Chapter Text
“Phil, kill me. Phil. Kill. Me.” Tears were streaming down Wilbur’s face, but his voice rang true. He sank to his knees, his neck temptingly close to where Phil’s glittering blade hung in balance. Yells could be heard in the distance, amidst the rubble that had been L’Manberg mere minutes ago. But Wilbur only had eyes for Phil.
“You’re- you’re my son!” Phil half-shrieked, half-pleaded, yanking his sword away from him in horror. Wil smiled slightly, a sad little thing. He had expected this, but he thought maybe Phil of all people, would understand. Understand why this had to be done.
(Wilbur supposes none of them did, in the end.)
“Then I’m sorry for this.” Before Phil could react, Wilbur grabbed his hand with uncharacteristic strength, and plunged the sword into his chest.
Phil’s scream could be heard for miles. But Wilbur paid no attention, hardly registering the crimson blood pouring out of his torso-- a ghost of a crazed grin still on his face-- dried tear tracks on his cheekbones-- as a familiar tune echoed in his head, like a one last triumphant finale.
I
heard
there
was
a special place...
And then Wilbur was alone.
It took a second for his senses to follow suit.
There was a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. He could feel it brushing his back. Turning around in a circle slowly, Wilbur’s eyes widened.
He was standing alone on a lush hill, a sea of indigo flowers at his feet. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the foreign, captivating scent with a sigh.
( Hyacinths, they were called; as he would learn later on.)
Glancing down, Wilbur picked curiously at his cream sweater and loose khaki pants. He could’ve sworn he didn’t have these before. But Wilbur didn’t let himself dwell on it too long: something seemed to ache in between his eyes when he tried, however briefly.
So Wilbur looked past his mystifying new outfit to the ground, where he could feel the field poking beneath his bare feet. Grass was sprinkled in between each cluster of flowers, creating a dappled carpet of green. Making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, Wilbur looked up once more at the folding plains that sprawled as far as he could see. The sky was dashed with streaks of rose and violet, crafting a soft glow across this unknown world.
Wilbur let out a breathy laugh of awe, as he squinted into the horizon. Well, this was definitely a dramatic shift, from-
Wilbur blinked. His inexplicable headache incensed.
From-
Shiny navy uniforms, shoulders held back with pride. A burning flag, flapping in the wind. Righteous hatred of the man with the ivory mask. Muttered promises made in the deep of night. A group of revolutionaries, turned family.
A cracked button on a wall. Painful sacrifices, in the shapes of shining disks.
Freedom and independence at last.
But also,
A stranger with horns and a devil’s smile. A tattered, worn trench coat. Familiar pink locks and a flashing fireworks.
And yet another button, on a different wall. Blue eyes wracked with pain, and confusion.
The hiss of an old lighter. The resounding ‘BANG’ that followed.
Too much. It was all too much, too quickly.
Wilbur couldn’t stop the gasp sprouting from his lungs; nearly choking him, his heartbeat stuttering. The sheer remembering hit like a tidal wave- drawing a long shuddering breath out of him. The newfound weight of his memories, both good and bad, pressed down on his shoulders like a sandbag. Wilbur let his knees give out in the swaying blossoms.
“How long have I been here?” he whispered, a million recollections running through his mind. Places and people and things burned in the back of his eyes, clear as day.
“Not long,” drawled a gruff voice behind Wilbur, startling him out of his spiral. Wilbur spun his head around to gaze up at a tall figure with large horns nestled amongst his dark hair, standing slightly behind him.
It took a little less than a moment for Wilbur to register who he was facing.
“Schlatt?” Wilbur breathed. But there was none of his usual heat; no poisoned barbs behind his words. Instead, it had been replaced with an uneasy calm, as if he too, recognized that this time it was different.
Neither one dared to speak, as they cautiously took in the presence of the other. The wind whistled through the delicate flowers, filling the taut silence.
Wilbur’s eyes were wide with caution, confusion written in the curve of his eyebrows and the nervous fiddle of his sweater. His slouched kneel on the ground was almost meek-- a far cry from the usually confident, charming attitude that he ( had ) has. Schlatt on the other hand, was quite the opposite-- his eyes were narrowed, and his mouth pinched, as he leaned forward to stare into Wilbur’s eyes. It looked as if he’d found the answer to a question he’d been asking, and he didn’t like it.
The two men stared each other down in the swirling fields of mauve.
To Wilbur’s surprise, Schlatt was the first to crack.
“I guess this confirms my suspicions,” Schlatt sighed. Without wasting a beat, he swiveled around and strutted away, humming as he made his way down. The sun cut a shadow of Schlatt’s retreating figure across the plain. Wilbur was left kneeling in the grass, perplexed.
“Woah woah woah, wait just a minute now-” Wilbur scrambled to follow, nearly tripping himself over in the process. Schlatt was almost halfway down the hill before Wilbur caught up and slowed to a walk beside him.
“Where are we?” Wilbur demanded, slightly out of breath. “And why are you here? Why am I here?” As Schlatt paused to think of an answer, Wilbur took note of his snowy white suit- a stark difference from the shades of black and ruby red Wilbur had grown to associate with the infamous president. He also seemed to be barefoot amongst the soft grass, shuffling his feet slightly.
“Can’t you guess, genius?” Schlatt scoffed, not bothering to look up, keeping his eyes on the nearest flower. His right hand twitched, as if itching to grasp something. He looks… different, Wilbur observed silently. But Wilbur couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was.
( Colorful bottles of wine. Swirling glasses of whiskey. )
Yes I can. “...No, I can’t.” Wilbur said after a brief hesitation. Now it was Schlatt's turn to turn his head, looking at Wilbur skeptically. The odd feeling in Wilbur’s gut couldn’t help but increase.
“You and I both know you’re smarter than that. Put two and two together.” Schlatt started his walking again, even as Wilbur skidded to a stop. Schlatt walked a few paces more before Wilbur gave in.
“Yeah well, maybe I just want to hear it from someone else!” Wilbur blurted out in a heated hiss. ( Explosions and crumbling rubble. Tommy’s indistinct scream. A sword and a familiar winged silhouette. ) In the distance, Schlatt’s determined stroll faltered, before starting up again. A thrumming pressure was building in Wilbur’s mind, but he forced that aside as he hurried after Schlatt’s shifting shadow.
“ Where are you even goin- oh.” In the middle of the field, seemingly out of nowhere, was a wooden lectern. A single book lay open across the surface. It looked both simultaneously drastically out-of-place and right where it was supposed to be amongst the rolling plains. Wilbur’s eyebrows scrunched- he couldn’t make out the text from his distance. His steps slowed, as he squinted against the warm light of the sunset.
Schlatt had shuffled to a stop at the mysterious lectern. He didn’t say a word, merely observing Wilbur with an indescribable look in his eye. He also seemed to have anticipated the rush of questions that sprung into Wilbur’s mind the moment he saw the book. Before Wilbur could even react, Schlatt was holding up a finger to shush Wilbur’s half opened mouth, and merely gestured with his head; come look . Rolling his eyes, Wilbur sped up into a jog. He maintained eye contact with Schlatt as he came closer, eyes full of distrust.
“This better be good,” Wilbur snorted as he finally directed his attention to the lectern.
At first glance, it was a deceptively normal book. The pages were a crisp ivory color, and the cover appeared to be made of firm, brown leather. A light breeze ruffled the pages. Wilbur flipped to one of the first few pages, where rows of elegant text decorated the slightly worn paper.
TommyInnit was slain by Dream.
Fundy was slain by GeorgeNotFound.
Tubbo_ was slain by Sapnap.
WilburSoot was slain by Punz.
Wilbur took a choked double take. (The Final Control Room. Empty chests and a single button. A traitor.)
Compelled now, he flipped frantically through the pages, nearly tearing them out. The list continued on, all seemingly inscribed in the same format. Wilbur’s comprehension could barely keep up with his eyes as he tried to scan them all. A few stood out to him in particular.
TommyInnit was shot by Dream.
…
Tubbo_ was shot by Technoblade.
Quackity was shot by Technoblade.
Schlatt was shot by Technoblade.
…
WilburSoot died trying to escape Punz.
…
Schlatt fell out of this world.
…
WilburSoot was slain by Philza.
For a split second, Wilbur completely forgot how to breathe. ( - L’Manberg - brother Tommy - election - father Phil - ) He could still feel Schlatt’s gaze on him, watching his every motion intently. Wilbur had to force the next words out of his mouth.
“What the hell is this plac-”
Then he saw his name one last time, and Wilbur’s vision tunneled.
It was the last line on the latest page: still glistening under the sun’s pink rays, the ink barely dried.
WilburSoot has earned the achievement [Afterlife]