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Enderwalk is the culmination of one's most primal instincts.
No matter how vicious or life-threatening those instincts were, forethought is discarded in favor of now—the annex of the moment, the present without hereafter. Enderwalk is the uninhibited abilities of his enderman blood but most of his control taken away, overtaken by urge.
Ranboo's bare feet press on snow, crunching beneath his weight. The icy drafts assail frozen tendrils against his face, harsh and violent, but his eyes stay wide open, unblinking. The cold doesn't pierce through his flesh and he walks, indifferent.
The white snow, dulled by the inky sky, is cast orange by torch fire. A wooden cottage stands in the midst of bitter hail, fringed by spruce trees and scarlet shrubs. Light seeps out from the topmost floor.
His claws twitch, keen and pointed. Sharp enough to rip through bone and flesh.
Michael.
It was instinct, a want that courses through his veins, enthralling.
Ranboo shuts his eyes close and thinks of spruce and feathers. Thinks of gold and rotting flesh.
It was like nothing and everything, swallowing his body in tiny particles, fuzzy and purple. One moment, he was ankle-deep in snow, bathing in moonlight; in another, he was on wooden planks, struck hard with warmth.
He opens his eyes.
Michael.
The boy is peacefully tucked away in thick blankets, snoring. Wrapped around his arms is his chicken plush, snuggled up to his chest.
Ranboo's jaw rips open, baring teeth sharper than his claws, long and jagged. Deep enough to impale through armor, tear through limbs.
Michael.
The boy's chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Sound asleep.
Ranboo edges closer, bringing out a disfigured hand, claws brandished.
Michael.
Tubbo groggily comes to, blinking awake with effort.
His back immediately aches and he winces. His body thrums in pain. Peeling himself off the brick wall, he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to ease the ache somewhat. It doesn't work very well, and it only deepens the sting.
The smell of disinfectant lingers in the air. The ceiling lights are blinding, white and piercing, and he has to cover his eyes with a languid hand. Did he fall asleep in the lab again? He has to stop doing that.
He stands up and his body protests, needles nipping into his skin. He huffs. That's what he gets for sleeping on the floor. Tubbo snatches the keys from the top of one of the drawers. They jingle with the movement. He hobbles to the front door and switches off the lights before exiting the lab.
The cold hits him square in the face. He shivers and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. At least the freezing cold zaps him awake, sobering him enough to trudge through the snow and ice without lurching like a drunkard. His house emerges from behind the lab, glowing from the inside with amber torchlight. His lips curl into a frown. He should really snuff those out. On one hand, he's too damn exhausted to give a damn, but on the other, his son is sleeping with all those room lights blaring at his face. Surely, that's not comfortable.
Tubbo unceremoniously shoves his key in the doorknob and fails to make it fit three times before it clicks. He shoulders the door open. He stumbles inside, floorboards creaking underneath him.
Faintly, he can pick up a small noise from upstairs. Incoherent babbling, coupled with snorts and squeals. Right. Michael's still awake. How bad a parent will he be if he doesn't come up to close those lights? … Really bad, probably.
It's ample enough motivation to get him climbing up the ladder, slowly and wearily, but climbing up all the same. He pushes the trapdoor open. He secures his arms on the floor to serve as anchors and tries to pull himself up.
"Michael, I'm sorry I—"
His voice dies in his throat.
A figure, a hundred meters tall—towering over half the bedroom—sits. Its back faces Tubbo, horribly slouched, giant vertebrae pushing out the flesh of his back.
Tubbo freezes, eyes wide.
The lamp he planned to close flickers, yet the shadows don't move on the figure's skin. Pitch black.
He trembles, and he almost falls down the ladder when his body goes limp. He catches himself with shaking hands, heart racing and mind thrumming with all-consuming fear.
Somewhere behind the mass of ebony, he can hear a giggle and a shout of glee. "Ee-sah pah!"
Michael.
Tubbo can see the towering monster's mouth snap open, baring long, knife-like teeth. Its body sways forward and it reaches out a hand, fashioned with claws sharp and jagged—so long and sharp, how easily would it kill someone?—inching closer and closer to his son—
Tubbo's scream is ear-piercing.
"Michael!"
He lifts his foot to the floor and leverages it to propel himself up. The edges of his vision meld into a disconcerting mess as he runs, bolting around the monster and seizing Michael before those large claws could get a hold of him.
Tubbo hugs Michael close and books it to the trapdoor, hands trembling, daring not to look at the monster's face. Michael giggles, oblivious, wiggling his arms in excitement.
The monster screeches, deafening, blood-curling. It sends tremors down his spine. It spurs Tubbo to run faster, get himself out of here, get Michael out of here.
Then, he picks up a dreadful sound. A muted chitter that he's heard so many times, in moments right before death. The shadow touching the back of his heels suddenly fills the entirety of his body, clouding everything in black.
Tubbo’s breath gets caught in his throat. Did the blasted thing just teleport?
And at that moment, Tubbo grits his teeth. He braces himself for an attack, muscles tensing, mentally preparing himself for hurt—
It comes in the form of claws, ripping off the back of his jacket and tearing his skin. The attack has Tubbo tripping on his feet, and he falls face-first into the floor. In reflex, he twists his body to the side where Michael wouldn't get hurt. His right shoulder crashes onto the wooden floor, and he yells, strangled.
Michael gasps in surprise, laughing as he bounces on Tubbo's arms. "Oo-let! Oo-let!"
Tubbo makes a dying grunt. Fuck, his back hurts like hell. He pushes himself to keep going, keep moving, get away from the monster. His limbs refuse to follow. Tubbo blinks the tears away. His vision is swimming. His eyelids are heavy. He is so exhausted.
The creature looms over their heads, covering the torchlight and shrouding Tubbo and Michael. Tubbo looks up, trembling, his fear catching up to him. Two, wide, unblinking eyes. They seem to glow, washing Tubbo's vision in lavender. Its mouth is snarled, hostile, adorned with teeth that could eat through his ribcage with one accidental snap. The monster’s growling, eyes narrowed and its breath hitting his face. Or maybe a not so accidental snap.
Tubbo's chest quivers. His blood is rushing to his head, bringing with it the thundering beats of his heart, deafening. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
But then the monster’s eyes go wide, and it suddenly clamps its mouth shut. Its teeth clatter, and it recoils back.
Tubbo stares, confused. Its elongated ears seem to droop apologetically, back hunched submissively. Tubbo blinks rapidly if only to rid the illusion of friendliness. Is the monster—
Half its face is blotchy with white, contrasting the black that colors the other side… of its face…
The realization hits him like an anvil rammed to his head.
"... Ranboo?" Tubbo tries, feeble. Unsure.
It gives him no answer. It moves, wrapping its fingers around his arm, the other hand reaching for Michael. Tubbo flinches and desperately kicks them away. The monster retracts as if it's been seared with fire.
Tubbo scowls. "Whoever the fuck you are,"—Tubbo scrabbles to sit up, backing away from the monster, clutching his son in fear that it would rip him off of his arms—"stay the hell away from Michael!" Tubbo's back hits the wall, aggravating his wound, and he hisses.
The monster's expression shoots up. Its hand—that nosy fucking hand—creeps closer again but Tubbo barks, "Back off!" It obliges, obediently placing its hand on its lap. Its ears droop lower.
Tubbo doesn't look away from the monster for a single second, readying himself for the worst. He fumbles, clambering to the trap door as cautiously but as quickly as he could.
Before he could swing the latch open and get the hell out of there, despite the shade dancing across its face, Tubbo spots two scars running along its cheek, gray and gnarled. He hesitates, risking a single blink lest it was a trick of the light.
His heart turns into stone, and it sinks to his stomach.
Was it actually…?
"Ranboo?" he quavers, trying again.
From then came more evidence—the horrid, neon green tie plastered on its dress shirt, Ranboo's birthday gift from Tubbo two months ago; the almost imperceptible green tint of its right eye and the red hue of its left, overlaid by purple; and even the way it stood, clunky and awkward, with legs too long to settle right.
The monster doesn't utter a single syllable in reply, gaze unwavering.
It's wearing a fucking suit.
Tubbo doesn't notice Michael wiggling out of his grip. He only sees him running towards the monster, away from his hold, and Tubbo shouts in alarm, throwing his entire body to catch his son. He misses by the breadth of a hair, and Michael jumps straight to the monster.
“No!” Tubbo screams. He has to save Michael—he has to—
It perks up and catches Michael, wrapping its spindly arms around the piglin who giggles. Tubbo stares, helpless, as it places Michael back down and pets his head with a fondness only a parent could harbor for their child.
Tubbo's tremors stop, suspicions attested.
It's Ranboo.
Tubbo stands, frowning, arms crossed and foot bouncing. He's on his last ropes, threatening to snap and send him spiraling down.
"Ranboo, can you please explain why you look like the literal incarnation of all my nightmares combined?" he pleads, frustrated. He's asked a million times already but Ranboo refuses to answer, staring cluelessly. That's all he does. Stare. Is there something on his face? Can't someone give Tubbo some sort of explanation here?
Michael gibbers, "Anoh kah! Gwah-pu pah reen si tah-tay noh!"
At Michael's humbug, Ranboo's tail flicks back and forth in what seems to be delight, eyes forming crescent moons as he ruffles Michael's head. With all his harsh edges and deadly features, he seems pleased. Tubbo is far from it.
"Is this, like, your true form or something? Enderman by day, monster by night?" His head is working miles a minute. With none of the other two helping him out, his brain is pushing overdrive to connect vaguely there dots that might not even exist.
Ranboo's attention remains fixed on Michael who's chattering nonsense, unaffected by Tubbo's guessing.
"Ah-nong muhn-seter ka jahn?" Michael babbles.
Tubbo continues theorizing, "Or is it—what're those called? Transformation? Like, transformers—or sailor… sailor moon, was it? Except instead of rainbow princess, metal hero power, you turn into," Tubbo pauses, eyes sweeping across Ranboo unkindly, "that."
Ranboo makes a trilling sound of something akin to protest.
Michael speaks up, ever so helpful, "Bah-stohs muh na man!"
Tubbo continues, "Radiation poisoning? We did enter the testing site without proper suits. No, I would've been affected as well. Or is it because you're half-enderman? Do endermen have a different reaction to radiation?" His fingers pinch his chin, suckling his bottom lip. "Maybe it's your other half? You never told me your other half—no, you said you don't know either. Is this your other half in action?"
As Tubbo chatters away, Michael tugs at the hem of Ranboo's sleeve, eyes pleading. Ranboo immediately understands, and he clutches Michael's waist before tossing him in the air. Michael laughs, little hooves splaying as he comes down only to be caught by strong hands. Ranboo does a splendid job avoiding Michael with his claws, throwing him up and receiving him with the junction between his thumb and index.
Tubbo drones on and on. "Is this an enderman thing? You're as tall as one now, definitely, but you look so different. Enderman plus plus, except the plus is just an additive to the creepy factor." He's pacing now, legs unable to keep still with his mind racing like it is. "Creepy factor… is this you role-playing as a—what are those called again?—ah, right, creepypasta OC? You like role-playing, right? With your ‘what's this’s and the owo's.’ No, that's dumb. You wouldn't get this far without so much as a laugh."
Tubbo lifts his head, directly at Ranboo. "Are you going to answer or are you just going to—" Tubbo interrupts himself with a gasp. He bolts to snatch Michael mid-air, who was plunging straight into Ranboo's long claws. "What are you doing?! Have you seen your fucking nails? Do you want to get our son killed?"
Ranboo's tail stops wagging. His mouth opens to whine, soundless.
Tubbo breathes heavily, hoping to let all the stress out through his lungs. It doesn't work, nothing but hot air forming translucent mist. Well, if it did, no human on Earth would be stressed. But Tubbo could hope and, god, does he need that hope.
Michael squeals from his arms. He struggles against Tubbo's hold, crying to go back to Ranboo.
Tubbo frowns, shushing Michael softly. "It's too dangerous, Michael. I don't want you to get hurt."
Michael doesn't stop resisting. In fact, he struggles harder. Why does Michael want to be held by this monster Ranboo so badly anyway? Isn't he scared? Aren't babies sensitive to scary stuff? Ranboo is the pinnacle of scary.
Gears shift slowly in his head, in need of oiling, rusty. But the gears do their best anyway. He needs to fit all the puzzle pieces. He needs to figure this out. He needs to sleep.
"Michael, how many times has your father visited you like this?" Tubbo says.
Michael babbles, "Ahp-at!"
"That's not a number." Tubbo sighs. He didn't know what he was expecting, really. Interrogating a three-year-old piglin. Is this where he falls off?
Eventually, Tubbo gives up. He hands Michael over to Ranboo who perks up and smiles wide, exposing all his sharp teeth. Ranboo settles Michael on his lap and tickles his side with the dull curve of his claws and Michael laughs, unrestrained.
Tubbo closes his eyes.
Maybe in another universe where the sun is high up in the sky and burning eyes with glaring light, Tubbo would try and drag Ranboo out of his house, sit him in the lab and conduct formal experiments. Figure out what in the world is going on, why he's like this, maybe get a few words out of him, turn him back somehow. But frankly, he's bone-fucking-tired, and his brain is too exhausted to think about science, let alone dragging nine feet tall monsters in ankle-deep snow and into his lab.
It takes an embarrassing amount of effort to open his eyes again.
Ranboo is covering his face with his hands now, Michael's hooves pressing on the back of his palm. Ranboo swings his hands open, face contorted silly (which is as silly as it is creepy). Michael claps, screaming jovially for the night terror’s funny face.
Eldritch horror playing peek-a-boo with his son. That's not a sight he predicted witnessing today. Or even seeing in the last remaining years of his life. But here he is.
The flames above them wane. Tubbo really wants to go to bed, yet there is a stubborn determination that gnarls in his gut. He's not willing to drag Ranboo out and go back into cold weather, but he's willing to do some sort of effort. He is so fucking sleepy.
He stumps on over to the other side of the room, grabbing a stray chair. He drags it next to the bed and slumps onto it, crossing his arms and lodging his gaze on Ranboo and Michael. He'll keep watch. If Ranboo and Michael won't contribute to his brainstorming, then he should gather more data for evidence. His hypotheses are presupposed on nothing but guesses, so some observation ought to give him some leads.
Ranboo is still playing peek-a-boo with Michael.
Tubbo narrows his eyes to keenly observe and not because they're drooping and heavy.
Ranboo swivels his hands open and Michael cheers. Tubbo watches the way Ranboo moves his mouth as if he was talking yet no words come spilling out. Is he actually talking? Are those actual words? Is this some sort of lip language? The only lip talking Tubbo's seen is the type Tommy does when he's surrounded by people with netherite armor, pissed at his latest shenanigans, and Tommy glances Tubbo's way, mouthing 'help' with no sound.
Tubbo narrows his eyes harder, following Ranboo's lips. "Bu-lah-ga?" he says, trying his damndest to copy Ranboo's silent language.
Tubbo tries and tries again, growing more and more frustrated. It's the same thing! Bu-lah-ga, bu-lah-ga, bu-lah-what? What is this? The whisper challenge? Are they filming him right now? Is this a YouTube video? He better get a million fucking views.
Either bu-lah-ga means something else and Tubbo is inherently bad at reading lips or Ranboo is pulling the wool over Tubbo's eyes. He wouldn't be surprised. Ranboo does look like the guy to pull wool over his eyes any day… That sounds nice actually. Wool on his eyes, covering his sight. Nice and fluffy and warm, letting his vision close and veil in darkness, coaxing him to sleep—shit.
There's a small voice in the back of his head, sounding oddly like himself when the day is new and youthful, energy rejuvenated. Are you giving up that easy? Who knows how long this Ranboo stays! This might be your only chance.
But there's another voice, louder, marked with echoes that lull him to ease, sounding oddly like Tommy and Ranboo talking at the same time. Tubbo, go to sleep. You look like a fucking scarecrow. The Ranboo voice doesn't talk for one of the words.
Tubbo heaves a sigh. Tommy and Ranboo have always been more convincing than himself.
The inner Tubbo voice massages his back, handing him phantom water bottles, encouraging him to go on like how a coach would a boxer. Is that Tubbo now? A boxer? He wouldn't make a good boxer. He's always been better with swords and bows, fists unaccustomed to pain. He'd be beaten to a pulp by his opponent, and he'd score zero points…
In the blurry outside, Ranboo places a finger on his lips, hushing Michael.
Tubbo is out like a light.
Ranboo blinks awake.
His body hurts all over. His head is splitting apart and he presses a finger on his temple, hoping to relieve it with pressure. A groan rips out of his throat. Usually, it doesn't hurt this bad. When the headache dies down and Ranboo could see what's in front of him with some sort of clarity, he pauses. Sunlight filters through the window and a cold draft seeps into his suit. The floor is made of spruce, dark and rich.
Spruce? Didn't he sleep in his bed at home?
He raises his head, panicked. There are paintings hung up on the walls—him, Tubbo, and Michael, all smiling. There are bookshelves in one corner, packed to the brim with children's books, Peter Pan and King Midas emblazoned in silver thread. The ceiling roof is high and his head doesn't precariously scrape the surface. He's sitting on a bed half the size of his body, covered in yellow sheets that smell of fur and floral detergent and baby powder. He's in Michael's room.
How?
Deja vu trickles in rivulets of realization, the first pitter-patters of rain, before crashing into him as a tidal wave. He jerks, heart stuttering. Don't tell me…
And then he finds Tubbo, beside the bed, head lolled onto the back of his chair. His chest rises in a slow rhythm, snoring. Ranboo's stomach churns, fire searing his throat. Why is Tubbo here?
Ranboo’s heart races and his shoulders gather. He turns in on himself, and a dreadful thought weighs heavy on his mind.
Did he see it?
He backs up, and his back collides with the wall, halting him.
Did he see him?
"Ranboo?"
Ranboo's entire body tenses up. His breath trembles and he has the sudden urge to throw his hands in the air, caught red-handed. It's cruel really, fate and her whims. Tubbo was the last person he wanted to know.
Tubbo rubs his eyes, yawning. He blinks sleepily at Ranboo. "Ranboo?" he says, lilting higher, more of a question than a greeting.
"Hi," Ranboo says in a tone that would have any judge rule him guilty with no second thoughts.
At the sound of his voice, Tubbo jolts as if struck by lightning. "Ranboo? Is that you?" he asks, gripping at the seat of his chair. "Is it really you?"
"I think it's me," Ranboo says, bemused. Tubbo is looking at him the way he looks at Ranboo’s money. It rings alarm bells in his head. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Tubbo rises. He inches closer to Ranboo with careful steps. "Really? No more sharp claws? No more extra three feet?" Tubbo says, talking so fast his words merge into themselves.
Ranboo's brows knit together. "I am so confused."
"Holy shit," Tubbo whispers—a prayer, a salute. A tear springs out of the corner of his eye, shimmering. Grateful. "I can finally yell at a person and not a brick wall."
Tubbo's words are a puzzling punch in the gut, each stronger than the last. "What—"
Tubbo batters his hand on Ranboo’s shoulder, clutching hard. Ranboo jerks. Tubbo’s grip is death itself. "Ranboo, you better explain why the fuck you turned into a Lovecraftian nightmare at 4 in the damn morning or I will rip off your testicles.”
A feeble noise squeaks at the back of Ranboo's throat. "Huh?"
Safe to say, Tubbo never lets enderwalk Ranboo babysit without supervision ever again.
Except for when he does.
(⌇⊑⊑, ⎅⍜⋏'⏁ ⏁⟒⌰⌰ ⊬⍜⎍⍀ ⎎⏃⏁⊑⟒⍀, ⋔⟟☊⊑⏃⟒⌰.
[Shh, don't tell your father, Michael.]
"Oh-ki poh!")