Chapter Text
With every thought grinds more sand between metal cogs into dust, each step into unforgiving maelstrom exhausts a bar of Tubbo’s batteries. The onerous humdrum of the life they lead. His prized bee cloak, fabric frayed, pale piss yellow and it’s antenna attached only by a thread, is no match for the biting whips of sand, now a looming cascade that threatens to blow them off their feet. It’s highly unlikely it’d sweep them off their feets with all their luggage, but it’s a possibility.
They’re two fingers away from the sun hitting the horizon, giving them a sufficient amount of time to seek shelter behind the ruins around before the storm whisks in dusk. Usually, he’d pick a sturdy brick wall, but the evening view hosts naught in the near or far distance, which gets the robot to start thinking.
Red bleeds in the sky, forming branches of maroon in perforated rain clouds and tinting the tides of sand rose red. Silhouettes of buildings are registered as gravestones in the far distance, but are quickly amended with a bat of his eye.
If it was a warning from a celestial being, the duo cared not to heed, legs marching on before their minds could differ in hopes for more scraps.
Tommy pauses, which precipitates Tubbo’s own halt, and tugs on the robot’s hood more violently than the sandstorm and points dextral to them. Of course, Tubbo is mildly confused, and is even more confused to see a sparkle in the distance. Occam’s razor sets in place and discards his irrationality - a beast (they detest light) or an alien - in favour of arithmetics and probabilities. Numbers don't lie.
And through the miasma of math and percentages, Tubbo estimates a negligible percentage that they’d be dead men walking approaching the base. Normally, the chances would be 99.283%, but they’re in the south and this means that Sapnap’s protection, sold at the high price of five instant coffee packets, is still in effect. The Sapnap. The name now sends a jolt of joy down his spine.
They also don’t lose much, disregarding Sapnap’s protection, and Tubbo’s already burnt through half of his batteries to be able to use his own built in flashlight. What's the harm in more light?
Slow and steady, they march forwards to the buzzing light, and it turns into a dot, then a square, then a really wide rectangle, then to an establishment Tubbo quickly identifies as a convenience store. The light, a bright neon sign reminiscent of the 1980s, stands rusted and riddled with holes, flickering with stubborn tenacity, fighting death. The scratches left on the window pane makes it look like frosted glass, and a chime startles them as they walk into the establishment.
They step in and it’s fucking cold. Tubbo’s sensors detect it to be around 29°C, and he feels his circuits cooling down without the help of a fan. Tommy looks like death warmed over - knees are buckling in, fingers trembling and huddling close into his bulletproof vest like it’d help, and Tubbo can’t help but forsake his coat to the shivering boy.
Tommy flicks his goggles up and stares around like a deer in headlights. The boy is awfully fond of words, hence his infinite stock of them whenever Tubbo tries to talk, but the cold has frozen whatever words now pooling up in his mouth, only letting his expression do the talking. It's like a wild squirrel in a cage.
In a split second, apprehension contorts into a wide smile, colour seared into his cherry rose cheeks with a blinding eureka. It’s essentially an undiscovered wonder of the world for him; an oasis that’s actually corporeal, technological shangri-la, and Tommy cups his face in thrill.
“Tubbo, wherethefuckareweandcanwemakeabasehereohmyfuckinggodthisissofuckingpog-”
“-A convenience store. And yeah.”
It takes a while for Tommy to register it in his buzzed state. His sudden burst of euphoria was due to him coming face to face with a unicorn, in this case, air conditioners. They're myths, and the most people have ever seen of it are ones fully beyond repair.
Tommy combs his sand-tangled hair back to his usual bird's nest condition, and Tubbo could spot Orion in Tommy’s eyes as he dusts the sand off from his sleeves and looks around the empty shelves and then the refrigerated section, his clever wit reduced to simple gasps and cheers.
“Dude, dude, what the fuck is this thing?”
A cacophony of metal clunk against one another, and Tubbo turns to find Tommy hoisting a cash register over his head. Worries of its contents pouring down on the boy like a waterfall arises, but it'll take more than a few coins to take out the tenacious bloke.
“It’s a cash register. So basically before the-”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Tub-bot.” According to the ethics bible, ‘How to be respectful for Dummies’, interrupting one when they’re in the middle of an explanation is a level one on the rudeness scale. But apparently, sticking to the books is boring, and Tubbo is just as boring if he does.
From his peripheral, he observes Tommy dust more sand off cargo jeans. Obviously bored, he points his finger off into the distance and inquires, “What’s that?”
“It’s a refrigerator.”
There's a resounding pause. “Come again?”
Tubbo hears him loud and clear, but takes the time to look at his reflection like the robotic rebel he is. It’s the second time he’s done it in his life now — staring at himself.
Sable leather meets his chin, feeling the rough texture of it as he inspects his face for any damages. His skin is smooth like a child’s, and his reflection casts a lost child, his kind face the perfect substitute for a childless mother if they could look past the purple markings on his cheeks and horns that protrude out his brown hair.
His eyes are a stunning kaleidoscope of gold, green and blue that sparkle with childish glee, but from close, that veneer of humanity is thinner than sunlight. It’s uncanny, and he’d fail the Turing test based on his eyes alone. His green shirt has seen better days, and so has his trusty shoulder bag.
He looks upon the tiles below, and as requested, explains to the best of his abilities.
“So basically, a century ago, people would store their perishables in one of these bad boys to preserve them for longer. It helps keep the bacteria, yeasts and mold from the favourable temperature imperative to their growth.”
Even with his best efforts, it falls short, and the response of clear confusion from Tommy's end informs him well of it.
“Yeah, you’re going to have to dumb that down a lot. I genuinely don’t understand it at all.”
“Okay, basically, the cold keeps food like vegetables, dairy, and meat good for longer because germs can’t grow on it.”
“Then, let’s just steal one of ‘em refrigerator things so we can keep our food more pog for longer.”
“Wha- that's literally not how a refrigerator works. They need power to keep it's storage cool, and they’re fixed to the building.”
Tommy draws his trusty wrench out the side of his pockets. “Tubbo, just watch and learn from the most powerful man to walk this planet.”
And Tubbo heeds, following the order faithfully. Like a man on a mission, Tommy approaches the penultimate shelf and his reflection casts a hungry wolf as the boy went to work on dismantling it. Normally, Tubbo would’ve left him to it, but an anomaly arises when Tommy pops off the glass door from its hinges - there’s a massive hole. Not shelves, just a dirt hole forwards. It’s a shocker for both of them.
Footsteps in and out indicates that this either has to be a secret base or cult, and the size and sole of the footprints remains the same; one person, so it’s a base. It’s the average size of a human male in their early twenties, and Tubbo deduces from the depression that this man is either insanely tall, or insanely heavy.
Either ways, a glitch of trepidation sparks from his fingertips to his cable viscera, and words clutter to form a blockade in his throat.
Cogs churn, and hypotheses and explanations clash to explain what would be the next best move. Well, up until Tommy bursts out in awe, helplessly starstruck. “Dude, dude,you’re seeing this right? It’s a fuckin’ - room! This is so fucking Pog! Do all these - err - con-whatever stores have these?”
“I don't think so."
In a scarce moment Tubbo often wishes for, Tommy displays conventional rationality and survival instincts, and juxtaposes his thrill with a questioning glance. “Should we check it out? Like, there’s footprints. Means someone’s base, yeah? Do we just leave? What if it’s a trap and there’s like fifty guys waiting to ambush us there?” Except this time, it’s completely unwarranted.
They have immunity against anyone weaker than Sapnap, so it would be a complete waste of resources, and though they’re no Dream or Technoblade, the two of them pack a mean punch together so if push comes a shove, they could take on a lone grown man.
Also, Tubbo’s got an incinerator built in his right arm and a flamethrower in his left, so it wouldn't be too hard a fight lest they've developed an immunity, which is improbable.
“Nah. We can always beat them up if we have to.”
Tommy smiles. “Touché. let’s go.”