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Wilbur stands atop the mockery of a podium that Schlatt built, and tries not to make eye contact with the crow perched on the opposite roof. “I cannot be your president,” he admits, smiling.
Gasps run through the crowd. Friends, enemies, everyone Wilbur has ever screwed over, all watching him. Waiting for him to screw everything up. “Why?” Tommy asks, as if he hadn’t turned down the same offer not two minutes ago. The kid’s got spark, but he never thinks before he speaks.
He never thinks before he does anything, really. He’s all heart. That’s why he never could have been president. That’s why he had to be president. Because Tommy is light and hope and love and passion and everything that L’Manberg was built on. If it fell under his watch, then maybe everyone would finally get the message and give up on it.
But Wilbur miscalculated. He managed to forget about those goddamn discs. He forgot that Tommy will stop at nothing to reclaim what’s his, and he already has L’Manberg back. The discs are all that’s left on his little to-do list. He’s apparently learned better than to put everyone else in the line of fire of that fight, at least for now with the execution still fresh in his mind. Jury’s still out on whether or not the lesson will stick.
(Wilbur isn’t optimistic. He hasn’t been an optimist in a long, long time. He thinks he misses it, sometimes. But at the same time, he appreciates the grim reality check of pessimism. At least this way the moments where everyone’s happy come as a pleasant surprise.)
His eyes dance across the audience as he speaks, barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth. His heart is pounding in his chest. He’s saying something directed at Technoblade about anarchy, he thinks? He doesn’t care, all he can focus on is the fact that they actually won, he’s the president right now. He doesn’t want to be- he can’t be.
Wilbur Soot is the president of L’Manberg. That’s all he’s good for. That’s all he knows how to be. He’s a showman and a con artist and a liar and the captain of his ship. His ship, the one he built with his own two goddamn hands.
-
(Once, Wilbur had sat in the camaravan long after everyone else had fallen asleep, talking with Tubbo. He and the kid weren’t close back then, and it only got worse after Schlatt singled him out. But back then, they were L’Manberg, and that was the part that counted. Tommy was practically Wilbur’s brother, and Tubbo was practically Tommy’s brother. Brothers-by-association; brothers through Phil’s habit of picking up strays and promptly dropping them into Wilbur’s lap to look after.
“Have you ever heard of the Ship of Theseus, Tubbo?” Wilbur had asked.
Tubbo perked up. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, eyes already alight with the promise of new information.
“Well, the idea is that there’s this ship, right? Old ship, important ship. But the wood starts rotting away, so they have to replace it. This goes on for years and years and years until every piece of the ship has been entirely replaced, even the sails. So the question that people like to ask, Tubbo, is whether or not it’s still the same ship in the end.”
He hummed, fingers tapping against the table. After a moment of that not-quite-silence, Tubbo spoke up. “I think it is. It’s still called the same thing, and some of those pieces were put there when it was more original than replaced. I don’t see why it wouldn’t be the same ship.”
“But some of those pieces were put there when it was more replaced than original,” Wilbur counters. “Why would it be the same ship?”
“It’s still the same general shape. The same blueprint,” Tubbo argues.
Wilbur smiles, pleased that Tubbo’s thinking so hard about it. “Other ships could have been built on that blueprint. Are they the same ship?”
“No...” Tubbo grumbles. “But I- it just-” he makes a noise from the back of his throat, low and grumbling, like he knows there are words to express what he wants to say but he can’t find them.
“Tubbo, hey,” Wilbur says after a beat. “Don’t think too hard about it. It’s only a thought experiment, there isn’t any one right answer.”
Tubbo leans forward, his head pillowed on his arms. “It just… it feels like it’s supposed to be the same ship, y’know?”
“Yeah, yeah, Tubbo. I know.”)
-
“So… I’m going to hand off the presidency to someone. I need to hand off the presidency.” Wilbur sighs, and hopes no one notices how white-knuckled his grip on the podium had become at some point in all that. “It’s important to know how to say goodbye to a nation, to my L’Manberg.”
Because that’s the crux of it all, right now. This place is- was supposed to be his. But then Schlatt waltzed in, and he ruined it. This was supposed to be his work of art, his symphony, but now Schlatt’s awful, drunken fingerprints are all over the pages. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore. He wants to burn every page over a bonfire until it’s nothing but ash.
Even if they fixed it, those fingerprints would never really go away. Nothing ever does.
Wilbur built a nation and then Schlatt destroyed every part of it that made it halfway decent until it was unsalvagable. So now Wilbur just wants it gone. Close the fucking curtains, cancel the production, everyone pack it up and go home.
But before Wilbur can close the show and see if the button still works, he needs to find someone to entrust the remaining pieces to. He didn’t think this far ahead- he didn’t think Tommy would turn his offer down.
That would have been a nice ending, he thinks, if Tommy had accepted the offer. Tommy would have gotten his moment, and then everything would go up in flames and everyone would realize that L’Manberg was doomed from the start. Tommy would bounce back after that. He always did, back when he and Tubbo were fighting with Dream for the discs. Wilbur doesn’t see why this would be any different. Tommy would be causing chaos within the week, mark his words. Everything would be okay again, if you ignored the crater in the ground.
But Tommy ruined that plan, so it has to go to someone else. And that someone else is going to want to rebuild, Wilbur finally lets himself admit. L’Manberg would never have gotten as far as it did if they weren’t stubborn as all hell. They’ve never been good at knowing when to give in. That’s why he loved this place, once upon a time. That’s why he has to destroy it.
Because they’ll never give it up willingly, but goddamnit, he can at least force them to build something new. Something that hasn’t been tainted by Schlatt’s fingerprints or Wilbur’s own frantic scrawl across the pages.
So who can he trust to do that?
(That’s a funny thought: trust. It doesn’t come easily to him these days. Then again, he’s been lying for so long that he’s not sure he’s ever trusted anyone, really. The letters he sent his own father can attest to that.)
He trusts Tommy, maybe. He trusts the kid to be all heart and emotion. But that idea is already defunct. Next.
Niki… Wilbur loves Niki. She’s a light in the dark, the glue that holds this place together. She believes in L’Manberg so fiercely it hurts, but Wilbur has known her a long time. She’s not the type to take the lead.
Neither is Fundy, if he’s being honest. Fundy’s tried, sure, but his not-son was not built to lead a nation. Coconut2020 never took off the ground for a reason, Wilbur has the neutrality to admit.
Tubbo could lead if he tried, though. There’s potential there, if you look for it. There has been for a long time. Tubbo’s always been a hard worker, and there’s a core of cold logic when you get past the chaos he and Tommy liked to cause before Schlatt took to power. He’s got the heart to lead, the diligence to do it right, and the brain to make the hard sacrifices that Wilbur would never be able to ask Niki or Tommy or any other founding member of L’Manberg to make.
Tubbo could be a president. He already is, in the letters that Wilbur used to write home. He needed to tell Phil that he passed over the presidency to someone, and Tubbo was the best candidate that he could think of. But that was before Schlatt got his hands on him.
Tubbo’s a quick study, is the thing. He soaks up information and advice and anything else he’s taught like a sponge. He got the hang of chess within a week. Before he started spying, he was… not quite loud- he’s never been loud- but he was Tommy’s other half nonetheless. He’d argue with Wilbur over logic puzzles and thought experiments and potion recipes when the fancy struck. He was a good kid, before the election.
But after Schlatt dug his fingers into his shoulders and stained him like the rest of Wilbur’s nation, Tubbo got quieter. Didn’t argue anymore, unless it was with Tommy. Yes, sir, right away, sir, he always said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He was just trying to save his own skin, Wilbur knows. Tubbo is smart. Clever, if the chess matches Wilbur played against him back in L’Manberg are anything to go by. He learned to keep his mouth shut, play his cards close to his chest, and fawn over whoever is in charge until they could never expect their Tubbo to betray them.
But that’s the thing that Wilbur always gets snagged on- who was Tubbo really playing, in the end?
It should be Schlatt. The man had him fucking executed, didn’t he? It was Schlatt that hurt him, that must mean it was Schlatt he was lying to. But maybe it was all a ruse. A long game. Some gambit Wilbur hasn’t seen the full shape of because the necessary pieces aren’t all in place yet.
He takes a deep breath and tries to dispel that thought from his mind. Tommy trusts Tubbo, right? Wilbur’s not sure how much that’s worth, but it’s something.
“And there’s only one other person who could possibly be the president…” Wilbur forces himself to say. Pogtopia just risked everything to get L’Manberg back. He has no idea if it would have worked if Schlatt hadn’t keeled over when he did. He has no idea if the button will still work when he presses it. He has no idea what will happen after the fact.
Oh, what the hell.
Today is already a series of risky gambles, what’s one more?
“Tubbo,” Wilbur calls out. “I want you to come up to the stage!”
The audience erupts into cheering. Everyone’s grinning, everyone’s smiling. Tommy claps Tubbo on the shoulder, and Wilbur can’t make out what he says to his friend over all the noise. He can distinctly hear Fundy and Niki’s whoops over the noise, though, and Wilbur allows himself to smile. To enjoy this one last moment of joy before he destroys it all.
Wilbur turns that smile on Tubbo, when he finally arrives at the podium. “I know you’re good at preparing speeches, and it’s probably a bit traumatic being up here, but I want you to wing this one, Tubbo.”
“It still smells of my guts...” Tubbo says in a near-whisper, the grin on his own face starting to waver.
Ah.
It is all rather familiar, isn’t it? Tubbo on this podium, giving a speech about the president, seconds away from being betrayed. At least Wilbur has the decency not to put him in a box this time. At least this will be the last time anyone steps foot on this awful fucking thing. “Tubbo? Tubbo, look at me.”
“Yeah?” he says, eyes wide.
“Tubbo, you’re a good kid.” Wilbur is about to do the unforgivable, he thinks. He is going to destroy Tubbo’s nation; he is going to do exactly what Dream did to him a lifetime ago. He is going to be the bad guy. But none of that is Tubbo’s fault. It still won’t be even if he does turn out to be a scheming little traitor like part of Wilbur still suspects. “And an even better spy.”
He takes a deep breath, and steps off the stage. He walks until he reaches the back of the audience, so he can watch his new president give his first speech.
Tubbo speaks of unity. Of fighting for a nation, either against it or to reclaim it, and the unity they can get out of this. For just a moment, he allows himself to hope. He hasn’t been an optimist in a long time, but there’s something nice about the idea of Tubbo being able to take hold of that unity and use it to build something new from the ashes of Wilbur’s nation.
I want it to be back to what it was in its heyday, Tubbo says, though, and that hope is dashed. Because Tubbo is smart, but he’s still young. He still hasn’t realized that Wilbur was never a good person. He shouldn’t want to rebuild what he made. That’s why he needs to destroy it before he gets the chance.
“I’ll be back,” Wilbur mutters to no one as he stands to leave. Tubbo will build something great someday, he’s sure of it. The kid’s clever enough that he might actually stand a chance against someone like Dream in a game of chess. He’s got enough energy to keep up with Tommy. He’s got the creativity to plan and decorate an entire festival all on his own, and the way with words to deliver one hell of a speech on top of it. Beyond all that, he’s got the cold hard logic that it takes to maintain a nation, not just build it.
(That’s more than Wilbur can say for himself.)
Wilbur’s L’Manberg would only hold him and Tommy and everyone else back, with its foundation of lies and broken promises and shattered ideals that none of them have ever bothered to see through.
It’s about time Wilbur closes the curtain and lets them have the stage. He’s sure they’ll put on one hell of a show.
-
(His hand shakes as it hovers over the button, so close to pressing it, so fucking close. It all ends right here, right now, as soon as he finally bites the bullet of Chekhov’s Gun and presses it.
For a moment, he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins: is he the captain going down with his ship, or is he the one dragging the ship down to the cold, dark bottom of the sea?
Does it even matter in the end, though? It’ll still be the same ship, if you ask Tubbo.
It’s all just a thought experiment anyways.
Wilbur takes a deep breath. He can’t keep putting it off forever. It’s time, it’s time, he just needs to move his fucking ha-
He stills at the sound of footsteps. At the sound of a swishing cloak. His father’s voice. “What are you doing?”
Wilbur’s heart drops to his shoes. That is… that’s an eleventh hour twist he can’t say he was expecting.)