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The bomb shook the ground below his feet. Tubbo twisted his ankle and stumbled into a tree, and behind him Tommy grabbed his wrist, spinning him around and dragging him through the forest.
“Which way?” Tommy asked.
“It’s south. I recognize this area.”
Tommy followed his compass south until he stopped at an oak tree. The bark had been stripped away, and on the smooth inner rings two names were written. Tommy, in large straight lines, hastily etched with harsh scratches, and tubbo, all lowercase, the curves of the b’s meticulously carved, shallow. The tree had some trouble growing over it, but in time it was clear even now, about a year and a half after they had drawn it that his would disappear first.
He hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place. Schlatt wouldn’t travel this far from l’Manburg, but Fundy might have seen their names together, told Schlatt about it. In the end it hadn’t mattered. Looking back at the mushroom cloud over Sam’s prison, it seemed none of it mattered anymore.
“I know the way now,” Tommy said.
“Right.”
They got to the cave’s entrance, now overgrown but left mostly untouched. Tubbo shoved a stone over it, then more. Tommy added cobblestone to the mix, filling the entrance until they stepped onto the stairs, and collapsed, Tommy on the lower stair and Tubbo on the higher one.
“Fuck,” Tommy said.
“I hope Ghostboo heard the sirens,” Tubbo said, morbid even for him. “He and Michael should be in the Snowchester vault by now.”
“What are we going to do? We can’t leave Pogtopia, but we can’t stay, can we?”
Tubbo was careful with his next words. “Here to Snowchester is all covered in radiation. I think Las Nevadas is far enough away to be safe. What if we dug a tunnel?”
“All the way to Snowchester? That’s at least a kilometer!” he stared down the stairs and hunched over.
“About 1.5 kilometers. We’ve got all we need to survive, their vault has provisions.” Tubbo grabbed his shoulder supportively. “We can do this, yeah?”
Tommy looked up at him. “Yeah. Rotating shifts. I can do potatoes for another few weeks.”
“Awesome.” They started down the stairs to get settled into their old home.
A few days of rotating eight-hour shifts crawled by.
Underground, the potato farm didn’t need much attention. A half hour of work and Tubbo had the redstone mechanics back in place, so harvesting could be done with the push of a button. The cavern humidity and glowstone lights kept the temperature and barometries consistent. All he ever needed to do was harvest the potatoes, transfer them into the furnaces, and replant the leftovers. The key factor, and why Tubbo guessed Pogtopia had chosen potatoes, was they could grow pretty much anywhere. Soil quality, air quality, pests—potatoes didn’t much care about any of these things. Resistant, despite their thin skin.
He worked the little attention they required into his morning routine—his whenever-Tommy-was-done-with-digging routine. To his credit, Tommy pulled tons and tons of stone more than his weight. Not without complaint, of course.
“Fuck-ing hell, Tubbo. That was a shift. I’ve been staring at so much stone, I was grateful to see granite. Granite. And you know how I feel about granite.”
Tommy crawled up the Prime Path, if it could still be called that. The Primelands were in the orange zone of detonation, and sections of the Prime Path would have been reduced to ashes in the explosion. But notably, Tubbo only knew two real followers of Prime—one was dead, and the other’s faith had been tested more than seemed fair.
Tubbo sat on the furnace, and let the heat warm his feet that dangled in front of the vent. The mines were cold. Mining didn’t start to get hot until you were in diamond range, and they were only a couple dozen meters below surface. “Potato?”
“Sure. Have you got a sword on you?”
Tubbo passed a fresh baked potato to Tommy. “We have knives if you want to cut it.”
“No, no. This digging shit is driving me crazy, I need to do something else. Let’s have a duel.” He took a knife from the chest and speared it into the potato. Steam poured out of the hole.
“A duel?”
“No bows. Just swords. Tell me you don’t miss fighting.”
It had been a week since their last fight. With Dream and Punz. He thinks he can consider that fight a loss, but it wasn’t the losing that soured the fight. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
Something in his face, or the way he said it, deflated Tommy. He stabbed the potato and ate a bite off the end of the potato. He spoke around the hot potato, “Not like that. You know, like old times.”
“Practice?”
“Practice for what?” He swallowed the potato with a wince. “We can still duel for fun, right?”
Tubbo was itching to pick up his pickaxe, not his sword, but Tommy had an instinct for knowing what to complain about. He hadn’t once brought up the potatoes being gross, or how slow progress was being made on the tunnel, or anything he knew Tubbo also worried about. He complained about morale, and he did it because he thought they could do something about their morale, but he knew nothing could be done about the quality of their diets, or the slow progress. Tubbo could forget, because Tommy didn’t wear it like he did, but Tommy was also a cabinet member.
Tubbo drew his sword from his side. Iron, for mobs, and because all they had was iron. He assumed a fighting stance closer to fencing than what he was used to. “Why not?”
Tommy drew his own, and mirrored his stance. “En guard!”
They waited for the other to make a move. Tubbo tapped his sword against the end of Tommy’s, setting it off balance and distracting Tommy. Tommy took his sword in both hands and swung it at Tubbo’s sword. Tubbo blocked, or met the hit as it were, and they dueled like boys did, hitting the other’s sword without any consideration to strike the enemy in their vitals. Hit, hit, hit, back and forth, alternating sides, stepping back, stepping forward. Choreographed.
Tommy jumped back, and the cave walls became lanes. Tubbo held the high ground, and crouched low with his sword outstretched to keep his opponent away. Tommy spun towards him and arced his sword to Tubbo’s side, and Tubbo blocked it just as Tommy’s elbow locked straight. Tubbo had a shot at Tommy’s side, a fatal one, but instead of impaling him, Tubbo kicked him. Tommy staggered back, and the tempo of the battle was on Tubbo’s side.
Tubbo struck back with a flurry of slashes to Tommy’s head, quick and shallow, each blocked with a firm two-handed grip. Tommy stepped back with each hit, taking his eyes off Tubbo to watch for loose rocks and steps in the path. Tubbo slashed at Tommy’s left shoulder as he stepped down, missing the block and leaving a gash and tear in his shirt.
“Shh—ah!” Tommy yelped, swapping his sword to his left hand to clutch the wound, hopping back to safety He stared at Tubbo through his brows, and Tubbo froze with his sword outstretched, the reflective white tip stained red. He cracked a smile. “You fucked up now.”
Tommy tossed his sword and caught it in his right arm, and ran to Tubbo’s side. He slashed at Tubbo’s chest, and Tubbo deflected and pushed him to his left. Tommy used the momentum to hop to Tubbo’s back and kick him down the path. Tubbo landed on his face, the sword clanging and him exhaling an “Oof.” He flipped over and Tommy pointed his sword down at him, but not at his throat.
“It’s over, Tubbo! I have the high ground!”
Tommy chased him down the hill, slashing wildly. Tubbo stepped back, blocking and parrying, but Tommy’s onslaught was powerful, and one fatal step later he fell into the Pit. The Pit.
He dropped his sword. Tommy pointed his own down at him, tension hanging in the stale air. “Truce?” he asked.
“Truce,” Tubbo agreed, and Tommy pulled him to his feet.
They sat on the edge of the Pit, exhausted with enough adrenaline to sit in the discomfort. “What about nether portals?”
“Too dangerous,” Tubbo answered without hesitation, “We could spawn in the door, break the seal, and die in seconds. Or spawn outside, and whichever of us goes through wouldn’t return.”
“You have coords. You could do it. We aren’t making enough progress, you know that. Isn’t it more dangerous if we wait?”
Tubbo, not for the first time, admired his bravery. Many have called it stupidity, and often it was born out of ignorance, but Tommy understood the risks. He was making a call based on the facts, and the fact was if they kept at this rate, Michael may run out of water before they reach him.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Doing the math took about five minutes. Checking the math, checking the portal, building them both, that took about a day.
Tubbo stepped into the portal and stepped out into the stone brick walls of immediate safety. It was over in a second, the digging, the uncertainty. A leap of faith.
“Michael?” he called.
The portal was on the lowest floor. Two beds sat side-by-side that hadn’t been there when he was last here, both unmade. He climbed the ladder, reflexively softening his steps on each rung. He peaked over the top floor to find a tunnel dug into the wall. Unlike theirs, torches lit the way, making it safe, but even still it was long enough that through the dust, Tubbo couldn’t see the end.
He jumped off the ladder and through the portal.
“Phew,” Tommy sighed, “Are you alright?”
“There’s a tunnel. Michael’s not there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know! I came back to tell you!”
Tommy grabbed his arm. “Then let’s go find him.” And dragged him back into the portal.
Tubbo started up the ladder. “Up here.”
“What are you afraid happened?”
Tubbo started down the tunnel. It was a bit taller than he was, but Tommy had to crook his neck to fit. He ran, boost himself along by pushing off the walls. “My son has been kidnapped.”
“You don’t trust Big Q?”
“I trust him. Just not with my son.”
“I—Well—You know what? When we get to Las Nevadas, Michael’s going to be sipping on a milkshake in the diner, and if you’re still upset, you can lay into Quackity. Plan?”
“Alright.”
A bit more running, and the end of the tunnel became visible. A set of sandstone stairs—and sunlight, brighter than the torches flashing by as Tubbo flew down the tunnel, his arms carrying half his weight against the walls, swinging like a kid between their parents walking along a pier at dusk. He fell into the stairs and climbed up them on all fours, appearing on the surface down the road of Las Nevadas.
His eyes burned in the light, and he ducked as he jogged, so far out of breath now but he wouldn’t be able to catch it until he had some certainty, jogged past the Needle to the fountain at the city’s center where Michael sat with his feet in the water, experimentally splashing in the shallow water. Ghostboo sat next to him, watching over him to make sure he wouldn’t drown or run off or get taken.
“You made it!” Ghostboo said, hardly surprised or relieved.
“So did you,” Tubbo replied, sounding similarly joyful, without any of the pretense that everything had, in fact, worked out in spite of everything.
“Foolish got us out about a day ago. He’s actually out looking for you now! Everyone’ll be so happy to see you.”
Michael spun around and hopped off the edge of the fountain. His eyes lit up and he hugged Tubbo’s calves tightly, but not so tight that betrayed any relief. He was simply happy to see his dad again, not freed of a fear that he might not see Tubbo again. It was peace as far as the eye could see, crushing him with the weight that he may never feel like his son did again.
Tubbo found his niche in the research facility. His only area of expertise was a base understanding of engineering, well enough to research space travel and nuclear weapons, but that was more scientific knowledge than most had. So he picked up meteorology and data science, tracking weather patterns and making models to determine if the winds would ever carry the radiation into Las Nevadas, if they would ever carry it away from the places most of them used to call home. The results were looking promising, like they could move back into the main area within two years, with ground zero taking a few extra to be safe.
Tommy and Niki built an irrigation system in Paradise, and he farmed all of the crops for the region. They tore down the burger van, and no one bothered to reconstruct it for the sake of preserving history. Ghostboo took care of Michael when Tubbo was at the research facility. Quackity gave all of the refugees a room in his hotel, a satisfactory accommodation in terms of its wealth, but Tubbo didn’t like staying in such a tall building. He couldn’t really say what he was afraid of, it just didn’t feel like home.
Not much of Las Nevadas did, but Tommy wasn’t leaving, so neither was he.
His recent project was to make suits that could allow them to go into the red zones of the region and retrieve valuables. Netherite was looking promising as a material, but sealing it tight while allowing the user mobility proved challenging. It gave him a good excuse to stay out late, and Ghostboo didn’t question him on it.
Quackity did, though.
“Hey, Tubbo! Thought I’d stop in for a bit, see how you’re doing. Any dangerous chemicals today, hopefully no more explosions!”
Tubbo sat his tools on the workbench and leaned against it, facing Quackity in the dark room. “Not today, Big Q. What’s up?”
“What’s up with you? Is everything looking good?”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Nothing to report. I’m hoping to have a finished product by the end of the month, testing will take time, but in terms of radiation everything seems safe.”
“How’s your son, is he integrating well?”
“Michael’s great! Everything’s great,” he said, choking up at the end of the sentence.
“That’s good to hear. I wanted to ask you something, if you’ve got a minute.”
“I’m not pressed for time, go ahead.”
“Foolish and Sam are starting work on more permanent housing. The hotels were never meant to be everyone’s forever home. We’ve got plenty of space and resources, and those two together can have a nice home made in a day or two, so it’s no trouble for us. Really, I just don’t want to be presumptuous that, well, that you’d want to live in Las Nevadas, at least for the time being.”
A permanent home. “Would there be a contract?” he asked, recalling his work contract that called for conscription in the case of war, and all sorts of other pages Quackity never got the chance to exploit.
“Not really. A clause about subletting, building codes, that kind of thing. Is there anything you’re concerned about?”
“Could I have a second home somewhere else?” That was a rule in l’Manburg, all members had to have a single primary residence within the nation’s borders, and were only allowed vacation homes. It made sense, it inspired loyalty.
“Of course! I’m not going to keep you here against your will!” He looked around the room, and grabbed a swivel chair to sit in. “This is about l’Manburg, right?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You see all this—” he waved his arms around “—gaudy. A pillar of light in the sky. Like a, a flame for a moth. And it reminds you of l’Manburg.”
“Beacons can be for safety, too. They protect everyone.”
“But you still don’t trust mine.”
His crossed arms grabbed his sides. He climbed onto the workbench and sat with Quackity. “How did you know when the war was over?”
“Which one?”
“There’s only ever been one war, hasn’t there? I keep looking over my shoulder, I’m cautious with the people I care about. I can’t stop it.”
“Who says it’s over?” Like it was obvious, and Quackity wasn’t painting targets across the desert.
He folded his hands. “I don’t think I’m cut out for the surface.”
“You don’t have to be at the front of it. If things start to look bad, and you turn tail, I won’t say a bad word about it, and if anyone else does, I’ll tell them about how after the Manburg/Pogtopia War, before the ashes had even settled, you were talking about rebuilding, and again after Doomsday. No one is ever going to call you a coward when I’m in earshot. But, Tubbo, Las Nevadas already has a cabinet. What we need, what I’m asking for, is for you to do what you do best.”
“Research?”
“Building your family.”
It was a small enough ask, something he had already planned on doing and couldn’t imagine not. “I don’t want to live in a house I didn’t make. Maybe, maybe after I finish this up, I can take a week to make something with Ghostboo and Tommy.”
“That sounds perfect, I’ll let them know to save you a plot—or would you rather pick it out yourself?”
“I’ll talk to the others about it first,” he said, already picturing a cottage by Tommy’s farm, Michael running through the pumpkin patch while Ghostboo handmade fresh cheese.
“Of course. For no reason other than I want to see that happen, you now have a presidential order to get these radiation suits done as soon as possible.”
Tubbo hoped off the workbench. “Yes, sir,” he saluted, “You’ll have to get out of my lab for that.”
“Alright, see you, Tubbo.”
While he was hammering away, he considered if Quackity considered himself part of Tubbo’s family, of how far it could stretch before tearing. If he was strong enough to hold it together, to sew it back together.