Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a rhythm to the way the waves crested in the bay. One after the other, even intervals, each dissolving into white foam to give way for the next. They struck the steady posts that supported the dock, slowly eating away at the oak. In time, these structures would crumble from the weathering. No manmade creation could exist eternally.

Wilbur let his legs dangle down from the pier, his toes just brushing the tips of the waves. The water soaked through his military boots, seeping into the thin fabric of his socks and reaching his skin. He set his hat beside him, carefully within reach, and let the sea breeze weave its way through his hair.

It was improper behavior, certainly, for the president to be acting so casually, but there was no one around this early in the day, when the sun had just breached the sea’s horizon. Besides, with the way the scales were tipping in this country, he may not be president for much longer.

A foolish decision resulting in predictable results. He’d started this election under the pretense that his win was guaranteed. Now he could feel his power slipping away from him, just as the crests of the waves flattened into the monotonous sea. He had wished for more than he was deserving of, and as punishment, he may lose everything he ever gained.

What would he do, if in the end, he didn’t win? Could he even bear to stay in this country with the knowledge that the citizens did not want him? A man who creates his only home must prepare for the possibility that it will be stolen from him. And, in that case, with nothing else to fall back to, he will have no home at all.

The sun crept higher. The waves still came.

Leaving the bay would mean facing the tasks ahead of him, would mean trying again to convince his people that he was worthy of them. He had already said all he ever believed he needed to say. What more could he possibly do to persuade them? He dared not change his ideals, to be seen as weak, indecisive. And if they did not want him as he was, then there was nothing he could do to change their minds in such short of a timespan.

Oh, why had he wished to validify himself in the first place? If he had only maintained the law that he would rule the country he formed, his position would not even be in contention now. There was no evil to pin this struggle on but his own search for validity. Because winning the war somehow did not satisfy him.

His opponents would not falter. This, he understood. With only two days until the election, there was no time to dig up controversy, no time to berate them until they broke. There were no more debates to conquer with quick words and accusations, no more speeches to fill with flowery yet forgettable poetry, and no more time to spend begging for a few more votes to his name. There was no way to remedy this.

What would he do? The question latched onto him. What was there to do with a man whose only decent parts were the ones that had been deemed not worthy of use? He was a leader who was about to stripped of any ability to lead.

He would not be content in any other role. How could the maker of a country sit in the audience and watch another man direct them in his own fashion? Perhaps years from now, when Wilbur tired of the job, but not now. Not when he’d only just set them free. It was cruel for fate to fulfill all his requests, only to change her mind and yank them from his hands.

No, there had to be something he could do. He would not be remembered in history as the general who was not fit to lead. He would not be the man who gave up so easily.

He was once an honest man, but somehow, the title felt hollow now. Even if he had not lied, he did not feel worthy of wearing it. Therefore, to play some dishonesty did not feel like a breach of morality. By now, his soul was far from pure. How could anyone’s be, at the end of a war?

Wilbur would be the one to read the results of the votes. That had been decided days ago. He would be the one to declare his own fate. He would be the master of his own destiny.

It was a foolish idea that would result in predictable results. He could not tell a lie that big, could not deceive that many people who would be skeptical of his victory. It was impossible. Should he get caught, the repercussions would be unspeakable. They would be, to him at least, worse than death. Humiliation. A tarnished legacy.

He would not do it. He could not do it.

Wilbur rose and turned his back to the sea. He was still president for these next two days. And besides, perhaps he was underestimating himself. There was still some chance that he’d win honestly.

Wilbur stood on the stage, holding the election results in his shaking hands. A thousand eyes were watching him, waiting for a misstep. There were the numbers, carefully laid out in front of him. For his eyes only. Confidentiality.

The paper slid roughly against his fingers. A sharper angle, and it may have sliced his skin. He was aware of the sweat rolling down his back, of the tightness of his uniform stretching at his elbows. His eyes fixed on the numbers on the paper before him.

He’d won.

Well, he would have won, if he hadn’t been such an idiot. If his actions hadn’t let to the coalition, the unification of his enemies. And if he combined the votes for Schlatt and Quackity….

All at once, it hit him, and it took all his effort to keep his face neutral. He was going to lose by one percent. Suddenly, Wilbur felt a wave of nausea, and worried he might pass out right on the stage. A thousand eyes on him, about to witness his downfall.

Unless.

He was not an honest man. He would not be corrupting an innocent soul. This was the original plan for the election, wasn’t it? A scheme to elicit hollow support. There was never meant to be anything at stake here. He would just be following through on his initial intentions.

Thick tension was strung in ropes between the audience and him, the anticipation of his voice in their ears. He could not wait any longer. It was time to define his legacy.

“With nine percent of the vote,” he began. Could the audience hear the waver in his voice? He didn’t dare risk a glance to his left, where Tommy stood, anxious with anticipation. Wilbur couldn’t let him down. Not after everything. “With nine percent of the vote, placing them in fourth place, is Coconut 2020.”

This was the expected result. Wilbur stepped back and allowed Fundy and Niki their moments of glory, the strange satisfaction they gained from receiving any votes at all. He was still bitter about Fundy, his only son, choosing to run against him. Niki as well. It seemed they both believed him incompetent.

The country believed it, too. That was clear enough from the paper before him. There was no denying the numbers written in ink, declaring him a failure, unfit for the job. Where else was there for him to go?

He couldn’t do it. And yet he had to.

“Next,” Wilbur continued, “with sixteen percent of the vote, coming in third place, is Schlatt 2020.”

From behind him, there came a heavy sigh, and Wilbur glanced back to meet Schlatt’s dark eyes. His expression betrayed his intentions. There was no denying it, no fooling himself. The coalition would go through, a master political play, and Wilbur would be forced to the folds of history, a footnote in a tale that should have been his legacy.

This was his critical point. This was the moment to decide his destiny. He could not allow himself to give up so easily, not everything he – everyone – went through in the name of victory. If, one day, he came to regret this, which he felt he inevitably would, at least he would know he did everything he could to give everything he had to the nation that he loved. That he built from the ground up, that he fought and died for.

It was only one percentage point. An easy calculation error.

“With twenty-nine percent of the vote, in second place, is—” Wilbur braced himself “—Swag 2020.”

There was a chorus of exclamations around him, and Wilbur raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. “Meaning the winner of the popular vote,” he called, “with forty-six percent, is Pog 2020.”

“We did it!” Tommy’s expression was ecstatic, and he pumped his fists, his face consumed by his grin. “We did it, Wil! We actually did it!” And then his arms were wrapping around Wilbur, and Wilbur forced himself to return the hug and plaster his face into something like joy. “You wouldn’t believe it, Wil, I was actually worried there for a second.”

Wilbur allowed a teary laugh to escape his lips. “You shouldn’t have. We were always going to win.” He retracted himself, holding Tommy at arm’s length and making his eyes lock onto Tommy’s. “You know what they say. It was meant to be.”

“Aw, you’re right.” Tommy grinned. “It was always meant to be.”

Wilbur clapped Tommy on the back. “What do you say we celebrate?”

“Yeah, let’s fucking party!” he shouted. “Come on, to the white house! Everyone’s invited!”

Wilbur laughed loudly and reached up to ruffle Tommy’s blond hair before resting his arm around his brother’s shoulder as the two headed toward the white house. At the door, Wilbur disconnected himself from Tommy and gestured for him to continue on inside.

“Smoke break,” he muttered. “Go ahead without me.”

Tommy groaned. “Come on.”

“Just a few minutes, Toms. You’ll barely miss me.”

“Fine.” Tommy disappeared into the building, rejoining the crowd.

Wilbur found a shadowed spot and leaned against the white house wall, retrieving his lighter and cigarette from the pockets of his uniform. Then, glancing around to assure he was alone, Wilbur ignited the lighter and lifted its flame to the paper that contained the election results. Flames licked up the neatly cut edges, charring it black until it crumbled to ash. It was gone, then, the evidence that would incriminate him. He expected a weight to be lifted from his shoulders, but somehow, Wilbur found himself feeling worse. He sparked the lighter again, this time to his cigarette, and brought it to his mouth to take a drag.

“Aren’t you happy?”

Wilbur jumped at the voice, choking on his breath, and whirled around to see Quackity staring at him. “Wha – what do you mean?” he asked through a cough.

“I mean you just won the election. Why aren’t you in there celebrating?”

Wilbur shrugged. “You know me. Never big on parties.” He brought the cigarette to his lips again, leaning his weight back on the wall.

“I guess,” Quackity said. “Tommy’s waiting for you, though.”

“Then why are you here?” Wilbur watched Quackity out of the corner of his eye.

“I want you to know I don’t hate you, Wilbur. And I don’t want us to be enemies.”

“I’m not letting you into L’Manberg.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Quackity said. “I’ll do my own thing now. But no hard feelings, right? You won fair and square. It was an honor to run against you.” He extended his hand to Wilbur and waited.

There was a twisting in his gut at Quackity’s words, at the reminder of the lie he’d just told, was still telling. But it was right thing in the end, as now Quackity could find his own path separate from L’Manberg, and Wilbur could continue to run the country. He took Quackity’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good game.”

“Good game indeed,” Quackity laughed. “I’m getting back to the party, now. You’d better come before Tommy starts whining for you.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. Leave it to Tommy to make him feel guilty for taking a break. “Fine.” He extinguished the cigarette on the brick wall and dropped it in the dirt, stepping on it for good measure.

“You know that’s littering, right?” Quackity commented.

“Don’t really care,” Wilbur muttered. “And besides, I’m president. I can do what I want.” He allowed a smirk to play across his lips to let Quackity know he was only joking. It was not wise to let any tension form between them now.

Inside, Schlatt was making a proper fool of himself, much to his audience’s delight. He seemed to be taking the loss exceptionally well, though perhaps that was just the alcohol. Tommy was sitting in a quiet corner, talking to Tubbo, and looked up when he saw Wilbur, his eyes wide and bright.

“Wil!” he exclaimed. “I was just telling Tubbo about my plans for vice presidency.”

“I imagine they’re about the same as before the election,” Wilbur said.

“Well, yeah, but I like to explain them again,” Tommy said. “And Tubbo doesn’t mind, right?”

“I don’t mind,” Tubbo agreed.

“See, if I’m your right-hand man,” Tommy said, “Tubbo’s mine.”

“Which means you’ll give him all the shit you don’t want to do,” Wilbur inferred.

“No, it’s great,” Tubbo piped up. “I’m very happy with my role.”

“That’s excellent,” Wilbur said. He knew them both well enough to predict that Tommy would sit in the glory for a bit while Tubbo took over the less glamorous duties. Still, he felt confident that when, at last, he decided it was time for retirement, Tommy would be a fit successor to his role.  For now, though, Wilbur had to fulfill his own duties. “Listen, Tommy. I know you want me to stay and celebrate and everything, but I do have an awful lot of work to do.”

Tommy’s face fell. “You’re leaving already?”

“Well, this election has been quite stressful,” Wilbur explained. “And I haven’t written to Phil in a couple days, so I figure I will today before he starts to worry.”

“Okay,” Tommy sighed. “Go do your boring presidential shit.”

“Got to live up to the role, huh?” Wilbur laughed. “I’ll see you around, Tommy. Bye Tubbo.”

They both waved goodbyes to him. Wilbur slipped out of the white house just as Schlatt began another convoluted, long-winded joke, which drew attention away from him and allowed him to leave undetected.

His office was lit by a dying candle; he’d felt no urgency to replace it during the day. Now the sun slipped low over the horizon, and the shadows in his room grew long and dark. His desk was a mess of paper, ink, and broken quills, dotted with the occasional burn mark of a lazily extinguished cigarette. He collapsed into his chair, throwing his hat off in order to run his fingers through his hair, and mulled over the events that had brought him there.

A lie so small it could be passed off as a mistake, yet so big that the ramifications could not be quantified. He had changed the course of history, leading it down a dishonest path, and his job now was to remedy the sin as much as he could. He would fulfill his duties as president, prove to everyone that he was fit for the job, so that even when the truth was discovered, if it ever was, there would be a sentiment that it was the best choice in the end.

Before his duties, though, there was his father to attend to. He was expecting a letter with the election results. Wilbur scavenged his desk until he found a clean sheet of paper and selected a quill at random to write with. The ink was blotchy but legible.

Dear Phil,

The election went wonderful. My party won by a significant margin. Afterwards, we celebrated in the white house – I did tell you about that building, right? – and I believe my opponents are handling the loss well. I apologize that this is a shorter letter, but the duties of a president are so vast, especially around election day. I suspect I’ll be quite busy in the coming weeks, but it’s all the right kind of busyness. I’ll do my best to keep you updated on the nation’s affairs.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

He debated on his signature, whether to add ‘president’ to preface his name, but ultimately decided it was too formal. His decision had nothing to do with the invalidity of his presidency.

Wilbur opened the window behind his desk and whistled, calling a crow to him. It came in a swoop of black feathers, landing gracefully on the wooden perch beneath his window. He rolled the letter into a scroll, and around it, he wrapped a segment of red string, which he tied neatly to the leg of the crow resting on the perch.

“To Phil again,” he said, though his words had no effect. All crows were drawn to his father.

The sun had descended beneath the horizon now, and Wilbur hung his coat on the wall and stretched his tired limbs. He was about to step through the doorway from his office to his bedroom when there came a soft knock at the door, one he somehow recognized. Most others would burst in without bothering to knock at all.

“Niki,” he sighed, opening the door.

“Hello, Wil.” She stood a full head shorter than him, with wispy blond hair that was growing brown roots. She wore her light blue revolutionary coat, and in her arms was a picnic basket.

“Come in,” Wilbur said. “Sorry, I was about to head to bed.” He gestured to the coat hung up on the wall. Here he was, newly validified president, and he wasn’t even dressed for the job.

“Oh, sorry,” Niki said, stepping past him into the room. Wilbur let the door fall shut behind them. She set the basket on his desk and pulled open the latch. “You left before I could give you this at the white house. It’s to celebrate.” In the basket was a small circular cake with gold loops of icing lining the edge.

“For me?” Wilbur asked.

“If you want it,” Niki said. “I baked it this morning to avoid stressing about the election. I figured you were going to win, but if you didn’t, it would have been a pick-me-up.”

“Thanks, Niki,” Wilbur muttered. His mouth felt oddly dry. While he had been convincing himself to deceive the entire nation, she had been baking a cake for him.

“No problem,” Niki said. “You can save it for tomorrow if you’re going to bed now. Just close the basket and it’ll save.”

“Thanks,” he said again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Wil. Good night.”

“Good night,” he said, but she had already shut the door.

So here it was. The crest of victory. He let the feeling wash over him, soaking into his skin and pulling the tension from his chest, but in the end, he still felt uncertain. What would be his legacy? How long could he keep up this charade of victory before the truth came crashing down? How long before his actions ruined his name?

Wilbur carried the candle to his bedside and watched the pattern of shadows dance across the wall. He would just have to prove that it was worth it, in the end, that he was the only man fit for the job. He would be the greatest president this country would ever see.

It was difficult to fall asleep, but after some time, the weight of exhaustion overtook the frenzy of thoughts bouncing around inside his skull, and he slipped into quiet oblivion.

Chapter Text

He was up early, sorting the papers on his desk. There would be more eyes watching him now, in the wake of the election, than in his past time as president, and it was best to appear properly organized. The folders in his cabinets were bursting open, spilling documents loose within the shelves, and he had more empty ink bottles than usable ones. Thus, he woke before the sun rose, and by the time natural light spread into his room, the office was almost presentable. He was just locking the last cabinet when there came a rhythmic knock at the door, and in stepped Tubbo, bouncing on his toes.

“Tubbo!” Wilbur exclaimed, taking his seat behind his desk. “What’s got you up and excited so early?”

“I have a proposal,” Tubbo said, shutting the door behind him. He wore his revolutionary coat, which looked as if he’d just washed it recently, a clear blue color that demanded respect. His hair was brushed down flat on his head, revealing the hints of horns that protruded from his skull, indicating his exit from childhood.

“Take a seat,” Wilbur said. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Tubbo sat in the wooden chair across from Wilbur and drummed his fingers on the desk in a mock drumroll. Then, at last: “Trade expansions!” he cried.

Wilbur blinked. “Alright. Did it need the fanfare?”

“Everything needs fanfare, boss man. So, do I have your approval?”

“Do you have paperwork?” Wilbur asked.

“Right, yes, yes I do.” He tugged a folder from the inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the dusty surface of the desk.

Wilbur opened the folder to find the document of the proposal. “I’ll read this over, then,” he said. “Can you come back later?”

“Definitely.” Tubbo jumped up from his seat. “I’ll see you around, then. Big things ahead of us.”

“Big things indeed,” Wilbur agreed. He waited for the office door to shut behind Tubbo before turning his attention to the paperwork in front of him. Now, for the pages of fine print to comb through.

The days as president began to blur together. A couple, at least, had come and went, but with all the work piling on his desk, it was hard to keep track of how many hours passed.

Niki came by the second day and insisted he keep the curtains drawn to let the natural light in during the day. She gave him some bread and asked how the cake tasted, and Wilbur lied because he didn’t have to heart to tell her he had been avoiding eating it. It was a gift granted for something he did not accomplish, after all, but she couldn’t know that. So, yes, he told her, it tasted magnificent. Then she left and Wilbur returned to his work.

He took a few careful bites of the cake. It tasted dry and sickly sweet. He only managed a quarter of it before he felt too ill to continue.

Dear Phil,

The first few days are going excellent. I think this election was a good decision. It’s given me the same energy I had back in L’Manberg’s first days. I believe that sentiment is shared throughout the cabinet – Tommy’s been building a tower on the southeastern wall, Niki’s got plans to export her pastries, Fundy’s been helping around a lot.  I’ve granted Tubbo permission to head a trade expansion, meaning larger docks and more ships to come by. Maybe, with that, you can visit soon. It’s shaping into a truly beautiful place.

I should probably get back to my work now. There’s so much paperwork to do, but it’s all exciting things. I think the election gave everyone a morale boost. I hope this letter finds you well. I’ll send another as soon as I can.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

He was sitting slouched in his office chair, finally finishing the last bits of Niki’s cake – he’d strung out the process over the past few days, pretending the sugar didn’t taste bitter in his mouth – when his office door swung open and in strolled Tommy Innit.

“Hey, Tommy,” Wilbur said. “How are you? How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” Tommy said, emphasizing each syllable. “I was just talking with Tubbo a bit ago, and he’s looking to do some exploring and shit. What do you say? Wanna get out of this stuffy office for a change?”

Wilbur sighed. “You know I’d love to, but—”

“Aw, come on, Wil. Just for a bit.”

“Stop whining,” Wilbur groaned. “You’re such a child.”

“Alright, I guess I’ll ask Schlatt instead,” Tommy said, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Wilbur laughed. “You’re asking Schlatt to go exploring with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? Of all the people on this server? What’s he even up to anymore? Probably just fucking drinking, I bet.”

Tommy groaned and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. He’s kind of irrelevant. Plus, he’d probably bring Dream with him. That green bitch is never gonna leave us alone, huh?”

Wilbur looked up at Tommy, something twisting in his gut. “What do you mean by that?” he asked slowly.

“I mean he’s spent so much time hanging around Dream these past days, they’re probably like BFFs now,” Tommy said.

“He’s been doing what?” Wilbur whispered. This could not be good.

“I don’t know,” Tommy mumbled, hunching his shoulders. “It’s probably not a big deal, Wil. Just come with me and Tubbo, it’s gonna be—”

“Tommy.” His tone was deadly serious. He could not have his opponents conspiring against him. Quackity had agreed to remain on neutral terms, but neither of those two had. And communication bred conspiracy, something he could not afford. One slip up and this whole thing could come crashing down upon him. “Tommy, call Quackity. Tell him to meet with me. Then go do your shit with Tubbo. Only Tubbo.”

“Alright, alright,” Tommy said, hands raised. “Didn’t think you’d be so tense, Wilbur.” He pulled out his communicator and typed a quick message. “Okay,” he said. “He has been alerted.” Again, there was emphasis on each syllable. He raised his hand to his forehead in a dramatized salute, leaving with a flourish that Wilbur sensed was sarcastic.

As soon as the door latched, Wilbur’s head was in his hands. This was bad. This was incredibly bad. Dream was, perhaps, the one person both cunning enough to discover his secret and spiteful enough to try. And if he was working with Schlatt, that increased his resources, targeted his focus. This was the loose thread that could tear apart the entire tapestry, the net woven by deception and pulled apart with ease. There could be records, somewhere, of the true results, beyond the single paper he’d burned. It was idiocy of him to overlook this fact, to naively believe he’d destroyed all evidence.

The damning record could be in his office right now.

Wilbur’s hands shook as he unlocked the first cabinet and began to comb through the folders he’d only just organized, yanking out papers that gave the slightest indication of containing what he was looking for. If it was here, then Schlatt could find it with Dream’s assistance. The two of them were a force to be reckoned with.

He’d organized the files, but haphazardly, the way he used to clean his room as a kid, just enough to satisfy Phil’s nagging. They were not alphabetical or chronological, but set only in the order he’d found them in. He’d only glanced at the title of each document, sliding them into the folder that seemed most relevant. It was only meant to appear put together, a hollow approximation of how a president should be. That was all any of this was, anyway, wasn’t it? He was only the shell of a wave. There was no force in his magnitude. He existed only for the sake of history.

The first cabinet contained nothing that piqued his interest. Records of imports of building materials, mostly, the occasional unset letter to Phil. He could weed out a lot of useless files here, but there was a sentiment connected to each one of them, and he felt no inclination to part with any.

He locked the first cabinet, verifying that it latched properly, and moved on to the one below. The first folder was packed with crumpled documents, which he spread out on his office floor, flattening each to read. These were messages exchanged during the revolution, carried in the pockets of their uniforms, some singed at the edges or stained with splatters of crimson. Wilbur traced his hand over the last line of one, signed Eret in looping cursive font.

“Wilbur?”

His head snapped up and crashed into the cabinet, sending a splitting pain over the back of his skull. “Ah, fuck!” He rubbed his hand over the injury and felt the beginning of a welt.

“Wilbur?” The voice was laughing now.

Wilbur turned around and staggered to his desk chair. Quackity stood in the center of the room, holding his stomach and cracking up.

“Don’t laugh,” Wilbur groaned. “I’m in pain.”

“It was hilarious, though.”

“Sit down, this was meant to be serious.”

“Okay, okay.” Quackity lowered himself into the chair. “I’m serious now. What’s up?”

Wilbur massaged the back of his head. “You want what’s best for L’Manberg, right? That’s what you said in all your speeches.”

“I mean, I guess. I’m not really part of it, though.”

“Yes, but you don’t want it destroyed. You don’t want it – you don’t want it fucking taken over.”

“No, I don’t.”

Wilbur exhaled. “Good. Good, then I can trust you.” Beneath the desk, he wrung his hands. How could he, of all people, speak about trust? By telling Quackity anything, he was putting himself at risk, perhaps an even greater risk than Schlatt was currently posing. But it might be worth it, to have him on his side, even if it meant more pressure on his lie.

“What is it?” Quackity asked. He leaned forward on the desk, resting his arms on the wooden surface. His dark eyes were fixated on Wilbur, half-covered by a curtain of black hair pressed flat by his beanie.

“How close are you to Schlatt?” Wilbur asked.

Quackity’s eyes darted to the desk. “Uh, kind of, I guess,” he muttered. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know if he’s been talking a lot with Dream recently?”

Quackity shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t pay much attention to that. Why?”

“Tommy says they’ve been conspiring.”

“Conspiring?” Quackity repeated. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I think they want to overthrow me. Take over L’Manberg. Stage some kind of coup.”

“Well, that’s fucking bullshit!” Quackity exclaimed. “You won the election and they’re just being sore losers about it.”

The pit was back in his stomach again, eating away at his insides. It was black tar, hissing acid, waiting for its moment to burst from his skin and reveal to everyone what a fraud he was. Would this be worth it, after that?

“You need to get close to Schlatt,” Wilbur said. “Find out what he’s up to.”

“You need my help,” Quackity said, an odd note entering his tone. “And what, pray tell, do you offer in exchange?”

“In exchange?” Wilbur repeated.

“Yes, in exchange,” Quackity said. “I’m not in L’Manberg, Wil. This isn’t my problem, it’s yours.”

The answer was obvious. Wilbur spread his arms, waxing the dramatics. “Well, what if you were part of L’Manberg?”

Quackity blinked. “You’re offering me citizenship?”

“Not now,” Wilbur said quickly. “But – but afterward, when we stop him and anyone else who threatens L’Manberg. Then you can have it. If you still want it, that is.”

“I – yeah, I do, I think I do,” Quackity stammered. “Can we shake on it then? Can I have your word?”

Wilbur’s word meant nothing now, but he gave it anyway, shook the other man’s hand, and watched as he went on his way, pictured the look on his face on election day. He’d thought he’d won – and he was right – until Wilbur read out second place. Such crushing disappointment, such wicked deceit.

No, it wouldn’t do to speak so lowly of himself. This was his route to victory, after all. This was the second wave strengthening the first, pushing its white crest towards the sky. He would lead this country better than any other ever could, and prove himself to be a worthy president. And, someday, when he grew tired of this, Tommy would be proud to follow in his footsteps.

Wilbur shoved the papers back into the cabinet and secured the drawer with the iron key. If there did, in fact, exist evidence in there, it could not be accessed by anyone other than himself. Then he sat at his desk and wrote his father a letter.

Dear Phil,

Business in L’Manberg is great. The trade expansion is bringing in new merchants already. I’ve sorted an arrangement with another neighboring country. Soon, I’ll reach out to the nation you’re residing in, and you can take a ship from there and come visit us. Tommy has been waiting a long time to meet you. Speaking of Tommy, he and Tubbo are getting along well. They remind me of me and Techno sometimes. I think you’ll really love it here. I’ve even agreed to consider granting Quackity citizenship – remember, he was one of my opponents in the election. I finally finished Niki’s cake, the one I’ve been taking forever to eat. It’s just so good, you know, I had to make it last. She’s been bringing by bread occasionally, and business in her bakery is booming. You’ll have to try something when you come. I can’t wait to show you the nation I’ve built.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

He tied the letter carefully to the leg of the crow. “Fly safe,” he murmured, then sent it on its way. Black wings blended into the blackening sky, crossing a silhouette over the moon as it climbed higher through the air. Over the country and across the sea, to where his father eagerly awaited news of his son’s successes.

A nation built; a nation led. A legacy carved into the stones of time. Marked with pen in the history books. He was the true and worthy leader, liberator of his people, father of his country. Who followed a wild dream and saw it through to completion, who satisfied that innate hunger for more.

Now, this glorious president lay in bed with the blankets thrown to the floor, restless despite the exhaustion in his bones. There was a prickling sensation under his skin, an anxiety that laced through his nervous system. Already, cracks were appearing in his façade. But Quackity would keep an eye on Schlatt, make sure he wasn’t poking around where he wasn’t mean to. Still, Wilbur struggled to trust Quackity. It would not be the first time an ally betrayed him.

Eret’s eyes were concealed by their sunglasses as they uttered the words, as the room filled with screams, as hot flame engulfed those who survived the first hits, as Wilbur feel the exact moment when his heart ceased to beat.

He stared up at the dark ceiling above his bed. He could not let that happen again. If fate chose to damn them for their earnest fight for freedom, what would she do with a man who lied to remain in power? Was she a cruel force, stealing from the underdogs and rewarding those who turned their back on morality? Or was she an equal punisher, who treated all with the same indifference?

If Wilbur was the wave, then how long would he rise before folding in on himself? The ocean did not stretch forever. He was bound to strike land.

Wilbur rolled over onto his stomach, still wide awake, and burrowed his face into his pillow. Even if he did regret the thing that he’d done, there was nothing he could do to rectify it without exposing himself as a cheater, a liar, and a fraud. The only option was to continue this façade, to hope and beg that it would all work out in the end. That after everything, it would have been worth it.

His eyes pricked with the first indications of tears, and Wilbur clamped his hands over his ears as if that would help anything. He realized he could barely breathe with his face pressed into the pillow, but he didn’t feel inclined to move. Maybe he would just suffocate to death here, and they would find him and give a big, sad funeral, and remember him as a great leader who died tragically, too soon. If only he’d lived long enough to bring more glory to his nation. For his entire life, he did everything right. And then Tommy would be forced into presidency, his brother dead, and—

Wilbur rolled over, gasping for breath, his cheeks wet and his vision blurry. He could not abandon Tommy. That, at least, he was certain of.

He forced himself to lie still on his side, eyes shut, and slow his breathing to a normal pace. Exhaustion kept him lying in his bed, but his mind was racing too quickly to rest. The cool of the night bit the tip of his nose, drying the tears that streaked down his cheeks, seeping into his body with the blankets discarded on the floor. He wrapped his arms around himself, searching for some inkling of warmth. He stayed that way, waiting for sleep to come, until the light of dawn soaked through his curtains.

Wearily, he rose to face the day.

Chapter Text

His handwriting was getting worse. He saw it in the papers he signed, even in the letters he sent to Phil. Would his father noticed, he wondered, the way the lines of ink shook?

Dear Phil,

Today was another great day. All the projects are moving at a swift, consistent pace. We’re working most efficiently. I haven’t got any particular updates right now, but rest assured, things are going very well here. I can’t wait for you to see it all.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

The words were becoming difficult to write. He exhaled, letting his breath dry the ink to the page. Now it was written, this version of history, solidified in the record he kept of himself. Which were the worse lies, he wondered: the words he sent his father across the sea or the empty platitudes he told himself to sleep at night?

He was sending the crow out into the dawn when there came a gentle knock at his door.

“Niki.” He hurried to appear put together. It wasn’t proper for the president to look so disheveled, with his coat hanging loose and his hat on his desk, tight tangles forming on the back of his head.

She entered smelling like freshly baked bread, a calm smile settled across her face. “Wil, how are you?” she asked. “Have you been resting enough?”

“Plenty,” Wilbur replied in his most casual tone. “It’s tough work, Niki, I’ll tell you that.”

She laughed lightly. “I’m kind of glad Fundy and I didn’t win.” She paused, glancing down. “Speaking of Fundy, have you spoken to him recently?”

Wilbur wracked his brain for a memory but came up empty-handed. “No, I can’t say that I have. Does he even want to see me, though? Last I recall he was trying to steal my presidency.”

“Is this about the fake votes?” Niki asked. “Because that was mostly a joke. And besides, I’m sure he’d apologize, if you asked.”

Wilbur gut twisted. He’d completely forgotten about that. In the cloud of worry that was the election day, the failed attempt at rigging had seemed like a small anecdote. Forgettable compared to the real crime.

“It’s fine,” Wilbur muttered. “I’ll talk to him soon. Is that why you came by? To ask about Fundy? I’m sure he’s managing fine on his own.”

“Oh, no, I just wondered,” Niki said. “I came to ask you to come on a walk with me.”

“A walk?” Wilbur repeated.

“When was the last time you went outside?”

“No comment.”

“So, is that a no?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know, Niki. I’ve got so much work to do, I don’t think it would be good for me to—”

“To what?” Niki cut in. “To take a single hour off?”

“What if somebody needs me?” He was scrambling for excuses now.

“Come on,” Niki sighed. “A bit of sunshine won’t kill you.”

“What if I’m a vampire?”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad.” She grabbed his jacket sleeve and tugged him towards the door.

Wilbur pulled himself out of Niki’s grasp. “Alright, alright, I’m coming. But not too long. Just around L’Manberg.”

“Fine with me,” Niki said, leading him out of his office.

They walked right along the towering black and yellow walls, which blocked most of the light of the rising sun. Wilbur traced his hand along the concrete as they went, feeling the physical reminder of their safety. After everything, it was worth it, in the end, for the guarantee of freedom and security.

“We fought Dream right here,” Wilbur mused. “There was a forest here, earlier, but all the trees got burned.”

Niki hummed. “That’s too bad.”

“It was fun, though,” Wilbur added. “The revolution, I mean. Other than… other than….”

“The betrayal,” Niki finished.

Wilbur tilted his head in the slightest nod. “Yeah, that. If there was one thing I could change, it would be trusting Eret.” Lie, a lie, there was so much he would change. Perhaps, if given the chance, he wouldn’t start the war at all. He would live in blissful irrelevance, until he died a quiet, passive way. Then again, what was he without a legacy? He was a leader, born to bring freedom to his land. This was the way fate demanded it, the way his soul had been carved.

“Does the room still exist down there?”

Wilbur glanced up at Niki, who stared out at the country within the walls. “What?”

“The final control room,” Niki whispered. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Yeah, I guess that name fits it,” Wilbur said. “I don’t know if it’s still there. Never wanted to check.”

“Makes sense,” Niki replied. “Sorry it happened that way. I wish I could have been there to… I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you could have stopped it,” Wilbur told her. “There’s no way you could have known.”

Niki was silent, her gaze drawing back to the wall. For some time, they walked without speaking, letting the sun rise slowly beside them. The days began and ended so quickly now, rising and falling like the waves in the bay. Was this the type of man he was now, making everything into some poetic frivolity? Perhaps it had always been.

Niki adjusted her light blue jacket, bumping Wilbur with her arm, drawing him back into the present. He elected to pull at their last conversation thread.

“I do wish you were there back in the beginning,” Wilbur said. “You would have fought valiantly.”

Niki nodded wistfully. “I’m glad I’m here now, though,” she said. “And I’m glad you won the election, Wil. I was worried for what would have happened if you didn’t.”

“I was nervous, too,” Wilbur admitted. “But I think I kind of always had this feeling that we’d win. We’re the ones who started the nation, after all. There’s got to be loyalty in that.”

“And it seems there is,” Niki said. Wilbur’s stomach churned.

“I’ve been thinking, Niki,” he said, trying to shift the conversation. “Everything is going so great right now. The trade expansion, the new buildings. We should do something to celebrate.”

“To celebrate,” Niki repeated. “What do you propose?”

“Well, it was Tubbo’s idea, really, and I think he workshopped it with Tommy a bit before suggesting it to me, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I do agree.” They rounded the corner. “I think we should have a festival.”

Niki smiled. “A festival sounds like a great idea! I could sell sweets from my bakery.”

“And Tommy could set up games,” Wilbur added. “It wouldn’t have to be a big thing, but I think it would be fun.”

“I think we should do it,” Niki agreed. “When would we be having it?”

“Probably not for a few weeks’ time,” Wilbur said. “There’s still after-election business to deal with now. But since Tubbo’s so busy with the trade expansion, I was wondering if you could brainstorm some ideas. I’ll do all the paperwork and everything, I just thought—”

“Sure,” Niki said. “I’d love to help out.”

Wilbur exhaled. “Really? That’d be excellent.”

Niki nodded, her face beaming. They rounded another corner in the walls of L’Manberg, having passed the halfway mark of their walk. Soon, Wilbur would be back in his office, where he was meant to be, and he could catch up on all the work that he’d missed while he was gone. His fingers twitched at the idea of signing more documents, but he reminded himself that it was how it had to be, to prove he was more than fit to be president.

They were entering the denser part of town when a figure darted towards them, hurrying along the street and dodging passerby. Wilbur recognized Quackity’s iconic beanie, and his stomach turned at the harried look on his face.

“What is it?” Wilbur hissed, glancing around.

“It’s Schlatt,” Quackity muttered breathlessly. “I think you were right about him. He’s been digging around in the country records, looking for something. I don’t know what he could find, but I figured I should tell you.”

“You were right on that,” Wilbur said. He turned to Niki, stood behind him. “Sorry, Niki, I’ve really got to go,” he said quickly. Then he rushed past Quackity, headed straight for his office.

This was exactly what he was afraid of: Schlatt sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, sniffing around for something to impeach Wilbur on. And, if he was good enough – which with Dream on his side, he was – he was going to find precisely what he was looking for.

Wilbur’s heart pounded in time with his feet striking the ground. Panic rose cold and burning in his chest. His gut was tangled, twisted in several winding knots, like a serpent coiled around itself, which, when it finds no prey to eat, is forced to consume its own flesh to survive. Tail in jaw. Eternally ensnared. He feared the demise that was ultimately his own fault.

He burst into his office, breathing hard, and flew across the room to the file cabinets. The iron key was sitting out in plain sight on his desk, right where he’d left it when he’d taken up Niki’s offer for a walk. In his haste, he hadn’t bothered even concealing it, much less carrying it on him. Foolish mistakes that would result in deserved outcomes.

It was good that Wilbur had bothered to organize his paperwork, at least somewhat, in the time he’d been president, or else he’d have no clue what was missing from the drawers. He found, then, by the end of his search, that three separate folders were gone from the cabinets. Three folders that could contain any number of national secrets. Including, of course, the worst of them.

There was certainly another record of the election results.

He’d searched, though, in the past days, as much as he could, and found nothing, but that didn’t mean there weren’t clue scattered about his files. His hands flew to his desk now, yanking out drawers, searching for the folders to no avail.

He staggered back, leaning against the window for support as the room spun around him. Was this it, then, the fall of his façade? His empty charade had barely lasted two weeks.

Wilbur pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, pinching his eyes shut to block out the nausea. He stayed like this, frozen still, for a few moments more, and then the winds subsided and he opened his eyes. He was still standing in his office, papers strewn about. Wilbur sank into his desk chair.

Here came the next wave, bright and honest, good and true. Here it came to topple everything he’d ever built, to consume the crest on which he used to shine. Here was the flat abyss of the ocean, come to swallow him whole. Here was the quiet, dissonant ending to his symphony.

There came a knock at the door, and Tubbo stepped inside. His horns were sticking higher up above his brown hair now, though they had not yet begun to curve. In his hands, he held three neat folders, to which Wilbur’s gaze snapped, his eyes growing wide.

“Tubbo!” he exclaimed, feeling both relieved and terrified. “Are those my missing folders?” he asked, up on the edge of his seat.

Tubbo nodded, placing them dutifully on Wilbur’s desk. “Sorry if you were looking for them, boss man,” he said. “I needed the information to fill out forms for the port renovations.”

Wilbur maintained the appearance of calmness as he pulled the folders across the desk to him. “Thank you, Tubbo,” he said, “but could you leave this sort of paperwork to me? As – as president, aren’t I supposed to sign everything?”

“Oh, the big stuff,” Tubbo agreed. “But this was just little details.”

“I don’t want you going through my files,” Wilbur said. “Things could get lost.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tubbo said. “Sorry about that, Wilbur.”

“It’s fine,” Wilbur sighed. “Just… I’ll do it from now on.”

“You’re not too busy?” Tubbo asked, glancing at the stacks of papers that scattered his desk.

“No, I’m not. It’s fine. You’re free to go now.” It was a bit of a rude dismissal, but he wanted Tubbo gone.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Wilbur collapsed forward, resting his head in his arms, his hat falling forward onto his desk. He allowed himself to stay like this for a second, a second more, then he lifted his head, fixed his hat, and began combing through the folders to see what they contained. If there was any hint of conspiracy in these files, Tubbo could have detected it.

By the time he was certain the files held no incriminating evidence, Niki was stopping by to drop off fresh bread for lunch.

“You didn’t have to,” Wilbur muttered, though his mouth watered at the smell.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Niki said. “You never leave your office anymore; how else are you getting fed?”

Wilbur shrugged. “I guess you’ve got a point there.”

By sundown, though, he’d only eaten half the loaf, as his lack of hunger overpowered his guilt for wasting her gift to him. Perhaps, in time, his body would fail to function, and his bones would crack and turn to dust. He would collapse on the floor of his dark office, a fading image of who he used to be. They’d sweep him off the wooden floorboards, a mound of ash and paper scraps, and replace him with an honest king. He hoped that they’d pour his remains into the sea.

Dear Phil,

I’ve decided to plan a festival. It’s at least a few weeks away, though, so there should be time for you to be able to attend, if you want. Niki’s in charge of brainstorming, and I think she’ll end up baking some pastries for it. You’ll understand when you try them, Phil, the things she bakes are unworldly. The construction on the dock is going excellent, should be more than finished by the time you visit. Tubbo’s proving himself very capable. I think he’d make a great president someday. Maybe after Tommy is finished with his term. Speaking of Tommy, he’s doing well. He’s such a bright kid, Phil, I can’t wait for you to meet him. Since the election, L’Manberg has had essentially no conflict. Everyone is happy and the future looks bright. I look forward to seeing you sometime soon.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

Tommy came into his office one day, rambling on about some scuffle with other server members, asking for Wilbur’s help in fighting them. He refused, of course, claimed too busy with his work, which was, to be fair, partially true. In reality, he couldn’t risk having any enemies, as nonsensical as the conflict may be. He wished Tommy luck and sent him on his way, then went back to his duties, as a good president should. No, not a good president. The best president.

He often thought back to the day the votes were read. How might it have gone if he had been honest with the results? Had his choice led to a new, exciting branch of history, or was he simply prolonging the inevitable? Nobody could rule forever. Every wave sank to the sea.

How self-centered he was, painting his life in useless, shallow metaphors whilst deceiving everyone he’d ever come to love. And how easy it would be, should one small crack appear, for an outsider to tear down the whole sculpted façade, to reveal the rot that infected the core of this nation. All Schlatt – all Dream needed was a single spark.

Chapter Text

Dear Phil,

I’ve been so swamped with work recently, I haven’t had time to write for a couple days. I hope you didn’t worry. Everything is alright. In fact, it’s more than alright. The expansion of the port is finished, and new ships come daily. Tommy’s been helping a lot to manage those. I wish there was a way for your letters to reach me, but if you’ve sent any, I haven’t gotten them. If only the crows flocked to me like they do to you. Or some other type of messenger bird. You could try sending mail with a trading ship when they start leaving from your port. I can’t say how long it would take to reach me, though, and the journey is far from guaranteed. Better for you to come and speak to me in person. I’m so proud of this country, you ought to see it. Of course, I’m sure you’re busy with whatever it is you do now. Is Techno still with you? If he is, tell him hello. Tell him turns out I don’t need to be any good at fighting to gain power. Diplomacy has its benefits. Also, tell him I miss him. I hope to see you both soon.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

He barely slept anymore. Most hours of the night, he was sat at his desk, bent over some documents with a shaking quill. Anything to distract himself from the mutterings in his brain, the stress and guilt that begged to eat him alive. Sometimes, he lay in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, wondering what force it would take to bring the building crumbling down on him.

This was meant to be his highest peak, the crest of his wave, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was buried underground. Cold, damp dirt pressed down on him, filling his mouth and then his lungs until he couldn’t take in a breath. The earth was slowly suffocating him, as worms wrapped themselves around his fingers and in the grooves of his ribs, inching toward his eye sockets to burrow in. He was the height of the sea, and he was drowning all the same.

It was a week before the festival. Preparations for the celebration were piling up, stacking on top of the already towering list of duties to fulfill. It didn’t matter how heavy the workload was, though; in the eyes of history, all that mattered was what he accomplished with his time. New housing by the edge of the wall. A rising economy, imports and exports from the expanded ocean port. And, of course, the festival, the testament to his post-election successes, the evidence of his ability to lead, the proof that he was the best man for the job. The nation’s only and greatest president.

He was smoking in his office again. Tommy always hated when he did that and refused to go in until the smell was gone. But the stress was seeping into Wilbur’s very bones now, and he hadn’t any other methods of relieving it. An occasional habit turned weekly, then daily, then more.

There was a knock at the door and Wilbur stubbed out his cigarette on the wooden surface of his desk, leaving another burn mark. He tossed it just in time for Tubbo to enter.

“Hey Tubbo,” he said hoarsely. He allowed himself one cough to regain his voice. “How’s it going?”

Tubbo wrinkled his nose, but made no comment. “I need some files for the space program.”

“The space program,” Wilbur repeated. He’d frankly forgotten of its existence.

“Yeah, just the deeds to a bit of land,” Tubbo said. “I can find it, if you don’t mind.” He started toward the cabinets.

“No!” Wilbur said, sounding a bit more anxious than he’d meant. “I mean, it’s really my responsibility. Just give me the work, I’ll handle it.”

“You sure?” Tubbo asked. “You’re not overwhelmed at all?”

“Stop asking me that,” Wilbur muttered. “I’m president. This is my job. Give me the paperwork, Tubbo, I’ve got it.”

“If you say so, boss man,” Tubbo said, handing over a stack of documents. “Let me know when that’s finished. I’ve got to – got to do something with Tommy and Fundy now.”

“Right. Sounds good.” Wilbur was staring at the papers now, paying no attention to Tubbo as he left the office.

It was becoming difficult to focus on the page. The lines of ink blurred in his vision, words turned meaningless. It was probably a physical symptom, from lack of sleep, lack of food, or a combination of the two. That or his brain itself was deteriorating.

It wasn’t as if he could exactly as for help, though. To do so would require revealing the root of his issues, which were his own selfish actions, entirely his fault. How could he admit he was suffering when it was self-imposed? He knew Niki was worrying about it, probably Tommy too. He’d been avoiding leaving his office at all costs, throwing out food Niki brought him to eat, pretending there weren’t dark circles beneath his eyes. If Phil came now, what would he think of his son?

Wilbur’s communicator buzzed, indicating a message. He glanced at it, seeing that it was from Tommy again. He ignored it. His unread messages were beginning to pile up, mostly from Tommy, but Niki too, and Tubbo. There was one from Fundy. He should read it. He didn’t.

One evening, he gained the energy to leave his office. He meant it as a solitary excursion, through the quiet streets and down to the ocean. The sun was setting over the water, spilling molten gold over the waves. One crest overtaken by another.

He set his hat on the dock beside him, letting the sea breeze push through his unkept hair. It was oily now, and full of tangles. Now it would become coated in sea salt as well. The temperature had lowered since he last sat here, but still, he dipped his toes into the water, boots and all.

The history books would keep no record of this. In the years to come, he would not be remembered for sitting by the ocean. This would fall into the chasm of human recollection, with no written trace, only untrusted word. They would paint no glorious picture of this, his old coat flapping in the gentle wind. This was not his legacy.

His legacy was in the papers he signed, in the laws he created. It was not found in the sleepless nights, in the nervous ramblings, in the trash filled with half-eaten bread loaves and cigarette butts. All of those would be swept away with time, and it would only matter what he did and how he died.

How would he die?

The question gnawed at his insides with a strange persistence. It was irrelevant, unnecessary to consider. He didn’t plan on dying anytime soon, not with so many people relying on him. Still, when the time came, he was certain that, at least, it’d be a spectacle. He was not the type to give up easily.

Before him, the sun had sunk beneath the waves, leaving a dark sky dusted with scattered stars. He felt no compulsion to return to his bed, or even to his office to work through the night again. Instead, he stayed with his legs dangling off the dock, feeling the night air flow through his body.

He sat alone for a few minutes before there was a rustling behind him, and a figure sat to his left, legs hanging in the same position.

“What is it, Tommy?” Wilbur asked, exhaustion edging his voice.

“Nothing,” Tommy said. “It’s just – y’know, the ocean’s pretty and shit – like a woman, see – and I was in the neighborhood, as I usually am, and, well, you know I love women, and the ocean’s like a woman, and—”

“Tommy, can you kindly shut the fuck up?”

Tommy laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the still night air. “Wilbur, you are a bitch.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not a – what the fuck?” Tommy laughed again, swinging his legs over the water. They skidded across the surface, spitting splashes in his wake.

“Tommy, why are you actually here?” Wilbur asked.

Tommy hesitated. “Well, you know, I’ve been pretty bored as of lately, you see, and – well, you’ve haven’t been replying to my messages, and it’s not because I’m clingy and shit, but I wanted to talk to you.” He snapped his mouth shut and stared at Wilbur, waiting for a response.

“Alright, Tommy,” Wilbur said. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, I – Tubbo was also thinking this, we were saying that – not to say you aren’t a great president, but—”

“What?” Wilbur cut in, his stomach twisting. “Are – are you saying I shouldn’t be—”

“No!” Tommy exclaimed. “I – we – think you’re the best man for the job, Wilbur. But it feels like you’re trying to do everything. All of the time. Like, aren’t you fucking tired?”

Wilbur shrugged, staring down into the black water of the bay. “I guess. But it’s part of the job.” He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Tommy, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got all of this handled.”

“But I’m supposed to be your right-hand man,” Tommy said. “Your – your fucking vice pres-i-dent. Shouldn’t I be doing more?”

“Tommy, you’re doing plenty,” Wilbur said. “Is that what this is about?”

“No, I just—”

“Listen, if you really need something to do, help Niki with the festival.”

“I am.”

“Then help more. I don’t know. I’m doing fine, Tommy.”

Tommy heaved a sigh, kicking his feet through the water again. “Niki’s worried about you.”

Wilbur turned back to the sea. “Niki’s worried about everyone.”

“But especially you.”

“Okay?” Wilbur ran his fingers through his hair, catching on the tangles that had formed. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy muttered. “Sorry, this – this was dumb. Coming out here. I don’t know.”

“No, it’s not dumb,” Wilbur said, wrapping an arm over Tommy’s shoulders and pulling him closer. It felt different, somehow, than it had a few weeks ago. It was as if there was an invisible fissure between them, growing wider, inch by inch, and he had no clue how to fix it. Could he even fix it? “I’m sorry I haven’t had a lot of free time recently,” he said. “There’s just so much to be done, running a nation and all.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Tommy said. “Responsibility and shit.”

Wilbur laughed. “It’s not all bad, though. And someday, this stuff will be your responsibility.”

Tommy met his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re going to be president after me, aren’t you?”

“I – yeah, I guess I am. But not for a while, right?”

“No, not for a while,” Wilbur said. “But someday.” He reached over and ruffled his brother’s blond hair. “You’ll be great at it, Toms. I promise.”

A loud laughed escaped Tommy. “Yeah, ‘course I will. I’m like, the best man ever.”

Wilbur smiled. “You should get to bed now.”

“You too.” Tommy rose and offered Wilbur his hand. Begrudgingly, he took it, allowing himself to stand.

He would compare Tommy to a star in the black canvas above, burning brightly despite its cold, empty surroundings. Full of fiery energy, searching for a galaxy in which to belong, and yet always, inevitably, the center of the solar system. He was the type who could not fall through the cracks. It was simply not possible. He’d pull everything to him, gravity out of his control, shining out onto all that surrounded him. As they walked back from the sea, Wilbur smiled to himself. Maybe this – Tommy – was his true legacy.

Legacy. The word made his stomach turn.

If Wilbur was a star, he was nearing the end of his life cycle. This was his final peak. Then, of course, the question had to be posed: would he fade into a white dwarf, or explode to a supernova? He hoped it was the latter.

Dear Phil,

The festival’s only a few days away. I don’t expect you to be there since I’ve gotten no indication that you’re able to attend. I mean, I suppose I can’t be sure you’re even receiving these letters, but you trust the crows, so I do too. I’ll send you a letter after the festival, letting you know how it goes. I’m sure you’re just as excited as I am. I don’t think I’ll be able to send any before that, though. There’s just so much to be done. I hope you are well, and that I might see you soon.

Yours truly, Wilbur Soot

It was two days before the festival. All of the preparations were going according to plan. If he closed his eyes, ignored the mess of his office, he could pretend everything was perfect. And perhaps it was. Yet somewhere in the depths of his gut, Wilbur felt that something was about to go terribly wrong.

There was a thunderstorm crashing against his windowpanes. Wind whipped rain sideways through the air, whirling in miniature hurricanes. If he counted the time between the flashes and the clap of thunder, he’d know the storm was right upon him, shrieking and howling outside his office walls. It was the culmination of the peaceful days and the pure expression of the state of his mind. He knew, somehow, that this was the beginning of something – or perhaps, more accurately, the ending. This day would not pass without incident. He was approaching the crest – the climax, rushing towards the fall.

Through the storm, he could scarcely see the dawn.

He had stayed awake through the entire night, working and pacing and muttering. He’d just burned a paper by accident when lighting a cigarette, and was peering at the charred page, trying to recall what it had said, when the door crashed open and the tension snapped.

Chapter Text

Wilbur leapt from his desk, nausea rushing through him, and stabilized himself against his office wall. Quackity stood in the doorway, bathed in shadow, breathing hard and leaning his weight on the door handle. For a moment, the only sound were his ragged gasps for breath, echoing in Wilbur’s hollow head. Then he stepped forward, allowing the warm light to wash over him, revealing the state of his appearance. His lip was split, half-dried blood trailing down his chin, and he looked to have the beginnings of a black eye. Red bruises littered the skin of face as well as his arms, and his shirt hung loose and soaked in sweat.

“Quackity,” Wilbur managed, stepping away from the wall. “How the… what the fuck happened to you?”

“Schlatt,” Quackity spit, slamming the door behind him. “Schlatt fucking happened, Wilbur.” He staggered forward, collapsing into the wooden chair.

Wilbur sat back at his desk, leaning over it to speak to him. Or perhaps it was because he couldn’t lift his spinning head enough to sit up on his own. “Why would he do this?” he breathed.

Quackity laughed, his voice high and hoarse. “You told me to get close to him, Wilbur. What else did you expect?”

Wilbur’s mouth fell open. “Are you implying this was my fault?”

“No, I’m sorry. I just – fuck. I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand over his face and winced when he touched a bruise. “Dream’s making him worse, Wilbur. It’s fucking obvious. And – and I know for a fact, they’ve got some plan between them. So I – I confronted Schlatt about it, ‘cause I didn’t want him screwing up the festival or something, and he just – he fucking – he didn’t use to be like this, Wil.”

Wilbur’s brain was reeling. “They’ve got a plan?”

“I – I’m pretty sure, they—”

“Fuck.” He slammed his fist against his desk, shaking the stacks of papers and tipping a bottle of ink. Quackity caught it before it could spill, moving it away from the documents it nearly ruined, and stared up at Wilbur, wide-eyed.

“Wil – fuck – calm down, you look – you look fucking scary, man.”

“Calm down?” Wilbur hissed. “You expect me to be fucking calm? Everything I worked for – I fucking died for – is about to be ruined! And by fucking Schlatt and Dream! You – you know Schlatt actually used to be my friend, before all this – all this election shit. And he goes and fucking betrays me, like everyone else, and now – now everything I did is going to be for nothing!” He was on his feet now, though he didn’t recall standing, and Quackity was as well, resting his weight on the desk.

“Listen, Wilbur,” he breathed. “I can’t help you from here. But Schlatt made it sound like it’s planned for the festival. That – that Dream’s gonna do something.”

“That can’t happen,” Wilbur said. “That can’t fucking happen.”

“Fucking stop him, then,” Quackity said. “But I’m out. I’m going home. Or wherever the fuck I placed my bed.”

“I’m going to fix this,” Wilbur muttered. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I hope you do,” Quackity said as he headed for the door. “I hope you make that fucker pay.”

There came a clap of thunder as the door slammed shut, and then Wilbur was laughing, cackling so hard his stomach hurt, sliding down to the floor as his body shook. This was exactly how he had predicted it. His enemies conspiring against him, planning out his perfect downfall. Oh, he was sure they’d make a whole show of it. Exposing him as a fraud in front of the entire country, pulling out any pride that remained in him. Perhaps they’d go for a public execution, turn it into a proper spectacle. He recalled the feeling of death in that cramped little room, of the crackling fire, of the final screams. That one hadn’t been permanent, but he was confident the next one would be. He would let his last breath seep out of him and leave the charred, mangled remains of his body as his legacy.

As much as his mind lingered on the thought of dying, in a way Niki and Tommy would not approve of, he was not about to give up so easily. No, he was the nation’s first and greatest president, and he was to remain in that role for as long as possible. He would do anything to keep this as his mark on history.

Even barter with the enemy.

He knew Schlatt well enough to know that he could not attempt to negotiate with him. That man was a freight train unbound from its tracks, barreling through the countryside with no regard for those it crushed. The key, then, to stop the thing, was the speak with the conductor steering the locomotive.

He messaged Dream a set of coordinates to meet him at. This had to be kept confidential, after all. The location was in the forest southwest of L’Manberg’s walls, where nature had remained nearly undisturbed. He trekked there without waiting for the storm to cease, letting cold rain soak into his uniform. That was fine; it was in need of a wash anyways.

The rain fell less under the covers of the trees, with a canopy of leaves above his head. What little sunlight wasn’t muted by the cloud coverage was scattered across the forest floor, leaving dark shadows stretching from every tree. Wilbur’s sword was at his belt, and he kept his ears alert to any disturbance. This could be a perfect opportunity for Dream to kill him. And if it came down to combat between the two of them, Wilbur was fairly certain he knew who would win. There was a reason he built his country on diplomacy, after all.

He arrived at the cave just as the rain began to lessen and ducked under the outcropping. It was a shallow, crumbling structure, as if nature began sculpting it then lost interest. The land divided into two levels, running parallel to one another, and this cave was only an intersection between them. Above his head, the rocks were coated in green moss and pale lichen, offering a poor substitution to proper earth. The cave itself was not deep at all, extending only far enough to offer shelter from the rain. The back wall was made of rocks and clay, smudging his fingers when he brushed the surface. It was a quiet, earthy place, a reminder that nature still had her say in things. He’d come here a couple times before, with his notebook and guitar, and watched the sunlight sift through the forest before him.

Now he stood with his back against the wall, fingers fidgeting with the hilt of the sword at his belt, awaiting the arrival of his enemy.

The rain had completely stopped by the time Dream arrived, but the parts of his hair that remained visible still showed the indication of dampness. For a moment, he stood in the open woods, staring silently, his expression concealed by the blank white mask. Then, at last, he entered the cave.

“Heard you wanted to speak with me.”

“That’s right,” Wilbur said, aiming for an air of confidence. “And I’ll warn you, if you try anything, I will not hesitate to detonate the ground beneath your feet.” It was a bluff, of course. He only hoped it was a good one.

“Wouldn’t that kill you too?”

“Hardly a concern.” He let a smile slide across his face. “It’s good to see you again.” He waited for Dream to respond, and, upon receiving nothing in return, continued on without him. “Now, the reason I called you here is that a – a little birdie told me you might be planning something. Something involving a certain man by the name of Schlatt, do you know him?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Dream said, effortlessly casual. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to make sure I’ve heard it correctly,” Wilbur said. “Because it kind of sounds like you’re trying to take over L’Manberg.”

Dream laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t phrase like that, exactly—”

“But that is what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”

Dream’s fingers twitched toward his axe, slung over his back, but he made no move to attack. “I guess it is,” he admitted. “But honestly, I couldn’t care less whose side wins.”

Wilbur’s head snapped up. “What?”

Dream leaned back against the cave wall, arms folded over his chest. “Come on,” he said. “You think I actually care whether it’s L’Manberg on that land or whatever new country Schlatt wants to run? It’s not about the sides. It’s about the chaos.”

“The chaos,” Wilbur echoed. “You just want chaos.” There was a seed forming in his mind, a terrible, dangerous idea. “And would you help me, if I was fighting for chaos?”

“How are you fighting for chaos?” Dream asked. “You were elected president. You want to keep your country. I want to shake things up a bit.”

Wilbur’s hands shook as his brain ran through countless scenarios, the possible results of this action he could take. It would be the riskiest decision he ever made, but it might be the only option to ensure his victory. And besides, the secret was bubbling in his chest, rising up in his throat, threatening to spill regardless. He ought to tell somehow. Anyone. Otherwise it just might eat him alive.

“You want to hear about chaos, Dream?” Wilbur asked, a laugh breaking through his words. “You want to hear about fucking chaos?” He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling his mouth stretch into a wide, almost painful smile. “I didn’t win the election,” he whispered. “I fucking rigged it.”

There it was, thrust out into the universe, his fatal flaw, his greatest sin. There it was, cast into his enemy’s hands, because he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else knowing. The wave was coming to swallow him, to yank him down to the foaming, swirling sea, to fill his lungs with saltwater, to weather his body down to bones.

“You rigged it?” Dream repeated, as if he didn’t know the word.

“I changed the results,” Wilbur breathed. It was like expelling a poison from his body, speaking the words into existence. They were no longer locked in the cavities of his chest. They were out in the world, liable to be spread. It was liberating relief and sinking terror all the same.

Then Dream laughed, a high, ecstatic noise that reverberated around in the shallow cave and flew out into the forest, striking the trees. “That’s incredible. You – I can’t believe it. You’re not even president.”

Wilbur’s stomach sank. “Yes I am.”

“Not according to the people.”

“I’ve done everything a president should do,” Wilbur said. “They – they don’t know how much work I’ve done, how much I’ve sacrificed for them.”

“Why don’t you tell them?” Dream said. “Tell them everything you’ve done and have them vote again and see. See if you actually deserve to lead.”

“Don’t you fucking say that,” Wilbur snapped. His hand was on his sword, sheaved at his belt, and still Dream did not move from his stance, still casual, still undefended.

“I’m just saying—”

“I didn’t come here for fucking advice,” Wilbur cut in. “I came here to stop you from taking over my nation. So are you going to side with me or not?” His voice was harsher than he’d meant it to be, but his heart was pounding too quickly now and he had to come to an agreement before the panic set in.

If they voted again, would they approve of him? He was doing everything right. He was the greatest president this nation had ever seen – ever would see. Surely they could understand that.

“You know what, Wilbur?” Dream said, straightening up off of the wall and stepping forward, approaching Wilbur. “I think I just might.”

“You will?” Wilber asked, his hand trailing off of his sword hilt.

“What do you say,” Dream proposed, “you and I against Schlatt?”

“Schlatt?” Wilbur repeated. “Is he still a threat without your help?”

“Definitely,” Dream confirmed. “He’s been looking around in all your files and records. I think he might know about the election results. And if he doesn’t he’s going to find out soon.”

Wilbur’s hands raked through his hair again, pulling at the roots, catching in the tangles. “What do we do?” he muttered. This could not be how it ended, after all this time. There had to be something he could do to remedy this, to seal the cracks that had formed in his façade. He was the president, after all, regardless of legitimacy. He had power. He could fix this, surely.

“At this point,” Dream began. “I think – I think it might be too late.”

“No,” Wilbur said. “It’s not fucking too late.”

“Well, unless you wanted to get rid of him, but—”

“What do you mean?” He latched on to it, the slimmest possibility.

Dream adjusted his mask, assuring his face was completely covered. His free hand strayed to his axe, but it was a passive gesture. He remained silent, evidently uncertain.

“Tell me,” Wilbur whispered. “Whatever it is, I can do it. I can’t let him ruin this – ruin me.”

“Well, there’s always—” Dream cut himself off, taking an audible breath. “We could kill him.”

Wilbur froze, feeling the room constrict around him. Was this truly his legacy? When he spoke those words out to the crowd, declaring himself their champion, had he ever considered that this was his trajectory?

The past didn’t matter now. This was his only option. The only way to mend the splintering, to keep up the mirage.

“How do we do it?” Wilbur asked. He felt certain in his words. It hardly made a difference now, who he hurt or killed. He’d already ensured that his soul would not pass any final judgement. It wasn’t as if he had further to fall.

“Well, it’ll have to look like an accident,” Dream said.

“Of course,” Wilbur agreed.

“So it should happen in public, with plenty of witnesses. That way nobody can suspect it was you.”

“Right. That’s smart.” His fingers raked his head. “What if it happens at the festival?”

“The festival?”

“It’s two days from now,” Wilbur said. “Everyone’s invited. And – and why would I want to ruin the celebration of my country?”

“Good point,” Dream said.

It was a good point. A bit too good. This could stain his legacy.

Wilbur pushed away the feeling. This was the only solution. The history books would write this as a tragedy, a poor stroke of luck on an otherwise untainted presidency.

“I think this should do the trick,” Dream said. Wilbur’s eyes locked on the vial in his hand, filled with an inky purple liquid. “Should look the same as a heart attack.”

Wilbur took hold of the vial, feeling the cool glass against his fingers, holding it like a lifeline. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Dream paused. “Like, literally do not mention it.”

A laugh bubbled up from Wilbur’s chest, pressing past his lips and stretching his face into a grin. He shook Dream’s hand, stowing the vial in the inner pocket of his coat. “I assure you, I’ll put it to good use.”

The sun was beginning to sink beneath the tree line as he headed back to L’Manberg, a giddy bounce in his step. Two days, and his worries would be cast away. Two days, and he could finally feel secure in his presidency. He wished he could reach up and take hold of the sun, tug it faster on its trek through the open sky. The weight was so close to being lifted from his shoulders, allowing his head to breach the surface again. This would be a new beginning for him, for the country as well. He felt certain, at least, that this was far from the end.

Chapter Text

It was the morning of the festival, and everything was perfect. The sun rose like a beacon in the east, tracing through a cloudless sky. Nestled in the trees, the morning birds called out their songs, clear melodies in major chords. Wilbur woke, having stolen a couple hours of sleep, and fixed his hair to the best of his ability. Then, with a warm, pleasant energy, he strolled down the street to Niki’s bakery.

The aroma hit him before he even opened the door, the sweet smell of cookies just exiting the oven. She smiled when she saw him at the door, and beckoned him to take a seat at the counter.

“Big day today,” she said, sliding a small plate to him. “Here, tell me if this is too sweet or not.”

Wilbur moved a hand toward the pastry, but his stomach was overcome with nausea, and the scent turned sickening. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I’m not really hungry…”

“Oh, shut up,” Niki said, surprisingly harsh. “I know you haven’t been eating enough. Do you want to pass out on stage in the middle of your speech?”

Wilbur’s face felt hot and he reluctantly complied, tasting bright sparks of flavor on his tongue. Somehow, he managed to force it down, giving Niki what he hoped was a dignified smile. It wasn’t as if he was avoiding food on purpose, he’d just gotten so busy with all his duties, it had slipped his mind. Once the festival was over, he’d work on that. If he planned on his presidency withstanding the test of time, he would need to become more sustainable.

“Speaking of your speech,” Niki was saying, “have you finished writing it?”

“’Course,” Wilbur said. He’d completed it the night before, or sometime in the early morning, he wasn’t totally sure. Some nice, hollow words about freedom and security, a celebration of victory. How could he stand there and call it a victory?

Part of him wondered what would happen if he spilt it all, announced his treason for all to hear. He could stand on that stage and deliver an honest speech, detail exactly how he betrayed them all, and accept whatever punishment they saw fit for him.

Of course, deep down, he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look Tommy in the eyes and admit he lied to him. He couldn’t watch the smile fall from Niki’s face as he severed any connection with her. He was too selfish to reveal the truth, so instead, he was forced to fulfill the path laid out for him. In his lie, he had thrown himself to the sea, with no way to hoist himself ashore, and so the only solution was to evolve his own gills to swim.

“So, what’d you think of it?” Niki asked.

“What?”

“The cookie.” She gestured to the empty plate in front of him.

“Oh. Yeah, it was great, thanks.”

Niki raised her eyebrows.

“Uh… delicious,” Wilbur clarified. “Perfect sweetness. As always.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Niki laughed.

Wilbur averted his eyes. “Just a bad taste-tester.”

He bid farewell to Niki soon after, granting her time to finish her preparations for the festival. The day was rushing past him, far quicker than he’d intended, and before long, he was standing in the growing shadows behind the stage, lighting his cigarette. These were his last few minutes of peace before he was expected to greet the country with a speech, to welcome them to his fine nation. It had been a long time since this nation was anything to be proud of, but he would simply have to act the part.

His eyes were closed when he heard the sound of footsteps in the grass, a steady tread that, he noticed, had become more nervous in the passing weeks. Tommy sidled up beside him, somehow not the first to speak.

“Big day,” Wilbur muttered, echoing Niki’s words. His lifted his eyelids and exhaled a breath of smoke.

“The biggest day,” Tommy agreed. “The most massive day of possibly all days. The hugest, largest—”

“We get it,” Wilbur said, coming across harsher than he’d meant to. “Sorry, just a little bit nervous, you know?”

“Ah,” Tommy said, nodding his head in an overexaggerated motion. “Not too fond of the ol’ public speaking, eh?”

Wilbur let out a breathy laugh and rubbed his knuckles over the back of his neck. “Nah, it’s not that.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. “It’s nothing, Tommy. Come on, we’ve got a country to address.”

He couldn’t help but picture the last time he stood on this stage, facing out at the sea of expectant citizens. It was the moment that permanently changed the course of history, the decision that continued to carve tunnels in his brain. In the moments before he spoke, Wilbur glanced to his side, to where Tommy stood loyally, his head held high. They were cheering for him, the people in the crowd, enthusiastic at the sight of their glorious leader, the man who had led them through fire and come out unscathed. Well, relatively, at least. There was the life he’d paid.

“Thank you,” Wilbur began, and crowd became subdued. “I’m thrilled you all could make it tonight.” His tone slipped effortlessly into a familiar groove, the voice of a confident president, with which he could spit lies between his lips, straight from the poison within his chest. “This is not just a celebration of victory. This is in honor of all that this nation used to be, and everything that it has become today. It has been and always will be a place of freedom, security, and emancipation. I hope this marks the beginning of a new chapter in L’Manberg’s history, a chapter of growth and prosperity.”

Wilbur darted his eyes to Tommy, stood proudly at his side, and gave the slightest inclination of his head. A subtle nod. Tommy’s mouth spread into that ear-to-ear grin, the same one he’d worn the last time his presence graced the stage. And like the moon set to pull the ocean up in rising tides, Tommy was a beacon, the reason for this tragedy. Someday, he would take Wilbur’s place at the podium, rising up from the culling of the old sea foam. He would stand on Wilbur’s stone foundations, weathered yet persisting against the cut of the sea. But for now, for now he was his secondhand man, and Wilbur was the statue on the pedestal. A champion dueling a leviathan, silent as the coliseum eagerly watched. He was not outmatched by his opponent, though, not anymore. There was a cold glass vial in the pocket of his coat.

“With that being said,” Wilbur continued, his voice ringing through the air, indistinguishable between a phoenix and a canary’s cry, “let the festival begin.”

Tommy’s hand clapped over his back, and Tubbo was there, his hair bouncing over his eyes. Wilbur let the smile slip over his face with ease as Tommy steered the group towards the first game.

It was as perfect as any good symphony was, with melodies rising up in the form of laughter and careless joking quips. The sun shone like the low, flowing notes of a cello, illuminating the revelrous scene, and beneath it all, the steady rhythm of Wilbur’s heart, beating effortlessly inside his chest.

But no symphony was without mistakes, and this one contained a huge glaring flaw, an instrument playing insistently in the wrong key. Even as he laughed, Wilbur could feel Schlatt’s eyes on him, boring into the infestation of guilt in his mind. The party drifted toward the refreshment table. This was his chance.

Wilbur froze like a sailor facing a tidal wave, locked to stare in shock and horror as the sea curved over his deck. The festival guests were milling around him, happy little seabirds bound to fly away. They could free themselves from the ship in the storm, float away to a newer, safer place, but Wilbur was human, stubbornly so. He stood at the bow and watch the wave begin to fall.

He met Dream’s gaze across the room, like a rabbit catching the glint of the hawk’s eye. Even with the white mask over his face, Wilbur knew Dream’s eyes were trained on him, the way a prey knew the sound of a predator. All at once, the storm stilled around him, the sound of chatter submerged underwater. Time passed at the pace of a heavy, drowsy snail. Wilbur felt the remainder of his breath leave him.

Dream. His ally. His greatest enemy. His final tether, his chance for escape. The wave was falling, crashing over him. In the slightest motion, Dream tipped his head. A nod. Permission. Encouragement.

His hand brushed over the bottle’s neck, quickly finding the cool ring of glass. In one swift motion, he tipped the contents of the vial from his sleeve, watching it dissipate into the dark liquid.

It was murder. It was salvation. It was his darkest sin and greatest feat. It was—

“Wilbur!” Niki’s face swam in his vision in front of him, glowing in the light of the setting sun. “Come on,” she said. “You’ve got to see this.”

He allowed her to lead him away from the drinks, past the blinking dance floor, and up the steps onto the stage once more.

“You aren’t expecting me to make another speech, right?” Wilbur asked. “I haven’t prepared anything.”

“Oh, no,” Niki said hurriedly. “The view’s just better up here.” She pulled her coat closed as she reached the top of the stairs, an autumn breeze pushing its way through them. There was a figure sitting on the edge of the stage, silhouetted against the lights of the festival.  His horns protruded up from his curled dark hair, stretching higher with each passing sunrise. Niki plunked down next to him, beckoning for Wilbur to follow.

“What is this?” Wilbur asked, a note of caution in his voice. He took a seat on Niki’s other side, glancing between her and Tubbo in the dying light. Why had she insisted on pulling him away from the festivities? And what was Tubbo doing here? Surely this wasn’t some ploy to corner him, here in public where he could not slip away. Wilbur’s body tensed as he awaited their reply.

“It’s a surprise,” Tubbo said. “It was Niki’s idea.”

“Oh, not really,” Niki deflected. “Tubbo did all the work. But I figured you’d want the best view to see it.”

“To see what?” Wilbur asked. He was growing impatient.

“Oi, Tommy!” Tubbo called at a waving figure below. “Come up here, I’ve got something to show you!”

“You didn’t tell Tommy?” Niki asked, turning to Tubbo.

Tubbo shook his head. “It’s better as a surprise.”

Wilbur clenched his fingers over the outcropped ledge of the stage. “Are you guys purposely torturing me?” he asked. There was a hint of laughter in his tone, but beneath the surface, his nerves were sparking with anxiety. Down below, in the midst of happy partygoers, the cursed bottle was still sitting on the table, waiting for its victim’s claim.

Tommy landed hard on Wilbur’s other side, kicking his legs out the same as he did on the dock. He was still wearing that waxing grin, and Wilbur wondered how his face wasn’t burning from the effort. “This better be good,” Tommy grumbled. “Big Q was about to teach me about women.”

“It’s good we saved you from that, then,” Wilbur said. The air cracked with Tommy’s laughter, and the other two’s voices joined the chorus echoing in Wilbur’s head. It was almost enough to quell the storm in his mind, the image of that tiny vial in his hand.

“So, what it is?” Tommy asked. “What are we waiting for?”

“Almost,” Tubbo said. “We gotta wait for the sun to fully set.”

Wilbur glanced up at the darkening sky, which had turned from a burnt orange to a dusty violet. The stars winked back in scattered constellations, stubbornly consistent as the world shifted beneath them. This entire country could come to fire and ruin, and still, those stars would remain the same, floating fixed on the endless tapestry. Life and death, truth and lie, it had no meaning to them. The stars didn’t care who he deceived, who he killed. Was it comfort or despair, this cosmic insignificance?

“Wilbur.” Niki was nudging him.

Wilbur blinked his focus back on the physical; the sky was now an inky sapphire hue. “Hm?”

“It’s starting soon.”

Wilbur glanced around, his eyes skating the festival below. “Where exactly am I meant to be looking?” he asked.

“Up,” Niki said, pointing at the sky ahead of them.

“I sure hope this works,” Tubbo muttered under his breath.

For a moment, they waited in anticipation, listening to the bubbling voices from below. Schlatt’s laugher broke through the medley of noise, tinged with the indication of alcohol. In the darkness, Wilbur couldn’t spot the bottle on the table. Had it already been taken, drained down his rival’s throat? He held his breath, forcing his gaze back to the sky above.

Shadow. Silence. The rising of the sea.

All at once, the sky erupting in front of him, spitting red and golden light. A shower of sparks rained down from the firework, quickly followed by another explosion, this one bright cobalt. The sky was a canvas burning with vivid images: yellow stars, white spheres, red waterfalls.

Beside him, Tommy drew in a sharp breath. Wilbur spared a glance to his side to see his brother’s face bathed in the flashing light, eyes wide, transfixed by it all.

“You like fireworks, huh?” he muttered.

“Shut up,” Tommy scoffed.

From the crowd below came a rising cheer as the festival guests turned their attention to the bursting sky. Fireworks overlapped on top of one another, the sounds of their explosions ripping through the evening air. The frequency increased, as did the volume, rising in a beautiful, fiery crescendo. At last came the finale in a brilliant spectacle, one last firework in the shape of L’Manberg’s flag, burning its impression into the darkness.

Then, at last, raw silence again.

One by one, the guests in the crowd below began to erupt into furious applause, and Tommy was laughing, leaning around Wilbur to high-five Tubbo.

Niki turned to Wilbur, grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I’m so glad that worked,” she breathed. “Tubbo wasn’t sure.”

“Of course it worked,” Wilbur replied. “This is Tubbo we’re talking about.”

“Alright,” Tommy declared, bouncing up to his feet once more. “Now it’s time to fucking par-tay.”

It was perfect, just as it should have been. Wilbur followed the others down off of the stage, mingling again with the festival guests. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to be swept away by it all: the laughs and jokes bouncing between grinning lips, the looks of respect from his citizens as he passed. The gentle sighing of the universe at a job well done.

But the job was not over. There was sin yet to be done.

Carefully cutting through the happiness like blade into flesh, a muddled commotion began to rise. Wilbur found himself at the edge of onlookers, phasing in and out of reality as he registered the scene. A bottle splintered on the floor, shards scattering across the smooth concrete. Wilbur’s gaze fell on the first figure he saw, and with a sinking terror, he recognized Quackity.

He hadn’t been the one to drink it, surely. Nobody besides Schlatt could stand that stuff, so bitter and dry and unpleasant to consume. Wilbur’s stomach turned with fear as he edged closer, breaking away from the crowd.

At last he saw him, the man whose death he so eagerly awaited. He was standing behind Quackity, having been obscured from view, and was swaying slightly on his feet. A breath of relief escaped Wilbur’s lips.

“What’s going on?” Wilbur asked, ever the considerate president.

Schlatt staggered, reaching out to brace himself. His hand connected with a tense shoulder belonging to Quackity, who paled, locking eyes with Wilbur.

It was time for the most crucial acting performance of his life, the critical moment to convince his country of his innocence. He could not let this event turn them against him.

“Oh my God,” Wilbur breathed. “I – Schlatt, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Schlatt muttered, leaning his weight on Quackity.

“How much did he drink?” Tubbo asked over Wilbur’s shoulder.

“Too much, looks like,” someone commented.

Good. It was best that they see it this way.

Schlatt opened his mouth and turned to Quackity, clearing meaning to say something, but he struggled to push the words out of his mouth, eyes darting, unfocused, disengaged. Then his knees buckled from under him and he collapsed forward as Quackity sprung out of the way, his head striking the pavement and body going still.

“Schlatt!” Wilbur cried, like the traitor he was, and bent down to search for the heartbeat of the man he had killed. After a few seconds, he leaned back on his hands, painting a look of shock on his face. “He’s dead.”

“What was that, a heart attack?” somebody asked.

“I think so,” Wilbur breathed, staring at the quiet corpse. “I can’t believe he’s actually dead.”

A hand was extended down to him, Niki’s, and he took it gratefully. Standing proud yet shaken, he addressed the crowd.

“This night has ended in tragedy.” He raised his voice to be heard by all in attendance. “Cherish the joy you have found and send love to those in mourning. I wish for you all to return home safely.”

They were the words of a man he had yet to meet, but somehow, when vital, he spoke them with ease. Soon after, he politely excused himself, for he was in far too much shock to do anything productive. He retired to his office, fighting against his exhaustion, and sank into his desk chair, heart pounding.

He’d done it. He’d actually done it. The loose thread was cut from his perfectly crafted canvas, leaving only the glory he’d woven himself. There was a sense of relief, of freedom at last. And yet, beneath all of that, the tension still grew. Would he never be totally rid of it? Would his entire presidency be fraught with unease and anxiety? How much longer could he exist like this?

No, that was no way of thinking of things. He’d made such a major accomplishment today, ridding himself of the leech that had been draining him. And besides all that, he’d actually enjoyed himself. All this deception might be worth it, in the end, for the promise of a life free from fear and misery.

He allowed his mind to slip into the blissful fantasy, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyelids fall closed. Schlatt was dead. He was happy. He’d cut the loose thread perfectly. The storm in his head subsided to a cool cloudy day, and he smiled, even with no audience to see.

The door crashed open, slamming against the wall, and Wilbur’s eyes snapped open to see the figure in the frame. He stood, shaking, in his dark blue uniform, holding a folder clenched in his trembling hands. His dark hair was swept back out of his eyes, curling around the two horns rising up from his head, and his face was mangled into one of unnamable despair.

“Wilbur,” he gasped, chest heaving as he slammed the door. “What the fuck did you do?”

Chapter Text

Tubbo’s voice wavered as he spoke, his eyes brimming with the first signs of tears. “Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m being stupid.”

Wilbur rose from his seat, forcing his vision to focus. This wasn’t the time to panic. He could still get out of this. “Tubbo,” he said. “You haven’t even told me what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Tubbo said, the ghost of a laugh rippling through his words. He stepped forward and slammed the folder on Wilbur’s scattered desk. “You’re nervous all the time. You won’t let me read the files. I mean, I thought you were just being paranoid about Dream or the discs or something – to think I was going to force you to take a vacation.” Tubbo shook his head, shooting daggers from his eyes. “I – I started thinking, what could you be hiding? And I wanted it to be nothing. I tried to believe it was nothing.”

“Tubbo—” Wilbur started.

“Let me finish,” Tubbo snapped. “I thought back to when this started – or when this new phase of it started. And I realized it was after the election.”

“Tubbo, listen, I—”

“No!” Tubbo shouted. “I’m – I’m done listening to your persuasions, Wilbur. Why did you purge the election record? Why won’t you trust your own cabinet? Why did Schlatt, who was the only real threat to your presidency, just drop dead of something they’re conveniently calling a heart attack?”

“I don’t know!” Wilbur exclaimed. “Honestly, I don’t! You – you think I’d fucking murder someone just because he nearly beat me in the election?”

“No,” Tubbo answered, his voice dropping an octave. “Wilbur, I think he did beat you.”

“Tubbo, what—”

“Tell me I’m wrong!” Tubbo’s hands were curled into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles white. “Be honest for one second and tell me I’m being paranoid.”

Wilbur stared at him, his vision blurring. The entire world was collapsing in on him, folding his body between realities, as if the planet itself had begun to implode. Control was slipping away from him, falling in spools at the feet of his accuser. How had he not seen this coming? How was he so unprepared? The wave was crashing down on him, suffocating him with waves of salt water in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. This moment was drowning him.

“Did you do it?” Tubbo asked, his voice straining not to break.

Wilbur’s throat had closed up entirely, but he forced his head to nod.

“Okay,” Tubbo said quietly. “Then I’m going to have to arrest you.”

This was it. His true and just punishment. He knew better than to wallow and beg for mercy, to plead for kindness he did not deserve. Tubbo typed something on his communicator, and a moment later, two tall figures entered the room, locking cold metal around Wilbur’s wrists, leading him out his office in disgrace.

His body moved without his influence, carrying him out of his dark office, feet shuffling numbly beneath him. At any moment, he expected to awaken again, passed out on his desk with a quill in his hand, and forget this just as he did every other nightmare. But time continued, and he was led from the building, Tubbo walking stiffly ahead of him.

A crowd had formed in the street outside, a faceless audience. Here he was, pantomiming his own death onstage, except instead of applauding, they only watched him silently, waiting like vultures as he was marched past. They would swoop down and dig into his flesh until they’d picked him to the bone, until there was nothing left to recognize him by. It didn’t matter, though; they were only nameless birds. He could have dealt with nameless birds.

They were standing at the door to the new courthouse as he arrived, and Wilbur’s entire body went cold. Niki’s arms were wrapped around herself, her hair falling in front of her face. She wore a stony expression that might have been unreadable if it weren’t for the devastation painted clearly in her eyes. All this time, she’d been trying to help him, and in one swift motion, he’d throw it all away. It was as if he’d carved his own insides out and spilt them on the ground at her feet. He couldn’t breathe.

Worse than that, though, was Tommy’s face. Gone was the familiar blazing heat, the spark that always resided in his eyes. It was as if the gravity around him had suddenly tripled, anchoring his entire body more forcefully to the ground. He stared at Wilbur with a look somewhere between betrayal and disbelief, and for the first time in his time, Tommy was seemingly speechless.

The end of his symphony was no great fall from grace, no departure in fiery glory. It was quiet. Calm. He didn’t protest as they led him down the stairs of the courthouse, to the empty little cell with its flickering torch on the wall. If there were words to be said, he could not find them, lost somewhere in the fog of his mind.

A bold choice, of course, to try and pity himself. How else had he expected this to end? He’d made his choice in that election to run the path of dishonesty. This had always been the most probable outcome.

They left him alone in the basement of the courthouse, no doubt discussing what to do with him. There was no precedent for what was deemed a fair punishment. Exile? Death? He knew which one he would prefer. When they wrote this page of the history book, they would want proper justice to be dealt to the man who was so clearly in the wrong. If there was any doubt about his villainy before, he’d sealed his fate at the festival.

It felt like hours that he sat with his back against the wall, watching the yellow-red light from the torch dance over the stone ceiling. The flames moved with a life of their own, reaching out in bouncing leaps from their bracket. Wilbur considered snuffing the fire out, leaving himself in the cold, dark cell, but he ultimately decided he’d rather not freeze to death. That would be pitiful way to go.

It might have been the next day before anyone came down, but Wilbur had no sense of time anymore. He recognized Niki’s footsteps immediately and sat upright, awaiting her arrival. When she emerged from the doorway, she stopped in her tracks, staring at him like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. Wilbur, in turn, studied her, as she’d managed to change since even the last time he saw her. Her hair was tied up from her face in a manner that suggested she was trying to look put-together, probably to compensate for her otherwise disheveled appearance. The skin around her eyes and the tip of her nose were tinted pink, indicating she’d been crying, and in confirmation, there were dark streaks across her sleeves, no doubt from wiping her tears. Her jacket itself was more rumpled than Wilbur had ever seen it, and her signature light blue belt was gone.

“So,” Niki began, “are you happy with yourself?” Her voice was steady, somehow, but there was venom in her words, and Wilbur resisted the impulse to flinch. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked.

Wilbur stared at her. The ocean was flat, no waves in sight, just low, calm waters slowly pulling from the shore.

Niki glared at him, shaking her head. “You’re telling me you were so obsessed with gaining power that you’ve been lying to every single one of us for weeks? To Tubbo, to me, to Tommy, you—” She cut herself off, taking a careful breath. “The sad thing is, I still feel bad for you. As if it’s not your own fault you’re in this mess.”

The shoreline was receding steadily, revealing a rippling sandy floor dotted with smooth black rocks and white bits of shells. To an ignorant onlooker, it might have been beautiful, but anyone living near the ocean was familiar with the signs, the growing horror in his gut as the waters slipped away.

“Tell me,” Niki whispered, “when did I lose you? At what point did it all become a lie?”

“It wasn’t all—”

“It was, though!” Niki snapped. “There was a moment, sometime between the beginning and now, that it stopped becoming about freedom or liberty or whatever you preached to us, and it just turned into maintaining your own image and power. L’Manberg might not be dead yet, Wilbur, but it’s dying. And you’re the one killing it.”

A black tsunami blocking out the sun, towering over him like the jaw of a leviathan, teeth of white foam. Then, in an instant, gravity took hold, and his ears filled with the great roaring of the wave as his body was consumed and dark water filled his lungs.

She left before he could claw his way to the surface, not bothering to linger for an answer.

In the darkness, Wilbur grinded his fist against the floor, and the rough texture on his skin worked to ground him, somehow. The walls were caving in around him, but he was here, existing in this cell, and he would find a way out of this mess. He had to. What else could he do?

As the hours bled on, his mind slipped into a haze. Fragments of memories came back to him, stumbling through his head and back out again. The declaration in his hands, bearing each signature in bold, glistening ink. Tommy and Tubbo working through the night to finish the walls at Wilbur’s side. Fundy sat by the quiet sea, his ginger hair in sharp contrast to the turquoise water.

It should have been nostalgia that he felt looking back, that warm pleasant feeling with a tinge of longing. Instead, his stomach churned with aimless grief. For the time slipped away, for the person he used to be. How had he not even noticed the change? It was as if one moment he was laughing by his companions’ side, the next lying in the gutter with a dagger in his chest. The moments in between were muddled, unsortable. The difference was staggering, but even in retrospect, he could not plot out the shift.

All at once, he was hit with the calamity of what he’d done, as if his brain had finally registered the reality of it all. He had lied, cheated, and deceived to maintain power, and now he’d been caught and reprimanded. They’d be planning his execution by now, surely; he only hoped they’d grant him a good spectacle. Something for the historians to write about.

Picturing his own death was supposed to scare him. Why, then, did he feel a sudden blanket of calm? He imagined the blood draining from his body, cleansing all of the poison with it, until all that was left was a rigid statue. They could put him on display somewhere, an artifact of the nation’s history. Then slowly, over time, the wind would weather at his skin and clothes, until all that was left was a nameless skeleton. Until any identifying features had been wiped off of him. Total erasure. There was comfort in the thought.

And yet still, even then, there was no undoing his actions. There was no way to reverse the events that already taken place. He could not cut himself from the others’ memories. Tommy would always have once had a brother, Fundy a father. Niki a friend. And Tubbo…. Wilbur was fairly certain the kid had looked up to him, always following him around in the early days, acting as diplomat. The makings of a vice president. He bit down hard on his tongue to distract from the bitter taste in his mouth that plumed when he pictured the kid, horns barely poking above his brown curls, those shaking words tumbling past his lips.

What the fuck did you do?

He’d let everyone down. No great triumph or dramatic fall from grace; only a slow, quiet crumbling lined with deceit, until there was no reason to have even done it in the first place. What had he gained from this? A few more weeks of power?

And now, for good reason, no one would ever trust him. He’d ruined just about every relationship he’d ever built. Schlatt, the man who he had once considered a friend, was dead by his hand. Gone and buried by now. At any moment, he expected to be dragged from his cell, tossed onto the stage before his scorning crowd, and shot through the head with a firework.

Wilbur envisioned the moment the charge struck his flesh, splintering fragments of his skull. He saw Tommy’s eyes, wide with disbelief, as if he expected them to aim away at he last moment, grinning and shouting, “it was all just one big joke!” And then the fire would reach his brain, and he’d be dead before his body hit the stage. Flames would scorch the collar of his uniform, charring it black as night. He’d leave an awful mess behind.

Would they grant him a funeral? Did he deserve one? He felt sure that at least someone would advocate for him, but perhaps that was only wishful thinking. It didn’t matter, anyway. Not as if he’d be around to witness it.

Of course, there were other ways they could bring about his death…. Wilbur drifted, picturing each scenario in full, vivid detail, clinging to these false imitations of senses. The smell of smoke, his own spilt blood. Voices crying out to him. A chain around his ankle, submerged in the sea. Somebody’s blade plunged through his abdomen. The rushing wind at the edge of a cliff. Fire licking up his grimy uniform. The hilt of a dagger in his shaking hand. Sleepless nights. Niki’s bread in the bin. Lurching, aimless, through the city at night, as if it still belonged to him. The sea at his toes. A knife in his heart. Falling, spreading his arms to fly, waiting for the wind to make wings out of his torn uniform, laughing as the ground rushed up to meet—

“WIL!”

He snapped his head up, slamming it against the wall behind him. The room materialized around him, decrypting itself from the haze he’d slipped into. Tommy was standing in the doorway, looking a proper mess. His hair was tousled, in need of a comb, and red pigment around his eyes and over his nose signified that he’d been crying, though Wilbur knew that he would never admit it.

“Ow,” Wilbur grumbled. “What the fuck are you shouting for?”

“Because I said your name like twelve times and you just sat there,” Tommy replied. “Looking all catatonic and shit.”

“Zoning out,” Wilbur muttered.

“Whatever,” Tommy said. “I’m not here for your – for your idle banter, dickhead.”

“What are you here for, then?”

“I’m here to tell you that you fucked up, Wil.” Tommy’s tone was suddenly serious, uncharacteristically so. It reminded Wilbur of how he sounded after Eret’s betrayal, and in the moments before his duel with Dream for L’Manberg. “I don’t know what the fuck you were telling yourself, but we weren’t gonna hate you for losing the election. Kind of the opposite. ‘Cause now you’re a – a fucking traitor, Wil. You betrayed us.”

“I did not—”

“Yes, you did,” Tommy cut him off. “You went against us and lied for your own gain. That’s like – that’s like the definition of betrayal.”

Wilbur dragged his fingers over his face, forcing himself to stay rooted in the present. Tommy’s gaze was red hot, piercing his skull. What had he done? What have you done?

“You could have told me,” Tommy said, shockingly quiet. “If you were really so freaked out about losing, you could have told me. I would have – we’re brothers, Wil. We’re supposed to be.” A heavy breath pushed out of him. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna talk to Quackity. He’s president now – your worst fucking fear, right? Seems like. Anyway, I’ll make sure they go easy on you. I don’t – I don’t want you to suffer, Wil.” His arms wrapped around himself, and Wilbur was struck by how young he looked. A kid. He was hurting a kid. All this flowery talk of legacy, and here was the effect of it all, the real harm he had caused.

Tommy turned his back on Wilbur’s cell. His fingers dug into the pale skin of his arms. And then, silently, he walked away, plunging Wilbur yet again into solitude.

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant place to be.

Chapter Text

Time moved lethargically, or perhaps it was passing too quickly to comprehend. The only indication that time had not stopped entirely was the slow burning of the torch in the bracket on the wall. It was enchanted to last longer than normal wood, of course, but still, the black char seeped down from the flames, infecting the wooden stump like a mold.

Wilbur found it strange that they would leave him alone for so long if they were only inevitably going to execute him, but he could fathom no other punishment that would deal justice for his deceit. It would be disappointing if they only meant to keep him for a while, perhaps let him starve in the privacy of his cell. That was no way for a villain to depart.

Because he was a villain, after all. He was a cheater, a killer, and a fraud. He’d hurt his friends and poisoned his country. Every bad thing that happened to him was his own doing. Who was he to complain of the pain inflicted by his own hand?

It’d be much easier to slip into pure villainy, to be evil without consciousness of his deeds, but the cold, twisting python of guilt curled in his gut, gnawing away at his rotting organs. He wished he could cut the regret out of him, lose all semblance of the man he used to be. Maybe it’d make it easier for them to kill him.

It must have been at least a day that they left him alone, sitting in thick silence, waiting for the end. At some point, exhaustion overtook nerves, and he drifted off curled up in the corner of the cell. His dreams were mostly foggy and vague, but they were doused in the growing feeling of bitter regret. Villains weren’t meant to have this much regret.

He must have been asleep when the commotion began, because by the time the sound registered in his brain, his head was smacking against the stone wall and his arms were splayed out in some wild panic. There came a loud crash from the courthouse above his cell, followed by a ruckus of various yells and, most troubling, the distinct sound of steel on steel. Wilbur moved groggily across the room and pressed his cheeks against the cool bars, as if the small change in distance could help him decipher what was going on. There was a thud indicative of something – a body? – falling to the floor, and then pounding footsteps on the stairs in front of him.

What was happening? Had someone come to take the honour of killing him? Or perhaps it was newly appointed president Quackity, come to deliver his due punishment.

When the figure arrived at the base of the steps, however, it was neither of his two predictions. It was a man whose face he immediately recognized, though it had been months since they’d seen each other. His silhouette was almost human, save for the dark wings spread across the corridor, black feathers pressing against the stone walls. Some called him the Angel of Death, but in that moment, Wilbur saw him as an omen more than anything. A dead canary in the dust of a coal mine. A sign that everything was about to change.

“Wilbur.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes wide and searching.

“Phil,” he replied. His hands felt numb at his sides.

For a moment, they stood there, two silent obelisks, like ships passing in the dead of night. Then, finally, Phil broke the silence with a sharp inhale, closing the distance between the stairs and the cell. His arms weaved through the black steel bars, cupping Wilbur’s hollow cheeks between his palms.

“God, what have they done to you?”

Phil’s eyes were filled with such deep, pooling concern, such unconditional familial love, that Wilbur felt the tension melt out of his body, and he pressed his face into Phil’s warm hands. If he closed his eyes, he was back home as a kid, sitting with Phil in the library, earning his guitar, struggling to hold a sword to his enemies.

“Phil,” Wilbur choked. Tears were brimming at his eyes, selfish tears for the son he was pretending to be. His lips sputtered, struggling to link words together. “Why are – what are you doing here?”

Phil’s thumb traced the grooves of Wilbur’s face, the valleys that had formed in the past few weeks, from lack of sleep or food or just plain stress. “Your letters stopped coming,” he said. “I was worried about you. You never wrote after the festival, and I got thinking about all the enemies you’ve been making, and I thought someone might have tried to overtake you.” Wilbur slowly shook his head, but before he could speak, Phil continued. “And it looks like I was right.”

Wilbur tilted his head up from the cradle of Phil’s hands, letting the cool air solidify the tears that had escaped from his eyes. “What?”

“Well, someone had to lock you down here.” Phil gestured around, as if Wilbur had not noticed he was imprisoned. “I was told the president was staying here, but when I arrived, Fundy seemed to think Quackity was in charge. I realized pretty quickly what was going on.”

Wilbur stared at him, uncomprehending. He missed the feeling of Phil’s small embrace of his head.

“Quackity tried to take power from you,” Phil explained. “He must have gotten most of the cabinet on his side, by the looks of it. I’m so sorry, Wil, you don’t deserve any of this.” He sighed, pulling his hands back through the metal bars. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.” His hands fumbled at the lock, jamming in a key from his belt. Wilbur was hesitant to ask where he’d gotten it.

The door pulled open with the ear-screeching sound of metal grinding against hard stone. In an instant, Phil’s arms enveloped Wilbur, holding him closer than another person had in quite some time.

“You’ve gotten thinner,” Phil said. Wilbur’s mouth was dry. “What, are they starving you?” He held Wilbur at arm’s length, studying him. “How long have they kept you here?”

Wilbur searched through the folders of his muddled brain, but he could not come up with a cohesive answer. Hours? Days? It could have been weeks for all he knew.

“Come on.” Phil’s hand was on Wilbur’s shoulder, guiding him up the steps out of the cellar of the courthouse, and there was this terrible churning in Wilbur’s gut, but he hadn’t the nerve to burst this new façade he’d managed to fabricate. Well, Phil had created most of it; he’d only nodded along and kept his mouth shut, but now Phil somehow believed he’d been unjustly stripped of power, betrayed by those that, in reality, he deceived.

But Phil’s hand was steady on his shoulder, and he was already so far past the possibility of redemption, so what was one more act of evil to his ledger? It certainly wouldn’t the first time he’d lied to his father, but it very well may be the last.

At the top of the stairs, Phil moved past Wilbur to push open the door, allowing golden light to strike his eyes. He’d spent so much time in the dusty, muted dark, that Wilbur winced, squinting at the gentle sunlight. It took a few seconds to regain his bearings, but once he did, he found that he was standing in the main room of the new courthouse, with tall windows stretching up to the sloped roof and its chairs and podiums still arranged for the last court case – some land dispute Wilbur had barely registered in his hazy mind.

More significant than that, though, was the fact that they were not alone. Lying on the floor by the double doors leading out of the courthouse was Fundy’s still unconscious body, red hair splayed out across the dark oak floor. And kneeling over him, staring up at Phil and Wilbur with red-hot resentment, was the newly appointed president himself, Quackity.

“You.” His voice was cold as steel, and it pierced into Wilbur’s chest with shocking ferocity. In the days since the festival, his demeanor had changed considerably, and he shook when he stood as if on the verge of collapsing. Wilbur had the sneaking suspicion, though, that this tremor was brought about by seething anger rather than weakness. He staggered toward them, sword drawn.

In a brilliant flash of silver and bronze, Phil attacked, pinning Quackity against the courthouse wall, his black wings flared in a state of aggression. His feathers twitched in agitation as Quackity struggled against his grip, staring up at the winged man with wide, pleading eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Quackity hissed.

Phil’s sword edged closer to Quackity’s neck, and his mouth snapped shut. “Nothing is wrong with me,” Phil replied. “It seems like I’m the only rational person around here.”

“Ration – what?” Quackity sputtered. “Wilbur’s the one who—”

“I don’t care what you think my son did,” Phil cut in. “That doesn’t give you the right to lock him up like an animal.”

Wilbur’s fingers buzzed with an anxious numbness, and his heart threatened to burst its way out of his closed through. If only Phil knew the sort of monster he was defending, so clouded by naïve ignorance to his son’s true crimes.

By the courthouse door, Fundy began to rise, his eyes darting around, taking everything in. Wilbur watched his fingers twitch toward his communicator, no doubt radioing backup, and yet he did nothing to stop his son’s actions.

His son. The phrase felt tilted, wrong. Surely Fundy no longer considered him his father.

“How did he call you?” Quackity asked sharply, as if he was in any position to demand answers.

“He didn’t need to,” Phil replied. “He stopped writing to me. At first, I assumed he was just busy with the festival, but now it seems he’s spent this time starving, imprisoned by some coup—”

“Some coup!” Quackity shrieked. “That’s laughable.” Phil’s arm tensed, and the blade brushed against Quackity’s neck, drawing thin beads of blood from his open flesh. “Come on, don’t tell me you actually believe that.”

“Believe what?” Phil asked, and Wilbur’s chest constricted. The ocean was rising in his lungs, threatening to choke the life from him, and maybe he deserved it, for this bitter, deceitful path he’d taken. Perhaps if he’d been granted another second, the truth may have come spilling out, as his body could not contain the ugly deceit any longer, and it would fall from his mouth and shrivel on the floor at Phil’s feet. What would he think of his bitter excuse for a son?

But the truth did not reveal itself, as just at that moment the door burst open, and three figures rushed in, each dressed in blue uniforms. Tubbo was first to Fundy’s side, helping the other to his feet, but Tommy and Niki just stood in the entrance of the courthouse, taking in the frozen scene. Phil’s blade was a breath from Quackity’s neck, and his face had gone alarmingly pale as he stared at the newcomers; sweat shined around his tense features. Wilbur’s body had gone considerably numb, which prevented him from doing much of anything besides stand in his place in the center of it all and take in the confrontation unfolding around him.

“Phil,” Tommy said at last, in a tone remarkably serious for him. It was as if the word had to force its way past his clenched jaw, filtered between his grinding teeth.

Phil stared at him for a moment, eyes gliding over his features. “Tommy?” he whispered.

Tommy nodded jerkily.

“Tommy,” Phil said again. “Wilbur’s told me so much about you. I – you’re not on their side, are you?” He glanced at his son. “He’s not, is he?”

Wilbur’s tongue was sandpaper. He feared if he tried to speak he might not be able to form coherent words, so instead he simply averted his eyes, as if that did anything to explain the situation.

Evidently realizing neither Wilbur nor Tommy was inclined to reply, Niki stepped forward to address Phil. “What are you talking about?”

Phil scoffed, glancing around as if waiting for everyone to burst out laughing, to confirm his suspicions that this was all some sort of elaborate joke. Wilbur’s face grew hot with red sweltering shame. “Well, obviously,” Phil said, his sword still drawn against Quackity’s throat, “you’ve all joined together in some kind of coup. Which I can’t even begin to understand, because from what I’ve heard, Wilbur’s been nothing but a decent president, and you’ve all taken advantage of his trust.”

Quackity laughed, and the movement caused more blood to trickle down his neck. “Hold on, you’re actually serious? You think we just randomly revolted against him? Go on, Wil.” His gaze locked onto Wilbur’s, laser focused. “Tell him the truth. Tell him why you’re really locked up in here.”

“Wil?” Phil’s voice faltered, and there was a frantic look in his eyes, flickering between worry and regret.

Like an idiot, Wilbur let his eyes dart to Tommy, just as they were trained to do in moments of uncertainty, but there was no support looking back at him, just the burning glare of the kid he’d betrayed.

“Yeah, go on,” Tommy said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Tell him every one of your stupid little lies. How you fucked us all over for your own selfish gains.” Despite the force behind his words, his lip was quivering. Wilbur had done that to him.

“Wilbur,” Phil murmured, “what’s he talking about?”

Six pairs of eyes were fixated on him, corning him from all angles. Fundy leaned on Tubbo’s shoulder, ginger hair parted to reveal his piercing gaze. Niki’s eyes were red and puffy, but her hand was rested on the hilt of her sword, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. That guilty python was curled in his gut, eating away at Wilbur’s insides, suffocating him from within. He was breathing fine, and yet he was drowning all the same, only he was dying of his own volition; his own deeds were the hands that strangled him. Why had he done it in the first place? Some empty promise of making his mark on history, as if forming the country was not enough. No, it didn’t matter what he’d already accomplished, he was always going to yearn for more, clawing at every scrap of power he could get his hands on, only to discard the position he’d cheated his way into. What had he even done as president, anyway? Waste away in his office? Worry his friends? What had been the point of it all?

For a moment, he considered never answering them. Perhaps Niki would have enough and run him through with her blade. If not, he could always take the offensive, do something they would interpret as an act of aggression, enough to warrant his execution. Phil would cry over his son’s bleeding form, begging him for some kind of answer, and Wilbur would keep his mouth shut until the very end, when the others would have to tell Phil what he had done, and then there would be no one left to think highly of him. They might bury him out of obligation, but there would be no grand memorial, and no one would ever bring him flowers. His name would be scrubbed from the history books, an unfortunate case, a stray mistake. Somebody would clean the blood from the courthouse floor, and then there would be nothing that remained of him.

Then the moment ended and Wilbur decided that Phil deserved to hear the truth from him, even if it killed him to admit it aloud. He turned to his father with a look of total despair and felt the words fall from his lips in a hoarse whisper. “I lied. About everything.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur had this issue with ideas. He’d get so caught up the spectacle of what could be, he could never fully realize any of them. That was the reason his country had been yanked from his hands, the reason his own son couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes, and the reason his father now stood with that look of total bewilderment, as if this was the last thing he expected to spill from his child’s lips.

“Wil,” he whispered, just as he used to when Wilbur was only a child, as if the harshest word could shatter the sky above them. “Wil, what are you talking about?”

There was vindication in Quackity’s expression, but the rest of them just looked… sad. Disappointed. He would rather they be angry with him, drawing their swords and cutting him down and—

“Wil.” Phil’s voice was louder now. He was demanding an explanation. He deserved an explanation.

“I lost the election,” Wilbur muttered, too faint to hear.

“Speak up,” Quackity commanded, but there was no joy in his tone. He wasn’t happy about this, Wilbur realized. He would rather have an honest friend than the role of president.

“I lost,” Wilbur said louder. “I lied about the results. I mean, it was pretty easy, all things considered. You guys really should’ve expected this.”

“No,” Niki said, her voice wavering. “We would never expect our friend to deceive us.” There was fire behind her words, and Wilbur’s chest constricted at the sound. What was he doing? What had he done?

“Then I guess I’m not your friend,” Wilbur replied. What was he saying? Was he trying to get himself killed?

Maybe.

Huh. That was a thought.

Niki took in a shuddering breath and looked Wilbur directly in the eyes. “I hate you,” she said with such ferocity that Wilbur half-expected his own body to light on fire. Then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the courthouse.

“Wilbur….” Phil sounded so lost.

“Tie him up,” Quackity said. “Somebody get Niki back here. We need to figure out what to do with him. Permanently.”

Permanently. Wilbur let the word echo in the cavity in his skull, repeating until it lost all meaning. Permanently. There was some sort of comfort in that, he decided. Finality. In his mind, he was back with his feet in the bay, wave after wave washing over them. That rhythm was about to come to an end, a permanent end. They were coming to build a wall out around his country’s port, a sturdy dam to stop the incessant tides. No more change. No more rise and fall from grace.

His hands were bound. Great, triumphant president shackled like a criminal. The world was collapsing in on itself, folding stone and earth with an ear-splitting screech, rushing towards him like a tidal wave. Tommy was staring at him with that look that said everything and nowhere near enough. Wilbur wanted to wrench his hands from their binds and grab Tommy by the collar, drag him out of that courthouse, and keep walking until this country was nowhere in sight, as if that would be enough to erase the calamity of all that had happened here.

“What do we do?” Niki asked, having returned to the building, speaking to Quackity as if Wilbur couldn’t hear her. All five of them were circled together, those terrible expressions dripping from their faces, and Wilbur almost wanted to yank his own eyes from his skull so that he might never again have to see the effect of his betrayal.

His own father, still quiet with shock: “We can’t keep him locked up forever.” It only proved how little he understood of the situation, that he might still be advocating for some form of mercy. Although, it was possible, he’d meant the opposite, that imprisonment was too kind a fate for him.

“If you’re planning on killing me,” Wilbur snarled, “you may as well get on with it.”

All ten eyes widened at the same time, turning to him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Tommy said, but he couldn’t keep Wilbur’s gaze. His eyes kept darting to the exit, as if waiting for the opportunity to sprint from this place. And maybe, just maybe, he could take Wilbur with him, and they wouldn’t have to kill him, though he certainly deserved it.

“Have we considered exile?” Quackity asked. There was a bitterness to his voice that made it clear he would rather never have this conversation, but as acting president, something had to be done.

 “From L’Manberg?” Fundy asked. “Or everywhere?”

Wilbur sighed one of those, rattling, earth-shaking sighs that made the room turn its attention to him. “If I may offer my opinion, I don’t think exile is a good idea,” he said. “The boundaries beyond L’Manberg’s walls are too vague to enforce, and I can still do plenty of damage outside L’Manberg.”

“Are you planning on doing more damage?” Phil asked, his face crumpling.

This was his opportunity. If they could only understand the potential he held, the ability to raze everything they ever loved, then perhaps they would enact a proper punishment.

—Head splitting, blood spilling to the ground—

“Oh, yes,” Wilbur said, in a voice that was not his own. A laugh escaped him, tumbling from his rotting chest. “You have no idea.”

Tommy’s body stiffened. “Wilbur, what are you talking about?”

Again, Wilbur laughed, and he wished that his hands were unbound because they were itching now, buzzing with energy. His head felt faint, his body was composed of dust, but those particles were vibrating with anticipation. “I mean, almost nothing can stop me,” he said. “I – I guess there’s only one way to – to make sure that I can’t hurt anyone else.” His eyes locked with Fundy’s, the angriest of the group. “I think you know. I think you’re considering it.”

Fundy shook his head fervently, the color draining from his face.

Wilbur’s fingers picked at the ropes binding them, tugging at the knots carefully. He watched the understanding slowly dawn on each of them, those strange expressions they made, as if this was not the obvious answer, the culmination of all that had gone wrong.

“No,” Phil said. “That’s not happening.”

Well, then, there was only one option left. He would have to force their hand.

Wilbur breathed in, letting the air fill his lungs, washing through him like a wave on that emptied shore, the port he would never visit again. The ropes loosened as the final knot unwound, and his gaze locked on the small knife hooked on Tommy’s belt. Then the wave receded, the air expelled out of him, and his body sprung into motion in the blink of an eye.

His elbow struck hard into Tommy’s ribs, and the kid stumbled backward, gasping for air. Wilbur’s other hand yanked at the hilt of the knife, and then he was twisted around, searching for a target. His eyes found Tubbo, who had shrunk some time ago to the corner of the room, defenseless, staring wide-eyed at him, and Wilbur leapt, bypassing the shake in his legs.

His dagger was still a good distance from Tubbo when a hand grasped his forearm, and he was jolted back, coming face-to-face with Niki. He should have been able to overpower her, but he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks and his head was filled with foam, vision clouded with black spots. Niki wrenched the knife out of his hand, and for one glorious moment, he thought she’d plunge it into him, but then another pair of hands was clasping around his other arm and—

“What the hell was that?” someone shouted at him.

“So you’d understand,” Wilbur tried to say, but his lips had lost all sensation.

“Idiot,” someone said.

Wilbur’s ears were ringing. He pulled against the person restraining him, but instead he only managed to trip over himself, and then he was falling unceremoniously to the stone floor, his body striking hard, and someone had managed to cushion his head, which was good, because he might have cracked his skull, and—

“I think he was trying to get us to kill him.” This one was Niki; he was sure of it.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Tommy. “Why would he want that?”

It was Niki that caught his head, then, because now it was rested on her knees, and her fingers were in his hair. “I should have noticed.” Something cold struck Wilbur’s cheek, but he couldn’t see.

There was a noise that suggested a fist striking the wall. “Fuck that. He’s the one who did this. He can’t turn around and make us pity him.”

Who said that? Whoever it was, Wilbur agreed. What was he doing, collapsing on the ground? He tried to sit up, make them stop fawning over him, but a wave of nausea came over him, and he was down again; this time his cheek struck against the stone.

“Don’t get up,” someone ordered. “Where did Fundy go?”

“He left,” someone answered. Quackity.

Wilbur knew at that moment he had been mistaken in any other instance when he believed to be drowning. That was nothing compared to this, the violent suffocation that had taken hold of him. There was thick, black liquid in his lungs, rising up through his throat and burning his tongue. His eyes were bleeding surely, or perhaps melting from his skull. Someone’s hand grabbed hold of his own, and he was overcome with such an intense sensation of wrongness that he snapped his arm away, his elbow striking flesh. The floor was caving in beneath him. The ceiling was crumbling under the weight of the falling sky.

Wilbur blinked hard, forcing some vision – some reality – to return. Most of the others were crowded around him, like he was some sort of victim in this situation. Quackity was leaning against the courthouse wall, a thunderous expression across his face. Tubbo remained in the dark corner, as if separated by some invisible shield.

His fingers clawed wildly, searching for the familiar hilt of some dagger or sword, though he wasn’t sure if his intent was harm them or himself. He had done this. He had brought this upon himself.

Suddenly, something struck him hard across the face, and Wilbur jolted back, away from the crowd of them. His vision righted, and he saw Phil’s hand hovering, uncertain, his face white with shock.

“You hit me,” Wilbur said, with more loathing than he’d intended.

Phil blinked. He stumbled backward.

Then Niki had forced her way between the two, arms raised. “Both of you are being stupid,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Wilbur is not going to be executed. And he’s not going to kill anyone.”

“We can’t just keep him locked up forever,” Quackity said. “What are we supposed to do with him?”

“He can work for me,” Niki supplied. “At the bakery.”

“So, we’re letting him go?” Fundy asked, his voice pitching upward.

“No,” Niki said carefully. “I’ll – we’ll keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t try anything.” Her hands grasped tightly around Wilbur’s thin arms, and again the bounds were placed around his wrists, tighter this time.

“Wil—” Tommy started, but it seemed he could think of nothing else to say.

“Are you sure about this?” Quackity asked. “What if he tries to hurt you?”

“Oh, come on,” Niki sighed. “Are you serious? Do you actually think he wants to hurt any of us? He’s a danger to himself more than anyone, and locking him up will only make it worse. Now help me.”

Reluctantly, Quackity assisted in lifting Wilbur to his feet once again. Another pair of hands steadied him. Once standing, he felt exponentially less comfortable, towering over them whilst a shaking and red-faced mess. He wished for nothing more than the sweet solitude of his prison cell, though even that had been fleeting and temporary.

Somehow, he left the courthouse. His memory was a patchwork of images, words that sounded almost in a foreign language, and then at last, the soft texture of a mattress beneath him. Light extinguished, leaving him in darkness.

It was some time before he rose, during which he might have slept, but he frankly doubted it. For as sluggish as his mind had gotten in the wind-down from courthouse, it was far to noisy to allow any substantial peaceful resting. Instead, when at last his body moved once again, Wilbur raised himself from the bed and took in his new environment.

This was the spare room at Niki’s house adjoining her bakery. He’d never stayed here, but he’d seen it when she’d granted him a tour. His nerves were still buzzing with adrenaline, his limbs weak for a whole list of reasons, but regardless, he crept across the room to the door. His fingers grasped the cold handle, and, cautiously, he twisted.

It was locked. He should have expected that. Moreover, this wasn’t a simple lock that could be picked. There wasn’t even a visible keyhole. Short of literally breaking down Niki’s door, there was no way he was leaving before she let him.

Defeated, Wilbur returned to his bed. Despite the whirlwind of emotions ricocheting in his mind – everything from regret to hatred to burning embarrassment – exhaustion was tugging on him, and so he conceded, allowing sleep to take him.

The next few days passed unremarkably. Niki forced him to eat decently, and didn’t hesitate to yell at him when he said something she deemed stupid. There was shame in the notion that she might be taking care of him, but she assured him that she really did need another set of hands if she was to keep up with her customers’ demands, and though Wilbur was dreadful at anything that required skill in baking, he was good enough at following orders – ironic, considering – that he wasn’t a total disaster.

Nothing was better. Sometimes he wanted to curl and die from the pure humiliation of it all. Other times, and these were worse times, he didn’t regret it whatsoever. He missed being president, even the term he’d lied his way into. Sometimes he wanted to run himself through with the cake knife. He’d picture it so vividly, like a miniature theater in the corner of his brain. He’d wait until Niki’s back was turned, then plunge it through his heart’s ventricles, spilling crimson blood over her lovely kitchen floor. Sometimes, in those fantasies, he’d kill Niki too, just for the closure of it.

It was almost a week before anyone visited. Wilbur would hide away whenever customers came by, his back pressed against the wall of his room and his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. Then, finally, one bright, sunny morning, Tommy burst through the door without any warning.

Wilbur almost dropped the plate of cookies he was holding. He must have looked ridiculous, stood there in the kitchen, as if he wasn't guilty of murder and treason and whatever else he’d done wrong.

“’Ello,” Tommy said, taking a seat at the counter. “One big ol’ chocolate cupcake, please.” He flashed Niki a wide grin.

“Tommy,” Wilbur stated. His tone was flat, undecisive. Were they acting normally? Could they forget everything?

“Wilbur,” Tommy replied, his smile faltering. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Wilbur shuffled closer to the counter as Niki disappeared in the back to fetch ingredients.

“Been a while.”

“It has.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, both at once: “I’m sorry.”

Wilbur frowned, wrinkling his brow at Tommy. “What have you got to be sorry for?”

Tommy shrugged. “Not paying attention, I guess. You know, I’ve got great eyesight, much better than yours I’ll say, but when you see this good, you tend to get all distracted by everything, and then when you’re meant to see stuff, like somebody’s gone all loopy in the brain, you don’t—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur cut him off. “I’m the one who should apologize. I… screwed everything up. I ruined L’Manberg.”

Tommy scoffed. “You haven’t ruined anything. Quackity’s got it all sorted out, didn’t you hear? Gonna make some kind of parliament and shit, like we’ve got in—”

“What?” Wilbur hissed. “The fuck’s he done that for?”

“So it’s not just one guy carrying the whole nation,” Tommy said. “You could run for it, if you want. Won’t be up in running for a few weeks, but—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur breathed. “That’s fucking brilliant.”

“Well, I’ll tell Quackity you said that. He loves compliments.” Tommy paused to accept the cupcake from Niki, who smiled at both of them. “I’ll see you around, then,” he said. “Have fun baking and shit.”

Wilbur snorted out something that felt suspiciously like a laugh. Niki nudged him, and he realized he was smiling.

Dear Phil,

I’m having Niki hand this to you, but I know eventually I’m going to have to speak with you. If you want, you can come by the bakery whenever. I did promise to show it to you when you got here.

Anyway, no use wasting your time with meaningless preamble. I know I messed up big time. I lied to my country and I lied to you. I’m hoping that maybe, at least, I can make it make sense to you. This was supposed to be my victory. I was never good at fighting, not like you and Techno. But this was something I thought I might be good at. And I was. I carved a nation, Phil. From nothing. I just kept picturing how proud you must have been, receiving those first few letters after we won our independence.

Then things got difficult. It’s not easy being a leader, I understand that now. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t do it on my own. Then when the election came, I thought that would renew their confident in me, but instead, I could tell it was tipping the other direction. So I lied. It wasn’t easy, Phil. I’m normally honest by nature, but I just couldn’t let my victory slip between my fingers so quickly. I pictured your face when I sent the letter admitting I’d lost presidency. And besides, how would that leave my legacy? Once I started, there was no backing down from the deceit. You have to understand that once you get into that position, you’ll do almost anything to avoid the truth’s discovery. Even murder.

I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can at least sympathize. I don’t think I’m a monster. And I think that I can fix things. If you want to talk, I’ll be at the bakery. Still on house arrest and everything. If you don’t mind though, wait until after tomorrow. I’m going to have Niki try to bring in Fundy. The more I think about how you’ve affected me, the worse I feel about the way I’ve treated Fundy.

If you see Quackity, tell him that I always thought he’d make a great president. I was just a more selfish one. And tell Tubbo that I’m proud of him. He’s welcome to come by too, if he’s willing.  I’m sorry again.

Your son, Wilbur Soot