Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the concrete sprawl of Business Bay, casting long, golden shadows over a faction built by ambition and luck. The towers gleamed, steel bones and glass skin, the pride of a faction who was only standing by pure luck. But deep in the heart of its glimmering core, Tommy sat slouched on the edge of a bridge,

It was his faction. His name is carved into the founding tablet. But lately, that name felt more like a hollow brand slapped on something far grander than he could grasp.

Behind him, Luke was making a new build, hands calloused from hours of perfect block placement. Every building that pierced the clouds carried his fingerprint—polished, balanced, a vision in stone. The people loved him.

Bitzel moved like a ghost in the undergrounds—wiring redstone, setting up defenses so complex even God would second-guess stepping foot inside Business Bay uninvited. He was the mind behind the defenses, the unspoken threat that kept their enemies at bay.

Deo, the face of their strength, blood-soaked armor clinking with each brutal victory. In every war meeting, they looked to him, not Tommy, for plans and confidence.

And Tommy… he just was.

He made speeches sometimes. He cracked jokes. He waved the flag and yelled about capitalism and profit margins, but behind his grin there was a tremor—something he didn't let the others see.

The whispers had started quietly at first. An intrusive thought here. A shadow in his peripheral. But lately, they’d grown bolder. Clearer. A voice in his head that sounded too much like himself.

“Why are you the leader?”

He’d tried—God, he’d tried—to prove himself. He built a casino. It was empty. He proposed fights. The others shrugged them off. He called an emergency meeting last week, only for Bitzel to send a sign that read “Busy. Traps.”

Tommy clenched his fists now, the wind tugging at his suit. There was a time people followed him because of his voice, his fire, his madness. But here, in a city run on luck and skill, those things felt… outdated.

He could hear them downstairs, laughing. Probably over one of Luke’s perfectly crafted builds. Or maybe Deo had just stole something from the AE again.

Tommy stood. The wind screamed past his ears. One step forward and he could fall right into irrelevance, literally and metaphorically. He wouldn’t, of course. But the fact that the thought was there at all scared him.

—

The island outside Business Bay. It was a lonely patch of grass near the border—far enough from the faction's towering builds that explosions wouldn’t draw too much attention. The project was simple, at least on paper:

A TNT cannon.

IceBomb.

Tommy squinted at the redstone as he misaligned another repeater.

“Wait—does this bit go here or—what the hell is this even doing, mate?” he asked, poking at a dispenser with the wrong kind of block.

Deo winced. “Tommy, just—don't touch that yet. Ice is still calibrating.”

Tommy huffed, stepping back and tossing a redstone torch into the sand. “Right, yeah, let the geniuses handle it. I’m just the cheerleader again, innit?”

IceBomb said nothing. His fingers flew across the mechanism, building like it was instinct, like he could see invisible blueprints in the air. But Tommy could feel his glances. Short. Cold. Judging.

The cannon was taking shape: rows of dispensers, water channels, perfectly timed repeaters. Tommy’s contributions had been few and mostly wrong. He’d dropped a stack of TNT too early, nearly blowing the whole thing up an hour ago. Deo had laughed it off.

IceBomb hadn’t.

When Tommy stepped away to grab more sandbags, IceBomb grabbed Deo’s arm and pulled him behind a dune. His voice was low but tight, like a string stretched to snapping.

“We need to talk. About him.”

Deo raised an eyebrow, brushing sand off his gauntlet. “Tommy? What about him?”

IceBomb looked out toward the fidgeting blonde messing with a bucket of lava twenty feet away. “He’s ruining this. Everything. He’s loud. He doesn’t listen. He almost detonated the cannon mid-build. I’m not risking weeks of work because he wants to feel involved.”

Deo stayed silent, arms crossed.

“He’s not… useful, Deo,” IceBomb said sharply. “You and I both know he’s not pulling his weight in the faction anymore. The rest of you carry the load while he parades around like a figurehead. At some point, you have to ask—what’s he even here for?”

Deo’s face didn’t change. His eyes flicked back to Tommy, who was now stacking TNT into a neat pyramid, talking to himself, laughing like he hadn’t heard a word.

But IceBomb wasn’t done.

“Business Bay doesn’t need a mascot. It needs leaders. Builders. Fighters. He’s just dead weight. You’re the only one he listens to, Deo. You could talk to him. Or you could—”

“—kick him out.”

The words hit harder than any explosion the cannon might launch.

Deo narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. “Even if I could, which I can’t , because I'm not the leader. then what? Throw him to the wolves? Let him spiral?”

IceBomb didn’t respond.

Deo sighed and turned back toward the build site. “You know what happens when you corner a feral dog, Ice?”

IceBomb raised an eyebrow. “It bites?”

Deo nodded, gaze fixed on Tommy’s silhouette. “Hard.”

As they emerged from behind the dune, Tommy glanced up, still grinning like nothing was wrong.

“you two gossiping about how amazing im holding TNT, or what?”

Deo forced a laugh. IceBomb didn’t. And somewhere beneath Tommy’s bravado, something twisted.

The whispers returned. Faint. But sharp.

Tommy’s smile faltered for half a second.

—

The halls of the Antarctic Empire were silent save for the soft crunch of boots on ice-polished stone. Glaciers loomed beyond the windows, ancient and uncaring. The entire place reeked of quiet power, the kind that didn’t need to boast.

Business Bay had come to negotiate. Maybe trade. Maybe something more tactical. It wasn’t Tommy’s idea—but they let him tag along anyway.

Now he was alone in a frozen hallway, fiddling with his communicator, trying to figure out why the rest of his team had suddenly gone radio silent.

Then the door slammed shut behind him.

A metal clunk echoed through the room—heavy. Final.

Tommy turned around. “Guys? Bitzel? Deo—?”

His voice froze mid-sentence.

Standing across the room, half-shadowed and still as a statue, was Technoblade.

His red cloak rippled slightly in the cold air as he tilted his head. “You got lost.”

Tommy stepped back, panic itching up his throat. “Nah, just... exploring. You know me. Curiosity. Brilliance. Capitalism.”

Techno didn’t laugh.

Tommy tugged at the door. It didn’t budge. A system message blinked in his chat.

[Access Denied: Faction Is Not Yours]

“Funny joke, lads,” Tommy said, louder now, knocking on the door. “You can open it now. Very hilarious.”

Silence.

Techno took a step forward.

Tommy drew his sword—not that it meant much. Techno was already faster, stronger, and far too calm. But then the door clicked again—and Deo burst in, breathing hard.

“Tommy! Move—!”

A flash of crimson. Techno lunged.

The fight was a blur—Deo’s blade parrying, clashing, sliding against Techno’s unrelenting strikes. Tommy scrambled backward, trying to call for help, but his comms were jammed.

Techno’s axe glinted.

Deo’s health bar dropped. Fast.

“Run!” Deo shouted, bloodied and staggering.

“I’m not leaving you!” Tommy screamed.

But it was already over.

A red message lit the feed

[TimeDeo was slain by Technoblade]

Tommy stood frozen. No sword. No backup. Just a broken comm and a warlord watching him like a lion does a limping deer.

“You fought well,” Techno said, voice almost respectful.

[TommyInnit was slain by Technoblade]

Tommy woke up in the Business Bay safehouse—his armor gone. His hotbar is empty. His heart was hollow.

And then came the notification:

He stared at the screen, motionless.

He had died.

So had Deo. And worse, his death had cost the faction. It was more than embarrassing. It was a weakness exposed.

Luke said nothing when Tommy returned.

Bitzel barely acknowledged him.

Tommy wandered up to the tallest tower, Everything was still there. The houses . The casino .

But he wasn’t.

—

Tommy’s casino was alive tonight

He grinned behind the dealer's counter, watching Philza stack his winnings again and again.

"Luckiest bastard alive, aren’t you?" Tommy joked, tight-lipped, as Phil swept in another absurd pile of diamonds.

Philza didn’t even look up. “You should really double-check your dispensers, mate. They’re spitting out jackpots like confetti. Not very ‘capitalist’ of you.”

Tommy’s smile twitched.

He knew Phil was messing with him. Using exploits or redstone bugs, maybe some weird Elytra-timing trick. And maybe Tommy deserved it—he had tried to skim tax off Philza’s faction earlier in the week. But still. This was his place.

He leaned forward. “You know, if you’re cheating, that’s fraud, Phil. And fraud in Business Bay carries consequences.”

Phil looked up at him, slowly. “You want to talk about cheating, kid?”

Before Tommy could answer, IceBomb walked through the door like a storm front. Sharp eyes. Silent steps.

Tommy flinched.

“What now?” he asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of panicked.

“I checked your slot tower dispensers,” IceBomb said flatly. “There’s a redstone loop rigged to a trapdoor and TNT. Someone set this place up to detonate if the wrong item’s inserted.”

Phil turned, interest piqued. “You’re saying this casino’s trapped?

IceBomb nodded once. “Very cleverly. Almost missed it.”

Tommy paled. “I didn’t—that’s not—Bitzel and I were messing with wiring last week. We never armed it!”

Phil smirked. “Or maybe you did. And Ice just got lucky.”

Then, like a script unfolding, the accusation dropped:

“You tried to blow him up, didn’t you?”

Tommy reeled. “What?! No—What are you talking about?! It’s not even aimed at anyone!”

“You knew IceBomb would come,” Phil said. “You wanted revenge. Or maybe you just snapped.”

Tommy’s words stuttered and failed. His heart slammed in his chest. IceBomb stared, stone-faced.

He looked at the three of them, hand already on his sword.

“What’s going on?”

Phil turned to him. “Your boy here nearly rigged his own casino to kill a member of your faction.”

Deo's eyes narrowed, flicking from Ice to Tommy. He did hesitate—but only long enough to make everyone feel it.

Then, he laughed. Bitter and sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you, Phil.”

Philza blinked. “What?”

“You play God, show up, clean the table, and then act surprised when someone flips it. You don’t get to talk about betrayal when half your empire’s built on other people’s trust.”

Tommy looked up, startled. “So… you believe me?”

Deo’s voice was flat. “I didn’t say that.”

He turned, finally facing IceBomb.

“And you. Next time you wanna check a machine, don’t dig through someone’s personal wiring like a rat in the walls.”

IceBomb didn’t flinch. “Maybe if someone here did quality control—”

“Oh shut up,” Deo snapped, stepping forward. “We all know you’re just waiting for the next excuse to pin something on Tommy so you can finally say, ‘I told you so’ and push him out. Grow up.”

The air between them cracked with tension. They’d hated each other for months. IceBomb with his surgical ruthlessness. Deo with his brute loyalty and quiet judgment. The only thing they agreed on was that they didn’t agree.

Tommy, for once, didn’t say a word. He just watched. One foot back toward the vault door. One hand brushing the edge of a backup flint-and-steel behind the counter.

Philza finally shrugged, stepping back. “Messy little faction you’ve built, Tommy. You lot will tear each other apart before I ever have to lift a finger.”

He walked out, whistling.

IceBomb followed, wordless—but not without glaring back at Deo one last time.

And then it was just the two of them.

Tommy and Deo.

Tommy finally found his voice. “You didn’t have to defend me.”

Deo didn’t look at him. “I wasn’t defending you. I was shutting Philza up.”

Tommy laughed, but it was hollow. “Of course.”

As Deo turned to leave, he paused.

“If you did rig it… just tell me. I don’t care why. I just need to know what you’re becoming.”

But Tommy didn’t answer.

And Deo didn’t wait.

The casino doors shut behind him, leaving Tommy alone in the glow of the machines. He hadn’t rigged it.

—

It was supposed to be historic.

The Moon Landing—a massive, server-wide event. Every faction set aside their wars, trades, and rivalries to attend. A rocket launch coordinated for weeks. A temporary ceasefire. A moment of unity.

Even Business Bay had cleared its schedule.

Tommy had been excited. Despite everything—IceBomb’s accusations, Deo’s coldness, Bitzel’s growing distance—he had believed this could be his turning point.

So when he asked, “When’s the launch, boys?” and someone offhandedly said, “Oh—tomorrow. 5PM sharp, server time,” he believed them.

The sky was empty.

No countdown.

No voice chatter.

Just silence.

Tommy stood

They told him the wrong time.

He opened comms. Static.

He tried the faction line.

He stared at the error screen.

And then the messages started appearing.

Screenshots. Clips. A photo montage of the launch: factions cheering together. Luke standing next to Philza. IceBomb even. Deo—stone-faced, silent—staring up at the stars.

Everyone was there.

Except Tommy.

He tried to whisper to someone—anyone.

No replies.

The server had muted him.

Not banned. Not exiled.

Ignored.

The ultimate betrayal wasn’t blood.

It was forgetting he existed.

They had erased him from their big day like scraping dirt off a boot.

One saved voice note from before the landing.

From Sylvee.

“Don’t tell him the real time. It’ll be easier that way.”

He stared at it for a long time.

And then quietly deleted it.

—
It all looked the same.

But inside the room, it was silent.

No chests opening. No comms. No footsteps down the hall.

Just Tommy.

He stood in the center of the room, arms loose at his sides. His armor sat neatly in a corner—unworn. His sword laid flat on the desk, untouched since the Philzas accusation. The communicator, once buzzing with jokes, plans, anything, had long gone cold.

No pings.

No group chats.

No one asked if he was logging on.

Just... him.

He hadn’t been back here in days. Maybe weeks. Time didn’t tick the same when the server stopped seeing you.

And yet... no rage burned in him. Not anymore. No grand schemes, no whispered threats, no violent revenge notes left behind the vault walls.

He walked over to the windows, hands pressed against the glass.

Down below, he saw Luke walking with Bitzel and Deo.

They were fine.

They had moved on.

He could hate them. He should, maybe. For excluding him. For forgetting. For mocking him when he wasn’t there to defend himself. For muting his voice, his place, his name.

But he didn’t.

—

The server hadn’t pinged.

The faction chat was gone.

He was a ghost in his own home.

And then—

His eyes drifted to the desk.

Buried under blueprints, old potion bottles, a cracked pigstep disc, and a map of the Antarctic Empire that still had Technoblade’s name circled in bright red marker… was a dusty envelope.

Unopened.

Tommy reached for it like a secret he wasn’t supposed to touch.

Fingers brushed parchment.

He slid it from the mess.

The wax seal was still held.

The name on the outside:

TommyInnit
To be opened when you're ready.

It had been there for weeks.

A Dream SMP invite.

He stared at it. The words were simple, but weighty.

A place where chaos ruled, where alliances shifted like sand, and where voices were never muted, no matter how loud, annoying, or unruly they were.

A place where he could matter again—not because of structure or power or powerpoints, but because he was him.

He cracked the seal open.

Inside: coordinates. A portal key. One sentence, scrawled in loose handwriting—probably Dream’s.

“Come when you’re tired of being forgotten.”

Tommy sat still.

Then, he stood.

No speech. No note left on the door. No final broadcast. Just him, stuffing the letter into his inventory and glancing at the city through the blinds.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

He packed what mattered in his enderchest, a worn pair of boots, some ripped business bay flag, that was it.

He walked to the far edge of the faction

Past Luke’s base.

Past Bitzel’s house or Wisps, he didn’t know anymore.

Past Deo’s garden.

And at the edge of the server, under an archway no one visited anymore, was a nether portal choked with cobwebs.

He lit it.

He stood at the edge of the world he built, the violet shimmer of the portal reflecting in his tired eyes, a thousand forgotten moments folding into silence behind him—laughter in casino halls, bad sleepovers, whispered plans that no one remembered but him.

The server didn’t call out. The lights didn’t flicker. No one came running.

So with a soft breath, like the last page of a book turning itself, Tommy stepped through the frame—not to chase glory or vengeance, but because staying meant standing in a room where his name had already been erased from the walls. And as the obsidian swallowed him whole, not even the whispers dared to follow.

No one noticed. But him.

Chapter Text

The sand was always cold beneath him, even when the sun pressed down like a relentless weight, burning his shoulders and neck. Tommy sat with his knees drawn up, fingers buried in the grains, letting them sift slowly through his hands, carrying the faint, briny smell of the sea. Exile had a rhythm, a cruel kind of patience; each day stretched long and empty, broken only by the sound of waves rolling in and out like they were mocking the pulse of his own heart.

Dream came every day, sometimes silently watching from the edge of the treeline, sometimes walking closer, his presence a constant he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t escape. Tommy didn’t move much when he arrived. He let the tide roll at the edge of his bare feet, letting the water lap gently, as if it could wash away the remnants of Business Bay that clung stubbornly to him—Deo’s sharp smirks, Bitzel’s unwavering certainty, Luke’s laughter that had once been everything and now was nothing.

He thought of them often, though less sharply than before. Their names were fading, softening at the edges like old photographs left in the sun. He remembered the ache of being ignored, the weight of all the small dismissals and the quiet betrayals, but the sting was dulled now, softened by distance and salt air. He was slowly forgetting them—not fully, not yet—but enough that the ghosts of his past no longer dictated the rhythm of his days.

Dream’s shadow stretched long across the sand. Tommy didn’t flinch; he didn’t speak. The other’s presence had become part of the landscape, as constant as the waves, as inevitable as the wind. And yet, there was something in the way Dream lingered, watching him, that pulled at a part of him he didn’t fully understand. He hated it, in a quiet, simmering way, but he also didn’t look away.

The ocean hummed around him, an endless, hypnotic song, and he let himself sink into it, letting the memories come and go like tides. The ache of exile pressed against his ribs, but it was a different ache now—not sharp and consuming, but hollow and familiar. He could almost imagine a life here, a life that didn’t orbit around Business Bay, a life that belonged entirely to him.

For a moment, he let the wind lift his hair across his face, let the salt sting his eyes, let the sun bake the edges of his skin. And in that quiet, terrible beauty, he felt the faintest stirrings of freedom. The horizon stretched endlessly before him, and he imagined himself there, beyond the past, beyond the hurt, beyond the people who had left him behind.

And even with Dream visiting every day, standing there just beyond reach, Tommy felt, for the first time in a long time, that maybe he didn’t need anyone else to define him. He was still angry. He was still hurt. But he was also beginning to forget, slowly, beautifully, the lives he had left behind, and in that forgetting, he felt the fragile pulse of hope.

He had been carrying their absence like stones in his pockets for months, weighing him down, reminding him of every slight, every small, cruel dismissal, every time he had been overlooked. And now, as he looked out at the ocean stretching endlessly, its color a pale, impossible gray that swallowed the horizon, he understood that the stones were gone. The weight had vanished. Their absence, once unbearable, was irrelevant. He could no longer summon anger, or grief, or longing. He couldn’t remember enough to feel the sting. He barely remembered them at all—and for the first time in a long time, that fact did not hurt.

He traced shapes in the sand absentmindedly, letting the tide lick at his fingers, and thought of all the nights he had spent replaying every conversation, every slight, every word that had cut too deep. All of it had faded. They were ghosts, but not the kind that haunted. They were faint shadows in a part of his mind he no longer visited, like rooms in a house he had abandoned. He could try to recall them, if he forced himself—but why? There was nothing there that mattered.

The wind tugged at his hair. The waves whispered and hissed against the shore. Dream stood there, watching as always, and he didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to offer comfort, or advice, or anything at all. Tommy’s gaze drifted back to the horizon, to the pale, endless expanse of sea and sky. He breathed in slowly, letting the salt sting his throat, let the sun burn at his shoulders, and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: freedom.

It wasn’t a dramatic freedom, not a triumphant release. It was quieter, softer, a hollow space where grief and resentment had once lived. The memories of Business Bay, of all the people who had ignored him, who had left him behind, had slipped through his fingers like the sand he held. He didn’t miss them. He didn’t ache for them. He didn’t care at all.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Tommy allowed himself to exist without them, without the weight of their opinions, their presence, their absence. He let the waves roll in, let the tide press cold against his toes, let the wind tear at his hair. He was here. He was alone. And for the first time, being alone did not feel like punishment.

Dream remained at the edge of the treeline, quiet, patient, unshaken, and Tommy didn’t notice. He didn’t need to. He had forgotten enough of the past that it could no longer touch him, and in that forgetting, he found a strange, fragile peace.

Tommy didn’t look at him; he didn’t need to. Dream’s presence had become a constant, a part of the landscape of this quiet exile. But then Dream spoke, his voice cutting across the soft hiss of the waves:

“So… Business Bay, huh?”

The words landed like a stone in the shallow water of Tommy’s chest. He froze, fingers still in the sand, heart ticking faster than he could name. Dream’s tone was teasing, sarcastic—the kind of joke that had teeth, sharp and cutting. “Deo, Bitzel, Luke… all your best friends back then. You still… miss them?”

And for a moment, Tommy’s mind went blank. He blinked. The question hung there, absurdly heavy, and suddenly he realized… he didn’t remember. Not really.

He tried to summon images, faces, laughter, moments—the kind of memories that used to sting and ache—but they were gone. The edges blurred, the names felt hollow. He could recall vague shapes, faint echoes, shadows of conversations that didn’t quite make sense. He could see Deo’s smirk, maybe. He could hear Luke’s laugh, perhaps. Bitzel’s quiet certainty—somewhere in the back of his mind, like a name on the tip of a tongue—but that was all. All the sharpness, all the weight, all the longing and anger that had driven him to exile—they had evaporated, leaving nothing but… nothing.

Tommy’s throat went dry. He looked at the sand in his lap, at the tide pressing cold against his toes, at the endless horizon where sky and sea blurred. And slowly, impossibly, a strange lightness settled over him. He realized he didn’t care.

Dream’s eyes narrowed, amused, sensing the shift. “What—don’t tell me you actually forgot them. You’ve just… forgotten?”

Tommy blinked again, and then he laughed. A soft, hollow sound, like wind through broken glass. “I… yeah,” he said finally, almost surprised at the ease in his own voice. “I can’t… I don’t… it’s gone.”

The revelation was startling, almost shocking. For so long he had carried the absence of Business Bay like a stone in his chest, weighting every breath, every thought. And now, the stone had crumbled. There was no ache. No ghost. No tether. He could remember faint shapes, faint sounds, faint echoes—but the emotion, the pull, the need… it had all dissolved into the salt air around him, into the endless hum of the tide, into the quiet rhythm of his exile.

Dream laughed, low and sharp, like he had expected nothing else, and stepped closer, though carefully, almost reverently. “Huh,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d ever reach… that point.”

Tommy shrugged, leaning back on his hands, letting the sand mold around him. He didn’t look at Dream, didn’t need to. He let the wind whip across his shoulders, let the tide tickle his toes. “I guess… people fade,” he said softly. “Or maybe I just… stopped caring. Can’t remember. Doesn’t matter.”

The sun dipped lower, and the waves reflected it in fractured patterns, gold and silver scattered across the restless surface. Tommy stared out at the horizon, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the past felt irrelevant, inconsequential. The memories of Deo, Bitzel, Luke—they were faint shadows, almost like they had never existed. And he… he didn’t care.

Dream stayed there, still and silent, watching him with that teasing, unreadable smile, and Tommy realized it didn’t matter if he stayed or left. The weight had gone. The ghosts were gone. Even the people who had once meant everything were gone.

—

He sat on the edge of the worn sofa, knees drawn up, fingers tapping absently against the fabric, while Philza moved around the kitchen, setting down mugs of tea and letting the quiet stretch like thick honey between them.

It had been a year since the exile, a year since the beach, the waves, the endless hum of Dream’s presence, and the strange, almost cruel liberation of forgetting. Tommy had left Business Bay behind in every sense that mattered. The faces, the names, the laughter, the arguments—they were faint echoes now, like voices in another room he no longer wanted to enter.

Philza returned with two mugs, setting one carefully beside Tommy. “You’ve been quiet today,” he said, settling into the armchair opposite him. His eyes were steady, patient. “Been thinking about… old SMP days?”

Tommy shrugged, turning the mug slowly in his hands, watching the steam rise and curl into the air. “Sometimes,” he said, voice low, almost detached.

Philza’s brow furrowed slightly, the way he did when he was considering a puzzle. “What about Business Bay? I know you were with Luke, Deo, and Bitzel back on SMPEarth. You were… close, weren’t you?”

The words landed differently than Tommy expected. Close. Was he? His mind blinked, searching for the shape of those memories, the color of those faces, the sound of that laughter. But there was only a fog, faint impressions that refused to settle. The sharp edges were gone, the weight gone, the pull gone.

“I…” He hesitated, and the word felt awkward, heavy in a way that made him swallow hard. “I… don’t really remember much,” he admitted, finally. His hands tightened around the mug, knuckles white. He had thought he might feel something—guilt, regret, longing—but there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Philza’s expression softened. “You… don’t?”

Tommy shook his head, almost laughing at the strangeness of it. “Not really. I mean… I remember bits. Faces, maybe. Some names. But that’s it. The rest… it’s all gone. Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Philza leaned back, studying him quietly, letting the firelight flicker across Tommy’s face. “You were in Business Bay with them. That was a lot of history to carry around. You’re… saying it doesn’t weigh on you?”

Tommy’s shoulders relaxed, the years of tightness in his chest loosening in the warmth of the room. “I used to carry it all like stones,” he said softly. “The ignoring, the… the arguing, the being left out. I thought I’d never be able to forget it. But I have. Slowly. And now… it just doesn’t matter. Not to me, anyway.”

Philza nodded slowly, reaching out to rest a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Sometimes forgetting isn’t losing,” he said, almost to himself. “Sometimes it’s… freedom.”

Tommy let the words settle over him, felt the truth of them in the quiet flicker of the fire, in the softness of the sofa beneath him, in the safety of Philza’s steady presence. He didn’t remember. He didn’t care. And in that strange, almost surreal liberation, he felt the faintest pulse of peace—a weight lifted he hadn’t realized had clung to him for so long.

He sipped his tea and watched the flames dance. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Freedom. I guess that’s what it is.”

Philza smiled, the kind of patient, knowing smile that made it clear he didn’t need answers beyond what Tommy could give.

Techno stepped through with his usual calm, carrying something in his hands. Tommy’s head lifted slightly, curiosity flickering, though he didn’t move. Techno’s eyes met his for a brief second, a glance loaded with meaning, before he extended a hand and revealed a folded piece of parchment, edges worn, smudged as though it had traveled far.

“Letter,” Techno said simply. “Came through the portal. From Luke.”

Tommy’s heart caught. Luke. His old best friend. His chest tightened, a faint ache that was more curiosity than longing. Without thinking, without speaking, he slipped from the sofa, the blanket trailing behind him, and backed toward the corner of the room near the window. Out of sight. Out of reach. Out of any eyes but his own.

“Uh… you want me to—?” Techno began, but Tommy waved him off, voice barely a whisper.

“I’ll… I’ll read it.”

Techno nodded once, quietly, and retreated toward the hearth, giving Tommy the space he asked for. The letter trembled slightly in his hands, heavier than it should have been, filled with more than words. He sank to the floor, knees drawn up, back against the wall, and carefully unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was unmistakable—Luke. Familiar. Precise, yet messy in the way Tommy remembered from countless nights of shared plans and late-game chaos.

He skimmed, hesitant at first, letting the words settle in his mind. Luke’s voice—written, tangible—flooded through the quiet room. The letter spoke of Deo, of Bitzel, of their new paths: Deo had left for Hypixel, chasing some unknown horizon, while Bitzel had started his own SMP, BitSMP, carving a small empire of his own. The words painted pictures Tommy could almost see: Deo’s sharp grin in a new world, Bitzel building and trapping and laughing, Luke’s quiet steadiness behind it all.

And yet, as the sentences unfolded, Tommy realized with a strange, startling clarity… he didn’t care.

The memories that had once clawed at him, demanding his attention, now lay soft and distant. The ache of being left behind, the sting of exclusion, the nights spent replaying every slight—they had all dissipated, leaving behind only the faintest traces of recognition. Faces blurred. Names sounded like echoes in an empty hall. The past had become irrelevant.

He swallowed, letting the letter rest gently in his lap. He could almost feel the weight of the past trying to press against him, but it didn’t matter. He read Luke’s words slowly, carefully, savoring the rhythm of the handwriting, the connection it represented, but the connection was no longer a tether. It was just… a letter. Just… news.

The waves outside whispered against the shore, faint and distant, and Tommy’s chest loosened. The heaviness, the small stones he had carried for years, had been lifted. He realized with a faint, almost dizzying joy that he could let it all go. He could acknowledge that Deo had left, that Bitzel had moved on, that Luke had written—and he could feel nothing but… a quiet, strange freedom.

He folded the letter back into his hands, carefully, reverently, as if even holding it too tightly might undo the fragile peace settling over him. He let the firelight dance across the parchment, across the shadows of the room, and let himself exist in the space between what had been and what was now.

Techno glanced toward him again, silently asking if everything was okay. Tommy met his eyes briefly and nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, and turned his gaze back to the letter. He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to explain. For the first time in years, the past had lost its pull, the ghosts of Business Bay had faded completely, and he could just… breathe.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, the letter from Luke open in his hands, edges worn, the ink smudged from its long journey through portals and time. He had read it once, twice, letting the words settle, letting the names drift past him like leaves in the wind. Deo had left for Hypixel. Bitzel had started BitsMP. Luke had written. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel the weight of any of it pressing on his chest.

He folded the letter gently, careful not to crumple it, and stared at the blank sheet of parchment beside him. The impulse to respond surged unexpectedly, a strange mix of instinct and connection he hadn’t anticipated. His hands hovered over the page, trembling slightly, as he tried to find the words. The words were small at first, hesitant, fragments of thought, of place, of self:

”I’m here. I’m… okay. Techno’s base is strange. The snow is… endless.”

He paused, biting the inside of his cheek. He wanted Luke to understand, but he also didn’t want to dredge up the past. Not anymore. He wanted to tell him about now—about what mattered: Dream, the SMP, the strange freedom he felt being untethered, being himself without the weight of Business Bay pressing in.

The pen scratched across the page, slowly gaining confidence as Tommy wrote, letting each sentence flow without thought, without hesitation:

“I’m in the Dream SMP now. Things are… different. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

His heart thudded as he read over it, as if admitting it aloud to the paper made it real. The words felt small, insufficient for the story of his exile, of the quiet liberation he had found, but they were enough. He folded the sheet carefully, smoothing the edges, and looked up. Techno was still there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, calm as always. His eyes softened as they met Tommy’s, a silent understanding passing between them.

“Can you… take it?” Tommy asked finally, his voice quiet. “To Luke. Please.”

Techno’s expression softened further. The corner of his mouth tilted up in the ghost of a smile, and he stepped forward, taking the folded paper gently from Tommy’s hands. “Of course,”

Tommy let himself exhale, a long, trembling breath that seemed to carry all the weight he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, feeling the strange, light freedom of finally letting the past go completely. The ocean outside sang its endless song, the waves rolling with a rhythm he could finally match.

Techno held the letter carefully, as if it were fragile—not just the paper, but the trust, the connection, the small act of sending a piece of himself across worlds. “You wrote well,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Luke will understand.”

Tommy gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, feeling warmth spread through him—not from fire or tea, but from the quiet, steady reassurance of family, of someone who had always been there, even when the world had turned away.

He watched Techno leave the room, letter clutched firmly in his hand, the portal shimmering behind him. The moment felt suspended, infinite—the kind of quiet peace that comes after long storms, after exiles, after loss. Tommy leaned back further, letting his head rest against the wall, and stared at the fire, the shadows, the flickering light reflecting off the blank space of the paper he had just used to reach across worlds.

He had written. He had sent a piece of himself. And even though the past—Business Bay, the exclusion, the fading memories—was gone, even though the names barely lingered in his mind, he felt a small, unshakable tether to the people who mattered now. Not Deo. Not Bitzel. Not Luke. But Techno. His brother. The one who had always been there, the one who had come through the portal for him again and again, steady and patient, carrying not just letters, but the quiet, unspoken promise that he would never be alone.

Outside, the world rolled and whispered. The fire flickered. And Tommy let himself finally sit with the calm, letting the weight of everything he had carried for years drift away, leaving only this: a moment of quiet freedom, a paper in Techno’s hands, and a world that suddenly felt wide, and safe, and whole.