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Tommy could be considered 'the most sane person in his family'.
He didn't go around slaying people in the name of some faceless god; he didn't blow up cities to ensure that no one could finish its legacy without him; and he didn't isolate himself from the rest of the world to survive with only one life and dozens of hard-to-kill monsters.
(Granted, that last one was less insanity, and more of 'why would anyone want to do that?')
The biggest difference between him and his family was the lack of voices buzzing in his head.
They appeared to each member differently: Philza had his crows; Techno had the ones in his head; Wilbur-
Actually... Tommy wasn't sure what they were like for Wilbur. He had always imagined that they were like Techno's where they were only present within the confines of his mind.
Those voices had driven his brother to insanity.
He was fairly glad that he didn't share that trait with his family.
Though sometimes he would hear whispers of songs, the lyrics feeding him words of silk and ideas of mischief. Tommy never considered this to be his own version of the voices. They were soft, gentle, and forgiving. They reassured him when he doubted himself, and plotted alongside him when no one touched his plans. But generally, they were quiet, simple background noise.
They simply didn't count as voices.
He never told Philza, or Wilbur, or Techno about the song.
(A few times they caught him humming an original but strange tune. They never brought it up.)
Everything changed on November 16th.
Tommy marched to into war, his brothers by his side; the anarchist and the revolutionary. The child soldier between them beamed with determination, a song of courage strumming with fierce chords and fortifying keys. He stepped in time with the beat, ready to take on the man who took nearly everything from him.
Time stopped in a single moment, and everything went quiet. He didn't remember where he was, what he was doing; he only registered the words popping on him communicator, mocking, taunting. The song was quiet, likely shocked as well.
And in the next instant, the gentle song on the wind turned into screaming thunderstorms and howling gales.
However, he couldn't quite hear it over his own wails and the blasts of Withers tearing his nation apart; the war cries of his big brother relishing in Eris's gifts.
Crows shrieked in grief. Millions of voices roared for blood for their god. The song was deafening.
And the shadowy whispers with pale eyes grew quieter as the light in their host's eyes dimmed. The man smirked at them in defiance. Finally, he got them to shut up.
Good riddance, you annoying fucks.
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Sometimes you wonder about what goes through a mad man's mind before he dies.
The wind combed though his matted, greasy hair. It used to be blond, a little richer in hue than corn silk, but no longer. Blood oozed forth sluggishly, trying to clot and repair his broken body, instead . He wish he could tell it to stop trying, that it wasn't worth the energy. His breath rasped in his lungs as he stared at the ground below.
Tommy didn't grow up hearing voices. He grew up with a song. He didn't think it counted.
Sometimes he wished he could go back in time and smack himself every time he was being stupid.
Wilbur's death released, or at the very least broke, something.
There was something black and corrupted that latched onto his song. It shattered notes, threw everything out of tune. The song struggled to regain its footing, sending him reassuring words, but it all fell short. Warm, kind melodies grew cold and angry, scratchy voices croaking into his ears with lyrics of insanity.
He hated them.
He missed his songs. These dark parodies and covers weren't the same. They made him feel hopeless, empty. They promised fun in the form of anarchy and chaos. He had fallen to them once, in lighting George's house on fire, and now look where he is.
'Jump.'
They whispered once more, grasping his shoulders with shadowy talons, edging him closer to the edge. At least 40 blocks up, everything looked so small. The craters of Logstedshire were nothing more than slight divots in the earth. Clouds turned dark, the smell of ozone and petrichor overpowering his nose.
'They won't care... Maybe if you do, maybe then they'll care. Then we can relish in their guilt, and watch them suffer...'
Something wet slid down his cheeks. The rain hadn't begun yet. Distant rumbles resonated with an odd feeling in his chest. Turmoil.
'Jump. Show them all. Show them what they've done. What they could have prevented...'
He could feel the wind pick up, and he took a deep breath, fueling his lungs to scream.
The song in the background was low and dramatic, breaking and skipping lines. It was out of tune. There was no rhythm. He wondered if Wilbur had heard music. If that's where he found the symphony of L'Manburg. He wonders if when that song started losing its magic, if Wilbur soon followed in suit, spiraling.
'Jump. Then you can fly away. Finish the symphony before it can get worse.'
And so...
The boy, with a new song on his lips, plummeted.
The song ended in crashing thunder and shocks of lightning.
But the song couldn't end. It refused to let it end.
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Phil's voices were quite different than his sons; possibly because he was the first. His crows manifested physically, allowing them to fetch small items and swarm his enemies, as well as scout ahead and lead him to wherever he was needed. Other people could see them to an extent, only revealing themselves when necessary or when they wanted.
It was surprisingly easy to get rid of the ones who were unhelpful and lead to more harm than good; the ones who cawed with sinister plans that not even the devil would accept.
He would wring their necks and send them into the beyond, where they wouldn't be able to transfer to one of his sons.
Yes, they could do that. It's partly how he knows how Techno and Wilbur were doing, and vice-versa. The voices changed forms to fit among the voices of each host. Tommy was a bit of an odd man out in that aspect however. The crows reported back to him on how his youngest had been doing, but Tommy claimed that he's never heard voices, nor has he ever shown signs of it.
Best for him then.
The voices could be both a blessing and a curse.
That much was true when he found himself wringing the necks of unnatural crows that bled shadows and hacked whispers of destruction--destruction of nations, his family, himself.
It was all too obvious where those crows had come from, transferred to them after Wilbur's... passing.
The avian hybrid made sure to speak to Techno about it, but the piglin hybrid didn't seem bothered. His voices, Chat, were already chaotic and violent; he knew how to deal with them and ignore them accordingly.
Something ached in his chest at the thought.
Assuming that these poisonous voices were originally Wilbur's, and after hearing what they suggested over and over, he couldn't believe Wilbur lived with the darkness for so long. He wished he'd known sooner. He wished he had been there.
Much too late now...
At the current moment in time, he and Techno were settled in pinkette's cozy cabin in the woods. Clouds rolled in silently, releasing tiny frozen flakes. It promised a big storm, one that people refused to travel in fear that they wouldn't make it out. Luckily, Techno was prepared for such an event: the wood pile was replenished, food was stocked, and blankets could easily be found in a chest in the closet.
Philza sunk further into the plush cushions, mindful of putting weight on his wings. White wisps floated from a warm mug of hot chocolate, held between scarred fingers; each one was earned in battle (whether that battle was fighting for his life in a war or attempting to get his unruly children to stop biting him, was a different matter). Techno read a book, the cover faded and worn with age, interrupting the silence occasionally with the turn of a page.
To say it was nice would be an understatement.
However, his hybrid brain buzzed with the thoughts that something was missing; that the moment was too empty for just the two of them.
He ignored it.
The crows were eerily silent as they watched from the rafters, almost as if distracted by something no one else could see. Phil peered up at them with a questioning glance.
When Wilbur's voices transferred to Techno and Phil, he noticed that there weren't that many crows that had been his late son's. The number of voices always varied, but Phil was almost positive that he had more than what Phil sent to the beyond. And he checked his flock thrice. The man checked with his now eldest regarding the number of voices, or lack thereof. He too noticed that they weren't many, but the few that stayed with him were slimy, cold little things.
He wasn't fond of them.
But, since the lack of Wilbur's voices hadn't truly bothered them, they never investigated. Why would they?
Back to the point, the crows were unnaturally quiet; they were always cawing about something, why not now?
(Techno wouldn't have mentioned it, but Chat was calmer as well, like they were watching something else. And he could feel Wilbur's malicious spirits sap from his mind, freeing him from their digging claws.)
Where peace is found, it will not last long.
They screamed.
Phil jolted, nearly spilling his drink, as the crows stirred up, growing in numbers and swarming him, smacking both him and Techno with feathery appendages. The blonde batted them away, their caws and croaking words overlapping, making it absolutely intelligible. He risked a glance at Techno, who had dropped him book and was holding his head. His mouth moved in mutters, words overpowered by the squawking in his ear.
Something had upset the voices.
He tried to listen.
"HE DID IT HE-"
"DADZA, SAVE HIM-"
"-WILBUR ALL OTHER AGAIN."
"BABY BIRD GO SPLAT."
"HE CAN'T FLY-"
"WHY??????"
"BABY BIRD BABY BIRD"
"HE FUCKING JUMPED, WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?"
"DADZA SAVE HIM"
"SAVE BABY-"
"HE'S IN TROUBLE-"
"RIP CHILD."
"THERE HE GOES-"
It was all incessant rambling. He didn't understand. 'Baby bird?' It fell? Jumped? Why would they care about some fledgling? Why are they trying to summon 'Dadza'?
The answer hit him like a ball of ice to the chest. And at the same time, a bird crowed out:
"TOMMY'S IN TROUBLE."
He could feel his heart drop. No. No no nononononononono-
The mug fell to the floor, forgotten, its contents spilling out onto the white furred rug. It'll be a bit of a bitch to clean out, but Philza didn't care. His brain was set on one track.
Tommy was in trouble and he isn't there to save him.
Sure, he may have betrayed Techno and caused a bigger mess for himself than need be, but damn the gods he was still his son. He did care despite all the absent years. Maybe he should have tried harder, stayed home longer. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened in the first place. They wouldn't be here, under a tyrant's manipulative thumb, his family shattered and broken.
He raced out into the increasing storm. The winds had picked up, whipping his hair around. He spread the dark gray feathers of his wings, flexing and positioning them to take off and fly. Phil only vaguely comprehended his name being called, instead ignoring whatever it may be. He didn't have time for it.
The crows flocked around him, leading the way although hard to see in the growing darkness.
Someone shouted his name once more, and he was off.
Frigid winds battered his form, tugging on his feathers and messing up his flight. There a reason avians don't fly during storms... Being the strange creatures they were, the murder of voices didn't struggle as much in the storm.
The currents dragged and pushed, but he kept on. Soon enough, snow melted into rain, signaling the change of the biome.
Water beaded off his feathers, but he knew he still had to be careful. The rain could pour harder, bypassing the oily layer and filling up the small air pockets between his feathers. Then he'd be weighed down and cold.
The crows dipped, descending towards land, and so Phil followed.
The area was a mess, almost reminiscent of L'manburg with all the craters and destroyed buildings. They could be fixed, but it wouldn't be fun.
Something in the back of his mind connected that this must be Logstedshire, Tommy's exile. His stomach dropped.
The avain hybrid ran towards the rubble, pulling away wood and stone, searching. If he was buried, he could still be alive. He'd bring him back to Techno's. He won't let his son die this time.
The crows pecked at his hands urgently, each time getting smacked away. A few of the larger one tugged on his robes, pulled at his hair.
"NOT HERE. NOT HERE." They all seemed to say. But Phil wasn't listening.
Only did he listen when one of them, a very large one, jumped in his face and gave him a sharp peck on the nose, knocking him back. "LISTEN, YOU IDIOT! HE'S NOT IN THE RUBBLE!"
It took him a moment to process the words. A moment too long, he had thought to himself later.
The man rose to his feet, looking around the clearing. What was he missing? Where could his son be? Why-?
He felt the the final crack take its toll as everything shattered.
The world stopped registering. He couldn't hear his birds, nor the rain. He didn't feel them trying to push him along. The edge of his vision was fuzzy. Fuck, he wasn't sure if his heart was still beating at this point.
Phil was moved along towards the bottom of the one block tower. It was ugly, but it was meant for one purpose--he took a sharp breath at the sight near the base, wings shuddering, tears pricking his eyes and joining the rain on his face--and it fulfilled that purpose.
His knees buckled once he reached the figure, mud soaking into his pants. Like the rug, it wouldn't be fun to wash out later. But he didn't care.
A sob escaped his lips, but he tried to choke back the others. The crows had gone quiet, forming a circle around him and his youngest. Carefully, he gathered the broken body in his arms.
It-He was too pale, too cold. His arm had been bent at a weird angle, and he was just going to ignore the white bone protruding from bruised skin; bruises that he wouldn't have gotten from the far, but from someone else.
(Phil tried to suppress the anger boiling in his gut. Who dared touch his son? Who sent him over the edge? )
(He tried to ignore the hypocrisy of the statement.)
The man didn't need to check for a pulse. There was too much blood. The rain would have sent him into hypothermia. He wasn't breathing, as his chest didn't move.
His child reeked of Death.
He was too late.
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When Techno managed to find his father, half an hour later, he had the decency to act/look remorseful.
(Or maybe it was genuine, the watcher couldn't tell. He was doubtful though.)
The winged man was shaking, a dangerous mix of sobs and shivering from the cold. The pouring rain had since lightened up, but that didn't mean much other than is was easier to see. The crows turned towards the piglin hybrid, watching as he guided his father away, prying the cold body from equally cold hands.
They would have to bury him later, once the storm is done. The lull wouldn't last for long.
Philza was quiet, practically shell shocked, and he didn't put up much of a fight.
The watcher's heart ached as he grimaced. After that whole show earlier when he found the body, he expected a little more of a struggle.
Disappointment, that's the word he was looking for.
He was disappointed that the voice was right. They didn't care. It was simply another face, another body. If he meant anything to them, they didn't show it.
A shadowy hand grasped his shoulder, grounding him.
'What did I tell you?' Its-His. His voice was echo-y, but just as cold as he remembered it being in Pogtopia.
"You were right, you were right." He took a breath. "Nice trick by the way; with the body and all."
Wilbur gave him an unnaturally, gentle smile--an attempt to be reassuring--as he squeezed his shoulder. Unlike Ghostbur who appeared lighter, more white in tone, this Wilbur was ashy and gray, much like shadows. His eyes glowed red, mania ever present. Just as he remembered.
Once Philza and Techno left, walking through the portal, Tommy's 'body' disappeared in plumes of smoke. It would be a bit suspicious, but it could easily be chalked up to some wild animal dragging away the body, or something like that.
'Come on, we have work to do.' Wilbur turned away, walking further into the woods. The boy trailed behind, slightly limping, clutching his brother's coat around himself. It was odd that Wilbur had the same one, despite the fact that Tommy still wearing it right now.
"What're we gonna do first, Big Man?"
He grinned. 'We have a nation to finish off once and for all. Then I thought we could get your discs back, and finally, maybe pay dear old Dad and Techno a visit after that.'
"Sounds good to me."
Wilbur's grin grew. 'Perfect.'
Tommy never realized the song went silent.
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From the cover of the trees, a ghost watched his baby brother and a shadow of his former self (rather, the embodiment of his mortal insanity) walk further into the woods.
He gritted his teeth, trying not to growl at the sight.
Unfortunately, he was still dead. He wouldn't be able to do much in this state.
Needless to say, he was worried. Not explicitly because of the voices, but because they seemed stronger. When he was entertaining them, they had never taken on a physical form. Even worse, they were trying to parade around with his face.
"Don't worry, Tommy. I'll save you." His eyes burned with so much emotion, so much more than the ghost had ever shown. He seemed so much more alive.
He whispered into the woods, eight crows as his witnesses.
And a song followed him on the wind.