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“You cheated!” Wilbur accused, frowning at the screen showing him in second place. Kristin laughed sweetly from beside him; it was a contagious sound. Even Wilbur couldn’t resist the smile tugging at his lips.
“It’s not my fault you’re bad,” Kristin teased. “How about a rematch?”
“Oh, you’re on.” Wilbur was desperate to get at least one win.
Kristin set up the next round of Mario Kart. Of course, she picked Rainbow Road. Wilbur sucked at that one.
“Come on! Can we play a different map?” Wilbur whined, already accepting his defeat. “This isn’t fair.”
Kristin chuckled, looking away from the screen to grin at her son.
“We can do best of three,” she compromised. “You can pick the next map, okay?”
Wilbur gave a high-pitched groan, slumping against the couch. “Fine.”
They picked their characters (Wilbur always played Waluigi and Kristin chose Rosalina).
As expected, Kristin kicked Wilbur’s ass. He fell off the map at pretty much every corner, ran into his own banana peels, and ultimately ended up in last place. Kristin easily came in first.
Wilbur threw the controller onto the cushion beside him, throwing a tantrum.
Kristin laughed from the loveseat.
“Come on, Wil,” she encouraged. Wilbur wished she would brag about getting first place or something. Techno and Phil always did! Why’d she have to be humble? It made the whole thing more humiliating. “We have two more maps.”
Wilbur perked up slightly at that.
“Tick-tock clock?” she asked, looking back to the TV. Wilbur nodded eagerly.
Even with his eagerness, the race was over before it began. Wilbur had the advantage of playing on his favorite map, but it wasn’t enough. He crossed the finish line, barely a tire behind Kristin, but still in second. It was a fucking scam. He should’ve won that round.
“I quit,” Wilbur moaned, burying his face in a pillow. “I’m never playing Mario Kart with you ever again.”
“Oh, Wil,” Kristin cooed. She held her arms open, gesturing for Wilbur to sit with her. “Come ‘ere.”
Wilbur sniffled, layering it on thick. He looked up with puppy dog eyes and a deep frown. Kristin only rolled her eyes.
“How about we find something else to do? We can watch a movie until Phil and Tech get back?”
Wilbur’s bottom lip quivered. Was he being an overdramatic theater kid? Absolutely. But was it justified? Yes.
“Okay, I’ll let you pick the movie,” Kristin sighed, interpreting his sad look. She grabbed the TV remote from the coffee table and threw it to her son. It would’ve hit him in the face if he didn’t move at the last second. “Find something to watch. I’ll go grab some snacks.”
Wilbur wasted no time turning off Mario Kart and switching over to Disney Plus.
Decisions, decisions.
He totally wouldn’t choose the most theater-kid-esque movie so he could put on a performance in the living room.
Never.
That’d be crazy.
Imagine!
Wilbur singing ‘It’s a Hard Knock Life’ while Kristin threw popcorn at him and booed. Yeah, that’d never happen in a million years.
…
Ok, so maybe it happened at least once a month. More if Wilbur had a say in it, but Techno would just beat the living fuck out of Wilbur until he gave up the remote.
He was a killjoy. Techno simply couldn’t appreciate the arts. Stupid piglin brute.
Wilbur queued up ‘Annie’ and waited for Kristin to return. To pass time, he scrolled through Twitter.
Unsurprisingly, Twitter had nothing valuable to add to his life. Not even any funny cat memes. He closed the app, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch. He wrapped it around his shoulders and twiddled his thumbs, waiting for Kristin to come back.
Instead, the front door squeaked open. Wilbur listened for footsteps as the door slammed shut.
“Techno-” Phil was home early?
“Stop!” Techno growled, his deep voice reverberating down the hall. “Go away!” He sounded angrier than usual, which was saying something.
Wilbur frowned as he listened in. What upset his brother that much?
Techno started stomping toward the living room.
“Technoblade!” Phil tried again, his much lighter footsteps following behind. “Come back here! Listen!”
Techno rounded the corner, brutish hands curled into white fists. His normally neat hair was disheveled; large strands of hair fell out of his usually meticulous braid. He only glanced in Wilbur’s direction for half a second before growling and continuing to his bedroom
Wilbur sat on the couch just staring at Phil, too awkward to say anything.
Phil’s face was full of concern; he looked equally as disheveled. His wings were ruffled behind him, a few primaries out of place, and his suit jacket was unbuttoned and wrinkled.
Phil’s glassy blue eyes landed on Wilbur. He froze.
The tension, somehow, grew even thicker.
“What happened?” Wilbur asked nervously, hesitant to break the silence.
Phil sighed, mountains of tension falling from his slumped shoulders. His wings drooped slightly, bending when they reached the floor.
Kristin walked in with a bowl of popcorn in her arms, smiling wide. However, her grin dropped at the sight of Phil.
“Phil?” she asked sweetly, walking forward and delicately dropping the bowl on the coffee table. Kristin wandered over to her husband, softly placing a hand on his shoulder. Phil met her eyes, a sad smile growing on his lips. She set her other hand on his cheek. “You okay?”
Phil nodded weakly. “Yeah, just a little mishap at work. Techno’s upset.”
Kristin and Wilbur frowned. That was never good. Especially not on a day like this, where Phil was supposed to meet up with another gang to make a deal.
“Did something happen with Grian?” Kristin asked what they both were thinking. She carefully pulled Phil towards the couch until they dropped onto the sectional; Phil leaned heavily into his wife’s side, mindlessly wrapping one wing around her.
“No,” he started, unsure of himself. “Well–”
Wilbur tensed up.
“No, not like– No. Grian wants to form a partnership.”
“But?” Kristin coaxed
“He’s coming back next week.”
Wilbur raised an eyebrow curiously. It was meant to be a one-off meeting.
“Some little shit interrupted us. He took some pictures when I paid Grian. Techno went to hunt him down, but he somehow escaped. Prime knows how. Grian wants him dead or the deal is off.”
The other two froze. No one had ever evaded Techno. It wasn’t something that just happened. Techno had earned a reputation at this point of being completely merciless. It was what kept the family safe. Techno was the reason people didn’t double-cross them.
They could survive without partnering with the Hermits; Wilbur wasn’t too concerned about that fact. What he was concerned about was someone escaping Technoblade.
“What?” Wilbur interrupted before he could stop himself.
Kristin shot him a glare, quickly turning back to Phil.
“We can deal with that in the morning, okay, love? There’s nothing we can do about it right now.”
Phil could’ve easily argued the point. He’d done so many times in the past, especially if it was one of his sons. But Kristin got wife privilege. He would listen to anything she said.
He relaxed, sinking deeper into the couch and Kristin’s side. He looked up to the TV screen where ‘Annie’ was waiting to be played. Surprisingly, there was no comment about Wilbur’s choice.
Movie night was a lot more tense than usual, so much so that even Wilbur toned the singing down, especially once Phil started snoring. He must have been truly exhausted.
Wilbur just hoped things would be okay in the morning.
After the movie ended, and both his parents were curled up and asleep, Wilbur snuck away to his twin’s room.
He knocked only once before the wooden door swung open, and Techno was dragging him inside.
Techno was frantic, slamming the door once Wilbur was inside. His pupils were dilated, his hair loose and knotted, and his room was a disaster.
While Techno’s bedroom was usually annoyingly neat, that wasn’t the case tonight. Blankets and laundry were thrown across the room carelessly, throwing knives were embedded in the walls, and Techno’s bed was filled with stray pieces of gold.
Wilbur didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. If he had guessed, he"d assumed that Techno would still be in a pissy mood, throwing the piglin equivalent of a tantrum.
Techno grunted, pulling his twin to his nest.
Before he could even protest, Techno was shoving him into the middle of his blanket pile. He grimaced when a piece of gold pressed into his ribs
Techno made a concerned huff at his reaction, grabbing whatever it was and throwing it out of the nest. It was just some golden necklace with an arrow charm. Techno discarded it with ease, seemingly far more fascinated by the golden necklace around Wilbur’s neck. Everyone in the family had matching ones with an emerald at the end. Wilbur only took it off to shower and sleep.
Techno chuffed, turning around and pacing to what used to be a walk-in closet, but what was now a storage space for Techno’s hoard. The walls were covered in shelves upon shelves of anything even remotely gold or just shiny. There might’ve been a few non-gold items such as gifts from past holidays and birthdays.
Wilbur noticed a stuffed whale in the bed beside him and snorted. He was convinced he lost that three years ago. Techno was never going to live that down.
He shifted slightly, only to find a more comfortable place to lay before Techno returned, pupils still wide.
Emotions were never Techno’s strong suit. Anyone could’ve told you that. But he and Wilbur were twins. They grew up side by side. Wilbur knew Techno better than Techno knew himself.
After whatever happened at work, Techno shouldn’t have been alone with his overflowing emotions. He wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but having someone there always helped him calm down significantly.
Phil had Kristin. Techno had Wilbur.
Techno stepped out of the closet with his arms full of jewelry, staring at Wilbur with a frightening amount of determination.
He padded over to the bed and carefully set down the gold beside Wilbur before getting to work. Gradually, Techno put every single piece of gold jewelry on Wilbur. His fingers had no room left for rings, his wrists were covered in bracelets up to his elbows, and he had so many necklaces it hurt to lift his head. Two circlets were shoved on his crown, overlapping and tugging on brown curls. Earrings were added to the piercings Wilbur forgot he had.
Wilbur let his brother dress him up, lightly humming a soothing song as he worked. When Techno seemed satisfied with Wilbur’s immobility, he climbed into the nest and curled up beside his twin
Techno wrapped his arms around Wilbur, putting his chin on Wilbur’s head.
The piglin chuffed happily. Moments later, he started purring. He grumbled something along the lines of, “mine. Hoard. Mine. Mine. Mine.”
Wilbur shut his eyes and basked in Techno’s warmth. He liked when Techno was clingy. It was the only time he could get attention without being made fun of.
In the morning, they’d figure out what to do about the escapee. But, for that night, they’d take care of each other. They always did and always would. Nothing could come between them.
♡
“So,” Wilbur clarified, staring at the photo in his hand. “You want me to kill this kid? That’s it?”
“Yes,” Phil sighed, close to slamming his head onto the desk. “He’s the dumbest hybrid alive. It shouldn’t be a hard job.”
Wilbur analyzed the picture. It looked like some after-school club; about fifteen kids were gathered around a trophy. One of them had a red circle drawn around his face. He had to lean over awkwardly to fit in the frame. Small, fuzzy, grey ears stuck out of his blonde hair, braces lined his wide smile, and dark markings decorated the area surrounding his eyes. A raccoon hybrid.
“So, if he’s ‘the dumbest hybrid alive,’ how did he escape Techno?” Wilbur chuckled.
Phil groaned, running a hand down his face. His wings puffed up slightly.
“That’s the question of the day, innit?”
Wilbur laughed quietly to himself. Phil, on the other hand, found no amusement in the situation.
“Well, if I must clean up your messes, father dearest,” Wilbur sighed dramatically, standing up with a theatrical flair. “I suppose I can take care of your little rodent problem here.” He sighed. “Start movie night without me.”
“Wil,” Phil scolded lightly. “Don’t drag it out. It’s a-”
“Liability,” Wilbur finished for him, well acquainted with the speech. “I know. I know. But it’s more fun. So, you can suck it, old man. I haven’t had someone to fuck with in like, a week.”
“Prime, you’re starting to sound like your brother,” Phil groaned, running a hand down his face. “Just– take care of him before the sun sets.”
“Yessir,” Wilbur mocked with a salute.
Phil rolled his eyes. “His name is Theseus. I texted you his address, but he’s in school until three. You can figure the rest out, mate.”
“Consider it done,” Wilbur grinned, backing out of his dad’s office.
Wilbur strutted back to his room, dropping down in front of his PC. Killings kids was always a pain because their fucking parents complicated everything. The things Wilbur did for his family. They needed to appreciate him more.
It only took about thirty minutes of scouring the internet and questionable sources to get everything Wilbur needed.
Theseus Simon Innit. Fourteen-years-old.
That made Wilbur pause. He never had to kill anyone that young. Usually, kids weren’t stupid enough to get involved. Most didn’t even know a crime family had their city in a chokehold. But, whatever. It was his job. It was Theseus’ fault for getting caught anyway.
238 Prime Dr., L’Manburg, SMP.
He lived in a rather middle-class neighborhood. It wasn’t anything special, to be honest. Money was often a major motivator as to why people got involved in organized crime. Theseus didn’t live in poverty. Cash wouldn’t have been that great of an incentive. For fucks sake, his parents probably paid for everything of his.
His parents.
Clara Innit. She was a therapist who specialized in working with hybrids with learning disabilities.
Evan Innit. He worked for an insurance firm. Nothing exciting.
Wilbur must’ve been missing a few pieces because Theseus had zero reasons to try and intercept a meeting between Phil and Grian. Money didn’t make sense. Neither did power. What would a fourteen-year-old do with blackmail? Ask for a pony?
Regardless of the perspective Wilbur took, he couldn’t find a connection.
Eh, he could ask once he had the kid in his custody. The ‘why’ didn’t matter. What happened happened. Theseus fucked himself over and had to pay. Wilbur got to play as the tax collector. Lucky him.
Around two o’clock, Wilbur drove over to the high school. It was stereotypical, but whatever. The kid looked like he could be stupid enough to fall for the old ‘hey, your mom sent me to pick you up’ thing. If he didn’t get in the car, well, Wilbur had his ways.
Then came the absolute best part of Wilbur’s job: waiting.
Waiting outside a school felt just slightly wrong. Granted, he never should’ve had to be there in the first place. Kids weren’t supposed to get involved. Ever.
Wilbur got impatient quickly. Waiting people out was more Techno’s style. Fuck that.
He walked into the front office of the school.
“Hi,” he greeted the woman sitting behind the front desk. “Uh, I’m here to pick up my little brother. Our mom got in a bad car crash. I’m taking him to go see her at the hospital.”
“Oh,” the lady shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your brother’s name?”
“Theseus Innit.”
Her fingers danced across the keyboard for a while. She chewed her cheek, squinting at her monitor.
“I’m not seeing a brother on file for Theseus. Could I just see an ID or something real quick?”
Wilbur internally groaned.
“Get Theseus down here,” he commanded . “Let him walk out with me and forget I was here.”
The woman straightened up, a foggy look overtaking her features. Mindlessly, she reached for the office phone.
Within a few minutes, a scruffy-looking blonde boy walked into the office with a book bag over one shoulder.
He looked even worse in person than in the photos Wilbur found.
His eyes darted the room nervously, expectantly almost. His mop of blonde curls was unmaintained and matted. The fuzzy grey ears sat low on his head, nearly hidden in the rest of his dirty hair. The boy didn’t even manage to fill out the worn clothes he was wearing. They were baggy and oversized on him. A ringed tail whipped anxiously behind him.
Uncertain blue eyes landed on Wilbur.
He grinned.
“Theseus,” he acknowledged smugly.
The boy took a step backward, eyeing the exit behind him.
“Ah ah ah, eyes on me,” Wilbur taunted, pupils dilating.
Prey. Prey. Prey. Hunt.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
Theseus opened his mouth before shutting it promptly. He reached for his pocket.
“Don’t,” Wilbur warned lowly, a growl in his tone. The kid froze. “Let’s not make a scene. We can talk in the car.”
Theseus stared at Wilbur, biting his lip nervously.
His powers sucked ass. Sirens were made to lure one person to their death at a time. Meaning, Wilbur couldn’t coax the kid to walk out and keep the receptionist intoxicated.
Whatever. He’d dealt with worse people than some scrawny child. He’d happily drag him out by the tail if it came to that.
“Theseus,” Wilbur called, gesturing to the door. “I have things to do. Let’s go.”
The hybrid hesitated. He considered something but ultimately stopped himself. He looked around like someone would be around the corner to come to his aid. Wilbur didn’t have time for his shit.
He sighed, taking two long strides forward. He was easily a foot taller than the boy.
Theseus tried and failed to suppress a whimper as he tilted his head up to meet Wilbur’s eyes. His tail curled around his leg, ears completely hidden in blonde hair.
Wilbur sighed contently, a ghost of a smirk on his face. Nothing ever compared to the feeling of someone being afraid of you. It was pure power. No one in their right mind would challenge you if they believed their life was in your hands.
“Hello.” Wilbur forced a thin smile, tilting his head slightly. “I’d love to sit around and chat, but, unfortunately, I’m on a bit of a deadline.”
Theseus stayed frozen in place, shaking slightly. Wilbur rolled his eyes before he reached forward, grabbing a handful of blonde hair. He cringed at the grease that rubbed off onto his fingers. Gross.
Theseus made some raccoon sounds Wilbur couldn’t begin to describe. He tried planting his feet into the carpet, but his efforts were useless. He growled and even tried biting, but nothing worked in his favor.
Wilbur yanked on the roots of his hair, earning a yelp of pain. He kept his teeth to himself after that, opting to use his claws instead.
Wilbur sighed. Fucking hell. He was an annoying little shit.
He wasn’t even a threat, just inconvenient.
The moment the pair got outside, Wilbur dropped his control over the receptionist. He had more pressing matters.
“Sleep,” Wilbur hissed, ancient magic slipping into the word.
Theseus instantly went limp. He would’ve face-planted into the cement if it weren’t for Wilbur catching him.
He picked up the kid bridal style, walking across the parking lot to his car. Wilbur deposited the hybrid into the passenger seat. His fate was sealed.
How did that kid manage to get away from Technoblade? Wilbur couldn’t figure it out. That had to be one of his easiest jobs thus far. The kid wasn’t even strong enough to put up a decent fight. Wilbur could toss him around like a rag doll if he wanted to. And, prime, did he want to.
Well, Wilbur had a new playmate. He had the kid that somehow endangered his family’s business. Honestly, it was all pretty embarrassing for Techno. Maybe Wilbur would let Techno take a swing at him.
Though, Wilbur would get his turn first. If he decided to keep him alive after that, Techno could go to town. Blood for the blood god or whatever.
Techno always talked about the voices demanding blood or some shit. Wilbur called bullshit. He just needed some way to justify doing bad things to people. Unlike Techno, Wilbur knew he was a bad person; he had no problems hurting others for his own enjoyment. Morality was relative.
♡
Wilbur sat on a crate across from a wooden chair in the middle of the empty warehouse. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands with his elbows on his knees.
The quiet was getting boring. Wilbur stopped the sleep command nearly thirty minutes ago. Yet, the kid decided to take a nap, apparently.
Wilbur stared around idly.
A backpack leaned against the crate under him. Inside, an array of weapons sat innocently. He hadn’t bothered to pick anything out to use on Theseus yet.
Wilbur was fucking bored.
He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in the backpack. Phil always yelled at him if he smoked anywhere near their home. Wilbur rarely got chances to sit around and smoke. He’d wake the kid up after.
Some tiny part of him hoped the boy would wake up on his own. But he didn’t.
Wilbur got to the end of his cigarette with a familiar burning sensation in his chest. He pushed himself to his feet, taking a few steps toward Theseus.
Wilbur pressed the hot cigarette butt into his hostage’s arm.
Theseus instantly jerked awake, screaming and trying to move away from the pain but getting nowhere. His wrists and ankles tugged on tight ropes binding him to the chair.
Wilbur watched him squirm.
The boy yelped and whimpered, desperately pulling at his binds. The ropes refused to give him an inch. Theseus started to tear up.
It amazed Wilbur what pain did to people.
Wilbur pulled his hand back, dropping the cigarette to the floor and snuffing it out under his boot.
Theseus panted, gawking at the red and black dot on his forearm. Slowly, he came back around. His eyes shot up to glare at Wilbur, a growl rolling off his tongue.
“Fuck you,” the child spat, raising his lips to show off four sharp canines.
Wilbur returned to his crate, sitting down in front of the snarling boy.
“Right,” Wilbur hummed, promptly moving on. “You, Theseus, have caused my family some problems.”
Theseus relented on the snarl, confusion flashing on his face. It left as quick as it came. The anger returned instantly.
“I’m going to gouge your fucking eyes out, dickhead!” Theseus threatened, pulling his arm in an awkward direction. It did nothing to free him.
Wilbur clicked his tongue, overemphasizing the realization in his face. “Of course. You’re a child. I have to simplify this for you, don’t I?”
“I’M NOT A-”
“You’re going to die,” Wilbur stated simply, silencing the kid. “Today. Right here. In this warehouse. Probably in that very chair, if I’m feeling merciful.”
Theseus had no quip at the ready. He shot Wilbur a dirty look but kept his mouth shut. Wilbur grinned sadistically at his silence.
“Wonderful. If you want a quick death, you’ll answer my questions honestly and be a good pet.”
Theseus opened his mouth before quickly shutting it again. The murderous look in his eyes multiplied. Wilbur took note of it. The pet comment struck a nerve. To be fair, it would bother most animal hybrids.
“Good,” Wilbur praised. “First question. Who do you work for?”
Basic. Stereotypical. But important nevertheless.
“No one, asshole. Go fuck yourself.”
Wilbur raised his eyebrows, emotions caught between shock and disbelief.
“You have quite the mouth on you, huh?” Wilbur said more to himself. He looked down at the backpack beside him. “I think I can fix that.”
“Eat shit and die,” Theseus naturally responded. The words left quickly, seeming to surprise him equally as much. Though, he made no effort to take the statement back. Theseus stood his ground, despite his predicament.
Wilbur laughed. The kid had spirit, that was for certain. Most people instinctively go to flight. It wasn’t often he got a fight response. They were so much more satisfying to break.
“Theseus-”
“Tommy,” the hybrid snapped. “My name is Tommy, dickhead.”
Wilbur looked at him with a blank face.
“If you’re going to kill me, at least use the right name. It’s basic manners.”
What would Thes-Tommy know about ‘killing someone etiquette’?
“Mhm, sure,” Wilbur nodded.
“Now you tell me your name,” Tommy instructed bitterly. Wilbur quirked an eyebrow. What the fuck was he on? “Were you raised in a fucking barn, bald bitch boy?”
He automatically ran his hand through his hair. Bald bitch boy?
“Wilbur,” he humored Tommy. He was dying regardless. What difference did it make? “Wilbur Craft. Son of Phil Craft. Right hand–”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up. I asked for your name, not some mile-long, pretentious title.”
“That’s a pretty big word for you.”
“I’m going to stab you, Wilbur,” Tommy spat his name like it burned his tongue. “That’s a stupid name. You’re named after a pig.”
“You’re named after someone who killed a fucking minotaur but acted surprised when a power-hungry king saw him as a threat and threw him off a cliff.”
Tommy turned his head away with an angry chuff. “Piss off.”
“Not an option. You dug your grave. Now, lie in it.”
“I didn’t do shit!” Tommy barked.
Wilbur gave him an ‘are-you-serious’ look.
“Uh-huh. What would you call taking incriminating pictures of a mob boss?”
Tommy’s head snapped back to meet Wilbur’s dark eyes.
“I did what?” Tommy asked, staring at Wilbur like he grew three heads.
“We’re a bit past the point of playing dumb, darling.”
Tommy grimaced. “Ew, don’t fucking call me that.”
Wilbur exhaled heavily. He was getting distracted; he had a job to do. Tommy was all bark, no bite. The moment Wilbur got a weapon close to the kid, he’d crack.
“Tommy, let me remind you: you’re tied to a chair. You can’t do anything to fight back. You aren’t in control here. I can slowly skin you alive and feed you your eyes, should I so please. But, no. I am being nice to you and offering to put you out of your misery quickly. All you have to do is answer my questions. Is that so difficult?”
“Whatever,” Tommy scoffed, glaring at the rope around his wrist.
“Lovely. Allow me to ask again. Who do you work for?”
“Allow me to answer again,” Tommy mocked. “No one.”
“Tommy,” Wilbur hissed dangerously, rising to his feet. “How’s your pain tolerance?”
“I’m not lying, prick!” Tommy defended with a growl. “What’s your deal?”
Wilbur reached down to unzip his backpack. He pushed aside some of the more lethal weapons to pull something smaller out. He turned back to Tommy, curling his fingers around the brass knuckles.
“Oi!” Tommy panicked, trying to get his limbs free again. “Fuck off! Fuck you! Fuck– fuck– get away!”
Wilbur grabbed Tommy’s chin in the hand without the brass knuckles. Tommy tried jerking his head away, but Wilbur only tightened his hold. The boy could only look straight at his captor.
Wilbur cocked his head, trailing his eyes over Tommy’s face.
“It’s a shame. You’ve got a pretty face,” Wilbur murmured. “Last chance?”
“I’m telling you the truth!” Tommy whined, his tail whipping against the chair. “I’m serious! I don’t– I’m not– I–”
Wilbur brought his fist back.
Tommy tried to speak, but his words got mangled and choked out by desperate squeaks and chitters.
Wilbur drove his fist into the side of Tommy’s face.
The raccoon hybrid yelped and whimpered, unable to make any other sounds. His head swiveled loosely on his neck. A trail of blood fell from his nose and down his face. He didn’t seem to notice it getting into his mouth. The side of his face was a bright red; it’d turn into a disgusting bruise if Tommy lived much longer, which didn’t seem to be the case.
“Try again,” Wilbur demanded, shaking out his wrist.
Tommy couldn’t conjugate any words. His vision blurred, and the world spun. He couldn’t speak, only able to make a few pathetic sounds.
Wilbur huffed, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“How about something easier?” Wilbur suggested. “What’d you do with the camera?”
“Th’ c’mra?” Tommy mumbled quietly, more like a thought that slipped out accidentally.
Wilbur crouched in front of Tommy, leaning his elbows onto the blonde’s knees.
“Mhm. The whole reason you’re in this mess.”
Tommy’s face distorted with pain. If that was how he was reacting after one punch, Wilbur was enthralled to find out how far he could go.
“Stay with me, kid.” Wilbur gently slapped his cheek, no intent behind it. Tommy flinched dramatically at the touch anyways. “Focus on me. Where’s the camera?”
“I–” Tommy stared at Wilbur, furrowing his eyebrows downward. “What?”
Wilbur laughed quietly, pushing himself to his feet.
“Tommy, dear, you’re making this unnecessarily difficult. Not that I have a problem with that. I’ve been waiting for someone to tear apart. Lucky you, hm?”
Tommy scrunched his face up, muttering something under his breath.
“I hope you understand you have the power to make this stop.” Wilbur raised his armored knuckle, setting it on Tommy’s red cheek. The kid jerked away at the contact, but Wilbur’s hand followed. “Realistically, I have no reason to hurt you. I can get answers without torturing you. Where’s the camera?”
“I returned it,” Tommy slurred, stiffening when he came back from the haze.
Wilbur’s sadistic grin faltered. He needed to drive his point home first.
“It"s as simple as that. I can squeeze out all the information I could possibly want from you. No harm done.”
Wilbur drew his fist back and slammed it square into Tommy’s jaw, grinning the entire time.
The boy whimpered and coughed, blood mixing with the spit in his mouth.
“But this? This way is so much more fun.”
Tommy came back around much quicker than the first time. There wasn’t fear in his eyes, which amazed Wilbur. There was only anger. A burning desire for revenge. It looked good on the kid.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tommy snarled.
Wilbur smirked, eyeing the boy with a hunger in his eyes. “I used to ask myself the same question. Then, I realized we’re all monsters, aren’t we?”
“Fuck you,” Tommy grumbled. “You’re a sick fuck.”
“Maybe,” Wilbur trilled happily. “Shall we continue, darling? Who’d you give the camera to?”
“I don’t know!” Tommy replied hurriedly, twitching when cold metal pressed lightly against his face. “I don’t know!”
Wilbur raised an eyebrow, not convinced. “Tommy…”
“I don’t! I swear! I never saw his face!” Tommy panicked, his words bleeding into one another. “I’m telling the truth! Use your stupid voice thing! I. don’t. know.”
Wilbur took his fist off of Tommy’s face, staring at him blankly.
“I don’t!” Tommy argued, returning the eye contact. “What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Wilbur laughed maniacally. “My problem is that you, Tommy, have evidence that can ruin my family"s life. And you’re sitting here, trying to tell me ‘you don’t know’ who has that camera? Come up with a better lie, Theseus.”
“I’m serious, bitch boy!”
“Right. You just mean to tell me you accidentally got involved with the mafia? And you accidentally-”
“Woah, woah, woah, woah. Hold the fucking phone,” Tommy interrupted. “The fuck do you mean, the mafia? Isn’t that just made up for movies n’ shit?”
Wilbur faltered, gawking at Tommy. That– that was a joke, right? It had to be. He had been playing dumb the whole time. It was just another lie. Albeit, that was possibly the worst route he could’ve gone with the lie, but it was clearly just a fib.
“No? They’re– the mafia is a very real thing,” Wilbur answered, equally confused. Okay, fuck the torture bit. He’d get back to that later. “What do you know about the Craft family?”
Tommy tilted his head. “The what?”
Wilbur’s world stopped turning.
“Dude!” Tommy exclaimed, shaking his head. “Stop! That feels fuckin’ weird.”
“Wait,” Wilbur muttered, just above a whisper. “You… don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Hang on,” Wilbur sputtered. His mind struggled to keep up with whatever the fuck was happening. He dropped back onto his crate, letting the brass knuckles fall into the backpack. “We need to talk.”
Tommy sighed, dropping his head down. “Piss off.”
“No,” Wilbur said seriously. The malicious tone dissolved into confusion and genuineness. “You’re– how did you– start from the top.”
“Of?”
“Are you involved with any gangs?”
“No– FUCKING STOP THAT!”
Wilbur’s eyes widened, lips parting slightly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Tommy complained.
Wilbur was, to say the least, intrigued.
When a hit was placed on someone, they knew exactly what they did. They’d spend their time with Wilbur cursing out the Craft family name and spitting in his face. They stayed loyal to their cause– well, as loyal as one could be while having the truth drawn out of them with a blade.
But this Tommy kid didn’t have the slightest clue who he crossed.
He had nothing against them.
He wasn’t playing dumb.
How fascinating.
“Tommy? Let’s get a few things straight, shall we? You interrupted a meeting between Phil Craft and Grian Hermit.”
Tommy lifted an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Short blonde dude with the wings?” Wilbur tried to explain as his interest and curiosity wove together. “Stupid green and white hat?”
Tommy’s eyes instantly doubled their size. “OH! That dude? He was creepy as fuck. I hate birds.”
Wilbur suppressed a chuckle at that. He’d give that one to his father; the man could be unsettling when he wanted to.
“Yes, that one.”
“Is Grain like an avian name?” Tommy asked uneasily. “It’s, uh, different, for sure.”
“What? No, it’s not grain. Grian. Like gree-in,” Wilbur annunciated.
“Grian?” Tommy parroted. Wilbur nodded, humming praise.
“Grian.”
“What about him?” Tommy questioned, trying to figure out all the pieces of the puzzle. He had half of them; Wilbur had the other half. He kept sorting through his, looking for the other two corner pieces with no luck. He had to be overlooking them, right?
“Grian is a business partner, in a way. He runs the next town over. He was here to work out an agreement with Phil,” Wilbur explained. Even if Tommy was in the wrong place at the wrong time, he still endangered the Crafts. His death was inevitable. The information wouldn’t have an opportunity to leave between the two of them. “You ruined that with your little photoshoot.”
“But you said something about the mafia?” Tommy redirected the conversation. “What does that have to do with anything?”
For being kidnapped, getting tied to a chair, and having a bloody (potentially broken) nose, Tommy seemed very civil about the whole thing. Wilbur wouldn’t complain. He wanted to clear the air and have all the details before killing the mutt.
“They– are mafia bosses?” Wilbur said.
The situation seemed to settle in. Tommy’s ears bent down, and his face twisted with dread.
“That means…” Tommy quietly trailed off.
Wilbur watched silently, allowing the parts to click into place.
He looked up at Wilbur.
“Oh, fuck.”
There could’ve been worse reactions.
“Yup,” Wilbur confirmed.
“I should’ve listened to Tubbo,” Tommy groaned, seeming more inconvenience than afraid. “Fuck.”
“Tubbo?” Was ‘Tubbo’ involved? Did Wilbur have another kid to deal with?
Tommy straightened his posture, a growl in his throat.
“If you so much as look in his direction, I will fucking murder you, dickhead.”
Oh.
Oh!
That was intriguing.
“Did Tubbo tell you to-”
“NO!” Tommy shouted instantly. “Tubbo had nothing to do with your stupid fucking gang bullshit!”
“So who is he?”
“It doesn’t matter. What do you want to know about the sketchy camera dude?”
Wilbur struck gold. This ‘Tubbo’ figure meant something to Tommy. He was willing to give up everything he knew to keep the attention off Tubbo.
Wilbur had two options. He could pry and learn more about Tubbo. Or, he could let Tommy change the subject and pocket Tubbo for later.
“Sketchy camera dude?” Wilbur pressed.
“The dude who wanted me to take that picture of Phil and Grass.”
“Grian,” Wilbur corrected.
“Grass. Grian. Grain. Same thing.”
“Not exactly,” Wilbur mumbled. “Anyways, who was he?”
Tommy scoffed. “We had this conversation already. You broke my nose over it.”
Wilbur’s eyes dropped from Tommy’s, scanning the injuries on his face. They weren’t pleasant to look at.
“How do you not know who he was?” Wilbur moved on.
“Well,” Tommy took a deep breath. “I was distracted, and he was wearing a hood!”
“Distracted by what? Okay, actually, start over. How did you meet him?”
“Funny story,” Tommy laughed nervously.
Oh no. Wilbur braced himself for the worst.
“Before I explain this, I was already yelled at! I don’t need a lecture from you too.”
How bad could it be? Wilbur was almost concerned for the kid.
“Promise you won’t yell at me!” Tommy demanded childishly, yet nervously all the same.
That comment broke something in Wilbur.
Tommy was just a kid.
Obviously, he knew that! He was fourteen. But, mentally, as well. Tommy wasn’t some kid forced to grow up too fast and involved with gangs and organized crime.
No. Tommy was a sheltered, naive kid who was meant to be spending his days drawing dicks and making cum jokes. He never should’ve been in that chair with a bloody face.
Wilbur couldn’t…
No, he had to. It was his job.
“I promise,” Wilbur agreed lowly.
“Good,” Tommy grinned. “Okay, so like last week I was skipping school because history is so fucking boring, and I hate my teacher. He’s all old and like mehmehmehmeh wars and shit mehmehmeh. Like, please, shut the fuck up. I swear he lived through the events we’re being taught! He’s practically dust!”
Tommy was a kid whose biggest concern should’ve been passing history, not escaping a crime family.
“Anyways, uh,” Tommy paused, trying to remember where his story was going. “Right! So, I was skipping class, and I was taking a walk on the southside.”
Southside? Why the fuck would he be-
“And this dude like dragged me into an alley!” Tommy gasped dramatically, getting a little too into the storytelling. Wilbur was officially worried. How was Tommy still alive? “And at first I was like, ‘oh fuck, I’m about to die. Stranger danger.’ And this guy was wearing a hood, and he was so sketchy. But then! This dude gave me a hundred dollars in cash! So, obviously, I heard him out.”
For fucks sake. Wilbur was going to break his promise. Tommy needed a lesson on common sense and self-preservation.
“And he was like, ‘I’ll give you ten grand if you take a picture of these two dudes.’ It sounded easy enough, so I was like why not? I like money!”
Wilbur held his head in his hands, disappointed. “Please, tell me you did not-”
“Why else would we be here?” Tommy deadpanned.
“Tommy!” Wilbur scolded. “You can’t just-”
“You promised! So, shut it, bald boy!”
Wilbur sighed, struggling to find words. “I– you– prime– I’ll be back.”
Wilbur rose to his feet, grabbing his pack of cigarettes before walking outside. He ignored Tommy shouting about being left alone.
He couldn’t kill Tommy! That boy took the ‘wrong place, wrong time’ trope to the extreme. Wilbur wished it was all a lie, but it was too far-fetched for that.
Wilbur leaned against the brick wall, letting hot smoke fill his lungs. The burn wasn’t sharp enough to distract him from the mess in his mind.
What was he supposed to do? The kid didn’t deserve to die. Whoever recruited a random child needed to be the one at the end of Wilbur’s wrath. They had to be messed up to resort to that.
No one, logically, would involve minors. It was a universal, unspoken rule. Everyone obeyed that, regardless of their alignment. It wasn’t even for moral reasons, necessarily. Kids were just messy, unreliable, and a pain in the ass to deal with.
So, who the ever-living fuck got Tommy wrapped up in their life?
None of their immediate rival gangs would stoop that low. They were established groups with no use for children.
It could’ve been a smaller group trying to get leverage. That would make sense if they didn’t know the unspoken rules, but still.
It was a fucking mess for everyone involved. Wilbur was supposed to cover up a random kid’s death. Some parents were meant to go on with their life like their only child wasn’t murdered. And the Crafts had to figure out what lowlife was gunning for them.
Wilbur stared at the sky, ruining his lungs until the cigarette was useless. He dropped it to the ground, pulling his phone out.
Three contacts taunted him.
He could call Phil. Phil would probably insist Tommy needed to die regardless. The boy got involved; whether he meant to or not didn’t matter. They needed to make an example of him. If they let one person off the hook, it’d ruin their reputation. Phil was too focused on business. He didn’t see people as people, beyond his family, of course.
Techno was– actually, not a chance. Techno would drive down to the warehouse and kill Tommy himself. He was quite literally the worst option. If Wilbur let Tommy go, Techno would probably hunt him down anyway and leave his severed head at Wilbur’s door.
Kristin. She could be very hit or miss. Yeah, she was nicknamed the ‘goddess of death,’ but she was the most level-headed of everyone in his family. Well, level-headed was a relative term. She had the most mercy when it came to killing people.
The phone was ringing before Wilbur could process his movements.
It rang twice before someone picked up.
“What do you want?”
That was not Kristin.
“Tech? Why do you have Mom’s phone?” Wilbur asked sheepishly.
“She’s in Dad’s office. Left it in the kitchen,” Techno explained. “What do you want?”
“Tell Mom to call me back.”
“Why?”
Wilbur groaned. “It’s none of your business.”
“Doubt that. Did you deal with the kid yet?”
Wilbur panicked. It made sense he’d ask; that was what Wilbur was supposed to be doing. But Wilbur wasn’t smart.
He didn’t think before he hung up and rushed back inside.
When he got back, he locked eyes with Tommy, who was leaning forward, chewing on the rope around his wrist. He froze in place like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Wilbur sighed, rounding in front of Tommy. Awkwardly, the blonde sat back up. Surprisingly, he did some damage to the rope, but not enough to break it.
“Tommy, you said you gave the camera back, right?”
“Yeah?”
“How long ago?”
“This morning. Why?”
“Where?”
“Southside. Where I met the dude.”
Wilbur made a sound mixed between a groan and whine. Tommy wasn’t even the person they wanted dead. He had nothing of importance to them.
Wilbur grabbed a pocket knife from his backpack and approached Tommy.
The hybrid panicked, trying to move away. The knawed rope started to split, almost untying.
“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH,” Tommy chittered. “We can talk about this!”
Wilbur used his free hand to pin Tommy’s wrist to the arm of the chair. With the knife, he sawed at the rope until it fell from around his wrist.
Tommy stopped freaking out and struggling. He stared at Wilbur with a confused face.
Wilbur repeated his actions on his other wrist and both ankles.
“I’m not letting you go, by the way,” Wilbur said, zipping the backpack up and throwing it over one shoulder. “We’re going on a field trip because I have to clean up your mess now.”
Tommy stayed in the chair, glaring at Wilbur skeptically.
Wilbur sighed, grabbing Tommy’s wrist and dragging him up. The young hybrid stumbled to his feet, tripping over the air as he trailed behind Wilbur.
“Stop!” Tommy protested. “What are you-”
Wilbur stopped walking abruptly. Tommy slammed into his back.
“Ow,” the boy grumbled, rubbing his nose. It mostly stopped bleeding, but probably hurt like a bitch anyway.
“Tommy, darling, you amaze me. It’s a miracle you haven’t been killed yet,” Wilbur said sarcastically, spinning around to face him.
“That’s your whole job, innit?” Tommy asked, seeming unfazed by the idea of death.
“Yes, it was,” Wilbur confirmed, his voice stressed and strained. “But I had a change of heart.”
“Uh,” Tommy stuttered, trying to back away. “What d’you mean, big dubs?”
Wilbur yanked Tommy forward by the wrist, pulling the kid into his chest. Tommy stiffened in his arms but didn’t move to escape.
“I was given orders to kill you, starlight, but I’m not sure I want to anymore,” Wilbur hummed, something dark in his voice. There was much more to the statement than what was said; that much was obvious.
“What?” Tommy whispered, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.
“I think I’m going to keep you for a little while.”