Chapter Text
Fuck this.
No, seriously, fuck this. Whoever decided to plant a hero-villain fight right in the city centre on Tommy's walk home needed to watch their back, because he was down for some major murdering after this.
He had taken a stroll around downtown after work - done with the day already - when the blasts had started. The No.1 let off his leash again, no doubt, pushing the thunderclaps down the street right to Tommy. He'd fallen more than once; knees on hard cobbles, the skin of his jeans ripping, shrieks of Blade murmuring over him as the crowd scattered and ran. Tommy had been slower in getting up, hands scouring for a walled edge to grip and to maybe find some stability through the aftershocks rippling the street.
A rumble vibrated its way out of the ground and Tommy could hear it rupturing in two before a rock the size of Ohio hit him square in the back, and he fell, the wind knocked right out of him.
Oh, motherfucker.
That had hurt like a bitch and it wasn't like Tommy could just lay here and wait the fight out. He'd tried that once, ear pressed to the ground, enraptured by the sounds of war grumbling their way through the earth. It had been beautiful, in a weird kind of way. Haunting.
Now that had been an interesting conversation with the paramedics when they'd found a blind kid randomly laying under a pile of debris right after Bandit had tried to burn most of downtown.
So no, it wasn't Tommy's first rodeo with the idiotic theatre troupes of Essempi. They somehow managed to disrupt his evenings at least once every couple of months, like they had cameos queued up for the Sitcom of Tommy, which consisted of him getting screwed over in the most humiliating (Tubbo would have said funny) and absurd ways possible. In all fairness, they seemed to disrupt everyone whenever they did make an appearance; whether it was the Eggpire crew or the Syndicate or whatever other dumb arseface that messed up the city infrastructure on a random Thursday afternoon. Regardless, it didn't matter that they seemed to want just about everybody dead, because everybody happened to include Tommy. Fantastic.
He pushed his way up and forward - back aching but unbroken, obviously - still gripping his cane, in a half-jog crumpled up against the wall with the patterns of scree from the apartment buildings around him dousing his hair.
''Prime, can I catch a break?'' he muttered, his throat coming out half-scathed in the dust cloud that had followed the strikes.
Tommy should've just stayed home. He should've. As much as he was trying to escape the blind-hermit-recluse stereotype that showed up everywhere, this wasn't worth it. He had work tomorrow. He had work tomorrow, for fucks sake.
To be honest, Callahan would probably let him get the day off if he asked. The guy was scarily nice about that sort of thing. As much as Tommy would jump at the chance to bitch about the diner like his life depended on it, he had to leave Big C out of it. The guy was a legend, an icon, a geezer. Better than his last boss for sure. It was almost sketchy, though, the niceness. A trying to hide bodies in the basement kind of thing. Too nice, and not in a condescending way either. In other words, an impossibility.
Tommy would take Callahan over any other college burnout trying to be inclusive and superior all at once, even if he was a serial killer. The guy had learnt braille for Tommy. He'd dragged him to deaf-blind sign language classes so they could actually talk to each other; got him the job at Jo's after a single half an hour kind-of-conversation over text-to-speech; rode the subway home with him that time a customer had thrown a glass his way. He got it, no questions asked. He probably understood somewhat because he was mute, but still. Tommy didn't have to walk him through 'how to act like a normal human being' around him.
Callahan had even offered him a lift back tonight, but he'd said no, y'know, like an idiot. He could be indoors right now, switching channels away from the news station dropping the news of another Syndicate attack, but of course, Prime had decided he needed some character building.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, he thought, hobbling out of an alley into the silent wide-ended road he'd reached, the sound of cop sirens heavy in the distance. I hate living here. It was the second turn from Palmerston Square, where the first burst of lightning seemed to have come from - no clue where he had gotten to by this point. There wasn't braille on the street signs; not that Tommy would have time to find them and figure out his route if they were.
At some point the walled edges of the buildings around him had dissipated; Tommy's hands catching on traffic poles and streetlamps more and more as the crisp air of night falling dawned upon him. He could inhale a little easier too as the ash cloud clogging the system of alleys and byways was lessened in the open.
It was almost silent too, most of the crazies that were coming to watch the thing probably hanging about by main street, where the majority of the crowds seemed to have escaped down after the first strike.
Tommy hated them. It was almost embarrassing, hearing there were a couple of teenagers dead from swinging into one of Lynx's transformations, thinking they could take him.
A few stragglers always ended up on the surface underground looking for a quick ego boost when he and Eryn were making the rounds, and they were easy enough pickings. As marks went he could never fault the depth of their pockets. You could always tell when they were phonies, too. Vigilantes never hassled the weed dealers or the guys selling the microwaves that fell off the back of a truck somewhere.
It took a scream coming from a nearby underbrush to startle him back to his head, stumbling back into the middle of the road, ears barbing with his breath caught still in quiet fear.
A fox.
He laughed.
A vixen, by the sound of it.
She screeched again, adorable instead of terrifying this time, now that Tommy knew what she was.
''Get out of here, buddy,'' his voice soft, ''not the time to be making dens.''
Tommy didn't see the glow of eyes peering at him in the dark; the gentle regard for the figure covered in soot and grime.
''Go on. Git.'' He clapped, and heard a rustle of leaves coming from the bush that spoke of departure.
He shuffled backwards into a walk, wet asphalt grating against his converse, and he cursed as rainwater from earlier splashed against the canvas - realising they would already be stained as fuck by this point. The last time someone had pointed a few blotches of mud out he'd spent half the night with baking powder scrubbing them clean, still unsure by the end whether they were a full burgundy again or not, too embarrassed to ask someone to confirm it.
Tommy knew they were red because Ranboo had told him the day they had dropped the pair off.
''It's your colour.''
''What?''
''Red, it's like you. Kind of like how fire feels.''
The street might have been deserted of people - and foxes, hopefully - by this point, but he could hear the tell-tale sounds of the fight drawing closer, with a mocking echo of ''Don't run. come on, hit me.'' projected out and through to him. The booms louder, each spark reverbing harder. A side of laughter, too.
Smile for the camera, hero. You're winning.
Those hero masks had to have been built with an added megaphone just so the news broadcasts could pick up what they were saying, Prime.
A second round of aftershocks fizzed like static against his feet.
He started moving faster - properly running pretty much impossible with the cane tracking his course out for him, the gentle humps of the shaken road already causing him enough problems as it was.
If he could get out far enough there would be someone around who could tell him where the hell he had gotten to. Maybe even borrow a phone, if he got lucky.
Prime what he wouldn't give just to be right outside his apartment block right now. His discs waiting upstairs to be played and nothing to do but just sit. Tommy was never going to get over having someplace that was just his own.
It was then that a familiar whoosh and plunge sound prickled the back of his ears, legs slowing, the hum of flame and crackle breathing through the air, and Tommy stopped.
Blaze, the Number Two.
Fucking hell.
Tommy really can't catch a break, huh?
He had been thinking fuck me when the sputter of blistering heat pushed itself out into the street, tinging against the hair on his arms, and a hand connected with the back of his jacket; pulling him up up up and out.
----------
Granted, maybe some kid left alone at the centre of a powered confrontation might have been a concern to certain people, but that wasn't Tommy's deal. He didn't need protecting. It wasn't his problem. Or, at least it wasn't until some flying dickhead decided to take him for a ride.
The guy had scuffed his collar and backpack as Tommy felt the tinge of flame white-hot against his frame; the left sleeve that had been smouldering from the heat extinguished almost immediately with the speed of the whole 'rescue', and Tommy was propelled high into the atmosphere.
It didn't occur to Tommy who it could be until he heard thick wings beating out beside him, freaking him out beyond his already freaked-out state, limbs kicking out against the open skies as he tried to shove his way out of Zephyrus's, out of the Syndicate's, hold.
''Let me down, Jesus Christ.'' Tommy yelped, clawing at what felt like a fucking cape. He'd been carried away from the flames so that was a fucking solid, but Prime this asshole had better put him down soon because Tommy did not enjoy heights. Especially when attached to a gigantic bird furry with a pension for murder.
Ironic, sure, given tall places weren't an issue for him and he couldn't see them anyway, but still. Scary as hell.
''Whoa, mate, stay calm, I'll drop you off somewhere safe.'' Yeah, you can drop me right here, prick, Tommy thought, still struggling against the grip holding him up. ''It's all right, okay?'' The villain added, with the audacity of trying to sound reassuring right there.
It might have worked. Somewhat. But Tommy wasn't about to admit that. And dialling down his unfounded panic to 100 to 99 wasn't going to achieve much in the long run.
Just breathe Tommy, he thought. Fucking breathe, idiot.
Nope. Breathing was for losers, apparently.
''Fucking hell just let go, I'm-'' he wheezed out, the wind pushing hard against his sternum as they bucked up and around the city structures. They felt high up. So, so, high.
The sounds of flame down below were still there, but absent against the heavy drum of wings against air. They'd moved on from the burning part of the city, it seemed; only the whistle of high-rises flush against their sides.
Tommy kept struggling, palms pushing against oh my god are those fucking talons?
No. No, no, no, no. No.
''You won't survive the drop, mate, it's like fifty feet-''
''Watch me,'' he said, finding skin and biting down hard, feeling a release as he slipped from the supervillain's grasp, trying to ignore the pit imploding in his stomach as gravity pulled him down.
Zephyrus's arm lashed out against his grip in a last-ditch effort to catch him, Tommy feeling the brush of skin against glove as the hold missed him, fabric skidding off his arm like water as he went down and-
Tommy fell.
-----------
The night had been going pretty well for the Syndicate so far.
Techno had been holding Dream's attention all night; that smiling placard the only thing between him and the hero's frustration.
It wasn't obvious, the simmering annoyance, but Wilbur could pride himself on detecting the slightest hitch in that green guy's speeches - there was that slight note of exasperation in the speed that he retorted with.
The guy can't have been stupid, for all his grating monologues about 'surrendering themselves to justice' and 'curing the city', but he hadn't seemed to catch onto the pointlessness of their visit here tonight. Like there was anything of value in the retail section, crumbling with age and crowds that got in the way.
Definitely wasn't improving their reputation as domestic terrorists, but whatever. The whole decoy plot had been Techno's plan for starters and no way was anarchy-boy over there letting someone else's battle plan get chosen before his, not a chance.
''Oh, I've read Sun Tzu a million times, blah, blah, blah.'' Wilbur muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes and slowing his pace to let CPK tail him more easily. Now that was a proper greenie, that guy, boosted up the ranks like no one had seen before, probably on account of his power. The Commission seemed to like telekinesis because of how versatile it could be, half-forgetting that sending near-civilians out into showdowns with minimal training was going to get them killed. Wilbur almost felt bad.
He'd be alright. Tonight, anyway. They only had to keep the Commission occupied until Niki had got the files from the control rooms down on main, no reason to deliberately martyr the poor guy. Or anyone, really.
It was half the reason he'd moved away from the main confrontation, the dizzying sparks of smog and jade lightning were definitely some kind of trip hazard. Besides, going after the Number One or Two was so pedestrian. Any conflict involving that lot was bound to start favouring them eventually, and making quick escapes wasn't his thing. Wilbur wasn't interested in losing. Really put a dampener on the whole 'don't-give-a-fuck' thing he was going for.
He didn't give a fuck, for the most part, anyway, but still. Appearances.
There was a clatter of rocks as another boom echoed around the system of alleys leading out from the plaza; white light shooting out from the square, visible even in the dim of the smoke stretched out around the whole fight. Wilbur leant against one of the buildings lining the street, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter to watch it.
He could feel the shake of the earth as one of Techno's swords must have struck against a writhing bolt of electricity. The light changed direction, pooling into a beacon in the sky, and he even caught a glimpse of Phil's wings circling the whole thing. He was hovering in case more reinforcements turned up besides the three already here, and occasionally swooping down to intervene on Techno's side. Techno could probably take Dream and Blaze on his own, for a while anyway, but Phil had insisted on attending. Even if the two of them together dragged more of the heroes out from the tower, the Blade was rarely seen without Zephyrus by his side.
Wilbur flickered the catch and lit his cigarette, inhaling and seeing the smoke disappear in the thick of fog around him.
He could feel eyes itching the back of his head as he did it, too, his shadow waiting in the dim of the road, night having fallen fully over Essempi in the half an hour or so since their arrival.
''Ain't nobody here but us chickens, ain't nobody here at all,'' he hummed softly, steam vapouring out his mouth with the cold of the month. His hands were shaking too, as he took another drag; inhaling and shuddering to warm up.
He was half tempted to call the hero out of his rabbit hole and speed through the whole one-on-one business. Just the two of them, no cameras, no crowd, each punch and step weighted only between the both of them and their own fate.
''So calm yourself and stop that fuss, there ain't nobody here but us.''
Wilbur wondered what it must be like. For someone like that.
He knew the guy was getting started older than most of the people in this business. Phil had gone full tactician when CPK had first started getting coverage, watching the few hours of footage he could at least twice to decipher the way he moved. A late developer, but still young enough for training to be worth it. Or powerful enough.
Almost all heroes - and villains, frankly - had found their abilities before they'd gotten their growth spurts. This guy hadn't.
Wilbur heard the hesitant taps of feet on stone pooling into footsteps and grinned, flicking the ash and breathing in one last time before tossing the stub and extinguishing it under his shoe. A waste, really. But there was only so much time before CPK stopped dithering and decided to pull out his poltergeist shit. Or Wilbur decided to take out his own.
The hero got to about fifteen feet away, Wilbur half expecting him to do nothing but scamper right up to his face, before feeling a pull against his chest, like the wind had formed hands and flesh from air. He blinked his way invisible, stepping into the long dark of his phantom traits, and escaping the grasp of the telekinetic wave.
''See, you could always say hello before starting with hostility.'' Wilbur said, letting his voice disperse across the street and hauling his bravado to the forefront of his speech, the hero looking unsurprised but with a tilt of interest in Wilbur's avoidance of his powers. They had briefed him on Wilbur's abilities in the five minutes between basic and graduation, then. ''Did they train manners out of you at the academy?''
He could feel Techno rolling his eyes. He wasn't interested in stalling. Bantering with his opponents was more than acceptable - fun, even - as long as it involved beating them senseless. Dream was one of the few exceptions but even then his speech was truncated to the bare minimum before any real confrontation began. It was endurance for the conflict to come. Techno would just rather get his victory over with. He might have enjoyed however many monologues and sarcastic comments when making his peaceful demands but that didn't mean he'd wait patiently for a fight to come out in due course. If a fight was going to happen, Techno would make certain it began on schedule.
Wilbur struggled to get a word out when all three Syndicate 'members' - the known Syndicate members, anyway - were around. Not because they spoke over him, but because Techno was so desperate to get on with it. Without any performance. His brother had no concept of persona. That was all him out there. Nothing but sincerity, what he wanted for the world, and the Blade lacking nothing but a face and a name. How were you supposed to be a villain if you were nothing but yourself?
There was a reason people dreaded Wilbur, there was a reason the media had a level-five security code for him without body armour; without his family; without a power that could cripple nations, topple cities, and unmake heroes.
The Commission cared about Techno and Phil, capturing them and letting the two rot in Pandora. Wilbur, too, but less because of what he had. He was powerful, sure. More than most. But they had inmates hidden somewhere that could've taken him with ease. The Commission didn't read enough of the newspapers to see Wilbur as a world-toppling threat on his own, but the universe did, that was for sure. Siren was the boogeyman, the monster under the bed, the beast children ran from in their nightmares. There was a whole lifetime of awe in that name - in his name. Siren. Siren. Wilbur had never started massacres or destroyed countries. Siren had. Siren had done it all and walked his way into hell backwards. The way the world talked about him stank of kerosene - dripping and alive; beating like a bloody heartbeat crowned in withered glory. Techno and Phil were the impossible villains you dreamed of beating against all odds and any hope of survival. Beyond logic but within fantasy.
You didn't dream of Siren at all.
The Blade and Zephyrus could never inspire that kind of fear. That kind of loyalty to terror.
He could still feel CPK pushing out against the air to look for him, hands open but just failing to grip. A kind of gravity rummaged through his hollow bones as the hero tried to gain an advantage. His brown overcoat, unseen, whipped in the air but stayed attached and another strike of lightning came down, hard, upon the city. There was a warm tinge of orange flame thrumming in the background that Wilbur could still see - CPK standing between the rest of the fight and him. Essempi was burning.
Only a little. At the moment.
Wilbur had gotten behind the city's protector, watching the fireworks from the back of his head. He could do something now, make it simple.
''You should turn yourself in.'' CPK said.
Wilbur stuttered back into visibility without the hero's notice and began bouncing from one pad of his foot to the other.
''I'm telling you now, I've thought about it. I was always curious about what they've got buried in the deep of Pandora.'' CPK jolted, backing up and twisting around to stare at him in faint startle. Surprised that Wilbur hadn't gone for him at his most defenceless.
The hero wasn't able to see the shark grin through the black mask stretching across the lower part of his face, but he had to have heard it. Easy. ''But where would the fun in that be?''
And then he was closing the gap between the two of them; soles that had been moving with suspense propelling him into a run, turned invisible.
Wilbur threw the first punch, arm unseen but CPK was a better fighter than he expected. He dodged.
''You can't believe all that can you? Not at your age anyway.'' Wilbur asked.
CPK dodged to the left, ignoring Wilbur, and countering the flurry of tangible hits that followed, pushing a wall of air out backwards that shoved him to the ground and held.
Wilbur got up quick, but the powers continued to scope out his placement in the street, CPK bundling forward to reach him. Wilbur blinked back to visibility again, catching the fighter off guard as he came forward in hostility.
The hero moved to attack at the same time, but Wil had already dissipated back into his shade as the ground rumbled and a spark and fizzle ruptured the concrete. The both of them were left off balance as the earth reformed, a groan resounding down the street from the buildings torn from their axis.
Wilbur turned solid and wrenched his body to hit CPK square in the throat, jumping back and hearing a hiss come out from his competitor.
''You believe in the system, hero? Really? Is that why you're here?''
CPK opened his hand and jutted it forward, rotating his shoulders to force the impact into Wilbur's face, a Krav Maga technique. It was hard. Something pissed off in it.
It would have knocked someone normal down in an instant, if it had connected. It passed through where Wilbur's head had been a second too late. Like candlelight splayed across a room in shadow.
CPK stumbled forward and Wilbur pushed him down from behind. He tripped but kept on his feet and returned to his balance.
''Was it better than your life before?'' Wil's voice echoed from further down the street
CPK spun, chasing its origin and feeling the basic shifts in the air that followed his movements, but Wilbur was away already, scanning the hero's movements that seemed almost lackluster in comparison to what he had been briefed on. The hero's hands delved with precision to the glint of something thin and metallic in his pockets and with a flick a high-pitched shrill burnt through the atmosphere to reverberate all around him. Wilbur was left stuttering, gasping for air feeling like someone had wrenched his lungs out and through his ribcage, forced out of his shadow with a blinking sputter. He was no longer invisible. CPK was reaching out for him again, except Wil was there, visible, vulnerable, the fields levelled off for them both.
Wilbur stepped back, as the hero shaped into his stance. He only had to get him to listen and then CPK wouldn't be a problem.
The guy clearly had some kind of earblockers, all the heroes did these days to avoid him, and the device's screech must've been blocked out by that too.
The whine of the alarm was still bleating, a shrieking pipe at least a quarter banshee shelling through to his eardrums and straight in the brain. Wilbur winced at the shrill in his head as CPK advanced forward, just managing to parry the rapid fire of punches and kicks sent his way, clearly on the defensive, and without an asset.
He managed to get a punch right to Wil's nose, and the sides of his head bloomed with a new whine in harmony with the howl of the tech. The hero went for another and Wilbur dodged, stumbling to the side of the attack. More akin to bullfighting than true sparring.
The hero moved to tackle again and this time Wil didn't move to evade him, carrying the lithe figure down and trying to wrench his way out of the hold, steeling himself from the whirr of that tiny machine that juddered him in and out of existence. CPK had him, pulling his hand up to his face for an eye gouge, but leaving his right side open at that moment. Wilbur shuffled his hands upwards to reach the ear-protectors. The briefest stint of panic crossed in the shade of the guy's goggles as Wilbur pushed the plugs from his head and surged his way to standing.
CPK fumbled to shove the gear back over his ears before Wilbur could speak but it was too late, he had him caught in a chokehold and whispered a gentle ''stop,'' as the hero relaxed.
Wilbur could have snapped his neck.
He pawed down to grab the slither of silver metal from the hero's glove and dropped it, stomping downwards to stop its screech on the stone paving. The residue of the stabbing noise sat heavy in his head.
''Walk to the first southside park you see and cuff yourself to one of the railings.''
Wilbur loosened his grip, hesitant, waiting to see what CPK would do. The hero pulled himself to standing and trudged away, mindless, not even looking back.
Wilbur slumped against the ground, groaning. His brain was still throbbing from the blare of that tech, and aching against his midriff where CPK had jumped him. He was going to have a migraine tomorrow, that was for sure. He stretched over to grab the remainder of the small padlock-sized plate that lay a few feet from where he'd flopped down, running his hand over the fragile aluminium the wires had been encased in. It looked like some kind of prototype; strange that they'd give it to the hero so unfinished.
Still, it had done a number on his hybrid shift.
He frowned and slipped it into the chest pocket of his overcoat, reminding himself to figure it out later.
It was odd. Everyone knew they'd sorted power suppressors out, otherwise spending time in Pandora would have turned into a voluntary social club rather than a maximum security facility with a reputation for insanity. Abilities weren't beyond reach or restraint. Powers could be stolen as quickly as they'd been ordained. But something stopping people's shifts was unheard of. It wasn't like hybrid traits were superpowered mutations that didn't belong, that were just plain wrong in the scheme of things. Hybrid traits were a part of a person's DNA, you couldn't just interrupt it. It was permanent, a part of them, like trying to add chloroplasts to human cells out of nowhere.
Wilbur felt almost violated.
His actual power was more changeable. An element of himself he had to argue and scrap with until it did what he wanted. Something like the weather, most days caught stagnant in a decision between rain or cloud. It was more like suggestive reasoning than mind control, to be honest, given that someone could resist if they knew how. Phil had long since developed near to full resistance by this time after Wilbur's years of teenage angst and his desperation to piss off everyone and anyone who cared.
First-timers had less success in countering any influence he had over their mind, even if they had a fair amount of willpower. It probably helped that any unlucky bystanders he was forced into compelling wouldn't have experienced it before, as long as coincidence allowed. They felt the barb of a snake coiling around their necks rather than a lull they could haul themselves out of with enough practice.
He sighed and knocked his head gently against the bricks behind him, the smoke from the rest of the hullabaloo further into the conflict crowding round his face. He would never see the city this deserted just as Wilbur, just as him. Even if it was raining ash and shuddering artificial earthquakes. No, this was Siren's privilege. The emptiness. Dimly lit cafes and restaurants with coffees left unattended or spilled in the chaos; shops already having hung up a closed sign for the evening.
He wasn't sure if he'd take the broken vacant city or the live one, had someone forced a choice out of him.
He sighed, and made his way to his feet, dusting the gravel that had pinned itself against his clothes.
The smell of burning wafted through the air more strongly now, the shakes still battering themselves through the concrete. They felt closer now, though. As if the No.1 too was moving toward this side of the district. Maybe Blaze would finally let loose all the way at last. The place was in need of a renovation, sure, and melting this part of town would get the funding it needed.
The sound of burning static was in the air, and Wilbur wasn't interested in sticking around to be chased around fire rings, no thanks. If they'd opted for his simple infiltration mission the whole thing would have been much more low-key. More bother for him, absolutely, if things went wrong, as the others had pointed out, but that wasn't their problem. It wouldn't have gone wrong, anyway.
He sent a message across comms, hoping that Techno and Phil had finally decided to throw in the towel for the night.
-CPK taken care of. Status report?-
-T moving towards you, not responding atm. Dream and Blaze in pursuit. I'm still circling, but can't see most of what's happening down there. Files secured, so get out asap- Phil wrote back, the encrypted message loading in and deleting as fast as Wilbur could process it.
He clicked the device shut and shoved it into his zipped overcoat pocket, hearing it clink against CPK's broken transmitter at the bottom.
Wilbur looked up, hearing voices and conflict pulse out from the far end of the street, still some distance away. The lightning that had been a constant during the battle was stretching out, the gaps between strikes coming in longer and longer.
Wilbur jogged forward, crossing to the left side of the road, and pausing briefly to consider the cloud of fog at the alley's mouth leading to the origin of the quakes. Green light dusted through in tune with the strikes, violent forks faltering through the mist from a short distance away. He glanced back at the deserted boulevard.
''Fuck it,'' he said, walking into the smoke.
----------
''Hurry up, you prick,'' Wilbur said, Techno crowding fast behind him and a stream of fire sent their way.
He had reached Techno a couple of ash-filled streets back towards the plaza and halfway to the subway off of Main Street, caught between the No.1 and 2, throwing up metal shields each second that clattered and faded to nothing, blocking off the jets of fire sent his way and going hand-to-hand with Dream.
The cops never intervened in any of these fights, leaving the heroes and villains to stake it out on their own terms, and this time was no different; the whine of sirens piled up in a blockade back where the cars could drive to instead of the narrow byway Techno had been forced into. Or forced them into. Wilbur's brother was unlikely to be cornered just about anywhere.
Techno had been ignoring the comms messages as per usual, and it took Wilbur blinking in and out of the drama and gesturing towards the alley leading south before he took the hint and headed away from the heroes, shoving the No.1 and flicking on his earpiece as he went.
''I thought you left.'' he said, ducking to avoid a crack of light sent his way - Dream on his feet again already.
''Came back for you, obviously. What kind of prick turns off both their earpiece and communicator?''
''I was a little preoccupied,'' Techno answered, and Wilbur could hear the curve of his mouth in amusement, ''that's lame, though. Could've been a party before you showed up.''
Wilbur huffed, and Techno let out a brief snort, breathless as they weaved through the hero attacks - out and onward.
They reached the through-road's end, leading out onto 5th; a newspaper vendor's stall positioned at the road's edge having fallen onto its side. It was nearly empty from the day's sales, maybe two or three papers left. In black capitals, the headline read NEW COMPETITOR IN ELECTION EMERGES.
Wilbur jumped over the kiosk, and Techno sidestepped it as the dash of the two heroes behind them picked up.
Blaze shot out a wave of heat in their direction from round the road's edge and Wilbur jumped, pulling Techno down with him against the hard floor. His cape - equally as impractical as Wil's brown overcoat - was splayed out over the floor. The red was visible even in the dim of the street.
That one had gotten close, sheesh.
''Don't run. Come on, hit me again,'' Dream yelled out from back down the street, laughing - strained in the way that meant they were being recorded.
Wilbur scrambled up, less than gracefully, gloves scraped open with the number of times he's rolled off of the ground tonight. Techno was up too, but he looked less ready to run than Wilbur - whose stance was all gangle and flee, given that's all that was left for the mission to be a success. But Techno was stopped. There was this shimmer of light beading against his hands in the half-second before Blaze pushed round the corner, Dream covering him.
Techno twisted his hands and unsheathed his ghost-metal from straight air; pure black iron and bleeding with energy fizzled and stoked like icy embers - light burning from it and gleaming along the sharp edges.
He propelled it towards the hero and it collided with a curtain of green lightning that fractured and screamed on impact, Dream having reached across to block the hit on the No.2. Wilbur watched Techno's blade dissolve, caving through the lightning shield with a screeching yowl and shudder.
The thunder burst in Wilbur's ear's like shattered glass; the ringing reverberating through his brain. He reached his hands up to counter the already blown explosion.
Wilbur's ears were ringing, and he could hardly hear as the next second passed in slow motion.
He could make out a muffled ''I swear to god-'' from the hero before Blaze's fist punched forward into an open palm and fire blossomed the colour of dawn.
Techno was moving before either of them could get caught in the wake of flame; Wilbur's feet bursting into action as well. There was a store to the left with glass windows. They jumped - the flow ravaging down the road and narrowly missing them, one of Techno's daggers out and stabbed through the pane. Techno grabbed him, hauling Wilbur under one arm - his own body armour far more reinforced than the bare minimum of padding Wilbur could tolerate so the glass wouldn't splinter through his clothes. The glass shattered, and the inferno followed them into the building, blasting in just above their two huddled forms.
Wilbur groaned, winded from the impact.
''Fuck.'' He muttered, the crackling burn of the blowout caught on the building's ceiling but at least not raging directly above them anymore.
''Bruh,'' Techno said, back on his feet and grasping Wilbur's arm to pull him up, ''the street's burning. Come on.''
They climbed through the storefront, the two heroes having caught the majority of the backwind from Blaze's rush and blasted down from the force of it.
Wilbur cast a glance back at them as he stepped over the glass, hand over his mouth to stop smoke from the shop from reaching his lungs even if his mask would have caught most of it. The heroes were staggering to their feet and Dream moved to push another bolt their way, when a shudder and creak from the left side of the street echoed long and loud.
Half the building collapsed, teetering and slumping like an avalanche destined to crumble. The rubble stretched out for what seemed like a mile; the wreckage caught solidly in a divide between the opponents. Wilbur and Techno had kept their footing at least.
The two started running from the scene, sirens going off, probably from the fire department and police officers given the green light to do something at last instead of standing around to wait. Half the buildings had caught light and were smoking in some kind of way; the villains parting through the black clouds of smoke.
Techno grabbed his arm.
''Wilbur.''
Techno didn't use their real names on missions.
''What?'' Wilbur asked, looking back at his brother in concern, the other's eyes tracking something a little way down the street, above them by about fifty feet.
''Look,'' he said, pointing, and Wilbur saw.
Phil was carrying a kid, a lanky thing struggling against his grip, head-to-toe in some kind of grime. He looked like he'd come up straight out from the sewers. Phil's wings were beating out, frantic and not moving far with the fight the brat was putting up, trying to carry them both away from the buildings that had caught light along the road.
''Jesus Christ.''
They kept tracking onwards, all too aware of the heroes blocked behind them but still hellbent on pursuing, although the chance of being caught now had decreased from slim to next-to-nothing.
They'd reached a gap in the wall-to-wall buildings, a park to the left side of the street, before there was a problem.
It took less than six seconds for the relative calm Wilbur's heartbeat had returned to shred into a hammering panic as the scene above them unfolded.
Wilbur felt the urge to vomit as the civilian started slipping, Phil's arm stuttering out for the falling boy; just brushing, just missing. He felt himself stop breathing.
They might be villains, but they didn't kill kids. Not like this. Not ever.
Techno's run had turned into a sprint, but he knew he wasn't going to make it.
Wilbur couldn't look away as the kid slammed into the pavement.
Wilbur couldn't look away as the figure groaned, stumbling to his feet on the shaken ground; alive, unhurt, unbroken.
Staring straight past Techno who had halted in shock, the kid muttered, ''Where the fuck is my cane?''