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Tubbo was hiding when he first found the journals.
It wasn’t enough that he was barely seventeen and trapped in a war, shackled by the strict confines of a nation-wide conscription, but now, he was thrown into the role of a spy. His general had just given the news, stiff and melancholic with pity swimming in his eyes. Tubbo had blinked once, twice, then ran. Each step thundering in his ears in turn with the roaring beat of his thumping heart, Tubbo ran faster than he had ever done on the battlefield. Perhaps, if he ran fast enough, he could escape the war altogether.
The camp they had resided in for now was in the ruins of the old capital of L’Manberg, once a city of life and hubbub, but that had been over a century ago. All of Old L’Manberg had been destroyed in the first president’s dubbed ‘Wilbur’s Final Symphony.’ Pretentious label for sure, though it had never been clear why it was named that. Still, the textbooks iterated that although reconstruction began soon after the destruction, the capital could never escape the fate of rubble and ash.
No one bothered with the old city. It was a historical relic, but nothing more than ruins. Tubbo’s captain had a fondness for the rubble, he recalled. Captain Puffy would run her hands gently across the stone, cradling it as though it was something sacred. She’d whisper to him, when she caught him staring, that it would do the army some good to be kind to the ghosts.
Most people thought she was loony. Tubbo just liked her stories, and the fact that she managed to keep him alive for this long.
He had been doomed to a rough life from the start. Found abandoned on the side of some country road, Tubbo was lifted out of his box and into an orphanage, which was basically a slightly bigger and far more cramped box.
Different, older, not quite cute enough, not quite lucky enough, Tubbo never got adopted into some eccentric rich family like he dreamed about, or any family at all. He made do with what he had, before waking up one day to find his items packed up—boxes in boxes in boxes—and a conscription notice in the caretaker’s hand, a wad of money clutched tightly in the other. They sold him to the rapidly growing war effort.
Which eventually led him here. Nursing his heart after a rather intense panic attack in the middle of some old ruins, in the middle of some stupid war, a seventeen-year-old spy who could barely hold a crossbow.
Drawing heaving breaths rapidly, Tubbo managed to calm down enough to make sense of which building he had stumbled into. It wasn’t far in the center, where the so-called “Detonation Room” had been, and was relatively sturdy in comparison to the rocks that hardly formed the remnants of homes. He stood on shaking knees, brushing a hand against the stone as he had seen his captain do so many times before.
Ghosts, she had said.
A shiver ran down his spine, entirely involuntarily. Biting back a grimace, he turned his head to the rest of what seemed to have once been a bedroom.
Tubbo steps closer, noticing what must have been the desk, when a loud, screeching creak overcomes his senses. Sure, structural integrity is not exactly what you’d expect when waltzing through a century-old abandoned ruin, but this sounded different. Hollow.
Kneeling on the old, rotting wood with nothing but a wince and a mutter about termites, Tubbo felt around the plank. Something budged. Eyes wide, Tubbo gripped the edges of the plank and tugged harshly, prying the wooden flooring out with a minor splintering of the wood.
Inside the floor was…a crate. Inside, a stack of journals, loose papers, some ancient looking photos—Tubbo’s hand brushed against the corner of the worn, yellowed paper, hesitating.
A seventeen-year-old spy who could barely hold a crossbow.
He didn’t want to go back. He’d have to, before one of the older soldiers made a scathing comment about deserters, before Puffy began worrying, before Tubbo’s general receives another missive, another damning letter that dooms any likelihood of surviving this war.
But he had time. Captain Puffy could cover for him. So with a shuddering breath, Tubbo shifts into a more comfortable seat on the floor, and picks up the first journal with shaking hands.
Dear Journal,
I write ‘journal’ because this isn’t a diary. Diaries are for pussies, and while I am obviously very in touch with my emotions as any respectable man should be, this isn’t a diary.
Wilbur begs to differ, but he’s a bitch.
Tubbo’s mouth, lately stuck in a grim line, quirks in what could be a smile.
Speaking of the lad, my older brother finally arrived in Esempi!
Though only a written word in a terrible, scrawled handwriting, Tubbo can’t resist a wince. Esempi. The empire they fought against, thrown into battle after battle. The empire L’Manberg fought and won independence from a hundred years ago. This was L’Manberg territory. It’s origin, the birthplace of their nation. Just how old were these papers, to speak so freely and so easily of that damned place?
He wasn’t entirely impressed with the sights I graciously showed him, but maybe he was tired from the journey. Newfoundland is three weeks of sea travel away, after all.
Tubbo’s brow furrows, adjusting his leg as he pulls the journal closer, his grip remaining gently loose so as to not damage the paper. The first president had been from Newfoundland. His name had been Wilbur. But a brother… Tubbo racks his head, hoping for a piece of information to connect, but fails. He can’t recall the founder having a little brother.
It was just a coincidence then, he supposes.
I’ve been living here in the Esempi for nearly a year. I’ve made a nice enough home for myself, befitting my large and manly status, but Wilbur seemed damned amused by my efforts. Called it a “shit hole.”
Regardless of whether or not it’s literally a hole in a mountain, it was a dumb bitch thing of him to say. I told him off for it. Politely. With only a few expletives.
But after all that, Wilbur sat me down and gave me a proposal. It was fucking great! Oh, Journal, you’re going to like this one—Wilbur fucking Soot—
Tubbo blanches. That wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. If everything lined up, even the name…This must be the diary, or rather journal, of the founder and first president of L’Manberg’s brother. One that Tubbo remembers no mention of in the history books.
—asked me to help him build a drug van.
He chokes. Thrusting the paper away from him in subconscious fear of harming it, he hacks and coughs, wild thoughts running through his head. Not–there had been no mention–
Perhaps this was all a fake. Just some elaborate musings featured in the wild imagination of a child from a hundred years ago. One that had fashioned some odd fantasy of the founder of L’Manberg being his older brother, an older brother that built a goddamn drug van–
Finally getting his hacking fits back under control, Tubbo tugs the papers closer, mindful of the delicate edges.
Of course, I immediately accepted. Wil wants to start a business, and who am I to deny him? He already found this great clearing, with a large sprawling tree and a nice river.
That sounds…almost familiar?
The van came along quite nicely, and Wilbur’s already started on the potions! They’re all cool and bubbly and shit. Wil told me off for getting too close to his brewing, but it was just an awkward potion at that stage! A man of my status could easily get near it without harm. He’s just being a paranoid older shit of a brother.
Wilbur Soot had been known for his skill with potion brewing as well as his fondness for archery, both used in battle. Even Captain Puffy had confirmed that, a delicate timber forming tales of a president in a tower, shooting down tipped arrows without a single piece of armor on, as she gently adjusted Tubbo’s form.
He did bring up one good point about this business, one that could be of major concern. There’s no reason for anyone to buy our drugs! Sure, Wil is great at brewing and shit, but we need to ‘corner the market.’ Convince people that they can only buy our products, not create their own for an arguably cheaper price. We need to scam the citizens of fair Esempi.
That was a notion Tubbo can behind, not only as a patriotic soldier of L’Manberg, but as a seventeen year old boy who could enjoy a bout of mischief.
The journal entry ends there, and Tubbo gently sets it aside to pull other contents of the crate closer.
He finds a picture. It’s old, time consuming the once crisp edges and fading the monochrome pigment, but his eyes crinkle in a small smile as he stares down at it. This must be him.
The journal’s author is tall, but gangly and awkward in a familiar way that Tubbo guesses he must be the same age as him. His grin is so wide it looks painful, head thrown back in a laugh with bright eyes. This, paired with the colorful language usage in the journal, makes Tubbo think he must have been fun to be around.
Maybe they could’ve been friends.
His arm is thrown around a figure beside him, pulling them close even as the taller of the two seems to have an exasperated smile. Their hair is different, but the smile. The way they shared a look between them.
Tubbo flips the picture around. In a looping scrawl: Tommy and Wilbur.
Tommy.
Unbidden, his mouth forms the name, quietly repeating it to himself. “Tommy.” The forgotten brother. Kept alive by a crate of paper hidden in rubble and a young spy born to die.
He places it back with the rest of the things, reaching back for the journal when he freezes.
“Tubbo!” The voice is far away, but close enough. Insistent enough. “Tubbo, are you here?” Captain Puffy is looking for him, wandering through the ruins shouting for a boy who just wants to hide.
Swallowing, Tubbo quickly sets about putting everything back with a grim set to his mouth. He had forgotten. Ignoring the growing pit in his stomach, Tubbo rises from the floor and shifts the last wooden panel back over the chest.
He stuffs his hands in his coat pockets to hide the way it clenches into fists. Pasting a tired smile on his face, he steps outside the ruin of a home.
“Hi, Puffy.”
“Tubbo, I’ve been looking all over for you!” The captain fusses over him, gently grasping his chin to check his face and patting him down for injuries. Finding nothing, she busies herself with readjusting the collar of his coat. “Are you alright?” She asks, eyes soft.
Tubbo exhales, looking off to the side to avoid her eyes. Inadvertently, it strays back to the ruins he had just left. With no door, roof, or windows to speak of and half the walls completely destroyed, he can see the floor where he had been kneeling before. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good.” Puffy begins to lead him away, and Tubbo reluctantly tears his gaze away. “I was so worried. You ran out of there like a bat out of hell, and you looked—“ she cuts herself off with an awkward purse of her lips. “Regardless, you still have some time. You’ve been excused from patrol duty for the following week before you’re sent out.”
She’s not looking at him, but he hides the small smile that flits across his face as an idea dawns on him.
I’ll be back.
Tommy has more to say, after all. And Tubbo would love to hear it.
:: chapter 2::
He’s back the next day. Hardly any one notices he leaves, and those that do don’t care. It’s no secret he’s been given a death sentence wrapped in a neat little bow. No one bothers to care for a kid they’ll never see again.
Puffy is too busy to notice either, off leading some training session or off on patrol. Tubbo hardly needs to sneak out, but he does, and he is not missed.
Returning to the rubble feels like a dream. He barely slept the night before, awake and plagued with a mix of worries and wonders. Worried about the future, his placement as a spy within Esempi. Wondering about the past, Tommy and his hijinks that lead to the creation of his nation.
Tubbo settles himself with his back to the crumbled wall, casting away the floor plank covering Tommy’s papers. He huffs a little as his hands gently trace the journal’s spine, opening it with care.
Dear Journal (not a diary!),
The drug van is going great.
Tubbo rubs his tired eyes. It’s not any less startling to read; their glorified founder Wilbur Soot, engaged in such an insidious business? Sure, it’s actually a potion business, but no mention of it had been apparent in the history books Tubbo was confident he had read.
We’ve convinced quite a few people to abandon their own brewing stands and become loyal customers of our potions—our drugs! Wil has brewed up leaping potions for my own enjoyment, actually. He gets a kick out of seeing me jump around our van, slamming my head against the roof.
Tubbo closes his eyes, a smile playing at his lips as he envisioned a blond ball of energy leaping about, green bubbles emanating from his potioned body.
I’m not much use in the potion lab, but my use comes in with my connections! Wilbur’s still fairly new to the Esempi, while I’ve been here on my own for longer. I know the land, I know the people—right assholes they are, most of the time, but it’s good to know your audience.
I did get us into a spot of trouble. Basically, I may or may not have owed some guys a bit of money, and they tracked me back to our van. The guards got involved before it could escalate, but it had the unintended effect of drawing their attention to our rather unsavory business practices.
The head captain Sapnap—
Tubbo has studied history a tad more thoroughly than the average citizen. Though overcrowded, the orphanage to which he belonged emphasized education for the primary use of seeming more appealing to any potential adopters. He liked history; the tales of wars and alliances seemed like a real-life fantasy.
Sapnap was a prominent historical figure. The right hand man of Dream, the tyrannical emperor of Esempi, and the scourge of L’Manberg. He had grown up side by side the emperor, working up the ranks honestly despite his high connections.
He had one of the highest kill counts in the war, known for his pyromaniac tendencies.
Tubbo swallows.
—Sapnap actually seemed kind of interested! He was asking a buncha questions and even told Wil he’d be in touch. Wilbur agreed, but he honestly seemed super pissed off. I hope he’s not mad at me for the money thing. It didn’t seem like he was, but the whole police thing was what he seemed to have a real problem with.
He’s actually been talking a ton about the whole unfair treatment and police misconduct. It’s mighty boring, innit, but I just nod along and pretend I understand what he’s saying.
I’m worried about him. He’s not been here for long, ol’ Wilbur from Newfoundland. But my brother’s an opinionated guy. He’s got all these ideas and beliefs and he wants to stand for them. I respect it. I love him for it. (Eurgh.) But it’s only been a month and he’s talking about some kind of protest against the police force.
Whatever it is he’s planning, I guess I’ll be there beside him.
Tubbo traces the words with a careful hand. The words on the page are starting to line up with the textbooks, if only in that abstract connection to police misconduct inspiring Wilbur Soot to step up in defiance against an unjust system. Tommy remains entirely absent from the records, save for this little piece of history. A diary in his hands as he kneels in old ruins.
His knees ache. Tubbo sighs, adjusting his seat as he frowns down at the pages. Tommy Soot. “Tommy Soot.” He whispers aloud, just to solidify it, make it real. It echoes in the empty remains of the house, lingering in the air. With his voice, the name becomes real and true. “Tommy.” Tubbo repeats.
He turns the page.
Wilbur is a fucking arsehole.
Tubbo fights a small smile. He loves it—the personality of the boy in these pages. The way Wilbur Soot, an untouchable, two-dimensional historical figure is humanized through his words of complaint.
I swore he wasn’t mad at me for the money thing. He agreed with me when I said it wasn’t my fault, even though I was fucking lying! He didn’t seem bothered by it! All he was on about was Sapnap, and the guards, and the “unjust system of law enforcement” and whatnot.
Now he’s mad that I’m not mad about it! I told him he’s taking the fucking piss, that I’m all for fighting the injustices or whatever. He doesn’t believe me.
Just because I don’t drown myself in books on Esempi’s government and documents and legislature shit doesn’t mean I’m a fucking narc. I’m a man of action! Wil’s gone off the deep end on this stuff. He’s completely abandoned the potion business, and is spending all his time in the van reading about boring shit.
That leaves me with absolutely nothing to do. It’s crazy, because two months ago I was fine. Without Wilbur, I did stuff! I had fun! Now that he’s here and ignoring me, I feel like I’ve got nothing to do. I’m fucking alone.
Hidden behind the crass words and sharp phrases is an undercurrent of loneliness. Like recognizes like, and Tubbo can see the isolation in himself mirrored in Tommy. It makes him wistful.
I’ve got to do something to prove to Wil that I’m completely on board with whatever he’s got going on in that dumb head of his. He was talking the other day about what all this studying is leading him to:
Wilbur Soot wants to start a nation.
Tubbo stared at the words, this thumb playing with the edge of the yellowed paper. He swallowed, exhaling softly. He knew where the words had been leading; he had felt the humming build of righteous patriotism, had recognized the seeds with which Wilbur Soot planted a country. His country. The very same nation that Tubbo now lays down his life for, a weary young soldier amongst thousands.
He’s fucking insane. But fuck it, I am too. I’ll be right beside him. I will build this goddamn nation, for Wilbur.
Tubbo can’t imagine a loyalty that makes his own soul thrum with purpose and longing. He has no ties of his own; only a vague sense of duty shackling him to his conscripted service, and it leaves him listless and untethered, floating in a sea of apathy. He cannot imagine a devotion that consumes him, that pushes him forward in the way it seemed to do for Tommy.
He wonders, though. He dreams.
If he closed his eyes, he could picture it. Standing beside Tommy, watching the boy’s face light up with infectious joy, the sun shining brightly over a small clearing where L’Manberg would be born.
::
notes: (my plans for the fic if it had continued)
- Journal!Time Dream will be called Cornelius, while Present!Time Dream is just Dream. It will be revealed they are one in the same and he’s immortal or something like woahh callback to Karl’s The Village that Went Mad
- Tubbo will finish the journals and get sent to the frontlines and confront Dream, who looks at him and sees Tommy
- Fundy belongs to journal!time and is still trans king
Schlatt in Journal!Time, Quackity in Present!Time MIRRORS MIRRORS I LOVE CHARACTER FOILS
- Tubbo will find out Technoblade and Wilbur/Tommy are brothers and CHOKE bc what do you mean the Blood God of the Antarctic Empire is Tommy’s older brother
- In the history books, it is never known that Phil, Wilbur’s father, killed him. Everyone thought Wilbur died in the explosion. Tubbo will sit and read tear stained pages describing how Wilbur begged to die
- Ghostbur can still exist but in the sense of a grief-stricken Tommy lowkey hallucinating. Like “I swear I can still hear his voice. I can feel his hand on my shoulder. I can hear him crying. He sings of blue.”
OHHH IM COOKING
- I cannot figure out how Ranboo fits into all of this I might leave him out of it sorry my guy
- Idk where to end the journals 😭
- Tubbo cries as he reads about the duel and the deal that won L’Manberg’s freedom and independence. Tommy was shot, nearly died, and gave up his most prized possessions and is completely erased from history JUSTICE FOR TOMMY GODDAMN
- What I want is for Tubbo to mirror us, the readers, the viewers, the fans. Tubbo reads of Tommy’s life and his pain and cries alongside him and grieves alongside him, living vicariously through Tommy’s highs and lows while relating it to his own life