It was a high-pitched, insistent beeping that woke him up.
Thomas awoke slowly, even with that hellish sound in his ear. His lids remained closed as he blindly reached out a hand for his visor, immediately finding it and swiftly putting it on with practiced ease. Then and only then did he finally open his sockets to check just what the hell was so important that he had to be woken at – he checked the upper left corner of the display – 5 in the morning.
The first thing that jumped out at him was the urgent alert notification in the middle of his vision. He perked up and raised a hand to select it, simultaneously stopping the incessant beeping and opening up a new, green-tinted window. Now, what was it that he apparently needed to see so badly...
[Encountered priority keyword "Tord Larkson" in the following files...]
...well, shit.
Any sleepiness that might have lingered in his system was now officially gone and he could feel his heart pounding a mile a minute. His world narrowed down to the window before him as he skimmed through the data. Oslo Police Department... budding militia... possible terrorist threat...
Tord had shown up on recent police reports for allegedly organising a small paramilitary group that had been busted at the outskirts of Oslo... well then.
This had been a few days ago and at the moment there didn't seem to be a capture report, just an arrest warrant. A quick scan of any CCTV around the city didn't immediately show results after the time of the bust so Tord must have been lying low, probably fled the country.
Distantly Thomas could feel the slight tremble in his hands. This was the only lead he had found, he couldn't lose him now.
If he was out of Norway, Russia was a good bet, if a terrifying prospect. Or...
His mind went unbidden to snapshots of a stoic face and an unending supply of cigarettes. He licked his suddenly dry lips.
...or Poland, a somewhat less terrifying prospect.
A nation-wide scan would take days, especially with a half-baked facial recognition software. But Tord would probably stick to large cities. Still a lot of data, but not nearly as time-consuming. Inputting the command, he tried a keyword search in Warsaw which came up with nothing after two hours. All that nerve-wracking waiting for nothing, ugh. He sighed in aggravation and was about to try again in Bydgoszcz when the CCTV scans pinged at him.
…why the fuck was Tord in Szczecin of all places?
But never mind that, Thomas could feel his heart racing as he took a look at the sped-up footage. Walked around, got into an argument, pulled out a... gun... – Thomas barely managed to deny the urge to facepalm, but it was a close thing. He was in love with a cruel and terrible man who, in his youth, had apparently been an absolute moron. What had his life become. – ...the police got involved, a scuffle ensued, more guns... oh dear.
A quick break through some firewalls (what even was cyber-security in 2010, seriously) and a search through recent Szczecin PD reports got him a final answer on his location, as well as some worrying information.
The ghost of a smile formed on his lips, even as his brow furrowed in worry.
"Found you, you absolute menace." he whispered.
Then Thomas sprang into action. His clothes and shoes were on him in record time and his gun was in his hand. He absently noted that the sun had come up while he'd been tracking his kinda-boss down but he didn't pay it any mind. He practically flew out the door and down the hall, bursting into Matt's room, much the disconcert and fright of either redhead.
Matt mumbled blearily but Matthew took in his appearance and immediately became alert.
"Thomas, what-"
"No time! I found him! In Poland! In a prison in Poland! Can you believe he got himself in prison? Prison, of course he got himself in prison in fucking Poland! Come on, Matthew, we need to go!" he urged, perhaps a bit more manic and panicked than he'd originally intended. Just a bit.
Realization seemed to dawn on Matthew and he sprang up from the bed, hurrying into his normal apparel in an almost comical fumble of limbs. He then considered the mountains of junk around him for just a moment before he stuck his hand into one to his right – and pulled out his gun.
"Okay, I'm done! I'm done! Let's go, where is he? Wait, what do you mean, prison?! How'd he manage that?"
"By being a reckless idiot, is how." Thomas muttered absently under his breath as he practically dragged Matthew out of the room and the house in a distracted hurry, leaving an absolutely befuddled Matt behind.
As they ran, his unoccupied hand sorted out their travel plans. Call a taxi, pay for their last-minute tickets with someone else's bank account, discreetly bribe some of the staff with money sourced from several different accounts to ignore the very suspicious men, bypass some more firewalls so he could download a floor map of the prison (Plan A was subtlety, after all, Plan B... he'd cross that bridge when he got there). He almost tripped several times, to the point that Matthew had to keep a constant hold on this arm. Thomas didn't pay it any mind. Under his visor, his sockets briefly flashed deep magenta.
He'd finally found Tord and nothing could stop him until they got him back.
0 0 0
It had been a terrible week for one Tord Larkson.
It hadn't started bad, not really. He'd found a nice, abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of the city, recruitment for his little communist movement had started picking up, his weapons cache was growing to a respectable size, overall not too shabby.
And then he'd had a leak. A nasty little rat had led the police straight to them and his entire operation was dismantled in a matter of hours. Months of work, all for nothing except a big, fat, black mark in his record and an arrest warrant. Wonderful.
So of course he'd fled the country. He'd picked Poland because... well, he hadn't actually had a reason other than it had seemed like a decent country as any bunker down and lay low for a while. He'd gotten avoiding CCTV down to an art in the past year, so he hadn't worried much about that.
Of course, then Tord had managed to provoke a fight with a local, who had pulled a knife on him and given him a pretty nasty gash to the side of his belly. Of course he'd used his gun (one of many on him at the time) to defend himself, but that had attracted the entirely unwanted attention of the local police force, and the whole thing had escalated into a shootout which he'd ultimately lost.
And thus he now found himself in a cell in the lovely prison of Szczecin, with only a roll of gauze they'd thrown at him as an afterthought and three merrily bleeding wounds, two of which he had received during the damn shootout. Such fine hospitality the Polish had, he felt right at home.
Tord swallowed a pained groan as he sat up on the floor of the cell. He needed to at least get his injuries wrapped, but his shoulder, now sporting a nice little hole, probably wouldn't make that easy.
"Hey, czy jesteś w porządku?"
Tord whipped his torso around along with his head to look at the source of the voice, the "Hva?" slipped out before he immediately regretted the last two seconds, doubling over from the flaring pain at his side.
His cellmate, because apparently he had one of those now, seemed to comprehend their problematic and switched tracks as he stood up from his cot and approached him cautiously, a bent cigarette between his lips.
"Are you alright? You seem hurt." he asked, removing the cigarette from his mouth and kneeling beside a hunched over Tord, who was gritting his teeth and waiting for the pain to pass.
"Just a few scratches, hah." Tord tried to laugh it off, but his voice sounded strained and the huff resembled more a pained exhale than a chuckle. He grimaced. Well, so much for a tough first impression.
The other man's admittedly impressively thick eyebrows furrowed in something resembling concern. Maybe a distant, estranged cousin, Tord thought in an inner attempt at humour that he hoped would distract him from the pain. It didn't.
The man seemed to completely rebuff his deflection, "Do you need help with those scratches?" he drawled, and if his face hadn't been white as a sheet from the pain and blood loss, Tord might've flushed in embarrassment. As it was he simply avoided his gaze and nodded, holding up the roll of gauze that had been discarded into the cell along with him. The man grabbed it and gestured for him to show him the wounds.
"My name's Paul." he said as Tord took off his jacket.
"...Tord."
Paul nodded and placed the lit cigarette back between his lips, frowning once Tord's shirt was removed, carefully so as not to jostle his shoulder too much. Somehow he managed to keep talking clearly even with that thing in his mouth, Tord was reluctantly impressed.
"Is there an exit wound?" he asked, gesturing to his injured shoulder.
Tord nodded, blinking away the spots in his vision, "Lower caliber. I think there's still a bullet in my leg, though."
Paul's frown deepened, "The bleeding's not too bad and your trousers aren't completely soaked so they at least missed any major blood vessels. That," he pointed at the gash in his side while he stood up, "needs to be stitched, though."
Tord snorted, "You got a needle?" Paul shook his head as he stepped towards the sink in the cell to give his hands a quick wash, "Didn't think so. What are you..." he trailed off as Paul knelt and pulled something out from under his cot. That something turned out to be... a bottle of vodka? Paul also grabbed the toilet paper from beside the toilet before turning back to him. He set the roll down on the pile of Tord's discarded clothing along with the gauze and the bottle on the floor beside him as he sat back down in front of the Norwegian.
"I'm gonna do your torso first." he announced and promptly poured a glassful of vodka unto his shoulder and his side after opening the bottle, earning a startled and agonized hiss from Tord.
"Warn a guy, will you!" he growled, trying to stifle yet another pained groan.
"You want this over with quickly, right?" Paul pointed out, raising a thick, unimpressed eyebrow as he started wiping the blood from the edges of his slash wound. Tord gritted his teeth but didn't deny it. A rushed job was better than nothing. And probably better for his nerves.
In a manner of minutes he had wads of toilet paper pressed against his wounds by choppily cut but decently wrapped bandages. Tord carefully put his bloodied shirt back on, stalling. He really wasn't looking forward to removing that bullet.
"...why are you helping me?" he asked instead, honestly curious.
Paul shrugged, "I'd rather not have a corpse for a cellmate. And I like to think I'm a decent person. Probably. Maybe. Now go lie down properly and take those off." he gestured offhandedly to his pants and Tord reluctantly followed the order, moving slowly towards the unclaimed cot and taking great care to move his wounded leg as little as possible as he removed the offending garment. Paul washed his hands again before dropping some vodka on his right.
Lying on his back with his legs outstretched, Tord was pointedly staring at the ceiling. "...so how'd you get that bottle anyway, Paul?"
He heard a small chuckle before agonizing pain shot through his leg, stemming from the whole in his thigh. His body tensed up all at once and he brought his uninjured arm to his face so he could bite into it instead of screaming. A muffled, grunting cry escaped him anyway, but it wasn't too loud so he'd count that as a win. He was somewhat glad for the strong hand holding down his leg so it wouldn't thrash around, that would only make things worse.
After what felt like an eternity, the pain let up a fair bit. He opened his eyes (when had he shut them?) to see a bloody hand holding an equally bloody bullet in front his his face. His focus shifted further into the background, to the man smiling wryly, cigarette still between his lips and almost nonexistent by now.
"I won a bet with a guard." came Paul's delayed reply, "That's how I got these too." he wiggled the burning stump with his lips amusedly.
Tord glared but didn't really have the energy for anything else. His lids felt heavy. This whole day had been entirely too draining but that bullet was the last straw. Even as he tried to fight it off, unconsciousness claimed him, enveloping his mind in darkness.
When he woke up, his leg had been cleaned and dressed and his pants were lying on top of his legs. He looked blearily to the side, where Paul was sitting on his own cot reading a worn-looking book.
"You missed supper," Paul remarked without looking up. "And breakfast."
That made sense. Tord's stomach felt like it was eating itself. And he was absolutely parched. He shifted a bit, making to sit up, but hissed in pain when he accidentally jarred his side.
Fuck. Okay. He could do this. He took a deep breath and carefully lifted his torso, supporting his weight on his uninjured arm. Paul was now watching him curiously but he forced himself to ignore it. Putting most of his weight on the side of his hips that didn't have a gateway almost straight to his guts, he managed to sit up properly. There were large spots in his vision but that was alright.
Deep breath, in, out. Healthy leg bent, put all the weight on it, a bit of a push from his supporting arm and-
Up. He was standing. He was in a lot of pain, but he was standing. Alright, now he just needed to walk, well limp, to the sink.
Ahhhh, finally sweet, sweet water.
"You really shouldn't be moving around. Those aren't closed and you lost a lot of blood." the words would have sounded worried if it weren't for the incredibly flat tone in which they were delivered.
Tord snorted, "If I never did what I shouldn't I wouldn't be here in the first place."
"One would think that'd be a deterrent, not a justification."
"Well, one would think wrong."
It was Paul's turn to snort, in parts amused and disbelieving. "You're something else."
Tord smirked to mask a wince, "I'll take that as a compliment." He limped back to his cot and sat down, back against the wall. The pain in his wounds spiked periodically, his head throbbed and his empty stomach gifted him with a nasty bout of nausea.
This was going to be a long day.
His meals were brought to him by a guard apparently, a particularly disgruntled one at that, while Paul usually left the cell for mealtimes. Oddly enough, though, he didn't seem to spend any other time outside the cell, and he was always escorted by a guard. Tord thought it best not to ask. He asked other things instead.
"So what are you in for?"
Paul took a drag of his cigarette as he stared at the drab wall, "You know, you're not really supposed to ask that in prison. Lot of people find it rude."
"Do you?"
Paul shrugged, "Not really. I was in the army, and then I deserted. Unsuccessfully. You?"
Tord thought for a moment, "I think the official charges are something like attempted terrorism and illegal possession of arms."
"Had a gun on you?"
"Try a dozen."
Paul quirked a mildly impressed eyebrow, "How do you fit all that into one outfit without it looking bulky?"
"Practice." Tord smirked, borderline preening.
They coexisted amicably during their term as cellmates, even as Tord grew progressively woozier and Paul more concerned.
It was in the morning of his third day there, right as Paul was finishing up cleaning and redressing his wounds, that they noticed the distant noises of chaos. Tord frowned and listened, trying to figure out what was going on. Paul simply finished the task at hand a bit frantically, for once lacking a cancer stick to draw artificial calm from. He'd run out last night.
The noises seemed to grow louder. There was an alarm, screams and... collapsing walls? A roar?
What the hell was going on?
He didn't have to wait terribly long before the wall opposite them was sporting a sizable hole. Through the dust cloud emerged two impossibly familiar figures. Tord's breath caught in his throat.
Except.
Except three years was a long time, but it wasn't that long. These two, whoever they were, couldn't possibly be Tom and Matt, no matter how mindblowingly like them they looked. Plus, what was the weird cyborg look they were trying to pull off?
Not-Tom's electric green gaze fastened on him for a moment before sliding towards Paul, as if scanning him.
"Shit." Tord heard him mutter.
Not-Matt perked up, "Oh! We're taking two, Thomas!"
Apparently-Thomas (what the fuck) practically radiated frustration as he dragged a hand down his face, "Yes Matthew, I can see that." He then looked back at them expectantly, cocking his head and half-turning back to the hole in the wall. "Well, then, come on."
AN:
HEY GUYS i know a lot of this (especially the hacking bits) is extremely unrealistic and ive severely overexaggerated the capabilities of thomas' mini computer visor (15 years is a long time but not THAT long). thats ok, this wasnt meant to be terribly realistic, this is eddsworld after all. on that note, this is officially the chapter with the longest bout of research put into it, it was terrible. im not entirely sure if szczecin actually has a prison, it did in the fifties and thats apparently where a lot of soviet deserters ended up, but im not sure if its still operational. for the sake of this story we'll pretend it is. we'll also pretend there's cctv all over european cities to make both mine and thomas' life easier. and that polish police and prison staff is in fact that neglectful (which i dont believe for a minute). also i know shit about treating wounds so sorry if ive offended your sensibilities in any way. and dont ask how the general timeline works out, nobody knows. (you know, i was planning on making the breakout stealthy but instead it just devolved into absolute chaos, thomas you need to chill). lastly, i dont speak either norwegian nor polish so if you do and have something to correct in those two sentences please feel free to tell me.
sooooooo this turned out pretty long. it was supposed to include more but its almost 3k long and im tired, you can wait a bit longer for the rest. at least this one has tord's pov for the first time in this fic.
pleeeease comment! i put way too much effort into this, i deserve a reward.