Where Is Your Rider (OFFICIAL WATTPAD UPLOAD)

Chapter 3

"Any sign of him?" Wilbur asked.

"No," Tubbo muttered as he walked into the community house's library—which served as a sort of council chamber for L'Manberg's leadership when necessary—and sat down heavily at the table next to him.

Wilbur glanced up from the stack of ancient books—ones that had survived the centuries in the vaults of the Old Ones—that he was slumped over, and glared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, and a pill bottle that held what Wilbur claimed were anxiety meds—Tubbo had a sickening feeling they could be something else, but Wilbur had said he'd gotten clean ages ago so he was probably just paranoid—sat on the table next to him.

Tubbo groaned and buried his face in his hands.

It was almost sundown, almost time to light Ted's funeral pyre, and Tommy was nowhere to be found. When he'd thrown up and Tubbo had tried to help him, the guy had nailed him in the face with one hell of a backhand and made a run for it.

Ranboo and Niki had spent hours scouring L'Manberg from top to bottom. Tubbo had flown around the mountains on his glider, in case Tommy had somehow gotten out of town.

No dice.

Tubbo grimaced. This day was going badly.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Wilbur growled, setting aside the book he was reading for a moment to dry-swallow another pill (this book said A Complete History of the British Military; 2025 Edition on the cover) with a grimace. "You should've just shot him and ended his suffering back in that damn vault."

Tubbo scowled.

"Unlike you, I've got a few selfless bones in my body," he snapped.

Wilbur slammed his book shut with a snarl.

"All of this I did for you, Tubbo!" He spat, jerking to his feet, and Tubbo flinched. "I founded L'Manberg, I got us away from that fucking bastard Schlatt and I sacrificed so much so I could give you and everyone else I care about a better life and you have the audacity to call me selfish?"

"Just because he's from before the war doesn't mean he started it!" Tubbo retorted, hastily reminding himself that it was just nerves, Wilbur was just stressed, that's why he took those pills all the time. "He's like me!"

It was deathly quiet for a moment.

Wilbur looked affronted and angry.

"I—I don't know how I know," Tubbo stammered, shrinking back as the multicolored sparks danced through the back of his mind again, the ringing in his ears, the screams, the laughter all floating to the surface again. "But I know. I have a feeling, okay? It's not his fault, whatever happened to him. He doesn't want to be here any more than you do. He needs help, Wilbur. Help him like you helped me."

It was quiet again.

Tubbo grimaced, swallowing down a wave of nausea as he forced the memories back down, clamping a hand over the scars on his neck.

He could still hear the explosions.

He could still hear them.

Wilbur's brow furrowed in frustration, and he sagged defeatedly into his seat. "I'm not arguing with you about this anymore. Fine. Whatever. You find him, he can stay. We need to concern ourselves about what happened to Ted right now. Especially finding out how he got himself shot full of bullet holes. Damn it, he was supposed to get more of my meds—"

"I think I can help with that."

Tubbo blinked, spinning around in his chair.

Ranboo stood in the doorway. His hands and hoodie were still drenched with drying blood, and there were splatters of it all over his gas mask.