In the Shadows We Fight (for justice and ourselves)

Are you able to win?

Reverie had a lot on his mind. Something sinister was going on in the city he swore to protect, and he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Purpled was being sold, Tubbo was unconscious until further notice, and Ranboo was secretly working with the Syndicate. Somehow, Dream and Minotaur were at the center of all of it, but Reverie couldn't really figure out how or why. It was one of the worst feelings in the world. Reverie knew that something horrible was going to happen very soon. He didn't know how to stop it. He didn't know which direction it was coming from. He didn't know who was all involved, or how he would beat the people that he knew were involved. Shit was hitting the fan, and Reverie didn't know how to keep anyone clean, let alone himself.

Despite all of that, Reverie had to go back to Dream's apartment. It was his agreement with Dream that allowed him the freedom to go anywhere he wanted at night. He would always have to come back. If he didn't willingly come, Dream would force him to. It was easier for everyone if Reverie just came back from his own volition. No one would get hurt that way, emotionally or physically.

It was quiet when Reverie slipped inside. He made sure to stay near silent as he tugged off his shoes, leaving them in the mudroom. As he walked into the apartment, he pulled down his hood and ripped off his mask. He continued stripping down when he realized that it wasn't entirely noiseless. Tommy looked around to find that someone was breathing slowly and deeply on the couch. As his eyes adjusted, Tommy noticed that Drista was passed out on the couch. She had one arm on her chest, the other hanging off the couch, and her legs were about to tumble off the edge bringing her whole body to the floor. She was breathing through her mouth meaning she was completely out, the farthest into the realm of sleep as she could go. Tommy nearly rolled his eyes as he shoved her legs back onto the couch. He slid one hand beneath her knees, and was about to slide his other hand underneath her shoulders. He stopped when something caught his eye.

Sidekicks were prone for injuries. The only heroes that didn't have some sort of scar or bruise were the new ones. Tommy and Drista both had their fair share of life-time abrasions. This was different. Drista's arm that was hanging off the couch was covered in thin red lines that seemed irritated. It was too methodical to be an accident. It was like someone had carved a pattern in Drista's skin, and Tommy felt a tug in his gut that was his body's way of telling his brain they knew what the pattern meant. Tommy searched his memory as he trailed some of the scars with his finger. He knew what it meant, he just needed to remember. The cuts were recent, like the last few hours recent. The memory he was reaching for was also pretty recent. Tommy had seen that same symbol carved on Drista's arm in the previous few days.

A sound startled Tommy into looking away from the scars. Clay meandered into the room with a slow, lazy walk, a loose smile spreading across his face. Clay didn't acknowledge Tommy in any way, but the blonde boy could feel the string around his throat tighten. Tommy watched Clay intensely as the man moved around the kitchen area. Before Tommy could figure out what was happening, the smell of bitter coffee struck his nose like an arrow finding it's bullseye. Clay poured himself a mug, moving the pitcher up and down like he was a bartender putting on a show for drunkards. When Clay was done, he took a long sip of his coffee. He gently set the mug down on the counter. All his attention was now on Tommy, making the latter shiver involuntarily. "Go ahead. Ask about the scars. Ask me where they came from, what they mean."

Tommy didn't say anything. This was a trap in every sense of the word, but there wasn't an easy escape in sight. Tommy hated when Clay did this. Tommy had claustrophobia. He didn't like small, tight spaces. He didn't like feeling he was in a small, tight space, either. It wasn't just a fear of a physical place. Tommy was terrified of the string around his neck. He was terrified of Clay's mind games. He hated the way the apartment's walls seemed to close in around him, threatening without saying a word that they would crush him until he was a smoothie of blood and flattened flesh and fractured bone. Tommy tried to keep his breathing steady. These were his thoughts. He could control those. He couldn't let Clay have anything to use against him.