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“You’re gonna kill him on this stage! And make it hurt!”
Wilbur’s breath was stuck in his throat, skin prickling with the feeling of a thousand eyes on him, even if truly, everyone was looking at the scene on stage. Tommy’s hand had gripped his arm tight in blind panic, voice spilling out, still hushed but rising as fear flooded in. All Wilbur could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and Schlatt’s orders, the world moving in slow motion as reality proceeded.
His eyes traced over Techno’s form on the stage, tense lines forced into false calm as he stammered and stalled. He was trying, obfuscating and avoiding but Wilbur knew in a lightning strike of certainty that Technoblade was going to shoot. Tubbo was going to die, for a second time. Like Tommy. Like himself. More bloodshed in L’Manburg.
He was going to lose his life at the hands of the person Wilbur had called to the server, stupidly placed his trust in, had put his faith in because of some shared history despite the whispers of doubt. All while his paranoia poisoned his thoughts of Tubbo, bright Tubbo, loyal Tubbo, who put his heart and soul into this country. Tubbo, who was staring down the barrel of a rocket, tears shining in his wide eyes, all because he cared too much, loved too fiercely, and believed too strongly.
Tommy was starting to yell now, his voice breaching the overwhelming sound of Wilbur’s own breathing in his ears as the world seemed to come back up to speed. The crowd was reaching a fever pitch as well, as it became clear how little humor there was to be found. Not an ounce of joking in Schlatt’s smile or Quackity’s quiet concern and Tubbo’s frantic fear.
And in a moment, like struck with some divine intervention, his own burning bush or the parting of a sea, Wilbur knew what he had to do. He turned to Tommy, whose eyes were flicking back and forth between the scene below and Wilbur beside him, voice quieting as Wilbur’s eyes met his own.
He’d been avoiding eye contact for days, and not for the first time, he wondered what Tommy saw in his eyes. When he looked into Tommy’s he saw a wide pool of fear, undercut by the fire and steel always present in Tommy. In spite of himself, he almost smiled. It was nice to know Tommy would always be Tommy.
Let’s hope he stayed that way after whatever happened today.
“Tommy, I need you to listen to me,” He found his hand hovering over Tommy's own, from where he’d had an ironclad grip on Wilbur’s arm. His grip was tight, bordering on painful, but warm and grounding all the same. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone. Was it shaking hands with his foes as the sun rose on election day? Did he put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder as their fates were declared? Did he grip his hand as they ran, before an arrow found its home in his throat? Did they hug upon reunion, touch foreheads in mourning?
He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t the time to ponder anyway.
“Wil, Wil, wha-what do we do? Techno won’t kill Tubbo right? Wil?” His face was lined with panic, contorting between expressions as if a hopeful face could change reality. Wilbur’s heart cracked, just a little more. He’d thought it shattered in the darkness of Pogtopia, but the sheer fear and hope mixing in Tommy’s voice was enough to take the fragile pieces of glass in his chest and turn them back into grains of sand. How could he look him in the eyes and tell him he didn’t know? That Techno was more likely to shoot than not, and if by some miracle he didn’t, someone else in the crowd was even likelier to turn coat and take the shot themselves?
“Tommy, listen, please” He licked his lips, an anxious wave swelling up inside as Tommy fell silent, eyes searching for a truth or promise Wilbur couldn’t give. “I, honestly, I don’t know what Techno’s going to do. But it’ll be fine, okay, cause I’m gonna help, alright?” Concern and doubt roamed Tommy’s face as his eyes flicked over Wilbur before meeting back up with a locked gaze. He wondered what he was seeing; his pale skin and eye bags from long days and sleepless nights underground ? His thin limbs from all the times he’d shoved away Techno’s potatoes in the ravine, when the ache in his stomach felt deserved? His lack of armor, only an iron helmet with him that he hadn’t even donned, for protection? His unenchanted sword, no touch of magic anywhere and no bow, his favored weapon at his side.
At best he was going in unprepared. At worst he was a walking martyr, ready for the pyre.
It didn’t matter what happened to him. He hadn’t cared about that in weeks. What mattered right now was Tubbo, trapped and scared. What mattered was Techno on stage, on the cliff edge between choices, a hair trigger away from succumbing. What mattered was Tommy, holding his hand, strong in the face of danger. What mattered was Niki in the crowd, no fear as she shouted at Schlatt, Fundy a few seats off, head turned away from it all. What mattered was the TNT he’d placed, volatile and ready. He wanted to press it, damn the consequences, he’d said.
He was lying.
Not about pressing it, he still wanted to do that, he was sure after nights of wavering, of talking through plans in the dark, of shoveling sand and trading hands with Dream. But about the bloodshed? The lives taken if detonated now? He didn’t want that. It was easy to fall into the thoughts of spite, of retribution, but he didn’t want to hurt anyone really.
At least anyone but himself.
So the button wasn’t an option. Not now. His options were limited, truly he had no plan, but there was no time. All he had was himself, and he had a feeling there would be no time for honeyed words this time around, no matter how much Schlatt liked to talk.
It would be okay. Tubbo would be okay.
Wilbur had tried to draw fire during the Revolution away from his men, and in a way, he supposed this was no different. A different ammunition, a different shooter, and a different playing field. Same goal.
Keep his people safe.
“Wil, Wil! What are we gonna do? We need to help them, Schlatt’s fucking off the rails, and Tech-, he’s got Tubbo in a box! Wha-”
“Tommy, Tommy, calm. Do you have any ender pearls on you?” He tried to stop Tommy’s rambling the best he could. They didn’t have the time to panic. Not right now. So he schooled his own face into one of calm and collection, and tried to help Tommy find the same.
“Oh shit. Yeah, uh, let me see-” A glow around Tommy’s hand as he pulled a stack of three pearls from his Inventory. “Yeah, yeah I got three. Do you-, is that enough?”
“That's perfect Tommy.” He grabbed one from Tommy’s outstretched hand, “Now listen, I have a plan, and I need you for this one okay?” He looked Tommy straight in the eyes as he said this, he needed to know Tommy would listen. Tommy was so good, so loyal, that sometimes it blinded him to the best options.
Chess had never been Wilbur’s game of choice but he knew sometimes you had to sacrifice a pawn to survive. Tommy was the type to throw the board if he thought it would save his friends. It was something he admired about him, but he couldn’t have that right now. He needed Tommy to play the game right now, for everyone's sake. Even if it meant a piece off the board for good.
“I’m listening, I’m always listening, I’ve got this. What’s the plan, big man?”
“I’m going to ender-pearl down to the stage and throw Tubbo a pick. And I need you to watch for when Tubbo breaks free, and pearl down and get him. Okay? That's the most important part, you need to be quick. Don’t let them catch you. Get as far away as you can, go to Pogtopia, but make sure you aren’t being followed. Can you do that?”
Tommy bit his lip, looking pensive.
“I can do that, enderpearl, stage, Pogtopia, got it. But Wilbur, um…” Tommy shuddered, expression unreadable, “What are you going to do? You only have one pearl.”
Shit. Wilbur’s breath stuck as he shoved out a breathy chuckle. He was really hoping Tommy wouldn’t ask that. Mostly because Wilbur didn’t know himself. (Or was it that Wilbur did know, somewhere inside and was afraid to say it? Was afraid that Tommy would see the truth in his plan, the coward behind the brave face. Tommy had seen the worst of him but he didn’t want him to see this) So he smiled, warm and reassuring and everything he wasn’t feeling at this moment.
“Don’t worry about me Tommy, I’ve got a plan. Once Tubbo’s safe and the pressure’s off, Techno will help me, and no one here's a match for Technoblade, you know that!” He nudged Tommy’s shoulder trying to invoke some lightness, some relief, or some distraction. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Lies, lies, lies, no belief in his own words anywhere to be found. He knew Technoblade, and knew he was itching to shoot. He’d settle for anyone, as the time went on and the urge got stronger, be it friend, foe or civilian. And he’d always be more focused on fighting than saving Wilbur.
Nevertheless, Tommy seemed sated, pushing back against Wilbur’s hand with a scoff and teasing smile.
“Of course no one can beat Techno, dickhead. He’s The Blade. To even suggest otherwise would be blasphemy, big man.” Wilbur rolled his eyes, as Tommy sang the praises of the Blade, voice full of pride and assurance (and just a hint of fear as his gaze swam back to the stage)
“Alright then. It’s time.” Wilbur shuddered as he spoke, trying to exude a confidence he wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt. “Remember the plan?”
“Of course, of course, big man,” Tommy nodded. Wilbur gripped the pearl in his gloved hand as Tommy confirmed the plan, preparing for the throw and whatever would come after. “Just, one more thing.”
“What Tommy?”
“Promise me you’ll be safe.” Tommy’s voice was unflinching but something in his eyes shined childlike; hope in a good ending, belief in heroes, and trust in his brother.
Aiming his throw, Wilbur faltered. He didn't want his last words to Tommy to be a lie. The pearl slipped from his fingers, landing on the stage amidst rising shouts, but all Wilbur could see was the solemn look in his brother’s eyes. On his lips he could taste a promise he didn’t mean, and swallowed it back. No use in lying now. As his ender-pearl cracked on the stage floor and the rush of teleportation magic wrapped throughout his being, he looked at Tommy and simply smiled. He didn't need words to say goodbye.
The last thing he heard as his stomach dropped and magic rushed over him was Tommy’s calling behind him. He wanted so badly to call an assurance or give him a hug, but he did not have the time in any sense. And so, he resolutely did not look behind him as the void rushed up to meet him for a brief embrace before spitting him back out just as quickly, and his feet hit the wooden floor of the stage.
Shouts rose up from the crowd, discord turning to harmony for one moment of shared confusion. The world tilts as the teleportation magic leaves his system, but he keeps standing steady as the scene comes into focus. A thousand eyes (or as it felt at least) turned to him at once. He saw familiar faces looking back at him, with varying expressions.
Niki, who had been shouting, fighting, resisting was restrained by Ponk, fury making way for relief as she looked upon him on the stage. Eret, crown askew, glasses doing nothing to cover the unease and upset on her face. Purpled and Punz shoulder to shoulder, the two mercenaries stone-faced, though if he tried he could see a hint of fear in Purpled’s eyes. There was no fear in Punz’s, just a stony clarity as a hand rested on a hilt by his side. Fundy, at the edge of the crowd, face down. He wouldn’t look at him. Wilbur doesn’t quite know if it's better that way or not. There were more faces in the crowd, Sam looking distraught but not making a move, Bad who was looking up at where Tommy was , but there was nothing Wilbur could do about that now. Not when a familiar and sickening voice rose above the crowds.
“Wilbur Soot. I thought I told you to get the fuck off my stage.” A horned politician sneered, sardonic smirk on strained lips.
Cold sweat prickled his skin as red hot anger twisted his gut at those worlds. How dare he? How dare Schlatt call this his stage, (his country), when he’d never fought a second for it. No blood, sweat or tears of his own had seeped into this hallowed ground. They’d made this land, the five four of them, built this place with their bare hands, song and laughter serving as a secondary mortar for the foundation of their nation. Then he came in, all snide smiles and disarming foolishness until his hands came to grip the podium sides and shatter the fragile peace they’d sewn together. He’d thrown them out, ordered their deaths, hurt his friends, and now dared stand on stage above them all like a self-imposed messiah, ordering an execution as if he had ever earned the right to gamble with pieces so precious.
Fury laced up and down his veins but he swallowed his feelings and smiled instead. There were more important things to do at the moment than fall into anger’s pitfalls. So instead, he swiveled, planted firmly in the center of the stage, to face the audience, and did what he did best: put on a show.
“Hello, Schlatt. Resorting to killing teenagers now?” He smiled, letting his quirked lips and raised eyebrow show just how unimpressed he was at the newest move by his suited enemy. Feigning a casualness he hadn’t felt in weeks, and certainly didn’t feel now, he started to walk backwards, eyes trained on Schlatt, Techno and his damned rocket launcher haunting his periphery. He could hear Tubbo behind him, half-choked sobs and blabbering pleas dying out in wake of Wilbur’s appearance, though he could feel his eyes tracking him as he came closer. He was always a smart kid, no doubt trying to figure out whatever plan Wilbur had. He’d figure it out soon, and then all Wilbur had to do was hope it would be enough.
“Only when those teenagers pose a threat to my nation. You know how it is, Soot, one president to another. You have to do anything for your country. Or maybe you don’t know that, I mean you were never much of a president at all.” Schlatt gloated, voice whisky smooth and just as dangerous, stepping into their dance with ease, looking perfectly poised if it weren’t for the clenching on his jaw. Wilbur mimicked him, posture easing as he came to rest in front of Tubbo’s cage, nearly blocking him from view, body languid and relaxed as he leaned back, shooting Schlatt a cocky grin, as if he had all the time in the world, as if danger and death weren’t nipping at his heels, with many lives at stake.
“Oh please, Tubbo a threat? He’s a teenager Schlatt. One who prefers to spend his time with bees or lighting things on fire rather than performing governmental espionage. Don’t you think you sound just a bit paranoid?” He teased, lying through his teeth. Tubbo was whip-smart, just as sharp as he was kind, and Wilbur knew that. He was damn well sure Schlatt knew it too, if not in the same fond recollection as Wilbur’s, but this was an opportunity. Find a weak spot, and poke, poke, poke it, until Schlatt’s attention divided, his anger building as it seemed to do these days. Schlatt knew he was right, his own confidence in strong supply, but to sway the audience? To make them question him, to make his own cabinet whisper of foolishness? That was what Schlatt hated most. To be weak (or seen as such) was his weakness, ironically enough. When he got pushed, he pushed back. He got angry, he got reckless. He stayed dangerous, but in a way that didn’t account for every option, just in a way that tended to take others with him. And Wilbur knew that well. As long as it was him, and no one else, he’d made his peace with it.
As the crowd started to whisper at his words, as Schlatt started to fall into anger, as Quackity on the stage's other side paled further, his eyes darting from one person on the stage to the next. At one time Wilbur had respected Quackity, had seen him as a man much like himself, a wordsmith, a man motivated by glory and goals in equal measure, the brightness in his eyes not yet squashed (or slashed to death rather, in a blackstone room). Now he wasn’t quite sure how he felt.
It was easy to fall into hate when one cheers as you’re driven out of your home, as an arrow finds its way home in your throat, as your lives tick down from two to one in a haunting countdown. Easy to hate when someone stands arm in arm with your enemy, and does it with a smile, smug and sure. Quackity’s face wasn’t smug anymore, sheet white in a way he’d never seen it, looking sick to his core, his attempts to get Schlatt to reconsider (he should know that never works by now) having stalled at Wilbur’s grand entrance. Wilbur could see the shock in his eyes, betrayal (wasn’t that familiar) swimming right behind it, though towards Tubbo or Schlatt, Wilbur couldn’t say. And so it was hard to say he hated Quackity, in this moment, not as he could see the last bit of innocence in him prepare to die. It was bound to happen eventually. It always did. He spared a glance at him, just for a second, and their eyes met. Whatever Quackity sees in him must be profound, because he can’t seem to hold the gaze. No matter, not enough time anyway. With both of them distracted, Quackity with his turmoil and Schlatt’s eyes on the crowd, Wilbur made his move. With a twist of his fingers, he summoned a pickaxe to his hands and slipped it through the bars, all in one fluid motion. He heard a sharp intake behind him and felt the weight leave his hands but he didn’t dare look behind to make sure Tubbo had gotten it. Instead, he drew his eyes up, to gaze down the barrel of Techno’s rocket launcher, prepped and dangerous, just like its wielder. He wanted to say something, wanted to remove the tense lines in Techno’s posture, wanted to get the gun down and him off the stage, but for the first time since he touched down, he didn’t know what to say. What could he say to separate him from the other voices in his ear, another hand on his shoulder pushing him to action and closer to the cliff's edge. And in that moment he spent pondering, he made a dangerous mistake.
He forgot about Schlatt.
“Y’know what Loverboy? I think I’ve had enough of you. You’ve been a pain in my ass for a long time, flaunting your disregard for my rules around like you’re untouchable. Well Soot, I think we both know you’re not. But since you seem eager for a demonstration...How about we make it a double feature? Two executions for the price of one!”
The crowd's reaction was instantaneous. Two twin cries sounded, one from women in the crowd and one from a poorly hidden boy on a rooftop, though quickly masked by the uproar of the rest of the crowd. Shouts rose up, some angry and defiant, some scared and disbelieving, and a rare few were celebratory. Somehow, some were excited to watch a death live, to watch the life leave someone’s eyes, to see a heart on their wrist flicker out for good. Wilbur was no saint, but he couldn’t imagine getting joy from that visual. Maybe he was just a bit biased in that way, being the one with the (for now) figurative sword at his throat. A voice rose above the rest, soft but passionate.
“You can’t do this! You have no right, Schlatt,” Niki shouted, face red and voice incensed as she pushed through the crowd. Schlatt scoffed, the chuckle sliding into a cackle that had the man bending over, hands on his knees. Wilbur could see the crowd shuffle with unease at the noise, Niki’s face darkening further.
“No right? I think you’d find, Ms.Nihachu, I have the right to do whatever the fuck I want in MY COUNTRY!” His face dropped, all mirth gone in a flash as Niki stepped forward once more, clearly ready to shout again, “Somebody shut her up,” He ordered with a flick of his hand, and with a cut off cry from Niki, Ponk stepped forward and wrapped their hand over her mouth. Wilbur couldn’t see much of their face from here, but he could swear they looked remorseful, even as they tugged Niki back to her seat, though she didn’t go quietly, kicking and trying to pull away, brave as always in the face of injustice. Wilbur admired her so much.
It was a shame he’d never get to tell her so again.
“Now that that little...distraction is over, let's move on. Quackity!” Schlatt called, a glint of something in his eyes, as he gestured to his Vice. Quackity, for his part, just looks confused, eyes jumping to Schlatt, hands shaking by his side.
“Yes, Mr.President?” His voice shook alongside his hands.
“Take care of the disgraced former president, would you? He’s wasting my time and I’ve grown sick of it.”
Quackity stood stock still, looking as if all remaining blood had drained down towards his boots, his skin gone pale. He didn’t say a word, looking as if he was frozen by the weight of the choice laid in front of him.
Being asked to spill blood for the first time must be hard. If it wasn’t his head on the line he might pity him, to experience one of life’s major choices on a literal stage. The seconds passed, one, two, three, the world holding its collective breath as Quackity stood still, stood silent. The atmosphere was stifling as if all the oxygen in the pavilion had died in preparation for the deaths to come.
One breath in.
One breath out.
A glare from Schlatt to Quackity, a shake of the head so slight it wasn’t much more than a tremble from Quackity, a sigh from Schlatt, a flinch from Quackity.
The moment passed.
“Alright, since it seems no one in the cabinet wants to do THEIR FUCKING JOBS, I’ll need a bit of audience participation here. Who wants a crack at our dear Mr.Soot here?” The already quiet crowd grows utterly silent, like even breathing would break something unfixable. No one moves, no one dares to, too afraid to be called forth to dole out some form of assumed justice. Schlatt huffs, foot tapping as his minuscule well of patience ran dry. With a flick of the wrist, he rolls the dice and decides someone's fate, his finger pointing at a blond in a white hoodie, gold pendant around his neck gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“You, Punz isn’t it? You want a job?” His tone was flat, almost falsely light, as if any answer would be taken well, when everyone present knew the truth. An undercurrent of danger laced the whole situation, and even though it was laughable to think of Schlatt defeating Punz in any sort of combat, no one could ignore the two men at his mercy on this stage, and the man he’d gotten to aim a rocket launcher at a teenager with just a few words. And Punz was a mercenary, not a person with many morals in any sense, so the push didn’t need to come to shove with him. All eyes come off the stage for a single moment to focus on Punz.
“How much will you pay?” And at those words, any hope Wilbur had finally died, an ember stomped out without a single spark of mercy. Schlatt smiled, the crowd shivered with anticipation and Punz pushed their way to the stage. Schlatt let out a cackle, head falling back with all the mirthless joy of a king ordering an execution with his own head posed over the basket.
“Finally a man willing to do his job. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you plenty,” with this he flipped a coin, gold and engraved with an S, to Punz, “There’s more where that comes from when the job is done, I can assure you that.” And as Punz grasped the coin from the air with swift fingers and a nod, Wilbur knew his fate was sealed.
He’d died at Punz’s hands twice before. There was no doubt in Wilbur's mind that Punz knew this was his last chance, his last life. He'd taken the first two himself, sword and bow, flame licking up the blade or arrow tip and all-consuming Maybe this time he'd use an axe, round out the set.
The first time, he'd called it Justice, engraved in the blade. The second was a message by someone else's hands, the weapon named simply, Looks. He wondered if this one had a name, something silly or throughout or meaningful. It didn't very much matter, he'd never get to know.
No matter what weapon it was, they both knew there would be no mercy for a final life. Punz was not cruel, he'd make it quick but he would not spare him. Not with a coin pocketed and determination in his eyes. He was going to kill him. He was going to die. Immovable object against the very stoppable force that was his life.
For the first time in a very long time, Wilbur thought he might fear death.
For weeks, months (maybe longer, his brain whispered, but he didn’t want to think about that) he’d looked to death as a friend or a last chapter for his tale or a welcome rest to end this never-ending fatigue. He’d wanted it, welcomed it, opened the door and called into the night for its visit. And now, staring it down in the form of ice blond hair and blue eyes and a loaded crossbow, with a dear friend behind him facing a similar fate if this plan failed, he had the sudden realization: he didn’t want to die. He wanted to pull away, to kick and scream, to fight at the unfairness of it all.
How tragic, how terrible, to realize you wanted to live as death finally answered back.
Fitting for life’s cruelest twists to come at the end.
The cocking of the crossbow, its click, sent trembles down his frame. Normally he’d be worried about his appearance, or about perception (it’s oh-so-important for a politician you see) but there’s no point in worrying about someone's perception of you when you’ll be dead by the time the hour is up.
He spared a glance beyond the bolt, to the crowd.
To Niki, eyes glossy with rage and desperation, legs kicking as she struggled in Ponk’s arms, her mouth covered, silencing the shouts he knew she was burning up with. He missed her. He never got to take her to Pogtopia. He ached at all the missed opportunities he’d never rectify.
To Eret, the traitor, the catalyst. They looked horrified, as if not ready to watch a seventh death, as if distraught at the concept of something they’d so easily orchestrated. Still, facing death for the third time, the rage he’d felt towards Eret seemed to have ebbed a bit, as if his body had already stopped fueling his fire in preparation for the end.
To Fundy, his boy, his champion, half in the crowd and half on stage, so unsure of where he belonged. The last time they spoke, he’d denounced him, called him nothing to him at all, and something in him had broken. He couldn’t say it mended any with the horrified look on his son’s face. He didn’t want his boy to be sad, or to grieve. No amount of tears in his eyes could heal anything at all.
To Tommy, on the rooftop, shouting and shouting, all pretense of secrecy gone in a blaze of anger and righteous sorrow. A pearl gripped in his hand, not yet thrown, still wait, wait, waiting for the plan. He ached with pride at the sight, so smart, so brave he was.
So many things he wanted to say to him, to all of them. Still a poet at the end of it all, after all.
Another noise, filtered into his brain, interrupting his internal soliloquy. The faint sound of a block breaking, a pickaxe against concrete, a boy in a box breaking free.
And if he could hear it that meant…
“What the fuck is he doing? Who let him have a pickaxe? Goddamnitt, Punz let's hurry it up, Techno do not let him escape.”
Shit. No, no, no, no. He’d failed, risked everything for nothing. He was going to die here onstage and Tubbo would too, despite everything he’d tried to do.
And who knows what would happen afterward, to his friends, his family in the crowd. Niki in the enemy's hands, Tommy on the rooftop, and Fundy caught in the middle. Would they escape, all together, flee back to the darkness of Pogtopia, waiting for two respawns, one of which would never come? Would they be lost to an egocentric tyrant's power trip? Would they face the end of a blade or a bolt in a matter of moments too?
“Please,” he found himself muttering, voice growing louder as his eyes flit from Punz’s firm posture to Schlatt’s unforgiving form, knowing it was pointless and committing to a futile action all the same, resigned to the fact it was all he could do, “Don’t kill him. Don’t hurt them. Please—”
“Resorting to pleading Soot? As pleasing as it is to see you grovel, I’m tired and want a drink so, Punz and The Blade? Get it done.”
And there was no more time for words.
Not with a crossbow bolt in his heart. Not with a firework loaded and a trigger pressed.
So he forced out one last word, a plea, as his eyes focused on his old friend, his ally, Technoblade.
“Please…”
And as the world faded from view, a merciful black ebbing his vision, he heard this instead:
“I’m sorry Tubbo. I’ll make this as painless and colorful as possible.”
And as he died, Wilbur Soot knew one thing:
He’d failed.
-----
A little ways away, both in space and time, a group gathered around a bed, steadfast despite their groups fracturing, waiting for what they knew was coming.
And they staunchly ignored the other empty bed in the corner, which was supposed to hold what was never coming back again.
And in another place, on a bloodstained stage, in the shell of a city called Manburg, still scattered with crumbled concrete and gunpowder, a figure flickered to life, or some slightly translucent imitation of it, hovering over a still and cooling form on the wood below.