Work Text:
Statement of Thomas Innit, regarding his time spent in exile with the inhuman creature known only as Dream. Original statement given December 31st, 2020. Audio recording by Eret, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, L’Manberg.
Statement Begins
I think it’d be best to start from the beginning. Like most stories, the end won’t make much sense without context. And you’re gonna want to get as much of that as fucking possible by the end of this one.
It started with L’Manberg. L’Manberg was my home for quite some time. It was a small town I came up with the idea for, but it quickly turned into a revolution against the greater area. It was my idea, but it wasn’t mine; it was organized by my older brother, Wilbur Soot. And Wilbur did what he did best – he caused chaos.
So, by technicality, what it really started with was a drug van.
We sold drugs out of our old camarvan on an empty plot of land down in the valley. The poor camper was mistreated by many, quickly becoming a mess first and my home second. I learned to filter out the smell of weed at a young age, though it was by far not the worst thing Wilbur took at the time. I’m convinced he tried to keep me away from it all at first, but it all went downhill once he got hooked.
Some days, I still think I’m living a hallucination. That my thoughts aren’t my own, and I exist only in my personal glorified version of hell. That someday, I’ll come-to in the back of the worn down van, encompassed by the stench of hard drugs and vomit. But most nights, I take 3 melatonin to avoid thinking altogether.
So, it all started with the camarvan. Which quickly turned into a country based on drug dealing and exploiting others. It wasn’t a good mix, but it was home. Through and through and through.
Soon after, people caught on to our little country we formed. They said we weren’t rightful rulers, which was half true, and that we didn’t deserve our home, which wasn’t true in the slightest. We were mocked and ridiculed for L’Manberg, and so we held a secret election. Decided we might as well elect ourselves, not tell anyone, win, and officially gain the title. Although, people caught on quite quickly and discovered our polls. They wanted in, wanted to take a gamble at the presidency.
That's how we lost our own election.
It was under President J. Schlatt’s rule that I was exiled for the first time. Me and Wilbur, alone once again.
This isn’t where Dream comes in. This is before my escape, my second exile, and Wilbur's death. I’ll get to all that later. No, what I’m now describing is the beginning of the end. Pogtopia.
To put it lightly, Wilbur went a little crazy in Pogtopia. We lived in a hidden, underground ravine. It was always dim and humid, and had a rotten smell that still sticks with me to this day. We took the exile hard, but you’d never see it weighing on Wil’s shoulders unless you knew him well. That off-putting glint in his eyes was easy for him to hide, and it only seemed to come out when it was just us. He was scheming from the very start, and well, I just ignored it. I didn’t want it to be true. He was my brother, and I idolized him. Sometimes you’ve gotta brush stuff under the rug for familial love. Or in this case, shove it with brute force.
I think a contributing factor to his new mindset was Technoblade.
Techno is my dad’s friend from way way back. Him and Phil, my dad, were around a lot when I was little. He was a bit like an uncle to me really, but he was more of a distant brother figure for Wil. So when he reached out asking if Wilbur needed help, years after abandoning us with Phil for better adventures? I was a bit skeptical, to be honest. But Wil seemed really happy he offered, and so when Wil asked if I’d be okay with him visiting I didn’t object.
Technoblade was an Anarchist and a Non-Believer. That’s the best way to put it. He hated the concept of government, and believed that we got to choose our own endings to our stories. While he hated Wilbur for ever wanting to be President in the first place, he craved the idea of a revolution. He spent his days farming potatoes, and nights locked in his office with Wilbur planning their revenge. I don't really know what was up with the potatoes - you don’t really question a man called The Blood God, now do you. But yeah, I was pretty much left out of the loop in Pogtopia.
It's safe to say that in the beginning, me and Techno got along pretty well. Though, everything changed pretty quickly at the festival.
Schlatt ran his own festival during the summer. It was a celebration of his country - one that forced people into staying in his warped version of L’Manberg - Manberg. There is where everything went to my shit.
My mate Tubbo was Schlatt’s son. He wasn’t a Schlatt fan mind you, but some sort of loyalty came from that shared blood. He had been staying with us in Pogtopia though, ‘cause Schlatt had been drinking and was in no state to care for his son. He’d go work with him and his vice president Quackity during the day, and sleep in the ravines at night. He kept bouncing from one evil to a lesser one, but I truly don’t think Pogtopia was much better at that point. Anyways, Schlatt must’ve been a more attentive father than we thought – in all the wrong ways, mind you – because he outed Tubbo as a spy during his speech. Me and Wilbur weren't allowed to be there in person, but what we saw from those rooftops… well, some horrors are better gone unsaid.
And that led to Tubbo’s execution. Tubbo was publicly caged onstage at the festival, and Techno… Well, Techno was told to shoot. And he did. Death by fireworks is what happened – Tubbo still can’t stand the sound of them.
I was angry, of course I was! This random man, my brother's new brother, the one keeping me out of the loop – he brutally executed my best friend! He claimed it was peer pressure, I claim he was being stupid. But all in all, it came down to the pit.
We fought to the death, me and Techno. I was- well, it wasn’t the last time I’d been beaten to death by blunt force. But that comes later. What matters is that Techno beat me to death with his bare hands, all because I voiced my distrust. Lesson learned – don’t meet your heroes kids
I was talking to Techno about what I was gonna say in my statement this morning over breakfast. I’ve been there since the incident, you see. He was the only one I could go to, and I see him like a brother. But he will always stick to his guns, and I’ll stick to mine.
What happens in the pit, stays in the pit.
Now I’ll fast-forward a little bit. I feel like that explains the motive, in the end. Now I’ll explain the reasoning.
Months later, Wilbur blew up L’Manberg in a fit of paranoia and rage. I can’t say that excuses it, but, well, he was ill. My brother was ill. He needed help I couldn’t give him, and we all suffered for it.
It was the first time I had seen my dad in years, and he had a diamond sword through Wilbur’s back. That’s all I will say on this matter – Phil has no part in this, not really. It’s what he didn’t do that hurt the most.
Tubbo became president of L’Manberg. It was nice having a level-headed person in office, and I appreciated it. I appreciated him, and I still do. I miss Tubbo, still, even after all this. If only he didn’t think I was dead. Part of me still wishes I was.
My brother came back as a ghost, but he wasn’t fully there. Ghostbur was a completely different person – calling him a person was a stretch. He was not my brother, only a painful reminder of what once was. But in the end he was a friend, and that’s what matters.
And that brings us to the inciting incident I suppose, if you want to get all English-y about it. What can I say? I've stayed with Techno for a week and he’s already rubbed off on me.
Ranboo was new to the server, and I was in need of a friend. Tubbo was off doing hell knows what – being president was busy, or whatever. But I met Ranboo on his first day, and we were fast friends. Was I a bad influence? Maybe. But blah blah don't have any regrets when you die blah blah blah. Ultimately surprised I’m not dead yet, but who knows? Maybe I’ll drop dead here. So no regrets.
Now that I think about it, Ranboo definitely had some close encounters with Dream too. Tubbo did as well. Most of us younger members had at least one encounter with the figure. I think it fed off fear – no, I know it did. That’s why I’m here.
I’ll tell you straight up – we burned down George's house, me and Ranboo. It was my idea, and I inevitably took the blame for it in the end. As far as the servers aware, it was just me at the scene of the crime – this stays between me, this page, and your stupid archives.
I’m honest about it because, well, I don’t think I deserved what came from it. At least, Techno doesn’t think so. At the moment I kind of trust him the most, so… yeah. What he says.
There is a reason I’m telling you all this, promise. It’s just, well, it hurts. It still does, but I might as well word-vomit onto the page and get this over with – it’s that or I’ll actually lose my shit, and I’m not too eager about the latter.
In the end it was Tubbo who exiled me. When Dream came and complained about its stupid boyfriend's lightly-scorched house, I was the one paying. Now, when I say complaining… I don't know, it was weird. To this day, I’ll swear up and down that not once did I see its mouth move. Though that didn’t seem to matter much, as Tubbo seemed entranced by every word it said, and that was all it took.
Within the week, despite my best efforts, I was exiled once again. This time by my best friend and current president, Tubbo Underscore. This time with the ghost of my brother instead of my actual one.
That brings us to about a month ago – the start of December. By this time it’d started snowing, and I remember seeing the snowflakes the last time I was in L’Manberg. The flakes were big, and the intricate designs left patterns of melted snow against my sweatshirt. That's all I had – the clothes on my back.
Ghostbur always called it a vacation, and I had a hard time agreeing (for reasons that have hopefully been made clear.) I think I used to excuse my pain with Ghostbur’s presence. “Oh, it can’t be all bad if Wilbur’s here. Wilbur’s putting up with it. Wilbur wouldn’t put up with this shit if he was being treated horribly, so I must be overreacting.” Its taken a lot of work, but I think I’ve finally separated my brother from the ghost with the fucking sheep and obsession with the colour blue. I finally know now what I didn’t know then – pain isn’t comparable. Especially when you’re trying to compare it with a ghost who can’t remember anything that he doesn’t consider a happy memory.
Ghostbur didn’t remember me at all, when we first met.
Dream took me and Ghostbur far, far away from L’Manberg. He took us by boat the first time, but it soon gave up and built a portal instead. I’m not surprised – I wouldn’t be caught dead boating for two hours just to torture a sick kid. I have never, nor do I plan to, torture children. Though, my point still stands.
He gave us one white tent, and I set it up on a hill looking down over the ocean. Ghostbur tried to help, but there wasn’t much his translucent hands could actually do properly. He couldn’t sleep either, so it was more so My Tent – I had to take charge. Dream didn’t help at all. It instead just stood there, awkwardly staring down at my handy-work. I can admit it was pretty impressive, but still – it was weird.
That first night, Dream made me drop my stuff into a hole. He let me keep my clothes, but any and all tools I made and materials I gathered were to be dropped in the hole. I still remember it clear as day – all of my progress went up in flames, sparks flying in the night as they lit up the night sky. I remember feeling guilty about it afterwards, but in the moment I felt warm. So, so warm. I remember feeling almost thankful for the warmth of the fire.
I think I understand why it thought I was weak, easy to mold. I probably was, in the beginning. When it’d hold me after he hurt me, I'd be thankful for the kindness. When it’d spare my items, I’d be grateful for the mercy. But when it started leaving our camp for longer and longer, with days without visit, I had more time to recover. My blood stained the white tent without Dream there to bandage my wounds and tell me everything was okay. The punishments were harsher, the situation was clearer, and my determination to escape was as existent as it’d ever be. It was time for me to make my leave, through death or escape. Near the end of it, I truly didn’t care which.
It was stupid, what threw me over the edge. Sure, I’m glad the breaking point came, or else I wouldn’t be here today. But at the time, I was angry. I was so, so angry.
It wasn’t much different from all the other flames it’d set my stuff up in. I knew it always asked for my stuff to burn, and yet I still defied it and built my very own log cabin. Logstedshire, I called it. The crappily-built stand-in for a home. It’s almost embarrassing to say I was proud of it, but I tediously skinned the logs and tied them together with a rope I’d been hiding since I’d found it in the woods. It really did feel like a home, at least for that one Dream-less week Ghostbur and I had spent in it. But when Dream came back earlier than predicted, I had no time to disassemble; coincidentally, that gave it all the time it needed to really make me feel the pain my ‘mistakes’ had caused. And they were painful, I can assure you of that.
Then Dream left, just as abruptly as it’d come. With its disappearance, my last bit of hope dissipated. I didn’t even think of the freedom that could come with Dreams potential full-time vanishing from my life. Instead, I thought of how much my life would change for the worse. How my life wouldn’t be worth living without its guidance.
So, I built a tower.
Not one meant to hold. No, one meant to fall. Ideally after I had, but, well, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference if it fell while I was climbing. At that moment, it was all the same to me. I kind of hoped it’d fall first, before I’d have to ultimately make that decision. I know better now, but at the time it was all I could do to keep on trucking. I needed something to be easy, for once.
I built the pillar quick, telling Ghostbur it was just for sightseeing. That ghost would’ve believed anything I said at that point, though I knew he was worried too. I could tell when he’d come back to Logstedshire at night with blue staining his hands and an unfamiliar glint in his eye every time he saw me. I stopped sleeping regularly long before, but whenever Ghostbur wandered back I’d pretend – just for him. Anything for the shell of my brother. The shell of what once was. And so, when he offered to go retrieve resources from the woods, saying he’d be gone for a few days, I pretended I’d be fine. I reassure him I’d manage, telling him I’d get by with the food hidden in our secret chest. Lying, mostly. I had to do a lot of that with him. It’s kind of ironic, how I worked so hard to please Wilbur until he died, and even his death didn’t stop me. But he believed me, and I set my plan into motion as soon as he’d left.
I scaled the pillar quickly, careful to keep my balance. It swayed in the wind, but that didn’t stop me. Instead, it pushed me to rush quicker – I didn’t want to spend my last moments in the storm. And at last, I stood at the top. Right over the ocean, ready to end it in the place I always seemed to seek out, even in my sleep. It must’ve meant something; I trusted my subconscious that much. And so I set myself up to jump, aiming for the coast. I just hoped it’d be quick.
I didn’t have any important final, supposed ‘pre-death’ thoughts. No, it wasn’t like a film. It was simple, just meant to be a quick, tidy, convenient end to the mess. Until it wasn’t, of course.
I jumped with the intent to kill, but I surfaced with the intent to survive.
In those split seconds, moments before crashing into the icy water and having my bones shatter beneath me, I had a change of heart. Which was inconvenient, but didn’t really give me much time to rethink. Instead, I righted my position, and dove.
I was still terribly ill. My already worn out bones and frail body should not have survived that fall, even with the last-minute course change. But I truly believe something, potentially even someone, was on my side that day. Because when I dragged myself out of the water, fingernails tearing and I dug and tore myself onto the shore, I realized I wasn’t harmed by the fall.
I left the beach that evening without any new injuries, and I unintentionally arrived at Techno’s home four days later. You know the rest.
It feels so good, y’know? To finally get my words on a page. To communicate the tall figure and the glowing black eyes. The mask, and the mouth that didn’t move, and yet still spoke. I needed to put this out there, I think. I needed to tell someone who wouldn’t immediately think me crazy (at least, I hope you don’t.)
Not that Techno does, but, well – it’s a lot different when he has to believe me. It’s the fact that you’re so unbiased that keeps me here writing this statement. That you could easily deny this as false. Because maybe then, if you read this and think of it as the truth, then I’ll know I’m not crazy.
That sounds like something a crazy person would say.
I just wanted to get my words on a page now, so I could enter the new year with a sense of safety. Some distance between me and the past.
I know the Archives. I know that a cry for help in here is like screaming into an echo chamber – it goes nowhere. And yet, I still feel better with my thoughts on the page. Is this what healing feels like?
Statement Ends
I’d be tempted to dismiss this statement as a hallucination, possibly one resulting from extensive dehydration as well as long-term sleep deprivation. L’Manberg is known to be a country built on war, and it’s also common to see ptsd-related hallucinations/flashbacks. However, a few things keep me from doing as such.
One – I know Tubbo Underscore was president of L’Manberg during this time. There are formal records documenting the exile of Tommy Watson – never Tommy Innes, though through some extensive digging Niki confirmed they were the same person.
Two – Techno Blade, Tommy Innes’ supposed brother and trustee, has made his own statements in years past. The similarities to Tommy’s description of the one he calls Dream are matched to the T. I have a feeling The Blade is more connected to this statement than his brother sees, though in a positive or negative way I am not yet certain – more work is needed to retrieve the answer to that.
Three – I, myself, have met Dream before. And in my so very humble opinion, it is up to no good. No good at all. In the end, however, I believe there is no more to be investigated here. It seems, as in most of our cases, that the subject is more concerned with closure than a serious investigation. Though, where I would normally follow up despite this, I have decided not to on this occasion.
Dream is a strong force, and not one to mess with. If I were Mr. Innes, I would keep on my toes. However, I was hired on as the Head Archivist, not a friend. And I, as the Archivist, make the educated decision to stray far away from warning Tommy. There is no good reason to mess with The Web.
Recording Ends