Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a no-bones Monday, which was perhaps his first warning that the day was not going to go well. He spilled his coffee on his favorite yellow sweater, his beanie flew off his head thanks to the terrible wind into a disgusting puddle in the New York City streets, and the loose sheets of music from his most recent muse slipped out of his folder and onto the floor. He was pretty sure that he just lost his bridge, but he hasn’t dared to check yet. Self-care, everyone. At least he made it to his appointment on time. He forgot his umbrella in his rush, though. Can’t win at everything.

Even better: upon opening his phone in the subway, a really short and honestly rude email awaited him. The news? His album had basically been called a piece of worthless trash and he should find a producer more delusional to help him with it. That was real nice. At least this guy was forward with it. He hated people who couldn’t

“Give it to me straight, doc,” he grunted after four painful minutes of the doctor beating around a metaphorical bush. He desperately wanted to drop by the cafe to get an eclair to soothe the way this day has rubbed his fur the wrong way, but at this rate, he won’t make it. This meeting probably was for nothing anyway, it’s not his fault that these appointments were made mandatory by his therapist because—

“Mr. Soot, I’m very sorry to say that we couldn’t find the X-gene.”

And that was fine because it has to be. Statistically, the world had been on his side. Unironically, he was wholly unsurprised because life loved to give him curveballs. Let’s check it: an orphan from birth, a failed musician, and now powerless. Ninety-five percent of the world had some type of power, officially called a Gift from the glorious government, usually something small like the ability to light a cigarette without a lighter or the ability to flip a light switch from the other side of the room.

Gifted folks existed on a scale, the classic one to ten. Ten meant that you were a celebrity that could lowkey destroy a country if you wanted. A one meant you were bullied in school. A Zero meant, well, it meant that you were someone like Wilbur: a mega-loser. Mega-duper-loser. He felt like getting a tattoo of that. Right next to the guitar pick on his left ankle.

That would be pretty fitting.

Apparently, his self-loathing was too loud because all of a sudden there were pamphlets in his hands and he must’ve been unconsciously nodding politely along with the doctor’s sympathetic speech (who was a Six, had a PhD, and probably a wonderful family based on the photo on his desk and the ring on his finger). “And I know that this news must come as a surprise, after all, you still had time to manifest one—“

“Thanks, doc, it’s fine.” And then Wilbur was standing up abruptly, glad to be rid of the uncomfortable plastic chair, smiling so thinly that it stung, giving the white coat a small nod of appreciation that he didn’t feel before quickly taking his leave. He was upset, not an impolite heathen. He could exit with his head held high. He even offered a polite ‘have a good day’ to the pretty receptionist who definitely deserved better than that job.

“Excuse me, sir, you forgot your bag--”

And see, being nice to people totally and always paid off. Wilbur spun on a heel, beaming brightly and rushing over to the waiting seats. The entire facility was way too bougie for his tastes: high skylights that show the cloudy skies of foreboding rain, strange glass sculptures that were supposed to be cool to look at but were just plain weird, and don’t even get him started on the strange reflective chairs.

There were a few other people’s belongings by the chairs because personal effects aren’t allowed in with the doctor, but he was quick to grab his leather messenger bag and dip.

Cold winter New York City air bit his cheeks as he exhaled, bringing his cupped palms up to his mouth to try and warm them, to little avail. In about a week, he’ll have an official medical card in his mail that he’ll put in his wallet that’ll indicate that he is a Zero. It’ll make passing security checks in the airport easier, at least. He won’t have to wear power suppressors at popular events. Maybe it’s for the better.

Maybe he was just coping.

Maybe he was too self-aware. He was definitely going to be late if he didn't get his head out of his ass.

Wilbur turned on his heel, swiftly walking towards the cafe. It was a cute bakery in a nice hole-in-the-wall location, the Sunshine Bakery run by a kind girl named Niki. She was a registered Four and she’s

“the best person ever,” he groaned around a still-oven warm croissant, wanting to simultaneously punch the air and cry as the crispy flakes of pastry cling to his chin. “Honestly, you have no idea how badly I needed this.”

Niki giggled, crossing her legs as she leaned back in the seat. The overall aesthetic of the place matched her energy flawlessly-- bright hand-painted floral designs decorate the walls and the lighting is vintage but pleasant, a sharp contrast to the pouring rain outside. He once wrote a song for her-- just a cute little doodle about her blonde hair and the blonde pastries, but he had never shown her. It was stupid, anyway. Stupid thoughts. Just enjoy the croissant in peace.

“New bag?”

“Huh?”

Wilbur glanced up from his croissant, mind already whirling with ways he could improve Niki’s song. What rhymes with a breakfast sandwich, anyway? “Nope, same old.” He patted the messenger bag next to him. Old reliable, just another gain from a thrift shop. “Why?”

There was something in his friend’s eyes that struck a wrong chord in him, because he was opening his mouth almost immediately but she shook her head, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “No, no, nothing. It just looks a lot like one of my friend’s bags.”

“Yeah, well, brown leather messenger bags are hip.”

“Nobody uses that word, Wilbur.”

“I do.” And the banter was nice-- distracting in just the right ways, but becoming self-aware that the banter was actively making him feel better reminded him of what he was distracting himself from, which was why Wilbur couldn’t have nice things. His mood soured almost instantly at the realization.

“Did anything in particular happen recently?” Niki asked, all too perceptive as bright eyes focused on the bags under his eyes. She slid another pastry over to him, an eclair this time, drizzled in chocolate syrup and dusted artfully with sugar, to bribe him.

Wilbur wasn’t the type to turn down that sort of trade, especially since this food was shaping up to be his dinner because he can’t remember if he has any ramen left in the cabinet. “Went to the doc,” he replied after swallowing down a cream-filled bite of the french dessert. “Said I was a Zero,” was quickly added before she could ask.

“Oh, Wilbur,”

And that tone of voice made him want to excuse himself to the bathroom and to climb out the window. It was just Niki and she was the sweetest thing ever, but he can’t stand it. He supposed he’ll have to get used to it.

“Wil, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, dark curls flopping in his gaze before he brushed them back. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s just genetics, besides, the world wouldn’t be able to handle me with a Gift,” Wilbur tried to joke instead, pretending to flex. His arms have the strength of dry noodles, but it was nice to pretend.

Niki wasn’t fooled by his bravado. “And the record deal?”

Something sharp and bitter rose in the back of his throat that felt suspiciously like a lump but he managed to swallow it back with the help of sugar. “Another no-go. It’s alright, it’s a bad album anyways. You know how it is for us musicians in New York, never easy.”

He should actually move. This city is too freakin’ expensive, and he was poor. He was really poor. Wilbur does his best not to think about it.

“Don’t say that, they’re good songs! If you would send me a digital copy of it, I could play it at the cafe and try to spread it around. Post it on Insta or something--”

“What, and bring down your cafe’s rep by promoting some shitty indie artist?” Wilbur cuts in, not unkindly, but bluntly. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and his tone made this clear. She subsided, letting out a heavy sigh that is honestly a fat

“mood.”

“Wilbur.”

“Niki.”

“I’m just worried about you.”

He hesitated, because the concern was terribly and delightfully genuine, and he felt his heart twitch in guilt because once again, Wilbur felt like he was taking advantage of her friendship. According to his calculations, he has eaten at least two hundred dollars of free food at this cafe, all in the name ‘friends taking care of friends.’ While he wasn’t above being a charity case, it still sucked, even more so when he couldn’t say the right things to reassure her that his life doesn’t suck.

Spoiler alert: it did.

“I know, Niks, I know.” He reached forward, taking her hand. “I’m alright, though, okay? I promise. If anything ever comes up, I have your number on speed dial.”

She met his gaze, and he held it boldly, praying that she’ll accept his words at face value. The wonderful lady must find something, because she squeezed his hands, bringing them up to her cheek. Her cheek was warm. “Just remember that you don’t have to suffer alone.”

He nodded. “I will.”

He actually doesn’t remember

how he got here. Wilbur’s lived in New York City for about three years now, which to be fair, isn’t that long especially when he used to just be a social recluse and make music on his computer. For a long time, his only jaunts were to the bank, the doctor, the convenience store, and Niki’s bakery which back then had had a more premier location.

Money was always hard to come by, so a few months ago, Niki had to move to a smaller and more distant shop. It was less popular but definitely more manageable. Unfortunately, this meant that Wilbur wasn’t as familiar with this area and just making it to the subway station was a whole job in itself.

Especially since he had been stuck in the back alleys for three turns too long. Wilbur glanced around, squinting at a garbage can that he swore he had seen before. Then again, most trash cans looked the same, but--

“Alright, come out!”

He spun around. Nothing. Just an empty alleyway with a fire escape way too high to reach and no visible doors. “Soot, you’re going crazy,” he muttered, annoyed to himself. What was this supposed to be, a movie?

But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that

something was wrong. Wilbur had been walking for a painful seven minutes according to his wristwatch, and somebody was definitely messing with him. As if playing with him even more, the alleyways had become even blander. No more trash cans, no more fire escapes, just plain and nasty brick walls and the rain falling overhead. He was soaked to his bone, his thrifted trench coat not exactly the most waterproof piece of clothing to exist.

Speaking of which, he should check to see if his sheet music was holding up inside his poor messenger bag. Wilbur leaned over so he could create a type of barrier from the rain, flipping open the bag which was strange because his bag definitely had an old belt buckle that he had sown on himself, not a fancy looking golden clasp and his bag definitely had his stuff, not a record disc?

Wilbur’s eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up as he lifted up the disc out of the bag. It was plain black, and if he wasn’t so familiar with them, then he would have thought it was just another unmarked disc from a record store. Sure, they weren’t common nowadays, but they weren’t exactly a rarity.

But this disc was entirely smooth. The soft bumps that would make music appear were completely absent, and as he delicately ran a hand over the disc, he could’ve sworn that it was buzzing and warm to touch. There was a simple purple and white striped design in the middle which told him absolutely nothing about what it could hold.

“What the--”

“It appears you have something of mine.”

Oh, so now Wilbur gets to spin around and see the person that had apparently cast him into some strange dimension of endless alleyways. He spun around, wholly unprepared for the lime green hoodie that suddenly appeared in his face as he stumbled back a few steps, only for his back to hit an alleyway that definitely hadn’t been there before.

If he was right, then he was in deep shit because this person was definitely at least an 8 to do this level of reality manipulation. Or maybe mind control? Or, well, it could be just about anything. Either way, he was deeply fucked.

Well, whatever. This wasn’t his business. Wilbur held out the disc, watching as the rain seemed to slide down around some invisible barrier. His fingers remained dry as he held onto it, even as his brown sleeve turned black with wetness. The single alleyway light flickered as the masked man regarded him.

His mugger, for lack of a better word, wore a lime green hoodie although a black undershirt peeked out beneath it, scarred fingers peeking out from fingerless gloves. They wore dark black pants and equally green boots which would’ve been hilarious if not for the dangerous metal plating present on them, but what was most disturbing was the white mask with a simple smiley face drawn upon it. The hood was up, masking any other noticeable features, and Wilbur couldn’t help but feel like he was facing down some sort of Creepypasta.

Slenderman, is that you?

It was not the time for cursed Tumblr thoughts.

“Here, apologies. I didn’t realize I even had it-- I think I took the wrong bag at an establishment earlier,” Wilbur said diplomatically because being polite always worked and he didn’t have any attachment to the strange record disc, even if his curiosity itched at thought of putting it on his vintage player at home.

The figure reached out for the disc. “That’s funny,” they said (because the voice sounded masculine and that was either one deep-voiced chick or a dude, but it’s probably a dude so there), and Wilbur doesn’t have time to ask the asshole for their pronouns before one hand is on the disc and the other is suddenly on Wilbur’s wrist, a foot hooking around his leg and knocking him off balance so that he can get shoved against the wall, chin meeting brick roughly as his arm is wrenched high above his back.

“Woah, woah, easy!” Wilbur squeaked, his voice suddenly high-pitched with pain as he went up on his tiptoes to avoid the sudden and sharp pain in his shoulder because if this guy pulls anymore, then he’s going to have something dislocated or worse. “You can have the stupid thing, I told you that it was an accident!”

“I see that the son of the Empire is just a spineless coward,” the man hissed in his ear. It vaguely reminded Wilbur of Medusa. Wilbur definitely wasn’t Perseus in this equation: he was some poor sod that got turned stone forever by being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the guy actually had snakes for hair? That would explain the hood, at least. And Wilbur wasn’t the son of anything but depression. “Tell me. Where were you taking this?”

“I thought I was taking my bag to my apartment. In said-bag is supposed to have sheet music, my really old Dell laptop that sometimes doesn’t turn on, and--” and before Wilbur could finish his faithful recitation of his handy-dandy old bag's contents, the man was spinning him around and punching him so hard in the face that the world went black for a hot second.

He blinked open his eyes to the dirty alleyway floor, his jaw pounding a new beat that he swore he could rap to and strange stars dancing in his skull. His glasses had been knocked off his face and lay on the ground a few feet away. He hoped they weren’t broken. There was blood on his lips, in his mouth, and he wasn’t sure if it was a bitten tongue, a chipped tooth, or a split lip. Or maybe it was something else.

He doesn’t even have a second to contemplate his potential head damage before a boot is placed on his back and the voice is back as the guy leaned down, right behind him. He was crouching over him. If not for the mask, Wilbur would have felt his breath on his neck.

Personal space, apparently not taught in elementary schools anymore.

“So not a coward, just stupid. They gave it to you, what even are you, a Two? What a joke.” One moment Wilbur was wondering if he could still talk his way out of this predicament, and the next a boot was threateningly over his left hand.

Hysteria won out. “Not the left-hand dude, and I still have no idea who you’re talking about. You can have the disc!” Wilbur wondered if he was going to die.

“I want more, and you’re going to tell me.” The shoe politely shifted off his left hand, his playing hand and dominant one, before slamming down onto his right one. Wilbur had broken his arm once-- falling out of a tree in childhood because he was terribly unruly and equally unathletic despite his grandiose dream, and had thus sworn to only write songs about exercise rather than actually doing it.

See, the thing was that his brain was kind of small. There were maybe two brain cells at max that bounced around up there, occasionally pinging out some winning chords or a few lyrics or the calculation for how much tip he owed Niki for a meal. They were really too stupid to comprehend the level of pain he was in or the amount of panic, but they did their best.

The panic thick in his chest and the horrible fire that was something he used to call his hand was a feeling he would never forget. His first introduction to true helplessness. A lesson of pain. A lesson in pain. He wondered if his middle finger was broken.

Wilbur had no idea what the damage actually was, only that his hand was now Not Correct. It reminded him of that one Deadpool 2 scene, the one where the guy is threatened with torture and promptly gives up everything about his friends to avoid any of the drama.

Wilbur wanted to be that guy, but this lime green hoodie bitch didn’t believe him. He screamed again as the guy ground his boot into the ruins of his hand, writhing under the pressure of the masked man’s weight and groaning as he swore he could hear the shattered bones in his appendage grind together.

Definitely high tier. People with the X-gene have enhanced bodies on top of their unique ones. Wilbur can’t imagine a normal person breaking his hand with one stomp. Wilbur actually couldn’t imagine the fact that his hand was broken at all, but life found its way to do the unexpected.

“Please,” Wilbur begged because he didn’t want to die over some stupid misunderstanding. The tears streaming down his face made him look all the more pathetic, but he could care less. He wasn’t brave. He wasn’t a hero. “I don’t know anything about the disc. My name is Wilbur Soot, I’m just a really sucky musician and I accidentally took the wrong bag.”

“Okay then, Wilbur Soot,” the voice replied in a tone that made Wilbur’s heart sink. That was the tone of somebody not believing him. That was the tone of mocking amusement. “This is what’s going to happen. Anyone important enough to carry Mellohi must be pretty important to the Family,” and Wilbur could definitely hear the capital letters in his words, “and that means that they’re going to miss you.”

Nobody was going to miss Wilbur except Niki and his landlord, and one of them was just a baker and the other had wanted him gone for the past three months. Maybe that one stray cat he had been feeding with scraps outside of the library. He should’ve named her.

“I left the fridge door open,” was what came out instead of literally anything else. He blamed his concussion. “Is your refrigerator running? ‘cause you better go catch it.”

“Oh, a jokester. This’ll be fun.”

“You think I’m funny?”

“It’ll be funny when you scream.” And Wilbur really did have another quip lined up to that one, like maybe a safeword joke or something about clowns, but the coping via humor method was abruptly shut down as a wet cloth that was definitely not damp from the rain was shoved over his face.

Now, the thing about chloroform was that it wasn’t super fast-acting. Wilbur didn’t entertain any ideas about holding his breath, but the drug smelled terrible and made his head feel even worse than it already did. After a few moments way too long then he could really bear, not that he could do anything about it, his limbs began to feel more floppy.

As the world went dark, Wilbur could dimly make out scarred fingers picking up his glasses and a comment not for him to hear. “Wilbur Soot? That’s the best he could come up with? And since when did Tommy wear glasses?”

If this Tommy character was the person with Wilbur’s bag, then he prayed that he didn’t read the sheet music inside. It was really bad. Not like normal bad, but really tragically bad. Like tone-deaf rhino-on-a-piano bad. Not quite as bad as being kidnapped for torture, though.

Pretty close, though. Pretty damn close.

Chapter Text

It was three hours, forty-three minutes, and two seconds before someone came to talk to him. Wilbur was fighting the urge to yawn-- the ants had stopped crawling under his skin about seven minutes into waking up in a weird dingy basement dungeon. His hands were handcuffed behind a metal chair that was bolted into the concrete floor that was just dirty enough that Wilbur suspected that somebody had specifically left it that way.

Good job, janitorial crew, or weird serial killer person. Nice, murder-y vibes.

Things weren’t all bad: Wilbur had been healed somehow. He wasn’t sure why the weird kidnappers had done it, but his hand felt normal and when he moved his jaw, there wasn’t the ache that should’ve been there. It didn’t bode well for the future, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The funniest part of this entire thing was the inhibiting collar around his neck. Part of him was flattered, and the other roiled in denial that he was indeed powerless. This was like a scene out of a shitty HBO series that has a few great opening seasons and then turns into trash a few years later, cough, not that Wilbur watches much media anymore. Part of being poor means not being able to afford subscriptions, but hey, Brazilian bootlegging can only get one so far.

He tilts his head back, ignoring the grind of the collar against the edge of the chair, staring up at the cobweb-infested ceiling. In grade school, Wilbur had known a kid who could talk to foxes. He had been a few classes below him, but Wilbur had enjoyed hanging out with him. Too bad he couldn’t talk to spiders.

That would have been sick.

There was a tune in the back of his head. Spiders in the ceiling, he mused, and what rhymes with ceiling? Spiders in the ceiling, crawling all over my feelings, ah, what was he, some weird pop artist? His fingers itched for a notepad to scribble these thoughts down on. Anything would be good-- even a bit of napkin and a pen.

Spiders in the ceiling,
they’re in the walls,
concealing what they’re feeling

The door swung open before Wilbur could finish the thought, his chin dropping back towards his chest and his eyes instinctively closed with a flinch as a bright overhead light clicked on. Because of course they had the interrogation lighting. When he was finally able to pry his eyes open, he was already face-to-face with the strange masked figure that had assaulted him in the alley, or whatever the alley had become. A pocket dimension or something? Wilbur wasn’t entirely sure.

“Hello Wilbur,” the masked figure greeted, and Wilbur couldn’t feel his breath on his face even though they were that close. “How are you feeling?”

Wilbur actually felt fine, but he was generally unhappy with the whole kidnapping thing, and staring at this guy made his hands and arms tingle with phantom pain, so he frowned and turned away instead of answering.

“I’ll be polite and apologize. We made a mistake, and I acted hastily. It would appear as though you were right-- this is a large misunderstanding.”

And there was nothing that felt better than the vindication of being right. “I told you so,” Wilbur muttered, trying to keep a note of petulance out of his voice and failing, “I don’t know why that disc is so important but I don’t want anything to do with it. Can I go now?”

Not that there was much to go back to.

“My name is Dream,” Dream continued as if he hadn’t heard Wilbur. He was dressed differently-- simple jeans, a dark green hoodie, and dark tennis shoes. This guy really liked green. Somehow the casual clothes didn’t make him any less intimidating. “I’m afraid we can’t let you go. While you definitely aren’t the intended target, you still do runs for the Antarctic Empire and besides that,” Dream paused, regarding Wilbur as if he was an object of study, “Mellohi liked you.”

“I don’t know any Antarctic Empire.”

The man stood up, turning away from Wilbur and walking behind him. There was an ominous clink of metal on metal, and the sound sent chills down his spine. “So you claim. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

“Wait!” Wilbur jostled his chains behind him. “I do know something, you’re right.”

Dream paused. The room went still as if holding its breath.

“For a price.”

“You’re in no state to make demands.”

“I’ll tell you everything I know for two years worth of Netflix subscription.” Wilbur had, in fact, failed geography and wasn’t sure if Antarctica was the cold bit to the north or the south, but hopefully, that didn’t matter. “I really want to watch the new show Squid Game.”

There was silence, and Wilbur waited with a strange hysterical hope bubbling in his chest. It popped abruptly as a small blade made itself acquainted with his left arm. Pain rose like a wave and he wasn’t some child soldier trained for interrogation or some badass from a movie or some guy with powers that could defend himself. He was just Wilbur Soot, an indie artist with two fans, some random guy in New York City with a British accent who couldn’t pay rent.

So he screamed, eyes flicking down even though he couldn’t see what was happening. Another pain further down his arm. It was agony incarnate, it was like an active flame was being held to his entire limb and his brain struggled to comprehend it. Take it out, he wanted to beg, but all that came out was a breathless whimper as he pulled against the cuffs keeping him linked to the chair.

“Pressure points,” Dream offered, his voice like a scorpion in his right ear. “We have so many to go. Perhaps you will lose your humor by then.”

Wilbur shook his head, desperately trying to meet Dream’s gaze, but there was nothing to see. There were no eyes visible behind the white mask that leered at him with a mocking smiling face, blond hair peeking out from behind the covering. There must have been a human underneath it all, but at the moment, all Wilbur could see was a demon.

He opens his mouth to plead again, but his pride chokes like a ball of concrete in his gut and righteous anger too, that simmering fury that hated being in this situation, and for a moment, he hated everything. He hated this so-called Antarctic Empire, he hated Dream, he hated this dingy basement and this stupid chair and the songs that were riding the tidal crashes of pain in his head because even as pain struck him like lightning (only it struck in the same place, multiple times), he could hear a melody.

A song of pain, he supposed. The next Dream gave him a rest to confess, Wilbur asked for a notepad. Dream had provided him with one, and with Wilbur’s good arm, he had scribbled down some chords. Am, C, D, F, A, E7, A.

“What does it mean?” Dream demanded.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy?”

Turns out, Dream did want to know, and blood ran like a river over his body and somewhere along the way, his only brown jacket and nice shirt was sliced off him, and that was so sad. It was just so sad. Nobody was even missing him, nobody was even going to look for him. A pointy stick that he refused to call a needle in the flesh of his chest, and it felt like his heart was going to stop. He wasn’t even bleeding that much, that was a lie, but he couldn’t tell. Wilbur couldn’t tell what was happening and then everything was spilling out.

In his defense, Dream only stayed for thirty-two minutes the first day, and then Wilbur had passed out into terrified but exhaustive rest. The next day, though, was much worse. He wished he could’ve claimed that the days had begun to blur together. That seconds had melted into minutes into hours. That he had held out with his dignity intact for more than a few days. Until rescue, but it was a moot point because he was just some kid nobody would miss.

It was a lie, though, because it only took two days to break him. His internal clock that would never let him go knew exactly how long he had lasted. It knew exactly how long each stick was in him and where. His memory would never let him forget this pain, and it haunted him with each twitch, even after Dream took them out.

It took four hours and twenty minutes for Wilbur to spill the beans, and oh, what glorious beans they were. His apartment number, his PIN number, not his social security number because Wilbur didn’t remember that off the top of his head and he couldn’t exactly check-in his apartment for the piece of paper it was scribbled on (oops), his favorite artist and his favorite ramen flavor.

His father’s name. His mother’s name. They were both dead. His high school’s name. The college he had dropped out of.

“Please,” Wilbur begged at four hours and twenty-four minutes, his throat ruined and he would never sing again because the cacophony in his head was killing him. “Please let me go.”

Dream just heaved a sigh and left the room.

When he returned, he was holding the disc. It was Mellohi. The distinct bumps and ridges mocked him, same with the purple and white stripes that seemed to glow in the sharp lighting to the basement. Wilbur could never forget anything he had seen or felt before, and he stared, barely comprehending what was happening. He felt like mush. His brain felt like it was melting.

His shoulders screamed in pain as the cuffs were unlocked and he was able to bring his hands back to the front of his body. Wilbur let his arms dangle, not daring to look at the wounds that dotted them. His legs were still firmly cuffed to the legs of the chair, so he had nowhere to go. What was he going to do, punch Dream? It was laughable.

Speaking of the man, he was saying something. Wilbur stared uncomprehendingly but a sharp slap brought him back into painful awareness.

“I want you to hold this and talk to her,” Dream repeated, irritation in his voice. “Because you can’t really be as worthless as you seem.”

Wilbur begged to differ, but he reached out with shaky hands to accept the disc. There was a soft hum against his palms. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for as he held the disc, and his thoughts were pretty emptied out at this point.

“Since you won’t be leaving here alive, I suppose you can know. Mellohi is an Artifact.”

Wilbur was holding a record disc in his palm and it was worth more than he could possibly comprehend. Artifacts belonged in museums. They belonged with government militaries, the most powerful people, the people who Wilbur would see on TV. But one was in front of him now. Artifacts, objects that did mysterious things to people with the right genetics.

The most famous one magnified people’s powers. He struggled to remember what it was. It had been stolen a few decades ago, swiped right out from the most famous museum in America, it had been a record disc.

Oh.

“Yes, the sister to the Cat disc,” Dream purred. “The Antarctic Empire stole it a while back, but now we can get them back. The issue is that not much is known about Mellohi. None of us have been having success in getting it to work, but,” Wilbur could feel Dream’s stare, “maybe you can get it to do something.”

Wilbur felt weak as his hands clutched at the edges of the disc gently. This was his lifeline. He wasn’t deaf. He had heard Dream, both his words and the words under his words. If Wilbur didn’t prove himself useful, permanently useful, then he was going to die here.

He was hungry. He was thirsty. He wanted to go home, but more importantly, he wanted to prove himself to Dream. He wanted away from the pain that had become his existence so quickly-- a different type of pain than his previous existence. At least before, he had had a guitar.

“Please,” Wilbur whispered through an abused throat, staring at the disc.

The disc did nothing but linger in his hands.

“Idiot,” Dream bit out, suddenly behind him because Wilbur couldn’t focus anymore. The inhibitor collar came unlocked, and Wilbur didn’t feel any different, but Mellohi apparently did. “Forgot you were inhibited?”

Wilbur couldn’t reply because all of a sudden, Mellohi was floating above his fingertips. It glittered with a faint violet shimmer, soft pulses of energy painting the room in purple. Dream was laughing behind him, a high-pitched tea kettle whistle that hurt Wilbur’s ears because Mellohi liked this random kid.

Mellohi liked Wilbur.

“Very good.” And then the cuffs on his legs came loose and Dream was hauling him up the stairs into the light, the disc following behind like a loyal pet.

Wilbur turned to look up, but his vision was spinning and he swore he could see magenta stars and the music in his head was louder than ever. He could hear Mellohi in his head, he could hear Dream in his head, and he was barely aware of his own body as his mind split apart.

There was an earthquake behind his eyes, and then Wilbur was gone.

Except Wilbur wasn’t gone.

He was

“resonating with the artifact, which is strange because his records claim he’s a zero.”

He was

“a power source. We can siphon this energy and use it to power our weapons, George. We can’t afford to lose this opportunity after we just happened across it. It’s crazy good luck.”

He was

“alone. He was being honest when he said he didn’t have any family. There’s no one looking for him, but they are looking for Tommy. You should tell them the truth-- we don’t have Tommy but we do have Mellohi.”

He was

“just a kid, George. I know that we’re technically at war with the Empire, but at what cost? Dream is becoming more and more unhinged. Are we okay with this?”

He was losing time. He was hooked up to a machine. Straps kept him upright. An IV in his vein, right next to a pressure point. A disc in front of him, a metal device on his head, sharp edges digging into his temples.

For once in his life, Wilbur couldn’t remember what happened. He had no idea what time it was. He had no idea how long he had been hanging from the wall. Everything before the alley and the basement was a hazy fog, just a dream.

Dream stood in front of him. A rough hand grasped his chin, but he didn’t have the energy to respond.

Wilbur heard a lot, through Mellohi. They had a connection now, whether he liked it or not. He knew what they were doing-- using the disc’s powers to amplify their own weapons. Guns and power-formed abominations now glowed purple. He could feel it.

Sometimes, he felt like he was outside because Mellohi was out there. He could feel the sun. He could feel blood on his face. He could feel bones snapping under his fingertips. He could feel sensations, but Mellohi didn't feel emotions. Not like Wilbur did.

He knew locations, though, now. Texas. Florida. The UK. He knew numbers. He knew about the Dream Team, as they were called. An underground criminal organization, of course, but more than that. The powerful beings, the Eight, Nine and Tens that were above governmental control. He had heard rumors on Reddit, but never put any stock in them.

But Wilbur was here now. In one of their bases. Tortured by their leader.

It made him want to cry, so he did so, freely. Mellohi didn’t reply, just happy to be with him.

Dream couldn’t kill him. So nobody touched him. They kept him alive, but Wilbur was not living. He was a battery at best, and he wished he could tell his father that he was right. Wilbur would amount to nothing.

He would die as nothing.

Wilbur lost more time. It slipped out from his grasp, slippery as a fish, like trying to hold ice. Painful and cold and evaporating.

And then Dream was there, holding Mellohi. Wilbur shuddered, feeling fingers around his ribs. “Come on Wilbur,” Dream said, and Wilbur could barely lift his head but he could hear the note of anxiety in his captor’s voice. “Transport time.”

The machine was leveled horizontally. It was more like a gurney. Once, when Wilbur had broken his arm falling out of a tree, he had also hit his head pretty hard. He had been rushed to the hospital on a gurney, strapped down like this. He wasn’t going to a hospital, though. He wasn’t being healed or helped.

There was no helping him now.

There was a large bustle around him. Lots of shouting and movement blurred and he closed his eyes. A little voice in the back of his head wondered where his glasses had gone. Probably abandoned in the alleyway, just like his old life.

He was dimly aware of cold air on his face. So it was still either fall or winter unless they had somehow switched hemispheres while he was losing time. That was good. He was lifted into the back of a truck and the world went dark around him again. Mellohi wasn’t with him, but he could still feel her nearby. With Dream.

Before Wilbur could sink back down into the sludge calling his name, he was suddenly airborne. There was a vicious yanking sensation in his gut and he was suddenly on a rollercoaster because his liver was surely flying up into his throat but it all came crashing down like a train off the rails. He was dimly aware of screaming and shouts, metal groaning against metal, and a terrible pain everywhere.

When he was aware again, the straps were broken. The needle in his arm had torn out, and blood leaked steadily down from the wound. The metal device around his head was broken but something sharp was digging into his temple and he didn’t dare move it. He could move, though. Wilbur’s leg was broken, but he couldn’t feel it. There was a piece of metal in his back. He could sense it shift and feel the dampness on his skin, but there was nothing else. He couldn’t feel anything, disconnected from his body, but it was still his.

He was in the back of an army van. He was only wearing a pair of shorts. He was cold.

There were noises outside. Wilbur crawled out, his limbs as weak as a baby deer as he squinted against the setting sun and his myopia. There were many dead people, and Wilbur was lying in a puddle of someone else’s blood. That was okay, though, because he was looking up.

A battle. His eyes widened as he took it in. It had been thirty-two seconds since he woke up.

Dream held out his hands, and reality warped, trees stretching and the sky twisting under his command. The pink haired man across from him didn’t seem fazed, drawing a long golden blade from thin air before charging forward. He slashed the air, cutting through reality and Dream’s manipulation, springing at the masked man with determination.

Wilbur had never seen someone more graceful. A red flowing cape, a golden crown, and that man looked like Ares, the god of war. In the sky, an angel of death. The Angel of Death. Wilbur closed his eyes, praying that he had come to reap Dream.

He opened them two minutes and twenty-nine seconds later as Mellohi landed in front of him. Dream fought with a sword and Mellohi as a shield. Even without the machine, Wilbur could still feel each strike against her like someone was striking him. The pain wasn’t as bad, though, mitigated by distance and whatever else affected their strange bond.

“Kid, grab it!” Ares shouted as feathers flew from the Angel’s back, slicing through Dream’s hoodie and keeping the man at bay. Dream howled in anger, sword spinning as he brought it dangerously close to the Angel’s wings, and Wilbur could hear a panicked “Phil!” as red blood spurted onto green grass.

Wilbur reached forward, grabbing the disc with a trembling hand. “It’s okay,” he whispered to the music disc as a tune began to play in his head. His other hand twitched, begging to press against the frets of a guitar that had been long since lost. “Stop,” he begged the disc, and the violet shimmer surrounding Dream’s blade faded.

Distantly, there was more shouting, but all Wilbur could focus on was the music in his head. It was nice. He couldn’t turn over, not with the shrapnel in his back, but if he twisted his neck the right way, then he could see the sun as it sank below the treetops. It felt like North Dakota.

Maybe South. He had failed geography.

And then Ares was suddenly looming over him, surveying Wilbur in all of his patheticness and his weak hold on Mellohi. He was also wearing a mask. It was in the shape of a boar skull, teeth and tusks as threatening as Dream’s smiley face. He was covered in blood. A Blood God.

“Please,” Wilbur begged weakly, the words creeping out around shards of glass in his throat. He was so thirsty. He was so hungry. He wasn’t sure what he was begging for. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to keep living like this. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He wanted to go home, but there was no home to go back to. Only a hazy fog of loneliness.

The Blood God knelt beside him, a hand reaching out to brush greasy and too-long brown hair out of the way so he could survey the metal embedded in Wilbur’s head. Blood trickled down his cheek. There was hope, a small butterfly in his chest before it twisted abruptly.

Mellohi hissed in his head, like a Cat. But Wilbur knew Cat wasn’t here. Otherwise, Dream wouldn’t have won.

Wilbur blinked, dark purple in his eyes as he peered up at Dream, crouching above him unsteadily. The mask on his face was broken, chunks scattered like crushed porcelain, revealing a freckled and scarred cheek and bloody lips. Blood in his teeth as he smiled. “I win,” Dream mumbled, more to himself than anyone else as he bent down to take Mellohi from Wilbur.

Wilbur could make out the bloodied figures of the Blood God and Angel behind them. The Blood God was helping the Angel stand, one arm thrown over the other’s shoulders, dark wings hanging limply. The sun was fully set now. It was getting dark and it was cold.

“Win this ass,” Wilbur spat because he wanted a shirt and he wanted a Happy Meal really badly, seizing Mellohi with the last of his strength and pulling her in tight to his chest. And all of a sudden, he hated the world because denial can only last so long. Five stages of grief, Dream, after denial, is anger.

And Wilbur raged. Mellohi yowled in agreement in his ears and the world turned white then violet then black as he felt his anger reach the stars, if just for a moment. The last thing he saw was Dream’s shocked expression, lips curled into a comical ‘oh shit’ expression, and then the grass burning in violet flame as he screamed to the heavens for retribution.

Taste this G minor, bitch boy.

Somewhere else, a green disc shuddered in its case carefully guarded by a murder of crows.

Somewhere else, frantic voices over comms demanded to know what was happening. “Techno, Phil, do you read me? You guys need to get out of there, Mellohi is going to blow--”

But Wilbur knew none of this, evaporating about two thousand acres of pristine woodland in Montana.