absolution.

vigilantism.

cw: a short fight, cursing (honesty i shouldn't put this in), mentions of exile, pogtopia, and l'manburg only for their names, mentions of triggers, trauma, and the prison and their effects, and i think that's it!!

please let me know if there's any more :DD

===

With a grunt, Tommy slumps on the tire he's sitting on. It's been almost a day since the robbery, Tari having forced him to take a break "or else she'd make him," so he'd (reluctantly) went back to Takoda and slept. His hand holding his chin, it's a rare, quiet moment as he thinks. The blond almost starts gnawing on his nails, but taps his staff — now named Clara, because why the fuck not — against the rubber instead.

How the ever-loving fuck was he going to make a vigilante costume?

Despite having money from his work, it probably isn't enough to get a high-quality suit or some shit like that. Tommy is no Tubbo — he can't work with metal scraps like the brown-haired president can. (He dismisses the sharp pang of longing for his best friend.) And sure, he could use something plain like a hoodie, mask, and flexible pants for the base, but he doesn't know who'd even sell metal plating for his weak points around here. Using books as armor would be a pain to move in and a hassle to get and put on. Going to the black market to get proper armor, wherever that would be in this world, would be too risky.

..It reminds him of how little he truly knows about this server. Having been here for months hadn't helped much except teach him the language, mannerisms, and people. Unlike the Dream SMP, there were an unknown amount of people, meaning an unknown amount of villains and heroes he'd have to avoid if he still wanted to do this. No enemies nor allies — a fresh, blank canvas. No backup.

No help.

Sighing, Tommy stands, stretching his limbs out. His eyes run over discolored skin and thinner scars, fingers grazing their rough textures and picking at small scabs. "I'm Tommy-fucking-Innit," he grumbles, saying these words aloud to make them more real, more true, "and I've survived so much shit without much help. Who says I can't do that now?" He picks Clara up, puts her into his inventory, grabs whatever savings he has, and leaves.

===

He's picked out something plain for a costume — the cheapest things he could find and afford, as well as best suited for the dark. A hoodie, a basic, hard-fabric masquerade mask, a pair of long, finger-less gloves, and another covering for the lower half of his face. Along with that, some slightly loose pants and a pair of red sneakers — he already has a tool-belt. All of which were either dark grey or black besides some extra red fabrics (because people might say that blue would fit with his eye, the only thing that's going to be visible, and to them, he says fuck off, because red is a great color and he will sew it on no matter what.) If his end goal were different, Tommy wouldn't have gotten all black, yet he wasn't going to be a vigilante for attention or fame.

Regardless, he silently cringed as he left the store, fidgeting with the straps of the plastic bag his stuff was in. Prime, this was so fucking weirdchamp. Not as bad as other shit he's bought before, but still there.

At another store, the soon-to-be vigilante gets a few rolls of bandages and a med-kit, faintly noticing the questionable looks he's given in the aisles and the checkout. Presumably more than usual, for how homeless and ragged he probably looks. He doesn't really pay attention though ー Tommy just rolls his eyes and munches on some bread in his inventory as he returns to Takoda. Nosy bitches.