Part summary: You encounter a few strange teenagers, discover blown-up ruins, and find out about who caused them.
Warnings: mild anxiety, thoughts of murder, blood, threats, lots of swears
A/N - I got a good few requests asking for a taglist for Trampolinist, so here it is! Just ask and you shall be added!
Also, this is non-canon compliant, but only by a bit. I may change a few small details.
(Also, if you can find the movie reference I put in here, then kudos to you!)
A lingering curiosity sits in the back of your head for the rest of the week, not quelled by any amount of Bedwars or Skywars, which leave you exhausted in the evenings.
Even your dreams hold inquisitiveness.
Eventually you have to go back to your home world to check on your animals, repair your tools and the like. It’s tedious work, but nothing you can’t handle.
Boredom eventually sets in.
It’s unnerving. You never get bored of combat, of competition between your fellow players and teammates, but here you are, eyeing the list of servers on your grid.
Only two people are on the server at the moment, their names not available for whatever reason. You’d prefer to pop on when there were no people online, mostly to scope out the server, but you’ll take only having to deal with two people.
Hopefully they’re adults and not kids that recently learned to use portals.
You stick your pointer finger out, curl it like you’re dragging it down a wall; a ripple starts where your finger lands, slowly following its path downwards. It rips a hole through the fabric of woven servers, creating a direct link to the Dream SMP. You just hope that no one attempts to close the portal, as opening one in the first place takes a good deal of energy and effort.
A sight of spruce trees and misplaced dirt greets your vision through the rip in reality.
An odd spawnpoint, but whatever. You’re not one to judge.
In the corner of your eye, where chat normally sits, a message pops up.
TommyInnit: who the fcuck
TommyInnit: NEWY PERFHSAON
Ranboo: ah yes, perfhsaon
TommyInnit: shut the fuck n up
You chuckle at the messages rapidly crowding the chat, watching them fade idly while trying to find a way out of the really weird spawnpoint, which is, for some reason, walled off by a combination of dirt, wood and stone haphazardly placed down, as if in a hurry.
Your efforts do not go unrewarded as you spot a section of the wall that sits lower than the rest, low enough to climb over if you try hard enough.
Feet hit the ground rapidly as you get a running start towards the wall, scrambling upward after you jump. You fall almost immediately off the other side.
“That looked like that hurt.”
You glance upward to meet heterochromic eyes, red and green contrasting with the curious face split in half by its black and white sides. A tail flicks behind the person as their crown slips a bit down their head.
The figure laughs at your reaction, offering a gloved hand out to help you off the ground. Hesitantly, you accept, being pulled up easily, and that’s when you realize that he’s a lot taller than you thought.
“Jesus, you’re tall,” you comment idly, brushing yourself off. “Thanks, by the way.”
“No problem. I’m Ranboo.”
You introduce yourself with your tag, which elicits a hum of recognition from him, much to your pleasant shock and surprise.
“You’re the person that Dream invited, aren’t you?”
He laughs at your quip at him, smiling with sharp fangs exposed to the midday sunlight. No point in judging a person on their (potentially, anyway) monstrous features.
“Well, you probably need a tour—“
He’s quickly interrupted by a loud “hey!”
“Oh great,” you mutter, crossing your arms. Ranboo looks a bit sheepish at your cocked eyebrow and slightly irritated expression, scratching his bi-colored hair.
“That’s Tommy. He’s uh… well, Tommy.”
A teenager wearing a red and white shirt and jeans with battered sneakers comes sprinting out of the nearby forest, coming to a halt just in front of you.
“Yeah, and what are you, the gremlin that got fed after midnight?”
The kid sputters out a few protests against being called a gremlin, sprinkling a good few swears in his jumbled sentences that mostly consist of rambles.
When Tommy gets his bearings, he eyes your tag, squinting at it suspiciously before his eyes widen in recognition.
“You’re the bastard that beat the shit out of me in Bedwars! Get ove’ here—“
One of Ranboo’s arms shoots out to grab the lanky teenager with ease to stop his potential assault on you. You just brush your nails off on your shirt.
“No, Tommy, remember what Tubbo said?” Ranboo lectures, tail flicking in annoyance, eyes trained on him. “Remember?”
“You’re one to talk about rememberin’.”
“No punchin’ people we don’t know unless they’ve hurt us…” Tommy grumbles. “Can ya lemme go now?”
Ranboo agrees, letting go of his shirt and summoning a journal and quill to write something down in, muttering that he’s almost out of ink.
“Anyway, how about that tour now?”
Maybe you’ll like this place.
“...and this is L’Manburg… or what’s left of it, anyway. It’s still being rebuilt.”
“How’d it get destroyed?” you ask him. “It takes a lot of TNT, Withers and dedication to destroy a city this big.”
“Hey, it’s your city. I’m not explaining it,” Ranboo defends against the wordless accusation. Tommy exhales with a groan and begins his explanation.
“Wil-Wilbur, my brother, went a bit insane a few months back, blew it all up with Technoblade’s help. Wil’s… well, he’s dead.” Tommy sounds indifferent about the death, much to your surprise.
You nod absentmindedly, setting your eyes on a slightly obscured poster that flaps in the wind. When you get close enough to pin it down it reads:
Wanted: Dead or Alive. High Treason, Inciting Violence, Unlawful Use of Explosives, Extreme Terrorism.
Below that is a well-painted picture of a man you somewhat recognize, wearing a red cape, a crown, full enchanted Netherite armor and carrying an axe that seems to shimmer in the light.
Technoblade. You’ve had a few run-ins with him playing Bedwars and Skywars, even teaming up with him a few times. He always seemed nice enough, and certainly a damn good sword fighter. He always knew when to run and when to stand and fight, when to attack and when to defend.
Ranboo starts to speak, but Tommy interrupts him.
“Blew the rest o’ this place up. Bastard ran after that.” Tommy all but spits the words out of his mouth, like they’re acid or venom. “Fookin’ coward.”
Well, I wouldn’t call ‘knowing when to run’ cowardice, but we’ll pretend I agree, child.
“No one knows where he is now,” Ranboo adds. “Except Phil, of course. But he’s pretty much silent about it. Won’t give up a word of information.”
Shouldn’t be that hard to find one man, you muse to yourself. Bet I could.
“Well, I’ll let you know if I find anything out,” you lie with a smile plastered on your lips. “Y’know, as a sort of gift to you as the newest member of the server.”
“We’ll hold you to that.”
You nod and say your goodbyes, walking towards the central nether portal while keeping an eye out for an ender chest so you can get some of your stuff. You know the admin will take your elytra away if it so much as comes into contact with the server’s air, so you decide not to risk it.
Spotting one, you make a small noise of triumph and dart over there, grabbing the shulker with your stuff in it, transferring it to your inventory with a practiced ease.
Armor adorns your figure, enchanted Netherite striking an imposing silhouette against the blackstone beneath your feet. You twirl your sword with a grin.
Turns out, finding a piglin hybrid is not easy.
You scoured the Nether for any sign of him, any trace of fabric, of a broken pickaxe, hell even a piece of iron he may have held. The ability you hold as a Jumper not only allows you to jump servers, but also allows you to find people if you have something of theirs.
Nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nil. Absolutely jack shit.
How can one man be so difficult to track down?
Just as you’re about to give up, a barrage of curses at the tip of your tongue, a glint of iron catches your eye.
Hopping over a cluster of Netherrack and scaring off a few baby Striders, you see a small circle of iron sitting in a pile of red dust, looking dented and beat up.
You huff and brush the dust off of it, titling your head to the side when it reveals itself.
A compass, pointing in one direction, working even in the Nether.
Standing up, you pocket it and head to the nearest portal, jumping through to the other side only to grab the compass out of your pocket as you walk to who-knows-where. It still points in the same direction as before, only moving when you do.
An irregularity in the metal against your hand inspires you to flip the compass over to look at the back.
What lies there makes you smirk.
Technoblade’s cabin. Phil’s compass.
This might be easier than you initially thought.
