"Do not train a child to learn by force or harshness; but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be better able to discover with accuracy the peculiar bent of the genius of each."
Plato
He woke up to a song. It reminded him of Wilbur, the man who took him in, taught him to fight, and inspired his loyalty. It was the first person Tommy had ever given his life to, and the betrayal that haunted him the most. Wilbur would strum his guitar on the mornings, a tune resting on his lips as he sang with the birds. He would smile at Tommy, making the song louder to wake the others up. Tommy would grumble something as he gathered water for morning porridge. What Tommy wouldn't do to experience that again.
The voice was different, Tommy realized. It was less like honey and more like syrup. Deep and slow, but not quite as much as Wilbur's. It was sang lower in a tone just above a whisper. There wasn't words Tommy understand, but fluctuating sounds that rose and fell like words in a different language. Tommy wanted to understand.
"Are you awake, sweetie?" The woman asked as Tommy's eyes cleared, her frame coming into focus. She had released her braid into curls that fell across her back, and had switched out her dress for a maroon sweater over black jeans. Tommy felt weird whenever he noticed the red beanie that the woman wore, reminding him of Wilbur. Maybe his mind was just on him today.
"I'm up, lady," Tommy retorted, raising his body up on his elbows. He swung his legs around, bare feet lightly touching the warmed earth that his floor was made of. "What is your name anyways?"
"I told you I do not have one. I was never given a proper name, and had no need to go by one before. If it upsets you, you may name me anything you desire," The woman said with a pleasant smile.
"What about... Bitch? No, no, you've been nice to me. What's a good name? Clementine? No, that's my future moth's name. What could be your name..." Tommy trailed off, eyes lurking around his room for something to give him a clue. When his eyes finally rested on his jukebox, the perfect name sprang to mind. "Clara! She's an astronaut in deep space! A very pog woman, indeed."
"I'm honored," The newly named woman said, running a hand through Tommy's hair affectionately, smiling wider when he leaned contently into the touch. Clara finally let go, standing up from the chair. "I'm proud of you, did you know that?"
"Whatever, Clara," Tommy responded with an eye roll, but his heart swelled at the thought. The last person he had made proud was Wilbur's spirit, not Ghostbur, but the remnants of Wilbur that clung to the destroyed L'Manberg. Those pieces of Wilbur's psyche collected into an unstable apparition that told Tommy he was proud of his defeat over Dream. That was the Wilbur Tommy missed. That was the Wilbur Clara's outfit was impersonating.
"I thought about what we should do today. Obviously, we should try to be productive. We need to build good memories, to help replace the bitter ones. What better way than upgrading your home? It's been so long since you've permanently stayed here, but you'll come to see that it isn't the best place to remain. The walls could crumble at any moment," Clara said, resting her hands on her hips as she twirled slowly. "It needs more red. That is your favorite color, isn't it?"
"Yeah, yeah, red is pog. The other colors are shit. 'Cept for green and yellow," Tommy said, surprised that someone remembered his favorite color. It shouldn't have been hard to notice, but only Tubbo ever recalled.
Clara hummed at the mention of other colors. "It can't be helped," She muttered before disappearing to the kitchen area, looking behind her to discreetly tell Tommy to follow. The boy hopped to his feet, sliding on his boots as he followed her deeper into his housing unit. At the kitchen table, there was two bowls of that orange soup Tommy had the other day.
