Canary in the Coal-dust City (discontinued)

so this is not an act of spite, it's a visceral coming to

"After lunch, go down to apartment 812. An old family friend just moved in, and she needs help."

It'd only been a day since Tommy had hung up on Tubbo. It was drizzling outside, the rain streaking across the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the apartment. Tommy nodded dully, poking at his sandwich. Techno's cooking again. Potato bread, with potato filling, french fries, and potato salad on the side.

"Toms. Did you hear me?"

Tommy raised his eyes to meet Phil's, and flinched. Phil's gaze was steely.

"Yea," Tommy mumbled.

Techno and Wil were sitting on either side of the table, yet again. Wil had gotten discharged from the hospital earlier that morning, perfectly fine. Tommy stole a glance at Techno. He hadn't been able to spar with him last night, because of Phil's restrictions.

Say something, Tommy was internally pleading, just please let Techno say something, anything, to cut the fucking tension. Techno was smart. Techno knew what was happening.

And Techno wasn't kind. Techno, despite the revolutionary books lining his bookshelves, the scars running across his face, wasn't brave either.

"812. Don't be late."

After lunch, Tommy did go down to apartment 812. While he would enjoy seeing the look on Phil's face if he didn't, he didn't particularly want to face the consequences.

The door hung halfway open, an enormous pile of cardboard boxes inside. Unsure, Tommy rang the doorbell, and peeked in.

The shiny hardwood floors were completely devoid of anything. The walls were plain, and though the general style and floor plan seemed to be similar to Tommy's apartment, he wasn't entirely used to seeing it this way. He couldn't imagine a place without that ugly green floral wallpaper, without the scarred table, without the creaky stairs.

Suddenly, two heads popped out from behind a doorway. One was a kid with black hair, dark skin, and bright red eyes. The other was a kid with pink hair, and hazel eyes. "Who are you?" the black-haired one asked.

"I bet he's a robber," the other kid said, in a stage whisper.

"I'm not a robber," Tommy said, feeling rather out of place–he wasn't very good at dealing with kids.

"Who's a robber?"

A woman with an overabundance of curly white hair, tucked into a high ponytail walked through the door frame. She looked to be middle-aged, with gold-rimmed glasses.

"I'm not a robber," Tommy repeated, "I'm Tommy. Phil's my dad."

The woman's eyes lit up in recognition. "Oh! You're here to help me unpack. Phil said he would be sending someone down soon, thanks for coming! I'm Cara Puffy, but you can just call me Puffy," she said, shaking Tommy's hand.

Puffy was nice enough, Tommy supposed. Apparently, the black-haired kid was Shroud, and the pink-haired one was Michael–Puffy was taking care of them for a relative for a couple of months. They were both cheeky little bastards, that Tommy wouldn't admit that he kind of liked. He got straight to work, helping Puffy unpack furniture and decorations.

As Puffy left to make a cup of tea for both of them, Tommy accidentally sliced open a large cardboard box too quickly. The side ripped open, and trinkets wrapped in bubble wrap and packing peanuts came tumbling out. Hurriedly, Tommy scrambled to pick everything up, trying to shove it all back in the box.

The bubble wrap fell off of one, and as Tommy moved to put it back in the box, he stopped.

It was a photo, one of those poorly printed ones with too-high saturation and not enough contrast. However, even with the low quality, Tommy could recognize Phil.