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Tommy "Theseus" Innit Craft was 26 years old today. Happy birthday to him. It was the fourth of July (if his calendar was still serving him correctly) and a rather chilled, bitter day for the expected peak of the Summer season if he was perfectly honest.
Tommy had woken up just as he did every other morning - long, long legs swinging down from a messy bed, hands reaching upwards to brush against his bouncy curls of a dull blonde and a yawn peeling from his lips. The bags under his eyes hadn't gotten any better, nor had the paleness to his skin.
But that was alright. It always was alright, these days. He was used to a rather mundane lifestyle filled with repetitively tedious tasks and a (vaguely unintentional) steady decline of his health; Tommy had been doing this for years now. Just because he'd once again gone up an age didn't mean he suddenly needed to start wallowing in his own self-pity or something overly depressing like that.
No, he was pretty fine with it all.
...And was still fine with it as he slowly knelt down to the bucket beside his bed, splashing himself with cold water a few times before pulling back up; even as he pulled on an old, worn jacket of green - heavy and padded, with stitched patches of gold and eerily familiar creeper-faces; even as he stepped out of his home, onto a lonely, aged path leading to an even more lonely town.
Or ghost town, as Tommy now liked to morbidly dub it. That was L'Manburg, that is. Not that the place was really a town, or much of anything anymore, if you paid attention to the giant crater, decimated homes and skeletal remains still dancing gleefully around.
L'Manburg had long since disappeared back into nature's clutching grasp. Tommy had watched as the snaking vines had begun to crawl across rotted, oak logs; he'd watched as bushes had sprouted and rivers had formed between the splits in the ground. He'd let his fingers trace over bunches of new moss and nod his head at the few feral animals curling underneath broken cobble structures.
Mother Nature had reached out as she'd noticed the slow decline of once frenetic activity - she'd held a palm over the land, letting the richness of the Earth flow across a decimated area. Broken glass, decaying infrastructure, the echoes of pained cries and weeping calls - all and more replaced by something beautiful. Something right.
(Just as it should have been from the very beginning.)
Tommy had tried to fight against it at first, back when he was around eighteen or nineteen, still somewhat baby-faced (as baby-faced as he could be with the scars, malnourishment and everlasting fury), and still slightly hopeful for a future that would never come to be.
He'd repeatedly hacked away at the new trees sprouting up amongst the wreckages, done his best to refix old houses and buildings that had once flourished, had a good attempt at replacing winding paths and fixing deep patches where the odd barrel of TNT had reached just a little too far out from the initial blast zone.
Tommy had tried. He had hoped. He had given up.
It had taken a year or so until he finally gave up with it all, gave into the idea of just sitting back and watching nature take its course. He hadn't exactly wanted to; he hadn't wanted to so hopelessly lose the one thing that everything had started with, the one thing that he would always cherish inside of his heart. But he'd had to, no doubt about it anymore.
It was him or L'Manburg, after all.
Day after day, week after week, month after month. The one-person effort had been beginning to tear away at him, beginning to claw at his sunken cheeks, hollow out his aching bones, drape a weariness over his shoulders that left him shivering from wild fever more often than not.
Tommy had never been the healthiest man, not even when he was a bright and bubbly teenager before all of the wars and the fighting - the death and the carnage. He'd always had a cold whenever he went out scouring the land with Wilbur; always had to wear extra fleeces or clutch onto heated bags of stones to keep warm between the changing seasons.
Tommy had never been a picture of health. Prone to illness, sneezing from hayfever, huddling in Winter. So when he was working himself down to the bone in a weak attempt of saving his home? When he was staying up through chilled nights, fighting off mobs left, right and centre, and forgoing food in favour of rebuilding?
When he was doing all of that, only for mother nature - with her gentle, forgiving being - to brush him aside, staking claim over a special land that had been lost so long ago, he knew that he needed to stop.
He needed to recuperate. He needed to take care of himself. He could practically still hear Sam's scolding voice in the back of his mind, all 'Tommy! I told you to stop neglecting your needs. What did we talk about, huh? You menace.' and Puffy's gentle, but equally as scolding, reminders of 'Going without food for two days just because you felt a little sick isn't healthy, Tommy.' and 'You need to keep up with your hygiene, for your sake and everyone else's.'
So he'd listened to those phantom voices, taken a bow to the crawling grips of nature and let the Earth take back what once was it's own. (It hadn't been a quick process of regeneration, even with the few potions of health he kept lying around, but it had happened, and Tommy had come out of the whole ordeal a healthier, slightly less depressed, twenty-one-year-old.)
And now here he was again, watching as a ghost town sunk down into its final grave.
(Occasionally, Tommy could still see the spirits of the past as he glanced over the worn area. He could see the bright stalls filled with copious amounts of food and drink, of cloth and rich ore, found deep within the caves; he could see the bustling festivities as his friends ran around, exclaiming about the games and party activities that were dotted around; he could see the outline of curled horns and dark stubble, of flowing coats and soft beanies, of wings and masks and fireworks, oh-so-many fireworks.
He could see it as if it was all still there, all still close to him and loud, loud, loud. He could pretend that he was right in the centre of all the love and companionship - near enough that the smell of fresh bread wafted into his nostrils, near enough that he could listen to hushed conversations between fiances and friends. As if he was near enough that he could nearly reach out and grasp hold of a brother's soft hand.
Tommy could see everything that had once happened and everything that hadn't ever had the chance to.
But that was only occasionally, of course. Only when the night was dark, void of any signs of life or groaning mobs. That was only when Tommy truly felt alone in his quiet life of unwilling solitude.)
So, yes, L'Manburg was a 'ghost town'. It was gone - reduced to an oasis of flourishing plants and plentiful growth, of curling rivers that stretched across the land and dotted forests that had made a home between the decomposed structure of an old bakery, of an old flower shop and a tall, tall tower that had long since been dismissed.
Las Nevadas was gone too, thinking about it. The once-powerful land filled with casinos and homes, filled with clubs and fountains, had disappeared beneath the sandy desert it had been first built upon. Boundless and bare, hot and unforgiving, the land now stretched far and wide, only the peeking top of a fallen casino being seen by a watchful eye.
The prison was gone as well (though Tommy wasn't particularly reminiscent about this one, though it had come as a slight surprise.) The great Pandora's Vault, a structure of obsidian and redstone, of thick iron bars and pools of scorching, never-ending lava, had slowly sunken down, down, down to its dangerous core. Waves lapped, water spilt, and a land of asylum fell.
They followed the theme of everything else. Because as the years passed, as the days ticked by and the seconds sunk down within the hourglass of life, everything had slowly begun to rot. Too many things at once, hidden or not-so, were things that Tommy couldn't stop by himself.
So he hadn't.
He'd let it all happen and prayed to the Gods above - if they were even still watching, if they were even still there - that his friends forgive him. That everyone forgives him for being so weak and submissive, bowing weakly underneath the pressure of the encompassing world.
For Tommy, well, he was only a man. A man, worn down by years of involuntary seclusion. A man - no longer a boy - who had watched, he'd watched and waited and then watched some more as his friends began to shut down too, just as the land had, as their souls began to leave and their consciences disappeared from their very beings.
See, L'Manburg wasn't the only thing that had fallen over the passing years. No, Tommy had lost all of the people around him, too. Every single last member that had resided in the land of the Dream SMP had seemingly powered off entirely - the light beneath their eyes dulling out, their skin retracting into an awful, sickly paleness, and they'd just… stopped.
Stopped it all. Stopped breathing, stopped speaking, stopped existing.
Tommy had been used to it at first, right? Because it had always happened, if in a more toned-down way. It had occurred ever since he'd woken up on his first day on the land - July the fourth and barely sixteen. There would be periods, see, where his friends would stop working for a little bit.
They'd freeze in place after a while of activity - usually a few hours, give or take - and then they'd just… power down. He sort of felt as if he'd been staring at robots, animatronic-like figures that needed time to recharge themselves back to full health and workability. (Though that had been dubbed a ridiculous idea and notion, in the end.)
They never remembered it happening, only being acutely aware of their prior moments of cognizance. Tommy had tried to understand it, had tried to work out what was going on every time that Tubbo suddenly stopped talking to him midsentence, dissolving into a frozen mess and an odd position.
But there had never been an answer for him.
So he'd done what anyone else would do in his situation; he'd gone along with it every single time. He'd pretended as if the moments where nobody else was awake weren't his loneliest breaths; he'd pretended as if having to dust off his friends' shoulders, lay blankets around them and warm up their stiff joints wasn't painstakingly awful; he'd pretend as if everything was always completely fine.
Nobody knew. Nobody remembered. So nobody needed to hear about it, especially not amidst the mess of wars and the elections and the horrible exiles. That was how it went, and that was how it had always been - Tommy with his everlasting, never-ending consciousness, and everyone else with their fleeting moments of being alive.
Until these moments of cold, perished inactivity began to last.
Until Tommy was watching as Ranboo and Tubbo stood forever frozen as a pair outside of their manor, smiling and happy - both looking up towards the sky as if speaking to something that nobody else could see. (Fists punched outwards, a greeting or a goodbye.)
Until Tommy was watching as Phil and Techno were stuck unmoving inside their cabin, hands clasped together in a thick remembrance of their bond and weary but grateful smiles plastered across their dust-licked features.
Until Tommy was watching as everyone began to give in to the bliss of… just not existing for any longer.
(There had been times when occasionally, somebody would appear. A brief flash where their life would spark back up after months of inactivity. Tommy would be so, so ecstatic, even if it only lasted for a mere half an hour before they descended back into a frozen state and a new position.)
Tommy had been nineteen when he spoke to Wilbur for the last time. A conversation that had been the closing one to his period of a crowded lifestyle. He had been nineteen when he'd wrapped his arms around a confused, questioning older brother. He had been nineteen when Wilbur had asked where everyone was.
He had been nineteen when Wilbur froze, and Tommy's heart had sunk down to the pits of his stomach.
Tommy was twenty-six now (once again, a lovely happy birthday to him), and he'd been hopelessly alone for seven years of his life.
"At least I have you, Shroud." Tommy sighed as he glanced up towards the glass enclosure holding his last surviving companion. He'd made it back from his walk around L'Manburg only a few minutes ago now and had settled down within his home for a break. (And perhaps that one slice of cake he'd been precariously saving.)
"What would I do without you, huh, bud?" He tsked. "Go insane, probably. Lose my mind. Have a breakdown. Start a revolution against those chickens that keep on eating my fuckin' crops and then blow the place up."
Tommy tucked his shoes against the side of his door, making sure he was satisfied with their neat position before moving across an oak flooring towards where a small table lay. (It had been a later addition to his home, but definitely a needed one. His tired muscles had been forever grateful.)
One hand holding onto a glass bottle of water, the other picking away at bits of rot that had begun to crawl across his wooden furniture. Damn the leaky ceiling - that was just something else he would need to check on sooner rather than later.
"You know, Shroud, I've told those little menaces time and time again that I'm not in the mood to mess around, but they just won't listen. They keep fuckin' squawking and biting my ankles every time I try, the little dickheads. You'd think they'd have some respect, right!?"
Tommy flopped down into the one seat he had left, sock-clad feet propping against the edge of the table. "I feed them. I look after them. I chase away the wolves that keep on getting too close, and this is how they repay me. I ought to start putting poison in my wheat."
Shroud gave a hissing garble at that, chittering and tapping the glass as the spider curled around. Tommy rolled his eyes.
"Yes, yes, I know- I won't do that. But I could go for some roast chicken, and those guys are really testing my patience. I bet they wouldn't like it if I sat there eating a bag of seeds right in front of them with no remorse."
Tommy slammed a hand against the table. "And they're doing this on my birthday, too! There's no respect these days. I look after this place, and they treat me as if I'm dirt. God knows that they'd die if I just up and left this land to collapse-"
"-Oh! That reminds me; I should probably check on Puffy and Niki soon, right? Gotta make sure the roof hasn't fallen in on them or something - make sure no spiders have laid eggs in their ears while I've been gone-"
Shroud chittered, and the blonde waved a hand around.
"Kidding, kidding. I know you guys don't do that. Or at least I think you don't do that. How do I know you're not lying to me?"
The spider seemed to hiss. Tommy rolled his eyes as if he was completely and totally aware of what Shroud meant by his actions and sounds. "You're being dramatic, buddy. Trust me. I know everything."
Tommy did know a lot of things these days, if he was honest. Being alone by yourself for around seven years definitely did something to a guy, and he'd had to learn pretty quickly how to do just about everything. Because this time, there was nobody else around to help him out when he needed it.
(No Sam there ready to build him a vault to hide his things, no Tubbo to fix up his clothes when Tommy tore them to absolute pieces, no Wilbur to soothe over his wounds and ruffle his hair so, so affectionately.)
"But you wanna hear what I don't know?" Tommy called up to his friend, though didn't exactly wait for a response before continuing. "I don't know what to do. It's my birthday, and I'm completely fuckin' stumped. Last year was fine. And the year before that, and the year before that and then so on, but this one? I'm stuck."
Tommy had woken up. He'd done his daily morning routine (that wasn't really a routine at all and more of a mess of tired actions), and he'd gone for his walk. He'd picked at his slice of cake while talking and complained to Shroud about everything bothering him. But now? He was at a complete loss.
Last year Tommy had taken his cake over to what remained of Snowchester. He'd sat next to the frozen (literally, but not in the sense that they were human icicles as he'd made sure to keep them warm) pair and talked about the past few years without them. He'd joked around, sung horrendous songs, informed them of how their son was doing - the one Tommy had placed in a home back in the Nether after a lot of effort - and ate his cake.
The year before that, Tommy had visited Sam, who had stopped his movements right outside of the hotel, coincidentally. (Tommy had first been wary that it was actually Sam Nook, but had long since waved off that idea. The robot had actually broken down a while before the forever freeze of his friends.)
And then so on, and so on.
But this year, he was particularly stumped. Tommy didn't really feel like venturing out too far to spend his birthday with somebody, but he didn't really want to stay inside, either. He sort of felt as if he was being pulled in two different directions at once, towards two separate ideas, when he really just wanted to… be.
It was hard to explain.
Honestly, he sort of just missed the birthday's spent with people actually responding to him - he missed being able to converse with somebody that wasn't his pet spider and somebody that wasn't only capable of hisses and clicks.
Tommy would take anyone at this point. Even Foolish, who had previously been around for long enough that it almost grew annoying. (Tommy now deeply regretted every time he'd complained about the man's constant activity. If he could take it all back, there was no doubt about it that he would.)
The man gave a sigh, his scarred hand lifting to card through blonde curls as he looked towards his friend.
"Should I just go back to bed, Shroud?" He finally muttered, voice laced with a thick layer of tired defeat. Maybe another nap would do him some good. "I guess I could get up later, do a little gardening. Maybe try and build a higher fence around my crops…"
Not the best idea that he'd ever had, but certainly not the worst. Likewise, it wouldn't be the best birthday, but nor would it be the most terrible one he'd suffered through. Tommy could live with it and then try again for something more productive and enjoyable next year.
Shroud chittered. Tommy nodded.
"Yeah, alright. I was pretty tired still anyway. That walk took it outta me." Tommy gave a slight laugh as he pushed up from where he'd been sitting, joints creaking and back aching as he moved back towards his bed.
He should probably try to fix up a new one of those, too, if he was honest. His pillows had begun to get a little flimsy, the blankets not as warm as they used to have been. But that won't be too hard to fix; thankfully, he'll just have to shear a few sheep and use some of his newly acquired knitting skills for some throws. (Or he could go looking for more of Tubbo and Ranboo's old blankets to steal, but still.)
Tommy began to shrug off his coat, laying Sam's old wear on a hook to the side of his home. It was practically his pride and joy these days, and he'd be damned if he threw that onto the ground as he did with most things.
"You'll wake me up if I end up passing out for too long, won't you, Shroud?" Tommy called up to his friend as he crawled onto the bed. "Make sure I don't completely waste the day away more than I already have."
It wouldn't be a total loss, but it wouldn't be particularly enjoyable either.
Tommy gave a light sigh, grabbing his blanket so he could pull it over his legs. Yeah, he supposed that he was pretty tired, wasn't he? God, he should really try getting more sleep if he planned on living for much longer.
(He needed to push away the nightmares that would claw at his throat each night; he needed to push away the fears of everyone's bodies suddenly disappearing altogether, leaving him truly alone; he needed to push away the idea that this was his punishment, that he deserved years and years of a scarred isolation for what he'd done.
He needed to be better. To be healthier. To try harder.)
His eyes slipped shut, body curling onto its side as he tried to drift off to sleep. He wasn't somebody that needed a certain atmosphere to doze off; he didn't need complete silence or near darkness, but…
But-
But what was that fucking groaning outside of his house?
...It wasn't a mob - it was still too bright outside for zombies or skeletons to be walking around, and the sound of it definitely didn't resemble that of a wandering cow or pig that had gotten through his surrounding fences. It wasn't a mob; it couldn't be a stray minecart that had run off of its tracks or something oddly bizarre like that, not at all.
No, in all honesty- it- well, it sounded like footsteps. Like very human, very real footsteps crossing beyond a wooden path - crossing beyond the very wooden prime path that ran alongside Tommy's home, just as it always had.
Tommy shot up in an instance, heart racing and breath catching in his squeezing throat.
But that didn't make sense.
That didn't make sense because nobody else was awake but Tommy. There were no other humans or hybrids, Tommy had checked. He'd counted, he'd found everyone, he'd made notes. Nobody had moved for years; he was so unbelievably certain of it - and he had come to terms with it, too.
Tommy knew that he'd forever be resigned to the fate of walking this world by himself. He knew that there would never be love or affection from anyone but his own, gripping arms; he knew that he would never hear the voice of another person, at least not one that wasn't from a recorded message in his communicator; he knew that he had been cured with an act of forever loneliness.
Tommy knew. He knew. So why?
It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. That was all it could be. That was all it could ever be. He was just more tired than he had initially thought - or maybe he was still sleeping. Maybe this was a dream! Maybe this was a figment of his imagination and-
But there it was again, that groaning, that echo of a boot hitting against the ground and an old, old path cracking underneath the weight of somebody else - somebody that wasn't Tommy's light form.
Tommy wanted to vomit. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry and sob and hit his fist against a wall.
Instead, he did none of that, and slowly pushed himself upwards from his previous position. Sock-clad feet hitting quietly against the floor, a slow movement of his legs. One foot after the other in a straightforward order towards the door, the one barricade that was keeping everything out.
A hesitation as his fingers clasped around a cool handle. A sharp intake of breath that felt icy within his gasping lungs.
Maybe, when he went out there, there would be nothing. Maybe it was just the wind, just a trick of the surrounding weather that Tommy was freaking out over for no real reason. Maybe he was just being dramatic, theatrical and deliriously hopeful.
Maybe being alone for so, so long had finally driven him crazy.
Crazy as he may be, however, Tommy still had to check. He still had to make sure. He still had to be certain.
And so he pressed on forwards. He let his door gingerly creak open, the wood pressing forwards and brushing against flowers and grass that had grown along the small path leading to the front entrance. He let his feet take him outside of the shade, one foot in front of the other once more until his whole body was exposed.
Tommy let his face warm underneath the sun. He let his lungs take in another deep breath of fresh air.
And then he turned his gaze to the left - to the prime path, a staple of the land, just as it always had been.
Dulled blue met a shock of emerald green, a shaking gaze focusing in on a cracked mask, a smudged smile, a green jumper and dark, hanging cargo pants. It dragged along the figure, along the tendrils of messy, blonde hair, along the freckles and the scarred hands that were held out in front of them.
Oh.
Oh.
"Tommy?"
"Dream?"
And there it was, everything that Tommy had known for the past seven years coming to a screeching, crashing halt.
...Well, happy birthday to him, he supposed.