Was this… even a good idea?

Maybe his family wasn’t perfect, and maybe they would hate him, but… they wouldn’t have him arrested, right?

Tommy didn’t want their pity, but god, if he could get it now—if they could understand that he was a coward and not a murderer, that he’d been scared and not angry, that he was… stupid, not evil—maybe they’d take him back. If he was going to spend the rest of his life slaving away, it would be nicer to do it for his family than some random strangers up north, right?

No.

Tommy’s family didn’t deserve that. They didn’t deserve to deal with him for the rest of their lives. They could mourn Phil and hate Tommy forever, and he’d probably be doing them a favour. It was a lot easier to hate someone than to cope with the idea that Tommy was doing his best, and hating Tommy would be a lot easier if he stayed gone.

His mom would be all alone in that house, though.

For some reason, that was what finally brought tears back to his eyes. Not enough to even be called crying, and it was probably a miracle his body had enough water in it to even tear up, but he scrunched up his face and buried it in his bag. His shoulders shook with each shaky breath, the upset of the entire week finally finding him.

At some point, probably when Tommy had accidentally let a few too many shakes slip out, the person on the bench got up and left. Tommy was very glad for it, because as much as it sucked how the people walking by would give him passing glances, that was all they were.

At least there was one benefit to burying his face into complete darkness.

Tommy woke up to a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and he quickly snapped his head up, blurry visioned and dazed.

“Uh—hm?”

In front of him was a security guard, or maybe some sort of flight… desk guy. By the uniform, he wanted to say the latter, but by the way this man was looking at him like he was ready to throw him out, the former felt more likely.

“Hello, sir.” The man smiled, bending slightly to meet Tommy’s eyes for every half second they were open between blinks.

“Ayup.” Tommy rasped.

“I’m sorry to do this, especially at this hour, but we try to reserve the airport seats for people waiting for flights.”

Oh shit, did he actually think Tommy was a homeless guy?

Did he actually care enough to kick him out despite the fact that every seat around Tommy was empty?

Tommy blinked, looking down at his bag. He grabbed the zipper for a moment before remembering his phone was in his pocket. Thankfully, no one had grabbed it from him during the—hours? What time was it?—he’d been asleep.

“I’m waiting for a bus,” Tommy said, pulling up the ticket receipt. He showed it to the employee, perhaps shoving it a bit too close to his face.

After a moment of squinting and reading, the employee gave perhaps the most strained smile Tommy had ever seen. “I see, I’m sorry sir. Enjoy your stay.”

Tommy nodded back and slid back down in the seat. He glanced at his phone again, reading the time.

God, it’d barely been an hour. That wasn’t fair, how was Tommy supposed to fall back asleep now?

Well, he tried for a good few minutes, but under the harsh fluorescents, it was pretty much impossible. There was most likely an imprint in his face from the zipper of his bag, by how he could feel it still pressed into his skin even as he sat up, staring out at the people walking by, so resting his head was a no-go.

Tommy decided to open his bag and begin digging around. He was pretty sure he had headphones in here somewhere. If he couldn’t sleep the night away, he could at least enjoy some music.

Maybe it was a miracle that he didn’t find them before he heard a voice cutting through the crowd. Maybe the fact that he’d been woken up just before that voice had a chance to find him was a blessing. Maybe Tommy was just so fucking lucky.

Across the large waiting area, by the desk where the man who’d just woken Tommy had returned to, was a man with pink hair. Long and tied back, falling down into the hood of a red hoodie, from which sprung an arm and a hand that held the leash of a service dog.

“Excuse me,” Technoblade said to the people at the front desk, lifting his phone up for them to see. “Have you seen this guy?”

Maybe there was nothing lucky about seeing your killer before your death.

Tommy threw his hood up and was on his wobbly legs in half a second, turning and marching towards the exit of the airport as fast as he could without getting a suspicious stare and a pull aside from security.

He made it to the entranceway of the waiting area before he dared to look back, tossing a glance over his shoulder. With the hood still blocking half his vision, he managed to see that the airport worker had brought Technoblade over to the bench where Tommy had been just moments ago, both looking around.

Without waiting another moment to be spotted, Tommy just about ran out of the entranceway, rushing towards the airport exit.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Get a hotel room?

Techno would probably show up in the room and drown Tommy in the bathtub, or he’d find whatever hovel Tommy crawled into and pry out a floorboard to crucify him with. There was nowhere Tommy could go in this city where he wasn’t sure Technoblade wouldn't find and kill him. Because, honestly, Tommy kind of deserved it.

The only option was getting out of the city, but Tommy couldn’t do that for a fuckton more hours.

Well, technically he could.

The desert wasn’t part of the city, right?

Tommy pulled up a map on his phone, looking over it as best as he could while manoeuvring through the crowds of people by the entrance to the airport. Happy families, ready to see each other after a long time.

Tommy brushed past them all, making it for the doors.

Just as he reached them, pushing one open and beginning to step through, the PA system blared to life, a tired worker’s voice coming through.

“Please report to the customs desk, Mr. Tommy—”

The door slammed shut behind him before he could hear the rest of it.

Hopefully, in the morning, he’d come to find the bus stop would be outside the actual airport.

Fuck, had Techno told them about the murder? How close to being thrown in an actual prison cell was he?

Tommy looked down at the map once more, looking at how the airfield continued for a while south, but it seemed that if Tommy stayed by the highway, making his way near to where Sam had taken him, he could make it somewhere pretty remote. There had to be a shack or two out there, something where Tommy could scare off the wild animals and set up camp for the night.

No matter how his vision still seemed to blur each time he stepped, Tommy hurried along the connecting roads, making his way out of the airport. When he saw the highway signs, lit only by the road lights and passing cars, he felt the pressure in his chest lessen just a bit.

Hurrying through the night, Tommy ran through the grass and dirt, ignoring how his eyes felt tight, how his lips were dryer than the sand around him, how his trick knee shot pain after pain up into his hip. It didn't matter, because Tommy was making it out of this city.

Even if it didn't feel very… real. Not in the sense that this felt like a nightmare, but in how Tommy was starting to lose feeling in his feet, and how, like the world hated him, his headaches were coming back. The bright lights of passing cars only exacerbated the pain, forcing Tommy to close his eyes and cover his face with his arms while he marched.

Eventually, though he could still see the airfield when he looked out, he stumbled away from the highway and into the desert. There was a small mountain covered in thick bushes, and with whatever strength he had left, Tommy climbed across the side of it in the dark until there was a small divot.

Tommy always thought it was bullshit how cold it got during the nights in the desert, but he was beyond grateful now. The moon was bright, beating through the clouds with a glowing light. It tempted Tommy to the ground, to lay and watch it.

He could see some stars out here. Not enough, but… some. Better than home.

Against the remaining better judgement he had, Tommy let himself sit in the dirt, shuffling under a bush. He grabbed his bag and pulled out his water bottle, taking a huge swig. Desperately, he hoped it would fix him.

Almost instantly, his head cleared.

Then it swirled with the exhaustion, hunger, delirium, withdrawal, and dehydration, and Tommy fell onto his back.

He was so tired.

Tommy blinked a few times, and then closed his eyes.

Something was cooking. The sweet smell of smoking meat, raw veal laid out to sear along a rough, coal surface. A perfect, palatable meal.

But beneath it, coating the stench, was the undeniable smell of burning flesh. Faint, but there. Like someone forgot to skin their supper.

Tommy rolled into his stomach and felt the burning flesh press against his face. Or, moreover, as he came to realise he could only feel the rocks against the burning flesh, and not the flesh itself, Tommy had pressed his face into the earth.

And it hurt. It burned.

Holy fuck, did it burn.

Tommy jumped up onto his hands, blinking awake. The bright spring sun belted down on his back, a blistering heat burning through the desert air. In the dry dirt, Tommy rested on his trembling hands and knees. His face was tight and stiff with a stinging sensation, a small pebble falling from where it had jabbed itself into his cheek. To open his mouth to rasp a breath, Tommy had to practically pry his lips apart.

It took a moment, looking at his upsettingly red hands, to pull his bag over from where it had been left beside the bush. Tommy unzipped it and grabbed the water bottle inside, bringing it up to drink for just a moment. The relief it brought was not enough, nowhere near it.

Tommy poured the remaining water onto his face and relished in how it passed over his sunburned skin, soothing him for a moment. The touch of the water soon burned worse than the heat, and Tommy slammed the bottle against the ground with a groan.

It took him a minute to collect himself, but once Tommy could blink without pain, he grabbed at his bag once more and found his phone.

All of the messages flooding his home screen were new, but he paid them no mind once more. It was ten something in the morning. Good. That was a good number of hours slept through. His bus would only be in, what, four hours? That was nothing. Four hours was for chumps.

Stumbling to his feet, Tommy continued to dig through his bag until he pulled out an old pair of headphones—broken in one ear. 

‘That worked for him’ , a bitter part of him recognized.

Tommy plugged them in and tried not to think about the fact that he'd passed out in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Well, he supposed it wasn't really nowhere. Blocking the sun from his eyes and looking out, he could see the airport, a distant suburb, the highway, a dog walking trail. It was more like… domesticated nowhere.

He quickly pressed play on the first song that showed up in his files, a rough guitar and gentle voice now humming in his ear. He listened for a moment, the singer's words of a horse with no name a pleasant sound over the rushing of distant big rigs, before Tommy skipped the song. Maybe it was because he didn't feel up to a song about travelling the desert, or because Phil had been the one who'd recommended the song, but Tommy needed something else right now.

Tommy stumbled down the mountain side, doing his best to not trip on the rocks and fall into a sharp bush. Jesus, how had he done this in the dark without tricking up his good knee?

Maybe it had been easier then because the sun hadn't been trying to kill him last night. If Tommy so much as tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his skin would sting with a pain he’d never known before. 

Eventually he made it down to flat ground, and without bothering to look at the sign at the entrance to the trail, Tommy began to follow the highway back to the airport.

Come to think of it, his little getaway had kind of worked. Sure, his face hurt and he was sweating like he was in a sauna, but that was better than being dead. Technoblade hadn't found him. Because Tommy was a genius. Who else would have found such a perfect spot to sleep? He didn't have to spend even a cent! Perfect! All he had left to do was make it to the bus station and he would be a free man.

Tommy would have grinned to himself if it didn't hurt to move his face.

No matter how his feet were numb in his shoes, Tommy made it back to the airport, very careful to avoid going inside. As much as he wanted to wash up in the bathroom and maybe buy some aloe vera, he would take looking like a mess to being a mess—which he would be, in prison.

With a quick look at a map online, Tommy scampered around the airport to the bus terminal on the side, where there were a few people with packed bags sitting. Tommy walked past them without sparing a glance and found himself standing at a bathroom door.

He entered reluctantly, breathing a sigh as he came face to face with a mirror.

Christ.

Actually, it wasn't that bad.

Tommy's face was sunburnt, obviously, but it looked like he'd just forgotten sunscreen on a nice day out. A bit red, a bit sore, and a lot of tightness that was mostly just a product of the teaspoon of water he had in his body.

Tommy cupped his hands under the tap water and drank until his arms started to hurt. The water tasted of iron and salt, but he drank anyway. It helped to clear his head and was more than a relief as he began to splash it on his face.

Other than the splattering of water along his hoodie, there was just a bit of dirt on his back and sleeves. His hair was messy but nothing his hood wouldn't cover, and the bags under his eyes may have been practically carved into his skin but being tired wasn’t a good enough reason to keep Tommy off of the bus. He was paying hundreds of dollars, he had been lucky to even get a ticket for a bus leaving sometime that week; Tommy had earned that goddamn seat. He was going to be on that bus.

Tommy brushed off his sleeves and shook out his hair, throwing up his hood and shoving his headphones overtop of it. The music continued to play, and Tommy closed his eyes for a moment.

He was fine. Really, honestly, better than he’d been in a long time. He was Tommy again.

Tommy opened his eyes and stared at his reflection.

Of all things, at least that hadn’t changed. He’d always been a bit grimey.

Tommy rubbed his face—and he cursed himself out just a second after, biting his tongue to not scream out “fucking shit!” while there were some old people outside of a very thin door—and headed outside, sitting on a bench and staring out at the road.

After how long the walk back to the airport had taken, he only had to wait two hours. It was the longest two hours of his life, unfortunately, constantly looking back and forth for security. For each person who arrived, Tommy tightened his grip on the straps of his bag and waited for them to slap a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists.

Not that they would've managed it. Tommy would have bit through metal and bone if that was what it would've taken. And at this point, what would one more murder have been? Tommy would not get caught by some cop.

He didn’t have to fight anyone either way, as the bus pulled into the station about half an hour before it was meant to leave.

The sight of it didn't quite calm Tommy like he'd expected—or wanted. The ache in his chest squeezed, and that was all.

He forced a sigh anyway and hurried over as soon as the door opened, running to whatever seat was written on the electronic ticket that he shoved in the driver’s face. The seat was far in the back and directly over a wheel, with a smaller window and less overhead space than the other seats around.

He was starting to understand why he'd been able to get the seat so close to departure.

Regardless of how shitty his ride was going to be for the next day or so, Tommy shuffled into his seat and kept his bag tightly held in his arms. It was small enough—and way too important—that Tommy didn’t store it overhead. He dug through it for his phone charger, pulling it out and shoving it into the outlet beside him. Seeing his phone light up for just a moment was… not great, honestly, because he caught another glimpse of the messages, but it was good to know that his music wasn’t going to run out anytime soon.

Tommy waited, chewing on his nails, until the bus eventually became packed and the driver made an announcement. Another few minutes elapsed, and the bus began to move.

Holy shit. He’d actually done it. Tommy was homefree.

He didn’t get to celebrate for very long before his stomach growled. Right. He hadn’t eaten in at least at day. Tommy dug through his bag for a granola bar. 

The one he found was kind of crushed, and maybe Tommy wasn’t in a position to say anything about the taste because his stomach was starting to eat his vital organs, but it was bland and stale.

He ate three of them before the growling stopped and he zipped his bag up. As a new song came to play, Tommy made a mental note of the contents of his bag. Mostly the food and money, because Tommy was sure those two would play a game against him together.

He had about fifty bucks on his card, another handful of granola bars, and four cans of tuna to his name. Water could be found pretty easily if he stuck to the right areas, but food… food would be a bit harder.

As much as it was a surprise to Tommy, he'd never actually stolen anything before. Maybe some random pens from a classroom, a bit of candy from Tubbo's Halloween haul, some papers from Dream's desk. Really, not much, and definitely nothing from a store before. Not out of respect or anything, but more because he just never got around to it, he'd never had the chance. Ranboo would offer to pay for his snacks at the theatre, Sapnap bought Tommy a bike for his twelfth birthday, even Dream would buy new clothes and shoes for him. Tommy just never really felt like stealing—he was sure he could get away, after all, it wasn't like Tommy ever got scared of anything. Especially not of getting arrested.

Was it that hard to steal food? His bag should have been heavier, fuller. He shouldn't have to go hungry. Or keep going hungry.

At least he had practice starving.

Grim fucking thought. Tommy shook it from his head and sunk into the fabric of his seat, letting his phone rest in his pocket. Softly and idly, music played. Tommy rested his head against the bag and did his best to not squish it against the zipper.

He wasn't really tired anymore, because fitful sleep was still sleep, but there was still an odd exhaustion in him.

Tommy had had a very long day. He'd earned a bit of rest.

“There has been a slight delay, and the next bus will be arriving at 2:25PM. Please return to the terminal half an hour before departure to check tickets and check your bags.”

Tommy listened to the driver's voice attentively. If it were any other time on the trip, he would have just turned up his music, but this was beyond important. This was the last layover. 

In an hour and a half, he'd be back on the road and in Boise as fast as he could blink. Assuming it took Tommy five hours to blink, but semantics were not his problem. It'd been a long, long day switching from bus to bus with about as much sleep as he could get in a rumbling, bouncing, loud as shit, metal rectangle. A few hours more was nothing.

And for the first time since he'd gotten on the bus, Tommy decided to get something to eat. Maybe it was the fact that at the previous layover, a family had been eating fast food right next to him, or because he'd finally gathered up the courage to read a few of the messages on his home screen only to see that his family had started messaging him from Phil's phone, but Tommy just wanted something unhealthy to sink into for a little while. Anything, really. Anything to make things feel a bit less empty, a bit less overflowing. If he could drink something to turn invisible, he'd be chugging it, and if he could, he would light himself on fire just to get someone to notice the way he burned.

Jesus, he needed a burger.

At least the terminal had a few food trucks across the road. Tommy hurried over to them and bought a cheeseburger and fries, a solid dent out of his money even if it was barely enough food to cover the plate they gave him.

Tommy sat at a small wooden table outside of the terminal to eat his food. For midday, it was dark and dim, a greying sky soon to rain down, but Tommy didn’t mind it. It was nice and windy and it felt good on his sunburned face. For simply eating lunch, it sure brought him some peace.

Tommy only made it through a couple of fries and a bite of his burger before he felt his eyes well up with tears.

This was the best god damn food he'd ever had in his entire life. God could not make a burger this flavourful. There was no world where this meal was real, where it had only costed twelve dollars. Tommy was truly a thief now, for how he’d completely robbed that food truck.

Tommy scoffed down the fries as fast as he could, more than grateful. He might as well have been praying, his hand raising up to his mouth and his eyes closed to prevent his tears from falling out.

Peace, and relief. A good fucking burger.

Tommy wasn't alone at the table, he realised after a moment, listening to the scratching sound of something roughly sitting down next to him. Tommy turned his head to look at what had sat at the table, surprised to see a rather large black dog, ears down and tail tucked under its legs.

“ Hello ,” Tommy smiled softly, “where'd you come from?”

The dog—a labrador retriever if Tommy knew his dogs—had a red collar that Tommy reached for, grabbing the metal tag. It had an address, but no name.

The dog tilted its head towards Tommy's plate, a rather begging look that didn't go unnoticed in its eyes.

Tommy looked between it and the plate. He was still hungry, but…

“You get one fry, okay?”

Tommy held it out to the dog, watching as it sniffed at it. Tommy lifted his hand and dropped the food, and he couldn't contain a laugh as it bounced off the dog's nose and onto the table. That didn't deter the lab, as it quickly ate the fry off the wood.

Tommy ran a hand over the dog's side, feeling the coarse fur ruffle under his touch.

“You're a bit cute, aren't you?” Tommy had never had a pet before or after Henry, but he had always kind of wanted a dog. He liked walking, dogs liked walking, he liked talking, dogs liked listening—it was perfect! When Tommy had first met Blitz, even though he was Technoblade’s dog—

Nevermind. Tommy's mind was focused on his heaven-sent burger, not a dog he'd probably never see again. Plus, he had this new dog he could pet, even if it would probably just be for a moment or two more until the dog ran off back to its owner.

Tommy ran his hand up and down the dog's back for a little longer before he returned to his meal, picking the burger up once more.

Suddenly, in a flash of black, the burger was yanked from his hands. Tommy turned with a start, staring down the dog at his side, holding Tommy's food in its mouth.

“Hey!” He shouted, all adoration gone, lurching to grab the burger. The dog jumped onto the ground and began to run off, but Tommy wasn't about to lose that easily. He abandoned the rest of his fries and sprinted across the grassy clearing, following the labrador into the streets of this small eastern Idaho town.

The dog ran for block after block and Tommy followed, ignoring how he panted. He held the straps of his bag and kept up, no matter how far the dog led him. That was his fucking food. He’d been the one to pay for it. A dog didn’t get to just steal it, not from Tommy.

When the dog reached a small house with a for-sale sign in the front, it turned and ran up the driveway. Tommy skidded across the pavement and ran after it, chasing it right up to the door. When the dog stopped, seemingly remembering it wasn’t able to open doors, it turned back to Tommy.

WIth all the dignity he had, Tommy grabbed at the burger, trying to pull it out of the dog’s mouth. His shoes slid on the wood planks of the porch, pulling him forward, but he refused to fall. Tommy yanked as hard as he could, until with a growl from both him and the dog, the burger ripped in half. Tommy finally lost his footing and stumbled, falling backwards onto the wooden ground.

The dog began to bark loudly, dropping the half of the burger it held. Tommy groaned in pain, rubbing his sore spine.

Fucking hell, everything began to hurt again. His trick knee twinged painfully, and he began to feel how the blocks he’d run were killing his calves.

Perhaps Tommy was weak, because his eyes began to swirl, but he wasn’t a loser.

He looked at the torn up burger in his hand, then lifted his head, staring down the barking dog. It watched him and went silent for a moment, before it growled at the food Tommy held.

The dog was probably rabid.

Tommy took a bite out of the burger.

That seemed to be the final straw for it, as it lunged at him and tried to grab the remaining food from his hand. What neither the dog nor Tommy remembered was that teeth weren’t quite accurate tools. With an unfamiliar pain, the bite broke through Tommy’s skin and into his muscle.

“Fuck!” Tommy screamed.

The pain rippled through his arm, and before Tommy knew what he was doing, he swung at the dog, hitting it with all the force he could manage. It was much more than he expected, as the dog whimpered and released him, running down into the driveway.

Tommy panted loudly, crawling up onto his forearms and pointing his bloodied hand out at the dog. “Yeah! Eat that! Cunt!”

He winced, grabbing his hand and pushing himself up onto his feet. Behind him, the door to the house opened with a squeak. Tommy spun quickly and shoved his hands into his pockets.

There stood an older woman dressed formally, looking at him in surprise.

Tommy forced a smile, taking a step back. “Uh,”

“Oh, are you… here for the open house?” She spoke slowly, looking at the situation in front of her with a certain uncertainty.

“The…” Tommy looked back at the for-sale sign before he shook his head. “No, uh, your—”

Tommy pointed at the dog in the driveway with his good hand, doing what he could not to grimace. “Your dog stole my food and I chased it.”

Was that a normal thing to say? Tommy was too hungry to tell.

Either way, the woman sighed and furrowed her brow, grabbing something from a door-side table inside. “He’s not my dog.” 

She returned and threw what she was holding, a rolled up newspaper. The dog ran back to avoid it and then skittered around the side of the house, earning another sigh from the woman.

“Oh,” Tommy mumbled. So who was he supposed to ask if the dog had its rabies shots?

“He used to be the old owner’s, but when he passed, no one came to get the dog. I tried to give it to the pound, but it just keeps getting away. It’s already bit two workers there, so I just don’t get why they won’t put it down.” She stepped outside and walked over to the newspaper she’d just thrown, before looking up at Tommy on the porch. “Say, could you watch him for a minute, honey? I gotta call animal control again. Can’t have him biting one of my clients.”

Tommy nodded. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew he wanted to see this dog get some karma. Who was it to bite him? And steal his only food?

A starving dog, but Tommy was starving too.

Tommy walked past the woman to the side of the house, where there was a worn wooden dog house and an old truck. Tommy stepped across the dry grass to the dog house, far enough away that if the dog tried to get a second hit in, Tommy would have enough time to hit it first.

He sat on the stone path lining the house, looking at the decently crafted dog house tucked beside a rusted shed. In the darkness, he could see the vague shape of a dog laying down.

It seemed pretty calm in there. Not quite on the verge of running away.

“Giving up, eh?” Tommy grinned. “That’s what I thought. You’re a smart dog, you know. Knowing you can’t beat me.”

The dog lifted its head and huffed.

Tommy rolled his eyes. It kind of hurt to do so, but he didn’t dwell on that.

After a moment, the dog stood and stepped out of the dog house, watching Tommy as it cautiously stepped over to the truck. Once it was at the front bumper, it laid back down.

Tommy looked up at the plate above the dog. It was a regular Idaho plate, if not for the veteran logo branded to the side of the number. A Vietnam army vet.

Huh.

Tommy had actually known a few Vietnam veterans. Not well, but every now and again, he’d see their cars pass by and pull into the parking lot to go play bingo at the town hall. Some older guys, most more than willing to talk at town parties about how when they’d been Tommy’s age, they’d already had two wives and sixteen kids that they cared for on fifty dollars a week.

Tommy had never really cared for them, but… perhaps he was a bit nostalgic. Those old guys always made him feel like part of a community, if one that wasn’t great for more than enough reasons. A home without a family. A home where he didn’t have to have a family.

Tommy looked back at the dog.

“Sorry about your owner,” he mumbled. It wasn’t easy to lose the people in your life, whether you were a dog or a human. “And I’m sorry for punching you. But don’t fuckin’ bite me again, I will kick you.”

The dog huffed again.

Why wasn’t it running away? Didn’t it do that every time?

Maybe it was finally realising how pointless it was to run away. Finally giving it. Letting go of the idea that this life is better than no life at all.

No one was coming to get it, and no one wanted him. He could run away all he wanted, but the only people chasing him would be the ones who wanted to send him right to the pound. Hell, maybe they’d actually put him down this time.

Tommy idly squeezed the wound on his hand.

The dog was a violent thief, but… he needed to eat, right? Everyone got hungry. It wasn’t like anyone was going to provide—after all, who wanted a dog that bit? That barked, and stole, and ran away?

Who’d want him if he did all of that?

Tommy inched closer to the dog, slowly lifting his hand. The dog watched him carefully, but let Tommy pet him gently.

It must have been scary. Being alone, without anyone who actually wanted you . You weren’t perfect, and that was an insult, so no one came to get you. No one would come back if you weren’t barking, scratching, and trying to get some attention. Maybe one day someone would want you, but how long until the novelty wore off? Until the new dog didn’t quite do anything right? Until they realised you were never going to grow out of being an old dog, new tricks or not?

Then you’d get hungry. Scared. You would forget what it was like to be alone, and you’d begin to think that maybe you’re alone already, or would be better off alone. Anything to not be used. So you would bite when a hand comes close to you, because you’re scared.

It was so easy to bite, no matter whether you meant to.

No one wanted a dog that bit.

The dog lifted its head and licked the palm of Tommy’s hand.

“You were really hungry, huh?” Tommy had to clear his throat, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “That shit sucks, innit? Real shit.”

The dog looked at him and stood, slowly stepping closer. He tapped his snout against Tommy’s knee, looking up at him with the same begging eyes as before.

Tommy looked back at the dog house, where a red leash was laying. He had a stupid idea. Then, he glanced back at the dog.

“Do you like the name Shroud?”

Shroud sat at Tommy’s feet as he waited at the terminal, watching together as the bus pulled in. The hours hadn’t cleared the sky, and the truth was that it had nearly darkened enough to be night. The clouds hung heavy above. It was going to rain.

Maybe it would make for a nice view out the window. The shining asphalt and the moment that the sun would finally break through and glow. All while it danced through the chill wind of spring.

Tommy held his bag’s strap with one hand and Shroud’s leash with the other, leading the dog over to the bus. Since he’d given him a can of tuna, he’d been a very well behaved dog. Perhaps a bit too unruly, still having snapped his head towards any passing squirrel, and having barked at passing cars, but he hadn’t tried to bite anyone.

Tommy hoped that in having been a veteran’s dog, Shroud would be loyal and smart. That was all he really needed from this dog right now. And for him to be chill with buses, so he could actually come with Tommy. All Shroud needed to do was nap peacefully for a few hours. 

Shroud hadn’t actually gone to the bathroom in the time Tommy had known him, so Tommy just had to hope that the tuna would stay inside for the rest of the ride.

That would be one hell of a way to get kicked off the bus. Hilarious, but real shitty.

Tommy chuckled to himself, stepping onto the bus. He flashed the driver his ticket and kept walking with his head held high, but was surprised to be stopped.

“I’m sorry sir, we don’t allow dogs onto the bus.”

Wait, shit, did they really not?

Tommy knocked a brow, looking down at Shroud, the dog of a veteran. “He’s a service dog.”

The driver didn’t look convinced and he asked to see Tommy’s ticket again. Tommy held his phone up, hoping that the driver would simply see the four hundred dollars Tommy had dropped on this trip and let it slide.

He did not.

“I see. Is he required for a disability?”

Did Tommy have to say that he’d have a dog on his ticket? Did a service dog even have to be trained? Was there some, like, paper that proved it? Did they need a vest, or anything? Blitz didn’t have one all the time, but no one had ever stopped Techno to ask.

Well, Techno had PTSD, and Blitz was there for his PTSD. And Tommy had even worse trauma, so if anyone had a right to have a service dog, it was Tommy.

“Yeah, I’ve got c-PTSD. ‘E’s my dog for it. I can’t ride without him.” Tommy had a feeling the bite mark on his hand didn’t give credit to his story that the dog was actually a service dog.

The man nodded. “And what exactly does he do?”

“Eat? He’s a dog, what do you mean?”

“The work he does as a service dog.”

“Oh,” Tommy looked down at Shroud. “Uh, he—”

Oh, fucking hell. Why did Techno have Blitz? All that dog did was eat the food Phil would pass under the table and sit with people who were upset. Was that what service dogs were for?

Tommy did his best to look sure of his words. “He calms me down when I get all, you know, upset. Trauma, innit?”

The driver did not look convinced, and Tommy had a feeling that he hadn’t cut the right wire. To spread blood across the open wound that was this lie, a man sitting in the first row opened a container of food and Shroud tried to hurry towards it.

Tommy stomached his embarrassment as he was walked off the bus, holding his head up and making a scene. “My—my lawyer’s gonna hear about this, you know! I know the best fucking one in Idaho! In the country! On the globe! Big law’s gonna kick your ass!”

Needless to say, the bus left without him on it.

Tommy groaned and kicked at the ground, walking back into the bus terminal. He fell into a seat, still holding the leash as he sighed into his hands.

Why had he just done that? Was he really going to come so far just to lose it for this dumb dog? The same dog that had stolen his food, probably gave him an infection that would kill him if the growing headache didn’t get him in the next few hours?

Maybe Tommy was stupid.

But he was himself again, right? A normal person never would’ve yelled at a bus driver for not falling for their obvious lie that probably could’ve gotten someone hurt. And nothing about Tommy had ever been normal. Or good. Or even fine.

Maybe Tommy was worse like this.

Dream had wanted to fix him for a reason.

Shroud brushed against Tommy’s leg, an almost apologetic look in his eyes.

“Yeah, you should be sorry.” Tommy grumbled. Not that it did him much. “Whatever, come on. We’ve gotta walk a lot of desert.”

The terminal was full of buses coming and going, but Tommy either didn’t have the money for them, or enough wit on an empty stomach—Tommy had gone back for his fries, but they’d been pecked to hell by birds—to convince them that his dog was a necessity.

All that really left was walking and hitchhiking. He knew the risks of both, and in the end, he’d rather die in the desert than in some guy’s meat shop.

Tommy checked the route on his phone while his water bottle was filling. Three and half hours by car or plane—which he could not afford—and nearly six on a bus, but that was nothing compared to the eighty eight hours it would take to walk it. Four entire days. Tommy wasn’t even sure he’d be alive in four days. He tried to picture the future, but beyond the fiction he’d constructed of a mechanic teaching him how to fix bikes in the middle of nowhere, Washington, there was nothing. No family, no house, no… Tommy. And no picture of the world four days from then. Just the idea of living.

At least there was a dog in that idea now.

Tommy tugged Shroud’s leash and began to walk west.

It started to rain around five in the afternoon. The dark sky finally gave out, pouring down in heaping bullets against Tommy’s sunburnt skin, nothing even close to a relief. With how that headache had continued to grow, each pelt of rain and gust of wind felt like a bat to the skull. Every few minutes when Tommy would finally start to feel a bit warm, Shroud would shake off the water in his fur and drench Tommy’s pants once again.

Tommy had tried to use the umbrella he’d bought, but with the wind of the storm, and the fact that it had costed about six dollars, the canopy had snapped off and flown away. As much as Tommy had tried to chase after it, he suffered a crushing defeat and had to keep going with nothing but a metal stick and slightly dirtier pants. Damn the slippery ground.

Walking along a highway, the dirt quickly turning to mud with each step, did not make for a very comforting trip. Tommy longed for the image he’d conjured in his mind of watching the rain from his soft bus seat, warm and with a dog resting at his feet.

Tommy continued to walk, hearing a few cars pass every now and again. Even if he couldn’t see them through the rain, it was obvious the amount was lessening as he trudged further out into the desert.

Was it even a desert anymore? Tommy might as well have been in the ocean.

Tommy’s foot slid on a loose part of a hillside and he fell, hitting the ground with his shoulder. “Fuck!”

That was it. No more. He was not doing this for another several hours. For some reason, he already felt exhausted, and when he pressed his hand to his forehead, his skin felt sickeningly warm despite how he was shaking.

After another minute or two, Tommy found himself on the very edge of the city he'd walked through, following the highway. There wasn't much, a house with a drenched clothesline behind it, and maybe a few more houses the size of sheds further down. It didn't matter either way, because if he was still close enough to a city, and the highway, and the slopes and rises of the desert, then there was surely something else.

Not far, under the highway, was a small sewer tunnel. It would’ve been an underpass if it was open on the other end and didn’t just have a grate blocking the rest of the pitch black tunnel. 

Tommy hurried into it, ducking his head just a bit as he entered, his shoes squishing wetly against the concrete. He avoided the muddy rainwater in the middle of the sloped ground—please let that have been rainwater—and found a spot to sit near the grate.

For as short as it was, the tunnel was wide enough that Tommy could keep his shoes out of the water. Not that it did much.

Tommy surveyed himself. Every part of his body was soaking wet, and as bad as it was to only realise then, his bag was not waterproof.

Tommy dumped the contents out onto the concrete, looking over what he had. One can of tuna, his pocket knife, his forgotten but now wet box of bandages—that he opened and used on the wound on his hand—his lighters, a plastic fork and knife, his phone charger, and thankfully, a change of clothes.

At least his phone itself and the headphones were fairly waterproof.

Shivering in the cold of the stormy evening, Tommy changed into the… less wet clothes that he’d had tucked away. It didn’t warm him, but at least he was a bit more dry.

A storm like this didn’t seem like a short deal. The weight of the clouds, the way the rain hadn’t shown any sign of stopping for over an hour already, the simple pressure in the air—Tommy was going to be in this tunnel for a long time, wasn’t he?

At least he had something to eat. He’d save it for later. That few bites of burger from noon was still enough to tide him over now, at six.

His stomach growled, his head swirled and ached, his mouth was somehow the only part of him that was dry, and the many muscles in his legs were on the verge of seizing. His trick knee was desperate to be remembered, and it was more than willing to hurt him to get that attention.

Tommy breathed slowly, holding his hands together.

A shock shot up his spine, a painful jab to the back of his head. That stupid shooting pain from before, back when he’d first cut off his meds.

Tommy wanted to shout all the foul words he knew, to yell something in anger, but the only noise that he managed was a violent scream that tore out of him. He kicked the concrete across from him, the force striking back through his bad knee, and Tommy just kicked it some more.

Shroud took a few steps back, watching as Tommy continued to kick the wall.

It was a tantrum. He knew that and kept kicking.

“It’s not fucking fair!” Tommy shouted, slamming both his feet against the wall. “What did I fucking do? Nothing! Not fucking—guh! It’s not my fucking fault!”

Tommy stopped kicking and bent forward, grabbing his pants and scrunching up the fabric in his hands. Born of his anger, tears lingered on the edge of his eyes, and he let them fall without consideration.

“Always some fucking bullshit happens to me, you know,” He looked at Shroud. “I didn’t fucking… I’m not… I don’t fucking get it!”

He sniffled loudly, clearing his throat as he shouted. His voice echoed off the tunnel walls, but it did not make it past the entrance. The rain was simply too loud.

“Dream hates me, fine! Sapnap does, Quackity does, even fucking Karl! I don’t care! My parents—they drug me! I’ll still beat them, I’ll still win! I did, you know? I won! I beat them all! None of those bitches gets to control me anymore!” Tommy could feel his teeth grinding with each word, his face warmer with the tears pouring down it. “So why am I here and they’re at home?! They should all be in—in the fucking mud, eating canned shit.”

The wind rushed down the tunnel and slapped Tommy, a freezing breeze that left him shivering. Tommy grabbed his bag in a fury, pulling out one of the lighters. What could he burn for the slightest bit of warmth?

In a rush, he pulled out one of his shoelaces and tried to ignite it, but the lighter clicked and clicked and did not light.

With another angry shout, Tommy threw it at the wall. “Why’d I fucking buy you, then?!”

Shroud whimpered and stepped closer to Tommy, watching as he shivered, rubbing his upper arms through the sleeves of his new shirt. Not a hoodie, and much thinner than one.

Tommy glared at Shroud. If he hadn’t been so weak, so attached to a random, stupid dog, he would already have been in Boise.

With ears flat against his head, Shroud turned and began to march out of the tunnel, his leash dragging behind him.

“Where are you fucking going?” Tommy shouted with wide eyes and more panic than he intended. When Shroud kept walking, Tommy stomped his feet again. “Fine! Fuck you! I don’t need a dumb fucking dog! I hope they put you down!”

Tommy flipped him off with his bandaged hand, before he curled up once more. The wind continued to beat down the tunnel, practically a funnel. The rain wasn’t going to let up, and the only living thing that liked Tommy anymore preferred to be out in the storm than with him. Whatever. At least that fucking dog was worse than Tommy. Tommy had only ever killed one guy, that dog had probably killed five of them.

Despite this, Tommy kept crying. He wasn’t upset, because at this point, if he was upset, then it was only his own doing. He was just so tired of the bullshit. And tired in general. He’d been walking for hours, and he hadn’t had a full meal in… god, at least a week. HIs water bottle had emptied sometime between leaving the bus terminal and deciding to make his grave in a concrete tunnel, and that flu of his… fine, the withdrawal he was having—it was not pleasant, it was downright shit shoved down his throat.

Was he really going to spend the night here?

God, this was fucking miserable. Prisoners got better treatment than this.

Dream was probably getting better treatment than this. He probably had some nice fucking cell and some cellmate that he was bothering the shit out of. He was using the weight room, or reading in the library, forever in peace, knowing he’d completely ruined Tommy’s life and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

He couldn’t even get the death penalty. Bullshit. Tommy remembered his second week home, learning that Dream had had his sentencing and what it entailed. The judge made it clear that they’d condemn Dream to worse if they could, but the kidnapping of some random kids was not a capital offence, and since he’d gone over several borders, it was federal law. If he’d killed one of them, or they’d used the Idaho laws, Dream would have been on death row faster than Kristin and Phil could bury their kid, but it stood as it did. 

Techno had seemed glad that Dream was getting life, since apparently, there had been a chance that he would have only gotten twenty-five years. Something to do with the legal issues of why he’d kidnapped them, and whatever the difference between a first and second degree kidnapping was. But Tommy really couldn’t bring himself to care. Dream was going to just get to happily live out his life in prison.

With the possibility of parole, which really had been insulting when Tommy had heard it, because Dream had four life sentences for all the shit he did. He’d have to live over sixty years in prison before applying for parole. Why’d they even give it to him at that point? It had just been there to mock Tommy. And Techno, but this wasn’t about him. He only made up a quarter of the life sentences Dream got.

Holy shit.

Tommy could face the death penalty. Dream couldn’t, but Tommy could.

Wait, did he commit first or second degree murder? Or was there also a third one?

Maybe Tommy should have drowned. Passed in his sleep and not have had Dream give him the heimlich. Truly taken the leap into the earth. Then Dream would've been charged with his death. That would’ve been the ultimate fuck you.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Tommy was a killer, and Dream was just… just happily in his jail cell. Probably thinking about Tommy, the loser rat bastard.

Why had Dream asked Sapnap about him? What did he need to know? Sapnap had to have been lying, it couldn’t have just been wanting to know how Tommy had won. There had to be more.

At least someone acknowledged that Tommy had won.

Maybe Dream had done something to the way Tommy thought about his life. Maybe Dream was the problem, the reason Tommy had become so… awful. Why no one ever came back for him, why no one wanted who he really was. Why Dream had to fix him in the first place.

An uneasy nausea settled in Tommy’s stomach, not that he had anything to throw up.

He wished, more than anything, that if he ever got back on his meds, they'd make him incapable of thinking about Dream again. That would probably fix Tommy.

God, he just wanted to forget it all.

For the entrance to the tunnel, a dog barked. Tommy looked back to see Shroud once again, this time dragging something along in the mud and the water.

“Shroud!” Tommy smiled, sniffling loudly.

The dog barked again and hurried over, dropping the large thing he was dragging into Tommy’s lap. After a moment of inspection, Tommy laughed, reaching down to grab the blanket he’d been gifted. “Holy shit! You got this for me? You went out there and brought it all the way back?”

Shroud barked again, a much happier sound than before.

Tommy rubbed his eyes as dry as he could, laughing despite himself. He couldn’t stop the sound, his face aching with how widely he smiled.

“You knew I was cold! Oh, you’re the best dog! The best dog! I’m sorry, no one’s gonna put you down, I’ll fucking bite them if they try!” Tommy quickly began to pet Shroud, pulling him on top of the wet, muddy blanket his dog had stolen.

Shroud rolled onto his muddy belly, which Tommy gratefully rubbed. He let his tears fall onto the dog's fur, inseparable from the raindrops. For how the blanket didn't provide any warmth—it actually made things worse—Tommy could not have been happier. It had been for him, to help him.

Tommy wrapped his arms around Shroud, softly hugging him as best as he could hug a dog. He got mud on his face, but that was fine. He had the smartest, most loyal dog in the world.

Even though it continued to rain into the night, Tommy kept his hope high. It turned out the corner of the blanket that Shroud had brought over had actually been decently dry, and with the remaining lighter, Tommy had started a small fire by the entrance to the tunnel. He warmed himself by it, letting the smoke billow out.

It went out after a few minutes, but it was something. Something warm. A low burning fire, where a hand reached through and offered Tommy a ridiculous, weak idea.

Tommy shook the hand once more. It would get better. Fuck everything else. Tommy was alive, and he’d live a better life than all the bastards who’d wronged him. He had one more thing to do, and then he'd be off to nowhere, Washington with his dog to become a mechanic.

His breath shook as he breathed, shaking the memories of his spiral from him. It didn’t matter. Tommy was better than that.

The rain finally let up in the morning, and with a newfound hope and pain in his stomach, Tommy continued to walk. Eventually, after cooking in the sun without water for another several hours, way too many to even accept, Tommy stumbled upon a small town with a public park. There, there were bathrooms and food trucks, and Tommy drank twice his body weight and ate about half of it. Shroud, too, had spent far too long with his head under the bathroom tap just to quench his thirst.

The twenty or so dollars Tommy had left didn’t even weigh anything in his pocket, but it didn’t matter. He was fed, and sitting on a park bench, some of the food set down on the wood for his dog. Tommy felt more content than he had in ages.

This was bliss. A peaceful life, the life of a wanderer, who did not think about the past.

Of course, Tommy was less wandering than running away to a very specific place, but that didn’t matter. A wanderer he was.

The park itself was pretty nice. Mostly grass, white lines drawn across it to make a field. Either a single kid lived in this town, or school was currently in session, as the park was pretty empty for the hour Tommy was there. Though it was still a bit muddy, the sun was shining and the cool wind was nice. For how hot it was, Tommy wasn’t sweating out of his mind. At least due to the heat. That odd sweating thing from when he’d been sick was starting to come back.

Beside the park, a bit into the dirt of the desert were train tracks and a deserted station, and Tommy didn’t pay them much mind until he heard the whistle of a train blow from somewhere in the distance.

Huh.

He might have failed his geography and history classes, but he damn well knew there weren’t any trains this side of Boise. At least any that were still running.

Tommy hurried over to the rundown station, a small, open place of dirty bricks, and quickly searched along the walls. Shroud sniffed at random bits of the ground as Tommy sprinted from wall to wall, the sound of the train growing louder, until finally he found a half-torn map safe under the dilapidated roof of the building.

‘Pioneer’ , it read, ‘a long distance train that travelled east to west in southern Idaho, stretching all the way from northern Utah to northern Washington.’

Holy shit. Holy shit, it went straight through Boise. It was perfect!

But it didn’t stop at this station. The train just passed through this tiny town, and the small station must have been for… whatever trains did. Refuelling, maybe. In either direction, the stops were hours away from Tommy.

He could hear the train getting closer.

It wouldn’t stop.

Fuck that. Tommy would be on that train one way or another.

With what little data he had remaining, Tommy searched the train online, reading the briefest part of an article as his phone lagged with all the incoming messages. As it seemed, the train had stopped running a long time before Tommy was even born, but they still would run cargo trains every once and a while.

Okay, okay, Tommy could jump onto a moving train. Even as the whistle blared once more and made him jump, turning to see it approaching from a distance through the opening to the platform.

Tommy grabbed Shroud’s leash and pulled him across the station with him, getting into place out of the view of the conductor. He stood behind the wall near the opening, and with as much care as he could gather, picked up Shroud in his arms.

“For a starving dog, you’re heavy,” Tommy grumbled, but Shroud just shimmied around. He didn’t seem to mind how uncomfortable it was because it was worse for Tommy.

The ringing of the train’s bells soon pounded through the air. Shroud whined, but Tommy stood still, waiting.

Soon, with a rush of air, the train began to pass. It was slower than he’d expected, probably slowing down so it wouldn’t destroy this old, rotting station with nothing but blowing wind. Tommy waited until the front passed the end of the station before he ran out onto the platform, looking at where he had to jump on.

After the first few cars, it was nothing but shipping containers. Every few cars of containers, there would be an opening of sorts, a platform that looked relatively flat and open.

Was this a good idea? It seemed like a good way to have a closed casket funeral.

Shroud was whining once again, this time trying to move out of Tommy’s arms. He held the dog tightly, breathing in as deep as he could.

He was not a coward. He could do this.

Tommy counted the cars, each one passing louder and faster.

With nothing to lose, Tommy jumped.

His shoulder slammed against the hard ground of the platform, and he slid with the movement of the train, slamming into the metal container. He kept Shroud held close, keeping him away from anything that could hurt him. Though the pain shot through Tommy, it was not the pain of being run over by six tons of force.

Tommy forced his eyes open, looking around.

The desert was rushing past him, a violent, dancing sight of sunlight and golden dirt. The wind beat by, but it was blocked. The container ahead of Tommy kept him shielded, and the one behind gave him enough space to rest his back.

Tommy sighed, a small laugh escaping him before he grinned, releasing Shroud but keeping his leash pulled taut. The last thing he needed was for his dog to fall off.

The platform was small, and there was virtually no protection from the sun and no rails to keep him from rolling off. But Tommy had himself, his bag, Shroud, and a quick way to Boise. Fuck eighty eight hours. This was five.

Five hours. Just five more, then he was free.

Tommy put his headphones back on carefully, kept Shroud very close, and watched the landscape fly by.

The sun had set by the time that Tommy made it to his final goal. By some miracle after jumping off the train, he managed not to dislocate his entire body. Though it had hurt, Tommy began his walk out into the desert along a small road. He wasn’t quite in Boise, but that was fine. He’d always known he wasn’t going directly into the city first.

This road was closer to two or so hours outside the city on foot, even if Tommy could see it in the distance. He kept going west, walking and keeping an eye on how much Shroud was panting. At least in the dark, it was slowly getting colder.

After only twenty minutes or so, a truck pulled up beside Tommy. Though he didn’t know the driver, the offer of a ride wherever he was headed was too good to resist, and as it turned out, the Idaho Maximum Security Institution was on the way to the gun range this man was headed to.

The prison wasn’t open to visitors until the next day, but according to the driver, the gun range would probably let him stay on the covered porch. Somewhere sheltered to sleep.

Tommy could wait a little longer. He was the world’s most patient man.

The driver went inside the gun range to grab something he’d left there earlier that day, leaving Tommy on the wooden porch for a moment.

If Tommy had kicked over the nearest sign, a deep frustration in him when he’d realised that he wouldn’t be getting in the prison right then and there, no one had to know.

The security camera above him definitely knew, but if someone was going to report him for kicking a sign, Tommy would have a few choice words for the police officers that would arrive. In his mind, they would be the same ones who would probably get him in trouble if they knew that he’d adopted Shroud with a bit less paperwork than was normally required, and taken a less than conventional mode of… public enough transit to get there.

No one came to arrest him or tell him off.

Tommy could just barely see the prison in the distance, a massive concrete building surrounded by nothing for miles.

It looked shitty.

God, he hoped it was shitty inside. Hopefully the beds were made out of stone, the food, the books, the exercise mats too. Every blanket had better be soaking wet and covered in mud, every visitor be someone who wanted the person they were visiting dead and were willing to send them six hundred text messages all about it.

For all Tommy had been willing to do to get here, he didn’t really know why.

He was going to get to tell off Dream. Maybe throw in a ‘kill yourself’ here and there, absolutely tear Dream into bits and pieces, throw an organ or two at the wall.

And then maybe just sit there for a while. Wait to hear what Dream has to say, what questions he had to ask Sapnap to ask Tommy. To learn why even in that prison, Dream still wanted to see Tommy even after Tommy had won their little game.

Could it have been a ploy? Did he somehow have a way to escape, and he just needed Tommy to do it? Grab him and shove a knife to his neck and walk right out of there? 

Or hell, maybe he’d just shank Tommy. Really get the most out of his prison sentence. 

Tommy was not nervous about seeing Dream.

He was just… tethering back and forth on his feet because he was bored.

There was a certain fear he had that didn’t necessarily come from Dream himself, nor anything Dream could do to Tommy.

Was… was this weakness? Not anything else, but just this. Running off to see Dream of all people, still following after him and chasing whatever he wanted, doing anything he needed to make Tommy perfect, all while still wanting to grab Dream’s gun and shoot him point blank?

If Tommy went in there, he was scared two facts would be true.

Dream still owned a part of him, and Tommy still did whatever Dream wanted.

There was something Technoblade had said once. Tommy hadn’t paid much attention, but… he’d just made an odd comment about Tommy’s room back in Melba. Said that it looked very bland, very much like Tommy had had no part in choosing what it looked like. Technoblade said that it was nicer to see how Tommy liked to decorate his room now—even if he hadn't liked how Tommy used half a roll of tape to put up posters.

But part of it was true. Tommy had to admit to it.

Dream had never let him decide much. But it was because Tommy was bad at choosing, he always did the wrong thing, made the wrong move, just did everything so poorly it was like he was goading Dream into reacting.

Tommy didn’t make the proper choices, ever. He stopped eating and it served him so well, he’d stopped therapy and it hadn’t stopped the thoughts in his head, he’d stopped his meds and it made him sick beyond belief, and he’d stopped fighting and it’d made him so easy to exploit that even a suburban couple had done it.

But if Tommy went in that prison, then… wouldn’t that not be fighting either?

Could he really give up? Lay down in his bed and just do whatever the people who wanted to ruin his life wanted?

Tommy sat with Shroud at his side, resting on the porch to the gun range door as he kept his eyes on the distant building.

Tommy never decided anything in his own life. Nothing. It was always ‘go to therapy, Tommy, eat your dinner, Tommy, take your meds, Tommy, behave for company, Tommy, stop acting like a idiot, Tommy, I didn’t tell you you could have that, Tommy, don’t try and hit me, Tommy, move away from the cow, Tommy—’

A grimace crossed over his face. He bit down on his tongue, his grip on Shroud’s leash tightening.

He wanted so badly to scream at Dream, to let fourteen years of hate—not annoyance, not frustration, not anger, not dislike, but just pure, fucking hate—boil over and explode out of him in a righteous screamed speech.

But if he went in there, then Dream was still winning. Tommy still did what he wanted.

And, in a way, if Tommy didn’t go in there, then Dream would not only not win, but he would lose.

Because Dream always got his way, and Dream always got the last say. But he could sit and rot in that prison, always hoping that maybe that would be the day Tommy would give in, and it would never work. 

Because Tommy would have the last say. And Tommy said no. He wasn’t going to give Dream the fucking satisfaction of an answer.

How did Tommy win over Dream? He was just that much better than him.

Tommy was a strong man. The biggest, strongest man, actually. And Dream would sit in prison like a little earthworm, unable to find any rotten soil to burrow into. No more pots to plant a seed, no more ideas left to sow.

Tommy was going to be a person, starting right now. And his first choice was to stand and leave, beginning on his way into Boise, with Dream far behind him.

For as proud of himself as he was, the thought only pleased him for the first few minutes of waiting.

He didn’t have any more goals.

He supposed that was what being a person was for. He’d made some.

With Shroud by his side, probably more well rested than Tommy, considering he’d actually gotten some sleep on the train, the two of them waited until the driver returned. As a final parting gift from his past before Tommy would get to be his own person, and make his own life, the driver was willing to take him into Boise with him.

Tommy thanked him by talking his ear off on the ride, laughing and mumbling incoherently, he was sure, about how he was going to move to Washington. It wasn’t a surprise he got dropped off the moment they passed the city border.

From there, Tommy found the first fast food place he could and spent half his money to get something to eat. He once again split it with Shroud, and took a seat on the edge of the sidewalk outside.

He could see an airport from where he was sat, and past it, the desert that led out to nothing that concerned Tommy anymore.

“You like the east or the west?” Tommy asked, glancing down at Shroud. The dog huffed and rested his head on Tommy’s leg. “Yeah, I’m thinking the west. Seattle's better than Spokane, innit?”

Cars continued to pass by on the roads all around, a red sedan pulling into the parking lot and a blue one pulling out. Tommy ate his burger in peace, staring out at the moon.

God, he hadn’t even looked at the stars yet that night.

He could almost see enough of them through the city lights.

“Tommy?”

Tommy stopped. Just stopped. Stopped breathing, stopped moving, until the sudden beat of his heart pounded through him. He turned his head to look to his side, where from the red sedan that had just pulled in, his brother had stepped out of the passenger seat.

Technoblade’s eyes widened and he stepped around the car, moving closer. “Tommy!”

Tommy scampered to his feet, tripping on the edge of the sidewalk and scraping his calf on the concrete through his pants. He didn’t dare think about how much it hurt, running to his feet and yanking Shroud’s leash with him. The dog yelped and Tommy felt like a piece of shit, but Shroud was quickly running with him.

Whatever Techno was shouting went unnoticed, blocked out by the sound of his feet on the asphalt behind Tommy.

How the fuck —how the fuck?

Techno’s fingers graced along the edge of Tommy’s shirt, nearly grabbing him by the collar —he would’ve caught him if he’d still had that hoodie on— but Tommy threw himself into the nearest ditch and kept running. He barrelled across the grass, his shoes skidding on the mud. Shroud kept up, barking every moment or two when Techno got too close for comfort.

Tommy panted heavily, his eyes barely scanning his surroundings before he dashed into them, unable to see over the panic, unable to hear over the fear.

Shroud yanked him to the side and Tommy followed, running into another sewer drain. This one was larger, drier, but it ended with a grate that blocked the exit all the same. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was living.

Tommy dropped the leash and threw his bag off, shakily tearing it open and blindly grabbing his pocket knife as Techno ran into the entrance of the tunnel.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” He screamed, hoping the anger in his tone hid the way his voice shook. He pointed the knife, and Shroud barked louder than Tommy had heard from the dog before.

Techno held his hands up, taking a step back. “Woah, woah.”

Tommy breathed in gasps, continuing to back up until he hit the grate. He could only hope that the bandage on his hand, the filth all over his clothes and skin and hair, the violent dog at his side, would be enough to protect him. If it wasn’t, he had the knife.

“Hey, Tom — Tommy, put it down. You don’t gotta be stabbing anyone right now.” Techno forced an odd smile. He took a couple steps inward and Tommy pressed his back into the metal.

“I will fuck you up, Technoblade, I will gut you.”

“Dude.” Techno deadpanned, slowly lowering his hands.

There was nowhere left to go. Technoblade was going to fucking murder him.

The knife shook in Tommy’s hand, but he held it up anyway, contorting his face. He sneered, and against himself, he growled. A wild fucking animal. A dog that bit.

“What are you, rabid?”

Probably. He was probably going to die of rabies in six years if Techno didn’t kill him right then and there. Despite that, he grabbed Shroud’s leash and pulled him back. Techno wouldn’t hurt his dog, but Tommy didn’t need any chance for anything to be used against him.

Something dashed in behind Techno in a flash of white, a loud, angry thing that barked. It was deeper and angrier than Shroud’s barking, and though it came to a halt at Techno’s side, Techno lurched forward to catch it.

And Tommy saw red.