Chapter Text
Part One: Conviction
(A strongly held belief; or, a verdict of guilt)
Crimson
The white cell walls got really boring after a while. That’s why Tommy made sure to leave bright crimson smears everywhere. There, slapped across the doorframe, lay a tally of all the times he’d left. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that frequently, but Tommy was happy enough that the top was a consistent carmine. And ok, maybe some of the sides of the frame were also a little red—which wasn’t because he was short, it was because sometimes he didn’t have time to jump for it. The guards liked to pretend time mattered, that there was always a rush to get anywhere to fit in some schedule. Tommy knew for a fact time didn’t mean anything, a testament to his least-favorite wall. When they first caught him, he’d started a counter. The scarlet fingerprints numbered to about thirty, but then he’d done something wrong. He couldn’t remember what, only that he hadn’t been able to continue the tally because of the restraints. He’d lost track, and when he was finally trusted enough, Tommy didn’t know what the count was supposed to be. He didn’t have the motivation to continue, and there wasn’t a point, as he’d realized neither the ‘night’ nor meal periods were consistent enough to mark the days, and gave up. He knew he was sixteen, but he’d been that age for a while. Maybe one day, he’d just declare himself to have a birthday. Probably while visiting Philza, that way he could maybe get something. Well, not that Phil would have anything other than a toothbrush, plastic cup, and one of those terrible anti-shank razors, but Tommy was ever the optimist. Maybe Philza would shower him with compliments, and declare Tommy his most favorite Collected. Which was definitely a thing. Probably. Tommy wasn’t sure of all the rules to it. Anyway, he didn't want to have the party in his own cell, even if it did look nice.
The next interior design project had been the border, in which Tommy demarcated every corner he could. The nice thing about the padded cell was it offered creases in between the paneling, offering him the option to scale the walls to the best of his ability, handprints forever remembered in bright vermillion. He hadn’t ever made it to bordering the ceiling. It didn’t really matter that much, and climbing was very exhausting. The walls were at least four times his height, that being the only metric available to him. A few trails reached the ceiling, but only when there was a goal, primarily to cover the cameras or investigate the vent. It was about half way up the wall, and he’d done it once when he’d been desperate to leave (the early days being the worst by far) and so his scrabbling sanguine fingernails scratching at the screws was to remain there as a badge of shame. There wasn’t much security against him, but even the most basic was effective. It was...embarrassing, but really the only person he actually bothered about and was allowed to see was Philza, and since they thought Tommy a lot safer, Tommy was always the one to move. Philza said they had some sort of hierarchy of threats that structured protocols. (It couldn’t have been all that accurate if Tommy wasn’t at the top, but, hey, they’d never met him in a dark alley. Ooooh, if he had a knife, who knows what he’d do. Well, probably accidentally drop it or something, but big talk was part of his charm, Tommy knew.) All it really meant was no one he actually cared about would see his feeble escape attempt, but sadly also never see any of his other design choices. None of his new ones, anyways.
Another concentration of handprints was on the observation window. The architects had rudely made it a one-way window. Tommy decided to make it a no-way not-window, just to rub it in their faces. They could wash it off all they wanted; Tommy always made more of the pigment, and had all the time in the world to meticulously repaint the surface. If they ever rewashed it too often for his liking, Tommy would relent and offer them a few gaps— from in between the various curse words and insults he painted on. Tommy had gotten pretty good at writing backwards, and would be fairly proud of his efforts, if only the words would stay as he wrote them. Tommy wasn’t sure what caused it, but any cuss word would always rearrange its lettering into the word ‘muffin’ of all things. He wasn’t sure why, and only knew that it made him more irritated, leading to more...inventive insults for the onlookers to receive. Tommy knew they deserved it, though. If they wanted to observe him, they could at least do it from inside. It was more entertaining that way, and Tommy was always bored.
Because it was always sooooooo dull.
Thankfully, some god (probably Philza, or Jesus) bestowed on him entertainment for the day, because alongside his meal tray arrived two twitching new employees. One of them (who Tommy was Definitely taller than) had wide fearful hazel eyes tucked behind round glasses that traced Tommy’s interior design choices. His pale skin went, if possible, paler, causing the freckles to stand out. His breathing became more and more rapid, legs tensed and ready to bolt away from Tommy. The other one, a woman, held his meal. Short and heavy, with bronze skin and curly hair pulled back. Her lab coat was a tad too large, and had a big rip down one side, threads fraying into a downright hazardous level of green. Presumably, the previous owner’s dying blood had been successfully scrubbed out of the fabric, making the fact the viridian stayed rather impressive. Tommy perked up at the sight. It had been a while since he’d seen a girl. She gingerly sat down his tray. Tommy scowled at this, both in the fact that he’d have to retrieve it as well as the fact it was Brown day. He much preferred the Grey nutrition they tried to pretend was real food to that of the Brown. Alongside it was a juice box. Tommy brightened at this. Maybe he’d done something good this week, and this was a reward. He didn’t know what for, though. What was the point of conditioning him if he didn’t see the correlation? The pair stepped back, still fairly far from the door, but equidistant from the tray. The guy was slightly farther back, looking like his terror had doubled. “You can eat now,” the woman enunciated clearly, if hesitantly.
Tommy padded over, plopping down on the soft white flooring. He wrinkled his nose, snatching the Brown bar and raising it to his mouth before freezing. “Are you just gonna watch me eat or…” The woman looked shocked at his words. The man, oddly enough, scowled. “Cause, I’m not going to offer you any Brown...unless...you’re new, right? That could be my welcoming gift. Let me just say, Brown is wayyy better than Grey, trust me, so if you’d trade me some I’d be happy to let you have some Brown. As a treat, for being new here.” Hopefully they’d fall for it and give him some Grey. If they did they’d be fools; everyone knew Grey was better than Brown. They’d deserve it at that point, really.
The pair stood still, before the man seemed to weigh some sort of decision in his mind, and booked it. The door, as always, was locked from the outside. It was...annoying that the Foundation would use him as training. It was probably worse for the employees who started off in Tommy’s room, anyways. Yeah, Tommy was a Big Man, and Alpha Male, and all that, but his intentional mortality rate at the Foundation was pretty low...zero, actually. Not that Tommy’s intentions really meant anything. Regardless, it was probably a disservice to lower their guard this much. Once the higher ups decided they’d been ‘shown the ropes’, in all likelihood the next assignment would leave them hung by the necks. Eh. Wasn’t in Tommy’s power to stop bad management from getting the newbies killed. It was actually kinda funny, once he’d lost all pity. No one who wore that lab coat deserved sympathy anyways. Whatever choices led you to don it meant you had what was coming to you. He could tell himself that at least.
The man was banging at the door, but all sound was lost in the plush fabric. Practically the only thing that wasn’t padded was the window. He clawed at the place a doorknob might have been, echoing the scarlet scratches Tommy had left from the same fruitless endeavor. Eventually, he ran out of effort, flipping to press his back against the wall. The woman had turned to the side, keeping an eye on her partner as well as Tommy, who was gnawing at the Brown sustenance. The Foundation better have a good dental plan, since Tommy was sure he’d break a tooth eventually. He knew for a fact there were tons of ‘doctors’, but they didn’t count and shouldn’t ever be remembered. He hadn’t managed to crack a molar yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.
“I didn’t know you talked,” the woman said slowly. She caught him off guard, and he awkwardly looked up mid bite. Her accent wasn’t American, so that was fantastic. It also wasn’t British but, hey, they couldn’t all be winners. She fiddled with the end of her long chestnut ponytail, which might have been a nervous tic. Her enunciation was slow, like she was talking to a child, which Tommy definitely wasn’t. Unfortunately, teeth sunk halfway into a bite of Brown, he found himself unable to respond. She filled the silence with a mutter he probably wasn’t supposed to catch. “They didn’t say there'd be children…” And in one sentence Tommy had a mortal enemy. His murderous thoughts were interrupted when the guy yelled out suddenly.
“That isn’t a child!-” Hey, Tommy was starting to like the guy! Respecting his age was a great way to score Tommy points. “-it’s not even human! That’s a monster, you know that! It’s only pretending to be human!” Oh, ok, scratch that, the lady could be his second nemesis; this guy was now numero uno. Tommy finally wrenched his teeth from being entrenched in the Brown, dramatically spitting out the remainders from his mouth and preparing to speak. This was interrupted by a series of coughs. Some voice in his head whispered, “That’s why you finish chewing, m̷̱͖̜̍̌ų̴̔f̸̛̲f̸͚͛i̵͍̅ń̴̬er. Choke to death, that’s a great way to go.” It was probably Philza, and also probably right. The new hires thankfully stopped to watch him, and he raised a finger in a gesture that asked for a second. Then, a second passed and he was still coughing. When they eventually subsided, Tommy was fairly annoyed at that point, and the employees were just kinda. Standing there. Awkwardly. The guy had only suspicion in his eyes, the woman holding something in her gaze that was almost concern.
“Ok, first off, I am NOT a monster! That is very rude, I am offended. I’m going to cancel you. Second off, go to m̷̖̚u̵̧͌f̸̗̅f̷̃͜i̶̕͜n̷̏͜, man, and third-”
The man broke into hysterics, crying out, “You literally smeared the walls in blood! Your hands are dripping with it!”
Tommy was brought up short by this, wrinkling his nose. “That’s not blood.” Currently, the Red was at about wrist level, which was its typical amount. Safe. It was safe. Fine. Nothing to worry about. It hitched up a smidge, defying gravity in order to crawl up his arm, and he frowned at the looping tendrils of fluid.
“Oh, suuuure. Then what is it then?” The man scoffed.
“I dunno,” Tommy shrugged. He wasn’t exactly sure how to go about explaining Red, and didn’t feel any pressing need to, either. “If it were blood, tho, it'd be all dried and brown, wouldn’t it? Hmm big man? Ever think about that?” Honestly, had they never seen dried blood coating the walls and floor, spilling and crawling towards you, gushing forth from throats and sides and heads, unending, unceasing, seeping into the floor, the building, the dreams that kept you up at night? It looked nothing like Tommy’s walls. Well, maybe when it first started, but blood always darkened quickly. He was very aware of the fact, of all the shades blood could be given time. Tommy’s Red was always freshly vibrant. Maybe he should sell it as paint. It didn’t have any effect when dry, so it could work. Then he’d make loads of cash and be very rich and successful. But paint didn’t wash off...of course, that’d be part of the scam! He could be very rich and successful from selling people bad paint just as easily. If he was rich and successful then maybe he could afford to eat Grey every day instead of the gross Brown he was currently consuming. Or, maybe, he could buy actual food. It had been ages since he had food.
Once he finished his meal, the woman mulled something over, redoing her ponytail twice. The pause stretched on, but, really, Tommy had all the time in the world. She fixed him with a bright if blatantly false smile. “We’ve been tasked with…enrichment, I believe Dr. Blake said…” Tommy nodded. That sounded about right. “Do you have a preference for how we proceed, Mr….” She looked down to a clipboard, scanning it. Her brows furrowed, and after a moment she began to slowly run through a terribly familiar string of numbers. Ugh. Tommy hated his number. She winced meeting his scowl, ducking her gaze back to the information. “Do you prefer being referred to as The Instigator, then?”
Tommy didn’t like either of the designations the Foundation gave him. The numerical moniker always felt so dehumanizing. Or de-personizing, given he wasn’t human enough for them. But the other name…it made him feel like a person. A bad person. “I go by Tommy, actually, seeing as it’s, y’know, my name,” he said shortly.
“Oh,” the worker sighed. “Good. The other two seemed so awkward to use and difficult to remember. Um. Nice name, it suits you.” Tommy allowed himself to be mollified. She was right, after all, since his number and title sucked and Tommy was obviously the best name ever.
“Mind giving me your names?” He might as well return the civility.
The lady almost responded, but the guy quickly interjected, “Don’t! It’s a trick! It’s like the fey!”
Tommy pouted at this. “I’m not some fairy! I’m not small and winged and sparkly! Ooooooh if I was, I’d fly all around, zoom, zoom, right into they eye sockets. I’d be so powerful. No one’d expect me going for their eyes. They’d just be going on, walking through the forest and BAM! Who’s blind now, m̸͈̑ů̶̦f̴̳͋f̴̮̚i̵̧͒ń̶̪head?” The workers shared a glance that Tommy didn’t bother decoding. The ginger man looked enraged, and she retreated her gaze uncomfortably to her report. It piqued the teen’s interest. “Oooh, can I see? I love reading about myself.” The woman debated, probably weighing the likelihood of it getting her killed, before cautiously walking over and tilting the clipboard for him to see. Tommy snatched it, slamming it down to use the floor as a table. A glaring error jumped out at him, and he looked back up at the employee. “Can I have your pen?”
“What for?”
“Corrections.”
“I didn’t know the data was flawed, that’s all they would give me…I didn’t even have sufficient time to plan...” she trailed off while handing it over. Tommy immediately scratched out the Very Incorrect data under the height section, writing in 6’3".
“They always get this wrong no matter how many times I tell them,” he informed her. He skimmed over the other information. Red levels, irritability factor, connections to The Blade, a section summarizing Philza’s Collected Covenant... Honestly, it was all pretty boring, so Tommy flipped over one of the pages and began to draw. The woman leaned over, not quite daring to sit down and limit the option to run.
“What are you sketching?”
“Paper girlfri- m̵̜̿u̶̹̿f̴̖͑f̴̥̿ì̷̜ṋ̵̇, not again,” Tommy groaned, watching his art get ruined as a large vermilion splotch trailed down from his grip on the pen and onto the page.
“It, uh, looked lovely,” she offered, the man shooting her a glare. He seemed a killjoy, and Tommy decided it would likely be a lot more fun to ignore him. If he were lucky, it might irritate the bespectacled man even more.
“Thanks. Can I uh...keep it? The clipboard? I don’t really have much in here.” Tommy desperately tried to keep his face neutral. This just had to work. The next option would be to get the pair to fight and then steal it, but then they might take it away again since it wouldn’t be authorized. And he would be punished, but that was a given.
“I suppose so...here, next time I can bring you more paper, ok?” Now he had white walls, rose pigment, a toothbrush, cup, razor, and clipboard. It wasn’t much, but it was Tommy’s. He practically cheered at the addition to his existence.
“Yes! Then I can write ‘How to M̶͍̜̍̌u̸̬̅̑f̴̧̬̓f̸̣͔̓i̵̬̣̽͜͝n̶̞̐̈́’!!!”
“You really like muffins that much?”
Tommy’s mood fell. “You try to cuss, see what happens. I’ve been trapped here for ages and I don’t even get to swear. I’m in m̷͇͆ũ̵̻f̸͖̈́f̴͓͝i̸͓̓n̶̞̔, I am. Oh come on! M̸̦̰̝̆ư̵̳͙̥͋̕f̴̙̑͐̿f̴͚̬̠͆̂̓i̶̫̠̔̚n̶̜͒͛ isn’t even a curse word!”
The woman smiled. “I’m sure that really just muffins, doesn’t it?”
“I know how it works, you just said muffin,” Tommy scowled at her. She looked a little embarrassed at having been caught, and took to messing with her hair again.
“I tend not to profane,” she admitted.
“M̷̢̒̈́͝u̸̙̺͛̿̈́͝f̸̱̩̓̿̉͘f̸̧̧͎͓͔̖̀i̷͙̗̪͈̤͖͝ṉ̸̙̖͎̂. M̷̢̒̈́͝u̸̙̺͛̿̈́͝f̸̱̩̓̿̉͘f̸̧̧͎͓͔̖̀i̷͙̗̪͈̤͖͝ṉ̸̙̖͎̂ing coward m̴͎̑̾͝ü̸̡̢̯͌f̸̣̤̐̀̈́f̶̮͚͋̄ͅi̷͍͈̿͋̏͜n̸̨̙͆ty m̷͇̖̃͜ù̶͓͚̈́f̷̜͎͐f̸̲̚í̸͉n̷͉̩̩̕.”
Tommy would have continued hurling invectives at her, but a loud metallic knock came from the other side of the door. She stood up, attempting to straighten her lab coat (which was impossible, given the tear in it). “I’ll bring gloves next time, so your art can remain pristine, alright?” she threw over her shoulder. She felt far too chipper to understand the threat she’d used. Or, maybe she was the sadistic sort. Tommy felt his heart rate spike, along with his Red. The pigment slithered up his arms, curling along his elbows in snaking tendrils. Panic closed like a vice around his heart.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it please I was good wasn’t I?” His words came out swift, scrambling over each other as fear colored them. “Please don’t make me I don’t want the gloves I haven’t done anything, I’m sorry, I-” Tommy never had a choice when they decided to use the gloves. They’d been a favorite punishment of the doctors. They didn’t care if removing Tommy’s ability to feel things left him spiraling into panic, if the sensory deprivation felt near torturous. The gloves were always a guarantee that things were about to get much worse, because they didn’t want him to have the option of fighting back. He hadn’t even done anything to deserve punishment…or had he? Had he somehow messed up again? Tommy thought he and the woman had been getting along well, but to find out she was just like all the others-
The door opened, and the man slipped through. She nearly followed, before hesitating and walking back towards him. Tommy tried to hide his hands, tucking them into his chest and drawing away from her. She halted, holding her palms in a pacifying motion. Her smile was fixed in confusion, the sort that was used to try and be polite when one wasn’t sure how to respond. “It was just a suggestion, you don’t have to use them, alright? You can say ‘no’.”
“No, no, no, no, I’m good, see? I’ve been good I don’t want them thank you.”
“Then I won’t bring them,” she said brightly. And with that, she disappeared through the Red-topped door. Tommy was left with only his thoughts, the clipboard, and a guarantee of what horrors his dreams would feature for the night.
——
There wasn’t a way out.
Tommy knew several facts. He was sixteen. He was 6’3", despite what the Foundation insisted. His eyes were usually blue, a bright cyan if he remembered correctly. The one way mirror, when not covered in his vermillion rebellion, always distorted the color and shape, making it impossible to know what he looked like currently. He knew he was incredibly hot and very attractive, naturally, but not much else beyond what he could see in the one way glass occasionally. Made styling his hair just a nightmare. It was blonde and very curly, and he knew that for a fact because sometimes he’d awake and find they had cut it again, gold locks strewn on the floor. They didn’t want him measuring the time by how fast it grew, which was ridiculous because why would Tommy even know how fast his hair grew? That’d be weird. He knew his hands were Red, because that was pretty obvious, and he had also (literally) hand dyed his hospital gown garnet, just for the style. Made him look cool. (Plus, one time he’d painted his skin along with the observation window, and left a hole for him to stand at. He couldn’t see the reactions the observers made once he had suddenly jumpscared them, but he heard a muffled crash and knew his camouflage was good.) He knew that the Foundation couldn’t really see him, since he covered the cameras and window, which meant observation had to take place in person. Tommy also realized that sometimes that wasn’t a good thing, but he’d long ago decided privacy was going to be one of his few rights that he’d hold covetously. Every so often it would be cleaning day, and for the brief period before he could reapply it he was left feeling exposed because without the color how else was he to ever feel safe? Not that his room was, but the ruby layer made him feel more secure. The closest he ever came to true safety was with Philza, but that was severely limited, and for the large swatches of time in between he needed any protection he could afford himself. His limited visitation hours was a fact he was acutely aware of. His favorite fact was that Philza had Collected him. That one always made him feel all warm and stuff.
His least favorite fact was that there wasn’t a way out. He knew all the other data points could change, that he would get older, taller, could dye his hair. He didn’t know if his hands would ever be flesh-colored again, but the doctors had certainly tried and they were smart and probably right, even if they hadn’t figured out how yet. Maybe one day they’d improve Brown, but he doubted it. And, he supposed, Philza could abandon him. UnCollect Tommy. Decide that maybe he didn’t really care at all, and then Tommy would never see a kind face again except in the most dire of circumstances, left to himself and, of course, the observers. That wasn’t one of his usual nightmares, but it featured occasionally, usually because dream Philza discovered what the doctors had made Tommy do.
…Yes. Presumably, the other facts could change, but he knew that escape was impossible.
Once, when he’d confirmed Philza’s visits were assured through the Collected Covenant, he’d tried to run while the guards were transporting him. He hadn’t gotten far, but the sound of a gunshot (a warning shot) ringing out in the hall froze him, crimson tight around his chest. Tommy had let them drag him back to his cell because he found himself unable to walk or move at all, petrified just as surely as if the bullet had rearranged his internal organs. Sometimes the sound echoed in his head and he’d loudly sing to the empty room to make it stop, or list everything he hated about Americans. (Those Americans and their stupid guns. Well...if he even was in America. He wasn’t sure, but the Queen would definitely put a stop to this if she knew.) Drowning it out didn’t work in dreams, but he considered it a good night if the single ringing gunshot was the only thing in his nightmares. He wasn’t always so lucky. Sometimes the weeks afterward would replay. He wasn’t allowed to see Philza at all, or anybody for that matter. They cut the lights every time someone brought a meal, and sometimes randomly for hours just because they could. In his dreams they never turned back on and he’d be trapped in the dark and the quiet, never to see anyone again. Existence waned. The void opened beneath him, but he wouldn’t even be able to tell if he was falling.
That was the standard punishment when he’d been bad. He just hadn’t been used to it then. Or now. Or ever.
...If he was really unlucky, he’d remember how Philza had reacted. Tommy had actually been right; he did have assured visitation, legally. They’d postponed it for too many cycles to be considered punishment. It hadn’t been wise for the Foundation to bend the agreement. Really, the only reason they kept Philza contained at all was because of the deal, and the fact that they had all of Phil’s Collected to use as bargaining chips. With it, he was Euclid, an idea that was laughable if you knew him. But preventing Philza from being assured of his people’s safety had a cost. Tommy still remembered the way the sound of guns and screams grew in volume alongside his dread. The way his heart pounded, almost drowning out the sound of death, until he was sure it would burst, each pulse almost painful. The way the door shattered and revealed Philza, grin sharp and toothy, a strange emotion resembling relief filling Tommy in a way that didn’t quite cover all his fear. The way Philza had pulled Tommy’s petrified self to him in a tight embrace. The way the smell of smoke and blood engulfed him along with his Collector’s arms.
Conversation had been one sided, Philza failing to draw Tommy into responses that weren’t monosyllabic in nature (How have you been? Good. Did you miss me? Yes.). Tommy had stared vacantly through the broken door to the hallway beyond. Philza had stayed precisely an hour, per the contract, before returning to his own cell. His last question that hung in the air (Are you alright?) went unanswered. Philza had ruffled Tommy’s hair before going, leaving hot liquid to trail down into his eyes, cooling by the time it traced to the bottom of his jaw and fell away to stain the collar of his already red hospital gown. Tommy had stared numbly after him through the place where the door once stood. The hallways haunted his vision. He didn’t care about the employees, but seeing the...remains was terrible. For hours he was left there, alone, hiding in his room, staring through the doorway at the pieces and viscera that Philza left. Entrails and blood spilled out, illuminated by eternal artificial lights. Sometimes he really did think he’d sat there an eternity, unblinking, not even daring to breathe as if the very act of his living wasn’t allowed. Tommy got to watch all the shades blood could be, bright and fresh then cooling and darkening to almost black. Splatters coated the entire hallway, and on the walls it weighed down with gravity, forming sharp lines like claw marks, except the real claw marks were much more obvious, cracks splintering through concrete, blood pressed into the canyons.
Eventually, more employees had arrived. A guard had been put in with Tommy as they rebuilt the door. It was almost hilarious (in the sort of hysteria that immense, overwhelming fear produced), the idea that Tommy would have tried to leave. Physically, he could have fled at any time in the hours he spent alone staring down the hall. Not like there was anyone left to stop him. Only the dead guarded the exit, sentries even post-mortem. Ghosts stuck in old routines, blocking the exit just as completely as they had when alive. Sometimes, right after having left another handprint on the doorframe, Tommy would freeze in the hallway right outside, remembering the corpses. Grey stains outlined the worst areas. The smell of burnt flesh lingered. Weeks after, Tommy would resist the impulse to scrub the memory of the blood from his scalp. It only led to his hair being covered once again in sticky vermillion liquid. He couldn’t tell his own sanguine from the smears Philza had left. It was hard to resist, because his scalp crawled and itched with the memory of human blood sinking into his skin as sharp talons affectionately stroked through his hair. Sometimes, Tommy imagined Philza’s hands freezing in their comforting motion, then claws pressing into his flesh until breaking the surface. Thick lines demarcated in bright crimson as Philza’s talons sunk down past the side of his face, working their way to the familiar place along his neck where so many hands had been before. Claws constricting around his throat, just another effortless death at the hands of his Collector.
But no. Those were stupid thoughts. Bad ones. Philza said he’d never, ever, ever hurt Tommy, and Phil always kept his promises.
Still. It didn’t stop his nightmares, and especially didn’t mean Philza had any issue harming anyone else. He knew they deserved it, though. They were the Foundation, the observers, the guards. Everything was their fault. Philza had to have killed them for a reason, so surely the brutalization was justice. Tommy knew this. Tommy knew a lot of things.
Escape was impossible and only made things worse. That fact was imprinted on his memory, seared into his retinas, burned into his very being alongside the husks of charred people. There wasn’t a way out.
Which definitely meant there wasn’t a way in, either, unless, he supposed, Philza really wanted to, or if he accidentally summoned The Blade. And yet, somehow, there was an intruder in his room. Well, the employees and observers and guards and doctors were intruders as well, but they were authorized. The small honey bee buzzing around his head probably wasn’t meant to be there. Its flight movement seemed sluggish, but it had been a long time since he’d seen...really any other creature other than the humans and Phil and, occasionally, when things were really bad, The Blade. Maybe looping up and down, drifting closer and closer to the ground before collapsing was normal for bugs. Tommy glanced around before getting down on his hands and knees to observe it. The window and cameras had been long coated in crimson, but still. What if they thought he was crazy? The doctors might have their interests drawn, and then he’d start drawing their focus again. He’d worked hard to be uninteresting to them, which was very difficult because he was the most interesting person he knew. Being the center of attention could very well be a death sentence, however, and Tommy had enough self-preservation to manage it.
The small bee started crawling to him. They made cute little buzzing noises, antenna flickering, and small segmented wings fluttering as they bumbled over toward him. Maybe it was on the attack? No, from what he remembered they didn’t do so with out provocation. Hmm. Maybe he should be worried. Provocation was sort of his entire existence summed up. He tried to think back to the tests, and whether his irritability worked on animals. Another concern popped into his mind, and he curled his fingertips into a fist, drawing away from the bee right as they were about to try to crawl onto his hand. They looked up at him, tilting their head. Was he projecting people-like qualities onto them? Well, probably, but really he didn’t interact with non people-like entities, so it probably wasn’t unusual.
“If you get Red on you, you might be too heavy to fly,” Tommy explained. Well, according to all known laws of aviation, the bee really shouldn’t fly anyways…
They buzzed again. Oh. He’d said that out loud. Great, now the bee was judging him. He needed to shut up, he didn't get a lot of friends. “You can get on my arm instead, if you want,” Tommy said, repositioning. Strangely enough, the bee complied, scrambling onto the bare skin. “Oh! You understand English! That’s so cool!” The buzzing returned. “Hi! I’m Tommy! I don’t understand Bee. If I did tho, ohhh, I’d be so powerful. I could talk to all the bees. Take over the world. Hey! What if we do one buzz for yes, two for no! We can talk in code! Like secret agents!” They buzzed another note. “So how’d you get here?” The honey bee stayed silent, twitching an antenna at him. “Oh...so you don’t understand…” Two strong drones, the wings vibrating quickly together. “Oh, yeah, that wasn’t a yes or no question was it? Huh. Are you trapped here? Have you been here long?”
Yes
“How long? Months?” Two buzzes, and the same answer when he asked about years. Deep dread built in Tommy’s gut. “Decades?”
No
“Even longer than that??” Relief flooded him as the denied it. “Ooohh, I thought you said you’d been here a long time,” Tommy said.
Yes
“Here, buzz once for every week.” One long, sad, chord rang out. “See! One week! That’s barely any time at all! I’ve been here-” the abandoned tally mark wall was carefully avoided in his gaze. It had been...quite a while since he’d stopped. But it couldn’t have been too long, he was still sixteen after all. “...I’ve been here longer than that. Wait.” A half remembered fact whispered through his thoughts. “Don’t you only live for like three days?”
No
“How many days?” They paused, before dutifully buzzing out a string of notes. Tommy stopped it quickly. “How many weeks, then?”
Four buzzes.
“And how old are you?”
Four again.
“Oh. You’re dying soon. Er. Sorry about that.”
A tentative two buzzes. No
“Are you special then? Cause you can understand people? You have a longer life span?" Their no seemed quieter. “Do you want to...I guess stay here? I can do Bee CPR. B-CPR! Hey, if you last long enough I’ll take you to Phil! It’ll be great!” The bee nodded —which, the little m̷̡͕̂ů̸̝̀͠f̸̞͓̞̍̿̃f̵̛̟̭̉ͅi̶̟͘n̷̨̯̎̕̕ could have been doing that from the start— but it seemed slow. At the start of the conversation it had been crawling all around his arm, a strange tickling sensation that wasn’t quite unpleasant. But it seemed to be slowing down, the pauses between responses being softer and taking longer. “Don’t worry,” Tommy promised them. “I’ll save you.” They looked at him a long time. Then, they softly began to hum, gradually increasing in volume until it was likely the loudest the small bee could manage. But then they didn’t stop. The drone grew louder and louder, filling the room. The sound burrowed into his head, the sound of millions of bees swarming in his skull. And, just when Tommy thought his ear drums would pop, it cut off at once, save for the single hum from the honey bee before him. But there was a strange echo to it, like not all the noise was real. Tommy imagined that, should he be deaf, or maybe listening to really loud music, he’d still hear their buzzing. Like he heard the sound right before it actually existed. The intention before it was fully realized.
“What the m̵͍̈̌́͆̊͘͝ů̸̮̭̟͑̿̃͝ͅf̸̘̺͇̦͕͍͐͛͋͝f̸̖͓̘̜̏̅ͅi̷̝̱̺̣̭̳̓͜n̵͓̜͓̰̑̈͒͘ was that!?” The bee couldn’t answer, or maybe just refused to. They stopped completely, perched upon his arm. “...are you dying? Right now?” Whatever just happened could be ignored for now. It might have been a little pathetic to be already fearing the bee’s inevitable demise, but...who could begrudge Tommy his meager handful of friends? He could count the number on one hand, and the number he was allowed to see consistently on one finger.
A soft double hum. The sound made his ears twinge. Relief.
“Sleep?”
One.
“Goodnight then.” Tommy spent the rest of the night thinking of names.
——
Clementine was sitting on Tommy’s nose when he woke up, buzzing incessantly. Tommy realized why quickly, as the footprints grew closer. Panic ensued. “Where am I going to put you?” He hissed. Clementine flew around in frenzied loops, which was not helpful in the slightest. The footsteps halted outside, murmuring conversation with the guards carried over, and keys jingled.“Wait! Idea! You can sit in my hair! Be like a little camera, whispering things to me. Like a voice in my head. Then I could be like The Blade, all powerful ‘n’ m̶̖̀u̷̡̽f̴̼͛f̸̞́i̷͓͋ǹ̵̗. Bringers of Chaos: Tommy ‘n’ Clementine.” Perched slightly behind his ear, the honey bee hummed, displeased. The vibrating wings sent minor shivers through the air, resulting in a rather odd and ticklish sensation. “Ok, I guess we can be Bringers of Chaos: Clementine ‘n’ Tommy,” he compromised.
Someone knocked on the other side of the door. That was...peculiar. The door didn’t open. “May we come in?” The female new hire called.
“Huh? Sure,” Tommy replied. The door swung open, revealing the new employees and the various guards. “Don’t know why you bothered asking,” he mused.
“It’s...polite,” she responded.
“Huh? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Basic human decency, I suppose.” He wasn't human, so he didn't see the connection, but far be it from him to point that out.
“Yeah, but you work here, so...oh! Are those crayons!?” They were, indeed, along with a pack of blank paper that was delivered into Tommy’s waiting palms. The tray held Grey (!!!) and more juice. Maybe they were trying to associate a treat with the newcomers' visits, so he’d be more inclined to assure their continued visits via not killing them. But, since the juice had gone to Clementine, the behavior conditioning was wasted on Tommy. After all, he refused to let Clementine starve on his watch. Plus, the flavor was terrible, not identifiable as any actual fruit, instead just being far too sweet to be tolerable.
(...He was thankful to note a lack of gloves. He hadn’t been able to shake the suspicion that he’d done something bad, and needed to be punished.)
Tommy sat down on the floor, spreading out papers and shaking the crayons onto the floor, and setting his meal to the side to be consumed later. He grabbed the black, yellow, and red ones and began to work. The man stood next to the door, arms crossed. Really, as long as he didn’t manage to die, the Foundation would count his training a success. The lady shared an odd look with him, before neatly sitting next to Tommy. “Why would working here negate human decency?” Her fingers were curled into her chestnut locks.
Tommy looked up from where he was doodling a massive Clementine (who was breathing fire) and squinted at her. “That’s a stupid question. I mean, besides the fun slogan of protecting humanity, really the only things that happens here is torture disguised as experiments.” Secure, Contain, Protect. What a load of m̵͈̳̎͊̆u̴̲̿͑̊̓f̶̹̲͗f̶͖̀i̸̬͔̇̀̀͝n̷̩̽. Clementine buzzed once in agreement. Tommy faintly wondered what experiments would have been done to a bee. Maybe there were workers and guards frantically searching for them. Suddenly harboring Clementine seemed a good way to get himself targeted. Oops. He elected to ignore this, instead adding a minuscule caricature of himself onto Clementine’s back. A tiny sharp sword was gripped in the doodle Tommy’s hands.
She balked at his words. “Really?”
“What did you think happened?”
“I don’t...I believe they study you.” She gestured at the observation window.
Tommy wrinkled his nose. “I guess that happens, too.” He snatched the green crayon, deciding to add Philza. Soon, long viridian lines scoured the paper, snaking between pages and coiling into a large, teethy head next to Massive Clementine and Tommy, whose sword was now wreathed in fire. Philza, like Clementine, also had tongues of flame building in his mouth. Really, there were just copious amounts of fire everywhere. It was fun to illustrate, all sharp lines and bold colors, and it didn’t look too bad whenever he forgot to wipe his hands and scarlet splashed down on the page. Something tickled behind his ear, and he almost swatted at the sensation before remembering who it belonged to.
“What type of...experiments do they do?” Clementine stilled, and Tommy was suddenly very aware that this wasn’t really a conversation he wanted to be having. Not with the lady in the dead person’s lab coat, and especially not with Clementine listening. They’d only been there a week. It felt cruel to affirm their fears. From Tommy’s experience, the worst part had been the beginning, when the doctors were still interested. Given enough time, it really wasn’t so bad, but that wouldn’t be heartening news for Clementine.
He looked up at the woman, who hadn’t brought up any more questions once he’d fallen silent. He squinted at her eyes. They were a different shade than her hair, but he only had the one brown crayon, so it would have to do. “What do you want?”
She looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you. I don’t mean harm-”
“No, what powers. If it’s fire, it’s too late, because I already broke the red one.” It now lay to the side, abandoned, snapped in half from a too-tight grip.
“Oh, I don’t have any. I’m human, not a monster,” she replied easily.
Tommy tried to ignore the sting, but still the brown crayon, too, broke in his hands. He discarded it with a sigh. It was a word that was slung around too much to mean anything, but it dug under his skin nonetheless. “Clementine can’t breathe fire, either, it’s just cooler,” he explained.
“And Clementine is the...?”
“Bee,” Tommy interjected.
“Are they here?” While Tommy hesitated a second, a soft double buzz rang out. Tommy snorted at Clementine’s terrible attempt at a cover up. It was like the kid in class who responded “absent” to the roll call.
“There isn’t a fourteen-foot-tall hyper-aggressive bee that breathes fire, if that’s what you’re asking. Not in the facility, anyway, as far as I’m aware.” Which, admittedly, wasn’t much. It wasn’t like the Foundation valued going around the circle and telling a bit about yourself. Sometimes, though, when someone was resisting too hard, the Foundation used Tommy to fix them. He hated those days. Regardless, he had yet to see any bee-based people of any sort. He wondered if that meant Clementine had complied with all the Foundation’s demands, or if the Foundation hadn’t asked them to do anything too bad yet. Only a week, after all. “Now, there is a fourteen-foot-tall hyper-aggressive pig, but The Blade is actually pretty cool.”
“Is...is that a joke?” On second thought, Tommy didn’t think he hated the woman enough to wish an encounter with The Blade on her. Or Philza. He didn’t particularly...like or trust her that much (she had called him a child!! Who in their right mind would call Tommy, Alpha Male Supreme and Very Ancient and Wise, a child? It was a sure sign that she wasn’t alright mentally), but he definitely didn’t fancy the result that their interaction would net. Really, she seemed nice enough, the only black marks against her being her occupation, calling him a kid, and the glove threat. He would never begrudge kindness though. It was too rare to squander. Affection, whether genuine or not, was still affection to Tommy.
“Yeah. Joke,” he dismissed. “Anyway, what power do you want?”
“Well, let’s see...what do you have?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Shouldn’t that be in the case file?”
“You, ah, have it. Was attached to the clipboard. I still want to see it, so I know what to expect. Do you know where it went?” Tommy Definitely didn’t look at the observer window. Yesterday, they had rewashed it, probably to try and keep an eye on the new employees, and so Tommy had taken the opportunity to recolor it, with the information paper right in the middle of it, the corrected height circled three times. Really, it was indistinguishable from his side, having used the ruby liquid to dry it on. He hoped the message would finally go through to them this time.
“No I definitely do not.” He pursed his lips, widened his eyes, and on the whole looked very innocent. He was sure of it. He blinked a few times for effect.
“That’s a shame. They didn’t give us time to read it beforehand.”
“They just shoved you in here without any context? Man, if this were any other cell you’d be super dead. Here, let me sum up my amazing power for you...I….can…..make Red!!” Tommy said really dramatically. He spread out his fingers, wiggling them to draw attention to their crimson coloration.
“I...see. What does it do?”
“It’s Red. Coolest color. Stays bright forever.”
“So...it’s safe? I can touch it?” She had been very careful to ensure she avoided it so far, which Tommy appreciated, because he, too, had been very careful to ensure she avoided it so far as well.
The color crept up to his forearms at the thought of her being marked. He kept it cool, though. Calm, y’know? Nothing suspicious. He was so incredibly calm and uninterested and not at all stressed. “You could...but it’ll never come off.” A bold faced lie, but she needn’t know. “Never ever. You’ll be all old and wrinkly and it’ll still be there.”
“Like nail polish that doesn’t chip!” Or like an inescapable and horrifically lethal defense mechanism. He found the ravine between their two similes funny. A strange broken up hum came from Clementine, their quickly beating wings tickling Tommy in a terrible fashion. It sounded like laughter, and Tommy scowled, sure he was being made fun of.
“What is that infernal buzzing sound?” the man demanded suddenly, pushing off the door and glancing around in suspicion. Tommy used the pink crayon to point up at the wall.
“Vent,” he lied. Well, sometimes it did make hissing noises. Tommy didn’t understand what they were pumping into the room, though. As long as it had oxygen, it was probably fine. He returned to the drawing, adding zigzag lines arching away from the woman’s sword. He didn’t know what they represented, only that they looked cool.
“So…I’m riding on the bee here, right?” She tapped on the paper with a finger. He nodded. “The imaginary bee.” Tommy and Clementine affirmed the statement together. Clementine was just not very good at being a secret, Tommy decided. She shifted her index finger to the viridian doodle “And this is also non existent?”
“That’s Philza. He’s real. Very wise, and old, too. He Collected me. You should meet him some ti-” Maybe not, on second thought. What if she managed to break the contract somehow? Tommy wasn’t scared of any of his friends, that would be ridiculous. But sometimes he thought about the things they could do, and despite being the Biggest Man...he really wasn’t on the same threat level at all as them by himself. The thought was a reassurance in many ways.
“Collected? Does he have a hoard of some kind?”
“I just said I’m a part of it, and I’m a person, not a thing," he hissed far more acerbically than intended. He swallowed roughly, then forced his voice back to a chipper register. "If I was an object tho…just the BIGGEST knife you can imagine. I’d cut so many carrots and meats and ropes. I’d be the greatest Swiss Army knife in the world, I’ll have so many extra tools. I’d be so great, Philza would start Collecting items as well, just to Collect me twice.”
“They let you have knives in here??”
“The m̵͕̑u̵̱͐f̵̣̕f̴͈͛ị̵̈ṇ̶̂? When did I say that? They don’t even give us utensils.” Grey and Brown were finger foods...well, ‘foods’ was a stretch, but still. It gave him all the nutrition he needed for a day, when he could stomach it. Thankfully Tommy’s Red didn’t affect him, because a lack of utensils meant he ended up eating a lot of it. It just tasted...uhhh. Well, red. Tommy wasn’t too good with flavors anymore, and it wasn’t like anyone else was eating it so there wasn’t really any other way he could think to describe it without a second opinion to help him out. He thought that maybe it helped soften the bricks a little, but that might’ve just been wishful thinking. Likely all it succeeded in doing was make his meals more slimy. He missed forks so very much.
“How do you know what that is, then? Or bees, for that matter. You can speak and whatnot, so you’re obviously getting some degree of education, I just didn’t think it’d include those sorts of things.”
Tommy looked at her, bewildered. “They didn’t teach me anything! Literally the only good thing about here is they don’t have homework. Or schoolwork. Plus, they caught me right before finals, so I didn’t have to do any tests.” Well, no academic tests. Don’t think about it. “Was just about to graduate, too...now I guess I’m a dropout.” His mum would be so disappointed. Or...or no. She’d just be so thrilled to finally have him back and she’d hug him so tight and never let go and the Foundation would never get him again. That’s what he hoped would happen, anyway, if they ever let him go.
“You...went to school?”
“Illegal not to, innit?”
“No, I mean: you had a life before this? What was it like?”
“Well, I had a mum and dad, and two dogs, and I played video games, and it was nice. Was getting ready for college.” A life planned out, and taken away from him. No, interrupted. He was going to get it all back eventually.
“A mom? You weren’t, I don’t know, summoned or spawned or something? How did that work? Is she a monster as well?”
Tommy’s face lit up. The perfect segway for ‘How to M̸̹͝ǔ̴̥f̸͙̑f̴͇̈́ḯ̸̢ñ̵̼’! But no, Clementine was only four weeks old. That was far too young for Tommy to bestow such life changing knowledge. He was an absolute paragon of virtue for the Youth, after all. It wouldn’t do to expose Clementine to such perverse things. Solemnly, he set the stack of papers back down. “That is a very insensitive question and you should feel terrible for asking it,” Tommy explained in a clipped voice with a haughty edge.
“Oh, er, sorry?”
An alarm broke out. Tommy blinked. The workers were decidedly more panicked. The man leaped up from his position on the floor, and the woman looked nervous, hands entangling her hair. “We need to check on the others, make sure they’re alright,” the man said in a display of concern that didn’t exactly match Tommy’s previous profile.
“Yeah, You should probably get going,” he added nonchalantly. “Good luck…wait, what’s your name?”
“Rosalind,” she supplied distractedly. “Isn’t that—that’s the pattern for a containment breach, right? But not-” she started to hum a different tune under her breath, one with a more frantic rhythm. Tommy recognized it as another alarm that occurred infrequently. He’d once been told it was the ‘prey’ alarm, though he wasn’t exactly sure on the spelling, since it meant a Keter (which he was pretty sure meant loads dangerous and scary and that they probably had a knife or something) was likely hunting humans down and that the best advice was to hunker down and pray (if you were the sort to) or hope you didn’t get eviscerated. But the one currently blasting was the slower one, and protocol was for researchers like Rosalind and the other guy to head to the safe rooms. “Right, I think it’s the alarm for an Euclid escape. Oh dear. I do hope they catch it.”
“Well I don’t,” Tommy said stubbornly. It was a useless statement. He knew full well whoever it was wouldn’t make it out. But maybe just once he didn’t want the Foundation to win.
“But someone might get hurt.” Shame immediately twinged in his gut. Of course a containment breach would get people hurt, maybe even killed. Just because it was a mild emergency didn’t make it not one. Stupid of him to forget that.
“Yeah. Well,” he brushed it off brusquely, hiding his guilt with feigned indifference. Apathy had been so easy a moment before. Whatever. They deserved it. Probably. “Just don’t be one of them.”
——
Tommy had been working on ‘How to M̸̹͝u̸̬̅̑f̴̧̬̓f̸̣͔̓i̵̬̣̽͜͝n̶̞̐̈́’ when an epiphany stuck him. It was several days since the insect had appeared, and Clementine had been resting on his arm, shifting occasionally whenever the movement of writing became too much. This occurred typically after Tommy had wrung his hands out; he was meticulous in assuring no more Red than necessary would get on the page. And, after carefully setting his greatest work to the side, he excitedly explained to Clementine his scheme. It took some convincing, but soon the little bug agreed. It helped that Tommy promised to run the sink so they could wash off immediately. Tommy sat a blank piece of paper before Clementine, dabbing a bit of ruby pigment onto the corner. He waited with bated breath as the bee carefully rubbed at their face with a small, fluffy leg, before turning back one last time to give him what was probably a very nasty look. Of course, bees didn’t have very humanoid facial features, but Tommy could appreciate the gesture. Then, with a buzz that was almost an exasperated sigh, Clementine dipped their side into Tommy’s color, and began to write.
Hallo Tomny
“You misspelled my name.” Clementine angrily buzzed twice, splattering small red droplets. The irritation wasn’t a surprising result, but Tommy’s Red only reached the end of his palms, so it wasn’t too much, hopefully. They crawled onto Tommy, using him as a vantage point to observe their work. Clementine’s wings drooped, realizing the mistake.
“I mean, you can’t really see what you’re writing so it’s fine, I guess. I’m just saying I wouldn’t have made the mistake.”
The bee returned to their work, large letters spilling out onto another page, and taking several trips to replenish their ink. Are name is Tubbo
“Tubbo?” Yes, they buzzed, flicking pigment. “But...what about Clementine?” He had felt rather proud of it as a moniker for the little insect. It was a really good name, but of course he should have figured a hyper intelligent bee would already have a name. But they buzz a confirmation to that too. “Which is it, then? Tubbo?”
No
Clementine was also a ‘no,’ but when Tommy inquired about both, the bee responded affirmatively. “I guess I can use two names. Hey! Two names, twice the man!”
Dragging one's color-smeared body across paper was apparently exhausting, and soon the conversation turned back to the code the pair had set up. Tubbo couldn’t fly anymore, due to the weight of the paint, and so returned to resting on Tommy’s arm. Tommy made sure to cover up the bee’s messages with more Red, destroying any evidence. Responses from Clementine grew less frequent, but that was fine because Tommy had a lot to talk about. It felt good to know the little bug’s original name. Maybe once it got more rest, more messages could be exchanged. Tubbo said they’d only been captured a week, so maybe news of the outside world could be obtained. Then, Tommy could tell Philza, who would be so impressed that he knew things. He had it all planned out.