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“birds born in a cage think flying is an illness” - alejandro jodorowski
1.
The first time Tommy meets The Syndicate, he’s a new recruit, still in the probationary period of his hero apprenticeship. He’s already survived the first two weeks of intensive training—mornings in classes on each hero, villain and criminal gang of L’Manberg, past and present, and every regulation put in place by the Heroes Committee; afternoons in training rooms with mentors, learning to wield weapons and harness powers; evenings in interrogation rooms, broken down again and again until almost anything can be withstood; nights in a stiff bed with no more than a thin sheet to keep warm, the number of empty beds in the dorm ticking up as recruits drop out of the program (he tries not to wonder how many of them were by choice).
Since it’s fifty-fifty he’ll get through the next two weeks, he hasn’t been given an official name yet, instead addressed by his number out of the original twenty. Eight of his classmates are already gone. He’ll be surprised if that many make it to the end of the month. Some part of Tommy recognizes the dehumanization of it all, but he never expected to get this far in the first place so he doesn’t dwell on it. All the heroes in the League went through the same thing, survived it and came out the other side on top. Tommy wanted to be one of them, so now he must do the same.
“Again,” his mentor snaps, arms crossed and eyes tracking his every move. It feels eerily predatorial, but Tommy ignores the familiar tingle at the back of his neck and focuses on the targets in front of him.
He draws two throwing knives from his belt, one in each hand and adjusts his stance. He inhales slowly, gaze narrowing on the black rings with the sharpness of a hawk at the same time that he blocks out everything else—the whir of the air conditioning, the thud of heavy steps from the floor above, the steady beat of his mentor’s heart—and releases the breath in time with the knives.
The noise of wood cracking as each one hits its mark, embedded just next to the two from his previous throw, sends relief through him but Tommy doesn’t fully ease until his mentor makes a noise of approval.
“Again,” he says, “but with your powers this time.”
Tommy nods, glancing out the glass panels to the sun—after bursting a couple light bulbs his first week, they’d moved him into a training room with windows; he wasn’t complaining, artificial light was a measly substitute for natural light—thankful for the lack of clouds. He draws on it, feeling the familiar tug in his chest before his body surges with energy. If there were mirrors in here, he’s certain he’d see his eyes glowing yellow. Tommy will never tire of the rejuvenated high that only ever accompanies a pull on clear-skied sunny days.
“I’m waiting.” The irritation in the hero’s voice has a jolt of panic racing to the front of his mind, but he takes another breath, settling into position. Using his powers is always ten times as nerve-racking as his knives, or any weapon for that matter. Just like the sun, blinding and bright, he struggles to reign in his light, keep it precise and contained, avoid any unintentional searing.
Tommy inhales, concentrating on the remaining empty space of each center circle as he raises his arms, palms out. He allows the solar energy to flow from his chest down his arms and build in his hands until he can feel the heat, just barely below the point of burning. He exhales, forcing the energy out in two beams in a short burst before pulling back, nearly stumbling. He bites his lip, eyeing the smoking holes in trepidation. They’re barely within the second-most-outer ring.
Not good enough.
As if the man can read his mind, he tuts, shooting Tommy a pointed look. He just bows his head miserably, awaiting instruction.
“I know that’s not the best you can do, seven,” he spits. “Isn’t that right?”
Tommy swallows in an attempt to rid of the dryness in his mouth. It doesn’t work. “Yes, sir.”
“Then stop wasting my fucking time!”
The teen flinches, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Sorry, sir. I’ll do better.”
“I don’t want apologies, I want results,” he snarls. “Again. You’re not leaving until you get it right.”
Tommy nods stiffly, raising his palms.
Imperfect beam after imperfect beam with almost no time to recharge bleeds him dry, swaying as exhaustion clings to him like a parasite.
By the time the sun sets, he’s finally managed to get close enough that his mentor dismisses him with an annoyed grunt, turning on his heel and stalking out the room.
Tommy waits for the slam of the door before he crumples to his knees, heaving. These sessions always leave him drained, feeling as if someone reached into his chest and tore out his heart; there’s nothing left to keep him alive.
He drops his forehead against the mat, eyes shut to combat the dizziness and unforgiving pounding behind them, gut twisting so sharply it sends bile crawling up his throat. He swallows it down, taking several shaky breaths through his nose. Somehow, he manages to pry himself up off the ground and to the bathroom on wobbly legs, dropping in front of the toilet in time to empty his stomach.
Ten minutes later, he rinses his mouth and face with water, wishing he’d drawn more of the sun’s energy before night fell. Tommy grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, scrubbing at his face in an attempt to return some color to it. Eventually, he drags himself to the dormitory, unsurprised to find it empty—after the two week mark, the remaining recruits were cleared for patrols—and pulls out his gear, changing into the black cargo pants and throwing the red hoodie on over his training shirt, the League insignia embroidered over his heart. It feels like a death sentence. He slips on his mask before drawing his hood over his hair, leaving only his eyes visible, and sets off.
Which is how, hours later than his usual patrol time and running dangerously low on solar energy, he ends up face-to-face with the top three villains in the city.
He’d just been freerunning the rooftops in his assigned area, keeping an eye out for any petty criminals to deal with himself since the major ones didn’t normally hang around the outskirts of L’Manberg, tending to cause problems where city life was bustling near the Heroes Tower.
So imagine Tommy’s surprise when he spots a rooftop with three dark, looming figures and hops on over under the assumption he’s interrupting your day-to-day drug deal with a quip, “I don’t know much about drugs, but this does not seem like the best place to sell ‘em, boys,” and is instead met with Zeus, Ares, and Apollo in all their villainous glory.
The three men halt their heated discussion, turning to him with simultaneously puzzled and frustrated expressions.
Shit, shit, fuck, shit.
Tommy freezes, blinking at them as his heart nearly beats out of his ribs, certain that he’s not getting out of this alive.
What a shitty day to die. If he’d known, he would’ve…well, he doesn’t know but he would’ve done something, maybe broken a record or jumped out of a plane.
Zeus tilts his head, huge black wings spreading wide behind him. With the plague mask covering his face, he looks especially birdlike. Tommy’s back aches as he takes in the feathers glistening under the moonlight. He can barely make out blue eyes through shadowed eyeholes and blond hair brushes his shoulders underneath a green-and-white striped bucket hat. Green robes peek out from under a black cloak clasped together with an emerald brooch and the golden staff of a trident glints at his side.
Ares narrows his red eyes beneath an ivory boar mask, hand hovering over the handle of his sword. A red fur-lined cloak billows in the wind, draped over a white button-up. Pink hair lays in a neat braid over his shoulder, gold jewelry adorning his neck, fingers and ears, save for the single emerald hanging from one ear.
Apollo steps forward, eyes hidden behind circular red goggles that rest under fluffy brown hair. A long almost-black trench coat swishes with the movement, gold embellishments bright like stars against the midnight blue. A bow hangs across one shoulder, arrows peeking out from the quiver on his back. An emerald brooch gleams from where it’s pinned to the trench coat over his heart.
“Who do we have here?” His voice comes out low, a sort of hum, and despite its lack of effect, Tommy can feel the power oozing from it. The man continues forward, smooth and slow, like a snake. Although he can’t see the villain’s eyes, he’s certain they complete the image.
Tommy finally jumps back into awareness, arms lifting palms out in the guise of placation—after he presses the panic button on the underside of his wrist—as he backs up slowly. “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen, I’ll just be on my way now,” he chuckles nervously, glancing back to find he’s not nearly close enough to the edge yet.
“Now where do you think you’re going, hero?” Apollo sneers, approaching quicker.
Tommy can barely think around the frantic beating of his heart in his chest, stumbling over himself as he tries to formulate some sort of plan that isn’t just jumping off the roof and waiting for the actual heroes to show up. The other two villains have moved closer as well, flanking their…teammate? Partner in crime? Whatever, but it’s only making his panic grow.
“I don’t want any trouble…” Tommy attempts to soothe as the group rapidly approach the edge.
This time it’s Zeus that speaks, all low and drawn out in a croon. It sends a chill up his spine. “What’s a recruit like you doing all the way out here, hm?”
Tommy ignores him, reaching for the last reserves of his power when his ankles bump the edge. He nearly falls over, lurching forward to catch his balance as the brunet smirks, a fingerless-gloved hand reaching up to grasp the front of his hoodie harshly and pull him closer.
“Nowhere left to go, little hero. Looks like this is the end of the line for you,” he purrs with no small amount of joy.
Tommy struggles against his grip, frantic hands trying to rip his fingers away but despite his lanky stature, the man’s strength outweighs his own.
“Why don’t you tell us why you’re here and maybe we’ll make it quick,” Ares offers, voice rumbling, deep as a bellow and somehow just as loud, in Tommy’s ears. The man’s eyes glow red as he stares the teen down, but Tommy just shakes his head, growling out “Let me go, bitch!”
Maybe not the smartest idea, but hey, he’s not working with much here.
Apollo seems to take this personally, shoving his hand forward so he’s the only thing keeping Tommy from tipping over the edge. He yelps, hands clasping tightly around the villain’s for stability. He stares wide-eyed at the brunet, attempting to calm down so he can think.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Ares raise a hand to his temple, red irises dimmed and swirling with confusion. But he pays it no attention, instead glancing down the side of the building for some sort of…escape. It’s an old building, made of brick and crumbling, with a rusted fire escape zigzagging from window to window.
Bingo.
With a plan in mind, Tommy focuses his attention back at the trio, whose frustration seems to be growing. He feels the familiar tug in his chest, weak as it may be, and allows the energy to flow down his arms, gathering in his palms.
“Answer the question,” Apollo commands, voice dripping with power like venom from a snake’s fangs.
Tommy feels it wash over him but it fades just as quick, a wave retreating with the tide. He opens his mouth and Apollo smirks, but the only words that come out are, “Fuck you.”
The villain reels back, shocked, pulling Tommy halfway up and he pushes the heat from his palms onto the man’s wrist. Apollo yelps, attempting to retract his hand as Tommy holds tight until he’s pulled the rest of the way up before shoving the villain back.
“What the fuck…” he murmurs, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Lovely chat, boys, but it’s time I skedat.” Tommy smirks, hand lifting in a two-finger salute as he prepares to drop down onto the fire escape.
In seconds, he goes from leaning slightly over the edge to plummeting when Ares kicks him square in the chest, knocking the breath from it so fast he can’t even scream. The world moves in slow motion, the last thing he sees before sky is red-hot fury beneath a cold white boar mask, and suddenly he’s falling, falling, falling.
He thinks if he closes his eyes, spreads his arms, imagines he’s flying, maybe it’ll be true. Instead, Tommy throws his body forward, reaching, desperate, for the bars of the fire escape, anything to slow down his drop. He stretches and his fingers brush metal but it’s not enough to grab and he’s falling.
I’m gonna die.
There’s no way he survives the four-story fall—he’s only ever taken a two-story drop before, busting his ankle on the landing, and that was on purpose. Despite that knowledge, his instincts kick in and he twists, curling into a ball and shielding his head with his arms so he lands on his side, eyes clenched shut.
The impact comes abruptly as he slams into the lid of a dumpster, ridges digging into his side as pain explodes throughout his body. His ribs ache and his arm burns, his hip throbbing and head pounding, but otherwise he seems okay.
Holy shit, I’m alive.
The realization draws a laugh from him as he tries to sit up, but his body disagrees with both of those things and he doubles down with a groan. After a bit of prodding, he’s almost certain he’s broken a few ribs and upon testing his arm, he can say the same for it. His vision has gone a bit blurry and the world keeps spinning, so he probably has a concussion, too. He hurts, he hurts bad, but he’s alive and that’s all that matters.
He dips back down to lay on the dumpster, exhaustion shrouding him like a blanket. He knows he shouldn’t fall asleep with a head injury, but it’s getting harder to stay awake. Tommy hopes the heroes are close.
The last thing he thinks before darkness consumes him is:
His mentor is really not going to be happy about this.
Icarus laughed as he fell. Threw his head back and yelled into the winds, arms spread wide, teeth bared to the world.
2.
Tommy tilts his head back, eyes closed, and sighs. When he inhales, it feels like he’s breathing in the sun, light pulsing through his veins and filling him with so much energy it’s blinding.
As soon as the power settles, he straightens, eyes refocusing on the world around him. From his spot on the roof of the Heroes Tower, L’Manberg looks alive. The inner districts surrounding the tower bustle with life, people heading home from work or venturing through the town center. He looks past them toward the outer districts, where the air sits heavy with smog and the only people lingering in the streets are petty criminals or the homeless. It’s where Tommy spent most of his childhood, a street rat fending for himself. His powers are probably why he survived for so long before the Heroes League found him.
It’s also where he spends his days patrolling.
At the end of the probationary month, the six remaining recruits were deemed official, given their own rooms, names, new suits and weapons, and a set of comms—after Tommy’s run-in with The Syndicate, the League instated a new rule that recruits must not engage any major villains but report any sightings and leave it to the heroes. After spending a week doped up on painkillers and healing potions before getting back into action or else face elimination from the program, he wasn’t one to complain.
These past three weeks have worked him to the bone. A concussion and multiple broken bones were the least of his problems when he had to face his mentor.
“How could you be so reckless? Do you know how much fucking paperwork you’ve cost me? You’re lucky I don’t drop you right now.”
That isn’t to say his physical injuries didn’t absolutely suck. The speedrunning of his recovery tore at his body, leaving him drained and exhausted no matter how much solar energy he charged up on. Always sore, never able to fully catch his breath, and mildly afraid of being kicked off another rooftop.
He’s only just barely back to full capacity, though he’s still working on that last problem. Thankfully, it doesn’t bother him so much when he’s freerunning. Those few moments of peace, where it’s just Tommy and parkour, are his favorite time of day. Maybe he can’t stand still at the edge of a building any more, but as long as he can still run across one, it’s not the end of the world.
So that’s what he does, maneuvering himself down the side of the tower and swinging onto the roof of the neighboring building. He rolls out of the landing, using the momentum to boost him forward as he makes his way to his assigned area. He finds his way there easily, saving an old lady from a mugging with a short burst of blinding light on the way.
Fortunately, the city’s pretty quiet today, so he settles against the railing on an abandoned office building, hand clenched tight around the rusted bar as he soaks in the energy of the setting sun. It’s beautiful. At least, it’s supposed to be, all those colors painting the normally monochromatic sky. It means he’s survived another day. It means he has to survive another night. To Tommy, it’s a beautiful tragedy.
“It’s you,” a familiar voice sneers.
Tommy tenses, heart pattering nervously in his chest. He must really be tired if the villain made it this far without him noticing. He swallows down his panic, spinning to face the man, one hand still latched onto the railing and one hand raising to his comm.
“Apollo,” he greets light-heartedly. Until he knows what the villain wants from him, he’d rather not get on his bad side.
The brunet tilts his head, but doesn’t approach. “You’ve upgraded. So what are they calling you now, little hero?’
Tommy hesitates, hand lowering from where it hovers by his ear.
This is Apollo, he thinks. His powers don’t work on me.
Against his better judgment, Tommy steps forward, narrowing his eyes at the villain. “Icarus.”
The man scoffs, crossing his arms. “Who came up with that? Was it you?”
It wasn’t. He hates the name actually. It’s the League’s way of keeping him in check, a reminder of his failures. A nod to the three villains that left him half-dead in an alley. A mockery of what he can never be.
But of course, he won’t tell Apollo that. Instead, he takes another step, crossing his arms to mirror him. “Surprised to see me?”
The villain hums. “I’ll admit we were half-convinced you were dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Tommy says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Better luck next time.”
“Is that an invitation?”
Tommy blinks at him, silent. Did he really not know?
Apollo slinks closer with slow-measured steps and…sings?
“I heard there was a secret cord…” Step. “That David played, and it pleased the Lord…” Another step. “but you don’t really care for music, do you?” The villain is right in front of him now, leaning close to whisper into his ear.
To be completely honest, Tommy’s not quite sure what’s going on. This man is a certified psychopath. He cringes away from the low purr that sends goosebumps down his spine, sidestepping to put some distance between them.
“What the fuck, man? Are you some sort of religious nut?”
Apollo freezes, straightening. Though he can’t see the man’s eyes, he seems baffled. “How…”
Tommy eyes him warily, just as confused.
Suddenly, the air shifts and the villain grabs the collar of his suit, pulling him forward with a clenched jaw. “What the fuck did you do to me?” It comes out raspy and croaked.
The teen just raises his arms placatingly, eyes wide. “Look, man. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The villain holds him for a few more moments before roughly shoving him backwards and running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll just handle this the hard way.”
Tommy frowns under his mask, growing more convinced the brunet is a madman. Before he knows it, Apollo pulls his bow over his head and notches an arrow right at his heart.
Oh, shit.
Somehow, his reflexes kick in just in time to roll out of the way. He turns his head to find an arrow where his torso had just been and scrambles to his feet.
Apollo growls, notching another arrow. Tommy stumbles backward, lifting his palms as they heat up. The villain shoots again and he barely twists out of the way in time.
“Let’s talk about this,” he chuckles nervously, stalling.
“I’m done talking,” the villain snarls, pulling a third arrow from his quiver.
Tommy shrugs. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” He releases a short burst of light and the man drops his bow, stumbling and blinking rapidly.
“Sorry, king,” he says, grinning. “Looks like we’re gonna have to reschedule.” And with that, he takes a running start off the building, certain he won’t be followed.
His mentor doesn’t need to know.
(There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.)
3.
“Icarus,” a deep voice rumbles.
Tommy sighs, wincing when the throbbing behind his eyes spikes. This is starting to become a regular occurrence and it’s making his life much more difficult than he’d like. It doesn’t help that he’s particularly drained today, in more ways than one.
His mentor found out about his impromptu meeting with Apollo—stupid fucking security cameras—and was…less than pleased. After complaining about all the paperwork and meetings he’d have to sit through, he dragged Tommy to a training room and drilled him ‘til sunset. He didn’t hold back while sparring either and the teen had the bruises to show for it.
That being said, he isn’t one to make the same mistake twice and immediately calls in his location. Since the villain has already seen him, he just needs to stall until the heroes showed up.
“Ares,” he greets, spinning on his heel. “What a surprise.”
“You’re not happy to see me?” He drawls, monotone voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Absolutely elated, king. Couldn’t be happier.”
The villain huffs, crossing his arms. Despite being at opposite ends of the rooftop, his gaze narrows on the splotch of red staining the man’s sleeve. There’s a long slice in the fabric, exposing the skin underneath. But in place of a fresh wound, there’s a thin white line.
Though the implications of that don’t excite him, he finds reassurance in knowing the villain can bleed.
“You know,” Ares says, red eyes narrowing. “I didn’t think you’d get back up after you fell. Most wouldn’t have survived a five-story drop.”
“You mean after you kicked me.”
The villain shrugs, stance relaxing. “You attacked Apollo. I was just retaliating.”
Tommy blinks at him, unbelieving. “You tried to kill me!” He shrieks.
Ares rolls his eyes, striding forward.
Immediately, fear shoots through him and he scrambles backward, running into the concrete barrier of the parking garage. His brain recognizes the threat. This isn’t Apollo. It’s Ares. The reason he was stuck in a hospital bed for two days. He doesn’t need powers to kick Tommy off another rooftop.
Panic tightens a noose around his lungs and crawls up his throat, making it hard to swallow.
The pink-haired man continues forward, tilting his head with a frown, as though he doesn’t understand the teen’s reaction. Tommy pushes into the barrier, trying to get away, trying to make himself smaller. The villain pauses and Tommy thinks maybe he’ll realize it’s not worth it and leave. Instead, Ares smirks and twists his hand so his palm faces upwards and rolls his fingers one-by-one to the sky.
Suddenly, Tommy’s body tugs up and he’s lifted just barely off the ground. He tries to stop, to move, but he can’t. He has no control over his body. The realization nearly chokes him.
“What is this? What are you doing?” He cries, fighting to do something, anything.
Ares chuckles darkly, fingers closing down against his palm and, suddenly, Tommy’s flying forward. “It’s called bloodbending, kid. I can control blood, which means I can control you.” Just as Tommy’s thinks he’s about to slam into him, the villain turns his wrist to hold his palm out in a “stop” motion.
The teen tries to struggle, but he feels disconnected from the rest of his body. “Why are you doing this?”
“Apollo told me you withstood his siren song,” he hums. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
More like unlucky.
Sure, his ability to resist mental powers is probably what saved him on the streets, but it’s also why the League took interest in him in the first place. Sometimes, he thinks he would’ve been better off without it.
When Tommy doesn’t respond, the villain grunts in disappointment. “Icarus…” he mutters, almost to himself. “You don’t even have wings.” Tommy’s breath hitches. “Theseus would suit you better, don’t you think?” When Tommy doesn’t answer, he continues, “You know the story, don’t you?” He lifts his free hand to trace a sharp black nail down the teen’s mask and neck, hovering over his throat. “A hero, exiled by his own people, cast off a cliff to his death.”
The words send a chill down Tommy’s spine and he growls. “Put me down, fucker!”
The villain’s face hardens and his lips curl into a sinister grin, tusks bared. “If you insist, Theseus.”
Tommy doesn’t have time to process the words before his body tugs backward. Toward the edge, he realizes belatedly. The panic grows so strong he has to swallow the sobs that beg to spill from his lips. “Wait, no- please,” he chokes out, voice wavering.
Distantly, he hears sirens. The heroes.
Ares must realize the same thing because, a foot from the barrier, Tommy crumples to the ground. By the time he looks up, the rooftop is empty. Trembling, he drops his head into his hands and cries.
His mentor would call him weak.
The wax scorched his skin, ran blazing trails down his back, his thighs, his ankles, his feet. Feathers floated like prayers past his fingers, close enough to snatch back.
4.
Philza smiles when he spots the young hero. Even flying so high in the sky, his eyes easily pinpoint the telltale red-and-black suit of Icarus. He circles a few times before dipping down to land silently on the rooftop behind him.
“I’m starting to think you lot are stalking me,” the kid accuses, pivoting and drawing a knife from his belt, aimed at his chest.
Phil startles, wondering how the kid knew he was here, and raises his arms in surrender. “Whoa, why don’t you take it easy, yeah?”
“Sorry,” he drawls sarcastically, “if I’m a little on edge around the number one villain.”
He chuckles, nodding in understanding. “I just want to talk, mate.”
“Forgive me for not believing you. The last two villains I talked to tried to kill me.”
“Right, sorry about that. My partners can be a bit…excessive,” he sighs.
“No kidding,” the hero mutters, but he lowers the knife, taking to twirling it around his fingers as if a reminder of the threat—not that it would do much, but the thought is respectable.
Phil tilts his head, watching the boy carefully. Something about him feels…off. It’s almost like what he felt with Techno and Wilbur when he first met them, but different. Stronger almost. Like there’s something he’s missing.
“So?” Icarus prompts. “You wanna talk? Talk.”
“Why are you a hero?”
The boy tenses, caught off guard, before his gaze hardens, narrows. It’s almost adorable how threatening he tries to appear. “Why are you a villain?” He snarls, unwavering.
Phil chuckles, wings lowering behind him. He doesn’t miss the way Icarus traces the movement with a sort of childlike wonder. “I suppose that’s fair. Well, I just got sick of the way the government treats powered people. Once I saw the truth about that, I started seeing the truth about other things, too.”
Icarus reels back, eyes wide, like he didn’t expect the villain to answer the question.
“Your turn,” Phil prompts gently.
The boy drops his gaze, eyebrows furrowed. “I want to help people. I…I have a g- power, I can protect people who can’t protect themselves. There are so many innocent suffering in this city, how could I not at least try to make it better?” There’s a weight to his words, a heaviness someone so young shouldn’t carry.
Phil hums in consideration and some part of him thinks, how could a kid have seen so much bad and still want to do good?
“Is it worth it?”
Icarus glances up, tired blue eyes meeting curious ones. “What?”
“Becoming a hero,” he clarifies, thinking of a bruised and bloodied piglin hybrid, of a skinny brunet with swollen vocal chords. “Is it worth all the pain?”
The boy tenses, blinking incredulously. “How do you…”
Phil smiles bitterly, though he can’t see it. “How do I know? Let’s just say I’ve had enough experience with the Heroes League to last me a lifetime.”
“I don’t know,” he mutters, and something tells Phil he wasn’t meant to hear that. Before the man can continue his interrogation, Icarus blurts out, “Your wings- do they ever, um, hurt?”
Phil frowns, wings fluffing up on instinct. Hurt? Why would he want to know about that? “What do you mean?” He tries to keep his voice soft, but he can’t help being on edge. Wings are a sensitive topic, especially if the League wants to know something.
The kid meets his gaze, eyes swirling with emotions that Phil can’t place. He searches the man’s face for something, but whatever it is, he must not find it because he looks away just as quick. “Nothing, nevermind.”
Something in him twangs at the disappointment in the boy’s voice, the sadness, and he immediately wants to fix it.
“Sometimes,” he offers, prompting a questioning look from Icarus. “If they get injured, of course. Or if I keep them in too long, or go too long without preening.”
The hero nods slowly, unblinking, mumbling the words to himself as if trying to ingrain them in his memory. Phil almost wants to ask why, but he doesn’t get the chance when the kid asks, “Do you ever wish you didn’t have them?”
He says it so solemnly, but Phil can’t imagine a world where that isn’t a joke. His wings are a part of him, they’re who he is—losing them would be like losing his arms.
“No,” he says, firm. “Never.”
He doesn’t know what answer Icarus was hoping for, but the hero nods once and turns away. Something tells Phil that wasn’t it.
Without another word, the hero takes a running start off the rooftop, disappearing over the side. Phil wonders how he ended up with more questions than when he got here.
Death breathed burning kisses against his shoulders, where the wings joined the harness. The sun painted everything in shades of gold.
5.
Technoblade groans, knowing nothing could stop Wilbur when they spot the familiar red-and-black on a passing rooftop. As expected, his brother makes his way over and he follows suit, the two landing softly behind the hero.
Before either of them can say anything, the kid spins around, knives drawn and gaze sharp. He watches them warily, but there’s a darkness behind his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“I’m getting real tired of you villains showing up on my patrols,” he spits. It’s nothing like his usual light-hearted banter. The air sits heavy with tension and it makes Techno’s skin itch, like he’s missing something important.
“Maybe you should stop hanging around rooftops, little hero,” Wilbur coos tauntingly. “Especially when they’re so easy to throw you off of.”
He inwardly rolls his eyes at his brother, but he doesn’t miss the way Icarus tenses, gaze hardening. His hand raises and Techno steps forward, clocking the threat. Before he can process it, the hero moves, quick and precise, and two knives impale his chest. The impact shocks him more than anything and he glances down. They sit, perfectly mirrored, just inside of his shoulders. Distantly, he recognizes they weren’t kill shots, but it’s lost beneath the anger, beneath the growing cacophony of voices that demand blood at the threat to him and his. Without a second of hesitation, he rips the blades out and drops them, using his powers to speed up the clotting process. The wounds are mere scars within seconds and he strides forward.
The hero lifts his palms, aiming both at Techno, but he pays no mind, at least, not until the teen’s eyes start glowing. Wilbur must sense the new threat as well because he lurches forward in an attempt to stop the kid. Instead, Icarus turns his aim onto the brunet and fires a blinding beam into his shoulder. Techno watches his brother collapse to the ground with a shout, hands shooting up to his wound with a warm glow to heal it. Assured he’ll be okay, the pink-haired villain returns his focus to the shaking hero in front of him. Though he knows it’s nothing fatal, he succumbs to the blind rage, hands lifting and curling until Icarus levitates a few feet off the ground.
Blood
Blood
Blood for the Blood God
BLOOD
Blood for the Blood God
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
Technoblade allows it to consume him, deafening the rest of the world as he twists his wrist and the hero’s finger breaks, pulling a muffled yelp from beneath his black metallic mask. He curls his fingers meticulously, delighting in the crack of bones and accompanying cries as each of the boy’s fingers bend at unnatural angles. The voices egg him on, demanding more and he supplies, wrist twisting harshly and a succession of three loud cracks echo—arm, arm, leg—followed by a disturbingly childlike scream. It clears his mind enough to catch Wilbur’s words.
“Ares, that’s enough.” His voice drips with siren speak and he can’t help but listen to his brother, releasing his hold on the hero who crumples to the ground like a discarded marionette. The sight of his small body, bent and broken, has Techno stumbling backward, shaking the red from his vision and forcing the voices to the back of his mind. He kind of feels like throwing up.
Instead, he rushes to Wilbur, whose dark gaze scrutinizes him. He ignores it, pulling his brother to his feet and walking away without a word or glance behind him.
(There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the centre of the flames.)
+1
Tommy shivers, slumping against the wall of the shower and sinking down to the floor. The water trickles over his face and down his back, but he doesn’t notice. All he can feel is the snap of bone, the explosion of pain, the cold ground beneath his broken body, then nothing. Until he wakes up and feels it all at once then all over again as each is set one-by-one before he’s pumped full of healing potions.
“Is it worth it?”
No, he thinks. No, it’s not.
But this is all he has, all he’s ever known. Without it, he’s nothing.
So he drags himself off the floor, finishes his shower, and stumbles to his room. He focuses on the mission, forces everything else from his mind.
“One last chance, seven. You get one last chance to prove we shouldn’t have given someone else your spot.”
So that’s what he’ll do because the alternative is worse than death.
Even as his joints, still sore and stiff, protest any sudden movement, his bones ache like they’re still broken.
He can’t afford to fail.
If he does, he hopes the villains kill him.
Tommy doesn’t know if the universe is gifting him or punishing him when he stumbles upon the entire Syndicate on that same rooftop where they first met. The trio stands in a circle, arguing, with three black duffle bags tossed at their feet.
“Icarus,” Zeus blurts, alerting the other two of his presence. They turn to him with equally grim expressions, though the dramatic edge of their villainy is lacking. Tommy can’t be bothered to question it, mind hazy of all thought that isn’t to finish this.
The winged blond tilts his head, blue eyes burning into him as if he could unravel all of Tommy’s fraying threads and see him for what he really is:
A scared kid.
Tommy turns away, unable to look at the only member of the group who’s shown him any kindness. He doesn’t think he can look into red eyes and stay standing. So he focuses his attention on Apollo, the only one he’s sure he can hurt.
He feels the familiar tug in his chest, allows the energy to gather in his palms, hotter and brighter than ever before. The brunet shifts as if to approach him and he raises his hands, taking a breath before releasing it all. A blinding beam shoots into the villain’s torso and he screams, dropping to his knees. Tommy grits his teeth, ignoring the guilt that curls in his stomach, the bile that crawls up his throat. He just pushes harder, feeling his reserves bleed dry.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ares flinch unsurely, like he doesn’t know whether to charge Tommy or run to Apollo. He feels warmth on his face and realizes his nose must be bleeding when the thick taste of iron fills his mouth. He laughs maniacally even as his energy dwindles, already opening up his chest to recharge from the sun.
His mentor was right after all; he really did have more in him this whole time.
Just as the last drops of solar energy leave his system, the sky darkens. Tommy gazes up deliriously to find Zeus hovering above the rooftop, wings flapping aggressively, trident in hand. Dark storm clouds roll in, hiding the sun behind layers and layers and Tommy realizes it’s over. His light fizzles out and he drops to his knees. Rain pours heavily around him, mixing with the blood on his face. Through blurry vision, he sees Ares stumble to Apollo’s side, cradling his body and pressing a hand to the smoking hole in his stomach. Above them, Zeus lifts his trident to the sky, charging it with lightning that crackles as loud as the booming thunder. Like this, he truly looks like a god.
Blearily, Tommy’s glad. He’s done his piece. It’s done, he’s finally done.
He hopes the villain makes it quick, even if he doesn’t deserve it.
With a bowed head, he sits back on his heels and awaits his final judgment.
The storm roars around him, as loud as the fury in his head and as destructive as the wrenching of his heart. Someone hurt his son, someone hurt Wilbur, and must face justice. He swoops down to the rooftop, landing heavily in front of the culprit knelt on the ground. The hero’s head hangs low, hands twitching in his lap.
He’s waiting to be killed, Phil realizes. Some part of him grieves for the kid, but a larger part takes delight in the promise of retribution. But first-
He turns to his sons, Techno holding Wilbur like something fragile, and it breaks him. All he wants to do is curl large wings around them and hold them close. He focuses on Wilbur first, senses sharpening, and releases a heavy sigh upon detecting the faintest of heartbeats. He’s alive. Then, he looks to Technoblade, wracked with grief and uncertainty, and sees the same lost little kid he’d rescued all those years ago. He chirps, low and warbly, comforting, soothing. Techno visibly relaxes and he turns back to the hero.
He’s heaving, struggling and curling in on himself. Phil frowns, unsure what’s happening, when the kid releases a chirp, high-pitched and frantic, scared. Immediately, his instincts cloud his mind and all he can think is baby bird and protect. He croons, low and firm, a sign of comfort and authority meant to calm or reign in fledglings. The boy whines, doubling down as wings rip from his back, arching up as they extend to their full length. They’re a sorry pair, bloodied with twisted feathers. Only when the rain washes them clean can he see their true golden hue. They’re beautiful and it makes him want to rip apart whoever forced this kid to hide them away, to hurt himself.
Icarus. Such a cruel fate.
Suddenly, a lot of things make sense and he finds himself needing to take care of this kid. This kid who has just passed out into a puddle of bloodied rainwater. Immediately, Phil draws back his powers, ignoring the exhaustion that sits heavy on his shoulders and crouching down beside the boy. He pulls him gently into his lap, mindful of his wings, and pushes his hood off. Golden curls frame his face, perfectly matching his wings, and it makes Phil smile. He brushes back the wet hair, cooing when Icarus leans slightly into the touch. Trailing his hand further down the back of his head, he finds the clasp of his mask and releases it, gently removing the metal. What he sees makes his heart clench. This is a kid, younger than he imagined, a fledgling, who needs flock, needs someone to nurture him, shower him in love.
Without hesitation, he cradles the boy to his chest and stands. Techno looks to him, equal parts concern and confusion swirling in his eyes.
“We’ll figure this out together,” he promises, eyes dipping to the unconscious child in his arms. “Let’s go home.”