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“Scar!” His dad sounds exasperated, hands on his hips and wings flared out in annoyance, as he takes the two of them in. Tubbo slips behind his papa, as if that will prevent him from getting in trouble. His papa puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Dad demands.
“I’m just teaching Tubbo here how to make fireworks.” Papa smiles down at him, and gently nudges him forward. “Why don’t you show your dad what we made?”
Dad still looks mad, but he looks expectantly at Tubbo. Papa gives him an encouraging nod.
“Look!” Tubbo says, holding the small rocket up for his dad to see. He and Papa worked very hard on it; he hopes that Dad will like it. “Papa make it go boom!”
His dad sighs. “It’s a very big boom; you have to be careful, alright?”
“Of course I’m careful!” His papa cuts in, sounding incredulous. “How could you accuse me of negligence?”
“I don’t know,” his dad retorts. “Maybe because you’re teaching our son how to use fireworks?”
“They’re pretty!” Tubbo declares, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. He had a lot of fun with his papa, and nothing has gone boom yet! They're being very safe. “Papa says we will make it boom later!”
“See, Gri, they’re pretty.” His papa is still smiling. “Won’t you come light it with us tonight?”
“Please?” Tubbo adds. “We worked hard on it!”
His dad’s face does something complicated, the same series of motions that he does whenever he’s going to cave to one of his papa’s demands. Tubbo watches as his dad presses his lips together, sighs, and then shakes his head, waiting patiently for him to say alright, fine, you can do that.
“Only one,” his dad says. “And Scar lights it. Tubbo, fire’s really dangerous, and fireworks can seriously hurt you. Don’t get too close to the firework when we light it.”
“But Papa said–”
“I said no, Tubbo.” His dad frowns, and Tubbo takes a small step back. “Let Papa light the firework.”
“Okay,” he says softly.
He doesn’t have any intention of listening, though. It’s his firework; his Papa had said that they could light it together. He knows fire’s dangerous, but he’s a big boy now; Papa had said so.
So that night, as they’re getting ready to light it, Tubbo runs away from his Dad and over to his Papa. He grabs the firework. “I light it,” he says, a frown forming on his face as Papa gives him a very serious look. “Please?”
“Tubbo!” his dad calls out, sounding angry.
"I don't know," Papa says. "Dad–"
"You promised," Tubbo whines. "I'll be careful, I promise!"
Papa hesitates, but only for a moment. “We’ll light it together,” Papa decides. "Sound good?"
"Yes!"
“Tubbo, what did I say?” Dad yells.
“We’ll do it together, Gri, he’ll be okay!” Papa calls back. He turns to Tubbo and hands him the firework, resting in the rocket launcher. “Get ready to shoot it, okay?”
Tubbo pulls back the string. “Like this?”
“Point it higher,” Papa says.
Tubbo does.
“Okay, now keep it like that, until I tell you to let go,” Papa says sternly. “And you have to let go when I say so, okay?”
“Okay!”
“When do you let go?” Papa asks.
“When you tell me too,” Tubbo says, a bit of a whine slipping into his voice. Adults can be so silly, sometimes, asking him things that he already knows, but if he has to answer the question in order to shoot the firework, then he’ll answer the question.
“Good.” Papa grins. He strikes the match on the flint. Then he leans over and carefully lights the string of the firework.
“Let go!” he commands.
Tubbo…hesitates. The fire is currently very small, but he finds himself suddenly afraid of the tiny flame burning towards the firework. “Will it–”
“Tubbo, let go!” his Papa shouts, reaching to grab the bow. In his shock, Tubbo lets go, but not before a sharp burst of flame singes his forearm and palm as it races by. Fire shoots up his arm, and Tubbo wails in pain. Distantly, he hears his Papa swearing.
“Tubbo! Scar!” his dad comes running over, the firework that now explodes in the air forgotten about. “What happened?”
“Didn’t let go in time,” Papa says, shaking out his own arm. “Tubbo, hey, what happened?”
“It hurts,” Tubbo wails. His arm won’t stop burning from where the firework touched it.
Dad takes out a small bucket of snow and places some snow over Tubbo’s arm. The snow is cold and soothes his skin. As Tubbo tries to calm himself down, Dad inspects Papa's arm, before putting some snow on him, too.
“You can’t hold onto fireworks, Tubbo,” his Dad says. “Are you okay?”
“I got scared,” he says between hiccups and sobs. He wipes at his eyes with his unburnt arm. “The flame was so close to me.”
“That’s why you have to release it,” Papa says. His face is serious, not a trace of mirth in his green eyes. “Next time, let go immediately.”
“Okay.” He sniffs. “Are you mad?”
“Me? No.”
“Dad?”
His dad sighs. “I was worried that this would happen,” he says. “But I’m not mad, okay? I’m glad you’re not hurt. Your arm will heal. And be more careful around fireworks.”
“Sorry,” Tubbo says, still sniffling. “I wanted to light it.”
“Next time, release it immediately.”
“Okay.” Tubbo swipes at his eyes again. “Sorry.”
“Chin up,” Papa says. “We might even have matching scars.” He gives Tubbo a wink. “That’ll be cool, right?”
Tubbo misses the way his dad’s face shutters, too busy cheering at the prospect of having a matching scar. His papa has many scars, and his dad always says that scars are the mark of a hero, that there’s nothing wrong with having scars. It must mean that he’s a hero, too! A hero like Papa!
So even though his arm really, really hurts, he puts on a smile.
“I’ll be more careful around fireworks!” he promises, and he means it, too.
(“Scar,” Grian says, once they’ve tucked Tubbo in. “Fireworks? Seriously?”
“I thought he’d be fine,” Scar replies. He doesn't say anything else. What happened today is ultimately his fault. If he hadn't let Tubbo light the firework, then Tubbo wouldn't have gotten burned. He can't find fault with Grian's distress.
“Matching scars,” Grian says, rather shakily.
“I know you tell him that scars are nothing to be ashamed of,” Scar says. “You’ve told him that all the heroes have scars.”
Grian’s silent for a long, long time. Scar is patient, knowing that sometimes Grian can’t find the words to say the things that he wants to, but this feels like it takes longer than usual.
Finally, when they’re both in bed, the lights off, and Scar has given up getting an answer, Grian says, “Sometimes I get visions of him and he looks exactly like you.”
Scar opens his mouth. Closes it without saying anything, because there’s nothing he can say to comfort Grian when Grian gets his visions.
Tubbo is a small, golden-haired child with green eyes, and his eyes are really the only part of him that resemble Scar. The rest is all Grian. To look like Scar would mean…
“Exactly like me?” he whispers. He traces the scar that stretches across his face.
“A mirror image, Scar,” Grian whispers back.
No wonder Grian had told Tubbo not be ashamed, or afraid, of a scar.
Grian doesn’t say anything else. Scar touches his scars and tries not to think about similar ones stretching across Tubbo's body.)
Today is a celebration in honor of Manberg and Schlatt, and most importantly, democracy. Tubbo, Quackity, and Schlatt have been working hard to prepare games and events for all the residents of Manberg to enjoy. Most of the work had fallen on to Tubbo's shoulders, but that's okay; he wants to help his country as best as he can. Besides, he's been excited all week–he gets to say a speech, and he can’t wait to share it.
The party starts out amazingly. They play Drop the Man and then do a few rounds of boxing, and everyone’s having a great time. Tubbo himself can’t stop laughing.
Then Wilbur and Tommy call for him.
“Tubbo, I’m having second thoughts. When is your speech?” Wilbur says, almost as soon as Tubbo arrives. He doesn't even have the time to catch his breath as Wilbur interrogates him.
“I don’t–?” Tubbo frowns.
“Is he a good leader?” Wilbur asks. “Friend to friend, not as a spy.”
Tubbo flounders a bit, because Schlatt is a good leader, just different than Wilbur, and then Tommy cuts in and asks, “Tubbo, are you happy?”
“Yes.” And it’s true. Tubbo has been enjoying his life under Manberg, and he’s been so excited for the party.
“Do you think Manberg should be blown up?” Wilbur asks.
And it’s Wilbur who’s asking him, and Tubbo trusts Wilbur’s judgment, even though he’s not certain that Manberg needs to be blown up.
“Well, I trust your better judgment,” he says, and Wilbur explodes.
“You’re just a yes man,” he snarls, and Tubbo takes a few steps back as Wilbur gets in his face, spitting vitriol at him. “You’ll go along with whatever I tell you–”
“Wilbur, Wilbur, you can’t say that,” Tommy snaps, shoving in front of Tubbo. “Tubbo. Do you think we should blow the festival up?”
If Wilbur thinks they should, then Tubbo will go along with it. But in actuality? It doesn’t sit right in his gut. A lot of people will die here today, if Wilbur blows up the festival. Their day for celebration will become a day of loss and grief, another casualty in the unbalanced turmoil of their country.
And Tubbo doesn’t want that.
“I don’t think you should blow it up,” he tells Wilbur.
“Okay,” Wilbur says. “Okay.”
“I have to make my speech soon,” he says. “I should be going.”
“Tubbo,” Tommy says, grabbing his hand. “Be safe.”
“Thanks, Big Man,” he says.
He feels lighter after that, knowing that he saved Manberg, and all the people living in it. Everyone at the festival will be going home safe and sound, because he told Wilbur not to blow it up.
He feels lighter than he has in a long time.
Then it is time for him to make his speech. He climbs onto the podium, a mixture of nervous and excited. The microphone is just a little too tall for him, but that’s okay, he can stand on tiptoes. The citizens of Manberg–his friends–look up at him, faces tilted up eagerly, waiting to hear what he has to say.
He clears his throat. “ A wise man once told me,” he begins, “That L'Manburg was like a lettuce. There's so many layers of tasty and healthy goodness, and once you wash off all the caterpillars and worms off the surface, it's a pretty goddamn good meal. ”
He smiles, feeling more confident in his delivery. “Schlatt has successfully washed all of the insects off our great nation,” he declares. “And with that, he’s allowed the goodness and tastiness to shine through.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to look around at what we’ve built today.” He gestures out at Manberg, at the gardens and the buildings and the homes, and he feels confident in what they have built, together.
“Look at each other. All of this, thanks to democracy and the leadership of Jschlatt. And isn’t that what this festival is all about? Democracy. Our people have been beaten down by royals and dictators for so long. Now, we are finally free! Free to elect who we want. Free to live how we want, and most importantly, free to go wherever we want without the CONFINES of those huge black walls. So with that in mind, I would like to thank everyone for coming to this wonderful event…Let the festival begin.” He beams down at the people of Manberg.
It’s all going to be okay, he thinks. They’re going to be okay.
And then Schlatt is pushing him aside, and yellow concrete suddenly surrounds him on three sides, with a little fence preventing him from getting out.
“Schlatt?” Tubbo asks, all of his former happiness gone. “What’s going on? I’m stuck.”
He’s ignored, concrete walls pressing around him without a care for him.
“Schlatt?” Tubbo asks, pushing against the yellow concrete that surrounds him. “Schlatt, Schlatt, I can’t get out.”
Schlatt ignores him, putting more concrete up.
“Schlatt? Schlatt?” Tubbo asks, heart pounding. “Schlatt, let me out.”
“Tubbo,” Schlatt says, voice booming and echoing in Tubbo’s ears. “I’ll cut to the fucking chase.”
“Schlatt?” Tubbo repeats. “Schlatt, I can’t get out.”
“I know what you’ve been up to,” Schlatt says.
“What…what have I been up to?” Tubbo asks, fear creeping into his veins.
“What have I been up to, he asks?” Schlatt demands, maniacal laughter slipping out between his words. “What have I been up to? With the idiots, the tyrants that we kicked out of the server months ago, weeks ago! I know what you’ve been doing buddy, with the tunnels and missing from great events–you walked off in the middle of this one! So don’t try to tell me that you haven’t done anything wrong, because everyone knows it! I sees it with my own two fucking eyes!”
Tubbo retreats, or tries to retreat. The concrete is rough against his back. Schlatt keeps yelling, and Tubbo can’t escape, not from Schlatt’s anger or from his own rising panic.
“Do you know what happens to traitors?” Schlatt asks.
“No,” Tubbo says weakly. It’s all he can manage to say. He doesn’t know what’s happening.
It was supposed to be a festival celebrating their achievements.
“Technoblade!” Schlatt calls, and Technoblade comes up. “We like to send messages around here.”
Tubbo presses himself further against the box. It doesn’t do much good.
“Now that we’ve got Tubbo in the box…tubbox…” Schlatt laughs, Quackity laughs, Technoblade laughs. Tubbo forces a weak laugh of his own.
“As the enemy of the state, and as the perpetrator to these awful, awful people–”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Tubbo protests.
“Neither do I,” Schlatt says. “Anyways, Technoblade, I want you to take care of him.”
Tubbo can barely hear anything over the roar of his own heart. Schlatt is talking in a low, sinister voice, telling Technoblade to take him out. Technoblade is laughing a bit, joking in an attempt to lighten the mood and stall for time, but Tubbo can’t get out of the box and it doesn’t seem like it’s a joke anymore.
“Take him out, on this fucking stage!” Schlatt yells suddenly, losing his composure, and Tubbo jumps. “Take him out right now, and make it hurt!”
“Schlatt–” Quackity says.
Tubbo stares at the fireworks in Technoblade’s hands. Technoblade’s hands are shaking; the fireworks are shaking. Maybe he’s shaking too.
“There are no fucking traitors in my goddamn country, are you kidding me?!” Schlatt screams. “My right-hand man!”
Tubbo hits the concrete again. His knuckles are scraped and the concrete is solid as ever. He can’t stop hitting the concrete, like maybe this time it’ll break and he’ll be out of this nightmare.
Manberg was supposed to be safe .
Blood drips down his knuckles. The yellow concrete is threatening to eat him whole.
“Technoblade?” he asks, his voice shaking.
“You’re going to make an example of this miscreant?” Schlatt demands. His voice is so loud and he sounds so angry.
“Tubbo, Tubbo…I’m sorry,” Technoblade says, raising a firework and pointing it directly at him.
It’s pointed right at him and he’s stuck in a box. There’s a firework pointed at him and he’s going to get burned again.
“I’ll make it as painless and colorful as possible,” Technoblade promises.
Tubbo stares at the firework that Technoblade lights. He watches as it flies towards him: everything happens in slow motion, from the careful release of the arrow from Technoblade’s bow, the snapping of the string, to the rocket arcing towards him.
Distantly, Tubbo thinks about another firework, this one shooting up from an arrow that he didn’t let go of in time, a blaze of fire shooting past his arm, burning his papa, burning him, fire racing along his skin.
I’m sorry, Dad, he thinks. But it looks like I wasn’t careful around fireworks after all.
The world explodes in a fiery inferno of purple.
(“Blood for the Blood God,” a thousand voices chorus in unison.
They sound like his Dad, for some reason.)
Three days after his execution, Tubbo traces the burn over his left eye. He hasn’t had the strength to properly look at it, one eye now blind from the force of the fire. It’s been so much just adjusting to the loss of vision. Even now, he doesn’t think he wants to see what looks at him back from the mirror, but it’s important that he sees the damage. He has to know what it looks like.
An angry red starburst glares back at him, stark against his face. It stretches over his nose and curves down his cheek. It is achingly, achingly familiar under his fingers as he smoothes burn cream over the skin. Eventually, it will stop hurting so much, but he’ll be left with the scar forever.
It looks just like his Papa’s, Tubbo thinks.
The only difference is that it’s on the wrong side.