Chapter Text
Schlatt stares at Wilbur.
Wilbur stares back.
MD decides it’s way too late for this and goes back to the kitchen.
The unconscious avian whom they all recognise as both Philza Minecraft and one of the most feared villains in the city remains unconscious.
“Virgo, do I want to know why Zephyrus is currently bleeding out in one of our booths?” the ram hybrid asks unimpressed. Wilbur at least had the audacity to look nervous.
“It’s… a long story…”
That wasn’t necessarily an overstatement depending on what one counts as the whole story.
You see, this whole situation all first started when Wilbur died his third and final death at the hands of his father, taking with him every bit of himself that he had poured into the cursed pithos that was L’Manburg. Even when he was dying, his father hadn’t bothered telling him the truth about his mother, a truth he didn’t find out about until he stepped off his final train and met Death herself, waiting for him in the dim train platform.
Wilbur’s mind had never been clearer than it had when he was alive, the reason for it all being too… embarrassing for the son of death to accept. It didn’t mean he was necessarily opposed to welcoming Schlatt back into his undead life. Wilbur thought it would take time for the two of them to be comfortable with each other again, but as it turned out, the two fell back together like two puzzle pieces.
All in all, undead life wasn’t that bad. Sure, his train platform sucked, but his mother, Kristin, was nice enough to bring various objects of interest whenever she had the time to visit (which was surprisingly often considering her busy schedule), so when he wasn’t hanging out with Schlatt, MD (another member of the afterlife who appeared after his initial two years) or the occasional Vikk and Lazar (both arriving one year after MD), or even messaging his ghost counterpart in the overworld, Wilbur often busied himself with activities such as singing, guitar playing, jukebox listening, songwriting, and potion brewing, as well as reading books, watching movies and shows, and playing virtual games that his mother brought from other worlds (he’s quickly coming to favour the latter media). He even picked up other hobbies, such as cooking and baking with whatever appliances were brought over (which reminded him of Niki), tending to the small potted strawberry bush he owned (he couldn’t stand to eat potatoes for fun anymore, but it reminded him of Techno), tinkering with redstone contraptions (which reminded him of his son), and embroidery and sewing (which reminded him of Tommy), and if Schlatt called him sentimental one more time, Wilbur would promptly agree before smacking the ram over the head.
But he’s getting off-track. After his fourth year in Limbo, his mother came bearing what she considered as good news. Kristin told him that she has been closely observing a world compatible enough to transfer their souls to so that they could live the lives they never got to live. It must have come as a bit of a surprise to her when the five’s ghosts of Limbo were… hesitant to make that move. MD feared moving on without Mamacita, Schlatt wasn’t sure if he could bring himself entertain the idea without looking conflicted about it, Vikk and Lazar were numb to the idea, and Wilbur… No, it wasn’t because he enjoyed being doted on by his mother (the kind of affection he never got from his father) and it definitely also wasn’t because he saw himself unworthy of life after what he did with L’manburg, or because he was afraid of what he’d do with such a blessing, not at all . He just… thought it would be too complicated. That’s all.
Everyone was reluctant to learn to live again, and it took them all another year to agree to it, albeit, with the same hesitance. This brought Kristin joy nonetheless, which made Wilbur happy in return, which then made the others ease up about the change. They decided that perhaps, It wouldn’t hurt to learn how to be okay again.
The train ride to the new world was uneventful, and when they arrived, with Death’s help, they set up new lives for themselves. While Vikk and Lazar were quick to choose peaceful, secluded lives for themselves, it almost came as a surprise to them all when Wilbur decided he wanted to run a diner, and even more of a surprise when Schlatt and MD (the latter to a lesser degree) decided they wanted to help out with it too. They argued about what to name it for a bit, Wilbur wanting it to be L’Manburg, Schlatt suggesting Manburg (“If I can’t name it L’Manburg, you can’t name it Manburg”), then with MD jumping in to say that they should name it El Rapids, but after a bit discussing, they eventually came to the consensus to name it ‘Kristin’s Limbo’, in honour of the goddess who got them there in the first place.
That’s what they did for the next two years maintaining a lovely diner in a quiet district of this Esempii, leading us to where Wilbur was less than half an hour ago before the present.
It was closing time for the small diner. Wilbur was in the main room tidying up the booths and mopping the floors, Schlatt was in the restrooms scrubbing every piece of grime off of the toilets, sinks, and floors, MD was cleaning up the kitchen, and the echoes were helping out everywhere in between.
When they first worked out the details of the diner, none of the former ghosts really wanted to deal with human employees, but running a business with just them three would be too hard so Kristin offered a solution: to utilize Limbo’s echoes as workers. Echoes, as the name implied, are manifestations of imprints left behind every time a player dies a ‘canonical’ death.
The revived eagerly agreed, though even with their newfound status as workers of ‘Kristin’s Limbo’, echoes weren’t exactly sentient, since they were, after all, moments and thoughts forever immortalized, so their natural behaviours would be considered unsettling to normal, living, breathing human beings. Despite this, however, they actually listened well to Wilbur, Schlatt, and MD, well enough that they can act perfectly human when asked to do so, but since the diner was now closed, there was no need to make them act. When the facade of humanity is dropped, the echoes moved with a lifeless sag, not speaking, only responding and announcing their presence with hums, grunts, and chuckles. They were good cleaners, though. Good enough to help finish tidying up the main part of the diner in less than twenty minutes.
“Alright, Pandora, that’s enough,” Wilbur told the imprint furiously mopping a stain on the floor. ‘Pandora’ was the name he bestowed to one of his own imprints, the one who died in the final control room, betrayed by a friend he had trusted. The imprint’s hair was muted in comparison to Wilbur’s curly brown locks dyed with streaks of white and blue. The imprint's own hair, on the other hand, was mainly tucked under a hat with the bangs styled to fall over his eyes. Pandora was dressed in the diner’s standard apron with a blue coat over it, large enough to cover the light-to-dark teal wings gifted by the sky gods. Wilbur didn’t have those wings anymore, not after he had sacrificed them to Dream as a price for L’Manburg’s freedom, and ever since he’d died, his wings had returned to the pair he was born with, the ones he owned before the Sky Gods set their eyes on him; the beautiful black, blue, purple and gold ones he inherited from his mother.
Pandora stubbornly hums a tune at him (one that Wilbur remembers as an anthem long gone), but relents, leaving the persistent stain to stay for another day, and instead, follows the other echoes to the ‘cellar’. Wilbur and the other two have made it a habit to call it a cellar in case it had to be brought up during opening hours, but the cellar was actually an underground train platform, specifically one that will take the echoes back and forth from the depths of Limbo. Formerly deceased souls like Wilbur could take it as well, but he hasn’t had much of a desire to, especially since every now and then, his mother would be the one to step off the train to visit them, and once in a blue moon, so would his ghostly twin. Tonight was none of those days, however, leaving the brunette to see the echoes off with little excitement.
In a few minutes, Wilbur finds himself sitting on the patchwork couch in their flat above the diner, idly plucking the strings of his beloved Simone as the TV plays a show in the background. Everything was bliss… at least until MD had the audacity to rest his elbows on the brunette’s head.
“Heyyyy man!”
“What do you want, MD?” Wilbur asks in annoyance.
“The trash, man.” the Mexican exclaimed, pointing towards a black trash bag lying next to the front door with over the top gestures. “Someone needs to take it out!”
Although Wilbur could only see the bottom half of his face, he knew he did not like that smirk.
“Why can’t you do it?!”
The son of death had an entire argument planned dedicated to why it was MD’s responsibility to take out the trash, and yet, here Wilbur is, full trash bag in hand, back door keys in the other. He should have known that fighting against MD on his own was going to be a futile endeavour. As a former general and rebellion leader, he shouldn’t have been scared of MD, but he was. A hyperactive MD (which is literally his main personality trait) is the kind of thing you’d find in nightmares, now imagine a mad and hyperactive MD. Terrifying.
Death’s son sighed as he unlocked the back door and opened it to let the cold autumn air nipped at his skin. The world around was filled with silence, something that felt too foreboding, especially considering the nature of this reality. Wilbur scowled as pulled his woolen red cardigan closer to himself, and stepped out into the alleyway. He moved quickly as to not spend any unnecessary time outside and held his breath as he lifted the dumpster’s lid and threw the trash bag inside. With a brush of his hands, he turned around-
BAM!
THUD!
-And turned right back around.
Wilbur stares.
Out of all things it could have been, a rat, a cat, a person disposing of a dead body, it just had to be an unconscious, bleeding supervillain, and not just any unconscious, bleeding supervillain, but an unconscious, bleeding supervillain who also happened to be this world’s version of Philza- fucking- Minecraft.
Heroes, villains, and vigilantes were all common sights in this world, the former even being an actual bonafide profession that actually pays the bills. Crazy right? When the three of them first learnt of this, out of curiosity, they researched online about all three to see if anyone from their old world were any of those in this one, one of those people, of course, being Philza Minecraft, who, as it turns out, was known to the public as one of the top ten villains, Zephyrus. However, to Wilbur, alternate version or not, Philza Minecraft was his father , the same one who lived for adventure and abandoned him to pursue it, and the same one who stabbed him twice with a fire aspect sword and left him to die all alone. By all respect, Wilbur should hate Philza Minecraft - and he swears that he does , but more than that, he missed the man he never got to know.
The son of death knelt down by the villain’s body. The large hat and veil that he wore in fights was knocked askew, showing off the avian’s blonde hair with small braids and a set of black bandages over his eyes that acted as a second mask. Wilbur placed his hand underneath the collar of his green robes, where Phil’s pulse point should be.
…
…
Ba-dump!
… Ba-dump!
And wouldn’t you know it, Philza was still alive.
The brunette pulled away with a frown, refusing to acknowledge the tears accumulating in his eyes. Wilbur Soot was sentimental, and he hated that about himself. He never stopped hating it, even when he brought Zephyrus inside and dragged him into one of the booths to treat the wounds.
Inspecting the damage, Wilbur sees a large gash over his stomach, deep enough to draw enough blood to drench his robes, but shallow enough to not have hit any organs that would have resulted in immediate death (oh the irony of its placement), but fortunately, it did not seem like there was there were any foreign materials trapped in the cut. A simple potion of healing or regeneration or a golden apple would do the trick.
“Wilbur,”
The son of death looks back to see Schlatt standing two feet or so away with crossed arms.
“Hah… heh hey…”
“Ey, qué carajo?”
If the situation wasn’t awkward enough already, then the sight of MD muttering midchew of his quesadilla after spotting them definitely complicated things.
Schlatt stares at Wilbur.
Wilbur stares back.
MD decides it’s way too late for this and goes back to the kitchen.
The unconscious avian whom they all recognise as both Philza Minecraft and one of the most feared villains in the city remains unconscious.
“Virgo, do I want to know why Zephyrus is currently bleeding out in one of our booths?” the ram hybrid asks unimpressed. Wilbur at least had the audacity to look nervous.
“It’s a long story…”
And those were the events that lead them all to where they were now.
“Wilbur,”
“He was bleeding out in the alleyway. I couldn’t just leave him there…” Wilbur replied tiredly. Schatt huffed.
“Wil, what if he hurt you?”
“You of all people know how bull the whole villain and hero thing is!”
“You know that’s not what I’m referring to,”
Wilbur does. If it had been anyone else the brunette brought inside, the ram hybrid would have silently helped out, but this was Wilbur’s dad . Schlatt knows they had history, regardless of whether this man was an alternate version or not.
“Can we talk about this later and deal with this now?” Schlatt deflates at Wilbur’s insistence, but complies with a groan.
“Fine, but we should move him upstairs before he stains the seats more than he already has.”
No one argues with Wilbur’s decision or tries to dissuade him from it. Not Schlatt as he returns downstairs to attempt to clean the bloodstained seats, nor MD when he comes to deliver some healing potions and a slice of golden apple pie, and for that, Wilbur was grateful. The silence gave him the peace he needed as sat by the avian’s side. At the moment, there was nothing else to do but think. Zephyrus’ wounds have already been healed by the potions, his clothes tossed in the wash, and the man himself changed into a more comfortable set of Wilbur’s sleeping clothes and laid to rest on the couch.
All that was running through the brunette’s mind were memories; memories of him showing his dad the newest song he wrote, memories of summer days with his parents and godfather, memories of him returning home after tutoring some of his favourite gremlin children, and memories of his father tucking him in bed at night, humming the same song he found himself humming right now. Wilbur’s mind also ran through a frightful memory of himself, cradled in his mum’s arms like he hadn’t been eighteen at the time, crying and cobbing, knowing that neither of them would live long enough to see the following sunrise. Those weren’t his memories, though. You see, the reason why this world was compatible enough for their souls to be transferred to was because the them from this world have already died . Six years ago in this world, Wilbur Watson and his, mother, Kristin Watson died in the crossfire of a villain attack when the hero at the scene decided it was a good idea to sacrifice a couple of lives for the slim chance of capturing a villain. Two years ago, when Wilbur Soot and his four companions arrived, his mother, the Goddess of Death merged them with their deceased selves here.
Right now, Wilbur was more than just the Wilbur who founded a nation from a drug van and lived long enough to become its destroyer, he was also the Wilbur who was directly related to Zephyrus, the same Wilbur who died in that crossfire. He was more than just sentimental, he was also a child worried for the man who raised him.
----------<0>----------
“Fly me to the moon, let me sing amongst the stars,”
Phil found himself standing in the middle of a large field, with blades of grass long enough to reach his waist. The sky outside was unbearably bright, casting everything with a strong glow of light, but somehow, it didn’t bother him. In fact, it made him feel at ease.
“Let me see what spring is like on jupiter and mars…”
Drifting in the air was the melody of a song he once sang during late nights. A melody he couldn’t bring himself to sing anymore now that he didn’t have a child to sing to. It was for a similar reason Phil knew he was dreaming, though, because the voice that sang this song was a voice Phil knew no longer existed.
“In other words… hold my hand… In other words… baby, kiss me…”
Although this was a dream, Phil followed the voice if it meant seeing his son one last time, even if that son was just a reflection of what he believed he’d look like now.
He felt his state of mind wavering.
“Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore,”
Phil ran.
He ran like his life depended on it, pushing blades of grass out of his way and straining his ears to try and figure out where the song was coming from.
“You are all I long for, all I worship and adore…”
And then he saw it.
Standing in the distance in front of him was a hill with a single oak tree at the top, and sitting in the shadows of the tree was a young man, idly plucking the strings of a guitar as he sang.
He was too far away for his face to be clear, but Phil knew that if Wilbur had lived to be 24, he would have looked like that.
“In other words… please be true… In other words…
I love you…”
----------<0>----------
Consciousness came slowly to Phil. Was he still dreaming? He could still hear the song, albeit, a version of it hummed instead, but the voice… it was familiar. He tried to get up, but his body felt too heavy to do so, so he tried looking around even though it was dark, dark enough for him to struggle to focus on what he saw.
Bent over by his side was a young man, pulling a needle and thread through a piece of cloth. Although his vision was foggy, Phil could see small scars littered over his face and a pair of round-framed glasses over bright red eyes. The man had wavy brown hair that reached the bottom of his neck and covered one eye, a large chunk of those bangs was dyed white and blue.
Most importantly, however, he looked like someone he once knew, and thus, Philza couldn’t stop himself from mumbling out
“Wil… bur…?”
And fell right back to sleep.
----------<0>----------
When Phil woke up again, he didn’t realize anything was wrong until he tried to reach for his phone. When his hand came in contact with no such thing, the blonde’s eyes immediately sprung open. Temporarily blinded by the light, Philza sits up on a couch that was not his.
‘Where the hell am I?!’