Chapter Text
Tommy had closed his eyes when he fell. There was water below him, somewhere, not that he cared to aim for it. He knew he should have been terrified, and he was, sort of. The idea of dying was slightly less appealing after he’d jumped than it had been at the top of the tower, but the falling was a comfort, even if the end result scared him.
He didn’t want to die, Tommy realized. He just wanted to rest.
The impact jolted Tommy from his thoughts. His heart stuttered for a moment before realizing that he was still alive. Water. It was intense, but ultimately harmless. Really, it was the cold that startled him more than anything. He could drown, he thought hazily, his goal would still be reached that way.
But, unfortunately, his body wouldn’t let him. He pulled himself out of the water on instinct, gasping as he dragged himself onto solid ground, silently cursing (or maybe thanking) whatever twist of fate had prevented his death that night.
Well, if fate was going to keep him alive for a little while longer, he might as well make fate his bitch. No way in hell was he going to say in Logstedshire, no matter what Dream had to say about it. The question was: Where the fuck could he go?
His first thought was the snow biome. It was pretty much the opposite direction of L'Manburg, which was good, but it was also a predictable direction. Besides, he didn’t have the means to survive in that kind of landscape for very long.
He could almost hear Wilbur’s voice scolding him for his lack of preparedness. Chastising him for not even having the basic tools necessary to survive.
If Wilbur were alive, Tommy would tell him to shut up, because Dream had taken all his shit. Then Wilbur would probably scream at him in a crazy rage, and Tommy would have to apologize or talk him down, and then he’d spend the night wondering how much of his brother was left after the war.
But Wilbur wasn’t alive. And fuck him, anyway. Tommy shoved the voice aside and tried to think of something else.
The only other place he could think of was the Badlands, but he didn’t really have any allies in that general direction. Most of them were fairly neutral, as far as he knew, although Sapnap and Bad had both visited him in exile. And Quackity’s weird cousin, but he wasn't exactly around anymore. RIP, Mexican Dream.
Murdered cousins aside, the only other people Tommy could remember visiting was Drista, once, and… Fundy? Maybe? It was hard to remember. He couldn't think of anyone else, really. Except for-
“Sam,” Tommy breathed. Sam had visited. Sam had offered him someplace safe.
Tommy didn’t trust that it was safe--he couldn’t afford to assume anywhere was safe--but it was away, and that was good enough.
He started walking, and then running, and then sprinting as fast as he could. Dream wasn’t behind him, and Tommy knew that, but there was always the lingering fear that he was watching. Tommy could almost feel Dream’s faceless stare in Logstedshire, and the faster he could escape it, the better.
Part of him hoped Dream wouldn’t be too upset with him. Dream had tried so hard to be a good friend, after all, and Tommy was just running off.
The adrenaline from the fall started to wear off as he ran. His arms burned from the explosion, his face burned with a fresh cut, his legs burned with exhaustion, and his lungs burned because he couldn’t fucking breathe.
Keep running, Wilbur told him. They’re right behind us, don’t fucking stop.
Tommy shook his head and pushed himself faster. It hurt, but it was welcome. It was familiar. It pulled him out of the past and reminded him where he was.
There was no one behind him. No Quackity or Fundy. No Schlatt. No Dream. Nobody. He was running from memories, which was an idea so ridiculous that it almost pulled a laugh from him.
Almost. Really, he just felt more like screaming.
So he let himself scream. He was alone, who the fuck was going to stop him?
He screamed until he couldn’t breathe--until he was drowning in the memories--and then he stopped. He stopped screaming, stopped running, stopped everything. He let the rising moonlight wash over his bruised skin and took deep, aching breaths until the world wasn’t spinning anymore.
It’s not your time to die.
Fine, then. If Tommy couldn’t die, then he’d survive out of spite.