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it was a normal, chilly tuesday afternoon. his nightshift started at 8, which gave him 5 hours to get his house-chores done and get ready. he’d had his rest and already went to the grocery store, which is why he had two brown paper bags in one hand, phone in the other.
tommy was always indecisive, so he kept on skipping from track to track, unsure what to listen to.
it was slightly more active than usual on the street, but that was probably because of the roadwork team. they were just setting up.
tommy’s music was loud, probably louder than it should be, but he always had only one ear-bud in whilst walking. force of habit, he supposed.
he was just walking down the pavement, this was part of his route, when-
“go! go! go! all units, close in!”
everyone dropped their items - bags, dry-cleaning, their goddamn prams - and pulled pistols from their pants. he blinked, walking not another foot.
what.
they began to run, almost inhuman speeds (he could have sworn that couple was 70-) towards one of the apartment blocks.
tommy startled.
“what are you waiting for, come on!”
a woman who had been hunched over mere moments ago, whom he had just passed in walking, sprung to her full height. she lost a scarf and somehow managed to age back a lifetime, posture straightening, and giving him a look.
then she pulled out a gun and started moving towards the apartment complex he was walking past with the groceries, dragging him with her.
tommy did not know what to do. he did not have a gun, nor did he have the guts to tell them he did not. he just walked into a swat take-down. normally only very, very fucked up people required those.
shit.
if he stayed quiet enough, maybe it’d be fine. maybe.
hopefully.
… probably not.
“sonofa - east exit! east exit, he’s headed your way! he’s armed!”
the woman who had grabbed him, as well as several other people who looked like every-day normies, seemed to ready themselves, all pointing their guns at one stairwell.
he held his hands up in a surrender notion. he did not have a gun.
“what’re you doing, red? get your weapons out, come on!”
a man who looked like a really big dad friend hissed at him, shooting him a glare. tommy’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a series of stutters and incoherent consonants trying to piece together words.
before the man could question him further, the sound of several gunshots richoshed through them, and the people with the guns started to drop to the floor with shouts and exclamations of pain and shock.
he looked up, and saw someone with a gun - not a pistol, more of an assault rifle (he thinks) - coming down the other stairwell, where they had not been aiming.
his hands were still in the air, and he barely managed to force a sound from his trembling lips.
“don’t shoot!”
it was more of a squeak, but seeing as how he was the only one left standing, he saw it as an absolute win.
then the crazy gunman grabbed him.
tommy sighed. he just wanted to do his groceries, man. was that too much to ask for? he blew a lot of his last paycheck on those. it was going to keep his fridge stocked for a week.
they didn’t make it that far. he got dragged onto the streets, before he was pushed to the floor and the psycho started making demands from him.
“get out your weapon!”
tommy did not speak. they pointed the gun in his face, eyes wide and wild.
he demanded again.
“get out your fucking weapon!”
the edging closeness of the barrel of the gun towards his face forced the words from his lips, the ones he didn’t really have the guts for.
oh well?
“i’m not armed! i’m not with them!”
the psycho with the gun did not look like he believed tommy. not for a second. he frowned, trying to be as convincing as possible.
“i was on the way back from my shopping, man! i didn’t know everyone on the goddamn street was a - cop? fbi agent?”
they continued to stare at him like he was a fucking moron. which, conceivably, seeing his situation, he was, but that was besides the point-
angry man with gun. swat team. dying. more important things here than lacking braincells, tommy. concentrate! he’s pulling the trigger.
wait.
he’s pulling the trigger?
“fuck!”
logically, tommy knew that shot 100% should have got him. he was mid-way through dodging, when he decided, ‘fuck it’ and turned his dodge into a strategic full-body drop, head first onto the asphalt road.
shit. piss. fuck. ow.
tommy, still, did not move a muscle.
it was time for the art he perfected in middle school - playing dead. so dead, in fact, that he almost gave his english teacher a heart attack when he played dead for 5 minutes in class for no reason in particular.
hopefully it was enough to fool this bastard.
he could still see. slightly. his body was angled oddly, rag-doll drop and all that, so he could see as this fucker walked over to his ‘body’, stopping when several shouts and screams of ‘hands up!’ stopped him.
tommy almost frowned, but didn’t. he was now in the range of fire. again.
why him? he just wanted to get his fucking grocery shopping done. what did he ever do?
nothing. so that's what he continued to do. he lay, still as a rock. he would be such a good stone. he played a tree in his pre-school production. and he rocked it. get it?
that was getting distracted. psycho. guns. fbi. dying.
tommy continued his shallow breathing, forcing his body still. he could hear his heart in his ears, and panicked thinking that - what if he could to?
uh oh. he couldn’t let that happen.
he was going to start panicking more, breathe harder, when-
ow!
the motherfucker stepped on his hand. which, fine, he was meant to be dead, but hello? respect for the recently deceased? please?
… or maybe not, apparently, his hand only got smushed harder.
okay. tommy was kind of done with this. he had to clock in in… maybe 2 hours and 40 minutes, now, and he needed some serious time to process whatever the fuck this was, and the several people he saw gunned down.
oh, and to get his groceries sorted.
tommy did the most logical thing he could think of. he wasn’t skilled in the art, but he had 2 brother… figures. okay, he had many, many more brother figures so he was well-seasoned in the art of tackling.
being on the floor, out of this psycho’s sight line, only gave him the advantage.
- take this. get floored by a rock, bitch.
he opened his eyes further, to calculate his movements… then…
“i will fla- agh!”
mid-threat, tommy surged his top half onto this lanky bitch’s shins, not stopping the falling of his weight when he got a grip. no, he carried through, using the surprise to topple the man. with his legs held together, he couldn’t stabilize himself. tommy had a vice grip. a pair of human hand-cuffs.
leg-cuffs?
whatever. psycho dude was on the floor now. good!
but he still had a gun.
fear not! tommy on the case!
hands like claws (he was close to a rabid animal, at this rate), he dragged himself up the slightly stupefied psycho so that he was sat on their chest, using his scarce knowledge of the martial arts class he’d have once a year at school to trap the bitch beneath him.
he grabbed their wrist, just below the hand so he could not grab back, and pressed his thumb in that awkward spot next to the vein. tommy knew from experience how much that hurt, and made your muscles spasm.
the psycho dropped the gun.
now, tommy was well versed in horror-movies and action films. as much as he’d love to take the gun and blow his brains out (double-tap, he wasn’t daft.), he also valued life as a free man out of jail.
he just did the next best thing.
displacing his weight, he took his other arm and used it to fling the gun to the pavement, safely out of his reach.
he was worried he would get beat up now. there is zero way he would keep this man down.
… but then he remembered that there were cops here. tons of them.
and, before the psycho could so much as lay a finger on him, no less than 3 of the cops… dressed as old women and construction dudes… got him out the way and cuffed them.
“good job, agent.”
one of them praised, patting his shoulder. his face remained the same, deadbeat look. this bitch really thought he was an agent? still? was he that good?
“… can i go home now?”
she fixed him with an off look. mistrusting. like she was going to pull a gun on him. he shifted nervously. seriously, what was with these people?
“… i need to do my groceries? my… my shift starts at like, 8, man- i, i need to compartmentalise? get ready?”
she tilted her head. like a cat.
she looked like a cat lady. god, tommy was so right.
“you’re… you’re a swat member this… is your job.”
tommy fixed her with a look. she was taller than him, unfortunately, but that did not deter him now. tommy was dead-set on not getting fired, now that the danger was passed. he had one final warning from his boss to not come in late.
“… no. i’m not. i work the night shift at a bar a couple blocks over.”
the woman - dressed in proper kit, mind you, not undercover - was joined by a man who beat her in height and looked like he certainly would beat tommy. just beat him. to a pulp. painful tommy smoothie.
“ay, great job, kid. didn’t even draw your weapon!”
tommy levelled him with the stare. the woman fixed him with a look also. she was clearly believing him about, well, his not being a government agent.
“i don’t have one.”
he said bluntly. the brick wall- the man. the male agent looked at him, confused.
“what’d ya mean? all agents have firearms.”
tommy swears to god if he could bonk this man in the head, he would. but tommy was too short. and too appreciative of his status as a living being. so he did not.
“i’m not an agent you twat. i was getting my groceries.”
by now, he was managing to draw attention from other agents, all in uniform. by uniform he meant dark clothes and vests that said ‘fbi’ in big, white print. very inconspicuous.
“what seems to be the issue here?”
this man sounded scarier than the last one, and - despite being a considerably less percentage of muscle - looked the part too. tommy was just surrounded by imposing alpha males that certainly did not make him question his masculinity, thank you very much.
and alpha females. is that even possible?
“kid’s claiming he isn’t an agent.”
tommy opened his mouth to give his input - no, no he wasn’t - but scary man number 2 spoke up first.
“but it was a clean takedown. we had agents everywhere. why’re you dodging the responsibility? is it the paperwork?”
he now fixed tommy with the look. he almost lost his brain function - almost - yet tommy, biggest man ever, pulled through and stuck it out.
“i don’t know what the fuck kinda paperwork you get…
roleplaying construction men and grandmas with guns to do, but i- i’m not an agent. my name is tommy watson-innit.”
for emphasis, he got out his id card which he kept in the left pocket of his cargo pants, before handing it to scary man number 2. he inspected the plastic card, before handing it slowly back to him.
“… how did you manage that?”
one of the women - the blonde one, not the brunette who spoke to him first - gave scary man number 2 a look, before asking why it was surprising he had done what he did.
scary man number 2 replied with tommy’s age. they all gave him a variety of shocked looks.
so he stood there. awkward as he could be, mind you. he waited a few moments, rocking back on his heels and licking his lips before asking-
“can i go now? i- i really can’t miss my shift.”
the agents stared at him some more. then at each other, then back to him again. scary man number 2 spoke up.
“no, not yet. you’re going to have to come in and fill out an interview, standard procedure of civilian involvement.”
he sighed, shoulders slumping.
it was good whilst it lasted, i suppose. tommy recons he’s going to miss his job. quite a bit, actually.
“- i’m also going to need to thank you.”
tommy’s head tilted up again, before mirroring the brunette’s cat-like head tilt and giving a blunt ‘why?’ . scary man number 2 just smiled.
“that man was after people i love very much. if he got away then - which he would have - they’d probably be dead by now. so thank you. truly.”
and tommy… tommy did not know what to say to that. tommy did not know how to feel about a lot of this, he knew there would be no less than 2 panic attacks later on and a good week's worth of icecream consumed in a less than healthy period of time, but that was neither here nor there.
“you can ride with emily and derek to the station. we have a couple last things to get done with here.”
tommy was not going to have a say in this, he supposed. he is going to this station, clearly, and he is going to miss his shift.
maybe it’s not too late to call in sick?
he sighs, looking ruefully at the brown paper bags he was forced to drop when… this started.
“can i at least salvage my groceries?”
the brunette - emily, he had deduced - gave him a look. tommy used his kitten eyes. “please?”
she sighed, letting him woop quietly and pick them back up, before leading him to a black suv and letting him plonk himself in the backseat.
the ride is silent. neither of the agents speak. until they do.
“what’s your name, kid?”
scary man number 1 asked. he hesitated.
“tommy. i said that before.”
great job, tommy. refraining from insulting him! this is a win for the tommyinnit community, truly.
“right. well, i’m derek morgan and this is emily prentiss.”
tommy hums his acknowledgement. he’s not entirely sure what to do with this information. at least he can stop calling derek ‘scary dude number 1’. yay?
“what were you doing there? on the street?”
emily turns around to ask him. he’s sat in the backseat, and she’s in the passenger one. he feels a bit like a toddler with this arrangement, but he manages to just narrow his eyes instead.
“i was… going home. from the grocery store. that street is in my path.”
she nods, wordlessly. she does not appreciate his tone, he can tell. will he stop? no. tommy is a free man and he can act how he wants to. he’s not killing anyone, so. no harm done?
“did you not see the cops?”
derek asks this time, looking at him with the rear-view mirror for a moment before focusing back on the road. tommy frowns. did he know? no. they looked like normal people.
“you… you were all in costumes. undercover or whatever. i like… literally couldn’t tell.”
derek huffs, and tommy thinks it’s amused. he hopes it is, anyways.
he should probably call someone. his boss, maybe. yeah. cant be fired if you quit, right? then maybe he should call one of his roommates… give them a heads-up. that seems smart.
he also decides it would be better for all of them if he informs the agents he will be making some calls. it’s a caution, but he does not want to be shot. or put in prison. or hit.
“i’m going to call my boss. and my roommate.”
he announces it - he doesn’t ask; he’s going to do it either way, if they approve of it or not. derek starts to sputter his objection, but emily shuts him up before giving a less than definitive ‘go for it’. tommy decided this was good enough.
scrolling through his contacts, he clicked on the one belonging to his employer.
he then pulled the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing of the dial tone. he hoped beyond hope she would pick up.
it takes a moment, but the call is accepted. she does not sound all that pleased. scratch that, she sounded livid.
“thomas, what the hell is this? you’re due in an hour and a half. you can’t call off sick this short notice.”
tommy wanted to wince, but stopped himself. this was his moment to stump her, not the other way around.
“i quit.”
well, it was much more… blunt than he was initially going for, but it worked.
“i- what? you- you can’t do that!”
tommy scoffed this time.
“yes, yes i can. you said you’d fire me if i was late either way, and i’m not making it to the bar, so i’m quitting. in advance of you firing me.”
his employer did not respond for a few seconds. it was awkward silence. he could see emily looking at him through the rear-view mirror, curious.
after a few moments, she spoke again with a pained tone that was more angry than aghast.
“so - why, pray tell, would you have been late, thomas?”
tommy chuckled. he chuffed. snorted. snorteled, if you will. some would call the sound endearing, others claim it was war cries from the pits of hell.
“i have been taken.”
it was true. tommy had been.
clearly, his employer did not get that.
wait - former employer. yeah. oh, that feels good to say.
“you- what?”
tommy blinked owlishly, even though she could not see him. he waited a moment before responding.
“i - me, thomas, have been taken, whisked away. removed, if you will. i’m currently in the backseat of a car belonging to the federal bureau of investigation.”
her response, whilst staggered by the audible lagging of her brain, was none the more certain than her previous one.
“thomas. how in god’s name did you get taken by the fbi?”
he smacked his lips. it was a rather good question, wasn't it? how had he gotten himself snatched by the fbi? he had just been doing his groceries.
oh well. good enough, i guess?
“i was doing my groceries.”
“thomas, thats-” it was what? he didn't really care to find out. he hung up.
should he have hung up on his boss? no. absolutely not. did he care? no. she was, technically, not his boss anymore. thats what happens when you quit. or get fired. whoever was your employer just isn't anymore. its fine, he'll find a new one. if anything, at least, what he did today would look good on a resume. helped the fbi catch a complete nutter without being asked. community service!
… is it community service if he was doing it out of selfish spite?
either way, the absolute psycho was off the streets, and it was his doing. the other scary fbi dude even thanked him, said he’d saved some hostages.
oh piss. he had hostages, didn't he?
tommy was suddenly overwhelmed with an abnormal amount of concern. he didn’t sually care this much for other people, let alone ones he'd never met before. maybe something about witnessing what the nutter could do. yeah, he’ll say it's that.
he should probably ask about the hostages…
not right now. he has a roommate to call!
… but which one? tubbo would kill him. as would ranboo, overprotective bastards. maybe…
yes. he would keep his head today, thank you. in some ways, he was more scared of tubbo than he was the psycho. he knows he’s repressing the fear in the moment, and that he’ll have nightmares for weeks, if not months, but that is future tommy’s problem, not present tommy. so calling his roommate!
he is not surprised that his call is answered after the first ring.
“tommy, what the hell? groceries should have been here, like, a half hour ago. at the latest.”
oh, yeah, he still had the groceries.
“i have them, big man. or, what's left anyways. salvaged what i could, i did.”
purpled hesitates across the line. emily has turned around to look at him, blatant in her observation. she still looks like a curious cat, and he gets the feeling that he is being studied all of a sudden. he does not like it. at all.
“... what do you mean ‘salvaged’? what the hell happened, tommy?”
it is now tommy’s turn to pause. he does have to choose his words carefully, because he’s almost certain purpled has committed various crimes before, and he doesn't fully trust him not to do one to him.
“um. see, the thing is-“
purpled cuts him off.
“short story, tommy.”
he swallows. it would be much easier, he thinks, if he could ramble. blow off the severity of the situation a tad. maybe.
“the fbi took me. on the walk back, by the apartment on the avenue-“
tommy is entirely sure the agents in the front of the car can hear purpled as he yells through the phone. even tommy can hear it, and he winced.
yikes.
“they fucking what? tommy! what the hell did you do?”
he can hear a crash across the line, and tommy pales as he realises that his other roommates were also home. ah shit.
“i helped?”
purpled does not like that. at all. he starts to swear even more, incoherent among the questions and yelling of his other roommates. he removes the phone from his ear, still capable of hearing everything perfectly well. he wasn't on speaker - they were just that loud.
he looks at the lady, emily or whatever, with a deadbeat look. he can't quite decipher her face, but the phone goes quiet so he puts it back against his ear, just in time to hear tubbo.
“tommy, what did you do?”
tommy just helped arrest a psychopath. he almost got shot. none of the day's happenings induced as much raw fear in his being as tubbo’s voice just did. getting shot? nah, tubbo is the one making him want to shit his pants.
“i was on the way home from getting groceries,” he began, talking slowly. he heard tubbo hum on the other end of the line, urging him to continue. “apparently everyone on the block i was walking down was an undercover agent.” he finished. tubbo stayed quiet for a little.
tommy winced.
“... what did they do, tommy?” he heard purpled ask. tommy now wants to shit his pants for the agents. purpled is a menace of a bastard. tommy thinks he might be responsible for several unsolved crimes.
“they thought i was one of them. an undercover agent.” he clarified. mr derek is looking at him too, through the rear-view mirror when he can. “they dragged me into a swat take-down, or something. he took me as a hostage.”
“tommy!” he hears tubbo scream. he pulls the phone back from his ear, muttering a curse under his breath. that fucking hurt, man. there are more incoherent swears and yelling over the line, so he holds the phone outstretched, away from his ear until it dies down some more.
“what did you do, tommy? are- are you hurt? did he hurt you?” ranboo presses frantically. tommy frowns, looking at his bruising hand, oh-so-lovingly squished when he was playing dead. he’s also fairly certain he scraped his head when he fell to the floor. either way, he’s getting a killer headache.
“i’ve not been shot.” he supplies, to which he hears his roommates utter curses this time.
“he tried to shoot me, but he missed. i just payed dead, so he would leave me alone.” he explained, aware eyes and ears were also on him from within the car.
“how did you know that would work, tommy? you could have been killed! he could have shot again!” ranboo exclaimed, frantic. tommy spoke over him until he shut up, explaining.
“he was running away from dozens of armed agents, ranboo, he didn't double-tap any of the other people he gunned down. why would he do it to me?”
tommy had roughly 0.3 seconds until tubbo butted in once more.
“gunned down? what do you mean? tommy, did people die?”
tommy stops. he doesn't know if any of them actually died, so he settled on an answer he could have confidence in: “maybe?”
there is no shame in not knowing.
most of the time.
“maybe? tommy!” tubbo hollered. he removed the phone from his ear once more, listening absently to the collective screams and swears.
“so you played dead, then what?” purpled pressed, clearly steering the conversation.
this is where tommy spoke with hesitance.
“well… he clearly thought he got me, so he stepped on my hand.” he finished.
there was silence across the line. until,
“that answers nothing, tommy.” purpled deadpanned. he smacked his lips, contemplative.
“he smushed my hand. you don’t get it, purpled, he disrespected me. he disrespected the recently deceased- he stepped on me.” he emphasised, very much aware of the peculiar look ms emily was giving him.
“i- what?” purpled stammered.
“he disrespected me. i wasn’t going to just take that! he stepped on me!” he exclaimed, raising his voice for the first time. purpled’s clambering voice cut off his ramble, though.
“i- tommy, tommy, tommy. what did you do?” he demanded.
tommy stayed silent for a few seconds.
“tommy.”
that was all the prompting he needed.
“i tackled him from the floor, sat on him, then threw away his gun. the fbi arrested him.” he blurted.
the line went silent.
“i have now been snatched. i need to file some papers or something, civilian involvement or some bullshit.” he continued.
“… can you put us on the line with whoever is there?” purpled asked. tommy paled.
this isn’t going to go well.
he pulled the phone away from his ear once more, smiling weakly at ms emily. “uh, ma’am?” he asked. she gave him a look, prompting him to continue. “um, my roommate wants to talk to you..?” he stated, tone more of a question that anything else.
“oh, okay.” she responded, perplexed but reaching out for the phone nonetheless. she brought the device to her ear, speaking clearly: “special agent emily prentiss, fbi.” she greeted.
tommy couldn’t hear their conversation properly, so instead tried to piece together what he could from the one-side he was hearing.
“i- yes, we do. we’re taking him to our headquarters to sign some papers.” someone must have asked if he was with them.
“we- we had no control over that, sir, we didn’t know he was there.” she stumbled over her words slightly- who was talking to her? whoever it was, must have talked about his mere presence on their crime scene.
“i am aware. yes.” okay, tommy has no clue what she was responding to for that one.
“i’m- er, who is this?” she asked, tone suddenly changing. she gave mr derek a wide-eyed look, and she went a little pale.
“i- no, sir, he is uninjured. who are-?”
she went silent, jaw clicking shut. tommy watched with keen eyes.
“… understood, sir.” she managed. then, she pulled the phone from her ear, and slowly passed it back to him. she eyes him with a whole new cautiousness.
“prentiss?” mr derek prompted. she looked to him, scared or baffled, tommy couldn’t tell.
“what was it?” the man driving pressed.
“i- i think i just got threatened?” she replied, and tommy is internally panicking because which of his dumbass, overprotective bastard of a roommate just threatened the fucking fbi?
“i was told i was going to find spaghetti in all my food. and that my cat would get stolen.”
oh, so it was ranboo.
“spaghetti? how did he even know you had a cat?”
“ranboo always knows, man.”
the agents looked at him. tommy’s face dropped. “did i say that out loud?” ms emily nodded slowly at him.
“your roommates are… charming.” she settled on, eyeing him with a… justified amount of distrust.
“we’re all different flavours of rabid, you don’t have to be nice.” he deadpanned, making both of the federal fucking agents snort a laugh. he grinned. “rabies shot is all i’ll be getting, thank you.” he joked, before wincing to himself.
‘too soon,’ he mentally noted, though mr derek laughed a little, so he supposed the joke wasn’t so bad.
“question, how many people did that man hurt? scratch that, who was he?” he asked, getting the questions off his chest. ms emily grimaced.
“i don’t think you want to know-“ she started, but tommy - a little rudely, he’d admit - cut her off.
“i helped arrest him, i think i, like, have some sort of right.” had he helped in an unjust arrest? oh shit. what if he arrested someone for some stupid shit, like, drug possession?
“his name is george foyet. he’s killed thirty-six people, including a federal agent, his own parents, and an officer of the law.” ms emily stated. tommy’s jaw dropped, and he squawked an incredulous “thirty-six?”
ms emily powered on.
“he started in 1997 with his parents, laid dormant for a while before killing another twenty-one people in the late nineties. he stabbed one of the female victims sixty-seven times.”
sixty-seven? sixty fucking seven?
“jeez, rage issues or what?” he rebutted, the first thing passing his mind just getting blurted out. ms emily scoffed. “you could say that,” she remarked snidely.
“he framed himself as a victim of his own attacks by stabbing himself nine times. he then stopped killing again until earlier last year, because he wanted to watch the lead cop on his case fall apart when he went mia.” ms emily continued on, and tommy really felt like she was just venting at this point?
like, mr derek was giving her those ‘be careful, shut up’ eyes and tommy was like, 80% sure that most of this was like… classified. at least.
“the man who thanked you for saving people he loved? he was stabbed nine times also, so his wife and three-year-old-son had to go into hiding. he was headed to their location when you got him.” she finished.
tommy was… he was expecting a lot of different things, but whatever that was was certainly not one of them.
“so you’re telling me i helped take-down a thirty-years-in-the-making serial killer?” he asked. it was rhetorical, obviously, but ms emily replied with an ‘oh, yeah.’ anyways. he sighed, a little taken aback.
“so what i’m hearing is… i did something very stupid. but also very good?” ms emily turned to look at him, a strange mix of emotions on her face.
“that also.” she affirmed.
tommy was absolutely going to get killed by his roommates for this.
…
“so, what’s your cat called?”
“i’m sorry?”
“your cat. what’s his name?
“i- sergio. how did you know-?”
“ranboo loves cats. i at least want to know the name of the next cat we’re acquiring.”
“acquiring-? you’re not taking my cat,”
“i’m not. ranboo is.”
“who the hell is ranboo?”
“the person who's gonna take your cat.”
“but i love my cat.”
“so do they.”