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There's no longer a Bread Bridge.
There's no longer even a "Bad Boys."
There's certainly no longer Jimmy.
So why did Tango come here? How did he find himself in front of this strange flooded mansion?
Well, the reason is obvious. After someone dies in these games it's pretty much standard to go loot their base. And that's why Tango was here, obviously, to loot the base.
When the TIES were still the TIES, they'd come up to Grian's strange floating bread bakery to rush Martyn and Scott. What Martyn and Scott were doing there wasn't entirely obvious, though the Bread was "moldier" after they had left. They'd probably already looted the base, not that Tango would've been able to check. He was scarcely in the bakery for five seconds before Joel chased him off- really, the whole mission hadn't been productive. At all.
So why did he come back?
It's small inside the Carrot Cake. Against its back wall is a furnace, a single chest, and a crafting table. As it were, the singular chest is empty, because of course it is. Martyn or Scott must've looted it already. The Bread and Sub Sandwich yield nothing either, but Tango does notice something unusual: Grian and Joel's respective bases have beds in them. Jimmy's does not.
That thought has Tango poking around the flooded mansion, checking every nook and cranny, opening every chest he finds. To no avail- nothing useful is left. None of it clearly reads as Jimmy's stuff, either, but why would he care about that? It wasn't like Jimmy had anything good anyways. He most likely died with all his good stuff on him. Besides, Tango had taken Etho with him to loot the Bad Boys before. They hadn't found anything useful then- why would they now?
This was pointless. From the start, it was pointless. Tango does as he always does: grumbles and groans and generally bemoans the universe because he's been inconvenienced. Skizz had said something about Tango's frustration being his favorite noise. Hopefully he's yukking it up right now, wherever he is.
With a sigh, Tango turns his back on his flooded failure. At least where he stands right now is somewhat dry, despite the water leaking from the mansion's roof all the way to its cobblestone foundation.
Which is when something catches his eye: a hole in the foundation.
It's not like he can just ignore that. It's not like he can just not go into the obvious trap. Who would Tango be if he didn't?
As it turns out, there is no trap; instead, a small room has been dug out of the foundation. It's rather nice actually. Mangrove flooring, dark oak walls- even the ceiling has some texturing! It's cozy- well, save for the gravestone in one corner.
A sign placed not far from the grave reads: "Here Lies Judge Judy and Executioner." It seems to Tango that a Hot Fuzz reference is a bit out of place here, but whatever. This must be Jimmy's grave, judging by lacy carrot flowers laying by the headstone being the same ones that grew outside the Cake.
Against the back wall is another crafting table, furnace, and a double chest. Still no bed, Tango notices, but it's not like he has one either, so who is he to judge? That double chest is promising, though. He has to squeeze past the grave to open it, a small price to pay for… nothing. It's empty. Go figure.
Empty, that is, except for an all-too-familiar book.
Just seeing it again makes Tango want to slam the chest closed. He hates that letter, hates every word he wrote, hates every emotion, every thought- written sober or not. All of it burns shamefully in his chest. Forget Jimmy. Forget the letter. Forget everything. Wasn't that what he was supposed to do? Wasn't he supposed to have moved on?
So why did he come here again?
"I should go now," mutters Tango to no one, making no move to leave. All he does is stare at the book as if he could will it into bursting into flames.
Actually, he could do that- not will it to burst into flames, of course, but the part about setting such a wretched thing on fire wasn't a bad idea. Catharsis- that's what it all boiled down to. If writing the letter had been catharsis, burning it would be even more so.
When he grabs it, a page flutters out. A page that Tango happens to notice isn't in his handwriting. There's only a singular word on it:
—
Why?
—
(Atop a dark oak tree, Jimmy sat, a familiar leather bound book in his lap. In his hand he held a quill dipped in ink but the page remained blank. A cold white face staring back in challenge.
If his grip on the quill got any tighter, he might've broken it.
His mind was a swirling vortex of thoughts and emotions, none of which are words, none of which are clean or neat enough to put on paper. A sandstorm, that's what it is. He was trapped in a sandstorm. When the dust settles, all that's left is one word, and even that wasn't enough.
Because it's not just "why." It's: why me? Why us? Why can't I have anything? I thought I had you, thought I had someone, something. Only for that to be taken away too.
Why? Why? Why why why-? Until he was screaming, the page was being ripped apart, and his quill became just another broken feather.)
Underneath the singular word is a drawing depicting a stick figure amidst a storm of scribbles. It's wearing a leather jacket, sunglasses, and frown. Is this meant to be Jimmy? A painful pang goes through Tango's heart. He almost laughs.
Almost.
Instead, he not-too-gently tucks the sheet of paper back in, causing another one to slip out.
(He got another page, started over. Try again.
Again. And again. Again and again and again.
It's all so repetitive, isn't it? But his life is made of repetition. Defined by it. Over and over, it's useless, isn't it? Futile. Pointless. Why does he keep trying? A new quill. A new game. A new chance. Same outcome. Over and over. Again and again. Why?
There's no one who can even answer that question. It's pointless to even ask. Useless. Futile.
Jimmy wanted to, needed to break something. But why bother? He'd probably fail at that too.
One step at a time. Stay in the now.
He should've focused on each part of the letter, written his responses. He would have let anger seep into words rather than let it boil under his skin. But what was the point? Is Tango supposed to see this and suddenly regret everything he wrote? Would suddenly any of what he expressed become untrue? Multiple times he said they could never go back to the way things were. Was getting angry going to help?
Nothing he can do could turn back time.
Jimmy sighed. Memories of an all-too-similar conversation with his former soulmate crept back into his mind.
"We need to think about it. We need to take a breather, take a day. We’ve got to be smart, we’ve got to think about this.
How will getting angry right now help? We need to be rational, not rash. So just breathe, okay? Let’s focus on rebuilding, focus on what we can do at this moment.
Stay in the now, okay?"
For some reason, the quill pressed down a little harder than it needed to as he wrote.)
—
Remember those stupid walls you loved so much?
—
Its first line catches Tango's eye like a punch to the throat.
—
Gone. They're gone. Tore those down, should've done that much sooner. You said they were the best part of my empire. Well, they no longer exist, so I guess there's no reason for you to return to Tumble Town.
Sorry that the Ranch brought back so many bad memories. I'll be sure to destroy it when I get back. Could probably use the materials for something better, anyways.
Hope you're happy. I'm not. But it's whatever, right? We don't care about each other since we're not being forced to. I still care about you but that's stupid of me. Really stupid. Silly, silly Jimmy. Make me hate you more, please. I don't want to continue loving you. I'm tired of it, just like you are. Tired of me. Everyone's tired of me. I am too.
—
Why are his hands shaking? They weren't when Tango started reading. No, they're not shaking. They can’t be, because he doesn't want them to be, and they’re his hands. This isn't affecting him. It can’t be, because he doesn’t want it to. He shouldn't be reading this anymore. Not-shaking hands go to crumple the paper into a ball.
At the bottom there's more writing, crossed out yet still legible.
—
You're right. You don't love me, or didn't, or whatever. If you loved me, you would've stayed.
—
(Another try, this time one he knew he wouldn't keep. Even though it'd feel so good to say. Jimmy's never been one to not be petty. He would say that to Tango's face in order to see him scramble. It would feel so good. Luckily, Jimmy had the forethought to be writing this instead. While writing he can stop and step back and realize how toxic that sounds. How toxic it is, period.
Being toxic doesn't make it any less true, though. That thought spurs him to keep writing.)
—
Why didn't you love me enough to stay?
—
(Love isn't quantifiable like that, Jim, he reminded himself. Love isn't conditional. Love doesn't have rules. It doesn't have guidelines or "if-then" scenarios. It shouldn't have limits.
Love is not flawed.
Besides, he didn't want to really know that, so Jimmy crossed that line out too.)
It's another punch to the throat. So much for not reading. The page crumples easily into a ball, but the words don't go down easily, like swallowing a lump of coal. But he's not going to cry. He doesn't want to cry.
(Gosh, Jimmy wished he could cry. That would be so, so cathartic right then. His eyes remained stubbornly dry, because the universe hated him, and he can't even have something as simple as crying.
The mean part of his brain wanted to make Tango hurt like he did, which is stupid, because Tango obviously was hurt already. The entire letter he blames himself for everything, belittles himself, is more than regretful, yet Jimmy still had the audacity to be upset at him ? He should be upset at himself, for goodness' sake!
But what good does it do? If he admitted he wasn't not angry at Tango, or at himself, then he would have to admit that he just wanted to be angry, because the only other option was sadness. Sadness? No, something deeper, more painful. Grief. Despair. Mourning. Sadness is so simple. This? This is the kind of feeling that rips at your soul. The kind you choke on. The kind that has too many words that don't quite fit and not one that's enough.
And so Jimmy was angry, because it's easier. Easier to direct rage at the universe for putting him in this situation, at himself for having hope, at the mean part of his brain that revels in all of this. It's a simple emotion. It's simple. He could tell himself that. Even if it feels childish to just be "angry" and not enraged or frustrated or spiteful. Simple. Simple is better.
Why couldn't he just be stronger than any of this? Why couldn't he just move on?)
So why was he back here? In the same position, ready to not-cry over something he doesn't and shouldn't care about?
Against his better judgment, he scans the wretched thing for any more loose pages. Sue a guy for wanting closure.
Which he doesn’t immediately find. Instead there is a list of Jimmy-related nicknames, ranging from the likes of “Country Bear Jamboree” to “Jim-Jam” and the ever-classic “Jimothy.” “Timmy Times” makes Tango laugh, but that’s not what he is looking for.
Not like he should still be doing this anyways.
Lo and behold, another page does, in fact, make itself known. Tango hopes this is the final one, hopes he finally can stop looking.
—
You didn’t care about me just because you had to. You cared about me because you, well, you loved me. Maybe a part of you still does. I know you don’t think you did. Maybe you just want to deny it for some reason. I know you think that the love wasn’t worth it because it didn’t last. But that’s not true at all.
How do I know? You aren’t hard to read, if you were wondering. It’s easy to tell. After all, why would you go to the effort of any of this if you didn’t care? I’ve never heard of you writing a break-up letter like this to anyone else.
It’s more than that. It’s the horns, too. Remember those?
Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? Silly of me to even ask, right?
Anyways.
You said they were imperative to our team. Imperative, not because you wanted one so badly, but because I did. No one else responded to us so we made it our own thing. I'd respond to you. And you to me.
Of course, you never really needed to. In retrospect it was kind of pointless. Someone logical would say that. It was never pointless to me.
Now’s my turn to ask: do you remember that one night on the Ranch?
You made us pancakes. Of all things. Pancakes! You being you, it wasn't just as simple as that, though. No, you had to go the extra mile. Like you always do. It was a full breakfast spread and a story too.
Over dinner you proudly recounted how you had swiped some sugar off our neighbors. Sugar which you used to make a simple syrup because you couldn't find berries or honey. You showed me this contraption- the creamificator, was it?- that unsurprisingly made whipped cream. You complained about chopping down trees for apples, because of course we need juice, even when it meant building a whole other machine for juicing.
Neither of us even drink juice! However you insisted that we needed it in order for this dinner to be perfect.
Perfect, that was, except you couldn't rustle up any bacon. That stressed you out,
I remember. You'd been so distraught that there weren't any pigs. In desperation you asked me: "how is one meant to incorporate beef into breakfast?"
Apparently you've never heard of corned beef hash. Not like we had potatoes anyways.
All of it was so us. Flour made from our wheat and milk from our cows and eggs from our chickens downstairs. Even the stolen sugar. Each day you had worked little by little on setting up this one dinner and I hadn't noticed. Yet here you were, surprising me one night with pancakes and whipped cream and apple juice and sunny-side-up eggs. The kind with runny yolks, the way we both like.
It was like eating love and care with each bite.
One special night. A moment of deserved peace. "We can pretend everything is normal, or near normal, or something," you had said. And it was temporary. A temporary normal. Temporary.
Better than nothing at all.
—
On this page there's another drawing: two stick figures, one on the left, one on the right. Both are smiling and holding curved shapes which Tango quickly infers are horns. Their horns. One stick figure has spiky hair with cuffs on the arms; the other has swoopy hair with a jacket. It resembles one from earlier, so it's not hard to guess who's who.
It’s practically a full letter in and of itself. Why did Jimmy never send this?
Whatever. That’s it. He’s seen enough.
Tango’s going to burn his letter for real time, along with Jimmy’s letters too. Closure- what a joke! He doesn’t care anymore- why should he care anymore? Why should he care about stupid warm memories and stupid realizations and stupid corned beef hash?
Coming back to the mansion had been pointless, even more so to spend precious time reading all this. Useless, in the end. Futile.
Outside the mansion now, Tango stands with a small fire in front of him- not like he even remembers leaving the gravesite, but it’s whatever. None of that matters anymore. The wretched, horrible book goes up easily in flames. Honestly, why hadn’t Jimmy burnt it himself?
He knows why.
He knows it for everything; for why he came here, for why he came back, for why his hands shook.
Eventually, the fire goes out on its own. Burning paper’s scent fills the air, ashes scattering in the breeze.
Tango breathes in.
Tango moves on. He leaves the mansion and the ashes and the gravesite behind him.
All of it is gone now. That’s closure, or at least close enough.
All of it, that is, except a drawing of two stick figures that somehow found itself tucked away in Tango’s pocket.