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Assistant: Title: may I live, grow, and flourish
        Author: Anonymous undefined 
        Chapter: 6/6 
        Summary: There’s a shock collar around his throat that prevents him from speaking. It’s meant to look like a voice modulator, so that the public doesn’t suspect mistreatment and merely assume Pacem doesn’t like to talk.
  Tommy screws his eyes shut, tears well up in his eyes and cling to his mask.
  The lump in his throat reaches his mouth.
  Ah. Tommy forgot to mention one last little thing the shock collar does.
  Chirp!
  It prevents fledgling sounds from coming out.
Tommy, a ward of the state, is an unwilling hero that will work until the day he dies. Unfortunately he still has a long way to go.His life goes belly up when The Angel of Death rips his voice modulator off and out comes a fledgling little chirp. Tldr: tommy is baby bird, Phil finds out and parents all over the place.
        Contents: Chapter 6: acta, non verba
    

    


      
        
          this has been in the drafts for years
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    
  Tommy dreams of weird stuff and he resurfaces from time to time. 

  Lost in the sea of hallucinations he always sees Phil, dozing off on his side, with inky wings over Tommy’s shoulders. Something settles when he’s there, he can rest freely. When Phil is awake he sings to Tommy, the melody steadily becoming more and more familiar. But no matter how nice it feels to be with Phil he knows there’s something missing. Someone? More than one? In any case, he’s never awake long enough to voice his concerns. 

  His dreams are dark and weird, there’s shadows scuttling behind his back. And he feels exposed in a way he’s never felt before. When he’s too lost, all alone, he chirps for someone to come, and someone must be there because they sing to him, but that’s not enough. He needs someone else. Who is it? He warbles and cries and whines but he’s never satisfied. A door creaks open, somewhere far away, someone nears, they set a hand on his head. His body goes limp and it’s off to sleep once more. 

  After that he doesn’t get the bad dreams anymore. Instead he gets pleasant ones, as delusional as they might be. 

  Sometimes he thinks he might be awake but that can’t be the case, he must still be dreaming if Wilbur is laying on the nest next to him, one arm under his own head, acting like his own pillow, and another over his stomach, rising and falling with each breath. Each time this particular dream happens Tommy makes the most of it, shuffling until he can burrow himself in the villain’s chest, all so he can listen to the 
  
    ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. 
  

  “I hope you know this is against my will, runt,” he says and ah, that’s a little more realistic. No matter, Tommy likes this dream anyway. 

  Other times he dreams it’s Techno, and it’s through the thin slits of his eyes that he catalogs the details of his face, only kind of surprised that he remembers so much about a person he saw for two seconds—who knew dreams could be so realistic. Techno has copious amounts of scars but he also has freckles. He has soft, almost silky hair, and sharp teeth. He’s usually sitting on the nest, his back against the headboard, sometimes sleeping, sometimes awake. When he sees that Tommy has his eyes open he doesn’t say anything, instead resting a hand over Tommy’s eyes. 

  “Sleep,” he says and it’s always enough to send Tommy into slumber. 

  It goes on like this time and time again. He hears humming and rumbling, and the vibrations under his ear is like a conch shell connecting him to the sea, though instead of breaking waves and soothing winds, it’s a beating heart, with the steady rhythm of a drum, and deep rumblings, like the threat of a summer storm. 

  It’s after ages that he does wake up, for real this time, and he’s alone. 

  Underneath the long curtains covering what must be a window he catches sight of sunlight. Early morning, or late afternoon. Across the nest there’s scattered pieces of clothing, messy blankets and sheets, pillows without their pillow cases. The spot he’s sitting on is too warm, and more than anything else he wants to leave. His bare feet touch the chilly wooden floor and retract instantly. D@mn, that’s cold. He shakes off the goosebumps on his skin and pads cross the room and to the only door, twisting the knob and passing on through. 

  His growling stomach directs him to the kitchen, and through trial and error he finds it. His head feels as though it’s filled with water, like if he leans too much to the side and he’ll fall over. The wooden floor doesn’t get any warmer and the tips of his toes are ice cold by the time he stops in front of the open kitchen. He doesn’t recognize it and yet it feels familiar. 

  What’s not familiar are the two figures lounging around the dining table. Two figures who are staring at Tommy dead on. People he has only ever seen out to get him and get rid of him. These are not the dream versions of themselves, that pet his hair and keep him warm. They’re predators. The baby bird doesn’t know what to think, where was that confusion the first time they encountered danger? Who the hell is this baby bird that doesn’t scream ‘get away!’ oh so helpfully. 

  Tommy takes a small step back, intent on running away, but Wilbur and Techno both take that as reason to get up. Their chairs screech against the floor, his ears hurt with it. Tommy stumbles back another few steps, and the twins’ faces never fade from cold neutrality. He tries to look for anything that might imply something other than anger, but there’s nothing to read from a blank canvas. A breath gets stuck in his throat, and he longs to chirp for help, but that would knock over the very precarious, and very brief, truce they have. 

  He gathers as much courage as he can
  —
  it’s not much
  —then 
  turns tail and runs. Through the white static in his ears he can hear footsteps, and that only increases the panic. His stuttering heart pumps adrenaline and Tommy runs down halls and slips from sharp turns. This time, when he finds the front door, there is no one there to guard it, and Tommy goes through without fuss. 

  He still doesn’t know if it’s early or late, the sky is orange and red. As it turns out, the pavement is colder than the wooden floors inside the house. He doesn’t have to put up with it for long, since beyond the stone steps there’s only forest. Trees reach high up, like skyscrapers, brushing against soft clouds. Sunlight dodges the canopy of leaves, sweeping over the moist earth. 

  Tommy heaves out breath after breath. Looking around in a circle for anything to guide him. There is nothing else, only nature, and the sky. 

  The sky. 

  The wings on his back, he’s painfully aware of them, and their inability to let him escape from the predators behind him. 

  All this analysis happens in a second, and it’s a second too long it appears, because sooner than he wishes, there are arms around him, pinning his wings and arms down. 

  Tommy fights with all he has, throwing his weight everywhere, his feet swing and hit the person behind him but they don’t let go. Tommy suddenly realizes that he’s screaming, not even chirping, but screaming. 

  “No! No, no no! Please no! I don’t wanna! No! I’ll be good, don’t hurt me! Please!” 

  Against his back there’s a minute vibration, the rumbling from his dreams. Tommy chokes on air, coughing and heaving. Right next to his ear a voice is chanting the same words. 

  “You’re okay, you’re okay.” 

  Tommy sobs despite himself, fighting with lesser energy. 

  The person holding him slowly lowers them to the ground, Tommy’s knees buckle the moment they touch the pavement and he’s settled in between the person’s legs. 

  “Shhhh,” they coo. “You’re okay, you’re all better now.” 

  Tommy sniffles. “No,” he mutters. “No, no, no, I’ll be good.” He repeats the same thing over and over again, for whatever reason he can’t find it in himself to say anything else. 

  “What do you mean? You're already good,” the voice says. “Come on, you’re okay, you won’t get hurt.” 

  Tommy melts the tiniest bit at hearing those words. “I’m good,” he says. 

  “You are.” 

  His breathing is uneven, though slower than before. The arms around him dull the chilly winds, as the orange sky darkens into deep, dark blue. Huh, it’s late afternoon after all. 

  Hands rub his arms, and he’s rocked back and forth. It’s familiar, like his dreams. 

  “There we go,” the voice says. “Good. Are you okay now?” 

  He nods. 

  “Can we go back inside?” 

  He nods again. 

  “Okay, let’s get up.”

  With help, Tommy gets his two feet under him and they walk side by side into the house, where Techno is standing, staring at them as they make slow progress. Wilbur, that’s who was holding him, turns on the light inside the house, gently shutting the door behind them. Tommy accidentally flinched back when he reached for the door, it’s followed by an awkward moment that dissolves when Techno speaks up. 

  “Let’s get you back to bed.” 

  For some odd reason the twins follow him until they reach the nest, and they don’t leave until Tommy is safely under the blankets. He stares at them, observing for any sign of danger. Nothing happens, and eventually they leave, shutting the door behind them and walking away. Tommy doesn’t know what to make of the situation. 

  This is weird. 

  Phil ends up showing up a few seconds later, with a bowl of soup and some bread. He eats like the starved man he is, devouring everything. His stomach doesn’t appreciate it but he doesn’t care. In all his life he has never eaten anything so good. Or maybe he’s just 
  
    that 
  
  hungry. 

  In any case, Phil sits down on the chair next to the nest, humming to himself. Tommy takes the time to think about what happened. The very sudden change in demeanor is strange, not unwelcome, but so f@ck@ng weird. Did he miss something? 

  Phil leaves a few minutes later, looking to wash his dishes and come back at Tommy’s demand. He’s stopped though, on his way to the kitchen by the twins. Tommy hears their voices as a muffled mess, so he slips off the bed and presses his ear against the gap under the door. 

  “-are evil,” Wilbur says angrily. Oh boy, is this another fight? 

  Phil laughs on the other side. “You two got what you deserved. Punishment fits the crime I think.” 

  “You know there are laws against using one’s instincts against them right?” 

  “Uh-huh, and since when do you care about something as common as laws?” 

  “That’s besides the point.” 

  “I think drugging someone is against the law too but you don’t see me crying about it.” 

  Wilbur scoffs. “You’re still evil, Philza. You’re lucky I don’t call CPS on your feathery ass” 

  Phil laughs again. “Sure, mate.” His voice gets further away, he must be walking to the kitchen after all. Tommy snorts at the blatant cold shoulder Phil is giving his sons. That’s what they get for being p@ss@@s.

  “If it were us five years ago this wouldn’t have happened.” 

  “If it were us five years ago, Wilbur, that kid would be buried in your backyard already.” 

  “Are we getting soft?” 

  “Afraid so man.” 

  “Piglin Instincts suck.” 

  “Amen.” 

  Tommy sneaks back to the nest, highly amused at what he has heard. He lacks context, and a few things that were said went over his head completely, but the bottom line is this: the twins aren’t as scary as he initially thought. 

  Scratch that, they're scary and he hates them. 

  It happens the next morning, after having slept a few more hours
  —
  good god, he’s always so tired
  —
  Tommy sneaks down the stairs into the kitchen once more. This time he takes a few seconds to listen in before rounding the corner and looking into the kitchen. There’s voices, murmurs. Phil is upstairs, still asleep. The f@ck-off twins then. 

  He strains to eavesdrop on their conversation, but they’re weirdly quiet. Whispering like little girls- wait no, that’s mean to girls. Whispering like, uh, 
  
    not 
  
  girls! Nailed it. Tommy leans closer to the open hallway, trying his best to pick up on actual human words when suddenly- 

  “Goddammit runt, are you gonna come in or not?” Techno snaps. 

  Tommy manages to swallow a very un-manly squeak and runs away back to the nest. When Phil wakes up some indeterminate time later, Tommy is still reeling from embarrassment. He doesn’t sneak to the kitchen the next day, only barely managing to curb his curiosity. He eats all his meals inside his room. 

  That particular streak of self control runs out the day after that, and Tommy once again sneaks away from the nest, this time he sits on the steps of the staircase. The kitchen is close enough that he can hear the faintest hints of a quiet conversation. 

  Still, he can’t make out any words. 

  When the twins leave the kitchen Tommy is already back in the nest. 

  The burning interest, the gravitational pull, the magnetism, Tommy wants to see them. For some reason, he 
  
    needs 
  
  to be with them. The day after that, when he gets up once again, Tommy is stuck in place, half a step from the door of the nest. Raising his hand to turn the knob is something he is adamantly against but for some reason a pang of hurt stabs at his heart. Why? His eyes sting with tears. 
  
    Why?
  

  Nowadays his head is without fog, all clear skies. He feels like he’s just woken up from a very deep sleep, even though he knows he’s been awake before. Many, 
  
    many 
  
  times. But this time it’s different. He’s more awake and aware, which makes the confusing crockpot of strange feelings all the more f@ck@ng weird. He’s cognizant enough to question what he’s feeling, dissect it and wonder what is wrong with him. As he said, like waking from a long nap, Tommy’s memories of the last few days, maybe weeks, are lacking. 

  He glares at the door in front of him. 

  F@ck this, he’s not a p@ssy. The door swings open and Tommy walks a path he’s been following religiously these past few days. Down the stairs, quiet voices leading the way. He stops, just before rounding the corner. 

  Now what? 

  Well… Now that he’s close to them it’s easier to breathe, but he’s also glued to the ground from guarded reluctance. He pulls on his fingers anxiously. 
  
    Now. What? 
  
  He doesn’t get a chance to make his decision, a chair screeches against the floor and footsteps get closer. Tommy doesn’t move this time, standing his ground. It’s Techno. 

  “Come on, runt,” he says and extends his hand, only for Tommy to flinch back, squeezing his eyes shut. Nothing happens, and Tommy has to remind himself that he should probably open his eyes. He does so, slowly. Techno is still there, his face blank as always, his hand still extended out to him. Tommy stares at it then back at him, what does he want? 

  Techno sighs, annoyed, massaging his temple with his free hand and gently grabs Tommy’s hand, leading him to the kitchen. He’s only seen the kitchen twice, that first time with the soup and the first encounter with the twins. Looking at it now is very different. It’s early morning, the rising sun directly in front of the window by the sink. Cupboards, made from light colored wood. A table, wooden legs and what looks like a glass tabletop. 

  Techno walks him to the table and Tommy sits on the chair closest to him, the other boy takes his vacated chair and grabs his bowl of cereal. Both twins sit across from Tommy, and his back is warmed by the rising sun, permeating through the exposed window. Wilbur doesn’t look up once, too invested in his phone to give a d@mn. 

  Tommy’s stomach growls, the twins don’t seem to notice it. This is weird. Can he get himself something to eat? Tommy looks around the kitchen, all the cupboards look the same, they’re all unmarked. Where can he get a bowl, a spoon, some g@dd@mn cereal? He imagines himself snooping around, like a f@ck@ng raccoon, and gets second hand embarrassment from that alone. He decides to stick it out, watch them eat and wait until they leave to get something to eat. 

  Tommy drags his fingers across the glass tabletop, drawing figures to pass the time, pressing fingerprints on the glass. Wilbur sighs wearily and gets up, Tommy doesn't dare to look up. The twins aren’t attacking him and they’re not 
  
    that 
  
  annoyed with him. Plus, the baby bird is pleased that they’re within grabbing distance. Not like he’s going to indulge in that, he would like to keep all his appendages thank you very much. Sharing the kitchen space is more than enough for him. 

  Probably. 

  Tommy’s twisted train of thought screeches to a halt, a bowl is set down in front of him. He looks over his shoulder to find Wilbur setting down a carton of milk and a box of cereal, as well as a spoon. He walks around the table once more and sits down, going back to scrolling on his phone. Tommy searches for something in his face, and it’s blank. Shocker. Techno is even less expressive if that’s even possible. He looks down at the empty bowl, then the milk and the cereal. Did he just serve Tommy breakfast? 

  He reaches out to take the cereal box, the contents inside shake from his trembling hands, expressing his nervousness outwardly. He brings it closer, the shaking doesn’t stop. And then, a sound. 

  
    Chuff, chuff chuff. 
  

  He startles. What was 
  
    that? 
  

  Once more, the same sound. 
  
    Chuff, chuff, chuff.
  

  That- That’s the sound from his dreams, and the sound Wilbur made when he ran away. 

  Tommy pinpoints the sound to Techno, who is still not looking at him. Tommy looks closer for something, not sure what, and suddenly Techno is looking back. He raises a brow at him, the unspoken message received. ‘What are you looking at?’ he seems to be asking with his eyes. 

  Tommy goes back to serving himself cereal and they eat in silence. They both leave a bit before Tommy is truly done, he even hears the front door opening and shutting. Tommy goes back to the nest, Phil sound asleep. He spends the rest of the day napping. 

  The following day it’s more of the same, though this time Tommy approaches by himself. He still hesitated before entering the kitchen but a small 
  
    chuff chuff chuff 
  
  from the other side and he walked in, finding a bowl and spoon waiting for him, as well as the milk and the cereal. He served himself breakfast, and ate quietly alongside the twins. 

  It’s after a week of this routine that Tommy gets the courage to talk to Phil about this. As it turns out Phil had known he’d been sneaking off. Apparently after imprinting the fledgling gets an urge to explore, failing to indulge in this can lead to distress. 

  “At least now I know I wasn’t risking you getting a heart attack, old man,” he joked. 

  Phil rolled his eyes fondly. “Little sh@t, what did you wanna ask me anyway.” 

  Tommy sits crossed legged on the bed, with Phil across from him. 

  “I don’t know how to explain it,” he admits. “Or where to begin.” 

  “What comes to mind first?” 

  He thinks. “Um, I guess I’ve been wondering about this one sound the twins seem to make all the time.” 

  Phil’s interest is piqued. “What sound?” 

  Tommy clears his throat, and attempts to lower his voice as much as possible. The sound still comes out too high pitched, in comparison to the twins’ version. 

  “It’s a, 
  
    chuff, chuff, chuff  
  
  sound.” 

  Phil gets a goofy smile on his face which only grows when Tommy glares at him. “They make that sound around you all the time you said?” 

  He nods. 

  Phil laughs a bit more, but it’s not mean with how soft it is. 
  
    “Soles, 
  
  you don’t know how much power you have.” 

  Tommy groans. “Stop playing around and tell me!” 

  Phil laughs a bit harder. “Tom, that sound is a Piglin thing. Older Piglins use it to calm down the runts of the pack.” 

  “The
  
     what 
  
  now?”
  
     
  

  “When they make that sound it’s meant to give reassurance to the runt, the same way I can communicate that to you by chirping."

  Tommy stares incredulously at Phil. “Hold the f@ck@ng phone,” he exclaims. “They’re treating me like a Piglin child?!” 

  Phil laughs even harder. 

  “Philip, this is horrible! I’m a big man, if this gets out it’ll damage my street cred!” 

  Phil is laughing so hard he almost falls back on the bed, once he gets his breathing under control he wipes a few tears from his eyes. “Calm down mate, it’s not that bad. It’s not like they’re doing that whole ‘providing ritual’ thing.” 

  Tommy is afraid to ask. “What’s that.” 

  “Well, you already know how Piglins are very protective
  —
  especially when it comes to their pack. The thing is, older Piglins tend to have this instinct to provide those they love with food and sh@t, or whatever they think the other might like. Lemme tell you, I have boxes full of ‘cool rocks’ they found when they were kids, all of which they gave to me as a gift. They even tried cooking me breakfast, if you count preparing cereal as cooking.” 

  Tommy had stopped listening halfway through. “Oh hell no!” he groans. 

  Phil is confused for all of one second before he’s snorting on a cackling laugh and doubling over. “They’ve already done it haven’t they?”

  Tommy doesn’t answer but he doesn’t need to, Phil reads in between the lines and continues to laugh at him. 

  Over the fits of laughter Tommy shouts, “What does this mean exactly? I thought they hated the thought of me staying here with you.” 

  Phil chuckles a few more times. “Well, yeah at first. But not now.” 

  “What changed?” 

  “Why don’t you ask them?” 

  Tommy’s nose scrunches in distaste. “Screw that!” 

  “Fine, be a brat,” Phil laughs. “I’m not telling you.” 

  There’s no way in hell he’s taking that as an answer! Tommy whacks Phil in the face with a pillow, over and over again. The pr@ck doesn’t tell him to back off, instead he laughs harder! 

  “Goddammit Phil! Tell me!” 

  Phil continues to laugh at him. “You’re such a child!” 

  “NO!”

  The next morning, when Tommy wakes up he doesn't hesitate in slamming a pillow over Phil’s face. “Stop pretending to sleep and come with me.” 

  Phil groans, “Maybe I shouldn't've told you that, god knows fledglings love to rise early.” 

  Tommy flushes at ‘fledgling’ and dutifully ignores it. With Phil in tow, following with mostly closed eyes, Tommy makes his way down the stairs and to the kitchen. He slows down the closer they get, so much so that Phil catches up to him and even passes by him. Tommy follows him, attempting to hide himself behind the large wings. 

  (Though he won’t admit it, having Phil with him eases the logical concerns of becoming Piglin prey.) 

  Phil keeps his mouth shut for two seconds before he wheezes and doubles over. “You guys folded so quickly!” he says between laughs. 

  When Tommy takes a peek around Phil’s wings he sees the twins, fuming in anger, or maybe embarrassment. Maybe both. 

  “Shut up, Phil.” 

  “So it’s Phil now, not dad?” he jokes. 

  Techno’s face reddens even more. 

  “This means nothing, it’s just stupid instinct stuff alright?” 

  Phil laughs again. “Sure,” he says sarcastically, going to sit across the twins, with Tommy close to his heels. 

  “It’s just out of my own peace of mind,” Wilbur insists. 

  “I still don’t approve of the stowaway,” Techno adds. 

  Phil sneaks a look at Tommy, and winks. “Sure,” he smiles. Tommy smiles back. 

  For the first time in ages Tommy feels at ease, with everyone around the table, talking and joking. Tommy smiles to himself, grabbing the bowl and spoon already in its place.  Who could have guessed that such radiant happiness could be eclipsed so quickly? And Tommy, not knowing of the coming storm, oblivious to the ticking clock, kicks his feet under the table and eats his fill. 

  Pleased, for the first time in so long. 
 
  
  

    
      
        
        
          acta, non verba - Deeds, not words (or actions speak louder than words.) Tommy is slowly coming back into his annoying self. For now hes stuck in his instincts, like the twins are (against their will btw, Phil master minded the whole thing and now they’re attached to the baby intruder)Happy birbing'
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