Annihilate

Tommy doesn’t know how long he’s out like a light.

When he comes to again, he’s at Ranboo’s. He can tell because Ranboo’s room reeks of spray paint and incense, a very particular mixture that registers in his nose much more now that he has enhanced senses. There are other scents, underlying; his ancient relict of a cat (his name is Uncle Nasty and Tommy loves him because Tommy seems to be the only human being the old grumpy cat tolerates), oil paint, metal.

It’s comforting, to wake up and instantly know where he is, to instantly know that he’s safe. He hasn’t woken up with that feeling in a while, and didn’t even realize how much he needed to feel it until now. He breathes in the familiar scent of Ranboo’s complete uniqueness and relaxes.

Smell sets in first.

Then comes feeling.

Tommy groans in pain. Fuck, he feels like he wrestled with a goblin-looking dude on a flying skateboard a hundred feet in the air and lost spectacularly. Which would’ve been an outlandish description of a Tuesday night half a month ago, but now seems rather… normal, compared to some other events in his life lately.

Everything hurts, from his head over his throat over his ribs to his feet. His chest and stomach especially feel mangled as fuck. God, he’s not ready to open his eyes in the slightest and actually look at the wounds his latest scuffle has left him with.

Also, he’s about to have a really painful conversation with his two best friends. And he’s not really looking forward to it.

But hey. Tommy isn’t exactly the type of person to run away from a challenge. Sadly, he thinks as his ribs sting, he tends to run towards danger instead of away from it.

So he opens his eyes and squints against the bright light, a new wave of headache hitting him hard as soon as it does. He raises his hand to his face weakly, letting out a noise of pain, and blinks hard, allowing himself to adjust to the light.

He’s alone, curled up on Ranboo’s bed and carefully covered with a blanket. Once he sits up, he discovers that someone has bandaged his wounds. Tommy hisses (more like a cat than a spider), prodding at them. Ugh, that’s why he’s still in pain – someone’s given him stitches that are now uncomfortably stinging. He suspects the culprit may be the inhabitant of this very room.

The Vulture’s wings are on the floor, taken apart. Tommy squints at them. He vaguely remembers that Ranboo fell at some point during the fight, so they were probably damaged. Tommy feels tempted to roll over and shut his eyes again, shut out the reality of what’s been going on, but again. He doesn’t run much.

Instead, he forces himself to get up.

Ranboo’s phone is charging on the nightstand – it’s Thursday when Tommy has a look, and just after six in the morning. Fuck, he was out for an entire day.

A cold shock goes through his system. The formula must’ve finished developing by now. He has to get back to Oscorp. Right now.

Cursing wildly, Tommy looks around Ranboo’s room. His own vigilante gear is nowhere to be found. He’s wearing Ranboo’s clothes, made quite obvious by the fact that everything is too long for him, and he can’t see his web-shooters or suit anywhere in the room.

God-fucking-damn-it. He really has to look for his best friends, doesn’t he?

He finds them downstairs, watching the news. Tommy tip-toes down, careful not to let his steps creak on the stairs.

“…Science Academy will remain closed until the investigation is complete,” a reporter says on screen, “as it is still not clear where the creature came from, and therefore unsure if it will return.”

The creature – he supposes that’s the lizard. Finally, they’re investigating that thing. It’s about time.

Then, blessedly, the reporter says, “Many people are linking the creature to Oscorp. An anonymous source in a high position of the company has come forward and declared that it might be the product of a failed genetic experiment. It is known that Oscorp has been researching lizards, which are the animals many witnesses have likened the creature to. On a related note; Oscorp has also been doing genetic research into spiders. Now, is the masked vigilante known as Spider-Man also a product of Oscorp? J. Schlatt Osborn has yet to give a statement to the press.”

The news segment ends, and Tubbo lets out a derogatory huff from the couch. “Yet to give a statement. What a fancy way of saying disappeared into thin air.”

Woah. That was, for what feels like the millionth time, too much information at once. Ranboo shakes their head. “Do we have a theory on who the anonymous source is?”

“My brother,” Tubbo says, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. “He’s kind of putting himself in jeopardy, but at this point, I think he just can’t stay silent anymore. He’s gonna inherit the damn company, but he wants to inherit an honest company.”

Ranboo exhales heavily. “But I understand that. Have you talked to him about your father disappearing?”

“Course I have. Dream doesn’t know where he could be either.”

Tommy shifts on his feet uneasily and weighs his options. His web-shooters are on the counter. He could scram, theoretically, but he wants to talk to Tubbo and Ranboo – aches to talk to them about all this, aches to not be alone in this weird world of brown-eyed hitmen and failed experiments and freaky superpowers.

Also, that goblin-looking motherfucker was Schlatt. Going off of what his friends are saying. Tommy doesn’t know what the hell to make of that, because the man could barely sit straight last time he saw him. How does a person go from being terminally ill to throwing grenades at vigilantes on a flying glider?

Something in his brain stirs. Oscorp. He has to go back to Oscorp.

Tubbo in the living room makes a frustrated sound. “This is all so confusing. The lizard getting loose, then Deo getting murdered, and then Tommy turns out to be a fucking web-slinging vigilante. All of those things are connected by my family’s company.”

“Are they? What does Tommy have to do with Oscorp?”

“A lot, apparently. Dream said that our dad put him into our systems two days ago. With level ten security clearance.”

A short silence. Tommy holds his breath.

Then Ranboo asks, confusion evident in their voice, “But… doesn’t only Charlie have that?”

“Yep. Him, George and Sapnap. Dream is level nine. I’m level two. I asked around, apparently Tommy’s been at Oscorp twice in the last week. And at the same time as that weird break-in. Do you think that was him? How did he get into Laboratory C?”

“Tubbo, I don’t know. But I know how Tommy is,” Ranboo sighs. “He always has a reason.”

Tommy presses his lips together and slips his web-shooters off the counter. He carefully sneaks back upstairs, where he steals one of Ranboo’s hoodies, slips his web-shooters on, and stems open Ranboo’s window. On second consideration, he turns back and leaves the two a note. Then he doesn’t waste any more time before he pulls the hood deep into his face, rolls up the way too long sleeves and throws himself out the window.

He rips out his stitches in a public bathroom, downs two entire water bottles to replenish the blood he surely lost, and dabs his injuries with toilet paper until they’re not bleeding anymore and itching with the usual healing process. He turns up at Deo’s place, where he finds his stash of clothes and crackers he left at his last visit. Then he writes down the equation again, correctly, and leaves for his least favorite company in NYC.

Oscorp is quiet. He has confidence walking into the building, and that confidence is confirmed by the fact that Dream, Schlatt and Charlie are nowhere to be found. Tommy ignores the way his heart is racing as he briskly marches through the halls and to the desk where he left his replica of the equation.

It wasn’t correct. That’s what’s irking him. He left it there to have a starting point when he came back, something to work with and modify.

He peeks into the room, delighted to find it empty, and briskly walks over to the desk, opening the drawer he’s looking for. But it’s empty, and he finds the fear in his brain confirmed when he looks up and around and sees a video camera pointed directly at him.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Schlatt must’ve taken the incorrect formula and used it on himself. With God-knows-what DNA in the mix. One human trial he went through on his own. Where no one but himself was hurt.

Tommy desperately prays that the correct formula will cure the first failed human trial.

He looks around, curses himself for feeling like he’s committing a crime, and starts developing the serum that he can read out of the equation. It takes him a while, but eventually, he finds himself with an almost bioluminescent blue liquid dripping out of a catheter into a large and sturdy syringe. He gnaws on his bottom lip nervously, waiting for it to finish developing. Then he does it again.

This has to do it. It just has to.

Tommy has one regret about all of this. He let his family tell him that Deo wasn’t his fault, he let Deo tell him the lizard wasn’t his fault. But it is. The thing blames him for creating it; for condemning it to this monstrous existence with clear human thoughts, and that is something he has to fucking atone for.

The cure for the hand lizard is proof that he isn’t a murderer like Schlatt, not some mad scientist that will forgo every rule on this world for his own goals – curing it will prove that he’s also not a freak science experiment because if he can turn it back into a normal human, surely he can turn himself back to how he was before the bite too. Surely, he can prove that he didn’t deserve any of this.

He doesn’t even know who he’s trying to appeal to. To what heavens is he praying? For God’s sake, he hasn’t known who he should pray to since he was a small child. Tommy’s thoughts are running in too many directions at once, and he can only focus on what matters to him most right now.

The lizard is a regret that needs fixing. A mistake like him. One he can rectify. One he can undo, and forget, and move past. And then everything will be alright – he’ll never be able to go back to his family because surely they hate him for all of this, but he’ll be alright.

He’s good on his own.

Tommy grabs the second serum and safely puts both of them into his backpack. He zips it up, ignoring the way his hands shake, and has to consciously walk towards the door. His spider-sense flares when he grabs the handle to open it and it gets opened from the other side.

He startles, fight-or-flight flaring up; but he does neither, because standing across him is just Charlie, the security guard. Who’s looking at him with a confused face.

“Oh, hi,” he says. “Tommy, right? What are you doing here?”

Tommy blinks. “Uh… I was… I was just…”

Charlie frowns at him suddenly and grabs his chin. Tommy freezes up, which is probably for the best since his punches can break concrete, and the security guard looks at – oh, there’s a wound on the side of his neck. Tommy completely forgot he’s severely injured.

“Jesus,” Charlie says. When he gently lets Tommy go, he looks worried. “You look pretty rough, kid. Fight a lizard or something?”

Tommy stares at him for a moment before his brain completely processes what he just said. “What?”

The security guard sighs. “Why are you kids getting involved in this?” he asks, voice speaking of deep suffering. “Come with me. I got medical experience, I can–”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says. “It’s– I’m not that injured.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow at him. “That blood stain on your shirt says otherwise.”

Tommy looks down and, sure enough, a blood stain is rapidly increasing in size on his abdomen. He curses and slips a hand underneath his shirt, pressing his fingers to the wound. “God fucking– fine. But you can’t give me stitches. And you better tell me what the fuck you know about me, and the lizard.”

The security guard weakly smiles at him. “Deal, bossman. Let’s go. The backrooms here aren’t under video surveillance.”

Charlie, true to his word, pulls him into backrooms of the building he hasn’t been in before. He lets Tommy bandage his bleeding wounds and doesn’t ask why he doesn’t want stitches. Tommy looks up at him when he’s wearing a shirt again, and inspects the security guard for a moment – glasses, light brown hair, and closed eyes as he waits for Tommy to finish. He looks tired.

“Thanks,” he says, “Charlie, right?”

Charlie opens his eyes and grins at him. “Charlie Slimecicle. And you’re Tommy.”

“Yup. How do you know me?”

“Well,” Charlie sighs. “My boss read an essay you wrote and became convinced that you’re a genius who can cure the disease that’s killing him. Which is a lot of pressure to put on a kid, I think. And then he found some writing of yours that he thought could actually cure him and injected himself with it and now he’s gone and I don’t know what to do.”

“Your boss killed my parents,” Tommy says, which is equally as unhinged as what Charlie just very nonchalantly and shortly says.

Charlie blinks. “…Why?”

“I suppose because they couldn’t cure him,” Tommy mumbles, looking down at his blood-stained hands. “My mum worked for this company. She didn’t want to experiment on humans. Next thing I know is that she died, and my dad too, and then the parents of my best friend, same story.”

Charlie is silent for a moment. “And yet you’re here,” he says then. “Looking for that cure.”

Tommy snorts. “I’m not looking to cure Schlatt,” he says, “I don’t give a fuck about him dying. When his kids start dying, I’m gonna start caring because they’re good people. I’m looking to cure the lizard.”

Another moment of silence. Then Charlie says, “That’s good. I seriously considered quitting this job when Schlatt showed him to me for the first time.”

Tommy’s brain gets hung up on that sentence for a moment. Oblivious, Charlie keeps speaking.

“I mean, Schlatt has entrusted me with a lot of things. His kids, his sickness, his worst fuck-ups. And I owe him a lot, you know, he’s an old friend of mine. Helped me out of a lot of bad shit in my lifetime.”

Him. He said him talking about the lizard.

“You seem like a nice kid, Tommy,” Charlie’s voice breaks through the frantic turn his thoughts just took. “I’m sorry.”

Tommy’s spider-sense screams, and he shoots up from where he was sitting on the floor. Charlie startles, and there’s a syringe in his hand, and holy fuck he also feels sorry about this because the guy seems really nice too, but he balls his hand into a fist and clocks him one.

Gently.

Charlie goes down hard, slamming into the floor head first. Tommy makes a grimace at his body and then gingerly steps over him, heart pounding in his chest. It takes him a hot second to remember where he came from, but he finds a window eventually, and jumps out of it.

Je-sus. That was a wild ride.