a short fight, cursing (honesty i shouldn't put this in), mentions of exile, pogtopia, and l'manburg only for their names, mentions of triggers, trauma, and the prison and their effects, and i think that's it!!

please let me know if there's any more :DD

===

, Tommy slumps on the tire he's sitting on. It's been almost a day since the robbery, Tari having forced him to take a break "or else she'd make him," so he'd (reluctantly) went back to Takoda and slept. His hand holding his chin, it's a rare, quiet moment as he thinks. The blond almost starts gnawing on his nails, but taps his staff — now named Clara, because why the fuck not — against the rubber instead.

How the ever-loving fuck was he going to make a vigilante costume?

Despite having money from his work, it probably isn't enough to get a high-quality suit or some shit like that. Tommy is no Tubbo — he can't work with metal scraps like the brown-haired president can. (He dismisses the sharp pang of longing for his best friend.) And sure, he could use something plain like a hoodie, mask, and flexible pants for the base, but he doesn't know who'd even sell metal plating for his weak points around here. Using books as armor would be a pain to move in and a hassle to get and put on. Going to the black market to get proper armor, wherever that would be in this world, would be too risky.

..It reminds him of how little he truly knows about this server. Having been here for months hadn't helped much except teach him the language, mannerisms, and people. Unlike the Dream SMP, there were an unknown amount of people, meaning an unknown amount of villains and heroes he'd have to avoid if he still wanted to do this. No enemies nor allies — a fresh, blank canvas. No backup.

No help.

Sighing, Tommy stands, stretching his limbs out. His eyes run over discolored skin and thinner scars, fingers grazing their rough textures and picking at small scabs. "I'm Tommy-fucking-Innit," he grumbles, saying these words aloud to make them more real, more true, "and I've survived so much shit without much help. Who says I can't do that now?" He picks Clara up, puts her into his inventory, grabs whatever savings he has, and leaves.

===

He's picked out something plain for a costume — the cheapest things he could find and afford, as well as best suited for the dark. A hoodie, a basic, hard-fabric masquerade mask, a pair of long, finger-less gloves, and another covering for the lower half of his face. Along with that, some slightly loose pants and a pair of red sneakers — he already has a tool-belt. All of which were either dark grey or black besides some extra red fabrics (because people might say that blue would fit with his eye, the only thing that's going to be visible, and to them, he says fuck off, because red is a great color and he will sew it on no matter what.) If his end goal were different, Tommy wouldn't have gotten all black, yet he wasn't going to be a vigilante for attention or fame.

Regardless, he silently cringed as he left the store, fidgeting with the straps of the plastic bag his stuff was in. Prime, this was so fucking weirdchamp. Not as bad as other shit he's bought before, but still there.

At another store, the soon-to-be vigilante gets a few rolls of bandages and a med-kit, faintly noticing the questionable looks he's given in the aisles and the checkout. Presumably more than usual, for how homeless and ragged he probably looks. He doesn't really pay attention though ー Tommy just rolls his eyes and munches on some bread in his inventory as he returns to Takoda. Nosy bitches.

Either way, he puts his purchases away and changes into the "costume" despite wearing his original clothes underneath; his eyepatch, too. He blinks, readjusting to the amount of light before using a cracked body mirror to see his reflection fully. And he looks... fine, for someone who looks like they're either extremely suspicious, a villain, or a drug dealer. Not the best, but he can manage.

The teen rolls his shoulders and watches the mirror copy it, before reeling his arm back and forth. He turns and twists, the clothing perfectly loose. Even does a few practice kicks and swings in front of himself, and it's breathable. Maybe he should find a short tool belt to hold a small knife on his pant leg. And a pocket in his sneakers, too. Add some red lining to both masks and the hoodie as well.

Tommy stares at himself for a bit longer.

..His eye looks fucking unnerving and oddly interesting. He puts a hand under and above his eye to reveal most of the iris, leaning in to observe it. There's no pupil or shine, though he can see perfectly fine. The thin scar around it gives a quiet phantom pain to his last... time on the SMP, but otherwise, it's numb. When he's close enough to the glass that the iris fucking reflects a hot-pink light off the mirror, he backs away.

Yeah, okay, he needs another eyepatch for this. Or maybe some buckram fabric. Would that be enough to hide the glow? Tommy mentally takes note to search Takoda for a sewing machine because Prime, he'll probably have to do a lot of sewing later on.

Blocking it out entirely would become a weak point. Maybe someone at Tari's would have some colored contacts? Yet Wilbur had once said that it was a delicate process in Pogtopia. When his eyes started turning red...

He settles on just using buckram fabric.

Satisfied with what he has, the blonde stands there for a moment. Should he go train some more? Research local crimes? Map the out to make a patrol line? Stop a few muggings or some shit right now? Develop his vigilante persona more?

What should he even name himself? TommyInnit? Big T? Theseus? (That one goes out the window.) Should he just let people name him?

Probably. The nation he loved was named L'Manburg. His house in his first exile was fucking "Pogtopia." His residence in.. his second exile was named Logstedshire, his tent "tnret." As much as Tommy would protest that those were perfectly fine and good names because they fucking were, others wouldn't agree. Especially if he just named himself Wife Haver and he appeared on news headlines.

To not give away his voice or personality, maybe he should just keep silent. The blond and Callahan spoke briefly a few times back on the SMP, and the man helped him learn sign language. Was sign language a thing here? If it was, it must be molded to fit Japanese language rules and shit. Kanji, Katakana...

Tommy groans. It'd been a pain to learn those; sign language must be infinitely harder. Maybe he'd learn it later if writing wasn't an option.

Okay, onto the game plan. Whatever that was. He should explore the city or at least the nearby neighborhoods. Search for crime rates, common areas for said crimes, and start small as much as he didn't want to. Meet the people and gain some connections if available ー that's if the blond doesn't fuck up first. Do that a few times or so and mark out the area internally.

His triggers, however.. would be difficult to deal with. Tommy doesn't want to enter a fight only to have a panic attack that leaves him vulnerable. Puffy and Sam's therapy isn't gonna help him for shit now besides for a few breathing techniques, ever since the warden left the blond with him. But because Tommy's a big fucking man, he'll push through. Somehow. He's always had to, so how would living in a new world change that?

Either way, soon he can stop some crime. (How ironic it is, that he goes from causing crime to preventing it.)

Tommy grins.

===

A week later, at the beginning of March, a headline appears on the news.

===

Stars twinkle in the inky skies as the moon beams down outside an abandoned bar. The ground is littered with trash, reflecting on the establishment's brick walls nearby, grime and dirt and foliage weaving through thin cracks. The warm lights under its striped, dark-green shop canopy shudder, light flicking on and off. It reeks of alcohol, a few shots too much, and mistakes.

A crowd surrounds two people, one holding a bottle and swishing it this way and that, the other stumbling on his feet but with his fists up. Both of their faces are flushed red, the alcohol consumed partially blocking out the cheers and cries of their audience.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" They yell with sharp teeth and rotting breath, for the ones too terrified to call for help have already left. Money is bet, eyes are watching, cameras are rolling. The two drunks stare at each other like lions competing, eyes never veering off of their opponent. And yet they slur their jeers and blink so sluggishly, that they are barely coherent. Either they'll be too sluggish to get a punch in or too swift to almost kill.

They slam into each other, the crowd roaring in delight as they tumble. Mud and grass stain their clothing, but the men are attacking one another regardless, cursing and spitting insults. One has their tooth knocked out, the other gets a bloody nose. Bruises litter their skin yet no one moves to stop them, rejoicing instead.

A shout ruins it all. "Dusk!"

And, well, that's no use; Tommy's already started ruining this "party" anyway. He should've come earlier but he couldn't, thanks to that mugging that popped up out of nowhere. The scent of alcohol and the screams surrounding him do make him flinch, though it's subtle in the chaos. He slams the brawling drunks down, one with a swift low sweep to the feet, the other with a quick hit to the back of the knee as he got up. The vigilante doesn't make a sound as he puts them into submission, twisting Clara to knock both of them out at once. Under the racket of the screams and the thumping of feet, he sighs.

Prime, what was this? The fifth time this week that this shit's happened? Couldn't these dickheads give Tommy a break? This place wasn't even on his patrol route! Nearby, sure, but still!

Tommy takes a sticky note out of his inventory along with a pen, quickly scrawling out:

investigate this place more often bitches. fifth time this week

The sapphire-eyed vigilante plasters the paper on the backs of one of the unconscious men, already hearing the wails of sirens nearby. He hastily pushes himself back and up a nearby building using its fire escape, launching himself across the rooftops. And wow, when did that become so normal? When did leaping through the night go from an invitation to death and darker times to freedom?

It's only been a month and Tommy feels different. Taken by this like fish to water. (Maybe, a nagging part of him whispers, it's because you haven't had the chance to truly live, always adapting to war and blood and fighting explosions screams-betrayal-loss-fear ー and now that you can, you thrive.) Heights remind the blond less and less of exile, the dark of the night doesn't feel so claustrophobic (though he still took a break near some light every once in a while), and he's starting to get more thrilled at going out and being a hero.

Speaking of which, Tommy's been getting noticed more and more by the media. He doesn't leave a name in any sticky note he sends out, and so the public has created several vigilante names for him. The most common ones being Dusk, Red, and Hermes. On occasion, he does get called the Grim Reaper — or just Reaper for short.

(Days before, Tommy had looked up who Hermes was. He thought that it fit him — anything but Theseus would be fine.)

As for the Grim Reaper name...

Unsurprisingly enough, there are no heroes around the poorer parts of Japan, and more injured in dark alleyways taking their dying breaths. So in between patrols Tommy takes some time scouring the city and along his patrol route to patch people up. Or, if it's too late, stay there and hold their hand until they pass. Some people see him and watch, but he doesn't care.

It's what Tommy would've wanted for himself.

The vigilante shakes his head, getting closer and closer to Takoda and technically, the start of his patrol. He pauses to check his communicator — around 5 in the morning already, huh? Patrol's over, and as much as he wants to continue, Tari and everyone else would ask about his inevitable exhaustion if he didn't stop now.

Utilizing another fire escape, Tommy slid down into another alleyway and took off his vigilante costume, revealing some casual clothing. It acted as a method to get heroes off his trail when he'd see one, though it hasn't happened yet; if he saw one, he could just take his costume off and act casual. The blue-eyed teen bundled it all up as he walked out, speed-walking to the entrance of Takoda and practically relaxing within its junkyard.

Tommy laughs in front of the stars, something carefree, light, and new. If he's never felt freedom before -- hell if he's never started to heal like Puffy said, this would be it.

And, of course, like everything in his life, that won't last.

===

,,,ahahaha,,,,, sorry for the filler chapter and how it prolly looks very, very rushed bit school's starting soon so i gotta. at least give yall something before i get overloaded with stuff

i also apologize for not responding to comments, i just get too nervous ahaha

n e way! i don't have much to say besides that!