Chapter Text
New Terra City – 6:12 a.m.
The bell above the cafe door jangled like a warning shot, letting in a gust of wind that smelled like cold concrete, static, and engine smoke. It rattled something in Tommy’s skull.
He flinched, not visibly- just a twitch in the corner of his jaw, a flick of tension in his shoulders. Every sound this early felt like it hit at the wrong volume. Too sharp. Too sudden. Like the city was screaming and didn’t care who heard.
He was already on autopilot, hands moving with the dead grace of muscle memory: tamp the espresso, load the shots, fire the steam wand. Two ounces, oat milk, pinch of cinnamon. The drink practically made itself now.
Wilbur slouched in through the door, hoodie half-zipped and one headphone trailing behind him like a wire unplugged from the world. He looked half dead.
Tommy didn’t look up. “You look like a stray cat someone tried to dress for a wedding.”
Wilbur grinned through a yawn, flopping into his usual seat. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. You sleep?”
Tommy snorted. “Yeah. I’d say a full eight seconds.”
Wilbur grinned like it was a joke. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.
The truth? Tommy had gotten home maybe two hours ago, bruised ribs wrapped messily in bandages. The smell of scorched asphalt still clinging to him. He hadn’t even showered. He didn’t have the time.
Because the moment he closed his eyes, it was there.
Feathers. Screaming. Begging.
And the green glow.
It was always the green glow now.
Wilbur flopped into his usual seat, cradling the coffee like it was a life support device. “You’re weirdly good at this. Have you always been a barista, or is this your tragic fallback career?”
“only tragic thing is being awake before seven,” Tommy muttered.
Wilbur took a long sip of his drink and sighed like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “Whoever invented caffeine deserves a Nobel.”
“Or a restraining order,” Tommy said.
The espresso machine hissed again, like it agreed.
Phil emerged from the back, rubbing one eye and adjusting the wing folded tight against his shoulder. His feathers were damp, half-dried from his morning shower, and a few stuck out at odd angles.
“Morning, Dadza,” Wilbur called, raising his cup in salute.
Phil grunted. “You’re late.”
Wilbur blinked innocently. “Am I?”
“Yes,” came a low, flat voice behind him.
Techno appeared in the doorway like he’d spawned from shadow. He was dressed in the same black hoodie and boots combo he wore every day. Half-boar, thick-shouldered and unreadable. His presence filled the space like a blade unsheathed.
Tommy gave him a tight nod. Techno returned it. They didn’t talk much, but there was something in that silence Tommy found easier than most conversations.
It had only been three weeks since he’d started here. Just a short help wanted flyer taped to the cafe window, a desperate resume, and a barista apron thrown over bruises he hadn’t had time to ice. No background check. No references.
Phil hadn’t asked. He’d just looked at him like- really looked - then just handed over the job.
Tommy still wasn’t sure if it was kindness or suspicion.
“You know,” Phil said gently now, eyes flicking over the bruise on Tommy’s jaw, “if someone’s hurting you, you don’t have to keep it quiet. You’ve got people here. Even if we’re weirdos.”
Tommy froze. Just a second too long.
Then: “Yeah. I’m just clumsy. You ever carry milk crates on a wet sidewalk?”
Silence.
Wilbur raised a brow but didn’t press.
Phil didn’t believe him, but he nodded. Just once. Then moved on to cleaning the drip trays, one wing flicking out for balance as he leaned over.
Techno picked a corner booth, pulled out a thick paperback, and opened it without a word.
The morning trickled in slowly after that. Commuters. Grumbling regulars. One older woman who always asked if they had "real sugar" and then complained either way. The usual.
Tommy smiled at none of them.
By mid morning, the lull hit. the soft hour when the city briefly held its breath before exhaling into chaos again.
He dropped off his apron in the back, slipped past the kitchen, and opened the narrow door marked STORAGE .
A few shelves, his red bag tucked hidden beneath them, and a single dangling bulb overhead. He crouched and unzipped his bag.
Inside:
– A mask, matte black, carbon-fiber, and cracked at the jaw.
– Fingerless gloves scorched at the palms.
– A baton folded neatly beside smoke pellets and a pair of stolen Syndicate comms.
– A burner phone, flickering with one saved voicemail.
He didn’t play it.
He just zipped the bag closed again and leaned his head against the wall. The concrete was cold. Honest. and it didn’t ask questions.
SLAM.
A door slammed somewhere out front.
Flash.
Blood.
Feathers.
Pain so white hot it shredded his thoughts. His scream caught in his throat- cut off by the steel bite of a bit gag. Hands pinned. Strapped. Bright lights.
Something buzzed overhead.
“No anesthetic,” a voice said. “It interferes with serum absorption.”
Then-
The sound of bone being severed.
Feathers everywhere. Screaming. His-
Tommy was against the wall when the door creaked open.
He barely noticed.
Breathing jagged. Knees drawn to his chest. Nails biting into his sleeves. His hoodie stuck to his back like a second skin, sweat soaked and cold. The edges of memory still curled at the edges of his vision like smoke from a too close fire.
“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice was soft, hesitant so unlike his usual melodramatic flair.
Tommy’s head jerked up like he’d been shocked. His eyes were wide, glassy, unfocused. He blinked hard, once, twice- like trying to recognize where he was.
Wilbur stood in the doorway, a banana muffin in one hand, eyebrows drawn tight in concern. He took a cautious step forward.
Tommy quickly rubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve.
There's a pause- silence.
“Shit- Wilbur- sorry. I didn’t-was just-”
“Hey.” Wilbur crouched down next to him, setting the muffin on the floor. “It’s okay. No need to explain.”
He’s shaking like a leaf.
Tommy turned away, trying to force himself upright. “I wasn’t crying.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“I just-I needed to sit for a sec. Thought I was gonna puke.”
Wilbur nodded, letting the silence stretch just long enough to not be uncomfortable. “Storage room’s perfect for that. Classic puking spot.”
Tommy huffed out a breath. Might’ve been a laugh. “What, not the walk in fridge?”
“Oh, no. That’s the panic zone. Cold air hits your lungs, and you start thinking about mortality. This room?” He gestured around. “This is the existential dread closet.”
Tommy smiled, tired but real.
Wilbur didn’t press further. He just stayed beside him, sitting cross legged on the dusty floor like it was the most natural place in the world.
“Do you want to go home?” Wilbur asked after a while. “I can cover your shift.”
Tommy shook his head. “No. I’d just end up lying on my mattress, staring at the ceiling and losing my mind.”
Wilbur stood, brushing flour dust off his jeans. “Alright. But if you need another five minutes in here, I’ll just tell Dadza you got in a blood feud with a rat.”
Tommy blinked. “You guys seriously call him ‘Dadza’?”
Wilbur grinned. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
Tommy let out a real laugh this time- brief, dry, but warm.
Then he got up, slow and stiff, and followed Wilbur back out.
10:08 a.m.
Back on shift
The cafe was quieting again. The morning rush long gone, replaced by a lull of tired chatter, typing, and the occasional whoosh of the espresso machine. Tommy stood behind the counter, restocking lids, pretending he hadn’t just had a breakdown in the back room.
He inhaled through his nose, grounding himself.
Count five things you can see.
The lids he's restocking.
The dust piling on the shelves.
The blinking of the emergency door light.
A few dollars poking out the register.
Someone's receipt on the floor.
Four things you can touch.
The grain of the wood counter.
The rubber of the milk jug handle.
The warmth of the mug in his hand.
The ache in his ribs.
Three things you can hear.
The hum of the fridge.
Wilbur singing softly under his breath.
Phil muttering in the back about someone mislabeling the chai syrup again.
Two things you can smell.
Burnt toast.
Floor cleaner.
One thing you can taste.
Oat milk foam on the tip of his tongue.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
His shoulders drop. He unclenches his jaw.
12:42 p.m.
Smoke break
The side alley behind the cafe smelled like trash, hot brick, and battery acid. The wind whistled through the narrow gap between buildings, rattling a metal trash lid with every gust.
Tommy lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. He hated smoking. But it grounded him. It reminded him he still had lungs. Still had breath. Still had control.
He leaned back against the wall and stared up at the thin strip of sky above the alley- gray, scratched with power lines. His jaw unclenched. Just a little.
The door swung open behind him.
“I knew it,” Wilbur said, stepping into the alley. “You’re one of those tragic loner smokers.”
Tommy didn’t look at him. “What gave it away?”
“The general vibe. Also the nicotine stench. Subtle.”
Wilbur didn’t leave. He leaned against the opposite wall and pulled something from his coat pocket- gum, not a cigarette. He popped a piece in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“You gonna narc?” Tommy asked.
“Only if you don’t give me one,” Wilbur said.
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You don’t smoke.”
Wilbur shrugged. “I also don’t do my homework. I contain multitudes.”
Tommy hesitated, then passed him a cigarette. Wilbur took it, rolled it between his fingers, and didn’t light it.
They stood there in silence for a while. Just two kids hiding from the world in a city too big and too cruel to care.
Wilbur eventually spoke. “You ever feel like the whole city’s watching you?”
Tommy looked over. “Like in a ‘paranoid schizophrenic’ way, or a ‘main character syndrome’ way?”
Wilbur grinned. “I’m being sincere, you ass.”
Tommy didn’t answer right away. Then, “Yeah. All the time.”
Wilbur nodded. “Cool. Thought I was just losing it.”
Tommy flicked ash onto the pavement. “You probably are. But not because of that.”
Wilbur tapped his cigarette on the wall like it was a drumstick. “So. You good?”
“No,” Tommy said.
Cool wind swept through the alley again.
But this time, it didn’t feel so cold.
He left the cafe just after 5 p.m.
The sky over New Terra was bruised with smog, the neon just starting to bleed through. His hoodie hiding his blonde curls, hands jammed in his pockets, head down. His breath steamed in the air.
The walk home was short but ugly- through rusted alley gates and cracked sidewalks, past garbage piles and flickering signs. Everything in this part of town felt one wrong touch from collapsing.
And yet...
Just ahead, a figure staggered into view. Then another. A scream cracked the air- brief, panicked.
Tommy moved before thinking.
He slipped between buildings, shadow to shadow, scaling a fence like it owed him money. His boots hit the ground behind a row of dumpsters.
Three men. One woman. She was on her knees, bleeding from the lip. Her bag was open- wallet gone, phone smashed. But the way they hovered over her wasn’t about theft.
It was about intimidation. Power.
Control.
One of them held something glowing. A syringe. The liquid inside pulsed with a familiar sick green hue.
Tommy’s blood ran cold.
No. Not again.
He reached into his coat and pulled a smoke pellet. Tossed it high.
Clink-
The alley filled with fog.
The attackers coughed, stumbled. Then-
Crack. A baton slammed into the first one’s knee.
Thud. The second hit the wall.
The third turned to run- but Tommy moved like fire, low and fast. A kick to the ribs, a trip, a crack of elbow to jaw.
By the time the smoke cleared, only Tommy and the woman remained. She stared at him, wide eyed, whispering a thank you he didn’t wait to hear.
He vanished back into the shadows.
His apartment was a fourth story walk up in a building older than dirt and twice as rotted. The walls smelled like mold and missed rent. His door didn’t quite close unless you kicked it, and the lock had to be jiggled three times to catch.
Inside: one mattress on the floor. One flickering lamp. One cracked mirror covered with post it notes and old photos he barely looked at anymore.
A sink with rust in the faucet. A window with bars. One corner reserved for his gear, the other for the broken bass guitar he kept swearing he’d fix.
He dropped onto the mattress and curled onto his side.
His body hurt. Always did.
The bruise on his side throbbed in time with his pulse. His lungs ached from smoke. His head spun with everything he hadn’t said.
That glowing drug was back.
Whatever the Syndicate thought they’d buried, they hadn’t. And it was spreading.
He didn’t know what they were calling it now- some new street name, probably. He’d find out.
He always did.
Theseus would.
And this time, he wasn’t going to let it fester.
He was going to cut it out at the root.