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[START CHUNK 1/7]
### file.txt ###
 
 Chapter 1: Fight me, bitch
 
 For such a powerful species, Tommy Innes sure felt powerless in such a situation.
 
  
 
 The orange jumpsuits that made up Tommy's fellow prisoners' uniforms did no justice to the pitiful scene, though it did solidify his contempt for the other inmates. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot against the metal floor, blonde hair falling across his face—much to his general annoyance.
 
  
 
 “Come on, kid, hand over the fucking food," the leader said—how fucking cliche. He was a Phantom—that meant that he had a shock collar strapped around his neck so he couldn't return to his Phantom state, though the pastiness that marked him of his birth species made Tommy think of a boiled egg. 
 
  
 
 God, he hadn't had a good boiled egg in years.
 
  
 
 "No thanks," Tommy drawled, raising an eyebrow and glancing down at his plate. It was made entirely of greenery and a few fruit pieces— the Avians' dish—his race, long gone. His hands were white where he clutched it because his food wasn't about to be stolen, not now, not after so long. 
 
  
 
 "Listen, kid—" Tommy flushed at the statement, anger filling him. Sure, he was the youngest one at the high-security space station of a prison, but he wasn't a kid.
 
  
 
 He hadn't been a kid for a long time. Not ever since his father whispered words in his ear that needed to be memorized, not since his father had died in a space explosion that had sent Tommy's escape pod floating in space until the Arachnids had picked him up with their beady red eyes and chirped at him with their annoying teeth. He, being ten at the time—nearly seven years ago—hadn't spoken anything, and had played dumb. He hadn't been a kid since the fields of golden grass turned brown; since the feelings of hunger, since the executions that made him curl into a ball at night and cry. 
 
  
 
 Tommy was an Avian, but to the rest of the prisoners, he was Human. To his knowledge, he was one of the last living Avians in the galaxy. His father had been a ship captain—he'd just been transporting Piglin and Hoglin citizens to their home planet when they had been attacked from nowhere.
 
 It had made no sense to ten-year-old Tommy at the time.
 
 Of course, he knew better now. He'd gotten the gist of what his family actually did for a living. He knew why the Avians were nearly extinct. He knew to keep his secrets hidden. 
 
  
 
 Still.
 
  
 
 He wasn't a kid. 
 
  
 
 "No," he said again. 
 
  
 
 "I don't know if you've noticed, kid," the Phantom snapped, and Tommy was growing quite exhausted of his repetitiveness. "But there are four of us and one of you."
 
  
 
 "So get some more guys, and we'll make it even," he said with a slight smirk.
 
  
 
 He almost sighed when the first punch came swinging at his face. Almost. These guys were too predictable - stupid thugs of some caravan some specie had decided to start after their supply ships' continuous attack.
 
  
 
 He ducked the first punch and charged the Phantom, kneeing him directly in the gut with a flash of victory. The man dropped—and Tommy considered a fleeting feeling of triumph until a fist smashed into his cheek. 
 
  
 
 Whoops. He'd forgotten about the other individuals.
 
  
 
 Oh, well.
 
  
 
 His lip was split, blood running down his face as he turned to face the Enderian, a smirk growing wider even as the pain from moving his mouth deepened. Unfortunately, the Enderian stood a good five feet away—his fists raised, and Tommy felt a sting of annoyance that he would have to grow closer.
 
  
 
 Stupid Enderians. This guy could fucking teleport—a rare ability among his species. Tommy had only known one other person that could do it. And this pathetic person was using it on him. In a prison.
 
  
 
 On another note, the idiot had used his racial abilities. That meant he would be in trouble. Already, Tommy could see Arachnid guards filtering into the facility, black phasers out, and set to the blue state of stunning. He backed off, hands raised in the air, the superior smirk staying on his face as he watched the Arachnid guards circle the Enderian and the downed Phantom. 
 
  
 
 "What happened?" one of the Arachnid guards barked at the other two 'buddies' the lead Phantom had brought with him to harass Tommy out of his saggy-looking green leaves.
 
  
 
 "He stole Corlin's lunch," the other Phantom said, pointing a hand at Tommy. They turn his guns to him, and Tommy held up his hands.
 
  
 
 "Woah, woah, gentlemen," he said scornfully, jerking his thumb at the lunch tray at the nearby aluminum table. "As you can see, this lunch is green with golden apples and way too much balsamic vinegar." He tilted his head victoriously. If possible, the Phantom grew paler. "It's my special vegetarian meal—not an Enderian or a Phantom-made meal." He shook his head, trying his best to widen his blue eyes to garner pitiful stares. Some of the Arachnids hold a soft spot for him because he hadn't gotten here like the other rebels have—through space battles and warzones and idiotic attempts at rescue missions. "They were trying to take it from me. Me! A poor Human boy was trying to eat. I really wasn't trying for trouble, sirs, truly."
 
  
 
 "Bullshit," one of the guards said, but they nodded, unable to truly incriminate him when the actual evidence was in front of them. "Prisoner T-869, please return to your cell. We'll deal with these four." It wasn't like the guards could tell the other prisoners that he was an Avian—he was too special, too important. But they knew an Avian meal when they saw one—and that meal was his. 
 
  
 
 "Preferably harshly," he murmured, winking at the standing three and making sure to trod on Mr. Boss Phantom's hand as he stepped past. A sense of giddy joy filled him as he bit into the golden apple that he'd filched from his plate—golden apples were given to Avians in place of other necessary items that the prison refused to gather for a few amount of Avians they had in the faculty. Or, rather, the singular Avian that they had. He loved golden apples.
 
  
 
 "Oh, and T-869?"
 
  
 
 Tommy turned around, confusion filling him at the calling. He hadn't expected to be let out until dinner, relishing in his victory with his books and the silence. One of the guards was talking to him, the others gathering up the four who had dared to bother Tommy. He tilted his head, acknowledging the question.
 
  
 
 "Don't fuck up your cellmate."
 
  
 
 Shock filled him, but Tommy forced the questions back down their throat, taking a large bite of the golden apple to keep his silence as he walked back down the cell halls.
 
  
 
 A cellmate. For the second time in all his years in the Wasteland, he was getting a cellmate. He did not doubt that after the events of the first person, that this one would be bad—if not, somehow, worse. 
 
  
 
 The Arachnids, while terrible people, were intelligent enough to grasp that ten-year-old Tommy wouldn't fluctuate well with others there, especially garnering the reality that most of the characters in the penitentiary were disastrous middle-aged criminals. His ten-year-old self would have no doubt been mutilated in some way—and he knew that some of the guards held sympathy for the youngest one there.
 
 
 Which. Despite being the species that had murdered his parents and had handed him over to—had murdered his parents, Tommy had some appreciation for that. Despite hating them.
 
  
 
 He was just a kid, after all. He wasn't a war criminal—only the son of two very crafty, very dead war criminals. At least, from the Arachnid’s point of view, his family had been war criminals. He didn't even know the crimes his father had committed—all he had heard when he was brought in, trembling and crying and shouldering the realization that his family was dead—something about charlatans and fraudulent liars, perhaps on both his aunt and father's accounts.
 
  
 
 Though, perhaps his family was a bit fragmentary. When he
[END CHUNK 1/7]
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