The Childrens Rebellion

The Merling Menace

A brown-haired man with an oddly-sewn apron—purple and green and yellow and had a cyan swirl drawn in what looked like shitty markers on the front—had handed two plates to Purpled and Tommy after a second of speaking with the magenta-eyed boy. He hadn't questioned the random kid on the ship, instead choosing to make conversation with Purpled about some white castle and tree that they'd found on their last mission.

Whatever that meant.

Tommy didn't really care about that, but what he did care about were the best carrots of his life that sat in front of him. Holy shit, it was fucking amazing.

"Slow down," Purpled told him, eating a slice of ham that had fallen out of his sandwich.

"Shut up," he said, spraying carrot bits everywhere. Purpled rolled his eyes good-naturedly and pretended to look disgusted.

Tommy could barely remember the last time he'd had good food. It had been at least six years—almost seven, now. Before the Wasteland, food had been—had been that place—and then before that had been the Wasteland—again—so safe to say it had been a while. Needless to say, the carrots were really fucking good. "Do you have any golden apples?" he asked, almost in afterthought.

Purpled froze. "Uh—no, Tommy. Those are drugs."

"Drugs are cool."

"No—no, they're not," Purpled snorted. "I need to take you to Niki so she can get you medication for that."

"What's wrong with golden apples?" he demanded defensively.

"They're a food substitute," Purpled said. "For lazy people. They're also highly addictive and mess up your liver—"

"Okay, okay," Tommy interrupted. "We get it; you're a nerd." He paused. "Please? Just one?"

"No," Purpled said firmly. "They're bad for you."

"They can't be that bad," he muttered, stabbing at his salad with the metal fork irritably. It was weird having a utensil that was actually sharp instead of the dulled-down ones at the prison. He could probably stab someone's eye out with this.

"They're awful," Purpled said, matter-of-factly.

"I've eaten them for like two years."

"Yeah, and now you need to stop before you die," Purpled said.

"With that fuckhead still around, I'm probably gonna die anyway," he muttered.

Purpled froze, his sandwich dropping back onto the plate. Tommy had to muffle a laugh at the dumbstruck look on his pale face. Fortunately, the cafeteria was empty—standard time, it was the middle of the day. "He's alive?"

Tommy blinked. "Yeah. That's why I didn't want to leave the prison until good ol' Tubbo convinced me to board your shit. I mean ship."

Purpled pushed his face away, looking vaguely sick. He put his face in his hands, his dirty blonde hair falling over his fingers. Tommy frowned. "We reported him as dead," the magenta-eyed boy groaned. "You're telling me he's alive?"

"'Course," Tommy snorted, trying to remain upbeat and not think—of him. "He escaped into Arachnid space. That's how I got captured again." Tommy paused. "I don't think he knew where I was. That's why I stayed. So—" he swallowed. "—so I wouldn't have to go to any more boarding schools." Or, you know. Starve.

"We have to tell them," Purpled said.

"No," Tommy said firmly.

"He's a war criminal," Purpled insisted. "We—the Galactic Rebellion will send other people after him, looking, Tommy, you won't have to see a hide or hair." He managed a shaky grin. "Just—they have to know, or they won't look. We could—save people. Children, maybe. If he's doing the same thing."