Chapter Text
When Tubbo claws back awareness, four wooden walls surround him. Six, counting the floor and ceiling. Slivers of light leak in through narrow gaps between slats. When he raises a hand in front of his face, he can barely discern it in the gloom. Everything smells woody. Woody and exhaust-fumey, but the wood makes sense. The exhaust fumes…
The six sides of his wooden prison hum like they’re alive. The floor vibrates with the low rumble of a car engine. Or a truck engine, or… whatever it is. The world shakes and shudders as the vehicle drives over rough roads. They hit a pothole, there’s a jolt, and Tubbo’s head hits the ceiling. As if it wasn’t already aching enough. He slouches lower, curling against the opposite wall. He may not suffer from claustrophobia, per se, but if his opinion meant anything he’d definitely be trapped in a bigger box.
Actually, if his opinion meant anything, he wouldn’t be trapped in a box at all. If his opinion meant anything, today’s patrol would have ended without a hitch, he and Tommy would have both made it home, and Tubbo would’ve gone back to chipping away at bugs in his police scanner program that’s been acting up, or trying to persuade Jack Manifold to help him test a new (hopefully non-lethal) gadget. Being inside this box — this crate — was not his decision. Given the choice, he’d rather be anywhere else. But that’s sort of the idea with kidnapping, isn’t it? You don’t get to choose.
Maybe making decisions isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He sure regrets the last decision he made — one that can only be called a complete and total failure, a dumb-fuck decision made by an utter moron.
Happens to the best, but oh boy was this a bad one!
Today’s patrol began like any other. Tommy fancied some action, so naturally they saw next to none. They ignored a police scanner alert over a counterfeit £20 note (yawn), reunited an old lady with her lost grandson (she was panicking as though he were a missing toddler — he turned out to be about fourteen, and seeking temporary respite from her), until, at last, something exciting cropped up.
A stolen purse. Tommy didn’t see it happen, but Tubbo happened to be in the right (wrong) place at the right (wrong) time. The thief, wearing a long black coat with the hood pulled up, snatched the bag right off the shoulder of a shocked middle-aged woman. He ran off and Tubbo pursued. First through the air, buzzing along with his mechanical wings, then on foot when forced to land, as the thief had dashed under an overpass.
He followed the thief into a deserted storage lot. Rows and rows of shutter doors, rusted and covered with graffiti, concealing who knew what behind. Most were locked shut, but a handful were cracked open enough for a small person to duck beneath. It was quiet. A little creepily so. The thief was nowhere to be seen. Tubbo had lost him. Maybe he came here to dump the bag, intending to pick it up later? It had to be worth ducking his head into a few hiding places, just to check.
Then came his mistake. Potentially the worst — and potentially the last — mistake of his life.
Over their comms system, Tommy had asked him: “Hey Tubs, where are you?”
A very normal, very reasonable status check. Sometimes Tommy gets carried away and loses track of him, but this time Tubbo was the one who ran off, so he couldn’t blame him for asking. And instead of answering — he could have answered, he should have answered! — he had muttered in reply, “One sec.”
Regardless of what happens to him, that’ll be the last time he makes that mistake.
Tubbo thought nothing of it. Too intent on listening out for the scuff of footsteps, he crept along in silence. Out the corner of his eye, movement. Metallic screeching as a shutter door was dragged open, then…
Things get hazy after that, the pieces difficult to sort into the right order. There was a lot of loud, a lot of pain, a bit of feeling unable to breathe, and then a lot of being on the ground. Alarms whined in his helmet, trying to alert him to damage. He remembers Tommy’s voice too. Asking if he was alright, and when he didn’t give a response, growing more frantic. Demanding to know where he was, and what had happened. God, Tubbo wanted to tell him. He’d wanted to tell him so badly. Only problem was his brain had forgotten how to make coherent thoughts happen, let alone words.
At some point, Tommy’s voice was stolen away. Everything went from light and colours to very, very dark. Loud bangs came from above and thundered all around him. Later, upon pressing a hand to the ceiling, pushing against it and thinking it through, he’d realise that was the sound of nails being hammered into the crate — they’d properly sealed him inside.
He must have come to his senses a few minutes later. The haziness retreated to a dull ache in the back of his skull. Since then, he has sat in this box, and very little about his situation has changed. Everything he had on him is missing. No wings, no helmet (therefore no comm link to Tommy, which explains his silence), and no anything else; no phone, no weapons, no utilities, nothing. Even the few pennies he had floating about in his back pocket are gone. Bastards.
Nausea stirs in his stomach at the vehicle’s erratic movement — twisting, turning, taking what feels like constant wide bends. At first, he made a feeble attempt to keep track of the route. Left, right, straight on for a while, left again… or was that right? What were those first two again? He soon gave up. Instead, he focuses primarily on not throwing up, which would only make this experience even more unpleasant. Questions upon questions keep clamouring for his attention. What the hell is going on? What do these people want? How far do they plan on going? Where do they plan on going?
Of course, blind in this box, he won’t find answers. As the texture of the vibrations below shifts and the vehicle begins to slow — is it moving backwards? Parking? — he tastes bile in his throat. The longer his blissful ignorance lasts, he decides, the better.
The vehicle halts with another nauseating jolt. The engine shuts off, and his wooden prison stills. The new silence is deafening. His ears ring in the void, and his heart hammers painfully. What now?
For an uncomfortably long time, there’s nothing. Then the sounds of a couple of car doors clicking open, then slamming shut. Tubbo presses an ear against the side of the crate, straining to hear anything. Voices, footsteps, wind, machinery, anything, but outside it’s agonisingly quiet.
Then he hears voices. Low ones. It sounds like only two, both deep — one far deeper than the other — and male. They speak shortly, indiscernibly. Almost like they don’t want him to hear.
The voices quieten. The ground tilts slightly; the vehicle’s carriage dips as someone clambers on. A shadow falls over the box, blocking out the meagre light sneaking between the slats. His stomach lurches as the box is picked up. Tubbo gasps, then clamps two hands to his mouth to stifle the sound. He isn’t sure why. It’s not like these people don’t know he’s in here.
The shadow outside takes one step with the box, a second, a third, each one marked with a sickening shake. Then the box meets the ground again with a heavy, painful thud.
For a moment, all is still.
A harsh shove sends the box sideways. It tips, and Tubbo feels weightless. The world tumbles around him. The box hits solid ground with a deafening BANG. He fails to brace himself, and his chin strikes painfully against what was a wall, now the floor. A shocked yelp escapes him.
Outside, a scoffed laugh. Spoken through a grin, the less deep of the two voices asks, “Whatcha do that for?”
“Thought it might break,” the other rumbles.
“Lazy git,” sneers the first, but there’s no venom in it. “Go on, just go grab the thing.”
The thing? What the hell is the thing?
Now that the box lays on solid ground, Tubbo can no longer feel the goings on around him. It’s an unpleasant numbness. All he can do is listen to the sound of someone clambering back onto the vehicle. There’s a quiet rummaging — searching for something? — before they step back down. Heavy footsteps thud, thud, thud as they approach the box.
Movement flashes above; a narrow gap of light spills along an edge of the box. Something has been jammed in there. A crowbar. The angry metal thing jabs scarily close to his head. He shrinks away from it. Despite having nowhere to go, he presses himself against the back wall.
The wooden panel creaks, threatening to snap. The gap of light grows, the crowbar wiggling from side to side to wrench the gap wider. There’s a snap, then a snapsnap, snapsnapsnap, of nails torn from their embedding. Finally, the lid is prised off. It falls free, tips, and slams into the ground. The box floods with light and fresh air.
Goodbye, blissful ignorance.
One of the men — the one sans crowbar — stands ahead of the opening. From where Tubbo hunches, as far towards the back wall as possible, all he sees are the man’s legs. That’s until the man crouches, squatting on the balls of his feet. His face is not the eye-catching thing about him, however — it’s his aspect, from which Tubbo has to fight not to recoil.
The guy’s right arm isn’t a right arm at all. In its place trails a long, rope-like, fleshy appendage that snakes along the ground, getting thinner and thinner towards the end. It’s as though his arm formed from clay, and was stretched out to create this grotesque new limb, four or five metres long. It’s also filthy, like it's been dragging on the floor collecting grime. The thing twitches like a dying snake. Tubbo feels like he might be sick.
The man’s build is narrow and wiry. His features are pinched, his skin pockmarked. If Tubbo’s staring offends him, he doesn’t show it. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow lopsidedly.
“Alright, little man,” he drawls. “Out you come.”
Logic says: Do it. Logic says: You have no idea where you are, and these guys hold all the cards. Logic says: You’re less likely to get hurt if you cooperate. All logic screams that he should be cooperating. He needs to move. Why can’t he move?
Uh, duh? Because everything about this is fucking terrifying?
His heart thrashes in his chest like a caged animal. His entire body buzzes with an anxious energy, right down to his fingertips. Despite begging his limbs to move, they remain rigid, wooden. What’s happening? He faces down dangerous criminals almost on the daily, and never freezes up like this. He can’t. If he freezes up, he gets killed. Tommy gets killed. But this isn’t like that.
He wants his wings. He wants any sort of weapon. He has neither. Without fight, nor flight, what’s left?
Freeze.
Snake-Arm’s sneer twists into a scowl. He straightens and steps closer. Tubbo wishes he could scramble further back into the box. The tendril arm drags across the floor at first, then lifts like a snake charmed. The end shoots towards him and curls around one of his left arms. He’s yanked him forward, out of the box, and he lands hard on his knees. Like a marionette on a single string, he’s dragged upright, and he scrambles to gain his footing. The snake arm releases him, retreating to lay about its owner's feet.
Breathing hard, Tubbo looks around. He sees a vast, empty warehouse. Walls made from concrete blocks, girders stretching across the ceiling and strung with cobwebs, rows of grimey windows about twenty feet off the ground. Windows so grimey, it’s impossible to make out the sky behind them. The whole place is dim, and smells musty. Dirt, dust and debris coats the floor, as though it hasn’t been swept in decades.
As he takes in his surroundings, Tubbo turns and comes face to face with… not a face. A torso. His stare travels upwards as he looks upon the largest human being he’s seen in his life. The man glares down at him from a height of eight, maybe nine feet. His hair is closely cropped, giving his head the appearance of a mean-looking beach ball, and he wears a white tank, torn at the hems. His arms, his shoulders, all of him bulges with muscle. He clenches the crowbar in a football sized fist. Suddenly, the fact that only one person lifted his box — as nonchalantly as a crate of milk — makes perfect sense.
Parked behind the Giant is the vehicle that delivered him here: a service truck with a flatbed and a dusty red cab. Behind that lies the warehouse’s sliding doors, open and revealing dusky sunlight. Beyond that, a lot of green — rural land, isolated and unfamiliar.
Somehow, the wide open exit isn’t a comfort; it’s a taunt.
“W-what is this?” he says, twisting back to face Snake-Arm — the more talkative of the two. His voice comes out meek, and he hates it, so he attempts to swallow his fear and try again. “What do you want?”
Snake-Arm huffs, raising his eyebrows. “Well I dunno, kid. How about we start with you making this easy, hm?”
“What does that mean?”
“Means less of the questions.” Snake-Arm glances above his head at the Giant. Some kind of silent communication passes between them.
Before Tubbo can react, he feels a pressure close around his two left arms. The Giant takes them in one huge fist, gripping them tight and pinning them together. Instinctively, he tries to tug away, but the grip is like stone. This man could pick him up and dangle him if he wanted, or snap his bones like twigs, and there’d be nothing he could do about it.
That won’t stop him trying. He stares up at the goliath, and with as much defiance as he can muster, says: “Get off me.”
As he wanders past them both, back towards the truck, Snake-Arm scoffs. “Yeah, go on. You tell ‘im.”
Admittedly, that wasn’t very much defiance.
Snake-Arm hops up onto the flatbed, and with the tendril-arm, reaches for something out of sight. “It’d be inconvenient if you ran off, see?” he calls conversationally. “Neither of us really feel like chasin’ ya.”
Tubbo’s left hands are starting to tingle with numbness. He wants so badly to fight, claw at the Giant’s fist, try to pry his meaty fingers off, but common sense demands he bear it.
Don’t be stupid. Put up with it. Put up with it, and you survive.
Hopefully.
Snake-Arm hops back off the truck, carrying a small black bag in his one hand, and dragging a large item with the tendril. It rattles across the bed of the truck, until he lifts it into the air and Tubbo sees it’s a rusted metal folding chair. The tendril snakes around it, curling around the back and base and legs, deftly unfolding it, before plopping it down on the ground. Wordlessly, he marches across the warehouse, the chair scraping along the floor behind him.
Without warning, the Giant sets after him, dragging Tubbo along. His strides are monstrously wide, one step to Tubbo’s three, and Tubbo has to fight not to be pulled off his feet.
Not far from the wall, Snake-Arm stops, uncurling the tendril from the chair. The Giant yanks Tubbo forward, swinging him around — he has no choice but to be tossed like a rag doll — until he stands with his back to the chair. Finally, the Giant lets him go.
A beat of silence. It’s obvious what they want, yet he can’t move. He still feels paralysed.
Snake-Arm wanders back around the chair to face him. The tendril snakes up again, and pokes him in the chest. “Take a seat, little man.”
Tubbo wants so badly to refuse.
No. Don’t be an idiot.
He sits. The chair creaks beneath him. His palms feel clammy, so he wipes them on his trousers. It doesn’t help. Now the two men tower over him even further. The idea of looking up at them feels pathetic, so he bows his head, hunching his shoulders, and stares at his lap. That doesn’t feel much better.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees them pass something between them: the little black bag. Snake-Arm hands it to the Giant. The Giant removes something Tubbo can’t quite see from it, then lumbers towards him. He crouches down, snatches one of his wrists and drags it towards the chair’s frame. In his huge hands, he holds a black plastic cable tie.
Against all better judgement, Tubbo can’t help himself. He squirms, tries to tug his arm away, tries to stand back up, grabs at the man’s hand to force him off, but his grip is vicelike. “No, c’mon, man — please, please don’t, you don’t need to — I’m not going anywhere—”
A deafening CRACK startles him silent. Movement flashes in front of his face. He freezes. His eyes snap to Snake-Arm, who steps back with a hard look on his face. That grotesque arm lashed out like lightning.
“Quit whining,” he spits. “You don’t get a say here. You sit still, and you shut up. Got it?” Lowering his voice, he mutters to himself, “Thought this kid was meant to be smart…”
Tubbo was wrong. That arm isn’t a snake.
It’s a fucking whip.
It didn’t strike him, but it came so, so close. Close enough to feel the rush of displaced air, and for the whip crack to sound as loud as a gunshot. The crack of a whip produces a sonic boom. A part of that man’s body just broke the sound barrier. And Tubbo has a feeling the miss wasn’t an accident; it was a warning.
The Giant’s grip on his wrist tightens. His expression remains indifferent — that stone-carved cruelty. Just how brittle are his bones? He’d rather not find out. Nor would he like to find out how much an actual strike of the whip would hurt. In spite of his thundering heartbeat, his stuttering breaths, in spite of every instinct screaming get away get away leave go get out, logic wins the battle. He forces the tension from his arm, and steels himself to go along with it.
***
Can’t move. Can’t fight. Can’t escape. Can’t say anything that’ll convince these assholes to let him go. All he can really do is think. None of his thoughts inspire much hope.
Two hands are pinned by his sides. The other two are bound behind his back. His ankles are tied to the chair legs. Being restrained like this — it implies interrogation. Right? If they wanted to kill him, or hurt him, or do some sick perverted shit or something, they’d have done it by now. Their wanting information is the only explanation that makes sense, but at the same time it doesn’t. They haven’t asked him anything — just made him sit here, uncomfortable, immobile, and frightened out of his wits. So they’re waiting for something. For what? Fuck knows. None of his theories are pleasant.
That phrase keeps turning over in his mind: Meant to be smart.
What an odd thing to say. He’s never seen either of these people in his life, but the implication is that they know things about him. Between their vigilante duo, he’s sure he’d be considered ‘the smart one’ — no matter how much Tommy would object. But how do they know that? And what do they care? What is he supposed to know? He has information on Quackity’s aspect, he supposes. But then why target him and not Tommy, who’s just as in the know? Did he lose a coin toss?
Time passes — maybe fifteen minutes or so. He suspects that it’s nearing sundown. The warehouse is so dark and dingy that it’s hard to tell. Snake-Arm — no, Whip-Arm — and the Giant don’t make much conversation, but occasionally one will mutter something derisive to the other while glaring at him. It makes them feel more like playground bullies, except for the whole ‘genuinely fearing for his life’ thing. The wait drags, but it isn’t boring. Boredom is a luxury, and not one his mind affords.
Finally, something happens.
Voice echoing, Whip-Arm calls out with a scoff, “Took you long enough.”
Tubbo startles from his thoughts – his head snaps up, and follows Whip-Arm’s gaze. Far on the other side of the warehouse, a person wanders through the open doors. They appear a silhouette at first, but as they near he realises it’s a woman. She looks weirdly normal. Short, slight, and a little scruffy, wearing patchy overalls and frizzy blond hair that surrounds her face like a halo. Over one shoulder, she carries a canvas bag showing the outline of a rectangular object. Could be a large book.
She certainly doesn’t look dangerous. Nothing like the other two do. But Tubbo feels his heart rate pick back up as she approaches. He isn’t naive enough to believe she could be on his side; she’s who they were waiting for.
The way she doesn’t even glance his way, he might as well be invisible. She shrugs as she nears the two men, replying, “Phone call. You know how it goes. Client was giving me grief ‘cause he wants a refund. Get this: this idiot was trying to lie to me, claiming we sent him the wrong ammo. They’re so funny when they fish for freebies.”
Client? Ammo?
Whip-Arm’s brow raises, but he doesn’t respond further. She seems unbothered, and gestures for the Giant to lean down. A hand covering her mouth, she whispers something in his ear — she still has to stand on tiptoes to do it — then shrugs the bag off her shoulder and hands it to him. The Giant doesn’t open it. He just holds it.
Tubbo watches this exchange silently. He wants answers, but doesn’t want to ask the questions. Asking questions means drawing attention to himself, and attention means danger. His best bet is remaining still, blending into the background and hoping they forget he’s here.
Yeah. Right. Like that’ll work.
Finally, the woman turns towards him. If they were meeting under different circumstances, he might think she looked quite friendly. She beams widely, freckles dotting her face. “Hi there!”
He stares back. His mouth remains firmly shut.
She steps closer. Not threateningly, but with a disconcerting casualness, hands shoved into big pockets. “It’s so nice to finally speak with you. I know, I know, you don’t know me, but I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
Her tone is so cheery and light. It’s so… wrong. Tubbo can’t think what to say, and it doesn’t feel like his place, so he says nothing.
Unbothered, she goes on. “You must have a lot of questions, huh? I know I would. But for now, I’m more interested in what you could tell me. I’d just like to have a little chat. That’ll be alright, won't it?”
The silence is too fragile to break. Tubbo says nothing.
Gradually, the smile falls from her eyes, leaving only a forced, wide-mouthed grin. Then the expression drops entirely as she leans toward and side-eyes Whip-Arm. “He does talk, doesn’t he?”
She sounds like a disappointed kid who received a pet bird for Christmas, and is now finding out it won’t hold conversations with her.
“Yeah,” Whip-Arm replies. “Not a lot, but he did earlier. Oi kid, say summin’.” He steps forward as he says this, and the tendril lifts off the ground.
Without thinking, Tubbo mutters, “Piss off.”
The woman claps her hands in delight. “There we go!”
He keeps his head down, gaze glued to the ground, hating every single second of this. The ground is so dirty; he keeps finding frowny faces in the grime. That feels about right.
“I’m so glad I won’t just be talking to myself!” she warbles. She steps closer still and crouches in front of him, forcing him to look at her. If it’s any attempt to appear friendly or non-threatening, it isn’t working. It feels more like looking down on a rattlesnake, or a vicious dog. “I realise this is probably a bit scary, but like I said, I really do just want to have a little chat. I’ve got some questions for you, that’s all. We’ll even start easy, if you’d like.”
Tubbo almost scoffs. As if his preferences matter. He doesn’t bother humouring her with a response.
“Yes, I think easy would be best.” She shifts, taking a knee. “Let’s start really easy. Tell me, how old are you, darling?”
A long silence follows. Their stares burn into him, but he forces himself not to blurt an answer. To take his time and think. The younger these guys think he is, the better, right? The consequences for hurting a kid have to be worse than hurting an adult. How young can he claim and get away with?
“Sixteen,” he lies.
Instantly, her eyes narrow. “Hm. No you’re not.”
“I- I am…”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Try again for me.”
Behind her, the two men leer at him. Silence isn’t an option. Nor does he want to tell the truth. “I’m eighteen.”
She frowns, tilting her head. “Nope. Though, honestly, that would’ve been my guess… come on, how old are you really?”
“Nineteen,” he mutters, truthfully, through gritted teeth.
Her face splits into a satisfied smile. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Tubbo stares, his mind racing. That makes no sense. How could she know that was the truth? He doesn’t carry his wallet on patrol; those guys can’t have stolen it and looked at his ID. She guessed at his age, admitted to guessing wrongly, yet somehow knew truth from lie…
‘This idiot was trying to lie to me.’
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not this shit again.
As his eyes widen, she beams — a game-master seeing her puzzle be solved. “Yes. You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” Her tone is achingly, sickeningly sweet. “If you lie to me, I’ll know. Of course, I can’t exactly make you tell me the truth, but…” she tilts her head back over her shoulder, towards the Giant and Whip-Arm, “I’m sure these two can. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too tricky. I just need you to answer truthfully, the first time I ask, and I’m sure we’ll all get along fine. Those first two lies, don’t sweat them. You got those for free. That’s only fair, right?”
Ah, no. Nothing about this seems fair, actually.
He doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She turns and stretches out a hand, beckoning with her fingers at the Giant. Wordlessly, the Giant hands over the canvas bag. From it, she draws out a laptop.
Oh.
What the fuck?
He knows that case. He knows that scratch across the back, from a drill that went awry. He knows that dented corner where it was dropped once, and by sheer luck experienced only minor damage to the top corner of the screen.
That’s his laptop. The one he never expected to see again.
It wasn’t the only expensive piece of tech he’d lost to their crime-fighting hobby, but it was certainly the biggest. He wouldn’t usually lug the thing around, but back when he and Tommy got caught up in the conflict between Quackity and the previous owner of his business, it was invaluable for spying on their future lawyer, and a key piece of the puzzle for figuring out his aspect and eventually saving his life. But, as luck would have it, he and Tommy ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, got themselves taken captive, and their captors stole the laptop.
After everything shook out, Tommy explained that it was used to keep an eye on him — to make sure when he was sent up to Quackity’s office, he did exactly what he was told to. He was the last to see it, but was in no position to try to recover it. Thus, when Quackity’s enemies backed off, Tubbo considered it lost. Annoying, but not the end of the world. He’d long accepted that he’d never see it again.
So what the hell is it doing here?
He can’t be masking his shock well, as the woman nods, pleased and unsurprised. “Yep. You recognise this, huh? That’s because it was yours, right?”
Not wanting to answer, but seeing far too many reasons not to refuse, Tubbo nods.
“Gonna need verbal answers, sweet.”
“Yes,” he says robotically.
“Excellent. Goodness, wouldn’t that be embarrassing, if we’d picked up the wrong one?” She giggles like she just told the world’s most hilarious joke, then collects herself. Looking down, she brushes a hand over the laptop, almost reverently. “This thing cost me a pretty penny. Certainly more than it cost you.”
Oh, those rat bastards.
They sold it on.
The realisation raises as many questions as it answers. Tech sold on by thieves typically gets scrapped for parts, or wiped and sold on again. Since when has the initial owner been hunted down and taken hostage, just because they were unlucky enough to get robbed?
“And these—” She lifts the lid of the laptop. The screen’s light illuminates her face in a pale glow. After a few swipes and clicks of the trackpad, she turns it around to face him. “—are yours too?”
Familiar images fill the screen. Of course they’re familiar — he made them. It’s one of his files, with large thumbnails showing blueprints. His designs, for weapons, gadgets, or dumb alterations to household appliances made for no reason besides thinking they’d be funny. An over engineered slingshot. A security-camera-disabling raygun. A double-decker microwave. An electrified baseball bat. Dumb ideas. Fun, but dumb.
“They’re…” He swallows. “Yeah. They’re mine.”
She nods, pleased. “Wonderful. And they’re not just pretty pictures, are they? They’re real designs, that you actually build?”
“Um…”
Tubbo isn’t sure what to say to that. This isn’t where he anticipated this going. His leg tries to bounce nervously but can’t, so instead shakes side to side. Why does she care? What could be so special about some silly blueprints? But if they were willing to go this far for an answer, the truth could be a dangerous thing.
“I — sort of, but not… not all of them.”
As if disturbed by a bad smell, her nose wrinkles. “That’s cheating.”
Whip-Arm starts forward. Tubbo can’t help but flinch, but the woman holds up a hand without looking back.
“There’s no need for that,” she says. “Not just yet.”
Begrudgingly, Whip-Arm steps back. It’s no comfort at all.
The woman pats him on the knee twice. “Be a dear and answer properly, alright? Those designs — they’re not just theoretical. You build them. Yes or no?”
“Y-yeah, some of them, but they’re not all—”
“Yes, yes, I’m aware there are some stinkers in there. Believe me, I’ve had a good nose through them — I had to get my money’s worth, right? But a lot of these are worth more than you’d think. In a couple of places your calculations were just a little bit off. That’s good news, isn’t it? I’d be happy to walk you through some of the easier fixes, but the truth is the good far outweighs the bad.”
Reading his confusion like a book, she tilts her head, grinning with a wry pride. “Not what you expected from lil ol’ me, huh? How does a ditzy lookin’ farm girl get to know her way around technical schematics? Tell me, have you ever gotten into the business of selling this stuff?”
Warily, Tubbo shakes his head. Then he remembers he’s supposed to answer verbally, but she continues, unbothered, before he can rectify it.
“Well, I have. It was a family business, you see. We dealt in bespoke weapons, mainly. My mum and dad lived for it.” She gives a small chuckle. “Died for it, too. Oh, don’t feel bad for me — they didn’t exactly care for my presence unless they were making me sit in on negotiations, letting ‘em know if their clients were trying to pull one over on them. What a chore, right?”
Tubbo wants to beg her to get to the point. His mouth remains firmly shut.
“When they died, their business passed on to me. Their clients, suppliers, partners, and a certain reputation to uphold. But their knowledge…” She tilts a hand back and forth, an uncertain expression on her face. “My mother knew her way around developing products, and taught me a fair bit; that’s why I understand your designs. And my father, he was a genius in the workshop but never wanted me in there, so unfortunately I suffer a gap in knowledge on the practical side. And these dullards,” she tilts her head towards the Giant and Whip-Arm, whose sneers turn uglier still, “may be useful for menial tasks, but do they look like they’d know their arses from their elbows when put in a workshop? I think not. There are a couple of engineers familiar with my mother’s work, but their prices are getting a bit steep for me nowadays. It’s all left me a bit stuck in terms of production, and let me tell you, some of my clients are not happy.”
Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, Tubbo is starting to work out where this is going. He doesn’t like it one bit.
“That’s where you come in.” She flashes another grin — one that holds too many teeth, like a shark’s. “I’m offering you a job, sweetheart. An unpaid one, I’ll admit, but what’s so wrong with that? People take unpaid internships all the time.“
Tubbo stares, hardly believing what he’s hearing. His mouth falls open, and moves without words for some time before he manages, “I- I don’t want to work for you.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Huh. No lie there. You really don’t.” She shrugs, sickly cheerful. “Oh well.”
Oblivious to his horror, or apathetic to it, she goes on. “I’m afraid I’m going need a bit more info from you before we can get stuck into it. Just to prove a point — you know how it is.” Her face scrunches with false apology. “See, it’d be really handy for me to get a proper look at your work. Not just the blueprints — the actual products. I know my boys picked up a few things you had on you, and I’ll be having a snoop through those. Those wings really caught my eye… incredible. Just incredible. But I know your sort. You must have other bits and pieces lying around. Where do you stash it all? D’you have a workshop?”
His heart sets racing again. “No.”
“Do you use a school workshop, or something?”
“N-no…”
She frowns, as though his answer didn’t make any sense. Then her head raises and lowers in a slow nod. “Ah. You’re the DIY at home sort, aren’t you?”
“What’s it matter?”
He knows how stupid the question is, but it tumbles from him before he can stop it. Anything’s better than answering. Telling the truth, that yes, his bedroom is his workshop, and if these people went there, they’d find everything they’re looking for. His bedroom, in his flat, shared by two of his closest friends, who don’t deserve to have their home invaded just because he got himself into this mess.
“I’m asking the questions, sweet,” she replies without missing a beat. “But if you must know, I’m after a better sense of your style. I want to get an idea of how well your process will suit our designs, so it’d be super helpful to see your past work. So, where would we find your stash? In your home?”
Don’t. You can’t.
“Not… not exactly…”
Maybe he’ll get away with it. What would this woman’s truth-telling aspect consider his ‘real’ home? His family home? Or the flat, where all of his work actually is? Both count, really… or maybe if he believes his family home is his real home strongly enough, his answer will ring true?
She tuts, shaking her head. “Oh, come on. We already gave you two lies for free. Don’t get greedy now.”
“That wasn’t — I’m not lying, I swear—”
A CRACK goes off like a gunshot. Movement flashes in front of his face, and Tubbo flinches hard. The cable ties bite into his skin as he turns his head, desperately, hopelessly trying to get away. It takes a moment for the pain to register. A sharp stinging stabs at his cheek, like it’s been slashed with a knife. It hurts so bad, a ridiculous, tiny concentration of pain. He hisses, his breath rattling uncontrolled.
The woman watches as Whip-Arm steps back, and sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth. When she turns back, her face twists with mock sympathy. “Oh dear. That wasn’t much fun, was it?”
What is this? Some perverted version of good cop, bad cop? Good kidnapper, bad kidnapper?
The spot he was struck sears like a burn. It’s a lasting, stinging, awful agony. He clenches his jaw tight, pressing his mouth shut, determined not to make a sound.
“How about we try that one again, hm?” she says. “Do you keep all that fancy tech of yours at home?”
He can’t answer. He won’t answer. If this is how they’ll treat someone useful to them, what would they be willing to do to his flatmates — his friends — who’d just be in their way?
Seconds drag by. Anticipating another strike, he braces himself. But none comes. Instead, the woman hums thoughtfully. “You know… when you refuse to answer a yes or no question, it makes it kind of obvious what the answer is, doesn’t it?”
Oh, fuck her. Fuck this. Fuck everything about this.
Desperately, thoughtlessly, he opens his mouth and words spill out. “None of that stuff — it’s not worth anything. There’s no point going after it. My weapons aren’t… they’re not serious. They’re just stupid ideas I come up with ‘cause I think they’ll be funny, or- or cool, or — I mean, half of them don’t even work the way they’re meant to, so I don’t… please, don’t…”
“Don’t sell yourself so short, sweetheart. That’s what prototyping’s for. A little push in the right direction, I’m sure that’s all you need. And I can give you that! Let’s see here…” She turns her attention back to his laptop. Swiping, tapping away. Every key touch feels like a violation.
When she turns the screen back to him, another blueprint has been blown up to display in full screen. He recognises the design in an instant. It’s a recent one: a proposed adjustment for an existing prototype, turning what was once a goofy net-launcher — a failed concept that was supposed to shoot sticky webs towards foes — into a kind of ‘laser-gun’, like in sci-fi movies. A plasma cannon — that’s what he affectionately named it. But he never planned to actually build the thing. It was one of those ideas that was more theoretical than practical. Besides, the thing would be deadly; Tommy wouldn’t want it, and who would they ever use it on?
“This one I thought was very interesting,” she says. “And you got so close with it! Just a teeny tiny little rounding error — I hope you don’t mind, but I made some notes over it. See, you’ve made all your calculations assuming you’ll use a twenty-four volt battery, but if you were to wire in two twelve volts in series… sure, the circuits will get a bit more complex, but the power consumption will be split between them, so the device won’t suffer anywhere near as much risk of overheating. Does that make sense?”
As she explains this, she gestures to his scribbled notes on the blueprints. They’ve been digitally marked over in red, his own calculations redone. Truthfully, he knew about the overheating issue when made those calculations. That was one of the flaws in the idea that convinced him not to go through with development. He couldn’t be bothered to fix it. The whole idea was a thought exercise. It didn’t actually matter.
But, in fairness, she does have a point.
“Sure. I guess…”
“See? We’re learning from each other already.” She beams at him, then points to another corner of the blueprint. “What I was really curious about, is how it says here that this is an adaptation on a previous work of yours.” Said note is circled in red, with a couple of question marks drawn beside it. “It makes sense, since this looks like only a partial design. I was hunting around for the original’s blueprints, but couldn’t seem to find them. Why’s that?”
“Um. Probably because they’re not on that laptop.”
“Then where are they?”
Panic flares in him, because he doesn’t know. If asked before he lost the laptop it would’ve been the first place he’d looked, but…
“I don’t know. I might’ve deleted them.”
Her expression sours. “No you didn’t.”
Almost imperceptibly, the two men shift. Tubbo races to correct himself. “No, no, I didn’t. Sorry. I don’t… I really don’t…”
Then it hits him.
Now, claiming he doesn’t know would be a bold-faced lie.
“They’re on my PC,” he mumbles.
She cups a hand to her ear. “What was that?”
He can’t bring himself to repeat the damning words louder.
“On your PC?” she says. “Your PC at home?”
A draught blows through the warehouse. However weak, it agitates the fresh wound on his cheek. An itch — frustratingly unrelievable — crawls down his face. He realises: it’s probably blood.
“Don’t…”
Her head tilts. “Don’t what?”
The way she says it is sickening. A mimicry of a child’s innocent question. What a stupid notion, to think he’s in any position to be making demands. But how will he ever forgive himself if he doesn’t try?
“I have housemates,” he says, “and they’re nothing to do with any of this. Anything I have at home, I could make again, so just — just don’t. Please don’t go there. Don’t even try. I- I don’t care what you do to me. I’m not gonna tell you my address, so you might as well not bother.”
She purses her lips, gazing at him thoughtfully. “There were two lies in that,” she states matter-of-factly. She raises a hand behind her, warning the men not to act. “Two little ones. One: they’re not quite ‘nothing’ to do with it, are they? Interesting.”
Words catch in his throat. He isn’t sure what to say. Does knowing it exists equal having something to do with it?
“And Two was your bold statement,” she goes on. “How brave of you, to claim you’ll bear torture for your friends’ sakes. Still, you’re clever. You know that in your situation, bravery really doesn’t help you. You may want to believe you won’t talk, but what good is that when you can’t? You don’t plan on spilling your secrets, of course — but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t.” She raises and lowers one shoulder, grinning lopsidedly. “Oh well. It’s not like it really matters.”
Snapping the laptop shut, she stands and turns away — like a child abruptly bored with a toy. She addresses the two men. “So?”
“So what?” Whip-Arm says.
“Sooo, haven’t I just proved exactly my point? He’s useful. A couple weeks max to get him caught up to speed, that’s all he needs, then all our production problems are solved! What’s with the looks?”
‘The looks’ being the hateful scowls worn by both men. The Giant leers silently over folded arms, while Whip-Arm trades a glance with him, and says, “Sure. That’s great. But you realise you’re putting us on twenty-four-seven babysitting duty?”
“And?”
“‘The fuck d’you mean ‘and’? Are you hearing yourself? This is a ridiculous idea.”
“Ummm, it’s called creative problem solving?”
Tubbo listens, absently wondering if it counts as eavesdropping when he doesn’t exactly have a choice. They’re paying as much attention to him as a scuff mark on the floor. A tiny spark of optimism lights. Could those two be his way out of this? Despite their abysmal first impressions, could Whip-Arm and the Giant be on his side, in favour of letting him go? If not out of kindness or mercy, out of sheer laziness? At this point, Tubbo will take what he can get.
“I’ve got a better one,” Whip-Arm continues, then lowers his voice. Not low enough. “Let’s just kill him! We’ll get him out the way, go nick his shit, and sell that.”
Oh.
Oh, God, no.
The ray of optimism winks out in an instant. His breath stutters. His entire body goes tense. He chokes down panic, desperate to stay silent, to remain unnoticed. His fingertips tingle numbly, and he can’t tell if it’s restricted blood flow, existential dread, or both. There’s an acute awareness, a horrible, horrible knowing, that if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead within minutes. Strangled by that tendril arm, or his skull crushed. Gone, just like that. Can’t run. Can’t fight. Can’t even cry for help. Can’t do anything.
“Because this is easier,” the woman argues. “We talked about this.”
“No, we didn’t. You said we’d talk about it after we picked him up. Well, there he is,” Whip-Arm gestures with the tendril arm without looking at him — nowhere near as quickly as when he struck him, but the movement still makes him flinch, “but you’re acting like just ‘cause he told us some shit we basically already knew, it changes anything. It really doesn’t.”
Blood roars in Tubbo’s ears, filling the silence. The woman stews, glaring at Whip-Arm. Against all reason, Tubbo mentally begs her not to concede the fight. Living life as some kind of technology-slave would suck, but dying here, today, would suck even worse. One is an infinitely more permanent problem than the other.
“Production isn’t your only issue,” Whip-Arm sneers. “You’re broke. It’s not like you can afford to pay component suppliers. But if we sell the shit he’s already got — wow, suddenly we have money again! Then you can pay actual engineers, like a normal fucking person?”
The woman turns back to him abruptly, her sickly sweet smile plastered back on her face. “Sweetheart? Where do you get your components from?”
Answer well, live. Answer bad, die.
“I…” He swallows past a dry mouth. “It’s recycled stuff. Second hand electronics, and scrapped appliances. Stuff like that.”
“See? That’s another problem solved.” With a satisfied nod, she turns away again. “He’s got the right idea. That sounds far more economical.”
“‘Economical,’” Whip-Arm scoffs. “It’s a mouth to feed.”
“Uh, yeah, one that pays for itself? Are you dense? This is such a basic concept: you invest to make returns, you spend money to make money, so on and so forth. Remind me – of the three of us, who’s the one actually running a business?”
“You inherited a business. And you clearly can’t run it. Not without some harebrained slavery scheme you’re expecting us to do all the work to pull off for you.”
“It’s a good idea! You just don’t like it because it demands the slightest bit of effort on your part.”
“I don’t like it because you’ve barely thought it through. What if we give him everything he needs to make — I dunno, some kind of beacon that draws cops right to us? What if he makes a gun and shoots one of us?”
“No need to give him ideas…” the Giant rumbles, side-eyeing Tubbo.
“Ugh. Who cares?” Her head flops with an exaggerated eye roll. “For your information, I do have a plan for all of that. He has a partner, right? That mouthy kid? You know these vigilante types. He’ll come looking, and sure as hell won’t bring police with him. So we just need to—”
Across the warehouse, the service truck’s engine coughs, splutters, then roars.
All three of his captors’ heads snap towards the sound. They stare, disbelieving, as the vehicle rattles with life. Dark fumes pour from the exhaust.
“Who the hell is that?” the woman says incredulously.
No one answers her. The rumbling echoes throughout the empty building. The engine’s roar intensifies, as though whatever ghost has snuck inside the cab has put its foot to the floor. The truck leaps forwards, lurching towards the wide open exit.
The Giant bellows out a yell. He thunders after it, but even his lengthy strides are no match for the possessed vehicle. The woman watches dumbly, stunned. Whip-Arm turns back to Tubbo, his eyes narrow.
“You know summin’ about—?”
He cuts himself off. His eyes snap to a point above Tubbo’s head and he startles backwards. “What the f—?!”
Tubbo doesn’t hear the rest.
Panic explodes as he’s grabbed from behind. An arm clamps across his chest, a hand clumsily grasps at his head, and solid ground falls away as he and his chair are yanked upwards. Given any time to react, he’d thrash, wrench himself away from this sudden, unknown assailant.
There is no time to react.
In the next instant, he’s no longer there.
The chaos — the panic of his captors, the roar of the engine — goes silent. In its place, he hears the faint hum of breeze through foliage. Instead of the dingy greyish-brown of the warehouse, Tubbo sees green. A wide, grassy field stretches out before him, the cloud-covered sky above darkened by evening. With each gasped breath, fresh, cold air fills his lungs, along with the faintly animal smell of the countryside. He still can’t move; the cable ties dig into his skin as he tries. But he’s out. His captors are gone — or rather, he’s gone.
The person who grabbed him immediately releases him. They also release a breath, huffing a heavy sigh of relief.
Oh, fuck.
The voice is instantly familiar. It’s one he never anticipated hearing again. The disorienting feeling is familiar, too — the being transported elsewhere faster than the blink of an eye. He never anticipated feeling that again either.
Tubbo twists to look over his shoulder. His gaze travels upwards, and he meets eyes with a terrified, oh-so-familiar face. One he never anticipated seeing ever again.
God. Fucking. Damn. Why is there never a good time to bump into an ex?
“Um. Hi,” says a wide-eyed, trembling Ranboo. “Are you, uh… are you alright?”