The Childrens Rebellion

You are a fucking wrong'un

Tommy, after multiple sessions with Niki and some blood and saliva and piss tests—he'd chortled at that until the ferocious Merling lieutenant had stabbed him with a few hyposprays on account of missing a few vaccines—was declared free of any sicknesses, infectious diseases, or internal issues. Which was decidedly good—and decidedly lucky, if the same cup that Tommy had drunk from that morning hanging in Purpled's hand had anything to do with it. After an hour or so, Technoblade and Ranboo were also proclaimed uninfectious and cleared to enter the medical station, where they would remain for three days, checking in every twelve hours with a member of the L'manburg's communication team—Wilbur, Minx, or Quackity.

Purpled pouted beneath his mask, but Tommy saw the quiet divide between thankfulness and rage the boy was warring between. The same war that was riddled in Ranboo's multi-colored eyes, the same war that battled in his heart. He was scared.

(No, he wasn't.)

He was terrified.

(He was brave.)

He wanted to see this through.

(He wanted others to do this for him; he never wanted to see Chroma unless it was to put the Avian behind bars.)

He wanted revenge.

(He wanted to scream at the sky; at the grass, at anyone would listen about the deaths of his friends, his roommates, the colony.)

He wanted to cry.

(He wanted to hold his chin up and stare down everything he had ever feared and turn away with a smirk on his face and victory in his heart.)

"Right, Tommy, you'll be piloting the vessel," Phil said, and he blinked his last war-torn thoughts from his eyes and forced himself to listen to his—to the captain. Yes. That. That was probably important. They were in the docking bay, after all. "It's one of the official L'manburg crafts this time, like the one that picked you and Lani and Drista up on Icarus-45HB."

"Great," he said, mustering all the sarcasm he could manage at the moment. "So no more Arachnid or citizen's vessels? Will these ones have guns?"

"The one that you and I flew away from the Wasteland had guns, Tommy," Tubbo said with some amusement, from where he was glued to Ranboo's side before they left. Clearly he had separation problems.

"Gee, too bad that they seemed not to be working."

"They were working! I took out like five ships!"

"They weren't really firing back at us," Tommy snorted.

"Yeah, please leave the firing to Drista and me," Dream spoke up with a fond smile.

Tubbo flipped the room off smoothly. "You're all assholes." There was a repentant pause. "Except you, Ranboo, my beloved."

"Please don't call me that," the Enderian said with a sigh.

"Of course, my beloved."

"I regret hiring children," Phil groaned, pinching his forehead. At his side, and in front of a jet-black wing that was wrapping its way around her shoulders, Kristin winked.

"He loves you," she faux-whispered. Phil threw her a recreant glare, and she rolled her eyes.

"I knew that," Tommy proclaimed.

"Of course you did, Theseus," Techno rumbled.

"Don't call me that," he muttered, stepping firmly down on Techno's foot. To his credit, the half-Piglin didn't even blink an eye at the pain—and it was Tommy's total weight; it had to be somewhat painful.