Chapter Text
"Wait- Where is Wilbur?"
"Wilbur?" Tommy frantically keyed into his communicator, his fingers stumbling over the individual keys. He yelped as he dove to the side, fireworks searing his armor, which blocked him from the worst of it. Thank fuck for that blast protection and helmet that Wilbur was pestering and refusing to back down until Tommy promised he wouldn't just take it off, no matter how hot it got. Speaking of, where was he?!
He refused to believe Dream's lie about Wilbur being a traitor. He just can't! He got better- He had to have gotten better! He wasn't all fixated on all that destruction and he cared about L'Manberg. It was more than just some "If I can't have this, no one can!" stupid, shitty kind of deal. He'd actually acted like Tommy's older brother this morning, back to pestering him about how he put on his armor to make sure he put it on right, actually spending time with him that wasn't spent having some sort of crisis over L'Manberg. They were fine! He got better- He had to have gotten better-
And then- Boom! Followed with flying debris shooting absolutely everywhere. Some of them hit him and knocked the wind out of him, and Tommy was pretty sure one at some point hit his head: The only thing saving him being the helmet that was securely strapped on, tanking the worst of the damage.
"What the- What the fuck!" He sputtered, clawing his way out from behind debris. "Wilbur?! Tubbo?! Tech-" He cut himself off before the name could tumble out, gaze darting wildly around the wreckage. The only reason that anything survived at all were the decorative ponds and rivers nullifying a good chunk of the damage. Smoke clouded the air, and Tommy thought that through the ringing of his ears, there were still faint explosions going off in the distance. When the dust cleared and the ringing in his ear subsided, he thought he could hear yelling up ahead...... Where Wilbur was, in full view of everyone amidst the crater with...... Dad? What-
"-can't, you're my son!" Dad swung his sword off to the side, wings flaring up, and to Tommy's horror: Revealing all its damaged glory. That wasn't right, Dad's wings were supposed to be whole and awe-inspiring. Now, the feathers were tattered and singed, torn and marred. His Dad's pride and joy now resembled torn rags. Tommy doubted that anyone could fly with those wings. Everything about it seemed wrong. Dad wasn't supposed to have damaged wings. Wilbur wasn't supposed to be bad. L'Manberg wasn't supposed to be in ruins. When did everything go so, utterly wrong?
"Kill me- You know they all want to!" Wilbur sounded more like he was pleading than demanding. "Look at what I've done! Kill me! Just end it!" He laughed, broken and brittle. "Just fucking do it!"
No no no no no NO NO-
Tommy thought he screamed when his Dad punctured Wilbur's body with that awfully red sword (It was supposed to be hanging from the wall as a decorative piece. They were never supposed to use it. There wasn't supposed to be a situation in which that ancient sword was put in use). Or maybe he didn't, and he just stood there like an idiot. Or maybe he was gasping and gaping like a goldfish.
He watched his Dad sob and cradle Wilbur's body, pulling that sword out and tossing it against the wall. Watched him mourn and keen. Listened to the momentary break from fireworks. No doubt Techno was probably frozen, if he wasn't in on this too.
And then-
Tommy wasn't there anymore.
Tommy was aware that his vision was a solid block of black concrete. The void of a void cube, if you will. Something curled around his body, and his arms were pinned underneath. Something soft (well, softer than rubble, at least) was spread out underneath him.
It was beyond weird. One second he was watching Wilbur getting murdered by their own Father after witnessing their country blow up, the next it felt like he was floating around a rather comforting, vast space of nothingness.
Wait, what the fuck?! Did he pass out?!
His eyes flew open and Tommy bolted up, tripping over himself and toppling off... a cot? He let off a string of curses, hands grasping wildly at the floors, which were made of stone. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Tommy could spot redstone blocks embedded into the walls glowing dimly, a lantern extinguished resting by his bedside. He attempted to crawl up, and failing to do so as his arms were still bundled up by blankets. He looked like a worm, flopping around and cursing like that. He probably woke up half the people here, speaking of, where was he?!
"Tommy?"
Tommy jerked at the voice, which put no progress into helping him escape his predicament. "Yea- FUCK- I'm fine-"
"Pft," Wilbur muffled his laughter into his fist. He looked like he just woke up, with tousled brown hair flattened to one side and the clear lack of a coat while carrying a lantern. Holy shit, Wilbur was wearing his yellow sweater instead of his coat. He never really did that, nowadays, even if the sweater was infinitely more comfortable than his coat. Maybe that's why he was wearing it now. "You look ridiculous-- like a worm! That's what you look like, a squirming little blanket worm."
"I don't look like a fucking worm!" Tommy snapped, while his head was reeling. Wilbur was here, he was alive. He wasn't- There was no hole in his chest or anything. He was wearing his sweater and he was grinning. His laugh was teasing, and not the deranged pleas that came out begging for death. "I'm not little and I'm stuck, that's what I am!"
"Stop flailing!" Wilbur yelped as Tommy flailed harder instead, flopping and wacking his leg. "You are such a child." Still, Wilbur reached over and unwrapped Tommy from the prison of blankets that he made himself, fingers far gentler than how they were since they got exiled (It used to always be harsh tugs and jerks, to save him from a stray arrow. A tough yank, so he doesn't expose himself to the enemy. Balled tightly into fists as Wilbur slammed it against the wall, his other hand smacked over his face as he laughed some sort of insane laughter).
"I could've gotten out on my own," Tommy flushed, dragging himself away from the mess of blankets. "Prick."
"Sure, that would explain the cussing and the flailing," Wilbur teased, before falling into a concerned demeanor. "What were you doing up at 12am anyway?"
"I......" I don't know either! One moment I'm watching you die, the next I'm tangled in blankets and you're not dead! It was like a nightmare- Oh. Yeah, probably. It's the only thing that makes sense. We're at Pogtopia right now, then. It's got to be a nightmare. It has to be. Even if it felt too real to be a dream. "Think I had a nightmare?"
"You think?" Wilbur sat on Tommy's cot, motioning for the younger to join him. "What's it about?"
"You-" Tommy sucked in a deep breath. "You died. I had to watch- You died and I couldn't do anything."
"Well, I'm not dead. I'm alive and right here," Wilbur threw an arm over Tommy, who suppressed a flinch at the gesture. He scowled.
"Of course I know that! You're right there." Tommy would have to admit, the feeling of Wilbur's arm over him was grounding. His brother was here, he could see, hear and feel him. He wasn't dead. He was alive, right here with Tommy.
"It's easy to forget," Wilbur turned his face away so Tommy couldn't read his expression. "When a nightmare feels too real."
"That's too deep for midnight talks," Tommy grumbled, pushing himself away. "Why are you up, anyway?"
"...... I can't sleep," Wilbur sighed. "It's probably just the nerves. You should go back to sleep. I don't want you to die from sleep deprivation, of all things."
"You too," Tommy responded, an image of Wilbur having that familiar sword poking through his chest. He prayed to Lady Death and all that might be listening that the Wilbur dying was just a nightmare. He prayed that no matter how real that nightmare felt, that it stayed as a dream and a dream only.
Tommy woke up to familiar hubbub of people bustling around Pogtopia which for the second first time, felt truly alive and much more like what L'Manberg was supposed to be. Pep talks and speeches were exchanged, even all of them chanting "Humina humina humina" over and over in unison in a bout of true genius humor as Techno jokingly threatened to withdraw his assistance. Tommy would've found it funny if he hadn't already lived this in a dream.
Techno please for the love of Prime don't lead them to a vault please don't let it be a vault underground with a bunch of supplies anything but that please please-
Techno led them to a vault packed to the brim with all sorts of supplies.
Techno still turned against them.
L'Manberg still went up in flames and was rendered to ruins.
His Dad still showed up with those ruined wings and that awful sword.
Wilbur still died while Tommy screamed his name.
And Tommy-
Tommy slipped into darkness.
And woke up yet again.
Tommy's eyes flew open, and he didn't flail around this time. Instead, he continued to lay on his cot while sweating bullets, heaving breaths. It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a nightmare. Nightmares don't repeat themselves twice. They scare the shit out of him once per sleep, and not repeat itself! Fuck that. (Maybe, just maybe, if that wasn't a nightmare, Tommy could still change the future. Maybe nobody needed to die.)
Second chances (Well, technically his third). He could work with second chances. He just had to stop Wilbur from getting to the Final Control Room. He just had to keep an eye on him constantly, even during his speech. Maybe he could even stop Techno from unleashing Nether on everyone (Literally, since he unleashed Withers, the sovereigns of the Nether realm).
He could still do it. He could save L'Manberg. He could stop Techno and Dream. He could still save Wilbur.
The universe was giving him a second chance, and he was not squandering it. He can't. This was the one thing he could not fuck up.
He spent the night coming up with a very simple plan: Do not let Wilbur out of his sight, preferably Techno too, but Wilbur was a priority.
And so he kept his eye on Wilbur during his speech, spotted him trying to shuffle off away from the crowd, and ended his speech on a lame, hurried note. He practically flew down the stairs off the podium, praying and praying to whatever god there is out there that he catches Wilbur before he ends up in the button room-
"Wil!" Tommy grabbed at his older brother's arm. "Where the fuck are you going?"
"Tommy!" Wilbur turned around, some sort of surprised smile plastered onto his face. "I'm- Just taking a stroll. Needed some fresh air."
"We were literally outdoors the entire time," Tommy deadpanned. "Fresh air my ass."
"It was crowded!" He protested, pulling his arm out of Tommy's grip. "I was justified. Shouldn't you be celebrating with Tubbo?"
"So should you, " Tommy retorted, crossing his arms. "You can't just miss out on Tubbo's speech."
"Tommy, I-" Wilbur sighed, refusing to meet Tommy's gaze. "I promise that whatever I'm doing, it will be for your own good."
That's ominous. "Wil, please. Just go back. Everything's over! We won! We got L'Manberg back, Tubbo's going to be president, everything's going to be alright." Except for Techno. I still have to figure out how to stop Techno from committing mass murder. Right, right, one thing at a time. Deal with Wilbur, then we move on to Techno.
"Fine," Wilbur relented. Tommy blinked. It can't be that easy. Nothing in his life had ever gone that easy. No fucking way Wilbur just said yes that easily.
"What's the catch?" Tommy narrowed his eyes. "There's always a catch, what's the catch?"
"You stick by me the entire time," Wilbur reached out to ruffle his hair. "And be the clingy child you always were."
"I'm not a child!" Tommy snapped, more out of instinct than anything. It just- can't. It doesn't make sense! Why would Wilbur ever give up on something he'd been wanting for so long? He had been getting better, he had definitely not been "just getting fresh air". Why would he give it up so easily?
The answer was painfully obvious: He didn't.
Tommy thought he could hear the faint hissing from beneath the earth when they had returned back into the crowd, and judging from the way Wilbur froze, he did not hallucinate the noise. Tommy whirled around, an accusation rising just the tip of his tongue, when-
"Your helmet-" Wilbur began, eyes wide. The sheer ridiculousness of something as minor as Tommy's helmet being the thing that tumbled out of Wilbur's mouth was enough to kill the words Tommy was about to spit out. What had his helmet got to do with anything? He didn't have time to dwell on that, though, because the explosions went off. And there were screams, from all around him. Confused, scared, surprised, delighted.
Tommy squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the ground give way, Wilbur yanking him off to the side before more explosions went off. Tommy didn't need to open his eyes to see the scenario before him: Debris flying left and right, TNT going off even after the chains of explosions should have ended, and...... the weight pressing against his body? Something slick running down his arm without the pain that would usually go with it?
His eyes flew open, coughing as he was met with dust. His ears were ringing again, and L'Manberg was once again, reduced to rubble. He swatted at the air, clawing his way out when something hit the ground with a thud.
And oh dear Death, that was-
"Fuck fuck fuck!" Tommy gripped at that damned, bloodied coat. "You don't get to blow up everything and then die!" A sob forced its way out of his throat. "You don't get to die!" His hands came off wet, and there were no response to his actions. He choked back a sob rising in his throat and tore his eyes away from the corpse of his older brother, instead directing his gaze towards where the Final Control Room should be.
He was met with an obnoxious, eye-searing green before his vision darkened and he blacked out. Again.
Tommy woke up to darkness parted only by the dim pulsing of redstone blocks and deep, heaving breaths. He blinked, and found that his eyes were dry. His hands were dry, there were no slick, red blood to be seen. There was no tattered coat. Only the dimly lit interior of his room in Pogtopia, a cot, and some blankets. He squeezed his eyes shut. What was this? A third chance? People always spoke of second chances, but never third or fourth chances. The world didn't work like that. Tommy learned that a long time ago.
But still, Tommy knew in his gut, that if he were to reach for his communicator and flip it open, he would find that the date November 16th and the time 00:00 would glare right back at him.
He let out a shuddering breath and carefully peeled the layers of the blanket that he'd somehow managed to wrap around himself during the night. Fuck- He can't-
If he was right, then it doesn't matter if Wilbur was there to detonate all that TNT. Dream would do it in his stead, and then he'd die from the ensuing explosion anyway.
He slammed his head against his pillow to muffle a yell. For fuck's sake.
Then, he was struck with a bolt of genius.
If the Button Room was the key to detonating everything, then Tommy would just have to get to it first. There was only one issue: He had no idea where the Button Room was. And to remedy that, he'd have to follow either Wilbur or Dream around without them getting suspicious (He hated to think that in order for the plan to succeed, there is a stupidly high chance that L'Manberg would blow up anyway.
Good news! He figured out where the Button Room was!
Bad news! Both L'Manberg and Wilbur went up in showers of TNT.
"You fucking idiot," Tommy said, pulling a limp body up and back into the room, with coarse yet familiar fabric clutched within his fists. "You fucking idiot."
The next time he woke up, he dragged himself out of bed, removing his blankets in a methodic, practiced ease. Slowly pull his arm from the tubular space within the blankets. And then, reach under and peel back the blanket from the left. Then the entire blanket burrito came apart, falling onto the floor as Tommy put no hurry into getting up, only lying on his back as he stared at the ceiling.
He should go and disconnect that redstone, in and out before anybody notices. Everything would be fine (though he would still need to figure out a way to stop Techno's rocket launcher rampage. He'll deal with that when it comes to bite him in the ass later), L'Manberg would stand and Wilbur wouldn't die. Foolproof!
Apparently not foolproof enough, because he fucking forgot that Wilbur was, for some dumb reason, still up at this late hour.
"What are you doing?" Wilbur absentminded asked, pushing aside the bits of dirt they used to hide Pogtopia. Cool, evening air blew in as Wilbur reached for a cigarette and his lighter immediately after.
"A big man's gotta piss," Tommy blurted out. "The bathrooms in Pogtopia are shit."
"Is it now?" Wilbur raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smile.
"It is! The ventilation in particular. You can't do shit in there without it stinking up the entire place," Tommy huffed. "You try shitting in there."
"I thought you said you wanted to take a piss? Not a shit?"
"They correlate!"
"Okay, okay," Wilbur chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Tommy's hair. "Go find a shrub or something. Just don't do it in a river, you'll upset Sally."
"I'm not that big of a dick," Tommy scoffed. "Upsetting Sally is a crime."
"Speaking of," Wilbur called out as Tommy began to back up. "Tell her 'hi' for me!"
"Do it yourself, you massive prick!" Was Tommy's response before he bolted. Good, hopefully nobody else would be awake to stop his endeavors. Sapnap would be tolerable. Somewhat, if Tommy managed to annoy him into backing off. Tommy can't even begin to imagine what he'd do if he found the idiotic, stupid green pickle waiting for him. Stab him, probably.
A chill went down his spine as Tommy looked around the Button Room, with its uneven, unruly script carved -- No, scratched -- onto the walls. It was uncannily bare of any decoration, no chairs, no sinister piles of TNT casually laying around. Just a button, taunting you. The lyrics of the L'Manberg Anthem, scrawled on the walls during what was probably episodes of desperation, remained an ever-present reminder of the room and nation's Founding Father.
Tommy sucked in a deep breath, fishing out a pickaxe he had snagged on his way out. The walls behind the button gave way to trails of deactivated redstone, just one simple button press (that won't even take a second to activate) away from igniting and destroying so much that took years to build. The air suddenly felt awfully suffocating, his throat closing in on itself. He shook his head, and brought his pickaxe down.
He fixed the wall and ran. He tried not to think of the madman's scrawl, nor the trail of redstone connected to piles and piles of explosives.
He missed the green, perched on some tree, staring at him until he passes.
L'Manberg still goes off.
Wilbur still dies.
And Tommy-
-Wakes up to the haunted 00:00 November 16th on his communicator and familiar redstone blocks glowing and pulsing faintly, his limbs restricted by a ridiculous yet familiar arrangement of blankets.
He curled up and cried into his pillow.
It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. He had another chance, it's not okay it's okay.
No matter when he cut off the redstone, L'Manberg still blows up. Did Wilbur seriously check whether the redstone was connected before he pressed the button? Was he that paranoid?
"You got your helmet?" Wilbur gave an experimental pat on Tommy's helmeted head. "Fastened tight?"
" 'Course," Tommy swatted his hands away. "I'm not an amateur." I've put on helmets in way too many explosions.
"Good," And Wilbur smiled. A genuine, smile that didn't spell disaster for once. "Keep it on."
"Wilbur!" Tommy stood at the entrance to the Button Room. Wilbur flinched, whirling around to face him with wide eyes. "Why- Why would you-"
"Tommy," He tried for a dismissive laugh. "I- I'm not trying anything. What are you doing here?"
"It's none of your business," Tommy snapped, stepping forward. The weight behind the armor he wore felt painfully clear. "What the fuck were you thinking?!"
Wilbur glanced between him and the button, a hint of a smile on his face. "It's for the best." He slammed his hands against the button, and the hissing of TNT became all too apparent.
And even as Tommy screamed, darting forward, arms outstretched--
He wasn't winged. He lacked the extra length a pair of wings would give. His arms were too short, his legs were burdened by the weight of his armor and folded on itself, sending him crashing onto the floor as debris flew past, hit his armor, and was diverted.
The dust settled and revealed L'Manberg in all its ruined glory, along with a broken and crumpled form lying on the floor not too far away.
"You sick fuck," Tommy rasped out as he crawled closer, Wilbur's eyes peeling open by just a fraction, that damned smile still plastered onto his face. "You sick fuck. Why'd you do this to me? Again?"
Wilbur tried to move his arms, wincing at the effort. His mouth opened as if to say something, but not a single sound escaped his lips.
And Tommy cried into his pillow, at exactly 00:00, stepping into November 16th.
Again.
Tommy didn't wear armor this time. He tore off the pieces of Netherite the moment he's done with his speech, left it lying by some shrubbery that he didn't particularly care about. His shoulders felt light without the shoulderpads, and it's easier to breathe without the constant weight of Netherite pressing onto his chest. Sweat flew down his face as he ran, unburdened by the helmet that he had wore.
"Stop!" Tommy panted, skidding to a stop as Wilbur whirled around. "Whatever the fuck you're doing, just stop."
Wilbur just stared, and that stupid smile found its way onto his face again. "It's for the best."
Tommy thought he screamed, or maybe he didn't. All he knew was that without his armor, his legs shot forward. It didn't matter that his arms were too short, his legs made up for it. He grabbed Wilbur and threw himself around him. The heat and the debris dug into his back, shrapnel grazing his arms. The sound of an explosion deafened him for the...... countless time, again. The only new addition were how much everything had hurt, but all he could focus on was the form crumpled beneath him. Trembling, moving, heart beating and so undeniably alive. Tommy would've sobbed, or laughed, or something, if he still had the capacity to do so.
"No no no no......" Wilbur flipped Tommy over, his eyes blown wide. "Fuck no. Fuck it wasn't supposed- Just- Keep your eyes open-" His grip was shaking and bloody (though the blood was not his own), and he didn't even bother to tuck back the stray strands of hair away.
"Fuck! Not again!"
But it was too late. Tommy wasn't listening anymore.
Wilbur bolted awake in his own cot, grabbing at his blankets as he heaved in great breaths. His communicator blared with large symbols: 00:00 November 16th.