Chapter Text
Dear young people who have never experienced war:
War begins quietly. If you sense it coming, it's probably too late.
The console blinked up at him innocently, and Tubbo’s hands didn't stop shaking when the light died. Jack was still beside him, and then, all at once, had hands on his shoulders, shaking him wildly with a large grin.
“Oh my Gods!! We did it! We did it, Tubbo!”
Tubbo gave the same muted reaction as the console and one dry chuckle. He nearly thought Jack would hug him, but then, all at once, he was pacing the control room, clasping his fists like he needed to strangle something.
“We ought to check if he's dead, though. Head down to the prison. Yeah, Tubbo, we—”
“Jack, there's going to be a lot o’ fucking fire.” Tubbo's voice was hoarse. He’d later blame it on the day spent in Dream’s modified prison cell, in the leap past the lava. It meant little to him. He hit his chest numbly with a cough. “The force of the nuke is going to drag the air in and fan the flames, it's… it's not… it could kill you. Just be patient.”
“I can't be patient, we just fucking killed— We finally— I’ll wear fire protection! And I can drink a—” Jack’s words kind of numbed into nothing. Tubbo rubbed his eye tiredly.
“And for the radiation poisoning? Is that what you want to waste one of your fuckin’ lives on?” Tubbo mumbled with a snort. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, and then stopped to stare at it. Brown and dusty, thick and defensive. He didn't want to be another moth flitting around the sparks of destruction they kindled. He tossed it back over the chair and rolled his scarred shoulders back. “You can fucking kill yourself if you want, it's not my business, but at least know that you’re doung it.”
“Thanks for the vote of optimism, Tubbo,” Jack sneered after him. Tubbo didn't respond, staring at the launching point for a moment blankly. He brushed his hand over the barrier, then hurried up the stairs. A pair of boots smacking the slabs joined his hooves and he knew Jack was following him. He grimaced as Jack continued, “What’re you off to do now?”
“Throw myself in the L’Mancrater,” Tubbo spat. He burst out laughing, cruel and sharp as he whirled on Jack, staring at raised, unamused eyebrows. “I’m going home to my son, Jack. I'm going home— No. Not home, I’m going to Ranboo’s old house. Goodnight.”
“I could come with you.” Jack’s tone bled into oddly hopeful, just vaguely bordering on uncomfortable. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, leaning back on his heels. Hd chuckled, “We could get drinks, or… I’m right shit at this, man. What do you want to do?”
“I don't…” Tubbo swallowed. Something hot and emotional he hadn't felt in a long time was brewing in his throat, and he knew that was what they called a “boiling point”, but he shoved the lid on just a bit tighter for the time. Unlike what had just crashed into Tommy, one uranium bullet wasn't going to send him into a fiery ball of heat to outmatch the sun, to comb everything into shards. He sighed. “You're welcome to ask Technoblade for any of that. Ranboo didn't drink.”
“Perfect.” Jack stepped up beside him, patting him on the shoulder. Tubbo didn't flinch, didn't pull away, just stared at the ground in a sticky, heated hate that was just feeding its own flame.
”Did you know a nuclear bomb kills people three times?” Tubbo flopped onto his back, crossing his legs as he let the book he was trying to decipher fall onto his chest. Ranboo glanced over from where they were folding laundry on the opposite side of the bed, brows furrowed in what was probably reasonable concern.
“That sounds… awful.” Ranboo admitted. Tubbo shook his head, grinning wide as he tossed the book aside, unconcerned about finding his place again. He dragged himself onto his stomach and closed to Ranboo, tail flicking uncontrollably, childishly.
”No, it makes them perfect for taking care of things. Think about it. Three lives, immediately taken.” Tubbo snapped his fingers to show that off. Ranboo pressed their lips together tightly, and Tubbo pretended he didn't notice in favour of barrelling on his explanation, “First, the fucking heat just wipes everything within a goddamn mile or so just— Boosh. Gone. Fucking turned to ash in seconds. And it spreads out, it sweeps across and completely strips everything, it's called a flash burn, it just— like—”
Tubbo made a strange gesture with his hand, a sweeping motion that ended in a clawed hand. Ranboo’s ears lowered, and his tail curled around itself. Tubbo glanced up, then completed awkwardly to avoid scaring them off, “It's crazy.”
“I don't get how you could do that to anyone.” Ranboo gestured Tubbo over and pecked him on the forehead. Tubbo laughed, shoving them off with a roll of his eyes and Ranboo lightly smacked him on the arm for. “I'm serious, Tubbo.”
“It's more humane than blowing something up three times on its own, isn't it?” Tubbo scoffed, landing back on sitting against his palms. “It just makes more sense this way.”
“Why wouldn't you just… there’s other ways, you know?” Ranboo stood, picking up one of their vests and folding it sharply, too fast, claws a flurry of frustration. Tubbo shrugged in response, and Ranboo dropped the best in their lap. “Doesn't acting like that make you tyrannical?”
“You sound like Technoblade.” Tubbo didn't mean for it to slip on, not really, but it was cause enough for Ranboo’s tail to fluff up and his fingers to dig into the fabric of his laundry.
“Techno isn't wrong about everything.”
“Well, Techno also seems to be a big fan of the big-boom strategy himself.” Tubbo rolled his eyes. Ranboo looked away, and Tubbo swallowed regretfully. “But it doesn't matter. Listen, Ranboo, it's not… it's a last resort, okay? Just if… like, Dream were building some horrible evil fortress again, you know?”
The mention of Dream got Ranboo looking at him again, and finally, a deep exhale and their hand slipping into Tubbo’s for a comforting squeeze. But that was the end of the affection.
“I'm going to make carrot stew tonight, if you want that.” Ranboo tucked the vest away, and the topic melted into obscurity. Tubbo inched away and picked his book up again, flipping the title so it sat on his lap instead.
“Carrot stew sounds great.”
News spread fast about what’d happened to the prison, and by fast, Tubbo meant he’d sat down on Ranboo’s bed and shrugged off his armour only for his communicator to immediately begin buzzing nonstop.
< CPK > who tf set fire around the pridon
< Eryn > pridon
< CPK > pRISON
< Eryn > Sapnap
< Eryn > Sapnap
< Eryn > wow holy shit you weren't kidding
< Jack_Manifold > DON'T GET TOO CLOSE
< CPK > Ok mom
< Eryn > Found our culprit
< Jack_Manifold > If you want radiation poisoning BE MY GUEST but that's gonna fuck you up
< Eryn > Off to do a line of radiation Cpk you in
< CPK > Was anyon in there
Tubbo shut off his communicator with a sigh until it signalled someone privately messaged something to him.
<Quackity whispered to you> Tubbo what the fuck did you do
He immediately wanted to curl into himself and vomit.
Instead, he powered off his communicator completely, threw it across the room, and watched it clatter against the stone floor numbly. Micheal poked his nose above the stairs and Tubbo didn’t look at him, rolling onto his side. Micheal oinked softly, dropping beside him on the bed.
Had it been Ranboo, they would've comforted Micheal to no end.
Had it been Ranboo, he would've explained and overcompensated and cried.
Had it been Ranboo, he would've gathered his son in their arms and promised nothing would harm him, nothing would scar him or burn him or force him into positions and choices he never wanted.
Ranboo was dead, and so were any promises he made.
Micheal fell asleep as cold as the corpses that raised him. Tubbo felt the same freezing numbness, eyes dry, ribs aching, head spinning with nightmares and reality and Tommy and all the grief he wasn't feeling.
Staring at the ceiling sparked nothing.
Going for a walk sparked nothing.
Technoblade and Phil were gone, some hastily scribbled notes about extended leave, about Gods and monsters and Tubbo wondered if that were him. He didn't care. He knew Techno had to have pufferfish somewhere, and by god he was going to find them.
He’d never really looked in Techno’s house this closely before. He didn't feel completely comfortable with it, but it was better than searching Phil’s for obvious reasons. He emerged onto the wooden porch with one. One fucking pufferfish. Which was just great. Perfect. Wonderful.
He picked out one of the quills and lifted it to his lips. Before he could do much in terms of getting high as fuck, though:
“Tubbo Underscore!”
He was rudely interrupted.
Quackity stood little taller than he was, a mess of bundled swears and clothes that were too thin for any kind of winter. He stormed over, and Tubbo tucked the pufferfish into his inventory as he did, smiling tightly, “Hi, Quackity.”
“”Hi, Quackity”?! That's it?” Quackity laughed, all bristling tail feathers and spite in each syllable. “No, don't fucking “hi, Quackity” me, you just fucking leveled—”
“Dream’s dead. Punz… ‘s dead.” Tubbo stared at his hands for a moment, then looked up at Quackity again, who didn't really seem consoled by that fact. “And Tommy's…”
He shrugged. Quackity was silent for a moment, then grabbed Tubbo’s arm. Not roughly, never roughly, but Tubbo knew it was stronger than it had been in Manburg, stronger than it’d been during the trenches and late nights trying to rebuild a nation he suddenly had to hold together. Too strong for Quackity, but still gentle by comparison with who had been manhandling him today.
Very, very carefully, Quackity demanded, “Where is Tommy?”
And the Lord said unto Cain, “Where is Abel, thy brother?”
And he said, “I know not. Am I my brother's keeper?”
The silence between them ran thick. Tubbo dropped his head when Quackity let go, and took a small breath in. With whatever strength that gave them, he uttered, “Gods, Tubbo… what have you done?”
That was the shattering point, Tubbo was pretty sure. The final punch of simple punctuation that finally carved a bullet into him, and he stood up, arms outstretched to either side of him.
“I killed him. He's dead. Jack's overjoyed. Sam’s probably dead, too, I haven't checked. He got out a while ago, but you know how he is with the prison.” It came out conversational and finished bordering on manic. “It's done now. All of it. We can lie in our beds and die now.”
“Calm down.”
“Heat, pressure wave, radiation, gone! No more Tommy! No body, no nothing. He’s dead and he’s never coming back.” Tubbo’s laughter turned hiccupy, then to giggling hyperventilation, and he collapsed back onto the steps, hugging his stomach. “We’re never getting the revive book, we’re never going to— Fuck.”
Quackity’s hands slipped into Tubbo’s and he began, “Hey…”
“I’m calm!” Tubbo yanked his hands away, a fit of convulsive breathing and spastic laughter. “I’m so calm, Quackity. I'm awesome. Fucking POG, right? How long has it been since one of us said that one?”
He slumped back on the stairs. Quackity sat beside him, tiredly studying him. “You want to explain everything?”
“No, actually.” Tubbo coughed, twiddling with his ring. Quackity noted it and reached for his own.
“You’ll have to eventually.”
“Eventually can be a long time, Quackity.”
And somewhere, the sky was purple.
It was dead quiet in the ashes of the prison excepting the sound of Tubbo’s breathing echoing through his gas-mask. Jack stayed above, hovering on the threshold of the deep crater. He wore no equipment, no gasmask, and his loud laughter stung the air like his own version of radiation. Tubbo pretended he couldn’t hear, adjusting the level on his hearing-aid and shouldering on.
He decided, as he had approached and seen the smoking rubble of the prison, there wouldn’t be anything left. No scrap of red fabric, no bodies. The rubble of shattered, cracked obsidian was all dusted in a thick layer of light grey, and brown, and small splinters of chalky white. They were digging into his hooves through the attempt at armour he’d made. Looking back revealed his own mini-trail of blood before it disappeared. Jack was saying something that was outweighed by a sharp, pitchy ringing in Tubbo’s ears and a warbling, soft noise from his gas-mask. Tubbo gave him a tight smile and turned back to—
Oh.
He didn’t know at first if it was Tommy’s or Dream’s. He didn’t really want to know. The head was missing, disconnected, and so were the shoulders and one leg, and what little piece of flesh was left hung in thick, muddy clumps around the bones, dark and cooked off of them. The scent of burning meat reached his nose when he stepped closer and he immediately backed away, glancing around him for some other sign, anything else, but only devastation stared back.