Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He can’t remember when they first started — the lapses in memory, that is. It’s sort of… always been this way. Ranboo has bad memory. But when he tries to recall his past, think of his childhood, he just… draws a blank. How did his parents deal with this? Did they ever know? Did it start later in life? All these questions have the same non-answer: he doesn’t remember. Ranboo doesn’t know what his parents look like. He’s sure he must have had them, but his parents, whoever they are, aren’t here. Ranboo’s earliest memory is Dream.

It’s not a bad memory, he thinks. Kind of. Dream asked him to come to his land, and of course Ranboo wasn’t going to say no to a guy like Dream — not that he has any recollection of why he was afraid of Dream — so Ranboo came. His first regret is saying yes, and every action he made in consequence are his second, third, and on and on. Ranboo doesn’t really remember the journey there, and sometimes he laughs at the thought that he just popped out of the ground somewhere and found himself on the Dream SMP.

Ranboo’s second memory might be a false one. He remembers Dream killing him on his first day, but Dream has since told him that he’s never killed him, so Ranboo… must just have a wild imagination? It’s the least his brain can do, really, to make up for not remembering actual events. It’s happened a few times over the horror show that has been his experience here, and considering Ranboo has no earlier memories to consult, there’s really nothing he can do about it but accept it as his reality. The time between Ranboo’s arrival on the SMP and the “memory” of Dream killing him is blurry, practically nonexistent, and it would be nice if his brain picked less monumental events to forget.

He has a lot of missing time from things he would really prefer to remember. He can’t remember helping Tommy wreck George’s house or what happened afterward, apart from an overwhelming sense of guilt, even though he’s sure he must have gone home and had some kind of breakdown over it, as per usual. Considering it sparked the first major conflict, it’s an annoying thing to have forgotten, and Ranboo might’ve been able to prevent it had he spoken up at the trial. He can’t remember standing up to Dream and admitting his guilt, or really the meeting at all. He wrote some of it down, but not enough to get a good picture of what happened. He can’t remember sending letters to Tommy during exile even though he knows it happened, and he can’t remember why he stopped. He especially draws a blank on the time leading up to Doomsday.

(Ranboo can’t remember blowing up the community house and helping Dream —)

Really, Ranboo’s whole memory is spotty up until recently. Ever since Dream got locked up in prison, things have been weirdly… clear. He’s slowly building up his little shack on Techno and Phil’s land, he’s had fun spending time with Tubbo without the tension of the Cabinet, and everyone seems happy. It’s odd to see people like that, even if things aren’t perfect yet. Fundy hasn’t been around lately, and Ranboo does remember their painful conversation after Doomsday. Quackity is gone, although he doesn’t really miss him, considering how he’d tried to have him executed. Techno and Phil still stick to themselves. Everyone’s sticking to themselves now, honestly, when Ranboo thinks about it. Maybe Dream was the glue holding the server together — ?

NO. Dream was bad, and he deserves to be in prison. This is what you wanted.

Ranboo does wonder, sometimes, why he can remember things now that Dream was gone. Was he just stressed before? But if that’s the case, he should remember his life before he came here. Unless his life was also stressful there? There’s too many questions, and not enough answers. Ranboo doesn’t like thinking about it, so instead of thinking about it, he goes mining.

Ranboo’s always liked mining —  well, for as long as he can remember, at least. He’s always been committed to making and maintaining the best gear possible, but he doesn’t have a reason to mine anymore. He already has maxxed out netherite gear, he doesn’t need anything else, but if Ranboo didn’t spend days at a time mining, what else would he do? Confront his problems? Absolutely not.

Most of the time, Ranboo goes mining alone. Lately, Tubbo has been joining him on his trips more and more often, but he still does go by himself, and today is one of those days. Ranboo isn’t quite sure where on the map he is now, as most of the time he just picks a random direction and starts mining away, but when he’d checked his coords earlier, he’d been pretty close to L’manhole, and he’d shifted his path to avoid the giant crater. It was picked clean by everyone weeks ago, and it’s a nightmare to try and get out of.

Ranboo’s pickaxe strikes something strange, and he snaps out of his distracted mining daze to look at it. The material in front of him is certainly not something that belongs underground, but that doesn’t mean much, especially around here where people live. It’s not the first time he’s accidentally mined into someone’s property. Still, he’s curious, especially because his pickaxe is struggling to break it, so he squints at it before lighting a torch. Ranboo’s eyesight is decent enough in the dark to generally mine without one, but he keeps them around just in case, and it’s too dark to make out what he’s looking at.

The material is smooth and white, but it’s nothing fancy. With a bit of a struggle, he manages to mine through a bit of it, but it turns out to have multiple layers. Now Ranboo is definitely curious. Why would someone need some kind of underground base surrounded by multiple layers of nearly unbreakable material?

It takes an embarrassingly long time, but Ranboo does spot hints of light from the other side, and with this encouragement, he makes a space big enough for himself to fit through. Being incredibly tall really is annoying, sometimes. What he wouldn’t give to have Tubbo’s or Quackity’s height right now…

Ranboo squeezes himself through the small space and emerges, blinking, on the other side. It’s very bright, and he shields his eyes with his hand for a minute while trying to adjust. When he can finally see again, the first thing he notices is the stark white of everything around him. The second thing he notices is the thick smell of something rotting.

Jeez, did a bat die in here or something? Did a zombie get in?

Holding his nose, Ranboo takes a careful look around. Whatever this place is, it’s weirdly hospital-like. L’manburg used to have a hospital, although it wasn’t quite like this, so he clearly hasn’t mined into the weird basement of it. Things here are a lot sharper than L’manburg’s hospital. No soft beds or comfortable chairs in sight. The corners look like they could probably cut someone. That’s definitely a hazard.

There’s nothing particularly interesting in this spot. He seems to have mined into the vacant end of a hallway. Ranboo beings to walk, cautiously exploring. It’s mostly white, empty hallways, and the few doors that he comes across are locked. What’s the point of a creepy underground maybe-hospital that’s all locked up? He could probably knock the doors down if he tried, but Ranboo is a little worried that he’ll open a door and a monster will pop out. Maybe the doors are locked for a reason? He jiggles another doorknob. Locked again.

Things continue like this for a longer, and Ranboo is about to turn around and go back when he squints at the end of the new hallway he’s just turned onto and realizes that it opens up. Finally! Something interesting! He makes his way down the hall and is incredibly confused when he steps into some kind of lab.

“What in the world…” he mutters, sweeping the room with his gaze. It’s absolutely covered in weird machines, and what looks like screwed-up little parts of those weird machines, and Ranboo is again about to leave, declaring this too weird for him and not his problem, until he sees something that catches his eye.

In one corner of a room, there’s a door. It’s slightly open, propped up by a tiny doorstop. The door is labeled Mellohi.

Mellohi?

Ranboo’s body takes one, step, then another, without even thinking about it. He has to know what’s behind that door. He doesn’t know why. It’s just the name of a disc, one of the most popular on the server. It’s not like anyone else would know about how the Dream voice talked to him backed up by Mellohi after Doomsday. It’s ridiculous to think this has anything to do with him, but still, Ranboo goes.

The scent of something dead only gets stronger as he approaches, but Ranboo doesn’t think about it. It’s not important. All that’s important is what’s on the other side of this door. He reaches it, grasps the handle and pulls it open almost violently, and he’s instantly hit with a wave of that nauseating scent. The floor just inside the door drops down, so Ranboo steps inside, up to the edge. He looks down.

This room is a pit. This pit is filled with dead bodies. Dozens of them. And if Ranboo can see past the rot, past the decomposing meat and bones poking out? That’s him. That’s his face, that’s his face, he’s fucking dead there’s a pit of dead bodies and he’s dead he’s dead that’s his face THAT IS MY FACE — 

“Ranboo.”

He looks up. Blinks. Opens his mouth. How does this work? How does this person open his mouth and move his tongue and make words? He tries. All that comes out is a mild, wordless sound.

“Good!” The person is loud. His voice is high.

He flinches.

The person sighs. “Sorry, I should’ve expected this. I mean, I just MADE you! That’s insane! It’s not a big deal if you’re, like… a baby. We can fix that.”

Made? This person… created him?

“Ranboo. That’s your name. Do you know what a name is? Maybe not… a name is something to call you. So you can tell if someone is talking to you.”

Ranboo. He is… Ranboo?

He opens his mouth again. This time, his garble is words, more or less. He doesn’t know how to make them as complex as the Creator, as clear. “I am… Ranboo.” He doesn’t know how to make it sound like a question.

“Yes! You’re Ranboo.” The Creator rushes away, picks up something and starts scribbling away. Ranboo isn’t sure what he’s doing. “I’ve got to write this down. This is incredible. I can’t believe it worked!”

Write it down. You’ve got to write this down.

While the Creator writes away, Ranboo isn’t sure what to do with himself. He isn’t sure if he can move. He hasn’t tried, apart from the flinch. Is he supposed to be writing something, too? What does this mean?

The Creator glances up at him. “Oh, you’re bored.” A pause, then his mouth splits open. Happy? “We can listen to that idiot Tommy’s disc. Let’s listen to Mellohi, Ranboo.” He gets up and crosses the room. He pulls something out of an elegant black box and places it in something. Ranboo doesn’t know what it is. 

A stuttering noise comes from whatever it is the Creator is fiddling with, and then… sound comes out.

Let’s listen to Mellohi, Ranboo.

“Ranboo? Why’re you on the floor?”

Ranboo sits up abruptly, and his face goes right through Ghostbur’s stomach. Awkward. He scoots back. “Oh… h-hey, Ghostbur.” His voice is shaky. At least the ghost won’t notice.

“Are you alright?” Ghostbur asks, peering at him. “You’re in the middle of the woods!”

“I am?” Ranboo realizes there’s dirt beneath his fingers now, and he looks up blearily at the light filtering in through the leaves. “Huh.”

“Well, what are you doing out here?”

“I…” What is he doing out here? A memory lapse hasn’t happened in a long time. Guess Dream getting locked up didn’t make it go away. “I was mining, and, um, then…” He struggles to recall anything for a moment, then lights up. “I found a weird place! And I was exploring, I guess, but…”

“What did you find?” Ghostbur asks cheerfully.

“I found… I, uh, found…” What did he find? Why are you here? “It was like a hospital, and the smell…”

And then it all floods back to him.

The bodies.

Mellohi.

That dream. The Creator.

“Ranboo?” Ghostbur is blinking earnestly at him, and Ranboo feels sick.

“Sorry, Ghostbur, I… I gotta go.” He scrambles to his feet, and his stomach lurches at the sudden change but he refuses to stay here any longer. “Talk to you later.”

“Oh! Bye, Ranboo!” Ghostbur floats there, waving, as Ranboo rushes away. At least he’s a ghost. At least he doesn’t mind when Ranboo isn’t acting right. At least he’s dead.

Maybe he can just… forget it. He’s good at that, right? Even though he’s never been able to remember something again after he’s lost it… so why now? What’s changed? Why are there dozens of copies of himself, dead, locked up in an underground bunker?

What do I do?

Chapter Text

Ranboo quickly emerges into the main area of the server, and he pauses, disoriented. That patch of trees is smack dab in the middle of the SMP, and no one’s ever cut it down or taken note of it before? He glances back at it, but the forest is too thick to see Ghostbur’s glowing form. Why was he even there? Or Ghostbur, but no one can explain Ghostbur.

He pushes it to the back of his mind and begins his march towards the portal. The best thing for him to do right now is go home, take care of his pets, and go to sleep. Maybe this is a whole stress-based hallucination. He was just thinking about how it was weird that things were so calm, maybe his mind decided things were too calm. Or it was his imagination. His brain does that sometimes, doesn’t it?

He keeps his trip through the Nether short. He hesitates upon seeing a baby zombie piglin and thinks about the one he and Tubbo found on their first meeting. Michael. Why can he remember that and nothing else about his early days on the server? Why can he remember such minute, unimportant details about his life and nothing actually helpful?

Now that he’s remembering important things, he’s beginning to regret his constant complaints over his memory.

Ranboo materializes in the Overworld and immediately draws his suit jacket in, shivering. He should really invest in a fuzzy coat like Techno or Tubbo if he’s going to keep hanging around them. It’s snowing, and he blinks flakes out of his eyes as he half-runs home to his little shack.

Weirdly, Phil and Techno are outside today. They’re trying to feed their nightmare of a dog pack. Ranboo likes his pets, but he can’t imagine having that many. They wave at Ranboo as he passes, and he breaks out into an actual run. He resolves to carefully ask them questions about false memories and strange underground labs without exposing himself later. If anyone knows about that stuff, it’s Phil and Techno.

Once he’s inside his warm shack, he lets out a breath, his shoulders drooping. He feeds his own pets, gives them a few pats each, then retreats to the space that functions as his bedroom. He collapses on the bed, long limbs stretched out.

“When I wake up,” Ranboo mumbles, “I better forget all of this.”

He’s at first relieved not to have had another weird dream, but the relief is gone as soon as he realizes the fact that he can remember a weird dream at all.

“I’m so tired,” Ranboo says aloud to his empty shack. “Haven’t I earned a break yet?!”

The empty shack does not respond.

He trudges back outside and catches sight of Phil, who’s now focused on harvesting the wheat from their little farm. Techno must have gone back into his coma, or whatever it is he does when he vanishes for days at a time. Phil isn’t looking at him, so Ranboo has to be the one to approach.

“Hey, Phil.” His voice isn’t too shaky now. That’s good. It is his weak, soft voice that he goes into sometimes, but it really could be worse. Ranboo will count his blessings today.

“Hey, mate.” Phil looks up from his dutiful farming. “You good? You were acting a bit weird earlier.”

“Um… something weird happened, that’s all,” Ranboo says hastily. “You know a lot of stuff, right?”

“Well, sure,” Phil says with a wry smile. “I’ve been around for a long time. Might wanna be more specific.”

“Yeah,” Ranboo says. “Uh — you wouldn’t happen to know anything about false memories, do you?”

“Oh, are your memory problems acting up again?” Phil asks with a tinge of concern.

“No, no,” he objects. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“If you say so.” Phil focuses on his farming again. “There’s a lot of weird magic out there, mate. I’m sure it’s not impossible.”

“But you’ve never seen it?”

“Not for myself.” Phil cuts down the last patch of wheat and straightens up. “Are you sure you’re alright, Ranboo?”

“I’m good. I’m great,” Ranboo says. Like that wasn’t suspicious at all. “Phil, what about science?”

“Science?” Phil repeats with a snort. “What about it?”

“Is it possible to, I don’t know… make life?”

“Make life? Ranboo —”

“Actually, y’know what? Forget I asked.” Ranboo turns back towards his hut. “I gotta go. See you, Phil.”

I wasn’t made, Ranboo tells himself as he crunches through the snow. I’m real. I’m a person. That was just a weird dream. But there is something going on in that lab that has to do with me. I’ll figure it out.

Ranboo isn’t much of a problem-solver. That’s kind of been one of his worst weaknesses, actually. He couldn’t figure out how to help Tommy in exile, he couldn’t figure out how to help Tubbo keep New L’manburg safe, and he couldn’t figure out how to stop Dream. He probably should tell Phil about this — what’s the worst that’ll happen? Phil kicks him out for being weird? Unlikely. If not Phil, then he should tell someone else. Tubbo. Tommy.

He enters his hut and sighs, leaning on the door and sliding down to the ground. God. What is he going to do? What can he do? Go back to that place? He can’t even remember where in his mine he had started digging. As things are now, he doesn’t know what he can do. He needs more information. But he doesn’t want to confront it. Why can’t other people solve his problems by blowing them up more often?

It occurs to him that he should probably write all this down, since it doesn’t seem to be going away. Just in case. Even though Ranboo’s memory has gotten good enough to the point that he doesn’t need the journal to remember, he’s gotten into the habit of it. If something important happens, he writes it down. He reaches for the bag slung over his back and tiredly rifles through it, and frowns when he can’t feel it. Ranboo sits up and peers into the bag. No journal.

“What the heck…” he mutters. Is it in one of his chests? He stands up and rushes over to them. No journal there, either.

Well. He sits down heavily on one of his chests. What now? The only conclusion he can draw is that he dropped it somewhere, and he’s got a gut feeling that it has to be in that freaky underground lab. The only missing time he has is when he was there.

“Yet another reason to go back,” he groans, holding his head in his hands. Fine. No more moping around, since the universe won’t let me. He stands and begins his slow walk to his mine.

Unfortunately, Ranboo can tell immediately which tunnel is new, so all it takes to return to that place is a very long walk. When he emerges back into the bright light of the lab, he heaves a heavy sigh as he waits for his eyes to adjust. He makes his way down the empty halls, not bothering with the doors this time. It hasn’t been a long enough journey when he finally arrives in the main space.

Okay. What’s going on here?

He pokes around the machine first. He’s a bit afraid that it’ll zap him or something, but it doesn’t react at all to him. He doesn’t really know what it is. It mostly looks like a big tube, but most of it is covered by a sheet of iron, so he can’t see what’s actually going on, not that seeing it would help him figure out what it does. He raps his knuckles on the glass of the tube. No effect. Obviously.

He turns to the rest of the room. Ranboo had been a bit distracted during his first experience here, so he had missed the tables absolutely covered in papers. They’re slightly dusty. He sweeps up one group of papers and leafs through them. The handwriting is hard to read, and most of it is gibberish to him — some kind of scientific (or magical?) jargon. The only thing he can really understand is his own name. Ranboo. “Ranboo” is all over these papers.

One piece of paper is a diagram and he pauses to look at it. It looks vaguely like him. Maybe. The drawing isn’t very good. Below the diagram, one phrase is written, big and clear: “ENDERMAN HYBRID: TO STAND OUT IN CROWD; ANXIETY; EASILY AGITATED AND EASILY PACIFIED”.

Ranboo is far from the only hybrid on the server, so it’s a bit odd to see himself reduced down to the characteristics of his species. It’s unlike the people here. Nobody can really be bothered to think too hard about others’ strangeness. He knows these things about himself, obviously, but he’s never thought about them as something… notable. Something that someone found desirable.

He feels a bit ill.

Ranboo sets down the papers. Maybe that dream wasn’t as much of a dream as he was hoping it to be. Clearly, he was… made, somehow, and if he wasn’t made, then someone deliberately searched for something exactly like him, and that seems even worse. He hates to admit it, but it doesn’t sound impossible, considering how he remembers nothing about parents that would’ve immediately disproved this. But if someone made him, who, and for what purpose? If his memories only begin upon his arrival here, then…

He’s starting to get the sinking feeling that he knows what’s going on here.

He turns his attention to the Mellohi door. It’s cracked open wider now, and the thing holding it open doesn’t look like a doorstop. Ranboo takes a few steps closer and realizes, with sickening certainty, that that’s a foot , clad in his very own dress shoe. That’s me. And that wasn’t there before.

He pushes open the door and although bile rises in his throat, he isn’t surprised to see his own dead body lying on the floor in front of him. His journal is clutched in one of his lifeless hands. Steeling himself, Ranboo kneels down and pries it out of his own grip. He flinches upon accidentally touching one of his own cold fingers.

The memory book is intact. It looks exactly the same as the one he’s had. It is the same as the one he’s had. And the Ranboo on the floor is the Ranboo that first found this lab.

Ranboo reaches up a hand to touch his face, gaze locked on the dead Ranboo in front of him.

I’m not real. I’m… a copy of myself.

He looks back at the mysterious tube.

I’m a clone.

“I have to visit Dream.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Ranboo does is kick his own dead body into a pit filled with many other dead versions of himself. The second thing he does is close the Mellohi door, and he lets out a relieved breath when it automatically locks with a click. The third thing he does is dig upwards. He digs straight up until he emerges out into the open air again, and is incredibly confused to find himself back in the thick forest from earlier.

Ghostbur is not there to greet him this time, so Ranboo fills up the hole he’s dug as best he can before looking around again. It’s still nothing interesting. It’s literally just a bunch of trees in the middle of the server. The mystery as to why he woke up here is half solved, however. If he… died earlier, then he simply “appeared” above the lab, not just a random spot.

Ranboo’s grip on his journal tightens.

God. Okay. He’s going to visit Dream. It’s not a big deal, right? Everyone’s visited Dream at this point; he’s practically a tourist attraction. Just walking near the prison makes a person exhausted from how many layers of magic are covering the building. From what Ranboo’s heard, Sam’s security is no joke. It’s totally safe.

But… it is Dream. Dream can probably tear a person apart just with his words. He has. As fatigued as the prison makes him, he’s still in there somewhere. Ranboo isn’t sure what talking to Dream would be like. He’s never even talked to the guy outside of the invitation and his panic room hallucinations! Maybe his brain is totally inaccurate in its depiction of Dream, and he’s nothing like Ranboo thinks he is. He doesn’t know what to expect.

Still, looking at the forest around him, Ranboo knows he can’t just ignore this. That line in his dream about Tommy and the discs is undeniably Dream. (And jeez, why couldn’t Dream have picked a different name, it’s making it hard to tell things apart in his head — no, no, stay focused.) Ranboo isn’t quite willing to accept that Dream just created him and then killed him, several times over, for no discernable reason, but what else is he supposed to get from this? Man, what if this is just Ranboo catastrophizing and imagining things again, and when he starts talking to Dream about all of this, even Dream thinks he’s completely lost it?

A little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Tommy tells him, If Dream of all people thinks you’re insane, then that green bastard can suck it. Yeah, definitely Tommy. Ranboo does not use those words. At least, he’s fairly certain he doesn’t.

“Okay,” Ranboo says as he emerges into the — night? Oh. He did kind of kill his whole day with this, didn’t he? He backtracks. Will the prison even be open at night? Should he just go back home and try to sleep it off again? “No,” he argues with himself. “If I don’t do it now, I might never do it. I’m gonna go to that prison and… respectfully ask Sam to let me in.”

Techno and Phil would not be proud, he thinks. Or Tubbo, or Tommy, and… man, I really do stand out in a crowd, huh?

The prison is a short walk away, and Ranboo forces himself to only hesitate for a brief moment before pressing on. It’s a massive, intimidating structure, and it really detracts from the property value of this whole area. He doesn’t want to insult Sam’s building, but it’s not exactly something someone wants to see from their bedroom window.

He lurks around outside the prison for a while, uncertain about how to enter. He pokes around the portal, but he’s a bit afraid to enter it without knowing where it goes. The prison could really use a bell. After a bit, the warden finally seems to take pity on him.

“Ranboo.” Sam’s figure shimmers into being through the portal. “What are you doing here?” He looks exhausted. It’s a bit hard to tell with the mask covering half his face, but if his eyes are anything to go by, the dude really needs to sleep.

“I, um,” Ranboo looks to the side awkwardly before settling his gaze just beyond Sam’s head. He’s in no state to be initiating eye contact. “I want to see Dream…?”

“It’s late,” Sam says slowly. Is this what everyone was talking about when they whispered about Sam’s personality change? He’s certainly more… lifeless. “Can it wait?”

“Uh — no.”

“No? Is there an emergency?”

Ranboo flushes uncomfortably. How is he supposed to explain this? There is no way he’s going to say to Sam, I think Dream made me, then killed me, then did it again and again, and it’s totally destroyed my worldview. Sam would not believe that, and if he did, then Ranboo would be more concerned than reassured. “Look, Sam, I just, um, need to see him. The, uh, Dream trauma is messing with me, and I won’t be able to sleep?”

It’s not quite a lie, but it does sound stupid. Sam furrows his brow and Ranboo has a feeling he’s frowning, but mercifully, he sighs and nods. “Alright. Fine. Just make it quick.” Sam steps back through the portal, and a few seconds pass before his disembodied voice echoes through the room. “Go through the portal, wait ten seconds, then come back through.”

The first thing Ranboo notices about the prison is that it is very high-tech. This isn’t some simple flick of a lever. Dream commissioned Sam to build this prison, didn’t he? Does Dream know anything about technology like this, or did he commission someone to build that machine in the lab?

He nervously glances up at Sam as the warden reads the agreements out loud. Did Sam, or someone else on the server that’s good at this type of thing, help Dream make Ranboo?

Every time the thought of it all crosses Ranboo’s mind, he feels a little more like he’s about to pass out, and this time, a full shiver runs down his spine. Sam is right there.

Ranboo signs everything he has to, although it is decidedly not the type of thing he would normally agree to. Even for him, putting that much trust in Sam and the prison is definitely a bad idea. He’s basically given Sam permission to lock him in prison with Dream indefinitely and/or hunt him down and murder him. He thinks, a little hysterically, that maybe it’s not such a bad thing that he apparently comes back to life no matter how many times he’s died.

He is distinctly uncomfortable with everything he has to go through to get to Dream, but standing on the platform, waiting for the lava to drop down, is the worst. He fidgets anxiously, wringing his hands together and tapping his tail against his leg. Maybe he should ask Sam something? He’s gotta know something about technology like the stuff in the lab if he can make a place like this. But he isn’t sure if he could trust Sam with that. So…?

“Sam,” Ranboo starts nervously. “the technology here is… impressive.”

“Thank you,” Sam says tonelessly. His arms are folded behind his back, and he remains facing the curtain of lava.

Okay. So he’s not going to get anything else out of that question. “Are you the only one on the server that can build like this?”

Sam glances over at him briefly. Oof. Okay. Weird question. “Not necessarily. Ponk and Tubbo are good with redstone. I’ve heard Foolish is good at building.”

Tubbo! Right. Ranboo always forgets that beyond their sleep-deprived conversations in the mines and over Snowchester sunrises, Tubbo built L’manburg twice, built Snowchester, built nukes. He’s fairly certain Tubbo only told him the once with the impression that he would forget about it, but Ranboo does remember, and he should probably admit that to Tubbo sometime. That’s another reason to tell Tubbo about all of this, right? He might actually be able to figure out all the stuff in that lab.

“Mhm,” Ranboo says, and winces at his nervous high-pitch.

The last of the lava falls, and Ranboo’s tail curls around his leg now at the sight of Dream on the other side. He’s silent, but he’s right up against the barrier, staring at Ranboo. What if this is weird? What if Dream really doesn’t have anything to do with this? What if —

Ranboo doesn’t get any more time to worry, because Sam is telling him to stay on the platform, and before he knows it, he’s moving. There is lava right below him and Ranboo doesn’t have any armor. Dream is right there and in a few seconds, they’re going to be locked in here together, no Sam, no weapons, nothing.

This was a bad idea!

When Ranboo arrives at Dream’s cell, Dream is still staring at him. He’s not saying anything. Ranboo glances back desperately at Sam once before the lava curtain falls once again. The barrier between Ranboo and Dream slides down into the ground.

“H-hello. Dream,” Ranboo stutters. “I, um — wanted to talk to you. O-obviously.” He lets out an uncomfortable, breathy laugh. “I —”

“What could you possibly want to talk to me about?” Dream says. He’s backed off a little, leaned against one of the walls, arms crossed casually like they’re in a normal room and not a prison cell. “I haven’t even talked to you before.” He pauses, then lightens up somehow, like the answer’s just occurred to him. “Did Tommy send you? Tell that annoying kid to come to visit me himself.”

No, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, Ranboo thinks. Why isn’t Dream going after him immediately? Why can’t Dream just admit it instead of making Ranboo do it? This isn’t about Tommy he’s clearly not visiting Dream in the middle of the night for Tommy . “No, this isn’t for — for Tommy.”

“Then why?” Dream asks, and he sounds disingenuous somehow but why would he be? It’s just an honest question. Why would Dream pretend to be confused? It’s more likely that he just is confused, because Ranboo appearing like this is weird, and he really doesn’t have any confirmation that the person he’s looking for is Dream apart from the comment about Tommy and the discs that he heard in a dream . Why did he think this was a good idea? This is stupid, god, why does Ranboo do things without thinking?

“I, um.” What does he say? I found a creepy underground lab and I think you created me? No! That’s ridiculous! Sometimes I hear your voice and it tells me that I did bad things and forgot about them? Even worse! God, Dream is going to think he’s just a weird fan projecting all his problems onto him! “I wanted to ask about… about Mellohi?”

Okay. That’s reasonable. That’s not the weirdest direction he could’ve taken this. Not very direct, but maybe that’s a good thing here. Just… prompt Dream on into telling Ranboo all about his nefarious experiments.

“Mellohi?” Dream asks with a snort. “Tommy’s — my — disc? What about it?”

Dream is a good liar. You know this. You saw what he did to Tommy in exile, how he ripped L’manburg to shreds with that lie about Tommy blowing up the community house, you know this. He’s just lying. He knows what you’re talking about. “I think it’s… nice. It’s a nice song.” No, I don’t.

“Yeah?” Dream’s eyes are narrowed now, and that’s a good sign. “What, does Tommy let you listen to it when he’s feeling generous?”

“No,” Ranboo says, and he’s feeling a little more confident now. He’s got Dream on edge. Hopefully the right edge. “I’ve only listened to Tommy’s disc once.” He thinks. It’s entirely possible Tommy put the disc on after the final confrontation with Dream, but he doesn’t remember that if he did. He’s pretty sure it’s an organic forgetfulness. Not brought on by any science experiments.

“Well, congrats,” Dream says, rolling his eyes. “Can you get to the point?”

No, I can’t, Ranboo thinks, frustrated. “I just, uh —” Well, maybe I can. “Who blew up the community house?”

“Tommy,” Dream says dryly. “Listen, Ranboo, I know you’ve got memory problems or whatever, but I’m pretty sure we figured this one out ages ago.”

“No,” Ranboo says, and is a little surprised by the slight growl in his voice. “There are stacks of TNT locked up in a box in my house, and I don’t remember putting it there.”

“Again. Memory problems.” Dream pushes off the wall, coming to stand in front of Ranboo instead. Ranboo is acutely aware that Dream could probably shove him into lava right now, and he would die. “I don’t see how this is my problem, Ranboo. If you’re having trouble getting it into your head, I blew up the community house. I helped blow up L’manburg twice, too, if you were wondering about that.”

No. He’s just trying to distract you, make you feel crazy. You’re not crazy. I know what I saw. “There’s — there’s a patch of forest in the middle of the server.”

That, finally, seems to give Dream pause. It takes him a moment to respond. “Okay?”

“Do you know what’s below it?”

Dream doesn’t say anything for a bit. Then a smile splits across his face, like a gross reflection of his lost mask. Then he laughs. It’s a cackle, really, and Ranboo flinches back. “Oh, Ranboo,” he says between gasps. “So you finally figured it out, huh? Your memory isn’t bothering you anymore now that I’m in here —  he juts a thumb at himself, then at Ranboo, “— and you’re out there.”

“So it’s — it’s all true,” Ranboo says, nearly a whisper. “You — you made me.”

“Oh, man —” Dream laughs, “I did! I did, and then I killed you, and I did it over and over again. I could even do it now if I felt like it!”

Ranboo’s back is warm, too warm from the lava behind him, but he backs up as much as he can, wrapping his arms around himself. “Why?”

“Because I could,” Dream says. “Because I could, and because I can’t do everything alone. I couldn’t destroy George’s house myself, could I?”

Ranboo hesitates. Takes a deep breath. Shouts, “SAM!”

Dream grins at him. “It won’t go away, Ranboo. You’re as real as that voice in your head.”

“Shut up,” Ranboo says, but there’s no heat behind it.

Dream continues grinning at him, even as the barrier between them slides back up, even as Ranboo steps back onto the platform, even as the lava falls, locking him up once again.

Sam doesn’t say anything to him as they exit the prison, but even behind the warden persona, he looks a little worried. Ranboo doesn’t say anything to him, either. He wishes he could.

Ranboo thinks back to the fog that was his time in L’manburg and wonders just how much of that was him.

He exits the prison disoriented and exhausted. God. He needs to sleep. He needs to figure this out. He needs to do something. He tries to make sense of the day’s events in his mind. Where does he go? Tubbo? Yes. That’s the best choice. Tubbo will know what to do. He always does.

Ranboo stumbles his way across the server to Snowchester. Tubbo will know what to do.

Chapter Text

On most nights, Ranboo and Tubbo keep each other up, with Ranboo’s mining and Tubbo’s neverending conversation topics, but one of them always caves and passes out. Usually, Ranboo is forced to slink back home to the arctic before he goes to bed, because the last thing he needs is for Phil and Techno to wonder where he is all the time, so he’s never stuck around long enough to find Tubbo actually sleeping. Sometimes, he wonders if Tubbo ever sleeps.

Tonight is one of those rare occasions where Ranboo not only arrives at Snowchester incredibly late but also happens to find Tubbo asleep. He’s curled up on the floor, surrounded by papers and little bits of gadgets. It doesn’t look comfortable, in Ranboo’s opinion, but Tubbo has never been one to put form over function. If Tubbo needs to do something, ex. fall asleep on the floor of his own house, then he will. Ranboo doesn’t put a lot of attention to detail in his own spaces either, but that’s because he’s not very good at it. Tubbo is perfectly capable.

Ranboo hovers in the doorway for a second before Tubbo shivers in his sleep, and Ranboo realizes, guiltily, that he’s letting the cold Snowchester air in. He closes the door.

Do I wake him up?

He hesitates, then clears his throat awkwardly. He was worried that he might have to go over there and shake Tubbo awake, or yell at him, or something else that he doesn’t really have the capacity to do right now, but Tubbo startles awake just from that.

“Ranboo?” Tubbo says blearily, yawning. He looks out the window. “Big man, isn’t it — a bit late?”

“Um,” Ranboo says, shifting his weight from one side to the other. “Yes.”

Tubbo squints at him. “What’s wrong.” It’s barely a question, and Ranboo isn’t sure if Tubbo just isn’t awake enough yet to put emotion into his voice, or if he’s really just that obvious. Tubbo isn’t sick of him, is he? Ranboo doesn’t think he’s ever dumped all his problems on Tubbo, but they do spend a lot of time together, maybe Tubbo’s just done with him, especially now that he’s being woken in the middle of the night for Ranboo? Are they even that close —

He breaks off that train of thought abruptly. Right. What does he tell Tubbo? Sure, Dream didn’t call him a maniac, but Dream already knew, so he barely counts. But Tubbo is… Tubbo, he’s been through all kinds of crazy stuff. Surely Ranboo isn’t the craziest thing. Tommy probably is.

“I, ah,” Ranboo says. “I was mining today — yesterday — and mined right into this lab, turns out it’s Dream’s lab and I asked him and apparently I’m a clone.”

“Huh?” Tubbo’s squinting even more now, like he isn’t sure if he heard Ranboo right. “You’re a clone?”

“Yep!” Ranboo says nervously.

“Ranboo,” Tubbo starts tiredly, and Ranboo thinks he’s about to get in trouble or something, but: “I am going to go back to sleep, and so are you, and in the morning we’ll talk about this.”

Ranboo blinks. “That is… surprisingly healthy, coming from you.”

Tubbo shrugs. “Once I go to sleep, I want to stay asleep.”

“Okay,” Ranboo agrees. “I’ll, um… sleep. Do you actually have a bed, or…?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, gesturing to the ladder, “but I think the floor is better.” He yawns again and lies back down. “Do whatever you want, man.”

Ranboo is about to ask another question (such as do you have a blanket? the floor is cold) , but Tubbo is already asleep. Dang.

On an ordinary night, Ranboo does not stay the night at Snowchester, so he’s really not sure what he’s meant to do. On the one hand, sleeping in an actual bed sounds infinitely more comfortable than on the cold, hard wooden floor of Tubbo’s house, but on the other, he… doesn’t want to be alone. So Ranboo picks his way through the mess and finds a space that can mostly fit his tall, lanky form, then lies down. He’s all curled up to fit, so he’s not too cold, although he’s sure his whole body will ache tomorrow morning. He can just barely hear Tubbo’s breathing, not enough to be weird or anything, but enough to know he’s there.

He passes out almost instantly.

“Hey, Ranboo.” The Creator tosses something at him, and it lands on the floor in front of him with a smack. “I want you to write everything down.”

“Everything?” Ranboo looks down at the object in front of him. It’s a leather-bound book, like the Creator’s. “Like you?”

“Yes, exactly like me,” the Creator says. He’s doing the thing where his mouth splits open again, cuts his face in half. He told Ranboo once it’s called a ‘smile’. “Here, here’s a pen.”

Ranboo takes the pen gingerly and flips open the book to the first page. It’s blank, waiting for him to put ink to it. What does he write? What is “everything”? Surely, there’s no way for him to write everything?

I am Ranboo, he writes. The letters are uncertain. The Creator taught him to write, but he’s not as good as the Creator. He could never be.

The Creator made me. I like the Creator.

What else? What else is “everything”?

The Creator taught me to write.

The Creator taught me what a smile is.

I like the song Mellohi.

Ranboo looks up at the Creator, then holds the book and pen out to him. Is it enough? 

The Creator takes the book from him, looks at his scarce first page. He flips the page, finds nothing, and flips back. He nods. “Okay. Now, we’re going to do something different, and after we do it, I want to know if you remember doing it.”

Ranboo nods and sits still as he watches the Creator cross the room to the music box. Mellohi begins playing, and he watches curiously as the Creator picks up something sharp. A sword. The word “Nightmare” is carved into the hilt.

Ranboo sits still and listens to Mellohi as he watches the Creator plunge the sword into his chest, purple blood spraying from the wound. He slumps back as his vision goes dark.

“Ranboo?”

He’s standing up now. He’s holding the book he was writing in before. Didn’t the Creator say he wanted to do something? Ranboo — did he forget about it? He tilts his head. There’s a strange purple streak across the floor, leading to a door that he swears used to be covered by a cabinet. He doesn’t remember that being there. The door is labeled, strangely, “Mellohi”, and Ranboo isn’t sure why the word makes him feel uneasy.

He looks up at the Creator. The Creator is frowning at him now. “Yes?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Writing in the book,” Ranboo says.

“Do you like Mellohi, Ranboo?” the Creator asks.

No, he thinks, he doesn’t like Mellohi. But — he opens the book. It says he likes Mellohi. So he nods.

The Creator begins to play Mellohi, and Ranboo begins to tremble.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” the Creator repeats.

“Something bad,” Ranboo whispers. “But I… I can’t remember what.”

He wakes to the mouthwatering scent of warm breakfast. He sits up slowly, wincing as his back and neck crack in the process. Tubbo is standing in front of the oven, his hair even wilder than it normally is these days. The cracking of his bones must be alarmingly loud, because Tubbo glances over at him with a smile.

“G’morning!” Tubbo says cheerfully, a stark contrast to the swirling nebula of dark thoughts in Ranboo’s head. “You like eggs, right big man?”

Ranboo attempts to talk, but what comes out at first is not words, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I, um, yeah.” His brain isn’t quite functioning yet. He stands and makes his way over to the tiny corner that the kitchen occupied. Tubbo hands him a plate of eggs and a fork, then serves himself. Tubbo sits on the counter. Ranboo sits back down on the ground. It isn’t as bad as he thought it would be, and Tubbo does not have a dining table.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Nothing but the sound of chewing (which does, generally, grate on Ranboo’s ears, but either he’s gotten comfortable enough with Tubbo not to mind, or his brain is literally not processing it) and their forks clinking against the plate. Every time Ranboo looks up, Tubbo’s focus is purely on devouring breakfast, though he swears he can feel eyes on him once he looks down.

The silence gives Ranboo the opportunity to unwillingly think about last night’s dream. Nothing could beat the absolute horror that the first dream brought him, but this one was certainly nothing to scoff at. Dream was the one to first encourage Ranboo to write things down to remember? The part about him using it to his advantage was disturbing, but it was much less surprising. Ranboo’s always thought of his journals as a method of rebellion against his memory problems, and against Dream. Now that the two have become one and the same, he isn’t sure how to feel about finding out the journals have been used against him. Is it safe to keep writing things down now? Should he stop, just in case someone else finds out? What else has Dream forcibly removed from his memory?

“Ranboo.” Tubbo is definitely looking at him now. Okay.

“Hmm?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I think it’s kind of obvious,” Ranboo says, a little bitterly, then feels bad. C’mon, what is he doing, insulting Tubbo? He needs him. “I mean — you remember what I said yesterday, right?”

“Mostly,” Tubbo says with a frown. “But I’m gonna need you to repeat it, dude. You think you’re a… clone?”

“Yes,” Ranboo says, casting his gaze away from Tubbo’s face. “You know how my, um, memory problems have been getting better?” At Tubbo’s nod, which he only really sees out of the corner of his eye, he continues, “Well, it turns out that’s because Dream hasn’t been repeatedly murdering me and somehow… deleting my memories.”

Hesitantly, Tubbo replies, “Ranboo… I know you’ve been through it, but… I mean, are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Ranboo says, surprising himself with his own confidence. “I’m sure.”

“Well, how do you know?”

“Tubbo, I know this is going to sound… insane, but you have to believe me.”

“Depends on how insane it is,” Tubbo says, crossing his arms, “but you know I’ve got your back, Ranboo.”

“Thank you,” Ranboo says. He’s fairly certain that’s the correct response to something like that. “I was mining yesterday, near the main area of the server, and I accidentally mined into this lab thing. It was weird, most of the doors were locked, but it had a big space with this machine in it. I don’t really know what the machine is. But there’s a door, and it’s labeled Mellohi.” He can feel Tubbo’s interest sparking at that, although Ranboo himself mostly feels ill, considering his dream from last night and his knowledge of what comes next. “I felt like I had to open it, so I did. It opened up into this big pit, and I looked down, and it was…” He swallows. “It was filled with dozens of my own dead bodies. And then I died.”

“Then you died?” Tubbo repeats, alarmed. “From what?”

“I don’t know, shock?” Ranboo says.

“Hold on,” Tubbo says, leaning forward. “You don’t get a death message?”

“Death message?” Ranboo echoes. Tubbo has lost two out of his three lives. Ranboo used to believe he still had all three, although now he’s not sure if the rule even applies to him. “Um… no? It’s just sort of like… a gap in my memory. I die, and then I wake up. What is a death message?”

“It’s, like,” Tubbo waves his hand in front of his face. “Text that scrolls across your vision when you die. It’s like… ‘Tubbo was slain by Ranboo. You have two lives remaining.’ That sort of thing. Then you wake up.”

“No, I didn’t get that,” Ranboo says. “I woke up in — do you know that random patch of trees in the middle of the server? Close to the portal.”

“Possibly?” Tubbo shrugs. “I’d have to see it myself.”

“I went home,” Ranboo says. “But that part isn’t, um, important. I went back later yesterday and looked through the lab more, and there was definitely stuff in there about me. I also saw my own dead body, so… y’know. I thought I lost my journal there the first time I went so I was looking for it, and a dead version of myself had the journal.”

“Oh.” Tubbo is looking at him like he’s struggling to make sense of him. “Then you… came here?”

“Oh, no,” Ranboo says. “Then I went to visit Dream!” He winces at the false excitement. “I realized that it was Dream because… well, I had a dream that I think was a memory of when he first made me, and he was calling Tommy an idiot and we listened to Mellohi, so…” He pauses. “I visited him, and he didn’t tell me at first, but then he admitted to it, and Sam said you’re good at technology like that, and —” Another pause. “Oh, yeah, and I remember that you built nukes.”

“Ranboo,” Tubbo says, “you are a very poor storyteller.”

“I know,” Ranboo replies tiredly. “Do you… believe me?”

Tubbo hesitates, then says, “I’d like to see this lab.”

“Okay. Okay.” Ranboo looks up. “You’re also the only person that knows, apart from Dream, so… don’t tell anyone about this. Even Tommy. Please?”

“Alright,” Tubbo says slowly. “But this better be a damn good lab.”

Chapter Text

Instead of going all the way back to the arctic (which would risk Techno and Phil’s wrath upon seeing Government on their front lawn), Ranboo leads the way directly to the forest above the lab. No one’s really out and about on the server this morning, which makes Ranboo a little nervous, but at least it’ll keep anyone from noticing the two of them and their destination. He can tell Tubbo is nervous, too, from the flicking of his ears. Ranboo and Tubbo tend to be easily noticeable, considering their major difference in height, Ranboo’s distinct coloring, and how the both of them are majorly overdressed, now that Tubbo wears a thick Snowchester coat everywhere he goes, and neither of them are particularly well-liked at the moment.

“Has anyone seen you come and go from this place?” Tubbo says quietly, like they’re not the only people waltzing down the Prime Path right now.

“I saw Ghostbur,” Ranboo admits. “I woke up in the forest after I died and he was there.”

“Why?” Tubbo asks, but all Ranboo can do is shrug.

Now that Tubbo asks, it is worth wondering. It’s hard to figure out anything that has to do with Ghostbur, considering he’s a ghost and is impossible to talk to seriously, never mind the fact that his memory is as terrible as Ranboo’s. He does have the tendency to show up in places you least expect. But when Ghostbur appeared during the Butcher Army disaster, it had been because of Dream…

Hmm.

They arrive at the edge of the woods, and Tubbo nods thoughtfully. “I think I hid here from Schlatt once.”

“What?” Ranboo says, a little alarmed. Why does Tubbo always say terrible things that happened to him like they’re no big deal?

“Quackity and Fundy were out that day, and you know how Schlatt got. Well, I suppose you don’t, but — point is, yes, I’ve been here before.” Tubbo crosses his arms, and Ranboo can’t tell if he’s closing himself off or hugging himself. “It’s hard to believe no one’s chopped this down for resources yet.”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Ranboo agrees. “I doubt Dream paid everyone to stay away or something.”

“This place gives off bad vibes,” Tubbo says. “I wouldn’t want to cut it down, either.”

They continue their march through the woods, and they’ve been walking for a few minutes when the other end of the woods is already in sight, and Ranboo belatedly realizes that he has no clue where he dug up from earlier. They turn back a little, just to be more centered, then Ranboo begins digging down, Tubbo hovering behind him. Eventually, Ranboo strikes that strange metal, and with some effort, mines a hole big enough for them to fit through. Ranboo jumps in, stumbling a bit on his landing, and Tubbo nearly hits him when he jumps down, but they’re both fine.

They’re not in the main area or even one of the hallways; they’re in a dimly lit room. It’s a bit like a bedroom; there’s a small, uncomfortable-looking bed pushed into one corner, combined with a small nightstand, which holds the room’s singular lantern. On the other wall, there’s a half-empty bookshelf. It’s occupied by identical-looking leather-bound books, and Ranboo approaches it carefully. He only has to take a step or two from standing in the center of the room to reach the shelf, and he’s not sure if he likes how small this room is.

He takes the first book, frowns at the familiar texture, and flips it open to the first page. The first line of text is in the same barely legible handwriting as the papers covering the main area of the lab, but the rest...

Ranboo Journal 1 (Ranboo #1)

I am Ranboo.

The Creator made me. I like the Creator.

The Creator taught me to write.

The Creator taught me what a smile is. ---> :)

I like the song Mellohi .

The word Mellohi is scratched deep into the paper, like he’d written over it several times. Considering his dream from this morning… it’s not hard to figure out why. This is still a whole book, however. Is there more? He flips to the next page.

(Ranboo #2)

Today, I listened to Mellohi. It didn’t make me feel good, but I like Mellohi. I don’t understand.

My handwriting is worse than the Creator’s. I want to write more to be like him.

I want to be more like him.

“No,” Ranboo says. “No, I don’t.”

“You alright?” Tubbo asks, and Ranboo twists around to look at him. He hasn’t said a word so far, and he’s settled down onto the edge of the bed like he’s waiting for Ranboo. Is this boring? Is Tubbo bored? Is he not interested in being here anymore?

“No,” Ranboo says, and he thinks that might be the first time he’s ever answered that question truthfully.

“What does it say?” Tubbo asks.

“It’s my first journal,” Ranboo says. He doesn’t know how to explain this to Tubbo. “It, um… talks about Dream. How much I thought I liked him.”

“Can I see?” Tubbo asks, and Ranboo shrugs. Tubbo stands and steps close, and Ranboo lowers the book so they can both read it.

Ranboo flips the page.

(Ranboo #2)

I don’t understand why the Creator won’t let me leave here.

I want to know what’s on the other side of the door.

He says I won’t like it, but I don’t like a lot of things that I do anyway.

I don’t want anything else, why can’t I have this?

Again.

(Ranboo #3)

I don’t want to know what’s on the other side of the door.

Ranboo closes the book and sets it back on the shelf. He can feel Tubbo’s eyes on him, but Tubbo doesn’t ask, so Ranboo doesn’t tell.

“We’ve been here long enough,” Ranboo says.

He breaks the door and leaves it lying on the floor. Maybe he’ll want to come back later.

They venture out into the hallway and roam for a while. Ranboo isn’t sure how big this place is, but he’s sure it’ll lead back to the main lab area if they wander long enough. In this area (if this even is a different area; he’s not sure), things look much the same as the parts he’s been through before. Long corridors, locked doors, an eerie feeling of wrongness, and, of course, the rotting smell.

“Oi,” Tubbo says, nudging him. “What’s with the smell?”

“Um,” Ranboo says unintelligently, “me.”

Tubbo sniffs. “No, it’s not, you smell fine.”

Ranboo isn’t sure why he even bothers to be embarrassed. Is he really going to have clone-related social anxiety now? Really? “It’s the, uh… dead bodies.”

Tubbo glances up at him, an impossible-to-decipher expression on his face, then laughs and looks away. “Man, I never thought I’d hear you of all people say that seriously.” He sighs. “This is definitely the strangest thing I’ve come across here. You’re sure this isn’t a prank?”

“Unfortunately.”

They finally emerge into the main area of the lab. Ranboo is torn between relief that they’re not lost and fear of what Tubbo will uncover from this. He can visibly see the shift that goes through Tubbo as he goes into nerd-mode. He immediately peels away from Ranboo to study the glass tube machine. He’s tapping on the glass, producing a knife out of nowhere to peel back the metal, and — 

“Don’t take it apart,” Ranboo says nervously. “It might… kill me or something.”

Tubbo waves him off. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this, big man.” He holds the knife between his teeth now, to be cool or something, Ranboo isn’t sure, pulling back the metal to reveal wires, and Ranboo winces and looks away.

With nothing else to do, Ranboo sits down on the floor, knees drawn up towards his chest, leaning back on his arms. He forces his gaze away from Tubbo, letting his attention drift to other areas of the lab, then frowns as he realizes this is exactly where he sat in his dream. Tubbo’s tinkering is a familiar sound, and when he’s not looking at his friend, it’s almost like — 

Ranboo stands. Tubbo’s moved on from the machine, and he’s now looking at the music box. Jukebox, he knows it’s called now.

“What’s this?” Tubbo calls.

“That’s, um — where Dream used to play Mellohi,” Ranboo says.

“Well, he didn’t have the Mellohi disc forever, did he?” Tubbo points out. “He lost it long before you ever came on the server, and Tommy had it… at least during the election, I think.”

“Maybe he lost it and started playing a fake instead?” Ranboo suggested with a shrug. “Or maybe my time is off? He had it by Doomsday.”

Tubbo pauses. “I, uh, gave Dream Mellohi. When he blew up the community house and turned Tommy and I against each other.”

“...Oh.” Ranboo should probably mention that he blew up the community house, right? At least, he probably blew it up. He should probably mention that Dream used to tell him what to do to cause conflict, right?

“Well, at least we have a timeframe,” Tubbo says. “You had to have been made when Dream had Mellohi, and we know that was sometime between Independence and the election.” He shakes his head. “I bet Tommy would know all this useless trivia about the discs.” At Ranboo’s look, he holds his hands up in surrender. “I won’t tell him! I’m just saying.”

Tubbo reaches into the jukebox and pulls out a disc. It’s definitely a Mellohi disc, but not the Mellohi disc. It must’ve stopped playing ages ago. He puts it back inside, and the jukebox clicks from disuse for a moment before it begins playing.

Ranboo flinches, and his ears are pinned back. “Do we have to?”

Tubbo looks over at him. “Oh! Sorry.” He takes it back out and leaves it resting on top. “Do you not like this one, or…?”

Ranboo points at the Mellohi door, and Tubbo turns to follow. “He, um… killed me while playing Mellohi. And then erased my memory, or something, so I couldn’t remember him killing me, but I knew something bad happened.”

“That’s some psychological shit, dude,” Tubbo says, approaching the door. He opens it, and Ranboo turns his head to look away, although he can still hear Tubbo’s voice. “Oh! Fuck, Ranboo, that’s you.”

“Y-yeah, I know…”

“Is there a way in there? Do you know how many, er, bodies are in there?”

“Not that I know of,” Ranboo says anxiously. “And no, but I think I could maybe figure it out.” Depending on how well-kept Dream’s notes on his journals are, and depending on how many times he’s died since Dream was imprisoned. Is there a Ranboo death counter somewhere? That would be helpful.

Tubbo re-emerges from the pit, closing the door behind him. “Alright. Cool. I’m going to do some science now, Ranboo, are you ready?”

“Um…”

“So this,” Tubbo says, pointing at a ticking mechanical display, “is connected to your vitals and stuff, right? It knows if you do something weird, like dying. When you die, it tells this thing —” he gestures to the tube, “— and it takes your genetic material, which is stored somewhere in there, and does some magic shit to it, and bam. New Ranboo.”

“How does it keep my, um…” Ranboo searches for the word. “...consciousness?”

“Oh, well it plays with the lives system,” Tubbo says. “That’s the magic part. I don’t really know how it works, I don’t think anyone really does, other than Dream, I guess. When someone dies, their body doesn’t stick around like yours, because it wasn’t made, maybe, apart from their last death. When we’re brought back to life, we’re in a new body, sort of, because the damage is healed, but everything in our brain stays the same.”

“Is there anything you can do about it?” Ranboo asks. He’s not really sure what he’s asking for. To not be a clone anymore? To shut the machine off? If he shuts it off, he only has one life. He’ll die. Permanently.

Tubbo shakes his head. “I don’t know, Ranboo. I can turn it off, but…”

“Yeah.” Ranboo nods and sucks in a breath. “Okay.”

“Are you…” Tubbo hesitates. “Are you good?”

“No,” Ranboo says. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to — apologize,” Tubbo says. “I… let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Tubbo asks him if he wants to come back to Snowchester, drink some hot cocoa, watch the flakes drift down until they fall asleep again. Ranboo declines. It feels too… normal. Why are things normal? Nothing is normal about this situation. Why are things continuing to happen like nothing’s changed?

He walks back to the mainland slowly without a destination in mind. He doesn’t want to go home, either. Returning to his shack, waving at Techno and Phil as he passes, going back to sleep in his empty room. If he acts like things are the same as they’ve always been, that’s like… admitting defeat. Ranboo just found out he’s a clone , literally created over and over to help Dream with his crimes and be murdered once he’s fulfilled his purpose. For god’s sake, why are things NORMAL?

He wanders for a bit, picking up a grass block at some point. It helps keep his thoughts quiet. He travels the length of the Prime Path, the sound of his footsteps a steady thunk, thunk. It’s reassuring, he thinks. Sinking his fingers into the soft dirt and blades of grass gives him something to hold, to remind him he’s still alive. The thunk grounds him, tells him he’s still here. It’s an enderman thing, Ranboo knows. Maybe it’s because they can teleport, and it’s harder to stay in one place when you can do that. Even though he can’t teleport, he must have the instincts telling him to.

Ranboo’s never thought much about his parents, but he’s always figured… somehow, despite the odds, an enderman met a whatever-his-other-half-is, and they fell in love, and they had him. He doesn’t remember — doesn’t know what it’s like to have a family, but he’s always believed that he has one, or at the very least, had. It’s… painful to realize that there is no one who loves him out there somewhere. It’s painful to realize that there has never been someone that loves him. It’s painful to realize that he doesn’t have these instincts because they were passed down to him, an aspect gifted to his family for generations. He has these instincts because Dream wanted them. His skin is splattered with black and white because Dream decided to make it that way. He’s tall because Dream said so. He is the way he is not because he inherited it from two people with their own lives and history that loved each other enough to have a child, but because of Dream.

It’s sickening. 

His fingers dig into the grass block, and he can feel the dirt sinking beneath his claws, pushing at the flesh below. Ranboo can’t tell if it’s comforting or not.

He’s always had a vague feeling that no one is out there, that if he’s been alone for long enough to entirely forget his childhood then there is nothing left for him now. Ranboo knows that two happy, healthy people don’t disappear from their child’s life for good reasons. He always figured… they died, or something, a long time ago, and that’s why he can’t remember them, why they’ve never contacted him or gone looking for him. He never thought it was because they never existed.

Ranboo isn’t really paying attention to his surroundings — he never does, not when he’s like this — but his eye catches on something. The church. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in there. He’s been in the Holy Land, of course, made his fair share of jokes about immunity while inside, but never the church. Ranboo doesn’t really know anything about gods, or magic, or whatever it is people talk about at church, other than its existence. And Technoblade.

He isn’t particularly interested in becoming devout, as he doubts that will solve his problems, but maybe Church Prime can give some insight on the magical side of his creation. (Great. His two primary sources of information: the church and Tubbo.) At the very least, it’s an unfamiliar place, and he’s fairly certain churches have chairs, so he can give his quickly-tiring legs a rest.

I hope this place isn’t abandoned like most of this nightmare server.

To Ranboo’s dismay, Church Prime is completely devoid of life. It’s dark, so he frees one hand from his grip on the grass block to light one of his own torches, passing the flame onto each charred stick he finds attached to the wall. Once he’s lit it up as much as he can, he extinguishes his own torch. The flickering torches reflect off the cloudy glass.

“Man, when’s the last time someone cleaned this place?” he murmurs, dragging a fingertip across the top of a pew. He makes a face upon realizing it’s now covered in dust. Gross.

The church is… empty. There are the pews, the stained purple carpet, and the rusty bell, but aside from that, there’s nothing. No books written in the ancient language, humming with magic. No books at all, in fact, which would be Ranboo’s only resource in the absence of actual people to talk to. He knocks his knuckles against the bell, and frowns at the tinny sound it makes. Not only is this place empty and not taken care of, but it was cheap in the first place? Whose idea was this, jeez?

Church Prime holds no answers. It is still an empty place he doesn’t generally go, however, so he settles himself on a slightly less dusty portion of the pews with a sigh. His knees are pressed against the row in front of him. Who is this built for, short people? Whatever the purpose for the small size of the pews is, it’s uncomfortable nonetheless, and Ranboo isn’t sure if he’s wide awake or on the verge of collapsing.

Ranboo is fairly certain he’s about to fall asleep when a harsh voice echoes in the empty church, loud and rough on his ears, and he flinches violently awake.

“Why the hell is this place — oh. It’s you.”

He turns around, certainly coating his entire left side in dust. “Hey… Tommy.”

Tommy is making that face he makes sometimes, where it’s all scrunched up in disgust and annoyance. Privately, sometimes, Ranboo thinks he has no right considering his own impressive ability to irritate anyone, but —  What’re you gonna do. It’s Tommy .

“What’re you doing here,” Tommy says, then quickly tacks on, “bitchboy.” It’s flat, like he doesn’t really care, or like he’s too tired to care right now. “Didn’t think you were a church guy.”

“I’m not,” Ranboo says. “I just, um… I don’t know. I was curious.”

Tommy scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Alright.” He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face, then sits down in the back row.

Things are silent for a minute, awkward. Ranboo fidgets, his tail twitching. He glances back at Tommy every few seconds, who seems deeply invested in not meeting his gaze and tapping his fingers on the wood.

Desperate for anything to say, Ranboo blurts out, “Have you ever met a god?”

“Other than Technoblade ?” Tommy asks boredly, over-enunciating the name although Ranboo can tell he’s not bored . “My mum.”

“What — your mom was a god?” Ranboo splutters.

“Well, not my mum,” Tommy concedes. “Wilbur’s mum. I was adopted. We used to have a picture of her on the fridge, and he always tried to tell me that she was the fridge. When I was a kid.”

“Wilbur?” Ranboo can see Ghostbur trying to convince Tommy of that, although coming from Ghostbur, it’d probably be genuine. Wait — “Wilbur was the son of a god?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and now he sounds more tired than bored. “Not that it helped him in the end. Guess he didn’t inherit immortality and shit.” A pause, then: “You aren’t related to some fucking enderman god, are you? That Foolish guy is weird enough.”

“No,” Ranboo says, and he has a feeling the slight laugh he tacks onto the end is more hysterical than totally-normal-conversation-in-an-abandoned-church-esque. “I don’t, um, remember my family.”

“Oh.” Tommy shrugs. “‘S overrated anyway.”

“Are you — what’s wrong?” Ranboo asks.

Tommy hesitates, as though unsure of what he’s going to say. “I… I’m going to visit Dream. And it’ll be the last time.” His words are definite, but there’s a wobble to his voice.

“That’s… that’s good,” Ranboo says, nervously thinking of his own visit to Dream. “Can I ask, uh… why?”

“He’s a bastard,” Tommy says, spits, suddenly full of his usual energy. “Can’t fucking stand him. We’re all better off without him. He’s in there , we’re out here, I don’t want him in my life. You know, Ranboo, you know what that motherfucker did to me in exile.”

Ranboo nods slowly. “Yeah… I —” He chokes down his feelings of guilt. I did that. I’m the reason you were exiled. “That’s good, Tommy, I, I’m glad.”

Tommy nods sharply. “It is good.” His eyes dart to meet Ranboo’s for a moment, just briefly, before flickering away. “Anyways, I — I don’t want to talk about me. What are you up to, Ranboob?”

He makes a face at the nickname, and he’s fairly certain that Tommy is deflecting, but he did come here for answers, didn’t he? “I mean… nothing much. It’s been quiet.” Lie. He winces. “Um… Tommy, what’s it like to have a family?”

Tommy looks a little alarmed at the sudden shift, then grimaces. “What, you don't know anything about it? At all?” At the shake of Ranboo’s head, the grimace softens, a little bit. Or maybe that’s Ranboo’s imagination. “Well, my real parents fuckin’ left me on the street. Don’t remember them either. So don’t…” He pauses. “Don’t feel bad. Real parents ain’t worth shit!”

Well, that sounded a little forced.

“Phil adopted me,” Tommy continues. “I grew up with him, and Wil, and Techno. And Tubbo — d’yknow we found him in a box? A fucking box.”

“...No, I did not.”

“Well, now you do,” Tommy says with a nod. “I mean… family is like… people you can turn to. Shit like that. It’s good and all until your dad and brother ditch you and your other brother loses his mind in a fucking cave. Family drama, you know how it is. Well — I suppose you don’t.”

“So your family was… Phil, Wilbur, and Techno? And Tubbo?” Ranboo is starting to consider rethinking his relationships.

“Yeah.” Tommy pauses thoughtfully. “But really, L’manburg was my favorite. When Wil wasn’t being… Wil. It was like a family. Even Jack Manifold, sometimes, he was alright. There was a moment, after the first festival, where me and Tubbo and Niki listened to Blocks and watched the sunrise. We were getting away from Wilbur and Techno, and Tubbo was all scarred, but it was… it gave me hope, y’know? I don’t think we would’ve won back L’manburg without that… family. Even if we’re all fucked up now, that used to be the heart of L’manburg, I think. No wonder it’s blown to shit.”

“So family… doesn’t have to be who you’re related to by blood?” Ranboo asks slowly.

“Hell no. Family is whoever you want it to be, big man. The people you want to stick with you until the end.” After a moment, Tommy adds, “Not that I approve of you replacing me in my own shit family or anything, but. Y’know. Whatever makes you happy, I guess.”

Ranboo laughs, and this time, it’s genuine. “This was… helpful, Tommy. Thank you.”

“That’s me, Tommy Helpful Innit.” He blinks, tilts his head like he’s contemplating something, then says, grinning, “D’you think my real parents just found me annoying at first? Most people do.”

For the first time since the beginning of all of this, Ranboo feels like he’s finally placed a piece of the puzzle. It’s a bit of weight off his chest, and although it doesn’t feel good, it feels better. If he’s going to defy Dream, be his own person, more than just a clone , why not start with this?

They sit in Church Prime together for a little longer, catching up on each other’s lives, and it’s late by the time they leave. Ranboo thinks they should really just leave the torches burning, but Tommy insists that the whole place’ll burn down if they do, and besides, it’s not like anyone comes here often enough to need light.

“Tommy,” Ranboo says before they part, “do you think that we could be family?”

Tommy hesitates, then scoffs. “As if I’d ever want to be your family, boob boy.” Underneath the harsh words, Ranboo can see his smile, and he decides to take that as a yes.

Tommy turns and makes his way home, waving and humming loudly as he goes. Hopefully no one lives around here still. As for Ranboo, he finally heads back to the arctic. He has an awkward family breakfast to get to.

Chapter Text

Ranboo, blissfully, slinks home without issue and gets a full night’s sleep free of nightmares. He’s sure that means that the worst is yet to come and the universe is simply taking pity on him, but c’mon. He’ll take what he can get.

It’s mid-morning by the time he wakes, and when he takes a step outside into the frigid air, he can smell a hot breakfast. He doubts Phil and Techno randomly decided to prepare enough food for three, but there’s no way Phil will flat-out tell him no.

Techno might, though.

Steeling himself, Ranboo takes a deep breath, then marches across the snowy yard up to their front door. Side door. Whatever door it is. Before he loses confidence, he knocks on the door twice in quick succession. He immediately hears the sound of crashing plates from inside, but after a few seconds, Phil opens the door, a warm (but tense) smile on his face.

“Hey, Ranboo,” Phil says, glancing back at, presumably, a mess that used to be breakfast. “What can I do for you, mate?”

“This is going to sound crazy,” Ranboo says, “but there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh, god, another emotionally unstable child has something to tell me! I can’t believe it!” Phil snorts, but he opens the door and lets Ranboo inside. “Doesn’t sound too crazy to me.”

There’s no visible mess inside, but Techno is staring way too intently at his hands (hands? hooves? whatever Techno has) clasped on the table in front of him, and the kitchen is suspiciously empty of food. Ranboo wonders if he should feel guilty about accidentally destroying breakfast, then decides he has much more important things to worry about here. They cooked breakfast once, they can manage to do it again.

“So, Ranboo,” Techno says, looking up to catch his gaze. He always does that, and Ranboo has a feeling it’s on purpose. Maybe it’s a thing from the fighting rings where he made a name for himself. Maybe he’s just trying to be intimidating.“What brings you here this… lovely morning?”

Ranboo awkwardly settles into the chair opposite Techno (aw, man, they don’t have three chairs, are they going to make me sit on the floor like Tubbo? I feel like that’s the wrong vibe for this situation) , and Phil busies himself with something in the kitchen, but this whole cabin is small enough for that not to be an issue. “Like I said, I, um, have something to tell you.”

“Alright,” Techno says dryly, motioning him to go on.

“So.” Why was this so much easier with Tubbo? “You know, um, Dream. Of course.”

“Of course,” Techno echoes. “That guy. Kinda hard to forget.” Phil chuckles.

“Well,” Ranboo continues, wringing his hands, “He’s, uh, kind of a bad guy, right? And when I was mining, a few, a few days ago, I found a laboratory.”

“Dream has a laboratory?” Phil says lightly. “For what, making all that TNT?”

“Uh --” Ranboo thinks for a second. “Maybe. Probably. But that’s not the point -- turns out he, uh, he figured out how to create life. And clones.”

Recognition sweeps over Phil’s face. “Oh, that’s what you were talking about, with all the science shit? That’s kind of cool, actually.”

Ranboo purses his lips, fighting back any more of a response. “Yeah. Cool.”

“Clones,” Techno says slowly, like the word doesn’t fit right on his tongue. “Of who? Himself? Are there a bunch of Dreams running around the server? Because,” he laughs, “that would suck.”

“No,” Ranboo says, but when he opens his mouth, he can’t seem to make words come out, so he closes it again.

“So is it someone else on the server?” Phil muses. “Someone that still works for Dream even when he’s in prison?”

“I bet it’s that weird Jack Manifold guy,” Techno says. “Or -- the guy, the one with the, uh, bad glasses -- George.”

“No,” Ranboo repeats, and barely manages to choke out, “it’s me.”

For a moment, everything goes silent. Phil and Techno stare at him. Phil’s stopped whatever he’s doing with breakfast, and Techno is eerily still. Then Ranboo shifts, his gaze dropping to the table, and the moment is broken.

“You’re a clone?!” Phil exclaims.

“Not just a clone -- Dream’s clone?!” When Ranboo dares look up at Techno for a moment, the man looks furious. “And you never told us?”

Ranboo shrinks back in his chair. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know until I -- until I went mining that day, and I -- I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry. He -- erased my memories. Somehow. I don’t remember. I don’t remember what I did.”

The fire dims, and it feels like they’ve all taken a deep breath.

“Who knows about this?” Phil asks, an obviously forced evenness to his tone. “Have you told anyone?”

“Tubbo,” Ranboo whispers.

Technoblade moves, his chair scraping against the floor, and Ranboo flinches at the sound. He isn’t brave enough to look up at him this time.

“Tubbo’s not a threat, Techno,” Phil says, oddly gentle. “He’s just a kid, and he and Ranboo are friends. ”

“‘Just a kid’ didn’t stop him before,” Techno says. “It didn’t stop Tommy.” A pause, then he sinks back into his chair. “And clearly Ranboo being ‘just a kid’ didn’t stop Dream.”

“He made me this way,” Ranboo says. A disturbing thought strikes him. Did Dream make him this age so that Tommy and Tubbo would trust him? Is he ever going to get older? Are Tubbo and Tommy going to grow up, and he’s going to be stuck like this, for the rest of his life? Did Dream even imagine Ranboo would live long enough to need to age?

Techno exhales. “So your… memory problems. Are they because of Dream?”

“Yes.” Ranboo drags his gaze up from the table to look at Techno and Phil. “Every time he killed me, he… erased my, my memory. So that I wouldn’t remember. I… died, the day I went mining, and that’s -- that’s why I know this now. He’s in prison. I remember.”

“So… you’re a clone. You’re not the same Ranboo as you’ve been since Dream was put in prison.” Phil sounds measured. Careful. Sometimes, Ranboo forgets he’s the Angel of Death. Sometimes. “But you’re the same person mentally?”

Ranboo nods. “I don’t know how. It’s -- Tubbo says it’s magic.”

“Tubbo’s… been to this lab?” Phil asks.

“Yeah.”

“We should go,” Techno says. “I’m sure between the two of us, we can figure something out. A god and an almost-god, that’s gotta count for something, y’know?”

Ranboo stiffens at the thought. Tubbo is one thing. Philza and Technoblade are another. It’s… he doesn’t want them to think he’s weak. He doesn’t want them to think he’s pathetic and kick him to the curb. But there’s nothing in that laboratory to convince them otherwise.

Phil and Techno exchange a glance, and Techno shakes his head. “Nah, I guess… if Tubbo’s looked, that’s good enough. The guy knows what he’s doing.”

Phil nods, glancing once more at Techno before turning back to Ranboo. “Did Tubbo mention a cure?”

“No. He said… there’s no, um, nothing he can do. If he unplugs the machine, I might die, and if I don’t then, I’ll die of something else later -- permanently.”

There’s a long silence. Phil finishes cooking breakfast for the second time and sets down a steaming stack of pancakes in front of each of them. Techno finds an extra chair somewhere, and the three of them sit around the small table. Ranboo’s tail taps against the wooden leg of his own chair, and he’s sure that his ears are so far pinned back, his discomfort is obvious to anyone so much as taking a passing glance at him. When he lifts a hand up, he’s shaking, so he clenches it into a fist and presses it into his leg.

Breakfast is good. He slathers it in butter and syrup, and it’s the best thing he’s eaten in a long time (sorry, Tubbo) . The silence is uncomfortable, but it’s even worse when it’s broken.

“So, Ranboo, if you don’t want our help in fixing it,” Techno starts, “why did you tell us?”

Ranboo swallows, thinks back to his conversation with Tommy last night. Family is whoever you want it to be… the people you want to stick with you until the end. Asking Tommy if he wants to be family, asking Tubbo if he wants to be family is easier than this. He doesn’t know if Phil and Techno want to stick with him until the end. Can they even die? ( Can I?) What if they --

“I trust you guys,” he finally says. “I want to trust you with this. And I, I hope -- that you can trust me now, too.”

Ranboo blinks, and suddenly Phil’s resting a hand on his shoulder and Techno is ruffling his hair.

“We’re glad you’re here, Ranboo,” Phil says, strangely earnest. “I -- I’m glad you trust us with this.”

“I suppose you’re alright,” Techno says gruffly. “Better than some other kids we’ve had to deal with.”

“Aw, c’mon, Tommy wasn’t that bad,” Phil laughs.

“He didn’t steal your stuff, Phil,” Techno retorts, rolling his eyes.

Ranboo doesn’t say a word, and he’s terrified that if he tries, he’ll end up with another set of tear scars under his eyes, but he thinks this might be the best he’s felt in a long, long time.

“We’re here for you, mate.” Until the end.

No wonder this was the heart of L’manburg, Ranboo thinks, staring blearily out the window. It’s snowing. I didn’t realize how much family makes you… feel.

Chapter Text

When Ranboo is awake, things seem… normal. “Normal” is such a strange word now, but he can’t think of a better way to describe it. His days, while filled with sudden moments of fear and the constant dread of remembering what he is, aren’t much different from what they’ve been since Doomsday. They’re better in some ways now; Techno and Phil have offered him a standing invitation to breakfast, and he’s been spending more time in Snowchester than ever before. Tommy hasn’t been around as much -- Ranboo suspects he’s spending time planning how he’ll confront Dream for the final time. He doesn’t mind. He’s far from the last person to judge Tommy for wanting closure. Despite that, life has been… good. When Ranboo is awake.

When Ranboo is asleep, he is suffering.

The memories don’t come in order anymore. They come in fast flashes -- it’s disturbing to be able to remember times when Dream killed him out of annoyance, times Dream killed him because he wasn’t being cooperative, times that Dream killed him for fun. It’s disturbing to remember the feeling of… awe that Ranboo held for Dream, back when he was still the Creator with a smile. It’s disturbing when Ranboo sits in the lab by himself, squinting at the papers that Dream left behind, struggling to understand why.

Ranboo sees all this, remembers all this, but he can’t remember why. He can’t remember anything important. What terrible things did he take part in that he doesn’t remember? What crimes did Dream force him into doing before murdering him, splattering his blood all over their latest masterpiece? What did he do?

“Ranboo, today you’re going to learn how to fight.”

He blinks down at the heavy weight in his hands. “Fight? Who is there to fight?”

The Creator laughs. “I know this lab is pretty empty, but there’s a whole server of people up there. They don’t like me, so they won’t like you. You have to protect yourself.”

Ranboo wants to ask why they don’t like him -- how could anyone dislike the Creator? He’s a genius, and he’s been nothing but kind to Ranboo. What’s dislikable about that? But he knows, instinctually now, although he can’t remember why, not to question the Creator’s judgement.

“Fucking -- George. Sapnap. They want to leave me. I can feel it.” The Creator isn’t smiling. His mouth is split open, but it’s turned in the wrong direction. “They hate me, Ranboo, they hate me. I’ve been nothing but good to them!”

“Why?” Ranboo asks.

“Why?” The Creator is smiling again, but it doesn’t look right. Ranboo’s never seen a smile other than the Creator’s, but it seems wrong. “Why? God, Ranboo, if I fucking knew, you wouldn’t exist!”

“Today is going to be a test.” The Creator looks up at him when they stand in front of each other, head craned back to meet Ranboo’s discomforted, shifting gaze, but Ranboo feels as though the Creator is looming. “This is your purpose, Ranboo. The purpose of your existence -- isn’t that exciting? This is what I made you for.” He pats Ranboo’s shoulder, although Ranboo doesn’t find it very reassuring.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks, swallowing back some kind of feeling. He doesn’t know what.

“Be yourself,” the Creator says. “Be what I’ve shaped you into. They’ll never know the difference.”

“You’re an idiot!” Dream cries, tugging at his hair in -- frustration? (Ranboo doesn’t know.) “I’m an idiot!”

“I --” Ranboo stammers, “I don’t understand.” Why did Dream invite him to his country if -- why is he angry? What’s going on?

“Of course you don’t,” Dream snarls. “Of course you don’t, I wasn’t ready, I shouldn’t have --” He notches an arrow in his bowstring, and Ranboo flinches as it’s pointed at him. (He should run. Why isn’t he running?) “We’ll try again. No one will be able to tell the difference. You’re a nobody, Ranboo. You’re not even real.”

“You know, Ranboo, I told you once that I wasn’t real. That you made me up. Do you remember that?” 

Slowly, Ranboo shakes his head. His mind is sluggish, empty; he can’t remember anything. If he strains, he thinks he might hear the sound of running water, can feel his hands against soft fur.

“I think it’s kind of funny. I made you up. I created you. Soon, though, maybe, it’ll be true. Maybe Tommy will figure out a way to win today. He always does. If he wins, I’ll be nothing more than a dream to you. Or a nightmare, really.” Dream runs gloved fingertips over the metal of his axe. It gleams dully in the light of the glowstone. A few spots don’t glow; Ranboo wonders whether it’s rust or blood. “Ranboo, you’re the best clone I could’ve asked for. I couldn’t have done this -- all this! -- without you. I mean, look around!”

Ranboo accepts the order for what it is, resigned. It’s dark in here. He doesn’t remember liking big, dark places. He thinks there might be something wrong, but he can’t think clearly enough to know what. He isn’t sure what this place reminds him of.

“If I die today,” Dream says, “or if they lock me up, whatever they do to me -- remember. You’re meant to be locked up with me, too.” The lower half of his face, the part that isn’t hidden away, matches the jagged wood so well that Ranboo can pretend his whole face is a mask. It makes it easier. “If you can remember!” He breaks off into a cackle, but Ranboo doesn’t remember how to laugh. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to.

Dream crosses the great expanse of his achievement, light and without a care in the world. This base, it’s grander than any other battles have been fought in. There’s no people cowering behind half-destroyed walls. There’s no president bringing about his own doom inside of his enemy’s first victory, no president standing on a podium rigged to blow. No train tracks, no lakes. But what does Ranboo know? All he has are vague recollections in a history museum.

Dream plucks Mellohi off its golden frame and produces a jukebox from his enderchest. His teeth shine, and they look more like fangs, sharp and feral. Ranboo squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he could cut off his hearing as easily as his sight as those first haunting notes begin to play.

“Oh, c’mon, Ranboo,” Dream says. “The sun is rising soon. Let’s have one final dance.”

Ranboo lets Dream tug him up, his ears pressed back and his tail firmly wrapped around his leg. Dream pulls him out into the center of the base, but Ranboo focuses on keeping his eyes closed. Dream treats the world like a stage, like a dance floor. Ranboo is just an actor, if that. A prop.

They spin once, twice, and on the third spin, Dream’s axe buries itself in his chest. Ranboo opens his eyes long enough to see the violet spray of his own blood.

Ranboo jolts awake. His blankets are in a disorganized pile on the floor, and the one sheet that remains is tangled with his legs. He’s cold, and his skin feels too tight. His jaw remains stubbornly closed against the need to vomit. When he glances out the window, his jaw clenches tighter.

It’s sunrise.

He decides to skip breakfast with Techno and Phil today. There’s something he needs to do.

He dresses quickly, missing a button on his shirt, but he’s not in the mood to care. He straps on his armor, too. He’s tempted not to care, to thoughtlessly endanger himself, but he doesn’t want to burn himself with water on the way there on top of everything else. (Why does he have wants? What use does a prop have for wants?) If the tear scars are anything to go by, non-fatal injuries don’t seem to disappear. Ranboo doesn’t need to be any more messed up than he already is.

The walk to Snowchester is brief. The server is still asleep. This morning, his only company is the birds. He makes good time, and the sun has barely passed over the horizon by the time he reaches the tunnel. Ranboo winces at the sensation of being surrounded by water, but it doesn’t hurt, so he tries not to think about it. It’s over quickly enough, and he emerges into the center of Snowchester. It’s quiet here, too, but he can see light through the windows of Tubbo’s house. He’s already awake.

When Ranboo knocks on the door, a few seconds pass, then Tubbo calls, “Come in!”

Tubbo’s house is a mess, as usual, although today there are papers scattering the floor instead of metal and possible nuclear weapons. It’s an upgrade, but it does leave much less space for Ranboo to pick his way through. Paper is much less forgiving than metal.

“Hey, bossman,” Tubbo says, gaze fixed on one paper as he scribbles furiously on another. What’s he working on now? And, there’s no way his writing is legible like that. Then, why do I care? He’s not sure where the thoughts come from. “You’re up early.”

“I -- yeah,” Ranboo says. He’s not sure how else he could possibly respond to that. “ Yeah, I had the worst nightmare of my life, and did you know I ballroom danced with our worst enemy once”? Heck no. “There’s something I… need your help with.”

“What?” Tubbo asks. His writing pace slows. Is that a good thing?

“I want to regain my memory,” Ranboo says slowly, and he thinks this might be the most confidence he’s ever had in himself. This is something he wants. He knows that. (Why do I want?) “I want to remember everything that Dream made me forget.”

Tubbo’s pen stops, and Ranboo can feel him trying to meet his gaze. Ranboo pointedly fixes his eyes on the ladder behind him. “How?”

“I… I don’t know,” Ranboo says. “But I know I can’t keep… living like this. Every time I wake up, I remember something else. I know I did -- I did something bad, Tubbo. I have to know.”

“Your memories only come in dreams, don’t they?” Tubbo says. “Why don’t you just… wait it out…” He trails off, and he and Ranboo must come to the same conclusion simultaneously, because he holds his hands up and exclaims, “Woah, Ranboo! No, no, you can’t do that!”

The memories don’t only come in dreams. There is a sickening sense of certainty beating behind Ranboo’s ribs. “Why not? I come back, don’t I? And we know it works.” His nerves feel like they’re on fire. Is this how I’ll feel with a sword stabbed in my gut?

Tubbo exhaustedly rubs at his face, and Ranboo wonders if he’s up early or late. “Ranboo, I -- you know I can’t let you do that. That’s -- even if you come back, it’s suicide.”

“Not if you help me with it,” Ranboo objects. “If that first death was enough to, to shock my system in starting to remember, then doing it again will -- help me figure it out!”

“Then it’s murder,” Tubbo exclaims, “and that’s even worse!” He shakes his head. “No. No, I can’t do that. Ranboo, it’s not worth it. Even if it works, it’s wrong. You deserve to live, Ranboo!”

“How can I live when my life’s purpose is to help Dream hurt people?!” Ranboo takes a deep, sharp breath, but it doesn’t calm him. He clenches and unclenches his fists, and he doesn't wince at the claws digging into his skin. At least, he tries not to. “Fine. I… I’ll do it myself.”

“Ranboo!”

Tubbo stands, apparently uncaring of the papers on the floor, but Ranboo has longer legs, and he’s out the door faster than Tubbo can reach him. Once he’s reached open air, he breaks out into a run. His breath comes in sharp, cold huffs, and it scratches his throat. It hurts. Just a bit.

Sorry, Tubbo, he thinks mournfully. I don’t think I’ll be seeing you in a while.

He emerges from the tunnel and sets off for the forest. It’s oddly ethereal in the soft morning light, the leaves still glistening with dew. A drop slides off the leaf of a tree and Ranboo hisses as it steams against his neck. I hope it doesn’t scar . His vision seems blurry, and he can’t tell if it’s because of the forest or his own shortcomings.

Using his shovel, Ranboo clears away the dirt covering the small entrance he created to the lab a few days ago. It’s more convenient than going all the way back to the arctic or digging a new hole every time he finds himself here. He’s worried that someone will find it, but he reminds himself he’s never seen anybody but Ghostbur in this forest of their own volition. Once he’s finished, he leaves the shovel leaning against a tree, and the enchantments glitter in the dappled sunlight. His armor follows suit, stripped off carelessly, leaving him with only his sword for protection (Like that’s what he’ll be using it for…). Ranboo then does something he hasn’t done since that first day -- he takes out his journal and opens it, a pen poised above the fresh page.

Remember, he writes. You’re here because you have to remember. Don’t stop until you know WHY.

He leaves the journal on the soft dirt beside his shovel and armor. Ranboo inhales carefully, then descends into the lab.

Chapter Text

Ranboo exhales softly. The point of the sword jabs into his stomach when he inhales again. He’s just holding it there now -- it’s not stabbing, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just a pressure. Just the threat of violence digging into his skin, the reflective glare of the enchantments hurting his eyes. I am going to stab myself with this sword, and I am going to die.

When he falls to the ground, lifeless, and returns to consciousness in the forest, is he going to have to shove this body into the pit and do it again? What if it hurts, and he gives into his cowardice and refuses to come back down once he remembers? He’s scared, of course he’s scared, what normal person wouldn’t be scared? But he’s not a normal person, is he? That’s why he’s here, after all. Dream didn’t make him to be scared. Dream made him to inflict pain, and that is what he is going to do. He is going to hurt, and he is not going to be scared. He doesn’t deserve to be scared.

(But isn’t that what Dream wants? For you to hurt yourself? Won’t this hurt other people, too? Tubbo cares about you, Phil and Techno care about you, won’t this hurt them?)

(They don’t. They can’t care about you, not yet. You’re not a person like them. So this won’t hurt them.)

His thoughts are all tangled up in his mind, and his temples are starting to throb, so Ranboo forces it all to the side in one smooth motion. Everything explodes with pain, and his suit is wet with blood. His knees don’t feel strong enough to hold him anymore, so he lets them collapse, and it’s almost nice when things start to fade, starting from the edges until his vision is so narrowed in, all he sees is the bloodstain on his once-pristine sword. After a while, that’s gone too.

Ranboo and Tommy go their separate ways, and despite the anxiety bubbling in Ranboo, he plans on heading back to the heart of L’manburg and exploring a little more. Yeah, okay, he just… robbed George’s house, but that’s fine, it’s no big deal. Tommy wanted him to do it, he did it, now they’re friends. And it’s not like George was in it, so it’s fine! Yep, it’s totally, one hundred percent morally okay, and Ranboo will not spend any more time dwelling on it.

Unfortunately, his plans are abruptly wrenched out of his head when a hand closes tightly on his arm and drags him into one of the many dilapidated structures that still remain from the last war. At least, he thinks it was a war? Or maybe it was a flood. There sure is a lot of water around L’manburg. Either way, there are a lot of ruined buildings, and he is now inside one of them, and he is staring uncomfortably into the dead eyes of Dream’s mask.

“Oh!” he chokes out. “Um, hi, Dream. I don’t --”

“Shut up,” Dream says, and Ranboo snaps his jaw shut. An eerie feeling washes over him as a grin spreads across the exposed part of Dream’s face. Almost like… familiarity? But that can’t be right, he’s pretty sure this is his second or third time ever even seeing Dream, and he definitely wasn’t making that face. “Oh, good, hanging out with Tommy for a day didn’t ruin all my hard work.”

Ranboo cannot even begin to process that statement. Luckily, he doesn’t have to, because Dream is now unceremoniously dragging him by the arm back the way he came, and he gets a little too caught up in the “what the heck is happening” to think about what Dream is actually saying to him.

“I’m not sure if this will work,” Dream says. “I mean, if it doesn’t, I’ll kill you anyway, but I don’t want to start from scratch. I’m a very busy guy, Ranboo, you know? I don’t have that kind of time. All my plans are finally coming together, so I don’t have time for that sort of thing. So I’m really hoping you’ll make this easy for me.”

What Ranboo wants to say is, “What does that even mean?” What he actually says is less words and more a pathetic little whimper. Sue him, Dream is scary and this is definitely the most confusing thing that’s happened to him so far. And, wait -- KILL HIM?

Dream leads him back to George’s house, which is still robbed and partially on fire, just how he and Tommy’d left it. Ranboo half-remembers that Dream and George are friends, so he’s definitely not expecting it when Dream hands him a flint and steel.

“Burn it.”

“I -- sorry?”

“Burn it.” Dream tilts his head and smiles at him, and Ranboo resists the urge to recoil. “It’s not hard. Strike the flint and steel together, and burn this place to the ground.”

When Ranboo is finally capable of forming words, all he can stutter out is, “Wh -- why?”

Dream just stares and Ranboo wishes that he wasn’t wearing the mask. Figuring out what other people are feeling with the ability to see their face is hard enough. “Because I told you to.”

Still, Ranboo does not move, does not step towards the house with the weapon in his hands. Even with his lack of skill, he can feel it when something in the air shifts and Dream turns deadly.

“You know, I hoped we could avoid this. We could figure something out, be partners. But I guess even I have my limits.” He steps towards Ranboo, and Ranboo raises his foot to take a step back, but before he has the chance -- “Smile, Ranboo.”

Ranboo’s muscles freeze up for just a second, then loosen, and his foot lowers back down to the ground. He’s -- blank. He can’t think.

“Burn it down, Ranboo,” Dream says slowly. Clearly.

And so Ranboo does.

The roar of the flames is beautiful, he thinks dully. It looks strange on his skin, the light dancing to a tune he can’t hear across his mismatched, burnt hands.There’s a knife wound in his neck.

Ranboo wakes up in the forest clutching his shirt collar, and he stays frozen like that until he remembers why. It’s hard to tell through the thick leaves, but it’s still day, at least. He spares his journal and gear half a glance before climbing back down the ladder.

Swallowing back either vomit or a sob, Ranboo painfully pulls the sword out of the previous him’s stomach and drags the body to the Mellohi door. Not wanting to touch it any more than he has to, he lets go of the legs and kicks the body into the pit. He can hear the sickening crack of bones in the dead silence of the lab. Did Dream ever take joy in hearing that crack?

He closes the door, picks up the sword, and the cycle repeats.

To Do:

• Write back to Tommy

Ranboo frowns at the rest of the page. Empty. He needs some new hobbies. Yes, he really does need to write back to Tommy, but c’mon, if even Tommy can come up with things to do all alone in exile, then Ranboo should be able to figure out some way to occupy his day.

He thinks about it for a minute, then lights up. Right! He and Tubbo are going to make a place for bees! That’s something to do, right? Of course, Tubbo is busy doing presidential things, but it’ll at least take up some time?

But he’s not doing anything now, so Ranboo decides to do the one and only thing on his to-do list and writes back. His reply is simple; Tommy heavily avoids being serious, so Ranboo is careful to avoid prodding him too much. From what he’s heard, he’s one of the only people that Tommy will talk to now (and maybe that’s something he needs to bring up with Tubbo…) so he doesn’t want to damage what might be Tommy’s only decent relationship. 

He folds up the letter and places it in his memory book, then stands, stretching. At a glance, it’s not too late yet, so he might as well deliver it now. No point in waiting, right? Especially for someone with as terrible memory as him. With his luck, he’ll forget about it for another week before finally delivering it.

L’manburg is lively this evening. Now that it isn’t a hole in the ground, it actually looks nice, and apparently that makes people actually want to be there. Who knew. It’s almost pretty with the Tubbo-mandated theme and the slow rebuilding, especially in the early twilight. It’ll probably be amazing at night once it’s all put together and lit up. They should throw some kind of festival. A light festival or something -- maybe he’ll pitch the idea to Tubbo. Especially if someone (maybe Phil? He can’t quite recall) went through with putting water underneath it. A city on stilts above a crater. Poetic. Ghostbur should write a song about it.

Outside of L’manburg is still nice, although less populated. It’s a little weird to be alone after being surrounded by so many people, but Ranboo doesn’t mind. He thinks. He has trouble figuring out his feelings these days. It’s just so hard to tell the difference between them all, and recognizing the signs in himself. A book can’t tell him that. At least, not anyone else’s books; he’s trying to write it down in his own. Either way, he’s fairly certain the strange sensation in his gut is nothing to concern himself with, so he brushes it to the side and focuses on not falling into lava in the Nether. Really, if they can build multiple whole countries, surely someone can dedicate some of that effort to cleaning this place up? It’s a mess.

Ranboo soon finds himself standing outside of the portal, but instead of going through, he hesitates, shifting on his feet. Should he just leave it here? Should he try to talk to Tommy in person, see if he can’t engage him for a bit? Surely it’s better for Tommy to talk to him in person than just through letters. But the letters are good, too, and he doesn’t want to push him or bother him. Maybe Tommy doesn’t even want to see him; after all, it is partially Ranboo’s fault that he’s here, isn’t he? Ranboo should’ve stood up at the trial, or convinced him to never burn down George’s house at the first place, and --

Ranboo never gets to make a decision. Instead, an arrow hits him square in the back, then another, and he goes down, blinded with pain. His face presses against the hot netherrack, and he dimly wonders if it’s hot enough to burn.

“Ranboo. I thought you were better than this.” The voice is instantly recognizable as Dream’s, and if Ranboo were in the middle of a drink, he would’ve spat it out, because DREAM? What could Dream possibly want with him? Bad enough to nearly kill him?

“I --” he gasps out, “wha --”

His memory book is pried out of his still-tight grip, and Ranboo forces himself to roll over so he can see. He blinks up at Dream, torn between confusion, pain, and anger. Anger is definitely a new one for him -- he’ll have to write it down, if he remembers. The confusion will make that a little tricky, though. And Dream. Because what the heck, Dream?

In Dream’s inattentive grip, the letter meant for Tommy slips out from between the pages, and Dream picks it up and unfolds it, clicking his tongue after a moment. “Really. I wish,” he sighs, “there was a way to tell you something without all this. Because I have to erase this.” He drops the letter off the edge, and Ranboo can’t see its descent, but he knows that it’s fallen into lava. “Your memory book and you. It’s so inconvenient.”

Dream flips through the book, and if Ranboo could, he would tense, because no one should read that. Especially not Dream, especially not in this situation. “To Do,” he reads out loud. “You don’t need that page, do you?” He rips it straight out of the book, and the sound of the tearing makes Ranboo feel ill. What is he doing? Why? Why?

“I don’t think I’ll see you back here in a while,” Dream says boredly. He’s flipping something in his fingers. Something dark, and flat, and circular. “Right, Ranboo? You’ll be good now? No more ‘visiting’ Tommy? No more helping him?”

“No --” Ranboo tries to say, but it’s useless. Without that page -- he won’t remember. Tommy -- Tommy needs him. Tommy needs him. He won’t remember. “I have to, I, remember --”

The cycle repeats.

Making TNT is soothing. Repetitive. It makes his brain stop hurting, stop screaming about how much it hurts. It shouldn’t hurt. It can’t hurt. Ranboo can’t afford the pain.

Collecting the gunpowder from the chest. Rolling it up into individual sticks. Packing it all together. Moving onto the next block.

That’s all it is. Steps to follow. Steps scratched into the paper in front of him. He can’t remember if his own hand wrote those words or if someone else did. It hurts too much to try.

His fingers are starting to go numb, but so is his mind. It likes the repetition. It likes not thinking. Ranboo likes not thinking. It’s easy. Not having to think, not having to figure out this feeling or that, not having to parse through his thoughts to find the right words. He doesn’t even have to think about the fact that this is TNT, or what it’s for, or who it’ll hurt. He doesn’t --

He doesn’t have to.

It doesn’t matter who it’ll hurt, because he’s making it regardless.

Because Dream told him to.

He’s bordering on thinking again. He should stop. It’s not worth it. It hurts.

The cycle repeats.

“This is… impressive work, Dream, I have to say.”

“Right? I’m not sure when I’ll release him into the world -- it’d be inconvenient now, when everyone’s so suspicious of each other, but…”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a clever man, Dream, you’re a clever man! You’ve got everyone under your control, like little puppets, and I’m so impressed I won’t even try to cut the strings. All you have to do is twitch your pinky -- yes, just like that! -- and we all bend to your will. It’s incredible, really.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are. This, this Ranboo fellow, I dare say he might be your greatest creation! This could be your symphony, Dream.”

“I’m not really into music.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me, with your little obsession with Tommy’s discs. No, no, don’t look at me like that! I don’t care about all that, that’s his quest, not mine. He still thinks he’s a hero. You don’t think your Ranboo will ever fancy himself a hero, do you?”

The cycle repeats.

“Smile, Ranboo.”

The cycle repeats.

Ranboo dutifully rigs the community house to blow. He covers the downstairs in TNT, while Dream heads up the winding staircase to do the rest. When he’s finished, he stands just outside, staring down at the water on the other side of the fence. Something in his face twitches at seeing the fish, dozens of them filling the pond with life. Will they blow up with the community house?

“Get inside,” Dream hisses suddenly in his ear, and Ranboo jumps, but does as he’s told. “If someone sees you here, it’ll ruin everything.”

Dream messes around with the redstone more, but Ranboo has no apparent task to complete, so he sits down, leaning against the wall. His head lolls back to look at the ceiling. It’s dull. In his wavering vision, the lines of the wood and nails swim, as lively as the fish. There is life in the community house. Who has he killed by rigging it with TNT? Tubbo, who already bears the scars of an explosion? Niki, who’s become colder and colder since they met? Puffy, who is desperate to find a way to help them rebuild? Tommy, who… Tommy, who is already dead? Tommy, who is dead because Ranboo wasn’t there for him? Tommy, who is dead because Ranboo killed him?

He’s shaking. He’s not supposed to do that. He catches his lashing tail in trembling hands and holds himself together. Still. That is what he is supposed to be. That is what Dream has told him to do. Right? But Dream’s not looking at him, and --

His tail tears itself out of his hands and thumps against the floor, hard. It hurts. He makes no move to recapture it.

Ranboo doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Dream hasn’t told him to hurt anyone. Dream’s never told him to kill, to injure, but -- Dream’s told him to blow up the community house. And maybe no one is here in flesh and blood, but aren’t they in spirit? Doesn’t this house represent the community, contain their essence in this patchwork building? When the community house explodes, doesn’t the community go with it?

He moves his hands to his hair, and they immediately latch on and tug. The pain is sharp, but it does not consume. It only adds to his growing hysteria. What counts as hysteria for him, at least.

Dream told him to smile, Dream told him to rig the community house with TNT, but did Dream tell him to kill? Did Dream tell him not to stand, and listen to his legs when they want to run?

He doesn’t know how far he gets, only that he is stopped by an arrow tipped with poison in his shoulder, and he stumbles and falls.

“What the hell,” Dream mutters. “What the hell, we’re running out of time, you’re fucking broken, I don’t -- fuck.”

Ranboo distantly registers Dream grabbing him by the legs and dragging him back the way they came, and when he blinks, he finds they’re back in the community house. Dream is pacing.

“I don’t have the disc.” Dream looks at him, meets his eyes briefly, and Ranboo looks away first. “Fuck, I don’t have the disc, you might remember -- but I can’t let you go, and I don’t have time. I’m out of time.” Dream draws in a shaky breath and nods once. “I’ll just have to blow you up with the community house. You might remember, but -- it doesn’t matter now. There’s no other option.”

Dream paces once more before leaving, and Ranboo looks back up at the swimming ceiling. For once, the world is silent, and he thinks about the fish. Ranboo isn’t the community. What’s accomplished by blowing him up here? Who does this hurt?

Who does this hurt?

And then -- it stops.

Ranboo has shoved himself into a corner. After a certain point, he stopped dragging the bodies into the pit, so they’re just scattered across the floor, each in a puddle of violet blood. He can’t tell if the harsh, ragged sound ringing in his ears is his breathing or not. He can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He managed to pull the sword out of the last body, but it now lies untouched before him. He’s not willing to touch it. He’s scared to touch it. He doesn’t -- he doesn’t want to hurt. He doesn’t want it to hurt anymore. It hurts.

You’re a coward.

No, I’m not. I’m not a coward, I’m not a coward, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t I can’t I can’t --

I’m a coward.

“Me,” he forces himself to say. His throat is ragged, and his voice barely sounds like his own. “It hurts me. It hurts me.”

The lab is cold. The lab is lifeless. The lab makes him want to seize the sword again and… and…

He stands, and his legs are trembling. He half-doubts they’ll be able to hold his weight, but he only needs to make it a few steps. He just needs to get to the ladder and pull himself up. His muscles burn with the effort, but he takes one step, then another, lacking the energy to step around the body blocking his way and simply stumbling over it, and finally latching onto the first rung. Ranboo takes a moment to breathe, but the air is stagnant and bitter in here, and he may as well not have bothered. He struggles up the ladder, and everything hurts with a bone-deep ache, and he thinks he’s not about to make it when --

He emerges into cool, fresh air.

Panting, he breathes in this new, blessed gift, and he forces himself to crawl further away from the entrance to the lab before his body gives out and he collapses on the forest floor. He lies face-up, and a soft breeze ruffles his hair. There are stinging tear-tracks drying on his cheeks, all the way down to the corners of his lips. The pain is almost unnoticeable in comparison to the rest.

The sun has nearly sunken below the horizon by now, and its dying rays paint the world in colors Ranboo thought he’d forgotten. Stars begin to dot the darkening sky, the parts that are dark purples and blues turning to black. The insects have already begun to hum, a steady, shrill call that fills his ears and quiets his thoughts. He digs his fingers into the dirt below him and breathes in the earthy scent of it. Life is spread out in front of him now, and… he doesn’t want to go back to the lab. He’s scared, yes, but… he doesn’t want to. And no one has told him he has to.

“I’m free,” Ranboo says, gravelly and harsh, then shouts it to the world, to anyone that will hear: “I’M FREE!”

The insects hum in response, and he closes his eyes. This is enough for him. Life is enough for him.

After the sun has disappeared, Ranboo’s lids open once again to stare dazedly at the fireflies. Their soft glow is mesmerizing, and he smiles as the light plays in front of his eyes. A firefly lands on the tip of his nose.

“Ranboo?”

He almost thinks he’s imagined the call at first, but then it comes again, louder. “Ranboo!”

“Tubbo…?” he mumbles, half-expecting nothing to come of it, but then a familiar figure emerges from the trees, flanked by two others.

“Ranboo!” Tubbo shouts again. “You -- you bastard! Are you okay?”

He tries to sit up, but he can’t gather the strength to, so he settles for saying, “Yeah, I think so.”

Tubbo kneels down beside him, and now he can tell his companions are Techno and Phil. Phil wears his concern (Ranboo knows! Concern!) plainly on his face, and Techno looks stoic as always, but his furrowed brow betrays him.

“We’re here now, Ranboo,” Phil says gently, to which Techno agrees with a grunt, kneeling beside Tubbo and placing a hand on Ranboo’s shoulder. It is comforting. It really -- it is. More than Ranboo knows what to do with.

“It’ll be okay,” Tubbo whispers, and when Ranboo’s gaze lazily meets Tubbo’s, the light of the fireflies glows in his eyes. “It’ll be okay, Ranboo.”

And Ranboo believes him.

Chapter Text

He wakes up warm and comfortable, and he doesn't want to get up. He stretches out his legs, shifting, and detachedly feels the downturn of his lips when the new space is cold. He can feel the patchwork, threadbare quality of the quilt, even through his tired haze. Things don’t seem to be getting warmer anytime soon, and lying in the same curled-up position is starting to hurt, so Ranboo forces bleary eyes open and blinks at his surroundings. It’s dark, but even through ambiguous shadows, he recognizes the vibrant gold and blues of the Snowchester flag pinned up on one wall. He’s alone.

He sits up abruptly and winces at the sharp tug of freshly-healed wounds in his stomach, then winces again at the pull of tear scars on his cheeks. Great.

Now that he’s conscious enough to listen, he can hear the soft murmur of voices coming from below, and he glances once at the wooden trapdoor before deciding he’s not ready to talk yet. Instead, his attention is caught by the bright white of paper resting on the nightstand beside him. In a familiar messy scrawl, it reads:

Going out for a bit Technoblade and Philza are downstairs, you can (probably) ask them if you need something I think they want to talk before they leave

-Tubbo

He studies the note for a bit, thinking it over, then shakes his head, even though no one’s around to see it. I don’t want to have to tell them what I did. Instead, he stands on unsteady legs and almost immediately lurches forward -- luckily, he catches himself on a cabinet halfway across the room, and after a moment of catching his breath he straightens out his spine and studies the cabinet he’s just fallen face-first into.

The first, very noticeable thing he sees is an old picture, worn and marred by creases and folds; he could’ve sworn it used to be hanging up somewhere, but he doesn’t remember where. It’s the original founders of L’manburg, Wilbur Soot’s smiling face at the center of it, Tommy and Niki on either side. Tubbo, younger and unscarred, is in the corner, pushed to the very edge, and Ranboo tilts his head at that. Throughout Ranboo’s time on the server, Tubbo has been sort of the center of attention; sure, people still visited Tommy on occasion, he was as much of a tourist attraction then as Dream is now, but Tubbo was the president. It’s just strange to think that that isn’t how everyone else pictures him.

His gaze drifts away from the picture to focus on a different one, far in the back. It’s a bit difficult to tell what it is at first other than people, but after a moment he finally begins to pick out lines and shapes. It’s nighttime in the photo, he can tell that much, and Tubbo is in the center this time, once again without the scars. His face is illuminated by some warm, yellow light behind the camera and he’s grinning , and Ranboo isn’t sure if he can remember Tubbo ever looking like that. Two people stand next to him, the taller with one hand resting on Tubbo’s shoulder and the other reaching behind him to wrap around the shorter person. If he squints, the shorter one kind of looks like Quackity, although his wings are missing, and just going off of context clues… is the taller one Schlatt? Why does Tubbo have this?

He tears himself away from the photo and turns to the items scattered across the cabinet instead. A couple of enderpearls (don’t think about how he got them) , a Stal disc, a chunk of emerald, and a few papers written in print so small Ranboo has a headache just from looking at it. There’s also a pink tulip, labeled only with a small paper that says “Ranboo” in his own handwriting. He must’ve given it to Tubbo at some point. Huh.

Ranboo takes a few steps back and resignedly decides it’s time to stop looking at Tubbo’s stuff and go confront his own problems. As much as he hates to admit it, Techno and Phil are downstairs right now because of him, and there’s no way he’s getting out of this without a serious conversation about what happened. So with a deep breath, he walks over to the trapdoor and pulls it open. Immediately, the murmuring ceases, and Ranboo makes a face (then regrets it, hissing softly at the pain) but clambers down the ladder with only a slight struggle.

When he arrives on the ground floor, he carefully turns around to meet Phil and Techno’s gazes. They’re both watching him measuredly, like they’re not sure what they’re about to do next. It’s a bit strange to be back to this stage of their relationship, like the time since Doomsday has been completely erased. I don’t think I like the feeling of being calculated.

“Hi,” Ranboo says finally, and the words feel harsh on his throat, unnatural in the empty air. “I… hi.”

“Hey,” Techno says. He seems just as uncertain as Ranboo feels. “You’ve been sleeping for a day.”

“For a day?” Ranboo echoes, glancing out the window at Snowchester, all lit up for the night. “That’s… a long time.”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees. He takes a step towards Ranboo, but something painful must have shown on Ranboo’s face, because he immediately stepped back. “Tubbo is out, but he’ll be back in a bit.”

“Okay,” Ranboo says. He glances at the door, and he can feel the ladder behind him. He really wants to go. He doesn't want to do this. But he has to.

Phil twists his hands uncomfortably. “If you -- if you want to talk --”

“We want to talk,” Techno interjects, stiff, then softens. “If you’re… alright with that.”

Ranboo takes a moment to swallow back the no hanging on the tip of his tongue, then repeats, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Phil lets out a long breath. “Ranboo, mate, why’d you do it?”

Because I had to. “I… I had this dream. And it -- um, it reminded me that I did something bad. But I didn't remember what. You -- you know?”

“No,” Techno says dryly, but motions him to go on.

“So I -- I went to Snowchester to ask Tubbo to help me get my memories back. But he, um, he couldn't, and I realized the fastest way was to -- kill myself.” Techno and Phil both inhale sharply at that, and Ranboo trains his eyes on the wooden floor. “So… I did. Over and -- and over again, until it -- until it hurt --”

“Aw, Ranboo --” Phil reaches a hand out, then retracts it once again, and Ranboo nearly honest-to-god whimpers. Maybe it’s messed up to want someone to touch him, but fuck! (and if he’s cursing, it’s definitely serious.) If he doesn’t need the comfort now, when will he ever? “You -- we saw. We went down into the lab to see if you’d left anything behind.”

Ranboo swallows. “Oh. You, you saw… the bodies.”

“And the sword,” Techno says. “I hope you don’t mind that we, uh, threw it in lava.”

A strange half-choked laugh comes out of him. “Yeah, that’s -- that’s good. Thanks.” After a moment, he asks, “Did you, um, did you -- what did you do with the bodies?”

“...Pushed them in the pit,” Techno replies, voice thick with hesitance. “You mentioned it before.”

Ranboo nods, but he doesn’t trust himself to respond.

A few minutes pass in silence, and Ranboo finally musters up the courage to settle on the floor by the fireplace, which is roaring for once, now that there aren’t flammable papers strewn all across the floor. He crosses his legs and settles his hands in his lap, tail twitching nervously behind him. His eyes flicker back and forth between Techno and Phil and the burning logs. The warmth of it is almost pressing enough to feel like physical contact, like an enveloping hug from the side. It’ll have to be good enough, he supposes. He brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes and waits.

Phil breaks first. “Ranboo, I just want you to know… we’re here for you. We care about you. If -- if there’s ever something you need help with, talk to us.”

Techno snorts softly, and Ranboo wonders if there’s a joke he’s missing out on. “Yeah, we don’t invite just anyone to come hang out with us in the freezing cold.”

Ranboo offers them a small, barely visible smile, to avoid irritating his healing wounds. “Thank you.” He turns his head and stares into the fire, closing his eyes against its brightness. The smile melts away. “I blew up the community house.” When neither of them seem eager to respond, he continues, oddly steady, “I rolled up the gunpowder into TNT. I placed it all over the first floor. I killed the -- the fish in the pond.”

“The fish…?” one of them mumbles, but Ranboo just continues talking.

“I didn’t want the fish to die, so Dream -- got mad and blew me up with the community house.”

Ranboo doesn’t really remember that period of time, and he doesn’t think it’s just because of Dream. It’s all a blur -- dying, the festival, Dream leading them all to the community house instead of his execution. When they all choked on the ashes and smoke in the aftermath, did any of them breathe in his scattered remains? When Tubbo’s eyes watered while L’manburg stood there and listened to Dream’s monologue in resignation, was Ranboo part of that?

“Ranboo --”

“And -- and you know what happened to Tommy in exile? How Dream hurt him and, and no one came to help him? It was my fault, because I stopped remembering to send the letters, because I forgot the date of the party. And --” He stops, then says, numbly, “I betrayed everyone.”

“You didn’t --”

“I did! I betrayed L’manburg, I betrayed Tommy, I betrayed you, I even betrayed Dream. Who haven’t I hurt? Who --”

Everything suddenly goes still, and when Ranboo opens his eyes, he no longer sees the roaring flame, only black feathers.

“You didn’t betray anyone, Ranboo,” Phil says quietly, trapped together with Ranboo in this soft, dark place. “Dream did that.”

Ranboo isn’t sure how much time passes like that, quiet and still, but eventually Phil’s wing unfurls, remaining a light pressure on his back, and Ranboo blinks at the dying embers in the fireplace.

“I think this whole… betrayal thing,” Techno starts, like he isn’t quite sure how to finish. “I think you were… under duress.”

“What does --?”

“Means you weren’t really yourself.” Techno huffs out a breath. “I’ve betrayed people. I’ve picked my ideals over my family before. And that was a choice I made. You didn’t decide to be created, or to betray people, so you -- you have to take what you’ve got now and figure out how to fix it.”

“But I don’t know how?” Ranboo says uncertainly.

“You’re talking to the Blood God and the Angel of Death,” Techno says. “If we figured out how to be normal, then you’ll be alright.”

“I wouldn’t call us normal,” Phil laughs. “But yeah, Techno’s right. You’ve gotta learn to be your own person, Ranboo. Figure out what you want.”

“And I wouldn’t complain if you decide what you want is anarchy,” Techno adds, “but. Y’know. We anarchists respect consent.”

What do I want?

“I… don’t want to be hurt anymore,” Ranboo says slowly. “I --” Think! “I want to have a family.”

“You’re a little young for that,” Phil says lightly, to which Techno rolls his eyes.

“I want to be happy.” He pauses. “Are you happy?”

“I’m never happy,” Techno replies immediately. “But I’m good enough, I guess . ” After a moment, he adds, “Nothing you guys are doing, of course.”

When Ranboo looks over at him, Phil’s smile is sad as he says, “I don’t know if happy is the right word. But I’m satisfied with life the way it is now, you know?”

Ranboo nods. “I think so.”

The clock ticks on, and Tubbo still hasn’t returned from his late-night errands. Ranboo keeps glancing at the door, hoping that it’ll open if he catches it at the right moment. For lack of anything better to do, he finally asks, “How did you even find me?”

“Tubbo,” Techno says with a heavy sigh. “The guy showed up on our lawn yelling ‘Help, help, Ranboo’s dying!’ until we finally came outside and he explained it to us, like a normal person.”

“C’mon, the kid never learned his manners,” Phil chuckles. “I never had time.”

“Oh, so I should be blaming you, then, old man?” Techno says with a dramatic scoff, and Ranboo laughs, just a little.

Tubbo finally returns just after midnight, dusted in snow and coal. He has a few logs of wood stacked in his arms. The cold Snowchester wind follows him in.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” Tubbo exclaims, dropping the wood in a precarious pile on the floor as he kicks the door closed. “I was hoping you would be.” He glances at Techno and Phil, then says, “You can, uh, go now. If you want.”

The pair exchange looks then shrug.

“Alright,” Phil says. “Can I talk to you for a second, though, Tubbo?”

Tubbo’s eyes briefly meet Ranboo’s, then he nods. “Okay. Outside.”

Phil and Tubbo disappear back out the door, leaving only Ranboo and Techno inside. Techno hovers by the exit, then approaches Ranboo and, bizarrely, takes off his cape.

Ranboo looks at the cape, then up at Techno. “Don’t you need that?”

“Nah,” Techno says. He hesitates, then holds out the bundle of fur and red fabric to Ranboo. “Here. If you want it.”

Wide-eyed and confused, Ranboo accepts the gift. “You won’t --?”

“I have extras back at home,” Techno insists. “You look cold.”

Ranboo nods, rendered a little speechless, and drapes the cape over his shoulders. It’s huge on him, much broader than he’ll ever be, but the fur is soft and the weight of it already makes him feel warmer. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Techno says. Unconvincingly, maybe even a bit anxiously , he adds, “Oh, no, I think I just heard Phil. Time to go. See ya, Ranboo.” He offers an awkward pat on Ranboo’s shoulder, then rushes out the door.

Tubbo comes back in with the swirling flakes, looking more tired than he did when he first got back. What did Phil say to him?

Tubbo closes the door with a heavy sigh, then turns to Ranboo. He does a double take, eyes wide and voice incredulous. “You’ve got Technoblade’s coat?”

“Yeah,” Ranboo says. “That’s not -- it’s fine, right?”

Tubbo’s gaze sweeps over him, and something in his face makes Ranboo want to cringe away. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fine, bossman.” He picks up a couple of the logs he left on the floor earlier and tosses them in the fire, and Ranboo blinks furiously as a puff of embers hits his face. Tubbo then settles on the ground next to Ranboo, staring impassively into the rising flame.

“So, uh…” Ranboo doesn't really understand. “What were you up to tonight?”

“Mined for a bit,” Tubbo says. “Got some coal. Then I -- had to lock up the vault. It took a while. After that, I figured you wouldn't be up yet so I chopped up some wood.” After a moment, he asks, “What did Phil and Techno say to you?”

“That I have to… figure out how to be my own person. Figure out what I want.” Ranboo tries to catch Tubbo’s eye, but he just keeps staring resolutely ahead. “I, ah, I think I’m feeling a lot better now.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“What did Phil say to you?” Ranboo asks.

“Oh. He --” Tubbo laughs, and there’s a nervous quality to it that Ranboo hasn’t heard in ages. “He told me not to hurt you.”

Ranboo’s brow furrows. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“I know that,” Tubbo says darkly. “But I guess he can’t quite get L’manburg’s child president out of his head.”

Ranboo fidgets with an edge of the cape, careful to avoid sinking his claws into it. “I’m… sure that’s not it.”

“You don’t sound sure.” Tubbo stands abruptly, looking sharply away from the fire and directly at Ranboo’s face. “We should go outside.”

“Okay?” Ranboo stands, slower than Tubbo, and he can sense the other’s impatience. “Is… there a reason why?”

“I don’t like fire,” Tubbo says. “I don’t want to think about it right now.”

Ranboo wracks his brain, trying to figure out why. Has Tubbo always been afraid of fire, and he’s just never noticed? Why did he build it back up if he just wants to leave? Do I put out the fire before we go or are we just going to leave it burning? Is Tubbo’s house going to burn down? What is going on? In the end, Tubbo thankfully puts out the fire, then leads the way out onto the porch.

“Do you think you can climb up on the roof?” Tubbo asks.

“Um…” Ranboo thinks of how much it hurt just to climb down the ladder. “I don’t think so.”

Tubbo exhales, breath clouding in the cold. “That’s fine, we’ll just… we can go up to the podium.”

They end up sitting on of the wooden platform at the heart of Snowchester, crowded together in front of the lectern, legs swinging off the edge. Ranboo’s eyes follow the motion of the waves. He doesn’t know what Tubbo is looking at. He tugs the cape tighter, trying to keep warm.

“Why don’t you like fire?” Ranboo asks softly, voice almost lost to the snow and wind.

“The same reason I don’t like that cape,” Tubbo says distantly.

“I…” Ranboo hesitates. “Tubbo, I want to know. I want to help you.”

“I’m not the one that needs help,” Tubbo objects. “I’m fine. I’m great. I haven’t heard from Tommy in days, you killed yourself, and Technoblade and Philza are threatening my life. I’m incredible.” His fingers are tapping on the spruce planks, and Ranboo thinks he might recognize the song. It reminds him of Ghostbur and broken guitar strings and blue, back when things weren’t like this.

“I don’t…” Ranboo swallows back his admission of cowardice. “I… I didn’t realize how it would affect you. Everyone. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Tubbo’s attention immediately snaps to him, with a wild sort of ferocity that Ranboo hasn’t seen in him since the day he and Tommy killed Dream. “No, Ranboo, no -- I’m sorry. I should have stopped you, I should never have let it happen. It’s not your fault.”

But I’m the one that picked up the sword, I’m the one with blood on my hands? Ranboo simply hums in response. “I had to.”

“No,” Tubbo insists. “No one has to die.”

“You’ve died,” Ranboo reminds him.

“And I never should have,” Tubbo scowls, voice rising in pitch as he goes on. “Do you know how I died, Ranboo? Do you know what happened to me to make me all fucked up, to make my face like this?”

Ranboo traces the lines of Tubbo’s scars in his mind as he struggles to react. “N-no?”

“Have I ever told you about Manburg, Ranboo? Have I -- have I ever told you about the festival?” Tubbo seems choked on his own words now, staring at Ranboo like he’s seen a ghost. “Do you know about the fireworks?”

“I -- you don’t like them,” Ranboo stutters out. “And -- and Schlatt was president.”

“Schlatt.” Tubbo’s ears flatten against his head. “You know what kind of man Schlatt was?” He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Schlatt was the kind of man that abandoned his kid on the side of the road in a box. Schlatt was the kind of man that beat his husband and drank day and night. Schlatt was the kind of man that didn’t give a shit whether the people that depended on him lived or died.”

Finally, after this long night of confusion, lost in a sea of history he doesn’t know (remember?) Ranboo makes a connection. The metaphorical lightbulb flashes in his head. “Schlatt is -- was -- your father?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, “and I can’t decide whether he was a better or worse one than Philza.”

“It’s a competition?” Ranboo asks in alarm.

“At least Schlatt never loved me back,” Tubbo murmurs.

That statement rests in the air for a while. Ranboo doesn’t really know what to say. I’m sorry? Are you okay? You loved him, even after all that? Where is the picture on your cabinet from? In lieu of speaking, he reaches out in the dark and lightly rests his hand atop Tubbo’s. After a heartbeat, Tubbo flips his palm over and laces their fingers together.

Ranboo eventually decides on asking one of the many questions bouncing around in his head. “When I was -- earlier, in your room, um -- I saw this picture. With you, and I think with Schlatt and Quackity…?”

Tubbo heaves a sigh. “It’s -- it’s from the night of the festival. Before everything went to shit.” He’s worrying his lip between his teeth, and all Ranboo can do is rub his thumb (hopefully comfortingly) against Tubbo’s hand. “I don’t know if you -- well, basically I spied on Manburg for Wilbur and Tommy, yeah? I was… Schlatt said I was his right hand man. He wanted me to do a speech for this festival, but Wilbur’d already lost it by then. He told me I had to choose whether Manburg went boom or not, and I… I was so proud of that damn speech, Ranboo. And Schlatt said he was, too.”

“Speech?” Ranboo murmurs.

“Yeah, speech. I know. Me, give a speech. But -- I didn’t want to blow Manburg up, even if it took Schlatt with it, not after everything I’d been through there. So I didn’t give Wilbur the cue, but Schlatt… Quackity says that Schlatt knew before the festival, but I have no clue. But Schlatt…” Tubbo takes a shuddering breath, and Ranboo leans in a little, his side just barely pressed up against Tubbo’s. Maybe it helps. “He put me in this box, this yellow concrete box. And he told Technoblade to come onstage and execute me.”

Ranboo stiffens. “And… did he?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo ducks his head. “He launched fireworks at me and scarred me for life.”

Techno -- Technoblade -- killed Tubbo. He hurt Tubbo. He’s the reason Tubbo is scarred. Oh my god, Technoblade is the one that hurt Tubbo. “Why, why did he do it?”

“He said it was because of peer pressure,” Tubbo says, too evenly, like he’s said this before. “It was Wilbur and Schlatt’s fault, I know that. It wasn’t on him.”

“But -- he’s still the one that did it.” In a rush, Ranboo pulls his hand from Tubbo’s and fumbles with the clasp on Techno’s cape. He can’t wear this, not if -- Tubbo -- “You, you don’t like fire and you don’t like this cape, I don’t want to remind you --”

“No, ‘Boo,” Tubbo says quickly, and Ranboo can tell he’s tired if he’s slurring his words this badly. “It’s fine. Really. I promise.” He reaches for Ranboo’s hand and brings it back down to the warmed spot on the wood. “What I was trying to say was, was that no one deserves to die. Not me, not you. Okay?”

After a moment, Ranboo mutters, “Okay.”

The tension broken, Tubbo flops down on his back, dragging Ranboo down with him, so they’re both looking up at the sky. There are so many stars out here, and even on a cloudy night like this, the occasional glimpse of light shines through. Their hands remain clasped between them, and Ranboo doesn’t quite understand why they do, but the sensation fills a warm space in his chest.

“I, I asked Tommy this a while ago,” Ranboo begins to say.

“Oh, I don’t even need to know the question to know what he said,” Tubbo says with a light laugh.

“Ha, yeah, I…” He trails off. How to say it? “What is it like to have a family?”

“Mm.” The noise Tubbo makes seems half fond, half frustrated. “I don’t know, Ranboo, I never really had a good family.”

“That’s okay,” Ranboo says. “I just want to know.”

“Alright.” Ranboo can imagine the face Tubbo is making right now, all scrunched up and disgruntled as he thinks. It’s a good face. “Well, J. Schlatt left me in a box, so you can imagine those weren’t the best years of my life. But then Tommy found me, and that… uh, had its ups and downs.”

“I thought you and Tommy were best friends,” Ranboo says. (Because the #1 rule of the server is Don’t Fuck With Tommy and Tubbo, so what else is he supposed to think?)

“We are,” Tubbo protests. “There’s just… well, he’s Tommy, and I’m just Tubbo. He always had Wilbur to back him up when he fucked up, and he didn’t… he doesn’t need me. I was never the hero the way he is. I’m not Theseus.”

“He does need you,” Ranboo says, but he doesn’t know how to prove that, so he doesn’t continue.

“Right,” Tubbo says, unconvinced. “Either way, I was… always in his shadow, you know? So the first time I was really alone was in Manburg.”

“Oh,” Ranboo says, and he’s really connecting the dots here. It’s all starting to make sense now. Critical thinking, awesome.

“And… Schlatt was there. We found out he was my father and then he was always… there. Always had good things to say about me, acted like I hung the fucking moon. And I guess I fell for it.” Tubbo huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know why. He was always a dick to Big Q -- I know he isn’t anymore, but Quackity used to be scared. It’s shitty to say this, but sometimes I wish he still was. When he wanted to execute you for being a traitor… well, it’s obvious, innit?”

Jeez, so much has happened since then Ranboo almost forgot about the time he was nearly executed for treason.

“Even when he started drinking, even when he planned my execution, I… cared about Schlatt in some fucked-up, twisted way. I cared about him up until the moment the firework exploded.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” Ranboo says softly. “It means you care about people, right?”

“You and your people,” Tubbo scoffs. “I don’t know if it’s a good thing. It’s only ever gotten me hurt. Phil stopped being my father the moment he sided with Dream over me and Tommy, and Techno… I don’t even know.”

“So maybe it’s a neutral thing,” Ranboo offers. “It’s not good or bad, it just… is.”

“Maybe.” Tubbo shifts. “What do you think about family, Ranboo?”

“I don’t know,” Ranboo says. “It’s something Dream… took away from me, something I want. But it seems… it seems hard.”

“It is hard,” Tubbo agrees. “But I think that’s what makes it… important. I want a good family someday, too.”

“That sounds nice.” Ranboo yawns, and his eyes are drifting closed. He doesn’t even mind the cold with Tubbo next to him. “A nice… a nice cottage somewhere, far away, where we don’t have to worry about Dream and governments.”

“Yeah…” 

Ranboo thinks he could fall asleep like this, warm and comfortable with Tubbo beside him, staring up at the star-littered sky. He might have, if not for Tubbo sitting up abruptly, twisting around to meet his eyes. 

“Did you hear about Eret’s new tax?”

Chapter Text

Ranboo jolts awake and realizes with abject horror that this is not his room, small and drafty, the wind bringing in a chill even on the warmest nights. This is not his bed, cold and covered in threadbare sheets that he keeps forgetting to wash. This room is warm, the blankets are thick and heavy, and there is a fireplace crackling gently in front of him. Where is he? What’s happening? What --

“Go to bed,” mutters Tubbo’s voice from beside him. Wait, Tubbo? Beside him? In bed?! “I can’t sleep when there are monsters nearby, ‘Boo.”

Okay, this is officially weird. Too weird for me, too weird… “What the hell,” Ranboo says, probably a bit too loudly, but whatever . He can’t even begin to process this, let alone inject proper emotion or volume into his voice right now. “Tubbo? I --”

“Ranboo.” Their eyes meet when the sheets rustle, and Ranboo finally tilts his head down to look at the lump that is, apparently, Tubbo. Tubbo is blinking sleepily, but Ranboo’s eyes widen in alarm when Tubbo pushes a finger to his lips. No one just does that. He’s pretty sure he and Tubbo aren’t on face-touching terms. But, then again, he was pretty sure he and Tubbo weren’t on sharing-a-bed terms, so maybe this isn’t the strangest thing happening right now. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it tomorrow. Wilbur isn’t going to break into our home. Probably.”

“Sorry -- Wilbur?”

Tubbo pauses. Purses his lips. “You’re not -- you…” He trails off, apparently at a loss for words. “Ranboo, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Um…” Ranboo tries. He really does. The last clear memory he has is… lying on a roof, maybe…? No, not a roof – oh, right, Snowchester! “Recovering from clone suicide?”

Tubbo is definitely awake now, eyes wide and shiny in the moonlight. Now that they’re so close, Ranboo realizes the one on his scarred side is a different color. It’s just slightly duller and paler, like the sky on a cloudy day. Huh. “You don’t…? But I thought… without Dream, your memory…”

Ranboo frowns, sitting up. Tubbo follows suit. “How… how much time am I missing?”

Tubbo gestures to the minimal space between them with a tiny, stressed laugh. “A lot, dude.”

“Not that much if you’re calling me dude.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes, and his face seems to be caught between a smile and a frown, the corner of his lip twitching like it can’t decide where to land. “Do you remember getting married?”

Ranboo… tries, and when he has something specific to think about… he does vaguely remember eloping with Tubbo at a horrifically late hour of the night. “Yes..? Why did we get married?” I mean, there’s an obvious answer. This is not my brightest moment.

Tubbo surprises him by shaking his head and answering, “Taxes.” Okay, there’s a story there. “What about Michael?”

“Who? I just found out we’re married, and now you’re bringing up some other guy?”

All that elicits, unfortunately, is a long-suffering sigh. “Well, thank god your sense of humor stuck around, yeah?” Ranboo’s a little proud of that one, actually, thank you very much. “Michael is our son. The zombie piglin, you remember? He used to ride a chicken. We found him when we first met.”

A moment passes. Michael. Nether… boats… a portrait on the wall… Oh! “Michael! Oh, god, I can’t believe I forgot him, he’s -- you don’t think I woke him up with this, do you?”

“You are surprisingly loud,” Tubbo allows. “But no, I doubt it. You put in him that racecar bed and bam, fast asleep.”

Ranboo’s shoulders relax. He’s remembering. This is good. He hasn’t totally forgotten, it was just a momentary lapse. No big deal. Good. Now he can go back to sleep, knowing Tubbo and Michael are safe from… “Wait, what did you say about Wilbur? That guy is, like… dead. Right? Are you sure you didn’t mean Ghostbur?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Tubbo mutters darkly, glancing away from Ranboo’s face and into the fire. “Do you remember last night at all?”

“Um…” A watchtower. Tommy. The prison. Blue. The rising sun streaked across the horizon. “Did something happen? To… to Tommy, or…?”

“Something definitely happened.” Tubbo laughs bitterly, carding a hand through his sleep-mussed (and, really, permanently-mussed) hair. “Ghostbur is dead. Dream brought Wilbur back to life.”

...Oh. Oh, no.

There is a brief silence between them. Tubbo furrows his brow, stares at him for a moment, then asks, tentatively, “Are… you alright? I -- I know that’s a stupid question, but… Right now. Are you alright?”

Ranboo swallows, his eyes flickering between Tubbo’s intense gaze, his own claws piercing the blankets – I’m going to regret that in the morning – and the fire before them. I thought he didn't like fire. He forces his hands to unclench and exhales. “I -- yeah. I think I’m okay.”

“Good.” Tubbo keeps staring at him, trying to meet his eyes for a moment longer, then relaxes. He lies back down, tugging Ranboo with him. “We’ll figure this out tomorrow, right? Maybe… maybe you’ll remember by then.”

“...Right.”

Ranboo feels stiff and out of place as Tubbo clings to him, like this isn't somewhere he’s meant to be. And it isn't, not really. All of Tubbo’s memories are of a different Ranboo, not him, who can't remember anything that happened after February. What month is it? Even if his memories are starting to come back, they don't feel like his. It feels wrong to let Tubbo fall asleep with his head on his chest, like that’s something they just do every night, because it’s not. Even if he wants to relax and come to terms with the fact that he’s apparently gotten his wish, that he has a family now… 

Maybe things will feel better in the morning. Maybe he’ll remember everything in the morning. But tonight? This isn't his house, he’s not the one that married Tubbo, and he doesn't deserve this just because he looks like the person that did.

Wait. If he’s lost his memory… does that mean he died? Is he –

One of his hands reaches up to his face, and he presses the pads of his fingers to his skin. He has more tear scars than he used to. Okay. That means this is real. That means time has passed, even if I can't remember, and that’s… okay. Ranboo eases out of Tubbo’s grip, who mumbles something incoherent, but settles into the warm spot he’s left behind without waking up. He stands at the side of the bed for a minute, then slips out of the room.

He isn't sure where they live now, but it’s a whole lot bigger than Tubbo’s little cottage. It’s filled with dimly-lit hallways and half-furnished rooms, like they’re still in the process of moving in. Maybe they are? Either way, it has an eerie effect. He doubts it always feels this way; he and Tubbo seem happy together, and if they have a son, they must be alright. It must just be because it’s unfamiliar.

His wandering finally brings him to a door, and he steps through, not quite sure what he’s expecting. He’s hit with a blast of icy cold air, and he wraps his arms around himself, wondering where he keeps his winter clothes in a house as large as this. The backyard is almost ugly , covered in slush and partially-mined walls of stone. It’s well-lit, but that’s the only appealing thing about it. When he turns to look at the water, he feels a little ill.

He’s always been aware of the fact that Snowchester isn’t far from the prison, but it’s never seemed so close. It was always hidden behind hills and a thick layer of snow, but here, it’s right in his line of sight. No wonder his and Tubbo’s bedroom doesn’t have a window.

He turns away from the ocean and studies the house instead. House can’t possibly be the right word for it; it’s massive, bigger than the Arctic, maybe even as big as L’manburg was. How did they –? No, nevermind, he’s rich. That he remembers. But if he’s living here, is he still on good terms with Techno and Phil? Did something happen? Do they even know about the marriage or the fact that Ranboo has a son?

The chill is burrowing into his skin and making his fingers ache, so Ranboo retreats back into the mansion, gritting his teeth. He drags himself back up the stairs, but he can’t remember what turns he took to get here, so he pokes his head into random rooms until he finds a spare bed. It’s far more comfortable than his bed back at possibly-no-longer-his-home, so he sinks into it gratefully, praying that he’ll be back to normal by the time he wakes.

The smell of something sweet and hopefully delicious pulls him from his sleep, and Ranboo follows it back down the stairs and into an unnecessarily large kitchen. Tubbo stands by the stove, humming as he does something with a spatula. Isn’t it –? It’s Ranboo’s turn to cook, isn’t it? Why –?

“Oh, morning Ranboo,” Tubbo says, glancing at him once before returning to his task. “Are you feeling better today?”

Ranboo shrugs, although Tubbo can’t see it, and takes a seat on the counter. “I mean… I still feel like a person that, uh, had months’ worth of memories shoved into them, but I have those memories now, at least.”

“That’s good.” Tubbo pours something into the pan, and it makes a pleasant sizzle. “Where were you last night? You weren’t there when I woke up.”

“Oh, um – guest bedroom. It didn’t feel right.” Before Tubbo can take offense to Ranboo’s poorly worded explanation, he asks, “Isn’t it my turn to cook?”

“Yeah, but I figured you’d be a bit out of it,” Tubbo says. “And I make the best crepes.”

“You do,” Ranboo agrees mildly, although he’s struggling to recall what a crepe is and when Tubbo last made one.

Their conversation is interrupted by a sharp series of knocks – more someone slamming on the door. Ranboo turns his head towards the sound nervously, then back at Tubbo, who is, obviously, occupied. “I’ll get it?”

Tubbo doesn’t respond beyond nodding his head, so Ranboo trots off to get the door, which is only a slight challenge. Once he reaches the ridiculously large double doors of his home, he pulls them open, blinking when Tommy’s scrunched-up-in-annoyance face greets him.

“‘Ello Ran Boo ,” Tommy says loudly, marching past him and into the foyer. “Where’s your ‘usband on this lovely morning?”

“Um… in the kitchen?” Ranboo says, a little confused. Is Tommy… supposed to be here? He feels like he’s not.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re forcing him to cook!” Tommy exclaims without missing a beat, tossing his armor unceremoniously on the stairs. “You’re a wrong’un, Ranboo, a real wrong’un, you know that?”

“Uh…”

Tommy proceeds to lead the way to the kitchen, his face breaking into a massive grin as he approaches. “Is that the Tubster’s famous crepes? Forget what I said about you, Ranboo, all is forgiven if you let me have one of yours.”

“No…?”

Tommy doesn’t show any sign of having actually heard him, and he enters the kitchen, sitting down at the table and resting his snow-soaked boots on the chair beside his without a care in the world. Ranboo side-eyes him, standing as close to Tubbo as he can without getting in the way.

“Is he supposed to be here?” Ranboo asks quietly, hoping that the anxious edge to his voice isn’t apparent.

“No,” Tubbo says heavily, exhaling slowly. “We told him not to come today, not so soon after what he did, but I suppose there’s no reason to kick him out now. If Wilbur followed him here, he already knows.”

Oh. Right. Wilbur. Ranboo’s memories are still too blurry to form an opinion about that.

Tommy is talking to himself and Tubbo is cooking, so Ranboo decides to busy himself by setting the table. He makes this decision, then immediately freezes, staring at the sheer number of potential cabinets that the silverware could be hiding in, not to mention napkins – are napkins something they would even own? If they do, where would they even be? Do napkins go in the kitchen?

He’s opened about six drawers with no luck before Tubbo finally asks, “What are you doing?”

“Um…” He tries to meet Tubbo’s gaze, but it’s still too weird. If meeting my own husband’s eyes is too weird, what in the world am I going to do about living with him? “Setting the table.” He shakes his head, going for another cabinet that he’s fairly sure he hasn’t opened yet.

“Ran --?” Tubbo hesitates, pursing his lips. “‘Boo. Why don't you go get Michael? Tommy’ll get the forks. I’ll make sure he doesn't break anything.”

“Oi!”

Ranboo stares at him for a moment, then nods. Navigating the house is a little easier than the kitchen, it seems. So he exits, only wincing a little at hearing Tommy’s “Fuck is wrong with him?” from the other side of the wall.

His memory doesn’t fail him this time, and he finds himself in Michael’s room without too many wrong turns. He opens the door slowly and lets out a breath when he sees Michael, still asleep. It must be earlier in the morning than he thought. Shutting the door behind him, he approaches Michael carefully, simultaneously hoping to wake and not wake him; Michael barely stirs.

“Hey,” Ranboo murmurs, setting a too-large hand on Michael’s shoulder and shaking him, just a bit. “Hey, buddy, it’s time to get up.”

Michael’s singular eye opens, so big for his little face, and he blinks up at Ranboo hazily, innocently, and… An emotion he can’t name begins to well up inside him, powerful and vibrant, and Ranboo doesn’t know what to do with it. He smiles at Michael, hoping his fangs don’t seem sharp and scary to him, and pulls the covers down, just a bit, so Michael can get out of bed.

Michael, Michael, his son, snorts at him and grabs for one of his horns. He doesn’t seem eager to get up and walk himself, so Ranboo gathers him in his arms and straightens up, the weight a burden but not terribly heavy. Are his claws poking him at all? Michael doesn’t seem like he’s in pain, but Ranboo also can’t see his face, as it’s currently half-buried in his neck, so what if he’s hurting him? And god – he’s so small –

The journey back to the kitchen is slow, and Ranboo is terrified of dropping Michael, but the terror isn’t pure. It’s not terror for the sake of terror; there is no danger here. He’s safe. Michael is safe. So why is he scared? He suspects it has something to do with that unnamable emotion that’s clawing its way up his throat, that threatens to burst through his skin and say something – but Ranboo has never said those words before, and he’s just as terrified of saying them now.

Love, he tentatively calls it. This is love.

The atmosphere in the kitchen is tense, Tubbo’s face stony and Tommy’s narrowed and suspicious, but Ranboo pays it no mind, a close-lipped smile remaining on his own face. He settles Michael into his high chair and surprises himself by letting out some kind of content enderman noise. When he glances back to Tubbo, he’s already piling food onto plates, so Ranboo sits down, Michael to his left and Tommy across from him.

Tommy looks over at Michael, and despite his sullen expression, he leans in and says, clearly, “Repeat after Uncle Tommy, Michael. Fuck.”

“Don’t teach him that!” Ranboo immediately objects, but it’s soft and broken by a laugh.

Michael opens his mouth and says, “Fff… uuuuh…”

“You’re getting there, big man,” Tommy says encouragingly.

Tubbo sets the plates on the table and sits. Tommy immediately digs in, and Ranboo watches with concern for a moment before reaching for Michael’s plate, cutting the crepe and the berries accompanying it into bite-sized pieces. He’s not all that hungry himself; maybe that’s an unforeseen consequence to dying and coming back in a new body.

Speaking of dying and coming back… Ranboo frowns at the white streak in Tommy’s hair. He remembers Tommy’s death and subsequent return, and the more he thinks about it, he remembers his and Tubbo’s steady adjustment to Tommy’s presence in their lives, as well as Tommy’s less steady adjustment to them . To everything, really; and that leads him back to the memories of the night before.

“So,” Ranboo says, giving Michael his plate and setting down his fork. “Wilbur.”

“Wilbur,” Tommy echoes. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck,” Tubbo says with surprising aggression. “It’s literally your fault he’s back!”

“No, it’s not,” Tommy replies harshly. “I did not tell that green bastard to kill Ghostbur.” His voice wavers on the word ‘kill’.

“But you’re the reason he was there in the first place!” Tubbo exclaims. “Dream is in prison! He can’t hurt you anymore, Tommy, unless you keep going in there and letting him!”

“I did not let Dream kill me! You know what he did to me, Tubbo, you know that he fucking beat me to death because he wanted to, you know that I – I –” Tommy looks like he’s on the verge of tears. “And what about you! You – you enabled me, that’s what you did! You should never have agreed to my stupid plan anyway!”

“I’ve never let you do anything, Tommy,” Tubbo says coldly, ice to Tommy’s flame. “You know that. You would’ve made Ghostbur go in that prison for your stupid plan with or without me.”

“No,” Tommy objects weakly, and oh god, his lip is wobbling. “And I didn’t – I didn’t make Ghostbur do anything, he wanted to –”

“He’s a fucking ghost, Tommy! Would the real Wilbur ever have done that for you?”

Silence.

“Alivebur,” Tommy mutters, looking down at his plate. “He’s – Ghostbur is, was, he was real.”

Ranboo meets Michael’s eye, who is happily enjoying his crepe. At least someone in this fucking family is stable.

“Alright,” Ranboo says, hopefully placatingly. “Let’s, um… let’s think about this logically. What’s done is – it’s done, so what do we do now?”

“Nothing,” Tubbo says bitterly. “There’s nothing we can do but wait . That’s all we ever do, wait for the next bad thing to happen to us.” He stands abruptly, his chair screeching against the wooden floor. “I’m going out.”

And then he’s gone.

Ranboo could not have picked a worse time to die.

Chapter Text

He stares at the space that Tubbo once occupied, then lets out a heavy, heavy sigh. He picks his fork back up and finally begins to eat his breakfast. He only manages to do this for about ten seconds before he becomes aware of Tommy’s glare. “What?”

“What’d’you mean what , we should go after him!” Tommy says. “Why’re you just sitting there?”

Ranboo blinks at him, then asks, “Tommy, how often do you see Tubbo when he’s, uh, upset?”

“Never,” Tommy says immediately, then pauses. “Well, there was that one time he exiled me, but that’s all in the past! We never fight! I bet you get into arguments with him all the time, you bastard –”

“When Tubbo’s upset, he wants to be alone,” Ranboo explains patiently, stuffing another bite in his mouth, muffling his words slightly. “And you’re the reason he’s upset, so he, ha – definitely doesn’t want to see you right now. No, um, no offense.”

“You’re wrong,” Tommy says immediately, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. He glares at Ranboo some more, then grabs for what’s left of Tubbo’s plate. “I know my Tubbo better than you do.”

“Your Tubbo?” Ranboo echoes with a laugh.

Tommy at least looks a little embarrassed about that, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah. Ghostbur even made us these – these compasses, during exile, that pointed to each other. I guess they wouldn’t work now, anyway, since L’manburg is gone and I’m not – there – anymore, but. They were called Your Tommy and Your Tubbo. Because he’s my best friend.”

Michael’s somehow smeared berry juice all over his face. Tommy did manage to scrounge up napkins from somewhere, so Ranboo leans across the table, dabbing at Michael’s stained skin with one. “He still is your best friend, you know. And he’s my… he’s my, um, husband.”

He can feel Tommy’s deep frown, even if he can’t see it. “You are acting different.”

His skin prickles at the reminder, but he shoves the feeling down. “Did Tubbo… tell you?”

“He said your memory’s gotten worse.” Does he know? “That you don’t remember anything that’s happened since I was stuck in prison with Dream.”

Ranboo pauses, then asks, cautiously, “Tommy, do you know why I have memory problems?”

“No,” Tommy replies, and he surprisingly does not elaborate.

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, I should tell you.”

“Pog…?”

“Mm, not really!” Where to start? “You remember when I told you I didn’t remember my family?”

“At Church Prime?”

“Yeah, yeah, that time. Well, that was actually a lie, because apparently, I don’t have a family.”

That gets a startled laugh out of Tommy. “You what, mate?”

“Yeah, turns out I’m actually, um, not a regular person at all.”

“Could’ve told you that much.”

“Not like that.” Ranboo laces his fingers together and tries to meet Tommy’s eyes, but he fails and stares just to the left of his head instead. “I’m a clone. I was created, in a lab, by Dream –” Tommy’s gaze is painful, it’s painful, don’t think about it, just say it, “– and whenever he killed me, I lost my memory. I don’t – know why it’s so bad this time.”

After a long moment of stifling silence, Tommy asks, “You… died yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times have you died?”

“Too many times to count.”

“Were they all because of Dream?”

“Almost all of them.”

Another agonizing silence.

“Let’s get out of here, Ranboo. Maybe – maybe we’ll find Wilbur while we’re out,” Tommy says with a shaky exhale. He points at Ranboo’s plate, says, “Are you going to eat that?” and doesn’t wait for an answer.

Ranboo tasks Tommy with putting the dishes away while he oversees Michael. He feels kind of bad, leaving Michael here, but what else is he going to do? He’s a little worried about letting anyone in his life be alone right now, and it seems to him that Michael is the least likely to do something incredibly stupid if left unsupervised.

Michael is apparently more enthusiastic about walking after he’s gotten some food in him, so he totters up the stairs on his own while holding Ranboo’s hand. He’s barely even holding it with how tiny he is in comparison to Ranboo, more like gripping onto a small part of it. Ranboo can’t ever remember spending time around kids before, and it’s never been so clear to him that he was not built with childcare in mind. He’s a little worried he’ll accidentally kick Michael while walking.

He returns Michael to his room and reassures him, softly, “I’ll be back.”

Michael looks up at him with one wide eye and says, “Bye, Boo.”

Ranboo thinks his heart might explode if he doesn’t get out of here.

He kisses Michael on the forehead, then heads to his and Tubbo’s room, hoping to find a cloak somewhere in there. The closet is fairly boring, as it mostly consists of Tubbo’s various outfits over time and Ranboo’s multiple versions of the exact same suit, but he does find Technoblade’s cape stuffed in the back, so he drapes it around his shoulders and calls it a day.

He meets Tommy by the stairs, where he’s struggling to put his armor back on. Where did he even get netherite from? He’s fairly certain Tommy complains to him every other day that he’s poor, and Tommy does not have the same passion for mining as him.

Tommy looks up at him and does a double-take. “Is that Techno’s?!”

“Uh… yeah?”

“Jesus christ, man,” Tommy mutters. “Like you’re in need of free things.”

They leave, boots crunching in the fresh snowfall. Snowchester is as quiet as ever, precise and clean as Tubbo designed it to be. It’s eerie at times, Ranboo will admit; with New L’manburg, at least people lived in their cookie-cutter houses. Here, the snow is perfectly undisturbed apart from the path between the mansion, Tubbo’s cottage, and the bridge.

Tommy’s netherite armor isn’t fully enchanted, and Ranboo isn’t wearing any, so they walk on top of the bridge to cross the water. Tommy makes half-hearted banter, and Ranboo tries to keep the conversation going, but everything suddenly feels like a lot. The server simultaneously looks familiar and completely different, and it makes unease settle into the pit of his stomach. It’s almost a relief when they reach the glass-covered crater that once was L’manburg, and Tommy spots Wilbur on the horizon. Conflict. Ranboo’s no good with conflict, but at least it’s something he recognizes.

“You go ahead,” Ranboo tells Tommy. “I… have other things to do.” He doesn’t.

“If you’re sure, man,” Tommy says, looking at him with a horrific mix of pity and concern before turning and running at Wilbur, shouting something the way he always does. Ranboo doesn’t like that expression on his face.

He stands there for a moment then leaves. He won’t go far; he suspects that Tommy alone is just as destructive as he is with Wilbur.

Time in limbo has not been kind to Wilbur Soot. He feels fucking ancient next to Tommy, with his incomprehensible, neverending ramble, hardly aged a day. The white streak in Tommy’s hair blends with the blond, and the shadows under his eyes are mere puddles in comparison to the ocean that Wilbur’s eyes have sunken into. He almost wants to complain , to mourn the fact that he has lost years which Tommy has somehow earned the right to live, but thirteen years was long enough to grieve and accept his karmic consequences.

He stares at the figure blazed in stark black and white from behind cracked glasses, then shifts his narrowed gaze to Tommy’s face. Tommy doesn’t notice; he never does. He wasn’t aware they were friends. Does this change his plans? It’s a question to consider, certainly, but the more he talks to Tommy, re-familiarizes himself with his patterns and the way he speaks, his mind is put at ease. Tommy is malleable. Wilbur’s plans are not.

It’s simple, so stupidly simple, to fall back into old habits; it makes his fingers itch for a cigarette. He tells Tommy what he wants to hear. He plays into the version of him that Tommy’s immortalized in his mind – the old Wilbur, the one with big dreams and a flair for the dramatic. And then he tears it all down by telling him that Dream is the hero.

Wilbur, at the end of the day, is a simple man. He doesn’t pretend, he doesn’t lie, not entirely. He never once put on a show back in Pogtopia, never told them that he wasn’t the traitor. It’s not his fault, is it, that child soldiers, traumatized politicians, and estranged family members alike practically fall at his feet to place their absolute faith in him. And his goals, too, have always been simple. Truthfully, this task is new territory for Wilbur – he’s not a follower, and never has been. He feels like a bit of a hypocrite, telling Tommy to stick it to the man, but it’s not his fault that Tommy doesn’t yet understand – and who can blame him? Wilbur’s plans are simple. Dream’s tend to be… convoluted.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected when he cracked open one eye to see that, for the first time in over a decade, something in that train station had changed. He’d been confused at first, then alarmed when the tunnel filled with the shriek of metal on metal. He hadn’t believed it when light flooded the tracks and a train finally appeared in his view. And then he’d been elated to see that damn ghost bleeding tears, and Dream’s smiling face under the brim of a conductor’s hat.

His conversation with Dream was short, of course; limbo is horrifically stagnant and uncontrollable, power far out of his reach, but it’s an alarmingly short distance away from the Dream SMP itself. There wasn’t time for Wilbur to say all of the things he wished he had the opportunity to; and that, he supposes, is half the reason that he’s agreed to Dream’s request in the first place. He is indebted. There was no time to properly express his gratitude – Dream is an all-business man, always has been. Dream told him to free him from prison, reminded him of that fascinating little project he’d been working on before Wilbur’s death. And now, Wilbur finds himself here, carefully steering Tommy directly onto the tracks of the oncoming train.

He only feels a modicum of guilt upon seeing Tommy’s face at his declaration that L’manburg was never a family, so he quickly changes the conversation, bringing it back to the topic at hand. There’s a poster of this Ranboo fellow in the fucking museum as if things that happened after Wilbur’s death could possibly be influential enough to deserve a spot here. The way that Tommy talks about him reminds him, sickeningly, of the way Tommy used to talk about him – starry-eyed, like he believed that Wilbur was capable of anything, like Wilbur would give him the world.

Wilbur only has a very basic understanding of who Ranboo is; he knows what he looks like, and he knows that he’s gathered some sort of importance on this server if what Dream says about him is true, but Wilbur knows very little about him otherwise. The longest interaction they’ve had so far was rather one-sided, as it mostly consisted of Wilbur testing the commands that Dream had given him, which apparently make Ranboo a lacking conversational partner. It concluded in Wilbur killing Ranboo (with a bow – he prefers the impersonality of it to a sword) without much fanfare or argument, so of course, it was rather unhelpful.

From Tommy and Dream’s descriptions of him, Wilbur had assumed that Ranboo must’ve been similar to them in some way – fiery and passionate, some sort of natural leader, or at least good at his craft. At absolute worst, he thought Ranboo might be like him, a charismatic deep-thinker with a silver tongue. It is unexpected and deeply disappointing to discover that Ranboo is nothing like any of them.

He is taller than Wilbur, which is a rare and quite dislikable trait, but with the way he carries himself, one might never notice from a distance. It’s disturbing, really, to speak to someone completely lacking a spine, or a distinct personality, or any opinions at all. He is nervous and his ears frequently twitch, an action incredibly irritating to Wilbur and his patience. Frankly, the most interesting thing about him is that Tommy’s somehow assigned himself the role of Ranboo’s protector. He’s a little like Tubbo, if Tubbo were boring, and though Tubbo has always been lovely (and less grating on his ears than Tommy), he’s not meant for greatness.

Wilbur was hoping that Dream’s masterpiece would’ve been a bit more… fun. He’d been hoping for an equal in this, someone he could stand on even ground with. All he’s done is found another marionette, just waiting for someone to come along and tug at the strings. Dream’s always been utilitarian like that, too; he deals in absolutes. That’s his fatal flaw, in Wilbur’s opinion – he could never be satisfied with just tormenting Tommy, he had to completely break his spirit. There are no shades of grey with Dream. It all gets a bit tedious, in Wilbur’s opinion.

At the very least, Ranboo will be easy to maneuver into place.

Chapter Text

Ranboo is left more than a little unsettled by his conversation with Wilbur, but he pushes that aside in favor of cautious optimism. Tommy wouldn’t still be there if he didn’t see something good in Wilbur (hopefully…), and the man himself is definitely pushy, good with his words, but it’s nothing Ranboo isn’t used to. Wilbur’s apparent dedication to making amends, alongside the fact that it’s getting late, convinces Ranboo to leave the two to their own devices and return home to Snowchester. The walk goes by a lot slower without Tommy’s chatter, but it passes soon enough, and Ranboo once again finds himself at his and Tubbo’s mansion.

There are no footprints in the snow pointing towards their home, and when he walks inside, it’s dark and quiet, so Tubbo must not have come back yet. As Ranboo removes his snow-covered boots, Michael comes trotting down the stairs, wrapping himself around Ranboo’s leg with an excited squeal.

“Hey, Michael,” Ranboo coos, ruffling the – hair? fur? – on Michael’s head. “Are you hungry?”

“Hungry!” Michael echoes with enthusiasm, so Ranboo takes that as a yes.

They make their way over to the kitchen, Michael still clinging to him, and Ranboo searches through all of their cabinets again, this time for food options. He finds dry pasta and some kind of frozen sauce, so he carefully fills a pot with water and leaves it on the stove to boil. He seats Michael down at the table, this time in a normal chair instead of the highchair; he was worried that he would need to find some way to entertain him, but Michael seems perfectly content to just… be there. Guess that’s what happens to kids when they don’t see their parents enough.

When the time comes to drain the pasta, Ranboo locates a pair of oven mitts to use while pouring it out. He’s not in the mood to burn himself twice over with water and actual heat. He turns his face away to avoid the steam, then regrets it when he loses a few noodles. But dinner is done, so he gets three plates and serves both himself and Michael. It doesn’t seem like Tubbo will be home anytime soon, but again, he’s being optimistic today. They eat, and Ranboo puts the leftovers and the empty plate into the fridge with a paper that reads “For Tubbo”. He’d debated putting a heart on there but ultimately decided that was a bit much.

After dinner, Ranboo glances at the time and makes the executive decision that it’s now Michael’s bedtime. He’s tired. His son is probably less so, but Ranboo knows how to read a clock, and he’s fairly sure Michael doesn’t, so ha.

He tucks Michael in and says goodnight. Just before he leaves, Michael looks past him and says, sleepily, “Bee?”

Ranboo looks back, but the illuminated doorway is empty. “No, Bee will… Bee will be back soon.”

Michael makes a noise at that, but when Ranboo glances back down at him, he’s already fast asleep.

He makes his way to the bedroom, but it seems even stranger without Tubbo there to fill the space. He returns Technoblade’s cape to the closet, figuring that when Tubbo finally does come home, he wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to see Ranboo in it. After, Ranboo settles himself down on the balcony, pressed up against the window, and waits.

Ranboo doesn’t have many hobbies, he realizes. He used to write in his memory book to fill time, but he’s not even sure where it is now. What does he do in quiet moments like this? Surely he does more than mine and talk to people – he can cook, and he doesn’t remember being able to do that before, so he must have learned at some point. He can read, does he ever pick up a book other than his own? Can he draw, or play an instrument, or do… anything? Hmm.

With apparently nothing better to do, Ranboo sits, watching the flakes drift down, and lets his mind wander (which, historically, has not been his greatest idea).

Tubbo has been gone for too long to only be mad about Tommy. Ranboo has seen Tubbo upset; who else would’ve been there for him after he exiled Tommy, after his funeral, after Tommy told Tubbo that the discs were worth more than him? Jeez, when has Tubbo ever been upset about something other than Tommy? But normally, Tubbo doesn’t isolate himself. He pushes himself into doing something productive, something normal, and Ranboo cannot think of anything more productive and normal than taking care of a child and a house alongside the person you’re married to. Maybe Tubbo’s interests lie more in the grueling tasks of building and redstone engineering, but it still seems strange.

So why wouldn’t Tubbo want to come home? He built Snowchester to get away from it all, and there’s food, and Michael is here, and Ranboo is here. Unless – is Tubbo mad at him? No, no – but he could be? What is Tubbo even mad about? Tubbo is mad about… Wilbur coming back to life. Tubbo is mad about… Tommy going in the prison. Tubbo is mad about… waiting? Why is he mad about waiting? Waiting for the next bad thing to happen. The next bad thing being… Wilbur’s return? Or… what other bad things have been happening? Is –

A door slams, and Ranboo scrambles up, spotting Tubbo finally just inside the entrance. He gingerly makes his way down the stairs, then freezes when he sees the look on Tubbo’s face.

“...You’re back,” Ranboo says numbly.

“I am,” Tubbo agrees, equally distant. “Are you?”

Am I? What? Does he mean – “My memory isn’t fully back, no.”

“Oh.” Tubbo sheds his coat, hanging it on the banister. That doesn’t seem like the right place to put it, but Ranboo is not going to push that right now. “Is Michael… in bed?”

“Yeah.” Ranboo’s mind flickers briefly, like a dulling lightbulb, and he says, with a little more energy, “I made dinner, if you want it.”

“What is it?”

“Pasta. I, um, found frozen sauce, so I heated it up and put it on.”

Tubbo stares at him, and Ranboo narrowly resists the urge to duck his head. Or leave. Either sounds better than Tubbo’s dead-eyed expression. “I was going to use that.”

“Sorry.”

Tubbo looks away first. “It’s alright.”

Ranboo hovers awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself. “Where did you go today?”

“Out.” Tubbo looks at him sideways. “I saw Tommy with Wilbur earlier.”

“Yeah, they, uh… they seem okay.”

“You talked to Wilbur?”

“Yes.” Ranboo worries the inside of his lip. “I was worried about Tommy, but I don’t think Wilbur is going to… to hurt him, or anything like that. For now, at least.”

Tubbo seems a little more animated, now, as he leads the way to the kitchen, pulling the pasta and the plate out of the fridge. Ranboo kind of regrets putting the plate in there, now; it’s probably cold. “So what did you think of him? Alivebur.”

“Mm, I think he’s… I think he’s trying to make up for what he did, when he was, uh, alive.”

“Keyword trying.” Tubbo begins eating the pasta cold. At the very least, Ranboo doesn’t feel bad about the chilled plate anymore. “He’s not a good guy, Ranboo.”

“But he could… get better?”

“He could,” Tubbo scoffs. “But I don’t think he will.”

They don’t speak any more after that. Tubbo finishes his pasta, cleans and puts the plate away, and Ranboo doesn't know what to do other than trail uncomfortably behind as he leaves the kitchen, up the staircase and down the hallway to their room. He hovers in the doorway, but it feels wrong to just stand outside, like an observer in his own life, so he sits down heavily on the bed.

Tubbo is walking around the room, in and out of the closet, doing something, but Ranboo is trying not to look at him, so he doesn’t know what. He looks down at his hands, instead, and threads his fingers together, hoping the sensation will soothe him. It does not.

“Ranboo,” Tubbo asks, marching back out of the closet once again, “did you wear Technoblade’s cape today?”

He almost lies, on impulse, but he can’t bring himself to. “Yeah.”

Tubbo frowns at him. “Why?”

“Because it’s cold?” He isn’t sure if there’s a right answer here. “It was the first thing I found. I – I don’t know where you keep the coats.”

“We.”

Ranboo tilts his head at that, confused.

“Where we keep the coats,” Tubbo reiterates, sounding frustrated. “Me and you, Ranboo, both of us.”

“I… okay?”

“This place is ours,” Tubbo says. “It – it’s supposed to be me and you.”

Oh, god, it sounds like he’s choking up. Is he about to cry? Why? Did Ranboo do something wrong? “It – it is, Tubbo. I’m here.”

“You’re not,” Tubbo whispers harshly, followed by a sniff. “You’re not here.”

What? “Tubbo, I –”

“I think you should leave,” Tubbo decides, clearing his throat and looking at Ranboo with glassy eyes. “I’ll bet Philza and Technoblade are wondering where you are. And you clearly –”  He gestures broadly to the bed before turning away. “– don’t want to be here with me. I can take care of Michael myself.”

“Oh.” Ranboo doesn’t… want to argue. Tubbo’s right; he isn’t exactly sure how he feels about the being-married-to-his-best-friend thing. But surely that means that they should stay together? But… well, Tubbo knows more about marriage than he does. Or remembers more of it, at least. And if Tubbo isn’t happy with him, for whatever reason, then he should respect that. Right? “I – okay. When… when do you want me to come back?”

Tubbo hesitates, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. When your memory is better.”

“But what if it doesn’t –?”

“It will.”

So Ranboo goes. He laces up his boots, puts his sword in its sheath and straps his pickaxe in place on his back, and, after a moment’s hesitation, asks Tubbo where the coats are.

Spring is in full bloom, and with spring, as Ranboo unfortunately learns, comes rain. He and Tubbo had been roped into helping Tommy go logging, but Tommy’s work ethic is abysmal, and when Tubbo is with him, he’s just as useless. Ranboo had tried, for a while, while Ghostbur floated over their heads, telling them that a tree was about to fall on them, but then it began to rain. Now, he and Ghostbur hide under a hastily-made shelter. Tubbo and Tommy have gone ahead somewhere else, at Ranboo and Ghostbur’s suggestion; probably off to cause more problems.

Ghostbur is literally sizzling, parts of him fading away where raindrops fell, and Ranboo isn’t doing much better, steam rising from his exposed face and hands. It stings, but it’s already begun to dry, so he hopes it won’t leave a mark.

“I think I like the spring!” Ghostbur tells him (is he talking to Ranboo? He does kind of live in his own world at times) cheerfully. “I like the flowers, and the… well, not so much the rain anymore, but I like to look at it!” He pauses, then adds, “I think Alivebur liked it, too.”

Ranboo cocks his head to the side, curious. “How do you know that?”

“Because I remember it, of course!” he explains. “I only remember the good things.”

“From… Alivebur?”

“Yes, from Alivebur.” Ghostbur smiles too brightly, like he’s trying to be friendly without quite knowing what that’s meant to look like. “You have trouble remembering too, Ranboo, don’t you?”

“I – yeah, I do,” Ranboo says.

“Are you dead?”

The question catches him off guard, and he jerks back. “Um… no. No, it’s a… separate thing.” Kind of.

“Ah.” Ghostbur’s smile wilts a little. “Oh, don’t be sad, Ranboo! Here, have some blue!” He holds out his hand, stained fingertips outstretched.

Ranboo stares at the offering for a moment before accepting it, quickly pocketing it. Hopefully it won’t stick to his clothes the way it does the ghost’s. “Ghostbur, do you… remember when you were in the woods, maybe a couple months ago, and I was, uh, sleeping?”

Ghostbur thinks for a second before nodding. “I do!”

“Why were you there?”

“I think… I think I had a happy memory.” When he curls his lips back in a facsimile of a grin, it becomes obvious that the cracks in his teeth are stained with blue, too.

Ranboo wakes up late the next morning, the sun already high in the sky. He’s already missed a possible breakfast with Techno and Phil, so he swallows down a bowl of grits before heading out. He feeds his animals, then heads to his mine, squinting through the glare of the bright-white snow. No one is out and about today, it seems, so he doesn’t need to stop.

The familiar motion of mining is soothing, and his mind is quiet today – not lingering on Tommy and Wilbur, and not regretting what happened with Tubbo last night. He works, swinging his pickaxe methodically over his head, and fixes his gaze intermittently on the stone before him and the enchanted glow of the metal.

By the time he finally stops, it’s late afternoon, and the sun is hazy and warm in the late hour, despite the chill of the air. Ranboo plans on immediately going back to sleep to prevent a thought from occurring for at least another twelve hours, but Phil is standing in front of the house, and he waves Ranboo over as soon as he sees him. Dang it.

“Hi mate,” Phil says. “Saw you come home yesterday, but we had some things to, er, take care of. Had fun burning down woodland mansions?”

“Huh?” Ranboo stares at him for a second, uncomprehending, before recovering, saying, “Oh, yeah, yeah – it was, um. Productive.”

“I’m sure,” Phil says with a snort. “Like you’ll ever need a totem.”

Ranboo doesn’t know what to do other than shrug.

“So,” Phil says, clasping his hands together. “You’re welcome to come over for dinner tonight if you’d like. It’s been a while, there’re things we should catch up on.”

“Oh.” Ranboo blinks. “Alright.”

“Good!” Phil says, seeming a little too relieved for the subject at hand. “See you in a bit, then?”

They exchange goodbyes, and Ranboo collapses immediately into bed, pickaxe and all, although he knows that, sadly, he will not be sleeping this afternoon – and he may even be forced out of his haze to confront his thoughts.

Chapter Text

It’s not snowing tonight, so Ranboo scrambles across their property in just his suit, tail wrapped around his leg and ears pinned back in discomfort. He takes the steps two at a time and knocks on the cottage door, shivering. There’s a soft murmur coming from inside, and the windows and the crack in the door radiate light. After a moment, the door swings open, and Techno stands on the other side, dark rings under his eyes, face stuck in a pinched expression.

“Ranboo,” Techno says desperately, and Ranboo tenses up, worried something is wrong, “please promise me you’ll never have children.”

“I – huh?” Ranboo’s brain blanks, and he stutters, trying to find a way to let Techno down gently and inform him he already has. Thankfully, Phil steps in, poking his head around Techno and pushing the door open further.

“Hey, Ranboo,” Phil says, with the broadest smile that Ranboo thinks he’s ever seen on him. He looks tired, too, but in a good way, like after spending a day in the sun. He scratches the back of his neck almost sheepishly, although his smile is too sunny to make him seem all that embarrassed. “Some, uh, things that happened while you were gone, so we should probably explain –”

“We? Absolutely not,” Techno interrupts. “I take no responsibility for that man.”

Phil snorts and elbows Techno out of the way, clearing the doorway for Ranboo to enter. “Just come in, mate.”

Ranboo lets out a breath at finally being inside, his shoulders no longer tense from the cold, but immediately seizes up again upon seeing the table. The table which now has four chairs instead of its normal two or three. The table which none other than Wilbur Soot is lounged atop of, who looks at him with an incomprehensible expression from behind cracked glasses.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

“I told you you should’ve said something earlier,” Techno grumbles.

“He’ll be fine,” Phil hisses back. Louder, he says, “This is probably a bit, uh, surprising, but something happened with Tommy and the prison, and Dream brought Wil back to life.”

“...Did he,” Ranboo replies absently, in lieu of a better answer. Reality crashes over him violently, and oh my god I left Tubbo and Michael alone, and who knows where Tommy is – Dream did this – what the hell I died two days ago – before he shoves it back into the corner of his brain. “Nice to… meet you, Wilbur.”

Wilbur tilts his head at him, and a strand of white hair falls over his face. He doesn’t fix it. “We met yesterday, Ranboo. Or have you already forgotten?”

Techno glances at him sharply at that, and Ranboo barely chokes out, “Yeah, yeah, um – sorry, I thought we were –” before snapping his jaw shut. Man, did that single sentence just expose all of the lies his past self may or may not have told about where he goes when he’s not here? Jeez, this is why he had a memory book.

“You’ll get used to it,” Phil tells him sympathetically, clearly wildly misunderstanding the source of Ranboo’s stress here.

There’s an awkward beat of silence then, and Ranboo’s tail lashes in the air with agitation. Phil stretches his wings open, then folds them back again. Techno clicks his gold rings together. Wilbur smiles.

“Alright, Ranboo,” Techno says, hand landing heavily on his shoulder. “We’re on soup duty. C’mon.”

Ranboo lets Techno steer him into the kitchen, the sounds of Phil and Wilbur’s conversation fading behind them. Techno puts a hand-written recipe on the counter, and Ranboo busies himself with collecting all of the ingredients. His head is halfway inside a cabinet when Techno speaks, and Ranboo’s ears swivel back to listen.

“Ranboo, and this is a rare moment of vulnerability for me here, I am so glad you’re back,” Techno says. “I think I would’ve died if I had to deal with Phil’s hovering much longer.”

“Hovering?” Ranboo echoes, unsure how to respond to that first half.

“Yeah, he won’t leave Wilbur alone. If he’s not talking to him, he’s talking about him. To me.” When he twists around to look at Techno, he can see Techno’s ears flicking in irritation. “Who knew all it took to get Phil’s attention was dying and coming back to life.”

“Well, that didn’t work for Tommy,” Ranboo says carefully. He doesn’t have any memories of Phil and Tommy interacting from these past months, so he hopes that his assumption that they don’t exist is correct.

Techno pauses and meets his gaze, then looks away. “Nah, it didn’t.” After a second, he asks, “So you two’ve met already?”

“Yeah, I, uh – I was around when he was talking to Tommy, so we, um. We talked. A bit.”

Techno hums in response. He begins to peel the potatoes with a knife in smooth motions, the skin falling into a bowl beneath his hands, curled at the edges. Ranboo chops carrots, trying to make the cuts even without stabbing himself.

“Is he, um…” Ranboo hesitates, unsure how to phrase his question. “Is this what he was like when he was alive?”

Techno shrugs. “Some parts are. The fact that he refuses to wear clean clothes, for one.” Ranboo swallows down a laugh. “And he’s got this, uh… look in his eyes. I guess you wouldn’t know,” he says, glancing sideways at Ranboo. “It used to be good, when it meant that he would go through with the whole ‘blowing up L’manburg’ thing.”

“But it’s not good anymore?”

“He thinks that he made L’manhole,” Techno says stiffly. “Who knows what he’ll do when he finds out that it was us.”

“Oh, that could be – yeah, kinda bad.” Now finished with chopping the carrots, he scrapes them into the pot, taking satisfaction in the sizzling sound they make. “What parts are different?”

Techno furrows his brow. “He’s not pretending to be insane anymore.”

They finish the soup. Ranboo ladles it into four separate bowls, warm under his hands, steam rising up dangerously to meet his face. He takes two, and Techno takes two, and they both carry it out to the table. Phil has managed to wrangle Wilbur into sitting in a chair instead of on the table, but the seat he’s taken is the one Ranboo normally sits in, so Ranboo uncomfortably settles into the one across from him, Phil now on his left instead of his right. He gives the other bowl in his hand to Phil, who slides it across to Wilbur, so Techno gives him another one before circling around the table to sit in his own chair, right of Ranboo.

Wilbur takes the first bite. “Mm,” he hums, although he doesn’t seem all that thrilled by it. “Potatoes again, Techno?”

Techno huffs and rolls his eyes. “Listen, man, at least they’re not raw.”

“You know,” Wilbur says through his second mouthful, pointing at Techno, “you had that secret cow farm that whole time, didn’t you? You could’ve been feeding us something other than potatoes back then!”

Ranboo blinks. “Was this during, uh, Pogtopia?”

“Yes,” Wilbur replies, staring at him like he’s trying to make eye contact, although Ranboo refuses to meet his gaze. “Mister Blade here made a potato farm in the ravine, and that’s all we ate for months. My last meal on this earth was a baked potato.”

“Um… sorry that happened?”

“Don’t be,” Techno interjects. “The potato is merely the superior food.”

Phil frowned. “I thought Niki was baking you cakes?”

Wilbur’s head whips around so violently, Ranboo swears he hears it snap. “Sometimes,” he says, quietly, and the single word makes Ranboo’s hair stand on end.

Phil frowns briefly, then shakes his head, the frown dissolving back into a smile. It’s like his face is an Etch-A-Sketch. A freaky one. “So, Ranboo,” he says instead of responding to whatever the heck that was, “tell us about what you’ve been up to recently! Woodland mansions, yeah?”

“Woodland mansions,” Ranboo echoes. “Right. Haha.” Dang it, why did past me pick that as a cover story? I’ve never even been to a woodland mansion! “It was, well, it was far, that’s for sure! Had lots of fun, um, camping. On the way.”

“Camping,” Wilbur repeats amusedly. “In that suit of yours?”

“Yes,” Ranboo says defensively. “It’s comfortable.”

“I’ve been telling you, Ranboo,” Techno says, “you can borrow my stuff if you need it. You don’t have to get your nice dirty, y’know.”

Have you been telling me? From what he recalls of Tommy’s stories, he doesn’t remember Techno being much of a sharer. Maybe Techno just likes him better. He’s a lot less talkative. Unfortunately. “Yeah, I, um, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Techno nods at that, seemingly appeased.

“Did you get anything good?” Phil asks.

“Uh,” oh my god what do they even have at woodland mansions other than totems, “totem.” Why would you say that that is quite literally the most useless item on this server to you –

Wilbur lets out a low whistle, looking genuinely impressed with him for the first time. “A totem of undying! Would’ve been useful back in the war.”

“Yeah, they’re not that, um, uncommon now,” Ranboo says awkwardly.

“True,” Techno says. “I got executed once.”

Wilbur nods at that. “The ghost saw that one.” He returns his attention to Ranboo. “So when did you and Tubbo fight?”

Ranboo chokes on his soup. “Sorry?”

“Tommy told me you two had a falling out,” Wilbur says, eyebrows raised. “Tubbo didn’t go with you, did he?”

Ranboo glances at Phil, who doesn’t seem alarmed by this line of questioning at all, then at Techno, who is staring at him with a frankly terrifying look on his face. He looks back at Wilbur. “I had, uh, lunch! With Tubbo. And he wanted… fish. But I wanted bread. So we were a little mad at each other, that’s all, nothing – nothing too major.”

Phil reaches across the table to pat his arm, which has now gone limp with horror. “You two’re good friends, you’ll be alright.”

“Um. Thanks,” Ranboo says numbly.

Wilbur leans back in his chair, bowl empty. “Where does Tubbo live these days? Tommy lives in his dirt hut, same as ever, but I haven’t seen a new Tubbo house about the server yet.”

Ranboo would also choke on this spoonful of soup if there was any fear left in him to choke on. There is not. He swallows and lies, “I have no idea.” He can feel Techno’s gaze boring into him, so he says, quickly, “I think he moved. Um, recently.”

He’s almost finished with his soup, so he scarves down the last few bites and abruptly stands from his chair. He winces at the screech it makes against the hardwood floor. “I’ll just go… wash this.”

Phil and Wilbur don’t pay him any mind, continuing to chat about something, but Techno stands as well, following him into the kitchen. Throat tight, Ranboo sets his dish in the sink, careful not to touch any water, and turns around. Techno’s eyes meet his for a few seconds before Ranboo looks away.

“Are you going to wash that?” Techno asks flatly.

“No,” Ranboo mutters.

Techno turns away. “I have something to show you.”

Ranboo trails after Techno as he marches out the door. Phil and Wilbur’s conversation is at its loudest as they pass them, then falls to a dulled hum as they walk out the door. The wind whistles in his ears, and the crunch of his footsteps in the snow has never been louder. Snowflakes have begun to fall in the hours since his arrival; he blinks the flakes out of his eyes. Techno seems unbothered. He leads Ranboo to the foot of a hill on the edge of the property.

“Do you remember this?” Techno asks.

Ranboo isn’t sure if there’s a right answer. “No,” he says truthfully.

Techno grimaces and fishes a button from one of his pockets. He places it on the stone and Ranboo stares as the hill face splits to become a vault. He squints through the snow and takes a step closer to try and see the inside, but it mostly seems empty, aside from the chests. He glances back at Techno, who waves him forward, and enters.

Once they’re both inside, the wall closes in behind them, and his eyes struggle to adjust to the change in lighting. He’s still blinking rapidly when he feels the unwelcoming pressure of a sword against the back of his neck.

“Who are you?” Techno snarls from behind him, voice as dark as it had been on Doomsday. Ranboo doesn’t think he’s ever heard Techno speak to him like this. He wants to lean forward, away from the blade, but he knows that’ll only make it worse. He resists the desire to crawl out of his skin, to cringe away from the threat of pain. It’s pathetic. He won’t do that. He’ll be brave for once in his life.

“I – I’m Ranboo,” he manages tightly. “I am, I swear to you I am!”

“Then why did you lie? I know you and Tubbo didn’t fight over lunch.”

“We – no, we didn’t,” Ranboo agrees quickly. “Can I turn around?” The pressure on his neck eases back, and he turns. He immediately wishes he could go back because this angle of Technoblade is far worse. His eyes are wide and dark, and the tusks gleam like they’re enchanted. He shrinks back and admits, lowly, “I died.”

The sword digs into his neck again, and Ranboo is afraid to breathe. He swears he can feel blood dripping down his neck. “You died. And you forgot where Tubbo lives? The guy whose house you lived in for a week after –” He can’t seem to get the words out, but Ranboo knows exactly what he means. When he means. Even if he can’t remember what happened after.

“Techno, I – I can’t tell you why I fought with Tubbo,” he says, hoping his voice sounds even and isn’t wobbling horrifically. “It’s – it’s personal, and I don’t even know what happened, it’s not important, but – listen. I died, and… and I can’t remember anything that happened since that.”

The pressure lessens a bit. Techno narrows his eyes at him. “You can’t remember anything since February.”

“No!” He takes in a deep breath. “I died two days ago, and now Tubbo is mad at me, and Alivebur is alive again, and – god, I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

Techno lowers the sword to his side. “You died two days ago. The day Wilbur came back.”

“I… yeah? I think?”

Techno pinches his nose with a sigh, looking away. “So you weren’t at a woodland mansion. You were here, and you died the day that Dream brought Wilbur back to life, and then you fought with Tubbo for personal reasons. And you can’t remember anything that’s happened in the past few months. Am I getting this right?”

“Yes,” Ranboo says, defeated. “And I would tell you why I lied about being at a woodland mansion if I remembered why I did it.”

Techno huffs out a breath. “How did you die?”

Ranboo shrugs. “I don’t know? I’ve been kind of busy.”

“Busy fighting with Tubbo. Right.” Techno stalks across the room, returning his sword to his enderchest. “Why would you have forgotten so much if dying normally makes you remember things?”

“It’s something Dream used to do,” Ranboo says. “But I can’t remember what.”

“But Dream’s in the prison.” Techno crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. “It has to have something to do with Wilbur coming back.”

“But I don’t think this happened when he – brought back Tommy?”

Techno looks at him for a minute, just looks, inscrutable, before scrubbing at his eyes and sighing. “The voices, they’re just – so loud,” he mutters. “Just be careful, Ranboo. And stay away from Tommy and Tubbo.”

Ranboo blinks. “Why?”

Slowly, carefully, Techno says, “Because they’re the ones Wilbur messed up the most.” He pauses, then adds, “And never have kids.”

Chapter Text

There is dirt under his fingers, and there is grass tickling the exposed strip of skin around his ankle, and when he breathes in, the taste of pollen sticks on his tongue. There’s a low, gentle hum when a bee zips past his ear. The sun is warm on his face, but it’s even warmer on Tubbo’s; it pushes back the hair from his eyes and relaxes the tension of his muscles enough to form a smile, bright and blinding, a sun in his own right to Ranboo’s earth.

“Ranboo,” he says – falters – tries again. “I didn’t know things could be like this.” The light catches on the ring around his horn, the emerald at its center shimmering.

“Like what?” Ranboo asks, tilting his head.

“Normal,” Tubbo says with a huff. “Happy. Dream is in the prison, Tommy is alive, and… and I have you and Michael now. This is good. Better than good.”

Ranboo smiles, but there’s something hesitant in him, a thought that he can’t quite push away. “Didn’t you have all of this before? Not me and Michael, but… but Dream was gone, and Tommy was – alive.” He stumbles over the word. Alive. It’s strange to think he ever wasn’t. Strange to think that Ranboo always will be.

“Well, yeah,” Tubbo says, smile ever-so-slightly fading, “but it’s better now. Because you’re here, too.”

“But… you didn’t know that I’d – be here?” Ranboo pushes quietly. “So how did you know, then, that you could be… happier?”

Tubbo shrugs, falling back to lie on the ground, hair fanning out beneath him. “I dunno, bossman. It’s not like I knew, really. I just… felt something was missing.”

Ranboo hums. He reaches out to tap his fingers against Tubbo’s own. “I don’t get it.”

Tubbo shifts, wrapping his hand fully around Ranboo’s, stilling his restless energy. “It’s not really something you get. It just… I don’t know. Is.”

“I don’t… understand how you know you’re happy? How would I know if I was happy?”

“If you’re happy… you don’t think about it?” Tubbo’s scarred side is facing him, harsh lines criss-crossing along his pale skin. Not as pale as Ranboo’s mystery half, but pale. “If you’re happy, you don’t have to worry if you are or not. That’s what Quackity used to say. He was right back then, at least.”

“So I’m not happy?” He curls the fingers of his other hand against the stiff material of his dress pants, letting the claws dig into his leg. “Since I worry about it?”

“No!” Tubbo says quickly, sitting up to face him. “I mean – I can’t tell you how to feel, but I don’t think you’re unhappy. We’re together, aren’t we?”

Ranboo thinks about it for a moment. The buzzing has turned to a loud drone in his ears, like the crash of machinery, of the turning of cogs and the grinding of metal. It makes his head hurt. Finally, he asks, “Is being with someone what brings a person happiness?”

“No –” Tubbo says, alarmed, and he puts his hands on either side of Ranboo’s face and makes him look. Look at those wide blue eyes, one lighter than the other, look at the scars blossoming across his neck and cheek and around his light eye – expanding and contracting and blinking, like stars forming and dying, like fireworks against the backdrop of the dark night sky and yellow concrete – look at the smile that he can’t quite see anymore. “You can be happy alone too, Ranboo, if you want to. If being together doesn’t make you happy. But I think you are happy now. Because of us. Because of me.”

“Are you happy?” Ranboo asks.

Tubbo hesitates too long, and Ranboo knows that whatever words come out of his mouth will be lies.

Ranboo wakes up to being slapped.

He puts a hand on his stinging cheek and jolts up to a sitting position, threadbare blanket tangling around his legs. He looks around, startled, but no one is in his room. Not a single soul.

“What the…” he mutters, voice heavy with sleep.

A second passes, and then a suspiciously familiar cackle comes from his lectern. “Morning, boob boy.” Milk materializes suddenly in the air, and Ranboo watches with tired eyes as Tommy appears, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You did not need to do that,” Ranboo tells him.

“Oh, but I did, but I did!” Tommy exclaims. “It’s called a prank, Ranboo, do you remember what a prank is?”

“Yes,” he groans, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. “Is there a reason you’re pranking me at seven in the morning?”

Tommy’s face falls slightly, but he recovers by pulling bread out of somewhere and taking a bite. “I need to talk to you,” he says through his mouthful of bread, so it comes out much less comprehensible than intended. He swallows and says, clearer, “About Dream.”

“About – Dream,” Ranboo echoes, feeling ready to go back to sleep already. “Um, why?”

“We can bond over our shared trauma,” Tommy says. “We’re best friends now, Big R.” Then he shudders and says, “No, that just sounds wrong. We’re best friends now, Ranboob.”

This is a bit of a leap from the jealous act he was putting on the other day, but hey, Ranboo isn’t complaining.

“Alright.” The stinging of his cheek has faded now into a dull headache. “Let me eat something first.”

The two of them trudge down to the tiny first floor. Tommy takes a seat on the stairs while Ranboo searches through his chests for something edible. He eventually finds a cake and settles on dessert for breakfast. Tommy watches him, faded blue eyes sliding in their sockets as Ranboo paces across the room.

“Your eyes are… different, right?” Ranboo asks.

Tommy frowns and crosses his arms. “Yeah, limbo’ll do that to you. Sucks out all your color.”

“What’s limbo like?” he asks curiously.

“Everyone’s is different,” Tommy says. “Wil’s was a train station, I think. Schlatt’s was probably a fuckin’ casino or a bar or something. But mine was just – empty.”

“Empty?”

“Yeah. It was just… dark, and quiet unless one of the others was talking. The only time I ever got to see was when we played cards – and even then, all I saw was the cards, sometimes hands, never anyone’s face.”

“That’s…” Ranboo trails off, unsure how to respond.

“Awful,” Tommy says. “It was awful.” He takes another bite of his bread. Comfort bread, Ranboo thinks in Tommy’s voice. “But I’m supposed to be asking the questions here, big man.”

Ranboo blinks. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“First of all – why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’ve barely told anyone,” Ranboo says. “Tubbo knows, and Phil and Techno know, and that’s it.”

Tommy lets out a disgruntled squawk. “What? The Blade knows and not me?!”

“Yeah, he kinda lives, like…” Ranboo points awkwardly out the window. “Right there. And it’s not like he has any friends.”

Tommy snorts. “You should say that one to his face.”

“Also, you were, um… in prison. When everything happened.”

“Right.” Tommy’s gaze drifts down to the floor. “You said Dream made you in a lab, yeah? When did the bastard have time to do that?”

“A bit after the revolution, I think,” Ranboo says. “The L’manburg one, not – Schlatt.”

Tommy pauses for a moment, thinking. “You’ve been around that long?”

Ranboo shrugs, a bit helplessly. “I guess so.”

“Mm,” Tommy grumbles. “So how does it work?”

“What? Just… all of it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Ranboo hesitates. “Every time I die, there’s this… machine, in the woods near L’manhole, and it does something with magic to my DNA to create a new me. Whenever Dream killed me, he did this thing that made me forget the things that happened to the last Ranboo, but when I die for other reasons, I usually get memories back.”

Tommy squints at him. “And how many times have you died to remember that?”

“Um… not important,” Ranboo says avoidantly. “Point is, without Dream’s influence, my memory should be getting better, not worse.”

“So the fuck’s wrong with you now?” Tommy asks.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Dream’s in prison, and it’s not like anyone likes him, so it’s not like someone could be doing this for him. And if someone else knew, they would’ve done… something before now, right?”

Tommy purses his lips. “Right.” After a moment’s pause, he asks, “So what is it that Dream did to make you forget?”

“It’s, uh… something to do with Mellohi.” Ranboo glances away apologetically.

“What?! My disc? Oh, that bastard – I’m going to fucking kill him until he’s completely dead –”

As Tommy rambles, Ranboo sets the remaining slice of cake on the table, picks it up, and regenerates it. He puts it back in the makeshift fridge, which is really just a corner of his shack that’s less insulated than the rest of it. Using his enderman magic, or whatever it is, always creates a soft buzzing in the back of his mind, and he’s almost completely zoned out, so it comes as an unwelcome surprise when there’s a harsh knocking on his door. He flinches and looks at Tommy, who stares back at him desperately.

“Oh, fuck,” Tommy whispers. “I can’t let Phil and Techno know I’m here!”

“Why?” Ranboo whisper-demands. “This is really inconvenient for me, man! I don’t know what to do!”

“Because they blew up my country and it’s weird!” Tommy exclaims. “Don’t open it!”

The knocking comes again.

“Can’t you just – I don’t know, hide?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go hide,” Tommy hisses, springing upwards and sprinting up the stairs.

Ranboo waits for the footsteps to fade, takes a deep breath, then opens the door. Surprisingly, neither Technoblade nor Philza stand on the other side, but unsurprisingly, Wilbur Soot stands there, tall and composed and apparently entirely unaffected by the strangeness of this situation.

“Hello, Ranboo,” Wilbur says, sounding like he intends on coming across as pleasant, although he seems more intimidating than anything else. “Is Tommy here?”

“Um. No?” Man, Dream should’ve given me better lying skills. “I mean… why would he be?”

Wilbur peers behind him into the shack. “Tommy has a very distinct voice.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ranboo says. “Barely even know the guy. Ha.”

“Right, right,” Wilbur says, brushing off Ranboo’s obvious lie. “Can I come in?”

“Um…” Say no, say no, say no! “Okay.” Dream should’ve given me a spine, too. He steps aside and lets Wilbur in.

Wilbur is barely inside for five seconds before he shouts, “GET DOWN HERE YOU GREMLIN CHILD!” It’s right in Ranboo’s ear and he thinks that his headache might have just gotten worse.

Tommy appears at the top of the stairs and mopily descends, shooting Ranboo betrayed looks on each step. “Hi, Wilbur.”

“Morning, Tommy,” Wilbur says lightly, like he hasn’t just invited himself into Ranboo’s house and shattered his eardrums. “Are you two busy today?”

“Yes,” Tommy says at the same time as Ranboo’s “No.” Tommy gives him a betrayed look once more.

“Well then,” Wilbur says, ignoring their internal conflict, “would you mind helping me mine today? I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little rusty, and mining is just so boring.”

Ranboo is tempted to disagree, as mining is his favorite activity, but he’s not terribly interested in telling Wilbur more about himself. Tommy is nodding in agreement, anyway, so it’s not like they’re in need of his input.

“Alright,” Tommy says, “but I don’t want to do any of the work. I’ll be moral support, like a – like a fucking cheerleader. I’m cheering for team Ranboo.”

Wilbur shrugs and looks to Ranboo.

“Okay,” he sighs.

He gathers up his materials, changes into his normal clothes, and leads the charge out, as Wilbur and Tommy seem clueless on where to start. Ranboo is not inviting these two into his own mine, so they decide to travel further out. They walk a reasonable distance away from the main Nether hub and build a portal, then immediately dig down on the other side and begin making a strip mine.

“This is so boring,” Tommy complains. His face is covered in coal dust already, and it makes him look even more ghostly than he has since his revival. Wilbur looks even worse, which is saying something, considering the guy already looks like a zombie. “This is why I haven’t gone mining since exile.”

Ranboo glances back at him at the casual mention of it, but Tommy doesn’t seem uncomfortable, so he supposes that’s at least one thing that Tommy’s managed to work through. Good for him.

“Well,” Wilbur says, pausing in his half-hearted attempt to wrench iron from its place in the stone, “Dream took everything you mined, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, scowling at Wilbur’s back. “And then he blew everything up.”

“Nothing wrong with a little arson,” Wilbur replies.

Tommy’s eyebrows knit together, and Ranboo takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the mining. It’s a little difficult. Tommy and Wilbur both have… explosive personalities. No pun intended. (Okay, maybe it was a little intended.)

“Dream is a bastard and I hate him and now that you’re alive again me ‘n Tubbo should go kill him in his sleep, if the fuckin’ green blob even sleeps –”

“Come on now, Tommy,” Wilbur says, too evenly to feel natural, “it’s rude to talk about politics around your friends.”

“It’s not politics, it’s my goddamn life –” Tommy snarls back.

“That’s how you ruin relationships,” Wilbur continues, like Tommy never even spoke. “Right, Ranboo?” He doesn’t have a very nice smile. It looks too practiced.

“Uh…” Whoever told Wilbur about his philosophical views is in trouble. (Oh, wait, no, I think that was me.)

“Oh yeah, is that why Sally left you?” Tommy says tauntingly. “Mans was in bed like ‘please vote for me, buy my drugs baby girl, meh meh meh.’”

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” Wilbur says, sounding genuinely irritated for the first time since Ranboo met him. He takes a deep breath, rearranges his face into the picture of calm, then continues, “Sally and I mutually decided to split up for Fundy’s benefit. There was nothing hostile about it.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Tommy says snidely, but he doesn’t push it.

“...Who’s Sally?” Ranboo asks tentatively.

“Fundy’s mother,” Wilbur says, which, cool, awesome, really clears things up there. Definitely couldn’t have guessed that from the context. “She was a salmon.” (?!)

“Wilbur created the furry,” Tommy stage-whispers to Ranboo. “Back before the revolution.”

“I sure hope so,” Ranboo says. “That was like… not that long ago.”

Tommy shrugs, apparently unbothered by the confusing ages presented by Wilbur’s mysterious backstory.

They keep mining for a little bit longer, but Tommy eventually grows tired of being on Team Ranboo, and Wilbur is wheezing for breath with his smoker’s lungs, so they stop and return to the surface. Tommy leads the way back to the main area of the server, heading towards his house, but Wilbur demands to see his memorial, so they turn once they reach the house and follow the Prime Path down to L’manhole.

There’s a chest at the memorial now that Ranboo doesn’t remember being there, and Wilbur makes a beeline straight for it, while he and Tommy hover at the edges. At least the fish makes sense now.

Wilbur’s lips curl into a wide grin when he turns back to them, book in hand.

“Tommy, Ranboo,” he says, “how do you feel about gambling?"

Chapter Text

Tommy, apparently, is a big fan of gambling. Ranboo, however, is not. So he lets them do their thing, fairly certain that they won’t kill each other in the process, and begins the trek home to the arctic. Exhaustion has begun to weigh heavy on his bones, the enormity of everything that’s happened in the past few days finally hitting him, and Ranboo hasn’t willingly woken up at seven in the morning since he was the minutes man. It’s all too much, too much to think about, too much to worry about, too much to even understand. He’s married; he’s a father; Tommy died and came back; Ghostbur died and Alivebur came back; he’s lying to Techno; he’s lying to Phil; he was lying to Tommy; he’s worried Tubbo hates him. And the worst part is that he’s been put in this situation by Dream’s machinations – he wouldn’t be so lost if he actually remembered all these things happening. He can’t even hope, however foolishly, that his death was accidental, because he would remember it if it was.

(And, Ranboo thinks, he knows, in that primal part of his amalgamation of a brain, where the neurons fire and extinguish too quickly to be put to words. He knows what’s happening. It’s the reason he’s stifled his thoughts so thoroughly since it happened. But he’s too afraid to admit it, too afraid to face this situation alone. He’s alone now. He can’t put faith in the people around him anymore, because what if they don’t choose him?)

He leaves his pickaxe at the door and lets his back hit the hard mattress, staring up at the rafters. Here, he thinks, the ceiling doesn’t swim, and the nails don’t look like fish. They stay still, in place, ever-watchful. Maybe more like dogs, like the well-trained pack that still lives just outside. Maybe their ears will flick, or their heads will turn to follow you, to stare, but they don’t move. They don’t have to struggle against the tide.

He stares at the ceiling just a little longer before allowing his eyes to close, but his awareness doesn’t slip away alongside his sight. His thoughts are hazy, yes, but he knows where he is. He can smell the sweet scent of woodsmoke, feel the shifting of the sheets against him, taste the jerky he’d eaten while out mining with Tommy and Wilbur. So it comes as a surprise when, faintly, if he strains his ears, he swears he can hear music floating through the air. It’s too far away to tell really hear it, but Ranboo doesn’t need to hear every note to know what song is playing in a jukebox now, somewhere on the server. He knows the highs and lows of that melody, the way the music dips and turns.

He sits up and pads over to a window. He opens it, sticks his head out, shivering at the blast of cold air –  but in the open, it’s louder. Loud enough for him to be certain that he’s listening to Mellohi.

His brow furrows. He puts his shoes back on and wraps a spare fur cloak around his shoulders, strapping his sword to his hip for good measure, and walks outside, crossing the snowy expanse to Techno and Phil’s cottage. The music, unsettlingly, doesn’t grow louder as he approaches, and when he steps inside, too disturbed to care about knocking, it becomes just as distant as it sounded from his own house.

Just to ensure he’s not missing anything, he goes down the ladder to the basement, where, to his dismay, Techno is digging through chests. Techno glances back at him, and a concerned expression creases his face.

“You good, bro?”

Ranboo bites his lip, clears his throat, and asks, “You’re not… playing music, are you?”

“No.” Techno’s stare bores into him. Confusion, pity, worry, and a million other things that Ranboo doesn’t know what to do with lie behind his eyes. He wishes he were still incapable of making eye contact.

Ranboo turns on his heel and leaves out the basement door. There is a sick feeling in his stomach, and he allows it to settle there. He’s afraid of what will happen if he tries to kill it. The sick feeling tells him that he knows where the music is coming from, however impossible it may be, and he listens when it coils around his guts and tells him he has to go to the portal.

As soon as he steps foot into the Nether, the heat rising up against his face and making him wish he hadn’t worn the cloak, he’s almost tempted to turn back around. There is no music here; there is only the bubbling of lava, the crackling of flame on netherrack, and the sound of his own footsteps on the baking stone, broken occasionally by the snort of a zombie piglin and the click of gold coins. There is no music here. Go back, go back, you know where it wants you to go, GO BACK.

He shakes off his own doubtful thoughts and continues on to the main portal. He hesitates outside it for a moment before stepping in, closing his eyes as his vision blurs. When he emerges on the other side, the feeling constricts.

It’s louder here. Loud enough to make out individual notes, loud enough to be heard over his footsteps and the rustling of his cloak. By the time he finds himself standing on the edge of the forest, late afternoon light dappling the soft earth below him, it’s louder than his thoughts. And when he finds the shovel that he left here at some point, digging down into the ground and emerging into the lab, it’s deafening.

The smell, if possible, has grown even worse in the months since Ranboo last came here, nearly as overwhelming as the sound of Mellohi bouncing off the sterile white walls of the lab. As he approaches the main area, twisting through eerily familiar halls, the smell becomes sharp enough to coat the back of his throat, making it impossible for him to swallow, and his heart beats in time with the melody.

When he reaches his destination, he almost doesn’t process it. His brain freezes as he takes in yet another sense, pushing him closer to the edge. It’s him. His body. The Ranboo that found a family, that lied to Phil and Techno, that saw Tommy’s death and revival – the Ranboo whose memories he’s stolen. That Ranboo lies dead on the floor, an arrow in his chest, glassy eyes wide and unseeing.

He chokes on his own artificial spit and stares with his own artificial eyes at the body of a monster so close to becoming a man. A monster so close to becoming real. Because that’s what he is, isn’t he? A long-limbed, hunched over monster that looks like it was dipped in paint by an uninspired hand. There is no beauty to be found in the curve of his claws, in the brightness of his barely living eyes, in the scars left by tears that he cried for his own weakness. This Ranboo, the one in front of him – this Ranboo probably cried for something other than himself. This Ranboo probably used his own skin to dry others’ tears. But him? The Ranboo he’s become now? He’s just a shell . A cheap copy of the person that the old Ranboo was so close to becoming. They’re not the same. They may have the same face, the same thin tail and freckles spattered across their faces like someone flicked paint off a brush, but they have different minds. Different memories. They’re not the same.

“You were so close,” he thinks he says, but it’s impossible to tell if he said it aloud or merely mouthed the words; he can’t hear anything above the haunting sound of Mellohi that rings in his ears and makes his head spin. You were so close. I was so close.

There’s something attached to the arrow in this Ranboo’s chest, a scrap of paper tied with a mockingly cheerful ribbon. He forces his metal joints to move and stumbles over to untie it. The paper is rolled into a little scroll, and it’s difficult to keep it flat enough to read it. The writing is done in ink, and the edges of the paper are stained with gunpowder fingerprints.

Welcome back, Ranboo! Don’t forget your smile! :)

And, pathetic as he is, a monster masquerading as a man, he tries. He tries to force his lips to curve upward, to stretch out demonically and bare his teeth. But he can’t. He can’t think.

He finally wrenches his gaze away from that Ranboo’s body, dropping the paper and ribbon on his chest. The blood should be dried by now; it won’t stain the paper any further. He crosses the room to the jukebox and ejects the disc from it, half-expecting it to continue playing. It comes as more of a surprise when the music stops, and his heart stops, but the dull pounding pain in the back of his head continues, and the tips of his fingers still feel distant and fuzzy.

He swallows and takes a shaky breath, setting the disc down on top of the jukebox. No one is here. No one is around to help him, to hurt him, to do anything. The only living person in this lab is himself, this empty iteration of Ranboo, and he is the only one that holds power here. He is the only one capable of making things change.

He turns back around to look at that Ranboo, and his eye catches on a strangely-shaped lump in one of the jacket pockets. His limbs still feel numb, but the brush of the fabric against his fingers as he reaches out is visceral, so startling that he nearly jerks away entirely. But he holds his breath and quickly snatches up whatever’s in the pocket. He blinks at the object in his hand before finally recognizing it – flint and steel. He doesn’t usually carry that on him; he wonders why this Ranboo had it the day he died. (Too bad he’ll never know.) He places the flint and steel gingerly beside the disc, then takes a cautious step towards the door.

The pit on the other side of the Mellohi door is fuller than he remembers. It contains all of the Ranboos he’d killed himself that day, which, he supposes, he’s never seen actually in the pit alongside the rest. He turns his head to glance back at the rest of the lab, idly curious as to if his violet blood still stains the floor, but he doesn’t see any. Either Techno and Phil cleaned it when they tossed all the bodies away, or it… dissolved, somehow. Or someone else cleaned it. He doesn’t know which is worse.

He’s always been afraid of looking too closely at the pit since he’d discovered it, but now that the smell weighs so heavily on him, cold and pungent and pushing down on the corners of his eyes, he doesn’t think he can feel any more disturbed about seeing his own dead body than he already does. So he steps up to the edge and squints down at it, and he notices for the first time that there is a ladder on the far side. If he’s careful in the way he walks around the thin ledge, he’ll be able to reach it.

Why would Dream build a ladder? Did he feel bad, at some point, about just throwing the dead Ranboos into the pit and hearing the cracking of bones, looking down and seeing how they pierce through the marred flesh? Did he heave the bodies onto his shoulder and painstakingly climb down into the cesspool of his own creation, holding his breath and ignoring how the meat had begun to rot?

Climbing the ladder doesn’t get him to the bottom of the pit, only to the top of the pile. He maneuvers around to put his back to the wall, gripping tightly onto the ladder. It’s dark down here, and the other Ranboos fold and curl and break to create waves. Only the bright white of his shirt is light enough to really make out, and many of the shirts are torn or bloodstained. He grits his teeth and reaches out to turn the closest one over to face him, other hand clenched around the rung.

This Ranboo must have been one of the ones that stabbed himself in the gut. There’s a massive wound in the stomach, months-old blood and pus oozing and crusted along the skin. The wound is larger than a sword could reasonably have made, flesh too jaggedly corroded. The cells must have begun eating the body from the inside out. When he trails his gaze up to the Ranboo’s face, he sees that the meat of the face and lips has begun decaying, and the teeth have rotted out of the gums.

Slowly, one by one, he pries his fingers off of the rung of the ladder, and he takes his first step into the ocean. Things crack and squelch below him, but his head is still pounding and his heart still thinks it’s meant to beat in ¾ time, so he continues, breathing shallow and quick. He sinks, and sinks, until his head finally submerges, and everything is quiet.

It’s dark. There is nothing to see, nothing to hear, and though the sensation and the smell press in on him, they are fading, and he is quiet. It’s still here, calm, and his head no longer aches, and the beat of his heart finally slows.

Is this what it’s like to be dead? he thinks idly, recalling what Tommy told him of limbo. Is it just… quiet and dark forever?

“ Awful. It was awful.”

Or would his limbo be filled with screaming, bright with too-vibrant colors? Would the air be sharp and rough and sickeningly soft against his skin, would it smell like corpses left to rot? Would he open his mouth to speak and taste fire on his tongue?

I want to stay down here forever.

I wish I was dead.

That thought strikes him as strange, a chord played in the wrong key. Does he want to die? Is that what he really wants? Does he want the cycle to end, to never see Tubbo’s smile or hear Tommy’s laugh or taste Techno’s soup or feel Michael’s hand in his again? Does he want to float down here forever, in the stagnant ocean, so far from everything he and the other Ranboo have built since Dream’s imprisonment? Does he want to join them in their humiliation after death, to become another link in the chain reaction? Does he want to give up? Does he want to let Dream win, to let Wilbur win, to let the fear and the pain and the guilt win? He learned down here that he wants to live, doesn’t he?

He comes back up for air, and he pushes through the sickeningly still waves until his hand clings to the ladder once more. He hauls himself up, one rung at a time, until he’s back at the top of the pit, staring down at what could have been. He stares, then steps out the door. He snatches the flint and steel from where he placed it on top of the jukebox, puts it in his pocket, then drags the Ranboo still lying on the floor through the Mellohi door and into the pit. He pulls the flint and steel back out, the weight oddly light in his hands. He scrapes the two pieces together, satisfied by the spark. He removes his cloak, doubting he’ll ever want to wear it after today, and strikes the flint and steel together once again. The first time barely makes a spark, but when he tries again, it catches. He gives the fire a moment to spread, then kicks the cloak into the pit.

Things take a long time to burn. He’d never really considered it before; L’manburg hadn’t had a chance to go up in flames before it became a crater, and the fireplace lights quickly enough that he’s never noticed. Here, though, standing above it, waiting for the smoke to reach his face and fill his lungs, it’s slow. Fire spreads slowly and methodically, cresting over a body and sloping down into the next. It spreads in all directions, thoughtless in its destruction, continuing only because the Ranboos feed it. It isn’t until the flames roar and embers swirl threateningly close to his eyes that the thing inside him, the fear, finally loosens its grip and allows his shoulders to fall.

Awareness trickles back to him, each second another drop trailing down into his mind like rain on glass. The first clear thing he thinks is: I’ll never feel clean again.

He sits there, hugging his knees to his chest, watching the fire and breathing in his own ashes. He did this. He made this choice. And that is something that he refuses to have taken away. Finally, he thinks, he knows what Tubbo meant when he said what he did at breakfast.

“All we do is wait,” he whispers, the sound barely reaching his ears. “Wait for the next bad thing to happen to us.”

Ranboo doesn’t want to wait anymore.

“I hate this fucking place,” Quackity mutters. “Could you have made it any shitter, Sam?”

“It is a prison,” Sam reminds him mildly, removing his sword from its sheath and handing it to Quackity. From this angle, with the blade pointed towards Sam, he could probably stab him. He knows where the gaps in netherite armor are, could push the sword with pinpoint accuracy into the warden's soft stomach. But he won’t. “And Dream designed it, not me.”

“Fucking Dream.”

Quackity knows, of course, that Dream made this place as horrifying as possible because he wanted to put Tommy in here. He knows that the dripping obsidian and the bubbling lava were intended, by design, to give the poor kid more goddamn trauma. He knows a lot about Dream, about the stupid shit he’s done since the server began, about the ways he’s tried to screw them all over. Quackity knows pretty much every thought that crosses the green bastard’s mind, since he has this annoying habit of screaming whatever gibberish occupies his head every time they see each other. Every thought in Dream’s mind except the fucking revive book.

He probably should have stopped coming a long time ago. It just makes him feel like shit to be here; his skin crawls at the thought of the bet he’d lost, and no matter how good hurting the asshole that put them all here makes that tiny, fucked-up part of him feel, the fact that he leaves empty-handed, covered in blood every time is kind of a demoralizer. And it’s not like there’s anyone he wants to revive now – Las Nevadas is doing fine without Schlatt, and Wilbur is apparently fucking back anyway, so there’s no point to the book. It’s just… the principle of the thing.

“How is the prisoner today?” Quackity asks, watching Sam flick levers. The redstone clicks.

Sam snorts softly. “I think prison life is finally getting to him. He kept yelling at me that he ‘met god’ today.”

“Met god?” Quackity repeats incredulously. “The hell does that mean?”

“Who knows,” Sam says. “Maybe it means this’ll all be over soon.”

Quackity sets his jaw, repressing a wince as the bones grind together. “Maybe.” But he doubts it.

Chapter Text

The sun begins to set as Ranboo crosses the bridge to Snowchester. The reflection sits heavy on the water, turning the waves golden. The stone of the buildings has faded to a washed-out amber, softening the village that lies before him. Snowchester looks almost welcoming, and if he blocks out most of the thought occupying his head, then it feels welcoming, too. A home where his husband and son wait for him. A safe place, just as Tubbo had always intended it.

The mansion is already lit up for the night, so Ranboo squints through the twilight and makes his way toward it. He opens the door hesitantly, not sure if he’s making too little or too much noise. Michael doesn’t rush down to greet him. The mansion is still for a moment. Just a moment.

Tubbo’s voice carries through the empty air, coming from an area of the house he only half-remembers. The library, he thinks. Up a winding staircase. “Was that supposed to be a fucking apology?”

Ranboo nearly flinches at the harsh tone, but Tubbo is nowhere in sight, and after a second, another voice starts talking. Tommy. “Tubs – you can’t stay mad forever –” None of this is directed to him.

Quietly, he weaves through the halls and up the circular flight of stairs. He pauses briefly at the top, unsure of what exactly he’ll be walking into, but he lets out a breath and pushes the door of the library open anyway.

The arguing stops.

On one side is Tubbo, ears pressed back in distress, a fire burning in his eyes that dims ever-so-slightly upon seeing Ranboo. On the other side is Tommy, shoulders hunched up and back slumped in a way that makes him look smaller than he is. And behind Tommy, of course, of course, is Wilbur, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, smoke drifting from the cigarette in his mouth. (At least it covers up the scent clinging to Ranboo like a parasite.) (Can Michael smell it? Can Tubbo?)

“Oh,” Ranboo says. His eyes flicker between the three of them. “Oh. I can – I can leave –”

“Ranboo!” Tubbo interrupts with forced cheer, eyes boring into him. “I forgot you were coming!” He plasters a too-wide smile on his face, which Ranboo mirrors uncertainly.

“Yeah,” Ranboo says. “I, um – you know what, why don’t I just go back downstairs and wait –”

“No, no,” Wilbur cuts in smoothly. “You’re Tubbo’s guest, you have a right to be here.”

“Wil,” Tommy says softly, shoulders hiked up to his ears, “I don’t think that’s –”

“It’s fine,” Tubbo says quickly. “It’s fine. Ranboo, c’mere.”

Ranboo nervously slinks around the room to stand behind Tubbo. Tubbo doesn’t look at him. He meets Tommy’s gaze for a moment before Tommy’s eyes slide away and down to the ground.

“Can you repeat what you were saying, Tubbo?” Wilbur asks lazily. “For Ranboo’s sake.”

Tubbo inhales audibly, and Ranboo can hear the breath rattling in his chest. “As I was saying, Wilbur, you can't just come back and expect things to be the way they were – fuck, I dunno, a year ago?”

“It’s been –” Tommy starts.

“It’s been longer for me,” Wilbur finishes. “Thirteen years, Tubbo, don’t you think my sentence has been long enough?”

“Ours hasn’t,” Tubbo hisses out, and from the way his jaw is set, Ranboo can tell he’s gritting his teeth.

At that, something in Wilbur’s demeanor instantly changes, like someone flipped a switch in his brain, and Ranboo shifts his weight nervously. He wants to say something, but – he feels so out of his element here. He can’t even begin to guess what Wilbur plans to say next, but from the way Tommy’s eyes look like they’re bulging out of his skull, he and Tubbo know. And it’s not going to be pretty.

“You know, Tubbo,” Wilbur says, friendly and relaxed and calm and vicious, “I’ve forgiven you. Even after everything you did, to Tommy and to L’manburg, I’ve let go.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette, but no one interrupts. “Why can’t you?”

Tubbo is bristling before he even finishes speaking, and Ranboo knows, viscerally, what expression he’s making right now. He knows how his mouth is twisted into a snarl, the top lip of his scarred side just a little bit crooked, how his eyes are blazing with the fury of fireworks, of explosions, of nuclear winter. Something in him wants, desperately, to reach out. To hold Tubbo’s hand and stand pressed against his side, united against this threat. But he can’t let Wilbur know about them, and he doesn’t know the words to defend them, and he doesn’t know if Tubbo will ever want to feel the pressure of Ranboo’s hand against his palm again.

“Tell me, Wilbur,” Tubbo says, words covered in ice and fire, “what exactly have I done that needs forgiveness?”

Wilbur tilts his head and smiles. Instead of answering, he says, “You really do look like Schlatt these days.”

There is an axe strapped to Tubbo’s back. He places a hand on the handle and spits, “Get out.”

The spit lands on Tommy’s cheek instead of Wilbur’s. Wilbur is too far out of reach. Tommy wipes it off and tries, “Tubbo, can’t you just –”

“Out.”

Wilbur stalks out of the room with the grace of a predator, Tommy trailing unenthusiastically behind. He shoots Tubbo one last distressed look before vanishing down the stairs. Their steps soon fade, leaving Ranboo and Tubbo alone.

Ranboo wrings his hands together anxiously. Tubbo takes one deep breath, then another, and finally turns around to face him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Ranboo.”

Ranboo blinks and tries to swallow around his dry throat. “It’s been… two days. I wanted to check on you, um – you and Michael.”

“Right,” Tubbo says. He catches Ranboo’s eye but looks away first. “Well, we’re fine. Has anything… are you…?”

Yes, Ranboo wants to say. So much has changed. Everything is different now. I want to be here. I don’t want you to have to wait. But Ranboo thinks he might not be a good person. So he says, “No. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“‘S fine,” Tubbo says, swallowing and looking away. “Nothing you can do about it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ranboo agrees. “It’s –” He inhales sharply. “Tubbo, I think I –” I think I’m in trouble. I think Wilbur wants Dream free. I think Wilbur is going to hurt you – Tommy – me. I think I don’t deserve you but I want to anyway. I think we should figure this out together. But no sound comes out of his mouth – only a long, painful silence, and Tubbo’s too-even gaze piercing into him.

“I think you should leave,” Tubbo says. He turns away. Ranboo’s missed his chance. “I’ll find you if I need you.” Don't come back to Snowchester goes unspoken.

“Right,” Ranboo says. “Okay. I…” He knows what he wants to say, and he knows he can't. “Bye, Tubbo.”

“See ya, Ranboo,” Tubbo says, like it’s still February and Ranboo hasn't yet ruined his life.

In one final attempt, Ranboo stutters out, “Is – Michael –?”

“Michael’s asleep,” Tubbo says, and something in his eyes is softer, his voice gentler. It’s shaken off as quickly as it appeared, and he says, “Go.”

Tommy and Wilbur are still in Snowchester when Ranboo leaves the mansion. He supposes that’s not unexpected, as he hadn’t left much later than them, but the pair seems as though they should be more elusive than they are. Tommy and Wilbur. Like a myth that refuses to be solidified in reality. Tommy is shuffling his feet in the snow as Wilbur extinguishes his cigarette on one of the stone walls, leaving behind a stain that makes Ranboo’s stomach twist. Wilbur tosses the burnt-out cigarette into the bushes.

“Oi, Ranboo,” Tommy says, though his normal cheer is gone, replaced by something much more muted. “Big man kicked you out too, did he?”

“Yeah,” Ranboo admits with an exhale, wringing his hands together, gaze darting between the berry bush and Tommy.

Tommy opens his mouth to say something, then freezes and glances at Wilbur for a second before closing it. He shoves his hands in his pocket. “You smell like shit, Ranboob.”

Ranboo nods but doesn’t say anything, gnawing anxiously on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know what he would even say. He can’t explain it to Tommy. He can’t. He doesn’t know if Tommy would pick him over Wilbur or not. Tommy doesn’t deserve to be forced to choose between them.

“Well,” Wilbur says, wandering back over to them and slinging a heavy arm over Tommy’s shoulders, causing him to slump even further down, “who knew Tubbo was so serious about holding his grudges?”

Me, Ranboo thinks, and judging from the sullen expression on Tommy’s face, Tommy felt the same.

“I’m sure he’ll come around, Wil,” Tommy says, but his voice comes across as horrifically placating to Ranboo.

“I’m sure,” Wilbur echoes. He clears his throat, brushing the white streak in his hair up and out of his eyes. “Tommy, why don’t you look around for a bit? Me and Ranboo need to talk.”

Tommy looks up at Wilbur warily, then at Ranboo. Ranboo nods, a bit relieved that Tommy will be away from Wilbur for a moment. Tommy’s brow furrows, but he shrugs off Wilbur’s arm and goes, babbling to himself as he begins to walk away. “No one respects the great Tommy Innit these days, no one can appreciate my genius –”

“So, Ranboo,” Wilbur starts, gaze sharp in a way that reminds him of arrows, “you missed the casino.”

“I – did, yeah,” Ranboo agrees. “Was it… good?”

“Big Q looked better than ever,” Wilbur says with a sigh, which was not at all what Ranboo was expecting there, but okay. “This Las Nevadas project of his, well, I won’t place my bets too soon, knowing Quackity’s history with countries.”

Ranboo blinks. “The casino is Quackity’s?”

“Yes,” Wilbur says. “He’s got this whole damn place of his now, like he really thought he could one-up me after what I’ve done to L’manburg.”

Okay, well, Ranboo doesn’t know much about Las Nevadas, or Quackity, for that matter, and he certainly doesn’t know much about L’manburg from before November 16, but even he knows that he doesn’t like the implications of that statement. And thinking back to what Techno said, about Wilbur not knowing that he didn’t make the crater? Really doesn’t give Ranboo good vibes, even if he’s not exactly Quackity’s biggest fan.

Ranboo realizes, belatedly, that he should probably respond, but Wilbur’s attention has already been pulled away from him, instead looking up at the single lit window of the mansion, hidden behind a curtain. Wilbur huffs out a laugh, but it’s the kind that Tubbo does sometimes, the dark, unhappy one.

“Fuck,” Wilbur mutters to himself. “It’s always these two, isn’t it. Always putting themselves on the wrong side.” He clenches and unclenches his fist methodically, and Ranboo swears he can hear the clicking of the bones falling in and out of place.

“Tubbo and…?” Ranboo prompts.

“Tubbo and Quackity,” Wilbur says, turning back to face him. “And fucking Schlatt, and even my own son. Every time I… every time, they turn around and become my antagonist.”

“I’m… sorry?” Ranboo offers hesitantly. He wasn’t aware that Wilbur and Quackity had any notable history, and Tubbo never really told him much about Alivebur, from what he can remember. He’s 99% sure that Schlatt is dead, and he hasn’t seen Fundy in months, so neither of them are particularly helpful in figuring out what to do about Wilbur.

“Thank you,” Wilbur says in an exhale, even though he barely knows Ranboo, so he’s not sure why that would be all that impactful. He looks over at Tommy, now, who’s started kicking at the ice by the shore. “Tommy is… he’s a good kid.”

“He is.”

“He doesn’t deserve to get caught up in all this, Ranboo, you understand?”

Ranboo swallows, pushing down a feeling of nausea and reminding himself of his promise down in the lab. “I do.”

“Good.” Wilbur pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ranboo.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur's big plan, it turns out, is a burger van. Why burgers and what Wilbur plans to achieve with them, Ranboo doesn't know, which makes him feel a little better about going along with it. Food service can't possibly be that malicious. He's sure it's some kind of front for Wilbur's real goals, whatever they are, but all Ranboo has to do is mold hamburger meat into patties and cook them, which is a lot nicer of a task than making TNT. At least, Ranboo doesn't mind doing it the first time; he kneads the meat while listening to Wilbur's rambling, which is hardly directed at him at all, and when the sun is finally down all the way, Wilbur declares it's time for them to head back home to the arctic. 

The second day, the texture and smell of the meat really start to grate on Ranboo's nerves, and Wilbur's aimless mumbling makes him nauseous. The third, the small space inside of the van starts to feel suffocating. By the fourth, Ranboo feels ready to lose his mind.

He doesn't know how long it goes on for, only that it goes on. Hours upon hours, days upon days spent doing the same menial actions over and over again, only to throw out everything they've made at the end of the night. Days spent with nothing but Wilbur's incoherent ranting about things he doesn't understand and people he doesn't know. Some nights, they get back early enough to have dinner with Techno and Phil, but sitting across the table from Wilbur, the lies he's told resting heavily on his shoulders, even that is less of a relief and more a stilted game of survival.

After a couple weeks of this, Ranboo is left wondering what, exactly, wasting his time in the woods with Wilbur is doing for him. It keeps Wilbur away from Tubbo, Michael, and Tommy, yes, and it means Ranboo always has an eye on what Wilbur is up to, but how evil can it possibly be to make burgers in some sad homoerotic bid for Quackity's attention? What does it even mean for Wilbur to win? The point is, Ranboo is starting to become numb to it all. It almost makes him miss his old job as the minutes man.

There is a morning (closer to noon, really – Wilbur doesn't seem to like getting up earlier than eleven) they're walking past the glass-covered L'manhole, and the routine is broken, for just a moment, when Ranboo spots Tommy, blond hair shining in the sunlight, curled up at the edge of the crater. He doesn't look up when they pass.

"Don't mind him, Ranboo," Wilbur says flippantly, not slowing down even a bit. "He gets so sensitive, you know."

"Sensitive?" Ranboo echoes.

"He cares so much about material things," Wilbur says, waving his hands around as if forming the shape of L'manburg with them. "But it all goes away in the end. Entropy, they call it. L'manburg, and Las Nevadas, and everything else."

"I didn't know you were an anarchist," Ranboo says slowly. He hasn't stopped looking at Tommy. Wouldn't it be so easy to break away from Wilbur and go find out if he's okay? Isn't that the right thing to do?

"Oh, I'm not," Wilbur says. "I'm a realist, Ranboo. Tommy's still too much of a child to understand that." And then, firmly, he says, "We have real work to do."

Ranboo swallows down whatever he might say to that, wrenching his gaze down to the ground and focusing instead on taking each step as he comes. There's enough of a threat there to remind him why he tries at all.

While he's working, sometimes, he sees Las Nevadas through the trees. It's a fake desert, Wilbur told him, which seems like a lot of work to do for a place only one guy lives in. At least Snowchester already came with the snow. And Snowchester is somewhere that, in Ranboo's biased opinion, people are actually meant to live. He's only caught glimpses of Las Nevadas so far – Wilbur is banned from getting any closer, and although Ranboo's pretty sure that ban doesn't actually extend to him, he figures he's better off not testing Quackity's limits. He tends to stay as far behind Wilbur as possible when the two of them fight, and Quackity seems satisfied enough with that, usually not looking at him at all. It's pretty much how their dynamic was back in New L'manburg, and Ranboo much prefers that to the frenzied Quackity who tried to execute him. Wilbur tends to be the one who drags him into arguments, although even that is pretty minimal. They're too caught up in each other for Ranboo to matter much.

Quackity never really has anyone next to him the way Wilbur has Ranboo. Sometimes, one of the people who works for him happen to be lurking nearby, too far for Ranboo to tell who they are, but more often than not, Quackity is alone. Neither Quackity nor Wilbur wear armor, and Quackity usually has a sword while Wilbur has nothing but the dusty, smoky-smelling clothes on his back. Ranboo has pretty much everything on him at all times, but Wilbur doesn't seem to expect him to fight Quackity or anything, so Ranboo suspects that neither of them actually plan on doing anything other than shout. It's shocking, then, when Wilbur drags him out of the van to march up to the border of Las Nevadas and Quackity isn't the only figure on the horizon.

"Well!" Wilbur calls as they approach. "If it isn't Schlatt's two favorite cabinet members!"

Tubbo is standing a half-step behind Quackity. At least, Ranboo thinks it must be Tubbo, even though he hardly recognizes him. The last time they spoke, Tubbo's hair was long, hanging over his eyes, wild and thick and emblematic of everything Ranboo saw in him. Tubbo had hardly left the house in anything other than his Snowchester coat since Doomsday. But here he is, hair cropped short enough to see his face, all dressed up in a suit, ring missing from his horn. He's nearly unrecognizable. And worse – there isn't anything behind Tubbo's eyes. No fire, no recognition, nothing. He's just blank, staring dead into Ranboo's eyes for a second before turning away first.

"And here I thought you two would never make up," Wilbur goes on. 

"Blood is thicker than water, Wilbur," Quackity says, folding his arms across his chest. "And we've fucking bled together."

"Is that so? Tubbo?" Tubbo startles at being addressed, but even that doesn't shake the haze that hangs over him. "Didn't we bleed together, back during the revolution?"

Tubbo's dull eyes flit between Wilbur and Quackity, not lingering for more than a heartbeat on Ranboo. "That stopped mattering the second you blew up L'manburg."

Wilbur laughs, and Ranboo wonders if he still doesn't know Doomsday happened. He wouldn't put it past Phil to tell Techno to keep quiet about it, not with the tension in the arctic these days. Wilbur's practically moved in as far as Ranboo can tell, and Techno disappears more often than not, although whether he's out or just in that secret cave of his, Ranboo doesn't know. He figures it'll hit the boiling point soon enough.

"You look more like him than ever," Wilbur goes on, and Quackity looks more bothered by that than Tubbo does. "You really are his son."

"Shut the fuck up, Wilbur," Quackity snaps, stepping closer. "You don't talk to my employees like that."

"Employee!" Wilbur echoes. "You're so desperate to be taken seriously, Quackity, it's laughable."

The two of them go back to arguing about themselves, and Ranboo finally tunes them out, watching Tubbo. Tubbo watches him back, warily, before returning his gaze to Wilbur. Ranboo… has never seen him like this before. He's seen President Tubbo, with his unwavering dedication to rebuilding L'manburg, and he's seen Tubbo with Quackity, acquiescing to Quackity's murderous execution plots, and he's seen Tubbo with Tommy, water to Tommy's fire. But he hasn't seen this Tubbo, whoever he is – empty and tired, too tired to care that this is the first time they've seen each other in weeks. Too tired to even silently ask that same, awful question – "Are you…?"  

Abruptly, Ranboo wonders if Tubbo is looking at him and wondering the very same thing. Who is this Ranboo, standing silently next to Wilbur, ring taken off his horn ages ago in fear that Wilbur might notice and ask what it is? Tubbo doesn't know why Ranboo is here. He doesn't know what Ranboo has sacrificed. (And if he did know, would he even believe the sacrifice is worth it? What if Ranboo looks just as absent as Tubbo does?)

When Quackity finally kicks them out of Las Nevadas, Ranboo tries to focus on flipping burgers, but his hands are shaking so badly he keeps dropping them. Wilbur doesn't even seem to notice, huffing and complaining about Quackity the way he always does.

"And god, fucking Tubbo! I should've known it was only a matter of time before we had to deal with Tubbo, too." Wilbur suddenly looks at him, the way he rarely does while rambling. "Are you two still fighting over lunch?"

"Yeah," Ranboo says, and his voice comes out harsh and raspy. Is that the first time he's spoken all day? He manages to get a burger off the grill and onto a bun, and Wilbur grabs it, immediately taking a bite, even though it must be hot. At least he's noticed they don't have a single interested customer.

"Good," Wilbur says through his mouthful of burger. "That's good." He swallows, then goes on, as if Ranboo and Tubbo aren't worth thinking about at all, "I wonder if we could get Quackity to come to us next time, make him fight us on our turf…"

At dinner that night, Wilbur doesn't say a word about Tubbo, or Quackity, or even the burgers. He never talks about what they do during the day, and when Phil or Techno do try to ask, he dodges the question. Ranboo stares at the food in front of him, steak and potatoes that he'd normally eat without question, and tries to take enough bites of it not to look ungrateful. Techno is side-eying him, doing that thing where he tries to meet Ranboo's eyes, but Ranboo doesn't take the bait, not looking up from his plate.

Although he has been exhausted since seeing Tubbo, by the time Ranboo collapses in bed, a cat curled up on his chest, he can't sleep. His tail thumps the side of the bedframe, over and over, until he can't stand it anymore and sits up, reaching for the leather-bound journal sitting on the nightstand. He hasn't touched it in ages – when he flips to the end, the last note was the one he wrote to himself the last time he died.

Remember. 

You’re here because you have to remember.

Don’t stop until you know WHY.

He stares at it for a while, pen clasped in his hand, before turning the page.

Keep them safe.

Don't let Wilbur win.