Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Purpled gave Tommy a wave as he left their apartment to start his shift. His roommate nodded back to him, nose dropping perilously close to his bowl of cereal. Dumbass. It was rare for Tommy to still be up when Purpled left, as the idiot was typically already in bed after his night shift at the laundromat.

God knows why Tommy chose to work from eight to six washing other peoples’ clothes for pennies. Purpled, on the other hand, made the big bucks in the partnership. Youngest manager, and only employee, of Los Colchones mattress store, ‘come get your mattresses here, life guarantee or half your money back’. Purpled came up with that marketing himself. He’d even sold a mattress last month. Business was going well.

Purpled’s work was only a fifteen-minute walk from their apartment in Pogtopia, a notoriously deprived area of town. The tacky Las Vegas inspired sign proclaimed the dubious existence of Purpled’s workplace, wedged in between various other businesses teetering on the edge of bankruptcy in Pogtopia’s dingy commercial park. Purpled had faith in the Hobby Lobby though. If none of them survived, Hobby Lobby would.

Personally, Purpled thought him being the only employee meant that he should be able to change the name to something slightly less uninspired than just Spanish for ‘mattresses’, but hey, he didn’t own the place. He just got paid a hefty 25$ an hour to deal with this shit. Fiddling with his earphones and lining up his- ironically named, he swore- ‘Beast Mode’ playlist, Purpled ruminated on the possibility of getting a raise. Not many people needed to buy mattresses in Essempi it seemed, especially not in Pogtopia, the dingiest borough of the city. But, Purpled considered, his boss had practically no concept of normal salaries. The guy was fucking loaded; he could afford to pay Purpled an extra five dollars an hour to sit around and do mostly nothing.

Purpled’s work as manager of Los Colchones mostly comprised of playing games on his phone, occasionally dusting off (bouncing around on) the mattresses, and making awkward small talk with the randos who came in to speak to Quackity sometimes. As he clocked in this morning, after nodding awkwardly to Tubbo, who was fumbling to open the greasy burger store next door, Purpled made a little affirmation. Today, he promised, he would see no customers and-do-no-work-god-bless. Amen.

His hopes were dashed at having a completely chill day of Doodle Jump and Piano Tiles when just as he settled down behind the main desk, Slime barreled out of the back office.

Slime was... an interesting guy. A guy that Purpled had long since decided not to put much thought into. He was constantly cheery, and terrifyingly optimistic in a way that was probably more alien than his particularly gelatinous way of being. 

“Purpled!” Slime grinned, his glasses sliding goop-ily down his nose. Slime pushed them back up with a squilsh.

Purpled had figured out a while ago that the best way to deal with Slime was to just keep polite but withdrawn conversation until he got distracted by something else. He wasn’t that bad, Purpled acknowledged, especially compared to some of Quackity’s other friends, but the upbeat happiness was just too much to handle at nine in the morning sometimes.

Purpled watched out of the corner of his eye as Slime settled on a mattress and started bouncing merrily. Sometimes, when Slime decided to bounce on the mattresses, he continued to do so past the point where he was actively jumping, body contracting and elongating seemingly out of his own volition. Again, Purpled thought, he did not think about Slime too much. Don’t think about him.

“How are you on this fine morning!” Slime asked him.

Purpled huffed. What fine morning.

“It’s nine AM on a Tuesday, Slime, there’s nothing fine about it.” Purpled did a swivel in his desk chair, pre-emptively getting his phone out to play Doodle Jump while Slime chattered away.

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it!” Slime said, still chipper as ever. “Personally, I think mornings are something to be cherished, lest we ever forget times less tranquil.” Slime’s cheery demeanor slipped for a moment, a shadow of grave pensiveness casting over his face. That was the other thing about Slime. He said some wackass shit sometimes.

“That’s nice,” Purpled said, only half paying attention.

“But tell me, Purpled!” he exclaimed, “How was your weekend?”

Purpled sighed. Slime’s smile stretched across his whole face. Purpled wasn’t going to point out that that was far wider than average humans could smile, seeing as Slime was still stuck on thinking that no one was aware he wasn’t fully human.

In the department of hiding your inhumanity, some non-humans were better than others.

“It was fine.”

“What did you get up to?”

“Not much.”

Slime was undeterred. “Well, I went out with Quackity! We went to the club!”

“That’s nice,” Purpled answered. Honestly, his weekend was kind of fun too, for a given definition. Tommy never really took days off, but Purpled never bothered to go to work on Sundays. It wasn’t like Quackity really bothered to check up on the business of Los Colchones, and Purpled had taken the executive decision to give himself Sundays off. Technically, he was the manager, so he could do that. He thought.

This Sunday, he’d dragged himself out of their apartment and to one of the nicer districts in Essempi. It always seemed like the weather in Pogtopia was dreary as fuck, because after the subway took him further into the city, he had emerged into sunlight.

The city center had a few districts that were well known for their towering skyscrapers and bustling tourism, but Purpled’s favorite to visit on days off was a little to the east of the main city. It was a wealthy area, much quieter than it should be for its location, and enveloped in lush foliage and sprawling parks. If you walked up the hill to the east of the church of Prime Our Lady, in all its quartz grandeur, there was a public park. Rich people would come here to walk their stupid little bichon-friezes and their immaculately groomed golden retrievers.

As always, Purpled made his way to the Chinese-inspired rock garden bordered by some bamboo in the corner of the park. Past this was where Purpled had a spot that he used every so often to clear his head. This spot was probably his best kept secret- no one else had uncovered it, and he didn’t think Tommy even knew he left the flat on the weekends. Tommy hadn’t even found out about his secret stash under the floorboards, and they shared that bedroom.

Honestly, Purpled didn’t need much excitement in his life. Working six days a week and then taking a walk the other day was enough to keep him happy, mainly.

But maybe he should try out clubbing, or something. Could be fun.

He tuned back into what Slime had been saying.

“And then, Quackity was saying, like, ‘shut up or I’ll put this bullet through your head!’” Slime recounted, squishily bouncing up and down on the mattress still. Some of his slime was gooping off onto the display duvet. Gross, Purpled frowned. He’d probably have to clean that.

“So then Sam was like- blam! And then we had to leave because technically we aren’t allowed in those clubs unless we keep the peace, but Quackity said it wasn’t our fault so we-”

“Slime can you stop bouncing? You’re getting gunk all over the comforter.” Purpled said, still staring at where the blue sheets had gone slightly green. Would they come off with normal detergent?

“Oh! Oh my very normal human skin fell off! I’m so sorry Purpled it’s usually better at staying on,” Slime said, looking sort of concerned, his smile more like a grimace, melting slightly at the corners.

“Yeah, no, dude you’re fine.” Purpled said. “I’ll just take them to Tommy’s after this, he’ll know what to do with them.”

This was true. Tommy knew what to do with most things fabric-wise. Purpled was just glad he didn’t ever have to do the laundry, because Tommy always did it for free.

Occasionally Purpled would throw some pound coins in the washing machine coin slots when he visited the laundromat as his good deed of the month, but Tommy didn’t have to know this. It wouldn’t do to let his roommate know that he appreciated him. And he knew Tommy was always happy to get paid in his dumb British currency, anyway. Something to do with his crush on the Queen.

Purpled’s mind shifted to what Slime had been saying about the club. They got into a fight or something? Well, that was typical Quackity for you. The guy was as high-strung as a fucking trapeze artist. And if Sam was with them too that made sense. The guy looked like the fucking Predator. He was a nice dude, supposedly, but his demeanor could definitely give off serial killer vibes.

It was kind of funny to imagine Slime in a club though. If he got really hot under the lights and surrounded by so many people on the dance floor, would he just melt into a puddle? Or was it one of those fancier clubs, where there isn’t an actual dance floor, just rich people measuring their dicks by buying top shelf liquor and bragging about their sugar babies?

Purpled had considered working for something like that once, back when he was a server. But one week of working in a steak restaurant had convinced him otherwise. Some people were cut out to talk to assholes all day, and Purpled simply was not one of them. Los Colchones was the best job he’d ever had in his life, and he wasn’t about to switch it up.

He didn’t think he had the patience to look at those rich fucks and not immediately scoff in their faces anyway. Quackity was different, though, because Quackity was always jumping at the bit to gift Purpled whatever he needed. Case in point, last month’s purchase of a fully ergonomic swivel desk chair, so that Purpled didn’t get a bad back from sitting around doing fuck-all all day. Or that time he bought Purpled fifty more lives on Candy Crush.

The next moment Purpled looked up, Slime had disappeared. He’d probably gone to hide in the back office after his embarrassment of losing his ‘human skin’ on the mattress, Purpled thought. What a weird guy.

Quackity slammed into the shop at around midday, coffee flask in hand, and a frazzled expression on his face. He nodded quickly to Purpled before hurrying to the office, where Purpled heard Slime’s excitable greeting before it was immediately cut off. Purpled snorted. He’d be the first to say it: his boss needed to chill the fuck out. The man ran a mattress store for fuck’s sake.

Ok, well, obviously the man didn’t just run a mattress store. Evidence number one: the place was still open. Evidence number two: Purpled was fairly sure he also owned the Tubburger next door, which was presumably a bit more lucrative. Evidence number three: that back office had fantastic sound proofing.

At the beginning of his time at Los Colchones, Purpled had snooped around Quackity’s office. It was when he was in one of his more adventurous moods, when he was still interested in knowing about the goings on of Quackity’s obviously dubious business practices. One look around the dingy office had him convinced otherwise, however. Purpled did not need to know more about a man who had randomly decided to invest in mattresses and burgers, and somehow turn over a profit. Clearly the cabinet in the corner was just a cabinet. Not a hidden door that led to a distinctly less dingy corridor.

And even if Purpled cared to further analyze how Quackity had enough money to pay Purpled a fifty-grand salary despite them never selling any mattresses, he’d long since decided it was for the best that he keep his nose out of those things. Purpled was the embodiment of plausible deniability. And happy to keep it that way.

Purpled, now attempting his high score on Flight of the Bumblebee on Piano Tiles (he was almost to the second crown), was doing his best to ignore the muffled voices coming from the office, its door slightly ajar. It took only three more tries before he managed to get the second crown, by which time Quackity had stopped complaining about whatever it was that wasn’t going exactly how he wanted it this time, and exited the office to, presumably, come and talk to Purpled.

Quackity did this sometimes, where he did his best to act like a normal guy and not a slightly intimidating boss with far too much money to be reasonable for a mattress store (and burger store) owner. Purpled didn’t mind, to be honest. Quackity was a fun guy to fuck with.

“Purpled, my man,” Quackity drawled out, a big smile plastered to his face. “How’s it going! Sell any mattresses today?” He leant into the nearest show-bed, which was slightly too low to rest on suavely, even if you were as short as Q.

“Not in the past three weeks,” Purpled said, eyes still focused on his next challenge: the elusive third crown.

“Ahh, well, that was such a good one!” Quackity exclaimed. “Too many mattresses sold would be bad for business”.

“Yeah, then there’d be none left to sell,” Slime nodded sagely.

Purpled snorted. His finger slipped. The Bumblebee flies another day, he mused, picking Moonlight Sonata for a change of pace.

Quackity was still talking some sort of nonsense to Slime, and probably also to Purpled, too, but Piano Tiles was more engaging right then.

“Fuck!” Purpled had lost. To fucking Moonlight Sonata. Stupid fucking Beethoven. “Hey Quackity,” he said, looking up to acknowledge his boss for the first time that day. Now would be the perfect time to negotiate for a higher salary.

“Yeah Purpled, my man?” Quackity looked ridiculously happy to be spoken to. God what a loser.

“You know other store managers get paid thirty dollars an hour, right?”

This was only maybe true. Store managers in Pogtopia certainly didn't get paid a 60K salary, but they probably did elsewhere, Purpled assumed.

Quackity looked like he’d been slapped with a fish. Hm. Maybe that topic needed a bit of buttering up before dropping it in the conversation. Well, Purpled never pretended not to be blunt.

“Whatever,” he said, head ducking back down to beat the crap out of Moonlight Sonata again. Beethoven could get fucked, was all he was saying.

“No, no, no, go on!” Quackity practically shouted, clamoring to get Purpled’s attention again. “Are you tight on money? You and your roommate? Thirty an hour isn’t even that much; we can do that.” He immediately started whispering furiously to Slime, who started typing so fast on his phone that little green globules flicked off his fingers.

“Purpled, my man, literally don’t even worry about it. Never let it be said that Las- Los Colchones never pays its employees fairly, am I right?” Quackity was smiling widely at him, his one scarred eye stretched in a way that had gotta be painful. Purpled could even see the yellow ear feathers Q usually hid under his beanie peeking out, quivering to be freed.

Purpled would forever be amazed at just how crazy insane his boss was. What kind of idiot gives a pay rise that big out of the kindness of his heart? To an employee whose job is to play mobile games all day? But damn if Purpled wasn’t going to take advantage. Money is money, after all.

And money was precisely Purped’s life philosophy.

“Thanks,” Purpled said, bringing out the big guns to seal the deal: a smile. Quackity’s dark eyes widened in slight shock, and his face softened. Goddamn. Those eyes were intense.

“Anything for my favorite employee!” Quackity smiled, still kind of too sappily for Purpled’s comfort.

“I’m your only employee, man,” he responded.

Quackity spluttered, squawking “You-”.

Tommy woke up bright and early at six PM, ready to start the day. He had a pep in his step as he messily combed through his hair, gathered together his stuff for the day, and locked the door of his and Purpled’s apartment to start his shift. Unlike Purpled, whose work was conveniently close to home, Tommy took the bus. He would arrive at the laundromat at eight PM- Tommy Trusty’s, named by yours truly, and work until the earliest bus running in the morning, at six thirty. They were long work hours, but Tommy enjoyed it.

He owned the place! Practically. Some weird old man threw him the keys ages ago and never came back, so Tommy thinks that means he owns it. There was no opposition to him changing the name. Or the opening hours. Or like, any other thing he’d done since deciding to work there.

Tommy paid himself through the coins people used to pay for the machines. He had a funny little system of making everyone pay in British currency, or else having to convert their dollars to the equivalent amount in pounds. Some sort of Great British sadism caused him to chuckle seeing the Americans of Pogtopia struggle with their change. Would it be easier, and certainly possible, to upgrade to card payments instead of keeping with the coins? Yeah. But truth be told, Tommy just liked the aesthetic.

It was probably time to go to the bank soon, to get his latest haul of pennies changed into more usable currency, like notes, and if Tommy was feeling fancy, a bit into his bank account. Purpled had helped him set it up a few months back, and Tommy was still getting used to the idea of having one. It was nicer to have money easily available, in his opinion.

Last month’s rent Tommy hadn’t had enough to pay from his bank account, and the duffel bag of coins he’d handed their landlord had been slightly humiliating. It was mostly hilarious though.

That was the fun part of working in a laundromat: he never knew how much money he was going to have each week! Sometimes he got enough to buy a burger from that cool burger place next to Purpled’s work. But sometimes it would be Purpled buying all the food for the week though. Which was less exciting. But, Tommy reassured himself, one more good month and he was definitely going to be best friends with the kid who flipped the burgers soon enough. He could sense a fellow businessman in Turbo.

This week was looking good though! Tommy loved the bus, even if it was notoriously unreliable about arriving on time. He could jam out to his cassettes on his Walkman, and today there was space at the front of the top deck, so he got the best view of the roads as he went. Not that there was much to look at, to be honest, but as Tommy’s Trusty’s was just on the edge of Pogtopia, nearing L’Manburg, the buildings got a bit fancier in architecture and the streets got a little less rubbish crusted. Just a little, though.

Fifteen minutes or so on the bus later, and Tommy was jogging to Tommy Trusty’s. Ten metres away from the laundromat though, he paused.

There were three blokes just... loitering outside. Wronguns? No...

Wronguns wouldn’t be carrying laundry hampers on their shoulders! So, customers!

They were awkwardly stood like they didn’t know what to do with themselves, and in the middle of an argument.

“I’m just saying,” one with a posh English accent bitched, hands on his hips in an entitled stance that belied the fact he’d got their taller friend to carry his hamper for him. “That we should just give up already. It’s not like we can’t wash our own suits.”

“Really? Really. Do I need to remind you of the last time you tried getting blood out of your suit, George?” said one with a white bandana hastily tied around messy black hair. He was flinging his laundry bag around as he gestured. So, there was George, Bandana, and Hamper Man, who was hunched over slightly from the two hampers he was carrying. Tommy wondered briefly why this guy wouldn’t just make George carry his own hamper, but dismissed the thought immediately: George was a bitch, and Hamper Man was obviously a simp.

The Hamper Man noticed Tommy first. He smacked his two friends in the stomachs quickly. They snapped to attention, eyes a bit too worried for what was a pretty normal conversation to be having in a laundromat, Tommy thought.

“New clients!” Tommy beamed at them, putting on his businessman charisma.

“You- you work here?” The Hamper Man squeaked.

Tommy’s grin brightened. “I own the place!” He boasted.

This didn’t seem to reassure them, but Tommy was unbothered. He bent down to unlock the grate, and struggled slightly to push it up. It always got caught around two-thirds of the way up, and today was no different.

He grunted slightly, but then one small nudge from Hamper Man sent it flying up to the top of the window. Tommy stared at it in shock. That had never happened before! Hamper Man laughed shakily.

“Ta,” Tommy said happily, unlocking the main door and dashing inside to set up for this night’s shift.

“Well, welcome!” he said, business voice back on. “What can I help you with today?”

The three looked among themselves, waiting for a suspiciously long amount of time before answering. Tommy just stared at them, vapid smile hanging in place.

Eventually, Bandana sighed, and pushed the laundry hampers off Hamper Man’s shoulders and onto the floor.

“We got blood on our... Halloween costumes. And we don’t know how to get it out.” He said.

Immediately, George rolled his eyes, and the Hamper Man did that nervous laugh again. It made him sound a bit like a goose.

“Well, boys!” Tommy grinned. “You are in luck! I am an expert at getting blood out of clothes; it is yet another reason why the ladies love me.” He smirked, very self-satisfied at the choked laughter this produced from the trio.

It wasn’t hard at all to get blood out of clothes, Tommy realised early on in his laundromat career. This was something he advertised as a bit of amateur dry-cleaning, which occasionally earned him a bit more money from people who hadn’t also figured out how to get blood out of their clothes. If you bought TESCO’s knock off Vanish oxi-action powder, and soaked it with the fabric in cold water for a bit before washing (using a bit more of the powder), most stains came out without much trouble. He was gatekeeping this though, for business. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss was Tommy’s professional motto.

He unloaded the costumes from their hampers straight onto the dusty floor, which two of the guys- Bandana and Hamper Man, Tommy registered in the back of his mind- protested. Tommy didn’t see how it mattered if they were going to be washed straight after, but whatever. Or maybe they were worried he’d see all their dirty underwear or something.

Well, shit-stained pants aside, Tommy pulled out a few lycra monstrosities from the bags.  The first costume was lime green, probably some type of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle in the base phase. It was a disgusting hue though, far too garish and bright for any kind of turtle.

“That is an objectively vile colour to wear, big man,” Tommy said.

Hamper Man startled, “Wha-”

His friends immediately burst into quiet laughter.

“It’s perfectly fine!” The guy retorted, spluttering. Clearly no one had ever told him about his bad fashion taste. Poor Hamper Man.

“Shame on you,” Tommy said disapprovingly, eyes on the guy’s sidekicks who were wheezing behind him. “Letting your mate walk around in that colour, that’s really not on.” They laughed harder.

“He,” George wheezed, “he’s not wrong,”

“HA!” barked Bandana, before shoving his face into the nearest washing machine drum to muffle his laughter.

“George!” Hamper Man cried out, evidently dismayed at this new knowledge. “Sapnap, come on,” He tugged his friend, who somehow had a weirder name than ‘Bandana’, out of the washing machine, and put his hands on his hips.

“It is not that bad.” Unfortunately, the hands-on-hips, angry frown combination gave the impression of a distinctly unimpressed toddler, and did nothing to stop the giggling.

“I’m sorry man,” Tommy said, staring sincerely at him, “But it really is. Have you considered changing to a nicer shade? Bit less garish?” The man scowled down at him. “A nice dark forest green?”

“Look- just. It’s not even... just sh- shut up.” His stance was beginning to look a bit more defeated. “I can’t change it now, anyway, so just.” He sighed, shoving the costume towards Tommy, and busied himself with separating their other clothes into lights and darks.  

“I mean there’s plenty of time before next Halloween,” Tommy said, confused. They were barely through January. If he wanted to make modifications it really wouldn’t take that long. “And it would be a lot more recognisable if you added some more details.”

The Hamper Man did a sort of more deflated version of the goose laugh. “Ha. Yeah, uh, well I kinda thought the green was good enough...” He trailed off. Tommy snorted. Some people just put no effort into costume-making sometimes. Not like him. Last year Tommy sewed him and Purpled matching Mario and Waluigi outfits. Purpled was Waluigi, obviously. He was surprisingly good at the 'waa's.

The other two costumes he pulled out were less garish, but Tommy couldn’t figure out who they were meant to be dressing as. One was black and white, so, a panda? He guessed that must be Spandana’s, as it matched. So at least one of these guys had a sense of style, Tommy humphed.

George’s was definitely the most interesting. It had a big tear down the side, and was soaked in blood there and in odd patches, like a splatter, but Tommy was distracted by how the shoulders were padded with really cool mushroom embroidery.

“Dude this is so cool!” Tommy exclaimed, thumbing the texture of the fabric fungi. Clearly a lot of effort had gone into this! He beamed up at the trio from where he had knelt down to get a closer look. The three of them shifted on their feet awkwardly.

He scooped up everything, which was surprisingly heavy for Halloween costumes. Lycra was probably only the outside then- he wondered what they’d chosen to line them with. Maybe they used the wrong fabric. It was kind of bulky.

The turtle and panda costumes he shoved in two separate washing machines and motioned for the men to put their money in.

“It’s a pound to use the washing machines, and two to use the tumble dryers,” he said, pointing to his own hand-drawn signs sellotaped to each machine. “Please feel free to wait around in the meantime! I have a speaker; we can play music! Make it a party!”

The mushroom costume he was already prepping a bucket for. The other costumes didn’t seem to have as much blood on, but the mushroom costume was kind of drenched. That rip down the side looked nasty. It wasn’t particularly uncommon though, especially in rougher areas of town like this, for there to be muggings that ended badly.

George was hovering over his shoulder kind of neurotically though, so Tommy huffed and pushed him away.

The other two were fiddling with the money slots in the machines- Tommy had sellotaped the conversion rate from pounds to dollars for the Americans, and they were taking their time, but slotting in the one dollar forty-two without complaint. Americans were so uppity about Tommy sticking to good old pound sterling, for some reason. It would really be so much more convenient for him if everyone just used the Queen’s money instead.

While he waited for the mushroom costume to soak, Tommy took his usual resting spot in the laundromat- wedged between the tumble dryers and the ceiling in the corner. It was kind of a hassle to get up there, as he had to manoeuvre himself up, planting one foot in the drum of one washing machine and pushing off a dryer by the other wall. He slowly spun around before clumsily wiggling himself into place.

It was kind of dusty, yeah, and he always emerged covered in dryer fluff that was kind of impossible to avoid in the laundromat, but it gave him a good vantage point of the shop and he could work the speaker he’d put up there.

It was less of a high-tech Bluetooth speaker like purpled had at home and more of an old CD player that had speakers. Small ones, but they got the job done.

The three guys gave him odd looks as he shifted around, getting comfy in his spot. To be fair, he probably did look kind of weird. But they were new! They clearly weren’t used to Tommy’s brand of laundromat yet.

They would be regulars before long, no doubt.

He took a moment to take in the appearances of his new regulars. Bandana (he’d already forgotten his name) and George had black hair, but Bandana had so much more swagger with it than George, whose hair was just kind of boring. Lego man hair, Tommy would call it. Hamper Man’s hair was sort of brown. Tommy wouldn’t call it blond, not like his, but he would bet all this week’s earnings that Hamper Man was the kind of guy to cling to that dirty blond label long after he’d grown out of it.  

Speaking of Hamper Man: he was tall. Maybe too tall- Tommy squinted. He wasn’t friends with anyone who was taller than him, as a rule. He was six foot three (emphasis on the three), so it wasn’t all that common. Purpled was the only other person that matched Tommy in height that he could stand, and Tommy didn’t know if he had room in his heart for another. He hummed. Taking into account that this was a paying customer, and with astonishingly bad taste in colour to boot, Tommy could make an exception. And the other two were super short so that made up for it.

Bandana peered up at Tommy- he had to crane his neck up, which was another perk of sitting up on top of the tumble dryers.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Tommy grumbled internally at being called a kid, but that was Americans for you. Always so patronising... and patriotic.

“Tommy Innit!” he chirped.

“Tommy Innit?” George asked, face scrunching up in confusion, or possibly derision.

Tommy humphed.

“Yes,” he said. Last names were cool, and his was the coolest. He’d chosen it himself and everything. It’s not like government documents mattered that much.

“Well, Tommy,” said Hamper Man, “This is George and Sapnap, and I’m, uh, Dream.” He winced.

“Ayup.” Ah yeah, Sapnap, that was his name. Still so weird. The trio looked sort of nervous again. Tommy supposed that they were maybe embarrassed by their weird names. George was fine, of course, but he figured that the other two didn’t enjoy the scrutiny they faced for their weirdo mums naming them weirdo names.

They traded glances with each other, seemingly reading each other’s minds in a silent conversation, lots of widening and narrowing of eyes and unsubtle elbow jabs. It would be cool if that was his power, Tommy thought. Mind reading. He wouldn’t want to read everyone’s mind though, that would be too much. Even big men can get overwhelmed. Tommy liked to stay at a perfectly average level of whelmed, normally. But it would be cool to chat to Purpled in his head on boring shifts.

Eventually the trio looked back up at him to speak again. They seemed to hesitate. Then Hamper Man- or, Dream, Tommy supposed- nodded at him, raising a thumbs up. Uh, what? Tommy nodded back, out of pity for the man’s awkwardness, he supposed.

“So, if we come here to wash our... costumes occasionally, you’ll keep that... on the downlow?” Hamper Man's voice raised in pitch at the end. Bless him, being so anxious for talking to a shop worker.

Tommy didn’t really get why he was keeping it on ‘the downlow’ but it wasn’t like Purpled was ever really interested in his shifts, nor did he have many other friends, so he guessed he was always on the downlow. What was the downlow?

But hey, he was not about to squander what was potentially going to be his most loyal customer base in Pogtopia. If these guys came back often enough, and if Tommy could coerce them into all using separate washing machines every time, he’d be rolling in the cash.

“If you pay, big men, I’ve got no complaints.”

The trio frantically went back to their freaky mind talk again. There was a lot of eyebrow raising and small gestures.

Tommy, in the meantime, was picturing lying in all of his future coins like Smaug. Hah.

After a moment George reached around to his back pocket and picked out a nice-looking wallet. Tommy stared, kind of confused now. He hadn’t really meant like, in a tipping way, he just meant, you know, paying the fee of using the washing machines. But, well, who was he to turn down money from a guy holding a wallet as nice as that? Tommy’s eyes zeroed in on the notes the guy was rifling through. The guy was probably a Tory, and it was practically a moral obligation to scam them. 

George ended up waving a fistful of fivers up at Tommy, unable to reach the top of the dryers. Tommy plucked them from his hand and counted them out.

This was... fifty pounds.

He gawped at the money in his hand, more than he’d make in like, a week sometimes, and immediately stuffed it in his front pockets. Not the back ones, where they could easily get stolen from. These would be going straight to his best piggy bank, the spotty one he kept underneath his and Purpled's bunk bed.

When Tommy’s brain had finally stopped yelling ‘MONEY MONEY MONEY’ in blissful glee, he peered back down at the three guys. Dream, Sapnap and George looked anxious to see if they’d... tipped well enough? Tommy sent them a massive grin, far more honest than his customer service grin, and they seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

They were weird, but Tommy decided he liked these Americans (and George). They obviously had such an odd sense of how tips worked, and one of them was a Tory, so if anything, they were the perfect cash cow for Tommy’s business. They’d gone from looking anxious to looking unsure at what was going to happen next, while they waited for their clothes to wash. Well, Tommy wasn’t going to wait around while they were being awkward. He turned to the speaker in the corner, and pressed play on his favourite disc, and bopped his head.

Dream, George, and Sapnap looked at each other in bemusement, before settling down on the bench in the middle of the room. It took no time at all before they were fully relaxed, chatting and vibing to the music.

Tommy grinned. This was the perfect shift.

In a break from tradition, Tommy and Purpled woke at the same time the next day. Despite having had only three hours of sleep, Tommy was as energetic as usual, and Purpled his quiet opposite. They sat across from each other at the tiny two-seater table by the window. If they put their bowls diagonal from each other, there was enough space for both of them to have breakfast.

Purpled seemed to take a few minutes to notice the irregularity. He looked up from his cereal, eyeing Tommy suspiciously.

“Why are you up,” he said.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Tommy sighed happily, to Purpled’s rolled eyes. “It’s Bank Day.” He grinned at Purpled, eyes raised, mouth wide open. A bit of milk dribbled down his chin. Purpled shook his head in exasperation, dropping his attention back down to his lucky charms, shovelling them doggedly into his mouth.

Undeterred by Purpled’s lack of enthusiasm, Tommy hummed as he ate his cereal (off-brand shreddies, from the local TESCO. Way better than Purpled’s American sugarfest, and cheaper too). Bank day was undoubtedly his favourite day of the month: the day he got to carry his giant duffle bag of various American and British coins (and the occasional euro) into the bank, dump them all on some poor clerk who had to then painstakingly double check his calculations and convert it into neat stacks of actually usable currency. It was so much fun.

The duffle bag was nearly too heavy to carry, and was close to ripping in various places from wear and tear. It wasn’t uncommon for Tommy to struggle with the weight to the point of dragging it along the pavement, and the bottom side of the bag was scuffed to bits. He had stitched on an assortment of patches in the hopes of not losing his income like breadcrumbs on the street. Some of those silly American pennies were small enough to slip through the seams, so he could never be too careful.

The route to the bank was a fifteen minute walk to the right bus stop, then a short ride to Prime Street, then another bus to the east for another twenty minutes. Thankfully the only landmark on that street was the bank, so the bus stop was right outside. It was an impressive building, all smooth grey stone and quartz pillars, and entirely much too big for how little of it was actually used. Unless there were some really massive vaults they were hiding in the back. That would be pog.

Maybe they actually had to use all the space they obviously weren’t using for the main floor to keep all of Tommy’s pennies, he thought. Heh.

About ten minutes into his walk Tommy started up the street Purpled worked on. Las Cushions was looking as stupid as usual, and now another bulb had broken in its stupid sign. Tommy huffed. No business sense. He frantically waved at Turbo, mopping up in Tubburger, who waved just as excitedly back. Or maybe Tommy did hear Purpled right the first time, and the kid’s name was Tubbo? Odd choice on his mother’s part, but ok.

Tubbo clearly had the taste for business, Tommy thought proudly. Tubburger was simple, catchy, and to the point. Las Conchas, on the other hand, was in a language that obviously wasn’t English, and therefore, not worth his time.

As he walked past Purpled’s work- which, shouldn’t Purpled be walking with him? To open up his shop? Terrible work ethic, his flatmate- he was nearly bowled over by some furry barrelling out of the front doors.

“Oi!” Tommy shouted indignantly, but the furry just shrugged semi-apologetically and carried on speed-walking down the street. If Tommy hadn’t been lugging around such a heavy bag of coins he would’ve clocked him, no questions. Fucking furries.

Tommy squinted at the figure dashing off in front of him. They were dressed all in black, baggy clothing, and were skedaddling away in a distinctly non-humanoid manner, little hops occasionally springing them further forward. Hm. That tail was waving erratically, and definitely looked more real than some human posing as a fox. Not a furry, then, but a fox-hybrid. Which was definitely a step up from a rando in a fursuit but altogether, they were obviously still a massive dickhead.

Tommy made it to the bus stop, finally. He didn’t have the heart to lug his duffel bag up to the top deck, so he just sat in the front seats where the buggies and prams usually go. He looked up when an old lady coughed at him. What? She coughed again, more forcefully, looking peeved, despite there being like, hundreds of other fucking seats available. What, did she own this one? So what if it had priority for the elderly? The bus was fucking empty!

Tommy humphed and slid his bag across the floor of the bus. Jerking when they drove over a pothole, he fell into a seat a bit further along the aisle. What a bitch.

When he finally arrived at Rose Street, Tommy’s good mood was flagging. Bank Day was fun, but it was also true that it was a bit draining just to make it to the bank in the first place. He took a few deep breaths. No matter. The bank was in sight, and he only had to drag his duffel bag a few more metres to the entrance.

Unfortunately the duffel was deciding not to cooperate today. The patch on one of the corners was in danger of ripping off completely, so he was cupping it carefully. He could feel the coins pressing against his palm- definitely a mending job once he got back home.

He was looking down at the duffel when he bumped the door to the bank open, bum first.  

So what if he didn’t notice the kerfuffle that was going on while he attempted to drag his monthly income to the available bank clerk?

Actually, the nearest assistant seemed to be cowering in the far corner of their booth. Huh?

“D-Dude. Seriously?” He heard from next to him. Tommy turned, ready to go off on one at the very rude person interrupting his Bank Day, when he took note of the balaclava. And the baggy black clothing. And the gun, pointed at the assistant in the booth in front of him. He looked back at the rest of the room. And the other customers cowering in the corner, right. And the other gunman holding them hostage.

Tommy stared dumbly at the robber, who stared gobsmacked back.

Brain kicking into gear, Tommy immediately swung his bag at the robber’s groin. The duffel slammed into them with the force of a thousand pennies, jingling mockingly as they choked behind their (oddly shaped- very square at the top) balaclava. The other robber, ridiculously tall and built like an Egyptian god laughed squeakily at his partner in crime. Unfortunately, the duffel bag was outmatched by the crotch. The already slightly loose patch came off entirely, and hundreds of coins spilt onto the marbled quartz floor.

Tommy stared, astonished. And distressed. That was his month’s savings, his source of income. How was he meant to pay the bills now?

He spluttered and immediately dropped to the floor, swiping large piles of pennies together, babbling indignantly the entire time. “I- I- cannot believe this! My life’s savings, on the ground in front of me!” He had managed to get about ten dollars’ worth of coins back in the bag, not taking note of a few sliding right back out the ripped seam.

“What...” the robber that had been threatening the assistant whispered. They shook their head, attempting to gather their robberly composure. “What? No. No, I’m sorry- who are you?”

“Tommy! Tommy Innit, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He was frowning very intently up at the stupid square faced criminal. Something about the pose was distinctly Gollum-like, knees bunched up to his chin, back hunched over uncomfortably, and arms gangling about in a futile attempt to recollect his precious coins. He was hoping he was getting across the fact that he was, in fact, not pleased to make their acquaintance.

“Okay, this is ridiculous. Kid, get in the corner. Get- Get in the corner.” The guy’s balaclava was twitching at the top. Suspicious, Tommy thought, eyes narrowed.

“Bitch! Who are you? I’m not going anywhere until I get my money!” Tommy went to stand up, but was pushed back onto his arse by the taller, significantly scarier goon. “Hey!”

“Kid.” The taller robber said, his admirably large biceps crossed firmly, gun tapping against his elbow. “Go sit in the corner.” His voice was devoid of the giggling he’d been struggling with earlier. Even his amusingly un-criminal-like squeaky voice did little to get rid of the rising tension.

Tommy figured that the only way to deal with this was to intimidate them back.  

“Fuck you, bitch!” Tommy shouted. “I ain’t no pussyhole!”

Unsurprisingly, the dodgy roadman impression did nothing to scare the guys with the guns, and the twitchy cunt in front of him seemed to lose the last of their patience.

They looked to be about to take revenge for the duffel bag of loose metal being slammed into their crotch, because they flipped the gun they were holding around before taking a menacing step forwards.

Taking note of the situation he was in, Tommy backtracked.

“He-Hey man- we can talk about this-” Tommy chattered anxiously, watching them approach. He could be polite sometimes, he swore. Usually around women, he was always so polite to women-

The butt of the gun came down roughly on his forehead, and Tommy was out.

In the grand scheme of things, he wasn’t out for long- just long enough to come back around once the police had arrived (as slow as usual), along with a few newbie heroes who were clearly not necessary for such a situation. The robbers had left, for Prime's sake. At least according to Tommy, if not to the hero agency, the time and place for superheroes was while the crime was happening, not once it had happened. Idiots.

From the looks of things, someone had dragged him into the corner where the other hostages were, most of whom who looked to have left already as well.

Tommy shot up from lying down. (Bad idea. Ow.) Had they- No. The scumbags. They’d taken his duffel bag! And left like, a million pennies!

The bank assistant was crying in the booth as she was questioned. The new heroes were obviously trying to calm her down and were generally terrible at consoling her. From the snippets Tommy could hear, the robbers had run off with ten thousand dollars in bank notes-

“And they stuffed them in that poor boy’s bag! And ran away!” She burst into tears. Tommy was astounded. The audacity of those hack robbers to take his duffel bag, and empty out his life savings onto the floor, as if they were worth nothing!

The three heroes took note of him then, jaws dropping. One of the heroes rushed to kneel next to him, hands wavering awkwardly in front of Tommy like he wasn’t sure what to do. The two others shuffled awkwardly as they tried to stop the clerk from crying.

“Hey, kid, are you alright?” Tommy’s vision was a little bit blurry, which was worrying. His head fucking throbbed. From what he could make out, the hero was dressed in a weird black and white costume, accented in red, with a stupid white cape that skimmed the floor as he knelt. His face was covered by a white bandana and a red mask, and he was staring earnestly at Tommy as he took in his head wound. Blood was crusted in Tommy’s eyebrow. Tommy reached a hand up to pick at it, but his first try only took out a few eyebrow hairs and a small bit of dried blood.

“Ow,” Tommy grumbled.

“Hey, hey, don’t do that! We’ll get you a sponge or some shit- something.” The hero held Tommy up and walked him over to the ambulance waiting outside. Paramedics were looking over a few of the other hostages, but it seemed most people had got out of the encounter unscathed. The hero began to press a damp sponge to his forehead, soaking away the dried blood clotted there.

Tommy’s other new admirers came to hover over him.

“Is there anything we can help you with?” One hero in a stupidly bright green suit asked, staring intently into Tommy’s eyes. The green was making Tommy’s headache worse. He averted his eyes with a groan. The other one, dressed in blue and red, looked unbothered. Maybe even bored. What a mood. The green one though, he was all up in Tommy’s face poking at the cut on his head. “How did this even happen?” He muttered, “The Las Nevadas guys are usually way gentler with stuff like this.”

“May have pissed them off,” Tommy mumbled. His day was starting to feel a lot less poggers, now that the adrenaline of the situation had definitely left him, and his head was throbbing like a cock with chlamydia.

He just wanted to go home now, and mooch as much sympathy off Purpled as he could. Purpled would give him some shit and not look up from his mobile games, but ultimately, he would get a blanket thrown on top of him and an extra helping of his stupid American cereal, and all would be well. Purpled was comforting in his own way, sometimes.

But going back to the first question this guy asked...

“I lost all my money too,” he said, looking up at the hero utilising his secret weapon. Purpled had told him once that his thinking face looked like an especially adorable goldfish, and that it was somehow more effective on bleeding heart saviours than even the puppy eyes. The fact that he probably had a concussion and he doubted he could even move his face without it hurting probably helped with the helplessness he was projecting.

The blue and red (and were they mushrooms? sick) superhero sighed loudly. “I mean it is clearly all on the floor,” he said, probably rolling his eyes behind his massive dickhead sunglasses. Tommy guessed he had those on just specifically to be more of a twat.

“Well,” Tommy said, offended, now utilising his second secret weapon: his Karen voice. “What’s your name, son?” He asked, eyebrows raised and bitch face on. That actually hurt, so he only kept it up for a moment, but it was potent. The hero’s jaw dropped.

“Four... 404”, he said, incredulously, as if he expected Tommy to keep track of the goings on of the hero agency. That place churned out heroes like butter, he wasn’t going to bother with all their stupid names, who did this guy think he was?

“Mm.” Tommy said. The hero in front of him gestured down at himself, still staring at Tommy like he was personally offended he wasn’t recognised.

“404... Literally you know me?” 404 got bonked on the head by the black and white one for that. Tommy winced in sympathy.

“Dude! They can’t know we bribed the kid! Shut the fuck up!” He hissed.

“You shut up!” 404 hissed back.

Tommy didn’t even know what they were talking about. His head hurt. The Karen voice was the last straw, and now he felt like he was about to throw up.

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” he muttered.

The green one looked concernedly up to his forehead, grabbing some stuff from the paramedics. Tommy swayed a little bit.

“Tommy- come here,” he said. Tommy was ushered to a stool next to the ambulance, Green holding on to his elbows and setting him down gently. It was like now that he’d acknowledged the head trauma, it had decided to be a lot more traumatic.

“Hey, Tommy, stay with us,” the hero said. “So, uh, if you didn’t know, I’m Stronghold, this is 404, and this is Blaze. We’re here to help you, anytime, you know?”

Tommy hummed, only vaguely paying attention. If he was going to throw up he hoped it wouldn’t be on this hero. He seemed nice.

“You good kid? Tommy?” Tommy’s head lolled onto his shoulder. It really wasn’t fair that he got a concussion on only three hours of sleep.

“Tommy!” The green hero shouted. Had he been using his name this whole time? How did he know that? Weird.

“Keep talking to him, D- Stronghold, he really shouldn’t be asleep right now,” the black and white one was saying.

“Right, yeah, so, uh...” he paused. “What about?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter Dream!”

It was then 404’s turn to hit Blaze in the head. Ouch.

“Superhero names!” He hissed, rolling his eyes and stepping forward.

“Um... do you know our powers, Tommy?” 404 asked. Tommy stared up at him for a bit, then shook his head. That was a bad idea. Stronghold held his head up so that he didn’t fall backwards off the stool. Oops.

“Ok, so, I’m good at finding things, Blaze can set things on fire, and Stronghold is just, like, strong and shit I don’t know. Ours are cooler because they’re not basic as shit.”- “Hey!”- “It’s why my name is 404. Like the error message?” Tommy shook his head again. He didn’t use computers; how would he know?

“What do you mean, no? You don’t know what 404 is?” The hero scoffed. He got another slap from Blaze.

“Bro why are you so fucking uppity, the kid is fucking concussed!”

“He doesn’t know basic internet shit! Why does this kid know our identities?”

“Surely you should be happy he’s not some fucking internet genius, dumbass, at least you know he’s not gonna hack us!”

“You don’t need to be a fucking hacker to know what error 404 is!”

Tommy groaned again. The arguing was hurting his head, and it didn’t make any sense anyway. Their words were floating around in his head, but it was too fuzzy to put the words together into sentences that he could understand.

And this time he thought he might actually be sick.

“Would you both stop arguing!” Stronghold snapped. The other two shut up, looking at least a little bit apologetic.

Tommy huffed a little laugh. These heroes were like, way more unprofessional than heroes were meant to be. He thought it was like, agency policy that they don’t swear, but these idiots had sworn like twenty times already.

Laughing was also a bad idea, though, seeing as the nausea got infinitely worse.

“Well,” he croaked out. He still needed to get his money back together, after all, and he had three perfectly good servants here to help him out. If they were going to be useless in stopping the bank robbery, Tommy figured they could at least help him pick up every one of his thousands of pennies. That seemed fair.

“Four oh four,” Tommy said. “If you’re so good at finding things, you can start with collecting all my money back up for me.”

Giving a smug little Karen smile was the last thing Tommy did before he threw up all over the hero’s suit. Ew.

He maybe found it a little bit less disgusting than 404, who was currently screeching and flicking his feet out, spattering little bits of vomit all over Blaze, who was also now screaming.

Stronghold patted his back.

Tommy didn’t want to deal with this anymore. He promptly passed out again.

Four hours later, once Tommy had woken up, got proper medical attention from the paramedics, and bullied the heroes into collecting all of his money, he was ready to go home. The money thing was more of a kerfuffle than he was anticipating, as the heroes had to go down the street to buy him a brand new (brand new!) duffel bag to put all the coins into, and then they still had to wait for the bank to exchange them into notes, which meant they had to wait for the bank employees to calm down and set their booths back up. The heroes stuck with Tommy for as long as it took to collect his money and get cleared by the paramedics, then waved him goodbye.

But once all of that was done, he was finally going home.

“How was the bank?” Purpled asked as he got in. Tommy looked up from where he had face planted into his bunk bed (the bottom one, because Purpled was an arsehole).

“Shit.”

Purpled took note of the cut on his forehead, and the developing yellow bruise around it. “You get mugged or something?”

“I got held up.” Held up, held hostage, what’s the difference, really?

Purpled nodded his head. 

“Well, I got a pay rise,” He bragged, like a wanker.