No Rest For The Wicked || Regulus & Tom || Excrabilis
@arcturusascending
A virus. That’s what this thing was; this irritation, this thorn in his side, this thing that had already screwed up three of his carefully-laid plans and almost destroyed another. Most notably, the texts from his burner were routinely being sent to the wrong person – so much so that he’d been forced to resort to face-to-face contact, or to phone calls, just to ensure that nothing more got fucked over in the process, and everyone knew exactly what was expected of them.
It was surprisingly difficult, being without that one single method of communication, and Tom made a mental note to review his usage of it in the future. He had become too dependent. Too dependent on that filthy Muggle technology, for despite how convenient it was to tap the screen a few times and sent out an instant communication, it was still beneath him – beneath them all, all of his Death Eaters, all of those who had pledged their loyalty to him and his cause, all who looked up to him and trusted him and believed in him.
It would not do to have them thinking that that belief was all for naught.
But there was one advantage to Muggle technology that he was more than willing to exploit. After all, what was one more virus floating around in the ether? The Ministry couldn’t catch everything – and neither could the Order. Now that he knew for certain the identity of one member of that vigilante group, soon enough the identities of the rest would follow, and in the meantime he was more than content with having his own virus developed. How fitting that the developer he had in mind was the younger – better – brother of his eventual in with the Order.
And so it was with no hesitation, and only a slight amused twist of his lips, that he dialled the number of the youngest Black son, waiting patiently until Regulus picked up.
His was the only number stored with no identifiers. No ringtone, only a sharp vibration intended to shock him to attention. No name, only an innocuous label: Work. No photo, not even an icon; nothing that could alert potential onlookers to the man behind the call.
His was the only number that could spark Regulus with the sudden urge to vomit, or to throw his phone so hard against the wall it shattered. A call from Tom meant urgency. It meant action. Regulus had not yet decided his role in Tom’s game, but a nagging voice in the back of his head told him that he didn’t have a choice. Not really.
Besides any intimidation games the man was likely to pull, Tom was interesting. That’s all there was to it. Regulus knew he could let the phone ring out, let it go to voicemail, perhaps stop all conversation entirely over the weeks. Suggest to Tom that he was of no use. But could he really forgive himself for not seeing this through?
Several seconds of vibration passed. A shaking finger tapped the button to accept the call, and he spoke with an equally quivering voice.
“H-hello?”
He coughed, clearing his throat, and willed himself to speak again, with a bit more force and confidence.
“Hello?”
