Chapter Text
They labeled Tommy a villain when he was fifteen years old.
He was just a kid then, alone on the streets for the first time and scared.
His intentions were never to torment the city or to kill civilians in the name of–well, whatever it was villains killed for. He was just a kid who was put in a tough spot, and suddenly he was the most feared “villain” in the city.
When he was fifteen years old, they gave him the name Red Death and called him a villain.
In a way the title was refreshing, freeing even. It was everything he had been raised not to be, and he loved it, loved the distance the name and the title gave him from his past. It was like a chasm, so deep and far that he couldn’t see the surface anymore, but none of that mattered. He was free.
Red Death became a name that crowded the papers. They'd ask who he was, where he’d come from.
Tommy had become a villain seemingly overnight, he was unpredictable, new, and that only scared them more. They wanted safety and security and feared the unknown that threatened it.
Tommy was many things: feared, powerful, free… but he wasn’t proud.
He wasn’t proud of the title he had or the name they’d called him, honestly he didn’t think he deserved it. There were villains out there who’d worked for decades, and now here he was, all for the work he’d done in a single night. Tommy never had an evil plan, or a secret lair, or any of the cool things villains had. All he had was a shitty apartment and the clothes on his back, and a desire for more.
He couldn’t be a civilian, and he certainly wouldn’t be a hero, so he did what he had to do.
At fifteen years old, Red Death killed the top heroes in L’Manberg, and Tommy became a villain.
Sometimes Tommy wonders if he could have made more money as Red Death. He’d heard of occasions where villains would hold people hostage for ransom or rob a bank, and he’d known a lot of them had their hands in the underground, transporting illegal goods around the city under the cover of night. He wonders if maybe he could’ve had that. Would he be living in some fancy-ass apartment? Would he even need to work?
Some days Tommy was content with his apartment, with his job, but other times…
Other times Tommy wishes he’d never put away his suit and the status that was guaranteed with it.
He knew that dawning the name wasn’t what he wanted anymore, no matter how much power came with it, it just wasn’t for him.
He wasn’t built for a power struggle, he wasn’t meant to live that kind of life in the spotlight, so he hid. Living the life of a civilian was simple enough, easy enough. Go to work, pay your bills, and make friends if you have time. It was the type of domestic living that he had craved when he was younger.
And sure, maybe he didn’t deserve to live this life. Maybe he never would, but he could try, right?
Only sometimes customers make it really damn hard to keep a level head.
The woman had been an issue from the moment she stepped through the front door, an artificial ‘ding’ alerting the whole restaurant to her presence. Her hair cut alone was enough to know that she had every intention to make a scene, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d been seated in his section, and he’d need to be the one to deal with her.
He’d strolled over with his nice bravado, and started with the same greeting he gave everyone else. She interrupted him (predictable really), and told him all about how she was in a hurry and that she needed to have her order put in immediately and ‘oh I need this substitution and that because god forbid I have any flavor in my meal.’
And he had stood idly by, fighting back quips and the urge to roll his eyes as he wrote all of it down on a little yellow pad, a fake smile plastered on his lips.
He hadn’t meant to drop her meal or get her order wrong–in truth, he doesn’t even think he did, it was such a messy, convoluted order that she’d probably forgotten everything she asked for–but that didn’t stop her from complaining to management.
So now he sat with crossed arms and a bouncing leg, getting lectured for the second time this week about his “poor customer service skills” and “lack of respect” or whatever the fuck it was about this time, wondering if he should’ve been a villain for financial reasons alone.
“Are you even listening to me?” A hand waves in front of his face. Tommy rolls his eyes, leg bouncing just a little bit quicker. He gave an uncaring nod, he’d heard this speech before. Absently, he wonders if the woman even left him a tip. “This is the third customer this month who’s complained about you! Do you even care?”
“No, not really,” He replies in a monotone voice. “She was being a bitch, I didn’t even do anything wrong. ”
“She said you slammed her coffee onto the table-”
“-With grace and excellence really,” Tommy interrupts.
“-And half of it spilled onto her!”
“It was barely a drop, man. She’s just dramatic.” Tommy sighs, running a hand through blond curls.
“You’re lucky she didn’t get burnt.” The manager snaps as he slumps back into his chair.
There are papers scattered all over the desk, a filing cabinet left open in the corner of the room, and Tommy wonders how much longer someone will have to cover his section while he’s trapped in this office.
“Oh yes, very lucky.” He drawls, boredom thick in his voice.
His manager–he was new to this location, and instead of memorizing his name Tommy elected to call him Bitch instead–huffs as he props his elbows on the desk so he could rest his head in his hands. “Do you want to lose your job?”
Tommy’s leg stops bouncing and he sits up, straightening himself out. This isn’t the first time he’s been asked that, but something in the way Bitch says it sounds serious, entirely different from the way his old manager would jokingly throw the question around.
“Not particularly.”
Bitch sighs, “Look, Tommy. I don’t want to fire you. I know we haven’t known each other long but I could tell you’re a good kid,” A laugh threatens to bubble out of Tommy’s chest. “You just- you need to be a bit nicer to customers.” He pauses, studying Tommy’s face for any sign that he’s getting through to the boy, but Tommy only nods a slow nod. “Just- don’t let it happen again.”
Huh, maybe naming the man Bitch was too harsh, he was actually kind of okay. The other manager would barely let Tommy get a word of defense whenever situations like this arose, and all he could do was sit back and listen as she would quietly scold him. Tommy was brash and rude. He knew as much, but no one had ever really bothered to let it slide without a write-up.
“I really didn’t mean to,” He starts, “I’m pretty sure she was out to get me.”
“I’m sure she was Tom, I’m sure she was.” Bitch gives Tommy a wave of his hand and the younger boy wastes no time jumping out of his seat and making his way towards the exit, gently closing the office door behind him.
He ignores the sign taped on the front which reads “Michael’s Office” because Bitch is a better name.
Tommy hates working the night shift.
For one, it's boring. The setting sun takes most business with it, and the customers coming in after dark are few and far between.
He doesn’t blame people for not coming in to eat at a shitty diner, streets on this side of town are sketchy, overridden by criminals and low-threat villains alike and nobody wants to get caught up with them.
He also hates that it messes up his sleep schedule. Not that he ever had one to begin with, but working late hours isn’t really helping him achieve the full eight hours he thinks he could use.
If there's anything good about the night shift though, it's the people. The morning shift is full of stuck-up, nosey, pricks, and Tommy (surprisingly) has a hard time fitting in. He much prefers the laid-back environment the night shift offers him, and he’d gladly endure the boredom if it meant the night shift crew was going through it with him.
They weren’t friends by any means–Tommy didn’t have any of those–but most of them were nice, and he figured there were worse people you could spend your nights with.
Today’s shift had been slow and, except for the visit to Bitch’s office, uneventful. Before long, Tommy found himself wiping down tables closest to the front windows as flickering neon lights illuminate the space in an almost eerie glow.
The streets outside are empty, dark except for what little light is given by street lamps or the headlights of a passing car, and Tommy silently hopes that his phone has enough battery to keep his flashlight on for the walk back to his apartment.
The diner is small, which is both a blessing and a curse depending on how busy it is. Booths line the walls, and tables and chairs crowd the rest of the floor. The counter is the main attraction of the whole place really, red-topped chairs and scuff-stained baseboards make for an oddly welcoming area for people who stop in alone for a coffee or a bite to eat.
A staticy television sits behind the counter, barely within his line of sight. It fills the space with sounds and music alike as the nightly news cycles through, reminding citizens of the upcoming festivities. Pictures of masked men saving kittens from fires and children from car accidents appear on the screen, and Tommy barely bites back a scoff, something angry curling around in his stomach.
He hates this time of year.
Behind the counter, his coworker, Niki, cleans the coffee machines, and for a moment her eyes catch him staring at the screen. He turns his gaze back to the task at hand, rubbing harder at a dried spot of ketchup on the table’s surface.
“You going tomorrow?” she asks, stepping away from the machine to pull pink hair up into a bun on the top of her head. Her voice is bright and almost too cheery for the night shift, but Tommy finds that he doesn’t mind it, her company is nice. She’s quiet, content with keeping to herself.
He blinks at her, “What?”
“Monument day,” She says, “The parade tomorrow? Are you going?”
With the shake of his head, he laughs something hollow, “No. It’s uh, not really my thing.” He thinks of green confetti and strings playing something sad.
Niki hums, turning back to the television. “I heard from a customer that Inferno was going to be there, something about a speech.” Tommy shrugs, pushing through the urge to just freeze at the mention of the hero.
He’s usually out a lot this time of year, patrolling the upper streets with a careful eye. The people appreciate it, always approaching their top hero with praise and smiling faces.
Inferno is kind to them, patient. Tommy’s seen videos of him doing a trick more than once for the younger kids, his words of encouragement instilling dangerous confidence in some.
A speech though, that’d be new. With a slightly shaky hand, Tommy retrieves his phone from his pocket.
Fifteen minutes ‘till close.
The diner settles back into silence as the two continue cleaning. While Tommy works in the front putting chairs on top of tables and mopping dirty floors, Niki works silently behind the counter, packing away any baked goods that didn’t get sold throughout the day before stepping into the kitchen, the sound of running water echoing through the dining room a moment later.
There are only eight minutes left when he hears that artificial ding. Tommy forces himself to take a deep breath so that he doesn’t accidentally kill whoever just walked in.
“We’re closed,” He grumbles, eyes trained on the floor as he mops. Maybe this is the worst part of the night shift. There's always some asshole coming in right when it's most inconvenient. Don’t these people have any sort of decency?
“No you’re not,” the guy says, and Tommy can sense something playful in his voice. He strolls up to the counter, knocking twice on the plastic-topped surface. “Niki!”
Oh, the audacity .
Tommy looks up right as Niki pops her head out from the kitchen, wearing a warm smile as she dries a glass. “Hey, Wil! Take a seat, I’ll be out in a second!” she greets before ducking back into the kitchen. The guy–Wil, takes a seat, right in front of the TV that’s still talking about monument day.
He’s tall, lanky in a way that even the pastel sweater he wears can’t hide. An old brown coat is thrown over his shoulder. It looks heavy, fitted more for winter weather and not the cool spring they’ve been having so far. He turns after a moment, meeting Tommy’s eye through round, wiry glasses. He props both elbows onto the counter and kicks his feet out in front of him, legs crossing at the ankles, giving the blond a teasing smile.
Tommy turns, biting back the itch to tell this guy off, and begins to collect a stray syrup bottle left on a nearby table. “Well someone’s prickly,” the man mutters just loud enough for Tommy to hear, and he spins back around.
“Fuck off,” he scoffs, and the guy’s eyes widen as he brings his hand to his mouth in mock offense.
“And here I thought the wait staff was supposed to be nice to customers.” He says as his head tilts a bit to the side. Clearly, he’s trying to egg Tommy on–to get on his nerves, but it’s not going to work.
It’s not.
“Are you buying something?” Tommy asks. Wil shakes his head, brown curls bouncing with the movement, “Then you’re not a customer, dickhead.”
He laughs, loud and warm, and Tommy cracks a smile as he finishes cleaning the last spot of dirt on the tiled floor. It comes up easy enough, and before long Tommy’s crossing the diner to return the mop to its spot behind the counter.
Wil tracks him as he does, watching with curious eyes. Tommy can practically hear gears turning in the man's head.
He abandons the relaxed pose as Tommy rounds the edge of the countertop, and instead spins back around to face the television. The news has moved on from monument day and onto whatever hero-villain fight happened today. Tommy watches for a moment as shaky footage shows Inferno throwing a string of fire at Blade, who brings the flat side of his axe up to block the flames, white boar mask barely peeking over the edge.
The screen goes black with a satisfying click . ”I was watching that!” Wil scoffs, hands reaching out to swipe for the remote Tommy’s placed just out of his reach.
“You say that as if they haven’t been recycling the same footage all day now,” he sighs. This particular fight took place hours ago, by now the clean-up crews are mostly done and the streets have been reopened. “Besides, only customers get to watch the TV” Tommy throws in with a shit-eating grin.
Wil huffs, and a matching smile creeps over his lips, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, child?”
“Oh, I’m much too big of a man to have a bedtime. It's a shame though, you missed the early bird specials today.” Tommy shrugs, “I guess there's always tomorrow.”
“Are you calling me old?”
“If the shoe fits, bitch.” Tommy retorts, and Wil leans back as he barks out a laugh. There’s a shuffling from the back and Tommy turns to see Niki, her bright uniform now replaced with a light gray sweater and her typical work bag strung over her shoulder.
“You two better not be bullying each other.” She says with a smile.
Wil shakes his head. “Me? Bully a child? Niki, I would never.”
“Niki,” Tommy starts as he places a friendly hand on her shoulder, “your friend is a bitch.” She raises a hand to her mouth, laughing at Wil’s gaping mouth.
“Kid’s got you pegged.” She says, throwing an arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulling him into her side. She’s warm, the sweater is so much softer than it looks and Tommy can’t help but lean into the touch just a little bit. He gives the man a smug grin and a wink and Wil goans, dramatically collapsing onto the counter with a light thump . Tommy barely suppresses a laugh at the way his face squishes against the countertop. “Oh get up,” She chides, letting go of Tommy so she can lean forward and smack Wi’s head.
He sits back up in an instant, that same look of mock offense spread across his face again. Something buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls out his phone, checking it for only a second before quickly putting it away again. “We should better get going, are you all set here?” He asks, and the sudden seriousness is enough to wipe even Tommy’s smile off his face.
“I think I’m ready,” she tells him, and that cheery tone doesn’t falter as she turns to Tommy, “Will you be alright to lock up?”
She says it as if he hasn’t closed by himself numerous times before. Like he hasn’t locked the door and walked back much later than this. “I’ll be alright, you two going on a date or something?” Niki’s eyes widen and Wil’s cheeks flush red. Tommy can’t help but laugh.
“Nope!” She laughs along. “Just friends Tommy, just friends!” She gives him a playful shove before rounding the counter. Wil stands, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of an old brown coat. “We’re meeting up with some other friends for a game night.”
“Sounds boring.” Tommy drawls.
“Yea?” Wil scoffs, “And what are you going to do? Algebra homework?”
“I, for one, am going to go hang out with my many, many women, thank you very much.”
Niki giggles and the two make their way to the door. They walk slowly, chatting among themselves as they make their way across the diner. It seems nice, to have someone to walk with. They talk as though they’ve known each other for years, and Tommy wonders if he’ll ever have someone to talk like that with.
The doorbell dings. Tommy sends a smile to the two as Niki says her goodbyes before walking out into the night. “It was nice to meet you, child!” Wil calls.
“The names Tommy, prick!” He yells back. He lifts his hand up, curling all but one finger to his palm as a silent ‘fuck you’.
“Well then it was nice to meet you, Tommy, I’m Wilbur.” He says and slips through the door. It closes with a soft click , and Tommy watches as the pair leave, neon lights barely reflecting in Wilbur’s glasses.
Once they’re out of sight, Tommy makes his way to the back, grabbing his bag from his locker before punching out and making his way to the front door. With the flick of a light switch, the diner is plunged into darkness, and Tommy locks the door behind him.
The street outside is dark save for flickering street lamps, the pavement is cracked and uneven. It’s almost dangerous to walk along if you aren't used to it, but Tommy’s walked this route hundreds of times. He knows where it dips and curves, where the curb is cracked. He could walk this route in his sleep if he wanted.
Shadows curl around the buildings, wrapping everything in a silent darkness that’s almost unnerving, but Tommy’s a big man, and big men aren’t scared of the dark. His phone’s battery is low, but he turns the flashlight on anyway.
The journey back to the apartment is easy enough, and Tommy’s thankful that the streets are empty. Areas like this aren’t the safest at night, and he’d heard stories of kids who wandered out too far, dragged into alleyways or abandoned buildings never to be seen again, and while Tommy’s confident he’d be okay, he’d rather not take his chances.
When the battery dies, and the flashlight turns off, he relies on his muscle memory to carry him back to his apartment. The darkness consumes the streets, allowing the mice to sneak through alleys and under dumpsters, their light footsteps the only indication that they were there at all.
The dark moves and ripples when the lights flicker, but Tommy’s eyes are trained on the ground, focused on moving one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t see the shadows themselves gliding across buildings or watching him with glowing eyes. They gather like a school of fish watching a worm on a hook, never too far away, but just out of sight.
One foot in front of the other.
A chill runs down Tommy’s spine, the air colder than he expected. Today’s been warmer than usual, humid even.
The shadows wait, and the shadows watch, undetected.
They only leave once he gets inside.