Tubbo wasn't going to die.
Until tonight, a week after the festival, not one of the Pogtopians had ventured back to Manberg. Nihachu spent most of her time with Tommy, but she never touched on her experiences in that dark nation. Wilbur either rambled about not being able to detonate his shtupid bombs, or hid away in his room to scrawl on a piece of parchment. Did he even care about Tubbo?
Since that grim festival day, Tommy's mind never once left his friend's bedside. Tubbo's delicate life depended on the very man – no, monster – who had brought him to this state. When Technoblade wasn't occupied with potatoes or whatever he did in the caves for hours on end, he was drowning the poor boy in heavy potions. Techno claimed Tubbo was improving, and even awoke for brief intervals, but Tommy wouldn't believe it until he saw it himself. The little seventeen-year-old remained unconscious through all of Tommy's visits. Really, Tubbo's survival was the only thing keeping Tommy from slaughtering Technoblade. If Tommy couldn't kill the executioner, he'd find himself another culprit.
Killing Schlatt wouldn't do anything. Of course killing Schlatt would do something! Everything horrible about Manberg stemmed from that man alone. Yes, the election fallout was Quackity's fault, or even George's, but Schlatt had done something no one else would dream of doing: Schlatt had ordered Tubbo's execution. Schlatt needed to die. And when he did, maybe Wilbur would think twice before blowing up Manberg.
Good people shouldn't die, only the bad ones, and Tubbo's as good as they come.
L'Manberg had fallen sick, and Tommy would administer its medicine with his own bow and arrows. That's why he had stolen Techno's horse this Saturday night and traveled to Manberg without telling another soul of his intentions. No, Tubbo wasn't going to die. Someone else was.
Below the bone-white crescent moon, Tommy halted the stallion at the edge of the woodlands, beside Eret's eastern tower. He misted three or four invisibility potions over the animal before he wondered if they were even necessary. That's okay. He had three more for himself.
Invisible Tommy streaked through Manberg, the place still bedecked in dead lanterns and other festival fripperies. He'd not made it to the edge of the plaza when another horse whinnied, pulling his attention. Emerging just behind the other side of the Off-White House came a horse-drawn cart, the contents concealed beneath a lumpy tarp. It clopped across the cobblestone square before turning down the path leading to the trestle bridge. Tommy gaped, wondering who could be working this late at night, when he caught the glint of gold around the driver's neck. Punz?
'Ow lucky is Tommy Innit! The night 'e decides to infiltrate, and the best guard in Manberg takes an 'oliday. Even if Punz wouldn't kill him because of Dream, the mercenary might still have escorted him out of Manberg.
A light glowed from beneath the Off-White House's front door. Tommy, back to the stage, rolled out plans in his mind.
The door would be locked. If I steal through the sewer pipes, I'll stink so bad, the goons will surely sniff me out. He could break through a window, but that would make quite a ruckus, and only the higher stories possessed windows. Perhaps he should try the chimney. Does the White 'Ouse 'ave a chimney?
As luck would have it, the door opened at that moment. There was Karl at midnight, the Manberg valet, whose job consisted of waiting on the president and vice president sunup to sundown, and cleaning the White House sundown to sunup. Did he sleep? Enjoy the luxury of a lunch break? Had Karl ever gotten a paycheck? No one knew. Armed with a broom, the faithful valet swept dust and feathers out the door. Tommy bolted forward. Seizing Karl by the broomstick, and giving him quite the fright, Tommy swung him out and around and down the doorstep into the dirt. Tommy shut the door behind him, jamming it with a cleverly-placed broomstick.
Karl's flailing knocks vibrated from outside. "Wait!" he called weakly. "No!"
Tommy tiptoed through the maze-like halls, peering into each barren room, listening. When Karl faded out of earshot, all fell to silence, cold and empty as this hollow mansion. After the second flight of stairs, Tommy made out a singing voice – Quackity's shameful one – echoing down the corridors at this unseemly hour:
"That is the sound of a nation dying,
When everyone's crying, 'What a pity for you!'
Dry off every tear, smile through a traitor's fear,
Lying up above, what a beautiful view!
Dyed in his blood, never seen such red blood,
Red Festival, you died too soon."
Red Festival. An apt name for that morbid carnival.
Tommy shook himself out of his trance. Wot am I doing? I don't 'ave time to listen to 'is 'orrible singing.
Tommy decided to apply his next invisibility potion. He could already begin to see the outline of his hands, but that wasn't enough to open the vial with ease, especially in the dark. So he fiddled and fumbled, when out of the blue – a door opened, and footsteps marched his way.
By now, Tommy knew Schlatt's footsteps when he heard them, even stifled by slippers. Panicked, Tommy hurled himself through the closest door – the loo, incidentally. He slammed it shut, locked it, and, in a burst of quick-thinking, lit the oil lamps. After five criminal seconds, Schlatt walked past the loo door. The pitiful strings of words and tenuous melody warbled on.
Reasonably relaxed, Tommy glanced at his surroundings and all its pockets of mildew. The bar of handcrafted soap on the countertop smelled so good he nibbled on a corner. Mid-nibble, his eyes rested on a couple of peculiar rags draped over a bar on the wall. Suspicious burgundy spots stained the fabric.
Wot is…?
Then a different door crashed open. Quackity's song dead-ended, replaced with a frightened squeal as the president stormed into his room. Tommy could feel his footsteps shaking the floor, threatening to crack the plastered walls. But even more terrible was his voice – furious to the point of straining:
"Not only does your singing stink, but you have that audacity to criticize my verdicts behind my back?"
"No," Quackity sniveled, "that's not what I – I didn't –"
"I can't wait to relocate you to the basement! Then I won't have to hear your constant bad-mouthing in the middle of the night!"
"Please! I'm sorry, I'll do better! Just please –" his voice muffled "– please don't lock me down there…"
"You think you can do better? You think you really can?" Schlatt's tone turned contemptuous. "How about you do away with Wilbur's head?"
"You don't let me leave! How am I supposed to –"
"Shut up!" The voices muted for an instant. Tommy heard a rustle and a crack, followed up by Schlatt again. "You're useless! You can't pull your own weight! Not that you have any weight to begin with."
The commotion persisted. Tommy misted the potion over himself. Then he turned off the lights and creaked the loo door open, peering up the hallway. The farthest door hung open, from which a wail of moonlight drowned the corridor and the figures standing just inside.
Tommy neared. To his left, a framed painting dangled upon the plastered wall: Karl's depiction of the president and vice president – flawless smiles upon their flawless faces. Tommy continued up the hall, preparing his bow.
Right there in the doorway stood Schlatt – back turned, clad in pajamas and a decent amount of bandages. One hand gripped the neck of a glass liquor bottle, raised above the crumpled figure of Quackity in front of him.
"I'm sorry, Pres," the duck-boy wheezed, wings fanned out on either side of him in a desperate effort to please his president.
"Stop apologizing! You don't get it. I'm angry right now. Thanks to Technoblade, these stupid burns hurt so much. And I just want to –" Schlatt couldn't voice his frustration, so he settled with kicking Quackity across the floor. And when that wasn't enough, Schlatt struck him with the side of the liquor bottle, reducing the vice president to a flinching heap of feathers.
Tommy felt confused, but mostly sick. He could end it now: shoot Schlatt in the back, stop this dreadful scene before him, and save L'Manberg. He wanted to do it. Avenge their exile, their suffering, Wilbur's injuries, and poor, poor Tubbo…
Do it, Tommy Innit! Nothing's stopping you now!
"Look," Schlatt droned, "you made me spill my dessert wine."
Tommy released the bowstring. Past the president, past the vice president, the arrow struck the far window. A dozen panes shattered, along with their brittle frames, surrendering to the moonlight.
Schlatt backed away. "What on earth…?" He whipped around. Tommy stood rooted in place, trusting his invisibility.
Quackity, dripping pieces of glass, raised his head to the billowing night, but Tommy couldn't see his face from behind Schlatt. The vice president scrambled to his feet and leapt out the gaping hole in the window. Tommy heard the soft thump and its accompanying "ouch" as the featherlight duck-boy hit the ground three stories down.
"Yeah, go ahead and run! You'll come back anyways." Schlatt didn't chase him. No, he was more interested in investigating the corridor. Tommy held his breath, tried not to sneeze. When this proved impossible, he turned and ran. He didn't care how much noise he made now. So away he flew, down the stairs, out the door, past the bewildered Karl, all the while wondering why he didn't have the guts to kill Schlatt.
Tommy found Technoblade's conspicuously visible horse enjoying a refreshing drink from the pond beside the eastern tower. Am I just going to leave without avenging Tubbo? Why did I 'elp Big Q…? Wot was going on there anyways? Something black and white flashed to his right. Tommy turned, spotting a trace of movement among the tree trunks before it vanished. Tommy narrowed his eyes. He jumped into the saddle, reeled the horse around, and galloped at full speed into the forest.
There he was – Manberg's swanky vice president half-scampering, half-limping through the wilderness. Despite his condition, he managed to stay ahead of his pursuer for a brief amount of time, zig-zagging through the trees, disappearing around a thicket or outcropping.
But Tommy was smarter and better in general, not to mention on a war-hardened horse. He galloped around the other side of the outcrop, coming face-to-face with his prey and cutting off his escape. The stallion reared upon its hind legs, snarling and snorting until Tommy wrangled it to a standstill.
Quackity fell back on his hands, chest heaving. Tommy realized the duck-boy wasn't wearing his sunglasses for the first time in forever. In those breathless seconds, all but swallowed by the night, Tommy could see Quackity's eyes and his soul bleeding behind them. Then the restless clouds parted, releasing a shaft of moonlight through the forest's claws.
A stain splattered the front of Quackity's dress shirt. Aside from his custom-tailored jacket, the winged freak still wore the rest of his fancy suit as if he never wore anything else anymore. No sunglasses, concealer, or bandages to hide behind, the vice president raised his hand to cover his face, but lowered it seconds later, knowing it to be futile. His face, cast in ghastly white, looked like that of a child painted for Halloween. Festering purple and red bruises glared in the moonlight, accompanied by the duller marks of older wounds. His feathers frayed in sticky spikes along his rumpled wings. A wretched creature, that's what he was – seemingly pristine and manicured from the stage, yet rotting under the disguise.
Tommy swallowed his disgust. "Well, it's been a lit'le while, Mr. Vice President." Quackity's rattled expression didn't change. He edged a centimeter to the right. Tommy blocked him, the sound and sight of his steed's mighty hooves enough to paralyze the duck-boy. "Why are you alone in the woods, Big Q? There's awful things out 'ere: mobs, rogues, bloodthirsty fugitives, just waiting to devour a poor lit'le vice president like you."
A sick smile crawled onto Quackity's face. Blood beaded on a crack in his lip. "Touch me, and I'll have the guards disembowel you."
"Aye, looks like they're doing an excellent job protecting you." Tommy walked the horse in a circle around the cowering vice president. "I've 'eard others call you Schlatt's Pet, but if this is what it looks like, I'd 'ate to see the man around a cat or a pupper."
Quackity recoiled, shaking his head. "I'm not his pet, I'm not – how did you –" A nervous laugh escaped him. "Stop saying that, it's not true! Schlatt and I work together, leading this great country, building it from nothing –"
"And executing my best friend!" Tommy drew to a stomping halt. "As far as I can see, you're just as guilty as the others were on that stage. Is that who you are? Another executioner?" How he wanted to trample the scoundrel into the ground right now.
"Schlatt's methods are very, very harsh. But I'm loyal to him. I understand why he does the things he does."
"Then why?!" Tommy shrieked. "Why execute Tubbo! You wouldn't 'ave dared do the same thing yourself." Quackity blinked slowly, licking the blood off his lip. "If you're so loyal to your president, tell me why you 'elped Niki escape."
"No – no!" Quackity shielded his face again with his fidgeting hands and wings. "I'm loyal to Schlatt! And nothing –" his voice cracked "– will ever change that!"
What is wrong with this fellow?
"Quacki'y…" Tommy didn't know how to put it, so he just asked. A curious child asking a simple question. "Do you like being tortured?"
Quackity's hands dropped. His gaze sank to the forest floor and everything worming beneath its carpet of leaves. The world fell into silence except for one poor boy's beating heart. "Tommy," he whispered at last. "I don't want to do it anymore."
"Ey?"
"It was my votes that brought Schlatt to power. But that means nothing." He laughed again, but it was a sad, broken laugh this time. One hand rubbed at the wine stain across his clothes. "Here I am, vice president of Manberg – I have everything I ever wanted, and yet…I have nothing." His fingers tightened around the ragged collar. "I'm not his vice president! I'm not his heir! I'm just his stepping stool, his…" Quackity squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling out, "...his caged bird."
"I'm glad you regret the awful things you did," Tommy muttered, even though Quackity hadn't quite said that.
Quackity's gaze flickered up to Tommy. "I mean, you got kicked out of Manberg, you and Wilbur. I know I took part in that decision, but – you know, maybe…" He averted his eyes. "I dunno, maybe we can work together or something."
What is 'e saying? "Big Q, you can't be indirect with me. If you're gonna ask, just ask, man."
"You want me to ask?" Quackity gushed, incredulous. This quickly turned into a pout. "You want me to get on my knees and beg?" Without hesitation, Quackity fell forward, face bowed to the ground. His wings snapped open, spreading to their full length, much like how he had done with J. Schlatt. Tommy drew back, startled at the sudden display, performed a second time that night. Quackity chuckled, raised his head. "Tommy, you know the rules of politics. If a president's removed, the vice president takes power. You and Wilbur need to help me take out Schlatt."
He could be lying. Either now, or he had been earlier in the conversation. Anyone could say anything they wanted, real or not.
I can't trust 'im.
Tommy assumed his most intimidating expression. " 'Ow do I know this i'n't a setup? Just a minute ago you were touting Schlatt and all that nonsense. But now you're saying you want to work with us. Kinda like what Technoblade said before 'e went on to shoot Tubbo to death. Don't I think you're just going to give up all your fancy clothes and fancy White 'Ouse and fancy food to come join us."
Quackity sat up, wings folding behind him. "What do you want to know? If I can prove my trust in any way, I'd be glad to. I'm just, I'm done with it, man. I'm not gonna be a spoiled pet anymore! So please – please let me join the resistance."
"I don't – that's not my decision, Big Q."
"Then take me to Wilbur!"
"I –" Why not take him to Wilbur? Why not let him decide? Oh right, the man was insane. Tommy sighed. "You're right, Big Q. Let's take you to the man in charge."
Quackity slithered to his feet. He reached for Tommy's open hand, when he noticed the horse, head turned sideways, gazing prudently back at him. Quackity stopped and stared at the mighty creature. He might've stayed there forever, had Tommy not snatched his hand and pulled the weightless duck-boy into the saddle.
Once he had Quackity safely installed behind him, Tommy thought for a minute. "Before we go…" He twisted around and ripped the skinny tie off the vice president's neck.
"Dude, what are you –"
Tommy grappled the other boy's head, winding the strip of blue fabric around his eyes. Quackity wriggled and squawked.
"Ouch! Let me go!"
"You can't know Pogtopia's whereabouts," Tommy explained, "so you've got to promise not to remove this blindfold until Tommy Innit says so."
Quackity grumbled in consent. When all was done, Tommy clapped his heels, and the child, the duck-boy, and the horse shot away through the wilderness.
Quackity's arms latched around Tommy's throat. Was he strangling him? No, the poor vice president was just trying to keep from flying off. A horrid stench, like rotting carnations dipped in blood, filled Tommy's senses, and for the first time in a very long time, the child felt like taking a bath of his own volition.
"You have a really big horse," Quackity squeaked. "Sapnap's horse isn't really like this. Karl's too."
Tommy smirked, trying not to gag. "Yeah, me 'orse is pret'y pog."
Just as they swerved down the hill to the Pogtopia cliffs, a massive figure swooped on them from the trees. Dead leaves and dust took to the air. The horse jerked to a halt with a surprised whinny. Quackity quelled his shrieks by filling his mouth with Tommy's tunic. The black figure blocking their path lifted its head, eyes crimson. Moments before Tommy might have fainted, he recognized who it was.
"Oh, it's just you, Techno," he grouched. "Be a good chap and don't do that."
Technoblade strode forward and didn't respond. Tommy could feel Quackity shivering uncontrollably behind him.
"I shouldn't have to keep such a close eye on you, Tommy," said Techno. He didn't sound angry, but he was far from a good mood. "Carl here is my battle brother." His hand slid across the stallion's neck before resting on the bridle. "I'd risk my life for him. You gotta understand how lucky you are that I'm lettin' this go easily. That being said, if you ever take Carl again," the red eyes flashed, "I am goin' to stab so many orphans."
Tommy snorted. "I'm not an orphan, Techno."
"Not yet."
"That – you –" In lack of a snappy comeback, Tommy tried to show off his savvy dismounting, but his boot caught in the stirrup. He danced on one foot for a good half-minute until he finally escaped the stirrup and reclaimed his dignity. Technoblade watched him help Quackity down.
"Captured the Manberg mascot I see."
"No, I 'aven't captured 'im, dimwit. Big Q 'ere claims 'e's on our side, so I'm taking 'im to speak with Will."
Techno raised an eyebrow. "Someone on the inside? If he doesn't blow his cover in Manberg, he'll be a useful asset."
"Useful asset?!" Tommy cried, straining to contradict Techno's every word. "Well I think e'd be more useful as a – as an 'ostage!"
Technoblade continued as if he hadn't heard Tommy. "That is, if he really is on our side. Boy, what do you think of the government?"
The blindfolded teenager shriveled beneath the legend's voice. "Schlatt must be brought down."
"There you go. Think twice before you imprint on strangers, feather-boy."
Tommy choked in his laughter, unable to contradict that one. Technoblade started toward Pogtopia's entrance, leading Carl alongside him. "I'll wake up Wilbur and send him out to you."
"Aye, aye, we don't need your 'elp," Tommy snapped, feeling twenty times better once the legend left.
Wish 'e left long ago. Before 'e burned my Tubbo.
"Can I take this off now?" Quackity whimpered beneath the blindfold.
"Not yet. I don't want Wilbur to get the wrong idea," Tommy lied.
Quackity sighed, looking very much uncomfortable.
Tommy noiselessly reached into his tunic, finding his bow. Yet as he nocked an arrow and aimed it as his unsuspecting victim, his gut clenched with guilt. Maybe none of this would've 'appened without Big Q, but killing 'im's not worth it. It would just be a pity kill.
"What do you think Wilbur will think?" said the duck-boy, oblivious.
Tommy tucked his weapons away. "I – I dunno. Wilbur's gone a bit crazy at the minute."
"What?"
" 'E's also completely insane by the way."
Before another word could be said, Wilbur spoke, and everyone wished that he hadn't. His marvelous voice rang out from within the entrance tunnel, bright and expectant. "Tommy! Tommy, where are you? It's time to go blow up everything!"
Apparently Techno hadn't explained the situation to Wilbur.
The madman breezed out of the tunnel, looking far too energetic to have just been woken up. "Tommy," he called, then stopped upon seeing Tommy's unsavory companion.
" 'Ello, Will," said Tommy, trying to be civil. "I've got us a guest."
"Whyever did you bring that disgusting thing here?" Wilbur spat. "Get it out of my sight."
Quackity didn't wait for Tommy Innit's signal. He ripped off the blindfold and tossed it at his feet.
Wilbur didn't react immediately. His disgusted expression dissolved, replaced with something like curiosity as he beheld the duck-boy's plight. Then at long last, he threw his head up with a mighty laugh. Quackity tightened. "Oh, this is too good!" Wilbur whooped. "So there was a reason for the clown makeup after all! The repercussions have finally come around. Honestly, I was hoping for this!"
"Will you let me in now?" Quackity whispered, avoiding eye contact.
Wilbur began laughing again, when he interrupted himself. "Let you in? The walls are gone, Big Q. You have that ugly country they call Manberg. Why do I still have to let you in? Unless," his voice dropped, "you're talking about this hole in the mountain." Wilbur came up to Quackity's ear. "Go back to your gilded cage, you circus animal. Back to being the pretty little vice president with no purpose but to smile while the president ruins our nation. That's all you do."
"I – I will overthrow him."
"Oh, he said it – the big word." Wilbur's taunting eyes widened, overcome with false awe. "Now I believe you. Welcome to Pogtopia, Quackity! As if!" He broke away from Quackity, still talking, as if he couldn't get enough of his own voice. "You'll overthrow Schlatt and take the power yourself. Careful, Big Q," he chortled, "if you're appointed president, you may be the new target of the rebellion."
"I don't – I don't have to be president," Quackity stammered. He didn't even sound convinced himself. "Schlatt just has to go."
"What do you propose? Assassinate him? That's what Tommy's itching to do, but I never considered you the killing type."
Quackity shifted awkwardly. "I guess not. And for all I know, Fundy could take charge instead of me. So I need Schlatt to directly hand off the power to me. Something like –" he brainstormed for a hot second "– something like fine print!"
Wilbur scoffed. "Or just blow it all up!"
Tommy stepped in. "No, Wilbur. Big Q, that's a brilliant idea. Let's catch the old man in a con job! 'E'll never realize e's stepping down until 'e's already signed the scam and it's too late. Then we'll be in power and can jolly well execute 'im!"
Despite claiming not to be the killing type, unholy thrill sparkled in Quackity's blood-rimmed eyes. "Yeah!"
"N-No, Big Q. I was joking about that last part. Dream would murder us if we killed anyone." Fortunately, no one brought up Tommy's assassination aspirations again.
"Listen," said Quackity, "I'll work out the details for this thing – let's call it the Manberg Meeting. I'll set a date and let you guys know how you can help." He turned back at Wilbur. "And then, this will all be over."
Wilbur didn't meet his gaze, staring at something only he could see over Quackity's shoulder. "Oh, it'll all be over one of these days." He relinquished a chuckle. "Very well, Big Q. I'll go along with this little plan of yours. But the moment something goes wrong – if this fails, it's Plan B." And he smiled at Tommy.
Quackity quivered, though surely he didn't know what that meant.
A soft, deliberate voice cut through the leafless trees. "Vice President Quackity."
Tommy jolted. A white apparition broke the blackness – Punz. I guess 'e returned from 'is 'oliday. The mercenary did not draw his weapons. He approached Quackity, face unreadable.
And Quackity passed away. "I am so, so sorry!" His voice congested in his throat, emitting in painful creaks. "I swear – Wilbur – Tommy – I didn't mean to lead him here."
Wilbur ran a strained hand down his face, pulling on his bottom lip. "It's all right. He already knew."
"Yeah, no thanks to you, Will," Tommy huffed, not feeling terribly generous.
Wilbur scowled. "You heard Dream. He told –"
"Punz!" Quackity, now the mercenary's best friend, slapped a hand around his shoulders. "My man, you won't tell Pres, right? You won't let him know about this, about – I don't know how much you heard…"
"I have simply come to retrieve you. Nothing more."
This feels like such a joke. 'E could just kill us all an' claim the bounty. Dream must pay 'im an awful lot.
Punz took the vice president by the arm, not forcefully. Fear writhed in Quackity's eyes. Truly, he must not have wanted to go back to that nightmarish country. Yet he said no more. The two left, not unlike a prisoner and his escort.
Wilbur looked depressed. "I guess I'll go back to bed. Oh no, the sun's coming up! I'm disappointed, Tommy. We could've been blowing everything up."
He sulked back to Pogtopia, Tommy in his wake. They found Technoblade spooning bowls of breakfast for them in the main cavern. Nihachu was already there; she saw them coming and smiled, but Tommy thought she looked strained. He begrudgingly took his portion and sat with the others, not feeling much of an appetite. He could still smell the rotting flowers.
Technoblade dished a fifth serving. He took this in hand and retreated up the path to Tubbo's cave. Tommy watched as he disappeared through the curtain. Something ugly twisted in his chest.
Forget trusting Big Q – there's a bigger problem 'ere.
After a number of minutes he piped up. " 'Ow can we trust Techno? 'Ow could we ever trust 'im?"
Wilbur quaked with laughter, mouth full. "You just can't get over it," he gurgled.
"Of course I can't get over it! But I shouldn't be the only one! Tubbo could still die!" Tommy fumbled with his spoon, dropping the handle into his bowl. Nihachu silently passed him one of the cloth serviettes she had made.
But Wilbur waved off the child. "He's not going to die. He's all right."
"That's what you said at the Manberg Festival! I'm sorry – the Red Festival – that's what I've decided to call it now, cheers to Technoblade and 'is bloody fireworks. You shouldn't 'ave been so careless with 'im, Will."
Wilbur scraped the bottom of his bowl, hurriedly finishing up the last of his breakfast. "It's not that I was careless. I just wanted to see what Technoblade would do." Tommy stared, wondering, hoping he had heard Wilbur wrong. The older man put down his bowl and stood, beckoning for Nihachu to do the same. "Come, Niki. Let's take a walk in the woodlands. You've told me how much you love the autumn colors."
Nihachu blinked disconcertedly. "All the leaves have fallen, Will."
Wilbur took her arm and gently raised her beside him. One hand weaseled between her hand and the bowl, removing it from her grasp; the other took her chin, tilting her head to look up at him. "Sometimes they're prettier that way," he purred.
Tommy didn't hear her reply, if any. Wilbur, leaving all dishes behind for someone else to clean up, swept her away on a romantic jaunt, and Tommy could do nothing to change it. Left to himself, the boy gathered the crockery, polished off the last of the potato slop with his tongue, and brought them down to the hot springs.
What is wrong with everyone? Why am I the only one who cares? Tommy submerged the silverware in the warm water. Poor Toob. E's such a fragile fellow; could use all the 'elp 'e can get. Even if nobody else is there, I will stand up for Tubbo. Because 'e needs me.
"Tommy," a voice echoed down.
Tommy looked up. A couple levels above stood Technoblade just outside Tubbo's room, holding an empty bowl. "Tommy," he said, emotionless. "He's awake."
Tommy dropped everything. "Tubbo is? Really?"
"He wants to see you."
Tommy sprinted up the path, and would've shoved Techno out of the way except the legend had already stepped aside.
"Easy now," he rumbled. "I'll leave the two of you, but don't make him get up or exert himself, all right?"
"I get it, Techno! You can go now!"
Techno wasn't bothered, and quietly rumbled away.
Tommy touched the curtain, surprised at his pounding heart. It's all right. Wilbur said 'e was all right. He took a deep breath and shifted the right edge of the curtain aside, peering in. A single lantern burned in the cave, not illuminating much save the lumpy pile of blankets in the center back of the room.
"Tubbo?" Tommy whispered.
The top of the lump shifted and Tubbo's head appeared in the small circle of light. "Tommy?"
Tommy stepped inside, feeling strangely awkward. Wot's wrong with you, man? This is Tubbo – Toob! Tommy's hands tangled themselves in the end of his tunic. " 'E-'Ey, Tubbo."
Tubbo smiled – a little, not at all like his old self. Though Tommy had seen his bandaged eyes plenty of times before, it felt different now that Tubbo was awake, and it reminded Tommy in a horrible, unbidden way of Eret. All he could see of Tubbo was his mouth and his hair – longer now and falling over where his eyes would be. Bandages swallowed up everything else. He didn't look substantial enough to be sitting up, leaning toward Tommy, even to be smiling such a weak, lame smile as that. Tommy scooted closer, still playing with his tunic. His fingers found a loose thread, and he wound it around his finger.
" 'Ow-'ow you doing?"
In the past, Tubbo might have shrugged and laughed. But this Tubbo remained still, the smile looking quite pasted-on. "I've been better."
Tommy sat cross-legged on the edge of the blankets, looking his friend over. He didn't know what to say, though his mind roiled once more at the thought of Technoblade and what he had done to his beloved Tubbo.
"Tommy? Tommy, are you all right?"
Tommy blinked, faced him again. "Oh. Yeah." Feeling awkward, he looked over Tubbo's hair, lit with a halo from the lantern on the wall close by. The grease-streaked clumps of hair falling over Tubbo's forehead were that bright yellow Tommy had always associated with his friend. But the roots seeped into the strands like black spider webs, dark and out-of-place. For some reason, he hadn't noticed until now. "Wot's wrong with your hair?" he asked. "You must be filthy. Even my 'air doesn't get –"
"Oh no, it's not dirt," Tubbo reassured him. "My roots are just growing out. I haven't been able to –"
Tommy leapt off the blankets. "YOU'RE NOT A NATURAL BLOND?!"
Tubbo's little smile shrank until it twisted on itself, and Tommy could tell the bee boi was giving him a confused frown. "No…You didn't know that?"
"Of course I di'n't! You've always been blond as long as I've known you!"
"Nooo…I didn't start dyeing it until secondary school. We've been friends for a lot longer than that."
Tommy scoffed. "Well, I consciously block all memories from before secondary school, on account of me not being quite so cool or ledge yet." He lowered his voice. "Don't tell anyone that. They all think I was born this way."
Tubbo didn't even nod.
Tommy frowned. "An' 'ere I thought you were born blond! I feel betrayed! I feel –"
"I was just trying to be like you," Tubbo whispered.
Tommy stopped. "Eh?"
"Yeah. You were so cool and such. I thought I could dye my hair to look like yours and be edgy, too."
Tommy forgot all about betrayal, and grinned. "You think I look edgy?"
Tubbo licked his lips. "Well, yeah, of course, man."
Tommy felt more affable now, and nodded, taking in Tubbo's dark roots with a critical eye. "Well, good, good. I think black looks good on you – not as much as that edgy blond did, of course, but it's still good."
Tubbo smiled, almost like he used to, but it flickered away in an instant. "Yeah. Thanks." He hesitated, then added, "It's actually brown, not black. But thanks."
Tommy couldn't tell the difference in the faint light, but it didn't matter. He sat on the blankets once more. "So, Tubbs. Um. 'Ow bad is it? Will you still be able to…see?"
"Technoblade is hopeful," said Tubbo, lacking all warmth and emotion.
Shtupid Technoblade. Tommy tried again. "Big Q wants to join Pogtopia. Wilbur doesn't want 'im to, but that ol' Technoblade says 'e'll make a good asset. I don't really know what I think. If it weren't for Techno, I might agree to let that funny lit'le fellow in. What do you say?"
Tubbo opened his mouth, then closed it. Tommy waited, but still Tubbo said nothing. Tommy was starting to feel uncomfortable again, when Tubbo looked down at his hands
and whispered, "I forgive Techno, Tommy."
Tommy started. "Wot? Even – but 'e-'e – we can't trust 'im, Tubbs! 'E literally betrayed us and then blew you up! 'E –"
"He was threatened into it." Tubbo spoke with a strange resolve Tommy couldn't remember hearing before. The little seventeen-year-old raised his head and faced Tommy. "I was there. He was threatened. Schlatt would have killed both of us if he hadn't done something. It's unfortunate what happened, but maybe…maybe you would have done the same thing if you had been in that situation." He spoke this last part in such a low voice, Tommy almost missed it.
But not quite.
He flew up from the blankets again. "No, I wouldn't! I'm nothing like 'im! You're my best friend, Tubbo! I would have shot Schlatt and Quacki'y and all the guards and then made off with you." But Wilbur wanted to know what would 'appen –
"It was very stressful for him," Tubbo continued in that new resolute voice. Tommy decided he didn't like it much. "He wasn't thinking about any other options. When I talked to him about it, he sounded very sorry."
"But-but – Sorry isn't going to fix you, Tubbo!"
"And neither will holding onto a grudge forever."
Tommy stared at Tubbo, shocked. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. Even his arsenal of profanities dried up in that moment and he could do nothing but stumble out of the cave, wondering if Tubbo was right.
Three days later, on the afternoon of October 25th, after a hearty potato-y lunch, Tommy and Wilbur moused past the Manberg border, heavy-laden with invisibility potions. Today was the day of the so-called "Manberg Meeting," when Quackity planned to dupe Schlatt into handing off the presidency. The vast majority of the Manberg population was occupied with the massive construction project over the river, meaning that the two invisible Pogtopians would act as the sole witnesses to the signing of this legal document.
"Not to mention backup for Big Q when something goes wrong," Tommy added.
Wilbur huffed. "Then why not bring Technoblade?"
" 'E's busy with Tubbo."
Actually, Technoblade had downright refused to come, preferring to sit in his cave and convene with potatoes instead of attending to the real work. But that doesn't mean 'e won't be there when we need 'im. 'E knows what 'e's doing. Tommy was surprised at the thought. It felt strange trusting Technoblade again – something Tommy had sworn never to do since Tubbo's execution. But Tubbo had helped Tommy understand the things that had never come to him naturally. No, Tommy didn't forgive Technoblade, but Technoblade wasn't the one who lied to him at the Red Festival.
Wilbur adjusted his beanie and shook his curly hair out of his face, but it flopped right back. He caught Tommy's eye, then gave him an impatient nod.
The fugitives slipped behind the Off-White House. A strange little shack leaned up against the presidential building, a crude wooden sign attached to the door lintel like an afterthought. Tommy made out the words "Karl's shack." He pointed it out to Wilbur, but Wilbur looked past it, at the brambly downward slope of the hill on the other side.
"Wot are you staring at?"
Wilbur's head snapped to Tommy, but his eyes remained distant. "Nothing. Let's climb."
They climbed, as they had done on the tenement building two weeks prior. One of the windows on the second story was obscured by a number of splintery planks nailed to the other side. A couple levels later, and they reached the roof. Before scooting to the edge, the two renewed their invisibility.
Through the drawn stage curtains they spied the meeting venue. The Pogtopians had requested Quackity to reserve the stage for the event in place of the drawing room, seeing how it was much easier to monitor. So far, only Schlatt occupied the area, slumped in a chair and bundled in a quilt. He still bore the bandages from the fireworks incident, and didn't look happy about it. But he never looked happy as of late. Beside him stood a cranky little stool which used to be the secretary of state's perch, now the bearer of an empty wine glass. Tommy thought it odd that while everyone else was recovering from the Red Festival, Schaltt only seemed to be getting worse.
Then the front door swung open; Tommy craned his neck down to see who it was. Quackity paraded out of the White House, squinting in the light. His suit was neat, his hair combed to sleek perfection, but his face, again devoid of sunglasses, bore the same decay as it had days ago. He clutched a stack of papers to his chest.
"About time, Quackerjack!" Schlatt hollered. "You finally get here and I'm already done with my drink!" He turned his glass upside-down. "I gotta get you a leash. Where were you?"
Quackity managed a tiny crooked smile. He gestured toward the Off-White House. "I've been there. You know, since Saturday." That was mostly true, after accounting for Quackity and Tommy's rendezvous at the eastern tower for meeting details yesterday. "H-How are you doing, Pres?"
"Pretty crumby, really." Schlatt shivered in his quilt. "Remind me what this is all about? I'm pretty sure Fondue can move into your room without paperwork."
"Yes, he can. But I don't want to be on bad terms with you, Pres. We can both agree that the argument last week, the big one," he specified stiffly, "was not pleasant."
Schlatt shook out his hand. "Yeah, I even sprained my pinky finger."
"So this is my apology and – and assent to your decision." Quackity held forth the stack of paper. "It's like a mutual agreement we both sign ensuring there's no more tension on this issue."
"Okay, I get what you're coming at." Schlatt took the documents, skimming over the first page. "Wait, I have to sign something?"
Quackity twisted his hands together. "Yeah, it's just an agreement thing – very important for you, for the nation, and the prosperity of – of everything. Oh, we also need Fundy. Fundy has to be present."
Schlatt grumbled something about forgetting to go to the gym. "He's at the hotel," he mumbled. Then he pulled a megaphone out from under his chair with his other hand and blared, "FONDUE. GET YOUR FOX-FACE OVER HERE." He punctuated this with a sputtering coughing fit, scattering the hundred-page document at his feet. One or two sheets were lost forever through the broken floorboards.
Quackity didn't seem particularly concerned about the document. He leaned forward, eyeballing his hacking president. "You okay, Pres?" he cooed. Schlatt was too busy dying to respond. "Here, I know what you need." Quackity took Schlatt's empty glass and headed back to the White House.
"This is a terrible viewpoint," Wilbur complained, struggling to see the stage beneath its canopy. "Why didn't we use the tenement building like last time?"
"Just do wot I do," said Tommy. "Lie on your stomach and dangle your chin over the edge."
"Your invisibility will wear off and everyone will see you. Don't be a doofus."
"You're the doofus."
"No, you."
Quackity swept back outside, walking almost too quickly. One hand hoisted a tray topped with a promising bottle of liquor and five crystal wine glasses. The other hand, swinging at his side, held a pair of curved, metal kitchen shears. He laid the tray upon the stool, opened the shears and plunged one of the points into the bottle's cork. Schlatt eyed him while he pulled and twisted at the cork; at last it released, and he could pour a cup for his president. The wine spilled into the glass, the color of blood. "Here's your medicine, Pres," Quackity said sweetly. He handed it off to Schlatt, just as a stray drop of red dribbled down the outer edge and onto his hand.
"About time. Don't forget one for yourself," Schlatt mumbled, and preoccupied himself with the drink.
"No. No, thank you."
Quackity stepped behind the oblivious president's chair, humming a strange little tune. All this time, he kept his wings raised, maintaining a shadow over his face. His black eyes flickered, something vengeful boiling behind them. They stared at the back of Schlatt's neck. His fingers crawled around the shears. They opened, closed, opened again like hungry jaws.
Tommy could see it – the foul shades of bitterness painted across the vice president's visage. Tommy's breath stopped. "Wait, 'e's going to –"
Quackity unfurled his feathers, raised the scissors.
And Fundy climbed onto the stage. Quackity stopped humming. He snapped around; the wings fell with a swoosh.
"Is there a reason why we're doing this here instead of in the White House?" said Fundy, coming around and noticing the papers strewn about. Despite the frigid atmosphere, he wore no coat except the layer of brown construction dust enveloping his being. His dirt-smudged face frowned as he scrutinized the vice president. "What happened to the sunglasses? Did Schlatt sell those too?"
Quackity clicked the shears and grinned, looking even more terrifying than J. Schlatt. "Come on, don't you want my room in the White House?"
Tommy thought of the boarded window, and Fundy probably did as well. "Not really," the fox-boy murmured.
Schlatt slammed his glass on the tray. "Of course you do. Let's get this meeting on the road already. It's cold out here."
"Yes, sorry." Quackity dropped to the floor, tucking the shears under the curtains and then gathering what papers he could salvage. "Do you want me to read the permit to you? And then you can take a look and just sign it?"
"Fondue, you read it."
Once Quackity had assembled the documents to a reasonable degree of order, he passed the load to the fox-boy. Tommy could see the duck-boy's bony fingers quivering.
Fundy squinted at the front of the stack, turning it around at least five times before reading. "I think it says, 'The Official Manberg Official White House Room-Transfer Warranty Permit Thingy." He hesitantly cleared his throat. "Within this document, it is permitted to house the Vice Viceroy Baron Chairman and National Fox' –" Fundy shot a death glare at Quackity. "...'in the White House, specifically the Vice President's quarters. President Schlatt hereby agrees to the transfer of Vice President Quackity from his current quarters to the White House basement, a-as well as does Vice President Quackity.' "
"His grammar is atrocious," Wilbur scoffed. A fox ear flicked in his direction.
Fundy turned the page. " 'This document ensures that no contention between President Schlatt and Vice President Quackity will intervene in the transfer. Vice President Quackity agrees not to dispute the matter anymore. President Schlatt also agrees to not not not not dispute with or inflict any further harm upon Vice President Quackity as long as Vice President Quackity resides in Manberg. Sign here for immediate effect of this document. Note: moving company fees may be charged' –"
"All right, all right," Schlatt interrupted, and held out his hand. "Show me the document." Fundy willingly relinquished it. Schlatt scanned page two. " 'Not not not not'..." He peered over the edge at his sweating vice president. "Okay, I feel like this is a predatory way of writing a contract, if you have to put in four not's."
"Scratch it out then," said Quackity irritably. "Get rid of it. You know what? You can inflict all the harm you like. I thought I could get something out of this, but as it turns out," he smiled ruefully, "you're too smart for me, Pres."
Schlatt chuckled, fishing his writing implements from his pocket. "You really thought you could slip that by me? Lemme tell you, it's a good thing I read these things." This is splendid. 'E still thinks Big Q's on 'is side. Schlatt placed a fine little inkwell upon the tray, followed by a quill pen.
Quackity chuckled back. "Yeah, you caught it." Fundy kept stealing glances at Quackity's face, looking more perturbed by the minute.
Tommy and Wilbur slid away from the edge to replenish their invisibility.
"Wilbur!" Tommy hissed as he took the next vial from his belt. "If Schlatt signs this, then we win! We are getting L'Manberg back, without blowing anything up!"
"It can't be that easy," said Wilbur, misting his own potion. "Oh, I should've brought my cigarettes."
"Shut up, Wilbur."
They returned to their places. Schlatt had finished scribbling out the unnecessary parts, and now appraised the contract as a whole. " 'Sign here for immediate effect of this document.' That's page two. Why are there a hundred extra blank pages?"
"It's an official court rule, man," the duck-boy warbled. "There's a minimum page requirement. Sorry, can we just sign it and get the transfer going?"
Schlatt kept leafing through the excess stationary. "But, like, what if there's one that isn't blank?"
"No, you can't –" Quackity's hands darted forward. "Give me the document, we can schedule another meeting."
Schlatt wrenched it back, flinching slightly. "Forget it," he growled. "I'm gonna go back to page two and sign this thing. What do you say?"
Quackity almost toppled over. "Yes, yes!"
Schlatt took his writing instrument, a quill pen with the plume still attached – a long, drooping feather, white, fading to gold at its tip. "I'm glad we could do this, y'know?" he said, sounding almost happy. "It's not often that there's, like, a good agreement between officials. And once Fondue's moved in, there's nothing keeping us from tearing down that ugly RV and building The Monument to Crying About It. Definitely looking forward to that. But let's first sign this thing."
This is it! The signing! Tommy's hair stood on end and his heart sang.
Schlatt was taking an awful amount of time to ink his pen, and he had no problem talking up a storm in the meanwhile. "You know, I was taking a walk the other day and I noticed something funny. You know Ernie's tower?"
Quackity twitched. "Yeah, I forgive you for that. For what happened on the western tower."
"No, the other one, the one by the plaza. I was just taking a little stroll around that tower, when I came across a trapdoor in the ground. And I remembered Tubbo mentioned another exit to his great library place, and I guessed this was it." Quackity's countenance remained blank, but Tommy felt something was wrong. Schlatt raised his eyes from the parchment. "I decided to take a look down there. And Vice, you know what I found?"
Tommy felt Wilbur jerk upright beside him. The invisibility couldn't mask the horror shuddering from his lungs.
"Will," said Tommy, "what are you…?"
Schlatt went on, lowering the unsigned contract onto his lap. "I don't know what it was clamped to the walls, but I think they were…explosives." Tommy couldn't move. "I think there are a couple hundred pounds of bombs underneath this great nation we built."
Quackity was so scared, his teeth chattered. "I have no idea what that's about." His voice emerged as a high-pitched squeak. "I'm sorry, I – I don't know!"
On the other side, Fundy didn't seem to be breathing. The fox-boy stared over the surface of the plaza and the surrounding buildings as if expecting all the monstrous things hiding beneath the surface to erupt at that moment. He rubbed the back of his neck.
Schlatt stroked the plume of his quill. "It's funny that I find these things after we have our little argument."
Quackity backed off the stage, clutching the edge of the curtains. "Yeah, no, no. We can just get rid of them."
Schlatt dropped the pen, took his wine, and downed the last drops. "Well, I'm not gonna touch it," he slurped. "I gotta call the bomb squad to dispose of all those bombs you planted there." The point of one of his horns raked the side of the glass, making a horrendous screech.
"I didn't!" Quackity shouted. "It wasn't me!"
"Oh, yeah, it was my other left-hand man." Schlatt licked the rim of the glass, rolling his eyes.
"No! Please, I'm sorry! ¡Me perdonas!"
"I'm going," said Wilbur, and Tommy heard him crawling away.
"No!" Tommy tore from the edge and lunged, amazingly landing right on his invisible comrade. He held Wilbur down, simultaneously keeping an eye and an ear on the stage.
Schlatt pushed aside the documents and the blanket, stretched to his feet. How he towered over his puny vice president. "Not only do you turn on me, but you plot to detonate my entire nation. Is treason the new fad around here? Really, Vice, you have so much privilege, and this is how you repay me?" The president's gaze swept from Quackity to Fundy, who was squinting at the roof of the White House. "Arrest him."
Fundy stiffened, and managed a nod.
"No, it's not that," insisted the duck-boy, backing away. "You know it's not that!" Fundy's hand seized Quackity's wrist. Quackity met his eyes, pleading. Fundy looked scared for a moment. Then he shook his head, proceeding to restrain the hyperventilating vice president. "Please don't," Quackity half-giggled, half-sobbed, "please don't kill me!"
Tommy's brain hammered with memories of the Red Festival.
Schlatt walked around his flailing cabinet members. "I execute someone once, and suddenly that's all I'm about. No, I can't execute you. Not as long as you have these, whether they work or not." He extended a hand and ran it along Quackity's right wing. "No, I'm gonna get you your own little birdcage. And I'm talking a literal cage here. Never again do we have to worry about you running off and conspiring with rebels. No, Vice," Schlatt leaned in close and whispered, "you're going to be the Manberg attraction."
Quackity's legs weakened, but Fundy yanked him back up.
Schlatt kicked the loose papers fluttering about the floor. "Hold on. Ah! Here it is!" He stooped down, rising again with a seemingly blank sheet of paper. "Tell me what this is, here in the fine print on page ninety-four! 'This document also hereby turns Schlatt's immediate resignation of power into effect. This power will be transferred to Qu–" He never finished. No, he was laughing too hard. "Aw, man!" He wiped a tear from his eye. "That's a real fun document you wrote."
Meanwhile, Tommy still grappled Wilbur.
"Tommy, let me go! I need to press the button!"
"I thought you forgot where you put the button!"
"I remembered!"
Tommy twisted his neck around to view the broken stage and the freak show taking place there. The scene had reached its climax, but what gruesome twist would it take next? Tommy and Wilbur might not make it out, not if Schlatt decided to use his megaphone to call Punz or Sapnap over. Tommy freed one of his hands and wrenched a potion off his belt. This he hurled in Quackity's direction, just as invisible Wilbur slipped from his grasp.
Neither Quackity nor his captor reacted in time. The vial grazed Quackity's collarbone, proceeding to smash into Fundy's upper arm. It exploded in a blend of liquid and fractured glass, turning both fox-boy and duck-boy into spotty, semi-visible shimmers. Fundy swore, and jerked away from his squawking captive.
"Run, Big Q!" Tommy screamed as he started after Wilbur. "Run! Get out of there! Fly!"
Tommy couldn't see Wilbur, so he blindly dashed for the edge of the roof. Except he fell down the chimney shaft he didn't know was there. Fortunately the stove wasn't on, as Tommy toppled onto it and then the grubby kitchen floor. Wilbur Soot was already there and finding his footing, smeared from hair to boots with his surname. Tommy sprang to his feet. And there, stooped over a stained countertop, was Karl Jacobs, caught in the act stuffing his face with gluten-free muffins. The valet stopped mid-muffin to stare at the invisible intruders, now visible thanks to their garnish of soot. He swallowed, eyes brimming with guilty tears. Before Karl could apologize, Tommy grabbed Wilbur's slender arm and pelted out of the kitchen. Just a minute or two later, and they barrelled outdoors.
Tommy could hear Fundy yowling something about escaping with rebels, and Schlatt's own shouting: "Let him go! I want to see him crawl back himself!"
Tommy yanked Wilbur toward the forestline, eyes darting around for any sight of Quackity. "They're let'ing 'im run!" he said excitedly. "They're not executing Big Q today! Look! There 'e is!" Tommy pointed to the feathery shimmer scampering after them from the stage.
"Tommy!" growled Wilbur, battling against his comrade's grip. "Plan B! Plan Bomb!"
"No, there is no Plan Bomb! Will, you're not going to blow up L'Manberg!"
They made it to the shadow on the other side of the eastern tower, but Wilbur would go no further. "You said that if the meeting didn't work, I could press the button!" he whined.
"Yes, but J. Schlatt knows about it! It's going to be rigged or something."
"It is rigged! That's the point! You're just making up excuses!"
The feathery shimmer, also known as Quackity, caught up to the kerfuffle, puffing and panting. "What are – you guys – doing! We gotta – get outta here!"
"I know!" Tommy blustered. "But Wilbur's going to ruin everything! 'E wants to press the button and-and –"
The duck-boy turned on Wilbur. "It was you then! You planted the bombs there!" He staggered backwards, voice trembling. "You were going to blow me up…"
Wilbur relaxed, shaking his head at the ground, but not truly denying it. A dribble of soot sprinkled the ground. "Have you heard of something called a Chekhov's gun, Tommy?"
Tommy's heartbeat drummed.
"The Chekhov's gun is an idea in plot devices, where if you tease something for long enough, if you keep showing it off, you have to do it at some point." Wilbur almost squeezed the skin off Tommy's arms as he tried pulling away again. "I need to do this."
"Now who's making up excuses?" Tommy attempted dragging the taller man again, but he refused to budge. Thankfully, the entire Manberg population was either camping out on the stage or across the river building a multi-million-pound hotel. Oh, and there was also Karl, but he posed no threat.
"Wilbur, listen." Quackity's invisibility started to ebb away, exposing his concern. "When I ran for president, I wasn't trying to take power away from you. It was…just to save L'Manberg! I just wanted more freedom for that land and…I'm sorry, but you blowing it up ruins everything."
"You're not just ruining your L'Manberg," said Tommy sternly. "You're ruining everyone's L'Manberg.
Wilbur glared at the ground. "Tommy, let me go."
"No."
"Tommy, that is an order. Step to one side."
Tommy held him tighter. "No."
"If you trust me, you'd step to one side."
"Wilbur, if you go out there, then I'm staying right 'ere. And you'll kill me by your own 'and when you press that button."
"Tommy –" Wilbur broke off.
"Go a'ead, Will. If you want to kill me and Big Q and everyone else in Manberg, and maybe even yourself, then –" Tommy let go of Wilbur, ignoring Quackity's silent protests. "You be my guest. But I don't think you've fallen so far."
They said nothing in those minutes. Wilbur didn't look up, even when he finally spoke, voice lowered, almost sad. "You love it, don't you, Tommy? You love… L'Manberg."
"Yes." Tommy ground his jaw. "There will be another chance. One last opportuni'y to take it all back, and if that doesn't work –" His gaze slid over the hideous festival decorations, finishing with the Manberg banner. "If we cannot get it back, then you can blow it all up. But only if it goes wrong, okay?"
Wilbur wilted. "Okay."
"Do you promise?"
Wilbur nodded, stiff. "No, you're right. We've tried my ideas, but this time I'll follow you, Tommy. Whatever you think is the best way of taking down Schlatt, we'll do it." He looked away. "I promise I won't press the button until then."
Relieved, Tommy nearly melted.
"Yay!" Quackity cheered feebly. "Now let's get out of here before someone sees us."
They tore through the many trees. After fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, Wilbur screeched to a halt. Quackity almost crashed into him, but Wilbur whipped around, soot flying, and shoved the breathless, bruised boy away. "No, you don't!" he cracked. "This is as far as you're going, Big Q!"
"Oh, let 'im come, Will!" Tommy wheezed, stopping alongside them. " 'E knows too much! We can at least keep 'im as an 'ostage!"
"No," Wilbur shook his head, smiling. "You heard what Schlatt said." He leered over Quackity. "I want you to know what it's like being an exile with nothing! Let's see if you can last outside your golden cage or if you go running back to it. Pass this test and maybe, maybe I'll let you into Pogtopia."
He turned his back, dragging Tommy beside him. Tommy craned his neck around to catch one last glimpse of Quackity. The boy with the wings, wings that used to be pretty, stood abandoned in the withering forest.
We can't leave 'im. 'E's unwell, and if there's anything I know about Quacki'y, it's that 'e can't survive long by 'imself.
Like Tubbo.
Tommy simmered in his cave that night and the next day. He spent most hours at Tubbo's bedside. While the bee boi's injuries continued to mend, his spirits remained low. The following morning, Technoblade removed the bandages over Tubbo's eyes, and he recovered his vision, seeing his friend's face again after ten days of darkness. Tommy could barely restrain himself from jumping the boy in a joyous embrace. Meanwhile, Tubbo remained sober. Techno allowed him to leave his cave, Tommy glued to his side. Clutching Tommy's hand, he hobbled to the bank of the cold spring in the main cavern and leaned over the glassy surface. There wasn't much to see beyond the layers of gauze and dark brown roots of his hair. His eyes, unbelievably round and blue, held his reflection.
"You'll get all bet'er, Tubbs!" Tommy urged. "Things will be just like they used to be!"
Tubbo said nothing.
To keep his mind off unpleasant things, Tommy sweated the next couple hours in the pit with Technoblade. He found himself far more receptive to the training than he had been since the Red Festival, no longer wrathful toward Techno, if for no other reason than for Tubbo's sake.
That afternoon, when Tommy should've been napping, he remembered Quackity. As fate – not Wilbur – allowed it, Tommy bailed Pogtopia like a runaway child and scoured the wilderness for the duck-boy's remains. On foot, of course.
It wasn't until he walked along the inlet coast, Karl's charred Eiffel Tower breaking the horizon, that he spotted the piteous tent pitched beside the mouth of the wilderness creek. There was Quackity, slightly unhinged, but mostly alive, so all was well. He petitioned at least six times for permission into Pogtopia. Tommy's answer never wavered: "Ask Wilbur."
Tommy posed a few of his own queries, namely if Quackity had gotten any other visitors. Quackity bumbled around the question, never giving a firm yes or no. If nothing else, Quackity vowed that he had not stepped foot in Manberg since the escape, and swore never to do so until the day they brought the nation down. Tommy tried to believe him. But how had the duck-boy gotten his hands on a mountain of blankets here in the wilderness? What about his endless supply of burnt toast and, remarkably enough, freshy-whipped Bavarian cream?
Tommy dropped by to visit the lonely vice president multiple times later in the week, but little changed save for Quackity's slow recovery from his captivity in Manberg. The duck-boy appreciated the visitations very much, always begging Tommy to come back the next day. Little did Tommy expect a visitor of his own when he returned to the Pogtopia headquarters the evening of the 30th. He had barely made it through the entrance tunnel, when who did he see on the overpass? Who twisted around to face Tommy, white mask smiling?
Tommy's mind wrung itself, bidding him to tackle the green man over the edge. Eying Wilbur on the opposite end of the bridge, Tommy put away his aggression and glowered. " 'Ello, Dream."
"Isn't this wonderful, Tommy?" flapped Wilbur. "Our friend Dream has come to pay us a visit!"
"Our 'friend'?" Tommy wrinkled his nose. Buddying up or whatever it was he had been doing this past week with Quackity was one thing, but Dream was a whole different species. "Will, you – you're talking downright presposiperousness-ness. Of all the people you let into Pogtopia, you welcome in Dream?!"
Dream, caught in their quarrel, spoke up. "You are the resistance against Manberg, right?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Dream," sneered Tommy. "Was that not clear? Why do you care? You've already done the deal giving over the TNT. It's time to pack up and let us be for once."
"I have come to tell you to be wary, because…" He faced Tommy head-on. "Because I will be defending Manberg."
"You – Manberg?" Tommy blinked, squinched his eyebrows, and wrinkled his nose again. "Are you and Schlatt friends? Or are you just trying to be on the bad guys' side?"
"Um, no, I don't think so," said Dream, accounting for both questions. He peered over the unrailed edge into the chasm. "I'd say that my interest is in myself and I have been given something that is more powerful to me than just friendship, I would say."
Tommy scratched his curly head. "Wot else is more important than friendship? Discs? Money? Girls?" He paused. " 'Ostages?"
Dream strolled to the end of the bridge, unbelievably relaxed as he took in the rebel's headquarters. "Let's just say it is something I have wanted since Schlatt first left the Dream SMP. Something he has been keeping just out of my reach, even when I helped him join the election. But now, Schlatt has lost something precious of his own, so he has turned back to me. Like he should."
Wilbur leaned against the cavern wall, brimming with glee. "This is exciting. I'm loving this. I know you guys have vested interest, but I'm just having a good time."
"Yeah, I'm actually not," shot Tommy. "I kind of just want to go back and be in L'Manberg."
"Well, we can't attack L'Manberg today." Wilbur brightened even more. "I know! Dream, let's do this like a gentleman's duel." He straightened, spewing giddy ideas. "Instead of going through with this, like, a dirty war that we're planning at the moment – how about we do it, like, gentlemanly? We pick a date, and we have the war."
Dream shrugged. "I am fine with whatever. Just no killing."
Wilbur didn't acknowledge that last part. "What about a month from the Red Festival – the 16th of November? That's it – three and a half weeks from now! That'll be the win-all or end-all!" The lunatic grabbed the green man's shoulders, babbling in his mask. "Dream, you fight us as much as you want from L'Manberg. And if it all goes your way, I'll blow it all away!"
"Sounds good to me."
Am I the only sane one 'ere?!
Wilbur released Dream, and brought his hands together in a single, deafening clap. "Brilliant! So the plan is settled!"
"It is settled," said Tommy, stern. "It's settled that you're not blowing it up, not until we lose. And you promised me that, Wilbur," Tommy fixed his gaze upon Wilbur's flitting eyes, "you promised upon my life and your's."
The flitting eyes focused, a ray of clarity through the storm clouds. Wilbur's voice leveled. "Yes, Tommy, I did promise, and you have my word. You can trust me, Tommy."
"You can't trust everyone," Dream cut in, still passive. He spun on his heel, walking up the overpass toward Tommy and the entrance tunnel. "You may have traitors in your ranks. I know of one in particular."
"Shut up, Dream," Tommy retorted. "You will not turn us against each other." Out of the corner of his eye, he sighted Tubbo's little head peeking out of his cave beneath them. More movement prowled even further throughout the complex. Nihachu and Technoblade were lurking, listening.
"You won't see it coming," continued Dream, "and it may ruin your whole plan, so be wary." His stride quickened.
"Well, it's not me!" Tommy yelled at him.
Dream stopped in front of him. "And by the way, Tommy, I know where the detonation room is. I helped wire everything, but it's up to Wilbur to press the button. Just like I'm leaving it to Pogtopia to strike first."
But why…? If 'e doesn't want Manberg or Pogtopia, why doesn't 'e just do away with both of us?
"I'll be waiting in Manberg on the day of the war." Dream continued walking, but stopped just before the tunnel. "November 16th?"
"November 16th," said Wilbur, eyes staring through the cavernous air. "You can spread the word to Schlatt. And by the dawn of the seventeenth, L'Manberg will be ours. That –" the glee returned "– or it'll all be gone! It ends on the 16th!"
It would be over. Come wintertime, when snow showered the lands, burying the last memories of this evil autumn, L'Manberg would be theirs once again. Tommy pictured himself and Tubbo huddled on the Camarvan bench, happy and healthy once again. They'd share their first Christmas together since traveling here. Two best friends in these strange, distant lands.
Froggy: Je suis désolé que ce ne soit pas plus long, mais je suis content que vous l'ayez quand même apprécié !
NOTE: It has come to my attention that someone is re-publishing our story on Amazon Kindle. VAERYS and I have posted the story ONLY on this site, Wattpad, and Archive of Our Own. We will NEVER sell our story, so if you see someone doing that, it isn't us. Please do not buy the Amazon Kindle version - it is unauthorized, and you will only be wasting your money, because you can read it for free online.
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God bless,
Unicadia and VAERYS