". . . storm's a-coming."

Harry Albrightson, the captain of the Thomas Hume, breathed heavily in through his pipe, tapping his fingers on the rich, creamy ivory, shaking flakes of black tobacco off. He turned around, staring one of his passengers in the eyes. "I can feel it."

The passenger he was talking to-- a tall, broad-shouldered man with shockingly blonde hair-- blinked down at Albrightson. He was taller than the captain, which stronger men tended to be, but he didn't turn it into something impolite. Good man, Albrightson thought, not to taunt him about his stature. It would have ended badly for him.

"But I can see the sun," the man pointed out, tilting his head back so sunlight sparkled across his face. "There's not gon' be a storm for a while yet, innit?"

"Hm." Albrightson pulled the pipe out from his lips, exhaling. "Maybe so, but I can feel . . . something in the air. Makes my right hip bone ache."

He had never really had anything happen to his right hip bone. It was perfectly fine, just as it always had been. But it made for good ambience, and was helpful during the tourist season. He breathed heavily in through his pipe, the taste of tobacco heavy on his tongue, and wished fervently that these men would leave soon like the tourists did.

The man huffed. "Sir, cap'n, sir, 'scuse me for saying, but don't people usually only have one hip bone?"

The captain hrrm-ed and stroked his long, bushy, captain-like beard. It was something he was very proud of and spent a long time cultivating. "Well, perhaps. However, instead of conceding that fact to a thick moron such as you, I will advise you to shut up and go drink beer with your other lumberjack friends."

The blonde lumberjack, who hadn't really known what the conversation was about, nodded eagerly and stomped down to the cabin to enjoy a good drink. Lumberjacks-- especially mediocre, dumb lumberjacks-- didn't work well with old, wise ship captains anyway.

Still staring out over the water, Albrightson slipped the pipe back into his mouth, inhaling slowly. " . . . it's going to be a wild night," he murmured.

Two hours later, night had fallen. The entirety of the people onboard the Thomas Hume were huddling around an oil lamp, smothering themselves in threadbare blankets and trying not to shiver. The only one who wasn't shivering was Harry Albrightson, who was sitting on a nearby wooden rocking chair and was quite used to the cold of a lake at night.

He didn't have his pipe anymore, but he could still give his wonderful beard a good, long petting as he departed wisdom to the lumberjacks aboard his ship. They were all waiting to hit dock on the other side of Lake Michigan so that they could pass out their bushels of harvested pine trees. It had already been too long of a journey.

"We're gonna get there soon, right?" impatiently asked a man with wild auburn hair, his bangs drooping over his grey eyes.

Albrightson sighed, letting his eyes close so he didn't have to look at their dumb faces. None of them knew ships in any way; it was a little insulting if he was being honest, being asked to steer a group of burly idiots across Lake Michigan for a measly pay of a handful of quarters. The shipping company he worked for must have been insane to assign him to these chowderheads.

Still, those quarters made a mighty fine jingling in his pocket, if he was being honest. And money was money, no matter where you got it from.

So, he supposed he should just act patient. "Yes indeed, we'll get there soon. You just have to be patient."

"Patient my ass," snorted another man, kicking back and watching the fire glow and flicker in front of him. "You're probably keepin' us out here and hopin' to get paid by the hour by that ship company of yours. Well, I say if this takes another coupla extra hours like it did on the way there, I'm jumpin' ship and swimming shore!"

A few other men, ruddy-faced and sporting lazy, drunk grins, cheered and lifted thick glass mugs filled with amber beer.

Albrightson rolled his eyes, leaning back on the barrel he had been sitting on and patting his pockets already bulging with coin. He didn't have the patience to tell them that they worked for the same tree-cutting company; if he wasn't steering them, he'd most likely be guiding another group across the waters. "I'm not doing anything of the sort," he deadpanned. "But if you insist, we can pass the time with a story."

"Oh? You taken' us all th' way out 'ere and giving us a story?" slurred one of the men who had toasted with the impatient lumberjack, drink sloshing around in his mug and his hair and face already sticky with dried alcohol. "I say that works pretty well. Let's see what this fellow has to say!"

"Aye, aye!" The redhead grinned, downing two gulps of beer and swallowing loudly, smacking his lips. "I say we let him tell it and then hope the shore is visible by morning!" This was met with a loud round of laughter.

Albrightson rolled his eyes again, already thoroughly done with everyone in front of him. "Right. Impatience will get you nowhere, as my dear old mother used to say."

"Fuck your mother!" cheered a man, swinging around a large glass of beer and taking a long swig from the drink. This was met with another chorus of yeah! And you tell him!

"Our story," Albrightson snapped, his beard bristling along with the rest of him, "begins on a dark night much like this one. Except it was a stormy night . . . " his voice took on a hushed quality, and the entire crew quieted down, lowering their mugs of beer to listen. " . . . very stormy, indeed. It was such a dangerous night that all the sailors were beginning to consider heading back to the port."

A loud boom rocked the ship back and forth, interrupting the captain's story. The entire crew yelled in panic, jumping to their feet and running around. "What was that?!" shouted the large, blonde lumberjack, whirling around to stare all around him.

Albrightson pulled his pipe out of an internal pocket and wiped the smudges of black tobacco off the instrument. He perched it in his mouth, breathing in delicately. "A storm, my good man."

"But it was-- it was just clear skies!"

"You think you have a sense of time, and yet you drank the night away. Do you have no idea how long the night has been already?" Albrightson straightened up, adjusting his coat. He cast the crew a disgusted look. "No matter how many dollars I am offered, there will be no more captaining you across Lake Michigan-- or anywhere-- especially in my ship. She is much too pure to cater to your beer-loving, swinelike needs."

Just as the rest of the men started to cause an uproar, the storm got worse. Much, much worse. "I am going to steer my ship back to port," shouted the captain over the wind and the outraged shouting of the lumberjacks. "Which is more than I should ever do for you again! Let the story be unfinished, and damn you all straight to hell."

A screaming howl of wind tossed the ship from side to side on the waves as Albrightson exited the cabin to steer the Thomas Hume across the waters. Rain was pouring down upon her, the sky a dark, frothy blue from what little he could see, lightning lighting up the underbellies of the black clouds.

Wind-whipped water smashed into the underside of the ship, trying to drag her down into the depths of the lake. Albrightson dragged himself across the deck, trying to get to the wheel. He smeared the rain away from his hair and his clothes, shaking off sleet as he marched against the wind to the steer.

"He's gonna die out there," muttered the redhead nervously, casting a glance towards the door. "We'd best shut th' door so rain doesn't get in 'ere."

"He's gonna be blown off, most likely," laughed the impatient lumberjack. "Can you believe it? What a sopping idiot."

The blonde man shook his head. He didn't know much about ships and he didn't even particularly like the captain, but he knew he wouldn't let him die in a storm. "I'm goin' after him!" he declared, jumping to his feet.

"Are you drunk as a rock?" spat a grey-haired man. "You'll die!"

But the blonde was already out the door, looking around the deck for the captain. "Are you mental, old man?!" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "It's too risky! You'll get blown away!"

He stopped and looked around, worry written all over his face. "Cap'n! Where are you?" he shouted again.

No captain on the deck. No captain near the steer.

Harry Albrightson was gone.

"What-- what in the name of Christ?" He blinked at the empty scene around him, backing away from the deck and stepping down the stairs to the cabin. He turned around, running and slamming open the door to the room, and froze.

Nobody was in the cabin.

It was like everyone had just vanished with no warning-- the mugs of beer were still there. The lantern was still lit. Even the rocking chair the captain had sat in was still slowly moving back and forth. The only difference was how lonely the cabin room felt.

The man backed away, his heart racing. "Is-- where are you?" he called out, looking around desperately. He ran back up to the deck, breathing heavily.

The deck . . . well, it was slippery, and he was fast, heavy, and drunk.

His foot slipped, and over the side of the boat he went, plunging deep into the frothy waters of stormy Lake Michigan. He tried to swim, water splashing in his mouth as he choked and gargled, but his limbs were already frozen solid. The lake was cold.

So, so cold . . .

Oh, how he wished he had stayed in the cabin.

---

"Right, looks like he's not microchipped. Looks to be about half a year old, and we just neutered him for you. He's caught up on his shots now, too."

The vet handed a wiggling Toast back to Phil, who scooped the dog back up. "Very cute. Are you his owners?"

Phil, who had been volunteered to commandeer the whole vet operation, hesitated at the question. "Um . . . " he looked over his shoulder at the three hopeful faces behind him. Tubbo bounced up and down, squeezing his hands into fists as he stared "That's . . . to be decided," he replied cheerily, giving Toast a pat on the head. "We're not sure yet, to be honest."

Tubbo drooped, immensely disappointed in Phil. This was the third time so far he had avoided the question, and, to be honest, Tubbo was rather tired of hearing him dodging. "Aw, come off it! He was so good last time, wasn't he?"

"That's . . . debatable," Phil said delicately, clipping the leash back on Toast and letting him jump down from his arms. He shook himself all over, tongue lolling happily out as he inspected their shoes to see if they had anything tasty on their socks.

Tubbo, Tommy, and Ranboo all gave him similar, pleading looks, as cute as a clowder of cats (A/N: this is, in fact, the actual word for a group of cats and I love it so much), and Phil let out a long sigh. Tubbo could practically see his resolve crumbling.

It was delightful.

"Right. Compromise. If he doesn't get into any trouble this time, we'll keep him." He lifted his hands into the air, still keeping a tight hold on Toast's leash so the dog didn't run off and start munching through a box of preservatives or antibodies.

To be fair, Toast already had a track record of eating things he wasn't supposed to-- shoelaces, crayons (? Tubbo had found him chewing on a package of crayons that he had apparently found somewhere, but as nobody in the car was known for using them; as such, it was still a mystery), even ankles. Luckily, he hadn't tried to eat Tubbo's psychic squash friend yet, so Tubbo wasn't particularly worried.

In fact, he was positively bubbling over at Phil's words, like . . . like something that made bubbles a lot (okay, so he was too excited for smilies. So what?). He punched a fist into the air, then turned around to give high-fives to his friends. "Yeah! Let's do this!"

Adding to his great delight, Ranboo actually gave him a high-five back, which was splendid. Of course, Tubbo had to jump up a little to reach, but that was okay. The day was going great!

"You can be a good dog for a day or few," Tommy cooed, bending down to coddle Toast. "You'll be a good boy for your papa, won't you?" Toast's tail wagged so fast it was practically blurring, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

"He can definitely be good for a little while," agreed Ranboo cheerfully. He bent down to let Toast sniff his fingers, but Toast, apparently intent on completely skipping that phase, went straight to gnawing lightheartedly on Ranboo's hand.

With a hiss of surprise, Ranboo yanked his hand back. "Ew, gross." He made a face, looking around for something he could wipe his hands off with. "Dog slobber." The vet leaned down to offer him a paper towel and Ranboo accepted it gratefully, wiping the slobber off his hands and dropping it into the trash.

"You really don't like dog kisses, do you?" Tubbo asked, kneeling so that he could ruffle Toast's cheeks. Toast nuzzled the palms of his hands, panting happily, and then nosed at his pockets to see if Tubbo-- who had been earlier designated as the treat giver-- had any sweets hidden away.

Ranboo rolled his eyes at the snug, pleasant scene in front of him. "No, I just don't like getting spit on my hands," he corrected.

"Well, still. That's what you get for trying to cavort with my dog," Tommy sniffed, leaning down to gather Toast into his arms. Toast seemingly had a preference for Tommy, who had found him just two days ago, and already seemed content to cuddle up in his arms and purr like a cat.

"He's not your dog, he's our dog," Ranboo shot back, reaching over and trying to pluck Toast out of Tommy's arms. "You can't just claim him just like that-- hey!"

Tommy was already turning his back on Ranboo, Toast snuggled safely in his grip. He looked over his shoulder, smirking, and blew a raspberry in Ranboo's direction.

Tubbo grinned as he watched Tommy and Ranboo squabble over Toast. It was nice to see the two of them getting along again-- the whole situation last trip could be described as nothing but a fiasco in his book. Still, at least it looked as though they were getting along better.

"Now then, that's the bill. You can just hand me your card if you'd like and we'll get this all taken care of," the vet said softly, interrupting their conversation and tapping Phil on the shoulder.

Phil nodded, slipping his credit card into the vet's plastic-gloved hands. Giving Phil another nod in return, the vet swiped the card through some kind of chip reader before handing it back to Phil with a smile. "That's it! Have a good time with your dog."

Your dog. Your dog. Your dog.

Tubbo felt a little bit of excited fizzing in his stomach at the words your dog. He hoped Phil would soon agree with them-- he only had a couple of doubts about that anyway; Toast was one of the sweetest dogs Tubbo knew.

He was also growing fast, Tubbo saw, looking down at Toast. Puppies got big quickly, and although Toast was pretty smart and had already been almost completely potty-trained, he had somehow grown a few inches taller in the last two days already.

"Thank you for the well wishes!" Tubbo told the vet, polite as ever, and earned a pleasant grin in return.

"Time to go, let's get into the car," Phil reminded them, ushering them out of the door. He waved goodbye to the vet with a smile and stepped out of the room, motioning at Tommy and Ranboo-- who were still arguing over Toast-- to follow behind him.

As soon as they were out of the room, Tubbo turned to look at Tommy and Ranboo, his hands clasped behind his back. "Hey! Stop arguing, you."

"Oh, alright." Tommy rolled his eyes, giving Toast one last pat before setting him down on the floor. Tubbo collected the leash from Phil, winding the leash around his wrist and giving it a gentle tug to ensure that it was fixed securely to Toast's collar.

Once satisfied, Tubbo leaned back and forth on his heels, casting an anticipatory look around at his friends. "Sooo. We're in Wisconsin, yeah? Here to solve another ghostly mystery?"

The doors of the vet clinic made a low humming noise as they pulled open to let the group out. Cold air rushed in, making Tubbo shiver and pull his jacket closer around his shoulders to protect himself from the Wisconsin winter.

December had just come, and it was already bitingly cold, cutting right through Tubbo's jacket and blowing cold wind into his face. He had been completely unprepared for winter in any of the Northern states-- they were cold, almost painfully cold, and instead of snow they had wet slush. Gross.

He lifted his boot up from the sidewalk, sticking his tongue out at the soggy, muddy mixture of dirt and half-melted snow. The winterscape was frigid and relentlessly harsh-- the trees all around the car park were bare, lifting their arms up in what looked like a mock version of prayer to a frozen, white sky. In other words . . .

"It's bloody cold here, is what I think," Tommy complained, echoing Tubbo's thoughts perfectly. "This is such a disappointment! I thought Wisconsin would be warmer than Minnesota was!"

Toast barked in agreement and pressed his shivering body closer to Tubbo's ankles, reminding him yet again that they had to get him a sweater (how did he manage to get so cold through all of the fluff surrounding him?).

"Hmm, Wisconsin sounds a little bit like a new kind of cheese, doesn't it?" Tubbo murmured thoughtfully, shuffling around Toast to avoid kicking him. "Wisconsin. Wis . . . con. Wis-con-sin."

Ranboo snorted. "I'm pretty sure you're pronouncing it wrong. Or are you comparing it to swiss cheese?" He paused, thinking. "Actually, never mind. You might have a point there. It does sound a little like swiss."

"Yeah, with the wis being compared to swiss, right?" Tubbo beamed at Ranboo, splashing his way through a slushy puddle and feeling with a shudder the cold water seeping slowly through his shoes. "I just knew you'd get it!"

Tommy stared at Tubbo and Ranboo, blinking slowly. "Um . . . I thought we were complaining about the weather. I thought we could bond about it together." He sniffled loudly. "I guess that was asking for too much, wasn't it?"

Ranboo rolled his eyes. "Tommy, I--"

"No!" Tommy lifted his hand, stopping Ranboo in his tracks. "It's obvious you don't want to associate with me anymore. If that's how you feel, I won't stop you. But just know you wound me to my very core by doing this."

Tubbo grinned at Tommy, backpedalling a couple of steps so he was right behind him. "You big sap! You know we love you," he said pleasantly, smacking Tommy heartily on the back several times to remind him of Tubbo and Ranboo's combined Tommy adoration.

Instead of looking grateful, Tommy jolted forward, making a choked noise. "Ow!" he cried out, his voice sounding strangled. "That hurt!"

"Oops! Sorry!" Tubbo covered his mouth with his hands, giggling. "Forgot you were still all roughed up!"

Tommy waved his arms angrily at Tubbo, who was helpless to do anything but laugh even harder. "How could you forget? I'm still covered in bandages-- bandages that you applied! Tubbo, what in the--"

"Sorry, sorry!" Tubbo grinned apologetically, bopping himself on the head.

If he was being honest, it was a bit worrying how much Tommy still needed to heal. Well-- being given seven days and a half wasn't really that much time to heal in the first place, but even the most delicate of his bruises hadn't faded.

They'd been able to take the gauze off his eye, so he could see with both eyes again (which was an improvement if you asked Tubbo), but Tommy's arms and his torso were still wrapped in bandages. It was odd-looking, but Tubbo had quickly gotten used to it.

Oh, well. If there was some sort of new problem involving ghost-induced injuries that didn't heal, Tubbo supposed they'd find out soon enough. Still. "You're going to take it easy this time, aren't you?" Tubbo asked, trying not to sound as worried as he actually was.

Tommy raised his eyebrows at Tubbo. "Do I even have a choice?"

"Nope!" Ranboo declared, swinging his arm around Tommy's neck and tugging him closer, which ended up being a little awkward as they were still trying to keep walking. Ranboo gave Tommy a big smile, their shoulders pressed close together. "You treated me like some sort of tulip when I was injured, so it's only fair that I get to do the same!"

"Yeah, but yours was lots worse!" Tommy pointed out. "You had bits of glass in your arm, Boo! I'll bet that hurt!"

Ranboo waved his hand airily. "Ah, all's well that heals well. It's all good now! It wasn't even that deep anyways." He tapped his arm where it had been cut, grinning at Tommy.

Tubbo crossed his arms and sped up, needing a brisk pace to keep up with the longer-legged ones. "In any case, I'm the only one who's not injured, so I'll be the leader for this trip!" he announced. "And no, there's not going to be a discussion about this."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Phil joked, stopping at his car. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, stepping inside and nodding at them to get in. "Let's get in. Time to go."

Obligingly, they got into the car, and the sound of three doors slamming in succession echoed across the parking lot as they did so. Tommy took shotgun (Tubbo was fairly certain that the shotgun seat had been claimed by Tommy now, much to the envy of everyone else), and Tubbo and Ranboo were left sitting in the backseat, Ranboo playing absently with Toast while Tubbo dozed.

He let his head lean against the car window as he watched the scenery speed by. He had been unfair to the day. It was lovely for winter, really, right in the middle of the day, where he could just see the sun peeking out from behind the white-frosted clouds. The car rumbled underneath them as Phil pulled onto the road, driving at a pleasantly brisk pace around the city.

They were in Milwaukee, a lakeside city that Phil had just reached the night before. Apparently it lay on the cusp of America's 'great lakes', which Tubbo thought he had heard of somewhere before but couldn't remember very clearly. Weren't they just supposed to be big lakes? That wasn't very impressive. He'd seen big lakes before.

Still, the town was pretty enough. The townscape tumbled out before him in a charming mixture of suburbia and some kind of brick-laid city. Trees, although bare, flourished on either side of the road, the sky painted a wintery, shade of ice white. As Tubbo rested against the window, the glass felt crisply cool against the side of his face, but not cold enough to make him shiver.

Ranboo, on the other hand . . .

"Wisconsin, Wisconsin!" Ranboo cheered, pressing his face against the car window to watch as lights blurred past on the dew-soggy glass.

"You sure are all fired up, ain'tcha?" Tubbo asked around a mouthful of cranberries and almonds. "Wisconsin's pretty cool, I dunno if it's that cool, though."

Popping more trail mix in his mouth, Tubbo stifled a yawn, folding one leg over the other in an effort to make himself more comfortable in the cramped car. "Listen, the Northern states are great and all, but I'm telling you that we have got to get somewhere warmer or I will literally turn into an icicle."

Ranboo twisted back around to grin at Tubbo, then made a face at the bag of 'gatherer trail mix' he was holding. "You're still eating that? Really?"

Tubbo stuck his tongue out at Ranboo. He was halfway through his second bag of trail mix, which the others insisted was 'weird' and 'unhealthy', as it was the only thing he had eaten in the past day and half, but it was trail mix! Trail mix was advertised as healthy, wasn't it? How bad could it be, anyway? "Yeah. So what?"

"Nothing, just . . . seems like overkill. How many kinds of nuts have you eaten in the past hour and a half?" Ranboo poked at the bag, trying to pull at the corner so that he could see the label.

Tubbo smirked, waggling his eyebrows up and down. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Ranboo groaned, pressing a hand against his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

"So, are we going to a hotel or straight to the haunting?" Phil asked, turning around to glance at them. As soon as he did so, another car sped by with a loud, careless growl and he swung back over to look at the road again, cursing softly. "Fucking grade-school level-- answer my question, Ranboo!" he snapped, eyes trained on the road. Ranboo jumped to attention, caught by the seatbelt as he jolted forward. "You haven't told me where we're going yet."

"Ah. Well, I did end up finding a place," Ranboo edged, a smile pulling at the edges of his lips. "There's definitely something going on there, and I want to investigate. Disappearances, though not at all like murders, are still really cool to look through if they're unsolved. Why did this person vanish? What happened to them? Were they killed, or was it an accident? And better yet," he lowered his voice dramatically, "how does an entire ship vanish?"

Tubbo raised his hands, stopping Ranboo in his tracks. "Hold on. A ship? Are we going to an ocean?" He clasped his hands together, absolutely thrilled. "We're going to the ocean! Oh, sweet!"

But Ranboo hesitated, and the silence carried out just long enough for Tubbo's high hopes to crash. "No ocean?" Tubbo asked, disappointed. He twisted the trail mix bag in his hands, frowning over at Ranboo.

Almost sheepishly, Ranboo offered Tubbo a small grin and shook his head. "Last time I checked, Tubbo, we're in Wisconsin. No oceans close by. So, no." He winked at Tubbo, probably trying to lift him back into high spirits. "But do you know what we are close to?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Tubbo crossed his arms, frowning over stubbornly at Ranboo. "I'm not a geography nerd like Wilbur." Tommy snorted at that, then had to turn it into an impromptu coughing fit as Phil gave him a look.

"Tubbo," Ranboo continued, leaning over to place a hand on Tubbo's shoulder, looking unusually serious. "We are going to visit one of the most majestic landforms in the U.S." He paused, letting the silence fill with what he probably considered to be dramatic emphasis.

"We are going to be visiting . . . drum roll, please . . . the great lake of Lake Michigan! One of the largest lakes in the world, just off the coast of Wisconsin."

Tommy gaped at Ranboo. He blinked several times, gripping the arm of the car seat and staring at the American, who was grinning around at them, practically sparkling. "You're kidding me."

Ranboo shook his head, the smile not fading at all. In fact, he seemed to somehow brighten several watts at Tommy's awed incredulity. "Nope."

"Holy shit, you mean we're going to a great lake?" Tommy looked as though he had been struck by lightning. "That's fucking crazy! You think we can maybe swim in them once we get there? How deep is Lake Michigan? Is it the biggest one or is that one of the others? Are they really as big as they look?"

"I'm sure they do," Phil reassured him. "Why would they be called 'great' if they weren't-- oh, hold on--" He stopped speaking to concentrate, taking the car into a hard left turn, jolting everyone to the side. Before Toast could be thrown into the car door, Tubbo yanked the tiny dog into his lap, and was immediately thrown into the car door in lieu of Toast.

From the front seat, Tommy groaned, holding his bandaged arm gingerly with his less-injured one. "Ow, Phil, that hurt. I'm still recovering, you know, that could have seriously injured me."

Phil chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Ah, you're fine. There wasn't even anything for you to crash into."

"The door!" Tommy whined, scowling. "I was sent into the door!"

Ranboo snorted. "What, like an express package?"

Tubbo promptly coughed up all the air in his lungs as he imagined Tommy shoved into a tight cardboard box and wrapped up prettily in bubble wrap. "That's . . . a rather funny image," he wheezed, and was met with Tommy's look of disdain. Before anything could be said, though, Ranboo took it upon himself to keep providing them with information.

"Anyway, Lake Michigan!" Ranboo continued. "It's a beautiful, world-famous lake that has helped hundreds of communities flourish thanks to its large deposit of fresh water!"

Tubbo tossed his head from side to side. Am I supposed to be impressed? "A lake is nothing compared to an ocean," he said finally, crossing his arms and pouting. "I'd much rather go set out to sea than visit a lake. Plus, you sound like a tour guide. A desperate-for-tourists tour guide."

Still trying to dazzle Tubbo, Ranboo spread his arms wide to encompass the town outside the window. "It's one of the biggest lakes in the whole world! You ever wonder why they're called 'great'?" He frowned at Tubbo, who was stubbornly refusing to be impressed.

"A lake is a lake is a lake," Tubbo said simply, stroking Toast's head. The tiny dog had curled up on his lap, probably a thank-you after Tubbo had saved him from being hurled into the car door. "I dunno how big you think this lake is, but I promise you it won't make me change my mind."

Tommy turned back around in his seat, settling back with an excited grin on his face. "Oh, you'll see, my friend. You'll soon see."

---

. . . Tubbo had been wrong.

Very, very, extremely wrong.

"Welcome to the great Lake Michigan!" Tommy declared, leaping out of the car ahead of anyone else and sweeping his arms out over the beach that welcomed them to the lake. His words were carried away by the wind that swooped over them like a passing gull, snatching the sound and whirling it high into the sky.

Lake Michigan was enormous. It swept out on either side of the beach to form something that looked like an endless river, the waves gently lapping at the pale white sand that surrounded the water. Pieces of ice-- called ice floes, Tubbo's memory supplied-- knocked into each other, some of them more slush than others and sinking into the waves at the lightest touch.

Even in winter, boats of all sizes were docked around the lake at rows of piers, and sidewalks stretching across the rock-sandy beaches offered places for people to walk around. Trees grew just out of the line of sand, some evergreens still standing proudly with their coats of green.

Tubbo stared out across the lake, almost unable to believe his eyes. "That is . . . that is a very big lake," he said finally, feeling a little faint. He shaded his eyes with his hand, squinting at it. "I can't see the other side." And it was true, he couldn't. It was all rather frighteningly awe-inspiring.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Tommy grinned at him, walking over and looping his arms around Tubbo's shoulders from behind. On his pink leash, Toast trotted behind Tommy, a stray shoelace that he had apparently pulled off of Tommy's shoe carried in his mouth. "But then again . . . hmm. What was it you said, again? A lake is a lake is a lake, was it?"

Blushing bright red, Tubbo swatted at him like a fly, shooing Tommy away and rolling his eyes at how Tommy jumped away, laughing. "I've heard a lot 'bout them, but I never really got to see one in person. They're so cool."

There, Tubbo actually had to agree.

He turned in a long circle, letting it all soak in. He took a deep breath of the air, which smelled crisp like winter and rich with mist. "It's . . . beautiful," he breathed, his breath turning white as he spoke. "It's not at all like what I was expecting."

"Glad you like it!" Ranboo actually did a little twirl, spinning around to face the open lakeside. "It's a bit chilly here, but I think it's the perfect place to look for some ghosties."

"Speaking of which, where are we staying?" Phil asked, squinting into the bright sunlight reflected off the surface of the lake. "In a hotel like last time? And what does a lake have anything to do with ghosts or any kind of unsolved murder?"

"Lake . . . ghosts?" Tommy gasped suddenly, his hands flying to his mouth. "Hold on a minute. Are we going to be looking at drowned pirates?"

"No, no, that's silly," Tubbo dismissed, waving his hand. Then, just to make sure, he turned to Ranboo. "We're not going to be looking for drowned pirates, are we? Pirate ghosts, that is?"

Ranboo grinned, looking somewhat sly. "Well . . . I don't really know about pirates, exactly, but we're definitely going to be looking for some sunken riches."

"Oh. My. God!" Tommy clapped his hands together, hopping a little in place, grinning from ear to ear. "I've always wanted to fight undead pirates ever since watching Pirates of the Caribbean! This is gonna be so much fun! Will I get a sword?"

Tubbo elbowed Tommy, grinning. "Ranboo literally just said there aren't any pirates, do you have that short of a memory span?"

"Hey!" Tommy cried, sounding outraged. Toast barked at Tubbo in agreement with Tommy, the shoelace dropping out of his mouth. "I don't have a short memory span!"

Tubbo snickered, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth to hide his grin. "Right, 'course you don't. So, anyways! Back to talking about the lake! What good ghost stories have you got here?" He rubbed his hands together (half because it looked cool and half because he was actually probably going to freeze to death).

Ranboo walked across the sidewalk, flopping down onto a nearby red-painted wooden park bench, letting his head tip back so he could still see the people gathered behind him. Tubbo hurried over, jumping over the back of the bench and clearing it easily, landing with an oof next to Ranboo.

"Yeah, I want to know, too!" Tommy chimed in, sitting down on the bench with complete disregard for Tubbo's personal space.

Tubbo, meanwhile, was having to press himself to the bench to avoid being flattened into a pancake. Even when Ranboo started talking, he scootched backwards, trying to avoid sitting on his friends when he just wanted to sit with them.

"Well, I had to look around a bit," Ranboo admitted, shrugging and nearly elbowing Tubbo in the face, "since there weren't very many stories about Wisconsin. But! I did find something really cool!"

Ranboo motioned widely out at the lake-- unfortunately, this meant that Tubbo was almost hit in the face, and he had to duck quickly or risk getting a bloody nose. He was the only one who hadn't been hurt yet, he didn't plan on losing the title to Ranboo's ignorance.

Blissfully unaware of any of this happening, Ranboo grinned out at the lake. "Well, I have a great investigation for us this time. Back in the 1800s, 1891 to be exact, a ship called the Thomas Hume went missing from a spot in Lake Michigan. It was only recently rediscovered where the ship was, and even then, they weren't able to find the skeletons of any of the crew. Freaky, right? Well, that's not the end." Ranboo cleared his throat, clearly enjoying the feeling of having a captive audience. Even Toast was paying attention, his tail smacking the pavement with a dopily happy expression plastered across his muzzle.

"That spot, ever since, has been the site of some more huge vanishings. Boats, people . . . even a plane has gone missing when it flew over the site of the Thomas Hume. And I'm willing to bet that the disappearance of that ship started all of this. But what really happened? Nobody knows how that one ship sank. There was no damage dealt to it. It's in perfectly fine condition even now! Except for the fact that, well, it's . . . underwater . . . " Ranboo paused, grinning sheepishly. "But that doesn't matter! Isn't this super cool, you guys?"

Tommy crossed his legs, looking thoughtful. "I guess that could be fun, though I don't really know how we would even investigate. Didn't you say the site was underwater? Boo, even if it's haunted, how are we going to get down there?"

Ranboo nodded, looking, for some reason, cheerful even in the face of this obstacle. "Yeah, it is underwater. And in the middle of a lake! Isn't it amazing?"

"Just how is it 'amazing'?" Phil asked wryly, smiling. "We won't be able to get down there, Ranboo. Lake Michigan is deep."

Standing up from the bench (thankfully, this gave Tubbo more leg room), Ranboo crossed his arms, giving Phil a pointed stare. "Yeah, but we don't have to get down, do we? We just have to get somewhere near the site."

At Tubbo's blank look, Ranboo frowned, drooping like a tulip that hadn't been watered for some time. "Don't you see?" he emphasised, grabbing Tubbo by the elbow and pulling him up. Unfortunately, Tubbo only managed to get in a mere three curse words before he was being pushed in the direction of the beach. "Guys, our ride is right there!"

Tubbo squinted out at the lake, then back up at Ranboo, then over back at the beach. "Our ride? What do you mean . . . oh."

Lined up in almost perfect unison, pretty as could be, was a line of ships, either straddling the line between the lake and the sand, or bobbing peacefully out on the choppy, turquoise waves. Sailboats waved their fabric sails in the wind, small tugboats decorated with circular windows and fishing nets lazily hung off the walls.

Tubbo slowly turned to stare at Ranboo, who looked smug as a cat. Our ride? Dear God, if Ranboo means what I think he means . . .

"We're not staying on a ship. Are . . . are we?"

"Not one of those," he corrected, his eyes sparkling. "Guys, have you ever been on a cruise?"

"Okay, this is your bed, this is my bed, this is Tommy's, and this is Phil's," Ranboo decided, patting the beds one by one.

The ship they were staying in, the Merry Lady, was a large ship with two floors and, conveniently enough, was part of a new tour that revolved around Lake Michigan. She had a large, sprawling deck, and two floors filled with rooms for her guests, which were already bursting with eager, rich tourists and waitstaff dressed like penguins (something that Tubbo thought was absolutely hilarious).

Tubbo sat down on his assigned bed, flopping backwards with an oof before sinking into the plush mattress. He sat up, batting away tufts of hair that had fallen in his eyes, and stared around the room, awestruck. "She's so pretty," he murmured-- which had been one of the only things he had said since they entered the cruise ship.

And . . . she was. She wasn't . . . lively, that was for certain, but she had some sort of orderly cleanliness to her that made Tubbo think of well-ordered libraries and fancy parties at which you could only dance the waltz. The entire ship had been made to look as though the guests had been thrown into the 1900s, with plastic crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and decorations which Tubbo was fairly sure had been stolen from the Titanic movie.

"It's a cruise ship, of course it's pretty," Tommy huffed, tugging his suitcase into the room and shoving it into a corner. He wiped sweat off his forehead, breathing heavily. "It's supposed to be pretty." He sank onto his bed, letting out a long sigh and staring up at the ceiling. "Good God, that's heavy."

"She," Tubbo corrected. "Ships are always called she."

Tommy rolled his eyes, leaning over the bed to tug his suitcase closer to the side of the mattress. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Stickler."

Tubbo glanced over at Ranboo, who was scribbling something in his ghost-log-notebook. He seemed completely unbothered and unharnessed by worry. How did he do it, Tubbo wondered? Did he just have no sense of danger at all?

That was pretty probable, come to think of it.

Still, there was something he couldn't get off his mind. How many ships had actually sank in the danger zone? What was that translated into a percent? What were the chances of a ship sinking in Lake Michigan?

"Hey, Ranboo," he called, making Ranboo glance up at him. "Do you think the ship is going to sink like the Thomas Hume?"

Ranboo, ever the comforting friend, actually paused at that as though he hadn't thought of the idea before. Tubbo didn't realise he had been holding his breath until Ranboo started to speak. "I . . . don't think so," he said slowly, closing his notebook and scratching his head. "From what I've read, it's really unusual to disappear over Lake Michigan. The chances are probably around one in three hundred."

"Oh," Tubbo said faintly, gripping the blankets in his hands, "that's comforting."

"As long as the ship doesn't suddenly start to capsize," Phil added, already in the room and pulling the heavy velvet curtains off to the side. A beam of late-afternoon sunlight sank into the room, sparkling off the floor and casting everything in a hazy, golden glow. "I'd say we're fine. Although I do have to say, never spring a surprise cruise on us ever again. Such a pain to get past security."

Ranboo, who was now busy unloading his suitcase and pulling out all sorts of trinkets, shrugged. "What little there was of it, anyway. Hey Tommy, speaking of which, how did Operation Sit-Stay go?"

"Perfectly, actually!" Tommy unzipped his suitcase, reaching deep into it. An assortment of wrinkled shirts fell out onto his back, but he shook them off of him and withdrew, clutching a squirming Toast in his arms. "I think I'm becoming somewhat of an expert on sneaking dogs into places!"

Phil rolled his eyes, taking Toast from Tommy and clipping the leash onto Toast's collar. "I wouldn't say that's a good thing, you know."

"Whatever." Tommy stuck his tongue out at Phil, crossing his arms and falling back onto the bed. "And this is just a check mark on his good boy record, too," he added, smirking up at Phil, who was trying to clip a leash on Toast. "He didn't make a peep in there!"

"That might have just been his reaction to being surrounded by your stench," Tubbo snickered, already making rearrangements to his bedspread. He tugged a pillow down, settling the fluffy cushions in a nest shape and tucking the blanket prettily into the mattress.

Tommy gasped in offence. "Hey! That's really mean! You're so mean."

Phil dropped Toast back down on the floor, letting him sniff around and look at his new surroundings. Tommy flipped himself over to sit on his stomach, dangling his arm down to try and pat Toast on the head. "Who's a good boy?" he cooed, grabbing Toast's face in his hands and smiling widely down at him. "Who? Who? Is it you? Ohhh, it is you! You're such a good boy! Tubbo's such a liar!"

Toast beamed back up at him, his entire back end wiggling as he threw himself at Tommy's adoring grasp. Tommy grabbed him around the middle and pulled him up onto his bed, squeezing him tight.

"So, about this whole vanishing-boat mystery. How are we going to do some research?" Tubbo asked, removing his squash from the suitcase he shared with Phil and propping him up against his pillow. "If everyone disappeared, what kind of witness accounts are we gonna find?"

Ranboo smiled brightly, a dimple pressing into his cheek like a thumbprint. "I'm glad you asked! There's actually a ship that didn't disappear completely; it was only the captain that was found missing when the sailors went to check on him."

Tubbo perked up, lifting his head off the bed. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, folding his legs criss-cross and digging into his suitcase for his computer. "Oh, really? That's cool! What's his name?"

"I'm . . . not sure," Ranboo admitted, shrugging as though embarrassed. "But that's what we have research for, right? To try and find out stuff like names!" He stood up, walking over to where Phil was arranging his things neatly on his bed's table. "Phil!"

Phil finished setting up his alarm clock, then glanced over his shoulder at Ranboo. "Ah, yes? D'you need something?"

"No! Well, yes. Kind of. Can you handle doing most of the conversation work in this?" Ranboo clasped his hands together, giving Phil puppy-dog eyes.

As Ranboo continued to try and convince Phil to talk to the other passengers and gossip-- "I don't know them, Ranboo! How am I going to get them to tell me about this haunting without them thinking I'm crazy?-- Tubbo was already diving right into Google, every paranormal investigator's best friend.

There was very little written about the captain, which was surprising given the dramatic way he had vanished. Unfortunately, this was mostly because he had the same name as (according to Wikipedia) an "American pioneer and leader of the Donner party": George R. Donner. This meant that every website Tubbo visited, he had to cross his fingers and pray that they weren't talking about some grubby, starving cannibal white man trying to make a name for himself in the Wild West.

George R. Donner-- not the leader of the Donner Party-- was a man fairly well-on in life: he was captain of the ship the O.M. McFarland, a small carrying vessel that mostly just transported coal over the Great Lakes with the help of a small crew. Every website that Tubbo found said the exact same thing, more than once in the exact same words, which was rather annoying. It didn't give much information, to be honest.

In 1938, the McFarland had been sailing over the Lakes. She was a steamship, a rather old one, too, made in 1903. Yes, Tubbo had done research about the ship herself, too; after all, you couldn't pry too much into detail. She had been originally named the Kensington, and then, in 1916, had been renamed as the M. A. Reeb, before finally being christened the O.S. McFarland in 1928. She had narrowly avoided being sunk by a sudden, formidable storm in the middle of Lake Michigan, but her captain, George R. Donner, had managed to keep the ship afloat, and afterwards had left (or retired, gone away to, even the phrase 'dismissed himself' was used in one Reddit page) to nap in his cabin.

Of course, he had been alone when he was in his cabin. Captains didn't usually allow crewmates to come into their cabins uninvited.

However, this had turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life. Around three hours later, when his crew came to knock on his door (he had asked them to wake him up), they ended up finding that he was gone. There had been no sign of a struggle, or, more accurately, none were reported by any of the million unreliable blogs Tubbo was scouring, though the crew had had to break down the captain's locked door just to get in.

There were around twelve billion plot holes everywhere Tubbo looked, and each time he thought he had found something to explain the previous problem, several more popped up.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was explained fully, either. The whole thing just seemed remarkably fishy.

That makes sense, you're at a lake, Tubbo's mind whispered to him, making him snicker.

He closed his computer, yawning, and looked around. Several hours had passed since he had started his research: Tommy was clacking away on his keyboard with a snoring Toast curled up next to him, Phil was gone, presumably to get dinner and chat with other cruise guests, and Ranboo was scrawling something in his notebook. He always seemed to have it on him, it was rather remarkable that all of the thoughts and info Ranboo found could fit into the tiny pages.

Another mystery to solve, and one that would probably have to wait for another time. Tubbo blinked several times and rubbed at his eyes, which were probably malfunctioning due to how tired he actually was. He had stayed up until an unreasonable time last night (he was too tired to make sense of the numbers on the clock he checked), and it was already showing.

Tubbo stretched, lounging back on the bed, letting his legs dangle over the side. With a quick glance out the window, he saw that the sky had turned dark, clouds starting to gather over the moon and drift downwards to cloak the Merry Lady in mist. Stars were thrown into the sky, hiding behind the clouds and only peeking out every now and again.

"It's too late to be up," Tubbo decided with another long yawn, setting his computer on the top of his suitcase, which had been pushed against the desk and was now being used as an as-needed temporary table.

Certainly, the others wouldn't mind if he took a much-needed rest. "I'm gonna go to sleep," he called softly across the room, cupping one hand around his mouth. With his other, he pulled a pillow closer, settling it underneath his head.

From his own bed, Ranboo glanced up and nodded, smoothing out the pages of his notebook before closing it. "Sure thing. Find anything good?"

"Oh, barely," Tubbo groaned, already wiggling underneath the covers. He wasn't even wearing pyjamas, but it didn't really matter when he was so tired. He patted his squash plushie on the stem, tugging it closer to him so it was leaning against his chest. "Everything gave me the same wording. You gave me such a boring job."

"If you think that was bad," Tommy cut in, still staring at his computer, "try studying The Rosabelle. She-- yes, she, I'm using the right wording this time, Tubbo-- sank, sometime around a long time ago. I can't remember exactly, I don't really care. But she crashed, but she didn't crash, and then she sank because of something she didn't crash into. It's weird, it's really weird, and all I'm getting are conspiracy sites talking about aliens." He leaned back into his bed, pressing a hand over his eyes.

"Aw, I didn't mean to give you boring jobs," Ranboo laughed, his fingers tapping a steady beat onto the thin plastic cover of his notepad. "I meant to keep the boring one for myself. I was looking for any sightings of ghosts along here, to see if we're actually looking at a haunting and not some other weird thing, but I couldn't seem to find anything." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe we're just digging for nothing here."

Tubbo shook his head loyally, sitting up straighter in his bed. "I don't think you'd do that," he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Besides, even if there aren't any ghosts or ghouls here, I agree with what you said-- something's definitely going on."

Gathering Toast into his arms, Tommy yawned widely. "And the crashes all seem to have something in common, yeah?" he pressed, scratching behind Toast's ears. "There's always some sort of disappearance. With the Rosabelle, all her passengers vanished off the deck, and were never found. The Thomas Hume, the entire ship disappeared, plus its sailors too."

A small smile grew on Ranboo's lips, and he nodded, looking cheerful again. "Thanks, guys. I guess I can't just see where ghosts come into this at all, but we'll be able to find it out."

"You can bet your merch line we will," Tommy declared, grinning. "I say we make a pretty good team!"

Ranboo's smile turned into something like a grimace. " . . . um . . . I'd rather not bet that, thanks."

"You have that little faith in us?" Tubbo was too tired to actually be offended, so he settled for clasping a hand over his heart, staring at Ranboo with hurt in his eyes. "I'd hit you for that, but I'm very comfy right now on this bed."

"Please don't do that," Ranboo responded immediately. "Instead, why don't we just go to sleep?"

"Now that," Tubbo murmured, already cozying down into his bed of pillows, "is the best damn idea I've heard all afternoon. Good night."

"Sweet dreams," Tommy called from his bed. His voice sounded muffled to Tubbo, probably because of the blankets he had layered on top of his head. "Don't let the bed-bugs bite."

The sound of shuffling came from Ranboo's direction, like the sound of blankets being dragged around. "G'night."

Finally, Tubbo closed his eyes, letting the swaying of the ship carry him off to sleep.

Breakfast the next morning was delicious.

Eggs sunny-side-up were served with steam still rising, fluffy yellow yolks decorated with pepperings of spices and herbs. Toasted, thick slices of breakfast bread were arranged meticulously on chequered cloths, chilled butter placed on a pretty glass platter next to it.

Tubbo's plate quickly stacked up with different foods; sausages, eggs, slices of toast with creamy butter slathered on the top, even some fresh strawberries dripping in a gooey, sweet glaze. He sat down at the table that Phil was already sitting at, pulling his fork out of the napkin it was folded into, and started to eat.

Somehow, Tommy had even more on his plate than Tubbo did when he sat down, gazing at his food with a hungry look on his face. "This looks so good," he murmured, and Tubbo made a noise of agreement around his eggs.

"Oh, it's Phil Watson!" gasped a man dressed in a bright orange jacket and black jeans. His cheeks were smattered with freckles, and dimpled as he smiled down at Phil. "How're you doing this morning?"

Phil smiled politely back at him, though Tubbo noticed his shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Smye. So nice to see you again. What gives us the pleasure?"

"And these are your little rugrats?" the man (Mr. Smye, as it seemed) continued, casting a catty, green-eyed gaze over Tubbo and Tommy. Tubbo, who had been in the middle of bringing a sausage to his mouth, shivered. "How nice to see you for the first time!"

Shaking his head, Phil pushed the plate away, sending a forced grin up at Mr. Smye. "As I told you last night, John, they aren't my children. I'm their guardian for the time being, but just as long as we're here in America."

"Ey! I don't need a guardian!" blurted Tommy in indignation, but Tubbo elbowed him before he could say anything else. Mr. Smye creeped him out.

Tommy rubbed his elbow, giving Tubbo a ferocious glare, but seemed to get the message.

"No shame, Phil, no shame," Mr. Syme chuckled, clapping a hand on Phil's shoulder. Phil jolted as though electrified, then went rigid again, pushing Mr. Syme's hand off him with a little practised laugh.

Tubbo narrowed his eyes at Mr. Syme. He knew what it meant when Phil was making that kind of laugh. Nothing good ever came out of that laugh.

Tubbo decided he didn't like Mr. Syme very much.

As though having the same thought, Mr. Syme looked around at the others, letting his eyes rest on Tubbo's full plate and then drifting back up to look him up and down. Tubbo instantly felt a shiver go down his spine and shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

"Growing boys need a lot of food," Mr. Syme said pleasantly, reaching over the table to tap Tubbo's plate. The ceramic shivered under the touch. "Not sure if they need that much, though, eh?" He laughed brightly.

Tubbo flushed bright red, suddenly feeling as though he needed to push his plate away. His stomach twisted and probably flipped over a couple of times, making him feel all topsy-turvy, like the ship was rocking violently back and forth under their feet. Tommy scooted a little closer to Tubbo, throwing a scowl at Mr. Syme and making no attempt to disguise his annoyance.

Phil took a deep breath. "Boys, I'd like you to meet Mr. John Syme, a voice actor that I met last night. He's very . . . passionate about many things," Phil decided to say, his face screwing up as though the words tasted sour in his mouth, "and he's a recurring tourist here at the Great Lakes."

"Phil told me everything. You're looking to hit some ghosts up?" Mr. Syme grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Wanna meet some 18th-century hottie?"

Tubbo thought he could feel his stomach actually imploding. He glanced next to him, sharing a look with Tommy, and saw his friend's face was white as spoilt milk. " . . . more like . . . sailors?" Tubbo tried, swallowing hard. "I mean-- not to hit them up-- we're just looking. Um. Ghost sailors, yeah."

Mr. Syme roared with laughter as though that was the funniest thing he had ever heard. "Right! Right, you're in your ghost hunter phase." He quieted down, carelessly snatching Phil's napkin and dabbing at the corners of his eyes with it. "You're gonna make me cry. Damn, that's funny."

Meanwhile, Phil had gone absolutely silent, and seemed to be praying; his eyes were closed, and his hands clasped tightly on his lap. Tubbo thought that he could empathise.

From over Mr. Syme's shoulder, Tubbo saw Ranboo heading towards their table, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Somehow managing to get his breathing back under control, he strained to sit up straighter, peering around Mr. Syme at Ranboo. He shook his head urgently, trying to tell Ranboo to get away from the table, and fast.

Unfortunately, Ranboo didn't seem to see his warning signs, and plopped down in a nearby chair. On his plate was a collection of fluffy waffles, dabbed with whipped cream and sprinkled with an assortment of plump berries, syrup dripping from between the stack of waffles.

Tubbo almost laughed. It was ridiculous how much of a sweet tooth Ranboo had (A/N: in case you hadn't noticed, this man put a whole cinnamon roll into cereal. I'd say it's probable he had a bit of a sweet tooth ok) Ranboo looked up, noticing Mr. Syme, and smiled cheerfully.

"Hello there! Who're you?"

Mr. Syme took one look at Ranboo, his gaze passing over his breakfast, meeting his eyes for only a split second before travelling back down to examine his clothing choices for the day. For half a second, Tubbo registered a flash of . . . something . . . on the blonde man's face, before his expression switched back to a white-teeth smile. "I'm John Syme, a voice actor from up in Tinseltown, Cali. You're the third kid, I imagine? You look a sight different from what I was expecting." He whistled through his teeth, making Tubbo cringe.

"The third kid?" Ranboo repeated, sounding amused. "What do you mean by that?"

Mr. Syme turned to Phil, shaking his head with a bright grin. "This isn't the last one? Oh, you silly old tramp, how many really are there? You can be honest with me." He winked.

Phil let out a long breath, rubbing at the side of his head with his fingers in exasperation. "I've told you three times now. These are not my children. I am taking care of them whilst we tour the U.S."

"Really? You expect me to buy that?" To Tubbo's horror, Mr. Syme grabbed a chair, pulling it out from under the table and sitting heavily down, sliding between Phil and Ranboo. He pointed to Ranboo, raising his eyebrows and grinning as though he was making a decisive point. "Well-- why's that one got an American accent, then? How can an American tour America, hunh?"

Ranboo looked around, confused, then put a hand to his throat as though he could physically feel his accent. "I'm kind of . . . commandeering the tour, I guess you could say?" He grinned, his expression somewhat nervous.

As he was the only non-stranger sitting next to Ranboo, Tubbo took it upon himself to give his hand a comforting squeeze. Ranboo stared at him, looking completely lost.

"Good for you, kid." Mr. Syme nodded thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. "What're your names?"

"I'm . . . um, I'm Toby," Tubbo started, trying not to stammer. He knew exactly how telling Mr. Syme my name is Tubbo would go, and the thought didn't have a pleasant ring to it. "That's . . . that's Thomas." He nodded at Tommy, who seemed to have lost his ability to speak and was just sitting perfectly still, as though he were a marble statue.

"Right, coolio. Toby, Thomas, Phil, aaand . . .?" Mr. Syme sent Ranboo a searching look. "Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess. Hmm." His smile turned almost icy. "Y'know, if you weren't sitting right in front of me, I'd say the only kind of person eating that much sugar for breakfast was a girl or some kind of wuss."

Ranboo's face turned bright red. He slid a little back in his seat, as though he was trying to get as far away from his breakfast as he possibly could. Mr. Syme didn't seem to notice, too busy laughing at his own joke. "Seriously though, is your name, like, Basil or Sunrise or something? Some sorta gay, hippie name like that?"

"Um," Ranboo started, his voice coming out much quieter than usual, "my name is--"

Before Ranboo could say anything else, a loud, strangely accented scream came from the other side of the ship.

"Ghost!"

At the cry, Tubbo nearly fell out of his chair, but Tommy, always with his eerily fast reaction time (and probably more than a little grateful for an excuse to get away from Mr. Syme), grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him up, pulling him in the direction of the scream.

"C'mon!" he urged Tubbo, over the murmurs that were now starting to bud all through the dining hall.

Phil cursed loudly, jumping up from his seat with a loud clatter. From behind him, Tubbo heard Phil call to Ranboo to follow close behind; "Let's go, Boo."

"What d'you think that's all about?" Tubbo asked in panic as he broke into a sprint to follow behind Tommy. "A ghost?! We don't-- I'm not prepared to face off against a ghost! What're we gonna do?!"

Tommy chanced a look over his shoulder, meeting Tubbo's eyes. He shrugged, then kept on running. "Whatever we can, I guess."

When they arrived at the deck, they were greeted by a most strange sight.

A man had sunk onto the floor, deep in a dead faint, clutching at the skirts of a noble-looking woman with dark brown skin. She was trying her best to pry the unconscious man off of her dress, looking somewhat disgusted. Other guests and curious staff had gathered in a circle around the odd pair, whispering to themselves while the woman tried-- with increasingly violent tactics-- to wake her apparent beau up.

"Andre," she kept murmuring, half soothingly, half in annoyance, "Andre, wake up. There is no ghost." She flicked his cheek, then sighed as he did nothing more than moan in despair.

Tommy slowed down, blinking very fast. His face red from running, he sank to his knees, gasping for air. "This took . . . " he wheezed, " . . . a bit longer . . . than I would have thought . . . "

The ship rocked back and forth, sunlight spilling forth across the metal-plated deck. Chairs surrounding little wire-wrought tables were collected in small groups, like flowers, and waitstaff pushed long, rectangular mops across the floor, which was consistently slippery with the spray from the lake.

While Tommy attempted not to die from overexertion, Tubbo, who was-- if not used to running, then at least accustomed to the idea of it-- only had to take a few deep breaths of the cool lake air before his oxygen-deprived brain was able to recover. Brushing some of his sweat-damp hair out of his face, he stuck his hand out to where Tommy was kneeled.

"Dude, get up. You're being embarrassing."

"I'm . . . trying," Tommy panted, sounding nettled. He swatted Tubbo's proffered hand away, clambering up to his feet and sweeping a look around the deck. "So what's going on?" The ship rocked under them precariously; Tubbo almost tripped, but managed to regain his footing in time.

"Mm. Not sure. Didn't we hear something about a ghost?" Tubbo smiled wryly at Tommy. "You don't seem in the right way to fight a ghost, dude. All that bravado, huh?"

Tommy scowled at Tubbo, then down at his bandage-wrapped arms. He flexed his fingers, then curled them into a fist, as though testing out how they felt. "Yeah, guess not. I'm all tuckered out after killing one."

"Let's find out what's going on," Tubbo said hurriedly, changing the subject.

Deciding to approach the strangely tangled couple in front of them, he took a few steps forward, plastering his most charming smile on his face once more.

"Hello, miss! What happened here?" He blinked in the sudden sunlight, the warm sunbeams glinting off the waves and reflecting, unfortunately, right into his eyes.

"Ah," she said, her voice withering to something cold and sharp, "you heard the scream?" Here, she let out a loud tsk. "Humiliating. Well, if you're the paparazzi, you can leave now."

Tubbo took a nervous step back, surprised at her icy tone. Underneath his feet, the deck swayed back and forth, but rather than being soothing, it only served to grab his nervous surprise by the neck and twist it into something closer to fright. "Oh! S-sorry. I'm not pap--"

"We ran up here to try and help, lady," Tommy snapped; he'd apparently gotten his voice back along with his breath. "We heard the scream, yeah. And we'd like to know what's going on."

The woman drew herself up, opening her mouth, probably to reply with something scathing. Tubbo grimaced at the unfolding scene in front of him-- I'm going to have to do something about this, won't I?-- but someone got to it first.

The man clutching at the woman's regal skirts lifted his head, letting out a terrified moan. Tubbo shuddered at the noise, then nearly fell over at the sight of his face-- it had gone completely pale, the only exception two dark circles pressed under his wide, bloodshot eyes.

"It was here," he rasped. "I saw it. Alice, don't . . . don't be rude. They are right. I saw . . . I saw . . . " He gasped for breath, then shook his head, trying to collect himself.

Whispers rose from the surrounding crowd and a few laughs slipped in there as well, making a blush climb up Tubbo's neck and cheeks as he fully registered how ridiculous they might look.

"You saw what?" Tommy asked eagerly, kneeling down so he could be on eye level with the man.

As he was apparently the only one present with a taste for social manners, Tubbo took it upon himself to grab Tommy by the back of his shirt collar and heave him back up. He choked hilariously for a few seconds, struggling to right himself, then pushed Tubbo away and got to his feet.

"Bloody hell, what was that?!"

"You can't just ask him that with no regard for his feelings! Look at him, he's obviously bloody terrified." Tubbo crossed his arms, frowning up at Tommy.

The man disentangled himself from the woman's robes, clearing his throat and standing up. His cheeks were already filling with colour again, though that might have been more with embarrassment than a sign that he was recovering. "I . . . apologies, to you and to your friend," he said, sounding deeply ashamed. He bowed his head. "I didn't mean to seem . . . scared."

Tubbo lifted his hands in surprise and embarrassment, his own face flushing with colour at being addressed like that. "Oh! No. No, it's no problem, it's just Tommy . . . " he knocked Tommy on the shoulder, earning himself a cry of indignation. "He gets ahead of himself sometimes."

"You were the one with no manners last time," Tommy muttered, rubbing his shoulder with a wounded expression.

"No, I wasn't!" Tubbo protested.

Tommy turned an accusing eye on him, though his lips were curling into an amused grin. "You shoplifted!"

"That was--" Tubbo spluttered, his blush darkening to a shade of scarlet comparable to the colour of the woman's dress. "That was a joke! I didn't actually--" Tommy raised one eyebrow, and Tubbo scowled. All around them, people were whispering, and laughs were becoming more and more common on the deck.

"Tubbo, you're making a scene," Tommy said, soothingly, demurely. He smiled politely, in a way that made Tubbo want to punch his face in. "Let's calm down."

"Oh, I'll calm you down-- people are calm when they're unconscious--"

"Boys!"

Both of them turned simultaneously to see Phil standing in the crowd, a look of severe resignation on his face. Next to him was Ranboo, whose shoulders were shaking with the effort it him took not to laugh, one hand pressed over his grin. "Calm down! Both of you! Jesus. Why did you run off like that?"

Tommy shrugged. "No time to waste, right? 'Sides, we make a good team."

"Then why was Tubbo threatening to break your neck?" Ranboo shook his head, stepping forward. Then he stopped, a few paces away from Tubbo, and glanced at him. "Wait, do you know how to break someone's neck?"

Tubbo did not.

"Oh, of course I do."

He grinned at Ranboo's newly found apprehension, winking, then pushed his hands into his pockets and turned around to face the pale-faced man again, who had been watching the whole scene, slightly agape. "Sorry, please do continue."

By now, Phil had stepped up to join them as well, and kept a warning hand on both Tubbo and Tommy's shoulders. Which was incredibly unfair, it wasn't like Tubbo had actually punched Tommy-- he had just threatened to! There was a major difference.

"Right, I . . . " the man cleared his throat, swaying a little back and forth like he was going to fall again. The ship rocked with him, and Tubbo didn't think he was imagining the green tinge that was now starting to blossom in his cheeks. The woman, with more than a little asparity, put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "I saw . . . in the water . . . a face. It was a face . . . in the water . . ? Oh, God."

"Shh, it was that pina colada," she said gently but very firmly. "They were very bad pina coladas, yes?"

The man blinked several times woozily, his voice slurring together as he spoke, desperately trying to convince the woman as well as his interrogators. "Yes . . . they were quite horrible. But it was not because . . . 'f them. Alice, I swear it, I swear that I saw a face."

"What did the face look like?" Tommy asked. He was the one standing in the front, and had his hands clasped behind his back, looking innocently interested. Back to thoughtless questions, Tubbo thought, rolling his eyes, and stepped up to match Tommy, careful to avoid the small patches of water that crisscrossed the metal floor of the ship's deck.

The man groaned, his face somehow growing more pale, and the woman-- Alice?-- pressed a soothing hand over his eyes, smoothing them down so they were closed. "Darling, why don't we go back to the room? Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Wide eyes," the man gasped, his voice scratchy, as though someone had poured a barrel of salt down his throat. "Bloodshot . . . someone who'd been . . . doused in water. He was in water."

Tubbo tilted his head to the side, now keenly interested. This was certainly what they'd come to the deck for, though he hadn't expected an actual sighting of a ghost. Maybe it was the ghost-hunter's luck. "Really?"

He nodded desperately. "Yes, and . . . it was saying something. Mouthing . . . I could hear . . . "

"A voice in your head?" Ranboo jumped in eagerly. From behind them, Tubbo could hear Phil sigh heavily. "Even though there was no actual sound?"

"Why, yes . . . how did you know? He was screaming at me to get off. To get off of . . . off of . . ." The man screwed up his face tightly as though trying to remember, then shook his head and slouched against his beau again, grabbing at her shoulder for some semblance of support. "Off of . . . his ship. 'Get off my ship. Get off my ship'. Over and . . . over again."

"Let's go, Andre," Alice said. "We don't have time for your silly remarks. This is a cruise, they're here to enjoy it, just as we are, too. Come along now." Their voices both had a touch of a French accent to them, Tubbo noticed, a lilt that became clearer and clearer as Alice lost her patience.

Andre waved mournfully at them as he was pulled away by a surprisingly strong Alice. Unsure of what else to do, Tubbo waved back, then winced as Phil's hand on his shoulder tightened in a squeeze. Giggles and murmures rose from the surrounding crowd, the tap-tap-taps of heels against the scrubbed deck of the ship chiming around them like the call of some prattling crow.

"It doesn't look like we can do anything else here. Let's head back to the dining area," Phil said. "Actually, we'd better check on Toast as well, see if he hasn't made a mess of himself."

Tommy gaped at Phil. "How can you just be so-- so-- uninterested about all this? Didn't you hear what he said?"

Phil gave Tommy a warning look, then nodded pointedly at the people surrounding them. Tommy rolled his eyes, then nodded in return, shrugging Phil's hand off his shoulder. "Let's just enjoy the cruise for a little bit. We haven't gotten to relax in quite some time, have we?"

Tommy sighed. "No, I suppose we haven't."

Phil glared around at all of the gossipers, steering the three away towards the lower part of the ship. Tubbo went without complaint; now that he saw how many people had been watching, his enthusiasm had quickly faded off into embarrassment.

The stairs creaked under them as they retreated back into the dining hall, which was slightly worrying. Creaky stairs usually led to a creepy ambience, and that was a sign of a real ghost.

Actually, what was he doing doubting the fact that there was a ghost? The only problem now was finding out just who the ghost actually was.

"Guess your job's been laid out for you, yeah, Boo?" Tommy asked from ahead of them. The last traces of dejection had already lifted from his face, and he was skipping down the stairs almost two at a time, completely at odds with the exhaustion Tubbo had seen just a couple of minutes before.

Ranboo glanced over at him-- or rather, down at him, Tommy was already halfway down the staircase. "What job?"

Tommy looked back up, blinking in confusion. Or maybe it was the contrast between the bright, sun-dazzled deck and this barely lit corridor. Tubbo knew it was hard for him to see, too. "You were looking for ghost sightings around here, weren't you? What a weird coincidence, too. That we should see one on this particular cruise."

"That is weird," Ranboo murmured. He frowned. "Maybe there's something going on."

"Maybe our fame has spread, and the ghost wanted a closer look at us," Tubbo chipped in, hopping down the remaining few stairs. His foot landed at an awkward angle on the carpeted bottom and he nearly tumbled, the ship swaying under him, unheeding of his loss of balance. He snatched at the bannister and recovered himself with a sigh, then looked back up at Phil and Ranboo, the latter who was once again stifling a laugh at Tubbo's expense.

"Our fame? I doubt we have any." Phil shook his head as they entered the dining room again, Ranboo ducking his head to fit under the doorframe.

All around the dining room, people were whispering in loud voices, glancing around. Sometimes their glances landed on their little party, sometimes they slid right off and around. Tubbo noticed, with some irritation, Mr. Syme whispering in the ear of another suit-and-tie person, both of whom were handling glasses of wine, red-faced and giggling.

Tommy was already gone, plunging through the crowd to get to the dessert bar. Ranboo murmured something about hoping that the cruise had baked Alaska, but Tubbo didn't know what that was.

"Isn't global warming bad?" he asked, glancing bewilderedly up at Ranboo.

"It's not global . . . never mind." Lacing his fingers together, Ranboo stretched his arms out in front of him with a long yawn and a wince-worthy pop coming from his knuckles. "Actually, I think I'm gonna go back to the room. Ooh, or I could explore the ship! Why don't we both do that, huh?"

"And do what?" Tubbo scoffed, tossing his hair behind his shoulder with a lazy flick of his head. "That sounds boring. I'm going to get something to eat!"

Ranboo yelped as Tubbo elbowed him out of the way, swerving through the crowd to get to the sweets. He laughed, and then nearly tripped over a kid with frazzled orange hair and had to quickly jump to the side to avoid them.

Ranboo's faint "Hey, wait up!" could almost be heard from behind Tubbo, but the thick press of the crowd had already swallowed him whole. He made it to the bar just in time to notice that they had croissants-- croissants, a dessert?-- but a toddler's sticky hand dived into the basket and he quickly decided he didn't want to know more.

A couple of minutes later, after ladling a couple spoonfuls of hot cocoa into a red mug, he ambled over to Tommy, who was scarfing down what seemed to be his second parfait. Smearing crumbs away from his mouth, Tommy chatted on and on about his theories for the thing, and how he hoped it wasn't a weird demon-thing like before.

Ranboo settled down and, upon hearing that they were discussing the demon-ghost from last time, immediately charged off on a tangent about what he thought it might be. He was almost full to bursting-- not just with supernatural guesswork and thought-through supposition, but was quickly filling up his sugar percentage for the day with some kind of delicate, sugar-spun mini cake that seemed to have three tiers.

Tubbo leaned back in one of the plastic chairs, letting his legs dangle underneath him. Even Phil looked content, resting his chin on his hands and watching them with a small smile on his lips.

Yeah, Tubbo decided. It was gonna be a good day.

---

Three hours later, carrying the morning into the lazy hours of 3 and 4 PM, and it was still, surprisingly, a good day. The sky shone blue, the spray from the lake dashing against his face and falling back into the choppy waves that surrounded the sides of the boat.

He breathed in deeply, letting the scent of the lake surround him, his eyes closing. Wind pressed cool fingertips against his eyelids, whipping against his cheeks and turning them a pale pink like the inside of a conch shell. He leaned against the railing, smiling.

"Isn't it lovely here?" he said pleasantly, taking a step back from the railing and grinning at the person sitting across from him, perched in one of the wire-twisted chairs that decorated the ship's surface. "Out on the water?"

"Yes, rather . . . couldn't we have done this below deck?" asked Andre, or Mr. Moreau, as Tubbo was now calling him. His fingernails were chewn into tattered bits, his eyes darting nervously about him as a wild animals' do once caught in a trap.

Tubbo shrugged apologetically, lifting one shoulder and loping a few paces closer to Mr. Moreau. Not breaking his gaze from the man's face, he grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it closer, settling into it opposite Mr. Moreau's uncertain expression. "Yeah, I mean, I thought it might be nice for you to . . . breathe in some nice, calm, sea air! So calming. Mm."

And Ranboo thought it would help the interview if you were sitting here, on the deck, where the whole thing happened, his mind added, but he chose to omit that particular thought from the conversation.

Mr. Moreau twisted his mouth downwards sourly and picked at his sleeve, his eyes screwing up as the dry glitter of the sun sprayed over his rough, grizzle-flecked cheeks. In only a couple of hours, he had seemingly become even more unkempt, his cheeks saturated with the bright red colour of someone who tried to drink away sorrow and his chin already sporting a less-than-flattering 5-o'clock shadow.

"Calming to whom," he muttered through his teeth, the words coming out in a harsh whistle akin to the soft sound of wind cutting past the steel underbelly of the ship. "That is the question."

"No, sir, I'm afraid," Tubbo said as politely as he could, trying to act calm and encouraging. "The question is what you saw earlier today." He was placing his words rather carefully, not wanting to incite a semi-drunken panic in the man.

Sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, Mr. Moreau squirmed in his seat in front of Tubbo, who could only offer a bland smile in lieu of comfort. He gripped the armrests of his seat with both hands, the nails digging into the soft wooden supports. "What did you say . . . who did you say you were? What are you doing?"

"I'm Toby," explained Tubbo with the most exacting patience. "Toby Smith. And I'm part of an investigative team writing a paper. Well, my friend and colleague writes the papers."

"What's his name?" Mr. Moreau asked with an uncommon lapse of interest. He peered at Tubbo, looking a bit uncertain as to whether or not he was an actual adult.

Tubbo tapped his foot on the ground, the speed steadily increasing as his patience fizzled away. " . . . Boo," he settled for. "His name is Boo."

"Beau?" (A/N: btw this is an actual name! Shoutout to all ya'll Beaus out there, that's quite a cute name you've got. ^^)

"Well, I suppose that's close enough." Tubbo cleared his throat. "If you wouldn't mind answering my questions, we'll be over and done fairly soon."

He nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes, of course. Go right ahead."

Tubbo unclipped a little pen from his front pocket, smiling down at it and smoothing out the little yellow pad of paper in front of him. This wasn't a real interview, of course, it was just for the sake of gathering more research. But Ranboo did usually write some sort of info in that little notebook of his, and, if that was the case, why not make it look as professional as possible? Besides, Tubbo had always loved a bit of flair.

"First question! What exactly did you see in the water?" Tubbo glanced down at his notebook for confirmation, then back up at Mr. Moreau, who seemed halfway terrified to recount it and also elated he had found someone who believed him.

Meanwhile, Tubbo was still figuring out whether or not he actually wanted to believe him. It was good that they'd found a witness, but also somewhat curious that someone should see the ghost practically as soon as they enter the cruise ship.

They'd have time to figure it out later.

"A face." Mr. Moreau breathed deeply in again, his fingers shaking as they tapped out an anxious rhythm on the armrest. "A . . . a man's face. Yes. Clearly."

"A man's face?" Tubbo asked interestedly, scribbling away at the notebook paper. The pen's nib was metal, and quite thin at the end, so he was a little worried about scratching a line straight through the thin paper. "Are you sure it was a man?"

"Do not ask me if I am sure!" snapped Mr. Moreau, with more amnosity than Tubbo would have thought him capable of. "I am an artist! An artist is always sure!"

"Oh, right, if you say so, sir," Tubbo said, backpedalling furiously. A thick blob of ink almost dropped from the pen nib and he smeared it away with the side of his hand. "A man's face. Can you describe it more than that?"

"He had a . . . square face, thick around the jaw, with a hard edge to his lips. His entire face was pale and sort of muddied . . . thick crusts of mud, I mean, all around his chin and his forehead. Grizzled hair, but long, and mostly an unsettling shade of white." Mr. Moreau closed his eyes, concentrating hard. Long lines appeared along his forehead, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he thought. "It pooled out around him like the tentacles of a transparent cephalopod. He seemed to melt into the water."

Tubbo nodded. "Right, that really was excellent. You certainly are an artist, sir," he added, not sure how much security this man could need in his being an artist. "How sure are you that you saw it? I mean, your partner didn't seem to see it."

"Alice is rough in certain ways, and her stubbornness is one of them," sighed Mr. Moreau. "I do not doubt that she did not see him. I was looking out over the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of inspiration so that I may sketch a lovely scene in front of me, but what unfolded was, instead, ghastly."

"Mmhm." Tubbo tapped the end of the pen against the pad.

Mr. Moreau thought for a minute, probably coming up with more fancy words to use that Tubbo could neither spell nor pronounce. "It was not just the shape of the waves, or a puddle of algae," he said finally, his voice lowering down to that husky quiet of a ghost story. "If I was not certain he was a ghost, I should have thought a man had fallen overboard."

Tubbo leaned forward in his seat, his eyes catching on Mr. Moreau's. "And how," he said, eyes glinting, "did you know it was a ghost?"

"Mr. Smith, there is nothing else that creature could be," Mr. Moreau admitted, running a hand through his unkempt hair. As he settled backwards into his chair, his too-long tie slipped out of his jacket and curled in a little coil on his leg. "The waves . . . they went right through him. Swoosh, swoosh, and against the ship. But that's not how I knew. I wasn't certain, I was not certain until a good two hours ago, right after the lunch bell was rang and the dining hall was open to everyone."

"What made you so certain, Mr. Moreau?" Tubbo repeated. In his hand, the pen was trembling, scratching lines of thick black onto the flimsy paper underneath.

The man drew in a deep breath. Even past the ruddy alcohol-induced daze in his cheeks, his face seemed to pale. "In his mouth, he had a pipe. Ornate. Beautifully carved. Smoke came up from it, and I heard others commenting about it. He, a ghost, was smoking! In the sea, which-- impossible, I know."

Tubbo almost sat back down in his seat, disappointed. If that was all, then he was ready to chalk it up to some alcohol or spoilt-pina-colada hallucination, but Mr. Moreau held up a shaking hand to stop Tubbo.

"As I went to my room to put away my drawing tools, I . . . " He swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I found it."

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket, one of the interior ones, and drew out a long, slender tobacco pipe.

Tubbo's heart dropped to his stomach, and his stomach flew up to where his heart was, and his lungs seemed to give up entirely. The pen nib went straight through two of the sheets of paper and cracked a little.

"You--" Tubbo sputtered, at a loss for words. He fixed his eyes on the pipe, then up on Mr. Moreau, mouth dropping open. "You're sure this is the same pipe? The exact same one?"

"As sure as I could ever be," confirmed Mr. Moreau, also keeping his eyes fixated on the pipe. "It has the same carvings. Take a look."

Tubbo nearly recoiled from the offer, but slowly, tentatively, he put his hand out and let Mr. Moreau place it into his hands with the delicate reverence that a priest uses with a Bible.

It certainly was fragile, and old. The ends had been chipped away, and the pale material it was made with-- ivory?-- was stained a certainly permanent yellow from its use. A tiny ship was carved into the left side, surrounded by waves, which Tubbo smoothed his finger along, going up and down and up and down in accordance with the miniature carvings.

"It still smells of the lake," the man across from him whispered. "And yet I can smell tobacco as well. It's been used."

Tubbo was about to bring it to his nose and sniff it, but Mr. Moreau snatched it away before he could do anything else. "I found it," he said protectively, and for an instant Tubbo was reminded either of a mother hen or of a small, stubborn child. "Well-- it was in my rooms. I'll draw you a sketch if you like but no sniffing."

"Alright, alright." Tubbo shot one long, longing look at the treasured object, chewing the inside of his cheek, then sighed. "Just a couple more questions now, sir."

"How old did you say you were, again?" Mr. Moreau asked with interest, folding the pipe back into the inside of his coat. "Old enough to be a newspaper employee, I presume." He peered at Tubbo, his eyes narrowing into little beaky slits.

Oh, shoot. "Yes, sir, you presume correctly," Tubbo said, lying through his teeth in the hope that Mr. Moreau couldn't see the guilty beads of sweat climbing down the back of his neck. "Um . . . did you hear the ghost say anything?"

"Do you even have an interviewer's permit?" continued Mr. Moreau, leaning back in his chair to scrutinise Tubbo from even further away.

"Something of the sort. Did the ghost say anything?" repeated Tubbo, a nervous feeling climbing in his stomach. Protectiveness over the pipe had awoken Mr. Moreau's suspicions, his eyes pinning Tubbo down to his chair as the man watched him squirm uncomfortably. "Sir, did the ghost say anything? Please answer the question."

Finally, Mr. Moreau finished his long inspection of Tubbo. "Curious you should ask. I thought you had heard."

"Get off my ship, get off my ship. Bit obsessed, aren't we?" Tubbo murmured, quiet enough Mr. Moreau didn't hear, scratching thin letters onto the paper. He looked up, tapping the end of the pen against the armrest.

Yes, of course Tubbo had heard the dreadful phrase Mr. Moreau had shouted out across the deck. People in space had probably heard that.

He was fairly sure Mr. Moreau was just toying with him to see how professional he could be. Well, guess what? Tubbo could be pretty fucking professional if he wanted to be.

"We just like to be sure," he explained, running his eyes down the small collection of notes he already had on his notepad. "It's a policy of ours, in case we publish anything. You wouldn't like us getting something wrong, would you?" He let his gaze drift back up to Mr. Moreau, his fingers playing carelessly with the corner of the paper. "It wouldn't be our fault, you understand. Simply a misunderstanding. Although misunderstandings can be . . . confusing, can't they?"

The man stiffened, then grimaced. "Y-yes, I suppose they can. Of course. No misunderstandings. If you'll remember . . . If you'll remember, I said previously he said-- 'get off my ship.' Over and over again. It didn't stop." His head wobbled as it shook from side to side, his eyes turning glassy and almost haunted.

"Ye-es," Tubbo drawled, drawing a long line down the list of notes with the blunt end of the pen, "I have that written here. Did it say anything else, though? A name? A date of birth?"

"What more do you want, a credit card number?" Mr. Moreau scoffed. "No, he didn't say anything. Just 'get off my ship', over and over. Didn't even keep looking at me." His eyes flickered down to the floor, his jaw working. "I think . . . it's going to sound crazy, but I think he wanted us all . . . off the ship."

Tubbo nearly rolled his eyes, then reminded himself he wasn't supposed to do that, so he settled for a small, amused smile. "Well, isn't that what it said?"

"Indeed, but . . . " he worried the armrests of his seat, his fingernails once again digging crescent moons into the chair. " . . . it was as though he would throw us off. It was a real threat. Haunting. I did not expect such a terrible tone from an apparition."

A small chuckle caught in Tubbo's throat. What kind of threats, then, were to be expected from ghosts? Nice, gentle ones? "I'm sure. Well, Mr. Moreau, is there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

Mr. Moreau thought for several seconds, his head tilting back so his gaze met the open, blue sky. Somewhere overhead, a bird cawed, the sound echoing out over the open deck of the ship.

"No, I don't think there's anything else," he mused.

Tubbo nodded. "You'll tell me if you remember, won't you? Great."

Kicking the chair backwards a little, he stood up, brushing off his legs and stretching his hand out to Mr. Moreau. The older man hesitated for a couple of seconds, then accepted his offer and shook his hand. A warm thrill burst through Tubbo, a smile breaking out on his face.

He was doing business, such as a proper adult! This was awesome.

"Nice to meet you, Toby," Mr. Moreau said, surprisingly warm.

Tubbo grinned brightly, withdrawing his hand from the handshake. "Oh, the pleasure was all mine, Mr. Moreau!"

Pushing the notebook into his pocket, he zoomed away to tell Ranboo and Tommy.

Pausing from shovelling an overflowing forkful of cake in his mouth, Tommy looked up at Tubbo, a golden beam of sunlight illuminating the surprised look on his face. "The interview went well?" he asked, with slightly more surprise than Tubbo would have liked. "Like, you didn't piss him off?" He waved his fork for emphasis.

They were in their room. Toast was jumping at Tommy's bed, whining for a piece of his cake, and Tommy had apparently gotten very good at sweeping Toast off his bed with his legs if the tiny dog got too whiny. The blankets on all their beds were crumpled on the floor, a result of Toast's indignation at being left alone in the room for far too long, and the sun shone cheerfully through the windows, surrounding everything with a golden halo.

"Yes, it went well," Tubbo huffed, putting his hands on his hips. "And he won't be angry for . . . well, I don't know. But not for a while, with a bit of luck."

Tommy blinked at Tubbo, his mouth stuffed full of crumbs, then a slight smirk wove its way onto his face. "Angry? Did you do something wrong, Tubbo?" He smeared a bit of frosting off his chin, then cleared his throat and swivelled around on his sheets to face Tubbo.

Tubbo rolled his eyes. It felt good to be able to do that again without worrying about manners. "Never you mind that. Anyway! I got valuable information. Where's Ranboo?"

"Off somewhere. Exploring, I think." Tommy shovelled another bite of cake in his mouth. "I've been sitting in my room and enjoying the finer parts of life. Like this cake. I think it's the best cake I've ever had in my life." 

Tubbo's stomach growled, a painful reminder of the memory that he hadn't had lunch yet. "Toast seems to want some," he said, gathering the drooling fluffball in his arms. Toast struggled to be free, thrashing his head against Tubbo's arms, his gaze continually fixed on Tommy's cake.

"Yeah, he gets none," Tommy said cheerfully. "It's chocolate, so he can't have any. But I'll be sure to bring him down some dinner soon, he's a growing boy, ain't he?"

Toast fell out of Tubbo's arms and landed on the ground. His halo of messy brown fur was lit up in the sun, his paws slipping every which way as the ship tilted back and forth underneath him.

"So, what'd you find?" Tommy asked with interest, peering over at Tubbo's notebook. "Did he say a bunch of stuff? Spill some secrets that you couldn't handle?" He waggled his eyebrows up and down. "Need to confess anything, big man?"

Tubbo wrinkled his nose as Tommy burst into laughter. "Oh, shut up. He did give me some useful information, though-- we now have a description of our mystery ghost."

Tommy slid the empty plate onto the table beside him, licking the last bits of chocolate crumb off his index finger. "Right, right. Was he plausible? D'you think there was an actual ghost he saw?"

"I'm pretty sure he did now," hedged Tubbo. "He did seem pretty convincing, anyway. And he found something, too, that kind of cemented his story, though I'm not sure what use it has."

"Did he?" Tommy made a little sound of disbelief, scooting closer. "What did he find?"

Preparing for dramatic emphasis, Tubbo bent closer, sitting down on the bed. Beside him, Toast jumped up, almost careening right into Tommy's side before the blonde scooped him up. "A pipe. A really old pipe-- he saw the pipe in the ghost's mouth, first off, and then guess what happened?"

"What happened?"

"He found the pipe in his room." The springs on the bed creaked as Tubbo leaned back, satisfied with the shocked look on Tommy's face. "Yeah. He heard I wanted an interview about the ghost and he just had the pipe on 'im. Brought it out for me to see, too, bold as brass."

"That'll do it, won't it?" Tommy shook his head.

Tubbo grinned. "So you believe him now, too? We have a witness!"

"I don't see what choice I have." Tommy ran a hand through his wild hair, trying to smooth it down. "Can you believe this, Toast? Can you?" He bent down, nuzzling his nose along Toast's neckline of fluff. The dog licked Tommy's nose affectionately, his tail thumping a happy rhythm on the bedsheets.

"I even have extra proof!" Tubbo rummaged in his pocket, frowning in concentration. "Sorry, it's packed kinda tightly in there . . . Aha!" A smug grin on his face, he withdrew the long, yellow-stained pipe from where it had laid, holding it out for Tommy to see.

Tommy's shriek should have broken the windows. As it was, Toast fell off his lap with a startled whine, and Tubbo recoiled, pressing a hand over his ears.

"Tubbo! What did you-- did he give it to you?" Tommy grabbed for it, but Tubbo snatched it out of his reach.

Making a face, Tubbo tucked the bauble back in his pockets. Tommy was, as usual, being silly. "Of course he didn't. I had a very special handshake with him is all."

At that point, Tubbo was worried Tommy might actually faint. He was still injured from his battle, and might also be suffering with a delicate constitution (though his appetite seemed to have not suffered one bit). After all, his face was turning rather green-- though maybe that was the lighting.

"Are you okay?"

"You pickpocketed someone, Tubbo, how did you even-- what d'you mean a very special handshake, it doesn't even-- 'course I'm not okay! Tubbo! Are you okay? Are you bloody insane?!" Tommy could barely speak. Tubbo thought it was time for a relaxing snooze. Tommy seemed to be taking this rather hard.

Tubbo peered at Tommy, a little puzzled. "No, I'm fine. What's wrong? Want me to teach you how? It's really rather simple."

Tommy, who had lapsed into a fit of coughing after his outburst, looked up with teary, incredulous eyes. "I'd-- no, thanks. I thought you said you'd never shoplifted?"

"I haven't," denied Tubbo, scandalised. He wasn't uncivilised. "But I've picked a pocket before. You haven't?"

"No." Tommy shook his head fervently. "That's rather incredible, Tubbo, how did I not know you could-- jeez. I mean, that'll come in handy, just-- tell me first, okay?"

Tubbo frowned. "How could I tell you first? You were in here, eating cake."

Tommy patted Toast on the head, gently pulling the dog by the collar away from his table and, consequently, his end goal: the cake. He glanced back up at Tubbo, shaking his head. "Yeah, whatever. Suppose that's fair. Can I please see the pipe?" Brushing bits of cake crumbs off his lap, he cupped his hands and held them out expectantly.

"Oh, fine." Tubbo rolled his eyes again, depositing the relic into Tommy's hands.

Holding it up to his eyes, Tommy tapped his finger first against the thickest part of the pipe, then the part where the material was the thinnest, the yellowed ivory making a dull hollow sound. "Didja check it for an inscription?" he asked offhandedly, turning it so he could peer inside the wide, round end.

Tubbo froze guiltily, and Tommy set the pipe down, raising an eyebrow with an almost comedic look of disappointment. "You didn't even do that? Tubbo . . . "

"I didn't think of it," Tubbo protested, shrugging weakly.

"It's his personal pipe, Tubs, look, it's ivory! He'd be in trouble if he lost it, I'm willing to bet he had his name inscribed on it." Tommy squinted at it, turning the pipe over to examine it from all angles. On his lap, Toast shifted, watching the proceedings with an air of curiosity.

"So, who do you think will be our ghost?" Tubbo asked, shifting closer to watch over Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy hummed, trying to scrape a bit of the blackened tobacco off with his thumbnail. "Well, there are quite a few good candidates, aren't there? There's George Donner, of course, your cannibal--"

"He wasn't a cannibal," muttered Tubbo, somewhat sulkily.

"--the captain of the Rosabelle, Erhart Gleise," Tommy continued, "Harry Albrightson, the captain of the Thomas Hume, and any other poor sap who might've fallen overboard. Though this definitely looks like a sailor's pipe," he mused, running his fingers along the chipped carving of the little sailboat. "So probably not some rich sod who fell off a cruise trying to get a look at dolphins."

"Probably not." Tubbo shook his hair out, gaze trained on the pipe slowly revealing more of the worn ivory as Tommy scraped bits of tobacco off. The small beams of light coming through the window helped a little bit with the delicate procedure, illuminating one side of the pipe while flooding the rest in a pool of shadow.

The black tobacco chipped away as Tommy worked, head bent, curls falling over his eye. Shadows hid the upper part of his face, craving an elegant shadow against his nose and mouth, his bandaged fingers working clumsily at the smoky black smears.

"Need some help?" Tubbo asked, seeing Tommy's fingers slip for the seventh time, a small curse escaping his lips.

Tommy shook his head, gripping the small pipe by the delicate handle. "Nah, I've almost got it."

Tubbo watched as Tommy brushed away a few flakes of tobacco, the bits of char falling to the floor. His hand shook as it held the pipe, the pipe trembling slightly in his tight grasp. "Careful you don't break it," Tubbo warned, prompting a small sigh of exasperation from Tommy. "We've only got one, and don't know what it can do."

"I'm doing my best," Tommy snapped, his tone oddly sharp. Tubbo recoiled a little, frowning at his friend's snappish words. "I won't break it." His voice softened slightly and he cleared his throat. "I promise."

Tubbo nodded, shifting anxiously to the side as the nerve-wracking examination continued. "There's gotta be a name somewhere--" Tommy started, just as Tubbo began to say, "Maybe there's not anything--"

Stopping instantly, both looked at each other, before Tubbo's gaze fell to his lap and Tommy's switched back to the pipe. Toast fell silent, watching the blonde scrape away at the small instrument, his head cocked to one side.

After a couple of minutes of thick silence, Tommy gave a little cry of relief and held the pipe to the light. "I got it!"

"A name?" Tubbo scooted forward excitedly, gripping Tommy's shoulder to peer at the pipe. Tommy made a sort of strangled noise, making a face.

"Careful with my bloody shoulder, dude! That hurts like a bitch," he complained, elbowing Tubbo away.

Tubbo was too preoccupied with their major discovery to care much about Tommy's shoulder. He backed off, though, like a good friend would, and settled for gawking at the pipe from a couple inches away. "What does it say?"

"Fuck you, it says," Tommy said, rolling his eyes. "You're like a hawk, you are." He pointed at Tubbo with one bandaged finger, expression wounded. "Or an owl. Something that locks onto prey."

"Thought I was a goat," Tubbo replied casually. "C'mon, let's hear it. Don't leave me in suspense, man. Or I'll punch you."

"You're mean enough to be anything." Tommy passed the pipe back to Tubbo, then stretched his arms out with an audible crack, letting out a long sigh. "You said the ghost was a sailor?"

"Well, I assumed so," Tubbo said. "Is it not . . ?"

Tommy grinned. "Boo's gonna have a field day. We got the oldest ghost out of the bunch." He pointed to the pipe, now pocketed in Tubbo's top pocket. "Mr. Andre Moreau has had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Captain Harry--"

The door slammed open mid-sentence, crashing into the opposite wall.

Ranboo nearly fell inside the room, startlingly pale. He grabbed hold of the doorway just in time and stood, caught in a beam of sunlight that illuminated his shaking fingers and distressed expression.

Instantly, all activity ceased. Dropping the pipe from his hands, Tubbo froze, still sitting on the edge of the bed. He saw the moment where Ranboo lost his grip on the door as if it was in slow motion, his legs giving out from underneath him, but his legs were suddenly glued to where he was sitting, his body frozen in shock.

Ranboo hit the floor and Tommy took action, jumping off the bed to scoop the taller boy up by the crook of his arm.

"You fall down the stairs or something, Boo?" he cried, his face creased into a worried expression. Ranboo groaned, staggering halfway to his feet then falling limp in Tommy's arms. Tommy let out a yelp, struggling to hold up the suddenly floundering American.

"My head . . . " Ranboo squeezed his eyes shut, lightheaded. "Ow-- oww--" He seemed to be struggling to force words out, his face flushed into a bright, hot, exhausted shade of red.

"I think I drank something bad," he mumbled, his voice lowering into a husky, dizzy tone. He coughed violently, clinging onto Tommy's arm to keep himself upright. "Didn't know . . . water could go bad . . . "

With that, he went limp again, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Tubbo clambered hastily off the bed, Toast not far behind, to help Tommy sit Ranboo down onto the bed in a reasonable fashion. The door was kicked shut by someone, Tubbo didn't know who, and Ranboo was pulled onto the bed, Tubbo, Tommy, and Toast crowded around him like an army of worried baby birds.

When he was able to sit up more, and Tommy had placed a cup of water in his hands (water conveniently accessible via the tap in the bathroom, and hopefully not spoilt), Tubbo decided Ranboo proved healthy enough to sustain interrogation. He seemed to have recovered, staring down at his lap, flexing his fingers with a faintly glazed look to his eyes.

"Did you find the ghost? Did it hurt you?" Tubbo asked. "Or are you suddenly sick?" What if Ranboo had a fever? What if he was bleeding internally or something? That would be bad.

He bit worriedly at his bottom lip, cupping one side of Ranboo's face in his hand and tilting it upwards so he could check his pulse on the side of his throat. Ranboo's cheek was hot and sweaty in his hand, and Ranboo himself quickly batted Tubbo's hand away, struggling to swallow the offered tap water.

Toast jumped onto Ranboo's lap and paced in little circles, whining, his ears drooping. Ranboo finished swallowing the water and let out a long breath, sopping sweat off his bangs.

"You alright?" Tommy asked again, voice hushed. "What happened?"

"Lots of things," Ranboo managed, his voice raspy, then took another long swig of the water, clamping his jaw shut. A stream of water ran down his chin and he smeared it off with the cuff of his sleeve, along with some sweat still decorating the bottom of his lips. "I drank something really vile."

"I can tell," Tubbo said, baffled. "Dunno what they put in the water here, but it must be something bad if the water is able to spoil."

Ranboo swallowed hard, pushing the empty cup away. Toast lifted his head, licking at the bottom of Ranboo's chin, his tail flopping back and forth in a halfhearted attempt to be cheerful. Making a face, Ranboo endured.

"And before that, I was running 'round the ship, looking for something. It looks like I found it, though, so no harm done." His eyes flicked towards the floor, where the pipe lay half-buried in lush carpeting.

"Wow," Tommy said, the corners of his lips turning upward into a confused smile. "Must be something pretty important, if your feathers're all ruffled. You were, like, delirious."

This was an understatement, but Tubbo chose not to say anything. Ranboo looked as though he would keel over at the slightest touch.

"Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Ranboo echoed. "Um! What I was looking for, yeah, it's pretty important. To me, anyway." He tried to stand up, but his wrist caught on the bedsheets, the small chain bracelet adorning his arm snagging the soft sheet. Making a small noise of impatience, he shook it free of the fabric, shucked it off of his wrist and threw it haphazardly onto the nearest table.

Tommy glanced at Tubbo, raising his eyebrows, then back at Ranboo, attempting another smile. "Hey, we found something cool too!"

Ranboo looked at Tommy disinterestedly. "Hunh. Did you?"

" . . . it's . . . about the ghost," Tommy hedged, looking a little confused. "Don't you want to . . . hear about it?"

"Oh! Well, in that case!" Ranboo plopped back down onto the sheets, bright-eyed once more. Weird mood shift, all of a sudden. Tubbo frowned a little. Was Ranboo sure he didn't have a fever? Maybe he did. Maybe he just needed a nap.

Tommy cleared his throat. "So, the name of the ghost! Me and Tubs over there found it." (Tubbo glowed, appreciating Tommy's inclusion.) "His name is Harry Albrightson, or he at least made use of the initials 'H. A.' It's our best lead yet!"

Ranboo stiffened a little, then tilted his head to the side as though rolling the words around in his mouth. "How did you . . . "

"I found this inscription on a pipe that the ghost had," he explained. "It's really pretty, ivory and the like, with a carving of some ship on the side. I had to get some tobacco off, but it was worth it. We know who we're up against." Tommy grinned in pride, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

The sunlight slid almost eerily off of Ranboo's strangely stony expression, casting him in a half-green glow, making it look like he was underwater. Then Tubbo blinked, and the illusion broke, and Ranboo was grinning and congratulating them both warmly, and clamouring to see the pipe.

"I thought the pipe was with-- well. I didn't know you would have something like this," he marvelled, turning the ivory bit over in his hands. He smoothed it over, shaking his head reverently.

"Cool, innit?" Tommy enthused. "See, there's the initials. And a few scratches where I messed up, chipping off the tobacco. Not too bad, though, not like anyone's gonna be using it, only some dead bloke." He shrugged.

"I pickpocketed it," Tubbo mentioned proudly. "Can I have the pipe back? Don't want it cracking."

Ranboo scowled, his eyes turning cold. "Maybe Tommy shouldn't have scratched it, then," he snapped sourly. "Why should I give it back if you're not going to treat it carefully?"

At both their surprised expressions, he clamped his jaw shut, looking almost scared. He touched a finger to his lips, which were parting slightly in surprise. "Sorry, I . . . I don't know what happened there."

"Maybe 'cause it's a ghost-touched object," said Tommy hesitantly, his eyes flicking down to the pipe before resting back on Ranboo. "Remember, when Lena kept making us feel angry? Maybe the pipe's doing the same sort of thing, like it's leaking . . . ghost . . . stuff." He made a face. "Scratch that. That sounded off."

"You'd better hold onto it," Ranboo said quickly, stuffing it back into Tubbo's hand. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to be holding this anymore."

Tubbo nodded a little, pushing it back into his pocket. "Yeah, we'll just keep this there. D'you know where Phil is?"

"Um." Ranboo frowned. "No, I don't think I do. Why, do we need his opinion on something?"

"No, I just thought we should . . . tell him?" Tubbo gave Ranboo an inquisitive look. "Right. We don't need to, though. I'd say let's look a little bit more into what we can do. We need a battle plan against this Albrightson guy, but we also need to know just what we'll be going up against. Like, does he actually sink ships, or is that just a local superstition and ships are just really unlucky here?"

"And then there's the matter of the vanished captain," Tommy interjected, shivering. "That's creepy, innit? What'd Albrightson do there?"

"Well, if that was even him." Tubbo glanced over at Ranboo, who seemed to be enjoying a private joke. "Something funny?"

Ranboo turned to face him, jumping a bit as though surprised. "Um! No. Just nervous."

Tubbo nodded, shooting one last glance at him out of the corner of his eye. "Well, I can understand that, obviously. But we've got each other during this, and I don't doubt that I'd pull both ya'll back from hell if I had to. We're a team, you're not allowed to leave this early."

"Reassuring," Tommy said dryly. "I no longer fear death. Well!" He clapped his hands, his bandaged fingers stained covered in a faint black dusting. "Might I just say-- we've all done a fantastic job so far this afternoon, I'd say just about so well we each deserve a lovely dinner."

"Hungry already?" Tubbo teased, reaching over to give him a little shove. "It's only, what, five?"

"Six. And I'm still allowed to be hungry," Tommy said, frowning. "I didn't have any lunch. I expect Toast's a little hungry, too, isn't he?" He snapped his fingers and Toast, huddled up on Ranboo's lap, jumped off and climbed eagerly into Tommy's arms. "I'll get you something from the dining hall, won't I?"

"Nothing for me, thanks," Tubbo said, yawning. "I'm a bit tired. Think I'm gonna take a nap."

"Mind if I join you?" piped up Ranboo, rummaging through his suitcase. He pulled out his notebook and a pencil, flipping the little plastic cover over so he could write on a fresh sheet of paper.

Tubbo shrugged, climbing onto his bed. The springs creaked under his weight, one of the blankets nearly sliding off before he grabbed at the corner to stop it from falling to the ground. "Sure, why not? Tired?"

Ranboo paused, then nodded. Sitting on his own bed, legs folded lazily under him, he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear before bending down to scratch notes in the little book. "Something like that. I'll look after the dog for you, Tommy," he called to the Brit, who was already slipping out the door.

"Nice, thanks for that," Tommy replied, shutting the door behind him.

Ranboo turned to Tubbo, who was folding himself into a huddle of blankets and pillows. "So, what do you think about this whole . . . ghost hunting, let's-go-after-the-captain thing?"

Tubbo rubbed at one of his eyes, yawning again. "I think it's a great idea," he answered, honestly. "Though I'm not sure how we'll reach him. He's under the sea, isn't he? Maybe another seance, though."

"If he's underwater, that doesn't bode well for a capture plan," agreed Ranboo, tapping the pencil eraser on the notebook. "Hey! Puppy! C'mere." He made kissing noises into the air, patting the space on the bed beside him.

Toast cocked his head at Ranboo, his tongue lolling out. He barked once, shrilly, and jumped onto Tubbo's bed, wrapping his little furry body into a ball on Tubbo's chest. "Woah!" Tubbo laughed in surprise. "What're you doing here? Wrong guy, Toast."

"What if we decided . . . not to go after this Harry Albrightson guy," Ranboo suggested, startling Tubbo so much he sat up, nearly knocking Toast off his chest.

"What?" Tubbo blinked at Ranboo, flabbergasted. I don't think I heard that quite correctly, did I? "Are you sure you're not sick?"

Ranboo shook his head, pressing his lips together. He looked vaguely distressed, and was staring abjectly at the notebook, flipping through the pages. "It just seems like we might be in over our heads. We've been through a lot together so far and . . . it's dangerous, definitely."

Tubbo frowned. "Yeah. It is. And it's fun. We've managed to come on top of three ghosts-- five, even, counting me and Tommy. What, do you wanna be armed more?" He twisted his torso off the side of the bed, reaching downwards to pull his suitcase closer. "I think I've got an iron wrench in here somewhere, that one we used to break the rosary . . . "

"No, that's okay," Ranboo said quickly, flinching a little as Tubbo brought out the heavy iron tool. "I'm good. Just a bit nervous. You know . . . Tommy doesn't look like he's recovered yet." He chuckled, almost nervously.

Tubbo raised his eyebrows at Ranboo, but nodded and set the wrench back down in his suitcase. "Right. Yeah, that's been worrying me, too," he admitted, settling back down into the bed. "It's been, what, a month? I would've expected his bruises to heal more, but they're still all over. I was thinking we might take him to a doctor, but what doctor would believe us?"

"I was reading this," Ranboo waved the notebook, "and there's some pretty good theories about the bruising. In fact, most of the stuff in here sounds plausible. Tommy's good."

Tubbo stared over at Ranboo, a little worried. "Ranboo . . . you wrote that."

Ranboo, honestly, looked a little startled, before he collected himself, pulling at his shirt collar and clearing his throat. "Oh. I think . . . I think my brains are a little frazzled right now. Mind if I go to sleep?"

"You don't need my permission," Tubbo replied, making sure to keep his tone light and playful. "Go right ahead."

"Yeah, yeah, I . . . " Ranboo yawned. "I will."

Tubbo watched as Ranboo tossed the notebook onto the nearby table, turning over and curling up in a small ball. He reached up, snagging the small chain to turn the overhead lamp off, and gave it a tug. Shadows fell like a great, sticky web over the room, soothingly accompanied by the slow toss and turn of the ship rocking from side to side.

He blinked sleepily a few times, trying to clear up the sticky sleepiness that seemed to drag at his eyelids. Toast was already asleep, curled up in the crook of his legs, his furry chest rising and falling with each snoring breath.

"Ranboo," Tubbo murmured, shaking his head. "What the bloody hell's the matter with you?" He sighed, and then a brilliant idea occurred to him.

Maybe Ranboo was upset about something. Maybe Tubbo could do something to help him feel better! And where else would he write about his frets if not in his little notebook? It was a perfect idea.

Tubbo waited a couple of minutes, making sure Ranboo was well and fully asleep (a fun surprise always made Tubbo feel better, anyhow) before he reached cautiously over and grabbed the little notebook.

The cover was thin, a cheap kind of plastic that was slightly sticky to the touch after being handled so much. Tubbo flipped it to the first page.

PROPERTY OF TOMMY INNIT, scrawled in bright red, chunky marker, immediately caught Tubbo's attention. Behind that messy inscription was, written in beautiful, swooping handwriting, Ranboo's Notebook. Tubbo flipped to the next page, sweeping his eyes over the nonstop flow of ideas and the long, ranting prattling about the adventures that covered every page.

The newest page was all about Harry Albrightson, and the various theories as to what could be going on with the disappearances. Something caught Tubbo's eye, a series of sentences, drawn quickly and roughly in Sharpie marker-- IMPORTANT: found case of claimed possession by one of the sailors on the O.S. McFarland.

relation to last case?? Possession is a definite possibility. Look through lore about possession, see if it adds up (maybe we'll get more facts about our own 'possession' case, too).

He trailed his gaze down the sentences, brow furrowing. What possession case? What about possession?

Flipping back a few pages, he scanned for any words relating, and quickly caught on a hypothesis marked in red ink explaining Ranboo's theories about possession. Tubbo had to admire him, honestly; he was practically an expert about ghosts already.

Tommy's encounter, from what he told me: ghost had a body. Fleshy, wrinkled, OLD. How old could the body have been to get those kinds of wrinkles?

Hypothesis: Ghost was possessing old body, (its spirit being the only thing keeping it together). Explain deformations-- accidents happen to a human body (especially around that many knives, holy Jesus). No possibility of going to the doctor, so the body was likely made of other bits and pieces.

Why did the body crumble?

1) Most likely Tommy killed the ghost, which was the only thing holding the body together. When the ghost was gone, the body was unable to stave away decomposition.

2) Real demon? . . . no way. Aren't ghosts crazy enough??

3) Mmmmaybe not a real body in the first place (??? no), just the illusion of one. Objection: Tommy said it choked him. Sounds pretty real.

4) Also, wait, didn't Tommy say there was memory wiping involved?? What's up with that?? Awesome but also terrifying. Whoo.

Tubbo thumbed the paper to another page, back up to the more recent entries and found a snippet of information concerning the O.S. McFarland, the ship that George Donner disappeared from.

How could a human body vanish from a locked room in the first place? We're all so focused on the ghost itself that we pass the vanishing act off as simple magic, but what kind of ghost can do that?

Windows too small for anyone to escape through, though. Door? No, the door was locked, and could only be opened-- by who? Stories vary, need verification.

Cant forget: NEED proof.

Tubbo could practically see Ranboo writing this all down, a glint in his eye, plunged into deep focus and groaning to himself when he misspelt a word or forgot punctuation. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he laid a hand across the small notebook, smoothing out the wrinkled pen-decorated paper. Most of the writing was done in the same pen, a dark, skinny thing that Tubbo could see perched on the tabletop next to where Ranboo snoozed. A couple notes were done in other tools, but they all seemed to be hasty, likely written when Ranboo had a sudden thought but not his preferred pen to accompany it.

Get some sleep, Boo, Tubbo thought, closing the cover of the book and setting it back on the nightstand where it had just been. A particularly loud snore came from Toast, and Tubbo giggled softly, reaching over to give him one last pet before turning over and squirming into a comfortable position.

He was snuggling against his little squash plushie, which Toast had thankfully discovered was not something to eat. The Post-It face had fallen off, and was replaced by a somewhat disgruntled-seeming expression full of wrinkles.

His eyelids were too heavy to keep open anymore. He yawned widely, exhaustion bubbling up in his chest and flooding over him. The room blinked in and out of a fuzzy daze, and he couldn't stop his vision from growing dark . . .

The ship rocked softly, begging him to sleep. He yawned again, every movement feeling drowned in molasses, and obliged.

---

It was not yet morning when Tubbo woke up, though there was enough light he was nearly fooled into thinking it was so.

He sat up slowly, his head swinging from side to side as he took in his surroundings; his mind was bleary and confused in that I-just-woke-up way, but too tired to actually be alarmed. As the room slowly came into focus, so did his memories, reminding him that the room was not, in fact, unfamiliar.

"G'morning," he mumbled, looking around the darkened room, before realising that everyone was still asleep. Tommy and Phil were the only new editions to the room, and they were passed out, lying flat out in their beds, Tommy curled up with his knees to his chest like he had no room at all.

Tubbo swung his legs over the side of the bed, glancing over at Ranboo's bed to check that the American was still there and getting enough bed rest. Sure enough, there he was, snoozing with his face cuddled up in the crook of his arms.

No use in being up now. What is it, like, twelve? That's not good. He shuffled to the bathroom, filling up a cup of water, the tap water sloshing over the sides and dripping down his fingers. He was still wearing his floppy jacket and the pair of jeans he had pulled on that morning; he hadn't bothered to take them off when he went to bed and he didn't plan on doing it now. He would just have to deal with it.

Tilting his head back, he downed the whole cup, letting out a satisfied sigh. He set the cup down on the countertop with a thump, the noise muffled by the towel draped over the tiles, then padded out of the bathroom and back into the large bedroom that all three shared.

It was a little eerie to see. The only light that existed came through the window, which was glazed a perpetual lake-green, and that, mixed with the silver of the moon, gave his skin a pale, almost sickly kind of colour. Mist danced over the waves, and foam frothed and thrived on the crest of the water, little splashes decorating the silence of a lake's nighttime.

Tubbo slid back onto his bed, noticing the lack of a dog curled up on his pillow, and crawled back into his nest of pillows. His plushie was tilted backwards on the blanket, the floppy felt leaves sticking up and out awkwardly. Tubbo made sure to stand it up, then tugged the stuffed squash to his chest, the scratchy green fabric of the leaves tickling the underside of his chin.

Just as the quiet atmosphere was lulling him back to sleep, a small noise came in his mind, like someone clearing their throat. It felt something like the back of his neck being tickled, or maybe something close to a headache that felt as though it was going to start, and then didn't.

He frowned, reaching a hand around to scratch the back of his head, and then the noise came again. This time, there was one thing that was different: he could hear it outside of his head.

"Maybe you ought to go to the deck," the voice whispered.

Tubbo froze in place. He was completely awake at this point; he didn't really have a choice in the matter anymore. His breath caught in his throat, his ears pricking up as a soft pitter-patter came from just outside the door of the room.

Footsteps.

Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he reminded himself that the door was still closed-- even if someone had been talking, and to him, he shouldn't be able to hear them whisper, let alone have it sound as though they were right in his ear.

"Hello?" he whispered back. No reply. Toast lifted his head from where he was curled up on Tommy's bed.

Of course not, what had he even been expecting? But he couldn't really go back to sleep now, could he?

With a sigh, Tubbo thrust the blanket off his body and stepped towards the door. Toast, eager, lively, and annoyingly awake Toast jumped off Tommy's bed to stare up at Tubbo with wide, curious eyes.

"You can't come," Tubbo hissed, making sure to keep his voice hushed. Ranboo rolled over, the springs creaking under him, and Tubbo froze. Toast tilted his head to the side, tongue lolling out between his pinkish gums.

Shaking his head firmly, Tubbo gave Toast an exasperated look. "You can't bloody come." He padded towards the door. "It's just an excursion. Nothing big. I'm not headed into any danger, Toast, don't tell Phil."

Somewhere in his sleep-addled mind he probably recognized that he was arguing with a dog, but the forefront of his thoughts were focused completely on figuring out what was going on up at the deck. He didn't really have time to think about Toast, did he?

Toast stretched languidly, nose and snout crumpling up into a lazy yawn, his back curving into an arch. He was still growing fast, Tubbo saw, and was now nearly up to Tubbo's knees. It might be useful to have a dog, he considered, and Toast after all hadn't gotten to see any of the ship yet . . .

"All right, you can come," Tubbo muttered. Bending down, he scooped the sleepy dog into his arms. Toast nuzzled his chin, panting happily as a dog does when he is particularly pleased.

Tubbo opened the door with a creak, and stepped into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear.

Then, shivering in the newfound cold of nighttime out on a lake, he darted back and grabbed the blanket (and Toast's leash).

All around him, silence reigned.

A soft mist had set in even among the lavish corridors on the cruise, a gentle, sleepy fog that the most secure of doors couldn't stop from seeping through. The atmospheric candles dotted around the cruise weren't lit anymore, not at this time of night with nobody to look after them, and Tubbo jumped every time he accidentally activated one of the motion-sensing lights overhead.

Leaving a trail of buzzing electric lights behind him, he shuffled through the hallways, glancing around but seeing nobody. Is this how it feels to be either Tommy or Ranboo? he thought, a little wryly. Just tromping around with no plan. Wonder if I'll get my head bitten off. Do ghosts bite heads off?

Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.

Toast was clutched in his arms, somehow putting up with being bounced up and down each time Tubbo took a step. One end of his leash was clutched in Tubbo's hand, the other clipped onto his collar.

Tubbo had passed the dining hall and was entering the main hallway, the one that led to the staircase that filed up into the deck, when a silhouette loomed out of a nearby supply closet, scaring, as he exclaimed eloquently, the absolute shit out of him.

It was a janitor, his scruffy beard characterised by a peculiar kind of curls that Tubbo had never before seen on a beard. They almost could be called coils, except for the fact that they were wrapped tightly around each other to create something more comparable to a bird's nest.

"Well, well. Whatcha doin' out here?" called the janitor in a thick Southern drawl, pulling a sopping wet mop out from the closet. He squinted at Tubbo, his eyes trailing down to the blanket clutched around his painfully cold shoulders. "Are ya part of the new staff? Whassat ya got there, a cape?" (A/N: In case it's not obvious, I can't write-- American-- Southern accents. It comes out as infinitely British instead, which I think says a lot about me as a person. Please just pretend it's a Southern accent. Please)

Tubbo kept his mouth clamped shut and nodded eagerly. Almost tripping over the bits of the blanket that trailed on the ground, he hurried away, anxious to get to the deck. Toast wriggled in his arms, but Tubbo didn't dare put him down for fear of him tearing the leash out of his hands and running off.

No other guests were awake, which was a little bit disconcerting. Normally Tubbo would have had to dodge between bodies and avoid stepping on skirts as he darted up the stairs to the deck, but nobody was there, filling the space with a chilling, calming silence. He would have thought there'd be a few late-night explorers, at least, but the most he saw of anyone was a couple of janitors and one disgruntled, sleepy-looking waitstaff, a night-cap pulled over his head.

He arrived at the deck to see a quiet, almost ghostly scene. The chairs were all pushed in, courtesy of the staff (who had probably had their work cut out for them after another day of rich people rampaging around the cruise ship). The twisted-wire tables and the similarly built chairs shone in the moonlight, the gentle lapping of the waves against the metal side of the ship sounding even louder than usual.

Sighing, he pulled out a chair, cringing at the loud ensuing scrape that echoed along the deck. Toast jumped out of his arms, pulling at the leash as he strained to run around the deck. Tubbo, not wanting him to fall off the side of the ship, kept a carefully tight hand on the leash.

"Well, I'm here," he said, lifting his hands almost helplessly. His breath, turned into mist by the chilled night air, faded into nothingness against the dark sky. He let his hands fall down on the table, his ears twitching at the iron-wrought clang that shuddered through the table as they landed heavily. "So is Toast, but I doubt you want anything from him. So. What d'you want from me?"

He looked around, trying to see if there was anyone else on the deck, but no faces leaped out at him. The night lay out, shiny smooth and still, like he was looking at a painting.

Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his arms out with a yawn. "This was completely useless, wasn't it?"

"Well, that depends."

Tubbo nearly jumped as a voice came out of nowhere, then relaxed again as a familiar face emerged from the stairway. Ranboo blinked sleepily at him, one hand raised in the middle of scratching his cheek, his hair mussed up as he looked around.

"What're you doing up here? What's got you up at this time of night?" His gaze traced the length of the leash and landed on Toast, who had, curiously enough, retreated to curl behind Tubbo's legs.

"Thought I heard something," Tubbo said dismissively, waving his hand. "Nothing, really. What about you? Fancy a cuppa tea?" He grinned.

"Right, I'm sure there's buckets and buckets out here, in the middle of the night, on a cruise ship," Ranboo deadpanned, his lips curling into a familiar smile. "No, as it happens. There's something more I have to do. Remember that important thing I was talking about?"

Tubbo nodded, though he was still too sleepy to completely remember. He sighed sleepily, his brain muddling through a daze in its hurry to try and switch on his ability to interact socially. "Yeah, and you had to . . . find it. I can't . . . bloody hell. You had to do something. Didja find it? I can't remember."

"Oh, yeah, I did," Ranboo replied, padding forward. "I actually didn't think that you'd be up here. That's a bit . . . I wasn't really hoping for . . ." He paused, and settled for mumbling something that Tubbo didn't catch.

"Should I leave?" Tubbo asked, somewhat awkwardly. He felt a bit embarrassed at being caught out on the deck for no reason. "I can leave if you need me to."

As he stood up, the chair he had been sitting on screeched backwards, and Toast yelped, jumping away from the loud noise. Glancing down, Tubbo noticed in surprise that the little dog was actually trembling. Was it that cold out?

Ranboo waved his hand. "No, you're fine. Just . . . can I show you something?"

Tubbo nodded uncertainly, bending down to give Toast a quick scratch behind his ears. The puppy whined, pressing the side of his snout into Tubbo's hand. "Of course you can. Why? Ranboo, is something wrong?"

"Nah. I, uh, I want to throw something out, but I wasn't really sure. Can I ask your opinion on it?" He beckoned Tubbo forward with one hand, strolling to the side of the ship, where spray was tossed high into the air.

He followed, trying to keep himself steady on the spray-slick deck. The ship wasn't moving forward, merely bobbing up and down in time to the crashing beat of the waves.

Tubbo grasped the railing with one hand, the other still clamped firmly on Toast's leash. Spray was whisked into the wind, battering the sides of the ship and splashing his face with bits of foam. He closed his eyes against the cool droplets.

When he opened his eyes, Ranboo was standing just a foot away from him, tapping the toe of his sneaker on the floor. "It's really a curious thing," he sighed.

"What is?" Tubbo ran a hand through his hair, pulling back the snarls of sleep-mussed hair.

"This thing we're trying to do. It's . . . an impossible thing, isn't it? I'm trying to learn everything I can about ghosts, but what do I even have to go off of? There's no trustworthy source, is there?"

"Then you'll just have to make one yourself," Tubbo replied. Somewhere out in the distance, a seagull cawed. Dawn was already breaking, the faintest sliver of gold wavering across Lake Michigan's fog-drenched waters.

The lake stretched out for miles, as long as Tubbo could see. Mist claimed the sky and obscured the distance, the midnight sky painted over in glorious, rich shades of blue and purple, though the clouds were streaked in a vibrant orange-pink, the early-morning colours lazily trotting through the sky. The deck shimmered, caught somewhere between moonlight and starlight, a delicate silver that seemed to make them glow from the bottom up.

"'Knowledge is power,'" Tubbo quipped, tapping his fingers on the railing. "If you do manage to make a ghost guide, I'm sure it'll come in handy."

Ranboo's gaze trailed out across the glowing waters. "I'm sure it will." He sucked in another deep breath, pushing himself back from the railing and spinning in a lazy 90-degree angle, facing Tubbo. The words puffed out of his mouth in a slew of ice, joining the fog already dancing over the moonlit waters.

"Did you know," he started suddenly, tilting his head to a jaunty angle, "that once there was a captain named Harry Albrightson? He was in the employ of a lumber company, and every year, the captain would take lumberjacks back and forth from the mainland to a series of small islands in Lake Michigan so they could chop down Christmas trees."

" . . . cool." Tubbo had no idea where Ranboo was going with this, but he settled for trying to turn his face into some semblance of interest. He squeezed the railing, the metal surface slick with droplets of mist.

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe, maybe you'll also remember that there was a terrible storm one year. That storm brought down Albrightson's ship-- the Thomas Hume." Ranboo's words took on a hushed quality, and his eyes misted over, his voice turning almost reverent. "It also brought down the captain himself. In fact, he was the first to go.

"But he couldn't bear the fact that he was dead, and all the people left on his ship were loud, and they were drunk, and tampering with his precious ship. So what did he do?" Ranboo's smile turned sharp, suddenly, and a shiver travelled down Tubbo's spine. "He dragged each of those people off his ship, and he drowned them in the high waves."

"Ranboo," Tubbo said, his voice halting, "I don't think I want to hear any more of this story. Frankly, you're telling it as though you knew the guy."

"Oh." Ranboo raised an eyebrow, then turned back out to stare at the waves, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Well, I didn't really know him."

He glanced back over at Tubbo and grinned, his canines glinting in the moonlight. "Ah. Don't look so scared! That was a long time ago."

Tubbo shook himself out, swallowing hard. "What're you talking about? I'm not scared." He bent down, patting Toast on the head. The puppy had crowded his body close to Tubbo's legs, shivering from the cold, his tail tucked tightly between his back legs.

Ranboo shook his head. "Aren't you a charming conversationalist?" The tap-tap-tap of his nails on the railing got louder and quicker, matching Tubbo's heart rate as it sped up, unconsciously sensing the malice in the air. "Hmm." Ranboo's eyes raked Tubbo over. "I suppose I could start with you . . . "

Tubbo frowned, his body stiffening. "Start with me? What--"

His sentence was cut off with a cry as Ranboo grabbed him by the front of his collar, dragging him forward so their noses were nearly brushing. The leash dropped from his hands and Toast was off like a shot, howling frantically into the night.

A shiver passed through Tubbo as Ranboo's hands grazed his skin; they were freezing cold, almost too frozen to seem alive. Slender fingers were wrapped around his shirtfront, the other grabbing a firm hold of his wrist, nails digging painfully into his skin.

"This ship is going down," Ranboo whispered, and now Tubbo could hear something else in his voice, a second vibration-- like two voices layered into one. A small, crazed laugh burst through his chest, clawing itself out of his throat and lacing his next words with a growl. "But you pathetic seamen are going down first."

Well, Tubbo definitely wasn't asleep anymore. His mind spun, connecting the dots before he even knew what to think.

The journal. Think. What's in the journal?

Who is this? He's not sick, not confused and definitely not Ranboo.

He's . . . possessed.

Tubbo would have stumbled back if not for the tight hand twisted over his shirt collar. The word struck him with the force of a bullet. He's possessed.

What a very nasty word for those clues to all spell out, wasn't it?

He didn't have any time to deal with the shock, though. Ranboo's hand was already dragging him closer to the side of the railing, and though Tubbo's mouth was opening in an involuntary shriek, he knew that a scream wouldn't mean anything if he was overboard in those choppy, freezing waters. He'd freeze to death even if he managed to get back on board.

Fortunately, the ghost had chosen Ranboo for his captive. And while Ranboo was a lot of things, smart and funny and charming, he was not particularly strong. He could pick Tubbo up, that was for sure, but he probably didn't have the endurance to maintain his composure after being punched in the face.

So, that's exactly what Tubbo did.

Possessed-Ranboo had already picked Tubbo off the ground, seizing him around the waist, but Tubbo managed to get one arm free and swung hard.

His fist connected easily with Ranboo's face, and an agonised scream shot through the night.

Ranboo's hands flew off of Tubbo to claw at his nose, which had started spurting blood. Droplets of blood scattered everywhere, spattering Tubbo's face and shirtfront as he, with no hand holding him off the ground, collapsed onto the floor.

Jumping to his feet, Tubbo shook out his hand, sputtering and flailing for breath. His feet stumbled as he took a couple of steps back, his chest rattling with the force of his gasps. He smeared some of the blood off of his cheek, shaking the last bits of sleepiness away.

"Right, screw this," Tubbo spat, coughing hard. His arms, sore where Ranboo's harsh grip had dug into them, were definitely going to sport bruises later.

He tried offering the ghost a charming grin, though his lips twitched; he was too terrified to make it look convincing. "Can't I just go back to bed?"

Ranboo's eyes flashed. He dropped his hand from his face, revealing his lips and chin, covered in thick smudges of blood. "Get over the side!" he howled, his voice scratchy from the amount of blood he'd already swallowed.

Well, he's sure got focus.

As Ranboo lunged forward, Tubbo darted back, the two of them performing an almost-dance across the fog-slick floor of the Merry Lady. His lungs were already burning, his heart hurling itself against his ribcage like a bird frantic to be free.

Tubbo looked desperately around at his surroundings for some hope, and his eyes seized upon one of the many table settings littered across the deck surface. In a brilliant flash of improvisation, he picked up one of the nearby chairs and hurled it towards Ranboo.

With almost no effort at all, Ranboo grabbed the chair by its back, stopping it in midair. Tubbo's eyes widened slightly, watching Ranboo scoff and hold the chair up-- with only one hand-- for closer, though careless, inspection.

All of a sudden, he gave a little hiss of surprise. This was the only warning Tubbo got before he started to scream.

The chair dropped out of his hand, and Ranboo limped backward, gripping his-- now smoking-- hand by the wrist. Horrible to look at, it hung limp and twitching in his grip.

Right. Iron. Tubbo winced at the still-smoking, red burns digging into Ranboo's pale skin, his wrist already swelling painfully.

The ghost stalked backwards, limping like a wounded animal, while Tubbo continued to stare, almost horrified. Toast, who was pressing himself to the back of the ship's side, had started to cry.

"Well, I'm not-- I'm not gonna kill him," Tubbo protested, his voice sounding weak even to him. "You don't gotta worry that much." His entire body was shaking, almost numb with the shock and the cold. His cheeks, bright red and spattered with blood, felt almost feverish, and he could barely take a step without stumbling.

Ranboo's eyes were almost glazed, and he had started muttering something to himself, blood still pouring from his nose.

"What's that? I-I can't hear--" Tubbo pointed to his ear with one trembling hand. Blood was rushing through his ears, draining out most other noise.

" . . . sailors . . . pathetic . . . selfish bastards . . . " Ranboo clenched his good hand into a fist, growling. "All of you need to die!"

"Quite the grudge you've got, huh?" Tubbo asked weakly. "Fun. You're insane. This is fantastic." Oh, how did Tommy get rid of that one ghost? That other one that Ranboo said was possessed?

Oh, right. He killed him.

That was obviously out of the question. Maybe Tubbo just needed to destroy the tether keeping the ghost here. Who was that ghost again? Did he sink every ship that came his way?

Guess we figured out why there were no witnesses, his mind snarked, and he sent a silent shut up in the direction of his most unhelpful thoughts.

Maybe Tubbo could . . . gently coax the ghost into leaving the ship alone.

"Mr--" His back bumped into the railing, nearly making him jump. He turned his head, grabbing onto the railing for support, and found that he had managed to back himself into a corner. Toast whined from his corner, his sharp whimpers a painful reminder that it was, technically, all his fault the dog was there in the first place.

This situation was just getting better and better. Tubbo forced himself to remain calm, though his entire body shook with the effort it took not to panic. "Mr. Albrightson! Um!"

Ranboo's face twitched. He was still slowly loping closer to Tubbo, though he was now sporting a limp, and his entire right hand was covered in blistering, cracked burns. "What did you say?"

"That's your name! Right? That's your name, right?" Tubbo flung his hands out in front of him as though trying to shield himself. Please, God, I don't want to get his name wrong.

"How . . . do you know that name?" A violent shudder passed through Ranboo's body at Tubbo's words, before, with an effort, he straightened back up.

Tubbo gulped. "I . . . did research? You're famous, dude."

Ranboo drew in another long, slow breath, then let it out, the steam from his breath sinking into the air and dissipating. "--no. Nobody cares. No respect, no--" He stopped, and seemed to be violently conflicted, his limbs shuddering.

"So why don't you get off the ship," Tubbo coaxed. "And leave us alone? Please? That would be excellent."

"I won't leave," Possessed-Ranboo hissed, spitting the words out, "until I'm the last one alive."

Tubbo stopped himself from pointing out that, as a ghost, he technically wasn't alive in the first place. "Ri-ight. Okay. Well, in that case-- um--" he racked his brains for something to say, something to maybe buy himself just a little more time.

C'mon, Tubbo, think! Ghosts can't go that far from their tethers. What's something on this ship that could be a tether? Something that appeared around the time Ranboo started acting weird . . .

Does it have to be small? Do I have to burn it, or break it? Burning works to get rid of the ghost, and breaking it . . . Tubbo thought back to when he had cracked the rosary, the little silver cross lying broken in half in a puddle of metal shards. No, it just frees them. Damn, this is complicated!

Unless . . . unless I don't have to burn the tether. All I have to do is get the ghost out of Ranboo's body and then kill it with some iron. Can ghosts touch iron? Ghosts can't touch anything, can they?. . . except maybe iron? Bloody hell!

Tubbo threw himself to the ground as a martini glass came hurtling towards him. It hit the railing and shattered, shards of glass crashing over the ground and sprinkling over his back.

He peeked up and saw Ranboo approaching. The sky had turned into a murky, bitter grey; the glowing moon peeked out over the churning, watery horizon to cast Ranboo's figure into a tall silhouette. Silver light poured over the scene, making everything look rather like one of those grainy movies made in the early 1900s.

Fuck. Shit. Focus, you idiot!

Tubbo's mind was spinning. He-- he needed-- he needed to get back to the room. He needed to wake up Tommy, and he needed to wake up Phil, and he needed, needed to find some way to get Ranboo safe-- they could help him save Ranboo.

As he crawled to his feet, his legs shuddered under him, and his cheek started to throb in time with his harried heart rate. Pressing his palm to his cheek, he felt a shard of glass wedged in between his torn skin, slick with blood.

It was in-- it was inside of his face-- he could feel it. He clenched his jaw, and a surge of nausea and terror swept through him as he felt the piece of glass squirm a little deeper into his skin. Blood trailed little red footprints over his fingers where he had touched the injury.

He grabbed hold of the shard, though his fingers, shaking and slippery with his blood, nearly lost hold of it several times. Bracing himself, he steeled his grip and his nerve, and forced himself to pull it out, nearly going limp at the pain that shot through him.

"The storm's coming," cackled Ranboo. "Coming for all of us. Give up! Besides, don't you like the water?"

Tubbo lifted his eyes to see that the ghost was less than a metre away, still coming at that limping, unnatural gait. The setting moon illuminated the bridge of his nose and the curve of his crooked smile with silver.

Tubbo tossed the shard of glass away. Now that the wound had been unstoppered, his blood was free to flow, and he could already feel warm, oily liquid coating his neck and spilling down his shirtfront.

Get to the room, his instincts screamed at him. Run! Run, as fast as you can!

"Toast!" he called desperately, spinning in a circle to look around him for the tiny dog. His heart nearly stopped as he found the deck's top devoid of any sign of Toast.

"Toast?" Ranboo's head stuttered into a confused tilt. "What does that mean?"

"My-- our-- the dog!" Tubbo cried frantically, flailing over the words which suddenly seemed so clumsy in his mouth. "He's gone! What-- what happened--" Oh god, he didn't--

Ranboo twisted in a circle, looking apprehensive, then turned back to Tubbo, gnawing on his bottom lip. "There's a dog?" Tubbo could see the veins throbbing past his skin, which was made nearly transparent by the freezing cold weather and the painfully frozen effect being possessed must have.

Remembering the chilling sensation of skin-on-skin that he had experienced just a few minutes before, Tubbo shivered. Time to focus, Toby.

"Y-yeah," Tubbo bluffed, standing up a little straighter even as blood poured over his cheek, spilling into his mouth. His mouth tasted sour, maybe partway from the blood smeared all over his cheek and tongue, maybe simply from the terror which was raising bile in his stomach. "Biggest dog you've ever seen! The only reason he didn't attack is because I kept him on a leash."

Ranboo's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, as Tubbo's eyes darted everywhere except Ranboo's face. He always had been somewhat of a bad liar.

A sneer growing on his face, Ranboo shook his head. "The only reason I didn't kill you was because I didn't try hard enough. You're-- just like him-- undeserving bastard!" His expression clouded over with rage and he leapt forward, extending a hand towards Tubbo's neck.

Tubbo screamed and dove to the side, tumbling into a most undignified roll before slamming into a chair. He gasped for breath, his lungs feeling like two empty sacks. "God-- fucking damnit--" He heaved himself to his feet, and started to run.

He fell more than ran down the stairs, barely avoiding slamming his entire body against the opposite wall as the inertia he'd built up carried him forward. He pressed his hand to the wall for support, wincing at the gruesome bloodstains he was smearing on the wood, but couldn't do anything about it-- his legs were very nearly numb.

How was nobody awake yet? It was-- it was--

His eyes happened upon a clock and he let out a curse. 3:08.

"We're not doing a chase, are we?" called Ranboo from the top of the stairs, his voice echoing through the corridor.

"I certainly hope not," Tubbo hissed through his teeth. He stumbled past a corner, grimacing as his entire body gave a violent shudder. "That would be dreadfully repetitive of the author." (A/N: have patience my friends I'm not just planning a chase)

He passed a janitor, who gave a fearful shout at the mere sight of him and collapsed. Tubbo ran past him, praying that Ranboo wouldn't stop to "take care of"-- kill-- the man. God, it was weird thinking about Ranboo like that.

The walls each turned into a blurr, characterised only by the smear of blood from his hand. Twice he fell into a table, knocking all the wax candles to the floor, but forced himself to stand up again. He was losing too much blood as it was, he needed to get moving.

Then, the hallway opened up. Tubbo caught a glimpse of the dining hall and instantly collapsed onto the floor, unable to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. His cheek stung. His body was aching horribly, curled up into a shaking, pathetic mess on the floor.

This was it, wasn't it?

He couldn't take another step.

He was going to die here. Or, his blood-deprived, addled brain supposed, he was going to be dragged up to the deck and drowned.

Tubbo shivered at the thought, then reached one shaking hand out, marvelling at how pale his skin was, and seized hold of a leg of a chair. He dragged himself upright, and forced himself to think. Think. Think, think, think. How do I get the ghost out of Ranboo?

There has to be a way. There has to.

Ghosts . . . they don't like-- a clatter came from the hallway and Tubbo shrieked, half-crawling through the mess of chairs and tables. --iron. They don't like salt and they don't like iron.

One ghost down with iron . . . His vision blurred for a second, and a fresh wave of terror rolled through Tubbo, so thick he could almost taste it. Black veins tore through his vision, and his limbs shuddered, turning frighteningly weak.

He forced his heart rate to slow. His vision would clear on its own.

Why don't I try salt?

Salt doesn't burn, though. It creates a barrier. What good is a barrier?!

Tubbo, who had been leaning against the wall in order to walk, felt the material under his palms change into something smooth and plasticky. He groped at the wall and grasped hold of something cold. A doorknob.

Praying that it was the door that led into the guest rooms, Tubbo twisted it, and crumpled onto the floor beyond.

Tubbo knew he had failed when his shoulder met hard, chilly tile instead of the lush carpet he was used to. He managed to stop the cry of pain from bursting out of him; rather, he somehow crawled upright, his legs shaking underneath him as he tried to keep himself steady.

His vision cleared for a second, letting him see where he was, though he was pretty sure he already knew. The scent of spices and meat had hit his nose as soon as he got past the door.

The kitchen.

Oh, no. Tubbo fell back against the door, a sense of hopelessness bursting over him like someone had thrown a bucket of water at his face. Maybe I still have time to go back--

A horrible laugh came from outside the door and Tubbo cringed, a shiver going down his spine. No, no chance to do that. There was no time.

"Time to try out salt," he muttered. "This is a kitchen. They'll have some on bloody stock. They'd better--" his voice caught just as the rest of his body went limp, and he had to catch himself on a nearby countertop.

He shook himself out and pressed on. Cabinets were opened, drawers slammed closed in disgust when all he found were spoons and forks. A kettle was swept to the ground, landing with a clatter onto the tiled floor.

Finally, Tubbo lifted up a small burlap sack, the top secured with a zip tie. Once the zip tie had been ripped off, Tubbo looked down into the sack and saw a mound of salt.

"Finally." He nearly dropped the bag in relief, but caught it in time, his heart hammering out a fretful rhythm.

Behind him, the door was thrown open. It slammed against the wall and bounced back, nearly closing again, but was soon kicked back open. Tubbo spun around to see Ranboo ducking under the doorframe, his shadow spilling across the floor. As soon as he saw Tubbo, his face split into a cruel, mad smile.

"You're so easy to find--" Ranboo cut himself off with a confused hiss as Tubbo scooped a handful of salt into his hands and hurled it at the possessed boy.

Unhelpfully, it hit his face and clattered to the floor, spectacularly harmless. Tubbo stared as Ranboo lifted a hand to wipe some of the remaining crystals off his face, sticking his tongue out in disgust. "Salt . . . doesn't hurt. And it's useless like that."

"'Like that'-- so there is a way to use it?" Tubbo countered. He was still propped against the countertop, breathing heavily. Sweat clung to his forehead and trickled down his neck. His hands, which had been cold just a few minutes before, now felt as though they were burning from the inside out, covered in his (literal) blood and sweat.

Ranboo shook the rest of the salt out of his hair. "This isn't the first time a ghost hunter has sought me out. You're like . . . gnats." His scowl turned into a leering smirk. "And as easy to kill."

Tubbo smeared away some of the blood off of his cheek. Most of it had turned thick and heavy, patching up the wound with its gluey consistency, and he had no doubt it would soon turn brittle and scab over. For now, though, he was just soothed by the fact that he wasn't losing any more blood.

"You can try, but I doubt it'll be as easy as you might think." Tubbo grabbed the sack off the counter and bent down into a crouching position-- well, he fell into a crouching position. It was hard to bend when your legs were basically made out of wet noodles.

Hefting another handful of salt into his hand, he smeared it onto the ground, tossing the grains of salt into the awkward shape of a large circle before Ranboo could figure out what was going on.

"Insolent--" Lunging forward, Ranboo slammed into the invisible barrier. Ripples shot out through the air on all sides, forming the vague shape of a half-sphere before fading away.

On instinct-- Tubbo had basically no idea what he was doing anymore-- he leapt to his feet, reached outside of the barrier and seized Ranboo by the arm. While the ghost was dazed from the impact, he reached onto the ground, scooped up a collection of salt, and shoved it inside Ranboo's mouth.

He half expected the ghost to just spit them out, recover, and instantly kill him. But it seemed luck was on his side this time.

Ranboo stumbled back, grabbing at his throat, making desperate, choked noises. Salt spilled from his too-pale lips, dripping into puddles of saliva on the floor, but it was apparently too late.

As Tubbo looked on in shock, a piercing, white light started to come from Ranboo's mouth, as though he had swallowed a lightbulb. Tubbo looked away, cringing and shading his eyes.

The light spread, and now there were no shadows, and it was so bright that colour was almost a mere memory . . .

The door to the kitchen slammed open.

---

Tubbo sat on his bed, shaking from head to toe, holding a hot mug of tea. The mug shook along with his hands, so some of the tea sloshed over the side to burn his fingers, but it was a good kind of burn. It felt good not to be freezing.

Next to him sat Tommy, who was draping himself over Tubbo and trying not to weep, his fright-clumsy fingers trying (and failing) to put soft bandages over Tubbo's still-bloody cheek. Meanwhile, Phil sat on the bed opposite them, white in the face.

"Do you know how worried I was when I woke up and you were gone?" stressed Phil, his voice breaking halfway through. Jittery, his eyes darted from Tubbo to Ranboo, expression twitching between frightened and angry in sudden, nervous spurts. "This is the second time-- the second time in how many days that one of you has scared me half to death! Good God, Tubbo, I expected this from Tommy, but--" He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

Ranboo's gaze slanted towards the floor. His bottom lip trembled slightly, but he blinked a couple of times and the wet sheen vanished from his eyes. "S . . . sorry, Phil."

Phil massaged his temples. "That's . . . I won't say it's fine, but . . . it is fine. I suppose it could have been worse."

"How? How could it be w-worse?!" Tubbo stated frankly. He had meant to sound questioning and authoritative, but his voice hiccuped halfway through, and a terrified sob lodged itself in his throat. "We're still stuck on this cruise. How're we gonna get off?" What a nightmare.

Desperate to calm himself, he brought the tea to his mouth, but the scalding liquid splashed over his lips-- he'd forgotten to open his mouth. Wincing as the hot tea travelled down his throat, he raised a hand to wipe away the tea, shoving the mug onto the nearby night-stand that he shared with Ranboo.

Ranboo, who had dropped out of the conversation in favour of reassuring a most relieved Toast that he was, indeed and again, himself, had perched himself on his bed. He looked up, perhaps taking in the black cloud of depression that seemed to have overtaken his company, and pursed his lips.

"All I can taste--" he paused, looking as though he was struggling for words. "All I can taste is salt. How much salt did you give me? Did you have to use quite so much salt?"

Relieved at the change of subject, Tubbo couldn't help but giggle slightly, the sound almost hysteric, lifting his shoulder in a jerky shrug. All of his limbs felt numb, and it wasn't even because of the blood loss-- hysteria kept threatening to overwhelm him, and he had to clamp his mouth shut so he didn't break out into another round of giggles.

"Well, it bloody worked, didn't it?"

Ranboo made a face of disgust. "I'd be worried that I would throw up, but I already did that."

"I don't sense gratitude in your tone, Boo." Tubbo grinned, another laugh bubbling up in his throat, before Tommy (who was still attempting to patch up Tubbo's cheek) pressed a finger to his lips.

"I can't do this if you keep laughing; hold still!" he instructed.

Tubbo did so, holding his breath for a few seconds until the cool feeling of gauze pressed over his wound, cold gel meeting his flushed skin. As he twisted his shirtsleeves anxiously in his hands, he could feel the warm wetness from the tea stains now darkening the already worn fabric.

When Tommy leaned back with a shaky sigh, accepting his sloppy work-- the result of obvious nerves. "That'll have to do, I suppose."

"I'll try to arrange something to get us off the boat." Phil dropped his hand from his head, sending a questioning look towards Tubbo. "But I do have a question for you. Is Albrightson . . . gone? Did you get rid of his ghost?"

"Gone?" Tubbo felt his throat fill with all the words he wanted to say, sharp and jagged and hot and clumsy all at the same time. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, too unwieldy to use comfortably. "I . . . " He lifted his hands helplessly, then let them drop onto the bed beside him. " . . . don't know."

His eyes still hurt from the bright light that had come from Ranboo, and he lifted his hand absently to touch his eyelids, finding that his eyelashes were still wet, stuck together with the sticky consistency of tears, though it had been minutes since his most recent cry.

After the light had faded, Tubbo had found that he had been left with a conscious-- but hopelessly dazed-- Ranboo. Cowering behind the corner of a table, he had been too scared to move, let alone get closer to the dizzy American or investigate the suddenly-open door.

It was only when Toast had pounced on Ranboo, sending the taller boy crashing back to the floor with a dazed groan, and Tommy had wheeled around the corner, his lips opening in a startled cry as his gaze landed on the body of his barely-conscious friend, that Tubbo had thought that . . . that maybe he wasn't going to be drowned.

Tommy had then seen Tubbo, and the blonde had nearly knocked the wind out of him with a ferocious hug, sweeping Tubbo to his feet.

Burying his face in Tommy's shoulder, he suddenly realised how tired he really was. His eyes stung with unreleased tears and he dug his nails into Tommy's back, already clinging desperately to Tommy's night-shirt, but willing himself not to cry. He already looked pathetic; he was already getting his blood all over Tommy's shirt, he did not want to add to the "weepy damsel-in-distress" syndrome that was apparently affecting his brain.

Maybe it was a side effect of almost being killed, but his brain didn't seem to want to listen to him, and he had to clamp down hard on his thoughts so they didn't head down a brambly train of thought that would definitely have led to tears.

"I heard Toast scratching at the door and crying," Tommy had said, gentle with concern but wild in the eyes. Tubbo had pulled back, sniffling a little, and swiped his hand under his runny nose. "I got worried, so I convinced Phil to let me follow him. Lucky I did, too.

"I saw that Toast's leash was on, and I couldn't figure out how he got out of the room. I only got more worried when I saw yours and Ranboo's beds empty. Thank god he apparently has a good nose, he found you in just a couple of minutes but . . . " Tommy shook his head. "What happened here?"

Tubbo stared down at his hands, almost amazed that they were shaking. They were his hands, he should have perfect control over them, but they were shaking, not listening to him at all. Tommy's words passed glossily over his ears and were swept away by the roaring current of thoughts in his mind.

Tommy had gripped Tubbo by the shoulders, stooping down to get on eye level with him. Shaken out of his reverie, Tubbo looked up, eyes wide and frightened. Tommy sighed, his expression and grip softening.

"Look, I don't want to upset you more, but what happened? What's Ranboo doing here?"

Tubbo only managed a quiet "It isn't," before he had to shut up again. The words were only encouraging the flow of tears that he did not want to give in to.

Tommy sucked in a deep breath, obviously chagrined. "Not what?"

"Not Ranboo," Tubbo said in despair, and crumpled back onto Tommy, crying hard.

Tommy hesitated for only a moment before patting Tubbo awkwardly on the back. "Right. You seem to be upset, Tobs. Why don't we get you all fixed up and I'll carry . . . Not-Ranboo back to the bedroom. Here, take Toast." Shoving Toast's leash into Tubbo's hands, he peeled himself away from Tubbo and bent down, trying to pull Ranboo up.

"I'm aw . . . ow, my head . . . " Ranboo pushed Tommy off him, wincing. "Get offa me, I'm awake. Jesus Christ, what happened?" He caught sight of Tubbo, eyes red and teary, his cheek slashed through. His mouth dropped open at the state of him. "Tubbo--! What happened to you?"

Tubbo could barely choke out a little sob before his throat closed back up, swelling already from the tears and the amount of swallowed blood. He collapsed into a sloppy sitting position, his legs wobbling underneath him, and buried his face in his hands.

Worried, Toast put one paw on Tubbo's knee, yipping in concern.

"Let's get back to the room," Tommy said with determination, looking around at them. "This place is a mess. It smells like blood."

"I wonder where that could have come from, my God," Tubbo burst out, hysteria seizing control of his thoughts. He gave a too-loud, half-sob of a cackle, not dissimilar to the sound one imagines when they think of a crying hyena.

He was alive. He was alive. He was hurt, and confused, and tired, so tired, but he was alive.

Toast whined, pressing his wet, cool nose to the side of Tubbo's non-injured cheek. A few streaks of blood interrupted the brown of his fur, all Tubbo or Ranboo's blood, of course, but it still sent a shock of fright through Tubbo when he saw.

"You're-- hurt--"

I hurt you--

He gave a little hiccup and started weeping again, the sounds ripping themselves from his throat, violent and agonising. He dropped his head into his hands, cool darkness soothing his light-tortured eyes. His hands, smeared with blood, would leave fingerprints of red across his eyelids when he dropped them, turning the streaks of tears down his cheeks a pale red, but he didn't much care about that at the moment.

Footsteps approached. Tubbo's ears just barely picked up on the noise.

"Shh." Tommy's voice. Tubbo recognised it. That's right. Tommy was here, wasn't he?

Soft fingers closed over one of Tubbo's hands, gently pulling it away from his face. Light flooded back into his vision and he gave a start, trying to flinch away, but Tommy patiently pulled him closer.

"Calm down. We're going back to the room. You'll get to see Phil there. Phil is safe. I'm safe." He hesitated, glancing behind his shoulder at Ranboo's befuddled form, and noticeably didn't say the same about Ranboo.

Tubbo was almost glad he didn't.

It took a couple of minutes for him to calm down again, his breathing settling back to a regular pattern. His heart still hammered in his chest, but he could think clearly now.

From the floor, Ranboo cleared his throat. Tubbo glanced towards him, mind catching somewhere between the words run and help, but he settled for staying where he was, watching carefully-- and fearfully-- as Ranboo got awkwardly to his feet.

"Is somebody please going to tell me what's going on?"

" . . . Tubbo? Tubbo!"

Tubbo jolted back to reality as Tommy waved a hand in front of his face, looking concerned. "You floated off again. You sure you're alright?"

Tubbo frowned, batting Tommy's hand away. "I'm fine. Stop--" he sighed, running a hand through his wind-battered brown curls, trying to ignore the honest worry painted over Tommy's wide blue eyes. "Stop bloody looking at me like that. I'm fine."

Not that he wasn't pleased by Tommy's concern for him, but he didn't think he wanted to be treated delicately, either. It wasn't like he was seriously hurt, either; he had just sustained a cut on his cheek.

Well.

A really bad cut on his cheek, but still.

His hand went unconsciously to his cheek, brushing the soft netting of the gauze. After Tommy had cleaned the wound, commenting and fretting the whole time about how bad it seemed and how liable it was to get infected, it had started to bleed again. This piece of gauze was the third they'd given him, and the wound still didn't seem to be stoppering itself up.

"Well, the only way we know of to get rid of a ghost is to destroy their bond, right?" Phil continued, and Tubbo was forced to try and remember what they had been talking about earlier.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Ranboo said. He was running his hands through Toast's mane of fur, expression thoughtful. "Tubbo, when you broke that rosary, it only freed Ina and the others, didn't it?"

"Yeah . . . " Wishing he could just drop backwards and go to sleep, Tubbo dropped his hand from his cheek. "So, if we can't just destroy it," he mumbled, "then we need to burn it, don't we? That's how we managed to destroy that one ghost . . . "

"You mean the Christmas Carol ghost?" Tommy nodded, screwing the lid back onto a tube of antibiotic. He stood up from the bed, striding over to where the medicine bag was-- open on the nightstand between Tommy and Phil's respective beds-- and picked it up with one hand, tucking the gel back into the zipper-teethed maw of the maroon bag.

He tossed it carelessly back onto the table, letting it fall onto its side, band-aids spilling from the gaping mouth, and flopped backwards to stare at the ceiling from his bed. "Well, does anyone have any ideas?"

Tubbo shook his head, though he knew Tommy couldn't see it, toying with the folds of his jacket sleeves. They were still slightly wet, though not warm anymore, unlike his abandoned tea, still steadily steaming on his table. "No. I don't even know what could be his tether, or bond, or I don't know what to call it."

Ranboo leaned over to put a comforting hand on Tubbo's shoulder, his expression sympathetic. "Hey, why don't you--"

Tubbo sent Ranboo a steely glare. "If you tell me to calm down, I will grab the nearest, heaviest object and beat you over the head with it."

Toast jumped off Ranboo's lap and scrambled onto Tubbo's bed, nuzzling his muzzle against Tubbo's jeans. He looked up at Tubbo, his eyes warm like melted chocolate, and Tubbo's demeanour softened instantly. He glanced up at the room through his eyelashes, looking at Tommy's grimace and Phil's tired dismay.

Finally, he looked apologetically at Ranboo, face flushing as he realised how awful he had probably sounded. He hesitated for a second, then sighed. "Sorry, Boo."

"No, it's . . . fine." Ranboo offered him a grin. "I mean, unless you're apologising for breaking my tongue. In that case, no, it's not fine, because now everything I eat will forever taste like salt."

Tubbo couldn't stop the laugh that came to his lips, and he didn't even really want to. The whole situation suddenly filled his mind, and he couldn't think of anything more ridiculous.

He was sitting on a bed, on a cruise ship, with a dog that they'd had to sneak in through a suitcase, recovering from an encounter with a ghost that had possessed his friend in order to kill the whole ship. The sun still had yet to rise, and any moment now the staff members would find the trails of blood Tubbo had left and sound some kind of alarm.

Well, if that didn't take the cake, he didn't know what did. All things considered, when he wasn't about to be viciously attacked and drowned, it was all rather hilarious.

"Good thing that you've kissed and made up," Tommy started, breaking Tubbo again out of his thoughts, "but we still have a ghost to finish off. And a grand total of zero leads."

With an effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, peering across the room through the floppy mess of golden bangs in his eyes. "Unless . . . " He gasped suddenly, startling Tubbo "Unless we've been bloody morons this whole time. Which we have, holy shit. Holy fucking shit."

"What?" Tubbo sat up straighter, digging his fingernails into the fabric of his blankets. Phil was looking up, too, as was Ranboo. Toast yipped and jumped down from Tubbo's bed, eager to join in the excitement. "What is it?"

Tommy was already rummaging through his bag, and after a couple of moments, he cursed and threw it to the side. "Tubbo!" He rounded on Tubbo, Toast hot on his heels. Tubbo fell back, eyes wide and startled, trying to wrap his sleepy thoughts around what Tommy was yelling about.

"Yeah? D'you need something?"

Tommy gritted his teeth, looking exasperated. "Where did you put that stupid bloody pipe?!"

Tubbo could have hit himself.

He knew it was three in the morning-- well, now four or five-- and he had barely gotten any sleep, but this really was a new low. "Um-- I have it here, in my pocket, I--" He dug through his pockets, and roughly pulled out the little, smudged instrument, displaying it around to the whole room. "Here. It's here."

Both Phil and Ranboo leaned closer with matching looks of curiosity and interest, and Tubbo vaguely remembered that neither had actually seen the pipe before. It honestly didn't look that impressive, or even that important-- weathered away from its time underwater, filled with layers of thick black grime. It looked dirty and useless, nothing like some long-lost artefact that could destroy a ghost, the only hint to its elegant history a faint lustrous shine coming from the ivory hidden under the filth. He wasn't even sure it could burn-- did ivory burn? It was like bones, right? Did bones burn?

Swallowing back his doubts, he decided that it had better burn; otherwise, he'd have to take matters into his own hands. At least the layers of tobacco caking over the smooth ivory would burn for a while. "Do any of you have a lighter?"

Tommy hesitated for a moment, then shook his head regretfully. Ranboo's expression dropped to his suitcase, then he lifted his eyes towards Phil, who had suddenly gone a bit stiff.

"Woah, now," Phil said warily as everyone else turned their heads in his direction. "Why're you all looking at me like that?"

"C'mon, Phil," Tommy said, fingers twitching as though he was restraining himself from rummaging around in Phil's pockets himself. "We know you have a lighter. Haven't we used it before? Yeah, we used it before."

Phil hesitantly stood up from the bed, bending down to rummage in his suitcase. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes as he searched, finally pulling out a zippered bag and tugging it open. He fingered the plastic lighter in his fingers, looking cautious. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"C'mon, Phil," Tubbo purred, eyes glinting as his sleep-deprived mind jumped eagerly at the chance to set something on fire. It just seemed fun. "You didn't really think we can burn something without fire?"

"I'd rather we not burn it at all," Phil sighed. The lighter caught the light from the rising sun, sparkling off the semi-transparent plastic to send sparkles flying through the air. "Why can't we just toss the bratted thing in a meat grinder and be done with it?"

"This little thing--" Tubbo brandished the pipe in the air; his fingers slipped off the glossy layers of grime and he nearly dropped it, but grabbed it with his other hand just in time. He breathed out a slow sigh of relief. "As I was saying. Goodness."

"That could've been much worse," commented Tommy, grinning unhelpfully.

"I'm well aware. If you're gonna interrupt me, at least make it something worth saying," Tubbo said snippily. "Anyway. If this thing breaks, the ghost can come after anyone. He's free to go where he likes." He hesitated. "I think."

"I try to think of it like the object is a cage for the ghost," Ramboo chimed in again, not interrupting Tubbo this time, thankfully. "It can already reach through the bars, but can't go far. That all changes if we break the cage. However, if we burn the cage, with the ghost still inside . . . " He paused meaningfully.

Phil nodded finally. "Yeah. Just be careful, okay?" He tossed the plastic lighter towards Tommy, who snatched it deftly from the air with one hand, then grinned in delight around the room.

"Did everyone see that? I just caught that with one hand! Fucking awesome."

"I don't know what'll happen," Phil warned them, even as Tubbo started looking for something fireproof to keep the flame contained. "That pipe has been underwater for some time. After mixing with all the chemicals dumped into this lake, the tobacco could explode. Actually--" He jumped up from his bed, nudging Tubbo out of the way before the younger could protest. "I'll do it."

Tubbo looked up at him with wide, betrayed eyes. "But Phil," Tubbo whined. "I want to set it on fire! Remember, the ghost tried to kill me. I think I deserve it."

"He does kind of deserve it," Ranboo called from his bed. He had scooped Toast up into his arms, keeping the small dog from trying to investigate the current source of interest (Toast's fur did look especially flammable, after all). "The ghost did try to kill him."

"I'm not going to cater to Tubbo's need to commit arson," Phil scoffed. He paused, took a moment to think about what he had just said, and broke out into a laugh. "Besides, I have the most training when it comes to fire."

Tubbo folded his arms over his chest, smirking. "How many buildings have you set on fire, then, Philza Minecraft?"

Phil glanced up at him, looking scandalised. "I-- none. Tubbo, being a pyromaniac and an arsonist, not that you, specifically, are either, does not qualify you to properly wield fire. It actually does the opposite, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Whatever. Go ahead and ruin my fun."

"I actually don't want this cruise to catch on fire and sink with us in it," Tommy deadpanned, legs crossed on the floor as he leaned back against the side of his bed, "so maybe it is better that Phil does it. 'Sides, he's good at everything, isn't he?"

"Thank you. See, that's what we call not being an arsonist," Phil stated, his mouth curling into a grin. "Tubbo, the lighter and the pipe, if you please."

"What if I don't please," Tubbo grumbled, but he handed over the two objects anyway.

With a mumbled thank you, Phil took them and bent down to the floor. He glanced around. "Anyone got anything fireproof?"

Ranboo looked at his suitcase again, then reached inside his pockets. He shrugged with one shoulder, looking almost regretful. "Nope."

Tubbo shook his head. "Sorry."

"I don't think I-- Oh!" Tommy reached over his bed and grabbed hold of a ceramic plate, on which had once been a chocolate cake. Now, all that was left were a few smears of chocolate and frosting, but he handed it proudly over to Phil all the same. "Here ya go. Don't set the carpet on fire."

"I'll do my best," Phil replied, setting the plate down on the floor. It sank into the carpet, and the pipe was soon laid across the ceramic with a faint tink. He flipped open the lighter, striking the metal together, and a tiny flame erupted from the mouth of the lighter. "Anyone ready to kill a ghost?"

"Feels strange to do it when I'm not in imminent peril," Tommy said. "I mean, I've not actually seen the ghost myself. I haven't been close to any excitement at all this trip!"

"Are you disappointed?" asked Tubbo, teasingly. "Yeah, I thought you needed a break from the 'excitement' of being nearly killed and decided I'd take on all the peril for you."

'Alright, alright," Phil interrupted. "Let's get on with it."

He bent closer, holding the little flame to the pipe's side. For a moment, a dreadful, heart-stopping moment, Tubbo's breath stuttered in his chest, and a million possibilities ran through his mind. What if it didn't work, or something went really wrong; what if Tubbo had never gotten rid of the ghost inside of Ranboo and now they were face the consequences--

The tobacco snapped and popped suddenly, pulling Tubbo out of his frantic thoughts. The black mud turned luminous with flame and hissed as it burned, bubbling, seething, melting. Tiny rivulets of melted, gooey tobacco dripped down the side of the pipe, pooling onto the plate underneath.

Toast whined, pressing his entire body to Ranboo's side. His ears tucked back and his tail hidden between his haunches, he didn't look very eager to get close, even though the tempting scent of warm chocolate had started wafting through the room.

. . . well, there was the tempting scent of warm chocolate and then there was the thick cloud of acrid, black smoke that came with it. Tubbo stared at it transfixed, forgetting to hold his breath against the thick smoke until he inhaled a lungful. It tasted like acid in his throat, burning and filling his entire mouth with an insidious, muddy, sour taste.

"Don't breathe it in!" Phil called from the floor. "That's tobacco smoke."

"Bit late for that," Tubbo wheezed, coughing through the words.

The tobacco burned for a few seconds more, illuminating Phil's face in a ghastly golden firelight and simultaneously smothering it with black tendrils of smoke. Then the whole pipe caught ablaze, and Phil backed slowly away, pulling his shirt up to cover his nose and his mouth.

"We're gonna need water to put it out, so it doesn't spread to the carpet," he coughed, waving one hand over his nose. There wasn't much smoke, but it had a way of filling the whole room, burning its acrid scent into their lungs.

"I thought that was why you put down the plate?" Tommy asked. His brow furrowed as he looked up, face glowing bright orange and gold with the flicker of the tobacco-stoked flames. "The ship isn't going to-- this is safe, right?"

Phil knelt down next to the fire again, sitting back on his haunches and watching it carefully. The pipe fell over onto its side, displaying a smooth, white patch of ivory that the flame eagerly swallowed. "Precautions. We can use Tubbo's tea, I doubt he's still drinking that. This ship has awful tea."

"It is bloody awful tea," agreed Tubbo.

Tommy nodded along. "It's pretty bad."

The fire growled (maybe in agreement? Disagreement? Tubbo didn't know, he couldn't speak fire), sending spurts of flame flying through the air. A spark landed on the floor next to Tubbo and he hurriedly kicked at it, scuffing his sock on the carpet until the glow died down to nothing but a blackened flake of tobacco.

"This pipe is taking a long-ass time to burn." Tommy folded his arms over his chest, looking almost impatiently at the mess of fire seething on the plate. Tubbo half didn't blame him, though his thoughts were taking a more anxious route; he kept thinking about how, at any moment, a ghost could erupt through the wall and attack them all.

It won't do any good to think about it, he told himself sternly. He quieted his fidgeting hands, which had been toying nervously with the handle of the mug, and tried to take a deep breath without inhaling too much of the vile smoke.

Luckily for his restlessness (and the carpet), the flame soon settled down under Phil's careful watch. It retreated into little flickers of fire, a small candle-sized flame clinging to life on the inside of the pipe's smokey maw. The last patches of tobacco glowed for a few more seconds as the fire died away, pulsing like a bed of embers in stubborn denial.

The cup of tea was promptly poured over the smoking pipe, and hot hisses and crackles erupted from the dying embers. Soon, though, the scent of hot tea steam filled the room, replacing the dry crackle of fire smoke.

After a long moment of silence, Tubbo spoke. "That's one way to put awful tea to use."

In an instant, it was as though the room let out a breath. Tommy dissolved into nervous giggles, smothering the noise with the back of his hand. Ranboo let Toast go, and the tiny dog bounded around the room, only giving the burnt carcass of the pipe a brief sniff before springing over to a corner to look for a toy.

"We're gonna get in so much trouble with the cruise staff," Ranboo said, passing a hand over his eyes. He slumped back against the side of the bed, letting his head tilt upwards as he gulped in deep breaths. "I wonder how long it'll take them to find the blood."

Tubbo snorted. "With the amount I left around the ship? Probably somewhere between five and sixteen seconds. Plus, there's some guy knocked out in the hallway."

"I wish I could've done something to help," Tommy complained. "Literally all I did was sit in the room and eat chocolate cake. Bloody hell, that's not useful at all." He pouted, clinging a puffy pillow to his chest, letting his chin stick out sulkily over the top of the pillow.

"You just want to hit a ghost over the head," Tubbo said playfully, bending down from the bed to grab hold of the toy Toast offered him. With a sudden movement, he tossed it across the room, where it hit the wall and slid limply down to rest in a pile on the floor. Toast bounded happily over, seizing the toy in his jaws and giving it a hard shake.

Phil, who had been staring down the mess on the floor for the past few seconds as though he could intimidate it into vanishing, shook his head. "We may as well clean this up." He bent down, hesitating to even touch the dirtied surface of the now-burnt pipe.

The ivory had darkened to a burnt, husky colour, somewhere between brown and dark yellow, and was cracked in several places to reveal a shining white interior glistening with dew drops of tea. The tobacco was burnt to a crisp, flakes peeling off and floating down to land softly on the soaked, blackened ceramic plate.

"You'll get your hand stained," Tubbo said matter-of-factly. "Use a towel, why don't you?"

"Good idea." Phil rolled his eyes. "Getting my hand stained. That was definitely the only thing I was worried about."

With only a moment more of pause, Phil scooped it cautiously up into his hand. The pipe had been made fragile by the fire, and though he was careful, the slender handle of the pipe dropped away, falling through his fingers to land soundlessly onto the wet floor.

"I'll put this in a locked box inside a locked drawer," Phil decided, bending down yet again to grab the broken piece. "Or maybe I'll throw it into the lake."

"Either option is fine." Tubbo made a face. He was sick of the thing. Ranboo, for whatever reason, was unreasonably attached to the little chain from their first adventure, and Tubbo couldn't imagine why. Maybe it was just him, but it didn't seem usual to carry around a memento of your near death. "I never want to see it again."

"Yeah, and I want to go to sleep." Tommy yawned. "It's, like, five in the damn morning, and I need my beauty sleep--"

"You sure do," Ranboo snickered, and Tommy turned an accusing glare onto the taller.

"--as does Ranboo," he added, sticking his nose into the air, "and I'm willing to wager if any more stress is put on me, I'll snap in half. I'm not built for this life! I'm built for comforts and Minecraft, not running around a ship looking for my best friend."

"Well, that can be easily remedied, anyhow," Phil said, ducking through the bathroom doorway. He was dusting off his hands, looking mightily pleased with himself.

Tubbo turned towards him, frowning. "What were you doing in there?"

"I found a way of disposing of the pipe," he said, evasively.

Tubbo squinted at him. "Did you flu--"

"Time for bed, is it?" interrupted Phil, which immediately provided an answer to Tubbo's question. "It's just as well. I'm ready to keel over; Ranboo, you look exhausted, my God. How long did that ghost keep you awake for?"

Tubbo looked over at Ranboo and immediately saw what Phil was referring to. Ranboo's eyes were red, his movements somewhat slow and sluggish and his words a little slurred as he protested his tiredness. "I'm not that tired," he objected, blinking rapidly.

"Well, I am," interjected Tommy. "So I don't know about you, but I'm going to take the easy route and go to sleep." Toast gave a small yip, probably in agreement, from where he was curled up on Tommy's bedsheets.

After that, it was all a rather easy process. The lights were soon turned off, everyone snuggled up in their own individual beds, and for the second (and last) time that night, Tubbo held his gourd plushie to his chest, his eyelids already sinking down heavily over his eyes.

Outside, a slow, soft bird sang, and the water splashed and rippled, faint beams of moonlight casting Tubbo's face in delicate silver.

Finally, Tubbo started to drift off to sleep. A faint, sweet giggle came from somewhere in the room, but it might have just been a dream . . .

That ghost was mean. Thanks for getting rid of him.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Tubbo thought he heard the words coming from somewhere close to him. They could have been whispering into his ear, or pressed into the sheets next to him, but he didn't bother opening his eyes.

He was too desperately tired.

---

It took all of Tubbo's willpower the next day to climb out of bed.

In a daze, he pushed open the door to the bathroom, blinking in the sudden brightness. He didn't even have the lights on-- the sun, bright as it could be during winter mornings, was shining in through the blinds and glittering on the bathroom tiles. Why a ship needed to have tiled bathrooms, Tubbo didn't know, but it was a very fancy cruise, so he didn't bother asking.

He pulled off the clothes he had worn last night (they smelled awful, and so did he-- they had been caked in bits of dried blood and he only found out he reeked of salt after Phil had given him a Look and told him to change his clothes), pried the gauze off his cheek with only a little bit of flinching, and stepped into the shower.

As steam filled the bathroom and he started washing himself off, he started recalling what had happened the previous night and tried to put it all in order. Showers did help one think, after all.

Shampoo was duly scrubbed into his hair, the now-scented water running down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He watched blood mix with the warm shower water and run down his arms in little, pale red streams, running obediently to the drain and swirling down into the mess of pipes in the ship's underbelly. Lucky water, Tubbo thought vacantly, staring as the bits of red water welled up into fat droplets and slid off his fingers. It doesn't have to deal with ghosts. Water doesn't even need a good night's sleep.

Pretty soon, he was done with his shower. He sure didn't smell like-- his mind blanked and he had to check the shampoo label-- 'orange blossoms and vanilla', as the shampoo bottle had advertised, but at least he didn't smell like blood and salt anymore.

With a sigh, he twisted the handle of the shower, shutting off the water. The pipes gave a worrying squeak and he raised his eyebrows at the showerhead, shaking wet bangs out of his face to give it an I-fucking-dare-you look.

Shoving open the shower screen, he stepped out and dried himself off with one of the fluffy towels hanging on a nearby hook. Wind whistled behind him, humming a faint melody as it slipped past the sun-glazed windows.

Lifting the towel from his face, he looked up and stared into the mirror.

His eyes were red, but he was well rested. His hair, wet with shower water and still showing evidence of some shampoo he hadn't washed out, stuck in tangled mats to his soaked forehead. His skin was still slightly paler than normal, but at least he wasn't shaking anymore. Even his heart was beating a steady thu-thump in his chest, his nerves patched up and recovering from last night's scare.

Tubbo took a deep breath in through his nose, watching the heavy steam dance out of the way as he exhaled. Letting the towel drop to the tiled floor, he pulled on cleaner, better-smelling clothes, revelling in the feeling of soft, clean fabric. He tossed the blood-caked gauze in the trash, lifting his hand to prod carefully at the slash decorating his pale cheek.

It had healed somewhat overnight, which he supposed was lucky. It was still deep, but wouldn't need stitches, and it had already stopped bleeding. Just a pale pink line on his cheek. He wondered if it would scar.

Gathering up the fluffy towel into his arms, he pushed open the bathroom door and stepped outside. Sunlight sparkled in his peripheral vision, drenching the room-- and its sleepy inhabitants-- in golden warmth. Trying to resist the wistful call from his bed, he waved sleepily at Ranboo, who was just starting to crawl out of his bed. The American gave a half-nod, focused on kicking the heavy blankets off of his legs.

"Nice to see you up," he murmured, voice scratchy from sleep.

Tubbo jerked his thumb in the direction of the bathroom, wrinkling his nose at the messy state Ranboo was in. "Shower's free."

In reply, Ranboo yawned a drowsy "Thanks", casting one last, longing glance behind him at his bed before shuffling into the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a faint click, and after a couple of seconds the sound of the shower started up again.

Phil was kneeling by the door, tying his shoelaces. He glanced up at Tubbo and smiled. "You took a shower."

"Yeah, well, you told me to." Tubbo grinned back, pushing still-damp bangs out of his eyes. "I didn't realise how much blood was on me."

"If only you could have smelled yourself." Phil wrinkled his nose at the memory, then shook his head fondly. "Let's get going. You all slept hard. Good thing you did, though, I don't want you to pass out during lunch."

Tubbo pawed at one of his eyes, trying to get a bit of the blurriness out. He squinted at Phil, then turned his head around to stare in confusion out of the window. "Lunch? I thought it was the morning."

Having finished typing his shoes, Phil stood up, dusting off his knees. He was more well put-together than any of the rest of them, his hair brushed back into some semblance of neatness, a mossy green jacket pulled over his shoulders. "So it is. Eleven, in fact. But even so, breakfast's been over for an hour and a half. I've been sitting here, waiting for you to get your butts out of bed."

"Aww, you waited?" Tubbo grinned up at Phil, his happiness only half fake, and the older rolled his eyes, reaching over to straighten Tubbo's shirt collar for him.

"Just a little." Phil spun in a lazy circle, lifting his gaze to where the final member of their party lay, still lightly snoozing in a puddle of sunshine. "Tommy," Phil called, "it's time to get up."

Tommy lifted one eyelid to stare at them before pulling the covers over his head. "Don't wanna get up."

Phil strolled over to the side of Tommy's bed. Toast was curled up happily in the crook of Tommy's arm, his tummy exposed to the sky and his paws folded close to his little doggy chest. As Phil started to pull the blankets off of Tommy's head, much to the sleepy protests of the latter, Toast stuck his head up, rolling over onto his chest to watch Phil.

"I understand that, Tommy, but--" With a sudden effort, Phil succeeded in pulling the blankets away from Tommy's grasp, prompting a drowsy and yet still indignant cry from Tommy, who was left blinking in the sudden influx of light. "It's time to get up. Aren't you hungry?"

"Sleep before appetite," Tommy muttered grumpily, batting Phil's offered hand away and getting to his feet himself. "That's what I always say."

Tubbo stifled what would have probably been an ill-timed snort of amusement. "Not really."

Tommy squinted at him, eyes bleary and baffled. "Why're you all wet?"

"He took a shower," Phil said matter-of-factly, looking down at his feet, where Toast was dancing around his legs in excitement at being woken up, whining for Phil's attention. "As I would advise you to do, as well. After Ranboo finishes."

"We're gonna run the ship right outta water if we do that," Tommy mumbled to himself. "I don't wanna take a shower. I want to sleep."

One corner of Phil's mouth lifted upwards in a grin. "Sorry, that option is unavailable." At Tommy's unamused stare, he laughed out loud, nudging the blonde towards his suitcase. "Go on, get dressed. We need to be eating lunch soon, I don't want you all to starve."

Half an hour later, Tubbo was seated at a small table in the dining hall. All around him, murmurs and gossip were springing up from people with fancy bracelets and boas made out of stuffed foxes (an unfortunate fate for any animal to meet, but it was just wasteful for a fox to be paraded around in such an ugly state). Apparently, the cruise ship had turned around on its route and was heading back to port early-- most people were unhappy about this, but several were just curious, and a select few were spreading horrible rumours about a supposed 'murder scene' found in the ship's kitchen.

Lifting his fork to his lips, Tubbo chomped down on a bite of a fluffy, savoury omelette. Next to him, Ranboo sat, his hair still damp as he ate his plate of some of the best-looking mac n cheese Tubbo had ever seen, and Tommy sulkily picked at his noodles.

A familiar face in a bright, lime green suit jacket paused at their table. "Phil!" Mr. Syme cheerfully said. Tubbo nearly choked on his omelette, but stopped himself from regurgitating egg all over his plate.

"Didja hear what's going on?" the man asked, leaning over their table much like a grim reaper leans over a deathbed. Phil shook his head mutely, staring fixedly at his plate. Mr. Syme's entire face lit up at the prospect to share some juicy gossip, and he grinned around, eyes sparkling. "We're turning around! Apparently there was a big to-do over in the kitchens. Somebody found a bunch of blood."

"Wonder where that could've come from," Tommy said nonchalantly, the words muffled by a mouthful of alfredo noodles. Tubbo's lips twitched as he tried not to laugh.

"We're heading back to the mainland. I tried to get my money back, but they're tough as ever, the old bastards. That's biz for ya, though, huh?" Mr. Syme shook his head, his hand gripping the back of Tubbo's chair with an uncomfortably tight grip. "Apparently they'll be contacting the police."

"Wow," Tubbo commented, keeping his voice even. "How horrible." Ranboo snorted, then hid it with a loud and sudden attack of coughing.

"Toby here gets it, doesn't he?" Mr. Syme reached over, and Tubbo suddenly felt a large, calloused hand ruffle his hair. He froze in his seat, his fork halfway to his mouth, eyes going wide. Mr. Syme, on the other hand, kept grinning. "What a smartie."

Tubbo smiled rigidly. " . . . thanks. Can you . . . stop touching me?"

"Come now, don't be so sensitive!" Mr. Syme laughed, the sound much too loud to be comfortable. "I'll be off, then. Phil, I'll see you later? Don't be afraid to call; my phone number's on my website."

"I'll certainly think about it," Phil said flatly. "Enjoy your lunch, John."

"You too!" Mr. Syme waved goodbye to them, his dress shoes clip-clopping on the floor as he strode away, white teeth flashing.

Tubbo swallowed another bite of his omelette, then burst into a fit of giggles. "We're heading back to the mainland?" he finally managed, covering his grin with the back of his hand.

Tommy shrugged, looking amused. "Guess they found the kitchen."

"My god." Tubbo shook his head. "I did not expect us to stop the entire cruise."

"I'm sure there's sanitary reasons behind it, too," Phil added, shrugging one shoulder as he pushed around the pieces of iceberg lettuce decorating his salad. "Nobody wants to make food in a bloodstained kitchen."

"Nobody wants to eat food made in a bloodstained kitchen, either," Ranboo said. "I mean. I don't."

Tubbo hummed his agreement, dropping his fork onto his plate with a clink. "You think they'll do a DNA test on it, like how they test criminals?"

"Tubbo, the deadly criminal," Tommy said in a dramatic voice, then dissolved into laughter. "It just-- it's-- y'think they'll write a newspaper article about us?"

"Maybe not about us," Phil said thoughtfully. "Maybe about the blood they found in the kitchen. I doubt anyone's going to make it into a murder scene, they'll probably pass it off as some accident with a cheese grater."

Ranboo blanched. "Thanks for that image in my head while I eat, Phil," he said, screwing his face up into an expression of disgust.

Tubbo, who had finished his omelette, pushed his plate away with one hand and dabbed daintily at his mouth with a napkin. "So, where to next?" he asked, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hands.

"Well, we're close to a coupla states," Ranboo explained, pulling out his phone. "We already went to Minnesota, but we're also close to Michigan and Illinois . . . " He held up his phone after tapping a few keys, displaying a map of the US to everyone. "If we want to go to Michigan, we'll probably have to cross the lake on another boat."

"That's out of the question," Tommy snorted, toying with a stray noodle. "Can you imagine? We're probably going to get banned from boats for life."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Ranboo turned the phone back towards him, frowning as he thought. "Well, we're also bordering on Kansas. I had an idea about Kansas . . . " He paused, smiling a little.

"What's your grand idea, Ranboo?" Phil asked, his smile turning indulgent as he watched Ranboo's face light up at the chance to explain.

"Well, you know, I always do some research about these kinds of things," he started, eyes sparkling. "And sometimes, when I'm looking for information, this one really, really haunted place pops up in Kansas. I always thought it was interesting-- it's really famous. Have . . . have any of you heard of the Lizzie Borden House?" 

(A/N: Yes, in case you were wondering, Tubbo's new wound on his cheek is indeed modelled after the scars on his character in the DSMP ;3)