Leftover rainclouds lurked over the countryside, unsure whether to call another shower upon it, or leave it be. By dusk, it'd make its decision.

Tommy slugged down Prime Path feeling like he'd spent the night wallowing in a sewer. He'd barely made it to the L'Manberg Embassy past midnight, where he'd plopped into bed without so much as drying off after his dip in the river. Save for a bizarre dream about Tubbo being a sheep, not a wink of sleep found him in his bed.

"How you feelin,' Tommy, how you feelin'?!" Out of nowhere popped Tubbo, who was very much not a sheep. "Ready to win this? Feeling good, my man? Feelin' real good?"

"Honestly, Toob, I'm feeling ready to puke," Tommy gagged.

By contrast, Tubbo readied to soar to the moon. He zigzagged in every direction until Tommy was certain he'd lose the carrot he'd had for breakfast. "Is it gonna be close?" Tubbo flurried. "You think it's gonna be a landslide? A real cakewalk? Tell me how you feel!"

Tommy blinked, Tubbo no more than a blur before his bleary eyes. "You're awfully peppy; whatever did you do to yourself?"

"I drank four cups of tea, ran nine laps around L'Manberg's walls–you know, for good luck–and ate the last dozen of the sweet rolls I got from the bakery because they were supposed to go bad yesterday. No way is Secretary of State Tubbo going to slack off." He wall-jumped off a slab of rock and punched the air furiously.

"Tubbo, you need to whack it down a couple of notches, all right?" Tommy grabbed the fiddle-footed boy by the shoulders, and when that still didn't do it, gave him a benign slap on his round little cheek. "Listen, Tubbo! This might be my last walk as vice president and your last walk as secretary of state. Take that in, my friend! Digest that like a piece of chewing gum!" Tommy shook him vigorously. "You can't swallow it!"

Tubbo, finally stabilized, stared back at him, eyes round as vinyl record discs.

A sigh seeped from Tommy. "I don't know. No matter who wins, I just want a good night's sleep in my bed tonight."

"In your bed?" Tubbo perked his eyebrows. "Why not the White House?" He slipped out from Tommy's hands, spinning under the arching tunnel which opened onto the trestle bridge and their country. Political fliers lined the walls. "Maybe the others are offering free biscuits, free entry, free...whatever it is Mr. Schlatt is offering...But you and Wilbur are offering something far greater than free stuff, Tommy. Something they can fight for. Something they have fought for."

Our pogchamp comra'ery.

So bright. So optimistic. It caught onto Tommy until he felt his determination renewing. He followed Tubbo through the tunnel and onto the bridge. "You're right, Tubbs. We got this."

"Now you've got it! Hope for the best, plan for the worst! That's a pretty good saying."

"Aye, 'ope for the best, plan for the–" Wait. "Tubbo, are you telling me you've planned for the worst?"

"I'm saying, if stuff goes south, Tommy, I've got something I'd like to show you." Now within the walls of L'Manberg, Tubbo led Tommy down to the pond at the base of the western wall, just behind the Camarvan. He stopped at the bank, water licking his little shoes. "You see this?"

"No."

Tubbo proceeded to remove his coat, boots, and hat, hanging the latter of these upon the caravan's side mirror. "Follow me!" he cried, and the last thing Tommy saw were Tubbo's bare toes as he pitched head-first into the water. A milky swirl of foam traced his final whereabouts.

"What the–Toob!" Gone. Plumb gone. Tommy wasted no time plunging after him, coat, boots, and all. Still no Tubbo down here, but he made out a crevice in the algae-riddled walls, just big enough for him to squeeze through.

If he wasn't fully awake before, things had changed by now. He wriggled through soft, broken stone, paddling upward once he made it through the crevice. Then he burst through the surface, his heavy breathing replaying in his own ears as it echoed off wall after wall. He had expected to find himself in the wooded area east of L'Manberg, but no. He floated in a little green pool within a tight, underground chamber illuminated by dithering lanterns dangling from the ceiling.

And there was little barefoot Tubbo, perched on dry ground, hugging his knees. "I've planned for the worst, Tommy!"

"Wot...?" Tommy hauled himself out of the pool, Tubbo giving him a hand. Boots brimming with water, Tommy wandered down the back of the chamber, into a yawning passageway. It continued as far as Tommy could see, breaking off into chambers along its spine. As they passed each one, Tommy noted how some were barely recesses of hewn rock and wooden supports, while others were complete and sometimes furnished. "When did you 'ave time to make this, Tubbo?" he wheezed, doubting the credibility of his groggy eyes.

"I don't sleep," came Tubbo's voice from somewhere behind him.

"Okay, okay, but really? What is all this?"

"I think some of it used to be, like, a mine shaft. But, you see, I was thinking, if stuff goes bad–even if we win and there's like, riots, we need a safe place. What do other presidents have when they're about to die?"

Of course. "The bunker."

"The bunker!" Tubbo echoed. "So I consider this the bunker. Oh yeah, this is where I'm going to build the great library." He showed Tommy an otherwise nondescript room lined with empty oak shelves and another that would make a fine banquet room in the future. One chamber contained a series of chests. "I've stocked up supplies over here."

A click of a latch, and the first chest opened before Tommy, revealing a plethora of invisibility potions. "I gathered all the potions we've made in the past couple weeks," Tubbo explained. "Just in case."

"It won't 'urt to be prepared in the case of someone getting a little rowdy," Tommy agreed, fingering the exotic concoctions. "Not to mention Wilbur doesn't like to fight." He strapped a potion onto his belt, well within easy reach. Tubbo also grabbed one. "Do you 'ave any ender pearls?"

Tubbo shook his head. "Not sure how to get one, other than killing an enderman. And I rather like endermen."

"I got a pearl at me 'ouse, but I don't think we 'ave time to get it."

After surveying the plans for the underground swimming pool, Tubbo escorted Tommy through the exit–a makeshift trapdoor–just beyond the eastern walls, at the foot of Eret's tower.

"Now you don't have to roll around in the sewers anymore," Tubbo chirped, and Tommy squinched at the thought of it. "If we're lucky, we won't have to use this bunker at all."

"I wish we didn't need luck," mumbled Tommy, staring into the wind, the hills, the wilderness–so hauntingly far away, surely not even Dream could claim them as his own. "Walk with me, Tubbo," he breathed, tearing his gaze from the terrain. They crossed back through L'Manberg to the gatehouse, finding a ramshackle ladder spanning the height of the great walls. "Now you remember," Tommy said, climbing first, "we've been doing this since the very beginning, since the war with Dream."

"Oh yes," said Tubbo behind him. "The Disc War, and then we followed Wilbur and he started L'Manberg. From the beginning, it's been you and me. We've had our quarrels, but overall it's been a heck of a fun time, Tommy."

Tommy reached the top, the top of the walls, the top of everything. As he raised his head, a bluster of wind rippled his untamable hair. The first gust of autumn, bringing with it something new, something unknown. It filled Tommy with a rush of excitement, but whether it was good or bad, he did not know.

"This might be it for us," he said. The two of them ambled upon the walls, gazing at everything. "This is what we built. And it might all be gone tonight. You know Big Q's talked about taking down these walls that declare our independence."

"This is going to be tragic!" Tubbo swooned. "We have to win!"

"Just remember, no matter what 'appens, it's me and you, big man."

They stayed there a moment, soaking it all in. Their walls along with Tommy's graffiti mural, their Camarvan, their kitchen, their knackered president staggering by.

"Yo, Wilbur!" Tubbo waved down at him.

Wilbur looked around, right and left, down and under, everywhere but up.

"Up 'ere!" yelled Tommy. "Join us up 'ere!"

Wilbur finally squinted up at them, though Tommy doubted how much he could actually see, since he didn't have his spectacles on. Or how he could stand. The way he swayed brought to mind images of Schlatt from the other day.

"On second thought, let's go down to 'im," decided Tommy, suddenly worried.

Half-climbing, half-falling down the ladder, they met Wilbur at ground level. He looked even worse from here, what with his lurid complexion and deadened eyes. Even the noonday sun failed to brighten his hair into that rich shade of caramel Tommy knew so well. In this bright and beautiful world, Wilbur leveled at half saturation.

"Tubbo," he groaned, sounding more like a disabled gramophone than a living person, "feed your president. I'm hungry."

Tubbo stopped plucking splinters from his bare feet and reached for his knapsack. "Sure. Here you are, Will."

"Yes, yes, yes." Wilbur took the biscuits Tubbo passed him one by one, downing each of them instantly with a voracity Tommy had never seen before.

"You look as if you've 'ad a worse night than I 'ad," mused Tommy. "I trust you got at least a few Z's."

"Not when I had a couple hundred thousand votes to count," Wilbur grumbled, biscuit crumbs tumbling out of his mouth.

"Wait–you didn't–"

"Of course not. Karl and Sam helped out. There's still more coming, but we got the main batch done."

Tommy couldn't help but ask. "So...who won?"

Wilbur swallowed the last biscuit rather painfully, but already looked fifty times better. "Tommy, you're going to have to wait with everyone–"

"But you know who it is, right?"

Wilbur's eyes flashed. He had an insufferable poker face.

"Augh, fine!" Tommy whipped in the direction of the plaza. If he had to wait with everyone else, then so be it. "Let's go do politics, boys! I want to know who it is."

They marched out the gates, rounding the walls until the plaza materialized, newly paved in cobblestone. Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo–the leaders of this mighty nation. The upholders of all that was good. The founders. The–"Wot's up with you, Will?!"

Behind the other two, Wilbur lingered in the shade of the walls, clutching his stomach. "Tommy," he creaked. "I've never felt this before. I feel...I think I'm getting stage fright."

"So am I!" Get an 'old of yourself, Will. Tommy took his arm. "C'mon, President Soot. You're supposed to be the one 'olding all of us up. Look, we're the first ones–nope, everyone's already 'ere." Tommy laughed heartily, giving Wilbur a firm nudge. "And we're the last to arrive. 'Ello, everyone!"

On the podium, Fundy and Niki waved, so Tommy waved back, then realized they weren't waving to him. The two looked down from their place on the right side of the stage, tossing paper bags into the audience. One hit Tubbo on the head, spilling a toasted biscuit onto the cobblestone. That's one way to make yourself the fan favorite. Throw free goodies in their faces.

The rest of the podium assembly consisted of J. Schlatt, standing importantly in the center, and Quackity very close beside him. And there was George, who'd finally decided to exist. Wilbur got himself together enough to join their ranks. First order of business: test the microphones. "Good afternoon, L'Manberg," the speakers boomed, intensifying the bass in Wilbur's voice.

"Tubbo!" Tommy hissed to his friend. "Salute, Tubbo! Sir, yes sir!"

"Yes, of course!" Tubbo furiously saluted as Tommy took his place onstage with the others, bursting with ridiculous excitement. The wooden platform still looked rather munched from yesterday, but so long as they watched their footing, they wouldn't fall through the floor.

"Yeah, good afternoon! How's everyone doing?" Quackity grinned at them. "It's a big day!" He looked weirder than usual, never seen wearing a formal suit before. Actually, never seen in anything but that navy tracksuit. And Tommy certainly had never seen him in enormous sunglasses that obscured half his face.

"It is a big day," Tommy admitted. "I see that George Not Found 'as been found." He looked at the fine British gentlemen, stately as ever despite his performance yesterday. " 'E's done not showing up and blowing up the nation to pop in at inauguration." Tommy clapped slowly. "That's good, very repu'able of you, my good man."

But before George could speak, Tommy bounced up to him, close enough to fog his big, round goggles. "So, Gogy, 'ow does it feel that you missed out on the biggest day of your life?"

George withdrew from Tommy's face, one hand twitching toward the longbow slung over his shoulder. "It's not my fault," he snorted. "No one told me when the rally was. I was asleep!"

" 'E claims innocence, Big Q! 'E was too busy sleeping to win the election!" It was Quackity's turn to get a face-full of Tommy. Then a thought struck the child, and he returned to George. "Wait–if you were asleep–the voting was in the Communi'y House! It was deaf as a roomful of buzzing smartphones in there! 'Ow did you not 'ear it?"

George's mouth remained sealed, and Quackity only laughed. Tommy came at the duck-boy again, tenaciously trying to read his expression. "Take off your glasses, Big Q, I want to look you in the eyes."

Quackity grinned ear-to-ear, not complying nor saying a word. He didn't even glance at George, his running mate, but edged closer to J. Schlatt.

Wilbur nodded to the older man. "Hello, Mr. Schlatt. I didn't know you were serious about this. You seem a lot, uh, healthier than you were the day before."

"I'm feeling good," said J. Schlatt, voice as sharp as his dark eyes. It was like he was a whole different person than yesterday. His suit was smooth and orderly with only a hint of the stain from the other day; his hair was combed back, just a couple stray hairs falling between his eyes. Maybe the word 'hangover' didn't exist in his dictionary.

"Well, I'm feeling bet'er!" Tommy retorted. "Bet'er that all you folk showed up to witness our clean sweep!"

"It'll be a clean sweep all right," Schlatt smirked. "And you're the dustbin."

"Wrong." Tommy's face darkened. "I'm the compactor."

Tommy knew this was a real crusher, but either no one was smart enough to comprehend his ingenious metaphors, or that was the only option. But he had gotten the last word in a discussion with Schlatt, so that was all that mattered.

Fundy stalked forward, fixed on Wilbur. "I am here...ready...to hear the results."

"Fundy, my loyal subject, you still insist on running against me?" Wilbur's last try to sway Fundy back to the upright path. "And Niki..."

"Hello," she whispered, a dozen paper bags of mouth-watering goodness in her hands. This was her moment. Her time to make it all right and run into his arms, casting aside her foolish ways. But she didn't, and held tight to the goodies. It was like a bad love story.

Wilbur wanted to say something, but a voice cut in first. It came from Sam, stationed just behind the stage. "The broadcast is running, just so you all know."

Wilbur pinned his lips together, surely mustering all he had to turn away from Niki. Then he talked, as if trying to fill the void, "The audience isn't very large today." Actually, it was an exact replica of yesterday's attendees. Still and all, not very large seeing how there weren't even twice as many people in the plaza as there were on the podium. Tommy wondered how many of them were here for the momentous occasion, and how many just wanted free food. A few of them looked like they wanted to draw their weapons and kill everyone present.

"How much time until the voting closes?" peeped Tubbo.

Wilbur looked at his watch. "Um, two minutes."

At those words, the dais blew up in a frenzy for the microphones as the parties drilled their final promos.

"POG, POG, POG 2020!"

"This is what swag looks like!"

"We'll deliver goodies to your front door!"

"Vote Schlatt 2020, idiots!"

Tommy claimed the left microphone, screeching so close to it, he bit it once or twice: "Vote Wilbur 2020 if you 'ave any decency left in your souls!" When Quackity tried to seize it from him, he swung it around right into the scoundrel's nose. Quackity toppled backwards against George, who tripped on a broken plank and stumbled through the curtains offstage, right into Sam–and then the whole lot of them fell like dominoes, finishing with the radio tower. That would've been the end of it had it not landed on a soft cushion of Tubbo who happened to be passing by for unknown reasons.

"VOTING'S CLOSED!" was the last thing the world heard before the speakers popped. Good thing too, because they continued yelling even after the announcement. Wilbur had to bop Tommy, Fundy, and Quackity on the heads before they finally shut up.

"All right, the ballot's closed now," Wilbur repeated off-mic, but he didn't really need amplification. "Any further submissions will not be counted. Our men are counting the remaining votes as we speak, and in just about a half hour we shall announce the results."

"So...nibbles?" beamed Tommy.

"Yes. I mean, no. Any foods prepared in the kitchen will be saved for the post-nomination banquet, so take that pudding out of your gob, Sapnap."

"Sorry."

"Psst, Wilbur. Talk with me in the back." Quackity poked the president's shoulder, trying to be stealthy on a raised platform overlooking a dozen pairs of idle eyes.

"What?" Wilbur glanced at him, then hurriedly gestured back at the masses. "Free time, everyone! Go and play musical chairs or something." Then he and Quackity hid themselves inside the Off-White House for a private discussion. Tommy tried to follow them, but someone snagged the back of his coat collar, making him stop short.

"Who do you think you–" Tommy swiveled around, finding himself face-to-face with J. Schlatt.

"You don't wanna go over there, boy."

Tommy snorted, no longer in awe of the "sea captain." "Why? Because you're going to go full madman, chasing and laying siege to us again?'' He quickly scanned Schlatt, ensuring he wasn't armed. "Wot I want to know is why you're still 'olding onto your juiced ramble about running for president. You just got 'ere, made a brilliant scene of yourself yesterday, and you actually think you 'ave a chance of winning?"

"I don't?" Schlatt puckered his lips in a pout.

"Of–of course not. We ditched our 'ome to get away from, from grown-ups like you who want to tell us wot to do. I'll never see you voted in."

Schlatt ran his hand down through his hair until he fingered one of his twisted, gunmetal-gray horns. The gesture made Tommy's gut squirm. "Exactly why you don't want to go over there," he repeated, leaving Tommy to himself.

Nothing else happened, except Karl careening through the plaza on horseback. He swung in front of the Off-White House, hopped off his appaloosa, and stole through the front door with an envelope in one hand. Tommy played with the idea of kidnapping the fellow and interrogating him on everything he'd seen and heard, but scratched it. So he ambled about the stage, wrapping himself in the curtains or sticking his head through the shattered floorboards. In his snooping, he stumbled upon a shortbow and quiver tucked backstage. He shrugged, and left to see about bothering George.

Wilbur and Quackity returned before the boredom (and hunger) reached critical levels. Tommy couldn't tell if Quackity was smiling or grimacing. Meanwhile Wilbur looked drear enough to attend a funeral. He looked disappointed. Or maybe angry? His right hand clasped a sheet of paper until it crackled.

"We will now be resuming," Wilbur said stoically into the mic which now decided to work. "Let me make it clear that tonight is the inauguration. We're not just deciding who wins tonight; we are also inaugurating the winner. Then he will come up to the center and the rest of us will take our seats in the audience as he makes his first decree. My fellow L'Manbergians–and by that, I mean Tubbo–"

"Woo! Wilbur! That's my president!" Tubbo's cheers fluttered up from the plaza. He appeared to have recovered marvelously from his recent squishing.

"Thank you for coming here today to watch a historic moment–the passing over of the presidency for the first election of L'Manberg. I have in my possession, the election results of the four parties: SWAG 2020, POG 2020, Coconut 2020–"

"YEAH!" Everyone looked at Fundy. He sheepishly pulled his hat over his face.

"–and Schlatt 2020. Now, the turnout of this election was two hundred twenty thousand votes."

Everyone heard wrong, or so they thought. I didn't know this place was so popula'ed.

"But there's barely more than a dozen people in the crowd," came a very perplexed Quackity. "What happened?"

"What happened is canny advertising. And voter fraud."

"No way," gasped Fundy.

"Yes," said Wilbur. "Somebody thought they could get away with dumping unanimous votes for their party all at once, but it doesn't take a bright bulb to see that fakery. I was able to coalesce it all, minusing the spam votes, so we'll only be counting legitimate votes."

"I hope the scoundrel's being sent to jail, too," clucked Quackity, and Tommy just about smacked his face.

"Big Q, have some ingenui'y, my friend! Any 'alf-wit would know it was you!"

" 'Half-wit' meaning...you?"

"Your glasses make me wanna punch you!"

"Hold it," said Wilbur before Tommy could lay waste to Quackity's eyewear. "Do you want to know which party had votes spammed for them?"

Tommy started to blubber something about SWAG 2020, when Wilbur turned squarely on Fundy and Nihachu, but especially Fundy. The furry ears flattened into the fluffs of his hair. "I–I think we should continue with the votes," the fox-boy managed.

"Which votes?" Wilbur questioned. "The voters' or the scammer's?"

When Fundy failed to answer, Niki looked from him to Wilbur, her heartbeat louder than her whispers. "What is he saying? Is this true Fundy? Is this true?"

Fundy grabbed for words, but couldn't speak. Tommy had no idea what was going on. "Will," he said, "you don't seriously mean to say–"

"You know what?" Wilbur raised his hand as if to wave it off. "It doesn't matter. Everyone get back to your places. It doesn't–"

"Wait! Wait! It's not true, is it?!"

No one wanted to hear it, except maybe Quackity, but Wilbur had to say it anyway. "Coconut 2020 has had one hundred and twenty thousand disqualified votes."

A moment of silence for the impressive attempted heist. Everyone looked at one man–er–fox-man. Fundy backed to the edge of the stage. "I don't–listen, hey, George don't–don't reach for your bow like that, please. Not this day. I still have a chance to be president even with legitimate votes. Okay? Don't do this. Let's continue with the results."

"All right, then," and Wilbur was back on the mic. "Without further ado–"

"Wait, you can't just let them get away with it!" Tommy blurted, whole body aquiver for justice.

"I'm not. I'm omitting the fraudulent votes."

"Yeah, but this is serious! Don't you think their party should be–should be–"

"Disqualified?" Wilbur smiled, not bothering to glance at Fundy and Niki's mortified faces. "Maybe in a customary election." He almost looked like he didn't care anymore. He proceeded, unfolding the wilted paper in his spidery fingers. "As for the results." He took a deep breath, ending it short. "With nine percent of the vote, being, twenty thousand people or so, in fourth place–is Coconut 2020."

Despite the trickery, they received full applause. For their cause and efforts. It was a good run. Well, actually it wasn't, but still. The two stood side-by-side through it all, practically holding hands. They probably knew they never had a chance, not with their joining so late. Then why make the effort? Going so far as to make fools of themselves?

Tommy didn't know, but clapped all the same since they no longer posed a threat. "Good work, Fundy. Everyone is proud of you." Fundy's mouth tweaked in thanks.

"When you fraud your way into the election and still don't win," Quackity sniggered.

"Next up," said the president. "With sixteen percent of the vote, coming in third place," Wilbur glanced at Tommy, putting him into an awful fright at that moment, "is Schlatt 2020."

Tommy exhaled a sigh of relief. All that big talk about Dream and endorsing turned out to be just big talk. Things were turning out the way they should after all. Coconut 2020 and Schlatt 2020 trailed at the back of the pack where those pretenders belonged. It was the big boys' turn now. Schlatt didn't say a word, but waited almost patiently, hands folded behind his back. Nihachu, still on the stage with Fundy, watched Schlatt with narrowed eyes.

"That leaves two parties left, the two major front-runners," continued Wilbur, voice limping on. This was it. The face-off that started it all: POG 2020 versus SWAG 2020. Tommy looked at Quackity and popped his knuckles.

"Finally, in first place…"

It was the loudest silence Tommy never heard, as if Wilbur was trying to torture the lot of them. Tension welled up inside Tommy until he was certain he'd erupt right then and there and they'd have to mop his remains off the platform.

"...with forty-five percent of the popular vote, is…"

Please say POG 2020, please say POG 2020, please say POG 2020...!

"POG 2020."

Tommy erupted. He felt like bouncing off the sky, skipping on the inlet waters, and yelling in everyone's faces. But before he did so, he had to make sure it was real. "Do we do it, Will? Did we actually win?!" he spazzed.

"Tommy, we won, but listen–"

"Yes! We did it!" Tommy pranced upon the stage, oblivious to everything else. This was the moment. The victory his mind had played on repeat since there was ever such a thing as SWAG 2020. Right then, he felt like he could waltz up to Dream and pluck his beautiful disc right out of his hands.

"Listen!" Wilbur shouted above the ecstasy. "Listen, please!"

No listen. "Wilbur, Tubbo, we really did it! Break out the banquet! Let us toast to the president–President Soot!"

"Please stop celebrating!" Wilbur snatched Tommy, keeping him from taking flight and soaring off into the graying clouds.

But nothing could hold the child still. "Let's go!" he sang, and whirled Wilbur around with him.

"Tommy," Wilbur's voice weakened, "please, calm down."

Tommy grabbed his president's face, smushing his cheeks. "We did it, Wilbur!"

They slowed, and Wilbur removed Tommy's hands from him. He refused to share in the felicity, preferring a grave, almost depressed demeanor. He wouldn't even meet Tommy's eyes, but drifted back to the microphone. His voice came heavy-laden. "Last night, on the night of the election, after the announcement of Schlatt 2020 and Coconut 2020, Quackity made a deal with the leader of Schlatt 2020, Mr. J. Schlatt. He said that no matter what happened, Quackity would pool SWAG 2020 votes with Schlatt 2020 votes."

Tommy couldn't care less. "We're still the winners," he muttered. "Mr. Quack-pants can't do anything to change that."

"POG 2020 got forty-five percent of the popular vote," Wilbur read, "but the coalition government of SWAG and Schlatt 2020 got forty-six percent of the popular vote–"

Everything snapped in that moment.

"MEANING THAT TONIGHT–!" Wilbur boomed over the noise, over the silence, "ladies and gentlemen, on Tuesday the twenty-second of September 2020, Schlatt has been inaugurated as president of L'Manberg!"

Something like a scream roared in Tommy's ears. Insufferable cheering, protests, yelling. Wilbur raised his empty hands and stepped away, turning upon the new president. "By one percent of the vote, J. Schlatt has been elected. Mr. Schlatt, it was an honor competing against you. Please, step up to the microphone and deliver your inauguration speech."

Schlatt had not so much as twitched during the announcement, as if he'd expected it all along. Before he came forward, he passed a glance to his comrade beside him. Quackity never looked so thrilled, never sounded so terrified. "Do it...!" the duck-boy breathed.

Schlatt smiled, strolling up to the front of the stage–L'Manberg's very throne. The man who had been in the country barely a day or two, now owned it all.

"Will?" Tubbo ventured.

Wilbur, reduced to a herald at one of the side microphones, proclaimed for all to hear, "L'Manberg, may I present to you President J. Schlatt and Vice President Quackity!" The thunder roared in applause until the very skies cracked.

Tommy staggered back, choking on something dreadful. He didn't know if it was his stunted breath or pride that made him want to retch. Maybe it was this berserk freak show he found himself partaking in. This balancing act seesawing between tragedy and comedy, making something new and nightmarish.

Wilbur abandoned the spotlight to join the faceless masses below the broken stage.

"W-Wait, Wilbur–" Tommy stuttered, stumbling forward. "Wilbur, are you sure? By one percent Wilbur?! By–"

Wilbur's long bangs shadowed his eyes as he dragged down the podium steps. "One percent."

"Will...?"

"Tommy," came another voice. Tommy didn't turn. He wouldn't look the usurper in the eye. "Tommy," Schlatt repeated, an eerie silkiness weaving into his voice. "Get off my podium."

Tommy retreated against one of the supporting posts. "Are–are you sure, Wilbur? Surely this is just more foul play, right? Call them out, Will! Disqualify them!"

"There is no foul play." Tommy had never heard Wilbur sound so dead and monotone. "We're citizens tonight, Tommy. Just listen to Schlatt."

Tommy swallowed, and it felt like his heart dropped into his stomach. He was the clown of the carnival, thrown off-balance and laughed at in spite of it all.

"Off the stage, Tommy," came Quackity, slinking forward. "This isn't yours anymore." Tommy could do nothing but let the fiend send him falling off the edge. The sky fell beside him, down, down from its lofty summit into the pool at the bottom. The water stabbed him full of knives, so bitterly cold. He thrust them aside, scrambling to the bank on his shaking hands and knees. His skin prickled; water streamed down his cheeks into his mouth. Then he tore through the crowd, pushing them apart until he reached Wilbur's side at the very back of the plaza where there wasn't even a chair for them.

"Well." Schlatt gazed across the evening horizon, the land, the people, the power laid before him and smiled again. "That was pretty easy," he chuckled. "You know what I said the day I left the Dream SMP? The day they threw me out? I said, 'Things are gonna change!' " His eyes chilled. "I looked every citizen of L'Manberg in the eye and I said, 'You listen to me. This place will be a lot different tomorrow.' "

"What does that mean...?" whimpered Fundy, he and Niki reduced to spectators in the plaza as well.

"My first decree as the president of L'Manberg–"

Tommy clung to his president, his only true president. His president whose face never looked so distant.

"–the emperor–!" J. Schlatt thundered, eyes suddenly wide, almost crazed, "of a soon-to-be-great country–!"

"Tommy..." As Wilbur stared straight at the podium, he reached for Tommy beside him.

"–is to revoke–!"

"I want you to do me a favor..."

"–the citizenship–!" How Schlatt gripped the attention of everyone in the audience, whether he or she stood stunned, horrified, or enthralled. George backed into the shadows while Quackity, the dishonorable fool, groveled at Schlatt's feet. Tommy held his breath as the president, as the emperor, said the last words:

"–of Wilbur Soot and Tommy Innit!"

A thousand shouts and cries barraged Tommy's ears, a dozen faces turned upon him, but all he heard was Wilbur's whisper: "Run."

"After them!" Schlatt cried. "Fifty emeralds for each of their heads!"

Tommy turned and ran. Blades flashed. An arrow nearly struck his heel, causing him to trip. Wilbur caught him back up and the two sprinted side-by-side. When Tommy dared to glance behind at their pursuers, a blur of yellow and blue snatched his eye as Nihachu breezed onto the podium and tackled George, just as he released an ignited arrow. And suddenly Wilbur was no longer beside Tommy.

"Wilbur!" Tommy doubled back and there Wilbur was, on his knees, the arrow jutting from the back of his shoulder, fire flickering on his coat. Beyond his stooped figure burned a host of hungry eyes. Quackity whooped a ghastly war cry, he and George poised on the dais with bows. The rest of the mobs came running, coming for blood: Sapnap, Bad, Skeppy, Sam, Eret… It was like a horrible carnival game, with so many children striving to win the prize.

"You are no longer welcome here!" continued Schlatt's bellows.

"T-Tommy," Wilbur shuddered, raising his eyes to see the boy running back to him. "Leave me!" He roared like a wounded animal, lunging at Tommy with his nails. "Get out of here!"

Tommy clutched his cheek where Wilbur had scratched him. "I'm not leaving you 'ere to get slaugh'ered!" He reached over Wilbur's collapsed body to put out the last of the sparks. Then he forced the older man onto his feet, issuing an agonizing cry from his president.

"We're going to make it out, Wilbur! It's gonna be all right."

They limped for the eastern gate, passing countless POG 2020 and SWAG 2020 leaflets stuck on the walls. Just as their predators closed in, Tommy snapped the invisibility potion off his belt. He dodged one of Bad's throwing knives spinning by, then yanked the potion lid open with his teeth and misted the contents over the two of them. The familiar stench stung his nose. "Run, Will, run!" He couldn't see Wilbur now, but felt him dragging himself to Tommy's right, stifling his moans. Tommy found his hand, and the two of them swerved around the Camarvan, where Tubbo's hat still dangled.

The arrows lessened as everyone scurried about trying to locate the fugitives. But not a hawk could see them, thanks to the potion and the fading light. Except for the arrow shaft in Wilbur's shoulder that had escaped the misting. Far above, Punz sat like a sniper atop the wall and drew his crossbow.

Tommy and Wilbur collapsed at the farther pond's skirts. Just a short swim to Tubbo's bunker and they'd make it to safety. Tommy clutched Wilbur's hand as he prepared to dive, when–the second arrow met its mark.

Two splashes. Tommy's lungs heaved, his limbs thrust this way and that, trying to grab onto something in the crushing water. Not water. Blood. He was swimming in blood-water again, only he wasn't the one the arrow struck this time. Moments later, he located the murky apparition that could only be Wilbur, invisibility washing away. Tommy grabbed some part of him (probably his hair), keeping him from drifting back to the surface. Now where was the crevice that led to the bunker? Eyes clouded, Tommy scoured the base of the wall with his hands. We should 'ave gone for the horses instead. Maybe there's still time. No, there wasn't. Wilbur was bleeding to death from two arrow wounds, and both he and Tommy could have no more than a minute left underwater. Breaking the surface meant certain death. Tommy could hear them cackling out there–drawn to the blood, waiting for their prey to come up for air. And Emperor Schlatt laughing, just laughing at it all, stopping only to say, "Ah, it was so easy."

Through it all, Tommy found himself rattling off the words he'd learned as a young–a very young–child. Words he'd almost forgotten since Tubbo had left off saying them every night…

Dear Almigh'y Father, strong

May Yours be war and battle won.

Forgive us now of all our wrong

That we may see You when all's done.

When's all done. This may very well be it. As his lungs wracked for air, he never felt so close to death since the first war. They'd fought so hard for this land, and to what end? To hand it over to a lot of reprobates that would have them cast out and drowned?

Then his hand went through the wall. As soon as he felt it, Tommy shoved Wilbur toward the crack. Head swarming, Tommy managed to get him through, following close behind. Then at last they broke the surface. As much as Tommy needed to stop and collect his breath, they had to keep moving.

After confirming Wilbur was still alive, Tommy took him up and they limped through the tunnel. Tommy only realized it now, how incredibly light Wilbur was. Nothing due to malnutrition (Fundy saw to that), his natural slenderness, or even blood loss–no, this was something else. Something–almost inhuman. But no time to dwell upon it now.

Tommy stopped every now and then to pull out the shelves and furnishings–anything he could use to barricade the passage behind them and assist their escape. He plundered the chests. Suddenly everything was valuable. He snagged a flask of water, an empty bucket, and a corduroy trench coat. He left the rest of the invisibility potions as to not overburden himself; minutes later he wondered if he had made the right decision.

Even from these secluded corridors, he could hear Schlatt's voice sounding through the speakers, resonating deep into the catacombs. "Until further notice, Wilbur Soot and Tommy Innit are merely a memory of L'Manberg."

No. No. This wasn't happening.

"A relic of the past."

Tommy tasted blood.

"A reminder...of the darkest era this country has ever seen. And I guarantee you all, dear citizens. Tonight, that changes."

Tommy restrained his sobs. How could it be that not a half hour ago he himself had stood upon that stage and owned it all? Keep going. One foot in front of the other...

"We are entering into a new period of L'Manberg. A period of prosperity! Of strength! Of unity!"

"Tommy, please, I can't–" Wilbur fell, bringing Tommy down with him. They collapsed, two outcasts alone in the teeming darkness.

"They're not chasing us anymore," Wilbur rasped. "Let's just stop and–and take a moment."

Tommy started to protest, when he looked behind them and saw the trail of red laced into the bedrock. He was right. If they went on much longer, Wilbur just might not make it.

George said this was a deathless land. Wot 'appened to that?

"You're okay, right, Will?" The invisibility all but cleansed, Tommy could see his broken leader. He slouched against the wall, eyes closed, proud revolutionist coat torn, bloodied, and scorched. The arrow shaft no longer protruded from his left shoulder; it must've broken off through the crevice. In a bizarre stroke of luck, the fire had sealed the wound, taming the bleeding. As for the second injury, Tommy couldn't find the arrow, just a couple of punctures through his abdomen. Tommy hurried to rinse the wound and tie off the bleeding with scraps from his own shirt. "You're gonna be okay, okay, Will?" Red soaked through white, filling with water and blood until everything proved useless. "I-I'm going to take care of you."

"Why did you bring Schlatt back...?" Wilbur muttered, so soft Tommy barely heard him. "Why did you bring an American–"

"You approved of 'im as our endorsement!" said Tommy defensively. "Wilbur, you're the one that called the election, don't you forget that. You didn't 'ave to. We could've just kept things the way they were."

"I called the election to consolidate power. Quackity's the one we–"

"Will, you brought it upon yourself! You called this election to try and show your own power, and now look at us!" Tommy stood up and threw the bloodied shreds of fabric to the ground, puffing with fury.

Wilbur didn't reply.

Tommy caught himself. "I'm sorry. We don't–we can't turn on each other, Wilbur. We've lost Fundy, we've lost everyone, your–Ni'achu...everyone."

" 'My Nihachu'?" A smile curled on Wilbur's colorless lips.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay, Wilbur. We're going to make it out of 'ere, alive. Alive," Tommy repeated, trying to convince himself. He draped the trench coat around Wilbur's shoulders.

Wilbur couldn't die. Not like this. Not like anything! It wasn't real. L'Manberg belonged to them, not those charlatans above who'd come out of the blue.

Schlatt's voice rang out once more. "Tubbo! Get up here. Get up here on my podium."

Tommy slapped a hand over his mouth. He had completely forgotten about Tubbo. He was still out there–with all those monsters. What would they do to him?

"Hurry up!" came Quackity's squawking. "This is an immediate order."

"C'mon, Tubbo," urged the emperor. "You're secretary of state."

Commotion rippled above the tunnel. Tommy thought he caught Tubbo's voice, but Schlatt boomed over him. "Well, I'm not gonna fire you. I mean, you're Tubbo! What, am I gonna fire Tubbo? Get up here, boy."

"Look at how scared he is. I don't think he wants the job," sneered the new vice president, far too close to the microphone.

Then Tommy heard Tubbo, shouting as loud as could with his frail body, "I do want the job! Here I come!"

Tubbo...thought Tommy, doubting his ears. You want the job?

"There he is!" Schlatt blared. "So good to see you. Come over to the mic."

"Good day, Mr. President."

"Closer, Tubbo. Take my spot at the podium, I–" He stopped to laugh."I love this guy."

"Oh, okay..." Tommy could hear Tubbo shaking.

"Tubbo," said Schlatt. "As my secretary of state, as my right-hand man of L'Manberg–! I need you to do something for me."

"W-What is it, Mr. President?"

"We can't pass out prizes until we have concrete evidence." Schlatt dropped to a whisper, still amplified by the microphone. "I need you to find Tommy Innit and I need you to bring me his head. Go. Make me proud."

No.

No way Tubbo would ever do such a thing. Tubbo–his friend from before it all started, before the election, before L'Manberg, before Wilbur Soot. If there was ever to be a traitor in his life, it would never be Tubbo.

"Tommy," Wilbur whispered.

Those hours spent on the bench, music glowing in their ears, laughter dancing on their lips–memories stitched into a friend's heart. Maybe anyone else could take the scissors and sever the threads, leave him to die, but not Tubbo.

"Tommy!"

Tommy slammed back to reality. Wilbur gripped his collar, baring his fangs at him but unable to say a word. Then Tommy heard a shuffling echo. Someone was in the tunnel.

Tommy dallied no longer, hoisting his president half over his shoulder and hurtling forward. He couldn't hear anymore sounds from the other end, but knew he hadn't imagined it. How did their enemies manage to find the bunker so quickly? Only one other person knew of it. One other person.

No! Don't think, keep going.

There was no light at the end of the tunnel this time–just the makeshift trapdoor Tommy kicked aside. He crawled through the opening–barely one meter square before turning around and helping Wilbur out onto the grass. From there, Tommy lodged several hefty stones into the opening. Then he fell onto his back beside Wilbur and the two lay there, chests heaving, eyes greeted by a thousand dancing stars. The first raindrops kissed their cheeks. Treetops rippled and the rivers hummed in harmony. They were free. Free from those big black walls they had built themselves.

"Tommy, it's gone," Wilbur mumbled, words quiet, though forced.

It took every ounce of Tommy's strength to resist launching into tears. "They can't do that! That's our nation, I gave my–my discs for that nation! And now they're trying to murder us! Wilbur, it's all gonna go!"

"We gave up everything for L'Manberg–we gave up friendships, we gave up alliances. And everything we earned in that sacrifice has been lost in one moment." Wilbur turned his head to look at him. "Tommy, we are unwelcome in the Dream SMP's land and we are unwelcome in L'Manberg. We are literally in the wilderness now. We have nothing."

Tommy looked away. "We're banished! We've been reduced to nothing! We 'ave nothing! No country, no belongings–my good sword, 'cause you like peace and wotnot. And–and Tubbo! Did you 'ear Tubbo? 'E said 'Yes, Mr. President'–to J. Schlatt!"

"Don't hold Tubbo accountable, Tommy, he doesn't know. He just wants to survive."

" 'E could've–'e should 'ave stuck with us!" Now Tommy relinquished himself to weeping, but it was as if he was too dry and wasted to produce a single tear.

Then a twig snapped from the direction of the wood. Tommy bolted upright, hands grasping at nearby rocks.

"Wait," said a familiar deep voice, and Eret emerged from the shadows, a heavy satchel drooping over one shoulder. "Gentlemen, I believe I can provide you sanctuary."

"Oh, no you don't!" Tommy sputtered, throwing a warning shot at the traitor. Eret did not so much as flinch as the stone whistled over his crown. "You turned your back on us, Eret! At the Final Control Room when you chose–you chose your shtupid crown over your friends. And just now, you ran us out with everyone else. Look, you've still got your greatsword! I see, you've come to claim a pot of emeralds for each of our corpses, ey!?"

"I acknowledge my misdeed at the end of the war, and my subsequent selfishness," Eret responded. "As for running you out, sometimes charades are your best defense." He reached for the strip of cloth bound around his eyes.

"I'm not going with you. I still have value," Wilbur spat, backing against the tunnel gate.

"You have been betrayed. I can help you." Eret took a deep, tremulous breath. "I need to help you. I can take you to safety, where you can be properly tended to–"

"Get out," Wilbur snarled.

Eret stared back at him, and he must have known there was no point in pleading further. He bowed his head. "I will leave, but that doesn't mean I won't help you." And he set the satchel on the ground before departing, his moon-colored cloak the last to vanish into the rest of the night. Tommy waited before approaching the satchel, even tossing a stone at it for good measure. When it proved safe enough, he ripped it open and scoured the contents, finding another flask of water, as well as a cup, flint and steel, a knife, some dehydrated fruits, and a bundle of dried meat.

Thanks, Eret.

"We should get moving," said Tommy, shouldering the satchel. He returned to Wilbur, who had turned a cadaverous shade of white by now. No more stalling. They just had to get far enough away and out of the rain. Only then could they make camp, fully tend to their injuries, and maybe have a little supper.

So they trudged through the untamed woodland. They trudged until the trees became wild and unfamiliar, and even then they kept going. With luck, they didn't have bounty hunters tracking them down. Tommy shivered as he imagined that mercenary, Punz, stalking in their shadows, waiting to strike. How he wished Wilbur had allowed Eret to help them. Then they wouldn't be here scrambling to find shelter. At last, they stumbled upon a rocky outcrop–barely a cave, but now wasn't the time to be picky.

Now out of the rain, Tommy arranged Wilbur on the softest bed of dirt he could put together, and rushed to start a fire with the flint and steel. Everything seemed to take twice the effort, twice the time, twice the pain. Tommy removed his own ragged coat and used the knife to tear it into strips, then wound it fast around his fading president. "Come on, Will," he cooed, wiping the sweat and rainwater off the older man's fevered brow, "pog through the pain. Don't give up now."

Wilbur's replied with a tortured breath. The bleeding only intensified. His left side was drenched–tunic and trousers dark and sodden.

What do I do? Why isn't it stopping? At this rate...

He inspected Wilbur's shoulder wound. No bleeding. The wound was sealed shut. Then Tommy looked at the budding campfire, now feeling nauseated. No, no. He gently placed the knife at the edge of the pit, blade mingling with the flames. Then he unraveled the dressings around Wilbur's abdomen, releasing another round of bleeding. Tommy poured more water over the wound, rinsing away the smeared blood and bits of bandage, and dried it off as best he could with what unsoiled fabric remained.

"Wilbur," choked Tommy, taking the knife with a strip of cloth tied around his hand. He blew the red off the blade. "I am so, so sorry, Will." He hesitated just a moment, trying to think of any other way. Do it, Tommy Innit, or 'e dies. Tommy knelt on Wilbur's legs to hold them down and gripped his ruined side. Wilbur jerked. Tommy clenched his teeth, squeezed the knife, and pressed the burning metal of the blade against the naked wound.

Tommy bit his lip until it bled. The more Wilbur thrashed, the tighter he held him. Tommy feared he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. That Wilbur would throw him off and kill himself doing so. Tommy finally removed the knife to reheat it for the second puncture, dashing more water over the injury.

Wilbur's cries silenced every other sound, but Tommy let him. Surely the distance and the rain and thunder would conceal their presence from hostile ears. He wiped his first tear from his own cheek before putting the blade down a second time. This is for you, Wilbur. For keeping me alive. Then it was over. He doused on the last of their water and remade the dressings.

Wilbur sweated, writhed, looked so much worse. Tommy had done all he could–made him a bed, kept him warm, tended to his injuries...He wanted to feed him, but he was unsure how to do so without risking his president choking. For now, water would do. He took the flask. Empty. He examined the other flask, the one Eret had supplied. Also empty.

"Will..." he whispered. "I'm gonna go down to the stream to fetch some more water. I will be right back, so don't you worry now." Wilbur couldn't have heard him, but Tommy couldn't leave him without a few words. He hated to leave him at all, but he had no other choice.

Tommy arranged a few brambles around their little abode, stoking the campfire to ward off any mobs, and then he ran, with the bucket in hand. Downhill, following the trails of rainwater. They led him much farther than he wanted. He glimpsed a glitter through the gnarled trees: a river birthed from the inlet, lost in lonely places. How serene it seemed, reflecting the night sky's rain-song.

Then he saw it. Dazzling under the waxing crescent moon shining through the storm clouds, a lone stallion stooped at the opposite river bank, enjoying a refreshing drink from the rippling waters.

"Champ...?" Tommy started.

Its ears pricked as Tommy emerged from the thickets, and it cordially raised its head to greet him. No, it wasn't Champ. Champ was dead. His mind was getting away from him. "Easy now." Tommy delicately approached the muddy bank. "I just need to get some water." He lowered his bucket in the river, eyeing the stallion across from him. " 'Ow are you doing tonight?" Tommy asked, trying to make small talk. Anything to keep his mind off Wilbur dying alone in that cave.

The stallion shrugged and continued drinking. Such a beautiful thing it was–hard muscles under a chestnut, rain-glossed hide; fluid mane the color of flax pouring down its noble neck. "Your owner must take really good care of you," said Tommy as he regarded the bejeweled bridle it wore. Then he noticed the scars etched across its body–up its legs, about its sides, upon its face. Something told him they weren't marks of abuse or ill-treatment, but rather...trophies.

A deep, resonant voice, like a sound from the past: "There you are, Carl. You've always been better at makin' friends than me."

"Who's there!?" Tommy whirled around, greeted only by a gust of stormy wind. No visible speaker, nor Karl Jacobs for that matter, though the stallion perked a little. Tommy reached for his sword, but had none, so he wielded his bucket. "Don't–don't come any closer!"

"Bruh," came the shadows. "You're the first person I meet in this place and that's the kinda greetin' I get?"

"You're not from the SMP? Why are you 'ere?" Tommy shoved the wet curls out of his eyes and squinted, trying to make out the figure in the night.

In the wavering moonlight and streaks of rain, he distinguished the crimson cloak dripping off the foreboding figure's shoulders, fur lining the collar. "Some say I'm drawn to the smell of blood. The smell of the battlefield. They say that war summons me. Injustice."

"And wot's your definition of 'injustice'? It seems like everyone I meet 'as got a different one."

"I'm thinkin' you and your companion there in the cave sure went through a lot."

Tommy stiffened at the thought of someone following them, watching them teeter on the edge of death. "Touch Will, and I'll–"

"–and you'll make another enemy and years from now they'll still be lookin' for your body." As the stranger neared, the stallion let out a whinny ill-befitting its massive size, and pranced over to the figure. "But, you know, Sun Tzu says, 'Keep your friends close, your enemies even closer,' so I can't blame you for that." He extended a hand to stroke the horse's mighty neck.

"Then wot, are you on our side or something?" Tommy kept the bucket poised, still confused.

"Somethin' like that. I heard that there was an opportunity for, like, thwartin' democratically-elected governments and I was like, 'oh man, I'm up for that.' " Gleams, as if from jewels, twinkled on his hands, his belt, his brow, and the battle axe across his back.

" 'Ave you...a name?"

While the man's face remained obscured, his long hair danced about him, so long it would've fallen past his waist on a windless day. Without the rain and night to blame, Tommy would have thought the stranger's hair looked pink. "Technically I've got lots," the man said. "The Legend. The Blood God. The Blade–that's a good one."

The Blade. Tommy knew he'd heard that before. Wherever or whenever he had, right now it chilled him to the bone.

The stranger went on. "There was this one name that really stuck. Maybe because it described my battlefield mastery as well as my genius intellect all in one word. I didn't think it was possible, because really, it's not, but the name stuck. Nowadays, most people don't need to ask, but if they do, I just go along with it and say, 'Yo, I'm–' "

"Technoblade," Tommy breathed, reduced to his knees. "You're Technoblade."

Froggy: Merci encore! Vos avis nous encouragent.

God bless,

Unicadia and VAERYS