Chapter Text
Wilbur wakes to the sound of horns.
It’s not uncommon, at least not in the Empire; their absent King has some whack obsession with the Old World and uses horns to signify his announcements. Wilbur’s all for remembering the Old World, looking back on it’s significance and never forgetting where they came from. History was his favourite subject in school – still is his favourite hobby – but the King has a tendency to call these announcements at buttfuck o’clock in the morning – announcements, Wilbur notes, that he can’t even bother to attend himself – and, well. Wilbur’s just not having it today.
“Too early,” his roommate moans. Wilbur grumbles in sympathy, squeezing his eyes shut as if that’ll block out the noise and blindly patting his mattress for the blanket he’s kicked off in the night. “Your turn, Wil.”
“Fuck you,” he mumbles, but sits up all the same, blinking furiously to clear the exhaustion from his mind. It is his turn. Jack went last time.
It’s not like there’s a decree that states citizens have to be present for the King’s announcements, but everyone living in the heart of the Empire does anyway; the quicker; you hear the announcements, the readier you are. Wilbur’s lived long enough in the Antarctic Empire to know an announcement could be a rally for troops or wanted notice for an escaped group of convicts, an alert about one of the neighbouring space hubs or an call for war; there are hundreds of other Empires and Kingdoms in the observable universe, and despite the fact that theirs is arguably the most powerful, other Empires who still refuse to ally themselves with the Antarctic have been known to attack, and as much as Wilbur wants to stay in bed, to curse out their shitty King, to answer the call of sleep and settle back into his blankets, he knows he needs to get up.
“Get breakfast,” Jack mutters, face down on his futon, voice dreamy. “Pancakes. Or - waffles. Mm.”
“We don’t have enough money for fuel, let alone breakfast - you know that,” Wilbur retorts, but Jack’s already asleep. He shoots him an envious look, swings out of bed and pulls on his boots. Their ship is freezing at dawn; the only parking lot they can pay for their piece of shit vehicle to rest in while they sell their scavenged wares doesn’t heat the building. Wilbur lowers the grate and grabs his coat. Outside, a light frost has crept over the concrete, courtesy of the open building – whoever designed it decided it would be smart to opt out of walls in favour for “optimum landing and parking.” Yeah. Wilbur’d take a hard parallel park over hypothermia any day.
“You good, Soot?”
Wilbur looks over his shoulder. In the doorway of his prized possession, his first and only love, Dream stands, grin on his face, mug of something steaming in his hands. Wilbur swallows his emotion. Forces a smile. Be civil, Wil, he can hear Jack chastising. “Yeah. Just cold.”
Dream nods with an air of indifference that brings his blood to boiling point. Wilbur recalls how he and his crew had dominated sales last quarter, how he and Jack had been completely left in the dust, how they hadn’t had enough credits to feed themselves until Wilbur had swallowed his pride and traded his sleek pride and joy Chekhov for Dream’s old rattling ship. It had been a long quarter, if Wilbur’s putting it nicely, and now, as Dream leans against the doorway of Wilbur’s ship, of his own property, thicker coat on his shoulders and credits lining his pockets, Wilbur fights down the urge to wipe the smarmy smile from his stupid mask.
“Mm,” he hums. The ship in the lot beside him opens; everyone’s waking up for the announcement. Even here, hundreds of metres above the streets of the Empire, Wilbur can hear the faint hum of noise as the world wakes up. “You could always borrow one of my coats, y’know. Or – join my team and ditch Manifold. I’m sure your ship misses you, and we’re raking in the money, Soot. You know you need it.”
Wilbur blinks. Stares. Clenches and unclenches his fists and counts back from ten in his head. As much as he wants to pound the prick’s head in, Jack would never forgive him if he took a shot at Dream. (And – he’d never admit it, but Dream could probably take him. Definitely take him. Wilbur fitted his beloved Chekhov out with weaponry himself, and he doesn’t really plan on being on the receiving end of that.)
“Eat a dick, Dream,” he hisses, teeth clenched. “Don’t act so high and mighty when you’re in the same ramshackle parking lot we are.”
Dream huffs. It comes out amused rather than annoyed. Wilbur’s hand twitches for the familiar weight of his old key – the same one he can see dangling from around Dream’s neck. He’d give anything to be behind the controls again. To test out Chekhov’s gunfire on Dream’s mask. “Oh, come on, Soot. You know I’m leagues ahead of you – you won’t see me around here next quarter. I’ve got more clients than you can think of, Soot - don’t say something you’ll regret, or I might just have to snatch them up, too.”
Distantly, Wilbur hears the call of the horns again. Dream stares him down through the eyeholes in his mask. Wilbur stares back.
“Eat a dick, Dream,” he repeats. He has nothing else to say.
“Goodbye, Soot,” says Dream, and walks back through the doorway. Wilbur cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the sorely-missed leather upholstery, and then Chekhov’s grate closes with a click.
The horns ring out. Wilbur turns on his heel and leaves.
It’s too goddamn early.
“Empire,” reads the King’s Advisor or whoever representative it is today. His voice carries throughout the entire courtyard, amplified so everyone can hear it. The square is packed; Wilbur had had to push himself through elbows and knees and jutting limbs in order to get a good view of speaker projected on the thick walls separating the Empire from the Palace. Every time Wilbur sees it his heart jumps into his throat; the Palace is magnificent. Where the Empire is a patchwork of old and new technology, crumbling buildings and gleaming skyscrapers, highways and monorail tracks and parking lots and apartments and life, the Palace is – ethereal. In true style of the castles built eons ago in the Old World, the Palace is topped with towers, embellished with gold and turrets and glistening quartz. It’s beautiful. It’s stunning, and it’s –
Kind of a kick in the face. Wilbur knows a good chunk of the Empire’s population is struggling. He’s seen it firsthand. Wilbur can appreciate the Palace’s beauty, but as the Empire spins on its orbit and turns to face the nearby sun and the shining windows sparkle in the light of the new day, he feels his anger bubble up underneath his skin again. Wilbur’s out here struggling to scrounge up enough credits to put food on the table, to fill his shitty ship with petrol while his King sits behind ivory walls and doesn’t lift a finger.
“Empire,” the King’s Advisor repeats. His projected reflection shifts, and Wilbur rolls his eyes. “I stand before you today on the King’s behalf. I am to deliver a message.”
“Tell him to fuckin’ make it himself, then,” someone shouts, and the crowd murmurs. Wilbur hides his smile in the collar of his coat.
“I am to deliver a message,” the Advisor says again, looking down at the tablet in his hands. “’To the people of my land, I ask for your for help. Tomorrow afternoon, the Palace gates will open, and anyone with the capabilities I require for a quest of this magnitude will be invited in. I am calling upon all residents of the Empire, please – ‘“
Wilbur doesn’t even bother to hide his laugh. He shakes his head. I gave up an extra hour of sleep for this? he thinks, shouldering his way back through the crowd. Nobody gives him a second glance; half the people are already leaving. A mix of dejection and annoyance hangs in the air. Fucking tosspot. Piece of shit –
“ – citizens are chosen for the quest will be compensated heavily,’” the Advisor reads. Wilbur stops.
“You could do with the money,” Dream had said.
Chekhov, is all Wilbur thinks.
He turns back around, and listens.
“So?”
“So what?” Wilbur reaches across the table. Jack’s surprisingly good at cooking; he’s managed to turn a couple of limp vegetables and eggs Wilbur was a little scared of touching into an edible omelette. “Good food, Manifold.”
“Cheers,” says Jack. “Answer the fuckin’ question. What happened this morning?”
Wilbur spears a piece of egg. “Not much. Dream decided to be a little bitch, but I didn’t hit him. You should legally give me more food for that.”
“I gave you like, three quarters of the omelette. Shut the fuck up,” Jack quips. “I don’t give a shit about Dream. What happened with his Royal Highness?”
Wilbur huffs. “Nothing much. Sent his Advisor out to give us a message. Something about a quest.”
Jack laughs. “What is this, the 21st century? I used to think his obsession with the Old World was endearing. It’s – kind of annoying now.”
Wilbur nods. “Yeah. I was about to piss right off until he mentioned money.”
That gets Jack’s attention. His eyes go wide, egg slipping from the prongs of his fork. “Oh?”
“Oh indeed,” says Wilbur. “Listen, I was thinking – what if we signed up? We could – we could use the money. And - we could get Chekhov back.”
Jack pauses. He drops his fork and leans back in his chair, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I – yeah, but – what about the business, man?”
“What about it?”
Jack stares. “We can’t just leave it for dead, dude. If we go on this – quest, any shot we’ve got at actually making some money will fly out the window. We’ll be gone what, a couple of months, surely?”
Wilbur frowns. “I’ve no clue.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack says, “doesn’t matter, really. If we take a day off work, Dream’ll snag up all our business. You saw what he did with the Nox crew.”
Wilbur stares down at his plate. “Jack. This could be really good for us.”
Jack leans forward. He runs a hand over his hair – not that there’s much there. “I know. I just – someone’s gotta stay behind. It’s a good opportunity, though,” he adds, and Wilbur gets it now. He’s giving him permission to join the King’s shitty quest. Admitting it out loud would hurt a little too much – as shitty as the King seems to be, it’s still fucking cool.
Still, Wilbur has to ask. Jack’s his best friend – his only friend. Wilbur’s not about to leave him. “Are you sure?”
Jack shrugs. “We need the money,” is all he says. “Eat your fuckin’ omelette. I cooked that myself, I did.”
“Yes, Mani-mum,” says Wilbur, and eats his omelette like the very good person he is.
“Next,” says the woman, and Wilbur steps forward.
There’s - not as many people as he suspected lining up inside the Great Hall; when it’s gates had opened at dawn again this morning, he’d been the first outside, hanging back in the courtyard and waiting for someone else to show. A hundred, two hundred more had trickled in after, which, Wilbur thinks as he shuffles up to the line, isn’t much considering the Empire’s size. Still, he’s not complaining. The less people there are, the bigger chance he’s got at getting selected. At getting Chehkov. At making a life for himself - and Jack.
“Please remain still,” the lady instructs. Wilbur holds his arms out steady and moves his legs shoulder width apart. He cracks an eye open as the holographic scanner comes down and his details are updated to the Empire’s database. Registering is annoying. Wilbur’s not particularly used to it; the shittier end of the city can’t afford and don’t care for them, and - well. He doesn’t complain. He’s got no problem with the unregistered.
“Five-zero-four-six-nine,” she reads from whatever screen’s in front of her, and Wilbur nods. That’s his ID. The hologram dissipates, and Wilbur steps forward. “Wilbur Soot. Proceed to the Hall.”
“Thanks,” he says, stepping forward into the roped off queue-line. There’s about fifty-odd people in front of him - doctors, teachers, if he’s judging by their clothes. He spots a fellow scavenger, some bloke he’d met in the markets once or twice, and waves. He doesn’t wave back, and Wilbur doesn’t blame him; nobody’s here to make friends, to find companionship. The Advisor’s words - compensated heavily - are on everyone’s minds.
“Please proceed to the Great Hall,” one of the guards flanking the golden doors says, tension written into his face, weapon by his side. Wilbur eyes it warily; he’s clearly a member of the King’s Guards - the pretentious Royal Army, identifiable by their armoured bodysuits and complete lack of personality. There are a fair few stationed around the Empire and more across the galaxy. They keep the peace, or whatever. “The interview process will begin there.”
Ah, Wilbur thinks, as the crowd shuffles forward through the slowly opening doors. He hadn’t accounted for some sort of interview process - hadn’t accounted for anything, really.
The guards take a door handle each and pull the golden gates open the rest of the way - something Wilbur’s sure is just for show. Everyone goes quiet, conversation disappearing into the air. Wilbur takes a step forward through the archway, and -
“Holy shit,” he says, and he is not alone. Half of the group swears. Someone faints; dramatic, but -
The Hall is massive. A roof so big he almost can’t see the peak, great, jutting beams of actual wood embedded into the sides, gilded artificial foliage hanging from it like jungle vines in storybooks. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling, emeralds bigger than his hands swinging from the ends in the gentle sunlight. Wilbur’s got a right mind to scale the walls and tear down the gemstones for himself.
“Wouldn’t recommend that.”
He glances over his shoulder. Behind him, in front of the slow-closing doors and the two men that had marched them in here and the rest of his – fellow applicants? Participants? – is a guardsman, gun cocked under one arm, eyes narrowed, jaw set. Wilbur stares back.
“You touch anything here,” says the Guard, raising a two fingered hand to tap at his earpiece, “and the thirty-seven guardsman will have their guns locked and loaded on you before you can blink.”
Wilbur raises his hands, affronted. “Woah, horsey,” he grins, and bites down on his urge to laugh at the Guard’s face. “First of all, I don’t think you guys are supposed to be threatening us. Secondly, I didn’t mean to say that aloud – “
“I’m not threatenin’ you, I’m warning you,” he interjects. Under the tinted screen of his visor, Wilbur watches him raise an eyebrow. “I’m telling you to watch it. I won’t be askin’ twice.”
Wilbur’s tips twitch. “Cheers, bro. I appreciate the hostility. Really – welcoming, y’know?”
The doors open again, and another group shuffles in, larger than the last. When they close, the chandeliers dim. Twin velvet curtains at the opposite side of the room swing open. Wilbur’s a bit too bored of the opulence now. Antagonising is more fun.
Careful, says the little Jack Manifold in his brain. Shut it, he tells him. “So,” Wilbur voices. “You come here often?”
The Guard tilts his head. “Are – sorry, I thought the King asked for civilians, not the insane. How’d you get through registration?”
Wilbur barks a laugh. “Funny. Thing is, I don’t remember the King asking anything, actually – “
“Don’t remember what?”
The Guard stops. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur watches the rest of the guards react, watches them tilt their heads up, chins toward the ceiling, arms straight by their sides, weapons readied across their puffed chests. The Guard next to him doesn’t move from his position. Wilbur cocks his head.
“Advisor,” says the Guard. “Hello, sir.”
Wilbur whistles, and – winces. He probably shouldn’t’ve done that. The Advisor, to his credit, laughs. “Uh – sorry, I didn’t mean to – “
“It’s fine, mate,” he smiles. He’s dressed in the same pompous outfit the Advisor that spoke yesterday was wearing, except Wilbur doesn’t recognise his face; where yesterday’s was young, this man is older, face creased in – worry, or something. Wilbur shifts, uneasy. “You two are applying, then?”
“Oh, no,” says the Guard. “Just him.”
The Advisor blinks. “Oh, fu – uh. Sorry, mate. I’m a bit tired. All hands on deck.”
“This thing is really serious, then?” Wilbur asks, and before he can stop himself: “I’d assumed it was like – some storybook quest. Something really boring.”
“An opportunity for quick cash,” the Guard deadpans, voice flat. Wilbur shoots him a look. Thankfully, the Advisor doesn’t seem to catch it.
“Yeah, no,” he says. Whatever sparkle that’d been in his voice has vanished; he sounds sullen. Quiet. Something lodges deep in Wilbur’s chest. “It’s – uh. Serious. The King lost – something.”
“Oh,” says Wilbur. “And he needs the whole Empire to look for it?”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he flinches; that probably wasn’t the best thing to say to a representative of the King. Wilbur steadies himself, one hand coming up to rest over the breast pocket of his coat where he knows a switchblade is, just in case the Guard behind him decides his comment is worthy enough of capital punishment. “Yeah,” the Advisor murmurs. “He couldn’t find it himself, so.”
Wilbur nods. Across the room, two guards take the ends of the curtains and pull them back the rest of the way. There are twenty-something tables set up, all manned by men in green, white and gold; the King’s colours. “Interviews?” he questions. The Advisor nods, and smiles.
“This was lovely, but I better get going,” he says, extending a hand. “Uh – what was your name, sorry?”
“Wilbur,” answers Wilbur, stunned. He holds his own out, and the Advisor shakes it. “I – uh. I hope the interviews go alright, and – that you find what you’re looking for.”
The Advisor nods. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a lightness to his hunched shoulders that wasn’t there either. “Thank you,” he replies. “And – thank you, sir – “
“Technoblade,” says the Guard beside him. “Good luck.”
The Advisor shakes Technoblade’s hand, crosses his arms behind his back, and leaves, moving toward the tables.
“Well,” Wilbur hums. “It was nice meeting you, Technoblade.”
The Guard raises an eyebrow. “I can’t say the same. Good luck on making it through.”
Wilbur watches as the Advisor ducks behind one of the tables, doesn’t sit down or look at the people waiting, and leaves through a hidden door behind the curtains. His stomach sinks.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I think I’ll need it.”
“So,” says Jack, when Wilbur clambers through the ship doorway, a headache at his temples, “did you get it? Are you a space man, now? A King’s Guard, but quest edition?”
“Real life trading card me,” Wilbur says, stumbling toward his bed and nursing his forehead with two fingers. “Ugh, no. I’m pretty sure I fucked it up.”
There’s no response. Wilbur sneaks a glance through his splayed fingers and bites down on his lip; Jack’s got his own head in his hands, resting against the rear wall of the ship. “Fuck,” he says, after a moment. Wilbur lets him talk. “I - that was. I know - I know you said it was like, a chance that you’d get chosen, but I was really hoping.”
“I know.”
“We needed - need the money, Wil,” he whispers. “Fuck.”
“I know,” Wilbur repeats. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry, man.”
Jack nods. Drops his hand and pushes himself off the wall. The smile he puts on is so painfully forced - Wilbur’s known Jack too long for him to hide. He directs his gaze to the floor and stares at a particularly unappetising stain on the metal. “Ah well,” he says eventually, tone flat, “I guess we’ll just have to put in extra work.”
Wilbur manages a smile. “Yeah. Hey, tell you what - I’ll deal with Dulcie today for you. As compensation.”
That gets a laugh. Jack grabs his bag from the co-pilot’s seat, shoulders shaking. “You fuckin’ better. I went last week when you were dropping off the shit for the blacksmith - she was insane, man. Wouldn’t stop touching my hair.”
“What hair?” Wilbur grins, and stands, reaching for his own bag of scavenged wares. “Let’s go, Manibald.”
“Oi! Shut your face, Foreheadbur! I’m bald by choice!”
The streets of the Empire are bustling by the time they finish client house calls, arms full of items they’d collected or bargained for from their last trip into space. Over the years, Wilbur’s learned scavenger work is mainly comprised of two things: hunting down the items clients request, and selling the rest of the shit they find wherever they can. And, of course, putting on a brave face for customer service.
“Aww, Wil,” Jack’s laughing, rucksack swung over his shoulder, crate in arms, grin on his face, “Did you hear her? Wilbur, you’re so handsome, Wilbur, are you single? She was all over you - “
Wilbur shifts the box in his arms - top of the range visors and helmets he’d maybe stolen from the back of an auction house - and sticks his foot out into Jack’s path. He stumbles. “Shut it, Manifold. My good looks just got us a whole extra hundred credits.”
“Your good looks,” Jack harrumphs once he’s picked himself up from the concrete, “yeah right. Is there something wrong with your visor, Wil? Can you see alright?”
Wilbur throws his head back in a laugh. “I’ll have you know my eyesight is twenty-twenty. Perfect, just like my - “
He cuts off. Jack rounds the corner behind him and stops in his tracks, crate slamming into Wilbur’s back, but he doesn’t care. Jack steps around him. Wilbur tries to pick his open jaw from where it’s scraping at the ground.
“Oh, man,” says Jack, and - Wilbur couldn’t agree more. Where hundreds of individual stalls, tents and haphazardly set up displays used to be - where thousands of people used to stand and walk, arms flailing, yelling out prices and screaming at the top of their lungs, where the Market used to be, where the true heart of the Empire used to be is -
“Dream’s tent,” Jack mutters. “He’s - he’s done it. He’s taken over.”
Wilbur stares. He - he has no words. Dream’s taken over the Market, which is how they make half their fucking money, really. Dream’s taken over, and they’ve got nothing. No fighting chance.
Jack makes a disconcerted noise. “Fuck, Wil,” he says, and it comes out a little too much like a sob. Almost absent-mindedly, Wilbur moves the crate to rest on his hip and slings his free arm across Jack’s shoulders in a crappy attempt at providing some sort of comfort. “It’s - we just lost half our business. It’s last quarter all over again.”
Wilbur squeezes Jack’s shoulder, one-two. He doesn’t know if the movement is more grounding for his friend or for him, but -
He knows they’re done for. And he knows that he doesn’t go down without a fight.
“Wilbur,” Jack warns as Wilbur puts down his crate and shrugs off his bag, “Wil, whatever you’re planning on doing, I suggest don’t - “
“You can kill me later,” Wilbur promises, and takes off running.
There’s no stupid registration system at the gates. No dumb King’s Guards either; this place is Wilbur’s stoming ground. This is his and Jack’s place - his and hundreds of other scavengers' places. The Market isn’t Dream’s. It belongs to the Empire - belongs to the people. He’s not going to let Dream take it without putting up a fight.
The mother by the gate pushes the door open for him without a second glance. The kid in her arms gurgles, reaches out a slow hand after him, but Wilbur’s sprinting now. There’s a line outside the tent - a queue of angry people waving fists and demanding their rights back. Wilbur pushes through them - weaves through the limbs and elbows and knees just like he did in the courtyard, apologies spilling from his lips, and bursts through the canvas flaps.
The inside of the tent is - huge. There are individual stalls, all sleek and shining, unmanned, waiting. In the centre of the tent is a stage, and - Dream.
“Fucker,” Wilbur greets. Not his best of entries, but he’s angry. It can be excused. “What the hell are you doing?”
Dream turns his head. Seated behind him are three figures, two Wilbur recognises as his second in command, Sapnap, and pilot George. The third looks unfamiliar, but out of place - his suit is new. Wilbur glares at his tie. It’s probably worth more than his entire salary - his and Jack’s combined.
“Wilbur,” Dream’s mask smiles. “I was just talking about you - hey, man. Do you like what I’ve done with the place?”
Wilbur blinks. Takes a step. “What you’ve done with our market? You fucked it over, Dream. This was everyone’s - you just stole the lives of thousands of people.”
Dream laughs. Waves a hand. “Come up here, Soot. No, seriously - I’m not going to bite. This is Schlatt - President Schlatt to you.”
Wilbur climbs the steps to the stage, hesitant. “President Schlatt from the - Bellum kingdom?”
Schlatt grins, wide. “Yessir. I like this one, Dream. Are you keeping him?”
Dream’s mask moves from side to side. “Nah. I’ll let anyone rent out a stall - anyone but Soot. Oh, and Manifold. Not very nice to me, those two are.”
Schlatt shrugs. Wilbur glares, but peers down at the papers in George’s hands. They’re documents - detailing the purchase of property and the exchange of something - unregistered, asset, blonde, fifteen. He can’t make out anything else; George moves his hand to obscure the details, but he gets the picture; Dream’s done a deal with this President. Got him what he wanted, and the President’s bought him the Market in return. He clenches his hands. “What the fuck did you do, Dream?”
Dream shrugs. “I helped out Schlatt and got a favour in return - look, Soot, I get you’re mad - “
“I’m not mad, I’m fuckin’ pissed - “
“Pissed, then, I get it - but, dude, this place was going under. I saved it.”
Wilbur narrows his eyes. “We were doing fine. What, you’re gonna make people rent out tents now?”
Schlatt raises an eyebrow. Wilbur focuses on inhaling and exhaling; he doesn’t think attacking the President of a neighbouring Kingdom is a particularly smart idea. “It’s business, kid. No hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings?” Wilbur echoes. Fuck not attacking him, I’ll tear his face off. “People are going to die, Dream. Nobody can afford to rent out stalls - we can’t afford to eat half the time.”
“Get your King to help,” Schlatt says. He crosses his arms. There’s a smile on his face Wilbur desperately wants to wipe off; Schlatt knows their King is absent, knows their king won’t do shit.
“Fuck you,” Wilbur seethes. “You can’t do this.”
Dream tilts his head. “Sorry, Soot. You turned down my offer; I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Wilbur blinks. He can feel his hands shaking - adrenaline, not fear. Somewhere, deep in his mind - or maybe outside, Jack’s voice calls. Don’t hit him, you dickhead, he’s saying, but Wilbur’s tired of listening. Nothing can get worse, he thinks, and raises his right arm, curls his fingers, tenses his muscles, and swings.
There’s a shout. A thud. The metallic smell of blood, and then Dream’s on him and there’s a bang and he’s skidding across the floor, hands patting down his torso to try and find where the laser’s shot him. There’s no entry wound.
“Manifold,” he hears someone hiss. He blinks again. Tries to clear his mind. His hands are shaking, harder, and his headache’s back in full force. “Wh - you can’t bring King’s Guards in here. This is private property.”
“I think the Guards trump whatever power you have,” says his friend. From the doorway, Jack Manifold waves, a smile on his face. Technoblade is by his side, weapon in hand. There’s a rustle of movement, and then -
“I don’t care for your market,” says the King’s Advisor. “But I would advise you not to hurt my employee.”
Dream freezes. Jack does a little dance, excited, and -
Wilbur passes out.
Wilbur wakes to a hovering face.
“Hello,” says Jack Manifold, all teeth and grinning eyes. “Welcome to the land of the living, Soot.”
Wilbur groans. “Too early. Tell the King to piss off.”
Jack laughs. “I think you have a better chance at that than me,” he says, and Wilbur frowns. “Sit up, man - wait, Mister Guard person - can he sit up?”
“It’s just a light concussion,” says Technoblade. Wilbur scrambles into a sitting position, mind reeling. “I think he needs a good knock anyway.”
“Arse,” says Wilbur, rubbing his head. “Fuck. Balls.”
Jack’s eyes go wide. “Wil, I would - um. Maybe don’t swear right now?”
He blinks. Drops his hand. Across their ship - wait, ship? - the Advisor from the interviews - from the Markets - smiles, waving a hand. “Um. Hello?”
“Hello,” says Wilbur, and feels a little stupid. “I - what the fu - I mean, shit - uh. What - what’s going on?”
“You’re a mess,” Techno shakes his head. “Are you sure you want him?”
“I want you both,” the Advisor corrects. He turns to Wilbur’s futon, eyes softening. “I picked you two, even if Techno didn’t apply. I probably need a bodyguard, right? And you seem to know your way around the galaxy. Plus, Jack tells me you have a - certain charm with people.”
Wilbur raises his head. “Jack?”
“Mhm?”
“I’m going to execute you. Publicly.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, mate,” says the Advisor. He perches on the edge of Jack’s bed. “Uh - executions aside, I think we should talk about the quest.”
“Pog,” says Jack, and Wilbur resists the urge to punch him, too. “I’ll just wait outside, then?”
He frowns. “Wait, you’re not coming?”
Jack shakes his head. “Gotta run the business, eh? Gotta keep it afloat for when you come back.”
Jack doesn’t give him opportunity to answer or room to beg the Advisor to let him come with, please. He hops down from the edge of his makeshift bed and out the ship’s grate. Wilbur watches him go. “This is really happening, then?”
The Advisor bows his head. “We leave tomorrow.”
“And you’re coming?”
He hesitates. “I - the King trusts me. We’ll leave at dawn. The Guard - Techno’s working on finding a ship, and I’ve got supplies organised. It shouldn’t be too long of a trip, hopefully - “
“Wait, wait,” Wilbur shifts forward on his mattress, holding out a hand. “You - the King couldn’t find what he was looking for in - how long?”
The Advisor goes quiet. “Thirty years.”
“Thirty years, right - and you expect us to find it in a couple of weeks? Months?” Silence. Wilbur shakes his head. “This - “
“I’ll know them - it when I see it.”
Wilbur raises his head. Across the room, Techno’s eyes are wide, grip on his weapon slack; it tumbles from his hands and clatters on the metal floor of the ship. He doesn’t bother to pick it up. “Them?”
He watches the Advisor’s face flicker - pain, anger, grief. Something behind his eyes hardens. He stands.
“I - the King does not wish to disclose the information with you,” he murmurs. There’s - something in his voice Wilbur can’t quite place. “We leave tomorrow.”
Technoblade bends down and curls his hand around the handle of the gun. Wilbur watches, distant. Them. Them.
This just got a whole lot more serious.
Techno rises and follows the Advisor out the door. Them. Them. It’s people. It’s -
“Wait,” Wilbur calls, struggling to his feet. “You - you - “
He has so many questions. The Advisor turns. There is fire in his eyes
“Yes?”
He falters. Thinks. Not now.
“You said you needed a ship, right? I think - I think I can help.”
Techno raises an eyebrow. “No offence, Soot, but your ship is a dump.”
Wilbur grins. “Oh, no. I don’t mean this one.”