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“Will- Wilbur!” Tommy called out desperately to the ragged man that stood deceptively still. Tommy recognised the cold unfeeling in his eyes, the ice cold determination that burned all who came too close, had reduced tommy to ash on the breeze. The walls of the decorated ravine crumbled inwards on the man, as the blonde, the boy, leapt towards him in a last hope of… of what? what did they want from him, what did they need, what was it? No matter, he didn’t care (he did), he wouldn’t care (he does), tommys desperate facade is a lie (it is not, he knows).
Distantly, his body curls inwards, cool metal floor pressing indents into his jutting ribs and worn coat as he lays docilely on the shuddering, and incredibly primitive, train carriage, breath swirling into the thin layer of dust.
Though he recognises the feelings, the memory, it is not his (is it?), he has never seen a train before (only in his nightmares, he is in his deepest horrors- he does not realise), and tommy is bouncing around like a noisy child (he can see the lines on his worn face from here, carved into the glee, a blemish), shouting about Wil being his ‘hero’ (what misplaced words, he thinks sullenly to himself - he is not a hero, he couldn’t be, he believes - tommy does not agree). He lays his ratty curls against the rough hewn wall, closes his eyes, drifts (he could never be that weightless, for he will never be carefree again).
He wakes to shaking hands and furthered darkness draping around his brothers shoulders and silenced whispers of words echoing in the antechamber of his mind, screaming, screaming for violence. He gets to his feet, legs swaying under him akin to a boats wavering as he unsteadily manoeuvres up winding, twisting stairs, clutching the banisters like the thread that will rip the violence from his soul, his blemished mind, a life line for him to grasp towards (like tommy grasped towards you? his mind supplies, unhelpful). He glances back, watching Tommys form blur as he falls to the ground, a bloody trail left in the wake of his metaphorical fingers as he scrapes it past his eye down his right cheek, and peels it away from his body, willing it all away (it is not his blood, it is not his, it is only his fault). His gloved hands remain bloody (no cleansing will undo these horrors), he scrubs them more, leaving them raw and blistered (it will not go away). It reminds him of a place, at the fringes of his memories, a play so well rehearsed that the only way it could go was wrong, a show left for self destruction and melded votes that will not leave him alone (it is his conscious - he does not know), a time when rust scented the air in place of febreeze and fresh grass, and it left everyone’s hands slick (his were stained, tommys were not, are not). The slow creeping of emptiness has been with him since (he cannot remember) and it overtakes him, a wave.
“Wilbur.”
the voice is familiar to his addled mind, tired and aching and in evident pain, it speaks again, “Wilbur, what are you doing?”
It is sad, he thinks (he is not sure anymore). A button nestles under his hand, rough and familiar and recognisable, even now the shape will never be lost from his mind. He raised his head, sight filled by all too familiar signs, lyrics, memories of a nation that would never be (he fought so hard. Tommy fought harder, he hated him for it, for so much). A sanguine liquid fell from two rigid hands, blooming against wood and stone, and a sentence so familiar (he should remember by now),
“-ere men could go emancipa-“
Though partially blocked by blemishes of cruor, his mind filled the blanks with inevitable syllables and sounds. Remaining, uncogealated, cardinal ran like wine, down the bleached lettering, and onto the drab floor.
“Will-?”
the raw potency of their fear showed like a cracked egg as they spoke, worried and anxious and ever so fearfully whispered words. He smirked, they were scared, he was terrified (don’t let it show). A feeling of inevitability scratched at his mind, aching like a barely used muscle, waiting for the oncoming storm of words that were barely contained in his cage of tight lips and restrained actions (a well rehearsed play, they’d call it).
And a confident voice escaped into the still, sweltering air, not his (a lie), not quivering (internally, he was screaming; let me out let me out let me out). He couldn’t stop his breath hitching as he whispered the damning words that would mark the start of the final act;
“Hello, Phil.”
The deadly words slipped from his unwilling tongue, sealing the death resignation of one Wilbur Minecraft (nee Soot), an all too familiar feeling of slipping into a predetermined role (he’s been here before, he knows), of speaking the predetermined words, a bad rerun of Hamilton that echoed wrong wrong wrong to the very core of his corrupted being, blemished with a small mark, one no one could forget the feeling (what feeling? only drowning in unfeeling, uncaring, matched it). He throws a glance over his shoulder, knowing the silhouette he will see watching over him nearby, just round the corner, at the mouth of the small carved pit (hellhole might be more appropriate, he thinks). The mans shadow is cast over the floor in the dim light, provided only by the entrance hall and an almost burnt out torch, hanging loosely by his head (it doesn’t provide much light anymore). A rigid bucket hat is lain on the roughly chopped hair, windswept to the wrong side. Taught wings stand behind the figure, broken edges curled inwards and illuminated, deaths angel, come to take him away (that’s what the script says, he remembers).
(The blue light reminds wilbur of his happiness and love torn from his greying name, his darkened, cracked soul, of what he was and what he’s lost, nothing like the red of his hot anger that still courses through his veins. this scares him)
“Will- Wilbur, son… this isn’t you,” the man’s voice cracks. He feels himself rise with anger to the bait, this absent excuse of a father who left Tommy, who left his precious Toms (he hates him now, he remembers) has the audacity to call him son? The mans face breaks for just a second, before remorphing to the wounded father facade, the perfect picture of holding it together. Blue eyes are filled with glassy tears that threaten to drop. He doesn’t care (he is lying), he cannot care (he must).
Why would everyone convince themselves this was not him. did they not want this? (Tommy hadn’t, Technoblade hadn’t, Niki hadn’t. He remembers, he does not want to)
Had he never been good enough for them, to the extreme that they didn’t want to face his downfalls, they envisioned a perfect dad (Fundy) that they no longer associated with him, they wished for a friend (long gone now) that they had fallen to disappointment in him (Niki, Jack), had they wanted a proper father, a brother they could rely on? (Tommy, he thinks, dejected)
At this dawn of a new age, who would he be? The pariah who sacrificed themselves for the greater good, who threw themselves onto the oppositions sword in a last act of defiance, or the broken man left to destroy what little legacy remained of himself? Though his role seemed predetermined, he could improvise for Tommy (he didn’t care about him), save both of them (he didn’t give a shit about the blonde), or he could unleash his revenge across the bloodstained world in a final act of defiance.
What would he pick?
what could someone like him be but a broken toy for someone else’s games (Dream, he remembers, bitter taste soaking his tongue at the thought of the savage smile that had killed his brother (even though he didn’t care) during the initial war that had broken them all)
Why would anyone want to be a hero, when he ended up broken and scarred, and wishing for nothing more than an end that might never come (the script writes itself as inevitable, must he follow that when he has a choice to not?)
Rain roars outside, whipping against the outside world as his inner world sits in turmoil, looping and twisting into itself in possibilities and terror. A footstep echoes into the madness induced chamber with desperately placed buttons (only one glints with the promise of bloodshed, only one calls to him just as it did then), and haphazardly hung signs inked in shaky handwriting (they all send shivers of repulsion down his distant body. He cannot feel his arm anymore, not on the side he lays on). He spins round in panic, watching with wide eyes as the other freezes their approach, bucket hat blowing in a frigid breeze that whips his coat into a frenzy (just like his mind, then and now). Chapped lips move and uttered sound bounces around the cave. He does not hear it, he drowns, drowns in the prospect and the anticipation and the pumping adrenaline that will not leave his veins. His back falls against the bloodied wall, the glistening button that sings for destruction and chaos and all things vengeful, of gasoline and explosions and ash-grey gunpowder. His senses fill with the sound of echoes, the smell of inevitable doom, and warm arms locking him in place as his back collides with a solid surface that leaves clawed indents in his mind and skin. For once he feels safe. (It cannot last he knows now. He did not realise then)
Adrenaline dances through his numbed senses. He cannot hear the whispered affirmations anymore (he will never hear them again, not now), the prison only clutches tighter against his struggles to breath and live and survive just one more day, fragile body held and rocked like a baby needing soothing (he realises now how young he is, how young they all are). He struggles out (he watches, flinching at the readable thoughts that flit over his face), and they watch with barely concealed terror as he throws his sword at them (wilbur knows what happens next. he is also scared), mouth opening, with an ear-splitting quietness, to whisper two damning words;
“Kill me.”
Their face blanches (wilbur is terrified), the sword goes slack in their practiced hands, slipping to the floor with a clatter. The silence is deafening against the previously heard yells, screams, shouts of horror and fear (he heard tommy. he does not care (he hopes he is well)). The next scream that rips through the silence shatters their heart, just as their previously pristine wing is now also shattered;
“Kill me Phil, Kill me!”
He is broken, he has found a way out (why did he want an exit, he thinks with regret), and he is seizing it with both hands, falling to his knees and ignoring how they split open upon impacting the rock. He bares his chest, opening his coat and unbuttoning his torn and dirtied shirt (he does not know what happened to his shirt or his coat. he has a jumper now (that is not him it is him)).
“Please, god, Kill me Phil!”
his echoing desperation is the only thing that cuts the oppression of the silence (everyone else cannot speak. they can hear his pain, they did not know, Schlatt cannot believe himself- he has caused this… this descent to absolute madness and destruction that now inhabits his friends body. Wilbur chuckles at the though Schlatt was ever his friend).
As the rain resumes, bright blue liquid dripping onto the outside facing ledge, he can see it from his position if he cranes his neck, a sharp pain enters his chest, piercing his diseased being, and, finally, he knows peace.
As the peace settles into his bones, Wilbur finds himself, once again, connected to his body. He lays out on the littered metal floor, watching indescribable names slide along the ‘calling at’ board, willing the cooling frigidity of the metal into his body which runs far too hot at the moment. Wilbur slowly sits up, recognising a sharp pain in his chest. He looks down, a sharp blue (the rain) drips down his chest, badly held together with chunky staples. He smirks and the pain extends into his right cheek, his eye aches. Wilbur stands shakily on long unused knees. He clutches the sides for support, and slowly turns to look in the windows reflection. A sharp scar runs down his face, reminiscent of nails gouging out butter-soft wood. It also appears to be held together by large staples that leave his cheek disfigured and taut. Wilbur reaches a hand towards his reflection, it is him, it is his and he is it. He has the feeling he has someone to thank (they would not have healed by them self), though he does not yet know who.
An announcement tells him they are nearing a station (he will get off, he decides).
Ghostbur watches the shadowy figures walk past. No one else wants to see him, sent away with explicit instructions of not returning for a while from Tommy (he had looked so miserable, but neither he nor friend could decipher why, he had a tent and a bed, things to do everyday. Neither of them had understood). He had tried talking to one of the other people, things, that also resides here, only to receive no answer. The blue gash, that has become just as familiar as his own mind, slowly dribbles down his yellow sweater (it is all he has ever known), and drips to the awaiting puddle on the platforms floor. A train rattles in (it is the first one he has seen in a long time), stopping with a door directly level to him. A silhouette with wild semi-long hair (it would make a nice ponytail) stands and walks to the double doors, partially visible through the hands-width slit windows (they are familiar for some reason, as familiar as Tommy. he does not know why, but they can meet friend if they wish). They have a long coat swaying with their movements, the sort that Ghostbur has always wanted to own (he is not sure why).
The doors release and Wilbur steps out. A hopeful looking shade approaches him, all glowing blue eyes and grey skin (it reminds him of someone, he is not sure who). He grins, and watches their bouncy approach (he hates them already), reaching out to grasp their hand in greeting. Silence presses in on him, contrary to the bustling platform that appeared from inside the train (he is unsettled. he will not show it). Wilbur runs one hand across his face, willing the other to hurry up. They are no longer there (they are behind him, stuck on the departing train. He does not know this).
Wilbur lets a disbelieving, deep, grating chuckle into the grey air (everything is grey here. the blue reminds him of the rain), and slumps to his knees, pressing his shaking head and hands to the stable ground (in front of him there is a blue puddle with no source),
“what cursed creature hath my mind conjured today, let me free, let me rest!”
Wilbur is breathless from the yelling. He does not care (he should), he cannot (he refuses to), he is the villain, he must be.
what other role is their left for one as broken souled and as wretched of mind as he is?