Chapter Text
Tubbo hated society.
It just didn’t make sense: who thought it was a good idea to base an entire society over whether or not you like coriander? It probably wasn’t even all that good. Like all sixteen year olds, he’d never been allowed to try the herb before, but he’d had plenty of others, and he was sure that coriander couldn’t possibly outclass them. They should sort people on whether or not they liked garlic instead: hating garlic was an actual crime.
Still, no matter how much Tubbo hated society, he still had to participate in it, so on the morning of the Sorting he still let his older sister fuss over him, his younger sister looking at him anxiously from the corner.
“Even if it tastes like shit, promise me you’ll just grin and bear it,” his older sister warned him, brushing his hair. Tubbo could see the tattoo around her neck, small green leaves circling around it like she was wearing a necklace. “For me, it didn’t taste like soap, but it did not taste good. The Elders won’t react well to someone spitting out their ‘food of the gods’.”
Tubbo nodded, knowing full well that he didn’t care about the Elders’ opinions. All he needed to do was prove that it didn’t taste like soap, right? Who cared if he thought it was gross? He wasn’t going to lie just to satisfy some grimy old people.
“Tubbo, Tubbo, promise me,” she repeated, this time making sure to make eye contact. “They are not benevolent. None of our family have a good track record with them. They could kill you.”
Even the Elders wouldn’t kill a sixteen year old, Tubbo thought. They had executed people before - but only ever members of the resistance, people like their parents, never kids. Worst thing they could do would be to wrap a blue tattoo around his throat and curse him to a life of ostracization. But that was it. His sisters were overreacting.
By midday, the three of them were gathered outside the City Stadium, waiting for the gates to open and let them in. You could clearly see the difference between the coriander families and the soap families, even disregarding the tattoos: some families were dressed regally, neat suits with gleaming jewellery, polished shoes and shining hair, while others looked more tangled, in jumpers that had seen better days and boots that clearly weren’t meant for formal events. The Underscore family didn’t quite fit into either, all of their suits being hand-me-downs that they’d only just managed to beat the dust out of: presentable but clearly not new.
It didn’t take long for the gates to open, and for them to spill out into the field. The stands were full: only direct family was allowed in with those being sorted, so aunts, uncles and grandparents filled the stadium seats, looking down on the crowds. Tubbo’s family found themselves being pushed near to the front, right next to the raised platform where the Elders were sitting. They looked quite stupid, Tubbo thought, all wearing crowns of coriander, their clothes green and shiny. What was all the fuss about one stupid plant?
“Do they call us up by alphabetical order?” his younger sister whispered. She wouldn’t be sorted for another few years, but there was clear apprehension in her eyes.
“No, they call the people at the front up first,” his other sister replied, leaning down. “We’ll be called up pretty early. This won’t take an hour.”
Soon, the Sorting started. Families came onto the stage, one by one, their children placed before the Elders and given a plate of coriander. It was heartbreaking to watch: families of corianders coming onto the stage, only for their children to wrinkle their noses at the taste, and then getting dragged off crying as their parents abandoned them. Other times, families of soaps would come onstage, hope gleaming in their eyes, until their children spat out the coriander in disgust and it was clear to see the joy fizzle out, but that was the lucky ones. In others, the soaps’ children would pass the test, being declared as corianders, and would be led away crying as their families, forced to stay behind, wished them the best. Tubbo could see several “soap” children fake their disgust.
Over time, Tubbo was moved closer and closer, his sisters gripping his arms protectively. They were probably going to be the next on stage, the kid before him being led up, their parents in tow. The guy was tall, definitely over six feet, and towered over the little Elders in their chairs.
It was clear their parents were soaps, from their woolen cardigans and the holes in their skirts. It was slightly sad, the hopeful gleam in their eyes as they watched their child step forwards, when Tubbo knew that their family would either be ripped in two or all three of them would stay stuck in poverty.
“Name?” one of the Elders asked, holding a clipboard with a thick pile of papers attached to it.
“Ranboo M. Beloved,” the kid replied, fidgeting. It was clear that they didn’t want to be there.
The Elder flipped through her clipboard, finding their name and ticking it off, gesturing for Ranboo to sit behind the small desk. Ranboo barely fit, their knees touching the underside of it.
Another Elder - well, not really an Elder, the guy looked maybe thirty five - placed a tiny plate of coriander in front of Ranboo. They watched intently as Ranboo lifted a small pinch of it into their mouth, chewed for a second, and looked pleasantly surprised.
Their parents sighed in relief, the guards already moving to escort Ranboo away to the other corianders.
“Mm, pleasantly soapy,” Ranboo remarked, and the approving looks on the Elders’ faces melted into horror.
“A SOAP-LOVER?” one of them shrieked, clutching the front of his ceremonial clothes. “GET THE PARENTS! THEY WILL PAY FOR TEACHING THEIR CHILD SUCH A SIN!”
The guards turned away from Ranboo to grab their mothers, but they’d already dissolved into the crowd, Ranboo making a mad dash off the stage themselves, but the guards quickly tackled them to the floor. Their limp body was dragged from the stage, and Tubbo shuddered.
“Remember, even if it tastes shit, fake it,” his sister warned one final time, as they were led onto the stage.
Tubbo didn’t notice the scared looks of the Elders as he gave his name, thinking of what coriander would taste like. From the tattoos around his sister’s neck, it looked a bit like parsley, but he doubted it would taste similar, else people would also be going around saying that parsley tastes like soap. Tubbo didn’t even like parsley, he hated most fresh leaf-y herbs, like rosemary and thyme and-
His sister elbowed him. “They said to sit down,” she hissed.
Tubbo walked forwards, settling down on the seat, where there was already a small dish of coriander waiting for him. Well, this was it, he thought, picking up a generous pinch of it, reaching it towards his mouth. It was now or never. He put the leaves in his mouth and chewed.
Okay, what the fuck was the hype.
This did not taste like soap, but at the same time… It was ever so slightly gross, in the way that all fresh herbs were. It was kind of grassy in a repulsive way, and the slightly tart bitterness clung to the roof of his mouth even when he swallowed.
“A soap… Unsurprising, from the descendants of the Underscores,” one of the Elders muttered, and he shot them a glare.
“It doesn’t taste like soap, it’s just terrible,” Tubbo quickly corrected them, and their look of pity morphed into a look of disgust.
“He can taste it, yet…” one of the Elders whispered to another.
“He’s completely genetically inadequate, take him away,” someone to a guard, and they started to close in on Tubbo, who was looking around in a panic.
“It didn’t taste like soap!” Tubbo shouted desperately. “It’s just a shit herb! Why are you-”
One of the guards slapped a hand over his mouth, so he bit it, and they recoiled.
Another one grabbed his arm, and he thrashed to get them off. “You can’t-”
He met the eyes of his older sister, who was looking at him with something firm like disappointment, hugging his younger sister close.
You should’ve lied,
she mouthed, right as the guards dragged him offstage.