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It had been gears and scrap metal they needed, if Wilson could remember right. A couple of Max's shadow fighters, a spear and blowdarts against a few of those stupid mechanical bishops and a rook. They'd been doing pretty well, pulling the bishops towards them and using the clones to do most of the fighting though Wilson had been speeding up things by assisting, a spear in hand. The clones fell fast, but Maxwell had been hoarding nightmare fuel and mushrooms to keep summoning them. Though before Maxwell could summon another shadow so they could start work on the far more dangerous rook, it started charging for them.
Wilson had started to kite it, ignoring whatever Maxwell was fussing at him about, yelling at him to summon something then. He dodged a charge and saw a pair of shadows, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw a blowdart shot to draw attention away from him, giving the new fighters a start and a quick breather for him.
There was a good amount of damage being done. Wilson knew the number of hits it took to take down one of these monsters, and they were almost done.
What neither of them expected was both of the clones getting hit at the same time right before they could finish the damn thing off. He made a quick glance to Maxwell; They didn't want to yell right now, frozen, as Max made the gesture they'd used before to indicated retreating. They were so close though, and Wilson scowled and shook his head. It could be done and they were going to finish this so that they didn't have to come back here.
Instead, he moved to attract it's attention, brandishing his spear. A mistake, but whatever. If he died, he died. It was more important to get their supplies to hopefully build the door to escape. There was a distant "Higgsbury, for heaven's sake what are you doing?!' but he was too focused on making sure to dodge this charge, turning and watching the mechanical rook ready it's next one.
Wilson got in the last hit, but he hadn't fully been able to get out of the way, and between injuries from the bishops and his armor shattering; well, it was better that he never could remember how painful dying felt.
He couldn’t remember much of his time dead, only that for some reason it felt longer then it had in the past. While a day might really pass, the touchstones felt instant. He could remember flashes of the world in a more monochromatic tone, but even then, it was blurry and forgotten.
All Wilson knew was that right now was that his body ached and he was laying in the grass, breathing. No touchstone in sight, and no broken life amulet around his neck.
Maxwell hovered over him and mix of annoyance… and concern on his face. That couldn't be right. “What were you thinking, Higgsbury?!” His voice was obnoxiously loud, though that was more because he was yelling. “There were better ways to deal with that, that wouldn’t of involved your death! We could have regrouped, recovered and gone back!”
He stood, and saw the scrap metal he’d sacrificed himself to get sticking out of Maxwell’s bag. Blood splattered the ground, but it wasn’t where he’d died. They weren't anywhere near the set piece they'd been fighting at.
“Higgsbury, are you even listening?” Maxwell must be really wound up, and Wilson scowled. “There’s two of us, and while I don’t like getting my hands dirty, working together and neither of us dying is far more efficient then you just giving up the ghost, literally!”
Wilson crinkled his nose in distaste. a lecture from Maxwell, of all people. “I killed the rook, we have the metal we needed. Stars, why do you even care? I thought you liked seeing me die.” He spat back.
“Yes, well, that was then, and now we need to work together! And that means not dying on me! Heavens help me, Higgsbury, you want me to leave you as a ghost next time? Because I might not be able to make a heart, and I do not want to see you dead.” Maxwell threw up his hands, and Wilson could see the blood slowly trickle down from under the glove.
“You’re bleeding.” It was a blunt statement, Wilson preferring not to address the ghost thing. Those ghosts they saw when digging graves were just like rooks. Something to attack you.
Max pinched his nose and sighed. “Of course I’m bleeding still. The heart needed blood to work, but it’s worth the price, seeing as I couldn’t find a touchstone, and the graves I did dig up didn’t contain a single life amulet. Now come on, we need to get back to camp." He turned on his heel and beckoned him to come along.
On the way, Maxwell explained the "Telltale Heart" to him, and how to make one if Max managed to get himself killed. Unlike a life amulet, someone else had to give it to the deceased; Wilson had assumed he meant on the body, and the whole incident was forgotten as they argued about ghosts.
It was later that night, when the other man was asleep, that Wilson thought back to it and realized he’s always given no real care to if he’d lived or died at the end of day, as long as he got what he needed to do done, even before he heard Maxwell over the radio that faithful day. Here, being able to bounce back from death just made him more foolhardy. He could restart, he's died and restarted in some variation of this place hundreds if not millions of times.
“No one seemed to really care if I lived or died.” He muttered, looking over at Maxwell, presumably asleep on the other straw roll. After his parents figured out he wasn't ever going to bend to their will, he'd been regarded as a loss cause and it didn't matter what he'd do. He was off and alone, unable to bring shame to them where he'd been living. “I never would have expected the first person to actually care about my life to be you of all people.”
Maybe he was addressing the darkness, or just himself. No matter the case, Wilson laid down, closing his eyes. Even if it was Maxwell of all people, there was a bit of warmth to the thought that someone cared. Cared enough to revive him and then give him grief about dying. As obnoxious as lectures were, it was also somewhat comforting to see that the other couldn't shrug it off.