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Tubbo is done.
He grabs his clothes from his closet, throwing them into the bag he threw onto his bed a few minutes ago. He crams them into the duffle bag, pushing them when they threaten to overspill. Funny, he thinks, 'cause that's the same fucking thing he's been doing with his emotions. Tubbo feels his hands shake as he grabs the compass on his desk, staring at the stupid slip of paper in it that says "Your Tommy". He grips the glowing piece of scrap metal a little tighter, wishing that he could bring himself to break it. He slams it back down on the desk, turning back to throw a knife into his bag. "What the fuck are you're doing, Tubbo?" Tubbo lets out a low laugh, spinning on his heels to face the voice, to face Quackity.
"What the fuck does it look like, Big Q?" He asks, curling his lip up into a snarl. He zips up his bag, throwing it over his shoulder. Quackity doesn't say anything for a few moments, opting to stay silent. "You haven't figured it out yet?" Tubbo scoffs.
"Where the fuck are you going?" Quackity asks, his voice dangerously low, sounding vaguely threatening. Tubbo turns slowly, his eyes narrowed into slits as he faces the man, his VP.
"Away," he snarls. "And you're not going to do a single fucking thing about it," Tubbo stands right in front of him, feeling his hands shaking. Not out of fright, he thinks, but out of fury. "You want to be the fucking President so badly, Quackity?" He asks, reaching up to grab the man by the collar of his shirt. Quackity stumbles back, pushing himself into the wall. Tubbo swears that he sees fear in the man's eyes, but he doesn't care. "All you've been doing is telling me how shit I am!" He shouts, shoving him back. Quackity winces, going completely still, his eyes huge and wary. "Oh," Tubbo snorts. "I remind you of Schlatt?"
"You.."
Tubbo stares at him, pushing himself up to his full height. "I tried," he snarls, shaking his head. "I tried so fucking hard to keep this country running. I tried to fix it, I tried to make sure we didn't go into any wars. And then, you.." he barks out a laugh, ignoring how bitter and broken it sounds. "You kept undermining me. You said you'd be on my side no matter what, and you fucking weren't. I had a plan to bring Tommy back!" Tubbo clenches his hands into fists. "I had so many plans, I knew what I was doing! I told you what I was doing!"
Quackity stares at him, his legs trembling. "I-"
"You remember what you told me, on the day of the second festival?" Tubbo asks, interrupting him. "You wanted to kill Ranboo. You wanted to fucking execute him in the middle of all of his decorations. Do you..do you remember, Quackity? Do you remember the last person who decorated for a festival?" Quackity doesn't say anything. "Do you?" Tubbo shouts, turning to face him again.
"I do!" Quackity flinches away from him. "I do, I- I- I remember."
"Maybe we should have held a firework launcher up to his head," Tubbo seethes. "Maybe that would have knocked some sense into him," he feels his flesh burn all over again, he smells how it burnt off and ignited. "Maybe, if we permanently scarred and disfigured him, that would make him learn. Maybe I'm just the only one who fucking remembers, but I think that the second festival almost turned into a hell of a lot like the first one," Tubbo laughs, reaching up to touch the scars on his face. "Maybe I'm the only one who fucking remembers what happened to the person who decorated."
Quackity is shaking now, his eyes wide and never leaving Tubbo's. "I'm- I'm sorry, I- I don't-"
"You wanted to be the President so badly, Quackity," Tubbo snorts. "You want to be the fucking President? Then be the fucking President. I'm leaving. You can pick up the pieces of what you broke. I'm not cleaning up your mess, not anymore," he turns away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Fuck you. You told me I was nothing like the person who abused me, who broke me down into sobbing messes. You told me I wasn't like him. And then, then you.." he shakes his head, biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. "And then you told me I was just like him. You said that to hurt me. To make me hate myself. And guess what, Quackity?" Tubbo turns his head, looking at the man, who has tried to make himself small and invisible. "I think you were the one who was turning into him all along. Maybe you're the new Schlatt."
Quackity chokes on a sob.
"How does that make you feel?" Tubbo whispers, feeling his chest hurt. "To be compared to your abuser? Does that make you feel good, Big Q? Does that make you feel like you're a good person?"
"No," he sobs, shaking his head. "No."
"That's what I thought," Tubbo doesn't look at him any more. He doesn't need to. "All of the Presidents in this godforsaken country have gone fucking mental. I'm not going to be the next," he scoffs. "But you, well," Tubbo smiles. "You're well on your fucking way, now aren't you? Have fun cleaning up your mess for once in your life, Big Q. I hope you have fun dealing with the fallout of your actions. Because I know I certainly will." Tubbo doesn't need to stick around any longer, so he doesn't. He turns away for one last time, walking out of his home. He scoffs at the word, mentally correcting it to "house", not "home". This place hasn't been his home in a long time.
Tubbo tried. He tried so hard, he tried to be a good President. He tried to do what was right and what was good, and no one fucking saw that. And then Quackity told him he was Schlatt, and Fundy called him a horned-bastard, and Tommy told him he was going to be the next Schlatt.
And then Tubbo decided he was fucking done.
He stalks down the wooden pathways, staring at what he has built, what he's made. If he looks past the bloodied ground it was built upon, it almost looks nice. Almost. Tubbo keeps walking, brushing past the shops he had made, turning to look up at the spot where he was shot. Not much has changed about it, he decides. Maybe some new decorating, a few new colours, but nothing important. It still is the place where he was scarred for life, it was the place where he nearly lost his life. Tubbo snorts, ducking his head as he thinks. Maybe, if he had died, things would be better.
He looks to Fundy's house, looks past that. He thinks that he can see Wilbur, but he doesn't care. Wilbur was always, and will always be, the ground plan of this nation. Everything he has ever done will always be replicated by the future people who live here, and Tubbo is fucking done with it. He's not going to go insane and blow this place to the ground. He isn't going to go crazy and beg his own father to stab him. He isn't going to become Wilbur.
Everyone was so scared of him becoming Schlatt, but they always overlooked Wilbur.
Two shitty leaders gone has never made the third good.
Tubbo exits New L'manberg, silently correcting himself to call it just L'manberg. There's nothing new about it. There's nothing important about it, not anymore. His home was destroyed a long time ago. L'manberg, he thinks, had been a people. It had been a people, and those people had been his home. There was one person, Tubbo thinks, who had always, always been his home.
Tommy.
He keeps walking, heading towards the remains of Pogtopia. If he keeps going past that, he'll find new land, new uncharted territory. Tubbo doesn't plan on returning. He isn't going to come back. He doesn't need to. Tommy was his best friend and the other, better, part of his soul. Tubbo couldn't tell him that he had a plan to bring him back, that he was going to pay Sam more money than Dream did to have that green bitch thrown in the jail he had built. Tubbo couldn't tell him any of that, because Tommy is such a shit actor, and if Dream had even gotten the slightest hint that Tubbo was plotting against him, everything would have gone to shit.
He thought he was doing the right thing by keeping L'manberg safe. That's what Fundy told him to do. He said that one life for a nation was the better option, and Tubbo had listened to him.
Clearly a bad fucking move.
Tubbo stares at the trees that pass him by, watching as pine needles fall from their place on their branches. He remembers coming out here, sneaking away from Schlatt and Quackity to find Tommy. He'd find him sitting a few metres ahead, looking for him. And when Tommy would see him, his face would break out into a grin and he'd laugh and race to hug him, and he would tell him how much he missed him and ask if he was alright. Tubbo remembers going down to Pogtopia, he remembers the smell of wet rock and damp grass that always lingered.
Even then, he thinks, was a better time than right now. Because back then, he still had a home. Back then, he had people he could call his own. Back then, he wasn't the reason for everything going to shit in this fucking nation. Tubbo knows that it's not his fault, he knows that now. But before, god, he fucking hated himself. He didn't know what he was doing wrong, he didn't understand why he was turning into Schlatt.
Turns out, he wasn't. Turns out, he was just being a goddamn kid. A kid put in a position of power, a kid who never had the chance to grow up. Tubbo never had the chance to be a kid, to be innocent and have an easy life. Two wars in the span of a few months seems to really take away a person's childhood. None of it was his fault. He knows that now. None of this was his fucking fault, there was never anything he could do about it. He was nearly killed for protecting his country, his fucking country?, and he'll never be able to forget that. Not just because of the nightmares that haunt him every single night he closes his eyes, but because of the scars, because of the burns.
He has to wear long sleeves and wraps on his arms and neck, and he fucking hates it. He hates the fact that he'll always be reminded of his choices, that he'll always be reminded of what he gave up in his life so some stupid fucking nation could thrive and live and not be broken. Tubbo hates it all, he hates it so much. He hates himself for not realising it quicker, he hates that he didn't fucking understand that he was being used, that he was still being abused. He was abused by the people who said that they would never hurt him, and Tubbo isn't going to let it happen, not again. He's learnt his lesson, he's learnt his fucking lesson, and he's never going to let his guard down again.
Tubbo doesn't plan on not moving until his feet are burnt off and his legs are broken. He's carried the nation on his shoulders long enough that he's positive that his legs are strong enough to carry him away from it.
And until then, he won't look back.
Not even once.