Chapter Text
"No stop it stop it stopitstop!-"
It's cold.
It's dark.
And Tommy Innit is dead.
So why doesn't he feel dead? This isn't what happened to Ghostbur. Couldn't be.
He doesn't dare push through the wool wrapped around his brain. Just... just keep thinking about how fucking cold he is and he won't need to think about everything else ever. He can keep this up for eternity if that's where he is, no problem.
About five seconds later he gives up because it’s really fucking boring.
There's something weighing him down. He flexes his fingers and finds that the cold emptiness in the death void of wherever the fuck he is feels... crunchy. It packs together as he squeezes his fingers around it.
A sharp gust - there's wind, why the fuck is there wind - against his face has him gasping for air and his eyes shoot open to a cloudy night sky, a tiny sliver of the moon peering down at him, giving him just enough light to see fuck-all. Clenched in his hand is a little pathetic lump of snow. He’s half buried in the stuff, like he’s just fallen out of the sky. All sprawled out like a cartoon.
Yeah, no, something's wrong here. He doesn't really remember any time he thought about what happened after death, but waking up in a random snowy forest was never on the table if he had. Probably. Hard to say.
He looks around the clearing from his spot on the ground. It’s sort of pretty. Super aesthetic with all the bare tree trunks and all. Is there snow in the Nether? Some of these trees almost look red where the moonlight hits them.
Thinking about how nice the scenery is is way better than thinking about how cold he is. He’s still cold, of course, but at least now he’s not bored.
Relatively as bored.
Okay, no. Still kind of boring to look at the scenery when there’s no music playing or best friend at his side.
(Does Tubbo know he’s dead yet? Or, that he’s not dead after all? Which is it? Which is worse?)
He doesn't move for a little while longer anyway, until he hears that telltale groan. It's just one zombie, slowly getting more and more stuck on a gnarled berry bush as it tries its best to reach him, but he's unarmed and not in the best shape, because he just got fucking murdered.
Beaten to death.
By Dream, who he should’ve never been trapped with in the first place.
With a fucking potato.
His head hurts. He checks for bumps, bruises, anything. But there’s nothing, not a single shred of proof that that even happened. The respawn must’ve dealt with it. But he’s seen the scars left behind on Tubbo, surely this should’ve left a scar too.
It hasn't. What does that mean?
Just-
stop it stop it-
Deep breath.
Step one, for everyone who has ever existed, no matter how much you’ve lost. Step one will always be ready when you’re ready to start again.
Just get some wood, get some branches, get something sharp with a little range. Instinct and practise take over as he sets off through the woods.
Step one is a fucking lie though, apparently, because instead of a helpful chunk of wood, or even a stick of pity, the wood crumbles into useless splinters at his touch. It stains his skin too, but it’s too dark tell what colour.
This is shit. And it quickly gets shittier, because where there was just one zombie before, now there’s three, and the berry bush has been flattened.
Oh wait. Now it’s seven.
Eight.
Maybe he should stop counting (eleven). Tommy's confident strides into the darkness are now more like a frantic sprint as zombies start slowly pouring out from every direction. At least there aren't any creepers around.
Yet.
He's still confident he can outrun them, at least until he runs straight into a dead end of tangled thorns and fallen dead trees, because the universe has decided it hates him.
Right. No weapons. No armor. No way out.
Let’s try intimidation.
“Fuck off! Get the fuck away from me!” he shouts, with all the bravado he can muster. "Useless dead bastards!"
It works! It’s a miracle! He’s the zombie whisperer, he thinks to himself as the zombies all stop for a moment and then slowly turn and shuffle away.
It's a great chance to run, but Tommy doesn't take it.
He really wants to but there's...
There's something else out there. Something growling, snarling, a low rumble that resonates through his bones, crawls across his skin and chokes his throat.
His eyes burn as he refuses to blink, taking in as much of the thing as he can. Even with the moonlight, he can just barely make out the approaching silhouette.
It's... a wolf. A lone wolf.
It shouldn’t be so big.
It shouldn’t be charging at him.
It shouldn’t be that fast, oh shit-
A torch sails through the air, the bright orange glow freezing both him and the beast in place. It strikes the beast’s face and it yelps and shrieks as the fur ignites for a moment, retreating into the darkness at the edge of the torch’s light. Mist erupts from the snow as it buries its face in it.
The torch falls to the ground, still lit, scattering embers everywhere.
Someone leaps out of the trees. An axe in one hand, and they pick up the torch with the other. They put themselves between Tommy and the beast without a moment's hesitation, the axe held out in a clear warning for it to back the fuck away. The hand holding the axe is shaking, but it's still a weapon and this person clearly wants to protect him from this absolute unit of a wolf, so Tommy's not going to make fun of them for it later.
(Maybe just a little bit.)
It’s waiting just outside where the light from the torch stops, he can see its eyes against the bright white fur. They’re completely black, Tommy notices. No glossy sheen of obsidian or the earthy grit of blackstone, but like little empty pits of nothingness. Not even reflecting the torchlight. He drags his eyes away from the wolf to get a better look at his rescuer.
They're tall. Not quite as tall as him, obviously being the canonical tallest and all. The ranger's cloak they're wearing is torn and shredded at the bottom and covered in patches. It's a hideous shade of green and so long that he can't see anything else.
Until they turn their head towards him, just a little bit, and their face's profile is thrown into sharp relief by the torch.
Or, the lack of it.
Tommy's heart digs a hole, crawls in and sets itself on fire.