Chapter Text
Tommy Innit was a normal person, and an adult no less, who worked at a coffee shop and got sleep at night. Life was boring and mundane and simple.
And he had a house.
Tommy sighed as he put on his apron. At least the coffee shop part was true.
And, legally, according to his fake ID, so was the adult part.
He didn’t mind working the morning shift, but he did mind a lot of the customers. Generally, about half the people who desperately needed coffee in the morning were not, in fact, morning people. And Tommy had to deal with them before they had their wake-me-up drink. To his credit, even if he never grew to enjoy it, he was very experienced in handling annoying people.
Experienced, and still awful at it.
He hadn’t been fired yet though, which felt like a huge accomplishment, even though the owner was the sweetest woman on earth. Why Kristin had taken one look at Tommy with his fake ID and no shoes and decided, yeah, he’s barista material, he’d probably never know. But he’d be forever grateful that she did, and for her, he would put up with the grumpy morning crowd.
Thankfully, the next customer looked like the quiet type. As someone who couldn’t relate, Tommy was still glad people like this guy existed in the world. If everyone was loud, no one would hear him, and that would be the greatest tragedy.
The customer was tall, glasses perched on his nose, looking like he’d pulled an all-nighter. Maybe he was a grad student, and had a paper due last night or something. His hair was a light pink, pulled back and looking like it had since been through hurricane winds. On some nights, Kristin kept the store open late specifically for the influx of students racing to finish homework. Somehow, she always knew whenever those rushes were going to happen. If this guy really was a grad student, he was off-sync with the rest of the crowd.
So maybe not a grad student. Maybe he was a teacher.
“Hullo, what can I get started for you?” Tommy asked brightly.
“Uh, hot macchiato. Thanks.”
“Sure thing big man,” Tommy said, putting it into the system. “What flavor?”
“None.”
Yeah, he had to be a teacher. Who else would be so desperate to wake up that they waved the opportunity to sweeten the taste, in favor of letting the bitterness slap them awake? Tommy couldn’t understand anyone who didn’t want at least a little sugar in their coffee. He liked to pretend that the sweetened, flavored macchiato was the only version of the drink.
“None flavor.” Tommy repeated flatly. Stupid early morning people. No one knew how to have fun.
“I mean, technically espresso is the flavor.” The guy pointed out.
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, just go on and say you had a bad night and now nothing but bitterness makes you feel something. We’ve all been there.” Tommy hadn’t, actually, been there. Even after all of his absolutely normal and definitely calm life, he’d never reached the point of not putting sugar in his coffee. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
The guy raised his eyebrows, the vaguest hint of a dry smile on his lips. “Nah, just the macchiato that’ll make me feel something. It was this or set a building on fire. Did you know your name tag is upside-down?”
“Yeah it’s supposed to be like that.” Tommy said, ringing up the drink. The name tag wasn’t even his, it belonged to an employee who didn’t work there anymore. “Keeps people guessing. Could I get a name for your order?”
“Yeah, uh, it’s Techno.”
Tommy snorted, reaching for a cup. “Yeah? Lovely music genre. In that case, you can call me Synth. Just follow the prompts on the screen to pay.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Man, if I were a superhero I’d go by the name Synth. Superhero names are wasted on people with powers. Synth is way cooler than something like Blink.”
“There’s a hero called Blink now?” Techno asked, using his card to pay.
Tommy shrugged. “Yeah, they just announced it. Apparently he’s gonna debut this week. Got invisibility powers or something.”
Techno shook his head. “Can’t keep up with all the new heroes. Didn’t they just get two new ones?”
“Yeah, Undergrowth and Voidwalker.” Tommy grabbed a pen, writing ‘Techno’ on the cup. “If you ask me, they seem a little desperate.”
Heroes were still loved and respected by most of the city, but they’d never quite fully recovered their reputation after the incident nearly two years ago. Not when the great hero Blade had drawn the people’s most beloved vigilante to his death, marking his downfall into villainy. And not when his teammate Nightingale had broken him out of prison after his initial arrest, severing what was left of the public’s trust.
Icarus had been a healer; a power so rare it hadn’t been heard of, until he showed up in the back alleys and dangerous sides of the city. Even then, the vigilante had only been whispers and rumors until a very public appearance in the midst of a hero and villain fight, earning the name given by the public along with a warrant from the heroes for vigilantism.
In the end, Icarus had lived up to his name a little too well, falling to his death almost two years later, despite his shimmering golden wings.
So no, people just didn’t trust the heroes much anymore. The hero committee, it seemed, was still scrambling to find someone new to be the people’s darling, and raise their ratings back to what they used to be.
Not that any of that was Tommy’s business.
Tommy went to work on pulling the espresso shots and foaming milk. He was in a chipper mood, all things considered. His day was going so well, it felt like hardly any time had passed, when he’d really been there for . . . he looked up at the clock with a grin, which faded as he read the time. He’d been working for half an hour.
His disappointment was immeasurable and the day was ruined.
The door bell chimed as he finished the drink, putting it out on the counter. “A none flavor macchiato for the music genre Techno!” he called out, immediately turning his attention to whoever had just walked in.
Kristin stood there with an eyebrow raised. They’d already talked a few times about ad-libbing when drinks were ready. Honestly, Tommy saw it as a compliment. People had to stand out to him in order to think of something creative to call. “Oh, hey Kristin. You’re here early.” he greeted.
“Hi Tommy.” She said, shaking her head with a smile. “I’m getting a head start on inventory this morning.”
The customer’s voice cut in. “Your name tag does not say Tommy on it.”
Tommy looked down at his name tag. “How would you know? It’s upside-down.”
“Yeah, I can actually read words upside down.”
Tommy frowned. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Sure.” Techno laughed. “Alright then, see ya Tommy.” The bell rang again as he left.
Kristin paused on her way to the back. “Hey, thanks for opening today. I hate giving you back-to-back shifts like this. Especially since you have to walk to and from home in the dark.”
Tommy shrugged. He’d told her long ago it wasn’t a problem, but his occasional bruises had made convincing her difficult. “Don’t worry about it, no one’s gonna target me on the streets. Criminals see me and run screaming.”
“. . . I’m sure they do. Did you at least get some sleep?”
“Yup.” Tommy lied, like the liar that he was. “Like a babe.”
He definitely hadn’t been running around the city in between his closing and opening shifts. What kind of idiot would do something like that? That’s what people would do if they wanted to get mugged. Tommy never got mugged, he was simply too poor for it. That and other reasons.
Normal reasons.
Kristin narrowed her eyes, but didn’t say anything more as she disappeared to start inventory.
The hours passed slowly, Kristin left for lunch. The morning crowd dissipated, leaving the cafe empty for a quiet day. A quiet, slow day. That was a good thing, Tommy reasoned with himself. It stopped every day from blurring together. Made him slow down. Gave him time to think. Have thoughts. Ponder. Reflect.
So of course he tried to disassemble the espresso machine and fix the death-rattle sound it always made, instead of leaving it to the repairman who said he’d be by to fix it two weeks ago.
As it turned out, the machine was supposed to be unplugged before getting disassembled. Or at least turned off.
But Tommy hadn’t stopped to think about that.
A bolt of electricity snapped through his body, flinging him off the counter he’d climbed to get a better look. Tommy let out a loud yelp, his vision flashing white as he slammed into the floor. His head collided with the cabinet under the counter.
Tommy groaned. That was . . . painful. Good thing no one saw him.
“What the—are you okay?”
Shoot.
It was entirely possible someone might have walked inside in time to witness his electrocution. That was awkward. Tommy reached up to grab the countertop, pulling himself up as he blinked rapidly to get his sight back.
“Hullo, welcome to my job, what can I get started for you?” he said in the general direction of the register. His tongue was only slightly numb.
Hands grabbed his shoulder, steadying him. “Whoa, hold on there. That was a nasty hit.”
Tommy’s sight slowly returned, bringing the man in front of him into focus. Blond hair, blue eyes. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror that made him look like an old man. He frowned. “Um, customers aren’t allowed behind the counter.”
“I’ll go right back once you stop going cross-eyed there, mate.”
Sounded reasonable. Tommy squinted. “How did you even get back here so fast?”
The man held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Eleven.”
The man frowned. Not in the mood for jokes then. Well, that was too bad. Tommy grinned back, finally finding his balance again. He glanced over the man’s shoulder. “Did you jump over the counter?”
“That’s not important right now. It looked like you hit your head pretty hard, you might have a concussion.”
Tommy shrugged. “Nah, it takes more than that to get me. There’s no way you jumped the counter, right? You’re, what, fifty?”
“I’m really not.”
He nodded, brushing the man’s hands off his shoulders. “Whatever you say, old man. What can I get started for you today? Unfortunately, our espresso machine just broke. We have drip coffee and uhhhh . . .” he stared at the small refrigerator. “Milk.”
“Are you sure you’re alright? I could take you to a doctor.”
Tommy walked over to the register. He’d been through worse. “Oh, yeah, totally. Fit as rain or whatever. You can get out from behind the counter now.”
Thankfully, the man obliged, swinging around to his proper place to take an order. He still looked at Tommy like he could activate x-ray vision and check for broken bones, but he ordered a cup of coffee like a boring old adult.
Never mind it was the only option at the moment.
“Name for the order?” Tommy asked automatically. His muscles were aching.
“Phil.” the man said. His eyes narrowed on Tommy’s nametag. “And your name is . . . Reginald?”
“Nope.” Tommy said. “Not my nametag.”
“Ah. Well I’ll call you Reginald then unless—”
“It’s Tommy.” He interrupted. A good name. Common name. A real name, even.
And it belonged to him. That’s what his ID said.
He whirled around to grab the coffee before the conversation could turn awkward. His head hurt where he’d smacked it after being launched away from the espresso machine. He was going to need to fix that before Kristan got back. Maybe with it unplugged this time.
“Black coffee for Phil!” he called as he turned to place the drink on the counter. Phil, leaning on said counter, flinched slightly at being yelled at from two feet away. Tommy offered him a sheepish grin. “Oh, oops.”
The man laughed, taking his drink. “I know how customer service habits are, you’re good mate.”
“You’ve worked in food service?” Tommy asked, not sure why he found that surprising. It probably shouldn’t be, considering how fast that man got behind the counter after Tommy had electrocuted himself.
“Retail, but yeah, similar enough.” Phil gave a knowing shake of his head. “Can’t say I miss it. I think if I’d stayed any longer it would’ve been my villain origin story.”
Tommy nodded, deadpan. “If I can’t fix the stupid espresso machine it might be mine.”
“Aren’t you supposed to call a mechanic for that? I doubt you’re paid enough for it to be your problem.”
“Yeah, well,” Tommy shrugged, “they don’t call me Tommy Problem Innit for nothing.”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “Want me to take a look at it?”
“Nah, Kristin won't get sued if I get hurt tinkering around with the machines, but she sure could be if a customer gets hurt on my watch. Unfortunately, your safety is my top priority, old man.”
The guy looked like he wanted to make a retort to that, but instead settled on “Kristin’s the owner, I take it?”
Tommy nodded. “Yeah, but if you wanna sue, her name is Helen Bubbleberry.”
“Understood.” Phil laughed, pulling away from the counter with a two fingered salute. “Call a mechanic, Tommy. It’s faster to fix when it’s only whatever the original problem was.”
“Sure thing, big man.” Tommy lied.
This time around, he remembered to turn off the machine first. By the time Kristin came back, it was reassembled and working again if you hit it just right. Well, reassembled aside from a weird shaped piece and two screws he couldn’t figure out.
They probably weren’t important.
--------
Tommy left out the back door, locking it behind him. He took a deep breath, and then coughed at the less than stellar air he’d breathed in. It was growing dark, the sun disappearing behind buildings and casting the ground into shadows that would only deepen as the night settled in. The city was alive with people rushing home from work or leaving their house to have fun.
Tommy did neither, because Tommy didn’t have a house.
Which was fine, really. It saved him a lot of money, which he spent on much better, cooler things. He didn’t actually need a bed anyway. Hadn’t for . . . a couple years.
It was a weird side effect to an extra power he’d discovered then, but it did wonders for balancing a daytime job and nighttime shenanigans. Unfortunately, he still experienced feeling tired, as anyone did after working a food service job. Or, drink service job.
Forcing himself to be alert of his surroundings, Tommy casually strolled through the alleyways. He wasn’t the only one who used them as shortcuts or an alternatively stealthy way to get around, but they’d never held anything close to busy traffic. After a couple turns, Tommy lept up onto a dumpster that had a gap between it and the back of a store. Both gaps on either end of the narrow space were blocked off with boxes and outdoor holiday decorations. Tommy stepped off the edge and fell the short distance into the crack. He stooped down and grabbed a plain, dirty, black backpack with a grin. It wasn’t his only stash of personal belongings by any means—it wasn’t even his only stash of these specific items—but it was always a pleasant surprise to find things where he left them.
Quickly, Tommy changed. A thin gray trench coat was thrown over his long-sleeved white-and-red shirt, and his jeans were traded for black cargo pants. He checked for the first aid supplies he kept in one of the bigger pockets, making sure nothing had gone missing or needed a restock before grabbing a gray cloth face mask to put over his mouth. The last item was a small voice changer that fit around his throat, and he double-checked he’d turned it on before zipping the backpack closed and returning it to its hiding spot.
Getting out was always a bit trickier than getting in, but he’d done it enough times by now that it was muscle memory to grab the dumpster ledge, plant a foot on the wall behind him, and parkour his way up the narrow space.
Clambering back down into the open alley, Tommy let out a sigh of relief and let his eyes change into a dimly glowing silver. Wispy phantoms took shape around him.
The time to fight crime had just begun.
------
It was surprisingly hard to keep a vigilante presence off the radar.
Somehow, it was when Tommy was using his identity that could literally turn invisible, that he’d been almost immediately clocked by the heroes. He’d really only been just starting to have a presence when the heroes cornered him about it. Surprisingly, instead of attempting arrest, they’d recruited him. And who was he to say no to free access to the hero database and nice bathrooms?
One power per secret identity, that was his rule, and he still had a couple more up his sleeve. The heroes could have one. As a treat. He was generous like that. He’d just take more care to keep his other identities off the radar.
Simple.
If only things worked out as planned. Somehow, it hadn’t taken long for his next vigilante persona to be noticed as well, though not by heroes this time.
“I hear you talk to ghosts.” Said a deadpan voice.
Tommy’s heart leapt into his throat as he whipped around, stuck between a defensive position and the urge to bolt. He knew who he’d find connected to that voice even before turning around, but the foreboding figure before him still stole a little too much of his breath away anyway.
The Blade was not someone he wanted to fight. Ever. The once-hero had fallen from favor into villainy, now leading one of the most powerful villain organizations called the Syndicate. He was vicious and masterful with the sword, his fighting skills unmatched, his brain a mastermind of strategy.
And he could bloodbend.
Which meant it was technically too late for Tommy to run. He’d already accidentally met the man’s glowing red eyes. That tiny detail wasn’t about to stop him from trying, though. If he saw an opportunity.
The villain snorted, unimpressed. “Calm down, I just wanna have a chat.”
Right, because the Blade was so well known for his conversation skills.
“Yeah okay I’ll get you in touch with my secretary,” Tommy said, trying to match his tone, and not ramble like any reasonable person would when facing the Blade. “We’ll set something up. I think Septembruary is open on my calendar.”
His eyes were dimly glowing silver, just enough that he could see what phantoms were nearby. One in particular was always there, his shadow ever since he’d discovered his ghost powers. A small girl who had once had soft copper hair and dark gray eyes.
Clementine.
She was currently gaping at the Blade. He had always been something of a favorite hero to her, even after he’d become a villain. At least if Tommy died tonight she’d be thrilled it was at the Blade’s hands.
“Or we could just talk now.” The Blade pointed out, “I’d hate to bother what I’m sure must be an already busy secretary.”
Tommy nodded, like the man had made a reasonable point, like he’d take a moment to consider that reasonable point; and then he bolted. He made it all of three steps before his body seized up, drawing him to a sudden halt. It felt like pressure pressing from every side, especially inside, and that pressure now controlled his limbs like a puppet.
Rude. And with his muscles so sore from being electrocuted earlier, too.
He was turned back around to face the Blade. Thankfully, his mouth was still in his own control, so he went ahead and used it. “You could have just started with this, you know. It’s a cruel thing to give a man hope before you rip it away.”
“I try not to use it if I don’t have to.” The man replied, and to Tommy’s surprise, he released his hold. “You’re called Orpheus, right?”
The rush of blood being released to its natural rhythm made Tommy sway where he stood, his vision filled with stars for a second before returning to normal. He regained his senses just fast enough to process the villain's words. He let his power surge briefly, the silver in his eyes brightening as he let some of his phantoms flicker into visibility, and then fade. “Yup. That’s me. What can I do for you mister Blade?”
“I’m looking for someone.” He started. “A ghost, most likely, or someone ghosts might know.” He held out a paper.
Tommy took it, scanning over what seemed to be a missing person file. It took him a moment to absorb any of the information written there, mostly because this was not the sort of thing he’d expect the Blade to ask the renowned Orpheus for help with. Perhaps he was tracking down an old enemy, or someone who owed him money, or . . .
A kid.
The boy on the paper looked like he was in his mid-teens, with blond hair and gray eyes. The boy’s name was Karl, and that combined with his portrait rang a bell in the back of Tommy’s mind. He read farther down until he found it. The kid had been reported missing by his foster family, about two years ago.
He raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “What, you’re working for the foster care system now?”
The Blade looked surprised. “You know who he is?”
“Vaguely.” Tommy shrugged. “I try to keep tabs on missing kids. I don’t want them to end up as one of my phantoms.”
Silence followed his statement, settling the weight of his words into his bones. Even with his eyes only dimly glowing, he could see Clementine peeking at the paper. What he wouldn’t have done to be able to keep her from being a phantom . . .
He shook himself out of that train of thought. “This is an old case, though. Anything I should know to look for specifically? It’s a pretty cold trail.”
The Blade looked at Tommy in a way that felt thoughtful. Assessing. “He disappeared around the same time Icarus died.” He said slowly.
Tommy’s heart thudded dully against his ribcage. Icarus. The city’s favorite vigilante. The one the Blade was so well known for killing. The one who was dead. His mouth felt dry. “You’re trying to find Icarus?”
“They never found his body.” The Blade said. “And the heroes are too busy blaming me to look for it themselves.”
Tommy startled, first looking up at the fallen hero, and then to Clementine. She was looking up at him, something almost shining in her faded eyes. “Maybe he can help.”
He swallowed hard, looking back at the picture of the missing kid. He was too old to be Icarus, by several years, but no one else would know that. This boy had also been reported missing about four days after the famous vigilante fell. The villain wasn’t going to find Icarus by chasing this lead.
“It wasn’t me who killed him.” The Blade said, his voice cautious. “Which means the person who did, is getting away with it.”
Tommy found himself stuck between laughter and tears. He was actually trying to solve this cold case. Someone was still looking for Icarus. The Blade had never really stopped being a hero, had he? He cleared his throat so neither emotion came through. “So you’re going after the real killer.”
The man straightened, looking surprised, like he’d expected disagreement. Like he’d been prepared to pull out a powerpoint presentation or something to argue his point. The Blade opened his mouth, and then closed it.
Tommy took that time to think. It wouldn’t be the first time someone from the Syndicate showed up at the end of a missing person’s case, but from what he’d heard they usually showed up with a dead body.
“So why do you need my help?” he asked. “I mean yeah, I can send out my phantoms and see what they can find, but from what I hear you’re a pretty capable guy when it comes to going after what you want. Icarus died two years ago, this can’t be the first missing kid you’ve looked for. So why me, and why now?”
“It’s, uh, actually the first kid.” the Blade said. Tommy looked up in surprise. “The other missing cases were technically adults, and usually they had a police trail of clues and suspects to pick up. Turns out most of them were unsolved murders. Foster kids . . . as it turns out, they’re harder to find when they’re labeled ‘runaway’ and added to a list of people to keep an eye out for. There isn’t a trail to pick up, and we need something like a wide net to search with, more than investigative skills.”
“Which my phantoms could provide.” Tommy nodded, looking back down at the paper in his hands. It seemed the Blade was speaking as a part of the Syndicate, and not just for himself, using the word ‘we’. And if they’d been looking into missing persons this whole time . . .
He wasn’t going to find Icarus by finding this kid though, that much Tommy knew, but the Blade might still find the people behind Icarus’s death if he kept looking down these roads. And find some missing kids to boot. Foster kids seemed to slip through the cracks too easily in their city, and it would be nice to have someone help look for them. It was dangerous, if his suspicions about what happened to the boy were correct. Even for someone as powerful as the Blade.
Tommy tucked away the paper. “Yeah, I’ll look into it. It’s kinda refreshing to see a villain care about a dead vigilante.”
“You believe me?” The Blade asked.
“I have sources backing up your words, Blade.” Tommy tilted his head, dramatically sliding his glowing eyes back to Clementine, who was still invisible to anyone else but him. She was phasing her hand back and forth through the paper he held, trying to make it ripple. He decided not to mention that his ‘sources’ were mostly himself, because he had also been looking into Icarus’s case. He'd just let the man believe he had helpful ghosts whispering in his ear. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have believed a word you said, of course. I don’t give my trust that easily, and frankly, neither should you. Just because I won’t turn you in to the heroes or police doesn’t mean I can’t stab you in the back.”
It was a fair warning, considering the other identities he kept. He was a pretty prolific liar, all things considered, but he wouldn’t hold the illusion that Orpheus wasn’t someone the Blade should be wary of. It also kept Orpheus at a more comfortable distance from being immediately labeled a villain, just because he took a job from one. Not that the heroes were known to pay attention to that kind of detail.
Still.
“Alright.” The Blade said, still looking at him curiously. “I’ll just give you my number then, and get out of your hair.”
“Your number?” Tommy said. “Mr Blade, sir, my man, my good dude, that is actually the opposite of not trusting me.”
The Blade snorted. “Not my personal number, idiot. I have one that’s strictly for business.”
The Blade had a business phone number. How very . . . civilized of him. The guy held out a blank card with a number typed out in the center, and Tommy took it in shock. “You have a business card. For your villain jobs. To find lost foster kids.” he blinked, peering back up at the man. “You’re not very good at maintaining your reputation, you know.”
“Yeah,” the guy said dryly, “I’m aware. I wasn’t good at it as a hero either. I’ll see you later, Orpheus.”
In seconds, Tommy was left standing in the alley alone, a plain business card still gripped between his hands.