Chapter Text
Tommy huffs in annoyance, clutching his bleeding hand close to his chest.
The plan had already began to unfold before Tommy wanted it to. Which is fine, really. Being threatened on a Wednesday morning is normal. But really? Setting a deadline? Jesus, he only has four months to put his plan into action.
Tommy, nineteen years old, has been through literal hell. Orphaned at nine years old, sold to a fighting ring at eleven, escaped at fourteen and worked his ass off to get where he is now.
The founder of a less-than-moral detective agency priding itself in taking almost any job. It started as fraud, just a way for Tommy to quickly gain enough to hire someone to kill him— the one who murdered his parents and proceeded to “adopt” him—but after his first job, it kinda stuck with him.
And now he’s the owner of the Innes Agency, one of the quickest growing companies is L’Manberg, even faster than business in the underground.
Tommy waves off his secretary, dismissing the alarmed suggestion that “ sir, maybe you should go to a hospital ” because he has friends in high places and Tommy is almost definitely considered a villain right now.
He rushes to wrap his hand, urging his secretary to pack his ratty old backpack with a few important papers for this transaction.
Jesus christ this better work.
He loses the white button-up, changing into a ratty tee-shirt with his large brown wings tucked close to his back but keeps the black jeans on. He could probably be excused as just some guy on the street.
With brief instructions to his secretary, Tommy slings the backpack on and is rushing through the door, barrelling down the street toward one of the only places he is hesitant to return to.
The aforementioned underground.
Tommy’s trauma. Woo.
Nevertheless, he ducks through the entrance, numb to the smell from his years spent here.
Tommy weaves his way through the maze that is the underground tunnels, connecting hidden cities through a confusing labyrinth where anyone could be jumped at any moment.
Tommy, obviously, keeps a hand on the pistol attached to his belt.
As he approaches his objective, he pulls a simple face mask out of his pocket, covering his face as the guards seem to spot him. They raise their guns, which he responds to by raising his hands in a surrendering motion.
“Appointment?” One asks, glaring Tommy up and down.
“Theseus,” he responds, grinning as they tense. “I have an appointment with the Syndicate. It’s a walk-in.”
One stiffly nods to the other, who brings a walky up to his lips briefly before opening the doors for him.
Here, he’s Theseus; villain leaning vigilante who will do anything to get what he wants.
Someone guides him toward a large office with the three big honchos (Tommy suspected they were all brothers for a long time, and he wasn’t entirely wrong) sitting behind the desk.
Tommy takes a minute at the door, makes sure they know that he’s observing them.
The tallest, and one of the people standing behind the chair, was a fuckin skinny guy, the likes of which Tommy could be compared to, with a pair of fuzzy brown ears poking out from brunette hair, a matching tail flicking from side to side (in excitement or aggression?), and cat-eyes with pupils zeroed in on Tommy, hands twitching toward the many knives on his belt.
The brawniest, also standing behind the chair, was fuckin built with a pair of piglin ears, ivory tusks, and long pink hair tied back in a braid with locks of brunette and blonde weaved within (a statement, “ i will kill anyone who lays a hand on my family ”). He wears a boar skull over his head, a symbol of high status within piglin culture and hiding his eyes, believed to drive people mad. The sword on his hip sat untouched for now.
Finally, he draws his eyes toward the final member of the party, easily identified as the oldest of the group. Chin-length blonde hair with the stupidest striped hat of green and white on his head, chin lowered and eyes looking up, making his piercing blue eyes much more intimidating.
“Evening gents,” Tommy finally says, approaching the desk with the confidence of a deadman.
Sure enough, his words are met with suspicious glares. Tommy huffs out a laugh, pulling a chair out from his side of the des, making a point to fluff the soft cushion before sitting, ignoring the annoyed hum from behind him (yeah, he has the balls to turn his back on them).
He finally sits back in the chair, lowering his chin in a similar way to Phil and staring back with a similar intensity. Tommy fools himself–swears he sees his lips twitch up ever so slightly.
Philza–dubbed the Reaper–clears his throat, intertwining his resting hands.
“Did you think we wouldn’t do our research on you?”
Tommy smiles under the mask. “I was relyin’ on that actually.”
Technoblade–the large pinkette standing behind one of Philza’s shoulders, appropriately dubbed Crimson for his fabled red eyes–looks ready to speak up. Tommy almost expects Philza to intercept, but he keeps his eyes on Tommy.
“So, you’re here to turn us into the police? That’s new,” he states, examining Tommy with a similarly intense glare. “I mean, you’ve turned down over thirty cases asking for our heads, this is highly irregular for you.”
It’s true, Tommy has one rule with his business and it’s that he never gets involved with the Syndicate. He does, afterall, have a business to run.
“More than that,” Tommy admits, turning his gaze to the piglin. “I’ve turned down nearly eighty cases asking for you, but I have…alternative methods for shutting people up.”
Blackmailing, murder, torture; he did it all just to send a message to all potential employers. Majority had simply been blackmailed, but recently that wasn’t enough. Tommy had to take extreme measures which meant taking someone else’s life.
Not before he had his fun, of course.
A high elected official was found dead in his office, many veins slashed, causing him to bleed to death. Some time when the man was bleeding to death, Tommy slashed a symbol onto the man’s chest.
Three vertical lines lined up horizontally with a dot hovering over the middle. The not-so-discreet symbol for the Syndicate.
He slashed an x through it, marking it as off-limits to any employers.
The news went wild, and it had been the most peaceful week Tommy has had in a long time. Before today, that is.
The pinkette nods, seeming to have expected this.
“So, what can we do for you?” The last member of their trio asks, leaning forward in a way that should be intimidating. Deemed the Ghost for his proficiency at being nearly invisible (he’s a cat, what did they expect) and for whispering intrusive thoughts with a snake’s tongue, rumored to make them go mad. He was revered as the negotiator of the group.
Tommy smiles, leaning forward. “I have a job for you, believe it or not.”
Technoblade snorts, presumably rolling his eyes if his head movement means anything. “Of course, corrupt law enforcement. How shocking,” is muttered under his breath.
“But I’m not paid by the government,” Tommy raises an eyebrow, “I’m more like a vigilante with non-existent morals at this point.”
Philza hums, seemingly agreeing with Tommy. “So, who’s the target?”
“He sponsors your business,” Tommy hints, grinning as the two younger men behind Philza stiffen. Philza, however, remains unreadable.
“I have no idea who you’re talking about-”
“Cut the crap, Philza,” Tommy interrupts calmly, rolling his shoulders back. “Despite the ludicrous amount of funding he provides, you want him dead just as bad as I do. I did my own digging on your personal lives, and it seems a certain someone did something to upset Dream.” He states, pointedly staring Philza in the eyes.
The man, usually so brave-faced, looks slightly nervous now. The most subtle of signs, but ones that Tommy knows; the clenched jaw, accelerated blinking, and his breathing much more manual than before.
Tommy leans back in the chair, making himself less threatening. “I don’t care what it is, I just want him gone. Name your price.”
Philza continues staring at Tommy for a moment, turning his head to meet Technoblade’s eyes, followed by Ghost’s before facing forward again.
“Your company.”
You may be confused. See, when Tommy said he was saving up to hire someone to kill the guy, he didn’t mean money. He meant reputation. Villains with nearly the whole city under their thumb have no use for money; they stripped people of their reputation for payment. Gives them more power over the city, but is also a good price. After all, murder should not always be taken lightly.
Step one, wait for that bitch’s patience to run out: done.
Step two, entrap the Syndicate in the deal: done.
Step three, change the terms of the agreement.