He was young, that was really all he could remember. It was bitterly cold, but the rain fell from the sky in liquid form. He was alone, a little cranky but mostly numb. He could barely feel his skin, and the repetitive motion of walking was now a muscle memory, not a conscious choice. His mind wandered to food, to safety or a place to dry off. He didn't bother wondering about when an animal or Mob would strike. There was nothing he could do but die in that situation. Even if he had a weapon, which he didn't, he wasn't strong or fast or agile. He was malnourished and could barely think about something that wasn't his growling organ.

        He saw the shadow before he saw the creature. He ducked behind a tree, breath slow so the rain was louder than that. He didn't move, body frozen. Even when his legs began to cramp up, even when his eyelids felt more like bricks than a part of his body, he didn't move. His body screamed that he should run while his mind was stockpiling adrenaline. When the shadow was gone, he would bolt, racing past the place that the shadow would be.

        That's what he thought, but the shadow was getting closer. It was multiplying. There was more than one. The shadows reminded him of zombies, but the arms were moving instead of clamped into one position. More like Endermen, he realized, a neutral mob he didn't need to worry about. Unfortunately, the shadow was shorter than an Endermen and the limbs weren't as long. Did zombie Endermen exist? Was this some new mob, one he didn't know the rules of?

        One shadow popped around the corner before he was ready. He brought his arms up defensively as the creature- whatever it was- looked at him with blinking eyes. It was a zombie in shape, but it had a different look about it. It didn't wear tattered clothes, instead sporting a yellow raincoat and boots. It had white eyes with a circle of brown and a smaller black inside the brown in the white space. There were lips, but they were more of a pink color than the gray zombies had. Their skin wasn't sagging and had a pale color to it. There was even brown fur on its head and above the eyes but nowhere else. This was a zombie if the zombie didn't look so.... Dead.

        "Hello?" The creature asked. Wait. That was his language. The creature spoke in words he understood. No other mob did that. Other mobs either didn't communicate, or had their own sounds with associated meanings. He was able to understand the sounds to an extent (he just heard a noise and paired it with the following actions), but no creature ever understood what he meant.

        He tilted his head. This was strange to him. This was a neutral mob, at least. All he had to do was walk away, and the creature wouldn't attack. It might get curious and follow, but he would survive another day all the same. That's what he thought, anyways, but when he tried walking away, the creature grabbed his wrist.

        He didn't know how to react. He hit the creature in the stomach, somehow curling his numb fingers into a fist. The creature didn't light up red with pain, but let go of his wrist with a startled expression. He took it as a sign to run, knowing the creature was seconds away from retaliating. He kept an even pace, trying to outrun the creature without wasting all his energy. What if the creature was like Enderman in the way they could teleport, albeit short distances?

        He stopped when he ran into another one of those creatures. This one had blonder hair, with blue eyes and big feathery wings like a bird or elytrian. He was taller than the other creature, and had a more intimidating aura around him with the large wings and sharp eyes that gazed down at him. He swallowed, letting the creature size him up. Hopefully, the creature understood that he was defenseless and wasn't a threat. Even if he was hostile, he didn't have anything to pack his punches, not brains or bronze. He didn't even know what he looked like, just pale hands and tattered clothes. He imagined he was a baby zombie that never learned the proper language as his peers. A zombie couldn't do damage to a winged creature like this, not when he was tiny, could he?

        "Dad," The other creature said as it came up behind him. The larger creature must be called Dad, though he didn't know what creature gave each other that strange name. Was it still part of his language, the one that the creatures somehow knew? "He ran from me without a word after I grabbed his wrist. I don't know how long he's been out here for, but it must have been his entire life."

        "I imagine you're right, Wil," Dad said, and now he knew both of their names. At least he could differentiate them in his head. Now, it was time to plan an escape. Dad and Wil were distracted, and probably thought he was an animal to play with. He didn't want to be their animal to play with (there was a word for that... he couldn't remember it). Dad spoke to him. "Hello. I'm not here to hurt you. How about you come home with me? I can get you some food and fresh water."

        Food. His stomach traitorously growled. He thought about what he should do. Without food, he had maybe another day or two before he would die. If he went with Dad to get the food, they would probably kill him. As he weighed the pros and cons, he decided dying on a full stomach was more appealing than wandering aimlessly for a while before starvation claimed his form. "I'll go."

        "He talks?" Wil whispered. He cut a harsh glare at Wil. Of course he talked. He might not have been the best zombie, but he was more intelligent than most of the mobs that wandered around. "Do you know your name?"

        Did he have a name? Mobs like Dad and Wil must have given each other names, but no one had ever called to him. He didn't need a name. The monsters growled at him, and made their own noises, but none of that seemed like a name. He decided to shoot straight with Wil and Dad. "I don't have one."

        "Do you know where your mom and dad are?" Dad asked, and now he was confused.

        "Your name is Dad. Are there more than one?" He responded, not understanding how the new mobs worked. How was he to know if there was something they were scared of that he could exploit to steal their food if they acted so strange?

        Wil started making this weird sound that sounded like a cross between loudly breathing and yelling. He tilted his head, pointing at Wil to Dad. "What's he doing? Is that a mating call or something?"

        "He's laughing," Dad said with this terrible expression. Even Wil stopped laughing, whatever that was, to share a similar look. "Do you not know what that is? Do you know what a 'dad' is?"

        "Your Dad, that's what Wil said, isn't it? I don't know what laughing is. I've never seen Mobs like you before. You remind me of zombies but you speak my language," He explained what he knew as he was lifted into the arms of Dad. He let out a small squeak as he wrapped his arms around Dad's neck. Fear was coursing through his system as he eyed the ground suspiciously. It was like that time when an Enderman mistook him for a block and carried him around for a little while. While it was terrifying to be held by a Mob, he was excited to be above the ground.

        "We're not Mobs. We're humans, just like you. I understand that you've been in the forest for a long time, but we want to help you. If you want, you can call me Dad, but my real name is Philza. That's Wilbur over there. We live with a Piglin and human hybrid named Technoblade that I take care of."

        It was like that. His life changed overnight. He learned what a 'dad' was, and learned what he looked like- he had blonde fur like Philza and blue eyes, too. They were different shades, but it made him feel warm to look like someone else, something other than zombies. They even gave him a name. They decided on Theseus, a hero from a book Technoblade read, and called him Tommy for short. It was nice, at first, but he soon realized that it was Wilbur he should have called Dad. The brown haired man was always there when Philza and Technoblade were gone on adventures.

        Tommy forgot the first three years of his life, struggling with survival. What remained was Wilbur, the beanie wearing, younger twin of Technoblade who would do so much for Tommy. Wilbur fed Tommy, taught him most of the things he knew, and would entertain the energetic young child. Philza came by every once in a while, but he mostly kept his distance. Technoblade taught Tommy how to fight with several weapons, and he would practice with Wilbur, but it was almost always just Tommy and Wilbur. Tommy thought that the reason Wilbur wanted Tommy to stay with them so badly was because he didn't want to be lonely anymore. Tommy provided him company and distractions from the numbing pain that his own Dad or twin probably didn't care all that much about him.

        Tommy was fine, but then Wilbur wanted them to be social. Tommy didn't fit in with any of the kids as the loudest, most brash thing they had ever seen. Wilbur was fine. He was a charmer and held a silver tongue that spouted golden honey. Tommy wasn't charismatic, he was almost rude. One kid was able to see past Tommy's exterior for the beauty inside. Tubbo was his name. Another kid with a bad dad who was innocent, smiling at everyone and chatting about bees. Tommy definitely acted hostile, but Tubbo could handle it, even dish some of it back. They were like two peas in a pod instantly. They helped each other, and enjoyed being around each other. Tommy felt his life was perfect. He had Wilbur and Tubbo. He didn't need anyone or anything else.

        "Want to start a country?" Wilbur was smirking as he watched his younger brother and his friend befriend bees in the flowery hills. The boys were excited as they agreed. Wilbur picked up Tubbo into his arms, and held Tommy's hand as they abandoned the home Wilbur felt his loneliest at and let Tubbo escape his alcoholic father. Wilbur built a van for them to live in, calling it the drug van. Tommy and Tubbo just enjoyed themselves as Wilbur decided to sell the drugs their van was named after.

        All too soon, Wilbur came home with a small bundle of blankets. Tommy and Tubbo looked at the baby that Wilbur claimed was his with wide smiles. Neither understood how family worked, and called Fundy their baby brother. Wilbur found it far too cute to correct. Wilbur told them that he wanted to build a place for the four of them to be safe with freedom. Wilbur mentioned the King Eret and a man named Dream and his minions George and SapNap, and how they were 'oppressive'. Neither of the babies understood, but they agreed anyways, even Fundy making babbling sounds of agreement.

        That's how L'Manberg formed. Wilbur invited his friends, Niki and Jack, and they all wore uniforms the color blue. They built buildings and hung a flag that blew in the wind. Eventually, Eret decided to join them, and Wilbur accepted him into the community. Fundy aged differently than humans, so he was Tommy and Tubbo's age when Dream arrived. Tommy barely knew what happened there, but now they were at war with this Dream guy. Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy wanted to help fight, but the adults said they were too young as they amassed armies from the villagers fed up with Dream or his allies. They joined L'Manberg, and decided to fight for independence.

        Tommy knew he shouldn't have, but he snuck out of the van one night when he heard hushed voices whispering about the upcoming battle. He left the sleeping Tubbo and Fundy to find Wilbur. Tommy, a mere nine year old, accidentally found himself on the battlefield. It was illuminated by red fires and the pale white moon high above the world. Blood stained the rocks and grass with weapons of dead men sticking in the ground. Tommy watched with wide eyes and sharp breaths as people from both sides stabbed one another until one died. Tommy was about to run away when he finally saw Wilbur. He was on his butt, arms knocked out from under him with his knees kicked up. A man- an enemy- stood above Wilbur with an axe prepared to swing downwards.

        Tommy didn't know what moved, but his legs pushed off the ground into a great leap as he hand tugged loose a sword from the ground. He landed before Wilbur, pushing the sword into his enemy, so close that he heard the man's heartbeat slow down. Blood covered Tommy's hands as the man fell limp against him. Tommy pushed the man to the ground, tears springing to his eyes as he realized what he'd done: he'd killed that man.

        Wilbur gripped Tommy from behind, whispering something in his ear that was meant to be reassurance. It went in one ear and out the other. Tommy could only see the blood and hear a fading heartbeat. Wilbur took Tommy back, not punishing Tommy for sneaking onto the battlefield.

        Wilbur didn't ask him to, and Tommy didn't want to, but he decided that he had gotten involved. A man's death was on his conscience, and L'Manberg wasn't free. Tommy told Wilbur that he would fight, either living to the next battle or dying on the field. Wilbur seemed upset at this, but didn't press Tommy on why he chose this. Wilbur nodded slowly, and gifted Tommy with something. A double sided and see through blade attached to a hand guarded hilt that had L'Manberg colored tassels. Tommy cherished the weapon, holding it close to him at all times. When he trained, he focused on swordplay, getting better at it.

        He was allowed to participate in battles. He lost his mind in simplest terms. He became so focused on L'Manberg's freedom that he forgot who he was, what he was doing. Tommy was a killer, a machine, a soldier trained to carry out orders no matter the consequence. As his commander, Wilbur was now everything in Tommy's life, his past, present and future. Tommy didn't try to hold onto who he was. Without empathy, Tommy didn't feel guilt. He didn't think about what he was doing. He thought about L'Manberg, of freedom, not of his growing scars or bloodied bodies left in his wake. He didn't think about how the other soldiers called his blade Laevition, slayer of the beloved. The only thing keeping him going was his two discs, Mellohi and Cat, that he would play every chance he got, letting the music carry him away. It was his obsession, his coping mechanism that kept him sane. It helped him fall asleep, and block out the voices of those he had killed haunting him.

        As the war was drawing to an end, Tommy was finally becoming a person again. His 16th birthday was approaching, and maybe it was the hormones that had him joking alongside Wilbur and Tubbo again. They sang songs around the campfire, and they had snowball fights when the weather allowed. There weren't any battles, so Tommy didn't feel the need to repress the emotions he had. Maybe he should have, that way Eret's betrayal didn't sting quite as much. Maybe he should have left his emotions behind so he didn't challenge Dream to a duel, dying in Tubbo's arms shortly after. Maybe he should have kept his emotions at bay, that way he didn't feel so broken when Technoblade told him to die after killing his best friend and watching Philza, the man who was supposed to be his Dad, stab an insane Wilbur that was now more hostility than care.

        Now, it was just him. He followed Tubbo, his oldest friend, as he tried to bring L'Manberg back from the ashes Wilbur had left. He befriended Ranboo, an Enderman hybrid, and convinced him that they should burn George's house. He didn't know what drove him to burn George's mushroom shack, maybe anger or spite, or out of boredom and the need to cause conflict. Tommy hated to admit it, but he didn't know who he was without war. He didn't expect Tubbo to exile him, lamenting that Tommy was selfish. And he was. His reason was. He wanted a purpose, so he intentionally tried to cause a war, and he knew he shouldn't have, but he did it anyway. He was angry at Tubbo for abandoning him, but the anger gave away to loneliness after a week in exile.

        Tommy knew Dream was manipulating him. It was exactly like what Wilbur was during their shared exile at Schlatt's hands. Tommy saw the signs of a mad man in early stages, when their morality was in the dumps but they could act compassionate. Tommy, in his loneliness, merely took the hits and cruel words, savoring the kindness and cold smiles. Tommy would wake up, drowning in salty water, and would fight against the tide to get to land. He would hang around, walking around with boredom pandering in his mind.

        Even if he knew at first, eventually he believed that Dream was his only friend and that no one cared. He became Dream's pet, his songbird trapped in a cage to be admired from afar by everyone but Dream. Tommy would wait impatiently for every visit. He would do everything Dream told him to do, and willingly dumped his armor in the ground. Dream would smile at him, it was always cold but felt genuine, and would tell him a story. It was mostly about how everyone was doing, how they were better off without him, but rarely he would tell Tommy about how he was impressed with his performance during the war.

        Tommy, tired from Dream's threats and SapNap's patronizing tone, walked to the edge of the Nether. He watched the lava bubble, the reds and golds mixing together into the main orange color of magma. Tommy wondered if the numb feeling in his chest would disappear if he was surrounded by the heat of the lava, of the embrace of death. Which version of Wilbur would be in the afterlife? Someone like Ghostbur, or Fundy's and Tommy's father Wilbur? The silver tongued charmer or the red eyed dynamite holding mad man? Did Tommy care anymore who he would end up with?

        Dream pushed him to the ground when Tommy was at the edge. He seemed startled, but quickly became his cocky self again. "It's not your time to die yet, Tommy."

        All he could hear was the bubbling several miles below him, calling out to him like the lava would wrap him in a hug. Tommy reached for the edge, arm falling limp against the dark red bridge in the Nether. "It's never my time to die."

        It was his last canon life. Why shouldn't he be the one to take it? Dream wouldn't let him. Dream told him that he would die later on, when he was older, when he wasn't a 16 year old who didn't know who to be without Tubbo or Wilbur or wars.

        Everything went up in flames and bombs that day. Tommy didn't know why he was keeping things a secret from his friend, but Dream was disappointed when he found out. Tommy tried reasoning with his friend, explaining that he wasn't even going on for much longer, but Dream laughed and blew up his tent. All his progress was now ash. All his hope was swallowed by the flames. Everything he thought were sand castles during a tsunami. Tommy was alone. No one cared, not even Dream or Tubbo, not even Ghostbur. Tommy didn't want to live with that. He built his tower, and didn't try to stop himself as he stepped off. Whether it be good or bad luck, Tommy landed in water, fresher than the salty waves he woke up in. He was alive, at least.

        Tommy found himself stealing from Technoblade, hiding from Dream, and generally feeling like life wasn't worth it but neither was death. Tommy didn't know where he stood with anyone on the Server, and felt it safe to assume everyone hated him or simply didn't care. Tommy had to hide from everything, especially Technoblade, who could easily take Tommy to Dream.

        By some grace of the Blood God, Technoblade teamed up with Tommy instead of annihilating him. Tommy wasn't the best, he was more used to fighting than resource management, but Technoblade kept him around. They were around each other long enough for Tommy's betrayal to sting. Tommy was nothing without Tubbo, he realized, and while he didn't want to piss off Technoblade, he was better off with Tubbo. He shouldn't have made that choice considering Technoblade teamed up with Dream and Philza to destroy L'Manberg for the last time. Tommy fought the withers with everything in him, confronted Dream about everything, but L'Manberg still fell.

        Everything accumulated to that point. Tommy was breathing heavily, body slicked with sweat. He was fighting tears in his eyes, body shaking under the strain of that day and the fact he no longer had armor to warm him up. Tubbo was smiling at him, holding gently onto his hands, equally drained of energy. Dream, with his mask covering his sinister smile, was a few feet behind with his Netherite sword pulsating in the dim lighting.

        "What am I without you?" Tommy asked, weakly, voice breaking under the weight of everything, of everyone. All the memories of his past surfaced in that moment, years of suffering leading up to what? Tubbo was going to permanently die, and Tommy would continue being Dream's pet. What he feared Philza and Wilbur would do to him years ago was coming true now. Tommy didn't want to be a pet, but was that who he was without Tubbo's warm smiles and constant hugging? Without Tubbo to cheer him on or tank his anger, what was Tommy? He wasn't human anymore, not since his wings grew out. He wasn't a zombie like he imagined he was. He should have been a child, but there was too much stress for that. He wasn't a soldier without a war. Tommy Innit was nothing.

        "Yourself," Tubbo smiled through his tears. Tommy wanted to scream. He wasn't anything! He didn't have a personality, not a real one, he was a facade and a fake. He was a selfish hybrid of an avian and a monster. He didn't have a purpose, a home or family to return to, ambitions or projects of his own. Tommy was what other people wanted and expected him to be, but he couldn't do that if Tubbo was dead. Tommy felt tears race down his cheeks as Tubbo walked away, towards Dream, just like that day when Tommy was exiled.

        The universe wasn't benevolent, and Tommy wasn't religious, but when Ponk and everyone else came through the glowing purple portal, Tommy thanked whatever higher power was out there. Tubbo was safe behind a wall of bodies in armor, and Tommy was swinging the Axe of Peace at Dream's head. One life, two life, three-