Chapter Text
The station was cold. Wilbur was so very cold.
The rails were still and quiet, the metal and bolts beginning to chip away with time. One day, he hoped, the whole thing would collapse in on itself like an ancient beast and swallow them both whole. But here they were, cards painted with spades between Wilbur’s fingers and a carved smile on the other man’s mask.
“You aren’t quite where you’re supposed to be, are you?”
Wilbur stitched himself together, collecting into something that could answer him. “I don’t know.” He exhaled. “That’s a loaded question.” The platform that felt like dust beneath his feet solidified into unforgiving concrete, and he was so, so cold. “Where am I supposed to be, Dream?”
He shrugged, still with that unchanging smile. Wilbur could feel his presence before he saw it, that crackling aura of electricity. He was like a black hole drawing him in to something between destruction and salvation.
Wilbur leaned his head back to look at him, his dearest friend. He wore a mask carved with a smile, but an X was slashed where the eyes should be. Two halos crossed over his head and glowed golden, emanating eldritch power that drew Wilbur in like a moth. His cloak was dark green and draped his entire body, only allowing for his tattered, brilliant gold wings to escape, and he was beautiful in the way of a forest fire, a tragedy.
Wilbur ran a finger along the edges of the cards and closed his eyes. When he was awake, his senses were dulled, trapped behind glass. When he returned to Limbo, he could feel every touch in full force, jolting his nerves. It was overwhelming, like sparks of sensation in his skin, but he loved it. His thoughts raced.
“I need something from you, Wilbur.” His voice echoed and doubled.
“Anything.”
Dream XD retrieved a paper from his cloak and handed it to Wilbur, watching him intently. Wilbur took it and unfolded it, smoothing out the edges. He narrowed his eyes. “A map?” It was scraped out in charcoal, faded and smudged with time, and the paper was yellowed and brittle. It was familiar, but he couldn’t think of where he’d seen it before. That same feeling tugged at him over and over with the smallest things. A crow flying overhead, the crack of fireworks, loud laughter. And now a map.
Dream tapped the corner with a black, clawed hand. “These are the coordinates. I buried something there, and I think it’s time to bring it back.”
Wilbur nodded. He braced himself. “Why?”
“Things are changing, and I’m stepping ahead of it. That’s something you could learn from, friend.” The hot pink lights set Dream’s outline aflame. “You know,” he said, “it’s a shame how little you remember. I wonder how that would change you.”
Dread and resentment twisted Wilbur’s chest, and he aggressively shuffled the deck. He hated the mystery, the knowledge that Dream was holding secrets just beyond his reach. It boiled his insides to know that someone else was in control.
His guitar case sat heavily over his shoulders and helped ground him. This was his guitar, and he could play it, smash it into Dream’s face, break it against the walls. This was his domain, his Limbo. He sat on the edge of the platform and dangled his legs over the chasm below. “Have you ever played competitive solitaire, Dream?”
He paused, watching as Wilbur laid out the cards. “I can’t say I have.” Wilbur gestured widely in welcome and jumped when Dream sat beside him. “Well. Show me.”
Wilbur spent the first several minutes explaining the game, then rambling about the time someone had come and played with him, but he couldn’t remember a single detail about them. It was like they didn’t exist anymore or never had. The rest was spent absolutely crushing a deity at solitaire before realizing it was in his better interest to lose.
Their voices echoed in the quiet, infinitely vast station, and Wilbur’s breaths formed clouds as he spoke. The dot matrix lay blank overhead as it always had. Or, at least, as far as Wilbur remembered. He fixated on the cards, ignoring the flashes of shadowy figures in his periphery as they came and went like smoke. He wasn’t sure if Dream could see them, and he didn’t know if that mattered. This was his Limbo, his afterlife, and it put him on edge to have an intruder. A home was a home no matter how cruel and torturous, he supposed.
“Is this how you spent your time before I came?” Dream asked.
“There wasn’t, and still isn’t, much else to do, to be fair.” Dream hummed in response and placed his final winning card. The walls began to waver at the edges with a low buzzing that infected Wilbur’s bones, and the concrete started to crumble.
Dream sighed and spread his wings, preparing to take flight. Outside voices leaked in, whispering and laughing. “Time to wake up. Follow the map and bring a spade with you. You’ll know what to do when you uncover it.”
“Wait, Dream—“ The world fell into void around him, and it was so, so unbearably cold.
***
Wilbur woke up to three children smashing pots and pans over his head. “Holy fu—“ He slid off the couch with a start, shielding his head as he hit the floor. The impact made his body melt away, and he cursed as he struggled not to slip through the floor. “What is wrong with you?”
Tommy and Tubbo cackled as Ranboo smiled sheepishly. Thoroughly disoriented, Wilbur felt around for his glasses and finally willed himself into complete being. He stood and was very aware of the three sets of eyes trained on him. “Good morning to you, too.” He looked to the clock and groaned. It was almost noon. Philza was going to lose his mind if he showed up late, and he had a map to follow. “I have to go. Hopefully I won’t see you again.” He picked up his jacket and shouldered it on, turning to leave.
“Wait! We’re having pancakes. You have to stay for that,” Tommy insisted.
Wilbur sighed. Pancakes were a weakness of his. “Alright, fine. But only if I get blueberries in mine.”
“Deal.”
The three made quick work of destroying the kitchen, batter leaking off the counter, egg yolk on the ceiling somehow, and a measuring cup shattered on the floor. Ranboo had been hit by a frying pan four times now. Wilbur didn’t care really, but he wanted his damn pancakes. “Aside,” he said, ushering them away from the stove.
“Hey! We’re working!” Tommy insisted.
“Yeah, and you’re slow and inefficient. Go sit, I’ll finish it.”
Tommy continued to argue until Ranboo interrupted, “Guys, he’s doing the work for us.”
“That,” Tubbo said, “is a good point. Alright, slave away, demon man.”
“Right.” He chose to ignore the demon man comment. It had been a long time since he had cooked anything, especially considering that he only had to eat maybe twice a week. But it was pancakes. Easy. There were a lot of knobs on here, though. How did a stove work again? Beep! Beep! “Okay, that’s not good!” Wilbur shouted.
“Holy shit, man!” Tommy screamed. It was definitely possible that there was a small fire in the kitchen, which was just a fluke. This only happened to Wilbur 60% of the time.
“Do you have a fire extinguisher?”
“I don’t know! Just pour water on it!”
“You used cooking spray and butter, didn’t you? I don’t think that’s a good idea!” He snatched a lid from the cabinet and slammed it over the pan, listening to it sizzle angrily. He idly noticed the lick of flame on his hand. Ignoring it, he turned the stove off and wracked his brain for Philza’s fatherly advice. What had he said the last time he and Techno started a fire? “Salt!” He removed the lid and dumped an entire salt shaker over top, suffocating the already whimpering flames.
Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo tentatively stepped forward and crowded around Wilbur to look at the wreckage. “Well... It’s still edible, I think.”
“Yeah, you can have them, thanks,” Ranboo said. “Oh! Wilbur, your hand!”
He looked at the angry red skin and poked it with a shrug. “It isn’t too bad.” He could feel the ghost of pain, like only half of it could get through his reconstructed nerves.
“Don’t touch it!” Tommy shouted.
“Aw, are you worried?”
“No, you’re just stupid,” Tommy grumbled. They sat around the table, Tubbo and Tommy sandwiching Wilbur and Ranboo beside Tubbo. The three had cereal instead while Wilbur happily ate charred batter with a side of actually edible blueberries. “That’s so gross,” Tubbo said.
Wilbur shrugged. “I can barely taste it, anyway.”
“Oh. Sucks to be you, I guess.” They continued their chattering, and Wilbur rested his chin on his hand and stared into space. What could Dream have hidden there? And why did he want it now? He said things were changing, and maybe they were. He could feel Tommy’s eyes on him. He glanced at him, careful not to be noticed, and was met with an intense, narrow gaze. What was that for? he wondered.
Tommy nodded slightly to Tubbo, only moving a centimeter, but Wilbur was a paranoid man. Tubbo nodded back and stretched with an exaggerated yawn, whacking Wilbur with his arms. He frowned when he hit a solid force, and Wilbur leaned away. Tubbo exchanged very pointed looks with the other two and carried out an entire conversation in facial expressions and hand movements. Wilbur watched in awe.
After whatever just happened finished, things seemed suspiciously normal again, especially considering the furtive glances they were giving each other. Wilbur was interested in their plans, yes, but he was also tired and knew he couldn’t understand them. “Well, you better get home, right?” Tubbo asked once they’d all eaten. “Back to your, uh, family or whatever.”
Wilbur scrutinized him, but the boy’s face was impossibly normal. “Yeah... Yeah, I’m going to head out.” He readjusted his coat and sped to the door before they could change their minds and trap him again with their charm. It seemed to work, and he stepped out onto the front steps without incident. The sky was light blue and cloudy, sunbeams peeking through the clouds and trees. It was nostalgic, peaceful. And then something slammed into his back. With a jolt, he whipped around, fists raised. “Tubbo?”
“Man! He didn’t disappear this time.” Wilbur’s heart dropped.
Ranboo and Tommy raced outside, and Wilbur panicked, desperately trying to figure out what to do now. He settled on booking it out of there, since running from his problems usually worked. Tommy yelled after him, but he couldn’t make out any words other than “bitch.” He sure as hell was not sticking around to hear the rest.
He only relaxed once he was well out of sight, and even then it took force to pretend this was fine. Now, not only did he have a secret map and a furious angel of death to deal with, he was also going to be hounded by teenagers for eternity. He raised a hand to brush his hair out of his face and paused. He turned his hand and read the words “big man” in Sharpie on his palm, accompanied by doodles of bees. He stared for a long moment, then burst out laughing. This would be fun.
——
The cabin had been deserted for over a decade, left to rot and chip away in the snow. That was, until three paranormal beings made it their home. It had been decorated and made less depressing with a fireplace and torches enchanted with colored flame. Pacing the wooden floor was a man with broad black wings that would reach the ceiling fully extended. Casually watching him from the couch was another man with long pink hair tied into a braid and clothes a mix between royal and combat. His ears were pointed, and tusks jutted from his lower jaw. Hiding the rest of his face was a boar skull mask.
The pacing avian’s feathers ruffled, and he kept looking out the window. “It’s been an entire day, mate, of course I’m worried.”
The piglin shrugged, fiddling with his bloodstained ring. He grimaced, not at the blood but at the annoyance of having to clean it. “I’m sure he’s fine, Philza. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? He’ll die?”
Philza ignored that. “Techno, you were out together yesterday. What did you two do?”
“Yeah,” Technoblade started, anticipating scolding. “We were throwing rocks at these kids, and I ran off when he got caught.”
“And where is he now?”
“Oh, I dunno. He kinda disappeared, and I gave up lookin’ for him.”
Philza gave a muffled scream of exasperation, and Techno tried to hide his grin. He loved the man, but he was fatherly to a fault at times. “I give you two one job, stay alive and come back home, and you always manage to break it.”
“Yeah, Wilbur really sucks at the whole staying alive part.”
Philza huffed. “That part is directed towards you, Techno.” Knowing that this conversation was getting nowhere, he busied himself elsewhere. Techno didn’t have to look to know the man was heading to the bookshelf again, leafing through the same pages looking for a deeper hidden meaning. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re researching?” Techno called.
Philza laughed. “Don’t hold your breath, mate. If anything comes from this, you’ll know.” Techno groaned. He unsheathed his sword from its scabbard strapped to his belt and took a moment to admire it. It was forged from pure netherite and chipped from battle, glowing with enchantments and dark with dried blood. It was his pride and joy. The Orphan Obliterator. He polished it lovingly, ignoring the rise of the voices in his head with the weapon in his hands. Blood, they whispered, crowed, but he denied them. Tonight, they would be fed well, but now was not the time.
Footsteps. The two turned in unison, ears twitching to listen to the crunching in the snow. Something metallic, maybe keys, jangled outside, and Techno rose gripping his blade. The door opened. He reluctantly lowered his weapon.
“Wilbur Soot, you are in deep shit,” Philza hissed. Wilbur froze in the entrance, then closed the door. “Wilbur!”
“Run while you still can!” Techno called. “I was kidding, Philza, come on.” A pause. “Okay, I wasn’t kidding.”
The door swung open, and Wilbur smiled awkwardly, attempting to glide past him. “Hey, Philza, how’ve you been? Great to hear, I’m real tired, just gonna head upstai—“
Philza pulled him inside, closed the door, and crossed his arms. “Where were you?” he demanded.
Wilbur sighed and looked off in the middle distance, a look Techno understood as bridled frustration. Wilbur did not deal well with frustration. Usually, he rammed straight through it, then set it on fire and chopped its head off. Techno leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, and smirked. “I was kidnapped.”
Techno’s smirk dropped. Philza’s eyes widened. “What?”
“How much did Tech tell you?”
“Don’t call me that.” Techno growled.
“As you wish, Techie.” Wilbur slipped past Philza and sat across from Techno at the table, whipping out his playing cards and starting to shuffle. It was a nervous habit, one he’d picked up in Limbo and never dropped. It was nice to have something to do with his hands when everything else was out of his power.
“He said you were throwing rocks at children, then they caught you and you disappeared,” Philza answered.
“Yeah, that’s about right.” He glared at Techno. “Coward.” The piglin stood up abruptly, chair falling behind him, and Wilbur leaned back with a smirk. “Fight me, Blood God, if you aren’t a coward.”
“Boys!” Philza shouted, stilling both of them. Techno resentfully sat back down and refused to make eye contact with the piece of work he was stuck with. “Tell me what happened.”
Wilbur sighed and started shuffling faster. He couldn’t tell the whole truth, not after Dream. Not after whatever happened with Tommy. He loved lying, and he was good at it, but it felt wrong when Philza was the target. “The kids caught me and demanded that I walk them home since they were lost. So I did, and then they kept throwing shit at me and wouldn’t let me leave, and I accidentally set a fire in their house.”
Philza sat down with a cry of disbelief. “A fire?”
“Don’t worry, I put it out. And the pancakes were still great.”
Philza sighed. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Wilbur felt another twinge of guilt. Philza turned away, then paused. “Wilbur. Why weren’t you invisible?”
“I was,” he responded too quickly. “They just followed the source.”
“And you decided to show yourself and let them kidnap you?”
Techno gave him an odd look. Wilbur knew that Techno had seen he was a spirit the entire time. He hadn’t shown himself until Ranboo and Tubbo arrived. “I thought it would be funny. Besides, I don’t want rumors of a ghost to spread.” Wilbur shared a glance with Techno, and he nodded. They would have to talk.
“Right. Sure.” Philza waved the pair off and returned to his books, raising his wings into a shield around himself.
Wilbur gave Techno another look, but he shook his head and stood. He swung his sword in his direction, and Wilbur jumped. “Come spar with me, coward.”
Wilbur grinned. “I’ll meet you there.” The hallways were long and twisting, and the walls seemed to lean inwards. The house was essentially held together by luck and wishes. It did its job well, at least. It was hidden from the world, and they had many things to hide.
As Techno went one way, Wilbur slipped into another. He phased through a closet door to avoid noise and pushed through a decade of tools and belongings left behind. There, he saw the glint of a spade. A beautiful thing, sharp and rusted, the handle cracked in places and prone to splinters. He picked it up and carried it with him.
At the end of the hall lay what Techno affectionately called “The Room of Death.” They stepped into a space filled with more weapons than air, the walls packed with shining blades, carved bows, and cruel little things. At the center was a mat, and it may or may not have always been red.
Wilbur left his spade on the floor and watched Techno’s eyes skip over it. Technoblade took his spot at one side, and Wilbur strolled to his own, idly running a hand along the daggers. “Blood or no blood?” Wilbur questioned. Techno tilted his head. “Right. Blood it is. Now drop the sword.”
Techno dropped it to the ground with uncharacteristic gentleness, then raised his hands. “Unarmed? And you called me a coward.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes as he stretched, brushing off the twinge of his bad arm. “My blood comes at a higher price than yours, Technoblade.”
“I’d like to see it if it’s so great.” Wilbur opened his arms as a welcome, and Techno sprang into life. He lunged across the mat and slammed himself into Wilbur’s chest, using his weight to almost knock him over. Wilbur knew him well, though.
“I don’t think so,” he sang, dropping out of his grip. Techno growled, red eyes alight behind his skull mask and charged again. Techno’s knuckles slammed into the edge of Wilbur’s arm as he dodged and flitted around the mat like a bird. It was his only true advantage: speed and calm. “You missed.” He smiled, and then a kick knocked him backwards.
He found his balance and grabbed Techno’s leg as it struck out again, yanking him off center. Techno swore and managed to catch himself, pulling free and latching onto Wilbur’s shirt. Up close, his teeth were bared, tusks sharp and animalistic, and Wilbur’s head rushed with adrenaline. In the next instant, his head was knocked backwards. Techno’s fist connected with his chin, and pain shot through his jaw like lightning. This was just a spar, just a game. Techno wouldn’t truly hurt him. At least Wilbur hoped to Prime that he wouldn’t.
“About that discussion we were going to have,” Wilbur started, snatching Techno’s wrist and twisting. “Tap out when you’re ready, weakling, and we’ll talk.” That was the exact wrong thing to say, and Wilbur loved it. Techno surged forward, and Wilbur bent his arm and let momentum tug it past the socket. The piglin recovered and turned on him, eerily still.
Wilbur braced himself, flicking his gaze everywhere, searching for a tell. A sign. Despite that, no warning came before his vision disappeared with a crack and persistent ringing. He blinked the haze away and found himself backed against a wall, Techno preparing another hit.
Wilbur choked down a gasp and chanced a look. Red. Not good. He slammed his knee into Techno’s stomach while ramming an elbow into his nose, relishing in the crack. Techno didn’t let go. He grabbed a hold of Wilbur’s shirt and threw him over his shoulder, and for a moment, he was weightless.
He wheezed as he hit the mat, shock waves rippling through his body. Techno landed on him and pulled his head back by his hair, exposing his throat, and— His fist tensed, and Wilbur felt the exact moment that Techno saw the blood. He hoped it wasn’t enough, but he could feel it trickling down the side of his head, see it from the corner of his eye. “Technoblade,” he said evenly. “This is a spar.”
Technoblade sat perfectly still though his body buzzed with electricity, voices and cries struggling to break free. “Techno,” Wilbur repeated. “Let go of me.” And then Wilbur was on fire.
Pain rocked through him as Techno slammed punch after punch, still tugging his head back. He was too shocked to do anything, to breathe, all he could do was struggle as the Blood God made good on his word. He snarled and reared an arm back, aiming for unconsciousness, and Wilbur’s thoughts collided into place.
Technoblade fell to the floor with a huff as Wilbur’s form melted away. Wilbur scrambled to his feet and backed up, breaths stolen and expensive. Techno stood and furiously scanned the room, throwing a dummy into the wall. “Where the hell did you go?”
Did he expect Wilbur to answer? “You know, friend,” he said instead, “for all we’ve said about Dream, at least he keeps me well. We’re caged birds, and you’re settling for scraps. Go hunt, Technoblade.”
Wilbur didn’t wait to see his response. The spade was heavy in his hands. A blade he’d snatched rested on his hip. He walked through the wall to the backyard, aching to feel the cold wind on his skin, but it barely touched him. He had asked for it, practically forced a fight out of him, but that didn’t stop him from seething. He had work to do, anyway, and Technoblade could destroy that stupid room for all Wilbur cared.
He retrieved the map from his pocket, checked the coordinates, and paused. It was far, but closer than he’d expected. He thought it would be towns over, but he‘d get there in just over an hour. It didn’t seem right, but he was pissed, tired, and indebted to a deity, so he kept moving. It had rained last night, leaving puddles of mud and transforming the snow around the cabin into slush. He carefully avoided both, because each time snow melted through his pants, he was met by burning.
That was one of his least favorite things about being a ghost, he’d decided. How the hell was he going to take a shower? That was low on the priority list, sure, but he was still mad about it. The sun reached halfway down the sky, giving way to afternoon. He picked up his pace.
He could have thought about Tommy, about Dream and Techno and the buzz of pink fluorescent lights, but instead he thought of nothing. His mind remained peacefully blank as he wound through the streets, edging into the woods bordering them. Everything was towering, the trees and mountains and apartment complexes, and he felt impossibly small. It was nice.
That was why he didn’t pay attention to the puddle. He hissed a swear and jerked his leg away when the water burned his skin. He looked down and tilted his head, trying to recognize the man reflected back at him. His yellow sweater was marred by a stitch running up the center, which he had done with no sewing experience and while having a crisis. His brown hair streaked with white was ruffled from the fight, and the side was sticky with blood. His brown trench coat had a patch on the arm, a flag, and he had no idea what it was for.
That was Wilbur, but it didn’t feel like it was. He was too desaturated, too... dead. He sighed and kept going. The rest of the walk was silent other than the drag of metal on dirt, and he focused on the faint touch of wind and the crunch of leaves under his boots. Out here, there was no Dream waiting for him to close his eyes. There were no demon gremlin children and no violent piglin acolytes.
Another hour passed, and Wilbur slowed to a stop. The sun was low on the horizon but still stung his eyes, so he shielded them as he looked up. He checked the map against his communicator, and unfortunately, this was the place. The woods were sprawling and dark, full of gnarled trees and the deep coo of owls. But Wilbur Soot was not a coward, so he walked in.
Within minutes, the canopy became so dense that the sun had stopped existing, snuffed out like a flame. Between blinks, he had descended into darkness, and the whorls in the bark looked like faces. He stuck by the path of bioluminescent blue mushrooms, circling around faerie rings and fallen logs thick with moss and lichen.
It was enchantingly, maliciously beautiful. It was as if he’d stepped into a different plane of existence, or maybe the land of the fae. Glittering sets of red eyes peered through the foliage, and he tightened his grip. He wasn’t scared of spiders, he was just scared of getting mauled by them. There was a difference.
When he stepped into the right place, he didn’t have to check the map. It had an energy, a magnetism, eerily similar to Dream’s. He lifted his spade and got to work ripping up the densely flowered ground. The night was loud and alive around him, with distant skittering and clanking and echoing groans. He dug fast enough that his arms burned, but progress was slow.
Dig and throw, dig and throw, and he had the odd sensation that he was digging his own grave. He had seen his grave before, and it was a sad thing—a simple, weathered stone carved with his name and the words “It was never meant to be.” It was like watching his own funeral or dreaming in third person without the words to tell anyone what was happening. He hated the feeling, felt it coil in his bones, so he worked even faster to get it over with.
Covered in dirt, wiping sweat from his eyes, he finally dropped the shovel and stared. He knelt and pushed away rocks to reveal the purple shine of enchantments and the sharp arc of a blade. Carefully, he grabbed the handle and freed the weapon. An axe. It was made of netherite and hummed in his hands, and engraved on the handle was the word ‘Nightmare’. It was powerful, stronger than anything he’d seen besides Techno’s sword, and Wilbur could only imagine the destruction Dream had caused with it.
The metal gleamed despite the dirt as if it had never been buried. He leaned in, watching his reflection warp under the enchantment glow, and then— A crack sounded behind him, followed by a cacophony of mob sounds. A woosh cut through the air, and a stabbing pain hit his back.
“Dammit,” he hissed, whirling around. The arrow pierced tighter in his shoulder blade with each movement, and he resisted the urge to pull the stupid thing out. He unsheathed the sword at his side and backed as he scanned his surroundings. The sun had disappeared, leaving the pale moon to cast an eerie glow on the land.
Another arrow flew past his head, and he ducked and locked eyes with his attacker. He grimaced. The skeletons here weren’t those of fairy tales and ghost stories—they were remnants of people who lived long before Wilbur did, their skin eaten away to nothing, dry bones grinding against each other. It was impossible, but somehow they found a way to keep their fractured skulls attached to fragile vertebrae.
Wilbur was about to ruin that. He attached the axe to a loop on his belt and ran at the skeleton before it could draw its bow again. He cracked the blade against its neck twice before the bone splintered enough to fall apart. The skull thudded to the grass, and he made quick work of shattering the ribs until the monster collapsed.
He squinted in the darkness, panting, and his breath hitched in his throat. Mobs were emerging in droves from the trees with beady eyes and static screeching, moans and cackling. What the hell had drawn so many to him? He didn’t have time to think, so instead he raced for higher ground.
A spider latched its pinchers onto his leg, and he jolted with a gasp. He twisted his leg free and arced the sword over the beast’s head until it slowed and then fell with a scraping hiss. Wilbur’s heart pounded out of his chest, and he couldn’t stand looking at those eight lifeless red eyes staring at him. Okay, maybe he was scared of spiders. Granted the swarm of them crawling towards him, though, he felt it was warranted.
He took out another spider, then dueled with a zombie lurching in his direction. Its flesh was green with decay and disease, and Wilbur shuddered when it dug its fingernails into him. Disgusting. He thrust the blade into its gut, and just then he heard the smash of glass.
Gray particles clouded around him, and he coughed as they filled his lungs. Suddenly the sword felt five times as heavy, and his muscles almost gave out. A witch laughed, and he cursed and spun around to face her, shakily pointing his weapon. Right then, stabbing a witch and desperately dodging glass shards and toxic fumes, Wilbur wanted to murder Dream. Whether Dream led him into a trap or even set it himself, Wilbur was beyond angry and channeled it into ripping out the witch’s guts.
When she fell, body evaporating like smoke, Wilbur swayed on his feet and rode out the poison swimming in his head. More mobs advanced on him. They were never ending, and there was absolutely no chance he’d win on his own. So he booked it.
The forest swallowed the light whole and twisted into a labyrinth, skewing his sense of direction. Wilbur vaulted over rocks and skid on the dewy grass as the blue mushrooms swayed by. An arrow flew past him, then another, and he threw himself to the ground as a potion crashed over his head.
He could barely catch his breath before rotted hands were digging into his shoulders and pinning him down. He thrashed and yanked his sword free, slicing a hand straight off. He flipped onto his back and sailed the blade through the zombie’s chest. Finally, it slumped, and he retrieved his weapon and continued running for his life.
He had no idea where he was going, so he chanced a glance at the map. Checking his back, he pulled up his coords on his communicator and laughed in relief. He wasn’t far from freedom. That being said, there was a parade of bloodthirsty monsters looking to stop him. The axe, spade, and sword combined weighed him down, but the adrenaline evaporated his ability to feel it. He was weightless, gliding, cutting down flesh and bone and feeling alive.
A creeper hissed behind him, and he ducked behind a tree, shielding his head. An explosion rocked the ground and splintered the bark, but he was unharmed. That was good. One good thing down, a lot more to go. Referencing the coordinates and subconsciously following the mushrooms, he edged around the crater. There, through the dark trees, he saw a streetlight, the faint glow of the moon. He was so close. He picked up pace though his body ached from everything he’d put it through. He reached his hand out and then—
“Fuck,” he choked as he hit the ground. He twisted around to see, then gasped and ducked his head. A pitch black figure with glowing purple eyes loomed above, emitting low static that rang in Wilbur’s ears. “Please, please, please,” he whispered. He kept his eyes squeezed shut as the Enderman leaned over him, watching with a blank stare.
Its mouth unhinged, letting out a scraping, horrific screech, and Wilbur scrambled for his sword. The creature was already hostile without eye contact, and he dreaded seeing what it would be like after a hit. But a claw swiped across his face, drawing beads of blood, and he attacked before he could think.
He landed one hit before the Enderman disappeared. He knew it was close, so he wasted no time forcing himself up and sprinting again. He was feet away from the forest edge when he slammed into the Enderman and stumbled backwards. He was furious. At this stupid eldritch creature, at Technoblade, at Dream, at himself for falling into this trap. So he let out a scream and threw himself into the fight.
Adrenaline guided his hands as the sword danced on its own, leaving a trail of purple particles. Static surrounded him and clouded his vision with every swipe of talons, but he couldn’t feel a thing. He understood what Technoblade meant when he talked about the art of war and the thrill of losing yourself to blood and carnage. This was what Wilbur was made for: destruction and conflict. With a piercing screech, the enderman fell, body disintegrating, and Wilbur fell through it.
He caught himself mid-fall and staggered into the light. The mobs following him stopped at the edge of the trees and stared at him with malice. They didn’t move, as if there were a barrier blocking them in. Wilbur didn’t have the time or mental capacity to figure out what that meant, so instead he flipped them off and began the long trek home.
He was still shaking with adrenaline, and his gashes ached dully, distantly. He felt like he was moments away from just collapsing on the sidewalk, and he was tempted to give in. But Wilbur Soot was not a coward.
An hour or longer passed before he caught sight of the familiar dark wood cabin with trails of extinguished smoke. The fireplace had to be put out before others noticed the signs of life and investigated, but the smoke helped lead him. He creaked open the door and paused at the entrance, straining to hear. Nothing. He crept down the hallway, wiped the dirt off the spade into a trash can, and replaced it in the closet. One piece of evidence down.
The next incriminating object was his sword, slick with blood and with an ornate carved handle gleaming gold. It was beautiful, sturdy iron and reliable. He snuck into the Room of Death and hung it up on its display knowing that Philza would assume Techno had used it.
Finally, the last damning evidence. He opened the door to his room and stepped inside, softly closing it behind him. He unhooked the axe from his belt and sat on the bed. It held a weight perfect for battle, light enough to swing and heavy enough to damage. It was a work of art, really, and Wilbur wondered why Dream had left it unused and buried.
He slid the axe underneath his bed, then collapsed atop the blankets. When he slept that night, the train station was empty and crushingly silent. That night, he was alone.