#prison spawn_

His items were placed in a box, as if he was fired. There's a worker escorting hin out. It's not Fred, or Bubbles, or even that ratfuck Agent 18. It was just a worker, who didn't want to be here as much as Tubbo.

The speakers blare out some voice, Tubbo doesn't bother discerning whether it was his friend or his foe. Either way, they told him to get out. Other prisoners were taken out the same way, they were being escorted by a few workers. Just a few, less than how many prisoners they kept.

It's calm, quiet, and oriented.

She tunes out voices behind her. Tubbo's first in line to leave, and she could hear how confused they were. Tubbo doesn't bother discerning the emotion behind it. She's walking out.

They're all led to a room. Plates with signs hung over- six of them—no, five. They're all labelled letters. She doesn't bother reading all of them thoroughly because she's already jumped in one.

The plate sends Tubbo to a desert like area. She didn't hear what the bot was saying about the plates or why they lead the prisoners here. Either way, she could hear voices follow suit, confused and just following Tubbo because she was the first one in.

Food. One of them says. Okay- food. Is this where they'll get food? Or is this where the prison gets food to feed all of them? Doesn't really matter, because she's already started exploring.

The area's- small. Really small, probably about a hundred or so blocks by the same amount type small. It's a box, with a plain white walls, and false scenery. Tubbo finds crops in this one, he can hear people gathering food like wheat or potatoes. He digs deep and pulls out a carrot, chewing on it as he moves around.

All the areas have something. Something that Tubbo's unsure of. They were labelled A, B, C, D, and E, by the way. She went in E first- crops. Eventually she made her way through all of them. Materials, wood, fish, meat, and crops. Why? Why did the Federation make these for them? Just to gather materials? Why...

Oh.

Oh my God.

They were preparing the prisoners for the outside- weren't they? The people they trapped in here, from the outside world. Tubbo wanted to go up to the Bureau and tear its face off herself. Demeaning. They were being demeaned. Treated as if the materials given to them were gift baskets, wishing them well on their journey out of the white quartz walls.

Tubbo wanted to kill the Bureau. He heard Peg relay a message from Jeremy.

"We're going to kill that son of a bitch."

He tried. He nearly fucking died, trying. But he hopes. Tubbo just hopes that they could.

"Tell him we're going to kill that son of a bitch." He told her back.

And so Tubbo stood on green grass. The blades leading up to the front door of the clean white building of Tubbo's hell were dying. She stepped away to step on the fresh ground, move herself away from death.

Growing up was hard. Being put into a death game for almost all of his teenaged life, to being finally fucking free to explore servers and hop across worlds to meet everyone and anyone, then to end up in a facility one morning to be put to sleep for mule knows fuckin' long. He never knew where he came from. He only knew Tom, and the fucking ever-changing harsh world.

Some time has certainly passed ever since Tubbo started re-experiencing hallucinations accompanied by thrice as many breakdowns than he has ever had in his life. Usually, he'd keep it to himself. When the recording ended and Tom stopped having the world be riddled with mods, he'd find himself in the aftermaths clung onto a tree or something stable. He isn't the type to cry, just lash out or revel in another's stupidity.

He does both, in times like these.

It's been .... (Days? Weeks? Months?) ...a while, since he'd seen his kids. Tubbo doesn't know where they all ran off to. He doesn't know if it was his fault or if it was just nature. If it was the Federation, or the world simply screaming at Tubbo that this isn't his life. That he wasn't made to be a father, or a fully functioning adult to persue his passions and potentials.

That he wasn't meant to be here at all.

Around and around the narrative goes, and Tubbo follows in parallel. His throat sore, with a strained voice calling out her kids' names over and over like a prayer, echoes through out the long stretching woods with the crunching of leaves, dirt, and stray branches. Sometimes silence would be in place instead, with Tubbo taking a short break to rest her voice or to reattach his leg.

Run, scream, run, rest, scream, run, repeat.

It's foolish to keep going, in all fucking honesty. They're gone, there's nothing he could do now. What she could've done, what she did. Tubbo tried his fucking best, but is that really enough? Was it ever enough? Were they happy here? Was Tubbo enough, were they happy with him? They were assigned other parents, sure, Sunny was still his, but she still had other parents out there. Empanada and Pepito were never his, and yet - they still stayed. At least... when they did.

These thoughts are exhausting. Shit, sorry. Where are we?

Tubbo collapses at the entrance of his factory, too tired to pull himself up to a bed or to even crawl inside. Heavy pants exhale from his mouth, voice too dead to even audibly gasp for breath. He'd gone over another area of the forests surrounding the chunks of his base and personal drilling project. There's so much a dragonfly can do alone, and in a headspace not suited for clear observation. He doesn't even know if they're even around anymore.

They could be tons of blocks away from him now. They could be home, they could be where they truly fucking deserve to be. But there's a small hopeful side in her, a selfish hope that they're nearby, that they could never truly part with an isolated and confused hermit clinging onto the last bits of interaction she's ever had in the last five years of her awakening from the ice.

She's never even fully met all of the prisoners. She's never met anyone outside of the prison.

Nobody even knows that he exists.

His eyes drift off in a blurry haze, conciousness fleeting faster than the exhaustion settling in her body. Tubbo could die here. He could die never knowing anyone ever again, or ever finding family and friends in this large server-wide world. He could've spent his time meeting new people, continuing his life long exploration of worlds and to just get by. But he clings, he clings onto figures who stay and who need him to stay.

Now that they're gone, shouldn't she get up to explore then? Shouldn't she leave for the sake of her life than theirs?

No, that's not something a parent would do.

He hasn't slept in days. The silver glow of the night passes through her windows and basks her in the light. Tubbo feels like passing away rather than out. He's so tired, he's so lonely, he's so vulnerable. Her scarred fingers, used to holding metal and soft tiny hands, brush against bricks and dirt. He could barely see the blocks he used to build. Her wings twitch, and he breathes softly, holding herself for warmth, for comfort.

She falls asleep then and there, body away from a comfortable bed and in sight for any phantoms to have picked upon if she stayed awake any further. Would it count if she wasn't in bed? Does her sleep draw them in or does her proximity to a bed? Tubbo doesn't care.

Her wings twitch again, like a dead animal, alerting predators to feast upon her. Alerting protection, to finally awaken. Soft breaths are heard at the edge of an empty factory, while metal and crackling are heard from a distant facility. She lays, while it creaks.

Goodnight, Tubbo. Sleep well.

She'd been taking smoke breaks lately. Just when the kids would get busy and when he needed a rest from expanding the factory. There was a letter sent into her mail last week, something about a job. Tubbo hasn't got to answering it yet.

Maybe she needs a job. It'd be a good change of pace, plus it'd add to her income of only gifts given by Peg and the murder. But that'd mean he'd have to give up his life again to the Federation. The place that had taken it away, then given it to him, then took away finally.

He doesn't want to do that.

Tubbo blows out a puff of smoke. He's down to his last cigarette after this one. It wasn't even her pack, it wasn't even her habit. He just picked it up after her old roommate, and picked up the pack he left behind on the desk.

She started a few weeks ago, in the morning after another nightmare nobody failed to comfort her about. They've gotten worse and worse as time progressed with no one to come help him.

He can't ask his kids, they're just kids for fuck's sake. Peg and the murder? Pass, he'd rather have lead poisoning than admit anything personal to the whole flock. Tom? Just because he's come home recently doesn't mean she needs to tell him shit.

Plus, why would she need to repeat anything Tommy already knows?

Tubbo takes another swig. There's a lot of think about when there's nobody to talk about it with. Tom and her have a "mindlink", so there's really no need to speak.

But there's no other adult for him to talk to.

His friends are all gone. Tubbo doesn't know how to reach out to Charlie, or Quackity, or fuck, even Phil again. He doesn't know if he could contact anybody in the Federation. (Maybe he'd have to work for that. Unfortunate.)

Fred has never came back. He's never said anything again, he's never reached out, he's never returned. Tubbo's deemed him as dead long ago. Is she smoking because she's thought herself to be a widow? Or was she just drowning in smoke to ignore everything's that's happened to her?

Mule. She needed another smoke.

There's nothing much to think about. Since there's nobody to talk about it with. Ugh. Her mind's scattered in pieces.

That'd be a good story to tell. If ever.

The wounds healed. Funnily enough they weren't there anymore. He smoothened his skin, cuts and gashes from branches and wood splinters weren't there as if the storm never happened.

Tubbo could vaguely hear his own screaming ringing in his ears, mule- oh mule! There was no saving, and mule did not save him. Mule didn't even exist.

Tubbo died alone.

Tommy shut the light off. He said he'd be back after talking with Wilbur. Tubbo fisted the sheets inbetween her fingers. Gold band on her left.

She didn't ask to marry Tommy, he didn't even ask her back. The cycle will end, and she can just forget about this in the next.

Tubbo slept alone.

Screaming. Ringing. Tubbo can hear Charlie scream in front of him. Phil- Tommy— Was that his-?

Everything seemed to slow, his leg's gone off. There's blood splattering— his other limbs came off- he blew up. He died. Tubbo could fall over and sleep peacefully with the way he's toppled over.

Tubbo fell alone.

She waved goodbye to a friend- Fit. Tubbo set off from a wasteland- well, not a wasteland. But it seemed to be in a state of activity and death.

Not surprising to her, she had her fair share of warfare. Tubbo got a letter, an island it said. She had to set off early.

Tubbo went alone.

Shaken hands, false smiles, and fingers crosses behind each other's backs. A tall white robot stood before him with black boxed eyes and a sly grin. Tubbo was hired.

An engineer, he was told. Tinkering. Tubbo learned how to make- how to create back before 2b2t, but here, he could really start work.

Tubbo worked alone.

Something stood proud in front of Tubbo. Proud but terrifying- terrified. Sirens blared and Tubbo could hear coworkers she could never remember shout. The Island was- breaking? Breaking, the creation understood.

It nodded at her and Tubbo needed to save her fail save. In case everything went wrong, and it has. Her work ran, obeying orders and going into hiding until she'd need it again. She got apprehended.

Tubbo froze alone.

The prison's nice. Cold and bare, but nice. The company was nice. Company was a stretch, the bots gave him food and the smallest of talks. At least he had some people, for a while.

Tubbo woke up alone.

Timeskip to years later— Tubbo was 20. Everything was going well. He met someone real, he loved, he parented, he reunited with old friends. He was finally happy. No longer alone- but Tubbo was stupid. He showed it well.

Bring back the fake smile, along with another tall white bear. A better bureau. It went smoothly for a while, one sided chat, an interrogation with information Tubbo didn't ask for- an answer he hated.

Tubbo bled alone.

And now, she's here. The prison sheets didn't help with the cold. The dragonfly sat upright, back to pillow, wings to bedframe, fists to blanket. Tommy left a day ago, Tubbo asked her to. She told Tubbo that she'd come back. Tubbo told her not to.

It's funny, how Tubbo can't avoid cycles. This was a cycle of loneliness and it seemed the world seemed to yell it at her face. The prisoner shuts her eyes. Nobody was here, not anyone saw her in a long time. Not her kids, not her partner, not her roommate, not her friends.

Tubbo always found himself alone. This was something that he always noticed every time he was left in a room. The room temperature dropped lately, despite how many prisoners dethawed. It's cold.

The prison clock ticks quietly and Tubbo could hear his own breathing. He could see his own breathing. It's cold, innit. His wings shudder, not even from the cold. Just the eerieness.

Tubbo is alone,