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Here’s something most people don’t know about Tubbo Underscore: deep in his ender chest, far deeper than anyone would ever care to see, sits a compass. It’s broken. Never really worked right again after the creeper incident. He’d kept it despite that, even if there wasn’t any point in keeping something so sentimental on him as president. After the tower incident and L’manberg’s untimely demise, it had gone forgotten- either too painful to look at or a reminder of one of his lowest points. Now, though, it’s less of a broken tool and more of a Schrödinger’s cat.
He kneels in front of the ender chest on the Bee N’ Boo Hotel construction site, pouring through the valuables he stores inside it with fearful caution. Everything is in slow motion as he grabs for the compass inside, terrified of what he might find. He brushes up on something sharp and hisses instinctively, using all of his self-control to not flinch away and to keep his grip on whatever just cut him. That was glass, he thinks distantly. There’s shattered glass that wasn’t loose in his ender chest earlier. Something broke. The sinking pit grows in his stomach. A cat’s paw lays limply from the side of the box, unmoving. The only thought that runs through his mind is “Prime, not again.”
He pulls his hand out, compass gripped in it firmly. There are small cuts on his fingers and... oh.
That morning, the compass had been worse for the wear, sure. Metal dented and glass cracked in places the explosion had hit it hardest, the needle itself frozen pointing somewhere just left of north. This cannot be that same compass. It’s shattered- completely exploded. The glass has busted outwards, and the metal of the base is crumpled and warped like someones just beaten it into a block of obsidian. The needle spins wildly, like there’s nowhere left for it to point.
The base reads “Your Tommy” still, clear as day. And he. And he. Fuck. What more is there to say?
The cat must be gone, then. It’s more underwhelming than he thought it’d be.
His brain reaches the logical conclusion before the thought can fully form in his mind. It’s real. It’s actually real this time. There’s no fucking tower, there’s no explosion, just a chat message and an open box and a corpse he’ll never get to see. And that’s it, isn’t it? All the work he’s done, all the times he *swore* to himself this shit wouldn’t happen and he’s gone. He wishes he could bring himself to cry.
He wants to wake up. He wants to go back to sleep. He wants to talk to his best friend for the first time in weeks and say everything he’s never gotten to say and apologize for everything he’s never gotten to apologize and instead all he can do is sit and stare and... Tommy’s not here.
He lets out a morbid giggle at the thought. Here’s a funny joke, he tells the compass. Who am I without Tommy? The broken compass smiles one of those smiles he only ever gives his best friend, the smile Tubbo hadn’t seen on him since November, and tells him he’s himself. The laugh Tubbo lets out is really more of a sob than he’d like to admit. How the tables have turned on him. It’s a lot easier said than done, isn’t it?
The reality is that Tubbo was always supposed to die first. He’d come to terms with that a long time ago, even if he’d never admitted it. Selfishly, he’d also come to terms with the fact that he’d never have to be left behind. And then he was. And then the remnants of a compass he hadn’t touched in weeks exploded into shrapnel and Tubbo lived. It’s not fair. Prime, it’s not fair.
He needs- he- he’s angry. He has to keep reminding himself of that, like the mantra will fill the gaping chunk ripped from his chest with fire and vitriol and something more than empty space.
The forced anger is his own special kind of denial, he thinks. Puffy told him there were stages to this whole thing- that he’d realize Tommy was... that he’d realize something had happened eventually and he’d be pissed, and that was normal. The reassurance falls flat when he’s experiencing the real thing. He- really, all he is is desperate. The anger is because Sam’s lying . He’s not some kid. He deserves to know what really happened! Tommy didn’t go down easy, he promises himself. Tommy’s not that kind of person. He would’ve fought, Tubbo knows. So... it doesn’t make sense.
He searches. He really, really does. But his writing on the walls is frantic, and his theories grow more bizarre, and there’s no fucking evidence except for the crumbling certainty in his chest that it was more grandiose than Sam says, so be it. He doesn’t care. He can’t. There’s an answer somewhere in all of this, someone else to blame other than the untouchable maniac who’ll kill him on sight, and he’ll find one he likes or die trying.
Surely there’s someone more to blame. That it’s not just Dream and his fists and a cell and a half-dead half-alive cat, that it’s explosions and speeches and a fight worth dying in, like Tommy always wanted. Tommy was the hero. He’d die like one, Techno had promised. Of course, Techno had lied about other things too but. He’d never lie to Tommy.
Maybe Technoblade knows what happened. Maybe he’s the one who did it! Maybe Dream cashed in on that favor the rumors speak about, maybe he’d been forced into something awful. Or maybe Techno had just gotten sick of Theseus and decided to trap him in a dark cell with Lycomedes just to watch him die.
Wow, so the pretentious metaphors do rub off.
Or worse! Maybe it was Phil. At least Tubbo hated Technoblade. Maybe it was the man who found him, 13 and freezing on the side of the road and took pity on him, just for the week. Maybe Phil killed his own son and forgot to stop at just one, taking from the ones who could’ve been his sons instead. Maybe Phil was just cruel, teaching Tommy another lesson he didn’t need to learn.
And yet Tubbo knows it’s not that easy. Because the gunpowder’s missing, but Prime, is the durability on his husband’s shovels low.
Wouldn’t that be funny , he says to the compass yet again. I lose both of my best friends in under a week. Who’s the real speed runner now, Dream? The compass doesn’t laugh. It doesn’t respond at all, actually, because Tubbo’s pathetic and listless in a half built hotel surrounded by nothing but scaffolding and the overwhelming stench of alliums.
The actual anger is hitting him now. He can tell by the shaking of his hands, and the frustrated tears in his eyes threatening to break his no crying streak, and the awful burning tension that's bubbling in his throat. He grips the broken compass tighter, and he lets himself scream.
It’s not a fun scream. It’s no half hearted yelp as he stumbles over Tommy’s feet, or a laughing screech as he jumps from the lemon tree and Tommy swoops him up at the last second. It’s festivals and fireworks and towers and monsters and it’s awful . It’s compasses and prisons and Dream, always Dream, getting the last laugh as he ruins Tubbo’s life yet again for the punchline in another man’s joke. The compass is still silently watching. It’s judging him.
The dam feels like it’s crumbling, and with another scream he winds his arm back and throws the compass at the wall, watching the glass splinter yet again and lodge itself into the hard wood of the spruce support beams.
“Fuck you!” He shouts, watching the compass spin and bounce to the ground with more emotion than he’s felt in months. “Prime, you- why?!” He demands. Tommy looks at him sadly, it’s needle still spinning aimlessly. “You left! Fuck- you weren’t… you weren’t supposed to go.” The compass rolls to a stop. Tubbo’s scream trails off into a whisper, like he’s realized the boy he’s speaking to won’t hear him no matter the volume. The compass doesn’t do anything, because it’s a fucking broken compass. It’s not a cat, or a metaphor, or the only family he had left. It’s not fair.
Nothing has ever been fair. Nothing is fair, the compass is just a compass, the hero doesn’t get his happy ending, and Tommy is gone.