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It hurts, the first blast to the chest. It’s not an arrow that Techno fires, but a literal explosive. The force rocks him backwards into the blackstone throne behind him and he braces his arms on the yellow concrete holding him in to keep himself from collapsing entirely. It’s only then that it hits him. Metaphorically. The actual firework had hit him just moments prior, and- anyways.
He’s so tired. The pain in his chest hurts, but what hurts more is the scenery. He’s stuck on this stage at a festival he planned out with the man that was supposed to be on his side (whatever that was in the first place) holding a crossbow at his chest. Technoblade’s currently bent over, reloading the weapon with swift precision and what might be regret in his eyes. Schlatt and Quackity watch. What surprises him more than the fact that he’s about the die is that Schlatt looks upset. Like he doesn’t want to do this, like he trusts… or, well. Trusted Tubbo.
And maybe, if things had turned out differently, Tubbo would feel bad for betraying Schlatt like he has time and time again. He thinks that… maybe, if Schlatt hadn’t discovered him, he’d have had some second thoughts about this whole thing, considering Wilbur’s situation. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or not that he never reached the point where he couldn’t put his faith in Tommy.
Techno cocks the crossbow again. Tubbo looks around at the audience that’s stood completely still below him, and he’s not sure if it’s inaction or horror keeping them glued to their seats. He watches the banners he’d placed blow back and forth, a calm wave in the light breeze. He looks out at the decorations he’d prepared and realizes that the party that he’s just hosted was simply a pre-show for his own funeral. And isn’t that funny? He’s dug his own grave! Not only that, but he’s planned the procession, and the after party, and chosen the coffin he’s to be buried in. The irony of the fact that it’s of blackstone and yellow concrete doesn’t escape him. He’s going to be murdered in the same materials walls that were built to protect him were once made of. The same walls he tore down. He chokes down nervous laughter.
He wonders what’s going through Technoblade’s mind. He wonders if Techno sees Tubbo in front of him, or if he sees a traitor, or Schlatt’s right hand man, or a faceless nobody, fodder for the fighting machine he was. He wonders if Techno sees the way he’s shaking, or the blood that he can feel dripping down his chin, or the fact that his voice is still cracking as he begs Schlatt to let him out. He wonders if Techno knows that he really, really doesn’t want to die at 16. He wonders if that even matters to him.
Techno pauses- a barely perceivable movement to anyone that isn’t staring the grim reaper in the face, crown and cape and all, but he stops. His movement stutters slightly (only slightly), and he breathes, a heavy sigh, accepting that he’s about to do something regrettable. He mutters an apology under his breath like words and platitudes are worth anything to a dying man. The crossbow fires with another loud bang- and this time he goes flying from the impact. The concrete around him explodes into pieces and he lands with a thud away from the podium on the grass. He is bloodied, and he’s bruised, and he’s burning, burning, screaming and-
He blinks awake in a bunker below the lake, every bone in his body aching, adrenaline piercing through the dizziness he’s beginning to feel. He stands and nearly vomits, the pounding in his head and the burning smell that still lingers in his nose sickening. His face feels numb. And then, more fireworks go off. The screaming from above him grows from a low roar to a ear splitting screech. He needs to get moving.
Tubbo runs- faster than he’s ever run from Dream when he’d stolen his sword, faster than he’s run from Tommy during a bit gone wrong, faster than he’s run from Pogtopia to Manberg in an attempt to not blow his cover. He sprints down the tunnel and into the hidden path and his lungs burn from acrid smoke and over exertion and his suit is torn at the seams and he’s so, so, so tired.
He thought he could trust Techno and ended up with a rocket to the chest. He thought he could help his friends and ended up scheduling his own execution. He thought he could trust Eret and ended up in a blackstone room, pistons clicking behind him. He thought he could save L’manberg and ended up the right hand man of the man who tore it to the ground. Trust and kindness don’t seem to get anyone anywhere anymore.
That’s fine, he thinks, even as he reaches the hill where Pogtopia is hidden. Maybe people don’t need to be kind or trust people to get anywhere. It seems to be working out well for Wilbur. That guy was completely off his rocker, and yet somehow he’d ended up making it out of there better off than Tubbo did.
It’d be so easy, he thinks, to be vengeful like Wilbur, or to be angry like Tommy, who’s now currently threatening Technoblade with a very large knife. It’d be so easy to be manipulative like Schlatt, or to treat everything like a joke like Quackity. All he’d have to do is try.
Tubbo thinks he’s sick of trying. He’d tried to build a good festival, he’d tried to be a good spy, he’d tried to hear out Schlatt and Wilbur in their far too personal squabble. And all he got from it was a rocket to the chest and a banishment from the nation he’d helped build and tear down and build up again. Trying took effort, trying took lives, and Tubbo was all out of effort to give to people like Wilbur and Schlatt.
All he ever wanted was peace. All he ever really wanted in this world was his friends and a home. And then Dream took his home and his pets and his family in the revolution. Schlatt took his home and his friend and his freedom in the aftermath. He can’t win. And now? Wilbur’s got a crazed look in his eyes as he raves about razing the nation they built to the ground, and he tells Tubbo to trust no one, not even his friends, and he… it repeats. Over, and over, and over- loss after loss after loss. When will it be enough?
He doesn’t think it’ll ever be enough for people like Schlatt and Dream and Wilbur and Technoblade. They take and take and Tubbo doesn’t know how much left he has to give.
Well, that’s not quite true.
He’s drained. Everything he’s had to offer is gone and now here he sits, another exiled founder forced to watch as the people who’re supposed to be on his team laugh and scheme and ramble like proper villains. Maybe Schlatt had been right about the tyrant thing. Not about anything else, of course. Of course. He steps away from the ravine, the monologuing of a madman fading into the distance.
Tommy sits next to him with a huff, bruised as well from his fight with Techno.
“You really didn’t have to fight him, you know.” Tubbo looks over at Tommy, the younger bandaging his split knuckles with a piece of fabric torn from his pants.
“He killed you.” Tommy doesn’t elaborate, like that statement is enough. Tubbo touches his scarred cheek reflexively.
Maybe it is. Tommy was always different. He acted like he took, and like he stole, and like he’d burn the world for burning’s sake. But all his friend ever seemed to do was look out for him and ramble about being a hero and morals and all he expected in return was for Tubbo to "bother" him occasionally. No hidden fees, no asking him to do something he doesn’t want to do. No betrayal. Just Tommy and Tubbo. Like it had always been.
“I’m tired, Tommy.” He says it like he’s admitting a deep secret.
“Me too,” Tommy agrees. It’s simple, and it’s short. “Wilbur’s lost it. Really, properly lost it.”
“I don’t want to keep fighting, Tommy.”
“Me too.”
“We have to keep going, don’t we?” He asks, and not for the first time he wishes so badly they could’ve up and run the night the festival was announced, away from everything.
Tommy’s quiet for a second, like he’s thinking about running too. But Tommy was always a better person than Tubbo was, and so he nods in agreement. “We can’t let him destroy L’manberg.”
Tubbo sighs, and it makes his ribs ache from the impact of the rocket. Slowly, he nods as well. “Okay. Then we won’t.”
He's so tired. He feels like has nothing left to give, but for Tommy? He’ll figure something out.