Work Text:
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A person with white eyes hidden behind sunglasses. They would like to join your revolution.
(They're more trouble than it's worth, Wilbur Soot. You funny, naive little boy.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A fellow-in-arms who helped build your walls and prepare you for war. Loyal to the cause.
(Protect what you have with everything you've got. There will be consequences for letting someone through.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Boom.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
The click of a button and the shifting of pistons behind walls. A sickening crack.
(Was it the crack of a bone under netherite wielded with lethal force? Or was it a musician's once unbroken soul?)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A king who now stands with your worst enemy. They watch your brother die and refuse to meet your eyes.
(For all your understanding of the human psyche, General, you are not very good at seeing remorse.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A broken election and an arrow through the heart. The king in the audience says nothing despite having the power to help.
(They have been bound by the puppeteer's strings, Mr. President. They have allied with your son and have offered you shelter but you do not see it, just as you have never truly seen your own child.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A dethroned king who wants to join your rebellion. Isn't this familiar? Does it matter, in the end?
(The former king wanted happiness. They just chose the worst way to go about getting it. You would know of employing terrible means to bring about an end, villain.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Boom.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A happy-go-lucky ghost who resembles a friend that burned himself inside out. He does not like you and looks all too disappointed when you reclaim your throne.
(The throne was yours since you doused it in your friends' blood, your majesty. You really shouldn't be surprised.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A ghost who screams and cries as the nation he created is torn to shreds. You did not fight for either side because you know the ghost is the nation itself: dead. Boom.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Rumours of a friend returned triumphant on a train from the dead. You don't know if you are brave enough to meet him.
(You have always been a coward, your majesty. Though that might not be a bad thing. Your president is not who you remember him to be.)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A dead man walking in your museum's hallowed halls. He leaves, and your apology remains untouched, unsaid and utterly useless.
…
(What a funny thing, tragedy.)