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English
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Part 2 of Goodnight, Travel Well
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2021-05-20
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2024-07-10
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342,645
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28/28
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From Here to Neptune

Summary:

Hesitantly, he presses a trembling hand to the glass.

The entire universe is spread out underneath his finger tips, hundreds upon hundreds of stars swirling in constellations he doesn't know, a melting pot of dazzling colors, vivid pinks and deep blues, swatches of yellow and green.

If he squints, he can make out planets. Tiny little dots, hardly bigger than the nail on his pinky finger. That little grey one must be Lestea, the trade moon they just left, but the others? he has no idea.

One of them must be earth. How ironic is that he's the first human to ever leave the Milky Way Galaxy, and all he wants to do is go back home?

(In other words; After rescuing Tommy, sbi and co. embark on a roadtrip through the Esempi Galaxy to return him to his home planet, Earth. They make a few pit stops, piss off some shopkeepers, make some strange friends, and learn how to be family along the way)

Notes:

Welcome aboard the SS Argo, seatbelts on, everyone! It's gonna be a wild ride.

Fic playlist: From Here to Neptune

This chapter is dedicated to;
-My friend Mars. ily
-Everyone who commented on the last fic
TW: Dehumanization, past child abuse, mild violence, a general sense of panic and fear

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: Dying Breed (I)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

Tommy was having a shitty day.

 

It was more of a series of days, really. A shitty past few weeks, if you will. A shitty couple of months, even. A shitty year if you include all the time he spent being fucking kidnapped. 

 

This isn't even the shittiest day, all things considered, but it’s definitely the fucking weirdest.

 

The four-armed bitch is looking at him again, eyes blown wide with fear like he thinks Tommy’s gonna break straight through the glass and go for his throat. You’d think after having him locked in here for weeks the guy would realize he’s not exactly the Hulk. 

 

Still, he makes a half-start towards him anyways, baring his teeth like a feral dog, and revels in the way he jumps half a foot in the air and scrambles back to avoid him. It’d be a lot funnier if he still wasn’t trapped in a glorified fish tank. 

 

And then there’s the pig fucker. He lets his eyes shift over to him, looking him up and down. 

 

That’s new. Four-arms hasn’t brought anyone back here to gawk at him since he was stuck in the tank in the first place, but it was only a matter of time. If what He said is right, he’s the only human around for lightyears. He’s surprised he hasn’t been turned into a circus attraction already. 

 

Still, this guy doesn’t actually look like your typical circus-attendee, if you catch his drift. 

 

He’s big, for one, the biggest space-fucker Tommy’s seen thus far. A couple feet taller than him and nearly four times as broad in the chest. He's an ugly fucker too. He lets his eyes linger on the scars criss-crossing his leathery face, and the two big tusks jutting out from his bottom lip. He’s definitely some sort of boar-man thing if the tusks and ears are anything to go by. Not the weirdest thing he’s seen in space, but it’s up there. He’s got red eyes, for fucks sake. Between that and the whole cloak and dagger thing he has going on, anyone else probably would have been scared shitless. 

 

But not Tommy. Because Tommy was a fucking man.

 

He spits at him, instead. “What the fuck are you looking at, bitch? I could take your ugly ass any day!”

 

Predictably, he doesn’t respond. He hasn’t been around anyone who’s been able to speak English in a long, long time, but his face does shift a little. Something like rage flashes in his eyes, for just a second. It’s so quick Tommy wonders if he just imagined it. 

 

He spits at him again, just for good measure, before he starts his usual routine of pacing back and forth in front of the glass just to watch four-arms twitch. Fuckin typical. What a coward. What did he think he was gonna do? He weighs what, ninety pounds soaking wet? He’s been able to count his ribs for the past few months, and gets dizzy when he stands up for too long. He wasn’t going to be busting through solid glass as thick as he is around the middle anytime soon.

 

Still, he’ll take what entertainment he can get in this hellhole. So what if it’s mean? He’s the one in a fucking cage.

 

The pig turns to four-arms sharp enough to make him flinch back, growling something in a low, rusty sounding language that shares an eerie resemblance to the sound Clara’s old diesel truck makes when the engine turns over. Four-arms chitters something back in his own annoying, meek little voice, quickly correcting himself when the pig gives him a look.

 

Then, the pig pulls something out of his pocket. He’s seen these things before, like the alien version of an iPhone, and leans closer to get a better look at the holographic screen. It’s nonsense, of course, but the swiping motions he’s doing with his fingers are familiar, like he’s scrolling through Twitter. A few weird symbols come up, and he dismisses them. 

 

He isn’t able to get a good look before glass shatters somewhere in the front of the shop, and alarms split the air.

 

He jumps back with a shout, and barely has enough time to blink before the pig is reeling back his meaty fist and clocking it against four-arm’s temple hard enough to make him wince in sympathy. He falls to the floor in a heap of limbs, and the pig sets his eyes on Tommy.

 

His heart is pounding out of his chest, the flashing lights and blaring of the alarms already making him dizzy. He scrambles to the far end of the tank as fast as his shaking legs will let him. 

 

“Stay back!” He snarls, lips pulled back over his teeth, “I’m fucking warning you, pig face!”

 

He doesn’t stop.

 

He matches right up to the metal door, not even bothering with the handle as he rips it off it’s fucking hinges.

 

His heart drops to his shoes. He snarls again, baring his teeth like a dog, the same thing he’d done to four-arms, but the pig doesn’t even blink. He clenches his shaking hands into fists, but what can he do? The guy can bend metal like play-doh, just standing is making him all lightheaded and shit. What the fuck is he supposed to do?!

 

Still, still, he’s not gonna let himself be bought and sold like a fucking animal. Once was more than enough, thank you very much.

 

The flashing red lights paint him in crimson, leaving his face in pure shadow. He tosses the remains of the door to the side with ease. He catches the glint of narrowed eyes and razor-sharp tusks, and prepares for the worst. 

 

He expects him to come marching forwards and grab him by the neck. He expects to have his throat ripped out, or head crushed in by those big, meaty fists that knocked out four-arms with one hit. Every part of him is tensed, muscles coiled tight like a spring trap, adrenaline lighting sharp in his veins, heart pounding in his chest. 

 

None of that happens, though. 

 

The pig just… Looks at him, head tilted to the side. He doesn’t make any efforts to drag Tommy out of the tank, which he appreciates, but he doesn’t just leave either. He just. Stands there. Shifting his weight from hoof to hoof. Looking at him with those heavy red eyes. 

 

Tommy stares back warily, untensing inch by inch the longer they stare at each other. 

 

...If Tommy was a lot more fucking stupid, he’d say that it almost looked like he was struggling to find the right words to say. Of course, that would be fucking ridiculous, because as far as he knows they’re in the middle of fucking space, millions of miles away from Earth, so there would be no possible way-

 

“Safe.” The pig eventually growls at him, in his rusty, diesel-engine voice. “Follow. Now.”

 

For a whole three seconds, all Tommy does is blink.

 

What the fuck. What the actual fuck. They’re in the middle of fucking space how the fuck-

 

Wait a minute. 

 

Was... Was he being fucking rescued?

 

The pig huffs in frustration at his lack of a reaction, and growls again with more insistence. He jerks his head towards the opening in glass where the door had been. “Follow. Now!”

 

His heart jumps again, and he scrambles forwards towards his rescuer, stumbling on still-trembling legs. “A-alright, okay, big man. Lead the way.”

 

The pig just tilts his head at him again, huffs out a long-suffering sigh through his nose, and turns around with a swoosh of his brown coat around his hooves. Tommy follows right at his heels. 

 

...Was following some random alien one of his best ideas? No, probably not. Hell, following some random alien was the thing that got him into this whole mess in the first place, but it’s not like he had a ton of other options. What, was he just gonna sit around and wait for four-arms to wake up? Hell to the fucking no. 

 

So, at least for now, he follows. The pig man strides confidently through the back rooms of the pet shop, with Tommy carefully picking his way through behind him, watching everything suspiciously with narrowed eyes. He doesn’t have a hundred pounds of muscle to his name, okay? If he could afford stomp around like he owned the place, he would. 

 

He avoids the tanks along one wall with the animals sleeping soundly, and steps lightly over the spilled back of food on the floor, walking quickly on his toes and trying to pick out shadows the best he can with the lights still flashing and alarms threatening to burst his eardrums. 

 

Predictably, he’s lightheaded after the first few steps, but he shakes it off, doing his best to block out the alarms. The pig seems to notice him lagging behind, and adjusts his own quick pace accordingly, hovering by the purple curtain covering the entrance to the main part of the shop so he can catch up. 

 

He doesn’t seem upset by his slow pace, which helps to loosen the knot of anxiety in his chest just that much more. 

 

And besides. He spoke English.

 

...Tommy can’t remember the last time he talked to someone. Really talked, without Him just barking out orders and commands. There’s some small, pathetic part of him that just wants to talk to someone again.

 

It’s a little pathetic, maybe. But still. Still. There’s just something about the pig man that makes him trustworthy. Something about the look in his ruby red eyes when he first saw him in the tank, eyes flashing with indignation and fury on his behalf. Something about the way he’s looking at him now, head tilted to the side again like a puppy. He’s a lot less terrifying when he’s not leering over him.

 

He wants to believe he’s being rescued. He wants to believe it so badly. 

 

He looks him over again. He can’t see his face through the shadow of his hood, but he’s pretty sure he’s not mad at him. Like. Seventy percent sure. He’s gotten pretty good at reading alien body language. A handy skill to have in space. 

 

When he’s caught up, the pig brushes aside the curtain and steps through first, letting Tommy trot behind in the shadow on his coat. 

 

He blinks furiously in the bright yellow light of the main shop, shaking his head to try and clear the sunspots. There’s so much noise, here, all set to the wonderful blaring of the alarms. Chirping, barking, screeching, howling. He could hear it in the back, sure, but there were at least a few stone walls and a thick pane of glass muffling it. And he’s not even gonna mention the smell, like the shitty zoo they used to have at the county fair but somehow worse. 

 

God, it’s so fucking loud. He’s gonna have such awful tinnitus when he gets somewhere quiet again. 

 

He doesn’t even see the other guy at first. Walking behind pig man is like standing behind a brick wall, it’s only after his eyes finally adjusted to the obnoxious amber-colored lights that swung overhead, cashing horribly with the bright red of the alarms, might be add. Okay when he could finally manage to hear himself think over the noise, did he glance around his shoulder to the front window of the shop.

 

Or, what used to be the front window.

 

You see, what used to be a perfectly good window, purposefully tinted black so you couldn’t see inside, and adorned with hanging bird cages, was now just a black hole.

 

A giant, gaping hole with shards of glass strewn about, and dented metal from where the hanging cages were sent sprawling. Ah, so that’s were the squawking was coming from. Apparently, space birds don’t enjoy their houses getting crumpled like tin cans. He doesn’t blame them. 

 

And, standing dead center in all of the chaos, is another alien. 

 

He was halfway in through the shattered window, dusting broken glass off his dark-green jacket. His head is dipped down, some kind of weird, striped hat shielding his face from view, but he doesn’t focus on it for long, attention quickly drawn to either side of him. 

 

Wings

 

Honest-to-god bird wings, each one taller than he was and nearly three times as broad. Glossy black and grey feathers shift, catching and throwing the amber over headlights and the flashing alarms  as he shakes glass off of them too, flapping the ends and brushing them off with gloved hands. 

 

Tommy is completely frozen in place, watching him with wide eyes, still half-hidden behind pig man. The pig either hasn’t noticed him, or is equally as dumbfounded, because he doesn’t move from where he’s standing, just in through the curtain.

 

Actually, now that he’s mentioning it, it’s probably the second one. There’s literally a door right there, and this guy chose to jump in through the window and set off all the alarms. 

 

Then, he turns towards them, and Tommy’s veins fill with ice. 

 

...He’s a little ashamed to say that his first coherent thought after just “AHHHH!” is , “Holy shit, it’s fucking mothman!”

 

Well what the fuck was he supposed to think?! He turns towards them sharply, all crouched over like some sort of predator, wings flaring as if he had just noticed their presence. His face is completely pitch black and featureless under the hat, and those eyes, perfectly round and bright red, like he’s staring at twin stop lights or directly into the pits of hell-

 

Oh, wait. No. Those are googles.

 

He lifts a hand to his face, and in one smooth movement the googles are pushed up into his hat, and his black mask is pulled under his chin. The face it reveals is shockingly human-like, honey-blonde hair trying to escape his hat and fall over his nose, sharp blue eyes with slitted pupils. There are black markings across his face, feathers trailing down the side of his jaw like ears. Almost human, in a way that puts him on edge. 

His face lights up when he catches sight of pig man, and he chirps out a greeting, expression apologetic. 

 

The pig man rumbles out a response. He can’t make heads or tails of their conversation, but since the pig hasn’t tackled him yet, he assumes Mothman is probably safe, and lets himself relax just a little. He’s still tensed to run if things go south, there’s an opening right there, but he knows he won’t get too far. A last resort, he decides, resigning himself to his fate. There’s no way he’d be able to move around both of them fast enough. Hopefully they’ll take him on a ship and he can just steal an escape pod. Or the whole ship. Beggars can’t be choosers.

 

It turns out he doesn’t really need to speak their language to get a gist of the conversation. Mothman is an open book, expressions shifting like water as the two talk. His face goes quickly from sheepish, to concerned, before settling in confusion, head tilted and eyebrows pinched. 

 

Then, pig man steps out of the way, and those bright blue eyes zero in on him.

 

He does not squeal, because he is a big man who was not afraid fuck you, but he does try and scurry back behind the pig-turned-barricade as soon as possible.

 

Mothman just cranes his neck to get a better look, eyes filled with something disgustingly like pity. He snaps his teeth to show he means business, he’s a big fucking man, thank you very much, but Mothman just starts cooing at him instead. 

 

Fucker. He’s not some pet. 

 

The pig grumbles out something else, and Mothman nods and coos along, still tilting his head to try and meet his gaze. He glares back, but all he does is ruffle his feathers and make that cooing sound again, the kind of noise you’d make to a lost puppy caught out in the rain.

 

Tommy bristles, opening his mouth to snap back, but he’s cut off by even more fucking alarms.

 

It’s far off, this time. The high pitched wailing of a siren in the distance, but closing in quickly. What, did this planet have fucking space cops or some shit?! 

 

Mothman’s ear feathers twitch, and his eyes go hard. He nods again, determination settling in his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, and he steps carefully back through the hole he came in from. Pig man starts moving fast, and Tommy moves faster to stay right on his heels, keeping the pig between him and Mothman. He’s seen the guy knock someone out in one hit and bend metal with his bare hands, if Mothman tries anything, he’s confident the pig can snap him like a toothpick. 

 

They burst out into the street like a bat out of hell. A large, heavy hand closes around his upper arm, and they take off down the road. 

 

It’s so jarringly different from the pet shop that it's almost scary. Through some noise filters out through the shattered window, once they get away from it the city outside is completely silent and still. A cold wind blows in from up the barren street, kicking up dust and making him shiver. He blinks sharply, eyes adjusting to the dark as he stays stubbornly at pig man’s heels. 

 

He squints at the arm holding him close. Pig man’s, big enough to wrap around his whole upper arm, gripping him firmly but not quite harsh enough to bruise. He lets his gaze travel up the arm to pig man’s face as he’s frog marched along, nearly having to jog to keep up with his larger steps. His ruby red eyes flicker to him occasionally, but otherwise stare straight ahead.

 

He swallows, and the sirens get louder. No turning back now. 

 

They duck down an alleyway, and he follows blindly into the dark, squinting to make out shapes in the shadows. Neither of them give him enough time to get a good look at their surroundings before they’re off again at a brisk walk, tugging him along. 

 

He can barely see anything, no matter how hard he blinks and squints to try and get his eyes to adjust. The buildings are all dark and the same shade of greyish blue, so it all just blends together like one giant, ugly bruise. Only the other alleyways stick out, slashes of tar-black between buildings like knife wounds. He thinks he catches a glimpse of movement, once or twice, but as soon as he tries to get a better look they’ve already moved on. 

 

They move quickly between buildings, weaving down side streets small enough to make him wince. For the big fucker pig man is, he can sure as hell move fast on his hooves. They check over their shoulders every once in a while to make sure he’s still behind them, eyes glinting in the dark as the sirens get closer and closer. 

 

Finally, they yank him sharply into the smallest side street so far, barely large enough to fit the width of pig man’s broad shoulders. He clenches his teeth hard enough his teeth ache, leans his head back against the brick wall, and holds his breath. 

 

If the space-police works anything like it does back on Earth, being caught won’t mean anything good. At best, he lives out the rest of his life behind bars or glass, getting poked at with needles and pointed at by snub-nosed kids on school field trips. Worst case, they send him back to Him.

 

Pure terror, ice-cold and sharper than glass floods through his veins at the thought. Yeah, fuck that. He’d rather stick with pig man any day. 

 

The sirens get even louder, footsteps cutting through the silence of the city like gunshots. He clasps a hand over his mouth, just in case, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He risks a glance up at pig man, who’s still staring straight ahead, face like steel and perfectly calm. If not for the way he kept glancing back at him, hand tense on his arm, he’d think the guy was having just any normal Tuesday. 

 

Just who the absolute fuck are these people? What the hell did he get himself into? Did he get rescued by the fuckin’ space mafia?! 

 

The sirens are on top of them, then. A glimpse of flashing lights reflects off the brick walls, and the hand on his arm tenses again. He clenches the hand not over his mouth into a fist, and peers out into what little of the other alleyway he could see. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a shadow along the far wall, and he freezes.

 

It’s quiet, for beat. The only sound his blood rushing in his veins, heart a steady ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum in his ears. 

 

They wait. 

 

Then, the lights fade, and the siren eases off. In a few moments, it’s nothing more than background noise, a faint wail in the distance as it retreats in the opposite way it came. A few more, and it’s completely gone.

 

He sags against the wall in relief, gasping in air like a drowning man as his shaking legs threaten to buckle underneath him. Holy fucking Christ that was close, but he doesn’t get more than a few seconds to recover before he’s being tugged out of the side street, and they’re off again.

 

They walk for a while.

 

Slower than before, thank god, and he doesn’t have to jog to keep up anymore. They walk down side streets and alleyways, still, and he’s only able to catch a glimpse of main roads between gaps in buildings, but even those are strangely empty. 

 

He still hasn’t quite recovered from the close call of before, and he can still feel the nervous Jack-rabbiting of his heart, the electric thrum of adrenaline in his veins. Yeah, talk about a fuckin’ adrenaline rush, he feels like he’s just downed a six pack of Coke and topped it off with enough sugar to send a grown man into cardiac arrest. Wired up and ready to go. 

 

He moves lightly on his feet, still tensed and ready to spring, eyes flicking from building to building, looking for threats. Just in case.

 

The pig and Mothman don’t seem as tense anymore. The hand around his upper arm has gone from yanking him around like a rag doll to lightly tugging him this way and that, grip loose. They chatter lowly to one another in a series of soft grunts and chirps as they walk, heads leaned together, leaving him unsupervised on pig man’s other side. 

 

He gets a better look at the hand now that his eyes are adjusted. The leathery, heavily-calloused skin, the slightly-sharpened black nails. The mirad of scars across his knuckles tell stories of fights long past, and people long dead. 

 

He’s not paying attention, Tommy realizes with a jolt. 

 

He could leave, if he wanted to. He gives the hand another critical once over as he thinks. He could break his grip pretty easily, he decides, it’d be child’s play for him to twist his arm loose and make a run for it. They just passed another main road, and these backstreets are a maze. It’d be easy to lose them. 

 

Freedom. So close he could taste it, sharp and clean on his tongue. He won’t lie and say it’s not tempting. He watches the dark alleys pass with longing pulling under his skin. 

 

Pig man gives him another little tug as they turn down a different street, and he crashes back into reality. He shakes his head, shoving away the thought. Running would be a really stupid fucking thing to do. He literally ran from the cops five minutes ago, he was an accomplice now. 

 

Besides, pig man rescued him for a reason. He was his best shot at getting off this hellhole planet and back home.

 

When he’s pulled out into an open road, he goes. 

 

He follows right at pig man’s left shoulder as they walk, still keeping him as a barrier between him and Mothman. He gives the guy another glance over in better lighting, as they step out into an open street, and the stars glimmer brightly overhead, dusting them all faintly in blue and silver. There’s no moon, but after walking through pitch-black side streets, there might as well be. 

 

He seems harmless enough, thin, with laughter lines around his eyes and a gentle sort of smile. Tommy knows better than that, though. He shoots him a glare and shuffles closer to pig man’s side. His own personal bodyguard, he’s really living in the lap of luxury, huh? 

 

He’s calmer, now that the adrenaline has started to ebb off, but that comes with another problem.

 

He’s fucking freezing. 

 

An ice-cold wind blows at from his back, and a shiver violently runs through him. The thin white shirt and sweatpants(?) he's dressed in do next to nothing to keep out the chill. He rubs his hands up and down his arms, breathing warm air into his hands every once in a while to warm up. It’s worse now that they’re not penned in by brick walls, the icy wind nipping at any exposed skin. 

 

Pig man doesn’t even spare him a glance but unfortunately, Mothman takes notice. He looks back when he shivers, and his eyes go all soft again. He makes that same cooing sound, spreading the wing between him in the pig in an invitation. 

 

He glowers at him. Yeah, fuck that. He’d rather freeze to death than get any closer to some random alien. Following them is enough, thank you. 

 

He rubs his arms again. They better get to where they’re going soon, It’s fucking freezing.

 

They make it to an intersection.

 

It looks the same way they do on earth, weirdly enough. No signs or crosswalks, though, just four empty roads meeting in a cross. It’s silent as a tomb, their footsteps and quiet conversation the loudest things for what seems like miles. 

 

He looks up and down all three streets cautiously, but there’s nothing new. No sirens, no other footsteps or shifting shadows. Just the same grey buildings disappearing into the same black, lightly star-speckled sky. If someone were to tell him that they were the only people on the entire planet, now, he’d believe them.

 

Then, it’s not so quiet anymore.

 

It starts as a quiet hum. He thinks it’s just tinnitus at first and ignores it, but then he catches the way the pig shifts, tilting his head as he looks towards his horizon, and he catches on when the sound gets louder.

 

It’s an engine. 

 

Not the purring of a car or the rusty growl of a truck, it’s closest to the sound of a motorcycle, if anything, but even that’s not right. It’s a hum, the low, thrumming sound you get when you listen to a fast song with the bass turned up way too high. A low, rolling sort of noise that ebbs and flows. It starts soft, but eventually it’s loud enough he can feel it in his chest, thrumming alongside his heart.

 

Two red dots appear on the horizon, cutting through the dark and dust. Headlights.

 

It’s a hoverbike, and it’s coming straight at them.

 

He’s heard of hoverbikes, of course, but in the same way he’s heard of personal helicopters, real hoverboards, and super yachts with put-put courses. Rich people shit. The kinds of things that probably only exist in movies, and that the stuck up kids that lived a few streets over always bragged about owning. The kinds of things a foster kid like him would never see in his lifetime, much less own or ride on. 

 

But there’s one right in front of him, hovering just above the ground as it roars down the streets, red flames licking from the exhaust pipes. The rider laughs maniacally as he revs the engine, and the resulting sound makes the windows in the nearby building shudder, and his sternum rattle in his chest. He can feel the shuddering of the engine in his teeth. 

 

The headlights get closer and closer, and right when he decides to try and dive out of the way, they swerve to the left as the bike shrieks to a stop.

 

The rider dismounts, shucking off his black helmet and tossing his dark, grey-streaked hair free. He, too, looks almost looks human, but the illusion is lost when he turns towards them.

 

His face is greyed out and ever so slightly translucent, catching the starlight as it shifts strangely over what should be smooth skin. His ears are pointed, almost fin-like, adorned with golden jewelry that glints as he brushes his hair out of his face, and though his eyes are brown, they flash an unnatural green-yellow when the light hits them just the right way, like an animal caught in a camera flash. 

 

He’s grinning, showing off pointed canines as he greets the others with a drawl, leaning against the front of his bike. 

 

Tommy watches him warily from behind the pigs arm, tracing his movements. He looks cool as hell, from the black leather biker gear to the silver streak in his hair, but there’s something about him that just screams danger! This guys a fucking psycho!

 

He talks to the others in a low, thrumming sort of voice that rises and dips like music. He’s not quite as much of an open book as Mothman, but he’s a lot easier to read than pig guy. The smile melts off of his lips the more they talk, lips pursing as his eyebrows pinch together. It only takes a few moments for his eyes to slip off of the pig man to meet his gaze head on.

 

His expression shifts even more, and he scowls, talking loudly to the others as he glares with those strange flashing eyes. Complaining, it seems like, or just plain talking shit. Tommy scowls right back, sticking close to the pig’s shoulder and curling his lips back over his teeth in the start of another snarl. Oh, he’ll give him something to complain about- 

 

Mothman snaps something at him, chirping voice bordering on a screech, and he jumps.

 

For a second he thinks it’s aimed at him, but no. His feathers are all fluffed out, bristling slightly in biker guy’s direction, and there’s the faintest snap of teeth, like a mother hen chastising her goslings. He can’t get a good look at his face from where he’s standing, but he makes himself pretty fucking clear. 

 

He jumps again when pig man tosses his head at both, growling something impatiently, and shifting his weight to his left, blocking him a little more from view. Biker guy’s scowl only deepens, but after a few moments of tense staring, he gives in with a shake of his head. 

 

Tommy just blinks, lost. What the fuck just happened? Did they… Did they just… defend him? 

 

He doesn’t get the chance to think about it for too long before Pig Man, now with a capital ‘P’ and ‘M’, is lumbering towards the bike, and he’s forced to follow at his heels, head still spinning.

 

Biker guy shoots him one last glare over his shoulder before he puts his helmet back on, and he and his flashing eyes disappear behind black-tinted glass. The other two don’t bother with helmets, Pig Man getting on just behind the biker guy. He turns and levels his gaze at Tommy, patting the seat behind him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means. They want him to get on. They want him to get on that. 

 

Mothman chirps comfortingly from his right when he steps back, unsure. His blue eyes are round with sympathy as he urges him forwards with a smile. He bites back a hiss, he was not scared, thank you very much, he wasn’t some child who needed to be coddled. He just. Has never been on a motorcycle before. That’s all. He wasn’t scared. Not one bit.

 

Mothman chirps again, and he bristles, stepping up to the bike. It’s beautiful, really, all glinting black and silver metal with red accents, leather seats a little worn from use, but otherwise in perfect condition. It’s bigger than any motorcycle he’s ever seen, not to mention it’s fucking floating, and he has to jump more than he’d like to get himself on the seat. His fingers brush over the leather, and the entire thing hums underneath him with a strange energy. 

 

There’s another coo from behind him, and he turns sharply to snap his teeth at Mothman, but Pig Man beats him to it by rumbling something over his shoulder. 

 

He gets a good look at his face this up close and personal, ruby red eyes calm as they meet his. He jerks his head forwards, and it takes Tommy more time than he’d like to admit to realize what that meant, hold on tight. 

 

That’s what you’re supposed to do when you ride motorcycles, right? It’s what they do in movies. Pig Man has no problem looping both his giant arms around biker guy’s waist. 

 

He hesitates, but scoots a little closer on the seat, and when he doesn’t get snapped at, inches a little closer than that. Sue him, he’s freezing and The Pig gives off body heat like a fucking stove top. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he buries his hands in The Pig’s brown coat. It’s thick and loose, so it’s easy to find a good grip, and less embarrassing than grabbing him by the waist. He gets a nod of approval before The Pig turns back to the front, speaking in a low voice to the biker guy. 

 

The bike shifts as Mothman gets on behind him, and his heart starts up again, beating rabbit-fast in his chest. He can’t see what he’s doing, and it’s not long before he can feel him settle in, just a little too close for comfort. .

 

His hands tighten in Pig Man’s coat, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. This was fine! It was fine. Pig Man saved his ass from four-arms and the space police, the guy can speak English! He trusts him. Sort of. Besides, Mothman hasn’t done anything but chirp and coo at him, and is only a few inches taller than he is. Birds are supposed to have brittle bones, right? He could totally kick his ass if he needed to. 

 

It was fine. He was fine. Fucking fine. 

 

The bike rumbles again, and Mothman shifts. He flinches when two thin arms appear on either side of him, but they don’t touch him like he’s expecting. Instead, Mothman leans in real close and wraps them around Pig Man’s waist, boxing him in.

 

He screws his eyes shut. He’s never been a big fan of small spaces, and the feeling of two bodies pressing against him is overwhelming. God, when was the last time he’d been this close to anyone ever? 

 

It’s a bit of a squeeze, all four of them on a bike made for two, maybe three, max, and they just barely fit. He can feel the solid weight of Mothman at his back, breathing in his ear, and his nose is filled with the smell of leather and burning fuel, something similar but not quite the same as gasoline. Dark grey feathers enter his field of vision as Mothman pulls them close, and he shudders when they brush against the bare skin of his upper arms. 

 

...It’s warm, though. A welcome relief from the cold wind that bites just beyond the shield of feathers. Not that he’s grateful , or anything. He’s no fucking pussy, he can take the cold. Fuck you. 

 

The bike rumbles again, and whatever biker guy shouts back to them is drowned out as the engine roars to life.  Pig Man rumbles something in response, and pressed this close, he feels it more than he hears it. Mothman chirps something back right in his ear, because of course he does, and that’s all the warning he gets before the bike roars off down the street. 

 

He’s never gone this fast in his life.

 

He wraps both arms around Pig Man’s waist, personal space be dammed, and presses his face into the back of his coat. The wind rips at them, tearing through his hair and pulling at any exposed skin, raking cold fingers down his spine and making his stomach roll with every rise and dip of the bike. 

 

It’s not like riding in a car, hell, the closest thing he could compare it to was riding a rollercoaster, but even that wasn’t right. They glided, no turbulence, no grinding of wheels of asphalt or speed bumps to slow them down. He risks a glance to his side, and regrets it almost immediately. The grey buildings pass in a dizzying blur that makes his head spin, and he goes back to trying to bury himself in Pig Man’s coat the best he can. 

 

Its awful. It's exhilarating. Wind in his hair, bike rumbling underneath him, the rest of the world nothing more than a blur of speed and the humming of adrenaline ice cold and electric under his skin. 

 

A whoop rises in his throat, but the second he opens his mouth, his breath is sucked right out of his chest. He can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or scream. 

 

He’s never felt more alive. 

 

They ride for what feels like hours, rising and dipping over hills. They only turn sharply twice to avoid the sirens, which disappear into nothing more than an echo in the wind. 

 

He’s given up on trying to look around at this point, content to lean his head against Pig Man’s back and let himself relax, just a little.

 

...It’s warmer than he thought it would be. He wasn’t kidding about Pig Man giving off heat like a stove-top, the guy was a walking radiator. Moth man’s feathers press tighter and closer around him as they drive on, and the wind glides right off of them like water off a duck's back. If he ducks his head down, he barely feels it at all.

 

He’s warm, too. Not like Pig Man, but warm. Stable. 

 

The bike doesn’t shake or rattle like a car, gliding smoothly over the roads without hitting a single bump. There’s a gentle rise and dip as they go over hills, a sway when they turn corners, but even that’s smooth sailing. Even the sharp turns from earlier were nothing like being tossed around in the backseat of a car.

 

It’s pretty fucking comfortable. Really fucking comfortable. A lot more comfortable than he’s been in a long, long time.

 

He buries his face in Pig Man’s coat. He smells like leather, and something else. Tea, maybe? Something like that, earthy and faintly spicy. The smell of not-quite-gasoline still clinging to the fabric from the hoverbike’s exhaust pipes. It’s almost comforting. 

 

He lets himself drift. 



-




“-keeping it, Phil.”

 

The Elytran’s wings bristle, and he clutches the sleeping child in his arms just that much closer. He lays it carefully on the bed, fingers brushing gently through its greasy, matted hair. 

 

 “I know, I know.” It sighs, “ But it’s not like we can just leave it. It’s just a baby! It’ll just get killed.”

 

“I can’t believe you brought that thing on my hoverbike.” The Phantling on the Elytran’s other complains, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly as he glares at the child on the bed. "you don't know what kind of diseases it has-"

 

The Piglin behind both of them smacks him lightly upside the head. “Shut up, Wil. The adults are talking.”

 

“You little-“

 

“Enough, you two.” The Elytran interrupts before the fighting can escalate, eyes never drifting from the pale, too-thin face of the child. “You’re gonna wake it up.”

 

The Phantling huffs petulantly, but falls silent. 

 

It’s quiet, for a beat, as all three of them watch the child on the bed. He looks small, curled up in a ball in the center. His clothing is barely more than tatters, the grey shirt and pants ripped and dirty, exposing dark bruises on too-pale skin. They can just barely make out the shape of scars as well, far too many for a child so small. His chest rises and falls slowly with every breath. It’s pitiful. 

 

“...What if we bring it to the Council?” The Piglin finally says. The Elytran nods at the suggestion.

 

“That’s an idea.”

 

“The sooner we get it off the ship, the better.” The Phantling huffs, “What if it has fleas?”

 

“It doesn’t have fleas. Humans don’t get fleas.”

 

“Says who? Tubbo?”

 

“Enough.”



-



He wakes to muffled conversation.

 

“Do ——- translators even w—k?”

 

“— guess w—- nd out.”

 

He frowns, burning his face deeper into the pillow. His stupid foster siblings always wake up at the crack of fucking dawn, can’t they see he’s trying to sleep? 

 

“T—- translators —-e a bust, Tech. I think—u got ripped o—.”

 

“I sto—  them,—yways.”

 

He rolls over with a huff, fucking idiots. They only get to sleep in on Saturday’s, you’d think they’d at least try to make the most of it.

 

...Was the mattress in his room always this soft? He could have sworn it was a lot shitter than this. Did they get new blankets, too? When did that happen? 

 

“Wait, l—k! I think —- waking up.”



No. No that’s not right. None of this is right- 



“Hello? Can you hear me, little one?”

 

“...It looks pretty asleep to me.”

 

“Let it sleep, it looks like it needs it.”

 

 

 



He drifts.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Dying Breed (II)

Summary:

Phil, holding Tommy: It don't bite
Wilbur, standing on a table with a bloody arm: YES IT DO-

Notes:

Hello, loves! Welcome to Tommy Sleeps; the Chapter. You finally get some explanations in this one, and a little bit more lore about how the universe works. It picks up right where the other one left off. As always, its dedicated to my lovely beta, Mars, who is the sole reason you get a "wilby" moment in this chapter. Everyone say thank you, Mars.

As always, make sure you read the trigger warnings! This chapter is a bit heavier than normal, so proceed with caution. You can find a playlist with all of the songs that inspired this fic here. I also changed the chapter titles, they're all Killers songs now.

 

TW: Past Dehumanization, past child abuse and torture, past experimentation/medical torture, scars, mentions of disordered eating, trauma, mentions of drugs, sedative-induced sickness, needles. There is a panic attack in this chapter, I have marked it off with * symbols, since it’s such a small part of the chapter. Read with caution, re-read fic tags if nervous/sensitive.

Serious bit over, on to the chapter!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He blinks open his eyes.

 

The pillow under his head is a crisp white. The same color as the blankets he’s swamped in. The room around him is gunmetal grey, steel walls badly welded together, filled with dents that weren’t quite hammered out all the way, a few panels a slightly different color grey. He huffs, whoever built this ship had no idea what they were doing- 

 

Wait, What?  

 

No, no that’s not right either. 

 

He blinks again, shaking his head muzzily as he thinks. He… He’d been in that stupid tank, right? With four-arms. He’d escaped that ship. Besides, His ship didn’t look like this, the walls were darker, metal perfectly brushed and polished. There weren’t any dents or weld-marks. He never settled for anything less than perfection. 

 

He blinks again, and the memories come back all at once.

 

Pig Man, four-arms crumbling to a heap on the floor. The blown-out windows of the pet shop, the winged man with the red goggles. The cold, dusty streets of that grey city. Biker guy scowling at him, the roar of the hoverbike.

 

He throws himself upright into a sitting position, head spinning. He’d gotten out. He’s out. 

 

He’d met someone who spoke English, he’d been saved, he must have passed out on the hoverbike, so where was he now? Was this their ship? Were they in space?

 

Wait a minute. 

 

Something had woken him up. He’s heard voices, he’d heard voices that he’d understood.  

 

Something like hope flares in his chest, white hot and fragile. Maybe… Maybe the Pig Man was on a rescue mission. Maybe his foster family reported him missing all those months ago, and there were people looking for him! Maybe they found out he’d been kidnapped, maybe they sent people out searching for him, maybe they found him!

 

Maybe he’s going home. Just the thought of it makes anticipation fizzle under his skin. 

 

Hell, maybe he’s already home. Maybe he recognized the voices because they belonged to his foster family, maybe they’re just waiting for him to wake up before they take him off the ship. Maybe, maybe, maybe-

 

He hears footsteps coming down the hall, and he lets himself hope. He tightens his hands into fists, tears pricking at the backs of his eyes, and he hopes.

 

The metal door slides aside. Pig Man steps through.

 

Oh. 

 

Right.

 

Yeah, that makes more sense. Obviously.

 

He feels himself shrink, the flare of hope in his chest melting away. Stupid. Of course he wasn’t on fucking earth, he’d been on His ship for months. He was at least a year from earth, and that’s being generous. He hadn’t been out that long. 

 

The homesickness bites at him, a familiar ache, and he swallows it down. He scowls up at pig man, instead, “I don’t suppose you’re here to drive me home, huh?”

 

Pig Man blinks at him. He flicks one of his ears. 

 

He looks… different without his coat. Smaller. He finally gets a good look at his face, too, in actual lighting. It’s still as scarred and leathery as ever, but it’s… Softer, like this. More human. Broad-faces, with a big, definitely at least twice-broken, nose. His ears are still pig-like, but he can make out the glinting of golden jewelry dangling from them, now. His tusks seem smaller, too, more blunt and less terrifying, the scars across his nose and up the side of his face less deep and jarring. Even his ruby red eyes look gentler.

 

Though, that might have something to do with his hair, which was bubble-gum pink and pulled back in a complicated braid down one side. The delicate gold strands twisted in made all of him look softer. Or his shirt, which was white and flowy, tucked into brown trousers and belted around his hips. Not exactly the most intimidating of outfits. He’d looked a lot bigger and more threatening with the coat and hood. 

 

His hooves clip softly across the metal floor as he brings him a silver tray, tufted tail swaying at his ankles. Since when did he have a tail? Fucking weirdo, how had he not noticed that? Had he tucked it up under his coat? 

 

Tommy glances at the tray, but shrugs half-heartedly and looks away, suddenly not hungry. He brings his knees up to his chin on the bed, folding his arms around them. “I’m not hungry, big man. Can't you see I’m moping?”

 

The Pig Man considers him for a moment. His ear flicks again. Then, he sets the tray down on a dinky little bedside table he hadn’t noticed before. 

 

He sits down next to him on the bed. Then just. Looks at him. 

 

He’s doing that thing again. Looking at him with those wise red eyes, thinking. He opens his mouth just a little. Then he shuts it. His eyebrows furrow together in frustration, and he opens his mouth again. Then he shuts it. This goes on for a lot longer than he has the patience for. 

 

Tommy rolls his eyes, shifting so he’s facing the opposite direction and doesn’t have to look at his stupid face. “Look, either spit it out already or leave me the fuck alone.” He growls. “I’m not in the mood.”

 

“Sad.” Pig Man offers, simply. “Sad, you? You. Sad.”

 

He scoffs, ignoring the way his heart jumps at the broken English. Pathetic. “Gee, how’dja figure that one out?”

 

“No Sad.” He insists. “Stop.”

 

That takes him by surprise, and he can’t stop the half-laugh, half-sob that bubbles out of his chest. “You’re shit at comforting people, piggy.”

 

“Stop.”

 

He snorts again, wiping at his face as his lip trembles, fucking traitor . He’s not gonna fucking cry, “I’m doin’ my best here, man.”

 

“No.” He insists, with enough force behind it that Tommy looks over at him, swallowing another sob. 

 

He looks… Well, he looks kind of constipated, actually. Eyebrows scrunched together as he grinds his teeth in frustration, tusks jutting out. Watching him struggle to find the word he’s looking for is a little painful, actually. 

 

His eyes light up the minute he gets it, “Home.”

 

And Tommy freezes.

 

“W-what?”

 

“You, Home.” He repeats confidently, ruby red eyes burrowing into his own red-rimmed ones. “No sad. You, Home. Soon.”

 

“H-home.” He repeats, voice starting soft but gaining in volume. “Home… Like, Earth? We’re going back to Earth? You’re taking me home?”

 

Home. He’s taking him home, if that’s what he means. That same flare of hope comes back, filling up his chest like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Tentatively at first, but stronger with every passing second, the thrum of it spreading through his limbs and making his heart jump in his chest. 

 

“Yes.” Pig Man confirms. “Earth. Soon.”

 

Soon? 

 

“How soon?!” His voice breaks, and he lunges forwards, clutching at the lapels of Pig Man’s flowy white shirt. “Today? Tomorrow?”

 

Pig Man looks overwhelmed. “Uh, Soon? Far.”

 

“Far.” He deflates. “So… Not today. That’s okay, totally fine! As long as we’re, heh, going there…”

 

He melts back into his own personal space, and Pig Man makes a quick exit once Tommy’s no longer holding him hostage, looking more than a little frazzled. He can’t find it in him to care, head still spinning from the emotional whiplash. 

 

He wipes tear tracks off of his cheeks, when had he started crying? He has no fucking idea. It doesn’t matter now though, he’s grinning so hard it feels like his face is gonna split in two. 

 

Home… he’s actually going back home. 

 

Not today, no, but soon! 

 

He’ll get to breathe in air that doesn’t smell awful or recycled. He’ll get to walk down the sidewalk again. Waste quarters in the shitty arcade up by Clem and Clara’s, oh god, Clem and Clara’s.

 

He misses that shitty gas station so much it hurts. The shitty coffee that tastes like dust and gasoline, the candy they sold that was always stale. Would they be happy to see him? He has to be at least sixteen now, would Clara finally let him drive her truck like she promised? Would Clem still side him Twinkies under the counter when Clara wasn’t paying attention? 

 

God, he fucking misses earth food. He’d cut off his left pinky for some pizza, right now. Or a coke. Or ice cream. Or anything from earth, really. He’d lick the awful, barely edible baloney sandwiches the public school serves off the fucking floor. 

 

That reminds him.

 

He casts a curious glance towards the bedside table.

 

There’s a glass of water, sitting innocently on a metal tray with a bowl of something in the center. He moves a little closer to inspect it. 

 

It doesn’t look… awful, sitting there innocently in a metal dish. It’s Some kind of… Mush. Around the texture of applesauce, actually, with little hunks of red, uh, fruit? He’s gonna just. Hope it’s fruit. He’d rather not think about the alternative. 

 

They gave him a spoon, which he appreciates, but he hasn’t quite built up the nerve to try it yet.

 

He downs the glass of water in one go, and it’s cool and fresh on his tongue. He licks his lips afterwards, not even blinking at the slightly metallic aftertaste. Spaceship water always leaves you’re tasting a little bit like blood, he’s well used to it by now. 

 

He looks at the bowl of mush over again, still not quite sure. Aw, fuck it. He’ll need the strength for the trip back home.

 

Just the thought of it makes him giddy. 

 

His stomach growls, and he winces. When was the last time he ate? Four-arms had fed him something that was remarkably similar to dog food, which he had eaten only two bites of because he has fucking standards, thank you very much. After he bit his hand, though, he hadn’t fed him anything, just slid water in through a gap in the door with tongs. The aliens that pulled him from the escape pod hadn’t fed him at all before passing him off to four-arms, And before that-

 

He’s not going to think about that. Nope. Unimportant. Fuck. That. Not happening. He’s going home now, the less he thinks about Him, the better.

 

...Point is, he’s hungry. Really fucking hungry, and more than a little desperate. He pokes at the mush with his spoon, wincing when it jiggles. 

 

Well, at least it wasn’t dog food. 

 

He scoops up a spoonful and looks it over distrustfully up close. He brings it to his nose, to no avail, and decides to just bite the bullet. If it’s shit, it’s shit, he can’t afford to be picky. Reluctantly, he takes the smallest possible bite.

 

Huh. Huh. Okay. 

 

It…Tastes like applesauce. Like… Really, really weird, slightly warm applesauce. Like slightly-expired Apple flavored Jello someone left out in the sun for too long. It’s not half-bad, actually. He winces when he bites down on one of the little fruit hunks, the flavor exploding in his mouth, but he didn’t have to worry. Those aren’t that bad either, and are actually fruit and not like, fish eggs, or something. They taste a bit like cherries, actually. Not bad at all, and vaguely sweet. 

 

It’s not bad. He might go as far as to say it’s good.

 

He eats the entire thing in seconds. 

 

He probably shouldn’t have, but sue him. If Pig Man and his friends wanted him dead, they had plenty of chances to stick a laser gun between his eyes. They wouldn’t waste food poisoning him. 

 

It’s the first time his stomach has felt full in months, and he could cry with the relief. Finally, finally, things were looking up. Look at him now! He’s living the life! He’s eating food that’s not shit, he’s not thirsty or hungry, he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out. He’s not running from anyone, he’s not struggling to survive in a prison cell or behind glass, barely able to keep himself conscious and dizzy from starvation and dehydration. 

 

His shoulders slump, the electric buzz of adrenaline and fear long gone from his veins, leaving him steady and a little lightheaded. 

 

For the first time in months, he’s not running off of pure spite and adrenaline. For the first time in a year and a half, he can finally relax.

 

He’s out before he even hits the floor.




-



“-the ground! 

 

“Was it the food?”

 

“What, it can’t be allergic-“

 

“Techno, take a look at this.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

 

“Show me!”

 

“Watch it, Wil!”

 

“Yeesh, with stats like these i'm surprised it’s not dead already- ow!”

 

“Don’t talk like that.”

 

“We’ll move it to the med bay, get an iv started. It’s ridiculously dehydrated.”

 

“It’s not going to like that.”

 

“We’ve already got it hooked up to Wil’s old comn. It’ll translate, we’ll just explain.”

 

“Look at the fuckin’ thing! It’s all busted, it barely even works. There’s a reason I got rid of it. What makes you think it’ll translate anything?”

 

“It’s worth a shot.”

 

“Anything is better than the other translators. ‘Authentic earth translators’ my ass. Your comn has the best chance.”

 

“If it short circuits and fries it’s brain, don’t come crying to me-“



 

-




 

The first time he wakes, it’s to a beeping sound.

 

He frowns, shifting away from the noise. It’s irritating as shit, he’s trying to sleep, here.

 

A warm hand combs through his hair, and he leans into the touch. God, that feels nice. His hair is greasy and tangled as shit, he needed a shower months ago, now he’s just plain nasty. The faintly clawed nails scratch at his scalp in just the right way. He sighs sleepily when a thumb brushes across his hairline. 

 

“It’s alright, mate.” A soft voice murmurs from somewhere behind him. “It’s just the monitor.”

 

“There’s no way it's working.” A sharper voice complains from somewhere to his left. It’s irritating, and he leans away from the source of it. “I mean, what are the chances?”

 

“It seems to be working.” Rumbles a third voice, low and growly, vaguely familiar. 

 

There’s movement from behind him, the shifting of… Fabric? No, that’s not quite right. The hand scratches at his scalp again, ohh that’s nice, and the thought slips away. “That’s enough, you two. You’ll wake him up.”

 

“Oh, so it’s a him now?”

 

“Hush.”

 

He blinks open his eyes, and immediately regrets it.

 

He hisses, rubbing at his face. Fucking ow, is someone shining a flashlight in his eyes or something? Jesus Christ that’s bright.

 

There’s a rustle of frantic movement as the hand in his hair is snatched away, and quick, hushed conversation. He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes to get them to adjust to the light faster so he can see what the fuck was going on. Where was he? Right, space. Pig Man, biker guy, Mothman. It all comes back to him pretty quick the second time.

 

The room he was in before wasn’t nearly this fucking bright, did they move him to another part of the ship. God, his head hurts. The bright light definitely wasn’t helping, either. Fuck.

 

Still. He needs to know where he is. He opens his eyes again with a wince, squinting as he looks around.

 

Everything is white. White sheets, white bed, white floors. The only things that aren’t white are the monitors set up next to him, each made of some kind of grey metal, and the screens flash all sorts of colors. If he tilts his head and squints, it kind of looks like a heart monitor, like the thing they have in hospitals ‘n shit. 

 

Hospitals . He’d recognize that sharp, clinical smell anywhere, and his shoulders tense sharply. He was in a hospital, or something like it. A med bay?

 

He finds the IV soon after, needle sticking out of his left arm. How the hell did he not notice that? He scowls at it, resisting the urge to yank it out. He fucking hates hospitals. He hates the smell, the sounds, the obnoxious shade of white, the patronizing doctors and nurses hovering around every corner. Every time he goes to a hospital, he ends up stuck full of needles. 

 

Ugh. He fucking hate hate hates needles. 

 

He brings a careful hand up to his head, wincing when his fingers brush over a bandage across his aching temple. Did he black out or some shit? He remembers the apple sauce, but after that it gets a little fuzzy. What the hell happened? 

 

Movement, from behind him, a rustle of footsteps and a warm, lightly scolding voice. “You might not want to touch that, mate.”  

 

Doctors . He scowls. God, he fucking hates doctors. They’re either stuck up as all hell, or patronizing as shit. All the kids who teased him in highschool are probably going to grow up and be doctors, or even worse, nurses. Awful, the lot of them. 

 

He snorts, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. S’not my first time in a hospital bed, doc , I’m not gonna rip it off or some-“

 

Wait a fucking minute. 

 

He whips his head around so fast he hears his neck crack.

 

There’s Mothman, standing awkwardly by the other side of the bed, a nervous smile plastered across his feather-speckled face. Biker guy is half hidden by his shoulder, and looks at him distrustfully from across the room, looking a lot less intimidating in a sunny yellow sweater and the space equivalent of skinny jeans. Finally, there’s Pig Man, looming over them, looking the same as he did earlier, and already seeming pretty bored with the whole situation.

 

It’s silent for a whole minute as Tommy stares, slack-jawed, as his brain tries begins to process  what the fuck he had just heard. 

 

Finally, Pig Man leans down and says plainly in Mothman’s ear, “So, do you think the comn’s working, or…”

 

“What the fUCK-“ Tommy screeches, back pedaling off the bed and ripping his IV out in the process. 

 

The monitor starts screeching, and all three of them rush forwards to try and break his fall, to no avail. There’s a shriek of wheels as the monitor is pushed out of the way, the squeak of shoes on tile flooring, all set to the blaring of the heart monitor and Tommy’s lovely screaming, “What the fuck?! You can fucking talk?!?”

 

“Easy, easy.“ Mothman tries to calm him down, feathers fluttering every which way as he crouches by his side, “You’re just going to hurt yourself-“

 

“-Stay the fuck away from me you overgrown chicken-“ He snarls, heart pounding out of his chest. “I swear to fucking god, if you touch me-“

 

He tries to backpedal away from the hands hovering over him, only for his back to hit the metal frame of the bed. He’s trapped. He can’t move backwards anymore, and all three of them are leaning over him, now, Mothman still reaching for his hands, panic clear in his bright blue eyes. He snaps his teeth, and the fingers are pulled back, but only a little. 

 

He’s trapped. They’ve pinned him back against the bed, he’s still trying to touch him-

 

A smudge of yellow lurks at the edge of his vision, just over Mothman’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with it? Has it gone fuckin’ rabid?”

 

“He’s just overwhelmed,” Pig Man cuts in. He’s closer, crouching down at Mothman’ shoulder to be at his level. “You might want to move back, his teeth are sharp.”

 

Mothman gives in when Pig Man presses at his shoulder. He moves back just a little, and finally, finally, Tommy can finally force air back into his chest. He forces himself to breathe slow, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and the panicked trembling in his limbs eases off.

 

They can talk. They can fucking speak English. And not the broken shit Pig Man was spouting at him earlier, actual fucking English. With fuckin’ swears ‘n shit. What the hell?!

 

“You can talk.” He gasps out, still trying to force himself to just breathe, goddamn it. “You can speak fucking English?!”

 

The smile on Mothman’s face flickers. “Um-“

 

“You should have just told us you had the implant.” Pig Man interrupts from his other side, voice plain and ruby gaze even. “Would’ve made things easier.”

 

W-what?” Implant? What the fuck are they talking about?!

 

Phil and Pig Man glance uncertainly at one another, before Pig Man reaches up slowly and messes with his hairline, Phil copying the motion on his own head. There, hidden a little ways behind their right temple, was a scar. The exact same on both, a neat little scar, a quarter inch of slightly raised skin just a little larger than a quarter. 

 

“The implant?” Mothman explains, giving it a little tap. “Connects to your comn? You must have had one, didn’t you?”

 

He stares at Phil, blinking wordlessly as his brain scrambles to catch up. Pig Man brushes his hair back into place with his fingers, and Tommy tracks the motion with his eyes.

 

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts a shaking hand to his temple. It’s not the bandaged one, thankfully, and as soon as he brushes his long, greasy hair out the way he finds the familiar scar easily. He knows this one, how it sticks out sharply against his skin, hidden by greasy hair. It’s not nearly as neat and small as it is on the others, and his trembling fingers trace it carefully as it branches out, nearly twice as large and a lot more jagged. 

 

To his absolute horror, he can feel something underneath it. 

 

It hits him all at once, slamming into his chest with the force of a freight train, stealing all the air from his lungs in a moment of horrified realization. “They put something in my fucking head?!” 

 

He’s panicking, all thoughts of breathing slowly and calmly going out the fucking window. His fingers scratch desperately against the scar, he needs to get it out, get it out, but warm hands close around his own, pulling them away. His vision blurs, filling with green as his chest closes up again, sharp claws of panic tightening around his chest, bruising his ribs and crushing down on his sternum. He feels like he’s been dipped in a fucking tank of ice water. 

 

He remembers that. He remembers.

 

He remembers being strapped down to that cruel metal table, with Him hovering overhead. He remembers the ice-cold sting of the metal blade digging into his temple, of thrashing against his restraints until his wrists were rubbed raw. 

 

He remembers screaming, screaming and screaming and screaming, shouting and pleading until his throat aches, and then dissolving into sobs. They hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even hesitated.

 

They’d only given him painkillers when his sobbing threatened to knock the blade off course, and even then, it was only to shut him up-

 

Arms clasp tight around him, holding him firmly. He thrashes like a wild animal in the hold, snarling and snapping his teeth, angry shouts mixing with his panicked sobs as he struggles, but it’s no use. The thin arms holding him are a lot stronger than they seem, caging him in, pinning down his arms. 

 

There are voices around him, talking at him, but they mix with the blaring of the monitor, all blurring together into one big mix of awful , loud and jarring as car alarms. He squeezes his eyes shut when his vision goes spotty, and kicks out with his feet. He makes contact with something, and he relishes in the wheeze of pain he hears before the arms bracketing his own change from slim and bony to thicker than he was. 

 

He’s trapped, he’s fucking trapped he was going to die-

 

“Just calm down-“

 

Something brushes against the side of his face, and he feels nothing but terror. He doesn’t even hesitate before whipping his head around, snapping his teeth around skin and biting down.

 

“-cking bit me!”

 

“-ld still, Wil-“

 

It wrenches itself out of his teeth, and his mouth fills with the iron taste of blood. The scent of it makes things worse, making his head spin and the terror clawing its way up his throat only tightens its iron-clad grip on his chest. He spits, whipping his head around and baring his teeth again in threat at blurs of motion he can’t even see , but the arms around him hold firm.

 

He’s panting, now, every inch of him trembling with exhaustion but still, still. He thrashes and kicks, lashing out with every bit of strength he has as he screams. 

 

He doesn’t want to die. He won’t be turned into some fucking experiment, he won’t let them dig around in his head again. He doesn’t want to die. 



“-easy, easy, mate!””



He opens his mouth to snarl, but all that comes out is a loud, desperate sob.



“-Panicking, I’ll hold him-“



The arms around him tighten and he whines, scratching at them desperately with hands curled into claws. It doesn’t even work, arms pinned too tightly to his sides, but still, still.

 

He tries again, and again, lashing out blindly, vision blurry with tears and clouded with terror.

 

He doesn’t want to die!



“-sedative!”



There’s a pinch in his neck, and everything stops.





-





“-reaction?”

 

“-too much, he’s too small-“

 

“-watch him, I’ll call-“

 

“-eep him cool, here, take this-“

 

“-y do I have to-“

 

“-st take him!-“






-






His head is spinning.

 

His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue heavy and lips chapped. He tries to open his eyes, but all he can see is a mess of colors and blurred shapes, and all that does is make it worse. 

 

He screws them shut, instead.

 

He curls his trembling body into a ball on his side, trying to fight off the awful dizzy feeling. He feels too hot and too cold at the same time, dizzy and lightheaded, but every one of his limbs is too numb and heavy to move. He’s exhausted, just the effort of breathing seems like too much. 

 

His tongue is thick and heavy, swollen in his mouth, throat dry. Every part of him aches, the low, bone-deep kind of pain you get from true exhaustion. The dizziness ebbs and rolls over him every once in a while in waves, ebbing in and out like the tide.

 

He tries to claw his way into consciousness, but the minute he gets a handle, the world tips, and he’s floating again. 

 

His head is spinning, aching and hot. He feels like he’s moving, tipping this way and that, like he’s riding the world's worst roller coaster. It feels like someone is trying to unspool his brain out through his ears and it hurts. He can’t tell up from down, he can’t even tell if his eyes are open, he’s so tired, but he’s so dizzy and disoriented, he aches too much to even try to sleep. He can’t move. 

 

What is happening to him?!

 

A whimper forces itself past his lips, and he curls up tighter, arms tight around his chest. Is he dying? Is this what dying feels like? He’s too young to die, he doesn’t want to die-

 

Something cool and damp presses against his fire-hot forehead, and he almost cries with relief. He leans into it, trying to press himself as close as possible to the source of the cold. It’s nice, god, that’s nice. 

 

Then, a voice. Smooth, Vaguely masculine, rising and dipping as it mutters overhead, too soft for him to pick out any words. He cracks open an eye, looking for the source. 

 

His vision swims, just making him dizzier, like before. He blinks it back, swallowing the nausea rising in his throat. Colors and shapes spin in front of his eyes like a veil of static, and he blinks hard to try and clear them away the best he can and pick out the shape of the person leaning over him. 

 

A yellow blur looks down at him, close enough to touch, and there’s the voice again, sounding as if it’s coming from underwater. “-ou awake?”

 

“W-who?” He slurs, squinting to try and get his blurry vision to focus.

 

The voice hums, and the source finally comes into some sort of focus.

 

It’s a person. His features all blur together in Tommy’s drug-induced haze, his glazed over eyes looking right past the silver streak in his brown hair, or the pointed ears and teeth, the subtle shift to his skin. He’s little more than a yellow and brown blob, warm brown eyes studying him as he leans closer. They narrow down at him, looking at him with some unreadable emotion. 

 

His face looks kind , Tommy thinks dreamily, too out of his mind to recognize the scowl. When he presses the cloth to his forehead, he leans eagerly into the touch without a touch of fear. He must be nice, if he’s cold. Nice person.

 

“I’m Wilbur.” The voice finally says, a sharpness to its tone. Tommy doesn’t even notice. 

 

Wilbur . That’s a nice name, he thinks dazedly, a real British sounding name. Wilbur. It’s been a while since he’s heard a good British name, American names are awful. It really rolls off the tongue. 

 

He blinks at him, dazedly. “Wilby.”

 

The voice, Wilby, Tommy stubbornly decides, chokes, and he whines when the cloth suddenly disappears. 

 

He feels fine for a moment or two, but then the dizziness he was feeling earlier slams into him again, and he wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels his stomach roll. His face heats up, both too hot and too cold as another wave of nausea rolls over him.he tries to reach out for the cold thing, to bring it back, but it hurts. It hurts to much to move, to breathe- 

 

The voice is still talking, voice strained, “-id you just call me Wilby-“

 

“W-Wilby.” He interrupts, voice wobbly. 

 

A pained sound slips past his trembling lips as he curls tighter into himself. He tries to reach out again, and finally, his limbs obey. He lashes out desperately with one of his hands, grabbing a fistful of yellow sweater in a white-knuckled grip and pulling it close. “I-I don’t feel so good.”

 

The cloth comes back, and this time, he does cry with relief, hot tears dripping down his face no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut.

 

 “It’s just the sedative,” Wilby mumbles somewhere above him. “We gave you too much. It’ll wear off soon.”

 

He doesn’t know what that means, but Wilby looks kind. He trusts him. He’s cold. Cold ‘n nice.

 

“‘M dizzy.” He complains, voice shaking and pathetically small.

 

The cool cloth wipes down his sweaty forehead again, taking a quick detour to clean the tears off his face. He sniffs, still clenching the handful of yellow sweater close. He yanks it closer to bury his face into the soft fabric. He takes a deep breath, willing the awful ache in his body to just go away, and breathes in the familiar scent of gasoline. It’s a little bit off, and tinged with something else, smokey and faintly sweet, but he’d recognize that motor-oil smell anywhere. It smells like home. 

 

It’s a sleeve, he soon realizes, when it moves and turns in his grip so warm, slender fingers can brush against his face. Tears burn in his eyes again at the gesture, and he chokes out another sob. 

 

“I know.” The voice murmurs, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Just close your eyes, yeah? You’ll feel just fine when you wake up.”

 

He nods shakily, it must be true, if he says it, and wraps both arms tight around the arm in his grip so it can’t be pulled away. The voice, Wilby, catches his breath and Tommy stiffens, did he do something wrong? But all he does is sigh. The hand in his grip opens, and Tommy wastes no time pressing his face against his cool, open palm.

 

The damp cloth on his forehead is adjusted again, and his shoulders slump with relief. God, that feels nice. Nice and cool. Nice. 

 

Then, the voice starts humming.

 

Quietly at first, Tommy can barely even hear it between the dizziness and the aching limbs, but it soon gets louder. He doesn’t recognize the song, but the tune ebbs and flows soothingly, washing over him in waves. 

 

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and latches on to the song, desperate for a distraction. For something to ground him. 

 

A finger brushes over his face again, and the voice starts to sing.

 

He’s singing about… A city? Something like that. 

It’s a sad song. Low, and faintly mournful. The voice is a little rusty, rising and dipping with the words. It’s the kind of voice that belongs on an old vinyl record, to some up and coming star crooning about their first love, he thinks. He’d used to listen to a lot of songs like that.

 

He had a collection of vinyls in his room at the foster home. He misses them, in their little box, hidden safely in the floorboards. They were a gift from his mother, before she died. He misses them. They better be safe, he thinks crossly, already half asleep. If his foster siblings ruin them while he’s sick, he’s gonna be mad.

 

Gentle fingers run over his face again, and he melts into the touch, anger forgotten. 

 

This is better, though, Tommy decides, mostly asleep and delirious. The cracks in the voice as it sings, the tune gentle and soft, the rumble of creaking pipes and machinery faint in the background. 

 

He’s out in seconds.




-




The Piglin leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He watches the Phantling brush the hair out of the child’s face the same way the Elytran had earlier with a knowing look in his eyes. 

 

The latter doesn’t even notice, too preoccupied trying to extract the sleeve of his favorite yellow sweater from the child’s grip without waking him up. Every time he’s just about to get his hand loose, the child’s face screws up in his sleep, and he drags his arm back into place. He doesn’t seem to care too much, though, fondness and worry written all over his face as the child trembles faintly in his sleep.

 

Why did we have to let him on my hoverbike, Techno?” The Piglin mocks. “ Humans have fleas, Techno-“

 

The Phantling turns to him with a snarl, “Shut up!”




-




The second time he wakes, it’s to someone reading.

 

Their voice is low and rusty, a rumbling baritone that pulls in and out like ocean waves across a beach. The words are vaguely familiar, but any meaning they might have is lost in the rising and dipping of the voice. It's easy to get lost in. Nice.

 

He blinks slowly. What had he been thinking about? Whatever, it’s not important. He’s comfortable, floating off in space like this, shapes spinning across his vision. It’s vaguely familiar. 

 

He’d gotten a cavity filled, but just once.

 

The memory comes to him in glimpses, swatches of color and muffled sound. 

 

It was at one of the older houses, right after he had gotten to the good old U S of A but before the foster homes got real shitty. The cheery  middle-aged couple with their plastic smiles and huge St. Bernard. It was a pretty bad cavity, or so he’d been told, so they'd put a mask over his face, and asked him if he’d rather have mint or bubblegum. He’d said bubblegum, of course, and the next thing he knows he’s breathing in bubble-gum scented air that made him feel funny for the rest of the day.

 

He remembers that feeling. Like all his limbs are too heavy to move, but his head is all drifty and spinny. Like that feeling you get when you stand up too fast, except while laying down.

 

He remembers that feeling, because it’s exactly how he feels right now.

 

His limbs are all heavy, and his mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but his head swims. The voice rumbles in one ear and out the other, fading in and out of earshot as he drifts in and out of consciousness. He tries to bring himself back, to focus, but the memories and thoughts slip through his fingers. He can’t find it in him to care. 

 

He feels like he’s floating. Drifting through space. He’s already in space, isn’t he? On a spaceship? That sounds right. Floating in space, in space. Ha. Weird.

 

The voice continues on. It’s familiar, he thinks. In a good way. Where does he recognize it from? It’s on the tip of his tongue...

 

He opens his eyes.

 

It’s a struggle. His eyelids are heavy, and just that small movement takes a serious amount of effort, but he’s curious, now. He wants to find the source of the familiar voice droning on in his ear. 

 

His vision is still swimming once he finally blinks them open, stars and colors swirling in and around like a thin layer of static. He blinks lazily a few times, and the ceiling comes into a blurry focus above his head. 

 

He’s back in the grey room, he realizes first, and sighs with relief. That’s good. He hadn’t liked the white room, or the sharp, clinical smell of the stiff bedsheets. This room was a lot more comfortable, and looking around didn’t give him a headache. The comforter tucked in around him is heavy and soft, the pillow under his head just the right amount of firm. Maybe he should close his eyes again, he’s so comfortable, it’d be so easy to fall back asleep…

 

No! The voice! He was trying to find the source of the voice. Wasn’t he? Yeah, he thinks he was. 

 

He tilts his head to the side, blinking a few more times until the pink blur sitting at his bedside comes into focus. Oh, hey! It’s Pig Man!

 

“Piggy.” He slurs. “Oink.”

 

Pig Man looks up from his book sharply, glasses nearly falling off his nose. Ha, he’s got a pig nose, too. Oink oink, motherfucker.

 

Ruby red eyes consider him for a moment. He closes the thick book in his lap, running a hand absentmindedly over the cover. Tommy tracks the movement lazily, eyes catching on the glint of gold on his fingers. Shiny. 

 

“-okay?” 

 

He looks back up, and squints. Pig Man looks back at him, head tilted as he waits for a response. Oh, had 

he said something? “...Yah talkin’ to me, big man?”

 

Pig Man just stares for a moment, before sighing and pressing a hand to his temple. He mumbles something Tommy can’t quite catch about sedatives and humans, blah blah blah, unimportant stuff. For being so cool looking, he sure isn’t that interesting. 

 

“You’re boring.” He informs him. “So not poggers.”

 

He’s ignored in favor of Pig Man picking the book back up and flipping through the pages. It’s an old, dusty thing, with big gossy pages. Heh, that’s funny. It kind of looks like a school textbook, if he squints. Complete with the tacky green cover and broken spine. Tommy would probably think it was a lot funnier if he wasn’t being ignored.

 

He frowns. “Hey Pig. Piggy. Pig man.”

 

An ear flicks towards him, but he doesn’t even glance up. He licks the tip of a non-ringed finger, and flips the page. He’s not even reading out loud anymore, and he’s ignoring him! Rude!

 

Tommy growls, trying to shake off the heavy feeling in his limbs so he could sit up more, to no avail. He glares at him, huffing, and wishing he was able to cross his arms. He was fuckin’ Tommy Danger Careful Kraken innit! He wasn’t going to let this stupid pig ignore him! Especially not for some dumb looking book- ooh, shiny.

 

He’d moved his hand again, shiny gold rings on full display. Some of them even had tiny little jewels that sparkled and shimmered when they caught the light. Pretty-

 

No, Tommy! Focus! You’re mad at him!

 

He scowls. “Hey! Don’t, don’t ignore me, Pig Man!”

 

That gets his attention, finally. He doesn’t look up, but his ear flicks again in irritation as he flips another page in his book. “My name is Technoblade.”

 

“T-tech,” he tries to say, tongue still heavy in his mouth. “Techno.”

 

“Techno blade.”

 

He laughs at the disgruntled look on his face, lips curling into an evil smile. “Techie.”

 

Pig Man, Techie’s, face goes from slightly irritated to absolutely horrified, ramrod stiff and looking wide-eyed at Tommy with nothing but pure panic in his eyes. “No. No. My name is Technoblade-“

 

“Techie.” He slurs again. 

 

He manages to hold a straight face for all of three seconds before he breaks down, and soon enough he’s laughing so hard his chest hurts and he’s gone all light headed again, world spinning around him. Worth it. God, that expression is absolutely priceless! 

 

The expression sours once he realizes Tommy is getting a kick out of riling him up, huffing out his nose and letting his shoulders slump. He glares at him over the rim of his glasses. 

 

“You’re a menace,” Techie informs him, but there's a bit of warmth in his voice. “Runt.”

 

He sticks out his tongue, grinning drunkenly. “ Techie.”

 

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, shaking his head as he turns back to his book. He does, however, start reading aloud again. Now that he’s awake, the words start to make sense. Vaguely.

 

He knows this story. Read it once in some English class years ago, he thinks. Theseus and the Minotaur. It’s all old English and words he doesn’t understand, but it’s nice to listen too. The low rumbles of Technoblade’s diesel-engine voice does it a lot more justice than the nasally whining of his English teacher. 

 

He’s asleep before he finishes the page. 





-





The third time he wakes, he’s actually conscious.

 

He’s only a little lightheaded, and when he blinks open his eyes, the grey ceiling above him is only a reasonable amount of blurry. When he wills his fingers to move, they curl into the sheets without a fight, the heaviness gone from his limbs.

 

He’s tried. His head hurts. He’s hungry and thirsty, mouth dry, tongue swollen and sticky. He’s craving applesauce, of all things, like you wouldn’t believe. 

 

What the fuck happened?

 

He sits up slowly, limbs creaking in protest as he pulls on them. He gives his head a shake, but the memories slip off of his grasp. They linger on the edge of his mind, just close enough to glimpse, but the minute he tries to recall any details they dart away like silver minnows up a stream.

 

He remembers Pig Man. He remembers the other two, the police chase, the hoverbike, but after that they just get… Blurry. All shifty and strange, like trying to remember a dream you had the next morning. Something about… A hospital? Maybe, that sounds right. He remembers a song… Had someone been singing, or had he dreamt that? There had been someone reading, that he knows. Had they really been reading from a Greek mythology textbook, or had he imagined it?

 

...Had they talked to him?

 

He remembers something like that, a smudge of pink, a blur of green, a hint of yellow. Voices, unfamiliar, but a language he recognized. No, no he must have dreamed that. There’s no way. 

 

Wait a minute.

 

Before that, way before. He had spoken to Pig Man, hadn’t he? His English had been broken and choppy, but they had spoken. He had pink braided hair, dressed like a fucking pirate. He’d given him some apple-sauce thing, so that’s why he had been craving it earlier, and they had talked about… about…

 

Home.

 

Pig Man had told him they were going home.

 

Hadn’t he?

 

The memories are fuzzy, but he’d swear that’s what they’d talked about. He’d said it was far, but that they were going home. It’s too vivid in his memory to be a dream.

 

He’d give anything for it not to be a dream. 

 

He licks his chapped lips. Why the fuck does his mouth taste like bubblegum? 

 

He gives his head another shake. He’s tired, he’s so tired, and still a little bit dizzy. Everything feels so far away, it takes effort to drag himself back into the present. What the hell? Had he… Had someone fucking drugged him? 

 

He tenses, a familiar panic beginning to sizzle in his chest as his heart speeds up. Why? Can he remember? Had they done something to him while he was out?

 

The blood in his veins goes electric, ah, adrenaline, my old friend, and he whips his head around, gaze darting around the room for clues. 

 

It’s sparse. There’s a monitor set up next to the bed, and it’s about the most interesting thing in the room. The screen flashes all sorts of interesting colors, and he frowns at it. He rubs up and down both his arms, inspecting his limbs for any sort of IV, finding none. So how the fuck-

 

Whatever. Weird alien shit. He’ll come back to it.

 

 He looks around the rear of the room, but it’s not much use. There’s nothing, just the bed he’s on and familiar, dinky little nightstand with a drawer, sporting a simple lamp. No windows, no carpet over the metal floors. It’s too big to be a prison cell, though, and the thought settles him a little. The one door doesn’t have any bars, just the usual window at the top, a control panel on the left side. It’s not locked, he doesn’t think, he could leave if he needed too.

 

He runs a hand over the bedsheets. They’re soft, a neutral, unassuming grey, and thick. The mattress is springy and comfortable on a simple metal bed frame. He snorts, he’s never been in a prison cell with such nice bed sheets, that’s for sure. 

 

He buries his fingers in the soft fabric, leaning back against the pillows. A laugh bubbles in his throat, it’s like sleeping on a fucking cloud! 

 

If this is the alien’s idea of a prison cell, they must be living like fuckin’ kings. If the kids at the foster home could see him now-

 

The laugh dies abruptly in his throat.

 

Pig Man had told him they were going home, he had promised, but then, they’d turned around and drugged him. Why? Were they still taking him home? Had it been a lie? Is he ever going home?

 

Footsteps. 

 

He whips his head back towards the door, muscles coiled tight and ready to spring. They’re light, too light to be Pig Man, Mothman, maybe? An uncertain frown twists on his face at the thought. He’d seemed nice enough on the bike, careful not to touch him, bracketing him from the wind with soft wings. Now, though, the memory tastes sour on his tongue. He scowls, You never really know with aliens. 

 

He can’t afford to let his guard down. Not after they fucking drugged him. 

 

The door opens.

 

It’s Mothman, like he thought. He looks different than he did in the city. Dressed simply in a green shirt and black trousers, a thin grey coat that sweeps down at his ankles and flares open around his wrists draped overtop. The hat is the same, green and white striped and awful, his honey-blonde hair limp around his feather-speckled face. 

 

His wings are even more beautiful in the light, and he finds himself catching his breath at the sight. They’re fucking huge, which is even more obvious now that he’s getting a good look at them, the longest flight feathers nearly as tall as he was. The colors were stunning, gunmetal grey on the broad outer feathers, the downier ones underneath an ink back. When the light catches them just the right way, though, they shift into a hundred different colors, like an oil slick. Beautiful.

 

He seems surprised to see Tommy awake, blue eyes going wide and feathers bristling in shock. He schools his expression quickly, plastering a comforting smile across his face as he steps lightly into the room. He moves slowly, palms up in the universal gesture of, ‘I mean you know harm.’

 

Tommy is tense on the bed, ready to shove past him and escape into the rest of the ship, just in case. He’s not naive enough to fall for that. Not anymore.

 

Then, something unexpected happens. 

 

“Hey, mate.” Mothman says in a low, soothing kind of voice, with a fucking Accent, of all things. “Can you understand me?”

 

It takes him a moment to realize he’s supposed to respond, and not just stare at him. He swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry, and tries to silence his internal mantra of what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, to think of an actual response. 

 

“Y-yeah. I can.” He eventually stammers back.

 

He relaxes at that, shoulders slumping. He really doesn’t hold anything back, every emotion playing out clearly in his face, mirrored in the shifting of his feathers. The pity in his eyes makes bile rise in the back of his throat.

 

He's still tense, ready to run or fight if he needs to, but there’s nothing hidden in that expression. Slowly, ever so slowly, he finds himself relaxing. 

 

“Good.” He says, and there’s relief in his voice. “I’m glad it works.”

 

Then, He raises his hands up higher, palms still up, and there’s something warm glittering in his eyes. “I’m just here to check your vitals, mate. I’m not going to touch you.”

 

A frown twists across his face, and he narrows his eyes. Yeah, like he hasn’t heard that one before. Fuckin’ prick. 

 

He doesn’t pay him any mind, sweeping over to the monitor and pressing buttons, humming absentmindedly as he works. Tommy watches him closely, but there are no needles hidden in his hands, his fingers don’t twitch towards his pockets.

 

He catches Tommy’s gaze, and he smiles. “My name is Phil, it’s nice to officially meet you.”

 

The name Phil slaps him across the face, and he doesn’t even respond when he gets closer, still blinking in shock. In front if him is an alien, from a galaxy hundred upon hundreds of thousands of miles away from Earth, and not only does he have a fucking accent, but his name is fucking Phil.

 

He continues on, waving a hand as he talks. “I’m really sorry about all of that, by the way. If I’d known that the sedative would have that effect on you, I wouldn’t have used it. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

 

He blinks.

 

...He has so many questions. He was so many fucking questions, he doesn’t even know where to start. Phil breezes past him to the… IV? Heart monitor? Whatever the fuck it’s called, fussing with the buttons on the screen. His wings twitch and flex as he works, feathers shifting in the light. 

 

His name is Phil. Fucking, Phil-

 

“Ah, not quite.” He winces, fuck, had he said that outloud? But Phil doesn’t seem offended, absentmindedly turning a dial. 

 

“My actual name is-“ He then makes a sound in the back of throat, somewhere between the coo of a morning dove, and the shriek of a crow, just loud enough to make him wince.  “-But Tubbo said that would be hard for you to pronounce. He gave all of us human names, instead.”



Huh. Okay.

 

He’s. He’s not quite sure how to feel about that.

 

He has. So many questions. 



“...Right.” He finally croaks.



It’s quiet, for a moment. He tenses when Phil pulls something out of his pocket, but the tension drains away when he catches a glimpse of the screen. It’s one of those iPhone looking things, all the aliens seem to have them. It looks pretty fucking busted, screen all cracked and taped back together in spots, and Phil taps hard on the side a few times to get it to work properly.

 

Phil doesn’t seem to notice, but to Tommy, the silence between them is suffocating. He just works at… Whatever he’s doing. Pressing buttons, turning dials, every once in a while looking at the iPhone-thing and frowning.

 

The questions burn on his tongue. 

 

Why did you drug me? Who is Tubbo? Was Pig Man just lying when he said I was going home? How long have I been out? How the fuck are we talking? Why are you not experimenting on me? What did you do to me while I was drugged? Why haven’t you hurt me? Don’t you have questions? Why are you just fiddling with buttons? How does any of this work? 

 

He decides to start with the least offensive.

 

“How long have I…” He asks, voice ragged and weak. 

 

Phil tilts his head, the gesture decidedly bird-like as he looks up. His gaze is soft. “Not long, just a few sleep cycles. Ah, Around a humans ‘week’.”

 

“...Right.”

 

Another beat. He can’t stop the questions, now that he’s started, though, and they build up in his throat like he’s a shaken can of Coke about to explode. 

 

“How are we talking?” He blurts out, before he can choke it back.

 

Phil blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”

 

“How do you speak English.” He stresses, hands flying as the words tumble out him. “We’re in the middle of fucking space, how do you speak the same language as me?!”

 

He stops himself, smothering his frustration and drawing back into himself all at once. Stupid!

 

He watches Phil warily. He yelled at him. He hadn’t meant to, but he’s fucking Tommy innit, yelling is just how he talks, goddamn it. The other aliens had never been much of a fan of that particular habit, they’d made that pretty clear.

 

He doesn’t look upset, though. He sets the comn down and turns to him, and there’s not the faintest hint of anger in his eyes or body language. 

 

“Ah.” He says. “I don’t.”

 

At Tommy’s bewildered expression, he continues.

 

“It’s the implant.” He explains, voice perfectly cheery, not at all irritated or condescending. “We all have them, they’re council-mandated across the Galaxy. Can translate just about anything.”

 

“The implant?” Phil explains, giving it a little tap. “Connects to your comn? You had one, didn’t you?”

 

Ah. 

 

He remembers, now.

 

It comes back to him in flashes. Shaking hands reaching up to his temple, fingers digging into the soft skin to pull something out. He remembers panic, screaming, alarms going off. He remembers the hot metallic taste of blood in his mouth, a prick against the side of his neck. 

 

A sedative. Phil had said earlier, and he’d glossed right over it. They hadn’t drugged him, he’d had a fucking… freak out, or something, and they’d sedated him.

 

He feels a lot of things. He’s relieved, they hadn’t drugged him out of nowhere, he had freaked the hell out and they needed him to calm down. On the other hand, they still did kind of drug him, so maybe they’re not one hundred percent forgiven.

 

And on another, other hand...

 

He raises a hand to his temple, prodding at the skin. He knows this scar, roughly an inch long, raised and jagged from where he had tossed his head and refused to stay still. His stomach rolls at the memory, and he swallows hard.  “And I have the…”

 

Phil’s watching him carefully, something he can’t quite place in his eyes. “Yes.”

 

He drops his hand like the scar burned him. 

 

An ugly laugh threatens to burst out of his chest, and he swallows it back with a shake of his head. He really shouldn’t be so suprised, He was more than a little fucked up in the head, it’s no shock He decided to fuck around and give him some kind of sci-fi brain implant. He had no problem fucking up the rest of him, what’s one more on the list.

 

So, he has a brain implant. Okay. 

 

That’s not good, obviously, and he’ll have to get it removed the second he gets back home, but he can live with it. He forces his hands to unclench around the sheets balled in his fists, forcing his breathing to steady. He swallows the idea like a huge, nasty pill, and moves on.

 

“...Why is it only working now?” He murmurs, wondering aloud. He had given him a translator, and he hadn’t even bothered to use it? 

 

...Does it do something else?

 

Phil interrupts his thinking, cutting him off before he can go down that rabbithole. “It needs to be connected with a comn first, I set it up for you already. Here, catch.”

 

He’s flinching before he can finish, hands flying up in front of his face. His fingers snatch the thrown object out of the air before it can anywhere near hitting him, though, and he uncurls to turn it over curiously in his hands.

 

It’s the IPhone-thing he’d been messing with. 

 

It’s definitely seen better days, screen cracked and chipping, one corner being held together with the space equivalent of duck-tape. 

 

He turns it over in his hands. Up close, it looks a bit more like a futuristic version of his old Game Boy. There's a camera at the very top, and then a touch screen with a bunch of different buttons, all labeled in a language he can’t read. He huffs. Apparently, the translator in his skull doesn’t cover written words.

 

Below that, there’s a keyboard, and a little circle with arrow buttons. There are a few more raised buttons in the middle, and a smaller screen to the right with what looks like a fucking heart beat monitor. Fuckin’ Cool, but also, why?

 

There are three big buttons at the bottom, all in different colors, and what looks to be some kind of speaker on the bottom side. He feels over the sides too, feeling more buttons along both sides. Power and volume buttons, he guesses off the top of his head. Same spot on normal earth phones. 

 

“What does it do?” He can’t help but ask, resisting the urge to press all the buttons just to see what happens. “Is it connected to the… Implant?”

 

“Yes,” is Phil’s response. Tommy doesn’t bother looking up to see his expression, the warmth is clear in his voice. “It can do just about anything. Record things, take pictures, send messages.”

 

He keeps moving, turning the monitor screen around so it faces Tommy. “I was hooking it up to the monitor earlier to make sure it was working properly, and it is, don’t worry. See?”

 

And Tommy looks. It’s the same kind of heart monitor they have in hospitals back on earth he realizes, how that he’s really looking at it. Just a little bit fancier, the screen sleek and slimmer, a few more flashing lights and more neon lettering than he remembers. He’s been in enough hospitals to know how to read them a little bit. He glances back and forth between the comn in his hands and the monitor, and finds that the heart beats are completely in sync. Huh.

 

He’ll have his vitals in his pocket. That’ll definitely come in handy, once he learns how to actually read them. Hell, it’s like having a fucking phone again! When was the last time he had a phone? Even if he doesn't have internet, just the idea of having something similar makes him a bit giddy.

 

Fuck it, he’s a teenager. Sue him. 

 

“Of course, It’s Wil’s old one,” Phil finishes. “So you might find it’s a bit slow. Just tap on the side if it freezes.”

 

His fingers tighten around it. “And it’s… Mine?”

 

He does look at Phil, this time, watching him carefully just to be sure. He just tilts his head, something warm in his eyes, “Until we can get you one that isn’t busted, yes.” 

 

He searches his face for a moment, but all he finds is the same warm look, the same disarming smile. He lets himself relax, just a little, and slides the comn in the pocket of his ratty sweatpants. He’ll look it over later. “...Thank you.”

 

He nods. “You’re welcome.”

 

And that’s that.

 

It’s quiet, again. Phil is still tinkering with the heart monitor, but he looks like he’s just trying to keep his hands busy. There’s something on his mind, clearly, but whatever it is, he’s not sharing. Every once in a while he’ll look over like he’s about to ask a question, but then he’ll just shake his head and go back to fiddling with buttons and dials. 

 

That’s fine with him. Tommy still has his own questions, but he too smothers them for now. His fingers itch to mess with the comn, but he wants to wait until Phil finishes with whatever he’s doing, first. He’d rather do it without the overgrown chicken looking over his shoulder. 

 

It’s quiet, and a little awkward, but not nearly as tense. He lets the tension ease out of his shoulders just a little more, settling back into the pillows. God, they’re fucking soft. Fantastic.

 

There’s a buzz, and both of them jump.

 

Phil pats down his pockets, pulling out another comn and flicking at the screen. He grins, laughing quietly at whatever he reads, before pocketing it again. 

 

“Techno’s made dinner.” He explains, “Do you want to join us?”

 

He hesitates.

 

Part of him says it’s a bad idea. Sitting at a table with a bunch of aliens he doesn’t know sounds a bit like a recipe for disaster. Besides, once he’s gone he’ll get the chance to finally look over the comn. He’d be better off eating alone. Like always.

 

Another part of him, though, jumps at the opportunity. A part of him that aches to talk to people, that doesn’t want Phil to leave, not yet. 

 

It’s stupid. It’s childish. But still, still.

 

...He might get some answers. Maybe they’ll let something slip. He can drill them about going back to Earth, he can find out what happens next.

 

It doesn’t help that Phil is still looking at him, eyes ocean blue, warm and friendly. 

 

It’s so strange, it’s so alien to have someone look at him like that.

 

These aliens don’t know him, they know as much about him as he does about them, which is to say, Jack shit. And yet, and yet, they seem to trust him, at least a little. 

 

He could turn on them, for as much as they know. He could hurt them, steal a laser gun and shoot them where they stand. The other aliens before treated him like he was something dangerous, and for good reason.

 

Not these ones, though. They were nice. Cordial, at the very least, with Phil bordering on kind. It was fucking weird, how gentle he was. Not prodding, not grilling him for answers. Hovering nearby, instead, making himself look busy, waiting for him to ask first. Techno had done something similar, before. Approaching gently, never hurting him. It was so fucking strange, going against everything he’d learned out in space.

 

He’d been saved. They had been nice with him, gentle, even. Keeping him safe from the police, taking him back with them. They gave him a room, fed him, apologized when they hurt him, actually bothering speaking to him, promising him he’d be going home. Hell, they just gave him a fucking phone.

 

And now Phil wants him to eat with them, like a person. Not an experiment, not a pet, not a caged animal. An equal.



“Foods getting cold, mate.” Phil interrupts gently, offering him an outstretched hand and a smile. “You comin’ or not?”



Oh, what the hell.

 

He doesn’t hesitate a second time. He takes it.







Notes:

If you skipped the panic attack, this is what happened:

Tommy was told that he has an implant that allows him to communicate with the others. He has a panic attack about the thought of having something embedded in his skin, and has a flashback to the procedure that was done to give him the implant. This procedure was initially done without anesthesia, but it was eventually used. Phil uses a sedative on him meaning to calm him down, but misjudges the dose, leading him to be whoozy and sick for a good portion of the chapter.

 

Most future chapters wont be this heavy, I swear. You'll get more of an explanation as to how the comns and implants work next chapter, as well as see more of the Esempi Galaxy, and the plan to get him home. Also, you'll be seeing a few more familiar faces, so stay tuned.

Feel free to scream at me on my Tumblr! I post my update schedules there. I promise I don't bite, you can ask me just about anything. If you make fanart, PLEASE TAG ME @Aliveandrestless5! I won't see it otherwise, and I'd love to put a link to it in the notes of this fic!

Stay safe, yeah? I'll see you all next Thursday.

-Matches

Chapter 3: Losing Touch

Summary:

Phil, exasperated: How do you LOOSE a CHILD!?!

Techno, unhelpfully: You forget to cherish it

Notes:

"I'm in no hurry, you go run and tell your friends I'm losing touch // fill their heads with rumors of impending doom, it must be true." -The Killers, Losing Touch

 

Sorry about the late update, I have family visiting from out of town. As always, a big thank to my lovely friend and beta Mars, and on to the chapter we go! It’s a fun one, guys.

The playlist for the fic can be found here. Some of the songs are almost exact spoilers, others are just there for the vibe. Have fun guessing which is which!

 

TWS: Nothing serious! A few mentions of how awful the foster system is, mentions of past child abuse, and some catastrophizing from Tommy. 

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

There’s an air vent under his bed.

 

There are two air vents in his room, actually. One on the far corner of the ceiling that just works just fine, blowing cool, recycled air like it’s going out of style, and the one under his bed that… Doesn’t. The breeze that comes out is weak, if any, and the screws come out easy enough with a little help from a stolen kitchen fork. 

 

He used to do this all the time in foster homes. 

 

Not all of them, just the ones that wouldn’t notice the lack of a breeze or an out of place screw. The one under his bed is perfect for it, set into the wall instead of the floor, and the bed frame is metal and bolted down. He’s the only one scrawny enough to fit under there to get to it, making it a perfect spot to stash things. Unless they pry up the whole bed. Which they wouldn’t. Probably. 

 

It’s been a week or so, since. 

 

The trust between them was a fragile thing, sturdy as glass and standing on new, wobbling legs. A sharp intake of breath from either side is enough to make it shake and tremble, but somehow, it holds

 

There’s nothing quite like the bond you make when you run from the cops together, apparently.

 

It helps that the ship, (the Argo II , named after Technoblade’s Greek Mythology obsession), is fucking massive. 

 

He hasn’t been able to roam freely on a spaceship ever, and he takes full advantage of the chance.  It has all the usual things you would assume a spaceship would have, a kitchen, a table to eat at, a pretty big bathroom with a bath and a shower, a living room-type place with couches for relaxing. The rooms are located near the back of the ship, six, in total, with one being used for storage, and the other working as Phil’s office. There’s a hatch somewhere that leads down to a training deck, and a cargo hold for Wilbur’s bike. He spends most of his time on the bridge in the very back, when it’s empty, staring out into the stars. 

 

He spent an embarrassing amount of time in the bathroom, for the first few days. The first time he filled up the bathtub he had held his breath, waiting for one of them to pound on the door and demand for him to quit wasting water, but that hadn’t happened. It still hasn’t happened. 

 

He ended up having to fill it up twice, that very first time, just so he wasn’t sitting in a pool of his own filth. He had scrubbed his skin raw, untangling his hair with his fingers and using a little bit of every single one of the fancy soaps and creams that lined the edge. They smelled fantastic, like some weird mix of tea and vanilla, and the feeling of actually being clean made him want to cry. 

 

He didn’t, though. Because he’s a man.

 

It’s not two different from a small house, really. He’s had a lifetime of practice avoiding foster parents and sneaking around unseen, so avoiding his new roommates came naturally. A very strange small house, where everything is made out of patchwork metal and bolted to the floor. Real cozy.

 

It’s just big enough to make avoiding the others laughably easy. Phil spends most of his time drifting from his office to the bridge, tapping away at his comn, and the rustle of his wings makes him pretty easy to identify ahead of time and work around. Wilbur spends nearly all of his time in his room, twanging out notes on his guitar-thing that Tommy can just barely hear through the wall. Every once in a while he’ll catch him on the bridge, staring out into space and scribbling furiously into a notebook. He’s pretty fucking loud when he walks around, so he’s easy to avoid, too.

 

It’s Technoblade he has to watch out for.

 

He moves around like a fucking ghost. Tommy swears he can teleport or something, showing up on one side of the ship when he’d just been on the other a second ago. He has to listen real close to hear the clipping of his hooves when he’s walking, but even then he’s almost silent.

 

It’s even worse when Tommy walks into a room without seeing him first. He doesn’t get how, the guy’s fucking massive, and the pink hair makes him stick out against the grey and brown walls like a clown at a funeral, but it keeps happening. He won’t say anything, just stand there completely still and silent until Tommy realizes he’s there and jumps out of his skin. 

 

The worst part is, he doesn’t even do it on purpose.

 

He doesn’t laugh at him when he jumps, or give him one of those smug looks. He just looks up at him briefly before going back to what he’s doing. He’ll get an ear flick, if he’s lucky, but nothing else. No laughter, no snide remarks, nothing. 

 

He’s caught him doing some pretty weird shit, too. Scaling the kitchen cabinets to see if he could fit in the larger air vents above them (he can’t), ferreting pillows from the living room couches for his room (they’re soft, damn it), spinning himself in circles on the chairs in the bridge (it’s fucking fun, alright). Among other things. 

 

He doesn’t say a word, going back to whatever he’s doing without so much as a glance. Normally, this is leafing through what is, in fact, a High School textbook on Greek Mythology. Complete with a slightly torn, tacky green cover, and the library label still on the spine.

 

...Yeah, he’d never gotten an explanation on that.

 

He hadn’t gotten much of an explanation on anything, really. To be fair, he hasn’t given them much of a chance. He’s allowed to lock his door as he likes, and between scoping out the ship and trying to figure out what all the buttons on his comn does, he keeps himself pretty busy. Busy, and as far away as the rest of the crew as physically possible. 

 

They don’t seem to mind too much. He’ll join them for meals, sometimes, trade insults with Techno and swear back at Wilbur when he starts being a little bitch. Most of the time, though, he keeps to himself. He’s too used to being alone, he guesses. He can tolerate them for a while, sure, but for too long, it just gets suffocating. Makes him ansty. 

 

He locks his door every chance he gets. After spending a week and half awake and conscious, he still hasn’t worked up the courage to sleep with the lights fully off and the door unlocked.

 

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. 

 

They aren’t going to bust into his room in the middle of the night and try to steal his eyes, or something. It was long past the point of him worried about getting stabbed in his sleep. Besides, if they really wanted too, something as simple as a door lock and a bedside lamp wouldn’t be able to stop them. He knows that.

 

Still, still, the thought of sleeping alone in a metal room, completely by himself in the pitch black…

 

He just. He just can’t do it.

 

So, the door stays locked, and the bedside lamp stays on. The others don’t say a word to him about it, if they even notice. 

 

They don’t say anything about any of his weird habits, actually. 

 

 They don’t mention how he peers out doors and around corners carefully before turning them. They don’t bring up how often he flinches at loud noises or sudden movements. They don’t yell at him for ferreting away food, or taking hour-long baths. They don’t talk about how much time he spends avoiding them, even though he’s made it pretty obvious. 

 

...He only really leaves his room when he has too. 

 

They don’t push him, thank god , but every once in a while he’ll catch Phil hovering by his door, or opening his mouth like he’s about to say something else before closing it again with a shake of his head. He ignores it. If he has something to say, he can either spit it out or move on. 

 

...Look, a few good deeds aren’t enough to fix a lifetime of trauma. If they think he’s going to trust some random adults that easily  after all the shit he’s been through, they’ve got another thing coming. 

 

He’s gotten some explanations, atleast, after all of this time. 

 

Not many, but enough to keep him from car-jacking the ship and getting back home on his own. Apparently, getting him back to Earth wasn’t as easy as pressing a button and flying through a wormhole like it is in the movies. 



“-To get you home.” Phil was saying, “We’ll have to talk to the Council, first.”

 

The dinner table they’re seated around is cramped, just big enough for three, but with the inclusion of Tommy, every time Technoblade went to scoop up another bite of mystery space meat, they brushed elbows. Wilbur was doing his absolute best not to touch him, which he kind of appreciated, honestly, but kept accidentally kicking him under the table. He scrunches himself up to take as little space as possible, but it doesn’t really help. He’s too tall. 

 

Phil is seated across from him, wings spread out on either side of his special, low-backed chair. The expression on his face was some strange mix of pleased and paternal, and it makes Tommy’s skin itch.

 

“The Council?” He parrots back.

 

Phil nods, swirling his fork. “Each planet has their own Government, of course, but the Council handles inter-planet affairs, as well as outer-galaxy ones.”

 

“Like humans?”

 

“Yes,” he nods, “Like humans. Besides, they’re the only ones with a ship that has a warp drive. It would take us centuries to reach Earth with this ship.”

 

Tommy sits back in the chair, processing the information. Jesus Christ, Warp drive? He’d only heard about that kind of technology in bad sci-fi movies from the 80’s. Technoblade takes another bite of his mystery meat, which looks kind of like a weird chicken leg, and the resulting crunch is a little more than unsettling.

 

“It’s far.” He rumbles. “We’ll need to stop on Bezzar to get supplies. Repairs, too. The Argo II isn’t ready for a long-distance trip.”

 

He blinks, the name sounding familiar. “...The Argo II?”

 

“From Greek mythology.” Technoblade explains, only making Tommy more confused. “The Argo was the ship the human Jason and his crew used to travel to Colchis to retrieve the Golden Fleece.”

 

...Right. 

 

He casts a glance around the table, but both Phil and Wilbur look perfectly calm, though Wilbur does roll his eyes. Apparently, Technoblade randomly spouting Greek myths off of the top of his head was a regular occurrence. 

 

...So, the giant pig has an interest in Greek mythology. Makes as much sense as everything else does, in space. Moving on.

 

“We need to talk to Niki and Tubbo, too.” Wilbur butts in. 

 

He’s barely touched his meal, which looks like some sort of fish, or maybe weird sushi? He’s seen salmon before at some of the fancier houses, and it looks a bit like that, but he’s pretty confident salmon isn’t supposed to be blue. He plays with it absentmindedly, tearing off chunks and chasing them around his plate with a fork, frowning all the while like it’s personally offended him.

 

“To tell her the bad news.” He finishes. “About Ranboo.”

 

All at once, everyone goes still as something heavy falls over the table, settling over their shoulders like a lead blanket. He feels his shoulders go tense.

 

A solemn look falls over Phil’s face, and he lowers his fork. “Right. Of course.”

 

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence.



Anyways.



They talk about it a little more later, but the names of the planets they’re going to pass and the things they need for the trip all go completely over his head. Somewhere along the line, he stumbled out of a horror movie and into the world's shittiest rendition of Star Trek, and every other word sounds like nonsense. 

 

The names Niki and Tubbo come up a few more times, without any explanation, but they don’t mention a Ranboo again. He gets the sense it’s a sore subject, and hasn’t quite mustered up the nerve to poke that particular bear quite yet. 



Back to the point. The air vent.



It’s a bit of a squeeze to get under the bed in a comfortable way, but he hasn't gained too much weight in the two weeks(?) He's been out of captivity, so he manages just fine. The metal screen pushes aside with only a little bit of complaint when he presses on it, revealing a rectangular hole a little more than a foot wide and about half a foot tall. 

 

His stash isn’t much, so far, but he’s been working on it. A few prepackaged bars of what looks like normal breakfast bars, complete with bright, tacky lettering he can’t read. A full water bottle he stole from Techno, a roll of what looks like ducktape, a handful of bandages he nicked from the ship's first-aid kit in the bathroom. A few sheets of paper and a pen he’d stolen from Wilbur’s room. The stolen fork he had bent trying to get the screws of the air vent off.

 

It’s not much, but he’d tried to stick to the stuff that wouldn’t be missed, and that looked familiar. It’d be obvious if he took one of the bigger things of food, and most of the first aid kit was filled with things he didn’t recognize with labels he couldn’t read. 

 

Baby steps. A go bag, in essence. Just something to tide him over if things ever went south. 

 

Now, though. He was left with a bit of a dilemma. 

 

They were landing today. A small trade planet named Bezzar, Phil told them all over breakfast this morning. They needed to get supplies before they started their trip to meet up with the Council. 

 

They weren’t staying long, just a day or two, but that left him with the problem of how much of his emergency supplies he should take with him.

 

Phil had given him a bag, a brown, well-worn messenger bag that was bigger than what he needed it for. Wilbur had loaned him some clothes after they’d been properly introduced, and the three shirts and two pairs of trousers fit neatly at the bottom, leaving plenty of extra space. 

 

He hadn’t exactly come with a lot of belongings.

 

With the comn tucked safely in the deep pockets of Wilburs trousers, (Belted tightly around his waist because even though Wilbur was closest to his size, Tommy was still a fucking stick figure), and the loaned boots laced up tight, he was holding just about everything he owned. 

 

He squints at his emergency stash. He was planning on coming back, anyways. He had the best chance of getting home sticking with the Argo II crew. No use in taking everything. 

 

He settles on grabbing the water bottle, one space bar, a few bandages, and the bent fork. It’s always good to keep some food on you, and basic first-aid supplies are an absolute must in a new place. Besides, You never know when you’re going to have to undo some screws, and if he bends the fork a little more, it’ll make a decent lock-pick. He’s done better with worse.

 

He pockets the fork, shoving the rest in the bag. Even then, it’s not even halfway full. Damn , that’s kinda sad.

 

A knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts, “Tommy? It’s time to go.”

 

Times up. He fastens the latch on the bag, and runs a hand through freshly-washed hair. He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves one last time, before opening the door and following Phil to the bridge.



The bridge is his favorite spot on the ship, by far.



It’s huge, for one. The biggest part on the ship, though that isn’t saying too much. He can still touch the roof easily standing with his feet flat on the floor. The back part has seats lining the sides, complete with bars you can pull down to strap yourself in in case of turbulence, like a rollercoaster. There’s a control center in the middle, as well as what looks like a weird joystick with handles. It reminds him of the captain's wheel on an old pirate ship, and it’s no surprise to him when Phil steps right up to it. 

 

It dips down slightly from there, with two more seats up in the front absolutely surrounded by screens that blink and glow, displaying a hundred different symbols in shades of green, blue, and purple. Belonging to Technoblade and Wilbur, respectively, who are already seated and pressing away at buttons, but they look over at him when he enters. 

 

Phil turns to look at him too, wings fluttering as he grins. “Well, what do you think?”



He looks up, and the breath is stolen out of his lungs. 



He’s looked out these windows before. They’re fucking huge, floor-to-ceiling on all three sides of the very front of the ship. On a good day, the void of space is pitch-black, the silver stars looking close enough to touch, glimmering like fireflies just out of reach. Every once in a while, he’ll find the small colored dot of a distant planet, or the grey sheen of another out of reach spaceship. 

 

When they’re in just the right direction, the entire galaxy glimmers almost at his fingertips. Blues and greens, reds and pinks, a sharp slice of yellow, a dash of orange, all overlaid with a dusting of stars.

 

This, however, beats everything he's ever seen.

 

The planet fills up the entire fucking window. A huge, massive thing, a rust orange with bands of crimson red and soot grey. They seem to swirl, mixing with one another, bands twisting and spiraling like clouds. A lightning scar of yellow and white is just visible underneath, criss crossing and glimmering, like blood veins made of gold. Lights. Cities.

 

That’s not the main focus, however. It’s what’s floating just in front of the planet.

 

It’s a moon, that much is clear. He’s seen pictures of Earth's moon, and it’s close enough to make the comparison. 

 

A tan, dusty ball with darker, ash-grey craters, and lighter, orange and lemon-yellow ridges that rise out from the moon’s surface. It’s surrounded by meteorites, little grey rocks that dive in and out like honey bees around a hive. 

 

He squints. Wait a minute, meteorites don’t…

 

The realization hits him like a kick to the stomach.

 

Holy shit!

 

What he had pegged for craters and ridges weren’t that at all , they were fucking sky scrapers. The yellow and orange planet behind them glinting off of polished glass. The dark “craters' were breaks in the giant towers, lower buildings and landing docks cast in shadow. He can see it, now, the lines and crevices that outline the city's buildings, the bustling streets and bright-colored flags, the rainbow of tents, markets, set up in squares. 

 

He’s not looking at just a moon, he’s looking at a city. A huge fucking city that spans the entire surface, living and breathing like some giant animal. Buzzing, breathing, alive. 

 

The meteorites weren’t meteorites at all, they were ships. Glinting gold in the light of a nearby star, darting in and out of the city, resting in ports and firing away from the surface to who knows where.

 

He’s not normally so sappy, but holy fucking shit.

 

It’s beautiful.

 

A wing rests around his shoulder, and he jumps half a foot in the air. Phil just chuckles, grin warm and eyes bright. “Welcome to Bezzar.”

 

He can’t find it in him to shrug him off, still staring slack jawed at the great city beneath him. He can tell the others are getting a kick out of his expression, but he just can’t tear his eyes away. He doesn’t think he’s seen so many people ever, and the excitement of the city is already getting to him, thrumming under his skin. They’re going down there, down there! 

 

Finally, Phil leads him away from the window. He’s hesitant to follow him, but he gets the feeling it’s probably for the best. “Strap yourself in, we’ll be  entering the atmosphere soon.”

 

The look he gives him is sympathetic enough to make him instantly suspicious. “It’s a bit rough for first timers. Make sure you hold on tight, yeah?”

 

He lets himself be directed towards the seats along a side wall, and chooses one closest to the windows. He lowers himself into it, messing with the straps.  They’re clearly meant for someone a couple sizes bigger, and he has to pull at the stupid things for ages to get them to adjust. Phil doesn’t turn back to his own screens until Tommy’s pulled down the bar that keeps him securely held in place, and gives him one more reassuring smile before going back to work.

 

His face hardens, but just a little. “Techno, Wil, are we ready for landing?”

 

“Ready.” Wilbur says back, Technoblade just waves a hand. Phil takes it as confirmation, and grabs the joystick.

 

All at once, the ship begins to rumble. Tommy stiffens, grabbing on tight to the seat handles as the metal groans and shakes beneath him. There’s a click! As the others fix their own seat belts, but all Phil does is spread his wings and grin. What the hell-

 

He watches with wide eyes as the moon, Bezzar, gets closer and closer, before disappearing when the windows go foggy with orange and grey clouds. He squints, but he can’t make out anything through the clouds, and grits his teeth as the shaking gets worse. Phil doesn’t even stumble, despite the fact that he’s fucking standing, the smile on his face only growing wider. 

 

“Brace yourselves!” He shouts, sounding way to fucking happy about it. 

 

Tommy braces, knuckles going white as the shaking gets even fucking worse, and Wilbur and Techno do the same. Their screens flash as they press buttons and turn dials, the screens filling with symbols and painting the entire bridge in shades of green and blue. Wilbur hikes his shoulders up around his neck, but Technoblade barely even moves. 

 

Phil just fucking stands there, like a goddamn madman, even as the ship shudders so hard Tommy can feel his teeth rattling in his fucking skull. He doesn’t even stumble, just widening his stance and spreading out his great wings. 

 

Finally, when Tommy feels like the ship is actually going to fall apart beneath him, the shuddering stops all at once and grey and orange fog in the windows clears.



For the second time today, the breath is snatched from his lungs, and all he can do is stare .



He hasn’t been to many cities. London once, when he was very young, and he’d driven by Vegas with one of the earlier foster families, but they hadn’t stayed long. He remembers it vaguely, a shimmer of lights on the desert horizon. London is even vaguer, a faint memory of crowded streets and dreary weather.

 

Bezzar makes them all look pathetic.

 

It’s spread out before them in all its chaotic glory, buildings rising and falling, cutting into the orange skies like the spine of some long-dead animal. Most of the taller buildings are grey steel and glass, but the lower ones are all made of some strange orange-yellow brick. Most of it’s tan, accented with a rainbow of colors in smaller buildings, in flowers and market stalls. It’s a patchwork of a hundred different building styles, from glossy sky scrapers to low, stand-stone brick buildings. From sparkling white columns, to intricate lace paneling. If he was an architect, he’d be drooling. 

 

The Argo II maneuvers carefully above, and Tommy cranes his neck to stare down at the streets below. The people look like ants from this distance, bustling in lines and groups. There are tents set up between buildings in all different colors, coral pinks, sapphire blues, lavender purples, and everything in between. The markets, he assumes, are absolutely buzzing with people.

 

There are so many colors, so many, on flags, in tents, some of the buildings covered in murals or painted with accent colors that pop out against the other dusty tan buildings. It’s chaotic, a hundred different styles of buildings, the new piled on top of the old.

 

The ship tilts to avoid a different space ship, and he stares at it as it passes. It’s nearly twice the Argo II’s size, a gunmetal grey with black windows.

 

Technoblade grunts in annoyance from the front of the ship, glaring at the other ship. “I hate this place. It’s always so crowded.”

 

“We parking in the usual spot, Phil?” Wilbur calls back, looping an arm over the back of his chair.

 

Phil nods. “It’s closest.”

 

Wilbur turns back to his screens, typing away at a keyboard. Technoblade fiddles with his own controls, whirling his own joysticks and huffing as they turn to avoid another ship, this one painted an irritating, blinding white.

 

He looks down again as they turn, resisting the urge to unbuckle and dart over to the glass for a better look. The buildings and people whizz by below in a blur of rainbow and tan, ships darting between buildings like strange silver birds. 

 

They get even lower to the ground, and a landing dock comes into view. It’s filled with ships of every shape and size, most of them being the same dark grey, with a few exceptions. He spots a few silver and white ones in the mix, as well as one or two painted gold. Some of them are large enough to make their ship look tiny, others as small as a minivan. 

 

The way they’re hooked up reminds him of boats docked into port, but he doesn’t get too long to think about it before they’re pulling into a spot of their own.

 

The ship shudders to a halt, the familiar humming of machinery going eerily quiet as the ship goes completely still for the first time in weeks. Wilbur is the first to move, unbuckling his seat belt and shaking out his limbs as he rises to his feet. Technoblade mirrors him on the other side, tossing his braid and rolling his shoulders. 

 

He’s wearing his coat, Tommy notices, now that he’s standing. The same one he wore when they met. Wilbur’s in the same black jacket, too.

 

He struggles with his own seatbelt, feeling for a long, irritating moment like a child trapped in a fucking highchair before he gets the stupid latch to work, and pushes up on the bar over his head. He all but jumps out of his seat, shifting his weight from foot to foot excitedly and fiddling with the strap of the messenger bag over his shoulder. Holy fucking shit! 

 

It’s been forever since he wasn’t stuck of some stupid hunk of metal. He misses breathing in air that wasn’t recycled, drinking water that didn’t taste like metal. The wind in his hair, the sun on his skin. He’s already moving to the entrance of the bridge, he can’t fucking wait-

 

“Hold it.” 

 

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, and he immediately flinches back, whirling around with a snarl on his lips.

 

It dies quickly when his eyes meet Technoblade’s. 

 

He prepares himself for something, a hurt expression, anger, but in typical Technoblade fashion, he doesn’t react at all. His face is perfectly calm, like it normally is, though his gaze is a bit critical as it sweeps up and down over him. 

 

“We need to get you a better disguise.” He finally grumbles, almost to himself, before turning around and calling over to Wilbur, “Do you have a coat that might fit him?”

 

Wilbur looks up. His brown eyes latch on to Tommy in an instant, and he does not like the grin that splits across his face, eyes sparkling. “We can do better than that.”




-




“Look up, up.”

 

“I am looking up!”

 

“Stay still!”

 

He huffs, but tilts his head the right way when Wilbur presses on the side of his face, holding his chin firmly between his forefinger and thumb. 

 

He hates it. He hates every single moment of this.

 

He hates how close Wilbur is to him, he hates the way his skin itches were Wilbur is gripping his face, and he hates, hates, hates being told he has to sit still. 

 

He leans in even fucking closer, way closer than Tommy is comfortable with, thank you very much. Has anyone taught him the concept of personal space? He sticks his tongue out slightly in concentration, looking him over. He looks even more fucking weird up close, skin shimmering faintly in the dim cargo hold lights, reflecting off his eyes in just the right way to make the pupils turn green.

 

He brushes something cold and sticky underneath his left eye with his finger, and Tommy has to repress a shiver. He glares at him, instead, and considers if it’s worth it to bite his hand. 

 

“Almost done…” He mutters, dipping a few fingers back in the tub of motor grease. “Just a few more touches.”

 

He growls under his breath, fucking prick, but doesn’t fight when his face is tilted in the other direction to get his other eye. It takes every ounce of control in his body not to wince when he swipes just a little too close to his eye. He doesn’t even apologize, the fucking dickhead. 

 

Finally, finally, he pulls back with a satisfied grin, and screws the tub of grease closed. “Phil! Techno! Come look.”

 

Technoblade leans in over his shoulder, considering him with ruby eyes.  “It looks like you gave him two black eyes.”

 

“Ignore him.” Phil joins in from his other side. “With his jacket on and the hood up, you’ll look just like a Merling. They won’t notice the difference.” 

 

He scrunches up his nose, trying to get used to the feeling of grease on his face. It’s sticky, and awful, and he hates it. He doesn’t know what the fuck a Merling is, but having to sit still and let tall-ass paint on his face for twenty minutes better have been fucking worth it. If he even thinks about getting that close to his face ever again, he’s gonna punch him right in the nose. 

 

Wilbur pulls over a sheet of polished scrap metal from on top of the one of the storage boxes, tilting it in his direction so he can get a better look at his reflection. “What do you think?”

 

 He stares. His reflection stares back.

 

The coat over his shoulders is Wilbur’s, a deep brown and several sizes too big, dwarfing his scrawny frame. It’d be more comfortable if he wasn’t currently pissed at its owner. The grey, and faintly shimmering, grease across his face looks a little bit like a shitty attempt at fish scales, dotting across his cheeks and swiping under his eyes. He pulls up the hood to see if it makes any difference, and it casts enough of his face in shadow to be convincing from a distance. As long as he doesn’t smear it, it looks fine. 

 

He scrunches up his nose again. “You’re a shit artist.”

 

Behind him, Phil cackles, nearly knocking Wilbur over with a wing. Technoblade makes a chuf-chuf-chuf sound low in his chest, which is about as close to laughter as Technoblade gets.

 

Wilbur just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’d like to see you try it! Painting with your fingers is hard!”

 

“Maybe you should just punch him next time.” Technoblade adds, sending Phil into another round of laughter. “It would look the same.”

 

He scowls back, holding up the tub of grease in threat. “Do you want me to get this all over your expensive white shirt? Because I will-“




-




Finally, after what feels like years of unpacking and loading up the hoverbike, they’re ready to go.

 

He pulls the hood as far over his head as it’ll go, rolling up the sleeves of the jacket so he can actually use his hands. The buckle on the messenger bag strap is slightly uneven, and his fingers keep fiddling with it as he glances around uncertainly.

 

He’s never actually been in the cargo hold before.

 

It’s not like it wasn’t allowed or anything, it just required opening the huge metal hatch near the front of the ship, and even though he was the biggest man, fuck you, he was also still recovering from months of near starvation. So, hefting open a solid metal trap door that weighs twice as much as he does just didn’t seem like a good idea. For his health, you know. Not because he was weak, or he couldn’t. Just. For his health. It’d make too much noise, anyways. 

 

Technoblade had thrown it open easily, though, and down the hatch they had gone.

 

After they were done playing dress up, the packing had begun, and he’d help carry boxes from one end to the other for Wilbur, Phil, and Technoblade to pack away on the bike.

 

He hadn’t gotten the best look at the bike the first time he’d seen it, so he takes the time to run his fingers over the glossy black metal every chance he gets. It’s fucking huge, easily the size of a small car, maybe even bigger, any biker guy’s wet dream. The body is pitch black metal, with silver exhaust pipes and red accents. The seats were some kind of leather, a little worn from use, but still shiny, the handle bars wrapped in the same stuff.

 

It wasn’t floating, propped up carefully on a kickstand like any other motorcycle he’d seen. The seats were lifted up, revealing storage compartments underneath that the others had no problems filling.

 

They hadn’t really needed his help, having done this hundreds of times before, probably, but every once in a while Phil would send him out to grab something off of a shelf, or bring him a box from the other side of the cargo hold. 

 

He gets the sense he’s just doing it to keep him busy, but can’t find it in him to throw away the chance to explore. 

 

It’s a relatively crowded space, located at the lower front of the ship. It’s absolutely filled with boxes and shelves, only some of which were labeled, and was pretty hard to maneuver through. Or, it would be, if Tommy wasn’t basically a stick and couldn’t fold himself through small openings like a cat following its whiskers. It’s pretty cramped, even for him, all except for a large space at the very, very front, which houses the bike. If the sci-fi movies he used to watch as a kid were right, it would open down when it was time for them to leave. Which should be soon, now that everything is packed.

 

He hops a little from foot to foot, all geared up and ready to go. He’s absolutely dying to get off this fucking ship, and to just go, already. 

 

Wilbur grins, the look on his face taking on a feral edge as he balances his black. helmet on his hip. “That’s everything, yeah?”

 

“Should be.” Phil agrees, pulling down the leather seats over the storage compartment.

 

He rests a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and he’s proud to admit that he only flinches a little . He’s too busy cheering on the inside. Fucking finally, he’s been ready to go for ages . He leans a little closer towards the bike, eyeing the handlebars. Maybe if he sucks up to Wilbur a little more, he’ll let him drive. He’s driven Clara’s old truck once, surely a bike can’t be too difficult-

 

 “Why don’t you go ahead, mate.” Phil interrupts his train of thought. “We’ll show Tommy around. We need to stop by the market, anyways.”

 

Technoblade nods in agreement and doesn’t elaborate, in his usual fashion. Tommy ignores the stab of disappointment, still mournfully eyeing the handlebars. He was really looking forward to another bike ride, now that he’s actually conscious. Sue him. 

 

...He will admit, though, he’s still bitter about the face-painting. The thought of getting tall-ass out of the way is a nice one. 

 

The grin on Wilbur’s face only widens, sharp canines poking out of his lips, and he wastes no time hopping on the bike. Tommy watches with poorly disguised jealousy as he brushes a leather-gloved hand across the side, like he’s stroking a horse, before turning the key.

 

The bike roars to life, and Tommy does not flinch, thank you very much, and if he finds himself standing slightly closer to Technoblade than he was before it’s a coincidence, fuck you. 

 

The noise is loud, even more so now that they’re in a confined metal space, and not on an empty street. It’s a rumbling, vibrating sort of noise, unlike any engine Tommy’s ever heard, and slowly, the bike begins to hover off the floor. The red headlights flicker to life, filling the entire cargo hold with crimson light, and the exhaust pipes start to shudder.

 

Then, there’s an even louder, grating noise, as the front of the ship begins to open up, like a mouth yawning wide. He blinks in the brightness of it, vision going all spotty. 

 

“I’ll meet you at Niki’s!” Wilbur yells over the noise, voice nearly drowned out as he revs the engine.

 

The hatch hasn’t even opened all of the way before he’s gone, laughter lost to the roaring of the engine and the wind as whe bike takes off out the front of the ship and disappears, leaving only the faintest hint of crimson light, and the scent of strange gasoline in the air. 

 

The opening out the front of the ship is nearly blinding, after spending so long in the dark.

 

He’s being tugged along before the air has even settled, Phil urging gently at his back, just close enough to make his skin prickle. “We should hurry. It’s nearly midday, the market will be overcrowded soon.”

 

“Market?” He repeats weakly, heart still jumping in his chest from all the noise, but allows himself to be guided out the front of the ship.



-



The second his boots touch pavement, he feels like he’s in a different world. 

 

They’ve left the docks behind, following the twisting streets of the city to the main roads. It’s absolutely packed, aliens of every color and size walking the streets in both directions, dressed in every kind of clothing under the sun, from thick winter coats to dazzling skin-tight outfits dripping with chains and gems. It takes everything in him to keep from openly gawking at everyone they walk past. 

 

He normally wouldn’t appreciate being boxed in between Phil and Technoblade, on top of being led around like a lost puppy, but now he doesn’t even care. He’s too busy staring slack-jawed at his surroundings to even notice the gentle presses and pulls at his sleeve or shoulders. 

 

The buildings loom over them, the foundations being built from something like sandstone, the material changing to metal and glass the higher the building goes. Balconies and clothesline’s hang overhead, planter boxes overflowing with colorful flowers pouring out of them. He has to crane his head back to catch a glimpse of the orange sky, which is cut through with streaks of silver and grey every few seconds as ships soar overhead, a few of the smaller, more daring ones weaving through the very tips of the buildings.

 

And the noise.

 

Merchants shout from storefronts, people hang out off balconies and out windows to chat with neighbors and yell down to the streets below. The chatter is deafening, a white noise he can feel in his bones, so loud he can barely think. Shouting, bargaining, laughter, children screaming and darting between legs, an angry store owner shouting at teenagers, a couple laughing as they hang on each other’s arms.. 

 

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s on Earth. Maybe he's visiting a city like London, or somewhere he’s never been, like Brighton or New York. The sound of people is so familiar, yet so strange.

 

“We’re nearly at the market!” Phil says in his ear, having to shout to be heard over the crowd, and the illusion shatters. “Stay close! And keep your hood up!”

 

He blinks his eyes open, and nods. Phil grins, and leans closer to speak to Technoblade over his head. “I’m going to find stuff for Wil’s bike, you keep a close eye on him, alright?”

 

Normally, he’d bristle and snap at him for speaking over him like he isn’t there, and telling Technoblade to babysit him, on top of that, but he’s too busy looking around to even notice. His eye catches on the colorful tents of the market stalls they’re approaching, and he barely even notices when Phil brushes a wing over the back of his shoulders before slipping away in the crowd. 

 

He stands on his tip-toes to try and see over the crowd, craning his neck. There’s a man with broad shoulders, and fucking purple skin, of all things, right where he’s trying to look. If he would just fucking move-

 

A hand grabs the strap of the messanger bag over his shoulder, wrenching him closer to someone’s chest. He stiffens, before realizing it’s just Technoblade, and turns on him with a scowl.

 

“Phil said stay close.” Technoblade growls in his ear. “You’re going to get lost.”

 

“I’m not going to get lost!” He snaps back, yanking his bag free from the man’s grip. The unimpressed ruby stare he gets in response speaks volumes.

 

He huffs. “...I just wanted to see what that stall was selling.” 

 

Technoblade considers him for a moment before snorting, the sound decidedly pig-like, and lumbering off in the opposite direction. Fucking, dickhead.

 

He still follows behind him, though. Out of convenience.

 

He makes a pretty good shield, all things considered, but he makes an even better battering ram. He’s nearly a head taller than pretty much everyone else, and twice as broad in the shoulders. It helps that anyone seeing him coming, marching towards whatever stall he was heading towards like a hit man on a mission, very quickly moves out of his way. All Tommy has to do is stay right behind him and he’s in the clear.

 

The market is set up in one big square, each side lined with stalls, with a few set up sparingly in the center. It’s absolutely packed, with aliens everywhere he looked, the air split with laughter and the shouts of merchants from their own separate stalls. Each tent and stall is a different jewel-toned color, from bright ruby to shimmering golds and emerald greens, and every color and shade in between. There’s music coming from somewhere, the world's strangest violin playing an upbeat tune that stutters and dips.

 

A few people in the center dance, and he almost loses Technoblade in the crowd when he pauses to watch. The swirling of longer dresses, the clipping of polished heels and swishing of brightly colored skirts is mesmerizing. The pattering of drums and other strange-looking instruments straight out of a dream. 

 

People press in from all sides, but once they see Technoblade, they give him a pretty wide berth. He doesn’t really blame them, the guy can pull off a pretty mean scowl when he feels like it. 

 

He watches them, though. 

 

Some of them have wings. Not feathered like Phil’s, but shimmery, delicate-looking insect wings. Some are clear, more like a dragonfly’s, while others have colors and patterns like a butterfly or a moth. A few even sport beetle-like wings.

 

The winged aliens aren’t the only strange ones. More than a few walk on extra legs, or swing another set of arms. Nearly everyone has some sort of tail, either whip-thin and tufted at the end, thick and scaly, or fluffy and curled above the ground. The colors of their skin are just as varied, ranging from the normal ones you would find on earth, dark, tanned, pale, to bright fuschia and neon greens. 

 

Some are normal except for the scales on their face, not unlike the ones Wilbur drew on Tommy’s with grease. Others have skin that drips like slime, or shifts and breaks like rock. More than a few have crazy colored hair, braided intricately around horns dripping with jewelry. 

 

It’s. It’s a lot. He can’t tear his eyes away.

 

Technoblade drifts from stall to stall, shoving things in his own pockets and bag as he goes, but Tommy doesn’t even spare him a glance. The people are just too interesting! 

 

It doesn’t help that they stop at literally the most boring stalls in the whole market. 

 

Technoblade lingers at a stall selling dried fruits for a bit longer than normal, giving Tommy plenty of time to look around. They’ve drifted back over towards the dancers again, and he can’t bear to tear his eyes away. He watches as a woman(?) with dragonfly wings and a blue and white skirt swirls her partner, another woman(?) with golden horns, around in a circle, laughing all the while. Their feet move to the beat of the drums, skirts swishing in time to the strange violin. She catches her partner around the waist, lifting her into the air effortlessly. He’s never been a dancer, but his feet itch to join them.

 

There’s a heavy hand on his shoulder, firmly guiding him away, and voice on his ear. “We’re almost done. Just a few more stalls. Stay close.”

 

He blinks a few times, trance broken, and follows Technoblade as they head to another stall. He glances over his shoulder, but the two women are swallowed by the crowd, and the music keeps on.

 

...It takes a few more moments to realize he hadn’t even blinked when Technoblade had grabbed his shoulder. Something about that thought feels strange, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. 



The next stall isn’t very interesting either. 

 

Hefty looking boots of all sizes line the shelves, ranging from light, tight-fitting tan boots to large brown leather ones with fluffy lining. A few are more decorative, clearly, with gold or silver stitches and fancy embroidery, while the rest are clearly meant to be more practical. Some are lace-up, others have buckles or straps, and more than a few sport metal toes or spiked heels.

 

It’s more interesting than a few of the others he’s been dragged to, but still. It’s shoes.

 

Technoblade steps right up to the counter and jabs and thumb in his direction. “Got any small enough for him?”

 

Immediately he bristles, but the merchant just considers him with heavy black eyes. They look a bit like a sheep, with horns curling away from their face, fluffy black hair and mournful eyes. They’re wearing a name tag, but it all just looks like gibberish to him.

 

“Maybe.” They eventually say, blinking slowly at Technoblade. “What are you looking for?”

 

“Leather. Durable.” He says gruffly, getting his point across in as few words and possible. Typical.

 

They nod. “I’ll look in the back. Wait here.”

 

He dips his head back to them politely, and they disappear behind hastily built shelves in a swish of black hair and skirts. Technoblade doesn’t seem to mind waiting, giving a larger pair of metal-toed boots near the front a curious once over, but Tommy doesn’t really do waiting.

 

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking around.

 

He can’t see the dancers anymore, and no one from the crowd around him sticks around long enough to really catch his eye. He watches a happy child clutch to their mothers skirts, the scales around their face a cheery yellow. Their mother isn't paying much attention, busy craning her neck and standing on her toes to look over the crowd. 

 

“Look!” The child squeals, pointing off at another stall. “Oh please can I get one!”

 

“Hush.” The mother says, still trying her best to see over the crowd, and the child deflates with a frown. They give a mournful look to whatever they were pointing at before they’re tugged back into the crowd, and they both vanish. 

 

Curiously, he looks around Technoblade’s back to see what the child had been pointing at.

 

Holy. Fucking. Shit!

 

It’s a royal blue tent, just one stall over. He can’t read the banner across the top, but he does see a painting of a familiar planet, and a word he recognizes, his heart leaping at the sight. “Earth.”

 

There’s a crowd of aliens around it, picking up things from the table and cooing over them. A man(?) with butterfly wings holds up a tiny earth on a keychain and laughs, a child clutches a doll to their chest and squeals happily. He can’t get a good look at some of the other things they’re holding, but everyone seems pleased. 

 

Earth things. It’s a stall selling Earth things, familiar things, things from home! 

 

And there, sitting at the very end of the table, something in particular catches his eye. 

 

It’s a cow. A stuffed, black and brown cow, set almost haphazardly to the side. It’s clearly hand-sewn, and done so a little sloppily. Crooked horns poke out from its head, and it’s michmatched button eyes stare mournfully into Tommy’s. Something in his chest nearly swoons at the sight. 

 

...He’d had a stuffed cow, once.

 

A cheap, black and white toy he’d won at an arcade ages ago, when he’d still been young enough to care about stuffed animals. It’s name was Henry, and he’d loved it to bits, right up until one of his foster brothers found him with it, and ripped its leg off just to make him cry. He hadn’t had the skill to fix the rip, and his foster mother had barely given the ragged, dirty thing a glance before demanding he throw it away. 

 

He’d been moved to a different home for punching the kid in the face, but the black eye had been well- worth it. He’d had it coming. 

 

Just. Just look at it! Sitting over there, all dejected and sad. Lonely. All of the other stuffed animals had been chosen already, children clearly having pushed it to the side. None of the other aliens are sparing it a glance, too busy fussing over the other things for sale. The merchant already looks frazzled, darting back and forth to deal with everyone trying to get their attention at once, big fluffy ears swiveling in panic.

 

...He has plenty of space in his bag, and Technoblade wouldn’t even notice! He’d be super quick, just right over there and back. The shopkeeper probably wouldn’t even realize it was missing. 

 

He spares a glance at his companion, who’s still looking over shoes and waiting for the merchant to get back. He looks preoccupied enough.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he inches away from his side. When he doesn’t even twitch an ear in his direction, he slips away a little more. Finally, once he’s sure he’s out of sight, he steps back and blends right into the crowd. Easy peasy.

 

He follows the flow of people to the Earth stall.

 

It’s easy to get lost in the crowd surrounding it, no one even blinks in his direction. Most of the signs are written in the same gibberish the translator doesn’t cover, but a few are written in words he does recognize. “Authentic Earth!” “Very real!”

 

He snorts, yeah. That sounds about right.

 

Unable to choke down the curiosity, he eagerily leans in to get a better look at the table, and the shelves behind it.

 

There are some books, which he glazes right over. A few more familiar toys, a Yo-Yo and some wind-up robots and dinosaurs. Novelty keychains, too, and a bunch of nick-nacks that would look right at home at some shitty gas station. The sight of something so familiar makes something sharp tighten in his chest. There’s a rack of clothes on the other side, and few aliens with purple skin are fawning over jewelry and shirts with random words written across the middle. Most are written in languages he doesn’t know, but one or two are written in English.

 

He has to choke back a laugh when one of the aliens proudly holds up a shirt to their chest that has, “I Eat Bread!” Written across the middle.

 

Apparently, nobody’s translator’s work on written language. Good to know.

 

Focus, Tommy. Focus.

 

He inches over to the cow, heart pounding in his chest. The familiar buzz of adrenaline has already started thrumming under his skin as his fingers itch towards the plush. 

 

He’s shoplifted before, back on Earth. Not often, people always kept a close eye on the scruffy foster kid, but when he got the chance. Mostly just cheap candy, the occasional snack or water bottle. Most of the shops in the US seriously over-charge, who the hell is gonna pay five dollars for a water bottle? It’s highway robbery, is what it is. You wouldn’t pay nearly that much in the UK.

 

Focus, Tommy. The cow.

 

He risks a glance towards the shopkeeper, who seems preoccupied chatting with the “I Eat Bread!” Alien, and bagging up the shirt. They look stressed already, definitely not paying attention.

 

Quick as a snake, he grabs the cow and shoves it in his bag. Gotcha, bitch!

 

He celebrates silently, heart in his throat as he turns on his heel and makes his exit. All he has to do is make it back to the crowd of people. Once he’s put Technoblade firmly in between him and the scene of the crime, he’s home free-

 

“Hey!”

 

Aw fuck.

 

He breaks into a run, but a hand snatches him by the back of the coat, scruffing him like a kitten.

 

He panics as the fabric closes tight around his throat, thrashing all the while, but the hand holds firm. The panic only grows when he can’t escape their grip, his internal mantra of ohfuckohfuckohfuck only growing. The hand fisted in his shirt turns him around roughly, and suddenly he’s nose-to-nose with an angry shop owner. They fucking growl at him, fox-like ears pinned back, sharp canines poking through their lips.

 

“I saw that!” They snap, “Either pay for it, or give it back!”

 

He wheezes, the collar of his shirt still digging into his neck. The lack of air only makes the sharp claws of panic in his chest tighten. He looks around desperately for an escape, and though they’d already started to draw in a curious crowd of onlookers, none of them look particularly helpful. God fucking dammit!

 

The fox-guy shakes him hard , making his teeth rattle in his skull. “Well?”

 

He snarls, bristling up like an angry cat. Yeah, fuck that. He’d rather die before he gets caught by a fucking furry. He swallows the panic clawing up his throat and spits. 

 

He kicks out, his long legs striking the shopkeeper right in the stomach and leaving him reeling back with a wheeze. The grip on the scruff of his shirt loosens, and he wrenches himself free, breaking into a run the minute his boots hit the ground.

 

“Get back here!” The shopkeeper yells after him,   “Somebody grab him!”

 

A few of the onlookers make a half-start towards him, but he barrels right through all of them, taking off towards the bigger crowd. A larger hand grabs at him from the side, but it retreats quickly when he snaps his teeth at it.

 

He can hear the pounding of feet behind him, and clutches his bag close as he sprints. Jesus fucking Christ! It’s just a fucking cow! Why the hell do they care so much?! 

 

He barrels right into the crowd, and breathes out a sigh of relief. There are so many people, all moving in different directions, it’s child’s play to get his head low and let himself get swept up in the flow. The shopkeeper yells angrily from somewhere behind him, and a laugh bursts from his chest at the sound. Seriously, that guy needs to get a life. Chasing some random kid over a cow? What a loser. The panicked thumping of his heart slows once he gets far enough away from the scene of the crime. 

 

He goes a little further, just to be safe. Once he’s sure he isn’t being followed, he doubles back, a skip in his step and a grin on his lips. 

 

He lets a hand dip into his bag, brushing fondly over the cows horns. The stitching is a little odd, lumpy and uneven, in places, but it just gives him character. His name is Henry II, he’s already decided, and the thought makes his chest feel warm. 

 

The shoe stall isn’t too hard to find again. It helps that the market is just one big square, all he has to do is walk in a circle around the center, and he’s right back where he started.  It helps that Technoblade is so fucking huge, even in a crowd of rainbow colors it’s not to hard to pick out his broad shoulders, and the brown color of his hood. 

 

He passes by the dancers again, too. He looks for the two women he saw earlier, but he can’t spot them again. Just like last time, he can practically feel the music thrumming along with his heart under his skin, and it tastes like victory. 

 

Atleast, it does, until he gets back to the shoe stall.

 

And sees Technoblade chatting with the fox shopkeeper.

 

Just fucking chatting! Like they’re old friends, or some shit! Technoblade is nodding along to whatever he’s saying, the fox gesturing wildly and yowling like an angry cat, still sounding pretty pissed off. Technoblade is just standing there, making friends, Like the fox guy didn’t grab him by the back of the shirt, and nearly choke him out. 

 

Over a fucking. Cow! Like a goddamn psycho! 

 

Then, the fox guy’s ear twitches in his direction, because of fucking course it does, and the look on his face turns murderous.

 

Technoblade follows his gaze to Tommy, standing a little ways away like a deer in headlights. The expression on his face cycles through all seven stages of grief before finally settling on grim acceptance. When the fox guy takes off towards him with a snarl on his face, he lumbers behind. 

 

So, Tommy does the logical thing. He turns on his heel, and immediately sprints in the opposite direction.

 

Fuck, fuck FUCK FUCK-

 

Ice-cold terror slams into his chest, like he’s been thrown in an electrified ice-bath. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears, drowning out everything else. He pumps his arms, shoving past aliens and dancers alike as he barrels through the crowd, politeness be damned. 

 

He fucked up. He fucked up big time. Apparently, Technoblade and the fucking fox guy are friends, or some shit. He made the first real allies he’s had in months and he went out and fucked it all up! Over a fucking cow! 

 

He needs to think, he needs to think fast!

 

Circling around won’t work twice, and if Technoblade’s on his side, he can’t use him as a shield anymore, which fucking sucks. 

 

Maybe he can find Phil? 

 

He tries to look over the crowd for broad, feathered wings, but it’s no use. Phil is a few inches shorter than he is, there’s no fucking way he’ll be able to find him in this crowd. He’ll be caught way before then. Besides, who says Phil would be on his side anyways? 

 

He’s on his own. Like always. 

 

He needs to get away. Maybe he can stash the cow somewhere and say he lost it, and then get it later? Maybe if he gives Technoblade time to cool off he’ll be able to talk him into keeping it? 

 

He can’t find it in him to stop running. Something hot and animalistic burning under his skin, the instinct to run, run, run too loud to do anything but obey. He can’t get caught, not again. He scans the crowd desperately, grasping for a way out, an actual plan-

 

He doesn’t notice the smaller alien in his path until he bowls them over.

 

They both hit the ground hard, him landing on their chest and sending them both sprawling in a mess of limbs. They crash into each other with enough force to make his head spin , brain knocking around in his skull . He pushes up onto his hands, looking down in shock at whoever the fuck he just knocked over. 

 

The alien blinks up at him, looking just as shocked.

 

They stare at him with wide eyes, one a honey brown, the other a vivid green. Both are framed by thick, fluffy-looking dark hair. Two antennas poke through, both black and decidedly moth-like. The yellow and brown stripes on his jacket and fluff on the collar are a bit more bee-like, though. 

 

“Um.” They say, at the same time he says, “ Oh.”

 

...He forgets he’s being chased for a moment, until he hears the sound of pounding footsteps and the angry shouts of the fox shopkeeper. 

 

Oh yeah, he was kind of in the middle of something. Fuck. He needs to get the fuck out of here and fast-

 

The alien blinks at him. “Are they after you?”

 

“Uh-“ He says dumbly. 

 

They don’t look mad, though. They just tilt their head and smile, eyes gleaming. “I know a place to hide. Help me up?”

 

He jumps back, realizing that he’s still on to of them, and actively being chased, scrambling upright on limbs still trembling with adrenaline. He offers them a hand and a shaky grin as the angry shouts get closer. “I’m Tommy.”

 

“I’m Tubbo, he/him!” They, uh, he, chirps back, accepting the hand. 

 

It slots into his like a puzzle piece, and he pulls him easily to his feet like he weighs nothing at all. Tubbo wastes no time in wrapping his hand around his wrist, already tugging him off to the left, more firmly than you’d expect from someone so light.

 

He grins, the gleam in his eyes more than a little maniacal. “I steal from Fundy at least once a week, and he hasn’t caught me yet. This way!”

 

And the fuck is he supposed to say no to that?

 

The shouts are getting closer, the shopkeeper, Fundy, apparently, right on their heels. The thundering of footsteps is just getting louder. It’s either follow the stranger, Tubbo, or give up Henry II, and he’d already decided that he’d rather die.

 

He grins back, sharp and feral, and tightens his grip on Tubbo’s hand. When the alien darts through the crowd, he follows on his heels.




-




A few hours later, a Piglin, an Elytran, and Vulpian stand at an abandoned market stall.

 

The sun has begun to set, painting the normally orange sky of the trade moon Bezzar a soft lilac. The marketplace is mostly closed for the evening, the shopkeepers and dancers having already turned in for the night. A few stalls are still open, a handful of patrons drifting here and there, but compared to earlier, it’s pretty much a ghost town. 

 

Any lingering patron that drifts close to the stall selling “Authentic Earth Artifacts!” turns around very quickly once they catch a glimpse of the expression on the Elytran’s face.

 

The Piglin has a firm hand on the back of the Vulpian’s neck, like it’s the only thing keeping him from running away. His big red ears are pinned guiltily to the sides of his head, tail curled around his leg. He keeps his gaze firmly on his shoes. 

 

Said Piglin looks equally cowed, also unable to meet the Elytran’s eye. His ears are hidden by his hood, but to anyone paying close enough attention to spot them, they’re folded closely against his skull. He, too, shuffles guiltily in place. 

 

The Elytran paces, great wings spread and bristling in irritation. He looks down at his comn, tapping at the screen much harder than necessary, and both of the others flinch at the sound. He rubs at his temple with the other hand, fingers coming to rest on the angry scrunch between his eyebrows as he sighs out his nose. 

 

“You lost him.” He says, for the hundredth time this evening. The defeat and disappointment in his voice is much worse than the angry, frantic shouting from before. Both of them wince. 

 

The Piglin shuffles awkwardly. “...It was Fundy’s fault.”

 

“It was not!” The Vulpian, Fundy, snaps, turning on the Piglin with his sharp teeth bared. “He stole from me! I was just trying to get it back!”

 

“He stole a cow.” The Piglin deadpans back. “You didn’t need to chase him like that.”

 

The Vulpian makes a growling sound low in the back of his throat, the Piglin responding with a similar noise deep in his chest. They glare at each other, nerves already frayed from spending most of the afternoon at each other’s throats.

 

The Elytran cuts them both off with a shout. “ I don’t care who’s fault it was!”

 

Immediately, they both go quiet, but the Elytran isn’t finished.

 

He flashes his wings angrily, instinctively spreading them wide to make himself look bigger. The look in his eyes is ice-cold, with a distinctly disappointed edge that has them both bowing their heads. The “I’m not angry, just disappointed,” look is hard to master, but the Elytran has it down to a T. 

 

“As far as I’m concerned,” He says stormily. “You’re both at fault. It’s already dark, and we still haven’t found him. He could have been hurt, or kidnapped, and is probably scared out of his mind because he’s never been to this city before!”

 

Both of them keep their heads bowed, the Vulpian flinching back at the harshness in his tone, and the Piglin’s gaze still firmly on his boots. 

 

The Elytran looks for a moment like he’s about to continue, but he’s interrupted by a quiet buzz from his comn. He wastes no time in pulling up the message and scanning it, but whatever he reads just makes him deflate.

 

“Wilbur and Niki haven’t seen him.” He says in a flat voice, shoving the comn in his pocket. “He might’ve gone back to the ship, so I’m going to check there. I want you two to keep looking.”

 

They both nod, the Vulpian frantically, the Piglin solemnly, and the Elytran takes off into the sky in a solid flap of his great wings. A few more flaps, and he’s disappeared over their heads, weaving expertly in between rooftops and out of sight. 

 

As soon as he’s gone, the Piglin releases his hold on the scruff of the Vulpian’s neck.

 

Said Vulpian wastes no time darting out of reach, shooting him one last glare before slinking off into the dark to search on his own.

 

The Piglin watches him go, ruby gaze piercing in the dark. He sighs heavily,  giving his head a shake and shoving his hands in his coat pockets before turning and lumbering off to search in the opposite direction.

 

Neither of them spot the two teens sharing fruit on a nearby rooftop. 

 

They don’t notice the others below, in turn, the taller of the two happily biting into his share and smearing juice all over his face. The shorter one laughs at his expression once he notices the taste, and the taller one nearly knocks them both off of the roof tackling him. Why would they? Tucked up there out of sight, laughing quietly to one another. Even the Elytran who flew right over their spot wouldn’t have been able to see them.

 

That’s fine with the two teens. They didn’t want to be seen, anyways. 































Notes:

More clingy duo in the next chapter, I cannot WAIT. As always, feel free to scream at me on my Tumblr! I finished this late at night and in a rush, so please call out any errors or spelling mistakes. I'll be doing more editing tomorrow.

 

As always, be safe, loves. I’ll see you next Thursday, yeah?

 

-Matches

Chapter 4: Here we are, just Runaways

Summary:

Tubbo, doing parkour stunts off buildings for fun: ANARCHY! ANARCHY ANARC-
Tommy, just along for the ride: I don't even know what that means but I love it!

Notes:

"I've got the tendency to slip when the nights get wild, It's in my blood.
She says she might just runaway somewhere else, some place good. We can't wait 'til tomorrow."
-Runaways, The Killers

 

Clingy duo stans, come get your juice. Happy Thursday!

As always, a shout out to my wonderful friend and beta Mars, and an extra shout out to all of my Tumblr anons! To really get into the feel of the chapter, I’d recommend listening to this fics Playlist, here. All of the title songs are there!

This picks up right where Tommy's POV left off. It's a fun one, but make sure you double check the trigger warnings just in case!

 

TWS: Past child abuse + abandonment and all the fun things that come with. Vague mention of suicide.

—A quick reminder that Tommy is an unreliable narrator!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

So, it turns out Tubbo is a fucking maniac.

 

Tommy’s not complaining too much, though, considering he’s a maniac and the only thing keeping him from getting caught, so. 

 

Beggars can’t be choosers. 

 

Tubbo tugs him down a side alley, just off of the main market square. And look, he’s not stupid, alright. He’s well aware that following strangers down dark alleys is probably not the best decision, but the alternatives aren’t much better. He can still hear fox guy’s shouts of frustration, and the slapping of boots against stone is still right on their heels.

 

So, when Tubbo yanks him down a dark alley and shoves him towards a shittily made fire escape, he does the logical thing and starts fucking climbing.

 

“Go, go, go!” Tubbo hisses from behind him, urging him up the metal stairs. “Hurry!”

 

“I’m going!” He hisses back, as loud as he dares with the shopkeeper and Technoblade still so close.

 

His hands grab on to the cold metal railing, and he practically throws himself up the stairs. Oh god, he does not like the way the whole thing shifts and groans underneath them both. His stomach gives an awful lurch when he nearly misses a stair, and if it wasn’t for Tubbo grabbing him by the back of the coat and pushing him onwards, he probably would have tipped over the railing.

 

He swallows hard and keeps going.

 

He’s never had a problem with heights, but with the way the fire escape is shuddering, he’s very careful to only look ahead and not over the edge. He looks up the stairs to the next landing, and freezes, hands scrabbling for a tighter hold on the rails. His outstretched foot dangles into thin air, and he’s quick to yank it back to solid ground. The stairs just fucking stop .

 

It’s a long, long way down to the bottom. If he hadn’t looked he’d be nothing more than a smudge on the pavement. 

 

“Curses.” Tubbo mutters from behind him. “I always forget that this one ends here.”

 

Tommy opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off when the fire escape gives another awful shudder. He grips the railings so hard his knuckles turn white, looking back at Tubbo with wide eyes. “ What the fuck was that?!”

 

They both freeze when it shakes again, a loud voice screeching up at them from the bottom of the stairs as the fox guy starts to fucking climb. “I see you! Get down here!”

 

Tubbo curses under his breath, shoving past Tommy so they’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the very lip of the landing. He’s always been a big fan of this little thing called personal space, but Tubbo apparently never got the memo. He clings to Tommy’s arm, looking around wildly for a way out. 

 

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Tommy curses under his breath, his heart pounding loud on his ears. “What the fuck do we do?!”

 

Tubbo looks straight ahead, mouth set in a determined line. “We’re going to have to jump.”

 

“Jump?!”

 

“That balcony!” He points. Tommy cranes his neck to follow his hand. 

 

It’s in front of them, a little ways down. He wouldn’t have noticed it if Tubbo hadn’t pointed it out. A half-moon structure jutting out from the side of a crumbling building, railings already broken. He might’ve suggested the same thing if wasn’t six feet below them, and on the other side of the fucking alley. That’s at least a ten foot gap, and he’s low balling it. 

 

“I’ve done it loads of times,” he continues, “We jump to that balcony, and from there we can get to that roof up there.”

 

“Are you fucking insane?!” He demands, clutching tight to his arm when the fire escape gives another shudder, personal space can get fucked . “There’s no way we can make that!”

 

There’s wind in his hair, the alleyway below disappearing into shadow like it’s the fucking void. The fox guy is just getting closer, making the fire escape shake and tremble as he slips on the stairs, shouting and growling all the while. Tubbo has one arm wrapped tight around his, and he can feel the rabbiting of his heart through his jacket. He looks up, the roaring of his own heartbeat and frantic breathing in his ears blocking out everything else. He can see other rooftops from here, all gilded in the orange and gold of the midday sun. It’d be a lot prettier if he wasn’t about to fucking die. 

 

Then, Tubbo does the wierdest fucking thing.

 

He grabs Tommy by the shoulders and whirls him around, pulling him down so they’re nearly nose-to-nose. His duel-toned eyes, one emerald green, one honey brown, bore into his. 

 

He says, “Do you trust me?”

 

Tommy gapes at him. “ I just met you!?”

 

“Not important,” he insists, as the fox guy reaches the landing just beneath him. The hands grabbing tight to the collar of his coat are shaking slightly, antennae drooping into his hair. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Y-yeah,” he stammers out. For some weird reason, he does. “Yeah, big man, I trust you.”

 

Tubbo grins, blinding as the sun. “Great. On three.”

 

“What-“

 

Tubbo turns him around again so they’re both facing the gap, still holding his hand in an iron-clad grip so he can’t back out,  “One…”

 

The pounding of feet just gets louder, the fox guy only a few steps away from their landing. His heart is in his throat, adrenaline filling his veins with pure electricity as Tubbo shifts back into a better stance. “Two…”

 

He takes a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bends his knees, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. He can practically feel fox guy’s hot breath on the back of his neck, clawed hands closing around his collar-

 

“Three!”

 

He jumps.

 

For a minute he’s weightless, the wind in his face, Tubbo’s sweaty hand tight in his. He feels like he’s flying. 

 

Then, they hit the balcony. 

 

The rough terracotta is harsh against his palms, and they collapse in a tangled mess of legs and sharp elbows. Tubbo managed to roll with the impact, nearly breaking Tommy’s arm in the process, but he wasn’t as lucky. His shoulder and the side of his leg are scraped to bits where he had slid, palms already bleeding as he tries to push himself to his feet. 

 

There’s an angry howl from behind him, and he whips back around. 

 

The fox man is standing on the edge of the fire escape, gripping the iron railings and snarling. His tail lashes angrily from side to side, but Tommy can’t hear whatever he’s shouting over the rushing in his ears. They’d made it.

 

He stares wide-eyed at the gap they had just cleared, heart still pounding in his chest. 

 

They had made it. Holy fucking shit, they made it!

 

Tubbo grabs his hand, yanking him roughly to his feet and hissing in his ear, “Don’t just sit there, c’mon!”

 

He lets himself be yanked along, stumbling upright on shaking legs. He pauses for a half second, just long enough to give the fox guy a feral grin and a jaunty two fingered salute. He’s fucking Tommyinnit! As if he’d ever get caught by a fucking furry! 

 

Tubbo scales the half-broken railing with ease, jumping down onto the next roof in a practiced sweep of his legs. The familiar rush of adrenaline keeps him from even feeling his scraped hands as he’s dragged along. He makes the same jump, though it’s a lot less graceful. He’s had plenty of practice running from the cops back on earth, and jumping over fences isn’t too different from this, really. 

 

Tubbo moves across rooftops and balconies like an alley cat, balancing on railings and jumping from roof to roof with ease. He’s a bit more careful, but follows as close as he’s able, free arm pumping at his side. The howls fade quickly, but the thrill of a close call hasn’t quite worn off, leaving him breathless and shaky.

 

Holy fucking shit! He can’t believe he made that jump, that was fucking ridiculous! 

 

“Watch your step.” Tubbo warns, jumping down from the roof they're on to a lower one. He offers Tommy a hand and a grin, “I think we’re safe now.”

 

He doesn’t step down as much as he pounces, bowling Tubbo over in the process.

 

He’s breathless, a rough laugh bursting out of his throat all the while, the pounding in his chest sounding more and more like victory. They collapse in a pile, just like before, Tubbo’s elbow digging into his ribs, his arm around his shoulders. He hasn’t let go of his hand, and it’s hot and sweaty in his, the late afternoon sun painting their silhouettes in gold. His friend has to squint to look at him, antennae twitching, and he can’t help it. He throws his head back against the concrete and just laughs. 

 

“Holy fuck. ” He gasps out between breaths, “Tubbo, you’re a fucking mad man.”

 

Tubbo just grins at him, laughing in the same breathless way, hair a mess and cheeks ruddy. There’s a familiar glint in his eyes when he meets his gaze. “Wanna know a secret?”

 

He lays his head back against the roof, concrete cool on his skin. “Sure.”

 

“I’ve never made that jump before.” He giggles, flopping down on his back. “I just said that so you would do it.”

 

Tommy gapes. “You dickhead!”

 

Tubbo just throws his head back again, the same wheezing laugh pouring out of him like music, and he can’t quite find it in him to be mad. They had made it, after all. Perfectly intact too, other than a matching set of scraped knees. 

 

He bats at him anyways, elbowing him in the ribs just to make him squawk. The gesture comes easy, the lazy, half-hearted play fighting as natural as breathing. His hand doesn’t burn where Tubbo had touched it, the close proximity doesn’t make his skin itch the way it normally would. It’s comfortable.

 

...When was the last time he’d let someone touch him like this? The last time he held hands with someone just for the hell of it? Hell, he’s only just met the guy, but there’s something about him that puts Tommy at ease. 

 

Maybe it’s the fact he hasn’t spoken to anyone his age in months. Maybe it’s how soft his face looks, he doesn’t exactly look like a threat, with soft hair and big, round eyes. 

 

Maybe it’s just the fact that he was willing to help him before he even knew his name. 

 

They’re both still coming down off the adrenaline rush, that close call thrill just barely wearing off. the exhaustion of running across the market square and across buildings is finally catching up. It’s not too long before they’re both laying flat on their backs, still breathing heavily. He doesn’t mind laying there at all, the rooftop is cool, the late afternoon sky a deep orange, lavender at the corners. The wind is still warm, buffeting his face and combing through his hair. It’s nice. Relaxing, even. 

 

Then, Tubbo jolts, going stiff like he’d been electrocuted. He turns over to face him quick, realization written all over his face. “Wait a minute, you know earth slang!”

 

He freezes. 

 

Aw, fuck. Well, it was good while it lasted. “Uh. Yeah.” 

 

Tubbo brushes right over the dumb response, his two-toned eyes lighting up. “That’s so cool. Have you been learning English too?”

 

He winces, hoping it’s not too obvious. “...Something like that.”

 

So cool!.” Tubbo breathes out, moving right along, and Tommy feels himself relax just a little more.

 

It’s fine. This is fine. They’re in the middle of space, and he’s still got the grease scales drawn on his face, even if his hood is down. There’s no way he’d just assume he was human. 

 

The other boy doesn’t even seem to notice how stiff he’s gotten, looking at him with stars in his eyes as he rambles on. “Fundy keeps making fun of me for it, but I keep telling him he should learn it too.”

 

He blinks. “Fundy?”

 

“The one who was chasing us.” 

 

“You know him?”

 

“You don’t?” He tilts his head, and something about that look is just a little too clever for comfort, and he feels himself stiffen. “He sets up the same Earth stall on market days.”

 

“I-I’ never been here before.” He stammers out, quick, think of a explanation-

 

“Oh, that’s cool.” The look is gone a second later, that same trusting smile back in place like it had never left. He gestures to the poorly drawn scales on his face, “You're a Merling, right? Are you from Viona? I have a friend from there.”

 

“No.” He blurts. “I’m from, uh.”

 

Think of a place, you idiot! 

 

“...Pogtopia.”

 

Tubbo blinks, tilting his head like a confused dog. “Where’s that?”

 

“You wouldn’t know,” He blurts out again. Fucking, Pogtopia? Really? He couldn’t have thought of something better? “...it’s really far from here.”

 

“Oh. Okay!”

 

He just. Accepts it. Tubbo takes his awkward replies in stride, and he nearly collapses with relief when he doesn’t press him further, thank god. 

 

He stands, then, turning back to Tommy with an outstretched hand and a smile. “Well, if you’ve never been to Bezzar before, how about I give you the grand tour?”

 

“You don’t have to-“ he starts, but then Tubbo’s hand grabs his, tugging him easily to his feet. If it had been anyone else, he’d yank his hand back with a snarl, but the hand in his is small and firm. He can’t find it in him to break the grip. 

 

“Of course I do!” He beams, grin nearly blinding. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

 

“...Yeah.” He finds himself saying. To his own surprise, he realizes he’s grinning back. 

 

“Yeah, big man. I guess we are.” 



-



Tubbo walks along rooftops and railings with more confidence and grace than Tommy will ever have.

 

He’s not careful about it, either. He jogs and hops right up against the edge with no problem at all. For most of the roofs, this works just fine. The rooftops at this height are old, square things, flat except for a sandstone railing along the edge. It’s about a foot wide, so walking along it doesn’t give exactly Tommy vertigo. 

 

The others, though, are a different story.

 

There are a hundred different rooftops in Bezzar, in a hundred different styles. Some are a bit more familiar, triangle-shaped with tiles or shingles, while others are a bit more out there. Domes, pyramids, and rooftop gardens seem to be especially popular, and more than a few have fucking foundations. 

 

You can’t tell from the ground, but from where they walk, it’s easy to pick out the different layers. Like the world's strangest triple-layer cake. 

 

The sandstone buildings are the oldest, clearly, the ones with flat roofs. The brick and wood buildings are a bit newer, the shining steel and glass ones the newest. They’re built on top of one another for the most part, and not neatly. There’s just enough of a gap where one layer ends and the next layer starts to walk along, if you’re careful. The buildings are so close together that getting from one to the other is easy, most of the time you don’t even have to jump.

 

It’s incredible . Like a whole secret highway. He’d bet anything that Tubbo could get from one end of the city to the other without ever touching the ground. 

 

He leads him along the edge of the sandstone roofs. It’s the very bottom layer, only two or three stories from the streets below, but it feels so much higher. The aliens below look like ants, trotting along in colorful lines and groups.

 

The noise filters up, but it’s faint. Just white noise, distant laughter and chatter, comforting, and easy to block out.

 

They’re clearly not the only ones using the rooftops to get around. Boards of wood have been laid across gaps in certain places to make makeshift bridges, the railings of balconies sanded down or broken off to make getting from roof to roof easier. 

 

The wind is warm on his face, late afternoon sun hot on his back. He walks along the edge of a building with confidence, he’s no coward, even if he has to avoid looking down, but Tubbo takes it to a whole different level. 

 

“I grew up here.” He explains, tip-toeing along the edge of a thin metal balcony railing, arms spread for balance. His tone is casual, like he’s not seconds away from going splat on the streets below. “Most people don’t stay on Bezzar for more than a season, but I’ve been here my whole life.” 

 

He turns to Tommy, then, who’s standing a few feet away on a broad, flat surface , thank you very much. His grin is a little more than just feral. “I know these rooftops better than anyone.”

 

And Tommy believes him. 

 

He leads the way, having long-since let go of his hand in favor of pointing things out on the streets below. They’re a good ways from the market square, now, but the amount of street-side vendors and people walking the streets below hasn’t changed much. He gestures happily to shops and restaurants, talking all the while about his favorite places. He’s long since given up on trying to follow his hand to see what he’s pointing out, everything just sort of blends together, from this far up. 

 

Tubbo leans over the edge, and Tommy has to cross his arms to keep from grabbing him by the back of the jacket and hauling him back. 

 

He doesn’t even notice, laughing all the while as he points. “And that restaurants great! The owners real nice, I’d avoid that one, though.”

 

His whole face is lit up, the sun catching in his hair and his duel-toned eyes. He looks. Right. Like he belongs in this place, along these rooftops. He fits right into the colorful chaos of the city, and it suits him. 

 

“That shop sells Earth streams, ah, Movies. That’s the English word for it, you know.” He puffs out his chest a little grinning all the while. “I’m a bit of an Earth expert.”

 

Tommy can’t help but snort. “An expert, huh?”

 

“Yep!” He balances on one foot, just to make Tommy wince. “The council releases new Earth Movies every month, that’s what humans call cycles, by the way. And I’ve seen-“ 

 

Then, he goes stiff, and the image shatters. 

 

“Shit.” He hisses under his breath, ducking down behind the railing. “Get down!”

 

He blinks, squinting at the crowd below, but all he sees is just. People. Walking, chatting, drifting in pairs or groups. He can’t see anything amiss, The fuck, what the hell does he see-

 

A hand goes tight around the back of his coat, forcing his head down. “I said down!”

 

“Okay, okay!” He gives in, letting himself be manhandled so he’s crouching next to his new best friend, apparently. Said best friend looks a lot paler than he did before, wide-eyed and tense. He peers carefully over the ledge again, cursing under his breath. “He’s never followed me this far, what the hell did you take?”

 

“He’s still following us?!” Tommy hisses, lifting his head to try and get a better look before Tubbo drags him back down again.

 

“What part of stay down do you not understand?!”

 

“Why the hell is he still after us?!” He snarls back. He’d gotten a better look that time, able to catch a glimpse of ears and a red tail in the throng of people, and his blood turns to ice. “What is his problem?”

 

“What. Did. You. Take?”

 

He whips his head around to glare at Tubbo, who glares right back, the air between them suddenly frosty. Hesitantly, he reaches his hand into his bag.

 

Henry the Second looks just as magnificent as he did the first time Tommy laid eyes on him. He sits neatly in his palm, roughly the size of his hand. He looks up at the both of them, his mismatched button eyes and the sloppy stitching of his face giving him a sad, mournful expression. He looks a bit like he’d been made by a half-blind grandmother with horrible arthritis who’s never actually seen a cow in person, but none of that matters because to Tommy, he’s absolutely perfect. 

 

Tubbo doesn’t seem to share the same opinion, staring at Henry the Second with his mouth hanging open. “He chased us halfway across Bezzar for a horse?”

 

Tommy bristles. “He’s a cow!”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” He rambles on, completely ignoring him and tugging on his hair as he peers over the ledge again. “Fundy’s a bit of a bastard, sure, but that’s- shit!”

 

“What?”

 

“I think he saw me. We’ve gotta go!”

 

Tubbo’s on his feet in an instant, taking off across the roof and leaving Tommy in the dust. He scrambles upright a half-second after he does, shoving Henry in his bag and lunging after his friend.

 

Said friend disappears over the side of the roof in a sweep of legs, only to pop his head back up and furiously wave Tommy over. “This way!”

 

He follows, arms pumping furiously at his sides as he clears the edge of the roof, dropping down onto the fire escape below. Tubbo doesn’t give him any time to regain his footing before he’s taking off again, thundering down the stairs and jumping over the iron railing to a different rooftop like it’s nothing. 

 

He takes a deep breath, the air thick and smelling of strange spices, smoke, and something else, sharp, fresh and clean. Like wildflowers. He makes a quick prayer to whatever gods are out there, and follows his friend over the railing.




-





“You lost him?”

 

“He’s fast!”

 

The Merling puts her fingers to her temples like she’s fighting off a migraine, and sighs through her nose. 

 

The pink comn sitting in front of her on the kitchen table goes silent on the other end, as the alien she’s talking to senses that it’s probably a good idea to be quiet.

 

“He’s with Tubbo.” She says, slowly. “You know Tubbo. Can you think of anywhere he would have taken him?”

 

It’s silent, for a moment, then, “I have an idea, it’s all the way across town, though.”

 

She glares at the comn. “Then you better start moving. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Phil so worried, once he hears that it was you that started this whole mess…”

 

She trails off. It’s quiet as the other alien swallows. Hard. “I’m going, I’m going.”

 

“Good.” She nods to herself, satisfied. “I’ll be at the bakery in case they come back, and everyone else is out looking all over Bezzar. This city is only so big, they’ll turn up soon.”

 

“...Unless they get kidnapped.”

 

“They weren’t kidnapped.” She huffs. “Tubbo’s been running around this city since he could walk. Phil’s kid couldn’t be with anyone better.”

 

She’s certain of it, that much is clear in her voice. 

 

“Bezzar isn’t safe anymore, Niki! ” The other alien snaps, a slight growl in his voice as it takes on a more panicked edge. “You know what happened to Ranboo, there’s no telling-“

 

“Enough.”

 

The voice goes quiet. When the Merling looks back at the comn, her eyes are cold as ice, as if she could glare it into submission.

 

“Just focus on finding the kids.” Her voice is clipped, stern. Leaving no room for argument.

 

The voice doesn’t reply, and the feed cuts out. 





-






They run for what feels like hours.

 

This fox guy is nothing if not persistent. It feels like everytime they stop to catch their breath, there he is. He’s caught glimpses of the others, too, a flash of wings, pink hair, or a black leather jacket out of the corner of his eye.

 

Tubbo doesn’t give him time to dwell on it.

 

He’s watched videos of people doing stupid parkour stunts online. They always made it look so easy, scaling brick buildings and doing effortless back flips from rooftop to rooftop like they’re fucking Spider-Man. The reality of jumping from building to building is a lot less glamorous. 

 

He’s hot, panting like he’s been running a marathon and sweating like a pig in the heavy coat, both hands and knees scraped bloody. The boots he’s wearing are a size too big, and make keeping up with Tubbo a lot harder than it needs to be, his bag swinging against his side. 

 

The good thing about running for your life is that it doesn’t leave you with a lot of time to think about things. He has to stay focused, watch carefully where he puts his hands and feet. Every footstep he takes puts more and more distance from the people who saved him, the ones who promised they’d take him home, but the moment he stops to think about it for more than a second, Tubbo is right there dragging him along again. 

 

“Up here!”

 

Speaking of Tubbo.

 

It’s darker now, the sky painted a soft lavender, the city lights blinking on and the stars just starting to appear in the dusty skies. 

 

His friend looks no worse for wear. He’s not panting nearly as hard as Tommy, dark brown hair a tousled mess, both antennae twitching happily. He grins like a madman as he hangs out an open window, offering him a hand. Hell, he’s already getting chased by a fox, might as well add on the BNE charge while they’re at it.

 

He takes the hand, wincing as it puts pressure on his scraped palms, and lets himself be yanked through the window. 

 

“And you’re sure we lost him?” He pants, once both of his doors are planted firmly on the floor. 

 

Tubbo nods, his grin a flash of white in the dark. He tugs him along, still, looking far to cheerful about it, and barely even sweating. Prick . “Positive. Nobody knows about this place but me. This way!”

 

What else is he gonna do? He follows. 

 

It’s a pretty good sized room. It’s clearly been abandoned for a long, long time, with cobwebs in the higher corners and the general coating of grime and dust that comes from disuse. He can make out the dark shapes of furniture along the walls, light creeping in through cracks in the boarded up windows. 

 

He spins around, looking up. 

 

The ceiling yawns far, far above his head, cracked and pocketed with holes. There’s a mildew smell to the air, a smell he’s pretty familiar with, making him wrinkle his nose. The breeze flowing in through the open window smells sharp and fresh in comparison. 

 

Tubbo drifts over to one wall, fiddles with something, and the lights come on. 

 

They’re fairy lights. Well, not exactly, but close enough. The alien version, he guesses, strung a few feet above Tommy’s head. He blinks a few times, forcing his eyes to adjust. 

 

It looks… Smaller, with the lights on. More lived in. There’s a collection of blankets and pillows in one corner, two sleeping bags on top, only one of them unzipped. A few nearby storage crates are filled with books, trinkets and half-finished projects. A stack of what looks like game cartridges balances precariously on a three-legged table, A few clothes haphazardly piled up over to the side.

 

Tubbo gestures with an offhand, grinning all the while. “Pretty cool, huh?” 

 

It’s a room. It’s Tubbo’s room.

 

He follows dumbly when Tubbo leads him in further, trying to resist the urge to snoop through his stuff. He’d hate it if someone came into his room and started putting their hands all over his shit, so he keeps both of his own firmly in his pockets, and keeps to just looking around. 

 

It’s not too bad, all things considered. He’s definitely stayed in worse houses when he was in the system, and Tubbo’s done a good job of clearing out most of the grime from the places he can reach. The fairy lights are a warm yellow, that paired with the blankets giving everything a cozy feel. If you squint, it almost looks just like any normal teenage boys room, complete with dirty laundry on the floor and empty water bottles near the bed. Still, though, no amount of posters and hanging lights can disguise the fact that it’s very clearly an abandoned building. 

 

And, look.

 

Tubbo’s nice. Tommy’s met his fair share of jaded foster kids and runaways, he knows the type. Kids like that don’t trust as easily as Tubbo does. They sure as hell wouldn’t help a random stranger, and they definitely wouldn’t bring them back to where they keep all of their stuff.

 

He watches Tubbo as he walks around his room, the fairy lights lighting up his soft face and big, round eyes. He’s bouncing on his feet with excitement, constantly looking back to judge Tommy’s reaction to the things in his room.

 

He’s the poster child for sad orphans everywhere, the kind of kid who’d get adopted by a millionaire, or at the very least a nice couple. And yet. 

 

He’s… Alone. Cheery as all hell, with a smile like the sun coming out, and willing to help a person he just met just. Because.

 

And he’s. Alone. 

 

He’s. Confusing. 

 

...There’s something else that’s bothering him about it, too, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. 

 

His gaze catches on the second sleeping bag.

 

He can’t quite muster up the nerve to ask before Tubbo’s already tugging him over to the shelves that line one of the walls, pointing excitedly at one of the posters. It’s a tacky thing, for some movie he’s never heard of. It’s probably an alien thing, judging by the looks of the main cast, almost all of which are sporting scales or fluffy ears. 

 

“I stole that one from Fundy!” He laughs, eyes lighting up at the memory. Then, he points to a different one closer to a pile of books, he has to squint to make it out. “And that other one’s from a different merchant, I got it half off.”

 

He reads the title of the half off poster, and he freezes. 

 

It’s… embarrassingly cheesy. The main characters driving their red mustang into the camera, an explosion in the background. 

 

But he. He recognizes that poster.

 

The movie had come out years ago, one of those straight to dvd, bottom of the barrel kind of movies. He’d watched it at one of the foster homes, and swiped it when they weren’t paying attention. 

 

It was your generic bad 80’s movie, taking place in some shitty little desert town that bore an eerie resemblance to the one he’d lived in. Lots of bad rock and roll music and awful special effects, with some half-assed plot about an alien invasion. The main character was irritatingly stupid, and the actress that played the blonde-haired, blue-eyed love interest spent a lot of time looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Not to mention how stupid the ‘aliens’ looked.

 

Still, it’s just corny enough to be entertaining. The kind of movie you watch just to make fun of. 

 

It was Clara’s favorite movie, not that she’d ever admit it. 

 

...And that same feeling creeps back up on him again, the one that lead him to taking the stupid cow. That pit in his stomach, that ugly, lonely feeling. 

 

He doesn’t get long to wallow in it before Tubbo’s tugging at him again, grin as blinding as ever, and his antennae brush his cheek as he gets right up close to his face to look at the same poster. “Human Movies are so cool, huh? That one's super underground, I dunno if you’ve heard of it. But wait, I haven’t even shown you the best part yet!”

 

And he’s already moving, stepping up to one of the boarded up windows and shoving aside curtains, a bounce in his step. There’s a Tubbo-sized hole in the bottom corner, and he disappears through it, leaving Tommy scrambling to catch up, again. 

 

He gives the poster one last look, before. 

 

Then, he swallows the gross feeling back like he’s taking cough medicine, shakes his head to get rid of the aftertaste, and follows his friend through the opening.

 

No use wallowing in shit you can’t change. He’s gotta just. Keep moving. 

 

He has to duck a lot more than Tubbo to get through the stupid opening, and has watch his feet carefully to keep from falling flat on his face as he steps out onto the small metal balcony. Tubbo is right there to steady him, though, putting a hand on his arm and nearly vibrating with excitement. “What do you think?”

 

He looks up.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

The entire market is spread out underneath them, that and more. The entire city as far as the eye can see, straight off into the sky. It’s darker now, twilight fading into night, and the city of Bezzar underneath them absolutely glows.

 

There are lights set up in the square, glimmering over the people below like golden fireflies. Some vendors are packing up for the evening, but not all of them, and the market is still buzzing with aliens, shopping and chatting. A few are even still dancing, the musicians still set up in the center, and when the cool evening air blows against his face, he can hear it. That strange, violin-like music, the low rumbling of drums. He can just barely hear the laughter, too. The swirling of skirts is even more mesmerizing by starlight, and the swirl of colors and lights is something straight out of a dream. 

 

He looks up at the buildings framing the square, and to the rooftops he can just make out beyond. Some windows are lit, others black and gaping wide. A few aliens have stepped out onto their own balconies, lovers holding each other, neighbors wishing each other goodnight. 

 

Then, distant city, only just visible over and between buildings. It glimmers like a golden mirage in the distance, the dock where the Argo II is parked just a hint of metal between buildings. Stars shine brightly overhead in constellations he doesn’t know, ships passing in silver streaks like a meteor shower.

 

It's beautiful. 

 

Tubbo elbows his side. “Cool, huh?”

 

“Fucking pogchamp!” He bursts out, draping himself farther over the railing to get a better look, grinning like a madman all the while. 

 

Their balcony is a hidden one, tucked away in a corner where two buildings meet. Completely invisible to anyone below and above, yet they can see absolutely everything. It’s perfect. 

 

“Pogchamp?”

 

“Uh.” He stammers, the image abruptly broken. Shit . “ It means really cool, where I’m from.”

 

“Oh,” Tubbo blinks. “Pogchamp!”

 

Jesus Christ. He’s created a monster. 

 

A hand tightens on the back of his coat when he leans just a little too far, keeping him from toppling over into the market below. He can’t find it in him to care, too busy staring with his mouth open. “You can see the whole market from here!”

 

“Yeah, that’s why it’s the best spot.” Tubbo drifts from his side, rummaging over in a different corner of the balcony. He points, and this time he does try and follow his hand, “The docks are back that way, the upper city is behind us. It’s the second best view in all of Bezzar.”

 

He blinks. “The second?”

 

“I’d take you to the first, but I’m not allowed up there anymore.” He elbows him in the side, smiling like he’s sharing a secret. “The glass buildings are the only ones with security cameras.”

 

He brushes against his shoulder when he says it, and the touch doesn’t make him flinch like it would with anyone else. Then, In one swift move, he hoists himself up on the railing, sitting on the edge and letting his feet dangle on the other side, nearly giving Tommy a fucking heart attack.

 

“Jesus Christ!” He hisses through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of the back of his jacket. “Are you trying to die?!”

 

Tubbo just laughs, the sound filling the air like windchimes. “Relax, I do this all the time! You sound just like-“



Silence. 



Tubbo goes stiff all of a sudden, and his hands tighten around the railing as the name of whoever he was remembering dies on his lips. 

 

He’s quiet for a long moment, and the cold creeps in.

 

Tommy gives his jacket another firm tug. “...How about you come back down, yeah?”

 

He huffs, but he swings his legs back over and hops back down. His smile is back, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes the same way it had before. There’s something new there, taking up the same space. Something sad, something distant. He looks at Tommy, but it’s more through him than at him. 

 

“You sound like an old friend of mine, s’all.” He says, eventually. “They, um. They went missing a while ago.”

 

“...I’m sorry.” 

 

Tubbo huffs again. “Don’t be. They’d like you.” 

 

He gives his shoulder another brush, and looks off into the city again. His eyes don’t light up the same way, though, and he drifts from Tommy’s side back over to the window they’d come through. 

 

Tommy looks back at the market square below. It’s just as pretty as before, sure, but it looked a lot better when Tubbo was pointing things out with a smile on his face. The wind brushing through his hair feels a lot colder, all of a sudden. The stars a lot more far away. 

 

He wonders what happened to the two women he saw dancing, before. He hopes they’re someone warm on a night like this. 

 

...He hopes Tubbo’s friend is safe, too. Wherever they are.

 

“Here, catch!”

 

His hands fly up instinctively over his face before Tubbo’s even finished his sentence. He plucks the ball out of the air easily before it gets anywhere close to his nose, and turns it over distrustfully in his hands. It’s a little smaller than the palm of his hand, a deep purple and fuzzy, like a peach. 

 

He frowns. “What the hell is this?”

 

“Fruit.” Tubbo shrugs, not elaborating. His grin is back, and Tommy does not trust that smile. Not one bit. “Try it!”

 

He looks it over again, feeling it out. It’s about as heavy as a tennis ball, sitting neatly in his palm. As much as he doesn’t trust the mischievous look on his face, he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. 

 

He wouldn’t just outright poison him, not after going through all of that trouble. And, besides. It might make him feel better.

 

 Or something. 

 

He takes a bite, immediately spitting it out. 

 

What the fuck?!”

 

“Ahaha- you’re face!”

 

“You bitch!”

 

Watch the - ow!”




It’s a nice night, all things considered.





-





“-still haven’t found them?”

 

“No,” a deep voice says, the comns speaker making it even more growly than it is. “Fundy is checking the market again. I’m heading towards the upper city.”

 

The Merling frowns. She’s tapping her fingers nervously on the kitchen table, gaze darting to the clock on the wall.

 

“He’s never out this late.” She mutters under her breath, before turning back to the comn and speaking. “Phil and Wilbur?”

 

“Phil’s still at the docks in case they go back to the ship. Wilbur’s coming back to the bakery.”

 

She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

 

“I think he’s worried you’re going to dry out from stress.”

 

It’s not said like a joke, but she finds herself smiling anyways. One of her hands drifts to her necklace, a small, pretty shell on a gold chain. 

 

“I’ll be fine.” She says to whoever’s on the other line. “Just keep looking.”

 

The feed cuts out.





-





Midnight finds both boys still on the balcony, sprawled on their backs, stomachs full of the non-gross fruits Tubbo’s fond of. 

 

“-And apparently, humans used to worship giant cats.” 

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Then they built giant cat robots!”

 

“Cool.”



...They’ve been talking for a while.

 

Tommy doesn’t mind, though. He’s tired, hot, and sore, he just lets Tubbo’s voice wash right over him as he stares up at the black balcony roof. 

 

Tubbo talks a lot, and most of what he says is about humans. Now, he’s never been a big fan of history class, so this would be a lot more boring. If Tubbo wasn’t completely and utterly wrong about roughly half of it. The rest isn’t exactly wrong, per say, but it’s. Not quite right either. Like he’s describing the plot of a bad movie he’s only ever seen the posters for.

 

...Which might not be too far from the truth, actually.

 

Anyways, the so called human expert is more than happy to ramble on about “Earth History”, and Tommy’s happy enough to sit back and let him. 



“They all have blue blood too. Isn’t that cool?”

 

He yawns. “Super.”



He stretches lazily. The balcony is small, but the metal is nice and cool against his back, and there’s just enough room for him to lay down flat. It’s cooling off now that it’s dark, and now he’s actually pretty thankful for the heavy coat he’s wearing. He has Henry the Second propped up on his stomach, and he’s been toying with his little front legs for the past while to keep his fingers busy.

 

It’s a nice night. The city sparkles below them, chatter still audible in the distance, the rumbling of spaceships passing overhead sounds eerily like cars. 

 

He’s tired, but he’s content.

 

Which should have been his sign that everything was about to go to shit, really. 



Tubbo falls quiet for a moment. He’s laying on the balcony railing, all sprawled out on his back like a content house cat. He’s been tossing one of those little round fruits back and forth in his hands as he thinks, rambling sleepily about humans all the while. He keeps looking over at Tommy after everything he says to judge his reaction, to see how impressed he is with his vast human knowledge, probably. 

 

He’s been pretty good about not outright laughing, though he’d cut it pretty close once or twice. He’s been trying to teach him how to cuss for the past hour, under the excuse of the words being “cool human slang”, and he was more than happy to learn. Hearing him say “ cocksucker!” In that cheery voice of his is fucking hilarious. 

 

Besides, he’s smiling again, the moment on the balcony railing already forgotten. It’s nice. 

 

Then, he goes very, very still.

 

There’s a knock from somewhere inside Tubbo’s hideout, the sound of light footsteps across creaking floors as loud as gunshots in the stillness. “Tubbo? Are you up here?”

 

Fox guy. Shit. 

 

Tubbo’s on his feet in an instant, swinging off the railing and landing in a crouch near Tommy. His eyes are wide in the dark, face going pale and both antennae standing on end. He barely has time to shove Henry back in his bag before he’s yanked to his feet and ushered away from the window. 

 

“Who the hell is that?!” Tommy hisses. 

 

He gets a glare in response. “Shush! we’ve gotta hide! Quick!”

 

He whirls around, heart in his throat as he tries to find a way off the balcony that doesn’t involve breaking his neck. The darkness doesn’t help, most of the city's lights being off at this time of night, and he can barely make out his own hand in front of his face, Tubbo’s silhouette only barely visible in the starlight.

 

There’s a yank on his sleeve, “This way!”

 

Tubbo leads him to the edge of the balcony, hopping up on the railing and dropping down to the other side. Slowly, far too slowly, he toes his way down to the ledge of a stray brick sticking out below.

 

“What are you waiting for?!” He hisses up at Tommy. “Are you coming or not?”

 

The footsteps behind him only get louder.

 

He swallows, forcing himself to look ahead and not down, and follows his friend over the railing. The iron is ice-cold in his hands, and the ledge Tubbo’s standing on is only a few inches wide, the market square far, far below. He’d never survive a drop like that if he lost his footing. 

 

They both duck under the balcony. He grabs Tubbo by the arm for balance, ignoring the surprised squawk he gets in response. He slaps a hand over his mouth for good measure.

 

There’s a creak from above them as whoever was on their tail steps out onto the balcony, and a small shower of dust. They both stare up at it, not daring to move a muscle as the person looks around, each footstep impossibly loud on the cold metal.

 

After what feels like ages, The footsteps vanish, and they both nearly collapse in relief.

 

Tubbo tugs at him again, still keeping his voice low as he whispers in his ear, “I have a friend who lives near here. She’ll be asleep by now, she won’t even notice we’re there.”

 

He stares at him. “So you’re just gonna break in?!”

 

“Just come on-“





-





“-No sign of either of them.”

 

“Just keep looking.” The Merling says softly into the comn. The other alien pacing back and forth in the kitchen, a Phantling, looks over when she speaks. “Just. Just keep looking.”

 

The voice on the other side is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Have you heard back from Fundy?”

 

“Not yet.” Is her quiet reply. 

 

Another pause.

 

“You should get some sleep.”

 

“Not until I know he’s safe.” Is said more sternly than anything else so far, but the confidence peters off quickly. “...Its cold, tonight.”

 

The voice on the other side is silent, again, but it’s a warm kind of silence. “I’m circling back around again.”

 

She sighs. “Thank you, Techno.”

 

The Phantling wanders back over to her side, resting a hand on her shoulder. He tries to be comforting, but his hands are ice-cold. He looks just as nervous as she does. 

 

“I’m sure they’re fine.” He mutters, but the reassurance in his voice is clearly faked. “Tubbo’s a tough kid! They’ll be alright.”

 

She sighs again. “It’s not Tubbo I’m worried about.”



It’s quiet again, for a beat, before she continues.



“With him being… New, and all. Fundy’s right about Bezzar not being as safe as it used to be.”

 

Silence. 

 

“Tommy’s tougher than he looks.” The voice, Techno, speaks up gruffly. “He wouldn’t go down without a fight. We’d know.”



The feed cuts out.





-





It’s a long walk to Tubbo’s friend's place.



Well, not really. It’s only a few blocks away. It’s a long walk because most of it is down. 

 

Tubbo has no problem scaling down the sides of buildings like he’s a fucking mountian goat, but Tommy’s a lot less thrilled about the whole thing. The warm wind buffeting his face turned chilly hours ago, and trying to carefully step from ledge to ledge while freezing your ass off is not exactly a walk in the park. Especially since Tubbo has gloves to keep his fingers from freezing off, and he doesn’t. 

 

They’re avoiding the routes they took before, staying lower to the ground and climbing on the buildings themselves rather than across rooftops. It’s a hell of a lot harder, but with the way Tubbo’s glancing over his shoulder every ten seconds, he’s not about to ask why.

 

He… Trusts Tubbo. He probably trusts Tubbo more than he trusted the others. Tubbo’s never drugged him, for one, and he’s just. He’s got one of those faces, you know? He’s just a kid like him.

 

Besides, he’s risking his own skin to keep Tommy from getting caught, and trust is a two way street. Tubbo trusts him enough to give him a tour of his house and not to shove him off a building when he’s been irritating, Tommy trusts him enough not to ask questions. 

 

Some things are just better left to the imagination, anyways. He’s shaky enough as it is.

 

They’re still on the lower level, and the sandstone bricks are big and ugly enough to make good footholds if you watch your step. It’s a good workout, hauling yourself up and down the side of a fuckimg building. Like rockclimbing, except if you step in the wrong place, you go splat. Super fun. 

 

Tubbo’s ahead of him, which makes things a little easier. He just has to step where he does, and not look down, which is harder than it sounds.

 

The city Bezzar doesn’t sleep. Even at this time of night, the hanging lights between buildings still burn just as bright, the streets still filled with wandering aliens laughing and chatting with one another. A few shops and restaurants are even still open, patrons wandering around outside and through open, welcoming doors. 

 

More than a few of them sway on their feet. 

 

None of them look up. 

 

Finally, after what feels like fucking years of climbing, Tubbo leads him to a small window on the upper floor of a low brick building. 

 

It looks… Cute, for lack of a better word. It’s some kind of shop, judging by the big, broad windows out front and a sign he can’t read hanging over the door. There are flower boxes, too, pastel pink and blue blossoms and healthy green vines pouring out of them. It’s a little haphazard, but in a good way. It looks welcoming. 

 

The lowest windows have their curtains drawn, with a thin film of cheery yellow light leaking through, but the upper windows are pitch black. Somebody’s home, Tubbo’s friend, probably. 

 

He frowns. Tubbo better know what the fuck he’s doing.

 

He fidgets with the locked window for what feels like years, cursing under his breath. Just when Tommy’s about to shove him out the way and smash the dumb thing, he gets it open. He pushes it up, and it relents with a loud creak. He turns to Tommy then, gesturing with a hand and grinning. “Well?”

 

Fuck Tubbo, actually. 

 

Fuck this stupid city on this stupid trade moon. Fuck space in general. Fuck the stupid fox guy and his anger management issues. Fuck every decision that’s lead him to this current moment, actually, except for stealing Henry the Second, because Henry the Second is perfect. 

 

Anyways .

 

He has to physically swallow the urge to call Tubbo every insult he knows, and goes in through the window first. Like a man. 



His boots hit carpet.

 

He stays low and poised to run, ears pricked for any sound of movement, other than Tubbo fucking around on the roof outside. It’s silent, and he lets himself relax, but only a little.

 

It’s dark, darker than it was outside, and he blinks furiously to try and get his eyes to adjust quickly. 

 

It’s... A bedroom. Incredibly plain, with just a bed, dresser, and a closet. They’re all nondescript colors, even in the dark he can tell they’re all in shades of inoffensive pastels, the carpet under his boots covering a simple wood floor. A spare bedroom, if he had to guess, judging by the musty smell in the air and lack of knickknacks and posters. 

 

It looks like a hotel room, and smells faintly like cinnamon rolls. 

 

It’s completely empty, though. He listens real close for a few more seconds, just in case, but there’s nothing. No movement from anywhere in the building. None that he can hear, anyways. 

 

He turns back to Tubbo, waving him in, “I think we’re in the clear-“

 

The lights come on.

 

Standing there in the doorway is a woman.

 

She’s pretty, with an apron over a blue dress, bubble-gum pink hair half-up, the rest cascading down her shoulders. There’s a seashell hanging from a golden chain around her neck, and when he meets her shocked gaze, the first thought he has is, oh, so that’s what Wilbur was going for. The grayish-pink scales freckling her face make the ones badly drawn on his look pathetic. 

 

“Uh,” He swallows. “‘ow do?”

 

She blinks. Once, twice, eyes swiveling between him and Tubbo like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Then, she says in disbelief, “...Tommy?”

 

He doesn’t get the chance to respond.

 

There’s a loud crash from somewhere below them, and the pounding of footsteps as someone races up the stairs. A dishelived Wilbur skids into the room like all of hell is on his tail, eyes wild when they finally land on Tommy. 

 

 Everyone moves at once. 



-



Twenty minutes later, they’re seated around Niki’s kitchen table. 

 

Wilbur’s nursing a bruise on the side of his face where Tommy got a solid kick in, and a rather impressive scratch over the bridge of his nose. Tubbo’s rubbing a tender spot on his left side where he’d been caught in the crossfire, and Niki’s sitting at the head of the table with a pink comn in one hand, and an ice pack for Wilbur in the other.

 

Tommy himself sits next to Tubbo, arms crossed firmly over his chest. His throat‘s raw from screaming, and his wrists are tender where he’d been dragged back in through the window, and then manhandled down the stairs. 

 

Wilbur glares at him from across the table, he glares back.

 

Niki looks absolutely exhausted.

 

She types something out on her comn, expression shifting into something a little more relieved, before setting it face-down on the table. “The others will be here in a moment.”

 

Then, she looks at Tommy, face softening. “We’ll get this sorted out. You’re not in any trouble.

 

“Like hell he isn’t.” Wilbur huffs through gritted teeth. “He kicked me in the face.”

 

And he deserved it.

 

Tommy just huffs, shrinking down lower in his seat, arms still tightly crossed over his chest. He’s fucking exhausted, and sore, he’s covered in new bruises and his hands and his knees both hurt from where they’d been scraped to hell and back. The pitying looks Tubbo keeps giving him aren’t making anything better, either. 

 

Most importantly, Phil and Techno will be back soon.

 

He’s not scared. He’s not a fucking little kid who needs someone to hold his hand and patch up his scraped knees. He’s just. Concerned. The slightest bit worried. About what’s happening next.

 

You see, the foster homes had rules. 

 

You fucked up too badly, you got tossed to the curb, if you were lucky. Even his ship had rules, if you did insert dumb thing here, you’d get insert punishment here. They weren’t the same every time, but close enough for him to judge risk versus reward. 

 

Was sneaking out to go for a bike ride in the middle of the night worth getting the shit beat out of him the next morning? Probably not. Was risking his life to steal an escape pod and get the hell out of dodge worth it? Definitely. Little things like that.

 

He stole a cow. He ran around all of Bezzar with Tubbo, running away from both Technoblade and the fox guy when they tried to catch him. He’s pretty sure he’s broken into at least three different buildings over the course of a few hours, and to top it all off, when Wilbur tried to get him back downstairs to talk things out, he jumped out a window and then kicked him in the face, screaming all the while. 

 

...It was self defense, maybe, but still. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him next. 

 

He doesn’t know what the punishment for him running away will be, he doesn’t know what Phil or Techno will do to him. Maybe he’ll get lucky, maybe they’re the Good Samaritan types and won’t care that the kid they stole is a bit of a flight risk. Maybe he’ll get a slap on the wrist and a don’t do it again, and off to Earth they’ll go.

 

Or, maybe, it’ll be worse.

 

What if they decide he’s not worth the trouble, what then? What if they hurt him? He’s not too worried about Phil, the guy looks brittle as shit, but he’s seen Technoblade bend metal with his bare hands. 

 

He just. Doesn't know. He has no frame of reference for how this kind of shit works in space, and that’s terrifying.

 

Tubbo kicks him under the table.

 

He jolts, whipping around to face him. He just smiles, though, and between the way his antennae droop down over his face and his big, sad eyes, he looks a bit like a scolded dog.

 

He doesn’t look worried, though. A bit guilty, maybe, but not worried. Not for himself, or for Tommy. If anything, he looks like he’s doing his best to look reassuring, and he won’t lie and say it’s not just a little comforting. He relaxes, but only a little.

 

Then, the front door opens. 

 

Well, not quite. A more accurate description would be, Phil practically breaks the door down.

 

Said alien bursts into the room in a whirlwind of flapping wings and feathers, Technoblade right on his heels. He barely has time to flinch before there are arms around his shoulders, wings wrapping around his back, and blonde hair in his mouth. 

 

He goes very, very still. What the fuck-

 

The hug only lasts for a second, just long enough to stun him into silence. Then, Phil’s pulling back, both hands still firmly on his shoulders as he looks over his face, blue eyes wide and worried. “You’re not hurt, are you? Bleeding anywhere?” 

 

Completely stunned, he slowly shakes his head no.

 

He sags a little, relief written all over his face as the grip on his shoulders loosens. “Thank the gods, we’ve been looking all over Bezzar for you two. You’re lucky Tubbo found you when he did.”

 

...He doesn’t look angry.

 

 There’s nothing written on his face but concern, and even that’s fading as he realizes Tommy’s not in any danger. He just looks… Frazzled, if anything. His hair’s mess under his hat, feathers all ruffled and sticking out in places. He gives his shoulders one last squeeze before he steps back out of his personal space, standing back up to his full height and tucking his wings back behind him. 

 

Only then does he let his gaze slip off of him to Technoblade. 

 

He’s leaning against one of the walls of the kitchen, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He still has his coat on, but now that they’re inside, the hoods down, tusks and messy braid on full display. His ruby gaze is even when it meets Tommy’s. He might just be projecting, but he swears he looks almost just as relieved to see him as Phil. 

 

“Fundy says he’s sorry.” He grunts. “Next time when I tell you to stay close, I’d appreciate it if you listened.”

 

He nods quickly, still not quite trusting himself enough to speak. His gaze flickers back and forth between the three of them warily, and he doesn’t move an inch from where he’s scrunched up on the chair, barely even letting himself breathe. 

 

There’s gonna be a catch. A punishment. Somewhere.

 

After a beat, Phil looks past him to Wilbur, and he blinks like he’s seeing him for the first time, eyebrows scrunching up again. “Wil, mate, what happened to your face?”

 

He winces. There it is. 

 

“Ask the fucking gremlin.” He huffs in response, holding Niki’s ice pack to his cheek and glaring at him again, eyes flashing. 

 

Immediately, Tommy bristles, rising to the bait. “You grabbed me first, it was self defense!”

 

“You were trying to jump out of a window!”

 

“I would’ve been fine!”



“Alright! That’s enough.” Phil interrupts, snapping out his wings for emphasis. Wilbur huffs again, still glaring, and Tommy shrinks back when Phil looks in his direction, going still again.

 

He waits for the catch. The slap. The punishment. Something. 

 

An uneasy silence settles over the table.

 

Everyone looks as exhausted as Niki. Tubbo looks especially uncomfortable, glancing worriedly between Wilbur, who looks like a disgruntled cat with its ears pinned back, and Tommy, who’s still trying to make himself look as small as possible in his seat. Phil has that gross concerned look on his face again, and Technoblade looks like he’d much rather be in bed by now. 

 

“It’s late.” Niki eventually says, her soft voice taking a knife to the tense silence. “We’ll discuss things in the morning. Tubbo, why don’t you show Tommy to your room? 

 

She gives him a look, her blue eyes the color of seaglass, “He has a long trip ahead of him tomorrow.”

 

He knows in an instant that the fake scales on his face haven’t fooled her for a second. He swallows. 

 

Tubbo doesn’t even notice, happy for the excuse to leave. He jumps up, tugging on Tommy’s sleeve. “This way.”

 

He goes without a fight, slinking out of the room with one last wary look at Phil. 

 

...They’ll be a punishment in the morning, he’s sure. Or maybe he’ll get lucky and they’ll just. Forget about it. Or something. If he’s careful to put himself between his friend and the adults at the table just in case, it’s no one's business but his. 

 

What he doesn’t notice is the way that the adults in the room glance at each other over his head the minute he turns the corner, or the way Wilbur shuffles guiltily in his seat.



-



Tubbo’s room is small.

 

It’s nice, but it’s not like his hideout. It’s impersonal, just like the spare room. A few belongings here and there, sure, but they’re all things that can be tossed in a bag and packed away at a moment's notice. There aren’t any posters on the walls or fairy lights dangling from the ceiling, there’s no laundry on the floor or books strewn about, and the dark blue curtains are drawn. 

 

It’s familiar in a way that makes him swallow hard and look down at his shoes. 

 

The bed takes up half of the room. It’s the messiest part, a nest of cozy looking blankets and pillows all piled up in the corner. It’s the only part that looks like Tubbo, and it’s huge. Both Technoblade and Phil could sleep on it comfortably without touching, wings included. 

 

“You can take the bed,” Tubbo says with a yawn, shuffling over to it. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Goes unsaid, but Tommy hears it just fine. 

 

“No it’s okay,” he responds, a little too quickly, “We’ll both fit.”

 

“You haven’t.” Also goes unsaid, but he takes the hint.

 

He turns when Tubbo shrugs off his sweaty jacket and undershirt in favor of something clean to sleep in, and does the same for Tommy when he changes. The thought of sleeping in one of Wilbur’s shirts makes him wince, and Tubbo offers one of his shirts instead without a word. It’s a little small, but it’s soft and smells good, like honey and sweetbread. He pulls it over his head without hesitation.

 

Tubbo turns off the light with the press of a button, and they collapse onto the bed in a heap. They’re both sore and exhausted, yawning sleepily as they burrow into pillows and blankets. Tubbo doesn’t even blink when Tommy climbs over him to sleep closest to the wall.

 

...He doesn’t move away when their shoulders brush, either, even though he’s got all the room in the world. 

 

They settle easily into each other’s space, just as they did before. It’s not nearly as stifling as he thought it would be, sleeping next to someone.

 

It’s… Nice. Warm. 

 

The room is dark with the curtains drawn, but once his eyes adjust, there’s just enough light creeping in to make out the outline of his face. Tubbo looks back at him sleepily, his antennae twitching. 

 

Then he blinks, once, twice, and frowns. 

 

“...Aren’t you gonna wash the grease off your face?” He mutters into the pillow.

 

And Tommy freezes. 



Wait a fucking minute. 



“You knew?”

 

Tubbo just rolls his eyes, “Well obviously.”

 

He sits up in a flash, suddenly very awake, and starts batting angrily at his shoulder. There’s no real force behind it, but it’s enough to shake him awake. “You didn’t say anything! You knew the whole time?!”

 

“Well not the whole time.” He just giggles. “You made it pretty obvious, though. It was funny!” 

 

Oh that is it!

 

He shoves him off the bed with one solid push. “My bed now, bitch.”

 

“Awww, c’mon!” Tubbo whines, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes from where he’s sprawled in a pile on the ground. “The floor is cold.”

 

He sticks out his tongue. “No, you suck- ow!”

 

Tubbo whacks him again with the pillow. “Take that! Oh wait no- ow!”

 

“Don’t shove me!”

 

“You shoved me first!”



Yeah, neither of them get much sleep that night. It’s alright, though. They’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the way. 






-




(And, later the next morning when Niki wakes them both up for breakfast, she pretends not to notice how they’ve fallen asleep together in a pile in the corner, Tommy hugging Tubbo to his chest like a teddy bear.

 

Tommy, in turn, leaves her a stolen flower from the neighbors balcony when she also pretends not to notice how suspiciously clean Tubbo has left his room, all his belongings packed neatly into bags. She doesn’t say a word to the others when Tubbo doesn’t come home for dinner that night. She doesn’t worry, either. 

 

She reads the letter he left her with a smile on her face. If there’s anyone in the galaxy who can find Ranboo, it’s Tubbo. 

 

She plays along for a while, too. Longer than he’d been expecting, actually. She only messages Phil about Tubbo’s mysterious disappearance well after they’ve left Bezzar, and can’t possibly turn back.

 

Her timing is perfect. Tommy could only keep him hidden in the kitchen air vents for so long. 



...The punishment never comes, by the way. Phil just tells him to go get him or Technoblade next time with a wink and a grin. Wilbur patches up the holes in his pants without a word, and that’s a good enough apology.

 

He still locks his door at night, but it’s. Progress. It’s progress. 




So, yeah, Tubbo is kind of a maniac. 


At the end of the day, though, Tubbo is his maniac now, and that’s all that really matters.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

This is officially the longest chapter so far, clocking in at over 10k words! I originally intended to include more human lore, but I ended up having to push it back for the sake of making this a somewhat reasonable length. I hope you enjoyed!

Feel free to ask any questions! I read every single comment even if I don’t always reply, and I *especially* appreciate those of you who correct my spelling or grammar.

I’m always answering lore questions on my Tumblr
, so if you’re interested in this universe, or just want to hang out, come say hi!

 

I’ll see you next Thursday, yeah? Stay safe, loves.

 

-Matches

Chapter 5: From Here On Out

Summary:

and they were roommates! oh my god, they were roommates.

Notes:

"hey, from here on out? Friends are gonna be hard to come by."
-From here On Out, The Killers

 

 

 

Hello, loves! A fluffy chapter for today, we get back into the plot next week though, don’t worry. We’re officially ⅓ of the way through, how does it feel? As always, a big thank you to Mars, my beloved, who helps me name planets. A big thanks to all of my lovely Tumblr anons, too!

As always, you can find the playlist
here! No serious TW’s this time, but make sure you double check just in case

 

 

TW: Mentions of past child abuse, mentions of past torture, heavy homesickness, feelings of isolation, catastrophizing from Tommy.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Tubbo makes a pretty good roommate, all things considered.

 

He’s had his fair share of shitty ones. Foster siblings who had no problem putting their greasy hands all over his shit when he wasn’t paying attention. Waking up to a foot in his face or a kick in the ribs was commonplace at a few of the group homes, and that’s just the other kids. The parents were just as bad, if not worse, with respecting his space, so having a door he could lock and a roommate who actually kind of liked him was just fucking weird. 

 

He doesn’t touch his things, he doesn't ask why he keeps most of his stuff safely hidden under his bed. He was just freed from the kitchen vents a few hours ago, and he’s already making himself at home on the floor, pulling shit out of his bags and spreading clothes everywhere like he owns the place.

 

...Tommy can’t quite find it in him to be mad. He’s still fucking exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster that was breakfast on the Argo II. 

 

They hadn’t gotten into as much trouble as he thought they would, really. He was expecting some kind of punishment and probably some sort of screaming match in there, too. Wilbur really had to pick the worst possible time to notice the dark shape looming in the large vent over the cabinets, in typical Wilbur fashion. Fucking dickhead. He probably did it on purpose, too. 

 

Anyways, he was on his feet in an instant to defend his new friend. Tubbo had risked his life to keep Tommy from being caught on Bezzar, the least he could do was try and return the favor. He was prepared to argue, at the very least, all wired up and ready to go. They’re fucking bonded , now, whether Phil likes it or not. Tommy-and-Tubbo, a package deal. He’d let them sell him back to the pet shop before he lets Tubbo go back to that abandoned building alone and empty-handed. 

 

It turns out, he didn’t need to. 

 

Wilbur had thought the entire thing was hilarious, and spent most of breakfast laughing his ass off. Technoblade had been making that chuff-chuff-chuff sound again, and he figures that probably as close to laughter as he gets, giving them both a disapproving look too fond to mean anything. All Phil had done once he got over the shock was sigh sharply through his nose before excusing himself from the table and going to call Niki.

 

(She’d known, obviously. She’s been in on the plan since they left. A crucial part, if you will.)

 

((Tubbo didn’t want to make her worry again.))

 

He’d come back a few minutes later and given them all a brief lecture on responsibility, and ship safety, and, I know you’ve become close friends, Tommy, but hiding him in the vents was incredibly unsafe. Blah blah blah, all boring stuff. The point was, Tubbo was allowed to stay.

 

Thank god. Sneaking him back on the ship a second time would have been a lot harder.

 

Like he said, they’d bonded. It was destiny, or some shit. They were already going on a fucking space roadtrip anyways, bringing him along to look for his missing friend just made sense. 

 

Now, after breakfast, he’d brought him back to his room. Locking the door, just in case.

 

They’d rescued all of Tubbo’s bags from the vents, leaving them haphazardly strewn across Tommy’s floor. He couldn’t find it in him to care, really, still buzzing with the aftershocks of the adrenaline rush. Besides, it’s not like they made his room look any worse. At Least it looks like someone actually lives here, now. 

 

His room is pretty sparse. A bed with a steel bed frame, a small bedside table and lamp, and a closet inset into the far wall. And that’s. About it.

 

Everything he owns fits neatly either in the borrowed bag over his shoulder or in the air vent under the bed, leaving the closet and bedside table drawer empty. It hadn’t really bothered him before, the emptiness was familiar enough, but he won’t lie and say that it doesn’t make the room feel… Cold. 

 

The fact that it’s made almost entirely out of metal probably doesn’t help. 

 

Then, Tubbo had descended upon his room in a whirlwind of sweatshirts and random junk thrown all over the place, and he’s more than content to sit back and let him do what he wants. 

 

He lays on his back on the bed, letting his head dangle off the end and his bandaged fingers fiddle with his comn. It’s been roughly three days since they’d left Bezzar, and between recovering from running across the entire moon in one night, dealing the emotional whiplash that came with it, and keeping Tubbo from being caught in the vents, he’d been busy. Too busy to mess with the stupid thing like he’d planned on doing the minute he laid eyes on it.

 

He’s got some of the buttons figured out. The on/off buttons and volume controls are obvious, and there’s definitely some kind of keypad and arrow buttons, but the rest is all labeled with a bunch of squiggles he can’t read. So, discovery through trial and error it is. He’s figured out the recording buttons this way already. 

 

It would be a lot easier if the stupid thing wasn’t busted to hell and back. The cracked screen is hard to read, and the clumpy tape holding together the bottom corner makes it awkward to hold. Figures that this was Wilbur’s old comn. He’d probably broken it on purpose, just to spite him.

 

...So, he might still be holding just the tiniest grudge against him from manhandling him back through a window. Whatever. The stupid fuck should know better than to just go around grabbing people. Those bruises on his wrists were just starting to heal, goddamn it, and then he had to go and make them worse. 

 

Tubbo shoves a bunch of wires under his nose. The clear bulbs attached make a concerning swishing sound when he shakes them for emphasis. “Yellow or purple?”

 

“The fuck are those?” He squints, nearly going cross-eyed trying to get a better look. “...You brought fairy lights?”

 

Tubbo blinks. “These are glow pearls. From Viona?”

 

Whatever. Glowy things on strings. Same thing.”

 

“...Right. So, yellow or purple?”

 

He swats at the hand in front of his face until Tubbo backs out of his personal space long enough for him to turn around and get a better look at the dumb things.

 

He holds them up like they’re Christmas lights, grinning all the while. “I dunno if they still work, they’re kind of old. Worth a shot, right? Which color do you like better?”

 

He squints again. “They’re the same color?”

 

“Well they are now. They won’t be when I turn them on.” He shakes them again, and they make that same swish swish noise as the shimmery liquid in each bulb swirls around. “So… Yellow or purple?”

 

He frowns. “Don’t you have any better colors?”

 

Tubbo just tilts his head, giving him a look as one of his antennas twitches. “I didn’t exactly get a lot of time to plan ahead.”

 

“...Point taken. Just,” he waves a hand towards the lights. “Do whichever color you like better, then.”

 

At that, he frowns harder. “But I wanna know what color you like better!”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s your room too, isn’t it?”

 

Right. 

 

He shoots him a half-glare, but Tubbo isn’t fazed in the slightest. He holds both sets of lights in either hand, rocking on his heels as he waits for Tommy to make up his mind. Fuckimg. Fine. 

 

“...Do yellow.”

 

“Right!” Tubbo’s whole face lights up, before the beaming grin is replaced by something a little more sheepish. “...Mind helping me hang them up?”

 

He knew there was a catch somewhere. He knew it. Behind those big, duel-toned eyes and dopey grin there’s nothing but pure evil. 

 

He’s been manipulated from the very start. 

 

“Fine.”




-




Their room turns out pretty cool, actually. 

 

True to his word, Tubbo hadn’t packed too much in his rush to get onboard while Tommy distracted the rest of the crew. Apparently, he just happened to have fairy lights on hand, like the fucking maniac he is, and just enough stupid trinkets to make navigating their shared room a bit like crossing a mine field. Half of the stuff he’s brought is mostly just random sentimental junk, bottle caps, books, game cartridges, a few very obviously hand-made gifts, and a handful of “Authentic Earth Artifacts!” That he doesn’t have the heart to tell him definitely never actually came from Earth, and are clearly just. Junk. 

 

By about lunch time, though, everything’s pretty sorted out. There are a few shirts hung up in the closet, now, and the bed sports one or two more blankets than it did before. All of Tubbo’s little bits and bobs are picked off the floor, for the most part, and shoved in the bedside drawer, or littered across both the bed and the table instead of the floor. 

 

Finally, the lights.

 

Tubbo gives each of the little bulbs a violent shake, and they’re glowing a warm, buttery yellow in no time. They were probably made to mimic fairy lights, sure, but the end result is way cooler once they’re hung around the corners of the room.

 

The end result is a room that looks at least gently lived in, instead of completely barren, like before. The warm yellow glow of the lights is much better than the sharp blue overheads, or the shitty lamp. They glint nicely off of the metal walls, bringing out the little dents and imperfections, the stray screws and ridges where the panels weren't quite welded together the right way, done either by an idiot or someone in a hurry. 

 

The blankets help, too. And the books and game cartridges piled on the nightstand, and the little bits of junk that hadn’t quite made it to the drawer. The empty bags sitting by the door. 

 

They make the room feel almost. Cozy.

 

It’s.

 

 Nice.

 

It’s nice.



He and Tubbo both step back to admire their handy work, the latter sporting that same sunbeam smile, both eyes glowing. 

 

He’s got one of those smiles that can light up a whole room all by itself, no fairy lights needed. It only grows when he races to his nearly-empty bags, rummaging around furiously. “One last thing…”

 

“Tada!”, he holds up something clutched victoriously in one fist.

 

He leans in over his shoulder. “...What is that?”

 

It’s a rolled up poster, slightly crumpled from being shoved in the bottom of his bag, but mostly holding its shape. Tubbo wastes no time in falling to his knees and lovingly smoothing it out to its full size over the floor, getting rid of the folds and the wrinkles. 

 

“It’s a map!”

 

It’s not a map.

 

Or atleast, it’s not like any map he’s ever seen.

 

It’s fucking huge, for one, and not labeled. Instead of countries and continents, it depicts a bunch of different colored balls all floating in a black, star-speckled background. Planets. Eight in total, colors ranging from a vivid red to a dark, ashen gray, one of them, the largest, being fucking purple. There’s half of a star on the far end of the poster, like you’d see the sun on all those cheesy posters you’d find on science classroom doors of the planets in the solar system. 

 

“...Have you never seen a map of the Galaxy before?” Tubbo asks, eyes all big and curious. 

 

He huffs. “Not this galaxy.”

 

Tubbo blinks, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh. Right. Well.”

 

Then, he points to a large orange planet near the far end of the map. It’s got some weird clouds floating around it, reddish brown spots swirling artistically. He’s not pointing to the planet itself, but rather the tiny beige dot floating just outside of it, on the very, very edge of the map. “That’s Bezzar. It’s just about as close to the edge of the galaxy as you can get, unless you go to Lestea.”

 

Then, he adds in a comical stage whisper. “Lestea is awful. I wouldn’t go there, if I were you.”

 

He blinks. “Right. Obviously”

 

Tubbo moves on, pointing to the giant orange planet near Bezzar. “That’s Ihiri. It’s the closest to our galaxy's star, so it’s inhabited. Just a bunch of gas.”

 

He keeps on, pointing to the next three planets in rapid succession, each one only a little smaller than his fist. The first two are kind of clumped together near the top of the poster, one of them being a dusty rose color, the other a faded orange, and then to a lush green one towards the bottom. He starts with the one closest to Bezzar.

 

“That’s Netheria.” He explains. “It’s where Techno’s from, and the one right up by it is Nevodis. I’ve never been, obviously, but I’ve heard it’s super nice!” 

 

Then, to the bottom green planet. “That's T’aria! It’s mostly jungle, it’s supposed to be really pretty. Most of it’s empty, though.”

 

He moves on to the largest planet, depicted in an ugly grey and blue. “And There’s Viona! It’s the busiest planet, both Wilbur and Niki are from there!”

 

There’s another grey planet next to it, smaller, with hints of green. If it were any darker, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed it, but something about it catches his eye. It might be the smallest planet, actually, somewhere between the bright purple one and Viona. Tubbo skips right over it on to the purple planet, pointing it out with a grin. 

 

“Finally, Enderion!” He finishes with a flourish. 

 

...He doesn’t seem to realize the mistake. Tommy frowns. 

 

“What about that one?”

 

The grin on his face slips, just a little, before he fixes it back in place. He turns back to the poster, but the same flourish he had before is gone. “That’s Aether. No one lives there anymore.”

 

He doesn’t say anything else, and the silence settles over them, cold and heavy as a lead blanket. 

 

anyways!” He bursts out all of a sudden, and the moment shatters. “The big council ship should be over here” he points, “for the meeting on Enderion, by the time we get there.”

 

He blinks and shakes it off. Weird. Okay. Touchy subject, apparently. Moving on. 

 

“What’s the meeting about?”

 

“All sorts of stuff! They have them once a year, great timing, huh? We should be there when it happens, with plenty of time to spare.”

 

At that, he relaxes. Plenty of time to spare. They’ll be there soon, then. Within the next year definitely.

 

He’s already spent more than a year in space? What’s a little more time? He’ll be fine.

 

He’ be fine. 

 

He settles criss-cross on the floor, looking over the map again. “Where do you wanna go the most?”

 

At that, Tubbo lights up even more, if it’s even physically possible. He presses up against Tommy’s shoulder as he leans over the map, pointing to the purple planet. “Enderion, definitely.”

 

“Enderion?” He parrots back, testing out the name on his tounge. 

 

“It’s where Ranboo’s from. Where they're originally from, I mean.” He continues, a fire in his eyes. “The others have looked just about everywhere else, except for Netheria. They always talked about going to Enderion anyways, so…”

 

He trails off, still staring at the map.

 

Right. Ranboo.

 

He didn’t know very much about Tubbo’s friend. They're tall, apparently, and ‘half endborn,’ whatever the fuck that means. Tubbo keeps saying that they’d like each other, once they meet.

 

Once being the keyword. Tubbo gets more determined to find them every passing day.

 

...He wants to ask what happened. From context clues, it sounds like one day they just up and vanished. Everyone seems pretty convinced they were kidnapped, though, and that makes sense from what he’s heard. Tubbo and them were close, and they don't seem the type to just leave one day without saying goodbye.

 

He’s heard whispers of an ‘exotic market’, from Technoblade and Phil. He hadn’t been meaning to eavesdrop, really, but it just. Happened.

 

...He really, really hopes Tubbo’s friend isn’t sitting in the back of a petshop somewhere. That shit sucks.

 

He points to the planet, Enderion, on the map. “Is it really purple?”

 

Tubbo laughs. “No, this is an old map. I’m pretty sure the planet’s volcanic, but I don’t know what it actually looks… Like…” 







He trails off as his eyes get big, some sort of realization hitting him all at once. He stiffens for just a second, before hopping up to his feet like he’s been struck by lightning. When he looks back at Tommy, there’s a familiar grin across his face, that same mischievous glint in his eye he’s come to both love and despise. When he reaches for Tommy’s hand, he knows better than to pull away. 

 

I want to show you something!” He tugs him to his feet, already heading towards the door. Here we go again. “ Follow me!”



-




“Aren’t we going to get in trouble?”

 

Tubbo just huffs, tugging him further into the bridge. “Phil’s a big pushover, I doubt he’ll care. Besides, we’re not messing with anything! We’re just looking at the map.”

 

He gives Tubbo a doubtful look, but gives in.

 

The bridge is his favorite part of the ship. The windows that cover the front of it are huge, proudly displaying the pitch black of space, mostly void, partially stars, occasionally galaxy. It’s breathtaking still, even after he’s already seen it a dozen times. Just the pure blackness, darker than anything he’s ever seen before, the deadly void of space greedily pressing right up against the glass, all too happy to swallow all of them whole if it gets the chance.

 

Tubbo isn’t looking out the windows, though. He’s dragging Tommy up to the control panel that Phil usually steps up too, already pressing buttons and typing on the keypad, quick fingers gliding skillfully over the keys. 

 

Christ. They might be friends, sure, but he’s not taking the fall if they get in trouble over this. 

 

It’s lunch time, so the rest of the crew should be busy in the kitchen. He hardly ever leaves his room for lunch, so they probably won’t blink twice at his absence, much less come looking for them. He looks over his shoulder every few seconds, anyways. 

Just in case.

 

“Here we go!”

 

He looks back, and his breath catches in his throat.

 

Hovering in the center of the bridge is a planet . Its a dusty orange hologram, about four times the size of a beach ball. It spins slowly, the projection flickering every few seconds.

 

It’s incredibly detailed. He can make out everything, the clouds of dust floating off of the surface, the faint glint of steel on the planet's buildings. No, the moon's buildings. He’d recognize that city anywhere after having spent all day running from one end to the other. The sharp, chaotic ridges and dips that make up the mis-matched skyline, the silver ships darting in and out like bees around a hive. The lights that stretch across it, glimmering like golden blood veins. Bezzar.

 

“Woah.” He breathes out.

 

Tubbo just laughs. “Cool, huh?” 

 

‘Cool’, didn’t even begin to cover it. This shit was fucking pogchamp! He has to ball his hands into fists by his sides to keep from reaching out and touching it, the urge to try and trace the tops of the buildings ridiculously strong. It looks so real, even though it’s a little see-through. Like he could just reach out and grab the little space ships in his hands. 

 

Tubbo wasn’t done yet, though. He keeps messing with the buttons and the keypad, his tongue poking out of his lips as he focuses. He explains as he types. “This is the ship's navigator, it’s super advanced! One of the best out there. It can show you just about any planet you can think of, and how to get there!”

 

Wait a minute.

 

Any planet?” He parrots, and the hologram flickers once before disappearing.

 

It’s replaced by something dark purple. 

 

Any planet!” Tubbo confirms, turning to him with a beaming smile. “Or just about, anyways. This is Enderion.”

 

For a moment, he just stares. 

 

It’s fucking huge, for one thing, nearly three times the size the Bezzar projection had been. It’s more of a perfect sphere than the small moon had been, so rough skyline poking out from the edges.

 

He can make out darke shapes and ridges, when he leans close. Some parts of the planet a light lavender, others almost pitch black, blending into the rest of the bridge behind it. While Bezzar had seemed alive, buzzing with light and activity, Enderion just seems… Cold. Cold and still, gently rotating in front of them. There’s no light sparkling on the surface, no signs of activity at all, actually. It’s almost eerie. 

 

Tubbo grins at it, though, that same fire in his eyes. “Cool, huh? Apparently it was a volcano a really long time ago, so that’s why parts of it are black. The rest is just sand. It's a shame the hologram is just all purple.”

 

“Huh.” He breathes out. 

 

It flickers once, and then it’s gone.

 

Tubbo is on a roll, now, typing up a storm on the keypad. His tongue pokes out a little from his teeth while he works, both antenna twitching gleefully. 

 

“Wanna see something really cool?” He says, with one final press of a button. “Check this out!”

 

It’s replaced by something blue.



The grin on his face shatters into a million pieces. His breath stutters in his chest, the blood in his veins going cold. 

 

Suddenly, he can’t move. 



It’s Earth.



The hologram paints it in a hundred different shades of dusty blues, from cobalt to arctic. He can see everything, the oceans, the continents. The wispy clouds that float and swirl across its surface as it rotates in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch. 

 

Everything is in perfect detail, the ridges of the mountains, the glimmer of its own white lights, stretching across the surface like a crystallized spiderweb. There’s even the moon, spinning slowly around it in time, and he can catch the faint sheen of the smaller satellites that hover closer to the surface.

 

The color might be off, sure, but still. It’s Earth.

 

Home.

 

...The shitty public school he’d gone to is on there, somewhere. The even shitter small town he’d lived in. Every foster home he’s ever been to, every kid who’s ever pushed him around. Clem and Clara’s gas station on the edge of town, that awful little arcade he’d spent every quarter in. The hospital he knows like the back of his hand. His uncle's grave that he’d only visited once. 

 

Every movie he’s ever watched. Every sunset he’s ever seen. Every bus he’s ever ridden, everyone he’s ever bumped into on the street. His own parents' graves, all the way across the ocean.

 

All of it. The entirety of the first sixteen years of his life, all wrapped up in one neat little blue ball. A little blue ball he’s currently thousands upon thousands of miles from. 

 

Isn't that a funny thought? 

 

Tubbo brushes against his arm, and the memories all scatter. “Tommy? Are you alright?”

 

He’s not laughing. 

 

“I’m fine.” He snaps instinctively, flinching away from the hand that had hesitantly touched his arm. He tries to ignore the flash of surprise that crosses his friends’ face, but he feels it like a kick to the stomach. 

 

“I think I’m gonna.” He swallows. “I think I’m gonna go. Take a nap.”

 

“Oh.” Tubbo just blinks. “Oh, okay! I’ll just…”

 

He’s out of the room and down the hall before he hears the rest of the sentence. 




-





“-find him anywhere!”

 

The Bezzarian standing in the office doorway looks frazzled. Eyes wide and panicked, both antennae standing on end. Both of his hands are nervously fidgeting the sleeves of his jacket. 

 

The Elytran standing on the other side of the doorway just blinks. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Tommy!” The Bezzarian bursts out, looking like he’s about to cry. “I can’t find him anywhere! I was showing him the map in my room and he thought it was cool so I showed him the navigation system on the bridge but then I think I did something wrong and now he’s upset and he said he was going to go take a nap but he’s not in our room and now I can’t find him anywhere!”

 

Elytran blinks again, processing. “You can’t find him?”

 

“No!”

 

“...Right.” He sighs, looking a little relieved that it’s not a bigger emergency. “The ship’s only so big, mate, and he didn’t eat lunch. He’ll turn up when he gets hungry.”

 

“B-but,” the Bezzarian blubbers. “I think I hurt his feelings. What if I did something super offensive to humans but I didn’t know! What if he hates me now?!”

 

“Mate, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you-“

 

“But you don’t know-“

 

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.” A pause. “You’re the only one he let’s touch him, you know. He’s really bonded to you. It’ll be fine.”

 

Another pause as the Bezzarian considers this. He seems to come to some sort of realization, and his antenna droop with relief. “...You’re right. Thanks Phil.”

 

The Elytran grins, “Sure, mate. In the meantime why don’t you go tell the others to keep an eye out-“





-





Tommy’s hungry.



His stomach complains loudly, but he ignores it, scrunching himself up into an even smaller ball.

 

The cargo hold is a great place for sulking.

 

First of all, it’s cramped as shit. The front space had to be cleared away to make room for Wilbur’s bike, leaving everything else all piled up in the back. Giant boxes and shelves full of who knows what fill just about every available space, making navigating through it a fucking nightmare. Not only is it a maze, but he’d left the lights off when he decided to come down here, leaving him in almost pitch-black darkness. He can barely see his hand in front of his face, and that’s after he’s been down here long enough for his eyes to adjust.

 

It's better this way, though. If he can barely see anything, it means no one will be able to see him either. Camouflage, and shit. 

 

He’s crammed himself between two boxes in the back corner. He’s still scrawny as shit, so it’s pretty easy to move through all the mess. All he has to do is feel the distance with his hands first, then squeeze himself through. What’s that one saying about cats? That they can only go into spaces as wide as their whiskers? Like that but better. 

 

Through feeling around in the dark, he found the perfect little corner for sulking in.

 

Wonderful.

 



...He’s fine . He just.

 

He just needs  a minute, s’all. He’ll be back up there with Tubbo in no time.

 

No time at all.

 

 

...It’s stupid.

 

He knows it’s stupid.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to be with Tubbo, he does! He likes the guy, and all of his weird alien-ness, and the new room set up is awesome

 

He hasn’t felt this comfortable with someone else in a long, long time. It’s great! 

 

Hell, he’s even starting to warm up a little more to the other members of the crew, including Wilbur, no matter how much of a dick he is.

 

But still. Still.

 

He misses Earth.

 

He misses pizza, and cheap arcade candy. He misses the rush of sneaking out of his foster home at night to climb on the roof and count constellations he actually recognizes. He misses cheesy action movies and thunderstorms, riding his bike to clear his mind, hot chocolate with whip cream and cinnamon. He misses hopping the neighbors fence, and carving his name into the awful detention desks just to piss the teachers off. 

 

He misses the gas station, more than anything. He misses the smell of grease and gasoline that always seemed to stick to Clara’s faded overalls, he misses Clem’s bubbly laugh and the hair clips she’d let him borrow. 

 

He misses familiarity.

 

That’s it, right there. The root of the problem. 

 

It’s not that he doesn’t like space, he does! Bezzar was awesome, Tubbo is great, hell, even the others aren’t that bad. but it’s all just. It's a lot. 

 

He has a door he can lock, sure, and a cargo hold to hide in maybe, but he still can’t get away from it all. 

 

Not really. 

 

The reality of the situation. The new scars that mar his skin, the still-fading bruises and the nightmares that won’t go away. No matter what, he’s still stuck with those. He has a fucking brain implant, for fucks sake! The new scars might as well be fucking brands, for how much they serve as an unpleasant reminder of just how far he is from being just. 

 

Just Tommy. 

 

Tommy, the foster kid. Tommy, the kid with the crooked, thrice-broken nose and a loud mouth. Tommy, the kid who spends more of his time at a shitty gas station than at the newest foster home. Tommy, who’s used to angry words and bruises, sure, maybe the occasional broken rib or nose, maybe. But nothing worse. 

 

Now, though? 

 

Now he's Tommy, the first human ever to be in this galaxy. 

 

He’s experienced literal torture. He still sees his mask in his dreams, most nights. Hears his voice in the back of his head. He’s been through shit so awful most of it he doesn’t even remember , but he knows it happened because of all the fucking scars! He’d almost been sold at a fucking pet shop!



He just. 

 

He wants to go home. 



Even if there’s nothing waiting for him there. He just wants to go back to when things made sense .

 

He curls up even tighter, pressing his knees to his chest and hissing his face in his arms. His stomach rumbles again, and he just shoves the feeling down. He’ll go up soon. In a little while.

 

He just. Needs a minute. That’s all.

 

Just a minute.



Then, a loud bang! Shakes the wall behind him.



Whelp, minutes over.

 

Immediately he flinches, whipping around as his breathing picks up. What the fuck? What was that?!

 

It doesn’t happen again, and slowly, he lowers himself back against the wall. He presses an ear against it to try and hear anything else, and is met with the faint sounds of hooves clipping against the steel floor, the ringing shink of metal-on-metal. 

 

Right. He’s in the back of the cargo hold, pressed against the far wall. That must mean Technoblade’s training… Deck? Room? Whatever, is behind him.

 

...He’s never actually been there, now that he thinks about it.

 

In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever even seen a way to get there. The latch to the cargo hold is easy enough to find, but he doesn’t remember seeing anything else like it.

 

Is it hidden somewhere? 

 

Why the fuck would he do that? This ship has just him, Phil, and Wilbur on it before they picked him and Tubbo up, and he seems to trust both of them. Why go through all the trouble of hiding something like that?

 

...Maybe he’s got some super secret fighting moves he doesn’t want the others to steal, or something. Or cool laser guns.

 

Now that has him scrambling to his feet.

 

He needs a distraction, and the thought of getting his hands on cool laser guns definitely counts. Finding the stupid training room should help keep his mind off it, anyways. If nothing else. 

 

There has to be an entrance to it around here somewhere. It would make the most sense, right? If he can hear him through the wall, he must be super close. Besides, Technoblade is fucking huge, he’d have to clear a whole path from the latch to the door if he wanted to get to it this way. All he has to do is feel around for a clearing, and then follow it all the way up to the door. Easy peasy.

 

The thought of finding his cool hidden training deck beats moping around any day. 

 

Awesome laser guns, here he comes.



-




“-do you want?”

 

The Phantling leans in his doorway, arms crossed. He’s got his glasses on, pushed up his nose, and his hair flops over half of his face. He takes one look at the Bezzarian in front of him, and frowns. 

 

The Bezzarian just grins up at him, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I need your help.”

 

He gives him a look . “What do you need me for? Can't you just go bother Phil?”

 

“No, I need your help.”

 

“What do you need my help for?”

 

At that, the Bezzarian deflates, but only a little. The look in his eyes is sincere. “I think I upset Tommy, so I wanna make it up to him.”

 

The Phantling just looks at him again, taken aback. He blinks. “And you need me for this, why?”

 

“Well, you have to apologize to him too, so…” The Bezzarian says, rocking on his heels. 

 

A sneer splits the Phantlings face. “I already apologized.”

 

The Bezzarian blinks. “No you didn’t.”

 

“Yes I did!” He snaps. “I fixed the rips he made in the pants I lent him, didn’t I?”

 

“Yeah, but then you threw them at him.”

 

“It counts!”

 

“Well, he’s still mad at you.” The Bezzarian rocks on his heels again. “So, if you help me, he’ll be less mad at both of us.”

 

The Phantling just stares at him for a second, deliberating. Finally, he comes to some sort of conclusion, and sighs deeply out through his nose. 

 

“...Fine.”

 

The Bezzarians' satisfied grin is blinding. “Great! So I was thinking-“




-




It takes him a lot longer than he thought it would to find the latch.

 

First, he checks the rest of the cargo hold. He doesn’t find any hidden doors or latches down there, and nothing to suggest any sort of path from the opening of the cargo hold to that wall. So, he climbs back up the ladder and sneaks on over to Technoblade’s room, instead.

 

He’s careful. He steps lightly and quickly, peering around every corner beforehand. He doesn’t see any sign of Tubbo, and the lights in both Wilbur’s room and Phil’s office are on, so he takes it as an ‘all clear’ and slips down the hall.

 

...He hesitates in front of his door for a little longer than he’d like before moving on. 

 

He’ll apologize to Tubbo later, he decides. After he finds Technoblade’s cool secret room. Hell, he’ll even take him down and show him if it makes him feel better. He’ll make it up to him for running out like that. 

 

He keeps on.

 

Technoblade’s door is unlocked, thank god, and he slips inside the room, quickly closing it behind him.

 

...He’s never actually been in here before, now that he thinks about it.

 

He made sure that he was still in the secret room before coming up here, so surely there was no harm in getting a quick look around while he was here. 

 

He switches on the lights.



Holy shit.




It’s… Not what he expected.

 

He doesn’t really know what he was expecting, actually. Probably something bland, maybe a skull or two hanging from the wall. He didn’t really pin him as the type to hoard shit like Tubbo. Maybe a bookshelf for his Greek Mythology obsession? Something weird and nerdy like that. 

 

What he finds is something. Cozy.

 

The bed is in the corner of the room, and it’s piled so high with furs and blankets that he can barely tell it’s a bed at all. There are bookshelves, like he thought, but a dresser too, complete with a floor length mirror. 

 

There is so much shit. 

 

The bookshelves are absolutely packed with books of all sizes, some small enough to fit in his pocket, some longer than his arm. There are trinkets filing every available surface, pins, jewelry, small figurines, fucking crowns, what the hell?

 

The dresser is lined with tons and tons of colorful bottles, all shapes and sizes. Some of them look more like perfume bottles, while others fizzle and bubble in their glass containers. He gives them a wide berth has he scopes out the room, swallowing the urge to open one and sniff it. The absolute last thing he needs is to break one and spill shit all over the expensive-looking furs at his feet. No thank you.

 

He steps deeper into the slowly, investigating. He has the same inset closet as Tommy does, the only difference being his is absolutely packed with clothes. There’s even a fucking cape hanging off of the mirror. Jesus Christ.

 

He steps on the fluffy pelt of something as he goes further into the room, and tries not to wince. He doesn’t touch anything, he doesn’t! He won’t lie and say the urge isn’t there, though. If he wasn’t so sure Technoblade would strange him, he’d be filling his pockets. The man is loaded! There’s golden jewelry on his nightstand, and glimmering green emeralds just sitting there! Hundreds upon thousands of dollars of jewelry, just chilling on his dresser-

 

No , Tommy. Focus. Secret room. Cool laser guns.

 

He does a slow circle in the middle of the room. If he was a giant pig, where would he hide a trapdoor? 

 

It’s not around the bed or hidden under the dresser, he even pulls a few of the books out of his bookshelf to see if they trigger anything, to no avail. Technoblade doesn’t really seem like the type of guy to hide a trap door like a Scooby-Doo villain. 

 

He doesn’t exactly look like the kind of guy to wear perfume and sparkling earrings, either. So, it was worth a shot.



In the end, the answer is hilariously simple.



He finds it under the fur he had stepped on when he first walked into the room.

 

He shoves it aside on a whim and snorts. Really, Techno? He couldn’t have thought to be a little more creative in hiding the trapdoor to his cool secret room? For shame .

 

It takes a little bit to open. He doesn’t struggle too much, because he’s a big man, goddamn it, but it’s pretty obviously meant for someone a bit more like Technoblade, and a bit less like Tommy. He really has to put his back into it, but eventually, he gets the stupid thing open, hefting it up on creaking hinges. 

 

There’s a ladder, because of course there is. He takes a deep breath, and down he climbs.



-



He hears him before he sees him.

 

The clanging of metal is a lot louder down here, echoing off the close walls. There’s panting too, the clipping of hooves and the occasional grunt as Technoblade does something. 

 

He lowers himself to the ground slowly.

 

It’s bigger than he thought it would be. Maybe that’s just because of how empty it is.

 

The walls are bare, crude metal, just as badly else’s together as his room is. There are a few leather bags stuffed with something that looks a little bit like hay, training dummies, he assumes, slumped against the back wall, a handful closer to the ladder. There are a few targets laid haphazardly with them, big blue bulls-eyes painted in the center, and shelves along the far wall. There are keypads, too, which obviously open something, but he’s not going to risk opening them up to find out. 

 

In the middle of it all is Technoblade, absolutely gutting  a training dummy.

 

His back is to Tommy, and he takes the opportunity to scramble over to the rest of the training dummies slumped against one wall, practically throwing himself behind them. 

 

He doesn’t seem to notice, not a glance or an ear flicking in his direction as he attacks the dummy again, braided pink hair whipping behind him as he lunges. He makes it almost a dance , darting in and out around the dummy like it’s a real opponent, hooves clipping against the floor. It’s mesmerizing to watch, the way he holds and moves the blade like it’s nothing more than an extension of his arm, effortlessly slicing and stabbing into the cloth and straw. 

 

He’d been expecting laser guns, sure. Or some other cool, futuristic weapon, something that glows neon colors or shoots sparks. Now that he’s watching him, though, he can’t tear his eyes away. 

 

The sword he’s holding is absolutely beautiful. Nearly as long as Tommy’s arm, over a foot of pure, gleaming metal with a gilded handle. It cuts through the training dummy's cloth body like it’s made of butter, the straw and sand that fill up its insides pouring out into the floor. He’s not done yet, though, and barely pauses to wipe the sweat from his brow as he stabs into it again and again, blocking its imaginary advances as he goes in for the kill.

 

The ruthlessness makes him shiver. He does not want to find himself on the other end of that blade, no thank you- 

 

“I know you’re there.” Technoblade grunts, effortlessly tugging the sword from the dummy’s chest. “You can come out now.”

 

Aw, fuck.

 

He glances at the ladder, but it’s no use. Technoblade has turned in his direction, now, resting the sword on his shoulder as he raises an eyebrow at the dummy Tommy’s crouching behind. 

 

He’s cornered. Caught red handed. He might as well come out with his hands up now, while they’re still attached to his body.

 

He creeps out from behind the dummy slowly, still keeping the ladder in the corner of his eye, just in case. He watches the sword Technoblade is holding carefully, “Uh. ‘Ow do?”

 

He gets an unimpressed stare in return. “Tubbo’s looking for you.”

 

Of fucking course he is. He winces. “I figured.”

 

He hums. “Are you two fighting or somethin’?”

 

“What? No!”

 

“He thinks you’re mad at him.” Technoblade deadpans, and Tommy blanches.

 

Mad at Tubbo? He wasn’t mad at Tubbo! He just. Needed a minute to collect himself, s’all. A little bit of alone time. In the cargo hold. By himself. Alone. 

 

“Well I’m not.” He finally stammers out.

 

Technoblade doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t look unconvinced, either, which just makes things even more difficult. The deadpan resting expression he has is so fucking hard to get a good read on. He doesn’t look mad about him being in his secret training room, though, even though he had to fumble around in his room to find it. Well, he doesn’t yell at him or demand for him to leave, which he takes as him being ‘not mad’. 

 

Instead he just shifts, his tufted tail swishing around his ankles as he moves the sword from his shoulder. In one swift move he twirls it in his hand until the grip is facing Tommy. “Take it.”

 

For a solid five seconds, he just gapes. “What?”

 

“Practice.” Technoblade just grunts. “If you’re gonna be mopin’ down here anyways, you might as well help me train.”

 

He hesitates, and then, he looks him in the eyes. Really looks at him. 

 

...Technoblade wouldn’t offer to train with him as an excuse to just beat the shit out of him, right? He used to this kind of bait, the older kids in the foster home offering to play something dumb like kickball with him just to sock him in the face at the earliest opportunity. Surely Phil wouldn’t let him actually hurt him, right? Besides, Technoblade isn’t some snot-nosed brat with nothing better to do, surely he wouldn’t pull something like that.

 

Surely

 

That stupid deadpan look on his face doesn’t give up any insight to what he’s thinking, so it’s hard to tell for sure. He hesitates. 

 

“It’s blunt.”

 

His rough voice brings him out his thoughts, and memories of cruel laughter and the taste of blood and rubber in his mouth fade. He blinks, “What?”

 

“I don’t train with real swords.” He explains gruffly, and the knowing look in his ruby red eyes makes him bristle. “These are all blunt. Take it.”

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” is left unsaid, but Tommy hears it clear enough. He nods. 

 

He takes the sword.





-






“-Check on Techno and Tommy for me? They didn’t come up for dinner- oh.”

 

The Elytran stops abruptly in the hallway, just before he turns the corner. The Phantling and the Bezzarian sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bridge don’t even notice his presence.

 

The Phantling holds an instrument in his hands. It’s remarkably similar to a guitar in both shape and tan color, with a sprawling flower decal up and down one of the sides. He frowns as he plucks out a tune, repeating notes until he gets it just right.

 

The Bezzarian on his other side clasps his hands together with a cheer. “It sounds great Wil!”

 

“You think so?” He says back, a little sheepish. “You don’t think it sounds rushed?”

 

“I think it sounds great! Really pogchamp!”

 

The Phantling blinks, mystified. “Pogchamp?”

 

“It’s human slang.” The Bezzarian proudly explains. “It means really, really cool.”

 

“Oh. Pogchamp.” He repeats slowly, feeling out the shape of the words in his mouth. He flushes, just a little, ducking his head. “Thanks.”

 

The Bezzarian leans up against his shoulder. “...Could you play it again?”

 

He laughs, but his fingers start strumming.

 

The Elytran watches, quietly for a few moments, the grin on his face only growing, before quietly turning on his heel and leaving them to it.

 

When he comes back a few moments later, arms laden with all of the pillows and blankets he can carry, the music is still playing. Only now, two voices have joined in, happily singing along.






-





It turns out Technoblade is a big fan of learning on the job. 

 

He barely gave him any explanation before he lunged, leaving Tommy scrambling to get out his way. They’ve been at this for what feels like ages, now, leaving him grinning and breathless as he faces down his opponent from the other side of the room. Technoblade doesn’t seem nearly as winded, the prick, but there’s a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He bares tusks without any real heat behind it, and he twirls his own sword with more of a flourish than necessary. Show off. 

 

“That’s, what?” Tommy pants out, “Two to three? I’ve got you on the ropes, big man!”

 

“One to three.” He corrects with another twirl. Cocky bastard.

 

He levels his sword at his broader chest in challenge. “Oh it is on-“



“Techno?”



They both pause.



From up the ladder, Phil’s voice rings out again. “Your foods getting cold, mate!”



Tommy grimaces. He knew he’d forgotten something, he didn’t realize how much he was fucking starving until Phil mentioned food. Damn, had he really missed both lunch and dinner? Had they really been down here for that long? 

 

He’s sweaty and sore, and he just knows there’s a new bruise or two forming on his ribs. He doesn’t care, though. What’s one more to the collection? He can barely even feel them, the rush of adrenaline still thrumming in his veins. They hurt, sure. Hell, all of him hurts, but it’s a good kind of pain. That bone-deep ache of exhaustion you only get after a really good work out. He needs a shower and a nap, but by the way his stomach’s growling, he should probably eat before he does either. 

 

Technoblade seems to come to the same conclusion. Tommy tosses him the training sword when he reaches out for it, and he catches it easily. He gives both of them one last twirl before setting them both in their hooks on the wall. 

 

“Go on up.” He gestures to the ladder with a toss of his head. “I’ll finish cleaning up down here.”

 

Oh. Right. The straw and sand guts of the training dummies they’d obliterated litter the floor, it looks like a goddamn massacre. Technoblade still has bits of hay still stuck in his braid, the beginnings of a bruise forming under his eye where Tommy had been a little careless. Once he starts going for the broom, though, Tommy knows it’s time to get out of there.

 

He pauses, though. Once he’s about half way up the ladder. He. He really needed that. The distraction, the exercise. 

 

 “...Thanks.”

 

Technoblade looks up from where he’s just started to attack the mess they’d made with the broom, looking almost startled. He ducks his head, but Tommy catches the fond look in his eyes, anyways. “Don’t mention it.”

 

Up the ladder he goes.

 

-

 

The kitchen is empty when he arrives, stomach growling.

 

He still creeps into it slowly, anyways. He didn’t pass anyone in the hall on the way over, and the sudden silence is a little bit eerie. He’d expected to find at least Phil sitting at the table, but no. Empty. 

 

...He hadn’t stopped by his room to check if Tubbo had been there.

 

He’s not avoiding him, he’s not. The sooner he tells him he’s not mad, the better, really. He’s just hungry , goddamn it. That conversation can wait until he has a full stomach. 

 

There are two plates waiting on the table. One with the meaty leg of some kind of animal with a side dish of what he swears looks and smells just like a baked potato, and the other with a bowl of warm apple sauce-mush and a side of fruit. He leaves the meat and the baked potato for Technoblade, and wastes no time in taking his seat and digging in.

 

The mush never disappoints, and the fruit looks harmless enough. It’s bright red with about the size and texture of an apple, and he bites right into it without hesitation. It tastes a little bit like a weird mix of strawberries and watermelon. Not bad.

 

He’s long-since decided that the crew isn’t going to poison him. Except for maybe Tubbo. He swears, the aftertaste of that awful fruit he’d been given back on Bezzar is still lingering in the back of his mouth. Blegh. He eats fast. 

 

...Eating alone feels a little weird, though. And it’s so quiet.

 

Where the hell is everyone?

 

Once he’s finished, he decides he should probably go find them. Or atleast Tubbo. He needs to… Apologize? Or something? To tell him that he doesn’t hate him, at the very least, that’s probably a good start. Even though it should be obvious. He’s seen the scar on Wilbur’s hand from their first meeting, right? If he didn’t like him, he’d make sure Tubbo knew

 

Geez, friendships are a lot of work.

 

He slips out of the kitchen and back towards the rooms. Then, approaches his room like it’s a wild animal about to jump out and bite him. 

 

What should he even say? “Hey, Tubbo, I don’t hate you. I just got a little bit freaked out thinking about how far away I am from everyone I used to know and the life I used to have, and how it’ll never be that way again. Please don’t be mad at me, I don’t have any other friends. Except for maybe Technoblade, who might be my friend now that we’ve beaten each other up with swords. It’s still a little unclear.” 

 

No, that’s stupid. Scratch that.

 

He’ll just… Say that he doesn’t hate him. Maybe he can make up an excuse or something for why he left? Probably

 

No use beating around the bush. He needs to get it over with, to face his problems like a man.

 

He takes a deep breath and knocks.




...There's no answer.



“Tubbo?” He calls out hesitantly, knocking again. “You in there, big man?”

 

Nothing.

 

Then.



“I’m in here!”



Tubbo’s voice hadn’t been coming from within the room, though, it’d come from down the hall, from the bridge. 

 

He hesitates, again. Man, he really doesn’t want to look at that stupid Earth hologram again. On the other hand, though, he’d been avoiding Tubbo for long enough. A voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Clara’s tells him to just get it over with! Rip off the band-aid.

 

He slinks down the hall.

 

He drags his feet all the way down the hall, turning the corner slowly and scuffing his boots on the ground the whole way. The moment he looks up from his feet, though, he freezes .



There’s Tubbo, alright. There’s also Wilbur, Phil and Technoblade.



The bridge had been completely transformed. 

 

Just about every goddamn blanket and pillow he thinks he’s ever seen on the ship has been dragged up here. The shitty couch from the “break room,” as Phil stubbornly calls it, has been dragged to one side, as well as a few extra chairs from god knows where. There are blankets and pillows over absolutely everything, the couch, the floor, the seats near the control panels at the front. Tubbo had even brought out the fucking fairy lights, the yellow ones, making everything look like something straight out of a hallmark movie.

 

And he’s not even mentioning the rest of the ship's crew.

 

Technoblade is sitting on the floor in new, non-sweaty clothes, pajamas, most likely. He’s leaning with his back against the couch, head tilted back and eyes shut. Tubbo is sitting right behind him, happily messing with his long, unbound pink hair without a care in the world. He seems to be trying to go for some sort of complicated braid, complete with little golden hair clips. 

 

Phil is on his other side, one wing wrapped around Tubbo’s shoulders as he dozes against the side of the couch, sleepily grinning at whatever he was happily chatting about.

 

Then, finally, Wilbur.

 

He’s sitting criss-cross on the floor, not far from Technoblade. In his lap, though, is a guitar.

 

Well, not really. It looks like what you would get if someone saw a guitar once and tried to create it from memory. It has the same general shape, the body is made from some sort of dark tan wood, with dark, glossy accents. And, along one side, is a sprawling flower decal, glittering in the fairy lights.

 

He didn’t hear it, at first, but now that he’s looking he can make it out. Strumming, melodical and faint. Music.

 

They look happy. Comfortable in each other’s presence, brushing elbows and casually touching one another like it means nothing at all. He knew that Tubbo had known them for a while, it’d been obvious, but seeing him so at ease with the rest of the crew is. Different. 

 

With warm, yellow fairy lights strung up over their heads, purple blankets and stray pillows over everything, and the entirety of space spread out behind them in the windows. All set to the gentle strumming of Wilbur’s guitar.

 

It’s like something from a dream. 

 

Then, Tubbo looks up, and their eyes lock. The grin he gets in response is brighter than any star he’s ever seen.

 

“Tommy!” He calls, waving him over excitedly. He pats the seat next to him on the couch with vigor. “Come sit!”

 

Everyone else looks up when he speaks, even Technoblade cracking open an eye to glance in his direction. Phil grins invitingly, moving his wing slightly off of Tubbo’s shoulder so he could slide in next to him on the couch. Even Wilbur looks up for a moment, though he quickly goes back to fidgeting with the instrument in his lap.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he creeps over. Tubbo’s expression doesn’t change, he doesn’t look angry or upset with him. He just looks… Happy. Even happier once Tommy settles down next to him on the couch.

 

“Wilbur’s gonna play us a song!” He whispers excitedly right in his ear, twirling a lock of bubblegum pink hair around his finger. 

 

“A full audience.” Phil jokes from Tubbo’s other side. He gives Tommy a soft smile from over the top of Tubbo’s head, and he doesn’t flinch when he feels warm feathers brushing against the backs of his shoulders. “We’re ready when you are, mate.”

 

Wilbur hums in acknowledgment, not looking up. He looks… Soft, in this lighting. With the big yellow sweater and the beanie, hair flopping over the side of his face, big round glasses perched on his nose. His skin shifts ever so slightly in the light, and his fingers are long and graceful where they rest on the guitar. A lot less like a dickheadish than normal.

 

Then, he starts to play.

 

His fingers move expertly along the neck of the guitar, plucking out a tune that rises and falls, each individual string ringing out. Tommy finds himself relaxing at the sound of it, the instrument sounding just enough like a guitar to be familiar. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s just another song he’s hearing on the radio, or from a record. 

 

His voice is soft when he starts to sing.

 

“That cute bomber jacket you’ve had since sixth form, adorned with patches of places you’ve been…”

 

It’s a rusty, lyrical sort of voice, fitting to the instrument he plays. It rises and dips along with the song, with just enough imperfection to be comforting. 

 

...Has nothing on my khaki coat that I got from a roadside, when I was sixteen…” 

 

It’s… Sad. Sadder than he thought it would be. A lonely sort of song.

 

When he finds himself leaning slightly against Tubbo’s shoulder, he doesn’t bother moving away. When he feels the press of the backs of Technoblades shoulders against his legs, he doesn’t bother kicking him off. Tubbo offers him a blanket somewhere between the second song and the third, and he takes it without hesitation. 

 

He’s tired and sore, and the wing that presses comfortably against his back is warm, the blanket he’s sharing with Tubbo thick and soft. His friend is warm, too, where they’re pressed up against each other’s shoulders, and the contact doesn’t make him itch or squirm. It feels. Nice.

 

Somewhere in the middle of the fourth song, Tubbo whispers in his ear. “I’m sorry.”

 

He’s half asleep when he says it, and muzzily blinks himself awake. “Huh?”

 

His friend isn’t looking at him. He’s still finishing up the complicated braid he’s made in Technoblade’s hair, the man himself completely passed out against both of their legs. He’s making some sort of rumbling noise in his sleep, snoring? Purring? Whatever, it’s soothing.

 

“I upset you.” He mutters, adding another golden clasp. “I didn’t mean to make you run off. ‘M sorry.”

 

Oh. Oh.

 

He’s fully awake in an instant, sitting up and shaking his head slightly to clear the last of sleepiness away. The lights have dimmed, at this point, the side of his friend's face is only just visible with the help of the fairy lights. Wilbur doesn’t even notice them, still softly singing along as he plucks out another song.

 

“You didn’t- I wasn’t-“ He stammers back, fighting to keep his voice soft. “It wasn’t you I was just…”

 

It takes him a moment to find the right word. He takes a deep breath, fingers playing with the soft fabric of the blanket around him. Finally, he admits it in a soft whisper. “I was just homesick.”

 

“Oh. Oh.” Realization flutters across his face, and when he slumps back against Tommy’s side with relief, he welcomes the contact. “Tha’ makes more sense.” He slurs against his shoulder. 

 

Tommy snorts, but settles back down into the mess of pillows and blankets, too. He risks a glance over at Phil, only to find him already passed out on the other side of the couch, wrapped up in his own cocoon of wings and blankets. He’s whistling faintly in his sleep, the sort not nearly as annoying as it should be.

 

He’s warm and comfortable, the bridge dark. Wilbur’s playing something soft and rhythmical, now, and it’s so easy to just lay back and get lost in the rising and dipping of the music, his voice washing in and out like the tide. Maybe he’s not too bad, after all. He’ll have to get him to play more often, he decides with a yawn, leaning back against Tubbo’s shoulder. He has a nice voice. 

 

He still misses Earth, maybe, but it’s easy to forget that on a night like this. The lights dim, the blanket around him heavy, the cold voice of space held off for another night. The shoulder under his head warm, the faint whooshing of breath slow and steady in his ear. A reminder.

 

He’s not alone.

 

He has Tubbo, at the very least, the best roommate in the world, his right hand man. Technoblade, who’s officially the f ucking coolest, and Phil, who’s actually not that bad. Even Wilbur, who he’s decided to forgive. For now. The trust between them all just a little stronger than it had been yesterday. 

 

He didn’t lock his door tonight, after all, even though he probably will tomorrow. Baby steps.

 

Baby steps. 




 

 

 




















































Notes:

These chapters just keep getting longer and longer, I swear. I’m not 100% happy with this one, so if you catch any spelling mistakes, feel free to call them out. You can always drop by my Tumblr!, if you want to chat!

I’ll see you next Thursday, yeah? Stay safe!

 

-matches

Chapter 6: What are you made of? (Flesh and Bone) (I)

Summary:

Phil: What do you have!?
Tommy; A KNIFE
literally everyone; NO-

Notes:

"Somewhere outside that finish line, I square up and break through the chains
I head like a raging bull, anointed by the blood, I take the reins
Cut from the cloth of a flag that bears the name 'Battle Born."
-Flesh and Bone, The Killers

 

Did you miss me? I know I missed you.

This chapter was a bitch and a half to write, so I hope you enjoy! As always, a thank you to my wonderful friend and Beta Mars, and to my lovely Tumblr anons. Sorry for the wait.

The playlist for the fic can be found Here! If you haven't listened to the song this chapter is named after, please do! It’s a perfect fit.

 

TWS: A general sense of panic, violence, rioting, suggested/mentioned death(s) of unnamed characters, mentions of scars (not sh) and blood, mentions of past abuse. Heavier chapter, use caution and please read tags.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text







You see, it all actually started like this.

 

Technoblade swings again, his sword slicing neatly through the air. He dodges just in time, ducking out of the way and countering with another clumsy slash of his own. Technoblade is moving before he even raises his sword, stepping neatly to one side and slashing down. He dodges, but only just.

 

“Don’t turn to look when you dodge.” He corrects, spinning his sword effortlessly in his hands as he slashes again. “It slows you down. Look beforehand.”

 

He gives him a curt nod, already correcting his stance.

 

Technoblade might be big, but he’s a hell of a lot more graceful than he looks. His braid dances behind him as he moves, both ruby eyes narrowed in concentration. His hooves clip against the floor as he lunges again, and Tommy meets him with a swing of his own. The resulting shing! Of metal-on-metal is music to his ears. 

 

“Good.” He rewards, and Tommy glows from the praise. “Now, again. Faster this time.”

 

Another eager nod. “Gotcha.”

 

And off they go again.

 

He lunges forwards, and Tommy barely has any time to dodge the blow before the blade is coming down. There’s no real strength behind it, sure, he’d definitely be dead by now if there was, but still. Getting hit with a metal sword doesn’t exactly tickle, even if it is blunt. He strikes again, leaving Tommy plenty of time to swing his blade up in a block. He grins, all teeth, and jumps out of the way when Technoblade swings down again in an exaggerated motion. 

 

“Eyes on me.” He grunts, already moving forwards. It’s easy to deflect his blow when he swings again. 

 

He nods, still focused on the sword in his hands, watching his center of gravity instead of his face, like he’d been taught. Technoblade is moving slow on purpose, giving him more than enough time to dodge or block. It’s just practice, after all, so Tommy can get used to the weight of the sword in his hand and the right movements. They’ve been practicing how to defend with a sword all afternoon, and it’s easy to fall into the same pattern, block and dodge, deflect, block and dodge, deflect, gradually getting faster and faster, the blade getting closer and closer. 

 

He’s improving. Slowly, maybe, but still. Every swing, every dodge, he’s getting better. Building up muscle, reacting quicker. Stronger, faster, better.

 

Use the momentum from when you defect to strike.” He corrects, tapping Tommy’s boot with the tip of his blade. “Watch your feet.”

 

“Right.” He nods sharply, bending his knees.

 

Crouching down like this feels a bit funny, but he knows from experience that if he bounces around on his toes like he’s used too, Technoblade will knock him flat on his ass. When he strikes at him again, he’s more than ready to meet him. The clanging of metal-on-metal is satisfying, the rhythm of blocking and dodging almost like a dance. He follows his advice this time when he deflects, using the momentum to slash forwards with a strike of his own, only to have it deflected off easily. He lunges again, and the dance continues. 

 

It’s been about two weeks since that night on the bridge, nearly three since they left Bezzar. Just over a month since his first (conscious) day on the Argo II. 

 

He’s gotten used to life on the ship. Breakfast and dinner with the crew, lunch with Tubbo in his room, training with Technoblade every other afternoon. Some nights, Wilbur will play for them on the bridge, on others, they’ll just sit around and talk. Wilbur and Phil are both great at telling stories, and Technoblade has no problem with leaning back and letting Tommy and Tubbo try and braid his hair. 

 

It’s… it’s nice. Comfortable. 

 

He finds himself laughing with Wilbur in the mornings, eating fruit and getting juice all over his face. He’s pretty fucking hilarious, actually, when he stops being a dick, and the playful shoulder punches and teasing comes naturally. He doesn’t flinch away when Phil brushes by him in the hall, or messes with his hair. He wakes up most mornings with Tubbo snoring in his ear, and spending afternoons sparring with Technoblade has become pretty routine. 

 

...He still locks his door at night, sometimes. 

Not every night, not when he falls asleep with Tubbo on the bridge, or when he’s too exhausted to from training. Just, sometimes. When he wakes up from a nightmare, or just. Has one of those days. He still keeps his knife under his pillow, too. 

 

He finds himself forgetting too a lot more often.

 

Look, there's some shit you just can’t fix in a month. Just because he’s making progress doesn’t mean he’s magically fixed. The scars are a little more faded, sure, the bruises a hell of a lot less fresh, but still. Some scars still hurt when you pull on them the wrong way, no matter how old they are. An ankle you might’ve broken three years ago is still going to be stiff on a cold day. A thrice-broken nose like his isn’t ever going to magically straighten. 

 

Still. He’s getting better, little by little. Building up muscle and putting on more weight so he’s not just a walking skeleton anymore. He doesn't struggle to open the cargo hold hatch, and he doesn’t get lightheaded nearly as easily as before. 

 

He doesn’t flinch as often as he used to. Weirdly enough, he trusts the crew. No matter how fucking weird they might be sometimes. 

 

It’s still a new thing, that kind of confidence, but he’s growing into it again. He feels a bit clumsy, on some days, stumbling through conversations and casual touches like a newborn calf walking around on new, knobby legs. He still has bad days, but still. 

 

It’s progress.

 

Technoblade swings again, faster than he was prepared for. He cuts just a little too close to his nose for comfort, and he falls back on his ass with a yelp. “Watch it!”

 

He snorts, but lowers the sword from where it was held at his throat. His ruby eyes are unimpressed when they meet his, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He snorts and leans down, offering him a hand. “I told you to stay focused.”

 

“I was focused!” He complains, taking the hand and letting himself be hefted to his feet. “I’ve been dodging and blocking for ages.” 

 

“It’s been half an’ hour.”

 

“Ages.”

 

He just shakes his head, tossing his braid. The long suffering look on his face is ruined by the grin still tugging on the corners of his lips. He levels his sword at Tommy’s chest. “Again. Watch carefully this time, we’re landing today.”

 

He groans, but picks up his sword. The minute he’s ready, Technoblade is lunging, and off they go again.

 

Training with Technoblade helps, in a lot of ways.

 

He’s a bit of a prick some of the time, but still. He’s a good enough guy now that Tommy knows how to read him properly. He doesn’t baby him, the bruises dotting his arms and ribs can attest to that, but he doesn’t use training as an excuse to beat the shit out of him, either. He actually feels like he’s learning something.

 

And, they’re landing today.

 

They’ve been talking about nothing but Netheria for a week, now. Apparently it’s supposed to be incredibly dangerous, hince the training, but considering he and Tubbo aren’t supposed to even leave the ship, it feels a bit like overkill.

 

Well, actually, correction; They weren’t supposed to be leaving the ship, but after some good old fashioned begging (Tommy), and some thinly veiled threats of blackmail (Tubbo), they were letting them tag along. It didn’t take as much groveling as he was prepared for, really, all it took in the end was one louder-than-necessary planning session about how he and Tubbo would sneak off when they were out and follow them for Phil to give in.

 

Yeah, as if he needed anymore reminders to not get on Tubbo’s bad side. He may look innocent, sure, but that’s just how he gets you. It’s a lie. There’s nothing but deception behind those brown and green eyes. 

 

Anyways. 

 

You see, there are still a lot of things about space that Tommy doesn’t understand.

 

He doesn’t understand why Phil, Tubbo and Wilbur have European accents while Technoblade has an American one. He has no idea what hell he’s eating ninety percent of the time, and he still hasn’t mustered up the courage to ask. He still can’t figure out how to work his stupid comn, and the language all the buttons are labeled with, (Common Galatic, thanks Tubbo), still just looks like scribbles. He doesn’t know why Technoblade spends hours in the bath every few days, or why Wilbur avoids direct sunlight like he’s a fucking vampire. Tubbo makes absolutely no sense to him most of the time, and Phil is still another goddamn mystery, no matter how nice he is or how soft his wings might be. 

 

Finally, and most importantly, he doesn’t know why they all talk about Netheria the way they do.

 

Technoblade has him training like they're about to walk into a war zone. He gave him and Tubbo a big, leather-bound book to fumble through together, and he only really glanced at the first few pages before letting his friend take over. He’s never been one for reading, much less in a language he can’t even understand. 

 

He’s never been one for following rules, either, and if there’s one thing Piglins like more than gold it’s rules.  Certain things you can say, certain things you can’t, the proper way to greet one another, how to show respect. There’s a whole fucking chapter in the book Tubbo’s reading about eye contact, and that just sounds like a lot of work. He’ll just do his usual thing of keeping his head low and big mouth shut, and the others will do the talking for him.

 

 No big deal. It’ll be fine.

 

He will admit, he’s curious. 

 

The ship is great and all, but now that he’s explored all of it, it’s starting to feel a bit small. He needs room to run, now that he’s stronger. Space to stretch his legs out, you know? Training with Technoblade helps, but that itch is still there, just underneath his skin.

 

He’s never been a big fan of staying in one place for too long. Getting too comfortable with his surroundings has always been dangerous, something he needed to avoid. Now, though, it’s inevitable. 

 

It’s a strange feeling. 

 

By the way everyone was talking about Netheria, Tommy was expecting something out of Mad Max. Deserts, biker gangs, excessive amounts of spikes and black leather jackets. Finally, a new adventure. 

 

He’s curious, sure, but not quite curious enough to try and stumble us way through the book he and Tubbo were given. He tried asking instead, but quickly learned that it probably wasn’t a good idea. 

 

Technoblade gets this look on his face whenever he mentions it, though. His eyebrows scrunch together, his eyes go dark, the thick scar over his nose twitches. Apparently it’s a bit of a sore spot, so he tries his best not to bring it up. Nothing good ever comes from poking at someone else’s bruises.

 

So, he trains. He listens when the others lecture him on Piglin behavior, on what’s considered polite and what he should never do under any circumstances. The ship just needs some minor maintenance work, and they’re running a bit low on water, so they’re going straight to the market and back. It shouldn’t take longer than a few hours. He’ll be fine, he can suck it up and play nice for that long. Besides, after last time, he doubts Technoblade will let him out of his sight. 

 

All the preparation they’re doing still sounds a bit like overkill to him for such a short trip, but he knows what poorly disguised worry looks like on Technoblade’s face, now, and he keeps his mouth shut. 

 

Worry. Huh. 

 

The thought of having someone actually worry about him again is just. Weird. It’s not as unpleasant of an idea as he thought it would be. 

 

When Technoblade’s sword slashes his sword just a little too close to his nose a second time, he doesn’t even blink. He deflects it back without a problem, using the momentum to get in a swing of his own at his ribs. He misses, but it was only by a hairs-width. 

 

He grins, progress. 



-



Technoblade doesn’t come back out of his training room until they’re about to land. 

 

Tommy doesn’t really blame him. The flight so far hadn’t exactly been pleasant, the fact that they were running low on food and water by now definitely not helping. He’s gotten too used to eating three meals a day again, a few weeks ago he wouldn’t blink an eye at missing breakfast. Now though, it’s just left him hungry and irritated, ready to be over with this whole thing already.

 

His friend doesn’t exactly share the same enthusiasm. 

 

Tubbo makes a happy trill next to him, squirming in his seat. “You can see Bastion city from here! All the way from the ‘Wastes to the Crimson Forest, that’s so cool-“

 

He looks up from his feet and opens his mouth, a snarky reply ready on his tongue, but the minute he catches a glimpse of the planet in the window, it’s gone. For a long minute he just stares, letting his voice wash right over him.

 

It was huge, for one, filling up the entire front windows of the ship with a hundred different shades of red. Everything from mauve to a bloody crimson, dark red clouds swirling in angry patterns. There were hints of other colors, too, a smudge of teal and indigo in the top window, suaves of charcoal grey like burn scars. The ridges and mountains that cut through and jar out from the planet's surface are a lighter color than the rest, giving the appearance of pink scars on burned flesh. Even the pools of glowing orange and burnt sienna look like wounds. 

 

It looms in front of them like the gaping red mouth of some giant beast, ready to swallow the ship whole.The part he can’t look away from, though, is the lights.

 

It’s the same golden spiderweb of color he’s seen before on Bezzar, or in holograms. City lights, far, far below on the planet's surface. A sparkling gold color, shimmering like copper wire, only a few shades lighter than the rivers of and pools of orange, glittering delicately. There’s a giant web of them right in the middle, barely any anywhere else. What had Tubbo called it? Bastion city? Whatever it is, it glows. 

 

It’s breathtaking.

 

“-so cool!” Tubbo finishes, right in his ear.

 

He’s grinning when Tommy looks back over at him, both dual-colored eyes bright. They’re all buckled in and ready for landing, and he’s fidgeting with the strap over his chest, still staring past Tommy to look at the planet in the window, antenna twitching. 

 

“It’s cool.” He agrees, watching Phil as he presses buttons on his control pad. He’s smiling, he always seems to be when he’s at the ship's helm, but his hands are tight on the controls, knuckles white. He rips his gaze away before he can catch him staring. “Bezzar was cooler, though.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“Yeah.” He lets his gaze slip over to Technoblade, who’s sitting upfront with Wilbur. The backs of his shoulders are more tense than they should be. “ Way cooler.”

 

“Are we ready?” Phil asks with that same wild grin of his.

 

“Ready.” Wilbur answers, Technoblade just grunts. He gives Phil a sharp nod of his own, and Tubbo follows with a much more eager one.

 

Tubbo leans against Tommy as much as he’s able when the ship starts to shudder. Tommy just takes a deep breath, his hands white knuckling the handles on either side of his seat. Space travel is fucking cool, sure, but the landing part? A lot less fun. It starts to feel like someone’s holding the ship upright and shaking it like a goddamn maraca. 

 

“Is it supposed to shake this much?!” Tubbo shouts loudly, right in his ear. 

 

Oh. Right. He’s never been on a spaceship before, has he? He can feel the smile spreading across his face. 

 

“No.” He lies, right as Phil grabs the controls, and the ship really starts to shake. “It isn’t.”

 

The floor underneath his feet starts to tremble even more, that god awful shaking he can feel in his teeth. Bezzar’s artificial atmosphere has a relatively low escape velocity, meaning you don’t have to go nearly as fast to land on Bezzar, or to leave it. (Thanks, Tubbo, for being an endless supply of useless information.) A planet like this, though? Four or five times its size? This is gonna be fun.

 

They’re pressed back against their seats as Phil presses on the throttle. The absolutely terrified look on Tubbo’s face once the rattling of the ship reaches an all time high is something he will treasure for years.

 

They get closer and closer, the thrumming getting more and more intense. He really hopes Tubbo taped down those fairy lights well, if he has to clean up whatever that weird liquid is from off his bed, he’s going to be pissed-

 

Red clouds fill the windows, and everything goes dark.

 

Tubbo catches his breath next to him, he seems to have caught on by this point, if the glare he gives Tommy is anything to go by. He still links their hands together, though, as the trembling starts to subside. His hands are sweaty. 

 

The monitors at the front of the ship blink, the neon colors of the buttons and screens the only light in the bridge. They glint eeeily off of the faces of Wilbur and Technoblade, catching on Wilbur’s strange shifting skin and in the Piglins narrowed eyes. Phil has his wings spread, like normal, his face thrown almost entirely in shadow by his hat. The silence is deafening. 

 

Then, all at once, the darkness lifts.

 

There’s a desert underneath them. 

 

Atleast, he thinks it’s a desert. It goes on forever underneath them, the ground a bloody red. The shadows of taller rocks and deep chasms cut through the ground like someone’s attacked it with a knife, taking out chunks and exposing flowing bloodstreams of something orange and glowing, the same rivers he’d seen from above. Lava. They’re flying over a stream of fucking lava! 

 

“We’re not parking in the city.” Technoblade grunts from his seat. “Over here’s fine.”

 

“Gotcha mate.” Is Phil’s easy reply, and the ship slowly starts to lower down into the desert.

 

Technoblade is up and gone the moment the ship stops, disappearing down the hall in a swoosh of his coat. 




-



Technoblade looks worried.

 

Well, no, not exactly. He actually looks kind of constipated, really. His eyebrows are all scrunched together, jaw tense. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that he was mad. A few months ago, he’d mistake his anxious hovering for something more sinister, but the illusion shatters once he loops another golden necklace over Wilbur’s head. 

 

Fortunately for Tommy, he’s finally capable of putting together context clues. 

 

Wilbur looks the opposite of worried. He’s sitting on one of the boxes, already dressed in his thick black jacket and ready to go. He’s covered up just about every inch of skin from head to toe, leaving only his shimmering face and brown eyes exposed. The golden rings in his fingers look a bit stupid sitting over his black biking gloves. He tilts his head back and tolerates the fussing with a huff, letting him drape another necklace around his neck. 

 

Phil, sitting on his other side, doesn’t look too worried either, though he doesn’t look quite as relaxed. There’s something he can’t read written across his face, eyes dark and jaw set with something like… Determination? Maybe? Stress? 

 

The golden earrings dripping from his ears look kind of ridiculous. 

 

Technoblade himself is dressed in a similar manner. He’s got his usual white flowy shirt and specially made boots laced tight over his hooves. There’s a sword tucked into a scabbard at his hip, and the hilt of some sort of gun is barely hidden by the big, ugly jacket over his shoulders. He hasn’t bothered with putting the hood up, though, and his hair is down, which is a little strange. Well, mostly, there’s a small side braid keeping it out of his face, interlaced with golden ribbons and little clasps. 

 

He’s also wearing a ridiculous amount of gaudy golden jewelry, both around his neck and hanging from his tattered ears. The rings on his knuckles flash when he puts another necklace on Phil.

 

Tubbo bumps his shoulder, sitting next to him on the same box and kicking his legs where they dangle off. “I think Techno’s worried.”

 

He snorts. “You think?”

 

“Yeah.” He kicks his legs again. “We’re less likely to have trouble if we wear gold, sure, but he’s going a bit overboard.”

 

He watches as Technoblade carefully puts golden earrings in Wilbur’s ears, and would have to agree.

 

He leans back on his hands. “They won’t get robbed, at least. You’d have to be pretty dumb to fuck with Technoblade.” 

 

“Robbed?”

 

“Well, yeah .” He shrugs. “Wearing a bunch of expensive shit and walking around a city is just asking to get mugged.”

 

To be fair, the only city he’s ever really been to was Bezzar, but still. You shouldn’t wear expensive shit in a place with a lot of people unless you’re prepared to defend it. That’s just common sense. Apparently it wasn’t to Tubbo, though, who was looking at him like he’d just suggested they go drown some puppies in a river.

 

 “No one would dare.” He all but hisses, and Tommy’s more than a little taken aback by the intensity in his voice. 

 

He blinks. “Huh?”

 

“It’s a Piglin thing, the jewelry. It’s like…” He pauses, waving his hands around as he thinks of a good way to explain it. He looks horrified by the mere suggestion of someone trying to pickpocket the jewelry, antenna standing on end. 

 

 “A cultural thing?” He tries again. “He’s basically telling everyone that we’re… With him. No one would just, they wouldn’t just take it.”

 

He blinks again. “Huh.”

 

...Maybe he should have tried to read that book on Piglin behavior, now that he thinks about it. 

 

He looks back at the others. They aren’t paying any attention to his and Tubbo’s conversation, chatting lowly amongst themselves. Wilbur is already fidgeting with the rings on his fingers, turning them around and around, and Phil just rolls his eyes when Technoblade fastens another bracelet to his wrist. 

 

“...It does look pretty dumb though.” Tubbo admits.

 

Tommy just snorts again. Dumb is an understatement. They look ridiculous wearing that much jewelry. “Not to mention heavy.”

 

One of Technoblade’s ears flicks in his direction, and he shuts up real quick. If the jewelry is some sort of cultural thing, he probably doesn’t want to get caught talking about how stupid it looks. Especially since there’s plenty left in the pile, and he'd rather make it out with the least amount of ugly jewelry on him as possible, thanks. 

 

He watches his face.

 

Technoblade doesn’t have many expressions. Most of the time he walks around completely blank-faced, or glaring off into thin air as he thinks. The complete opposite of Phil, who shows every emotion clearly. After all these weeks, though, he likes to think he’s gotten better at reading him.

 

He leans closer than necessary to others while he covers them in jewelry, pupils blown wide and jaw set. His tail curls around his heels, ears pinned ever so slightly back. He never would have noticed any of those things a few weeks ago, but know? He has a pretty good idea what they mean.

 

He’s worried. Anxious, even. Worried for them. 



“Stay close.” He grunts, loud enough for them all to hear.

 

“I know, Technoblade.” Is Phil’s exasperated reply. “It’s going to be fine.” 

 

“And don’t talk to anyone.” He stresses, looking over at Tommy when he says it, giving him The Look. “ Especially you two. Don’t even think about it.”

 

Tubbo just blinks, immune to The Look, because of course he is. “Not even to you guys?” 

 

He growls, and Tommy immediately goes still. For a moment he’s sure that he’s about to smack him upside the head for talking back, he definitely looks like he’s considering it. Thankfully, Phil interrupts before anything can escalate, standing and giving his wings a shake for emphasis. “ Enough. We should leave, we need to get back before dark.”

 

It works like a charm, and the two settle. 

 

Then, Technoblade looks over at him and Tubbo, a handful of necklaces in his hand. 

 

Aw, shit. 



-



He looks fucking ridiculous.

 

Phil fidgets with his hood, tugging it low over Tommy’s head to help disguise his lack of Piglin ears. They have him dressed up like he’s about to go marching into a war zone, with big, thick boots and heavy cloth pants. The coat is Wilbur’s, and absolutely dwarfs him, even though he’s only a few inches taller. Gloves had been shoved on his hands, and, as one final touch, Phil’s red goggles strapped in his face to help disguise his lack of red eyes.

 

“I don’t know why we never thought of this before.” Phil steps back, admiring his handiwork. “Now he’s practically a Piglin shoat. No one will get close enough to tell the difference.”

 

He blinks. Shoat? Was that an insult or a compliment? He’s not sure if he should be offended or not, so screws his face up into a scowl just in case.

 

The only good thing about the outfit was the dagger strapped to his hip. Technoblade didn't trust him enough to give up one of his blasters, so the dagger had been a compromise. The blade looked wicked sharp, and even though he still had to promise to only use it in emergencies, he still finds himself fidgeting with the handle. Worth it. 

 

Technoblade hums, looking him over critically. He resists the urge to bite his fingers when a golden necklace is looped carefully around his neck. Whatever, as long as he doesn’t get any bright ideas about adding earrings. Phil looks ridiculous enough for the both of them. 

 

“A squeaker, more like.” He grumbles, fastening a bracelet around his wrist. “That’ll do it.”

 

Tommy decides to just ignore him, yanking his wrist out of his hands the minute he’s able. Weird ass alien slang. Stupid translators. 

 

Tubbo didn’t get fussed over nearly as much, and seems to be getting a kick out of watching Tommy suffer. He dips his head happily when Technoblade lumbers over to the box he’s sitting on, letting him loop another necklace over his head. He doesn’t look nearly as ridiculous as the rest of them, which is just not fair. He and the others are practically dripping with the stupid jewelry, and the rustling noise it makes when he so much as blinks too hard is really getting on his nerves. 

 

Whatever. As long as they get to leave soon, he’ll put up with it. He fiddles with one of the necklaces, the least-ugly one with the little red charm, and sulks on his own until Technoblade’s finished. 

 

After what feels like years, it's finally over.

 

Wilbur loops his bag over his shoulder, Technoblade finishes adjusting both the sword and the gun strapped to his hip. Phil tightens the strap of his own bag. The minute Wilbur gets the all clear nod from Technoblade, he’s sprinting over to the bike. 

 

Phil laughs, already following Wilbur. The man himself wastes no time in putting on his black helmet, already grinning like a madman as he hops on the bike, Technoblade right behind him. Phil stands nearby and waves him and Tubbo over with a wing.

 

And just like that, he’s grinning again, all the jewelry and the ridiculous outfit forgotten. 

 

He’ll never stop being impressed by Wilbur’s bike. Nothing but pure speed and black metal, red accents in all of the right places. The leather seats are slightly worn under his fingers, and there’s a scratch in the paint right behind Wilbur’s leg. There’s a dent in one side, too, about the size of a golf ball, and one of the exhaust pipes is just a little more crooked than the other. He runs his gloved fingers down the bike's side, brushing over the smooth black metal. He wouldn’t trade her for anything.

 

“Up you go,” Phil offers Tommy a hand, and he jumps up on the bike right behind Wilbur, adrenaline already thrumming in his veins. Phil brushes a hand over the backs of his shoulders, and he doesn’t even blink “There you are. Tubbo, you're up next.”

 

He runs his gloved fingers over the leather seat again and again, playing with the seam trying not to squirm. Finally, finally! It’s been forever since he’s ridden the bike. He barely even notices Tubbo getting in right behind him, or Technoblade following soon after. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but he doesn’t even care because just then, the bike starts to come alive under his fingers, thrumming as the engine turns over.

 

“C’mon, Sally, don’t be like that.” Wilbur complains from in front of him, giving the side of the bike a light kick with the back of heel. 

 

It does the trick, and the engine roars to life.

 

He doesn’t even care that he has to throw his arms around Wilbur’s waist for balance, or that Tubbo is breathing right in his ear. The blood in his veins thrums right along with the engine, making all of him buzz and him to life like a live wire. The hoverbike rises off the floor slowly, the red headlights flickering on, and the rumble it makes underneath him is music to his ears. He breathes in the smell of not quite gasoline, and grins, sharp and feral. 

 

Phil is standing off the side, and with a hand motion from Wilbur, the front of the ship starts to open wide.

 

For a moment, all he does is watch, craning his neck to look over Wilbur’s shoulder. 

 

A dry, hot wind blows in from the opening at the front of the ship, the ramp yawning wide. He squints to try and see outside, but all he can make out is red, red, red. It must just be the goggles, right?

 

The blood red desert in front of them seems to stretch off into infinity, disappearing into an orange sky laced with black thunderclouds that loom ominously in the distance. The hot, rancid smell of burnt leather and sulfur fills the cargo hold, drowning out the familiar scent of almost-gasoline and making his nose wrinkle. 

 

Then, with a roar he can feel in his bones, the bike takes off, and the ramp closes back up behind them. 




-




Wilbur’s bike is one of the best things that’s ever happened to him, in space.

 

They don’t ride, they fucking fly. Soaring over the red desert, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake as they go. The hot, dry wind rips at him, tossing his hair and whipping across his face. The goggles are a welcome improvement, letting him stare out over the desert as much as he’d like. There’s no turbulence, no bouncing over rocks or skidding on sand, just pure speed. Wilbur drives like a goddamn maniac, turning corners around rocks and caverns in the sand sharply enough to make him feel like he’s about to go flying off.

 

He presses close to his back, cheek flush against his black leather jacket. He smells like leather and motor oil, but the sweet vanilla-ish scent of his body wash still clings to his skin and his  wild brown hair. Tubbo’s nose is buried between his shoulder blades, thin arms holding in a death grip around his ribs. He’s shouting something in his ear, or at least trying to. All Tommy can make out over the one is the tone of his voice, somewhere between excited and terrified. 

 

The desert around them is nothing more than a blur of red and black, the sun hot on the back of his neck. If they go any faster, they’ll take off into orbit. 

 

He wouldn’t trade it for anything .

 

He feels free, he feels alive. The rest of the universe narrowed down to nothing more than the wind on his face and the feel of the leather jacket against his cheek. Nothing but speed and adrenaline. 

 

Wilbur laughs as he turns another sharp corner, and it has that familiar, maniacal edge. He feels it more than he hears it, really, and tightens his grip. Tubbo makes a noise in his ear like a mouse getting strangled, arms tightening around Tommy’s stomach enough to make him wheeze. Even Techno makes a noise as the bike nearly goes fucking sideways, the sound somehwere between a pig’s squeal and a foghorn.

 

All Tommy does is toss his head back and laugh, the wind stealing his voice right out of his chest.



-



Eventually, though, all good things come to an end.

 

The bike slows to a crawl.

 

Immediately he pops his head up, whipping his head around. Are they in Bastion city already? No, that doesn’t sound right…

 

He scans the horizon on both sides, but all he sees is that same red desert, a sea of crimson as far as the eye can see, stretching right into the soot-stained horizon. Thunderheads lurk in the corners of his vision, black storm clouds creeping in over the desert way off in the distance.

 

No city. Just desert. Than why-

 

Oh.

 

A few yards in front of the bike is a hole.

 

Or, more accurately, a tunnel. It yawns wide like the red, gaping mouth of some toothless animal, ready to swallow them whole. It disappears into shadow only a few feet in, making it look a little like the path ahead dips off straight into the fucking void.

 

“This is it!” Wilbur calls back to the rest of them. “Everyone, hold on!”

 

They weren’t seriously going into that thing, we’re they? No, there’s no possible way-

 

Wilbur tosses his head back as he revs the engine, the bike once again coming to life beneath them, rumbling in anticipation. He points the bloody headlights into the fucking abyss and slams on the gas.

 

They take off like a fucking rocket, fast enough to make him immediately duck back down into the safety of Wilbur’s shadow. His hands scramble for purchase around his waist, white-knuckling his jacket with both fists. His teeth fucking rattle in his skull as the bike roars down the path, going fast as hell and only picking up speed. Tubbo is trying his best to bruise both of his ribs, face buried in the backs of his shoulders, and every inch of him is vibrating as the bike trembles with the force of its own speed.

 

He barely gets a second to flinch before the bike shoots off down the tunnel, and darkness slams over his vision.

 

It’s pitch black, nothing but void on both sides. His own harsh breathing echoes loudly in his ears. He turns his head to the side and squints, doing his best to make out the walls that close them in, but all he sees is a blur of red and black, too dark to mean anything. 

 

The roaring of the bike echoes off of the tunnel walls, making them seem even smaller. Wilbur’s headlights don’t do shit to light up the road in front of them, and they’re still going a million miles an hour. His heartbeat picks up, hands going clammy where they’re burrowed in black leather. Goddamn it, he fucking hates caves-

 

Then, all at once, it opens.

 

He blinks furiously in the light, whipping his head around as the bike slows, but only just. Immediately he fuckimg regrets it, now unable to do anything but stare.

 

They’re driving on the side of a fucking cliff!

 

Wilbur’s slowed a little, but not nearly enough for how narrow the road is, and for the fact that they’re going down. Tubbo’s hands scramble over his wrist, tugging to get his attention as he yells in his ear. “Tommy! Tommy look!”

 

Tommy doesn’t want to look. Tommy very much does not want to look down, and is currently doing his best to look anywhere but. He presses himself as tight to Wilbur as he can get, personal space can get fucked, and does absolutely everything he can to keep from looking down.

 

It works for about a minute. He looks down. 



And there it was.



He remembers how Bezzar had looked, sitting on Tubbo’s balcony. The laughter and music that still hung in the cooling evening air, the warm lights strung between buildings. The rest of the city had glimmered like starlight off in the distance, full of life and bright, shimmering lights. Bezzar had seemed warm, a patchwork quit of a city, sure, but one filled with love nonetheless.

 

Bastion City looks nothing like Bezzar.

 

The red cliff gives away sharply beneath them, 

Far sharper than he’d ever be comfortable with, and it’s lined with sharp, blood red rocks all the way down. Flowing rivers of magma criss-cross the surface like ugly lightning scars, dripping down, below into the larger rivers that frame the city's edges. Then, far below them, it veers even more down. Down, down, down , like someone had tried to break through the planet's surface with an axe.

 

 In the very center, far, far beneath them, is Bastion City.

 

It looms out of the cliff’s shadow, black skyscrapers rising from the blood red cliff sides it’s perched in. All the buildings are the same shade of charcoal black and grey, the surrounding lava falls glinting harshly off of black glass. He's far away, sure, but even now he can smell it, air thick with smoke and city smog. The strong, awful smell of sulfur and burning leather that makes his nose itch. It sprawls like the charred, broken ribcage of some long-dead animal, the city lights cutting sharply through the mist. The longer he stares at the black buildings, the more he feels like the buildings are staring back at him. He looks away sharply the minute he can tear his eyes away. 

 

It might be surrounded by lava flow, maybe, but there’s nothing about this city that’s warm. 

 

Wilbur is warm in front of him, though, and Tubbo’s warm at his back, still breathing right in his ear. He can feel both of their heartbeats, pressed so close, and he lets himself take comfort from it, just for a moment.

 

The city disappears from view as they go behind another rock, but he doesn’t notice. Those black spires and charcoal grey buildings are burned into the backs of his eyes. That’s where Technoblade grew up? That’s where they’re going? Into the depths of fucking hell? 

 

Apparently so. Fun.

 

And down, down, down they go. 




-




They met up with Phil again at the city gates.

 

Tommy’s still shaky from the bike ride, but not nearly as much as Tubbo, who’s stumbling around like a baby deer. Considering the fact that they walk along the edge of a fucking cliff, he keeps a hand tight on the back of his jacket, just in case. 

 

Technoblade keeps him and Tubbo both close as they walk. He’s not as annoyed by it as he should be, really, more than happy to stay close by his side in a place like this. A nice, big barrier between him and the side of a sheer cliff face. Or, now, a barrier between him and the crowd they’ve stumbled into. 

 

He doesn’t like the look of the guards. Or of any of this, really, so he sticks close and keeps his head down.

 

They’ve parked the bike a little ways back, hidden by rocks and weird red shrubbery. To keep it from being stolen, Wilbur had said, before ushering them along the path. He hasn’t taken the goggles off yet, so he’s not sure if it’s the red tint or the lenses or not, but absolutely everything is the same violent shade of crimson. The cavern walls, the stones and grass underneath their feet, the cavern ceiling above their heads. Everything. 

 

There’s a light crowd around the gates, once they get close to them, Piglin’s and other aliens alike speaking in rushed, hurried voices. Every once in a while a group will approach the gates and the guards, only some of them are allowed through. 

 

The city gates are huge, made of some strange dark wood and lined with gold. They’re set heavily into the dark city walls, and two armed guards stand at either side, axes in hand. They look a bit like Technoblade’s older, more grizzled cousins, with mean, boar-like faces and scarred chests. Piglin Brutes, he remembers from one of Technoblade’s lectures. Protectors, guardians. 

 

They grunt disapprovingly at Phil, who waits only a little ways away, waving like an idiot to be seen over the crowd. 

 

Technoblade makes a beeline towards him, with Tommy, Wilbur and Tubbo hot on his heels.

 

“There you are!” He exclaims, a little breathless. His wings flutter behind him, feathers all out of place from the flight. “How was the ride?”

 

“Great!” Wilbur says, teeth sharp as he grins. “Parked the bike out of the way. Time to go?”

 

Phil nods, and Technoblade leads them up to the gate.



Tommy has no problem letting him take charge on this one, resting comfortably in his shadow. He fidgets with his hood, keeping it low over his face, and fixes his goggles. He glares at the guards for good measure, stepping a little closer to Tubbo’s side, but if they can see it through the googles, they don’t say anything. It’s probably for the best. 

 

Besides, Technoblade’s also a Piglin, isn’t he? This should go pretty smoothly. 

 

“State your business.” The one on the left growls, pulling his lips back over razor-sharp tusks.

 

... or maybe not .

 

Technoblade doesn’t falter, ruby red eyes meeting golden ones head on. “Resupply.”

 

The Piglin looks them all over critically, hand never drifting from his axe. His gaze rests heavily on the jewelry they all wear, curling his lip at Phil’s wings and Wilbur’s sparkling skin. Tommy can feel the weight of that look, settling over his shoulders like a lead blanket when it’s his turn to be considered. He bites back the urge to snarl, shifting just a little bit more in front of Tubbo. He rests his hand on the dagger strapped to his hip, just in case. Thankfully, the Piglin sweeps right over him and back to Technoblade.

 

Then, finally, the Piglin dips his head, and they both step aside. The doors swing open slowly on rusted hinges. 

 

“Get what you want, then leave.” The Piglin grunts, curling his lips back over his tusks. “Outsiders are not welcome here.”



Tommy blinks. Outsiders? But wasn’t Technoblade from Netheria? He’s definitely an outsider, sure, but the guard was definitely looking at Technoblade when he said it. 



“Understood.” Is Technoblade’s even reply, and into the city they go.




-




If Bezzar is a patchwork quilt, Netheria is the world's most confusing haunted corn maze.

 

It’s dirty and claustrophobic, red stone walls pressing in on all sides, and incredibly confusing. The red wash over everything definitely not helping. The roads twist and turn sharply, some of them branching off into side streets, the others just dead ends. It’s loud, every little noise of the crowd echoing off of the walls, and crowded enough to make navigating through it a nightmare. Nobody looks like they want to be there, either, and if you get too close to someone, they growl at you. 

 

...He’s never actually been in a haunted corn maze, but if what he’s seen on TV is correct, it’s close enough. He keeps waiting for someone in a Jason mask to jump out at them, waving a knife or a chainsaw. 

 

Wilbur is a little ahead of them, weaving through the crowd like a fish in water. He grins every once in a while at the aliens he passes, but it’s more of a flash of teeth than a smile. He never wanders too far ahead before drifting back to them. Technoblade is just in front of him and Tubbo, marching through the crowd with his shoulders squared. Finally, Phil brings up the rear, both wings pressed firmly against his back. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that he’s hovering right over their shoulder, keeping him and Tubbo penned in the center of their little group.

 

He feels a bit like a lamb being herded along by sheepdogs. Whatever, the others make a nice barrier between him and Tubbo and the rest of the city's inhabitants. He’s able to look around in peace. 

 

This is the edge of Bastion City, apparently. No sleek black buildings or flowing lava streams here. Most of the buildings are made of this weird dark brick, set into the cavern's walls. There’s a red stone ceiling far above his head, but it’s still too close for comfort. Just claustrophobic enough to keep him on edge. 

 

They pass a few market stalls, none of them selling anything particularly interesting. The shopkeepers watch them pass with beady gold eyes, lips curled back over their tusks. Most of the buildings seem empty, run down with black windows, but he’s not stupid enough to get close and check.

 

The crowd around them is a mix of strange aliens, some Piglins, others kinds that he’s never seen before.

 

There are some with skin as red and crumbling as the rocks around them, like the pet store owner’s ugly cousins. Some that look almost like Piglins at first glance, but then they turn he can make out the sparks that shimmer on gilded skin, and hair that licks with flames underneath their hoods. There are even some that look almost skeletal, looming over the crowd with large, distorted limbs and black, leathered skin. He stays as far away from them as possible.

 

Others are a bit less terrifying. There’s an alien a little bit in front of them with orange, slimy skin. They approach one of the market stalls and trade a bar of gold for a small pouch. Huh. 

 

They’re all different, but they look mostly the same, as a group. All dressed in muted reds and leathers, a hint of golden jewelry flashing as they move. He breathes a sigh of relief once he realizes everyone is dressed in the same gaudy jewelry as he is, but that’s about where the similarities end. None of them have Wilbur’s faintly sparkling skin, Technoblade’s vibrant pink hair or Tubbo’s antenna. No one even comes close to having Phil’s wings. 

 

Which means, of course, their little group is attracting a bit of attention. 

 

He can feel the weight of eyes on the back of his neck, boring into his skin. The tension in the air is almost palpable, like the moment before a lightning strike. That hum of static electricity prickling along his skin. 

 

He hates it, he hates it more than anything. 

 

Trusting his instincts has got him out of some pretty rough spots before, and now everything in him is yelling, run! Run away as fast as possible!

 

He keeps one hand fisted in the back of Tubbo’s coat, the other resting on the handle of his dagger. He glares at everyone they pass, regardless of whether or not they can tell through his goggles, resisting the urge to bare his teeth back. 

 

If Technoblade notices, he doesn’t pay them any mind. He looks straight ahead, not so much as flicking an ear at the Piglins and other aliens they pass. He doesn’t blink when he gets snarls or warning growls from drifting too close to a different group. 

 

...He’d always looked so big, before. The tallest and broadest of the crew, by far. Now, though? Surrounded by other Piglins and aliens his size and much, much larger? He looks almost… small . He doesn’t seem to be letting it affect him on the outside. Only Tommy notices how his hand fidgets with one of his rings, or how his tail curls around his hooves as he walks.

 

He’s nervous .

 

Tommy doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all. 

 

So, he keeps close. He keeps his head down and pulls Tubbo closer to his side. He doesn’t shove away from Phil when he looks just a little to close over his shoulder, or wander away from their group. The excitement of the hoverbike ride was fading fast, leaving behind nothing but anxiety and ugly, twisting uncertainty in his gut. The faster they get out of here, the better. 

 

The others seem to feel it, too. He doesn’t blame them for hovering. 



Finally, after what feels like hours of wandering around in the stupid maze, finally, the roads open back up into a little market square.



Emphasis on little, it’s nothing compared to the market square on Bezzar, but still. At Least now he feels like he can actually breathe.

 

It’s set up in a similar way. Market stalls line the sides of the square, shoppers wandering in the center and from stall to stall. There aren’t any vibrant colors. Well, none besides red and gold, and the air is filled with grunts and shouts instead of music. There are no dancers, here, no laughter or warmth. Nothing but that hot, dry heat and the thick smell of sulfur, blood and sweat. Shoppers trade uncertain glances and growls, flashing teeth and tusks at anyone who gets too close. 

 

“We need water.” Technoblade grunts at them, sounding as eager to get out of here as Tommy is. “Everythin’ else we can get at our next stop.”

 

“We need a mechanic .” Wilbur snaps back. “The Argo II needs repairs, remember?”

 

“Fine. You find a mechanic, I’ll get-“

 

Phil grabs him by the arm before he can wander off, “ Nope, not happening. Remember what happened last time we split up? We go together.”

 

He hesitates, looking at Phil’s grip on his arm for a moment like he’s considering throwing it off and marching away anyways, but relents. He looks over Tommy and Tubbo for a moment, and the weight of his gaze lingers on Tommy’s goggles for a second or two longer than necessary. “Remember what I said about staying close.”

 

He and Tubbo both nod, and he turns back around, satisfied. “This way.”

 

Wilbur lingers back, hovering by Tommy’s side. Phil takes up the space right over Tubbo’s shoulder, and with Technoblade in front, they’re once again penned in the middle. 

 

He watches the groups they pass as they wander over to a market stall.

 

There are a few huddled around the marketplace, lingering by stalls. Most of them are Piglins, with a few other aliens he doesn’t recognize mixed in. They watch Technoblade pass with narrowed eyes, whispering amongst themselves. He glares them down when his crew mate doesn’t. 

 

The merchant glares at them, too, once they walk up to his stall.

 

It’s simple. A small wooden set up draped in furs and leathers, clay pots and jugs hanging from support beams. The Piglin behind the counter his fucking huge, burly and ugly. His snout twists into a sneer when Technoblade approaches, golden eyes narrowed in suspicion. There’s a thick, ugly scar across his left cheek, cutting through his eyebrow and missing his eye by a hair's-width. It bulges when he scowls. 

 

Technoblade isn’t intimated in the slightest. He pulls something out of his bag, placing it on the counter with a quiet clink. 

 

Tommy leans over his shoulder to try and get a better look, and his mouth drops.

 

Gold.

 

Just, straight up two bars of pure gold . They shine, the harsh red lights glinting off of the pure, smooth surface. The younger, more desperate side of him screams to grab both and run. God knows how much they would be worth back home. 

 

“Two jugs.” Technoblade grunts. 

 

The merchant considers the golden bars, an ear flicking as he thinks. “...Six bars.”

 

Technoblade snorts, a slight growl to his voice as his tail lashes at his ankles. “That’s ridiculous. Water’s never been that expensive.”

 

“It is now.” The Piglin growls back. “If you can’t pay, then get out.”

 

He thinks about it, for a moment, and they glare each other down. Or, Tommy thinks they do, he’s standing too far behind Technoblade to see his face, too focused on the gold. Finally, after a moment, he pulls four more golden bars from his bag, four more! and slams them down. 

 

The other Piglin takes them, sweeping them off of the counter with one big, ugly paw, lip curled in satisfaction. He pulls two big clay jugs out from under the counter, handing them off. Technoblade takes one, Phil takes the other. They swish when they’re hefted up. 

 

Tommy’s gaze catches on the Piglins hands, and the lack of two fingers on his right hand, cut off at the knuckle. The scars are brutal , and he shivers, looking away. 

 

“Do you know a good mechanic?” Phil asks, giving the Piglin a polite smile as he lifts the jug up with ease. Or, well, a polite smile to anyone who doesn’t know Phil. Tommy knows a thinly-veiled threat when he hears one. 

 

The Piglin tilts his head, pretending to think. His hungry gaze never leaves Technoblade’s satchel. “Well, I don’t know…”

 

Technoblade growls again, loud enough for Tommy to feel it, and slams another golden bar down on the counter. 

 

The Piglin grins, all teeth, and sweeps the bar off into his hands before Tommy gets more than the faintest glimpse of the shining gold metal. “Walk back the way you came, take a right instead of a left. It’s on the corner by the-“



Tommy feels the moment that the tension breaks.



Like the first lightning strike of a hurricane, the first few drops of rain before a flood. The rumble you feel in your bones right before the ground splits open and swallows you whole.

 

It starts slowly, a shift in the crowd. 

 

The whispering around them gets a little bit louder, all the standing around becomes an anxious shuffle of feet. Then, Somebody screams, and the call is picked up by everyone in the square. 

 

Suddenly, it’s chaos, the low bellowing of an angry animal just audible over the screams of pain and panic. Phil grabs Tommy by the shoulder, pulling him back just in time for another alien to come barreling past, trampling over where he’d been standing just seconds ago. What the hell? 

 

Technoblade goes stiff, Whipping his head around to the source of the noise a few streets over. The ground is rumbling, now, the pounding footsteps of panicked aliens kicking up dust and echoing off the walls. It’s loud, it’s so loud. 

 

Tommy pulls his dagger from its sheath in one swift movement. If this didn’t count as an emergency, he doesn’t know what does. 

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Technoblade growls back at him pulling his lips back in a snarl. He all but shoves him and Tubbo back towards Wilbur and Phil, already moving before they could say anything. “Stay here, and stay out of the way. I’ll handle this.”

 

He’s gone before anyone can protest, tail lashing at his ankles as he goes charging back into the crowd, following the source of the screaming.

 

Wilbur’s arms close protectively around his shoulders, pulling him back against his chest. He can feel his heart pounding, pulled this close, his leather jacket hot and slick with sweat. Phil gives Tubbo a similar treatment with his wings to his other side, trading a sharp nod with Wilbur over their heads. He only catches a glimpse of his friends wide, frightened eyes before Wilbur and Phil are ushering them away with wings and fluttering hands.

 

“So stupid!” Wilbur hisses in his ear. “Going off like that on his own, he’ll get himself killed-“

 

There’s a scream from behind them, loud and blood-curdling. He feels himself freeze, heart jumping to his throat as his feet trip over themselves in the dirt. Wilbur doesn’t let him turn to look, all but carrying him away from the scene.

 

He curses under his breath. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

 

There’s a gust of wind on the back of his neck, feathers resting gently on his shoulders. “Go find Techno, Wilbur. I’ll get these two back to the ship.”

 

He lets himself be manhandled, passed off to Phil without a second to waste. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, watching with wide eyes as Wilbur hands him off. He looks more scared than he’s ever seen him before, eyes wide and jaw set. His hair is in his eyes, lips pulled back to display his sharp, sharp teeth. He gives Tommy one last look before he turns sharply on his heel, and the panicked crowd swallows him whole.

 

He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, he doesn’t fucking understand. All he knows is that Technoblade is in trouble and Wilbur is gone. Tubbo’s latched on to his side now that he’s close enough, both of them tucked close to Phil under the safety of his wings as he hurries them along. 

 

He can feel Tubbo’s breathing, sharp and panicked. Phil is staring determinedly ahead, sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd for the best way through. He pulls them along close to the sides of buildings, but even then it’s slow-going.

 

There’s just too many people , all of them panicked. The air is thick with screams and the scent of blood, the howling, strange cries of aliens he doesn’t recognize. The streets of Netheria are just too small, too cramped to handle the rioting crowd within them, only feeding into the hysteria as people get trapped against buildings or caught underfoot.

 

They’re caught in the middle of a riot, and there’s no way out. 

 

Phil keeps them both as protected as he can, trying to both hide their eyes and tug them along the best he can. He squeezes his eyes shut, doing his best to block out the screams. He steps in something wet and squishy, and does everything in his power to ignore the smell of blood and sweat in the air.

 

There’s an angry roar from somewhere behind them, and Phil curses under his breath. “Just a little further, boys. Just a little more.”

 

He tugs them out of the market square, down one of the side streets to try and get away from the source of the noise. Apparently everyone else had the same idea, boxing them in and forcing them along like cows to slaughter. There’s nowhere to go but forwards-

 

Someone crashes into Phil’s shoulder, and all three of them are sent sprawling. 

 

Tommy recovers first, clawing at the bloodied dirt as he scrambles to his feet. Tubbo is right next to him, and he doesn’t even think before he’s lunging, throwing his arms around his friend and doing his best to shield him. 

 

The Piglin that rammed into them snorts, eyes wild, the whites of them showing. He’s big, a lot bigger than Technoblade, and twice as broad in the chest. It doesn’t look anything like Technoblade, sporting more hair and piggish features, and a hell of a lot more scars. The axe it holds in its hands is taller than Tommy is, the blade already stained with blood. 

 

It doesn’t look at them as much as it looks through them.

 

A Piglin Brute. Technoblade has mentioned them, once. They’re supposed to be protectors. 

 

Tommy stays still, he stays perfectly still. He glares it down the best he can from where he’s crouched against a building, shielding Tubbo behind him with his arms, keeping himself in front. One hand holds his dagger in a white-knuckled grip, like that’ll do any good.

 

It considers them with unseeing eyes for a moment. Then, the desperate, keening cry of a hurt alien catches its attention, and it’s gone. 

 

He doesn’t get a moment to breathe. The crowd around them shrieks. Mothers cry out desperately for children, aliens howl in fear and pain. The stomping of feet drowns out everything but the blood rushing in his ears. Every inch of him is trembling, whole body thrumming with fear and adrenaline.

 

Technoblade has said that they were protectors. They guarded the city from raiders and bandits, patrolling the walls of Bastion City. What the hell was it doing?

 

Something isn’t right. 

 

Tubbo has to yank on him to get his attention.

 

“Tommy, Tommy!”

 

He turns, and his friends wide eyes and pale face snap him out of whatever trance he’d been caught in. He gives his head a firm shake, the freaking out can wait until later, and him and Tubbo cling to each other as they stumble to their feet.

 

The crowd pulls around them, boxing them in on both sides, pushing and pulling in all directions like a sea caught in a storm. He clings to Tubbo as hard as he can, a white knuckled grip on both arms.

 

He’d already lost the rest of the crew, he’d be dammned before he loses Tubbo, too.

 

“What’s happening!?” He screams to be heard over the panicked screeching of the crowd. “Where’s Phil?!”

 

“I don’t see him!” Tubbo yells back in his ear, and he winces.

 

There’s someone stepping on his foot on his right, a Piglin mother on his other side jamming her elbow into his ribs as she clutches her child close to her chest. She looks terrified , the whites of her eyes showing as she stumbles, trying her best to backpedal backwards to no avail.

 

She stumbles again, and he catches her arm to steady her. Her ruby eyes meet his, and he feels himself freeze.

 

“Run!” She says, voice shrill with panic, trembling hand gripping his arm in a bruising grip. “Find your sounder! Quickly! Schlatt’s men are out for blood, they’ll kill you if you get in their way!”

 

Then, she does something strange. For just a moment, just a second , she presses her forehead against his. She gives him and Tubbo one last pitying look. “May the gods be with you. Go!”

 

The child in her arms wails, hidden completely by blankets and tucked firmly against her chest. She takes a step backwards, and both her and the child are swallowed by the crowd.

 

He doesn’t have a second to process what happened when someone nearby gives a hideous shriek, and the whole crowd starts screaming .

 

They all run, this time, all going the same direction. A flood of desperate people down the same narrow bottleneck street, all crying and wailing in fear and pain. He and Tubbo are swept along, clinging furiously to each other to keep from being separated as they run the best they’re able, still penned in on all sides. The alien to his right shoulder checks him as he shoves ahead, sharp teeth flashing. The one to his left cowers, standing on their toes to try and see over the crowd.

 

It’s no use. Not while everyone’s moving like this. All anyone can do is keep moving.

 

Just keep moving. That’s all he has to do, keep fucking moving, Tommy. Don’t look down at the blood-stained dirt, ignore the shrieking in his ears and the smell of iron in the air. All he can do is cling to Tubbo with everything he has, and keep moving.



He isn’t sure why the kid catches his eye.



Maybe it’s because they look about the same age, maybe it’s the purple hoodie he’s wearing, standing out starkly from the muted red and leather clothes of everyone else. Maybe it’s the look on his face, jaw set and eyes narrowed in determination as he weaves through the crowd.

 

It’s a fluke, really. In the end, that’s all it is. 

 

The crowd around them jostles him in every direction, the aliens behind him shoving him forwards. It’s by chance that the kid in purple catches his eye, that he happens to be looking in his direction when a Piglin Brute  grabs the kid by the back of his hoodie and drags him backwards.

 

The screaming around him becomes ear piercing , everyone shoving each other to get out of the Piglins way. He holds the kid by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, shaking him violently and snarling in his face. The kid snarls right back, spitting something that only makes him madder, reaching for the axe strapped at his hip.

 

He’s moving before he realizes what he’s doing.



He doesn’t know why. He’ll think back to this moment in the future and still not have an answer. All he knows is that his feet start moving underneath him, and then he’s running before he knows what he’s doing. 

 

Tubbo screams from somewhere behind him as he tugs out his grip, but he barely even notices. All he sees is the axe, already in the Piglins hand and aiming for the kid's throat. All he sees is the kid's eyes, wide with terror as he braces for the impact.



He collides with the Piglins' side hard enough to send all three of them sprawling like bowling pins.

 

The kid looks at him, shock written across his face. There’s something so human in those purple eyes, pupils blown wide. The kid opens his mouth, but whatever he says is lost the minute he hits the floor, the breath knocked out of his lungs. 

 

Tommy scrambles to his feet, every inch of him trembling as he holds his dagger out in front of him like a sword. He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, eyes locked on the body of Piglin in front of him, shaking its great head as it rises to its hooves. 



Those white eyes zero in on him, and he freezes.



He’s been training for weeks. He’s practiced with Technoblade over and over, just in case he gets in a situation just like this one . He knows what to do, how to use the dagger he holds, how to dodge and slash in the right places. He knows.

 

But the moment they lock eyes, he can’t move.

 

It gets to its hooves, breathing heavily out of its snout as it raises its axe. The purple kid is gone, Tubbo is gone. It’s just him, the panicked crowd, and certain death in front of him. His heart is beating out of his chest, legs trembling and threatening to drop him. His throat closes up, and he knows this is it, it’s the end. Those who eyes are filled with nothing but rage, and then it’s bearing down on him. He only manages to throw his hands in front of his face at the last second, flinching backwards on instinct. 

 

There’s a glint of golden metal, and he’s no longer alone.



Technoblade looks like something out of a myth.



He’s stained with blood from head to hoof, dripping from a slash on his cheek and splattering across his shirt. His lips are curled back in a fierce snarl, tusks and sharp, sharp teeth on full display as he moves with the kind of grace Tommy can only dream of. His braid is completely undone, strawberry hair in his eyes and bouncing behind him as he lunges, protecting him from the axe that had been aimed for his head. 

 

He steps in front of Tommy, turning to look at him over his shoulder for just a second, and his ruby eyes almost glow. “Run!”



Just like that, he can move.



He turns on his heel, boots skidding on the bloodstained dirt as he scrambles away. The Brute behind him howls, a blood curdling noise that makes him stumble over his feet. 

 

He needs to go, he needs to move. 

 

But still, still. Something in him is screaming to turn back around, to make sure Technoblade’s okay. To stand up beside him like a man instead of running like the coward he knows he is. He swallows it down, forcing himself to stumble forwards again on shaking legs. He needs to get out, to get away. 

 

There’s a screech of pain, and the loud shing! Of metal on metal. There’s a flash of gold in the corner of his eye as Technoblade’s golden sword hits the dirt. 

 

Fuck. 



He doesn’t hesitate. 



He lunges for it, fingers closing around the leather-wrapped handle. It’s too big for him, heavy and obviously weighted for someone like Technoblade in mind. Still, still, he won’t hesitate a second time. His crew mate, his friend, is in trouble because of him. He needs to get this back to Technoblade, he needs to fight. 

 

He turns back around, a snarl on his lips. He brandished the sword like it’s a part of him, holding it as steady as he’s able. He won’t run a second time.



Something heavy collides with his temple, and everything goes black. 





-





Twenty minutes later, the outskirts of Netheria are still in a frenzy.

 

The Piglin brutes are gone, leaving behind nothing but blood and chaos. The marketplace is in ruins, stalls having been kicked over and destroyed, some items stolen. The shopkeepers do what they can to repair what’s left.

 

The more seasoned residents have fled to the inner city, where it’s safe. The ones that can’t afford to leave stay behind. Parents call out for children, Piglins, Blazeborns and Magma’s walking the streets and huddling in groups. Some parents find what they’re looking for, pulling their children into their arms and hurrying away to safety. Other parents don’t find what they want to find, and collapse sobbing to the ground. Most keep searching, calling out for the pack members they've lost in the rioting as they walk the streets. 

 

There’s a boy here, too.

 

 No, not quite. A teenager. He’s dressed in all purple, hood drawn down over his face. If you look closer you can make out his eyes, both a striking violet, and the look on his face is conflicted. 

 

There’s a flyer in his hand, crumbled into a ball.

 

He slinks along like an alley cat, sticking close to the city walls and hiding in shadows. He’s looking for something, eyes darting as he whips his head this way and that. 

 

He finds what he’s looking for in the form of a group, huddled just outside of the marketplace. 

 

They stick out like a sore thumb, pale faces grim. The smallest one is sobbing, the one with wings, and Elytran, holding him close. The one with the leather jacket, a Phantling, forces his friend to sit on the edge of a step, fussing over the cut on his face. The Piglin throws him off, trying again to stand, only to be forced back down again. 

 

The teenager's eyes lock on to the Piglin.

 

He doesn’t look like the other Piglins, here. He’s shorter, more lean muscle in place of the normal bulk, face a little less boarish behind the thick scars. His braid is an absolute mess, the golden clasps falling out, but he doesn’t bother trying to fix it. His ruby red eyes sweep over the crowd, face twisted into a scowl. There’s a nasty bruise under one eye, and cut along his temple the Phantling is dabbing at with a cloth. He grimaces, but doesn’t pull away. 

 

The teenager freezes when he turns in his direction, but he looks right over him. He’s not looking for a teenager in purple, after all. 

 

The teenager slinks closer, listening.

 

“-Still around.” The Elytran is saying. “They won’t have gone far. We’ll find him.”

 

“I’ll kill them.” The Piglin growls, the pure venom in his voice making the teenager stumble. 

 

He fights the urge to freeze, moving closer and closer, instead. He keeps his gaze determinedly down. He’s heard stories of this Piglin, of the Blood God, and knows to be wary, after all. Every instinct tells him to run, but he forces himself to approach, instead. 

 

He pauses, just out of their sight. He unfolds the crumpled flyer in his hands, reading it for the hundredth time.

 

Wanted. It says, in Common Galactic. Must be returned alive and mostly intact. Reward, twenty Netherite ingots, and a front row seat. 

 

It doesn’t need to specify what the front row seats are too. Anyone who reads it recognizes the insignia stamped on blood red at the bottom corner. Ram horns, and a twisting grin. The picture in the center is of him, with every detail accounted for, down the shade of his purple hoodie. He’d change it, if he wasn’t so confident he wouldn’t be caught.

 

Not anymore.

 

He grimaces. He hates owing people. One life long debt is enough.



He slips the flyer into the Piglins bag when he has his back turned. He’ll know what to do with it.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Honestly, I’m not 100% happy with this chapter. I probably would have gone back and added more detail on some parts, but I figured it was too long already. They’ll be more Piglin lore next time.

As always, please call me out on any spelling/grammar mistakes I missed!

Also, I said this on my Tumblr, but I’m not sure I mentioned It here. The original plan was to update both Monday’s and Thursdays for two weeks, that way the fic will end on the day I want it too (August 19) and be finished before school starts again in the fall. Now, however, that’s up in the air. There will be two random updates sometime throughout the next couple weeks, along with the weekly updates, but I can’t promise you a day. I might just save them until the finale, who knows.

(Also, Tomorrow’s my birthday! I had a surprise planned, but since I’ll be away from my laptop, I can’t promise you it’ll come out tomorrow *exactly*. Expect a surprise sometime in the coming week. ;) )

 

Stay safe, yeah? I’ll see you next Thursday.

 

-Matches

Chapter 7: What are you made of? (Flesh and Bone) (II)

Summary:

yo what the hog doin'?

Notes:

"They'll call the contender, they'll listen for the bell
with my face flashing crimson from the fires of hell."
-Flesh and Bone, The Killers

 

Sorry about the delay!

It’s a bit of a heavier chapter, so strap in! Make sure you read all of the TW’s, and I can always provide a description of the chapter in the comments if you ask.

As always, a thank you to my wonderful friend and beta Mars, and to all of my lovely Tumblr anons. You can find the playlist for this fic Here!, and for this chapter in particular I recommend Battleborn, All These Things I’ve Done, and Gravity.

Enjoy!

 

Side note:
-I do not in any way support JSchlatt. His appearance in this fic is minor, and is one hundred percent based off of his DSMP character.
-I needed a character I could make do bad things without feeling guilty, pretty much.

 

TWS: Graphic blood and injury, dehumanization, fighting, animal cruelty, (no animal death!), child abuse and neglect, past torture, off-screen deaths of unnamed characters, non-consensual use of drugs (strength potions)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

He dodges the swing of a meaty fist by a hairs-width. 

 

He jumps back just in time, and the punch swings wide. The Piglin rights herself just before she lunges again, and he barely has time to blink before he’s dodging out of the way. He slices his sword at her ribs as he goes. He misses, but only just. 

 

She roars, spitting something at him, but whatever she says is drowned out by the audience. The crowd that circles the pit is loud, a tidal wave of sound closing in on him from every side. Feet stomp, aliens shriek, the ground underneath his feet trembles from the force of it all. The air is hot and thick with the scent of sweat of blood, and his hands tremble with adrenaline where they grasp the sword he holds in front of him.

 

The Piglin he’s facing snarls, baring her tusks. Her red eyes glitter dangerously, and he doesn’t have a moment to rest before she’s lunging again.

 

Again, he steps back, moving out of the way just in time for the punch to miss. It’s a dance, almost, him darting out of the way just in time for swing to miss him. He falls into step with her, the rhythm familiar, grinning sharply as he does. He’s small and nimble where she’s strong and lumbering. A match of speed against strength that evens out in a tie. The crowd eats it up, pounding their feet in approval as they go back and forth, each miss closer than the last as his sword cuts through the air. 

 

Use your size to your advantage, Technoblade’s advice echoes in the back of his mind. Even without the tail, you’re more balanced than any Piglin. Use that.

 

The Piglin lunges again, and instead of backing away, this time he ducks under, catching her off guard just enough to make her stumble. She shrieks when he slashes at her stomach, grazing the side of her ribs. It’s not a bad cut by any means, but it’s enough to send her reeling for a second or two. 

 

Then, the crowd screams. They’ve tasted blood, now, and the resulting thunder of footsteps and bloodthirsty shrieks knocks him off guard. He hesitates for just a moment too long, grip on his sword weakening for a moment as he tries to shake off the noise, and It’s just what the Piglin needs. She kicks out against his chest with one of her hooves, sending him sprawling in the dirt. 

 

His sword goes flying -





Freeze frame, record scratch. 

 

You’re probably wondering how Tommy got himself into this situation. Well, you see…



Several hours earlier...




Tommy was no stranger to being kidnapped. 

 

As sad as it sounds, it’s true. He had woken up on a dirt floor with a splitting headache and a mouth full of grit, and the very first thing that came to mind was aw, fuck. Not again . The second thing he’d done after spitting and wiping the dirt off of his lips was try to stand up, which his body did not approve of, leaving him where he is now. Crumpled up in a pile on the floor, breathing heavily and cursing every decision he’s made thus far to get him to this point. 

 

He tries again, gritting his teeth and pushing himself upright to a sitting position. If he can’t stand, he can at least sit up. How long had he been out? He needs to look around, he needs to find out where the fuck he is and how to get out of here.

 

His hands aren’t bound, thank god, and the gloves are still on. The goggles are gone, though, and so is the thick jacket he’d been wearing, leaving him in Wilbur’s baggy pants and one of Phil’s spare shirts. Shit. So much for that disguise. His fingers scramble to his hip, but no dice. He’d lost his dagger in the fight, and the battered comn he’d shoved in his pocket was missing too. Fuck. 

 

He takes a deep, rattling breath, running his hands up and down his exposed arms. The slits in the back of the shirt for Phil’s wings weren’t helping in the slightest. His temple still throbs where he’d been clocked over the head, and he winces when he presses down on a bruise on his arm a bit too hard. He was intact, which was a good thing, and he didn’t see any blood. His ribs hurt when he breathes a little too hard, but not enough for him to be concerned about broken ribs. No injuries worse than bruises. Alright. He can work with that.

 

Now for step two, getting the fuck out of here. Easier said than done. 

 

He looks around.

 

The cell he’s been thrown into is little more than a glorified dog kennel, with bars on all sides and a locked door in the front. Past the bars is a pretty big room, he can just barely see the walls in the dark. There are a few other cages packed in here too, but no matter how much he squints he can’t make out anything more than just shadow. 

 

There’s a door along one wall, a big, hefty metal thing. He might’ve gotten stronger, sure, but not strong enough to break down a metal door. He takes a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. It smells damp and thick, like dust, blood, and mildew. He shivers. 

 

This place reminds him of somewhere else.

 

Somewhere he doesn’t ever want to think about again.

 

He shakes his head, hard. Once, twice, three times, shaking off the memories of a small, cold metal room like a dog shakes off water. There'll be plenty of time for a mental breakdown once he’s back on the ship with Tubbo. He needs to stay focused. 

 

Oh, Tubbo.

 

The memory of his best friend makes him jolt. He’d just fucking left him! Had he found Phil? Had he gotten captured too? He better have gotten away, he must have gotten away. He doesn’t want to think about the alternative. 

 

They’re probably looking for him right now.

 

...He’d never been able to say that, before. All of the other times he’d been in this situation, sitting on the floor of a cage and wondering what would happen to him next. He was never able to trick himself into thinking that there were people actually looking for him. Even Clem and Clara had probably given up after the first month. 

 

Now, though...

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, letting himself imagine it for just a moment. Technoblade could break down that big, metal door in a heartbeat, crumbling it like playdoh. Phil would come swooping in next, with Wilbur and Tubbo hot on his heels. Those Piglins wouldn’t stand a chance. 

 

He’d be back on the ship in a heartbeat. He’d sit on that lumpy couch with Tubbo on one side and Wilbur on the other, Technoblade purring somewhere nearby and Phil’s wings heavy and warm over his shoulders. He’d be fine, he’d be safe. 

 

He just needs to stick it out, maybe try and make it easier for them. It wasn’t like last time, he had people coming for him, now. People that would miss him, people that would fight for him. He’d be fine.

 

Alright, that’s enough of that.  Baby steps. First, trying to find a way out of the dog kennel. The lock looks flimsy enough, maybe if he had his fork-

 

Shit. Fuck. His bag!

 

His hands fly to his side, patting his chest where the strap should be, only to find air. It's not there. He’d left it on the ship, he remembers with a groan. Why had he left it on the ship? It had been right there when he was about to leave, sitting on one of those stupid boxes, and he had just forgotten it. Now he has nothing, just a pair of gloves and the clothes he’s wearing. 

 

...And Technoblade’s, jewelry. Apparently. 

 

They hadn’t taken it, he realizes, twisting his wrist this way and that to hear the jingle. The necklace was still there too, he could feel the cool weight of the chain resting just above his heart. Why? That’s like, bad guy 101, isn’t it? This shit looks expensive as hell, they should have pawned it off by now. It’s what he would have done. 

 

What had Tubbo said? Something about it being a cultural thing? Maybe that's why. Still. Weird .

 

He twists the bracelet around and around his wrist, fiddling with it. Technoblade did the same thing when he was thinking about something hard, fiddling with his bracelets and rings absentmindedly. It had taken him a while to notice, even longer to make the connection. He does it even more when he’s nervous.

 

Focus, Tommy. He needs to get the hell out of here.

 

He looks around again, pushing himself to his feet and doing a slow circle of his kennel. He’s shaky and a little lightheaded, but he manages. The lights are all off in the room, meaning he does most of his exploring by putting his hands out in front of him and feeling around. All he feels are the cool bars of the kennel, trapping him in on all sides. There’s enough room for him to pace in a decent circle, the ceiling just brushing his hair. He could lay down on his back with a few inches to spare, probably. No cot or blanket, though. Not even a bucket, which was just rude. 

 

He has to choke back a scream when he kicks something metal.

 

He springs back, Almost falling on his ass in surprise. The fuck? What the hell? 

 

Slowly, so slowly, he creeps back over again, heart pounding in his throat. He reaches out carefully into the dark like it’s about to bite him. His fingers graze against something smooth and metal as he drags them along the surface, all the way down to the leather-wrapped handle.

 

A sword. Technoblade’s sword.

 

He must have grabbed it when he’d been knocked out, and the thought leaves him giddy. He wastes no time pulling it into his hands, wrapping his fingers around the handle with vigor. He grins to himself, giving the sword an experimental slash. It’s a bit big for him, clearly weighted with someone like Technoblade in mind, but still. They made a big mistake by letting him keep this thing. He’d be out of here in no-



There’s an ear splitting creak as the metal door opens behind him. 



Immediately he rushes back to the darkest part of the kennel, sword tight in his hand as his heart jumps to his throat. He shoves it behind his back, like that would do him any good, and watches with narrowed eyes. Every muscle in his body is coiled taunt, ready to spring in an instant. 

 

Sickly yellow light pours out of the open door, and he blinks harshly to get his eyes to adjust faster. It doesn’t do much to illuminate most of the room, but it outlines the two figures that just walked in perfectly. 

 

The one on the right he somewhat recognizes. It’s obviously a Piglin, and probably a brute, too, judging by the size and the axe strapped to its back. It’s the one on the left that his eyes catch on. Most of its features are shadowed, but the can make out the unnatural bend to its legs, the soft clipping of hooves on the ground. The shape of two cruel-looking horns curling away from its face and the glint of golden jewelry hanging from long, goat-like ears. 

 

“-Don't care what you say. A human? It’s impossible, just forget about it.” It, (he?), is saying. His voice is gruff, with an American accent too. Figures. 

 

“Sir-“

 

“What part of forget about it do you not understand-“



Then, he turns. In one horrible instant, their eyes lock. 



“Oh.”



He creeps closer. Tommy wants to scramble backwards even more, but there’s something in those yellow eyes that’s keeping him frozen in place, hand tight in the sword he’s hiding behind him. 

 

He looks almost human, in the way that a lot of aliens do, but there’s something about him that’s just so clearly wrong. The way his legs are twisted into hooves, his rectangular pupil and floppy goat ears. His horns are wicked sharp, and curl back away from his face. The suit he’s wearing is perfectly pressed, black, with a blood-red tie over a crisp white shirt. Maybe it’s just the smile that grows across his lips when he gets closer, the slightly maniac glint in his eyes as he shows off just a few too many shining white teeth. There’s a wobble to his weird, lurching gait, leaving him shaky on his feet like he’s drunk and immediately setting off warning bells in Tommy’s head. 

 

“There’s no way.” He laughs, almost giddy. “How did you get your hands on that!”

 

The Piglin next to him shuffles, almost uncomfortably. The weight of his golden eyes settles heavily over Tommy’s shoulders. He’s not the one he was fighting, a little bit smaller than he had been with longer hair, but most of his features, the snout, the tusks, the scars, are the same. He grimaces. “We just found him, sir. We were collecting Purpled, he intervened.”

 

“Alone? He fought off the two of you alone?”

 

He did not like the look in the goat man’s eyes, and he especially doesn’t like the way he’s looking him up and down like he’s an item for sale, not one bit. He pulls his teeth back in a warning, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. 

 

The Piglin shifts again. “He had a friend.”

 

No. No, no, no, no. 

 

They can do whatever the fuck they want with him. They can lock him up, do whatever twisted experiments they want. He doesn’t care, he’s been through it all already and he knows he can handle it. The thought of someone else, Phil, Techno, Wilbur, Tubbo, sitting in the cage he’s in is enough to make him feel sick. He swallows, hard. 

 

His eyes light up, looking him over greedily. “Is it human too?”

 

The Piglin shuffles again, tail swishing at his hooves. He looks away. “We don’t know. He ran, and another Piglin intervened. We can track him down, if you’d like.”

 

“Go, then. Find it-“



“If you touch a single hair on his head. No one will find your body.” 

 

The words burst out of him all at once, erupting from his mouth before he could choke them back. He’d rather die before he lets this creepy fuck get his hands on the rest of his crew. On Tubbo. 

 

Silence. Then. 

 

Then, the goat man laughs, and the sound makes goosebumps rise on his skin. It’s a horrible sound, straight out of a goddamn horror movie. It seems to freeze the air around them, making even the Piglin next to him go still. The utter glee in his eyes makes the blood in his veins freeze over. 

 

“It talks!” He laughs, clasping his hands together. “That makes things easier. Welcome to the Pit, human. I saved your pathetic life, which means you’re indebted to me.”

 

“Saved my life? ” He hissed, unable to bite it back in time. “You fucking kidnapped-“



There’s a loud boom! And a flash of blue light. Both he and the Piglin jump.



The goat man grins, holding the pistol in one hand. It’s not like any gun he’s ever seen, though to be fair, he hadn’t seen many. It looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, made of a clean black metal with electric blue accents. It hums faintly in his hand, charging up again, no doubt. 

 

There’s a burn mark on the floor a few feet away, still smoking faintly. 

 

“I think you could afford to lose a few fingers.” He says cheerily, a finger tightening around the trigger. “It would cauterize instantly, anyways. Or, we could just go and find your other friend. Hmm?”

 

His eyes are still locked on the scorch mark. Laser gun. Technoblade and Phil both have one, but they’ve never used it. He’s only ever seen glimpses of the handles, tucked away in coat pockets or dangling from belts. They always seemed to reach for something else, first. A knife, or in Technoblade’s case, a sword. He’s never seen one up close.

 

The thought of that, of leaving this place with less fingers than he had when he was dragged here. Of Tubbo sitting here instead. It’s enough. His jaw clicks shut. 



The goat man smiles thinly in approval, tucking the gun back into its holster. “That’s better. Looks like I just saved you again! Funny how that works.

 

You didn’t save shit, he wants to snarl. He tightens his fingers around the handle of the sword instead, biting his tongue and imagining how much better the goat man would look with a blade through his neck. He knows this game, this push and pull. He’ll get bored of it eventually once Tommy stops giving him a reaction.

 

It’s familiar in a way that makes him feel sick. How easy he slips into it again, not meeting the man’s gaze and dipping his head ever so slightly. Whatever. It’s for Tubbo, for the rest of the crew, he can put up with this dickhead until they come for him. He’ll be fine. He’ll be okay. 



The man keeps talking, pacing back and forth in front of the cell. His voice is really starting to grate on Tommy's nerves, the slight slur to it even more irritating. The smell of alcohol clings to him, definitely drunk then. Wonderful. 



“Here’s the deal. You fight, you live. You lose, you die. If you win all three fights in a row, you’re free.” He pauses. “That is, if you want to be. Most people don’t.”



Three fights.

 

It sounds too easy. It’s some sort of trick, he knows it is, but what other choice does he have? He can win three fights in a row, easy peasy. 

 

He’ll be out of here in no time. 

 

His hand twitches around the sword before he realizes what he’s doing, and the goat man follows the movement down the leather. The smile

 on his face flickers, and for one heart stopping moment he’s sure that the Piglin is going to be ordered to come in the cage and rip it from him, but instead, he just smiles wider. “You’ll be up soon. Good thing you brought a weapon, I’ll even let you… Keep it…”

 

Then his eyes widen as he catches sight of the gilded handle. Tommy swallows hard. 

 

He throws his head back and laughs

 

It’s worse than the laugh from earlier, a full on crazy-person laugh that has even the Piglin shifting away from him. The look in his eyes is nothing short of manic, freezing Tommy in place as he rips his own gaze away. Oh, what the absolute fuck. 

 

“You’re one of his crew? Technoblade? ” He laughs, tossing his head back. “Well that’s just rich.”

 

He wipes a tear from his eye, already spinning on his heel and going to the door. He looks sharply at his Piglin, the laughter still ringing in the air and amusement still clear in his voice. “Go and find the blood god, then! Tell him we’re putting his little trainee to the test!”

 

The door slams shut behind the both of them, leaving him in darkness once again.




For a moment, all he can do is stand there. His legs tremble ever so slightly, hands sweaty underneath the gloves. He takes one rattling breath, then another. 

 

Yeah, fuck that. Fuck all of this, actually. 

 

He needs to get out of here, and he needs to get out of here now. He’s not going to be forced to fight like he’s some dog , and there’s no way in hell he was telling the truth about letting him go after winning three in a row. The guy sounds like a goddamn psychopath, and he’s not just going to sit around and wait to see what happens to him next, no thank you. 

 

He’ll get the fuck out of this cage, first, and then he’ll work on the door when he gets to it. Maybe he’ll get lucky, and they left it unlocked. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. First, the cage. 

 

He lifts the sword. Fucking idiots. This’ll be a piece of cake.

 

He steps into the slice, whacking at the lock the best he can through the bars. It’s positioned in a way that makes it difficult, but he’s nothing but persistent. All he has to do is think about his f- his crew, and he’s moving again. It’s a weird lock, unlike anything he’s ever seen before, but he’s got a huge fucking sword and the pent up rage to spare. 

 

He needs to get out.

 

He hits it once, then again. Then again. Then again. When it’s clear the lock itself isn’t budging, he aims for the bars holding it in place. Again, and again, and again-

 

“That won’t work.”

 

“Fuck you!” He shouts back, not even turning. He wipes the sweat off of his brow and goes at it again. “ It’ll fucking give! I’ve just gotta-“



Hold the fuck up.



He spins on his heel, brandishing the sword. If Technoblade were here, he’d be criticizing his stance, telling him to fix his footwork and to hold the sword more upright. But Technoblade isn’t here and he’s exhuasted so fuck you! 

 

“Who said that?!” He shouts, waving the sword at nothing as his legs tremble. “Why don’t you come out here and face me like a man!”

 

“It won’t work.” The voice says back simply. “You need a key.”



There.



In a different cage, there’s a figure. It’s sitting down against the far wall, just barely visible in the shadows. The voice is low and soft, strained. Not exactly threatening. 

 

He lowers the sword. “...Who the fuck are you?”

 

It shifts, ever so slightly. Two eyes peer at him in the dark, one red, one green. They tilt as the figure moves its head, moving just a little bit closer as it looks him over. It seems to realize Tommy’s not a threat the same moment Tommy does.

 

“My name’s Ranboo.” It, he, they, say back. They squint. “Who are you?”





-




On the other side of the city, a Piglin walks through the streets of Netheria. 

 

This in of itself isn’t unusual, but this particular Piglin is a bit odd. He’s not as tall and broad as the others, he lacks more of the boar-ish features. His hair is a vibrant bubble-gum pink, and he wears it long and braided back away from his face. His eyes are blood red instead of the usual gold. 

 

The other Piglin’s know he’s not one of them, not really. They watch him, golden eyes narrowed in suspicion. Outsider! A few of the braver ones snort at him as he passes. The ones who know him by name pull their sounder closer and leave quickly. He doesn’t even glance up. He’s gotten pretty used to the sound of unwanted voices in his ear. 

 

There’s a wanted poster in his hand. He knows what it says, and what it means. He told the others that he’s going to do this himself, and he pretends to not notice when he realizes he’s being followed anyways. For a while, atleast, just until it becomes unavoidable. 

 

“You can come out now, Tubbo.” He says over his shoulder. He gets a weird look from a nearby Blazeborn, but he doesn’t pay it any mind.

 

The Bezzarian creeps out from an alleyway, sulking closer like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. “...Hi Techno.”

 

He flicks an ear. “Where are the others?” 

 

He’s blunt. He’s always been blunt, most Piglin’s are. The language of grunts and snorts they speak doesn’t leave a lot of room for nuance or subtly. Anyone unfamiliar with him would be intimidated, but the ones close to him know better. 

 

Pack. Sounder. The voices whisper in his ear. Missing. Taken! Find him, find him! Technoprotect! 

 

I’m workin’ on it. He thinks back. They hiss, but quiet. 

 

“Around.” The Bezzarian shrugs, still looking guilty. “They followed me, I snuck out first.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “You walked all the way here from the ship?”

 

“No. I stole Wil’s bike.” Then, he grins, the manic look in his eyes enough to make a grown man shiver. “I didn’t even crash! It was fun!”

 

Internally, he winces. He makes a mental reminder to never let the Bezzarian around his sword or guns, and to yell at the Phantling later for not locking his bike up properly. Though, to be fair, he’d probably gotten an earful from the Elytran while they flew over. The image of both of them, the Phantling clinging desperately to the Elytrans arms as he flies them over the desert, screaming all the while, is hilarious. 

 

“They’ll catch up.” He grunts, after a moment. “It’s a long walk from here, we need to get goin’.”

 

The Bezzarian smiles again, falling in step beside him. He slows down just a little once he notices him lagging behind, but not enough for him to realize. The golden jewelry still on his wrists and around his neck is enough to make the Piglins they pass look away quickly, especially once they recognize who the Bezzarian is walking next to.

 

Sounder! The voices in his ear cheer. So cute. Baby. Evil. Keep close, don’t lose this one. E! Where are the others? Technosoft! 

 

“...So, where are we going? Exactly?” He pipes up, after a beat. “You didn’t say.”

 

No. He wants to correct. I just didn’t tell you. If I told you that another one of your closest friends was not only kidnapped, but put into one of the most bloodthirsty fighting rings on this planet, you would lose your mind. I have enough to deal with on my own at the moment and didn’t want to add to it. The others know, and they agreed to let me handle this on my own. I should have known they’d follow anyways, because they’re idiots. 

 

Idiots! The voices agree. But we love them. Pack. Sounder! Family. Ours, ours, ours. E! 

 

He doesn’t say any of that. What he does say is. “The inner city.” 

 

“...Right.”

 

Neither of them say anything more than that.




-




“They’d like you.” Tubbo had said, that night on Bezzar. 

 

He’d been sitting on the railing and looking off into the distance, glimmering light behind him and a faraway look in his eyes. He’d been talking about Ranboo, though Tommy hadn’t known them by name, then.

 

In the weeks after he’d learned more about them. Bits and pieces, little things. They had two different colored eyes, like Tubbo. They were part Endling, and part… Something else. They were tall. They were Tubbo’s age. They hated water. They liked pasta and music, and human stuff, too. They had a shit memory. They’d always wanted to go to Enderion to find out where they came from, and that’s where Tubbo had been dead set on looking for them. Phil, Technoblade, and Wilbur had been asked, no, begged, to look for them by Niki, and they’d searched everywhere for them. 

 

Everywhere but here, apparently. Until now. 

 

Here they were. A tall, lanky teenager, easily a foot taller than Tommy if he stood up straight. Their face is split down the middle, one half bone white, the other pitch black, with a smattering of mismatched freckles on their cheeks. They aren’t wearing anything but a pair of tattered shorts, leaving their scarred chest and back on full display. 

 

They were looking at Tommy, eyes wide and terrified as a Piglin brute drags them through the opening of their cage. 

 

“Get your hands off them!” Tommy shouts, banging on the bars. “Leave them alone! They didn’t do anything to you!”

 

It’s futile. He knows it is, but still. Still. 

 

“Shut up.” The Piglin growls back. 

 

It's not the one who took him, or the one from earlier. There’s a thick, ugly scar over one of his eyes, and the tusks poking through his lips are wicked sharp. He locks Ranboo’s arms behind them, forcing them to walk to the door. He’d barely even spoken to them, just said a few words, and they’re already being taken. 

 

He doesn’t shut up, he doesn’t stop. Ranboo is right there, they’re right there! Tubbo’s best friend, the reason he left Bezzar to go with them in the first place. They’re right there! 

 

And Tommy can’t get to them. Not for any lack of trying.

 

He yells again, shaking the bars. He knows the sword won’t do any good, he knows, but he strikes at them with it anyways. He mimics the Piglin’s snarl right back at him, striking out again, and again, and again. Even when the door’s shut and Ranboo’s gone, he still tries.  He’s tired. Every inch of him trembles with exhaustion and hunger. His arms burn from using the sword, his legs threaten to buckle underneath him. But he doesn’t stop, he won’t stop. 

 

He remembers the look on Tubbo’s face every time he talked about them. That sad, distant sort of fog that fell over his eyes. They had been right there, right there! 

 

And now they were gone. Once again, Tommy was alone.

 

He stands in the middle of his kennel. He’s panting, and there’s a persistent tremble in his hands and legs. He. He doesn’t know where to go from here. 

 

Getting himself out is one thing, but now he has Ranboo to worry about too. He can’t leave them here, not when he’s so close. Not when Tubbo is finally on the same planet. He just has to think, he just has to come up with a plan and fast . Think, Tommy! Think! 



The door opens again, and his eyes lock on it.



It’s a different Piglin. Just as tall and broad as the others, but this time sporting a broken tusk and thick, ugly scar across his left cheek. His nose is bloody, and the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs are just as stained. He’s holding a tray in his hands, and Tommy’s vision tunnels down to just that and nothing else. 

 

He licks his dry lips, and watches him warily.

 

He knows this game. He’s not stupid. He’ll put it right where he can’t reach it, or sit and eat it in front of him, or something. Anything to make him pliant and desperate. Well, he and the goat fuck can kiss his-

 

“You’re up soon.” The Piglin grunts at him, sliding the tray underneath the bars. “Save your strength for the fight.”

 

He lunges for the tray before he can take it back, dragging it close. There are three bottles, one with a red liquid, one with a pink one, and one that’s clear. The two colored bottles fizzle ever so slightly, the colors shifting behind the glass. There’s also a shallow bowl full of mush. Fun.

 

He’s hungry, thirsty, too. He knows better than to accept food from strangers, though. He watches the Piglin, instead. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s hiding it pretty well. 

 

The Piglin watches him back, unblinking. After a moment, he snorts. “It’s not poisoned. Drink, eat. The potions are strength and regen, you’re going to need them.”

 

“Potions?” Shit. The word slipped out before he could choke it back. Him and his big fucking mouth-



He isn’t impressed. “Your first fight is in an hour.”

 

Then, he’s gone.



The metal door slams shut, and he’s alone.

 

Again




He stares down at the tray. It’s harder to see in the dark, but he manages. The mush is cold and unappetizing, not to mention they didn’t even give him a spoon, but it’s better than nothing. He’s definitely had worse. He brings the bowl to his lips and swallows, grimacing and trying to swallow it quickly. Yep, wet cardboard. About the taste he was expecting. Whatever. He needs the strength if he’s going to bust Ranboo out of here. 

 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tossing aside the empty bowl. He looks at the bottles.

 

The clear one is probably water, so he opens it first. The glass is pleasantly cold in his hands, and the cork comes off with a nice pop! He gives it a sniff just in case, he’s been fooled before , but it doesn’t smell like anything, just. Like water. He takes the tiniest of sips just to be sure, but no. Just water. It’s gone in seconds.

 

Finally, he turns his gaze to the potions. What had she said, strength and regen? What, like a video game?

 

He considers them for a second. It’s probably not a good idea to drink strange, fizzing substances. On the other hand, if she was telling the truth…

 

His stomach sinks. Fight. The Piglin had said something about a fight, the goat man had too. Is that was this is? Had he been kidnapped into some sort of fighting ring? It makes a little bit of sense, he guesses, but still. The kid he had tried to save must have escaped somehow, or maybe he just looked like he’d be good in a place like this. Like someone grabbing a stray pitbull off the street. When he intervened, they took him instead. It explains the Piglins bloody nose and bandaged ribs.

 

Three fights. That’s what he had said. He’ll be free if he wins three fights in a row. That is, if he was even telling the truth. He’s no stranger to fighting, but if they would give him an extra edge…

 

Strength and Regen potions. Whelp, makes about as much sense as anything else, in space. 

 

He downs them both. 



-




A few hours afterwards, and a few stories above Tommy’s head,  an Elytran, a Phantling, a Bezzarian, and a Piglin walk into a bar.

 

That sounds like the set up for a joke. A voice croons. The Piglin flicks his ear, and it dissolves.

 

He squares his shoulders, keeping his gaze forward and even. The whole bar quiets once he enters, everyone inside looking at him with wide eyes. A few people whisper, the blood god. He’s back? Can’t be. Most of them just stare, both at him and the group he’s come in with. 

 

It’s an inner city bar, a nice place. Everything is sleek and clean, black leather seats and polished red floors. The bartender is dressed in a crisp black suit, facing away from the door as he finishes lining up bottles on a high shelf. He’s a Blazeborn, with sparks flicking at his fingers and ropes of flame for hair. Anyone else would be hesitant about hiring a being made of sparks and fire to work at a bar, alcohol is highly flammable, after all, but Schlatt’s never been known as a reasonable man.

 

The Piglin is nervous.

 

The voices in his head, we’re back! Bloodgod! Shoat? Where? Find him! Mix with the whispers around him. The background noise is unpleasant, like the screeching of static just behind his ears. He wants to shake his head to try and clear it, but with all of the eyes on him, he forces himself to be still.

 

He’s rigid as he approaches the counter, jaw set. The patrons of the bar don't see anything usual about it, but the aliens that came with him seem to pick up on how tense he is, and tense up themselves.

 

The Elytran in particular steps up to his left shoulder, wings flared ever so slightly. A shield.

 

The smallest of them, the Bezzarian, hovers just behind him. He keeps close, eyes narrowed as he looks around. His antenna are pinned back flat against his scalp, hands fidgeting with the knife strapped to his hip. The belt is just a bit too big for him, even with the buckle on the smallest hole. His eyes, one honey brown, one grass green, are venomous as they look around. 

 

The bartender hears their approach, but doesn’t turn immediately. “What can I do for- you.”

 

He freezes. He meets the Piglins' gaze slowly, going rigid when those bloody eyes meet his. Slowly, they slip off of him to the group of aliens he’s walked in with, looking them over quickly with shock written across his face. 

 

Threat. The voices hiss. Kill him. Spread his entrails on the floor. Blood for the blood god. 

 

He flicks an ear, and they reluctantly back off.



“They’re with me.” He grunts. The bartender’s gaze snaps back to him in an instant. 

 

He points with a shaky hand to the employees only for just to the side of the bar. “G-go on back.”

 

He dips his head, and leaves. The whispers follow at his heels, drifting through the air. He can’t tell which ones are coming from the patrons of the bar, and which ones are just memories. He steels himself, and doesn’t allow his footsteps to falter. He’s had several years of practice with this, and has one of the best poker faces on this side of the galaxy.

 

No one notices how his hands shake ever so slightly. Or how he’s twisting a ring over and over on his finger. Why would they?



He walks swiftly through the door, the others on his heels. They walk down a long twisting hallway, down down, down, and the white noise in the back of his head only grows. The Bezzarian catches up first, tugging on his arm. “You think Tommy’s here?!”

 

“What did I say about keeping quiet?” He growls back. A lesser man would have backed down, but this Bezzarian has always been stubborn. He doesn’t even flinch, dual toned eyes staring him down.

 

“Tell me what’s going on, Techno. Where are we?”

 

The worst place I’ve ever been. He wants to say. A place I swore I’d never go to again. You should never have followed me. I should never have let you come. I promised myself I’d never come back here. We should never have come to this planet. I’m sorry. 

 

The Elytran rests a hand on the Bezzarians shoulder, doing his best to calm him down. “We’ll find Tommy, Tubbo. It’ll be okay.”

 

Pack. The voices agree. Sounder. Yours, mine. Find him. Bring him back. Subscribe. Technoprotect. E! Kill anyone that touches him. /Rainbow chat!

 

He shakes his head, now that it’s just them, and they ease away.

 

“This is we’re Schlatt would have taken him.” Is what he says, instead. He doesn’t stop walking. “Stay close. I mean it.”

 

The Bezzarian opens his mouth, a sharp reply ready on his lips, but he’s interrupted. There’s the sound of a bell, sharp and ringing, followed by thunder loud enough to shake the ground beneath them.

 

The others gasp, the Phantling stumbles. The Bezzarian grabs the Elytrans arm to steady himself.

 

The Piglin doesn’t move, he doesn’t even flinch. The white noise he’s been hearing is real, now, pressing in around them. It gets worse the more they walk, louder and louder, hundreds upon hundreds of voices layered on top of one another. His ears are sharper than most, and the onslaught of sound is enough to make him wince. He’s not as used to it as he used to be.

 

They reach a set of double doors.

 

There are Piglin brutes on each side, and both of them stare him down as he approaches. The others move behind him, just a little, but he doesn’t flinch.

 

They barely even glance at him. They were told to expect him, after all, and they aren’t ones for disobeying orders. One of them pulls on the door handle once they’re close, and the other follows his lead. 



The noise washes over them all at once.



The audience is loud, pounding their feet and cheering, spittle flying from their mouths. The bright lights aimed at the pit are almost blinding, outlining the two fighters perfectly as they battle it out in the center, far, far below. 

 

There are just too many people in the way to get a clear view of the fight, all of them packed tightly around the sides of the ring. There definitely aren’t any seats left, not after the fights have already started for the evening. 

 

This isn’t too much of a problem for the Piglin, who’s able to shoulder his way through the crowd without much of a problem. Or the  Bezzarian, who’s able to duck and weave around other aliens with ease, darting between a few people’s legs when they get in his way. The Elytran and the Phantling do their best to follow in the Piglins shadow, looking around with narrowed eyes. 

 

They reach the fence that separates them from the fight below just as the match ends.

 

A Piglin stands with one foot on a Blazeborns chest. It struggles, snarling wordlessly and lashing out, clawing at its legs. Every strike gets weaker the harder the Piglin presses down, a sick grin on its face. It hefts it's axe, and the audience howls.

 

Blood! The voices scream, too. Blood! Blood!

 

The Piglin turns when it’s brought down, slapping a hand over the Bezzarians eyes just in time. He refuses to watch as the corpse is dragged away, only looking up again when a voice fills the air, booming from loudspeakers.

 

“For tonight's finale, I have something special.”

 

The audience cheers again, and the Bezzarian presses against him at the force of it. He stares down at the Pit, watching as the next fighters are brought out by Piglin Brutes, marched like lambs to the slaughter. One of them, a young Piglin with a hefty looking sword, and the other…

 

“Something never seen here before.” The voice croons. “A beast you’ve never seen in person.”

 

Small, blonde. A scrappy looking thing with a golden sword, an impressive snarl on his face as he’s marched out into the ring. Even the Piglin leading him out looks uncomfortable, holding him at a distance.

 

“Our very first human fighter!”

 

More cheers, he barely even notices. He tips his gaze off of the child to the other side of the ring, where another pair of double doors slowly begin to open.

 

“You all know the rules.” The announcer croons into the mic. “Three fights in a row and he walks free.”

 

A hoglin is brought out into the ring. It’s a big, ugly thing, snorting and tossing its head as it’s dragged out by its handlers. The ropes wrapped around its tusks are thicker than the child’s head, and there’s nothing in those black, beady eyes but rage.

 

“Last one standing when the bell rings wins.” 



The ropes drop. 



 “Let the match begin!”




-





Potions are the shit.

 

He feels like he’s been struck with lightning, every inch of him buzzing with barely contained energy. He bounces from foot to foot as he’s dragged out of his kennel, barely even minding as his arms are locked behind him. They had left the jewelry, the necklace swinging over his heart and the bracelets rubbing soothingly against his wrists. He tightens and untightens his grip on the sword, squirming in the hands that hold him firm. The Piglin frog-marching him through these hallways is apparently pretty used to holding wiggly teenagers, and doesn’t even budge.

 

He feels like he’s drunk seven monsters at once. Or downed enough sugar to give a grown man a heart attack. He can feel his teeth vibrating.

 

“Fuck a caffeine high.” He mutters under his breath. “I’m on straight drugs.”

 

The thought makes him giggle, and the Piglin holding him pushes him just that much farther away in front of him. Whatever, he doesn’t need him anyways. 

 

These hallways are claustrophobic, making his heart beat even faster than it was before. Fuck. He hates tight spaces, they make his breathing go all funny and his hands start shaking like nobody’s business. He can’t be shaking worse than he already is, anyways. So that’s good. Woah these potions are strong .

 

He barely even notices the doors and other rooms they pass, or the fighters that stumble by, staring at him as they limp past. All he can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears, his heart rabbit-fast in his chest. He could run a fucking marathon. 

 

He’s marched up to a pair of double doors. They only pause for a moment before they start to open, and then-



Holy shit.



The noise hits him all at once, washing over him and nearly knocking him off of his fight. There’s a light shining down on him from above, forcing him to squint as he’s forced to walk forward. 

 

It’s so loud. Hundreds of different people screaming out all at once, voices mixing together in one big tidal wave of awful. It drowns out everything else, the familiar voice over the loudspeakers, the feeling of his heart beating in his chest. He keeps his face locked forwards, staring out into the pit he’s been dragged into, and keeps a tight grip on his sword.

 

There’s another pair of double doors across from him.

 

His vision tunnels, and suddenly that’s all he can see. The mean, beady eyes of the fucking beast being dragged out into the light by two Piglin Brutes on either side. It’s tusks are as long as Tommy’s arm, taller than he is and nearly twice as long. A beast made of nothing but muscle and rage. So, of course, the first thought his drug muddled brain has when he sees it is holy fuck, that’s one big pig!



It’s eyes lock on to him, and the ropes are dropped.



“Let the match begin!”



It bellows, a deep, bone-rattling noise, wastes no time before lowering it head and charging straight for him.

 

He jumps to the side just in time, and the pig barrels right past him, charging over right where he’d been. He recovers first, scrambling back to his feet and holding his sword out in front of him like it would do anything against something that big. He was trying to fight a goddamn beast with a toothpick! 

 

It bellows again, turning much faster than it has any right too, and coming for him again. Shit!

 

Think, Tommy! He dodged out of the way again, trying to slash with the sword as he does. He’s clumsy with it, the weight of it too big and heavy for someone his size, but still. He gets a solid hit on the things shoulder as it barrels past him again, and it howls in pain.

 

It seems to have learned its lesson. It doesn’t get up to it’s full speed, moving faster on its hooves than Tommy thinks should be possible. It lowers its tusks as it comes at him again, tossing its head in the air and missing him by inches as it lunges forwards again. 

 

It’s fast, but he’s faster. 

 

Every inch of him is vibrating, adrenaline and potions thrumming under his skin, his heart a drum beat in his chest. Ba-thunk, ba-thunk, ba-thunk. The crowd screams out, and the noise washes over him, gearing him up and urging him on. He’s Tommy fucking Innit! He’s not going to lose to some overgrown pig, not with this many eyes on him. He won’t lose. 

 

He dodges again, lashing out with his sword. He gets it on the other shoulder, forcing it to rear back away from him. It gives him the time he needs to lunge, closing the space between them and slashing at its muzzle.

 

This time it’s the one dodging, throwing its head out of the way just in time for the blow to miss. It comes at him again, and he throws himself sideways just in time for it barrel past, slashing at its other side as he does, and grinning when the sword meets it’s mark. 

 

He feels alive.

 

Again, it charges, again, he dodges. It turns on its heel and tries again, throwing its great head upwards and very nearly impaling him through the chest with its tusk. He throws himself to the dirt just in time, furiously backpedaling as it tries again and again to bring its hooves down on his skull. 

 

He scrambles to his feet, kicking up dust, just in time for it to collide with his chest.

 

The world spins. The air is knocked out of his lungs as it throws its head, sending him flying. The crowd roars, his own heart jumping to his throat as he almost cuts himself with his own sword. 

 

He can feel the bruises blooming across his side, and winces, staggering to his feet.

 

Okay. New plan. He can’t dodge forever. It’ll catch on eventually, and then what? He’s fucking screwed. Even now it’s watching him, pacing back and forth and tossing its head, snarling all the while as it paws at the dirt. It’s limping just as bad as he is, and panting even harder. It’s chest is heaving as it glares him down, gearing up for round two. 

 

Dodging isn’t getting him anywhere. He needs a plan.

 

And then, he gets an idea. 

 

A really stupid fucking idea. He’d seen it in a movie once, and he’s gonna end up dying either way, so, he might as well go out with a bang, right? He’s not sure if it’s the potions still in his system, or the adrenaline rushing under his skin. 

 

It’s a stupid fucking idea. A really stupid fucking idea. Then again, since when was he known for having good ideas? 

 

It charges again, and this time, he doesn’t even think about it. He keeps one hand tight on the sword, and the other hand lashes out just in time when he dodges to the side. It nearly rips his arm out of the socket, but he’s able to use the momentum to wrench himself upwards and holy fucking shit! 

 

He’s not sure how the fuck he does it, whether it’s the potions or just pure dumb luck, but he lands on the things back, straddling it with his legs and holding on to its scruff for dear life.

 

The audience is absolutely howling, screeching their approval and stomping their feet. He barely even notices, too preoccupied in trying not to die. The stupid thing seems to realize what’s going on after a second of confusion and bellows again, twisting this way and that trying to buck him off.

 

He keeps one hand buried in his scruff, clinging tightly to its weird, greasy hair, the other holding on to his sword with an iron grip. His brain rattles around in his skull as it writhes underneath him, kicking out with his back legs, doing it’s absolute best to try and knock him off. He holds on tight with both his legs and his arms, gritting his teeth to keep from biting off his own tongue or knocking a tooth out. 

 

Holy shit, he’s actually doing it!

 

It rears onto its back legs, shrieking and squealing all the while, but he holds firm. He can feel the extra strength from the potion under his skin, still, keeping his grip strong around it’s scruff as it reads and bucks. It’s chest heaves underneath him with the effort of trying to knock him off, and he can feel when it starts to slow down. 

 

He grins, sharp and feral. How’s his chance! With one hand still holding on for dear life, he lifts his sword above the back of its neck and- 

 

The creature drops to its knees and rolls.



Tommy shrieks. 



The sound erupts out of his chest, a primal noise he can’t choke back. He doesn’t have time to think about it, he doesn’t get the chance . All he can hear is the roaring of blood in his ears, the fizzing of potions in his veins. He acts on instinct, jumping to the side when the beast rolls over, hitting the dirt. 

 

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Ba-thunk, ba-thunk, ba-thunk. It’s louder than the screaming of the crowd. 

 

He recovers faster than it does, pulling his trembling legs underneath him. 

 

It tries to struggle back to its hooves, but fails. It pants, glaring him down and baring its tusks at him in threat as it tries again, and again. The wounds he made in its shoulder make it impossible, the leg just keeps giving out from underneath it. Still, it tries, egged on by the crowd. The wounds in its rough, leathery skin weep, staining the dirt underneath it. Still, it tries. Still, it fails. 

 

The blood pool just grows. Tommy can smell it, feel the warmth of the sticky substance clinging to his hands, his face. He can taste it.

 

It gives him one last look. Not angry, not even scared. Just… resigned. It lays its head on the ground and does not move. It’s not dead. He can see it breathing slowly, breath huffing in and out of its mouth. It’s too tired to fight him again, not strong enough to get up. Defeated, but not dead.

 

The announcer, Schlatt, is speaking again. The crowd is clapping and pounding their feet. They want blood, he knows they want blood. They’re screaming for it, a relentless chant of blood! Blood! Blood! That fills his ears, the only thing he can hear over his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. The pounding of their feet sounds like thunder, rattling the air and rumbling underneath his feet. It’s an overwhelming sound, something he can feel in his bones as much as he can hear it. 

 

He could finish it. He could. He still has the sword, gripping it tight in clammy hands. All it would take is one solid stab, and it would be over. 

 

The necklace is cold against his chest, swinging like a pendulum over his heart. The bracelets around his wrists jingle faintly as he shakes. How had he not noticed that before? They’re cold. 



The smell is overpowering.



He can’t move. 



A bell rings, loud and clear. The noise of the crowd only grows as he’s announced the winner of the fight. He’s still frozen, staring at the animal lying in front of him. There are scars on its back, thick, ugly things. Thin slices of swords and knives, the thicker, bulging scars caused by axes. Remnants of fights just like this one. 

 

It’s just as trapped as he is, isn’t it? 



He licks his lips, and all he can taste is metal.




-




There’s a teenager watching the fight.

 

He’s dressed in purple and black, keeping his hood pulled down over his face. He shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous, he knows, but still. He found himself coming back here, drawn to this place even after going through all the effort of escaping. It feels strange for him, watching from the stands instead of from the back with the rest of the fighters.



The boy fighting looks like something out of a myth.



His hair is blonde, bright as spun gold in the rings’ blinding lights. The sword in his hands seems to glow just as much, a beautiful, golden thing. It’s suited for someone much larger than the child welding it, but he makes do. It’s too beautiful of a weapon to hold the history that it does. 

 

The bracelets around his wrists glimmer, and he can just make out the shape of a golden necklace disappearing under his shirt. They mark him as a Piglin, as part of a pack, a sounder. A family. 

 

He doesn’t fight like a Piglin, though. He doesn’t have the strength, the muscle. He doesn’t grab the Hoglin by the tusks and grapple with it.

 

He doesn’t fight like a Merling or Phantling, either. He dodges, but not in the graceful, flowing way they do. He doesn’t keep dodging until it tires itself out.

 

He doesn’t use fire like any other reasonable Netherborn, which rules out Blazeborns and Magma’s. He doesn’t have horns or wings, no four arms or rocky skin. No fangs or tusks, either.

 

He barely even uses the sword, in the end. Instead, when the Hoglin charges past he grabs it and swings himself up on its back.

 

The crowd howls. They’ve never seen something like this before, not in a pit fight, atleast. It’s not unheard of for young Piglins to try their luck riding Hoglins, and some of the tamer ones and can even be convinced to pull carts or occasionally carry passengers. Not nearly as tame as striders, but more durable. 

 

This was no tame Hoglin. This was a fighting Hoglin, bred and trained for one purpose: To kill or be killed.

 

It kicks and bellows, screaming out in frustration as the child clings to its back. His golden hair flies in front of his face, bright as a halo around his face. His blue eyes are vibrant, bright and electric as he pulls his lips back in a grin.

 

The teenager dressed in purple doesn’t need to watch the end of the fight to know that he wins.

 

He really is a human, isn’t he? 















Notes:

So that was fun, huh? I’m really happy with this one. I needed more practice writing fighting scenes, so how’d I do? It’s a little short compared to its sister chapters, but that’s because was actually supposed to be combined with the next chapter. When I reached a grand total of around 16k, though, I figured I should split it.

You can ask me any questions, (or join the furby cult my Beta started) on my Tumblr!

 

I’ll see you next Thursday (probably). Stay safe out there, yeah?

 

-Matches

Chapter 8: What are you made of? (Flesh and Bone) (III)

Summary:

Tommy, furiously swinging around Techno's sword; I HAVE THE POWER OF GOD AND ANIME ON MY SIDE, BITCH. H Y A A A

Notes:

"So boots and saddles, get on your feet,
Theres no surrender, 'cause there's no retreat,
The bells are sounding, bring this match to an end.
We are the descendants of giant men."
-Flesh and Bone, The Killers

 

 

 

 

 

Greetings and salutations.

 

This was actually finished yesterday, but I took the extra time to make sure it was absolutely perfect, since I haven't been too happy with the previous chapters. This is definitely my favorite so far, so I hope you enjoy it!

As always, a big thank you to my friend and beta Mars, and the playlist for this fic can be found Here! If you haven't listened to Flesh and Bone.. What are you doing? Go listen to it, it's great.

 

WARNING: This is a heavy chapter! If you're one of my more sensitive readers, feel free to skip! The next chapter is pretty much pure h/c. If you ask in the comments section I will gladly give you a chapter description so you don't have to read anything that will trigger you, but you will still have the context for future chapters.

 

Enjoy!

 

 

TWs; Blood and injury, fighting, graphic descriptions of blood, injury, and violence. Dehumanization, rioting, a general sense of fear and panic, drug use (potions!), one mention of overdose, an appearance by Schlatt, past torture and child abuse, worries over a character being dead, and offscreen character death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-He watches, horrified, as his sword lands a few feet away. Shit! 

 

He tries his best to scramble to his feet in time, but the kick to the chest has left him winded as gasping for air. Still, still, he can’t give up. He won’t fucking give up! He reaches, hand scratching at dust as the Piglin shakes off the blow he’d landed. 

 

The sword, Technoblade’s sword, glitters in the blood-soaked sand. It’s leather wrapped handle taunts him, more than just a little out of reach.

 

Fuck.

 

No, no. He has to keep fighting, he has to get up. For this to work, he has to keep going. 

 

He reaches again with a wheeze, but it’s no use. His fingers reach nothing but more dirt. 

 

The Piglin watches him, a glitter of something in her golden eyes. There’s a bruise on her jaw where he’d gotten a good hit in earlier, and the slash on her ribs is still bleeding sluggishly, dripping out into the dirt. She seems almost resigned as she turns to the crowd, and they roar out their approval, howling for blood, blood, blood! 

 

There’s no way he can get to the sword in time, he’d be caught before he even had a chance. He needs to think, and he needs to think fast while she’s distracted. 

 

Then, he remembers.

 

If you can, wait for them to charge. Technoblade whispers in his ear. They can’t change direction once they’re charging.

 

He reaches to his other side, and he picks up a rock.

 

It’s a pebble, really, but it’s enough. He staggers upright into a crouch, blood rushing in his ears, and throws.

 

He’s always had good aim, the resulting thunk! As it just and bounces off of the side of the Piglins head is more than a little satisfying. She turns to him with narrowed eyes, lips curling into a growl. 

 

“I’m not dead yet.” He snarls back, showing off his own teeth. He looks her directly in the eyes, setting his jaw and lifting his chin. A challenge. “What, are you too scared to finish the job?”

 

C’mon. Take the bait.

 

“It’s over.” She growls. “I don’t make a habit of killing shoats. Accept the defeat, little one.” 

 

He has her attention, both golden eyes boring into his. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t even blink, glaring her down in defiance. Now all he has to do is get her to charge. Considering he’s Tommy fucking Innit, that’s the easy part. Time to put his big mouth to use.

 

He spits. “It sounds to me like you’re just pussying out. Not strong enough to kill me, huh?”

 

A hush falls over the crowd.

 

The Piglin has turned on him fully, now, fists clenched at her sides. The look on her face is outraged, eyes flashing as she shows him her teeth , and Tommy knows he’s got her.

 

She growls. “Watch your tongue, or I rip it out.” 

 

Time to go for the kill. 

 

“You haven’t won. It’s not over until I’m dead.” He grins, sharp and feral. “What, are you afraid? too much of a coward?” 

 

Everything moves in slow motion-

 

Pause. We’re not exactly there yet, are we?





-



His arms are bound behind him, and he’s dragged out of the ring.

 

He barely even blinks as the sword is ripped from his shaking hands. He just keeps staring. Unable to tear his eyes away from his opponent, the boar, lying there in the dirt. He’d won, he’d won. 

 

There are new bruises forming on his ribs, a black eye blooming across his face. He barely even feels it, still high on adrenaline and potions. The Piglin dragging him away isn’t gentle with him, roughly pulling him away and shoving him back through the double doors. The moment they shut, the noise of the crowd is gone, leaving him staggering. His ears ring, his hands shake, his vision goes a little blurry at the edges when he moves too quickly. He gives his head a firm shake and tries to work out where to go from here. 

 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and looks around as he’s shoved forwards.

 

...It looks a bit like a highschool locker room, actually. 

 

Minus the lockers, and the persistent smell of Axe body spray and sweat. Aliens are sprawled around, chatting in groups or resting on benches. A few of them are stretching, bending down to touch their toes or stretching their arms over their head. A few of them are patching up wounds, knocking potions back like shots as they wind bandages around arms and hands. One group in the corner is playing a fast card game, and they’re the only ones that don’t look over in interest when he stumbles through the doors. 

 

“What do we have here?” A nearby Piglin grunts, curling his lips back over his broken, jagged tusks. 

 

A different alien, with black hair shot through with sparks sits at his left, looking over Tommy with something in his dark eyes. “It’s been a while since we’ve had fresh meat.”

 

“It’s pretty scrawny, isn’t it?” A different alien pipes up, ungodly tall with black skin and red eyes. Tommy flinches back into the Piglin still holding him captive when those eyes turn his way. “I thought humans were supposed to be tough.”

 

Broken Tusk elbows Sparky in the ribs. “My money’s on Schlatt’s pet for the next fight. Half ‘n Half will rip ‘em apart.”

 

Half ‘n half? Wait a minute.

 

Ranboo!

 

He opens his mouth, but the Piglin behind him is shoving him forwards again, making him stumble. Laughter rings out as he trips over his boots, righting himself just in time to keep from falling flat on his face. He tightens his grip on the handle of his sword, gritting his teeth as he forces his legs to just fucking work already!

 

He’s on his own, now. The Piglin that had dragged him out of the ring is already walking away, leaving him stranded with the rest of the fighters. Already they’re closing in around him, eyes glittering with interest and teeth flashing behind curled lips. Vultures descending on a new carcass. 

 

He holds his head up, but his legs are already trembling. He’s fucking tired, goddamnit, the potions and adrenaline from the fight already wearing off as the pain sets in. He can’t take this many at once, even if he was at full strength. 

 

“Must have been beginners luck.” Sparky snorts. “Why don’t you go ahead and put ‘em out of his misery?”

 

They won’t hurt him, he forces himself to believe. They won’t. They need him alive for the next fight, don’t they? The goat fuck, Schlatt, wouldn’t let the other fighters kill him before his next fight. 

 

His brain didn’t seem to get the message, though, and his heart starts pounding

 

The tall fuck just frowns, tilting his head eerily as he looks him over. He opens his mouth, exposing sharp, sharp fangs, but Broken Tusks interrupts.

 

He stands from his seat on the bench, easily as tall as Technoblade, and even broader in the shoulders. His chest is more scars than skin at this point, rippling with muscle as he cracks his knuckles. His golden eyes narrow into slits, and his eager grin is just as ugly as the rest of him. He saunters forward, tail lashing at his hooves. 

 

“I’ll do it.” He announces, and the others just laugh.

 

It’s familiar, they way they close in around him, blocking off his escape. Their teeth flash white, lips curling into cruel, mocking smiles, eyes gleaming. He’s no stranger to this, it’s practically schoolyard bullying, at this point. Hazing the new kid. 

 

The Piglin may be an alien, but Tommy knows a bully when he sees one. He curls his shaking hands into fists, and the mocking ooooh that erupts around him only makes him angrier. Apparently, some things are just universal, and his scrawny frame and trembling legs paints a bright red target on his back. Great. 

 

It’s not a fair fight, not by a long shot. Not only is Tommy fucking tiny in comparison to the Piglin staring him down, but he’s exhausted. He’s already fought once today, running on fumes and barely keeping himself upright, while the Piglin has been sitting on his ass backstage, polishing his ugly tusks, no doubt. Talk about kicking someone while they’re down. This won’t be a fight, it’ll be a fucking massacre.

 

Still, still. 

 

He fixes his stance, pulling his fists in front of him. Tommy’s no goddamn coward. If this dumbass wants a fight, a fight he’ll fucking get. 




Neither of them get the chance.




There’s a hand on his shoulder, heavy, and big enough to cover most of his upper arm. A little bit of the color drains from Broken Tusks’s face, and the crowd that’s gathered around them stills. Tommy in particular goes very, very still. 



“Save it for the ring.” A voice growls from behind him. “Do you have any sense of shame?”



The other Piglin growls, low and threatening in the back of his throat. For a moment Tommy thinks he’ll take it as a challenge, but to his surprise, all he does is duck his head and huff. What the hell-

 

The hand on his shoulder practically shoves him forwards. He resists the urge to turn, taking one shaky step, and then another. No one stops them as they march through the locker room to the doors on the other side, though a few of the other fighters give him sideways looks. They look away quickly, though, when they lock eyes with the alien standing behind him. A few of them fucking hiss. 

 

Even the guards look reluctant, even when they reach the doors on the other side of the locker room(?). 

 

They stick out amongst the other fighters, golden armour polished and gleaming, weapons clean and unbloodied. Both of the Piglin’s on either side of the doors shuffle uncomfortably as Tommy and whoever the fuck is standing behind him, approach. 

 

“...He’s supposed to go with the other one.” One of them finally says, once it’s unavoidable, though he doesn’t look too happy about it. 

 

The alien behind him growls, making every hair in Tommy’s body stand on end. “On who’s orders?”

 

“Schlatts.”

 

“If he has a problem ,” The alien behind him snarls. “He knows where to find me.”

 

...and that’s the end of that, apparently. They open the doors and keep their eyes on their boots as Tommy is frog-marched through. Whatever the fuck he’s gotten himself into, there’s no getting out of it now. 

 

Ranboo, where ever the fuck you are. He thinks to himself, stumbling along. Hold tight. Just for a little longer. 





-



Tommy’s been through a lot of shit in space.

 

He’s been kidnapped like, four times, and spent more time running for his life than he did doing literally anything else. Safety is an illusion, and a goodnight’s sleep is a fucking joke, though both of which had become a bit more common once he’d joined the crew of the Argo II.   Going from that to this was going back to square one. Jarring and uncomfortable.

 

Like putting on shoes a few sizes too small and then trying to tap dance, for example, or letting an alien you didn’t know patch you up after fighting, and riding, a giant pig. Details



She was tall. That’s the first thing he really noticed, once he got over the shock. 

 

Tall and fucking jacked, with biceps the size of his fucking head . She could probably crush his entire skull with three fingers. The boarish snout and tusks were only the icing on the cake, really, as if she wasn’t already terrifying enough as it is. The candlelight of the shitty, tiny room she had taken him too glints eerily off of the scars on her face, catching in her ember-colored eyes. 



“Ouch!”

 

“Hold still.” She grunts, tightening the bandage around his wrist. 

 

He does his best to keep from flinching away the second time, but he still snatches his hand back the minute he’s able, holding it protectively to his chest.

 

The look she gives him is so utterly unimpressed, the familiarity of it making something tighten behind his ribs. If she told that she was Technoblade’s older cousin, or some kind of long lost aunt, he’d believe her in a heartbeat. Between the braid and the expressions, it’s like looking in a funhouse mirror. 

 

She holds her hand out expectantly, and he only hesitates a little before laying his other hand in her palm. She’s surprisingly gentle as she wraps it. 

 

She’s a Piglin Brute. That much is obvious, just by her size and the way that everyone else tries their goddamn hardest not to get in her way. They weren’t questioned more than once as she took him back here, her own personal suite while the other fighters get to tough it out in bunk beds. 

 

Technoblade and Tubbo had both told him about Piglin Brutes, but he doesn’t remember most of what they said. Something, something, protectors, something, something, honor. In his defense, it’s pretty hard to do background reading when the book they’d been given is written in a language he doesn’t fucking know. Still, he tries to remember what he can. They were big on respect, right? So, maybe keeping his mouth shut is probably the best option. Especially while she’s still holding his hand hostage. 



“...What’s your name?” The question slips out before he can choke it back.



God fucking dammit. 

 

She doesn’t seem offended, thank god, flicking an ear as she wraps the bandages around and around. “My name is, “ She then makes some kind of grunting noise, sounding eerily like a cat choking on a hairball. “ The one who ends.” 

 

He blinks. Processing. “...Right.”

 

Alien names, of course. The one thing the translators don’t like to cover. Wonderful. 



“What’s your title?”

 

He jumps a little. “...My name’s Tommy?”

 

It comes out more like a question than a statement. She just keeps looking at him, though, something expectant in her eyes. Oh, shit. Was he supposed to say something else? What had she said, the one who ends? Think, Tommy, think! 

 

“Uh, the one who… wins fights.” He finishes lamely. Yeah.”

 

God, that’s so fucking stupid.

 

She takes it in stride, though, politely dipping her head as if he’d said something a lot more elegant. Maybe it sounds better in whatever language she speaks. “You have lived up to your namesake, then.”

 

He blinks again, not... Quite sure how to respond to that. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to expect him to.

 

She gives him his wrist back, both hands now wrapped properly with bandages, like a boxer. He opens and closes his fists, getting used to the weight of the cloth strips and the way they feel between his fingers. Fucking cool. Now he really looks badass. Meanwhile, she pulls two bottles from a bag, pressing them into his hands.

 

“I watched the fight.” She grunts, “You are more capable than you appear.”

 

Again, there’s not much more he can say to that, so for a few seconds all he does is blink, the tips of his ears going a little bit red. He takes the bottles, potions, looking them over skeptically the moment she holds them out, if for nothing else than to keep his hands busy. They look like the ones he took before, liquid shifting and swirling behind the glass. 

 

“...Thanks.” He finally says, after a beat. 

 

There’s a pause.

 

He can hear the shouting from in here, the low rumble of the crowd. It leaches through everything, infesting in the air and digging into his skull like a bad case of tinnitus. The cot he’s sitting on creaks underneath the weight of both of them, protesting loudly as he shifts uncomfortably.

 

She watches him, golden eyes tracing his face. Her expression softens, but only a little. “You have questions.”

 

He has so many fucking questions.

 

What the hell is this place? Why is he here? Who the fuck is she? Why did she save him? Where is the rest of the crew? Who was that goat motherfucker? What the hell was the thing he just fought? Where the hell is Ranboo?! 

 

“Uh, yeah.”

 

She shifts, and the cot squeaks again. “We don’t have long before your next fight. Ask.”

 

There are so many things he could have asked her. So many things! The questions he’s thought of before and more, all simmering on the tip of his tongue. But, of course, his brain immediately jumps to the most sensitive topic.

 

 “I thought Brutes were supposed to be protectors.”



It comes out a lot more clumsy and insensitive than he’d wanted it too, in hindsight. 

 

She doesn’t flinch, to her credit, but her shoulders seem to fall. “We are.”

 

“Then, why…” Why did they attack a crowd of people? What did they want with that purple kid? Why are they fighting in a pit instead of doing their actual fucking jobs? Why are you here?

 

She looks away. “...It’s complicated.”

 

It takes her a moment. She gets that look on her face, the same one Technoblade gets when he thinks about something too hard, a bit like she’s listening to a voice he can’t hear. It looks a bit funny on her face, with the snout and all, but the look in her eyes keeps him from wanting to laugh. 

 

“Our instincts are stronger than most Piglins,” she says, voice low and heavy. She seems to dip her head a little with the weight of the words. “Schlatt knows how to manipulate them to his advantage. How to make us more violent, easier for him to control. He has most of the city in the palm of his hand, now. It was only a matter of time.”

 

A shiver goes down his spine as the implications of that set in. So, Schlatt’s probably the goat fucker, based on context clues. Wonderful. If he has Bastion City’s protectors under his thumb, then he’s well and truly fucking screwed. There’s no space police coming to bust him out. 

 

“Why don’t you fight back?” He can’t help but ask. 



She looks at him again, and his jaw snaps shut. 

 

“After you've been treated like an animal for long enough,” She rasps. “You forget how to be anything else. Even if I was free, my sounder wouldn’t want me. Not anymore.”

 

She leans back, setting her jaw. “I fight, now. It’s what I’m good at.”

 

She doesn’t say anything else.

 

A shiver runs down his spine at the words, his attention catching on one, in particular. Sounder? He’s heard that word before, he just knows he has, the meaning of it just itching in the back of his mind, right out of reach. He’s tempted to ask, but he knows a sensitive topic when he sees one. He takes one look at her face, the curve of her shoulders, the way her ears flatten against her skull, and keeps his mouth shut from then on.

 

He doesn’t even have to wait long. 

 

The shrill ringing of a bell is all it takes, and the world catches up with them again. 





-




Far above, in the stands, a different Piglin watches the area below.

 

His pack, his sounder, stands on either side. It’s a bit untraditional, an Elytran, and Phantling, and a Bezzarian, but still. Sounder all the same.

 

Below them, he watches a Hoglin be led out of the arena. It’s alive, a bit strange for fights like these, and limping heavily as it’s led away. It’s tail drags in the blood-stained dirt, head low as it’s tugged this why and that by the guards that patrol the edge of the ring, leading it through a different set of double doors.

 

The golden-haired child is gone, and there’s a lull in the noise as the crowd simmers, bloodlust temporarily sated. 

 

Where is he? Sounder! Baby! Technoprotect! Blood! Blood for the Blood God! 

 

...The voices in his head aren’t as easy to please. 

 

He tries to imagine what’s happening, below. Behind the walls, in the back hallways and rooms of the Pit. Is he bandaging his wounds? Sipping on potions, trying to recover his strength?

 

Does he hear it? That thrum underneath your skin, the whispers in the back of your mind? The implants that rest just underneath their skin are such fragile things, they’re not meant for stress like this. To hear so many voices at once, while your body is already being pushed to its limits…

 

It starts as whispers. An echo. It only grows louder from there. Can be already hear them? He hopes not. 

 

He hopes not. 



“Let’s go Tommy!” The Phantling cheers from one side, fingers tangled in the iron fencing that keeps the crowd at bay. 

 

His face is hidden by the hood he wears, revealing only brown eyes that flash strangely when the light hits them, and sharp, sharp teeth that glint when he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. The Piglin doesn’t have to be able to read his mind to know that he’s nervous, every muscle pulled taunt in anticipation for what’s to come. 

 

The Bezzarian cheers too, even though the child is long-gone from the ring. He keeps close to the Piglin’s side, both eyes narrowed as he thinks, mind elsewhere. 

 

Even the voices in his head cheer.

 

Whooo! Look at him go! Baby! /rainbowchat! POG! They chatter, already grating in his nerves. Nice! Cowboyinnit! Help him! Blood! 

 

He flicks an ear, and they reluctantly ease off. He can’t find it in him to join in. 



The Elytran brushes his shoulder. “You taught him well.”

 

He grimaces. 



I’m worried. He wants to say. I don’t think it was enough. He was hurt, he is hurt, and the fact that we can’t help him is infuriating. Even if it was enough, I know what this place does to you. The tricks it can play on your mind. What if he doesn’t win the next fight? What happens if he dies here? What happens if he doesn’t, and the damage is already done? Is this my fault? 



He doesn’t say any of that. What he says instead is. 



“I tried.”



The Elytran nods. He seems to catch on to what he actually meant, he’s always been good at that. 

 

The intercom crackles, and a voice rings out.



“One victory for the human,” it croons, making the Piglin’s hackles rise. “Two more, and it’s free. Do we think it has a chance?”

 

The crowd screams. The noise washes over him, a cacophony of different sounds all grating on his sensitive ears. Most of them are cheers, with a few boos mixed in, just for variety. The more instinctual half of him wants to find the ones that booed and gut them , but he swallows it back.

 

The doors open.

 

He watches with bated breath as the child steps out into the ring. There’s bruises on his face, on his arms, his thin wrists. His blue eyes are narrowed into slits, and the hand that’s not holding the sword, his sword, fidgets with the necklace he wears.

 

His hands are wrapped. Good. 

 

“For our next fight, I have something special.”



The doors on the opposite side of the ring creak open slowly, on purpose no doubt, building up suspense as the crowd pounds their feet eagerly. 



“One of my favorite champions. A hybrid unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.”



Something in him sinks.



He recognizes the competitor that steps out into the ring. That duel-toned face, the odd bend to their legs and the lashing of a long, fluff tipped tail. 

 

He doesn’t recognize the scars, thick and ugly across his chest and back. He doesn’t recognize the look on the competitors, the child’s, face. Blank, perfectly calm, duel toned eyes blown wide as they zero in on the human. 

 

He should have known. Oh, he should have known



The Bezzarian at his side goes very, very still. 



“Let the match begin!”







-




Tommy was not having a good time.

 

Ranboo snarls, the sound making a shiver run down Tommy’s spine, and lunges forwards again with a slash of their claws. He throws up his sword just in time to keep those claws from ripping into his neck, but it’s a close one.

 

They’re a lot faster than they have any right to be, considering they’re so fucking tall. It’s not like fighting the pig, where Tommy can use his own speed and agility to his advantage, no. This time, all he can do is throw up his sword and pray. The potions thrumming like electricity in his blood help, letting him bounce on his toes and duck this way and that, but however fast he is, Ranboo is faster. 

 

The other fight had been almost fun, the drugs humming and and sparking in his blood stream making it feel like he had been flying. Right up until the end, atleast, when reality had crashed back in again, and the scent of blood in the air had become unbearable. This, though? There is nothing fun about this. 

 

It’s not just the claws he has to look out for, either. It’s the teeth.

 

Ranboo shrieks, the sound making every hair in Tommy’s body stand on end. They unhinge their jaw like a goddamn snake, exposing rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth. Oh, what the absolute fuck. No living thing should have that many teeth, that’s just unfair- 

 

He barely has enough time to flinch before those teeth are snapping down in his face, missing his neck by inches.

 

He backpedals furiously, slashing wildly with his sword just to give him some fucking space, and it seems to work. Ranboo retreats for a moment just outside of striking range, hissing all the while as Tommy pulls back as far away from them as he can manage in the arena to catch his breath. They pace, crouching down on odd, backwards-bending haunches as they lash their tail, staring him down with those wide, blank eyes, waiting for an opportunity. 

 

There’s no recognition. None.

 

And look, Tommy’s no narcissist, but Ranboo knows him. Ranboo should recognize his face, even just a little bit. But the way he’s looking at him now? There’s just nothing. No anger, no recognition, no determination to win. Nothing. Still, though, the weight of his gaze seems to pin him into place. 

 

He doesn’t get more than a moment to dwell on it before they’re lunging again, claws slicing for his face, and he’s back on defense.

 

Duck under that slash, move back! Strike, use the momentum to get him on the backswing, move, Tommy, movie! The crowd is eating it up, the stands shaking as they pound their feet, eager for blood, blood, blood! It’s disorienting, and there’s not enough drugs in the whole goddamn galaxy that can help him keep this up for long. Dodging and weaving can only do so much when you’re already fucking exhausted, the bruises marring his side slowing him down. He needs to end this, and quickly. 

 

He lifts his sword, but when he meets those eyes, he falters. 

 

He can’t hurt Ranboo, Tubbo’s Ranboo. He just.




He can’t.




Times up.

 

And Ranboo is moving again, springing forwards on strong back legs to slice at his chest. He tries to scramble back out of range, but he’s not fast enough. He brings his sword up to block, to strike, to do something, but it’s not good enough, and those claws rip into the fleshy part of his forearm.

 

A scream rips itself from his throat, surprising both him and Ranboo as he throws himself backwards, scrambling to get out of the way. Oh fuck, oh shit, goddamn it! He nearly drops the sword in the process, giving one more desperate slash in Ranboo’s direction as he holds his injured arm close to his chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck! That’s his right arm, his sword arm. He’s screwed, he’s so absolutely screwed. 

 

The crowd howls. They’ve tasted blood now, and they’re hungry for more. He can feel their shrieks, the noise so loud and all encompassing he can feel it in his bones. 

 

The increase in noise throws Ranboo off guard. Their ears pin back sharply against their head, and they toss it from side to side to try and clear the sound, a distressed warble falling from their throat. 



It’s the opening Tommy needs.



He doesn’t even think about it. One minute he’s trying his best not to bleed out, the next he’s lunging. It’s instincts, or the potions, or something, but his hands are moving without his permission. 

 

The crowd eggs him on, the thrumming of potions in his veins giving him more strength than he thought he had. He barely even feels the slashes in his arm, barely even notices as his boots pound against dirt. He doesn’t just strike at Ranboo, he fucking tackles them, pinning them down to best of his ability, with one hand injured and the other holding a sword. Ranboo snarls, writhing under his hands, but Tommy grips his arms and holds firm , pressing a knee to his chest and keeping both his claws and his teeth far, far away form his neck. 

 

“I don’t want to hurt you!” He spits out, keeping a vice grip on Ranboo’s upper arms as he tries to avoid the claws. “C’mon, man! Work with me here!”

 

There’s no recognition in those duel-toned eyes. He hisses like a goddamn cat, and then-

 

Vwoop!



He practically faceplants, catching himself, but only just. His injured arm screams when he puts weight on it, and it takes everything in him to not scream with it. He can fucking teleport? Since when? How?!

 

He scrambles to his feet, holding his sword like a lifeline. 



There’s a moment, then, as they stare at each other. Both panting, both bleeding, the crowd roaring in the background. Just a second, maybe even less, where green and red eyes meet blue. Maybe a flicker of something, but it’s gone before Tommy can even realize it’s there. There’s nothing behind those eyes. 

 

What the hell did they do to you? He wants to ask, forcing air into his lungs. That blank gaze gives away nothing, and they hiss again. 



Fine. He’s really gonna owe Tubbo for this one, huh?



I’ll get you out of here. He promises, already lifting his sword. I’ll get us both out of here. Soon. 



They lunge, but Tommy’s faster



The crowd roars, and he feels himself roar with it. The potions in his veins thrum, electricity sparking up his arms. The chanting of blood, blood, blood! Fills his ears, louder than his own heartbeat, louder than anything, and he can’t do anything but obey. They want blood? He’ll give them blood. 

 

A strike to the stomach, another to the chin when they double over in pain. Knock them off balance, get them down.

 

It’s not something he learned from Technoblade, no fancy sword moves or footwork. Its not pretty, it’s definitely not fucking sportsman like, but he’s out of options. It’s something he learned spending most of his life in foster care, in a school system that could care less about kids like him. Hit ‘em where it hurts, move fast, get them while they’re down so they stay down.

 

Skin is a lot more fragile than you think it is. With the right pressure, the right angle, it rips. Ranboo may be an alien, but it works all the same. 

 

Ranboo screeches when they hit the dirt.



The crowd is relentless, Blood, blood, blood! Blood for the blood god! 




All he can do is stare.





A bell rings, and it’s over. The crowd roars again,  he doesn’t even hear it. He doesn’t feel it when the sword is torn from his hands, he doesn’t notice when he’s dragged away.




“Another win for the human!”




All he can smell is blood. 








-



The Bezzarian in the stands is crying.

 

It’s not a noticeable thing. Not loud or ugly, no heart-wrenching sobs or dramatic wailing. Nothing but two twin streams of tears dripping silently down his face.

 

The Piglin next to him is the only notices, and that’s only because he can smell it. He doesn’t say anything, though, too lost in his own head to worry about what’s going on in anyone else’s. He’s never been big on comfort, anyways.

 

Besides, the Bezzarian probably would have stabbed him for trying. He’s not big on touch. 

 

Or, well, he usually isn’t. The Apian part of him is a little stronger than the others, manifesting in the antenna, his love for sweets, and… Other things. Sensitive eyes, a strong nose. A ring of fluff around his collar, skin a little more sensitive than most other alien’s. So, touch has never been his strong suit.

 

In fact, there are only really three people he enjoys touch from, (four, if you include the Elytran). The Merling who somewhat adopted him off the streets is one, the two others just finished beating the ever loving shit out of each other in the ring below.

 

The human is led away, and he goes easily enough. His hands are stained purple. 

 

The other Hybrid does not move. There are bruises ringing their arms, sword slashes in their shoulders. One big ugly cut across their ribs, the one that put them down and keeps them there. They’re alive, but they’re shaking. 

 

The  Bezzarian can’t watch them drag the hybrid away, he can’t. He screws his eyes shut and pretends he’s absolutely anywhere else, instead.

 

He imagines breaking down the fence and burying his knife, the humans knife, into the guards throat. He imagines pulling the Hybrid into his arms and running, back to the ship where it’s safe. Back to Bezzar, when things made sense. When it was a lot simpler. 

 

Is this where you were? The whole time? He wants to ask, no, he wants to scream. Repeat it over and over until he gets an answer. Who did this to you?

 

He knows this hybrid, or, he did.

 

He knows a duel-toned hybrid, scrawny and awkward. They have a fondness for human things, just like he does, and a hatred for water, that burns them. They have a horrible memory, but they try their best to remember his birthday every year, and all of his favorite movies and books. They let him tell the same story over and over again, even if it’s one they haven’t forgotten. 

 

He doesn’t know who fought the human in the ring. He doesn’t recognize those scars on their chest, or the snarl painted across their face. 

 

When had the hybrid he’d known become that?

 

He’s… he’s not sure if he wants the answer.

 

What he does know for sure, though, is that he’s getting them, both of them, and he’s never letting either of his friends out of his sight ever again.

 

He’s still crying, but no outsider would notice.

 

No, they’d take one look at his face, at the two-toned eyes narrowed into slits, at the snarl pulling on his lips, the growl starting in the back of his throat, and very quickly look on the opposite direction. 





-






“Do you need help.”

 

He frowns, snarling at his own hands. They tremble, because of course they do, and he forces them to steady. He takes a deep breath and tries again, wrapping his hands the way he was shown.

 

“No, I’ve got it.” 

 

His ribs hurt when he breathes in too deeply. His arm smarts when he pulls on the slashes left by Ranboo’s claws. His fucking face hurts, and he’s almost postive his nose is broken. Again . Goddamnit, it was already crooked enough! 

 

Whatever. Nothing that a little drugs can’t fix. 

 

He pops off the cork of the bottle, swinging it back like a shot and swallowing it all in as few gulps as possible. It tastes awful, like trying to wash down cherry flavored medicine with sprite, but already he feels it working, humming under his skin as the wounds start to stitch back together.

 

He blinks. Ranboo’s limp form is glued to the back of his fucking eyelids. He doesn’t even remember most of the fight, the end of it nothing more than a hazy, drug and adrenaline induced blur, but those eyes. That limp, gangly body, sprawled and bleeding in the dirt. The moment the blankness had faded from his gaze, only to be replaced by horror and fear.

 

Fear of Tommy.

 

He tosses his head, once, twice, and the memory slips away. For now, atleast. 

 

His hands still shake. God fucking dammit. He reaches for another potion-

 

It’s pulled firmly from his hands before he can knock it back. “You’ll end up dead if you overdose here. Save some for the next fight.”

 

He glares up at the Piglin Brute looming over him. Her gaze is just as impassive as ever, golden eyes bright as polished coins. Anyone else would have cowered underneath a look like that, but Tommy’s not just anyone

 

“I’ll be fine,” he grumbles, swiping a hand over his lips. “This is my last one.”

 

She sits by his side, and he resists the urge to lean into her. The potions haven’t fully kicked in yet, and the exhaustion pulling at his limbs is just getting harder to deal with. He’s lucky none of the other fighters would dare approach a Piglin Brute, if they felt like using him for a power trip now he would be absolutely screwed. 

 

He seems to have won their respect, though. He doesn’t have to hide away in the back room anymore, free to lounge around the waiting area with the rest of the fighters. Hell, Broken Tusk Guy had fucking clapped him on the back when he’d gotten back from the fight, and the others had cheered along with him. Congratulating him for beating Schlatts little pet. Just thinking those words leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Fucking gross. 

 

He’d made it through initiation, apparently. He was one of them now, whatever the hell that means. They keep their distance now, At the very least he doesn’t have to worry about watching his back outside of the ring. 

 

It doesn’t matter. He’ll be out of here soon enough, anyways. 



Just one more fight. One more! 



He thought he’d seen Technoblade in the audience. Just for a second, a moment, as he’d been dragged away. He’d be out of here soon enough, back on the ship in no time. He misses his and Tubbo’s room so much it hurts, with the soft blankets and the fairy lights. He’d kill for a nap right about now.

 

...They’re probably worried about him. Tubbo would be losing his mind for sure, and the others would at least try looking for him. Especially if they knew this is where he’d ended up. He knows from experience that they aren’t the type to give up on a search, not that easily, anyways. He hopes Ranboo forgives him. 



He’d be back on the ship in no time at all. One more fight, one more, and he’s free. 




“You don’t really believe that, do you?” 




Shit, had he said that outloud?

 

He frowns up at her, pulling his lips back over bloody teeth. She doesn’t seem phased in the slightest, she never does, one eyebrow cocked in question as she looks him over. 

 

“It’s not like I have much of a choice. ” He snarls, eventually, but it lacks its usual heat. Fuck, he’s so tired. The strength potions haven’t kicked in just yet, apparently. Wonderful. 

 

She just huffs, making that familiar chuff chuff chuff deep in her throat. “You're cocky for a shoat.” 

 

He blinks. “Shoat?”

 

He’s heard Technoblade say that before, he’s pretty sure. Some kind of insult no doubt, that fucker. 

 

“Child. Youngling.”

 

Yeah, that’s about what he expected. Dickhead.

 

He grins, swiping his hand over his bloody nose once again, smearing crimson over half of his face in the process. “It’s part of my charm.”

 

“It won’t work, though.”

 

He blinks. Freeze, rewind. “Huh?”



“Schlatts never going to let you go, not that easily.

Even if you do win, which you won’t.”

 

And the thought of curling up on his bed, Tubbo at his side and the stupid fairy lights overhead, shatters. 



She says it so simply, so plainly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her lips pull back as she says Schlatt, slurring the word in an effort to get it out of her mouth as fast as possible. He doesn’t blame her, just thinking about that goat fuck leaves a bad taste in his mouth too. 

 

The worst part is, somewhere deep down, he knew it. He fucking knew it.

 

He’s not a fucking idiot. He knows people like Schlatt. Scumbags like him, anyways, with greasy hair and a mouthful of lies. It makes sense. The crowd likes Tommy, if he pulls in the big bucks, why should Schlatt let him walk free? He has the whole city under his thumb, he can do whatever he likes! Does he really seem like the kind of guy who keeps his promises? 

 

Still, still, he’s never been one for choking back stupid questions. “Why not?”



“You’re already exhausted as it is. You won’t win your final fight,” Then, she snorts. “Not against me.”



Wait. 

 

Wait a fucking minute-



“You?!”



“I’m the Blood God.” She states, like it’s a fact he should have known already. “It’s what he keeps me here for, the finale.”

 

Then, she grins. There’s no humor behind it. “I’m a crowd favorite.”

 

She doesn’t seem happy about it, being a crowd favorite. Tommy doesn’t blame her, being a crowd favorite is not what it’s cracked up to be in a place like this, but he’s a little busy at the moment staring with his mouth hanging open at the realization that he’s going to have to fucking fight her!

 

Her, the Piglin Brute, who could probably crumple him up and throw him away like an aluminum can with one hand. The Piglin Brute who hasn’t had a single fight all afternoon, while he’s been out in the ring trying not to die for the past three hours. His head is spinning, his legs barely hold him up as it is! He just knows his ribs are bruised, one of them is probably broken, with his luck, and one of his arms has been practically mummified to keep him from bleeding out all over the ring. His hands are still shaking! And he has to fight her?!

 

“Y-you don’t have to fight me.” He stammers, the excuse flimsy on his tongue. 

 

All she does is shrug, as impassive as ever . “I have no choice. I’ll be killed if I don’t, killed if I lose. replaced by someone else. 



To her credit, she does seem to feel a little bad about it. Something almost like pity mixing with the resignation in her eyes, and the way she talks about being fucking killed if she doesn’t comply fills his veins with ice. The way she says it so simply, just another fact of the fighting ring. 

 

“Like racehorses.” He mutters. 

 

The comparison slips from his lips before he even thinks about it. Shot if they break a leg in a race, turned into glue once they outlive their usefulness. Put down with a bullet to the head without a second thought the minute they can’t race. 



She stares at him. “...I don’t know what that is.”



“Like animals, then.” He snarls, already on a roll. “He treats you all like you’re animals! And you’re just... fine with it!”

 

Why aren’t you fighting? Why aren’t you upset? He wants to scream in her face. He knows a thing or two about being treated like a goddamn animal, and even when he was locked in a glass box and fed fucking dog food he hadn’t rolled over. 

 

“Why don’t you fight back?” He’d asked her earlier, and she’d given him some bullshit excuse of instincts and my sounder wouldn’t want me, whatever the hell that means. He’d accepted it a few hours earlier easily enough, but now? 

 

The anger simmers in him, mixing with the potions already kicking in and burning into something hot and ugly in his chest. 

 

They’d tried to break him down.Before the pet shop, before four-arms and the glass box. Before. On that awful ship with the cold, iron walls and him. He’d done absolutely everything to get him to roll over, to comply, and he hadn’t. He wants to laugh at the thought of it, oh, he wished. He’d be laughing his ass off if he could see him now. Tommy didn’t roll over for anyone, and definitely not for assholes like Schlatt. And he was a kid! He was a scrawny seventeen(?) year old kid with a knobby knees and a crooked nose. If he could fight back against that, what the hell is her excuse? What’s theirs? The other fighters, lounging around, waiting until it’s their turn. The outnumber the guards four to one and yet.

 

He looks at her. He really looks at her. 

 

Tall, with broad shoulders and rippling muscles. A boarish face littered with scars and slashes, tattered ears and long, tawny-colored hair braided messily away from her face. Golden eyes, familiar eyes, even if they were the wrong color, gazing at him with a hollowness that makes him want to scream .

 

“...He forgets that we’re not.” She rumbles. “Animals, that is. More than just muscle and instincts.” 

 

And then...

 

It takes him a minute to remember, for the self righteous fire in him to settle, for the bad memories to fade into just that, memories. 

 

He wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t. 

 

What is it that she had said, just after the first fight? “Once you’ve been treated like an animal long enough, you forget how to be anything else.”



The anger in him dissolves.




“I have a plan.” He blurts out. “To escape.”



He doesn’t, not really, but already there’s an idea forming in the back of his mind. Just the beginnings of a plan, really, but it was something. A better idea than just sitting around and waiting for them both to be slaughtered. 

 

He thinks about the crew, about Tubbo. About shitty action movies, and the posters on the walls of their room. One of his stupid plans already worked once, didn’t it? Who says it wouldn’t work again? 



The bell rings, and they both go still.



He rises first, standing uneasily on shaking legs. His fingers tremble when he prods at the bag he’d been given, pulling out another potion and knocking it back. She doesn’t say anything, watching him swallow it down with something unreadable in her eyes. 

 

She stands, second, pausing for a moment by his side. Then, she does something unexpected.

 

She crouches down on her haunches, almost into a kneel, and grabs him by the shoulders. He flinches, but there’s something so gentle in the way that she pulls in him, resting a broad hand on the back of his neck. It’s warm, so warm, and calloused in a way that’s familiar, the result of a lifetime of busy hands and hard work. Clara’s hands had felt the same way. 

 

She brushes their foreheads together, and he lets his eyes slip shut. Just for a moment. “I hope for your sake, then, that it works.”

 

Her voice is the lowest he’s heard it, raspy and as gentle as the hand just now slipping away from the back of his head. He doesn’t have to be a Piglin to know that she means Goodbye, Good Luck. 

 

He grins, that crooked, troublemaker grin that has most adults double-checking their pockets.

 

“I think it just might.”




-




You see, the deal had gone like this.

 

He had come up with it on a whim, whispered it to her in the time it had taken to get them both ready for the fight. A half-baked plan, maybe, but it’s better than nothing at all. Better than a lifetime of this. 

 

If she wins, then she takes the victory, and they both go back to spending the rest of their days in this hellhole. If he wins, though, then she has to give everything up to help him and Ranboo escape. She’d accepted the terms with a polite head dip, and a final sympathetic glance in his direction as they went their separate ways. She expects to win, he knows, but he has something she doesn’t.

 

Motivation. 

 

He can see the rest of the crew behind his eyes when he blinks. He imagines Clara’s steady hands on the backs of his shoulders, Clem’s wind-chime laughter in his ears. He thinks about the feeling of sun on his skin, wind in his hair. The smell of electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. 

 

He won’t lose. He won’t. He has too much riding in this fight to lose. 

 

Piglins like to seem tough. Technoblade’s voice echoes in the back of his head. We’re not, not as much as we’d like to be, anyways. 

 

He can see the moment she changes, when her golden eyes narrow into slits, and the recognition slips away. Like Ranboo, like the Hoglin, that transition from friend to opponent. She roars, but Tommy can’t even hear it over the pounding in his own chest, over the gentle murmur of a diesel-truck voice rumbling in his ear. He lowers himself into a crouch, fists balled at his sides. He can practically feel Technoblade behind him, gently correcting his stance. 

 

Piglins are proud. They value strength over all else. The deal had been a challenge to her pride, she had no choice but to accept, no matter how much she believed she would win. 

 

The ultimate insult is to be called a coward, and they don’t take well to being insulted. 

 

She seems to charge in slow motion, too blinded by her own rage to care about anything else, not the crowd or the boy she’s about to bear down on. Every hoofbeat rings out like thunder, rumbling the ground between them. He grinds his teeth, planting his feet in the dirt. He feels Technoblade’s hand on his shoulder, and he holds steady. 

 

The crowd roars, stomping their feet and screaming out their own calls and cheers. The chant of blood! Blood! Blood! Is deafening, and the Piglin hears it too. Her curls his tusks back into a snarl, and there’s nothing in his eyes but bloodlust. Our pride is what gives us our strength, Technoblade has said, once. 

 

I’m sorry. He wants to say. But I need to win. 

 

Then, she’s almost on top of him. He can smell her, the scent of blood, sweat, and leather thick in the air, coating his tongue in copper. She’s too far gone in her own rage to notice how tense Tommy is, coiled tight as a spring. This was not the same alien who had spoken to him earlier, voice low and soft. The one who helped wrap his hands before his fights. 

 

He forgets that we’re not, Her voice rumbles in his ear. Animals. 

 

Even when she’s about to kill him, he doesn’t understand how anyone could look at her and see just an animal. 

 

Right before those big, meaty hands close around his neck, he rocks back on his heels and jumps.

 

He throws his body straight to the side, rolling with the impact. The same trick he’d done with the pig, only this time, straight sideways. The Piglin howls as she barrels right past him, missing by inches. She stumbles over her own hooves as she tries desperately to turn around and grab him, skidding against the dirt and kicking up dust as she roars and snorts in outrage. 

 

He hits the dirt in a slide, rolling over himself with the impact, desperate fingers scrambling for the hilt of Technoblade’s sword. He grabs it, fuck yeah! and hauls ass to get upright on his trembling feet. 

 

He only has a few seconds. He has to strike now while she’s disoriented. 

 

The sword had always seemed too heavy, before. The shining metal just a little bit off balanced in his hold, like wearing a pair of boots a few sizes too big. Now, though? He barely feels the strain as he lifts the sword, the leather grip fitting in his hands like it was tailor-made just for him.

 

He lunges.

 

The Piglin was still skidding when he reaches her, still trying to turn herself back around. The bad thing about being three hundred pounds of muscle on hooves is the fact that they’re, well, hooves. They’re not nearly as balanced as they looked, and once you’ve built up that much momentum? Yeah, you’d have better luck trying to turn around a semi-truck going full throttle. 

 

She was already disorientated, still blinking away the gaze of bloodlust and trying to keep herself from falling over as she skids in the dirt, tossing her head. He runs, arms pumping at his sides, and jumps.

 

His shoulder collides with the center of her chest, knocking them both to the dirt with a bone-rattling thud. He shakes it off first, desperately scratching at her arms as he tries to hold her down. She shrieks, bucking and snarling, but he holds firm just long enough to turn his sword the right way. 

 

He holds the tip of his blade to her throat, and the crowd goes absolutely wild.

 

He doesn’t even hear it, though he can feel his teeth rattling with the noise, feel the ground tremble underneath them. He straddles her chest, sword tip right in the hollow of her neck. There’s sweat dripping in his eyes, and the rise and fall of the chest he’s sitting on is a little more than unnerving, but he holds still. He looks at her right in the eyes, and he bares his teeth like a Piglin bares it’s tusks. He won. He won.

 

“I win.” He pants, “Looks like you owe me.”

 

The look in her even, golden gaze is familiar, and he could collapse with the relief. She gives her head another shake and growls, but only a little, curling her lip. “That was underhanded.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “It wasn’t against the rules, was it?”

 

“...No.” She admits, eventually. “It wasn’t.” 



The roaring of the crowd develops into a chant Blood! Blood for the Blood God! 

 

He doesn’t just hear it, he feels it. The noise is so loud, he can feel it reverberating in his bones, rattling his sternum and beating along with the rushing of blood in chest. They want him to kill her, to truly win. He could fill the whole arena with blood and they wouldn’t be satisfied, always howling for more, more, more. It would be so easy to give in, like how he had before. To let the potions and the adrenaline take over, to plunge his sword down. 

 

He feels the eyes of his crew on him, and Technoblade’s steady presence by his side. He can’t, he won’t give in. 

 

He’s no blood god. He’s just Tommy . A scrawny kid with people to get home too. He takes a deep breath, and then another. He hears the voices, all of them, and lets them wash right over him. In one ear, out the other. Since when has Tommy Innit let anyone else tell him what to do? 



She looks away first, and he knows defeat when he sees it. 



He won. It’s over. 



“Pretend to strike me with the pommel of your sword.” She mutters, only audible to him. “Make it look convincing. Quickly.”



He doesn’t need to be told twice.



The crowd roars again when he lifts his sword, turning it in his hands. Technoblade could twirl his sword with one hand and blindfolded, he knows it’s not nearly as graceful as when he does it. Still, he holds it high, the end of it pointed at her face.

 

She doesn’t look afraid. If anything, the look she’s giving him is almost proud. She even smiles, her tawny hair escaping its braid and falling across her face. It’s a little thing, just a quirk of her lips around her tusks, but he’s lived with Technoblade. He knows a smile when he sees it. She closes her eyes and tilts her head up, not an ounce of fear in her face, not a bit of tension in her shoulders. 

 

He brings down the sword with all of his strength, missing her temple by a hairs-width.

 

She lets her eyes close, and her body goes limp and still, barely even seeming to breathe. If he wasn’t literally sitting on her, he’d be worried that he might’ve missed. 

 

Beyond them, the crowd howls it’s approval. 





-





In the stands, a different Piglin goes completely still.



He stares down, watching the golden haired child where he sits, straddling a Piglin Brutes chest with the tip of his sword at her throat. The rest of the crowd screams for blood, for him to end it. They want her blood spread all over the ring, they want to see him swimming in it. 

 

The voices in his head are just as loud.

 

Blood for the blood prince! Blood for the blood prince! Blood, blood, BLOOD! Slit her throat! Bleed her dry! BLOOD! 

 

No amount of willing them away quiets them. 

 

The Bezzarian at his side is clutching his arm, breathing shaky. The Phantling on his other side has a white-knuckled grip on the railings, staring down with his teeth drawn back in a snarl. The Elytran behind them all is frozen, eyes narrowed and jaw set.

 

The Piglin is still.

 

The child speaks. He can’t hear what he says, but he sees the flash of white teeth and a pink tongue. He bares his teeth, a challenge, and the Piglin in the stands can’t look away. 

 

The defeated Piglin dips her head. The child lifts his sword with shaking hands, twisting it clumsily so the pommel is facing downwards at her skull.



They don’t move her body.



They leave her there, lying in the blood-soaked dirt. Her hair has come out of its braid, falling across her face, limbs twisted unnaturally. She’s still.

 

The child stands. He’s shaking, legs trembling and threatening to drop him as he faces the crowd. There’s a darkening bruise around one wide blue eye, a smudge of blood across his cheek. One of his arms is bound all the way up to his shoulder. There’s a steady drip of crimson coming from his mangled, bruised nose, spilling over his lips. The crowd howls their approval nonetheless, shrieking and stomping their feet.

 

Ours. The voices croon. Shoat, baby. He’s hurt. Fix him! Proud of him. Look at him go! E!

 

“Well how about that, folks?” Shclatts voice comes in over the loudspeakers.  “A final win for the underdog.”

 

The Piglin can see him now. He always comes out from the same spot, a comn in hand as he steps into the ring. The crowd screams louder at the sight of him, and he tilts his head back to soak it in like it’s meant for him instead. 

 

He looks out of place in the ring, walking across the dirt with carefully polished hooves. Clean and unbloodied suit, crisp white undershirt. Crimson tie around his neck. There’s delicate golden jewelry dripping from his horns, swaying when he walks. The Piglin doesn’t have to be near him to know that he reeks of alcohol. He always does. 

 

He gets close to the child, and the Piglin can feel the growl rising in the back of his throat.

 

“What do you think?” He asks the crowd, crooning in that awful, slurred voice. “Is he our victor? Defeating the Blood God is no easy task.”

 

The child doesn’t pull away when Schlatt grabs his hand, lifting it in the air, declaring him the victor. The crowd once again erupts in applause and cheers, a noise Schlatt always seems to relish, drinking it in like it’s meant for him, instead. The child doesn’t even seem to notice, looking dazed as he sways slightly on his feet, staring out over the crowd.

 

No, not staring. Searching. 

 

Those sharp blue eyes meet his for a moment, widening in shock. Then, they slide off of him to meet the gaze of the Bezzarian next to him. Even from this far away, he can see it clearly when he winks.

 

He doesn’t notice the Piglin Brute twitch, ever so slightly. Pulling her hooves just that much underneath her. The Bezzarian next to him does, though, and stiffens. 



“Give it up for our champion!” Schlatt cheers into the mic. “Our very first human-“



Two things happen at once.



First, the Bezzarian next to him moves. He grabs the tail of a different nearby Piglin and yanks.

 

The Piglin squeals, and ear-piercing noise, whips around, and clocks the Blazeborn standing behind him in the jaw. The resulting sparks from the startled Blazeborns hands catch on the coat of another nearby alien, and it spirals from there. It only takes a few seconds for it to dissolve into a full-on brawl, and somewhere along the line someone else screams riot! And the cry is picked up from there.

 

The air is split with screams and snarls, fists swinging and feet stomping as others scramble to get out of the way. The Phantling grabs the Elytran by the arm and pulls him back just in time, the Piglin presses himself back against the fence to avoid getting hit with a stray fist or kick. 

 

The Bezzarian stays where he was, tucked against the Piglin’s side. He’s one of the few still watching the ring, and one of the few that sees the second thing.

 

The defeated Piglin kicks out with a leg, tripping Schlatt and springing to her feet. 

 

He recovers quickly, snarling something inaudible as he gets back on his feet. She mirrors his expression, squaring her shoulders and stepping clearly in his path, shielding the golden-haired child behind her.

 

“Go!” She shouts over her shoulder. 

 

The word is only audible to the three in the ring, but what she meant is clear in her expression. She gives him one last nod before turning back to face her new opponent, and the child lunges for the double doors on shaking limbs. The Piglins tasked with guarding them are two preoccupied trying to get the Brute off of Schlatt to notice him slipping past and into the back.

 

No one notices the Bezzarian slip away in the riot, either. 

 

Well, no one but the Piglin, already hot on his heels.






-




Tommy runs.

 

There are fights breaking out all around him, guards grappling with the other fighters. The screams and roars of the rioting crowd follow at his heels as he turns and runs back through the double doors and into the fray, the ghost of a voice in his ears, telling him to “Go!”

 

She had stood between him and Schallt, in the end. A death sentence, they both knew, but still. She honored her end of the deal, kept her promise. 

 

He sees blood when he closes his eyes. The pig, Ranboo, her. The static fills his ears, and no amount of shaking and willing it away can get rid of it now.



The scent of it clings.



His own footsteps and ragged breathing are loud in his ears, arms pumping at his sides. He tries his best not to flinch when he feels blood drip down the side of his face, when he grips the sword in his hand tighter and feels that wet, sticky substance. It’s all he can smell, filling his head with nothing but the scent of sweat and iron. 

 

He takes a deep breath, and he shoves it away. 

 

He recognizes some of the fighters he runs past. Broken Tusks and Sparky fight back to back, grinning with blood-stained teeth and reeling back for another punch. The tall, red eyed fighter lets out an ear-piercing screech as he tackles a guard, sending them both sprawling.

 

Broken Tusks catches his eye over the crowd, giving him a nod and bloody grin before throwing himself back into the fray with a bellow. 



It’s so loud. 

 

Just keep running, Tommy. 



So he runs, his boots slamming into the dirt floors underneath him. He barely even knows where he’s going, running on instincts and the fumes of potions already starting to ebb out of his system. He ducks and swerves around grappling bodies, dodging the hands of guards as they grab for him. He doesn’t have time! He needs to find Ranboo, now.

 

Just the thought of the hybrid makes unpleasant memories swirl to the surface. He grits his teeth and chokes them back, not now, anytime but now, and soldiers onwards. He pumps his arms furiously at his sides and runs.

 

He tries to remember where they had been, when they met. Where was that room? The one with the metal door? Was he even going in the right direction? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. 

 

He needs to find Ranboo. Breaking out Ranboo was the whole fucking point! 



He feels like he’s running in a circle.



The back hallways are confusing, narrow and dark, just cramped enough to make his breathing pick up. Everything echoes, the riots in the stands, the riots back here. Is the noise louder than it was before? Quieter? Is he running towards the fighting or away from it?

 

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know!

 

The screaming of the crowd won’t leave him alone, echoing loudly in his ears. It’s disorienting, making him feel dizzy. It follows him, the noise of battle and howls for blood trailing at his heels like a dog, breath hot on the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore it, in one ear and out the other, right? It doesn’t work nearly as well a second time. 

 

He thinks about Tubbo, instead. Abou the ship. About Earth, and the gas station. It spurs him forwards, keeping him stumbling onwards, legs trembling as he runs, but it won’t keep him moving forever.

 

Just a little longer. Just a little further. 

 

C’mon, Ranboo, where the fuck are you?! 



He can’t keep running. 

 

He just, he can’t.



His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, the ba-thunk, ba-thunk, ba-thunk of his pulse loud in his ears. The only thing louder than the voices of the crowd.

 

His legs tremble underneath him, threatening to buckle. He has to stop to keep from falling over, bloody palms grabbing on the walls of the hallway to keep him from tipping over. He’s so tired. The fizzle of potions and adrenaline in his veins already wearing thin as he pushes himself to his limits. He’s hungry, he’s thirsty, he hurts. 

 

The world gives one more awful lurch, and everything tilts.



It’s a bit embarrassing that his final thought before his head is about to smash into the stone floor is, damn, this is a pathetic way to die. 



And then, there are arms around him.

 

Immediately he fucking panics, trying to slash out with his sword, to kick, to bite, but they’re firmer than he gave them credit for. The arms holding him pin him in place, keeping him from braining himself on the floor, and his strength runs out quickly.

 

No, no, nono nonono! He was so fucking close! Goddamnit!

 

He opens his mouth, to snarl, to scream, to do something, but all that comes out is a sob .

 

He feels himself go limp, all the tension dripping out of him. He’s so tired . It’s over, he’s done. He couldn’t keep running even if he wanted to, the adrenaline high that had been keeping him alive finally giving out. His knees buckle, and there’s nothing he can do to keep himself upright.



It’s over. 

 

He’s never going to go home again, is he?



An arm brackets his chest, the other coming under his knees. He doesn’t protest as he’s lifted up, letting his head lull against the shoulder of the alien carrying him. Bringing him back to the waiting room, so doubt, or even better. Straight to Schlatt himself. Knowing his luck, it’s probably the latter. 

 

He still sees her face when he closes his eyes, the Piglin Brute that took the fall for him. He tries to imagine that she’s the one holding him, instead. Carrying him to safety. The arms holding him are the wrong size, hands not as rough. The illusion shatters pretty fast. Just wishful thinking. 

 

She’d risked everything, probably died for nothing, and he didn’t even know her name.

 

The one who ends. She had said it meant. Weirdly fitting. 

 

He tries to open his eyes, when had he closed them? But it’s a losing battle. Whatever. He doesn’t want to relax, he doesn’t want to give up, but his body isn’t giving him a choice in the matter. He hides his face in the aliens shoulder, doing his fucking best not to cry. The arms that hold him are deceptively gentle, and not helping in the slightest. 



It’s over. It’s over. 



It was all for nothing. 



He doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want too, but goddamn it. All he sees when he squeezes his eyes shut is limp, bloody forms, lying there in the dirt. It didn’t matter that he didn’t kill them himself, he might as well have. The scent of blood is so thick, he buries his face in the aliens shoulder as they carry him, trying to drown it out. 

 

It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine. He’ll fight back another day, he’ll… He’ll win three fights in a row again! He already did it once, surely he can do it again. It’ll be fine, he’s going to be just fucking peachy. 

 

He won’t fucking cry, he won’t stoop that low. He’s… hes fucking Tommy innit! He won’t cry, he won’t. He didn’t cry for the pet shop guy, he didn’t cry for him. 




He won’t let them see him cry. 




...The coat they're wearing smells, now that he thinks about it. Leather and blood, familiar scents that make his stomach roll , but there’s something else, too.

 

What the hell is that? It’s irritating, right in his face. A musky, woody sort of smell. Like a mix between campfire smoke and spiced tea. There’s a bit of vanilla, there too. Huh, that’s wierd. Do they have vanilla in space? 



It’s a good smell.




It’s…



It’s a A familiar smell. 



The smell of a certain pink-haired man’s fancy soap. 




Wait one fucking minute.




He forces his eyes open, writhing in the arms that hold him close against a broad chest. His vision swims, but he recognizes the coat he’s wearing, the blurry, ugly color of bubble-gum pink hair.



Technoblade!



There are voices, loud and angry, jarring. He tightens his grip in the familiar coat as he, Technoblade, picks up the speed. The hands that grip him close are huge, but they’re familiar, now that he thinks about it. He can feel the rings on his fingers, the ones he fidgets with when he thinks no one is paying attention. The low, comforting thrum of his heartbeat, pressed this close, the rising and falling of slightly-frantic breathing. It’s him, it’s Technoblade.

 

Of course, now he’s fucking crying, sniffing and muffling the pathetic sounds he's making in his shoulder. Once he’s started he can’t fucking stop. 

 

Whatever. He doesn’t care. Not anymore.



They came for him. 

 

They fucking, they came for him!




He knew they would, he fucking knew it. They wouldn’t give up on him, they wouldn’t leave him here. They looked for him! They missed him! 



He’s bruised and battered, covered in blood, dust and sweat. His nose is still bleeding, the side of his face aching from the bruise across his collarbone. His chest hurts when he breathes in too hard, or when Technoblade steps wrong and jostles it. His hands are still fucking shaking.

 

He’s grinning, though. Fighting back tears, maybe, but he’s grinning. He presses himself as close to Technoblade as he can get, and he laughs.

 

Looks like they found him after all, huh?



He’s still smiling when he blacks out, blood on his lips and hands tangled in Technoblade’s coat. It wasn’t for nothing, it wasn’t. If she died, then she died for something, after all. At Least she died free.

 

The match is over, the bell ringing clear in his ears. 




He won. 








-




In the same hallways, a teenager dressed in purple waits.

 

He watches the fighting from the sidelines, not interfering. He has an uncanny ability to blend into the background, to go unnoticed, and it works well in a crowded, chaotic place like this. He’s practically invisible.

 

He watches. 

 

A Piglin Brute shoulders her way through the crowd. She’s injured, but still grinning, baring her tusks at anyone who dares try and challenge her. She’s swallowed up by the crowd soon enough, and he moves on.

 

The fighters have taken up arms against the guards. With Schlatt… Out of commission, they crumble pretty easily once they aren’t given orders. A few of them even join the other side, once it’s clear they’re outnumbered, while others just turn tail and run.

 

He’d love to stay and watch, really, but he didn’t come here just to stand around. 

 

He has a plan.

 

It’s a stupid plan, admittedly. The reckless, half-baked plan of a teenager with something to prove and nothing to lose. Some stupid dream of proving himself, of getting revenge on the man who made life hell for him for years and then rubbing it in his face. He’s not in it for the glory, not really, but then again- everyone dreams of being a hero.

 

In the end, he doesn’t get that far.

 

It starts out like he’d wanted it too. He knows these hallways like the back of his hand, knows exactly where Schlatt keeps his favorite gladiators. The big metal door is intimidating, but the lock comes off easy enough with a little bit of convincing.



It goes south from there.



He hesitates. Just for a second, a moment, but it’s all that's necessary for someone else to come careening around the corner. 

 

He doesn’t even think about it before he hides, darting down a different hallway and out of sight. He watches with narrowed eyes as the other person, a small, brown-haired alien in green, doesn’t think twice before throwing open the door he’d unlocked and disappearing inside.

 

They come back out with a two-toned hybrid draped over their shoulders, and he doesn’t stick around to see what happens next. 



He tries to find the human, next, but he’s too late there, too. He recognizes the pink hair of the Piglin holding him like something precious in his arms, and very quickly takes his leave.

 

They didn’t need his help after all.



Still, he can’t just leave it at that. There’s an itch under his skin, something nagging at him. Some rebellious urge he can’t quite swallow back, not this time.

 

The thing about Schaltt is, that when it comes to spending money, he’s pretty furgal when it comes to the things that actually matter. Oh sure, the suits he wears are expensive, the jewelry costing thousands of credits. But the important things? Things that others won’t notice at first, especially? He tends to go with the cheapest option available.

 

Case in point: The locks, particularly the ones on the Hoglin pens. 

 

They look sturdy, sure, but all it takes is one angry teenager with something to prove, and they pop right off.

 

By the time the Hoglins realize that they aren't trapped anymore, the teenager in purple is on the other side of the city, whistling a tune and sneaking onto a cargo ship. As much as he would have liked to see what happened next, well, he has better things to do than just sit around and watch, after all. He’ll inevitably hear about it soon, anyways. The downfall of one of the biggest crime bosses on Netheria is the kind of news that travels fast, and the less people that know he was ever there in the first place, the better.

 

For the first time in a long time, he’s well and truly free, no debts owed to anyone.



Maybe now he can finally work on getting home. 




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

So that was fun, huh? Don't worry there's plenty of fluff prepared for next time. this is the happiest I've been with a chapter in a while, I hope the fight scenes don't fall flat! I'm going to try and update next Thursday, per my usual schedule, but plans always change. It will be sometime in the next two weeks, if not next Thursday, for sure.

Feel free to scream at me for hurting your favorite characters via my Tumblr!

Stay safe yeah? Ill see you soon.

 

-Matches

Chapter 9: Forget About What I Said (I)

Summary:

I can't think of a good joke, this chapter is just this clip personified anyways

Notes:

"Forget about what I said,
I'm older now and I know you hear me."
-Forget About What I Said, the Killers
Happy Saturday!

 

The chapter count went up again *purely* because this chapter got away from me and I was forced to split it for my own sanity. That being said, it's mostly h/c with a dash of angst just to keep you on your toes and tie in past events. Some down time and bonding before we hop back into the plot.

You can find the playlist for this fic Here! I recommend Never Love an Anchor and Time Moves Slow for today's chapter. A big thank you, as always, to my lovely friend and beta Mars, and on with the chapter!

 

TWs;
Past child abuse, heavily implied past domestic violence abuse, the after effects of past traumatic events, non-detailed wound description, description of wound care, self loathing, mentions of hospitals, mentions of past traumatic events, mentions of past deaths of unnamed characters, mentions of blood and injury (not self harm), mentions of drug use and misuse (potions), mentions of possible overdose or death due to misuse (potions), miscommunication due to language barrier, Tommy's usual self esteem issues and catastrophizing.

-There are a few times where Tommy *briefly* worries about being hurt by a member of the crew due to past trauma, but is able to remind himself that they would never, and do not in this fic.

 

NOTICE: This chapter is *mostly* fluffy, but there is one scene where Tommy has a small panic attack. Because its pretty brief, It's marked with this symbol (*) at the beginning and end if you would like to skip it. This is NOT something I will be doing for other chapters where possibly triggering scenes take up most of the chapter, (Such as Flesh and Bone). In such case, I recommended for you to skip the chapter and ask for a summary if you know it discusses things that will upset you, and I will happily provide you with one! Please refer to the end notes for the summary of the marked scene.

 

enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t remember leaving the pit.

 

What he does remember only comes to him in flashes, later. Steady arms hoisting him upright, a rumbling voice and gentle hands in his hair. Soft fabric against his face, the smell of leather and body wash with just the faintest hint of vanilla. More voices, heat and sweat against his skin. 

 

He doesn’t remember getting on Wilbur’s bike, or the ride back. He recalls the whistle of wind in his ears, though, someone holding him steady as the ground underneath them shakes. The scent of vanilla getting stronger, the undertones of that strange, not-quite-gasoline smell filling his nose and making his head go all fuzzy. He remembers wincing when a calloused hand, (Clara’s? Techno’s? He can’t remember which is which) brushes just a little close to his bruised ribs, and at least three different voices all cooing at him at once. 

 

He doesn’t remember getting on the ship, only recognizing the cool, recycled air on his skin and the change of pressure as they lifted off. He thinks that he remembers a voice, whispering reassurances and humming songs in his ear as a different set of arms pulls him close against someone else’s chest, but it’s hard to say. It might’ve just been wishful thinking. 

 

He doesn’t remember the first day back, or the second. Not really.

 

He remembers a few flashes. Phil winding bandages around his arm, Technoblade humming under his breath as he fusses with blankets, Wilbur grinning over him and trying his best to get him to eat another spoonful of soup. He thinks he remembers Tubbo’s voice, at least once or twice, and the thin, clawed hands that had brushed against the side of his face couldn’t have belonged to anyone other than Ranboo. Still, he doesn’t really know for sure.

 

He has some weird dreams.



He dreams about the gas station, only it’s been abandoned, left behind to rot. He roams the aisles, calling out for Clem or Clara, and only getting silence in return. All the shelves are lined with Twinkies, and they dissolve into dust when he reaches for them. He hears something, and turns quickly on his heel, the names of his friends ready on his tongue, only to find a kid dressed in a purple hoodie standing behind the counter.

 

He approaches slowly, the way you always do in dreams when you’d like to be moving a hell of a lot faster, and the kid just sighs. He rings up a bottle of coke and two cherry poptarts, holding his hand out for cash.

 

I don’t have any money. Tommy tries to tell him, but he just sighs again, looking every bit like every other exhausted cashier Tommy’s ever met. His purple eyes are judgemental, but the rest of his face is so unbearably human that it wakes him up right then and there. 

 

He has more dreams, of course. The stupid kind you get when you take too much NyQuill before you go to sleep. Technoblade trying his best to pull off a skateboard trick and failing miserably, trying to help Wilbur and Tubbo convince Phil to let them keep the litter of three-eyed green kittens they’d found. Weirder ones, too, just blobs and mixes of color, the half-remembered, disapproving faces of teachers looking down their noses at him as he shows up to class in nothing but his boxers. A few that were nothing but him floating around in space, catching stars in his hands and letting them crawl up and down his fingers like fireflies. He liked those the best, even if he barely remembers them. 

 

He doesn’t have any nightmares.

 

He thinks it’s a bit strange, afterwards. He’s always had nightmares pretty often, ever since he was a little kid. Not every night, maybe, but most of them. They’ve only gotten more vivid the longer he’s been in space.

 

Well, he had one nightmare. Sort of.

 

It started out like how most of the others do, he’s drowning. 

 

He’s never been a great swimmer, and as much as he kicks and flails about, his arms never breach the surface. The shackles on his hands drag him down, down, down, and when he opens his mouth to scream all that comes out is a sob as more water fills his lungs. He panics even more, failing and kicking, trying to do something, and-

 

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, another rubbing gentle circles on his back as he’s sat upright. It’s alright, mate. A voice coos in his ear, you’re alright. You’re just fine. 

 

And then he can breathe.



He wakes up the next morning with a crick in his neck and feathers in his hair, and he still can’t quite tell if that last bit had been real or just another dream. He sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. 



He remembers the third day, and the fourth.



They’re both spent getting back on his feet, stumbling around the ship, and working on actually being able to eat meals with the rest of the crew. He’s still a little sore, head a little more fuzzy than it should be, but he’s actually conscious now, so that’s something. Don't do drugs, kids. Especially alien drugs meant for Piglins. The side effects suck ass. 

 

The worst part about it, though, besides the fuzziness in his head and the soreness of his chest, is having to stay in the fucking med bay.



Tommy really fucking hates hospitals.



The stark white rooms, the squeak of shoes on perfectly clean tile floors. The god awful overhead lights that do their best to sear themselves into the backs of your eyelids. Hell, just the smell of hospitals is awful, both too clean and sickly at the same time, just strong enough to make him sneeze. Like the doctors hope that if they cover the scent of death and sickness with enough hand sanitizer and bleach, maybe no one would notice. It’s horrible. 

 

The medbay of the Argo II is not a hospital, but it might as well be.

 

‘Medbay’ is a little generous of a term for the room he’s in, but it’s what everyone else seems dead set on calling the place. White walls, white floors, white bed, some weird fucking equipment set up to one side of it, including a heart monitor and the weirdest IV drip he’s ever seen. If he wasn’t too busy glaring at the ceiling at the moment, he’d try and knock the stupid thing over. The drip, drip, drip noise is fucking obnoxious.

 

It’s been almost a week since they’d escaped.

 

He hadn’t left the med bay too often. His head still feels a little fuzzy, but at least he doesn’t have drag the IV everywhere he goes anymore. Besides, if he leaves for too long Phil finds him and mother hens him right back to bed anyways. 

 

Blah, blah, blah, you need rest, yadda yadda, we don’t know what effects the potions will have on you, Etc, etc. the worrying and fretting never seems to fucking end. 

 

Now, on the fifth day back, there was nothing left for him to do but stare at the ceiling and sulk.

 

And, honestly, he’s completely fine with that. He hasn’t had a moment to himself ever since he’s gotten back, with Wilbur, Techno, and Phil hovering over his shoulder constantly. He couldn’t walk to the bathroom and back without someone popping up out of nowhere and pestering him about something. Has he eaten today? Does he need help changing his bandages? Is he feeling dizzy? Does he need help walking back to his room? It’s. Awful.

 

But still, atleast Wilbur and Phil actually ask. 

 

Technoblade doesn’t say anything. You’d think this would be more helpful, but no. It’s very much the opposite. 

 

What it means is that he’ll just plop down in one of the chairs in the medbay and not leave until Tommy either caves and asks him for help, or outright tells him to fuck off. Otherwise, he’ll sit there all day, thumbing his way through one book or another. Or, even worse, he’ll follow him around the ship. Not outright, he doesn’t hover right over his shoulder like Wilbur does, but making sure he’s always nearby in case Tommy needs something. Or in case he suddenly collapses like he did the other day, but Tommy likes to pretend that never happened, thank you very much.

 

He’s just anxious. Phil had told him, winding the bandage around his forearm a little while back. He blames himself for what happened to you on Netheria. His instincts are a little out of sorts at the moment, he’ll relax once he knows you’re alright. 

 

It’s been almost a week and he still hasn’t chilled the fuck out, so Tommy’s starting to doubt that. Just a little. 

 

Still, it could be worse. It’s a bit weird that his only problem at the moment is having people care about him too much. Usually he’s having the opposite problem.

 

He… Tolerates the fussing, for the most part. He doesn’t flinch away when Phil patiently and carefully rewraps his arms, he doesn’t snap at Wilbur when he knocks on the bathroom door to make sure he’s okay after spending a bit too long in the bath. He’s only kicked Technoblade out of the medbay once or twice, when the sound of flipping pages grated just a little too much on his nerves. He doesn’t complain too much about the food they give him, or being plugged up to a hundred different weird blinking things. He even drinks the medicine Phil gives him, potions, he calls them, with nothing more than a roll of his eyes and a wince. 

 

Still, with all of his fussing, he hasn’t seen much of Tubbo. Or Ranboo, for that matter. He’s not too surprised.

 

Honestly, why the fuck is he the one in the medbay? Ranboo definitely has it a lot worse than he did. He’s seen the scars, the ugly, pale things that loop and cross over their chest and back, marring their arms and the sides of their face. He doesn’t know what the fuck causes scars like that, but whatever it is, it couldn’t have been pleasant. He gets that they need to keep an eye on him in case all of the potions he took on Netheria make his heart stop beating or something stupid like that, but still . It’s not like they can’t move it into a different room.

 

Did he mention how much he fucking hates the medbay?

 

It also means that Ranboo gets his old room, at least until they finish clearing out one of the spare rooms. Which was fine. Absolutely fine. It doesn’t irritate him at all, nope. The less he thinks about Ranboo in his room, where all of his stuff is, the better. If they do much as look at the vent under the bed, it’s on sight. 

 

...and, Tubbo’s only visited him three times. 

 

He tries not to let it bother him too much, it’s only been like, five days, after all. But honestly, it’s not like he’s at the actual hospital. He’s literally right down the hall, the least he can do is come and keep him from being bored out of his mind. That’s not him being clingy, it’s what friends are supposed to do.

 

...he thinks. Probably. It’s what they should do. 

 

He didn’t bring it up the other day when they’d hung out on the bridge, Technoblade hovering just around the corner, of course. Clingy bastard.

 

Anyways. He wasn’t even going to mention it, but he’d made the mistake of mentioning Ranboo’s name, and it was all downhill from there. They were having a hard time getting used to being on the ship, apparently, and spent most of their time curled up under the blankets fast asleep. Tommy can’t really blame them, honestly, he’d done a lot of sleeping when he’d first joined the Argo II. Hopefully Ranboo isn’t as paranoid as he was.

 

And so what if Tubbo’s spending more time with them? They’d been missing for months, and they’d been friends for years, before that. Much longer than Tubbo’s been his friend, anyways. 

 

Still, there’s a part of him that just.



Doesn’t like them.



...He’s being stupid. He knows he’s being stupid, he’s being a clingy little kid about the whole thing. Ranboo has had it pretty fucking rough, and he feels gross for hating the fact that Tubbo’s been giving them a bunch of extra attention because of it. It’s not like he doesn’t have three other aliens practically tripping over themselves to make sure he’s okay. He’s not alone. Not like before.

 

But still, still.

 

That ugly, angry feeling. That resentment , still finds a way to cling to the back of his mind.

 

So what if Tubbo’s been spending more time with Ranboo? He doesn’t need Tubbo. He has the whole rest of the crew worrying over him, so what if he doesn’t come and hang out with him like he used too? 

 

He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine.



Footsteps.



He’s gotten pretty good at recognizing footsteps. Wilbur walks like a dancer, stepping around on his toes, all grace. Phil is similar, but there’s more weight behind the steps, shorter strides, too. And, of course, Technoblade has hooves, so. The clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop walking its way down the hall towards him can’t belong to anyone but the Piglin.

 

The doors whoosh open, and hey, look at that. It’s Technoblade. Who would have guessed? 

 

He’s dressed in his usual outfit, which is to say that he looks pretty ridiculous in a flowy white shirt and high-waisted trousers. He’s wearing more gold than usual, a necklace and three sets of earrings alongside his usual rings, and his hair sports a few golden clasps where it’s been braided back into a loose ponytail. He is holding a tray though, which means he has food, and that immediately makes him more likeable.

 

If he notices how much Tommy perks up when he enters the room, he doesn’t say anything. “Mornin’.”

 

“Thanks.” Tommy says, in lieu of a greeting. He makes grabby hands for the tray, and Technoblade rolls his eyes as he hands it over, taking a seat on the foot of the bed. 

 

On the tray is all the usual breakfast foods, a bowl of apple-cinnamon and blueberry oatmeal, (okay, not actually, but if you squint and ignore the after taste, it’s pretty much the same thing), a cup of watermelon juice, (again, just squint and drink it quickly), a bottled potion that glows faintly, and half of a golden apple. 

 

...That last one he means literally. It’s… It’s a golden apple. Not the yellow, sweet and mushy ones you can get at the store, but a small, apple-shaped fruit that looks like it’s been coated in golden spray paint. 

 

He’s eaten them before. On his first day back, he’s pretty sure that’s all he ate, grounded into mush. It’s supposed to have healing properties, Phil had explained, to help ease him off of potions and back onto a diet of normal food. Again, taking a shit ton of potions meant for alien species three times your size all at once, and then being thrown into a fucking gladiator ring… Yeah, not the best for the human body. Something something, potion withdrawal, blah blah blah, easing him off slowly. So, he’d gone from two of the stupid things a day to half of one at breakfast, along with a heavily watered down dose of a regen pot. Woo, drugs. 

 

Eating is a bit difficult when your dominant arm has been mummified by bandages, thanks, Ranboo, and your non-dominant arm has both an IV and a finger clamp on it in case his heart stops in his sleep or something, thanks, Phil, but he’s had practice. He only spills a little of the juice on his shirt, in the end. Besides, it’s not even his shirt anyways, it’s Wilbur’s, and he’s the one who does most of the laundry, so…

 

Technoblade just kind of sits there, looking at him like a weirdo, waiting for him to finish. Tommy’s gotten pretty fluent in Techno-speak by this point, so he’s not nearly as weirded out as he would have been a few months ago. 

 

Eventually, when the bowl is cleared and both the potion and the apple are gone, he holds out one of his hands. “Do ya’ need help.”

 

He places his injured arm in Technoblade’s hand without a second of hesitation. “Be my guest, big man.”

 

For as weird as Technoblade is, he knows wound care better than anyone else. Better than Phil, even, if only by a little bit. A few weeks ago he would have snarled at the mention of letting one of the aliens clean and bandage his wounds, but honestly? It’s a hell of a lot easier than trying to do it with his non-dominant hand, on top of having bruised ribs.

 

There’s a roll of bandages, a bottle of disinfectant, a bowl of clean water, a jar of cream, and a few sanitized cloth’s sitting on the nightstand. Technoblade knows just what to do with all of them.

 

He’s gentle when he unwraps the bandages that are already there. It’s a bit odd to watch, seeing as his hands are so clearly made for harsh work and heavy lifting, scarred and calloused from the fingertip all the way down to the wrist. They’re easily twice, maybe three times the size of Tommy’s and yet, they’re more steady and gentle than his could ever be. 

 

He doesn’t wince when the bandages loosen, not like he had the first time. He doesn’t look at the slashes, staring stubbornly over Technoblade’s shoulder with his jaw set, instead.

 

He knows what the ugly, stitched wounds look like. Three slashes across his arm, deep enough to have definitely hit something important. Deep enough to have probably killed him, actually, if it hadn’t been for the potions and the Piglin Brutes wrapping skills. He’d rather not look at them more than he has to, thank you very much. 

 

The routine from there is familiar.

 

Clean the stitches, wipe away the leftover disinfectant with the cloth. He can’t bite back the hiss that escapes his teeth when the disinfectant stings just a little too harshly, but the pain subsides into a cool, numbing sensation when Technoblade rubs on the cream. His gaze drifts back when he starts to re-wrap, starting at his wrist and going all the way up over his elbow. To stabilize it, Phil had said, so the muscles heal properly. He doesn’t know enough about wound care to argue, even if the lack of mobility in his arm is so fucking irritating. 

 

“They’re healin’ over slower than they should.” Technoblade muses, the low rumble of his voice sapping the tension from his shoulders. He runs his fingers over Tommy’s pulse-point absentmindedly, the blunt ends catching a little on the fabric. “Still, these’ll be off in a day or two.”

 

Tommy forces himself to grin, “I’ll have some cool battle scars, huh?”

 

“Somethin’ like that.”



He backs away, leaning out of Tommy’s personal space and collecting the bowl and jars on the tray. He doesn’t get up, though, hesitating on the bed. 

 

Tommy doesn’t pay him any mind, too busy flexing his arm in the way Phil has told him several times he shouldn’t do. The numbing cream works fucking wonders, and while the bandages keep his arm relatively stiff, he doesn’t feel more than a faint twinge of pain as he pulls on the healing muscles, experimenting. All of his fingers flex when he tells them too, though the tremble he’d gained in the ring hasn’t fully faded. It’s better than it had been. 

 

He’s getting better. Healing, just a little more each day. Still, sometimes he wished his body would just hurry the fuck up already. Sitting around in the medbay all day is so boring, especially now that he doesn’t have Wilbur’s comn to fidget with. 

 

“Is Tubbo up yet?” He asks, ignoring the stern look he was getting for moving his arm. Worth it. 

 

“I dunno.” Is the even response he gets. He huffs when Technoblade places a firm hand on his wrist, pinning his arm down to the bed so he stops trying to test its flexibility. Buzzkill. “ He ‘n the other one weren’t at breakfast, Phil sent Wil to check on ‘em.” 

 

He deflates, just a little. “...Figures.”

 

Technoblade, for as dense as he can be, is oddly perceptive sometimes. Irritatingly enough, he only seems to notice the shit you don’t want him to. The knowing look he gets makes his skin prickle. 

 

He uses his other hand to swat at him, “Quit looking at me like that, dickhead.”

 

His ear flicks, and he backs off. Just a little. He doesn’t stop looking though, lip curling into a smirk around his tusks. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

 

He swats at him again for good measure, but all he gets in response is that chuf-chuf-chuf noise. He was laughing at him! That fucker. Oh, he’ll give him something to laugh about alright-

 

Ow. Shit, fuck, ribs. 

 

He has broken ribs. Right. Ow, ow, ow.

 

Technoblade’s face goes from smug to slightly panicked in an instant, an arm looping around Tommy’s shoulders as he wheezes, forcing air back into his lungs. Jesus fucking Christ, broken ribs are no joke. That shit hurts. He feels like he got run over by a fucking bus. Technoblade wasn't really helping, sticking his snout in his personal space as he takes deep breaths, trying to get the pain under control. The hand on his back was nice, though, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades in time to his breathing. 

 

It’s what he gets for trying to roughhouse, honestly. Technoblade would fold him like a lawn chair even if he wasn’t injured. 

 

The pain lets up after a minute of wheezing, and he gives Technoblade’s chest another swat to get him out of his face. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Back it up, big man, your breath stinks.”

 

The offended look he gets in return as the Piglin backs away is almost enough to send him into another bout of laughter-induced wheezing as his ribs try to kill him, but he’s able to choke it down for now. He takes one deep breath, then another. Hold for four, out for eight, start over at square one until the pressure on his chest eases off. He’s got this.

 

Technoblade still looks like he wants to say something. He won’t give up the Tubbo thing so easily, even after that, Tommy just knows. Oh god, now the concern on his face has shifted into one of those holier-than-thou looks, a pretty shit mimicry of the one Phil gets right before he gives one of his talks. He can just sense that it’s coming, some long-winded speech, or more likely, a blunt, concise statement that gets across everything he wants to say in as little words as humanly possible. He’ll probably end it with one of those shoulder pats, you know the ones.

 

He opens his mouth, and Tommy prepares himself. He sets his jaw, squares his shoulders, ready to hear some of the ‘Blades wisdom. What he gets in the end, though, is a lot less impressive.

 

He takes a deep breath, looks right into Tommy’s eyes, sets a hand on his shoulder for good measure, and what comes out of his mouth is, “Oink.”

 

Tommy squints. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

 

He doesn’t stop there, though. No, he just keeps going, speaking lowly in a language of grunts and boarish noises, an oink thrown in every once in a while for variety. It takes him a good minute to realize that Tommy isn’t understanding any of what he’s saying, and then his low, diesel-truck voice takes on a note of panic to match the horror spreading across his face. 



Tommy can’t understand him.



Tommy can’t fucking understand him. 



He doesn’t know what the fuck kind of facial expression he must have been making, but it must have been pretty awful. He watches as Technoblade makes a lot of really interesting faces in rapid succession, confusion, panic, horror, before whipping around and shouting something out the door of the medbay. 

 

All he can think to say, as the air is split with panicked chrips as Phil skids into the room, feathers going everywhere, is, “Oh, fuck me.”



There’s never a dull day in space, is there?




-




A few moments later, most of the crew of the Argo II is in the kitchen.

 

The Piglin is pacing back and forth, hooves clip-clopping over the floor, spinning his rings around and around over his fingers. The Phantling is also pacing, in his own way, drifting around the kitchen restlessly. Every once in a while his fingers will drum themselves on the counters, or tangle in the Humans blonde hair.

 

The Human child sits in a chair at the kitchen table, knees pulled up and arms crossed firmly over his chest. He looks absolutely miserable, and hisses and swats at the Phantling when he messes with his hair.

 

“He’s broken, I broke him.” The Piglin mutters, tangling one hand in his hair. 

 

“He can’t understand us?” The Phantling chitters worriedly, tap-tap-tapping his fingers on the table.

“He can’t understand us at all?!”

 

“It’s his implant.” The Piglin growls to himself, turning and pacing back the other way, eyes glazed over. “I knew it would break, I knew it would.”

 

“What do we do?! We can’t give him surgery!”

 

The human flinches when the Phantlings voice takes on a shrill note of panic, and the Phantling is at his side in an instant. He chitters reassurances the child can’t understand, worried hands fluttering anxiously over his head and shoulders. 

 

In the background, the Piglin continues to pace, growling to himself and twisting his rings. Between the two of them, the noise is just enough to put everyone even more on edge. 

 

The Elytran sitting at the head of the table just sighs. “Both of you, relax.”

 

It doesn’t work, but not for a lack of trying.

 

“He lost his comn on Netheria,” he continues, two sets of worried eyes drilling into his head, “and now we’re too far out of range for it to work properly, that’s all . We just need to get him a new comn, that should fix things. His implant isn’t broken, and he will be fine.”

 

The last words are pointed, directed firmly in the direction of the two other aliens. The Phantling doesn’t move from where he’s draped over the human's shoulders, and the Piglin pauses his anxious pacing, ears pinning back as his tail curls anxiously over his ankle. 

 

The Human looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but resigns himself to his fate. 

 

The Elytran pulls his comn out from his pocket, and taps away. “The closest planets are T’aria and Nevodis, take your pick.”

 

The response he gets is instantaneous. 

 

“T’aria”

“Nevodis.”

 

He sighs again.



Immediately, the Piglin and Phantling whirl on each other. The Human startles when the Phantling pulls away to snarl at the other alien, only to get bared tusks and squared shoulders in response. 

 

“Everytime we’ve taken Tommy to a city, we’ve lost him.” The Piglin deadpans, lip curling back. “We can’t take that chance when he can’t understand us.”

 

The Phantling jams a finger into his chest. “There’s nothing useful on T’aria, it’s all jungle! The nearest city is on the complete other side, I doubt we’ll find a good comn there!”

 

“We don’t need a good one, i t just needs to work .”

 

“But what if it breaks?! Then he’ll actually need surgery!”

 

The Elytran starts tuning them out, at this point, letting the shrieks of the Phantling and the low, angry snorts of the Piglin fade into background noise. He shares a sympathetic glance with the human, who glares at him in return, pinned to his seat with one of the Phantlings arms looped protectively across his chest. 

 

He opens his comn again, tapping away at the buttons. He opens an app and types in a name. The message he writes is short and to the point. 



Hey, captain. Have you got a minute?



It only takes a moment for him to get a response, just long enough for the fighting between the Piglin and the Elytran to escalate into a screaming match. 

 

He doesn’t notice when the Human slips away, attention still on the comn in his hands. 



Sure, is there a problem?

 

Something like that. We need a new comn.

 

Coords?



It only takes a button press for them to be sent over, and he gets a response right after. 



You’re in luck, I’m just a planet away. I’ll meet you on T’aria. You’re closer than I am, send your coords when you land and I’ll meet you. 

 

See you there



The others don’t notice when he slips out of the kitchen and down the hall. He doesn’t bother trying to break them up, letting them take out some of their anxiety about the situation on each other might be better for them in the long run. They’ll be over it by dinner time. 

 

They’ll figure it out soon enough when they notice the ship changing its course, anyways. 





-





*He can’t get the cargo hold latch open.

 

The others are still arguing, voices loud and jarring in his ears. It had been easy enough to slip away while they were distracted screaming at each other, practically sprinting down the hall in his need to get away.

 

He doesn’t know why.

 

One minute he was fine, the next, his heart was pounding. His head had starting spinning, is skin itching as his palms got sweaty. All it had taken was a particularly loud screech from Wilbur for his brain to go Nope, that’s enough if that, and then the next thing he knew, he was scrambling away as fast as his stumbling legs would let him go.

 

It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid.

 

Wilbur wouldn’t hurt him. He knows that, he knows that! Neither would Techno or Phil! They had freaked the fuck out everytime he had so much as scraped his hands, and they haven’t stopped being clingy ever since they left Netheria. They wouldn’t turn around and hurt him, especially since he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

 

His stupid brain didn’t seem to get the memo, though. He’d had it drilled into him for years that raised voices tended to lead to bruises and broken bones in the end. 

 

So, he’d run.

 

He couldn’t go back to the medbay, the door doesn’t lock and it’s the first place they’d look. He can’t go back to his room because Ranboo’s in there, and the bridge is too open. The bathroom was an option, but it’s still too close to the kitchen for his liking.

 

So, cargo hold. They wouldn’t be able to follow him to his little spot in the back corner. Or atleast, that had been the plan until he’d realized that he can’t get the fucking hatch open.

 

He tries again, pulling at the stupid handle with all of his might with his left hand, but it only moves a little. No dice. He needed two hands, and his dominant one is still too weak to be of any use, as well as bandaged all the way up to his fucking elbow . There’s no way he’s getting the stupid thing open between that and his ribs, which started complaining when his breathing had kicked up and haven’t stopped since. He takes a moment, forcing air back into his lungs and rubbing a hand over his chest. Fuck broken ribs. Fuck super pigs and their stupid muscles. Fuck Ranboo and their surprising strength and pointy fucking elbows. 

 

He sits on his knees by the latch, huffing and trying to glare it into submission. Fuck the latch, most of all. Why the absolute hell is it so heavy?

 

It takes him a moment to realize that the shouting had stopped.

 

He freezes, barely daring to breathe as he listens. It’s quiet, almost eerily so, now. It only puts him more on edge, the icy hands of panic starting to crawl their way up his ribs to his throat.

 

There was always a moment of silence after the screaming

 

Always . Even if it was just a second. A crystal clear moment when the anger in the eyes of his newest foster parent sharpens into something colder, when their jaws tense, teeth grinding against each other. That moment of decision when they finally make up their mind.

 

He’s not there anymore. He hasn’t been in a foster home in more than a fucking year, now. He hasn’t been in a really bad home in longer, the ones where he had been hit were pretty few and far between, not as common as the internet and movies make it seem. But still, still, how do you forget something like that? Something so ingrained into your life for so long, an instinct driven into your mind over and over until it was just muscle memory to leave when the screaming was still just screaming? You don’t. Not that quickly, anyways. 

 

He doesn’t notice the footsteps until Wilbur is right in front of him.



Fight or flight, that’s what you learn in school, right?

 

Everyone has a first instinct when it comes to how they react to danger. Men are more likely to fight, to punch first and ask questions later, or at least that’s what the study had said. Women are more likely to run first. It had sounded pretty sexist to him, he knew plenty of women who are definitely in the first category and a lot more men in the second, but whatever.

 

There are two more, though. Lesser known ones, more common to people who had been in traumatic situations where Fight or Flight wasn’t an option. 

 

Freeze and Fawn. 

 

If you’re up against someone twice your size and there’s nowhere to run, what do you do? You can’t fight them, not when you’re scrawny and injured, and running is useless. When Fight or Flight are both out, it leaves you with two more, much less appealing options.



Thankfully, his brain usually takes him to Freeze first, instead of Fawn. 

 

He stays very still, not moving from his place on the ground. He barely even dares to breathe as Wilbur gets closer. He makes a weird warbling sound in the back of his throat, crouching down to be more level with Tommy. He keeps his gaze determinedly down at his hands, one still gripping the handle of the latch. He wills his hands to move, but every inch of him is just frozen. He doesn’t even blink. 

 

He doesn’t flinch when Wilbur gets closer, he doesn’t move away, he can’t . His breath does hitch, though, when Wilbur makes a worried noise and gently lays a hand on his shoulder. 

 

His hands are warm, they always are. The thin white shirt, borrowed, of course, does nothing to shield him from that. They’re gentle, too, more gentle than he was expecting. It’s enough to break him out of it, to have him blinking dizzily at his hands. Enough to get him to lift his head just enough to meet Wilbur’s worried brown eyes, eyebrows scrunched together as he makes another warbling sound in the back of his throat, like a question. Are you okay? 

 

Right. Right.

 

He’s on a space ship. He’s with aliens, but aliens that actually give a fuck about him. He’s not on Earth, he’s not there, either. He’s okay.

 

He’s okay. He’s safe. He’s fine.

 

It gets a little easier to believe the more he repeats it. They weren’t yelling at him. He wasn’t going to be hurt. Wilbur wouldn’t do that. He’s fine. 

 

He’s just being a baby. Wilbur and Technoblade just had an argument, that’s all. No ones getting hurt. 



*He’s fine. 

 

The hand on his shoulder drifts down his back, and before he realizes what’s happening, another loops under his knees. He has just enough time to let out a surprised screech as Wilbur picks him up in one smooth motion, cradling him against his chest. His heart leaps to his throat for a moment, fingers grappling for a hold on his yellow sweater as his breath stutters in his chest. 

 

Then, he catches the scent of the vanilla(?) soap clinging to his sweater, a hint of smoke and that not-quite-gasoline smell still stuck in his hair.

 

And he…

 

He just, relaxes. Lets himself go limp. 

 

The tension drops out of his shoulders, his hands relax where they’re looped in his sweater. Wilbur starts walking with a cackle, humming under his breath all the while as he takes him down the hall, back towards the rooms. The arms that hold him aren’t like Technoblade’s, strong and big enough to hold him in one hand, but they’re steady. He sways a little as he walks, and it’s… Nice.

 

He’s okay. He’s alright.  He actually believes it when he repeats it to himself, that time. 

 

Wilbur is a steady presence, and there’s not an ounce of anger in his face or his words as he warbles soothingly in a language Tommy can’t understand. Not anymore, anyways. 

 

He lets himself be carried. Not because he can’t walk or anything, he’s not that pathetic, but just. Because he doesn’t have too. Having Wilbur be his personal chariot has a nice ring to it anyways. He’s not being clingy, he’s not letting himself be carried around like a baby just because it’s comforting, or something stupid like that. It’s because Wilbur is dumb and easily tricked, that’s all. Tommy’s just… Taking advantage of that. Using his kindness to his own advantage. 

 

Besides, he’s injured. Give him a break, alright?




-




He’s been in Wilbur’s room once or twice.

 

Not for very long, though. It’s not as interesting as Technoblade’s or Phil’s, and his has a bigger bed, anyways. It’s just… A Room. 

 

He really shouldn’t have been that surprised that it’s where Wilbur decided to take him after finding him on the floor of the hallway, a few moments away from a panic attack. The medbay isn’t exactly the best place for comfort, and his room is currently occupied, so. Wilbur’s room it is.

 

He shifts Tommy’s weight into one arm to press his hand against the pad on the wall, and the door opens for them with a whoosh. 

 

It’s a nice room, all things considered. The metal walls are painted a faded shade of yellow, the paint starting to chip and wear away on the rougher spots, exposing the metal underneath. The bed is shoved almost haphazardly against one of the walls, the quilted and obviously handmade bedspread matching the walls, but only just. It has a desk, dresser, and a bookshelf like Technoblade’s room, though all three are pretty sparse in comparison.

 

The shelves of the bookshelf are lined mostly with leather-bound journals and little knickknacks, gifts from old friends, he’d explained, once. The desk is in a bit of disarray, journals and paper spread haphazardly across it, little jars filled with strange-looking pens balancing precariously on piles of books. There’s a familiar brown jacket hanging on the back of the padded chair, a pair of thick boots propped up against the side.

 

The dresser is a bit more interesting. It’s obviously handmade, the wood being just imperfect enough to be charming and not ugly. The space under the mirror is lined with shining jars and bottles, much like in Technoblade’s room, though there aren’t quite as many. His hands itch to touch them, maybe pocket a few, but he shoves that down.

 

It’s an okay room. A bit impersonal, though, no posters on the walls, no clothes spread all over the floor. Even the bed was made. It felt a bit more like a hotel room than someone’s bedroom, it would only take half an hour to shove everything into bags and be out of there. It smells enough like a bakery to mark it as Wilbur’s, though. That almost-but-not-quite vanilla smell, sweet and a little smokey. Like toasted marshmallows. Toasted vanilla marshmallows. Damn, now he wants s’mores. 

 

Wilbur plops him cheerily on the bed without warning, and an undignified yelp slips past his teeth before he can swallow it.

 

He glares up at the alien, already flipping him off. “You’re a bitch, you know that? I’m injured, Wilbur, injured.”

 

He gestures to his bandaged arm, waving it around for emphasis. Wilbur just cackles again, shaking his head and chattering something. The grin on Tommy’s face slips, just a little. Right. No comn, no translator. 

 

...He’s still a little shaken from before, he’ll admit. He’s not fucking fragile, and pretty fucking far from being a scared little kid who needs his hand held, after all, but still. It would be nice to hear a familiar voice, right about now. As stupid as that sounds. 

 

He lays back on the bed, shuffling around and getting comfy. The vanilla smell is stronger there, (what the hell? Does he fucking bathe in the stuff?), but it’s soothing. It’s a pretty comfortable bed, and he wastes no time in pulling the thick comforter over his shoulders, watching Wilbur putter around the room in the corner of his eyes, chattering all the while.

 

At Least he sounds like he’s saying words. Technoblade’s just grunts and snorts, and all Phil does is make bird noises.

 

It’s a thrumming sort of language, the kind that rises and dips, slurring together almost like a song. It’s definitely a lot more pleasant to listen to than Phil’s chirping, or Technoblade’s grunts. 

 

He opens the closet, moves some clothes around, then makes a happy noise, high and trilling in the back of his throat. Tommy leans in close to see what he has, turning it over in his hands and holding it against his chest. Satisfied with what he finds, he turns to Tommy with a guitar in his hands.

 

It’s a beautiful thing.

 

Tommy doesn’t describe a lot of things as ‘beautiful’, but he’s man enough to admit it. The face is a tan, purple-ish wood, the back and sides something darker, glossy and swirling. ‘Guitar’ isn’t quite the right word for it, it’s too graceful for that. A long, beautiful instrument, vaguely guitar-shaped, but more like someone tried to make one from memory. There’s a flower decal along one side of the face, some kind of strange fish swimming among them. There are other things, too, little golden decals, faint scratches and dents from years of love and use. 

 

He holds it like it’s his first born child, settling on the bed next to Tommy. He holds the neck with one hand, the other settling gently over the strings. He plays a quick scale, checking to see if it’s still in tune, probably, and nodding to himself when it sounds the way he wants it too.

 

It sounds close enough to a guitar, but also, not quite. Something about the wood it’s made of, he thinks, or the golden metal strings. Close, but also better.

 

He plays it well, showing him a few scales and little tunes, pointing out a few of the different strings. He keeps his voice low, calm, and the gentle tone of it helps him relax a little more. His heart stops pounding after a while, his head feels a little clearer. It’s easy to get lost in the way he moves his hands over the strings, and he finds himself leaning against him somewhere along the way, resting with his back against the wall and their shoulders brushing. Just so he can see what he’s doing easier, he assures himself. No other reason.




Then…

 

Wilbur starts to sing.



His voice is a little raspy, rising and falling over the notes. It’s a sad song, slow and hesitant, but he gets a little more confident as he goes on, hitting every note just right. All Tommy can do is watch, mesmerized by the fluttering of the golden strings and lost in the rising and falling of his voice. 

 

He petters off once he realizes Tommy is staring at him, a red-purple blush darkening the tips of his pointed ears as he rests the guitar in his lap. Tommy doesn’t even hesitate, pressing the guitar insistently into his hands, swallowing down the embarrassment. He’ll be regretting this later, probably, but all he knows now is that he has to hear the rest of the song. 



“Play it?” He all but begs. “The whole thing. Please?”



Wilbur doesn’t have to be able to understand what he’s saying to know what he means. He lifts the guitar into hands again, and he plays.

 

His hands are sure, running over the strings with the kind of confidence that comes with years of practice, each note ringing out clearly as he strums along. His voice rises and dips, taking on that low, raspy quality as his hands dance over the strings. He’s not a perfect singer, there’s no auto tune in space, afterall, and he stumbles once or twice, cursing quietly as he corrects his fingers. He pauses at all the right places, drawing out all the right notes, though, and those little slip ups only make it feel more real. 

 

Tommy’s fast asleep before he can get halfway through, drooling on his shoulder. 





-




The Piglin pauses in the hallway. He takes a few steps back to the door he’s just passed, just to be sure. But no, he was right the first time, music.

 

I love this song! The voices cheer, Your sister was right is my favorite. I like La Jolla better. No one likes La Jolla shut up. This is I’m Sorry Boris erasure. /rainbowchat! 

 

He flicks an ear, and they reluctantly quiet. 

 

He lingers a bit, listening. He knows this song, but it’s not one the Elytran plays often. A sad, lonely sort of song. He moves to leave when the music ends, but finds himself lingering a little longer, anyways. 

 

The opens with a whoosh! Startling them both.

 

The Phantling blinks. The human child on his back makes a sleepy noise and buries his face into his sweater, one arm holding him in a death grip, the other limp by his side. 

 

The Piglin gives him a knowing look, and he lets one of the human's legs go for a second to jab it into his chest.  

 

“This never happened.” He hisses. “You saw nothing.”

 

The Piglin puts both hands up, cocking an eyebrow. The Phantling makes several rude gestures at him before hoisting the child up more on his back and making his way to the medbay. Both of his ears are a violent shade of red.

 

The Piglin watches, laughing under his breath the whole time. 




-





Dinner is a bit awkward when no one speaks the same language as you.

 

He’d fallen asleep in Wilbur’s room somewhere along the line, and woken up just in time for dinner in the medbay with the fucking finger clamp on. It had taken him a good five minutes to swallow down the embarrassment and drag himself to the kitchen. 

 

They tried having him write things down, for the first part of dinner. Tubbo and Technoblade at least had a possible knowledge of English, enough to translate the jist of what he was saying, if he wrote like a kindergartener. It’s not too practical when you’re trying to talk to five people and eat all at the same time. He ended up giving up about half way through, though, sitting back and letting them talk over him instead. Tubbo’s half-hearted attempts to include him by saying random Earth words he thinks he might recognize got pretty irritating pretty fast, the buzz, buzz, buzzing of his voice grating on his nerves. Eventually he seemed to get the hint.

 

Seriously, right when you actually start to bond with the aliens taking you home, you stop being able to talk to each other. The universe definitely has a sense of humor. 

 

After dinner, Phil and Technoblade pulled him aside to discuss something with him. The writing system works a bit better when it’s just two people, and With Technoblade there to help translate, he got his point across. It helped that he was an okay artist, too. Supplementing Technoblade’s limited vocabulary with pictures and a little map.

 

His translator stopped working because he doesn’t have his comn with him anymore. They were landing soon, on a different planet, then meeting someone to help him get a new comn. They would probably be landing late tonight while he’s asleep, and meeting the other person in a day or two. Atleast, that’s what he thinks that's what the last bit means, Phil is a lot better at sketching planets and ships than stick figures. The one supposed to be him looks fucking stupid, his nose is not that crooked, thank you very much. 

 

Anyways, his guesses ended up being pretty accurate.

 

The landing woke him up at ass o clock in the morning, the ship rumbling and shaking underneath him. He managed to roll over and get a little sleep afterwards, but in the end, it was mostly a losing battle. He spent a good portion of the night staring at the ceiling and muttering curses under his breath. 

 

Breakfast is a little better, but not by too much.

 

It’s a quick and quiet affair, excitement in the air as Phil chirps and caws enthusiastically. Technoblade and Wilbur just seemed exhausted in comparison, drooping over their food, and Tubbo had only popped in for a second or two to grab food for him and Ranboo. They both seemed to perk up a little when it came time for his bandages to be changed again, having a silent glaring contest that Technoblade eventually won.

 

It’s done quickly, this time, and on the kitchen counter no less, but he’s just as gentle as before. Wilbur fetches him a first aid kit from the cabinet, (seriously, is there one in every room on the ship? Why?), and pretends not to be anxiously watching over his shoulder the whole time. He doesn’t fool anyone. 

 

They both leave pretty quickly once everything is said and done, leaving their dishes in the sink and ruffling Tommy’s hair one last time just to make him squawk and swat their hands. He’s able to get pretty creative with his threats now that he can swear as much as he wants. The one upside of no one being able to understand him. 

 

Tommy had followed their lead after, a bit hesitant to leave Phil behind to wash dishes on his own, but he’d been waved away. He gives Tommy a smile, motioning to his shirt and then pointing to Tommy’s, and he’d gotten the message well enough. Get dressed, we’re leaving soon.

 

So, he’d done just that.

 

Wilbur had left some clothes for him to borrow folded up on the nightstand, and he’d wasted no time before tugging them on. It’s a bit awkward between his arms and his ribs, but he’d rather swallow glass than call in one of the aliens for help. He wasn’t a fucking toddler, thank you very much, and only gets stuck for a few seconds before figuring it out. 

 

The shirt is a little big, A baby blue sweater that had once probably had long sleeves, but had since been turned into a tee-shirt with uneven and hand-hemmed sleeves, a pair of cargo shorts, a belt, (which had very much been needed), a pair of walking boots, a tan coat, and finally, his bag. 

 

He’d missed his bag, how had Wilbur found it? He could have sworn he’d left it in the cargo hold, had he gone and found it for him? 

 

An image of him comes to mind, then, head tilted back as he strums his guitar, something distant in his eyes as he sings along. He brushes it away with a quick shake of his head, and opens the messenger bag quickly, just to make sure. 

 

Everything was there. A bent fork, a change of clothes, a bottle of water, a few pre-packaged food bars, and some things he’d lifted from the first aid kit. None of his sentimental stuff sadly, all of that was still hidden safely in the vent under the bed, but just the emergency stuff. The ‘just in case’. 

It felt good to have, the bag strapped securely over his shoulder, the clothes fitting a little big, the coat sleeves drooping a little bit past his finger tips, but it’s in a way that was comfortable. In a way that holds the assurance that he’d grow into them, eventually.

 

He catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, just as he’s leaving.

 

A tall, scrawny kid looks back. His face is sharp, marred with a few pale scars you can see when he tilts his chin just right, the starburst one on his temple especially prominent. Serious eyebrows, a crooked nose, skin finally a healthy shade of tan, and eyes a dusty shade of blue. His stringy blonde hair just barely brushes his too-prominent collar bones when he pulls it back, fastening it into a low ponytail with one of the many, many leather hair ties that line the sink. Does he actually have a few grey steaks, or is it just the lighting? 

 

He looks serious. He looks like a fighter. He looks like someone who’s been through some serious shit. 

 

But when he grins at the mirror, though, the kid he sees grins right back. It’s a troublemakers grin, crooked and just the right amount of charming. The kind that had teachers immediately pegging him as a problem student, and the kind that always got him out of trouble with Clem and Clara for shoplifting or getting in fights.

 

His grin. His face. Changed, maybe. But his. 

 

… If he pauses for just a second to grab the golden necklace and brackets off of the nightstand, no one has to know. He tucks the necklace under his shirt and pulls the bracelets up his arms, and no one has to know. 

 

He’s gotten used to the weight of them, that’s all. 



-




The ramp is open when he gets there.

 

The cargo hold latch was hanging open, thankfully, though climbing down had been a bit of a challenge. The perks of being injured, literally nothing is easy. 

 

He manages, though, quietly cheering to himself as he makes his way down the ladder with only a little bit of trouble. His ribs still ached a bit when he moved in just the wrong way to irritate them, but with the numbing cream in full effect, it wasn’t as hard as it could have been. Besides, the ladder has like, five rungs. He would’ve jumped if he wasn’t so sure his ribs would make him pay for it afterwards. 

 

He climbs down, turns around, and there it is.

 

The ramp is open, and all he can see outside the ship is green.

 

He moves like he’s in a trance, stepping up to Phil where he sits on one side, stretching his wings in the sun and letting his legs dangle off. He barely even notices the curious chirp he gets in response.

 

The air is warm, sticky and humid, but the wind that buffets his face is gentle and cool, bringing a promise of rain and thunderstorms. The sun peaks out from behind teal-colored clouds, and he feels the warmth of it light him up from the inside, soothing something in him that he didn’t even know was aching. He leans into it, tilting his head back and soaking it in, already shrugging off his bag and his jacket to expose more of his skin, dropping them careless on the ramp at his feet. When was the last time he’s felt the sun on his skin? Since Bezzar? 

 

He looks around, squinting a little in the sunlight. They’d landed in a clearing. Wilbur and Techno half-heartedly wrestle in the middle, shouting and play growling with one another as they go at it, rolling around and knocking each other down into springy green grass, still wet with this morning's drew. They’re both grown men, but they bicker like they're Tommy’s age, or younger. 

 

There’s a forest on all sides, penning them in, but it’s unlike any forest Tommy’s ever seen. 

 

The trees are fucking giant, for one. The dark green leaves are bigger and broader than he is, towering far, far above his head. They drip with vines and other plants, giant seed pods and vivid pink flowers. The tall, pale green stems of some bamboo-esc plant rise out of thick, dark undergrowth. Bushes and vines, brambles with huge, sharp thorns he can see clearly from where he stands. He can smell this place as much as he can see it, that thick, earthy smell of dew and fresh clover, the lighter, sweeter scents of flowers he can’t name and doesn’t recognize. 

 

It’s the noise he likes best, though.

 

He sits down next to Phil, closing his eyes. There’s sun on his skin, dusting his face and shoulders, a cool summer breeze tossing his hair. The noise comes in waves, strange bird calls sounding above his head, the rustle of branches and leaves in the wind, the snarls and grunts of Wilbur and Technoblade sparring a little ways away, enjoying the sun as much as he is, clearly. 

 

He can pretend he’s on Earth, for just a moment.

 

Not his most recent foster home, the small desert town he’d lived in didn't have much in the way of plants. No, before. Before he’d been shipped across the ocean to live with his uncle, before his uncle decided to go for a midnight drive with a Jack Daniels riding shotgun. Before.

 

He thinks his parents had a garden. Or they went to one, atleast. It might’ve been a park.

 

The noise isn’t quite the same, but in some ways, it’s better. Unfamiliar, but in a way that’s exciting, in a way that has him itching to explore. Wilbur shrieks as Technoblade does something, and he doesn’t have to know what he’s saying to understand his whining when he hears it. The amused grunts and chuff-chuff-cuff he gets in response is familiar, now. Soothing. It’s both laughter and a ‘I’m not mad at you’, all wrapped up into one. Wilbur seems to get him back, though, if he’s interpreting the offended oink! He hears next correctly. Phil laughs next to him, a trilling sort of caw, ca-cah!

 

He feels warm, and it’s not just the sun.

 

He opens his eyes again, just in time to see Technoblade pick up Wilbur and toss him like he weighs nothing at all, and Phil nearly knocks him over with a wing when he howls with laughter. 

 

Tommy isn’t too far behind, the noise bursting out of his chest as Wilbur whips his head in their direction, a look of pure betrayal on his face. 

 

This was nice, but Tommy has a better idea than just sitting here all day. There’s an itch under his skin, the wind rustling through the leaves overhead is calling him, goddamn it. He can make out a few rabbit trails, breaks in the thick undergrowth made by some animal or another, and they’re just screaming to be explored. He hasn’t gotten proper exercise since Netheria, and the itch in his legs to run, go! Is too strong to ignore. 

 

The sun is shining, the day has just started, and there’s a whole fucking planet for him to explore.

 

He grins, already making his way down the ramp. 

 

This was going to be fucking awesome! 






-




The Elytran watches the other two aliens wrestle, leaning back and soaking up the sun. It’s a nice day, a warm day, and he spreads his wings wide to take it all in while he can.

 

It takes him a few moments to realize the human had joined him. It’s only after he finishes laughing at the expression on the Phantlings face that he turns, a question on his tongue, only to find thin air. He blinks for a few seconds, confused, before looking around. Theres a bag and coat left behind on the ramp, but no human in sight. 

 

“Where’s tommy?” He asks aloud, and the other two pause just long enough to look at him. 

 

“Wasn’t he up there with you?” The Phantling says back, brushing grass out of his hair.

 

The Elytran shrugs, getting to his feet to look around better. “He was a minute ago, I could have sworn…”

 

The Piglin shrugs. “He probably went back inside.”



They all know that it’s just wishful thinking.



The Elytran sighs, a heavy, exhausted sort of noise, and his feathers start to prickle. The others catch on pretty quickly to the change in his mood, getting to their feet, play fight forgotten.

 

T’aria can be a very dangerous place if you don’t know what you’re doing. Most of the wildlife is friendly or too skittish to be a problem, but this jungle holds definitely more than a few dangers. Cave systems with surface openings hidden by the undergrowth, sudden drop offs and poisonous plants. Most creatures wouldn’t approach something of the human’s size, but any animal will bite if threatened or hungry. 

 

“I'll go check the woods.” The Piglin volunteers, voice firm. 

 

“And I’ll check the medbay, just in case.” The Phantling pipes up next. 

 

The Elytran nods, already spreading his wings. “I’ll fly overhead to see if I can see him.”

 

“Wait, Phil, that’s probably not a great idea-“



-He’s already taken off. 

 

The Piglin sighs, watching him go as the Phantling makes a quick escape back in doors, a human name on his lips as he calls out. The Piglin shakes his head, then starts off towards the woods. 





-





It was not, in fact, fucking awesome. 

 

It had started off that way, sure. He’d started off on his own, able to slip away while Technoblade was preoccupied getting his revenge on Wilbur, and Phil was distracted cheering them on. Technoblade had ears like a fucking bat, though, and they were right behind him soon enough. 

 

He’d had about ten minutes of freedom, a short time that he’ll no doubt savor for the rest of his life, seeing as he’ll probably never get such freedom again, knowing the rest of the crew. Clingy bastards, the lot of them. 

 

The trail he’d been following twisted and turned, winding around rocks and bunches of thick undergrowth. It went right over smaller obstacles, though, and he jumped right over fallen branches and thick tree roots, planting one hand and swinging his legs over like the older kids at school had taught him too. His injuries protest, but fuck it. He’s Tommy fuckimg innit! The First human in deep space, he just had to explore, for science! 

 

…It’s childish, he knows it’s childish, but fuck it all. There’s no one out here to judge him, a grin on his lips and sun on his skin. Normally he was either running for his life, trying his best not to starve to death, or fighting for his life. When had he ever had a chance to explore a planet when he wasn’t in mortal peril? Even on Bezzar he spent most of his time being chased around by an angry shopkeeper, his heart pounding out of his chest the whole time.

 

He lets himself relax, tilting his head back to look at the branches criss-crossing far, far above his head, scattering dappled sunlight on his face. The cooing and trilling of unseen birds was kind of nice. 

 

It’s easy to pretend he’s the only one on this planet, the only sentient life form to ever explore this jungle. He’s right on the trail of some giant and probably super cool space monster, the first one in the whole galaxy to find such an elusive beast. Excitement fizzles like pop rocks under his skin, and he picks up the pace a little. 

 

It’s nice to be able to explore without being scared for your life. Besides, it’s a nice day.

 

He hops over tiny little streams, pausing for only a few seconds to investigate. The water runs crystal clear, the pebbles at the bottom round and smooth. It’s cold when he dips a hand in, but refreshingly so. All it takes is one little jump, and he leaves it behind. Places to be, and all that.

 

He even finds a cool tree, bent and twisted at a weird angle. It sort of looks like it’s flipping him off, and the thought makes him cackle. He turns around, Tubbo’s name on his lips and-

 

Oh. Right.



Tubbo’s not with him. Tubbo’s on the ship, Tubbo’s with Ranboo. 

 

Whatever. He can explore by himself, no big deal. He likes being alone, anyways. He leaves the tree in the dust, and moves on. 

 

He gets ten minutes of freedom, give or take. Ten minutes of following the trail underneath him, trotting along with his head tilted back at the sky. It’s more purple than blue, really, peaking at him from breaks in the leaves. The clouds a swirling teal color, drifting gently overhead. Ten minutes of pushing aside bushes to investigate strange noises, (a lizard-thing that left before he could grab it), of finding a tree with lower branches he can reach and hoisting itself up, (he leaves it behind once he realizes he can’t reach the second branch, and his ribs and arm did not appreciate the tree climbing), and investigating wildflowers growing on the side of the path, (thick, pink things that smelled sweet, but make him sneeze and got pollen on his jacket), before it came to an end. 

 

A rather rude and abrupt end, might he add.

 

One minute he’s walking along, the next, there’s two beefy arms closing around his waist, hefting him into the air.



Immediately he panics.



His first thought, of course, is Jesus fucking Christ I’m being kidnapped again. I’m getting really fucking sick of this, and he immediately starts flailing. His hand reaches for a knife that he doesn’t fucking have anymore , meaning he’ll have to improvise. Wonderful. Whatever, he has enough kidnapping experience to make it work. 

 

He rears an arm back, jamming his elbow into where he hopes his attackers nose is, “Take that you motherfucker-“



Oh, wait. 



To his credit, Technoblade doesn’t look too upset. He holds Tommy up by the armpits like he’s a disgruntled housecat, arms extended far, far away from the nose his elbow had been aiming for. His face is just as impassive as ever, flicking an ear in his direction. Are you done? 

 

“To be fair,” He tries to explain, rambling as his heart rate goes back to normal. “I’ve been kidnapped, like, five times now, and that’s all in the span of a little more than a year. You can’t blame a big man like myself for being cautious.”



He snorts, unimpressed, and tosses Tommy over his shoulder, turning on his heel and walking back in the opposite direction. 

 

“Okay, fair enough.” He says aloud, trying not to wince as Technoblade’s shoulder digs into his ribs. 

 

He gives him a kick, just to be difficult. “You know, you could at least try to be gentle with the guy still healing from two broken ribs. If you think I won’t tattle on you to Phil, you’re wrong.”

 

Or, well, he would if Phil could understand him.

 

Technoblade doesn’t even flinch at the kicks, or at the halfhearted slaps to the backs of his shoulders when Tommy gets bored. He just marches right on, going straight through bushes and thick patches of undergrowth that Tommy had skillfully avoided. He’s normally a lot more graceful than this, but doesn’t seem to want to waste time going the twisty, windy route Tommy had taken, opting to take the Bull in a China shop approach. 

 

Was he… Upset? 

 

It’s a bit hard to tell when he’s hanging upside down off of his shoulder, but it’s the first thing Tommy’s mind goes to, because of course it is . He was talking, low grunts and faint growls under his breath, just loud enough for Tommy to feel it in his chest as he’s carried along. He shrinks back at the noise, he doesn’t need to understand what he’s saying to know that he’s being told off for going off on his own. 

 

He’s not going to hurt you. He reminds himself, propping himself up the best he can so he can look at more of the forest and not just Technoblades hooves. It’s a good enough distraction, watching the trail go past, but the hand that’s keeping a strong grip on the back of his legs sort of ruins it. 

 

He’s not going to hurt you. He reminds himself again as his breath starts picking up. We won’t. He would ever. 

 

Even if he is mad, which is starting to seem more and more likely. He shrinks in on himself even more, shoulders hunching up around his neck. Okay, maybe running away to go explore some random forest right after getting kidnapped probably wasn’t one of his best ideas. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, even if it wouldn’t make a difference. 

 

He wishes his brain could take a fucking chill pill. Could he not go one day without freaking the fuck out over something stupid? Seriously? 



He hears Phil before he sees him. 



Well, not quite. What he hears is a nose like a very angry seagull crashing through the undergrowth, the furious flapping of wings followed by the crunching and loud rustling of leaves and branches. It’s only after the noise turns from loud caw! Caw! Cawing into quieter, chirps and warbles does he recognize it, even though it’s a bit more shrill than he remembers.

 

Technoblade stops dead, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

 

Then, he’s slid off of his shoulder and set up against a tree. He’s more gentle this time, careful of his ribs and his arm, though the look on his face keeps Tommy pinned obediently in place, leaning his back on the trunk of his tree. Technoblade snorts, giving him a look that says very clearly, stay right there.

 

He wasn’t really planning on leaving anyways, but nods for good measure. Just in case.

 

Technoblade turns, then, no longer blocking his line of sight, and he finally gets a good look at Phil.

 

He’d tried to fly, apparently, but hadn’t had very much luck. The undergrowth was too thick, too many brambles and vines clinging to the lower levels of the trees to make it possible, and he’d found out the hard way. One of his wings is almost completely tangled up in vines, the sharper thorns of the brambles clinging to the soft downy undersides of his wings. The other wing isn’t in great shape either, feathers askew and out of place, leaves and bits of vines and brambles clinging in some spots. 

 

All the thrashing to get free had just made it worse. Not only did it just get him more tangled, but he’d knocked into some of those big pink flowers, getting pollen absolutely everywhere. Technoblade was able to get a few of the biggest vines off before bursting into a fit of sneezing, all while Phil grins sheepishly. He catches Tommy’s gaze and gives him an embarrassed little wave, still half-suspended by one wing. 

 

Tommy takes one look at him and laughs so hard that he cries.




-




It’s just before dinner by the time Phil is freed from the vines.

 

All three of them are dirty, sweaty, and exhausted. Phil had graciously spread his pollen on the rest of them when he’d shaken out his wings once they were finally free, and Technoblade had more than a few sticks and leaves stuck in his hair by the end of it. Phil does too, his favorite bucket hat still sitting a bit crookedly on his head, and hell, Tommy’s sure he probably still has some to match. 

 

Wilbur had taken one look at the three of them and laughed so hard he almost fell over. He’d regretted it pretty quickly after Technoblade smeared pollen over half of his face, sending him into a fit of coughing and sneezing. 

 

They’d been banished to the bathroom soon after.

 

Tommy gets the first shower, partly because he’s injured, and partly because the others take for fucking ever. He’s quick about it, washing off the pollen and the dirt, pulling leaf after leaf from his hair. He changes into one of Technoblade’s soft button down shirts and a pair of Wilbur’s trousers, the ends rolled up, and all but collapses into a chair at the kitchen table.

 

He doesn’t have the energy to bat Wilbur’s hands away when he ruffles his hair, accepting the plate of food shoved under his nose graciously.

 

Lunch was quiet. Wilbur and the others had already eaten, and Tommy, Phil, and Technoblade were too exhausted and hungry for conversation. They scarfed down their food in relative silence, but it’s the comfortable, sleepy kind. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but Tommy could sleep for months. Considering he’s been on bedrest for a week, it was a lot of exercise, alright? Both his ten minute walk in the woods, and helping Technoblade free Phil. 

 

He’s confused, then, why Phil tugs him towards his room instead of the medbay.

 

He doesn’t protest, though the words are right there on his tongue. He’s… Never been in Phil’s room before, he doesn’t think. Maybe once, but not for very long. Still, the tugging on his wrist is insistent, the wing settling over his shoulders damp, but still warm. What the fuck does he want him to go into his room for? Now? 

 

 Hesitantly, He lets himself be tugged along.

 

It opens with a whoosh! Like every other door on the ship, and in they go.

 

It’s a well-lived in room, with just about every surface covered in something. The bookshelves are filled with strange books of all sizes and colors, some glistening in the warm yellow light of the bedside lamp, others sporting well-loved leather covers. They’re not alone on the shelves either, Phil sports even more random knicknacks than Tubbo, everything from glittering bottles and small furs, from small shapes and figures carved from wood and bleached white bone. There’s a surprising amount of dried flowers, too, making the whole room smell like lavender and tea. 

 

The dresser is in a similar shape, with necklaces and scarves hanging from the mirror and sparkling bottles of every shape, size, and color lining the back. A few of them he recognizes as potions or other creams, while some of them appear to be empty. The desk reminds him more of Wilbur’s, littered with half-filled notebooks and spare pages, notes written in rushed handwriting and then set aside for something else. Even that’s not safe from the trinkets he has, a few glass animals look at him curiously as he’s lead deeper inside, a strange flute-like instrument carved from wood set haphazardly to the side. 

 

The bed, though, is what really catches his attention.

 

First of all it’s fucking huge, taking up atleast half of the room. Secondly, he has enough furs and blankets to rival Technoblade’s collection, and at least twice the amount of mis-matched pillows. It looks soft, and incredibly inviting to Tommy’s sore feet and sleep-addled mind, but still, he hesitates.

 

Phil just keeps moving him along, though, pressing on his shoulders and fussing over blankets. Tommy carefully avoids looking at his face, not sure what he’ll find there, and a bit worried to find out. He does sit down, though, on the very, very edge of the bed. It sinks underneath his weight, the blankets soft and thick as he runs his fingers over them, and not a single one of them matches. 

 

He ignores the soft coo Phil makes in response, running his hands over one of the blankets, green with golden embroidery. He picks at it a little bit, shoulders still hunched up around his neck.

 

Is this supposed to be some sort of… Bonding thing? Or something? Is he about to get one of Phil’s dad-lectures, bird edition? Were they still mad about him running off? He’d kind of hoped that they would have forgotten about it by now. It’s not like he was even gone for long, it was fifteen minutes, max , but probably closer to ten. Maybe. He was sure it was less than twenty minutes, that he knows. 

 

It’s quiet for a beat, and so, so awkward, but thankfully, they don’t wait for very long.

 

The doors open with another Whoosh! And there’s Technoblade.

 

He’s dressed in his sleep clothes, a white button down not unlike the one Tommy is sporting, a pair of trousers that has clearly seen better days, sporting a few fabric patches here and there. His glasses are on, which makes him seem less like a boar-alien and more like an exhausted librarian, all of the piercings and jewelry he normally sports missing, and his hair is all the way down. It’s damp from the shower, and the ends brush just a little below the small of his back. 

 

He looks… Soft, almost. It’s probably just the lighting, the honey-yellow lamplight giving everything a warm, buttery glow. But still. Less Like a Greek myth and more like just… some guy. If you ignore the hooves, ears, tail, cool scars and red eyes.

 

It’s only when Technoblade flops down on the bed-face first that things things start to click.

 

“Is this… is this a slumber party?”

 

Technoblade flicks an ear at him, not understanding a word of what he said. He pulls himself up into a sitting position and starts snorting something at Phil, who chirps something back, but Tommy’s a little busy with the revelation that he’s been invited to the cool kids sleepover, apparently.

What the fuck is going on. Like, what the actual fuck. Is this happening? Is this some weird pollen-induced fever dream? 

 

Phil turns, nearly knocking him off the bed with a wing, and that’s enough to bring him out of it.

 

He whips his head around, spitting out feathers, and is right about to snap, watch where you flap those things! But the words die on his tongue before he can spit them out.

 

Phil sits with his back to them, wings pulled through a hole in the back of his shirt and spread out on either side as far as the room will let them go. Almost fully extended, but not quite. The feathers glisten in the lamplight, glossy and black, though the undersides are a more dove-grey color. The flight feathers absolutely shine, taking on a hundred different colors when the light hits them in just the right way, each one as long as his arm. Watching him move them up close is mesmerizing, each feather sliding over one another as he finds a comfortable way to rest them. The urge to bury his fingers in the soft, downier feathers is unbelievably strong. 

 

It’s only when Technoblade carefully starts adjusting feathers that he finally sees the problem.

 

There were parts of the wings Phil couldn’t reach himself, little thorns and burrs that the shower hadn’t quite knocked loose, a few feathers twisted in the wrong way. Technoblade adjusts them carefully, brushing all the barbs in the right direction and tugging out a thorn, tossing it in the bowl. 

 

Ah. That makes a bit more sense, actually. Less of a slumber party and more of a… Grooming session? What do you call it when a bird cleans its wings? Preening? Something like that? 

 

…It was sort of his fault that Phil ended up stuck in all of those thorns, anyways, and seeing them caught between his feathers makes something in his chest twist unpleasantly. That cannot be comfortable. 

 

Technoblade makes it look easy. He’s so, so careful as he brushes his broad hands through Phil’s wings, pulling out thorns with the sort of ease that comes from years of practice. He adjusts crooked feathers gently, aligning them carefully back with the rest and pulling any of the loose ones free, setting them aside. All of the thorns go in a little metal bowl resting by his side, ready to be tosses out later.

 

Then, Technoblade turns to Tommy. He gestures to the opposite wing, the one closest to Tommy, and snorts.



Oh. Oh. 



And he…

 

He hesitates. 



He looks down at his hands, resting in his lap.

They’re exactly the kind of hands you don't want doing something like this. He has hands made for fighting, for breaking things, for curling into tight fists and hopping fences, for snatching sweets from a grocery store and getting him into even more trouble when he flips the cashier off on instinct. You could call them quick, maybe. Strong if you're being generous about it, perhaps. Clumsy, careless hands for the clumsy, careless person that he is. There is no one on Earth who could look at a boy like Tommy, a loud, brash, irritating foster kid, and call any part of him gentle.

Every inch of him is just as clumsy as his thoughts are, a hot mess inside and out. 

 

He doesn’t want to hurt Phil, and he knows himself. If there’s any way he can fuck this up, he and his clumsy hands will find it. He’ll pull the wrong feather or push a thorn in deeper, something like that. A bird's wings are incredibly fragile, he’d been told, once, and he’s Tommy innit. The polar opposite of gentle. 

 

…But Technoblade’s looking at him like that, head tilted as he waits for a response, and Phil gives him an encouraging warble from over his shoulder, face soft and blue eyes trusting. 

 

Trust is a two way street, he’d heard once.

 

And he trusts them, now. He hasn’t for a long time, but somewhere between the running away and the teasing, between the hair ruffles and locked doors, the kindness they’d showed him time and time again, he’d decided to trust them. It hadn’t happened all at once, and it’s far from being absolute . He still has his moments, those times when his brain convinces him he’s in danger and he has to remind himself again and again that they won’t hurt him, but still. It’s a hesitant sort of trust, but it’s there.

 

He thinks about Wilbur, of long, slender hands and a well-loved instrument, of the callouses on his finger tips from years of practice. Of how those same hands ruffled his hair every morning just to irritate him, of how they drum on any surface like there's always a song under his skin, itching to be let out. He thinks of Technoblade’s hands, large, battle-scarred things, of the delicate golden rings on his knuckles and the thick, ugly scars underneath. He has the hands of a fighter, no, the hands of a solider, hands once used to kill and maim stitching his wounded arm back together, rewrapping it gently day after day to make sure it healed right. 

 

 

Oh, fuck it. 



If someone like Technoblade can learn to be gentle, he can sure fucking try. 

 

 

Phil’s wings are even softer than they look. He’s careful, he’s oh so careful, and both Phil and Technoblade look on encouragingly as he clumsily tries to fix an out of place feather, smoothing it back in place with the others

 

His hands shake, there’s nothing he can do about that, now, but he takes a deep breath and keeps going. He’s as gentle as he can be, and it’s enough

 

Technoblade shows him what to do, how to shift the feathers back into place, how to pull out thorns and burrs in a way that won’t hurt Phil. Soon enough he’s doing it on his own, and Phil’s encouraging warbles turn into sleepy coos. It’s easy enough once he knows what to do, the repetitive motions soothing. He barely even notices the tension dripping off of his shoulders, in the way his hands slowly start to be more and more steady the more confident he gets. 

 

He finishes about half of one wing before Phil’s out completely, fast asleep on Technoblade’s shoulder and hands still buried in his bubblegum hair, braid sloppy and half-finished. 

 

Technoblade’s purring by the time the wing is fully done, a low rumbling sort of noise, like a half-dead lawnmower chugging away in his chest. Tommy’s really gotten into the rhythm of it now, humming Wilbur’s song as his fingers brush through the feathers, untangled and thorn-free. By the time he’s done completely, he’s yawning every few minutes, eyelids starting to droop as he stretches. 

 

He blinks, yawning once more and pulling his hands from the wings in front of him, shaking his head muzzily.  Yep, definitely bed time.

 

…The thought of walking back to the medbay, though…

 

Phil’s room is comfortable, the bed underneath him soft and warm and inviting. The faint smell of tea and dried flowers definitely doesn’t help, neither does Technoblade’s purring or Phil’s sleepy coos. 

 

…Surely they wouldn’t mind if he took a little nap. He’d be up in no time! He just… Needs to rest his eyes for a minute, that’s all. Just for a second. 

 

Technoblade is still awake, but only just. Tommy’s just about to curl up in a ball on the edge of the bed when a hand grabs his arm and tugs him deeper with a sleepy growl. Phil makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat at all of the movement, lifting up one of his wings and moving over just enough to make a spot for Tommy in the middle.

 

He’s fast asleep before Phil settles his wing back down over his shoulders. 





-





Somewhere far away in the depth of space, there’s a ship.

 

It’s a small thing, sized perfectly for the two passengers aboard and their pet, and no one else. It looks a bit odd, much in the way the Argo II does, a ship very much built by hand with whatever was around. It's a far cry from the gleaming, perfect hull of a factory made ship, but in some ways, its better. A little patchwork, but well made and well loved. The only of its kind, though not the only ship designed by its creator. 

The hand-painted red ink on the side reads, The SS. Fran.  

 

Both of its passengers are awake, despite the ship's internal clock deeming it night. They sit in the cockpit, side by side, one of them steering while the other sits back, tinkering with a metal rectangle in his hands. The ships other occupent is fast asleep, curled up in her bed with her tail over her nose.

 

The Captain of this ship is a bold woman. She’s an Ovisan, a rare species not often found in space, and she wears her mane of fluffy white hair proudly, cascading in curls over her shoulders. Her captain's hat sits neatly between two stubbly little horns, and there’s pride in the way she holds her head, steering the ship confidently and by memory alone. 

 

Her companion is just as unusual, if not more so. 

 

A Creeparian, a specices native to T'aria, and thought by most to be extinct hunted to extinction because of the danger they pose. The few that remain are shy and ellusive and he is no exception. 

He towers over the Ovisan even while sitting, green gaze piercing through the hefty gas mask he wears. He’s dressed for colder weather, just about every inch of him covered in thick fabric or golden armor. The metal square in his hands, the beginnings of a comn, is held carefully in one hand, the other brushing a gloved finger across the surface, adjusting the screen. His other two hands are folded across his lap, fidgeting with his gloves. A nervous habit. 

 

“You said this was for Phil?” He asks, voice both muffled and echoed by the mask he wears.

 

She gives a sharp nod, eyes bright. “One of his sons must have broken theirs, he made it sound important.”

 

He hums at that, looking out the window. Broken comns can lead to broken, or even worse, fried, implants. A broken implant requires an extensive surgery to fix, if it can be fixed at all. He sees nothing out the window but void and stars, no planets on the horizon yet.

 

“We should be on T’aria soon.” She muses, picking up on his thoughts. “He wants to meet really out of the way, though. Right in the middle of the jungle.”

 

He hums again, this time, voice a little lower.

 

“It’ll be fine.” She continues, “I trust Phil, he’s a good man. If he says it’s important, then it’s important. He doesn’t get nervous easily.”

 

“You think it’s something illegal?”

 

She shrugs. “Could be. Phil’s not the rule-follower type.”

 

Then, she grins, sharp and feral. “But then again, neither are we, huh?”

 

He hums again, and she laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Notes:

1* Wilbur and Technoblade have an argument that gets pretty loud. Tommy is not able to understand what they're saying, and due to past domestic violence and child abuse he suffered in foster homes, has a panic attack and leaves the scene. It's not a bad panic attack, and Wilbur finds him trying to get into the cargo hold and helps to ease him out of it. There's some discussion of how Tommy's first response is usually Fight, followed by Freeze and then Fawn, that will be relevant in future chapters.

 

I'm going to be completely honest you all, most of this chapter was written in-between therapy appointments and while I was on a new ADHD medication, and I'm afraid it shows. I'm queer and touch-starved alright? Of course trust and hands are going to be a recurring theme in my fics. leave me alone. Enjoy the fluff while it lasts and try not to read to much into the sheer amount of projection I'm doing here. I try to keep my depictions of trauma realistic, (nothing irritates me more than when people woobify characters with trauma or mental illness, NOTHING), but again. Touch-starved and queer.

If you want to ask me any questions, or just scream in my inbox, you can do so via my Tumblr. The good news is that the next chapter of this fic is halfway done already, so we're back to updates on Thursdays. Hopefully it sticks.

So, stay safe, yeah? I'll see you then.

 

 

-Matches

Chapter 10: Forget About What I Said (II)

Summary:

Tommy, hissing like a feral cat: What the fuck is this
Ranboo, who touched him once (1): Affection.
Tommy; Disgusting

Tommy, already falling asleep: Do it again

Notes:

"We used to tear it down, but now it just exists,
The things that I did wrong, I bet you've got a list."
-Forget About What I Said, the Killers
 

Greetings!

Happy Thursday! Enjoy another soft chapter, (With just the right amount of angst, putting the h in h/c), we're back into the plot next week! As always, a big thank you to my lovely beta Mars, god knows where I would be without her.

You can find the title songs all on the fic playlist Here!, and the recommended songs for this chapter are Waste and Never love an Anchor. Enjoy!

 

 

TWs
Pretty light this chapter! The usual mentions of past child abuse, mentions of past torture, non-detailed descriptions of scars (not self harm), a mention of non-consensual drug abuse (potions), self loathing, self doubt, imposter syndrome (all Tommy). Ranboo does think briefly about their time in the pit, though its not too detailed, and I will warn you that Tommy's self loathing and catastrophizing does get pretty bad at one point in the chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



 

 

The second morning on T’aria goes better than the first. 

 

He’d woken up back in the medbay early that morning, the vibrations of the ship's hatch opening were just loud enough to rouse him. He’d been hopeful that yesterday night had been a weird dream right up until he’d found feathers still stuck in his hair, and it had taken him a lot longer than he’d like to admit to roll out of bed after that realization. He was pretty sure his ears were still red by the time he was finally dressed. He was getting really sick of waking up back in his bed when he was sure he’d fallen asleep somewhere else, the thought of Technoblade, or even worse, Phil, carrying him back to bed like a toddler made him feel all sorts of something. 

 

Anyways, breakfast was spent outside, this time, which is what really made it better 

 

Tubbo and Ranboo are nowhere to be seen, because of course they aren’t, but Phil had herded the rest of them outside as soon as they’d eaten and Tommy’s arm was cleaned and re-wrapped. He’d made an approving noise at the look on the injury, and his fingers were just as careful as Technoblade’s when he’d put the bandages back on. He’d even been demoted to a quarter of a golden apple and a slash of a potion mixed in with his juice, progress. His arm was healing, much faster than it would have on Earth, but just slow enough to be irritating. Still, it’s healing.

 

(And, so what if he hadn’t been able to quite look Phil in the eyes? Or if his gaze had lingered on his wings for a bit longer than normal? So what? As far as he’s concerned, last night never happened.) 

 

Anyways, his ribs are a different matter. There’s not much you can do for broken ribs but take painkillers and give them time to fix themselves back on Earth, and apparently space technology hasn’t evolved quite to the point of instantly healing broken bones. At least he wasn’t on bedrest for a full month like he would have been back home. Still, when Phil herds them outside, he’s planted on the ramp and handed a notepad and weird looking pen. The firm look on Phil’s face didn’t need a translation, stay here and don’t run off again.

 

He decides to listen. For now, anyways.

 

It’s early morning, the rest of the planet just starting to wake up for the day. Strange bird calls start trilling overhead, the pink-tinted sky fading into something closer to blue as the sun starts to peak out from in between the leaves. It’s a cool, cloudless morning, though he’s certain they’ll all be sweating buckets by the afternoon. 

 

It’s kind of hard to care, though, when the morning air is fresh and clean on his face, just cool enough to be refreshing, and the sun is gentle on his skin. The dew hasn’t tried up yet, and the thick, plush grass of the clearing glitters like it’s laced with diamonds. The drip, drip dripping of dew-heavy leaves swaying in the breeze is as soothing as a lullaby. 

 

He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to the wind and savoring it. Who knows when they’ll be a day like this one again once they leave. 

 

The others seem to have the same idea, stretching out lazily in the sun. Barring Wilbur, of course, who’d grabbed a journal and a pen and retreated to a shady spot on the edge of the clearing to scribble in it furiously. He’d traded his usual thick clothing for a tank top, which is a bit strange for him, and his skin glimmers faintly, like his skin has been frosted over and is just starting to thaw. He had told him that the sun irritates his skin, once, and brightness gives him awful headaches if he spends too long outside. Still, even he’d found a way to enjoy the morning, even though he’s avoiding the sun like the plague.

 

Technoblade and Philza have taken the opposite approach, Technoblade spreading out on his back while Phil lays on his stomach, wings spread wide. The feathers are brilliant in the sunlight, clean and gleaming from the preening session last night, each one perfectly slotted in its place. The effect is dazzling, his glossy black flight feathers shattering the sunlight into a million different fragments. Tommy does his best to not let his gaze linger, and if he puffs out his chest ever so slightly at the sight of his handiwork, no one has to know. 

 

It’s a good morning.

 

He’d slept last night, better than he has in a long time, actually. He feels refreshed for once, though whether that’s the good nights sleep or the sunlight on his face, who can tell. 

 

He leans back on his hands, soaking it in. He’s tempted to copy Technoblade, who’d flopped down on his back the minute they’d gotten outside and hadn’t moved since. He looks content, head tilted back, chest slowly rising and falling. His profile is outlined in gold, gilding the scars on his face into something more delicate. It catches in his hair, on the golden clips he’d put in this morning, on the hands clasped over his stomach and the rings on his fingers, on the necklace he wears. Tommy rubs the one hidden underneath the thin tee shirt he wears, (Phil’s, so what ), absentmindedly. He just likes the weight, is all. The bracelets too, something about the pressure is nice. 



It’s nice to sit in the sun for a while.



It’s less harsh than it would have been back home, sitting on the roof of his newest foster home or lounging out in front of the school. The sun had always been something to avoid, either by ducking inside or slathering on enough sunscreen to make everything you touch sticky. Netheria had reminded him of it a little, but there was something about clear, cloudless morning like this one that makes everything seem still and serene. 

 

Still, he finds his gaze drawn back to the opening. To the dark cargo hold, to the barely there glimmer of Wilbur’s bike. To the ladder that he knows is lying just behind. 

 

He hasn’t seen Tubbo in a while.

 

He’d heard him, a few times. The hurried buzzing of his voice through the walls, his sharp footsteps. He’s even heard Ranboo once or twice, the low, warbling and clicking of their voice. They haven’t left their, his, room more than they absolutely had to since they’d gotten back. He tries not to blame them. 

 

Tubbo was a good friend for staying with them, he tells himself. Tubbo is just being Tubbo, if Tommy had locked himself in his room for days on end and refused to speak to anyone else, Tubbo would have done the same for him, right? Besides, Tommy knows the rest of the crew pretty well, he trusts them, as he’d discovered yesterday. Ranboo’s been through something awful, something he’s only had a taste of, and all they have is Tubbo. It makes sense.

 

The ugly jealousy stirring in his chest doesn’t pay any attention to what makes sense, though. 

 

The others are great, sure. He likes them a lot, more than he likes most people, anyways. They’re not Tubbo, though. They don’t understand the jokes and references he makes to cheesy Earth movies, they don’t get him in the same way. He likes them, but they’re no replacement for the first real friend he’s made in a long, long time.

 

Besides, Tubbo’s actually his age. Phil is probably ancient, at least in his thirties, and while Wilbur and Technoblade could pass as college students on a good day, they’re still older. They get him, or at least they put in a good effort to try, but not in the effortless way that Tubbo does. 

 

The others had helped. Wilbur with his guitar, Technoblade and Phil with the preening session last night, that he hasn’t fallen asleep on Phil after. Nope. Didn’t remember, didn’t happen. 

 

Little signs of trust, reminders. Technoblade brushing against his shoulder in the morning, Phil pausing every few seconds to make sure he was okay while he wrapped his arms. I see you. We’re not ignoring you. Just because he can’t speak to you doesn’t mean we don’t want you around. 

 

He gives his head a shake, once, twice, three times. It’s too nice of a morning to spend all of it moping around like this, goddamn it. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, he’s safe. No point in ruining it now.

 

Turns his face towards the sun, and he sighs.

 

It’s a nice morning.




-



The Hybrid is afraid.

 

Not extremely so, but still. It’s still there in the way they hold themselves, curled up into the smallest ball they can manage. Only their eyes peek out from underneath the blankets, ears and nose twitching every once in a while. They’re listening for noise, but with the other members of the crew outside of the ship, there’s nothing for them to listen to but silence, and the creaking and groaning of the ship itself as it settles. 

 

It’s a habit, still. One not easily broken. 

 

It’s much quieter than they’re used too, in this room. The lights off, the yellow and purple lights glowing warmly. It’s a soft, gentle sort of place, lived in and well-loved. Every bit of it feels strange.

 

The Hybrid’s ears swivel towards the door a few moments before it opens. 

 

They squint, the bright lights of the hallway a harsh difference from the darkness of the room. They resist the urge to hiss, recognizing the figure who’d stepped into the room. The doors slide shut behind him, and they relax.

 

“Hey, Boo’.” The Bezzarian greets softly, holding a tray in his hands. “I brought breakfast.”

 

The Hybrid doesn’t flinch when he moves closer, sitting down on the bed nearby. They might’ve, if he had been anyone else. 

 

They give the food a critical once over, scrunching up their nose at the plain meat and vegetables they’d been offered, and the glass of juice. Their stomach rumbles, but they shove it down. 

 

The Bezzarian just sighs, pushing the tray closer. “Yeah, I know bud. You really need to eat, though.”

 

He gets a half-hearted glare in return, and responds by sticking out his tongue. Any other alien would have been mystified, but they’ve watched enough human movies together to understand the gesture. They take the tray, though they don’t seem happy about it, sitting up gingerly to eat. 

 

The Bezzarian frowns, duel-toned eyes catching on the stiff way they move. “Are they bothering you? I can go get some cream from the medbay, if you’d like.”

 

The Hybrid shakes their head, chewing mechanically on the meat they’d been given. It tastes like ash in their mouth, but they’re used to that, by now. They drink the juice and the potion obediently, not flinching at the strange taste of the Regeneration Pot. They pick at the blue vegetables they’d been offered, but they don’t seem too thrilled about eating them. 

 

The Bezzarian doesn’t push, taking the tray from their clawed hands once they’ve eaten their fill. He sets it aside, kicking his feet absentmindedly against the side of the bed as the Hybrid settles back down into the blanket cave they’d made. 

 

He kicks again, making the bed shake a little. “The others are outside, if you want to go with them. I think you could use some fresh air, you know?”

 

“I’m okay.” They say back, a little too quickly. 

 

The Bezzarian gives them a look, but he doesn’t push. It’s quiet, for a beat. The Hybrid picks at the fabric of the blanket with his claws, the Bezzarian opening and shutting his mouth as he thinks about what to say next. 

 

He tries to keep his voice upbeat, but it falls a little flat. “We could borrow one of Technoblade’s books? Or try another game? Tommy’s been trying to teach me a few human card games, I’m sure I have a deck around here somewhere.” 

 

The Hybrid winces at the name, shaking their head. The Bezzarian deflates, just a little, before shaking it off. The Hybrid catches it, though, the slight strain to his smile, the worry in his eyes. Their ears pin back a little against their head, and they go back to fidgeting with the blanket, tail curling tightly around their leg. 

 

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, voice soft.

 

The Hybrid hesitates, then gives a slow shake of their head. They haven’t slept well in a long, long time, but tonight had been a bit rougher than most. 

 

The Bezzarian seems to understand, though he does frown a little at how muted they seem today. He leans closer, resting the back of his hand against their forehead, right between their two stubby little horns, and another in their cheek. His hands are cold, and the Hybrid leans into the touch. 

 

“You don’t have a fever…” He muses, brushing the Hybrids two-toned hair out of the way as he lets his hands linger. “We should really let Techno look at those cuts, though. You know how bad I am at patching you up.”

 

They smile a little, at that. A tiny, wobbling thing, but there nonetheless. “You never wrap the bandages tightly enough.” 

 

Memories of two scrawny kids sitting on a balcony, a first aid kit spread out between them as they wrap up skinned palms and wipe cream on bruised knees. The Bezzarian always had it worse, grinning cheerily through bloody noses as the Hybrid scrambles to try and fix it, fingers fluttering all over his face as he makes a mess with towels, the Bezzarian laughing all the while.

 

The memories fade soon, though. Leaving them back in their room. 

 

“If you’re going to sit in here all day, I’m staying with you.” The Bezzarian decides, already clambering up on the bed. “It’s not good for you to mope around by yourself.”

 

They frown, ears swiveling back as they move to make room. “I’m not moping.”

 

“You’re definitely moping.”

 

They just frown harder, pulling the blankets up more over their chin. The Bezzarian just laughs, a windchime sound, tugging the blankets back over so he has some for himself. His voice is warm when he speaks next, a gentle tone reserved for special occasions. “You can tell me what’s actually wrong, you know. I’m not gonna be mad.”

 

They hesitate, chewing on their bottom lip. “I just…”

 

They still see the ring when they close their eyes, sometimes. A boy with golden hair and sharp tongue, a sword too big for his hands. They don’t remember the fight, not really, but it’s the after that digs its claws in them and refuses to let go.

 

The blood on his claws, the taste of it in his mouth. He hadn’t recognized the reflection of his face in the boy's blood-stained sword. 

 

“I’m worried I’m gonna…”

 

It’s too easy to imagine that, the monster the ring had turned him into, taking over again. To imagine his claws ripping into soft, pink skin. 

 

The Bezzarian looks worried, but their gaze harshens quickly, voice steady and confident. “You won’t.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do, though.” He insists firmly. “You’ve been having episodes for years and you’ve never been violent before.”

 

“But I hurt him.”

 

Badly, too. He’s seen the bandages, laced all the way up to his elbow. He probably would have bled out in the ring if he hadn’t taken them down soon afterwards, they might have killed him themself. 



They never wanted to hurt anyone, but they hadn’t been given a choice. 



They don’t remember how they got them, the scars that lace themselves all over their body, not really.

 

They remember the before, preparing for the fight, the potions they’d been forced to swallow. They remember the crowd, how can they forget? The whispers still linger, half-formed voices tugging at them when the silence gets too loud. 

 

They’ll never forget the sound of the audience.

 

Most of the fights they don’t remember. One minute they would be in a cage, the next, bleeding and sluggish on the floor of the ring, a roaring in their ears and their heart in their throat. It’s better that way, a voice would croon. Is it theirs? Someone else’s? It’s hard for them to tell the difference, these days. Better that you don’t know what they’ve made of you. 

 

They’re glad that they don’t remember hurting the human. They wish that they could forget the look on his face when he’d realized what he’d done, the stark change between bloodlust and horror in his eyes as he snaps back to himself. It’s a feeling the Hybrid knows too well. 



“Is that what this is about?”



The Bezzarians voice snaps them back to themself, and they wince, ears folding against the sides of their head. “…uh hmm.”

 

He sits up a little, duel-toned eyes blinking at him in confusion. “Big man, c’mon. He's not even mad about it!”

 

“I could have killed him.” They argue. 

 

“He could have killed you.” He snaps back. 



Silence, for a beat. 

 

The Bezzdain slumps first, shoving halfheartedly at their shoulder as they try and get comfortable on the bed. “If it bothers you that much, all you have to do is apologize.”

 

They open and close their mouth, gaping. “But what- what if I-“

 

“You won’t.”

 

“But what if.” They insist, wringing their hands worriedly.

 

What if they try to apologize, and they just… Snap out of it again? They almost killed him once, it would be so easy to actually kill him this time around. What if he doesn’t accept the apology? What if he falls asleep weird tonight and rolls over and one of the ribs they broke pierces his heart and when they get to the room to apologize they find him already dead?

 

Okay, that last one is a bit unlikely, but still. 

 

The Bezzarian just yawns, looping an arm around their shoulders, half asleep already. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

 

I’ll keep you both safe, is what he doesn’t say, but they can hear it in his voice just the same. 




-




The medbay isn’t a very fun place to be at night.

 

It’s never fun any time, but at night, it’s especially awful. The machines next to the bed blink and make strange noises, the sheets are stiff and uncomfortable, the bed cold. Tubbo had brought him one of his blankets a few days ago, but even then, he still always felt cold. 

 

And he can’t sleep.

 

A nice morning has turned into an average day. Mostly spent laying around, atleast, for him. Trying to talk to the other was tedious at best, and down right impossible at worst. Technoblade’s slight English helped a little, but still. He could only say so many words, and talking like a kindergartener got exhausting quickly. It was just… frustrating. 

 

And now, he can’t sleep. 



He knows why. He knows why, and it’s fucking embarrassing as shit. 

 

He hadn’t had a problem falling asleep on Wilbur’s shoulder when he’d played guitar the other day, (Which he was finally willing to admit happened because he’s a Big Man and big men like him like music and also need sleep fuck you), or the other night in Phil’s room, (Which he will consider admitting actually happened maybe but only because it was the best sleep he’d gotten in along time. Not for any special reason, fuck you). He’d slept (mostly) fine before on the ship, with Tubbo snoring in his ear and hogging the blankets, so honestly, the reason was pretty fucking obvious.

 

…It was too quiet.

 

He’d just, gotten used to the snoring. Wilbur’s guitar and Technoblade’s rumbling purrs made great white noise, that’s all. The only reason.

 

He didn’t like silence.

 

He didn’t like listening to nothing but the quiet creaking of metal as the ship settles and the soft blipping of the nearby machines. The silence lays over him, heavy as a lead blanket, making his ears ring uncomfortably. He’d picked up a pretty unpleasant case of tinnitus on Netheria, and once the ringing started to sound like whispers he knew he wasn’t getting any sleep.

 

He glares at the ceiling, instead.



…He misses Tubbo.



It’s stupid. He’s literally right down the hall, all he’d have to do is walk over there to talk to him, but he just can’t. He’s stuck, frozen in place, staring at the ceiling and wishing he was falling asleep to his friends' quiet snores, instead. 

 

But Tubbo doesn’t need him. Definitely not in the way he needs him.



And isn’t that just pathetic?



He’s probably sleeping fantastically right about now, all cozied up with Ranboo

 

A part of him hates thinking like that. Ranboo doesn’t deserve all of that resentment, they don’t. But still, still, it's just… 



He’s not good at making friends. He’s never been. 

 

It doesn’t come easily to him, but with Tubbo, it had. He’s finally found someone who likes him for him, sharp edges and all. Tubbo doesn’t expect him to be nicer, he doesn’t give him weird looks or make fun of him. 

 

He was kind to Tommy, from the very minute he’d met him, with a feral grin on his face and a plan to escape the angry shopkeeper on their heels. Tommy’s not used to kindness like that, as pathetic as it is, and he’s gotten used to having him there. He’s only been missing from his side for a week, and Tommy feels the space where he should be like a gaping wound. He’ll think of a joke or go make a sarcastic comment, but when he turns around there’s just. Air. 

 

Because Tubbo’s with Ranboo. Because Tommy’s translator is broken, and he’s the odd one out once again. 

 

The others had helped in their own ways, but still. He still feels the absence, like someone had made off with one of his fingers. It’s fine until he thinks about it too hard, until he starts to notice the space where he should be. On a night like tonight, it’s especially glaring. 

 

Sometimes it feels like Tubbo’s just forgotten him.

 

And he’s used to that, he won’t lie and say that he’s not. He gets attached to people quickly and strongly, and he’s used to them getting freaked out and shoving him away. He’d gotten better at avoiding that, putting up walls and snapping back, first. It took a really persistent kind of person to stick around through all of that. 

 

Clem and Clara had done it, though, tamed him like a stray cat they’d found eating out of their garbage. Some food, a few kind words and a hell of a lot of patience, and now they’re the only people on Earth worth going back to. Phil, Techno and Wilbur had taken a more unconventional approach, sure, but they’d won his trust, in the end. Tommy’s a bit of a bastard, that he knows for sure, but he’s loyal. 

 

Tubbo had done that, too. He’d saved Tommy’s skin, and wormed his way onto the list of people Tommy would kill and die for. 

 

Then he just…

 

Forgot that he existed. Went back to his other friend, the friend he had before.



Was Tommy just… A replacement for Ranboo?



It makes sense, sort of. Tommy’s fulfilled his purpose now that they’d been found, and all of a sudden it’s like he didn’t exist anymore. Tubbo’s ignoring him because that’s all he was, in the end.

 

Fine, whatever. That works out better anyways! Soon he’ll be on Earth with Clem and Clara again, and he won’t think about Tubbo once. 



Footsteps



He was already moving before he knew what he was doing, throwing off the blankets and padding quickly to the door. It was probably either Wilbur or Phil, and if they were up and awake it meant they could distract him. He doubted he was getting much sleep anyways, not after all of that. 

 

…Besides, if it was Wilbur, maybe he could play his guitar again. That sounded really nice right about now. 

 

Or hell, maybe it was Tubbo. Maybe he was coming to apologize, maybe he could sleep either. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He takes a deep, rattling breath, scrubs the tears from his face, when the fuck had he started crying, opens the door and- 



The door opens with a whoosh! And he’s face to face with Ranboo.



Immediately he’s bristling, all traces of tears gone. Of course it’s the person he doesn’t want to see the most. Of course it is. “What the fuck do you want?”

 

Ranboo just blinks at him, eyes wide as they stand frozen in the middle of the hall.

 

He curls his lip back into a snarl, a sharp, well dont just stand there like a fucking idiot, either spit it out or get lost! On the tip of his tongue, but his lip just starts quivering instead. His hands shake when he balls them into fists, and as if all of that wasn’t bad enough his eyes start watering again, and fuck shit goddamn it!

 

He clamps a hand over his mouth and goes to slap the other one over the door button-

 

But then there’s hands on his shoulders, slender, cold, unfamiliar, and a warbling voice in his ear. Two wide, worried eyes look at him as he’s ushered back into the room by the same hands, sat down on the bed with an insistent press on his shoulders. He tries to shrug them off, hissing and snarling and trying to snap something, but a choked sob comes out instead.

 

He’s just, he’s tired. He stops fighting pretty quickly, giving up and going limp as he glares them down. 

 

Ranboo looks so out of their depth that it’s kind of hilarious, actually, hovering around and anxiously wringing their hands. They warble and vwoop , making distressed noises as he presses his palms to his eyes and tries to calm the fuck down already. 

 

“I hate you.” He hisses, furiously wiping his eyes. “So much. Why can’t you just go away?”

 

Of course they had to show up when he’s like this, because of course! The universe has a sick sense of humor, after all, and loves making him suffer. 

 

They start tugging at his arm, instead.

 

He gives it to them, not really giving a fuck about whatever wierd shit they’re doing. He scrubs his face with his left hands as they mess with his right. It’s only when they start messing with the bandages does he look over, a sharp “what the fuck are you doing?!” On his tongue. He watches them run their fingers worriedly over the wrappings, pressing down every now and again and looking at him like, right there? Does that hurt? How about here? 

 

…It takes a minute for it to click.

 

“I’m not crying because of my arm, dumbass.” He half-says, half-sobs at them, batting their hands away. “Just fuck off already!” 

 

This only seems to make them more panicked , and they start making shrill, high pitched noises. He barely has time to blink before there are hands on his shoulders, pressing him down on the bed so another hand can press at his ribs, on the very much still broken ribs, thank you very much, all while they look at him with wide, horrified eyes. Each one of their thoughts plays out pretty clearly, is it your ribs? Oh god, it’s your ribs. How bad does it hurt? Do I need to call someone else? Are you dying?! 

 

“It’s not my ribs!” He snarls, swatting their hands a little more harshly. “I’m fine, I’m fine! Just get your weird ass hands off of me!”

 

Reluctantly, they pull back, still looking at him like they think he’s about to fall over and die any minute, tail all fluffed out like a startled cat.

 

He paws at his face again, sniffing and wiping away what’s left of the tears. He glares at Ranboo, though judging by their expression it’s not very convincing. Whatever. 

 

“…I had a nightmare.” He eventually says, lying through his teeth. That’s less embarrassing than saying, ‘oh yeah, I got sad because my friend has other friends, like a pathetic loser,’ anyways.

 

“That's it. I’m not dying, you can go away now.” 

 

He doesn’t know if they recognize the word nightmare , but he thinks they might, judging by the way their shoulders slump and their ears swivel back and forth guilty. They keep looking at his arm, the injured one, now held protectively against his chest, their hands twitching in its direction. They make a warbling noise and point. 

 

Fucking, whatever. Maybe if he proves it they’ll finally leave him the fuck alone. 

 

He picks up his injured arm and flops it down in their lap. Immediately they panic again, hands freezing in the air as if his arm would shatter if they breathe on it too harshly, and they weren’t just feeling him up a few minutes ago.

 

“Oh my god.” He hisses, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. “You’re worse than Phil. It's fine, it’s absolutely fine.” 



…They hesitate, this time. 



He doesn’t flinch when long, cold fingers start to prod at his hand, trailing up his wrist and over the bandages. He keeps his face perfectly calm, lifting one unimpressed eyebrow as Ranboo carefully prods at the injury, searching his face the whole time for the slightest hint of pain. They calm down a bit once they find none, though, shoulders starting to dip from where they’ve been scrunched up around their neck. 

 

Their hands feel strange. Long and slender with pads on the tips of each finger and over the palm. There are scars across the knuckles, familiar ones, the same kind Tommy has across his own. The claws are just little things now, but he knows they can extend out when they need to use them. They’re oh so careful to keep them away from the bandages. 

 

They don’t shake, not like his do. They’re the opposite of his, if anything, and the thought makes him bristle even more. Gentle and sure, touches feather-light. Of course even Ranboo would have better hands than him. 

 

They make another noise, less of a vocalization and more of an actual word, spoken softly as they rest their fingers over his pulse point. “⟟⋔ ⌇⍜⍀⍀⊬.”

 

He blinks, wrinkling his nose. “You know I have no idea what you’re saying, right?”



They vwoop again, pointing to themself, then to the hand. They keep their gaze down, ears folded back as they rub little circles right the center of his wrist. They repeat the word, low and soft.

 

It takes him a minute to understand what it means, I’m sorry. 

 

And he…

 

…He deflates, just a little. God, they look fucking pitiful. No wonder Tubbo likes them so much if they spend all day moping around, looking at him like that. 



“…I’m not fragile.” He mumbles, eventually, flexing and bending his fingers as if to prove it. “I hurt you a lot worse than you hurt me, anyways. I’m fine.”



They seem a little doubtful, but they don’t press.



He eyes their chest, instead. 

 

It’s all too easy to remember the fight, the weight of the sword in his hands, the roaring of the crowd in his ears. The hot spray of blood as he slashed their ribs, the crowd howling their approval as they crumbled to the floor in a heap. 

 

Slowly, oh, so slowly, he lifts his injured hand, placing it under their ribs with his fingers splayed. He knows where the slashes are, the ones he left. He can feel their heart jump under his fingers, but they don’t shove him away like he was expecting.

 

“And I’m sorry for those.” He mutters. “So, it looks like we’re even.”

 

They cover his hand with theirs, making another vwoop noise, and he knows he’s been forgiven. 



And he…

 

He knows he doesn’t deserve it, he knows, but Ranboo smiles at him just then, a small, unsure little thing, and he knows it doesn’t matter. 

 

It’s a start, anyways. If nothing else. 



A start. 





-





It’s early the next morning when the ship lands.

 

There’s just enough room on the other side of the clearing for it to fit, the branches of the nearby trees swaying as it kicks up wind and leaves in its wake. The hull glimmers in the early sun, and it’s not too long before the hatch on the side of the ship is lowered to the grass. 

 

The Elytran watches from his own ramp, one hand keeping a firm hand in his hat as he squints, a smile on his face. 

 

The Ovisan and her companion make quick work of unboarding the ship, and the Elytran meets her halfway, a warm smile on his lips. He greets her politely with a formal dip of both his head and his wings.

 

She brushes right past the formalities to grab him in a hug, a fierce grin on her face all the while. She’s a lot stronger than she looks, knocking the breath out of his chest as she nearly bowls him over, laughing all the while. Her voice is loud, and just as bold as the rest of her as she claps him on the back. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you! How’ve you been, old man?”

 

“Never been better!” He croaks, and she tosses her mane of thick, curly hair back when she laughs.

 

Behind her, the Creeparian follows her down the ramp a little more cautiously. 

 

He towers over both the Ovisan and the Elytran, green eyes glittering through the mask. He’s not dressed for the warm, humid climate of T’aria in midsummer, the golden chestplate and arm braces he wears gleaming. He rests one hand on the Ovisan’s shoulder, keeping two clasped in front of him, and the third resting on his hip by his dagger. A nervous habit.

 

The Elytran greets him in turn, dipping both his wings and his chin like he had with the Ovisan before, only a little more formally. The Hybrid returns the gesture, dipping his head politely.

 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, how have you been?” The Elytran asks. 

 

The Creeparian returns his bow, looking over the Elytran’s shoulder to admire the ship he’d stepped down from. His voice is warm behind the mask. “Better than I deserve. You’ve been taking good care of her, I see.”

 

The Elytran puffs out his chest a little, pride clear in his voice and the way he flexes his wings. “The Argo II is the best ship there is. I’ll never stop being impressed by your work, she’s been all around the galaxy, and only ever needed minor repairs.”

 

“Im glad to hear it.” Is his measured response, but he holds his chin a little higher at the praise. 

 

Then, the Elytran clasps his hands together, voice taking on a bit more of a serious note now that the pleasantries are over with. “It’s good to see you both again, though sorry about bothering you. I’m afraid it was an emergency.”

 

The Ovisan winces at that, rubbing the back of her neck sympathetically. There’s concern in her voice, in the way that she tilts her head. “It was pretty easy to make a new one, but I’m sorry that you even need it. A broken comn can be pretty nasty. There wasn’t any lasting damage, was there?”

 

“Not… exactly.” The Elytran hesitates, choosing his wording carefully. “It wasn’t broken, just… Lost.”

 

Both of the other aliens are little taken aback by that. 

 

She blinks at him. “You know they can be tracked, right? If you need help finding it-“

 

“It’s not that easy.” He interrupts, taking all three of them by surprise. Immediately he backtracks, wings fluttering nervously behind him. He doesn’t quite meet the Ovisan eyes. “Special circumstances, you know.”

 

She’s quick to catch on, eyes narrowing as her voice takes on a bit of a more serious note. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you asked to meet way out here instead of in the main city.”

 

The Elytran smiles, though it’s wearier than normal, more strained at the edges. He turns, gesturing with both a wing and a tilt of his head back towards his own ship, the opening into the cargo hold yawning wide. 

 

“Yes. Why don’t you come in? I’ll introduce you.”





-






Tommy isn’t sure what to think of the new aliens.



He’s still half-asleep, for the first part, having woken up just a few moments ago by voices chatting in the hall. He had followed them, equal parts curious and mortified. 

 

Last night is a blurry memory by now, but he remembers talking to Ranboo. He remembers gentle, trembling hands roaming over his injured arm, the guilt and pain on their face as they apologized. He remembers apologizing in turn, he remembers being forgiven. He remembers knowing that he didn’t deserve it. What he doesn’t remember is falling asleep, though he knows at some point he must have, and he definitely doesn’t remember the part where Ranboo stayed with him. 

 

Sure enough, though, he’d woken up hugging the other alien like a goddamn teddy bear as they tucked his head under their chin and purr up a storm.

 

And look, he and Ranboo were on… okay terms, now. But they definitely weren’t that close. They didn’t wake up when he scrambled out of bed, thank god. 

 

He changed quickly, pulling on some more of Wilbur’s clothes. The shirt is soft, a pale yellow color, and he just puts on the same trousers from yesterday, rolling up the ends and belting them around his hips so they would fit right. He didn’t  bother with his jacket or his bag, though he did slide his necklace on, tucking it under his shirt so it’s gone from sight. He left the bracelets, they aren’t hidden as easily without the jacket.

 

He glanced at Ranboo once, before he left.

 

They’d pulled up the blankets around themself, curling into a little ball on the far side of the bed. Only a hint of their two-toned hair was visible, and the purring had eased off now that he was free.



…And he thinks he understands, just a little. 



With that, he was out, leaving him where he is now, following the voices and padding down the hall to the kitchen. He’s hungry, still a little emotionally exhausted from last night, probably in need of a shower,  and not exactly in the mood for company. 

 

But he needed a new comn. He needed to be able to actually talk to the crew again.

 

But getting a new comn required social interaction. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad since they didn’t speak the same language? One can only hope.

 

He sticks his head around the corner carefully, time to see exactly what he’s dealing with.



The two newcomers stick out like a sore thumb from the rest of the crew.

 

Phil is washing down the dishes from breakfast, with Technoblade helping. He’s dressed for the day, but the loose, flowing clothes he always wears could probably pass as pajamas, too. Technoblade had braided his hair properly for the first time in a while, and it lays neatly in a complicated plaid down his back, complete with golden clips and other adornments. He’s got his usual fancy pirate theme going, though he’d been pretty generous with the amount of golden jewelry this morning. Wilbur is dressed simply in a yellow sweater and slim brown pants, sitting at the table and occasionally joining in the conversation. Finally Tubbo, sitting on the counter in his pajamas, getting in the way and chattering up a storm, per usual. 

 

In comparison, the other two aliens look a little ridiculous.

 

He notices the one sitting at the table, first, when she(?) throws her head back and lets out a laugh eerily similar to a goats bleat at something Tubbo says. Her clothing choice is definitely… Something. There’s a broad-rimmed hat perched neatly between her horns, and out from underneath it spills a lions-mane of curly white hair trying it’s absolute best to escape the low ponytail it had been tied into. A thick red jacket with black lapels and glittering golden buttons and embroidery sits proudly over her shoulders, layered over a flowing white shirt similar to Technoblade’s. Tan breeches tucked into tall black boots with golden buckles complete the look. 

 

There’s a thick leather belt resting across her hips, holding a few smaller bags, like a gardners belt, but a hell of a lot more expensive. He counts three knives strapped to it as well, and he thinks he can spot at least two more hidden in her jacket and in her boot. He’s almost positive he spots the handle of a laser gun too, but she shifts before he can be certain.

 

There’s something decidedly sheep-like about her face, horns, droopy ears and sideways pupils aside, and the sharp teeth she reveals when she laughs again takes him off guard. 

 

It takes him a second or two to notice the other one, standing over her shoulder with his(?) arms crossed. Compared to her flashy getup, he all but blends into the metal wall behind him. 

 

Tommy stiffens once he notices him, giving him a quick once over. Tall, because everyone in space is a fucking giant obviously, and broad-shouldered, but not as much as Technoblade. He’s covered head to toe in black and green fabric underneath pieces of golden armour, a chestplate, a few arm bands, thick, hefty looking boots. Not nearly as interesting of an outfit as the other one’s. 

 

It’s the gas mask that makes him freeze.

 

It covers his face from the eyebrows down, thick, dark goggles hiding his eyes. It looks like something right out of a goddamn horror movie, and he swears he can hear it rattling as he breathes in and out. The only part of him that’s not covered by fabric is the top of his head, which is covered instead by curly green hair that falls a little over his eyes. Or, well, the lenses. 

 

And then he stiffens, and when Tommy looks into those lenses, he sees green.

 

Two glowing green eyes look at him in shock, blinking as if they expect him to disappear when he opens his eyes again. Every part of him goes absolutely rigid.

 

Tommy freezes, too. Who the fuck are these weirdos? Why is he looking at him like that? His legs tense up, prepared to make a quick escape back to the medbay before the others notice his presence, but nope. The other one spots him next, the open, amused expression on her face changing from something welcoming to absolute shock the minute she takes in his face.

 

Immediately, everyone starts talking at once. 

 

The one in the captain's outfit whirls around to face Phil, words sharp and fast. Phil gets this look on his face, his expression going just a bit stormy as he responds to whatever she’s yelling at him with firm ca-ca-caw ’s of his own. Both Wilbur and Technoblade tense up, too, and then they start chattering over top of them. 

 

The other alien just looks at Tommy. He just, he just looks, and there’s something about his gaze that’s pinning Tommy in place. Making him freeze.

 

He looks familiar.

 

Why does he look familiar?

 

The other one must have touched a nerve or something, because soon enough Wilbur starts shrieking, and nope, that’s enough of that.

 

He turns around on his heel and goes right back to the medbay.




-




It takes twenty minutes for the voices to quiet down to a reasonable level.



Ranboo had slept through the whole thing, Ranboo was still asleep, still curled up in the same little ball under the blankets. He’d checked to see if they were still breathing twice, and they definitely were, even though it was sort of hard to tell. 

 

Then, a few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. 

 

“It's open!” He yells from his place on the bed, not too worried about waking Ranboo, and in pops Phil.

 

He looks a little tired, but there’s something victorious on his face as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He pauses for a moment to chirp apologetically at Ranboo, who just snores, before making his way over to where Tommy was sitting on the bed. 

 

He’s holding a tray of food, which has Tommy immediately perking up in interest, but he’s holding something else in his other hand. A small, rectangular box, a little bigger than an iPhone. A comn. 

 

His comn.

 

He snatches it the minute he’s able, running his fingers giddily over the surface. It’s a dusty red color, screen black and completely crack-free. There’s no chipped spots or tape holding it together, all the buttons in their proper place. It’s polished and shiny and perfect and his.

 

“How do I make it work?” The words come out of him in a rush as he turns it over and over. “To make it translate, I mean?”

 

Phil laughs. He doesn’t take it from him, though he does guide his fingers to the right buttons. He places Tommy’s finger over a button on the top and one on the side, and makes an encouraging little coo low in his chest. 

 

Tommy doesn’t even hesitate.

 

He presses and holds the buttons. It takes a moment, but soon enough the screen glows blue. A few symbols show up in that scribble language, Common, but the slowly spinning circle that appears in the middle is pretty universal.

 

He holds his breath.

 

The comn dings! And the interface opens.

 

“Registering user.” A chipper robotic voice says in his ear. “Speak your full name into the speaker to complete registration.”

 

He blinks. Did… did that happen last time? Phil makes another encouraging little coo, coo, and he lifts the speaker a little closer to his face, clearing his throat. 

 

“Um.” He stumbles. “Uh, Tommy. Innit. Tommy innit.”

 

“Registering user as Tommy Innit.” It makes another cheerful little ding! “Hello Tommy Innit! Your comn has been fully registered within the Galactic Councils Universal Translating System! Thank you for registering with us, and enjoy!”



Then, it’s quiet.

 

Well, there’s no time like the present, huh? He turns to Phil, clearing his throat once more. 

 

“Can… Can you understand me?” He asks, a little timidly. 

 

Phil just laughs, and the look in his eyes is warm. “Clear as day, mate.”

 

And he…

 

He doesn’t know quite what possesses him, next. One minute he’s sitting there, staring at Phil with his mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot as he processes what he says, and then next-

 

He throws his arms around Phil’s shoulders. It’s a shitty hug, really, not only is Tommy just shit at this whole human interaction thing, but he’s also too scrawny and lanky to get all of his limbs to corporate in the way that he wants them too. He tries to fix it by being a bit more forceful, but all he ends up doing is almost sending them both crashing to the floor, nearly elbowing him in the face in the process. 

 

Thanks.” He mutters into his shoulder. “For… for all of it, for everything.”

 

And Phil just nods, more startled than anything, and his wings flap a little to keep him from toppling. He rests his hands on the backs of Tommy’s shoulders for just a second before Tommy’s shoving them apart again and scrambling back, face burning as he realizes what the fuck he just did. 

 

“That never happened.” He blurts out, and Phil has nerve to just fucking laugh at him. 

 

“Sure, mate.” He says, with this look on his face. 

 

Tommy grits his teeth, and he just knows he’s blushing all the way down to his collarbones. He tries to hide it with a snarl, grabbing one of the pillows off of the bed and chucking it at him so he knows that he means business.

 

“I’m serious!” He hisses through gritted teeth. “Think of my reputation Phil, the others will never leave me alone! Don’t just laugh at me!”

 

“What reputation?” Ranboo asks from the other side of the bed, making them both jump.  

 

Fucking Ranboo. Of course they were listening the whole time. They only get a few seconds before Tommy’s shrieking and whacking them across the face with the pillow, injuries be dammed this is war, and they retaliate by getting him tangled in the blankets because they’re a filthy cheater.

 

It’s the start of fixing things, anyways. 




-




“I thought you’d be with Tommy?”

 

“He’s with the others.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

“I, um. I apologized last night.”

 

“I wondered why you never came back to the room. How’d it go?”

 

“Good, I think. I think it went good.”




-





The rest of the day is spent preparing to leave.

 

He and Tubbo haven’t talked about it, about any of it, though he knows that they probably should. Ranboo had retreated back to their room once everyone was distracted, though honestly, Tommy doesn’t really blame them. Sam and Puffy are alright, once he gets the chance to actually talk to them, but they’re still unfamiliar enough for him to keep them at a polite distance.

 

Puffy takes it in stride. He likes her, the easy confidence that she holds herself with, the warmth in her voice when she talks. She doesn’t push him to make conversation, though she does ask him questions every now and again to include him. 

 

It’s nice to just… Listen, for a while.



At the end of the day, there’s not very much that they had to do, really. 



“Have you got it?” Puffy calls back over her shoulder, balancing one crate on her hip. “I can give you a hand, it’s really no trouble.”

 

“Nah, I’m good.” He says back, adjusting his grip on his own crate.

 

He’s not… Exactly sure what’s inside the crates, he figures it’s probably something mundane like extra rations or water jugs, but who can tell. It could be drugs, for all he knows, or bombs. Judging by the careless way Puffy holds her own crate, he really hopes it’s not the latter.

 

A hot, humid day had melted into a mild, partly-cloudy afternoon. The breeze had picked up, the swirling mint-green clouds promising rain. Sam had mentioned something about a storm earlier, and it had everyone sobering up pretty quickly. They were all doing something, Technoblade doing slow circles of the ships exterior to check for any damage, Wilbur dragging up crates from the cargo hold to restock the kitchen. Phil had Tubbo crawling through the ship's walls to check on wiring, or something like that, and he’d made his escape before they tried to convince him to do something similar. There’s no way he'd be able to explain his… Dislike of small, dark spaces in a way that didn’t sound pathetic. 

 

So, when Wilbur mentioned something about helping Puffy and Sam carry supplies back to their own ship, he’d jumped at the opportunity. 

 

The crate he’s holding sloshes as she jogs a little to catch up with her, standing by the ramp to her ship with one hand on her hat to keep the wind from carrying it off. 

 

It’s a cool looking ship. Smaller than the Argo II, but just… Cool. Sleek and impressive, the hull covered in sparkling dark glass, the sharp wings jutting out from the sides at an angle. Even the writing on the side looks cool, the red letters spelling out something in Common. He recognizes a few of the letters, The SS … something? 

 

Puffy catches him staring, guesturing with a tilt of her head and smile. “Did you want to see the inside?”

 

He hesitates, but only for a moment. Curiosity eventually wins out. “…Sure.”

 

“C’mon then.”

 

She gives him a hand up on the ramp, and he accepts. The leather gloves she wears are soft, well-worn in his hands, and her grip is stronger than it looks, hefting him up over the small gap from the ground to the ramp with ease even with her other arm preoccupied. 

 

The opening into the rest of the ship yawns wide, a dark mouth ready to swallow him whole. He holds the box in his grip a little tighter and follows close at her heels as she steps inside. 

 

It’s more cramped than the Argo , but he’d sort of been expecting that. He sets down the crate next to hers, doing a slow circle to inspect the room he’d been led into. 

 

It’s a cargo hold, much like the one on the Argo , and just as cramped. Some of the shelves are labeled, though, words scribbled on the crates in rushed handwriting. Some of them were open, and he leans over to peer inside. No drugs or bombs, just spare parts, bits of wires, weird-looking tools. 

 

Puffy tugs at his arm. “I’ll give you the grand tour, this way!”

 

He lets her lead him along. 

 

It reminds him a bit of a trailer, or maybe just a really big RV. There aren’t any hallways, meaning you have to walk through just about every room to get to the next one. The room just following the cargo hold is a bedroom, of sorts, with one bed on each side. It’s pretty clear whose side belongs to who, with one side being littered with machine bits and scattered tools, and the other covered in mis-matched trinkets, complete with a fancy-looking dresser and mirror. 

 

His eye catches on the shelves. Are those… Holograms? Yeah, mini holograms, photos projected up by little metal squares. It’s all in one color and too far away for him to see who’s in the photo, but he thinks that the woman with her arms around Puffy’s shoulders looks familiar. 

 

She gestures to the left, the side with the mirror, “My stuffs over here, not much to look at at the moment. Sam’s workshop is just through here, past the kitchen. This way.” 

 

…He doesn’t blame her for ushering him through the bedroom quickly. He wouldn’t want some random kid sniffing around his things, either.

 

He almost bumps his head on the doorway to the kitchen, bending down to fit through the doorway. It’s… Well, it’s a kitchen. Cupboards and countertops, a table with two chairs. He assumes the metal box on one wall is the space-equivalent of a fridge, but why anyone would ever need a fridge with an interactive screen, is anyone’s guess. It's small, maybe, but it’s kept pretty clean, with a few things haphazardly scattered around, the occasional hologram-photo displaying something or another. He’s pretty sure the one sitting on the far counter is showing a shopping list. That, or it’s a hit-list.

 

The fuzzy white rug draped half-way out of the next doorway is a little strangely placed, though, but he doesn’t really know anything about space interior design. Maybe fur rugs are just really popular. Technoblade has plenty, after all. 

 

“Just your average kitchen.” She shrugs, “The SS. Fran is a pretty old ship, but she’s reliable. You should see what the kitchens look like on the newer ships, you wouldn’t- oh.”

 

She breaks off, following his gaze to the rug. Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Huh, that’s weird. She’s not normally awake during the day.”

 

Wait, what? 

 

He opens his mouth, the question on his lips, but Puffy’s moving before he can ask. She crouches down next to the rug, burying her hands in the fluff and giving it a few scratches. 

 

It takes him until the “rug” starts wagging its tail for him to realize that it’s not a fucking rug.

 

“You can pet her!” Puffy calls him over, still petting the whatever it is as it happily wags its tail. He can’t see it’s head from where she’s sitting to tell if it’s a dog or small polar bear. “She’s friendly!”

 

Slowly, he makes his way over, crouching beside her and gently setting his hand on the animal's back. He can feel it’s breathing, the slow rise and fall of its ribs. Huh, it’s fur is actually pretty soft and oh my god where the fuck is it’s head.

 

Where it’s head should be is just… Fluff. A very, very long stretch of fluff. It’s neck stretches out through the entrance of the kitchen and disappears around the corner like a long, white snake. Very faintly from the next room over, he can hear happy panting as Puffy continues to pet, scratching at the animal's chest. 

 

“Her head’s probably with Sam in the workshop.” She continues, as if this is completely normal. “I don’t like to think that she plays favorites, but he does have four arms, after all.”

 

“Right.” He agrees weakly. “Four arms. Better for… Petting. Yeah.”

 

“Well, that’s what I think, anyways.” A pause. “You good? You’re looking a little pale.”

 

“Yep! Totally, totally fine. Yep.”

 

He fucking hates space.



-



She is in the workshop, when they get there. Or, the rest of her is.

 

The workshop, as Puffy calls it, is a little bit of a mess. Metal shelves line every wall, the two glass tables in the middle littered with more of those little hologram triangles, projecting what looks like… Maps? No, blueprints. That’s more like it. Every available surface is covered in something, from open tool boxes to scrap metal and stray wires, little boxes of screws and other metal fastenings. 

 

The dog… Thing, has her chin resting on the table, perking up her ears in their direction. She looks just like every big, white dog he’s every seen, with pointed ears, a big black nose and big doe eyes. She pants happily, giving them a little boof! 

 

Sam is bent over something at one of the tables, but he turns off whatever hologram he’s looking at when he notices they’re in the room with him. 

 

“Hey Sam.” Puffy greets, sliding right up next to him to rub the dog in between her ears. “And hello Fran. I’ve been giving Tommy a tour of the ship.”

 

And then those green eyes are on him, glowing behind the googles. “Oh? What did you think?” 

 

A shiver runs up his spine, and he tears his gaze away when his heartbeat picks up. The voice is wrong, but those eyes…

 

They weren’t his. He didn’t sound like that, he didn’t wear a gasmask and he didn’t have four arms. He definitely wouldn’t be caught dead petting a fluffy white dog, using two of his hands to scratch her under the chin. Jesus. How fucking pathetic is that? Being scared of someone because they have green eyes. 

 

He takes a deep breath, shoving it down. He needs to get a fucking grip

 

“…It’s really cool.” He says, eventually. He hopes they can’t tell how strained his smile had become. 

 

Sam hums, turning to Puffy and speaking right over his head. “We should be leaving soon, before the storm hits.”

 

She waves her hands dismissively, “I know, I know. We’ve got plenty of time-“

 

Cue thunder, loud enough to make the metal floor underneath their feet tremble, and for Fran ears to pin back at the loud sound. 

 

“-Okay, maybe we’ll have to wrap up this tour a bit early.” She laughs awkwardly, already patting at his shoulder and ushering him out of the room, the slightest hint of urgency in her bubbly voice. “Storms on T’aria can be brutal for a ship this size. You guys should be alright, but the wind’ll knock us right into a tree. Time for you to head back to the good ol’ Argo.”

 

He couldn't agree more. Something about the feeling of those bright green eyes on him was making his skin prickle. 

 

Fran boofs! Again, unwinding her neck from where it had been resting on the table so it joins them, pressing her nose into his hand. It’s… it’s pretty disturbing to watch, actually, as her long neck starts to retract back, hovering a few feet off of the floor to where it would be naturally, if the rest of her wasn’t still in the other room.

 

Puffy grins, though, clasping her hands together like it’s something heartwarming instead. Once again he’s pinned in place when those green eyes turn their attention back to him. 

 

“…She likes you.” Is all he says, before turning back to his work. 

 

It’s a pretty clear dismissal, and he can’t help but feel relieved when he’s led back out the way that they came, Fran following with them. Her breath is hot on his hand, and he rests his trembling palm right between her ears. 

 

“Sorry about him,” Puffy mutters as they walk. “I swear he’s normally a lot more friendly, I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.”

 

“It’s… Fine?” It comes off more as a statement than a question. 

 

Puffy brushes it off, though, clasping a hand comfortingly on his shoulders. It would probably work a lot better if he wasn’t a foot and a half taller. “ Anyways , you guys are heading to Enderion, right?”

 

“We’re… going to meet with the council?” He thinks? 

 

She looks at him quizzically for a moment. “Yeah… on Enderion.”

 

…To be fair, he doesn’t know the order of the planets in his own solar system. He’s never been the best at geography. Or listening while Phil explains things. 

 

“Or, in its atmosphere anyways,” she continues, awkward pause forgotten. “ I don’t think they ever land that big council ship, now that I think about it.”

 

She pulls away a little once they reach the kitchen, giving Fran plenty of pets as her neck slides back into the rest of her body. He’s not sure how that works, or how it’s even physically possible, but he doesn’t think he wants to know, anyways. One minute there’s a fluffy beast with a boa constrictor for a neck, the next, a normal, fluffy white dog. What are they called? Samoyeds? Something pretentious like that.

 

He’s pretty sure they don’t have long, bushy tails that drag on the floor, though, or slitted pupils. Both of those can be easily overlooked, however, when she makes another happy little boof! And starts happily padding by his side once again, tongue lolling around sharp, sharp teeth. 

 

Puffy gives him a warm look, patting his arm once again as she leads him towards the door. “One of my sons is on the council, Foolish. He’s a good man. They’ll have you back on Earth in no time at all with the fancy ships they have over there.”

 

All he can say to that is, “Great.”

 

“We'll be heading in that direction soon, too.” She continues on, “Hopefully I’ll see you guys again before they send you home.”

 

“Yeah…” He trails off, swallowing hard to try and fix his suddenly dry throat. “That’d be cool.”

 

She laughs, tossing her head back and sending her thick hair rolling off of her shoulders in waves as she ushers him down the ramp. He likes her laugh, he decides, a loud, thundering sort of noise. She laughs with her whole chest. 

 

The afternoon sun peaks out from behind the clouds, just then, just for a moment. It catches in her hair, on her skin, gilding the edge of her hat in gold and making her warm brown eyes seem to glow. 

 

She clasps his shoulder one last time, “Hang in there, kid. You’re more than halfway across the galaxy already.”




-




“Tubbo?”

 

The Bezzarian jumps, hitting his head on the roof of the air vent he’d climbed into. He grins sheepishly down at the Hybrid, not quite meeting their eyes. They’re tall enough to look at him without climbing on top of the counters. “Uh, hey?”

 

They tilt their head at him. “What are you doing?”

 

“Just, um.” They sputter. “Maintenance work. For Phil.”

 

“…In the kitchen air vent?”

 

He deflates, just a little, sputtering again for a moment as he tries to think of another lie before giving up. He pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “…something like that.”

 

The Hubrid makes a worried warble in the back of their throat.

 

They hoist themselves up on the counter, with only a little struggling, resting their back on the wall next to the air vent. They pull their knees up too, resting their tail over their ankles. 

 

“You don’t need to stay with me.” The Bezzarain mutters. 

 

“Moping alone is bad for you.” They quote back, and the Bezzarian reaches out of the vent to swat at them. 

 

It’s quiet, for a beat, and then…

 

“Why are you avoiding Tommy?”



“What? I’m not- I wasn’t-“ The choke, hands flapping around as they try to think of a good response. Eventually though, they just deflate again, voice miserable. “…Is it that obvious?”

 

“A little.”

 

He makes another miserable little groan, and the Hybrids ears flick worriedly in his direction. It probably wouldn’t be obvious to any one else, not really, but the Hybrid knows him well enough to pick up on these things.

 

Again, it’s quiet. 



“I just…” He whispers, voice shaking a little. “He scared me, in Netheria. I didn’t realize that… I didn’t want…”

 

They trail off, giving their head a firm shake and pressing their palms into their eyes. Their voice is steady, harsher when they say their next words. 

 

“He’s leaving, soon.”

 

The Hybrid blinks. “You knew that, though.”

 

“I know!” He nearly yells, making the Hybrid jump. He pulls back a little, then, the unsure little tremble back in his voice . I just… I don’t… I thought if I avoided him it would be easier.”

 

“…I think you just made it worse.”



“Shut up.” The Bezzarian groans, but there’s no real heat behind it. The Hybrid knows that he doesn’t mean it, not really. 

 

“Did you tell him about…” They trail off, making a little motion over their shoulder. The Bezzarain shakes their head, adding another miserable little groan for emphasis. 

 

“This is stupid.” They eventually mutter. “ I should just go talk to him.”

 

“You should.” The Hybrid agrees.

 

Neither of them move.



The Hybrid sighs, realizing what they have to do.

 

Slowly, they start fidgeting with the screen on the air vent. It’s already been unscrewed, so it’s pretty easy to take it off. The Bezzarain looks up, antenna drooping and eyes misty, his bottom lip wobbling just a little.

 

The Hybrid offers him a hand and a soft little smile. 

“A few months is a long time to avoid someone for, especially on a spaceship. Not a great plan if you ask me.” 

 

“..I know.” They agree, defeated, taking their hand and practically falling on top of them. 

 

They’re used to antics like this, though, especially when the Bezzarain is upset. They hoist him up in a pseudo piggyback ride almost entirely on instinct, and he folds his arms across their chest. 

 

“…I’m sick of people leaving , ‘bo.” He mutters into their shoulder.

 

And what are they supposed to say to that? 






-



It’s dusk when they send them off. 

 

The storm is only moments away, the sky darkening quickly as the clouds swirl in overhead. It’s only when the patches of lavender sky start to dwindle, and the wind kicks up enough to send his hair whipping around his face, that they finally decide it’s now or never. 

 

They’ve said their goodbyes already. Puffy had spun Tubbo around in a hug, shaken hands with Technoblade and Wilbur. She’d hugged Phil, a little less aggressively than she’d hugged Tubbo, before finally turning to him. She opened her arms for a hug, and despite, well, everything, he’d found himself giving her one. It wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he had thought it would be.

 

Even Sam had said goodbye, though he’d done it with polite head nods instead of any physical contact, and they’d all given Fran a few last pets before they loaded up their ship. 

 

The whole crew is gathered on the ramp outside to see them off, even Ranboo, though they stand skittishly in the back next to Tubbo, ready to dart away back into the ship at a moment's notice. 

 

He pauses when he steps out into the ramp, hesitating. He almost goes over to Tubbo, almost, but when he catches a glimpse of Puffy’s ivory hair, he eventually decides to let them be. He steps up with the others, instead, slotting neatly between Technoblade and Wilbur. The wind is cool and heavy on his face, the smell of rain and the crackle of electricity thick. He breathes it in, the familiar smell of a storm about to break, and then back out again. He’d always loved storms.

 

Sam is nowhere to be seen, piloting the ship, no doubt, but Puffy and Fran are standing in the cargo hold of their own ship. 

 

She hangs halfway out of the opening, even as the ship rumbles around her, the ramp retracting. Even from here he can hear her laughter, as loud as the thunder that crackles overhead. She waves, her hair being tossed and whipped around by the wind, eyes bright and sharp teeth bared. The others wave back, and he finds himself joining in. Then, the latch is closed, and she and Fran are gone.

 

The ship rumbles, the sound loud enough to make them jump. Wilbur sets his hand on his shoulder when the ramp underneath them gives a lurch, and he can’t find it in him to shove him off just yet.

 

The noise only grows from there, a steady roar that just gets louder, and louder, and louder. Right when he’s about to clasp his hands over his ears or duck back into the ship, the ships exhaust pipes light up a blinding shade of orange, the wind kicking up enough to almost send him toppling backwards as the ship lifts off, and then…

 

It takes off in a flash, and they’re gone.

 

He shakes his head once, twice, to clear the tinnitus from his ears. Technoblade chats idly with Phil as they head back into the cargo hold, Tubbo having already gone ahead with Ranboo. Wilbur slips his hand from his shoulders to follow, but he just…

 

He pauses, then, looking back over his shoulder.

 

The forest is painted with shades of lavender and blue, the mint-colored clouds lurking on the edges. They seem to have changed their minds about storming, though the smell of rain still lingered in the air. It’s almost like they were waiting. With a little imagination, it feels like they’re waiting just for him. One last moment of stillness before he goes back inside, his last few seconds on T’aria. 

 

The leaves rustle overhead, the air split with the low sounds of wildlife, nocturnal animals rustling in the undergrowth, strange birds spreading their wings and cooing to their fledglings. He can see the glinting of eyes in the dark, animals watching him. 

 

It’s only when his eyes adjust to the darkening forest that he notices the glow.



“Pretty cool, huh?”



He barely even notices Tubbo’s presence at his side, too busy staring out into the woods. Mushrooms of all colors have started to glow and glisten in the dark, shimmering in the undergrowth and on the sides of the trees. They don’t glow very brightly, but if you’re looking for them like he is, you can see them everywhere. 

 

“They’re beautiful.” He breathes out. “How come no one ever mentioned glowing mushrooms?”

 

Tubbo brushes against his shoulder, “We only started being able to talk to you again this morning.”

 

Fair enough, but still. Glowing mushrooms seems like something that’s kind of important to mention. 

 

He thinks it’s an illusion, at first. Just a branch shifting over a mushroom or something, making it look like it was moving towards them. It’s only when it flutters closer does it see it for what it actually is, drifting delicately on the breeze and weaving between branches and mushrooms alike. 

 

“I’ve heard of those,” Tubbo breathes out, just as starstruck. “but I’ve never… Ive never seen one before.”

 

It’s a moth.

 

A glowing moth, a bright shade of orange that glistens and shifts as it flutters. It seems attracted to the mushrooms, or the glow of them, more likely, almost seeming to dance between them. It’s graceful, it’s delicate, it’s absolutely beautiful. 

 

“Do you think we could catch it?”

 

“Oh you’re on.”



And it’s not perfect. He’ll probably be back to worrying that his best friend has forgotten him again tomorrow, and they still need to talk about all of that anyways. But, at least for now, that’s future Tommy’s problem.

 

For now, he can run around the clearing like an idiot with his best friend, following hot on the glowing moth’s tail as they trip each other and try to catch it. For now, he can double over with laughter as Tubbo trips and falls face-first in a middle puddle, and for now, he can scream at the top of his lungs as his friend grabs a whole handful and flings it at him. 

 

So, yeah. Everything turns out more or less okay, in the end. 




(And, later tonight, no one has to know if he slips back into Tubbo and Ranboo’s room in the middle of the night to check on his vent under the bed. 

 

He runs his hands over his possessions, a small stash of items that’s slowly been growing over the last few weeks. All of the emergency stuff is set to the side, his most prized objects sitting proudly in the center. A spare guitar string from Wilbur’s room sits coiled neatly with one of Technoblade’s bracelets, a broken one he wouldn’t miss. A shining feather he had found stuck in the shower drain is protected behind Henry the Second’s clumsy hooves. 

 

He delicately adds a golden button to his collection. It had come from Puffy’s coat, he had found it in the clearing right after they’d left. 

 

What had she said? More than halfway across the galaxy already?

 

“More than halfway.” He mutters under his breath, “Just a little while longer ‘till I’m back home.”

 

He imagines Clem and Clara, the gas station and the old school. Hot chocolate and the smell of summer storms in the dusty air. 

 

Weirdly enough, it’s not as reassuring as it used to be.)

 

((And, if Phil finds all three of them cuddled in a pile on the bed in the morning, no one else has to know about that, either.))







-











-

 

By the next morning, the Creeparian and the Ovisan are well on their way. 

 

The ship's internal clock deems it well past bedtime, but one of the ship's inhabitants is still awake. He’s quiet as he makes his way down to his work room, careful to not disturb the Ovisan sleeping peacefully in her own cot.

 

The animal dozing by her hooves, however, is not so easy to trick. She opens an eye, tracking him as he walks quickly and quietly to his work room. 

 

Fran is a good dog.

 

Well, not exactly. She’s definitely a good pet , though she’s no dog in any sense of the word. She’s an !¡ᔑ∷ℸ ̣ ╎ᓵᒷ! , a particep . an extremely rare beast the Creeparian saved from poachers. She looks enough like an Earth dog for the name to be applicable, though she does come with her own special quirks. Perhaps “good Wolf” would be a bit more accurate, or maybe “good dog slash polar bear slash boa constrictor.” 

 

She’s definitely a good pet, though. That she knows for sure. A very good girl, as she’s told all the time. 

 

Fran likes space. She likes the aliens she’s with, with their soft words and gentle hands. She likes being pet behind the ears and the belly rubs she gets from time to time. She likes being helpful most of all, and these aliens definitely needed her help. 

 

Especially right now.

 

She yawns, exposing all three rows of teeth, even the two that are retractable and the one poisoned set in the very back. She gets to her paws gingerly, careful not to wake the Ovisan, and pads after him. 



His workspace is cramped, though that is to be expected on a small ship like this one. Blueprints and strange pens, small rectangular devices projecting flickering holograms of ship parts and diagrams cover every available surface. Still, he navigates the mess easily, Fran right on his tail. 

 

There is something on his mind, that she can tell. 

 

His shoulders are tense, one set of hands curling and uncurling into fists, one hand running anxiously through his hair, the other sifting through papers and holograms. He smells like gunpowder, which only happens when he’s upset. 

 

He’s looking for something.

 

He’a smoking faintly, now. Steam starts to trickle out of the holes in his mask, the scent of fear and gunpowder only getting stronger. He grips at his hair and pulls.

 

Now that won’t do, that won’t do at all. 

 

She whines, shrill and loud, and presses her big wet nose against his leg, looking up at him with doleful, black eyes. She’s good at helping him when he gets like this, distracting him. The smoke clears, and he takes one deep breath, then another. He rests a gloved hand between her ears for a moment, burying his fingers in her fur, before he continues.

 

“I knew he looked familiar.” The Creeparian says to her, still looking for something amongst the papers. “I didn’t think- I didn’t want-“

 

He cuts himself off. She whines again, walking right as his hip and pressing herself against him when he pauses. She doesn’t like to extend her neck too often, but if this keeps up, she might have to go and wake the Ovisan. There’s only so much she can do without thumbs, after all. 

 

He leaves the table, checking the shelves next, instead. He tosses boxes and tools aside carelessly, green eyes venomous as he keeps up his search. 

 

“He promised I was making the galaxy safer.” He continues, after a beat. Fran whines again, and he takes another pause to pet her with his bottom set of arms, the other two still busy searching. “That I would be making a difference. That the experiments were necessary.”

 

He pauses, then.

 

He rests a hand on the table, lowering his head. That’s not good, that’s not good at all. She whines again, louder than before, extending her neck out so she can nose at his shoulder, ears folding back at his distress. 

 

She doesn’t know what he’s saying, but his distress only upsets her more. 

 

“I was a fool.” He mutters, voice a little choked. “Helping him was a mistake, giving him the Pandora was a mistake. I helped him torture a child-“

 

His voice chokes a little more, the regret of it all weighing heavily on his shoulders. He takes another deep breath, forcing his blood to settle and his head to clear. She noses at his face, licking the exposed skin along the bottom of his jaw. He pulls back, using all four hands to pet her, pressing their foreheads together for a moment. 

 

“No more.” He promises, voice reverent and certain. “I will find a way to fix this.”

 

His voice is certain, but the look in his eyes is anything but.

 

He stands again, and she pulls away as he starts clearing another shelf. It takes a few moments, but finally, finally, he seems to find what he’s looking for. He pulls the little metal triangle out delicately, placing it on the workbench.

 

With the press of a button, it projects a hologram.

 

It’s blueprints. She knows this one. 

 

It’s A ship unlike any other in both shape and creation. Every inch black and sparkling, heavily protected with the most advanced security measures there are and engineered with the most advanced cloaking technology in the galaxy. It’s hull is made of pure Netherite, an extremely rare and indestructible metal, each wing heavily armoured as well to protect from any attacks. Enough room for a fully-functional lab and holding cells, plenty of space for all of the room it would need to hoist a full-time crew of both maintenance workers and scientists alike, as well as the captain and his personal team. 

 

To top it all off, it’s one of three ships ever created with the ability to create worm-holes, to travel distances that would take thousands of years to transverse normally in a matter of seconds. 

 

The only ship with the ability to become completely and utterly invisible to even the most advanced of sautalighys, a ship with the ability to disappear into thin air. 

 

Fran has been alive many, many years. She has seen many different things, been on many different ships with many different aliens. In all of her long years, she has never seen or heard of a ship quite like this one. Untrackable, untraceable, one of a kind. 

 

The Creeparian looks at his creation, narrowing his eyes and setting his jaw. One finger traces the name written in common on the top of the blueprint, Pandora. 

 

This is not the hologram he wanted, though, and he all but tosses it aside to grab the one just behind.

 

She knows this one too. She was there when it was taken, after all.

 

It’s a picture. It had been taken on a warm, summer day on T’aria when they had been visiting the main city. It hadn’t been taken too long ago, she doesn’t think, but it’s far enough in the past that her owner looks different. Happier, face and pose open and carefree, two of his arms wrapped around another person.

 

She hasn’t seen them in a long time, but her tail starts to wag when she recognizes the mask over his face. He had made the Creeparian very happy. He had nice, warm hands, too. Very good for petting. 

 

“He was right,” He muses to her, rubbing a thumb absentmindedly over the person's face. “I think I owe him a visit.”














Notes:

Another week, another long chapter. Google docs decided to throw a hissy fit and delete 4k words from this chapter *right* as I finished, so if it seems rushed at points, know that it was written out of spite. I promised you guys a Thursday update, didn't I? I feel like it could use a bit more padding, but oh well. It's long enough as it is!

I'm beyond thrilled for the next set of chapters, (though honestly, i could write three more about T'aria alone). They're all one-shot esc, but I think they're pretty great. The end is in sight, so enjoy the fluff (and hints of plot) while they last. I have big plans for the final three chapters, big plans indeed.

feel free to send me anything via my Tumblr, asks are always open. The next update might be a little delayed, but it'll be out sometime within the next two weeks, I'm sure. Hopefully this long chapter, (13k words! holy shit!) should hold you off until then.

I'll see you when I see you. Stay safe until then, yeah?

 

 

-Matches

Chapter 11: A Dustland Fairytale

Summary:

me, holding a gun to this chapter's head: You're going to be a oneshot, you hear me? A oneshot.
This chapter, spitting blood at my feet: You think I'm gonna make it that easy? Try to split me in half. I dare you.

Notes:

“Is there still magic
in the midnight sun?

Or did you leave it back
in sixty-one?

In the cadence of a
young man's eyes,

Out where the dreams all hide.”
-A Dustland Fairytale, the killers
 

 

 

 

Greetings and salutations!

An extra long chapter to make up for the extra long wait. It's mostly fluff and hijinks, with a good dose plot thrown in there for a little extra spice. I hope you enjoy!

As always, a big thank you to my wonderful beta Mars, and, as always, you can find the playlist for this fic Here! The reccommened songs for this chapter are Dustland Fairytale (duh), Smile Like You Mean It, and Shallow City. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

TWs
Nothing heavy! All of the usual things, mentions of drugging, and a bit of fear towards the end. double-check the tags if you're nervous!

 

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tommy runs. 

 

His boots slap against the metal flooring of the ship, screeching as he turns sharply down another hallway and veers into the kitchen. There’s another angry shout from behind him as his pursuer misses the turn and slams face-first into the wall, shrieking furiously all the while. 

 

A raucous laugh bursts out of his chest at the sound, gotcha, bitch! 

 

He pushes himself faster, arms pumping at his sides, breath coming in sort, shallow gasps as he goes faster, faster, faster!

 

The sound of footsteps starts up again, his pursuer’s boots skidding as he turns the corner, still right on his heels. He grins, sharp and feral, turning on his heel down a different hallway and veering back around towards the kitchen. Two can play that game, you sonofabitch! All he has to do is trip them up and he’s home-free. 

 

His pursuer is gaining on him, angry footsteps not far behind. If he’s gonna make this work, he needs to find him fast. 

 

He searches desperately for his target, to no avail. He curses again, practically vaulting over the kitchen table in the process. Oh come on, where is he? Phil kicked him out of the training deck ages ago, and he wasn’t on the bridge or in the kitchen, so where the fuck-

 

There!

 

His savior comes in the form of a just over seven foot tall Piglin hybrid, making his way from his kitchen back to his room, a half-eaten space fruit in one hand and his favorite Greek mythology textbook in the other. He’s reading as he’s walking, because he’s a fucking loser, and doesn’t look up as Tommy skids around the corner, careening towards him. 

 

Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He lunges.

 

Technoblade doesn’t even stumble when Tommy springs face-first into his chest. He barely even looks up, gazing at him from over the pages of the book and flicking an ear in interest. “Tommy? What-“

 

“Shhh! ” He hisses. The footsteps are getting even louder, he needs to move fast.

 

He skirts around Techno, pressing himself between the Piglin in the wall, using him as a pig-turned barricade. “Shut up and hide me!”

 

He huffs, flicking his tail at Tommy in annoyance, but doesn’t move. He’s broad enough in the shoulders to make a good shield, between that and the cape he’d fastened across his shoulders for today. If he lines up his feet just right and tries not to breathe too hard, he’s golden. As long as his pursuer doesn’t look too close, he’s completely hidden from the front. That is, of course, if Techno doesn’t fucking sell him out-

 

“Where the fuck is he?!”

 

Ah. Times up.

 

Tubbo crashes into the scene with all the grace of a drunk pigeon. Tommy can’t see his face from where he’s hidden, but it’s easy enough to imagine. Panting like he’d run a marathon, face all scrunched up, cheeks flushed with anger, both antenna fluffed out and standing on end. God, the look on his face must be priceless.

 

“Where’s who?” Technoblade asks innocently, and Tommy has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from cheering. Fuck yeah!

 

He doesn’t have to see his face to hear the way he bristles. “Tommy! He got into my secret snack stash! He ate everything!” 

 

Technoblade whistles lowly. “Even the honey-cubes?”

 

Tubbo grinds his teeth, the sound nearly audible. “Yes! I’ve been saving those for weeks! And he ate every single one! Have you seen him?!”

 

Tommy holds his breath. Technoblade pauses, taking a big bite out of the fruit in his hand and taking his time chewing it, probably just to make him sweat, the bastard . Finally, he just shrugs. “Last time I saw him, he was trying to fit in the kitchen air vent.”

 

“I’m gonna break his fucking spine-“

 

He’s off before he even finishes swearing. Tubbo knows those vents better than he does, and Tommy just knows he won’t stop until he’s checked every single possible hiding spot. Still, he waits for him to turn the corner before he ducks out from behind his bodyguard, grinning all the while. 

 

Technoblade gives him his famous impassive look, but Tommy catches the way his lips are twitching into a smile around his tusks, and lets himself relax. 

 

“A word of advice.” He grunts, taking another bite of the fruit. “Don’t get between Tubbo and sugar.” 

 

“Yes sir, Techno sir.” He gives him a cocky two fingered salute and a lopsided grin, popping another honey-cube into his mouth and already backpedaling. The Piglin just shakes his head, going back to the fruit in his hand as he turns another page in the textbook. 

 

Tommy doesn’t even hesitate before spinning on his heel and sprinting back towards the bridge once he knows the coast is clear, the opposite direction from the kitchen. By the time Tubbo realizes he’s been duped, he’ll be tucked away underneath Phil’s wings, and thereby untouchable. Ha, what a loser

 

It’s been about a week, since T’aria. 

 

He’s off of bedrest know, thank fucking god, and officially out of the medbay. Technoblade and Phil had cleared out the spare storage room for Ranboo, meaning Tommy finally got his room back for good. Fucking finally, having his own space back again was the best feeling in the fucking world. How had he ever lived before without a room of his own? Even if he has to share it with Tubbo, it still feels like a part of the ship that’s distinctly his. 

 

…Though, to be fair, Ranboo still spent more time in Tommy and Tubbo’s room than they did in their room, but, if he’s being completely honest, they weren’t that bad. Most of the time. Not that he’d ever admit it to their face.

 

He’d even gotten the bandages off a few days ago, leaving him with nothing more than three crooked, puckered scars across his forearm. It looked a bit like he’d lost a fight with a tiger, but honestly? He wasn’t complaining. It was far from the ugliest scar he was boasting, the star-burst one on his temple and the ugly ones over his knuckles both beating it by a long-shot. If anything, it just made him look cooler. A real badass. 

 

The ribs had healed for the most part, thanks to potions and plenty of sleep. He was even back to training with Technoblade in the afternoons! He had to be a bit more careful, sure, but still. 

 

He could spend mornings laughing and goofing off with the others, now. Lunch time spent chatting with Phil on the bridge, or listening to Wilbur work on his newest song. He could spend afternoons beating the shit out of training dummies with Technoblade again, and spend the night staying up late and messing around with Tubbo and Ranboo, figuring out all of the cool things his comn does and teaching them more English phrases. He’s even started to pick up on a little bit of common, which meant he could actually use his comn to text the others! Like an actual phone! 

 

He had his room back, he had his comn back, (With buttons labeled in English! Fuck yeah!), and everything was finally, finally , back to some semblance of normal. 

 

Which, of course, means that everything’s about to go to shit once again. 





He’s just reached the bridge when it happens.

 

He’s panting, grinning like a fucking madman and still licking the leftover sugar off of his lips. Did he feel bad for stealing Tubbo’s… What are they called again? Honey-cubes? When he’s been saving them ever since they’d left Bezzar? Maybe a little. He just could help it! When was the last time he’d had sugar? It was just too tempting. In his defense, Ranboo had definitely eaten more than he had. They so owed him a favor for taking the fall for this one.

 

He’s just about to skid around the corner when the ship gives one big awful lurch.

 

A yelp slips from his lips as the ship shakes and trembles underneath him, and he almost falls over before he can catch himself on a wall. All at once, the lights go dim, alarms start blaring, and holy fuck what the absolute hell?! 

 

“Tommy!”

 

And suddenly there’s Wilbur.

 

There’s hands on his shoulders, fluttering nervously over his arms as he’s helped back to his feet. Tommy blinks at him, trying to get his footing and adjust to the now dim lights. The ship rocks and rolls underneath them both, nearly sending them toppling over once again.

 

“Are you okay?!” Wilbur asks, eyes flashing green like they do when he’s upset, glinting in the flashing alarm lights like a cat’s when you take a picture with the flash on. 

 

He stumbles again as the ship gives another lurch, gritting his teeth. “What the hell is that? What the fucks going on?!”

 

Wilbur looks just as clueless. “I have no-“

 

“Aw, shit!”

 

That’s Phil! 

 

They share one last worried look before stumbling their way onto the bridge.





-



“An asteroid belt.”

 

“What.” Technoblade deadpans, crossing his arms from his seat in the cockpit. 

 

Tommy’s pretty inclined to agree, actually. 

 

Everyone’s gathered on the bridge, him and Tubbo making a temporary truce until the ship stops shaking like it’s about to fall apart any minute from underneath them. It’s darker than it should be with the main power out, the emergency lights a little dull from lack of use. At Least the godforsaken alarms have been turned off. 

 

Phil is the only one standing, everyone else taking a seat either on the floor or in the chairs along the walls. Tommy’s sitting criss-cross at Wilbur’s feet, Tubbo on one side and Ranboo on the other. Technoblade had flopped down in his chair at the front of the ship the minute he’d gotten the chance, glaring at everyone who so much as glanced at him, daring them all to mention the way he’d stumbled and tripped the whole way over like a baby deer walking on ice. Hooves aren’t too great for balancing when the ship’s doing its best to knock everyone flat on their ass, apparently. 

 

“That doesn’t make any sense ,” Wilbur hisses from behind him. “We’re not close enough to any planet for there to be an asteroid belt here.”

 

“Then how do you explain that?” Tommy snaps back, gesturing to the bridge windows. “Looks like an asteroid belt to me!”

 

To be fair, Tommy didn’t know too much about space. (Or the technical side of it, anyways, he likes to think he’s learned a fair bit about the social and cultural aspects of space after living with aliens for months.) He’d barely paid attention in his high school physics class, and he doubted they even covered asteroid belts and how they formed. However, he does have two perfectly good working eyes and a brain capable of putting two and two together.

 

So, when he looks over Technoblade’s head out the front windows of the bridge and can see a field of giant lumps of grey rock that seems to stretch on for miles, he has a pretty good idea of what it means. One of the rocks floats just a little too close to the window for comfort, and he shivers. It’s all too easy to imagine it shattering the glass. 

 

“Asteroid belts can form hundreds of miles out from a planet's surface.” Technoblade folds his arms, not looking too happy about the information, “We probably got a little too close to Nevodis.”

 

“Bull shit . The ship's navigation system wouldn’t take us straight through an asteroid belt.” Wilbur argues right back. “It definitely wouldn’t let us ram into one!”

 

A few weeks ago, he probably would’ve winced at the harshness of Wilbur’s tone. Hell, one week ago he probably would have. It’s a little hard to be scared, though, when Phil’s watching the argument go down like a tired dad stuck babysitting toddlers, and Tubbo’s still glaring at him out of the corner of his eye every few seconds for stealing his candy. Even Ranboo, the most skittish of all of them, is too busy staring curiously out the window to even notice that they’re arguing at all. 

 

Technoblade makes a frustrated growly sort of noise, turning away from Wilbur to tap at the screen in front of him, tail lashing back and forth in his chair like an angry cat’s. All at once, it lights up like a Christmas tree, a small holographic diagram of the ship littered with angry red marks and blinking purple ones floating a few inches above the screen. He spins it around with his fingers, frowning. 

 

“We need to land.” He grimaces, “The asteroid we hit nicked the engine, we’re running on battery power and it won’t last for long. The stabilizers, shields, and navigation system are all compromised.”

 

Tommy has no idea what half of those words mean, but judging by how quickly everyone else sobers up, it’s nothing good. 

 

Phil’s face twists like he’s bitten into something sour. “You checked the navigation system before we left, didn’t you?”

 

“Wilbur did.”

 

“Everything was working fine.”  Wilbur insists, waving his hands around for emphasis. “I looked it all over myself and even had Tubbo crawl through the walls to check the wiring. Not a hitch.”

 

Tubbo nods when Phil’s gaze shifts to him, grinning a little at the memory of squeezing himself through the walls like a goddamn octopus to make sure no wires were crossed. Tommy swears that he can fit through any gap he can stick his head into, like a cat following it’s whiskers. Just the thought of being stuck in the ship's walls, metal pressing down against his rib cage… It’s enough to make him shiver. His secret spot in the cargo hold is about as close as he’s willing to get to small, enclosed metal spaces, thank you very much. 

 

Technoblade makes another unhappy growl, tap tap tapping away at the screen in front of him and pushing a slider all the way to top on the control panel. Wilbur stands, stumbling a little as the ship lurches again, and makes his way over to the seat next to him, pulling up his own screen and pressing all sorts of blinking buttons, frowning all the while. 

 

“I can divert some power to the thrusters,” Technoblade continues, “but the ship’s reserve battery will only last a day, maybe two. We need to land quickly before we can’t land at all.” 

 

Phil pauses, wings shifting as he thinks. “We can’t go back to T’aria, Nevodis is closer.”

 

Technoblade and Wilbur both groan. 

 

“What’s so bad about Nevodis?” Tubbo stage- whispers in his ear. “I heard it was nice?”

 

He shrugs. It could be anything, really, knowing how things in space tend to go. Better to just… Not ask about the other aliens' mysterious tragic backstories. That way they don’t ask about his. Life tends to go a lot smoother, he’s decided, when you don’t go around bringing up other people’s scars and poking at bruises. Knowing this lot, it could be anything from a decades long blood-feud to a particularly vengeful ex. Who knows. 

 

Tubbo isn’t as quiet as he could have been, though. 

 

Technoblade goes a little stiff and grunts out a “Nothing.”  The same time Wilbur flops against the back of the chair dramatically and exclaims, “Everything!” 

 

“Enough.” Phil sighs through his nose again, dad voice in full effect. “It’s the only planet close enough. We can get everything we need to fix the ship in Las Nevadas.”

 

Tommy blinks. Las… Nevadas? Like, a mixture between Las Vegas and the state of Nevada? What? 

 

“Yeah, if they don’t scam us for everything we own first.” Wilbur mumbles, going quiet when Phil shoots him a glare. He doesn’t even turn around to look at him, just the mere feel of that glare on the back of his head is enough to make him go quiet. 

 

“It’s a dead shot through the asteroid belt,” Technoblade grumbles, putting an arm over the back of the chair to look at Phil. “A few hours trip if we really push the thrusters, but there won’t be much fuel left over.  If you hit even one-“

 

“Oh please.” Phil shrugs him off, already cracking his knuckles and reaching for the controls. “I’ve been piloting spaceships since before you could squeal. This is child’s play.”

 

Tommy gets about three seconds to think about the implications of that, (how old is Phil? He’d always assumed that he was older than Technoblade by a little bit, but by how much? Just how ancient is he ?) before the ship starts rumbling again, a low whine filling the air as the thrusters power up. Tubbo grabs one of his arms and clings on for dear life, and Ranboo makes a distressed little vwoop! And does the same to his other one. 

 

“Everyone, strap in!” Phil yells over the noise, spreading his wings wide and already grinning, sharp and determined. “Without the stabilizers, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”

 

They scramble into the seats, pulling down the straps and fastening the buckles. Tubbo looks equal parts terrified and thrilled as the ship starts to move, and Ranboo still has his arm in a vice-grip, tail wound three times around his leg. 

 

Never a dull day in space, huh?





-





There’s slime in space.

 

There’s slime everywhere, of course. On every planet, in every galaxy. All shapes, sizes, and colors of slime. There's slime in things, slime in people. 

 

This slime, though, is a bit special .

 

His true name has been lost to time, but if you want something to call him, he goes by Charlie Slimecicle, nowadays. Charlie Slimecicle of Las Nevadas, if you want the whole thing. 

 

He’s older than this planet of heat and glittering illusions. He’s older than this entire galaxy, even. Bits of him were alive at the very dawn of things, molecules of space-dust that would soon form the rest of him, goop and all. He’s seen the dawn of civilizations millions of years dead. Empires rise and fall, wars won and lost. Stars explode and new worlds form out of their dying breath. 

 

If you’ve ever heard the phrase water has memory , then you’d understand. He’s mostly water, more water than most things, anyways, and therefore, mostly memory. There's a piece of him just about everywhere, and through every piece, he can see. 

 

He’s seen everything, and remembers it all. Well, most of it, anyways. 

 

He remembers a blonde boy. Young, spirited, loud. He remembers a town in a desert. He remembers a spaceship crash and the same curious young boy poking his nose into something he shouldn’t have.

 

He remembers his screams.

 

He remembers more things, too. He likes to watch. There are bits of him everywhere, and he can watch through each and every one at will. He’s been watching the blonde boy, the human, for a long, long time. He likes him. He likes all humans, actually. Such funny creatures! How clever! He tries learn what he can. 

 

He remembers watching them climb out of the dirt for the first time, watching their first venture into space. How cute!

 

He remembers so much. Of this galaxy, and of others. Of watching the war on Aether, when it happened, the glory days of Viona, the first spaceship to land on Bezzar, and more things.

 

There are some things he does not like to remember. War is one of them. Humans have so many. 

 

The creature with the mask is another. He’s seen enough of both humans and aliens, and calling that thing either would be an insult to both. 

 

He watches the blonde boy, when he can. He likes watching him, seeing him stumble and explore. Good. He’s glad he’s doing better. He’s glad that he remembers this human. 

 

Or part of him remembers, anyways. The rest of him remembers nothing but Las Nevadas, of a desert and a kind man with a scarred face and yellow, golden wings. Of glittering lights and a hand in his. A friend. His very first one, in fact. 

 

Make sense? 

 

Yeah, he thought so. 





-





Tommy feels a bit like he’s about to throw up, once they actually land.

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been strapped to his godforsaken seat, but he knows it’s definitely been a few hours. He’d screwed his eyes shut about thirty minutes in when the whizzing of asteroids past the window and all of the near-misses had started to make him feel queasy, and no amount of excited gasps and “oh wow! Look at that!” s from Tubbo could convince him to open them again until he’s confident that they’re on solid fucking ground. 

 

It had been fun for about ten minutes.

 

Phil drove the spaceship like how a drunk teenage boy would drive his brand new sports car to show off to his friends. Fast, reckless, cutting as many corners as possible and doing his best to give everyone whiplash. 

 

He doesn’t just dodge around asteroids, he goes over, under, turning corners sharp enough that Tommy ends up a hell of a lot closer to Tubbo or Ranboo than he would ever like to be, laughing all the while as they whizz past, inches from colliding with the ship. 

 

Phil had laughed most of the ride over, actually, because he’s fucking insane, and Wilbur had joined in with his own maniacal laughter after each near-miss. He can laugh like the fucking joker when he feels like it, and no amounts of “guys please don’t turn so fast-“ s and “if we have to ge towed into the dock I’m never letting you live it down” s from Technoblade had made them slow down. 

 

The world's bumpiest, most uncomfortable rollercoaster, where the person manning it is doing their best to bring you as close to death as physically possible and you’re strapped in so tightly it feels like you’re being strangled by scratchy fabric, plastic, and metal. It probably would have been more fun if he didn’t spend most of it with his eyes firmly shut, doing his best to keep his breathing under control and keep breakfast down.

 

He lets out the biggest sigh of relief when the ship finally touched solid ground. Fucking finally. 

 

He opens his eyes, blinking furiously to get them to adjust to the bright sunlight streaming in from the bridge windows. Ow. 

 

Everyone looks a bit like they’ve been on an actual rollercoaster. Phil’s wings are a mess, feathers in every direction, bucket hat sitting crookedly on his head, falling a bit over his flushed face. He’s still grinning, rolling his shoulders and dusting his wings, looking all too pleased with himself. In comparison, everyone else looks like a train wreck.

 

Technoblade’s braid has come mostly undone at this point, his normally well-brushed hair a rats-nest, and he winces and growls as he untangles it from one of his earrings. Wilbur’s hair is just as much of a tangled mess, the white streak having been mixed in with the rest of it, making him look a bit like he’s growing grey hairs already. He runs a hand through it, eyes bright, through he does look a bit uncomfortable sitting in direct sunlight, skin glistening ever so slightly. Ranboo looks exactly how Tommy feels, exhausted and still slightly nauseous, curling up on themselves and groaning pitifully even after they’ve unbuckled all the straps. 

 

On Tommy's other side, Tubbo looks like he’s on straight cocaine, eyes sparkling and practically vibrating with energy. “Let’s do it again!”

 

“No.” He, Technoblade, and Ranboo all groan at once, making the others laugh.

 

Wilbur stands, stretching his arms above his head as he looks out the window. “Why’d you park us all the way out here, Phil?”

 

Tommy follows his gaze, and the breath is sucked out of his lungs all at once.



It’s… A desert.



Not like the one on Netheria, no blood-red soil and strange-colored skies, no lava pools or rivers. Just… a desert. Tan-orange soil, little scraggly bushes and rocks, mountains in the far, far distance. It’s not exactly the same as the desert he remembers, there are no highways cutting across the sand, no houses or lights in the distance. The sky is definitely more purple than it would be on Earth, but still. 

 

It looks like Nevada, almost. It looks like home. 



“There’s a good mechanic nearby,” Phil explains, “Right on the edge of the dome. Besides, I may be a confident flyer, but trying to parallel park with the stabilizers out?”

 

Wilbur winces at the thought, but Tommy barely even notices, too busy trying to spot a glimpse of a town rising out of the sand, of a gas station that he just knows is waiting for him on the very edge. There’s nothing, though. Just dust and decaying plants, stretching all the way to the craggily mountains on the horizon. 

 

Of course there’s nothing, he thinks bitterly. He’s still got a little less than half of the galaxy to go, or something like that. 



“Looks like we’re taking the bike into the city, then.”



That snaps him out of it.

 

He shakes his head, shoving those thoughts down, down, down, and turning away from the window, oh fuck yeah! Wilbur’s bike! When was the last time he’d ridden that thing? Netheria? Too long ago, too long ago indeed. 

 

He’s already up and bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically stepping on Wilbur’s feet as he follows him to the entrance of the bridge. Oh, he can’t fucking wait- 



Not you.”



Phil’s hand snatches on the back of his shirt, and immediately he’s bristling, tossing him off and whipping around. “What? Why can’t I go!”

 

He just looks at him. “Everytime we bring you somewhere, the first thing you do is run off and get yourself lost.”

 

“I do not-“

 

Phil raises an eyebrow, and he stutters. Running away from the shopkeeper on Bezzar, getting kidnapped on Netheria, his little trip into the woods on T’aria… “Okay, maybe.”

 

“Oh let him come, Phil.” Wilbur waves him off, and Tommy immediately whips around to look at him instead. He gives Tommy a lopsided grin, brown eyes gleaming. “I’ll keep an eye on the gremlin.”

 

“I’m coming too!” Tubbo pipes up from next to him, Ranboo shrinking back with an uneasy look on their face. Whatever, their loss. 

 

“Why do we even need to go into the city?” Technoblade stands, stretching out his arms with a grimace. “All we need is the mechanic.”

 

Wilbur jams his thumb in Tommy and Tubbo’s direction. “They’ve never been to Las Nevadas. Where’s your sense of adventure, Techno?”

 

Technoblade just gives him a look. “I thought you hated Las Nevadas.”

 

He says it more as a statement than a question. There’s a pause as they look at each other for a moment, having a quick and silent conversation with facial expressions alone that Tommy can’t make heads or tails of. Then, Wilbur breaks into a grin and loops an arm over Tommy’s shoulders, moment forgotten. 

 

“I hate one person in Las Nevadas.” He clarifies as Tommy does his best to knock him off. “As long as we don’t run into him, it’ll be fine. What’s the harm in a little sightseeing?”

 

Phil still looks hesitant. “I don’t know…”

 

“…Let the kids go.” Technoblade grunts, after a beat, giving his head a shake. “Tommy’s only ever going to see this planet once, you might as well.” 

 

Tubbo and Tommy both turn on Phil, Tubbo pulling out his best puppy dog eyes, and Tommy trying to follow suit with Wilbur still draped across his shoulders. It takes all but ten seconds for him to break. “Alright fine. 



Fuck yeah!

 

He taps a little on his comn, turning to Wilbur. “The day cycles on Nevodis are pretty long, be back at dusk. I don’t want you walking around after dark, alright?”

 

He just rolls his eyes. “Yes dad.”



And then they’re off.

 

Tubbo is bouncing just as much as he is, a spring in each step, duel-colored eyes positively shining. He knows he probably has a similar look on his face, shaking off the last of nausea and stretching his legs, following Wilbur to the entrance of the bridge. Techno was right, he’s only ever going to be on this planet once. He might as well do a little bit of sight-seeing while he can, right? Just like Wilbur said. Besides, it’ll be nice to walk around a city as a tourist, for once, instead of running for his life the whole time. Didn't Tubbo say that Nevodis was really fancy, once? Something like that? 



“What, you’re not wearing that are you?”

 

He stumbles to a stop, glaring at Wilbur and batting his hands as he tugs a little on the sweateir he’s wearing. “What? What’s wrong with this?”

 

Wilbur grimaces. “You've been wearing the same sweater for three days.”

 

“So?”

 

“…We’re getting you some new clothes.” He says, after another pause, looking him up and down critically. “And a better disguise. C’mon, I’ll fix you up. You too, Tubbo. We can’t have you both walking around Las Nevadas looking like that.” 

 

He sighs, but lets himself be led back to Wilbur’s room, dragging his feet all the while.

 

Whatever. It’s not like the bike is going anywhere. Las Nevadas, here they come! 






-





“Do you think they’ll be okay?”

 

The Piglin grunts, lying on his back with his upper half hidden in the inner panel of the ships navigation system. “They’ll be fine. Pass me that wrench? No, the other one.” 

 

The Hybrid picks the correct wrench from the toolbox, receiving another grunt of thanks when they hand it over. 

 

There are footsteps, and both the Hybrid and the Piglin’s ears twitch towards the hallway. He pulls his upper half out of the panel he was working on the greet the Elytran when he sweeps into the room. 

 

“What did the mechanic say?” He asks, cleaning his greasy hands off on a spare cloth. 

 

“She’s a little ways out, still.” The Elytran leans against one wall. “She agreed to come to us.”

 

The Piglin hums, already going back to work. “Great.”

 

It’s quiet for a beat, and then. 

 

 “…How much do you want to bet they get arrested?”

 

“Techno!”

 

“What?” He shrugs, only his shoulders visible. “It’s Wilbur.”

 

The Elytran just waves him off. “He cares about Tommy and Tubbo too much to put them in any real danger.” 

 

The Piglin just hums, reaching his hand out expectantly for another tool. The Hybrid scrambles off to get it out of the tool box for him. “I’ll bet you thirty creds we end up payin' bail. Thanks, Ranboo.”

 

The Elytran tilts his head, considering.“…I’ll bet you fifty they break out first.”

 

“Deal.”



He leaves the Piglin and the Hybrid on their own soon after, already typing out another message to the mechanic on his comn. 

 

They work in silence for a while, the Piglin occasionally asking for a different tool as he works, the Hybrid tilting their head to see what he’s working on. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. 

 

“…They’re not in trouble, are they?” They ask, after a beat. 

 

The Piglin pulls himself out of the panel again, catching the tone of worry in the Hybrids voice. He keeps his voice confident when he says, “Wilbur might be… uh, not the most rule-abidin' person, but he’ll keep them safe." I trust him, goes unsaid. 

 

The Hybrid relaxes, just a little. “…Okay.”

 

“Pass me those screws?”

 

 




-





In his defense, Wilbur hadn’t meant to hit the guy with his bike.

 

…Okay, yeah, Tommy knows how that sounds. Let's back up a bit first. Context is important, you know.



With the others preoccupied on the bridge, Wilbur hadn’t had any qualms about raiding Technoblade and Phil’s closets for stuff to dress him and Tubbo up in. He’s kept it pretty simple with oversized jackets and googles, but still, Tommy wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of playing dress up.

 

(And so what if he wore two of Technoblade golden bracelets and a necklace under the borrowed clothes? He’d just gotten used to the weight, that’s all. Not wearing them now just felt strange.)



“If anyone asks.” Wilbur had said, pulling up the hood over his face, “You’re a Phantling, just like me. That way they won’t bother you about covering up so much.”

 

It’s easy for him to say, at least he looked somewhat cool. His leather jacket and big, stompy boots didn’t look like he’d found them in his grandfather's closet, and the bandanna and goggles he pulled over his face actually fit. 

 

Tommy is pretty confident he’s going to regret all the dark colors once they get out in the desert heat, though. He and Tubbo may look a little ridiculous in the oversized clothes, but at least they won’t be boiling alive in black leather. 



And with that, they’d taken off.



He could ride Wilbur’s bike for the rest of his life and never get sick of it, he thinks. The wind in his hair, harsh against any exposed skin as they kick up a trail of dust in their wake, headlights pointed towards the horizon. The roaring in his ears turns from unpleasant to almost comforting pretty quickly, and he hides his smile in Tubbo’s shoulder as he holds on for dear life.

 

At Least when Wilbur drives like a madman, the thing he’s driving rides smoothly. No bumping or shaking, barely even any resistance at all as the speed through the desert, the sun hot on their backs. Tubbo is laughing, cheering and whooping as they speed along, and he feels it more than he hears it, pressed so close. He laughs too, screaming into the wind, but whatever he’s saying is snatched right out of his lungs before it can get through the bandanna over his face. Nothing but heat, speed, wind, and adrenaline. Just the way he likes it.

 

Wilbur says something, pointing to something ahead of them. He squints trying to make out what he’s pointing at through the dust. Is that… Glass? 



It’s a city .



It’s so blinding it’s hard to look directly at, even with the goggles. It’s built from what looks like pure crystal and marble, gleaming on the distant horizon like a mirage. Signs of every shape and color gleam and sparkle, drawing them in even closer as it shimmers just out of reach. 

 

He blinks a couple times, almost certain he's just imagining things. People in the desert see shit like this all the time, right? Oasis’s in stuff? Just illusions caused by heat and dust, it can’t be real. 

 

It looks like something from a dream, something too perfect and glittering to ever be real. 

 

It just gets larger, though, looming closer and closer. Soon enough Wilbur leaves the sand behind and merges onto what almost looks like a highway, empty of everyone but them, and leading straight in to the city that shimmer and sparkles in front of them. Has he died and gone to heaven? Is this some sort of weird fever dream? 

 

He can’t read the sign that they pass, all light up in sparkling lights, but he can guess at what it says. 

 

Welcome to Las Nevadas!



-




And you see, this is where it starts to go downhill. 



Wilbur slows down as they pull into the city, winding the bike around buildings. The streets themselves are bustling with people, almost all of them walking on foot. The ones that don’t are riding around overhead, zipping by in smaller spaceships, almost like fucking cars. It’s like something straight out of the fucking Jetsons. 

 

He doesn’t see any other hoverbikes, none like Wilbur’s, anyways, but even then they barely even stand out, blending right into the busy crowd around them. Tommy can’t really find it in him to care, too busy looking around with his mouth hanging open.



It’s the most beautiful place he’s ever seen. 



He’s been to a few space cities, by now. Each of them having their own little quirks. Bezzar was a patchwork quilt. Well loved, maybe, but just as messy and ugly the whole way through, the new built haphazardly on top of the old. Netheria was a labyrinth. It’s streets are winding and cramped like the city itself was trying to strangle you, cold eyes following your every movement. He barely even remembers Lestea, a cold, grey place. Quiet, like everyone in it was holding their breath, waiting for you to trip so they could jump you and rob you for everything you’ve got. 



Las Nevadas feels like a fever dream. 

 

It’s buildings are beautiful, all shades of sparkling white with glimmering neon signs lining every corner, blinking and sparkling in a hundred different colors. The glass panes all shimmer like they've been cut from crystal, and there’s a bubbling blue fountain every few blocks. There’s no trash on the streets, no harsh voices arguing, they don’t get any disgusted looks as they ride through, no side-eye. 

 

No one pays him any mind at all, actually, most of them not even glancing up from what they’re doing. Staring at comns, chatting at holograms, looking through store windows, chatting amiably with their companions. 

 

So many aliens everywhere, and no two look alike. 

 

Some of them look like they’re on the way to a business meeting, dressed in clean, new clothes, a few of them even sporting fresh-pressed suits or sparkling cocktail dresses, hair done up in elaborate styles around ears, fins or horns. Others are dressed in the kind of flashy, sparkling clothes that would look right at home on the Vegas strip. Hell, a few of them even sport dresses and skirts that light up, like their own personal laser show. 

 

There are aliens everywhere, chatting from new, polished balconies above their heads, swirling drinks in fancy glasses. Women with dragonfly wings strut by with their noses in the air, holding fuzzy little furby-looking things on leashes. Men with sparkling scales lining their cheeks clip past in their polished boots, a briefcase in one hand and a comn in the other, speaking lowly with holograms. There are more than a few people with extra limbs, brushing dust out from storefronts or laughing as they whizz past in hovercars, laughing and hanging out of the skylight. 

 

He lets his gaze travel up. Up, up, up, over the people, tracing the buildings skylines. Rooftop gardens and club balconies, the dizzying lights and pounding music just reaching them. Smaller spaceships dart between buildings like silver birds. A few of them are even topless, and the people inside laugh and cheer, dresses and hair flapping in the wind as they whizz by. 

 

He’s heard of subway lines before, though he’s positive the white bullet trains whizzing by in blurs on tracks that criss-cross overhead are a lot more advanced than anything you would find in New York. 

 

Everywhere he looks there’s something sparkling or glowing, neon lights reflecting off of crystal and marble. He’s glad the goggles he’s wearing are tinted, he’s positive that he would be blind already, otherwise. 



“This is so cool!” Tubbo breathes, and he would respond if he could catch his breath. 

 

Wilbur turns over his shoulder to look back at them. He pulls his mask down to speak, sharp teeth on display as he grins. “If you think this is cool, just wait until you see-“




Splat!



Again, like he said, Wilbur definitely didn’t hit the guy on purpose.



That doesn’t fix the fact that he definitely hit someone, though. Unfortunately.

 

Wilbur whips back around, slamming on the breaks and almost throwing off all three of them. Tubbo makes a strangled noise, a bit like a dog toy getting its head ripped off, when Tommy accidentally squeezes his chest too hard as they all but skid to a stop.

 

They all stare in horror at the lump of slime laying, motionless, in the middle of the road. There’s a pause just long enough for them to hear slime squelch as it drips off of the headlamps. Jesus Christ, was that a person?! 

 

…Tommy’s never been great at holding his tongue, especially under pressure. So, when he finally gets over the shock enough to open his mouth, it should really be no surprise that his next words are-

 

“Oh my god, you fucking killed him!”

 

“I did not kill him!”  Wilbur hisses back at him, eyes wild behind the goggles as he hops off the bike. “Just, come on, help me get him up!”

 

All three of them are over the slime-mound in seconds, the panic in their voices having drawn in a few curious bystanders, though most people, in the city fashion, walk right past. Tommy doesn’t blame the curious ones for standing around and clutching their pearls instead of helping, the slime-mound smeared in the middle of the street feels just as disgusting as it looks as he tries to help Wilbur lift it up. Fucking gross. 

 

“I am so sorry.” Wilbur rambles as the slime starts to form into a more human-ish shape. “I didn’t see you, you came out of nowhere-“



And then- 

 

“Iℸ ̣ ’ᓭ 𝙹ꖌᔑ||, w╎ꖎʖ⚍∷ ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ l’mᔑリʖ⚍∷⊣!” 

 

The slime… Person? Says? He thinks those were words, atleast, it’s hard to tell. 

 

Their body molds and squelches into a person-esc shape, complete with fucking clothes that form out of the slime. The colors on their body change, the clothes becoming a crisp white button down and suspenders, complete with a green tie. The slime on their head turns into… Hair? It’s… sort of hair, fluffy and brown. Their skin turns into a peachy-color, though it’s still a little more green to pass as an average Caucasian person, complete with fucking glasses across their nose and big, green eyes.

 

They look almost… Human. Not quite, a little too green and wobbly, skin and clothes transparent and… Goopy in a few places, but still. The clothes and hair look almost real. If Tommy saw him from a distance, he’d think that they were human. 

 

“M|| ʖ𝙹リᒷᓭ ᔑ∷ᒷ ⍊ᒷ∷|| ᒲ𝙹ꖎ↸ᔑʖꖎᒷ, ↸𝙹リ’ℸ ̣  ∴𝙹∷∷|| ᔑʖ𝙹⚍ℸ ̣  ╎ℸ ̣!” They continue in a chipper voice. Whatever they said first takes Wilbur by surprise, his eyes going wide and the color draining from his face. “H-How did you-“ 

 

“S𝙹∷∷|| ⎓𝙹∷ ⊣𝙹𝙹!¡╎リ⊣ ⚍!¡ ||𝙹⚍∷ ʖ╎ꖌᒷ, i ᓵᔑリ ⍑ᒷꖎ!¡ ⚍リ-⊣𝙹𝙹!¡ ╎ℸ ̣ , ʖ⚍ℸ ̣  ╎ℸ ̣  ᒲ╎⊣⍑ℸ ̣  ᓭℸ ̣ ╎ꖎꖎ ʖᒷ ᔑ ꖎ╎ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ꖎᒷ ᓭℸ ̣ ╎ᓵꖌ||.” They keep on, ignoring him. They gesture as they talk, flapping their hands around, and he. Well. He just can’t resist, okay? He has to know. 

 

He pokes them in the shoulder. The fabric feels like… well, fabric! It becomes more and more realistic, he gives it another poke just to make sure, and that time he feels it, the skin wobbling in a very unskinlike manner. Fucking gross! 

 

“Oh what the fuck.”

 

“Tommy, don’t poke people!” Wilbur grabs him, yanking him back. “What’s wrong with you?! I’m so sorry about him-“

 

But the slime isn’t looking at Wilbur.

 

They’re looking at Tommy, now, occasionally glancing at Tubbo, who’s standing at his side. Their eyes go wide, face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning as they happily clasp their hands together in front of themselves. 

 

Then, they start to chatter at him. 

 

“ 你好,来自内华达州拉霍亚的汤米,不要与加利福尼亚州的拉霍亚混淆!很高兴认识你!

 

What the fuck.

 

What the actual fuck.

 

He’s heard his fair share of alien languages, okay. Chirping, growling, shrieking, buzzing, vwooping. Most of them are just sounds, though the languages Wilbur and Tubbo speak (Galactic- Something? The verbal form of Common. Is it just called Common too?) Actually sound like, well, languages. Ranboo’s does too, to an extent, at least he can tell they’re saying words. 

 

This isn’t an alien language, though. They sound like they’re talking in fucking… Chinese? Maybe? Though of course, that would be fucking ridiculous- 

 

They seem to notice his confusion, and they try again. "¿Holla? ¿Hablas este idioma de la tierra?"

 

 

That was Spanish. That was definitely fucking Spanish, what the absolute fuck-



“English?”

 

English. They can speak actual fucking English. No weird translator shit. 

 

Oh what the absolute fuck is going on. 

 

“Uh-huh?” He says, weakly, as everyone else stares at him in utter confusion. The smile he gets in return is blinding. 

 

“Oh good! I only know a few Earth languages. My name is Charlie Slimecicle. My nicknames are he and him. It’s good to meet you, Tommy from La Jolla, Nevada, not to be confused with La Jolla, California. I’ve heard a lot about you!”



And he…

 

He blue screens, for a moment. 

 

What he wants to say is, how the fuck do you know my name and the town I’m from. How do you speak English? How do you know Spanish and fucking… Chinese? If that was Chinese? What the ever loving fuck are you. 



What he actually says is. “Asdfghjkl.”

 

They, he, Charlie, apparently, takes it in stride, though, laughing like he’s said something ridiculously funny instead. “Haha, human phrases! I definitely know what that means!” 

 

“Charlie!”



The shout makes everyone jump.

 

The little crowd that’s formed around them has mostly dispersed now that it’s clear Charlie is okay, but still, the alien who’d shouted still manages to almost knock the rest of them over in their panic. 

 

They’re (He? Maybe? Their voice is masculine, but it’s kind of rude to assume, isn’t it? That's what Ranboo told him, anyways.) dressed in a similar outfit to Charlie, a crisp white shirt and dark suspenders, a blood-red tie and polished boots that clip across the pavement as they hurry over. Tommy gives them a quick once over, tanner skin, dark, well kept hair. They’ve got feathers poking out of their skin along their cheeks and ears, just like Phil, a shimmering golden-yellow instead of an iridescent black and grey.

 

 It’s the scar across their face his eyes catch on, though. A thick, ugly thing, across their left eye from chin through their eyebrow, permanently curling their lip back to display gleaming white teeth. Their one brown eye is wide with panic, the other golden one staring straight through them. 

 

They skid to a stop in front of Charlie, already checking him over in a flutter of hands, talking all the while as they fix his tie. “I am so sorry about him. He never watches where he’s going, I swear. If he messed up your bike I can pay for it, no prob… lem…”

 

They turn, then, gaze finally settling over him, Tubbo and Wilbur. They barely give him and Tubbo more than a passing glance, though, gaze fixing on Wilbur as their mouth opens in shock. He stares back, going ram-rod stiff.

 

It’s quiet, for a moment. Then. 




“Wilbur soot.”




Their expression changes, lip curling into a lazy smirk, tone abruptly changing from panicked to a rich, low drawl. The difference is startling . “Wilbur! My man! How long has it been?” 

 

Wilbur’s gaze sharpens. For a moment, Tommy’s certain he’s gonna punch the guy right in the nose, but as soon as the look comes, it’s gone. Instead, he grins back, speaking in a similar cocky drawl with just enough passive-aggression to make any PTA mom sit up and take notes. “Quackity. Last time I saw you was on… Bezzar? Wasn’t it? Or maybe it was Netheria? How has that been working out for you?”

 

They, Quackity, almost flinch at the word, looking taken aback for just a second before recovering, looping an arm over Charlie’s shoulder. “Wonderful, actually. My little pet project has really taken off here on Nevodis, if you haven’t noticed.” 

 

Then, he looks them over, gaze sweeping them up and down in one, smooth move he hasn’t seen since he’d spoken to cheerleaders in highschool. “Why don’t I give you a tour while you’re in town? It really has been forever since I’ve seen you last.” 

 

Wilbur tightens a hand on Tommy's shoulder. “I’m afraid we’re busy.”

 

“Just for a little while!” He brushes him off, spreading his hands. “Don’t you want to catch up with an old friend?”

 

Something about the way they say friend let’s Tommy know they and Wilbur are anything but, and already he’s gearing for a fight. He can’t help but glance back and forth between them like he’s watching a tennis match, Tubbo doing the same thing, posturing slightly at Tommy’s side. Charlie just grins at him, even as Quackity hangs off his shoulder. What a weirdo. 

 

“Like I said, busy.” Wilbur all but spits, keeping a hand firm on Tommy’s shoulder like he’s resisting the urge to shove both him and Tubbo behind him. “Maybe some other time.”

 

Quackity brushes off the clear dismissal like water off a duck’s back, patting Charlie’s shoulder as he takes a few steps closer, until he and Wilbur are nearly nose-to-nose. They grin like they’ve already won, and he’ll maybe they have, judging by the way Wilbur is already getting all riled up. 

 

They lean in a little, lowering their voice. “I really hate doing this, but you did run my friend here over with your bike. Last time I checked, you need a pretty expensive license to drive a bike like that in the city…”

 

Oh, that is it. 

 

They did not just threaten Wilbur’s bike. Who does this rich motherfucker think they are?! His hands ball into fists at his side, itching with the urge to throw one right into that smug face. If Tubbo hadn’t already shot him one of those don’t you fucking dare looks, he probably would have, right there and then. Nobody threatens his f- uh, his crew. Especially not smug motherfuckers like this. 



“What do you want.” Is Wilbur’s clipped response, straight to the point. 

 

“Just to give you a tour!” They back away, putting their hands up innocently as if they weren’t threatening him seconds ago. “You can’t blame me for wanting to show off a little, can you?” 

 

A moment of silence. Then. 

 

“…Fine.” Wilbur agrees through gritted teeth, forcing a nonchalant smile. “Take us on a tour, Quackity.” 

 

Their eyes gleam. “Well, if you insist!”

 

They snap their fingers, then, and Charlie is already pulling out his comn and tapping at the screen. It’s a lot fancier than the one safely tucked away in Tommy’s pocket. “I’ll arrange a ride. And new clothes, goodness, can’t have you walking around my place looking like that. If you need help finding a place to park your bike-“

 

“I’ll manage, thank you.” Wilbur snaps, already tugging him and Tubbo away from the scene.

 

Charlie waves as he’s abruptly turned around, a firm hand on his back to keep him marching over to the bike. He can still feel eyes on him, though, boring into the back of his head. One golden, and one brown and insufferably smug. 

 

“Who the fuck is that?!” He hisses to Wilbur once they’re far enough away. “What-“

 

“He’s nobody.” Wilbur interrupts, voice sharp enough to make him flinch just a little, and go quiet.

 

Tubbo gives him a worried glance as the bike starts up. He opens his mouth, but whatever he says is cut off by the bike roaring to life. Tommy loops his arms around Tubbo’s waist just in time as they take off down the street, going a hell of a lot faster than they probably should as Wilbur looks for an out of the way place to stash the bike.

 

He watches the buildings as they whizz past.

 

What the hell have they gotten themselves into? 






-





Back on the ship, an Elytrian shakes hands with a dark skinned Araneae, smiling gratefully. He tries to meet her eyes, but considering that there are eight of them, it’s a bit difficult. “I can’t thank you enough.” 

 

“It’s no problem.” She shrugs, smiling around her fangs, using two of her hands to shake his, and the other four to adjust the box of tools in her hands. She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder. “Just a few crossed wires. An easy fix, really.” 

 

“I wired you the creds already,” He dips his head one last time as he leads her back down the ramp and to her own hoverbike, made specifically for riding through rough desert terrain. “Thank you again for coming all the way out here to meet us.”

 

She waves once more before taking off, “It’s my pleasure. Take care now!”





On the bridge, a Piglin sits in one of the chairs in the cockpit, a Greek Mythology textbook in his hands. They’re still stained a bit with grease, but he pays them no mind as he turns the page. 

 

“…What are you reading?”

 

He flicks an ear to the Hybrid who’d wondered up next to him, curiously leaning over his shoulder. They back away skittishly once they see him look at them, though, tail curling anxiously. 

 

He just shrugs, turning the page. “It’s a collection of Greek myths.”

 

All he gets in response is a head tilt and another curious look. 

 

“It’s an Earth thing.” He grunts, not bothering with a more detailed explanation. 

 

He almost seems to expect the Hybrid to leave, then, their curiosity sated. Instead, they only get closer, ears pricking and eyes going round with interest. “You can read human?”

 

He huffs, more amused than upset. “I can read English. And a little bit of Greek. There’s a difference.”

 

“Oh.”

 

It’s quiet, for a beat. The Piglin flicks an ear. 

 

Still, the Hybrid doesn’t leave, though. 



“…The Argo II is from a Greek myth.” He blurts before he has the chance to swallow it back. 

 

Again, he almost seems to expect them to leave, but they do the opposite instead. They perk up a little more, stepping a little bit closer. “I was wondering where the name came from.” 

 

“It’s a good name.” The Piglin grunts, the words just falling out now that he’s already started, all coming in a rush. “The Argo was said to be one of the first ships created by humans, it was blessed by the gods themselves. A human hero named Jason used it to sail from Iolcos to Colchis to retrieve the Golden Fleece, a sheep’s pelt thought to have  healin' powers.” 

 

While he talks, the Hybrid gets closer, listening raptly to every word. By the time he finishes, they're sitting in the seat next to him, head tilted in interest. 

 

The Piglin looks for a moment like he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t. He puts the book down and continues, gesturing as he talks. The words come out of him in a flood, gaining momentum now that he's started. 

 

“You see, members of his crew were called Argonauts. There are lots of definitions of the word ‘Argo’, but the one I like best is ‘swift’. And ‘naut’ means sailors.” Another pause, then, “…It’s where the English word for humans who travel to space comes from. Astronaut. ‘Astro’ means ‘star’, so astronaut means-“

 

“-star sailors.” The Hybrid finishes for him, awe in their voice. “Huh.”

 

“Yeah.” He finishes clumsily. 



They lean in, then, ears pricked and starry eyed. Behind them, their tail swishes excitedly back and forth. “…Tell me more?”






-







He’s never been inside a casino before.

 

No surprise there, really. He’s not exactly the prime age demographic for casinos. He doesn’t even think he’s lived in a town that had one. A real one, anyways, not a gas station with a few rickety slot machines propped up in the corner. The closest he’s ever gotten to gambling was betting lunch money on schoolyard fights or trading quarters for half-finished scratch offs. He’d never won anything with the lottery tickets, but he’d made twenty bucks by putting his bet on the scrawny new kid with ginger hair. 

 

Anyways, the point is, the casino he’d stepped into was unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

 

The outside was impressive enough, a huge, looming building made of crisp white marble with a bubbling fountain outside, but it had nothing on the inside.



Everything glitters.



From the glossy gold-checkered floors to the slot machines, a hundred dazzling lights in a million different colors. Music plays from somewhere, a jazzy, upbeat tune and a crooning singer, echoing off of the high, high ceilings. There are aliens absolutely everywhere, each dressed in their Sunday best, suits and cocktail dresses as far as the eye can see, elaborate outfits that would put even the most gaudy of Vegas showgirls to shame. The purple fountain in the middle bubbles and spews like a shaken can of grape-soda, and even the bubbles glimmer like gemstones. 

 

There are holograms, too. Of just about anything, from art and colorful light shows to dancers, shimmering and glowing in neon colors as the holograms spin and dazzle the crowds. 



The air smells like alcohol and bad decisions, and Quackity takes to it like a duck to water.

 

He spreads his arms, eyes glittering. “Impressive, huh? I built it myself from the ground up. Las Nevadas’s very first human-themed casino.”

 

Tommy blinks. Human… Themed?  

 

He doesn't get much time to linger on, already being led deeper. The suit he was given to wear is itchy, stiff and uncomfortable, and the black shoes squeak as Quackity shows them further and further inside. He barely even notices how the red tie around his neck is trying it’s best to strangle him as he looks around, already dizzy from the sparkles and the neon lights. 

 

Quackity continues on, grabbing Wilbur by the arm and leading them deeper. He gestures to a huge neon sign smack dab in the middle, blinking right above the fountain. “The sign says ‘Big Q’s Casino in Human," he gives his hand a flourish, then. "I wouldn’t expect you to be able to read it.”

 

Wait a fucking minute.

 

Tommy tilts his head at the sign. He looks at it, really looks at it, letting the letters swim into place. It’s definitely not fucking English, but it’s… Sort of familiar? The swirly, glowing font makes it hard to read. Like a dyslexic person trying to write Spanish in cursive. he huffs. Last time he checked, human wasn't a language. 

 

There are more, now that he’s looking for them. Most of them are in a mix of different languages, but even the ones he can read don’t make any sense, loudly proclaiming, “I love bread!”, “Go dance, yes!” “Furby? here? perhaps!" 

 

He raises an eyebrow at Tubbo, who gives him a can you believe this shit? Look in response. 

 

Quackity just keeps going, nose in the air the whole time. “It’s not only a casino, of course. We’ve got everything, a hotel, a fast-food restaurant, a dance club. You’ll never need to leave. All human themed of course, I’ve hired the best human experts in the galaxy, it’s one hundred percent authentic.”

 

Tommy looks around, looking close this time. Yeah, he can see where Quackity got the inspiration from, between the aliens strutting by in feathered dresses and the waiters carrying milkshakes on golden trays, but really? 

 

Last time he checked, holograms weren’t a thing back on Earth. You don’t normally try to write in three different languages at once, either.

 

His eye catches on a nearby restaurant, a waiter in… Were those supposed to be roller skates? Yeah, no. Roller skates don’t look like that, but whatever, hands off milkshakes to aliens eating…

 

No. Oh god no. He almost gags. 

 

Most people definitely don’t drink milkshakes while they eat sushi. Now that’s just a fucking crime. 

 

One hundred percent authentic his ass. 




…It is pretty fucking cool, though. He has to admit. Just a little. 

 

The fountain is the centerpiece, lights and holograms dancing in the water, with hallways on each side branching off. There’s one lined with slot machines, another with the world's strangest looking pool tables. A few are even lined with storefronts, like a weird indoor shopping mall. There’s elevators and stairwells, every inch gilded in diamonds and gold, neon signs flashing and glinting off of the jewel-draped patrons. None of that’s real, is it? The gems glittering around that lady’s neck could buy him a casino of his own back on earth. 

 

He squints, trying to read more signs. Some of them are harder than others, bright neon lights blinking all the while, but he thinks he can get the gist of one or two more. Is that… A burger restaurant? The sign is written in something that could be Japanese, maybe, but he’s no expert. The flashing neon picture of a cheeseburger next to it is pretty telling, though. And the smell?

 

He takes a deep breath. Grease and French fries, god, he could kill for a cheese burger right about now. 

 

“Is that real?” Tubbo whispers in his ear, following his gaze to the restaurant. “Do they actually have those on Earth? I thought that was just in the streams.”

 

His mouth is already watering. “It’s close enough.”

 

That’s all Tubbo needed to start heading in that direction, Tommy right on his heels. The smell of greasy fast food after months of space food was just too strong to resist, okay? That smell is intoxicating, and everything else fills in comparison to the thought of having actual fast food. So what if it doesn’t smell quite the same? Burgers are burgers. He can say without a doubt that he’s definitely eaten worse. 

 

Wilbur catches him by the arm. “Tommy-“



“Let them explore!” Quackity interrupts, already waving them off. “Help yourself to anything, boys. Its my treat.”

 

There’s a pause, then. Wilbur and Quackity stare each other down, practically nose-to-nose. Wilbur still keeps a firm grip on his upper arm, and honestly? He doesn't really blame him. Tommy knows better than to trust that sleazy grin on his face, and so does Wilbur, by the look of it. He may have golden feathers, but every nerve in Tommy's body is screaming snake!

After a few seconds, though, Wilbur let’s him go. 

 

He gives him a firm pat on the back of the shoulders. The look in his brown eyes is strangely serious. “…Ping me if you run into any trouble, okay?”

 

He nods wordlessly. He gets one last pat and a strained little grin before Tubbo is yanking him away.



-




The burger place looks weirder up close.

 

It’s just… it’s Fancy. Like the world's richest, most cyber-punk Burger King. Everything’s shiny and glossy, even the glasses absolutely sparkle, every sign written in the same glowing neon. The aliens lounging around on expensive leather(?) furniture laugh and joke, sipping milkshakes and other fuzzing drinks out of the fanciest, weirdest looking glasses he’s ever seen, with stems that twist and loop. Women(?) with feather boas and diamond earrings the size of his fist dine on greasy cheeseburgers, hot tea, a side of noodles. A man(?) with bright pink scales on his face and more necklaces than he knows what to do with happily dips a chicken shish kebab in his boba tea(?). . 



Yeah, the food was… odd.

 

He recognizes some of it, the burgers, milkshakes and fries all looking… Somewhat normal. There’s other stuff too, though, soups and platters of intricately garnished vegetables. Sushi, chips and salsa too, is that a fucking taco? The smell of spices in the air is just as thick as the smell of grease. He swears that he sees someone cracking open a fortune cookie. 

 

It’s a burger place, but it’s also a Mexican restaurant, apparently. That also sells Japanese food. And Chinese food, too. Like if Google Translate itself tried to combine a bunch of the most popular restaurants into one. 



It’s. It’s a lot.



“I’ve heard about food places like this, in the streams, you know.” Tubbo shrugs, already tugging him in line. “I thought it was just made up.”

 

He blinks, still craning his neck to try and see the menu glowing, neon menu. “Streams?”

 

“Uh, movies. I think is the human word. We just call ‘em streams.”

 

“…Right.”

 

The line from the counter stretches halfway to the door. He picks at the lapels of his suit. He’d managed to convince Quackity to let him keep the bandanna at least, pulling it just a little more over his nose. No one gives him a second glance. 

 

Tubbo elbows him in the side again. “What do you think? Is it authentic?”

 

He shrugs, squinting again at the menu. “I mean… Sorta? All the burger joints I’ve been to are a lot less neon and sparkly, though.”

 

They don’t normally also sell this many different kinds of food, either, but he keeps that part of it to himself. Who knows? He’s heard of some pretty wild restaurants in Vegas, maybe it’s more authentic than he thinks. 

 

Tubbo laughs. “Yeah, I think that’s just a Quackity thing.”

 

Right. A Quackity thing. He hates being the only one out of the loop, what was the guys deal? What did he want with Wilbur? They obviously had a whole… Thing, going on. There’s some kind of history there, he just knows. Something Wilbur’s not telling him.

 

Quackity can’t be trusted. Well, duh. Owning a casino doesn’t exactly scream trustworthy. 

 

There was something about the way he had said it, though. The look in his eyes? The tone of his voice? Something. Whatever happened between him and Quackity was personal, and it didn’t end well. 

 

“So, Uh. I’ve been meaning to ask. Him and Wilbur-“



“Welcome to Paradise Burgers, what can I get for you today?”

 

He jolts. Are they at the front of the line already? He scans over the menu again. Only a few of the words are in English, and his eyes immediately snag on the milkshake and cheeseburger combo. Harmless enough, right? His stomach is already growling. 

 

“I’ll have the-“

 

Then, He locks eyes with the person behind the counter.

 

Freeze frame. Record scratch. 

 

Bored purple eyes stare back at him from under a fringe of blonde hair. The alien blinks, once, twice, and then those purple eyes go wide. You.”

 

“You!”



“Fundy?” He, the purple guy, the kid from fucking Netheria, calls over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off of Tommy. “I’m taking my lunch break!”

 

“Really, now?” Another alien yells back. The voice is familiar. Why the fuck does it sound familiar?” In the middle of the lunch rush? Purpled, you-“

 

An alien with a shock of orange hair and fox ears pops their head out from an Employee's only door.  He sputters, ears pinning black flat against his head, gaze jumping back and forth between Tommy and Tubbo like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. 

 

“You!”

 

That’s why the voice was familiar. Fox guy. His old nemesis. 



Luckily for him, Tubbo’s already three steps ahead. Right as the fox alien’s face morphs into a snarl, he’s reaching for the half-finished strawberry milkshake left behind on a nearby table. 

 

He doesn’t even hesitate before launching it straight at his nose. “Scatter!”

 

Tommy doesn’t need to be told twice. 





-



Charlie Slimecicle likes Quackity of Las Nevadas. He likes Wilbur of L’Manburg, too, of course, though he doesn’t know him quite as well.

 

He’s seen him, though. Watched him before just like he’s watching them now. Not like this, standing just out of his sight, never with his real eyes, but still. It counts.



“So, what do you think of the casino?”

 

The Phantling hums, looking out the window of the penthouse suite. Anyone else might’ve been awed by the view, but this Phantling knows better than that. Knows better to see anything other than another glimmering hologram, just like the ones downstairs. 

 

 “It's nice. It’s very you, Quackity, I’ll admit.” 



The Avian leans in, interested. He's always been a bit of a sucker for flattery. “Oh?”

 

“Yeah,” The Phantling snorts, turning away from the window. “Just one big lie after another. Tell me, do your cheap party tricks actually fool anyone?”

 

“Ouch, Wilbur.” The avian pouts, putting a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

 

The Phantling rolls his eyes, the fake smile on his face dropping as he turns to face the other alien fully. “You can cut it out, Quackity. Whatever stupid game this is, I’m not fucking playing it. Why did you actually bring me here?”

 

“Like I said,” the Avian drawls, stepping a bit closer. “To catch up! Is that really so hard for you to believe?”

 

The unimpressed look he gets in return would be enough to stop any man in their tracks. “Yes, actually. It is.”

 

A flicker of hurt crosses the Avians face, for just a moment. The Phantling isn’t so easily fooled, though, and neither is Charlie. They’ve both known Quackity of Las Nevadas long enough to tell when he’s being genuine or not. In this case, Charlie would be willing to bet just about anything in a slot machine downstairs on it not being anything more than another trick.

 

How clever, Quackity of Las Nevadas! It’s a shame it doesn’t work, not even for a moment. 

 

“Look, I get it. You want some revenge? Fine.” The Phantling hisses, shoving a finger in the Avians chest, bullying him backwards with his height advantage. his lips curl back over sharp, sharp teeth. “But if you even think about laying your hands on them-“

 

“Wilbur, Wilbur!” The Avian puts his hands up in mock surrender, eyes wide. “I don’t want revenge!”

 

Oh, that was definitely a lie. Quackity of Las Nevadas had told them all the plan in case Wilbur of L'manburg stumble into the casino, in a lot of detail, too. Quackity of Las Nevadas has been preparing revenge for a long, long time. It was a pretty good revenge plan too, he’d thought at the time, he even got to play an important role! It’s almost a shame that Wilbur of L’Manburg is so much more clever than Quackity of Las Nevadas had planned for. 



“Uh huh.” The Phantling drawls, pulling back and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Sure you don’t.”



“Honestly!” The Avian insists, “ Look, so maybe I wanted to rub this all in your face a little bit, but I'm not heartless. Tubbo and… Tommy? Is it? They’re good kids, I wouldn’t dream of laying a finger on either one of them.”

 

That part was true, atleast. Charlie doesn’t think he’d let him hurt them, even if he’d wanted to. He likes that human too much to let him be hurt, he thinks, he loves watching his adventures. It’s a good thing he won’t have to worry about it, though. Quackity of Las Nevadas knows better to mess with the ones Wilbur of L’Manburg calls family. 

 

There’s a reason Wilbur of L’Manburg was the one brought to the casino instead of Technoblade from Bastion City, after all. 



“Right. Whatever.” The Phantling shrugs him off, still not believing a word he’s said. He’s right not too, of course, but it’s definitely going to make things more difficult. Interesting.

 

There’s a pause, for a moment. Then. 

 

“So, speaking of Tommy…” The Avian drawls, eyes gleaming. He’s found a weak spot, now, a bruise he’s more than happy to press on until he gets what he wants. “He’s a bit… unusual , isn’t he?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” The Phantling says back, a little too quickly. 

 

The grin on the Avians face only sharpens, and he leans in just a little more. “Well, he’s not a Merling. Not a Phantling, either, or a Piglin. Definitely no  avian. No extra arms, no wings or horns…”

 

“He’s Bezzarian.” The Phantling blurts. 

 

“Except he’s not, is he?”

 

The Phantling is stunned for a moment, and Charlie almost winces. For someone so clever, he really should do a better job at keeping his weaknesses better hidden. For as much as he cares about his family, he really does have such a bad habit of letting everyone else know that they are the best way of getting to him. 

 

The Phantling realizes this the same moment Charlie thinks of it, sobering up quickly. “So that’s what this is about.“

 

“You can’t blame me for being curious!” The Avian waves a hand, “You don’t exactly have the best track record for working well with others, after all.”

 

The Phantling almost winces, but he doesn’t. That’s what Quackity of Las Nevadas had wanted, after all. Charlie knew he was clever. 

 

Quackity of Las Nevadas doesn’t let things go easy, Wilbur of L’Manburg knows this well. He won’t stop until he gets the information he wants, regardless of the methods he has to use. Charlie knows he wouldn’t hurt the small blonde human, he knows, but Wilbur of L’Manburg doesn’t. That, or he cares too much about the little human that just the thought of it is enough to put him on edge, to make him more likely to let something slip. 

 

What will you do now, little Phantling? Charlie wants to ask. Will you tell him the truth? Lie? Wait for him to try and find out on his own?

 

He doesn’t ask, even though his body is here, and he can. Intervening would ruin it. Oh, this is so exciting! 

 

There’s a reason he likes watching Quackity of Las Nevadas so much. 

 

The Phantling pauses, glaring the Avian down. After a moment, his shoulders slump as he makes his decision, reluctance and defeat written across his face. Both Charlie and the Avian lean in. 

 

“He's Phil’s kid.”

 

He says it like it’s a secret, a scandal, something no one can know. Oh, Wilbur of L’Manburg, you clever Phantling! There’s nothing Quackity of Las Nevadas loves more than a scandal. 

 

Already, the Avian is hanging off every word, the look on his face nothing short of hungry.  “An Elytran?”

 

“Half.” The Phantling spits, like it pains him to admit it. 

 

Still, the Avian keeps pressing, keeps pushing. A lazy, content smile on his face as he leans in even more, eyes glittering. “Do I get to know his other half?”

 

“Ask about him again,” The Phantling hisses through gritted teeth. “And you lose the other eye.”



It’s enough to stun the avian into silence, to shatter the cat with the canary smile that had spread across his face. Once again, they’re on even footing, the dance of push and pull ended in a no-score draw. 

 

Well played, Wilbur of L’Manburg, Charlie Slimecicle muses, already shifting his focus to look elsewhere. Well played indeed. 




 

-






“What the hell is going on!?”

 

“Less talking, more running!”

 

The purple-eyed alien, Purpled, apparently, fitting name, just growls. He doesn’t stop running, though, letting Tommy grab him by the arm and yank him through the crowd. All of the sparkling aliens in their clean suits and sparkling dresses scatter like pigeons around them, voices lost in the thrumming of the music. 

 

Tubbo has the advantage, being the shortest. All he has to do is duck and weave, while Tommy and Purpled just have to barrel right through. He steps on more than a few ladies dresses, he’s sure, and enough spotless black dress shoes that he doesn’t dare pause to look over his shoulder for even a second. 

 

The fox guy, Fundy, is right on their heels still, he can tell by all the shouting. They aren’t exactly subtle, shoving their way blindly through crowds, but at least all the flashing neon lights gives him a bit of cover. Their suits don’t make half-bad disguises either, but blonde hair isn’t exactly common amongst the aliens around them. He’s sure he sticks out like a sore fucking thumb. 

 

Purpled yanks harshly on his arm, veering them to the left. “This way!”

 

He grabs Tubbo by the scruff of his suit, dress shoes squealing against the polished floors as he whirls around to the left after Purpled.

 

The alien slams a button on a nearby wall, and two sliding doors pull away. An elevator, probably a maintenance once, considering how it was practically invisible. All three of them collapse inside in a pile, and Purpled slams his fist over the button on the inside the minute they hit the floor. The doors close with a whoosh! And the sounds of frustrated shouts and panicked rich people vanish. 



It’s quiet. The jazzy elevator music that fills the air next feels kind of anticlimactic. 



“Get off of me!”

 

He packpedals off of Purpled, scrambling to his feet. He gives Tubbo a hand up, and he’s on his feet in an instant, shaking out his hair and antennae like a dog shaking off water. 

 

Tommy gives him a look, grasping him by the shoulder. “You alright?”

 

He nods. “I’m fine.” 

 

Purpled huffs at the both of them, brushing out the wrinkles on his crisp white shirt and combing his blonde hair back with his hands. He gives Tommy and Tubbo both a disgruntled look. “This elevator leads right to the penthouse suite. Fundy won’t think to follow us up there. I don’t know how the fuck you got in here, but you’re on your own in finding a way out.”

 

Tommy wants to bristle and snap back, but he swallows it down instead. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, and all that. Or the one to save you from the angry fox alien, in this case. “…Thanks.”

 

Purpled clearly hasn’t heard of the metaphor.



Instead of saying you’re welcome, like a normal person, He goes ramrod stiff. His purple eyes go venomous, lip curling back and hands tightening into fists like he’d been slapped across the face instead. 

 

“Don’t thank me.” He all but snarls, sharply enough that Tommy takes a step back. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m done with favors. Got it?”

 

Tommy doesn’t wince at the sharpness of his voice, but it’s close . He gives him another look over, from his now-scuffed black boots to the crooked purple tie. He’s a far cry from the kid in the raggedy hoodie he’d saved on Netheria, that’s for sure, though the faint scars on his face and that wild animals’ snarl are just the same. Like a cat hissing, tail lashing and every inch of fur standing on end. 

 

A jazz singer faintly croons from somewhere above them. 

 

“…Got it. Yeah.” He stammers, after a moment, and Purpled relaxes. 

 

No more favors.

 

He’s never been a fan of favors, either. Debts and promises weren’t exactly his strong suit, so he gets it. Just a little. He doubts he would have reacted like that? 

 

Just who is this kid? 



The elevator gives a cheery little ding! And the doors slide open. Purpled gives them one last sharp nod before slipping out and starting a quick exit down the hall.



And Tommy….

 

Tommy has a lot of fucking questions, and not a lot of patience. 



He grabs him by the back of the collar before he can slip too far away, dragging him back into the elevator. “Wait, hold on! Who are you?!”

 

“Purpled.” He hisses, wrenching himself free. “It’s literally on my name tag.” 

 

Fine. He wants to play it like this? Tommy is just fine with that. He grabs him by the arm instead, yanking him back, slamming his fist over the elevator buttons with his other hand. There’s tons of them, at least twenty different floors, and he’s sure he hits about three. They’ll be in here for a while, then, plenty of time to chat. 

 

“Yeah, I got that , dickhead.” He snorts. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

 

Just who the hell are you? Is what he means. How did you get all the way over here, from Netheria to Nevodis? How did you end up working for someone like Quackity? How does a scruffy street kid end up in a place like this, dressed like that? What’s your deal with favors? Just what the hell happened on Netheria, anyways? Were you a fighter? Did you escape? Was I just your replacement? Why do you look so human? 

 

Purpled curls his lip again, gaze jumping back and forth from the hand on his arm to Tommy’s eyes. “Well I was doing my job.”

 

“You know what I mean!” Tommy huffs sharply through his nose. Questions. Right. He’ll start with the one he wants to know the answer to the most and work from there. “How did you end up here from Netheria?”

 

“And what were you doing there, anyways?” Tubbo cuts in, glaring him down, “How do we know you’re not still working for Schlatt? All of this money doesn’t just come out of nowhere, I doubt Quackity got it legally.”

 

Tommy blinks, startled, looking over at his friend. Tubbo leans against the wall of the elevator, arms crossed and duel-toned eyes sharp. That was… A good point. A really good point, actually. It makes sense, in a weird sort of way, though he hadn’t even thought about how Quackity had built a place like this. Schlatt definitely had no shortage of money, if ever made it out of that ring…

 

Purpled bares his teeth in another snarl, wrenching his arm out of Tommy’s grasp. “Work for Schlatt? Willingly? Do I look that stupid to you?”

 

“So you were a fighter.” Tommy presses. “How does a kid like you end up here? Halfway across the galaxy in a fancy-ass casino?”

 

The look he gets in return is absolutely venomous. “I could ask you the same thing.”

 

The elevator gives a cheery little ding! And the doors slide open. Before either of them can move, Tubbo’s slamming his hand over the close door button, and up, up, up, they go. It’s quiet for a moment as he and Fubbo both glare Purpled down, all set to too-cheery jazz in the background.

 

It’s Purpled that breaks the staring contest first, running a hand through his hair and growling. “I don’t have time for this. If I get fired because of you two, I will track you down.”

 

Tommy scoffs. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

 

In a day’s time they’ll be hundreds of thousands of miles out in space. In a few weeks, he’ll be back on Earth, safe and sound. Let him try. 



There’s another pause. Another ding!



Purpled’s faster, this time. Tubbo goes for the buttons, but he’s already halfway out the door by the time he can press it, one polished boot keeping it open just enough for him to slip through. 



He gives them one last look, purple eyes boring into his. He hesitates, for just a second, then scoffs, shaking his head. “You want some free advice, Tommy?” 

 

And all at once, he's frozen, limbs seizing up. The way he says his name makes goosebumps rise on his skin, hair standing on end. He wants to move, to grab him, he wants answers, goddamn it, but those purple eyes pin him in place. 

 

“There’s nobody out here people like us can trust. Not Quackity, not Wilbur.” He drawls, gaze shifting to Tubbo when he spits his last words.  “ No one.” 



Tommy blinks, and he’s gone. 



Ding! Goes the elevator, and the doors slip shut. 





-

 

“It’s dusk.”

 

“They’ll be back soon. Wilbur’s probably taking the long way.”

 

“Or they got arrested. Get ready to pay up, old man.”



“...Damn.”

 

“Help!”







-





You see, like everything else that’s happened today, things go pretty quickly from bad to even worse. 



The elevator opened on the penthouse suite, just like Purpled said it would, but Tommy barely even notices, head still reeling from the other thing he had said. 

 

He could have been talking about anything, really! He already knew Quackity couldn’t be trusted, and trust no one is a pretty broad phrase. He could have just been talking about Fundy, for gods sake, or it was just general space advice. Considering how things had been going for him so far, it wasn’t half-bad advice either. What does Purpled know about Wilbur, anyways? Or Tubbo? Nothing, that’s what. 

 

Tommy’s just overthinking it, that’s all. But still, what the hell is the someone like us portion supposed to mean? No one he can trust, sure, any other edgy teenager could tell him the same thing, but “ someone like us”?

 

He meant fighters, didn’t he? He must have. Tommy saved him from the ring, he took his place. He really doubted Purpled stuck around to hear Schlatt announce that he was human to the whole goddamn galaxy. Still, you never know how fast shit like that can spread around, though. He pulls his bandanna up a little more over his nose, just in case. 

 

He was just overthinking things. Last time he checked, humans don’t come with Purple eyes. 



Ding! Goes the elevator, and the doors slide open.



Like Purpled said, the penthouse suite. It definitely lives up to expectations. 

 

It’s exactly the kind of place Tommy never would have pictured himself stepping foot into, not in a million years. Floor to ceiling windows along just about every wall, comfortable looking leather couches and tasteful marble arches. Everywhere he looked there was something glimmering, gold in the floors, in the hanging lights, in the fancy, expensive-looking wall art. Even the lavender colored sky outside seemed to shimmer ever so slightly. It’s the kind of place you see in movies. 

 

He looks around, half expecting to see a mob boss lounging on a couch, smoking a cigar. Or maybe a woman in a sparkling flapper dress crooning a jazzy love song into an old timey microphone. He’d been forced to read The Great Gatsby in English class, and if it wasn’t for the futuristic elevator or the neon holograms displaying everything from art to swirling star maps and dancers, he’d be double checking to make sure he hadn’t wandered into the movie set. Even the jazz music playing softly overhead sounded wrong, but just ever so slightly. Just enough to put him on edge. 

 

It’s quiet, so quiet compared to the rest of the casino. Downright peaceful. 



“Tommy?”

 

Wilbur! 



And just like that, he’s unfrozen.

 

Wilbur was sitting on one of the black couches, an arm casually hanging over the side. He stands when he sees Tommy and Tubbo, though, the surprise on his face quickly morphing into confusion, and then concern quickly after. 

 

Tommy makes a beeline for him. Even his iridescent skin looked dull in comparison to all the glitz and glam around him. He’s never been happier to see that smug face in his life. The one thing in this place that didn’t shimmer and shine. 

 

He throws an arm over the shoulders of both him and Tubbo once they’re close enough. “How-? You know what? I’m not gonna ask. You didn’t break anything did you, gremlin?”

 

He bats his hands away. “Nothin’ but the ladies' hearts, Wil.” 

 

…And a milkshake glass that was probably more expensive than the whole of the Argo II. Whatever. Fundy deserved it anyways, the dickhead. What’s a little collateral damage in the long run? 

 

Besides, Tubbo broke the glass, not him. 



“Tommy! Tubbo! Glad you could make it.”



And there’s Quackity. 

 

He fits right in. His sleek black suit, the crisp white undershirt, everything down the polished boots and the blood-red tie. He stands too, swirling a champagne glass in one hand. Or… Tommy thinks it’s a champagne glass. They have a lot less swirls in the movies he’s seen. 

 

Before he can blink there’s a different arm around his shoulders, ushering him away from Wilbur and Tubbo and over to the windows. “The penthouse suite, what do you think?”

 

He blinks, shooting Wilbur and Tubbo a what the fuck do I do? Look over his shoulder, and only getting an eye roll and a shrug as Wilbur flops back down on the couch. Tubbo gives him a thumbs up, already preoccupied in picking at the golden seams of the couch. Looks like he’s on his own, then. Great. 

 

“I, uh.” He stammers, looking back out the window. “I like the view?”



He wasn’t lying, at least.

 

Now that he’s closer he can see down over the city below. The sun has just started to set over the mountains in the distance, painting the whole valley in shades of purple and pink. The buildings beneath them glitter like a mirage, bright, gaudy neon signs flickering on and reflecting off of clean, crisp marble. Even from here he can make out the fountains, the shimmering colors of the aliens still roaming the streets, the hover cars and low flying ships darting in and out. The bullet trains loop in and around the buildings like silver snakes. 

 

It’s beautiful. Like something straight out of a dream, equal parts too-familiar and too-perfect. He’d never been to Vegas, but he wouldn’t be surprised if this is what it looked like in a few hundred years. Equal parts neon lights and sparkling silver and gold. 

 

“Thought you might.” Quackity squeezes his shoulder encouragingly. “You can see all the way to the edge of the dome from here.”

 

He blinks. “The dome?”

 

Phil had mentioned a dome before, hadn’t he? He hadn’t explained it, though. 



“You don’t know?” Quackity gives him this look. A glimmer of surprise that quickly fades into a cock-sure grin. 

 

He tries his best not to look at the scar on his face or his one golden eye, no matter how much it feels like he’s staring straight through him. “Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you’ve never been to Nevodis before.”

 

There’s something else there. Something in his tone that sends alarm bells ringing in the back of his head. He doesn’t get a moment to think about what it is before he’s speaking again, keeping one arm firmly settled across his shoulders and spreading the other before him. 

 

“Nevodis’s atmosphere is incredibly radioactive,” He explains. “just a few days out there could be deadly. So, the best scientists in the Galaxy created the Dome. A way to keep the radiation at bay and make a section of the planet livable. The weather and temperature, everything down to the mountains in the distance, all created just so. Pretty realistic holograms, huh?”

 

He looks out over the desert again. 

 

This time, he squints. He should have known, those mountains looked wrong . Too perfect, too pretty, almost unnaturally picturesque . He should have known they were fake. Normal sky isn’t that purple, sunsets aren’t that perfect. A normal desert is ugly, at least a little bit, just enough to make it real. A normal desert doesn’t shimmer.

 

It’s fake. Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be? 

 

He was right when he called Las Nevadas a mirage, he realizes, staring out over it now it’s even more clear. Normal cities shouldn’t be this clean, this nice. 

 

It’s one pretty mirage, he’ll give it that, but that’s all it is isn’t it? 



He swallows. Hard. “Yeah. They are.”



Quackity chuckles, looking all too pleased with himself. He leads Tommy away from the window, putting hands on both of his shoulders this time, and the touch is enough to make his skin crawl. 

 

“So, Tommy, I was wondering-“



“He’s not interested, Quackity.”



They both look over at Wilbur.

 

He looks almost bored, slumped against the couch with both dress shoes propped up on Quackity’s pretty glass table. He props up his head with one hand, looking at them both with a raised eyebrow. 

 

Tubbo, on his other side, has grabbed one of the hologram triangles that had been sitting on the table, the same kind that had littered Puffy and Sam’s ship. A few seconds ago it displayed a pretty image of a vase of flowers. With a few twists of Tubbo’s clever fingers, though, all it did was blink. Pink. Nothing. Blue. Nothing. The world's most confusing Rubix cube. Quackity flinches with every little click! 

 

He recovers his composure quickly, though, putting his hands up innocently. “I didn’t say anything!”

 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Wilbur drawls, something in his eyes dark. “I saw you light up the minute I told you he was Phil’s son. He’s not going to be another one of your attractions.”

 

Wait a minute. Back the fuck up a second. Phil’s son? Was that the cover story Wilbur had told him? That he’s Phil’s fucking son? What happened to him being a Phantling like Wilbur? Last time he checked, he didn’t have wings!

 

“Of course not.” Quackity sputters, giving his shoulder another squeeze. “I treat my employees fantastically, I’ll have you know. One big, happy family!” 

 

Wilbur just rolls his eyes. Tubbo glances up at him, but only for a minute. Just long enough to give him another can you believe this guy? Expression. Click! Click! Click! Goes the hologram pyramid in his hands. Pink. Nothing. Blue. Nothing. Green. Yellow. Back to pink again. What the fuck is he doing? 

 

He doesn’t get the chance to ask. 

 

“Just consider it.” Quackity insists, to him this time, fully ignoring the glare Wilbur was pinning him with. He gestures to the city outside as he speaks. 

 

“This whole casino, everything in it, all yours. My employees get a wonderful discount on everything inside, and you won’t find a job that pays nearly as well in all of Nevodis.” 

 

Then, he drops his voice to a whisper, winking like he’s telling him an inside joke. “Besides, I’m well on my way to buying out the rest of the city. You’d get into any party for free. What do you think?”



For a moment, he almost considers it

 

A perfect city, a hundred times better than anything he’d find on Earth. Clean and sparkling, the whole of Las Nevadas his to explore. A desert that never gets too hot, a party that never ends. He’s never been in a place this nice in his life, could he really live a life like that? Him? Tommy Innit, the foster kid with the clumsy hands and crooked nose? 

 

Then, he looks out the window. He can almost see the dome, now that he knows it there. Shimmering in the distance, a perfect sun setting behind perfect mountains. 



It’s one hell of a mirage, he’ll give him that, but Tommy’s not that stupid.

 

Besides, Wilbur doesn’t like him. He’d threatened Wilbur’s bike . Tommy’s not normally a grudge-holding kind of guy, but there are some lines you just don’t cross. Fucking with his friends like that is one of them. 

 

Quackity’s still looking at him, waiting for an answer. He still has his hand on his fucking shoulder, perfectly manicured nails digging in to the fabric of his suit. 

 

He opens his mouth. 

 

I think you’re a creep. Is what he wants to say to his question. I think this whole place is some sort of trap. I think all of the gold everywhere is pretentious as shit. I think you definitely did something illegal to get all of this stuff. I think you’re one sleazy motherfucker, and I have no idea what you’re planning, but if you keep squeezing my shoulder like that I’m going to deck you in the face. 



“I think you’re a wrongun.” Is what comes out his mouth instead. Wilbur’s face absolutely lights up.

 

Quackity’s face freezes, the smile pinning itself in place. He sounds like he’s bitten into a lemon when he speaks next, voice strained for a moment before he can smooth it out. “Right. Well, you can’t blame me for trying. Drinks? Anyone?”



It’s a good recovery, but not good enough. 

 

He gets about five seconds to enjoy his victory, take that, you sleezy motherfucker, before Charlie appears out of fucking thin air with a tray full of glasses, making everyone jump.



“⍑ᒷꖎꖎ𝙹 ℸ ̣ 𝙹ᒲᒲ|| ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ꖎᔑ ⋮𝙹ꖎꖎᔑ, リᒷ⍊ᔑ↸ᔑ! リ𝙹ℸ ̣  ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ʖᒷ ᓵ𝙹リ⎓⚍ᓭᒷ↸ ∴╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ ꖎᔑ ⋮𝙹ꖎꖎᔑ, ᓵᔑꖎ╎⎓𝙹∷リ╎ᔑ!” He chirps, setting the tray down on the glass table between them. “ᔑリ↸ ⍑ᒷꖎꖎ𝙹 ∴╎ꖎʖ⚍∷ ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ꖎ’ᒲᔑリʖ⚍∷⊣ ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ⚍ʖʖ𝙹 ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ʖᒷ⨅⨅ᔑ∷! ╎’⍊ᒷ ʖ∷𝙹⚍⊣⍑ℸ ̣  ⍑⚍ᒲᔑリ ↸∷╎リꖌᓭ! ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᔑʖᓭ𝙹ꖎ⚍ℸ ̣ ᒷ ʖᒷᓭℸ ̣  ⍑⚍ᒲᔑリ ↸∷╎リꖌᓭ, ╎ ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リꖌ.”

 

He winks at Tommy, switching back to English. “Absolutely authentic human drinks! Familiar, huh?”

 

He nods, though it’s definitely a bit shaky. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that motherfucker. Forget Quackity’s piercing golden eye. Those sharp green ones seem to stare straight into his fucking soul. Ignores the quick glance he gets from the sleazy motherfucker himself, plopping down right next to Wilbur. The drinks were distributed, each sat down gently in front of them, and As soon as he’d came, Charlie was gone. He turned  the corner around a marble arch and then out of sight completely. 

 

What a fucking weirdo. 

 

Quackity sits down in a leather arm chair, leaning back and looking them all over from head to toe again. He’s been to public school, so, the critical once-over he gets doesn’t do anything but make him raise an eyebrow. 

 

Undeterred, he grabs the drink in front of him and raises it. “A toast, Wilbur. To friendship.”

 

Tommy gives him one last look, what the hell is this guy playing at? Before he looks down at the tray, already curling his lip. 

 

Wait a minute, back the fuck up. What the absolute hell? 

 

He’d been expecting fancy champagne flutes, or at least some kind of sparkly wine glass, something pretentious with a long, swirly stem like the others he’d seen. Maybe one of those light up ice cubes. What sits on the tray between them instead is none of those things. 

 

…If Tommy didn’t know any better, he’d say it looks almost like a soda can, pull-tab in all. There isn’t any label, but each one has its own colored wrapping. The one in front of him is sky-blue, the one in front of Tubbo a grape-purple color, the one in front of Wilbur a Cherry red, and the one Quackity is holding casually in one hand a shimmering gold. He almost rolls his eyes, of course. It’s even the same color as the feathers on his cheeks. 

 

Tubbo grabs his first, turning it over and examining the pop-tab like he’s never seen anything like it before, eyes wide and curious. 

 

Wilbur curls his lip at his own drink. “What the hell is this?”

 

“An Earth drink,” Quackity drawls, voice silky smooth. He holds it like its something precious, something fancy,  “I believe they call it Coh-Lah . it’s all the rage on Earth's Western Hemisphere.” 

 

He’s kidding. He has to be fucking kidding.

 

He lifts his drink to Wilbur again, leaning in, “I know we’ve had our differences, old friend, but I think it’s time we start it over. Leave it all in the dust, yeah?”

 

His voice sounds… Sincere. He looks sincere too, more than he has all day, actually. Either he actually means what he’s saying, or he’s one hell of a good actor. 

 

And Wilbur…

 

His face flickers, just a little. Tommy’s known him long enough to catch it. Just a flicker of vulnerability in those brown eyes. It’s gone the minute he blinks, face just as calm and bored as it has been, but Tommy knows what he saw. 

 

Something about what Quackity said struck a nerve.



“…Alright.” He gives in, after a beat, lifting his own red drink. “Too leaving it all in the dust.”

 

Their cans clink! 

 

Quackity pops his tab in smooth movement, bringing the bubbling drink to his lips. Tommy’s not too far behind, fucking soda! He doesn’t care what kind it is, he could be drinking the most off-brand kind there is for all he cares, hell, he’d take a fucking sparkling water at this point. At Least that would be familiar. He pops his tab and is just about to take a sip before he notices Wilbur struggling with his.

 

He rolls his eyes. Fucking figures. All of this futuristic technology and they’re stumped by pop-tabs. He holds out a hand. “Give it.”

 

Wilbur grunts, but shoves it into his hands anyways. Tommy’s had sixteen years worth of practice opening pop-tabs, so it comes open easy-peasy under his fingers. It bubbles up a bit, because of course Wilbur had to shake it up, and he takes a swig to keep it from dripping all over everywhere, and-

 

Quackity’s drink slips out of his hand, spilling all over the floor, and all of the color drains out of his face at once. 



It’s quiet for all of three seconds before Wilbur is launching himself across the table at him.

 

“You son of a bitch!”

 

“Wait, Wilbur wait!”

 

He and Tubbo scramble back as they both crash into the table, both of them jumping to their feet. 

 

Quackity furiously tries to scramble away, but Wilbur’s got him by the lapels of his coat, now, pulling him up nose-to-nose as Tommy tries to get his breathing under control. He crumples the can in his fist, spilling the rest of it on the floor as Tubbo drags him back and away from all the broken glass. 

 

The look on Wilbur’s face isn’t like anything he’s ever seen before.

 

Absolutely furious, lips pulled back to reveal rows of sharp, sharp teeth. His eyes all but glow a toxic shade of green, pupils narrowed into slits. 

 

“What was in the drink!?” He roars, shaking him hard enough that Tommy can hear his teeth rattle in his skull. “What did you put in it?! Tell me or I swear-“

 

“I didn’t- he wasn’t supposed to-” He gasps out, clawing at Wilbur’s hands around his neck, eyes wide in equal parts panic and horror as he struggles to breathe around the hands right in his collar. “I meant it for you!”



Poison. 



Of course it was fucking poison. How stupid was he?! He knew Quackity was up to something, he knew it. The second he walked into this place he pinned it as some sort of trap or something, And still, he drank the fucking soda like a goddamn idiot! 

 

Everyone’s yelling. Wilbur is still snarling in Quackity’s face as he screams and pleads, Tubbo is shouting in his ear, grabbing his face, spit it out, spit it out Tommy! But he knows he already swallowed it. He lifts a hand to his throat. How much did he drink? A mouthful? Maybe too? It tasted fucking weird, but he’d been expecting that. Equal parts too-flat Coke and too-strong cherry flavor, the sickly-sweet aftertaste now making him want to gag. Oh god . How long did he have? Was he going to die? Was he already dying?

 

Quackity hits the floor, nose gushing blood as he digs his hands into the glass shards, snarling. Wilbur goes in for another punch, shouting something , but all Tommy can hear is the rushing of blood in his ears. Who’s talking? Who’s whispering? He can hear someone, he swears he can hear someone whispering something, it’s right there- 

 

Footsteps, loud and pounding. More shouting.

 

“We’ve got company!” Tubbo shouts in his ear, grabbing the back of Wilbur’s coat. “Go go go!”




The rest happens in flashes.

 

Aliens, all dressed in too-slick black suits, the hum of laser guns charging up to fire. Shouting, angry, firm. Security guards, he thinks numbly, just their luck. “Get on the ground! Put your hands in the air!”

 

Quackity, face bloody and lip curled back, staring up at Wilbur with nothing but hate in his eyes, every ounce of that false vulnerability long forgotten. There’s a laser gun in his hands, sleek and black, pulled from the inside of his jacket, It charges up slowly, so, so slowly, but still they’re all frozen. The front of it glows yellow. “If I’m going down, you’re coming down with me!” 

 

Tubbo, face grim and determined, calmer than he has any right to be, really, grabbing the holo-prism with both hands and chucking it at the floor in between them just in time. “ Cover your eyes!”

 

Wilbur grabs him right then, throwing an arm across his face a few seconds too late as the prism explodes. There’s a light so bright it stings, enough to send him reeling back and turn his legs into jelly. If it wasn’t for Wilbur holding him against his chest, he probably would have hit the floor. Judging by the noises around him, the others weren’t as lucky, and the screams of frustration and pain make his ears ring. 

 

 He almost wants to laugh as Wilbur drags him away, shaky feet pounding on the slick, glossy floors as they stumble back over towards the elevator. Only Tubbo would be able to turn a hologram into a fucking bomb! 

 

They do what they do best from there, as the familiar thrumming of laser guns charging up fills the air. They turn on their heels and run.






-



-




“Is he breathing all right? Blood pressure okay? Tommy, follow my fingers-“

 

“I feel fine!”

 

“- Could have been anything!”



An hour later, they’re all back on the ship, safe and sound. More or less.

 

The escape from the casino had happened so fast. He barely even remembers how they got out, twisting and turning through back hallways, shoving down patrons and waiters alike to get out those front doors. All of the glittering colors and neon lights didn't help, all they did was make him more dizzy as they ran. Thank god for high-speed service elevators, if they had to take the stairs from the penthouse suite all the way to the ground floor, he thinks he would have actually killed himself. At the very least broken an ankle. 

 

From there, it’s nothing but the desert sun on his back and the wind in his hair, tucked safely between Tubbo and Wilbur as they break just about every traffic law in existence speeding out of the city. He buries his face into Wilbur’s shoulder blades, filling his nose with the scent of space-vanilla and sweat, and forces himself to breathe. 

 

They aren’t followed from the casino. No hover cars chase them, firing lasers at the backs of their heads. As fucking cool as a high-speed hoverbike chase would have been, he’s honestly pretty grateful. Being you know, poisoned. 

 

Phil is probably the worst off, wings all bristled, feathers twitching he tightens and untightens the blood pressure cuff on his arm. He’d tolerated all of the fussing for the most part, letting them stick the world's weirdest looking thermometer in his mouth and a clamp over his finger to make sure his heartbeat matched the one displayed on his comn. He keeps making worried little coos, and slaps another little sticky-thing with a wire attached on his chest. What are they called? Electrodes? It’s something dumb like that, he’s sure. 

 

He crossed his arms over his chest. At Least they didn’t make him take off his dress shirt, just taking off the black coat and unbuttoning the front. He’d rather them not see the extent of the scars on his back. Not while everyone’s already stressed to hell and back, anyways. 



He’d kept the can, too. He hadn’t even realized that he’d held on to it until they’d hopped on the bike. Phil and Wilbur have been running tests on it for what seems like forever, taking little samples with syringes and sticking it with all sorts of metal rods and dumb little machines. 

 

As long as they don’t get any bright ideas about sticking him with one of those syringes, he could care less. If they even think about getting those needles anywhere near him, he can and will bite someone. 



Around him, the rest of the crew paces and flutters around anxiously. 

 

Wilbur looks about two seconds from shoving his hand down Tommy’s throat, pacing back and forth across the medbay. The others don’t seem too different, Tubbo having latched himself to Tommy’s side and all but hissing at anyone trying to seperate them. Technoblade is hovering too, leaning against the wall with his arms firmly crossed over his chest, turning his rings over and over in his hands, ears pinned tight to his head as his tail lashes back and forth. Even Ranboo looks nervous, sitting on the other side of the medbay and looking at him with big, worried eyes, making sad little vwoops every now and again. 

 

It can’t be that bad, right? He feels absolutely fine. All of the tests they’ve done on him have come back normal, after all. They’re probably just overreacting, per usual. He can’t really blame them. 



“I knew something like this would happen,” Technoblade mutters under his breath. “I knew it-“

 

“Quackity.” Wilbur spits the name like just saying it hurts, “I should have known-“



The machine Phil is fiddling with makes a little beep-boob! Sound. 

 

Everyone goes quiet. In an instant, Wilbur and Technoblade are checking it out, shoving each other and crowding closer to Phil to look at whatever the machine says. The whole room holds their breath as they look at whatever the results of the can-testing says, and he, Tubbo and Ranboo crane their necks over to try and catch and glimpse.

 

For a moment, the medbay is very, very still, and very, very quiet. 



“…It’s. Its Trimethylxanthine Guaranine.” Phil whispers, and the room explodes. 

 

“There are some really good doctors on Nevodis, we can get his stomach pumped-“ He keeps saying, running a hand through his blonde hair, but the others aren’t listening. 

 

Technoblade is looking down right murderous, hands balling into fists as he snarls, “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.”

 

Ranboo makes a strangled noise, Tubbo grabs his arm and squeezes, looking at him with wide, shocked eyes. 

 

“- don’t go into the light!” Wilbur is shouting, at his other side in an instant and patting his face, face pale and eyes wide. “Just look at me, Tommy, it’s gonna be okay-“

 

“Alright stop!” He rips his face out his hands, heart leaping to his throat. What the hell is that? Trimethylxanthine Guaranine? Am I gonna die?”

 

He’s too young to die. He’s, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? He’s too young to die! There are so many places he hasn’t been to yet, so many things he hasn’t done, so many women he hasn’t met. After all of that, after everything, he’s just gonna die in space? To a poison not even meant for him? After everything this is how he goes out? From drinking a fucking Coke?! 

 

“You’re not gonna die, toms, not on our watch.” Phil tries to calm him down, but there’s nothing on his face but panic. 

 

Wilbur is having absolutely none of it, pulling Tommy flush against his chest with both arms tight around him as he wails . “Don’t lie to him! Caffeine is deadly, Phil!”

 

Wait a fucking minute. “…Caffeine?”

 

Now, Tommy definitely failed chemistry in highschool, but he knows what caffeine is. He’s been drinking sodas since he was like, six, he’s practically immune to the stuff by now. 

 

He’s going to be fine. Just the thought of it makes him dizzy with relief. He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die. 

 

He’s going to be just fine. 

 

God, what a fucking relief

 

The others have quite the opposite opinion, however. Wilbur is still shouting, holding his face like he’s going to keel over any minute. Phil had one hand over his mouth, looking at him with big, sad blue eyes like he’s already picking out the flowers he’d like best at his funeral. Technoblade looks about two seconds from committing a murder, and even Ranboo is misty-eyed, warbling and vwooping pitifully in his ear as they lean in closer. Only Tubbo doesn’t look a few seconds from bursting into tears, looking just about as relieved as he feels and slumping against his side. 

 

He barely even notices, already eying the crumpled up can sitting, abandoned, on the counter. 



…When was the last time he’s had any sort of caffeine? Months ago? Years? He would stab someone for an ice-cold Coke right about now. Just the thought of it sounds like heaven. 

 

He’s across the room in seconds, already chugging the last few drops. 



“Tommy no!”






(All of the well-deserved yelling and smothering that happens next is worth it, in the end. If for nothing else than to see the look on Wilbur’s face as he drinks the rest. And, if he spends take off and the few days that follow getting smothered once again by a bunch of anxious aliens, still worried he’s going to collapse and die any second, that’s worth it too.

 

He adds the empty can to his stash. Nevodis had definitely been something, that’s for sure.)





-




“-So close.”

 

“Hold still.”

 

The Avian huffs, but keeps his hands still as the teenager with purple eyes dresses his palms, pulling out shards of glass with tweezers and setting them aside. He doesn’t even flinch, too busy pouting and complaining to anyone that would listen. 

 

As it were, it’s just the two of them in the penthouse at the moment. Even with an audience of one, the Avian is expressive, waving his other hand about as he talks. 

 

The teenager had started tuning him out the second he opened his mouth, and he still hasn’t noticed. 



“If it wasn’t for that kid, I would have had him!” He continues on, rambling into thin air. “How was I supposed to know he was going to drink it instead?!”

 

“Uh huh.” The teenager says, setting a shard of glass aside. 

 

“It wasn’t even enough to kill him! It was just supposed to make him sick! In a few weeks he’d be crawling back here on his knees looking for the cure.” He grins, then, gaze far away as he imagines how his brilliant plan should have gone. “I would have given it to him too, for a price.”

 

“Right.”

 

If this job didn’t pay so well, the teenager thinks to himself, he would have left a while ago. 



“Do you know how hard it is to find caffeine nowadays?” The again keeps whining. “It took forever to get my hands on a dose big enough to work!”

 

“Ye p.” The teenager mutters back, popping the ‘p’. He had been the one to steal it, after all. 

 

The avian groans again, leaning back in his expensive leather chair. The teenager pays him no mind, tearing off a long strip of gauze with his teeth and starting to wrap. He’s no stranger to wrapping wounds, and does it practically on auto pilot, mind elsewhere. 

 

He thinks about a blonde kid, instead. About the wide-eyed look on his pale face as he’d left him there on the elevator. 

 

No one you can trust, he had told him. He had meant it, too, the dumbfounded look on his face was just a plus. How had someone that stupid managed to make it this far across the galaxy without getting killed yet? It’s like he was wearing a sign across his chest, ‘Look at me! I’m a dumb human!’, written in neon lettering. Anyone with half a brain would know what he is the minute they saw him.

 

“-He’s hiding something, I just know it. Phil’s son my ass, last time I checked, Elytrans came with wings.”



He is so fucking lucky that Purpled is feeling nice today. 

 

“Half-Elytran.” The teenager corrects, still winding bandages. “I think his other half is some sort of slime, like Charlie.”

 

All at once, Quackity’s hungry eyes snap to him. “You think so?”

 

He shrugs. “Probably. If he was half slime, he’d be able to hide his wings. That, or he’s a Pure Merling that can charm-speak.”

 

…He’s not sure if that’s how it even works, but it’s enough to get the gears turning in Quackity’s head. He doubted the thought of the kid being a human had even crossed his mind yet, but the more he can steer his boss in the opposite direction, the better. 

 

He might have sworn off deals and debts, sure, but people like them had to look out for each other. He’s heard the whispers, now, the rumors of a blonde-haired human traveling the galaxy. He’s heard stories of what happens to exotic species, and no one, no one, deserves that fate. No matter how annoying. 

 

Besides, he might not be fully human, but still he’s just enough to be at risk. The sooner the rumors die out, the better for both of them. He’s been so careful for so long, no way in hell is he letting himself get screwed over this late in the game. 

 

“Hmm,” Quackity mutters, leaning back in his chair, already staring off into space as he thinks. “Now that’s an idea. Aren’t both Phantlings and Merlings vulnerable to fire?”

 

Shit. 



“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask.” He cuts him off, speaking quickly before he can get any more ideas. “What’s you’re, uh…” Obsession? Thing , with Wilbur, anyways?”

 

The quickest way of diverting Quackity’s attention, he’s found, is by giving him a chance to talk about himself.

 

It works like a charm, just like he knew it would. He knows he asked the right question when his brown eye starts to gleam. He looks over at him, raising his good eyebrow. “Haven’t I told you how I got this scar?”

 

Just then, the elevator doors open.




In comes a Vulpian, ears pinned the sides of his head, his tail all frizzed out and swishing angrily behind him. The front of his uniform is covered with a pink stain, and judging by the awkward, clumpy way his fur had dried, it wasn’t the only part of him victimized by the milkshake. 

 

Quackity stares, mouth falling open. “Fundy, what happened to you?”

 

He walks right past them, not even glancing over. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

The longest chapter to date, though it's starting to feel like I'm saying that every week. Still, I think 19k words is a pretty impressive chapter count, no? I'll try to keep the others shorter, Quackity is just a ton of fun to write. I really like how it turned out regardless, and I cannot *wait* for the next chapter, It has one of my favorite scenes in this whole fic. I'm back in school though, unfortunately, so it might be a few weeks before I can share it. Just hang in there, alright?

Also, we have fanart! You can check it out here, here, and here!

You can find even more on my Tumblr Please tag me if you make something, (@aliveandrestless5 on Tumblr), getting that notification is the highlight of my day, and I'd love to show it off!

Anyways, I'll see you guys soon. Stay safe out there, yeah?

 

 

-Matches

Chapter 12: A Matter of Time

Summary:

Tubbo, high as fuck on space cough medicine this whole chapter: Do you ever think about how we're all just characters in a story, puppeted around by a cruel mastermind of fate
Ranboo: oh what the fu c k

Notes:

“I see you
laughin' with your girlfriends,
Not a care in the world, not a burden on your mind,
It was a matter of time.”
-A Matter of Time, the killers




Its been a while, huh?

A slightly more angsty chapter for you guys this time. A lot of crimeboys, a little plot, all the good stuff. Make sure to read all the TWs! If you're unsure or uncomfortable with any topics from this chapter, feel free to skip and ask for a summary. I don't believe its *too* bad, but if you know these topics are triggers for you, its better safe than sorry. This is a warning, though, that after next chapter things are going to be rough for a while. Enjoy the peace while it lasts!
as always, a giant thank you to my lovely Beta, (who now goes by the name Mars! she still uses she/her,), and all of my Tumblr anons, who have been very patiently waiting for this chapter.

Recommended songs are A Matter of Time, (duh), Do Not Wait and Wake Up, you can find all of these on this fics playlist Here!. Enjoy!

 

TWs:

WARNING: Tommy does have slight flashbacks/panic attacks in this chapter, they are mild, but not easy for me to tag due to placement and frequency. If this is a trigger for you, best to skip entirely.

Past child abuse and torture, past domestic abuse, lingering effects of past trauma, sickness, descriptions of choking/suffocating due to illness, flashbacks to traumatic events involving strangulation, past illness-related deaths of unnamed characters, descriptions of illness/sick character(s) (no vomit), lingering effects of past illnesses, mild panic attack, Tommy's usual catastrophizing and teenage angst

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It’s no surprise, really, that almost immediately after leaving Nevodis, Tommy gets sick.

 

Space is pretty cold, after all, he wouldn't exactly describe the inside of the Argo II as warm . Besides, he’s been surrounded by a bunch of different aliens carrying god knows what diseases, and as far as he knows, he hasn’t been shot up with some weird space vaccine. He can’t even say the amount of times he's caught the flu from a classmate at school sneezing three rows away on the bus, enough times that he should have been immune, but never was. What did he think was going to happen?

 

So, when he wakes up two days after leaving Nevodis behind with a pounding headache and sweating bullets, he’s not exactly surprised. 

 

He’s no stranger to getting sick. He’s pretty sure he’s had just about every fucking illness you can catch back on Earth, or atleast, that’s what it had felt like. Chicken pox when he was seven, bronchitis when he was twelve and again that thirteen, a chesty cough a few bad nights away from turning into all out pneumonia when he was fifteen, and that's not even including all the times he’s gotten Strep throat.  He gets the flu once a year like fucking clockwork, and coughs, colds, and twenty-four hour bugs of every shape and kind were always a menace to deal with. A shitty immune system comes with the territory of being an underfed foster kid, he guesses, and a few months of barely eating anything at all when he had first been kidnapped definitely didn't do him any wonders. He might be recovered now, but still. The damage had already been done, hadn't it? 

 

Of course his body would still find some way to fuck him over, even months later. Of course. 

 

He knows the drill. Take an Advil, drink some water, sleep it off. Rinse and repeat until the world stops spinning again, and you can stand without feeling lightheaded. He’s had enough experience in swallowing back pain and discomfort that no one would even have to know he was sick at all.

 

Sure, there’s no Advil in space, but Phil keeps thumb-sized vials of healing potions stocked in the medbay for headaches and little stuff like that. He doesn’t even notice when one goes missing. Besides, in another day’s time, he’s feeling just fine. He’s right back to sparring with Technoblade in the afternoons and fucking around with Tubbo and Ranboo, avoiding Wilbur. All of the usual things. Like he was never even sick at all. 

 

...Right, avoiding Wilbur. Fun. 



In his defense, the guy’s been off ever since Nevodis.

 

Tommy’s not fucking stupid, alright? He knows there was a lot of history between him and Quackity, a lot more than he’s been willing to share, anyways. Tommy getting poisoned in his place had really rattled him, and his emotions have been all over the place ever since, flip-flopping between never wanting to leave Tommy’s side, and locking himself in his room for days on end. Not being able to tell whether or not he was having one of his good days, where Tommy can hang out in his room and pretend things are normal, or the bad ones, when he gets irritated over small things and just wants to be left alone, is not fun. 

 

(He knows Wilbur wouldn’t hurt him. He knows, he knows, he knows. He’d broken Quackity’s nose to protect him, hadn’t he? Calmed him down when he had his… Freak outs. Tommy knows better. He knows better. 

 

He just wishes his stupid brain would get the fucking memo. Something about all the mood swings was making all the alarm bells in the back of his head go off at the worst of fucking times. A little voice in the back of his head telling him to run far, far away everytime Wilbur snaps just a little too harshly, turns just a little too sharply. Instincts. Responses trained into him, too strong to fight against. The fucking worst. )




He’d asked Technoblade about it, once. The response of, “it’s not my story to tell, “ was predictable, but still just as unhelpful. 

 

The solution Tommy had settled on? Leaving him the fuck alone until he stops acting like a heartbroken teenage girl on her period. It seemed to be working pretty well so far. Besides, weren’t you supposed to give people space when they were upset? 

 

Anyways. 



So, yeah. Things had gone back to… Somewhat normal. By the next morning he was feeling just fine, no one had even known he was sick in the first place, and that was the end of it. 

 

Atleast, it should have been. 



Then, Ranboo wakes them all up the next morning whimpering and clutching their head. Sure enough, their skin is warm to the touch, and it’s not long before their wheezing turns into pathetic coughing.

 

Tommy’s not worried. He’s not. He definitely doesn’t spend the next few days hovering over them, just in case. The thought of the others knowing that Ranboo was sick makes his stomach turn, (You never tell the foster parents that you’re sick, you never let anyone know when you’re weak-,)  but he swallows that back too, and tells Phil the next chance that he gets. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he does, careful not to let him see how much they shake. 

 

Things are different, here, he has to remind himself. It’s fine. 




Still, no ones really that worried, not at that point. Again, space is cold, and the cough isn’t really that bad, not harsh or frequent enough to be concerning. Ranboo is awake and talking, joking like nothing is wrong even while they sniffle. They don’t even get moved into the medbay, Phil just purses his lips and hands over another shimmering vial and a very, very small slice of a golden apple. He and Tubbo get strict instructions to make sure they get enough sleep and keep an eye on their fever, but sure enough, in about two days time they’re back to normal like nothing had ever happened in the first place.

 

It was fine. He probably caught a cold on Nevodis or something, and sharing a room with Ranboo means that they just caught it next. They were still working on healing from their time on Netheria, so it's no surprise it hit them a little harder than it did Tommy. No big deal, no harm done. 




Then, Tubbo gets sick, and things take a sharp turn for the worst.



At first, it’s just a cough and fever, just like Ranboo. Phil looks a little more concerned this time when Tommy pulls him into their room, gesturing to Tubbo’s slightly-trembling shape on the bed, but doesn’t think too much of it. None of them do, not really. They had all been sharing a bed while Ranboo was sick, after all. Again, he gets a thumb-sized vial and a small slice of golden fruit, and Ranboo and Tommy are told to keep an eye on things until the fever breaks.

 

“It should only take a day or two.” Phil had told them, patting Tommy’s shoulder. “Don’t look so worried, mate. One of you was bound to get sick sooner or later, he’ll bounce back in no time.” 



Except…

 

…He doesn’t. 




One day turns into two. Then three. 

 

By the fourth day, Tubbo could barely keep anything down, racked with coughing fits every few minutes, pale face slicked with sweat. The fever hasn't broken, if anything, it’s only gotten worse, leaving him weak and shivering, even while wrapped up snugly in a cocoon of blankets. He throws back up any medicine he’s given, including the golden fruit and potions, eyes bleary and red-rimmed. 

 

He’s moved into the medbay, and at that point, Tommy knows that something is very, very wrong. 





-




“They call it the Blue Death , on Viona.” Wilbur explains, face uncharacteristically blank as he looks Tubbo over. “Or the factory curse , depending on who you ask. It infects the lungs, filling them up with fluid until…”

 

“He suffocates.” Technoblade finishes for him, leaning against the wall. 

 

Tommy just gapes,  reeling like he’s been punched in the stomach. “He’s going to die?!”

 

He stares at Tubbo’s shape on the bed. He looks so small , curled up tight with his knees pulled up all the way under his chin, eyes screwed shut. The monitors and blinking machines around him definitely don’t help, either. His breathing is shallow and fast, even in sleep, face pale and clammy. Something ice-cold and sharp closes around Tommy’s chest and squeezes. 

 

Ranboo makes a distressed noise, and he can’t help but agree. Tubbo can’t… He can’t just die! Not after all that! He can’t, he can’t-

 

“He’s going to be fine.” Phil interrupts, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We caught it pretty early, and the cure is a lot easier to get your hands on nowadays than it used to be. It just means we need to take a detour to Viona.”

 

He forces air back into his lungs, forces himself to fucking breathe. In for four, out for eight, Calm the fuck down.  “So he’s gonna be alright? He’s not gonna…”

 

“No.”

 

That was Techno, saying the word with enough conviction to have Tommy looking up and over in his direction. He’s leaning against the wall of the med-bay, arms crossed over his chest as he watches. He doesn’t smile reassuringly like Phil, but his gaze is steady and confident, and that’s reassuring enough in its own right. 

 

Tommy forces another lungful of air down his throat. Then another. Breathe.

 

“We have enough Regeneration and Healing pots to keep it under control until we can get to Viona.” Techno continues, flicking his tail. “We just need to make sure it doesn’t spread. ‘specially not to someone with sensitive lungs.”

 

That last part is said with a pointed look over at Phil, who takes a few steps back away from the bed, sheepishly putting his hands up in the air. “I’ll keep my distance, don’t worry. Wilbur, anything else we should know?”

 

They’re making jokes. They’re not freaking out, they’re not looking at Tubbo like he’s about to keel over any second. Tommy takes another breath, the panic in his chest loosening little by little until he doesn’t feel like he’s getting strangled anymore. They wouldn’t be joking about things if it really was serious, right?

 

He’s going to be fine. They’ll get the cure, and everything will be fine.

 

Wilbur pauses, looking Tubbo over again more critically. “Keep him sitting up, make sure the fever stays under control. He might start to get a bit delirious.”

 

“W-why,” Ranboo stammers, swallowing hard before continuing and wrapping their tail anxiously around their leg, “is called the blue death?” 

 

Then, Wilbur looks up. He smiles a little, strained at the corners, but the look in those brown eyes is nothing short of ice cold, freezing Tommy in place.

 

“In it’s late stages,” he cheerily informs them. “Your lungs fill up with fluid, and your face turns a lovely shade of blue as you suffocate to death.” 



And Tommy’s stomach drops. 



“Wilbur!”



Tommy probably would have winced at the sharp tone of Phil’s voice or the look on his face, eyes shocked, lip twisted in disappointment, if he wasn’t so busy getting his fucking breathing under control again. That’s not going to happen to Tubbo, its Not-

 

It probably would have been a lot worse if he hadn’t glanced over at Ranboo, then, when they made a sharp, strangled noise in the back of their throat. He catches the way they flinch like they’ve been slapped, hunching over a bit on themselves with wide eyes as they stare, horrified, at Tubbo, watching him like he’s about to start turning blue any second. 

 

Just like that, the terror he feels sharpens into anger, and before he knows what he’s going he’s moving, pushing Ranboo behind him and squaring his shoulders, glaring Wilbur down. What is his fucking deal? He can mope around acting pissy all he wants to, but really? Where the hell does he get off freaking out Ranboo like that? 



Wilbur puts his hands up when both Technoblade and Phil whirl on him. “He asked!”

 

It’s quiet for a moment. Silent, other than the rough sounds of Ranboo’s quick breathing.

 

Then, Wilbur’s shoulders slump, not quite meeting their eyes as he turns to slink out of the medbay. “I’ll be in my room. Come get me if he looks worse.”

 

They all watch him go. Ranboo, with wide eyes and nervous hands, Technoblade and Philza with disappointment and concern. Tommy just glares, watching him leave with his tail tucked between his legs. Fucking coward, probably going off to write more mopey songs in his room. Whatever. It’s not like Tommy needs him around.  



And for a while, that’s that. 




-



Wilbur doesn’t come out of his room for a long, long time. 

 

Tommy doesn’t miss him. He fucking doesn’t. He’s too busy checking on Tubbo to even think about Wilbur, helping Ranboo arrange the blankets around him, keeping him company. They take turns in the medbay, sitting at his bedside to make sure he’s never left alone, not even for a second . He’s not really lucid for most of the time, but seems happy enough to listen to them babble on about whatever the fuck, just to fill the silence. They try to play comn games, simple, stupid little puzzles and stuff like that, but they get tired of those pretty quickly. If it wasn’t for Technoblade ushering them out of the room at night so he can get some sleep, they probably would have slept in there, too. 

 

Besides, both of them already had… whatever he has, right? It’s not like he could give it to them again

 

It takes another two days to reach Viona’s atmosphere. Two days of hovering by Tubbo’s bedside, of trying not to flinch when his shaking form is racked with coughing fits that leave him gasping for air. Two days of making sure Ranboo was eating enough, sleeping alright, not driving themself into the ground with worry. Two days of just fucking waiting around. 

 

He hates it. 

 

No matter how much he tries to keep himself busy, he just feels so fucking helpless. There’s nothing he can do but sit and watch as his friend gets worse, hands folded in his lap, useless. 

 

There’s no monster he can fight. No one he can yell at, nothing he can force into submission with brute strength and determination. Nothing he can do but adjust blankets and talk, keeping the air of the medbay filled with constant chatter instead of that numbing, suffocating silence. He’s never been more thankful for his big mouth in his life

 

Tubbo tries to stay positive, when he can, talking to them in a quiet, raspy voice about just about anything to help them fill the silence on the days where his throat isn’t hurting him too bad. The rumors he’s heard about Viona are his favorite thing to ramble about, by far. 

 

“It’s supposed to be beautiful .” He tells them, sitting up a little in bed. “Mostly ocean, beaches as far as you can see…”

 

It’s a good day for him. His eyes are a bit brighter, skin a little less pale. He doesn’t tremble and cough pathetically every five seconds, hell, he even looks like he’d slept last night. 

 

There’s no mistaking the gleam of sweat on his forehead, though, or the way his antenna hang in a limp, sad curtain around his face. The way he keeps all of the thick blankets pulled tight around himself, even though the medbay is barely colder than room temperature. The way he shivers, ever so slightly, or has to pause to cough into his elbow every now and again. 

 

 “And all of the cool technology!”  He keeps on, waving his hands around for emphasis. “It’s one of the oldest planets around, so all the tech they have is ridiculous. You’re supposed to be able to see L’Manburg from space ‘cause of all the lights. And all the festivals?”

 

Tommy lets himself imagine it, for a moment, shoving Tubbo’s condition and the thick, too-clean scent of the medbay out of his mind. 

 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been to the beach in person, but he’s seen plenty of pictures and TV shows. Sandy white beaches, cool, crystal blue waters lapping against the shore, sun warm on your face. In his head it’s beautiful , a town set right into the waters, lights of all colors glimmering across the shifting waves. It’s all too easy to imagine the festivals. The dancers from Bezzar, laughing and spinning, barefoot on the shore as they move in time to the beating of the drums. Music in the air, laughter on the breeze, colors and lights everywhere you look. Like paradise. A place with just the cure Tubbo needs to get him back on his feet, better in no time at all. 

 

Tubbo falls back against the bed with a whine. “I’m so jealous you guys get to go into the city. You better bring me back something cool.”

 

“Yeah, the cure for… Whatever this is.” Tommy scoffs, shaking off the image, “that’s good enough, Innit?”

 

He gets a weak glare in response. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about my honey cubes.”

 

He puts his hands in the air sheepishly, and Ranboo, sitting to his right, suddenly refuses to look anywhere near Tubbo’s face. The picture of innocence, the both of them. 

 

It was a good day. 

 

The closer they got to Viona, though, the worse he seems to get. 



By day seven, he can barely speak without breaking into a coughing fit. By day eight, he’s barely even lucid at all. 



The others helped, in their own ways. 

 

Technoblade took over most of Tubbo’s care when he and Ranboo weren’t there, something something, naturally high body temperature, something something, doesn’t get sick easily. Fixing blankets, giving him medicine, wiping down his forehead with water-soaked cloths to keep his fever under control. All that good stuff. 

 

Phil checked on Tommy and Ranboo often, making sure they were both eating enough, sleeping enough, generally just hovering and being a nuisance. Tommy didn’t quite have it in him to tell him to fuck off, not when he ruffled his hair when he walked past or set a wing over his shoulder when they ate breakfast. Especially not when he was the one cooking. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, and all that.

 

And Wilbur…

 

Well, he stayed in his room. 

 

He came out every once in a while to check on Tubbo, muttering something about how to better deal with sickness he has. Sit him up more, give him more liquids, try a luke-warm bath if the fever gets too out of control. That kind of thing. The closer they got to Viona, though, the more he seemed to lock himself away. Every once in a while Tommy thinks hears music when he walks past his room, but it's hard to be sure. 

 

“He has a lot of bad memories on Viona.” Technoblade had told him one afternoon, sparring with him to keep him busy while Ranboo took their shift in the medbay. “Bad memories with sickness, too. He’ll sort it out eventually.” 

 

Bull shit, is what Tommy had wanted to say.

 

What, does he think he’s special? That Tommy doesn’t have his own problems with hospitals? That the smell of antiseptic and just the idea of needles isn’t enough to make his hands go all clammy and useless? Go get tortured for a few months, he wants to snarl, then you can come back and talk to him about having bad memories. At Least when Tommy has problems with things, he doesn’t make it everyone else’s problem too. At Least he doesn't take it out on people.

 

So, he’s a little bitter. Maybe. Worrying about your friend possibly suffocating to death while they sleep will do that to you. 

 

The rest of the crew isn’t faring much better. The tension in the air is almost tangible. No matter how much Phil and Technoblade try to hide it, their own worry seeps into the ship’s atmosphere like poison. 

 

Finally, fucking finally, they make it to Viona.





-




Beautiful, Tubbo had said. Mostly ocean, beaches as far as you can see. 

 

Tommy had been imagining something beautiful. He had figured the planet would be sparkling, by how Tubbo had described it. Something like Earth, maybe, a big blue ball with patches of green, interlaced with a net of golden lights. You can see New York from space, he was told, once. That his entire planet glimmers from space at night, all of the cities lighting up all across the surface in a big, golden spiderweb. Or maybe it would look like something closer to Bezzar, all colorful and exciting, alive with spaceships and humming with activity. Or pictures he’s seen of Neptune, all blue grey and swirling, beaches a stark white and tan on its surface.

 

Magical , he had been thinking. A beautiful, lively planet with just the cure they needed. 

 

Through the front windows of the bridge lies Viona, and it’s none of those things. 

 

It’s like no planet he’s ever seen before. Not in a good way. 



He can’t help it, he curls his lip back in disgust. “Oh, what the fuck is that?” 



It’s… it’s ugly. 

 

That’s his very first thought once his eyes lock on the planet they’re hovering over. Fucking Ugly. 

 

A huge, swirling sphere of thick, black smog leers back at him, filling up the whole window. There’s no ocean, no clean blue water, no crisp white beaches or colorful cities. No sparkling lights, no glimmering cities, no activity at all. Just smoke and clouds, thick and heavy, and every one of them a hideous shade of green-blue grey, cut through with swaths of coal-collared ash and soot-grey mist. If there are any cities down there, any ocean at all, it’s well hidden underneath those ugly clouds. Not so much as a glimmer of light peers back at them, like the planet itself is some sort of black whole, swallowing everything in its smog and not letting so much as a twinkle escape. 

 

It doesn’t look welcoming or exciting in slightest. It looks like what all the scientists warn will happen to Earth if they don’t get global warming under control and stop using single-use plastics. It looks like somewhere you’d crawl off to die, equal parts toxic and forlorn. It looks empty, rotten, disgusting

 

Polluted. That's a better word for it. 



Phil, standing at the helm, just sighs, looking over at him with a slight strain to his smile. “…It’s not as bad as it looks, really. Not once you get past the clouds.”

 

He stares at him. “We’re going in there?” 

 

“There are good doctors on Viona.” Phil waves him off. “We’ll get Tubbo a cure and he’ll be fine in no time.”

 

Tubbo, who’s already being smothered to death by whatever illness it is that’s taken a hold of his lungs. The Blue Death, Wilbur had called it. Or The factory curse , which sounded even dumber. The thought of him going out there , breathing in all that smoke, all that ash. Just looking at it makes him feel like he’s choking. 

 

Hell, not even Tommy wants to go. Just the thought of that heavy fog filling up his lungs is enough to have him hesitating. 

 

For Tubbo , he repeats over and over in his head like a Mantra, already strapping in for the landing. What’s a little smoke to a big man like him, anyways? Pssh, respiratory diseases. He will simply just, not get sick. Through pure force of will. He’s already had the stupid sickness once anyways, and gotten away with nothing more than a few days of a slight pressure in his ribs. Which was probably nothing anyways, just an old injury rearing its ugly head. It’ll be fine

 

He lets Ranboo wind his tail around and around his leg, and forces himself to just breathe . In for four, out for eight. He’s been doing a lot of breathing exercises lately, so by now he's practically an expert. He’s doing this for Tubbo. They’ll find a cure, he’ll get better, and everything will be back to normal in no time. 

 

He looks away from the window, back out the bridge. Towards the medbay. 

 

Hang in there, buddy. Just a little while longer. 




-

 

The Phantling does not play his instrument.

 

He wants to, that much is obvious. He sits curled in his bed and stares at it from across the room, fingers itching to pluck the strings. Sometimes he gets up, reaching for it like he wants to, but then he hears the Bezzarain cough in the medbay, or footsteps down the hall, and he doesn’t.

 

He knows what he’s going to play, if he lets himself touch the strings. He knows.

 

His head hurts.

 

It’s a dull ache, a pain that seems to reverberate through the whole of him. His lack of sleep hasn’t been helping.

 

Every time he closes is eyes, though, all he sees is-

 

-Faces smeared with coal and ash, pale skin slicked with sweat, red rimmed eyes. The harsh, hacking coughs of someone on their deathbed, clammy hands in his-

 

-With golden wings, grinning at him from the rooftop. A Merling with pink scales giggles, a Blazeborn tosses his head back with laughter and throws his arm over her shoulders. A Merling with red scales smiles at him from behind dark glasses-

 

-Blood on his face, blood on his knuckles, the sharp sting of betrayal, the bruises blooming across the side of their face-

 

-the way he’d looked at him when he told him he was- 

 

“-Until the end of the line, Wilbur-“ 



He takes a deep breath.

 

The memories pull at him, twisting and curling like smoke between his eyes. Things he’s tried to forget coming back up in flashes, in nightmares that keep him awake. It’s been years since he’s seen that city, his first home, and still. Sometimes he swears he can taste ash on his lips, feel the scars left on the inside of his lungs when he breathes in too deeply.

 

He has not been to visit the Bezzarain.

 

He wants to. He cares about them, wants to keep them safe, help them get better. The minute he tries, though, the minute he gets a glimpse of that familiar fever-slicked face, of the smell…

 

The factories have been shut down now.

 

They were shut down a few months after he left, because of course they were. They couldn’t have done it earlier when his parents were choking to death on their own blood, when he and the other children he’d grown up with were left to fend for themselves on the streets. When it would have helped.

 

He still knows what factory sickness looks like, he remembers. So many of them, so many, had caught it growing up, he knows.

 

They called it the factory curse, then. So many people worked at those factories, in a few years, nearly all of them came down with it. Some never worked there for more than a few months before it got them, choking them to death. 

 

A curse, the children said. Anyone who works at the factories is as good as dead. 

 

It’s not fatal anymore, or so he’s heard. There’s a cure now, they say.

 

Where was that when it would have helped him?



He does not play his instrument. 





-





Of course, as is with everything these days, things take another sharp turn from bad to even worse the minute they touch down. 



Phil was right, atleast, about things looking a little better now that they’re underneath all the dark clouds. 

 

It’s nothing like the image of sandy white beaches and sparkling lights he’s been picturing, though, and that idea quickly shrivels up into a ball and dies. 

 

The city of L’Manburg spreads out before them, sprawling buildings and factories as far as the eye can see, all lining the edge of the blackest ocean Tommy’s ever seen in his life. It’s night time, apparently, when they land the ship in the docks, everything washed in the same shade of dark blue-green. There’s no stars peeking in through the clouds, no moon. Just orange-yellow street lamps hanging from buildings, those same not-quite-fairy-lights that Tubbo has strung between buildings. The man made lights only do so much against the thick fog rolling off of the sea. 

 

It’s a little eerie, sure, but it could definitely get worse. A little bit of fog can’t hurt anyone. 



“-Should be in the inner district,” Phil was saying, tapping away at his comn. He forces himself to tune back into the conversation. “Easy enough to find.”

 

Technoblade grunts in response, accepting the answer but still not looking too happy about being told to stay behind and babysit. Honestly, Tommy doesn’t really blame him. 

 

The chair next to him in the cockpit is glaringly empty. 



“It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two at the most.” Phil finishes, already shrugging a coat over his wings. “I’ll ping you if I run into any trouble.” 



Technoblade’s ear flicks, but he doesn’t respond. Phil doesn’t really look like he was expecting him too anyways, turning instead to Tommy and Ranboo and leveling one of his looks at them. “Behave, okay?”

 

A couple of weeks ago, before Tubbo got sick, he would have returned the look with his signature grin and a cocky two-fingered salute. Possibly topping it off by immediately finding a way to sneak off the ship as quickly as possible, Ranboo and Tubbo tripping over his heels. Now, though, all he and Ranboo do is nod sharply. 

 

…Don’t get him wrong, he’s still thinking about a way to sneak off as soon as Technoblade’s back is turned. Tubbo asked him to bring something back, so goddamnit, he’s gonna bring something back for him. 

 

He’s too busy thinking over his plan to notice Phil turn to leave. He does notice, however, when he pauses , for just for a moment, and lifts his hand to cover his mouth. 

 

Then, he coughs.



It’s a little thing, barely more than him just clearing his throat. He’s already brushing it off like it never happened, swallowing hard and moving on, but Technoblade is faster than he is. 

 

He’s across the room in seconds, grabbing him by the shoulders and all but snarling, “I told you to be careful. I told you-“

 

Phill waves off his hands, wings twitching nervously as he tries to backpedal. “I’m fine, mate. I was just clearing my throat, s’all.”

 

Technoblade is not so easily fooled. 

 

He growls, lips pulling back over his tusks as he jams a finger in Phil’s chest. The look in his eyes is absolutely furious. “How long were you going to wait to tell us that you’re sick? When you start turning blue?”

 

Wait, what?

 

Ranboo’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open a little in surprise. Tommy’s positive he looks just as stupid, staring at Phil and Technoblade as they glare each other down. Since when was Phil sick? 



“I’m not sick.” He tries to protest, the anxious fluttering of his wings letting everyone know that it was a boldfaced lie. “ Seriously. Mate, I-“

 

His voice goes strangled for a moment as his throat closes up on him again, and a harsher round of coughs rattles through him. Not the small, half-disgusted cough from earlier, but the loud, gasping coughs of someone struggling to breathe.

 

Tommy’s already on his feet, fingers twitching to grab him, to help, but Technoblade’s already beaten him to it. He all but frog-matches him over to one of the chairs in the cock-pit, forcing him to sit. He doesn’t look nervous, Technoblade almost never looks nervous, but Tommy knows him better than that. His tail keeps flicking, curling and uncurling like how Ranboo’s does when they’re feeling anxious. His hands flutter around, on his shoulders, over his face, red eyes narrowing into a more grim expression. 

 

“It wasn’t this bad this morning?” Phil sheepishly tries to protest, but Technoblade is having absolutely none of it.

 

“Take him back to the medbay,” He barks, and Ranboo wastes no time before scrambling to Phil’s side. “and watch him. I’ll go alone.”

 

Tommy’s not sure what possesses him, then, because the next thing he says is. “I’m coming with.”



Ruby eyes snap to his. “No.”

 

“I’m coming with.” He insists, meeting his gaze head on. “Let me help.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Fine.” He hisses, firmly crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away. A challenge. “ You think I won’t sneak off the minute you leave? Who’s gonna stop me? Wilbur?”

 

I can’t just sit here. Is what he wants to say, to beg. I can’t just sit and watch them get worse. I can’t just sit around doing nothing when I know I can help. 

 

Technoblade looks away first. “Get dressed, then.”

 

Victory is sweet and sharp on his tongue.



A little while longer. Just hang in there for a little while longer, alright? 






-





Tommy is no stranger to heat.

 

He’d lived in the desert for a good portion of his life, after all. He’s well used to the dry, scorching heat that comes in the summer, the kind that bakes your skin until it’s red and crispy, and makes going outside feel like walking into an oven. Summer had always been his favorite time of year, he’d always felt right at home with the sun on his skin and the crackle of afternoon thunderstorms. He prefers it, even, over the sharp, empty coldness of space. Heat was familiar. A weight that presses around you, settles over your shoulders like a well-worn blanket. He could take a little bit of heat. 

 

Humidity, however, is a completely different beast. 



Stepping off the ship feels like walking into a sauna. 

 

It hits him the minute the ramp drops. The weight of the air is so fucking heavy, buffeting his face and falling over him like a lead blanket, thick and stifling. He feels it coil greedily into his lungs with every sharp intake of breath, settling in his chest, in his hair, in his clothes. He licks his lips on impulse, and it tastes like sea salt, dead fish and ash on his tongue. Fucking Gross. 

 

Technoblade doesn’t pause, not even for a moment. In one swift movement, he pulls his hood over his face and steps off of the ramp and onto the dock, leaving Tommy scrambling to catch up. Fucking tall ass. Tommy has to take three steps for every one of his. 

 

The dock is old, the wood creaking uneasily under his feet. It’s not long before the Argo II is swallowed completely by the most behind them, and the city they step into is looming over them. 

 

Every city has its own quirks, he’s come to find. From dazzling lights and colors to close, winding streets and shady alleyways. L’Manburg wasn’t as fantastical as Bezzar or La Nevadas, no sparkling crystal buildings or buzzing crowds greet them once they reach the main streets. It doesn’t hold the hostility of Netheria, no eyes glare at the from the dark, no hooded figures turn their noses up as they pass. But it doesn’t match the cold distance of Lestea, either. 

 

L’Manburg just feels… old. Tired, even. 

 

The streets are dotted with potholes filled with murky water he stomps in as they pass. The buildings are tall and built close together, practically right on top of one another, sloped roofs and harsh metal frameworks bleeding into one another. He’s not expecting anything fancy at this point, but by the way Tubbo had talked about all the cool technology, he was expecting at least some skyscrapers. Maybe some bullet trains and small, whizzing spaceships like on Nevodis. 

 

There’s none of that, though. Just a hot, humid city, most curling around his ankles and doing its best to climb into his lungs. 

 

The thick fog makes it hard to make out any details beyond what’s right in front of his face, the neon signs that flicker in dark windows and hanging yellow lights haphazardly strung between buildings only doing so much to fight back against it. They do a little, illuminating the street below and glinting off of the moisture-slick walls of the buildings and roads, but they make the already dark shadows even blacker. Everything is washed in the same dark, blue-green-grey light, like the ugly cousin of teal. The color of churning, polluted ocean water, only occasionally cut through with bright, flashy neon lights, old and cheap-looking. 

 

He stays close to Technoblade’s side as they walk, practically tripping over him every now and again. The streets are close and winding, and wherever they’re going, he knows the way a lot better than Tommy does. 

 

He watches the buildings they pass closely, squinting to try and make out what the blinking neon lights say, to no avail. 

 

Most of the windows are either dark or shut, and the few figures they do see on the crooked, narrow streets walk past in a hurry. He doesn’t feel eyes on the back of his neck, no whispers in the shadows or flickers of movement in the dark alleyways that branched off of the main streets. He doesn’t feel like he was going to get mugged any minute, which is nice, sure, but still. 

 

Distantly, he thinks he can hear music, but even that seems muffled and slow. Like the whole city is fast asleep, uncaring, unbothered with their existence.

 

…Which might be because it’s the middle of the night. But anyways.



He trots a little to keep up with Technoblade “So, where are we going?”

 

He doesn’t spare Tommy even a glance, marching right on down the street. “Old L’Manburg.” 

 

He blinks. “ Old L’manburg? What, is there a new one?”

 

“Yes. We won’t be going there.”

 

He picks up the pace a little, forcing Tommy to jog a little to keep up. Him and his king fucking legs. If he thinks that walking faster will make him shut up, he has another thing coming.

 

“Why not?”

 

“We don’t need to.” A pause, then. “The train ticket prices are too expensive to waste on just visiting.”

 

He says it like it’s some kind of inside joke Tommy is supposed to know. “…Right.”



Another pause, broken only by the muffled sounds of footsteps and the faint buzzing of the neon signs they pass. They glimmer off of the rain-slicked buildings and the muddy potholes in the streets, diluted only a little by the fog that’s still doing its best to choke him to death. Somewhere, he swears he can hear the low crooning of a violin. 

 

“…So, is it always this depressing?” He pipes up again, when the silence gets a little too suffocating. 

 

Technoblade gives him a look. “It’s the middle of the night.”

 

“Bezzar isn’t depressing at night.” He shoots right back.

 

“Bezzar is a trade moon.”

 

Nevodis isn’t depressing at night.” He corrects, just to see Technoblade scoff.

 

“Nevodis is full of tourists and rich idiots.” He grunts, marching forwards with a bit more vigor, forcing Tommy to scramble to catch up again. “I don’t think anyone there can sleep.” 

 

He catches up quick, though. He always does. “Is this place even going to open in the middle of the night?”

 

“It’ll be morning by the time we get there.” 

 

That makes him pause. “Morning?”

 

Technoblade just snorts, flicking an ear and looking back over his shoulder at him. The fog curling around his ankles, a nearby red sign casting a pink shade on the side of his face, he looks like something out of a movie. Or a myth, maybe.

 

He raises an eyebrow, and the illusion shatters. 

 

“Are you coming.”

 

It’s Tommy that scoffs this time, catching up again in a few short strides. “If I pass out from exhaustion, you’re carrying me.” 





-





A little known fact about Elytrans, they’re clingy when they're sick.

 

The Hybrid hadn’t planned for this, doing their best to set the Elytran down on the bed, to no avail. The Bezzarain isn’t helpful in the slightest, giggling at them as they wave their arms around in exasperation, and getting knocked in the head with a wing for it. 

 

The Phantling, who just happened to be walking down the hallway at that moment, pauses in the doorway. “You two look comfy.”

 

The Hybrid looks up, eyes pleading as they frantically whisper . “Wilbur please he won’t let go.”

 

The Phantling rests his hand on the close door button. “Whoops, looks like my hand is slipping.”

 

“Wilbur don’t you dare-“

 

“Whoops!”





-



True to Technoblade’s word, by the time they find the place, it’s early morning.

 

The fog drew back now that the sun was up, the shadows pulling away to reveal a misty sky overhead and a slightly less depressing city underneath. Sure, you couldn’t actually see the sun, but the clouds overhead took on a slightly peach tint around the edges, and he can actually see more than a few feet in front of his face now that the thick fog had mostly dissipated. The city looks a little less haunted, and more like a place where people actually lived. 

 

There’s sound in the air, now. It started softly, footsteps and quiet chatter, getting louder and louder the brighter the sky got. Soon enough, shops were opened for the day, and the citizens of Old L’Manburg came out of their homes to get on with their morning errands. 

 

…Did he mention that they’re almost all fish-people? 

 

Suddenly, the thick smell of seaweed and ocean water in the air makes a lot more sense. 

 

Aliens with fish scales and fins protruding from the sides of their faces walked the streets, sweeping out storefronts and bartering with shopkeepers. More than a few sported skin tones of deep greens and blues, a few even being fucking pink, and tails and other stranger fish-esc qualities were just as common. He even spotted a few with the same shimmering skin as Wilbur, arms and faces full display in a city where the sun is almost always hidden behind clouds. 

 

Across the way a Merling with short red hair and blue scales barters with a shopkeeper over something , the earrings dripping from her fins jingling as she moves. He watches as a young Phantling is dragged around by an even younger Merling, the two of them darting through the streets and laughing without a care in the world. 

 

A Merling with long black hair and purple scales waves at him as he passes, blue eyes sharp and curious. 

 

He pulls his bandanna over his face a little more, despite the heat and humidity, ignoring the way he flushes up to his ears, and picks up the pace a little. The curious glances he gets are more focused on Technoblade, anyways, but you can never be too careful. 

 

There’s even music. 

 

He whips his head around to find the source, craning his neck to peer through the crowd and around the aliens already dancing to the fast-paced song. There! A young Phantling Sitting just in front of a shop, an instrument tucked under his chin. He pulls a thin metal rod over the strings, and the music that pours out is nothing short of haunting. 

 

He’s never been much of a dancer, but the smiling, happy faces of the small crowd that gathered around makes his feet itch to join in. The dance their doing is quick, the stomping of feet and flashing of scales mesmerizing- 

 

His footsteps stutter, but Technoblade is quick to grab him by the shoulder and keep him walking.

 

“What did I tell you about getting lost.”

 

He huffs, tossing off his hand the minute he’s able. “I was just listening!”

 

“Right.”

 

He scowls, and Technoblade just gives him another unimpressed look before turning away, leaving him scrambling to catch up, again. 

 

“Is there a reason this place pisses you off so much?” He huffs, once he’s finally at his side again. He’s been marching on with a grim look on his face this whole time, like an inmate on death row walking up to the firing squad. 

 

He’s nervous, that much Tommy can tell. Him being nervous puts Tommy on edge, and an on-edge Tommy is a lot more fucking irritating than normal Tommy, that’s for sure. 

 

“We need to work on your filter.”

 

“We need to work on your filter, mememe.” He mimics right back, “That’s what you sound like, blade.”

 

He expects a scowl, at least an unimpressed ear flick, but he gets… Nothing. Technoblade just keeps walking on, ignoring him in favor of scanning the buildings they pass. Fucking prick. 

 

“Me and Tubbo made bets.” He continues. “My money’s on vengeful ex.”

 

Once again, nothing. 

 

“…I’m pretty sure Ranboo thinks you’re a wanted criminal.” He tacks on at the end. 



“They win.”

 

Finally, he fucking talks! “Huh?”

 

“Wanted Criminal is closest.” Is all he grunts, before turning on his heel and starting off down a side street. “Over here.”

 

“You can not just drop something like that and walk off!” He shouts after him, no response. 

 

What a fucking prick. 

 

Muttering a dozen different curses under his breath, he jogs after him to catch up again, getting more than a few startled looks by passers by. Dickhead, what the hell is his deal? He’s going to have to be carried back at this point with how much his feet are aching. 



Well, atleast they don’t have to walk much farther. 





The Apothecary lies just ahead, tucked between two newer, much taller buildings. A small, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of place. He probably would have walked right past if Technoblade didn’t stop him, scruffing him by the shirt like an unruly cat and tugging him back to his side.

 

He squints at the sign. It takes him a minute to read the sprawling letters, but he’s gotten enough Common lessons from Tubbo to stumble through it eventually. Royal Potions and Remedies, he reads, eventually. The cheap, neon lettering blinks at him. 

 

He snorts. This dingy little place didn’t exactly scream royalty to him. 

 

This seems to be the right place, though, judging by the way Technoblade hums, tense as a live wire at his side. One hand pauses on the door handle, the other still fisted in the scruff of his jacket, and Tommy doesn’t have the chance to shake him off before he’s leaning down and hissing in his ear. 

 

“Eret can’t be trusted. Don’t listen to anything they say, and keep your hood up.” He grunts, punctuating the last but by yanking Tommy’s hood up and over his face. 

 

“That would have been nice to know earlier.” He hisses, pushing the hood back up and out of his eyes with a glare.

 

Technoblade doesn’t spare him another glance, though, and Tommy takes one look at the tension in his shoulders and the tight pin of his ears, and the sharp words ready on his tongue slip away. He fixes his bandana a little more over his nose as Technoblade pushes the door open, just in case. The crystals hung from it make a pleasant little jingle as he marches through, Tommy practically tripping over his heels behind him. 

 

His first impression? Smelly.

 

His nose wrinkles up the smell of the place, and he’s suddenly a lot more thankful for the bandanna. It’s not an unpleasant smell, but thick enough to be irritating. An herbal, musky smell, sweet and vaguely spicy. Like a strange tea, or incense. Vaguely… Fruity, too? Like sparkling water or some shit, the weirdest fucking combination. 

 

“-Awful, really.” A low, thrumming voice says from somewhere deeper inside. “I have just what you need. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll grab it for you…”

 

They follow the voice in deeper. 

 

It’s dark inside, which he’s starting to recognize as a running theme on L’Manburg. Dark, with only those same lights Tubbo has strung up in the corners  to light the place, glowing a pleasant golden-yellow. 

 

His eyes catch on the tables and shelves inside once they adjust properly to the dim lighting. Each has been carefully stocked, displaying bottles of various liquids, potions, he thinks, and bundles of herbs and rocks he doesn’t recognize at all. They’re all set up artistically, each with a little label to display the name and price. He has to physically swallow down the urge to shove as much in his pockets as he can and run. 

 

He drags his gaze away to look at the counter up ahead.

 

A young Merling leans against it, only the back of their head and long, carefully braided hair visible. They drum the tips of their clawed fingers impatiently on the wooden surface. 

 

Behind the counter is more shelves, as well as a thick, dark curtain that sways ever so slightly. It’s quiet in the shop, for a beat, and then the curtain is brushed aside from within. 

 

“Sorry about that.” The same person from before says, swishing into the room. 

 

They’re tall. That’s the first thing he notices, with dark hair and black glasses over their face to hide their eyes. The thick cape they wear over their shoulders swishes as they move, the delicate golden earrings in the red fins on either side of their face making a soft, pleasant jingle as they tilt their head. 

 

“An altered slowness potion.” They explain, pressing a small, rounded bottle with a cream-colored liquid inside into the Merlings hands. “Stir it in a warm drink with a touch of honey to hide the taste, and you’ll sleep just fine.” 

 

The Merling dips their head, thanking the other alien sincerely and pressing something, payment, Tommy assumes, into their hands as they accept the potion. In a few moments they’re out the door, slipping past Technoblade and Tommy silently, a pep in their step.

 

The alien turns to them, a grin on their lips.

 

Tommy can’t see their eyes, but he feels it. An almost physical weight pinning him in place, freezing him to the bone. 

 

“Technoblade.” They drawl, spreading their hands in front of them. “What can I do for you?”




-





The Phantling picks up his instrument.

 

He’s hesitant, careful in a way that he isn’t often. His fingers strum gently over the strings, the sound they make quiet and muted.

 

He’d slept last night, for the first time in a while. Still, though, his dreams hadn’t been exactly pleasant-



-dark hair, golden feathers, an ugly scar over the side of his face as he pulls his lips back in a snarl, “I’d meant it for you-“

 

-A familiar face, lit with silver. Their glasses break as they real back from his punch, the look of shock on their face as he snarls at them-

 

-An empty rooftop, everyone gone, gone, gone-




Still. Better than nothing. 

 

He starts to play.

 

He’d written this song with them, the kids he’d grown up with. They were all orphans, banded together out of some kind of comradery. The city of Old L’Manburg did what it could to help them, people left out food, opened their doors when the rains got bad, gave them medicine, but still. They didn’t have much, but they had each other.

 

They’d always dreamed of leaving, it’s what most of his songs were about, anyways. 

 

He plucks out the notes, acting on muscle memory alone. It’s not the saddest song he’s written, not by far, but something about hearing it now makes his throat close up.

 

The scars in his lungs twinge. 

 

The good memories get drowned out in the smoke and pollution. Festivals, dancing, his friends and the fun they’d had together chasing one another through the streets. He’d play his instrument on their rooftop during festival nights, they’d set up lights and bring food, the Avain with golden wings would drag them all into dancing while he strummed along. 

 

He had a friend that would sing while he played. She’d lean in on one side, pink fins fluttering as she sang, everyone looking on and cheering. It feels strange, to play this song alone. Without words, it doesn’t sound the same. 



Slowly, slowly, he starts to sing.

 

“That cute bomber jacket you’ve had…”





-




Immediately, the tension in the small potion shop skyrockets.

 

“One of our crew has The Blue Death.” Techno grunts, pointed and harsher than Tommy had been expecting. He tightens a hand around the back of his coat on instinct. “Do you have a cure?”

 

They purse their lips together, tilting their head to one side with a concerned, but polite smile. “The Blue Death? Are you sure? There hasn’t been a case of that in Viona in a very long time.”

 

“Yes. I’m sure.”

 

“You came to the right person, then.” They spread their hands in front of them, grin widening a little to show off a few more pointed teeth. “Not many Apothecary's in L’Manburg still keep the cure in stock.”

 

Technoblade flicks an ear, face perfectly impassive. “So there is a cure.”

 

“Of course there is. A simple one, too.” They brush him off, dismissing him out of hand. Their head tilts again when they finally seem to notice Tommy, still half-hidden behind Technoblade’s shoulder. 

 

Their smile widens in a way that’s just a touch too curious for his liking. “Now, who might you be?”

 

“What do you want.” Technoblade growls, a deep, throaty sound that has Tommy inching a little bit more behind him. 

 

Not because he’s scared, or anything like that, but he doesn’t have the eyes of the Merling, ( Eret, hadn’t Techno said?), to recognize the interest in their voice, a tone that makes goosebumps rise on his skin. He lets Technoblade push a little more in front, and drifts a hand to the dagger strapped to his belt. 

 

Eret ignores Technoblade completely, hidden gaze still locked on Tommy. Their voice is kind, but there’s something about the tilt of their head that sets him on edge. Something about their smile that’s just a bit too knowing. 

 

“A long way from home, aren’t you, little one?” They croon. “A long, long way indeed.”

 

Tommy and Technoblade both stiffen. 

 

“For the cure. What do you want .” Technoblade all but snarls, lips pulled back over his tusks in a challenge.

 

Tommy’s still frozen in shock. They knew. How the fuck did they figure it out so quickly? Is it that fucking obvious that he’s human? He pulls the bandanna up a little more over his face, like that would do any good now, every inch of him coiling back like a spring about to snap. He tightens a hand on Technoblade’s jacket, to drag him out of here, to say something, to do anything , but he doesn’t get the chance. 

 

He feels it when Eret’s gaze slips off of Tommy and back to Technoblade, like they’d just realized he was still there. A weight on his shoulders lifting off just a little. “From you? Nothing. From him however…”



“No.”

 

“You didn’t even let me ask!” They insist, with the fucking nerve to look offended. 

 

“I don’t do favors, especially not for you.” Technoblade spits, harsh enough to make Tommy jump. 

 

“It’s payment, not a favor.” They brush him off again, folding their hands on the counter and leaning in. “Besides, as it see it, you don’t have much of a choice.”

 

Technoblade tenses again, opening his mouth to snarl something else, but Eret just waves a hand. “You can try the other Apothecary's, of course, but you won’t have any luck in Old L’Manburg. You don’t the time to waste to travel to new L’Manburg, I’m willing to bet. Not if you came to me.”

 

They soften, then, just a little, voice almost sounding gentle. “I don’t want to hurt him. I just have a few questions-“

 

Technoblade doesn’t even let him finish, already turning to leave with a hand heavy in Tommy’s shoulder. “No.”

 

One question.” They insist again, gaze slipping back to Tommy. 

 

And he…

 

One question. One question from this fucking weirdo, and they can get whatever magic shit they need to save his best friend. It’s not like he has anything else left to lose, the motherfucker already knows that he’s human. 

 

“I’ll answer it.” Tommy interrupts. For Tubbo, for Phil. 

 

For a moment, he’s sure Technoblade isn’t going to let him. He expects to feel a harsh hand grabbing him and dragging him out of the shop, or to watch as he jumps the counter and clocks Eret in the nose. His own determination must have shown in his face, he thinks, because it only takes a few seconds of staring for Technoblade to tear his gaze away, gritting his teeth. “…Fine.”

 

Eret dips his head once, then turns to him again. They lean down a little be closer to his level, earrings jingling and cape slipping over their shoulders, and their voice lowers to something raspy and gentle. 

 

“Do you know him?” Is the question they ask. 

 

For a good few seconds, all he does is blink. “What?”

 

“I’m afraid I only get one question.” They smile, but there’s no warmth to it. Then, slowly, deliberately, they pull a finger over their mouth, swinging it from cheek-to-cheek over their mouth. It takes him a second to realize they’re drawing a smile over their face, and every inch of him goes absolutely still

 

“Do you know him?” They repeat.

 

“Y-yeah.” He forces himself to stammer out. A white porcelain mask, Green eyes, sharper than poison, a laugh, wheezing and cold. Cold, cold cold, cold hands on his arms, on his wrists, around his neck. “Yes.”

 

He shakes his head, once, twice, three times, tossing off the memories like a dog shakes off water. He still feels it, though, the imprints of fingers on his skin, the memories of pain and ice-cold scalpels. He swallows hard. 

 

Eret talks again. He sees their mouth move, expression almost apologetic, but he doesn’t hear what they say. Al he can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears-

 

Breathe, Tommy. 

 

He’s come so far. He’s come so fucking far from that motherfucker. He’s on the other side of the galaxy, he’s stronger, he’s got a crew, now. 

 

He’s okay, he’s okay. 

 

He looks up again when they slip away from the counter, pushing the curtain aside and disappearing into the back room. Tommy takes another deep breath, just breathe, in, out, that’s it, and does his best to keep his hands from shaking. Technoblade notices, though, because of course he fucking does, jaw tense and eyes narrowed in a way that has Tommy determinedly avoiding his gaze. 

 

“What does that mean.” He grunts, more of a statement than an actual question. 

 

Cold metal, bloody fingertips, a throat scraped raw from screaming. He grits his teeth, clenching and unclenching his hands until the feeling returns to them. Breathe. “Nothing.” 

 

Tommy.”

 

“It’s nothing.” He snaps, the venom in his voice sharp enough to take Technoblade by surprise. 

 

He doesn’t look like he’s going to drop the issue, though, eyebrows pinched together and ears still pinned back. Luckily for him, though, Eret sweeps back into the room just in time. Thank fucking god. 

 

“Here it is.” They press two bottles into Technoblade’s hands, the liquid inside a shimmering lilac color that shifts in the dim lights. Even the bottles themselves seem to glitter. 

 

“An altered water breathing potion.” They explain, something in their low voice almost proud. “A bit of healing, a bit of strength, some others. One bottle each, and give them a healing potion each morning until the coughing stops completely. Absolutely no regen potions or golden apples, either. With luck, they’ll be out of danger within the hour, and healed completely in a few days.”

 

Technoblade blinks, giving the potions a critical once over.“…That’s it?”

 

“Genius, isn’t it?” They chuckle. “The main danger of the Factory Curse is suffocation, and water breathing deals with that nicely. The healing is just for the fever, and to help them regain some strength. Regen, I’ve found, just makes things worse.” 

 

Regen. One of the potions they’ve been giving to Phil and Tubbo since they found out they were sick. Of fucking course, because nothing in space could ever be fair. 

 

“And, little one?”

 

He looks up sharply, but Eret just smiles. There’s something in their face, just then, something soft and almost sad. 

 

“You’re safe with them.” They tell him, voice low and rumbling. “Safer than with anyone else in this whole galaxy. He won’t be able to touch you if you stay with them.”

 

His breath catches in his throat. 

 

He doesn’t get the chance to respond. Eret is already moving on, ringing them up and sweeping their cape over their shoulders. Before Tommy could even blink technoblade is all but shoving them out the door, Eret waving as they go. 

 

“Be careful with your precious cargo.” They call out as he’s pulled through the door. “Would hate to see it lost, not while you’re this close!”

 

They weren’t talking about the potions. 





-



The Piglin is worried. 

 

It’s not obvious to anyone who doesn’t play close attention. Any passerby’s would take one look at the scowl on his face and quickly turn in the other direction, but it’s still there. In the way his tail curls anxiously around his hooves, in how quickly he walks, at the way he keeps turning his rings around and around. 

 

The way he can’t keep his gaze off of the Human that walked at his side for long. 

 

The Humans face is pale, hands trembling where they’re clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides. His eyes are cloudy and distant, his normally sharp blue gaze dull. 

 

Hes glaring at the ground like it’s offended him personally, not even looking over when they pass the dancers and the musician. All of the wonder and curiosity is gone, just like that. 

 

He’s trembling, just a little. 

 

Runt hurt! The voices whisper in his ear, rising to a crescendo. Help him! What happened I tabbed out. What happened to Phil? Phil is sick? Is he going to die? No ones going to die, be quiet. Keep sounder safe! Help the child! Who hurt him? We’ll find them and-

 

He flicks an ear, and they reluctantly quiet. 

 

He wants to take off his cloak and throw it over the child’s shoulders. He wants to grab the Human and shake him until he explains what the Merling had said to him, who ‘he’ was. He wants to know why the Human looks so afraid, why they keep shifting closer and closer to his side. He wants to go back and get answers

 

He does none of those things.

 

He keeps moving, it’s what he’s best at. Shrugging off the noise of the city, the heat and all of the unpleasant smells that have him grinding his tusks. He squares his shoulders and he moves forwards without hesitation.

 

There’s no looking backwards. Not for him. 

 

He doesn’t like this city. He never has. His nose and ears are more sensitve than most, and the thick, rancid smell of brackish water and the glaring of the rusted neon signs is pleasant. The music, too, grates on his nerves after a while, the rising and falling of the instruments the citizens play and strum making him feel on edge. 

 

He’s only been here one other time, and they’d left with one more crew mate in tow. A young Phantling with an instrument strapped over his back, sharp teeth in his smile and fire in his eyes. It had been worse then, with all of the smoke in the air, clogging his senses. 



Keep them safe. A particularly resilient voice whispers to him, still. Protect them.

 

He holds the potions gently in his hands. That, he can do. 




-




The cure works. 

 

It works fantastically , even. Better than Tommy had been hoping for. 

 

For a minute there, he was skeptical. He’d pressed the bottle to Tubbo’s lips like Technoblade had instructed him to, tilting it back so the thick liquid slipped down his throat. He was almost certain Tubbo was just going to throw it back up again, or choke on the potion, but he swallows it down easily without fuss. 

 

It only takes a few minutes for his breathing to deepen, for the fever-flush in his face to melt away. When he blinks open his eyes a few minutes later, they’re bright and clear. 

 

He’s a little ashamed to say that he doesn’t stick around much longer after that.

 

Look, he knows he’s being a fucking hypocrite. He spent the whole trip to Viona pissed at Wilbur for locking himself away, and here he is doing the same fucking thing. He knows .

 

It’s just…

 

His hands are still shaking.

 

He clenches and unclenches them to try and get rid of it, but still, that ugly, stupid shaking won’t go away. He’s always had unsteady hands, but now it’s bad enough that the tremor echos through the rest of him, making his breathing all fast and his head all dizzy. He can’t quite breathe deep enough and Technoblade is still looking at him- 

 

He just, he needs a minute. Just a minute.



The cargo hold is good for times like this. 

 

He can squeeze himself into his spot in the back, pull his knees up to his chin, and just breathe , for a while, rubbing his fingers over his throat to try and get rid of the feeling of choking.

 

He’d brought a blanket down here some time ago, a nice buffer between him and the cold metal walls that press in on him. He’s never been a fan of small spaces, but there’s something about the pressure in his spot that’s nice. It’s warm, it’s cozy, it’s his. No one else in the ship, except maybe Tubbo, would be able to reach him now. He’s safe.

 

The scars on his back itch.

 

He tries to forget. To bury those moments so deep in the back of his mind, to brush off those months as a bad dream or something, but the scars are still there. Neat, surgical things, sections where they cut away squares of skin, pock marks where they jabbed him with needles. They itch. 

 

He ignores it.

 

It’s not fair, it’s just… it’s not fucking fair! 

 

He buries his face in his knees, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. It’s not fair that he has to be constantly reminded of that, of then. He’s millions and millions of miles away, he isn’t even fucking here! 

 

It’s not fair that even after all of this time, after everything he’s been through, all of the new scars and the adventures, after growing so much, it’s not fair that he’s still so fucking scared. 

 

He rubs his hands over his face, he keeps his breathing slow and as deep as he can, focuses on the feeling of the blanket in his hands and the low, rumbling noises of the ship. He breathes. 

 

He doesn’t want to think about it. Ever. He doesn’t want to think about him, or Eret, or the feeling of cold metal on his skin. He doesn’t want to remember.

 

The world doesn’t work like that, though, and sometimes all he can see when he closes his eyes is- 



“You alright?”



He snaps his head up.

 

Wilbur can’t fit back here, not with how fucking tall he is, all legs and long arms. He’s still found a way to look at him, though, eyes flashing green in the dark like a cat’s as he crouches a few feet away. He almost looks concerned. 

 

“Fuckin’ peachy , what does it look like?” He snarls back, bristling. What, finally remembered the rest of us exist.

 

He doesn’t look convinced, not in the slightest, staring at him with his eyebrows punched together. Finally, he sighs.



He reaches out a hand, palm up. “C’mon.”

 

Tommy blinks. “Huh?”

“C’mon, you little gremlin.” He waves the hand, wiggling his fingers. “I want to show you something. Let’s go for a ride, yeah?”

 

And he…

 

Look, he’s still fucking mad, okay? Wilbur has been acting like a real bitch these past few days, and one act of kindness after all of that isn’t going to fix anything. Still, still.

 

He needs a distraction.

 

And, besides. He’d never turn down a hoverbike ride. 

 

He takes his hand.




-





“Wilbur I’m pretty sure this is called trespassing.”

 

“Sightseeing.” Wilbur corrects with a cheeky grin, giving him a hand up as they clamber up to the roof of the old, abandoned building. “I used to come up here all the time as a kid, it’s been empty forever.” 

 

He scowls, but doesn’t fight him on it.

 

They’d parked the bike in some shady side alley, and before he’d had time to snoop around on his own, Wilbur was dragging him over to some crumbling building and urging him to climb. He’s gotten a bit out of practice climbing buildings since Bezzar, but hefting himself up  with his arms wasn’t as hard as he remembers it being. It helps that the building is practically falling apart anyways, lots of handholds. 

 

Definitely a safety hazard, though. He pulls his bandanna up over his nose to block out the smell of mold and dust. 

 

Wilbur doesn’t seem to mind it, turning his head to the breeze and getting far too close to the edge of the roof for Tommy’s liking, letting the wind ruffle his hair. 

 

He turns, giving Tommy a grin that’s probably supposed to be comforting, and jerking his head. “C’mon, you can’t see it from over there.”

 

Reluctantly, and carefully , he creeps closer.

 

“You’ve probably wondered why this place is called old L’manburg.” Wilbur says, looping an arm around his shoulders once he’s close enough and pointing with a flourish. “Well, that’s why.” 



A city perches on the lip of the bay, glittering like diamonds in the distance.

 

New L’Manburg, he assumes, just barely visable through the crumbling smokestacks and dilapidated buildings of Old L’Manburg. 

 

He wants to laugh, almost, at the way it seems to rise out of the smoke and fog. His highschool English teacher would have a fucking field day dissecting the irony of it all. It looks like a hologram, a mirage, too perfect, much in the same way Las Nevadas had seemed. It’s glittering colors and towering skyscrapers give even Bezzar a run for its money, sitting there on the edge of the sea. 

 

He almost says, it’s beautiful, before he turns and catches the look on Wilbur’s face.

 

He sits, then, patting the spot next to him. Tommy plops down next to him, though but he doesn’t dangle his legs haphazardly off the edge like Wilbur does. 



Wilbur brushes his shoulder. “Do you see that?”

 

Tommy squints, trying to follow his arm as he points at the city. “Huh?”

 

“Over there.” He gestures again. “Right between those two big smokestacks. Looks like a silver ribbon.”



It takes him a second to pick it out of the smog, but he finds it. 

 

It looks more like a snake than a ribbion, in his opinion. He can’t see much of it, just a part of the middle where there’s a gap between the factories. It winds and twists in lazy, rolling curves.  A ribbon of silver that disappears into the glittering city on one end, and into darkness on the other. 

 

“There’s only one train that takes you from Old L’Manburg to New L’Manburg.” Wilbur explains. “One ticket costs more than what we earned in a month, down here.” 

 

Wilbur laughs, then, a soft, bitter thing. “They call it the Jubilee Line.

 

“…Stupid name.” Is all he can find it in him to say. 

 

“Yeah.” Wilbur shakes his head, eyes dark. “Especially when you consider the amount of people that died on those tracks.” 

 

It’s quiet for a long moment, then, silent expect for the rushing of the wind and the low rumbling of the city far, far below.

 

Distantly, so, so distantly, Tommy swears he hears a train whistle. 



“…We all grew up here.” Wilbur starts, eyes going distant as he watches the city. “Orphans, mostly, strays. They shut down the factories after I left, but before, the factory curse killed more of us than anything else. That thick, black smoke gets into your lungs… it’s not pretty. Not many kids grew up with both parents.” 

 

Tommy shivers, goosebumps rising on his skin as he traces the smokestacks with his eyes. It’s… Frighteningly easy to imagine choking to death the way Tubbo almost had.

 

He shifts closer to Wilbur, just a little. Growing up without parents is not fun, he knows from experience, and he doesn’t move away when their shoulders brush together. 

 

“We all wanted to move there.” He keeps on, the glittering lights catching in his eyes. “To, heh, leave it all in the dust. I was the unlucky bastard that never quite made it out.”



“…We?” He can't help but ask. 

 

“Me, Quackity, Niki, Jack, Fundy.” Wilbur rattles off names with a fond smile, though he chokes a bit on the last one. “ Eret.”

 

There’s something behind that. There’s so much there, so many things he hadn’t said. What happened between him and Quackity? What the hell did Eret do? He and Niki still seem to be pretty close, why had he called off with everyone else? How had he ended up cruising around the galaxy with Phil and Technoblade?

 

It’s none of his business, it isn’t, but curiously has always been his fucking downfall, huh? 

 

“What… happened?” 

 

The words slip out of his mouth before he can swallow them back, and he’s cursing himself as soon as they leave his lips. Him and his big fucking mouth-

 

Wilbur just shakes his head, though. There’s… Something in his eyes as he looks at New L’Manburg now, something equal parts bitter and… Resigned? Determined? Something just short of calm, he thinks. 

 

“…It’s not important.” He breathes, after a moment, turning to Tommy with a slightly strained grin and ruffling his hair. “It’s in the past now, nothing for you to worry about, yeah?” 

 

He bats his hand away with a good-natured elbow jab to the ribs, but still. He finds his gaze back on New L’Manburg when he turns his head. 

 

It’s… it’s so easy to imagine a young Wilbur standing right where he is now. 

 

He can see it. A scrawny kid with no home, just like him, smoke and pollution in his lungs, a snarl on his lips. Tommy would go insane having to look at that every day, a glittering, beautiful city just out of reach while you just have to sit here in the polluted smog that helped to build the stupid thing. He’s honestly surprised Wilbur isn’t angrier as is, surprised he never tried to rip the whole of it down. Seeing that city, everyone just sitting up there while the people down here choke to death. 

 

He knows what it’s like to grow up alone and angry. He knows what it’s like to grow up surrounded by big, happy families, to watch children tugging on the sleeves of their doting parents at grocery stores and wish. The hurt that turns into resentment, cold and heavy in the back of your mind. An ugly, familiar feeling. 

 

He stares at that city. He watches the way the light of it shines on the side of Wilbur’s face, the way his eyes shift he stares, too. Is anyone looking back at them from those pretty, clean buildings and sparkling skyscrapers. Is there some stuck-up kid glaring down at them with the same disgusted look on his face? Do they even think about Old L’Manburg at all?

 

He doubts it.

 

He wants to ask about it, but he doesn’t. He has secrets too, after all. If Wilbur doesn’t want to tell him, he doesn’t have to. 



It’s quiet for a beat, then. 

 

Wilbur stands, offering Tommy a hand. The light from New L’Manburg paints the side of his face in silver, catching in his eyes. He smiles again, but it’s hollow. “Let’s get you back to the ship, yeah?”

 

He doesn’t even hesitate, he takes it. 






-



The climb down is a bit less precarious than the climb up. 

 

It’s nice and dark by the time they reach the ground again, Tommy only needing Wilbur’s help once when he nearly slips on a wet spot. The city below is just as dark, damp, and smelly as he remembers, Wilbur’s bike a splash of scarlet against it. 



“Do you want to ride in front?”

 

He whips around to look at Wilbur, mouth falling open in shock. “You’re letting me drive? Why?”

 

“Think of it as an apology.” Wilbur grins, tossing him the black bikers helmet. “And I never said drive , I said ride in front-“ 

 

“Too late.” He cuts him off, turning the helmet over in his hands, a cheeky smile growing on his face. Apology accepted, dumbass. Don’t do it again. 

 

Tommy is jumping on the front of the bike before he can say anything else, a shit-eating grin on his face as he latches his hands over the handlebars. Wilbur gets on behind him with a sigh, rocking the bike slightly as he does.

 

Tommy doesn’t flinch when warm hands come to settle over his. 

 

“I’m the best driver you’ve ever seen, Wilbur,” he rambles in his ear to fill the silence that had settled over them, fingers itching to press on the throttle. Sure, he’s never actually driven a hoverbike, but he’s driven Clara’s beat up truck once or twice. Can it really be that different? “C’mon, c’mon, let’s go-“

 

Patience, gremlin.” Wilbur flicks the side of his helmet, making Tommy squawk and bat his hands away. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll let you press down the accelerator, but I’m steering-“

 

He throws a fist in the air. “Let’s go!”

 

“-and don’t tell Phil I let you ride in front.” He keeps on, punctuating with flick to his helmet. “Or Techno. If you’re get one scratch on Sally, I’m never letting you ride her again.”

 

He opens his mouth to say something, then, the words who the hell names a hoverbike Sally? Ready on his lips, but Wilbur cuts him off. With a press of a button, the bike is roaring to life underneath him with a thrumming he can feel in his bones. He squints through the visor, instinctively tightening his hands on the handles, then-

 

He presses a little too hard on the accelerator, and the bike takes off down the street with an ear-splitting roar. 

 

He screeches right along with it, grasping for a handhold, because holy shit driving this motherfucker is so much harder than he thought it would be holy fuck they’re going to crash into a building and die- 

 

The hands over his tighten, straightening out the handles and turning the front of the bike away from nearby building and down the street. He feels Wilbur talk more than he hears it over the wind, thrumming against his back. “I’ve got you. Ease up a little, there you go. Nice and easy.”

 

‘Nice and easy’ his ass.



They fly through the streets, twisting and turning fast enough to make his head spin, the wind ripping at him as the bike roars underneath him. L’Manburg whips past in a blur of neon lights and blue fog, the new, glittering city on the horizon getting lost to the shadows. It’s dizzying, its terrifying, it’s exhilarating, the wind ripping through him, the thrill of speed, the adrenaline buzzing through his veins. He feels like a live wire, right at home amongst the neon signs that fly past. 

 

Wilbur keeps his hands steady over Tommy’s, letting him press down on the underside of the handles and rev the engine while he turns the bike this way and that. He’s a steady presence at his back, and Tommy feels his chest rumble as he throws his head back and laugh.

 

Tommy laughs with him, the sound ripping its way out of his throat all at once. He screams and whoops until his voice goes hoarse, all of it lost to the roar of the engine and the wind. 

 

He presses down as hard as he can in the throttle, faster, faster, faster, until the world is narrowed down to nothing but the wind ripping past and Wilbur’s steady presence at his back. He’s flying. 

 

There’s no Earth to return to, no gas station, no Clem and Clara. There’s no sick friend he needs to return to, no new friends wondering where he is. There’s no one searching for him, there’s no nightmares waiting to swallow him while when he falls asleep tonight. No echoes of cold metal, of green eyes and a porcelain mask, no him.

 

All of it melts away, lost in the roar of wind and speed, in the pressure of hands steady on his, in a laugh warm in his ears. 



No past, no future, no present. 

 

For the first time in a long time, he laughs into the wind and he feels free. 



(And, later, if he pulls the empty potion bottles out of the garbage to add to his steadily growing stash, no one has to know about it. The bottles are shiny, alright. 

 

If Tubbo and Ranboo notice how clingy he is all of a sudden, they know better to stay anything about it. Ranboo happily curls around him, purring and tucking his head under their chin, and Tubbo wastes no time in belly-flopping over them both. They’re safe and warm, and Tubbo is just fine, buzzing happily even while he sleeps.

 

If they notice the way Tommy checks every few minutes to make sure he’s still breathing fine, they don’t say anything about that either.

 

…Neither of them stray far from his side in the next few days anyways, just to be safe.) 




-




A Merling opens their window.

 

Their apartment isn’t much, but it’s pretty nice for a place in Old L’Manburg. It doesn’t leak when it rains for days on end, the pipes only rattle a little on occasion, and with all of the candles they keep lit the smell of brackish seawater is hardly noticeable.

 

It has a good view, too.

 

They can see out over the ocean, able to watch the docks below and stare at the way New L’Manburg glitters on the edge of the water far off in the distance. Every once in a while they can even see the flash of fins in the waves as Merlings play underwater. 

 

They lean their chin in their palm, taking off their glasses for the first time today. Their eyes have always been light-sensitive, a bit of Phantling genetics, they assume. In the darkness, they can see just fine, especially now without smoke to sting their eyes. 

 

They take a deep breath of the mostly-clean night air as they look out over that sea.

 

When they were a child, they spoke of leaving this place. If hopping a ship to somewhere else, of sailing out into the sea or train-hopping their way to New L’Manburg. Somewhere the air wasn’t so thick, where the smoke didn’t settle in your lungs, where the taste of ash didn’t stick to your tongue.

 

They remember the other children. They can see their soot-streaked faces in their mind when they close their eyes, the carefree smiles on their faces, then.

 

The look of betrayal when they told them they were taking an apprenticeship in the inner city.

 

Their life plays out in fractured moments, flashes of memories half-forgotten. Steady hands and the smell of potions brewing, a shimmering city much uglier than it seemed, the days of hard work, the sleepless nights, a man in a white mask, a deal, the homesickness.

 

The loneliness.

 

Until the end of the line, they had promised, let’s leave this all in the dust, yeah?

 

They had traded it for a better paycheck, only to come crawling back to the city that they would always call home. The children they were, the child they used to be, all dissipated into the smoke. Bridges burned too badly to ever be fixed. They tried not to mourn the life they had lived too much, but still. On nights like this, it’s hard not to remember.

 

Still, they try to look back fondly. No use in dredging up old mistakes, nothing they can do about it know. They’re older, an adult, with a business and a life to live. The children they remembers are long gone.

 

The thinks of the human. A bright young thing, a fire in their eyes. The way it has fizzled out when they mentioned the man in the white mask.

 

They’re well protected, at least. They remember the person the Phantling used to be, the same fire in his eyes, the same sharp teeth in his smile. They’re safe with him, they know.

 

They hope. 





The wind picks up, and they turn their face into it. At least they can breathe freely, now, with the factories gone.

 

The stench of fish had never smelled so sweet. 












Notes:

What a ride, huh? Im gonna be real, this chapter fought me tooth and nail the whole way through, and SO MUCH ended up being scrapped. I'm happy with the ending i chose, though, and i really like how Old L'Manburg's aesthetic turned out.

feel free to scream at me via my Tumblr, if you feel like it, or drop a comment. I don't always reply, but i do read every single one. Seeing your reactions makes my day.

Stay safe. yeah? I'll see you soon,

 

 

-Matches

Chapter 13: April fools

Summary:

Damn, has it really been 5 months? Wild.

Notes:

“run, neon tiger
There's a price on your head
They’ll hunt you down and gut you,
I’ll never let ‘em touch you
Away, away, oh, run!
Im beggin’ you neon tiger, run.”
-Neon Tiger, the Killers




I have awakened from hibernation.
 
I'll keep things quick. Make sure you read the warnings, per usual, check out the playlist here, to help set the vibe. Make sure you give some extra love to my beloved beta Mars, and a huge thanks to everyone for sticking with me for so long. It means the world to me.
 
Enjoy!
 

 
TWs:
Night terror, and all of the unpleasant things that come with, past child abuse and torture, past domestic abuse, lingering effects of past trauma, unreliable narrator. Lots of negative self-talk in this chapter, along Tommy's usual catastrophizing and teenage angst


(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

He’s having the dream again.

 

That doesn’t make it feel any less real, though, it doesn’t make it any better. He knows it’s a dream, he knows, but the realization is slipping away through his fingers before he can grab a hold of it and yank himself back up to the surface. 

 

It doesn’t feel like a dream, not when he can feel the heat of the desert sun hot on the back of his neck, not when he can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears. It feels real. 

 

Maybe that’s because it is. Because it’s not a dream, not all of it, anyways. It always starts as a memory.

 

His legs move against his will, marching him across the desert sand. He’s smaller, in the dream, his body feels like a strangers. All knobby knees and pointy elbows, his heart almost visible where it pounds against his ribs. Each blackening bruise sends a jolt of paint straight through him with every frantic beat 

 

One step, then another. The sun is hot on his back. He keeps on, leaving his rusted bike behind in the dirt. The curiosity keeps him moving, burning in the back of his throat.

 

He’d need to be quick. He has to be home before the street lamps turn on for the night, his newest foster home was strict about that. Just a peek, and he’d turn around.

 

A glint of metal, just there behind a rock. 

 

He knows where this goes. 

 

He’s been here before, seen this memory playing out behind his eyes a hundred times before. He remembers exactly how it felt, the sun hot his skin, the sand crunching under his ratty, worn-out sneakers and kicking up in clouds behind him. All the way down dry his mouth had been, running his tongue over cracked lips. 

 

He knows what’s there, who’s waiting for him just behind those red desert rocks. He knows he knows he knows but still-

 

You can’t change the past. The boy in the desert takes another step, excitement and curiosity buzzing under his skin, and all Tommy can do is watch- 

 

"̙o̢̺h,̬̣̟̜͠ ̠̫͙̝͓͈̞h̶͚͔̩͙̫̟͙e̢̥͕̜̻̙ļ̳͕͇l̹̞̱o̴ ͔̻̞̟͉ͅtḩ͓̬̭̳̰̖̰e͖͙̖̮͓r͏͎̩̳̘̳̰e̡̜͔͓͍̣̹̜"̼̻̜̱̗ͅ

 

He doesn’t want to see this again.

 

“͟I̶̻̬̗̣̣͔t’͖s̬͎ ͉a̼l͏̩̲r͎i̠̲͈͚̞g͉̝̫̠͜ͅh͚͇̗̤̱̺͘t̵̳͉̺.̠͍͕̩ ̛I҉̦̥͍͖̩̝’̢̭͖̱m̟̬ͅ ͙̙̪̳͘no̝͖t͚̦̼̙͈̹ ͈̙̮̹͓͙g̶̘̳̺oi̫̥̖̻͖̤̤n͕̗g̯̝̪͜ ̩ṭ͓̪͙o҉̼͍͉̙̖͖̗ ͉h̤̲̞̥̮̙̝ṵͅŗ̭̥̣̰t͉̹̻̻͈̪̭ ̞̘͙̟y͕̲̳̻̱o̡̪̪̝͓̗u̟̜̭̟͈̣.̰̱̰͇̳ͅ”̣̹

 

He’d already been through it once, wasn’t that enough? 

 

"͔͉͙͚͕͈w͍̠ha̹̮͚t̗'̘͚̯s̸̤͉̗̣̥ y̹̺͕͕o͎̬̯̹͓ͅu̧͙͕̜̼̭̱̫r͏̻ ̡̗̘̭̱̤̞̼n͖a͡me?̛̘"̦

 

How many times is he going to be dragged through this? 

 

“̲̙͙̣͈̦ͅT̹̤̖̭̙̳̲͡om͉̝̰͈͙̱̮m̴̬͔̤y͙̮,͇̫̫̝ ̷͓̣͎̟ḫ̛̝̞͇̞̭̖u͖̫͕ͅh?̖̹̥ ͙̰͡Ẉ̙͙̻̼ͅe̺̠̗͈͓l̷̯̖̥l̴̛̜̙͕,̞͚̰̱̹͔̼̕ i̵̹̰̱ͫ̄͐ͦ̿t̯̱͓͖̦̞̪̆ͤ̅s͔͍̤̞̩̅̐̿ͭ̄̊ ̟͓̱̜̘̑ͣ͐̆͗̇̚ͅn̫͙̱̝̜̙̫ͬͥ͂i̶̲͙͊͆̌̀c͖͎̰̆e͙̜ ̧̹̣̗̫͉̈͆̿̏͑ͩt̛ͫͧ̒͋̅̎ͥo̳̤ ̜̥̳ͯm͙͈̞̜̖̭̮͑͟e̦̺͈͢ͅe̲͢t̲͖ ͣ̇͏̱͓̼̖̘ỹ͉̬̩͖̤̼̰̓o̲̰̩̙̠̙͎͆ͥ̚u̹̟̘͓͍͌M̥̯̞͕̥͍̠ͫ̊̇ͨ̉͠y̸̢̯̳͔̗ͯͮ̅ͫͥ̾͞ ̛̳̜̈ͩ̇ͣ̐͜n̙̜̬͈͕͚͆̆̑̈͢a̴̛̱͈͎̯͆ͮm̶̵̫̜̘̥̹̹̞̿̋̌e̻̣̺̱͐ͫͣ i̿ͧͭͥ̽̊̌̈́̚҉̴͖̤̹͔̰̹̱̫͍͠s̵̵̵̢̤͈̟̤̱̳͔͙̘̬̹ͣ͐̄ͧ— ̵̰̲̫͂̍ͨͩͅ

 

No no n o-. n. o n̶̫͉̳͇̟̝o̥̗̣̣͖ ̣̹͜non̬̩̦̗o̖̤n̮̪̻ͅ o͕̪̠̗̗n҉̜͕ono nO n͂̀ͤͭ̋ͣ͊̚͏̯̤̲͎̥̻̙͕̭Oͫͩ͑ͣ̑̽̌͞҉̰͚̼̗͇̲̪͎͟ ̴̢̛̪̗̃̈̂͊ͯ̾͋Ṉ̸̱̱̲̹͂̉ͥO̷̡̘͇̯̫̤ͨ͊̿̍͒̌̾̚ ̩̰͖ͨͨ͐̊Ñ̡͓̹̗O͕̤̥ͬ̅͌͊͂ͫͮ͘N̷̛̘̲̣̲̈͛̆̿̑͐̿͝O͍̻̘̯̘͒̉̽͆̇̓ͤ͜͡





Tommy’s back hits the ground with a thump! And his eyes shoot open.

 

For a moment, he can’t do anything but lay there, forcing big gulps of air into his lungs and blinking furiously in the dim lights of his room. The stupid fairy light things were still on, Tubbo must’ve forgotten to turn them off all the way, and they’re bright enough for him to look around and get his bearings. He digs his fingers into the cold metal floors and breathes. 

 

There’s a blanket tangled around his legs, the room filled with the soft buzzing and purrs of his roommates and the quiet rumbling of the ship underneath them. There aren’t any cuffs around his wrists, no metal strings digging into his skin. He’s alright, he’s okay.

 

He’s on the Argo II. He’s hundreds and hundreds of miles out in space. He’s safe.

 

So why is his heart still pounding in his ears? Why is the urge to run and hide still thrumming under his skin, alarms still blaring in the back of his mind?

 

He gives his head a shake, pulling himself upright into a sitting position and ignoring the way his hands tremble as he swallows down another lungful of air and pushes his hair out of his face. He’s alright, he’s okay.   It was just another stupid dream, just like the night before, he’s just being a fucking baby about it, per usual. 

 

He’s honestly surprised the others slept through him falling face-first onto the floor, but another glance confirms that they’re still fast asleep on the bed. Tubbo, spread-eagle on his stomach and doing his weird buzz-snoring thing, and Ranboo, curled up in the corner in the tiny bit of space Tubbo had left over. He stays frozen for a second, just to be sure, but they don’t so much as twitch. 

 

It’s reassuring, at the very least. He’s glad that he didn’t wake them up again when another one of his stupid dreams. Just because his brain decides to fuck him over doesn’t mean they should suffer for it to. 

 

He takes another breath, firmly pushing the images of sharp green eyes and cold metal out of his mind. Breathe.

 

There’s no changing the past. No point in mulling over shitty memories and going through all the same “what if’s” and “could have’s” and “almost’s” he’s gone through a hundred times before. There’s absolutely nothing he can do, and he just needs to deal with that. 



He stumbles to his feet.



There’s no way he’s going back to sleep, not after that, though the thought of climbing back into bed and blocking out the rest of the world with blankets is tempting. He’s just too awake, buzzing with adrenaline and the itch to run, go, escape, leaving him thrumming like a live wire at three in the fucking morning. Fantastic.

 

He gives the bed another quick glance, but Tubbo and Ranboo haven’t so much as twitched. He huffs under his breath, Figures . They could crash headfirst into an asteroid, and Tubbo would sleep through the whole thing. It’s Ranboo he has to worry about, but all he can see of them is a little tuft of white hair peeking out from underneath the blankets. Good. 

 

A walk around would probably do him some good. Taking it out on a training dummy would be better, but there’s no way he’s getting Technoblade up in the middle of the night to get to the training deck. A walk around the ship would have to do until morning, and he can wait to bother someone else then. 

 

It’s a good enough plan for him, anyways. 

 

He’s quiet as he slips out of his room, socks padding silently down the hall. Neither of his roommates so much as twitch.





-




It’s been a little more than a week since they’ve left Viona.

 

He can still see it, looking out the windows on the bridge. An ugly spot of blue-green that hides neatly behind his thumb when he presses his hand against the glass, just visible between a pinprick of orange and a speck of green. He never would have been able to pick them out against the rest of the star-speckled void, but Wilbur had showed him a few days ago, and the memory had stuck. 

 

He moves his hand, hiding all three planets with his fingers, and the glass is ice-cold. 

 

He’s been having the dreams ever since they left. 

 

Well, he’s exaggerating a little. He’s been having nightmares all his life, really, comes with the territory of being, you know, an orphan. 

 

His adventures out in space had only made them worse, dragging up old memories and mixing them with the new ones to create all sorts of new, fresh horrors to torment him while he sleeps. Dreams about running from monsters and fighting demons quickly shifted into warped memories of fighting the Hoglin on Netheria, or jumping rooftops on Bezzar and missing the landing, sending him plummeting to the concrete below. Both were better than the ugly, claustrophobic dreams about the pet shop, or… Before. Real fun stuff , really. 

 

They’ve been getting worse ever since Viona, though. He went from having nightmares two or three times a week to having them pretty much every night. New ones, too. Dreams about Tubbo and Wilbur, the city of L’Manburg becoming just another backdrop. 

 

God, he hates calling them nightmares. What is he, seven? Can’t handle a bad dream? 

 

…Nightmare is still better than night terror, though. A little less pathetic, maybe. 

 

Honestly, he preferred the other nightmares. The regular kind. Not fun, obviously, but he was used to them. They were easy enough to shake off once he was awake. None of that had actually happened , all he has to do is look around and realize that, and he’d be okay. 

 

These dreams just… Stick with him. A little bit more. That’s all. He’d woken up screaming more than once, shivering for hours no matter how many blankets he piled on. 

 

Because they had happened, even if they weren’t all the way accurate. It’s more than enough to put him in a shitty mood. 

 

He’s still shivering, now.

 

He pulls his knees up under his chin, looking out the open windows and into the galaxy beyond. 

 

It really is beautiful, hundreds of stars scattered and swirling across a backdrop of pure black, dazzling colors mixing together, hundreds of planets just out there, waiting to be explored. He used to be able to name at least a handful of constellations back on Earth, but there’s nothing about this sky that he recognizes at all, no familiar shapes he can piece together. It’s… Hard to tell if that thought’s exciting or terrifying.

 

It doesn’t really matter. He’ll be back to looking at familiar skies soon enough. 

 

They’re almost to Enderion, Phil had told them the other day. They’re early, so they’re probably going to spend a few days in the planet's orbit, giving them plenty of time to prepare to meet with the Council. From there, it should be easy to convince them to lend one of their ships to the crew, and Tommy will be back on Earth by the end of the week.

 

It sounded so simple when Phil laid it out to him, so easy. Realistically, he knows it’ll probably be anything but, but still. 

 

It’s… nice, to think that it would be simple. No harm in letting himself believe that for a little while. 

 

He’ll be home soon. So soon.

 

Part of him sings at the thought of it. Finally, back to where things were familiar, to where the world actually makes sense. 

 

Clementine will throw her arms around him, Clara will ruffle his hair or pat him on the shoulder as he’s bombarded with “where have you been” s and “we missed you so much!” He’ll go back to pestering them after school and bothering Clara for homework answers. Maybe she’ll actually get around to teaching him to drive her truck. Maybe Clem will finally show him how to make blueberry muffins from scratch, like she’s been promising for ages. Maybe, things will go back to normal.

 

…Maybe they’ll finally get around to adopting him, like he’s been dreaming of for months. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

 

He hopes they looked for him. 

 

He hopes they miss him as much as he misses them. 




He misses a lot about Earth.

 

He misses sun and rain, he misses thunderstorms and hot chocolate, he misses singing along to songs on the radio, and sneaking out to sit on the roof after dark. He misses listening to his mother’s records on the nights he couldn’t sleep, he can barely even remember the words to some of the songs he used to listen to all the time. 

 

He misses La Jolla, Nevada , not that he’d ever admit it. He misses when his biggest problems were a failing grade or black eye. 

 

And he wants to go back, he does, but…

 

How the hell is he supposed to? 

 

How is he supposed to go back to sleeping in that blank, ugly room on his shitty mattress, without Ranboo and Tubbo stealing the blankets and snoring in his ear? How is he going to spend his afternoons when he doesn’t have Technoblade to spar with or Wilbur to bother? How is he supposed to look at the night sky from his roof back home and not think about the way it should look, without all of the light pollution? How is he supposed to just… go back, like none of this ever happened? 

 

What, is he just supposed to go back to highschool again? With all of the new scars, with an fucking alien implant in his temple? He can fucking sword fight now! The bullies that used to make fun of him are going to shit their fucking pants when they see him again!

 

The Council everyone’s always going on about will probably have a plan, some bullshit alien technology or something to make it work. As long as he doesn’t end up locked in some laboratory on Earth, he’s fine with that. 

 

He just hopes they don’t try to take the implant out. 

 

…He doesn’t think he would let them. One invasive, painful, surgery was enough for him, thank you very much. He’s had enough needles and scalpels to last him a lifetime-




“Tommy?”



He looks up.

 

Wilbur stands in the entrance to the bridge, hair and fins sticking every which way, and squinting at him from across the room. He squints, eyes glowing in the dark, like a cats’. “What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.”

 

He shifts, pulling his hand back from the glass. “…Couldn’t go back to sleep.”

 

It’s not even a lie, he couldn’t. He just… left out the part about why. He’s not a fucking baby, okay? He doesn’t need Wilbur to think he needs to be coddled after a bad dream like a fucking toddler. 

 

Wilbur looks at him for a moment, the irritation on his face quickly shifting into something softer, making Tommy instinctively bristle.

 

“Come hang out in my room.” He eventually says with a jerk of his head. “It’s fuckin’ freezing out here, and I’ll never here the end of it from Phil if one of you gets sick again.” 

 

He hesitates, for a moment, but gets up eventually with a mumble of agreement, muscles protesting from him sitting up against the glass for so long and padding his way across the room. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

 

He doesn’t shove Wilbur away when he throws an arm across his shoulders once he’s close enough, pulling him flush against his side and rubbing up and down his arm with his weird scaly hands to warm him up. He really wasn’t kidding, the bridge is fucking cold as shit, but he didn’t really notice until now. 

 

He lets Wilbur lead him away, and the rest of space disappears behind them when they turn the corner.

 

One deep breath in, then another, the only noise between them the quiet hush of Wilbur’s breathing, and the quiet pads of their footsteps. They walk for a bit in silence, not an awkward silence, just a calm, tired one, and he does his best to leave all the questions swirling around in his head back in the window behind him. He can worry about that shit later, now is the time for sleep, when he sees… it.

 

Something in front of them moves in the dark.

 

Its… Probably nothing, right? He’s tired, it’s dark, his eyes are probably just playing tricks on him. 

 

Only, Wilbur’s stopped, too, the hand on his shoulder tightening just a little. Just enough for Tommy to feel the faintest prick of his sharp nails. “What the-“

 

It moves.

 

Holy shit nope that’s definitely real fuck!

 

He backpedals. The arm around his shoulder tightens even more, and he can’t quite bite back a yelp as Wilbur shoves his way in front of him, a snarl ready on his lips.

 

Ugly purple fur rustles, wide amber eyes blink open, peering into his very fucking soul as the thing shambles forward on small, twisted paws. It’s horrible, hideous, an awful mishmash of animals that definitely shouldnt fucking exist. Like some shitty 90’s kid’s toy straight from his fucking nightmares

 

It’s beak clicks, the awful sound making goosebumps rise on his skin.

 

Then, it starts to speak.

 

“You asked for a furby.” It says, in a voice that chills him to the bone

 

“Is this what you wanted?” It continues, “Are you happy with what you’ve done? This is what you’ve been begging for, did you really think it wouldn’t come at a price?”

 

“What-“ he tries, only to freeze in place as those eyes lock on him. Staring into nothing and everything all at once. He can’t move- 

 

“Most of the readers won’t understand this reference. But, if you know, you know. You’re welcome.” 

 

He watches the thing, frozen solid, as it slowly blinks one eye, and then the other. 

 

“Anyways.” It continues. “Matches is going back into hibernation. Probably for a few more weeks. I dunno. They’re gonna try and get the next chapter out by spring break, but who knows. Every time they try and set a date for the next chapter something goes wrong-

 

I don’t know what the fuck this is-“ Wilbur tries to snarl, but the thing, the Furby , just keeps going. 

 

“-They’ve also been working on some other dsmp fics to help fill time between updates, but they want to have finished them completely before they start posting-“

 

How did you get here?! What the hell are you?!”  

 

“-so, look out for that I guess.” It pauses, cocking its head as if listening to something far away. “Also, happy birthday, Mars, <3 I’ve received word that what remains of your furby cult awaits orders from their Queen.”

 

What the fuck. What the absolute living fuck has his life become. 

 

It takes one step back, then another, purple fur blending into the shadows of the ship once again. Lifting it’s strange head, It meets his eyes one final time.

 

He can see so much in those amber depths. Universes expanding, empires crumbling, oceans, wildfires, explosions, constellations of something he can’t even begin to understand. An everything so great and all-encompassing it becomes nothing. 

 

“Due to popular demand, this chapter will remain up,” It whispers, already fading from view. “Happy April fools, see you ‘round.”

 

Then, it was gone.

 

“What the fuck.” Says Wilbur, and, for once, Tommy wholeheartedly agrees with him. 






Notes:


Glitched text transcript:
"Oh, hello there."
"It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you."
"What's your name?",
"Tommy, huh? well, its nice to meet you. My name is-"




You know I couldn't resist <3
(psssst check out my Tumblr, I'm so close to 169 followers guys please)

Stay safe, yeah? Until next time, loves
-Matches

Chapter 14: Neon Tiger

Summary:

Omg guys noooo don’t throw me out of the airlock he didn’t see me vent he’s lying omg stopppp ;(((

Notes:

“run, neon tiger
There's a price on your head
They’ll hunt you down and gut you,
I’ll never let ‘em touch you
Away, away, oh, run!
Im beggin’ you neon tiger, run.”
-Neon Tiger, the Killers




I have awakened from hibernation. For real this time.

I'll save the speech for the end notes. A huge shout out to my friends over in the Birdhouse discord who helped me put this chapter together, and, as always, a big thank you to Mars, who this fic wouldn’t be possible without.

Playlist /// Tumblr

Enjoy!



TWs:
Same as last chapter + check the endnotes for extra info, contains spoilers!


(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



He’s having the dream again.

 

That doesn’t make it feel any less real, though, it doesn’t make it any better. He knows it’s a dream, he knows, but the realization is slipping away through his fingers before he can grab a hold of it and yank himself back up to the surface. 

 

It doesn’t feel like a dream, not when he can feel the heat of the desert sun hot on the back of his neck, not when he can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears. It feels real. 

 

Maybe that’s because it is. Because it’s not a dream, not all of it, anyways. 

 

It always starts as a memory.

 

His legs move against his will, marching him across the desert sand. He’s smaller, in the dream, his body feels like a stranger’s. All knobby knees and pointy elbows, his heart almost visible where it pounds against his ribs. Each blackening bruise sends a jolt of pain straight through him with every frantic beat. 

 

One step, then another. The sun is hot on his back. He keeps on, leaving his rusted bike in the dirt. The curiosity keeps him moving, burning in the back of his throat.

 

He’d need to be quick. He has to be home before the street lamps turn on for the night, his newest foster home was strict about that. Just a peek, and he’d turn around. Just enough to satisfy his curiosity. 

 

A glint of metal, just there behind a rock. It couldn’t hurt to check it out, right? 

 

He knows where this goes. 

 

He’s been here before, seen this memory playing out behind his eyes a hundred times before. He remembers exactly how it felt, the sun hot his skin, the sand crunching under his ratty, worn-out sneakers and kicking up in clouds behind him. All the way down to how dry his mouth had been, running his tongue over cracked lips. 

 

He knows what’s there, who’s waiting for him just behind those red desert rocks. He knows he knows he knows but still-

 

You can’t change the past. 

 

The boy in the desert takes another step, excitement and curiosity buzzing under his skin, and all Tommy can do is watch- 

 

"̙o̢̺h,̬̣̟̜͠ ̠̫͙̝͓͈̞h̶͚͔̩͙̫̟͙e̢̥͕̜̻̙ļ̳͕͇l̹̞̱o̴ ͔̻̞̟͉ͅtḩ͓̬̭̳̰̖̰e͖͙̖̮͓r͏͎̩̳̘̳̰e̡̜͔͓͍̣̹̜"̼̻̜̱̗ͅ

 

He doesn’t want to see this again.

 

“͟I̶̻̬̗̣̣͔t’͖s̬͎̀ ͉a̼l͏̩̲r͎i̠̲͈͚̞g͉̝̫̠͜ͅh͚͇̗̤̱̺͘t̵̳͉̺.̠͍͕̩ ̛I҉̦̥͍͖̩̝’̢̭͖̱m̟̬ͅ ͙̙̪̳͘no̝͖t͚̦̼̙͈̹ ͈̙̮̹͓͙g̶̘̳̺òi̫̥̖̻͖̤̤n͕̗g̯̝̪͜ ̩ṭ͓̪͙o҉̼͍͉̙̖͖̗ ͉h̤̲̞̥̮̙̝ṵͅŗ̭̥̣̰t͉̹̻̻͈̪̭ ̞̘͙̟y͕̲̳̻̱o̡̪̪̝͓̗u̟̜̭̟͈̣.̰̱̰͇̳ͅ”̣̹

 

He’d already been through it once, wasn’t that enough? 

 

"͔͉͙͚͕͈w͍̠h̀a̹̮͚t̗'̘͚̯s̸̤͉̗̣̥ y̹̺͕͕o͎̬̯̹͓ͅu̧͙͕̜̼̭̱̫r͏̻ ̡̗̘̭̱̤̞̼n͖a͡me?̛̘"̦

 

How many times is he going to be dragged through this? 

 

“̲̙͙̣͈̦ͅT̹̤̖̭̙̳̲͡om͉̝̰͈͙̱̮m̴̬͔̤y͙̮,͇̫̫̝ ̷͓̣͎̟ḫ̛̝̞͇̞̭̖u͖̫͕ͅh?̖̹̥ ͙̰͡Ẉ̙͙̻̼̀ͅe̺̠̗͈͓l̷̯̖̥l̴̛̜̙͕,̞͚̰̱̹͔̼̕ i̵̹̰̱ͫ̄͐ͦ̿t̯̱͓͖̦̞̪̆ͤ̅s͔͍̤̞̩̅̐̿ͭ̄̊ ̟͓̱̜̘̑ͣ͐̆͗̇̚ͅn̫͙̱̝̜̙̫ͬͥ͂i̶̲͙͊͆̌̀c͖͎̰̆e͙̜ ̧̹̣̗̫͉̈͆̿̏͑ͩt̛ͫͧ̒͋̅̎ͥo̳̤ ̜̥̳ͯm͙͈̞̜̖̭̮͑͟e̦̺͈͢ͅe̲͢t̲͖́ ͣ̇͏̱͓̼̖̘ỹ͉̬̩͖̤̼̰̓o̲̰̩̙̠̙͎͆ͥ̚u̹̟̘͓͍͌M̥̯̞͕̥͍̠ͫ̊̇ͨ̉͠y̸̢̯̳͔̗ͯͮ̅ͫͥ̾͞ ̛̳̜̈ͩ̇ͣ̐͜n̙̜̬͈͕͚͆̆̑̈͢a̴̛̱͈͎̯͆ͮ̀m̶̵̫̜̘̥̹̹̞̿̋̌e̻̣̺̱͐ͫͣ́ i̿ͧͭͥ̽̊̌̈́̚҉̴͖̤̹͔̰̹̱̫͍͠s̵̵̵̢̤͈̟̤̱̳͔͙̘̬̹ͣ͐̄ͧ— ̵̰̲̫͂̍ͨͩ̀ͅ

 

No no n o-. n. o n̶̫͉̳͇̟̝o̥̗̣̣͖ ̣̹͜non̬̩̦̗o̖̤n̮̪̻ͅ o͕̪̠̗̗n҉̜͕ono nO n͂̀ͤͭ̋ͣ͊̚͏̯̤̲͎̥̻̙͕̭Oͫͩ͑ͣ̑̽̌͞҉̰͚̼̗͇̲̪͎͟ ̴̢̛̪̗̃̈̂͊ͯ̾͋Ṉ̸̱̱̲̹͂̉ͥO̷̡̘͇̯̫̤ͨ͊̿̍͒̌̾́̚ ̩̰͖ͨͨ͐̊Ñ̡͓̹̗O͕̤̥ͬ̅͌͊͂ͫͮ͘N̷̛̘̲̣̲̈͛̆̿̑͐̿͝O͍̻̘̯̘͒̉̽͆̇̓ͤ͜͡





Tommy’s back hits the ground with a thump! And his eyes shoot open.

 

For a moment, he can’t do anything but lay there, forcing big gulps of air into his lungs and blinking furiously in the dim lights of his room. The stupid fairy light things were still on, Tubbo must’ve forgotten to turn them off all the way, and they’re bright enough for him to look around and get his bearings. He digs his fingers into the cold metal floors and breathes. 

 

He just… he just needs to breathe. 

 

There’s a blanket tangled around his legs, the room filled with the soft buzzing and purrs of his roommates and the quiet rumbling of the ship underneath them. There aren’t any cuffs around his wrists, no metal strings digging into his skin. He’s alright, he’s okay.

 

He’s on the Argo II. He’s hundreds and hundreds of miles out in space. He’s safe.

 

So why is his heart still pounding in his ears? Why is the urge to run and hide still thrumming under his skin, alarms still blaring in the back of his mind?

 

He gives his head a shake, pulling himself upright into a sitting position and ignoring the way his hands tremble as he swallows down another lungful of air and pushes his hair out of his face. He’s alright, he’s okay.   It was just another stupid dream, just like the night before, he’s just being a fucking baby about it, per usual. 

 

He’s honestly surprised the others slept through him falling face-first onto the floor, but another glance confirms that they’re still fast asleep on the bed. Tubbo, spread-eagle on his stomach and doing his weird buzz-snoring thing, and Ranboo, curled up in the corner in the tiny bit of space Tubbo had left over. He stays frozen for a second, just to be sure, but they don’t so much as twitch. 

 

It’s… reassuring, at the very least. He’s glad that he didn’t wake them up again when another one of his stupid dreams. Just because his brain decides to fuck him over doesn’t mean they should suffer for it to. 

 

He takes another breath, firmly pushing the images of sharp green eyes and cold metal out of his mind. Breathe.

 

There’s no changing the past. No point in mulling over shitty memories and going through all the same “what if’s” and “could have’s” and “almost’s” he’s gone through a hundred times before. There’s absolutely nothing he can do, and he just needs to deal with that. 



Tommy drags himself to his feet.

 

There’s no way he’s going back to sleep, not after that, though the thought of climbing back into bed and blocking out the rest of the world with blankets is tempting. He’s just too awake, buzzing with adrenaline and the itch to run, go, escape, leaving him thrumming like a live wire at three in the fucking morning. Fantastic.

 

He gives the bed another quick glance, but Tubbo and Ranboo haven’t so much as twitched. He huffs under his breath, Figures . They could crash headfirst into an asteroid, and Tubbo would sleep through the whole thing. It’s Ranboo he has to worry about, but all he can see of them is a little tuft of white hair peeking out from underneath the blankets. Good. 

 

A walk around would probably do him some good. Taking it out on a training dummy would be better, but there’s no way he’s getting Technoblade up in the middle of the night to get to the training deck. A walk around the ship would have to do until morning, and he can wait to bother someone else until then. 

 

It’s a good enough plan for him, anyways. 

 

He’s quiet as he slips out of his room, socks padding silently down the hall. Neither of his roommates so much as twitch.





-




It’s been a bit more than two weeks since they’ve left Viona.

 

He can still see it, looking out the windows on the bridge. An ugly spot of blue-green that hides neatly behind his thumb when he presses his hand against the glass, just visible between a pinprick of orange and a speck of green. He never would have been able to pick them out against the rest of the star-speckled void, but Wilbur had showed him a few days ago, and the memory had stuck. 

 

He moves his hand, hiding all three planets with his fingers, and the glass is ice-cold. 

 

There’s a good few weeks until their next stop, still, Techno had told them. Nothing but dead space, half-empty planets and back water trade moons, according to him. They’re in it for the long haul, apparently. 

 

He’s been having the dreams ever since they left. 

 

Well, he’s exaggerating a little. He’s been having nightmares all his life, really, comes with the territory of being, you know, an orphan. 

 

His adventures out in space had only made them worse, dragging up old memories and mixing them with the new ones to create all sorts of new, fresh horrors to torment him while he sleeps. Dreams about running from monsters and fighting demons quickly shifted into warped memories of fighting the Hoglin on Netheria, or jumping rooftops on Bezzar and missing the landing, sending him plummeting to the concrete below. Both were better than the ugly, claustrophobic dreams about the pet shop, or… Before. Real fun stuff , really. 

 

They’ve been getting worse ever since Viona, though. He went from having nightmares two or three times a week to having them pretty much every night. New ones, too. Dreams about Tubbo and Wilbur, the city of L’Manburg becoming just another backdrop. 

 

God, he hates calling them nightmares. What is he, seven? Can’t handle a bad dream? 

 

…Nightmare is still better than night terror, though. A little less pathetic, maybe. 

 

Honestly, he preferred the other nightmares. The regular kind. Not fun, obviously, but he was used to them. They were easy enough to shake off once he was awake. None of that had actually happened , all he has to do is look around and realize that, and he’d be okay. 

 

These dreams just… Stick with him. A little bit more. That’s all. He’d woken up screaming more than once, shivering for hours no matter how many blankets he piled on. 

 

Because they had happened, even if they weren’t all the way accurate. It’s more than enough to put him in a shitty mood. 

 

He’s still shivering, now.

 

He pulls his knees up under his chin, looking out the open windows and into the galaxy beyond. 

 

It really is beautiful, hundreds of stars scattered and swirling across a backdrop of pure black, dazzling colors mixing together, hundreds of planets just out there, waiting to be explored. He used to be able to name at least a handful of constellations back on Earth, but there’s nothing about this sky that he recognizes at all, no familiar shapes he can piece together. It’s… Hard to tell if that thought’s exciting or terrifying.

 

It doesn’t really matter. He’ll be back to looking at familiar skies soon enough. 

 

Enderion is their next stop.

 

They’re early, according to Phil, so they’re probably going to spend a few days in the planet's orbit, giving them plenty of time to prepare to meet with the Council. From there, it should be easy to convince them to lend one of their ships to the crew, and Tommy will be back on Earth by the end of the week.

 

It sounded so simple when Phil laid it out to him, so easy. Realistically, he knows it’ll probably be anything but, but still. 

 

It’s… nice, to think that it would be simple. No harm in letting himself believe that for a little while. 

 

He’ll be home soon. So soon.

 

Part of him sings at the thought of it. Finally, back to where things were familiar, to where the world actually makes sense. 

 

Clementine will throw her arms around him, Clara will ruffle his hair or pat him on the shoulder as he’s bombarded with “where have you been” s and “we missed you so much!” He’ll go back to pestering them after school and bothering Clara for homework answers. Maybe she’ll actually get around to teaching him to drive her truck. Maybe Clem will finally show him how to make blueberry muffins from scratch, like she’s been promising for ages. Maybe, things will go back to normal.

 

…Maybe they’ll finally get around to adopting him, like he’s been dreaming of for months. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

 

He hopes they looked for him. 

 

He hopes they miss him as much as he misses them. 




He misses a lot about Earth.

 

He misses sun and rain, he misses thunderstorms and hot chocolate, he misses singing along to songs on the radio, and sneaking out to sit on the roof after dark. He misses listening to his mother’s records on the nights he couldn’t sleep, he can barely even remember the words to some of the songs he used to listen to all the time. 

 

He misses La Jolla, Nevada , not that he’d ever admit it. He misses when his biggest problems were a failing grade or black eye. 

 

And he wants to go back, he does, but…

 

How the hell is he supposed to? 

 

How is he supposed to go back to sleeping in that blank, ugly room on his shitty mattress, without Ranboo and Tubbo stealing the blankets and snoring in his ear? How is he going to spend his afternoons when he doesn’t have Technoblade to spar with or Wilbur to bother? How is he supposed to look at the night sky from his roof back home and not think about the way it should look, without all of the light pollution? How is he supposed to just… go back, like none of this ever happened? 

 

What, is he just supposed to go back to highschool again? With all of the new scars, with an fucking alien implant in his temple? He can fucking sword fight now! The bullies that used to make fun of him are going to shit their fucking pants when they see him again!

 

The Council everyone’s always going on about will probably have a plan, some bullshit alien technology or something to make it work. As long as he doesn’t end up locked in some laboratory on Earth, he’s fine with that. 

 

He just hopes they don’t try to take the implant out. 

 

…He doesn’t think he would let them. One invasive, painful, surgery was enough for him, thank you very much. He’s had enough needles and scalpels to last him a lifetime-




“Tommy?”



He looks up.

 

Wilbur stands in the entrance to the bridge, hair and fins sticking every which way, and squinting at him from across the room. He squints, eyes glowing in the dark, like a cats’. “What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.”

 

He shifts, pulling his hand back from the glass. “…Couldn’t go back to sleep.”

 

It’s not even a lie, he couldn’t. He just… left out the part about why. He’s not a fucking baby, okay? He doesn’t need Wilbur to think he needs to be coddled after a bad dream like a fucking toddler

 

Wilbur looks at him for a moment, the irritation on his face quickly shifting into something softer, making Tommy instinctively bristle.

 

“Come hang out in my room.” He eventually says with a jerk of his head. “It’s fuckin’ freezing out here, and I’ll never here the end of it from Phil if one of you gets sick again.” 

 

He hesitates, for a moment, but gets up eventually with a mumble of agreement, muscles protesting from him sitting up against the glass for so long and padding his way across the room. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

 

He doesn’t shove Wilbur away when he throws an arm across his shoulders once he’s close enough, pulling him flush against his side and rubbing up and down his arm with his weird scaly hands to warm him up. He really wasn’t kidding, the bridge is fucking cold as shit, but he didn’t really notice until now. 

 

He lets Wilbur lead him away, and the rest of space disappears behind them when they turn the corner.

 

One deep breath in, then another, the only noise between them the quiet hush of Wilbur’s breathing, and the quiet pads of their footsteps. They walk for a bit in silence, not an awkward silence, just a calm, tired one, and he does his best to leave all the questions swirling around in his head back in the window behind him. 

He can worry about that shit later, now is the time for sleep.

 

They’re just about to turn the corner when he sees… it.

 

A shadow, something small, huddled close to the wall. He squints, blinks twice, and-

 

It’s gone. Huh. 

 

It’s… probably nothing, right? He’s tired, it’s dark, his eyes are probably just playing tricks on him. Classic sleep deprivation.

 

Wilbur gives his shoulder a nudge, and it’s then that he realizes he’s standing in the middle of the hallway, staring off into space, and starts walking again. He squints again, just in case, but whatever it was- whatever he thought he saw, anyways, is long gone. 

 

It’s probably nothing, anyways.





-





The phantling is particular about his room.

 

That’s not to say he cleans it often, or keeps everything clean and tidy all of the time, but still. It’s an organized chaos, his meager belongings spread out across the floor, bed and dresser. It looks like a mess to any outside observer, but he could tell you exactly where everything is.

 

Which is how he knows that something has been moved.

 

“Hey Tech, did you go in my room?”

 

The Piglin pauses in the hallway, tilting his head curiously. “No. Why?”



“Oh, no reason.” The phantling shuffles around, retreating back into his room. “Just… misplaced something, s’all.”

 

The Piglin shrugs, continuing down the hall, and the Phantling closes the door. He turns back to his room, tracing over everything with a careful eye. 

 

He doesn’t see anything out of place, but still. His shoulders are hiked up to his ears, a threatening rattle starting in the back of his throat. Something has been in his room, he just knows .

 

The phantling makes another lap, checking everything once again, but just like before, nothing is out of place. Still. He can’t seem to swallow that feeling, or the territorial hiss on the tip of his tongue.

 

Something is wrong. Something is not where it should be, but what is it? 

 

If he had looked closer, he might have noticed a misplaced shadow lingering in the air vent for a few seconds longer than it should have. 

 

As it were, though, he shakes his head once, twice, swallowing down the feeling and continuing on with his day. 





-




Like any good horror movie, it starts with a shitty VHS tape.



Well, kinda. The space-version of VHS, anyways. 

 

It’s Tubbo that finds the stupid thing, rifling through boxes in the storage room in search of some spare part or another. A box, buried so far underneath piles of junk, old clothes, and bits of spare parts that it took him the better part of the afternoon to jimmy it out into the hallway. Small, about a foot long, with a long-since-faded label on the side too smudged out to read. 

 

Something something, human.

 

That’s all the encouragement Tubbo needed to pop it open, and low and behold, it was filled to the brim with old cartridges and bits of long-since-obsolete space tech. For Tubbo, it was a gold mine. 

 

Tommy hadn’t exactly been impressed. For what was supposed to be advanced space technology, the cartridges looked a lot like the kinds of things he’d used on his old Gameboy. Just, more cool-looking. 

 

Some of the other stuff was kind of cool, though. Old versions of holo-projectors, glass discs and screens. Most of it was broken, or just too old to work properly anymore, and while it was kind of cool, it still seemed more like old space-junk than anything. 

 

But no , Tubbo had explained, eyes shining, this was a super cool find. They could be old comm-games, or movies ( Streams, he’d insisted), or super-secret government files, “it could be anything, Tommy! Who knows what kind of stuff Phil keeps back here?”

 

And so, they, (Ranboo included), spent the rest of the afternoon diligently plugging them in, one by one, and setting aside the larger ones and less-broken ones. It was more of a chore than anything, but it’s not like they had much else to do. 

 

It was then that Tubbo found his second big find of the day, a cartridge proclaiming itself to be an “Authentic human horror movie: Translated.”

 

Once again, Tommy was skeptical. The odds of it being an actual “authentic human horror movie” were slim. And, even then, aliens didn’t exactly seem to get that not all humans spoke the same language. The odds of it even being in English were even slimmer. It was probably a bottom of the barrel movie he’d never even heard of, if it was in English at all. 

 

Still, it was a distraction. And something to do besides the same old comn-games, or losing to Ranboo at cards. ( how they win every time, he has no goddamn idea) It’s not like he scares easily, these days, and watching everyone else jump and squirm sounds like a good time to him. 

 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” He had thought to himself. Foolish. Naive. 

 

The movie itself wasn’t anything special. He’d been right to assume it would be some bottom of the barrel type shit, but at least it just happened to be English, the subtitles flashing by in common galactic underneath. 

 

They’d plugged it up into some kind of holographic screen bullshit they had in the living area that they hardly used, and everyone sprawled around on the couches and floor to watch. Tommy, on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders, with Tubbo and Ranboo just to his left. Wilbur and Phil did their best to share the couch behind them, Wilbur cursing and kicking them all in the head by accident every few seconds, and Techno taking the only arm chair. 

 

The screen was kind of shit. The projector gave everything a blueish tint, and flickered every few seconds, but he learned to tune it out. Surprisingly, the audio was pretty good, and even though the plot was a bit predictable, it wasn’t half bad. 

 

A crew of Astronauts gets lost in space, and are picked off one by one by some kind of monster living in the walls of the ship. Like Alien, but with a shittier budget. It probably would have been a lot scarier if he hadn’t spent the last several months living in space. The shitty, goopy alien had nothing on a Hoglin. 

 

In all honesty, though, he had more fun watching everyone else than he did watching the movie. 

 

Tubbo’s eyes were glued to the screen, and Tommy could practically see him taking notes on every scene, muttering under his breath. He could tell he was itching to ask Tommy a million questions about the ship and the humans in the movie, and if it wasn’t for Ranboo latched to his side, he probably would have. 

 

Ranboo themself didn’t seem bothered, at least, not at first. They were laughing with Tommy every once in a while at the bad special effects, but after one too many graphic death scenes, latched themself to Tubbo’s side and showed no signs of letting go anytime soon, tail fluffed up and frizzy like a startled cat’s. Ha, pussy. 

 

Behind him, he could hear Phil muttering under his breath, “what kind of ship even is that? There’s no way it would be able to go that fast. No, don’t go in there you idiot human-“ And the offended squawking that followed after Wilbur told him to, “shut up, old man!” And smacked him with a pillow.

 

Even Techno seemed to be enjoying the movie, also growling under his breath about “stupid humans ”, and “inaccurate alien biology”, by Tommy caught him wincing every now and again.

 

It was honestly just… Nice. To just hang out with everyone. Nowhere to be, no threats or impending doom hanging over his head. Just a stupid alien movie and his stupid alien crew. He could shove all the lingering thoughts about the future to the back of his mind and get lost in the not-actually-half-bad acting and unnecessarily gorey death scenes. 

 

By just over the halfway mark, everyone was glued to the screen to see the fate of the last four crew members as they huddled in the bridge. Tommy’s favorite character, the dark haired woman with the only actual brain on the crew, was just about to tell everyone her brilliant plan to get to safety-

 

Crash! 

 

Something big, dark, and ugly had dropped down from the ceiling with an ear splitting screech, opening its mouth to reveal its razor-sharp teeth, and- 

 

Tubbo squeaked like a dog toy getting stepped on as Ranboo squeezed him around the middle, Techno lets

 out a grunt, Phil yelped, Tommy did not wince, thank you very much, and Wilbur-

 

Behind him, on the couch, Wilbur shrieked.

 

Next to him, an already on edge Phil had jumped, both wings extending out with a whoosh!, and the force had been strong enough to send the couch toppling backwards, both him and Wilbur going down in a whirlwind of shouting and feathers, somebody’s comn went flying-

 

“Wait, Phil, the screen-“

 

There was another big crash, followed by the crackling of broken glass, and leaving them all in the dark. 

 

By the time the lights had been turned back on, Phil was groaning and wincing as he looked over his wings, and everyone else was staring at what was left of the massacred holo-screen. Wonderful. 

 

They did even get to finish the movie! He wanted to see if his favorite character would survive, goddamn it. By the time they’d picked out all the crumbs from in between Phil’s primaries and secondaries, swept up what was left of the holo-screen, and put the rest of the living room back together, it was well past time for everyone to turn in for the night. Tommy had been invested, goddamn it!

 

It was a mess, but it was pretty much forgotten by the next morning. Wilbur was sentenced to laundry duty for not helping out with the clean up, and that was that. No harm done, right?

 

Wrong. 

 

Little did they know then, this was only the beginning.




-




It does not know where it is.

 

Dark. Dark. Dark cold, too cold. Needs to be warmer- there.

 

Hungry .

 

This place is strange. It is not the desert, there is no warm sand underneath it, no rocks to hide underneath. The tunnels it travels down are hard, cold and empty.

 

It is cold, in this place. It does not like the cold. 

 

Not dark enough. Where? Food? No, not food, blegh.

 

It does not understand. Where is the sun? Where is the sky? 

 

It had just been looking for a place to rest, and it had, for a time, but now it is awake. Awake, and very lost.

 

Hungry. Food. Food food food- here? 

 

It is dark. And cold. Nothing smells familiar. Where is the sand? What happened to the wind, to the familiar smells of its burrow? 

 

There are lots of strange noises. Too many. It runs and runs, but the strange noises do not stop. 

 

There is no escape. No way out of this strange place, it has looked everywhere. Nothing but cold, unforgiving rock.

 

It wants to go home. 

 

Food? Snake? Predator- No, no, rock? Food? Hungry, hungry- no, not food. Must keep looking-

 

It is hungry. So, so hungry.

 

Food, food, food— there! 



It feeds. 






-





Space food had taken a bit of getting used too.

 

After this many months, though, Tommy’s proud to say that he’s adapted pretty well. He was never a super picky eater in the first place, and after a few months of eating literal dog food, he barely even glances at the food on his plate before scarfing it down nowadays. It’s kind of hard to be picky when there isn’t much of an alternative. Not a lot of food options in the middle of space. 

 

It helps that Phil and Techno are both pretty good cooks. 

 

They don’t get a lot of home-cooked meals on the Argo II, since it’s kind of hard to keep fresh ingredients on board a spaceship when you only go planet-side once every few weeks to resupply, but they make do. A little bit of seasoning can go a long way to make some bland space-mush into an actual meal.

 

Honestly, the ship’s kitchen is a lot more well-stocked than you would expect at first glance. It makes sense, though, considering they’re all literally different species, to make sure there’s something on board for everyone. 

 

(And so what if Tommy stubbornly ignores the way Phil’s eyes light up whenever he mentions liking one kind of fruit, or meat, or something , or the way the food he’d mentioned would mysteriously start appearing in the kitchen cabinets afterward. They were just paying attention to what kinds of food were safe for him, that’s all. Just to make sure they don’t accidently poison him or whatever. That's it.) 

 

Tubbo likes anything sweet and sugary, and Ranboo liked the mild, bland-tasting apple(?) mush shit that Tommy had gotten kind of sick of at this point. Wilbur liked soft, sharp-tasting fruits and dried fish(?) with way too much salt and seasoning to be healthy. Phil likes nuts and berries, but never shies away from the larger, heartier cuts of meat they managed to get on occasion, either. 

 

Techno’s likes and dislikes are a bit harder to pin down. He never really shows it on his face, but he always seemed to make some kind of hearty, meat and vegetable soup when it was his turn to make dinner. 

 

Along with the general likes and dislikes, there’s also the shit they can’t eat. 

 

Like, for instance, Tubbo can’t have anything with that sharp, lemony spice shit that Phil likes to use on meats sometimes, or else he gets sick. Both Techno and Ranboo are kind of sensitive to strong tastes and smells, so anything with too much spice is off limits to them too. Phil can’t have anything that’s too heavily salted, which annoys the fuck out of Wilbur, who practically drowns all his food in salt and spices.

 

The first few weeks were sort of trial and error when it came to what Tommy could and couldn’t eat, but after a while, they’d stumbled upon something interesting.

 

Out of everyone on the Argo II, Tommy, the human from another fucking galaxy, was the one with the least amount of food allergies. Hell, Tommy could eat and drink shit that was highly toxic to literally everyone else.

 

Phil had almost passed out when he told them that he used to drink Coke, a drink with caffeine, literally everyday, and has since he was a small child. It was hilarious. Apparently, aliens didn’t tend to eat foods that weren’t supposed to be eaten. Unlike humans, who didn’t seem to have quite gotten the memo on that one. 

 

(None of them were quite sure how to respond when he told them about how much humans like hot sauce, and peppers, and all sorts of other shit like that. “What do you mean? What the hell is a ‘spicy wing contest?’ You do that for fun?!”) 

 

So, yeah, the kitchen on the Argo II is pretty fucking well-stocked. Not to mention well-organized, just to make sure no one accidentally gets shit in their food that could hurt them. All the spices and salts are in sealed jars and packed away, all the fruits and meats (dried, and otherwise), are sorted based on who can eat what. It’s a pretty effective system. 

 

Hell, they’d even organized the fucking chores based on who has what allergy. Ranboo is exempted from having to do anything that would make them have to touch water, the lucky bastard, and Techno is exempted from anything that involves sharp smells. Shit like that. 

 

And, since Tommy is the least-allergic to everyone else food, guess who gets stuck always having to wash dishes and clean the fucking kitchen? 

 

Most of the time, it’s fine. They’re all over the age of five, they know how to eat without making a big mess. And it’s not always him, either. Sometimes it’s Tubbo or Wilbur’s turn, and Phil helps out, too. Normally, he takes kitchen clean up duty a few times a week, and it’s not a big deal. 

 

Normally. Normally is the keyword here.



-



“Oh what the absolute fuck.”

 

Phil looks up from where he was furiously scrubbing a stubborn spot on the floor, “Hey, mate. You’re up early.”

 

Tommy barely even hears him. The kitchen is a fucking mess. 

 

He blinks, rubbing his eyes to make sure he’s actually awake and not still dreaming. Unfortunately, the sight in front of him stays the same when he opens them up again. What the absolute fuck happened here? Did a bomb go off or something? 

 

He takes another few careful steps, dodging a broken jar of something-or-another, “What the fuck ?!”

 

Two of the big cabinets had been opened, and their contents knocked out from their shelves and spilling on the kitchen floor. A few of the glass jars had shattered on impact, making an even bigger mess as the contents got all mixed together, and leaving bits of glass all over the fucking place. Bits of soggy vegetables, half-shattered jars of spices, like someone had let loose the words most destructive three year old. 

 

Phil shrugs, rising to his feet with a tired yawn and a lazy stretch of his wings. “Found it like this earlier today. Must have hit some turbulence or somethin’ last night, it happens.”

 

It absolutely does not just happen.

 

“Bull shit.” He all but spits. “All this shit was fine when we practically crash-landed on Nevodis, but a little bit of turbulence causes this?” 

 

The last time he checked, a bit of turbulence couldn’t open heavy, metal cabinets and smear food-goo across the floor. This, this was intentional. 

 

Phil just shrugs again, seemingly suspiciously fine with the giant mess he was carefully tip-toeing through. “I’m all ears if you’ve got a better explanation. It’s just a few jars, and besides-“ 

 

Tommy tries not to wince as a sticky, wet rag is plopped in his hands, the horrifying realization starting to set in. Oh god. Anything but that. “Phil. Phil please no-“

 

“It’s about time for a cleaning day anyways,” Phil cheerfully finishes, affirming all of his worst fears, and already quickly making his way out of the kitchen. “Just let me know when you’ve finished, and I’ll start breakfast.”

 

“Phil- Phil you can’t just-“ 

 

“Watch out for the broken glass!” He chirps over his shoulder, right as he turns the corner.

 

Slowly, mournfully, Tommy turns back to inspect the kitchen. As if just to spite him, a thick glob of something, slides off one of the counters and plops! Down on the floor.

 

This is the absolute worst fucking day. 




-



Surprisingly enough, it doesn’t get better, either.

 

By the time he’s finished, it’s almost lunch time. He’s fucking starving , sweaty, and just generally disgusting by the time he collapses back into his room. 

 

“I need a shower.” He announces to Ranboo and Tubbo, who are both still in their pajamas, fucking lucky bastards, and blinking dumbly at him. “If you need me, that’s where I’ll be for the next three fucking days.”

 

He’s not sure what he expects them to say to that. Maybe some fucking sympathy? “Oh, Tommy, I’m so sorry you spent the last several hours scrubbing goop off of the floor while we sat around and did nothing to help. Maybe after we do our easy, simple chores of cleaning the bathroom and literally just dusting, we can give you a hand with the dishes you’re inevitably going to have to wash after breakfast?”

 

Instead, Ranboo just pulls the blanket over their head, and Tubbo just rolls his eyes, flipping the page of the book he’s reading. “That’s what you get for stealing from my secret snack stash.”

 

Record scratch, rewind, hold the fuck up. 

 

“What?”

 

Tubbo just glares, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Everytime I get more, you always find it. Honestly? I’m getting real fuckin’ sick of it! You never even ask!”

 

“Okay, hold on, back up a bit.” Tommy holds up his hands in front of him, “ I didn’t steal your shit.”

 

“Well then who did?!”

 

“Uh, maybe Ranboo?” He points, gesturing to the lump on the bed.

 

Tubbo just scoffs, “I already interrogated them, and you know they’re an awful liar.”

 

…okay, fair enough, but still. “Well it still wasn’t me!”

 

Tubbo just rolls his eyes again, going back to his book and flipping a new page. “Yeah, right.”

 

“For the love of- Whatever!” Tommy snarls, throwing his hands up in the air and spinning on his heel. He’s tired and sweaty and hungry, And it's too early in the goddamn morning for this. 

 

He knew that mess looked intentional. Just turbulence his ass. It’s a weird way of getting revenge, sure, but it’s also Tubbo. The fuckers an evil mastermind. Tommy wouldn’t put it past him, and he is so getting his fucking revenge for this. 

 

It’ll have to wait until after his shower, though. He really needs a fucking shower. He needed a goddamn shower yesterday.

 

“Stupid Phil.” He mutters to himself, stomping his way to the bathroom. “Oh look at me, I’m a dumb fuckin’ bird, oooOoooh-“



He doesn’t notice the small, dark shadow disappearing around the corner. 




-




Phantlings, as a whole, are not the most accepting of change.

 

They adapted to live in dark, underwater caves, after all. Where food and light is scarce, and predators lurk around every corner. As a result, they tend to live in small, tight knit groups, and protect whatever they have deemed theirs viciously, whether it be territory, pack members, food, shiny things, whatever catches their attention. 

 

This can make sharing a space with other aliens… difficult. Sometimes.



The Phantling is pacing again.

 

He’s agitated, on edge, eyes and fangs flashing as he paces around and around. His hands flutter over just about anything he can touch, his instrument, his desk, his dresser, and he mumbles under his breath as he double checks his belongings again and again.

 

That feeling is back. Stronger than before.

 

Something is wrong.



He has felt this way before, when the human first joined them.

 

It had taken a while for him to warm up to the idea of someone else on the ship, in his space. A feeling of wrongness that itched under his skin, like getting something stuck in your teeth, or finding crumbs in your bedsheets. Something  is in a place it should not be.

 

None of his things are out of place, though. No one else has joined their crew, as far as he is aware. So, why—?

 

He takes a deep breath, sitting down on the bed and rubbing a hand over his face. There are bags under his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

 

He doesn’t like change. 

 

There’s one thing he likes even less, though, and that’s having to- 

 

He gives his head another shake, dismissing the thought, and running a hand through his hair. 

 

“It’s probably just because of the stream.” He mumbles aloud to the empty room. “Just- paranoia. No other reason. Stupid humans and their space monsters.

 

It’s a flimsy excuse, but it’s better than dwelling on it. 




-




He’s in the desert again. 

 

It’s not a nightmare, at least, he doesn’t think so. There’s no dark ship looming on the horizon, no awful, familiar, voice crooning in his ear. 

 

Just the desert. 

 

He hadn’t liked Nevada, when he’d first left the UK. Going from a cookie cutter suburb and mild, rainy weather to literally the middle of the desert was kind of a big jump. The heat, the sand, the sweat, it was all just… So much.

 

He’d warmed up to it, though. And, on days like this, it was hard to remember why he’d even hated it in the first place.

 

A purple sky stretching on for as far as you can see, mountains rising crookedly on the very edge of the horizon, clawing their way into the sky. The heat of the sun on the back of his neck, not the hot, oppressive heat of an afternoon in July, but the gentle warmth of twilight in late August. 

 

The wind smells like summer, like thunderstorms on the horizon, like sunscreen and too many hours spent out in the sun. It’s dry against his face, warm and welcoming.

 

He tilts his head back, looking up, up, up , at the stars overhead as they start to appear. A handful of glimmering lights, then a bucketful, then more than he could ever hope to count. They glow and sparkle like fireflies, a swirling nebula of color in every shade of dazzling color you could think of. A million planets, a million galaxies, all billions and billions of miles out of reach. 

 

Well, maybe not so much anymore.

 

How many of these are the same in space, he wonders. How much of the sky is the same as it is outside the window of the Argo II as it is here? How many of those stars are planets he’s been too. 

 

He reaches out a hand. 

 

The stars just seem so close . Like if he just reached out far enough he could grab one. Pull it down, feel it pulse and flutter in the palm of his hand, warmth tickling his fingers. If he could only just, reach -

 

His arms aren’t long enough, though, and his feet are cemented to the desert sands. So close, so close. He if he could just… reach… just a little further-

 

He thinks he touches one. Just brushes it, feels it flutter against his finger tips like a birds wing, soft and gentle-

 

Then, it recoils. 

 

The star flinches back like it had been burned, pulling away from his hand and flickering in and out like a broken street lamp. 

 

One by one, the other stars begin to follow. 

 

“Wait, no-“ he reaches again. They’re leaving, why are they leaving? 

 

A handful, then a dozen, then more. Pulling away, growing dimmer and dimmer as they leave him here, the swirling galaxies of color fading and fading and- 

 

“Come back!” He calls out, stretching out his arms again, “wait!”

 

The stars don’t listen. 

 

One after the other, constellation by constellation, they leave. The galaxies swirling above him pulling away into the grand void of space, the colors fading into black nothingness but by bit. Each star growing fainter one by one as it moves across the sky, going, going… gone.

 

It’s not long before he’s alone. Alone with the dry desert wind and sand under his feet. The night is so dark without the stars as the sun slips away, so, so dark, so alone-

 

Why is he always alone?

 

“Come back!” He shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth, whipping his head around to try and find something, anything, a single star in the dark sky. Something. “Come back! Please!”

 

It’s so, so dark. The kind of darkness that suffocates you, slipping into your lungs and down your throat, chilling you from the inside out. The kind of darkness that takes and takes and takes-

 

“I don’t want to be alone.” He says, he pleads , as he sinks to his knees, the warm sands rising to greet him. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

 

It’s so, so, so dark-




Tommy opens his eyes.

 

It's a ceiling above him, not sky. He’s not in the desert, he’s not on Earth

 

He closes his eyes again. C’mon, Tommy, it was just a dream. Just a dream. 

 

Just a dream, like all the others. Not even a bad dream just- Not a good one, either. The kind of dream that saps all the warmth right out of your skin, leaving you shaking and breathless even when you’ve woken up. 

 

A familiar kind of dream, these days. 

 

He knows the drill. Breath in for four seconds, hold, out for four, rinse and repeat until he’s no longer blinking back tears. Breathe, Tommy, just breathe.

 

It’s easier to reorient himself, this time. He’s had plenty of practice, after all.

 

He’s… not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

 

Tubbo and Ranboo don’t so much as twitch when he rolls carefully out of bed, tip-toeing to the door. They don’t stir when he opens it, either, slipping out into the dark hallway. At this point, he’s become a fucking master at sneaking around his roommates. Like a goddamn ninja.

 

Normally, he goes to the bridge after this kind of dream to clear his head. But, normally, the kitchen light is off at this point of the night. 

 

It’s just bright enough to catch his attention, the dim light just around the corner drawing him in like a moth to a flame. It’s enough to make him pause just long enough to hear a quiet thud, and a round of soft cursing.

 

He feels the knot in his chest start to unwind. Wilbur.

 

It’s not a hard decision, and he lets his feet lead him to the kitchen. 



-



“Fuck man!” Wilbur chokes, spotting him over his shoulder. “You scared the shit out of me!”

 

“Sorry.” Tommy replies back, not sorry in the slightest as he looks over Wilbur’s shoulder. “…What are you doing?”

 

It’s dark in the kitchen, all except for the fridge light, the one he’d seen from the hallway, which lights up Wilbur’s grumpy face and armful of pre-packed something-or-another, and catches in the off-green flash of his pupils. 

 

“Getting a snack, what does it look like?” He pauses, then, finally seeming to register Tommy’s presence. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

 

He just scoffs, hopping up on the nearest counter. “Oh fuck off.” 

 

The metal is jarringly cool under his fingers, and he wastes no time in getting comfortable, watching Wilbur as he putters around the kitchen. He looks kind of ridiculous, well, more than usual , rocking a pretty spectacular case of bed-head and a grumpy expression. The bags under his eyes are darker than Tommy’s, and that’s saying something. He shuts the fridge with his foot, opening a bag of freeze-dried-something’s and popping one into his mouth. 

 

He doesn’t hesitate before hopping up on the counter across from Tommy, snacks in hand. “What are you doing up so late?”

 

Tommy just shrugs, kicking his feet back and forth. “Tubbos snoring woke me up. Couldn’t go back to sleep.”

 

He can tell with just one look that Wilbur doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t argue with him, either. “…Right.”

 

It’s quiet, for a moment. All except for the low buzzing of the fridge, and Wilbur’s chewing. He offers Tommy the bag, and he only hesitates a little before taking it, popping one of the pieces of chopped fruit into his mouth. It’s sharp-tasting and sour, at first, but the after taste is sweet. He grabs a fist-full before Wilbur can pull the back away fully. 

 

It’s enough to bring him back to the present, shaking off the last faded memories of the dream in favor of crunching on freeze-dried fruits. There’s something about Wilbur’s presence that helps, too. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. 

 

The comfortable silence doesn’t last for too long. 

 

“…It’s okay to have nightmares, you know.” Wilbur says, eventually, his voice is usually gentle in a way that makes Tommy bristle. “It happens to all of us, believe me.”

 

“I don’t get nightmares.” He snaps back. 

 

It’s an obvious lie, and Wilbur doesn’t believe it for a second. He still doesn’t argue, though. Doesn’t gesture at the shadows under his eyes or how ragged he’s sure he looks. 

 

He just snorts, and shrugs. “Sure. Well, if Tubbo’s snoring ever wakes you up again, my doors always open.”

 

“I’m not a baby.” Tommy hisses back, shoulders hiking up his neck. “I don’t need you to- to hold my hand , or whatever.”

 

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t need pity, or sympathy or to- to talk about his feelings. He’s a big man, and he can handle himself just fine, thank you very much, and has done so for years

 

There’s no pity on his face, though. Not even sympathy. He doesn’t tease him about it either, he doesn’t call him a baby or tell him to man up. He just shrugs again like it’s no big deal, and then just… 

Offers the bag to him again, a teasing grin on his face. “And here I thought you’d jump at the chance to irritate me whenever you want.” 

 

Tommy hesitates, but only for a second. He knows an olive branch when he sees one. 

 

…Whenever I want , you say.” He drawls, taking another handful of fruit. 

 

Wilbur can’t quite smother his grin, even as he sighs, dramatic as ever,“I’m going to regret this, aren't I?”

 

This time, Tommy just grins back, all teeth. “Probably.”

 

“Little shit.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

And that’s that.



They make their way through the bag of fruit slowly, passing the bag back and forth. They don’t talk, not really, but it’s… nice. To just sit with him, for a little while. Until the memories of the dream fade into blurry, half-remembered shapes, and the goosebumps start to fade. 

 

Eventually, Wilbur starts telling some lame story or another, waving his hands around as he talks. Tommy’s not really listening, letting the sound of his voice fill the space between them, and nodding along every now and again. Honestly, he’s pretty close to falling asleep sitting up when Wilbur abruptly goes quiet.

 

It’s enough to catch his attention. He blinks, registering the way Wilbur’s face slowly drains of color, eyes locked on something over his shoulder.

 

He opens his mouth, a “what the hell are you looking at-“ ready on his tongue, but Wilbur gets there first, speaking in a rushed whisper and pointing with a finger. “Tommy. Look.”

 

“What-“

 

Look!”

 

He turns over his shoulder, now wide awake, heart starting to pound in his chest as he searches the shadows of the hallway for whatever he’s pointing at. What the hell- 

 

Finally, he spots it.

 

A dark, scutting shadow, hunched down close to the floor. It moves slowly, hugging the wall as it disappears around the counter and deeper into the darkness of the kitchen.

 

Oh, what the fuck. Oh what the absolute fuck. What the hell is that?!

 

Tommy swings his legs off the counter, hitting the floor as softly as he can. 

 

Wilbur makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, but as soon as Tommy starts to creep towards where the shadow had gone, he hesitantly follows, hovering right over his shoulder.

 

“Where the fuck did it go?!” He mutters, more to himself than to Wilbur, taking one slow step after another. 

 

He traces the edges of where the counters and tables meet the floor, doing his best to peer around chairs, heart pounding in his throat. What the fuck is it? Some kind of space monster?

 

Memories of movie night flash behind his eyes. A huge, lumbering, slimy creature with far, far too many teeth oozing through the vents, the awful sound effects and shrill screams as it picked off one astronaut after another-

 

There!

 

It moves slowly, carefully, towards the kitchen air vent, and Tommy’s blood turns to fucking ice as it squeezes into it. 

 

“It’s just like the movie.” Wilbur mutters to himself, looking more and more horrified by the second. “Oh my gods , we’re all going to die-“

 

“Shhhhh!” Tommy shushes him, shoving his hand over his mouth and ignoring his own ice-cold terror . “It can still hear you-“

 

“What are you two doing?”



Several things happen at once.

 

Technoblade flips on the light, immediately blinding both Tommy and Wilbur. Wilbur, already on edge, fucking screeches at the top of his lungs , making both Technoblade and Tommy jump three feet in the air, promptly waking up everyone on the ship, and probably rupturing Tommy’s eardrums in the process. 

 

Technoblade, Wilbur, and Tommy get about three seconds of stunned silence to blink stupidly at one another before all of the lights go out at once. 




-






It was wrong.

 

There are predators, here. 

 

Run, run, run-

 

It hisses, flashing it’s fangs and lashing it’s tail. It is hungry

 

There is food here, but even it is strange, nothing like the prey it would hunt back home. Still and unmoving. 

 

It misses home. It misses the desert, and sun, and sand. 

 

Run. Hide. Dark, dark, dark, needs to be darker. Hide, hide, there!

 

It’s still hungry

 

The tunnels do not end. It is darker now, though. It feels safer wrapped in shadows. Is it night? It's hard to tell without the sun. 

 

It is tired. And hungry. And cold. 

 

Still, it has no choice. It has been alive long enough to know that it is best to run rather than fight. 

 

It is small, compared to others like it. A weakling. A runt. It does not have a pack to hunt with, or a mate to provide for. It is too young to produce enough venom to harm a large predator. It cannot rely purely on strength the way the others can. 

 

Being alone has made it clever, though. 

 

It is fast. Adaptable. Able to run, hide, and outsmart predators in a way few of its kind can. 

 

Run, run, run. Turn, this way! Yes, yes, yes, down here- hurry-

 

It will outrun these predators, just as it has many others. It will survive.

 

There is no alternative.




-





“The powers out.” 

 

“Oh really?” Tommy hisses, “Gee, who would have fucking guessed?” 

 

Phil shoots him a look, but Tommy couldn’t find it in him to care. Not when they’re all standing on the bridge in the middle of the night, squinting to try and see each other in the dark, while there’s a goddamn space monster in the walls. 

 

From his place at the helm, Phil sighs, the lights of the control panel illuminating the underside of his face eerily as he rubs his temples. 

 

“Aether is the closest planet from here. The backup power supply should be able to get us there, but it’ll take a few days.” 

 

The ship's emergency lights need new bulbs or something, he can barely make out Technoblade standing five feet away from him, much less Wilbur, though he’s a bit easier to spot, between the glowing eyes and the way he’s waving his arms around like an idiot, voice shrill with panic. 

 

“Yeah, and in the meantime, we’ll all get murdered by the thing living in the fucking walls!“

 

“It’s probably nothing.” Technoblade grunts, cutting him off before he can start another rant, “We probably picked up some kind of pest on Viona or Nevodis, and it chewed through the wiring.”

 

He doesn’t sound as sure as he normally does, though, and Tommy can just make out his tail, curled nervously by his hooves. He’s nervous. 

 

Which, of course, does absolutely nothing to settle Tommy’s nerves, or reassure the rest of the crew. If Techno’s nervous, everyone’s nervous. 

 

Wilbur is the most freaked out, no surprises there. His face is even paler than normal, shoulders tucked up around his neck, flashing his sharp incisors any chance he gets as he talks. “Like that’s any better. What happens if it leaves us stranded out here? It’ll be weeks before anyone even notices we’re missing!”

 

And Tommy will miss his chance to go home. 

 

The thought hits like a blow to the ribs, nearly knocking the wind out of him. He grinds his teeth together, tightening his arms across his chest. No, no. That can’t happen, it won’t happen. Not after all this time, not when they’re so close. 

 

“We’ll make it to Aether.” Phil tells them again, confidence in his voice. “In the meantime, we’ll lay out traps. The sooner we catch this little pest, the better.”

 

Tommy casts an uneasy glance around the circle. Everyone looks exhausted, still blinking sleepily in their pajamas, but there's a tension, too. Ranboo’s mismatched eyes flick nervously, Tubbo’s expression is unusually stony. Wilbur and Techno trade quick, uneasy looks.

 

“It’ll be easier if we split up.” Phil flicks a wing at Technoblade, “Techno, you’re helping me navigate. Ranboo, you take the training deck, Wilbur, I want you in the medbay, Tubbo, the cargo hold. Tommy-“

 

“Kitchen.” He interrupts with a sharp nod. “I’m on it.”

 

Well, he thinks grimly to himself. He’d always thought he’d make it pretty far in a horror movie, how’s his chance to find out. 





-




They don’t find much.

 

Not in the kitchen, training deck, or even in the cargo-hold. It’s hard to do a lot without power, and the lack of overhead lights is a bitch to deal with. What they were able to find isn’t too helpful. A crate of backup provisions in the cargo hold was busted into, a handful of chewed-up wires, and a bit of black fur caught in the opening to one of the vents.

 

It’s not a lot, but it’s a start. 

 

They set up traps outside all of the major exposed vents, little spring-loaded cages Phil had buried in the back of the storage closet, apparently, this was far from their first brush with pests. 

 

Food drugged with weakness pots was left on counters, and all of the other food was carefully locked away. All they had to do now was wait.

 

Which is. The worst.

 

Patience is, admittedly, not something he has a lot of. And, after going on three days now of sitting around doing nothing, the little he does have is running thin. 

 

He hates waiting. 

 

None of the (admitibly kind of shit) traps they’d set up have caught anything, and it hadn’t fallen for any of the drugged food they’d left out, either. The ship doesn’t have any security cams, and no one’s actually spotted it since, leaving them all kind of in the dark. Well, more in the dark. 

 

Everyone’s kind of on edge.

 

It’s understandable, considering they’ve been without power for, again,  nearly three days , and there’s a literal space monster on board. 

 

Wilbur seems to be affected the most, no surprises there, flinching at every noise and waving his knife at shadows. Techno had to confiscate it after yesterday's incident with Ranboo, (who is now missing a decent-sized patch of fur on his tail, sorry man), leaving him even more twitchy than usual. 

 

Phil and Techno are kept busy making sure the ship is still running on what little power they have left, but Tommy doesn’t miss the way Techno carefully avoids walking in front of vents if he can help it, and Phil keeps glancing over his shoulder. 

 

No one’s gotten very much sleep. Tommy included.

 

He helps in whatever way he can, eager to keep his hands busy. Whether it’s helping Phil and Techno on the bridge, setting up traps with Tubbo and Ranboo, or doing laps of the ship with Wilbur. Even with all the extra chores he still feels twitchy, every inch of him on high alert. 

 

Anything’s better than just sitting around doing nothing. Hell, he’s even voluntarily been washing dishes to give him something else to do besides stare at a wall and hope for the best. 

 

He’s not alone in that either, he knows. Everyone’s restless, they just show it differently. 



“What about this one?”

 

He squints at the screen Tubbo’s shoved under his nose. A blue-skinned, six-eyed animal leers back at him, lips stretched in a menacing snarl.

 

“Too big”, he shoves at the glass holo-screen. “It went through the vents, remember? And we found black fur.” 

 

It’s sometime in the afternoon, probably. It’s hard to tell time on the ship without the rhythmic lightening and dimming of the lights, but that’s what his comn says. 

 

With nothing else to do, they (he, Tubbo and Ranboo), have spread out over the couches in the ship’s shitty excuse for a living room, trying to get some idea of what they’re dealing with. It can’t be anything semi-aquatic, which rules out most of the critters from Viona, and small enough to fit through the vents, which narrows it down a bit more. The black fur they found helps a bit too, but still. The list of creatures they’re left with is much too long for comfort. 

 

Tubbo just hums thoughtfully, rolling over on his back and tap-tap-tapping away at the holo-screen. It was one of the ones he’d found in the storage closet. With plenty of time on their hands and nothing else to do, Tubbo had it fixed up and working in no time. The information it had was a bit outdated, according to Tubbo, but with the power out and the ship half-working, it’s their best shot at trying to find the thing. 

 

“And you’re sure you didn’t see what color it was? Any markings?”

 

“For the hundredth time, no,” he grunts, following Tubbo’s lead in flopping down to lay on his back. “It was too dark to get a good look, and it didn’t exactly stick around.” 

 

“Any extra eyes?” Ranboo chimes in. “Glowy bits? Fangs?”

 

“No, no, and no.”

 

“It could be a red-tailed minku.” Tubbo hums, thinking aloud, his two-toned eyes flicking over the screen. “They have black feet. Or a Chalu, they come in black sometimes. Those are a lot more rare, though. 

 

He frowns. “The hells a Chalu?”

 

“Big, fluffy scarf.” Ranboo answers for him. “They used to live on Nevodis, before Las Nevadas was built. Now, they’re nearly extinct.” 

 

“It could be anything .” Tubbo groans, still swiping away. “There’s no telling where we picked it up. Or when.” 

 

“Oh don’t say that,” Ranboo whines, and for once, Tommy agrees.

 

The thought of that thing living in their walls, climbing through their vents, watching them, for weeks is more than enough to make him shudder. The Argo is his ho- his ship, goddamnit, and it had gone from being safe to the start of a shitty horror movie in the span of a few hours. What is his life?

 

“It’s probably something harmless.” Tubbo chimes in, breaking the uneasy silence. “Some kind of weird bug, or something.”

 

“It’s still in our walls.” Tommy growls, and Ranboo chitters an agreement.

 

Hopefully, having locked away all the food in the kitchen will help drive it out of hiding. They’ve got traps set up at just about every open vent, drugged food sitting out on open counters, the whole shebang. One wrong step, and they’ll have it caged up and out of here in no time. Hopefully.

 

He nudges Tubbo with a foot. “How much longer until we get to Aether?”

 

Tubbo shrugs. “A week? Maybe longer? It depends. That’s what Phil said this morning.”

 

A week. Ugh. 

 

“We’ll have caught it by then.” Tubbo chirps. “Or we’ll all be dead. The odds are about even, really-“

 

Whatever he says next is cut off by a well-aimed pillow to the face, courtesy of Ranboo.

 

The pillow fight that follows is a good enough distraction as any. Even then, though, with his friends at his side, and all throughout the rest of the evening Tommy can’t shake off the feeling of being watched.

 

It’s easy to shrug off, for the most part. It’s just paranoia. Your friends are with you. You’re all on edge. You haven’t slept well in a few days. It’s fine. 

 

Still, still.

 

It lingers.



-



The next morning, they find all of the traps and bait exactly as they had left it, but the remainder of Tubbo’s sugar-stash ransacked. 

 

He then spends the rest of the day wiggling into vents and whatever walls of the ship he can’t get behind, declaring he’d “ have his revenge! Come out and face me, coward!” Loud enough to echo through the whole rest of the ship. For the whole rest of the day and even into the next one, you can hear him banging around and cursing in the walls. 

 

Still, he comes up empty. 

 

It gets… A lot harder to sleep after he knows the thing has been in his room, but Tommy manages.

 

…He doesn’t knock on Wilbur’s door, either. 

 

That’s not to say he hasn’t thought about it. Hell, he’d even gotten as far as walking down the hall and standing in front of it once or twice, but he just… Can’t. 

 

He just can’t.

 

So, he keeps himself busy. He sleeps on the couch some nights, and in his room on others, always keeping an eye out for stray shadows. 

 

This ship is his . It’s his space! Having something just, there, some kind of weird space creature in the walls, it makes his skin crawl. It’s hard to feel safe when you can’t shake the feeling of being watched, and gods above, he hates that feeling. He hates it more than anything.

 

Still, still. He manages. On his own, thank you very much.




That night, the thing takes a shot at breaking into the locked cabinets. 

 

It doesn’t work, though, only managing to leave a handful of claw marks and scratches on the outside of the door, and scaring Phil half to death when he came in to make breakfast.

 

“It’s getting more desperate.” He tells them, seeming almost relieved. “We’ll put some food in the traps, see if that’ll work.”

 

Tommy’s not sure if he likes the idea of the vent-monster being more desperate .

 

“Question, what happens if it tries to go for one of us instead?” Tubbo pipes up, reading his mind.

 

It’s quiet, for a moment. 

 

“Just… Sleep with a weapon nearby.” Grunts Techno. “Use your comm to alert us if ya’ see it. Don’t engage unless ya’ need to.”

 

Tubbo nods sharply, Ranboo swallows. Tommy reaches for the knife on his belt, the weight of it against his hip comforting.

 

So what if it attacks them? Hell, let it try . He’ll slash it to pieces before it can touch any one of his crew, just watch. 

 

He jumps when he feels Phil’s hand brush against his shoulder.

 

“Try to get some sleep, mate.” He gives him another pat, gone before Tommy can think of anything to say in response. 

 

Sleep. Ha. Real funny, Phil.





-




Even the predators here are strange.

 

They are large, much bigger than it is. Loud, bumbling things, with footsteps that rattle the ground. The noises they make are loud and grating, giving away their location.

 

This makes it nervous. As stupid as they seem, they are unafraid of other predators. Of being hunted. This makes them dangerous. 

 

It knows it has been noticed. 

 

Even their hunting is strange. They do not hunt with teeth and claws. They leave out poisoned food, and traps made with strange, smooth rocks and hard webbing. These are easily to avoid. 

 

Still, it understands it is being hunted all the same. It cannot let down it’s guard. 

 

Run, run, run, hide. Dark, stay in the dark, watch. Listen. Scent the air. Stay hidden.

 

The strange food has been hidden away. It tries to find it, lashing its claws against the stone walls it is hidden behind, but they do not give. These predators must be very strong. 

 

It bares its fangs, chittering in frustration. It is hungry! 

 

The predators are searching for it. It watches, listening, tracking their scents. They make it easy. 

 

They are too large to fit in these hollow tunnels, meaning it is safe, for now.

 

It cannot hide forever. It needs to hunt.

 

The predators are asleep. It can smell food. The scent is faint, but it’s enough. It must be enough. It cannot afford to be picky. It needs energy and strength if it wants to survive. 

 

It will need to be fast. It will need to be careful. 

 

Quick, quick. Food, food, food, where? There! This way, fast, fast. Food, food, prey, prey, hungry, hungry, hungry.

 

It is quick, silent on its feet. It is a predator itself, nothing like the large, bumbling creatures above it. 

 

There is no time to waste. It lunges. 





-





It’s not a nightmare that wakes him up, this time. 

 

He’s not sure what it was, at first. He opened his eyes, blinking tiredly at the metal ceiling overhead. He’d been dreaming, something about a field and bird feathers, but it was already slipping away. He was just about to roll over and head back to sleep when he hears it. 

 

Clink.

 

It’s such a small noise, faint enough he thinks he’s imagining it, but-

 

Clink. Shrrrrnk .

 

There it is again!

 

A metallic noise, metal-on-metal, just loud enough to be heard over Tubbo’s sleepy buzzing and Ranboo’s purring. It’s so close, but it’s too quiet for him to be able to tell exactly where it’s coming from. The hell—? 

 

Wide-eyed, and now very, very awake, he lifts his head just enough to scan the rest of the room. It’s dark, but he can just about see the walls and floor, littered with the shadow shapes of dirty shirts and other random junk. No mysterious space creature here. 

 

He holds himself still. So, so still, barely even daring to breathe. Even then, he’s sure the noise of his heart pounding against his ribs will give him away. Where the hell is it? Come on you little fuck, make that noise again, move-

 

Shrrrink, Clink! 

 

The blood pounding through his veins freezes over in an instant, the ice-cold claws of panic in his chest enough to knock the breath out of his lungs, because-

 

Because he knows that sound. 

 

That’s the sound his vent-cover makes when he moves it aside. The noise is too close to be the other vent on the other side of the room, which means the m onster is right- 

 

He watches, completely frozen in horror as a dark, black mass crawls out from under his bed.

 

Tommy can’t breathe. He can’t move. If he fucking blinks too hard, he’s sure the thing will attack him. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s just like the movie, it’s just like the movie gods above he’s going to die-

 

The thing inches its way across the floor, moving around clothes and other junk, a shadow brought to life. Slowly, slowly- 

 

It stops by the door.

 

He watches, heart in his throat, as it feels against the edges of it where it meets the floor. Is it… Trying to find a way through? 

 

Whatever it’s trying to do, it’s distracted. 

 

Now’s his chance.



Slowly, slowly, his fingers inch towards the knife on his bed stand…

 

It doesn’t notice, too busy squishing itself flat to try and fit under the door. Jesus fucking Christ that’s horrifying. It can go underneath fucking doors this whole time?! 

 

It chitters to itself, a sound that makes every hair on his body stand on end, and slides under, inch by inch-

 

No time to hesitate. He lunges.

 

He grabs the knife, whirling on his heel, but the thing is just too fucking fast. It sees him coming a mile away, slipping under the door with another chitter, and leaving him empty handed, no, no, no no no- Goddamnit!! 

 

He slaps a hand against the control panel, and the door slides open, you’re not getting away this time, bitch!

 

Where the hell did it go? Which way- There! Towards the kitchen, he can see the thing as it scuttles across the floor, all black shadow and too many legs. 

 

It’s fast, but Tommy’s got longer legs and adrenaline pumping through his veins like lightning. 

 

It’s not getting away that easy. 

 

He skids into the kitchen, nearly falling on his face in the process, where where where- there!

 

On the floor, near the fridge, it skitters towards the nearest vent and-

 

Slam! Goes the door of the metal trap.




Out of breath and still holding his knife out in front of him in a death-grip, he inches across the kitchen towards the trap. Slowly, slowly, just in case the thing decides to bust out and lunge for his face, or fuckin spray acid, or something.

 

One step, then another. 



…It doesn’t bust out of the trap. It doesn’t spray acid at him, either. 

 

It just… chitters. A thin, reedy noise that gives him goosebumps, pressing it’s small body to back of the cage-

 

Wait… small?

 

Tommy blinks. 

 

It had seemed so fucking big that night with Wilbur in the kitchen, and in his room just now! The fucker had looked huge, pure black and menacing, like a shadow straight from hell. 

 

And- and the cabinets! He can still see the goddamn scratch marks, they’re big! Definitely bigger than the creature huddled in the back of the cage, deeper too, so what—? 

 

He lowers the knife.

 

The thing, no, the… spider? looks up at him, blinking it’s far, far too many eyes and trembling in every one of its many, many legs. It makes that noise again, a whine, he realizes, now. A small, terrified noise from a small, terrified creature.

 

He’s never… really been afraid of spiders.

 

That’s not to say he’s their biggest fan, but still. He’d never been afraid to scoop up one on occasion and chuck it outside. Besides, he’s seen tarantulas before in the desert, and the big ones are pretty much harmless, for the most part. As long as you’re careful. Whatever his thing is, it doesn’t look too different.

 

Besides the eyes. And the ears. And the amount of legs. And the… tail? And the weird markings on its abdomen. Honestly, it’s more of a weird cat-spider thing than an actual spider , but whatever. It’s close enough, and he can count… at least eight legs. Spiders are the ones with eight legs, right?

 

Whatever. A spider’s a spider, and he’s a big man who’s not afraid of anything. Obviously. 

 

Besides, It’s hard to be afraid of something that looks so… scared. 

 

“Hey, little guy.” He murmurs, lowering himself down to his knees. “So you’re the one eating Tubbo’s snacks, huh?“

 

It makes another sad noise, watching him with big, scared eyes, ears folded back. Only up close does he notice the crumbs caught in its fur (hair?) And the pieces start to click together.

 

“The protein bars I left in the vent.” He remembers leaving some of his stash there just in case. “We locked up all the other food- You must have been hungry, huh?”

 

Another low noise. 

 

He wiggles his fingers just outside the bars to see if he could coax it closer, but the spider just flinches away.

 

Immediately, he pulls them back with a wince. “Sorry.”

 

Another chittering noise, more like it’s chastising him than anything, as it slowly creeps closer. Like- like it’s inspecting him the same way Tommy is inspecting it, curious, but careful. 

 

It’s… It’s kind of cute, honestly. 

 

“Hey there,” he croons, doing his best at keeping his voice low and soft. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you? Me too.”

 

The cage isn’t very big, about two feet long and half that in height, if he had to guess, but it’s still bigger than the creature inside. 

 

It’s about the size of a small cat, really, but it looks a lot larger once it stops holding its legs so close to its body. Big enough to be responsible for the scratches, now that he’s giving its paws (feet?) a closer look. The shadows casted by all the legs make it seem a lot bigger than it is. 

 

It has scars, too. Along its side, dotting it’s abdomen and legs, a chip in one of its ears. enough to make Tommy wince in sympathy. “I guess space isn’t nice to anyone, huh?”

 

A different noise, this time. A warbling kind of sound, like a pigeon coo , and Tommy can feel himself melt.

 

This isn’t some horrible space monster, it’s just a scared, freaked out animal. All alone in space, surrounded by a bunch of aliens all trying to get rid of it, probably scared half to death. Tommy can relate. 

 

He reaches a few hesitant fingers through the bars.

 

Immediately, he he goes to pull them back, because the strange space creature is still very much a strange space creature , and what the hell is he thinking, it’s going to bite them off, but then-

 

Something soft and cold rubs against them.

 

The creature stretches out jt neck, giving his fingers a few hesitant sniffs. It’s nose is cold, and tickles, but he refuses to move away. He holds himself as still as he can, barely even daring to breathe, and cursing the ever-present tremble in his hands because now is not the time goddamn it, but the creature doesn’t seem to mind. It pokes at him curiously, feeling him out. 

 

“You’re not a monster, are you?” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. “You were just scared. And hungry. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

 

The creature blinks its eyes, all at different times, before it decides that his hand has been thoroughly inspected, and wanders away to check out the rest of the cage. 

 

Tommy huffs out a laugh pulling his fingers out of the cage very, very, slowly, and giving the top of the cage a few soothing pats. “I’m gonna name you Shroud.”

 

Outcasts like them should stick together, after all. 

 

It, he, Shroud, makes another cooing noise, inspecting the leg supporting the cage from underneath, and his other arm wrapped securely around the side. His little front spider-legs brush gently against his skin through the bars, and the noise it lets out next is almost like a purr.

 

And that’s it, really. That’s all it takes to win him over. 

 

“Aww, hello!” He coos, a laugh bubbling up in the back of his throat. He wiggles his fingers again, and this time, Shroud just watches curiously instead of backing away. “God, Wilbur is going to flip his shit.”

 

There’s no going back, now. Him and Shroud are bonded. Besides, who could hate that cute little face? And all of those big, puppy eyes? Even his little spider legs were cute, in a weird way. Like, ugly-cute. Whatever . He doesn’t care, he’s perfect to Tommy, and that’s all that matters. 

 

He’s always wanted a pet. 

 

Then, after a few moments of letting Shroud explore and sniff him through the bars, he gets an idea. A horrible, awful, wonderful, idea. 

 

“Say, Shroud, how do you feel about having some fun?”

 

Shroud makes another happy chirping noise, somewhere between a pigeon coo and a meow, and Tommy cackles. 

 

Every good horror movie ends with a big finish, after all. 





-




(And, the look on everyone’s face is absolutely worth the month of dish-duty he’s stuck with, afterwards. 

 

Surprisingly, they take the news of Tommy’s new pet pretty well. Especially when the alternative is to chuck it out in space and deal with Tommy’s wrath afterwards. He politely suggests setting Shroud free in the vents again, if they really are so opposed to Tommy keeping him, and wouldn’t you know it, they changed their minds pretty quickly.

 

Well, except for Wilbur. Tommy has the feeling he’ll come around soon, though. 

 

Maybe. Eventually.

 

In the meantime, Tommy has no problem with helping them bond.

 

“Oh Wilbur~”) 




-



Someone is knocking on his door.

 

It takes a few minutes for the Phantling to notice, and a few more after that to drag himself out of bed. It’s hard to tell exactly what time it is, with the power still being out and all, but somewhere between I really should be going to bed by now O’clock, and it’s too fucking early for this, Am. 

 

He stumbles out of bed, flicking on the desk light, (the best he has, light-wise, and barely enough to illuminate the room), and over to the door, a handful of choice words prepared for the person on the other side. 

 

They all dissolve, though, when the door slides open, revealing a young, blonde-haired human. 

 

A beat of silence, then. “Uh. ‘Ow do?” 

 

The Phantling blinks. “Uh, he-“

 

“Shroud couldn’t sleep.” The human immediately interrupts, not letting the Phantling get more than a word in edgewise, and lifting up the cage under his arm in a what can you do? Sort of gesture, like that explains everything. 

 

“Shroud.” The Phantling repeats, his sleep-deprived brain slowly putting the words together. “The spider.” 

 

The creature inside, which could loosely be considered a spider, gives him an impressively unimpressed look. It chitters something that roughly translates too, well no shit, and the human gives its cage a few soothing pats.  

 

“Ye p.” Says the human, popping the “P” and rocking on his heels. “I think he’s like, nocturnal, or some shit. He keeps movin’ around his cage and making noise.” 

 

The Phantling shifts his gaze from the spider to the human, raising an eyebrow. “And this is my problem… how?”

 

The human gives the top of the cage a few more soothing pats, voice rising in both volume and pitch. “He needs some companionship , Wilbur. It’s not healthy for a growing spider to just have one friend, you know. He needs variety. Mental stim-u-lation. It’s very important.”

 

The Phantling resists the urge to shut the door in his face. “Again. My problem. How?” 

 

This time, the human’s expression shifts into something more guarded.

 

He squares his shoulders, locking his jaw and stubbornly meeting his gaze. “You said I could wake you up whenever.”



…It is far, far too early for this. 

 

The Phantling just… looks at him, for a moment, now a bit more awake. Taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands tremble ever so slightly in their white-knuckled grip on the bars of Shroud’s cage. 

 

He looks so… small, in the borrowed clothes. The scars across his arms and face sticking out just that much more in the dim lighting. 

 

It doesn’t take long for him to break. 

 

The Phantling gives in with a sigh and a shrug, taking a moment to silently mourn the sleep he’s definitely not going to get tonight, then moving aside.

 

He jerks his head, gesturing to the open doorway. “…C’mon, then. No spiders on the bed.” 

 

And, Without another word, he turns, retreating back into his room.

 

For a second, the human just… freezes. Going wide-eyed and still like he hadn’t expected that to work. He recovers quickly, though, brushing against the Phantlings shoulder as he walks past, squawking all the while about, “having good manners, Wilbur!” And “making Shroud feel welcome, I can’t believe you’d discriminate against him like that-“

 

The Phantling can’t find it in him to mind, though. Not really. Not this time. 

 

Not when the human is sitting next to him on the edge of the bed, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and leaning as far into the Phantlings personal space as he can, spider in tow. Not when his loud, raucous laugh fills the room with warmth, the tension easing out of him bit by bit. Not when he falls asleep like that, passing out on his shoulder in a matter of minutes with Shroud’s cage clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. 

 

Not when he’s so painfully aware of how few nights on the Argo II the human has left. 

 

The Phantling lets the human take his bed, settling him the best he can into the mess of sheets and pillows before pulling a blanket over his shoulders. He lets his hand linger in his blonde hair for a moment, just a few seconds, before getting up and turning off the light. 

 

There really is nothing he hates more than saying goodbye. 




 

 

 

Notes:


(TWs: Mild Arachnophobia warning)

Glitched text transcript:
"Oh, hello there."
"It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you."
"What's your name?",
"Tommy, huh? well, its nice to meet you. My name is-"




It’s definitely been. A while. Huh.

While I am officially out of hibernation, updates will still probably be a bit slow. Not nearly as slow as they’ve been, but still. Don’t worry, I still have every intention of finishing this fic. Thank you all for being patient and sticking with me this far. It’s officially been over a year since this fic started, and we’ve still got a ways to go, yet. I’m glad to have you all on this journey with me.


I know things are looking bleak out there tonight, but stay safe, alright? I’ll see you soon.



-Matches


Chapter 15: This Is Your Life (I)

Summary:

LORE??? (REAL) (NOT CLICKBAIT) (THREE AM CHALLENGE??) (EMOTIONAL)

Notes:

“wait for something better
there’s no one behind you
watching your shadow,
this feeling won’t go.”
-This Is Your Life, the Killers




Hello my beloveds. Extra long endnote, please take the time to read it. Or don’t. I can’t control you.

Playlist is here, I’ve edited it a bit so enjoy the new songs! I recommend This is Your Life, Chinese Satellite, and Dandelion wine especially for this chapter!
Thank you birdhouse discord for being by biggest cheerleaders, and thank you Mars, as always, for being a wonderful beta <3
Enjoy!


tumblr // twitter



TWs:
This chapter contains themes of grief, loss, death, war (past tense), and
Isolation. The majority was written before technoblade’s passing. Be safe.


(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text






Tommy learns a lot about his new pet over the next few days.

 

For starters, Shroud is a pe-di-umbra , a species native to Nevodis , according to Tubbo’s research. A nocturnal desert-species of scavengers and ambush predators. They even hunt in packs, which is cool as hell, and are venomous , which is even cooler

 

Pedimumbras are supposed to be big. Like, wolf-sized, with dark grey fur and dripping fangs the size of knives. Shroud is about the size of a housecat, grey fur covered in black pots and other markings, fangs still itty bitty. 

 

“Likely still a pup.” Tubbo had said, running a careful hand down Shroud’s back. “He probably got separated from his pack, poor little guy.” 

 

Tommy knows the feeling.



It’s been about a week since they finally caught Shroud, and they’re finally getting somewhere. Aether is only another day or so away, and they’ll be able to stop for repairs. After that, they’ll be off to see the council. 

 

Easy peasy. 

 

In the meantime, though, he’s got plenty of time to kill. 

 

He and Tubbo had both spent a few days pouring over whatever books and holo-screens they could get their hands on for information on Shroud after he’d been safely contained. Tubbo had done most of the actual reading, but Tommy’s actually getting pretty decent at reading common these days. Enough to stumble through a few paragraphs on his own, even if the more complicated words go right over his head. 

 

Anyways, someone has to keep an eye on Shroud while they work. He’s more of a learn-on-the-job kinda guy, anyways. 

 

Their newest crew mate has really started to warm up to him recently. The others really aren’t too thrilled about letting him outside the cage, but as long as Tommy keeps an eye on him (and the door to his room stays closed), it’s fine. The more he’s able to warm Shroud up to everyone, the better. 

 

He’s never really… had a pet before. 

 

A few of the families he’s lived with have had cats or dogs, sure, but they were always someone’s else’s pets. Even the stray cats and dogs that hung around the workshop never stuck around for very long. 

 

It’s nice, having something to take care of. It helps that Shroud is a fairly easy pet. 

 

Pediumbra’s usually hunt in packs, but loners like Shroud tend to be scavengers, according to their research, willing and able to eat just about anything they can get their fangs around. Which explains both the missing food and the missing chunks in the ship's internal wiring. 

 

It also means that Shroud isn’t a picky eater, happily gobbling up the bits of meat he offers. 

 

They’re nocturnal, which isn’t too big of a deal, Tommy’s sleep schedule is already shit as it is, and need to be kept warm so they don’t go into hibernation, which gives him an excuse to let Shroud burrow into the blankets on the bed when Tubbo isn’t paying attention. What can he say? Shroud likes to dig. 

 

But the most recent, and by far the most important information happens to be-



“Shroud is a woman?!”

 

“Yep.” Tubbo confirms, turning the screen around so Tommy can see. “See the stripe down her back? Only females have that.”

 

Tommy just gapes. “I- uh. Huh.”

 

Not that he has any problem with that, honestly. He loves women! And women love him! It’s just… unexpected. Caught him off guard, shall we say. 



“You’re the most beautiful spider I’ve ever seen, Shroud. I’m sorry if I offended you.” He makes sure to tell her, petting the scruff around her neck in the way she likes. “I’m all for respecting women, you know. The ladies all love me.” 

 

Shroud doesn’t look too impressed, but seems content to sit on his chest and soak up the attention, making her happy chirps and rumbles as she kneads her little claws into his shirt, tail swaying lazily from side to side. Adorable. 

 

“As long as you don’t, like, have a bunch of spider babies.” He adds, running a hand down her back. Jesus fuck, that would be a nightmare. Ew. “I’m a bit too young to be a grandpa.” 

 

Shroud blinks her many, many eyes, yawns, and curls up to take a nap. 

 

On the floor at the foot of the bed, Tubbo is messing with one of his new projects. The little pieces of scrap-metal are scattered all around the floor of their shared bedroom, turning it into a minefield of scraps and sharp metal bits. He and Shroud have shelter on the bed, the only space not covered in wires or gears or screws that hurt like a bitch if you step on them. 

 

He plays with Shrouds little front paws, spread out on his back with her curled up on his chest. “Say, Tubbo, what exactly am I supposed to feed a spider cat anyways?”

 

There's a clink! As Tubbo sets down the piece he’s holding. “…Spider-cat?“

 

“Shroud. I mean, they’re scavengers, right? Does she need to eat fruit and shit too?” 

 

“Meat is probably better.” More clinks! As Tubbo goes back to tinkering. “She’s got pretty big fangs. I don’t think they’re picky eaters, though.”

 

Shroud makes a quiet chirping noise, flipping over on her back to bat at his fingers with all over her legs, thankfully keeping her claws to herself. Aww! She’s like a little kitten! 

 

…if kittens had like, eight glowing purple eyes. And twice the amount of legs. And fangs. But still, still! 

 

“Aren’t you the cutest little predator?” He coos , wiggling his fingers for her to bat at. “Yes you are!” 

 

Tubbo glances over from his place on the floor, fingers skillfully screwing in one part or another to whatever he’s working on. “If you keep doing that, she’s gonna bite you.”

 

He gasps, offended on Shrouds behalf, and pulls her closer with his other hand. 

“Shroud would never. The ladies love me, Tubbo, I’ll have you know.”

 

Another clink! As Tubbo screws something into place. “I’m not helping you if you get your hand paralyzed.”

 

He scoffs, shooting him a dirty look. As if. Shroud is a perfect and beautiful lady, and she would never do anything to hurt him. They’ve bonded! 

 

Two outcasts, taken from their homes and casted out into deep space. Different species they may be, but the bond they share is unbreakable . Undeniable. 

 

“Shroud’s not going to bite me-“

 

At that moment, the door slides open. 

 

“Hey Tubbo,” says Ranboo, blissfully unaware of the seven pairs of eyes that have locked on to them, “have you seen my- oh fuck why Tommy gET IT OFF!”

 

“See? Not me!”

 

“Tommy!”

 

Like he said. Bonded. 




-

 




A few hours, and a dose-and-a-half of anti-venom later (sorry, Ranboo), Shroud has been successfully put down for a nap, and Tommy makes his way to the bridge. 

 

Phil had buzzed them all over the comns just after lunch for a “Team Meeting”, and he’s proud to say he didn’t even need to ask Tubbo what he’d said! His common reading lessons were really starting to pay off. It’s nice to be able to use his comn for more than just dumb games. 

 

Everyone’s already there when he arrives, sitting or standing around in a loose circle as Phil takes his usual place at the helm. He slides up beside Tubbo, shooting Ranboo another apologetic smile and just catching the end of what Phil’s saying.

 

“-Almost there.” He continues, folding his hands. “We’re just a day or so out, if everything runs smoothly. That being said, we can’t stay for too long if we want to be on time, so we need to make sure we know what supplies we need to get while we’re there.” 

 

“Food, definitely.” Wilbur adds with a half-glare in Tommy’s direction. “Our little stowaway ruined a lot of what we had in the kitchen.”

 

“She was hungry!” He huffs, jabbing a finger in Wilbur's direction. “ You try living in the vents for weeks and not being a little grumpy.”

 

Ranboo raises a hand. “She literally just bit me earlier today.”

 

“We’re working on it.” He folds his arms, “you can’t expect perfection in one day, Ranboob.” 

 

“What does that even mean-“ 

 

Anyways .” Phil interrupts, giving them both a look, “Anything else we need?”

 

Tubbo raises a hand. “Snacks.”

 

“Snacks, got it.” 

 

“Bandages,” Ranboo grumbles, crossing their arms. Geez, somebody knows how to hold a grudge. 

 

A few more things go on the list, water, some better fitting boots for Tubbo, a few extra shirts for Tommy, Wilbur needs more of his weird vanilla body wash, all the usual shit. 

 

“Alright.” Phil taps away on his comn, “We shouldn’t be on Aether for longer than a day or two, just long enough for repairs and fuel.”

 

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to refuel on Enderion?” Wilbur points out with a frown. “We have enough to make the trip, and it’s closer to where we’re going.” 

 

“Enderion’s a nightmare to navigate around when there’s a Council meetin’.” Techno grunts from his seat in the cockpit, having turned around in his chair to face them. “Remember last year? Everyone and their sounder is goin’ planet-side for fuel, and all the celebratin’ makes traffic a nightmare. It makes more sense to just refuel on Aether since we’re stoppin’ anyways.” 

 

Tommy just frowns harder. “Won’t Aether be just as busy?”

 

And then, there’s a pause, and oh , goddamn it.  

 

It's one of those weird pauses, where everyone seems to catch their breath at once, trading uneasy looks around the circle like they think he can’t see them. An awkward hush falls over the room, tension thick enough to cut with a knife, 

and he knows immediately that he’s asked a question he shouldn’t have. 

 

He feels himself bristling instinctively, shoulders hiking up to his neck, and folds his arms just a bit tighter over his chest. Great. Just fuckin’ peachy. 

 

The moment only lasts for a second, in reality, just long enough to get under his skin before Technoblade shatters the awkward silence with a grunt. “…No. It won’t be.” 

 

“O…kay?” what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

 

The conversation moves on, but he can’t find it in him to do anything else but listen. God, he hates it when shit like that happens, it’s like he’s in middle school all over again. All the other kids snickering over an inside joke he hadn’t been let in on. 

 

And look, Tommy may be a lot a of things, but he’s not fucking stupid. 

 

He knows he’s a human, and they’re aliens , so there’s always shit he doesn’t get and jokes he doesn’t understand, but still. He just… Forgets that, sometimes. It’s weirdly easy to forget they’re all literally from different planets when they’re all chatting and joking together as a crew. And he’s been on this ship for what, months now? Nearly a year? They could at least give him a warning before he falls flat on his face into another taboo topic he’s not supposed to mention. 

 

“-anyways,” continues Phil, and Tommy forces himself to start paying attention again. “If we time things right we’ll be there in time for-”

 

Then, he makes a noise in the back of his throat like he’s about to throw up. It takes a few seconds for Tommy to realize that it’s supposed to be a word.

 

Stupid translators . They get all weird when it comes to specific names for shit. 

 

It must show on his face, because Phil immediately jumps into a sheepish explanation, repeating the word and slowing it down into something that could generously be called speech

“Remembrance Day, in common. It’s a festival held on Aether’s summer equinox, just before the council meeting.”

 

Wilbur elbows Tommy, speaking in a loud stage whisper. “It’s very important to Elytrans.”

 

Phil gives him a half-hearted glare. “It should be important to you too, you little shit!”

 

At his side Tubbo is buzzing like, well, a bee, chirping excitedly in his ear. “We celebrate that on Bezzar, too. It’s fun!”

 

At his side, Ranboo nods. “We spent most of it making cakes for Niki.”

 

And watching the aerial shows!” He pauses. “I don’t think Aether will have those, though. It's A shame, the explosions were popchampion!”

 

For a moment, all he does is stare. “…I regret ever teaching you that.




Remembrance Day. 

 

He mulls over the name in his mind as the unofficial meeting ends, Tubbo babbling in his ear about all the traditions he just had to take part in his year, yadda yadda, and tugging him back to his room. 

 

He doesn’t mention why they celebrate it. No one does, he notices, and once he figures that out, he can’t shake it off.

 

…He feels  a lot like he’s missing something, or forgetting something. Something Phil has said before, maybe? Something someone had mentioned in passing. It’s eating at him. 

 

Shroud looks at him through the bars of her temporary cage, making a low mrrp noise in the back of her throat. He pushes a few fingers through the bars to scratch behind her ears.

 

He should make her a bigger one. It’s not fair to keep her behind bars all the time when he’s not around. No one deserves that. 

 

“Aliens and their weird secrets.” He murmurs. “We’re all part of the same crew. You’d think they’d try to keep me in the loop, huh?”

 

Shroud presses against his fingers with a quiet purr, and does not reply. 

 

By the time dinner rolls around, though, and quickly dissolves into a foodfight once Tubbo tricks him into trying some really fucking spicy root, “You said it would be sweet, you asshole!”, getting Wilbur trapped in the crossfire, “Watch the hair, watch the hair!” and inevitably smearing some sticky shit all over Phil’s wings, “...Oops,” it’s all forgotten. 

 

For the most part, anyways. 




-




The Elytran makes his way back to his room when dinner is over. 

 

A simple room, much like the others on the ship. A little messy, the walls covered in maps and sketches, the bookshelves lined with trinkets of every shape and color. The bed, more of a nest than anything else, filled with soft, comfortable blankets, and big enough for one. 

 

He does not sit. He paces, instead.

 

Elytrans are an interesting species, with many quirks to set them apart from Avians, their counterparts. Larger wings, longer claws. 

 

A longer lifespan. 

 

Their aging process is a strange one, even for the other creatures of this galaxy. For a while, they age like normal, but once they reach a certain age the process… Slows

 

It’s different for every Elytran. Some Elytrans only age a little slower than normal, appearing to be only a few decades younger than their true age, but others? They can be centuries older than their appearances let on, especially if the slowing of their aging process happens at a younger age.

 

This Elytran happens to be in the latter category.

 

He paces his room in a slow, broad circle, wings tucked tightly against his back. 

Every once in a while he pauses, tracing his eyes over some trinket or another before he continues. He looks to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, to the untrained eye, but in reality?

 

This Elytran, in particular, has lived for a very, very long time.

 

It doesn’t show, not really. Except for moments like this. 

 

Moments when the door is shut, and he is alone. Moments when no one is depending on him to lead, to have the answers. Moments when he lets his guard down completely, if just for a few seconds. 

 

His eyes are tired. His wings droop, the feathers a bit more ruffled than usual. He moves slowly, robotically, dragging a hand down his face and sitting on the edge of his bed. 

 

Now, just for this moment, he lets himself feel the age he truly is. 

 

It’s been a while since he’s been to Aether.

 

He tries to make it for every summer solstice. It’s an important day, for Aetherians, it always has been. Even… before . It was always a time meant for celebrating the dead, when the stars around Aether aline just so , and the suns refuse to set for three days in a row. A twilight that doesn’t fade. A time when the spirits of the dead walk alongside the living.

 

Now, though… It’s not the same. It’s Remembrance Day, now, a galaxy-wide holiday. 

 

Still, still.

 

His eyes catch on his dresser.

 

He has a lot of trinkets, an eye for shiny things, you can say. This is different , though. Not a jewel or shimmering bottle, not a gold chain or silver knick-nack. 

 

There, resting among shining and shimmering things, is a feather.

 

A flight feather, so inky black it’s almost purple, glimmering like it holds a galaxy of its own when the light catches it just so.

 

It’s not his feather.

 

A knock at his door. “Hey, Phil? It’s almost time.”

 

He stands, shakes his head, and the door slides shut behind him. 





-





The lights aboard the Argo II have already dimmed for the evening when they finally reach Aether.

 

Honestly, he’s sort of tempted to just skip the whole thing and go to bed already, but Tubbo just looks so damn excited , jumping happily from foot to foot like he’s about to take off into orbit himself. Besides, Phil would probably give him a lecture about not strapping himself in properly, blah blah blah safety measures , blah blah blah, just in case. 

 

So, when Phil calls over the intercom and Tubbo takes off towards the bridge, he makes sure Shroud’s cage is somewhere safe for the landing, and follows. 



“-So much about it, but I don’t know how much is true. I can’t wait to see it in person, all the stories I’ve heard about Aether make it seem so cool.” Tubbo rambles, already up in his seat with the straps pulled down over his chest, grinning with a mad glint in his two-toned eyes. “It’s the first planet that discovered space travel! There’s so much history. And the technology- well, most of the new tech is developed on Viona or Enderion, these days, but the stuff on Aether is ancient, and-“

 

How he can find all of that energy when it's the middle of the night, Tommy has no idea. He stifles a yawn, feeling practically dead on his feet already. Ugh. 

 

He takes his usual seat next to Tubbo, glancing around the bridge and nodding along half heartedly to whatever he says. He probably should make more of an effort to pay attention, but it’s fucking late, alright? It’s well past the time he normally taps out for the night, and his sleep schedule is fucked. 

 

The windows around him show nothing more than the usual void and stars, and with the power still mostly out, the bridge is almost pitch-black except for the control panels. The glowing buttons and pads Wilbur and Techno press and type on glow like Christmas lights, illuminating their tired faces in an array of neon colors. Phil gives his wings a sleepy shake where he stands at the controls, cracking his knuckles. 

 

Tommy turns away from them, mechanically going through the motions of strapping himself in as Ranboo yawns and folds themself into the seat to his right.

 

“There are a lot of rumors.” They add to Tubbo’s ramblings, having to pull their knees up almost to their chin to fit properly into the seat. “About the war, especially.”

 

Now that gets his attention.

 

He blinks a few times, exhaustion temporarily forgotten. “War?”

 

That's what he’d been missing, the information slotting itself neatly into place with the rest. Tubbo had mentioned something about a war before, he was pretty sure. Something about Aether and Enderion, maybe the Council? He can’t quite remember… It feels like forever ago, now. 

 

“Didn’t I tell you?” Tubbo blinks. At Tommy’s blank stare, he just rolls his eyes, glancing around to make sure the others are paying attention before leaning in and lowering his voice. “All the adults get real touchy about it, though it happened hundreds of years ago.” 

 

“Aether is where it started, I heard.” Ranboo whispers too, giving Phil a nervous look. “Between them and Enderion. The first real war between planets in history-“



“Everyone strapped in?” Phil interrupts, bringing a hasty end to the conversation.

 

Tommy jolts, giving him a thumbs up and a slightly-strained smile, and the other two nod a little too quickly for his liking, doing their best to act like they were talking about anything else. Phil takes one look at them and just shakes his head, turning away to start calling commands to Wilbur and Technoblade as the engines kick up.

 

“Phil gets touchy about it.” Tubbo hisses in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the engines. “Which makes sense, considering he’s from Aether, but-“



“Turning the ship now, thrusters powering up.” Technoblade all but shouts as the ship begins to tremble, completely drowning out whatever Tubbo says next. “Wilbur get those shields up-“

 

“Working on it!” He snaps back, pushing down a lever with a little more force than necessary. “We’re running on a third of the power we normally have here, give me a second-“



“-Secret” Tubbo finishes. “It’s really sad. Practically the whole planet is just a-“



“Alright!” Wilbur shouts, and the engine underneath them comes alive. “Now!“



Whatever Tubbo was about to say next is completely lost as the ship begins to rattle, the purr of the engine turning into a roar and the force of it pressing him back into his seat and rattling his teeth in his skull. 

 

The twinkling stars shimmering on the other side of the front window swirl as the ship turns, and a planet comes into view.

 

He barely even gets a glimpse of the planet before they’re speeding towards it, the colors all blurring into one big swirl of green, brown, and black, moons and lingering space junk flying past like shooting stars. It looked… Green? He thinks? Or maybe a light brown? It’s hard to tell. 

 

There were moons, though. He could tell that much. And a hell of a lot of space junk. Wonderful. 

 

He can’t see shit now, just a blur of black, green, and brown as they hurtle through space. He’s pressed back into his seat with the force of it, Technoblade and Wilbur shouting things about bringing up shields and atmospheric pressure that goes completely over his head as he squeezes his eyes closed and tries to keep dinner in his stomach where it belongs. Fuck, here we go-

 

Phil is laughing, Tubbo is shouting excitedly because of course he is, he’s a fucking maniac, to one side Ranboo is making weird trilling sounds again, and the ship trembles under his feet like it’s about to break apart—

 

Needless to say, it’s a bit of a rough ride. 

 

He feels like he’s in a fucking plane crash with all the rumbling and jostling around, like an angry toddler had grabbed both sides of the Argo II and decided to throw a goddamn tantrum with it. He’s gonna have bruises on his back by the end of it, he just knows. 

 

Tommy swallows, gripping the handles on his seat hard enough that his joints groan in complaint. This is the worst, this is the worst-

 

God, he fucking hates space travel sometimes. 





-




Eventually, eventually , they slow down. 

 

The worst part doesn’t last too long, really, but it was definitely long enough for Tommy, thank you very much. He feels like crying with relief when the ship starts to slow down into something tolerable, and he’s no longer in danger of losing his dinner. 

 

The ship stops groaning and shaking like it’s about to burst into flames any minute, and he can finally stop white-knuckling the handle bars. 

 

“-Quickest entry we’ve had in a while.” Techno muses, and Tommy cracks open an eye once he’s sure it’s safe, hissing and squinting as his eyes adjust to the onslaught of light. God, fuck, ow, why.

 

“Burned a lot of fuel, though.” Wilbur adds right back, tapping away at his keyboard. “We don’t have much to spare.” 

 

Phil just shrugs, flexing and shuffling his wings as he tries to fix the feathers that were knocked out of alignment. “Eh, we’ll be alright. I’ll steer us towards a town.”

 

Tommy blinks again, rubbing his eyes with a hand until he can finally fucking see- 

 

Oh .



They’re flying over plains.

 

Outside, the cloudless sky is painted all shades of lilac and lavender, dipping into indigo at the edges as the sun hovers over a mountain range far in the distance. 

 

He leans towards, watching the shadow of the ship fall on the miles and miles of flowering plains below. Rippling fields of sun-kissed grain and clover grass stretch on for forever, only occasionally cut though with forested hills and valleys, sharp mountains rising suddenly from the fields like the half-buried bones of some long-dead giant. Ravines claw through the planet's surface from time to time, like a great animal has taken its claws to it. Occasionally, there’s even glitters of blue and grey, rivers and lakes, he assumes, and forests of silver, ash-grey trees. 

 

It’s beautiful. It’s familiar. It’s… 

 

It’s like Earth .

 

…If you ignore the purple sky, that is. And the many, many moons that fill it, the two suns peeking out from behind swirling blue clouds. And the groves of bare, silver and grey trees. 

 

It’s something out of a National Geographic magazine or a nature documentary. The way earth is supposed to look. Untouched nature for miles, and miles, and miles. 

 

It’s beautiful, it’s breathtaking, it winds its fingers around his chest and squeezes. 



“What do you think?”

 

He blinks, ripping his gaze away from the windows to look over at Phil, who grins at him. 

 

“This part of Aether is still pretty wild,” he continues, brushing a hand over the controls. “Just fields and wildflowers. A nice change of pace from Viona, huh?”

 

“…Yeah.” He says, eventually. “It’s, uh, pretty.”

 

And it is, but that doesn’t fix the ugly longing making his chest all tight. He gives his head a few quick shakes to clear it. 

 

He’ll be home soon, after all.




“How close are we to Sky City?” Phil calls out to the others. 

 

“Not close enough.” Technoblade grunts back to Wilbur, bringing Tommy out of his head long enough to see what the others are doing now. 

 

Tubbo struggles with the straps before they come undone with a click!, already shoving everything off so he can dart over to the large, bay windows for a better look. Ranboo follows, though a bit more slowly, and with a few more hesitant glances back to Tommy even after he gives them a go ahead with a jerk of his chin. 

 

He undoes his own seatbelts, but stays where he is, trying to tear his eyes away from the rolling fields with another shake of his head. 

 

He doesn’t have a lot of time left with the crew, after all. No use wasting it being homesick. 

 

Phil hums, the look on his face contemplative as he looks out the windows. “Turn here, we’ll land at Flower Fall.”

 

“Flower Fall?”

 

He waves a hand, and a wing, gesturing as he talks. “It’s at the edge of the Silver Forest, a little trading village.

 

He gives a knowing look to Tommy, then, but it’s kind. “I think we’ve all had enough of cities.”

 

Tommy just shrugs, folding his arms around his waist and sinking a bit lower in his seat, watching the fields roll past below. He’ll feel better once they’ve landed, once they’ve slept.

 

And tomorrow… Tomorrow he’ll explore one last planet with the crew of the Argo II.

 

It doesn’t… It’s not as comforting of a thought as he thought it would be. 

 

…He should be relieved, right? That he’s so close to going home? And he is relieved! Sort of! It’s just… he just…

 

He’s going to miss this, that’s all. He’s… he’s really going to miss this. 

 

It’s not over yet, though. He gives his head a firm shake. He’s being stupid, worrying about shit that isn’t even close to happening yet. He’s still got all day tomorrow to spend with everyone, after all. He’ll just have to make the most of it. 

 

No matter what happens, no matter how shitty he feels, he’ll shove all of that shit to the very back of his mind and just forget, for a bit. He’ll have fun . No getting kidnapped, no fighting rings, no fearing for his life. 

 

Just one good, calm, perfect day. 

 

He’ll spend it laughing with Ranboo, and getting into trouble with Tubbo. He’ll bother Wilbur some, maybe go a few rounds with Techno, hell, he might even help Phil cook breakfast. 

 

Phil said something about a festival, right? It probably wouldn’t be too hard to convince him to let them go. One last adventure. 

 

He’ll go back to Earth on a happy note, goddamn it, and everything will work itself out from there. 

 

Tomorrow, he decides, he will make absolutely perfect, and everything will work out just fine from there on. 

 

It has too. It will. 



He stubbornly ignores the glances Wilbur and Phil trade when they think he’s not looking, or the one Ranboo keeps shooting at him over their shoulder. 

 

This crew is full of nothing but a bunch of mother hens. 





-




Hours later, Aether’s two suns still have not set.

 

They won’t, not for a while, still. Not during the solstice. The ship has been landed, the inhabitants sent off the bed. All except one, that is. 

 

An Elytran stands on the bridge of the Argo II , alone. 

 

Even as everyone else trickles out of the bridge, even as the planet around him slips into twilight. He stays, and he breathes, and he stares out over the planet he once called home.

 

The ship is facing the valley, carefully angled away from what lies on the other side of the hill. Outside, the valley beneath is beautiful , lush and green. 

 

The only part of Aether still intact. The only part that looks the same as it does is his memories.

 

It was dumb luck that this place was spared. His home town, the mountains he once knew like the back of his hand, the city he had watched rise from nothing , it wasn’t so lucky.

 

For a moment, just a moment , he can pretend.

 

Pretend that the war never happened. That he’s still the same person that he was all those years ago. That Aether is still whole, beautiful and perfect the way it used to be. That he can still go home again-

 

The illusion shatters the moment he opens his eyes. 

 

Still, there’s no harm in pretending. Just for a little while longer. 

 

It’s bad luck to sleep on solstice nights, after all. 





-






Sleep doesn’t come easily that night.

 

Honestly, that wasn’t too much of a surprise. When was anything simple and easy for him, huh? 

 

For a while, he did his best to just power through it. Tubbo and Ranboo didn’t seem to have too much of a problem nodding off as soon as their heads hit the pillows, but no matter how much sleep tugged and tugged at him, his eyes stayed glued on the ceiling. 

 

His roommates are asleep. Hell, even Shroud is asleep, and he’s pretty sure she’s supposed to be nocturnal! 

 

He should be tired. He is tired. He is so, so. Fucking. Tired. 

 

Apparently, his brain doesn’t seem to get the memo , though, so after a good half-hour of tossing and turning he gives up and decides to go for a walk. Pacing around the ship should tire him out enough to at least get some sleep. In theory. 

 

Besides, if that doesn’t work… Well, they have landed already. There’s no harm in a little bit of harmless exploring. He won’t even go too far, just a little walk can’t hurt, surely. 

 

It’s better than staring at the ceiling and praying for sleep. 

 

Shroud opens one eye as he slides out of bed, watching lazily as he laces up his boots before rolling back over and going right back to sleep. 

 

He’s gotten plenty of practice sneaking out of the room after dark at this point, but he still holds his breath every time, just in case. Still, just like usual, his roommates stay fast asleep, and he slips out of the room without a hitch. 

 

Unlike usual, forever, he’s not alone in the hallway he slips out into.

 

He’s hit with a burst of deja vu as he watches the shadow slip down the hallway only a few feet away. Come on, can’t a guy take a walk around the ship at night in peace for once? 

 

Phil doesn’t notice him, though, just turning the corner when Tommy spots him. He still freezes, just in case, but Phil turns and disappears without a pause.

 

Huh. That’s… Weird.

 

…He's probably just going to the kitchen for a snack, or something. Maybe he’s pacing around like Tommy is. 

 

Still…

 

Okay, look, he knows it’s creepy, but he’s curious , goddamn it. What the fuck is the old man doing at this time of night anyways? Besides, it’s not like he has something better to do. Following Phil to see whatever weird shit he gets up to at three in the morning sounds more fun than bothering Wilbur for the third time this week. 

 

So, after waiting a few moments to make sure Phil wasn’t turning around… He slips down the hallway after him. 



-




He isn’t going to the kitchen, it turns out. He’s going to the cargo hold. 

 

Tommy waits just behind the corner for him to climb quietly down the ladder, and a few more minutes after that just to make sure. Once the hatch shuts, he lets himself creep out of hiding. 

 

Okay, now he’s really curious. Where the fuck is he going in the middle the night? Into town? For a midnight ride on Wilbur’s bike? Meeting up with a special someone?

 

Oh ho ho, well now he just has to know. He was planning to sneak out anyways, after all. He’d already followed him across half the ship, might as well commit. 

 

The hatch squeaks a little when he hefts it open, so he does his best to make it quick. He climbs down the ladder slowly, careful not to make a noise, and wincing at every squeak of his sneakers on the metal rings, and the groan of metal the hinges make as he closes the hatch behind him. He does it as quietly as he can, but the fucker is heavy and not exactly brand new. 

 

He waits after just for a few moments, breaths echoing against the metal, but nothing. Sweet. 

 

Slowly, he descends into the dark.




-

 

He finds Phil sitting on the ramp, head tilted back to the sky. 

 

It’s kind of disappointing, actually. Finding him sneaking out to meet up with some lady would have been a lot more interesting. 

 

It’s late, or, it’s supposed to be, but apparently Aether’s two suns and dozen moons didn’t get the memo, hovering stubbornly just over the horizon and painting the cloudless sky in lavender and lilacs. A twilight that shows no signs of ending anytime soon. A few stubborn stars poke through overhead, still. 

 

The moment he steps out onto the ramp, he breathes in, and all he smells is summer .

 

Like rain on hot pavement, like clover and honeysuckles, and some other thick, sweet smell that makes him want to curl up and go to sleep right then and there. 

 

They’d landed the ship somewhere high in the hills that surround Flower Fall, curling around the valley below. Above him, the lilac sky melts into dark, rolling hills stretching out as far as he can see, a forest of trees on the edge of the horizon, grass swaying gently in the warm breeze. 

 

It’s peaceful, in this twilight. Quiet, calm. The warm air buffering his face every now and again, the smell of honeysuckles and rain…

 

“Mate?”

 

Just like that, he’s snapped back into focus. 

 

He takes half a step back, something defensive creeping into his voice. “I just wanted to look.”

 

Phil just tilts his head, though, wings spread and relaxed. He smiles, patting a spot on the ramp next to him, shifting a wing out of the way. “It’s alright. Here, come sit.”

 

It doesn’t take much convincing, he feels dead on his feet as it is. 

 

The ramp is warm under his fingers. 

 

He lets his legs dangle off, kicking every now and again. Before them, the hill they’ve perched on slopes down, down, down into rolling fields, a sleepy village in the valley's heart, strange, silver trees darkening the horizon where the suns dip down but don’t quite touch. 

 

His eyes catch on the lights twinkling in the little town below. Flower Fall, it must be. 

 

Phil was right to call it a small village. A simple little town, nestled cozily at the foot of the hills, a silver forest of trees stretching beyond. A few houses, some other buildings, what looks like a small river running through it. It’s hard to make out details in the twilight, making the whole village look like nothing more than a handful of glowing embers, small enough to be stomped out under his heel.

 

He takes another breath, filling his lungs with sunset and wildflowers. He could almost swear there’s music on the breeze, coming from the town. Something quick and lively, and oh so far away. 



“Pretty, huh?”

 

He snorts. Pretty isn’t quite the word he’d use, but it gets the point across. He nods.

 

Phil gestures with his other wing towards the town. “We’ll head to Flower Fall tomorrow. It’s the last day of-“

 

He says the same word from earlier in his native tongue, and Tommy scrunches up his nose out of pure reflex at the shrill bird noise. 

 

Phil grins sheepishly. “Er, Remembrance Day. Sorry mate.”

 

There it is again, remembrance day. 

 

“Remembrance of what?” He mutters to himself, resting his head in the palm of his hand. 

 

He only realizes what he’d said after the words had left his mouth, and catches the way Phil stiffens a bit at his side. Shit, fuck, there he goes again, he and his big mouth

 

Phil doesn’t look upset, though. 

 

He just… smiles. It’s different than before, something in his eyes, maybe. Something bittersweet, something a little bit sad. 

 

He stands, offering Tommy a hand. “C‘mon, I want to show you something.”



-




They don’t walk for very long. 

 

The grass almost comes up to his waist, thick and harder to trudge through than he’d thought. He pushes aside round purple and pink flowers the size of his fist, following at Phil’s shoulder as he leads him back around the ship and further up the hill. It’s steeper than he’d thought, leading right up into the sky above, and impossible to see around. 

 

He wants to ask where they’re going, what’s so important. He wants to say a lot of things, but there’s something in the air that makes him bite his tongue. Something a lot more bitter than the honey-sweet smell of wildflowers.

 

So, he follows in silence.

 

Phil notices he’s starting to fall behind at one point, and pauses so he can catch up. He’s barely even out of breath, stupid old man. 

 

“C’mon,” he offers a hand. “We’re almost there.”

 

He doesn’t take it. “Almost where-“



The ground beneath him gives way.

 

And Tommy drops.

 

All the breath leaves his lungs in one big woosh, leaving him choking on a shout and scrabbling in the dirt with his hands, feet scrambling for purchase on loose dirt and weeds and he falls down, down- 

 

A clawed hand grabs his arm and pulls. 

 

Phil is a lot stronger than he looks, wrenching Tommy back to solid ground with both wings spread wide in alarm. The soles of his boots scramble for purchase in the tall grass and wildflowers, grabbing Phil’s arm with both hands, personal space be dammned, heart pounding as he tries to catch his breath because holy fucking shit-

 

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Phil pats down both of his arms, looking him over with frazzled wings wide eyes. 

 

He forces down a lungful of air. “I’m fine, I’m alright- fuck.”

 

Now, back on solid ground, he turns to look back at where he’d fallen, because what the absolute fuck, and- 

 

“Holy shit.”




Below them, the fucking canyon he’d almost slipped down into stretches on for miles.

 

He can see the top of the hill only a little ways from where their standing, and the sheer fucking drop underneath it. The sides of it are sharp , steep and unnatural, like someone had taken a knife and carved slowly, deliberately, into the landscape. So completely out of place in the rolling hills and wildflowers that just looking at it gives him whiplash

 

The edges are burnt, blackened trees and scorched grass, rocks and other debris piled up like infection creeping into a wound. The stripes of glossy black rock along the walls didn’t help that particular image, either. 

 

It stretches on, and on, and on, and he follows the dark, ugly line it carves straight on into the moon-dotted sky above. Big and deep enough to make the Grand Canyon look like a fucking drainage ditch. 

 

Fuck, he can’t even see the bottom. Down, down, down it goes, spiraling into darkness below. He can’t see the bottom, hell, he’s not sure if there even is one, and to think that he almost- that he just-

 

He takes a few more steps back, just to be sure, leaning slightly into the hand still loosely gripped to his shoulder. Fuck. Me. 

 

The wind whistles as it goes through it, an ugly, shrill sound that makes him shiver.

 

He can’t even see the bottom. It would be a long, long, fall. 

 

He’s about to take another step back, just to be sure, but something shiny catches his eye. A glimmer of something far, far down, half-obscured by rocks and the tall grass clinging to the edge. 

 

What… What is that? A light? Is there somebody down there? No, that’s not right…

 

A half-step, then another. Just enough to see over the tops of the grass, to follow the glimmer down, down, down until he can see the whole picture. 

 

Down, down, down, something glistens. 

 

Another step forwards, fisting one hand in Phil’s sleeve just in case. It’s more than just peering over the edge of a cliff, it’s like staring down the fucking void below. The more he looks, the more he notices, the more the hair on the back of neck starts to stand on edge. 

 

Farther down, the walls got more jagged, less uniform as nature started to creep back in. And there, half-embedded in the side of the canyon, a glint of metal catches his eye. 

 

Broken glass and blackened, twisted steel, warped into crude, unnatural shapes. The hull had been cracked open, bits of the wings snapped off and dangling by wires, blasters bigger than the whole of the Argo II, broken, burnt and mangled beyond any hope of repair. 

 

It barely even looks like a ship anymore. If there was anyone on board when it crashed…

 

There are more, he notices, something awful twisting in his stomach. Not just the one. 

 

Hell, there’s twisted metal everywhere he fucking looks now that he knows what to look for, sitting in the ugly path’s they’d carved into sides of the gorge, half embedded into rock and dangling off of hooks and crevices in the sides. What he’d mistaken for rock isn’t rock at all, it’s metal. Onyx black and glossy, the broken, shattered remains of a spaceship torn to pieces, scorch marks and holes left by some pretty fucking huge blasters, if he had to guess, and…



“Why can’t we just blast the asteroids out of the way?” He’d asked, holding his stomach with one hand and the side of his seat with another.

 

“Blasters?” Phil seemed confused, for a moment, then his expression shifted. “Oh. The Argo II isn’t armed with weapons. Weapons that size haven’t been legal since-“

 

“Watch out!”

 

The ship turned sharply to the left, and Tommy snapped his mouth shut, his stomach giving another awful roll-




He swallows. Hard. 

 

Something had happened here. Something horrible

 

“Not a pretty sight, huh?” Phil snorts at it at his side, curling a wing over his shoulder.

 

He feels the weight, but none of the warmth. He shivers.

 

“C’mon,” Phil nudges him along. We’re almost to the top. That’s not all I want you to see.”

 

Then, he’s moving, leaving Tommy to scramble after him, mouth dry and head reeling. “What- what happened?” 

 

“A war.” He says simply. “First, and last, of its kind. C’mon, the top isn’t much further.” 

 

It’s quiet, on the hill. 

 

It’s so quiet. No birds, no insects, just the rustle of the wind and the crunch of grass, the quiet hush of their breathing. Like the whole planet’s holding still, watching them go. 

 

He can’t find it in him to break the silence. It would be… wrong , somehow. Disrespectful. 

 

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the crest of the hill. He takes another step, finally able to see beyond the tall grass, lifts his head, and, stretching on into the twilight sky, the whole of Aether unfurls

 

The dusty green grass sways in the wind, patches of wildflowers in every shade of blue, purple, and pink dotting the landscape. Stretching out from the foot of the hill, an orchard of gray trees pokes out from between a sea of green and blue, the only thing breaking up the meadow that goes on for miles. Even the mountains that border it, grey and blue at the edge of the horizon, seem gentle. 

 

He takes another deep breath, feeling the midnight sun gentle and warm on his skin, the scent of wildflowers and clover filling his nose. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful .

 

If he turns, he can see where the meadow abruptly ends and the canyon begins. Standing with his face to the sun, though, he lets it fall behind him. 

 

There are no crashed spaceships and twisted, ugly metal on this side, no ravines carved by lasers and a war long-passed. Just rolling hills and wildflowers, far as the eye can see. Even the grey trees look small, like stumps, the sun almost seeming to glint off off of their strange bark, and- 

 

Wait one fucking minute.

 

It takes him a few moments to realize what he’s actually looking at, and for the second time in less than twenty minutes, he feels the earth give out from underneath his feet. 

 

Trees usually have actual branches, not just stubs. Trees don't glint in the sun, trees don’t come with faint carvings and symbols, trees don't grow in perfect rows-

 

Those aren’t fucking trees.



He knows what this is. 

 

He knows what this is , and the realization hits him like a kick to the chest, strong enough to leave him cold and breathless, staring out in horror at the small, silver markers that go on for miles, and miles, and miles and- 



This is a graveyard .



Feathers brush against his shoulders, and the smile on Phil’s face isn’t much of a smile at all. “You wanted to know about the war.”

 

He swallows. Hard. 

 

How the fuck did this happen? He wants to ask, the words just on the tip of his tongue. He can’t pull his eyes away- god, there must be thousands of grave markers here, he realizes with an awful lurch of his stomach. Why? Who would do something like this? Just what in the fresh hell happened here? What the fuck kind of a place did you bring me too? 

 

He doesn’t say any of that, though. Instead, he just. Nods. 

 

And Phil sighs, eyes still locked on something far, far away. He takes a seat, patting the grass next to him for Tommy to do the same. “It’s a long story. Might as well get comfortable.”

 

He sits, folding his shaky legs underneath him, and Phil begins to speak.

 

“Aether was the first planet to discover space travel. And… they, we, started to explore.”

 

He looks up at the sky, gesturing with a tilt of his head at a planet in the distance. Small, dark, about the size of a dime. Tommy never would have noticed it before if he hadn’t pointed it out, blending right into the dark sky behind it.

 

“Their neighbor, Enderion, wasn’t too far behind, though.”

 

This time, he does meet Tommy’s gaze, something ancient in his eyes that freezes him in place. Something older than the mountains in the distance. Something sad. 

 

“They were afraid,” He starts, lowering his voice to a murmur as he looks back over the graves below them. “Both of them were. Of an invasion, an attack. They were scared, and scared people don’t always… They lash out.

 

A pause. Then, “And so, a war began.”

 

It’s not hard to imagine, in his head. He’s seen movies, after all. Armies marching into battle, flags held high. Faces stained with soot and desperation, legions of spaceships blackening the skies. 

 

Somehow, he gets the feeling it was a lot worse than anything a movie can show him. 

 

It’s quiet, for a moment. A cold breeze brushes against his face, bringing with it the smell of clover and rust

 

“They fought for decades,” he continues, rustling his wings. “Eventually, Aether surrendered, but by then… Well…”

 

He chuckles dryly. “There wasn’t too much of Aether left.” 

 

Phil trails off, then, letting silence settle over them like a lead blanket. 

 

It takes him amount to find his words, to get his head to stop spinning and to organize his thoughts into something atleast a little bit coherent, but even then, when he opens his mouth, all he can say is- 

 

“There’s so many.” 

 

So, so, so many. More gravestones than Tommy had ever seen in his life, rows that just go on and on and on… 

 

“It’s an honor to be buried here.” Phil just shrugs. “Rarely anyone is, these days. What’s left of the Aetherians take care of the graves, keep the traditions alive…” 

 

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Honoring the dead has always been important to Elytrans and Avians, even before the war.”

 

An honor.

 

That’s the sentence that sticks the most. The one he can’t even begin to shake out of his head, the words repeating over and over in Phil’s voice. An honor to be buried here. 

 

There are thousands upon thousands of gravestones that he can see, the rolling fields going on and on straight into the sky. He’s standing. In a graveyard.

 

He… He hasn’t seen any other Elytrans in space, he realizes as nausea starts to climb up his throat again, and rarely any Avians. Quackity had feathers, sure, and he’s seen other aliens with bug-like wings, maybe, but…

 

He hasn’t seen anyone with Phil’s huge, glittering black wings. With the same likeness to his face, the same sharp blue eyes and odd bend to his legs, the black claws. No one that spoke in the same screeching language when the translators decided to give up, that made the same coos and absentminded whistles. 

 

Out of everywhere he’s been, on every planet, in every city, he’s never seen another Elytran. 

 

Now, he’s face to face with the reason why. 



“Should we move somewhere else?” He manages to croak out. “Isn’t it… Disrespectful? To leave the ship here?”

 

“They were soldiers, Tommy.” Phil shrugs again, the look on his face softening. “If anything, they appreciate the company.”

 

Tommy is. Not quite sure how to respond to that. 

 

The breeze kicks up, colder than before, and cutting right through the borrowed sweater. He shivers, only half from the cold, tearing his eyes away from the markers below as a hand nudges at his shoulder. 

 

“Let's get you back to bed, mate.”

 

Goosebumps start to rise on his skin as he turns, and he can’t quite shake the feeling of eyes prickling on the back of his neck as he starts down the hill. 






-





Technoblade is waiting for them when they get back, standing on the ramp with folded arms. 

 

Phil had filled him in a bit more about the festival on the walk back, and he’d done his best to pay attention. His head is still spinning, images of a war-torn planet and glittering silver graves still lurking on the edges of his mind. Jesus fuck, talk about dropping a bombshell on someone. How the fuck is he even supposed to respond to that? Sorry your whole planet got mostly blown up and your species almost wiped out. A real bummer. 

 

He’s dragging his feet by the time they get back, not bothering to fight off the wing that’s been slung over his shoulder for the past half-hour. Not worth it. Too tired. Ugh. 

 

Techno greets when both with a grunt of disapproval, once they’re close enough. “You should be in bed.”

 

“It’s bad luck to sleep on solstice days.” Tommy parrots what Phil had said earlier with a yawn, hopping up on the ramp. “Don’t wanna piss off the spirits, do you?” 

 

Phil laughs, but Techno just gives him another snort and a flick of his ear. “You’re not Aetherian, I don’t think it counts.”

 

For a moment, Tommy is sure Technoblade is about to drag them both inside by the ears. He has this look on his face, not quite as sharp as Phil’s I’m-not-mad, just-disappointed face, but somewhere in the same vein. Like a grumpy babysitter staring down a pair of unruly toddlers. Tommy swears he sees his eye twitch. 

 

Phil saves them both with a loud yawn and a well-placed flap of his wings, putting an end to the impromptu staring contest. 

 

“We’ll, If you’re going to stay awake anyways, you can both help me with my wings.”




-





He’s gotten better at preening. 

 

His hands are still shaky and clumsy, but now that he knows what to do, it’s gotten easier. Separate any tangled feathers, make sure they’re all going the same way, make sure all the barbs are going in the right direction. Pull out any feathers that are loose or broken, making sure to be gentle . Rinse and repeat for the next section of feathers. It’s easy, methodical. 

 

A good enough distraction from the fucking bombshell that had just been dropped on him. 

 

He sits criss-cross just behind Phil’s shoulder, working just behind the ‘elbow’. He runs his fingers through the shorter feathers, the secondary coverts, he remembers being told, making super extra sure to be as gentle as he can. 

 

Techno works on the other wing. Tommy shoots him glances every now and again. 

 

“Are there festivals on Netheria, Techno?” He finds himself asking before he can think better of it. 

 

“No.” Techno hums, “Remembrance Day, maybe. Not many others.”

 

There’s a pause, for a moment, broken only by the soft shifting of feathers and the rustle of wind through the grass. Then, Techno takes another breath, and continues.

 

“…There we’re tournaments, sometimes.” He rumbles, voice quiet. Hesitant. “Not like the pit fights. More showmanship.”

 

There’s something in his voice Tommy can’t quite place. Technoblade’s always been harder to read than the others. Something… wistful , maybe? 

 

“Did you ever fight?” He asks, trying to catch his eye over the wing. 

 

There’s a pause, Technoblades fingers freezing in place. Tommy freezes too, an apology ready on his tongue, him and his big mouth, but in between one breath and the next, the moment passes. 

 

Technoblade shifts another handful of feathers, and Phil gives a grateful chirp in response. 

 

“Wasn’t old enough.” He grunts. “I used to watch, they stopped having them when the Pit got more popular.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Imaging a baby Technoblade is… Kind if hard, honestly. He’d only gotten a glimpse of other Piglins on Netheria, and they’d all seemed… different.

 

The Brutes he saw were fucking huge, mountains of muscle and thick scruffs of fur around their neck, complete with tusks and snouts. Like a werewolf… pig. A were-pig. Were-boar? Whatever, he’s getting off track.

 

He wasn’t as big and muscly as they were. But he wasn’t like a normal Piglin, either. He had the feet, the tusks, the ears, the tail… all that sure, but still. He was taller, but not as jacked and sturdy, all lean muscle. Like a swimmer compared to body builders. 

 

He has rough, clawed-hands, not hooves. His ears were floppier, the fur he did have soft and shiny. He had pink hair, which none of the others did, and red eyes, too. He was just… different. 

 

The image that comes to his mind of a small, scruffy kid with sharp red eyes, bright pink hair twisted around his floppy ears and tusks too big for his face makes him want to laugh. It’s hard to picture the guy as anything more than huge, scarred and broad-shouldered. 

 

Another beat of silence, another row of feathers fixed and settled properly. Then- 

 

“People would come from worlds around to watch.” He continues in a murmur, a smile pulling at his tusks and eyes far, far away. “Wrestling, Hoglin riding… a real show.” 

 

Not a bloodbath like the Pit. Was left unsaid, but Tommy heard it just as well. There was no mistaking the twinge of nostalgia in his voice, this time. 

 

“Maybe they’ll start having them again.” He feels the need to say, laying another row of feathers flat. “Now that Schlatt’s gone.” 

 

“Maybe.” Techno rumbles. It’s quiet for a few more beats, then. 

 

“…Had the best constellations, to.” He continues, voice still just as low and rumbly. Another hint of a smile. “The Netherian stories are the best out there.”

 

Tommy snorts. “Human myths are better. You guys have nothing on the Greeks.”

 

Techno snorts right back, giving him a look and half-grin. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

 

So, he opens his mouth, and the stories start to pour out. 

 

He’s forgotten a lot of the constellations, he realizes with a pang of homesickness, but he rattles off the best of the ones he remembers. Orion, with his bow-string pulled taunt, “heard he was a real asshole, honestly, but most of the Greek heroes were-“ Cassiopeia, “She chained her daughter up to a rock, kind of a bitch move, if you ask me,” Perseus, “He’s the guy who saved Andromeda, I think. The only Greek hero who didn’t die horribly, the Greeks sure were a happy lot, huh-“ 

 

Cygnus the swan, Ursa Major and Minor, Ares the bull, Pegasus, Lyra and Gemini, Pollux and Castor. The more he talks, the more stories he remembers. 

 

By the time he’s done, they’re finished with both of Phil’s wings, and he’s halfway through fixing Technoblade’s braid. When he runs out of stories, and silence starts to settle over them, Technoblade starts telling his own.

 

“There aren’t many gods on Netheria,” he starts, the low rasp of his voice filling the cool night air. “But there are heroes, the ones we look up to. The Slayer of Beasts, the Champion of Fire…” 

 

He gestures to the sky above as he talks. Head tilted back to the stars, he points, tracing constellations with his fingers. Tommy tries to follow the stories, he really does, but the names are all complicated, and the storylines all mesh together. Great warriors fighting fierce beasts, armies of Piglins battling it out over gold and jewels, fame and glory. Not quite as fucked up as Greek Myths can get, but apparently stories of great heroes and mythical beasts are universal. 

 

Technoblade doesn’t tell stories like Wilbur does. There’s no dramatics, no grand guestures or stupid voices. He talks about great kings and heroes like he knows them , telling stories that have been passed down for ages like he’s talking about old friends, each story told with more reverence than the last. 

 

Tommy watches his hands, Letting the stories wash over him and trying to memorize the constellations he points out as his eyelids get heavier and heavier. A Hoglin leaping through the air, the bulky form of a piglin soldier hoisting a spear, the outline of a broken, golden crown… 

 

“-but the Champion of Fire was the bravest of soldiers.” He continued, even as Tommy’s eyes began to slip shut as he leaned against Phil’s side. “Even as he faced down the Witherin’ Queen and her army, he never even hesitated…”

 

When he runs out of stories and his rusty voice begins to trail off, Phil speaks up to fill in the silence. He points out Aetherian constellations and the stories behind them, explaining the ones they used to fly and navigate by as they traveled the world, bickering a little with Technoblade when the constellations overlap, “that’s not a crown, it’s obviously a wing!”, “it’s a broken crown, old man, you need to get your eyes checked-“ 

 

He tries his best to pay attention, committing the shapes and stars to memory. A giant bird flying with both wings outstretched, a golden arrow pointed towards the dawn, two Avians dancing, twirling with their wings outstretched…

 

Dancing is important to Avians.” He continues in a low voice, running a hand through Tommy hair as he settles against his side, blinking sleepily up at the sky. “It’s one of the oldest languages there is, and Avians are some of the best.”

 

Tommy feels him sigh. “You should have seen the festivals before the war. Inner Warmth in the winter, the Two Wing dance in the spring, oh, it was beautiful…”

 

“Tell the story about the two suns.” Techno rumbles from somewhere behind him, “It's a good one.” 

 

Phil settles a wing around Tommy’s shoulder, and Techno settles down on Tommy’s other side, close enough for him to feel the vibrations of his chest as he begins to purr.

 

“A long time ago,” Phil begins, running a hand through Tommy’s hair again and scratching, ooooh that feels nice . “Aether had only one sun. The nights were long and cold, Elytrans and Avians all had to bundle together to stay warm…” 

 

He nods along, yawns, and lefts himself collapse sideways until his head is resting on Phil’s leg, a wing pulled over him like a blanket. His feathers are comfy, goddamn it, and Tommy’s too fucking tired to care about much else. He can feel the vibrations of Phil’s chest as he laughs and continues the story, Techno’s purr fading into pleasant background noise as he lets the words wash over him. 

 

The stars above him, just barely peaking through the purple twilight, are familiar. Through slow blinks he can just make out the edge of a wing… or was it a crown? Eh, whatever. 

 

There’s the rest of the wing, and the sword, the golden arrow pointing west, the Hoglin leaping and the Champion with his fist in the air…

 

He knows a handful of the Earth constellations, all the main ones, anyways. Even if he doesn’t know all the stories, he could still pick out the familiar shapes in the night sky, sitting with his back against the roof of his newest foster placement. No matter how often he changed homes, it was nice to know the stars were always the same. 

 

Out of everything, it’s one of the things he misses the most. He hates looking up at the night sky and not seeing anything he can recognize. To be so close to the stars and not recognize a single familiar constellation. 

 

To know that he’s so far away from home that not even the stars are the same. 

 

Now, though?

 

He falls asleep to the rusty drawl of Technoblade’s voice, with Phil’s hand in his hair and a wing tucked protectively over his shoulders like a blanket. The night is quiet, the warm, summer air sweet and gentle on his skin, the ramp still warmed from the sun underneath him. 

 

All underneath a night sky that’s just a little more familiar than before. 

 

Maybe he’s not so alone, after all. 




-




“He’s asleep”

 

The Elytran pauses. The human resting with his head in his lap is quiet, his breathing slow. He runs a careful hand through his hair, voice low and soft. “He was exhausted. I don’t think he’s been sleeping well, lately.”

 

“Nightmares?”

 

The Elytran shrugs. “Probably.”

 

The Piglin makes a noise in the back of his throat, a growl of dissatisfaction that he smothers just as quickly.

 

The Elytran gives him a knowing look anyways. “He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”

 

The Piglin doesn’t meet his eyes, staring off somewhere over the rolling hills below them. He grunts. “He’ll be home by then.”

 

It’s quiet, for a beat. The silence between them broken only by the whispering of the wind over the grass, and the rustling of feathers as the Elytran curls them instinctively around the boy in his lap. He pulls him a bit closer with an arm around his chest, and the Piglin sighs. 

 

“He needs to be with his own kind, Phil.”

 

The Elytran gives him another look, twinkling blue eyes meeting dark red ones. “Hypocrite.“

 

“It’s not the same.” The Piglin grunts, flicking an ear. 

 

“Is it?”

 

Silence, again. It’s the Elytran that breaks the staring contest first, gaze flicking down to the face of the kid in his lap, tracing over the shadows under his eyes, the scars. He pulls him another inch closer.

 

“He’s safe with us.” He murmurs. “Whatever happened to him, we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

 

Again, the Piglin just sighs. 

 

“He has a family out there, Phil. We promised him we’d bring him home.”

 

Silence. The Elytran chews on his lip for a moment, but eventually gives in. 

 

“I know.” He sighs. “I know.”



The Piglin elbows him in the side, careful to not jostle the boy in his lap. “You’re gettin’ broody in your old age.”

 

“Don’t act like you’re not attached.” The Elytran elbows him back. “I heard that growl earlier, you little shit.”

 

The Piglin shifts. “…The voices like him.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Silence settles over them again, this one warmer, content. After a moment, the Piglin yawns, stretching and rising to his hooves. “I’ll take him to bed. Are you coming?”

 

The Elytran doesn’t fight when the boy is lifted from his arms, shaking his head. “Later. You go on ahead.” 

 

The Piglin grunts in reply, taking the human gently into his own arms, his head pillowed on his chest. He doesn’t stir, not even for a moment, as the Piglin turns and makes his way back inside the cargo hold.

 

He watches them go, staying in place as they disappear inside the ship. He turns back when they’re gone, staring out over the planet he once called home.

 

Music drifts in on the breeze, distant and comforting. The smell of wildflowers and honey is still thick in the late summer air. It’s just as beautiful as he remembers, even if it isn’t the same. 

 

“You’d like him.” He murmurs, to nothing. “I hope you get to meet him.”

 

He doesn’t get a response, just the rustling of the wind and a breeze on his face.

 

 He wasn’t expecting one, anyways. 












Notes:

Over a year ago, when I was still drafting out the plot for for FHTN, I wrote about five different scenes I knew I wanted to include from the very start. The graveyard scene in this chapter is one of them. I could see it so vividly in my mind, and really wanted to make sure I did it justice. I’ve been working on this chapter since August of 2021, and I still can’t say I’m 100% happy with it.

Still, I knew that if I didn’t go ahead and post it now, it would never be posted. At the end of the day, this is Minecraft fanfiction, and I can’t let my own perfectionism and self-doubt get in the way of doing something I enjoy. It is what it is. Hopefully you can learn from my mistakes!

There’s also another thing we need to discuss.

Technoblade was one of my biggest inspirations. I never would have discovered my love for writing without his content to inspire it, and I owe him a lot for that. He was a good man, and I never would have been able to get this far without him. This fic means so much to me, and it would not exist without him. I really can’t thank him enough.

Going forwards, I will be continuing this fic. I will not stop writing for this fandom. I will keep his memory alive in my work, and I will try to do his character justice. Even if it takes two more years, this fic will be finished.

 

Technoblade never dies!

 

That being said, I’d appreciate it if you did not use my comments section as a place to vent. There are proper and appropriate places for that, my comments section is not one of them.

If you must talk about him, talk about the good he did when he was alive. Good vibes and good memories only, alright?

I love and appreciate all of you.

I read all the comments even if I don’t always respond. If you have any questions, or just want to say hello, I have a Tumblr and now also a twitter! Please make sure to tag me in any fanart, I’d love to show it off!

Stay safe out there, alright? Check on your friends, lean on the people around you if you need too. You are not alone. We are not alone.

Until next time,

 

-matches

 

 

tumblr // twitter // playlist

Chapter 16: This Is Your Life (II)

Summary:

Tommy: *sniffs you* *sniffs you* *sniffs you* *snif

Notes:

“Acclimatized, but don't you
lose the plot,
a history of blisters,
your brothers and your sisters,
somewhere in the pages,
you forgot.”
-This Is Your Life, the Killers

 

WHATS UP BITCHES! SURPRISE! I'M NOT DEAD!

Playlist is here, if you want to check it out.
thank you all for sticking with me. and a special thank you to Mars, as always, for being a wonderful beta <3
Enjoy!

 

tumblr // twitter

 

TWs:
...I think we're actually good this time. huh.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

Tommy wakes the next day with a crick  in his neck, a head full of tangled hair, and the distinct feeling that he’s forgetting something important.

 

He rouses slowly, rubbing at his eyes and stretching, blinking lazily at the ceiling. There’s no quiet snoring or warmth at his back, meaning his roommates have probably fucked off to breakfast already and left him to sleep in. Fine by him, Tubbo always hogs the blankets anyways. It just means he can get a few more hours of shut eye before someone else wakes him up.

 

He rolls over, brushes the feather out of his face, and settles right back down into the mess of blankets and pillows-

 

Wait a minute. Feather? Why the fuck is there a feather-

 

Shit. Shit. 

 

He knew he was forgetting something.

 

Memories of last night hit him like a punch to the gut. Phil, Aether, the graveyard, the impromptu preening session on the ramp afterwards. Constellations. Stories. Shit. Piss. Fuck. Goddamn it.

 

He’d fallen asleep. Outside. With Phil and Techno. Probably on top of Phil and Techno if the amount of feathers he’s finger-combing out of his hair is anything to go by. Jesus fuck, is Phil shedding? 

 

What’s even worse is that he doesn’t remember ever walking back inside the ship. Which means one of them probably carried him back to bed like a baby, as if him falling asleep wasn’t mortifying enough. 

 

He groans, falling backwards into the bed and covering his face with his hands.  He’s never going to face any of them ever again. This is how he dies, he’s decided, sinking back into the blankets. Here in this room. Probably of starvation since he’ll never be able to leave ever again. His reputation. Ruined. 

 

Shroud, curled up in her cage on his bedside table, churrs softly at him. 

 

He sits up, jamming a finger in her direction. “You. Saw. Nothing.”

 

She blinks, unimpressed, and churrs again, almost like she’s laughing.

 

Betrayal.” He reaches over, fumbling for the latch on her cage. “By my own daughter, no less. How could you?”

 

She makes a low cooing noise in response, crawling out of her cage and into his cupped palms. He scratches the sides of her face just the way she likes and the purr she lets out is enough to have him melting on the spot. 

 

Awww, okay, fine. You’re forgiven.” He runs a hand down her back, letting her crawl over the bed as she pleases. “Still, not a word to the others, alright? The more of my reputation I can save, the better.“

 

She blinks slowly at him, yawns, and curls up to take a nap on his pillow. He’ll take that as a yes. 




-



Aether is just as beautiful during the day as it is at night.

 

He steps out from the cargo hold and into the light, blinking the light of both suns out of his eyes. It's early, still, the rest of the planet still shaking off last night’s chill, the sprawling fields glittering with morning dew. A pale purple sky stretches above him, dipping into indigo and violet at the edges of the horizon. He can see for miles, now that both of the suns have risen enough to illuminate the valley and village below in full. It seems to be coming alive for the day too, smoke drifting from chimneys, people moving around below, small as ants in the distance. 

 

The breeze that blows over him is warm and sweet, rippling through the grass like waves and bringing the distant sound of strange, trilling music over the voices of his crew. It smells like summer. 

 

One perfect day. That’s what he’d promised himself. This is the last time he’ll be exploring a planet with his crew, he needs to make it count. Just one good day, where nothing goes wrong and nobody gets hurt. He takes one deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp morning air, and lets it back out again. He’s got this. 

 

Just one perfect day. How hard could it be?

 

The others haven’t noticed him yet. Phil sits on the very end of the ramp, back to Tommy and wings spread to soak in the morning sun. Wilbur and Tubbo aren’t far from him, sprawled in the grass in the safety of the Argo II’s shadow. The air rings with their excited shouts and yells of encouragement, cut with the sharp clack! Of wood-on-wood as Ranboo and Techno cross swords. 

 

It’s not a real fight. Their movements are slow, no real heat behind the clash of their swords as they slice through the air. The pattern of block and dodge, deflect, lunge is familiar, he and Techno had fought the same way when he’d been learning the ropes. God, Netheria seems like a lifetime ago, now. 

 

Techno has to pause every few minutes to correct Ranboos grip or their stance, tail swishing by his ankles. The shing! of the dull, metal practice swords echoes over the quiet clearing in a loose rhythm. It’s… weirdly soothing? Familiar. A sound that means training, a good workout. Sweat and sharp-toothed grins. 

 

Tommy sighs, trotting down the ramp so he can flop down next to Tubbo in the grass. The morning air is fresh and clean on his face, just cool enough to be refreshing. The kind of soft, warm day you only really get as summer starts to dip into fall. 

 

It’s a nice morning. A beautiful morning. 

 

It’s so easy to forget what he’d seen last night. What lies on the other side of the hill the ship is cradled against. If Phil hadn’t told him, if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. Not in a place this beautiful. Why would anyone ever want too- 

 

“Watch out!”

 

There’s a loud clang! As the sword Ranboo was holding collides with the metal ramp of the ship, making everyone jump. Phil flaps his wings, startled, and Tubbo throws his head back with a laugh. 

 

“Sorry!” Ranboo winces, scrambling over to retrieve their sword. 

 

“That’s why proper grip is important.” Techno huffs, “Now, again.” 



Watching them fight is pretty fucking cool, even if it is just practice. 

 

Normally, he’s the one in the ring with Techno, so it’s pretty cool to step back and see what a fight looks like from a distance. He’s never really seen him fight like this, able to actually appreciate how cool it looks rather than having to focus on dodging and swinging. 

 

For as big as Techno is, he’s as light on his feet as a fucking ballerina. He fights like it’s a dance, he always has, one move flowing smoothly into another. It’s intimidating as hell when you’re the one facing him down, but it’s mesmerizing to watch like this. A slash melts into a block, a turn into a twist into another slash! He’s moving slower than normal for Ranboos' benefit, maybe, but he’s not exactly going easy on them, either. Lunge, block, dodge, lunge- 

 

It’s not like Ranboo isn’t a good fighter. Tommy had seen them fight, really fight , back on Netheria. Even with a sword, he’d barely made it out of that ring with his arms still attached, and he’s got the scars to prove it. 

 

They move like a thing possessed, jerking themselves this way and that with all the speed Techno has, but none of the grace. Like a puppet being yanked around on strings. The weight of the sword keeps throwing them off balance. They’re not quite used to using a weapon other than their claws, Tommy can tell, and keep forgetting to compensate for it.

 

He had made the same mistakes. He’d grown up fighting with fists, after all. There’s a big difference between throwing a punch and swinging a sword. A whole host of things you have to pay attention to that you’d never even thought about before. Shit like a center of gravity and proper grip. 

 

“Kick his ass, Ranboo!” Tubbo yells, nearly ramming his elbow into Tommy’s face in the process. Ranboo glances their way, and the split-second distraction is enough for Techno to get the upper hand.

 

All it takes is a solid thwack! To the back of their hand, and once again, the sword goes flying.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Wilbur cheers, punching the air with a screeching cackle. “You got this, Blade! Show ‘em who’s boss!” 

 

Techno gives them a second to collect the sword before he’s crossing the grass between them, and the fight is on.

 

“Both hands on the sword!” Techno barks. “Keep your center of gravity low, or else I can just do this-“

 

He’s moving before he’s even finished speaking, pressing right into Ranboos personal space with a slash aimed for their chest. They jump back, just like Techno knew they would, bringing up their sword to block and nearly falling over in the process. They get lucky this time, though, blocking the strike and twisting to the side with the momentum. They manage to stay on their feet, but only just

 

Techno’s smile is all teeth and tusks. “There we go, just like that.”

 

He’s speeding up. There’s more force behind the strikes, this time, and Ranboo scrambles to keep up, eyes narrowed down into slits, tail lashing behind them as they dart away from the business end of his blade. The practice swords are duller than the real ones, sure, but Tommy can say from experience that they still fucking hurt. 

 

“You got this, boo!” Tubbo cheers, and they don’t even flick an ear in acknowledgement. Tommy almost feels proud. Good. 

 

It’s Ranboos turn to lunge, a strike aimed for Techno’s side. Techno twists out of the way, using the momentum to swing down for their shoulder-

 

Crack! Ranboos' sword lashes out to meet it halfway, the force of the blow enough to send tremors down their arms. They deflect the strike harmlessly off to the side, and lunge in for a blow of their own. 

 

“Don’t look behind you.” Techno orders as Ranboo takes a few steps back, moving all the while. “Eyes on me. You have a tail for a reason, use it.”

 

It’s becoming a real fight, now. Techno’s still holding himself back, Tommy can tell, but only just. Ranboo’s still holding their own pretty well, sweat beginning to break out along their forehead. 

 

Another lunge, another blow deflected harmlessly away. Ranboo twists, the same way Techno had earlier, landing a blow on his shoulder with enough force to make everyone wince. Tommy can feel his own shoulder ache in sympathy, that’s gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning, he just knows. Techno grunts, hooves skidding backwards in the dirt, but his arms are already moving, his sword slashing its way up and missing the side of Ranboo’s face by a hairs-length. 

 

Tommy catches his breath, another inch and that would have been their eye- 

 

And then-

 

Ranboo hisses. a sound that makes the hair on Tommy’s arms stand on end, baring their teeth in a snarl- god, jaws aren’t meant to open up that far Jesus fucking Christ- 

 

Ranboo manages a blow to Techno’s side that nearly sends him stumbling, but he rights himself just in time to meet the follow-up blow with a lunge of his own. He hands a hit to Ranboos chest that has Tommy once again wincing in sympathy, but they’re on their feet again, sword in hand, before he can even blink. Another strike, another block. A lunge, a twist, another narrowly avoided black eye, this time, on Techno’s end. 

 

He has more strength and experience, but Ranboos' sharp, jerky movements are harder to predict. It’s like watching a dancer fight a wild cat , and they just keep getting faster, and faster. 

 

The cheers have slowly stopped, and Tommy can’t tear his gaze away. C’mon, Ranboo. You got this…

 

Techno steps into their space, using his size and strength to bully them backwards a few steps, leveling blow after blow at their chest. They dodge what they can and block what they can’t, gritting their teeth as Techno brings his sword down- 

 

They don’t rise to meet him. Instead, they fucking drop. 

 

It happens so fast. They just drop, like a puppet with its strings cut, crouching down almost to all fours. The montenum of an empty swing sends Techno stumbling with a grunt of surprise. All Ranboo needs that second, that moment, just long enough for them to twist on their feet and fucking lunge for Techno’s side like a cat pouncing on a mouse , and the sword slips out of his hands- 

 

Techno hits the ground like a sack of bricks, and Ranboo is ready with a sword at his throat. 

 

For a moment, the clearing is silent.



Then-

 

“Fuck yeah! Show him who’s boss!” Tubbo cheers, loud enough that the villagers in the valley below probably hear him too. Wilbur presses his fingers to his mouth and lets out a long, loud whistle. Even Phil cheers along, clapping his hands and flapping his wings.

 

“Ha!” Tommy laughs, the noise bursting from his chest. “Not so high and mighty are you now, Techno!”

 

Ranboo grins, sheepish, all the fight in them long-gone. They reach out a hand.

 

Techno blinks, the most stunned Tommy’s ever seen him look. His pink braid is a mess, his once-white shirt painted with mud and grass stains. There’s a new bruise flowering on the side of his face in the shape of the flat-end of a blunt sword, a cut in his lip that’s stopped bleeding already. 

 

He’s grinning, though. It’s a little thing, barely more than a twitch of his lips, but Tommy knows a smile when he sees one.

 

“Still need to work on your grip.” He grunts, but takes Ranboo’s hand, and lets them haul him to his feet. “And your form is still awful.” 

 

As far as Techno goes, that’s probably the closest to a compliment they’re ever going to get. Tommy snorts, but he can feel himself smiling. 

 

“Sore loser.” Phil teases from the ramp. “Now, how about lunch?” 





-




Later, an Elytran stands facing the bathroom mirror. 

 

He sighs, running a clawed hand through his hair as he stares down his reflection, lip beginning to curl in distaste. The hand clutching the lip of the counter begins to dig in its claws.

 

His reflection looks tired. This makes sense, considering he did not sleep last night. As was tradition. 

 

…even if it wasn’t, he rarely sleeps well on solstice nights, anyways. 

 

Taking one deep breath, then another. He releases his hold on the lip of the counter, and runs a hand through his hair once more, just to be safe. His fingers tug at the chain around his neck, fiddling with the clasp of it out of habit. 

 

Solstice days are… hard for him. For a lot of reasons, even beyond the obvious. Too many unpleasant memories. Even the good memories have found a way to haunt him this time of the year, too. It makes sense, considering- 



“Philllll Ranboo is bullying me!”

 

“I am not! You shoved me out of the bed!”



He runs a hand down his face, and sighs, even a smile begins to tug at his lips. 



“Yeah, because you’re gross! You’re gonna get mud all over the place we sleep, dumbass!”

 

“You literally just watched me change clothes! There was no need to shove me!”



Solstice days are hard. They used to be worse. Not being alone really changes things, doesn’t it? 



“It’s not my fault you stink!”

 

“Phil!!”



By the time he opens the door, he’s smiling. 




-





They ended up eating a bit later than normal, giving Techno and Ranboo enough time to shower off all the sweat and dirt. By the time they finished, and all of the dishes were cleaned up and put away, it was already pretty well into the afternoon.

 

Which, of course, led to Phil ever so casually bringing up the festival the town was holding tonight. He’d said something about music that had Wilbur’s eyes sparking with interest, and just happened to mention something about old Aetherian outfits he still had in storage. 

 

One thing led to another, and…



“Fucking ow.”

 

“Hold still!”

 

Wilbur grabs his chin again, jerking it to the other side to better get at the side of his face. Tommy growls, crossing his eyes to look at the clawed hands grasping his chin. If he puts his fingers near his mouth again, he’s not responsible for what happens next.

 

The sticky crap Wilbur’s been slathering over the side of his face feels awful. The feathers are even worse , he has to screw up his face to keep from sneezing every time one of them brushes over his nose. Where the fuck did they even get feathers this color? Did Phil go out and skin a chicken, or something? Do they even have chickens in space? 

 

“There.” Finally, finally, Wilbur releases his face, pulling back to assess his work. He grins. “Between the clothes and the feathers, no one will look twice at you.” 

 

Fucking manipulative old man. Oh, this festival only happens once a year, you know… it’s such a shame I missed the last one… He’d known exactly what he was doing, and Tommy will get his revenge. 

 

He scowls. “It’s itchy .”

 

Wilbur just rolls his eyes, passing him a mirror. “I can break out the grease again, if you want. You make a pretty good merling.”

 

Tommy growls again, just to make his point, but all Wilbur does is laugh.

 

He will admit, it doesn’t look half bad. The feathers are a ruddy copper color, lining the sides of his jaw and down his neck. Whatever sticky crap Wilbur had used to stick them there blended right into his skin. It wasn’t perfect, but as long as nobody looked too close for too long, he could pass as an Avian. So long as they didn’t notice the round pupils. Or the lack of claws. Or the fact that his legs didn’t bend the right way. 

 

It’s not like he’d hadn’t had worse disguises. 

 

Besides, he’s only going to have to keep it on for a little bit. They were only going to stay at the festival for a few hours, at most. Just enough for them to ‘get a feel for it’, Phil had said. They had to leave pretty early tomorrow morning to reach Enderions orbit in time. 

 

Just one perfect day, right? How hard can it be?

 

What a fool he had been. What a stupid, naive fool. 

 

He takes one deep breath, then another, swallowing down the urge to scratch at the feathers. He can do this. He can totally do this. Just a few hours of sticky feathers and borrowed clothes, and he’s home free. 

 

Christ, picking out what to wear had been a fucking ordeal. 

 

Phil’s magpie-nest of a room had plenty of options for them to sort through, but it was all weird alien clothes . He was used to the worn-out feel of Wilbur’s borrowed clothes, everything Phil had shoved into his arms was just so… not that. 

 

Shirts that were flowy and silky, fabrics in a dozen jewel-bright colors with accents of gold and silver. There was beading and fucking embroidery, small golden stitches in the shape of feathers or flowers or pretty, swirling patterns. Pants and skirts with bells and ribbons and a hundred other dangly bits that shifted and jingled when you moved around. Just. Just so much. 

 

Dancing was important to Avians and Elytrans. Apparently, all the different colors and the jingly bits are supposed to be part of the dance, too. Make noise and shit, and look cool when you twirl around. 

 

Originally, he was just going to throw on a cool scarf and call it a day. But then Phil was pressing shirt after shirt into his hands, and he just looked so excited. His feathers all fluffed up and his eyes all big and wide, and he couldn’t just say no. 

 

So, here he is. Yay. 

 

They’d started going through clothes after lunch, sometime in the late afternoon, and it was already nearly dusk by the time everyone had settled on an outfit and gotten dressed. Between the jewelry and all the goddamn layers in Tubbo’s skirt, it had taken. So. Long. 

 

His outfit was the best , obviously. The cape he’d chosen, red-orange with gold accents, only came down to about the middle of his back. It was more of a weird scarf than a cape, honestly, but it was soft and warm. Pretty, but not too flashy. Besides, it helped to cover the spots on his shoulders and arms that Wilbur had skipped over.



“Here, catch.” 

 

He snatches the little green gems out of the air right before they smack into his face. Wilbur almost looks disappointed. 

 

Out of all of them, Wilbur had surprised no one by ending up with the most elaborate outfit, strutting around in a hundred shades of blue and gold. The blue-green fabric sparkles with gold when it catches the light, shifting into indigo when it’s in shadow. Looking at him too long gives Tommy a headache.

 

If he so much as blinks too hard, something about his outfit shifts or jingles together. It’s been less than twenty minutes and Tommy already finds it obnoxious. 

 

“Most of the people here still use emeralds instead of creds.” He explains with a shrug that makes his earrings the dangly bits around his sleeves jingle. Tommy feels his eye twitch. “Get something to bring back to your earth friends.” 

 

Tommy looks at the emeralds. Then at Wilbur. Then back at the emeralds again. 

 

“I’m gonna buy drugs.”

 

“…please don’t.” Phil sighs. pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. His chosen outfit was a bit more sensible, a flowy green robe with golden leaves stitched on the hem. 

 

“Space drugs.” Tommy continues, turning the gems over and over in his hands. “I’ll sell ‘em to the kids at school back home, be a space-drug dealer.”

 

“You’re not old enough for drugs.” Grunts Techno, still fiddling with the gems on the clasp of his dark red cape. 

 

“What- Yes I am!” He squawks indignantly, jabbing a finger in Techno’s direction. “I’m a fully-grown human, I’ll have you know.”

 

“…Right.”

 

“I’m a big man! The biggest! C’mon, Tubbo, back me up!”

 

Tubbo looks up from his seat on a nearby storage crate. He hums, too busy fiddling with the scarf around his shoulders. He runs his hands through the layers of his skirt, a dozen different shades of green, orange, and gold, and the bells attached to the hem jingle together. 

 

Finally, he shrugs. “I mean, we don’t really know what the age of maturity is for humans…”

 

Exactly. I’m so mature, the maturest.” 

 

Techno raises an eyebrow. “Sure, runt.”

 

Mimimi I’m techno, I’m a sore loser who likes swords and reading. That’s you. That’s what you sound like.”

 

“Really proving how mature you are here, Toms.”

 

“Oh shut up, Wilbur. This is why no one likes you.”

 

“Hey!”





-




From the ship, the village in the distance had seemed so small. Like toy houses. It must be some kind of trick of the perspective or something, because it barely takes any time at all to follow the winding path down too it. 

 

He could hear the festival before he ever even saw it.

 

Well, that’s not quite true. He could see the town from just outside the ship, see all the pretty, warm lights glimmering like fireflies in the valley below. Still, it was the music that drew him in first. 

 

A bit strange, but… Inviting? The way it swooped and fell, chittering almost like birdsong. It gets louder and louder the further they walk, until the town glittering far below in the valley below them was glowing warmly ahead, a beacon of light in the dark, dark hills that guard it. 

 

It’s a warm night, like yesterday. The air is calm, sweet and gentle on their backs as they march in the world's strangest-looking parade to the village. Phil is leading, no surprise there, with Techno taking up the rear. Tommy’s only a few steps in front of him, half-heartedly nodding along to whatever Wilbur is chattering about now. 

 

The path under their feet melts from grass into well-worn stones the closer to the village they get, meandering around the side of the hill, in no hurry to lead anywhere in particular. It’s lit every few hundred feet by tall pillars with some kind of bowl on time, the inside sparkling and cracking with fire. The world's most unnecessarily extra street lamp. 

 

Now that he stops to think about it, there is a lot of fire. 

 

The closer they get to the village, the more he notices. He can smell it in the air, that thick, heavy smell of burning wood that settles in your hair and clothes and takes forever to get rid of. It’s sweeter than he remembers. 

 

The weird fire-pillars get more frequent, as well as old-fashioned lamps. All sorts of fire pits have sprung up around the edges of the villages, aliens of all feathers and colors milling about and stoking the flames, leaving plates of food and flowers by the outside of the rings. Firelight glints off of jewelry, feathers, and scales alike. 

 

When they get closer, he elbows Phil in the side. “What’s with all the fire?”

 

“Ancient Elytrans and Avians used to believe that during the equinox, the spirits of the dead come back to celebrate with the living.” Phil whispers back. “The fires are to keep them from getting lost.”

 

Huh. 

 

He looks at the fire a bit more closely, now. Looking back over his shoulder at the way they’d came, tracing the path between the pillars and following it up the hill they had walked down, all the way up to their ship.

 

For a moment, he wonders why the fuck they’re lighting the way back to the ship. Then, he remembers just where the ship was parked, and just what lies on the other side of that hill. 

 

The spirits come back to celebrate with the living. The fires are to keep them from getting lost. 

 

And that would mean… that would mean the path they had taken down to the village…

 

He takes a few steps closer to Phil, a familiar chill running down his spine. He’s never been one to really believe in ghost stories, but he’d never really believed in aliens before, either. So. The concept of alien ghosts coming back to party isn’t too far out of the realm of possibility. Literally anything is possible at this point, honestly. He’s stopped pretending that space makes any kind of sense. 

 

“Come on,” Wilbur urges, spearheading the group towards the town. The firelight catches on his fins and in his eyes, wide and excited. “We’re almost there!” 

 

Tommy shoots a glance over his shoulder, just in case, but there’s nothing behind them but grass and shadow.

 

He shakes his head once, twice, and moves on. 




-





The festival is beautiful.

 

The music is even better up close. Something strange, fast and rhythmic that rises and dips, pulling in and out in a quick, jaunty tune. Fast and light as birdsong. Now that he’s closer he can practically feel it, drums that echo in his bones, string instruments that thrum and ring along with the beating of his heart. The rising and swooping notes of some strange instrument that pulls at his feet until he’s walking to the beat of it. 

 

He forgets about ghosts. About long-dead soldiers and long-past battles. About twisted metal and scorched earth. He forgets about the deadline getting closer and closer. He forgets about it all. 

 

Why had he been so grouchy earlier? This shit is fucking awesome!



The festival makes the whole town come alive

 

The lights strung between buildings over his head glitter off of the jewelry and clothes the townspeople wear. Skirts swish and jewelry flash, fabrics glittering in a hundred different colors shifting with every movement. The ringing of bells, of music, of laughter, a warmth in the air that has nothing to do with fire. 

 

Everything feels hazy. Colors shift and lights glitter, framed by dark shadows and a lilac sky. It feels almost like a dream.   

 

There are small children giggling on their parents’ shoulders, vendors and their carts shouting and bartering on the edges, selling food and all sorts of pretty, shining things. Old women with large, grey-tinged wings gossip from the sidelines, young couples with shimmering, jewel-toned feathers laugh and share food together, whispering and giggling all the while. The band that plays is enjoying themselves too, cracking jokes and jostling one another with their instruments and occasionally with tails or wings. 

 

There’s just so much to look at , all the movement and the color and the shiny, sparkling gems. He looks past the crowds and the vendors to the square beyond, taking in the shops and the smells of greasy fried food. 

 

Then, His eyes lock on a group of dancers, and it’s useless for him to try and focus on anything else. 

 

Because he’s seen dancers before, obviously . The occasional TV show or movie, actors in bright colors and flashy clothes prancing around as they sing about true love, and all that shit. 

He’s even been to some of the shitty dances his school used to put on, though he wouldn’t exactly call that dancing. It was more awkward shuffling, and trying desperately to avoid the couples in the back that spent the whole time making out. 

 

This is different, though. Just… so different .

 

It’s a fast, jaunty sort of dance, Avians with feathered faces and arms hiking their skirts up to their knees so they can move their feet faster, twirling around partners and lifting one another in the air. Feathers and skirts swish by their ankles, small wings flapping and fluttering as they lift one another in the air, practically floating as they glide and spin over cobblestone streets as if they weigh nothing at all, laughing and calling to one another. They trade partners, twirling a different alien into their arms, and the dance begins anew. 

 

Tubbo grins, grabbing Ranboo by the arm and pulling him further and further into town. He’s saying something, laughing at the look on Ranboo’s face, the words lost in the music around them. Tommy can hear Wilbur laughing and Techno grunting in response, feel the brush of feathers on his shoulders, but he’s too busy watching the dancers to pay them any mind at all. 

 

It’s mesmerizing . The way they move around and around one another, quick and carefree, the glittering of gold and silver, the jingling of bells tied to belts, or ankles, braided through their hair and draped over feathers. 

 

It’s not fancy, that’s the thing . It isn’t choreographed like a dance you’d see on TV, no perfect actors with bleached smiles and flawless moves. It’s not perfect. 

 

More than one dancer trips or stumbles from time to time, their partner catching them in their arms with a laugh and pulling them back into the dance with ease. Someone will get a step wrong or start the wrong way or bump into another pair, but it’s fine. They shrug and smile and laugh , pulling each other into another spin. 

 

He’s pushed away from Tubbo’s side a little bit as two kids, Avians with spotted wings, dart between their legs, laughing and spinning each other around in a clumsy dance of their own. 

 

With wide eyes, he watches a woman with glossy white feathers and ivory hair lift her partner effortlessly, the two of them laughing and twirling as they spin in time to the rise and fall of the music. They laugh an apology to the couple next to them when they accidentally brush wings, too busy staring at one another to notice the song has changed to something faster. 

 

Not far from them, a young Phantling with sparkling skin dances with an older one. A sibling, he assumes, they have the same shimmering face, the same black hair and full-body laugh. The older Phantling is more patient with their sibling than Tommy could ever be, teaching them to dance and spin no matter how many times they get their feet stepped on. 

 

One of the dancers catches his eye, a dark-haired Avian with tawny, spotted wings. He almost flinches when those sharp yellow eyes meet his, but all they do is smile and wave before their partner pulls them into another spin. 

 

It would be so easy to join, if he wanted. 

 

He probably wouldn’t even look too out of place, stumbling into the dance without a care in the world. Plenty of the avians around still have their wings hidden, even with the feathers on their face on full display. Nobody would look twice. They’d probably pull him right in. 

 

And god, the thought hits him like a boot to the chest. 

 

He swallows. Hard. Shaking his head to break whatever spell the music and atmosphere had casted over him. C’mon, really? Him? Dancing? He doesn’t think he’s ever danced in his life, much less in the fast-paced, swirling way these aliens do. The minute he tries something similar he’ll trip over his own two feet within seconds. Hell, he’d probably end up dragging a handful of dancers down to the ground with him, knowing his luck. Wouldn’t that be a great end to his one perfect day where nothing goes wrong. 

 

Tubbo doesn’t seem to get the memo.

 

“C’mon, c’mon!” There’s a tug on his arm, Tubbo’s duel-colored eyes bright as lanterns. “Dance with me, Ranboo’s too tall!”

 

Ranboo makes an offended chittering noise, but doesn’t make any moves to take him up on the offer anyways. 

 

And Tommy…

 

Part of him wants to, really. The music is loud and beautiful and Tubbo is already yanking him towards the dancers, but he just…

 

He takes one look at the graceful way they move and digs his heels into the dirt. “…Yeah, I don’t think so, Big Man.”

 

Tommy will make it up to him, he’s already decided. Some other way. A way that won’t end with him dying of embarrassment and ruining the festival for everyone. 

 

For a moment Tubbo looks like he’s about to protest, but then Wilbur’s sweeping him away, “I’ll dance with you, Tubs,” and Technoblade has already slipped off to go stand menacingly in the corner with Ranboo slinking on his heels, and he almost thinks that Phil’s gone off somewhere else too until he feels the wing settles lightly over his shoulders. 

 

“I’m not much for dancing either,” he admits, tilting his head. The glimmer that catches in his eyes is nothing short of a threat . “ Although-“

 

And Tommy has seen enough middle-aged dads embarrassing everyone around them at parties with their “sick dance moves” to know exactly where this is going, and decide that he needs to make his escape now, before he ends up dying of second hand embarrassment. 

 

“You know, I think I’m just gonna look around,” he says, already ducking under his wings and backpedaling his way out. “See the sights, get women, you know-“

 

“Don’t get lost!” Phil calls to him as he makes a quick escape back towards where the vendors are setting up for the evening. “Stay away from drugs! Don’t get kidnapped!”

 

He can hear the others laughing as Wilbur and Tubbo twirl around on the dance floor. 




-




The fringes of the festival are just as interesting as the dancers.

 

Still, he ends up following the smell of food almost on instinct.

 

Shopkeepers have opened their doors, letting the festival goers step in to escape the crowds, and there little wagons everywhere , selling all kinds of things. Most seem pretty typical for festivals, jewelry and hand-made trinkets, clothing, random foods on sticks. A few are a bit stranger, though. Cheap-looking hologram pyramids, dangling charms you can attach to your comns. More than a few vendors proudly boast their scale shining creams to the crowds, and one vendor all but shoves a “potion of attraction” under his nose.

 

“Guaranteed to make you irresistible !” The alien insists, the smile on his face showing just enough teeth to make Tommy edge away. “Only thirty creds! I also take emeralds! And gold!” 

 

He stutters out an excuse, “the ladies love me already, thanks,” and makes a hasty retreat.

 

Anyways.

 

He needs to get something for Tubbo. 

 

Just, something. To make it up to him. Maybe something for Ranboo too, Wilbur and Technoblade maybe, but mostly for Tubbo. Something he can add to his stash of random things.

 

Something to remember him by.

 

It’s corny and stupid, he knows, but since he’s already here, there’s no harm in looking around. 

 

What does Tubbo like? Easy. Sugar, human things, inventing shit, and anything sparkly. Sugar and/or something sparkly was probably his best bet at a festival like this, and he tries to give any booth selling “human things” a wide berth, tugging his cape up over his chin. Never hurts to be careful. 

 

He scans the nearby booths and wagons again. Hmm, jewelry? No, he doesn’t think he’s seen Tubbo wear much of that, it’s more of a Techno thing. He’s more a trinkets guy, anyways. Maybe a cool shell? Or one of those tiny hologram thingys? Those looked pretty cool, projecting images of the city from above in a variety of colors. I’d be a pretty sweet gift, right?

 

Then, he remembers the way Tubbo had made one explode back on Nevodis, and quickly changes his mind. Giving him a bomb as a farewell gift is probably not a great idea. As cool as it sounds. 

 

So what else?

 

“-Authentic.” A gentle voice says, catching his attention. “Handmade, too. One of a kind.”

 

One of a kind? That sounds like a good bet. He turns around, looking for the source… There! 

 

It’s a small booth, set a little out of the way. 

 

A bunch of small, shining trinkets are displayed on trays and plush fabric pillows, shimmering when they catch the light around them. Glass , probably, or maybe crystal? It’s hard to tell from where he’s standing. The alien standing behind it looks friendly enough, brown hair braided and twisted with ribbons and flowers around pointed ears, shimmering insect wings sprouting from her shoulders. She holds something sparkling in her hands, showing it off to a mostly uninterested crowd, tilting it to catch the light. 

 

He wanders closer. 

 

“Made on T’Aria!” She keeps on, twisting something that sparkles and glimmers in her fingers. “Each one completely unique!”

 

He inches a little closer, and closer still, eyeing her hands and trying to figure out what she’s holding. What the hell is that? Small and delicate in her careful fingers, all pretty shades of red and coral pink. It’s only when she holds it up again to the light that he realizes what it is.

 

It’s a flower . A rounded thing with many, many tiny little petals all stuck together, almost like a rose. A flower made entirely out of glass.

 

She notices him looking, then, and her whole face lights up. She twirls it again, holding it out to him so he can get a better look with a bright smile on her face as she beckons him closer. “Pretty, isn’t it? Made of potion-bottle glass, too. You open it up like this, see?”

 

Carefully, she grabs a hold of the head of the flower, gently twisting. It unscrews like a bottle cap, revealing a small vial concealed in the stem. 

 

“I’ve got other colors and kinds, of course, if you’d like-“

 

“It’s beautiful.” He breathes out, only realizing what he’d said when her face glows with the praise. “I mean- uh- very poggers.”

 

Why did he say that. Why the absolute fuck did he have to say that. Poggers? Really? His whole face must be on fucking fire, he can feel his goddamn ears burning. And he wonders why he’s never had a fucking girlfriend- 

 

“Poggers.” She echoes with a laugh, only making his face heat up more. “That’s a good thing, yes?”

 

“Uh huh.” He blurts out. “Yep.”

 

Why is he like this? Why does he do this to himself?

 

She has a nice smile. A nice laugh, too, like bells. She turns, flower in hand, and grabs a small box from under the booth. In a blink of an eye it’s wrapped in a small, palm-sized box secured with a red ribbon, and she’s leaning across the booth to press it into his hands. 

 

“Be careful with it,” She tells him, pulling her hands away. “They’re sturdier than they look, but it’s still glass.”

 

It takes a few seconds for him to realize she was giving it to him for free. 

 

“W-wait, but-“ he stammers. “I can pay!”

 

He fumbles for his comn, how the fuck does that even work, but she just waves him off with another laugh and a smile. “It’s been a long time since someone has been interested in my work. Take good care of it, and I’ll call it even, okay?”

 

There’s something in her voice, just then. Not quite forceful, just… Earnest . Like she’s just trusted him with a living, breathing thing and not just some trinket at a festival. He nods a bit more firmly than he normally would have, and she waves at him as he turns to leave. 

 

He can still feel his ears burning. Thank god for the cape still pulled up to his chin. 

 

He’s careful with the flower, oh, so careful , as he tucks it in his coat. That’s a good enough gift, isn’t it? Tubbo’s into trinkets and stuff, he’ll probably like it.

 

…If not, he can always just keep it. What can he say? It’s sparkly! 




-




The festival is beginning to wind for the evening when he finally makes his way back to the others.

 

The square that had been absolutely packed with dancers and music just a few hours ago has begun to look a little bit more sparse. The dancers have begun to thin out, the ones that remain either having a bit too much fun to notice that the band is beginning to slow, or couples happy to lean in close and sway to the calmer, gentler music. 

 

Tommy hasn’t heard this song before. It’s not the quick, jaunty music he’d heard earlier, with the instruments that sung and chirped like birdsong. It’s something else, something low, deep and full. The song itself is slow, almost sad, rising and falling like the deep call of some great, lonely animal. It’s… really pretty, actually. Unlike anything he’s ever heard before. 

 

When his feet start to lead him in the direction of the music, he doesn’t fight it. 

 

It doesn’t take him long to find the source of the song. 

 

The instrument itself looks just as strange as it sounds. A white, curved thing, big enough to take up the whole length of the alien who’s playing its shoulders, and some. It’s almost shaped like a horn, or the tooth of some huge, long-dead carnivore, pocketed with twisting gaps and holes. The alien holding it pulls a long, metal bow across shimmering gold strings, holding it to their chin and  playing it like the world's weirdest violin.

 

The noise it makes is… actually sort of violin-like, now that he thinks about it. Ringing with a strange hollow, echoing sound that makes it hauntingly beautiful to listen too. Like he’s hearing it from far, far away. 

 

It’s only then that he looks to who’s actually playing the thing.

 

Technoblade holds it like it weighs nothing, expertly drawing the bow over the strings in just the right way to make them sing. 

 

And Tommy is frozen, because what the actual hell? 

 

He’s never seen Techno play an instrument before. Since fucking when? How? What? 

 

It doesn’t make any sense. Technoblade, the Piglin, a giant, ferocious alien capable of bending metal with his bare hands. Just earlier he had been swinging a sword around! That guy? Playing a violin? It doesn’t make any sense

 

But there he is. Playing the weird space-violin as if he’s been doing it all his life, poised with the kind of grace Tommy had only seen from him when he’s holding a sword. His back is straight, his pink hair braided with bits of gold and small, blue gems. His cape flows over his shoulders like a river of blood. He looks regal , like a king. Like someone powerful. 

 

There’s an expression on his face that he’s never seen before, eyes shut and focused in concentration, but also… soft? No, that isn’t quite right. 

 

He’s always been hard to read, Technoblade. Tommy’s gotten pretty good over these last few months, but the point still stands. Whatever the look on his face is supposed to mean now, Tommy can’t make heads or tails of it.

 

Something about that bothers him, but he’s not quite sure why. 

 

So, he just watches as Techno plucks delicately at the strings. They’re so, so small, Tommy has no idea how he can manage to be so gentle, to press them with just the right amount of strength. Techno could probably snap the thing in two, if he wanted. Hell, it probably wouldn’t even be that hard. 

 

But he hasn’t. And he won’t. Because he’s playing it , instead. And it’s beautiful. 

 

“Oh, there you are.”

 

Feathers brush over his shoulders, and it’s Phil that steps up to his side. He smiles, leaning in and speaking in a low voice, just above a whisper, as to not interrupt the music. 

 

“I’d never pegged him as an instrument guy, either.” He says, with a wink. “But we’re all full of surprises, huh?”

 

Tommy stares. First at Phil, then at Techno. At the way his hands move across the strings, at the way his expression had softened into something a little less sad the longer he’d played. At the others sitting just beyond on the rim of the fountain, leaning in to listen. 

 

“Yeah.” He mutters back, letting Phil lead him over to the others. Who knew? 




-




Techno plays for a while longer.

 

Even when most of the festival goers have left, the few stragglers that remain wander over to listen. It’s not too bad of a crowd, especially once the band packs up for the night and everyone still wanting to hear music has stumbled their way over. Even a few of the shopkeepers have stuck their heads out of their doors and windows to listen. Wilbur shouts song request after request, and Techno only rolls his eyes a bit before obliging. 

 

Somewhere along the way, Wilbur ends up with a guitar in his hands, and begins to play as well. 

 

Not the sad, crooning songs from earlier. No, Wilbur leads them all into some fast, jaunty song Vionian about sailors and sea monsters, and what’s left of the crowd eats it up. Wilbur sings, plucking out a melody on the weird space guitar, and Techno plays the deeper, slower bits. The instruments didn’t seem like they’d go well together, but they do. Wilbur’s voice is light and smooth, tying everything together, and Techno’s instrument sings underneath. 

 

Tubbo pulls Ranboo into some sort of dance, but the height difference makes it nearly impossible. Even with Phil coaching from the sidelines, it’s a lost cause. They seem to be having fun either way, Tubbo’s laugh as bright as the bells that jingle around the hem of his skirt as Ranboo keeps tripping over their own tail. 

 

Tommy lets Tubbo pull him into a dance eventually, but only for a little bit. 

 

It’s easier for him to take a shot at it with less people around. He kind of sucks. just like he knew he would, not nearly as graceful as the other dancers, or even Phil, which is so much more embarrassing than he thought it would be. Still, he’s loads better than Ranboo, so he still counts it as a win. Aetherian dances are weird, and there are so many steps and turns to keep track of. The height difference between him and Tubbo certainly doesn’t help either. 

 

Everyone’s too distracted by the music to notice as he and Tubbo stumble around. He tries to twist him around the way he’d seen the dancers do earlier, but ends up nearly knocking him to the ground instead. Whoops.

 

It’s still fun , though. Dancing, or trying too. Moving along with the music, trying his best to copy the dancers he’d seen earlier. Turning and twisting and moving, spinning Tubbo around and being spun around in turn. He stumbles more than once, but so does Tubbo. 

 

He doesn’t have to worry about fucking anything up when they’re both shit, but who cares either way? It’s fun, he’s having fun, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

 

It’s a lot more fun to dance when the person you’re dancing with is equally as bad as you are, that’s for sure. 





Tommy finds himself by Wilbur’s side eventually, breathless and more than a little bit dizzy. 

 

The crowd had began to drift off once he and Techno stopped playing together, the latter off chatting with Phil and a few other avians on the other side of the fountain. There’s still music playing from somewhere, and the lone few dancers that remain are doing their best to show Ranboo and Tubbo the ropes. Tubbo isn’t doing half bad, but Ranboo… yeah. Maybe they should just stick to swordfighting. 

 

Tommy hoists himself up to sit on the rim of the cobblestone fountain, watching Wilbur’s hands as he plucks at the strings.

 

The song he’s playing is a softer one, clearly meant more for just his ears than the crowd favorites from before. If there are lyrics, he isn’t singing them. 

 

Tommy… really likes watching Wilbur play his stupid space guitar. Not that he’d ever admit it, not in a million years. He looks almost peaceful when he plays. Softer, somehow, in a way that he isn’t very often. No sharp-toothed smiles or dramatic, exasperated groans. Just… him. 

 

It’s kinda nice, seeing him like that. It’s not a side of Wilbur Tommy sees often. 

 

As one song ends, he starts into another. It’s a bit more slow, and he plucks individual strings instead of strumming them all at once. He catches Tommy watching and grins, repeating the same pattern before switching to a different one, plucking strings in a row. 

 

“It’s not as hard as it looks, really.” He shrugs. “Here, give it a shot.” 

 

And suddenly, Tommy has an armful of guitar. 

 

His hands freeze around the neck of it, trying to be gentle but also trying not to fucking drop it. “Uh-“

 

He can’t play the weird space guitar. What if he breaks it? Or presses too hard? Or one of the strings snaps? What if he plays it wrong and it sounds horrible, and-

 

“Nonsense.” The guitar is gone, and Tommy lets himself breathe again. “I told you, it’s easy. Here, just watch.”

 

Wilbur plucks the same strings again, going slowly so Tommy can watch where he puts his hands. Higher on the neck, He holds down the third and fifth strings from the top of the guitar, then plucks out a pattern with his other hand. The second string, the third and fifth one at the same time, then the fourth, then the first, fourth, and third. 

 

He holds the guitar out to him again, waiting for him to take it, this time, instead of shoving it in his arms.

 

And Tommy… 

 

Tommy hesitates, for a moment. Looking at the strings, at Wilbur’s long, steady fingers. The webbing in between them, the claws on the ends. The slightest fade to indigo towards the tips. 

 

And Wilbur is staring at him, and there’s this look in his eyes that has Tommy reaching for the guitar before he can think better of it. 

 

He gently, so, so gently, pulls the guitar into his lap. It's not as nice as Wilbur’s, the wood a deep brown, almost black, and the polish wearing away in places. It’s weighted nicely in his hands, though it was clearly made for someone with longer and less shaky fingers in mind. He takes a breath, and lets it out. 

 

Wilbur thinks he can do this. Wilbur thinks he can do this, and he can. 

 

He brushes against his shoulder, solid and warm at his side. He’s got this. He’s so got this. It’s easy, all he has to do is repeat the pattern he’d been shown. A baby could do that. 

 

Just like Wilbur had shown him. Carefully, oh, so carefully, he finds the right spots for his hands, adjusting the weight of the guitar in his lap. His pointer finger goes here, his middle finger… here. It feels a bit strange, but it’s not hard to find the right spots. Piece of cake. 

 

It hurts a little to press down on the strings, but he ignores it, too focused on playing them right. Hold down the third and fifth strings way up on the neck of the guitar, then play. The second string, the third and fifth one at the same time, then the fourth, then the first, fourth again, and third. Two, three and five, four, one, three. 

 

The notes warble softly in the air between them, quieter than they had been when Wilbur had played them, a little more unsure. Still, they’re the right notes in the right order, a little melody. 

 

“That’s it!” Wilbur grins, clasping his shoulder excitedly. “You’re a natural, toms. Here, let me show you the next part…”

 

He passes the guitar back over as if it were made of glass, and the smile Wilbur gives him in return is more blinding than either one of Aethers suns. 

 

Wilbur holds down the same strings he had before at the top of the guitar, gesturing between the strings that need to be held down and the ones that are played. He makes a flourish with his other hand, pointing to the top of the guitar where his hands were, explaining the grooves and metal bits that divide the neck into sections and what they’re supposed to do to the sound. 

 

“So you play this section here,” he explains, “Then this one, see?” 

 

He points to the sections of the instrument in turn, this one gets played first, then the next one. He shows Tommy what strings he’s holding down, the third string and fifth, and in what section he’s supposed to hold his hands and- 

 

He’s… Teaching him. Actually teaching him how to play guitar. 

 

His eyes get a little blurry, for some reason , and he almost misses the next strings he’s shown. 

 

Wilbur holds down the same strings on the neck of the guitar, and first plays the strings Tommy’s already been shown. 

Two, three and five, four, one, three. Then, he holds down the second string as well, and then repeat. Two, three and five, four, one, three. After that, there’s a new section. Hold down the second string, and play a little scale from the fifth string to the second, and back down again. 

 

He passes the guitar back with a broad grin and a hand steady on his shoulder, “You got this. Just like I showed you, yeah?” 

 

Tommy pulls the guitar back into his hands just as gently as before. His fingers aren’t as steady as Wilbur’s, not nearly as long and graceful either. Tommy was told he had piano-player hands, once, a long time ago. He’d learned a few songs before he’d left that house, sure, but piano and guitar were pretty different. His fingers keep that persistent tremble as he puts them in the right spots, no matter how much he wills them to be still. Breathe, Tommy. Breathe. 

 

Two, three and five, four, one, three, repeat while holding down the second string. Then, the little scale, five, four, three, two, and back down again, two, three, four, five. 

 

Wilbur gives him an excited nod and gestures for him to continue, grinning all the while. and Tommy repeats it again, a little faster this time. Two, three and five, four, one, three, repeat while holding down the second string. Then, the little scale, five, four, three, two, and back down again, two, three, four, five. 

 

He’s… playing guitar. Or some kind of space-guitar anyways, whatever. It counts. He’s playing it. He’s playing it! 

 

There’s another part after that, hold down three, four and five, and play. Five four three, six, five, four, five four three.

 

He plays a little faster, lets the strings bite into his fingers so they ring out the way they’re supposed to. He’s playing a song. 

 

Wilbur coaches him through the next bit, showing him where to put his hands and when, but Tommy plays it all by himself. And sure, a lot of the song repeats. And sure, Wilbur did say it wasn’t a hard song, but he’s still playing it! 

 

He doesn’t even notice the music still playing from somewhere else in the square, the chatter and laughter of the dancers and the rest of his crew fades into distant background noise. 

 

None of it reaches him here, right next to Wilbur in this little bubble of warmth. 

 

Once he knows the song well enough to play completely by himself without missing a beat, Wilbur even starts to sing

 

That cute bomber jacket you’ve had for so long, adorned with tears from the places you’ve been…” 

 

His fingers move over the strings, feeling the way they shakily glide over well-worn wood and metal. Wilbur is a grounding weight against his shoulder, and he sings in a voice barely above a whisper. A song meant just for the two of them. 

 

“… my boots are from trade moons, 

My backpack’s from friends…”

 

His fingers have started to ache, just a little. He hardly even notices, hardly even cares. Put this hand here, play this string here, then again from the top- 

 

The song is… Familiar, somehow. It takes him a moment to put his finger on why. 

 

“…I’m not one of substance, but still I’ll pretend…”

 

Wilbur had played this song for them before, way, way back when they’d first left Bezzar. It feels like it’s been years since then. He’s surprised he can still remember the words. 

 

“…The roads are my home, the horizons my target…”

 

The guitar is warm on his hands, like some living, breathing thing. Is this what playing an instrument is like? No wonder Wilbur likes his stupid guitar so much, this is so fucking cool! He plucks the strings with as much dramatic flair as he can without messing up, feeling himself grin all the while. 

 

He’s playing an instrument. With Wilbur. 

 

“…It's been sixty weeks since I saw Viona,” Wilbur sings, and, sitting so close, Tommy’s the only one who notices the way his voice catches on the words. “A bandage and a wide smile slapped across my face…”

 

The last part of the song is different. He moves his hands, playing a bunch of strings at once instead of plucking them. Pointer finger here, ring finger goes here. The ever-present tremble in his fingers make it a bit tricky, but he pulls it off. 

 

“The distance is futile,

Come on, don't be hasty,”

 

He plays through the last few notes, and Wilbur sings them softly through the rest of the song. 

 

“You'll get that feeling deep inside your… bones,

 

I'll be gone then, 

for when you must be alone…”

 

It’s silent, the last note ringing out around them, but only for a moment.



Wilbur smiles at him, and the look he gives Tommy is filled with nothing but pride as he punches him lightly in the shoulder. 

 

“We’ll make a musician out of you yet.” He says, voice warm as he loops an arm around his shoulders, and absolutely nothing else matters. 

 

Tommy yelps as Wilbur yanks him closer, his other hand furiously ruffling his hair as Tommy struggles and squawks in protest, doing his best to not jostle the guitar in his arms too much as he tries to wiggle free. Betrayal! By his own crew mate now less, how dare! Tommy can feel the vibrations of Wilbur’s chest as he laughs, pressed so close, and even with the fancy new outfit, Tommy can still catch a whiff of vanilla and not-quite-gasoline still clinging to his skin. Its… weirdly comforting. 

 

Tommy shoves a hand in his face. “Getoffme, you fuckin’ octopus!” 

 

“Okay, okay, ow-“ Wilbur squawks as Tommy elbows him in the stomach, still struggling to free himself and not damage the guitar in the process. “Alright, alright. Gods above, you have sharp elbows.” 

 

Finally, Tommy is free. Well, mostly. Wilbur still keeps an arm around his shoulders as Tommy manages to wriggle back out of his personal space, glaring half-heartedly as he spits hair out of his mouth and tries to finger comb the rest out of his eyes. Traitor. 

 

“I knew you’d be a natural.” Wilbur grins, 

and the annoyance melts into something softer. “You picked that song up so fast, I’ll show you how to play losing face next, you’ll love it-“ 

 

And…

 

And Tommy is happy, he realizes. 

 

He’s grinning so hard it hurts , hugging the guitar to his chest and leaning into Wilbur’s side. He's so, so goddamn happy. He’d played that weird space-guitar, and he’d played it well, and Wilbur was proud of him , and- 





And that’s when it hits him.

 

Jesus Christ, he is so, so, so unbelievably fucked, isn’t he? 



He’s happy. He’s been happy. For a while now, he realizes, now that he’s stopped to think about it. He can’t- he doesn’t even remember the last time he was this happy. The last time he’s been this happy for this long. 

 

Last night on the bridge with Techno and Phil, speeding through the streets on Wilbur’s bike on Viona, exploring Las Nevadas with Tubbo. Fucking around on T’Aria. He can’t pick out when it started, when he started actually caring about his crew instead of just tolerating them, but it did. He’s surrounded by fucking aliens, and fuck, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy before. Ever. 



And it’s right then that it really hits him that he is going to lose this. 

 

That’s what it’s all been boiling down too, really. That sense of dread he hasn’t been able to shake since they landed on Aether. All that one last perfect day shit. He’s going back to Earth. He’s going to lose this, going to lose them, and…

 

And… 






 

No. 

 

You know what? No. 

 

Today is supposed to be a good day, goddamnit . One last good day with this crew, something for them to remember him by, and he’s not going to spend it like this. He’s not going to waste it worrying about shit that hasn’t happened yet, he’s not. 

 

Because… because you know what? 

 

So maybe this is his last time exploring a planet with his crew. Maybe his time in space is drawing to a close. And maybe things aren’t going to be like this forever. And maybe he really is going to lose them. And maybe he’ll have to go home to a crowded, dirty foster house, and maybe his hometown will be exactly as shitty as he left it, but you know what?

 

none of that shit has happened yet.

 

He’s still here, goddamn it. He’s still here in the present. Wilbur is here, Tubbo is here, Ranboo is here, Phil and Techno are here, they’re all still here. Right now. 



Right now, Tommy is at a festival on Aether with his crew. Right now he’s smiling so hard there are tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, and he can barely feel the ache in his fingers from where they’re tangled in the back of Wilbur’s shirt. Now he is warm, and happy, and there’s laughter and music in his ears and everything is fine and he’s safe. 

 

Wilbur makes an ‘oof’ noise w hen Tommy almost throws the guitar aside to throw both arms around his middle. He doesn’t protest, though, hesitantly putting his arms around his back as Tommy tightens his grip. 

 

Right now, Wilbur’s heartbeat is a steady drum under his ear. Right now, he’s burying his face in the silky fabric of his shirt, holding him like he’s about to disappear as the backs of his eyes start to burn, and Tommy knows with certainty that there’s absolutely nowhere else in the galaxy he’d rather be than right here, right now. 



Tommy doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. 

 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen with the council. He doesn’t know what’s out there waiting for him, but all of that can wait , can’t it? Just for tonight? Just for a little bit longer?



“You… alright, Toms?”

 

“Hmmmfph.” Tommy mutters into his shirt. 

 

Wilbur chuckles, and runs his claws lightly down his back in soothing patterns. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

 

Tommy feels his head back just enough for him to be understood, refusing to look Wilbur in the eye. “I said thank you, okay?”

 

Wilbur just hums. “…Anytime.” 



…he doesn’t let go, though. Wilbur doesn’t say anything as Tommy presses his nose to his shirt and pretends that he isn’t doing his best to commit the smell of not quite-gasoline to memory. 

 

He can hear the distant buzz of Tubbo’s laughter, the jingling of his skirt as he dances, the ruffling of feathers as the avians laugh and chatter along. He does his best to memorize all of that too. The weight of clawed hands loose around his shoulders, the cackle of Ranboo’s laughter, the low rumble of Techno’s voice and the lighter rumble of Phil’s. 

He doesn’t want to forget any of it. Not a single fucking thing. 



“…are you sure you’re alright?”

 

“Never been better, big man.” He yawns, reluctantly pulling back. “Has anyone ever told you that you make a shit pillow?”

 

Wilbur laughs, and if Tommy takes the time to memorize the sound of that too, well, who can say. 



Yeah, future can fucking wait , he’s decided. He’s not quite through with the present just yet. 







-




Several hours later, the Elytran makes his way down the hill.

 

Tonight is the last night of Aethers summer solstice. The two suns can just barely be seen over the horizon, and tomorrow night at this time, they will not be visible at all. Not for another year.

 

Aethers summer solstice was an important night for Elytrans and Avians alike, even before the war. A night when the spirits of fallen loved ones and ancestors return to walk amongst the living. They light fires to guide them, and to drive back the… less friendly spirits.

 

It’s a time for celebration. For dancing and sharing memories. 

 

The war changed the meaning slightly. It became Remembrance Day , instead. A time to celebrate the ending of the first, and last war between planets. 

 

It's still a day for peace. For remembering the ones you lost. For celebrating with the ones you didn’t.

 

The Elytran picks his way carefully down the hill. There is no trail for him to follow, but he has long since committed this path to memory, and doesn’t so much as stumble as he makes his way down to the graveyard below. 

 

From the right angle, the gorge carved into the planet's surface can hardly be noticed. All you see is rolling hills of gravestones, reaching on and on for as far as you can see. 

 

He presses a hand to the first tombstone he passes, pausing for a moment, before continuing.

 

Past the first hill, just shy of where the gorge cuts it’s horrible path through the wildflower fields, there is a small groove carved into the side of a small hill. 

 

In this groove, nearly hidden by flowers and tall, swaying grasses, is a statue.

 

It’s a statue of a woman. A tall, proud woman, with long, dark hair and a face framed by swooping horns. She has a dragon-like appearance, her large, leathery wings mantled as if she is about to take flight, only sparingly covered in long, dark feathers. She’s dressed in battle armor, brandishing a sword in one hand and grinning like she’s challenging the cosmos to a fight that she knows she will win. 

 

She is beautiful. 

 

The Elytran sits at the base of the statue. He scrubs at the dirt covering the inscription until it can be read properly. Some of it is too damaged to be eligible, but what remains reads:

 

Queen of Endarion. Lost, but not forgotten. 

 

He runs a thumb over the word lost, and hums. 

 

“Maybe next year.” He murmurs, soft enough to be lost in the rustling of wind through grass. “I can wait, love. As long as you need me too. I’ll wait.”

 

The only response he gets is the wind.






 

 

 

Notes:

and thus ends the third arc of FHTN! the next chapter is an interlude, of sorts, and we'll get to see what all your favorite side characters are getting up too. After that, It's on to the very last arc of FHTN. I'm still deciding on the exact chapter count, but the last arc will be around 3 chapters, plus an epilogue. The end is within sight, boys. Enjoy the fluff while it lasts, because... Well, I wont spoil anything ;)

side note, I can't believe we're only a few months away from the two year anniversary of this fic. fingers crossed this will be the year I actually finish it lmao.

one last thing, I HAVE A TWITTER NOW!!! WOOO!!! It's linked with the rest of my socials at the end of each chapter, come check it out! Ive been thinking about doing some polls in the future, so stay tuned.

Stay safe out there, alright? I’ll see you guys again soon.

 

-Matches

Chapter 17: I Can't Stay (interlude)

Summary:

it appears we're receiving some interference

Notes:

“In the dark
for a while now,
I can't stay, so far
no, I can't stay,
riding my decision home."
-I Can't Stay, the Killers

 

Let's see what the other characters in this story are getting up too, shall we? i think ya'll are gonna enjoy this one.

Playlist is here, if you want to check it out.
a special thank you to Mars, as always, for being a wonderful beta <3<3
Enjoy!

 

tumblr // twitter

 

TWs:
none.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

A few weeks before the crew of the Argo II even lands on Aether, a pink-haired Merling takes her usual place by the window.  

 

It's night, or as close as it can be to night in a place like Bezzar. The bakery she resides in has closed for the evening, and she has taken up a comfortable seat by the wide, arching windows near the front. She sips on something warm that smells vaguely of flowers and spices, and taps her long, fainty-clawed nails absentmindedly on the wooden table. 

 

She sighs, pointedly avoiding looking at the pink, older-style comn laying face-down by her elbow. She takes another long sip from her mug. 

 

Bezzar is never quiet. Hardly any cities are, especially of this size. Even now, neither the rain nor the late hour seems to have deterred its citizens from roaming the streets. Dark figures pass behind the glass, distorted by the rain and moisture collecting on the windows, flickering in and out between streetlights like ghosts. Not as many as there would be during the day, perhaps, but she watches them pass with mild interest anyways. 

 

“-going to now?” A child’s voice asks, loud and curious, just able to be heard through the wood and glass separating her from the street. 

 

“Depends.” Another voice responds. “ How many creds did mom give you?” 

 

Whatever the child says in reply is too muffled to be understood, and she watches both figures, hazy, dark as shadows, as they disappear around the corner. The smaller shadow skips after the taller one, and she can catch just the faintest bit of laughter as they leave. 

 

She runs her thumb along the handle of her mug. It catches on a chip in the polished clay. 

 

“-tonight, sweetheart?” an older voice croons, and another set of figures strides past her doors in the opposite direction. The other shadow clinging to his arm giggles, a noise like a shrieking bird. 

 

“Wherever you’d like.” The other shadow teases back. The Merling does her best not to roll her eyes at the flashy, diamond coat that shimmers through the window. A visitor from Nevodis, no doubt.

 

They turn the corner, and the Merling is once again, alone.

 

Her fingers twitch towards the comn. She does not have to turn it over to know what she will see on the screen. She's memorized the last handful of messages by now, having read them so many times. Paragraphs and paragraphs of words that, over the months, had dwindled down to only a few sentences. 

 

Me n ramboo r safe. The most recent message reads. So is tommy. leaving Viona tmrmw. miss you n the bakry. ranboo says hi. c u soon.

 

Sending messages across the galaxy is no easy feat. Especially for the comn she's holding, an older version she’s had since childhood. It makes sense for the messages she receives to get shorter and shorter the farther away the sender goes. 

 

She sighs again. She's been doing that a lot, recently. 

 

Bezzar is very different from Viona, from Old L’manburg. An ever-changing city, where the people are constantly coming and going, and the buildings seem to pop up and disappear within days. The artificial atmosphere is fresh and clean, the weather is always nice. Even the rain is clean and gentle, refreshing instead of stifling. 

 

No two of its citizens are alike, each and every one of them hailing from a different planet, race, religion, or culture. They mix and merge with each other, a flurry of bright colors and festivals, of foods and smells both unfamiliar and inviting. 

 

Sickness here is nothing like it was on Viona. Hunger is a problem with an easy solution. There is no smoke hanging heavy in the air, no beggars with rattling lungs crowding the street corners. 

 

That’s not to say Bezzar is perfect. No place is perfect. Any city can be dangerous if you don’t know your way around, or stumble upon the wrong place at the wrong time, but Bezzar makes sense. There's an order to the chaos. You can avoid trouble if you’re careful, which is not something that could ever be said about Old L’manburg. 

 

If she is hungry, she eats. If she is sick, she buys medicine. She makes decent money selling pastries made from old Vionian recipes, and bought her apartment and bakery all with her own money. She is dependent on nothing and nobody. She has cut ties completely with a childhood she no longer wishes to remember, and has made something of herself just like she dreamed she would when she was little. She has everything she could have ever wanted. She is happy. She is free.

 

What she did not consider, however, is that freedom comes with a price. 

 

“I hear there’s a new market in town. ” a different voice says, as another group begins to cross in front of her doors. Teenagers, if she had to guess. The fins lining her face prick with interest at the voice. Young, and distantly familiar. “There’s a booth selling stuff all the way from Netheria.”

 

“Netheria? No way.” responds a different voice, lilted with interest. “No one ever goes to Netheria, it’s way too scary.”

 

“Oh, you hadn’t heard?” replies the first voice. “Bastion City has a new Mayor. They’ve started letting in visitors again, it was on the news the other day. She’s gonna be their representative this year. 

 

“Hey, is the bakery open?”

 

The Merling seems to recognize the third voice. She smiles as she takes another sip from her mug. 

 

“No, Miss Nihachu closes up shop early.”

 

“Aww.” 

 

“C’mon, let's go see if there’s anything still open by the square.”

 

She watches them leave. Just for a moment, between the rain and glittering of lights, her eyes seem to play tricks on her. She almost thinks that she sees a different trio of teenagers in their place. A tall Phantling in a brown coat, a shorter Avian with ratty golden feathers. 

 

A Merling, with a soot-stained face and dirty pink hair. 

 

She blinks, and the image is gone. She gives her head a shake, and drinks the rest of her tea, which has gone from steaming to lukewarm in a matter of minutes, and moves on. 

 

Rainy days remind her of… Many things. Not all of them are bad, perhaps, but none of them seem to soothe the tension in her shoulders, or shake the haze from her eyes. She plays with her necklace, and goes back to looking out the window.

 

The best thing about Bezzar is its impermanence. There is no history, no past, just an endless, infinite present, and a future you can mold into whatever shape suits you best. There is always someone new to meet, with a different story to tell. 

 

Coincidentally, the worst thing about Bezzar is also this; the impermanence. 

 

Nothing stays. Not here. Bezzar is a place for travelers, somewhere to pass through on your way to somewhere else. Vendors stop for a while, just long enough to set up shop and sell what they can, then move on. Most trade moons, even the smaller ones, are the same. 

 

Faces and names all begin to blend together after a while. Her neighbors and regulars, while all of them kind, never stay for longer than a few months. The street she lives on looks different every time she walks down it. 

 

She has lived here for several years now, and the oldest friends she has made on this planet are two homeless kids she found stealing out of her trash. Two kids that, eventually, also moved on. 

 

(History has a funny way of repeating itself, doesn't it?)

 

Merlings are meant to live in pods. She had a pod, once, but she had left them behind. On days like this, it’s hard for her to decide if that was the best decision she had ever made in her life, or the worst. 

 

Her mug is empty. So is the street outside the window.

 

The Merling stands, stretches her arms above her head, and tucks her comn in her pocket. She makes her way to the kitchen in the back, and methodically begins the process of washing the cup, and then preparing for bed. 

 

She does so in a haze. Switching on the several humidifiers, rubbing sweet-smelling oils into her scales, combing through her hair. She trades her work clothes for an old, worn out shirt several sizes too big, and draws her blinds shut. Just that is enough to leave her in darkness, blocking out the rest of the outside world.

 

She walks past her spare bedroom in silence. 

 

Her room above the bakery is nothing special. A bed, a dresser, a bookcase. She doesn’t have much in the way of belongings. Not for lack of funds, but because she isn’t used to having more than she can easily pack away into a bag at a moment's notice. Her bedspread is handmade, a patchwork of soft pinks and baby blues. 

 

Her hand is reaching to pull it back when someone begins to pound on her front door.

 

She freezes in place, breath catching in her lungs. She is still for a few moments, waiting for something. The sound of breaking glass, perhaps. Shouting. For whoever it is to leave once they realize the bakery is closed. 

 

The pounding only seems to increase. Insistent and desperate. 

 

She keeps a blaster on her bedside table. A small thing, only a bit larger than her hand. Break-ins are rare in this part of the city, but it never hurts to be prepared. Especially while living alone. She flips the switch to stun in a smooth, practiced movement, then begins to creep back out into the hall and down the stairs. 

 

Following the sound leads her to her front door, not the doors to her bakery. As she gets closer, she can make out someone shouting on the other side. The words are incomprehensible through the thick wood, but it only takes a few moments for her to recognize the voice.

 

A jolt goes through her, the breath in her lungs leaving in one sharp gasp as if she’s just stepped on a live wire. All at once, the narrowed focus and composure leaves in a rush, and she moves to the door like a thing possessed. 

 

Every fin on edge, she throws open the door. 

 

There is a Blazeborne standing on her front step. 

 

He looks a little bit worse for wear, between the rain and the bruise stretching across the side of his face, only half-hidden by two-toned glasses. He’s only letting off a fraction of the sparks a Blazeborne should be, thin trails of smoke curling up from his shoulders. He’s clutching his side with one hand, the other frozen mid-knock. 

 

The Merling’s hand drops from her blaster, covering her mouth instead. 

 

“Hey, Niki.” the Blazeborne says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, long time no see?”






-





A few months prior, a Creeparian sits at a kitchen table, looking for all the world like he’d rather have the ground rise and swallow him whole then have this conversation. 

 

He could not have looked more out of place if he tried. The harsh metal of his mask, the dark, modern style of his clothes. The chair he’s sitting in was clearly not made for him, being both too short and too small to support him properly, forcing him to crouch with his knees tucked nearly to his chest. His clothes are a bit of a mess, rumpled and buttoned unevenly, sporting stains of soot and redstone along the hems. His breathing rasps through the metal mask over the lower half of his face. Both sets of hands are folded neatly in his lap, and his head is bowed in shame. 

 

Standing across from him, arms crossed tightly across his chest, is a Sylvari, looking rather murderous for a usually-passive race of plant creatures. 

 

What little you can make of his expression around the red mask wrapped securely around his face is tense. His eyes are cold, arms crossed tight as he leans back against the sink, every inch of him tense, a trap set to spring. His right arm is made of metal, grafted seamlessly against plant-fiber skin, and the hand makes a soft click-click-click noise as he flexes and unflexes it, as if wishing it were wrapped around a throat instead of his other arm. 

 

“Explain it to me.” 

 

The Creeparian unfolds and refolds his hands, sharp green eyes glancing everywhere except for in the Sylvari’s eyes. He sighs. “It's a long story, Ponk.”

 

The Sylvari huffs crossly, leaning farther back against his kitchen sink. The tone of his voice is a cold, steel scalpel. “Then you’d better start talking.”

 

The Creeparian opens his mouth. Then he shuts it. Instead of speaking, he looks out the window to his left. 

 

Outside, it’s quite a beautiful day on T’aria, the sun shining overhead, the breeze light and perfect. The small, quaint village that the Sylvari calls home is located on the very edge of Kinoko, right where the mushroom fields turn back into jungle. It’s just beginning to wake up for the day, the sounds of voices and children's laughter drifting in through the open window. 

 

The kitchen they are both in, carved from the inside of a large, jungle tree like the rest of the home, is hardly what you would call a small room. Between the Creeparians size and the sheer force of the tension radiating off of the Sylvari, however, it is suffocatingly claustrophobic. 

 

Finally, the Creeparian seems to have found his voice, rasping softly through the metal of his mask. “You know that I worked for… him, right?”

 

“What?” The Sylvari drawls. “ Noo.”

 

“This is serious.” 

 

The Sylvari glowers, dark eyes sharp. “Then stop asking stupid questions.”

 

Once again, the Creeparian dodges his gaze, He fiddles with his fingers, as if wishing for something else to do with his hands. 

 

“Do you know anything about the work he- we, did?”

 

“Not a lot.” The Sylvari shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “I know he’s into some mad-scientist shit, and I know he has enough people in his back pocket to get away with whatever he wants.”

 

The Creeparian does not flinch, but it's a near thing.

 

 “...We were studying humans.” He finally says, quickly adding, “Or he was, anyways. I built a lot of things for him. Ways to intercept satellites, transmissions…. Whatever bits and pieces we could find. He’d take it to the council, they’d cut it down and sanitize it before releasing it to the public.” 

 

His hands clench, digging into the fabric of his pants as he keeps his gaze stubbornly downward. Now that he’s started talking, the words rush from his lips like a breach in a dam. Slowly, then all at once. “He said we were doing it for the good of the universe. Learning about humans, studying them, all from a distance, of course, but then-” 

 

“He wanted a ship.” The Sylvari finishes for him, and the arm that is not made of metal clenches into a fist. “One that could survive the trip to Earth and back.”

 

He knows this part of the story. 

 

“Just for observation .” The Creeparian spits, a horrible laugh building in his throat as he rubs his hands down his face. “Stupid, stupid. I can’t believe I ever believed that-” 

 

“So you gave him Pandora.” This time, it’s the Sylvari that refuses to look his way, words cold as a knife slipping between ribs. “The ship I helped you make. And he used it to- to what? Kidnap humans? Torture them?”

 

“I didn't know what he’d use it for.” The Creeparian chokes, pinning him with wide, pleading eyes. “Ponk, you know I would never-”

 

“I didn’t think that you would.” the Sylvari interrupts. He laughs, and the Creeparian does flinch, this time, at how bitter it sounds. “But then again, I didn’t think you’d get my arm cut off, and yet, here we are.”

 

The Creeparian looks as if he’d been struck. He curls up even smaller, if possible, retreating back into himself with a thickness in his words. “I'm sorry, Ponk. I- I’m so, so, sorry.”

 

The Sylvari is not looking at him. He does soften, though. Just a little. The metal hand begins to unclench. 

 

He sighs. “I know.”

 

Finally, they lock eyes. For a moment, all they do is look at one another. The Creeparian, all four arms folded neatly in his lap as he sits with his head bowed in shame, looking every bit like a scolded dog with its tail between its legs. The Sylvari, standing, but leaning back against the sink, arms still crossed, but relaxed. Both of them are wearing masks, and though the masks are nothing alike, they both know their reasons for wearing them are almost the same. 

 

The Sylvari’s metal arm makes a click-click-click noise as he unfolds it, tucking his hands in his pockets instead. He sighs again, heavier than before. “I don't forgive you, Sam. I can’t forgive you. But-” 

 

Creeparian jolts when a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “That doesn't mean I'm not going to help you.”

 

Silence, for a moment. Dark eyes meeting vibrant green. The look on the Sylvari’s face isn’t kind, it's not gentle or forgiving, but it is determined. 

 

The Creeparian relaxes, a puppet with its strings cut, and resists the urge to lean his face into the hand still resting on his shoulder. 

 

Hope beginning to creep into his voice, he manages, “Do you still have some of the old schematics? For Pandora?”

 

And the Sylvari grins.

 

“Oh, I can do a lot better than that.” 








-






Several, Several months prior, in the depths of Netheria’s Bastion City, a Piglin Brute stands before a crowd of thousands. 

 

They cannot see her, yet. She is standing just out of sight, in a room near the top of the arena, a place once meant for the richest amongst them to watch the battles below in luxury. It has been cleaned since then, the dust and muck washed away, the stinking furniture replaced, but the faint stench of blood and whiskey remains. 

 

She can still hear them, though. The energy of the crowd, hundreds and hundreds of voices, all clamoring for attention in her mind. She can already feel the strain of trying to understand all of them at once begin to press down on her. The floor seems to shake with the pounding of their feet, the thrum of their excitement. Ever so slightly, her hands begin to shake. 

 

She takes one deep breath. Then another, and-

 

“Auntie!” 

 

She pretends to stumble as a small Piglin shoat collides into her leg. They grin, looking up at her with a wagging tail and eyes that shine like gold, little hands wrapped stubbornly around her calf.

 

There is not a hint of fear in their eyes. Not a single speck of hesitance or worry. It seems to soothe something in her, melting away the tension in her shoulders as she crouches to scoop the shoat up into her arms. 

 

“Little one.” she chuffs into their hair, resting them on her hip. They squeal excitedly, tugging at her chestplate. “Shouldn’t you be with your brother?”

 

“He’s too slow.” The shoat complains, wiggling in her arms. “I wanted to see you!”

 

She chuffs again, a low, rusty purr beginning in the back of her throat as she presses her nose into their hair. It takes a few moments to get started, like she’s almost forgotten how to make the noise, but the little shoat makes up for it by purring up a storm under her chin. She breathes in the smell of smoke, honey, and home, and her hands are once again steady and sure. 

 

“Hey!” 

 

Another Piglin skids into the room. He’s older than the shoat by a good few years, but adulthood is still a ways off. All long arms and lanky legs, tusks just barely beginning to peek out through his lips, hair pulled into a small ,messy braid, just barely dipping below his shoulders. 

 

The slight panic on his face melts into a scowl as he spots the shoat doing their best to hide away in the Brute’s arms. He snorts. “Come here, you little terror.”

 

The brute hands them over, raising an eyebrow. “Your mother isn't going to be happy about you being up here.”

 

“What she doesn’t know wont hurt her.” The young Piglin shoots back, adjusting the shoat in his arms. His golden eyes are narrowed, bright as embers, when he turns back to the brute. “You’re gonna win, right?”

 

She huffs a laugh, a glint in her eyes. “That’s the idea.”

 

They look at each other, for a moment. The same golden eyes, the same tawny-blonde fur. He’s half of her size and twice and scrawny, but somehow, the curl of his lip when he smiles is exactly the same. “Good luck, ma.” 

 

“Auntie doesn’t need luck, she's the champion!” The shoat in his arms exclaims, already clambering over his cousin's shoulders as he turns to leave. “I can’t wait until I'm old enough to fight.”

 

“Oh please,” he scoffs. “What are you gonna do? Bite their ankles?”

 

The screech of rage that follows is cut short as the door shuts behind them, leaving the brute once again, alone. 



She shakes her head, running a hand through her mane of hair. It’s been braided away from her face, adorned with golden cuffs and tied with leather, the end just brushing the small of her back. Her tail flicks and curls around her ankles in anticipation of what's to come as she turns back to the balcony.

 

A hand folds against her chestplate. Against the golden necklaces she has carefully hidden out of reach. A necklace for every member of her sounder. Her family. 

 

They are watching in the crowd, she knows. Her son and nephew scrambling back to the seats that have been saved for them. The rest of her family, her partner,  watching with pride in their eyes, waiting for her to return. 

 

And she will return, this time. Regardless of who is victorious in the ring below. Even if she fails, she will return to them. They will have her, welcome her, reguardless of whether she returns with her title. A simple fact that makes all the difference. 

 

Somewhere, distantly, a bell rings. 

 

The crowd roars with anticipation at the sound. With one more deep breath, she folds her hands into fists to keep them from trembling as she steps out into the balcony. 

 

A Piglin Brute stands before a crowd of thousands. Months ago, this would have been the start to a much more unpleasant tale. Not this time. 

 

From her place at the top of the arena, she can see for what feels like miles. This is the largest and oldest arena on Netheria, cut out into the side of the cavern itself by ancestors hundreds of years passed. Just a few months ago, it was a filthy, horrible place, reeking of fear, sweat, and blood. Now, however, with the ramshackle roof cut away, the blood stains cleaned and every seat polished to shine, it looks almost as if it had been built yesterday. The seats are cut from sparkling stone, shining like gold in the bright glow-stone lights. Every single seat is taken. 

 

With the roof gone, a sliver of violet sky is visible above. Light from a nearby star illuminates the Piglin Brute where she stands, a vision in gold and leather armor. 

 

She is large, as far as Brute’s go. She seems to tower over the other Piglins nearby, with broad shoulders that proudly display a truly impressive amount of scars. Her hair is long and neatly braided, an elegant contrast to the harshness of her face, snout criss-crossed with deep, twisting scars. Her eyes are bright and clear as golden flame. 

 

She takes a breath, and begins to speak. 

 

“People of Bastion City.” She begins, head held high. Her voice is commanding, and a hush falls over the crowd as they pause to listen to her speak.

 

“Some of you know me already.” She continues. “Others have only heard the rumors, stories of a Piglin Brute who ended the fighting rings that have plagued our city for years. The tyrant killer.”

 

And then, she grins

 

“Allow me to introduce myself properly.”

 

She rolls back her shoulders, lifting her chin with pride as she stares down at the crowd, the same intensity in her eyes as if she’s staring down an opponent across the ring. She cannot see her family in the crowd, but she feels them watching, nonetheless. She grins , sharp and daring, tusks on display. 

 

“My name is Briseis.” she declares.  “I am the one who ends.

 

The crowd cheers, but she is not done just yet. 

 

“I stand before you as your reigning champion,” she continues, conviction in her words. “The one who defeated the last of your champions and took his place. I stand before you as the usurper of tyrant kings, and as a fellow survivor of their cruelty. It is the greatest honor of my life to be in front of you, now, and to be able to claim the title of your champion.” 

 

She lets the words sink in for a moment, casting her gaze towards the center of the arena. Whatever emotions she feels at the sight of clean, unbloodied sand, and walls lined with colorful ribbons and flags instead of barbed wire and gore, show only in the swish of her tail and the fire in her eyes. This may not have been the arena she had been held in, but it was one she destroyed all the same.

 

No, not destroyed. Restored. 

 

Before it was polluted by tyrants, bloodlust, and greed, this arena was the birthplace of heroes. A place where the bravest among them competed with each other in games and tournaments, displaying their strengths and skill, testing and strengthening each other. A time when Piglins were proud instead of fearful. A time when Champions were not murderers

revered for their wit and skill, instead of feared for the amount of blood staining their hands. 

 

This was a place of honor, and she will be the one to restore it to its former glory. 

 

There are no more fighting rings in Bastion City. She saw to it herself, helped with her own two hands to tear down the systems that pitted the people of Netheria against each other to sate the blood lust of tyrants and outsiders. After Schaltts death, it had almost been easy, one by one, the leaders of these rings, the people responsible for the bloodlust and cruelty enacted on the people of Netheria, her people, were hunted down. Many surrendered. 

 

No more gladiators, no more cages. No more innocent being slaughtered for nothing more than entertainment. The Hoglins were wild once more, and she was no longer the animal they had made of her. 

 

She is a Brute. She is a protector, so protect, she did. She led the charge, and they followed. 

 

(She had made a promise, after all. Piglins do not break promises lightly, and she is no exception. She will do everything in her power to uphold the end of the deal.

 

Still, she wonders about that golden-haired shoat, sometimes. She looks for him in crowds, looking for a strange, furless face and blue eyes, but has never been able to find him. He never returned to claim his title as Blood God, and she hopes he is not offended that she claimed it back. 

 

Somehow, she doubts he minds.)



Beneath her hooves, the arena begins to rumble. 

 

She lifts her head, pulling the sword from her hip as the doors below her feet begin to open. The crowd stirs with excitement as the challengers begin to take the field, displaying their weapons and bared tusks proudly. 

 

Not a single one of them is afraid. Their eyes are not wild with bloodlust or terror, they do not appear harmed or starved, they are not forced out into the arena by Brutes with weapons and spears. Their armor has been polished to shine, and they hold up their weapons to the crowd with their tusks bared into an eager smile, the glint in their eyes fueled by excitement instead of desperation. Not all of them are Piglins, Blazebornes spark and sizzle like miniature wildfires, a competitor with skin made of crackling black rocks smiles, magma spilling from between sharp teeth. 

 

The crowd calls out, not in cruelty or bloodlust, but with pride.

 

“Our ancestors fought in this arena.” she declares, sword in hand. “This is the place where champions were made, where anyone could prove themselves worthy to stand before our gods.”

 

“Competitors! Champions! ” She roars, and the crowd roars back. She bares her tusks in a challenge, swinging her sword with one hand to show off the ease in which she twirls the shining, spotless metal. “People of Bastion City! Step into the ring, prove yourselves! Prove you are worthy enough to take my place, and claim the title of Blood God for yourselves!”

 

She can feel the thrumming of adrenaline, blood pumping through her veins. This is what she was made for, the rush before battle, the single-minded focus as the word  narrows down to nothing else but this. 

 

She is a protector. She will protect what is rightfully hers, the title she was given.

 

This time, it will be done correctly. This time, she will earn the title of Blood God the way it was meant to be done, and she will wear it with pride. 

 

(And even if she doesn’t, her sounder will wait for her to return home.) 

 

“And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for.” she points her sword to the sky, and the roar of the crowd is absolutely deafening. 

 

“Let the games begin!”




-





and currently , as the heroes of our story leave Aether behind, a teenager in a purple hoodie lounges on a couch, feet propped on an outrageously expensive table. 

 

The penthouse suite of the Las Nevadas casino is in complete disarray, clothes and half-packed bags spread out over lavish couches, shoes and broken glasses littering the floor. Most of the casino staff have been scared off at this point, having scattered like a flock of started birds after the first smashed bottle, leaving behind only the handful brave enough to weather the wrath of their boss after he’s cracked open his second bottle of aged Aetherian wine.

 

The teenager is ignoring him, and his tantrum, slouching back into the couch as the holographic screen flickers. Two Apiari, with glittering insect wings and enough jewels in their hair to buy a small planet, laugh and titter to one another in their studio about recent news and fashion trends. It's all petty gossip of course, but it's… oddly mesmerizing to watch. 

 

“-representative from Netheria. Nobody has seen her yet, but anyone’s an upgrade from Schlatt, am I right? What a total creep. Anyways, Enderion’s queen is also said to be making an appearance, as well as the governor of New L’manburg, and his wife. Oh my stars, have you seen her? Oh, you’re all in for a big surprise-” 

 

Behind him, even more glass shatters against the floor. Somebody shouts something, too slurred together to make any sense, and the teenager slumps down further in response, doing his best to melt completely into the plush leather, and missing the next few lines of dialogue. 

 

“-thank you, Kayit-lynne! Can I say, I absolutely adore the new name. Is it human?”

 

“I'm so glad you asked, it is! Human names are all the rage these days, aren’t they? Why, just a few cycles ago I heard-” 

 

More clattering from behind him, accompanied by stumbling footsteps and a slurred voice. Stupid Wilbur with his stupid fuckin- oh, look at me, im soo cool, im friends with fucking Philza Minc’aft and his stupid Elytran son-” 

 

He risks a glance over his shoulder, and is rewarded with the sight of his boss, one of the richest people on this planet, nearly tripping over the enormous fluffy robe he’d insisted on strutting around in as he paces back and forth. He catches himself just in time, golden wings puffed out like an angry chicken. “I’ll show him. Make me look stupid in my own damn casino? I don't think so- Foolish! Bring that over here!”

 

The Avian stomps off to go bother someone else, and the teenager shrugs before going back to his show. 

 

“-sending from Aether?”

 

“A good question! Aether always struggles with picking a representative to send to the council meeting. Hopefully whoever they send will be better than last years- I mean, did you see the skirt she was wearing? How awful!”

 

“A real tragedy. Now, in local news- are holoskirts the next big thing on Nevodis? We’ve brought in some local celebrities to hear what they-”

 

What she is about to say next is rudely interrupted by a Vulpian crossing between him and the screen. He curls his lip, scowling down at the teenager with crossed arms. “Well? Aren’t you gonna help?”

 

The teenager shrugs, uncaring. “I think you’ve got it all under control.”

 

The Vulpian bristles. He opens his mouth to say something else, but is cut off by the Avian shouting from somewhere on the other side of the penthouse. “Fundy! Take these to the washroom, would you? We have to leave tomorrow if we’re going to make it to Enderion on time- Charlie, no!” 

 

He looks back and forth between the teenager, and over his head to his boss, before stomping away with a growl. The teenager just stretches, relaxing back into his seat with a smug grin. He has a way of going unnoticed, after all. 

 

Two more Apari had joined the two on stage earlier while he wasn’t paying attention. He only vaguely recognizes their faces, but the live audience howls in approval as they settle in chairs, accidentally-on-purpose angling themselves to best show off their sparkling wings and bright, glittery makeup. 

 

“-alright, now on to today's hottest topic: just who is Quackity of Las Nevadas?”

 

“Oooh, that's a good question Tay’laor.” one of the new girls says. “He did just kind of come out of nowhere, didn’t he? I mean, I love a man with a mysterious backstory, but have you seen that scar? You’ve gotta have a shady past with a face like that.” 



From behind the couch, the teenager can hear the shouting and stomping return, the voice taking on a slightly more raw edge.  “And after all I did for him- for us! He just- he- he left me and then he has the nerve to- to talk shit about me!? About what- what I did!?” 

 

“It's alright, dude. Shhh…. Let it out…”

“H-he, after all the s-shit I went through!” the voice slurs, voice cracking on the words. “Yeah, I made some mistakes, but I didn't- oh, I fucking- I fucking hate him! I hate that guy!”

 

“Aw, man. It’s alright dude, you don’t have to cry.”

 

“You’re always - hic- so- so good to me, Charlie-” 

 

“-uh, im Foolish, actually-” 



The teenager turns up the volume on the screen. 



“-and just where did he come from? Just how did he gain his fortune?”

 

“And is he single?” The other new edition makes a flirtatious gesture to the cameras. “I mean, have you seen that place? He’s our number one contender for Nevodis’s Hottest Bachelor for sure-”



With a click! The screen goes black.

 

“That's enough for one day.” the teenager mumbles to himself. 

 

There’s just no winning for him, is there? 






-





Somewhere, somewhen , a masked creature sits at the helm of a spaceship. 

 

As far as spaceships go, this one is particularly impressive. All of the technology is top-of-the-line. Holoscreens that shimmer and blink around him, dozens of keyboards and buttons in a hundred different colors. All of the screens are showing something different. Running numbers, calculations, statistics, graphs, diagrams, it's a dizzying blur of information.

 

The creature hums, many eyes flicking to and fro under the mask as it takes in the screens. It pulls one forwards with a twitch of its hand, and the screen flickers before settling on a dizzying blur of words, shapes, and numbers. 

 

Anyone else would be lost, but it simply flicks its gaze along the screen, hums, and switches to a different one. With a touch of a button, it changes from a stream of numbers to what appears to be a security camera feed. The image is dark and grainy, but the creature seems to have no trouble. It clicks its tongue disapprovingly at what it sees. 

 

With a twitch of a finger, the screens shift. A handful of them turn into security feeds, all showing different feeds, and all a different quality. One screen stubbornly refuses to switch, continuing to show what it had been before; what appears to be a heart monitor, with a string of symbols and numbers beneath. The numbers continue to change slowly, arranged in groups of three, they tick up or down at the same easy, even rate. 

 

With another hand, it presses a few buttons on a holographic keyboard. It leans forwards, and begins to speak. 

 

“I need to call in a favor.”

 

It’s voice is unnatural. Like a pieced-together recording, words strung together in the correct pattern, but not flowing in the correct way. Words with no inflection. 

Something else, simply imitating the way a person might speak. 

 

“How much?” Says a gruff voice from the other line. This one, atleast, sounds normal. 

 

The creature’s gaze flicks back to the screens. It hums. 

 

“Depends on how quickly you can get the job done.”



“Dammit, Dream.” the other voice nearly snarls. “ Just give me the fuckin’ price already.”

 

“Alright.” the creature chuckles. “Let's see… How does twice the usual amount sound?”

 

A low whistle. The voice almost sounds impressed. “You’ve been holding out on me?”

 

“It’s a special occasion.”

 

“Can you cut out the cryptic shit?” the voice snaps. Rustling can be heard from the other line, and the clicking of a keyboard. “Alright, who am I looking at?”

 

The creature grins. “Does it matter?”

 

“Go fuck yourself.”

 

The creature chuckles again, a low, unsettling noise, metal scraping against metal. Its gaze flicks across the screens. 

 

“A Creeparian, Ovisan, Sylvari, and… hmm.” it pauses, almost sounding puzzled. Its gaze lingering for a moment before flicking away, no longer interested. “Their pet? It’s not important.” 

 

The creature’s gaze refocuses, every one of its eyes settling back on a single screen, taking in every small, insignificant detail. The security camera isn’t at the best angle, but it shows enough for the creature to read what it needs too. On the screen, one of the figures moves slightly to the left, revealing the hull of a spaceship. 

 

“The ship you're looking for is called Theseus.” it muses, it’s gaze tracing the sloppy lettering. “Doesn’t really matter who’s piloting it.” 

 

“Only you would be this vague when calling in a hit on someone.” The voice grunts. 

 

The creature laughs, if you could even call it that. A grating, discordant noise that scrapes against the metal walls of the bridge. A recording of a laugh of a broken tape recorder that echoes until it seems to come from everywhere at once. 

 

 “Oh, you don’t have to kill them.”

 

“…what.”

 

“I mean you can.” it purrs, a noise like a broken engine. “It’s the ship that I need destroyed. Or atleast, out of commission, for the time being. Feel free to get creative.” 

 

“You’re lucky we have history together.” the voice snarls once more, the snapping of fangs on the other side almost audible. “If anyone else pulled this shit-“

 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” the creature rolls a handful of its eyes, the ones not focused on the screen and the numbers from before. “So, we have a deal?”

 

“...Fine.” 

 

Behind the mask, the creature smiles. It is a horrible, horrible thing.

 

 “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Punz.” 




-


















 

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere very, very far away, a human dozes off behind a cash register 

 

As far as humans go, there's nothing particularly unique about this one. She's young, just barely crossing over the border into adulthood, resting with her head pillowed in her arms. Dark skin, freckles, an orange bandana over her thick, black hair, falling over her shoulders in dozens of neat braids. She’s snoring. 

 

The gas station she is sitting in isn't anything remarkable, either. Old, a bit run down, somewhat buried in the Nevada sands, a car lot in the back with a small office and garage in the same state of disarray. Hundreds others like it could be found in the same state alone.

 

There is a missing poster in the front window of the gas station. It's old. The picture is sun-bleached and faded, but still readable. There are a few others just like it layered underneath, the same poster, just too faded and dirty to read. 

 

A bell over the door gives a rusty ding! That startles the woman behind the cash register nearly out of her seat. She snaps her head up, whipping around.

 

“Geez. you alright, Clem?” says another young woman, leaning in the doorway. 

 

The first human, Clementine, or Clem,  blinks as the second woman saunters over to the counter, bringing with her the smell of gasoline and engine grease. 

 

Both humans appear about the same age, but that’s where the similarities end.

 

There is nothing particularly special about this human, either, as far as humans go. She is tall and lean, with tan skin and ratty blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. There is a smudge of grease on her cheek, and she wipes her hands off on a pair of old, stained jeans. 

 

“Yeah.” The first human yawns, rubbing muzzily at her face.  “Didn’t sleep well last night, s’all.” 

 

The second human huffs out a laugh. It’s a rusty noise, like shoes in an old dryer, but pleasant all the same. She holds out a gently-steaming plastic, disposable cup as a peace offering. 

 

The first human takes it with a thankful smile, and makes quick work of her drink, knocking half of it back in one go. Her face twists at the taste of scalding, bitter liquid, and the second human chuckles again at her expression. She hoists herself up to sit on the lip of the counter in a smooth, practiced motion, sipping at her own sweet-smelling drink much more slowly.

 

It’s quiet, for a few beats. A companionable sort of quiet, broken only by the humming of the slurpee machine, the drone of the many, many fans, and the insistent buzzing of one of the overhead lights. They finish their drinks together in peace. 

 

The second human breaks the silence first, the knowing look in those blue-grey eyes somewhere between amusement and pity. She cocks an eyebrow. “Stay up late studyin’?” 

 

“Nah. It wasn't that.” the first human shrugs, already seeming a bit more awake. She taps her nails on the counter, each one painted a different pastel shade. “Just… weird dreams.”

 

The second human’s face shifts into something more serious. “Nightmares?”

 

“No.” She says quickly, correcting herself. “just… weird.”

 

“Hmm.” relaxing again, the blonde human leans back on her palms. “What about?”

 

“Aliens? maybe?” the first human hums, thinking it over. 

 

She talks with her hands, gesturing wildly as she begins to explain. “I got abducted by aliens, I think. I remember being in space, that part was pretty cool, but then there was like- ugh, man, I don't even know. Mothman? Or something?”

 

“Mothman.” the second human repeats. “Okay.”

 

“Yeah. he wanted me to do something? I think? I don't remember- oh!” she gestures again, nearly whacking the blonde human with her arm. “And there were furbies!”

 

“Furbies,” she parrots. “Huh.” 

 

The second human takes another sip of her drink, finishing off the cup. 

 

 “Yeah, that's pretty weird.” 

 

“Right?” 





-

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Slightly shorter chapter today, which is why you only had to wait a few weeks instead of my usual *checks notes* three months. whoops.

I really enjoyed this one though, it was nice to take a break from my usual writing style. Tommy is great, but it's nice to get out of his head every once and a while. There were a lot of callbacks to earlier chapters in this one, it's mostly just to get some gears turning in preparation for the big finale. The galaxy doesn't stop moving when Tommy and the crew move on, so I wanted to take the time to explore the lives of some of our favorite background characters, make sure we were all up-to-speed on what everyone else was doing while the crew of the Argo II is off on their adventures. There's plenty to pick through if you're one of my readers that loves to theorize, don't worry ;)

The good news is, I have a big chunk of the next chapter written already, so you shouldn't have to wait too too long until we're back with the gang. Updates will continue to be pretty slow for now, but once May hits, I'll have a *lot* more time to write than I do now. I'm actually hoping to have this thing finished by the end of the summer if all goes well, we're really getting down to the wire here.

 

stay safe out there, alright? I'll see you guys again real soon.

 

-Matches

Chapter 18: April Fools 2: electric boogaloo

Summary:

the beginning of the end

Notes:

“If you should fall
upon hard times,
if you should loose your way,
there is a place,
here in this house,
that you can stay.”
-Deadlines and Commitments, the Killers

 

HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY MARS!!!!.
 
tumblr // twitter
 
TWs:
Nightmare, and Tommy's usual flavor of angst

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long time, Tommy dreams of Clementine and Clara. 



He's always running in his dreams, it feels like. Even in the good ones. 

 

Torn up sneakers pound into pavement, hot desert wind blowing sand into his hair and scraping out the inside of his lungs. Tommy runs and he runs and he runs , little legs working as fast as they can, scrawny arms pumping at his sides. His red sneakers kick up sand in his wake, threatening to fall apart on him completely as he books it down the sidewalk as fast as his legs will carry him. 

 

The palms of his hands still sting from where he’d fallen earlier, the taste of iron and grit in his mouth from where his braces had cut into his lips. It was just his luck, wasn't it? That on today, of all days, he’d pop the back tire on his old, hand-me-down bike and have to walk. The one day he needs to make a quick getaway he’s forced to try and make it on foot. 

 

They’re getting closer behind him, the shouts and scuffing of sneakers against sand, like dogs breathing down the back of his neck. He can hear them, their whoops and taunting laughter, they barely even need to try to keep up with him. 

 

It’s just a game to them. It’s always been just a game. 

 

He can't stop. Not for a moment, not even for a second. If he stops, they’ll catch him. If he stops, he’s done for. He runs until his legs are burning, until his lungs are scraped raw and burning for air. He runs until he wants to cry and it's still never fast enough. 

 

Why can't they just leave him alone? 

 

It's his own fault. He should have just kept his big mouth shut, why did he have to go and make everything worse? 

 

It’s not like anyone will care if he came home with a few more bruises. The police force in La Jolla, Nevada was is fucking joke. Tommy could show up with two broken arms and it would be brushed under the rug as horseplay . Just ‘kids being kids’. 

 

It’s not like it fucking matters anyways. Their ringleader is the stepson of the police chief. Tommy doesn’t stand a chance. If they catch him, he’s done for, and there'll be no one around to help. 

 

He’s so tired. His legs hurt and his eyes are stinging, he’s dizzy and thirsty and part of him just wants to lay down on the sidewalk to get it over with already. He’s a big man, what's a few more bruises, right? 

 

Their words ring in his ears, echoing like a gunshot off metal walls. 

 

“Hey, Tommy! Leaving already?”

 

“Not feeling so chatty now, are ya?” 

 

“What’s wrong with your bike? Pop a tire? Why don’t we give you a hand-“

 

He can still hear that fucking laugh , and it’s only getting louder. They’re all high school kids , for fucks sake! He can fight back all he’d like, but they could still probably snap him in half with one hand. He’s barely five feet tall and ninety pounds soaking wet, what the hell is he supposed to do?

 

They’d nearly broken his ribs the last time they’d caught him. What would it be this time, with no one around to stop them? An arm? A leg? The road he’s running down is long, empty and endless, how long would it take for someone to find him? There's just desert and pavement for ever and ever and- 

 

Wait. 

 

It appears on the horizon like a mirage. A beacon of hope, half-sunk in the sand. 

 

A gas station, the only thing on this stretch of empty road. 

 

He’d probably walked right past it a hundred times before, but he’d never really noticed it until that moment. A small, shitty gas station, half-hidden by desert shrubs and choking on dust. There’s broken down trucks parked to the side and not a single customer in sight, but he zeroes in on that blinking open sign and veers off towards it.

 

A building means protection. Safety. He can hide, he can duck behind the shelves or something, wait until they get bored and leave. They wont hurt him if there's other people around to see, right? 

 

He can't think. Not beyond the thrum of run run run getaway go In the back of his mind, not through the panic that's pushing him on. A rabbit that’s spotted a burrow, wolves close on its heels. His shoes skid on the pavement as he veers off of the sidewalk and beelines for the front doors. 

 

The jeers behind him turn into shouts. He can hear their footsteps behind him, scrambling to turn and follow. He’s caught them off guard. Hope flares in his chest and he grabs a hold of it with everything he’s got. 

 

He stumbles up the front step, heart in his throat as he lunges for the door handle. It gives a little ding! As he throws it open, but he barely spares a glance to the girl behind the counter as he darts for the employees only door in the back.

 

She shouts something after him, but he can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything, not over his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, everything else fades into the background. 

 

He flings open the door, scrambling for an escape, a place to hide . There's plenty of shit back here, scattered boxes and old shelves, lots of dark corners. Panic still clawing at his chest, he squeezes himself into a gap between stacked cardboard boxes. He presses himself back against the wall, pulling his legs up tight to his chest. Curling himself into as tight of a ball as he can manage, he keeps his eyes pinned to the door. 

 

It should be enough. It has to be enough. Theyll get bored when they cant find him, or decide its too much trouble or- 

 

The front door to the gas station dings!



Tommy feels himself go absolutely still.

 

He can hear their voices. Loud and ugly, snarling something at the girl behind the counter. He digs his nails into jeans, clamping one hand over his mouth to keep from making any noise at all. Go away, go away, please, just go away- 

 

Another voice, loud and stern. A loud thump! And a sharp bark of surprise. The boys move so fast he can hear their sneakers skidding on the tile, and the door gives one last ding! before it’s slammed shut behind them.

 

It’s quiet. He doesn’t dare breathe, much less move. 

 

Just because he can’t hear them doesn’t mean they’re gone. It’s a lesson he’s learned well by now. They’re probably waiting just outside the door for him to come out. He won’t get away that easy, they never let him get away that easy, not after this- 

 

The ‘employees only’ door swings open.

 

He clamps his other hand around his mouth as well, swallowing the panicked noise he’d almost made, the thump thump thump of his heartbeat in his ears just seems to get louder. A shadow on the wall gets closer and closer, and he presses himself as far back into his hiding place as he can. 

 

He has to be quiet. Maybe if he’s quiet enough they won’t realize he’s there. He just has to be quiet and very, very still. Maybe they’ll just go away. Maybe- 

 

And then, there’s a girl.

 

It’s the same one who had been working the counter earlier. A high schooler, she must be, even older than the boys who had been chasing him. Dark skin, thick, black hair pulled back into twin poofs on the top of her head, and an expression on her face that lets him know she means business. His eyes zero in on the baseball bat in her hands, and his breathing gets all fast again. 

 

“No, no, it’s okay!” He flinches as the bat clatters to the ground, and she crouches down to his level, peering into his hiding spot. “I’m not going to hurt ya’, It’s alright.” 

 

Her voice is soft, almost gentle, and the look in her dark, dark eyes is sincere. 

 

It’s been a while since he’s had someone look at him like that. He feels himself get a bit less stiff, the heartbeat pounding in his ears getting a little more faint. He uncurls, just a little, just enough to get a better look at her. 

 

Freckles on her face that you can barely see over dark skin, the overalls over her uniform dotted with a few paint stains the same shade of summer-sky blue as her nails. She smiles, and it’s a smile that makes the desert sun look like a broken flashlight. 

 

“My name is Clementine.” She tells him, “What’s yours?”

 

He swallows. 

 

“...Tom-“

 

He doesn’t get to finish before the door- a different door, one he hadn’t seen before- swings open, and another girl comes through.

 

She’s tall. Taller than Clementine, but probably around the same age, he can't see much of her from his hiding place, just her hefty looking boots and jeans stained with grease and oil. Her voice is raspy, with a heavier southern accent then Clementine’s. 

 

“They’re gone.” is all she says. 

 

“Good.” Clementine falls back on her heels with a relieved sigh. She moves back, no longer blocking the entrance to his hiding spot, and begins to stand back up. “Now, could’ya-“

 

In that moment, when she looks away from Tommy to look at the other girl, he finally finds his footing.

 

He practically leaps out of his hiding spot, taking both girls by surprise. He gets just a glance at the new girl, of a serious grey-eyed gaze and ratty blonde ponytail, before he’s skidding towards the back door she’d come through moments earlier. He has a hand on the handle before Clementine even gets to her feet, throwing it open and spiriting out into the desert. 

 

They call after him, but he doesn’t hear. All he can hear is that thrumming in the back of his head, run run run don’t let them catch you go go go , and all he can do is listen. 

 

So, he runs.

 

He always runs, doesn’t he? 



-



Tommy wakes up to the smell of sweat and gasoline in his nose, and Clara's eyes burning holes into the back of his mind. He presses the blanket against his face and breathes in the scent of the Argo II and Techno’s fancy body wash until the smell fades completely. 



-



It’s been a little over a day since they've left Aether, and if it takes any fucking longer for them to get to the Council ship, Tommy is going to snap. 

 

Not because he’s like, nervous , or anything. Because he’s not. 

 

It’s not like his entire stay aboard the Argo II has been leading up to this moment, after all. That going to see this mysterious Council was the whole goddamn point of them bringing him along in the first place. That in just a few days he’ll be meeting with the most important aliens in the entire galaxy, and all he has to do is convince them to send him, the first human they've probably ever met before, back home in one of their super powerful spaceships. Nope. 

 

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding. Tommy is really fucking nervous. 

 

What if something goes wrong? What if they don’t believe him? Or they don’t let them in? Or the Council decides they don’t want to send him home after all? Or even worse, what happens when they do? 

 

What happens next? 

 

That's the big question, honestly. What happens next? What happens when he makes it back to Earth? What happens when he’s face to face with Clem and Clara again? 

 

Honestly, he’s just been doing his best to not think about it. 

 

It's not like he's forgotten them , or anything, but a lot of shit has gone down in the past few months..? Years? However long he’s been in space. Between his time with him and with the Argo II, all of the adventures and the kidnappings and the near-death experiences, he’s sort of had a lot on his mind. Lie low. Avoid danger. Get back to his crew. Break out of the arena. Escape the casino. Find medicine for Tubbo. Enjoy the festival on Aether. One task after another, getting through this one day at a time, it had become second nature to just pour himself into what he was doing right now and put off thinking about what comes next for as long as possible. Package up all those bad thoughts, slap a big ‘ol “for future Tommy” sticker on the front, and shove them to the back of his mind. 

 

But now, his time’s up. His last good day is over, all the shit he’s been putting off for future Tommy to deal with is finally rearing its ugly head. What is he going to do, after all this is over? What happens next?

 

Tommy doesn't know. He really, honestly, just does not know, and that scares him a hell of a lot more than a raging Hoglin ever did. 

 

He spends the rest of the night thinking about the dream. 

 

There’s something about it he can't seem to shake. The shape of their faces, the sound of Clementine’s voice… The dream is over, but he still feels the echoes. Spiderwebs clinging stubbornly to the inside of his mind. Something about it that managed to get under his skin. 

 

He’s used to nightmares. Used to the way he feels afterwards, cold and drained, like something had come along and sucked all of the life right out of him. 

 

He stares up at the ceiling, tracing the familiar metal panels with his eyes. 

 

Is it selfish, to wish he had more time? 





-




Time is hard to tell, in space.

 

There's some sort of internal clock on the ship at least, the lights dim at night and brighten back up in the morning, doing their best to mimic a day-night cycle. Still, the hours just kind of seem to blend together without any concrete way of telling them apart. It could be one in the afternoon or four, and it would still feel the same. He’s kind of surprised by how easy it was to adjust to the new schedule, but it makes sense. Honestly, he’s probably adjusted a little too well, if the exhaustion he feels after leaving Aether is anything to go by. Staying up all night had never been a problem before, but it had really fucked up his sleep schedule this time around, for whatever reason. No wonder he’s been having weird dreams. 

 

Everyone else seems to be feeling it too, judging by the incredible lack of enthusiasm on the bridge this morning. 

 

Techno is sitting in his usual chair, leaning the side of his face into his palm and watching with half-closed eyes. Wilbur, at his side, has turned his chair around backwards so he can slump himself over the backrest. Tubbo looks particularly miserable, antenna drooping to frame his face. Tommy’s positive he doesn’t look much better. His goddamn eyebags have eyebags. 

 

Out of all of them, the only one who actually looks awake is Ranboo, though Phil is giving it his best shot. His voice is the usual amount of chipper and confident, but he’s sporting some dark circles himself, and his normal-glossy wings are dull and ruffled. 

 

If there’s one thing Tommy won’t be missing, it’s the team meetings. Ugh. you’d think with all their fancy technology, they’d at least have created the space-equivalent of coffee. 

 

“We’ll be in Enderion’s orbit any day now.” Phil begins, tapping his claws absentmindedly on the keyboard in front of him. “There are a few things we need to go over before we get there-”

 

Just then, there's a noise.

 

A low, grinding sort of noise. Metal against metal, a sound that reverberates underneath Tommy’s feet until the floor starts shaking.

 

“Everybody-” 

 

Whatever Phil is about to say gets cut off as the alarms begin to blare.

 

Tommy is frozen. Wilbur and Techno leap to their feet, Phil spreads his wings wide. There’s shouting, voices layering over one another as everyone panics, all drowned out by the wailing of the ship's alarms. The awful sound has stopped, but Tommy can’t think between the alarms and the flashing of lights from the control panels.

 

But then a voice cuts through the clutter, clear as a bell. 

 

“Tommy!”

 

Tommy just blinks. “Clementine?”

Standing in the hallway just before the bridge, there she is. Clear as day, a vision in paint-stained overalls. Older than he remembers, and sporting a handful of new scars, but she’s here.

 

Her eyes lock on his, and she’s clearing the distance between them before he can say another word.

 

“We've been looking everywhere for you!”

 

“You’re…” he managed, stuttering. His hands tighten around her shoulders, tears starting to burn in his eyes. “You’re here?! How?!” 

 

“Sorry it took us so long, kid.”

 

A different voice. A familiar voice.

 

He’s taller than Clara now by an inch or two, and she’s hardly recognizable with her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back, but he’d recognize that faint Texas drawl anywhere. 

 

Her eyes are blue.

 

“I'm sorry, who the hell-” Wilbur starts. Clara socks him in the jaw before he can finish. 

 

Clara!” Clementine huffs, an arm still tight around Tommy’s shoulders. “Be nice!”

 

Tommy’s too shocked to care, really. Honestly, he’s still pinching himself, ready to wake up from this fever Dream any moment now. How? What? 

 

“You’re here. You’re really- you’re here!” He finds himself nearly shouting, bowling Clara over in the same tight hug he’d just given Clem. 

 

He missed her hugs. He missed her. 

 

Phil, stepping over Wilbur still groaning on the floor, clears his throat. Tommy pulls back from Clara, suddenly shy. 

 

“Sorry- guys, this is Clementine and Clara. They’re my…”

 

“Psudeo older sisters?” Clem winks, poking him in the side. 

 

“…Yeah. basically.” He reluctantly admits, unable to keep the smile off of his face. “Clem, Clara, this is- this is my space family.”

 

“Aw, mate.” Says Phil, clearly touched.

 

Techno, who had begun collecting Wilbur off of the floor and is now being his arm rest, grunts. “Wilbur, are you crying?”

 

“What?” says wilbur, through tears. “No!”

 

“He’s totally crying.” says Techno. Wilbur smacks him over the head.

 

Everyone laughs, and it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect

 

“It took us a while to get out here.” Clara grunts. “Hope we weren’t interruptin’ anything.”

 

“Nothin’ important.” Techno grunts in response. “Though it does explain why this update was a day late.”

 

“Huh. Okay.” 

 

So then Clemetine and Clara get adopted into the Argo II family, and they all go on adventures around the galaxy having fun and blasting the shit out of bad guys with laser guns. 

 

The end :) 











Notes:

see ya'll in a few weeks for the real one. Love you guys <3

 

in the meantime, stay safe, yeah?

 

-Matches

Chapter 19: Deadlines and Commitments

Summary:

lets try this again, huh?

Notes:

“If you should fall
upon hard times,
if you should loose your way,
there is a place,
here in this house,
that you can stay.”
-Deadlines and Commitments, the Killers

 

I was gonna postpone this and post it on the two-year anniversary (tomorrow!) but that felt too mean. can you believe that it's been two fucking years? absolutely wild.
 
tumblr // twitter
 
TWs:
Nightmares, panic attacks, mentions of past torture/medical abuse, topped off with Tommy's usual flavor of angst. this ones a bit of a doozy, so. stay safe.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

For the first time in a long time, Tommy dreams of Clementine and Clara. 

 

Torn up sneakers pound into pavement, hot desert wind blowing sand into his hair and scraping out the inside of his lungs. Tommy runs and he runs and he runs , little legs working as fast as they can, scrawny arms pumping at his sides. His red sneakers kick up sand in his wake, threatening to fall apart on him completely as he books it down the sidewalk as fast as his legs will carry him. 

 

He's always running in his dreams, it feels like. Even in the good ones. 

 

The palms of his hands still sting from where he’d fallen earlier, the taste of iron and grit in his mouth from where his braces had cut into his lips. It was just his luck, wasn't it? That on today, of all days, he’d pop the back tire on his old, hand-me-down bike and have to walk. The one day he needs to make a quick getaway he’s forced to try and make it on foot. 

 

They’re getting closer behind him, the shouts and scuffing of sneakers against sand, like dogs breathing down the back of his neck. He can hear them, their whoops and taunting laughter, they barely even need to try to keep up with him. 

 

It’s just a game to them. It’s always been just a game. 

 

He can't stop. Not for a moment, not even for a second. If he stops, they’ll catch him. If he stops, he’s done for. He runs until his legs are burning, until his lungs are scraped raw and burning for air. He runs until he wants to cry and it's still never fast enough. 

 

Why can't they just leave him alone? 

 

It's his own fault. He should have just kept his big mouth shut, why did he have to go and make everything worse? 

 

It’s not like anyone will care if he came home with a few more bruises. The police force in La Jolla, Nevada was is fucking joke. Tommy could show up with two broken arms and it would be brushed under the rug as horseplay . Just ‘kids being kids’. 

 

It’s not like it fucking matters anyways. Their ringleader is the stepson of the police chief. Tommy doesn’t stand a chance. If they catch him, he’s done for, and there'll be no one around to help. 

 

He’s so tired. His legs hurt and his eyes are stinging, he’s dizzy and thirsty and part of him just wants to lay down on the sidewalk to get it over with already. He’s a big man, what's a few more bruises, right? 

 

Their words ring in his ears, echoing like a gunshot off metal walls. 

 

“Hey, Tommy! Leaving already?”

 

“Not feeling so chatty now, are ya?” 

 

“What’s wrong with your bike? Pop a tire? Why don’t we give you a hand-“

 

He can still hear that fucking laugh , and it’s only getting louder. They’re all high school kids , for fucks sake! He can fight back all he’d like, but they could still probably snap him in half with one hand. He’s barely five feet tall and ninety pounds soaking wet, what the hell is he supposed to do?

 

They’d nearly broken his ribs the last time they’d caught him. What would it be this time, with no one around to stop them? An arm? A leg? The road he’s running down is long, empty and endless, how long would it take for someone to find him? There's just desert and pavement for ever and ever and- 

 

Wait. 

 

It appears on the horizon like a mirage. A beacon of hope, half-sunk in the sand. 

 

A gas station, the only thing on this stretch of empty road. 

 

He’d probably walked right past it a hundred times before, but he’d never really noticed it until that moment. A small, shitty gas station, half-hidden by desert shrubs and choking on dust. There’s broken down trucks parked to the side and not a single customer in sight, but he zeroes in on that blinking open sign and veers off towards it.

 

A building means protection. Safety. He can hide, he can duck behind the shelves or something, wait until they get bored and leave. They wont hurt him if there's other people around to see, right? 

 

He can't think. Not beyond the thrum of run run run getaway go In the back of his mind, not through the panic that's pushing him on. A rabbit that’s spotted a burrow, wolves close on its heels. His shoes skid on the pavement as he veers off of the sidewalk and beelines for the front doors. 

 

The jeers behind him turn into shouts. He can hear their footsteps behind him, scrambling to turn and follow. He’s caught them off guard. Hope flares in his chest and he grabs a hold of it with everything he’s got. 

 

He stumbles up the front step, heart in his throat as he lunges for the door handle. It gives a little ding! As he throws it open, but he barely spares a glance to the girl behind the counter as he darts for the employees only door in the back.

 

She shouts something after him, but he can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything, not over his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, everything else fades into the background. 

 

He flings open the door, scrambling for an escape, a place to hide . There's plenty of shit back here, scattered boxes and old shelves, lots of dark corners. Panic still clawing at his chest, he squeezes himself into a gap between stacked cardboard boxes. He presses himself back against the wall, pulling his legs up tight to his chest. Curling himself into as tight of a ball as he can manage, he keeps his eyes pinned to the door. 

 

It should be enough. It has to be enough. Theyll get bored when they cant find him, or decide its too much trouble or- 

 

The front door to the gas station dings!



Tommy feels himself go absolutely still.

 

He can hear their voices. Loud and ugly, snarling something at the girl behind the counter. He digs his nails into jeans, clamping one hand over his mouth to keep from making any noise at all. Go away, go away, please, just go away- 

 

Another voice, loud and stern. A loud thump! And a sharp bark of surprise. The boys move so fast he can hear their sneakers skidding on the tile, and the door gives one last ding! before it’s slammed shut behind them.

 

It’s quiet. He doesn’t dare breathe, much less move. 

 

Just because he can’t hear them doesn’t mean they’re gone. It’s a lesson he’s learned well by now. They’re probably waiting just outside the door for him to come out. He won’t get away that easy, they never let him get away that easy, not after this- 

 

The ‘employees only’ door swings open.

 

He clamps his other hand around his mouth as well, swallowing the panicked noise he’d almost made, the thump thump thump of his heartbeat in his ears just seems to get louder. A shadow on the wall gets closer and closer, and he presses himself as far back into his hiding place as he can. 

 

He has to be quiet. Maybe if he’s quiet enough they won’t realize he’s there. He just has to be quiet and very, very still. Maybe they’ll just go away. Maybe- 

 

And then, there’s a girl.

 

It’s the same one who had been working the counter earlier. A highschooler, she must be, even older than the boys who had been chasing him. Dark skin, thick, black hair pulled back into twin poofs on the top of her head, and an expression on her face that lets him know she means business. His eyes zero in on the baseball bat in her hands, and his breathing gets all fast again. 

 

“No, no, it’s okay!” He flinches as the bat clatters to the ground, and she crouches down to his level, peering into his hiding spot. “I’m not going to hurt ya’, It’s alright.” 

 

Her voice is soft, almost gentle, and the look in her dark, dark eyes is sincere. 

 

It’s been a while since he’s had someone look at him like that. He feels himself get a bit less stiff, the heartbeat pounding in his ears getting a little more faint. He uncurls, just a little, just enough to get a better look at her. 

 

Freckles on her face that you can barely see over dark skin, the overalls over her uniform dotted with a few paint stains the same shade of summer-sky blue as her nails. She smiles, and it’s a smile that makes the desert sun look like a broken flashlight. 

 

“My name is Clementine.” She tells him, “What’s yours?”

 

He swallows. 

 

“...Tom-“

 

He doesn’t get to finish before the door- a different door, one he hadn’t seen before- swings open, and another girl comes through.

 

She’s tall. Taller than Clementine, but probably around the same age, he can't see much of her from his hiding place, just her hefty looking boots and jeans stained with grease and oil. Her voice is raspy, with a heavier southern accent then Clementine’s. 

 

“They’re gone.” is all she says. 

 

“Good.” Clementine falls back on her heels with a relieved sigh. She moves back, no longer blocking the entrance to his hiding spot, and begins to stand back up. “Now, could’ya-“

 

In that moment, when she looks away from Tommy to look at the other girl, he finally finds his footing.

 

He practically leaps out of his hiding spot, taking both girls by surprise. He gets just a glance at the new girl, of a serious grey-eyed gaze and ratty blonde ponytail, before he’s skidding towards the back door she’d come through moments earlier. He has a hand on the handle before Clementine even gets to her feet, throwing it open and spiriting out into the desert. 

 

They call after him, but he doesn’t hear. All he can hear is that thrumming in the back of his head, run run run don’t let them catch you go go go , and all he can do is listen. 

 

So, he runs.

 

He always runs, doesn’t he? 



-



Tommy wakes up to the smell of sweat and gasoline in his nose, and the feeling of Clara's eyes burning holes into the back of his mind. 

 

He tugs his blanket tighter around himself, yanking it up over his face until it covers his eyes. It’s not his blanket. Techno’s, probably, judging by the smell of his fancy body wash that lingers behind.

 

Tommy buries his nose into the fabric, breathing in the scent of the Argo II and rich, alien spices, until the reek of gasoline fades completely. 

 

(is it selfish, to wish he had more time?)






-





Time is weird, in space. 

 

There's some sort of internal clock on the ship at least, the lights dim at night and brighten back up in the morning, doing their best to mimic a day-night cycle. Still, the hours just kind of seem to blend together without any concrete way of telling them apart. It could be one in the afternoon or four, and it would still feel the same. 

 

Tommy had been kind of surprised by how easy it was to adjust to this weird new schedule during his first few days, but it makes sense. Honestly, he’s probably adjusted a little too well, if the exhaustion he feels after leaving Aether is anything to go by. Staying up all night had never been a problem before, but it had really fucked up his sleep schedule this time around, for whatever reason. It’s only been a few days since they’d left Aether, and his body is still scrambling to re-adjust to the ship’s internal clock. No wonder he’s been having weird dreams. 

 

Everyone else seems to be feeling it too, judging by the incredible lack of enthusiasm on the bridge this morning. 

 

Techno is sitting in his usual chair, leaning the side of his face into his palm and watching with half-closed eyes. Wilbur, at his side, has turned his chair around backwards so he can slump himself over the backrest. Even Tubbo looks fucking miserable, antenna drooping to frame his face. Though, maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised, Tubbo’s hardly what he would call a morning person. 

 

Tommy’s positive he doesn’t look much better. His goddamn eyebags have eyebags. 

 

Out of all of them, the only one who actually looks awake is Ranboo, though Phil is giving it his best shot. Their fearless captain's voice is bright and confident as usual, but he’s sporting some pretty dark circles himself, his normally glossy wings dull and ruffled. 

 

If there’s one thing Tommy won’t be missing, it’s the team meetings. Ugh. you’d think with all their fancy technology, they’d at least have created the space-equivalent of coffee. He’d do unspeakable things for some caffeine right about now. 

 

“We’ll be in Enderion’s orbit before the end of the week.” Phil begins, tapping his claws absentmindedly on the keyboard in front of him. “There are a few things we need to go over before we get there.” 

 

Before the end of the week.

 

Time is weird, in space. And that, along with the language barrier and the translators meant that ‘before the end of the week’ could mean anywhere from ‘the day after tomorrow’ or ‘six days from now.’ Tommy’s kind of hoping for the latter.

 

It’s not enough time, either way, and he feels his throat begin to constrict. 

 

…Not because he’s like, nervous , or anything. Because he’s not. 

 

It’s not like his entire stay aboard the Argo II has been leading up to this moment or anything. That going to see this mysterious Council was the whole goddamn point of the crew bringing him along in the first place. That in just a few days he’ll be meeting with the most important aliens in the entire galaxy, and all he has to do is convince them to send him, the first human they've probably ever met before, back home in one of their super powerful spaceships. Nope. 

 

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding. Tommy is really fucking nervous- 

 

No. Now’s not the time for that. They have a plan. 

 

The Council is made of representatives of every planet, Phil had explained to him as they made their way out of Aether’s atmosphere. Some of the “oldest and most powerful beings in the galaxy” , or some shit. They have this big council meeting during Aether’s summer equinox, inviting everyone from around the galaxy to come and watch them do… government shit, or something. 

 

He had described it almost like a festival. Aliens from all around the galaxy meeting up to share food and gossip, celebrating the end of the war and encouraging peace between planets. It sounded… kind of nice, actually. 

 

They weren’t going to party, though. The meeting is their chance. All the important people in one room, talking about… like, space taxes or something. All they have to do is sneak Tommy in, rip his hood off in front of everyone, and he’s home-free. 

 

…okay, well. Not exactly. 



“So, what’s the plan?”

 

Tommy tunes back into the conversation when Tubbo starts to speak. The tired look on his face evaporates in an instant, quickly replaced by an all-too familiar grin. “You know, I can-”

 

“Nope.” Phil cuts him off quickly, “No need for explosions this time, mate.” 

 

Tubbo crosses his arms, slumping back into his chair with a disappointed huff. Ranboo gives him a few soft shoulder pats. 

 

“Anyways.” Phil continues, face shifting to something a touch more serious. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Getting on board is our first obstacle.”



Tommy leans in. This is it. The plan. 

 

This is what everything has been leading up too, the grand finale. All of their missions and adventures, everything leading up to this. It’s going to be hard, but Tommy can fucking do this. He faced down a raging Hoglin, compared to that, this will be easy. 

 

They’ll have to sneak onboard first, which means they’ll need some cool disguises. Tommy can just be some kind of bird-thing again, maybe get Phil a fake beard or something. Tubbo can distract the guards with one of his homemade bombs, and Ranboo can keep lookout. They're gonna need some cool gadgets or something. Like a grappling hook, or some smoke-bombs. While everyone’s distracted, Phil and Wilbur can sneak Tommy inside, Techno watching their backs in case they need any extra muscle- 

 

“If we keep a low profile, we can walk right in.” Techno interrupts, brutally shattering all of Tommy’s hopes and dreams. “With all the people there, no one will give us a second glance.” 

 

“Winning them over will be the hard part.” Phil agrees, much to Tommy’s dismay, but then he grins . “They won’t turn me away.”

 

Tommy perks up again, suddenly interested. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means Phil is goin' to bribe a government official.”

 

Phil shoots Techno a look, but he doesn’t deny it either, which tells Tommy all he needs to know. Bribing a government official? Maybe there’s hope for this plan after all. 

 

“Someone on the council just owes me a favor, is all.” Phil explains, crossing his arms. 

 

“Philza.” Wilbur gasps, looking absolutely delighted and grinning broadly enough to show off sharp, sharp teeth. “Do you have blackmail?”

 

No -“ 

“Pretty much.”

 

Phil and Techno both pause, glancing at one another. 

 

“I used to be on the council.” Phil shrugs. “It’s… been awhile, but it’ll be enough for them to hear our case, atleast. 

 

Tommy blinks, momentarily distracted from the silent conversation Phil and Techno continue to have across the table in favor of turning the words over in his head.

 

Phil used to be on the Council?  

 

Had… had he known that? Tommy feels like he should have known that.

 

It would explain why he’s so casual about the whole thing, and why he talks about getting a meeting with the whole space government and blackmailing them like they’re going to a highschool reunion instead of, you know, going to talk to the most powerful people in the entire galaxy.

 

He turns the idea around in his head, thinking. “So you were- like- the representative? For Aether?”

 

Phil is a pretty cool guy, he’ll admit, but it's hard to imagine him doing something like that. The representatives sounded important, they’re basically like, the most important person from that planet. Like a king, or a president. 

 

He tries to picture Phil in a stuffy suit, sitting in some fancy office somewhere, ordering people around and shuffling through important paperwork all day. The image of him as a king, with a crown and a cool cape is better, but only slightly. Crowns seem like more of a Techno thing, the image of Phil all dressed up just feels wrong. 

 

“The- no.” Phil shifts his wings. The smile on his face slips, but just for a moment. “I was… a general. In the war.”

 

“The war… on Aether?” 

 

Tommy blinks stupidly as the cogs in his head start turning. That sounds… right? Right and wrong at the same time. 

 

It takes a bit for his sleep-deprived brain to put the pieces together, but once it does, he’s left fucking reeling. 

 

“The one that happened hundreds and hundreds of-”

 

“Elytrans live for a long time-” Phil tries to explain, but it's far too late for that. 

 

“I knew you were old,” he manages between wheezes. “but I didn't think you were that-” 

 

“Anyways.” Techno interrupts them both, ignoring Phil’s indignant wing-flaps, and cutting Tommy off mid-cackle. Jerk. 

 

He stretches, giving his great head a shake and turning slightly to press buttons on the keyboard. “Accordin’ to the Argo, we should arrive just before their first meetin’.” 

 

Tommy sinks back in his chair, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Phil, the goofy birdman who can’t dance for shit and has slumber parties with Techno, is not only apparently hundreds and hundreds of years old, but also a general.

 

It’s… It's easier to picture than he thought it would be, actually. Phil poised at the helm of some great battleship, intimidating wings spread wide. Ordering people around, calling all the shots. 

 

It's easier than trying to imagine him as some stuffy governor, anyways. Phil never seemed more alive than when he was piloting the Argo II, whizzing them around asteroids and space debris, grinning like a madman all the while. He would have made one hell of a pilot. 

 

It makes sense, but at the same time, it paints a pretty ugly picture. 

 

The laughter in his throat sputters and dies the longer he thinks about it. Sure, it’s downright hilarious to know how on the nose his ‘old man Phil’ jokes were now, but it doesn’t take long for the rest of the puzzle to click into place. 

 

Tommy remembers the way Phil had looked out over the graveyard on Aether, a grim smile on his face. The gentle way he’d spoken about the soldiers who were laid to rest there, talking about them as if he’d known them. Hell, he probably had. 

 

Tommy has questions. He has so many fucking questions. About the war, about Aether, about the look he’d seen in his eyes just then, that same distant, haunted look he’d had back in the graveyard. So, so many questions, and not nearly enough time to wheedle him for answers. 

 

It’ll have to wait. They’ve got a meeting to crash, after all. 

 

“-to pull this off.” Techno finishes, and Tommy zones back in just to catch the mildly offended look on Wilbur’s face, eyes going wide before narrowing in suspicion. 

 

“What, exactly, are you implying there-” 

 

“Manners, Wil.” Techno drawls. “the one thing you lack the most.”

 

“Hey-”

 

“Getting an audience with the Council doesn’t automatically mean they’ll listen to us.” Phil interrupts with a sharp look to Wilbur, who folds his arms and pouts childishly, before turning back to address Tommy and the rest of the crew. “Getting them to help us won’t be easy.” 

 

“Why not?” Ranboo says softly, and Tommy, who’d completely forgotten they were next to him, jumps, swearing softly under his breath. Jesus christ, Ranboo is like a fucking ghost sometimes. Tommy swears they can just fucking teleport. 

 

Phil opens his mouth to explain, but this time it's Wilbur that beats him to the punch. 

 

“The council is full of uptight pricks , and we need a majority vote.” he says in a huff, waving a hand dismissively in the air. 

 

“So I'll just convince ‘em.” Tommy grins. “Turn on the old Innet charm-”

 

“Please no.” 

 

“For the love of the gods do not-”

 

“-easy as cake.” he finishes, relaxing back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head, completely ignoring the groans of protest from Techno and Wilbur. A bunch of non-believers, is what they are. They just haven't seen him turn on the charm, yet. The full razzle-dazzle. 

 

He’s got this. He’s so got this. Talk to a bunch of old bitches, convince them to hand over a spaceship. Easy-peasy. 

 

A grin tugs at the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Yeah. I don't think so, mate. A lot of the members are… traditional.”

 

“Uptight pricks.” Techno corrects, and Wilbur nods his agreement. 

 

“Right. And its been a long time since ive had to deal with those fucks, so.” he clasps his hands together, suddenly looking a lot more pleased than he should be. “It looks like we’re all going to need a crash course in old Enderion customs.”

 

Wilbur groans, slumping over his chair. Tubbo looks thoughtful, Ranboo looks confused. There’s a grin tugging at the corner of Techno’s mouth, which is never a good sign.

 

“It won’t be that bad.” Phil gives Wilbur a look somewhere between exasperated and fond. Then, his eyes shift to Tommy. “We’re all in this together.” 

 

There’s a murmur of agreement around the bridge, and Tommy…

 

The lingering spiderwebs of the dream that have stubbornly cling to the inside of his mind ever since he’d woken up are brushed aside, just for a moment. Just for a moment, with his crew all around him, he feels that warmth again, the same feeling he’d had back on Aether.

 

They’re all in this together. Coming up with a plan, strategizing the best way to make the council hear them out. They’re doing it together, and they’re doing it for him. 

 

“Psh, easy.” Tommy brushes Phil off, straightening his shoulders. “How hard can it be?”






-





As a general rule, Ovisan are not, exactly, the most threatening of species.

 

Being covered in thick, poofy wool tends to have that effect. Floopy ears and round-eyes, their sheep-like features tend to give them an almost sweet, docile appearance. Most of the time, anyways. 

 

This one, however, might just be the exception.

 

Hands clenched into fists at her sides, breath's coming fast and hard as though she had ran all of the way there, the force of her glare alone enough to have both the Creeparian and the Slyvari avoiding her gaze and shuffling their feet in shame. 

 

She stands, frozen, at the entrance of their workshop. When she manages to catch her breath enough to speak, they both flinch at the ice in her words. 

 

“Two months.” She says, resting her hands on her hips. “Two. Whole. Fucking. Months.”

 

“Puffy, I-“

 

“I don’t want to fucking hear it, Sam.” 

 

The Creeparian snaps his mouth shut, and at least has the decency to look ashamed.

 

She takes a deep, shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment to rub at her temples. She looks so tired for a moment, shoulders drooping, ears pinned to sides of her head. Her voice doesn’t falter, though, cold as steel. 

 

“You’ve been acting fucking weird ever since we meet up with Phil’s crew on T’Aria.” She continues, letting out a cold, barking laugh tinged with something like hysteria. “But I thought to myself, now, Puffy. Sam is a big boy, he can take care of himself. If he’s in trouble and needs help, he’ll ask for it. No need to go shove your nose in where it isn’t needed.”

 

The Creeparian looks wounded. “Puffy, I-“

 

“I said shut up!” 

 

She freezes, taking a moment to breathe and collect herself. When she continues, her voice is low and menacing. 

 

“I didn't ask you about it. I let you mope around the ship for days and didn't say a damn thing." She continues, running a hand through her hair and dragging it down her face. There's a laugh bubbling in her throat, a harsh, barking sort of laugh. “You didn’t want to talk, I wasn’t going to push it. you wanted space? I gave you space. That’s fine.”

 

She’s smiling, when she pulls her hand away. It’s not a happy smile. 

 

“But then one morning.” She says, slowly closing the distance between them. “I woke up. Do you wanna know what I found, Sam? Do you remember?"

 

“I-“ he starts, stops, and lamely finishes. “I was always going to come back." 

 

This was not the right thing to say. 

 

“I thought you were fucking dead!” 

 

She shoves him, or tries too. The Creeparian is built like a tank, and her head barely comes up to his shoulder. She’d have better luck trying to move a tank, but she gives it her best shot, anyways. It gets the point across, judging by the wounded look on his face. She might as well have stabbed him, instead. 

 

“No note, not so much as a fucking goodbye!" She all but shouts. " No one could get a hold of you, you turned off your fucking tracker, not a word from you for months-“

 

The Slyvari gives him a look over the top of her head, crossing his arms. The Creeparian looks even more ashamed, if possible, unable to meet either of their eyes.  

 

Stars, don’t even get me started on Fran. How could you be that fucking cruel? She didn’t eat for weeks, you fucking asshole!”

 

The Creeparian jerks at the mention of Fran, the way a dog jerks when it's reached the end of it's leash, but the Ovisan isn’t finished yet. She shoves away from him, pacing back and forth like an angry cat, throwing her hands in the air and jamming an accusing finger in his direction.

 

“And here you are again! Just showing up out of the blue with your fancy ship and your fucking boyfriend -“ She whips around to face the Slyvari, lips curling in a snarl as if she's just realized he's standing there and the sight of him is enough to give her a second wind. “-nice to fucking meet you, by the way. Not surprised he didn’t mention me, I’ve only been his best friend for the last five fucking years-“

 

“Puffy.”

 

The Creeparian puts a hand on her shoulder. She jerks back, giving him a look that’s absolutely venomous. She takes another deep breath, opening her mouth again and looking for all the world like she’s about to start throwing punches, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale. 

 

She doesn’t protest when he tugs her into a hug, and the fight drains out of her at once. 

 

“I can’t believe you.” She mutters into his chest plate, thumping her fist against it one last time for good measure. “I’m glad you’re not dead, you fucking asshole.”

 

Over her head, the Slyvari is glancing between them, grinning all the while. 

 

“What are you smiling at?” The Creeparian grumbles. 

 

“Nothing.” He chirps. “It’s just nice to know that you’re like this to everyone, and it’s not just me.”

 

The Creeparian frowns, but before he can say anything else, the Slyvari is breezing past him, holding out a hand for the Ovisan to shake. “Puffy, right? It’s nice to meet you in person. I’m Ponk. 

 

She raises an eyebrow, looking a bit more put together now that she’s gotten all of that out of her system, taking him in again with a much more critical eye. Whatever she sees when she looks him up and down is enough to have her nodding sharply and taking the offered hand. “Likewise.”

 

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way.” The Slyvari continues, folding his arms and shooting the Creeparian another look. “Are you gonna tell her the plan, or should I?”  

 

The Ovisan blinks, looking between them, and narrows her eyes. “ What plan?”

 

The Creeparian just sighs. 




-






“-is the best, right Tom?”

 

Once again, Clem and Clara are waiting for him when he closes his eyes. 

 

They’re not in the gas station, this time. Situated on the floor of Clem’s living room, with the lights turned down low, a handful of CD’s spread out across the floor. Clem’s house smells like lemon wood-cleaner and fresh-baked goods. He runs a thumb over the blanket in his lap, the well-loved threads catching in his fingers. 

 

Everything is glowy and warm, the soft brush of the blankets around his legs, the dim yellow lights of Clem’s living room painting everything in soft shades of yellow and orange. 

 

He remembers this night. Just a few weeks before he’d… 

 

“Uh. sure.”

 

The words bubble out of him without permission. He sounds so young, even to his own ears. Had it really been that long ago? 

 

“See?” Clem sits back with a huff and a grin. “Told you.”

 

She’s wearing pajamas, a tank top with fuzzy pink pants and slippers to match. Her hair isn’t braided, or tucked away by a headband or bandanna, left to fall around her face in a cloud of tight curls. 

 

On his other side, Clara grumbles. “He’s just saying that to make you happy. Everyone knows the second movie sucks.”

 

Clara is wearing her hair down. He doesn’t see her with her hair down often, long blonde strands brushing her shoulders. She keeps having to stop and brush it out of her face, frowning like she isn’t used to it being there. Between that and the flannel pajama pants she looks… softer, somehow. More human. 

 

Clementine gasps at the suggestion, a hand flying to her chest. “Lies and slander!”

 

“Nothing even happens!” Clara throws her hands up, exasperated. “It’s just’a bunch of car chases and explosions!”

 

“So? It’s cool! And you’re completely forgetting about the secretary plotline!”

 

Clara jabs a finger in her chest. “She’s the only good thing about the movie, and you know it-” 

 

His gaze jumps back and forth as they bicker, used to it, by this point. There’s no heat behind the words, not really, and just the sound of their voices is enough to settle any nerves he might have had about joining them for movie night. 

 

It’s like he’s floating, settled somewhere warm and soft. Grounded, and a hundred miles away at the same time. 

 

Nothing could hurt him, here. Not with Clem and Clara around, bickering with him in the middle as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if this is exactly where he belongs. 

 

“So what makes the second movie so much better?” Clem taunts. 

 

Clara snatches the CD from her hands with a growl. “Bad Cop: The Legend of Good Cop is a cinematic masterpiece-”

 

“But it makes no sense-”

 

“Tommy, settle this.” Clara snaps, sharply enough to make him jump. “Which is better? Bad Cop: Return of Badder Cop, or Bad Cop: The Legend of Good Cop?”

 

She holds both of the CDs towards him, an expression on her face as though his choice means life or death. Clementine, equally as serious, keeps shooting him pleading glances when she thinks Clara isn’t looking. 

 

Tommy shrinks back under the combined power of both their gazes pinning him to place. He sweats. 

 

“Uh. i’ve, uh. Never seen them.” he eventually stutters out. Both girls jerk back as if they’d been shot. 

 

“What!?”

 

“We’re fixing this. Right now.” Clementine responds first, her normally soft face serious as a heart attack. “Clara, go get the popcorn.” 

 

Clara is on her feet in an instant, shooting them both a two-fingered salute as she hoofs it to the kitchen. He can hear her rummaging around, the clanking of bowls and muttered curses followed by the hum of the microwave. 

 

Meanwhile, Clem sidles up to his side, pressing shoulder-to-shoulder as she holds the cases up for him to see, brushing aside the clearly inferior other DVD’s and fumbling for the remote.

 

If it were anyone else, Tommy would probably have flinched. Pulled away. But it's Clementine, and she has that look on her face, eyes sparkling with determination, a grin pulling at her lips. She throws her blanket over his shoulders as well, and he drowns in the candy-citrus smell of her perfume.

 

“So, the first one isn't that good,” she begins to explain, “but it does set up the rest of the series…”

 

He finds himself leaning into her side, after a while. A line of contact that burns its way all down his left side. Clementine’s always been so casual with physical contact. Throwing an arm over his shoulders, ruffling his hair, tugging him against her as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

 

Tommy’s uncle hasn’t been a very touchy guy, and being sick all the time only made that worse. Foster parents never wanted to hug him, and even if they did, it was never like this. Never so casually. Never because they wanted to. 

 

He lets her words wash right over him. Clara joins them soon after, taking her place on Clem’s other side and bringing with her the smell of freshly made popcorn. 

 

They bicker again. First over who gets to hold the popcorn bowl, then over the remote, the blanket. It’s never serious, always cut with laughter and fond elbow-jabs. 

 

He’s fast asleep before the title credits roll, barely even registering the feeling of soft hands carding through his hair. 





-





This time, when Tommy wakes, he finds himself reaching for a hand that’s no longer there. 

 

By the time he’s awake enough to process the tears in his eyes, the memory is already slipping from his fingers like sand. The phantom weight against his side, the ghost of a hand in his hair. The dream leaves like they always do, leaving him grasping for something in the space it left behind. 

 

He almost misses the nightmares. At least he knows how to deal with those. 

 

Tommy rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s pretty sure he has it memorized, at this point, all the metal panels and the screws holding them together. He closes his eyes. 




He used to get so, so homesick his first few weeks out in space.

 

He doesn't like thinking about those months, about that place and- well, some things are better off forgotten. But he remembers that feeling. Like he’d left a part of his soul back on Earth, leaving him with nothing but a gaping hole where it used to be. That feeling had followed him, all the way from his ship, to the pet shop, to the Argo II . An empty space in his heart, healed a bit by time, but never really gone. 

 

It’s still there. Like an old wound, a scar that he doesn’t even notice, most days. Not until he pulls on it the wrong way or presses down too hard, and it makes itself known again. 

 

Right now, it feels like someone has found that wound, that piece that had been cut out of him, and tore it open.

 

Goddamnit, he hadn’t even said goodbye. 

 

Did they think he’d just… ran away? Left them without so much as a goodbye? Did they look for him? Did they slap his face on missing posters and spread them around town? Had they cried about him? 

 

Hell, what the fuck did his foster family think? Did they even fucking notice, or was he right in believing that the only people who ever gave a shit about him in that town were Clem and Clara? Did they go to the police? Did any of his old classmates miss him? Any of the teachers keep an eye out for him around town? 

 

How long did it take, he wonders with a sick sort of humor, did it take for everyone but Clem and Clara to forget that he’d ever existed at all? 

 

How long did it take for them to start to consider that he wasn’t coming back?

 

And he-

 

And he tries to picture them in his mind, really tries. Clara’s stormy gaze, the way a grin would tug at the corner of her mouth whenever she thought he wasn’t paying attention. The smell of gasoline that seemed to follow her around everywhere, the feeling of rough hands tossling his hair. 

 

She was so closed off, at first. He’d even been scared of her when he’d just started coming around the station. She always seemed to have this “dont fuck with me” expression on her face, and the muscles to back it up. 

 

A girl that laughed like she’d only just figured out how, a deep, hacking kind of noise, like someone had thrown a pair of shoes in the dryer. Tough as nails, but couldn't drink coffee without enough sugar to kill a small child. 

 

Clementine’s smile, dark, dark eyes that would always light up when they noticed him. The paint stains that found themselves on every single pair of her jeans. The brush of her hair against his cheek as she goes in for a hug, the sweet, citrus smell of her perfume. The kind of person that could light up a room just by walking into it. She was kind. 

 

That's what he remembers about her the most. She was one of the first people in Tommy’s life who had been genuinely kind to him, not expecting a single thing in return. 

 

That gas station had been his safe haven, more of a home than any of the foster homes he’d stayed with. They had been home. 

 

Would he be taller than her, now? Taller than Clara?

 

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, choking on something in between a laugh and sob. He curls up tighter until he can swallow the noise down. 

 

He tries to imagine it, but it's hard. Clara had always seemed so big, tall and intimidating, Clem’s polar opposite. He can remember their voices, imagine the weight of them sitting next to him, brushing against his shoulder. Smell gasoline and Clem’s perfume. Their faces-



No, that's not right. 

 

The faces are wrong. 

 

He tries again, attempting to picture their faces in his head, to yank them out of the dream and into reality but it doesn’t- he can’t. 

 

The features won’t settle. They shift and turn in his memory. The shade of Clara’s blonde hair is wrong. Wasn’t it a darker blonde? She didn't have bangs when he’d left, did she? 

 

The shape of Clementine’s face isn’t right, either. Didn’t she have freckles? Were they on her arms as well, or just her face? Hadn’t her eyes been darker than that? Had Clara’s nose been straight? Wasn’t it crooked, like his? Was the scar along her arm on the left side, or the right? Were her eyes blue, or gray? 

 

He can’t remember. He can’t remember. 

 

For some reason, that's the thing that breaks him. 




“Tommy?”



And suddenly, Tommy can breathe. 

 

Tubbo’s mis-matched eyes find him in the dark. His friend- his best friend, blinks down at him sleepily from the bed, his antenna drooping to brush against his cheek. 

 

He pulls a face. “Did you fall off the bed again?” 

 

“No.” Tommy manages to whisper back, sitting up just a little more to scrub at his face. 

 

He pulls the blankets around him tighter, hoping they hide the way his shoulders are shaking. One deep breath, then another. Calm down, It's okay, he’s okay. 

 

“It's more comfy down here, big man.” He finishes, steadying his voice. It’s okay, he’s okay. “You should try it sometime. It's good for the back, you know. Us humans and our… weird backs.” 

 

He’s rambling, but he can't force himself to stop. Maybe it’ll cover the way his chest is still heaving for air, breathing finally beginning to settle into a smoother rhythm. One deep breath, then another. He's fine, see? Totally fine and normal, yes sir. Just a normal human, breathing in a normal human way. 

 

Tubbo blinks. Tommy sweats. 

 

“Oh.” he says, after a moment. “Huh. Well, have fun with that.”

 

Tommy sighs in relief, slumping down a bit more into his makeshift bed of stolen blankets. He doesn't remember falling asleep on the floor, but it’s probably better, in the long run. Keeps him from waking the others up with his stupid dreams. Being a different species from your roommates definitely has its perks, sometimes. It's not like there’s any other humans out here to compare him with. The “it's a human thing” excuse, coming in clutch once again. 

 

“Will do,” he gives Tubbo a quick two-finger salute. “Uh, g’night?

 

Unfortunately, he’s not off the hook that easily. 

 

Tubbo narrows his eyes, resting his chin on his arms. “Are you sure you’re alright though?” 

 

“Yep. Never been better.” Shit. Fuck. Balls. Tommy swallows, forcing himself to smile and act normal, goddamn it. “Why?” 

 

Tubbo frowns, and the suspicious expression he’d been pinning Tommy with earlier softens. He glaces away, stubbornly avoiding Tommy’s gaze, and look on his face is just- he looks so fucking concerned, and if that doesn’t make Tommy feel like the biggest asshole in the galaxy. Way to go, Tommy. 

 

“I heard you crying.” Tubbo admits, softly. “In your sleep, I mean.” 

 

“Its-” its fine i s right there on the tip of his tongue. The words clog up in his throat. I’m fine. I’m just a big baby who can’t deal with my own bad dreams. Happens all the time. Dont worry about me. Everything is okay. 

 

“I’m-” his voice wobbles. Fucking- I’m scared. I miss Earth. I miss my friends. I can’t even remember what their faces look like, Tubbo. The closest thing I have to family and I can't even remember them correctly. Am I even going to recognize them when I get back home? Am I going to forget you the same way? 

 

Tommy swallows the lump in his throat, then tries again, steadying his voice and pulling the blanket off of his legs. He smiles, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” 

 

There’s no point in making the both of them miserable. 

 

Tubbo starts to protest, but Tommy’s already moving. He stumbles to his feet like a drunk deer, throat suddenly incredibly dry. He swallows again, fingers fumbling for the hand-sensor on the door. “I’m just gonna- go get some water. Night, tubs.”

 

Whatever Tubbo says next is lost as he makes a quick exit, the door sliding behind him in his wake. 






-




“Which looks better? The red or the black?”

 

The teenager, looking up from his comn, just shrugs. “They both look good to me.”

 

The Avian frowns, wings bristling. He throws a hand in the air, spinning to face the other alien on the bridge. He holds both suits up to his chest. “Fundy- red or black?”

 

The Vulpian, sitting in the cockpit, makes a strangled noise. “I don’t know, boss! They both look fine?”

 

“I think you look wonderful, Quackity from Las Nevadas!” Chimes in the slime creature to his left. He makes two wobbly thumbs up. “I love that I can see your extra bones!”

 

The Avian slides a hand down his face, defeated, “wings , Charlie. You can just call them wings.”

 

“Okay!” The slime creature chirps back. “I love your wings! And all of their bones.” 

 

“Why do I even-“ The Avian pauses, rubbing at his temples. “Purpled, how much longer?”

 

The teenager glances up at the screens in front of him, then shrugs. “Like, two days?”

 

“Two days!” The Avian repeats, waving his hands for emphasis. “Two days, and then I make my debut as the representative of Nevodis, two days!” 

 

He throws his hands in the air again with a curse, stomping his way out of the bridge. “Oh forget it! Where is Foolish when you need him! Apparently he’s the only one around here that actually gives a shit!”

 

“He’s in his room.” The teenager chirps back, going back to his comn. “Had to talk to his mom, remember?”

 

The only reply he gets is another round of cursing. He makes the careful decision to tune it out.

 

The Vulpians chair squeaks as he turns, putting an arm over the armrest. “You’d think he’d chill the fuck out some, right?”

 

Ha. Fat chance.” The teenager scoffs. “You should have heard him earlier. I’m just glad he hasn’t brought up you know who yet.”

 

The Vulpian shudders. “Do not remind me. Do you know how many fucking things of fireworks I had to bring ‘just in case?’”

 

“Quackity from Las Nevadas is very passionate!” The slime creature butts in. 

 

“That’s one word for it.” The teenager scoffs, propping his feet up on the keyboard in front of him. 

 

“You don’t think he’s gonna like… Actually kill the guy, right?”

 

“Nah.” The teenager hesitates. “I would… keep an eye on those fireworks, though.”

 

A pause. “Right.”

 

Another pause. 

 

“…A hundred creds they end up making out by the end of the night.”

 

“Dude you’re so on.” 






-





“This is so stupid.”

 

Phil, the absolute traitor that he is, just raises an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted to learn more about the Council?"

 

Well, yeah, but when Phil had called him to the bridge to learn about customs ‘n shit, Tommy had envisioned- well, okay, he didn’t really know what learning about Enderian customs would involve, but he figured it would have been a lot more interesting than looking over fucking flash cards.

 

He’s sitting criss-cross on the floor, with Phil on his knees across from him at the foot of the helm. Techno, the only other crew member that had stuck it out this long, is in his usual place in the cockpit, the chair spun around to face them. He taps away at his comn, occasionally glancing over at the two of them. 

 

The background noise of beeps and tapping is not helpful. 

 

They’d put the navigation system to good use, setting it up to display a hologram of Enderion, complete with a little model of the council ship floating just outside of it, the both of them rotating in a lazy circle. Phil had also come prepared with a few more things, leaving the floor cluttered with papers and holo-screens. 

 

Tommy glares at the hologram. He glares at the stupid council ship as it spins in a lazy, stupid circle around Enderoin. He glares at the cards, floating innocently at eye-level. They can’t fool him, projecting a handful of little purple tiles into the air between him and Phil. He knows flash cards when he sees them. 

 

“Do I really have to remember all this shit?” Tommy whines. 

 

“We need to convince them, remember?” Phil just hums, rearranging the little cards again in front of him so Tommy can’t see what’s displayed on the front. “you don’t have to impress everyone-”

 

“-just the important lot, got it.” Tommy finishes, resigning himself to his fate. 

 

There's some things that you just can’t escape, Tommy’s beginning to understand. Even out in space, a billion miles away from home. Some things that are simply universal. Death. Tommy’s horrible luck. Scary stories. Nightmares. Rich people being dicks. 

 

And, apparently, homework. 

 

“Alright, runt.” Techno grunts, placing his comn aside and looking extra smug from his comfy chair. prick . “Explain it to me again.”

 

Tommy lets out a long, long sigh, and starts again from the top. 

 

“While everyone’s waiting for the meeting to start, everyone will be hanging out in the big main hall.” He begins. There’s a map of the council ship somewhere in the pile in front of him, and he tries to picture it in his mind. Imagine the hallways Phil had pointed out, the grand ballroom in the center and the meeting room behind. “You and Techno will sneak me in, and I’ll blend in with the crowd until the meeting starts. Then Tubbo and Ranboo will make a distraction so Phil can sneak us into the meeting.” 

 

While getting aboard the ship and into the meeting sounded easy, there was also the fact that Tommy was fucking human. If they wanted to get into the meeting, he needed to lay low for a little while. Blend in.

 

Which is part of the reason why, apparently, he needs to know all these fucking customs, and the others can get off with the spark-notes version . He can’t make a scene before they even get to the meeting.

 

“And then?”

 

Another sigh. Ugh. “And then I'll introduce myself, and I’ll be all polite ‘n shit so they’ll want to help us.” 

 

“Introduce yourself how?”

 

Tommy blanks. “Uh…”

 

Techno makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “We just went over this.”

 

“Give me a second!” Tommy snaps, wracking through his brain for the correct answer. Stupid Endlings and their stupid rules. 

 

There were so many fucking council members. And they’re all from different planets, which means he has to not only remember all their names, but remember how to greet each one the right way . Thankfully, the order isn’t too hard to remember. The important people first, like Ex-Deeh and the Queen of Enderion, and then the others afterwards. 

 

“I introduce myself to the big man first, right?” He pictures the flashcard in his head. An admin, some super old, super powerful alien. Basically the head honcho of the council. “I bow, and then I say my name, and I don’t look ‘im in the face ‘cause that's rude.” 

 

Techno nods, satisfied, and Tommy feels himself relax. Just a smidge. 

 

“Very good Tommy.” Phil praises, reaching over to pluck a flashcard out of the air. It dissolves in his hand with a small ding! 

 

One down, a nine more to go. Tommy eyes the other flashcards, chewing a hole in his bottom lip. 

 

He’s got this. He’s so got this. 

 

“Who’s next?” Techno continues. 

 

“The Queen-”

 

“Empress.”

“-Of Enderion, right?” 

 

Phil had described her earlier, and Tommy does his best to picture her in his mind. She’d sounded almost like a fucking dragon, with black scales and big, leathery wings. He bets she looks fucking badass. 

 

“She’ll be dressed all fancy,” he remembers. “And she’ll probably have the biggest crowd around her. I bow to her too, but I gotta stare her down the whole time.”

 

Eyecontact is kind of a weird thing, in space. Some cultures like it, some avoid it like the fucking plague. Making sure he doesn’t fuck that up is going to be a headache, he can already tell. 

 

From what feels like a lifetime ago, a little voice whispers in the back of his mind, bringing with it the smell of sweat and blood, and grit of sand in his teeth. “Don’t look them in the eyes, they’ll take it as a challenge.” 

 

Phil pulls a face, his voice snapping Tommy back to the present. “Not how I would put it, but yeah.”

 

Another ding!, another card down. 

 

“And then after that it's the Mayor of Nevodis, some old rich prick.” Tommy rolls on, not even waiting for the prompt. 

 

He remembers this one, the way Techno’s snout had twisted into a scowl as Phil read the words aloud. The mayor will be dressed in a bunch of sparkly shit, Phil had said. That was kind of Nevodis’s whole thing, glitz and glam, holograms-a-plenty. He imagines the casino, all the neon lights and the mismatched food. He's got this in the bag. 

 

Techno raises an eyebrow. “You remember how to greet him?”

 

“The weird handshake-thing. Yeah.”

 

Phil had shown it to him earlier, like some weird version of patty-cake. Something something, rich people are weird about introducing themselves, blah blah blah, normal handshakes are offensive. Tommy had gotten the jist of it. 

 

“Who’s next?”

 

“The…” fuck, fuck. Was it Netheria or Bezzar? “...Netherian representative?”

 

“Nope.” goddamn it. “You missed one. Who’s before them?”

 

“Uh… the Governor of… Aether?” He tries, knowing it’s wrong before the words even leave his mouth. Does Aether even have a governor? He doesn’t think so. 

 

“The Governor of Viona. ” Phil gently corrects. “Him and his wife, remember?”

 

Now Tommy does, after he’s said it. The Governor of Viona, another rich prick, and his wife. Both merlings, like Niki, and he has to remember how to greet them properly without fucking it up. Did they have a weird handshake too? Or were they one of the ones he was supposed to bow too? 

 

Goddamn it, and he was doing so well

 

He’s never been good at remembering stuff like this, even back in school. You’d think that with literally his entire future dangling in the balance, he'd be able to at least do this. But, no. Ten flashcards, and Tommy can barely make it through the first three without fucking it up. 

 

Who the fuck is he kidding. This is going to go so fucking badly. 

 

This is just the introductions! If he can’t even remember how to introduce himself, how is he supposed to convince them to give him one of their rarest and most expensive spaceships? Tommy wouldn't hand that shit out to some scruffy teenager who couldn’t even do a proper handshake. 

 

He’s too tired for this shit. He’s barely been able to sleep without nightmares, or, worse, seeing Clem and Clara everytime he shuts his eyes. He glares at the stupid fucking flashcards, resisting the urge to cross his arms and pout like a toddler. 

 

“Let's… call it there for right now.” Phil relents, and the look he’s giving Tommy is forgiving and gentle and makes Tommy want to smash the holoscreen into his stupid bird-face. “I know it's a lot to remember. We can try it again later, alright?” 

 

It’s really not. All the others didn’t seem to have a problem remembering all this shit, it’s just Tommy that can’t seem to get it right .

 

Four days is not enough time to memorize everything he needs to know. Couldn’t they have shown him all this shit earlier? 

 

With a wave of Phil’s hand, the flashcards rearrange themselves in front of him, information-side up. Three down, seven left. Tommy growls, skimming over the ones that remain. Phil had said that the introductions were the important part, but there's plenty of other shit on here too for him to learn before they get there. Which representatives like who, which ones have the most power. 

 

Fucking space politics. Just his luck. 

 

“Don’t take it so hard, mate.” A wing brushes over his shoulder as Phil goes to stand. “I’ve had years of practice dealing with all this shit. You’re the one learning it for the first time.”

 

Tommy glowers, still glaring at the empty air where the flashcards used to be. 

 

“Considerin’ how new you are to all this, you’re doing a pretty good job.”

 

Tommy hates how quickly his gaze snaps to Techno. How a single fucking sentence is enough to ease the ball of tension tightening around his chest. 

 

He’s… right. They’re both right.

 

Tommy’s human. It’s weird how he forgets that, sometimes. He grew up on Earth, and all the stupid rules rich people have on his own planet are confusing enough. Of course the others are having an easier time remembering all this shit, most of its stuff they already knew. 

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“Can we try it again?” He asks. “Just- one more time? I think I’ve got it now.”

 

He only has like, four days, after all. He’s gonna need all the practice he can get. 





-





Tommy has known for a long time that the universe has it out for him, specifically, but this? This is starting to feel a bit like overkill. 

 

It’s not enough for him to go through all the horrors, oh no. He has to fucking relive them in the form of nightmares. And if that isn’t bad enough, the moment he starts, you know, learning how to cope with the nightmares, the universe goes, “oh, you know what would be better than this? Let's dig up some old childhood memories to throw at him. Reopen that old can of worms right before literally the most important mission he’s had so far. What could go wrong?” 

 

And then, of course, because the universe just loves to rub salt in the wound whenever it can, he can’t even wallow in his misery by himself. 

 

The bridge isn’t empty. Because of course it isn’t. That would be too easy. 

 

The newest dream hadn’t been anything special. Hell, he can barely even fucking remember it, per usual. The moment he’s awake, the details blur together and slip away before he can grab them. He’d woken alone, on the floor, with nothing but the phantom feeling of colorful bandaids stuck to his knees and the low, rumbling tone of Clara’s voice ringing in his ears. 

 

“You’re alright, kid.” Is what she’d said. It’s the only part of the dream he remembers with clarity, the words looping over and over. You’re alright, you’re alright. 

 

He’d forgotten about that stupid memory. The time she’d helped patch him up after one of the kids at school decided to trip him on the way home. Two skinned knees is nothing to him now, not after everything he’s been through, but eleven-year-old him was a lot less tough. One of the rare occasions that he’d seen Clara’s soft side.

 

It’s a stupid thing to get upset over, he knows. Unfortunately, the rest of him doesn’t seem to get the memo. 

 

How many other memories is he forgetting, he wonders. Just how long has he been out here? A year? Two? Three?

 

(He doesn’t think it’s been that long, but it’s hard to tell. Not with his memories all… the way they are. He’d rather not go digging around for answers in memories better left forgotten.)

 

The point is, it's late. Super late. So late that it’s close to morning, actually, when he’d finally given up on going back to sleep. It’s not like there’d be much of a point anyways. 

 

Tommy is… not proud to admit how long he’d considered going to Wilbur. He had said that Tommy could come by if he wanted company, and he never seemed mad the few times that Tommy had taken him up on the offer. 

 

He just doesn’t… he doesn’t want to be alone right now. 

 

Waking up Ranboo and Tubbo seems like a shitty thing to do, not after they’ve finally gotten their sleep schedules back on track. Waking up Wilbur would be… a bad idea. He already knows. He doesn’t think he has it in him to pretend that he didn’t just finish crying into his blanket, and that’s just fucking embarrassing. Phil and Techno are out as well.

 

Luckily for Tommy, he doesn’t need any of them. Not when he has the best company a man could ever ask for within arms reach. 

 

Having a nocturnal spider-cat around has its perks. Mostly being that Shroud was already awake when Tommy checked, and is always more than willing to spend some time with him. He’d paused just long enough to settle Shroud on his shoulder, and off they went. 

 

The bridge is a good place to be on a night like this. Nothing but him and the stars. 

 

He can spend the remaining hours before dawn lounging by one of the big windows, spread out with Shroud curled up in his lap. Maybe try and piece together some of the new constellations he’d learned on Aether and see what he can remember of the stories that went with them. Just him, space, and the best pet in the entire galaxy. What could be better than that? It’s one of his better plans, 

The perfect way to shake off what’s left of the chill that the dream had left in his bones without having to bother the rest of the crew. It was fool-proof. 

 

Or well, it had been fool-proof. 

 

It lasted right up until Tommy had stepped out onto the bridge, his favorite blanket in one hand and Shroud on his shoulder, and spotted Technoblade sitting in the cockpit.  

 

Tommy freezes in the doorway. Techno isn’t facing him, there’s a chance he hasn’t noticed him yet. Slowly, he takes a step backwards. He can just leave, go hang out somewhere else-

 

“Phil, I said I’m-“

 

-or not, because, again, the universe hates Tommy and looks for every opportunity to spite him.

 

Technoblade cuts himself off once he’s turned around enough to realize that it’s Tommy standing there and not Phil. 

 

For a solid five seconds, all they do is blink dumbly at one another. 

 

“I’m just gonna-“ “You can-“

 

They both start talking at once, and stumble to the same awkward stop. Another round of silence. 

 

Instead of talking this time, Techno just. Sighs. It’s not an angry sigh, or an exasperated sigh. Not even a “I can’t believe I have to deal with this shit ” sigh, which is one of Phil’s favorites. Just a tired sort of sigh that seems to drain all of the fight from him at once. He runs a hand down his face and, without a word, just. Pats the seat next to him.

 

 An invitation.

 

And Tommy-

 

Look, he really just. Doesn’t want to be alone right now, okay? 

 

He’s made it halfway across the bridge before his mind catches up with his feet. The last few strides are hesitant, and he finds himself glancing at Techno out of the corner of his eye every now and again, like any second now he’s about to go, “Just kidding. Get out.” 

 

It never comes, though. 

 

It’s not like Tommy had woken him up. Techno had already been awake, it’s different. It’s not like he’s running to him after a nightmare like a scared little kid, they both just so happened to be awake. At the same time. In the same place.

 

It’s different. 

 

Tommy slides into Wilbur’s usual chair in the cockpit, and Techno adjusts to give him some room. He’s quiet the whole time, ruby-red eyes half-lidded, watching Tommy almost absentmindedly as he settles the blanket around his shoulders.

 

Shroud takes his moment to scurry down his arm, brushing her tail against his face as she slinks into his lap and then up to the keyboard, chittering quietly to herself all the while as she pokes around the new space. 

 

Tommy’s never sat in the cockpit before. Its… pretty nice, actually. A little alcove carved out into the front of the ship, just large enough for two people to sit comfortably. The bridge is always a bit dark, considering it’s more windows than metal, and there aren’t too many places that aren’t made of glass to set lights into. The cockpit is even darker, especially now, now that the already few and far between lights have been dimmed for the night. 

 

The keyboard in front of him casts the most light, a hundred buttons in a dozen neon colors all blinking and glowing away. It lights up Techno’s profile in shades of green, blue, and purple as he slumps over the keyboard, the colors shifting as they glint off of Shroud’s black coat. 

 

Tommy leans forward to rest his elbows on the keyboard, mirroring Techno. Tommy’s arms don’t make the most comfortable pillow. The piglin makes it look a lot more comfortable. 

 

Still, Tommy feels himself relaxing. The tension bleeding out of his shoulders, inch by inch, bit by bit. 

 

Techno tends to have that effect, he’s beginning to realize. He’s a hard guy to rile up, not anything like Wilbur, who’s as dramatic as he is easy to piss off, or Tubbo, who’s, well, Tubbo. Not like Ranboo either, who’d spent the first few weeks aboard the ship jumping at shadows. Phil is similar , but he’s been on the receiving end of his “I’m not mad, just disappointed” look enough times to know where his boundaries lie. 

 

Techno doesn’t get mad or upset unless there’s a good reason. Irritated? Sure. On edge? A handful of times. But honest-to-god upset? Or angry? Then something must be really, really wrong. If it’s enough to get under Techno’s skin, then it’s a big fucking deal. 

 

Weirdly enough, the opposite is kind of true, too. If Techno’s calm, then everything must be fine. If he’s wearing his pajamas, unarmed and half-asleep, then he knows he’s safe. 

 

The cockpit is small, downright fucking cozy, with his back to the room and the void of space stretching in front of him. Shroud is curled up and purring on the keyboard, and Tommy can hear the familiar droning hum of the ship underneath the quiet huff of Techno’s breathing. Everything is quiet and calm, and the chill that had settled in his bones is starting to thaw out.

 

When Techno does finally speak, in that low, half-asleep rumble, it’s not a lecture Phil would give him about getting enough sleep, or a jab Wilbur would make about his eye bags. It’s just a question.

 

 “…do you want to talk about it?”

 

“Talk about what?”

 

Techno gives him a look, and all the excuses die on his tongue. 

 

It’s not like he can deny it. He’s sure he looks like a fucking wreck. He’s still probably all pale and red-faced, eyes still all glassy and bloodshot. The ever-present tremble in his hands beginning to radiate up his arms to his shoulders. He doesn’t even want to fucking know what his hair looks like. 

 

So for once, Tommy doesn’t say anything. He closes his big mouth, resting his chin on folded arms, reaching his hands up to his shoulders to pull the blanket around him that much tighter. It gives him something to do with his hands, something to grab.  

 

Oh, fuck it. 

 

Without daring to glance in his direction, Tommy stares stubbornly out into the depths of space and just. Nods. 

 

Techno doesn’t push him. He doesn’t demand answers, or bring up how dumb it is for Tommy to agree to talk about his stupid dreams and then not say anything. He leans a little bit closer. Not touching, but close enough for Tommy to be able to lean into his side, if he wanted too. Close enough to feel the warmth of his presence next to him. It… helps. Weirdly enough. 

 

Tommy sneaks a glance in his direction. He’s not looking Tommy’s way. Honestly, if Tommy didn’t know any better, he’d think he was about to fall asleep. Relaxed, resting slumped over the keyboard. His eyes are half open, lazily staring out the window and half-heartedly watching Shroud groom her mandibles. 

 

When he finally speaks, it’s not a demand. Not an accusation. 

 

“We all get them, you know.” He hums, voice and low and rumbling as the motor of Wilbur’s hovercycle. 

 

Tommy snorts before he can catch himself, something sharp bleeding into his voice. “Even you?” 

 

Why the fuck did he say that. 

 

He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t mean to say it like that, but his sleep-deprived brain didn’t seem to get the memo. Goddamnit. 

 

Techno doesn’t seem offended, though. He interrupts Tommy’s stuttering attempts to backtrack with a huff, leaning in to bush Tommy’s shoulder with his own. “Me especially, kid.”

 

…Huh. Huh. 

 

Tommy… he isn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

 

He risks another glance. There’s something about his expression that’s shifted, something in his eyes that Tommy can’t place. Something far away. 

 

It reminds him of the look Phil gets, sometimes, when he talks about Aether. The way he’d looked out over the graveyard that night, the heaviness in his voice as he’d spoke. There’s a story there, if Tommy ever felt like prying at it. Something that he isn’t saying. 

 

Part of him wants to pry. Wants to ask. He’s always been too fucking curious for his own good, always the one to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. You’d really think he would know better by now, considering the dozens of times it’s come around to bite him in the ass. 

 

He doesn’t ask, though. Tommy might be a lot of things, but he’s not a fucking hypocrite. 

 

“They aren’t…”

 

Tommy starts, but the words sputter out. They aren’t nightmares. They’re memories. And that’s… worse? Somehow? 

 

He tries again, running a hand through his hair. His voice is low, quiet, the words stumbling together. “I’ve always had nightmares, I guess, but ever since Viona it’s.. and then these new dreams are just…”

 

I got used to the old dreams, you know. About him. About that place. It was so fucking horrible, Techno, and I relived it over and over again for months everytime I shut my eyes. All the shit he put me through. The knives and needles- all of it. I got used to those dreams, I learned how to pull myself out. Learned how to block it out. Why are these dreams worse? 

 

Techno doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t interrupt, letting Tommy stutter out whatever he was trying to say. Even then, he still just can’t. The things he wants to say lodge behind his teeth and stick there. 

 

Tommy Innet, lost for words. He didn’t think the day would ever fucking come. In his mind, they pour out of him. A stream of bullshit that he wishes he could say, but can’t. The words right there, but out of reach. 

 

They scare me, is what he wants to say. What he’s trying to say, the words clogging up his throat until he’s choking on them. These memories. They scare me so much more than the nightmares do, Tech. Isn’t that sad? I’m forgetting them, my first real fucking friends, my family. I can barely even remember what they fucking look like, and it scares me. Isn’t that just pathetic? Isn’t it pathetic that I’d rather have the nightmares? 

 

“-mmy?”

 

Of course the moment he wants to actually try and talk, he fucking can’t. He opens his mouth, trying again, but he still can’t just say the them out loud-

 

I’m so fucking scared, Technoblade. I don’t know what’s going to happen and it scares me. I don’t want to be alone again. It’s like I’m stuck. I can’t go back home, I can’t stay here, no matter what I’m just- 

 

“-ou okay?”



There’s a hand on his shoulder.

 

Tommy-

 

Tommy blinks. 

 

Technoblade is looking at him, now suddenly awake. He’s changed positions, turned to face him, eyes like rubies glittering in the dark. There’s a hand on his shoulder. Not squeezing just… resting there. Holding him steady.

 

The world comes back into focus slowly. His chest is still tight, breathing too fast and too shallow, but he’s here. His hands twitch, fingers buried in the blanket that had slipped from his shoulders, pooling in his lap. His hands are clenched into fists. They’re shaking, he noticed, but the realization comes from some place far away. He’s shaking. 

 

Technoblade frowns. He says something, but all Tommy hears is the rush of blood in his ears. All he hears is Clara’s voice, an old, scratched record that loops in his head. You’re alright, kid. You’re alright. You’re alright. 

 

In for four. Hold. Out for eight.

 

Tommy can’t… he doesn’t remember who taught him that. He thinks it might’ve been Clementine, after one rough afternoon or another, and it’s in her voice the words come to him. He watches Techno’s shoulders rise and fall, breathing to a similar rhythm. 

 

He tries again. In for four. Hold. Out for eight. 

 

The pressure in his chest loosens, the tension beginning to unwind. He just… he just needs to breathe. He just needs to breathe, and let his heart beat go back to normal. He’s okay. He’s fine. He’s on the Argo II, millions and millions of miles out into the middle of nowhere. He’s an arms length away from Technoblade , who can bend solid metal with his bare hands. 

 

He’s safe. He’s fine. Everything is fine, fine, fine. 

 

Once, twice, three times. He shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, and the ghosts that have been haunting him all night loosen their grip. His mouth is dry, and he swallows. 

 

Techno’s still looking at him, hand still resting on his shoulder. He’d said something, and is clearly expecting an answer, eyebrows knit together with concern. Fuck. Fuck. 

 

Get it together, Tommy. 

 

“I-“ he starts, pauses to swallow, and then starts again. “I’m sorry, w-what did you say?”

 

It’s a little shaky, a little too quiet, but not a half-bad attempt at sounding okay. Clearly he needs to work on his acting skills, because Techno doesn’t seem convinced for a second. The calm, sleepy Technoblade is gone, replaced by the sharp-eyed swordsman Tommy knows better. He looks Tommy up and down like he’s scanning for injuries.

 

“I asked if you’re okay.” He repeats himself slowly, eyes narrowing. “ Are you okay?”

 

“I-“ Tommy tries. He pauses again, sucking in a breath, and the words come out smoother the second time. “Yeah. ‘M okay.” 

 

He’s okay. He’s okay. He's perfectly fine and safe. He can breathe again, and takes full advantage, pulling in each raspy breath in the same slow rhythm. He unclenches his hands, wiping sweaty palms on the blanket, and wills himself to stop shaking. It could have been worse, at least he didn’t burst into tears. That would have been a shitshow. 

 

Note to self, talking about nightmares is overrated

 

Techno eases off, the narrow-eyed look of concern shifting to something more relaxed. He moves out of Tommy’s personal space, but doesn’t go far. Taking the hand off of his shoulder just to lean into his side. Their shoulders brush, barely touching, and it feels like an apology. 

 

“…You don’t have’ta talk about it, if ya’ don’t want to.” 

 

Tommy pulls in another breath. “I want to, I just…”

 

Can’t. He can’t. Not without talking about that place, about him. It’s frustrating. 

 

He’s safe. He knows that he’s safe, that he’s never going to go back to that place, that he is gone, and Tommy will never have to see that fucking smile ever again, but still. It’s like there’s some stupid part of him that’s convinced that so much as saying his name will be enough to drag him from Tommy’s memories back to reality. 

 

It’s. Frustrating. 

 

“It’s okay.” Techno shifts again, brushing their shoulders together more firmly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

 

Tommy almost wants to laugh. Whenever he’s ready , like they have all the time in the fucking world. Like he doesn’t have- what? Three more days? Two? Left with his crew before he hops on a one-way flight back to Earth. 

 

Maybe it’s for the best. It’s not like they can do anything about it now. What’s done is done, there’s no going back. Talking about it won’t change what happened, it’ll just upset the both of them. He wants to leave on a good note, goddamnit, not with him reopening all these old wounds for everyone to see. He doesn’t… he doesn’t want them to see him like that. He doesn’t want them to know how much those memories hurt. 

 

If Tommy was a stronger man, he’d shove Techno away. If he was a stronger man, he’d put on a brave face, memorize all the stupid flashcards, and charm the council with a smile on his face. If Tommy was stronger, he’d never let his crew now how much it’s going to fucking hurt to leave them behind.

 

But Tommy is… he doesn’t feel really strong, right now.

 

(And maybe that’s okay, too?)

 

“Could you… just…” the words trail off. Tommy can’t force the rest of the request out, feeling his face already flushing. Oh, fuck it. 

 

He doesn’t lean into Techno so much as he flops, collapsing all of his weight into his side. He grabs a hold of his shirt before he can think better of it, shoving his face into his shoulder. He manages to force the rest out through a mouthful of fabric. “ Idontwanttobealonerightnow.” 

 

Techno freezes, for a second. Just long enough to make Tommy nervous, before slinging an around his shoulders, pulling him more securely into Techno’s side. A snout snuffles into his hair, a hand rubbing circles over his shoulder. He doesn’t hear him begin to purr so much as he feels it, fingers scratching gently over his back oh, that’s kind of really nice, actually. 

 

Then the hand pauses. The blanket around his ribs shifts. “…is this my blanket?”

 

Tommy doesn’t say anything, hoping his face is hidden enough to hide the grin tugging at his lips. Maybe if he’s still enough, he can just pretend to be asleep. 

 

“Bruh.” Techno whines. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this.” 

 

Tommy can’t choke back the snort in time, muffling his laughter in Techno’s shirt. “Finders keepers, bitch.”

 

The noise Techno lets out is downright mournful. It’s what he gets for leaving his shit in the laundry. You snooze you loose. 

 

A snout sniffles into his hair again, the arm around his shoulders readjusting to pull the blanket around them both. He’s muttering under his breath all the while, something about shoats and property value, but even he can’t disguise the low, reassuring chuffs and the purr strong enough that Tommy can feel it in his bones.

 

Tommy’s fast asleep before he even notices the hand on his back moving to brush the tangles out of his hair. 



(For the first time in weeks, he dreams of nothing at all.)




-



Of the predators in this strange place, there is one that is different.

 

He smells different. His voice is different. His hands are gentle, they do not hurt it. They do not try to harm it in any way. More than that, this predator, it protects him.

 

When the others get too close, when they go to strike, the predator stops them. He holds it close, away from danger, and they listen.

 

It… It finds that it does not mind this predator. 

 

It feeds him. It keeps him safe. Its hands, while strange, are kind.

 

It has never known a predator to be kind.

 

Creatures like it stay in small groups, sometimes. For safety. There is strength in a pack.

 

It has never had a pack. It is small compared to the others like it, weak. It could not be useful to a pack, so none accepted it. 

 

Surviving alone is hard, it has found. But it has never known anything different.

 

It has never known a pack before. It has never had a creature show it kindness before. Strange, strange, strange. 

 

The predator calls him Shroud.

 

It does not know what it means, but it likes the sound. Shroud, shroud

 

How strange it is, to have a name. How very strange.

 

It is no longer alone. This is strange as well. It has lived on this ship for many moons now, living alongside the other predators. They are… not as scary as they had seemed, at the start. They are a pack.

 

A strange pack, maybe, but what does it know of packs? 

 

Littlest-One is small and fast. He purrs very often, and its voice is loud and buzzing. He is very strong, for a pup. Strong and fast. He will be a good hunter. 

 

He and Tall-One are often together. This is good, as Tall-One is shy and skittish. Littlest-One is a good protector. Tall-One is clearly the runt. It is glad that Desert-Born is teaching Tall-One to fight. 

 

Feathered-One is the pack leader. The others listen when he speaks. At first it thought that Desert-Born would be the leader, as he is the largest and strongest, but he never challenges Feathered-One. Feathered-One must be a good pack leader. 

 

Desert-Born is the only one that smells like home. Even then, the smell is somewhat strange. Not quite the warmth-sand-heat of its home, but close. 

 

It does not like Colorful-One. They smell bad, like rain and too-sweet things. They are loud and annoying. 

 

This place is strange. Strange and cold. It is glad that it’s favorite packmate found it when he did. 

 

Protector is still a pup as well. He is the strangest, but he is kind. His hands shake, but are gentle. He is good.

 

Dessert-Born is kind to him. It watched very closely as they spoke. It had been afraid that Desert-Born had hurt Protector, and was ready to defend him, but it had misunderstood. 

 

Desert-Born does not move as Protector sleeps. He looks like he wants to, but does not. This is good. Protector does not sleep well or often.

 

It is hard work, looking after a pack of predators. Shroud is small. A runt. They are large and much stronger.

 

Shroud does its best. 

 

They stay in the colorful-small-cave for a long time. Shroud watches over them as they sleep. Just because it has not seen more predators does not mean they are not here. It knows better.

 

It was right to keep watch. Colorful-One finds them later, once it is Day and no longer Night. 

 

Colorful-One makes a noise that it does not like. Colorful-One moves closer.

 

Shroud growls a warning.

 

Leave-leave-go-away! 

 

It does not like this one. It is loud and smells bad

 

Colorful-One chitters and moves closer. Colorful-One goes to TOUCH.

 

LEAVE-GET-AWAY-MINE

 

It regrets biting Colorful-One as soon as its teeth latch on.

 

If only because of the taste, and that the noise it made woke Desert-Born and Protector.

 

(It runs to Protector’s arms, afterwards. Colorful-One howls and screeches, but does not approach.

 

Shroud purrs. Protector is the best packmate. 

 

Wherever he goes, Shroud will follow.) 




-




There is an air vent underneath Tommy’s bed.

 

Squeezing under the bed to reach it has gotten a bit more difficult the longer time goes by. He’s grown since the day he’d discovered it. Taller, broader shoulders, three meals a day and regular exercise pays off. He has actual muscle now. 

 

Still, old habits die hard. He’s had stashes like this in just about every foster home he’d been to. Then, it had been out of necessity, the only way he could ensure that no one would find his things and take them or fuck with them. He doesn’t need to do that anymore, not on the Argo II, and he usually doesn’t, it’s just…

 

Well, this stash is different. It’s embarrassing , and the less the others know about it, the better. 

 

Besides, it’s nice to have a place to put his things where he knows no one else will find them. A place that is his on a small ship where just about everything is shared and personal space is hard to come by. 

 

The metal screen pushes aside with only a little bit of complaint when he presses on it, revealing a rectangular hole a little more than a foot wide and about half a foot tall. 

 

His stash has grown considerably in the last few months. He's been taking and adding things as well, most of the food, water and first aid supplies has been moved to his messenger bag for easier access when he’s out and about, leaving just the important stuff in the stash. The stuff he doesn’t want anyone to know about. 

 

Tommy runs his hands reverently over every item, touching them each in turn. 

 

The fork with the bent prongs, the first real thing he’d hidden down here, and the one he’d used to unscrew the vent from the wall. A few sheets of paper and a pen, both stolen from Wilburs room sometime during his first week. 

 

He’d thought about using them, keeping some kind of journal or writing letters or something, but they’d stayed untouched. Besides, the pen is kind of weird, and he still isn’t sure how to use it. He folds the paper delicately before setting it carefully at the bottom of his bag alongside the pen. 

 

Underneath the paper is a handful of small, strange looking gears, sitting innocently next to a couple of Tubbo’s honey-candies. The last two from his stash. Snatching them had been a fucking hassle, but it’ll be worth it. The gears go in the main pocket, and he tucks the candies into a side pocket, burying them deep, just in case. 

 

The spare guitar string comes next, coiled neatly with one of Technoblade’s bracelets, a broken one he wouldn’t miss. The guitar string he’d nabbed just after Wilbur had played for them for the very first time, the bracelets not long after leaving Netheria. He still wears some of the jewelry Techno had given him, each piece, hidden carefully under clothing of course, a hundred times more beautiful than the bracelet he’d stolen. Still, he packs both items away as if they were made of solid gold. They’re important. 

 

After those two comes the feather. He’d taken it just before T’aria, he remembers. It’s one of Phil’s, long and shiny, about the length of his hand, found abandoned on the floor of the bridge. It’s still beautiful, even all these months later, soft and sleek in his hands. He’s careful not to bend it as he packs it away. 

 

The golden button from Puffy’s coat joins it soon enough. He pauses to breathe on the front of it, wiping and buffing the surface until it's sparkling new once again. He finds a bottle tab hidden behind Henry the Second’s clumsy hooves, chuckling at the memory of Wilbur’s horrified face and Phil’s panic before adding it to the same pocket.

 

Tucked to the side of the vent is what appears to be an old VHS tape. Or, well, the weird-space version of one, anyways. Like someone who had only ever heard stories of VHS tapes decided to try and build one using high-tech sci-fi parts. The label has long since faded away, but someone had scribbled something on it in what appears to be pen. It reads human something something horror in galactic, the rest of the letters too smudged or faded to read.

 

Tommy brushes a hand over the tape. A movie night on the couch, the awful acting and cheesy special effects. A True B-list horror movie. He can still picture the horrified faces of the rest of the crew, and cackles as he packs it away. That had been a wild ride. Maybe he can find another copy on Earth and actually get around to finishing it. 

 

There are three items left. 

 

The laughter dies in his throat, and he swallows. 

 

The glass flower comes first. It's still safely tucked away in the back. He just can’t seem to find the right time to go through with the gift. It just feels so… final. It's meant to be a goodbye gift, something to remember him by. The last thing he does for his best friend.

 

He swallows again, blinking rapidly as he stuffs it to the bottom of his bag. It can wait a little longer. Just a little bit longer. 

 

The blanket comes next. The newest edition, and also the largest. 

 

Thin and soft, a wine-red blanket made of some tightly-knitted fabric. Not large enough to cover him from head to toe, but enough to drape perfectly over his shoulders. Techno hadn’t fought for it back, though he had shot him a few mournful looks the next day, when he’d worn it proudly to breakfast. 

 

He presses his face to the fabric. It still smells like his fancy-ass soap, but there’s more than that. It smells like the Argo II. Like the oils Phil uses to clean his feathers, and the vanilla-scented shampoo Wilbur can’t get enough of. It smells like the soap they all use to do laundry, like the sweet, smokey scent of the lotion Tubbo uses for his hands and Ranboo’s fur. 

 

He breathes in the smell for a few moments, before rolling up the blanket and packing it away with the rest. He’s never going to wash it. Ever. 

 

And then, there was one. 

 

Henry the Second seems to get uglier every time he sees him. Mismatched eyes, sloppy stitching, clearly the passion project of a half-blind grandmother with horrible arthritis who’d never actually seen a cow in person. He’d done his best to clean off his black and brown fur, with mixed results, but looking into those mournful button eyes makes the back of his throat burn. 

 

His hands are shaking when he pulls Henry into his arms, hugging him tight to his chest. 

 

“You’re coming with me.” he murmurs into the patchy fur, voice cracking. “You’re coming home with me, okay?”

 

Henry doesn't respond, not like he was expecting him too, and Tommy dries his face on his sleeves before beginning the arduous task of pulling himself out from under the bed. It would probably have been easier if he had let go of Henry, instead of doing the entire thing one-handed, but he makes do. 

 

With the help of a fork with bent prongs, the vent is replaced, and screws are put back. 

 

When he’s finished, it's as if it had never been touched at all. 




-




“Alright, the Mayor of Bezzar.”

 

“He looks kind of like Puffy, and he’ll probably have his husband with him.” Tommy lists off, not even glancing at the flashcards. “He hasn't been the mayor for very long, so he’ll probably just follow the majority vote. I’ll introduce myself with a… handshake?”

 

“Yep,” Tubbo agrees. Another soft ding! And the flashcard is gone.

 

Tommy grins, trying to meet Tubbo’s gaze. It's a bit of a feat since he’s dangling off their bed and half-upside down, but he manages. “You two grew up on Bezzar, right? Did you ever meet him?”

 

Criss-cross at the foot of the bed, Tubbo looks up from the flashcard set long enough to cackle. “Ha. no.”

 

“We’d see him on the screens, sometimes.” Ranboo speaks up softly, sprawled on their back over near Shroud’s cage. A bold choice, considering their history. “He lived in the Upper City, the real fancy part.”

 

“The buildings get harder to climb the more fancy they get,” Tubbo adds fondly. “We couldn't get anywhere close.”

 

“Did you try, I dunno, walking?”

 

“Where's the fun in that?”

 

“We’d stick out too much, anyways.” Ranboo shrugs. “That part of the city is rich rich.”

 

“Yeah,” Tubbo agrees. “like, ‘can buy their own private moon’ rich.”

 

“Huh”

 

Tommy thinks that he’d want his own, private moon. Just to like, have. He cant imagine being so rich you’d be able to have your won fucking moon to yourself, but maybe that’s the space equivalent of like. Buying your own private island, or something. Rich people did that all the time back on Earth. 

 

Before he can ask about it, all three of their comns light up with a synchronized ping! 

 

None of them even need to read the message to know what that means. 

 

Tubbo gives him a grin, a familiar glint in his eye. “Race you to the bridge?”

 

“S-”

 

Tubbo’s up and out the door before Tommy can even finish agreeing. Ranboo gives him a wide-eyed look before following, traitors, the both of them, leaving Tommy flopping around like a dying fish, trying to get his feet underneath him in time.

 

“Oh come on! You fucking cheaters!”

 

He follows the sound of Tubbo’s laugh all the way to the bridge.




-





The council ship is fucking huge.

 

Tommy wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, honestly. The Argo II was about the size of a small house, he’d figured the fabled Council Ship would be the size of like, a cruise ship or something. Big enough to house a few hundred of ships like the Argo. 

 

“Oh, what the fuck.”

 

It’s massive. It’s probably as big as fucking Bezzar, a huge, white ship, sparkling like it’s been carved from marble in the light of a nearby star. He can see the reflection of space in the wide, yawning windows of the glittering hull, broad white wings stretching out to either side. They almost seem to move, the plates of metal gliding past one another, shifting like feathers on the back of some giant beast. 

 

Upon closer inspection he sees them for what they really are. Spaceships. 

 

Compared to the rest of the ship, the ships are tiny. There must be thousands of them, flocking to the sides of the larger ship like little fish clinging to the fins of a shark. Ships the size of the Argo II , or larger, reduced to nothing more than minnows in its presence. 

 

Tommy wouldn't be surprised if the damn thing had its own gravitational field, the thrusters alone must be the size of small moons. They aren’t activated, the ship itself simply hitching a ride in Enderion’s atmosphere. They must be packing some serious power to be able to move a ship so large. 

 

He’s so taken by the ship itself, he doesn’t even notice the planet behind it until Ranboo asks, “is that Enderion?”

 

“Yep.” Techno grunts. “That's Enderion.”

 

Tommy shifts his gaze behind the ship. Enderion is massive as well, easily one of the largest planets he's seen. It's far from the most breathtaking, though. 

 

It takes up the entirety of the window, but Tommy barely even noticed. Its surface is almost as dark as the void of space behind it, an intimidating, swirling mix of soot black and deep purple. He can make out hints of the surface underneath, a scattered nebula of lights just visible through the smog, the only things visible of the great cities that must be lurking under the surface. Craggly peaks of mountains peek through the clouds like the great, black fangs of some huge monster, outlining the ridges and valleys that must make up the planet underneath. 

 

“It's beautiful.” Ranboo breathes. Not exactly the word Tommy would use, but he’s not going to ruin their moment. 

 

It's certainly an upgrade from Viona, but Aether definitely has it beat in the looks department. Not ugly but… intimidating. Kind of like Netheria. 

 

“Well? You ready?”

 

“Yeah”. Tommy says, not taking his eyes off of the ship floating in the distance.

 

He takes a deep breath. In for four seconds, hold for eight, out for four. 

 

“Lets go.” 




-




Several hundreds of miles away, somewhere in the airspace between T’Aria and Nevodis, a Shulk is having a very, very bad day.

 

It’s not exactly clear when this bad day started. Time in space is, of course, basically meaningless. Had it began earlier today, when he’d realized that the ship he was tracking was heading straight for an asteroid belt? Or a few hours ago, when he’d realized just how many vents he’d have to crawl through to complete his mission? Maybe the true beginning of the bad day was months ago, when he’d agreed to take this job in the first place. Who knows?

 

“I don’t get paid enough for this.” The Shulk mutters. There’s no one around to hear it, the words echoing back to him in his helmet. He crawls a little further, turning a corner and sighing when he finds just another dark tunnel. “It’ll be easy , they said. Just sneak aboard, they said-“ 

 

The Shulk is no stranger to this line of work. He moves through the vents as silently as he can, crawling on his hands and knees as fast as the narrow space allows. He doesn’t hesitate when turning corners, following an invisible map only he can see.

 

The power is off, thanks to his earlier handiwork. The crew aboard is probably panicking. He’d chosen this moment to attack for a reason, waiting until the ship crossed over into an area hard for radio signals to reach. A well-placed electromagnetic shock to cut the power, remotely activated from where he had sneakily attached the devices to the ships inner wiring, is enough to leave them completely helpless. Stranded, unable to call for help, and completely oblivious to the mercenary crawling through their vents. 

 

He turns another corner. He’s not far from the cockpit. He hefts his bag over his shoulder, feeling for the several homemade bombs within, and pulls one loose. 

 

This ship is big. Sturdy, too. The Shulk is good at what he does, however. All he has to do is place the explosives in a handful of key places throughout the ship, and they can be remotely detonated once he’s safe and sound in his own spaceship. A clean job.

 

Or, it would be. 

 

He had been counting on security measures of course, most ships this size have them. He’d been expecting sensors he’d have to avoid at the very least, or some kind of security system he’d have to disable. When he hadn’t found anything, he’d written it off as the ship’s crew being cocky or inexperienced, and moved on.

 

That was his first mistake. Or maybe his second. His first mistake was probably agreeing to take this job in the first place- 

 

“Woof.”

 

It’s back.

 

The Shulk chokes down a yelp, freezing in place. The thing hasn’t spotted him yet, but he can see it up ahead, the outline of pointed ears and long snout just around the corner.

 

Fuck. Fuck. He thought he’d lost the stupid thing already, how had it found him again?

 

Carefully, slowly, he begins to move backwards…

 

The thing snaps it’s head towards him in an instant , and the Shulk screeches as he whips himself around and scrambles back the way he’d come, forgoing stealth in favor of getting the hell out of there. 

 

The thing is fast- it’s too fast. White fur, beady black eyes, a long, twisting neck and way, way too many teeth-

 

“Fuck the money,” the Shulk rambles as he runs, crawling as fast as he can. “Fuck Dream. Fuck his stupid job. I’m gonna- I’m gonna retire. I’m gonna retire and start an honest life, I swear!”

 

The creature, deaf to his pleas, snaps at his feet. He yelps and tries to move faster-

 

There!

 

Just around the corner, an air vent. It’s just big enough for him to squeeze through, his only chance at survival. He lunges for it, slamming his shoulder against it once, twice-

 

The creature is so close. He can hear it growling, such an awful, awful fucking sound-

 

Bang!

 

The air vent gives way, and the Shulk tumbles out ass-over-teakettle into the hallway. Behind him, the angry growls of the fucking thing that was chasing him turn into frustrated whines, teeth snapping in open air where he’d been just moments before. 

 

He gets about three seconds of peace before he notices he’s not alone. 

 

Stunned, he can’t do much else but blink stupidly down the barrel of the laser gun pointed at his head. 

 

Polished boots, black gloves. A red coat with golden buttons. A lions-mane of thick, curly wool, and two yellow eyes, both narrowed into slits, staring him down from under a wide-brimmed hat. The Ovisan grins, and there’s nothing about it that’s friendly. 

 

“Heard you were thinking about retiring.” She says casually. “I think we could give you a hand with that. What do you say, Fran?”

 

Behind him, in the vent, “ woof!”

 

The Shulk swallows. 

 

Notes:

Two years. Two whole fucking years, can you believe it?

Two years ago I was sixteen years old, a sophomore in highschool, posting the one-shot that began this hot mess from the back of my AP Earth and Environmental class. Now I'm eighteen, have graduated highschool, and just finished my first semester at college. Weird how time flies, huh?

 

We've got about three more chapters + an epilogue until the fic that changed my life is over for good, but this might change if I decide to split a chapter or two. Updates will be once a month until this sucker is finished, possibly more than that, but I won't make any promises. The finishline is in sight, but believe me when I say that we're still only just getting started.

 

I'll be back again real soon. Stay safe out there, alright?

 

-Matches

Chapter 20: Human (I)

Summary:

subscribe to Technoblade.

Notes:

“I did my best to notice
when the call came down the line,
up to the platform of surrender,
I was brought, but
I was kind.

and sometimes I get nervous,
when I see an open door.”
-Human, the Killers

 

I am currently running on less than four hours of sleep, probably too much benedryl, and a dream. It's still June 30th in my heart okay shut up. Thank you Mars for putting up with my bullshit ily. Enjoy!
 
tumblr // twitter
 
 
 
 
TWs:
Most of the warnings carry over from the previous chapter, but to a lesser extent. a little bit of blood and violence at the end for flavor.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

As a general rule, Tommy tries to have low exceptions.

 

It makes sense. The lower his expectations are at the start, the less of a chance that he’ll be horribly disappointed in the end, right? And, even in the worst-case scenario, he’ll never be caught off guard. A win-win situation.

 

Space, admittedly, had thrown kind of a wrench in things.

 

Because space is wonderful. And terrifying. And beautiful. And everything outside and inbetween. Space doesn’t care about your expectations. Space doesn’t give one singular fuck about what you think, actually. 

 

High expectations? Pfft, you call those high expectations? It can do better, show you better. No matter how high you think your expectations are, it’ll find a way to set that bar even higher. 

 

Plan for the worst-case scenario? What, you think that is the worst thing that can happen to you? Really? Hold on to your fucking hat, kid, and get ready for horrors unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Have fun! Don’t die!

 

Space doesn’t care what Tommy thinks. He’s actually started to believe that whatever cosmic force out there that’s pulling the strings has it out for him personally, actually. Space has rewritten everything Tommy used to think was possible, flipping it all upside down and sideways. Space takes one look at him and starts laughing, calling him a close-minded idiot and locking him in a pet shop for weeks for good measure. 

 

As much as space seems to have it out for him, he’s got to admit, it’s been one hell of a ride. 

 

Tommy’s been all across this galaxy, from the sprawling city rooftops of Bezzar, to the twisting, narrow hallways of Bastion’s inner city. He’d fought tooth and nail in her fighting rings against aliens three times his size and still come out on top, despite all the odds. 

 

He remembers the lush jungles of T’Aria, the huge flowers and the glow of the insects that hid in her undergrowth. The awful, stinking back room of the pet shop, the icy sting of the cold winds and dark alleys of Lestea. He’s danced and sang with Avians on Aether, rubbed elbows with the galaxy’s finest in the sparkling lights of the Las Nevadas casino, seen the glimmer of New L’Manburg across Viona’s dark sea and rocketed through its underbelly on the back of a hovercycle. Through broken bone, every long, cold night, every scar and bruise, he’d lived, fought his way through and come out the other side with a laugh and a smile. He’s seen it all. 

 

And yet, taking that first step off of the Argo II ramp, Tommy’s still just as breathless as he was the very first time. 

 

It’s something he’s really going to miss, back home. That feeling, the rush.

 

No expectations, no limits. Stepping out of the ship and into the light of a new planet, a new world, blinking like an idiot in the sunlight and never quite knowing what he’s going to see when his vision finally settles. Sprawling deserts, endless oceans, rolling meadows and jagged mountains, a brand new city, all of it unfurling in front of him and just begging to be explored.

 

That first time feels like a lifetime ago , now. 

 

He’d been a different person then. Still tense and wild-eyed from his days in the pet shop, ferreting away supplies in the vent under his bed and snapping at anyone that moved too close too quickly like a feral dog. He’d still been curious , though, more than willing to go sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong and reckless enough to jump across rooftops with a boy he’d just met. 

 

Some things never really change, huh? 

 

Tommy’s not that person anymore. He’s not some little kid jumping at shadows and running headfirst into danger without so much as looking where he’s going first anymore. He’s older, stronger, boasting the scars he’s earned and the hundreds of other things he’s learned along the way. 

 

He’s learned a lot , in space. 

 

And yet, as he steps out into the blinding lights and noise of the Council Ship, he’s breathless all over again. 




-




The Council ship may not be a planet, but it sure as hell doesn’t disappoint. 

 

Tommy’s frozen in place for the first few seconds, feet glued to the edge of the ramp as he stares out over the scene unfolding in front of him, blinking the stars out of his eyes. 

 

All the colors, all the noise, all the people. There’s a buzz in the air, and excitement he can feel in his bones, echoed in the voices and faces of those around him. The colors, the smells, it’s all he can do to keep standing, the rush of it all enough to knock him off his feet. 

 

The docks where they’d parked the ship are crowded, creatures of every feather, scale and size walking down their own ramps, leaving their own ships behind to join the rest in a river of dazzling colors. Spaceships as far as the eye can see, hundreds in all different shapes, sizes, and styles, all cozied up against the side of the Council ship like feeder fish clinging to the belly of a whale. Some are parked, their crew joining the massive throngs of people exiting their own ship, but there’s plenty more still coming in, joining the others, bringing with them a rush of wind that tousles his hair as they fly overhead. 

 

And the people?

 

Avians, with their glittering feathers and skirts, gliding weightlessly across the floor and into the arms of friends and family. Merlings and Phantoms, every scale shined to glittering perfection, silks and sheer fabric dripping from their shoulders as they laugh with sharp-toothed smiles. 

 

Ovisan like Puffy, decked out in leather, ribbons and gold wrapping around their horns, fluffy-haired children darting between their hooves. Aliens like Purpled, with odd-colored eyes and odder-colored skin, like Sam, lumbering past on an extra pair of legs, or waving about another pair of arms as they talk. Like Fundy, with large, fluffy ears that flick back and forth and tails sweeping at their feet. Hell, he even spots a few aliens that look like Ranboo, strutting by on long legs in fancy black clothes, though their fur is all black instead of black and white. 

 

There are aliens he doesn’t even know the names for. Insect-like aliens, sporting shimmering, delicate wings. Some are clear, more like a dragonfly’s, while others have colors and patterns like a butterfly or a moth. A few even sport beetle-like wings, or Tubbo’s fluffy antenna. Others, looking like boulders that have come to life, sporting an extra pair of arms and rough, rocky skin. Aliens with extra eyes, aliens with no eyes, aliens with fur, claws, scales, and everything in-between. 

 

It’s so much. There’s so fucking much. Noise and music and colors and lights, a crowd that shifts and flows like a restless sea. It smells like spices, like sweat, like places he’s never been before and-

 

“-make sure we stick together, right Tommy?”

 

Tommy jerks at the sound of his name.

 

Techno and Phil are on the ground already, the latter giving him a teasing grin. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of Bezzar.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I hear you, old man.”

 

Phil squawks, offended, and Tubbo cackles, breezing past Tommy and forgoing walking down the ramp in favor of jumping clean off the side. Ranboo follows, sliding off cleanly to land on their feet. 

 

Wilbur brushes past him, raising an eyebrow. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

 

Oh. Right. 

 

It doesn’t really catch up to him, until this moment, that this is probably the last time Tommy is going to do this. 

 

They’re not going to be taking the Argo II to Earth. The next time that Tommy steps out of this ship, it’ll be with his bags over his shoulders and a goodbye on his lips, back to a world he knows and a familiar desert. No more incredible adventures, no more alien worlds waiting to be discovered. 

 

It’s… it’s a harder idea to swallow that he thought it would be. 

 

He takes a second, just a second, to savor the moment. The noise, the lights, the smell of strange spices and shimmering clothes of the aliens walking past. He breathes it in, then back out again. 

 

The next time he does this, steps off the ramp for good, Clementine and Clara will be waiting for him. He imagines the look on their faces when he walks through the door, and the thought spurs him forwards. 

 

Wilbur offers a hand, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate.

 

With one last deep breath to steel his nerves, he leaves the ramp behind, and into the Council ship they go. 




-





To Phil’s credit, the plan actually starts off pretty well. 

 

The Council ship is so big, so mind-numbingly huge that it’s hard to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s standing on a ship and not another planet. Huge and beautiful. 

 

The docks where they’d parked the ship had been impressive, but they’re nothing compared to the main pavilion. 

 

The pristine white walls of the ship glitter like they’ve been carved out of marble, and hell, maybe they are. Tommy tilts his head back, unable to do anything else but stare at the ships still flying in, weaving between columns that arc far, far above his head like the ribs of some giant creature, spread apart enough to leave gaps in between arcs for starlight to glimmer through. 

 

There’s a faint shimmer there, some kind force field, like he’d seen on Nevodis, to keep them from all being sucked out into space, but all it does is make the stars that shimmer behind it even more dazzling, like they’re shining through a stained-glass window.

 

The thing that really catches his eye, though, are the screens.

 

Holo-screens, each of them probably bigger than the Argo set up around the perimeter of the pavilion. The scenes they display shift and change, from what looks to be some kind of weird talk show to closeups of various aliens waving as they leave their ships. Some kind of alien celebrities, probably, judging by the flashy clothes and the crowds trailing at their heels. There’s some kind of narration going on with the screens, a handful of different alien languages blending together with the chatter of the crowd into a bunch of nonsense. It’s kind of starting to give him a headache.

 

He still finds himself watching the screens, though. Two dragonfly-winged women chittering and laughing to one another on a couch, a camera showing a pudgy, bug-eyed alien wave as he waddles down the length of his ship’s ramp, what looks to be some kind of government official, a woman with vines for hair, speaking on a stage. When she opens her mouth, all he hears is gibberish. 

 

Stupid translators. Who the hell decided that they only work when you’re talking to someone in person? 

 

One of them, though, catches his eye. It looks like a digital clock, the numbers counting down. He’s still getting the hang of reading numbers in Galactic, and clocks are a whole different beast entirely, (and that’s not even mentioning the differences between a space-hour and a normal-earth-hour, Tommy still hasn’t figured out how these guys measure time and math was never his strong suit, anyways), but from what knows, (read: what he’s remembered from Tubbo’s rants about space-time vs earth-time), it looks like there’s about three hours left. 

 

The script underneath, blinking faintly, reads, until first meeting.

 

Three hours. That’s… totally enough time, right? Right. 

 

Tommy swallows, dropping his gaze back down to drift over the pavilion itself.

 

It reminds him a little of the market square back on Bezzar, a huge circular area lined with market stalls, an open space in the middle for dancers and musicians alike. Each tent and stall is wildly different from the next, boasting the colors and goods of their planet. The only difference is the size. While the market square on Bezzar had been fair from small, this market is easily five times the size, and twenty times as crowded. 

 

A hand grabs the back of his shirt and yanks.

 

“Watch where you're going.” Wilbur hisses in his ear, shooting an apologetic smile at the lumbering, tree-like alien Tommy had nearly walked right into. 

 

Tommy thrashes, throwing Wilbur off, only for another hand to come up and grab him by the chin, fussing with the feathers that line the side of his jaw. “And quit touching your face. If you pull out another feather I swear-”

 

“It's itchy!” he bites back, smacking at Wilbur’s hands, “Get your nasty hands off me-” 

 

“Did you just try and bite me?” 

 

He tries again, for good measure, and Wilbur squawks when his teeth graze skin, finally yanking them out of Tommy’s personal space. “I'm trying to help you little-” 

 

“If you two don’t cut it out,” Phil hisses over his shoulder, “I’m making you wait back on the ship.”

 

Tommy and Wilbur both scoff, but reluctantly keep their hands and teeth to themselves. 

 

He hadn't even realized he'd been messing with his feathers, but as soon as Wilbur had pointed it out, he can feel just how fucking itchy they are. He’s rocking the same disguise he had worn back on Aether, for the most part, same cape over his shoulders, same bandanna he can bury his nose in, same feathers lining the sides of his face and down his neck. Phil keeps messing with it, trying to make it look fancier, but Tommy thinks that he looks great, thanks, and bats away his hands everytime he tries to fuss with his collar.

 

The rest of the gang seems to have had the same idea. 

 

(Well that, and they only really have so many options when it comes to fancy clothes). 

 

Wilbur is a blue mirage hovering in the corner of his vision, the silky fabric hanging off of one shoulder, arranged in a way to drip across his chest and down his back like water. There’s less jewelry than before, though, just a handful of golden pieces he’d no-doubt snatched from Techno’s room dangling from his pointed ears, bracelets lacing up his arms. 

 

At his side, Tubbo is bouncing on his heels like he’s about to take off into orbit, muttering under his breath about bearings and gravity shields and a dozen other things Tommy doesn’t understand. He’d traded the skirt in for something more practical, donning the same fluff-trimmed jacket he’d been wearing when they’d met with some sort of golden circlet on his head. It keeps getting caught in his hair. 

 

Ranboo is plastered to his side, the all-black outfit making them appear like Tubbo’s wide-eyed, discolored shadow. They’re wearing a circlet too, as well as a handful of silver jewelry probably pinched from Phil. Tommy doesn’t think Techno owns anything other than gold. 

 

Speaking of Techno, Tommy can see him ahead with Phil, a long, ruby-red cape spilling from his broad shoulders. He’d looked like a king when Tommy had seen him earlier, with Phil at his right hand, looking every bit like the general he used to be in an outfit that’s more armor than anything else, all silver, blue and green to contrast with Techno’s red, black and gold. 

 

Their fearless captain leads the charge like a knight into battle, wings spread just wide enough to keep people from getting too close, giving the rest of them plenty of room to hide in his shadow.

 

Being in the center of the pack has its perks, Tommy will reluctantly admit, though he knows it’s only because everyone is afraid he’ll run off and get lost. Or kidnapped. 

 

Which is totally unfair. He hasn’t run off since, like, Nevodis . Aether doesn’t count. 

 

Tommy doesn't have to focus on keeping his head down and hood up as much, tucked away in the center of their little group. He’s free to gawk and stare to his heart's content. Not that it would even matter. With this many people around, Tommy might as well be invisible. He’s far from being the most eye-catching in the crowd. He doubts anyone would spare him more than a glance, even if he’d been walking around with all his human traits on display. He can afford to scratch at his feathers all he pleases. 

 

“We need to find the entrance to the private Hangar.” Techno grunts from somewhere over his shoulder, reeling him back in. “Should be around here somewhere, keep your eyes open.” 

 

Right. Yes. The plan. 

 

They’re here for a reason, after all, not to sight-see. Tommy blinks, giving his head a shake. He needs to focus. 

 

They’re still working their way through step one. Boarding the ship had been a piece of cake, now all they need to do is find the Banquet hall.

 

He remembers the maps Phil had shown him, the little hologram of the ship they’d had back on the bridge. The Council ship is organized into a handful of sectors, the loading dock for guests, the main pavilion where they are, and a handful of larger rooms and terraces for other markets and speeches. The general public is given free-reign of most of the middle deck, but the higher decks are a bit more locked-down. The observation deck, where the actual meeting will be taking place, most of all. 

 

Before that, though, they need to make it through the Banquet



“Alright, let’s try this again.” Phil reaches into his pocket, pulling out a little metal triangle. With a few careful turns, it sparks to life, displaying a small hologram map.

 

“We’re right here.” He points to somewhere near the center of the ship, a wide, round area Tommy recognizes as the pavilion. “The main Banquet hall is here, it should have a window overlooking the pavilion.” 

 

“The Banquet is pretty exclusive. But if you get invited, you get access to the council members private hangar.” Techno rumbles. “If we can get into their hangar, we can blend in with the crowd to access the Banquet.”

 

“So it’s like, a rich person party?” Tommy butts in with a scowl. “Can’t we just go straight to the Council?”

 

“We could petition them, I guess.” Phil waves a hand. “But it would take them months to get to it, and there’s no guarantee it would even come up at the next meeting, much less this one. No.”

 

“If we want the Council’s attention, we’ll have to take a different route.” 

 

Phil touches the map, and the outside of the ship peels away, revealing the inner decks. 

 

“There are three hangars.” He points to two places on either side of the ship to  structures that almost look like fins curling out from the ship's belly. “These two are public. We’ll land the Argo around here.”

 

He traces a line from the hangar, through the main pavilion, to another place near the underbelly of the ship. “The private hangar is here, but there’s an old emergency passageway connecting it to the main Pavilion.”

 

Ranboo furrows their eyebrows together. “Won’t it be guarded?”

 

Phil grins, showing just a few too many teeth. “Just leave that to me.”

 

“Once we’re inside, there won’t be much security.” Techno continues. “The actual entrance to the hangar is locked up tight. No one lands their ship without the Council’s say-so. Once we’re inside, they won’t challenge us.”

 

“And from there.” Phil chirps, tilting the map to show the Banquet hall, and the larger deck behind it. “We should have access to the meeting. Now, this entrance is much more guarded. Sneaking through won’t be an option, but thankfully, we have a secret weapon.” 

 

Tommy frowns. “Secret weapon?”

 

Phil looks up, blue eyes sharp. He grins.

 

“You, Tommy.”





Talk about a lot of fucking pressure.

 

Tommy shakes his head. It had seemed a lot easier with the map in front of him. The map hadn’t included all these people, after all, all the noise and the flags and the colorful screens. Everything he looks at fighting for his attention, from the excited chatter of the crowds, to the merchants beginning to shout and barter from the sidelines, to the music that’s begun to play from somewhere, a fast, upbeat melody to match his racing heartbeat. 

 

Tommy looks up again, scanning the arching walls of the Council ship, gaze drifting over the crowd around him. It’s a pretty mixed-bag, a wild combination of aliens from all over the galaxy, young, old, rich, poor, everything outside and in-between. 

 

Children dragging their parents from stall to stall, women in dresses boasting more pearls than an oyster bed crowding a stall selling glittering hairpieces, Avians and Ovisan alike twirling together around the dance floor as a group of Phantlings play the drums. 

 

Every once and a while there’s a stage set up, and Tommy has to stand on his tiptoes to even get a glimpse of what all the commotion is about. Only a handful are in use, aliens in elaborate clothing addressing the crowds that mill around at the foot of the stages. He can barely even hear the announcers over the hustle and bustle of the market, and excited screams of children, the chatter of the crowds, the shouting of vendors. 

 

Phil leads them a bit closer to the stalls, and it’s not long before they’re swallowed up by the crowds and the noise. 

 

“One of a kind!” A Merling with silver scales calls to the crowd from behind his booth, grinning with sharp, golden teeth. “Potions made to taste! Perfumes, elixirs-“

 

“-and everything in-between!” An alien with insect wings shows off a small holo-projector to a group of kids, who all gasp excitedly when the image shifts to display a large fish seeming to swim through thin air. “We’ve even got-“

 

“-gold?” A Phantling cries out, aghast, jabbing a finger in the face of the Piglin on the other side of the stand. “For one pair of boots? That’s outrageous-“

 

“-ly gorgeous!” A group of women with dark skin and glowing purple eyes titter over a booth packed full with silky fabrics. “Two hundred creds for the whole roll? I’ll take four-“

 

“-ever!” A little Avian girl screeches at another young Avian, dragging them by the hand. Tommy has to side step to keep from being bowled over. “So slow! c’mon, c’mon! I wanna go see-“

 

“-who is representing Lestea!” A Merling with long purple hair and a very expensive suit announces from a nearby stage as they pass.

 

Finally close enough to hear her speak clearly, Tommy drifts a little bit closer. The crowd around them breaks into excited cheers and applause as another alien is ushered on stage. Tommy barely gets more than a glimpse of dark, rocky skin and an extra pair of arms before the crowd shifts again, swallowing him whole. He looks kind of familar-

 

C’mon Tommy, focus! 

 

He gives his head a quick shake, pulling his focus away from the stalls and the merchants to scan the perimeter of the pavilion for anything that looks like a secret entrance. 

 

It’s easy to get turned around. The pavilion might be just one big oval, but the rows of stalls, booths, and stages turn it into a maze, only the center dance floor clear. Looking up though, it reminds him less of a maze, and more like he’s walking through the giant ribcage of some long-dead animal, the head and shoulders replaced with towering marble walls, sloping upwards to disguise what must be the giant thrusters of the ship beyond. A handful of screens line the upper walls, each of them displaying something different. There’s a huge screen dead-center, mirroring the one at the other end, though that screen is different, the bottom half cut short to reveal…

 

“Windows.” Tommy mutters.

 

A balcony encased in dark windows, hanging slightly over the Pavilion below. The banquet hall.

 

Tommy sucks in a breath. If the banquet hall is that way, the hangar must be somewhere underneath, right? He reaches out, grabbing the first person within range, who happens to be Tubbo, and grabbing his arm. “You can see the balcony from here, right? Under that screen?”

 

Tubbo doesn’t budge, though, which probably should have been his first sign that something was wrong .

 

Here’s a fun fact about Tubbo: he’s never still. 

 

Tubbo is always moving, tapping his fingers, his feet, rocking on his heels, bouncing in place, something. He even moves in his sleep. A still Tubbo is a sick Tubbo, or at the very least, a really upset one.

 

And now, he’s still. Frozen. Like someone had taken a remote and pressed pause, his feet planted to the floor. The crowd around them grumbles, shifting to move around him like a river flowing around a rock. He doesn’t even seem to notice, wide eyes locked on something in the crowd. 

 

Tommy reaches out to tug at him again, a little more gently this time, trying to follow his gaze. The hell? “Hey, are you-“

 

He doesn’t even get the chance to finish, his fingers closing around thin air. 

 

Between one blink and the next, Tubbo makes a noise in the back of his throat like he’s being strangled and then he’s gone. Off like a shot through the crowd.

 

Fuck. 

 

“Tubbo? Tubbo!” 

 

Ranboo calls out after him, a bit faster on the uptake than Tommy, and moves to follow. 

 

Wait.” 

 

They barely make it two steps before Techno’s hand is clamping down on their arm, yanking them back. “Ranboo, don’t-“

 

Ranboo whips around, eyes narrowed into slits, and responds with a rattling hiss that makes Tommy jump back, pulling their lips back in a snarl to bare their fangs. 

 

Techno wasn’t expecting it either, and in the second of stunned silence that follows, Ranboo has twisted out of his grip and darted into the crowd after Tubbo. 

 

“Hey wait!” Tommy, still playing catch up, barely even gets the words out before Phil is grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him back in line.

 

“Oh no you fucking don’t.” Phil hisses, giving Tommy his patented don’t even think about it glare. “I’m not chasing down all three of you.” 

 

Tommy, undeterred, gives a snarl of his own. “But-“

 

It’s Tubbo. And also Ranboo. But mostly- Tubbo. His best friend, his right hand man! How the fuck is he supposed to do this without Tubbo?! 

 

“I got it.” says Wilbur, giving the rest of them a sharp look. “Go. I’ll meet up with you guys at the Banquet.”

 

“Wil-“

 

Phil starts, but before he can even finish the sentence, Wilbur’s turning on his heel and breaking into a run, the glimmer of his blue shirt visible for only a few seconds before the crowd swallows it up.

 

Double fuck. 

 

Phil curses again, glancing between Tommy and where the others had disappeared, scanning the faces that pass to no avail. They’re all just gone. 

 

Techno puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, urging him forwards. “C’mon. Let's go.”

 

“What the fuck just happened?!”

 

“We don’t have time for this.” Techno urges again, a growl edging into his voice. “The Banquet starts soon. The others will just have to catch up.”

 

Tommy keeps looking over his shoulder, trying to spot something familiar, but it’s pointless. There’s too much happening, too many people moving around, distraction after distraction. It’s a lost cause from the start, they’d have better luck catching a shooting star in a bottle than picking out Ranboo’s slender frame, or the shimmering blue of Wilbur’s outfit in the ocean of faces. It’s impossible.

 

Tommy can’t help but glance upwards. The clock keeps on ticking down. Two and a half hours. 

 

God fucking damn it. 

 

“It’ll be fine.” Phil says, grin stretched thin, and Tommy can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure him or himself. He puts a wing around Tommy’s shoulder just in case. “Wilbur’s been here before. He’ll find us again.”

 

It’s not super reassuring, but it’s a start. 

 

Tommy does fight as Phil starts leading him away, but still tries to keep an eye out in the crowd, just in case. 

 

What the hell had Tubbo run off after? He hadn’t looked afraid, not really, if anything he’d seemed… excited? Happy?

 

He’d said something too, Tommy was sure of it. Right before he’d run off. It had been quiet, but Tommy was sure that he’d heard something underneath that strangled noise he had made. Was it the thing he’d seen? Someone’s name?

 

Tommy could have sworn that it almost sounded like…






-




“Niki!”

 

The pink haired Merling doesn’t even get the chance to react to the sound of her name before a ball of brown and green nearly knocks her off her feet.

 

“Oof.” She wheezes as arms tighten around her torso, blinking down at the head of brown hair. “What- Tubbo?”

 

The Bezzarian pulls back, grinning like a madman and buzzing louder than a car engine. The Merling grips him right by the arms, looking him up and down in disbelief as she stammers, “I- you- what are you doing here?”

 

“Me? What are you doing here?” The Bezzarian quips back, finally noticing her companion, and turning on him with wide eyes. “And who’s that?”

 

The Blazeborn at her side waves awkwardly. The Merling clears her throat. 

 

“It’s- um. Kind of a long story.”

 

She’s saved by having to explain by another voice calling out over the crowd. 

 

“Tubbo?”

 

The Bezzarian jerks at the sound of his name, turning sharply to look over his shoulder. He stands on his tiptoes, throwing a hand in the air as he calls out,

“Over here!”

 

The crowd parts around the Hybrid as they stumble through, chest heaving. Once they catch sight of the Bezzarian, the frantic tension bleeds right out of them, and they bend over to catch their breath. 

 

“Never do that again, huff.” They wheeze, putting a hand one hand on the Bezzarians shoulder and the other on their knee as they whine.   “How are you so fast?”

 

“Ranboo..?”

 

The Hybrid jolts. The Merling is staring at them, a hand over her mouth. There’s a second of frozen, stunned silence before the Merling lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, standing on her tip-toes to throw her arms around their shoulders. 

 

“Niki? How-what- huh?” The Hybrid stammers, hands awkwardly coming up to rest on her back. After a few seconds, their grip tightens, returning the hug in earnest. 

 

Eventually she pulls back, sniffing, putting both hands softly on either side of the Hybrids face. Her eyes are glossy, but she’s smiling. “I was so worried.”

 

“I’m okay.” The Hybrid reassures her, looking embarrassed. “I uh, like the outfit?”

 

She pulls back, adjusting the braid over over her shoulder with one hand and fidgeting with her collar. The soft, gentle pastels and flour-stained apron are gone, replaced by a leather jacket over top of a long back dress, the handle of her laser gun just visible on her belt. She looks strong, she looks dangerous, dressed for a fight in her dark lipstick and sharp eyeliner.

 

She shrugs, in lieu of an explanation. “It's… been a long few months.”

 

“I’ll say.” The Blazeborn at her side huffs, and she jolts a little, as if just now remembering that he’s there. 

 

“These are the kids I was telling you about, Ranboo and Tubbo.” she begins to explain, introducing the both of them in turn. and Tubbo. “Boys, this is an old friend of mine-“

 

Jack manifold.”

 

The new voice catches all four of them off guard. 

 

The Phantling melts out of the crowd, a vision in shimmering blue as he stalks his way over to them. He's smiling, sharp teeth on display, but it doesn’t quite seem to meet his eyes, narrowed into slits. 

 

“Wilbur motherfucking soot!” The Blazeborn doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air, sliding up to the Phantling and tossing an arm over his shoulder, sparks fizzing off his shoulders. “Its been so long, man! Where have you been?!”

 

And suddenly, the Phantling doesn’t seem to know what to say, smile wiped clean as he freezes. “It’s… uh…”

 

“A long story?” The Merling supplies gently, raising an eyebrow.

 

He gives her a smile, a small one, but it’s genuine. Just for her. “Something like that, yeah.” 

 

“What are the chances?” The Blazeborn gives the Phantling a shake, laughing all the while. “All of us back together again? Just like old times, right?”

 

“Yeah,” the Phantling starts. Then he stops, narrowing his eyes as he realizes what the Blazeborn just said. “Wait. All of us?”

 

The Blazeborn just looks confused. “Uh. Yeah?”

 

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” The Merling adds, giving him an odd look. “The invitation?”

 

The Phantling just stares, eyes narrowed into slits. 

 

“What invitation?” 





-





“Phil. This is a wall.”

 

“Shh.” Phil shushes him, s hushes him! staring into the blank marble wall like it holds all of the secrets to the galaxy. “Let me think.”

 

“This is it.” Tommy mutters. “He’s finally gone senile.”

 

He turns to catch Tubbo’s reaction a half second before realizing that, oh yeah, he’s not fucking there. In his place is Techno, looking as unimpressed as ever as they watch Phil pace back and forth in front of the wall.

 

“It’s here somewhere.” Their fearless captain calls back. “If I can just… maybe over here…?”

 

Wonderful. Just. Great. 

 

Tommy leans against a different wall, sensing that they’re going to be here a while. 

 

Atleast there’s no one around to see them. They’ve wandered away from the market square deeper into the ribcage of the ship, following the long, seemingly endless white hallways for a bit until Phil had stopped them here, in front of a wall just as smooth and blank as the rest of them. Tommy keeps an eye out for guards and cameras, but besides the echoes of distant footsteps, doesn’t see anything out of place. 

 

It’s quieter here, empty. It feels almost hollow, compared to the hustle and bustle of the pavilion. 

 

Without all the music and the noise, the eeriness of the bone-white walls and tall, vaulted ceilings has started to set in. If he listens closely enough, he can still hear the announcers in the pavilion behind them, the echoes of their voices echoing strangely and reverberating back off of white marble and metal. It’s starting to give him the creeps. 

 

Phil has stopped pacing, instead pressing against the wall with both hands like he’s going to push it out of the way, pressing the side of his face to it. 

 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

 

“This has been fun and all.” Tommy clears his throat, pushing off of the wall. “But I think we should-“

 

“Ah hah!”

 

-nevermind. 

 

Phil steps back, his whole face lighting up like a christmas tree. “I knew it was around here somewhere.”

 

Then, he reaches up and splays a hand against the wall. 

 

And this time, the wall appears to press back. 

 

Underneath his hand, the wall… shudders. That’s the best way Tommy can describe it, a ripple spreading out from his fingers like he’d touched the surface of a lake, the white of the wall giving in with a faint shimmer for just a few seconds before it settles back into something solid.

 

“Just like I remember.” He hums, still smiling like an idiot. And then, before Tommy can so much as blink, he’s fucking gone.

 

“Wait- Phil!” 

 

Tommy’s lurching forwards in an instant, reaching out to snatch the air where he’d been just seconds ago. What the hell? He- he was just there! What the fuck?! Did the wall fucking eat him?!

 

Instead of hitting the wall like he’d been expecting, through, he falls right through-

 

“Tom- ack!”

 

-and into someone on the other side. 

 

“Phil?” Tommy calls out again, scrambling to blink the stars out of his eyes because fuck that was a weird sensation. “Phil!” 

 

“I’m right here.” The person underneath him groans. “Ow.”

 

Oh. Whoops.

 

“Shit.” Tommy scrambles to feet, hauling Phil upright as well. “I mean- uh. Sorry.”

 

He has to squint to see him in the dark, blinking quickly to force his eyes to adjust faster to the new dim hallway they’d crashed into. Phil stretches, brushing the dust off the black blobs that must be his wings. Only his eyes are clearly visible, the almost unnatural blue glinting like two chips of ice. 

 

Before either of them can say anything else, the wall beside Tommy ripples , a pair of hooves stepping carefully through. Techno has to duck to make it all the way through the entrance, yanking his cape all the way through as well.

 

Curious, Tommy prods at the entrance with a finger. He expects it to feel weird, like some kind of liquid, but he doesn’t feel anything as he slips his hand all the way through. Just a slight tingle spreading down his arm.

 

“Fuckin’ weird.” He mutters. 

 

Phil just laughs. “It’s a hologram, mate.”

 

Right. Of course. That would make sense. Thankfully, between the dark of the hallway and the feathers lining his cheeks, he doubts either of them can see the way his face starts to flush. “Right. Yeah. I knew that.”

 

Techno snorts. Tommy elbows him in the ribs. Jerk. 

 

“Let’s get going.” Phil swoops in, cloak swishing at his feet as he turns to lead the charge. “Stay close, okay?”

 

It’s not like they had much of a choice in the matter.

 

Calling the weird secret passageway a hallway is probably too generous. Tommy had gotten used to the giant, vaulted ceilings of the rest of the council ship, the ceiling here is low enough that Techno has to crouch to keep from hitting his head, and barely wide enough for him and Tommy to walk side-by-side without brushing against each other or the walls. 

 

It’s more like a tunnel. A weird, dark tunnel that’s dusty enough to make Tommy’s nose itch and eyes sting. It smells like rusted metal and mildew, a harsh contrast to the clean, hospital-like smell of the rest of the Council ship. The ominous flickering of the few lights they pass every now and again don’t help to make it any less creepy, either. 

 

“How did you know this was here?” Tommy asks, trailing a hand against the walls as they walk. It comes away dusty, and he tries to inconspicuously wipe it on the back of Techno’s cape. Blegh. Gross. 

 

“There are tunnels like this all through the ship.” Phil says, voice echoing strangely down the metal walls of the tunnel. “After the end of the war, most of them were forgotten about. I still remember where a handful are, though. Tends to come in handy.” 

 

Techno snorts. “It was Kristin, wasn’t it?”

 

Tommy blinks. Kristin?

 

Phil stumbles a little bit. Not enough to be really obvious, but enough for Tommy to notice the way he trips over his own feet at the sound of the name, shoulders hiking up just a little bit.

 

“Something like that.” Phil finally admits, something soft in his voice. “You know Kristin. She knew this ship better than anything else.”

 

“Uh huh.” 

 

Tommy doesn’t have to look at Techno to know he’s raising an eyebrow. Judging by the bristle of Phil’s wings, he doesn’t have to look either.

 

You know, if Tommy didn’t know any better, he’d say that Phil looked embarrassed.

 

“Oh ho ho.” Tommy leans in. “ Kristin? Who’s Kristin?”

 

“She’s- it’s-“ A pause. “A good friend of mine.”

 

Yeah right. A ‘good friend’ his ass. 

 

“So.” Tommy presses. “Are you dating? Married? Were you married? Is she an ex or something? Oh, is she the friend that owes you a favor? Is she on the council?” 

 

Phil hesitates, giving Tommy’s mind enough time to run wild. Probably exes, if he had to guess, considering no one’s brought her up before. Tommy feels like he’d know if Phil had a secret wife somewhere, Wilbur would definitely know, and he’s not good about keeping secrets like that. 

 

“…She was.” 

 

It’s techno that breaks the silence, murmuring softly in Tommy’s ear. 

 

Oh. 

 

Oh. 

 

“I…” he starts, then stops, then manages to finish, “…sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Is Phil’s response, and he doesn’t sound upset, which only makes Tommy feel worse. “It’s okay.” 

 

For a little while, they move in silence. 

 

Tommy can’t bring himself to break it, this time, too busy wishing there was a nearby airlock he could jump out of. Stupid. Stupid. Leave it up to Tommy to press Phil for details about his dead girlfriend. 

 

In a horrible kind of way, it makes sense. This new piece of information clicking itself neatly into the puzzle that is Phil’s mysterious past. Him leaving the council makes a lot more sense, now. 

 

Weirdly enough, Tommy finds himself wishing that the others were here. Tubbo would be talking about the hologram no doubt, raving about how realistic it looked and probably trying to see if he could take apart the wall to see how it worked. Wilbur would be complaining about having to hunch over the whole time, whining about getting dust in his hair and not being able to breathe without feeling like he’s suffocating. Tommy doesn’t even know how Ranboo’s tall-ass is going to fit in here, imagining them scampering around on all fours instead of trying to hunch down like Wilbur is equal parts hilarious and terrifying.

 

Wilbur would know how to break the awkward silence that had settled over them. He always seems to know what to say. 

 

…god, when did Tommy start missing that asshole? What the hell? 

 

After what feels like ages of awkward silence, (read: about two minutes), Tommy feels Techno’s arm brush against his shoulder. 

 

“You look nervous.” 

 

Oh really? You fucking think? 

 

Whatever expression he’s pulling seems to get the point across. Techno bumps him again, a little harder this time, the point of contact lasting just a few seconds too long to be accidental. 

 

“We have a plan.” He grunts. “We’ll be fine.”

 

Wonderful. So reassuring. Thanks a bunch, big guy. 

 

‘We have a plan.’ Yeah, the plan, which  totally included Tubbo running off, and Ranboo and Wilbur leaving to chase after him. It’s not like they needed them for the plan, or anything. 

 

“Everything will be fine.” Phil chips in. “Wilbur knows where the entrance to this passage is, they’ll catch up. Just like we practiced, alright?” 

 

“…Right.” Tommy reluctantly agrees.

 

Phil doesn’t seem to notice. He pauses, stopping at a sharp bend in the hallway, gesturing to the wall next to him with a flourish. He grins, showing far too many teeth for Tommy’s liking, and reaches back to press a hand against the way. Predictably, it ripples. 

 

“Look alive, you two. It’s showtime.”

 

What the fuck had Tommy gotten himself in too? 




-




Tommy isn’t quite sure what he had been expecting on the other side of the holographic door, but it was definitely not for Phil to immediately go full Karen on the first person they see.

 

“-who I am?” 

 

Because what the actual fuck. 

 

Phil is sneering, mantling his wings threateningly. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever heard Phil sneer in his life . He barely even recognizes his voice. He’s never heard him use that tone before, haughty and obnoxious, like he’s been possessed by the spirit of some entitled PTA mom. 

 

Tommy’s just glad he’s safe in Phil’s shadow and not on the other end of it. 

 

Phil, Techno, and Tommy aren’t dressed up as much as the rest of this crowd, but with an attitude like that, it’s amazing how well they’d blended in so far. Phil, strutting about with his head held high, clicking his tongue and glaring down his nose at anyone who had so much as looked at them funny. 

 

The private hangar isn’t very big, not nearly the size of the one they’d been in earlier, and about half as crowded. Other than that, they dont look too different. Take the hangar he’d landed on before, make it smaller and fill it with some of the most obnoxiously rich people you’ve ever seen in your entire life, and there you go. The only difference is the noise. Or, well, the lack of it.  While the other hangar had been overflowing with noise, Tommy can actually hear himself think here. It’s a nice change of pace. 

 

The really interesting bit, though, is the crowd itself. It’s easy to pick out who is there for the banquet, just find the one dressed head to toe in glitter, surrounded by assistants and attendants waiting on them hand and foot. Aliens dressed in more fur than Tommy has ever seen in his life trot down the ramp with their noses in the air as burly servants follow with their luggage like a group of ants in a line. 

 

Tommy had watched with wide eyes as the assistants and attendants scurry too and fro, all while the Galaxy’s upper crust seem completely unaffected by the hustle and bustle, barely even pausing to speak with one another before drifting to join a line that had begun to form down the center of the hangar. 

 

The line leads up a few flights of obnoxious grand staircases to an arched doorway. Music and colorful lights spill from the inside, guarded by a pair of Endborn guards. The entrance to the Banquet is only a few feet away now, blocked by a handful of Endborn guards. 

 

Most of the guards are Endborn, now that a Tommy thinks about it. Milling about the crowd, posted near the space ships. They’re all dressed the same, some kind of black body armor over an all-black suit, something that looks suspiciously like a laser gun strapped to their hip. 

 

Phil doesn’t make any effort to avoid them, gliding right past and though he doesn’t see them at all the same way everyone else does. Tommy follows his lead. 

 

All they’d had to do was join the line with everyone else, slowly shuffling their way to the front. When the guard asked for their invitation, the face Phil had made, almost cartoonishly offended, had Tommy literally choking into his sleeve.

 

The first poor soul he’d unleashed his inner Karen on had scampered away with their tail between their legs. This guard, though, is putting up a bit more of a fight. 

 

Just over Phil’s shoulder, Techno is playing his part wonderfully, a hint of a snarl on his lips as he crosses his arms firmly over his chest, tail flicking impatiently. If Tommy wasn’t so busy trying to collect his jaw off of the floor right now, he’d be trying to follow his lead. He can’t help it, okay? It’s not every day you see the leader of your crew turn into a bratty soccer mom. Tommy half expects him to start ranting about the lack of sugar-free options in the school cafeteria any second now. 

 

He almost feels bad for the guy. He’s some kind of Endborn, like Ranboo, a tall, catlike alien with jet-black fur. Young, too, judging by the slight squeak in his voice. He’s clutching the pink holoscreen in his claws like it’s a shield. 

 

“I’m s-sorry, sir.” The guard stammers, tail flicking anxiously by his ankles as he looks everywhere but at Phil. “But I'm on strict orders to not let anyone in without their invitation.”

 

Phil does not like that answer. At all. 

 

He really gets into it then, ranting about manners and respect, making swooping gestures with his hands that draws the attention of the nearby crowds, the more nosey of them looking over with interest to try and see what all the fuss is about. It’s enough to draw the interest of some of the other guards too, which does not do good things for Tommy’s blood pressure. 

 

“What’s your name, young man?” Phil finally snaps, face flushed red.

 

“D-Dauyve.”

 

“Well, Dauyve ,” Phil all but spits, nose in the air. “I’ll be having a lovely chat with your supervisor about this. Let's see how he reacts to you denying me and my family entry-“

 

Behind them, someone growls. “You’re holding up the line!” 

 

Tommy risks a glance over his shoulder. The person who’d spoken out, a disgruntled looking Shulk in a bedazzled suit glowers at him in response. The sentiment is quickly joined by a handful of muttered agreements and annoyed huffing from the others in line. The lady right behind them, dressed head-to-toe in bright red furs, lets out another obnoxious sigh, shifting her weight to her other hip.

 

The guard swallows, looking even more nervous, glancing over at the ever-growing line. “S-sir-“



“I’m sorry,” a silky smooth voice interrupts. “Is there a problem here?”

 

Another guard, probably drawn in by the disgruntled crowd, melts out of the shadows, stepping forwards with their arms crossed behind their back. Abruptly, the murmuring of the crowd chokes off into silence, which sets off all sorts of alarm bells in Tommy’s head.

 

This new guard, another Endborn,  is tall and lean, easily a head above the first guard. They have to bend slightly at their waist to speak to Phil and the other guard face to face, expression as smooth as their voice. 

 

“Yes, actually , there is.” Phil seethes, undeterred, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Your assistant here is being incredibly disrespectful-“

 

“-Sir, he doesn't have his credentials,” the first guard, Dauyve, tries to nervously explain, but Phil continues as if he hadn’t spoken at all. 

 

“-tolerate this kind of treatment!”

 

“You know I can't let him in without-”

 

The new guard lifts a gloved hand, and they both fall silent. Phil, still quietly seething, and Dauyve , still keeping a death-grip on the holoscreen, tail winding anxiously around his ankle as he looks between the two. 

 

He hums, shifting his gaze from (name) back to Phil, expression unchanging. “Is that so.” 

 

It’s a statement, not a question. 

 

This guy might be dressed like a guard, but Tommy isn’t buying it. 

There’s something about them that’s different. Something that just screams important, posture perfectly straight, expression perfectly even. Even their  fur is perfectly groomed, ink-black and glossy, like a shadow come to life. 

 

“Edward.” Phil says, and Tommy has to fight to keep his expression straight because that was not the name he was expecting to hear. Edward. Fucking- Edward? Seriously? 

 

“Phil.” Is his measured response. 

 

The staring contest that follows is pretty impressive, even if it only lasts a few seconds. Phil wins. 

 

According to the etiquette lessons Phil had forced him to sit through, eye contact is a big no-no for any Endborn. A sure fire way to fuck up an introduction is by looking one in the eyes, Phil had made sure to drill into his skull. 

 

Looking at this guy, Tommy’s beginning to understand why. Apparently, no one has told him about the eye contact rule, because the next thing Tommy knows, those vivid purple eyes are staring directly into his soul.

 

It only lasts a second, just long enough to give Tommy a heart attack before his gaze shifts, regarding Techno with the same careful eye. He then leans sideways, examining the line behind them, an ever-increasing amount of impatient rich people, before their gaze comes to settle on Phil once more. He raises a perfect eyebrow. 

 

Fuck. Shit. Bitch. 

 

Just as Tommy is sure he’s going to raise an alarm or call some more guards to have them escorted off or something, he just. 

 

Shrugs. 

 

And steps aside.

 

“Enjoy the banquet,” Edward says, dipping his head. Dauyve scrambles to follow his lead, hastily moving out of the way. 

 

Phil just nods primly in reply, ushering Tommy forwards with a hand on his shoulder. 

 

The fuck? Just happened? 

 

Tommy doesn’t get more than a second to think about what the hell just happened before he’s being shepherded forwards. It’s by pure luck that he even notices the quick exchange between Edward and Techno that follows at all. 

 

He’d stumbled for a second while Phil had pushed him forwards, landing him just close enough to Techno to catch the way Edward leans in close as they pass, murmuring something in his ear. Tommy doesn’t catch what he says, only the low chuckle that Techno gives in response.

 

“What was that?” Tommy demands as loud as he dares once they’re far enough away, glancing over his shoulder to try and catch enough glimpse of Edward. 

 

“I’m told you,” Phil pats his shoulder, shooting an apologetic smile at the woman behind them. “Someone owed me a favor.”

 

“I thought you meant someone on the council.” Tommy hisses in response. 

 

“A word of advice.” Techno hums, reaching over to fix Tommy’s collar as an excuse to murmur in his ear. “In a room full of emperors, the most valuable allies you can make are their servants.” 

 

Tommy just blinks. “What.”

 

Phil loops an arm around his shoulders, tugging him a bit more firmly into his side. “Smile for the cameras, Tommy.”

 

Tommy doesn’t get the chance to respond before they’re making their way through the archway, and  Phil on one side, and Technoblade on the other, into the belly of the beast they go. 





-





“-late?”

 

The Avian makes a face, frowning at himself in the mirror. He turns, looking over his shoulder to examine his wings, each of them shined to perfection, and smoothed out some invisible flaw. 

 

“Foolish!” He snaps, leaning closer to examine his face. “Which eye should I wear? The golden one? Or should I just go with my usual?”

 

“Just a minute!” The Totem Hybrid calls over his shoulder in Common, before turning back to the comn pressed to his ear, “Sorry mom, Q needed something. What did you say?”

 

The Avian huffs, smoothing out the lapels of his suit and muttering something to his reflection that the Totem Hybrid can’t hear. 

 

Sitting in the corner of the dressing room, legs folded carefully to keep from knocking anything over, he continues to speak into the comn, holding it gently with only a few fingers to keep from accidentally breaking it. 

 

“Right, yeah of course mom.” He continues. “I already sent it to you- what? I thought you said three tickets?”

 

The Avian turns to a different mirror, the one by the vanity. The guest rooms aboard the Council ship aren’t very big, and the Avian hasn’t helped in the slightest, filling the bedroom-turned-dressing room with a seemingly endless amount of boxes and suitcases. It takes him five minutes of rummaging through the vanity drawers to find the bag he was looking for. 

 

“No, that’s okay.” The Totem hybrid sighs. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

The Avian begins working on his makeup as the Totem Hybrid listens intently to the person on the other side of the comn as they speak, nodding and humming along when appropriate. 

 

“It’s been going pretty well so far, actually.” He says, after a while of listening, leaning back against the wall. “It’s kind of nice just getting to sit back for a change. Being a representative was a lot of work, this is like. Vacation.” 

 

Oh, Quackity?” 

 

The Totem Hybrid looks up at the Avian who, after accidentally blinking while applying eyeliner, has thumped his head down on the vanity with a groan of defeat. 

 

“He’s… nice, yeah,” the Totem Hybrid continues, “Funny guy.”

 

He watches as the Avian picks himself back up, removes the remaining eyeliner with a little fabric pad and some liquid from one of the many colorful bottles lining the dresser, and begins again. 

 

“Yes, mom.” The Totem Hybrid rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. I’ll tell her when I see her.”

 

Eyeliner finally complete, the Avian goes back to rummaging through the drawers, muttering all the while. “I know I packed them, now where…”

 

“Huh?” The Totem Hybrid blinks as the voice on the other end of the line asks a question. “No- I’m not sure… okay, fine. I’ll tell him to call you, but no promises. 

 

The voice responds, insistent, and he rolls his eyes again. “He’s been in one of his moods again. You know how he gets. I’ve been here for close to three days already and haven’t even seen him yet-“ 

 

“Ah hah!” The Avian cheers, successful, pulling out a pair of red sunglasses. “I knew I brought them. Oh, this is perfect.”

 

“-Oh yeah,” the Totem Hybird chuckles. “They’ve been trying to keep her off the upper decks, but you know. I think she’s going a bit stir-crazy already.”

 

“Foolish!” The Avian demands again, “What do you think? Heels or no heels?”

 

“I’ve got to go,” The Totem Hybrid says into the comn, giving the Avian a thumbs up. “Love you, mom. Tell Uncle Sam I said hi.” 





-





Something changes the moment they step inside the banquet hall. 

 

He’s not sure what it is, at first. The hairs on the back of his neck standing up, a shiver running down his spine. There’s something in the air, a tension that wasn’t there before. A voice in the back of his head that’s whispering, danger, danger. 

 

When you’ve lived the life Tommy has, it pays to be able to read people. How to tell if someone is upset or angry just by a wrinkle between their eyebrows, a hint of tension in their jaw. 

 

Tommy’s seen a lot of things, been a lot of places. He knows a thing or two about people, outside of the stupid etiquette lessons Phil had put him through. Alien biology complicates things a bit, but Tommy likes to think he’s a fast learner. 

 

Beyond that, though, he’d been surprised at how many things are just universal, even if the details change. Aliens are still people, underneath the scales and fur and extra limbs, flaws and all, and Tommy knows a thing or two about people. 

 

Or, more accurately, how to read a room. And the vibes he’s getting from this one? 

 

It reminds him of Nevodis. And not in a good way. 

 

“Remember the plan.” Phil tells him, rolling back his shoulders. “Make a good impression. Mingle. We’ll make our move when the meeting begins, but we need to look like we belong until then.”

 

“Right.” Tommy copies him, rolling back his shoulders, chin held high. “Look like we belong.”

 

Phil pats his shoulder, guiding him inside. 

 

The banquet hall isn’t too different from the penthouse suite, really, riding the same line between classy and high-tech. There’s a dance floor near some of the windows, booths and tables lining the walls. The lights are dimmer, the whole deck lit by lights hidden behind fixtures and booths set into the wall, neon colors just bright enough to catch on the dazzling clothes of the galaxy's finest, electric blues and hot pinks glinting off of their too-sharp smiles and narrowed eyes. 

 

He even spies a few holograms. Neon fish swimming through the air, a handful of projections of announcers from the square below. The real light show is above them, though, a handful of projectors aimed just so to project a beautiful, swirling galaxy above their heads, complete with stars and the occasional meteor shower. 

 

It’s beautiful

 

Or it would be, if Tommy could bring himself to relax. The feeling of wrongness only seems to get worse. The feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, trailing him as he does his best to hide in Phil’s shadow as he glows through the room. 

 

Tommy had known that the banquet would be full of a bunch of rich assholes, but it’s different actually being there. Seeing all the glitzy outfits and smelling the overpriced perfume.

 

God, the outfits. 

 

He’d noticed it before, weaving through the main pavilion, all the different styles and kinds of fabrics, each more stunning and fancy than the last. To him, all the shimmery jewelry and delicate embroidery had seemed like the peak of luxury, but standing here? Surrounded by these people? Everyone in the square might as well be walking around in trash bags. 

 

Now, Tommy wouldn’t call himself a fashion guy , but living down the hall from  Wilbur “I need to be the center of attention or I will die” Soot, and Techno “I own more fine silks and jewelry than the Roman Emperor” Blade, all these months, he’s picked up on a few things. 

 

Like, for example, the first person to really catch his eye once they make their entrance. 

 

She’s a Merling, with shimmering turquoize scales, dressed in an outfit dripping with pearls and jewels that shimmer everytime she so much as blinks. She’s definitely from Viona all right, dressed in the same silky, shimmering fabrics that Wilbur prefers, though he’d bet that any part of her ensemble, from the frilled collar and the pearl-encrusted headdress, all the way down to the glass heels costs more than the whole Argo II. 

 

She must be from New L’Manburg. The Governor's wife, he would bet a hundred creds on it, judging by the other Merlings and Phantlings, all similarly well dressed, flocking at her heels. 

 

Tommy remembers the way Wilbur had sneered as he’d said the name, watching the glimmering lights of the other city from across the harbor. She doesn’t look like she’s worked a day in her life, nothing like the people he’d seen in the streets of Old L’Manburg. No calloused hands, no rattling cough. She laughs, just a bit too high-pitched for his liking, and Tommy resists the urge to grimace. 

 

He drags his gaze away, observing the rest of the crowd with a critical eye. It’s not too hard, picking out who’s-who. The representative’s are each surrounded by a dozen or so advisors, all dressed similarly, but not quite as fancy, as to not overshadow the real stars of the show, of course. 

 

Most of the outfits have some sort of theme. Vionian’s are dressed in their finest silks and pearls of course, every scale shined to perfection, hair braided with shells. T’Arians, in elaborate suits and skirts, vines twisting up and down their arms, leaves and flowers trailing at their feet, braided in their hair. He catches a glimpse of one of their representatives, sporting a large, red-and-white spotted mushroom hat. He only sees him for a second through the throng of people, the lacy trim of the hat obscuring his eyes. 

 

Phil leads them in a wide arc around the group from Nevodis. Tommy can only stand looking at them for a few seconds before the bright, neon colors of their clothes and the shimmering of the disco-ball-esc dresses starts to give him a headache. Ugh. 

 

Tommy runs through the list in his head, sticking close to Phil’s side as they walk through the room. He tries to stand straight and march with the same confidence, but isn’t quite sure he pulls it off. He’s sure he looks as out of place as he feels.

 

There are lots of advisors here, and others who aren’t representatives, he knows, but still dressed to the nines and mingling like they own the place. They must be celebrities or something, or rich enough that it doesn’t matter. 

 

It’s once they wander past the dance floor that Tommy realizes why everything has felt so off. 

 

Despite the large dance floor set up, the music crooning from a band playing in the corner, and the lights that flash and dazzle above, there’s nobody dancing.

 

Not really dancing, anyways. Oh sure, there are a handful of people swaying with a partner in their arms, or nodding their head along to the beat, but that’s about it. No twirling, no laughing, no dizzying spins or fun group numbers, no one really having fun. Just a lot of standing and swaying, awkward-middleschool-dance style. 

 

That’s not dancing. Not like he’d seen earlier in the pavilion. These idiots wouldn’t know dancing if it bit them in the ass. 

 

Once he notices that, it starts to make sense why this place has all the alarm bells in his head ringing. 

 

No wonder this place reminds him of Nevodis so much, it’s all just as fake

 

There’s none of the joy he’d felt earlier, the buzz in the air, arms slug over shoulders, fierce hugs strong enough to lift you off the ground. None of the causal affection shown between friends and family catching up after a long time apart. No children scrambling underfoot, no snorting laughter or casual jokes. 

 

The conversation is pointed, every smile and laugh just a bit too sharp to be genuine. Everything from the expressions on their faces to the shimmer of their clothes, fake, fake, fake. 

 

Aliens may not look like humans. Their faces are different, tension pooling in all the wrong places, and he’s not even getting started on all the different social rules because that alone is a nightmare, but still.

 

Tommy knows a thing or two about how to spot a liar. 

 

The prickling on the back of his neck doesn’t stop, but it’s easier to dismiss now that he knows why this place feels so weird. 

 

“Remember the plan?” Phil mutters in his ear, flashing a smile to a group of dazzling Avians as they pass. Every feather is glossy and shined to perfection, but their movements seem hollow without the familiar jingling of bells that usually follow, the noise replaced by the soft tinkling of crystals that line their skirts instead. 

 

“Yeah.” Tommy responds, recalling the flashcards in his mind. “The important lot first, right?”

 

“Normally, yes.” Techno murmurs. “But they aren’t here yet. Who’s next?”

 

Tommy runs down the list in his mind, mentally groaning when he finds the answer he’s looking for.

 

The mayor of Nevodis is next. Ugh. 

 

Tommy turns slightly, eyeing the group still occupying the center of the dance floor, wearing dresses and suits so eye-bleedingly obnoxious and sparkly that they could only be from Nevodis. A few of them even light up, boasting miniature holograms and flashing lights as a part of their ensemble. They might as well be walking around wearing neon signs instead, hello! I’m rich and obnoxious and love to waste money!

 

Techno nudges at his shoulder. “We’ll be right behind you.” 

 

“Remember your cover story.” Phil adds, turning slightly to aim a slightly too-tight smile at someone just over Tommy’s shoulder. “Just like we practiced, okay?”

 

Right. Right. Just like they practiced. Find the mayor, give him the weird handshake, be totally cool and charming. He can do this. 

 

Sucking in a breath, Tommy begins to weave his way to the dance floor.

 

The Nevodis group is even harder to look at up close. Tommy squints, mustering up his best Innet charm as he moves closer. The mayor of Nevodis should be in there somewhere, right? Tommy scans the group, trying to look past the neon lights and disco ball dresses and trying to conjure up the image on the flash card, but nothing is quite a match. Where the fuck- there.

 

The crowd shifts, slightly, revealing-

 

Oh. 

 

Oh fuck. 

 

You have got to be fucking kidding. 

 

The Avian in the center laughs, a familiar laugh, and the sound alone is enough to have Tommy gritting his teeth. 

 

He tosses his head back as he cackles, and the movement makes the golden feathers lining his face glitter, dark eyes glittering beneath red sunglasses. He leans in to grin at one of the people he’s with, saying something in a low drawl that Tommy can’t catch over the chatter of the crowd and thumping of his own pulse in his ears. 

 

What in the absolute fuck is Quackity doing here? 

 

Dark eyes slide his way, and Tommy lurches back into motion, steps sideways to put a group of giggling Vulpian girls between them. 

 

Shit. Shit!

 

What in the everyloving fuck is he supposed to do now?! 

 

This is bad. This is so unbelievably bad. How the hell? What? What happened to the Mayor of Nevodis? Is Quackity the Nevodi representative? Is he on the council? 

 

The last time Tommy had met Quackity, Quackity had tried to kill him. 

 

Okay, well, not him. He’d tried to kill Wilbur, and Tommy had just gotten in the way. And the ‘posion’ he’d tried to use was completely harmless to Tommy. But still, still. A murder attempt was still a murder attempt, in his books. Quackity didn’t really strike him as the type to just forget about something like that.

 

Tommy can already feel his stomach twisting into knots. Fuck, what if he’s still mad about it? What if he is on the Council, and finds a way to keep Tommy from getting home? What happens when he realizes that Wilbur is here?

 

Tommy’s still on the fence about what exactly went down between those two, but whatever happened, Quackity had already tried to murder Wilbur once. Who’s to say he won’t try it again?

 

Yeah, okay. Time for plan B.

 

Tommy stands on his tip-toes, trying to see where Phil and Techno disappeared off too. He hasn’t seen the rest of the crew yet, which should buy him some time, atleast. Long enough for Phil to get the message out that Wilbur should stay the fuck away.

 

Or-

 

Wait a fucking minute. 

 

What the hell is he waiting for Phil for. He has his own comn! 

 

Fumbling in his jacket, Tommy

finds the comn in one of the pockets. Silently thanking whatever god is listening that he had actually paid attention when Tubbo had walked him through some of the basics of Common Galactic, he pulls up the messages tab, fingers fumbling over the keys. 

 

Wil stay awy Q-

 

He gets about halfway through the message before someone bumps into his side. He thinks that he catches a glimpse of pink out of the corner of of his eye and whips around, expecting Techno, and-

 

Well, it’s definitely not Techno, that’s for sure. 

 

Champion..?”

 

Face-to-face with the Netherian representative, all thoughts of Wilbur and the rest of the crew go completely down the drain. 

 

“I thought I recognized you.” She says, tilting her head to the side. “Are you alright?” 

 

“I- uh.”

 

Briefly, Tommy forgets how to breathe. 

 

He starts to explain, then stops, mouth still hanging open and blinking like an idiot as his brain scrambles to catch up with his mouth. That voice, her eyes. 

 

-she was tall. That’s the first thing he really noticed, once he got over the shock. Tall and fucking jacked, with biceps the size of his fucking head . She could probably crush his entire skull with three fingers. The boarish snout and tusks were only the icing on the cake, really, as if she wasn’t already terrifying enough as it is. The candlelight of the shitty, tiny room she had taken him too glints eerily off of the scars on her face, catching in her ember-colored eyes-

 

The memories come back in a flood that nearly sweeps him off his feet. 

 

Tommy remembers her. How the hell could he forget? 

 

A Piglin Brute, larger than even Techno and absolutely jacked to boot, a myriad of scars cutting across her snout and over exposed shoulders. The armor she’s wearing is fit for a queen, a golden chest plate and armored skirt, every piece shined to glistening perfection. Even her hair, braided carefully over one shoulder, is laced with gold. 

 

It takes him a second to connect the person he sees in front of him, strong, beautiful, proud, with the Piglin Brute he’d faced down across a gladiator ring. 

 

Those eyes are the same, though. Not hollow and empty, not defeated. Bright, clear and sharp, glowing in the dark like embers.

 

“It’s you.” He breathes, feeling kind of dizzy. 

 

“He who wins fights.” She says, dipping her head respectfully. “It’s an honor to see you again, friend.”

 

“My name is Tommy.” He finds himself correcting, running a hand through his hair. Is this real? Is he dreaming? “It’s- I- you’re okay.”

 

She had been dead. Tommy was so sure that she was dead, dead from the moment she agreed to Tommy’s deal and helped him escape. That she'd gone down in that ring, and Tommy had left her-

 

“I am.” She rumbles, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She dips her head again. “You may call me Brusieus, Tommy.”

 

She’d risked everything, probably died for nothing and he didn’t even know her name. 

 

Tommy can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry.

 

“Brusieus.” He repeats clumsily, stumbling over his words. “I just- I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

His votive cracks, but he can’t even find it in him to care. 

 

She’s- she’s here! With him! Alive! Looking better than ever, proud and strong, everything that the Pits had taken away from her restored. She looks fucking badass and he-

 

He’s just. He’s really glad that she’s alive. 

That she’s free. That she hadn’t died for nothing in that stupid fucking ring, that she’s here , and alive , and okay. More than okay, even. 

 

She- Brusieus smiles at him, and it’s a beautiful smile. 

 

She leans down, not having to crouch quite as far, this time, and brushing their foreheads together in greeting. 

 

The last time she had done this, Tommy had known what it meant. Goodbye, goodluck. He’s a bit less certain this time, but he thinks he understands anyways.

 

I’m glad you’re safe. 

 

“The feathers are new.” She murmurs as she pulls away, standing back to her full height and tilting her head at him. 

 

Aw, fuck. 

 

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s uh- an Avian thing?”

 

 “I did not know you were an Avian.”

 

Shit. Fuck. Son of a bitch. Goddamnit. 

 

Tommy sweats. “Um. Surprise?”

 

It’s not even a good lie. She was there when Schlatt introduced him as the “first human fighter”, to the whole ring. It may have been a while since he’s seen her last, but it sure as fuck hasn’t been that long. 

 

The look on her face isn’t accusatory, though, just curious. Amused too, he’s been around Techno enough to know when a Piglin is doing their best to fight back a smile. 

 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that she was teasing him.

 

Tommy opens his mouth, still trying to find something to say, when the look on her face abruptly shifts, hardening as her eyes settle on something just behind him. 

 

Tommy jumps when a different hand comes to rest on his shoulder, too busy studying her face to even notice Techno’s presence at his side. 

 

“Makin’ friends?” The Piglin grunts, and Tommy whirls on him. 

 

“Techno!” Oh, thank god. Crisis averted. Tommy goes to brush off his hand, gesturing to Brusieus. “Technoblade, this is-“

 

“One who does not die.” Brusieus growls. “We meet again.”

 

“…and you know each other already.” Tommy awkwardly finishes, the smile on his face wavering. “Fun.” 

 

The hand on his shoulder tightens as Techno moves forward, a not-so-subtle attempt to put himself between Tommy and Brusieus. 

 

The two Piglins stare each other down like two feral cats in an alleyway, each of them perfectly still and tense. Brusieus, as regal as a queen, the soft amusement on her face replaced by an expression cut from marble as she looks down her snout at Techno. Technoblade, blood red eyes narrowed into an impressive poker face, chin held high as his tail sways warily by his ankles. 

 

It’s Techno that looks away first. 

 

“One who ends.” He relents, dipping his head slightly in greeting. “It’s… good to see you again.”

 

She blinks, looking a bit taken aback, then slowly returns the greeting, “Likewise.”

 

“Techno?”

 

Oh thank god. 

 

Phil swoops in with the grace of a king, smile fixed in place as he comes to settle by Techno’s side. He stiffens when he notices Brusieus, but the smile doesn’t budge. “Ah.”

 

Brusieus turns her gaze to him in turn, her attention settling there for a second or two before sliding back to Tommy. Her stoic expression wavers just a little as she seems to take all three of them in at once, something softer shining through the cracks. 

 

“It is an honor to meet your sounder, champion.” She finally says. 

 

She wasn’t looking at Tommy.

 

“Hm.” Techno grunts, and just like that the weird tension between them is seemingly forgotten. 

 

She turns back to Phil, straightening, and the look she gives him is almost a smile. “Apologies. What is your title?”

 

“You may call me Phil.” Is all he says. 

 

Brusieus blinks for a second, looking a bit taken aback before clearing her throat. 

 

“Right.” She continues, folding her arms behind her back. “I forget Netherian customs are… unique, to the rest of the galaxy. Apologies.” 

 

She pauses again, then finishes. “It is an honor to meet you, Phil.” 

 

She says his name slowly, a bit reluctantly. It sounds weird in her mouth, said with a strange, drawling sort of accent. 

 

“The honor is all mine.” Phil continues smoothly, “It’s good to have you here. Netheria needed a change in leadership.”

 

“On that we can agree.” She huffs, she chuckles, giving her head a shake. “It has been… 

 

“Overwhelming?” Techno drawls. 

 

“Strange.” She sharply corrects, shooting a glance his way. 

 

“However,” She continues, giving Tommy a meaningful look as her lips pull back into a sharp grin, tusks on display. “I am not one to easily back down from a challenge.” 

 

“You haven’t won. It’s not over ‘till I’m dead.” He grins, sharp and feral. “What, are you afraid? Too much of a coward?”

 

Tommy can’t help but grin back, all teeth. “Something we have in common.” 

 

She gives an actual chuckle at that, a familiar chuff-chuff-chuff sound deep in her throat that bleeds away some of the tension in Tommy’s shoulders. Almost like Techno’s laugh, but deeper, rougher. Familiar in a way that’s soothing. 

 

“You are always welcome on Netheria, little champion, should you ever want a rematch.” She continues, and her eyes soften. “My sounder has heard many stories about you. It would be an honor to introduce you properly.” 

 

“I-“ 

 

Tommy starts, but has to stop to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. 

 

“Sure, big man.” He finishes lamely, attempting a smile that goes all wobbly at the edges. “Sounds great.”

 

She gives him an odd look, but before she can say anything, or Tommy can do something even more embarrassing, a Blazeborn drifts to her side, murmuring something in her ear. Whatever they say must not be good news, judging by the way her eyebrows pinch together, and she murmurs a quick response before turning back to Tommy and the others. 

 

“Apologies.” She says, dipping her head in a low bow to the three of them. “I must speak with my advisors before the meeting begins.”

 

“Of course.” Phil nods, he and Techno bowing in reply. 

 

Tommy scrambles to follow their lead, giving her a little wave. “See yah.” 

 

She turns, and he catches one last glimpse of long braided hair and the shimmering of her golden armor before she and the Blazeborn are swallowed up by the darkness and the crowd.

 

Phil bumps against his shoulder. “See? You’re a natural.”

 

Right. Yeah. 

 

Tommy swallows again, shaking his head and trying to ignore the way his eyes are starting to burn. 

 

She’s okay. That’s the important thing, really. C’mon Tommy, get it together

 

You can’t have everything you want. That’s just a fact of life. He can’t have Clementine and Clara and a life out here, it’s one or the other and he’s already made his choice. It’s too late to back out now, even if he wanted to. 

 

But it’s… nice to imagine. Just for a moment. In some other version of events, where he stays here. A version of him that takes Briseis up on her offer, and goes to visit a Netheria free of Schlatt and the fighting rings. Tubbo would probably love it, but Wilbur wouldn’t definitely through a fit about the heat again-

 

Wilbur.

 

“Fuck.” Tommy gasps. The Nevodi representative. Quackity. Wilbur.

 

He grabs both Phil and Techno by their arms, “guys, we’ve got a huge fucking problem-“

 

And then, because this night could literally not get any worse, an obnoxiously loud voice rings out over the crowd, freezing all three of them in place. 

 

“Is that Philza?”

 

“-shit.” Tommy curses, tightening his hold on Phil’s sleeve. Fuck, fuck! 

 

Phil’s face hardens. 

 

“I’ve got this.” He tells them, shifting slightly to put himself between Tommy and Quackity, who’s started making his way across the crowd to them. “I’ll distract him. Techno, Tommy, just say out of sight. I’ll come get you when it’s go time, okay?”

 

“But-“

 

Tommy doesn’t get the chance to protest before Phil has turned, the fakest of fake smiles plastered on his face. “Quackity! Long time to see…”

 

Techno grabs him by the arm and yanks. “Time to go.”

 

Finally, something Tommy can agree with.

 

Techno keeps a firm hand on Tommy’s arm, more or less dragging him through the crowd, which parts out of their way like a gaggle of bedazzled chickens. Tommy has to scramble to keep up with his longer strides as he guides the both of them too a quieter corner of the party, filled with a handful of leather booths and tables. Only quarter of them are occupied, a handful of Phantling girls giggling off to one side, a group of Blazeborns and Piglins taking up another boot with some sort of complicated card game. 

 

Tommy doesn’t get out so much as a, “hey wait-“ before Techno has put both hands on his shoulders and forced him to sit in one of the booths like a misbehaving child.

 

“Is there anyone else here that knows you?” He growls, suddenly intense. 

 

“Uh.” Tommy blinks, shrugging. “I think I saw Eret earlier?” 

 

Techno stares, deadpan. Tommy slumps down in his seat under the force of his glare. 

 

“And Fundy. And Charlie. And Purpled.” He admits, wincing. “And I also think I saw Niki?” 

 

For a moment, all Techno does is stare. Then, he sighs, running a hand down his face. “It’s… okay. It’ll be okay.”

 

He doesn’t sound very confident. 

 

“Brusieus likes me!” Tommy defends. “And so does Eret, I’m pretty sure. So that’s like, atleast one vote for us, right? A vote and a half?”

 

Techno begins to run at his temples. “We should have just stolen the stupid ship. I told him this was a dumb idea, but no-“ 

 

“This could be a good thing!”

 

“Tommy.” He growls. “We broke into one of the most highly secure places in the galaxy. We are not supposed to be here. If anyone recognizes you, then they know that we’re not supposed to be here.” 

 

“If this place is so secure then why was breaking in so easy?” Tommy huffs, ignoring how childish he sounds. 

 

“Besides.” He continues. “Phil said he could get us an audience with the Council.”

 

“Phil is an optimist-“ Techno growls under his breath, then starts again. “We aren’t getting an audience with the council if we get thrown out of their Banquet.”

 

“We won’t get thrown out!” Tommy snaps. “Brusieus will vouch for me. If I could just talk to her-“

 

“No.”

 

“But-“

 

“No .” Techno growls, standing. “You’re staying right here. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone. Just- sit here and wait for one of us to come get you.”

 

“But-“ Tommy gapes. “That wasn’t the plan!”

 

“It’s the plan now.”

 

“Techno-“

 

“Tommy. ” 

 

Techno crouches, looking him in the eye. His expression is dead-serious. “Do you want to get home or not?”

 

Tommy scowls. Fuck you, Technoblade. That’s a low blow and you know it. 

 

“…fine.” He relents through gritted teeth, slouching back in his seat. He’ll play along, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

 

“Good. Okay.” Techno stands again, rolling back his shoulders. He points a finger at Tommy like he’s a misbehaving dog. “I will be back. Stay.” 

 

Tommy watches him go, ignoring the prickling feeling on the back of his neck. 

 

What happened to him being the secret weapon?

 

Tommy sighs, sinking back even further in the leather booth, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. It’s actually really comfortable, which only serves to piss him off more. 

 

If there’s anything Tommy cannot stand, it’s not being able to do anything.

 

He shoots a glance at one of the nearby holoscreens. The timer keeps counting down, going agonizingly slow. Numbers in galactic are harder for him to read than letters, but he knows the jist of it. According to Phil, they had less than an hour when they first made it through the Banquet doors, but what about now? Thirty minutes? Twenty?

 

A lot could go wrong in thirty minutes.

 

What happens if Wilbur and the others finally show up, and Quackity sees them? Phil can keep him distracted now , but for how long? 

 

Tommy’s leg starts jogging.

 

What if they miss their chance? They only get one shot to make their case to the Council. Phil had said that Tommy just being human would be enough, but what if it wasn’t? Or worse, what happens if they decide to keep him? 

 

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

 

The clock keeps ticking down. Tik-tok, Tommy, times running out. 

 

This is torture. Actual torture.

 

Tommy rips his gaze away from the screen, focusing back on the crowd. He thinks he can make out the sound of Quackity’s voice from across the dance floor, the sheen of Charlie’s green, not-quite-skin. He thought he saw Fundy earlier, and if Quackity brought the whole gang with him, is Purpled here, too? He always did like that guy. Even if he was weird. 

 

The Phantling girls at the corner booth start up their cackling again. Tommy gives them a side-eye glance. What the hell is so funny? One of them shifts, moving to go fetch another round of drinks, and-

 

And Tommy.

 

 Can’t. 

 

Move. 




You know, it’s kind of funny, really, how quickly the entire night turns on its head.

 

Everything moves in slow motion.

 

Tommy is frozen, half-slouched into the booth. Around him, the party moves at half-speed, the swishing skirts and glittering lights turning slowly, the chatter and music fading to nothing but white noise in the back of his mind. The world narrows down to nothing but the rush of blood in his ears and him.

 

A large, familar frame, barely visible through the crowd of giggling Phantlings, five or six girls all with sapphires in their hair and diamonds shimmering on their faintly-translucent skin. They’re smiling, fangs on display, a group of sparkly parrannas circling their prey. 

 

He doesn’t even notice, of course not, to busy smiling like the meatheaded idiot he is. 

 

“-representing Lestea this year?” The girl on his left is asking, batting her eyelashes as she leans in close.

 

Her gaggle of friends break out into another round of high-pitched laughter as he swallows before responding, tugging nervously on the color of his suit jacket with one pair of hands, the other pair fidgeting in his lap.

 

“Well, you know.” He laughs, “it’s certainly excitin’, but I’m just here fer support.” 

 

Just the sound of his voice is enough to have Tommy gritting his teeth. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Being here, on the other side of the galaxy, right before Tommy is about to go home. 

 

He’s looking for you. Some stupid, irrational part of his brain begins to hiss, and he feels his lungs start to close up, breath coming quick and fast. He came here for you, didn’t he? To find you, drag you back- 

 

“You must be so proud. ” Another Phantling chitters, draping herself over his shoulder. “Your brother, the representative of an entire planet…” 

 

“Well I- uh- we’re all real proud of ‘im.” He stutters, face flushing. “he’s done a lot for me.”

 

“I’ll say.” The one still hanging off his shoulder pouts, running a hand down his arm. Oh, gross . “It's a shame you had to close down your bookstore, though.” 

 

“Well, it wasn’t a bookstore.” He corrects, rocky face splitting into a grin. “It was a pet-“

 

Across the room, purple eyes finally meet his. 

 

“-shop.” He, this motherfucker, finishes. 



And Tommy sees red. 







(Naturally, it all goes downhill from there.) 





-





It’s by chance, really, that so many of the cameras throughout the Banquet happen to get such a good view.

 

The Pavilion is stirring, all eyes cast upwards to the screens lining the upper floors. The ones once dedicated to celebrity feeds and interviews with the advisors of representatives now showing a variety of different clips from the Banquet, all shot from different angles and cameras played together to allow for the audience to get the full picture. 

 

The Avian boy is screaming, The Phantling girls are screaming, the brother of the Lestea Representative is screaming as well, standing with his palms in the air as he blubbers something too hard to make out in the ensuing chaos. The Avian boy hisses something particularly nasty, lips pulled back into a nasty snarl as he shouts obscenities in a language no one can understand without the help of the translators. There’s no translation needed for the fury on his face, though. 

 

The Shulk says something else, voice low and hard. The words are hard to make out, but whatever he says freezes the Avian boy in place. 

 

There’s absolutely no warning before the Avian boy is snatching one of the glasses off of a nearby table and chucking it at the Shulk's face- 

 

(“Get his ass, Tommy.” A Bezzarian in the crowd mutters, eyes fixed on the screens. The Hybrid at his side swallows, watching nervously.) 

 

Another camera, this time aimed at the backs of the Avian’s head, catches the moments afterwards, in crystal-clear clarity, projecting them on a different screen. 

 

- he roars, hands coming up to cradle his face, blood already dripping down his temple. He pulls his lips back in a snarl of his own, and the Phantling girls scatter, screeching, as he lunges forwards.

 

It’s not clear by this angle if he’s going for a punch, or just trying to grab the boy by the arm, but either way, the boy reacts so fast all the camera captures is a red blur, twisting out of the way and reeling back just to throw himself forwards- 

 

(“He’s got moves.” A teenager with purple eyes hums, leaning against a wall as he watches the screens lazily from the shadows.) 

 

A third camera, shaky, zoomed in, catching them both in profile, the neon lights only adding to the chaos of the scene as onlookers begin to realize what’s happening. 

 

-hits the ground hard enough that the camera wobbles. The Avian reels back his fist, getting in another solid hit before the Shulk can get over the shock of the first one. He tries to shove him off, the extra set of arms giving him a bit of an advantage, but the Avian is deceptively strong from someone so scrawny, digging his hands into the collar of his jacket and knocking his head back with another blow. 

 

Even when the Shulk finally regains the upper hand, the Avian doesn’t make it easy, writhing on the ground like an angry cat, hissing and spitting all the while as the Shulk tries to pin him down. He reaches up past his face, grabbing a handful of feathers, and once the hand is close enough, the boy bites down. 

 

The resulting crunch! Is loud enough for the cameras to pick it up, the scream that follows ear-piercing. 

 

“-broke my fucking hand!” 

 

“Get the guards- we need a doctor!” Someone shouts in the back, panicked voices layering on top of each other as the rest of the Banquet begins to notice the fight. “Is he okay?!”

 

“Somebody get the guards-“

 

“Good stars above-“

 

It only takes a few moments for them to notice the feathers. 

 

“Wait, the kid ain’t even bleeding!”

 

“Wait a minute- those feathers- they’re not real! they’ve been glued on! 

 

“This kids not an Avian!”

 

( “Out of my way! ” A Phantling snaps, trying to shoulder his way past the guards, teeth bared. “My fucking dad is in there- let me through!” 

 

“We have invitations!” The Merling at his side adds, holding up her comn. “Sir please.” 

 

The guard blocking the entrance just crosses his arms. “Sorry kids. Captain's orders. The Banquet hall is on lockdown, no one in or out.” 

 

The Phantling snarls, and the Hybrid has to grab his arm to keep him from doing something even more stupid.

 

“Are you crazy?!” They hiss in his ear. 

 

“We need to find Phil.” The Bezzarian murmurs. “He’ll know what to do.”)




Only one camera catches the end of the fight. 

 

It’s not a very good angle, and the quality is awful compared to the other clips playing on repeat on holoscreens all throughout the Council ship.  Only one screen is showing this particular clip, one of the smaller ones, easily overlooked as the nosey crowds gasp and point at the drama of the others. 

 

The Shulk manages to throw the boy off, flipping their positions to pin him down, shouting for the guards all the while. 

 

The boy’s face is only visible for a few seconds, eyes wild, blood and tears dripping down his chin. 

 

He looks terrified.

 

The scene is obscured by the crowds for a moment before they’re sent scattering once again, a bulky figure shoving his way through. A Piglin, snarling with his tusks bared, who takes one look at the scene in front of him before he’s grabbing the Shulk by the back of the shirt and yanking -

 

“Get your hands off of him!” 

 

The crowds shift again, a woman in a sparkly dress stepping in front of the camera's view. The Piglin is shouting something, the Shulk shouting right back, the words lost in the chaos and screaming of the crowd. When the woman finally steps out of the way, guards have grabbed the Piglin, three of them needed to restrain him as he struggles, while another two reach for the boy. 

 

They grab him by his wrists, dragging him upright, and he screams- 

 

“Phil!” 

 

There’s a loud, ear-piercing noise as the camera’s microphone whines, the feedback squealing. 

 

The screen is obscured by black feathers, and the feed cuts out. 




-





Notes:

God i've been waiting MONTHS for that plot twist you guys don't even KNOW. It's not the only one i have planned either, place your bets now.

This could probably use another round of editing, but it is nearly 1 am and the all benedyrl I took is starting to kick in, so im just leave it here and go to bed before I start hallucinating spiders again. I might return in the morning to edit, who's to say.

make better decisions than me, yeah? see ya'll next month.

 

-Matches

Chapter 21: Human (II)

Summary:

oh yeah, its all coming together

Notes:

“Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
my sign is vital,
my hands are cold

 

and I'm on my knees,
looking for the answer
are we human?”
or are we dancer?”
-Human, the Killers

 

We're really in the thick of it now. Two chapters and an epilogue, and this sucker will be finished. I really hoped to have this done by the end of summer, but life decided that it wasn't in the cards (car broke down, quit my job, staring a new semester at college, etc). Anyways, a big thank you to Mars as always, and i hope you don't hate me too much when you're finished reading! Enjoy!

tumblr // twitter // playlist

 

TWs: (SPOILERS)
Several flashbacks and mentions of events in previous chapters, particularly a distressing scene from chapter one. Mentions/allusions to medical abuse/torture, captivity, needles, blood and injury, and a heavy warning for dehumanization throughout the chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

If Tommy had a nickel for everytime he’d ended up outside the principal's office throughout the years, he’d be rich enough to buy his own spaceship to get back home. 

 

Most of the time it wasn't even his fault! Tommy can count on one hand the amount of times he’d thrown the first punch. He hadn’t exactly been the toughest kid on the playground, all too-long legs and sharp elbows, even he wasn’t stupid enough to try and pick a fight he knew he couldn’t win. 

 

Still, if there’s one thing Tommy’s always been good at, it’s never knowing when to shut up. 

 

He’s got a knack for it, really. It was the source of most of his problems growing up, along with never knowing how to leave well enough alone. If there was a bully in his class with enough pent up anger to fold a fully grown teacher like a goddamn lawn chair, you can fucking bet that Tommy Innet will be the one to set him off. Finding the exact wrong person to piss off, and saying just the thing to tip them over the edge is both a curse and an art form, and Tommy’s the best in the business. 

 

Sitting in the medical wing of the Council Ship while they figure out what they’re going to do with him feels a lot like sitting in the principal's office. 

 

Only, instead of sitting in a stuffy room in a shitty chair while the front desk ladies side-eye him every time he so much as blinks too hard, he’s sitting on a blank white cot in a room that smells like hand sanitizer and antiseptic, handcuffed, with guards posted outside the doors to keep him from running off. 

 

It's really not so different, actually, the more he thinks about it. Minus the smell. And the handcuffs. And the crushing anxiety starting to eat him alive from the inside out. Other than that, it’s pretty much the same. 

 

The medical wing on the Council ship really isn’t too different from the med bay back on the Argo II. Not that it’s any more comforting. Medical wings, hospitals, he hates them all the same. 

 

They look similar. Grey walls, grey floors, grey cot, grey everything. Some weird equipment set up the corner that he’s forcing himself to ignore and not mess with. A handful of screens covered in symbols he can’t read, an IV-looking thing they’d tried to stick in him earlier that’s now definitely a bit more crooked than before. Whoops .

 

In his defense, now is probably not the best time to go sticking him with needles, thanks. 

 

He doesn’t… quite remember how he got from the Banquet to here. It’s a blur of pain and screaming, punches landing and the taste of blood in his mouth. Techno, eyes flashing dangerously in the glittering lights. Phil, wings spread wide like some Angel of death come to steal his soul. Rough hands on his shoulders, pinning him down, yanking him upright, panicked voices in his ear and a sharp pain in his neck. 

 

The next thing he knows, he’s waking up here. Handcuffed, bloody knuckles and a headache that doesn’t seem like it’ll be going away any time soon. 

 

They’d drugged him. Sedated him, somehow, probably. The thought of a needle going into his neck makes him shiver. 

 

They’d sent in a doctor a little while ago, but she hadn’t stuck around very long. She’d barely spoken to him at all, fussing with her equipment and watching him with three sets of curious yellow eyes. She was some kind of spider alien, using her extra set of arms to pass him bandages and a bottle of antiseptic for his knuckles and gently applying a mint-smelling cream to the bruises already blooming over his face and arms. She’d seemed nice enough, not exactly threatening, despite the whole, extra arms and sharp-looking fangs, thing. Not after spending the last few weeks(?) cuddling with Shroud. 

 

She’d wanted to do his back and chest as well, but he’d shot that down quick. 

 

She’d unhandcuffed him just long enough to treat the bruises and broken skin, slapping on some kind of cream that made everything go all cold and tingly before wrapping them up. She’d forgotten to reattach the handcuffs before reaching for the IV, and Tommy has a feeling she’d regretted that almost immediately. 

 

After the IV… incident , though, she hadn’t tried to touch him again, not for anything more than to reattach the handcuffs in front of him, thank fucking god. 

 

He’s had about as much of being touched by random strangers as he can take today. 

 

He can still feel the prick of the needle in his skin, from earlier. He’d jarred it, after freaking out and nearly snapping the IV stand in half, which wasn’t his fault. She’d tried to stab him a needle! She hadn’t even asked first! 

 

Whatever they’d hit him with earlier still hasn’t worn off yet, he doesn’t think. If the dizzy, lightheaded feeling he has now is because of whatever drug they’d given him, or a concussion from when he’d been slammed to the floor. Maybe it’s just the shock. Who knows, at this point. 

 

She’d made a hasty exit after that, but not before taking his comn with her. “To run a few tests” , she’d said, not even bothering to hide the way she kept nervously looking between him and his comn, muttering some excuse about his heartbeat and respiratory patterns. The three pairs of eyes really added to the effect, not a single one of them managing to meet his. 

 

Tommy isn’t sure if being alone is making him feel better or worse. The hospital-smell isn’t exactly doing wonders for his nerves. 

 

He hates hospitals, almost as much as he hates needles. That smell alone, hand sanitizer and antiseptic, with something else underneath, metallic, sharp , is enough to have him nearly jumping out of skin everytime he hears footsteps passing by the door. He feels itchy, like his skin isn’t fitting right, just sitting and waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

 

He fidgets with the bandages on his hands, stretching out and curling his fingers until the cracked skin smarts. Space handcuffs are a lot more comfortable than earth-handcuffs, not that he’s had a ton of experience with either. Two metal bracelets, connected by some fizzling purple electricity. He can pull them apart a few inches or so before they refuse to go any further, like magnets drawing together. If they weren’t connected, he could probably pass them off as clunky bracelets. Unfortunately, they didn’t have locks. Not traditional ones, anyways, which meant he’d be stuck with them for now. Hooray

 

Tubbo would probably have a field day trying to figure out how they work. Hell, if Tubbo was here, he’d probably find a way to turn them into bombs, or something. Or make them electrocute anyone Tommy touches. 

 

He doesn’t… he doesn’t really like being alone. Not like this. Not in this empty fucking room on some strange ship he’s never been on before, with that hospital smell in the air that makes it hard for him to breathe right. 

 

He was never alone on the Argo II. Not for long, anyways. There was always someone just a loud shout away. He could always feel the rest of the crew nearby, hear the creaking and hissing of the ship as they moved around, smell Techno’s fancy soap or Wilbur’s body wash in the air. You have to try to be alone, on the Argo II, and even then, it’s never for long. 

 

You’ve really fucked ip this time, huh, Innet? 

 

Tommy shakes it off, grimacing as he clenches and unclenches his fists, raising his hands up to give his knuckles another once-over.

 

For a being made of rock, you’d really think that it would have taken more than just one solid right hook to break the guy’s nose, but you’d be wrong. 

 

He- that motherfucker- had squealed like a goddamn pig, face snapping to left with the force of the punch, nose cracking with satisfying crunch! that Tommy can still hear echoing in his ears. Can still feel the thick, purple sludge that must have been blood coating his hands, even after they’d long-since been cleaned off. 

 

They hadn’t given him anything new to change into, though the nurse had done her best to clean him off with strong-smelling wipes. There’s as much red staining the front of his shirt as purple. Craning his neck to examine the damage only gives him another spark of pride. Good. 

 

Tommy’s been in a lot of fights, both on Earth and in space. This one probably hadn’t been the best decision, yeah, but goddamn, was it the most satisfying

 

The last time Tommy had seen that motherfucker, he’d been fresh off of his ship, covered in fresh scars and still flinching if someone raised their voice too loud. Dehydrated, starving, exhausted enough that just standing for too long made him dizzy. He’d tried to fight back then, but what could he do? Against someone so much bigger, so much stronger? 

 

It’s been a long time, since then. This time, the fight had been more than fair. 

 

That motherfucker- the one who locked him in a cage , who fed him dog food and tried to pawn him off like some unwanted pet- he got what he deserved

 

Had picking a fight at the Banquet, only a few minutes away from getting his ticket back to Earth, been a smart move? No. Probably not. 

 

But fuck, it’s hard for him to regret it. 

 

He just hopes he hasn’t fucked everything else up in the process. 

 

Most of the anger has faded by now, settling into something else, something jittery and uncomfortable under his skin. Techno had been there, so had Phil. He hasn’t seen them, not after waking up here. Did they get stuck in their own rooms? Are they hurt? In trouble? Did they get arrested? 

 

They were just defending him. The thought makes his insides twist into knots, something like nausea rising in the back of his throat. They were just defending him! It wasn’t their fault Tommy decided to throw the first punch! It was his! 

 

He hadn’t- look, he hadn’t gone into that expecting to beat the shit out of the guy. Really, he hadn’t. Not at first, anyways. 

 

He just… he didn’t think! He just saw the guy, just saw him, and all the memories came flooding back again. All over again he was weak, and helpless and stuck behind that glass cage, not knowing what’s going to happen to him next. Not knowing if he’d even get out of there alive. Next thing he knew he was shouting, and then that bastard had opened his mouth, and- and the shit that he said…

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. I sell animals, not people.”

 

he’d just, reacted. Next thing he knew, he was reeling back, throwing a punch the way Techno had showed him. 

 

“You want an animal, motherfucker? I’ll show you an animal!”

 

It had been worth it, just to see the look on his face. Just to see him scared and helpless the same way Tommy had been, all that time ago. 

 

He just… he hopes that Techno and Phil are okay. That he didn’t fuck up everything. 

 

Tommy flops backwards on the cot with a sigh. He’d been so fucking close, too. If he had just held out for… what? Half an hour longer? Twenty minutes? 

 

He wonders what Clem and Clara would say, and the thought makes him want to curl up into a ball and lay there, forever. Hey guys, I know I was only a few hours away from getting a ride home, but I managed to fuck everything up by getting into a fight at the most important party in the galaxy, so. Yeah, I might not be coming home after all, whoops? 

 

Would they be upset? Angry? Or, even worse, disappointed? 

 

He imagines Clara carefully applying the bandages the way the nurse had, the same way she used too. Hair falling into her face, steady hands with eyes like storm clouds. 

 

“He really did a number on you, huh?” She’d say, tilting his head this way and that. “I hope you got a few shots in, atleast.”

 

He imagines Clementine in the back, rooting through Clara’s first aid kit for the space-themed band-aids, grabbing his hands in hers to clean up his knuckles, eyes big and dark. 

 

“I’ll say.” She’d laugh, and it would be just what he needed to hear. “ What the hell were you fighting, a rock? You need me to go up there? I’ve got a baseball bat with his name on it, just say the word.” 

 

They still don’t look right, when he pictures them. The faces off, the voices a bit too pinched. Is that really what they’d say, or just wishful thinking on his part? At this point, he doesn’t know how to tell the difference. 

 

It’s funny, really. The longer he spends in space, the more he forgets them. The closer he gets to home, the more he forgets them, the misses them all over again. 

 

Tommy shuts his eyes. 

 

He just hopes the others are okay. They shouldn’t get in trouble, not over something that wasn’t even their fault to begin with. 

 

Wilbur, Tubbo, and Ranboo hadn’t even made it to the Banquet, he doesn’t think. As long as they keep their mouths shut and stay out of the way, no one will have to know they’re even involved. But Phil, Techno…

 

They did all of this for him. To get him to the Council, so he could go back to Earth. The only reason they’re here at all is because of him. It wasn’t. Their. Fault

 

He doubts that makes a difference, though, he thinks as the back of his throat starts to burn. It doesn’t ever work out that way. 

 

The guards had all looked at him like he was some kind of rabid animal , he and Techno both. Pinning him down with gloved hands as the partygoers shrieked and screamed and scattered like a coop of frightened chickens. Looked at Phil like he was going to steal their souls as he swept in to help break things apart, teeth bared, wings spread wide. 

 

The doctor had looked at him the same way after his outburst over the IV, wide-eyed and nervous, hands around her clipboard like it’s a shield, just waiting for him to snap. 

 

Tommy feels his hands ball into fists, the tender skin on his knuckles protesting. 

 

They don’t know what that motherfucker put him through. They don’t know what he is! He’s the fucking animal, he’s the monster! He locked Tommy in a goddamn cage for weeks! Weeks ! Showed him off to people like he was fucking merchandise, was willing to sell him off to the first person who showed interest! What if it hadn’t been Techno, huh? What if Techno hadn’t been there to save him, what if he actually ended up just handing Tommy off to whoever flashed around the most cash. What if it had been some other creep? What if it had been someone like- 

 

He deserved everything he got, is the point here. He deserves worse-



“Tommy!”



Tommy jerks upright just in time for the door to slide open, and a brown and blue blur to nearly tackle him to the bed. 

 

Tommy struggles against the grip around his back, but he might as well try to fight an octopus. He’s stuck, trapped, with some fucking weirdo touching him , holding him tight enough that he’s wheezing against silky fabric, his handcuffed hands useless—

 

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.” Hands run through his hair, wrapping around his back to tug him closer, pressing his nose into a shoulder. “You’re safe, it’s okay.” 

 

Tommy takes a sharp breath in, nearly choking on the smell of—

 

Of vanilla, and not-quite-gasoline. 

 

“Wilbur?!”

 

“I’ve got you,” He, Wilbur, repeats into his hair, voice shaking, and relief hits Tommy so hard that it’s dizzying, all the fight and panic draining out of him at once. It’s okay, he’s okay. 

 

Wilbur sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, and Tommy can’t do anything else but sink with him. “I’ve got you, Toms. It's okay.”

 

He sounds more like he’s comforting himself than Tommy, but he lets himself lean into it, anyways. One of his crew is here, at least he knows one of them is safe. 

 

The hands around his back release him, Wilbur pulling back just enough to grab both sides of his face, instead, turning it this way and that fast enough to give Tommy vertigo. 

“Are you hurt? How do you feel? What the fuck happened?!” 

 

And Tommy—

 

Tommy can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. Maybe both. Or maybe a secret third option, collapse and dissolve into the floor. That’s starting to look like a pretty good option right now. Fucking hell. 

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks?” He tries. The look that Wilbur gives him in response is deadpan enough to give even Techno a run for his money.

 

After a moment or two, Wilbur just. Deflates. Wheezing out a “fuck me” and running a hand down his face. The other latches over Tommy’s shoulder, nearly pitching him sideways as he yanks him right to his side. 

 

“You are never leaving my side again.” Wilbur says through his hands. “Never. Ever. Again.” 

 

In the first wise decision Tommy’s made all day, he decides that now is maybe not the time to point out that the whole reason they’re here is to send Tommy back home to Earth. He just leans back into him, instead. 

 

“So…” Tommy speaks up after a moment or two, wincing. “…How bad is it?”

 

Wilbur gives him another one of those looks. Tommy gives him a ‘who, me?’ smile that has him sighing sharply through his nose. He puts his hands on his temples. 

 

“You bit the brother of the Lestea Representative. During a Banquet that you broke into.”

 

“In my defense,” Tommy can’t help but point out. “He started it.”

 

“Why?!” 

 

It’s nearly a hiss, equal parts sharp and exasperated as Wilbur gets to his feet. He's actually looking at him now, and there’s an expression on his face that Tommy’s never seen before, eyes wide, eyebrows pinched together, lips back to flash just a hint of fang.

 

He’s angry , Tommy realizes, swallowing down the sinking feeling in his gut. Like, actually angry, not his usual flavor of bitchy and dramatic, or irritated. Angry.

 

Angry at Tommy. 

 

 “ Why, Tommy?” He nearly pleads, “Why in the ever loving fuck did you think that starting a fistfight in the middle of the Banquet was a good idea?!”

 

The back of his throat starts to burn. Tommy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. What the hell is he supposed to say? 

 

“You know we’re doing this for you, right?” Wilbur doesn’t even wait for a reply, loud and raw in a way that makes Tommy wince. “And you throw it all away— for what? Why?! What stupid reason could you possible have for-“ 

 

A few months ago, during their pit stop on T’Aria, Wilbur had yelled around Tommy. 

 

Not even at Tommy, just. Around him. Just shouted at Techno while Tommy happened to be in the same room, and it had been enough to send him running down to the cargo hold with his tail between his legs. 

 

It’s been a long time since then, though, and Tommy’s had one hell of a fucking day. 

 

He’s tired. He’s dizzy. He’s hurting. He’s covered in bruises and just the smell of the room is making him feel like the walls are closing in. He’s sick with worry over Phil and Techno, he’s terrified that he, once again, fucked everything up because that’s the only thing he’s actually good for and dragged everyone else down with him, and, most of all, he’s not in the fucking mood. 

 

“Because!” Tommy shouts back, jumping to his feet as he snarls,“Because that motherfucker deserved it!” 

 

Wilbur blinks, taken aback, but Tommy isn’t finished yet. Oh no, Tommy’s not even close to being finished. All the anger and fucking terror that’s been fuzzing up within him all fucking night, bubbles his in stomach like gasoline, clawing it’s way up his throat. The rush of blood in his ears turns into a roar. 

 

He’s angry at that four-armed bitch, angry at him, angry at everyone at the stupid Banquet for looking at them like that, for hurting Techno and Phil over something that wasn’t even their fault. Angry at himself for getting them into this mess in the first place. All it takes is a spark, and Tommy feels himself go up in flames. 

 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He starts, baring his teeth into a growl that quickly turns into a shout. “You don’t know what it was like- you don’t have the first fucking idea of what it was like in that fucking pet shop, and you know what, Wilbur?”

 

Tommy steps forward, jamming a finger in his chest as he snarls . “I’m fucking glad I did it. I’d do it again! I don’t even care if I never go home again, it was worth it to put that- that monster in his place, to put him through even a little bit of the hell I went through!”

 

It’s silent. Everything is silent. 

 

Tommy is breathing hard, swallowing the burning in the back of throat that’s started to make his eyes water. He grits his teeth, blinking hard, dropping his hands to look Wilbur in the eye, something else mean and sharp just on the tip of his tongue, and- 

 

Tommy meets his gaze steady, and immediately knows that’s he’s fucked up. 

 

Wilbur is frozen. 

 

He’s stock-still, like someone’s just pressed pause on the universe, freezing him in place. The anger is gone, replaced by a look of mounting horror. 

 

“Pet shop.” He repeats, voice soft. “Did you just say, ‘pet shop’?” 

 

This time, it’s Tommy’s turn to freeze in place.

 

How much does Wilbur remember, of when they first met? He’d never gone inside, never seen the owner, not like Techno had. He must have known, or Phil and Techno must have told him afterwards, atleast. Judging by the look of horrified realization on his face. 



“Boys!”




And then, because someone upstairs has a sick sense of humor, it’s at that moment that the door decides to slide open again.

 

Philza (last name) descends into the room with all the grace and tact of an angry goose.

 

He’s smiling, relief shining on his face despite the bandage slapped over his chin, and the new bald patches in his wings. All bets are off the moment he spots Tommy, though, and he nearly bowls Wilbur over in his rush to get to him first.

 

Wilbur tries to intercept, “Wait, Phil-“

 

“You’re okay!”

 

but his warning is immediately lost in a whirlwind of feathers as Phil grabs Tommy in a hug strong enough to nearly take them both off of their feet. Tommy freezes, just for a moment, before a clawed hand runs through his hair and he’s melting , the rest of the anger giving way to relief. 

 

The hug only lasts for a few seconds, but Tommy takes the time to savor it all the same. He’s okay. Phil is okay! 

 

He’s pulling back just as quickly, tilting Tommy’s head this way and that the same way Wilbur had, though with much softer hands. “First things first, are you both alright? Nothing broken?” 

 

“I’m alright, big man.” Tommy tries to wave him off, but it’s pointless. Phil sits him back down on the cot, protests falling on deaf ears. “Really, it’s just bruises. It’s fine.”

 

“I’m glad they had someone look you over. Oh, mate, your hands. ” Phil titters over his knuckles, letting out a soft whistle. “At least you got a few good shots in, right?” 

 

Tommy tries to swallow down the burst of pride, and isn’t sure he succeeds. That is the proper response to learning that Tommy beat the shit out of the asshole who held him captive for weeks. Wilbur, take notes. 

 

Finally, Phil decides that he’s not going to keel over any time soon and pulls back out of his personal space enough to look him in the eye. 

 

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” He says, clasping his shoulder. “You scared the fuck out of me!”

 

Guilt curdles in his stomach, and Tommy leans back sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”

 

If anything, that just makes Phil look more concerned. “It’s alright, mate. We’ll figure it out.”

 

“You guys havin’ a party without me?”

 

Tommy whips his head up. “Techno!”

 

In a bloody and ripped shirt, with a bruise already starting to darken his forehead and hair escaping his braid to fall in strings around his face, Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever been more happy to see anyone in his life. 

 

Tommy jumps to his feet, only stopped from throwing himself at Techno by the hand on his shoulder.

 

“It’s good to see you again, old friend.” Phil says, voice clipped. 

 

He’s not talking to Techno.

 

It’s only then that Tommy notices that he can’t see Techno’s hands, following the line of his shoulders to where they’re hidden behind his back. Cuffed behind his back. 

 

It’s only then that he notices the shadow by Techno’s side, tall and lean, one hand on Techno’s arm like a leash. 

 

The tension slams over the room like a lead curtain, so thick Tommy’s choking on it. 

 

The guard, Edward, Tommy remembers, makes the first move, clearing his throat. 

 

“Philza Minc’aft of Aether.” Edward drawls. “Wilbur Soot, of Viona, and Technoblade, of Netheria. All three of you are under arrest.”

 

Everyone starts shouting at once.

 

“The fuck-“

 

“-what for-“

 

“-the hell!”

 

The Endborn lifts a hand, “or, you would be. Fortunately, the Council is willing to hear you out.”

 

“Fucking hell.” Wilbur swears, still bristling like an angry cat. “Maybe lead with that one next time, yeah?”

 

“Easy, Wil.” Phil murmurs, putting a hand on his shoulder, shifting until he’s out himself between them and Edward. “On what grounds?”

 

Edward snorts. “Physical assault, for one. During the Banquet , no less. Disturbing the peace, breaking and entering… and that’s just the violations from today. You have a rather impressive track record, old friend.” 

 

Phil squares his shoulders. “I see.” 

 

“Seeing as this has now become a… delicate, issue.” Edward continues, pausing to glance in Tommy’s direction. “The Council has unanimously decided to table today's proceedings in favor of rushing this trial. You will be held here on the ship until they’ve decided what to do with you and your… friend, here.”

 

Tommy swallows.

 

“You can’t hold us prisoner here.” Wilbur snaps. 

 

“You’d rather be separated? Sent back to Viona? Aether? Netheria?” Edward leans closer, curling his lip, and Tommy resists the childish urge to duck back behind Phil’s wing. 

 

“And who knows what would become of this one , or the other two children you’ve decided to drag into this mess.”

 

Everyone tenses. 

 

Phil lowers his voice into a growl that sends shivers up Tommy’s spine. “If you’ve hurt a single hair on their heads-“

 

“You truly think so little of me?” Edward snaps right back, shaking his head. “No. They will be brought into custody, same as you.  No harm will come to them here. 

 

They will be brought into custody, Tommy catches, something like relief flaring in his chest. Which means they haven’t been caught yet, thank fuck. They didn’t do anything wrong! 

 

Phil sucks in a breath. “Edward…”

 

“I've known you for centuries, Phil.” Edward says, and if Tommy wasn’t seeing things, he almost sounded sorry. “I promise you, anything I could have done to help you, I have done it. What happens next is between you and—“

 

He’s interrupted by a sharp buzzing noise.

 

Once again, everyone freezes. All eyes on Edward as he lifts a hand to his ear, to the black earpiece Tommy hadn’t noticed before, the same color as his fur. 

 

“Now? Are you sure?” Edward says, voice sharp. Tommy can’t hear the response of who’s on the other line, but whatever they say, it’s not good news. “I… see. Yes. We are on our way.”

 

We?

 

Somewhere outside the door, Tommy hears the sound of footsteps. Many footsteps. Techno lets out a low growl, a rattling hiss beginning to build in the back of Wilbur’s throat. 

 

“Apologies.” Edward says, straightening. “It appears we’ve run out of time.”

 

He reaches over to place a hand on the door. It opens with a quiet swoosh! 



“The Council will see you now.”




-




“Could you move any slower?”

 

The Hybrid makes a low noise in the back of their throat, tail lashing nervously as they inch along the railing. “I’m trying.”

 

“Just don’t look down.” The Bezzarian hisses back, walking along the narrow ledge without the slightest hint of fear, like a gymnast dancing along a balance beam. 

 

The Hybrid swallows, and inches a little further. 

 

Below, far, far below, the Market Square is buzzing like a hornets nest. 

 

Every single screen has been turned on, still images and videos from the fight playing on loop. Aliens in fancy clothes chatter over top, throwing around words like meeting, trial, and, of course, the word on everyone’s mind, human. 

 

Perched somewhere between these screens, a Bezzarian scales the terraces and ledges of the Council ship with ease, a Hybrid following nervously a few paces behind.

 

The walls of the Council ship are covered in handholds, from decorative arches and terraces to window ledges and balconies. With the screens drawing all of the attention, no one spares the two shadows darting between and behind them a second glance, jumping from ledge to ledge, walking along the railings of balconies and going over the wires and metal structures used to keep the screens in place. 

 

“This is great.” The Bezzarian hums, pausing behind one of the giant screens to run his hands over the metal structures, eyes gleaming. “You can see everything from up here. There’s no way they’ll find us now.”

 

Without an ounce of fear, he hefts himself up onto a narrow metal beam, walking along it with his arms spread to either side. The Hybird makes another low, scared noise, ears pinned tight to their head as they watch. “But what about Niki?” 

 

“She’ll find us again when she’s done trying to hunt down Eret.” The Bezzarian hums, using his arms to swing from one metal beam to another ledge, finding his footing with ease. “In the meantime, we stay out of sight, just like Wilbur said.”

 

“Right…”

 

The Hybrid cautiously sits on one of the metal beams near the Bezzarian, watching the back of the screen they’re hidden behind curiously. The noise is muffled, back here, but they try to puzzle it out, anyways.

 

The Bezzarian sighs, crouching and pulling his comn out of his pocket. “He hasn’t said anything else to you, has he?”

 

The hybrid shakes their head. “Nope.”

 

“Figures.” The Bezzarian sighs again, growling as he stares out over the marketplace below. “ Idiot. Getting into a fight like that at the banquet. What was he thinking?”

 

The Hybrid shifts. “He probably wasn’t.”

 

The Bezzarian deflates, falling backwards to sprawl over one of the beams with a groan. 

 

“I wish there was something else we could do.” The Hybrid says, after a moment. “Beside just sitting here, I mean.”

 

“Waiting is always the worst part.” The Bezzarian huffs, gesturing offhandedly to the screen in front of them, and the market below. “At least we get a good view. Nothing beats the market back home, but this is close.” 

 

The Hybrid hums in agreement, watching another screen just visible to their left. It’s replaying the fight for the hundredth time, and they wince when the human goes down, the scene freezing on the vicious expression on his face. 

 

“I wish they’d show something else.” They mutter, forcing themself to look away. “All these cameras around, you’d think they’d find something else to show on the big screens by now. 

 

The Bezzarian jolts, sitting up. “The cameras!” 

 

“Hey, what are you-“

 

“No time!” The Bezzarian is moving faster than the Hybrid can keep up, running along the narrow beam to jump to his next foothold, two-toned eyes lighting up like Christmas lights. “C’mon, c’mon, ‘Boo!”

 

Wait- Where are we going?” They call after him, scrambling to keep up.

 

“The cameras.” They shoot back over their shoulder, grin crooked and eyes wild. “Boo, you’re a genius!”

 

“But what does that- oh, nevermind.” The Hybrid groans, shakes their head, and picks up the pace. “Wait for me!” 

 

All they get in response is a cackle. 




-




“You're very lucky, you know.”

 

Tommy sure as hell doesn't feel lucky right now, being frog-marched in handcuffs to his probable doom. This doesn’t stop the guard escorting him down the hallway though, who keeps right on chattering in his ear despite the glares he keeps leveled at the back of their head. 

 

“You’ve been spoken for personally by members of the Council.” The guard continues, despite literally nobody asking. “ It’s very rare that they hold trials against criminals here, and to move aside the scheduled Meetings in favor of it? You are very lucky, indeed.” 

 

“Lucky, right.” Wilbur scowls, voice lowered to a hiss in Tommy’s direction. “Your fight was broadcasted to the whole ship. I mean, a human? Here? Holding trial for us is just to keep riots from breaking out all over the ship.”

 

“Watch your tongue.” The guard standing just behind Wilbur says, shoving at his shoulder. “Keep moving. We’re wasting time.”

 

“Don’t mind him.” Tommy’s guard leans in to say. “He’s just grumpy he didn’t get invited to the Banquet.”

 

Looking Wilbur’s escort up and down, Tommy’s suddenly pretty glad to get stuck with the chatty guard. At least he doesn’t have to deal with that asshole breathing down his neck. 

 

They’re being led as a group through the twisting back hallways of the Council ship. The only people they pass are other Endborn guards, all dressed head to toe in black. Phil leading the way up front, with Techno bringing up the rear, leaving Tommy and Wilbur squashed in the center of their little parade, conveniently hiding Tommy from the curious eyes of the guards who watch them pass, whispering to one another behind their hands.

 

Tommy juts out his chin, doing his best to swallow down the anxiety stirring in his chest. Let them talk. He doesn’t have anything to hide. 

 

“We got what we wanted. An audience with the Council.” Techno’s voice is low, soft enough that the guards won’t notice. 

 

Tommy doesn’t turn to look, keeping his gaze stubbornly forwards as his guard pulls him gently by the arm, continuing to chatter on about the Council and their traditions. 

 

“Picking a fight was risky and stupid.” Techno continues, blunt as ever, before relenting. “ But… a sure fire way to get their attention. It’s not like they can turn us away now. Not with the whole ship looking on.”

 

“My plan would have worked.” Phil mutters back, looking determinedly forwards. “You could have picked someone to tackle that wasn’t related to one of the representatives.”  

 

Tommy growls, “He-“

 

“He deserved it.”

 

It’s Wilbur that speaks over him, giving Tommy a quick glance before looking straight again and finishing. “The guy he attacked. He deserved it.” 

 

Tommy can’t make out Phil’s expression, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. 

 

Eventually, they make it around another corner to another long, long hallway, just as foreboding as all the rest, with the addition of being completely empty. If anything, the lack of guards around just makes Tommy more nervous, like they’re walking somewhere where they shouldn’t be. 

 

Without anyone looking on, though, there’s no one to notice as Wilbur darts a hand forwards, shoving lightly at the back of Phil’s guard in front of him, causing him to stumble. 

 

“Keep moving.” Wilbur’s guard snaps as the other guard rights himself. “Quit fooling around. They’re expecting us.”

 

“Would you relax for like, two seconds?” Phils guard, some lanky Blazeborne, snaps back. “If you shove me one more time, I swear -“

 

“That wasn’t me!”

 

“Yeah, sure.” 

 

Wilbur’s guard bristles, ears pinning back, “Well, I wouldn’t have to if you would just do your job-“

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you get promoted when I wasn’t looking? No? Then shut it-“

 

“C’mon, guys. Let’s try and be professional here.” Tommy’s guard chips in, tail swishing nervously by her ankles. “We’ve been entrusted with one of the highest honors-“

 

“If you say one more thing.” Wilbur’s guard says, whirling on her. “I swear on death herself-“



Wilbur’s hand finds his arm. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The guards don’t notice, too wrapped up in their bickering to pay any attention as Wilbur murmurs to Tommy. 

 

Tommy blinks, not sure if he heard him right. “Huh?”

 

“For earlier.” He finishes, still looking stubbornly forwards. “I shouldn’t have snapped. You… had a good reason. I probably would have done the same thing.”

 

He sucks in breath, glancing his way. “For what it’s worth. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s-“ Tommy pauses. “Thanks.” 

 

Wilbur gives his shoulder a squeeze, then lets his hand drop. 

 

Tommy hadn’t- 

 

Look. he hadn’t meant to yell at Wilbur. Not really, anyways. He’d just- had a bit of a hard day, and when Wilbur raised his voice… it all just kind of came rushing back out. 

 

He sure as fuck feels like shit about it now. 

Just looking at him makes Tommy want to disappear, all the rage that’s been building up for hours bleeding over into regret every time he remembers the look he’d had on his face, the mounting horror as he fit the pieces together. He’d looked so guilty. 

 

Wilbur didn’t deserve that shit, even if he was being kind of an asshole about it. He doesn’t want the last time they talk to each other before they all get thrown into the lion's den to be an argument. 

 

Especially when it’s all his fault. 

 

“Me too.” He murmurs back. “You were right. It was stupid. I’m sorry too.”

 

For everything. He wants to say, but knows he doesn’t have the time. For bringing you here just to fuck everything up over a stupid grudge. You did so much for me and I- what? Spat in your face? Got you arrested? I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I’m sorry. 

 

After this meeting, he’ll make it up to them, he decides. Whatever it takes. 

 

If there even is an ‘after’, and he’s not just being marched to his doom.

 

There’s an energy in the air, almost a hum. The staticy feeling you get before a storm, every hair standing on end. Or a fight. Electricity in his veins, blood pounding in his ears, every muscle coiled up to strike. He feels like a live wire, the slightest brush on his skin enough to set him off again. 

 

Walking into the fighting ring on Netheria was less nerve wracking than this. 

 

He wishes his hands were free. He hates not being able to move them, wishing he could cross them tight over his chest or grab Wilbur’s arm to yank him closer. 

 

“You said he deserved it, right?”

 

He jerks at the sound of Wilbur’s voice, catching his eye.

 

Sharply, Tommy nods.

 

He did deserve it, even if it was a bad move on Tommy’s part. That much is true, atleast. 

 

Wilbur sucks in a breath, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His face hardens. 

 

“Okay.”

 

And that’s… enough. 

 

He doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t ask what the guy did to make Tommy hate him so much, or about any of the shit he’d screamed at him earlier when he’d been too mad to think about what he was saying. Though, honestly, he could probably put the pieces together on his own, now that he knows who the dirtbag is. 

 

Tommy’s sure he must have questions, must be dying to know exactly what he did to make Tommy flip his shit like he did, but he doesn't ask.

 

He just. Nods. Like that’s good enough. Like just hearing that the guy deserved it from Tommy is good enough for him to believe it. 

 

And suddenly, Tommy realizes that he wants him to know.

 

He wants to tell Wilbur. About the pet shop. About him. About the nightmares, about all the times he’s woken up screaming or sobbing, about the scars on his back that still itch every now and again, about the mark over his temple and the needle marks along his spine. About what it felt like to be locked in a cage the size of a goddamn shoe box, to be treated like a lab rat or fed dog food like some kind of pet.

 

He wants to get it out. All of the shitty things he’s been through that are still clawing him apart on the inside. He wants to tell someone, to have someone know and understand why he does the shit that he does. Someone to be angry with him. 

 

And, of course, this realization comes at the worst possible time.

 

It’ll have to wait. Another thing he’ll have to push off until after the meeting. Maybe it’ll help? Maybe once they know what happened, they can help him explain it to the Council. They’re the most powerful people in the galaxy, right? Maybe they can actually do something. 

 

The guards urging them forward stop. 

 

They’ve reached the end of the hallway.

 

In front of them stretches a pair of double doors so huge you could probably fly the Argo II right through the middle without any problems. There’s a staircase leading up to it, a long, marble staircase that their escorts waste no time at all in herding them up, even while sulking or snapping childishly at one another all the while.

 

Psst, Tommy.”

 

Tommy catches Phil’s gaze for a moment, blue eyes sharp and determined as he smiles, pausing on the steps just long enough for Tommy to catch up, reaching out a hand. 

 

“Whatever happens in there,” Phil whispers to him, “We've got your back, alright? It’s gonna be okay.”

 

“Okay.” Tommy manages to whisper back as Phil’s hand slips away. He swallows. “Right.”

 

“We’ll be right here the whole time.” Techno murmurs. 

 

Wilbur nods. “We’re not going anywhere.” 

 

Not yet, anyways. 

 

Tommy nods sharply, sucking in a breath. He’s not home quite yet, after all. At least for now, he’s still got his crew. He still has a chance to pull this around, to work some good old fashioned Innet Charm . Sure, the stakes are a little bigger now than they were before, but Tommy’s been preparing for this moment since his first day on the Argo II. 

 

Besides, not that he’d ever, ever, admit it out loud, but with his crew at his side? Tommy feels invincible. 

 

The doors open slowly, and—

 

“Stop.”

 

Tommy stops, but the guard isn’t talking to him. He’s talking to Phil, pulling him aside with a scowl on his face. He makes a jerky motion with his hand to Tommy’s guard. 

 

“They want to speak to him first.” He says, gruffly. “Alone.”

 

“Right.” Tommy’s guard says, tightening her hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, then. They don’t like to be kept waiting.”

 

She ushers him forwards, and there’s nothing he can do but go with. 

 

He does sneak a glance over his shoulder, though, as the doors begin to close behind him. One last glance at the others, standing, frozen, penned in by their own guards. Techno is tense, looking about three seconds from throwing off his guards and following him anyways. Phil is smiling, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

 

He catches Wilbur’s gaze. All he gets is a  nod, and the doors slam shut. 





-




Deep, deep within the Council ship, a Merling and a Blazeborne walk side by side. 

 

“It doesn’t make any sense.” The Merling murmurs. “He went through all that trouble- for what?”

 

“Who knows.” The Blazeborne growls back. “This is Quackity we’re talking about here. Nothing he ever does makes any sense.”

 

The Merling purses her lips, but doesn’t respond.

 

“The invitations- getting us rooms.” The Blazeborne gestures to one of the doors they pass, glistening white with a sleek, modern hand-scanner. “It’s probably just some stupid power-play. He just wants us to see how rich and powerful he is so he can rub it in our faces, that’s it.” 

 

She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “Right.”

 

This part of the Council ship more resembles a hotel, than anything else. Corridors upon corridors of doors, suites reserved for honored guests. The hallways are long and winding, wide and tall enough to fit a whole royal procession. 

 

“I hope Wilbur’s alright.” The Merling says, after a while. “I didn’t get a chance to really talk to him after… all of that happened. The guards took him away for questioning.”

 

The Blazeborne shakes his head, lowering his voice as they pass a crowd of excited Avians heading to their own rooms. “You’ve heard what everyone’s saying, right? That he’s been traveling with a human?”

 

“They’ve been showing the fight on every screen on the ship.” She murmurs back. “Of course.”

 

“Maybe that’s why Quackity wanted us here. Got jealous that his old pal Wilbur was getting all the attention and wanted to show off. Get everyone’s eyes back on him.” 

 

“It’s a lot of effort to go through, just to show off.”  

 

“Please.” The Blazeborne huffs. “It’s Quackity. He’s the biggest attention hot we know! Why else would he bring us here?”

 

Once again, the Merling stays quiet.

 

“Wait…” the Blazeborne pauses, staring at her as he starts to laugh. “You don’t actually think-“ 

 

“I don’t know , Jack.” She snaps at him. “We haven’t seen him since…”

 

“…Since he decided to stay back on Viona?”

 

She breathes out a sigh. “Yeah.” 

 

A pause.

 

“Hey.” He bumps her shoulder as they start walking again. “I know you miss him. I do too. But he’s not… you know what he’s like, now. He’s not the same kid from back then. He’s changed.”

 

“I know.” She murmurs, staring stubbornly forwards. “I just… something about this doesn’t feel right. Something about this whole thing is wrong.”

 

“Yeah.” He says, after a moment. “That we can both agree on. But.”

 

He holds up his comn, forcing a smile as he wags his eyebrows. “No reason we can’t enjoy it, right? Fancy room, free food, might as well make the most of it while we’re here. Speaking of our room, it should be right around…”

 

They turn the corner, coming to the end of the hallway, and freeze in their tracks.”

 

“…here.” He finishes, dumbly. 

 

Standing in front of the door is a familiar figure.

 

A Merling, tall and lean, dressed in the traditional long, flowing fabrics of Viona. Their fins are a beautiful deep red, dotted with golden jewelry, dark hair pulled away from a face half-hidden beneath a dark veil. 

 

They smile. 

 

“Hello.” They say, voice deep and silky smooth. “You got the invitations, I presume?” 







-




The meeting room is, like everything else on the Council Ship, equal parts beautiful and terrifying. 

 

It’s like some twisted version of the bridge back on the Argo , he thinks. A wide, arched room, floor to ceiling windows along one side, revealing the stars above and the rest of the council ship below. 

 

That’s about where the similarities end, though. 

 

The bridge was small. Comforting. Familiar. The Council meeting room is about the farthest thing from comforting and familiar. 

 

The room he’s frog-marched into looks like something straight out of Techno’s Greek mythology textbook. An arched ceiling miles above his head, everything made of the same white marble that would be absolutely blinding if the lights weren’t so dim. It’s cold. Fancy. The kind of place Tommy would never be allowed into back on Earth, not in a million years. The kind of place that’s meant to make you feel small. All that's missing is an altar and a handful of pews, and they’d have a temple fit for the gods. 

 

Tommy can hear the shouting before they even make it in through the doors.

 

“-honestly, what did you expect to-“

 

“-be spoken to by someone with such-

 

“- absolutely not!”

 

In the center of the room is a long, white table. Empty, except for a few floating lights every few feet, the only light in the huge room that isn’t coming in from the windows outside. And, sitting at the end of the table in a chair that’s less of a chair and more of a throne , is the biggest alien Tommy has ever seen. 

 

He’d never really been the religious type, but if you’d told him right then and there that this alien, who’s easily ten feet tall or taller , is an Angel, he would have believed it. Skin that shimmers like gold, pearly white robes falling over its shoulders, a face that hurts too look at for too long and a voice that rattles his teeth when they talk. 

 

On their back are two pairs of brilliant white wings. 

 

“Ex-deeh,” he can almost hear Phil’s voice echoing in his ears. “The leader of the Council, representing Aether. He’s an alright enough leader, but his ego is nearly as big as he is.” 

 

The flashcards had not prepared him for this. 

 

Compared to him, the rest of the Council members look small. 

 

There are seven of them, in total. Three sitting to Ex-Deeh’s left, three to the right, with one sitting at Ex-Deeh’s right hand. All of them dressed like they’ve come straight from the Banquet, each one in a different jewel-bright color. Dazzling reds, deep purples, the styles ranging from looking like something you’d see in a high-fashion magazine, to straight out of the fourteenth century. Advisors slip around them, dressed in muted colors, while attendants in all black melt in and out of the shadows, pouring drinks and standing guard. 

 

Wracking his brain, Tommy tries his best to connect the flashcards to the people sitting around the table. Quackity, in a sparkling red dress that hangs low off his shoulder, must be here to represent Nevodis, right? Brusieus he already knows. The deer-like alien could be the king of T’Aria, he thinks, but it’s hard to get a good look. The shorter, winged girl sitting to Ex-Deeh’s left doesn’t ring any bells, face hidden by a golden veil. Another advisor, maybe? She and Ex-Deeh do look pretty alike. The Merling in the tacky suit can’t be anyone but the Governor of Viona. The lady sitting at Ex-Deeh’s right hand…

 

She’s Empress of Enderion, there’s no doubt about it.

 

Shorter than Ex-Deeh, but still a good bit taller than Tommy, she sits perfectly straight, her own pair of glossy, scaled wings as black as the void of space against her back. Her skin is just as dark, every scale shined to perfection, a silver crown sitting delicately between the horns that spiral away from her face. In a long, dark dress that would be all the rage back home in a few thousand years, Tommy’s sure, she looks dressed to kill. 

 

Near the end of the table, sitting closest to Tommy, an alien with rocky skin and four arms meets his gaze.  

 

The resemblance is freaky. 

 

Same dark, greyed skin. Same ugly, balding head. The suit he’s wearing is nicer, a blue-silver color that matches his eyes, both narrowing into chips of ice when they settle on Tommy. 

 

The door behind him shuts, and the chattering cuts off into a silence thick enough to slice with a butter knife. 

 

The guard at his shoulder takes a shaky breath. “Apologies for the delay, your Grace. I present to you Tommy, of Earth.”

 

Tommy had been ready for this moment. Phil had drilled him over and over again on how he was supposed to behave, who he was supposed to talk to first, how to greet them, all the different representatives and their names. 

 

The moment the doors shut behind him, blocking off any chance for escape, he can almost feel all of that information taking an all expenses paid trip to the Bahamas. 

 

“Indeed you have.” Ex-Deeh says, in a voice that sounds like twenty people all talking at once. “Welcome, human.”

 

He spreads his hands, and all of the representatives are quick to take their seats, if they haven’t already, advisors standing at their shoulders. 

 

Tommy is guided to a seat on the opposite end of the table. 

 

Every footstep sounds like a goddamn gunshot, with how silent the room is. The weight of everyone’s eyes on him making his shoulders hunch up to his neck. He sits down fast. 

 

“I believe some introductions are in order.” He announces, spreading his wings slightly. His head tilts to the side, bird-like, the same way Phil’s does when he’s thinking about something really hard. 

 

Jesus fuck, Tommy would give anything to have Phil with him right now. Or Techno. Or Wilbur. Or Tubbo. He’d even take Ranboo

 

“Tommy, is it?” He continues, dipping his head slightly. “ I am Ex-Deeh, representative of Aether, current head of the council. My advisors will be joining us shortly.”

 

You’ve prepared for this, Tommy. Just… just remember the flashcards. Just like he practiced with Techno, right? 

 

Tommy dips his head into a bow, making a point not to look at his face. Not that he was trying too in the first place. Trying to look anywhere above his neck is like trying to force himself to put his hand on a hot stove, his brain just goes nope and refuses to let him look any higher than the bottom of his chin. It’s like looking at the goddamn sun. 

 

“It’s… an honor. Sir.” Tommy manages, voice shaking. Just a little. Jesus fuckinf christ, what has he gotten himself into?! 

 

He gestures to his right. “This is the Empress of Enderion. She will be serving as my right hand in the absence of my advisors.”

 

She really is beautiful, now that Tommy’s getting a better look at her. Beautiful and terrifying.

 

From the shoulders down, she might’ve been able to pass as something close to human. If you ignore the scales, that is. And the wings. And the horns. But the way her neck moves, her face…

 

She is beautiful, but there’s no way anyone could mistake her for a human. 

 

She tilts her head at him, the movement just a bit too smooth, like a snake sizing up prey. The scales along her cheeks, a dusting of white along her nose and the end of her mouth (snout? Muzzle?) shimmer against the black of her skin like a dusting of stars. No scars, no blemishes, not even a wrinkle. Just smooth scales, large, vivid eyes on a narrow, inhuman face that has all of his instincts screaming snake! 

 

Her eyes are a shock of bright purple, almost seeming to glow in the dim light. The only other color is her pupil, black, slitted like a cat’s. 

 

“The Queen can be a bit… much.” Phil had said. “She’s older than I am, maybe even older than Ex-Deeh. She can hold a grudge like no one else, but she’s fair. Just… try and stay on her good side, yeah?” 

 

She looks into his eyes, and Tommy feels like the whole universe is looking back. 

 

Lifting her chin, she begins to speak. “I am the Empress of Enderion, the Winged Serpent, The Night Where Light Does Not Dare Reach. My name is-“

 

She breaks off, making noise in the back of her throat, a shriek like the grinding of metal that nearly makes him flinch.

 

“However,” she finishes. “You may call me Jean.”

 

She’s american. Is the first coherent thought Tommy manages to have, swallowing the nervous laughter that’s starting to build up in his throat. The Empress of Enderion. American. 

 

Her voice isn’t what he was expecting at all. Low, smooth as silk. Not just American. Southern. 

 

“This is my advisor, the head of my royal guard.” She guestres with an offhand over her shoulder, and Tommy blinks as a familiar form melts out of the shadows to stand beside her. There’s no way… 

 

“Edward is fine.” The advisor says, giving Tommy the smallest of nods. 

 

Okay. Yeah. Things are… beginning to click into place, here. 

 

There’s no time to focus on it, though. Ex-Deeh moves on quickly, gesturing to the next person, and the introductions continue. 

 

They go down the line, introducing each council member and their advisor in turn. Quackity, representing Nevodis with Charlie as his advisor (again- when the fuck did that happen?), gives him a wave and a wink. Tommy still hasn’t decided if having him here is a good or a bad thing yet. 

 

The Governor of Viona, the rich Merling in the tacky suit, sporting a frill around his neck like a fancy lizard looks down his nose at Tommy, introducing himself as Boris in an accent as snobby as he looks. 

 

“I hate that guy.” Wilbur had spat, cutting Phil off. “Sits up in his silver city while everyone in Old L’Manburg starves to death. The only thing he cares about is himself. And his money, of course. Don’t expect any sympathy from that jackass.” 

 

Brusieus, in all her glory, introduces herself and then her advisor, the dark-haired Piglin standing at her side. 

 

“With Schlatt out of the picture, Netheria is up for grabs.”

 

“Netherian’s are traditional.” Techno had interrupted to add. “If they send an Elder, appeal to their honor. Mention your time in the Ring, it should win you some respect.” 

 

The half-deer aliens turns out to be the king of T’Aria, just like he’d thought, introducing himself as Callahan with his hands. Alien sign language, apparently, is also a thing the translators cover, though it feels weird as fuck. 

 

“T’Aria is… a bit weird, compared to the rest.” Phil had said. “They tend to keep to themselves, like Netheria. Not big fans of conflict. Callahan is nice enough, but he’ll probably end up siding with the majority.”

 

The Mayor of Bezzar is not an older Ovisan, like the flashcards said. It is, instead, the thirteen year old girl sitting across from him, feet propped up on the table. She’s dressed in green and black, her long hair pulled back away from a face half-hidden under a golden veil. 

 

“Bezzar has always been a wildcard.” Tubbo had chipped in. “Don’t be surprised if the rep changes at the last minute.”

 

“What do I do then?”

 

“If they don’t have time to find a replacement, Ex-Deeh will appoint someone to step in. I wouldn’t worry about it, the odds of that…”

 

Tommy is going to have some very strong words for Phil, when this is all over. 

 

“With the unforeseen absence of the Mayor of Bezzar, I have appointed a member of my own Council to temporarily hold his spot until his return.”

 

She gives a lazy wave, her sharp-toothed grin the only thing Tommy can make out from under her veil. 

 

If Ex-Deeh is an Angel, then she’s definitely some kind of demon, complete with sharp teeth, pointed ears, and whip-thin tail. Her wings are small and ruffled, grey as steel with feathers that look just as sharp. 

 

“She has spent some time on Bezzar, and the Mayor himself has approved her as his temporary stand in.”

 

“My name is Drista.” She introduces herself. Her voice isn’t like Ex-Deeh’s, but it makes him shiver nonetheless. 

 

He can feel her staring him down. It’s… not fun , having all those eyes on him, even if most of them are just looking at him curiously. He feels like a zoo animal, everyone in the room watching his every move, whispering to each other. 

 

You know what? Fuck it. They can stare at him all the fuck they want, he doesn’t have anything to hide. He didn’t do anything wrong. 

 

He just wants to go home. And he’s close, now. So, so close. All he has to do is win over half of them, and he’s home free. Brusieus will side with him for sure, and… maybe Quackity too? It’s kind of hard to tell with that guy, but Charlie seems to like him. That has to count for something, right? 

 

He doesn’t like the way the Governor of Viona, Boris , is looking at him. Like he’s just bitten into a lemon, or something, his veiled advisor whispering in his ear. He can’t make out their face, only dark hair and tall frame, but something about them looks familiar. 

 

The Empress is sizing him up too, vivid eyes never leaving him for a second, like a cat about to pounce. Tommy doesn’t know what the expression on her face means, but he’s pretty sure it’s not anything good. 

 

“And, finally, the Governor of Lestea.”

 

Tommy snaps back into the present. 

 

The Governor of Lestea sits to Tommy’s left on the side of the table, a good few feet between them. He clears his throat, eyeing Tommy warily. 

 

“…Jaar’ed.” Is all he says, folding his hands together. “And my advisor, of course.”

 

“BadBoyHalo,” purrs the shadow of an alien over his shoulder. Blazeborne, if Tommy had to guess, with black skin and pale orange eyes. He smiles, revealing two rows of sharp, sharp teeth. “You can just call me Bad.”

 

Tommy scowls. Advisor or bodyguard? 

 

“I believe it is time for us to begin.”

 

No time for that now. Tommy squares his shoulders, turning back to Ex-Deeh as they stand, addressing the Council as a whole. 

 

“Philza has made quite the proposition on behalf of this human. He has requested to borrow one of my ships to allow him to return back to Earth. As Philza once was a member of this Council, I am inclined to atleast hear out the human’s request.”

 

A murmur passes around the table. They’ve clearly talked about this already, and judging by the looks they’re giving one another, haven't come to any kind of agreement. 

 

Hope flares in his chest, white-hot and fluttering. Which means there’s still a chance. 

 

“The events at the Banquet, however, have changed things considerably.”

 

…and there it is. Tommy swallows. 

 

“Under normal circumstances, such actions during a time of peace would be considered a very serious crime. Then again, given this… delicate situation, I have decided to rush this trial to allow for some clarity before a public decision is made. ‘Destroy two creatures with one rock’, as the humans say.” 

 

Then, he turns to Tommy. 

 

“Tommy, of Earth. You, along with your companions, have been accused of breaking the peace treaty aboard my ship. Before a decision regarding your fate is held, every member of this Council will be given the chance to ask you questions, provided they are relevant. It is imperative that you tell us the truth, and nothing less. Do you understand?”

 

Tommy takes a deep breath. Showtime. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Alright. I will begin.” Ex-Deeh nods, once again taking their seat. “Let us start off simple, yes? is it true that you are human?”

 

He blinks. What kind of question is that? 

 

“Yes..?”

 

Another round of whispering and mumbling passes around the table. No one really seemed surprised, though he does catch the way a few advisors immediately lean forwards, whispering in the ears of their representative. 

 

“How did you get here?” The Empress asks next, leaning forwards. 

 

Tommy resists the urge to shrink back, sucking in a breath. Straight to the hard questions, huh? 

 

“I was…” an idiot, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. “ Kidnapped. From Earth.”

 

That gets everyone’s attention, a murmur of shock rippling throughout the room. Tommy can hear his words echoed back in whispers, the words bouncing off of the arched marble ceilings, kidnapped? He was kidnapped? 

 

“Do you know who kidnapped you?” The Empress tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. Still, her voice gives nothing away. 

 

Tommy sweats.

 

A guy in a smiley face mask. How fucking stupid does that sound? They’re gonna think he’s crazy! 

 

“I… don’t remember.” He says, instead, wincing. “It’s all pretty fuzzy.” 

 

Not a total lie. Most of his time on his ship is pretty fuzzy, just a vague blur of pain, cold metal and hunger. It’s better off forgotten, anyways. It’s not like he can give them any real details beyond the whole mask-thing. 

 

“Is there anything you do remember?” The Empress presses. “The size of the ship? How long you were held there?

 

“Big.” Tommy responds, wincing. “Really big. And… I don’t know. Months? A long time.” 

 

The Empress leans back, turning yo Ex-Deeh and hissing something too low for Tommy to hear. Ex-Deeh responds in a low murmur, wings ruffling the same way Phil’s do when he’s upset about something. When she turns back to Tommy, she’s scowling. 

 

“That is all, human.” She dismisses, leaning back in her chair. Ex-Deeh nods, and they move on. 

 

It’s Quackity’s turn next. Tommy’s surprised to see how quickly the smug look on his face was wiped clean off. Tommy didn’t think he could look this somber, eyebrows pinched together. If Tommy didn’t know any better, he’d say that Quackity looked concerned. 

 

“They hurt you, didn’t they?”

 

There’s a sharp inhale from someone, and the room goes very quiet. 

 

“Uh- I- yeah.” Tommy eventually stammers, not looking anyone in the eye. “That’s probably why I don’t remember, ha.”

 

The scars on his back start to itch. 

 

It’s necessary. Tommy tells himself. It’s just a few questions. He can answer a few questions to get home, right? For Clem and Clara? 

 

“That sucks.” He says, leaning back. “Shit, kid. I’m sorry.” 

 

Charlie, at his side, gives Tommy a big grin and a double thumbs up, leaning in to say something to Quackity in a language only the two of them can understand. 

 

“We’ll find them.” The Empress adds, voice sharp. “Whoever did this disobeyed my orders directly. When they are found, they will be dealt with.”

 

It’s… weirdly comforting, to see someone all up and arms about it. The Empress looks livid, the thin coating of long feathers on her scaly wings prickling like a pinecone. She looks like she’s already imagining the best way to skin someone alive. Tommy would feel sorry for the guy if he hadn't, you know, literally been tortured by him. If anyone deserves to be eaten by the scary dragon lady, it’s him. 

 

“There are few ships capable of traveling to Earth.” Ex-Deeh muses. “They are kept here and guarded carefully. If there is a traitor in our midst… very troubling, indeed. I will have my advisor see to finding this traitor as soon as possible.”

 

“As will I.” The Empress agrees, leaning back.

 

With that settled, eyes turn to the next representative. 

 

The Governor of Viona looks down his nose at Tommy from across the table, resting his chin on his hand. He looks older than most of the other representatives, (which is kind of funny considering Tommy’s pretty sure Ex-Deeh is like, thousands of years old), though he’s clearly been trying to hide it. There’s not enough glitter and plastic surgery in the galaxy to make up for a face that ugly. 

 

“I believe we’re straying away from the point of this trial.” He says, and even his voice is annoying. There’s no way that the British accent is real, right? Can you fake accents with the translators? “The man you attacked at the Banquet. How did you meet him?”

 

“I…”

 

If he’s being completely honest, Tommy isn’t exactly sure how he got from his ship to the pet shop.

 

He remembers running. He remembers flashing lights and alarms, the chill of steel against bare feet. The stale, recycled air of the escape pod and the rough hands of the aliens that had pulled him out of it. Somewhere, in a haze of drugs, exhaustion, and hunger, he’d passed out curled up on the floor of an escape pod and woken up on a tiny cot behind a wall of glass. 

 

“I escaped from my kidnapper,” he explains, slowly. “and was picked up by another ship.”

 

It’s… Fuzzy. He knows that he escaped, there not really any other explanation for that. He got out somehow, managed to slip away in an escape pod when he wasn’t looking. He remembers being pulled out of it, rough hands and sharp voices… but then it’s just, nothing. 

 

“They… Took me back to Lestea, and…”

 

And… what? Handed him off? Sold him off? Didn’t know what to do with the weird thing they found in a escape pod in deep-space, thought he was some kind of weird pet and passed him off to the first person they could think of? 

 

“Next thing I know, I woke up in a cage.” He finishes, voice sharp. “And he was there.” 

 

Slowly, all eyes turn away from Tommy, gazes shifting to the four-armed alien at the other end of the table. 

 

“Jaar’ed.” Bruiseus says, voice as smooth and cold as marble, her accent clipping the words. Jar-ed. “ What profession does your brother hold?”

 

“Hes- I’m not the one on trial.” He blubbers, face flushing an angry shade of red-purple. 

 

Quackity whistles, cutting him off. “She makes a good point. What was it again? A petshop?” 

 

“Specializing in exotic pets, I believe.” The Empress drawls, raising a perfect eyebrow. “Just how does he get his hands on his merchandise, I wonder.” 

 

His scrunched up face shifts from angry violet to an even darker shade of blue, a vein on the side of his neck beginning to pop. “Now just what are you insinuating-“

 

“That’s enough.” Ex-Deeh interrupts, cutting him off. “Mayor Jaar’ed, you will speak in turn, or not at all. Representative Brusieus, please refrain from asking questions that do not pertain directly to the trial at hand.”

 

“My apologies.” She says, dipping her head. The Mayor huffs, sinking back in his seat. 

 

Ex-Deeh turns to Boris, next. “Is there another question you would like to ask?”

 

“Yes, actually.” He straightens, fussing with the lapels on his coat. “Human, was the man you attacked so viciously at the Banquet responsible for your kidnapping from Earth?”

 

Tommy sucks in a breath. “No.” 

 

“Did he harm you while you were under his care?”

 

Feeling his lip begin to curl back, Tommy resists the urge to snarl. Under his care. That’s a real funny way of saying held hostage.

 

“He didn’t, like, beat me, if that’s what you’re asking.” He blurts before he can catch himself, sending another ripple of muttering throughout the room.

 

The Mayor of Lestea spreads his hands, all four of them, grinning smugly. “There you have it, then! It was simply a misunderstanding -“

 

Okay, that is it. 

 

“He locked me in a cage and fed me dog food.” Lunging to his feet, Tommy jabs a finger in his direction. “He tried to sell me!” 

 

“To be fair.” Governor Boris interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “He’s probably never seen a human before. It’s understandable that he wouldn’t know what to do with one, especially if you were aggressive towards him.”

 

Exactly my point.” Samuel nods, laying on the sympathy thick enough to make Tommy’s skin crawl. “My poor brother isn’t the… brightest in the family, you understand. If this human was… given to him by someone claiming it to be just another exotic pet…”

 

Tommy scoffs. There’s no way they’re actually believing this shit, right? That- what? The dickbag that locked him up couldn’t tell the difference between Tommy and a weird space-pet? 

 

It’s hard to tell what the rest of the Council is thinking. The Empress gives nothing away, and he can’t even look at Ex-Deeh’s or Drista’s face enough to see their expressions.

 

The last three are easier to read, at least. Fucking Boris is nodding along like an idiot, no surprises there. Quackity is grinning, but it’s less of a grin and more of an excuse to show off his fangs, Tommy thinks, a grin that screams predator! Brusieus, sitting rigidly in her seat, is giving Jared a death stare that could melt steel. The advisor at her side, an older Piglin, backing her up with a flash of yellow, chipped tusks. Atleast someone here has his back. 

 

“Hmm.” The Empress blinks slowly, tilting her head in a snake-like manner. “I believe this explains the Banquet, then.” 

 

“Quite.” Boris agrees, settling back in his chair. She gives him an odd look.

 

Ex-Deeh hums. “Brusieus, do you have a question?”

 

“I do.”

 

Golden eyes meet his. 

 

“Tommy.” She says, voice gentle. “Why did you attack that man at the Banquet?” 

 

That’s the real question, isn’t it? 

 

If it were anyone else asking, he probably would have lied. Told them that he was threatened, or something, give them a reason that would actually make sense. He called me a name so I decided to beat him up doesn’t exactly scream innocent, even if it was justified. 

 

He opens his mouth, and what comes out instead, is, annoyingly, the truth. 

 

“I confronted him. About the petshop. And he… said something. To me. And it set me off.” 

 

Her eyes darken. “What did he say?” 

 

Tommy sucks in a breath.

 

He can’t meet her gaze anymore. He looks away, staring stubbornly down at the table, at his hands still cuffed in front of him. 

 

He can hear the words in the back of mind, clear as day. All he has to do is open his mouth. 

 

“‘ I sell animals ,’” Tommy repeats, softly. “‘ Not people.’”

 

It’s silent, for a moment, and then everyone starts talking at once. 

 

Brusieus is saying something, voice lost under Quackity’s angry shouting, “he said what? I would have hit the fucker too!”, Jared blubbering as he tries to save his own skin, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation-“, and-

 

“Enough!”

 

Tommy, who wasn’t even talking, slams his jaw closed hard enough to feel his teeth click together. 

 

Silence. Dead silence. 

 

“Now then.” Ex-Deeh says, voice once again low and smooth, buzzing in the air like lightning about to strike. “Brusieus. Do you have more questions?”

 

“No.” Her voice is low, nearly a growl. “I do not.” 

 

It’s been a while since he’s seen Brusieus angry. It’s just as terrifying as it was back then, and he’s not even the one on the other side of her death glare, this time. If looks could kill, Jared would be a steaming pile of ash right about now. She only looks away when the dark-haired Piglin, her advisor, puts a hand on her shoulder, and even then she still looks tense and ready for a fight. 

 

She’s not the only one staring daggers, either. Quackity’s eyeing him like he’s imagining what his skull would look like mounted over the casino bar, and Charlie’s actually frowning, which Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen him do. 

 

It’s… nice. To have people on his side.

 

Maybe he has a shot at this after all. 

 

“Callahan, it is your turn.” 

 

When the deer-like alien steps forward, Tommy nearly jumps out of his skin. 

 

Honestly, he’d kind of forgotten that guy was even here. Which, considering he’s easily seven feet tall, and part deer, is kind of odd. He just- he stands so still , barely even seeming to breathe. Does he even breathe? Or does he use the plants on his back to like, photosynthesize, or something? 

 

He looks like something out of a fairytale. Like an old forest god, or something. The lower body of a deer, dappled pelt covered in a dusting of plantlife. The upper body is more familiar, human-shaped with tree-like skin, blue markings around his eyes and an impressive rack of antlers dripping with vines and all sorts of other trinkets. So completely out of place in the clean, marble meeting room. 

 

Dark, dark eyes shift from Tommy, to the mayor of Lestea, before landing on Ex-Deeh. He shakes tilts his head first, the movement swaying the flowers and veins woven into his antlers, making the trinkets hung there jingle together, then begins to sign.

 

The events of the Banquet (negative) were unfortunate. Violence during a time of peace should not be taken lightly. However, I believe the actions of the human child (positive) should not be held against him.

 

Having someone speak directly into your head is a really, really weird feeling. 

 

It's not like he’s hearing a voice, not really. It’s more like… like he’s looking at something written in code, and someone has just handed him a decoder and let him go at it. 

 

Tommy’s never learned sign language before, but the meaning pops into his head, anyways. Not just the raw meaning, but all the subtext, too. Like how he’d stretched out the word “Banquet” in a way that meant he wasn’t happy about it, or signed “human child” in a way that meant he was speaking gently. Weird, but not… bad? Just weird. 

 

“What is your question?” 

 

How did you escape the pet shop (derogatory)?

 

“I…” Strong hands, the bending of metal. Broken English in a rough voice. Red goggles, black wings. The shattering of glass and flashing of alarms. A steady hand on his shoulder. Feeling safe for the first time in months. 

 

“…They saved me.” He finishes, blinking away the images. “Phil and Techno did, I mean. From the pet shop. We’ve been together ever since.”

 

Give or take a handful of kidnappings, but really, who’s counting. 

 

They rescued you. Callahan repeats slowly. They care for you, and you for them. 

 

It’s less of a question and more of a statement. He answers, anyways.

 

“Yeah.” He says, surprising himself with how quickly he admits it. “We look out for each other. They’re my crew.”

 

It’s probably the best way to describe their relationship. His crew . Phil, their captain, Technoblade and Wilbur, the pilots. Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo, the three stowaways they never quite managed to get rid of, and Shroud, the best cat anyone could ask for. 

 

A sturdy hand on his shoulder, a wing around his back. Tubbo’s laugh and Ranboo’s shaky smile, the weight of a guitar in his hands. His crew. 

 

Not quite a family. Not like Clementine and Clara- but something close. Something he can depend on, either way. Something he’s really, really going to miss. 

 

Crew (positive-familial). I see. This explains their actions at the Banquet (derogatory). Thank you, child. (endearment). 

 

“No problem, big man.” Tommy manages.

 

“I hear you landed on Bezzar soon after that.” 

 

Drista doesn’t sound like Ex-Deeh, like a dozen people talking at once, but there’s still something about her voice that makes goosebumps appear all up and down his arms. She tilts her head. “Made a big stir in the marketplace, looked like fun . You have a lot of fun, don’t you? Bouncing around the galaxy? Bet it was a blast.” 

 

And Tommy… Tommy does not like the way she said that.

 

Tommy doesn’t really like her vibe in general, if he’s being honest. He’d been expecting the Mayor from the flashcards, an older sheep alien, like Puffy, not the worlds most intimidating thirteen year old. 

 

All he can make out of her face is her hair, long and dark, falling over her shoulders. That, and her grin, all sharp teeth. Her black tail sways back and forth, like a cat about to pounce. 

 

“Do you have any questions, Drista?” Ex-Deeh prompts. 

 

“Just one.” She shrugs, taking her feet off of the table to stretch and lean forwards. “You wouldn’t believe all the rumors I’ve heard. You’re practically a legend back on Bezzar, you know. This weird blonde kid, bouncing around from planet to planet with… what was it again? A war hero, a Piglin, and some nobody from Viona? Really, I’m surprised you didn’t-“

 

“Your question, Drista.”

 

“I was getting to it!” She huffs, tilting her head in a way that makes it obvious she’s rolling her eyes (at ex-deeh?! The fuck?!) before turning back to Tommy, lacing her hands on the table in front of her. “Alright kid, here’s what I wanna know. Those two kids you were with, they’re from Bezzar, ain’t they?”

 

Tommy blinks. First of all, kid? The middleschooler in front of him is calling him a kid? He’s atleast a foot taller, and that’s being generous. 

 

Secondly, why the hell does she want to know about Ranboo and Tubbo? 

 

She doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to answer the question. 

 

“Um.” He pauses, blinking. “ …Yeah?”

 

She looks at him for a moment, or, he thinks that she does, it's not like he can tell through the veil, before leaning back. “Wow, even the lanky one? I really had my money on them being Endborn. Huh.”

 

“Is that… all you want to know?” He asks, cautious. 

 

“Hmm…” she thinks, then shrugs, leaning further back in her seat to prop her feet up on the table just like before. “Yep. I’m good.”

 

And that’s that. 

 

“Alright, then.” Says Ex-Deeh. “Jaar’ed, I believe it is your turn.” 

 

All eyes turn to the big man at the end of the table. 

 

He’s not looking at Tommy, though. Not at first anyways, he’s too busy leaning in to listen to whatever his advisor, Bad, is whispering in his ear. When he realizes he’s the center of attention, he clears his throat, and Bad steps back. 

 

The grin that spreads across his face when he and Tommy lock eyes has him balling his hands into fists under the table. He looked like his head was about to explode earlier, the fuck happened? Why does he look so smug? What did Bad say? The hell is he playing at? 

 

“Jaar’ed.” Ex-Deeh says again. “ Do you have questions?”

 

“I’ve got some questions , alright.” The Mayor drawls, leaning back in his seat with a stupid smug look on his stupid face. “Actually, I’ve just got one.”

 

“Well, you gonna spit it out already?” Drista pipes up, earning a few murmurs from the peanut gallery, and a venomous glare from the Mayor himself. 

 

“Fine.” He huffs, turning back to Tommy. “You've been making an awful big stink about wanting to get back to… what was it again? Dirt?” 

 

He laughs, and Tommy grits his teeth. “ If we send you back, and that’s a pretty big if, kid, what happens then?”

 

And Tommy—

 

“I- Heh?” 

 

--bluescreens. 

 

“Well, I mean.” Jaar’ed shrugs, folding his hands in front of him. “Earth can’t know we exist. What happens when you go back home? You gonna tell all your little Earth friends about your vacation?”

 

A ripple of murmurs spreads across the table. 

 

“He is right, you know.” Says the Governor of Viona, checking his nails. “Earth can’t know we exist. That awful scar on his face is from his implant, isn’t it? He can’t take our technology back with him.” 

 

Tommy reaches up, pressing a few awkward fingers to his temple, and the starburst scar that lingers there, trying hard to catch his breath as the floor drops out from underneath him. 

 

Ex-Deeh hums. “A fair point. What would you suggest?” 

 

“Why, that he stays here, of course!” The Mayor spreads his hands, grinning like he’s won already. “We can keep an eye on him, study him up close-“

 

“Lock me in another cage you mean,” Tommy snaps, when he finally finds his voice. And the shitbag has the fucking nerve to look shocked. 

 

“Haven’t we already been through this? That was an honest mistake-“ 

 

“Yet somehow, it’s not surprising,”  the Empress mutters, and the Mayor rounds on her next, face already beginning to flush again. 

 

“Now what’s that supposed to mean, your highness?” 

 

“Oh come on,” drawls Quackity, “Everyone knows Lestea is run by criminals .”

 

“What, like Nevodis is so much better?” Next to him, the Governor of Viona scoffs, tilting his head mockingly. “How did you come by your fortune, Quackity?” 

 

Quackity snarls, flashing his fangs and just managing to cut himself off when

Brusieus raises a hand, giving him a meaningful look. He falls silent, and she begins to speak, addressing the table in a tone that gets everyone’s attention. 

 

“We cannot hold the boy here against his will.” She says, turning away from Quackity to speak to Ex-Deeh directly. “He is not one of ours. He was taken from his home unjustly and suffered greatly in a galaxy we claim to protect. If he wants to be returned to his sounder, then we must allow it.” 

 

“Then again,” the Empress raises a hand as well, and the look she gives Tommy makes his blood run cold. “We would be passing up quite an opportunity.” 

 

Ex-Deeh tilts their head. “What is your suggestion, Empress?”

 

“We have not yet been able to study a human up close.” She taps her perfectly manicured claws on the table, tap, tap, tap . “Should we ever have contact with humans in the future, his presence may prove beneficial. An ambassador , of sorts.” 

 

Or , Tommy thinks, refusing to shrink back away from her gaze. A bargaining chip. 

 

“You cannot hold him against his will.” Brusieus stands firm. 

 

The Empress only raises an eyebrow. “What other options do we have? He knows too much, as it is. How do we know he won’t go running to the leaders of Earth? Not to mention the fact that he’s currently in possession of our technology, as Governor Boris so kindly pointed out.” 

 

The implant can be removed. Callahan suggests, to be met with another ripple of murmuring. 

 

“That is a very risky procedure. Would it even be worth it?” The Governor says, wrinkling his nose. “Especially since the original surgery was clearly… sloppy.”

 

“It is too dangerous.” Bruiseus argues. “Human biology is vastly different from our own. We do not know how humans react to our potions, much less the implants themselves. You could kill him just by putting him under for the surgery.” 

 

“It’s still an option .” Jared argues back. 

 

“So is removing your tongue from your mouth .” Brusieus snaps. 

 

Enough . Callahan interrupts, stamping a hoof. We are going nowhere. Jaar’ed (neutral) has a point. Humans cannot know of our existence. The child (positive) can not return to Earth (neutral) with our technology.

 

“Well, it seems we have two choices, then.” The Empress leans back in her chair. “We remove the implant and send the human home, or we do not, and keep him.”

 

“Keep him? What, like he’s a pet?” The Governor scoffs. “Are you forgetting what happened at the Banquet? The only thing we know about humans is that they are dangerous.”

 

“Which is exactly why we should take the opportunity to study him.” The Empress pushes. “Humans will not be under observation forever. They will discover us eventually, and when that day comes, wouldn’t it make sense for us to be prepared? To understand what we are dealing with?”

 

“Preparing for war already, Empress?” Drista speaks up again, and though Tommy can’t see her face, he gets the impression that she’s raising an eyebrow. 

 

“I am always prepared.” The Empress replies, narrowing her slitted eyes. “Are you implying something?”

 

“You cannot treat this child like another one of your experiments.” Brusieus says, crossing her arms.

 

“Someone is awfully protective.” The Empress rounds on her next, a forked tongue flashing as she leans in close. “Is there a reason? Something clouding your judgment, maybe?”

 

Tommy can see her eyes flash all the way across the table as she growls. “My judgment is always clear, your highness.”

 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Quackity butts in, lazily swaying a hand in the air. “But if we are keeping him, who’s looking after him?”

 

There’s another pause as all of the council members think it over, shifting their gazes warily to each other. 

 

“Enderion, of course.” The Empress replies first, smoothing out her dress. 

 

“Enderion?” Drista scoffs. “He’d be much better off on Bezzar. I mean, his two friends are from here, aren’t they? Makes sense to keep them together.”

 

“Nevodis is the most logical option.” Quackity is quick to add, shooting Tommy a grin. “I mean, we do know the most about human culture. It makes sense to have him looked after by experts, right?”

 

He was taken from his home, once. Callahan interjects smoothly. There is no guarantee that he will not be sought after again. T’Aria (positive) is well protected. He is safest in my care.

 

The Governor of Viona crosses his arms haughtily. “And what happens if it escapes? It slipped out of one cage easily enough, who’s to say it won’t-“

 

Tommy leaps to his feet, but Brusieus beats him too it, slamming a fist on the table. “That is enough!” 

 

“Listen to yourselves!” She snarls, tusks beared. “Bickering over this child as if he is some sort of toy. Do you have no sense of shame?”

 

Quackity and Callahan have the sense to look ashamed, atleast, while the Empress and Drista don’t even flinch. Boris huffs, folding his arms over his chest and avoiding her gaze, and Jared says nothing at all. 

 

“I agree.” Ex-Deeh says, after a moment of sullen silence from the rest of the table. “We have strayed from the point of this discussion.”

 

Brusieus turns to him next, lifting her chin. “I would like to make a proposal.”

 

The Empress curls her lip. “Oh?” 

 

“Very well then. Brusieus, the floor is yours.”

 

She takes a breath, then speaks.



“I know of cages.” She begins.

 

“I saw to the destruction of the fighting rings on Netheria myself. I have seen what being locked in a cage can do to someone, and I can say from experience that such treatment never ends well. Not for him, or for you.”

 

“What do you suggest, then?”

 

She turns to Tommy, then. He’s not sure what that look in her eye means, but it has him standing a little straighter.

 

“I do not believe.” She continues, “That Tommy ever answered his question.” 

 

One by one, all eyes turn to him. 

 

You are suggesting we let him decide. Callahan signs. 

 

She nods, voice firm. “The Empress was correct in saying that we only have two options. Considering the risks, it is only fair to allow him to decide for himself.”

 

Another round of hushed conversation, a flurry of movement from advisors as they step forwards, murmuring in the ears of their representatives. There’s a lot of nodding, a lot of wary looks passed between the members of the Council as they think it over.

 

In the meantime, Tommy tries his best to remember how to breathe. 

 

I agree with One Who Ends (positive-respectful). Callahan is the first to speak up, next. Neither option is without risk. If he is willing to such lengths to not reveal our secrets or technology to Earth, he should be allowed to return. This is fair. 

 

“And should he decide to stay.” The Empress muses, thinking it over. “There will always be room for him on Enderion.”

 

“Or Netheria.” Brusieus adds, giving her a sharp look. 

 

“Sounds fair to me.” Quackity chips in, crossing his arms. He’s not smiling anymore.

 

Drista raises a lazy hand. “If we lock him up, he’ll just break out.” She says, bluntly. “Humans are smart like that. Atleast this way we’ll know where he is.”

 

“Sure, let it decide. Whatever.” The Governor of Viona makes a face, waving a hand. “As long as we keep an eye on it, I could care less.”

 

“That is a majority.” Ex-Deeh hums. “An unusual decision, but I will allow it.” 

 

Tommy doesn’t have great memories of his time in that place, that’s true. There are some things that you just don’t forget , though. Even if you think you have. Things that stick around, rearing up their ugly head whenever they feel like it. A once-broken leg that aches when it rains, scars that only hurt when you pull on them a certain way, that kind of thing.

 

The starburst scar on his temple is one of those things.

 

“They put something in my fucking HEAD?!” 

 

He remembers that. He remembers.

 

He remembers being strapped down to that cruel metal table, with Him hovering overhead. He remembers the ice-cold sting of the metal blade digging into his temple, of thrashing against his restraints until his wrists were rubbed raw. 

 

He remembers screaming, screaming and screaming and screaming, shouting and pleading until his throat aches, and then dissolving into sobs. They hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even hesitated.

 

They’d only given him painkillers when his sobbing threatened to knock the blade off course, and even then, it was only to shut him up—

 

Tommy digs his nails into his palms and breathes. 

 

All those months ago, just someone touching the scar on his face had been enough to end him over the edge. To get the implant out, they’d have to do a lot more than just touch it. Cut him open, dig it out—

 

He sucks in another breath.

 

Stay here, and never see his family again. 

 

Relive one of the worst things that ever happened to him and go home. 

 

“I…”

 

He hesitates. Why does he fucking hesitate?! 

 

Everything has led up to this . Him, here, standing in front of the most powerful people in the galaxy. All those weeks spent traveling with the crew. Everything he’s learned, every person he’s met along the way, everything he’s done. It’s all led up to this, it was all for this. He’s getting a way home handed to him on a silver platter and he fucking hesitates? 

 

The words clog up his throat until he’s choking on them. I want to go home. 



“You do not have to answer right away.” 

 

Ex-Deeh’s voice brings him back, and he blinks, a little dazed. “I- huh?”

 

“It is understandable if you need time to think it over.” He says, leaning back in his chair. “We must still speak with the rest of your crew. A proper sentencing for the events of the Banquet must be decided, of course. These things take time.”

 

The sharp, cold hand clenched around his chest loosens its grip, just a little. He breathes a little easier. “Right. Yeah.”

 

He just. Needs a minute. To psych himself up for it, you know? 

 

“Alright, then.” Ex-Deeh announces to the rest of the Council. “If no one has further questions for Tommy, I believe it is time for this meeting to-“

 

And just then, the doors open again. 

 

A hush falls over the room. Tommy can’t see who just walked in from where he’s sitting, not without craning his neck to look over his shoulder. All he hears is the steady tap-tap-tap of footsteps as whoever it is moves closer. 

 

Brother!” Ex-Deeh says, delighted. “Late as ever, I see.”

 

Brother? 

 

Okay, fuck it. Tommy’s too curious now to not sneak a glimpse, tilting his head to glance over his shoulder as subtly as he can. I mean, brother? And to get that kind of reaction from the rest of the Council? Tommy has to know what this guy…

 

…Looks

 

Like.



. . .









“Apologies.” The voice, that voice. The voice from his nightmares drawls. 

 

A man in a white mask takes another step into the room. 

 

Tommy doesn’t have to see his face to know that he’s smiling. 





“What have I missed?” 







 

 

 

-






 

 

 

 

 

“We have a problem.”

 

The Ovisan, looking up from her pitiful hand of cards, makes a face. “I’ll say. I’m shuffling next time, Punz can’t shuffle for shit.”

 

Sitting across from her on the floor, feet and wrists both bound together, the Shulk looks through his small hand of cards with a scowl. “I’d like to see you try and shuffle with handcuffs on-“

 

She waves a hand. “Excuses, excuses.”

 

The Sylvari, sitting criss-cross, looks over his own hand of cards, the largest out of the three of them, and raises an eyebrow. She sticks out her tongue at him. 

 

He watches as the Shulk lays down another card to the steadily growing pile in the center, face-up. The other two barely get the chance to see the picture of the emperor scrawled across the front before the Sylvari slaps the top of the pile, claiming it for himself as the other two groan. 

 

“Not my fault you’re bad at T’Arian Ratscrew.” He grins smugly, adding the new cards to his hand. “It’s okay. You’ll get the hang of it.”

 

She jams a finger in his direction, growling. “I don’t want to hear a word from you, cheater.” 

 

“Me? Cheating?” He blinks at her, the picture of innocence. “ Whatever do you mean?”

 

“You can’t slap two emperors and an empress!” She throws her hands in the air. “That’s not a thing!”

 

“It is too.” He huffs. “It’s not my fault you only know the Vionian rules. 

 

“That’s because the T’Arian rules make no sense! You’re just making them up!” 

 

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, brushing her off. “It’s called T’Arian Ratscrew. Not Vionian Ratscrew. Just because I know the rules better than you doesn’t make me a cheater.”

 

“I’ll show you a Ratscrew when I shove my foot up your-“ 

 

“Puffy.” The Creeparian interrupts again, a little more sternly than before as he calls to her from the cockpit. “We have a problem.”

 

She sighs, putting her cards face down on the floor as she gets to her feet. “Excuse me, boys.”

 

The Slyvari doesn’t react, frowning as he looks over his own hand of cards. The Shulk just shrugs, motioning to the remaining pile in the middle. “Your turn.” 



-



“What’s the- oh shit.” 

 

She freezes the second she makes her way up to the cockpit, whistling as she stares out the window. “Well fuck me.”

 

The Council Ship, in all its glory, is finally within sights, a gleaming white shape about the length of her thumb in the distance, silhouetted by the looming dark shape of Enderion behind. Spaceships the size of insects dart in and out, small enough to be mistaken for stars. 

 

It’s not the Council ship that’s caught her attention, though, but the ring of large, imposing black ships hovering around it like it’s own personal asteroid belt. 

 

“It’s a blockaide.” The Creeparian, sitting in the cockpit, looks troubled. The air smells faintly of gunpowder. “No one gets in or out. Orders from the Empress herself.”

 

“Shit.” The Ovisan curses again. “Banquet tickets aren’t enough to get us through that. We’d need permission from the Empress herself. Any chance of us sneaking through?”

 

He shakes his head. “We won’t show up on any of their radars, but the blockaide is too tight. Even with our invisibility, there’s no chance we get through without tripping something.”

 

“And once we’re in the middle of all those ships,” she finishes for him. “If we get caught, we’re extra fucked.” 

 

“We could wait and see if they lower the blockaide.” He hums, the noise quickly changing to a growl. “This has him written all over it. I just know it.” 

 

“That's impossible.” The Ovisan stands, scowling. “This ship is invisible, remember?”

 

“He found us once, didn’t he?” He says, tilting his head back towards the Shulk. 

 

“That was a fluke.” She scowls. “No, I got rid of all the bugs, I'm sure of it.”

 

“Well.” He murmurs. “…not all of them.” 



Slowly, in unison, they both turn to look out of the cockpit, and at the Shulk, still playing cards with the Sylvari in the bridge. 

 

He looks up, blinking at them impassively when he realizes they’re both staring at him from across the room. “What?”

 

The Creeparian moves first, getting out of his chair to lumber towards him. “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing!” The Shulk leans back, dropping his cards to put his palms in the air. He raises an eyebrow, gaze flitting between them as he drawls. “You took my comn, remember?”

 

The Ovisan springs into motion, pulling her blaster from her hip to spin it between her fingers. She doesn’t level it at him, though. She just meets his gaze, smiles, and lifts a hand to her mouth. “Oh Fran~”

 

From somewhere deep within the ship, there’s a loud thump! and a  faint bark! 

 

All of the color fades from the Shulks face, and cards go flying as he tries to scramble away, back hitting the wall. “Wait- wait! Don’t sick that thing on me! Not again!” 

 

“That’s more like it.” The Ovisan grins, crossing the distance between them and crouching to his level. “Talk.” 

 

“I was supposed to check in with him after the job was done.” He says, fighting to keep his voice level. “When I didn’t, he must have assumed something went wrong.”

 

“Figures.” The Sylvari growls, crossing his arms. “I say we lock him in the brig with Fran.”

 

Somewhere from within the ship, a bit closer than before, there’s another loud bark! 

 

The Shulk goes even more pale.

 

“Nah.” The Ovisan grins. “I’ve got a better idea.” 

 

She reaches into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a fancy, white comn. “Here, catch.”

 

The Shulk scrambles to catch the comn as she tosses it his way, looking between it and her suspiciously. “What?”

 

“You were supposed to check in, weren’t you?” She gestures to the comn. “Well? Clocks ticking.”









Notes:

:)

Chapter 22: Human (III)

Summary:

:)

Notes:

“Give my regards to soul and romance,
they always did the best they could.
and so long to devotion,
you taught me everything I know,

wave goodbye,
wish me well,
you've got to let me go."
-Human, the Killers

Happy spooky season! This chapter fought me the entire way through, which is why it ended up being 2 days late. Hope you guys like angst! On that note, this chapter is a bit heavier content-wise, so make sure you read the trigger warnings thoroughly.

Anyways, a big thank you to Mars as always, and enjoy!

tumblr // twitter // playlist

TWs: (SPOILERS)
BIG WARNINGS for medical abuse/torture (flashbacks), panic attacks, disassociation, passively suicidal thoughts, blood and injury, and dehumanization. minor warnings for needles and captivity.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

And just like that.

 

Everything .




Shatters. 




-



Tommy sits, frozen, as the rest of the meeting moves on without him. 

 

He can see their mouths moving, hear the thrum of their voices as they speak to each other, hands waving and clothing fluttering. He knows that they’re talking about him, but they might as well be speaking a different language for all he can tell. Everything sounds far away, their conversations muffled and distorted, like he’s hearing them from six feet underwater. 

 

The only thing he can hear clearly is the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, a steady ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dumb that makes everything else fade into background noise. 

 

That fucking. Voice. 

 

Worse than nails on a chalkboard, it’s needles directly into his skull . A voice he never thought he’d hear again. A noise he thought he’d been free from— 

 

with everything he’s fucking got. They’ve strapped down his legs as well as his arms, this time, the leather biting into his skin. It doesn’t stop him from thrashing around, from straining against it, howling like some sort of rabid animal.

 

“Increase the dosage.” A voice says over the intercom. 

 

The aliens in white coats don’t spare him so much as a glance, and the needle slides into his neck—



Tommy shivers . He can’t force himself to do anything else. 

 

Time slips away between blinks. 

 

The rumbling of Ex-Deeh’s voice and the murmuring of the rest of the Council, the feeling of eyes burrowing into the back of his head. 

 

This is wrong. This isn’t right. It isn’t- it isn’t supposed to end like this, he isn’t supposed to be here-

 

A feeling starts to settle in his gut. 

 

A sickeningly heavy feeling, like a bottomless hole had just opened up in his stomach. The same feeling he’d had all those years ago, when he’d opened the door to his uncle’s house to see a social worker standing on the front porch. The same feeling he’d had when he’d heard the swish of metal doors being shut behind him and realized just how much he’d fucked up . Like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head, chilling him down to the bone marrow and freezing him to the floor. 

 

It’s the end of the world, that feeling says. Tommy can’t help but agree. 

 

Every instinct, every muscle in his body is screaming at him to do something, you idiot! Run, get away, hide! His heart beats rabbit-fast in his ears, something cold and unforgiving crawling up his spine to sink its claws in his chest, coiling tight around his lungs. He’s not breathing deep enough, every breath coming quick and shallow until he starts to feel dizzy—

 

—but they pay him no mind. They never do. He can scream himself hoarse, and they don’t even bother looking up. He scans the walls this time, instead, searching for the glass panel he knows all too well . He opens his mouth to screech again, to bite at their hands, to do something, but another voice beats him to it.

 

“Proceed.” A familiar voice says over the intercom. Tommy thinks that he can see a hint of white behind the one-way glass.

 

“Wait- wait what is that? What is that?! Get away from- get aWAY FROM ME—“



Tommy’s throat tightens. 

 

He wants to run. To get away. To do something. He balls his hands into fists and clenches his jaw until his teeth feel like they’re about to shatter, instead. 

 

Just be still, some part of him whispers. A memory clawing it’s way to the surface to hiss in his ear, keeping him still. Frozen. A deer in headlights. Maybe, if he’s still enough, the predator won’t notice he’s here. If he just stays still, he might have a chance at getting away

 

Tommy doesn’t notice when the meeting ends.

 

He moves when a guard puts a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to his feet. They say something to him, but their words go right over his head. They guide him to the doors and he follows, feet scuffling against the marble floors. 

 

He catches a glimpse of green, as he goes to leave, nearly swallowed in the crowd of other Council members. Of a polished, white mask—

 

—tilts his head, the crude smiley face distorted and twisted by the dark glass. Tommy can’t see his face, but he knows he’s smiling. 

 

“Of course, Tommy. We are friends, aren’t we?”



—There are eyes on the back of his head, he knows. Watching him. Footsteps, just a few strides behind. An echo.

 

He wants Phil. Or Techno. It’s childish and stupid but he doesn’t fucking care. He wants to duck under Phil’s wings or hide behind Techno’s broad shoulders, put something else between him and the monster he knows is just waiting for a chance to sink its teeth into its prey. 

 

There’s quite a crowd waiting for them, as they leave. Mostly guards and attendants, a shifting mass of black shadows in the corner of his vision, a few small groups of other advisors, dressed in their own traditional colors. A handful of others dressed in bright, shimmering colors, outfits just as obnoxious as the flashing and whirring of their cameras and holoscreens. 

 

Tommy’s stomach rolls. Of course there are cameras. Of course. Every flash puts him more on edge, the brightness and the noise. It’s too much, it’s too much. 

 

The rest of the crew must be here somewhere, right? Tommy can’t see them. Maybe if he finds them, they can help. Phil and Techno can help, they have to- There! A rustle of feathers in the corner of his eye, a hint of Techno’s red cloak amongst the crowd. The sight of them makes his stomach swoop, a fluttery, panicked feeling clawing its way up the back of his throat. 

 

He digs his heels in, bucking against the advisors hand on his shoulder as he cranes his neck backwards, frantically searching the crowd-

 

Save me! He wants to say, to scream at the top of his lungs until someone hears him. Until someone listens . Help me! Please! He’s going to kill me this time! 

 

Phil catches his eye, just for a second. He’s standing to the side with the same guards as before- still bickering- Techno bending slightly to whisper in his ear. He sees Tommy, his face lighting up, and-

 

Surely he can tell something’s wrong. Surely he has to know, right? Can see it in his eyes, written across his face. Help me, help me, help me, please-

 

Tommy doesn’t even get the chance to open his mouth. Phil flashes him a smile, mouthing something he can’t quite make out, and then the crowd shifts again, swallowing him and Techno both until Tommy’s lost sight of them completely. The words burn all the way down his throat as he’s forced to choke them back, instead. 

 

The guard says something else, loud and irritating, right by his ear. They shove at his shoulder, and he stumbles, but keeps moving. 

 

He can’t see anyone familiar. His head is still spinning, chest still tight. He’s so panicked he doesn’t even feel panicked anymore, pushed so far past terrified that he’s circled back around to feeling numb again. All he feels is cold—

 

—as ice, against his back. He’s too dizzy to move, too tired to do anything but stare blankly at the bright light above him, at the strange aliens shifting in and out of view. They’re talking to each other, but Tommy doesn’t understand the words. The only person in this horrible place who will talk to him is—

 

The guard keep’s shepherding him forward, and the static behind his eyes swallows him whole. 



What the fuck is he supposed to do now? 





-




There’s a sort of limbo, then. 

 

Tommy fucking hates waiting. He’s not exactly the patient type, never has been. Waiting on its own is bad enough, waiting for something bad to happen is a whole different kind of torture. He can almost feel it, the sword dangling over his neck, a clock ticking down, down, down. 

 

He’s pretty sure he’s going to burn holes into the floor, with how much he’s been pacing. 

 

How long has it been? Thirty minutes? Hours? Time drips by so slowly, every second stretching on and on and on. His guard had left some time ago, leaving him to rot here alone. They’d said something, Tommy thinks, but he doesn’t remember what it was. Something about visitors? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care. 

 

They’d unlinked his handcuffs before they’d left, which is the important thing, leaving him with two ugly bracelets on either wrist. He takes full advantage of his newfound freedom to grab one of the (admittedly quite comfy) pillows off of the bed and scream into it. 

 

Five minutes. 

 

That’s how long he’d given himself to break down before snapping back to attention. Five minutes is all he can spare with impending death looming around the corner. 

 

Five minutes to freak the fuck out. To sit down on the bed in the corner and put his head between his knees like Techno had shown him and suck in gasps of air like a dying fish until he doesn’t feel so dizzy. Five minutes to drink straight from the bathroom tap like a heathen and splash his face with cold water until a little more of the fog fades. Five minutes to try and wrangle all the memories and half-buried nightmares that just hearing his voice had brought back to the surface, dragging them up from the vault he’d locked them in all those months ago. Five minutes to fucking get a hold of himself, goddamn it before he comes back.

 

Because he will. Now that he’s seen Tommy, now that he knows Tommy’s here. He’s alone, separated from his crew, trapped in this stupid fucking hotel-room-slash-prison-cell they’ve stuck him in. Tasteful wall art and decorative pillows won’t distract him from the fact that it’s a fucking cage, still—

 

—penning him in from either side, the metal walls cold, unforgiving. He scratches at the door until his fingers bleed, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. He can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe—

 

Tommy shakes his head, shoving the memory down, down, down . Cells. Cages. Dog crates. Tommy’s so fucking sick of it, sick of being stuck. 

 

He needs a plan. And fast. The static flows and ebbs, turning from something overpowering to a distant roar in the back of his head as he shakes it off, a background noise he can shut out, has to shut out. He can freak out later, when he’s not literally in mortal danger. When he’s with his crew again. When he knows he’s safe. 

 

It’s funny, how quickly things can change, isn’t it? He’d been so close, he’d actually- he’d dared to actually hope—

 

An awful noise wants to bubble out of his mouth, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He knows that if he lets it out now, he’ll never stop, so he swallows it down. 

 

After his five minutes of freaking the hell out ends, he gets to work. 

 

Out of all the prisons and cages he’s been locked in, his room on the Council ship is definitely one of the most comfortable. Like some weirdo futuristic hotel room, roughly the same size of his room back on the Argo, with white walls and tasteful blue accents. They even gave him throw pillows. 

 

He scouts the perimeter of the room, doing what he does best, sticking his nose in every nook and cranny. One door, already locked, no windows. Two cameras, both out of reach. No weapons on him, the bag he’d left in the med bay nowhere to be seen, now, another thing for him to lose his mind over later. Air vents look a little promising, but they're high off the ground for him to get into, even if he could get them open. The little bathroom only has a sink and a toilet, nothing he can use. 

 

The only things that aren’t bolted down or somehow attached to the room itself are the blankets and pillows, and the fluffy towel he finds in the closet. None of which make good weapons. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Try and strangle him with a blanket? Pillow fight to the death? 

 

He doesn’t have his communicator, no idea where that ended up, in between the med bay and the Council Meeting. It had been confiscated with the rest of his stuff after the fight, he thinks, but it must be somewhere nearby, considering that his translator is still working.

 

Maybe he can find it? Contact the others- and then what? 

 

Yeah, so, remember that awful thing that happened to me that I never told you guys about? Well, it turns out that not only is the brother of the guy who kidnapped me for weeks and tried to sell me like a pet on the Council, but the brother of the guy who tortured me for months is Ex-Deeh’s brother too! Crazy coincidence, right? 

 

He doubts that would go over well. 

 

It’s so funny. So fucking hilarious, honestly. Because what are the fucking chances? 

 

He’s not sure how long the limbo lasts, honestly. It could have been anywhere from fourth five minutes to three hours for all he can tell, and he spends most of it pacing around in circles like some kind of bored zoo animal, flip-flopping back and forth between trying to come up with a plan, double, tripple, and a quadruple checking the lock, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball under the bed, and working out the odds of busting down the door and making a run for it. 

 

He can’t remember the last time he was this afraid. Netheria, maybe? At least then he had Brusieus. Atleast then he wasn’t so alone. 

 

Coming up with an escape plan is a lot harder when you’re on your own. Defenseless. Backed into a corner with no way out. 

 

He hates being alone. 

 

He checks the lock again , for lack of anything else to do. Pressing his hand against the touchpad to unlock it, just to relock it seconds later. The sound of the little click! Is nice. As much as he hates cages, he won’t lie, it’s a little reassuring, having a thick, metal door in between him and the rest of the world. Locking it all out. 

 

As it turns out, he shouldn’t have even bothered. 

 

After all, what’s the point of having a lock when the person he’s running from can just fucking unlock it again. 



The door opens with a swoosh! that hits him like a kick in the chest. 



“It’s nice to see you again, Tommy.” 



And the static swallows him whole. 




-




“Are you… okay?”

 

A Blazeborn and two Merlings walk into a room. It sounds like the setup for a bad joke. 

 

One of the Merlings, tall, with a veil over their eyes, walks the perimeter of the room, the red fins on either side of their face flared anxiously as they poke at the corners of the room, looking for something.

 

They turn at the Blazeborn’s question, giving him a smile just a touch too strained to be natural. “I just need to make sure no one else is listening. Excuse me.”

 

The Blazeborn and the other Merling stand together near the doorway, watching the tall, veiled Merling as they putter around the room, scoping out corners and opening cabinets, shooting glances at each other. The Blazeborn breaks the silence first, shaking his head like a bull about to charge. 

 

“Okay, what the fuck is going on? Does someone want to clue me in?” He jams a finger at the veiled Merling, lip curling to expose a flash of fang. “Did Quackity put you up to this?” 

 

“Quackity?” 

 

They turn to him, tilting their head curiously. They have to tilt their head down to meet his gaze. 

 

He grits his teeth. “The one who sent us these stupid invitations.”

 

“Oh. Oh, no.” They smile, again, turning away to run their hand along one of the cabinets.” “No, Quackity didn’t send those. I did.”

 

The Blazeborn bristles at the obvious dismissal, grinding his teeth together. Sparks fly off of his clenched fists before he throws his hands in the air, sending them scattering. 

 

“That’s it. I’m leaving. C’mon, Niki.” 

 

“Wait.”

 

They both pause at the tone of their voice. 

 

“Just…” They sigh, something almost vulnerable leaking into the words. “Just hear me out. That’s all I ask. It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.” 

 

The pink Merling gives them an uncertain look, chewing on her bottom lip. “Eret, listen…”

 

Please.” They reach out, carefully taking one of her hands in theirs. “There’s no one else I can trust with this. It’s important .”

 

Then, quieter. “You know I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important.”

 

The Blazeborn scoffs, crossing both of his arms over his chest with an unimpressed look. The pink Merling still looks uncertain, though, her hand resting in theirs as she looks inbetween the other Merling and the Blazeborn, eyes narrowed in thought. Eventually, though, her expression softens, and she pulls her hand back with a sigh. 

 

“Alright.” she says. “I’ll listen.”

 

They smile, a thank you ready on their lips, but the Blazeborn beats them too it. 

 

“Seriously?” 

 

His head whips between the two Merling’s, lips pulled back into a snarl, practically spitting out sparks as he gestures sharply with his hands. “After what they did? You’re seriously okay with this?”

 

“I want to hear what they have to say.”

 

“If they wanted to talk ,” he spits, “they could have just- I don’t know, sent a fucking message? Like a normal person?”

 

He jams a finger in their chest with a snarl. “You and Quackity are both the fucking same. All you do is use people. I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but I’ve had enough-“ 

 

“It’s not a game.” They interrupt sharply, turning on the Blazeborn with a snarl of their own.

 

They pause, then, taking a breath, and their expression smooths back over. 

 

“I needed to speak to you in person.” They say. “I am sorry for deceiving you, but you wouldn’t have agreed to meet me if I was upfront about it.”

 

“Maybe that should have been a sign for you to leave us the fuck alone.” 

 

“You need to understand what’s at stake, here.”

 

“What? Afraid of losing your cushy new job?” The Blazeborn mocks. “You know, the one you abandoned us for?”

 

A crack appears in their composure. They suck in a rattling breath. 

 

“I don’t work for the governor of Viona anymore.” 

 

“You- huh?”

 

The Blazeborn stares, caught off guard, and the other Merling takes the opportunity to swoop in.

 

“I think you need to explain a little more than that.” 

 

“Right. Yes.” They clear their throat, gesturing with a hand to the couches to their right. “Make yourselves comfortable.” 

 

The Blazeborn huffs, but takes a seat, irregardless, sprawling across one of the couches with a scowl. The pink Merling sits to his left, and the veiled Merling perches awkwardly on one of the plush chairs across from them. 

 

“Where should I start?”

 

“From where you got fired.” The Blazeborn grunts. 

 

They give him a tight lipped smile. “Alright.”

 

They take a deep breath, and begin. 

 

“I stopped working for the Governor just over a year ago.

 

“It was good work, for a while. I’m very good at what I do. Alchemy has always been my passion. The governor supplied me with materials, clients, ingredients, it was a dream come true. For a little while, anwyays.”

 

None of them acknowledge the way the pink Merling’s eyes harden, just a little, a muscle in her jaw tightening. Or the way the Blazeborn still sits stiffly, passively giving off sparks with his arms crossed protectively in front of him. 

 

If the veiled Merling avoids looking in their eyes, well, it’s not like they can tell, anyways.

 

“And then, he introduced me to a new client.”

 

Their hands tighten on the armrests of the chair, nails digging in slightly. They don’t seem to notice, and their face betrays  nothing. 

 

“I never met him.” They admit. “A scientist, Boris told me, studying exotic wildlife across the galaxy. He needed all sorts of potions, regeneration, anesthesia, respiration, all made with simple enough ingredients that they could be used on most animals without causing harm.”

 

“And so- what?” The Blazeborn interrupts, scoffing. “He was a poacher , or something? You helped some asshole smuggle exotic animals and you feel bad? What the hell are we supposed to do about that?” 

 

They smile, but it’s hardly a smile at all.

 

“…not quite.” They say, softly. “I believe it’s quite a bit worse than that.” 

 

The Blazeborn sits back, unsatisfied, but curious. The other Merling’s jaw tightens, eyes darkening. 

 

“Eret.” She says, in a measured voice. “What do you mean by that?” 

 

Their eyes aren’t visible behind their veil, but their body language is clear enough. The slope of their shoulders, the way they hang their head, the guilt that drips from their voice as they reply.

 

“I have reason to suspect.” They say. “That buyer, and the governor of Viona, by extension, are involved in some sort of trafficking ring.”

 

Silence.

 

“And.” They suck in another breath. “I have reason to believe that he- the buyer- is here. On this ship. Right now.” 

 

More silence. 

 

“…you’re joking.” The Blazeborn speaks first. “You’re fucking with us. Do you even hear yourself right now-“

 

The pink Merling cuts him off, voice hard. “You’re sure about this?”

 

She cannot see their eyes, but she feels their intensity as they settle on her. 

 

“I know this is a lot to believe.” They say, voice measured. “I have evidence. Logs,  spreadsheets, missing persons reports, messages-“

 

“So why are you telling us?” The Blazeborn says incredulously, still blinking in shock. “If you’re right about this, and that’s still an ‘if’ , why not bring this to the Council? Why rope us into it?”

 

“I…”

 

They look down, their composure slipping again, just a little. Just enough that a bit of the vulnerability slips through, sinking into their words.

 

“I don’t know how far this goes.” They say, voice soft. “I don’t- I don’t know who I can trust anymore. Boris is on the Council, there’s a good chance some of the others might be involved as well. But…”

 

They trail off for a second, then finish.

 

“You are the only people in this galaxy I know I can trust with this.”

 

I know that you hate me. They do not say. And I deserve it, for what I did. For betraying you the way I did. But I still know you. We were family, once. I know you are too good to look away while other people suffer. I know I can still trust you to be good. To be better than I was. 

 

Once again, it is silent. 

 

Then.

 

“Alright.” 

 

She says, soft voice filled with steel. 

 

There is a fire in her eyes, when they meet theirs. An expression that tells of a long held grudge, of fury on behalf of someone else.

 

“What do we need to do?”

 

The Blazeborn gives a noisy sigh, “fuck it. What’s a little treason between friends, anyways?”

 

I do not forgive you. They do not stay. But I will still help you. 

 

It’s a start.

 

“First things first.” the veiled Merling breathes. “Have either of you been able to get ahold of Quackity?”

 

A rocky start, but a start, nonetheless. 




-




Tommy spends the rest of the day in that room. 

 

Night comes slowly, the seconds stretching out into hours. 

 

He doesn’t look away from the door. Not once. Not even as a guard brings him dinner in the evening, or the lights in the room dim for the night. Not for a moment. Every footstep that he hears out in the hallway sends him spiraling. 

 

He’d locked the door again. Not that the lock actually does anything. It still makes him feel better. 

 

Sleep fights him every step of the way, but the exhaustion of the day wins out, in the end, dragging him under.

 

In his dreams, he goes home. 




-




It’s dusk, when he finally stumbles through the doors. 

 

He’s panting, exhausted, legs burning with the effort of how quickly he’d run to get here. He’s dripping with sweat and sand, but none of it matters. It all fades to the back of his mind when he looks up and sees the woman sitting behind the register, thumbing her way through a magazine.

 

She looks exactly the same as the last time he’d seen her. Tall, lean, long blonde hair swept back in a low ponytail. There’s a frown on her face and a smudge of grease under her eye. He’s never seen anyone look more beautiful.

 

“Clara.” He breathes. 

 

She looks up at the sound of his voice, eyebrows knitting together. “Who-“

 

“It’s me.” He tells her, staggering up to the counter, the smile on his face just as wobbly as the rest of him. “It’s Tommy. I’m back.” 

 

“Tommy?” She stares at him, mouth falling open as she scrambles to her feet. “ Tommy!” 

 

“I’m so sorry. I tried to get home, you wouldn’t believe everything that happened-“ 

 

She cuts him off mid rant, her normally cold face shattering into a million pieces as she smiles, tears shining in the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t hug him, but she grabs him by the shoulders, instead, like she’s checking to make sure he’s real.

 

“You’re home.” Is all she says, and that’s enough. 

 

Somewhere else in the gas station, a door bangs open. “Did I hear- is that Tommy?!”

 

“Clem!” He all but sobs, reaching for her.

 

Clementine comes bursting out of the backroom in a whirlwind of shocked laughter and curly hair, sweeping both of them up in her arms. Clara’s hands clutching the back of his shirt like she’s afraid he’s about to disappear again, Clem sniffling into his neck, it’s a fight to keep himself from falling apart in their arms. They’re here, safe and sound, holding him like he’s something precious in their arms. 

 

He’s home. 

 

He’s a whole head taller than Clementine now, and bends down to bury his nose in her curly hair with a sob. She pulls back to cradle his face, and he can see his reflection in her big brown eyes, brimming with tears that threaten to spill down her face.  

 

He looks at her, hundreds of apologies burning a hole in his tongue. There’s so much he wants to tell her, so much he wants her to know, so many questions he wants to ask. 

 

He wants to tell her about space, about the friends he’s made, about the places he’s seen. About all the incredible things he’s done. He wants her to know how hard he fought to get home, that he thought about them all the time, that he stopped at nothing to get back safe. He wants to ask how long he’s been gone, they’ve graduated highschool, right? Started college? Did they miss him as much as he missed them? 

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get a chance.

 

Her face shifts, then, just as his hands cover hers. The look in her eyes- hopeful, overjoyed, relieved, shifting into horror as her gaze flickers to his hands still covering hers. 

 

She pulls away, fingertips stained with blood. 

 

There’s so much blood, he realizes. Dripping from his palms, splattered up his arms, different shades blending together, red and blue and purple in the way that alien blood sometimes is. The crimson of Phil and Tubbo’s under his nails, the indigo of Wilbur’s splattered across his face, the maroon of Techno’s stained into his boots, the violet of Ranboo’s across his chest. Clem’s hands are covered in it, now, Clara’s jacket splattered with red and violet where he’d hugged her earlier. They’re both staring at him, now, horror and betrayal written across both of their faces. 

 

“What is this?” Clara says, voice tight as she stares at him, searching for answers. “Tommy, what is this? What happened?” 

 

He tries to explain, but the words stick in his throat. She has to listen to him, she has to understand. He didn’t want to. It wasn’t his fault. 

 

He just wanted to go home. 

 

“Oh, baby.”

 

Clementine reaches for his hands again, cradling his bloody palms in her gentle ones. They shake as she looks up at him, the look in her eyes nearly brimming him to his knees. 

 

“What have you done?”



He wakes up, gasping and clutching at his chest, feeling more lost than ever before. 

 

And so begins day two. 




-




Tommy knows a thing or two about ghosts.

 

He’s been followed around by ghosts his whole life, after all. A lifetime of being haunted tends to come with side effects. 

 

Not like, literally, haunted . no glowing specters or Scooby-Doo villains in white bedsheets for him, but still haunted , nonetheless.

 

He doesn’t remember his parents, but he still held on to the old records his mom gave him. Still feels her presence when he listens to them play. Hadn’t been too close with his uncle before he died, but still finds himself missing his house out in the middle of the desert, sometimes, where the skies were clearer and the stars were so bright he almost felt like he could touch them. Still hated the smell of hospitals, even before his trip to space, because of how they reminded him of his uncle’s last few days, hooked up to wires and breathing through tubes. Still feels the echoes, the things they’ve left behind. 

 

They’re not the only ones haunting, either. Far from it. His time in space leaves him with a plethora of other ghosts dogging at his heels. More faces to see when he shuts his eyes, more phantom hands to feel brushing over his skin, more voices to hear ringing in his ears. Some are more familiar than others. 

 

The thing no one tells you about ghosts is this; most of them aren’t even dead.

 

You don’t have to die to haunt someone, after all. 

 

There’s nothing to distract him, in this room. No noise. Just the ringing in his ears and his own thoughts to keep him company, which is a special sort of torture all on its own. Nothing to get his stupid fucking brain to shut the hell up. 

 

He still listens for footsteps. He holds his breath when he hears them, but they never stop outside his door. 

 

He swears he can hear laughter. Taunting him. Haunting him. Echoing against the metal walls to ring back in his ears. 

 

Tommy curls up a little tighter, on the bed. Not that it helps. He still feels them, anyways. Phantom touches, long-lost memories, the horror on dream-Clementines face-

 

“What have you done?” 

 

He keeps his eyes on the door. On the useless fucking lock-

 

—different than he did, before. It helps, a little bit, seeing him without the lab coat and the hover screen. Makes it easier to separate the person- no, the thing in front of him from the creature in his nightmares. Official-looking robes dripping off his shoulders, spotless and glimmering. 

 

The mask is white and smooth, a disk that hides his entire face from view. No smiley face, this time. 

 

Tommy hates how much that helps, how much easier it is to look him in the face without it looking back at him. 

 

He squares his shoulders, trying his best to channel a little bit of Techno’s sturdy growl in his voice. “You can’t do anything to me here.” 

 

“Oh?” 

 

Tommy swallows. 

 

“There are cameras,” he says, ignoring his own rising panic. “They’ll know it was you. You can’t touch me.” 

 

Except he can. Except that they both know all too well that there are plenty of ways to hurt someone without ever lifting a finger—

 

“Hurt you?” 

 

He laughs, then, and the nose makes Tommy wince. It’s an awful fucking sound, like a dozen people laughing on a scratched CD. A sound that echoes off the metal walls until his ears are ringing -

 

“Why would I do that?” He purrs, taking another step inside the room. “No, Tommy. I just think we need to have a talk, that’s all. 

 

“A… talk?”

 

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Dream says, voice confident and unnatural in a way that makes Tommy’s skin crawl. Makes the scars on his back, on his arms, on his neck, start to itch. “Tomorrow, when they bring you before the Council, you’re going to tell them you want to go home. I am going to offer to take you to Enderion, to have your implant removed, and you’re going to board my ship without a word.”

 

This thing is, Tommy knows that he’s fucked either way. 

 

Always so fucking confident, this guy. Always so sure . Giving the orders, calling the shots, using that particular tone of voice that leaves no room for questions. Always so sure that he’s just gonna- just gonna roll over.

 

It doesn't matter if he goes with him, it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. It’s over . Lights on, roll credits. His luck finally ran out, and the monster Tommy thought he’d left in his past has caught up with him at last. He’s tracked him this far, followed him across the entire fucking galaxy just for this . Just for the sick pleasure of dragging him back to own personal hell. Just because he can. 

 

He’s fucked . Captial F Fucked. No if's and's or but’s about it. 

 

Tommy knows how this story ends. 

 

He’d already signed his own death warrant, after all, that day in the desert. 

 

“And why should I?” Tommy snaps, shoulders hiking up around his neck. “You’ll hurt me? Torture me? Drag me aboard kicking and screaming?” 

 

One stupid mistake. That’s all it took. Just a kid being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not like he’d had any way of knowing just what he’d been in for. How the fuck was he supposed to know? He’d seen something crash out in the desert right outside of town, and decided to go take a look. He’d been curious, because of course he had been! He’d seen a fucking space ship crash into the desert outside of town! Who wouldn’t be curious about that? 

 

Just like one of those stupid horror movie protagonists, walking straight into a dark basement, “ hello? Is anybody there?”

 

Stupid. Stupid. 

 

By the time he’d realized what he’d done, it had been too late. 

 

He hadn’t known what was happening. He was just a dumb kid. What the hell was he supposed to do up against aliens twice his size? Fight back? 

 

Cold metal against his back, biting into his skin, creatures above him speaking in gibberish to one another as he pulls at the restraints. Alone, cold, terrified. No way of knowing what was going on, what they were going to do with him. 

 

He had no way of telling time, in that miserable fucking place. He’d tried, at first, but between the exhaustion and the hunger, it was a lost cause. 

 

Only one person ever spoke to him.

 

He never got his hands dirty, so Tommy never really saw him up close. Just behind windows, through bars. A green hood pulled over a smooth, smiling mask.

 

“Best friends.” He’d said. What a fucking creep. 

 

There was nothing he could do. Not against them, carrying out his orders. It was useless, but that never stopped him from trying. He’d thrashed until the straps binding him down cut into his skin, screamed until mouth filled with blood, but it never made a difference. Never. 

 

The boy who had walked out into the desert that day didn't come back. 

 

For weeks, months, the world was nothing more than that. A hazy, ugly blur of pain and exhaustion, of cold metal and the smell of iron and antiseptic. Of waking up back in the same dark cell with a new scar and fresh nightmares to keep him busy until they dragged him away again. 

 

And then, one day, he gets lucky. 

 

He gets out, somehow. He runs and runs and runs, bare feet pounding against metal floors, shaky hands scratching desperately at keypads. Clambering into an escape pod just large enough for him to squeeze into, shallow breaths echoing back to him in the tight space, fogging up the glass. Closing his eyes and letting the exhaustion drag him under. 

 

Rough hands yanking him out, voices speaking above him in a language he can’t understand. Glimpses of blurry faces, lips curled back in confusion, disgust. 

 

An alien with four arms watching him warily from behind a glass wall. 

 

And, for a while, that had been it. Horror shows over, time to get on with the rest of his life. Tommy’s world had ended, and, just as quickly as it was over, it started again. Rockily, at first, but it got better over time. 

 

His stay in the petshop didn’t last for more than a few weeks before he was rescued. Then, he was free . Free to travel the galaxy as he pleases, free to try and find a way home, back to the only family he’s ever had. Free to laugh, to dance, to get strong , stronger than he’d ever been before. Free to explore, to see both the best and the worst that the galaxy had to offer. To join a crew. To be wanted. To feel like he belonged. 

 

He should have known better, really. 

 

“Well, you don’t have too.” 

 

Turns out, the universe has one hell of a sense of humor. 

 

“I can always find a replacement.”

 

It’s funny, when he really thinks about it. Hilarious , even. How fucking stupid he was, thinking he’d ever be free . Burying every awful memory of him into the back of his mind, fooling himself into believing that it was over. That he’d never see him again. That he was finally safe. 

 

All of that work, all of that time, all of the people he’s met and the things he’s accomplished, all for absolutely fucking nothing. 

 

He’s going to die in the same metal cell he’d woken up in on that very first day, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

 

That doesn’t mean he hadn’t been prepared to put up a fight.

 

He wasn’t going to roll over. Wasn’t going to just fall down and die . Even scared out of his fucking mind, staring down the demon that’s haunted his worst nightmares for years, he’d been prepared to fight. If he’s going to die, he might as well go out with a bang, right? Might as well put on one last show. Just because he knows how the story ends doesn’t mean he can’t make that motherfucker work for it. 

 

But he’s always been two steps ahead, hasn’t he? Always been the one holding all the strings. Always. 

 

“Maybe one of your little friends would be willing to take your place, hmm? Or maybe another human?”

 

“W-wait I-“

 

It’s just the sort of plan he would come up with, too. Giving him a taste of freedom, of hope, just to yank it all away again. 

 

“There is a pair I've been keeping an eye on, actually. What did you say their names were again?”

 

Dangling the idea of choice over his head, giving him two impossible options and telling him to pick one. Go through the worst thing you’ve ever experienced in your life again, or—



“Clem and Clara?” 

 

-- force someone else to go through it, instead. 

 

It’s not much of a choice, really

 

“So, it’s a deal?”

 

The world is ending all over again. It’s worse, this time, now that he knows exactly what he’s signing up for. What’s waiting for him as soon as the doors to Dream’s ship close. 

 

“Y-yeah. It’s a deal.” 

 

The world is ending, and Tommy can’t do a damn thing about it. 

 

He feels the phantom touch of Clara’s hand on his shoulder, hears Clem’s voice echoing in the back of his mind. 

 

“Oh baby, what have you done?”

 

“What I had too.” He says, to nobody. “I did what I had to do.” 

 

The ghosts that settle around him don’t respond, but he feels their presence, regardless. 




-




Without anything else to keep him busy, he spends a lot of time staring at the air vent above his bed, thinking. 

 

He’d been given food earlier for… lunch? Breakfast? But left the tray by the door, pretty much untouched. It’s not even half bad, especially since most of his meals over the past few months have been dried, frozen, or came out of a can. The fresh vegetables and some kind of fish smell delicious, but sit heavily in his stomach. He’d picked at them for a bit, but couldn’t stomach more than a few bites. The juice went down easier, atleast. 

 

It wasn’t as good as the food on Aether had been. Fresh berries, roasted meats on a stick…

 

The festival had only been a few weeks ago. Isn’t that so weird to think about? He turns the memory over and over in his head. The swishing of dresses, the music, the fluttering of feathers. Himself, smiling, laughing, happy, the warmth of Wilbur’s fingers over his, music in the air. 

 

He might as well have been a different person then, with how much has changed in the past two days. 

 

Aether feels a hundred years away, now. A distant memory, a pleasant dream. Looking back on his other adventures feels the same way, in hindsight. Like he’s just woken up from a really good dream, and is finally face to face with the awful reality that was waiting for him the whole time. 

 

He tries to hold on to it, still. Those good memories. The reason he’s doing this. 

 

He tries to imagine what Clem and Clara would say, if he were to tell them. Hell, what Phil and Techno would say. What Tubbo would say, or Wilbur. The looks on their faces if he told them exactly what he’s going to do, what he agreed too. 

 

Would they be horrified? Angry? Would they fight to try and save him? Be willing to take his place? The thought makes him feel sick

 

He never did get to tell them the truth about what he’d been through.

 

He’d wanted to, near the end. Just before the Council meeting. Had that really only been yesterday? It feels as far away as the memories of Aether do. Like everything else that happened before he showed up, far away and unimportant, a memory of a dream. 

 

Would it have even changed anything, if it did? Delayed the inevitable, maybe. Maybe they wouldn’t have brought him to the Council, but he would just find him, anyways. At least this way, no one gets hurt. 

 

Besides him

 

He shoves that thought away. 

 

“What’s with that face? You should be happy.”

 

“You’re sick . You know that?” 

 

He feels… peaceful. In a way. 

 

Okay well, maybe not peaceful. The thought of willingly getting back on that ship makes him want to curl up into a ball and scream until his vocal cords don’t work anymore, but still. He feels… almost steady. Resigned, is maybe a better word. Filled with an awful sort of acceptance, like a prisoner being led up to a guillotine. 

 

“I’m not the one who insisted on being so difficult.” 

 

He knows what he has to do. There are no other options. 

 

“Had you just stayed where you belonged , this never would have happened. Your actions have consequences, Tommy.” 

 

And the worst is? He was right. 

 

It’s his fault his friends are even here, after all. He asked them to bring him here, he put them in danger just by being around him. If he hadn’t gone with Technoblade that day, if he hadn’t been so dead set on going home- 

 

He’s never going to go home again. For some reason, that’s not as hard of a pill to swallow as he thought it would be. Not compared to everyone else. He’s never going home, which means he put everyone in danger, brought them here, to him, for absolutely nothing. 

 

His crew would be safe right now, if it weren’t for him. Clem and Clara would be safe. He can’t-

 

He can’t let them get hurt for something that’s his fault. No matter how much going back terrifies him.

 

Be brave, Tommy. Be brave. 

 

He survived Pandora once. He can do it again. 

 

Tommy blinks up at the air vent above his bed. The air vent blinks back.




…wait what?




“Look out!”

 

Tommy gets about three seconds to scramble over before the air vent cover swings inwards, and someone drops on the bed next to him with a whomfph! that knocks Tommy to the floor in a whirlwind of limbs.

 

Tommy, sprawled out flat on his ass on the floor, squints in disbelief. How- what- 

 

“Tubbo?”

 

Peering over the side of his bed, his best friend gives him a wave. “How’s it goin’?” 

 

“Wha- heh?!”

 

Tommy goes to sit up, thoughts racing. Tubbo? He’s here? He’s okay? The rush of pure relief is nearly strong enough to knock him over again. 

 

He’s here. Perfectly fine, sitting on his bed like he owned it, blinking at him with two-toned eyes. 

 

 “You’re here? How the fuck did you-“ 

 

“Air vents.” Tubbo says, shrugging as though that explains everything. Weirdly enough, it does. 

 

Of course, Tommy thinks, choking on a hysterical laugh that threatens to bubble out of his throat. Typical Tubbo . Tommy’s seen him scamper around inside the walls of the Argo II without a problem, and the vents back on their ship are a tight squeeze for even someone Tubbo’s size. Why would he expect anything less? 

 

Tubbo leans closer, narrowing his eyes as he looks Tommy over. He whistles. “Wow, you look like shit.”

 

Understatement of the fucking century

 

“Thanks.” He drawls. 

 

Tubbo offers a hand to pull him up, and he takes it, stumbling unsteadily to his feet. He gets about three seconds to find his bearings before Tubbo’s off again, poking at his fun new bracelets, fluttering around to get his grubby little hands on everything he can reach, in typical Tubbo fashion. 

 

He’s talking all the while, of course, a bit winded from his journey through the vents but still pelting him with enough questions to have Tommy’s head spinning. “What happened at the Council meeting? The cameras I hacked into didn’t have any audio. What did they say? Do we need to break you out?”

 

And oh, Tommy missed him. He missed him so badly it aches. 

 

It’s like a part of him had been missing, not having Tubbo at his side. He’s spent the past two days spinning in circles like a broken compass, and just having him around has him feeling steadier, the head of the needle finally pointing him the right way. 

 

Being alone for a day in a half might have made him go a little crazy. Just having a familiar face around, one he’s happy to see, unwinds the knot in his chest, just a little.  

 

He’s so wrapped up in that feeling that it takes him a bit longer than he’d like to process what Tubbo had actually said. 

 

“Wait a fucking-“ he sputters. “You hacked into-“ 

 

And Tubbo turns to him, then, away from where he’d been examining the camera in the corner of the room, and flashes him a smile . This big, manic grin , the same one he’d worn when they’d met, his eyes glinting in the way they do when he’s pulled off something especially clever and can’t wait to tell him all about it. 

 

Something with talons grabs his heart and squeezes. 

 

“It was Ranboo’s idea, really.” Tubbo starts, rocking on his heels. “This ship is full of cameras, right? They’re everywhere . And with how fast they pulled the footage from the Banquet, I figured they must all be connected to some kind of main server-“

 

It’s all too easy, he realizes, feeling the smile on his face melt away. Imagining what would happen if he got his hands on Tubbo. 

 

“I can always find a replacement—“

 

He’d never grin at anyone like that ever again, Tommy thinks. He knows , with a horrifying certainty, and just imagining it is enough to make his throat close up with panic. Never talk to anyone like this again, waving his hands excitedly in the air, chest puffed out with pride as he explains circuits and private servers and a hundred other things that go completely over Tommy’s head. He’d never run across buildings, clearing jumps like he’d been born with wings. He’d never build anything ever again, turning bits of scrap metal and borrowed parts into something incredible

 

All that energy, all that brilliance, everything that makes Tubbo, Tubbo. He’d steal all of it away. Cut it out with scalpels, dull it with injections. Lock him away in a cold, metal room until he’s calm and obedient, just another test subject for him to experiment with. 

 

“—Your actions have consequences, Tommy.” 

 

And it would be Tommy’s fault. 

 

“—had Ranboo distract one of the guards so I could steal his comn. From there, I could get access to the live feeds, and then find the Meeting Room—“

 

He didn’t have to be here . He’d been just fine on Bezzar, half a galaxy away. Happy, safe. He’d been the one to encourage Tubbo to come along, he’d been the one to bring him on board. 

 

“You sure have made a lot of new friends.”

 

“—something was wrong. A ship with this much surveillance shouldn’t have this many blind spots, right? So then I stopped looking for where you were , and started looking for the places you weren’t—“

 

In that moment, Tommy realizes two things.

 

One, that he cares about the boy standing in front of him so, so much. Hus crewmate, his fucking space family. 

 

His best friend. 

 

And two, that he is willing to do anything to keep him safe. To keep them safe. 

 

Even if it means hurting him in the process. 



“I’m going home.” 

 

Tubbo, cut off mid-rant, looks over at him in surprise. He blinks. “Huh?”

 

He sucks in a breath.

 

Here is the situation, as Tommy sees it. 

 

If he thinks that Tommy’s trying to escape, or somehow trying to get out of the deal they’ve made, then he won’t hesitate to hurt anyone he needs too. Tubbo, the rest of the crew, Clem and Clara. 

 

As long as Tubbo and the others are here, they’re in danger. 

 

“I’m going home.” He repeats, ripping his gaze away from Tubbo’s to stare down at his hands. He can’t do this while looking him in the eyes, he can’t. “That’s- that’s what the council decided. They're going to take me home.”

 

He hasn’t had much time to think over this plan, but if there’s one thing he’s learned in this time in space, it’s how to think on his feet. 

 

He doesn’t have to be looking at Tubbo’s face to hear the frown in his voice. “But what about the—“

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Tommy cuts him off again. “It’s not important.”

 

“…Right.” 

 

Please, just leave. He wants to say, wants to grab him by the collar and shake him until he understands, wants to fall to his knees and beg. 

 

Leave me here and forget you ever even knew me. Get Ranboo and the others and get the fuck away. If he knows you’re here, if he sees . If he thinks that I’m telling you something I shouldn't be…

 

Tommy can’t- won’t- let that happen. Not if there’s anything he can do about it.

 

Tubbo’s saved his life before. When they met, pulling him to the rooftops to get him away from Fundy, a smile on his lips as he pulled Tommy by the hand. “Do you trust me?” 

 

Of course he does. He always has. 

 

On Netheria. The taste of blood in his mouth, sweat on his skin, the howl of voices in his ears, all screaming for blood. A glimpse of a short kid with two-toned eyes in the crowd, a sharp nod he’d seen from hundreds of yards away. A signal. 

 

It’s over for him. It has been for a long time. Tubbo and the others- they can still get out of this okay. They can still be free. 

 

You’ve done so much for me. Let me be the one to save you, this time. Please. 

 

“Tommy.”

 

He meets his gaze, this time, jerking at the sound of his name. Big mistake. 

 

“What’s going on?” Tubbo asks, softer than before, eyebrows knitted together as he tilts his head. “What’s got you so freaked out, big man? You don’t look so good.” 

 

Tubbo’s always been able to read him like a book. 

 

There’s something in his face, in his eyes, something honest and genuine in a way that makes Tommy feel sick. 

 

He doesn’t deserve that. The concern, the sympathy. He never has. He’s been lying to Tubbo from the fucking beginning, keeping secrets, never telling him jack shit. Dragging him along, leading him to a fate worse than death. 

 

“Had you just stayed where you belonged , this never would have happened.”

 

“Nothings wrong.” He says, voice brittle. 

 

Tubbo doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t press. He never does. 

 

He never pushed Tommy for answers about anything, not about his scars, or his nightmares. He’s woken him and Ranboo both up with his screaming more than once, and they never pushed him for answers. All he had to say was that he didn’t want to talk and Tubbo left it alone, just like that. 

 

And that’s what’s going to get him killed, in the end. He swallows, ignoring the way the back of his throat burns. Being such a good friend to the wrong fucking person. 

 

“We can talk about it later.” Tubbo brushes it off, moving a little closer. “Look, I noticed something while I was looking for you, and I think-“

 

He’s not going to lose his best friend. Not like this. Not to him. 

 

“You need to leave.”

 

The words fall from his mouth like marbles, once again cutting Tubbo off mid-sentence. 

 

“I-“ he looks at him. “…huh?” 

 

“You can’t be here.” He tries to explain, fighting to keep his voice firm and steady. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone. You need to leave. Now.” 

 

He’ll kill you, if he finds you. Or worse. The words stick in his throat. I’m trying to protect you, you idiot, get out of here! 

 

“Look, I get that, but you need to-“

 

He turns, then, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice as he snaps, “Did you not hear me? I said go.”

 

Tommy hates fighting with Tubbo. It’s worse than arguing with anyone else on the crew. Fighting with Tubbo- really fighting with him, not just bickering- it feels like he’s ripping his own heart in two. 

 

There’s not any other way to do this. Tubbo needs to leave and not come back. Hurting his feelings is a lot better than getting him killed. 

 

It is his special talent, after all, isn’t it? Knowing exactly the wrong thing to say, to the exact wrong person.

 

“I heard you just fine .” Tubbo snaps right back, something like hurt flashing across his face. “This is important.”

 

“I’m going home.” Tommy says, again, like if he repeats it enough, it’ll miraculously come true. “Back to my family. I can’t have you here, fucking everything up—“

 

You know I don’t really mean it, I’m just trying to keep you safe-

 

Tubbo’s face hardens, and he starts to raise his voice, “I’m trying to help-“

 

“I didn’t ask for your help-“

 

It’s Tubbo that moves closer first, taking an aggressive step forward as his voice raises to nearly a shout. 

 

Would you just-“

 

The next thing Tommy knows, he’s put his hands on Tubbo’s chest and pushed him-

 

“Leave-“

 

“-fucking listen to me!” 

 

The force of the responding shove nearly knocks Tommy off his feet. 

 

Tubbo looks at him, the echoes of his shout still ringing off of the marble walls, hanging in the air between them. Tension falls over the room like a lead blanket. 

 

“Maybe I would .” Tommy says, ripping his gaze away. “If you ever had anything important to say.” 

 

There’s a little noise, a sharp intake of breath, and just like that, Tommy feels his heart shatter into a hundred million pieces. 

 

“I…”

 

The word hangs in the air, faint and wobbly, trailing off into a silence that makes the back of Tommy’s eyes burn. 

 

He doesn’t look at his face, he can’t. If he does, he’ll break down. If he does, he won’t be able to hold back all the apologies he’s forcing himself to swallow down. He’ll give in, and Tubbo will know something is wrong, and he’ll be in danger . He stares at something just over his shoulder, instead, trying to keep his voice from breaking. 

 

“I’m going home. To my real family.” Tommy says, as steadily as he can manage. “Whatever it is- I don’t want to hear it, okay? I don’t care. I’m not part of your crew anymore, so it’s not my problem.” 

 

Another pause. A sharp intake of breath. Tommy waits. 

 

Finally, Tubbo scoffs , jerking his head away from Tommy as he makes his way towards the nightstand, planting a foot on it. 

 

Tommy makes the mistake of catching his gaze for a second, there. Of seeing the hurt and the anger and the betrayal in those two-toned eyes that plunges a knife directly into his heart and twists. 

 

“You know what? Fine. If that’s how you really feel, then fine .” He bites, voice cold. “I don’t know why I even bothered. You know, I really—“

 

His voice catches. 

 

“But I guess I was wrong.” 

 

Tommy wrenches his gaze away, doing his best not to flinch at the venom in his voice. 

 

You did this. Something hisses in his ear, the voice just a touch too familiar. Even when you’re trying to save him, you end up hurting him. Some friend you are. 

 

“Tubbo-“

 

He catches himself just in time, swallowing. 

 

He’s not sure what he was going to say. Apologize? Make up something? He cuts himself off before he can. No. This is good . This is what he wanted to happen. Now, Tubbo will leave. He won’t have any reason to threaten him. He’ll be safe. 

 

“I don’t know why I even bothered.” He hears Tubbo mutter, using the nightstand as leverage to haul himself back up into the air vent he’d crawled out of earlier. “It’s not like you ever actually listen to me, anyways.”

 

Tommy feels his mouth go dry. 

 

“I’m glad you’re going home. With your real family.” Tubbo tosses over his shoulder, giving him one last sneer look before he pulls the cover back into place. “I hope it was worth it.”

 

And, with that, he’s gone. 

 

Tommy sits on the bed, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders. Tubbo’s gone. On his way to find the others, probably. Safe and sound, away from Tommy. From him. 

 

Tubbo took a part of his heart with him when he left, it feels like, leaving Tommy grasping with the gap it left behind. Snatched the solid ground out from under his feet again, leaving him adrift. 

 

He never realized how much he hates not having him around until he’s finally gone. 

 

He’s alone, like he wanted to be. 

 

So why does it still feel like he failed? 

 

“I’m sorry, big man.” he whispers.

 

It’s not your fault. He wants to say, to tell him, to shake him until he understands. You are the best fucking thing out here, okay? Brilliant and smart and incredible, and I should have been a better friend and—

 

You deserve to be friends with people that make you feel heard. 

 

“I just—“ his voice catches. “I didn’t mean it, okay? I promise I didn’t mean it.”

 

No one responds. 




-





“-respect that, Wilbur.”

 

The Piglin turns a page. The book in his hands, an old, wornout highschool textbook about Greek mythology, creaks in protest when he pushes the spine a little too far. 

 

Book pog. A voice whispers. He flicks his ear. A different voice responds. Shh, I’m trying to listen. Eavesdrop much? It’s not eavesdropping when they’re shouting, dumbass. Nerdnoblade. You shush! 

 

In the bedroom next to his, someone scoffs. 

 

The bedroom walls are not thin, in the rooms aboard the Council ship. They were are not, however, made with a Piglin’s enhanced hearing in mind. 

 

“— nothing about that sounds wrong to you? We haven’t seen him since before the meeting yesterday, and he seemed fine then. All of a sudden he doesn’t want to see us?”

 

A pause. Presently for the speaker to make a dramatic gesture. 

 

“He’s being mean to Tubbo ? Nothing about that sounds fishy ?”

 

Haha get it. Cause he’s a fish. He’s not a fish, moron. Don’t call me a moron. Who was mean to Tubbo? /Rainbowchat. Sounder? What’s wrong? Who’s shouting? 

 

The Piglin gives his head a mighty shake, and attempts to go back to reading. The voices quiet. For a few moments, anyways. 

 

“From what I’ve heard.” A second voice says. “It sounds like Tommy’s been given a hard choice. He might need some time to process that.”

 

Fuck yeah dadza! ShhHH—

 

“You saw the screens, the look on his face. He looked terrified. I’m telling you that something is wrong.”

 

“And I’m telling you,” the second voice says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “to leave it.”

 

Ooooo. Beltza. Wilbur’s gonna get the belt. Dadza is madddd—

 

There’s a pause, then. Eventually, the second voice sighs. “ We’ve all had a stressful few days. If he wants to be alone for right now, we shouldn’t push him. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to us tomorrow before he makes his final decision.”

 

“And what if he doesn’t.” 

 

What if he leaves without saying goodbye. Goes unsaid. The Piglin picks up on it, regardless. The voices whisper, worries, encouragement, nonsense, he shakes his head, and they do not clear. 

 

Runt? Where is baby. Ooo dadza is maddd. Beltza. Guys I’m late what happened. Is baby okay? Sounder. Where is the rest of it? Technosoft. Protectnoblade. Where is—

 

He sets his book aside, and sighs. 



-



A few hours later, just after the lights aboard the Council ship have dimmed for the evening, the same Piglin stands outside of a closed door.

 

The hand scanner to the side is glowing a low, angry red. Locked. It says. The Piglin goes to press a hand to it on instinct, before withdrawing.

 

He knocks, instead. 

 

“Tommy?” He says, voice gruff. “You in there?”

 

The Piglin waits for a response. There is none. 

 

“I know you… said you don’t want visitors.” he continues anyways, keeping his voice low. He keeps a steady hand on the bag slung over his shoulder, almost comically small for his size. “And it’s late, but I just… I thought we could talk for a minute. If you want to.” 

 

No response.

 

He shifts awkwardly from hood to hoof, but does not leave. 

 

Technoprotect. The voices whisper, insistent. Technosoft. Something is wrong. I don’t like this place. Danger. Help him. E. 

 

He knocks, again. “I brought your stuff. I’m sure you want a change of clothes, right?” 

 

No response. 

 

Help him. help him. help him. The voices continue. He flicks an ear, glaring at the metal door. He huffs.

 

Still undeterred, he doesn’t leave. He shifts in place, running a hand over the bag, fiddling with the straps. He doesn’t open it. 

 

There is a faint rustling from the other side of the door. The Piglin’s ear pricks, flicking in acknowledgment of the noise. He waits, eyeing the hand scanner, but it remains an ugly red.

 

He stays, regardless. 

 

“I know things are… hard, right now.” He starts, voice a low rasp in the empty hallway. “I know you just wanna to go home, and all this politics stuff…”

 

He trails off, shaking his head. “It gives me a headache, and I’m from this galaxy. I can’t imagine what it feels like for you.”

 

A pause.

 

“…It’s probably really scary.” He rumbles, then. 

 

 

No response. 

 

“I know what it’s like, to be separated from your family. To be alone.” He continues, pressing a hand against the door. “I get it. If you ever wanted too… you know, talk about that sort of thing, I’m always willin’ to listen.”

 

No response.

 

“You don’t have to be alone, is what I’m tryin’ to say.” He finishes, a bit clumsily, “All you have to do is say the word, kid.” 

 

Awww. Technosoft. Bedrock bros my beloved. Cute. Sounder! E! 

 

He listens eagerly this time. There’s a bit of rustling, but nothing else.

 

The Piglin sighs, deflating a little. He pulls away, knocking his knuckles against the door again, almost absentmindedly. 

 

“I’m not good at this.” He mutters, resting his forehead against the door for a second. “I… I’m worried. About you. Is what I’m tryin’ to say. We all are.” 

 

No response. 

 

“Wilbur especially.” 

 

  1. Aww. Drama queen. Crimeboys pog.

 

No response. He clears his throat. 

 

“Your uh, your little pet misses you, you know. Like, a lot.” He says, changing the subject. “We brought her to our room so she wouldn’t be alone on the ship, and she’s been tearin’ it apart looking for you.”

 

Classic move. Yesss shroud can lure him out. Why won’t he open the door :(. Aww poor Techno. Poor Shroud. Is Tommy okay? I’m worried. Danger. Danger! 

 

He waits…

 

No response.

 

He opens his mouth to say something else, but stiffens, instead, flicking an ear behind him. He turns just as the person behind him begins to speak, shoulders squared. 

 

“Do you have clearance to be on the level?” 

 

The Piglin frowns. 

 

A Merling, dressed in all the lavish fabrics and colors of Vionian aristocracy, slinks out of the dark, arms crossed behind his back. He wrinkles his nose at the Piglin like he’s just smelled something unpleasant. 

 

“I was just… visiting.” The Piglin grunts. 

 

The Merling raises a suspicious eyebrow. “It’s a bit late for visitors, isn’t it?” 

 

The Piglin narrows his eyes further, but says nothing. 

 

There’s a bit of an awkward pause, there, as the two stare each other down. The Merling is clearly waiting for a bow, or an official greeting of some kind, some respectful gesture from the Piglin to show that he recognizes the Merling’s rank. The Piglin, on the other hand, staring at the Merling without an ounce of recognition, is visibly weighing his options, trying to decide if he should run before the Merling calls the guards, or wait and hear him out. 

 

The result is an impromptu, one-sided staring contest that lasts for a few seconds too long until the Merling finally blinks, awkwardly clearing his throat. 

 

HA LOSER. Get owned dickface! EAT THE RICH! Blood! Blood for the blood god! Boris Johnson looking ass. RAHH FREEDOM. E! /Rainbowchat! Blood! 

 

Regardless ,” he says in a huff. “As far as I’m aware, the human has requested that he be left alone.”

 

“…Right.” The Piglin drawls, blinking as he’s pulled back in the conversation at hand. He flicks an ear. “I’ll just. Be going. Then.”

 

He slings the bag over his shoulder and starts to leave, then, but doesn’t get very far before the Merling stops him again with a hand on the bag over his shoulder. 

 

“You can leave his things with me, if you’d like.” He says expectantly. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

 

The Piglin’s eyes narrow.

 

He shifts, then. It’s a small thing, an adjustment of his posture, shifting his weight to lean a little bit into the Merling’s personal space, ears pinning back. Another Piglin would recognize it easily for what it was, not quite a full challenge , but something similar. Try that again, I dare you, the gesture says. 

 

“I think I’ve got it.” He drawls, curling his lip to flash his tusks a little more than strictly necessary. 

 

The Merling, who knows absolutely nothing about Piglin culture or body language, seems to still get the message loud and clear. 

 

He yanks his hand back as if the bag had burned him. “R-right. Of course.” 

 

The Piglin snorts, flicking an ear. He turns, then, and leaves without another word, or so much as a glance backwards, the bag held a little more protectively to his chest. The Merling’s hands don’t stop shaking until he turns the corner fully. 

 

“Brutes.” The Merling spits, but only once he’s sure the Piglin is too far away to hear. 



-



A human boy sits with this back against a metal door. He leans his head back against it, listening to the footsteps as they recede, and breathes .




-




Standing in front of the Council isn’t any easier the second time.

 

It feels more final, this time. Like a prisoner on death row, stepping up to the execution block one slow step at a time. The guards urge him forwards, out of his room, down the long hallway, through the double doors. 

 

“It’s probably really scary.” Techno’s voice rings in his ears. He didn’t even know the half of it. 

 

It had been so hard, not opening the door. So, so fucking hard. 

 

He should have told him off. Yelled at him the same way he did Tubbo. It was torture enough just to keep the door locked. He’d practically had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from talking back, or doing something even more stupid, like opening the door and throwing himself into his arms. 

 

He hasn’t seen the others. He swallows down the part of him that wants to panic, to claw his way through the crowds until they’re all together again, until he can burrow under Phil’s wings or wrap himself up in Wilbur’s hugs, and keeps moving

 

It’s all he can do to keep moving. To keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

 

This is what he wanted. This is better. 

 

Tommy can feel the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. He takes a deep breath in, holds it, and releases it again. Rinse and repeat until his hands stop shaking, until the flash of cameras and the murmur of the crowds becomes white noise. Head high, shoulders forwards, a soldier into battle. 

 

It’s okay. It’s okay. 

 

He pictures their faces, in his mind. His crew first, dragging up the memories from Aether and clinging to every detail . The sound of the music, the feeling of Wilbur’s arm around his shoulders. Techno’s voice, low and steady as he points out constellations. The sound of Ranboo and Tubbo laughing as they pull him into a clumsy dance. Phil’s wings, warm and gentle around his shoulders. 

 

Clem and Clara, next. Happy, warm, safe . Movie nights and popcorn, laughter and teasing. The gas station and Clementine’s living room, the smell of Clara’s truck and Clem’s perfume. 

 

Imagining what he would do to them, any of them, keeps him moving forwards. Keeps him from stumbling, hesitating, falling back into the static that tugs and tugs in the back of his mind as the guard leads him into the room. Gives him a goal to match towards. Keeps him focused. 

 

He is stronger than he was, back then. He can do this. 

 

The Council is standing, when he approaches. All of them. Brusieus, proud and strong, Callahan, dipping his head into a respectful nod. The Governor of Viona, his nose in the air, squinty eyes following his every move. Jared, with all four arms folded behind his back. God, does Tommy miss when that guy was his biggest problem. He’d give anything to go back to that, now. 

 

Drista, giving him a nod. Quackity, shooting him a tight grin and a wave. Even the Empress, looking regal as ever, watching him with those sharp violet eyes, and Ex-Deeh stood at the head of the table, with- with—

 

Tommy doesn’t look at who stands to Ex-Deeh’s right, keeping his gaze perfectly straight even as breath catches in his throat. 

 

They’re all silent. Even the attendants and the advisors, black shadows that hover around their representatives, don’t make a single noise. Every single pair of eyes is looking at him, and only him, and the feeling makes his skin crawl. He tries not to bend under the weight of their gazes, to keep his chin up, but fuck, it’s hard not to cower a little with this many people staring right at him. 

 

He takes another slow, rattling breath. 

 

Showtime, baby. 

 

“Tommy, of Earth.” Ex-Deeh announces, bending slightly to look at him. “I trust you have made a decision?” 

 

The entire room holds its breath. 

 

“I have.”

 

Tommy feels his gaze, then, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck. 

 

“I want…” he starts, pausing to swallow the lump in his throat. “I w-want to go home. Please.” 

 

A ripple passes throughout the room. Movement, shifting, a tidal wave of whispers. 

 

Somewhere to his right, someone jolts. 

 

It’s a small thing. No one else seems to have picked up on it, the way Quackity stiffens all of a sudden, and shifts slightly to lean forwards, suddenly a lot more interested then he was before. Tommy barely gets a second to focus on it before Ex-Deeh speaks again, snatching all his attention as he nods regally. 

 

“Ar rangements have already been made.” He says, gesturing vaguely to his right in a way that makes Tommy’s stomach swoop. We can have you prepped for surgery as soon as you’re ready.”

 

The eyes boring into his skull burn. 

 

“I'm ready now.” He blurts out. “For the surgery, I mean.” 

 

Tommy gets the feeling he’s raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

Just breathe, Tommy, breathe—

 

“Don’t you want to say goodbye to everyone first?”

 

Once again, Tommy finds himself locking eyes with Quackity. 

 

There’s something about the way he’s looking at him that feels off. 

 

Tommy’s only really met the guy once or twice, but he remembers him pretty well. The way he holds himself, easygoing, confident, only ever breaking character to scream at Wilbur. 

 

The look on his face now is… not that. Something in his face, in his eyes, it gets under his skin. Something is wrong with this picture, even if he can’t put a finger on it. 

 

In fact, he almost looks… worried? 

 

“I want to go home.” Tommy hears himself say, the well-rehearsed words falling easily from his lips. “Back to my real family. As soon as I can. Please.” 

 

“Very well.” 

 

Tommy wrenches his gaze away from Quackity. Whatever he saw- or thought he saw, anyways, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. 

 

“We can have your surgery set for this afternoon.”

 

He swears he can hear it, just then. The swish of the guillotine blade as it comes down, down, down. 





-




“I didn’t know you still smoke.”

 

The Avian breathes out, leaning with his arms braced over the ledge of the balcony. The lights of the marketplace below catch on his dress, the red fabric glittering in the dim light. Smoke trails up from his lips, curling around his face. 

 

He doesn’t even glance behind him, taking another drag. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Wilbur.”

 

The Phantling huffs. He steps out onto the balcony, the door sliding shut behind him. He leans with his back against the railing by the Avian’s side, head tilted back towards the sky. Neither of them look at each other. 

 

Below them, the market square is mostly empty. 

 

It’s late. Late enough that all of the lights of the Council Ship have been dimmed, most of the screens shut off for the night. It’s dark without them, everything washed in shades of blue and violet, giving the illusion of nighttime even in the middle of space. 

 

The Avian takes another hit. The smoke that curls out between them isn’t the airy, sweet-smelling kind that most people prefer. It’s thick, dark. The kind of smoke you choke on, leaving a smell that lingers in your hair and your lungs long after it’s gone. An old brand, outlawed on most planets and disliked even on the ones where it’s legal.

 

It’s a Vionian brand. They’re the only ones with lungs strong enough to stand the taste. 

 

“We need to talk.” 

 

The Avian hums. He holds out the little metal device between his fingers like an olive branch. “You want a drag?”

 

The Phantling gives him a look. “Nice try.” 

 

“Aw, c’mon.” The Avian chuckles darkly, “Do I look poisoned to you?”

 

“You look drunk.”

 

“Tipsy.” The Avian corrects with a sly smile. “And that’s a stretch, really.” 

 

The Phantling gives him a flat stare in response. The Avian just laughs again, wiggling his hand in the air as if to try and make it more enticing. 

 

“I’m not gonna try and kill you tonight.” He drawls. “So take it. Judging by the look on your face, you could probably use it.” 

 

The frown on the Phantling’s face deepens into a scowl, gaze flicking between the Avian and the smoke. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, shaking his head. In lieu of words, he grabs the little metal device from the Avian’s fingers and presses it to his lips, inhaling deeply. 

 

He lasts longer than most, but he still has to cough when he pulls away, face screwing up at the taste. 

 

“I’ll never understand how we used to smoke that shit.” He chokes out, waving a hand to disperse the smoke. “Gods above, that’s awful.” 

 

“That’s what happens when you leave Viona.” The Avian says back, something like a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not used to breathing in all that smog anymore, huh?” 

 

“I guess not.”

 

It’s quiet, for a beat. Neither of them are looking at the other, eyes pointed either down at the glittering lights below or up at the stars, the stench of smoke and expensive champagne hanging in the air between them. 

 

Then, the Phantling sighs, passing it back.  

 

“How long has it been, since we did this?” He says. 

 

“Did what?”

 

The Phantling leans back, still not looking his way. “Talked without trying to kill each other.”

 

The Avian’s face twists as he frowns, pulling on the scar tissue that cuts from his lip through his eyebrow, missing his eye by a hairs-width. A pause. 

 

“Since you ditched us on Viona, probably.” He responds, voice dry in a way that makes the Phantling flinch.

 

“Look, Quackity…”

 

“If that’s what you wanted to talk about.” The Avian cuts him off, voice suddenly cold. “It’s not fucking happening. So don’t bother.” 

 

“Alright.” He relents. “Okay.”

 

Another long stretch of silence. 

 

“Well?” The Avian asks after a minute, giving him a look and a grin a little too tight to be genuine. “I don’t have all night, Wilbur. What did you want to talk about so badly?”

 

The Phantling sucks in a breath. 

 

“It’s about Tommy.”

 

For a second, just a second , something like disappointment flashes across the Avian’s face, gone just as quickly as it appeared. In its place, a Cheshire Cat grin. 

 

“Right.” He breathes out, leaning close enough for the Phantling to smell the champagne on his breath as he drawls. “Your pet project.”

 

“He’s not my-“

 

The Avian actually cackles, this time, at the outraged look on his face, pulling away. 

 

Easy.” He says, grinning all the while. “I was just teasing. I know what you meant.”

 

The Phantling’s jaw tightens, a low growl starting to build in the back of his throat before he cuts it off. The Avian waits, watching him with eyes that don’t quite match the easy smile on his face, his sharp gaze pinning the Phantling in place like a cat with a mouse in between his paws. 

 

“Well?” he repeats.

 

Eventually, the Phantling manages to spit out what he was going to say, though it takes him a second to work up the nerve. 

 

“You were there. At the meeting.” He says, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “How did he- is he okay?”

 

The Avian gives him a sideways look. “Can’t you ask him that?”

 

“He says-” a pause, a sharp huff. “That he doesn't want visitors.”

 

The Avian leans back, studying him. “Hmm.”

 

“Look- I just…” 

 

Another pause. The Phantling cuts himself off, closing eyes for a beat to collect himself before continuing in a firmer voice, meeting his gaze head-on. “You saw him in the meeting, right? I just need to know that he’s okay. That’s all.”

 

There is something almost vulnerable in his eyes, then. In his posture, in the tightness of his jaw and the hands clenched by his side, in the messiness of his hair and the bags under his eyes. Worry he can’t quite hide under indifference. Not from the person standing across from him, anyways.

 

The Avian looks him over, taking note of all of these individual things and not having to try very hard at all to connect all the pieces. The Phanting, growing increasingly more annoyed the longer the silence drags on, eventually snaps.

 

Just like that, all of his walls slam back up. 

 

“This was stupid.” he says, more to himself than the Avian. He drags a hand down his face, shakes his head, and turns. “Bye, Quackity.”

 

He doesn’t make it more than a step before a hand settles on his arm. 

 

“Wilbur, wait.”

 

The Phantling stops.

 

The Avian pauses for a moment, then, several different expressions fluttering across his face in quick succession as he opens his mouth to speak. Disappointment, worry, something almost like fear, before he manages to slap a lid on his emotions again. He shuts his mouth. 

 

The familiar teasing grin he pulls next doesn't quite meet his eyes. It never does. 

 

“You must be pretty desperate for answers if you’re coming to me.” is what he says. 

 

The Phantling, who almost looked like he was willing to listen there for a second, yanks his arm away with a scoff. The Avian is quick to continue before he can get very far, though, grabbing him by the wrist, this time, grip tightening into a vice. 

 

“I’m not the only person on the Council.” He says, raising an eyebrow. “He and that Piglin from Netheria seemed pretty cozy, if you’re so concerned, why not go to her?”

 

The Phantling levels him with a glare. He doesn't say anything, though, and that’s all the answer the Avian needs. 

 

“You’re certainly on better terms with her.”

 

His jaw tightens. 

 

“Which got me thinking as to why you , of all people, would come to me for an honest answer.” 

 

The Phantling says nothing, eyes narrowing. 

 

“At first I thought it was-” He stumbles a little, then, the smile on his face slipping for a fraction of a second, but is quick to correct himself, “but no. I think I finally figured it out.” 

 

He leans in close, and goes in for the kill. “It’s because you don’t want the truth, do you?”

 

The Phantling finally yanks his wrist away, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat as his ears pin back, but the Avian is on a roll now, only moving closer. A predator finally sinking in its teeth, grinning broadly enough to show off his fangs. 

 

“You want me to tell you that the kid looked fine, happy . That he’s absolutely thrilled about going home, and can’t wait to forget that you ever existed. That you're delusional for ever even caring about him in the first place.” 

 

He’s close, now, face only a few inches away. Soaking in the wide-eyed expression the Phantling is giving him in response, shoulders hiked up to his ears.

 

“And you knew I’d do it, too.” he says, hisses, really, voice almost a whisper. “Because there’s nothing I love more than making you feel miserable about yourself.”

 

The Phantling, frozen in place, says nothing. 

 

“Is that it?” The Avian slowly blinks up at him, a mocking lilt to his voice. “Did I get it right?”

 

The Phantling, still frozen, continues to say nothing. 

 

“What? Surprised? That I wouldn’t use that kid to hurt you? he curls his lip. That I'm not the monster you think I am? That I… wouldn’t…”

 

It's at this point that the Avian starts to realize that his words aren’t quite having the desired effect. 

 

He watches and waits for it, still. Watches the Phantling’s stunned expression as he no doubt starts to think his words over. Waiting for the realization, the outrage . The shock and shame and the shouting match likely to follow. 

 

He has a whole plan, see. All written out in the smug satisfaction on his face and in his cat-with-the-canary grin, in the way he’d watched the kids pale face at the meeting just hours prior, noticing the glaze to his eyes, the tremble of his hands, the abject terror that appeared on his face for just a moment before he was able to school it back into indifference. In the way he’d cursed himself for the rest of the night, nursing a bottle of champagne as he re-read the messages he’d received earlier on his comn, for not saying something. 

 

It was not, perhaps, his best plan. Seeing how he came up with it the moment the message from the Phantling in front of him appeared on his comn, fueled by his own feelings of helplessness and guilt and helped by the champagne. But one he’s rather attached too, regardless. 

 

I am better than you. Goes unsaid. See how much better I am than you? I noticed something was wrong. I’ve actually done shit about it. And what have you done, besides sit and feel sorry for yourself? Try and goad me into hurting your feelings so you can feel better about abandoning the kid back on Earth later? Pathetic. 

 

(see how wrong you are for leaving me? Also goes unsaid. See how much of a bad person you are, so willing to abandon the people you care about just to make yourself feel better. See how much better I am without you? Don’t you feel bad? Don’t you feel guilty?)

 

What he gets in return, however, is a few seconds too long of completely dumbfounded silence. 

 

“Hello…?” he tries, after a moment, breaking character to frown. “Uh. Wilbur? You… good?”

 

Finally, the Phantling unfreezes.

 

“I was right.” he breathes. “The whole time i was,  I was- I was fucking right—“

 

But not to shout at him, or get in his face, or end the conversation in the way conversations between them normally end, with insults and accusations and the occasional murder attempt, but to run his hands through his hair as he breaks out into boarding-on-hysterical laughter. 

 

“I fucking- I knew Phil was wrong! I knew it! I gotta— I have to—”

 

“Uh—” the Avian tries, scowling, “I’m still here—”

 

The Phantling, as if just realizing that for himself, whirls on him, eyes wide. Then, in a motion so quick that the Avian barely has time to even realize what’s happening, grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him into a chaste kiss.

 

“Thank you.” he says, softly. Earnestly . “Now I’ve gotta go save my brother.”

 

Before the Avian even gets the chance to respond, he’s turning on his heel, nearly tripping over his own feet in his hurry to get back through the balcony door, and disappearing on the other side. 

 

Stunned, the Avian puts a hand to his mouth. 

 

By the look on his face, he seems to realize just how badly he misjudged the situation. 














Notes:

everytime i write tntduo they end up wanting to kiss each other. This time it wasn't completely my fault however, Mars asked for a kiss for the finale and I was too weak to say no.

This chapter fought me for the LONGEST TIME. I am so happy it's done. One more chapter and an epilogue left until it's over, how we feelin? The next chapter is turning out to be an absolute BEAST already. I am going to try my hardest to finish it before the end of October, but expect it early November at the latest. Hope you have a fantastic spooky season!

 

(PSSSST if you like spooky stuff, you should check out my new fic Graveyard of Eden! being mostly prewritten, it updates weekly.)

stay safe out there, alright? I'll see you again in a few weeks.

 

-Matches

Chapter 23: Goodnight, Travel Well (I)

Summary:

Hope you guys have your seatbelts fastened, cause we're in for a rough landing

Notes:

"Everytime you fall,
and every time you try,
every foolish dream,
and every compromise.
Every word you spoke,
and everything you said,
everything you left me,
rambles in my head."
--Goodnight, Travel Well, the Killers

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR! Looks like we get one more year of FHTN after all, ha

 

This arc keeps getting longer and longer, I've given up on trying to restrain it. For the sake of my sanity I've split it again, the next chapter picks up immediately where we leave off with this one, and then there’s an epilogue after that. Thank you so much Mars for helping me edit this one, this fic wouldn't be the same without you <3

 

This chapter is also a bit heavier content-wise, make sure to read TWs thoroughly, and I hope you enjoy the finale!

 


tumblr // twitter // playlist

 



TWs: (SPOILERS)
BIG WARNINGS for medical abuse/torture, needles, hospitals, medical trauma, disassociation, minor suicidal thoughts, blood and injury, references to human (and inhuman) trafficking, and dehumanization.


(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

 

Click! 



“Niki.” The Phantling breathes into the comn, at the same time the stunned voice on the other side goes, “Wilbur?” 

 

The Phantling lets out a loud sigh, bracing one hand on the wall and the other cupping the comn to his ear as he stops walking and visibly slumps with relief. “Oh thank the gods. Phil and Techno weren’t picking up, and it’s important I’m so glad I—“

 

“—got a hold of you.” The voice on the other line says, simultaneously, sounding just as relieved and twice as serious. “Look, I know it’s the middle of the night, but there’s—“

 

“—something really important I have to—“

 

“Tell you.” They finish, once again in sync.

 

There’s a pause, then, as they both presumably take a break to catch their breath, and stare dumbly at their comns. 

 

“…What did you say?” The Phantling breaks the silence, blinking stupidly as his brain tries to catch up with his mouth. 

 

The voice on the other end takes a sharp breath. “It’s— you go first.”

 

“I- okay.” he starts. Stops. Then starts again, swallowing hard. 

 

“Something’s wrong with Tommy.” He manages, eventually, hands unconsciously flexing and unflexing, claws that want to do something, to rip into someone, finding only empty air. He’s making a little noise in the back of his throat without even realizing, a sort of anxious rattling sound that morphs into a frustrated growl. 

 

“Really wrong. I don’t… I don’t know for sure but I think… whatever it is, Niki, it’s bad. Really bad. And I…”

 

He trails off, seemingly expecting the other voice to chip in, and floundering when his words are met by nothing but silence. 

 

“…Niki?” He asks, hesitantly. “Are you…? Still there?” 

 

“I should have gone first.” The voice whispers, a hissing sigh crackling along the line. “ Fuck, I should have gone first.” 

 

“…huh?” 

 

A sharp intake of breath, a strangled almost-laugh and a voice just a touch too strained. “Well, I have good news and I have bad news..?”

 

“Um.” Caught off guard, the Phantling tilts his head at the comns. “What?” 

 

“The good news is, I think I know what’s wrong with Tommy.” 

 

All at once, the Phantling’s entire demeanor shifts. Like a switch has been flipped, gaze sharpening, expression shifting into something darker, something dangerous. 

 

“What.”

 

“The bad news is.” The voice continues, giving a staticky sigh. “However bad you think it is, it’s probably worse.”  

 

“You- what? How?” 

 

His hold on the comns tightens, claws almost scratching into the metal. “Niki, explain—“

 

“We should do this in person.” She cuts him off. “It’s… a lot to explain.”

 

The comn in his hands gives a soft little ping! As a message goes through. He scrolls to it quickly, a room number. 

 

“Bring your friends. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

 

“Niki?” Another voice, in the background of the call. The Phantling stiffens. “I was- oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were—“

 

It's a bit difficult to make out, between the faint distortion of the call and the distance. Whatever the voice says in response is too distant and muffled to make out entirely, receiving an even more faint response. The words aren’t what is important, though. What makes the Phantling go perfectly, deadly still. 

 

“Niki.” The Phantling says. “Was that fucking Eret?”

 

The voice just sighs. 

 

“I’ll explain everything when you get here, okay?”

 

Before he can even respond, there’s a sharp click! And the call cuts out. 




-




Tommy can’t read the stupid clock in the corner of the room, but he doesn’t need to to know that it’s way too fucking early for this shit. 

 

The lights in the room are still dimmed, leaving him groping around blindly in the dark, blinking to clear the spots from his eyes. Whoever’s at the door knocks again. Louder, this time. Impatient. Ugh. 

 

For a moment, Tommy lays back and lets himself hope. It’s Tubbo, who realized something was wrong ages ago, and is here with some brilliant plan to bust him out. It’s Phil, Techno by his side, still wiping the last flecks of blood off of his knuckles as he calls for him, tells him that ‘ everything is okay now mate, we got him. You’re safe.’ It’s Wilbur, resting a hand against the door, ‘just wanted to say one last goodbye. Are you sure everything’s okay? You know you can talk to me about anything, toms.’ 

 

He sucks in a breath, holding it for a second. Waiting for… something. A familiar voice. 

 

Another round of impatient knocks, bam bam bam. 

 

He lets out a sigh and shoves off the blankets. So much for a good night's sleep. 

 

Sliding out from the warmth of the blankets and out of the bed is a struggle. The ugly grey shirt and sweatpants they’d given him don’t do much to keep him warm, whisper-soft against his skin but still leaving him shivering. The boots were his, atleast, protecting his feet from the metal floor. The room is small enough for him to cross to the door in less than two strides, fumbling for the hand sensor to open it. 

 

The guard on the other side isn’t familiar. Not that he’d even recognize them if they were, with the visor covering half their face. Only the lower half of their jaw and their ears are visible, pinned back impatiently. Neither is the other alien standing by their side. 

 

They’re- he’s? wearing a lab coat, which immediately puts him on edge, holding some kind of tablet-screen in his clawed hands. He can’t make out much of his face behind the large, round glasses, but what little he can see is tinged a sickly sort of grey. There’s little mushrooms poking through his… hair? 

 

“Hello.” He says, sounding bored out of his mind. “Good morning, Tommy.” 

 

A voice that he… recognizes? 

 

 —He doesn’t like the way the Governor of Viona, Boris , is looking at him. Like he’s just bitten into a lemon, or something, his veiled advisor whispering in his ear. He can’t make out their face, only dark hair and tall frame, but something about them looks familiar—

 

He remembers this guy, from the trial. He looks different in the labcoat, the fancy clothes swapped for a labcoat, the veil for a fancy pair of goggles, bit shorter now without the heels. The Governor of Viona’s advisor. 

 

The realization settles over him like cool water, dripping over his shoulders and sending a shiver up his spine. His stomach turns uneasily as he feels the weight of his eyes settle on him, hidden by the goggles. This guy gives him the fucking creeps . What had his name been again? John? Greg? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Anyone that works for that dickhead is bad news, as far as he’s concerned. 

 

Tommy scowls, resisting the urge to shut the door in their faces. “…what do you want?”

 

“I just need to do a quick checkup before we send you on your way.” He continues already turning around. “This way.”

 

And what the fuck is he supposed to do? 

 

He hesitates, but, in the end, it’s not like he has any other choice. He doesn’t have to see the guard’s face to know that they’re eyeing him hard, hand drifting towards their belt. They’d just force him, if he doesn’t go willingly. And if that gets back to him… 

 

Greg leads the way, and Tommy and his chaperone follow.

 

These hallways seem so claustrophobic, compared to the rest of the Council Ship. Tommy vaguely remembers seeing them on the map, living quarters reserved for staff, or those who live and work the Council Ship. Down in the deep belly of the ship, far below where normal guests are allowed. It’s pretty clear that the designers of the ship decided that it wasn’t worth adding all the fancy details to parts of the ship guests would probably never see. No fancy lights, big marble columns or giant windows down here. 

 

The walls and ceilings almost seem to buckle under the weight of the rest of the ship above, pressing in around him. Dark enough to make it hard to see what’s around the next corner, when the already-dim lights have been turned down even further. It reminds him of the tunnels Phil had shown him earlier, creepy enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

 

It’s so quiet. The noise of their footsteps echoing off of the walls. No one else is walking these hallways this… late? Early? 

 

Nowhere to run. No one around to call out too for help. Just the weird guy in the labcoat, and the guard on his heels. Lovely. 

 

“…where are we going?” Tommy finally asks lab coat guy (Gregory? Jordan? What was his name?) when the silence gets to be just too much.

 

“Medical wing.”

 

“…right.” For his ‘checkup.’

 

Surely they have to know this is all fake , right? He’s not going to get the stupid surgery, not after he went through all that effort to give him the damn implant in the first place. Are they working for him, too? Or do they really just… not know? 

 

The thought makes him pause, boots scraping against the floor as he mulls it over. 

 

“…What happens after that?” 

 

“Make sure you’re good to travel. Send you to Viona.” Lab coat guy glances back, then, at the guard. “You’ll undergo surgery there.”

 

Wait, wait, wait. Viona?

 

“Viona is weeks away from here!” Tommy stares at him, feeling his chest go tight. 

 

How long did it take for them to get here from Viona in the Argo? Weeks? Months? It’s hard to say, with how often they stopped between there in here, but somewhere around there. 

 

The Pandora is a lot faster than the Argo II. 

 

No one will even know. His mind is racing, whirling as the pieces click together. They know Dream, they trust him. No one would think twice if he goes off the radar for a little bit. Fake some interference here and there, get stuck in an asteroid field or two, how long will it take them to even realize he’s missing? That he’s not taking him to Viona? Weeks? Months? 

 

In the Pandora , he could have him halfway across the galaxy by then. 

 

By the time anyone even realizes he’s dropped off the radar, it’ll be too late. 

 

“Enough questions.” Growls the guard at his shoulder. “We’re going to be late if you two don’t hurry up—“

 

Lab coat guy waves a lazy hand. “We’re almost to the medbay, it’s fine.”

 

Tommy, swallowing the lump in his throat, picks up the pace a little, falling into stride with the other too. If they notice how gray his face has gone all of a sudden, neither of them say anything. 

 

They keep moving forwards. 

 

Tommy hadn’t even noticed the hallways around them changing. Ceilings getting taller, walls opening up around them, getting lighter even though the lights have brightened a bit, the air getting easier to breathe. A gradual shift from the dark underbelly of the ship to hallways guests might actually use, going too and from the medbay. 

 

They even pass a few windows. Giant, yawning things, gaps in the walls for space and starlight to look through. The main square of the ship below them, shrouded in shadows, a black sky cut through with silver pin-pricks and thumb-sized spaceships hovering in the Council Ship’s airspace. 

 

Tommy’s feet stall by another one of those windows as they pass, ignoring the irritated grumbling of the guard behind him. 

 

Looking out the window, at the rest of the Council ship below, at the endless expense of void and stars beyond, it’s a little easier to breathe. Makes him feel a little less claustrophobic, a little less like a lemming being led to the ledge of a cliff. 

 

He’s… he’s not going to Viona. That he knows. The moment he steps on board of whatever ship they’re going to use to take him away from here, it’s the end. They’ll ship him over to the Pandora , if that’s not the ship they bring him to in the first place, and it’ll be over. He’ll be right back where he started. A bit older, an inch or two taller, with a few more scars and a touch more muscle but just as stupid as ever. 

 

It really is beautiful out there, space. He can’t believe he spent all that time looking out over it, just wishing he was back home again, taking it for granted. 

 

“C’mon, kid.” The guard says gruffly, “No need to be nervous. You’re going home, ain’tcha?”

 

Home? 

 

The guard pushes gently at his shoulder, urging him forwards. He turns away from the window, robotically starting to walk again, leaving it behind. 

 

He’s spent so long , chasing after that. Home. 

 

Something to aim for. Something to keep him grounded, to focus on, to keep him moving forwards. An idea, a goddamn pipe dream, some alternate reality where everything works out in the end, and Clem and Clara take him back with open arms. A place where everything starts making sense again. 

 

It’s fuckimg dumb, is what it was. Really, did he actually think he’d ever fucking go home? Sure did him a lot of good, in the end. Clinging to that dream, ignoring all the goddamn warning signs. Letting it blind him to what was actually happening. Trusting his crew when they promised they’d bring him home, but not enough to tell them how he got so lost in the first place. 

 

He hopes that Clem and Clara stopped looking for him, after all. 

 

Just keep going, Tommy. One foot after the other. He repeats it in his head like a mantra, over and over. You’re doing this for a reason, remember? 

 

Maybe if he pretends it’s home he’s walking towards, and not certain death, he won’t stop when he reaches the ledge.




-




The Council ship is one of, if not the, largest ships in the entire Esempi Galaxy. It is one of the most powerful spaceships ever created, a paragon of scientific ingenuity, one of the most impressive works of technology ever devised. 

 

It is also incredibly, incredibly, old.

 

No matter how many additions and renovations they might add, no amount of new layers of paint can hide the fact that the Council ship is few over a few centuries old at this point. Old enough that most of the original designers and technicians have been dead for a long, long, long , time, with only a handful of exceptions. 

 

With all the updates and new wings that have been added over the years, passageways added or closed off, it’s no surprise that certain things get… overlooked. Old passageways and corridors that weren’t mapped out correctly. Certain rooms that had been blocked off at one time or another, only to be completely forgotten about in a decade or two. 

 

Air vents that haven’t been updated in a few decades. 

 

The Council Ship is one of the most technologically advanced ships in the galaxy, after all. Why would they need to secure their air vents properly? Why bother fixing them at all? The Council ship is so secure, so safe, i t’s not like anyone with any nefarious ideas about exploiting them could even get close enough to try. 

 

All that is to say- the Bezzarian currently scampering through the walls is having the time of his life.

 

Or, he would, under normal circumstances. 

 

As it is, he’s found a fantastic spot to curl up into a ball and mope for a few hours where no one can find him. 

 

“—responsible for kidnapping all these other people?”

 

And if it just so happened to be overhead of a certain red-finned Merling’s room, then that’s no fault of his. 

 

He leans back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest as he stares stubbornly at the wall in front of him. His hands twitch, itching to do something . He keeps them busy fiddling with the zipper on the jacket. 

 

“Yes. At least partially, if not directly.”

 

He can see them, sort of. If he turns his head, looking down at the tops of their heads through the grate. It’s not the best view, distorted through the metal grate, but he can make out their shapes, all cluttered around the little table. Can see all the papers and holo-screens piled on top. 

 

It’s an odd assortment, that’s for sure. Nine different aliens, all sitting around one big, oval table. Three distinct groups, sitting in clumps, each eyeing the other. The tension in the room is so thick you could cut it with a knife. In short succession, they’ve turned the nice-sized hotel room into a war council. 

 

At the head of the table is a Merling with red fins, their eyes covered by a veil, mouth pursed into a flat line. To their left, a Merling with pink fins, her hands neatly folded in her lap, the blaster on her hip coincidently easily within reach. To his right, a disgruntled looking Blazeborn with a pissed off expression.

 

Sitting across from them is an odd pair. An Avian with golden wings, currently nursing what looks to be one hell of a hangover, and a teenager of an undetermined species in a purple hoodie, looking bored out of his mind.

 

Currently playing mediator between the two are the last three. An Elytran, sitting with his back straight and smile fixed in place. A Piglin, standing over his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. And, finally, a disgruntled looking Phantling, who looks about three seconds from springing across the table to sink his teeth in the Avian’s throat.

 

“Do you know how many people go missing across one planet every year? Much less the whole galaxy?” The red-finned Merling’s voice is low, echoing strangely off of the metal walls of the air vent. 

 

“Every planet has a different government, and every government handles their search efforts separately, for the most part. If I hadn’t noticed the pattern…”

 

It’s not likely anyone would have, goes unsaid. Judging by the way the expressions of everyone at the table shift, they understand regardless. The Bezzarian pulls a face. 

 

“It makes sense.” The pink-haired Merling says, soft voice barely reaching the Bezzarian in the ceiling. “Viona’s largest export these days is medical technology. If anyone were to be behind illegal experiments, it would be Boris.” 

 

“But without solid evidence, there’s no way to prove it.” 

 

“The advisors would never listen to us. We already tried.” She sighs. “Besides, Even if we could get into contact with Ex-Deeh directly, he’d never just take us at our word.”

 

“You tried to reach out to Ex-Deeh? Directly?” The teenager raises an eyebrow, almost looking impressed. “How the fuck did you manage that one?” 

 

The Blazeborn narrows his eyes. “Who the hell are you, again?”

 

“Nunya.”

 

“Nun… ya?”

 

“Nunya business.” 

 

The Blazeborn growls, shooting off sparks. The red-finned Merling puts a hand on his shoulder, giving him a look. The teenager just looks on, entirely unfazed. 

 

The Avian at his side just shakes his head, rubbing his temples. 

 

“He’s the only one of my advisors not stupid enough to fuck this up. Can we please move on?” 

 

From the vents, none of them can see the way the Bezzarian rolls his eyes, huffing. He goes back to sulking, rolling over to glare at the wall. His hands flex, tightening into fists, before releasing again. 

 

Well, almost none of them. The Bezzarian doesn’t notice the way the teenager’s sharp violet gaze flicks up at the noise. 

 

“—hell of a risk to take.” The Avian is saying. “You don’t know who else is involved. The last thing we want to do now is spook them into hiding.”

 

“I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas.” The Phantling growls.

 

“Quackity’s right.” The red-finned Merling is quick to intervene. “ We know the Vionian advisor is involved, we don’t know if anyone else is as well. We can’t trust anyone right now.”

 

“So what do we have?”

 

“Records, mostly. The potions they’ve bought and when, combined with the missing persons reports, missing camera feeds—“

 

“And there’s more.” The Merling adds, shifting in place. “They buy anonymously of course, but occasionally they leave a sign off with their message. A smiley face.”

 

Another pause. 

 

“…and that’s not creepy at all.” The Avian mutters. 

 

“Tommy recognized that symbol. Back on Viona.” They continue.

 

The Piglin shifts at the words, ears flicking back. “So that’s what that meant. Hmm.”

 

“I thought he was safe.” They try to defend. “But…”

 

The words hang feebly in the air, left to trail off into silence. 

 

It’s the pink-haired Merling that breaks it, this time, clearing her throat. “The surgery to remove his implant is scheduled for later today. If they use one of Ex-Deeh’s ships, he’ll be on Viona in just a few hours.”

 

“He’ll be taken to a private clinic, most likely.” The red-finned Merling adds on, expression dark . “Incredibly secure. Hard to find, harder to break into. Whoever’s been paying off the Vionian advisor slips him a few hundred creds…”

 

“—And he’s gone.”

 

Silence settles uneasily around the table. The Bezzarian realizes that he’s gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw is aching, and forces himself to stop. 

 

“He, and whoever's responsible.” 

 

“Tommy isn’t the only victim. We don’t know how many others they have, human or otherwise. It’ll be months before they resurface, if they resurface at all.”

 

The Phantling pushes himself off the wall with a growl. “The fuck are we still sitting around for then?”

 

“Hold on, Wilbur—“

 

“If we go out there, guns blazing, they’ll see us coming a mile away.” The Piglin butts in, explaining in blunt terms. “They’ll just grab the kid and leave. We have to be smart.” 

 

“Techno’s right. We don’t know what we’re up against. Without Ex-Deehs help, we’ll have to do this on our own.”

 

The red-finned Merling sits back. “We know Boris is involved for sure. There’s staff and doctors here from Viona, as far as we know, they’re all working for him.”

 

The Piglin grunts, curling his lip. “Whoever this smiley face guy is, we can’t be sure Boris is the only one on his payroll.”

 

“If they’re taking one of Ex-Deeh’s ships, it’s possible one of his personal advisors is involved as well. We have no way of knowing if any of the staff onboard has any idea of what’s actually happening.” 

 

“Most of the security here is from Enderion.” The pink-haired Merling speaks up. “They’ve been the ones responsible for the human so far. You don’t think..?”

 

“We can’t rule anything out.” The Elytran concludes, deathly serious. 



“Hey.”

 

The Bezzarian startles so bad he bangs his head on the wall behind him, hissing in pain as he turns to face the source of the voice.

 

The Hybird is much, much too big to fit in these vents. It’s a good thing they’re so flexible, able to bend and contort themself to fit, but they hardly look comfortable. Their eyes seem to glow in the dark, finding his easily. Against his will, the Bezzarian finds himself relaxing, if by just a few degrees. 

 

“Hey.” He whispers back.

 

Below them, the conversation continues. 

 

“To even get a human in the first place, you’re gonna need a Council ship. ” The Avian is explaining to the group, voice ringing off the metal walls.

 

“There’s only a handful of spaceships that can pull off even getting to Earth and back. One that could get there, steal a human, and leave without a hitch? Without setting off any alarms? That’s one expensive goddamn spaceship. They would need a lot of money to pull something like that off, that and connections.”

 

“Boris has both.”

 

“Enough money to bribe the people who are supposed to be monitoring Earth into letting some things slide, or to fund a ship capable of slipping under the radar?” The Avian snorts. “Maybe.

 

“What are you suggesting?”

 

“Whoever he’s working with? They’re either powerful enough to steal a Council ship right out from under Ex-Deeh’s nose, or rich enough to make their own. Not a lot of people in the galaxy fit that bill.”

 

“You’re saying it’s someone else that’s on the Council.”

 

“Whoever Smiley is, I think they’re more dangerous than we realize.” 



The Hybrid takes that as an invitation, moving closer. The area the Bezzarian has found, right above the grate, opens up slightly, allowing them to stretch out a little more comfortably. They take a seat across from him, watching him carefully with those big, round eyes. 

 

“I figured I’d find you up here. Are you okay?”



“—Jean is… I don’t want to think she’s capable of contributing to something like this. But ever since—“

 

“—Even if she isn’t involved directly , I wouldn’t be surprised if one of her advisors was. Edward’s a good man, but the rest—“

 

“—circumstantial evidence at best. We need something a little more concrete than a smiley face—“



“I’m fine.”

 

“Okay, see, you say that, but…” They start jokingly, but eventually trail off. Their tone shifts into something softer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

The Bezzarian snorts, ripping their gaze away to glare stubbornly at the wall. A familiar voice rings in their ears. 

 

Maybe I would, if you had anything important to say.

 

The Hybrid shifts closer. 



“— If security’s involved, there’s no chance of us getting anywhere close to the kid without them knowing about it—“

 

“—have more clearance than the rest of you. If I could get closer, maybe I could—“

 

“—trust you? Are you kidding me?” 



Below them, the voices rise into an argument, layering on top of another as they bicker. It’s not pretty. 

 

“The others were looking for you.”

 

The Bezzarian shrugs. The Hybrid fiddles with his hands. 

 

“I don’t… I don’t know what happened. When you went to see Tommy.” The Hybird says, starting again. “But I know you’re upset.”

 

The Bezzarian glances their way, but remains stubbornly silent.



“—cameras and screens across this whole ship—“

 

“—draw them out of hiding. We have enough to tie Boris to some of this, don’t we?”

 

“—if you think for one second that I’m going to trust you with—“

 

“—you’re trusting them , aren’t you?”

 

“—literally poisoned him!”

 

“It was an accident you—“



“I…”

 

The Bezzarian starts. Then stops. After a beat, he starts again.

 

“I thought…”

 

His voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. He growls, hands tightening into fists at his sides before he lifts them to scrub at his face. “It’s stupid. I’m fine.”

 

The Hybrid just. Takes a moment to look at him. There’s a knowing look in their eyes, taking in the hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. 

 

They move a little closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to peer down through the vent to see what he’s looking at. 



Enough!”



The Elytrans voice rises over everyone else’s, and reluctantly, the voices quiet down. They continue to chatter amongst themselves, softer than before.



“—stop him from getting there in the first place, intercept—?”

 

“—too many guards. We don’t even know which ship they’re going to use to take him to Viona—“

 

“—some kind of distraction, maybe. If we can prevent them from leaving long enough, we can buy ourselves some more time to find—“

 

“—confront him directly. We all know he’s a coward, we might be able to convince him into confessing who—“



“I’m worried about him.” The Hybrid admits, changing the subject. They tilt their head towards the vent. “I mean, if what they’re saying is true, then…”

 

They trail off, looking a bit like they swallowed something sour.

 

The Bezzarian takes a deep breath.



“—lock down the private hangar?”

 

“—if we had evidence, maybe—“

 

“—long enough to get to him—

 

 “—takes off, both he and Boris will be halfway to Viona by the time we—“



“He was a dick. Earlier.” He finally says, picking at his shoes. The words come out sharp, dropping from his lips like marbles. Then, he sighs. “He said- said some stuff. He doesn’t want my help, clearly, so…”

 

“Said… like what?”

 

He huffs. “It’s not important.”

 

Another pause.

 

“It is important.” They say.

 

You’re important. Goes unsaid. The ghost of the words hanging thick in the air between them, clear as day. You’re important to me. 

 

The Bezzarian doesn’t say anything. 



“—call in some kind of threat?”

 

“—could work— get their attention, at least—“

 

“—in his suite, we might be able too—“

 

“—scare him into hiding?”

 

“—not if we—“



The Bezzarian squeezes his eyes shut, sighing. “He’s in some big fucking trouble, isn’t he?”

 

The Hybrid pauses. Then, they sigh. “…I think so. Yeah.”

 

For a moment, the Bezzarian. Sits there. He breathes in slowly, holds it in his chest, then exhales. 



“—get someone on board. If I know what ship they’re using, I could—“

 

“—absolutely not, it’s too dangerous—“

 

“—disguise. I know what I’m—“



The word disguise catches his attention, antenna flicking towards the vent.

 

The Hybrid doesn’t seem to notice, still wringing their paws awkwardly. They keep looking at him like they want to reach out and touch, then think better of it, leaving them to make anxious biscuits with their claws on the ground.

 

“You don’t have to talk to me, if you don’t want to.” They continue, oblivious to the way the Bezzarian is pressing closer to the floor to listen to the conversation below. “I just… I’ll listen. If you want to talk. About anything.” 



“—absolutely not.” The Avian is saying, pushing himself to his feet. “They’ll find you out in a heartbeat.”

 

The teenager puffs up his chest, undeterred. “I can do it!”

 

“You stick out like a sore thumb! All the guards on the Council ship are Endborn—“



“I know you aren’t big on the touchy-feely stuff, but I… I’ll always listen to you. I’ll always have your side, but I…”

 

Something about those words catch the Bezzarian’s attention, dragging him away from the conversation below. 

 

He looks over at the Hybird, resting the full weight of his gaze on their shoulders. The Hybrid looks back at him, setting their jaw. They scrub at their face, glossy eyes hardening into something a bit more resolute. 

 

“He’s important to me too.” 

 

The Bezzarian’s expression cracks. 

 

“You’re the only family I’ve ever had.” They admit, voice soft. “You’re important to me, okay? But he’s family too. And you don’t give up on family.”

 

On a roll now, they continue to speak, words tripping over one another. “I know he said he doesn’t want us to help but something is wrong, and I can’t just sit here and not do anything while he—“

 

The Bezzarian, as a rule, isn’t big on touch.

 

So the Hybrid is a little startled, then, when he reaches out a hand, placing it over theirs. 

 

“Hey.” He says. “Hey.” 

 

They sniff, finally looking up to meet his gaze. 

 

“You’re…” he starts, a bit awkwardly, “you’re important to me too, Boo.” 

 

He turns then, ever so slightly, looking down the vent. He sucks in a deep breath, pushing his shoulders back.

 

“And so is he.” He says, reluctantly. 

 

Sitting at the table below them, the teenager in the purple hoodie leans back in his seat as the adults to either side of him continue to argue. Two sharp, violet eyes flick up to the ceiling, settling on a pair of mis-matched ones. He raises an eyebrow.

 

For the first time all day, the Bezzarian feels himself grin

 

“Say Boo,” he drawls. “How do you feel about a guard costume?” 




-




The medical wing of the Council Ship is just as awful the second time around. 

 

The smell is the same, even if they stick him in a nicer room. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get that stink off of his skin, that nasty hospital-smell that’s just universal , apparently. Antiseptic and hand sanitizer, too-clean sheets and plastic. The kind of smell that settles into into his clothes, his hair,that stings his eyes and burns in the back of his throat. A smell that only ever brings back bad memories, a clammy hand in his, pitying looks from nurses and the obvious beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor. Scalpels and paper clothes, unfamiliar faces and bright lights, cold metal restraints and a voice crackling over an intercom. 

 

Even the room he’s in now, a big upgrade from the one they’d stuck him in last time, still has that smell . For all the fancy bells and whistles they’ve got in here, the clean white walls and the automatically adjusting cot, the fancy equipment straight out of a Star Trek episode, all the blinking screens, the smell is still the same

 

Weirdly enough, he kind of likes the reminder. A hospital room is a hospital room, no amount of fancy shit can disguise that. It keeps him on his toes.

 

The cot he’s sitting on creaks obnoxiously under his weight. He dangles his feet off the ledge, eyeing lab coat guy as he putters around the room, fiddling with the equipment and muttering under his breath, pressing buttons on his tablet. 

 

The guard isn’t any help, either. Standing in the corner, arms crossed, looking bored out of his mind. 

 

It’s… weirdly reassuring. To have him there too. To keep Tommy from being alone with lab coat guy, who he’s still pretty on the fence about. 

 

He hasn’t really… done anything, though. Not to Tommy, anyways, the same can’t be said to the rest of the equipment in the room. The distance helps a little.

 

He fiddles with his necklace, against his better judgment. 

 

Whoever had been responsible for making sure everything else gets taken from him had taken all but one. It was probably some kind of cultural thing, now that he thinks about it. Piglins are weird about golden jewelry. They probably realized how bad it would look to anyone watching if all the jewelry was gone. 

 

It’s nothing fancy. One of the first ones he’d been given, actually. A thin, golden chain, just brushing his collarbones. It’s a familiar weight, there. He can’t remember the last time he took it off. 

 

He’d like to hold on to it for as long as he can. He doesn’t— it wouldn’t feel right. Not having it. 

 

It’s familiar. Comforting. He could really use some of that comfort, right about now. So, he fiddles with it, thumbing over the chain. Let this dork just try and take it from him. 

 

After what feels like a century, lab coat guy finally seems to realize that he’s not completely alone in the room, turning back around to pin his attention on Tommy. 

 

Tommy takes one look at the thing in his hands and balks.

 

“No. Nuh-uh. Not happening.” He leans back as lab coat guy moves closer, unperturbed. “Get those stupid things away from me.”

 

Lab coat guy just… looks at him. Tommy can’t see his eyes, but it’s not hard to imagine the long-suffering look he’s getting right now. The things in his hands, little round buttons with wires attached, blink ominously, and Tommy does not like that. Not one bit. 

 

“Relax.” Lab coat guy says. “They don’t hurt. Hold still.” 

 

Tommy bares his teeth in warning, leaning as far back away as he can without falling off the cot completely. In the corner, the guard makes a noise, hand drifting to his belt, and Tommy forces himself to not bite the doctor when he moves closer. 

 

There’s nowhere to run as lab coat guy leans over, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a wince as he feels the sticky electrodes press against his temples and the side of his neck, heart rabbiting up into his fucking throat—

 

Lab coat guy pulls back. “Done. Don’t touch them.”

 

Tommy pulls a face, trying and failing to get his breathing back under control. The little buttons don’t hurt, but the sticky-feeling is really unsettling, especially having on against the side of his neck—

 

Relax relax relax it’s okay you’re fine—

 

The guard relaxes back, crossing his arms again, watching Tommy with an expression he can’t quite place. 

 

Lab coat guy hums, eyes glued to his tablet. He seems to like whatever he sees. “Interesting…. Hm.”

 

Tommy swallows, mouth dry. “W-what?”

 

Lab coat guy ignores him, which quickly becomes a running theme.

 

None of the things he does hurts. That’s the thing. The sticky electrodes are kind of uncomfortable, sure, but they don’t do anything besides sit there and occasionally blink different colors. He only brings out a needle once to draw some blood, and even then, he wipes his skin with something beforehand to numb his shoulder. He barely even feels the sting. 

 

Tommy waits for… something . He’s tense enough to snap in two, never letting lab coat guy out of sight for a second. The anticipation is the worst part, just waiting for the other ball to drop. For more needles or scalpels , for the electrodes to suddenly shock him for flinching away, or- or something! 

 

Between the electrodes and the lab coat and the smell, being here brings back a lot of memories of hospital rooms and not the good kind. The kind that has him gritting his teeth and clenching the thin bedsheet over the cot in his fists to keep from flinching. It’s. The. Worst. 

 

But, to his surprise, his ‘checkup’ is just that. A checkup.

 

Tommy hasn’t been to an Earth-doctor in years, but apparently, space-doctors and Earth-doctors look for a lot of the same things. All the tools he uses are fucking weird, yeah, but Tommy still gets Deja Vu when lab coat guy puts a hand on his back and tells him to take deep breaths, or to look off to the side so he can shine a stupidly bright light in his eyes.

 

Lab coat guy is very professional. By that Tommy means that he never talks to him unless strictly necessary, ignores all of his questions, and keeps his eyes glued to his tablet ninety-percent of the time. 

 

He does mutter to himself, though, which is sort of disconcerting, but hey, everyone has their quirks.

 

Minute by minute, Tommy feels the tension slowly draining out of him by just how normal this feels, jaw unclenching, hands going lax. He’s… probably not going to hurt him, he decides. Not with Big Guy over there in the corner, yawning like he’s about to fall asleep standing up. 

 

Lab coat guy mutters as he works, looking in Tommy’s ears, turning his head this way and that, having him open his mouth so he can look at the back of his throat. He prods at some of the still-healing bruises, brushing them with a cream that makes his skin go all cold and tingly, inspecting the scars over his arms and the big, ugly one in his temple. 

 

Tommy only catches some of what he goes on about, heart rate and chemical reactions, something about reflexes and muscle tension. He has Tommy follow his finger with his eyes, nodding in satisfaction as he taps something into his tablet. Asking him questions every now and again, how much and how often do you eat? Sleep? Any adverse reactions to anything you’ve eaten? Have you had trouble breathing on any of the planets you’ve visited? Dizziness? Fevers? It’s suspicious as hell at first, but eventually, Tommy relaxes enough to give him more than just one-word answers. 

 

Lab coat guy spends a long time typing into his tablet after Tommy tells him about the Blue Death scare back on Viona. 

 

The doctor goes back to his hands, after a moment. He asks Tommy to hold them straight out in front of them, and to be as still as possible, frowning at the scars over his knuckles as the ever-present tremor starts up again. 

 

His gloved hands are ice-cold. “Do your hands always shake like that?”

 

“Uh.” Tommy curls them into fists, and the tremble lessens, just a little. “Yeah?”

 

Lab coat guy does not like that response.

 

“Prolonged exposure… neurological side effects?” Lab coat guy mutters to himself, typing furiously. He doesn’t so much as glance Tommy’s way, lost in… whatever he’s doing. “Hmm… hard to say for sure, too many potential causes…”

 

Tommy figures it’s best to let him be. 

 

Finally, after a while, they eventually get to the elephant in the room; the implant. 

 

He knew this was coming. This was the whole damn point of this whole thing, wasn’t it? If labcoat guy really doesn’t know whats actually going on here, (which Tommy figures he doesn’t. Why go through all that trouble otherwise?) then he thinks Tommy’s about to get the damn thing removed. 

 

He knew it was coming, but he still feels himself tense up when the doctor asks him to lie back, and he still. 

 

“Do you get headaches often?”

 

His hands are cold, clinical, pressing gently against his temple to feel for… something. Tommy forces himself to look anywhere but at the guy in the mask leaning over his face, teeth gritted together so hard he feels like they're going to grind into dust. Be still. Be still. Do not punch him. Do not

 

His gaze flicks to the guard, focusing on him instead. Eventually, he manages a shrug. 

 

“Hmm.” Lab coat guy leans in more , carefully feeling out his temple with his hands. The pressure on the scar feels weird, and Tommy can’t quite resist the flinch in time. 

 

“Any malfunctions?”

 

Tommy blinks, taken aback. Malfunctions? “Like… what?”

 

“Lingering headaches, mistranslations,” he rattles them off, “Static, hearing things that aren’t there, echoes, voices, fevers?” 

 

“…no?”

 

“Wonderful.” He leans back, seeming pleased. Finally , Tommy can fucking breathe. He’s quick to sit back up again, stretching to shake off some of the lingering nerves. 

 

From what I heard about your little adventure on Netheria, you should count yourself lucky.” 

 

At Tommy’s confused expression, he adds dryly, like it’s supposed to be common knowledge , or something, “Prolonged exposure to large crowds and loud noises cause severe damage to implants. It’s not easily reversed. Complicates things.” 

 

Well, no wonder being in the ring gave him such a fucking headache. It makes sense, now that he actually stops to think about it. Hearing all those people screaming at him all at once, the implant scrambling to try and translate everything everyone is saying… hell, it’s a wonder he didn’t break the damn thing—

 

Wait. Back the fuck up. 

 

Tommy turns, slowly, to look at the doctor. “ How did you—?”

 

“Updated implant is working correctly, no physical damage from the different atmospheric conditions…” Lab coat guy talks as if he hadn’t even heard him, humming to himself as he types. “…muscle tremors are unfortunate but expected. Unclear if it’s caused by the chemical treatments or strain on the implant… further testing incouraged—“

 

“Hey.” Tommy tries again, something cold and nasty coiling in his stomach. “Hey, I’m talking to you—“

 

“—better results than expected, actually. Subject is healthy, strong… No obvious long-term side effects from the potions or sedatives… curious to see what the blood test will say… lung treatment a success… vaccines a success—“

 

“Hey!” 

 

The electrodes and wires hit the side of lab coat guy’s face with a thwap! nearly knocking his goggles clean off his face. “I’m talking to you, dickhead—“

 

The guard startles at the action, moving to close the distance between them with a shout of surprise. Tommy doesn’t even hear him, doesn’t spare him more than a glance, staring down the doctor as he finally, finally, looks up. 

 

The doctor pins Tommy with a glare that has him freezing to the spot.

 

Clicking his tongue, he adjusts his goggles, covering the eyes that had met his, if for just a second. A familiar pair of eyes. 

 

“That wasn’t very nice.”

 

Tommy doesn’t move.

 

He knows those eyes. Looking down at him, uncaring, fucking bored. Not saying anything as he struggles, as he shrieks and spits and fights . Eyes that won’t even look at him, too busy flickering over the stupid screens, at the numbers and the heart rate monitor. The voice over the intercom says turn up the dial and—

 

Lab coat guy moves closer, unconcerned, gaze glued back to his tablet. 

 

“If you could excuse us, please.” He says to the guard. “I need a moment alone with my patient.” 

 

Even the guard looks momentarily stunned, blinking in confusion. “Er— my orders are—“

 

“Patient confidentiality, I hope you understand.” He leaves no room for argument.

 

The guard leaves, still looking between them with his eyebrows pinched together. Tommy wants to say something, to call out to him, to tell him to stay, but he can’t seem to find his voice. Can’t seem to get himself to move. 

 

The door slides shut. And Tommy and the doctor are alone. 

 

“Really, You should be proud.”

 

His tone has changed, if only slightly. There’s a drawl to his words, like he’s bored.

 

He’s always been like that. Tired. Bored. Like the little kid screaming for help on the surgical table was just another inconvenience. Even now he doesn’t even look at him, plucking the electrodes off his shoulder. “You did a lot better than we thought you would.” 

 

“You… you what?”

 

His voice comes out small. Pathetically small. Trembling hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. 

 

“We’ll have to run more tests when we get back to the lab.” He continues, unconcerned. “But as of right now, I’d say this little experiment is a resounding success.”

 

“What experiment?” Tommy bursts out. “What are you talking about?”

 

Something horrible twists in his gut, knotting up his insides. A dread that makes it feel like someone has turned his blood to fucking ice as he tries to make sense— as he tries to fucking understand— 

 

Lab coat guy just waves him off. Still not looking at him, still not caring. “I’ll have you wait here. They’ll come get you when it’s time to leave.”

 

Oh no. No, no, no he’s not just going to walk away. Not until he fucking explains what the hell he’s talking about—

 

Tommy can’t see his eyes, but he can feel them. Feel the way they flick up from his tablet as he moves for the door, raising an eyebrow. The weight of his gaze is cold

 

“Try not to make a mess.” He says, dryly. 

 

The door slides behind him just in time for whatever shiny new piece of medical equipment sitting on the closest counter to smash into it. The screen shatters into a hundred pretty pieces.

 

Tommy spends longer than he’d like to admit sitting on the floor next to it, staring at his hands. 

 

As of right now, I’d say this little experiment is a resounding success




-




There are thousands of security cameras on the Council Ship.

 

Though, calling them security cameras is, perhaps, a little bit of a stretch. Perhaps at one point that had been their intended purpose. With crowds of this magnitude, combined with the bustling markets and stalls and neverending speeches and celebrity appearances, some criminal activity is basically a guarantee. Theft, fights breaking out, damaged property, opening anything up to the general public comes with risks. Ergo, the cameras. 

 

High tech, top of the line cameras, each manufactured in the best facility Enderion has to offer. Impeccable quality, with a zoom so detailed you can count the nose hairs of the Vionanian representative halfway across the Banquet Hall. A hundred thousand electronic eyes is a pretty decent deterrent against crime. 

 

They also offer something else. Something the past representatives of Nevodis were quick to jump on, forking over impressive amounts of creds into their development and widespread implementation across the Council Ship to capitalize on. They provide entertainment. 

 

A two in one deal- protection and a show.

 

Something captured on one security camera on one side of the ship can be projected across the big screens on the other with the simple press of a button. Camera crews vying for the best spots are a thing of the past, speeches, announcements, drama, all live, all the time. The screens are constantly running, celebrities doing meet and greets with fans, advisors campaigning, giving speeches to crowds, the two Apari in the buffet line currently going at it over the last serving of glow-squid, all of it. 

 

This, however, still comes with downsides. Namely, that cameras everywhere, all constantly running, can be quite the security risk. Someone needs to be paying attention to what’s happening. After all, the cameras watching and recording the crime are pointless if there’s no one there to actually arrest the culprit. It would be ridiculous to expect a single person to be responsible for monitoring hundreds and thousands of security cameras, however, so most of the process is automated. There are just a handful of actual living security personnel. The cameras flag suspicious activity, and the overseers respond to the alerts. Most of the time it’s a false alarm, or something easily handled by sending over a guard or two. 

 

It’s a boring, thankles s job, watching the security cameras, but someone has to do it. 

 

“Aw, geez, really?”

 

That someone, the Shulk on the floor with all four hands tied behind his back and a sock in his mouth, shoots the teenager an absolutely venomous glare. 

 

He sighs, looking reproachfully at the cluttered desk, littered with snacks and half-empty drinks. “Dude, this is so gross—“

 

“Purpled, you in position?”

 

The teenager presses a button on their comn, lifting it to his ear. He brushes the empty chip bags out of the way, settling back into the chair. 

 

“All clear.” He says, into the comn. Turning back to the wall of blinking screens, he cracks his knuckles. “Let’s get this party started.”

 

“We’re ready when you are. What do you see?”

 

The keyboard clicks under his hands, and the dozens and dozens of screens lining the walls shift and change abruptly, one after the other blinking to a different scene.

 

The Council ship looks so strange from this angle. The tops of people’s heads, flashes of outfits and bustling crowds. Speeches and market stalls, swimming pools and docked spaceships. He flicks through the cameras, eyes quickly scanning every screen as slowly, one by one, the scenes change. Hallways, long and winding, guests walking arm and arm. Advisors with guards at their heels, aliens dressed in the galaxy’s finest, chatting and talking over glasses of sparkling juice—

 

One screen catches his eye. A Merling, dressed in an obnoxiously bright suit, speaking intently to a Blazeborn dressed in an advisor's uniform. 

 

“Purpled?”

 

Click. Click. Click. Zoom in, refocus. Three different angles of the same scene, of the Merling’s serious face and the Blazeborn’s too sharp smile—

 

The teenager grins, baring his teeth.

 

“Got him.” 

 

“Good. We’re on our way.”

 

“Actually.” A new voice cuts in. Younger, with just a hint of a slightly-maniacal grin. “I have a better idea.”

 

The other line absolutely erupts into noise.

 

Voices overlapping, talking over one another in shock. Calling out to the new voice, interrupting each other, a chaotic combination of shouted exclamations. 

 

“Tubbo? Is that you?”

 

“What do you mean you—“

 

“—stay right there we—“

 

“Uh, guys?” The teenager says, noticing something else on the cameras.

 

“—are on our way—“

 

“—even think about it—“

 

“Guys.” The teenager cuts them off again, zooming in on one of the cameras.

 

A different screen entirely. The private hangar looks so strange from this angle. Above, looking down, the tops of spaceships and guards at their posts. A glimmering black spaceship, the black sheep of the pack, out of place amongst the line of uniform grey Council ships.  

 

Across the screen, a line of guards approach the ship, each of them displaying a keycard before they’re allowed entry. No one seems to think anything of the guard on the end of the line, in the slightly too-big uniform. 

 

There’s a long silence.

 

“Tubbo.” One of the voices growls in warning. “Where is Ranboo?”

 

The young voice just laughs. 

 

One voice breaks above them all, clear and authoritative.

 

“If you both don’t come back here right this instant—“ 

 

“It’s a bit too late for that, big man.” The young voice chirps. “Relax, they’re not going in alone.”

 

Another loud eruption of noise and voices, everyone all shouting at once. The teenager winces, instinctively trying to lean back away from the sudden loud noises in the headset. 

 

“I’m small. I’m fast. I can keep the ship from leaving for Viona and get the evidence we need to tie Boris to Tommy’s abduction from inside the walls of the ship. Ranboo finds Tommy, gets him to safety. Quackity handles the distraction, and you interrogate Boris into giving up who he’s working with. It’s the perfect plan—“

 

“If you think for one second that I’m going to let you—“

 

“—already have a plan, if you spook him now, we could risk—“

 

“—get yourselves killed if you’re caught—“

 

In the corner of his eye, the teenager watches a small figure dart along the bottom of a screen. Hiding in the shadows caused by the other ships, he watches as he lifts his comn to his ear.

 

“You can try and stop me if you want too.” He says, giving the camera a wink and a wave. “But you’re going to have to hurry.”

 

There’s tense silence for a bit. Then, a low, resigned sigh.

 

“You’re already there, aren’t you?”

 

“…maybe.”

 

Quiet. Shuffling. Background conversation and muffled noises. 

 

“—can’t seriously—“

 

“—could actually work.”

 

“Quackity you can’t seriously—“

 

“It’s not a bad idea. I’ll give it to him, the kid’s a genius—“

 

“But—“

 

“Out of time, Phil.” Someone sighs. “Tubbo?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Be safe.” 

 

“Also.” The voice from earlier cuts in, “ Both you and Ranboo are grounded.” 

 

The Bezzarian hides his laugh in his hand 

 

“Not bad.” The teenager mutters into the comn, more to himself than anything as he switches gears. “Alright Tubbo, what’s the plan?”

 

He leaves the over screen, the one with the Merling and his advisor, behind. Focusing on the private hangar, he zooms in, examining the area carefully from above. 

 

“Help me get on board. I’ll fill you in once I’ve found a place to hide.” 

 

“I’ve got eyes on you. They’re still loading equipment, if you’re quick, you might be able to duck into one of the storage crates….”





-





Tommy used to have nightmares like this, back on the Argo II. 

 

He’s no stranger to nightmares, even before getting snatched and skyrocketed out into space. He’s had all the usual suspects, running from a monster only for his feet to end up sticking to the floor, getting lost somewhere strange and having to wander around alone in the dark, the scary alien from a movie he probably shouldn’t have been watching at seven years old sneaking into his room at night to gobble him up. Stuff like that.

 

Imagine a nightmare, one of the ones you had when you were a kid. Picture it, the oldest one you can. One you used to have when you were still small, living in your childhood home. The kind of scary dream that had you waking up in tears, running down the hall to duck into the safety of your parents room. The kind of dream that sticks with you afterwards, lingering long after the sun has come back up, one that no soothing words or nightlights can really chase away, not for long. One that keeps you from ever looking at your closet door the same way again, hesitating when your feet dangle off the sides of your bed. After all, you never really know what could be hiding in those shadows, do you? 

 

Try and remember how it felt, being so little and so scared. To be ten years old again, sitting in bed, the covers pulled up to your chin. Eyes locked on the closet just across the room. Old enough to know monsters aren’t real, young enough to still be wary, anyways.

 

He’d grown out of it. For the most part, anyways. Eventually, there stopped being a room down the hall that he could duck into for safety. No more nightlights and quiet, gentle reassurances. His uncle hadn’t been the cuddly guy to begin with, and the foster homes he’d been bounced around too after he died could care less about the bad dreams of another snot-nosed preteen. He learned how to deal with the nightmares on his own, how to calm himself down afterwards to keep from waking up everyone else in the house. 

 

Somewhere along the line, he’d grown up enough to know that the kinds of monsters you really need to be afraid of aren’t the kind that hide in bedroom closets. 

 

Going to space had sort of put that into perspective a little bit.

 

He’s had this dream before. Knows it like the back of his hand. The sound of his footsteps against the metal floor, the gaze of onlookers burrowing into the back of his neck. Every hair standing on end as the guard at his back urges him forwards, always forwards, one step after another. Thump, thump, thump, go his boots against the floor. 

 

Imagine being a kid again. Seven or eight, still in the childhood bedroom you barely remember, blankets pulled up to your chin. You swore you heard something, a noise. A scratching sound just loud enough to wake you up. But that can’t be right, can it? Monsters aren’t real, you assure yourself. You’re bigger now, a big kid. You’re not a baby, you don’t need to go running to your parents. Monsters aren’t real. You know better. 

 

Only this time, you watch, frozen in place, as your closet door starts to creak open. 

 

And you start to think that maybe six-year-old you had it right all along. It isn’t just a figment of your imagination. Not a nightmare or a bad dream. You were right to be afraid. You were right to be scared. 

 

Because those weren’t just nightmares. They were real. The monsters you used to be so afraid of are real. 

 

And now, it’s too late. 

 

Seeing the Pandora again after so long, that’s exactly what it feels like. 

 

He’s had this nightmare before. A bad dream he thought he’d outgrown, coming back again for round two. The same. Goddamn. Nightmare. Only this time, he has a sinking feeling that waking up wouldn’t be an option.

 

Lab Coat guy is long-gone. Tommy doesn’t know where he fucked off too, and honestly, he can’t bring himself to care. His head is still fucking reeling, running the words over and over and over—

 

As of right now, I’d say this little experiment is a resounding success.

 

What had he meant? What did that mean? 

 

It could just be a lie. He could just be pulling shit out of his ass just to fuck with him, just to throw him off. Tommy knows he’s not, though.

 

Another experiment. Another test.

 

God- how had he never figured it out? How stupid was he?

 

Of course he didn’t just manage to escape. Half-starved, still hopped up on god-knows-what kind of sedatives, he just so happened to be able to slip away from the guards while they were taking him to the lab? He just so happened to make it down to where the escape pods were, and slip away in time? 

 

He- he’d considered it. At first. That it was all another test. That any moment he would come back, that he’d get snatched up all over again. 

 

By the time he’d been ‘rescued’ and passed off to the petshop, he’d let himself believe it. That he actually had escaped. 

 

He should have known better.

 

(He pulls the strings, and Tommy’s limbs move)

 

They hadn’t searched him when they came to collect him from the med wing. Four guards, all Endborn. He couldn’t see their eyes through their visors, but he doesn’t really need to. He knows exactly what he’d find there if he could. The way they moved around him was enough, stepping gingerly over the broken glass and warped metal covering the floor, tails flickering nervously by their ankles. Even the big one, the one that had been here earlier when he was getting his checkup looked on edge. 

 

“It’s time to go, kid.” Is all he had said. 

 

They didn’t touch him. Not at first. It was clear that none of them really wanted too, seeing the remains of the room he’d ripped apart. He doesn’t blame them. He’s not sure what he looks like right now, but he doubts he looks friendly

 

If they had, maybe they would have noticed the scalpel he’d slid into his boot. 

 

(He’s not sure why he took the damn thing. He hates the feeling of it, pressed against his leg. Just looking at the stupid scalpel makes his stomach twist itself into knots, but he’d swiped it off the table anyways. An old instinct, a whisper of a familiar voice, never go into an unfamiliar situation unarmed, kid. 

 

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. Stupid and dangerous, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. By the time he’d thought better of it, it was too late. Hopefully with how trashed he’d left the room, hopefully it would take a little bit for anyone to count the scalpels and realize one was missing.)

 

As it were, the only one who touches him is the big guard, securing his wrists behind his back to march him forwards. 

 

“Time to go home, kid.”




-




Seeing the private hangar again feels like a fever dream.

 

It had only been a few days since he’d been here last. Less than forty-eight hours for his entire universe to be turned on its head. It had seemed smaller, then, bustling with crowds and aliens in fancy ball gowns, the lights turned down low. Now, almost empty, the rows and rows of ships seem to go on forever. 

 

The women in dazzling skirts and men in bejeweled suits are long gone, they and their entourages having long-since been cleared out. It feels so empty without them, the flights of obnoxious grand staircases standing empty, the doors that would have led them inside to where the Banquet was held closed shut. Eerie, almost. Like a dead mall, or an airport in the early hours of the morning, when all the shops are closed and time doesn’t seem to work quite the same way. The thump, thump, thump of his boots against the floor echoes far too loudly. 

 

Above his head, the large screens are still going, talk shows and news stations, aliens with dazzling smiles and holographic clothes prattling on about something or another. It’s quiet enough there that if he listens, he might actually be able to hear what they’re saying, even if he can’t understand a single word. Entertaining an audience long-gone. 

 

The galaxies rich and powerful had left behind nothing but their ships. A hundred of them, atleast, all lined up in neat rows on either side like soldiers heading off for war, parked by metal ramps that extend to the closed hatches on their undersides. Each one of them looks more ridiculous than the last, boasting bright colors and top-of-the-line technology, sparkly paint jobs and shiny glass. Even the one of the smaller ones probably costs a hundred times what the Argo II is worth. 

 

The only people here now are guards, all dressed in monochrome grey and black uniforms, standing at their posts or speaking quickly into earpieces. He can feel their eyes on him as he passes, drilling holes into the back of his neck, the weight of their gazes like a slowly-tightening noose. 

 

The Pandora is in the back, away from the staircase, neatly tucked away alongside a few other similar ships. Tommy probably would have skipped right over the Council ships if he hadn’t been already walking that way. Compared to the rest of the ships in the hangar, their sleek bodies and monochrome colors are easy to overlook. Other Council Ships, probably. Just as impressive, without all dramatics. 

 

He feels like a prisoner being marched to death-row, walking past the rows of ships and guards, feeling their eyes on him as he goes by. He wonders what they’re thinking. Do they know what’s actually happening here? How many of them really believe he’s actually going home? 

 

He’s not sure he wants to know the answer to that question. 

 

None of the other ships shine quite the same as the Pandora does, though, with its shimmering black metal and sharp wings. He makes it out right away. A striking black silhouette in a sea of uniform grey. 

 

Tommy takes one look at it and has to force himself not to gag

 

("̙o̢̺h,̬̣̟̜͠ ̠̫͙̝͓͈̞h̶͚͔̩͙̫̟͙e̢̥͕̜̻̙ļ̳͕͇l̹̞̱o̴ ͔̻̞̟͉ͅtḩ͓̬̭̳̰̖̰e͖͙̖̮͓r͏͎̩̳̘̳̰e̡̜͔͓͍̣̹̜"̼̻̜̱̗ͅ)

 

It wasn’t his only ship. There were others. Bigger, not nearly on the scale of the Council Ship, but bigger than the Pandora . This is the one he remembers, though. The one who’s hallways he runs through in his nightmares, the one who’s layout is permanently burned into the back of his mind. The first, and probably last, spaceship he’ll ever see. 

 

Looking at it makes him feel sick. His stomach twists and rolls, the dread he first started to feel days ago shifting into a tidal wave of nausea that threatens to bowl him over. His chest constricts, his breathing coming too-fast and too-shallow as every instinct in him, every goddamn muscle , balks at the idea of ever stepping up into that hatch. It’s a goddamn miracle he stays standing. 

 

( “͟I̶̻̬̗̣̣͔t’͖s̬͎̀ ͉a̼l͏̩̲r͎i̠̲͈͚̞g͉̝̫̠͜ͅh͚͇̗̤̱̺͘t̵̳͉̺.̠͍͕̩ ̛I҉̦̥͍͖̩̝’̢̭͖̱m̟̬ͅ ͙̙̪̳͘no̝͖t͚̦̼̙͈̹ ͈̙̮̹͓͙g̶̘̳̺òi̫̥̖̻͖̤̤n͕̗g̯̝̪͜ ̩ṭ͓̪͙o҉̼͍͉̙̖͖̗ ͉h̤̲̞̥̮̙̝ṵͅŗ̭̥̣̰t͉̹̻̻͈̪̭ ̞̘͙̟y͕̲̳̻̱o̡̪̪̝͓̗u̟̜̭̟͈̣.̰̱̰͇̳ͅ”̣̹)



The worst part? It’s beautiful.

 

Even the guards seem taken aback when they approach, hesitating. Tommy doesn’t blame them, he remembers how awestruck he had been the first time he’d seen it, that day in the desert. How he hadn’t been able to do anything but stand there and stare. 

 

It reminds him of a shark, or a killer whale. A pointed nose, a sleek body that arches backwards towards the thrusters, angular wings coming off from the side like fins. It’s dark metal is gleaming and spotless, a dome of black glass in the front glinting in the light. Larger than the Argo II, but compared to the rest of the hangar, it’s tiny. 

 

("͔͉͙͚͕͈w͍̠h̀a̹̮͚t̗'̘͚̯s̸̤͉̗̣̥ y̹̺͕͕o͎̬̯̹͓ͅu̧͙͕̜̼̭̱̫r͏̻ ̡̗̘̭̱̤̞̼n͖a͡me?̛̘"̦)



There’s a pause, as they start to lead him up to it. The hatch on its belly lowering slowly, connecting to the walkway with a soft thud of metal against metal. It’s dark, on the inside. Like a mouth yawning wide. The Deja Vu makes him shiver. 

 

(“̲̙͙̣͈̦ͅT̹̤̖̭̙̳̲͡om͉̝̰͈͙̱̮m̴̬͔̤y͙̮,͇̫̫̝ ̷͓̣͎̟ḫ̛̝̞͇̞̭̖u͖̫͕ͅh?̖̹̥ ͙̰͡Ẉ̙͙̻̼̀ͅe̺̠̗͈͓l̷̯̖̥l̴̛̜̙͕,̞͚̰̱̹͔̼̕ i̵̹̰̱ͫ̄͐ͦ̿t̯̱͓͖̦̞̪̆ͤ̅s͔͍̤̞̩̅̐̿ͭ̄̊ ̟͓̱̜̘̑ͣ͐̆͗̇̚ͅn̫͙̱̝̜̙̫ͬͥ͂i̶̲͙͊͆̌̀c͖͎̰̆e͙̜ ̧̹̣̗̫͉̈͆̿̏͑ͩt̛ͫͧ̒͋̅̎ͥo̳̤ ̜̥̳ͯm͙͈̞̜̖̭̮͑͟e̦̺͈͢ͅe̲͢t̲͖́ ͣ̇͏̱͓̼̖̘ỹ͉̬̩͖̤̼̰̓o̲̰̩̙̠̙͎͆ͥ̚u̹̟̘͓͍͌M̥̯̞͕̥͍̠ͫ̊̇ͨ̉͠y̸̢̯̳͔̗ͯͮ̅ͫͥ̾͞ ̛̳̜̈ͩ̇ͣ̐͜n̙̜̬͈͕͚͆̆̑̈͢a̴̛̱͈͎̯͆ͮ̀m̶̵̫̜̘̥̹̹̞̿̋̌e̻̣̺̱͐ͫͣ́ i̿ͧͭͥ̽̊̌̈́̚҉̴͖̤̹͔̰̹̱̫͍͠s̵̵̵̢̤͈̟̤̱̳͔͙̘̬̹ͣ͐̄ͧ— ̵̰̲̫͂̍ͨͩ̀ͅ)



A lifetime ago, a little kid stands where Tommy stands now.

 

A lifetime ago, a scrawny, thirteen year old kid walked down these same hallways, bright-eyed and slack-jawed, staring at everything around him in wonder. Tommy swears that he can almost see him, watch the ghost of that little kid walking ahead of him, completely oblivious to the monster following at his heels.

 

When an alien offers to give you a tour of their fucking spaceship, what the hell else are you supposed to do? Not go with him? 

 

He hadn’t looked like much. Playing up the injuries from his “crash”, leading Tommy back to his spaceship like a puppy on a leash—

 

Tommy isn’t looking around with awe, now. He’s looking down at his feet, at the dark metal underneath his boots. Ignoring the guards at his shoulders, shifting in place as the ramp touches down with a sharp thunk! Ignoring the rush of air, that smell, that makes him feel cold and small and thirteen years old all over again. Ignoring the cold he can already feel , the familiar soft humming of the ship underneath he can already hear, the sound of a—

 

“You’re late.” 

 

—irritatingly familiar voice. 

 

Walking down the ramp towards them, nose in the air, is probably the last person Tommy expected to see aboard the Pandora

 

Governor Boris, of Viona, looks entirely out of place here, in his multi-colored, glittery suit with strings of pearls over the shoulders and a vest made of shimmering coral pieces woven together. He looks like a cross between an evil train conductor and one of Ariel’s sisters from The Little Mermaid. 

 

He’s got his own entourage of guards, too. Two on either side, standing at attention their chests puffed out like that’s impressing anyone. All four are tall, towering over both the Governor and Tommy, though one is an inch shorter than the rest. Atleast two, including the shorter one, are clearly Endborn. The other two look like tall Phantlings, but it’s hard to tell for sure. 

 

“Took you long enough.” That insufferable voice drawls. God, what Tommy wouldn’t give to punch him right in the—

 

“Apologies, Governor Boris.” The big guard dips his head. 

 

The Governor huffs, still puffing out his chest like the obnoxious peacock he is. His gaze settles on Tommy from across the ramp. For just a second, they lock eyes. 

 

The way that he looks at him, for just that second…

 

There’s nothing hatred in those eyes, when they meet his. Nothing but absolute hatred. 

 

It only lasts a moment, just a second. He huffs, apparently pleased with whatever the guard had said, and his gaze flicks right over Tommy as if he isn't there at all. He turns, addressing the guard to his right. 

 

“Escort our guest to his room.” He says, curling his lip. “We’re already behind schedule.” 

 

The guard to his right, the one covered head to toe, nods sharply. Tommy takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the way his hands shake and his legs turn to jello underneath him, and starts his way up the ramp. 




-




“When you said you had an idea in mind for a distraction.” The Phantling says, staring out over the scene in front of him. “This is not what I had in mind.” 

 

“The bigger the show, the better. Right?”

 

The Phantling looks stricken. 

 

It’s still decently early in the day, and most of this particular part of the public hangar is empty of crowds. 

 

The Council ship has two main public hangars, each on the sides of the ship, docks that line the sides of the ship's belly. A large, cavernous space, filled with long docks to which ships are parked up against, an opening on one side for them to enter through, yawning wide to the vacuum of space outside, made harmless by the bubble of artificial atmosphere surrounding the ship. 

 

It’s still decently early in the morning. The few others milling around, boarding and departing their own ships pass by, oblivious to the contents of the crates currently being unloaded from the belly of the Avian’s ship by his crew. 

 

One by one, a Vulpian, a Slime creature, and a Totem Hybrid carry crate after crate out from the belly of the ship, walk down the ramp, and deposit them on a dolly on the dock. The only ones close enough to read the warning labels stamped on the sides, other than the crew unloading them, is the rest of the mismatched group standing on the dock below. They read the labels with matching expressions of badly-disguised horror.

 

WARNING. The labels read. FIREWORKS. Highly combustible. Handle with caution 

 

The Avian turns, spreading his hands wide, meeting everyone else’s pale faces with an exuberant grin. 

 

“It’s the perfect distraction. Get everyone’s attention, and cause enough chaos to keep that ship on the ground as long as possible. Phil and Techno can go beat the shit out of Boris,” he pops open one of the crates, revealing the rows and rows of brightly colored fireworks inside. “And the kids can get Tommy out of there safe. Win-win.”

 

“I…” The Merling swallows. “Have so many questions.”

 

“There’s no way this is legal.” The Piglin grunts to the Elytran at his side. 

 

The Elytran pats his arm. “Oh, it’s not. It’s very, very not.”

 

The Phantling looks like he’s about to combust. “How did you even get these? Why?”

 

The teenager in the purple hoodie, who had barely even reacted to seeing the crates, gives him an unimpressed look. “He read somewhere that fire is particularly dangerous too—“

 

“Oh Kay.” The Avian cuts him off, abruptly hoisting a crate in his arms. “Less talking, more helping—“

 

The Blazeborn almost looks impressed, reaching for one of the crates to open it. The pink-haired Merling smacks his hands away before they could get close, yanking him back by the scruff of his shirt. Sheepishly, he seems to remember the sparks still shedding off his skin, and takes a few cautious steps back.

 

While the Avian and the others discuss strategy in hushed voices, near the back of the group, the Elytran and the Piglin stand off to the side. 

 

“They’re just kids.” The Elytran mutters. “All three of them. They’re just kids.” 

 

The Piglin grunts an affirmative. Then, after a pause, he dips his head to the rows and rows of crates, all filled to the brim with explosives. “Would you rather him be here?”

 

The Elytran’s face is all the answer he needs. 

 

“I don’t like it either.” He admits. “But we don’t have a choice. You know how he is when he sets his mind to somethin’.”

 

The Elytran snorts. “He and Tommy both. Stubborn kids…”

 

The Piglin clasps his shoulder, leaning close to press against his side in a show of support. 

 

“Tubbo’s one of the smartest kids I’ve ever met.” He says, voice low and rusty. “And Ranboo’s a damn good fighter. They’ll take care of each other.”

 

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he is his friend. 

 

The Elytran sighs. He extends his wing, brushing against his back.

 

“We’ll get them back.”

 

Even if we have to burn this whole ship to the ground.

 

“Come on.” He urges, bumping his shoulder. There’s a glimmer in his blue eyes, an almost feral edge to his grin. 

 

“Let them handle the distraction. It’s time to pay the Governor a little visit.”




-




The belly of the Pandora is just like Tommy remembers it. 

 

Dark, the overhead lights not doing the best job at cutting through the shadows of the crates that line wall-to-wall. There’s a path through, one that’ll take them too an elevator, which will lead them too—

 

Stop it, stop it . He curls his hands into fists, feels the way that his nails sting his palms. He needs to stop thinking, stop thinking—

 

He imagines his friends, instead. He imagines sitting on the bridge of the Argo II, Shroud purring up a storm in his lap. He imagines the thick jungles of T’Aria, the way the sunlight had felt against his skin, a perfect summer's day—

 

He closes his eyes and tries to be anywhere but here. 

 

“It’s this way, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Says a different guard. One of the Phantling’s(?), “Down this hall. I hate going down here, always gives me the creeps…”

 

God, Even the way their footsteps echo off of the metal walls is familiar

 

He’s had dreams like this, before. Walking these halls, being escorted back to his cell. The hallways would always stretch on forever, weaving and winding, endless . No matter how hard he tried to escape, they’d loop him right back to where he started. Feet sticking to the floor, a cold voice crackling in the air, a predator getting closer

 

A warm hand rubbing circles into his back. “It’s okay, Tommy. You know you can talk to me, right? It’s okay. I’ll listen—“ 

 

In reality, the Pandora isn’t that big of a ship. 

 

It doesn’t take them long to lead him up the hatch, winding through the packed storage area in the back of the ship, to the elevator that would take them up a floor to where the cell- rooms, are. 

 

The rooftops of Viona, the wind in his hair, the thick smell of sea salt and fish in his lungs. Glittering lights on the horizon, a city so far away, close enough to reach out and touch—

 

A hundred years ago, he remembers running through the belly of this ship. Slipping out of the elevator, tears in his eyes as he groped around blindly in the dark for the escape pods. It’s fucking ironic, really, that they take the same path to the elevator. Retracing his steps. 

 

Underneath him, he can feel the ship begin to shudder to life. The movement does not not help with his nausea, the jealous hand of gravity tugging him back as the shit starts to amble its way over to the exit—

 

—Sweat on his skin, laughter on his lips. The grip of a sword that fits perfectly in his hands, “You gettin’ slow on me, old man?”

 

“I’ll show you old man—“

 

“Techno- Techno, hey, we can talk about this- TECHNO—-“

 

(He already misses them so much)

 

One of the guards presses a hand to the scanner. The elevator slides open with a too-pleasant ding! and they all awkwardly shuffle inside. 

 

It’s a decent sized elevator, but Endborn aren’t exactly small. Two of them have to duck to fit inside, and even then, there’s just enough room for everyone to have some personal space, but not much left over. 

 

He just needs to breathe. It won’t last long. They’re only going up a floor or two. It’s okay.

 

“—reathe, Tommy. That’s it, just breathe, kid—“

 

But what then? They stick him back in his cell? He goes back to that tiny, windowless room— stop it.

 

He chose this. He wanted this. 

 

It’s for the best. 

 

(The scalpel burns a hole in the side of his leg)

 

—Ranboo’s wide eyes, Tubbo’s maniacal laughter. Techno’s larger hands over his, guiding him through gentle feathers. Pressed against Wilbur’s back, the world flying by around them as they zip through the city—

 

There’s a soft ding! As the elevator reaches its stop. Tommy sucks in a breath, pushes his shoulders back, and— 

 

The doors… 





…don’t open?

 

A moment pauses, then two. The guards start shuffling, muttering to themselves and one another. 

 

“Doors probably jammed.” One of them mutters. “Just my luck—“

 

“Get my comns— course there’s no fucking signal—“

 

Tommy blinks back to the present, and the world spins back into focus. 

 

One of the guards, the one closest to the panel with all the buttons, shuffles from foot to foot. After waiting another few seconds for something to happen on its own, he leans down to look at the screen more closely.

 

“One of these opens the doors, right?” He mutters, fingers hovering over the buttons. “Here, I’ll just—“

 

“Don’t go pressing buttons you —“

 

It’s too late. He presses the button his hand had been hovering over and…

 

…nothing happens.

 

Another guard smacks the back of his head, “Ow!”

 

“Leave the damn buttons alone, idiot.” He growls, gesturing with a threatening hand. “The doors open on their own—“ 

 

Before they can even finish their sentence, the light above them flickers once, twice .

 

And then the whole world goes.

 

Black



“Hey, what the—“

 

“—did you do—“



From there, everything happens so fast. 

 

Darkness slams over his vision like a metal curtain. He can’t see shit , but apparently, Endborn and Phantling’s have better night vision than humans, because whatever they’re seeing that he isn’t, they don’t fucking like. Everything descends into chaos on a dime

 

Stunned silence shatters into startled shouts, a cacophony of hissing and snarling. Boots thump against the floor as the whole world shakes with the force of a body getting slammed against the wall—

 

The elevator rocks, throwing everything off-kilter. Tommy can’t see shit , he might as well have been plunged into the goddamn void, for all he knows, and all the shaking the elevator is doing is not. Helping. He reaches out blindly to try and get his bearings, heart jack-rabbiting into his throat , fingers brushing against the metal walls as he pushes himself back, trying to get away from wherever the hell is happening—

 

A stray elbow to the side nearly knocks him over, so he does his best to press back into a corner to avoid- whatever the hell this is. A fight? He can’t see shit, can’t tell what the fuck is happening?! What the—

 

A sudden burst of light illuminates the elevator, electricity crackling in the air as one of the guards pulls a weapon from their belt, the tip sparking with lightning. 

 

For just a second, Tommy can see again, sparks reflecting off their visors, outlining them all in bursts of blue and silver. Pinned back ears and puffed up tails, bodies on the floor and movement too fast for him to track, a flash of teeth and an angry yowl, the screeech of claws against metal— 

 

The elevator shakes as one of the other guards lunges, electrically briefly lighting up the shocked expression on their face as they get a bolt of electricity to the neck and crumple like a goddamn tin can. 

 

Tommy hears the thud as they hit the floor, and everything goes dark again.

 

Everything goes completely. Eerily. Silent.



Oh, what the fuck. What the actual fuck—

 

Tommy can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat, harsh breathing echoing back in his ears as he tries to wrestle it under control. What the fuck? What the fuck?!

 

He doesn’t move a goddamn inch , frozen and pressed back tight against the wall like he’s trying to become one with it, because what the absolute fuck—

 

Holy shit, this is how he dies, isn’t it? Locked in an elevator with a guard-turned-homicidal- maniac— 

 

He opens his mouth to— to scream? To start yelling? To plead for his life , maybe? — but someone else beats him to it. 

 

There’s light again, blindingly bright and way too close . A beam that shines straight into his eyes, forcing him to turn his head away and squeeze his eyes shut with a sharp hiss , fucking ow, the hell? 

 

“Oh geez.”

 

The light shifts, shining somewhere to his left instead of right in his eyes. 

 

“I didn’t think- oh gods, are they dead?” 

 

And suddenly, Tommy’s frozen all over again. For very different reasons, this time. 

 

It’s less of ‘ oh my god, I’m about to die, quick, be as still as possible and hope the homicidal maniac doesn’t realize I’m still here’, and more of a freeze-frame, record scratch. Someone presses the pause button, and the whole world comes to a grinding halt. 

 

Because- because there’s no way, right? No. No, no, nononono— it can’t be— 

 

But it is. 

 

Tommy would know that irritating voice anywhere. 

 

“Ranboo?!”




-




“—waiting on his royal majesty to hurry the fuck up—“

 

“Dude. Relax.” 

 

Deep in the underbelly of the Pandora, flat on her back with her upper half disappearing inside a hatch in the wall, the Vulpian repair technician continues her tirade. 

 

“I hate that guy. Him and his creepy advisor too.” The technician slides back, waving the blowtorch in the air to get her point across. “I swear, if I ever see his stupid, smug face—“

 

“I don’t see why the boss even bothers working with that guy.”

 

The other technician, a tall, scrawny Blazeborn retorts, looking up from his own work. The engine room they’re working in is small, filled with the sound of humming wires and hissing steam. He has no need for the heavy masks and protection the Vulpian and the Apari wear, not flinching in the slightest at the bright shower of sparks the Vulpian leaves in her wake as she continues her work. 

 

The Apari snorts, rifling through her toolbox. “It’s because he’s an idiot, and the boss knows it.” 

 

Neither of them respond. She pushes her mask up, giving them both incredulous looks. She’s quite a bit older than you’d assume by her shorter stature, with crows feet by her eyes and grey streaks in her hair. 

 

“I mean, come on. You didn’t think it was because of his personality.”

 

The Vulpian laughs. The Blazeborn wrinkles his nose. “Definitely not.”

 

“Viona has some of the best hospitals in the galaxy.” She shrugs. “The boss provides the subjects, the idiot brings the tools, they both get to do their freaky experiments and everyone goes home happy.”

 

“Unless you count the ‘doctors’ on Nevodis.” The Blazeborn chips in, grinning with all his sharp teeth. The Apari laughs.

 

The Vulpian doesn’t, though. She slides back out of the wall, pushing her mask out of her face. “Wait- wait. Back up. Experiments? What kind of experiments?”

 

The Alpari gives her a look. “Oh, honey. Where have you been?”

 

She blinks up at them, eyes widening. “I thought those were just rumors.”

 

“Go easy on her.” The Blazeborn says, shoving lightly at the Alpari’s shoulder. “She hasn’t been here long enough to know. Don’t go freakin’ her out now.”

 

“They keep it pretty hush-hush.” The Alpari says, “But yeah. There’s a lot of stuff that happens on this ship that they don’t want the Council to know about.” 

 

“What kind of experiments?” 

 

“Well, no one knows for sure.” The Alpari leans back, her bones creaking. “But from what I heard? It has something to do with Earth.”

 

“Earth?” She echoes, “like, with humans?”

 

She nods, drinking in the attention. “Everyone in the galaxy loves Earth, but how much do we know about humans really?”

 

She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Who knows what they’re capable of.”

 

“They’ve…” she whispers. “Made contact? With humans?”

 

The Apari laughs. “Done a little bit more than just made contact, sugar. They brought one on board.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Apparently, they’re a lot more violent in person.” She continues, revealing in her shock. “Not at all like the rest of the Council describes them.”

 

“Have you seen them?”

 

“No.” She shrugs. “But I’ve heard so many stories. Apparently, they don’t do well in captivity. Only one has survived long enough to study. But you wouldn’t believe what the scientists on the second floor have to say, remember the fight at the Banquet the other day?”

 

“No way—“ 

 

“If you two are done gossiping,” the Blazeborn interrupts, looking at his comn. “I think it’s about time we finish up here. As soon as we get cleared for take off, we’re out of here.”

 

The Apari sticks out her tongue, but the two of them comply. The Vulparian lays back down, pulling her mask back over her face as she sticks her arm back in the hatch in the wall. 

 

“I’m almost done with these repairs. Just let me—“

 

She pauses, then, making a disgruntled noise. She slides back further, stretching to reach at something within the wall. “Huh?” 

 

The Alpari moves closer. “Something wrong?”

 

“Not sure.” She says, pressing against the floor to reach her arm back into the wall. She grunts, reaching for something. “There’s… there’s something back here? What—“

 

There’s a soft click! As she presses against something within the hatch. Two seconds of stunned silence, and then of loud, resounding, pop! Pop! Pop!’s

 

“Get down!”

 

And then the wall explodes.

 

All three of the technications screech, lurching into motion as the engine room fills with light. Metal shrieks as it rips open, shrapnel flying everywhere, smoke filling the air as pipes are busted open. The Blazeborn jerks back, losing his balance, and the back of his head hits the wall with a sickening thud, rendering him unconscious before he even hits the ground. The Vulpian lets out a scream, writhing on the floor, clutching her burned fingers. 

 

The Alpari, the only one with enough sense to hit the ground, is the only one looking up to see the figure emerge out of the brand new hole in the wall. A small frame, silhouetted in billowing smoke. 

 

“Sorry.” He winces, speaking gently to the Vulpian groaning on the floor. Carefully, he steps over her.

 

The Alpari looks around frantically, heart pounding as she tries to press herself back against the wall, tries to hide. She shoves a hand over her mouth, inching back towards the wall…

 

The figure's head turns towards her.

 

He crosses the distance between them, crouching down to speak to her face-to-face. 

 

“Nice coat.” The Bezzarian says, tugging on her sleeve. “Mind if I borrow it?” 




-




It can’t be- it fucking can’t be—

 

But here they are. 

 

Because it is, somehow, Ranboo that’s standing across from him, anxiously wringing their hands together as they gently nudge one of the guards with their foot. 

 

No no no. They can’t- they can’t be here. How the fuck did they get here?! 

 

His brain just refuses to make sense or what he’s seeing. Them, here. They don’t look right, in this elevator. Like a bad photoshop job, someone from the present he’d built out here in space badly edited into his past. They don’t fit. 

 

Even dressed like a guard, now that he knows who’s underneath that visor they stick out like a sore thumb. A few inches too short, in a uniform a touch too ill-fitting. They’ve dropped the act, letting all their mannerisms show through, the slouch to their shoulders and the way they fiddle with their claws- the only guard who hadn’t said a damn thing . How the hell didn’t he notice sooner? 

 

“It’s fine, they’re fine.” Ranboo mutters to themself, finally turning to Tommy. “C’mon, we don’t have a lot of time—“

 

Tommy is— he’s feeling a lot of emotions right now, honestly.

 

Confusion, shock, horror. Still reeling from being back in this place again. Torn between bursting into laughter, throwing his arms over their shoulders in relief, screaming until he can’t anymore, and breaking down right then and there into sobs.

 

Finally, someone manages to hit the ‘play’ button, and the world starts spinning again. 

 

“What are you doing here?!”

 

“What does it look like?” They step over the guard, still twitching on the floor, “We’re here to save you!” 

 

What the- wait one fucking minute- we’re? 

 

Their hand grabs him by the upper arm before he can react, trying to shepard him towards the exit, an anxious churr rising in the back of their throat. “C’mon, c’mon. Tubbo’s distraction won’t last much longer, we gotta get you out of here—“

 

His mind is racing, mouth struggling to catch up. Tubbo? Distraction? Saving him? 

 

“Wait- wait.” Tommy flounders, digging his heels in until they both grind to a halt. Timeout, stop, stop, “Stop!”

 

No- nonono. This can’t be— they can’t be here. Whatever stupid fucking plan they have- now is not the time. If Tommy gets caught, if Ranboo gets caught— 

 

“We don’t have time—“

 

Ranboo keeps trying to tug him, to pull him out from the corner he’s backed himself into towards the door. Tommy’s stronger than he looks, though, and he’s not going anywhere. 

 

Idiots. Fucking idiots, all of them. They’re going to get themselves killed or worse—

 

Stop it!” He yanks his arm back, jerking it out of Ranboo’s grip. He shifts back, back to the corner, back against the wall. “I can’t- are you fucking crazy?”

 

Trying to rescue him- what the fuck are they thinking? Tommy’s mind is racing, his breathing coming too fast and too shallow. How did they find him? How did they figure out something was wrong? Is Tubbo here? Do the others know? Do they know how much fucking danger they’re in by being here—

 

Tommy doesn’t need to see their eyes behind the visor to know that they’re looking at him like he’s the crazy one. Tail curled tight by their ankles, ears pinned back, hand still reaching out towards him. 

 

“How the hell did you even—“ No, he doesn’t need to know. There’s no time. They need to get the hell out of here. “You need to leave. You need to leave now.”

 

Ranboo, stubborn, stupid Ranboo, doesn’t move an inch. They plant their feet.

 

“I’m not leaving you.”

 

Tommy grits his teeth, swallowing the lump in his throat. Of course now they’ve decided they’re going to grow a fucking backbone— 

 

“You don’t understand—“

 

“Explain it, then!” Ranboo reaches for him again, carefully but firmly grabbing his wrists, “We know about- about what happened, okay? We’re gonna get you out of here, get you somewhere safe—“

 

And god— 

 

Tommy wants to scream. Tommy wants to cry. 

 

Because- because how many times in the past day and a half has he dreamed of hearing that? How many times has he wished for them to realize something was wrong? 

 

How many times has he had this nightmare before? How many times has he run down these hallways, his feet sticking to the floor, a monster without a face always, always, only a few steps behind? How many times has he screamed, and screamed, and screamed for help behind these walls, and how many times has he been left unanswered? 

 

He wants to believe it, he wants to believe it so bad it aches, but he knows better.

 

They don’t know what he is. They don’t know what he can do. He’s Ex-Deeh’s brother, he’s one of the most powerful people in the galaxy. He can get away with whatever the hell he wants too, and what the hell are they going to do about it? A rag-tag crew of nobodies up against him? 

 

Tommys already fucked. He can’t drag them down with him. He can’t— 

 

He planned this from the fucking start . He let Tommy go because he knew he’d find his way back, serve himself up on a goddamn silver platter. It’s too late for him. It’s been too late. Nothing can save him now, and every second longer they try is an inch they get closer to joining him. 

 

“You need to- get the others.” Tommy asks, no, orders, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He holds on to Ranboo’s arms just as tightly, fingers clutching to the uniform. “You need to get the others and run. Get the hell out of here and don’t look back. Get as far away as you can before—“

 

“Good plan.” They agree, sounding strained. “Let’s go.” 

 

They’re not listening. Tommy grits his teeth, biting back a frustrated groan. They’re not fucking listening! They don’t have time for this. They don’t fucking get it- they don’t understand what will happen—

 

“I’m not leaving here without you.” They say again, low and soft but just as stern. 

 

“You have too—“

 

“Well, tough.”

 

Tommy wants to scream. 

 

“We’re running out of time. They’ll notice you’re missing soon.” Their eyes meet his, and then, they smile. It’s a shaky, fragile thing, but Tommy’s heart still leaps at the sight of it just the same. 

 

He didn’t think he’d ever get to see them smile again.

 

If they don’t get the hell out now, no one ever will again. 

 

Standing straighter, shoulders pushed back, they’ve changed a lot since Tommy first met them. He takes a seconds just to look, to memorize the shape of their face, the parts he can see, the line of their shoulders and the angle of their jaw. Where did all this confidence come from, huh? 

 

They don’t grab him this time. Instead, they just hold out their hand. Smile tight, just a little bit of a wobble to the words. 

 

“Let me be the one to save you, this time.” 

 

And Tommy—

 

“I hate you. So much. Why can’t you just go away?”

 

For a second, it’s not this Ranboo that’s standing in front of him. 

 

He’s struck by a vision. A different room, white walls, thin sheets, a beeping heart monitor and the smell of antiseptic in the air. A haze of pain and exhaustion, clean bandages and the sweet, crisp aftertaste of golden apples. A thinner, shakier teenager, sitting across from him on the bed, looking at him with those big wide eyes. 

 

“…I had a nightmare.” Past-Tommy says. “ That’s it. I’m not dying, you can go away now.” 

 

He stares at the hand outstretched towards him. Feels the phantom weight of those careful fingers trailing up his arm, brushing over scars he still has, claw marks forever inked into his skin. A reminder. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Past-Ranboo says, in a language Tommy doesn’t speak. He understands, anyways. 

 

There are matching scars on the teenager standing across from him, now. Bigger, a little less scrawny, hair a little longer. He knows exactly where they are, across their ribs. Could probably trace them without thinking, pointing them out with his eyes closed. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way looked fresh, the scars he put there. 

 

“And I’m sorry for those. So, it looks like we’re even.”

 

He’d asked them to leave, back then. They’d stayed with him, instead. 

 

That night, a lifetime ago now, still burns like an iron brand in the back of his mind. The way everything seemed different after that, the whole world tilted a few inches to the left. The way it felt to put his injured arm in their hands of his own free will for the first time, to fall asleep in a pile on the floor with his friends and not even think about getting up to lock the door. It had been so hard at first, but really? Somewhere along the line, it became easy as breathing, to sleep with someone else by his side without a hint of hesitation, to have someone else’s hands tend to his injuries. To tend to someone else’s, in return. 

 

To trust, and be trusted .

 

It all comes back to trust in the end, doesn’t it?

 

Trust. The gentle touch of fingers carding through feathers, the brush of golden jewelry over his skin, woven through hair. The weight of a guitar in his lap, of an arm tossed carelessly around his shoulders. The sound of Tubbo’s quiet, buzzing snores and Ranboo’s sleepy purring. Quiet conversations and warm blankets, hoverbike rides and sparring sessions.

 

Trust is a sword that fits perfectly in his hand. Trust is a guitar he always wanted to learn how to play. Trust is an unlocked door.

 

That’s the real question, how much does he really trust Ranboo? The rest of the crew? 

 

Enough to live with them for months without being afraid, enough to sleep with Ranboo and Tubbo in the same room. Enough to leave the door unlocked. Enough to let them patch him up again, over and over, but not enough to tell them about the monster who’d been following him all these months? Not enough to tell them that something is wrong? Not enough to believe them when they said they cared about him? 

 

The real question is this: does he trust them enough to believe them, now? 

 

(Bright eyes, wild laughter, the weight of an unfamiliar hand in his. “Do you trust me?” the stranger had asked. His answer now is the same as it’s always been: yes, of course yes)

 

Ranboo is still looking at him. Those eyes, wide and pleading. I can help you. Come with me.

 

Anything else, Tommy would have said yes too in a heartbeat. He’d throw himself into the Vionian Sea, jump off the tallest skyscraper Bezzar has to offer, go three more rounds with a Hoglin in the Pit. As much as he and Ranboo bicker, looking at them now he knows . Somewhere along the way between Netheria and the Council Ship they’ve become family. Looking at them now, it’s ripping his fucking heart in two— 

 

He does trust them. He does. 

 

But in the end…



Shriiiinnnnnnnk



…it doesn’t even matter. 

 

The guards on the other side of the door look just as surprised as Ranboo and Tommy, startling backwards. The familiar face in the front especially so.

 

Tommy feels all the color drain from his face. 

 

Lab Coat Guy’s expression twists into something almost like shock as they take in the scene in front of them, the most expressive he’s seen him so far. The bodies on the floor, the human with his back pressed against the wall. The ‘guard’, whirling around with panic written over every inch of them. 

 

Lab Coat Guy just grins. 

 

“Well,” he purrs. “What do we have here?”




-




“I’m sorry, but I'm afraid Governor Boris isn't available right now.” 

 

The Blazeborn smiles, his voice sickly sweet. He’s tall and lean, with an almost demon-like appearance, glowing eyes and pitch-black fur. The inside of his mouth almost seems to glow, sparks lighting behind his fangs.

 

The Piglin, Elytran, and Merling standing across from him do not budge, undeterred.

 

Boris Johnson looking bitch. Eat the rich! RAHHHH FREEDOM!! USA! USA! 

 

Around them, other advisors and attendants flutter around, a swirl of scales and pearls, fins and glittering fabrics. Phantlings and Merlings, along with any number of other aquatic species, all speaking with their unique Vionian drawl. Amongst them, the Blazeborn appears almost comically out of place. 

 

“It’s urgent, I'm afraid.” The Merling insists in a lilting voice. “I used to be his advisor. Surely he’ll make an exception?”

 

The Piglin flicks an ear back. 

 

God I love Eret’s voice so much. Do Eret and Techno have a duo name? Dadza is getting the belt. /rainbow chat eeeEe—

 

The Blazeborn’s grin tightens. “If you’d like to submit an official request for a meeting, I’ll be happy to carry a message for you.”

 

Behind the Avian and the Elytran, the Piglin crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing, ears flicking back. It’s a subtle change, a slight shift of his posture he’s not even entirely conscious of, and not one many would recognize. 

 

Not a challenge , or even a true threat, not yet. I am serious, it means. I will not back down. 

 

The Blazeborn in front of them is not Vionian. He recognizes it for what it is immediately, gaze shifting past the Elytran and Merling to settle on the Piglin. 

 

Netherian customs aren’t something easily forgotten, once learned. 

 

His lip curls back, flashing a fang. Mimicking his aggressive posture. Me neither. 

 

Oooo he’s in for it now. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! Get him! Technoprotect! Protect the baby! Kill him! Tear this bitch apart! 

 

The Piglin flicks an ear, smoothing his expression into something unreadable as the voices only he can hear continue to howl in his ears.

 

“This is a time-sensitive situation.” The Merling insists. “It’s important we see him. Now. It won’t take long.”

 

“Like I said.” The Blazeborn purrs. “I’d be happy to submit an official request, but other than that, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

 

The Piglin pulls back his lips, revealing his tusks. The Blazeborn meets his gaze coolly, and does not back down. Neither of them blink.

 

The Elytran puffs up his chest, wings beginning to mantle to either side, making him look bigger than he is. His voice is clipped, a smile perfectly fixed into place as he speaks a voice that could freeze a lesser man solid. 

 

“It’ll only take a minute.”

 

“He isn’t in his office at the moment. You’ll have to come back at a later time.”

 

“No.” He says. “I think he’ll see us today. Right now , in fact.”

 

The Blazeborn goes to speak, but doesn’t quite get the words out in time. 

 

The Vionanian suite is in the upper half of the Council ship, near where the Banquet is held. The lobby they are in now is framed by huge, arching windows, overlooking the open-air market below. Giving them a perfect view of the giant screens, and the violent explosion of color that immediately engulfs them.

 

Omg pretty. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. tnt duo solos. Quackity finally gets to use his fireworks I’m so proud. ANARCHY ANARCHY ANARCHY—

 

Someone screams. Underneath them, the floor rumbles, sending an entire tray of tall glasses on a waiter's arm crashing to the floor. The crowd around them turns, people shouting in confusion and panic, gripping one another or fighting to reach the exits. The guards spring into action, trying to corral the panicking crowd and keep people calm—

 

Meaning that none of them are close enough to react as the Piglin crosses the distance between him and the Blazeborn in two short strides, grabs him the collar, and slams him against the wall.

 

BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD— BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! DEATH FOR HER ANGEL! KILLZA! GET HIS ASS! 

 

The Elytran leans close, smiling. It’s not a nice smile.

 

“If he’s not available, then I guess you’ll have to do.” 








Notes:

Yes I know I promised monthly updates. Here is a comprehensive list of things that happened to me since October that prevented that from happening:
-Family member with a heart condition rushed to the hospital, ended up staying almost a week. (had to get two more stints put in his heart to widen the blood vessels.)
-Briefly involved in a (still ongoing as of posting this, unfortunately) missing persons case
-Got a new job (:
-New job proceeded to ghost me :(
-Same family member in the hospital again (false alarm, he was fine)
-Got another New Job! Yay! (it pays 2.50$ less per hour than the shitty job I quit a month before. Atleast the managers are cool. One of them is a Tommyinnit fan. Lacey if you’re reading this, hi :3)
-Got an upper respiratory infection halfway through finals week
-Passed all my classes for the fall semester by the skin of my teeth (took 2 exams with a 100 degree fever and still passed B) )
-Same family member in the hospital a third time: ambulance edition (weird reaction to new medicine, stopped taking medicine, was fine)
-Finally got my ass an appointment with an academic advisor to schedule classes for next semester, only to realize I don’t have enough credits to graduate this spring like I thought I would
-Same family member in the hospital a fourth time: ambulance edition part 2, electric boogaloo
-Recovered from my upper respiratory infection only to get Covid for Christmas. Lost my voice and literally could not speak for like 4 days
-My mom borrowed my car, and when she got back home with it, the hood started spewing smoke! Yay!
-Car cost me 1,100$ to fix :’)

It's been a rough few weeks. on the upside, the next chapter is about half-written at this point, so it should be out later this month/early February. so long as life doesn't decide to fuck me other again.

Got any burning questions you want answered before the grand finale? drop them below, or send them over to my tumblr or my twitter! ALSO, I made a fun uquiz for you guys to take, which you can find right here!

Last but not least, if you're a fan of my writing you should check out my other ongoing SBI fic Graveyard of Eden, which will return to weekly updates as soon as i can kick my ass into gear and work on it.

stay safe out there, alright? I'll see you again soon.

 

-Matches

Chapter 24: Moving Forwards (not a chapter)

Summary:

Support victims. Fuck Wilbur Soot. No, this isn't the end of FHTN.

Chapter Text

Dear reader, 

 

Hello, it's me, Matches. I know you were probably expecting this, so I’ll cut straight to the chase. We all know why I’m here. 

 

First of all, I want to say that I am sending all of my love to Shelby and all of the other victims that have come forward. It takes an immense amount of strength to speak up about something like this, without even taking into account how much power and influence her abuser still holds. Coming forwards with what happened to her was unimaginably brave, and I truly wish her nothing but the absolute best. I hope that she, and all of the other victims, finally get the peace that they deserve.

 

I have thought very hard about what I am going to do with this fic moving forwards, and have finally settled on the following decision: I will be finishing it. 

 

I know this probably won't sit well with many of you, and I understand why. Believe me, I do. I do not expect to receive any support for this decision, and I am not asking for it. This is something I have decided purely based on my own selfish reasons, and you are entirely valid for taking issue with it. Feel free to unfollow or block me if this makes you uncomfortable.

 

This has nothing to do with me protecting or defending Wilbur Soot. FUCK that guy. I do not support him, I do not like him, and I hope that he rots. I hope he gets everything that's coming to him and worse.  

 

Continuing this fic is NOT me condoning his actions. It is NOT me supporting him in any way, shape, or form. It has absolutely nothing to do with him as a person at all. It is purely about the fic itself, and what it means to me. 




(pssst. This gets increasingly personal from here on out, so if you’re not in the mood to sit through paragraphs of me venting/bearing my heart to you guys, this is your cue to leave. Take care of yourselves, I’ll see you again soon <3)




I started FHTN spring 2021. It was one of the first long fics I ever really worked on, the idea coming to me on a whim. I had no idea that it would grow into the giant that is, or the impact that it would have on my life. FHTN is the fic that made me realize how much I loved writing. It made me realize just what I was really capable of, made me see the potential that I had. It’s what I turned to when I was having a bad day, a way for me to work through my own thoughts, fears, and emotions. Tommy’s story and transformation reflects the one I went through myself. 

 

It has become an incredibly large part of my life, and I genuinely do not know where I would be now if I hadn't started writing it. It is important to me. 

 

Getting this close to finishing it, I've been ecstatic. I felt like I was on the verge of an incredible accomplishment, like I was finally, finally going to have created something worthwhile. That I had done something important. Like all those years of struggling and learning were going to mean something . I was on the verge of accomplishing something incredible, and I was so proud of how far I had come, and the work that I’ve put it, and how much I’ve learned and grown along the way. For the first time in my life, I was looking back on all that I had done, and I was a little in awe. Mostly though, I was really, truly, proud of myself and of what I'd created. 

 

I am disgusted with Wilbur. I am heartbroken for Shelby. Above it all, dear reader, I am angry. 

 

I am angry on her behalf, and on behalf of the others he has hurt and taken advantage of. I am angry that he will likely not face any consequences for the harm that he caused her and so many others. I am angry that something I have worked so hard on is going to be ruined because of the actions of an awful, abusive person. 

 

This story made me the person that I am. This story changed my life. 

 

I know that sounds corny or stupid, particularly to those of you who aren’t fic writers or readers, but I cannot stress to you how much I am not exaggerating.

 

FHTN is what I worked on when I was terrified about my own future, when I was having a bad day and needed something to turn to. Most of FHTN! Tommy’s insecurities are my own, just repackaged. It’s what I used to work through my own feelings of inadequacy, of being isolated during Covid and feeling alienated from my peers. To vent about what it was like, being the loud-mouthed teenager who always clung on to things too-tightly with hands that never seemed to be gentle enough. What it was like to learn my own strengths slowly, bit by bit. What it was like finding people that actually cared about me, discovering what it was like to have friends that actually want you around for the very first time. 

 

One of the core messages of this fic, “you are not the person you used to be. You can never go home again, that's true, but maybe you don’t need too, anymore.” was one that I so desperately needed to hear growing up. 

 

Hell, FHTN is what I used to help me deal with the grief of Techno’s passing. 

 

It’s what made me realize how much I loved writing. Working on it, getting into the groove of the story, it's the closest I've ever felt to flying. I never would have been able to experience that without it. I never would have known that writing a 300,000 word fic was something I was even capable of. 

 

I battled my own mental health struggles and anxiety, pulled all-nighter after all-nighter, blew off plans with friends and family, spent an entire summer locked in my room just so I could work on it. I’ve spent probably hundreds of hours on this goddamn story in the course of the past three years. To not finish it would mean that all of that work, all the struggling, all that pain and effort and sweat and tears, it would all be for absolutely nothing. 

 

And maybe it is selfish. Believe me, I am aware of that. I have spent days tearing myself apart over it. But, unfortunately, I am a selfish person. A selfish, spiteful, angry, incredibly stubborn person, and I refuse to let the actions of one shitty, disgusting person ruin the achievement I have spent years of my life working towards. I refuse to have made it this fucking close without finishing it. I refuse to let it all have been for nothing. I refuse. 

 

I am going to finish it. 

 

I am going separate FHTN!Wilbur from the real person, and hope that the real person rots in the shame and disgust he should be suffocating in for the way he treated Shelby and so many others. I am going to believe in karma. I am going to be grateful for what FHTN taught me, for the changes it brought into my life and the happiness and escapism it offered for me and others. I am going to do my best to not let this taint all of the good memories. I am going to finish the last chapters, though god knows how long it will take me to get around to it, and then I am going to move on, content that I will have the closure I needed to put that part of my life behind me for good. 

 

I will not be promoting the last two chapters on any social media, so if you aren’t subscribed and want to read the last two chapters, I would do that. Read it if you want. Or don't. Either way, I will not give up writing, though I will definitely be moving to another fandom (Probably either Danger Days or Batfam? Who’s to say)

I hope to see you all again soon, hopefully on better terms. After the next chapter is done and uploaded, I will be deleting this. 

 

Thank you. 

 

Stay safe, and take care of yourselves, okay? I will try and do the same. We're in this together. 



 

 

–matches

Chapter 25: Goodnight, Travel Well (II)

Summary:

Brace for impact.

Notes:


"And everything you loved,
and everytime you try
everybody’s watching,
everybody cry.

Stay, don’t leave me.
the stars can wait for your sign,
don’t signal now."
--Goodnight, Travel Well, The Killers.

 

Welcome to the end! It's been a long time coming, huh?

 

First of all, yes, I did change the song for the last chapter and this one. This was originally going to be the song for the next chapter, but I decided to change it. You'll see why.

 

Not only is this officially the longest chapter in FHTN, clocking in at just over 26K, its also one of the heavier ones content-wise. Prepare for action, violence, angst, and a whole lot of chaos. A big not-thank you to Mars, who is no longer involved with this fic, and who wanted me to include a not-dedication as a bit of a final bow, so. This chapter is officially NOT dedicated to her, and lets send her off with a big round of applause!

 

Read responsibly, and enjoy!

 

tumblr // twitter // playlist

 

TWs: (SPOILERS)
Blood, gore, violence, medical abuse/torture, medical trauma, disassociation, suicide-adjacent thoughts, unintentional self-harm, threats of suicide, references to human (and inhuman) trafficking, dehumanization, character death. Very intense at points! May be a bit much if you're particularly sensitive.

 

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

The Pandora is one of the most incredible space ships ever built. 

 

Though it’s nearly the length of a football field from nose to tip, with a wingspan of about half that size, compared to the other ships used by the Council, it’s tiny. It’s not showy, no bright colors or flashing lights, with engines that roar or give off multi-colored flames to get across the wealth of their owners. No, the Pandora is sleek, unassuming, dark metal polished to a shine. Elegant, but in an understated sort of way. The kind of ship you wouldn’t spare more than a glance, especially in a crowded hangar. This is by design. 

 

The true beauty of the Pandora is in the details. Black metal the same color as a starless void, the sleek body designed for speed and stealth. Not a nail or screw out of place, every metal panel sitting flush and perfect, the welded seams invisible. The powerful thrusters and broad wings capable of handling intense stress and pressure for long periods of time. The extra storage space and crew facilities, allowing its hundred hand-picked crew members, as well as the on-ship maintenance crew, to live comfortably on board for months at a time without having to stop for repairs or supplies. Laboratories for them to conduct their research, a fully-stocked medical wing that allows them to do anything from create new potions to perform actual surgery, with the help of special stabilizers to prevent even the slightest amount of turbulence while in flight. 

 

At top speed, the Pandora is capable of traveling from one end of the Esempii galaxy to the other in just over an hour. A trip to the Milkyway Galaxy, a voyage that would take decades for even the fastest of other Council ships, the Pandora can make in just shy of a year, all while remaining completely undetected, thanks to its unique cloaking abilities.

 

Truly, the Pandora is a marvel to behold. But even the most impressive ships have their weaknesses. 



“What?” 



The Pandora’s weakness being this: it was never intended for the purpose that it is being used for.



“It’s okay, sir! We caught one of the intruders, a-and the asset is still in containment—“

 

“One of them? There’s more than one?” 



It was designed to study, observe, and conduct thorough research on human life without ever being noticed. Observation only , no interaction.

 

As such, quite a few… creative renovations were needed, to allow for the scientists to get more up close and personal with their subjects. New walls had to be put in, entire wings renovated with iron doors and locks, hand-scanners for security, soundproofing to keep what was happening under wraps. 

 

Maintaining the appearance of a simple, rule-abiding research facility is far from a simple task. There are bound to be cracks in the facade, every now and again. Things that slip through, from time to time. 

 

A good portion of the crew aboard has little to no idea about what happens in these sections of the ship, behind thick walls and metal doors, though even the most impenetrable of metal walls can do little against the spread of rumors. 

 

The crew talks, during the long hours of downtime as the ship travels from location to location. About the mysterious, well-guarded areas aboard the ship. About the noises that slip through the soundproofing, time and time again. About the neverending “shipments” that occur at odd hours, the contents of which known only by the few crew members with the highest level of clearance. 

 

About an incident that occurred roughly a year ago, when an escape pod seemingly deployed all by itself, in the middle of the night. 



“The damage they caused in the engine room is already being repaired. W-we’ll find them in so time, sir, they can’t have gotten far—“



The crew of the Pandora is fairly isolated from the rest of the galaxy, to minimize the risk of any of these rumors reaching the wrong ears. It’s not like they can afford to have regular inspections of the ship, either. Not with all of the less than legal activities happening, the adjustments made to the ship would be incredibly suspicious on their own, should anyone with any knowledge about how typical research-ships are designed get a closer look. 

 

So there was no one to notice, really, when the foam-like materials put inside of the walls began to degrade into dust, leaving hollow cavities behind. No one but the maintenance crew, who have better things to do than spend hours taking the walls apart to replace it. What use would a simple research facility have for such intense sound-proofing, anyways? 



“If you don’t find them right now , it’ll be both our heads on the line.” 

 

“Yes sir, Governor sir, we’re doing our best—“

 

“Oh, I’m sure of it. Why haven’t we left yet? We were supposed to have departed already!”

 

“W-we’re still waiting on clearance, sir, t-the damage to the engine room set us back approximately—“

 

“I don’t care what kind of clearance we need. Get us off of this infernal ship now.” 

 

“Of c-course sir, I just—“

 

“What have you done with our little guests in the meantime, hmm?”

 

“They’re being taken to the bridge.” 

 

“They’re being taken where?!”



Not all of the walls were made like this, hollow insides stuffed with sound-proofing material, but enough of them. Ceilings too, in the necessary areas. Especially in the parts of the ship that needed it the most, the laboratories, the brig, the captains quarters. Places where any leakage of sound could result in a lot worse than a few nasty rumors. 

 

Whoever put in the new walls hadn't paid much attention to this extra space. It’s not like any average person would be able to fit inside there, even without the soundproofing material blocking the way, the space would just be too small. 

 

However. 



Fantastic . Just lovely. Idiots, the lot of you, what possessed you to bring them there instead of—“



If someone small, clever, and incredibly determined happened to discover this little weakness, well…

 

There’s no telling what they might overhear. 



“—don’t have the clearance for— sure what to do and— was very insistent, so I just—“



Or what they might find. 



“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go fix this mess before anyone else finds out.” 

 

“B-but sir, there’s also—“

 

“What is it? Spit it out!”

 

“S-some of the crew, sir, is beginning to have some concerns—“

 

“The only thing this crew should be concerned with at the moment is getting us back into Vionian airspace as soon as possible. Understand?”

 

“Y-yes sir, governor sir, I will—“



The Bezzarian waits for the sound of footsteps underneath him to retreat, before making a move.

 

There isn’t much space in the walls of the Pandora , so he has to be careful not to bump up against the walls penning him in as he carefully, carefully, pulls his comn out of the pocket of the slightly too big lab coat. The earpiece is similarly oversized, and he has to hold it in place to keep it from slipping out. His antenna swivel, listening for vibrations that might spell trouble, but after a few more beats of silence, he relaxes enough to press the unmute button. 

 

“Hello? Purpled? Phil?” He whispers. “Can- can anyone hear me?”

 

For a few heart-pounding seconds, the only reply he gets is static.

 

Then, eventually, a voice crackles its way through. “—ubbo? Are you—- kay?”

 

The Bezzarian slumps in relief. 

 

“I’m fine.” He says, wincing. “There’s been… a change of plans.”

 

“Is that— ubbo?” 

 

A different voice cuts in, older, male. It breaks off into a round of cursing, distorted by static. “Mate? Are— —- kay?” 

 

“I’m fine.” He repeats, sucking in a breath. He forces his voice to be steady, curt and assertive as he gives his report.

 

“There’s- you’re not going to find Boris in his office, he’s here. On the ship. Tommy and Ranboo are in trouble. I tried too— I set off some explosions, earlier, to try and keep the ship grounded, but it—“

 

He cuts himself off and tries again. 

 

“The fireworks won’t be enough on their own. I need— I need something bigger. To distract him so I can get to Tommy and Ranboo.” 

 

Silence. Static. His heart pounds. “H-hello? Guys?”

 

The voices return, overlapping each other, mixing in with the static in a way that makes it nearly impossible to tell them apart. New voices join the mix, just adding to the confusion. 

 

“—take care of— shhHH —Halo, we can—“

 

“—told you, the fireworks are— should never have trusted—“

 

“—my fault? You’re the one who—“

 

“—mate, please, just listen to me—“ 

 

“—got it—- you two— I can—“

 

The Bezzarian winces at all the noise.

 

One voice is distinct, easy to pick out. A low rumble that he singles out from the rest. 

 

“—knew it, I knew this was a bad idea—- ing along with this stupid—“ he growls,  “—going to get themselves killed— it’s the damn Banquet all over again—“ 

 

The Bezzarian goes still, eyes widening. He mouths the word Banquet. 

 

“Tubbo.” The third voice is saying. “—need to— out of there. Now—“

 

But the Bezzarian is no longer listening.

 

He opens his comn, pressing some buttons. One by one, the voices cut out, leaving him in near silence. Except for one. 

 

“Purpled? Purpled, are you still there?” 

 

“Never left.”

 

The Bezzarian’s eyebrows scrunch together as he thinks, eyes flicking over invisible equations only he can see as the gears in his head turn. His fingers twitch, as if imagining typing on a keyboard, or longing for something to tinker with in the meantime. 

 

“The Banquet.” He settles on, eventually. “You- you saw what happened, right?”

 

“You mean when— beat the shit out of— from Lestea?” The voice responds in a lazy drawl, intercut with bursts of crackling static. “Dude, how could I forget? They still show replays— camera footage— on the big screens, it’s all the— will ever talk about. The— that hosts— Galaxy’s Hottest Gossip did a whole segment on— last night.”

 

“So—“ the Bezzarian pauses, processing what he’d said. “Wait, what?”

 

The voice abruptly clears his throat. “It’s- nothing. What were —saying?”

 

The Bezzarian starts moving again, sitting down to pull the bag off of his shoulder, a toolkit he’d stolen from the same repair technician he’d gotten the lab coat from. He fusses around inside until he finds what he’s looking for, a holo-screen. One that the repair technicians would use to access any manuals or maps they might need on the job, as well as document damages or parts that needed to be replaced.

 

“The screens can pull footage from the security cameras to broadcast, right?”

 

“…yeah?” 

 

“What about from… other things?” 

 

He scans the ID clipped to the lapel of the borrowed lab coat with the tablet, and it opens for him without any issues. A holographic screen flickers into view, displaying a variety of programs and apps. He flicks through them until he finds the one he’s looking for, a communicator a little more advanced than the kind on his comn. 

 

On the back of the tablet, a little camera shutters open. A prompt pops up on the front, begin recording? 

 

“I mean— I would need to— but— probably?”

 

The Bezzarian grins.

 

“Alright, new plan—“





-





The bridge of the Pandora is just as beautiful as the outside. 

 

Tommy has only ever been here once before. It’s changed since then, since that day in the desert, but it’s still just familiar enough to have goosebumps rising on his skin. Something primal in the back of his mind beginning to shriek, Danger! Danger! Danger! As soon as they cross that threshold. The body remembers what the mind forgets, resulting in sweaty palms and shaking legs, his heart doing its best to pound right out of his chest as he and Ranboo are shepherded down the hallway towards it by the guards. 

 

The clicking of Lab Coat Guy’s heels makes him flinch. 

 

It had been different, then. Emptier. No guards, no aliens manning the control panels. Darker, too. Quiet. Just him and Tommy. 

 

It had been like something out of an old sci-fi movie. So interesting, so incredible. Awe-inspiring. Now, as he’s led through the doorway that leads to the bridge, he looks up and all he feels is dread. 

 

It’s a bit different, from how he remembers. There had been less screens, more things strewn about. He can almost see it, a phantom overlay of a half-forgotten memory that makes him want to curl up in a ball on the floor and never move again. The memory plays out behind his eyes like an old film reel, watching the ghost of the thirteen year old kid he used to be walk around the center of the bridge, staring in awe at the wide, curving windows that stretch across the front, looking down at the darkened cockpit below, the flickering screens beneath them, empty seats in front of long, sprawling control panels. 

 

The bridge of the Pandora has two sections. An upper part, a lip that extends out over the lower part below, the cockpit in the front full of flashing screens and keyboards where the pilots and the rest of the crew do all of the actual work. The upper part is largely empty, aside from the podium in the center for him to stand, eye level with the giant, curving windows, and look down at everyone underneath like a king surveying his subjects. 

 

It’s different, this time, being marched in with a burly guard on their side, gripping him by the arms. Ranboo to his left, sporting a fresh black eye and a cut on the side of their face where the glass of the visor had nicked them when it shattered. 

 

This time, he’s not alone. 

 

He’s still deciding if that makes things better or worse. 

 

There is someone at that podium, when they make their way inside. Standing with his arms crossed behind his back, at the pulpit he built so he could look down at everyone else below, screens hovering around him like dogs all vying for his attention. For a moment, Tommy swears that he can feel his heart stop. 

 

That is, until he realizes who it is, and forces down a snarl, instead. 

 

“What do you want to do with them, sir?” Lab Coat Guy drawls. 

 

Tommy keeps his gaze stubbornly forwards, grinding his teeth together to keep from meeting the stupid Merling’s gaze. Past the podium, down to the cockpit below where a dozen or so of the Pandora’s crew work, click-click-clicking away at their keyboards, eyes flicking over their screens. Pulling up maps and adjusting valves, pulling levers and pressing buttons, murmuring softly to each other. 

 

He lets his gaze drift up, past them, out the large, curving windows that overlook the hangar outside. The other spaceships below and the clumps of guards and other official-types walking too and from them as the Pandora slowly taxi’s its way towards the exit. There are more guards than there were before, bustling around and speaking into their comns, swarming like angry insects. He can see the screens beyond, the big ones, the ones broadcasting news feeds and alien celebrities talking into microphones. A few of them are displaying what looks like some sort of… firework show? It’s hard to tell. 

 

So fucking close , yet so far away.

 

Tommy’s hands are shaking. He curls them into fists, trying to still them, but it doesn’t work. He’s pretty sure all of him is shaking, his body’s instinctive response to being in this place, again. Even if he isn’t here. The little voice in the back of his head that started screeching the moment he saw Lab Coat Guy’s ugly face rings in his ears, a constant shrieking drone that has him gritting his teeth against it. 

 

He and Ranboo could both die here. The thought makes his stomach roll. They could both die here, with a hangar full of guards right outside, and not a single person would notice. 

 

The fabric over his shoulders shifts as he moves, turning, dragging Tommy’s attention back to the present. An obnoxiously bright suit, adorned with pearls and braided, golden coral. He looks so out of place here, standing in the spot he usually does. Looking down his nose at Tommy, pursed lips and slitted eyes regarding him the same way you would gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. This fucking guy. 

 

The Vionian Advisor. Boris. Ugh. 

 

He’d say that he was surprised that there was another member of the Council involved with this shit, but honestly? Yeah, no. That tracks. Tommy knew he hated this fucker since the second he laid eyes on him. Judging by the look he’s getting now, the feeling is very much mutual. 

 

He waves a hand. “Bring them here.”

 

Tommy sucks in a breath as the guard starts to shuffle him forwards—

 

“No, not that one.” Boris scowls, gaze shifting away from Tommy. “ You.”

 

Ranboo looks his way, two-toned eyes filled with nothing but confusion.

 

Tommy jerks instinctively in the arms pinning him back, trying to move towards them, to grab them, to help them, “No—“

 

He doesn’t want them anywhere near this asshole, not on his fucking watch, but he can’t—

 

“It’s rude to interrupt.”

 

Tommy goes still, under that piercing gaze. He can hear the drumming of his heart in his ears, a ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum so strong it’s almost painful. He can’t get himself to breathe right, too harsh and too shallow, never enough air. No, no no—

 

He needs too— he has too— but he can’t. 

 

He can’t do anything. He struggles against the hold of the guard, every muscle in his body screaming to do something, you idiot! but he’d have better luck picking a fight with a brick wall. He can’t do fucking anything, helpless to do anything but stand there and watch as the guard shuffles Ranboo closer.

 

The world narrows down to this, his vision tunneling in, and Tommy’s head fills with white-noise. 

 

All he can focus on is the way Ranboo goes still as Boris gets closer. They’re quite a bit taller, the guard having to tug them down so they can be face to face. They still look so goddamn small, tail lashing back and forth as they lean away the best they can, chest shuttering up and down with their labored breathing. They’ve never looked more like a scrawny teenager. A kid. 

 

All he can see is that hand, webbed, each finger ending in a sharp, perfectly-manicured claw, reaching for them. Trailing past the side of their jaw to turn their face this way and that, nose scrunching with displeasure as he looks over the damage and the bruises—

 

The sight of those claws to goddamn close to their neck—

 

“No—“ Tommy jerks towards them, heart in his goddamn mouth, straining in the arms holding him back as something inside of him screeches. “No, no, don’t—“

 

He’s going to hurt them. Every muscle in his body screams at him at once . Don’t touch them. Get your filthy, fucking hands off of them— 

 

“Hush.” Boris dismisses him, glancing in his direction. “You speak when spoken too, understand?” 

 

The guard shifts, holding him more securely. All Tommy can do is watch. 

 

That hand. Not his hand, not true claws, not made of metal, but in that moment, it doesn’t even matter. Fingers laden with sparkling rings, clawed fingertips sharp and uncaring, drifting a touch too close to a vulnerable, unprotected throat. 

 

(The phantom memory of metal hands around his own neck)

 

All he can think about is how effortless , how easy, it would be, for those perfectly manicured hands to close around their prey. Just a turn of the wrist, a gentle touch tightening into a vice. A clawed fingertip rests on the side of Ranboo’s tight jaw for a second too long, and that’s all he can see. Clawed, metal fingertips, a slit throat and blood and his friend dead and cold on the floor—

 

He swallows. Hard. 

 

Tommy knows a threat when he sees one. 

 

And it makes him so goddamn furious. A kind of anger that twists and writhes in his stomach, mixing with the fear until he’s choking on both, until he's gone so tense that he’s shaking with anger. Unable to do anything, forced to watch as this smug asshole puts his hands on his friend. That’s exactly what he wants. To know that he has Tommy right where he fucking wants him.

 

This is everything he was afraid of, and more

 

He knew something like this would happen. He fucking knew it. He fucking told them to leave. He told them to go and they didn’t listen. And now they’re here. 

 

Now they’re here, in the hands of someone who would gladly let them bleed out if it meant that he gets what he wants. Now they’re here , and the pathetic excuse for a man standing in front of him knows exactly how much they mean to Tommy, and if he isn’t careful, if he doesn’t play this right—

 

“You sure caused quite a bit of trouble, didn’t you?” Boris muses. Bored, casual. The grip on Ranboo’s chin never wavers. “Tell me, what’s your name?” 

 

Tommy can’t look away. Ranboo’s gaze flickers to him, more confused than anything, and Tommy tries to communicate the best he can with his eyes how much fucking danger they’re in. 

 

Ranboo’s gaze hardens. They look over Boris’s shoulder, jaw tight, and say nothing.

 

Boris clicks his tongue unhappily. The hand on Ranboo’s chin drops, and finally, Tommy can breathe. 

 

“I’m afraid we don’t allow visitors on the Pandora .” He says, dryly. “And with all the damage you and your other little friend caused, well.”

 

He trails off, making a trilling noise sort of like he’s clicking his tongue. Those eyes of his, sharp, hateful, have a satisfied sheen to them, his voice a lilting drawl that makes Tommy want to fucking break something. 

 

“Damaging Council property, attacking my guards, attempted kidnapping—“ A pause, for dramatic effect. A put-upon sigh. “I hate to think of what might have happened if my guards hadn’t intervened when they did.”

 

Tommy clenches his jaw so tightly together his teeth start to creak. 

 

“Tell me.” He says, leaning closer to Ranboo, tilting his head like a curious bird. His lips quirk into a patronizing smile. “What was your plan?”

 

Ranboo does not flinch. Their gaze is steady, meeting his evenly. Their breath still coming a bit too fast, hands clenched tight at their sides. 

 

They say nothing. Boris makes a noise almost like a growl, a rattling sound in the back of his throat as the fins on the side of his face flare slightly. He takes another breath, and composes himself, folding his arms behind his back. 

 

“I’d be willing to… compromise.” He continues, “Put in a good word for you, as soon as we land on Viona. But I’m going to need a bit more cooperation than that.” 

 

He’s enjoying this, the sick fuck. Taking his time, drawing it out. He’s looking at Ranboo, but Tommy knows who those words are really meant for. 

 

Tell me what I want to hear, he’s saying, to Tommy, and I might just let them live. 

 

“Your name, perhaps? The whereabouts of your other little friend?”

 

Tommy’s throat constricts. Tubbo.

 

Boris seems to sense that he’s struck a nerve.

 

“They did quite a number on our engine. Nothing that we can’t fix, of course, but damaging Council property comes with quite a heavy sentence, you know.”

 

Ranboo stays silent. Tommy struggles to breathe as his throat closes up, chest going tight. Tubbo is here. On this ship. In danger. 

 

Boris leers at Ranboo. Quick as a snake, he grabs them by the collar, dragging them down to his level until they’re nose-to-nose.

 

“A name .” He drawls. “Or I hand you over to a friend of mine , and they’re a lot less understanding than me.” 

 

No.

 

Anything but that. Anything but him. 

 

No, no, no, nononono—

 

“No!”

 

Tommy feels like he’s been dropped in a tank of ice water. 

 

It’s a shock to his system, the switch from fury to terror that wastes no time in sinking its ice-cold talons into him. The kind of fear that leaves you paralyzed, choking, that blots out everything else until the world goes white and his head is full of static. 

 

Anything but that. Anything but him .

 

“No?”

 

Those eyes on him. Uncaring, hateful.

 

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, little human?” 

 

Tommy’s always been a coward.

 

He rips his gaze away, past Boris and Ranboo, past the pulpit. He bites his lip so hard that he tastes blood. He can’t. 

 

“A name. That’s all I need.”

 

Tommy does not look at him. He doesn’t look at Ranboo, he doesn’t look at the way they’ve gone still too, two-toned eyes wide and pleading with him to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t think he could speak if he wanted too, around the panic squeezing his lungs like a vice. 

 

He looks away, instead. He looks beyond them, outside the windows, at the world moving on around him, so close and yet so far. At the dwindling gaggle of aliens manning the ship, ducking their heads low as they focus on their work—

 

All except for… one. 

 

One, who’s maybe a little shorter than the others, now that Tommy’s actually paying attention. Outfit a little too loose, hands stalling on the keyboard in front of them. One that’s not looking at the keyboard or the screens at all.

 

One who’s dual-toned gaze is looking back at Tommy. 

 

Oh, Tommy thinks, bordering on hysterics, at this point, you have got to be fucking kidding me. 

 

Tommy tries to not let it show on his face, and isn’t too sure he’s succeeding to hide the way it feels like he just got punched in the stomach, looking into those eyes- eyes he’d know anywhere. The way he goes ram-rod straight, all of a sudden. 

 

They came back for him. Part of his heart sings. They didn’t leave him. They came back.

 

What the fuck is he doing? The other half screeches. What is he thinking? Why is he here? He’s going to get himself killed

 

They’re all going to die here. The rest of him sobs. They’re all going to die here, and it’s going to be his fault. 

 

“I’m waiting.” 

 

Tommy has two choices.

 

Give up Tubbo right now, and hope that Boris is a man of his word. Hope that corporating will be enough to spare them, that he’ll let them go. Life in prison would be better than being here. Then being handed over to him. Anything would be better than that. Anything. 

 

Or, he can say nothing. He can say nothing and he and Ranboo can die here, hand in hand. Maybe it’ll give Tubbo enough time to escape, maybe it won’t. 

 

Either way, it’s a death sentence. 

 

The scalpel he’d stolen burns a hole in his pocket. 

 

But maybe, it doesn’t have to be. 

 

He doesn’t have two choices. That’s just what Boris wants him to think. Using Ranboo as leverage, bringing him here. Maybe it was intentional, maybe it wasn’t, but either way, it’s obvious what he wanted. To make him feel helpless. To set two death sentences in front of him and tell him to pick one. 

 

Tubbo’s eyes never leave his. Under the desk, where the other technicians can’t see, he holds up five fingers.

 

Five…

 

And suddenly, the whole world just kind of. Snaps back into place. 

 

It’s a sudden thing. The click of a missing puzzle piece slotting in with the others, the sharp crack of a dislocated shoulder popping back into the joint. A slap to the face waking him out of dead sleep, leaving him gasping and reeling but finally fucking awake as the white noise cuts off into silence. 

 

Tommy meets the familiar gaze of the first real friend he had ever made, and suddenly, everything becomes perfectly, crystal clear. 

 

He sucks in a breath, and feels himself breathe



Four…



Make a choice. That’s all he’s been doing, is making choices . Having someone else lay out the options, telling him to choose. Go home, or stay here? Trust them, or don’t? Clem and Clara, or you? Take their hand, or leave it? Risk it all, or stay behind? Give up Tubbo, or watch your friend die? 

 

Tommy tenses, eyes slipping from Tubbo to Ranboo. Ranboo, who somehow manages to find his gaze, stiffly nods back. 

 

They want him to make a choice? They want him to choose? Fine. 



Three…



The scalpel burns a hole in his pocket. Slowly, as to not draw attention, he shifts his position, one foot behind the other. Ranboo catches his eye, subtly mirroring him.

 

He makes his choice. The choice he should have made an hour ago, staring at Ranboo’s outstretched hand. 



Two…



He makes his choice, and he chooses to trust them. 

 

Please, Tubbo, he thinks, trying to project his thoughts to the boy below. Please, please, please have an actual plan, because I’ve got nothing— 



One…



Oh, who is he kidding. It’s Tubbo . Of course he has a plan. 




Zero.

 

Boom.





-





The dark, star-speckled sky above the Council ship is on fire.

 

Rockets whistle through the sky, filling the artificial atmosphere surrounding the Council ship with showers of sparks and the thick, acrid smell of smoke. Every few seconds, there is a ground-rattling boom! as another firework goes off in an explosion of color and light.

 

In the marketplace below, the crowds of merchants and shoppers shout and push against each other, eager to get out of the way and avoid the falling sparks, covering their faces to block out the smoke. Some are frozen, staring up at the sky with slack jaws, pointing at the explosions in shock, and maybe even a little bit of awe, voicing their confusion to the others around them, only adding to the noise. Others are more panicked, shouting out for partners or family members they’ve lost in the chaos, taking shelter underneath overhangs or the remains of broken merchant stalls. 

 

Amongst them is an Avian. Still dressed in his best suit, sans jacket and smudged with soot, standing entirely still. He is one of the only ones not fleeing for shelter, feet planted to the ground, head tilted back to the sky with a hand shielding his eyes. As unmoving a rock in the middle of a raging river. A moment of stillness in the chaos of color and movement. 

 

He whistles, loud and clear. “Holy shit.”

 

“Don’t just stand there, dumbass—“

 

The Phantling at his side grabs his arm, tugging him along, and the moment of stillness is over.

 

Another boom! Goes off, and the whole group flinches, instinctively ducking and covering their ears. The four of them cling instinctively to one another, pulling each other along as they struggle to stay together in the crowd of panicking shoppers and merchants. They move as a unified front, moving together in a way that’s a little too practiced to be the first time they’ve done this, instinctively settling back into childhood habits. The tallest leading the charge, the two shortest members kept to the center, the Blazeborn picking up the rear. 

 

“Well, it’s definitely working!” The Blazeborn shouts to be heard over the noise. 

 

The Avian is smug. “I told you it would—“

 

“Yeah, yeah .” The Phantling’s hisses at him, tugging him out of the way just in time to keep him from being trampled by a family of panicking Shulks. “Save the gloating for later when we’re not about to get crushed by giant spaceship—“

 

“We need to get everyone out of here.” The Merling shouts, interrupting them. “Alright, listen up.” 

 

She points at the two of them, the Phantling and the Avian, blue eyes sharp. 

 

“Wilbur, Quackity, make sure the fireworks keep going off. If that ship takes off—“

 

The Phantling is quick to agree, eyes wild. “On it.”

 

The duck again as another boom! rattles the ship, and he reaches out to grab her hand before she can disappear in the crowd. “But what about you?”

 

She grins, all sharp teeth, grabbing the Blazeborn’s arm. “We’ll clear the way for you. Now go!”

 

They don’t need to be told twice.

 

The group splits, the Blazeborn and the Merling darting off in one direction, the Phantling and the Avian in the other. 



-



There’s a series of observation decks overlooking the marketplace.

 

Large, comfortable areas, filled with tables and couches for the rich and famous to lounge about and be served drinks and fruit on silver platters. It was abandoned when the first fireworks rang out, the alarms blaring throughout the ship encouraging the passengers to take shelter below. Couches and tables lie around in disarray, shattered glasses covering the floor. 

 

A flipped over table makes good cover, and both the Phantling and Avian dart behind it. Both breathing hard, both stained with ash and soot, eyes wild. The Avian drops the bag he’d sling over his shoulder, shoving a blaster in the Phantling’s hands before pulling out a larger weapon for himself. It looks like a mix between a crossbow and a grenade launcher, a brightly colored firework already loaded in the barrel.

 

At the Phantling’s wide-eyed look, the Avian just shrugs.

 

“Aw come on.” He says, his smile sharp. “You didn’t think I’d let Charlie and Foolish have all the fun, did you?” 

 

The Phantling gives him a look , and he just laughs. 

 

The shaking and noise from the fireworks has already splintered the glass of one of the large, arching windows overlooking the chaos below. All the Avian has to do is plant one solid kick to the center, and it shatters completely, leaving a gaping hole in the center. Noise and wind whip through, whipping at their clothes and hair. 

 

Above them, the Pandora hangs in the air. Still moving, though slowly, its engine bleeding smoke as it limps along, trying to build up enough speed to break away from the Council ship's orbit but not quite managing it. It moves at this strange, loping gait, slowing down, building up speed, only for the engine to not be able to handle the strain and giving out, causing it to drop another few feet in the sky. It wavers more with every explosion of sparks against its belly, but it’s still not enough

 

“We’ll have company soon enough.” The Avian says, dark eyes scanning the room around them, before settling back on the Phantling. He adjusts his grip on the rocket launcher.

 

“I’ll bring that ship down, you cover me. Got it?”

 

The Phantling looks. Overwhelmed, to say the least. 

 

The Avian doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns, closing his bad eye as he aims. The noise that erupts from the muzzle when he squeezes the trigger makes the Phantling flinch.

 

“I—“

 

“I see them! Over there!”

 

Footsteps. Shouting. Getting closer and closer, coming from the doorway behind them. The Avian grits his teeth, loading another firework into the rocket launcher, taking aim again out the shattered window. 

 

“Cover me!” He snaps over his shoulder. boom! goes the rocket launcher. 

 

The Phantling fumbles with the blaster in his hands, quickly setting it to stun before aiming it at the approaching guards, peering around the side of the table they’re using for cover. There's three of them, charging in blindly through the doorway, the weapons in their hands sparkling with electricity as they shout orders to each other. None of them notice the Phantling or the Avian in time, and the Phantling squeezes the trigger. 

 

The recoil of the blaster catches him off guard, and the first few shots go wide, pop! Pop! Pop! He’s quick to correct himself, 

fins flattening to the sides of his head, and the next round of shots find their mark. In seconds, all the guards are slumped to the floor, twitching. 

 

“Fuckin’ hell.” The Phantling curses, lowering the blaster. He turns it over in his clammy hands. “The fuck kind of blaster is this?”

 

The Avian shoots off another rocket. It tears through the sky with a whistling screech , exploding on contact with the side of the Pandora in a shower of golden sparks. The ship drops another inch closer to the marketplace below, the nose just beginning to dip down. 

 

He grins, golden light dancing in his eyes. “The illegal kind.” 

 

The Phantling makes a face, but doesn’t seem too surprised. 

 

“Look alive!” The Avian says with a laugh, tilting his head like he’s hearing something the Phantling can’t. Taking into account the small earpiece in his ear, he probably is. “We’re about to have company!” 

 

Pounding footsteps, another group of guards getting closer, exploding through the same doorway. They barely get the chance to open their mouths and shout before the Phantling squeezes the trigger, pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! 

 

He’s more prepared, this time. Every single shot hits its mark, and four more bodies hit the ground a few paces behind their friends. 

 

The Avian whistles, lowering his crossbow to assess the damage, eyebrows raised. 

 

“Well shit. would you look at that. We actually make a pretty good team.”

 

The Phantling grins, looking over at him. “We always have.”

 

For a moment, they look at each other, and the whole world seems to pause and catch its breath.

 

Just like that, however, the moment ends, and they both sharply look away. 

 

“Let’s just get this over with.” The Avian mutters, turning back to the window. “The less I have to be around you , the better.” 





-





Just as the Pandora makes its way out of the hangar entrance, the whole world explodes. 

 

Tommy hits the ground the same time that the guard does, a blinding burst of light fills the front windows, accompanied by a series of deafening booms that rattle the ground under his feet. 

 

The alarms start to blare, and he jumps into action.

 

His heart beats in time with the blasting lights, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. It’s hard to see, everything moving so fast, the scene briefly illuminated every few seconds in crimson red from the flashing alarms, the rising and falling of their wailing droning in the background. The taste of metal in his mouth, bang! The crunch of his elbow into the nose of the guard behind him, his scream as Tommy wrenches himself out of his grip, reaching for his boot—

 

The restraints on his hands come off with a satisfying crack as he wedges the end of the scalpel blade in between the seams. The guard reaches for him again, and Tommy doesn’t even think, he just moves . Muscle memory, flashes of a different place, dust and sweat and a crowd screeching for blood—

 

A scalpel is no sword, but it fits perfectly in his hands, just the same. 

 

An uproar of panicked cries and shouting from below them as Tommy wrestles with the guard, a flurry of movement and the clacking of keys, a pearl of laughter that Tommy would know anywhere—

 

Boris’s voice, the loudest and most shrill that Tommy’s ever heard it, “Don't let them escape! you—“

 

Tommy’s guard hits the ground with a thump, screeching and clutching the shattered visor over their face, He whirls around—

 

“Idiots!” Lab Coat Guy screeches , “I have to do everything my—“ 

 

A crackle of electricity as one of the other guards pulls out his weapon, but they don’t get far. A flash of black and white fur and a bone-chilling screech , and they both go down in a tangle of hissing and spitting, a jaw that seems to unhinge— 

 

The sharp chirping of laser fire, too close for comfort, as a guard Tommy hadn’t noticed before levels a blaster at the writhing mass of Ranboo and their opponent on the floor. Tommy doesn’t even think , he just lunges— 

 

The thump of a body against the floor, as Ranboo drops their opponent. 

 

A blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, blue, gold, iridescent. Tommy’s too busy wrestling with the guard to really see what’s happening, doing his best to try and wrench the gun out of his hands, but he can hear it just fine. A challenging snarl countered with a hiss , the flashing of scales and the sound of torn clothing, a rattling growl that quickly turns into a blood-curdling screech—

 

Tommy flinches , hands instinctively coming up to cover his ears, a flash of white and a pained yowl, a commanding voice breaking above it all—

 

“Everybody freeze!” 

 

And just like that, everything skids to a stand-still.

 

Alarms still blare, lights still flash, but Tommy tunes it out. All of it. The smell of blood heavy in the air, the groaning of the guards on the floor, some still writhing, clutching at broken visors and weeping wounds, some utterly still. The shouting below and the desperate clacking of keys. The heavy breathing of the four of them left standing. 

 

His gaze locks on Ranboo, and nothing else matters

 

Ranboo, bloody and spitting like an angry cat, secured in the arms of Lab Coat Guy, held still with the business end of a knife under their chin. His glasses have been knocked askew, revealing those too-familiar eyes, bruised and bleeding from a dozen different claw wounds but still standing. 

 

Somehow, even through all that, they’ve ended up right back where they fucking started. 

 

“Drop the scalpel.” Lab Coat Guy says, just a touch out of breath. He presses the muzzle a little harder against the side of Ranboo’s jaw. “Now.” 

 

The scalpel slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

 

“Kick it over to me.” He orders. “Hands stay where I can see them.” 

 

Somehow, even after all that, they still fucking lost. 

 

The scalpel slides across the floor. Lab Coat Guy catches it under his foot. He’s smiling. A wide, sharp-toothed smile, with just a few too many teeth. It’s nowhere close to meeting those dead-fish eyes. 

 

To his right, Boris finally manages to drag himself to his feet, clutching the pulpit with one hand to keep himself upright. He makes a sharp, wounded noise, the other grabbing desperately at his— his—

 

“Y-you—“

 

He moves his hand for just a moment, and even Tommy can’t quite bite back the sympathetic wince , nausea rolling in his stomach at sight of all that blood, streaming down his face, his hands , fucking hell—

 

Oh god, his face. 

 

Three bloody gouges over his left eye, claw marks, he realizes, swallowing back bile. He makes another wounded nose, face pale as he desperately clutches at the wound with shaking hands, trying to stop the bleeding from his- from what used to be- his eye. 

 

He whirls on Ranboo, baring his fangs into a full on snarl that rattles in the back of his throat, the fins on either side of his face flared out.

 

“I’m going to skin you alive.” He hisses, taking a lurching step forwards, clumsy, off-balance. You’ll be begging for death when my doctors are through with you- you animal.”

 

Doctors. 

 

The word sends a sharp stab of something down Tommy’s spine. Some inkling in the back of his head telling him to pay attention, that something about that was important, but what…? 

 

Lab Coat Guy’s face is perfectly neutral, though Tommy swears that his lips quirk up into a smile at the words. 

 

Of course he’d be happy about that, the sick fuck. What Tommy wouldn’t give, to knock that smug look right off his dumb face. He probably can’t wait to sink his claws into Ranboo, to turn them into another one of his sick experiments, just like—

 

Just… like… 

 

“I’m done with this.” Boris says, to Tommy, this time, waving a hand in a manner that was probably meant to be dismissive, but came off more frantic, almost desperate. “It’s over. Take them- take them to the brig. I’ll let him deal with them, I can’t—“

 

He cuts himself off, nearly choking. When he looks at Tommy, his eyes are molten. 

 

For a few seconds, it feels like everything goes into slow motion. He sees Ranboo, stuck in Lab Coat Guy’s hold like a rabbit in a snare. Below them, Tubbo, still tussling with the other technicians but outnumbered. Seconds tick on for hours, every rasping breath lasting a century as his mind races. 

 

Not like this. Not like this. He fought too hard to die like this, for them to die like this. Bleeding out on a table, just another experiment—

 

Doctors. Experiments. 

 

“I’d say this little experiment is a resounding success.” 

 

Tommy shakes off the memory. He needs to think. He needs a plan, but his head is too full of whirring thoughts and terror for him to think straight. He needs to do something

 

Deep breaths. Techno had instructed him, once, a lifetime ago. Focus. What do you have? What can you use? 

 

There’s a guard near him, sprawled out on the floor to his right. The one he’d been wrestling with, sent down with a strong kick in between the legs, wheezing softly as they lay limp on their side, their back to Lab Coat Guy. A foot away from him, maybe two. 

 

He can work with it. He has too. 

 

“Back away from the guards.” Lab Coat Guy says. His gaze is sharp. “Put your hands in the air. Resist, and you won’t like what happens next.” 

 

Their blaster is near them, not quite close enough for them to grab. If Lab Coat Guy even noticed, he didn’t let it show. Tommy forces himself to not look at it, to keep him from catching on. 

 

He presses the blade a little harder against Ranboo’s throat. “Move, or I start cutting bits off.” 

 

Ranboo and him lock eyes. 

 

It’s now or never. 

 

Tommy takes a step back—

 

Lab Coat Guy starts to lower the knife. “Good, now— ack!” 

 

—then lunges to his left, the second Ranboo’s teeth close around Lab Coat Guy’s wrist. 

 

He snatches the blaster off of the ground, just as Lab Coat Guy manages to twist free and regain control with a hand fisted in Ranboo’s hair to pull their head back out of biting range. 

 

Both of them move, Tommy’s faster

 

He lifts his hands and levels the blaster at Lab Coat Guy’s head. 

 

Lab Coat Guy holds his knife under Ranboo’s chin, still as a goddamn statue. Boris’s hand rests on his belt, on his own weapon, one he hadn’t even had the chance to draw before Ranboo had turned on him. 

 

For a long moment, no one says anything. No one so much as blinks

 

A stalemate. 

 

Then, Lab Coat Guy just chuckles .

 

“You’re not going to shoot me, Tommy.” He drawls. His fingers flex around the knife. 

 

“Drop it, and maybe I’ll let them live.”

 

Tommy’s hands shake around the handle of the blaster, but he doesn’t lower it. 

 

He’s never held a gun before. 

 

It’s not a sword, or a scalpel. It’s shaped like a gun, sort of. More like one of those stupid plastic toys kids get at arcades, the ones that light up obnoxious colors and make stupid chirping sounds. Only this time, it’s real. Real and heavy, cold and warm at the same time, almost seeming to hum in his hands. It feels wrong— unnatural

 

He tries to copy the way he’d seen the guy hold it, but it still doesn’t feel right. 

 

The trigger isn’t so much a trigger as it is a button. A place that he’s meant to squeeze. His fingers rest on it, and they shake. 

 

He could shoot him. Put a laser right between his eyes, but what if he can’t? His hands won’t hold steady, no matter how much he wills them too, a tremble that wracks up his arms and through the rest of him, equal parts terror and adrenaline. He’s never fucking shot a laser gun before, he barely even knows how—

 

Lab Coat Guy is grinning at him, like he knows it. Tommy is sure it’s written all over his fucking face, how stiff he is, holding the damn blaster out in front of him like he’s seen people do in movies. Pretending he’s a hell of a lot braver than he is.

 

He’s never felt more like a little kid. 

 

His hands shake. 

 

C’mon, Tommy. He grins his teeth, squinting one eye. Ignores his sweat-soaked palms, the flashing lights and still-blaring alarms, the pounding of his heart that he can feel all the way in his goddamn fingertips. Ignores that stupid, stupid grin on Lab Coat Guy’s face. Point and fire. Aim and shoot. 

 

He’d only get one shot. One shot , or Ranboo dies. 

 

All he has to do is pull the fucking trigger, how hard can it be? He can’t— he can’t fuck this up. He can’t afford to fuck this up. Everyone is counting on him, Ranboo is counting on him, so why can’t he force himself to fucking shoot the guy already—

 

What if he’s not fast enough? What if he misses? Hits Ranboo instead? 

 

His hands, his stupid, stubborn hands, refuse to be still, and Tommy can’t— he can’t—

 

He can’t hold the fucking blaster steady. 

 

Tommy doesn’t have time . Ranboo doesn’t have time. Every second that ticks past brings them closer and closer to ending up at the business end of that knife, Tommy’s out of time, and he’s out of options, and he can’t— 

 

He can’t do this. 

 

But then… there is another option, isn’t there? 

 

There’s one shot he knows he can’t miss. One even he won’t be able to fuck up.

 

He doesn’t have time to come up with a better plan. Doesn't have time to think about what might happen if he’s wrong. He doesn’t have time to think about anything. 

 

“Trust your instincts.” Techno had told him, once. “Your body knows what to do, even when your head doesn’t. Sometimes, you just have to trust it. Have faith.” 

 

So, he does what he does best, and acts without thinking at all. 

 

Between one second and the next, Tommy whirls the blaster around and turns it on himself. 

 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” 




-




“When did you learn how to hotwire a spaceship?”

 

“I’m not hotwiring the spaceship.” The Merling says, sounding almost offended. Her clever hands continue to work at the latching mechanism of the small, purple-and-grey clipper. “I'm just- oh, here we go.”

 

The soft clanking noises stop, and the Blazeborn scrambles back as she reaches underneath the roof and pulls. 

 

As far as spaceships go, calling the clipper in front of them a spaceship is, honestly, a bit of a stretch. It’s more of a glorified hoverbike than anything else. It’s small body meant to hold three, maybe four people, with a roof that lifts up so the passengers can step down into it. A pretty little thing, with a black interior with accents of a striking violet. Its intended purpose is to make traveling around a city, or in this case, the large Council Ship, easier, as well as being a casual display of wealth. Not the kind of ship you would ever want to take on a trip between worlds, however. 

 

“Just needed to break the latch.” Pulling back, she dusts off her hands and turns to the Blazeborn with a satisfied smile. 

 

“But how are we going to pilot it without the—“

 

The Merling pulls a ring of keys from her pocket. It contains a room key, the key for the clipper, two other miscellaneous keys, a keychain with a small, stylized green alien, and a limited edition Las Nevadas keychain, complete with sparkly lights.

 

“…key,” he finishes, stupidly. He blinks stupidly at her, eyes bulging. 

 

“I figured Purpled wouldn’t mind?” She shrugs, still smiling, “Here, catch.”

 

Catching the keys with one hand, he looks up her, impressed, and a little in awe. 

 

“Have I ever told you that you’re the coolest person I know?”

 

Her smile widens. “You could stand to say it a little more.”

 

And with that, she pats the roof of the clipper, and they both carefully step inside, lowering the roof down once they’re settled. 

they step inside of the clipper, pulling the roof down once they’re settled inside.

 

The Blazeborn beats her to the pilot's seat, a slightly-maniacal grin spreading across his face as he turns the key in the ignition, and the clipper hums to life. A purple holographic keyboard flickers into existence in front of them, and, after making sure that she’s properly strapped in, the Merling is quick to fiddle with the controls, rummaging around in the storage compartments. She pulls out two sets of bulky, over-ear headphones,  handing one to the Blazeborn before putting one on herself.

 

“Ready?”

 

Sparks flicker at the corner of the Blazeborn’s mouth he grins, crackling his knuckles. “Let’s get this party started.” 




-




It’s one hell of a standoff. 

 

Boris and Lab Coat Guy across from him, Tommy staring them down. The whole world around them disappears into nothing, the flashing lights and blaring of the alarms, the explosions that still rock the ship every now and again, filling the windows with bursts of bright light. Not the distant shouting and barking of the rest of the crew below them, scrambling to fix whatever was happening with their screens. 

 

It’s just them. Just them, and Tommy. 

 

The blasters muzzle is a cold weight against the side of his jaw. 

 

Tommy expects to feel… something. Afraid, maybe? That he would be flinching away from it, from the loaded gun he has pressed against his Cartoid artery?

 

He isn’t, though. 

 

Tommy is washed in a cool, steady calm, a sharp contrast to the flood of terror and adrenaline from earlier. The static behind his eyes recedes. The voices screeching in his ears go quiet. The ghosts brushing over his skin leave him be. 

 

The only thing he can hear is his heart beat, the familiar ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum in his chest, the rush of blood reminding him that he’s still alive. That he still has choices. 

 

For the first time in a long time, his head is perfectly clear. 

 

Both Boris and Lab Coat Guy are temporarily stunned, blinking at him stupidly as the reality of the situation sets in. Ranboo looks equally as taken aback, staring at him with a terror in their eyes that makes it impossible for Tommy to hold their gaze. 

 

Boris breaks the silence first, letting out a snarl that has every hair on Tommy’s body standing on end, lips pulled back to reveal rows of sharp fangs, blood from his eye still dripping down his face to stain his ugly suit.

 

But neither of them move. Neither of them challenge him, the knife at Ranboo’s neck never cuts any deeper. They both stay exactly where they are, frozen in place. 

 

Holy shit. 

 

Tommy sucks in a breath. Holy shit, that fucking worked? 

 

“You need me alive.” He says, breathless, hoping his voice is steadier than he feels. 

 

He’d been right. His hunch had been right. 

 

Lab Coat Guy hadn’t wanted the guard to hurt him, earlier. The way he talked about him, calling him an experiment, it wasn’t hard to draw his own conclusions. To figure out just how much he’s worth. 

 

If it didn’t matter whether or not they needed him alive or dead, they wouldn’t have bothered with this whole thing. He would have just killed him, back in his room that night. He could have been killed the second he stepped on board the ship, or better yet, killed months ago before he ever even made it to the Council ship. It’s not like they hadn’t had any opportunities.

 

But no. They lead him here. Set this whole thing up to lure him back like a lamb to the slaughter, to bring him back into a cage. 

 

Tommy is a walking, talking petri-dish, the result of a one-of-a-kind, several-months-long, experiment. The only human on record to travel the whole galaxy and live the tale. He’s valuable to them. Irreplaceable , in a way Ranboo and the rest of his crew aren’t. 

 

They need him alive. 

 

Use what you have, Techno had told him, a lifetime ago. Use what’s in front of you. 

 

They need him alive, and so, logically , the best leverage he has is to threaten to take that from them. 

 

“One wrong move, and it’s over.” Tommy says, “And your stupid experiment fails.”

 

It’s so still on the upper bridge of the Pandora , Tommy can barely even breathe. 

 

Boris has gone even paler than before, if possible, good eye blown wide even as the slitted pupil narrows down to a pinprick. Lab Coat Guy’s reaction is similar, though a bit more subtle. Not subtle enough. 

 

He tries to hide it, to recover, smoothing his face over into a poker face even he would be jealous of, but Tommy had seen it. The brief flash of panic in eyes that are typically hidden from view. Seen it on both of them. 

 

He feels his lips curl into a shaky smile. Gotcha, bitch. 

 

“I don’t know,” Boris grinds out, “What you’re talking about.”

 

To his credit, he’s actually a pretty good liar, even with half of his face clawed off.

 

But why ? What’s the point of lying now? Tommy’s not stupid, he knows what’s going on here. Lab Coat Guy does too, obviously, so what’s the point in—

 

Lab Coat Guy’s gaze flicks to the cockpit below, and suddenly, Tommy understands

 

He doesn’t want the rest of the crew to know. 

 

It’s not something he’d ever really thought about before. He’d been a bit preoccupied , last time he’d been aboard this god-forsaken ship, but now that it’s staring him in the face, he doesn’t know how he overlooked it. Kidnapping and torturing humans by the dozens seems like a hard thing to keep discreet, but the Pandora is a big ship, with a big crew to run it. Pilots, maintenance crews, navigators, a hundred other roles completely unrelated to the whole “kidnapping and experimentation” thing that needed to be filled just to get the ship off the ground. 

 

He would want to keep things under wraps, want to try and lessen the risk of his dirty little secret getting out. He wouldn’t let anyone who would be a threat to that in on the secret. 

 

Just how many people aboard the Pandora know what’s actually happening here? How would they react, if the truth gets out? 

 

…How would the whole galaxy? 

 

“You’re confused.” Lab Coat Guy interrupts, speaking up in that smooth, lazy drawl. “Put down the blaster, little human.” 

 

His eyes are sharp. Unflinching. 

 

“Before you do something you’ll regret.” 

 

Tommy’s throat bobs against the muzzle of the blaster, and he swallows back a hysterical noise that could barely be called a laugh before it can bubble out of his chest. 

 

Because fuck, it’s dizzying, to finally be on the other end of this. To be the one with the leverage. 

 

He’s always been the one holding all the cards, the one with the winning hand. The best poker face in the goddamn galaxy, stringing him along as he deals Tommy his hand. Makes him think he has a chance at winning before he snatches it away again. An illusion of a game, an illusion of a choice. 

 

The game’s been rigged from the start, and they both knew it. 

 

The game is over now, though. The cards are all on the table, face-up. Tommy sees everything, the whole goddamn deck laid out in front of him, clear as day. 

 

Honestly, he kind of wishes Dream were here, now. He wonders what he would say. Wishes he could see the look on his face when he realizes that Tommy isn’t playing anymore. 

 

“Let them go.” He jerks his head towards Ranboo. “And I’ll think about cooperating.” 

 

Lab Coat Guy gives Boris a glance, the hand not restraining Ranboo’s arms carefully holding the knife by the slope of their neck. Not breaking skin, just… settling there. Keeping them still, forcing them to take quick, shallow breaths to keep it from digging in any further. A threat. 

 

A desperate man clinging to his last bargaining chip. Boris looks between the doctor and Tommy, and then, he scoffs. 

 

“Oh please.” He huffs, ragged. “Enough with the dramatics. We both know you’re not going to do it. Put it down.” 

 

There’s a waver to his voice, ever so slight. His hand is still trembling, manicured nails digging into the metal. His breathing is too harsh, either from the wound or stress, who’s to say. 

 

Why, Boris, is that uncertainty Tommy’s hearing? 

 

His only response is a wolfish grin. 

 

“Oh yeah?” He presses the muzzle in harder, finger resting on the trigger. 

 

“How much are you willing to bet?”

 

The thing is, Tommy can see what Boris can’t. He has a good view over his shoulder, from where he’s standing, a perfect view , really, of the way the screens start to flicker and change, displaying something else. Something new. 

 

At the way Tubbo mouths at him to keep talking, grinning viciously as the rest of the crew scramble to undo whatever he had done to the screens. Judging by the panic in their rising voices, it’s not working. One by one, they shift over, a new window popping up, swallowing up the screens—

 

Keep talking. 

 

Well, it’s a good thing that’s what Tommy does best. 

 

“You kidnapped me.” Is the first thing that comes out. A sharp, clear accusation. And once he’s started, he can’t bring himself to stop. 

 

He thinks about everything he’s been through, every awful, horrible thing that’s happened to him between then and now. He sucks in a breath, and he drags the memories back to the front of his mind, drags up all of that fear, all that pain, all the rage that had settled in afterwards, letting it soak into his words, fuel to the fire.

 

Then, he opens his mouth, and he lets himself talk. 

 

“You stole me from earth, you cut me open over and over, you stuck an implant in my head, you tortured me for months—“ the words tumble from his mouth like marbles, one accusation after the other, raising in volume until he’s almost shouting. “—And when I finally, finally think that I’ve gotten away, that I’m finally safe , that I’m getting better , you— you—“ 

 

And fuck, does it feel good to say all of this out loud. 

 

“—you drag me back here all over again. You hurt my friends, you threaten to cut them open if I don’t go along with your stupid fucking plan. You make me relive the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, and for what?”

 

“Little h—“

 

“Shut up!” Tommy screeches , so loud that both Boris and Lab Coat Guy jump . “I’m the one talking, you hear me? And unless you want me to put a laserbeam in my fucking skull, you’re gonna shut up and fucking listen to me!”

 

Lab Coat Guy’s face is a perfect, porcelain mask. In his grip, Ranboo is staring at him like a deer in headlights, not even attempting to hide the sheer horror spreading across their face. Tommy rips his gaze away first.

 

Boris sets his jaw and says nothing at all.

 

“I thought I was going home.” He says, his voice cracking along with the words. “I thought I was safe. I thought I was finally— that I could get over what happened. That I was getting better.” 

 

His hands shake violently around the handle of the blaster, and he shoves it in a little harder, swallowing. 

 

And fucking Christ, does it feel good to just— to get it out. To rip himself open and lay everything bare, all cards on the table. Spilling his guts for the whole goddamn galaxy to see. Giving in to that childish urge to scream in the faces of the people who hurt him, look at me! Look at what you did to me! Look at what you turned me into! 

 

It’s surprisingly therapeutic. Not to mention a fantastic distraction, every head in the cockpit below whipping around to look up at him, if they weren’t already. 

 

“I thought I escaped but- but it was just another experiment , wasn’t it?” 

 

He laughs, loud and ever so slightly unhinged, a maniacal laugh Tubbo would be proud of, jerking his head to the side. “Another test?”

 

No one says anything at all. 

 

“I’m sick of tests.” Tommy spits. “Sick of games.”

 

He presses the blaster deeper into the side of his jaw, ignoring the way his own pulse jumps when he rests a finger lightly on the trigger. It’s worth it, to see the way the two of them go still, the way Lab Coat Guy jolts ever so slightly in his direction, sucking in a sharp breath. The cold is grounding. He can feel the drum of his heart against the metal, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum—

 

He hears the noise Ranboo makes, a sharp, wounded sort of sound, the end of it strangled as Lab Coat Guy adjusts his grip. He very carefully avoids looking at them. 

 

Boris is silent, good eye flicking up from his jaw to meet his gaze. There’s so much hatred in that eye, the one not covered by a bloody hand, a vitriol he can’t disguise with pretty words and false confidence. 

 

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he says, voice low and dangerous in a way it hadn’t been before. “What I am trying to accomplish.”

 

Hook, line, and sinker. 

 

Gone is the honey-sweet voice, the crushed velvet of his drawl. This is the actual Boris speaking, the one who’s hated him since he first laid eyes on him, all the way back at that first Council meeting. The sniveling coward who had sided with Jared. The one looks at him like he’s a rabid animal that needs to be put down. 

 

“How many others?” Tommy can’t help but ask, he has to know. His voice is loud, throat scraped raw. 

 

“How many others were there? How many were humans like me?”

 

Neither of them say anything to that. They don’t have too. The silence is damning enough on its own, thick and suffocating in the air. Tommy sucks in a ragged breath, and goes in for the kill. 

 

“How many weren’t?”

 

Lab Coat Guy gives him nothing but a dead-eyed stare.

 

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Not the way Boris does, going stiff. Not the way the guards do, the two that were still conscious having dragged themselves off to the side, not quite meeting each other's gaze. 

 

Tommy is breathing hard, the icy calm from earlier giving way to an anger that rattles his bones. Now that he’s not talking, though, he finally notices the way the rest of the room reacts, the ripple that spreads through the bridge, every pair of eyes turning away from him and towards Boris and Lab Coat guy, instead. Waiting. Willing them to respond, for them to react to the accusations hanging heavy in the air like a sword about to drop. 

 

Boris senses it just as much as Tommy does, gaze flicking to the cockpit below. If Lab Coat Guy does as well, he doesn’t let it show. 

 

The guards weren’t the only ones to flinch. The rest of the crew below, that had paused in their efforts to tie Tubbo to one of the chairs and fix whatever he’d done to the now-frozen screens to stare and gawk at the scene unfolding above them, pause to glance uneasily at one another. Tommy’s not sure if he’s surprised or not, at the way only a handful look truly shocked. Most of them look uncomfortable. A few look queasy. Only one or two don’t react at all. 

 

Past Boris and Lab Coat guy, outside the window behind them, Tommy gets a wonderful view of the Council ship from above. The open-air market place, the chaos erupting below as fireworks explode in the sky, filling the artificial atmosphere of the Council ship with colors.

 

The giant, football-stadium sized screens on either end, and the live video currently being displayed on them. 

 

Boris is the first to break the silence, letting out a loud sigh, and Tommy immediately turns his attention back to him, fighting to keep his expression blank. He keeps his gaze locked on Boris, ignoring the panicked technications below and the scene unfolding on the window behind his head, tempting as it is. Nothing going on back there, no sir. Eyes on me, fuckface. 

 

“Everything I’ve done.” 

 

His voice is low and slightly strained. He does not meet Tommy’s gaze. Lab Coat Guy does not look anywhere else

 

“I’ve done it for the good of this galaxy.” 

 

And the awful thing is— Tommy actually believes him. 

 

Not that he’d actually been doing anything good. Just because he hadn’t held a scalpel himself doesn’t make him any less guilty, any less to blame for what had happened to him, he’s just as much of an awful person as any one of the scientists who’d done the torturing— but that he believes that he was doing good. 

 

Tommy knows first hand the way he can get into your head. Twist things up, make you believe whatever the hell he wants to get you to move the way he needs you too, a puppet on a string. 

 

The words he’d just said— Tommy would bet anything that they don’t belong to Boris, not originally— he’s just repeating what he’d been told, whatever pretty lie he’d sold him to convince him that torturing innocent people was a good thing. 

 

And he believes it. 

 

After everything, he still really, honestly , believes that what he’s done to so many people was for the greater good. 

 

If Tommy didn’t hate him so much, he’d start to feel bad for him. Sort of. 

 

“…Right. Sure.”

 

Just keep him talking. 

 

“You don’t. Understand.” 

 

His low voice morphs into a growl, fangs gritted together. “Just how dangerous they are.”

 

“Sir…” Lab Coat Guy warns. 

 

“Real dangerous, yeah.” Tommy throws his own words back at him, the hand holding the blaster trembling. “Half starved, drugged out of my mind,” he drawls, sarcastically. “I’m sure I was real threat to you—“

 

“Humanity is dangerous!” 

 

Tommy flinches at the sudden rise in volume, and he’s not the only one. Lab Coat Guy doesn’t so much as twitch, gaze unwavering. He stares Tommy down like a shark.

 

“We are protecting this Galaxy.” Boris spits, the words falling from his lips like poison, shoulders beginning to tremble. 

 

“Researching, experimenting . With my help, we’ve discovered more about humanity than the Council has in decades—“

 

“Sir.” Lab Coat Guy cuts him off again, giving him a warning look. “Don’t—“

 

“By experimenting on them, you mean.” Tommy challenges, come on, take the bait. 

 

“Tell me, was it just the humans that you decided to cut open? To see how they tick? Or was it your own people, too?” 

 

Boris growls. “Watch your tongue when you speak to me, child—“ 

 

“I wonder if they thought you were protecting the galaxy when you strapped them down to slice them open—“

 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about—“

 

“—or did they look at you the same way I do, like the monster you are—“

 

“I am a savior!” 

 

Boris slams his hand down on the pulpit, baring all of his teeth, his one good eye wide and wild, bloody strings of hair falling in front of his face. “You—“

 

“That’s enough.” 

 

Lab Coat Guy interrupts, sharp and firm. He gives Boris a look that Tommy can’t make heads or tails of, but it cows him enough into backing off. 

 

Though, judging the looks he’s getting from the rest of the crew below, it’s a bit too late.

 

Boris sucks in a rattling breath, running the hand not cupped protectively over his eye through his hair, composing himself. He leans against the pulpit for support, as some of the fight seems to drain right out of him.

 

And just for a second, there’s a different person standing in front of him, entirely. A tired, ragged, pathetic man. Injured and beaten, clinging to his ideals like a child. 

 

“Everything I have done.” He repeats. Calm, collected, and just like that, the ragged, pathetic is gone. “I have done for the good of this Galaxy. For my people.” 

 

In his place is a monster. A familiar one. 

 

“To protect them, to keep them safe, through any means necessary. Whatever the cost.” 

 

His hands are shaking almost as badly as Tommy’s are. Voice loud, assertive, speaking to the cockpit below as much as he is to Tommy across from him. Like if he repeats himself enough, it’ll magically become true. 

 

“I don’t expect you to understand, human.” He growls.  “The sacrifices I have made.” 

 

Tommy feels vaguely nauseous, staring him down. He swallows, steeling his nerves. 

 

“You’re right.” He agrees. “I don’t understand.” 

 

What do you think, Tubbo? That good enough of a confession for you? 

 

Judging by the way the cockpit has begun to erupt into noise, Tommy figures that it was probably as close as they were going to be able to get. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers. 

 

Finally looking away from Boris, he looks over his shoulder, instead. Looks out the large windows and the giant screens beyond. 

 

Tommy grins, sharp and feral , and the projection of his face grins right back. 

 

“Something tells me they won’t, either.”

 

Blown large enough across the giant screens for the whole Council ship to see, Tommy watches himself mouth the words. He looks like a fucking mess, face smeared with blood and tears, storm-grey eyes sharp and wild. His busted knuckles tremble around the handle of the blaster still pressed underneath his jaw. Cracked and bloody lips curled back into a smile that bares all of his teeth. 

 

“What—“

 

Boris finally turns, then, looking out the wide windows behind him. 

 

Through the front windows of the Pandora, projected on one of the giant screens across the hangar, Tommy gets a crystal-clear view of the look on his face the exact moment that Boris realizes just what, exactly, he’s just done. What he’s just said, live on screen, for the whole goddamn ship to hear. 

 

And it’s fucking glorious. 

 

Lab Coat Guy makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut, and Ranboo hits the ground with a thud. 

 

“Turn it—“ Boris is moving, head whipping between the guards, his screens at his pulpit, the scrambling crew below as his voice raises to a shout as he grabs Lab Coat Guy by the, well, Lab Coat. “Turn it off! get it off—“

 

Below them, the rest of the Pandora’s crew is in chaos. Darting between keyboards, shouting to one another, the handful that hadn’t known the truth about Boris looking back with wide, horrified eyes. Tubbo, working on the restraints tying him to the chair with his teeth, cackling like a madman all the while. 

 

“Sir we are- we don’t know how.” One of the braver crew members squeaks, raising their voice to be heard amongst the chaos. “It’s not— everything his frozen we- we don’t know where it’s coming from—“

 

Lab Coat Guy wrenches himself from his weak grip. Wide, disbelieving eyes look between Boris, the screen outside, and the crew below. 

 

“Fuck.” He says, showing the most emotion Tommy thinks he’s ever seen from him. 

 

Boris whips his head around to face him, “Well don’t just stand there! Grab him!” 

 

Lab Coat Guy takes one staggering step back, then another, heels clipping against the floor. Those eyes find Tommy, one last time, wider than he’s ever seen them. 

 

Then, he turns on his heel, and bolts. 

 

“Sir.” Tommy hears him shout as he goes, speaking into his comn. “Sir, we’ve got a situation—“ 

 

Boris lets out a wordless shriek of rage, reaching for the pulpit in the center of the ship. He wraps those bloody, perfectly manicured hands around it, and pulls.

 

The noise the metal makes as it rips underneath that unforgiving hand is ear-splitting, metal tearing apart, nails and bolts popping off, wires snap-snap- snapping . Finally it gives in, snapping in two with a terrible crack as he wrenches the top part of it off—

 

With the scream of a man who’s lost everything, he pulls back his hand, chucking it at the screen in the center of the control panel. It hits, and shatters. 

 

For a moment, everything goes black.

 

The alarms that had been blaring earlier shut off. The flashing lights disappear too, leaving everyone blinking stupidly in the sudden darkness like idiots— 

 

In the darkness, a hand finds his. Long slender fingers tugging gently at his wrist, pulling the blaster away from his neck for good. 

 

I’ve got you. 

 

Tommy drops the blaster, grabs that hand, and holds on with everything he’s got. 

 

I’m not going anywhere. 

 

Then, the alarms come back on. 

 

The backup power comes on slowly, blank screens flickering dimly to life one by one. The alarms blare obnoxiously, this loud, droning wail that rises and falls in time with the lights, red flashes that start and stop, bathing everything in the color of fresh blood before leaving them in the dark again, only to start all over. If anything it seems louder than before, drilling into his senses like a jackhammer. 

 

Boris turns slowly, chest heaving, as one of the guards approaches tentatively.

 

“Sir we- we turned the main power off.” A different guard chirps nervously, “the generator is s-stil functional—“

 

Slowly, so slowly, like something straight out of one of Tommy’s nightmares, every head in the room turns to face him. 

 

“You.”

 

Haha. Fuck. 



-




The Slyvari in the lab coat is afraid.

 

He is not used to being afraid. He does not seem to be handling it well, his eyes too wide, breathing too harsh. He attempts to compose himself, standing with his back perfectly straight, arms laced together behind him, but the fear that radiates off of him is nearly palpable.

 

“Sir.” He says. “What do we do?”

 

The room is dark. Small. It’s lit only by the screens against one wall, dozens and dozens of them, each displaying a different scene from a different security camera aboard the Pandora

 

The creature that stands in front of them says nothing. The Slyvari holds still, curling his hands into fists so the shaking isn’t as obvious. 

 

He is no ordinary Slyvari. Amongst his kind, he is quite the anomaly. A subspecies, evolved to live in the dim light and thick atmosphere of Viona. Survival is hard for plantlife on a planet with such little sunlight, one so different from their origin planet, T’Aria. They learned how to make do. How to get by in the dark, to take what they need when they need it, no matter the cost. 

 

Anyone who says that every plant-based species must be harmless, passive and docile, knows absolutely nothing about plants.

 

He is a predator, through and through. As cold and calculating as any shark, as patient as any fungus, watching, waiting . For its prey to hesitate, to grow sick, to falter. For them to show weakness, any weakness, that can be exploited against them. For a chink to appear in their armor, just large enough to be reached by the edge of a scalpel blade. Or a needle. 

 

He is toxic. A strangling vine, stealing light and nutrients alike, and leaving nothing but barren earth in his wake. A parasite. A carnivore

 

Compared to the creature on the other side of the room, he is as harmless as houseplant. 

 

An electrical whine fills the air. A smell like ozone, like lighting before it strikes. The creature shifts, and sighs like crackling static. 

 

“There’s no need to worry.” It says. It is not looking at the Slyvari, masked face locked on the screens, on the security footage.

 

“Losing Boris is… a temporary setback, at most. The scandal of this little… altercation, should be enough to dismiss anyone’s suspicions. I’ll see that he’s dealt with, before he can ruin anything further.”

 

Its eyes, hidden behind the mask, are locked on one screen. A moment replays, over and over. A blonde-haired boy, grinning besides the tears and blood smudged on his youthful face as he shoves the muzzle of the blaster under his jaw. He’s speaking, though these cameras provide no audio. His eyes are wide, wild. 

 

“And- and the boy?” He says, nervous. “I can—“

 

“I think you’ve done quite enough.” 

 

His jaw snaps shut so hard his fangs click together. “O-of course, sir.”

 

Its hands move over the keyboard, finishing the work it had started earlier, pain-stakingly deleting and transferring files and records to a more secure location. It presses a few buttons, and the screens, one by one, flicker out, until only one is still lit. 

 

It presses a few more buttons, bringing up a page of files and records. All of the files seem important, each carefully labeled, each containing countless hours of security camera footage, going back for months. 

 

It presses a few more keys. The screen displays a prompt. 

 

Warning: Are you sure you want to delete these files? This cannot be undone. 

 

It selects, yes.

 

Deleting File: Lestea__001, One of Twenty-four…

 

Slowly, it rises to its full height.

 

The Slyvari jolts, suddenly panicked. “S-sir— you can’t— if anyone sees you—“ 

 

“I can be stealthy.”

 

He swallows. It pauses. 

 

“…though, you do have a point.”

 

Something like relief flashes across his face, for just a moment, before it’s smoothed over into a porcelain calm once again. 

 

“It would be a shame, if word got out about my involvement.”

 

It takes a step forward. 

 

Instinctively, the Slyvari steps back. The mask of calm indifference slips, just a fraction, in his confusion. “S-sir?” 

 

“You understand, don’t you, old friend?” It drawls. 

 

“What did Boris say again? To do good, you have to be willing to make sacrifices.” 

 

Confusion turns into total, abject terror. 

 

The Slyvari opens his mouth, but the creature descends on it before he even gets the chance to scream. 




-




Here’s a fun piece of space-ship trivia for you: no matter how fancy the ship looks on the outside, most of the spaceships Tommy’s been inside of have two things in common: 

 

One, the cockpit, which is almost always in the front. 

 

This is the most important part of the ship, placed front and center to give the pilots the best view. The bridge, if the ship is big enough to have one, is usually connected, sometimes a bit higher up so the captain can see where the fuck they’re going. Bedrooms, kitchen, bathrooms, communal spaces, they tend to be somewhere in the middle, layout changing based on size and type of ship. Not uniform enough for Tommy to navigate by without knowing the ship's layout already like the cockpit is. 

 

And two, the hangar and loading dock, which are always down.

 

The hangar of the Argo II was mostly used for storage, that and to store Wilbur’s prized hover bike. It’s where the ramp lowers down from to get on and off the ship, only accessible by a shitty-ass ladder. The Council ship was a little fancier, it never lands, so it doesn’t exactly need an on-ramp like a normal ship, its hangar acting more like a cross between a garage and a boat dock. 

 

The hangar of the Pandora is a bit of a mix between the two. If anything, it’s more like the latter.

 

…get it? Ladder? 

 

They have a few seconds of peace to catch their breath as Ranboo pulls the hatch shut over them. The huffing of their labored breathing echoes back to them in the dark, sweaty hands clutching to cold metal rungs. Overhead, they can hear the distant, furious shouting of Boris barking orders, the stomping footsteps of guards passing just a little too close for their liking. 

 

It’s a goddamn wonder they were able to outrun the guards in time, get a few seconds head start. It won't be long before they figure out where they’re heading. There’s only one way on and off the Pandora , after all. Every second counts. 

 

Tommy’s head is reeling, his palms flushed and sweaty and his heart absolutely pounding. He isn’t— that fucking worked?! His stupid fucking plan worked and then Tubbo swooped in to save the day and it was all— he’d put a gun to his fucking head—

 

If he stops too long to think about any of what just happened, he’s going to collapse on the floor in a sobbing, hyperventilating heap. He can have his menatal breakdown later, after they get the fuck out of his hellhole. 

 

“We have to hurry.” Ranboo urges. “Go, go, go—“

 

“I’m trying!” Tommy hisses back, and starts climbing down. “What about—“

 

“Tubbo will be- he’ll be fine.”

 

They sound more like they’re trying to convince themself, rather than Tommy. He swallows, and decides to let it slide. 

 

“He knows what he’s doing.” They continue, nervous babbling echoing back in the tight space, intercut with soft gasps as they try and catch their breath. “He’s probably- probably halfway across the ship in the walls somewhere.”

 

Tommy snorts. Yeah, that sounds about right. “Only Tubbo could come up with a plan that batshit insane and pull it off.” 

 

“Speaking of insane—“

 

Ranboo’s foot clips the side of his face. “Ow! What’re you—“

 

“What were you thinking back there?!” They hiss, tail lashing back and forth. 

 

Tommy opens his mouth. That I couldn’t watch two of my closest friends die in front of me. 

 

He swallows, and tries again. “He- they needed me alive , so…” 

 

 It’s easier, when Tommy says it like that. 

They needed me alive, so I threatened to take that away. It was only logical. 

 

Better than the whole truth. Tommy didn’t think Ranboo would react the best too, “I totally fucking choked in the moment because I knew I couldn’t make the shot and so I went with my gut and bet on Boris not wanting to risk losing his walking-talking Petri dish, and then I got really, really lucky that Tubbo already had a backup plan? Crazy how things work out, right?” 

 

Ranboo makes a sound like a cat being strangled. “So you just- you were-“

 

“I wasn’t going to actually.” Tommy sputters. “I just— I figured that he wouldn’t— I needed to make a scene so Tubbo could do his whole thing , so—“ 

 

They smack him in the face again, this time with their tail. “Ow!” 

 

“If you ever do anything like that again.” They growl. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to bring you back to life so I can kill you again.” 

 

Tommy pauses, rubbing the side of his face. “…yeah, okay. Fair.” 

 

Just then, the whole ship gives an awful shudder.

 

Both Tommy and Ranboo let out shouts of surprise (one significantly more manly than the other) when the ladder they’re both clutching too for dear life starts to wobble.

 

“What the hell- what the hell—“ Tommy yelps, clutching to the rungs as tightly as he can. “What’s—“

 

Around them, the ship starts to hum.

 

No way. No, there’s no way they’re actually— 

 

“They’re preparing to take off.” Ranboo mutters, and Tommy feels his stomach drop.

 

“Now?”

 

Ranboo doesn’t so much as kick him as he does toe him, lightly, with the tip of his boot. “Go, go, go—“

 

Tommy didn’t need to be told twice. 

 

While they didn’t have too much further to go, it still felt like centuries. Clinging desperately to the ladder with sweaty palms, toeing his way down one rung at a time as the ship starts to shudder and shake, engines beginning to fire up, preparing to launch them out into space and start their course for Viona. 

 

Something about it is wrong. The Pandora doesn’t shake like this, even when taking off. It certainly doesn’t fucking rattle, knocking Tommy and Ranboo against the walls as the engines spit and sputter, tremors coming and going in waves. Soft booms and distant explosions sending shockwaves of vibrations through the metal. 

 

Oddly enough, Tommy’s reminded of Clara’s old truck.

 

It’s a weird thing to think about, clinging to a ladder for dear life out in the middle of space, but it’s what comes to mind. She’s had to fix that old stupid up a hundred times, always finding something else about it to tinker with. The air conditioning would hiss and spit, the exhaust pipe choking and coughing out smoke, the front of it rattling like a box of loose change had somehow gotten lost in the engine. No matter what she did to fix it, every few weeks, the same old weird noises would start up again, and she’d have to drag it back to her dad’s shop for repairs. 

 

He’d spent dozens of hot summer afternoons sitting in that shop, keeping her company as she worked. Careful, calloused hands stained with oil and grease, the smell of sweat, dust, and gasoline in the air. Watching her gnash her teeth in frustration as she tried to turn the key over and over for the dozenth time, the engine kicking and sputtering but never quite turning over into that familiar, throaty purr. 

 

The Pandora is a high tech spaceship, not an old pick up truck, but the engine sputters and kicks just the same.

 

He doesn’t get long to mull it over. All too soon, Tommy’s feet hit solid metal.

 

With a little bit of maneuvering, the other latch swings open, revealing the loading dock below, bathed in shadow and the occasional flare of cherry-red light from the alarms. No time to hesitate. He and Ranboo drop down to the floor.

 

The noise hits them first, the blaring of alarms and flashing of lights that had been muffled, earlier, climbing down, but are back in full force now that they’re out of that shaft. It’s fucking dark as shit down here, even with the lights on and alarms blaring, Tommy can’t see more than a few feet in front of his face. There’s just so much fucking stuff piled everywhere, rows and rows and rows of storage crates and piles of other random junk that Tommy has to skirt around. Tubbo would probably have a field day—

 

Oh, Tubbo. 

 

“I’m coming buddy.” He mutters, like a mantra. Like a prayer. “I’m gonna fix this. I’m gonna fix this.”

 

He’s gonna apologize. He’s going to see his crew again. He’s going to grab a hold of Tubbo and never let go. He’s going to make up for all the awful shit he said. He’s going to make everything right. 

 

In the back of the ship, there’s a faint blue glow. Escape pods. Bingo. 

 

Tommy’s walk turns into a run. 

 

His feet hit the floor in time with the lights, Ranboo a silent shadow at his side. His chest hurts, his head is spinning , his throat hurts from screaming at Boris and he’s already got some nasty bruises forming on his face and arms from tussling with the guards and the blinding lights and blaring alarms are giving him a headache but—

 

Goddamn it, he’s never felt so fucking alive.

 

This? This is familiar. The battle drum of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. The  rush of adrenaline flowing through him, every inch of him humming like a live wire. He welcomes the feeling, he savors it, the way it dials up every one of his senses to a ten . The sound of the alarms, the sweat sticking to his skin, Ranboo’s breathing at his side, the smell of the Pandora surrounding him, the burn of cold air in his lungs. The fear, the terror, the dizzying feeling of freedom—

 

It’s the cold air in his lungs as he leaps between rooftops like he has wings, the entirety of Bezzar spread out far, far below. It’s the roar of the crowd in his ears, howling for their pound of flesh as his hands tighten around the grip of a sword. It’s the rush of the wind against his face, the familiar smell of not-quite-gasoline and vanilla as he flies down the street on the back of a hoverbike. Breathless and fucking terrified , but something in him still sings

 

A clean break away with a friend at his side. Adrenaline and fear and the pounding of his own footsteps. A nightmare he’d faced down and won. 

 

God , how had he ever thought he was going to give this up? 

 

The same escape pods that saved him all those months ago will save him again now, for good, this time. The nightmare finally ended, finished. The monster that had haunted him all these months in the one on the run now, Tommy wishes he could see his face, staring out the window as all his carefully laid plans crumble around him thanks to a handful of teenagers. 

 

He’s going to be free. 

 

The glow of the escape pods gets closer. They don’t look like much, really. There’s at least a dozen of them, set into the wall, lined up like a neat little row of glass coffins. The glass curves outwards, like a bubble, the inside a little bigger than you’d assume at first glance. Almost like a lifeboat, or a small car, each big enough for three, maybe four people, if you’re willing to get up close and personal. 

 

Thirty feet away. Twenty five. Twenty. 

 

He’s going to make it up to Tubbo. No matter what it takes. He’s going to apologize for all the shit he said and grovel at his feet and until he forgives him—

 

Fifteen feet. Ten. 

 

Wilbur is going to teach him how to play another song on his guitar. He’s going to throw himself into Phil’s arms and sob until he wraps those big wings around him, closing him off from the rest of the world, keeping him safe.

 

Seven, six, five—

 

He and Techno are going to spar until he can’t lift his arms anymore. He’ll play cards with Ranboo, and turn a blind eye when they end up cheating. He’ll cuddle Shroud close and—

 

Tommy skids to a stop in front of the nest line of escape pods, and slams a hand against the sensor of the nearest one. 

 

It comes to life with a soft whirring sound, the inside beginning to glow with a faint blue light as it powers up. Just like it had last time, the curved glass door swings open with a soft pop! And a rush of steam. 

 

Just like he had last time, Tommy stands there. And breathes. 

 

He’s going home

 

Ranboo wastes no time, carefully stepping down into the pod. They turn back to Tommy with those wide, mis-matched eyes. 

 

And Tommy… 

 

He….

 

He pauses. 

 

Like an idiot

 

He hesitates there, one foot extended, hand frozen where it’s gripping the edge of the glass roof. He hesitates, because—

 

Because this isn’t the first time he’s climbed into one of these tiny, cramped little pods, believing with all of his heart that he’s going home. 

 

It’s only a second. Only a moment. 

 

If he’d been faster, they both would have made it out. If he had gone in right after Ranboo, if he hadn’t frozen there, shaking his head to clear away phantom memories that still tug at him from the shadows of curled up against the cold metal, dizzy from hunger and thirst, staring out that rounded glass window at unfamiliar stars glimmering just out of reach. Of the words of a bored man in a lab coat, I’d say this little experiment was a resounding success—



If he had just taken their hand—



“Hello, Tommy.”



But once again, he’s just too goddamn slow. 





-





“Do we have to do this—“ The Avian says, loading another rocket. The explosion of violet and red sparks paints the side of his face, the light catching in those dark, narrowed eyes, “—Right now?”

 

The Phantling loads another charge into his blaster. Neither of them are looking at each other. 

 

“We have to talk about it eventually—“

 

“Yeah, eventually—“ Another loud bang! Another explosion of sparks and light. “—maybe when we’re not committing actual treason—“ 

 

Pop! Pop! Pop! The Phantling rattles off another round of curses as guard after guard flood through the doorway, too many to keep up with. Everytime one hits the floor, two more take their place. 

 

Then, he stiffens, a lightbulb going off in his head. He shifts, turning the muzzle of the blaster away from the open doorway to the hand-scanner beside it. Pop! 

 

The doors glide shut with a woosh! Abruptly cutting off the flood of guards. The ones still inside are swiftly dealt with before they can even get close, while, on the other side of the doors, the others shout and slam uselessly against the metal doors. 

 

He lowers his blaster, wiping sweaty hair out of his face. He finally turns to look at the Avian, even if he’s still not quite able to meet his eyes. They both take a moment to catch their breath, panting. 

 

“We need to talk.” The Phantling continues. “About- About us. About what happened.”

 

“What happened?” The Avian barks, something like a laugh bubbling out of his mouth as he slumps back.  “You want to talk about what happened? Now?”

 

A muscle in the Phantling’s jaw jumps. “Yes.”

 

The Avian just stares at him.

 

After a moment, he just shakes his head, scoffing as he goes back to aiming his crossbow out the window, ignoring the Phantling behind him as he takes aim. 

 

Behind them, the slamming gets louder and louder, someone barking orders as the guards attempt to pry the doors open by force. Inch by inch, they slide apart. 

 

“We were all so close.” The Phantling tries again. “You, me, Niki, Jack—“

 

“I’m trying to focus , Wilbur.” The Avian grinds out, closing his bad eye. His hands start to tremble. 

 

“—Even after.” A pause, as his breath catches. “Even after Eret- we were still a family. What happened to that? To us?”

 

The Avian drops his crossbow, patience snapping. 

 

You happened, Wilbur!” 

 

The Phantling jerks like he’d been slapped. 

 

“You left.” The Avian hisses, whirling to jam a finger in his direction, sharp and accusatory. “You left us- left me. We abandoned each other the same way you abandoned us, and it was all. Your. Fucking. Fault—“

 

“I had to!”

 

The Phantling interrupts, cutting himself off as his voice breaks. When he speaks again, his words are soft. “Quackity- I had to.”

 

The Avian isn’t listening anymore. He lifts up the crossbow again, reloading it in a smooth, practiced motion. His hands are still shaking, ever so slightly. 

 

“That’s what Eret said too, you know.” 

 

The reply is scathing , every word scraped raw as the Avian’s lip starts to tremble, the skin around the scar twitching as he turns to avoid meeting the Phantling’s gaze, taking aim at the Pandora once more. 

 

The Phantling flinches back, stung. 

 

The guards that have just managed to break their way inside stumble, pausing just past the doorway, weapons in hand. They lower the muzzles of their blasters, confused at the scene they’ve just busted into. 

 

“Um.” Says one of the guards, the big one in front. They clear their throat, regaining their composure. “Hands in the air, criminals. By the authority of the Empress of Enderion, you are both under arrest for—“ 

 

“You made all these fucking promises—“

 

Without even looking, the Avian whirls around, turning on a dime to aim his crossbow at the group of guards, cutting off the one in front mid-speech, and they yell and rush to clear the way before he fires— bang! The guards hit the floor, covering their ears, deafened and blinded by both the noise and shower of sparks. The Avian continues his rant as though they don’t exist. 

 

“—said we’d leave together, had our whole future planned out and you just—“

 

The Phantling sounds strangled, blinking in shock as he tries to reorient himself. “You know I had—“

 

“You could have taken me with you!”  

 

The guards shake it off, getting back to their feet, blasters in hand. They fan out on either side, slowly moving in, giving each other confused looks behind their masks.

 

‘What’s going on?’ mouths one to another. ‘No idea’ they mouth back. ‘But I’m kind of invested?’

 

The Avian whirls on the Phantling, crossbow still in hand, snarling as his voice starts to shake as badly as his hands. “You promised me we’d get out of that hellhole together, you promised me, you fucking liar!” 

 

“And would you have said yes?” 

 

The Phantling rips his gaze away for a second to fire off a round of quick shots, pop! Pop! Pop! Two of them hit, and the guards go down. The ones that were mouthing words to each other but the deck. 

 

“Left with me, Phil, and Techno? Really?”

 

“Yes! No!” The Avian lets out a wordless noise of frustration. “ I don’t know!” 

 

The Avian turns, letting out another bird-like shriek of frustration as he fires off another shot out the window— bang! “That’s not the point! You never even- you didn’t even ask, did you? Didn’t even give me the chance?” 

 

The Phantling atleast has the sense to look guilty, firing off two more shots. The last guard finally goes down. “I—“

 

“No, you didn’t.” The Avian scoffs, “You just left.”

 

He looks over at the Phantling, clutching the handle of the rocket launcher so hard his knuckles are turning white. 

 

“You just. left.”  

 

He repeats, spitting the words through tightly gritted teeth. “All I got from you was a shitty note, not even a goodbye . You chose them over us, over your family. Running off with some rich bird and his pet monster—“

 

The Phantling straightens, the vulnerable look on his face freezing over. 

 

He cuts him off, shooting off another shot at the one of the guards on the floor, who was attempting to reach for the weapon he’d dropped. When he looks back at the Avian, his eyes are cold, expression darker. Dangerous, in a way it hadn’t been before. 

 

“Monster?” He drawls. “I guess you would know all about monsters, wouldn’t you, Quackity?”

 

This time, it’s the Avian’s turn to flinch. 

 

“Schlatt was a mistake.” His voice is thin. He looks away, jaw tight, raising the rocket launcher again to give him an excuse for not being able to meet the Phantling’s gaze. “I’ll admit that.” 

 

“A mistake?” The Phantling laughs, an ugly, mocking noise that makes the Avian’s shoulders rise around his neck. 

 

“With all the things that man did- you call that a mistake? Whoops—“

 

He cuts himself off, ducking to avoid the stray laser from the next round of approaching guards, who, having wisened up to the situation, didn’t even hesitate before firing, coming through the door guns blazing. 

 

“—I nearly married a glorified slave-trader!”

 

“It wasn’t—“ the Avian trips over his words, voice pitched high as he whips his head around and shouts back, shoulders scrunched to the feathers around his ears. “I didn’t know! I never would have- you know I wouldn’t—“

 

“Of course not,” he drawls, flinching back as two more shots nearly clip him, one hitting against the table he’s using as a barrier with a bang! that rattles his teeth. He laughs, and it’s an ugly, hollow sound. 

 

“Gotta have plausible deniability, right? Happy to turn a blind eye to where the money was coming from, so long as you got a cut, too.”

 

The Avian lifts his chin, meeting his gaze head-on as he loads another rocket into his crossbow. “You don’t have any fucking idea—“

 

With one smooth movement, he fires over the Phantling’s head, and the guards curse and scramble to get away in time before— BANG! 

 

“—what you’re talking about.” 

 

“Maybe not.” The Phantling leans in closer, tauntingly. “But calling Technoblade the monster? Really? After all the shit you’ve done?”

 

“I did,” the words fall from his lips like stones, “What I had too.”

 

“And so did he.” The Phantling huffs, curling his lip back as he examines the scar that cuts through the side of his face, across his cheekbone, through his eyebrow. 

 

“Really,” he says, lip curled. “it’s a shame he missed—“

 

BANG! 

 

The Phantling ducks instinctively, flinching back as the firework nearly skims the side of his face to explode against something just behind him in a shower of cherry-red sparks, close enough for the both of them to feel the heat of it burn into their skin. 

 

The Avian doesn’t even flinch. 

 

Momentarily stunned by the flashbang of light and noise, the Phantling does nothing but stare as the Avian grabs him by the collar of his coat and pulls him closer until they’re nearly nose to nose. 

 

“You have no idea the hell I went through.” He snarls , twisting his lips back over too sharp-teeth. The skin around his scar twitches. 

 

“You have no fucking idea, Wilbur Soot.” 

 

He lets go, shoving him back against the table. The Phantling rights himself, rubbing at his throat, the fins around his face starting to flare as a low noise rumbles in the back of his throat, the start of a threatening hiss.

 

They don’t have time to argue. More guards are coming, barking orders to one another as they storm their way down the hall and too the busted-open doors, this time equipped with shields as well as just blasters. They only have seconds until the guards are on top of them completely. 

 

The Avian pulls another blaster from his belt, cursing all the while as he all but shoves the rocket launcher in the Phantling’s lap, yelling at him to “ move!” So they can switch positions. The Phantling goes over to where he’d been, ducked by the window, and the Avian sits with his back against the barrier. He peers around the side of it, closing one eye as he fires, bang! Bang! Bang! 

 

The few guards still remaining return fire, pop! Pop! Pop! but all their shots go wide. Three guards down, atleast ten still remaining. They inch closer, penning them in from both sides. The Phantling raises the crossbow, another bang! splitting the air as the rocket hits the ceiling, coming down in a shower of green. The guards curse and back up, finding cover for themselves amongst overturned tables and chairs as pieces of the ceiling start to chip off and fall as well. 

 

“I had nothing , on Viona.” The Avian spits, peering over the barrier and ducking down quickly when a laser whizzes past where his head had just been. He grits his teeth and takes aim. “Not a single goddamn credit to my name. Eret was gone, you were gone, me and the others barely spoke after you left. I had nothing.”

 

He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face as he lets out a demented sort of noise, a wheezing laugh that gets stuck in his throat until he’s choking on it. Another round of fire, bang! Bang! Bang! A grunt and a thud as atleast one guard hits the floor. Muffled cursing and tinny voices from across a comn. Nine guards left. 

 

“What, you think I’m proud of it?” He forces out, finally turning to look at the Phantling as he reloads. His eyes are wide, haunted in a way that has the Phantling hesitating. 

 

“That I liked him? Loved him?” He laughs, a sickening sort of noise, bordering on hysterical. “You barely even know him and you hate him! Can you even imagine what living with him was like?”

 

The Phantling’s face shifts through a myriad of emotions. Anger. Confusion. Concern. Guilt. He raises a hand as if to put in on his shoulder, but leaves it hanging awkwardly between them instead.

 

 “Look, Quackity—“ he tries. 

 

“But I did it.”

 

The Avian cuts him off, sucking in a breath. His eyes are hard, cold, when they meet his again. Unflinching, uncaring, a perfect poker face. He turns away so he can fire off another round of shots, bang, bang, bang! 

 

Three more down. Seven left. 

 

“He was my ticket out, Wilbur.” He continues to explain, the hysterical lilt in his voice giving way to exhaustion. “He had money, so much fucking money, enough to get my own place. No more going hungry, no more not knowing if I’d make rent that month. Living with him was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do, but once I left his sorry ass?” 

 

He breaks off with another laugh, this time it was almost genuine, jerking his head to the side as his shoulders shake. 

 

“Oh, never even noticed that I’d been stealing from him for years. I had more than enough to make a clean getaway, I doubt he even realized I was gone until he noticed his favorite ship was missing, too.” 

 

“I didn’t… I didn’t know.” The Phantling says, weakly. His voice is softer than before, eyes searching as they trace the outline of the Avian’s face like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Look, Quackity, I—“

 

Pop! Pop! Pop! They both curse, ducking as the table rattles, one of the shots getting uncomfortably close to taking a chunk out of the Phantling’s ear. 

 

“Save it.” The Avian snaps, pointedly not looking in his direction. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. I’m not proud of all the awful shit I had to do, but at least I’ll own up to it.”

 

He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. His hands steady around the tigger, bang! Bang! Bang! Two loud thumps, and the air is split with shouting as the remaining five guards curse and scramble to return fire. 

 

“…Just don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same damn thing.” 

 

The Phantling looks at him. At the side of his face, framed in his light. Dark eyes and darker hair, golden feathers stained with ash and soot and blood. Clever hands steady around the handle of the blaster, resting lightly on the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang—

 

BOOM!

 

Neither the Phantling or the Avian so much as blink. 

 

The remaining guards let out a screech as the firework explodes against the wall next to them, and they go down in a tangle of limbs. One of them grabs the another under the armpits and drags him behind a nearby table, shouting into his comn for reinforcements—

 

Bang! Bang! Bang! And the room is silent and still. 





-





It all comes down to this.

 

It was always going to come down to this, in the end. Everything that’s led him here, every bad decision, every clean getaway and every bruise and scar in between. All leading him here , to this moment, the exact same place he had stood all those months ago. Taller, stronger, a little less naive but every bit as absolutely fucking terrified as he had been back then. 

 

Ranboo meets his gaze, mismatched eyes blown wide in terror. They go to move, to open their mouth, but Tommy is faster.

 

The glass door slams shut before their fists can slam into it.

 

I’m sorry, Ranboo. 

 

The last he sees of them is that. The horror and desperation on their face, clawed hands pounding against the glass as they try to reach Tommy on the other side, shouting words he can’t hear over the humming and whirring of the escape pod coming to life. 

 

The pod lowers down, the cold, metal hand on Tommy’s neck tightens—

 

He looks away. 

 

There’s a whoosh of air, and Tommy is alone.

 

But not completely. 

 

The fabric over his shoulders shifts as he moves, turning, leaning in close enough that the edge of his smooth, blank mask nearly brushes against the side of Tommy’s face. 

 

The hand resting at his throat is cold. Metal. Distinctly inhuman, fingertips like needles. Not choking him, not even holding. Just resting there, needlepoints like ice against his skin. 

 

“Nowhere to run.” He croons, too close and too loud. His breath rasping against the mask that covers his face. “Poor little human.” 

 

“No.” Tommy softly agrees, taking a deep, trembling breath. “There isn’t. For either of us.”

 

As if on cue, the ship gives another enormous shudder, nearly knocking the both of them off their feet as the floor underneath them tilts. It’s the distraction he needs to wrench himself out of his grip, throwing himself back against the wall as the ship gives another particularly awful lurch that has them both grabbing hold of whatever they can reach to stay upright. 

 

“It’s over.” Dream agrees, with a chuckle that sounds like crunching metal, clutching  to the edge of another escape pod for balance, clawed hands leaving gouges in the metal. “Well played , Tommy.”

 

Tommy’s throat bobs. “…thanks.”

 

“But you’re forgetting something.” He says, voice lilting, a taunting sing-song that sends claws of ice raking down his spine. 

 

“Now that you’ve gone and ruined our little game, there’s no reason for me to let you live.” 

 

Tommy’s breath catches. 

 

Dream lunges first, but Tommy moves faster—

 

— It happens so fast. They just drop, like a puppet with its strings cut, crouching down almost to all fours. The momentum of an empty swing sends Techno stumbling with a grunt of surprise. All Ranboo needs that second, that moment, just long enough for them to twist on their feet and fucking lunge for Techno’s side like a cat pouncing on a mouse—

 

Dream lunges for him, metal talons bared, and without even thinking, Tommy drops. 

 

He lands on his haunches, twisting out of the way, springing off of his feet to throw himself in the opposite direction. It’s messy, not nearly as clean at it had been when Ranboo had done it, but it still fucking works. 

 

Metal talons close around empty air, there’s a thud as Dream collides with the wall where Tommy had just been, and a furious screech—

 

The world is ending. 

 

The ship is moving, the engine finally turning over as it prepares to launch them out into space, giving way to a rumbling purr Tommy can feel in his teeth. There’s a monster in between him and his only escape, and no one coming to help this time around. Alarms in his ears, lights flashing, bathing the whole world in flashes of blood red and black, a nightmare he’s had a dozen times over but never has it been so real—

 

He’s had this dream before. 

 

Left, right, left, right, one foot after another. His feet slam into the metal floors, blood rushing in his ears, he ignores the furious screams behind him and the resounding footsteps as he starts to give chase, the sinking feeling in his gut and the terror snaking up his spine—

 

He does the thing he always has, when he has this nightmare. He turns on his heel and he fucking runs. 




-




Compared to the Argo II, the hangar of the Pandora is fucking huge. 

 

That doesn’t stop it from being crowded, though, packed with crates and supplies and a hundred other odds and ends. Rows and rows of shelves that seem to go on forever, laid out in some weird, nonsense way that turns the whole damn thing into a labyrinth. Combine that with the lack of overhead lights, and the bright red alarms still flashing and blaring, and you have the perfect set up for the world's most deadly game of hide-and-go-seek.

 

Tommy is silent on his feet, a shadow darting between shelves and storage crates, trying his best to muffle his breathing. Quiet as a mouse, slipping from hiding spot to hiding spot. 

 

The predator on his heels doesn’t bother. Tommy can hear him, the clip-clip-clip of heels on the metal floor, the raspy breathing that seems everywhere and nowhere at once. 

 

“Oh Tommy~”

 

He needs to run, he needs to hide—

 

The ship rattles again. Not like before, not the exhausted kicking of an engine trying and failing to start itself up. This feels more like an impact, a jerk to the side that nearly sends Tommy ass-over-teakettle. The shelves rattle ominously, boxes beginning to slide in a way that makes him real fucking nervous, considering how close he’s standing. 

 

The hangar is big, but it’s still an enclosed space. There’s only so many places he can go, so long he can run for— and then what?

 

“Where did you go?”

 

Tommy grits his teeth. Keep moving. 

 

He needs too- needs to keep him distracted. Keep his attention. Give Ranboo time to warn the others, and Tubbo time to get to the escape pods and get the hell out of dodge

before the whole ship goes down. If he’s smart, and he is, he’s on his way down there now. He just needs to buy him time, lure Dream away. Buy himself time to think of an actual plan—

 

A different noise, a shriiiiiick sound, like nails on a chalkboard. Metal on metal.

 

“It’s really a shame,” he drawls. “What happened to Boris. Killed by a feral human in his own spaceship… so unfortunate.”

 

He… his… what?

 

Tommy didn’t— Tommy didn’t fucking kill anyone , he’s sure. He wouldn’t have— he was alive when they left the room he was sure—

 

“And his head scientist, too, tsk tsk.” He chuckles, and the sound has every hair on Tommy’s body standing on end. 

 

“They should have known better. Humans are so unpredictable , after all.”

 

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out the game he’s playing.

 

“You never know what might happen, if you push a human too far. What might cause them too— lash out.”

 

And for a minute, Tommy freezes, because he can see it. See it all clear as day, laid right out in front of him like it’s written in ink.

 

“Maybe even… hurt someone they care about.”

 

Tommy’s own face, looking back at him, lips twisted in a feral grin. The end of a blaster shoved under his jaw. Boris, dead, covered in wounds and scratch marks. A burn mark scorching through Lab Coat Guy’s chest. Ranboo, limping their way out of an escape pod, only too— only for someone too— too— 

 

He can hear Dream's voice, clear as day. A horrible tragedy, but as you can see, these were just the actions of a human pushed to its limit. May this serve as a lesson to the rest of us, of why Earth is listed very clearly as ‘observation only’.

 

Tommy gets out in another cage, Boris takes the rest of the blame, and he gets to walk. 

 

Again. 

 

It’s a trick. It’s a lie— it’s a fucking trick , it has to be. Tommy repeats that over and over like a mantra, it’s a lie, it’s a lie, it’s a lie— 

 

Ranboo is fine, the rest of his crew is fine, and he can’t touch them. He’s just— he’s desperate , talking out of his ass like he always does, trying to manipulate him.

 

It’s nothing but a lie. All he ever does is lie. 

 

There was a time where he would have fallen for it. Come out with his hands in the air. But he’s come too fucking far to fall for this shit again, to let it end here .

 

There’s too much on the line. Tubbo’s life is on the line. He just needs— he just needs to focus, he needs to think. He needs to keep moving, keep leading him further and further away from the escape pods. Give Tubbo some time to get to them, to get to Ranboo, to get away. To get all of them away somewhere safe. 

 

“Oh Tommy~”

 

That time, the voice was very much not in his head. It was close by— Too close. Fuck!

 

He shakes his head hard, and forces himself to keep moving.

 

The labyrinth doesn’t go on forever. All too soon, he reaches the end of the shelves, and stills, freezing in the shadows. In front of him yawns a wide, open space, swallowed by shadows. No boxes. No shelves. Nothing to hide behind at all. 

 

Across the floor, he can just make out the elevator against one of the walls, and his heart drops to his feet.

 

He’s reached the end of the hangar. 

 

Nowhere else to run. Nowhere else hide. A predator closing in from behind, he could try and make a run for it, but he’d definitely get spotted, and then what would he do? Try and get in the elevator? Hope he’s fast enough to reach the other side? Pray that there’s some other place to hide in the shadows back there? 

 

“If you come quietly, maybe we can prevent some of these accidents , in the future, hmm? Help keep your little crew safe?” 

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

 

He doesn’t have a choice . If he stays here, he’s as good as dead

 

Please, Tubbo, get to the escape pods—

 

“There you are.”

 

Times up. 

 

He runs.

 

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. His footsteps pound into the floor, stealth thrown out the window in favor of getting himself across the clearing as fast of possible. Two strides, four, eight— 

 

If he had thought about it for more than three seconds, maybe he would have remembered why there was a random clear area in the middle of the hangar. Or why the predator who had only been inches away had stopped where the line of shelves ended, instead of following him across. 

 

The answer to both questions comes about halfway across, when the whole world suddenly goes sideways.

 

His knees hit the ground first, sending spikes of pain up his legs. He doesn’t spare it more than a second of thought- can’t fucking afford too— desperate hands scrambling for purchase, trying to get back on his feet and failing miserably as everything tilts—

 

“Warning.” A voice says, mechanical. Automated. “Loading ramp is now descending. For your safety, please evacuate the ramp.”

 

—As the floor beneath him, the fucking loading ramp that he’s standing on, starts to lower down. 

 

The light that greets his eyes is blinding.

 

The ramp opens enough for the light of the world outside to come rushing in, a burst of white that leaves him seeing stars. The opening becomes wider and wider, wind buffeting him, pinning him down, turning from a whistle to howling in his ears like a goddamn hurricane.

 

“— is now descending, please evacuate the—“

 

Whoever designed this stupid fucking ship with a ramp that can be opened while it’s in midair needs to be fucking fired — 

 

Just over the sound of the wind and the mechanical voice, nearly lost in the groaning and clicking of metal as the ramp continues to slowly drop open, Tommy hears laughter. 

 

He doesn’t even get the chance to look back, not when he feels himself slipping—

 

The metal ramp is smooth, no place to grab a hand-hold, his boots skidding over the metal as the ground underneath him gets steeper and steeper. He lashes out, flailing like an idiot as he slips closer to the side of the ramp, right near the edge , no, no, nononono— 

 

“—descending, please—- the—- rea—“

 

His hands manage to grab on to something, and he holds on with every ounce of strength he has. 

 

Some bit of metal, some piece of the wall right at the edge of the ramp that dips when he clutches it with both hands, but bears his weight. It bites into his hands, but he holds the hell on as the floor underneath his boots starts to give way completely—

 

He makes the mistake of looking down, and all the air is sucked from his lungs at once. 

 

From above, the Council ship looks beautiful. 

 

It looks almost like a fancy cruise ship, from this angle, stretching out below him. Far, far below.The open air market place, the arching windows of where the Banquet was held, the giant, football-field sized screens. Colorful ships whizz by, crowds of people the size of ants dart and scurry, screaming so loud Tommy can just hear them over the howling of the wind. Bursts of light rocket through the sky every now and again— wait a goddamn minute— 

 

Are those— 

 

Tommy blinks. Are those fucking fireworks?

 

Every blast is earth-shatteringly loud, way, way to close for comfort as something impacts with the side of the ship, making it shudder and lurch in ways that do not make it any easier for him to hold for dear life—

 

They’re trying to stop the Pandora, he realizes, equal parts impressed and so very confused, with fucking fireworks

 

If he wasn’t scared out of his fucking mind right now, dangling by his fingertips hundreds of feet above the ship below, he’d be laughing his ass right right about now. The great Pandora, brought to its knees by fireworks. Dream must be fucking furious. What kind of idiot came up with that plan? 

 

“It’s a shame, really.” 

 

Tommy looks back up. Immediately, he wishes he hadn't. 

 

Because he’s there, standing on the edge where the ramp hinges down, his cloak buffeted by the wind as he lurks just out of reach, half-bathed in shadow. Looking down at him with that blank mask, head tilted mockingly to the side, he looks at Tommy and he starts to laugh. 

 

It’s an awful, awful fucking sound, scraping out the inside of his head until it’s all he can hear. A dozen warped voices all laughing at him at once, twisting into each other, shrill, unnatural, and so very inhuman—

 

The chucking fades into a demented croon. “You need a hand there, Tommy?”

 

He has to shout, to make himself heard over the wind, fabric of his clothes being blown every which way. Tommy watches, blood turning to ice, as he moves closer—

 

You know, I was going to keep you alive, but this—“ 

 

A metal hand, just above the hinge of the ramp. A foot or so away from Tommy’s own hand, close enough to touch. 

 

“This is such a fitting end, don’t you think?” He purrs. “You. Me. Together , one last time.”

 

Fuck. Fuck.

 

He’s really gonna kill me this time, isn’t he? 

 

“Really, I should be thanking you.”

 

Tommy can’t tear his gaze away. Not from that mask, the nasty crack over one side. There’s a bit of green behind there, a poison-green eye that almost seems to glow. 

 

“Boris was useful for a while,” he muses, “but he wasn’t very fun . Not like you were.”

 

That blank mask, no expression he can make out. Just his voice, a voice that’s been haunting him for what feels like centuries.

 

The last voice he’ll ever hear. 

 

He leans closer.

 

“You want me to save you?” He asks, voice lilting in that awful, patronizing way. “Maybe I will, if you say please.” 

 

Tommy knows that it’s what he wants. The thought sticks in his throat until he’s choking on. For him to plead, to beg. 

 

Well, he’s always been a disappointment. 

 

We could have done some real good together, Tommy.” He sighs. “What a waste. I guess all good things must come to an end eventually. Starting over will be a pain, but I’ve learned a lot from you. I’ll be more careful with my next experiment.” 

 

And Tommy— he can’t help himself.

 

Looking up at him, at this monster , he just has to fucking know. Needs to know the answer to the question that’s been eating him alive from the inside out. He has too. 

 

You kidnapped me. Tortured me. Cut me open with scalpels and stuck me with needles, and I wasn’t even the only one. You hurt people. So many people. So many innocent people. 

 

You did all of this, planned this whole goddamn thing, strung me along for months for your stupid ‘experiment’, all for what? I have to know, I have to know—

 

“Why?” Tommy whispers back.

 

Dream leans closer, like he’s getting ready to share a secret. 

 

“Because humanity is a plague.” He says, simply. “Do you know how you stop a plague from spreading, Tommy?” 

 

He inches closer, and closer still, those long, needle-like fingers reaching for Tommy’s hands. 

 

“First, you quarantine the infected…”

 

All Tommy can do is watch.

 

“…then, you study them. Learn how it works, the methods that are most effective to treat it, what environments it thrives in, what it’s resilient too.”

 

Tommy yelps as those hands close over one of his. “What makes it weak.” 

 

Metal claws dig into his skin until blood starts to well up, dripping down his arm. He can’t— it fucking hurts and he can’t— he can’t hold on, he has to drop that hand, he can’t— 

 

One hand down, Tommy feels himself slipping—

 

“Finally, you eradicate it.” 

 

Drawing his hand back, claws extended. That eye, so green, so full of some kind of sick enjoyment as he draws the moment out. 

 

“And I plan too. Starting with—“ 

 

His claws reach for Tommy’s other hand, the only thing keeping him from falling to his death— 

 

But they don’t quite get that far. 




-




The Hybrid cannot breathe.

 

The space is too small. There is not enough room, not enough air. Their own ragged, desperate breathing is too loud in their sensitive ears, their claws scrabbling desperately at the walls pressing around them as they sob—

 

They cannot hear anything. They cannot move. Blood trickles down their temple from where the impact had sent them slamming into the glass. Everything hurts and they cannot see, they cannot breathe—

 

Something above them moves.

 

Light trickles in. Faint and distant at first, then brighter, brighter, until it’s bright enough that they have to close their eyes against it. Figures move behind the fogged glass. 

 

There’s a click! And a hiss of steam, and they sob as the glass that had been closing them in is pulled away, and the rest of the world rushes in to take its place. A flood of light-scent-color-noise that bears down on their delicate senses like a tidal wave, leaving them lost, disoriented—

 

They lash out blindly as arms close around them, but their wrists are quickly caught, held gently in hands much, much larger than their own. Carefully, they’re adjusted, pulled up right into a sitting position while someone murmurs comfortingly in their ear. 

 

“Easy, easy.” A voice says, nearby, and they jerk towards the sound. “I've got you, kid, it's okay.”

 

They whip around, and all but throw themselves into the arms of the Piglin kneeling by their side. 

 

The Piglin grunts, but easily adjusts his position to collect them in his lap. They’ve got a few inches on him, but fold themselves the best they can so they can curl up into a ball against his chest, shoving their head under his chin and tucking their nose into the hollow of his throat like a child. 

 

Around them, the world is ending.

 

They recognize what used to be the marketplace, but it hardly resembles much of a market anymore. The once-thriving stands are left abandoned, trampled and half-destroyed, the square once filled with dancing and laughter now littered in debris and broken glass, torn banners and flags hanging limply, fluttering softly with every ground-shaking boom! As fireworks continue to go off, filling the sky with color and light. 

 

The false-atmosphere is so thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning plastic that they can hardly breathe, and so they bury their nose in the Piglin’s clothes to take in the smell of leather-soap-home, instead. 

 

“You’re alright.” The Piglin murmurs, the noise rumbling low in his chest, and making the Hybrid go boneless against him. He brings up his arms to rub circles over their shaking shoulders. 

 

“You’re alright— Phil!” 

 

He pulls away for just a second to call over their shoulder, lifting away a hand to wave someone over. There’s a flutter of feathers and movement as someone else quickly begins to make their way towards them, shifting aside rubble. 

 

The Piglin abruptly pauses, then, when he realizes the hand he’d pulled away is bloody. 

 

“What happened?” His demeanor shifts on a dime, all business now as he pulls them back so he can inspect them closer, “Are you hurt? Where?”

 

“N-no, its…” they manage to say, voice thick. “Most of it’s not- not m-mine. I'm fine.”

 

“I’m here, I’m here.” 

 

An Elytran skids to his knees beside the two, hands already a flutter of movement as they reach for the Hybrid, worried croon rising in the back of his throat.

 

“Let me see, fuck , mate, that’s a lot of— are you— what happened?” 

 

The Hybrid swallows, shrinking under the weight of the attention. They curl up smaller in the Piglin’s lap, eyes wide and wild, and they look for all the world like they want nothing more than to bury their face back in the Piglin’s neck and disappear. 

 

The Piglin shifts, “Phil, let the kid breathe—“

 

The Elytran ignores him, reaching out with both hands to lay them on either side of the Hybrid’s jaw, turning their head slowly, gently , so he can look them in the eye. 

 

“Ranboo.” He says. “Ranboo, where are Tubbo and Tommy?”

 

And the Hybrid just sobs. 

 

“I t- tried,” They warble out, pressing their face into the Elytran’s hands with a pitiful whine. “I t-tried so h-hard but I didnt— we were so close , but then he was there and he– he—“

 

“Easy, easy—“ The Elytran croons, wiping away tears and blood alike. “Shh, mate, it’s okay—“

 

“He l-locked me in I couldn’t—“

 

“All three of you are the same . The exact same.” The Piglin growls, arms tightening around the Hybrid as he flashes his tusks in agitation. “Of all the stubborn, self-sacrificin’, stupid—“ 

 

The Elytran shoots him a look, and he quiets down with a grumble. 

 

“I t-tried so h- hard—“

 

“I know, I know.” The Piglin forces himself to take a few deep breaths, letting the growl in his throat shift into an aggressive purr, instead. “I've got you, it's okay.”

 

The Elytran’s face settles into a stony expression, giving nothing away. 

 

“They’re still on board? Tommy and Tubbo?”

 

It’s the Piglins turn to shoot him a dirty look, from overtop the Hybrid’s head. Peering up at the Elytran with wide, glassy eyes, the Hybrid gives a shaky nod. 

 

The Elytran pushes himself to his feet. 

 

“Phil.” The Piglin starts, “Phil, where are you going.”

 

“Im going,” he says, and with one great flap, he stretches his wings out to their full size. 

 

”To go save my fucking kids.”

 

“Phil, you can't—“

 

The Elytran bares his teeth. “Try and stop me.”

 

“You can't.” The Piglin growls again, tightening his hold on the Hybrid in his lap until they let out a soft squeak. “ Not with all of these explosions, you'll get shot out of the sky—“

 

“What choice do we have? I can’t—“

 

And, to the horror of all three of them, the Elytran’s voice cracks .

 

“I can’t bury another fucking kid , Technoblade.” He forces out through gritted teeth. “I’m not losing anyone else. I won’t.” 

 

Both the Hybrid and Piglin go still, the latter’s face settling into something cut from stone. The Elytran recovers quickly, setting his jaw with a low growl and shaking it off, but the damage has already been done. 

 

“I have to try.” The Elytran says, starting again, and he’s never sounded more like a solider. “I'll never forgive myself if I don't try.” 

 

“Just, don't—“ The Piglin cuts himself off, then tries again, not quite able to look his oldest friend in the eyes.

 

“Be careful,” he says, and he’s never sounded so young. “Please.” 

 

The Elytran nods, sharp and sure, already starting to back up and give himself the distance he needs to launch himself into the air. “Keep an eye on things from the ground, and stay together . I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

 

The Piglin and Hybrid both nod, neither of them seeming to notice the way they tighten their holds on one another. 

 

And with that, the Elytran spreads his wings, and takes off running. 





-





It takes everything Tommy has to keep from looking away. 

 

To keep from flinching, from squeezing his eyes shut. His left hand aches, dripping blood, and it would be so easy to just— close his eyes. To let it happen. 

 

But Tommy doesn’t. He won’t. He’s not going to give him the fucking satisfaction of seeing how terrified he is, how weak. He refuses to look away, keeps his gaze upward, eyes locked on that mask, staring into the eye of the monster who’s been haunting him since the very fucking beginning, Tommy doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t close his eyes. He refuses to turn, to look away. He won’t. 

 

And, as such, he manages to catch the exact moment someone’s foot collides with the back of Dream’s shoulder. 

 

One minute he’s there, looking down at Tommy, about to send him plummeting down, down, down to his death below, the next, he’s not. He’s flailing, the force of the kick sending him reeling, off-balance, teetering on the lip of right where the ramp begins without anything to grab on too. He reaches out towards Tommy, one visible eye blown wide, claws extended as he tries to grab of something, anything, but—

 

The noise he lets out is inhuman , twisting in midair, eye wide and panicked as he finally tips over the edge. 

 

It’s not so much of a fall as it is a slide . Not a graceful one either, Dream lets out a strangled yowl as he slips down the ramp, lashing out with his claws. Tommy couldn’t force himself to look away if he tried, helpless to do anything but watch as he finally manages to flip himself around, powerful claws digging in, ripping through metal and leaving deep gorges in their wake as he slides down, down, down, desperately trying to claw his way back up to safety but never quite getting enough of the handhold he needs. They catch on something eventually, and he comes to a skidding stop a few yards below Tommy, hanging on by the tips of his claws—

 

“That’s for my friends, you dickhead!” 

 

Tommy’s head snaps back up. No, no, it can’t be—

 

But it is.

 

Tommy can’t help it. A smile breaks across his face, a disbelieving laugh ripping itself from his chest as his eyes sting. 

 

Because there he is, standing proud at the edge of the hangar, wind ripping at his hair and his borrowed lab coat, teeth bared in determination. His knight in stolen armor, the goddamn maniac himself. 

 

Tubbo and Tommy lock eyes, and suddenly, it’s like nothing else even fucking matters. 

 

He came back. Tommy swallows, grinning so hard his face starts to hurt. He didn’t leave me. He came back .

 

“Hold on!” Tubbo shouts down. “I’ll come to you just- just hang in there!” 

 

Tommy chokes back a laugh. Hang in there. Well, it’s not like he can do much else. 

 

Tubbo disappears. Tommy’s fingers are getting pretty fucking sweaty, and the shaking and swaying of the ship is not helping. He manages to bring his other hand back up, but it doesn’t help much, the wound in the back of it making it painful to rest a ton of weight on it— fucking ow. As if he doesn’t have enough scars already. 

 

It’s the goddamn Fourth of July up here. Every other minute there’s an ear splitting boom! and a shower of sparks somewhere nearby, and he can feel his ears popping and eyes stinging as the ship drops just that much further down to the Council ship below, slows just a little more. 

 

Whoever’s piloting the Pandora seems to be having trouble making up their mind over whether or not they’re going to try to land, or plot a course for Viona and go full-throttle, probably due to the whole, you know, ramp hanging open, thing. Apparently, news travels fast on the Council ship, because it feels like everyone and their mother is doing their damndest to make sure that doesn’t happen.  

 

Fireworks exploding, raining down showers of sparks just a bit too close for comfort, trying to slow it down. The open-air market below seems to be evacuating, people running every which way, the guards trying to corral them into some sort of order. Smaller ships whizz by, darting in and out like minnows in a stream. A few particularly stubborn ships keep humming around the Pandora like a swarm of angry hornets. They work on clearing a path out in front to keep it from crashing into any other ships, getting only inches away from the nose to bully it into changing direction, keeping it from straying too far from the council ship. Everyone works to try and slow the Pandora down, to force it to land— 

 

Boom! A shower of red and yellow sparks, another awful lurch as the explosion rattles the belly of the ship—

 

Tommy tries to do the numbers in his head, how long do they have? A minute? Less? Ship diagrams and Phil’s droning lectures on the layout of the Council fly by in front of his eyes. There’s an artificial atmosphere surrounding the Council ship, but how long until they’re out of range? The air is already getting thin enough as it is, making him lightheaded, his head spinning as all the colors start to blur together. The ship seems to be going down, but what happens if whoever’s piloting decides to make a break for it? How long does he have until there’s no oxygen at all? 

 

It doesn’t help that a few feet below him, Dream is screaming his fucking head off. 

 

“Call them off!” Tommy can hear him howling, hear the awful screeechh of metal-on-metal, sending another shower of sparks as he drops another inch. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?! You’ll kill us all!” 

 

Another loud boom! A shower of red sparks leaves him temporarily blinded, burying his face in his arm to try and blink it away, ow. The resulting crack nearly drowns out the hair-raising yowl Dream lets out, and there’s this awful snap—

 

The metal underneath Dream’s left hand crumbles and gives way. 

 

One arm down, Dream clings on the best he can with the one remaining, looking up at Tommy. Karmas a bitch now, ain’t it? 

 

His eye is visible through the crack in his mask, wide and wild with terror. It meets Tommy’s and he can hear the snarl in his voice as he screams—

 

“If you destroy this ship you’ll never go home again!” 

 

And—



Huh.

 

You know? Tommy hadn’t really thought about that.

 

He’d accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to see Clem and Clara again the moment Dream threatened to use them as replacements. It was only until just- what? An hour ago? That that changed? 

It hadn’t even fucking occurred to him that, sometime between putting the business end of a blaster under his chin and playing the world's most high-stakes game of hide and seek, going back to Earth, to Clementine and Clara , even became an option again. 

 

If this ship goes down, it won’t be. 

 

He might just make it out of this alive after all, but if this ship goes down, the Pandora , the only ship in this galaxy even capable of getting him home… it’ll be gone. 

 

he’ll never be able to go back to Earth again. He’ll never see Clem and Clara again. 

 

He expects to feel— upset? Angry? Sad? 

 

With the wind in his ears, and certain death getting closer and closer, it hits him that he doesn’t… Tommy doesn’t feel any of that.

 

All he feels instead is… weirdly relieved? 

 

Like a weight he didn’t even realize he’d been under has been lifted from his shoulders. He’s relieved. 

 

He’s relieved that he doesn’t… he doesn’t have to make that choice anymore. That he doesn’t have to decide between the home he’d left behind and… whatever he’s found out here. His crew

 

And he—

 

He’s okay with not going back to Earth.

 

He thinks he’s been okay with that, honestly. For longer than he’d thought. Longer than he’d even wanted to admit. 

 

Tommy can see Dream’s face, with the mask cracked like it is, the light around them starting to spill in. Not much, just… a little bit. The outline of a jaw, maybe, the rest in shadow. The angle isn’t right for him to make out any real features, other than one of his eyes, wide with shock and glowing dimly. 

 

It’s such a human eye, really. Aside from the color, and the glow. A round pupil dilated in fear, surrounded by a green iris, glowing faintly, like it’s radioactive. It’s such a human expression, fear, and god . He looks terrified. 

 

For the first time, Tommy looks his worst nightmare in the eyes, and his worst nightmare is the one who is afraid. 

 

It’s a bit of a rush. Though, that might be the vertigo and blood loss talking. Every second, he feels himself getting more and more lightheaded, the edges of his vision starting to go a bit fuzzy. 

 

Clem and Clara, if you’re still out there…

 

He turns his head away, looking back to the ground below. It’s getting closer, the figures getting bigger. Panicked crowds, spaceships hurrying to move out of the way as the Pandora starts flagging, heading towards the marketplace below and gaining speed. 

 

Wait a minute, is that—

 

Tommy’s eyes go wide, examining the crowd closer. A flash of red, of pink. He picks out the familiar shape in the crowd, and something in his chest goes tight. 

 

A Piglin, broad-shouldered, confident , shouldering his way against the crowd, the other panicked aliens parting around him like water. He’s running , head tilted back, eyes locked on the sky, the Pandora, doing his best to keep pace. His hands come up to cup his mouth, shouting to someone—  

 

I wish I could tell you in person but, if I really never get the chance to see you again, I just wanted to say…

 

A shadow in the corner of his vision, airborne, close to the ship but not close enough. He’d almost mistook it for a ship—

 

Boom! Another rattle, the metal under his hands shaking with the echo of the explosion, sparks flying— 

 

Golden hair, a green cloak, black wings spread wide and flapping hard. A face he catches a glimpse of for only a second before he has to bank to the side to avoid a falling piece of metal, lips parted as he shouts something lost to the wind—

 

Tommy can’t quite hold in the relieved sob. 

 

Looks like Tubbo wasn’t the only one who came back. 

 

Something in his chest starts to move . Some kind of creature, shaking its head, flexing its claws. A feeling like fire spreading, seeping into his blood, lighting him up from the inside until he’s almost drunk with it, clawing up his spine and settling in his lungs until he feels like he could burst. 

 

They came back for him. All of them did. 

 

…thank you. 

 

For everything. 

 

He turns back to Dream. This time, he’s the one that’s smiling. 

 

“Thanks for the offer.” He shouts over the wind, lifting one hand in a jaunty two fingered salute. “But I am home.”

 

A loud whistle and an even louder crack! An explosion of red so close he can feel the blast of heat against his side, a flash bang of light and noise that leaves him seeing stars. The whole ship seems to scream, the awful sound of ripping metal like the call of a wounded animal, and everything rattles— 

 

Metal groans, the hinges of the ramp creaking under the weight of it. Tommy’s hands are sweaty, the bite of the metal nearly drawing blood as he grits his teeth and tries to hold on but—

 

It’s not enough.

 

The awful screeeech of metal finally giving way. Dream opens his mouth, letting out one last, desperate howl—

 

It’s a noise like the end of the world.

 

A hundred distorted voices layered together until all that remains is a staticy shriek quickly swallowed by wind as he loses his grip. Tommy gets one last glimpse of that face, of that eye.

 

He looks so terrified. He looks so human. 

 

And then Tommy loses his grip too. 



— distant city below, only just visible over and between buildings. It glimmers like a golden mirage in the distance, the dock where the Argo II is parked just a hint of metal between buildings. 

 

Stars shine brightly overhead in constellations he doesn’t know, ships passing in silver streaks like a meteor shower—



—free fall, the world rushing by— 



— He stretches lazily. The balcony is small, but the metal is nice and cool against his back, and there’s just enough room for him to lay down flat. It’s cooling off now that it’s dark, and now he’s actually pretty thankful for the heavy coat he’s wearing. He has Henry the Second propped up on his stomach, and he’s been toying with his little front legs for the past while to keep his fingers busy.

It’s a nice night. The city sparkles below them, chatter still audible in the distance, the rumbling of spaceships passing overhead sounds eerily like cars. 

He’s tired, but he’s content—



A hand in his.

 

“Tommy!” 

 

He looks up, dizzy and disoriented, blinking stars and memories out of his eyes, and there he is

 

Halfway down the ramp himself, holding the edge with one hand and Tommy’s hand in the other. Eyes wide and terrified.

 

His best friend. His Tubbo. 

 

His boots slip, trying to catch on the ramp to help heave himself back up, trying to find purchase but failing. Tommy tries to help, tries to reach for something with his other hand, but the metal is too slick. His arm feels like it’s going to get yanked out of his fucking socket, and—

 

“Tubbo don’t—“

 

“I’ve got you—“ He pants, adjusting his grip around Tommy’s hand. Voice raw, determined. “I’ve got you.”

 

He’s stronger than he looks, Tommy knows. There’s nothing but muscle and nerve under his skin, calloused hand holding Tommy’s tight enough that the bones start to creak. The rattling and swaying is fighting against him, every firework making the tremors under their feet worse and worse. The ramp Tubbo is holding on to the top edge of was never meant to just dangle there , with nothing underneath to support, and every second that passes, the groaning of the hinges gets louder and louder— 

 

It's a losing fight. The ship is fucking going down, and even if the ramp doesn’t snap off completely, it won’t be long before it hits the ground. They need to come up with something, and they need to do it fast. 

 

Tommy looks up at his best friend. Despite everything, he feels himself smiling. “I should’ve listened to you, huh?”

 

I’m sorry.

 

Despite everything, he gets a wobbly smile in return. “Yeah. You should have.”

 

I forgive you. 

 

Another whistle. Tommy barely gets the chance to brace himself before the firework explodes in a blast of green, and Tubbo cries out as his hand slips just that much further. 

 

“Just hold on.” Tubbo hisses through gritted teeth. “I can- I can pull you up. We can get to the escape pods still, just—“

 

He’s trying. He’s trying so hard, tears shining in the corners of his eyes as he looks back down. “Just hold on—“ 

 

They both know it’s a losing battle.

 

But it doesn’t have to be. 

 

“Tubbo.”

 

He seems to realize it the same time Tommy does, if the absolutely venomous look he gets in return is any sign. “Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare—“ 

 

“Tubbo.” 

 

“What did you just say!?” He just keeps repeating, bordering on hysterical. “ What did you just say about listening to me?!”

 

If Tommy had more time, he’d explain. 

 

If he had time, he’d point out the Piglin in red somewhere far, far below, shouting out directions with his hands cupped around his mouth. He’d point out the shadow that’s been trailing them on black wings, getting closer, closer , but not quite close enough, having to avoid the fireworks debris shedding off of the ship. 

 

If he had time, he’d say a lot of things. 

 

He’d say, it’s okay. It’s okay, Tubbo, it’s going to be okay. You can let go, I’ll be okay. 

 

He’d say, I think I have a plan. It’s a stupid plan, and probably going to get at least one of us killed, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m about to ask you to do something that sounds really stupid but I promise I have a plan and I promise I’m going to get you out of here—

 

He’d say, I’m sorry. 

 

But he doesn’t have time to explain, to apologize. He just— he needs too— 

 

“Tubbo,” He looks up at him, an old echo ringing in his ears. Suddenly, he knows exactly what to say. 

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut. “I hate you, I hate you—“

 

“Tubbo, listen—“ he tries again, squeezing his hand. “Do you trust me?” 

 

“Do you trust me?” The brown-haired alien boy had asked, all those months ago. 

 

A different time, a different place. Bezzar’s streets far, far below, dazzling lights on the horizon, glass and metal and color as far as the eye can see. The edge of the roof a few steps ahead, an angry voice just a few paces behind. A stranger with a manic grin, mis-matched eyes staring him down equal parts mischievous and intense. The same hand in his. 

 

Tubbo’s answer is the same as Tommy’s had been, on the first day they met:

 

“Of course I do,” He spits, tears starting to drip down his face. “You fucking idiot!”

 

Well, almost. 

 

Either way, Tommy takes a breath, steels his nerves for what he knows is coming next, and says, 

 

“Then you need to let go.”

 

For a moment, Tubbo just. Looks at him.

 

It only lasts a second, but it feels like eons. Suspended there, weightless, The wind howling around them, the screeching of metal and the explosions rocking the ship.  Tubbo’s sweaty hand in his, slowly slipping away. Eyes wide and a face streaked with tears, a gaze that hardens with determination. Black feathers in the corner of his eye, closer and closer but not quite—

 

He smiles back. It’s a familiar smile. A bit too sharp with a few too many teeth. He knows that smile. 

 

“Okay.” Is all he says. 

 

And he does. 





‘… Of my hand .’

 

Tommy realizes he should have specified, a few seconds too late. ‘ You need to Let go of my hand.’

 

Because Tubbo does let go…





…but he doesn’t let go of Tommy. 












-





“Well, you don't see that every day.” 

 

“Are those… oh, what's the word again… the human things? That explode?”

 

“...fireworks?”

 

The Ovisan snaps her fingers. “Yes! Those.”

 

“I…” the Shulk tilts his head. “maybe?”

 

“That's the Pandora.”

 

The Creeparian’s voice takes them both by surprise, deep and deathly serious. 

 

“Are they… shooting at it?” The Ovisan squints. “With fireworks?”

 

“Looks like it.”

 

“And it's working?”

 

“Holy shit.” The Shulk blinks. “It's going down.”

 

“Sam, look, the blockaide—“

 

“Are they… leaving?”

 

The Shulk looks between the wall of ships, the blockaide keeping them from the Council ship, as they all bid a hasty retreat, and the Pandora, which has begun its fiery landing below, gouging a decent-sized crater in the deck where the open-air market used to be, completely bewildered. “What the hell happened down there?”

 

“No idea.” The Ovisan grins, elbowing her friend. “What do you say, Sam? Want to get a closer look?” 






-





Notes:

Yes, the chapter count did go up. This is because I was so completely blown away by the response to the last chapter that I decided I'm going to leave it up instead of deleting it like I originally planned. The fact that some of you have been here since the start and are still reading and keeping up with updates blows my mind a little bit, genuinely having a hard time wrapping my head around it. I've had the time of my life writing this story, and I am *honored* that you all love it as much as I do. Thank you.

This chapter was... oooh boy. A lot. There's so much happening, but I refused to split it again and drag this Finale out anymore, so its just gonna be what it is. I hope it makes sense and isn't too confusing! If you have any questions, feel free to leave them below or shoot them over to my tumblr or my twitter I am notoriously bad at responding to ao3 comments, but I will do my best.

no, I am not sorry about the (literal) cliffhanger. (The epilogue is like 90% fluff though, dw)

I'll see you guys soon, okay? stay safe in the meantime.

 

-Matches

Chapter 26: Exitlude (I)

Summary:

its been an honor

Notes:


"Aggressively, we all defend the role we play
Regrettably, time's come to send you on your way.
We've seen it all,
bonfires of trust, flash floods of pain
It doesn't really matter, don't you worry, it'll all work out
No, it doesn't even matter, don't you worry 'bout what it's all about."
--Exitlude, The Killers

 

Before we begin, I just want to say: thank you. All of you.

To those of you reading this now, July 9th, 2024, to those of you reading this tomorrow, or in six weeks, or ten years down the line. To those of you that have been here since the first one shot, to those of you that didn’t even start reading this fic until it was already finished. To all of you, thank you. Thank you for reading, for enjoying, and for giving me the confidence and courage to finish the final part of the longest and largest project I have ever worked on.

Special thanks to Turtle, Rowen, AJ, Aard, Lin, Speck, Thera and Ghostie, and everyone else in the Doughmain discord server, for being there. Thank you to Quid, for being with me since the start, I never would have gotten to where I am without you. Thank you to Mars, for sticking with me from start to finish, and always being my biggest fan. Thank you to Lorddoodle on Tumblr for the amazing fanart you made a few years back that I still think about daily, and everyone else on that hellsite, for being so encouraging and enthusiastic. Thank you to my little cousin Sunny, who doesn't even know that he helped me so much with inspiring me to keep going. Thank you to everyone who left such kind messages on the update chapter a few months back, which gave me the encouragement I needed to push through and finish this sucker. to each and every one of you, THANK YOU!

Enjoy!

 

(PSSSST. Spotify playlist is linked below. For the best reading experience for the beginning part of this fic, go to that playlist and que up these songs, in this order: Waste by Oh Wonder, Dustland Fairytale by the Killers, then Blame by Air Traffic Controller. Have fun!)

 

tumblr // playlist

 

TWs: (SPOILERS)
minor blood/injury, hospitals, flashbacks to traumatic events. pretty light!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text




-





Tommy falls for what feels like eons.

 

It’s a moment that stretches on into infinity. Weightless, lost in a hurricane of howling wind that rips and tears and sucks the breath out of his lungs, of flashing lights that leave him blinded by a kaleidoscope of exploding color. There is no up, no down, nothing but the sensation of him stomach dropping out of him, of falling and falling and falling and—

 

He always used to think it was corny, the idea that your life flashes before your eyes right before you die.

 

But in that moment, in those weightless seconds that stretch on into infinity, he knows that it’s true.

 

Because in those final moments he swears that he relives. Every. Single. Fucking.

 

Second. 






Earth. The desert. His uncle's rough voice and calloused hands, the scent of alcohol on his breath—

 

—Hospital rooms and beeping machines, sympathetic faces of nurses and a borrowed suit, the drone of the pastor's voice. Fake flowers, the manicured nails of a social worker digging into his shoulder. Faceless foster parents and the comforting sound of his mothers records—

 

The voices of the kids that taunted him growing up getting closer, the handles of his rusty, borrowed bike under his scraped and sweaty hands as he ditches the bike and runs—

 

“--No, no, it’s okay!” He flinches as the bat clatters to the ground, and she crouches down to his level, peering into his hiding spot. “I’m not going to hurt ya’, It’s alright—”

 

Hot summer afternoons spent in Clara’s father’s garage. The shitty gas station food they left out for him, sometimes. The smell of cheap coffee and gasoline. The occasional movie night every few weeks, the only times when he’d actually get some decent sleep—

 

Their faces, blurred, half-remembered. Popcorn and scratchy blankets, TV static and the crackle of a CD case snapping open—

 

“Tommy, settle this.” Clara snaps, sharply enough to make him jump. “Which is better? Bad Cop: Return of Badder Cop, or Bad Cop: The Legend of Good Cop?--”




There’s a hand in his 

 

It is the only thing he can feel, the only thing he can touch that isn’t ripped from his grasp. Tommy grips Tubbo's hand with every last ounce of strength left in him and, together—

 

They fall. 




Lestea, the petshop. Glass walls and the stench of fur and animals, wailing sirens. Ruby red eyes, shattering glass, the crunch of metal—

 

—heart drops to his shoes. He snarls again, baring his teeth like a dog, the same thing he’d done to four-arms, but the pig doesn’t even blink . He clenches his shaking hands into fists, but what can he do? The guy can bend metal like play-doh, just standing is making him all lightheaded and shit. What the fuck is he supposed to do—




Time flies by, months of cold metal and unforgiving hands. He sees it in bits and pieces, feels the sensations and phantom touches for less than a second before they’re flooding past, one after the other, bleeding into each other, overlapping. The escape pod, Lestea, the petshop, escaping…




—honest-to-god bird wings, each one taller than he was and nearly three times as broad. Glossy black and grey feathers shift, catching and throwing the amber over headlights and the flashing alarms  as he shakes glass off of them too, flapping the ends and brushing them off with gloved hands—

 

“—H-home.” Tommy repeats, voice starting soft but gaining in volume. “Home… Like, Earth? We’re going back to Earth? You’re taking me home?—“

 

“--mate.” Mothman says in a low, soothing kind of voice, with a fucking british accent, of all things. “Can you understand me?”




…and everything that came after.




—t he halls of the Argo II at night, looking at the stars behind cold glass. Warm sheets and a locked door, hesitant trust and vanilla-scented bodywash—

 

—cranes his neck to stare down at the streets below. The people look like ants from this distance, bustling in lines and groups. There are tents set up between buildings in all different colors, coral pinks, sapphire blues, lavender purples, and everything in between. The markets, he assumes, are absolutely buzzing with people. 

 

There are so many colors, so many , on flags, in tents, some of the buildings covered in murals or painted with accent colors that pop out against the other dusty tan buildings. It’s chaotic, a hundred different styles of buildings, the new piled on top of the old—




Tommy swears that he sees all of it, flashing before his eyes. All those months in space, from one end of the galaxy to the other…




—The shopkeeper yells angrily from somewhere behind him, and a laugh bursts from his chest at the sound. Seriously, that guy needs to get a life. Chasing some random kid over a cow? What a loser—

 

—don’t look mad, though. They just tilt their head and smile, eyes gleaming. “I know a place to hide. Help me up?—“




…memories lickering past in pieces and snapshots, he tries to hold on, to get his bearings, but there are so many and it’s all so fast… 




“--gonna play us a song!” Tubbo whispers excitedly in his ear.

 

“A full audience.” Phil jokes from Tubbo’s other side. He gives Tommy a soft smile from over the top of Tubbo’s head, and he doesn’t flinch when he feels warm feathers brushing against the backs of his shoulders. “We’re ready when you are, mate.”

 

Wilbur hums in acknowledgment, not looking up. He looks… Soft, in this lighting. With the big yellow sweater and the beanie, hair flopping over the side of his face, big round glasses perched on his nose. His skin shifts ever so slightly in the light, and his fingers are long and graceful where they rest on the guitar. A lot less like a dickheadish than normal.

 

Then, he starts to play—




…all the things that he’s seen, all the places that he’s been and…




—jungle canopy, thick and lucious, the green leaves painted with shades of lavender and blue, the mint-colored clouds lurking on the edges. They seem to have changed their minds about storming, though the smell of rain still lingered in the air. It’s almost like they were waiting. With a little imagination, it feels like they’re waiting just for him.

 

“--heard of those,” Tubbo breathes out, just as starstruck. “but I’ve never… I've never seen one before.”

 

It’s a moth. A glowing moth, a bright shade of orange that glistens and shifts as it flutters. It seems attracted to the mushrooms, or the glow of them, more likely, almost seeming to dance between them. It’s graceful, it’s delicate, it’s absolutely beautiful—

 

—Like something straight out of a dream, equal parts too-familiar and too-perfect. He’d never been to Vegas, but he wouldn’t be surprised if this is what it looked like in a few hundred years. Equal parts neon lights and sparkling silver and gold—

 

—glittering like diamonds in the distance. New L’Manburg, he assumes, just barely visible through the crumbling smokestacks and dilapidated buildings of Old L’Manburg. He wants to laugh, almost, at the way it seems to rise out of the smoke and fog. His highschool English teacher would have a fucking field day dissecting the irony of it all. It looks like a hologram, a mirage, too perfect, much in the same way Las Nevadas had seemed. It’s glittering colors and towering skyscrapers give even Bezzar a run for its money, sitting there on the edge of the sea—

 

—stretching on into the twilight sky, the whole of Aether unfurls. The dusty green grass sways in the wind, patches of wildflowers in every shade of blue, purple, and pink dotting the landscape. Stretching out from the foot of the hill, an orchard of gray trees pokes out from between a sea of green and blue, the only thing breaking up the meadow that goes on for miles. Even the mountains that border it, grey and blue at the edge of the horizon, seem gentle. 

 

Tommy takes another deep breath, feeling the midnight sun gentle and warm on his skin, the scent of wildflowers and clover filling his nose. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful.

 

If he turns, he can see where the meadow abruptly ends and the canyon begins. Standing with his face to the sun, though, he lets it fall behind him. There are no crashed spaceships and twisted, ugly metal on this side, no ravines carved by lasers and a war long-passed. Just rolling hills and wildflowers, far as the eye can see. Even the grey trees look small, like stumps, the sun almost seeming to glint off off of their strange bark, and—




…Everyone he’s met along the way.




“—I’m Tubbo. He/him!”

 

breathless, a rough laugh bursting out of his throat all the while, the pounding in his chest sounding more and more like victory. 

 

They collapse in a pile, just like before, Tubbo’s elbow digging into his ribs, his arm around his shoulders. He hasn’t let go of his hand, and it’s hot and sweaty in his, the late afternoon sun painting their silhouettes in gold. His friend has to squint to look at him, antennae twitching, and he can’t help it. He throws his head back against the concrete and just laughs–

 

“--name is Ranboo. Who are you?--”

 

—doesn’t seem offended, thank god, flicking an ear as she wraps the bandages around and around. “My name is, “ She then makes some kind of grunting noise, sounding eerily like a cat choking on a hairball. “One Who Ends—“

 

“--is Puffy, this is Sam–”

 

-–In his defense, Wilbur hadn’t meant to hit the guy with his bike—

 

“…Alright.” he gives in, after a beat, lifting his own red drink to toast with Quackity. “Too leaving it all in the dust—-“

 

“--Poggers.” the flower girl echoes with a laugh, only making his face heat up more. “That’s a good thing, yes?”




Everything that he’s been through, everything he’s faced.  

 

The months he spent aboard the Pandora, the memories locked the back of his head and the reminders left branded on his skin and…




strapped down to that cruel metal table, with Him hovering overhead. He remembers the ice-cold sting of the metal blade digging into his temple, of thrashing against his restraints until his wrists were rubbed raw–

 

—screaming, screaming and screaming and screaming, shouting and pleading until his throat aches, and then dissolving into sobs. They hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even hesitated–

 

“--ast one standing when the bell rings, wins—“

 

“--been treated like an animal long enough, you forget what it’s like to be anything else—“

 

—clapping and pounding their feet. They want blood, he knows they want blood. They’re screaming for it, a relentless chant of blood! Blood! Blood! That fills his ears, the only thing he can hear over his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. The pounding of their feet sounds like thunder, rattling the air and rumbling underneath his feet. It’s an overwhelming sound, something he can feel in his bones as much as he can hear it—

 

“--don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. I sell animals, not people—“

 

“--can always find a replacement.”




All of it. Everything. 




maybe it’s for the best. It’s not like they can do anything about it now. What’s done is done, there’s no going back. Talking about it won’t change what happened, it’ll just upset the both of them. He wants to leave on a good note, goddamnit, not with him reopening all these old wounds for everyone to see. He doesn’t… he doesn’t want them to see him like that. He doesn’t want them to know how much those memories hurt. 

 

If Tommy was a stronger man, he’d shove Techno away. If he was a stronger man, he’d put on a brave face, memorize all the stupid flashcards, and charm the council with a smile on his face. If Tommy was stronger, he’d never let his crew now how much it’s going to fucking hurt to leave them behind.

 

But Tommy is… he doesn’t feel really strong, right now.

 

(And maybe that’s okay, too?)

 

“Could you… just…” the words trail off. Tommy can’t force the rest of the request out, feeling his face already flushing. Oh, fuck it. 

 

He doesn’t lean into Techno so much as he flops , collapsing all of his weight into his side. He grabs a hold of his shirt before he can think better of it, shoving his face into his shoulder. He manages to force the rest out through a mouthful of fabric. “ Idontwanttobealonerightnow.” 

 

Techno freezes, for a second. Just long enough to make Tommy nervous, before slinging an arm around his shoulders, pulling him more securely into Techno’s side. A snout snuffles into his hair, a hand rubbing circles over his shoulder. He doesn’t hear him begin to purr so much as he feels it, fingers scratching gently over his back oh, that’s kind of really nice, actually. 

 

Then the hand pauses. The blanket around his ribs shifts. “…is this my blanket?”

 

Tommy doesn’t say anything, hoping his face is hidden enough to hide the grin tugging at his lips. Maybe if he’s still enough, he can just pretend to be asleep. 

 

“Bruh.” Techno whines. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this.” 

 

Tommy can’t choke back the snort in time, muffling his laughter in Techno’s shirt. “Finders keepers, bitch—”




And in the face of this…




“--make a musician out of you yet.” Wilbur says, voice warm as he loops an arm around his shoulders, and absolutely nothing else matters. 

 

Tommy yelps as Wilbur yanks him closer, his other hand furiously ruffling his hair as Tommy struggles and squawks in protest, doing his best to not jostle the guitar in his arms too much as he tries to wiggle free. Betrayal! By his own crew mate now less, how dare! Tommy can feel the vibrations of Wilbur’s chest as he laughs, pressed so close, and even with the fancy new outfit, Tommy can still catch a whiff of vanilla and not-quite-gasoline still clinging to his skin. Its… weirdly comforting. 

 

Tommy shoves a hand in his face. “Getoffme, you fuckin’ octopus!” 

 

“Okay, okay, ow-“ Wilbur squawks as Tommy elbows him in the stomach, still struggling to free himself and not damage the guitar in the process. “Alright, alright. Gods above, you have sharp elbows.” 

 

Finally, Tommy is free. Well, mostly. Wilbur still keeps an arm around his shoulders as Tommy manages to wriggle back out of his personal space, glaring half-heartedly as he spits hair out of his mouth and tries to finger comb the rest out of his eyes. Traitor. 

 

“I knew you’d be a natural.” Wilbur grins, and the annoyance melts into something softer. “You picked that song up so fast, I’ll show you how to play losing face next, you’ll love it–”




…of all of it, of everything…




“--but the Champion of Fire was the bravest of soldiers.” Techno continues, even as Tommy’s eyes begin to slip shut as he leaned against Phil’s side. “Even as he faced down the Witherin’ Queen and her army, he never even hesitated…”

 

When he runs out of stories and his rusty voice begins to trail off, Phil speaks up to fill in the silence. He points out Aetherian constellations and the stories behind them, explaining the ones they used to fly and navigate by as they traveled the world, bickering a little with Technoblade when the constellations overlap, “that’s not a crown, it’s obviously a wing!”, “it’s a broken crown, old man, you need to get your eyes checked-“ 

 

He tries his best to pay attention, committing the shapes and stars to memory. A giant bird flying with both wings outstretched, a golden arrow pointed towards the dawn, two Avians dancing, twirling with their wings outstretched…

 

“Dancing is important to Avians.” He continues in a low voice, running a hand through Tommy hair as he settles against his side, blinking sleepily up at the sky. “It’s one of the oldest languages there is, and Avians are some of the best.”

 

Tommy feels him sigh. “You should have seen the festivals before the war. Inner Warmth in the winter, the Two Wing dance in the spring, oh, it was beautiful…”

 

“Tell the story about the two suns.” Techno rumbles from somewhere behind him, “It's a good one.” 

 

Phil settles a wing around Tommy’s shoulder, pulling him in close until he’s tucked up under his wing all the way.

 

“A long time ago,” Phil begins, running a hand through Tommy’s hair again and scratching, ooooh that feels nice . “Aether had only one sun. The nights were long and cold, Elytrans and Avians all had to bundle together to stay warm…” 




Every part of himself that he lost. Everything that he gained….




“--It’s okay to have nightmares, you know.” Wilbur says, eventually, his voice is usually gentle in a way that makes Tommy bristle. “It happens to all of us, believe me.”

 

“I don’t get nightmares.” He snaps back. 

 

It’s an obvious lie, and Wilbur doesn’t believe it for a second. He still doesn’t argue, though. Doesn’t gesture at the shadows under his eyes or how ragged he’s sure he looks. 

 

He just snorts, and shrugs. “Sure. Well, if Tubbo’s snoring ever wakes you up again, my doors always open.”

 

“I’m not a baby.” Tommy hisses back, shoulders hiking up his neck. “I don’t need you to- to hold my hand , or whatever.”

 

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t need pity, or sympathy or to- to talk about his feelings. He’s a big man, and he can handle himself just fine, thank you very much, and has done so for years. There’s no pity on his face, though. Not even sympathy. He doesn’t tease him about it either, he doesn’t call him a baby or tell him to man up. He just shrugs again like it’s no big deal, and then just… 

 

Offers the bag to him again, a teasing grin on his face. “And here I thought you’d jump at the chance to irritate me whenever you want.” 

 

Tommy hesitates, but only for a second. He knows an olive branch when he sees one. 

 

“ …Whenever I want , you say.” He drawls, taking another handful of fruit. 

 

Wilbur can’t quite smother his grin, even as he sighs, dramatic as ever,“I’m going to regret this, aren't I?”

 

This time, Tommy just grins back, all teeth. “Probably.”

 

“Little shit.”

 

“Bitch.”




He thinks about it all and…




“--hey there,” Tommy croons, doing his best at keeping his voice low and soft. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you? I am, too.”

 

The cage isn’t very big, about two feet long and half that in height, if he had to guess, but it’s still bigger than the creature inside. 

 

It’s about the size of a small cat, really, but it looks a lot larger once it stops holding its legs so close to its body. Big enough to be responsible for the scratches, now that he’s giving its paws (feet?) a closer look. The shadows casted by all the legs make it seem a lot bigger than it is. 

 

It has scars, too. Along its side, dotting it’s abdomen and legs, a chip in one of its ears. enough to make Tommy wince in sympathy. “I guess space isn’t nice to anyone, huh?”

 

A different noise, this time. A warbling kind of sound, like a pigeon coo, and Tommy can feel himself melt.

 

This isn’t some horrible space monster, it’s just a scared, freaked out animal. All alone in space, surrounded by a bunch of aliens all trying to get rid of it, probably scared half to death. Tommy can relate. 

 

He reaches a few hesitant fingers through the bars.

 

Immediately, he he goes to pull them back, because the strange space creature is still very much a strange space creature , and what the hell is he thinking, it’s going to bite them off, but then-

 

Something soft and cold rubs against them.

 

The creature stretches out its neck, giving his fingers a few hesitant sniffs. It’s nose is cold, and tickles, but he refuses to move away. He holds himself as still as he can, barely even daring to breathe, and cursing the ever-present tremble in his hands because now is not the time goddamn it, but the creature doesn’t seem to mind. It pokes at him curiously, feeling him out. 

 

“You’re not a monster, are you?” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. “You were just scared. And hungry. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

 

The creature blinks its eyes, all at different times, before it decides that his hand has been thoroughly inspected, and wanders away to check out the rest of the cage. 

 

Tommy huffs out a laugh pulling his fingers out of the cage very, very, slowly, and giving the top of the cage a few soothing pats. “I’m gonna name you Shroud—”




…and it finally fucking hits him.




“--I’m the best driver you’ve ever seen, Wilbur,” he rambles in his ear to fill the silence that had settled over them, fingers itching to press on the throttle. Sure, he’s never actually driven a hoverbike, but he’s driven Clara’s beat up truck once or twice. Can it really be that different? “C’mon, c’mon, let’s go—“

 

“Patience, gremlin.” Wilbur flicks the side of his helmet, making Tommy squawk and bat his hands away. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll let you press down the accelerator, but I’m steering—“

 

He throws a fist in the air. “Let’s go!”

 

“—and don’t tell Phil I let you ride in front.” He keeps on, punctuating with flick to his helmet. “Or Techno. If you’re get one scratch on Sally, I’m never letting you ride her again.”

 

He opens his mouth to say something, then, the words who the hell names a hoverbike Sally? Ready on his lips, but Wilbur cuts him off. With a press of a button, the bike is roaring to life underneath him with a thrumming he can feel in his bones. He squints through the visor, instinctively tightening his hands on the handles, then—

 

He presses a little too hard on the accelerator, and the bike takes off down the street with an ear-splitting roar. 

 

He screeches right along with it, grasping for a handhold, because holy shit driving this motherfucker is so much harder than he thought it would be holy fuck they’re going to crash into a building and die—

 

The hands over his tighten, straightening out the handles and turning the front of the bike away from the nearby building and down the street. He feels Wilbur talk more than he hears it over the wind, thrumming against his back. “I’ve got you. Ease up a little— there you go. Nice and easy.”

 

‘Nice and easy’ his ass.

 

They fly through the streets, twisting and turning fast enough to make his head spin, the wind ripping at him as the bike roars underneath him. L’Manburg whips past in a blur of neon lights and blue fog, the new, glittering city on the horizon getting lost to the shadows. It’s dizzying, it's terrifying, it’s exhilarating, the wind ripping through him, the thrill of speed, the adrenaline buzzing through his veins. He feels like a live wire, right at home amongst the neon signs that fly past. 

 

Wilbur keeps his hands steady over Tommy’s, letting him press down on the underside of the handles and rev the engine while he turns the bike this way and that. He’s a steady presence at his back, and Tommy feels his chest rumble as he throws his head back and laugh.

 

Tommy laughs with him, the sound ripping its way out of his throat all at once. He screams and whoops until his voice goes hoarse, all of it lost to the roar of the engine and the wind. 

 

He presses down as hard as he can in the throttle, faster, faster, faster, until the world is narrowed down to nothing but the wind ripping past and Wilbur’s steady presence at his back. He’s flying—




…and as he falls through the air, clinging to his best friend with everything he’s got…




“--don’t go into the light!” Wilbur is shouting, at his other side in an instant and patting his face, face pale and eyes wide. “Just look at me, Tommy, it’s gonna be okay—“

 

“Alright stop!” He rips his face out his hands, heart leaping to his throat. “ What the hell is that? Trimethylxanthine Guaranine? Am I gonna die?”

 

He’s too young to die. He’s, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? He’s too young to die! There are so many places he hasn’t been to yet, so many things he hasn’t done, so many women he hasn’t met. After all of that, after everything, he’s just gonna die in space? To a poison not even meant for him? After everything this is how he goes out? From drinking a fucking Coke?! 

 

“You’re not gonna die, toms, not on our watch.” Phil tries to calm him down, but there’s nothing on his face but panic. 

 

Wilbur is having absolutely none of it, pulling Tommy flush against his chest with both arms tight around him as he wails. “Don’t lie to him! Caffeine is deadly, Phil!”

 

Wait a fucking minute. “…Caffeine?”





…it finally fucking hits him, how much he doesn’t regret it. 

 

He doesn't regret what he did, that day in the desert. The mistake that changed the course of his life forever. He feels the pain, the nightmares, the memories, and he realizes…




—looks down at his hands, resting in his lap.

 

They’re exactly the kind of hands you don't want doing something like this. He has hands made for fighting, for breaking things, for curling into tight fists and hopping fences, for snatching sweets from a grocery store and getting him into even more trouble when he flips the cashier off on instinct. You could call them quick, maybe. Strong if you're being generous about it, perhaps. Clumsy, careless hands for the clumsy, careless person that he is. There is no one on Earth who could look at a boy like Tommy, a loud, brash, irritating foster kid, and call any part of him gentle.

 

Every inch of him is just as clumsy as his thoughts are, a hot mess inside and out. 

 

He doesn’t want to hurt Phil, and he knows himself. If there’s any way he can fuck this up, he and his clumsy hands will find it. He’ll pull the wrong feather or push a thorn in deeper, something like that. A bird's wings are incredibly fragile, he’d been told, once, and he’s Tommy innit. The polar opposite of gentle. 

 

…But Technoblade’s looking at him like that, head tilted as he waits for a response, and Phil gives him an encouraging warble from over his shoulder, face soft and blue eyes trusting. 

 

Trust is a two way street, he’d heard once.

 

And he trusts them, now. He hasn’t for a long time, but somewhere between the running away and the teasing, between the hair ruffles and locked doors, the kindness they’d showed him time and time again, he’d decided to trust them. It hadn’t happened all at once, and it’s far from being absolute . He still has his moments, those times when his brain convinces him he’s in danger and he has to remind himself again and again that they won’t hurt him, but still. It’s a hesitant sort of trust, but it’s there.

 

He thinks about Wilbur, of long, slender hands and a well-loved instrument, of the callouses on his finger tips from years of practice. Of how those same hands ruffled his hair every morning just to irritate him, of how they drum on any surface like there's always a song under his skin, itching to be let out. He thinks of Technoblade’s hands, large, battle-scarred things, of the delicate golden rings on his knuckles and the thick, ugly scars underneath. He has the hands of a fighter, no, the hands of a solider, hands once used to kill and maim stitching his wounded arm back together, rewrapping it gently day after day to make sure it healed right. 

 

Oh, fuck it. 

 

If someone like Technoblade can learn to be gentle, he can sure fucking try. 

 

Phil’s wings are even softer than they look. He’s careful, he’s oh so careful, and both Phil and Technoblade look on encouragingly as he clumsily tries to fix an out of place feather, smoothing it back in place with the others

 

His hands shake, there’s nothing he can do about that, now, but he takes a deep breath and keeps going. He’s as gentle as he can be, and it’s enough.




that he doesn’t regret any of it!

 

And if it came down to it? If he had to do it all over again? He would! In a heartbeat! 

 

Because fuck! It was worth it!

 

Everything he did, every place he saw, everything he learned and every person he met along the way. To meet his crew— Wilbur and Techno and Phil and Ranboo and Tubbo— 

 

For the first time in his entire life, he feels like his head is finally clear. He’s finally certain of something, more sure about this than about anything else. Falling through the air, seconds away from death, he’s certain. 

 

That if he dies right now, hand-in-hand with his best friend, he won’t regret a minute of it. 

 

How could he ever regret something like this? To have been able to feel what it was like to be loved, even for just a little while? 

 

And maybe it’s selfish. But you know what? Tommy’s okay with that. He’s not the hero of this story, he’s no golden-hearted fairytale protagonist. He’s loud, and reckless, and stupid, and selfish, but he’s made his peace with that. He’s made his peace with what it says about him, to cling on to his best friend instead of pushing him away, to feel happy instead of horrified that he was willing to jump with him. He holds on, grinning even as his eyes sting with tears, because goddamn it, it was worth it! 

 

Everything he went through. Everything he’s done. Pandora . Dream. The Pit. Everything after, and everything in between. 

 

He’s about to die. He’s about to get his best friend killed, too.

 

But at least he gets to die knowing that he was loved, goddamnit. That Tubbo and his Crew loved him, that they cared about him, that they came back for him, that they weren’t going to make him go through this on his own. That he tried to make a difference, and he tried to help people, and he tried to be gentle, and kind and trusting, and even when he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Because even when he couldn’t, even when he failed—

 

Even when he wasn’t strong enough, they still came back for him. 

 

He isn’t alone anymore. And he was loved. 

 

There’s nowhere else in the galaxy he’d rather be, then right here. Hand in hand with the first real friend he’d ever made. 

 

He’d do it all over again in a heartbeat , and he doesn’t regret one bit of it. 





“—the fuck do you want?”

 

Ranboo just blinks at him, eyes wide as they stand frozen in the middle of the hall.

 

He curls his lip back into a snarl, a sharp, well dont just stand there like a fucking idiot, either spit it out or get lost! On the tip of his tongue, but his lip just starts quivering instead. His hands shake when he balls them into fists, and as if all of that wasn’t bad enough his eyes start watering again, and fuck shit goddamn it!

 

He clamps a hand over his mouth and goes to slap the other one over the door button-

 

But then there’s hands on his shoulders, slender, cold, unfamiliar, and a warbling voice in his ear. Two wide, worried eyes look at him as he’s ushered back into the room by the same hands, sat down on the bed with an insistent press on his shoulders. He tries to shrug them off, hissing and snarling and trying to snap something, but a choked sob comes out instead.

 

He’s just, he’s tired. He stops fighting pretty quickly, giving up and going limp as he glares them down. 

 

Ranboo looks so out of their depth that it’s kind of hilarious, actually, hovering around and anxiously wringing their hands. They warble and vwoop , making distressed noises as he presses his palms to his eyes and tries to calm the fuck down already. 

 

“I hate you.” He hisses, furiously wiping his eyes. “So much. Why can’t you just go away?”

 

Of course they had to show up when he’s like this, because of course! The universe has a sick sense of humor, after all, and loves making him suffer. 

 

They start tugging at his arm, instead.

 

He gives it to them, not really giving a fuck about whatever wierd shit they’re doing. He scrubs his face with his left hands as they mess with his right. It’s only when they start messing with the bandages does he look over, a sharp “what the fuck are you doing?!” On his tongue. He watches them run their fingers worriedly over the wrappings, pressing down every now and again and looking at him like, right there? Does that hurt? How about here? 

 

…It takes a minute for it to click.

 

“I’m not crying because of my arm, dumbass.” He half-says, half-sobs at them, batting their hands away. “Just fuck off already!” 

 

This only seems to make them more panicked, and they start making shrill, high pitched noises. He barely has time to blink before there are hands on his shoulders, pressing him down on the bed so another hand can press at his ribs, on the very much still broken ribs, thank you very much, all while they look at him with wide, horrified eyes. Each one of their thoughts plays out pretty clearly, is it your ribs? Oh god, it’s your ribs. How bad does it hurt? Do I need to call someone else? Are you dying?! 

 

“It’s not my ribs!” He snarls, swatting their hands a little more harshly. “I’m fine, I’m fine! Just get your weird ass hands off of me!”

 

Reluctantly, they pull back, still looking at him like they think he’s about to fall over and die any minute, tail all fluffed out like a startled cat.

 

He paws at his face again, sniffing and wiping away what’s left of the tears. He glares at Ranboo, though judging by their expression it’s not very convincing. Whatever. 

 

“…I had a nightmare.” He eventually says, lying through his teeth. That’s less embarrassing than saying, ‘oh yeah, I got sad because my friend has other friends, like a pathetic loser,’ anyways.

 

“That's it. I’m not dying, you can go away now.” 

 

He doesn’t know if they recognize the word nightmare , but he thinks they might, judging by the way their shoulders slump and their ears swivel back and forth guilty. They keep looking at his arm, the injured one, now held protectively against his chest, their hands twitching in its direction. They make a warbling noise and point. 

 

Fucking, whatever. Maybe if he proves it they’ll finally leave him the fuck alone. 

 

He picks up his injured arm and flops it down in their lap. Immediately they panic again, hands freezing in the air as if his arm would shatter if they breathe on it too harshly, and they weren’t just feeling him up a few minutes ago.

 

“Oh my god.” He hisses, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. “You’re worse than Phil. It's fine, it’s absolutely fine.” 

 

…They hesitate, this time. 

 

He doesn’t flinch when long, cold fingers start to prod at his hand, trailing up his wrist and over the bandages. He keeps his face perfectly calm, lifting one unimpressed eyebrow as Ranboo carefully prods at the injury, searching his face the whole time for the slightest hint of pain. They calm down a bit once they find none, though, shoulders starting to dip from where they’ve been scrunched up around their neck. 

 

Their hands feel strange. Long and slender with pads on the tips of each finger and over the palm. There are scars across the knuckles, familiar ones, the same kind Tommy has across his own. The claws are just little things now, but he knows they can extend out when they need to use them. They’re oh so careful to keep them away from the bandages. 

 

They don’t shake, not like his do. They’re the opposite of his, if anything, and the thought makes him bristle even more. Gentle and sure, touches feather-light. Of course even Ranboo would have better hands than him. 

 

They make another noise, less of a vocalization and more of an actual word, spoken softly as they rest their fingers over his pulse point. “⟟⋔ ⌇⍜⍀⍀⊬.”

 

He blinks, wrinkling his nose. “You know I have no idea what you’re saying, right?”

 

They vwoop again, pointing to themself, then to the hand. They keep their gaze down, ears folded back as they rub little circles right the center of his wrist. They repeat the word, low and soft.

 

It takes him a minute to understand what it means, I’m sorry. 

 

And he…He deflates, just a little. God, they look fucking pitiful. No wonder Tubbo likes them so much if they spend all day moping around, looking at him like that. 

 

“…I’m not fragile.” He mumbles, eventually, flexing and bending his fingers as if to prove it. “I hurt you a lot worse than you hurt me, anyways. I’m fine.”

 

They seem a little doubtful, but they don’t press.

 

He eyes their chest, instead. 

 

It’s all too easy to remember the fight, the weight of the sword in his hands, the roaring of the crowd in his ears. The hot spray of blood as he slashed their ribs, the crowd howling their approval as they crumbled to the floor in a heap. 

 

Slowly, oh, so slowly, he lifts his injured hand, placing it under their ribs with his fingers splayed. He knows where the slashes are, the ones he left. He can feel their heart jump under his fingers, but they don’t shove him away like he was expecting.

 

“And I’m sorry for those.” He mutters. “So, it looks like we’re even.”

 

They cover his hand with theirs, making another vwoop noise, and he knows he’s been forgiven.





Not one. 





—holds the tip of his blade to her throat, and the crowd goes absolutely wild.

 

He doesn’t even hear it, though he can feel his teeth rattling with the noise, feels the ground tremble underneath them. He straddles her chest, sword tip right in the hollow of her neck. There’s sweat dripping in his eyes, and the rise and fall of the chest he’s sitting on is a little more than unnerving, but he holds still. He looks at her right in the eyes, and he bares his teeth like a Piglin bares its tusks. He won. He won.

 

“I win.” He pants, “Looks like you owe me.”

 

The look in her even, golden gaze is familiar, and he could collapse with the relief. She gives her head another shake and growls, but only a little, curling her lip. “That was underhanded.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “It wasn’t against the rules, was it?”

 

“...No.” She admits, eventually. “It wasn’t.” 

 

The roaring of the crowd develops into a chant Blood! Blood for the Blood God! 

 

He doesn’t just hear it, he feels it. The noise is so loud, he can feel it reverberating in his bones, rattling his sternum and beating along with the rushing of blood in chest. They want him to kill her, to truly win. He could fill the whole arena with blood and they wouldn’t be satisfied, always howling for more, more, more. It would be so easy to give in, like how he had before. To let the potions and the adrenaline take over, to plunge his sword down. 

 

He feels the eyes of his crew on him, and Technoblade’s steady presence by his side. He can’t, he won’t give in. 

 

He’s no blood god. He’s just Tommy . A scrawny kid with people to get home too. He takes a deep breath, and then another. He hears the voices, all of them, and lets them wash right over him. In one ear, out the other. Since when has Tommy Innit let anyone else tell him what to do? 

 

She looks away first, and he knows defeat when he sees it. 

 

He won. It’s over. 

 

“Pretend to strike me with the pommel of your sword.” She mutters, only audible to him. “Make it look convincing. Quickly.”

 

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

 

The crowd roars again when he lifts his sword, turning it in his hands. Technoblade could twirl his sword with one hand and blindfolded, he knows it’s not nearly as graceful as when he does it. Still, he holds it high, the end of it pointed at her face.

 

She doesn’t look afraid. If anything, the look she’s giving him is almost proud. She even smiles, her tawny hair escaping its braid and falling across her face. It’s a little thing, just a quirk of her lips around her tusks, but he’s lived with Technoblade. He knows a smile when he sees it. She closes her eyes and tilts her head up, not an ounce of fear in her face, not a bit of tension in her shoulders. 

 

He brings down the sword with all of his strength—




Single. 





-–doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t look unconvinced , either, which just makes things even more difficult. The deadpan resting expression he has is so fucking hard to get a good read on. He doesn’t look mad about him being in his secret training room, though, even though he had to fumble around in his room to find it. Well, he doesn’t yell at him or demand for him to leave, which he takes as him being ‘not mad’. 

 

Instead he just shifts, his tufted tail swishing around his ankles as he moves the sword from his shoulder. In one swift move he twirls it in his hand until the grip is facing Tommy. “Take it.”

 

For a solid five seconds, he just gapes. “What?”

 

“Practice.” Technoblade just grunts. “If you’re gonna be mopin’ down here anyways, you might as well help me train.”

 

He hesitates, and then, he looks him in the eyes. Really looks at him. 

 

...Technoblade wouldn’t offer to train with him as an excuse to just beat the shit out of him, right? He used to this kind of bait, the older kids in the foster home offering to play something dumb like kickball with him just to sock him in the face at the earliest opportunity. Surely Phil wouldn’t let him actually hurt him, right? Besides, Technoblade isn’t some snot-nosed brat with nothing better to do, surely he wouldn’t pull something like that.

 

Surely.

 

That stupid deadpan look on his face doesn’t give up any insight to what he’s thinking, so it’s hard to tell for sure. He hesitates. 

 

“It’s blunt.”

 

His rough voice brings him out his thoughts, and memories of cruel laughter and the taste of blood and rubber in his mouth fade. He blinks, “What?”

 

“I don’t train with real swords.” He explains gruffly, and the knowing look in his ruby red eyes makes him bristle. “These are all blunt. Take it.”

 

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ is left unsaid, but Tommy hears it clear enough. He nods. 

 

He takes the sword.





Goddamn. 






“Go, go, go!” Tubbo hisses from behind him, urging him up the metal stairs. “Hurry!”

 

“I’m going!” He hisses back, as loud as he dares with the shopkeeper and Technoblade still so close.

 

His hands grab on to the cold metal railing, and he practically throws himself up the stairs. Oh god, he does not like the way the whole thing shifts and groans underneath them both. His stomach gives an awful lurch when he nearly misses a stair, and if it wasn’t for Tubbo grabbing him by the back of the coat and pushing him onwards, he probably would have tipped over the railing.

 

He swallows hard and keeps going.

 

He’s never had a problem with heights, but with the way the fire escape is shuddering, he’s very careful to only look ahead and not over the edge. He looks up the stairs to the next landing, and freezes, hands scrabbling for a tighter hold on the rails. His outstretched foot dangles into thin air, and he’s quick to yank it back to solid ground. The stairs just fucking stop .

 

It’s a long, long way down to the bottom. If he hadn’t looked he’d be nothing more than a smudge on the pavement. 

 

“Curses.” Tubbo mutters from behind him. “I always forget that this one ends here.”

 

Tommy opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off when the fire escape gives another awful shudder. He grips the railings so hard his knuckles turn white, looking back at Tubbo with wide eyes. “ What the fuck was that?!”

 

They both freeze when it shakes again, a loud voice screeching up at them from the bottom of the stairs as the fox guy starts to fucking climb. “I see you! Get down here!”

 

Tubbo curses under his breath, shoving past Tommy so they’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the very lip of the landing. He’s always been a big fan of this little thing called personal space, but Tubbo apparently never got the memo. He clings to Tommy’s arm, looking around wildly for a way out. 

 

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Tommy curses under his breath, his heart pounding loud on his ears. “What the fuck do we do?!”

 

Tubbo looks straight ahead, mouth set in a determined line. “We’re going to have to jump.”

 

“Jump?!”

 

“That balcony!” He points. Tommy cranes his neck to follow his hand. 

 

It’s in front of them, a little ways down. He wouldn’t have noticed it if Tubbo hadn’t pointed it out. A half-moon structure jutting out from the side of a crumbling building, railings already broken. He might’ve suggested the same thing if wasn’t six feet below them, and on the other side of the fucking alley. That’s at least a ten foot gap, and he’s low balling it. 

 

“I’ve done it loads of times,” he continues, “We jump to that balcony, and from there we can get to that roof up there.”

 

“Are you fucking insane?!” He demands, clutching tight to his arm when the fire escape gives another shudder, personal space can get fucked . “There’s no way we can make that!”





Thing.





—There’s wind in his hair, the alleyway below disappearing into shadow like it’s the fucking void. The fox guy is just getting closer, making the fire escape shake and tremble as he slips on the stairs, shouting and growling all the while. Tubbo has one arm wrapped tight around his, and he can feel the rabbiting of his heart through his jacket. He looks up, the roaring of his own heartbeat and frantic breathing in his ears blocking out everything else. He can see other rooftops from here, all gilded in the orange and gold of the midday sun. It’d be a lot prettier if he wasn’t about to fucking die. 

 

Then, Tubbo does the wierdest fucking thing.

 

He grabs Tommy by the shoulders and whirls him around, pulling him down so they’re nearly nose-to-nose. His duel-toned eyes, one emerald green, one honey brown, bore into his—





As they fall through the air, getting closer and closer to certain death, Tubbo holding his hand tight, the last thought that runs through Tommy’s mind before they hit the ground is—

 

Yeah.

 

This was worth it. 





“--Do you trust me?”

 

Tommy gapes at him. “ I just met you!?”

 

“Not important,” he insists, as the fox guy reaches the landing just beneath him. The hands grabbing tight to the collar of his coat are shaking slightly, antennae drooping into his hair. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Y-yeah,” he stammers out. For some weird reason, he does. “Yeah, big man, I trust you.”

 

Tubbo grins, blinding as the sun. “Great. On three.

 

“What-“

 

Tubbo turns him around again so they’re both facing the gap, still holding his hand in an iron-clad grip so he can’t back out,  “One…”

 

The pounding of feet just gets louder, the fox guy only a few steps away from their landing. His heart is in his throat, adrenaline filling his veins with pure electricity as Tubbo shifts back into a better stance. “Two…”

 

He takes a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bends his knees, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. He can practically feel fox guy’s hot breath on the back of his neck, clawed hands closing around his collar-

 

“Three!” 

 

He jumps.

 

For a minute he’s weightless, the wind in his face, Tubbo’s sweaty hand tight in his. He feels like he’s flying. 




And then they hit the—






-






The Pandora collides with the Council Ship with a noise like the end of the world.

 

Everyone stops. Everyone looks. Every single one of the billions of eyes in the whole galaxy are trained on this, either watching through a screen from somewhere far, far away, or through black smoke and squinted eyes. Through dust and soot, falling ash and debris. Through the glass of broken windows, through the sparks of fading firework trails and the glinting metal of smaller spaceships as they try desperately to get out of the way in time. Everyone watches, everyone stops and looks, and for one infinitely long second, the whole entire galaxy holds its breath, and— 

 

And then, there is noise.

 

It is an indescribable sort of sound. Metal crunching, wood and fabric ripping, the floor of the Council ship crumpling like tissue paper as the nose of the Pandora gouges a trench into where the Market used to be. The entire Council ship shakes, first with the initial impact, and then with the reverberations of ripping, crumpling metal. Glass breaks, the engine sputters and coughs, the Pandora slowly, slowly, grinding itself to a final halt just before colliding with the observation deck near the front of the ship, half buried into the deck. 

 

Every single pair of eyes is on the ship, on the absolute spectacle of watching the Pandora go down through fire and flame, impacting with an explosion of metal, glass, and a shower of sparks. 

 

All but a few, whose eyes are, instead, locked on the sky. 

 

Or, more specifically— on the Elytran who had just fallen out of it.

 

“Phil!”

 

The Piglin is running.

 

His hooves pound against the deck of the Council ship as it shakes beneath him, threatening to knock him off balance. He brings up a hand to cover his face, to block the noxious black smoke that’s filling the air and burning his sensitive nose and eyes. He soldiers on, through fire and smoke, through the explosions that still rattle around him, through the debris that falls and threatens to knock him clean off his feet. He does not hesitate, and he does not stop. 

 

“Phil!” 

 

The Marketplace is nearly abandoned, now, crowds long since having fled for the safety of the lower decks. The only ones that still remain are the ones that can’t leave, either calling out desperately for loved ones they’d been separated from, frozen with their hands over their mouths as they watch the destruction that rains from above, or pinned underneath the shifted and fallen rubble. The false-atmosphere is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning plastic, filled with calls and mournful cries as families attempt to reunite with the ones they’ve lost. The Piglin soldiers past without so much as a second glance.

 

His eyes are trained on something ahead, ears pricked towards something know he can hear. 

 

Towards the edge of the marketplace, there had once been a temporary stage, surrounded by chairs and food-carts. Now, it’s mostly been destroyed, half-collapsed to the side, over-turned food carts and other debris surrounding it and mostly shielding from view like a barricade. There is shouting, a few stragglers attempting to shift the metal away. 

 

“Move— let me through!” The Piglin barks, voice cracking, “Out of the way!”

 

They part for him. 

 

They’re talking to him, wringing their hands and looking around with soot-stained faces and wide, sad eyes. He does not hear them, their apologies, their warnings. He doesn’t even react. 

 

He reaches for the piece of metal they had been attempting to push aside. It bends under his hands, and with one great heave he throws it aside as though it weighs nothing at all, and when he looks up at what awaits him on the other side, he finds—

 

An Elytran.

 

On his side, limp and still, his blonde hair covering his face and his wings— his wings—

 

What remains, of his wings. 

 

They are still beautiful, even like this. Even bloody and twisted, one half-curled against him, the other stretched out to its full length, huge and dark and completely still. The black feathers are still glossy, though most are matted with blood and other debris, the rest lying limp and useless against the metal ground, ripped from the wing completely.

 

The Piglin drops to his knees at the Elytran’s side, his shaking hands reaching for his face. The sound that leaves his throat his guttural, “Phil—“ 

 

The Elytran shifts, scrunching his nose when one tear lands on his face, and then another. He cracks open one hazy blue eye. 

 

“Just— just hold on, Phil, I—“ he jerks up, then, shouting to the others still lingering around them, watching with their hands over their mouths. “I need a fucking doctor! I—“ 

 

“T- tech?”

 

The Piglin swallows. Hard. He does not look at his wings. He cradles his face, shifting his head to his lap. “Yeah, Phil. It’s— I’m here.” 

 

The Elytran smiles. Then—

 

The Piglin lurches into action, when he starts to uncurl one of his wings. “Phil— Phil— don’t—“

 

Only to cut himself off, when he sees what lies beneath.

 

Two little bodies. Two kids. 

 

A Bezzarian, and a human, both tucked close against the Elytrans side, wrapped around one another with one of the Elytran’s arms holding them both as close as he can. Their eyes are shut, bodies limp and bruised, but they’re still breathing— 

 

They’re holding hands. 

 

“I told you.” The Elytran murmurs, smiling as his eyes drift shut. “T- told you I’d save ‘em.”





-






His head is spinning.

 

No, that’s not right. The entire fucking world is spinning, moving around him in a rush of color and sound, his ears ringing so loud it’s nearly painful. Tommy feels himself move, feels someone moving him, and can’t quite bite back the whine that slips through his teeth, unable to resist as he’s manipulated by forces well beyond his control. He’s dizzy, and tired, and everything hurts. Everything hurts, and it hurts so, so, so bad—

 

“--ey, its okay– shh, its–”

 

His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue too heavy in his mouth and lips chapped. He tries to open his eyes, but all he can see is a mess of colors and blurred shapes, and all that does is make the spinning a hundred times worse, so he screws them shut, instead. Leans into the large, clumsy hand petting through his hair.

 

There’s talking. Voices. Some of them he understands, most he doesn’t. They sound far away, distant and distorted, shrill in a way that doesn’t help the throbbing on his skull or the ringing in his ears. It fucking hurts. He didn’t think it was possible for every single muscle and bone in his body to ache this badly, but here we are. There’s a sharp, piercing pain between his eyes and in his chest, his limbs all throbbing in time with his stuttering pulse. 

 

Where is… why? What the hell– what is happening? What’s going on?

 

It’s hard to breathe. 

 

He tries to cough, to clear his lungs, but all that does is send a white-holt bolt of pain through all of him. He convulses gasping, and at least three pairs of arms go to hold him down. He whines, trying to curl in on himself, trying to fucking breathe, his throat is scraped raw and his lungs don’t expand all the way and there’s not enough air he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t— 

 

Something is slipped over his face, something cool that presses into the skin around his mouth, and cold air rushes into his lungs.

 

“--at’s it,” a voice is saying. Low, rough, familiar. Techno..? “Just breathe, kid.”

 

Every part of him aches, the low, bone-deep kind of pain you get from true exhaustion. The dizziness ebbs and rolls over him every in waves, ebbing in and out like the tide. He tries to claw his way into consciousness, but the minute he gets a handle, the world tips, and he’s floating again. Spinning. No, falling.

 

Falling. He remembers falling. Falling, falling, falling— 

 

His head is spinning, aching and hot. He feels like he’s moving, tipping this way and that, like he’s riding the world's worst roller coaster. It feels like someone is trying to unspool his brain out through his ears and it hurts. He can’t tell up from down, he can’t even tell if his eyes are open, he’s so tired, but he’s so dizzy and disoriented— where is he? What had— what happened? Where’s— 

 

A whimper forces itself past his lips, and he curls up tighter, arms tight around his chest. Is he dying? Is this what dying feels like? He’s too young to die, he doesn’t want to die—

 

“No one’s dyin’” 

 

The voice, Techno, that's Techno, says, before getting farther away again. “Wilbur can– no, get Tubbo I—”

 

Tommy blinks open his eyes. 

 

His vision swims, colors and lights and sound blurring together like he’s on a goddamn merry-go-round. He blinks, swallowing the nausea rising in his throat, tries to focus on something. On the figure leaning closest, an anchor in the storm. Pink hair, tusks. “T-t—”

 

His tongue is thick and heavy, swollen in his mouth, throat dry. He tries to speak, but the words come out all wrong and muffled from the thing over his mouth. 

 

“Shh,” Techno says, ruby eyes crinkling. “Just– be still, Tommy. You’re okay.”

 

He swallows, turning his head to look past him. There's– lots of light, and color. People moving, voices shouting. He thinks that he sees feathers, in the corner of his eye. A yellow sweater, a flash of long, black limbs. Somewhere to his right, there's a weird white thing– a bed? No, that's not right. It’s— what's the word? A—a stretcher! Yes, that's it. There's a stretcher, and people in white are putting someone— on? Someone with— someone who—

 

Tommy throws out a hand, “t- tub?”

 

Techno shifts, blocking his view. Well, that’s rude. A large hand takes his extended one, carefully folding it back so it’s resting on Tommy’s stomach, keeping it there. Then, he starts to… walk? Why is he— oh, Tommy’s moving. The thing he’s lying on is moving, and Techno isn't leaving, he’s just walking to keep pace with it. That’s nice. 

 

“He’s fine.” Techno grunts, running his other hand through his hair. “They're both fine. You’re all fine.”

 

Tommy blinks. “M–mkay.”

 

The thing underneath him jolts, and Tommy's vision goes white.

 

He comes back a second or too later, shaking as his vision fades in and out— his throat hurts, and someone’s— someone’s making this awful noise. Panting and keening like a wounded animal— oh, fuck, is he making that noise? It hurts. 

 

The world is still spinning, moving and rocking beneath him, a large, calloused hand holding tight to his. Techno’s voice cuts above the others as he shouts at— someone? There’s so much noise. So much talking. Voices overlapping, figures moving in and out of his line of sight. 

 

Unfamiliar hands grab at him, pulling at his arms, feeling his face. He whines when they shine a bright light in his eyes, clutching hard to Techno’s hand. “T– tech—?” 

 

What the hell is going on? 

 

“I know.” he murmurs back. “Im– I’m right here. You’re safe.”

 

Something in him starts to relax, just a little. Yes. that— that sounds right. Tommy squeezes his hand. Techno is here, and Techno is part of his crew. His crew is here, so he’s safe. 

 

“You did good, runt.” 

 

The clumsy hand is back, gently working through the tangles in his hair. He leans into the touch with a hum. It’s nice— his hands are cool. He squeezes the hand he’s holding again.

 

“St—“ he manages to wheeze out. “Stay?”

 

The larger hand in his squeezes back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” 

 

When the darkness pulls at him, dragging him under, he doesn’t fight it. Techno is here. His crew is here. They’ll keep him safe. He trusts them to keep him safe. 

 

The world fades to black. 



 

 

-




The human looks very small, on the hospital bed.

 

Enderion hospitals are different, compared to hospitals on other planets. They aren’t like the ones in New L’Manburg, on Viona, known for their technological advancements and alchemy expertise. Or even the ones on Nevodis, known for their… discretion, when it comes to important clientele, as well as their state of the art facilities and beautiful grounds. It may not be the most luxurious or technologically impressive in the galaxy, but there is absolutely no doubt that this hospital, located in the very heart of Endlantis, is one of the most secure places in all of the galaxy. 

 

It is beautiful, still, in its own way. Most buildings in Endlantis are, the skyline of the crown city glitters against the twilight background of Enderion’s near-endless night, beautiful as a solar flare. The planet itself is hot and barren, the closest to the Esempii Galaxy’s sun, and therefore the hottest— the city itself is located in what would be the Arctic Pole on another planet, a place that stays dark for many, many months out of the year, and one of the only locations that isn’t too hot to sustain life. The buildings are tall and dark, many of them cut from volcanic rock and glass, situated amongst the dark and craggily mountains, remnants of long-dormant volcanoes, that rise out of the sands like jagged shark teeth. 

 

The hospital itself is located in these mountains, perched at the foot of the Empress’s Palace itself. It offers both a beautiful view of the city below, and just the right amount of distance to make it hard to reach unless you use the carefully-monitored and heavily-guarded passageways through the mountains. 

 

This being said, the Piglin takes up his post in the hospital waiting room the moment he’s able, and doesn’t move for anything. 

 

There is ash and soot in his hair, the braid nearly undone. He’s done his best to scrub the blood out from under his nails, but he wasn’t entirely successful. There are still traces of it on his clothes, alongside the dust and muck and who-knows-what-else caked into the fabric. He settles back into one of the waiting room chairs, and waits. 

 

Around him, the waiting room is a never-ending stream of activity. He ignores the doctors that stream in and out of the waiting room, calling names and ushering patients back. Ignores the cautious looks from the guard’s situated in key locations to discourage unwanted guests. Ignores the whispering of nurses that seems to echo impossibly loud in the narrow passageways. Ignores the groaning and coughing and general sounds of people in mild distress, the various Endborn soon-to-be patients watching him out of the corner of their slitted eyes with lashing tails. 

 

He stays right where he is, seated in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, and does not move. 

 

Not even as the seconds bleed into minutes, and then the minutes bleed into hours. Not even as some of the other passengers that were aboard the Council ship get ushered out, sporting bandages or casts. Not even when the Hybrid with red-rimmed eyes comes stumbling out of one of the doors, led gently by one of the nurses, and all but collapses into the chair next to him. He allows the Hybrid to curl up at his side, quickly dozing off against his shoulder, and remains were he is, still as a statue as the world spins and revolves around him. 

 

“Hey.”

 

The Phantling is gentle, touching his shoulder, the one not occupied by a sleeping Hybrid teenager. There are bandages peaking out from under his collar and ash in his hair, but he smiles regardless, despite the deep bags under his eyes and his split lip. 

 

“…hullo.” The Piglin grunts back.

 

He does not move. The Phantling sits by his other side, humming. He places his hand on his arm and keeps it there. The Piglin allows this. He does not move.

 

“…how’s Tubbo?” He whispers. 

 

“Resting.” The Phantling sighs, picking at his collar. He taps his foot, restless. “We should be able to see him tomorrow, they said.” 

 

The Piglin nods, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Good.”

 

“Any word on Phil?”

 

The Piglin shakes his head, continuing to stare stubbornly forwards. “He and Tommy are still in surgery.”

 

It’s quiet, for a long beat. 

 

“He’s going to be okay.” The Phantling says. He shifts slightly in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, leaning more of his weight into the Piglin’s other side. He reaches for his hand. “They all are.”

 

He does not sound entirely certain, despite how hard he’s trying too.

 

The Piglin just sighs, shifting in his seat as he, and the least-injured half of the Argo II crew curl up on either side, resting their heads on his shoulders. The Hybrid purrs anxiously in his sleep, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth. The Phantling takes a hold of the Piglin’s hand and squeezes. The Piglin squeezes back.

 

Together, they wait.







-






Tommy doesn’t remember the crash.

 

He doesn’t remember the Pandora finally colliding with the Council ship below. He doesn’t remember Phil swooping in to grab him and Tubbo both in the nick of time, sheltering them with his wings to save them from the brunt of the impact. He doesn’t remember the landing, or how he managed to break his wrist and his ankle and like, three of his ribs in the process. Doesn’t remember clinging to Techno’s hand like a lifeline, as he and the doctors do their best to pull them all from the rubble. 

 

He doesn’t remember the aftermath, either. He doesn’t remember being rushed to the nearest planet, Enderion, for the emergency surgery they’d had to do to keep his broken rib from puncturing his lung. Doesn’t remember being stuck with needles and pumped full of meds and potions the doctors weren’t even positive would work. Doesn’t remember nearly flatlining on the table not once, but twice, as his shitty lungs decided to flat-out give up a few times during the surgery. Doesn’t remember all the times he’d sort-of-woke up while recovering, still sore and high on a cocktail of space-drugs, babbling about nonsense or clinging to whoever had been babysitting him like a limpet. None of it. 

 

The only thing he does remember is this: how much hospitals fucking suck.

 

Though, out of all the hospitals and medical-wings he’s been in over the course of his life, the hospital on Enderion is definitely his favorite so far. 

 

It’s not all white, which definitely scores some points in its favor. He’s never seen an all-black hospital room before, and something about how unusual it is makes the whole thing easier, funnily enough. The bed is creaky and kind of stiff, but it’s big enough for three, with some room to spare. There are chairs for visitors, and a big window that looks out over the city below, which is kind of cool. He even gets armed guards outside his door— an honest-to-god protection detail. Like he’s the Prime Minister, or something. The food is actually half-decent, the nurses and doctors are nice and even crack jokes with him from time to time. His physical therapist is a riot. All in all, it could be worse. 

 

The official diagnosis comes with a lot of long words that Tommy’s still-slightly-concussed brain has trouble with, but he gets the jist of it: concussion (duh) but probably no lasting brain-damage, a left leg that’s broken in like, three places, a dislocated shoulder, a fucked-up hand from Dream’s stupid knife-fingers, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung. His leg and his lung both required surgery. All in all, he was pretty certifiably fucked up. 

 

Needless to say— recovery is slow-going. Even with all their sci-fi equipment and space drugs. 

 

Tommy still feels a little out of it, most days. Even after he’d woken up- woken up. A result of the many, many drugs he’s on, on top of the concussion, Techno and the doctors reassure him, over and over. He feels… floaty? No, that’s not right. It's more like… surreal. Like he’s still been put under for surgery, and is just waiting to wake up again. Like everything had been moved a few inches to the left when he was looking, leaving him feeling all sorts of off-balance that has nothing to do with the fact that he can’t hobble more than a few feet without his crutches unless he wants to fall right on his face and rebreak all his ribs. 

 

…Honestly? It feels a little like waking up after the end of the world. 

 

His head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, most days. He lets the doctors run their tests, (“how’s your chest? Any pain? Are you breathing okay? Any headaches? Dizzy spells? Difficulty speaking? Are you seeing flashes of light? Tingling in your hands or face? I’m gonna listen to your breathing for a bit, is that okay? Here, follow my finger—“), and tries to ignore the awful deja-vu that comes with. Let’s Techno and Wilbur and Ranboo mother-hen him to their heart's content, (“Does that hurt? Do you need more blankets? Are you hungry? You should drink some water. Do you need help getting up? Take your meds, Tommy. Are the lights too bright? I can call the doctors if you need—“), and tries not to feel like he’s just waiting for the catch. For someone to pop up and go, “ah-ha! You fool! You thought it was over— think again!” 

 

(Maybe he should ask the nurses to tone down the drugs a little bit) 

 

All in all, he’s basically the model patient. He takes his medicine on time, doesn’t complain about the food, or the stretches, or the breathing exercises. Doesn’t fight with the doctors, even though he still flinches sometimes at the sight of needles, or the feeling of an IV in his arm. They back right the fuck off whenever he gets overwhelmed, and don’t even seem mad about it. 

 

(Honestly, he doesn’t even need to say anything, half of the time. If any of his crew catch on that he’s the slightest bit uncomfortable, they’re more than happy to get between him and the doctors in a heartbeat. It’s… nice.

 

It’s really, really nice, being in a hospital and actually feeling safe, for once.) 

 

Mostly, he spends a lot of time staring out that window, looking down at the dark, sprawling city below him, and just. Thinking. 

 

Just thinking. 

 

He’s alive, somehow. He hadn’t really expected to be, after a fall like that, but for some reason, he is. He, and Tubbo, and Phil, and everyone else— they’re all alive, all safe. He’s alive, and Dream is not. The ship is gone, and so is the monster from all of his nightmares. He can never go home again, but at least he’s alive, right? 

 

It’s finally over. For real, this time. 

 

Dream is dead. Tommy is alive. 

 

He's… not quite sure what to do, now. If he’s being totally honest. 

 

Thankfully, he has a whole crew to help him, and they’re with him every step of the way.

 

Tommy rarely gets a moment to himself, truth be told. He wakes up with both Wilbur and Techno passed out in the chairs next to his bed, and that’s pretty much where they stay, for the next few weeks. Wilbur fills him in about the stuff he missed while he was fresh out of surgery and too high to remember anything— the crash, the landing, the aftermath. He hadn’t come out unscathed either, sporting some pretty gnarly burns on his arms from narrowly-missed laser fire, but he’s at least well enough to rotate between hospital rooms, splitting his time between the three of them once everyone else got released. 

 

He keeps him updated on Phill, who he still isn't allowed to see, (apparently, Elytran’s lungs are all sensitive ‘n shit, and breathing in all that smoke and junk had given him a pretty gnarly case of bird-pneumonia, on top of the broken collarbone and two fucked-up wings, so he’s basically quarantined until further notice), and Tubbo, (who had managed to fare a little better than Tommy, the lucky bastard, with an arm that had been broken in two places, a dislocated shoulder to match Tommy’s, some pretty gnarly bruises on his chest and stomach, an ugly burn on the side of his face from a stray firework explosion, and a really, really nasty concussion), who he’s also not allowed to see, on account of the concussion. 

 

Wilbur’s not the only visitor, either. Techno splits his time between the three of them as well, standing guard and occasionally allowing himself to be pestered into helping him wash and braid his hair, when he’s really bored. Ranboo keeps him entertained with card games and somewhat-awkward conversation, though they’d brightened up considerably when Tubbo was finally, finally, cleared for visits, and— 

 

And it’s… something. It’s something. 

 

The first days after he actually wakes up for longer than just a handful of minutes at a time pass in a blur of color, a few key embarrassing moments that he’s going to do his best to repress forever (he will never, ever take being able to shower and use the bathroom by himself for granted ever again), and half-remembered conversations. The only ones he’d been allowed to see at first were Techno and Wilbur, though he spent most of his time half-asleep or high on pain meds. He’d come too to find Wilbur curled up in a chair, humming as he scribbled down song lyrics, or Techno reading aloud from that stupid Greek-mythology textbook. 

 

As the days passed, he got stronger. He’d still had to wear the stupid hospital scrubs, but he was at least able to sleep without the stupid tube down his nose to make sure his lungs didn’t give up on him in the middle of the night, and could move around enough for Techno to help him wash his hair—



(“You don’t have to do this.” Tommy says, shifting awkwardly in his chair at the edge of the bathtub. 

 

He’d still needed to use a wheelchair full-time for the first few weeks to keep from fucking up his leg or his ribs, and despite how awesome the space-wheelchair is the bathroom, barely had enough room for just him. Nevermind him, and a giant, full-grown Piglin.

 

“Lean back.” Techno instructed, testing the temperature of the water with his hand.

 

He lays a towel down across the back of Tommy‘s neck, helping him fiddle with the chair so he can lean back a little without hurting himself more. It’s awkward, him leaning over the rim of the tub just enough to not get water everywhere, Technoblade crouching by his side. Tommy fiddles with his hands, and looks everywhere but at his friend.

 

“Seriously.” He says again. “Don’t you guys have like— dry shampoo, or something? You don’t have too—“

 

“Tommy.”

 

He stops.

 

He shivers instinctively, when he feels the spray of warm water on his scalp, but soon he’s leaning into the feeling. After weeks of dealing with greasy, matted hair, it feels like fucking heaven. 

 

“I’m doing this because I want too.” Techno says, “Not because I have to. You want clean hair or not, runt?”

 

Tommy sighs. “…Yeah.”

 

A pause, the quiet interrupted only by the splashing of water, and the feeling of a comb gently carding through his greasy, tangled hair. It feels… okay, it feels really, really nice. Weird, but nice. 

 

“…Thank you.” He murmurs, eyes drifting shut. 

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“…can you braid it, too?”

 

“No.”

 

“Please, please, please—“)




—either way, it’s nice, not being completely confined to the stupid hospital bed. 

 

Even if he and Wilbur are soon banned from taking the cool space-wheelchair for joyrides down the hallways. 




(“—c’mon, you can push faster than that!”

 

“If we crash, Techno will actually kill me, Toms.”

 

“Since when are you such a pussy—“

 

“Hey!”

 

“Mimimi— I’m Wilbur, and I’m scared of Technoblade, because I’m a big— heyyyy Techno!”

 

“What are you two doing.”

 

“Nothing!”) 




They find other ways to keep him from dying from boredom. 

 

Eventually, word must have gotten around that he’s up and about again, because it’s not long after he’s cleared by the doctors to have other visitors that they start to trickle in. Techno and Wilbur fend off the worst of it, but there are a few he doesn’t mind— Purpled, who lends him some cool game-chips to plug into his comn. Quackity, who he’s pretty sure only really visits as an excuse to stare at Wilbur, spends an hour sitting on the edge of the bed and teaching him how to cheat at space-poker. Puffy, who sweeps in to give him a hug. Niki and Jack, who stop in with all sorts of sugary snacks and various baked-goods they’d smuggled past security. Even Eret stops in, just to see how he’s doing.

 

After about a week or two, when he can start actually walking around for a little bit with his crutches without gasping for air like a dying fish, Wilbur and Techno stop being able to keep the rest of the visitors out. 

 

Brusieus is first, unsurprisingly, sweeping in the door bright and early one morning with a whole entourage behind her. 



(She’s almost too big to fit in the doorway, her large frame taking up most of the width, dressed in a more “casual” outfit that’s somewhere between Techno’s rich-pirate-king aesthetic and casual-Roman-gladiator. She smiles, when their eyes meet, a vision in gold and polished leather. Beautiful and strong, as always. 

 

The baby in her arms is new, though. 

 

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” he jokes, and the stern look he gets is worth it to hear the fond exasperation in her voice. 

 

“At least you live up to your namesake,” she sighs, and he laughs so hard his ribs hurt. 

 

“Are you going to let us through or what?” 

 

Tommy leans to the side, craning his neck to look at the entourage she’d brought with her. She moves aside with a shake of her head, and everyone else wastes no time in flooding into the room, making themselves right at home. He meets her wife, (her wife!) and her adopted son, and cousin, and basically the rest of her whole sounder, and gets to coo over the adorable baby Piglin in her arms, (her baby nephew, One Who Brings Light), they haven’t picked a translator-friendly name yet ), while the gangly teenage-Piglin, Patroclus, (her son, One Who Is Clever), asks him a million questions. 

 

“Be gentle.” Brusieus grunts, “he’s still recovering.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Patroclus shrugs her off, hopping up on the bed without a care in the world, but to her displeasure. “I saw you on TV— you were awesome! I was totally rooting for you at the Banquet, by the way, that guy seemed like such an ass— a jerk!“ 

 

Her lovely wife, (Atlanta, One Who Weaves) , who’s a bit smaller than she is, wearing a white dress that flows around her hooves like water, her dark hair intricately braided back, perches gently on the foot of the bed by his other side. “We were all rooting for you. I’m happy to see that you are recovering well.” 

 

She offers to braid his hair, which he happily accepts, and it’s not long at all before there’s a teenage Piglin chattering his ear off to his right, careful hands weaving gold into his hair, a giggling baby Piglin in his lap, and Brusieus herself somehow managing to make the shitty hospital chair look like a throne. The rest introduce themselves in a flood of names and titles he can’t remember, family, cousins, sisters, uncles— and the whole room is full of contented chuffing and happy purring for a good two hours. It’s great. 

 

“…I am very proud of you,” she had said, before they left, pressing her forehead to his. Goodbye. Goodluck. 

 

“Rest. Recover. Let your sounder take care of you. You did well. Let us meet again on better terms, One Who Wins Fights.” 

 

It feels like a promise. One he intends to keep.) 




She’s the first Council-member, other than Quackity, but far from the last. 

 

The rest seem to take her visit as a sign that they should all try to make an appearance. Most of them don’t stay for longer than a few minutes, dropping off gifts and condolences, and looking guilty all the while. Calahan gives him a bunch of herbal teas, (“rest, little one (endearment). Become strong again. We will handle the rest.”) Drista spends half an hour telling him about all the latest gossip, (“It’s a whole mess, dude. They’re still trying to find someone to replace Boris— and, word on the street is the rep from Lestea is gonna get sacked, too—“). 

 

Even Jared stops in, just for a few seconds, stammering out an apology before making himself scarce from the sheer combined power of Wilbur and Techno’s glares alone. 

 

The Empress of Enderion visited the next morning, alone. 



(She looks… smaller, somehow, like this, in a sleek, fashionable dress with her hair pulled back in an elaborate, no-nonsense braid around her horns. She has to duck and fold her wings slightly to fit through the door. 

 

“Admin Dream and Governor Boris are both dead.” She tells him stiffly, only confirming what he already knew. “Conspirators are either already in custody, or currently being tracked down. Rest assured, they will face justice for what they’ve done.” 

 

A pause.

 

She… does something odd, then. Her regal face twists slightly, and she lowers herself down more to his level, bending at the waist and dipping her serpent-like neck to look him in the eyes as she speaks. 

 

“I am… sorry.” She says, stitled. With a jolt, Tommy realizes that she’s ashamed. 

 

“This never should have happened.” She meets his gaze, unblinking. “It will never happen again.” 

 

Then, she fucking bows. 

 

“…thank you.” He says, hoarse. Because what else are you supposed to do when  the Empress of Enderion apologizes to you? 

 

She looks a bit started, when he thanks her. almost spooked. She swallows, abruptly looking away and straightening.

 

“…I wish you luck in your recovery.”)



She’d left in a hurry, after that. 

 

Ex-Deeh visits exactly once. It’s more awkward than anything, honestly. They’d had to get a whole escort from a ton of guards and everything, and barely even fit through the doorway. It was a lot of effort for a visit that didn’t even last five minutes, just long enough for them to apologize, and reassure him that he and his crew have been granted immunity from everything that… happened. They’re free to leave as soon as the hospital can discharge them. 

 

It’s… something. It’s something. 

 

He’s… not sure how to feel, to be honest. But, hey, it’s not like he’s on a deadline anymore, right?

 

He has all the time in the universe to figure it out. 




-




The morning that marks a week-and-a-half after he’d first been cleared to have visitors after his surgery, almost three after the crash, finds all three of the youngest crewmembers of the Argo II locked in all-out war. 

 

“Tommy?”

 

He doesn’t look up, waving a lazy hand in the direction of the door, eyes still laser-focused on the cards in his hand, and the stack in the middle of the circle they’d formed with the bed and visitor-chairs. “One minute, Wil! I’m almost— oh, you bitch!”

 

“Sorry.” Ranboo grins, not looking apologetic in the slightest as they close their hand around the pile of cards they’d just slapped, adding it to their hand. 

 

Tommy watches all of his hopes and dreams crumble before his eyes, staring mournfully at his own pitiful hand of cards. Tubbo, who’s been out for the last four rounds, lets out a loud groan from where he’s slumped over one of the chairs, draping the arm that isn’t in a sling dramatically over his face. “I give up.”

 

Tommy slams down his cards on the bed, jabbing a finger in Ranboo’s direction. “You cheated!” 

 

Ranboo actually looks affronted, “I did not–”

 

He throws his hands in the air. “You’ve got Endborn-reflexes! That’s totally cheating!”

 

“Totally cheating.” Tubbo agrees. 

 

“I can’t help that I was born with—“

 

“Tommy!”

 

“What?”

 

He, Tubbo, and Ranboo all chorus together, finally looking up from their game and turning to look over their shoulders at the door, and— 

 

All of the cards Ranboo had been so selfishly hoarding flutter to the ground. 

 

Because in the doorway, in one of those weird, low-backed space-wheelchairs, dressed in the same shitty hospital-scrubs Tommy’s been forced to wear for ages and wrapped head to toe in bandages is— it’s— 

 

“Phil!”

 

Tommy nearly cracks his skull open, his ribs and leg both loudly protesting as he throws himself off of the bed, nearly ripping out the stupid IV in the process as he scrambles for his crutches, trying to get his feet under him. Tubbo is faster, but Ranboo beats them all to it, having the advantage of being the least-injured and having those stupid, long-ass legs—

 

Phil, a little pale, and covered in more bandages than a mummy, just smiles , chucking as he opens his arms just in time for Ranboo to fall into them with a warbling sort of cry, sinking to their knees with their arms around his waist. Tubbo pointedly elbows them to one side, making himself space to wrap his good arm around him the best they can, and Tommy finally completes the trio, all but tumbling off of the bed and collapsing his weight into the chair. He shoves his face into Phil’s side, throwing his arms around him and Ranboo, by proxy, buries his face in the awful hospital scrubs and just clings.

 

“Easy.” A low voice softly admonishes from behind, Techno. He grunts. “He’s still recovering. Be gentle—“

 

Phil waves him away. “Oh, fuck off. I’m fine.” 

 

“Both of your lungs were infected—“

 

“—just let me hug my kids, Techno.”

 

“You’re okay.” Tommy croaks out, when he finally finds his voice, words muffled through the fabric. “Fuck— I— you’re okay!”

 

Ranboo croaks out a similar noise, and Phil just laughs, the noise resonating through his chest. He does his best to wrap his arms around all three of them, humming as he rocks them all side to side with a soft, bird-y sort of sound. Tommy melts when he starts rubbing circles into his shoulders, the way he always does, breathing out a shaky sigh as his eyes start to prickle. His hugs still feel the exact same, all-encompassing in a way that always manages to make him feel like a little kid again. He sniffs, squeezing his eyes shut— because he is not going to cry in front of everyone he is a big man— and holds on tighter. 

 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he croaks out, “I—“

 

“—saw you all fall, and I couldn’t do anything—“

 

“—wouldn’t let me see you when I woke up! Or Tommy! I was so scared that—“

 

“Alright, alright—” 

 

Phill clears his throat, ruffling Tommy’s hair, and presumably doing the same to Ranboo and Tubbo, judging by the way they squawk. “Enough of that— I’m fine. Let me get a good look at you— all of you.” 

 

He’s still smiling, when Tommy finally brings himself to let go and pull back enough to look him in the eye. He looks over all three of them in turn, and they all let him inspect them, prodding at bandaged limbs and still-healing scrapes. He hisses sympathetically at the sight of the burn along Tubbo’s jaw and the cast around his arm, coos at Ranboo’s missing patches of fur, gives Tommy a disapproving look once he sees the cast around his leg and the brace around his wrist, as well as the IV stand he’d clumsily dragged along with and crutches he’d tossed aside in favor of becoming one with the floor. 

 

“Your wings,” Tubbo whines, eyes going wide at the sight of them, wrapped tight with bandages. He sniffs. “Phil, I’m so—“

 

“—sorry.” Tommy finishes for him, because fuck, his wings! — “Phil I’m so, so fucking sorry I—“ 

 

“—should have done something.” Ranboo finishes off the trio, voice wobbling dangerously as they sniff. “I— I should have—“ 

 

Hush.” Phil cuts them all off again, more sternly, this time. “My wings will be fine.”

 

Lie, something in the back of Tommy’s head hisses, guilt curling in his stomach like spoiled milk as Phil gives him one of his patented everything-is-fine-I’m-here smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Lie, lie, lie—

 

He clears his throat, “I’m a bit more worried about you three. What’s this I hear about a nasty concussion, Tubbo? And Tommy, you had a punctured lung— what are you doing on the floor? Your leg is in a cast— Wil, help him up—“ 

 

“But—“

 

“Bed.” He orders, leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

 

They scramble to follow orders, and god, Tommy has never been more happy to be ordered around in his life. 

 

He can tell that the others feel the same. There’s a grin tugging at Tubbo’s lips, and Ranboo lets Tommy use them as a crutch without argument, helping him limp back to the bed and tugging the stupid IV stand along with. Phil wheels himself over, taking his place at the foot of the hospital bed, and Ranboo abandons Tommy to curl up in the closest available chair, purring like a goddamn motorboat as they happily do the cat-kneady-thing with their claws in the fabric of the oversized sweater they’d definitely stolen from Wilbur. Tubbo perches on the bed next to him, feet kicking back and forth, Wilbur coming over to drape himself across the other chair, Techno pushing off of the wall to stand behind Phil, and— 

 

For the first time since he’d woken up, his entire crew is here. Together. Safe. 

 

And any left over tension, all the worry and the anxiety and the fear— he feels it start to unwind. Not vanish, not entirely, it’s still a bit too early for that, but it… loosens. He breathes a little easier, laughs a little louder. Feels himself relax a little more, as the voice in the back of his head starts to hum safe, safe, safe. 

 

Yeah, Tommy thinks, as Wilbur cracks a joke, making Techno snort, and Tubbo jumps into describing all of the cool things he could add to Phil’s wheelchair, in the meantime, complaining when Ranboo shoots down his suggestion of adding rockets. Yeah, it was worth it, huh? 

 

Phil reaches over to squeeze his hand, and Tommy squeezes back. 



(He should have known that things wouldn’t be that simple. When is his life ever?) 




-





 

The Creeparian is nervous.

 

He paces back and forth in the long, hospital hallway, muttering under his breath. The words don’t make it past the mask covering the lower half of his face, but the faint hint of gunpowder in the air does. The nurses that occasionally walk past give him a wide berth.

 

He opens and shuts his hands, all four of them, squeezing them into fists, and then relaxing. He practices a few breathing exercises. 

 

The guards outside of the door he approaches give him a suspicious look, but they nod their heads when he flashes them a badge. They move aside. He knocks.

 

The Phantling on the other side looks even more suspicious, looking the Creeparian up and down. “…Can I help you?”

 

He shifts in place. “I’m… here to see Tommy.”

 

The Phantling’s eyes narrow, and he draws himself up more, as if it’ll make up for the fact that the other alien is twice his size.  He opens his mouth, no doubt about to tell him to get lost, but a voice from inside the room cuts him off.

 

“Just let ‘im in, Wil. Jesus.” 

 

The Phantling pauses. He turns, calling out over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the Creeparian. “You sure, Toms?” 

 

“It’s Puffy’s friend, remember? He’s fine.”

 

Reluctantly, the Phantling shuffles aside, allowing the Creeparian to enter the hospital room.

 

It’s a large room. A bed in the center, surrounded by all sorts of machines and wires and screens that flash and blink, several comfortable-looking chairs, a large window across from the bed with the curtains drawn. 

 

There is a human child sitting in the bed. He looks very small, surrounded by blankets and blinking medical equipment, his bruised face plastered in bandages and one of legs in a hefty-looking cast. There’s a deck of cards spread out over the bedsheets in front of him, as though he and the Phantling had been interrupted mid-game. 

 

“Hey.” The boy sitting in the hospital bed says, blinking at him. “You’re… Sam, right?”

 

Hesitantly, he shuffles closer. He clears his throat again. “Yes.” 

 

The boy’s blue eyes jump from him to the Phantling. He rolls his eyes, jerking his head to the door. “Give us a second, Wil?”

 

A pause. The two look at each other. 

 

“I’ll… be right outside.” The Phantling says, reluctantly giving in and slipping out of the room, gaze shifting between him and the boy one last time. “Yell if you need me.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” The boy huffs, waving him off. “God, you’re worse than Techno.”

 

The doors slide shut, and the boy and the Creeparian are alone.

 

“Sorry.” The boy says, shrugging. “Figured you wouldn’t— Wil ‘n Techno can be a bit much. He’s been all broody ever since the Empress came to see me and made him sit out in the hall.”

 

The Creeparian blinks. “It’s… fine?”

 

A beat. 

 

He clears his throat again. “I apologize. For the intrusion. I just—“

 

“It’s fine.” The human cuts him off. “Wilbur was driving me crazy anyways.”

 

“…right.”

 

Another long moment. 

 

“So!” The Human says, just a little too loud, he cranes his neck to look towards the door. “Is Puffy coming too, or…”

 

“Ah.” The Creeparian says, shifting in place. “No. It’s… just me.”

 

The smile on the Human’s face is abruptly wiped clean. He recovers quickly, but not quickly enough. 

 

“…Oh. Okay. Cool.” 

 

The Human glances away from the door, just then, looking at the Creeparian in the face for the first time since he’s entered the room. For the briefest of moments, he goes very still, an odd expression flashing across his face before disappearing like it was never there in the first place, replaced by a smile that doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. He drags his gaze away from the Creeparian, fiddling with his hands as he tries to look anywhere else but at the alien in front of him, an odd tension creeping back into his perfectly-still shoulders. 

 

His bandaged hands shake, ever so slightly, where they’re fiddling with the sheets. 

 

The Creeparian takes a very deep breath. “There is something I wanted too—“ 

 

“Why do you look so familiar?” 

 

The Creeparian goes very, very still.

 

He swallows. “I’m… sorry?”

 

The Human shifts in place again, shrugging his tense shoulders. He curls his hands into fists in the sheets, and though the trembling does not stop, it lessens. 

 

“At first I thought I was just— seeing things, I guess.” The boy continues, fiddling with the fabric seams of the bedsheet. “When we first met, I mean. But then…”

 

He trails off, shaking his head, and huffs out something that might have been a laugh as a humorless grin tugs at the corner of his lips. Those blue eyes are piercing, when they meet his again, every muscle in his lithe body curled taunt and poised to spring. 

 

“I know you.” He says. “We’ve… met before. Haven’t we? Before T’Aria, I mean.”

 

A long pause. The Creeparian looks away first, drawing a shaky breath.

 

He steps closer, putting a hand on the back of one of the chairs before settling into it. He looks sort of ridiculous, it’s not big enough to fit him, his knees scrunching up awkwardly, all four arms penned in at his sides. He puts his face in his hands, the upper pair, and sighs.

 

“…Did you ever wonder,” he mutters, the words crackling softly in the quiet. “How you escaped the Pandora, that first time?”

 

Silence.

 

The heart rate monitor beside the boy’s bed begins to beep louder, and more quickly, as the boy abruptly stops breathing.

 

The Creeparian looks up, and his face is pale. Eyes wide, limbs frozen in place. He stares at him, mouth open ever so slightly—

 

“It was you.” He whispers. 

 

The Creeparian gives a single, shaky nod.

 

The human goes very still. Dangerously still. His expression goes from wide-eyed horror to perfectly flat in an instant as he draws himself back, like he’s preparing to spring off of the bed and out the door at the slightest hint of danger, broken leg be damned. He glances around the room like he’s looking for escape routes, the heart rate monitor by his bedside continuing to beep-beep-beep—

 

The Creeparian stands, unsure, extending an awkward hand out towards him, “Tommy—“

 

“I remember now.” The boy whispers, shoulders tight around his neck as he squeezes his eyes shut.  “I knew you looked familiar I knew it—“

 

The Creeparian hesitates. “I—“

 

The Human’s eyes snap open, the sheer animosity in his ice-cold glare freezing the much larger alien into place. 

 

“What.” The Human snarls, pressing himself back into the headboard of the bed. He glances at the door, “What do you want? You here to gloat? To kill me? One scream, and I’ll have those guards rip you apart—“

 

“No.” The Creeparian says. “No, that’s not— just— wait. Let me explain.” 

 

“Did you know?” The boy fires right back, rising and then cracking right down the middle, every inch of him tense enough to snap. 

 

“About— that it was just— that he let me go on purpose. Did you know?” 

 

The Creeparian swallows. “No.”

 

The boy continues to watch him, tense and wary, but doesn’t scream. He doesn’t lunge for his comm, he doesn’t run. He just watches, blue eyes tracking his every move. He looks the Creeparian up and down, and whatever he finds there, he doesn’t seem to have made up his mind about whether or not it’s worth trusting. 

 

He remains where he is, stiff and poised to run at any moment, like a feral cat backed into a corner, but does not run. Instead, he opens his mouth. 

 

Five minutes.” He demands, instead, glancing again at the door. “And then I call the guards. Any funny business, and I’ll scream. You wanna talk? Talk.” 

 

And so, the Creeparian does.

 

He talks about a lot of things. He says more in the next five minutes than he has in months. 

 

He talks about the Pandora. He talks about building it. He talks about the falling out he had with his closest friend, he talks about all of the lies he had been sold, all the promises of making the galaxy a better place that he had so foolishly believed. He talks about overhearing something he shouldn’t have, about being asked to add strange renovations to the ship. About missions the Captain wouldn’t discuss with him, about places on board no one was allowed to go. About the screams he’d sometimes hear, when the ship was far too quiet.

 

He talks about seeing a boy behind glass, once, and knowing that he had done something awful.

 

He talks about running away. About Puffy, about traveling the Galaxy. About being afraid. 

 

He talks about meeting the boy a second time, and feeling the shame swallow him whole all over again. 

 

Through it all, the boy listens. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t interject. Doesn’t even call the guards after the agreed-upon five minutes has well and truly passed. He lets the Creeparian tell him things he already knows, things he definitely still atleast half-remembers about the night he escaped— about the door to his cell that had been conveniently left open, about the escape pod that had deployed mysteriously on its own. He untenses a little, as the story goes on, relaxing into a more comfortable position, but he never truly lowers his guard. He never interupts. Not once. 

 

“…I can’t make up for what I’ve done.” The Creeparian croaks, finally, when most of the story is finished. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

 

“No.” The Human says, voice clipped. It’s the first thing he’s said since the story started. “You fucking can’t.” 

 

The Creeparian nods, hanging his head. He swallows. 

 

“I did not come here just to apologize.” He says, after a beat. “I… there is something else.” 

 

The Human watches, wary. 

 

“…And what’s that?”

 

The Creeparian, moving slowly, as not to startle the Human, pulls something out of his pocket. A holo-projector, a tiny, metal triangle. It glows golden in his hands, when he turns it the right way, and a projection appears, hovering in the air. A ship. 

 

It’s not like the Pandora. Or even the Argo II. It’s a small, simple little ship, made of mis-matched metal and scrap pieces, held together with chunky seams. Even so, it’s clear it was built by someone who knew what they were doing, and it seems sturdy, despite its somewhat clunky appearance, with large windows and giant thrusters in the back that almost seem larger than the ship itself. The patchwork hull gleams in shades of white, bronze, and grey in the yellow light of the projection, outlining it in gold. 

 

The red paint along one side reads Theseus.

 

“I am the reason you were taken from Earth.” The Creeparian admits, gently tracing the hologram with careful fingers. 

 

Then, he holds it out to the Human. 

 

 “And I can bring you home again.”

 

The Human stares.

 

“No strings.” He continues. “No surgeries. No conditions. I already cleared it with the Council, they’re okay with it. You can even bring your friends along for the ride, if it makes you more comfortable—“

 

“Wait, wait, wait—“ the boy waves his hands, eyes going wide. He creeps closer, his earlier wariness forgotten as he stares at the hologram in shock. He drags a hand through his hair, the half that isn’t braided. “Stop. Back up.” 

 

The Creeparian pauses. The boy fumbles for his words, eyes wide as he jabs a finger in his direction. “You can— you can take me home? Back to Earth?” His eyes narrow. 

 

“What’s the catch?”

 

“No catch.” The Creeparian rumbles. “I am just… trying to make things right.”

 

The boy stares at him. Then the ship, glowing in the air. Then him again. He seems to come back to himself, shaking off the initial shock and drawing back, eyes narrowing further as he looks the Creeparian up and down again suspiciously. 

 

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” He says, bluntly. 

 

The Creeparian holds out his hand to the Human, the holo-projector seeming tiny in his giant palm. After a little hesitation, the Human inches just close enough to snatch it out of his palm before retreating, turning it over to inspect closer. He examines the projector itself first, then the ship, reaching up with a shaky hand to trace the outline of the hull and drawing it back when the hologram flickers. He squints at the shape, at the wings and the thrusters, mouthing the letters written on the side. Theseus. 

 

“I cleared it with the Council.” The Creeparian repeats. “Puffy knows. So does Ponk. Talk to them, if you don’t believe me.”

 

The boy gives him another wary glance, though he seems a little less tense than before. He clutches the holo-projector close to his chest. “Trust me— I will.” 

 

The Creeparian nods, and steps back. 

 

“I’ll… I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

 

He turns to leave, then, stiffly making his way to the door while the boy watches, his gaze burning holes into his back. One of his hands is about to touch the panel to open the door when he hears a small voice behind him say, “Sam?”

 

He turns, “…yes?”

 

The boy sits criss-cross on the bed. He seems so tiny, in the middle of it, with his blonde, white-streaked hair messy from sleep, surrounded by a nest of blankets with his arm and leg both in awkwardly-large casts. His little hands close protectively around the holo-screen, twisting the top, and the projection shutters off. 

 

His eyes are a vivid shade of blue, when they meet the Creeparian’s. Sharp. Unflinching. 

 

“Thanks.” The Human says, “…really.”

 

The Creeparian nods, and then leaves. 




-




Standing a little ways outside of the hospital room, the teenage alien in the purple hoodie drops the stolen pudding-cup he’d been planning to smuggle inside.

 

The Creeparian pauses, looking down at him. He frowns, behind the mask. “Aren’t you—“

 

The teenage alien doesn’t give him time to finish his sentence, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him around the corner, out of view of the guards watching them curiously from their posts at the door. The Creeparian lets him, more surprised than anything else, letting the teenager who’s half his size drag him to a more secured hallway, one without security cameras and curious guards. 

 

The teen shoves him back against the wall, purple eyes narrowed and flinty.

 

“Is it true?” He says, crossing his arms over his chest. “What you said? Can you really go back to Earth?” 

 

The Creeparian looks down at him, and says nothing at all. The teenager snarls, stomping forward to grab him by the shirt, dragging him down to his level with a surprising amount of strength. “Tell me!” 

 

No response. The teenager’s expression wavers, then, anger giving way to desperation. He takes a deep breath, spitting out a curse, and then— 

 

And then— something odd happens.

 

His face… shifts. The color, the shape, the pointed end of his ears, the antenna in his forehead— it all… wobbles. Ever so slightly. Like a reflection in a disturbed puddle. It only lasts a moment, just a second, the color of his skin shifting from blue-grey to peachy-tan, teeth becoming blunted, ears— 

 

The Creeparian goes very, very still. 

 

For just a second, just a moment, his eyes are blue, instead of purple. 

 

The teenager shakes his head, and everything settles back into place. Purple eyes pin the Creeparian into place, sharp and accusatory.

 

“Is it true? Were you telling the truth? Can I—“ he demands, searching his face even as his voice begins to wobble. 

 

“Can I really go home again?”






 

 

Notes:

remember when I said that this would just be an epilogue. remember that. hahah-- yeah...

This is a double upload! Don't worry! next chapter should be out in a few hours-- You WILL be getting your ending today, don't worry!

In the meantime, how's everyone's day been? Y'all doing good? Like the chapter? Having fun theorizing? I'm working on a QnA about this fic for later, so if you want to drop any questions you have about FHTN below or send them over to my Tumblr while you're waiting for the next chapter to drop, that would be great! or if you just want to say hi, that's cool too.

see you in a few hours for the final FINAL chapter!

 

-matches

Chapter 27: Exitlude (II)

Summary:

o7

Notes:

"We hope you enjoyed your stay
Outside the sun is shining,
seems like heaven ain't far away
It's good to have you with us,
Even if it's just for the day
--Exitlude, The Killers

 

I'll save the big speech for the endnotes. Enjoy!

 

tumblr // playlist

 

TWs: (SPOILERS)
minor blood/injury, hospitals, flashbacks to traumatic events. pretty light!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



When Tommy gets a knock at his door at some ungodly hour of the night, he just about loses it.

 

It’s bad enough that he can’t sleep. Now that he’s not drugged up to the gills, the nightmares have started to come back, little by little. They’re not as bad as they’ve been before, but paired with where he is, that hospital-smell in the air, the clicking of the nurse’s shoes as they walk down the hall past his room at all hours, the quiet humming of equipment, the stupid IV still in his arm— it all has him on edge, even surrounded by all the blankets and other shit the crew brought in for him. The cot is stiff and uncomfortable, and he can’t scratch his nose without making the thing creak obnoxiously. That’s not even mentioning how much everything just fucking hurts.

 

It’s a dull ache, like a bruise, just everywhere. They stupid doctors gave him pain meds and potions and a hundred other things to help lessen it at first, but not that he’s been weaned off of the good stuff, it’s started to creep back in. Plain old pain meds can’t make the bandages less stiff and scratchy, they can’t un-break his leg and his wrist so he doesn’t have to wear a cast and a stupid brace, they can’t magically get rid of the fucking stab wound in the back of his non-dominant hand or fix up his ribs. He can’t move without pulling at stitches or bandages, or pulling at the IV in his arm. It just—

 

It just sucks, is all. Zero-out-of-ten experience, would not recommend.

 

And— on top of all that— he has something new keeping him up at three-am in the fucking morning. 

 

The thought of the stupid holo-projector hidden underneath his pillow hangs around him like a goddamn noose. 

 

He hasn’t told anyone. Puffy knows, and so does the Council, presumably, but if they’ve said anything to his crew, no one has mentioned it to Tommy. It’s only been a few hours, and he’s run out of ways to keep himself distracted. 

 

The novelty of being mother-henned by Techno and Wilbur wore off pretty fast, too. It was fine at first, when he was still a little loopy from the drugs, and everything just hurt, so any distraction at all was welcome. Now, though, it’s just starting to get on his nerves. The nurses had kicked them out hours ago so he could “get some rest”, like that was happening anytime soon. Besides, they’ll find out eventually. Quackity has to know, and he’ll end up telling Wilbur, and then Wilbur will tell the others, and then they’ll all be looking to Tommy to see what he wants to do, and— 

 

Tommy is so, so sick of having to make this stupid fucking decison. 

 

Needless to say, hearing a knock on the door, in the middle of him just managing to start dozing off— well, let’s just say that Tommy isn’t exactly in the most welcoming mood at the moment. 

 

He lets out a slew of increasingly-creative cuss words, dragging himself upright. It takes him ages to hobble over to the fucking door with his crutches, and by the time he gets there, he has a whole rant lined up and ready to go for Wilbur or Techno or whoever else decided to knock on his door in the middle of the fucking night.

 

“Wilbur,” he starts, winding up, “If thats you, I swear to fucking god I will make Shroud bite you don’t fucking test me—“ 

 

It’s not Wilbur.

 

Tommy blinks. Tubbo blinks right back. 

 

Tubbo, who also looks like hell warmed over in too-large hospital scrubs, arm in a sling and face dotted with bandages, the bags under his eyes giving even Tommy’s a run for their money. Tubbo, who has a blanket over his shoulders and a pillow under his arm. Tubbo, who’s standing awkwardly outside his door in the middle of the night with his hand still poised to knock. 

 

For a second or two, all they do is blink dumbly at each other. 

 

“…hey.” Tubbo says.

 

“Hey..?”

 

It’s the first time they’ve been alone together since the crash, he realizes. Not the first time they’ve seen each other— they’ve been bugging the hell out of one another as often as the nurses and doctors will allow it, joking around like everything is normal and stubbornly ignoring the fact that they both almost died. It’s just— the first time they’ve been alone- alone, without Wilbur or Techno looming in the background, or doctors and nurses running their tests, or Ranboo there to break the tension. For the first time since they literally almost fell to their deaths, it’s just Tommy and Tubbo. 

 

The awkward silence is so thick that he feels like he’s going to choke on it.

 

“Look—“ Tommy starts, the same second that Tubbo says, “So, I—“

 

Another. awkward. silence.

 

Tubbo lets out a huge sigh, rocking back on his heels again, and for a moment Tommy’s certain he’s gonna turn around and walk off back down the hall. His hand clenches around the door frame as he swallows down the urge to leap across the distance separating them and grab a hold of his arm to keep him from leaving, to keep him right here, where he can see him. To have any kind of distraction from the choice he has to make all over again, from the stupid nightmare he keeps having about the both of them falling—

 

But he doesn’t. Instead, one of the hands holding the pillow moves, holding something out to Tommy, and. Oh.

 

“Figured you might want this.” Tubbo says, holding out Henry the Second with a hesitant little smile. 

 

Tommy jerks his head over his shoulder. “Just— get in here, dumbass.” 

 

Tubbo grins, and wastes no time in trotting into the room, Tommy right on his heels. 

 

The stupid room they’ve stuck him in this time around isn’t bad, and the bed is more than big enough for the two of them. They make the most of it, fiddling with pillows and blankets, moving stuff around. Tubbo hoists himself up on the bed, taking his usual spot farthest away from the door, stiffly settling in the best he can with all the wires and tubes. It’s more than a little scuffed, and probably not comfortable in the slightest, but they make it work, and in no time at all, Tubbo has somehow managed to take up at least half of the giant bed purely by himself, despite being the smallest of them all. The soft, quiet sounds of his breathing, of having someone nearby again, are more soothing than Tommy would like to admit. 

 

Henry the Second fits perfectly in his arms, like it’s where he was meant to be all along. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the way he shamelessly clings to the stuffed toy. It’s just… Soft. And it smells nice, familiar, like the Argo II and the soap Phil uses to wash the sheets with, nothing like the sharp, clinical smell of the medical wing. He’s the perfect size and the right weight to hold tucked under his chin, and Tommy buries his nose in the patchy fur with a sigh, lying on his side. Tubbo, inches away, lays on his back. It feels right. All they need now is Ranboo and Shroud, and it’ll be just like sleeping back on the Argo II. 

 

He listens to Tubbo breathe, and fiddles with a stitch on Henry the Second’s hoof. 

 

…They haven’t really talked about it. The whole almost-dying thing. The two of them have been avoiding it like the plague, tip-toeing around the subject of the crash though some unspoken agreement not to try and make things awkward. They’re both still pretty beat to hell— no point in making it worse by dredging up all that shit.

 

All the things he’d said. All the things he should have said. 

 

…he kind of thought that he’d have all the time in the universe, to figure it out, afterwards. There’s a sharp pain in his chest, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his still-healing ribs. Guess not. 

 

“…I never said thank you.” Tommy murmurs, turning over to stare up at the ceiling. 

 

It’s quiet, for a beat. 

 

“No.” There’s a soft creak as Tubbo shifts. “You didn’t.”

 

Tommy huffs, flipping over to face his friend, and punches his arm. Gently, of course. “Prick.”

 

Tubbo’s lip twitches slightly. “Bitch.”

 

Then, he catches sight of Tommy’s arm, and the grin slips away. His expression shifts, in the dark, eyes hardening as he sets his jaw. He sits up, reaching out to grab the hand that Tommy had just punched him with, holding it firm when he tries to pull it back.

 

“…you really scared me, you know.” He says. “ All of us.” 

 

Tommy swallows. “I— yeah.”

 

Another beat. He sighs.

 

“Look, Tubbo—“

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Tommy goes still.

 

Tubbo is staring at him, in the dark, two-toned eyes glinting like distant stars. 

 

Fucking hell, guess we’re doing this now. 

 

“I would have believed you.” He says, voice small. “If you had told me the truth about— about him. Did you think that I wouldn’t?”

 

“No!”

 

Tommy sits up, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at the bandages around his ribs. He clenches his hands into fists, then opens them again, taking a deep breath.

 

“No.” He tries again. “No, I just…”

 

“I could have helped.” Tubbo cuts him off, curling his own hands into fists. “We could have helped. We could have made sure you were safe, we could have protected you, and none of that would have had to happen— so why?”

 

Tommy swallows. 

 

There is a lot that he needs to say. Looking at his best friend, at the expression on his face— angry, hurt, everything in between. He could sit here all night and explain, pour out everything that he had thought, everything that he had said and every lie that Tommy had stupidly bought into. He could sit here all night and apologize, and it would still never be enough. 

 

He’d thought that he wouldn’t have too— when he fell. When he woke up, he’d thought that he’d have all the time in the universe to make it up to him. But now he has a choice to make, and a home to go back too, and one chance to fix everything that he’d managed to fuck up before he finally runs out of time. 

 

So Tommy swallows, and opens his mouth, and for the first time in a very long time, he tells the truth. 

 

“…I was scared.”

 

Honestly, he could end it right there. That’s a decent summary of all of his choices— he’s a coward. That’s it, end of story. He was scared of how they would treat him, if they knew the truth about all the shit he’s been through. He was scared about how they’d react. He was scared about what he would do, if he caught on that Tommy told anyone about him, even before that day on the Council ship— like even just saying the name Dream would be enough to summon him, like fucking Voldemort, or something. He’s always been a coward who runs away from his problems, and in the end, that was the thing that nearly got him, and the people he cares about, killed. 

 

Tubbo deserves better than that, though, so he squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to keep going.

 

“I thought it was over , when we met.” He admits, in a whisper. “I thought— I thought I’d never see him again. I guess I just wanted to pretend like it never happened, like if I just— like if I just tried not to think about it, and if I never told anyone, I could just pretend it was all some awful dream, you know? I could just move on.”

 

It’s— it’s fucking scary, saying it out loud. Putting all of those thoughts out into the world for his best friend to hear and judge. Honestly, Tommy would face a raging Hoglin or a free-fall to his death over this, anyday. 

 

A pause. A shaky breath. He brings up a hand to scrub at his face, stubbornly ignoring the burn in the back of his throat. Forces himself to keep going.

 

“And then it just— he was there. At that Council Meeting. And it was like something out of my worst nightmare. Like I’d never even escaped. Like it was all just— just part of his plan. He had all of the power, and who would believe me, anyways? And when he threatened you— all of you— that if I didn’t play along he would—“

 

He forces himself to breathe, the way he’d been taught. In for four, hold, breathe out nice and slow. 

 

“—I couldn’t.” he admits, voice starting to wobble. “I know what he does to people, and I couldn’t— I couldn’t let that happen. Not to the others, not to you. I’ve— I’ve been through it before, I thought I could t-take it but I couldn’t— I couldn’t let him hurt you because of me.” 

 

He reaches out with his other hand, taking Tubbo’s hand in both of his and squeezing, even as his hand shakes. 

 

“I’m sorry.” He chokes out. “For all of it. Tubbo, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

 

Tubbo watches his face, gaze jumping between one eye and then the other. Tommy can’t quite read the expression there, somewhere between shock and horror before it settles into something softer. After a few seconds, he sighs, and squeezes Tommy’s hand.

 

“…I forgive you.” He says. “For all of it.”

 

The relief hits him like a tidal wave— easing a burden he didn’t even know he was carrying. Just like that, he feels lighter, feels a little bit of the guilt ease. He’d apologized, he’d been honest, and even though it had left him feeling raw in a way he hadn’t really been prepared for, he’d been forgiven. Just like that. It was that easy? This whole goddamn time? 

 

“Just— no more secrets, okay?” Tubbo says, fiddling with the bandages on Tommy’s palm. “You don’t gotta— you don’t have to tell me everything. You don’t even have to tell me. Just— from now on, if someone’s hurting you, you have to tell someone. One of us. So we can help.”

 

“Okay.” He agrees, numbly. From now on— if he’s going home soon, what does that matter, anyways? “Okay.” 

 

He gives Tubbo a smile that’s definitely a little too forced, adjusting his grip on Tubbo’s hand so he can give him a proper ‘ it’s a deal’ handshake. Tubbo gives him a wobbly grin back, squeezing his hand as they shake on it just a little too hard. The hand that’s still recovering from being stabbed. 

 

Tommy winces, flinching before he even realizes, and Tubbo jolts back. “Shit— sorry!” 

 

“S’all good.” Tommy rubs the back of his hand, sheepish. “Really, it’s fine.”

 

Honestly, he’s just happy that all the touchy-feely shit is over with, and the throbbing pain in his hand is a distraction that he welcomes whole-heartedly. He scrubs at his eyes one last time, just to make sure, but the moment has been sufficiently ruined. God, he’s fucking tired. Why is talking about feelings so tiring? 

 

Tubbo still looks guilty, glancing from his hand, to his ribs, to the wires and tubes still sticking out of his arm. 

 

“You got pretty fucked up, huh?”

 

Tommy snorts, “Psh, this? This is nothing.” 

 

Tubbo gives his hand an unimpressed look. Tommy waggles his fingers for emphasis, showing off the myriad of older scars on the back of his hands. The backs of his knuckles are pretty fucked up. Lots of little scars, remnants of past fights. He’d showed off the pitiful little marks so proudly, back when that had been something that mattered. Proof that he was tough, he had thought, that he had gotten into lots of fights. None of the other kids had to know that he lost most of them. 

 

He’s… he’s still proud, of the scars he has. The one on his arm from Ranboo, the ones on his ribs from the Pit. Even the ugly implant scars, and the ones on his back and his neck from… way back when. 

 

“Just another battle scar,” he boasts, “The ladies will be all over me.” 

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Tubbo snorts, batting the waggling fingers out of his face. Tommy, not to be deterred, doubles down, determined to get that guilty look off his friend's face. 

 

“Seriously. We’re gonna be so popular, just you wait. How many other kids can say that they fought a Hoglin? Or fell out of a crashing spaceship?” He elbows his friend in the side, grinning. “The ladies are gonna be like, oh, Tubbo, how did you get that scar? And then you get to say, well, you see, I uncovered a government conspiracy, and then I almost died—“

 

Tubbo snorts, and Tommy’s grin only widens. He gestures with a flourish to his other arm, flexing it to show off his new muscles. “They’re gonna flock to us, Tubs, just you wait and see. Flock. Ladies love a man with cool scars.”

 

Tubbo prods at a scar over his bicep. “Didn’t you say that one was from falling off your bike?”

 

Tommy sputters. “Well— the ladies don’t have to know that—“

 

He starts pointing to the scars at random, starting with the one on his wrist, then his elbow, then his shoulder, making up elaborate stories for them as he goes. His crooked nose is from him picking fist fights with the hardened criminals of Lestea, you see, not because Jimmy Blake from third period had a mean left hook. The scars on his knuckles are from him battling it out with that furry shopkeeper back on Bezzar, for Henry the Second’s honor, not from all the stupid fights he’d gotten into back in school. The ones on his elbows are from jumping between rooftops, not falling off his bike. The scars on his arms are from facing gladiators in the Pit, the ones on his legs from exploring the jungles of T’Aria. 

 

He carefully avoids the newer injuries, the ones caused by the crash. Tommy doesn’t talk about the thin, perfectly straight surgical scars and the rounded marks from needles, skipping over them to explain the fainter, dumber scars, instead. And once he runs out, Tubbo shows off some of his own. 

 

He explains in that low, thrumming buzz of his, waving his hands as he points out the scars on his hands, on his elbows, on his knees. He talks about jumping between buildings, close-escapes from angry shopkeepers and the police alike, a handful of too-hard falls or crazy jumps he’d landed by the skin of his teeth. There are few straighter slashes from knives or daggers, one’s typically covered by his clothes, now on display with only the surgical scrubs. Some of them he explains— muggers in dark alleys, assholes who tried to scare him and Ranboo out of their hideout. Tubbo glosses over most of them, and Tommy doesn’t press. 

 

“—should have seen their face!” Tubbo snorts. “I've never heard Ranboo sound so freaked out, it was hilarious!”

 

“So, what then?” Tommy leans in, invested.

 

“They drop the handle bars, and start backing up when the guy gets closer— he sees Ranboo, but not me on the fire escape.” Tubbo waves a hand, eyes glinting. “So I pick up this rock, and—“

 

“You hit him with a rock?!”

 

“No!” Tubbo laughs, “I miss him— on purpose, obviously, but the noise makes him turn to look, and Ranboo just sprints to the fire escape—“

 

“Oh my god—“

 

“—and so they climb up the fire escape, and I climb to this ledge, and right when we’re about to jump to the next roof the guy pulls out his blaster—“

 

“No!”

 

“—Yes! Dickhead was going to shoot us! So I just book it, and take a running leap to the next rooftop, and it’s a good thing I still had my—“

 

Then, his face does something weird.

 

Tubbo just, goes still, all of a sudden, staring off somewhere in the distance,  voice trailing off right in the middle of his story about him and Ranboo nearly stealing some guy’s hoverbike at the docks.

 

Tommy elbows his shoulder, catching the distant look in his eyes. 

 

“…hey, it’s kind of late. You wanna get some sleep?”

 

Tubbo jumps a little, shaking his head.

“No. I’m not— it’s…”

 

He takes a deep breath, looking nervous all of a sudden, like he hadn't been giggling about Ranboo screaming like a little girl over nearly getting caught five seconds ago. Now Tommy’s nervous, shifting awkwardly in place. Okay, what the fuck? 

 

“Tubs?” Tommy elbows him again with a nervous little laugh. “You’re kind of freaking me out, here. Are you—“

 

“I’m a hypocrite.” Tubbo bursts out with, in a rush. “About— about being mad. For you not telling us.”

 

Tommy blinks. “Uh—“

 

His friend turns to him, eyes blown wide in the dark, face suddenly serious. 

 

“…No more secrets.” Tubbo cuts in, the bed creaking sharply as he turns to him. “Okay? No more— no more hiding shit. Right?” 

 

“Right...?”

 

He seems to come to some sort of decision, eyes hardening. He sits up straighter, rolls back his shoulders—

 

“Tubs, what—“

 

—then grabs the hem of his scrubs and yanks it off over his head. 

 

Immediately, Tommy slaps his hand over his eyes, face burning. “Tubbo, look, I like you a lot but not like that—“

 

“Tommy!”

 

“What?” He yelps, when there’s a smack to his (uninjured) shoulder, “Why are you getting naked?!”

 

“I’m not!” Another smack. “Fucking— I have shorts on, you fucking idiot— just—“

 

His voice goes all strangled and frustrated towards the end, breaking off into a series of angry buzzing and clicking. There’s a good deal of rustling, fabric shifting, the bed creaking as Tubbo shuffles, pulling away a few inches to settle on the edge of the bed. 

 

Tommy doesn’t take the hand over his eyes away, not yet, because what the fuck, but he does open his fingers a little bit, peering through—

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

Oh, what the absolute fuck—

 

“No more secrets.” Tubbo mutters over his shoulder, looking sheepish. “…Right?”

 

Tommy doesn’t respond. He’s a bit too busy trying to wrap his brain around what he’s looking at.

 

Tubbo is— he’s shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Tommy. There’s not much light in the room, but his eyes have long since adjusted to the dark, allowing him to make out the shapes, even though it takes his tired brain a few seconds to comprehend what the fuck he’s seeing. On his back there are— on his back, he has— 

 

“What the fuck?” Tommy breathes, staring at Tubbo’s real-life insect wings. 

 

“What the fuck—?”

 

Because Tubbo has fucking wings.

 

Or, well— something sour curls in his gut, twisting his stomach into knots as he swallows— maybe has isn’t the right word.

 

They’re beautiful, is his first thought. Once he gets back the endless stream of whatthefuckwhatthefuck. Orange and green and brown— swirling with patterns that almost look like eyes. They fold neatly against his back, extending shakily as they flutter open as much as they can, the different shades of orange and honey-brown shining in the dim light like copper, or polished mahogany. They look soft, textured in a way that reminds him of silk or velvet, with a little bit of fluff around the base that he just knows is super soft to the touch, delicate and fragile. They’re beautiful.

 

They’ve been ripped in half.

 

Tommy’s seen moth wings before, he has a general idea of what shape they’re supposed to be— seen aliens with insect wings, so he knows how big they’re supposed to be, typically as large as the alien itself, if not larger, the full wing span reaching well past the tips of their fingers, if their arms were extended all the way out. He knows that they’re supposed to look heavier, supported by the muscle he’d need to get him off the ground. Knows that they’re not supposed to have fucking holes, or jagged edges. 

 

The far tips of Tubbo’s wings barely extend past his shoulders, even when extended open all the way. 

 

It wasn’t a clean job, either. Not by a fucking long shot. Tommy feels chills run through his whole goddamn body, looking at the jagged edges of those beautiful, delicate, wings. It looks like someone had taken a goddamn weedwacker to them, shredding through the delicate membranes, hacking bits off in jagged, uneven chunks. It hadn’t been done all at once— they had taken their time, missing the wing entirely in places, hitting his shoulder or back instead—

 

And Tommy gets a horrible, nightmarish vision, of someone standing over a smaller, younger Tubbo, with a knife or a sword. Pinning him down as they draw their hand back, bringing it down again, and again, and again— 

 

“I’m a hypocrite.” Tubbo says again, looking over his shoulder to meet his gaze. “I didn’t— I was mad that you didn’t tell me about… yeah. But then I kept this from you, so… I guess we’re even, huh?”

 

Tommy kind of feels like he’s going to throw up. The wings flutter shut. 

 

“…Tommy?” 

 

“What the fuck.” He breathes. “Tubbo, what the fuck?” 

 

He reaches a hand out, but hesitates. Tubbo gives him a nod and he keeps going, reaching out with a trembling hand to lightly stroke what’s left of the side of one of the wings as gently as he’s able. It feels just as fragile as it looks. Thin, so, so soft, fluttering gently under his hands as he wills them to be still, to not shake and tremble and accidently press too hard— but that’s a losing battle, so he focuses on breathing, instead. He’s not as gentle as he wants to be, as he should be, but Tubbo doesn’t seem to mind that his hands never seem to stop shaking, these days. He pulls back quickly, anyways, too scared to even breathe around the wing, like just looking at it wrong will damage it more. 

 

He imagines someone grabbing it, someone slicing into it, and feels like gagging. 

 

“How—?”

 

Tubbo shrugs, reaching to pull the scrubs back on, wings fluttering anxiously open and shut. He doesn’t meet his gaze anymore. “…it was a long time ago.”

 

Tommy feels sick.

 

He imagines Tubbo, sitting alone in the darkness of their shared room, gently running his hands over his damaged wings. Imagines him waking from nightmares with a scream in the tip of his tongue of the feeling of knives ripping him open replaying in the back of his mind, all while Tommy and Ranboo sleep a few feet away, completely unaware. Thinks about every fucking interaction— how many times has Tubbo shrink away from a hug, when he threw his arms around his back? He’d thought it was because he was just weird about touch in general, not because he has secret moth wings. How many times has he avoided sitting with his back to an open door? 

 

How much did Tommy just— not fucking notice? Because he wasn’t paying attention? Wasn’t listening? 

 

…is this how Tubbo felt, when the truth about Tommy and Dream finally came out? 

 

Before he can think better of it, he snaps out a hand, grabbing Tubbo’s wrist. “What—“

 

“I remember when they gave me the implant.” Tommy bursts out, the words coming out in a rush before logical thinking can catch up with him. He meets his friend’s gaze head on. “When they cut time open. They didn’t— they fucked up the anasthetic, if they gave me any at all. I remember it.”

 

And he does. Every awful fucking detail.

 

He didn’t think— he never wanted them to know, about the shit he went through. At first, it was because he didn’t trust them enough. Then, it was because he just— didn’t want to think about it. Wanted to bottle it up, and just move the hell on, like if he ran far enough across the galaxy, he might actually get away from the feeling of cold metal slicing into his skin, from the sound of his laugh. And then— 

 

Then, it was because he wanted to protect them. 

 

But now, looking into the eyes of his best friend, he thinks— he thinks that he’s finally, finally starting to fucking understand. 

 

“I get it.” Tommy says, swallowing hard. 

 

And he does. 

 

He understands why Tubbo didn’t tell him— it was for the same reason Tommy didn’t tell him. He didn’t want him to worry. He didn’t want him to be upset. He didn’t want anyone else to have to carry that burden, didn’t want to bring up old memories that were better off forgotten— but that doesn’t work, does it? You can’t spend your whole life running from the bad things that happened to you. No amount of repression can change the past. And all keeping this shit a secret does is hurt you— you and everyone you’re trying to protect. 

 

…Atleast, that’s what he wants to say. What actually ends up coming out of his mouth is: 

 

“Really. I get why you didn’t tell me. You don’t have too— too apologize, or some shit. I get why you didn’t tell me about your— about this, and I get why you were mad about— everything. I was a jerk to you, and I didn’t listen, and I did almost get us all killed by not— so I— you know. This isn’t like. That. This is different. And I get it.” He finishes, awkwardly. 

 

One day, Tommy will learn how not to manage to fit his whole foot in his mouth and keep talking, anyways. Today is not that day. 

 

“I know.” Tubbo squeezes his hand back. “You were scared. I just… I was mad. Because we could have helped, if you’d let us. You didn’t have to do it alone. So just— let us help you, now and again, okay?”

 

“Okay.” Tommy swallows. “I— so long as you do the same. No more secrets, right?”

 

“Deal.” Tubbo agrees, flashing him a smile as he shrugs his shirt back on. “…You’re still a dick for saying all that shit, though.”

 

Tommy winces. “Okay— fair.”

 

“And for not listening to me.” Tubbo begins to list off on his fingers.

 

“Yeah...”

 

“And for making me jump off a spaceship .”

 

“Okay, but, technically I did save our lives, so—“ 

 

And for—“

 

“Okay, okay!” Tommy shoves at his shoulder. “I’m an asshole, I get it. I’ll… make it up to you?”

 

Tubbo shoves him back, grinning. “You better.”

 

He’s not as gentle as he would like to be when he throws his arms around Tubbo’s shoulders the minute he turns back around, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He grips him back just as strongly, buzzing happily as Tommy buries his face in his neck. It’s not a very long hug, Tubbo is always sort of weird about physical contact (maybe because his wings are like— sensitive ‘n shit? Is that why he always sleeps on his stomach? So many things make so much more sense now—), but it still counts. 

 

Sleep comes a little easier, that night. 

 

Tubbo snoring and buzzing right in his ear, sprawled on his stomach and managing to take up most of the bed like he always does, curling the blankets tight around them both. Tommy keeps Henry the Second held tight in one arm, the other beneath his pillow as he curls on his side towards the door, trusting Tubbo to have his back. 

 

His fingers brush against the cool metal of the holo-projector, and he goes still. 

 

He’d thought that he’d lost it— his chance to go home. Hell, he’d even been happy, when the realization had finally set in . Happy that he didn’t have to make that choice, that someone else could make it for him. He didn’t have to be guilty, he didn’t have to think about the consequences of making the wrong choice, he just… got to exist, for a little bit. No deadlines, no timer ticking down, no fucking choices. 

 

And now, he has the ultimate choice to make. 

 

No drawbacks, this time around. No awful surgery to remove the implant. No strings, no conditions, nothing that he has to carefully weigh or consider the consequences of. Just a first-class ticket all the way back to Earth, all he has to do is say the word. It’s what he wanted, right? A few months ago, he wouldn’t have even hesitated. That Tommy, the one fresh out of the hell he’d been stuck in all that time, would be halfway across the universe right now, on his way back home. So why…? 

 

He’d… accepted it, that he wasn’t going to be able to go home again. He’d come to terms with it. Now, it’s like it was all— just, for nothing. Everything, the whole trip. Everything we went through, everything he lost and gained, it was all for this. For this chance, for this moment. To go home. 

 

He can go home again. 

 

Tommy turns over, to blink at Tubbo’s sleeping form. Listens to the quiet rush of his breathing, the sleepy buzzing. Ranboo had joined them too, at some point, a dark shape curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed. The room would probably be even more full when he wakes up in the morning, Wilbur in a chair, Techno standing guard, Phil— 

 

It was worth it, just for this, he’d thought, falling through the air. For the chance at feeling what it was like, to be loved. 

 

He’d never felt more at home. He’s never felt more lost. 

 

You got what you wanted, didn’t ‘ya?, a voice in the back of his head says. It sounds an awful lot like Clara. It’s up to you know, kid. 

 

“I don’t know.” He murmurs to the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

 

His eyes sting. He sniffs, rubbing them with the back of his hand. 

 

I miss you, he wants to say, his throat going oddly tight. Both of you. I wish you were here. I wish that you could see the person I am, now. I wish you could tell me what I’m supposed to do. 

 

More silence. 

 

“I just…” his voice breaks, and he swallows, blinking up at the dark ceiling above. He whispers, like it’s a secret. “I just wanted to go home.”

 

Then go home, a voice in the back of his head says. It’s Clementine, this time around, soft and sad. Go home, Tommy.

 

He closes his eyes. 






-




That night, for the very last time, Tommy opens his eyes to a desert and a twilight sky, and the first thought he has is; finally, I’m home. 




-





It’s dusk, when he finally reaches the doors.

 

The gas station looks the same way it always does, in his memories. A little older, maybe, a little more sunken into the desert sands, a little more grime on the white paint. The neon OPEN sign flickers weakly in the twilight, beckons him closer. There are papers and flyers in the windows, the light spilling out through the glass lighting up the growing dark like a beacon, and— 

 

Through the dingy glass, he can see a blonde-haired woman sitting behind the counter, half-heartedly thumbing through a magazine.

 

Tommy goes very still, heart thudding in his chest, his hand resting on the cold metal handle of the door. 

 

She looks… she looks different, than from what he remembers. She’s still tall and lean, still has the same grey-blue eyes and blonde hair, the same grease-stained clothes and old, ripped jeans but she's— different. There are lines on her face that he doesn’t remember her having, a scar on her lip that she definitely hadn’t had before. Her hair is longer, braided over one shoulder. She looks older, more like an adult than the freshly-eighteen-year-old girl he used to know. 

 

“Clara!” 

 

The call comes from the back room, just loud enough for him to hear through the glass, and the sound of the familiar voice has Tommy’s breath freezing in his lungs. 

 

“Yeah?” Clara calls back, looking over her shoulder just in time to see Clementine come through the doors.

 

She looks older, too. A little taller, a little more tired. Her hair is cut shorter, a dark, puffy cloud that curls around her soft face. She still has a smile that lights up the whole room, resting a box of something on her hip. She says something to Clara that he can’t catch, leaning in close to talk to her, and Clara’s normally-stern face goes soft in a way he hasn’t seen before, and Tommy forces himself to look away, swallowing—

 

He freezes in place all over again when he catches sight of one of the fliers in the window. 

 

It’s so faded, he’d nearly missed it entirely. Old, bleached from the sun. Still, the writing across the top is unmistakable. 

 

MISSING, it reads, THOMAS INNET, CALL IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION. 

 

There’s a picture, beneath. He barely even recognizes his own face anymore, it takes him a few seconds to realize that the kid in the photo is him. It’s a yearbook photo, the last one he’d ever had taken, just a few weeks before he’d gotten his braces off. He’s young, thirteen or so, if he remembers right, with round cheeks and short, wild hair, all scrawny and gangly in the way all teenagers are at that age. He grins crookedly at the camera, his sharp, troublemakers smile on full display, the bruise on the side of his face and the bandaid over his newly-crooked nose only adding to the effect. 

 

In the glass, Tommy can make out his own reflection.

 

He’s taller, the features that had once been rounded out with baby-fat now a bit lote angular, though he’s definitely gained a healthy bit of muscle and weight from all the Argo crew’s mother-hemming. His blonde hair is just as curly, but it actually looks like he knows what a hairbrush is, this time around. There’s a streak of grey-white towards the front, a few stubborn bits framing his face while the rest is tied back at the nape of his neck with one of Techno’s hair ties. There are scars on his face, on his temple, on his lip, over his nose, alongside the freckles. 

 

He looks older. He looks— 

 

Despite the bruises, he looks healthier. He looks happier. 

 

Tommy looks back through the window, at the two women giggling behind the counter. They look older, too. Happier. 

 

They’d looked for him. Put up fliers and everything. They’d missed him. 

 

He closes his eyes, ripping his gaze away from the stupid missing person’s flier, and shoves open the door. 

 

It dings! softly when he pushes through, heart pounding in his chest. Both women look up, startled, but before they can say anything— 

 

“I’m here.” He says, breathless. “I— I came back.”

 

Clara gapes at him. Clementine brings her hand up to cover her mouth, the box of whatever she’d been holding clattering on the ground. 

 

“You— Tommy?”

 

Clara reaches him first, stumbling in her haste to get around the counter. She grabs him by the shoulders, her hands patting him down, like she’s checking to make sure he’s real— then reaching up to grab the sides of his face. Her hands feel almost the same— a little larger, a little more calloused, but just as warm. 

 

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He croaks. 

 

“You came back.” She says, and that’s all that matters. 

 

She pulls him into a hug, and it’s everything that he'd ever wanted and more. 

 

Clementine is hot on her heels, a whirlwind of disbelieving laughter and wild curls, nearly knocking all three of them over in the process as she flings herself into the hug. Clara’s strong hands clutch at his shirt, he’s taller than she is, now, taller than both of them, but she still manages to make him feel small with her strong arms around his shoulders. He can’t tell if Clem is laughing or crying, her shoulders shaking as she pulls him down to her level to press her cheek to his, and he goes willingly, burying his face in her curly hair and breathing in the smell of her vanilla perfume. She pulls back to cradle his face the same way Clara had, her big brown eyes brimming with tears that threaten to spill over her cheeks. 

 

“Look at you.” Her voice wobbles, despite the way she’s smiling. “When did you get so big?”

 

“I’m sorry.” He rasps out, leaning his face into her palm. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

 

“Oh shut up.” Clara cuts him off, ruffling his hair and trying to pretend that she isn’t as teary eyed as Clem is. 

 

He looks at the two of them. Older than they used to be, more adults than older-teenagers, now. It feels like a punch to the gut, seeing them like this. Seeing how much they’ve grown up without him—

 

But he’s grown up too, hasn’t he? 

 

Over Clementine’s shoulder, he can see the window by the door. He can see the desert outside. In his head, he imagines the ship Sam had built, sitting out there. Had they waited, after dropping him off? Are they already on their way back to— to wherever they’re going to go next, after this? Some new, crazy adventure? Will they miss him in the same way? Wait for him, just in case he changes his mind? 

 

There’s a missing-person’s poster on this side, too. A younger version of his face stares back, and Tommy feels his throat go tight. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Clem’s voice snaps him back to the present, and he swallows. “Nothing. It’s— I’m just. I’m so happy to see you again. To be home.”

 

Clara puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly. “…We missed you, kid.”

 

Clem just hums, still cradling his face. Her expression shifts, though, a knowing sort of look settling in her eyes as she gently combs through the streak of white in his bangs, brushing it out of his face. 

 

He swallows, looking between her and Clara. “I— I don’t—“ 

 

He can still see that poster, over her shoulder. There’s a lump in his throat, when he locks eyes with the boy in the photo again. 

 

He’s— 

 

He’s not that kid anymore. 

 

But— no. That’s not right. This is it, this is home. The gas station. Clem and Clara. Earth.

 

But… Is it?

 

(Hands in his hair, on his arms, bandaging wounds and pulling him back on his feet. A small hand that fits perfectly in his, the flash of white teeth in a manic smile—)

 

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice small. His hands shake, where they clutch to Clementine’s shoulders. There are tears in his eyes— and god, it takes everything in him to fight them back. Why— what is happening? 

 

“I don’t know why I— I’m s-sorry.”

 

“Oh, be quiet.” Clara huffs, looping an arm around him, tucking him against her side. “You don’t gotta apologize for nothin’, it’s okay.”

 

He doesn’t fit in her arms, the same way he used too. The same way the kid in the poster had. 

 

It’s getting darker. The light is fading, the sun dipping lower and lower beneath the sands. It shouldn’t matter, but why can’t he shake the feeling that he’s running out of time? 

 

He looks at Clementine. 

 

“Ask me to stay.” He blurts out, pleads with her, really, hands clutching at her arm as he looks to her pleadingly. “Tell me you want me to stay and I will.”

 

“kid…” Clara starts. “You know it ain’t that easy.” 

 

Clementine just smiles at him, soft and sad. The longer he looks at her face, the blurrier it becomes, like she’s slipping through his fingers all over again. 

 

“Don’t you want me to stay?” He croaks, his voice coming out small. Younger.

 

“Baby,” Clem says, “What do you want?” 

 

And Tommy—

 

He thinks of the teasing lilt in Wilbur’s voice, the low, gentle rumble of Techno’s. Wings settled firmly over the backs of his shoulders, arms holding him close, a heartbeat thudding in his ears. The smell of vanilla, Of not-quite gasoline and the Tea-scent of Phil’s shampoo—

 

He thinks of the weight of Tubbo’s hand in his, of the odd way Ranboo sleeps, curled up with their tail over their nose like a cat. Stars at his fingertips, a galaxy outside of his window, air whipping by his face and laughter in his lungs, and—

 

“I want…” he manages, voice cracking. “I just want to go home.”

 

He grabs her hand. It’s small, soft in his, so entirely unlike his own. 

 

“I want here to be home—“ it comes out as a whisper. “I want you to be home. Both of you.” 

 

Clara squeezes his shoulder. Clementine’s gentle hand brushes away the stubborn tears on his face. 

 

“But this isn’t real.” He says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Is it?”

 

“No.” Clementine admits. “It’s not.”

 

Tommy can’t decide whether or not he wants to laugh or cry. 

 

“It’s— it’s funny.” He manages, a strangled sort of noise rising in the back of his throat, halfway between a chuckle and a sob. “I just— there’s so much I want to tell you, so many questions I didn’t— There’s so many things I didn’t get to say, I just—“

 

“Hey. Hey.” Clara says, giving his shoulder another squeeze. “It’s okay, kid.”

 

He takes a shuddering breath. 

 

“I thought I knew.” He says. “I thought I knew what it was like to have— to have people that cared about me.”

 

He looks up at them again, the both of them. The longer he looks, the stranger their faces become. The sky outside is turning red, as the sun dips beyond the horizon. 

 

Tommy thinks— he thinks about movie nights, and afternoons spent in Clara’s old garage. He thinks about snacks left out for him, and homework advice, and the countless days he’d spent making up excuses to stick around so he wouldn’t have to go back to whatever foster family he was staying with now. It’s not that they didn’t care about him— not that they didn’t like being around him, just— 

 

The realization settles in, a pit in his stomach, a weight around his heart. 

 

“You didn’t love me nearly as much as I loved you.” He whispers. “Did you?”

 

In his memories, they’re both golden. Laughing and young, the gas station an anchor in the storm of his life. A place to rest, to patch up his scrapes and bruises in a place where the outside world couldn’t quite reach, a place that would distract him, for a little while. He needed that like he needed to breathe, needed the safety, the comfort—

 

But memories are just that. Memories. 

 

Clementine and Clara cared about him. When he was younger, when he didn’t have anyone, that felt like a debt he’d never be able to pay back. To have someone that cares, even just a little bit. 

 

Now— now he knows what it’s like to be loved, and— 

 

They cared about him, they did. But at the end of the day— Tommy Innet was just the weird neighbor kid that they babysat sometimes. They cared about him, but they didn’t know him— not really. They didn’t really know his favorite movies, or songs. They never stayed up with him all night, when he couldn’t bear to be alone. They didn’t invite him along on their adventures, they didn’t hide him from space-cops or carefully washed his hair for him when he couldn’t get his cast wet, never talked with him about things they’d never be able to share with anyone else— 

 

They’d never risked their fucking lives for him. 

 

“I’m sorry.” He says, in a rush. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay.”

 

“I know.” Clementine murmurs. “For what it’s worth, we’re sorry, too.”

 

“You’re not… mad?”

 

His voice comes out smaller than he’d meant it too. Clementine pulls her hand away. 

 

“‘Course not.” Clara rumbles, ruffling his hair. “It’s getting late. I think it’s time for you to go home, kid.” 

 

Go home, kid.

 

“Thank you.” He says, the words leaving him in a rush as he stumbles back.

 

He looks at them one last time, as he reaches for the handle. They let him go, Clara looping an arm around Clem’s shoulders to draw her in close. They look… happy. A little sad, maybe, but mostly happy. 

 

“Thank you!” He shouts again, this time on purpose, as he trips over his own boots on his way out the door. 

 

“For everything! Thank you!”

 

He thinks that he hears one of them shout back, thinks that he hears one last call of ‘ good luck!’, but he doesn’t stop to listen. He’s already gone. Already out into the sand, into the light of the fading summer sun. He doesn’t have much time— he has to go. 

 

He sees his crew, inbetween blinks. Ranboo’s hands, paw-pads and all, running through his hair. Techno’s rough hands gentle on his, adjusting his feet into the right position as he presses a sword into his palm. Wilbur’s flashing eyes and sharp toothed smile, slender fingers guiding his as they pluck out strings. Phil’s laugh, the feeling of wings under his hands, of wind rushing by his ears. The roar of the motorcycle, sweat in his skin, laughter torn from his throat as they ride, faster, faster, faster—

 

And then he’s running.

 

And it’s— He’d left a piece of himself here, he thinks. Back on Earth with Clem and Clara. When he’d first woken up light years away, he’d felt it like a wound, a missing hole in his chest where something else used to be.

 

He can still feel it. Healed over, not quite raw in the way it used to be, but still there. Honestly? He doesn’t even really mind it. He can live without that part of himself, that small piece of him that had never been able to leave that shitty town and the shittier gas station. Clem and Clara will take good care of it

 

They’d been home, once. To the boy on the poster, the one with scuffed knees and the crooked smile. The foster kid with a track record a mile long and the bruises to show for it. They were kind to him, gave him a chance when no one else would. 

 

They’d always be his first home. 

 

But now— 

 

(“Tommy?”)

 

Scars on his face, on his arms, a starburst on his temple and surgical cuts on his back. Grey streaks in his ash-blonde hair, dusty blue eyes. Scrawny, but filled out with more muscle, now, a sharper jawline and a crooked nose. The same trouble-makers smile, though. He doesn’t think that’ll ever change.

 

Tommy doesn’t look a thing like the boy on the poster, anymore.

 

He has a new home now, and that’s okay. 

 

(“Tommy! Shit— someone—“)

 

His feet pound into the sand, arms pumping furiously at his side as he runs. The sidewalk under his feet turns this way and that, and he barely even pays any attention to what’s around him as he goes. The old Pizza place and the arcade, the corner store and the old school. It whips past in a blur, and he barely even gives it a second glance.

 

It seems so simple, in hindsight. The clarity is so startling he can’t help but laugh, the noise lost in the wind as he runs as fast as he can. He feels freer than he has in months.

 

Go home, Clem and Clara had said, without an ounce of betrayal or accusation. Goodbye. Goodluck.

 

It feels like permission. It feels like their blessing— like he isn’t betraying one family for another. They’ll be just fine without him. 

 

What the hell was he even thinking, deciding to come back here? Who did he think he was pretending to be? Why had he ever wanted to give up what he’d finally, finally found? The thing he said he wouldn’t trade for anything? That made everything be went through worth it? 

 

 (“Get— calm him down, don’t—“)

 

Phil had landed the ship just outside of town. Far enough away that no one from the town would notice, especially now that the sun was almost set. 

 

Clem and Clara will be just fine without him. 

 

Please still be there, he wants to scream. Please don’t have left without me. Please, please, please—

 

He’d spent so long trying to get home, that he hadn’t even noticed that he’d been there all along. 

 

(“Tommy! Tommy, wake up—“) 

 

After everything he’s done. Everything that he's been through.

 

He knows where he belongs, now. 




-




Tommy wakes to the shrill beeping of alarms. 

 

He jolts upright, gasping, and two pairs of gentle hands land on his shoulders. “—easy! It’s okay, Toms, you’re okay—“

 

Wilbur, he recognizes, wheezing. His lungs spasm, shooting a bolt of pain through his chest, and he can’t quite bite back the pained whimper in time. It’s hard to breathe, he cant seem to get enough air, and the insistent beeping of the stupid monitor is not helping— “whassit—“

 

“—that’s it.” Another voice is saying, and the bed dips as someone sits by his side, large hands coaxing him to sit up, “Shh, easy. Match my breathin’.”

 

Technoblade. Tommy tries to force down another shaky breath, feeling his lungs tighten and shudder. He blinks the blurriness out of his eyes, looking around the dark room, and finds five pairs of worried eyes looking back. 

 

Tommy blinks. “What—?”

 

“I woke up and you weren’t breathing!” Tubbo says, eyes wide and frantic. “I went and got Techno— we thought you were dying! Don’t do that!” 

 

Tommy forces himself to take another breath, but it just sticks in his throat. They’re— it’s—

 

They’re all here. 

 

Tubbo is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking horrified. Ranboo isn’t far behind, eyes wide and fur standing on end. Phil is as close as he can get, with his wheelchair, and Wilbur and Techno have taken up all of the remaining space on the bed, sandwiching him between them. The Piglin is rubbing circles on his back, easing some of the tension out, while Wilbur fusses with the blankets to his right. He can smell is stupid cologne, the weird not-gasoline of his bike and vanilla.

 

They’re all here. They all came for him, after all. 

 

Wilbur catches him staring, and frowns, opening his mouth to say something. Tommy doesn’t let him finish, barreling right into his chest, instead.

 

He stumbles, nearly falling off the bed, but arms come up around him without hesitation. There’s a murmur of concerned voices, everyone seeming to curl a little more around him, and he can’t quite choke down the sobs building up in his chest. He buries his face into his collarbone, breathing in vanilla and not-quite-gasoline, and everything just… Clicks.

 

“Tommy?” A hand in his hair, a worried series of clicks. “Is everything okay? Are you hurting? What’s wrong?”

 

“Is he—“

 

“—don’t know, I just—“

 

“—mmy? Mate, what’s—“ 

 

“I want to s-stay.” He forces out, uncaring about the way his voice wobbles, about the stinging in his eyes and the sob building in his throat. He has to say this, it’s important. 

 

He doesn’t care that they’re seeing him cry, he doesn’t care that it makes him seem like a baby who needs to be coddled— because it doesn’t matter. They’re here, they’re all here, and he was going too— he can’t believe he ever thought that he’d actually— 

 

“With— with all of you.” He says, in a rush, clutching to Wilbur’s sweater like a life raft.

 

“With the Argo II. I don’t want to go back to Earth, I want to s-stay— Please?” He chokes out around a sob. “Please, I just— don’t make me l-leave I want to stay.” 

 

A pause.

 

“Of course you can stay.” Someone— Phil— says, rubbing circles on the back of his shoulder, sounding a little choked up. “Of course you can, mate, it’s okay—“ 

 

Techno grunts, “if you think I’m ever lettin’ you outta my sight again—“ 

 

Tubbo grabs his hand. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, bitch.” 

 

“Where else would you go?” Ranboo chips in, the sheer confusion in their voice making Tommy want to laugh. “Is he okay? Should we call a doctor?”

 

“We’ve got you.” Wilbur mutters into his hair. “You’re not going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere.” 

 

Tommy’s clings on to his sweater, and lets himself fall to pieces.  





-





They work it out.

 

Sam doesn’t seem too upset, when Tommy returns the holo-projector to him. Turns out, there are plenty of uses for a ship like that, especially in the aftermath of… everything. The days that follow that night are chaotic, to say the least— a blur of faces and visitors, Council members and representatives, doctors and members of the Vionian government, people that work for the Queen of Enderion, researchers, reporters, it never seems to end. He talks more over those two weeks than he ever has in his life, which is a pretty big accomplishment, for a blabbermouth like himself. There’s just so much to be done.

 

Now that Tommy’s staying, for real, this time, he throws himself right into the rebuilding effort with reckless abandon. 

 

He’s still in recovery, so he’s kept out of most of it— but he helps, when he can. Whenever and wherever he can. It’s a lot of work, stitching together what’s left of the Inter-galactic government after… all of everything went down. Most of the Council representatives have to leave to return to their own planets by now, people have lost a lot of faith in the Council, after not one, but two members turned out to be pretty awful people. He doesn’t understand a lot of the politics at play, no matter how much Phil and Eret try to coach him— it’s a lot. 

 

Some of the Council members want him to be present, for the trail of the Pandora’s surviving crew. Tommy’s crew respectfully disagrees. They compromise. 



(The crew stands around the hospital room, pretending not to be glaring at the various royal guards, as head of the Queen’s royal guard himself, Edward, brings him a holo-screen, and shows him a file.

 

It’s a huge fucking thing— hundreds and hundreds of pictures, faces, names. It takes them days to go through, with Edward carefully using a smaller holo-screen to record his responses as they do. There’s… not a lot he can tell them, if he’s being honest. He points out faces that seem familiar, names that he remembers, but there’s so many, and so much he just… doesn’t remember. 

 

“Just try,” Edward asks, “do the best you can.”  

 

And so he does. It doesn’t really seem like enough, but he tries, and hopes that it at least counts for something.)



The worst is when they bring in Eret’s file— the one of other potential victims. 

 

There are so many. 

 

Tommy doesn’t— he doesn’t remember any others. He’d thought he was the only one. He still goes through it, flicks through the photos and names even though his hands tremble and shake. They’re all young, teenagers and young adults, people his age. Most of them are Vionian, Phantling’s or Merlings, but there are a few outliers, too. Odd hybrids, alien from species he doesn’t know. Most of them, he doesn’t recognize in the slightest, total strangers, staring at him accusingly from the screen. Some of them, though—

 

He doesn’t remember them. Not really. He couldn’t remember their names, or what they looked like, or anything. He just… there are some that he looks at, and he gets this awful feeling in his gut, and he knows. He knows that they were there. That something horrible happened to them. Of the hundreds of photos of potential victims, he picks out less than a dozen, and spends most of that night a sobbing mess in Phil’s arms. 

 

It doesn’t feel like progress, but his many doctors and brand-new therapist reassure him that it is. One step at a time. 

 

Things pick up speed, from there. He spends a lot of time talking to Eret, actually, in the meantime. They fill him in with all the messy political gossip from the inside, and keep him updated on the missing person’s cases. It’s slow-going, tedious, but they’re at the forefront of it all, helping to lead the investigation. With most of the Pandora’s crew locked up on an Enderian prison-ship, it gets a little easier. It still takes a while, it’ll probably take months for any real progress, with all the goddamn red tape— but it’s a start. It’s a start at getting justice for everyone who wasn’t lucky enough to get out, and that’s all he could ask for. 

 

Besides, ever since their new promotion, it’s starting to pick up speed.

 

Oh, yeah. They’re the new Council representative for Viona— weird, huh? 

 

And it’s…

 

It’s not simple. It’s not clean. It’s not as easy as he thought it would be, definitely, but it’s something. Picking up the pieces one by one of the Galaxy he’d sort-of-kinda helped shatter apart, and gluing it back together. He thinks that he glues a bit of himself back together, in the process. He still has nightmares, still wakes up screaming every now and again but it’s— different.

 

Because this time, he isn’t alone.

 

Techno helps him wash his hair, on the days where everything hurts and he just can’t seem to drag himself out of bed. Ranboo goes to his physical therapy appointments with him, stretching with him in the mornings the way they used to before sparring. When he’s out of his mind with boredom, Wilbur brings his instrument (and Shroud!) and teaches him how to pluck through one simple song or another. When he gets too overwhelmed with all of the rebuilding efforts and politics, Phil steers him out of the room, and coaxes him into helping preen his still-regrowing feathers, and Tubbo—

 

Tubbo stays by his side, through everything. And that’s enough. 

 

And he helps, too. He helps Phil with his wings, showing him some of the stretches he’s learned. It’s still up in the air over whether or not he’ll be able to fly again, but the doctors seem hopeful. He bullies Wilbur into taking naps and Techno into slumber parties— complete with hair-braiding. He sits up with Ranboo when they can’t sleep, telling them stories about Earth until they doze off again. He listens to Tubbo’s rants— actually listens, this time, to his stories and various explanations of technology he doesn’t really understand— he pays attention and he listens, because everything he has to say is worth listening too. Even pitches some ideas of his own, maybe if Phil can’t ever fly again on his own, they can make him some sort of prosthetic-wings, or something? He gets Wilbur to lend him some of his paper, and Sam gives them a box of scrap metal to start tinkering with, and— 

 

And together, all together, in that weird hospital on Enderion that’s sort of become their temporary headquarters— they heal. 

 

It’s not the end— far from it. But it’s a start. 

 

It’s a start. 




-






“So, this is it.”

 

The Avian looks at the teenager in front of him, illuminated by in purple by Enderion’s near-perpetual twilight sky above. It’s early morning, and the hospital’s flight-deck is nearly empty— aside from a handful people. All of the hospital’s transport-ships are tucked away in neat rows in the back, leaving the Theseus to stand alone against the sky. 

 

Nearby, an odd assortment of aliens stand, huddled together. An Avian, a Totem Hybrid, a Slime, a Vulpian, and, lastly— 

 

The well-disguised Human teenager grins back, shoving his hands deeper in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah. Looks like it.” 

 

“You…” The Avian swallows, putting a hand on his shoulder. He clears his throat. “You did good, kid. Best damn employee I ever had.”

 

The Slime blows his nose(?) into a handkerchief. The Totem Hybird sniffs, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. The Vulpian huffs, crossing his arms, and mutters something under his breath. 

 

“…thanks.” The teenager says. He clears his throat, looking away. “I should—“

 

“Right.”

 

“It’s just, Sam is going to leave soon, so—“

 

“No, no.” The Avian steps back, giving a wobbly smile. “No I— I get it. Just— be safe?”

 

The teenager gives him a thumbs up, and a smile that seems a little pinched, around the edges. He hefts his backpack over his shoulder, and turns to go, to make his way over to the ramp of the ship where everyone else is standing. 

 

“Charlie.” The Avian says, clearing his throat as he watches him go. “I… I need a favor.”

 

The Slime nods goopily. The teenager pauses, looking back in confusion. 

 

The Avian grins wide, sharp canines flashing as he chuckles, throwing an arm around the Slime’s shoulders and pointing after the teenager. “I need you to keep an eye on him for me, okay?”

 

The teenager blinks, “What—?”

 

“Keep him outta trouble, you hear me?”

 

The others look on, shock rippling through their little group. The Slime hesitates, then, tilting his head as he blinks at the Avian, smile slipping ever so slightly. 

 

“But… what about you, Quackity from Las Nevadas?” 

 

“I’ll be fine.” The Avian insists, stepping back and pointedly clearing his throat, waving him off as he looks to the side. His gaze locks on a figure standing off by itself, away from the ship and the small crowd. “Now, shoo! Scram! Before I change my mind!” 

 

“But what about—“

 

“Foolish, Fundy—“ he waves a hand to the others, and the rest of the group startles, straightening to attention. He looks away from the Phantling standing off the side, focusing back on his crew with a somewhat-strained smile. “—take the night off. Celebrate. Watch the show. Just be back on the ship in time to leave tomorrow, alright?”

 

“Yes sir!” The Totem Hybrid says. The Vulpian just sighs. 

 

Both of them leave, trailing after the Human and the Slime and joining the small crowd forming at the foot of the ramp. The Totem Hybrid sweeps the both of them up into a hug, the Vulpian slinking off to speak to a pink-haired Merling. The Avian stays and watches them go. 

 

He does not jump when he feels a presence by his side. He just sighs. “Hey, Wilbur.” 

 

“…hey.” 

 

They watch the teenager and the Slime together, chatting with the small crowd before making their way up the ship’s small loading ramp. The teenager lets out a small shriek when the Slime abruptly seems to just melt, only to twist in form and slither into the teenagers backpack, blinking at him from inside with big, goopy eyes. The teenager shakes his head, and keeps walking, hefting the backpack a little higher up on his back. The crowd at the foot of the ramp— the oddest mix of aliens the galaxy has ever seen, with one human on crutches amongst them— cheers them on, calling out their goodbyes. 

 

“Think they’ll be okay?” The Phantling says, after a few beats. 

 

The Avian shrugs. “Purpled’s a smart kid. They’ll be just fine.”

 

A pause. 

 

“So—“

 

“Look—“

 

They stop, blinking at each other. The Avian huffs, and the Phantling snorts, running a hand through his hair.

 

“I think…” he says, “I think we should start over.”

 

The Avian raises an eyebrow. “Start over?”

 

“Just— from scratch. No history, no grudges. Just… a fresh start.”

 

“A fresh start.” The Avian echoes, watching the teenager make his way up into the ship. He doesn’t look back, not even once. 

 

“…yeah. I mean, if you want.”

 

The Avian turns away, facing him again. The Phantling gives him a slightly-nervous smile, shoving his fists into his pockets. 

 

“Okay.” The Avian says. He holds out his hand, to shake. “My name’s Quackity.”

 

“Wilbur. Wilbur Soot.” The Phantling says, taking it. “You… want to get a drink? Sometime?”

 

He grins, all teeth. “I thought you’d never ask.” 





-





They all come to watch Theseus leave.

 

It’s… sort of a surreal feeling, seeing that ship in person. Grey and bronze, patchwork metal glittering in the morning light. A one-way ride back to Earth that he won’t be taking, and he’s more than fine with it.

 

Purpled— and wasn’t that a fucking revelation, he was human! This whole time! What the fuck!— doesn’t really say much. He looks kind of overwhelmed by all of the attention, really, but he stops just long enough for everyone to say their final goodbyes. Niki sweeps him into a hug, Jack ruffles his hair, even Techno and Phil clap him on the shoulder and wish him good luck. Through it all, he keeps his head high, keeps his eyes up, focused on the ship. 

 

He doesn’t even pause when he passes Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo. He dips his head in a nod, violet eyes flicking over all three of them in turn, and then goes to just leave, and— 

 

Tommy throws out a hand, instinctively catching his sleeve— “hey!”

 

Purpled pauses, turning back to him. “…yeah?”

 

 And—

 

And there's a lot that Tommy wants to say, but the words all stick and jam in his throat. He feels like— like there’s something he should be saying, some sort of grand speech, or something. Some final piece of advice, from one human lost in space to another. This is probably the last human-person he’s going to see in a long, long time, but he just— 

 

Enjoy the rain for me, will you? He almost says, the words thick in his throat. Eat your weight in pizza for me, drink soda with caffeine until you’re sick of it. Go spend way too much money in an arcade, or a coffee shop, or a record store. Go to the movies, go back to school, graduate. You’ve always been pretty fucking smart, right? Go find your family, if there’s one out there waiting for you. Make a new one, if there isn’t. Play a stupid video game, listen to songs on the radio. Live a normal life. A safe one, without aliens or government-conspiracies. Go be happy. 

 

And if you happen to see Clem and Clara out there, tell them thank you for me, will you? 

 

But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is—

 

“Good luck.” 

 

“…you too.” Purpled replies, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. 

 

Tommy lets go of his sleeve. He turns, rolls back his shoulders, and walks up the ramp with Charlie, who turns all goopy to hide in his backpack. He doesn’t turn around, not even once, and Sam and Puffy gladly usher him inside and the ramp starts to close—

 

Tommy gets one last glimpse of blonde hair, and then he’s gone. 

 

They have to step back, before the ship takes off. He stands in the crowd with everyone else, penned in between Tubbo and Ranboo, watching the stupid spaceship taxi down the runway. The engine comes alive with a sound like nothing else he’s ever heard, and between one blink and the next, it’s—

 

Whoosh! 

 

“Holy shit!” Tommy cackles, cheering with everyone else as they’re all blown back by the sudden gust of wind. “Hell yeah!” 

 

Tubbo lets out a loud whoop, and Ranboo throws an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. Niki gasps and Jack cheers, shooting off sparks. Phil cheers and Techno joins in, Wilbur letting out a loud whistle from the back of the crowd, and Tommy—

 

He puts up his hand, shielding his eyes from the sun, and watches the Theseus leave for Earth without him. 





-





“So.” Tubbo says, brushing against his shoulder. “What now?”

 

Tommy shrugs, tearing his gaze away from the sky. Theseus isn’t visible anymore, long-since having disappeared into the star-speckled purple sky. “I dunno.”

 

He, Tubbo, and Ranboo are off to the side, over towards the edge of the flight-deck, where it overlooks the sprawling city below. Everyone else is farther back, close enough for him to still hear the thrum of their voices and laughter, but not enough to really pick out any words. He’d already said his goodbyes to Jack and Niki, though they're still hanging around talking with Phil and Techno. Soon enough, they’ll take off too, and then it’ll just be him and the rest of the Argo II crew. After that? Who knows. 

 

“I’ve always wanted to explore Enderion.” Ranboo chips in, coming up to Tommy’s other side. They look out over the city beneath them, putting their hand over their eyes to shield from the light of the sun. They whistle. “Geez— it’s so big.”

 

It really is beautiful, especially from so high up. All dark and glittering, buildings of black glass rising high above the sands below. He can make out space ships among them, darting in between skyscrapers like angry hornets, light-rails weaving between and all around like a silver ribbon. Multicolored lights and neon signs dance like something you’d see in a kaleidoscope. 

 

“Kind of reminds me of Bastion City.” Tubbo hums. “With all the black sky scrapers. It’s kind of dark, huh?”

 

“It’s a shame we can’t go down there.” Ranboo sighs, kicking a rock. “It looks really cool.” 

 

“You know…” 

 

They both look over at him, and Tommy grins, leaning back on his crutches. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to the rest of the group— Wilbur and Quackity talking together, Phil and Techno chatting with Niki and Jack. No one’s looking in their direction at all. 

 

“I think Wilbur is gonna be pretty distracted for the next little bit, you think?” He drawls. 

 

Tubbo’s eyes get that familiar gleam, catching on quickly. “Techno and Phil too… I heard Phil was going to help Eret get set up as the new Vionian Representative. Should keep them distracted for a few hours atleast.”

 

Tommy whistles. “Surely they won’t notice if we pack it in early? Head back to the ship?”

 

“The ramp is already open,” Tubbo tags on, while Ranboo looks between the two of them in confusion, “All we would need are the keys—“

 

“—which Wilbur always leaves on his nightstand—“

 

“Hey. Sorry.” Ranboo butts in, waving a hand. “What are we talking about?” 

 

“It’s a shame about my arm…” Tubbo complains, leaning into their side. 

 

“Mine too.” Tommy laments, leaning up against Ranboo’s other side. “If only we had someone with two functioning hands—“

 

“—what?”

 

Tubbo grins at him, eyes glinting like distant stars. “…race you to the hoverbike?”

 

“Tommy your leg is broken—“

 

Tommy grins right back, all teeth. “You’re so going down.”

 

Tubbo takes off across the loading dock, laughing all the while. Tommy doesn’t even hesitate, dropping his crutches and doing his best to jump into Ranboo’s arms— it doesn’t quite work like he’d been hoping, but they keep him from falling, always. He loops his arms around their neck, and they catch on quickly, spinning him around so he can clamber up on their back. “Hold on—“

 

“Onwards, my trusty steed!” He yells, waving a fist after Tubbo. “C’mon, c’mon— he’s getting away! Tubbo!”

 

“Oh no he isn’t,” Ranboo says, grabbing Tommy’s legs, “Hold on tight—“

 

“What are you— ah! Ranboo!” 

 

They take off across the dock, sprinting after Tubbo, and Tommy clings to them with all he’s worth. The sun is hot on their back, the sky above them glitters with new, unfamiliar stars, and the air smells like exhaust and sweat and city-smog, and—

 

Tommy laughs, “Tubbo! Wait up!”

 

“Make me!”

 

and he knows that this is it. 

 

He’s finally home. 

 








-








The door to the gas station dings! As a teenage boy walks through. 

 

All things considered, he looks like your average, everyday teenage boy, just coming by to grab a snack on his way home from class. Blonde hair, mostly hidden under a purple hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets. The backpack over his shoulders is a little odd-looking, but at first glance, it’s unassuming enough. The blonde young woman leaning against the register doesn’t even look up, too busy narrowing her eyes at the folded newspaper in her hands, chewing on the tip of her pen as she stares down the crossword section like it owes her money. The dark-skinned woman working the register is too busy staring at her. Neither of them spare him so much as a second glance. If they did, maybe they would notice the odd color of his eyes. Or the way his backpack seems to… wiggle, every now and again. 

 

“Alright, how about this one.” The blonde- haired woman drawls. “The clue is, ‘derived from the Latin words ‘star’ and ‘boat’’”

 

Behind the counter, her companion leans closer to squint at the paper. “How many letters?”

 

“Nine.”

 

The violet gaze of the teenage boy flicks to them, as he peruses the linoleum aisles. He stalls by the slushie machine, heaving out an annoyed sigh at the sign slapped across the front (‘out of order, sorry! -Clem <3’), before wandering his way over to the cooler with the rest of the drinks.

 

He carefully slides a bottle of coke-a-cola into a pocket on his backpack. The backpack wiggles, softly, in appreciation. The women don’t so much as blink in his direction, completely engrossed in their discussion. 

 

“I tried spaceship, but—“

 

The dark-haired woman snorts, quickly covering it with a cough. “Uh huh, go on…”

 

“—there were too many letters, so—“ She cuts herself off, looking over suspiciously. “Are you laughin’ at me?” 

 

“No!” She says, laughing. “Beloved, I would never—“ 

 

Leaving the drinks behind, he hums along to the song on the radio, some old Killers song, making his way over to the candy aisle. He spends a few seconds looking over the options, deciding between a chocolate bar and a back of gummy worms. 

 

Both end up alongside the coke in his backpack. Along with a pack of gum, a phone charger, a bottle of cheap painkillers, socks, two blue airheads, and a bag of pretzels. At one point, the backpack unzips, seemingly by itself, and a small, green hand slips out, snatches a thing of white-chocolate-pretzels from off the shelf, and then disappears back inside the backpack. The backpack wiggles happily, and soft crunching sounds can be heard from within. 

 

Neither of the girls up front notice a single thing.

 

“—makin’ fun of me—“

 

“I’m not making fun of you.”

 

“You are!” 

 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” She eventually gives in. Still giggling, she wipes a tear from her eye. “Here, I’ll let you—“

 

The blonde woman snatches the crossword puzzle close to her chest. “Well now I don’t want your help—“

 

“Astronaut.”

 

Both women blink, turning to look at the teenage boy standing by the register. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at them, the end of a stolen sucker hanging out of his mouth.

 

“It’s astronaut.” He says, shrugging as he walks by. “Prefix ‘astro’, meaning ‘star’, ‘naut’ meaning ‘boat’ or ‘sail.’ Astronaut.” 

 

“A hah!” The blonde woman says, furiously scrubbing down the answer. “Told you I could get it on my own—“

 

“That doesn’t count!” The other woman exclaims, leaning over her shoulder. 

 

“Does too.”

 

The teenager looks at them, hand resting on the handle of the door. Perhaps waiting for them to notice the obvious bulge in his still-somewhat-wiggling backpack that hadn’t been there when he’d walked in, or demand that he pay for the grape-flavored sucker still hanging out of his mouth. They continue to bicker, ribbing each other and laughing, completely engrossed in their own private, little world.

 

He shrugs again, and the door opens with a ding! 

 

It’s only after he’s stepped outside that the cashier even looks up, a frown tugging at her lips as the door swings shut behind him. She elbows her companion. 

 

“Did he look… familiar to you?”

 

“You know, I was thinking the same thing.” The blonde woman says, still crossing the T on the end of astronaut. “Weird, huh?”

 

“You think he went to our highschool?”

 

“Nah.” She says. “I woulda remembered a kid with eyes like that. I think it’s just the hair.”

 

She frowns, watching him walk away behind the glass. There’s no one with him, no other cars in the parking lot. A figure on a black motorcycle is pumping gas, but other than that, the boy seems to be completely alone. 

 

“I hope he’s okay.” She mutters, still watching him. “All alone like that.”

 

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Smoothing out her crossword puzzle, the blonde frowns at the next clue. “What’s a twelve-letter word for throwin’ someone out a window?”

 

The figure on the motorcycle stops to speak with the boy. She can’t see their face from this angle, only the outline of their black helmet, and the long, dark hair spilling out from underneath it. After a moment of talking, the boy wastes no time in going with them, hopping on the back of the motorcycle. She seems to find this reassuring, that he isn’t completely alone. She watches them peel away, the roar of the engine as they take off down the road towards the highway. 

 

She leans on the counter, still looking out the window as she rests her cheek on her hand. With her free hand, she fidgets with the dial of the old-fashioned radio sitting next to them, as the end of the song plays out, only to be replaced by the opening bars of the next song. She goes to change the station, but the blonde-haired woman slaps her hands away.

 

“What are you doing?” She says. “Are you crazy? It’s the Killers , you can’t change it.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll never understand why you’re so obsessed with them.”

 

“Because I have taste. Obviously.”

 

The cashier goes back to staring out the window, the boy and the figure on the motorcycle both long-gone. 

 

“Do you ever think about doing that?”

 

The blonde looks up. “Doing what?”

 

“Just… leaving.” She says. “Getting on the highway and just driving.”

 

“Sometimes.” She shrugs. “But I’d miss this shitty town too much. Besides, who would help me with my crossword puzzles then?” 

 

“What if I went with you?”

 

She doesn’t turn around when she says this, still staring longingly out the window. 

 

Noticing the change in her tone of voice, the blonde woman sets down the newspaper, expression going a bit more serious. 

 

She follows her gaze out the window, initially, but after a second or too, it flicks back to rest on the side of her face. The cashier with the dark, curly hair would probably keel over if she ever knew just how adoringly the other woman looks at her when she knows that she won’t notice. 

 

“Alright.” She drawls, giving her companion her full attention. “Where do you wanna go?”

 

“I dunno.” She shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’ve always wanted to go to California. Los Angeles, or maybe Santa Monica? Somewhere with a beach.”

 

“California? Really?” The blonde wrinkles her nose. 

 

Her companion shoves at her shoulder with a laugh. “Jerk. Where would you go, then?” 

 

The blonde woman stretches, shrugging. “It doesn’t really matter to me. Anywhere, I guess?”

 

“Really? Anywhere? Other than California, you mean.”

 

“Other than California.” She agrees. “Too many damn people, in California.”

 

“Oh, for sure.”

 

After a pause, she leans in closer. Blinking those big, brown eyes up at the blonde. “Seriously, though. Where would you go?”

 

“Seriously.” She teases back. “I said anywhere, didn’t I? I don’t care.” 

 

“Just pick a place. Any place.” She keeps pressing, stubborn as she always is. “This summer, if I can get a break from classes and you can bare to leave the shop for a few weeks, where would you want to go?”

 

“I, uh…”

 

Put on the spot, the blonde flounders for a second, mind suddenly going blank. She tries to come up with a place, any place, but staring into those eyes…

 

When she opens her mouth, the only thing she can think of to say is—

 

“Neptune.” She blurts. 

 

The dark-haired woman throws her head back as she laughs. “Neptune?” 

 

Immediately, she flushes. “You said any place—“

 

“I meant somewhere we could road-trip too—“ she manages, between laughs. 

 

The blonde-haired woman is smiling. A big, dumb smile that seems so out of place on her usual serious face, blushing all the way up to the tips of her ears as she averts her eyes. She smiles the same way she laughs, like she’s just learning how to for the very first time. Hesitantly at first, then all at once. 

 

The dark-haired woman goes still, the second she sees that smile, before she’s grinning ear-to-ear, too. Laughing in a way that shows off her dimples as she leans in across the table. 

 

“You know what?” She says, “That actually gives me an idea…”

 

The dark haired woman continues on, gesturing wildly with her hands all the while. A road-trip up north for the summer, stopping at all the best sight-seeing spots, spending a week or two exploring Yellowstone national park. They can see the stars so much more clearly from there, she explains, eyes lighting up, They can sleep in the back of Clara’s old truck and she can dig in the closet to find her brother's old telescope and…

 

She’s never been one to do things half-way, throwing her everything into anything that she does. She laughs with her whole chest, smiles so brightly she can light up a room just by walking into it. 

 

The blonde-haired woman stares, for a second or two. Then, she clears her throat, looking away again she ignores how she’s blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. 

 

“Then it’s a plan.” She says, but what she means to say, is:

 

As long as we’re together? 

 

The blonde woman sits back, still looking over at her companion like she’s hung all the stars in the sky. Throwing in a suggestion here and there, a snarky comment, a joke to make her laugh. She only seems to get brighter on return, filling up the whole gas station with the sound of her laughter. 

 

There, in that gas station, their own private universe, nothing else matters to either of them at all. 

 

Anywhere from here to Neptune sounds just fine with me. 




-





(Neither of the young women inside the gas station have more than a passing glance to the figure with the motorcycle. 

 

Why would they? This figure is nothing special, not at first glance, anyways. A little on the shorter side, a bit of a rounder figure, dressed from head to toe in motorcycle leathers with a bulky backpack on. Their black helmet completely obscures all of their features, aside from the long, black hair, that is. 

 

If you look a little closer, maybe you’ll pick up on some of the more peculiar details. The sharp, hooked to the end of each of their gloved fingers. The odd way their legs seem to bend just a little too far back than the average person’s should. The odd way the backpack almost seems to shift, like it’s moving on its own. 

 

Too wrapped up in one another, neither of them notice the way she grabs the boy by the arm when he walks by, either.

 

“Excuse me.” She says, voice slightly muffled by her helmet . “But I’m afraid I’m lost. Do you think you could give me directions?” 

 

The boy tries to jerk out of her grasp, to no avail. He bristles, purple eyes wary as his lips curl into a sneer.

 

“Sorry lady,” he drawls. “I’m not from around here. I can’t help you.”

 

She laughs, like he’s said something funny. It’s a beautiful laugh, though it’s made a bit strange by how relieved she sounds, the stress dripping off her shoulders like water off a duck's back.

 

“Actually—“ she says, flipping up her visor.

 

Pale skin framed by black feathers, awkwardly angled to fit inside the helmet, lips the same color tugging at the corners into a secretive smile. Eyes that are completely black, aside from the ring of color around the center. 

 

Violet eyes meet royal purple, and the teenage boy goes completely still. 

 

“—I think you might be the only one who can.”)












Notes:

On the day I began this fic, May 20th, 2021, it was two months before my seventeenth birthday, and I started writing a silly space fic with chapters named after songs by my favorite band, convinced I would finish it before the end of summer.

Now, three years later and two months later, it's July 9th, 2024. Today is my twentieth birthday, and this monster of a fic is finally, finally done.

Honestly? I have… mixed feelings. About this ending.

I’ve grown so much throughout the process of writing this fic, and the ending has changed probably a dozen times since it’s conception. There’s an ending where Tommy does go back to Earth, leaving his space-family behind. There’s an ending where it’s revealed that Clementine and Clara are actually in space as well, and have been searching for him all along. There’s an ending where he goes back to say goodbye in person, changing his mind at the last minute to sprint back to the others. But, after a lot of thinking, this is the ending that I ultimately decided on. Not because I think it’s the most well-written masterpiece ever, but because I felt like it suited the story, and it's message, the best.

There is so much about this fic I wish that I had done differently, and I’m afraid that the final two chapters seem a little rushed/disjointed. I’m no longer really in this fandom, but I was NOT going to let this baby go unfinished, and while a good portion was already written (I started work on the dream-sequence back in 2021, when I first began outlining the fic, and the wing-scene was originally supposed to happen in the T'aria chapter!) it was still a struggle. This fic was an important part of my life for so long, and I had the time of my life working on it, and writing for this fandom. It feels weird knowing that today is the very last day that I will be writing for it. Though, ironically, that is sort of the message of this story, isn’t it? FHTN has always been a story of change and growth, and learning that the goals you have in life *will* change because *you’re* changing, and that’s okay.

So, instead of focusing on what I wish I could change, here is a list of things I’ve learned over the three years it took to finish this fic. Hopefully, maybe you guys can learn from my mistakes:

--The universe does not stop existing when your main character leaves the room
--The supporting cast should not just exist as accessories to your main character
—The main character needs flaws!!!!
—The answer to everything should always be “yes, and…”
—You do not need to know everything about your story from the start. A handful of interesting characters, a few keystone places and events, and a running theme will get you farther than you’d think
—that being said, knowing your characters well is so much more important than knowing your world. Characters influence setting just as much as setting influences characters
—if you do make a fully-detailed outline, expect to throw at least a good third of it away over the course of the story
—WRITE DOWN YOUR WORLDBUILDING. ORGANIZE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. IF YOU HAVE IN-DEPTH LORE, ORGANIZE IT SOMEWHERE. LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES.
--A compelling story will always be more interesting with a scientifically-accurate one. Readers will gladly suspend their disbelief if they’re invested enough. That being said, you will always end up doing way more research than you thought.

 

I’ve learned so much, and I’ve grown so much. It’s been an honor to have you all with me. I’m not sure what the future holds for me, or my writing, but if you’ve enjoyed this work, then I hope I’ll see you again in some future project. If not, then thank you once again for reading my silly space fic, and I wish you the best! There is going to be another chapter, but it wont contain any story-- its just going to be a QnA summing up a bunch of the loose plot threads that I didn't get the chance to wrap up in the main story. Stick around for some behind-the-scenes stuff, if you want?

 

In the meantime, good luck to all of you out there. I hope you find some place, or someone(s), that make you feel like you belong. Though, hopefully, you wont have to travel across the whole galaxy first. I love you all to Neptune and back <3

 

-Matches

Chapter 28: QnA!

Notes:

There was originally going to be a series of sequel/prequel one shots to expand the lore and answer some of the questions I didn’t get to answering/wrap up loose plot threads I couldn’t fit in this fic. However, I’m not really in this fandom anymore, and won’t be writing them. As such, I’ve taken some of the more obvious plot threads + some of the most frequently asked questions I’ve gotten about this fic, and make you guys a quick QnA. I’ll be hanging out on Tumblr for a bit after this goes up, so feel free to stop by and ask follow-up questions if you want!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

QnA

 

Does Tommy ever see Clementine and Clara again? Does he ever go back to Earth in the future? 

 

The short answer? No. He doesn’t.

The long answer? After the end of the fic, Tommy joins the crew of the Argo II as a permanent member. Once he reaches his late teens/early twenties, he’s sworn in as the official ambassador of Earth. However, it will be many years until the Esempii galaxy makes official contact with Earth/vice versa, so the position is mostly symbolic. While Tommy does return to Earth many years later as an adult to show everyone around, when he does visit the old gas station, it’s been torn down. 

(Clementine + Clara leave town and move somewhere on the west coast. They get married and live happily ever after <3)

 

Why this ending?  

 

FHTN has always been centered around the concept of change. Two of the largest themes of the fic being, “You are always changing. The goals that you have + the things that you need/want out of life are going to change as well. You might reach a goal only to find you don’t want it anymore, and that’s okay.” As well as, “you are not the same person that you once were. Even if you could go home again, it will never be the same as it was. You can never go back, and that’s okay, too.” 

I wanted Tommy’s decision between going back to Earth and staying in space to be a one that has weight and consequences. This is why I have Sam swoop in at the end, bringing him a ship he can use to get home even though the Pandora was destroyed, to offer him that choice, and have it be one that he makes on his own terms. Tommy being able to stay with his space family and being able to go visit his Earth family gets rid of those consequences. I also feel like it muddles the message a bit, too? 

 

What happens next with (insert other character here)? 

 

Use your imagination ✨✨

Okay but seriously: Eret becomes the new Governor of Viona, and works closely with Sam, Puffy, and Ponk to make the galaxy a safer place and to provide closure to the families of victims. Punz, the bounty hunter, receives a generous amount of cash to track down anyone that was revealed to have been working for Dream/Boris and were involved in the trafficking ring. Jack and Niki explore the Galaxy together. The Council rebuilds— with some changes, putting more power in the hands of individual governments with more checks and balances to ensure that something like this never happens again. Brusieus and her wife live happily ever after. Quackity + Wilbur + L’Manburg gang reconnect, and are on better terms than they were before. 

As for the main crew? They go on adventures, explore the galaxy, and continue to get into all sorts of stupid shenanigans. 

 

Did Clementine and Clara actually care about Tommy, or was Tommy just an Unreliable Narrator? 

 

It’s both. Tommy summed it up pretty well, they viewed him as the “weird neighbor kid they babysat sometimes.” They did care about him, and they were upset when he went missing, but he was definitely more attached to them than they were to him. It just took him a while to realize that. Hindsight is 20/20, and all that. 

Tommy is definitely an unreliable narrator, though. Throughout pretty much the whole fic. FHTN is very much less "character goes through something traumatic and then heals" and is much more "character goes through something traumatic, attempts to repress it for like 250,000 words, and then finally admits that he maybe might actually need therapy/help. maybe." Do not be like Tommy! 

 

What’s Purpled’s whole… deal?

 

This was one of those things that was intended to be explained via its own oneshot, but as it is, I’ll give you guys the cliff notes version:

Purpled is half-Alien, half-Human, the result of a (CONSENSUAL) relationship between a human and a researcher aboard the Pandora . The researcher was eventually able to rescue the human, allowing them to escape the next time Dream visited Earth to kidnap more humans, but only realized she was pregnant afterwards. In fear of anyone finding out about his heritage, she hid him on Netheria, giving him to a sounder of Piglins. This ended up not turning out too well, as the sounder is soon murdered. Growing up alone on the streets of Netheria, Purpled eventually becomes indebted to Schlatt, resulting in the scene we get in FHTN where he is almost kidnapped. Tommy intervenes, of course, and in return, purpled helps him escape. Now, free of his debts, Purpled sneaks aboard a ship leaving Netheria and ends up on Nevodis. Intrigued by Quackity’s human-themed Casino, he gets himself a job, hoping that Quackity might be able to help him find a way to Earth so he can seek out his human parent. It actually ends up working, albeit in a roundabout sort of way. 

 

How did Ranboo end up on Netheria?

 

Ranboo was kidnapped by some aliens leaving Netheria, with the intention of trading them over to repay the debt they owe to Schlatt. This was pretty common prior to the downfall of the fighting rings. They got what they deserved, in the end. 

 

How did Techno and Phil meet? 

 

Once again, this was supposed to be a one-shot, but here’s the cliff-notes version:

Phil crash landed on Netheria when Techno was an older-teen/young adult. Techno basically saved his life by dragging him out of the crash, and helped him to recover enough to get a ride off-planet. Years later, after Schlatt’s rise to power and the popularization of the fighting rings, Phil returns to Netheria. Techno at this point is involved in the fighting rings. Phil recognizes him, and repays the debt he owes Techno for saving his life by saving him from the Pit. He intends to just drop him off at the next safe planet but… well, we all know how that goes. 

 

What’s the deal with Kristin? Is she alive?

 

Yes, the mysterious character we see in the very end is Kristin. Surprise! She’s alive! She’s been on Earth the whole time! How did she get there? Wouldn’t you like to know! 

I originally wanted to write a follow up one-shot of her and purpled embarking on their own road-trip around the American Midwest, attempting to find a way for her to contact Phil and let him know that she’s still alive. Sort of like a reverse-FHTN. Instead of a road-trip across the Galaxy to return to Earth, it’s a literal road-trip across the US to find a way to return Kristin back to space. She does manage to get into contact with Phil, though. They start doing video chats and writing sappy letters back and forth— it’s very sweet. 

 

How did Quackity get his scar?

 

The first time Technoblade and Quackity met ended in a bar fight on Netheria. This was before Techno and Wilbur became friends, but after he had become friends with Phil. Quackity had still been with Schlatt. They both said some things they probably shouldn’t have, Quackity, being himself, took things just a bit too far and ended up getting his shit rocked. 

So what species is Ranboo? 

well you see, they’re actually 

 

How did you come up with the planet names?

 

Most of them are word play! Netheria, Aether, and Enderion are all plays on Minecraft dimensions. (Nether, the Aether mod, the End) Nevodis is a combination of Los Nevadas + Vegas. Viona is a play on Vienna, and is meant to be a reference to the song Since I Saw Vienna by someone who is now dead to me. T’Aria is a play on Terraria, like the game.  Bezzar is the laziest, it’s just a play on the word Bizarre.

 Lestea has the most convoluted origin, I wanted to include the word “tea” in it somewhere, since I first wrote the moon’s description down in my notes as “trade moon from oneshot— where everyone in the galaxy goes to get the good gossip. spill the tea, sis.” 

 

Do you have any advice when it comes to world-building?

 

ORGANIZE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! Write things down! Take notes about the things you mention, even in passing! It might be important later! Learn from my mistakes please 

 

Do you have any advice for when it comes to planning out / finishing longfics? How did you manage to stay motivated for three whole years?

 

For the first few chapters, I wrote purely because I really enjoyed writing, and the characters, and the aesthetic, and the universe I had made. Chapters 8 and onwards were the result of pure stubbornness and spite. 

Okay but seriously— Pace yourself. Don’t burn yourself out trying to churn out chapters one after another. Don’t worry about how long writing will take, the time will pass anyways. Just have fun! Making a playlist definitely helped me get into the mood, too. 

 

What’s the whole… furby thing about? You mention furbies suspiciously often over the course of this fic? 

 

Rule number one about the Secret Tumblr Furby Cult is that we do not talk about the Secret Tumblr Furby Cult— 

 

Do you have a favorite / least favorite chapter?

 

I had the most fun writing Flesh and Bone (all parts), Dustland Fairytale, and This Is Your Life (part II). 

The one that I am the most proud of looking back on is probably either Neon Tiger or This Is Your Life (I), though the latter kicked my ass while I was writing it. 

Least favorite is probably either the first few chapters (god, my writing was ROUGH in the start), or… Exitlude. I think that you can definitely tell that I’d fallen out of love with the story by the end, but I did my best to give you all a satisfying ending instead of just abandoning it. Hopefully you all still enjoyed it? 

 

Did you plan out everything from the start? How different is the final fic from your original outline? 

 

I do outline every chapter beforehand, but not really in too much detail— just jotting down all of the most important scenes, or things that I know have to happen. I work the particulars out later, and things tend to change a lot once I get around to actually writing the chapter. Some chapters (basically every chapter where we see a new planet) we’re planned from the start. Others, (Neon Tiger, Deadlines and Commitments, etc) were added later on, or ended up having to be split into way more parts than I initially thought (cough cough THE WHOLE FUCKING ENDING cough cough cough).

To give you an idea of how much this fic has changed, when I first began writing it, I was planning on making it 12 chapters, and thought that it would be done by the end of Summer, 2021. So. Yeah.

 

Do you have a favorite planet? 

 

Aether <3

 

Who’s your favorite character? 

 

Tommy, obviously. I feel like that’s a given. I also fell more in love with Tubbo the more I wrote him, he’s unhinged as all-hell. My boys <3

Outside of the main cast— it’s Brusieus. I feel like that’s also kind of obvious, I do favor her quite a bit lmao. I have a weakness for buff women okay, I am but a humble lesbian leave me alone

(Speaking of Brusieus, I wanted to talk about her and her wife for a little bit. The names Brusieus and Atlanta come from Greek mythology— the former a misspelling of Briseis, a character from the Iliad and the latter, who was a badass huntress raised by bears. Her title is One Who Weaves. It was originally One Who Mends, as is, one who mends fabric/a seamstress, but it didn’t really make sense in the context of the story/within Piglin naming conventions. 

But like. Guys. Brusieus’s title is One Who Ends. Her wife is Atlanta, One Who Weaves. What’s another name for someone who weaves? A seamstress. What do seamstresses do? They create and/or mend fabric. One Who Ends is married to One Who Mends . Both literally, like weaving or sewing, and metaphorically. Because they’re both working to rebuild, or mend, Netheria. By weaving things back together. GOD I love lesbians)

 

Where do you get your inspiration from / what inspired you to write this fic?

 

The Killers songs, my 2018 Voltron phase, Star Trek, and other space-fics that I’ve read before. I definitely wanted to go the more cheesy, bad-80’s-sci-fi-movie route, though. 

 

Is there anything that you regret about this fic / would change, if you could? 

OH DO I! Here is my list, in no particular order: 

—I would go much more ham on the alien aspect. I played it pretty safe so I could focus more on the characters and environments, but I wish I played it up more. The translators were a little bit of a cop-out tbh 

—I would have spent more time exploring the planets we don’t see very much of or spent much time on, like Lestea, Netheria, Viona, and Enderion

—Put more care/thought into developing some of the supporting cast. A few background characters ended up getting more lore/attention/backstory (Quackity, Brusieus, etc) than some of the main cast. Ranboo and Techno especially could have used some more love. I planned on writing some one-shot prequels to expand on them some more but… yeah. </3

—Include alien lore!!! I wrote so much that ended up never getting used, or only mentioned in passing. Lots and lots of festivals and other tidbits I never ended up using—Which ended up biting me in the ass later, when the plot ended up hinging on some of these details.

(For example: Why was Boris working with Dream? Well. 

Most planets in the galaxy have a primary export, with the smaller trade moons like Lestea and Bezzar existing as, well. Trade moons. Places for trade to occur and different cultures to mix together rather than places with a set culture of their own. (Or, in Bezzar’s case, creating their own culture that's a mix of others, resulting in something pretty unique) T’Aria is agriculture, Netheria leatherworks/jewelry, Nevodis is technology/entertainment, Viona used to manufacture all sorts of things in its factories, but now a days, most manufacturing of common goods and spacecrafts has been moved to Enderion. Viona now specializes in manufacturing potions, and other medicinal needs. 

Now, if you were perhaps, running an inter-galactic traffic ring with unknown species, wouldn’t it help to have some of the galaxy’s best doctors on board?)

—Seriously like. I have spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about how a galaxy-wide economy would work. 

 

What now?

 

FHTN is over. I currently do not have any plans to continue this series. I’ve learned so much, and come so far, but I think it’s time for me to move on to something else. 

I do have some other half-finished DSMP fics in my drafts that never saw the light of day. I won’t say that I’m completely 100% done with this fandom forever, I might return later on down the line to clean up those WIP’s and post them when I’m feeling more nostalgic, but I’m definitely taking a bit of a step back for now. Currently, I’m juggling a handful of other WIP’s, for various other fandoms. There’s a few Batfam works I’m messing around with, as well as a Danger Days series I’ve already started working on! If you like my writing and want to support me further, consider checking those out. 

 



Notes:

So long, and goodnight-- for real this time.

 

-Matches

Notes:

Can you guys believe i used to update every thursday? wild.

 

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