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TW // Tommy death, hinted suicide
The first time he hurt himself was when he was only six years old. He doesn’t really remember it, and only knows it through tales that his family would recite to him and the etched scars across his body. They have forgotten now, as they have many other things.
They told him that it was a rainy day, or, that was how it was told most of the time. The grass was wet and slippery and he’d fallen prey to it, after having snuck away from the family.
One wrong step; he tripped; he fell; and he could’ve very much died there, if they weren't already on the search for him already.
The horror didn’t really come to him. Not really, when he barely remembers it having happened himself, and he might’ve regarded it as a false memory if the scars didn’t exist as witness.
Though, thinking about it now, blood cold on his back and head barely functioning, with only the sound of the ocean in the distance, solitude, alone, he feels that maybe he hadn’t forgotten the horror, per se, but that the horror hadn’t existed in the first place.
—From June 8 2021
TW // mentions of injury , nukes , mentions of war, mentions of death, major character death, tubbo death
Nothing felt right. That was all right, all right, the whole left side of his body was burnt badly and he was beaten and bruised. He’d only been able to escape due to the army of totems left behind. Totems. He wondered what would happen to them in his final act, of the final act. Would they be used? Blown to smithereens? Maybe they wouldn’t even get scratched? Dropping them from the highest point of the SMP didn’t work, what was to say nukes would? He staggered over to the military base, abandoned for the war, looking worse for wear. Manifold had kicked him out long since and this was enforced via turrets, but with them gone to manifold’s inventory ‘to shift the tides of war in his favor’, there were none left to defend the base. (Everything nowadays was about the war. That was how Ranboo had gone, a small pendant safely secured around his neck with gold strings, gone to help the syndicate. For the war. For his family. For his friends.) He’d gone in guns blazing, expecting death, but even then they’d failed to kill him. (They’d failed to kill Tommy too, and in embarrassment had killed him off in the veil of night, in his own bed, in his own home.) He stopped retreating into memories of the far past, taking strut after strut into the lab he once shared. He’d considered Manifold a friend, and for a brief moment wondered if they would forgive him, if he didn’t draw the curtains. They stood before the furthest room, metal door left ajar, left unconsidered. Paper was strewn about everywhere in the corridor, covered in dirt and dust, as were the walls with vines. He ignored the papers, useless in all their redacted glory. Within the room he walked up to the rightmost wall, counting the grooves between the tiles. Made of a mixture of bone, concrete, and quartz, a powerful block that they’d invented together, pulled together by a common silicone mixture recommended by Foolish. In what felt like seconds he’d counted all the way up to twenty, and sure enough, right there, was a small ridge, that he’d marked out a long time ago. He placed the lever that he’d stolen from one of the control panels. If he was doing this, he was doing it his way. A brief image of Wilbur in his final moments appeared before him, just as Philza had described it. He wondered for a second, if they were any different at all. A button or a lever, all that it took. The stampede of feet echoed in the distance, ringing in his ears. Maybe Eret was wrong, maybe nothing does change. He felt himself smile, for the first time in a long while, as he braced himself for the inevitable. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing” J- Manifold’s voice echoed from the doorway. At this, he could only let slip one sentence. No bitter resentment in his tone, no positive delight. A simple, genuine drawl. One practiced and thought through.
“I’ll get to be the antagonist to their protagonist.”
It was said under his breath, with such conviction, such childishness he said it, but such was honesty. He leaned his back against the lever, arms having gone completely numb a little ago. The burns rushed against himself in a cold flare, darkness overtaking him. O’ sweet freedom at last; and although he wasn’t a particularly religious person, he wondered for a brief second, if they’d ever collide again in other worlds.
—From July 10 2021
TW // cults , possession , murder , death of parent , confinement , sacrifice , mentions of blood , mentions of gore
Wednesday. It’s a day of the week that eliminates at least half of your primary school spelling bee competitions. It’s a day that marks the half-way point to freedom, and to Techno, it’s a hard day of the week to stay alive through.
Techno was a young boy. He was but six when he was first possessed. It was by a lesser demon, but to such a small vessel, such a tiny mortal, it didn’t seem that way. Maybe this was better, that the demon decided to possess a small boy, because if it had decided to possess a grown adult, who knew what damages it may have caused. His parents didn’t do much to help, and it wasn’t that they were clueless either. It was not even that they did not believe in the supernatural. No, they were the ones to call upon the demon, although their target wasn’t necessarily intended to be their own son.
Techno grew up in a cult. It operated in a ruined, vacant house in the middle of nowhere, in good old Wyoming. Wyoming’s a strange state. It’s very barren for how beautiful it is, and very little of it is talked about by anyone else, including it’s own inhabitants.
It’s Wednesday in Wyoming, and Techno had just been possessed in the basement of the cult’s meeting place.
It was somehow, someway, somewhat going to plan. Someone had been possessed (Though once again, the target was not meant to be the child) and the sacrifice had been planned. What was not prepared for however, was the demon’s own bloodshed. A man was killed that day, guts spilt all over the newspaper covered walls and remains burnt to dust upon the satanic circle that was only seconds ago used to call open the spirit. Claw marks that could not belong to anything of this realm littered the man, and black veins popped up across the skin, making the man look more demonic than dead. No one was called, and no one let the word get out. The body was dumped in a lake in the middle of a national park, and nothing else came of it.
It ended underwhelmingly, and Techno had just been possessed in the basement of the cult’s meeting place. No one said a thing, including any comforting words to the confused and dazed Techno. Demonic possession at a young age couldn’t go well though, the world just wouldn’t allow it, no matter how competent you were calling for the possession or no matter how well you could banish the thing. So, he was left with the Voices. He named them, not long after, Chat, as they were all but silent. He almost went insane once, and he wondered if secretly, that was what the higher people in the cult had wanted, so he, out of spite, and for his own sanity, learnt to control them. He fed them ideas and treats, gave them what they wanted so long as it was mostly harmless, and in turn, any other time that he demanded it of them, they would stay quiet and well-put, at the back of his mind, only making a small quip here and there.
So his childhood went. Demonic possessions and nothing good to come of it.
So their childhoods went, demonic possessions and nothing good to come of it.
Their name was Tubbo, years had passed and it was another Wednesday in Wyoming. He was born into the cult as was Techno, although his case was a little more unfortunate. His parents were traitors of the cult; they had demanded they be let go and live out their life in silence, but of course, such a community that killed it’s members in flocks and made such festivals out of them, strung their bodies across laundry lines to serve as party streamers and using roadkill as a table for all their festivities and feasts, of which none knew the ingredient, would never let anyone go willingly, not unless they were out of their minds- more out of their minds than usual.
So, they were killed. Not killed, not physically, but tortured until they couldn’t think of anything but pain, and could not move a muscle, left at their homes and set up as if props so it looked as if they had simply tried to commit a lover’s suicide, only to fail trying to overdose. The reason? Their son had disappeared and his room was covered in blood, which could only lead them to think of the worst. The cult had been more active recently to top it off, and his parents were old and ragged; already mad as were side effects of joining such an inhumane society, if you could call any group of anything inhumane societal at all, if being social meant being living, and sane.
Everything made sense for their neighbors, and they were carted off to mental asylums, as they screamed for mercy and the accompaniment of god.
Tubbo was left alive though. His adoptive parents were humans, but being a hybrid, adopted out of pity, he was more than valuable, especially since he had only, on his most recent birthday, grown horns, the horns of a goat- the second best thing that the cult could have.
‘Descendant of the relative’ was his title, (and of course the cult was not referring to his parents, traitors, ‘Relatives’ in any sense of the word; it was something else entirely) They never spoke a word of them anymore, and out of self-preservation, he had never asked. Being older, he didn’t bother anymore, having already tied the loose ends together. He was pale, being deemed missing then dead, but unlike how the world knew of him only until he was a boy, he knew enough of the world beyond his age of ‘boyhood’ through the newspaper clippings that were brought in every so often, helping him see what had happened without the cult knowing.
Small child, naïve child, Descendant of the Relative.
Descendant of the Relative, what words do you have for us today? Would you talk of the light, that shone through the cracks of the ceiling boards at exactly 5 am everyday, that woke you up from your place on the bed, or will you inquire of the spirit whom punished the traitor of yesterday? Will you ask for the water which keeps you alive, or will you beg for even a morsel of a crumb of a crumb, as you have starved in this ‘wretched place’ as you have christened it? Descendant of the Relative, be not foolish, for you cannot die with such holy blood in your veins.
Descendant of the Relative, the title drove him mad, and Techno watched him from his seat every meeting, the scrawny child growing and growing to only serve as another sacrifice which would fail to fulfill the prophecy that was but a fluke.
And Techno would watch, unable to offer the morsel of a crumb of a crumb, or offer the dew from the leaves from the flora that littered the paths outside, all which gathered in speckles from the rain yesterday. He would wonder if he was still sane at all if not for the glimmer of hope, of escape, of which that collected in his eyes with every news of the cult’s doings outside, recognized only by those who shared the sentiment.
Tubbo wanted to escape,
Techno did too.
Techno despised his Wednesdays, and Chat shared the same sentiment, although for wildly varying reasons. He wondered if they had a life of their own sometimes, when he was left to himself, as they talked of various jobs and resources and duties that he didn’t know a speck about. Then, he’d brush himself off, as those were the thoughts of a madman.
Madman that he was, he attended the Cult only less frequently as he did the Church. He knew the Cult knew, although he knew as sure as they that they thought it was only a cover. He stared at the empty isles of Friday, basking in the silence that came with self-employment. Flexible work hours, flexible free time. 6 am on a Friday, he’d listen to the bible readings voiced by his one and only friend.
Phil was a priest who had attended the same college as him. He initially approached him for a group project, and things had worked out from there. He decided to become a priest upon graduation, no hesitation in his voice as he spoke of his plans. It was unexpected, hearing such sureness from someone only freshly out of the education system, but with religious parents, he had support every step of the way.
Techno stared at the robed man, seeing the peek of green fabric under it. The same green collared shirt every day, which never seemed any more worn than last year. He wondered if he replaced it often, or if his clothes were simply well-maintained. The pristine priest in front of him seemed too distant from the friend he knew, although he didn’t enjoy it any less. Words upon words and verses upon verses, voice having never once cracked since he had chosen his profession. He wondered if it really was a holy calling, a gift, having experienced possession before and believing in the otherworldly. The Voices chimed in, adding their own theories and questions for the man.
They didn’t know much about him, having tuned out more often than not during his years at the boarding school. Day and night, nothing but studying, he understood why they might’ve been bored.
“Amen,”
“Amen.”
Tommy ran down the halls. It was Friday which meant that there would be no one present in prayer except Phil and Techie. He burst down the doors as they finished up their prayers, Phil looking up just in time to catch his eyes. “Ah Tommy, it’s good to see you.” “Good to see you too, old man!” He ran up to the cabinets on the sides, sneaking a few crayons into his pockets. Phil never minded. Techno grumbled, getting up from his seat in the pew, seeing his friend was back to off-duty mode.
“Want to go grab some lunch?”
“What time?”
Lunch was plain. Some tomato pasta at a family restaurant ran by one of Phil’s many friends- and a foster parent for a kid named Ranboo. He was serving them right now, parents busy finishing up orders in the kitchen. The walls were well worn and the marble tiled floor was slightly tinted, but it all came together to make a comforting atmosphere. Maybe it was only because he was used to messes bigger and nastier than this. The pasta was good, as usual. He looked at the awkward kid taking down orders, too tall for his age and fidgeting every other second. His tail was out of sight which meant that he had hid it for some of the more racist customers. It was effective, as he was a late bloomer and his horns had been completely covered by the fluffy mess that was his hair. You could only be able to tell if he told you or you tried touching it.
“A glass of lemonade, water, a kid’s meal and two breakfast specials…” He muttered as he passed by, voice quickly masked by the dull chitter chatter all about.
“He’s a good kid, helping out.”
He only bothered to nod, eyes fixed on the glint of gold in the kid’s hair.
Tubbo was a lonely kid. Fifteen and growing. His sixteenth birthday was coming up, and he had to devise a complete plan and a backup for his escape. He knew what happened to parentless cult-born kids such as himself, and he’s sure they said the word ‘sacrifice’ at least thrice the usual amount around him.
He thought he’d never see the full sun, never see the outside until a week ago when they had to move locations due to the possibility of a bust by authorities. The cult was in a panic, moving the most incriminating things first before the smaller artifacts and trinkets. Blood soaked newspapers were torn off and burnt, and the whole place was scrubbed down clean with at least fifty different chemical products. They were on the run in small groups, and him and a newer lad was paired together, disguised as brothers. They ended up taking a break at a restaurant, the other’s stomach growling like a wild beast. He was allowed a meal, a proper meal, and he met another kid his age. Today was an eventful day.
“It’s Ranboo actually,”
“Whatever Boo”
The kid had flushed, clearly not used to intimacy from strangers, and they quickly made good friends. He wasn’t able to ask about too many things, even under the gaze of the careless man on the phone. He may have some freedom now, but the man wouldn’t be too idiotic as to let him discuss ‘forbidden topics’ such as anything concerning the outside. The conversation was dull in that way, but they ended up with a friendship ring each, a small trinket made from one of those crafting wires that Ranboo had leftover from a science fair.
Ranboo’s was gold,
His was silver.
They were almost matching.
The ring was tucked away in the furthest corner of Bee’s pocket, the worn yellow jacket from childhood that no one bothered to wash except himself.
Ranboo thought a lot about that kid from a few days back, and the ring on his growing horns felt heavier each time.
Though this was only for the moment that he was thinking of him.
Only for the moment.
—From February 4 2020
The village whispered. Hypixel was particularly lively today. The marketplace screeched, streets rumbled, the stadiums roared. The stadiums: ancient walls and seats built atop soil and stones. Skies open and closed, gates existent and non. Their bodies varied but souls did not. All had blood spilt upon, and all were enjoyed and worshiped. Legends led here, and the walls echoed them.
—From July 29 2021
“Here lies the memories and ashes of children long gone” A passage from a book torn to fibers in the second explosion. L’manburg was gone and where it once stood was a crater that allowed bedrock to kiss sky, and for the sky to kiss bedrock. The people in charge of this were still not caught, and yet the people who were supposed to bring a change to this touched not a thing of the case. The files lay on their desks alone, dust settling thick akin to soot on the site. Things were supposed to change, but they didn’t. Snowchester was a lonely place. It was isolated by the design, surrounded only by the snow and sea, the closest major structure Pandora’s Vault, a top-security prison across a great lake. It was home to military testing sites and acres of warehouses, and the only people you saw walking around in broad daylight were factory workers. Even in the smaller communities company was hard to come by, and very rarely did the families end up staying, fleeing the second they had the chance. Snowchester was a lonely place, but it was still a place. A place where people lived. People whom no one else would care about. But Snowchester wasn’t seen home to a lot of great people. From here hailed the greatest criminal masterminds and villains the world had known, not renowned doctors or academics. Snowchester was a place where people lived. They already had doctors, and teachers, and academics. No one went out of their way to become them. Snowchester was a place where people lived, but Snowchester wasn’t a place where people lived.
The sun has barely peaked it’s head out from behind the hills when a loud bell goes off waking up the citizens and soldiers. The sky is a blue bell tinged cyclamen, and the tents a charcoal man-made backdrop. L’manburg, under it’s new lack-of-name, was being rebuilt, and the scene was everything post-war-torn weaved into a single image. Tommy watched the determined people rushing about to their stations, one leg hanging off the far cliff. There was not a thought behind his eyes but a confusing pool of emotions, and he watched the people -less than a speck from this distance- even as the sun clawed up the skies, only drudging away only once it was at it’s peak.