No. 62 Claremond Street

9 // Together-ish

Tony gasps as he gets up, finding himself in the plain living room of No. 62. His gaze stops at Ivy-Man. If what he thinks is true, then...

He gets up, stumbling when a sharp pain arises in his head. He can't do this, he's too exhausted and hungry. But his future's at stake. His brother is in danger.

He can't lose his only family.

The twelve-year-old takes in a deep breath, focusing on the ivy-wrapped corpse as he heads toward it. He doesn't hesitate to touch the slimy ivy with his bare hands. Tony stops when he sees a mark on Ivy Man's tattered coat. The same one he saw on the cabinet, but black and fading.

"No," he says, stepping away. This is not a Xenoxian murder.

His parents, too, weren't killed by a Xenoxian. The real murderer is still alive and roaming free.

Tony takes in a shallow breath, slowing dropping to the floor. He knows who the murderer is...the insignia here and on the cabinet in his old home, the indigo eyes...he can't be mistaken.

The person who saved him the first time from Milo and his notorious friends. The person he wanted to be like as he grew older.

Tony widens his eyes. The agent who's with his brother.

He glances at the living room window. "Why is this stupid window even here?" he says, not able to see through the murky glass. He races out of the room and down the hallway, reaching the lit dining room. He glances at the window, the orange pink sky now a navy blue. Gosh, how long was I out?

He squints his eyes to see the street, shaking his head when he finds no ice cream truck there. "No." He leans on the window frame, not caring about the dust and mold that comes on his turtleneck sleeves.

Tony turns around, sprinting out of the room, his teeth clattering. "Tom," he calls, hoping he's back. He should be back. He has to be.

Otherwise the memory sync couldn't have been successful.

Minutes fly by as Tony sprints to every mucky corner of the house, leaving the flickering lights on. His brother's not here.

He climbs upstairs to the second floor, his throbbing heart in his throat, sobbing. "T-Tom, where are you!"

He stops when he hears a muffled squeak. A cry for help.

His brother's there.

Tony hurries to the far room at the end of the hallway, a narrow storage room, the source of the muffled cry. He doesn't notice the purple moth from the living room downstairs, perched on his shoulder.

"I'm coming," Tony says, entering the room. He almost skids when he searches for the switchboard.

The light flickers when it switches on, making Tony shade his eyes with his hands. He takes a step forward when he sees his brother laying in front of the cabinet, bruised, tied up with rope. But Tony stops at the next step.

It's not Tom.

The purple moth flutters to the bound person on the floor, resting on the collars of her oversized purple coat. It has completed its task, of summoning someone to rescue its master.

"A-Agent R-Racoon," Tony stammers, racing toward her.

How is she here, that too all tied-up?

"No, don't," Racoon says, through the cloth gagged to her mouth. "These ropes will burn you."

Tony glances at the thick, silver ropes, gasping when he sees blisters on the agent's wrists and neck, where the ropes touch it.

"Call Tom," she says. "He can become a Pyro and untie me."