Chapter Text
To Tommy, nothing was more natural than hiding. His whole life, he’d kept secrets from his friends and his family. So when Phil asked, “How was school?” it was as easy as breathing to lie and say “good,” even though he hadn’t stepped foot on the school grounds all week.
It wasn’t that he liked lying. He didn’t do it for fun, and he definitely didn’t hate his family. If anything, he loved them too much. That’s what made it easy: lying meant he could stay close. Lying meant he could spend every day with them behind a mask.
They didn’t know that the vigilante they were training, the one they praised for quick thinking and a good heart, was the same loud-mouthed kid they spoke maybe three words to each morning. They didn’t know Echo was just Tommy, hiding behind a voice modulator and borrowed confidence.
And Tommy? He didn’t want them to know.
It started small. A few late-night training sessions when everyone else was asleep. An old prototype suit he patched together with stolen materials and shaky hands. The thrill of moving without being watched, of fighting without being underestimated. When he put on the mask, nobody saw the annoying kid who couldn’t sit still or follow orders. They saw potential. They saw strength.
They saw him.
And he started to crave it. That feeling. The way Phil would clap Echo on the shoulder after a mission. The way Techno would offer sparring tips like he actually respected him. The way Wilbur would grin at Echo’s snark instead of sighing in exhaustion.
Being Echo felt good. Too good.
So he threw himself into it. He trained harder, fought longer, stopped going to school entirely. He told himself it was fine. That he could handle it. That he was helping. That it didn’t hurt when Phil hugged Echo and barely glanced at Tommy.
He could never tell them.
Because what if they didn’t like who was under the mask?
What if they only liked the version of him who bled quietly, smiled through the pain, and saved the day without ever asking for anything back?
So he kept lying. And when the lines blurred, Tommy didn’t know who he was without Echo anymore. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to.
The city blurred beneath him as he vaulted off the fire escape and into the alley below, boots slamming against wet concrete. Echo’s lungs burned in the cold, mask fogging slightly with each sharp exhale. Sirens wailed a few blocks over, but that wasn’t his problem. Not tonight; not with this many on his tail.
He ducked behind a dumpster just as another plasma shot whizzed past his shoulder, melting a hole straight through the brick wall behind him.
“Shit,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his side. The burn from earlier was starting to throb. He’d taken a hit- small, but direct. It would bruise. Maybe worse. He’d ice it later.
“Visual on the target!” one of them shouted.
No you don’t, dumbass.
In one smooth motion, he twisted his fingers and fired a burst from the grappling hook strapped to his wrist. The hook latched onto a rooftop rail, and he shot up just as the mercs rounded the corner, guns raised.
Too slow.
He landed hard on the rooftop, rolled, came up running. His legs ached, lungs clawing for air, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when there were still civilians down there. Not when this mission mattered.
This was supposed to be an intel run: quick in, quick out, don’t get seen. But then some private militia with way-too-shiny weapons had shown up, and now Echo was neck-deep in combat, entirely alone.
Not that he minded. It was better this way.
His comm buzzed. “Echo? You alive?”
Techno.
Tommy exhaled, the sound distorted by the modulator. “Still kicking. Situation changed. They brought heat.”
“Copy. Hold them off. I’m inbound.”
There it was again. That warmth. That undercurrent of trust. When Techno spoke to Echo, it was clipped but respectful. Confident. Like he knew he could rely on him, that he hadn't fucked up too many times and lost Techno's trust over and over again.
Tommy grinned under the mask, a little breathless, a little manic.
He slid to a stop near a skylight and peered down. Hostages; three of them, tied up and scared and two guards. One pacing, the other slumped against the wall, unconscious. Good. One down.
He took a running start, smashed through the skylight feet-first, and landed squarely on the pacing guard’s chest. They went down hard with a grunt. Echo hit the ground in a crouch, already moving. The second guard fumbled with a weapon, but Tommy was faster. He swept the man’s legs out from under him and pinned him before he could scream.
Two clean hits. No wasted motion. He’d practiced that move until his knees gave out, until his knuckles bled on the mat. Phil had once praised Echo’s technique. Called it sharp, and tactical.
He’d gone home and cried in the shower for fifteen minutes afterward.
“Echo, you good?” Techno again, this time closer.
“Hostages secured,” he said. “Room’s clear.”
“Copy. Five inbound on your position. I’ll intercept.”
“Negative,” Tommy said before he could think about it. “I’ve got them.”
“You’re injured.”
He looked at the blood soaking into the side of his suit. His ribs throbbed every time he breathed, but it didn’t matter.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Silence. Then Techno sighed, the static of the comm crackling softly.
“Alright. Just don’t die, idiot.”
Tommy smiled again. For Techno, that was affection. That was care.
He turned back to the hostages, working quickly to cut their restraints with the blade hidden in his wrist gauntlet. One of them flinched when he moved.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly, voice still masked. “You’re safe.”
The kid nodded, wide-eyed. “Are you-are you one of the SBI?”
Tommy paused, blade halfway through the last rope. “Something like that.”
He got them out through the back just as backup arrived. Echo took out two more with a flashbomb and a swift punch to the throat, leaving the rest for Techno when he finally showed.
From the shadows of the fire escape, Tommy watched Techno tear through the remaining mercs like it was easy. Fluid. Efficient. Beautiful.
They made a good team. The best, maybe. Even if Techno didn’t know who he was fighting beside.
Later, in the alley, they regrouped. Techno gave him a once-over, eyes pausing on the blood, the bruises, the busted lip.
“You should rest,” he said.
Echo didn’t answer. He didn’t want to rest. He didn’t want to go back to the house, to the version of himself that no one understood. He didn’t want to be Tommy.
He wanted to stay here. In the suit. In the blood and smoke and warmth of being needed.
“I’m fine,” he repeated, and turned to leave before Techno could see how much he was shaking.
Because he was Echo. Echo was brave. Echo didn’t get tired. Echo didn’t cry in the dark and wonder why his family only seemed to notice him when he was bleeding for someone else.
Echo was everything Tommy wished he could be.
And if he had to tear himself apart to keep the mask on, so be it.
The moment Techno turned around, Echo vanished.
The friendliness of the SBI was a problem- always asking 'What are you doing on the weekend?' 'What's your real name?' and 'Don't you wanna take off that mask? We're all friends here, right?'
He couldn't lie, it hurt to reject them over and over again, but in the end, they understood he wanted his privacy. That didn't stop them from constantly asking him to do stuff outside of work, but each time, he had to decline, so now he usually just leaves early enough to avoid being asked again.
Smoke still curled through the alley, thick and stinking of ozone, but he didn’t linger. He zipped up the side of a building, grappling hook catching with a clink, and didn’t stop moving until he’d cleared eight blocks and started hearing birds instead of sirens.
Then he peeled the mask off.
Tommy leaned over the edge of the rooftop, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his brow. The blood on his ribs felt tacky. He didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s. His hands were trembling too hard to climb properly, so he just sat there, shoulders hunched, and stared out at the city.
A bottle clinked under his boot. Some idiot had left an empty beer on the roof.
He kicked it off the ledge.
And then, for a second- just a second- he let himself think about going home.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. He should patch himself up in the safehouse. Ice the bruises. Check the gash on his side that was definitely way too close to a vital organ. He should clean his suit, hide the mask, maybe sleep for more than three hours.
But…
Phil would be making breakfast.
Wilbur might be in a decent mood, humming something tuneless in the living room.
Techno would be up late, probably sharpening knives he didn’t need.
He could just… walk in. Say good morning. Pretend like he didn’t spend the last six hours dodging bullets and getting the wind knocked out of him by a guy twice his size.
Pretend like he was normal.
So Tommy did what he always did.
He lied.
To himself, this time.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, wiping at the blood near his jaw. “They won’t even notice.”
And then he started walking.
The front door creaked open just as the sun was starting to rise.
Tommy toed off his shoes, breathing through the stabbing pain in his side. He wiped the rest of the dirt and ash off his face with his sleeve, heart pounding, pulse still racing from the fight even though it had been over for almost an hour.
He stepped into the kitchen.
Phil was at the stove, flipping pancakes with that dumb little humming he did when he thought no one was listening. Wilbur sat at the bench, yawning around a coffee mug and staring off into the distance. Techno hadn’t come down yet.
It was normal. Mundane. Safe.
And none of it felt real.
Tommy cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Phil looked up, smile easy and warm. “Morning, mate. You sleep okay?”
Tommy nodded automatically. “Yeah. Fine.”
Wilbur gave him a nod without looking up. “There’s eggs if you want.”
Tommy mumbled a thanks and sat at the table. His chair creaked, the one leg always slightly off-balance. He’d meant to fix it a month ago.
And just like that, the silence returned.
Phil flipped another pancake. Wilbur stared on. The smell of breakfast filled the air. It was all perfectly normal.
Tommy stared at his hands in his lap and tried not to shake.
They didn’t know.
They never would.
He’d saved people tonight. He’d been stabbed. He’d fought through blood and pain and fear. And now he was sitting in the kitchen while his family talked about eggs and music and whether it might rain later.
Nobody asked why his voice was hoarse.
Nobody noticed the bruises under his sleeves.
Nobody looked twice when he winced grabbing a fork.
It wasn’t their fault.
They didn’t know.
And Tommy? He didn’t tell them.
He couldn’t. Or everything would change.
So he smiled, ate cold eggs, and tried to pretend the weight in his chest was just exhaustion.
After all, Echo was strong. Echo was unbreakable.
Tommy just had to keep pretending.
And maybe, if he did it long enough, it wouldn’t hurt so much when no one saw him bleed.
So, when he was done, he washed his plate up, offered his dad a smile, and went upstairs.
The second his bedroom door shut behind him, Tommy let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His back slammed against the doorframe, knees threatening to buckle. His arm was still bleeding, though he’d wrapped it up hastily back in the alley. It hadn’t stopped the blood from soaking through his hoodie.
He peeled it off, wincing as dried blood tugged against the gauze. The shirt underneath was ruined: torn at the side, stained dark with blood. His ribs were bruised, maybe cracked, and a nasty burn tracked up his forearm from where the blast had caught him, too close, too fast. Nothing life-threatening, just fucking painful.
He dumped the clothes in the laundry basket, burying them under a pile of clean stuff he hadn’t bothered putting away. Then he dragged himself into the ensuite bathroom and locked the door.
Patch yourself up. Hide the damage. Smile. Repeat.
There was a med kit tucked behind the sink, stashed for exactly this reason. He’d raided Techno’s stash of proper gear weeks ago; better gauze, skin glue, antibiotic cream. The antiseptic stung like hell when it hit the raw edge of the cut on his shoulder. He bit down on a towel and powered through it.
He kept his eyes away from the mirror.
He pressed against his ribs gently and hissed. Definitely cracked. The bruises spread purple and yellow like oil spills, painting a map across his abdomen. Great. That’d be fun during study.
Study.
Right.
You see, while he didn't go to school anymore, he still had to pass general hero knowledge, else he'd never make it as a real hero. Getting 'grades' and 'report cards' he could show his father meant study was a great alternative without having to skip and catch up, skip and catch up. Study was more flexible that way.
Tommy glanced at the clock and swore. It was already past 7. If he didn’t hurry, Phil would start calling up to him about missing the 'bus'.
He got dressed slowly, tugging a long-sleeved shirt over the bandages and throwing on a jacket to hide the bulk. He combed a hand through his messy hair and tried not to look like someone who’d been thrown through a wall three hours ago.
He’d barely made it to the stairs before Phil called up, “You heading out, mate?”
“Yeah!” Tommy shouted back, injecting every ounce of fake cheer he could muster into his voice. “On my way now!"
His legs ached with every step, and his ribs screamed when he jumped the last two, but he landed with a practiced grin and slung his backpack over one shoulder like it didn’t feel like carrying a bag of rocks.
Phil was in the kitchen, sipping coffee and flicking through the news on his tablet. He looked up and gave Tommy a small smile. “What do you got on today?”
“Uh, a jacket and jeans.” Tommy tried not to breathe too deeply.
Phil huffed a laugh. “Smartass.”
Tommy beamed, even though it felt more like a grimace. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”
Tommy opened the door and stepped outside. The sun was too bright. The breeze cut through his jacket like a knife. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But he kept walking.
He turned the corner at the end of the block, out of sight of the house, and collapsed onto the nearest bench. He sat there for a long time, head tilted back toward the sky, jacket wrapped tight around him.
He couldn’t go to study. Not like this.
But he couldn’t go back either.
So he just… sat there.
And tried to remember why it was worth it.