The Childrens Rebellion

Driver's License (no, not the song)

The first thing that Tommy noticed was that the grass had grown back. The sunlight hit him in a blast—perhaps moderate temperature—and he blinked to shield his paler eyes from the heat.

It would be about early spring F970-RB time right now. Shorter than Terra seasons. The planet spun a bit faster.

His lips parted slightly as he stared at the golden grass that waved in the wind, about two and a half feet high. The planet was covered in it, for the most part, barring the bits of ocean and mountains—yet the majority were golden fields. He blinked back tears as he stared at the vegetation.

The last time he had been here, he had stepped upon brown and had winced as it crunched under his feet with blood and bodies. The last time he had stood here, breathed this air, he had been fifteen—he had left Purpled and Ranboo alone and stupidly, childishly, gone for revenge. The last time he had been here, he had watched his friends get murdered in chains of steel and had watched rebellion and fire bloom in the eyes of those oppressed.

He had run from this place long ago.

Now he was back.

Tommy took his first step off the stairs, watching as familiar bugs hopped away from his feet as he crushed blades of yellow wheat. He'd let go of Ranboo and Purpled's hands, but they followed him onto the sunny field nonetheless.

He frowned as he noticed Pogtopia—it hadn't been fixed or even touched, and even from here, he could see massive lengths of Alyssa's long-lasting paint upon the walls. About a mile in the distance, a small town rose in the distance—Purpled had said it was a historian and science lab used for gathering information and testing the disease that had once run rampant on the planet. A small hovertrain station led from the landing platform to the town, passing almost two hundred yards from the remnants of Pogtopia.

"It's the same," he murmured, surprised, ignoring Techno's heavy footfalls as the half-Piglin joined them on the grass as well. He winced slightly as the transport left them, taking air back into space.

"It's preserved," Purpled corrected absentmindedly, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the sun. "They do tours."

"They what?" he said, suddenly mad.

Purpled gave him a frank look. "When you were supposed to do your final on Bree'lysn, where a hundred and twenty people died due to an avalanche, they would have shown you the death site as well. That's how historic sites work."

"It's not historical; it happened two and a half years ago," he said through gritted teeth.

"History only means concerning past events," Ranboo said amicably.

"Shut up, boob boy," he muttered.

"They're not making fun of us," Purpled told him. "But I never had the guts to do a tour either." He glanced at his watch. "We have four hours before the interview."

"Interview?" Techno grunted, the first words that had left his mouth for over half an hour.

Purpled glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah. On galactic broadcast. History Channel four-oh-five."

Techno blinked at him. "I've watched that."

"It's the main one for interviews of survivors of massacres," Purpled said, waving him off. "Which, you know. We are." Technoblade inclined his head slightly.

Sometimes Tommy forgot that.

They took the hovertrain to the town, which was called Logsteadshire, and Tommy put his hands on the railings—it was an open train, with no other passengers—and watched as Pogtopia passed them in a blur. The orange paint wasn't even chipped, from what he could see, though the blood and bodies had long ago been cleared off the streets. He swallowed when he noted the only change to the place he had called home so long ago—a mausoleum on the northern outskirts made of white marble.