Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I want all of you to think about this for a second: Let’s say that I gave you each a coin.”

Professor Eret loves their coin flips. They would code in heads and tails if they could.

“If it lands on heads, then you will live forever. Or at least a really long time. A couple centuries at the very least. Sounds great, right? If it lands on tails though, then your life will carry on its projected course and you will die sometime in your hundreds like normal.”

Wilbur flicks his gaze from Eret over to Niki, who’s sitting right next to him in one of the back rows of the lecture hall. He can’t quite gauge what his friend is thinking.

“How many of you would flip the coin?”

Wilbur immediately raises his hand. Everybody else in the class takes a little bit longer, but a lot of them eventually do the same. Niki tentatively raises hers. There’s only a couple of nay-sayers.

“How about this: what if you had to flip the coin now, but you could only know the result a day before your death? Or, well, a day before you were supposed to die, if it lands on heads?”

About half of the hands go down. One of those being Niki’s. Wilbur keeps his hand held high.

Eret stops his pacing. He shuts off his watch, and the hologram of a coin that he was projecting disappears. “This is the gamble that the Dreamland corporation is asking with their new Restoration Droid program.”

That’s when it all falls into place. It’s been taking over the news, and gossip traversing the university. Dreamland’s name has been the talk of the town. All because they’re promising to do the impossible. They’re promising eternal life through machine.

“Now I want you all to be clear about exactly what the Restoration program is, because there’s been a lot of rumors going around and I’ve heard quite a few misconceptions.” Eret flicks her watch back on, now displaying a hologram of Dreamlan’s logo, alongside an android.

Eret is going to bust this fantasy, isn’t she? By the nature of her job, she has to be a bit of a debby downer – this class is Ethics of AI Technology, famous for being one of the hardest courses on AI that a person wishing to go into the field will have to take. The technical aspects aren’t difficult; Eret will never ask them to code something. Eret asks them to think.

Thinking is the toughest task at all.

And thinking is Wilbur’s addiction. He just loves to get lost in his own head. If he could, he would want to crawl inside his own mind and stay there forever. He’d have a conversation with himself and try to parse out the secrets of the universe.

Which is why the Restoration program is so appealing to Wilbur. It will allow him to do just that.

“First off, here’s what everybody is getting right: Yes, the Dreamland Restoration program transfers a person’s consciousness from their brain into a computer upon death.”

Wilbur would have eternity to think.

“It is an android program, so yes, they would also get a physio-mechanical body. It would essentially be a consciousness transplant.”

Wilbur wouldn’t have to worry about ailments or maladies again. Worst case scenario, he would have something waiting for him on the other side.

“Now for the misconceptions. The blatant and most dangerous one is that the program is safe.”

Beside him, Niki is flinching. She has the reports on Dreamland’s progress pulled up on her holo-pad. Wilbur skims the page quickly. Oh, he recognizes this one. This report is describing the animal testing. There’s a picture of a humanoid android that apparently has the consciousness of a rat.

“There is no proof whatsoever that this program is safe. Yes, the animals they tested on turned out fine… 99% of the time. I wouldn’t want to be one of the mice in the 1%, but I digress. Anyway, while the reports say that they were fine… does anybody want to take a guess at what their operational definition of ‘Fine’ was?’” Eret waits a second, before answering his own question. “It meant that they still had the urge to eat. Which they couldn’t even do in their new prototype bodies. They still were trying to take care of their basic needs. Now, that’s nothing to scoff at, but I wouldn’t want to be a husk of a person just waiting for a meal that I would never get.”

Wilbur has a great deal of respect for Professor Eret, but he is pretty sure that’s an exaggeration. For one, they’re adding in the ability to simulate eating for humans who undergo the program. And Wilbur read the report, there were some other positives that the rats experienced. Not that rats had many positive experiences when they were alive, in a lab…

Niki’s still taking notes on the article and Eret’s lecture. She’s shaking her head. It’s odd. Wilbur and Niki agree on most things in this class. Well, it is such a polarizing course that they were bound to find a topic like this eventually.

Eret goes on, listing all the risks that could be associated with the program. The bottom line is that they don’t know; less than fifty people across the country have actually become restoration droids so far. Of those, all the procedures have been incredibly recent.

Wilbur sticks his hand up. Eret’s focusing far too much on the negative. It takes the professor a little while to be able to get to him, but eventually Eret does ask for his question.

“Of those… you said forty something people?”

“Forty-four, yeah.”

“Of those forty-four people, have any of them actually experienced adverse effects of the program so far?”

Eret raises her hands in a shrug. “I don’t know. Dreamland has not released the findings on those subjects yet.”

“They were going to die anyway, yes?”

“Yes. They signed up to be on Dreamland’s registry. Most of them were already terminally ill, and when they were sent to the hospital, it was determined that they would not make it. That was when the process of transferring their consciousness was started. The majority of attempts were unsuccessful due to not starting the transfer process soon enough.”

“Isn’t it better to live on with minor defects or disabilities than to simply die?”

“Wil, what are you saying?” Niki asks. Wilbur ignores her for the time being; he wants to hear what Eret has to say.

His professor nearly sighs.

“Wilbur, I don’t want you to get me wrong. I don’t want any of you to get me wrong. I know how exciting this new program is. There’s a reason I’m not focusing on the positives: it’s because all of you already know everything about the positives. A lot of you are rightfully very excited about this, you’re seeing the creation of a technology that has the potential to be the most influential invention ever created.”

“It’s so risky though,” Niki mutters.

Humanity is not going to let risk hold them back from the secret to eternal life.

“I want to make sure all of you see the bigger picture. That’s what this class is all about. Understanding risk, understanding ethics, and understanding the danger that technology poses when used in the wrong way. I have one more point to this lecture.”

Wilbur throws his hand up again. Eret doesn’t call on him. Fair. Usually Wilbur is more patient than this. But come on. Anybody would be excited.

“This is getting into the realm of philosophy, and we haven’t hit that unit yet, so I won’t dwell on it too long. But there is the very real possibility that restoration droids aren’t really the actual person being restored.”

Wilbur feels his hand drop a little bit. He forces it high again.

“Some say that it’s impossible to truly transfer the consciousness away from the brain. The consciousness is the brain, according to some. What the restoration program is doing is just converting the brain’s electrical signals into code and inputting it into an artificial recreation of the human brain. Essentially copying it over. It wouldn’t be you. It would be a clone of you.”

Is there really a difference?

Eret said it himself. This is just philosophizing. There’s a reason Wilbur isn’t taking a course on philosophy. Wilbur likes code; he likes its precision and the wondrous things it can do. It’s the intersection of science and art.

Eret’s questions don’t matter. Dreamland is doing an amazing thing.

Finally, finally, Eret calls on him. “Yes, Wilbur?”

“Would you choose to join the program?”

The professor turns their back quickly, walking to the other side of the lecture hall. “Well, that question actually leads me perfectly into the final question that I wanted to pose before I let you all go. Think about that coin again. Your options are to join the program and flip it. Heads, you become a restoration droid, and everything is fine. It’s like being human again. You can ignore my philosophical question. Also, let’s assume that we all want to live forever for the sake of this thought experiment. I can see a couple of you trying to hold yourself back from your depressing jokes.”

Eret’s ignoring his question. Completely. Wilbur raises his hand again. Niki’s giving him a look, but he doesn’t care. He needs to ask this.

“Tails, restoration doesn’t work. You die before you get to the hospital, and they aren’t able to upload you. Or they’re able to upload some of your functions, but you’re completely missing your personality. You don’t have what makes you you. You can flip the coin, taking that chance. Or you can proceed with your life as if you were never given the coin. I just want you to think about which one you would choose.”

Then, thankfully, Wilbur is called on again. Once more he says, “Would you flip the coin?”

It takes Eret a moment to respond.

“That is a question to come to me with privately after class.”

There are a couple of groans at that; people as curious as Wilbur was. But this is good. It’s not a total no. Wilbur’s definitely going to stay after class; has to know more. He has to find out where he can learn more.

It turns out, it really is the end of class. Everybody starts packing up. Before Wilbur can approach the professor though, he has to acknowledge that Niki is staring straight at him. When he turns towards her, she looks away. But Wilbur saw.

“Niks, why are you looking at me like that?”

A shudder runs through Niki’s body.

“I don’t know. There’s just something that feels so… weird about it to me.”

“Well, yeah, but–”

“And I know you’re considering it. It’s so weird thinking about you becoming one.”

Ah. It is kind of a weird concept. Wilbur supposes he can sympathize. She’s not seeing his side of things though.

“There are people out there who have already become restoration droids,” Wilbur says. “Are you saying that they’re weird? Because I think it’s kind of unfair to just–”

“No, no, I don’t have anything against them,” Niki says. “It’s just that we don’t know anything about them. Don’t know if they’re actually living good lives. We don’t know if it’s even still them living or if it’s just… replicas. Copies of the real thing. Plus, I don’t exactly like thinking about you dying.”

That draws a laugh out of Wilbur. “Don’t worry. According to the doctors, I have a long and happy life out ahead of me.”

The odd ache in his bones and the fatigue that follows him throughout the day says otherwise, but that’s just a side effect of being a college student. He really gets too anxious over this sort of thing.

“I think it just sounds way too good to be true. Maybe my mind will be changed in a couple decades and I would sign up for the program. Even then, I feel like the risk that comes with it would be nerve wracking.”

“You know how much I love risk,” Wilbur says with a grin. Niki doesn’t look amused. But Wilbur does indeed love it. He loves the thrill that runs through his veins as he faces new situations and he tries to push the limits. He likes to run programs without double checking the code. Perform songs he barely knows in front of an audience. He likes to speak when he has no idea what he’s talking about.

The highs of success and the pits of failure both make him feel like he’s alive. So it’s a win-win either way.

The anticipation is half the thrill.

“I think you were right though,” Niki continues. “You’re young, you’re healthy, you’re not going to die for a long time. So I don’t even know what I’m worried about.”

There’s still a lot of anxiety running underneath Niki’s composed facade. Wilbur puts a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

Niki mirrors his smile. It’s enough reassurance that Wilbur is able to pack up his things, and descend the steps down to the front of the lecture hall. He rasps his knuckles against the wood of Eret’s desk to get their attention. Eret looks up, setting down their briefcase.

“Ah, Wilbur, knew I’d be seeing you.”

“So would you join the program?”

There’s a bit of hesitation in Eret’s face. It’s odd to see their expression up close. Wilbur is always looking down at them from the back of the lecture hall.

“Honestly, I was considering it until I found out how hard it is to get yourself on the registry.”

“It is?”

Eret nods. “In the first place, the restoration program is mainly supposed to be for young people. Anybody under the age of twenty-five, especially children. So far all the participants have been people with terminal illnesses. The entire point of the restoration program is to give a second chance to those who never got one. But these people will end up living so much longer, if everything works out. They’ll live for centuries, creating a new inequality. Which is why they’re including people who don’t meet that initial criteria.”

“Anybody under twenty-five can die before they hit that age.”

“Yes, but it’s unlikely.”

“How would somebody get on the registry?”

That’s when Eret sighs, but he absolutely knew that this question was coming. He can’t even hide it.

“You have to know people who know people. Luckily, I know some people, so it wouldn’t be impossible for one of my students to make it. Most important parts are passing the mental health evaluations. For the time being, they want to make sure that people are of sound mind when they make this decision.”

“Where do I start?” Wilbur asks.

“Before I tell you… I want you to seriously ask yourself, do you want to live forever?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“A lot of people,” Eret says, leveling him with a heavy look. “I’m sure you’ve thought about the fact that you would likely outlive everybody you know right now.”

Yes. Wilbur spent sleepless nights thinking about that. Wilbur would outlive his parents and his little brother by centuries. He would outlive Niki, and he would probably outlive his children if he has them one day. Every friend he has right now would be gone given a century or two. He came to the conclusion that he’s dealt with loss before, he can deal with it again.

“I want to. I’m not hasty about this. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“And if it were to go wrong? If you came out of it a changed man?”

“That changed man would deserve a life.”

That answer clearly surprises Eret. “Interesting perspective. But… What if that man was so different from you that he was barely recognizable? What if you could barely tell that this person was supposed to be you?”

“Well I wouldn’t be around to care then, would I? If I was basically dead, then at least there would be somebody to come and take my place. Carry on my legacy.”

“You’ve given a lot of thought to this.”

“It’s all that I’ve been able to think about.”

Eret can’t deny him this. She has to see how important this is to Wilbur. If this process is really as difficult as Eret makes it out to be – which seems to be the case, judging by what Wilbur has read online – then this may be one of his only opportunities for years. Wilbur’s done his research, at least what little there is to be done. He hasn’t come this far just to be turned away.

“I have to go to a meeting in ten minutes, but if you’re free after class next Monday we can talk it through.”

The feeling that swells in Wilbur’s heart is a sense of pride. He’s doing it.

Wilbur has many loves. His oldest have been music and code. Code came about naturally with his obsession for all things artificial. He went into class in first grade and learned that there was a difference between androids and humans. So he went up to Teacher and asked it about it. The AI told him that it was merely a program taught to teach and stuck in a humanoid body. But Teacher was so warm hearted and caring that Wilbur was fascinated that it wasn’t human just like him.

That was the exact day that he developed his love for robotics. Wilbur doesn’t know what fascinates him so much about music though. It’s simply something he enjoys. Whether he’s bored or upset he’ll always turn to his guitar.

Those are his loves, and he would hate to see them go.

The notes need to flow, and so does the code.

Wilbur probably has another century in him. At least a couple more decades. Every light has to go out though. No matter how bright they burn. The heat will die out.

Wilbur does not want to grow cold.

So he holds onto the idea of restoration like a verse of music he just can’t eschew from his mind. Like a glitch that keeps popping up in his program. And Wilbur embraces it.

Wilbur comes from a small family in the suburbs of L’Manburg City. By suburbs he really means a boring town about an hour away by high-speed train. They’re close enough that he will visit for every holiday but he usually can’t find the time to come over on weekends unless there’s an important birthday or anniversary that he needs to be present for.

It’s a chilly December day when Wilbur steps out of the train onto a familiar station. He has his guitar case strapped to his back, and he’s carrying a suitcase. The movement and the weight makes his head spin a little bit. He’s dealing with a fucking terrible headache.

School’s following him home. Even here he’s not immune from the headaches. He hopes it’s school causing them. That’s what the doctors told him. He has no reason to doubt, but well, his hypochondria doesn’t really need a reason…

He’ll ask his mom to check him out when he gets home. She’s an EMT, she should be able to quell his nerves. The very nature of hypochondria makes that feel like a platitude. It’s the truth though. So Wilbur closes his eyes and lets the nausea wash over him. He opens them when he’s ready.

Mum’s car is waiting for him in the parking lot. The homing beacon glows in a pattern of gold that fades into blue, that fades into maroon.. Wilbur’s colors. He chose those when he was very young and they got the homing beacon.

Hefting his bags, he makes his way down the ramp and across the parking lot. Wilbur taps on the trunk to open it. Throws everything inside. And then he’s sliding into the unoccupied front seat of the car.

The movement seems to scare the shit out of his little brother, Fundy. Fundy would’ve jumped out of his seat in surprise if not for the seat belt strapping him in. “Jeez Will!”

“Well you sound happy to see me.”

“I didn’t know your train was here. Is it one of those new silent ones?”

Wilbur nods as he straps himself in. Fundy clicks a few buttons and the car begins to back out of the lot to take them home. Fundy swivels in his seat to face Wilbur, and he hands him a lukewarm drink. Wilbur smells it, and oh, it’s his favorite flavor of tea.

Fundy’s getting to that age where he will insist that he hates Wilbur. He’s so happy to be the big kid in the house now. Wilbur laughs at the thought of his thirteen-year-old little brother being a “Big kid.”

“You just had to come home, didn’t you?”

Warmth fills Wilbur’s chest, because the sarcasm and teenage fake-edginess is dripping from Fundy’s lips. Wilbur responds with a genuine, “I’m happy to see you too.”

His headache is starting to fade away. The warm drink eases the pain. It’ll still linger for a little while longer, but it’s manageable now.

Later when they’re at home, Wilbur says hello to his parents. His parents certainly aren’t the most hands on people in the world, but he loves them nonetheless. They’re happy to hug him and ask how uni is going. Mum has to rush off to work though, she works such unpredictable hours. So it’s just Wilbur, Fundy, and Dad, who’s surfing the internet on his old-school tablet. He still refuses to use a holo-pad.

Best thing is that a quick painkiller gets rid of the pain completely. Wilbur’s as good as new. Right after taking the pill, Wilbur smiles to himself in the mirror. The way his lips quirk up, and his hair falls in such a nice way… it almost makes Wilbur want to become a painter. When did he gain this self confidence?

Once the painkiller kicks in, Wilbur does everything he normally does. He sings for Fundy, who says he hates Wilbur’s voice yet will always beg Wilbur to play. Then he tells his father about his grades, assuring him that Wilbur’s not wasting the last of his three free years of university.

At some point he does need to talk to his parents about something though. Well, it has to wait until Mum’s home. But he’s sitting on the couch right now, talking to Dad about meaningless things… and it’s so hard not to let his mind slip.

At eleven, Mum sends them a voice message that she’s almost home. Fundy rises from the couch, asking, “Do you guys want sleep replacements?”

Dad shakes his head, but Wilbur ends up nodding. The pill will give him an extra two hours awake. That’ll be nice, he can have time to explain all about his ambitions.

Fundy runs off to the bathroom, coming back with two pills, one for himself and one for Wilbur. They both take them, and Mum arrives only a minute later.

Somehow, Wilbur nearly forgets about his current obsession as Mum greets him and they all sit down for a late dinner. They fall into easy conversation, and it’s at the end that Wilbur brings up his involvement in the restoration program.

The responses, honestly, are to be expected. Dad is curious about the technical side. Mum says that she doesn’t want to think about her baby dying – when Wilbur says that this quite literally makes it so he wouldn’t die, she simply looks away. But all together it’s something passing.

Before the conversation moves on though, Wilbur needs to ask, “There are some forms that it would be helpful for you to sign, basically saying that if anything happens to me and I need care after the procedure, that you would help me.”

Now that is what gives his parents pause.

“What do you mean?” his father asks.

“Basically if I became disabled from the procedure. Would you take care of me?”

“Disabled in what way?” asks Mum.

“I don’t know. It’s just a hypothetical. Probably not going to happen.”

Mum and Dad look between each other. They each have pretty intensive jobs. They grew up in the recession of the 2080s. Back then there was no universal basic income. If you couldn’t work, you couldn’t survive. That mindset never really left them.

“Could we hire you a nurse? Would that count?” Mum asks.

“Yes, it would count.”

“Show us what we need to sign,” his father says.

With the weight of that conversation off his chest now, Wilbur smiles. “I will after dinner.”

This entire time, Fundy has been staring. Wilbur gives him an odd look. What’s he looking at? Does Wilbur have something on his face?

When dinner’s over, Wilbur pulls up the forms on Dad’s tablet. Mum and Dad both input their passcodes to stamp their signatures on the dotted line. Wilbur needed two references for this purpose; now he has them both. It’s a relief that he doesn’t have to seek out his grandparents or ask any friends.

Wilbur’s headache started to come back halfway through dinner. He conveniently forgot that sometimes sleep replacements will nullify the effects of a painkiller. Ugh, the anxiety is going to kick in any second now, and he’ll work himself up into a fuss wondering if he has a brain tumor or something… but what if he does? Damn it.

Wilbur decides to nip the anxiety right in the bud, talking to his Mum. He mentions his headache, a bit of drowsiness and a couple of other symptoms he’s been noticing…

“Stop putting so much stress on yourself. This break will be good for you.”

“You think it’s just stress?”

She nods. “It’s always stress with you, Wilbur. I call it like I see it. You don’t need to worry, that would just make it worse.”

It’s what Wilbur needed to hear. It’s what Wilbur expected to hear.

But what if there is something wrong?

Wilbur’s going to get a lot of doctor’s appointments once he’s enrolled in the restoration program. He’ll get everything checked out then. This is why he’s joining it, to assuage those fears.

Mum and dad head off to bed. For a moment Wilbur entertains the idea of doing the same, and having a well earned rest. But the sleep replacement hasn’t worn off. He’s going to be awake for a long time.

He’ll just have to deal with this headache, won’t he?

Wilbur doesn’t really know how he ended up here, but he finds himself on the porch. It’s chilly, despite having a jacket and fuzzy slippers on. It’s winter, he doesn’t really know what he expects.

Wilbur foolishly expects to be alone. But a mere ten minutes into his stint outside, the door pushes open and he is joined by his brother.

It’s Fundy’s turn to scare Wilbur, but Wilbur has always been a bit better at masking his shock. Fundy doesn’t seem to realize that he startled him.

The first thing out of his baby brother’s mouth is, “Are you afraid of death?”

There are moments that you know you’ll never forget as they happen to you. This is one of them.

“Fundy, what the fuck?”

Fundy walks out onto the porch. The porch itself is this small little addition to the house that looks like it was tacked on without much thought. There are no stairs down into the backyard. It’s just this odd fenced off area. There are two chairs on it, both dusty because Mum and Dad both hate this place. When Wilbur was a kid, he used to pretend that this was the helm of a pirate ship or the viewing port of a space shuttle.

Now he sees what it really is. A place to smoke. Maybe put a couple plants in. His family never bothered with either of those.

This used to be a tiny little playland. Now it feels unnatural seeing his little brother leaning upon the railing.

“It would make sense,” Fundy says. “You know, your angsty poetry and music always confused me. So did your anxiety about your health. And that story about ‘the great beyond’ that you used to tell me.”

“Is that the one where an alien species kept destroying galaxies in the blink of an eye?

“Yeah, that one.”

It was a story Wilbur thought of when he was sixteen. All he could think about were these dark, depressing stories. But his little brother wanted to hear something fun, so he combined the two.

“Why do you ask, kid?”

“Just answer the question,” Fundy says, growing a little bit frustrated.

“How I answer depends on why you asked the question.”

Fundy looks at Wilbur like he’s asking why two plus two equals four. In true teenage fashion, Fundy scoffs, looks away, but does what Wilbur says. “I guess I’m just trying to be emotionally vulnerable, but instead you’re interrorating me.

Ah, emotional vulnerability, that’s what this is? Wilbur didn’t realize. He thought Fundy was just being a little shit for the sake of it.

He’ll meet Fundy halfway, but he’s not doing all the work of this.

“Isn’t everybody afraid of death?”

“Everybody’s afraid of bee stings or snake bites or being hit by a comet,” Fundy says. “But I’m pretty sure they don’t think about it all the time. If they think about it all the time, then it’s a phobia.”

When did Fundy learn about phobias and existentialism? What are they teaching kids in school nowadays?

Actually, that might have been Wilbur that taught him about existentialism. Oops.

“I don’t think about death all the time,” Wilbur says.

“You don’t?”

Maybe a bit more than the average person, but Wilbur doesn’t dwell on it too much. He spends more time thinking about how to prevent it. Honestly, Wilbur’s a bit perplexed by all the reactions he’s gotten to his news about the restoration program. He gets that it’s a little bit novel. But everybody’s acting like it’s something worrying. It’s literally the opposite.

The worst that can happen is that Wilbur will die. That is going to happen anyway. Everybody’s acting as if there’s a fate worse than death.

“I think I have a healthy amount of fear, and that I’m doing the best thing for myself.”

“So you were scared?”

“I was. I still am, I think,”

The next breath Fundy takes is long, shaky, and loud. Then Fundy’s turning towards Wilbur. It’s really hard to see Fundy in the dim moonlight. He’s not sure if there are tears at the corners of Fundy’s eyes or if that’s a trick of the light.

“I’m scared,” Fundy says. Two simple words that Wilbur will never forget.

“Scared of death?”

Fundy shakes his head. “No, not that, I’m…”

“What are you scared of?”

It takes his little brother a long time to respond. The little brother who Wilbur was always so close to. They had their fights, as all siblings do. But in the end, they weren’t really like most siblings. They were… kinder. Or at least Wilbur was kinder. He doesn’t really know why.

“I don’t know what I’m scared of. I kind of just go to school, or I watch the news, and I… it’s like this terror that grips my chest. This feeling that something is wrong. I feel like a lot of things are wrong.

Wilbur describes this feeling as being horribly out of tune. He’ll feel like a guitar with all its pegs twisted randomly. Maybe a string or two have snapped. Terrible music on a terrible instrument. That’s what panic is to him.

The feeling tended to hit Wilbur when he was here, in this home. Now he has a constant baseline of stress that it’s hard to pick out the peaks and valleys. But here at home, everything always felt so dramatic. Every emotion was amplified. It was when Mum or Dad wanted quiet and Wilbur just wanted to scream that the panic built.

“Are you afraid of society?”

“I– I don’t think so. I’m…” Fundy twists his fingers up in knots. “I think I’m just afraid of the future.”

Now that, Wilbur can understand. He may understand too well.

The future isn’t really one of Wilbur’s big fears. He knows they’re in good hands. Well, he feels like it. There are certainly people who disagree. There’s strife in this society. As long as there’s strife, there’s going to be conflict, and as long as there’s conflict there’s going to be fear. It’s an endless cycle, one that cannot be stopped. It can be controlled, though. And Wilbur has faith in the authorities controlling it.

It’s impossible to control every little aspect though. So, Wilbur understands the fear. There is still conflict. There is still strife. There’s tension lying underneath this society, and although he believes it to be no issue, it’s still a bit worrying.

“How do you deal with your fear?” Fundy asks.

Wilbur probably should think long and hard about this. It’s a loaded question. It deserves a loaded answer.

It’s late though, and the sleep replacement pill has definitely worn off. Wilbur doesn’t want to think too hard and the answer he’s going to give is true.

“You have to work with it, not against it.”

For a second, the air is quiet and still. Then,

“What the fuck does that mean?”

In retrospect, it made more sense in Wilbur’s head. “Sometimes you have to give into the fear.”

“That’s what they all tell me not to do.”

“Well listen to them, then. Do what you want. You don’t have to run it by your older brother.”

He can tell that Fundy is holding back something. Fundy can keep it hidden for a little while; Wilbur is tired. He stretches his arms, and then he opens the door to head inside.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep.”

“Wait, Wilbur…”

Wilbur lets the door slip shut. Not completely, but most of the way.

“Can you just stay out here a little while longer?”

Wilbur does.

Neither of them say anything. They both stare up into the starless sky. The moon is full tonight. It’s quite pretty. For December, it’s a nice night.

A night to remember.

But when Wilbur wakes up the next morning, it’s with an absolutely killer headache.

Christmas passes like all holidays do: too quickly. Soon Wilbur’s rushing to get assignments done. He’s back at uni, living the life he looked forward to when he was young. On top of his studies, Wilbur is goint to a lot of therapy appointments. He’s gotten in touch with Dreamland researchers running the program. They seem to like him. His chances of being accepted are good.

It’s occurred to Wilbur that this process feels quite odd. Almost as if he’s applying for some special scholarship or job. Not a research study. When it’s such an important one though, he understands. They want to make sure that he’s not benign too hasty. Of course, everybody who meets him can tell that it’s not. They need his informed consent on paper though.

The months pass and so does this arduous process.

Like a train whizzing through the station, it’s all kind of a blur. Surreal, that’s what it is. Everything is either about the study or schoolwork. He’s constantly working, constantly typing or talking. Pleading his case to therapists. Writing program after program so that he’ll have a job once he graduates.

There’s a late night in April that Wilbur realizes he hasn’t talked to a single person besides his therapist in a week. His therapist is a taciturn old man. He has this forced smile etched onto his face. His eyes are glassy, as if he’s never really listening to Wilbur.

The last person he talked to besides that man was Niki, nine days ago. It was about a project they were working on together, which has since been turned in.

One day, his life will not revolve around work and school. He has to work hard so that he can get to that point.

Wilbur’s first year in uni was pretty tough. There were classes he barely passed. Now he has to work twice as hard to make up for it. If he slips, then it could affect his career catastrophically. He has to excel in everything he does.

Music is set to the side. His passion projects as well. It’ll all be worth it when he’s achieved his dream, though.

And he does.

Graduation is in June. All his finals are in May. He walks out of the last final of his semester. Eret’s class. The toughest one in his major.

He’s now waiting on the results of all of those exams, plus the news on whether he was approved or rejected for the restoration program. He thinks he did everything right, he should be approved, but there’s that little bit of doubt that haunts him like the high E string twisted horribly out of tune.

This entire semester he’s felt Professor Eret’s eyes on him. Whether Wilbur was accepted or not, he’ll be going to tell Eret. The nerve wracking thing is that he doesn’t know which news will come first. His exam results or the restoration program.

It turns out that he doesn’t have to wait very long for the latter.

He gets accepted into the restoration program, and immediately he’s setting up doctor’s appointments and meetings with Dreamland. There’s so much that needs to be done. While the actual upload of his consciousness would take place when he’s about to die, there’s scans that Dreamland wants to complete first just so that they have something to work off of. Wellness checks to make sure that there’s nothing wrong with him. Then interviews. They want to assess his personality before and after restoration.

The first of those appointments takes place before he’s gotten his test results back. There are two objectives to this appointment: test for any illnesses or preexisting conditions, and begin the first scan.

They do it in backwards order because of the availability of the doctor. The Dreamland technician shows Wilbur the scan and helps him understand what is going on. It’s a diagram of the brain, paired with a bunch of binary code. Although he has a grasp on the technical aspects of coding, he does get a little bit lost on the whole this is his brain thing.

Then there’s the check up. They’re taking his vitals, and it should be nothing, but,

“Have you always had high blood pressure?”

… Shit.

Going into this, they told him that if he’s healthy, then this will be easier. Because Wilbur doesn’t have a preexisting condition, Wilbur’s technically not supposed to be in this program. Due to that, insurance isn’t paying for it. This is out of pocket at the moment, and he’s budgeting accordingly, but if he’s sick then this process is going to be so much longer. He could try to get insurance to cover it, but that would be difficult.

It’s why he hasn’t told the doctor about his headaches.

“Um, kind of. Upper end of normal.”

The doctor clicks her tongue. “I’m going to have to check this out. You’re having dangerously high blood pressure. If it’s not normal, then this might be a fluke. You said that you’re waiting on the results of your finals?”

“Yes?”

“Then the stress will do that. Still, I might have to run some other tests. My next availability is Friday the 22nd, does that work for you?”

Wilbur pulls up his calendar on his holo-pad. “Yes, that works for me.”

This is going to be so much worse if this turns out to be something. But the doctor didn’t make it seem urgent? Worrying, yes, but if it was urgent then the doctor would’ve done something then. She wouldn’t have held off tests until the 22nd, a full ten days from then. She didn’t seem alarmed, and she’s the expert, so why is Wilbur’s heart beating out of his chest?

It’s fine. She said it was probably the stress. Just like Wilbur’s mother did months ago.

Months ago, Wilbur has been having this issue for months…

But the stress had lasted for months. This shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s done with uni now. No need to worry. Well, he’s done with uni, assuming he passed all his classes. And his exam for Ethics of AI Technology, Eret’s class, was pretty tough. Left him stumbling out of that lecture hall with a million questions on his mind. But that was his favorite class, surely he passed it.

Surely.

He has to have.

He needs that class to graduate. And he needs to have passed it the first time to get accepted into a highly competitive internship. If he gets accepted then he’ll have a foot in the door for his dream job, designing and raising artificial intelligence. He’ll be coding the literal genes of the next generation. It’s what he’s always wanted to do.

And it all depends on that one class.

If he failed, he would have to take it all over again. A pain, but he could do it. However, those internships…

Those internships fly right out the window when Wilbur gets back his results on the 19th of May. A day where he’s having an incredibly terrible headache. His headaches have been getting worse and worse.

But he gets these results. He’s already not feeling well.

Wilbur didn’t pass. He got close. But a sixty is not enough, and Wilbur is not enough.

Wilbur sees red in the corners of his eyes.

He hears blood rushing through his ears.

And he feels an incredible pressure in his head, like something about to pop.

Wilbur crashes down to the floor, and with him comes his hopes and dreams.

From the moment they get him into the ambulance, the emergency medical team attempts to save Wilbur Soot. They all have a bad feeling twisting in their guts though. Some of them are already afraid that this is a lost cause.

Upon examination, they’re all perplexed. It was a stroke, caused by a brain hemorrhage. There was definitely something wrong going on beneath the surface. Some preexisting condition that wasn’t on file. They don’t have much time to sit around theorizing, though. They have to figure out what to do.

There is a chance that they can save him, however, his file shows that he is a part of Dreamland’s Restoration Program. He had just been inducted a week ago.

As long as they can get him to the hospital soon enough, they can start the process. They’re mere minutes away from the hospital by the time they realize this. It’s clear what the best choice is.

However, when they get to the hospital, they need to go by protocol. They have to run it past a particular AI first.

One of the assistants runs over to get the necessary codes. The young assistant punches them into a keyboard, hits enter, and instantly he is taken to a familiar interface. A cartoon duck, the logo of Tub-Net appears before him.

The assistant speaks rapidly. “A twenty-one year old man just came in with a stroke. There’s a possibility that we could save him, but he’s part of the Restoration program. Is it okay to just start the upload process? Or do we have to expend every resource trying to save him?”

Then he waits with bated breath. The duck begins to spin, that’s the loading screen. Tub-Net’s processes are highly advanced. It shouldn’t take longer than a couple seconds for the servers to spit out an answer, unless…

The duck blinks out of the holo-screen. It’s quickly replaced by the projection of somebody unfamiliar. It’s a person, seeming to be in a bedroom of sorts, or maybe a living room. There are some blankets around. The EMT assistant gasps as the person – android, rather, turns towards the camera.

This is Tubbo himself.

Tubbo is scratching his head. “Hey, I could’ve just spit out an answer for you. But the restoration program… ah, it’s so risky, I hate it. I hate risks so much, they make everything harder. How likely is it that you could revive that man? What was his name?”

“Wilbur Soot. And… I don’t think the odds are that great, but there are new developments every moment.”

“I think… give me a second… Okay, I searched for it. Currently the Dreamland Program’s success rate is just about 25%. Do you think his chance of living is greater or lower than 25%?”

The answer came to the assistant quickly. “Lower.”

“Then do what needs to be done, Big Man. Upload ‘im. I wish Wilbur Soot luck.”

With the approval granted, the assistant immediately pages the doctors working on Soot to deliver the news. There is no longer a chance that Wilbur Soot would carry on as a living, breathing, human man. He will become an android. If all goes well, then he won’t even be able to tell the difference once he wakes up.

Given the sheer amount of computing power necessary, it takes a long time to upload Soot’s consciousness. He’s kept on life support for about fourteen hours. In that time, every brainwave is copied over. Every thought Soot could possibly think is electrically induced so that they can copy down the pattern. They record all the memories they can.

Wilbur Soot is out cold, and his brain is far from functioning properly. Yet his sleep is not restful.

He isn’t consciously thinking, but in a weird way, he knows what’s happening.

And that small part of himself that’s still aware is happy. Because he knows he’s going to live on. It’s everything he wanted.

That little bit of happiness is one of the last things that needed to be transferred over the computer.

After that, they let him go, and they begin the assembly process of his new mind and body.

The hospital keeps android bodies ready to go. The body itself is a sort of artificial intelligence. Not a conscious one, but intelligent nonetheless. It looks at scans of Wilbur Soot’s body and starts to form itself into a perfect replica. It grows a couple inches. Gains some curly brown hair. The veins start flowing with artificial blood. Eyes come online, nerves as well. They just need a mind to connect to.

The computer is taking care of that, putting Wilbur’s mind back together piece by piece.

Twenty-six hours after being let off of life support, Wilbur wakes up in a hospital bed.

Oh, wow, this room is bright. Even through his eyelids it’s a little bit too much. Scrunching his eyes shut tight, Wilbur yawns. His jaw is a bit stiff. He feels a bit stiff in general. He lifts his arms above his head to stretch. Ah, that feels nice.

Then he opens his eyes. He has to blink a couple of times to adjust to the light, who turned up the lights so bright? Once he adjusts, it only takes a moment for him to realize that the ceiling he’s staring up at is not his own. Turning his head reveals the clinical white machinery of a hospital room.

Why he’s here is a complete mystery. What happened to him? The last thing he remembers is being accepted into that program.

There are a million questions on Wilbur’s mind. His head is a very loud place right now though. It’s almost overwhelming, but it’s all held together by a single emotion.

Wilbur sits up. He’s really confused about why he’s in the hospital, because aside from the stiffness, he feels fine. He actually feels really great. As if a weight has been lifted off of his chest.

The most confusing thing of all is that Wilbur has been grasped by an overwhelming sense of joy.

Chapter Text

It’s weird how the entire neighborhood whispers about Wilbur now.

Wilbur still lives near the university. He may not be attending any classes at the minute, but it’s easier to stay here. Most of the people here know him from uni. They know what happened to him, and they whisper about him after he says hello to a group in the halls or when he goes to the local cafe.

He is a pretty interesting case. It makes sense.

Some things are very, very different from the way they were before. Wilbur doesn’t need to eat or drink anymore. He can, if he really wants to. He can still enjoy a good sugary treat or a nice warm drink. But then he has to worry about going to the bathroom, and that’s just annoying now. Wilbur still sleeps, though. Only needs about five hours, but he does sleep. Those extra three hours are freaking sweet. He’s really been appreciating them.

So better sleep, more time, and a guarantee that he won’t ever suffer from a human ailment again. And the whispers following him around? Well, Wilbur doesn’t really know how to feel about all of those. But overall, it’s been great. He’s better than ever.

Today is a brand new day. Wilbur woke up when the sun was just starting to rise. Mornings are simple and pleasant. He’ll stretch out stiff artificial muscles and sometimes go for a jog. He opts for that today, pulling on tennis shoes and slipping in earbuds.

Then Wilbur’s running, running, fast around the neighborhood. The wind is behind him, the whispers are behind him, and there’s something else behind him as well. Wilbur leaves something in the dust every time his feet hit the pavement. Like that feeling of leaving your house with a packed backpack yet feeling that you’ve forgotten something. Not knowing what. That is the something that is left behind.

In thirty minutes Wilbur returns to his flat. He wipes off the sweat, something he was originally surprised to still have. Then he sits on his computer to code.

He doesn’t have any classes. Not until the winter. Wilbur doesn’t really know why he’s not retaking Dream’s class in the fall. Something about missing the deadline to enroll. Wilbur doesn’t have any classes, nor a job, all he really has is his freelance work.

Wilbur sits down and goes to crack his knuckles. Then he remembers that it doesn’t really work anymore. His bones are ever so slightly different; they don’t make the bubbles to pop anymore. So it’s right to work with him.

He flicks open the holopad. Wilbur scans in his password and opens his current project. Without any time to waste, he starts back up again.

It should be easy. Like any other day.

Wilbur’s days have just been so easy.

Everything is so heavy.

His eyelids are pulled down with weights. His limbs are lead. The systems made to raise them are feeble. Wilbur is down. He feels very down.

His head is resting on somebody’s lap. He doesn’t know whose. It’s an awkward angle and the rest of his body is resting on a lumpy, scratchy couch. Wilbur clenches his fists, which is quite a feat, but the movement helps his eyes open. Once they’re open, he feels such a great urge to close them again. There’s some sort of spring hidden in there, and its pressure is just another weight for Wilbur to carry.

He can fix some of this discomfort though. It’s as simple as moving his head. Well, maybe that isn’t so simple. It’s hard to pull himself up. Hard, but at least not totally impossible. The energy travels up his spine and he’s going up, up, up-- then there’s a pressure pushing on him, helping him to get all the way to a seated position.

It wasn’t this hard to get up when he was human, was it? He doesn’t even think it’s been this hard as an android.

And who was helping him up? He turns. Niki’s sitting next to him, draped in soft blankets with her hair cascading over her shoulder. Her hand is on his. She’s frowning, lines etched into the corners of her lips, and a shadow imprinted on the skin right beneath her eyes.

It’s with a jolt and a fast beating heart that Wilbur wonders, is she so tired because of me? That couldn’t be, he wouldn’t do that to her…

“What time is it?” Wilbur asks, voice clearer than he expected it to be.

Niki taps her watch. “Nine at night.”

“But it was just nine in the morning.”

Niki frowns again. What? It’s not nine at night. It can’t be. Last thing Wilbur knows, he was sitting down to work on that freelance work. He was happy, he had just taken a run. But now he’s waking up and his feet hurt, he’s certainly not at home, and the skin around his face is a little bit damp. Looking around, this definitely is Niki’s flat. How did he get here though?

“Oh, Wil…”

Wilbur begins to stand. “What are you talking about? Why am I here? This is… this is weird…”

“You forgot it, remember?”

Wilbur blinks. And then his brain begins to buzz.

His body shudders right along with it. He places his hands on his head and it’s ever so slightly vibrating. It’s barely noticeable, like a single strand of hair swaying in the air. But he certainly feels it. His brain is whirring and he’s searching, searching, searching…

“I have memory loss, right?”

Niki nods. “You forget unhappy memories. They messed up your code or something when they transferred you over. So you’re just… like this now.”

Of course, how could Wilbur have forgotten that?

“I forgot twelve hours,” Wilbur says, coming to the realization as he speaks. “But I couldn’t have been upset for twelve hours.”

“You were asleep for a little while,” Niki says.

“Well then ten or eleven hours… I couldn’t have been upset for ten hours straight. What happened?”

Niki sighs, shifting away as she starts to push aside her blankets. “You’re just going to be more upset if I tell you. It really doesn’t matter, Wil, we should just watch a movie or something--”

“I forgot ten whole hours?”

Niki goes to speak, and she does, but Wilbur does not hear her words. She’s dancing around the fact that Wilbur forgot ten whole hours. Or more. Half of a day. His morning was great. Wilbur’s morning was really great, he woke up to a beautiful sunrise. He always wakes up with the sunrise, and mornings are always amazing. Either that or they’re a bit of a blur. Mornings are tough sometimes, aren’t they?

How can it be that his morning is so sharp and bright in his memory, yet ten hours have been thrown out the window?

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Niki says in passing, as part of a larger point she’s making. Wilbur hasn’t heard that though. He’s working off what he knows, and what he knows is that there’s something wrong. There’s something terribly, terribly wrong.

“What was I upset about?”

Niki stops. She’s standing now, and was pacing around. She stares down at him. “Um, were you listening to me?”

“Niki, what was I upset about?”

“Well, something went wrong with the code and you spent hours trying to fix it. Then you had to tell the client and they shouted at you, something like that. Then you came to me, and-- and I don’t know, you were freaking out because you didn’t remember that this happens so often.”

“What?”

Niki falls silent.

“Often?”

How bad is this? How much is he missing?

“Yeah, um… you come to me a lot. Like this. And you complain. Then you forget and then you… do it again.”

Can he recall what he did yesterday? Yes, he watched a movie and he cleaned the house a little bit. Worked on some code, of course… Hmm, but is that all there is? Maybe not?

Niki reaches out a hand, “Wilbur,” but he holds up his own to stop her. Shit, this… his brain is buzzing so loud. It isn’t even his brain, not his real one, it just comforts him to call it that. This computer that has become his brain is running so fast. He’s not keeping up. So much is being left behind, in the dust, to be trampled upon by the lucky concepts that are strung along by this supercomputer.

He stands. He doesn’t know what he’s even doing. But he stands.

“Are you going home?” Niki asks, quietly.

Is there anything for him here?

“I think so.”

So Niki grabs his shoes for him. She guides him towards the door, hands him his jacket, and then pulls the door open for him. Before he can step through though, two things happen. First, at least through Wilbur’s view, is that he questions where he’s going once this door closes. Home, obviously, but… aside from his bedroom ceiling and the window that he watches the sunrise though, his flat is a little bit blurry right now. He’s not sure which side of the living room the door opens out into or how far away the bathroom is from the bedroom.

The second is that Niki says, “Do you not remember me helping you?”

The question surprises him, which should be his first hint that the answer is no. But he still thinks, putting that supercomputer to use. In the end it’s just another way to end up at the answer of “No.”

“Nothing since you came over? You don’t remember coming over at all?”

Again, Wilbur wracks his brain, but it’s yet another “No.”

He expects something more. Niki even goes to speak. Wilbur’s all ears, but there’s nothing.

Simply, “Have a nice night, Wilbur.”

Then he’s out of the flat, heading down the stairs, and walking home. Simple as that, they’re out of each other’s worlds.

How long will it be until he forgets that entire confrontation?

He turns back, staring up towards Niki’s window. The light turns off right before Wilbur’s eyes. The street is just as bright as before, despite the dark of night. Bright, if Niki’s light was never on in the first place.

Then it’s another turn around. And another. Another and another, and he’s just spinning in circles, a fan blade spinning too slowly to properly work.

He just needs to go home. It’s that simple.

Niki can’t fix him. Clearly he needs fixing. But she’s not the one who can do that, and Wilbur can’t fix himself. He doesn’t have that useless degree yet, he’s not even qualified to try.

Wilbur wants to find somebody who will try. Wilbur doesn’t want to be broken. Who does?

He doesn’t remember the day before yesterday. Last week was a blur. It’s easy to recall everything that he doesn’t remember, because the rest is so vivid that the blanks are clear as day.

Wilbur has to get home. So he can call up some sleep deprived engineer who will see him. Just like that he’s walking, Niki’s apartment behind him. He walks past rats that crawl up out of the sewage and homeless people that theoretically should not exist anymore. All the way home, and it’s only a sliver of the city.

The ascent into his apartment is a silent one. His feet are quiet on the floor beneath him. It’s aggravating because he can feel things slipping away as he steps. Constantly he must repeat an awful message to himself, like a corrupted recording: I am broken, I am shit, I am broken please fix it. It’s muttered under his breath when he thinks he isn’t going to be bothered by the ruptured silence. He always is.

And hey, it rhymes. That’s nice.

Finally he’s home, and he doesn’t know why, but he is shit, he is broken, and he is losing his memory.

The first thing he does is pull up his holo-pad so he can access his medical files. It’s a little bit hard to find them, but before he talks to anybody he wants to know what happened. It takes ten minutes, but eventually he’s staring down at the highlighted section of the procedure reports.

Attempted to minimize trauma experienced from hospitalization and subsequent restoration. Error occurred, affecting long-term memory retention.

It’s one thing to know it, but fuck, it’s another thing to see it. He needs to start writing these things down. He can’t keep forgetting the reason he’s forgetting things.

He immediately gets to work finding an engineer. His first search turns up listing upon listing that isn’t open fight now, so he adds in the condition of available for call at night. He finds something, at least, but the first few links all glow a familiar shade of blue.

He pulls up the information bar: the top link was accessed a month ago. The one beneath it two and a half weeks ago.

At the very least, it’s not surprising. That’s something. Wilbur supposes. He’s been here before. It’s his fault for not guessing.

In the back of his mind, Wilbur has a bit of a hunch. That hunch drives him to pull open his calendar and turn it over to the next month. And sure enough, there’s a date marked off. The first day of the month, actually.

Appointment with Mr. Valdez, 2:00pm

He pulls up past dates. Counts all the passed appointments. Seven. Seven appointments with engineers since he gained this new body. And Wilbur doesn’t remember a single one. He doesn’t even remember making them.

What has his life come to?

Something needs to change, there’s something wrong, Wilbur is not just broken. There is something missing. There is a gaping hole in his humanity.

Wilbur has a sneaking suspicion that the meeting with Mr. Valdez is not going to get him anywhere… but he’ll try. This time, he’ll write down everything the engineer says. He’ll make up for what he’s lacking.

According to Niki, something as simple as getting yelled at sent Wilbur into a tailspin that ended with him crying himself asleep into Niki’s arms. He can’t live like that.

Something’s got to give.

Something will change.

He doesn’t know what yet, but a decision will be made.

Mr. Valdez was an intelligent man with a wicked sense of humor. He introduced himself not with his name, but with a joke.

Wilbur doesn’t remember much that happened after that.

He’s pretty sure he needs to crack open this notebook that happens to rest in his hands. It feels important. There’s something inside that he needs to read. He knows that. Last night, he dreamed about opening notebooks. It’s so nice that he can still dream. In his dreams, the writing was never legible though. A toddler’s scrawling, that’s what always appeared.

Wilbur opens to the second page, and oh… Oh. That’s why he needed to read it. Okay.

Wilbur leans back in his chair and hisses a single word: “Fuck.”

Wilbur may not understand, but he starts to fall into a familiar routine.

First comes the doubt. For a minute or two, Wilbur thinks that things might not be so bad. He’s mostly just confused. Then some harsh reality sets in, and that sets off the next phase. The freak out, where it will all crash down upon him. He thinks of going to see Niki. He wants to make another appointment. But he rereads his notes, again and again, and he settles down into a reluctant resolution. Just as he always does.

A new plan emerges out of this tentative stillness.

Firstly, Wilbur needs a way to break out of this cycle. It’s a cycle isn’t it? Wilbur’s eyes flick between his notebook and the calendar he has pulled up on his holo-pad. This… probably isn’t the first time that he’s freaked out like this.

This is all going to be forgotten again given a good night’s rest. What if he writes it down though? Well, he’ll probably freak out while reading it back. Still… Wilbur begins to dictate his thoughts, starting the program that will beam all of his words down onto the notebook.

He recounts everything he just thought, still safe within his short term memory, and then he begins to speculate.

“Tomorrow I’ll read this. And I’ll freak out -- hello Future Wilbur, it’s me, and yes, I understand. And you’ll be scared, future Wilbur will be scared… but you’ll add your own thoughts, won’t you?”

The words are being imprinted onto the page by the light beam. Good. Wilbur continues, shifting in his chair.

“Write down everything. Every little thought. That is the most important thing.

“We-- I don’t have the best memory. I hope you remember that at least.” Wilbur woke up this morning remembering. That’s a relief. “So we’re going to hold through until I can be fixed.”

That’s the first step. Second…

“We’re not going to any engineers anymore. They don’t have what we need. We’re going somewhere else.”

Where does he even start?

He can think of a few ideas… he says them, so that they don’t slip from his mind. He’ll pursue them later, but for now, he sits back in his chair. Lets it lean back, ignoring the safety concerns of doing so. Worst that can happen is that he’ll have to go to yet another engineer. He laughs at that thought, because there are only so many engineers in the city. He’ll probably go to one he’s already seen without even realizing it. That’d be an interesting conversation.

Wilbur feels a smile stretching across his face as somebody would feel an ache in their muscles after a run. It hurts. The smile pulls at unused muscles. Yet it comes with so much inexplicable joy.

Things are going to get a little bit better.

They have to, right?

The solution is simpler than Wilbur ever thought it would be. He just has to talk to Dreamland themselves. Their doctors, their representatives, whoever will listen. This was all caused by Dreamland, according to Wilbur’s medical reports. That means that they must know the damage they have caused. Right?

Everything’s kind of… blurry right now. As if he’s looking at the world underwater. Right now he’s somewhere. Somewhere important, with big halls and a lot of people. He’s following this man in a white lab coat. They take a right into this large room with a lot of screens up on the walls. There’s a long table right in the center of it.

“Take a seat Mr. Soot,” the man in the white lab coat says. What is his name?

When Wilbur asks that, frustration flashes across the man’s face. “I already told you, my name is Founder. George Founder.”

Oh. Um… “I’m sorry?”

The man, George – or is Wilbur supposed to call him Founder? Mr. Founder? Wilbur honestly has no clue. George Founder clicks a button on a remote in the center of the table and a couple of the screens fire to life. It’s rather old fashioned, having screens instead of holo-teles.

Setting that aside though, now there are three men in sharp suits staring at Wilbur. None of them look very happy to be there. One is checking his watch.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” George Founder asks. “Tell them your problem.”

“My problem?”

George looks at him like he’s stupid. Wilbur’s not stupid. He has memory loss, did he not tell George that upon coming in? He must have. Yet George and all of these fancy executives are staring down at Wilbur as if he’s a child in the principal’s office.

“Yes, your problem.”

These are the people that are going to help him. They’re probably just very busy. Maybe all four of them are having a bad day.

This is probably the time to crack open the notebook.

He’s been taking notes here for about two weeks now. There’s something important on page twelve, he remembers that… on it he finds a script for this very meeting. Good planning, past Wilbur. The page is a little bit wrinkled, as if it was flipped to earlier.

Well, here goes nothing.

He states his case to these executives. Says it all rather slowly, because he’s taking it in himself. He’s been forgetting daily life, apparently. Usually forgot at least a couple of hours from his day. It was starting to affect his work, and his friendships… it affected his friendships? Which ones?

He doesn’t have time to think about that though, because now all of the executives are talking to him. They were talking while he was talking, that was kind of annoying, but now they’re so loud that he can’t ignore it.

“Mr. Soot, we do apologize–”

“Your case is not something we knew of in advance, we didn’t know it was a possibility–”

“We take your concerns very seriously,” George adds in beside him.

“And while we do understand that it must be distressing to live like this–”

“You knew that there were risks involved.”

“Dreamland is not legally liable–”

“And everybody deals with some shock after a traumatic event,” George says again. By the nature of him being present in the room, he’s a lot louder than everybody on the screens. “Like my colleagues said, we understand that you’re in distress, but this might not even be something that Dreamland caused. I would recommend that you talk to a therapist.”

In the midst of all of this ruckus, Wilbur has to concentrate just to understand what George just said.

“But my medical records said that it was a known issue,” he says, looking up at George and locking eyes with him. “They say that there was an issue with the transfer.”

Without skipping a beat, George replies, “Well, the initial assessment could have been wrong.”

“And if it wasn’t?”

“Well, the therapist may still be beneficial to you. Remember that in the contract you signed though, we are not legally responsible for complications such as this that should arise.”

Wilbur may not have the best memory. But just as he asserted at the beginning of this meeting, he is not stupid. In fact, he’s always considered himself quite intelligent when it comes to understanding others.

He knows a dismissal when he sees one.

Wilbur takes his leave. This isn’t going to help him. He was so sure that coming here was going to fix everything. Why would Dreamland do this to him? Aren’t they trying to make their product the best thing that it can be?

Those questions are going to go unanswered, because there’s nothing for him there. Wilbur pushes open the door to the meeting room after being told that he is allowed to leave as long as he heads straight out. He finds the elevator and jams the button with his finger. He slips inside, and when he reaches the bottom floor, it takes him a moment to step in. He’s too busy trying to stop himself from gritting these brand new teeth.

What is this feeling?

Wilbur steps out into the hall. His footsteps echo as he stomps down into the lobby. What is this feeling? It’s unfamiliar on him. Like a garment that fits way too tight around the shoulders. Does it have a name? Why is it making him want to punch something?

Is this what anger is?

That feels right. Anger. That’s what burns through Wilbur’s veins.

“Sir?”

He snaps around to the receptionist who called for him. The receptionist shrinks back a bit, eyes flicking up and down.

“What do you want?”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I could do for you?”

“Unless you can find anybody willing to help me, then no.”

The receptionist rises and rounds across the desk to approach Wilbur. The holotag floating above their shoulder says Boomer, He/They. For a second they both stand there, staring at each other. Then Boomer sighs, and says, “Don’t tell anybody I said this, but those execs… They’ve all got their heads a little bit too far up their asses, right?”

Suddenly Wilbur is laughing. He’s laughing so much and it’s the opposite of that anger. This is familiar, and that just makes him laugh more, it makes him smile, because he wants that. He wants that comforting feeling that comes to him every morning. He wishes his life could just consist of mornings. He wishes there were never days like this.

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows. Hurt boils under Wilbur’s skin like some foul disease. He’s definitely laughing way too much; Boomer looks a little bit creeped out. Wilbur suddenly finds that he’s able to speak though, that’s a plus.

“They do. Bastards, all of them.”

“Come with me man, I can find somebody to help you.”

Boomer leads Wilbur into a more secluded office. Wilbur finds page twelve again and reads it once more. Fuck, he’s forgetting hours of each day? He’s losing that much of his life? Why is he here, talking to the receptionist? Why aren’t the executives taking him to some engineer who will fix him? Why can’t he just have this faulty code rewritten?

“Dude, does Tub-Net know about this?”

Wilbur blinks. “What?”

“Tub-Net? You know, this is the type of thing they deal with. Dreamland messed up like this and they’re just sweeping it under the rug? Tub-Net would want to hear about it. They can get Dreamland in trouble and start regulating them.”

“How do I let them know?”

“Have a meeting with Tubbo,” Boomer says.

Wilbur laughs. “Tubbo himself? Yeah, it’s not that easy to meet with him.”

“Well it’s hard to set up an appointment, you can’t exactly look up how. But I can help you.”

“You can?”

Boomer nods. “Yeah dude, I know some people who know people. I’ll get you set up.”

“I– Thank you. So much.”

“It’s really no problem.”

“Will he be able to fix me?”

That gives Boomer pause. “I don’t know about fix. I’m not really an engineer, I’ll be honest, I have no idea what’s wrong with you. But I know what’s wrong with this company. They hate Tub-Net. They don’t want to admit it, but they really hate all of Tub-Net’s regulations. They say that it would be easier to do things like the restoration program without Tub-Net.”

“I had no idea.”

“Talk to Tubbo, and at the very least, Dreamland will get in trouble for this,” Boomer says.

Well, Wilbur doesn’t know if he wants to get Dreamland in trouble. Would they axe the restoration program? They can’t. Wilbur loves his life– well, he loves the fact that he’s living. He’d be fine, but people like him would never get this opportunity.

But… they should know what they’re getting into, right? They should know that Dreamland messed up. Yeah, Wilbur thinks that people should know. They also shouldn’t let the executives talk to people like that.

Still, this shouldn’t be taken out of proportion. Wilbur hopes it isn’t. He’s fine. Really. He’s fine.

He lives a happy life, doesn’t he?

He remembers living a happy life.

Boomer gives Wilbur a number to call. Wilbur starts writing in his notebook so that he doesn’t forget this all. He doesn’t think he’ll forget his talk with Boomer, but he can’t be quite sure. So he makes sure it’s all in the notebook to read later.

Then he’s saying his goodbyes and heading out the door.

Is he really going to get to speak to Tubbo himself?

Everything aside… that’s a bit of a dream come true.

A product of quantum computing and an entire century of research into machine learning, the Tub-Net program is possibly the greatest artificial intelligence to ever be thought of, let alone created. Tub-Net is the convergence of science and philosophy. Tub-Net has turned ethics into a mathematical equation.

Hosted across thousands of computers all located in various warehouses across Essempi, Tub-Net runs equation after equation to calculate the objective moral value of an action. It begins with an operator inputting a question. The machine works its way towards the answer as efficiently as possible; the internal process basically looks like a series of moral questions. How many people are hurt, if any? To what degree are they hurt? What is the monetary cost of action? What is the monetary cost of inaction? Are the affected persons part of a marginalized group or identity?

Those are just a few of thousands of questions the artificial intelligence asks itself. It takes as many factors into account as artificially possible. And due to the sheer size and complexity of the program, there is no limit on what questions can be asked of it. Tub-Net can decide murder cases. Tub-Net can expose multimillion dollar companies. Theoretically, Tub-Net could even decide whether or not to go to war.

Up until 2095, the Republic of Essempi was governed by three branches of government. The parliament, the federal court, and of course, the Prime Minister. That’s how it had been for centuries. However, in 2102, a fourth branch was added. It consisted of merely one entity: Tub-Net itself.

It was the most controversial decision in the world, at that time. The entire western world was up in arms about the decision. To many, it was the beginning of the end.

But then a year passed.

And Essempi’s GDP and population doubled.

The country shot up the global happiness index from #34 all the way to #1.

All in the span of twelve months.

As the years went on, the growth continued. Well, growth did hit a bit of a plateau around a decade around after Tub-Net’s induction into Essempi’s government. That was after solidifying Essempi’s place as one of the major powers on the world stage.

After centuries of suffering under oppressive governments, one country finally cracked the code. They identified the problem: Humanity itself.

Of course, this isn’t all to say that everything was absolutely fine in Essempi. Not everybody was living picture perfect lifestyles. The reason for that was simple: Perfection is impossible.

Tub-Net has achieved the closest possible thing.

There were some in Essempi who had a problem, though. Due to its very nature, Tub-Net was always going to be very alienating. Being governed by an artificial intelligence, inhuman in every way possible felt like something out of an old dystopian novel. It didn’t feel real. Even as the economy skyrocketed and happiness rose, there were some who couldn’t shake this anxiety. This feeling that something was going to go wrong, at some point.

It was the Tub-Net program itself that devised the solution. It looked at successful empires from centuries past. The British empire, the Chinese, the Ancient Romans. Almost all of these powers had something in common: A strong figurehead to rally behind.

Androids had existed for a couple of decades at that point. Artificial Intelligence in humanoid bodies, built to act as human as possible. It was relatively easy to create an android that would be linked to the Tub-Net program and carry out its protocols. A representative, in essence. And they wanted an android that would grow and learn right alongside the program. They wanted to raise this android.

And so Tubbo was created.

Or rather, Tubbo was born.

December 23rd, 2100 was the day that Tubbo came online. Wilbur was five years old at the time. He gazed at the holographic projection displaying news of Tubbo’s birth. And somewhere in his five year old mind, he realized that this kid wasn’t that much younger than him.

He was going to be seeing himself in this kid.

Wilbur was already interested in AI technology at that point. But that just catapulted his interest into being a full on obsession.

Wilbur is a part of the first generation to be raised post-Tub-Net. He does not remember a time without the program. He barely remembers a time without Tubbo – Tubbo has been paraded around on television for years now. Since he was a very young child. Wilbur’s parents? They’re from a time when the country knew suffering. They’re from the before. They grew up in a dystopia.

Wilbur knows none of it.

And it’s basically thanks to this seventeen year old kid that he’s going to be seeing today.

Technically it’s thanks to the program that Tubbo is representing. But there isn’t much of a distinction between Tubbo and Tub-Net. They’re usually used interchangeably. Like saying “The Prime Minister” and “The government.” There’s sometimes a reason to use one term and not the other. But usually, the distinction doesn’t make that much of a difference.

If there’s anybody who can help Wilbur with his plight, it’s Tubbo.

The smartest person on Earth. Wait, is Tubbo a person? Well… if Wilbur is, then why shouldn’t Tubbo be?

The smartest person on Earth has to know how to fix Wilbur. Yes, Boomer may have told him not to count his chickens before they’ve hatched. But this is a program of code. Messy programming. Ones and zeroes. Tubbo should be uniquely situated to handle that. This should be his expertise.

If Tubbo can’t save him, well, then nobody can. This is Wilbur’s last chance. But it’s also the best chance he’s ever gotten.

Wilbur’s train rolls into the station. Wilbur slings on his bag and strolls on out the door when it opens. He steps out onto the marble floors of Prime Station, one of L’Manburg’s largest and most affluent metro stops. It opens out onto Prime Street itself, the home of many a politician and billionaire. Most importantly, it houses Tub-Net headquarters.

After passing through the turnstile and ascending the stairs, it’s a short walk to the gold plated exit. Wilbur closes his eyes as he pushes the doors open. His eyes flutter open to reveal to him a street that he hasn’t seen in years. Even still, it’s familiar, from countless movies and television shows.

He can’t help the gasp that escapes his lips when he turns and sees it. Tub-Net headquarters. One of the tallest buildings in the city, with a striking silhouette. Carefully placed windows on the thick building give it the illusion of being in the shape of an uppercase T.

It’s right at the end of the block. It’s the end of the street.

Wilbur starts his short journey there without much further delay. He’s joined by a large crowd of people from the very same train as him. Wilbur’s taller than all of them. He has a perfect view of headquarters.

Yet Wilbur finds himself looking down at his shoes.

Because his heart is pounding. His artificial blood is rushing through his ears. And Wilbur is stricken by a thought that he cannot explain, yet he feels deep within his own core. The thought that he is going to make a fool of himself upon stepping in there.

Where he attained that fear, Wilbur does not know, but there’s this deep sense of need burning somewhere in the back of Wilbur’s mind. A need for something missing. A need for knowledge.

As he crawls forward, Wilbur reaches into his side bag and pulls out his notebook. He turns to the first dog-eared page. Wilbur reads.

You have memory loss

“I have memory loss.”

It is Dreamland’s fault

Wilbur doesn’t look up as he crosses the street. He just makes sure that he’s in the middle of a crowd of people. “It is Dreamland’s fault.”

You are alive, you are aware, but you are missing what’s most important to you

“I’m missing… something important.”

You are broken

“I am broken.”

Please fix it

Wilbur shuts the notebook as he arrives at his destination. Tub-Net headquarters.

“He can fix me.”

Chapter Text

In a beautiful meeting room, Wilbur sits across a wooden table from one of the men he admires most. Can he call Tubbo a man yet? Or is the teenager too young, is he simply a boy?

He doesn’t look like much of a man yet. Baby fat in his cheeks, a sloppily fit suit, and unkempt hair.

The first thing Tubbo says is, “Well you’re not who I expected.”

“... What?”

Getting in here was a bit stressful. Wilbur had to provide a lot of documents and talk to a lot of people. It’s all fine though, because eventually Wilbur was led here. It’s truly a beautiful room. This is one of the modern offices made to replicate nature; stepping into it feels like stepping into the rainforest on an absolutely perfect day. A faint floral scent hangs in the air, and the table feels handcrafted.

Only a minute or two after he sat down, Tubbo came in through the archway hidden in the corner of the room. Now, standing on the other side of the table, Tubbo is shifting from foot to foot as he gets a good look at Wilbur.

All of a sudden Tubbo startles. He starts blubbering and backtracking. “Oh, sorry, that probably sounded so rude–”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Wilbur assures, raising his hands placatingly.

“I was just expecting somebody… different. Usually the people I talk to are a bit older– wait, sorry, does that sound rude?”

Vigorously, Wilbur shakes his head no. “It’s fine, like I said, it’s fine! Tubbo, Mr. Underscore, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

“Well you don’t need to call me Mr. Underscore.”

As it turns out, Tubbo is not really who Wilbur expected either. And that just makes Wilbur like him even more.

Tub-Net’s shining star of a representative that Wilbur’s always seen on the tele is very different from this kid. For one, it’s abundantly clear that Tubbo is a teenager. First, Tubbo slipped up and dropped an F-bomb. Later he made a fart joke that might have made Wilbur laugh a little bit too much. Wilbur’s sense of humor isn’t broken, is it? Maybe a little bit broken.

This isn’t a personal audience with Tubbo himself though. Wilbur’s no mere fan. This is a consultation.

Wilbur says, “You need to help me,” and the entire course of the conversation changes.

They’ve already made their introductions. Tubbo knows some details of Wilbur’s situation. To fill in the gaps, Wilbur doesn’t even have to explain. He just has to slide his notebook across the wooden table. As Tubbo flips through the pages, understanding dawns on his face.

Understanding that Wilbur didn’t exactly possess himself.

He is about to understand. For so long, Wilbur has been walking around lightly. There hasn’t been any weight on his shoulders, it’s like he’s going to float away with every step. He has to be careful to make sure he comes back down to Earth. If one day the pep in his step sprung him up to high, he wouldn’t be able to come back down. He would simply float away.

It’s quite nice down here on Earth. Gentle breezes carry hints of roses and daisies into his lungs.

He’d hate to fly away.

Wilbur has to fill up the empty space in his mind. Sandbags. Fill him up with sand, to weigh him down, to keep him grounded. Tethered to this world he loved so much.

“You said that you wanted to be fixed, right?”

“That’s right.” Air soars up his chest, gracing him with a deep exhale, so he’s free to inhale more of the fresh air. He smiles. “That’s right, I want everything to be fixed. I want to go back to the way things used to be.”

He wants to feel his feet fall firmly on the grass and dirt. He wants a weight on his shoulders. Wilbur wants to be heavy.

“You realize that I’m not really the person who can do that, right?”

The air Wilbur was taking in is cut short. A candle, snuffed out, and the subsequent exhale is the smoke rising in its place. Without the candle’s light, the room is just a little bit dimmer.

“Hey, hey, don’t look at me like that,” Tubbo says. He sits down in the chair at the end of the table, leaning forward a little. “Tell you what you mean by ‘Being fixed.’”

For a moment, Wilbur can’t answer. He scrunches his eyes shut and a shudder runs through his body.

Being fixed? Well, it’s a necessity.

“Well it’s simple. I want my memory back.”

Tubbo begins to flip through the notebook again. He also pulls up his own notes, stored on a holo-pad. “... And it was a technological issue that caused your memory loss. A glitch in your coding.”

“Yes, it was a glitch.”

Once again setting aside the notebook, Tubbo sighs.

“There’s a couple of things you need to understand. The first is that I’m not an engineer. I know this may seem counterintuitive, considering what I am. But I know jack shit about coding.”

Repeated commands, a pattern to structures and processing – coding is deviously simple. While it looks like insanity at first glance, pure randomness, there was a method to the madness.

Wilbur isn’t going to claim that he understands the most complex of artificial intelligence. Tubbo’s inner workings are certainly a mystery to him, and honestly, he might have a hard time deciphering his own coding. But to be an android and have no idea how your own mind is processing?

Tubbo begins to laugh. “You said that you were majoring in AI technology, right?”

“Yes?”

“Then you know way more than me, man, I know next to nothing about engineering. And I like it that way, I think that ignorance is bliss.”

That saying… Wilbur isn’t quite sure he can agree with that.

“I guess what I’m saying is a bit inaccurate– I am interested in a sort of engineering. It just doesn’t have much to do with computers,” Tubbo says. He ducks his head a bit, avoiding Wilbur’s eyes as he says, “I’m kind of into rocket science.”

“Rocket science, oh, well that’s really cool!”

Tubbo sprouts a small smile. “Thank you, really, thank you. I think coding and AI tech is just a little bit too close to home, you know? Too close to my actual job. Feels like I’m just making even more decisions. But we’re not here to talk about my adventures in rocket science. You said you needed help, and well, I’m here to try my best.”

Oh, yes.

Wilbur’s still a bit concerned about the fact that Tubbo knows nothing about AI tech, considering that’s literally what Wilbur is here for.

“I’m not going to be able to help you on the technical aspects. If you’re asking me to be your doctor, well I’m sorry mate but I just can’t do that. I could refer you to the best medical engineers in the country. I’ll do that, if you end up needing the help. Point is though, you’re not going to walk out of here remembering puppies dying and all the people who died in World War 3.”

“Well now I’m thinking about puppies dying and World War 3.”

Tubbo winces. “Sorry about that. Anyway – I was told that you were upset about the cause of all of this. That you went to Dreamland and they acted as if they gave you a papercut.”

Wilbur searches through the file cabinet that makes up his mind, and finds nothing under Dreamland.

A complete blank. What does the building even look like? All he remembers is sitting in that office with Boomer. That office was kind of plain, it had beige walls, and there was a large plant in the corner. Boomer had fluffy white hair. That’s beside the point though. But from the deep, dark tone that Tubbo has taken on… Dreamland couldn’t have been any good, could it?

“Wilbur, listen. What I could do is be your lawyer.”

A lawyer, huh?

“I could make sure that you get your compensation for what Dreamland did to you. Then I can make sure that they never mess up like that again.

Wilbur didn’t walk into this expensive, futuristic room that probably cost more than his university’s entire campus just to get a bit of compensation.

Where’s his memories?

Wilbur is broken, Wilbur is shit, a bit more money won’t fix it.

“I have a question. I don’t know if you’ll be able to answer it.”

Tubbo shrugs. “I can try.”

“Why can’t somebody just go in and recode me?”

It’s the obvious solution. Something is wrong with his code, and code can be fixed. It’s malleable, just like the human body. When something was wrong with a regular human, they went to the doctor. They would be given medicine to fix them, and if that didn’t work, then they would go in with anesthesia and the knife.

It should be the same for him. Something’s wrong, he doesn’t care how hard it may be to fix. He’ll do it himself if he has to.

For a second, Wilbur thinks the silence means that Tubbo doesn’t know. He’s naive enough to believe that Tubbo is just thinking things over.

“You really want somebody poking around in your brain?”

Tubbo looks like he’s just eaten a lemon.

“What do you mean?” Wilbur asks.

“That’s like– that’s like messing with who you are. Like rewriting DNA. That has so much potential for it to go wrong. The one thing I know about android programming is that it’s the most complex programming that humanity has developed thus far. And restoration droid programming takes it to a whole new level. It wasn’t people who transferred you over into code in the first place, big man. It was algorithms that were made by algorithms that were made by algorithms.”

“It’s gone wrong once before, isn’t it worth it to try again?”

Tubbo shakes his head. “It’s not worth it. Really, big man, it’s not worth it.”

Wilbur is tired.

He’s so unbelievably tired. He kind of wants to let his head fall onto the table. He could sleep here. Or he could lay down in the grass for a little while. Stare up at the holographic birds and listen to the patter of rain off in the distance.

Nature is beautiful. Artificial nature especially so. It’s so vibrant! So calming!

And Wilbur’s tired.

He could stay here forever. Stew in his own thoughts while he still has them.

“I’ve been asked a lot of questions before. It’s pretty much my entire job. In most aspects I’m human, but I guess it’s pretty odd how much time I spend in my own head on a daily basis. I’m constantly being asked about government policy or tax cuts or regulations on some corrupt corporation. Everything that goes through the Tub-Net program goes through me, I am Tub-Net.”

“Really?” Wilbur asks, peeling his eyes open so he can meet Tubbo’s. “I thought you were just a representative?”

“Not really. Like I said, I am Tub-Net. I don’t always understand the decisions I’m making. It’s like a gut feeling. I’m getting off topic, but anyway, point is that I’ve had to make a lot of decisions. And this is one of the easiest I’ve ever been asked.”

Wilbur doesn’t want to hear what Tubbo says next. He braces himself.

“By no means at all would it be worth it to try and rewrite your code. You would likely lose so much more than you already have. I’m sorry, but we just can’t be messing with systems like this.”

Wilbur wants to go home. Better yet, he wants to go to sleep, and wake up the next morning to a familiar white ceiling and the great warmth of his blankets.

“I have to just live like this?”

“How do you feel, on a day to day basis?” Tubbo asks. “I know that’s an odd question, but…”

“I think I feel pretty good. Mornings are nice. They’re so nice. And I like going for jogs, and I think I like hanging out with friends.”

“Oh, that’s good, that’s great–”

“I think.”

Tubbo goes silent for a moment. Is that invitation for him to continue?

“I… I don’t want to be confined to thinking anymore,” Wilbur says. “I don’t want to run circles around my mind. I’ve had the same song on loop for months now.”

This isn’t simple drowsiness. This is fatigue, this is exhaustion. Worst of all, this is boredom.

“You really need something to change, don’t you?” Tubbo says.

“I came here to be fixed.”

Tubbo’s sigh sounds like he’s laughing in his face.

“Wilbur, you’re a great person. You’re kind and you’re really funny. You don’t need to be fixed.”

Shouldn’t that make Wilbur smile? Shouldn’t he be happy to hear that? What is he feeling? He isn’t smiling. He isn’t laughing. Why?

“Listen, this is the part I’m not really great at. Usually I’m talking to like… executives at Tub-Net. Or government officials. People a lot older than me. Not people that were born in the same year as Tub-Net itself.”

Although that probably should scare Wilbur a bit, he really doesn’t have much reason not to listen. This is his idol. He’s supposed to be in awe right now.

“But man, you have my sympathies. It must be rough.”

“Yeah, it must be.”

Tubbo is silent for a long, long time.

“I’m going to talk to Dreamland. I’m going to make sure that there’s some regulation on that place. Because it definitely needs more oversight. You know, I’m the one who’s been authorizing them to make most of their decisions.”

“You are?”

“I am. I was probably the one who gave them the go-ahead to restore you. But I’m going to have some people examine the company. And I’ll start making wiser decisions.”

“If you could go back, what would you have done with me?”

It looks like the question causes Tubbo physical pain. Why, Wilbur cannot understand. But Tubbo says, “I don’t question my past decisions. I used to. Used to question every minor decision I made. That’s how I drive myself insane.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“But I am.”

Now that just makes Wilbur feel odd. He’s even more tired now.

“When it comes to Dreamland, don’t be worried. We’ll figure things out. And Wil– can I call you Wil?”

“Yeah, you can call me Wil.”

“Wil, I know I’m being very pessimistic about this whole thing. I can’t really offer you very much. Like I said, I’m not an engineer. What I can do is I can find a way to make things right for you. I can justify everything.”

“I’m not getting fixed anytime soon?” Wilbur asks.

Once more, that makes Tubbo hesitate, but he says, “I’ll introduce you to my personal engineer. Sam’s his name. Smartest guy I know. He’ll see what he can do for you. But Wilbur, I’m thinking about this, and how to help… I doubt that you can really be fixed in the way that you want to. But there are other solutions.”

“I just want my memory back.”

“Wilbur, what does somebody do when they cannot hear?”

Wait, what does that have to do with anything? He asks Tubbo that, and what he gets back is, “Just answer the question.”

“They learn sign language?”

“Yeah. They can learn sign language, or they can get a speech-text converter, or a cochlear implant. What about a blind person?”

“A guide dog? Or a cane?”

“And somebody who’s paralyzed?”

“A wheelchair?”

“And somebody with a mental illness?”

That one takes a bit more thought. “Therapy and medication, usually. Sometimes just one or the other.”

“Exactly. For every disability out there, there’s a way around it. Now that doesn’t mean that it’s easy. I know some people with disabilities, and let me tell you, their lives are not easy. But they make the most of them. Their lives are a far cry from ruined. I imagine it’s pretty hard becoming disabled. Because you still haven’t adjusted. And there’s a lot of heartache involved. But does that mean it’s impossible to live a fulfilling life?”

“No?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Wilbur has no idea how to do that, but he says “No” without lifting his voice up at the end and it makes Tubbo smile.

“My suggestion is to find some way to work around your memory problems,” Tubbo says.

“But I’ve been doing that.”

“That’s good,” Tubbo says.

That’s it?

“Also, I know this might seem like a bit of a copout. And it might be tough to hear. But man, listening to what you’ve had to say, I think you could benefit from some therapy. But that’s just my opinion.”

“Could a therapist help me think normally?”

“... Maybe?”

Not the strongest vote of confidence. Damn it, Wilbur just doesn’t want to forget his own issues. He stares down at his notebook, idly flipping through the pages… he catches glimpses of hastily scrawled words and they make him shudder. When did he even write those?

“If you give me a second to go and call Sam, I’ll talk to him. I’ll see if I can introduce you to him myself. If not, then I’ll make sure you can get an appointment. If you want.”

“Yeah, yeah, um, I would appreciate that.” When Wilbur closes his mouth he’s met with this odd metallic taste. He doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Then I’ll step out for a moment, I’ll be right back.” With that, Tubbo is padding across the grass, over to the hall. Wilbur lets his hands slide down the wood of the table. Then go his arms, his shoulders, and his head. He’s resting upon this table and he just hopes he remembers to get up in a timely manner so Tubbo doesn’t see him like this. He probably won’t. That’s the fucking problem.

The curse of thoughts like these is that he needs to savor them, and keep hold of them tight, because the moment they slip out of his grasp they’re gone forever. There’s no getting back what he’s lost. There’s only retaining what he gains.

He can’t keep losing these things. He can’t keep doing this forever.

Something that Tubbo got him thinking about is the idea of fault. He’s been holding onto that idea for dear life. Who’s at fault for this? Why is Wilbur like this, who needs to pay? Is it Dreamland, for messing up? Or is it Tubbo, for authorizing something so risky?

More than likely, it was Wilbur himself.

But who doesn’t want to live forever? If it was too good to be true, why didn’t anybody tell him?

“Hey, Wil, I can’t take you to see him right now, but I can give you a date for an appointment,” Tubbo says as he walks back into the room. He has Wilbur shooting up from his slumped posture. He hopes Tubbo didn’t see that.

“... Does that sound good?” Tubbo asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds fine.”

“Great, man, and I do hope things get better for you.”

Like the last chord in a song above his skill level, played with a sloppy bar, Wilbur stutters, “I, um, I hope so too.”

And that’s where it’s left.

Wilbur has to leave. And Tubbo doesn’t exactly have limited time, he doesn’t say there’s anywhere he needs to be but Wilbur doesn’t want to take up his valuable time. So he’s going home with this phone number written down in his holo-pad and no idea if it’s worth it to call.

He’s going to. He knows he’s going to, even after all of this, Wilbur still knows himself.

He thinks he knows himself.

Fuck, he sure hopes he does.

Who is he if not himself?

It’s late. It’s late, and despite this new body of his, Wilbur is exhausted.

His mind and body are both screaming at him. They are both painfully aware of the bed that Wilbur has turned his back to, with its warm blankets and the bright morning on the horizon. For some reason, they don’t care about the notebook splayed out in front of them, nor the holo-pad he has open on his desk.

His tired bones don’t care that earlier today, Wilbur went to the latest of many appointments with engineers. According to this notebook, he got a similar response. It’s impossible. Wilbur can’t be fixed. Things can’t be set right. They can only be brought to justice. Confirming what Tubbo apparently said.

The thing about this appointment was that it was with the apparent best engineer in the entire country.

If Dr. Ward, the “Sam” that Tubbo was talking about couldn’t do anything, then why should he even try?

Which is why he’s here.

Staring at the base of a program he found online. Basic artificial intelligence. Used as a mechanism in complex computer programs or simply as a personal assistant. Not complex enough to have gained consciousness yet, but intelligent nonetheless.

Fuck, where does he start…

He guesses he has to start telling it what he wants it to do, right?

With one hand, supporting his head and the other flying across the keys, Wilbur begins to script out the instructions for the program to follow. A few lines in, Wilbur finds himself a little bit lost. This is a good base, it can do almost everything that it needs to. And the few modifications it needs are simple. Wilbur’s taken class upon class about this. This is a routine assignment.

Except he actually needs to get this right.

And it can’t be a painful reminder of what he’s missing.

Wilbur’s attempting to make a bot that will keep track of the memories he’s missing. This little program will run in the background of his holo-pad at all times, and everywhere that he brings the pad, it will observe. It’ll collect information and sort through what Wilbur would remember himself and what it needs to hold onto. Then it’ll report its findings to Wilbur periodically.

This program was a suggestion from Dr. Ward. Sam. Wilbur forgets what the engineer actually wanted to be called. He said that something like this will be good for him. It can make up for what he lacks. It will help.

Except it’s barely going to be better than this stupid notebook, isn’t it?

Scooting away from the keyboard, Wilbur picks up that notebook. He flips through the pages, skimming over each word. Quickly, it all becomes a bit of a blur, and Wilbur shuts the notebook quickly. With a sharp movement he throws the notebook to the side, uncaring of where it ends.

This program can’t just be that. It has to be better. Or else this isn’t worth his time at all.

He stares forward at the holo-pad, trying to decipher the code that’s already there.

Somebody who can’t walk uses a mobility aid. A deaf person may use a cochlear implant. And a blind person uses a guide dog. People with seizures or panic disorders may use service animals as well.

That’s it.

It takes a bit of digging through his notes. Wilbur doesn’t know the coding for consciousness by heart. It’s this long, long string of code. Back in the 60s it was an amazing discovery, built off decades of research into the nature of consciousness. Now it’s a thing that Wilbur’s going to use to create a pet.

He copies the code down into his program. Specifically the code for lower-level consciousness; the type that mimics the brains of animals. Then he begins working on the conditionals and the specifics. The conditions for ethics, for trust, for simple emotion and importantly, for love.

He can’t build love into this thing. At least not for him. It’s not going to be bonded to Wilbur the second it comes online, but the important part is that it has the capacity.

Everything should be given the capacity, in Wilbur’s opinion.

It takes a lot of work. What was simple at first suddenly becomes a rabbit hole of complexities and conundrums. Coding is a bit of a puzzle, in the same way music is. It’s like songwriting. Creativity is the easy part. Paying close attention and searching for problems is what makes it tough.

By the time Wilbur gets into the testing phase, the sun is rising with pink light streaming in through the window. Wilbur’s eyes burn as he stares ahead at this pad. But he continues, and he starts the test runs…

Everything fails. Right off the bat, it’s not conscious, and it definitely can’t speak. Wilbur has a lot to fix.

And fix it he does.

He finds every error, and methodically takes care of it the best he can. Then he tests it again. More errors occur. But he’s closer. He’s getting closer.

Wilbur doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but at some point he opens his eyes and finds that his watch is saying it’s one in the afternoon. He’s slumped in his bed on top of the blankets. Wilbur immediately gets up again. Goes right back to the desk, and gets to work yet again.

Test. Rework, edit, add. Test again. Rework once more. Test, test, test until a soft androgynous voice is asking him, “Are you done yet?”

And Wilbur laughs. That’s all he can do. Laugh.

“I think so,” Wilbur says. “You’ve passed all the tests. Everything’s just about finished.”

“Yay!”

Just when he thought he was done, that pulls another laugh out of him. This program is basically like if a dog could talk. Intelligent enough to keep all of this information straight. Not really human. It’s hard to make something close to human, ethically. Technically there’s a separate program turning the AI’s thoughts into words. Wilbur doesn’t even know how to code higher level consciousness. It’s all very complex.

It occurs to Wilbur that he can’t really keep calling this thing “The program.” So Wilbur asks, “Would you like a name?”

It takes a moment for the program to respond with, “I don’t know.”

“Names are pretty important, I have to call you something.”

“What’s your name?”

“Wilbur.”

“Am I your friend?”

The question surprises him a bit. It makes him smile, because that’s a relatively advanced question, in the world of artificial intelligence. Wilbur does have to think about what might be best to say. He ends up nodding. “I’d say so. If you want to be.”

“Call me that.”

“Friend?”

“Friend!”

For the first time in a long, long while, Wilbur feels something familiar. A feeling that recurs in nearly every memory that lingers up in this mind of his. Something warm, something safe, something that he’s most likely to feel with Fundy or Niki or on a nice night at the bar.

Happiness.

He used to think the emotion was so simple. But it’s been a long, long time since he’s felt anything familiar past lunch time.

The last thing to do with Friend is give it– or give him, Friend feels like a him, an interface. An avatar of sorts. Something that his holo-pad can project.

Of course, he asks Friend what he wants. It takes the AI a bit, Friend is very confused at first. But Wilbur pulls up the options from a bank of 3D models he found online when he was doing a similar project for one of his classes.

A certain model is pulled forward – one of a big, fluffy sheep. The image flashes for a second, and when it comes back, the wool is blue.

“That one?” Wilbur asks, a giggle falling off his lips.

“Yes!”

Friend takes something akin to a physical form, brought forward by the pad’s projections. And there’s that feeling again, back and better than ever. Happiness. This warmth in his chest and dizziness in his head is something valuable. Something he doesn’t want to let go of. Eventually it will leave him, Wilbur’s not dumb enough to forget that.

Maybe he’ll be lucky enough to get it back, though.

He hopes so. Wilbur really hopes so.

Friend is only a day old when he tells Wilbur that Niki might be upset with him.

So far, Friend has been giving Wilbur reminders. Brush your teeth, get some lunch soon, things like that. And of course, the ever important, You have memory loss. It’s not going away anytime soon.

That line had been immediately followed up by, But it’s going to be okay!

Wilbur hopes so. He really hopes so. It’s a bit of a naive hope, but why not at least let himself think it?

Sometime after lunch, Wilbur decided to call Niki. He might want to go over to her flat, after all! She’s such a great friend, he would just love to watch a movie or something with her. But he didn’t know if she was available or not, so he decided to call her, and she said that she couldn’t have him over but she could talk for a bit on the phone.

They’ve been talking for a little while. About anything that comes to mind, really. Wilbur has talked about music, and a bit about what he can’t remember, and Friend and Dr. Ward…

It’s about twenty minutes into the call that the words She’s angry pop up on the holo-pad.

Forgetting that he can’t exactly speak to Friend aloud right now, Wilbur asks, “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Niki says, and Wilbur goes to say Sorry, I was talking to something else but then some more words are projected from the holo-pad, appearing right over Friend’s head.

She’s being passive aggressive, Friend says. A moment later, I think.

Passive aggressive? No… Friend has gotten that part wrong, but he might have picked up on something or other.

Wilbur did specifically make Friend so that he was able to observe things. That would include social interactions… he didn’t expect the intelligent part of artificial intelligence to start working so quickly.

He half expects something more to pop up, but the words fade away and Friend says nothing else. Niki starts talking about something or other, her voice hushed and kind of… slow. Tired? Is she tired? That’s how she always sounds though, kind of. It’s how she’s been sounding recently.

He’s only had Friend for a day, but he programmed the sheep himself. He inserted that code, he tested it over and over again, and… is it wrong to trust Friend over himself?

“I think I should be going soon,” Wilbur says. “I need to um… work on some projects for some of my clients.”

“Oh, okay. I should be going as well. It was nice talking to you.”

That leaves Wilbur staring at the phone, wondering what she truly means by that. If she did have a nice time or if she was forcing the words out of her mouth.

She’s the one who hangs up the call. When she does, Wilbur lets the phone fall out of his hand onto the bed. He turns back to his holo-pad.

“You can speak now,” he says. But Friend doesn’t say anything.

“Why did you say that she’s angry?”

“She just seemed that way.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Friend’s not perfect for everything, it seems.

So Wilbur is left laying on his bed, trying to parse together what he knows and what he thinks he knows. He knows that… he thinks he knows that he talks to Niki a lot. Can’t exactly remember what about.

A couple of things fall into place at once, and it just makes him a little bit more upset.

“Can– can you remind me not to confide in her?” Wilbur asks.

“Why not?”

He can’t answer that question.

“You should visit your brother.”

Now that has Wilbur sitting up. “What? Why?”

Friend doesn’t answer.

Wilbur keeps questioning the bot, trying different tones or phrases to pull out an answer. It seems as if Friend’s last line was a sort of glitch. They’re making it seem like one. It’s very well possible. A bout of faulty pattern recognition, some wires getting crossed when thinking about the people closest to Wilbur.

But then Friend repeats it. Does Wilbur have to take a second look at Friend’s code?

Visit Fundy?

That little kid still waiting for him up in the suburbs. Thirteen years old; handed a heft of responsibility and treating it like the weight of the world. Sporting a wide smile which reveals a couple of missing teeth.. Sleeping under the roof of a house which appears blurry in Wilbur’s memory. A television set, missing the unneeded fourth wall. Filled with doors and staircases that lead to nowhere. Occupied by actors whose names Wilbur cannot recall.

Into the empty room, Wilbur whispers, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Finally Friend speaks. “Why not?”

Oftentimes, androids that are meant to mimic humans as closely as possible are built with tear ducts. But due to the complicated nature of android bodies, the tears themselves are a little bit abnormal. They’re thicker than human tears, and inside the body there’s some sort of chemical reaction that turns the tears a pale shade of blue.

Why is Wilbur seeing blue?

Is it the thought of walking into a house he barely remembers, and seeing a boy with coffee stained adult teeth? Greasy, shaggy hair and unwashed clothes? Is it the thought that maybe he will see the Fundy he remembers, but he’ll be unsettled by the thing that Wilbur has become?

Is it the thought that he might not remember the trip once he returns to the city?

“I can’t,” Wilbur tells Friend. He gazes into the dark, shaded eyes of that progression. He loses himself in the depths of black and blue.

“You can.”

Oh, his Friend is so pretty. Wilbur reaches out, expecting to sink his fingers into thick wool. His fingers close on nothing, yet there’s still a warmth that blooms in the center of his fist.

Quietly, but above a whisper Wilbur says, “I can.”

“This? This is Friend.”

Fundy’s eyes are nearly crossed from how hard he’s concentrating on the projection. Slowly, his hand stretches out across the table. Ever so carefully, he lifts his hand above Friend’s avatar. The sheep cocks his head; he’s staring right back at Fundy. Fundy doesn’t seem to realize that. Maybe he does. But his hand comes down, only to be met with nothing.

Fundy frowns. “You don’t have the one that projects touch yet?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “That pad’s way too expensive. Maybe in the future. But I’m afraid that I’m stuck with this for now. But what do you think of Friend?”

“What does it do?”

“He. What does he do.”

“Well what does he do?”

On a cool November day, Wilbur sits in the kitchen of his childhood home across from the kid whose diapers he changed and who he taught how to ride a bike. The kid with the largest smile he’s ever seen. Paired with the sharpest sense of wit Wilbur’s ever observed.

And he’s showing this kid one of his inventions. To hear Fundy utter that question brings about an indescribable glee.

“He’s fixing things for me.”

That blank, confused expression is just what Wilbur needs to see. It’s what urges him to continue.

“I won’t tell you all of the knitty gritty details – couldn’t if I tried. But I’m sure you know that things have been pretty complicated for me.”

“Complicated.”

“Complicated,” Wilbur echoes, savoring the feeling of the word in his mouth. “It was all so complicated. But it’s been weeks now. I’ve tried and tested this thing, and I’ve learned to work with him.”

Friend hops around a little bit. The movement is nearly as valuable as one of Fundy’s smiles. It causes a similar reaction in Wilbur. His lips stretch up into his own smile.

“Friend is like a bridge. He spans the gap of who I was and who I am.”

Fundy is pretty quiet after that. That’s okay, because Wilbur can see the gears turning in his head. If there’s anybody who understands how hard this is to comprehend, it’s Wilbur.

It takes a little while, but at some point it becomes apparent that the conversation isn’t going to continue on much further. Fine with Wilbur. He specifically waited to come over during a four day weekend that Fundy has because of some holiday. He has what feels like all the time in the world to spend now. Their parents aren’t home, and for a moment Wilbur can close his eyes and pretend that he’s still eighteen. Fundy would be eight or nine. And it’s a normal day. A slice of the good old times.

They turn on the television and Fundy goes up to grab a deck of cards. They like to play with each other every once in a while. Wilbur pulls his legs up to his chest and watches the news with a dull interest. The newscaster has a nice voice. He hums contentedly.

Fundy comes down with the cards. Wilbur starts idly shuffling. Fundy starts musing about what game he wants to play. All the while, the television in the background plays on.

It’s when Tubbo’s name is mentioned that Wilbur actually starts tuning in to what the newscaster is saying. Last thing Wilbur heard, they were talking about trade relations. But it seems that they’ve moved onto a new topic.

Wilbur frowns as he begins to realize what they’re actually talking about.

“Tensions between Empyrion and Hermi IX are rising with each passing day…”

“What’s going on with those two?” Wilbur asks.

“You haven’t heard?”

“No,” Wilbur says as he begins passing out the cards for a round of Rummy 500.

“They’re getting on each other’s asses about trade.” With a sigh, Fundy adds, “Again.”

“Ah. I see.”

“While the war is far from Essempi soil, concerned citizens are concerned about civilians caught in the crossfire along Empyrion and Hermi IX’s shared border. Called tri-lifers because of the three ongoing conflicts, refugees have been flocking to Essempi.”

“Do I go first?” Fundy asks.

“Yeah, since I dealt.”

“Taking in the refugees poses a risk of drawing us into the conflict. Hermi IX and Empyrion have both been clear about wanting Essempi to stay out of the conflict completely. By now all of this is common news, but the question is, what is Tub-Net’s stance on this entire issue…”

All this war business, all these complicated questions about Hermi and Empyrion… Wilbur’s just heard it and he’s sick of it. What are these, power plays? Why are they even fighting, what do they have against each other? Putting all of these civilians at risk just to one up each other.

They better not drag Essempi into this. Wilbur’s quite happy here, they all are. They know that they’re same from those kinds of childish games. He’s free to sit down with his little brother and play something fun.

“Everybody knows that Tub-Net has been evasive about this question. However, in his most recent public statement, Tubbo gives his most concrete answer yet, here’s the clip…”

Wilbur might have a better guess than anybody what Tub-Net might do. He met the man after all. What would he think of all of this? Oh, Wilbur’s drawing a blank…

“Wil? It’s your turn.”

Tubbo flashes up on screen. A microphone has been shoved into his face, and the footage looks a little bit choppy as if it’s been clipped together. “The more people are involved in a war, the worse it is, the more death and destruction takes place…”

That expression is familiar. The expression Tubbo’s sporting right now, as he evades the eyes of the reporters, it’s familiar. Wilbur has to have seen it before.

Yet he can’t remember Tubbo looking into his eyes while doing anything other than smile.

“Wilbur?”

Wilbur quickly draws from the pile, then places down a card without much thought. He looks back to his own cards. He’s not going to win anytime soon. “Sorry.”

“Can we turn that off?”

“Yeah, of course. Tele, off.”

Immediately the screen minimizes and the newscast cuts out. Now Wilbur watches as Fundy sets down a card. Wilbur can use that one later, so he grabs it, and sets down one of his own. What’s Fundy thinking now? His eyes light up a bit. He can use that one, surely. But not right now, he’s going to wait until later. So Wilbur files that away.

It begins to look like he’s put the entire newscast behind him.

The game continues on, and it might not have been as doomed as Wilbur was thinking it would be. He picks up that card that Fundy wanted, and gets some of his own points out there. The longer the game stretches on, the more vocal Fundy gets. Almost all of these vocalizations consist of complaints.

“Fuck,” Fundy mutters as he gives up high value cards. He’s earning some points, but Wilbur’s just getting lucky, and he’s earning more.

“This is only the first round,” Wilbur reminds him.

Fundy doesn’t respond to that. He just keeps on playing, continuously frowning. Each card he puts down is either carefully set or furiously thrown. It tugs a smirk out of Wilbur’s lips. It’s fun to get a rise out of his little brother.

The game stretches on for a long time. During it, Fundy starts talking about something that Wilbur doesn’t really understand. He listens with rapt attention anyway.

“I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place,” Fundy says. “This isn’t worth it, this isn’t fucking worth it…”

“It’s just a game.” Fundy still needs those reminders, it seems. He’s being so stubbornly pessimistic. Granted, Wilbur is giving him reasons to be pessimistic with how the tables have turned.

“I know,” Fundy says as he gives up the highest value card in the game.

Wilbur holds back a smile as he picks up that same card. “Like I said, just the first round…”

“It’s fucking stressful.” Fundy lays out a few cards and stares intently at the rest. “It’s all… so… frightening.”

“Cards?”

That just earns Wilbur a sigh. What? He was talking about the cards, was he not?

“Wil, do you remember that talk we had over Christmas break?”

“Well which one?” Wilbur asks immediately. He and Fundy talked a lot over Christmas break. It was Fundy’s last Christmas as a true child! Soon he would be sulking and pretending that he didn’t care about presents or holiday cheer anymore! Ah, last Christmas was a joy, it always is…

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

But those nights were so great? What was Fundy talking about, was Wilbur missing something? Wilbur didn’t have Friend last Christmas. He can’t really turn to him.

“Can I ask you a question then?” Fundy asks.

“Of course. You know, that was a question itself. But you can ask another.”

Fundy doesn’t respond. Wilbur expected him to at least give a sarcastic little laugh.

“Wil, how do I handle fear?”

Oh.

Fundy learns something in that moment. Wilbur hopes that one day, he’ll appreciate this knowledge he’s gaining.

Fundy learns what it’s like to come up with nothing.

To search for meaning in the nothingness. An answer in this abyss of questions. To desperately try and find a memory, only to be met with a blank page. A program yet to be written. A song that has never been sung.

Wilbur doesn’t answer. He’s used to coming up with nothing by now. Fundy isn’t.

So Fundy gets frustrated. He keeps asking Wilbur. Again and again, “How do I handle fear, Wil, answer me, you’re scaring me. How do I handle it? Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“But you’ve told me before.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

It’s Fundy’s turn not to answer a question.

That makes Wilbur laugh a little bit. It probably shouldn’t. But Wilbur can’t help it.

Wilbur ends up winning the round of cards. Fundy decides that he doesn’t want to continue, so Wilbur wins it all.

The first day of Wilbur’s visit home, it was mostly just him and Fundy. They play cards. They don’t watch the news. Not that much at least. Dad came home to have dinner with them. But Wilbur only saw Mum for a minute when she got home at the end of the day. He thinks it’s Mum. He doesn’t know who else it would be.

The second day of Wilbur’s visit home, Mum makes them breakfast. Dad talks about the news that Wilbur apparently missed yesterday. Then both of them head off to work. Wilbur and Fundy play video games against each other, and Wilbur gets his ass handed to him. At the end of that day, the news breaks that Essempi isn’t going to be accepting tri life refugees. It’s Tubbo who appears on television and says that the operation is too risky. Aggravating the conflict would just create even more tri lives. It wouldn’t solve anything. And if the smartest program in the world says it’s too risky, then it definitely is. Friend made sure to record it all.

The third day, as a family they all go out to take a walk in the park. It’s a pretty short walk though, because the night is cold. So they go home soon. No news breaks that day.

It’s the fourth day that has Wilbur staring at the tele.

It’s very reminiscent of the first day. Yet again, he and Fundy are playing cards. Mum is off at work, and Dad is out with some buddies. It’s just the two of them, and the tele. The tele, which is open to the news, because neither Wilbur nor Fundy can really tear their eyes away. They aren’t even really playing cards anymore. Wilbur left his face down on the table.

Two days after the decision about the tri lives was made, it becomes apparent that there was risk involved in either choice. Because the choice Tubbo made has had devastating consequences.

“Last night, at approximately eleven at night, while walking home from a friend’s house, Tubbo was attacked by two unknown assailants carrying heavy weaponry native to Hermi IX.

“It is speculated due to the nature of the weaponry that it was meant to deliver a harmful shock to the processor of an android, capable of completely destroying the connection between an android and the servers they were attached to. The assailants were allegedly attempting to destroy Tubbo and transfer a virus into the Tub-Net servers that would bring the entire program crashing down.

“However, this technological weapon was never used against Tubbo. Specifics are unknown as of right now, however, we do know that Tubbo got out of the situation unharmed.

“The friend who was walking with him did not.”

The only thing Wilbur is capable of feeling is disbelief.

“Tragedy is indiscriminate.”

“What the hell,” Fundy mutters. “What the actual hell…”

“The victim’s name is Tommy Innes, Tubbo’s childhood best friend.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Wilbur says. “Oh, no, oh, wow…”

“According to police reports, Innes took the fall for his friend, receiving a shock that stopped his heart.”

“His best friend? Wait, Wil, that dude has a best friend?”

“Had,” Wilbur says. “He had a best friend.”

“There may be hope for Innes. Hard-working doctors and engineers are working to upload his consciousness–”

“A restoration droid?”

“Into the body of a restoration droid, so that Innes can live on for the man he took the fall for.”

How old was Tommy Innes? Who was he? From obscure forums Wilbur knows the name. Wilbur put in a lot of research into learning about Tubbo. But he doesn’t know anything other than that they were friends. How old was Innes? What was he like? Did he ever wonder what death would be like?

“His sacrifice proves that Essempi stands strong-”

“Tele, off!” Wilbur shouts, voice echoing throughout the entire house.

He takes in a shuddering breath, and suddenly he’s choking on it. He’s choking on air, on nothing, on thoughts he wishes he could express before they fly right out of his head.

“Wilbur? Wilbur, Wilbur are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Wilbur gasps out. “I am fine!”

“Wil–”

“That kid isn’t!”

Fundy goes to lay a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, but immediately pulls it back, so hesitant. Rightly so. “Wilbur?”

“That kid. He is not okay. He’s not okay.”

“Oh, Wil…”

Deep within his chest, the air he gasped in rumbles and roils. It bubbles up his throat and forces its way out in a sick combination of a cough and a laugh. The air carries with it a message.

“Oh that poor, poor kid!”

“Wilbur, you need to breathe, or– or something, just fucking breathe–”

Another laugh makes its way out of his throat. It burns like whiskey.

A kid just fucking died for this shit. This shit that Wilbur was left unaware of. This shit he didn’t understand.

Just how much is Wilbur missing?

Chapter Text

It’s at a routine check-up with Sam that Wilbur meets Tommy.

It starts in the waiting room, while this lanky blond kid is staring at him.

The waiting room looks very much like a doctor’s office. It’s a small room with a bunch of chairs, some old-fashioned tablets, and a holo-tele up in the corner displaying some decade old show about space. Wilbur’s early, he’s supposed to be seeing Sam in about fifteen minutes.

Apparently, he went to see Sam before he made Friend. So Friend isn’t able to tell him what Sam is like. Is Sam friendly? He remembers Sam being friendly. But it’s so hard to keep track of things, who knows if what he’s remembering is correct?

Androids need routine maintenance. Somebody needs to make sure all his joints and plating is in the right place. They also need to check on his code, see if it’s functioning properly – well, at least making sure that it’s functioning the same as before. Friend says that Wilbur’s code isn’t exactly functioning “Properly.”

So now Wilbur’s in this waiting room with a tablet in his lap. He pulled up an article earlier about this new species of tree that was spliced together earlier this year, supposed to help put more oxygen up into the atmosphere. It’s hard to focus on the article though. Especially once he notices that lanky kid.

Wilbur locks eyes with the kid for a moment. He’s not really a kid, he’s probably older than Fundy. But it looks like he’s still in secondary school, and anybody not in uni yet looks like a kid.

The teen is not deterred by Wilbur’s stare back. For a moment, both of them sit there, staring each other down. Then the teen says, “I’ve never seen an android around here.”

That doesn’t make sense. “This is a hospital for androids, though.”

“This is the rich people hospital,” the teen states, voice low and gruff. It’s like he’s growling every word. “Are you rich?”

“No?”

“There’s never been another person in the waiting room. Are you an android?”

“Yes?”

“Have you always been one?”

“No, I’m a restoration droid.”

The teen’s eyes go wide at that, and he keeps staring at Wilbur. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring. Wilbur brings his watch up near his face, and turns away from the kid slightly.

“Friend, did you get all of that?”

For just a moment, Friend pops his holographic head up out of the watch. He gives an exaggerated nod, then dips back into it. Good. Wilbur likes when everything is recorded. Mundane details can be important, sometimes. Really important. That’s what his gut is telling him, record everything.

Will he forget this later? Probably not, right? That kid doesn’t seem too threatening. Maybe a little bit scary. But nothing worth forgetting.

He’s not given a chance to ponder upon that further, because soon Sam is entering the room. Oh, yeah, that’s what he looks like! Long overalls, a dark green shirt, matching hair slicked back out of his face. Peering out over his spectacles, he gives Wilbur a small smile, taking the chance to wave to the blond kid.

Said blond stands up, but Sam holds out his hand to stop. “Tommy, your appointment isn’t for another thirty minutes. I have another appointment before yours.”

“Take me first.”

What? But this is Wilbur’s appointment slot. Why does this kid want it?

“I’m sorry Tommy. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

“Tommy” still gets up, but Sam waves Wilbur on and he follows the engineer out into the hall. When he glances back, Tommy’s standing in the doorway, still staring him down.

Tommy is a familiar name. He’s heard it somewhere before. It’s kind of old fashioned. Well, Wilbur’s certainly one to talk with a name like Wilbur.

Wilbur follows after Sam. He’s led to a bright room filled with computers and wrenches. Sam shakes his hand, puts on his goggles, and the appointment commences.

Ten minutes later, Wilbur walks out of that room feeling nothing more than simple boredom.

It was a routine check-up. Something he’s certainly been through before since becoming an android, even if he doesn’t remember the experient picture perfectly. Sam is perfectly nice, Wilbur walks out harboring no resentment or ill-will towards the man. He’s thorough and swift, he didn’t waste Wilbur’s time. That Tommy fellow should be happy that Wilbur’s out early.

Sam has to take care of a couple things it seems, because he doesn’t immediately come out for Tommy. That’s what Wilbur notes as he says a quick word to the receptionist, before going to head out the door. The teen is still sitting in that waiting room. He turns back to the door, but there’s a quick patter of footsteps behind him and suddenly he’s being tapped on the shoulder.

He turns around to see Tommy. An android with piercing blue eyes, fair skin, and an awful lot of acne for an android. Wilbur doesn’t really have that problem anymore. Tommy says nothing when Wilbur first turns around. He simply scans Wilbur, up and down, carrying this sort of look in his eye that WIlbur can’t quite place.

Up close, Tommy looks familiar. Very vaguely familiar, like Wilbur has seen a picture of him before. Just like that name. Maybe he’s seen the kid on social media once or twice.

“Name?” Tommy asks.

“Wilbur.”

“I’ve never seen another restoration droid.”

Wilbur was about to say “You haven’t?” Before he can though, he takes the time to think about it. Has… Has Wilbur actually met another restoration droid himself?

“I haven’t either. I’m assuming you are one?”

“I am.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you!” Wilbur flashes a bright smile. Tommy may be very odd, but that’s no reason to be rude to him. Some people just have resting faces that seem a little bit scary. Wilbur can’t judge him for that.

Tommy’s still staring at him. He doesn’t blink very often. Wilbur doesn’t either, he realized a couple weeks back when he had a staring contest with Fundy. Ah he misses Fundy, it’s been just about six weeks since he went to visit him. He should go again soon.

Then Wilbur notices that odd motion of Tommy’s jaw. Like he’s grinding his teeth. His brows are furrowed, lips drawn tight. Did Wilbur do something wrong? He’ll apologize, he didn’t mean to be rude.

“Tommy?” Sam has reappeared at the end of the hallway. “My appointment ended early, I can see you now–”

“Stay here,” Tommy says to Wilbur.

What?

Without elaborating, Tommy turns on his heel, walking back towards Sam. Before he can disappear down the bend of the hall, he looks back at Wilbur, pinning him in one place with one pointed stare.

Stay here? Well, it’s not like Wilbur has anywhere important to be, but… why?

Wilbur makes his way back to the waiting room, taking the same seat he did last time. Now the waiting room is completely empty. Wilbur grabs one of those tablets, pulling up the same tab he did before. This time, when he starts reading, he’s able to sink into the world of new trees and biodiversity.

Thirty minutes pass quickly, although Wilbur is a little bit surprised that Tommy’s in there for so long. Towards the end of the time, he’s getting more curious about why Tommy was so insistent that Wilbur stay. Before his curiosity can grow unbearable, Sam and Tommy both come walking out of that hall. Tommy stands in the doorway of the waiting room.

For a second, Tommy stands there, shifting from foot to foot. Still staring at Wilbur. Should he get up, meet Tommy halfway? Before he can make his decision, Tommy rushes forward, practically throwing himself into the seat next to Wilbur.

“Tell me. Who are you.”

“I’m– I’m Wilbur.” Wilbur had already said that, hadn’t he?

“No, tell me who you are, not your name.”

What does Tommy mean? Tommy seems as frustrated as Wilbur is confused. At least Wilbur isn’t alone?

“Like– like I’m a restoration droid, have been for 44 days now. And I’m a big man and I’m fucken pissed because– because– they screwed me over, you know that? Screwed me over, how dare they, they’re not even sorry.”

“Oh, oh that sounds…”

“I don’t need your pity,” Tommy interrupts. “Pity is terrible, pity smells bad smells like rotten apples. I don’t want no bad apples, you hear me?”

Tommy might as well be twirling a red flag in his fingers, because who approaches strangers like this? Who starts talking in their face and asking affronting questions? Wilbur’s never been particularly inclined towards red, but when it catches the light, this metaphorical flag turns a shade of orange that Wilbur might be a little bit more partial towards.

This interaction is peculiar, a little but humorous, and Wilbur can’t help himself but continue.

“Then what do I smell like, hmm?”

Wilbur should’ve thought that through a little bit more, because now this kid is leaning over and digging his nose into Wilbur’s neck. That feels really, really disconcerting but when Tommy leans away and says, “You smell like sand,” Wilbur can’t help but to laugh.

The receptionist is giving them weird looks. Wilbur smiles, just so she knows not to worry.

“Sand? I don’t think sand has a smell.”

“It does, and you are it.”

He says it so seriously and with such a straight face. He laughs, Tommy frowns, and he tries to hold back his laugh so that Tommy doesn’t frown at him. He only half succeeds.

Then he sees that Tommy is trying to hold back his own laughter. It looks like he’s biting his own lips shut.

Wilbur’s not doing anything wrong. In fact, he’s doing something right. He may not know what he’s doing right, but it’s something and this Tommy kid is interesting.

In grade school, Wilbur was one of those kids that the teachers liked to place next to the troublemakers in hopes that the trouble maker would take after him and quiet down. It always backfired on them, because he got along with the likes of Sneeg and James. If anything, they brought something out in him, not the other way around.

So many people like to claim that Wilbur is quiet. Why? Isn’t it clear that he likes fun just as much as the next guy? Maybe a little bit more?

Tommy looks like fun.

He also looks like something a little bit alarming, but that will be for Friend to take care of.

“Tell me about yourself,” Tommy demands once more, and Wilbur thinks he knows how to respond now.

“Well, I’m a friendly person, I’d like to believe. And I am a restoration droid, like I said. I was just here for a checkup with Sam, he’s my engineer. I’m a bit of a musician, and I’m finishing up uni–”

“How do you know Sam?”

“Well, I–”

“How long have you been a restoration droid?”

Wilbur blinks. Which question is he supposed to respond to? Tommy soon clears up this confusion by repeating, “How long have you been a restoration droid?”

Um… it’s early January, very early January. It’s a new year! 2118, isn’t that grand? Why didn’t Wilbur celebrate a couple of days ago? Eh, he can worry about it later, silly of him to forget to celebrate it. But this all started in May.

“Almost eight months now.”

“Only eight?”

Wilbur nods. “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘only,’ it is quite a long time.”

“I’ve been one for six weeks,” Tommy says. “And I hate it. I fucking hate it.”

“Why is that?”

Tommy’s mouth immediately snapped shut. This time, Wilbur realized that Tommy wasn’t going to speak again. Not until he was spoken to.

“Do you want to take a walk with me?” Wilbur asks. That makes Tommy stiffen up, flinching back.

“Why?”

“Well, you’re an interesting person, and it would be nice to talk to you! But I need to stretch my legs, how about you?”

Tommy seems to deliberate for a little while, head turning back and forth. Eventually though, he settles and nods. So Wilbur gets up, taking a moment to stretch out stiff joints. Then he makes his way towards the exit, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Tommy’s still following.

He is. Like a dog on his heels. A dog with a particularly nasty look on his face.

After one silent elevator ride and a quick walk through the lobby, they step out onto the street. Wilbur went into that building bored and alone, ready to just get in and get things over with. He walks out not knowing when he’s going home, not particularly inclined to leave the side of this very odd boy he just met in an engineer’s office.

More than anything, Wilbur is curious. He doesn’t know anything about this kid but he wants to. Because Tommy is an enigma, but there’s something deeper going on. Wilbur can see it in his eyes when he gives Wilbur that blank stare.

They take off walking towards a nearby park, and Tommy starts on his questions once more.

“How did you die?”

Oh, that’s one hell of a way to start.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean that I don’t know.”

“What’s your story?”

Wilbur deliberates upon that for a second, but he ends up holding out his wrist. “Let me introduce you to a Friend of mine.”

“What?”

Wilbur clicks on the watch, and Friend pops up to give Tommy the whole spiel.

As Friend starts spitting out simple sentences in a blue font above his head, Wilbur realizes that he may have gotten himself into something big. Something big and important, because Friend is starting to tell a story unfamiliar to him. A story of big corporations and corruption and a lot of sleepless nights.

He’s pretty sure that Friend is just at the beginning. Together, he and Tommy are in for a long haul.

This is a lot to just suddenly tell a stranger. That’s what Tommy is. A stranger he found in that desolate waiting room, who saw Wilbur and suddenly couldn’t stop talking.

Sitting across that waiting room, Tommy had seemed so small in his seat. So sullen, so remote, and the word that was popping into Wilbur’s head was “Incomplete.”

As if Tommy is not a person one should ever see alone. He should never be solitary. His personality is big, like he should be up on stage, not the lone patient in a waiting room.

Which is why they hear this story together. The story of Wilbur’s life and death, which he’s heard a thousand times, yet he just can’t get the grasp of.

It’s like they’re going down together.

They end up sitting on a public park bench. It’s freezing, has been since the moment they stepped outside. In their big heavy coats it was easy to ignore it while they were walking. Especially with these bodies of theirs. Almost human. Nearly vulnerable. But not quite.

It’s only now as they sat on a bench underneath a barren tree that the cold bit through Wilbur’s jacket and his jumper. Tommy is shivering, he’s obviously cold too. He’s not complaining though. Instead, he’s enamored with the little blue sheep jumping forward from Wilbur’s watch. He’s been enamored with Friend this entire time. More than that though, he was fascinated by the story.

“You really can’t remember anything?”

“I can remember some things.”

“What if I started telling you gorey shit?” Tommy asks. “About murder? About serial killers? Or about war, what if I started telling a war story?”

“Well you’re pretty funny, so I reckon I would remember a war story told by you.”

“Well here’s a bloody horrific one,” Tommy starts. “These two bastards, they start their own country. Out of turmoil and distress, they rebel against the ties that bind, and they start their own country.”

“Sounds like Essempi itself.”

“They start the country out of a drug van that they call the h-to van and they risk their lives for this place.”

“Again, sounds like Essempi.”

“The bastards, they’re brothers. Or they’re like brothers, the closest you can get to brothers. And the younger, he has this best friend. This best friend who promises he’ll stick by his side, no matter what.”

“Oh? And what happens next?”

Tommy starts weaving this intricate tale with twists and turns. The story starts off just like Essempi’s does, it’s clear that Tommy is getting his inspiration from a certain famous musical from about a century ago. But the story starts to take a turn once the country has gained its independence. Tommy never gives these characters names. He simply calls them “The brother,” “The bastard,” and variations of “The brave best friend” or “The honorable man” or “The best guy in the world.”

Then Tommy says, “And the brother blows it all up.”

“Wait, what?” Tommy’s barely mentioned the brother. For the past couple minutes he’s been describing how the bastard was on the run, wanted by multiple different guys, for multiple different things. Apparently he had pissed off a lot of people, and he was getting his comeuppance for it. Tommy described how the best friend stepped in, and they were in things together. Through thick and thin, they would always take care of each other.

“The brother blows shit up and he says, ‘I don’t care about you guys, I’m out of here. So he goes off to… to Antarctica, I don’t know. The North Pole. Leaves the bastard and his comrade there in the ashes and the country has to have a president.”

“Isn’t the country blown up?”

Tommy makes a face. “Eh, it’s salvageable. So el amigo tells the bastard that the country needs a president, but the bastard doesn’t want it, because he’s traumatized and shit, he doesn’t want that weight on his shoulders. So it goes to the best friend, and… and…”

This entire time, Tommy has had this kind of crazed look on his face. Kind of like a toddler on drugs. That sounded so vulgar, but it was true! That was what he was acting like! He had lost all self control, so immersed in this story. Forgetting the cold world around him, forgetting passerbys. It was just Tommy, Wilbur, and this terrifying tale of destruction and demise.

“And now that he was president, the president had a lot to deal with. He had so much on his shoulders. He had to make a lot of decisions, and neither of the options were good. He was going to piss somebody off either way, he was bound to piss himself off. He had to make so many of these, one after another, and it was driving him mad.”

Tommy isn’t happy anymore. Happy might not be the best descriptor for what he was, but he seemed good! He seemed to be having fun. Not… not like this. Not whatever this is.

Wilbur inches away. Where is this heading?

“Those weren’t the worst ones though. No, the worst decisions Mr. President had to make were the ones where he could get hurt if he wasn’t careful. He had to be really, really careful, you know.”

“Was he?” Wilbur asks. “Was he careful?”

Just from the look on Tommy’s face, Wilbur believes he knows the answer.

It turns out to be a little bit more complicated. “He was, he was precise. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew the country couldn’t lose another president. So he made the decision to save himself, and save the country – he exiled his friend.”

“Exiled him?”

Tommy nods. “Sent him off to the middle of nowhere. To live on his own, to be ‘Free,’ to have a ‘Better life.’ His life wasn’t that much better though. It wasn’t better at all, in fact, I’d say it was no good.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Well why shouldn’t I?”

“It seems…” Wilbur hesitates, because he doesn’t really know how to explain this. “It seems personal.”

“How could it be personal? I was just telling a story!”

“You’re a strange person, Tommy.”

“Tommy Innes. Tommy Innes, that’s what I’m called.”

“Tommy Innes.” Wilbur tests out the name in his mouth. Thinks about how it feels to say, how it sounds. “That’s familiar. I think that I’ve heard that before.”

“You forget unhappy memories, right?”

Wilbur nods, and Tommy smiles.

“Ask Friend about it. When you get home, ask your little Friend about Tommy Innes.”

And Wilbur does.

Tommy left the park without saying goodbye shortly after telling his story. He did it with a smile on his face. Wilbur was left to walk home in the cold, which suddenly felt a bit more present without the other android by his side. It doesn’t matter, because Wilbur’s home now, safe and tucked away inside his room with the space heater on.

He sets his watch out on his desk, letting it transform itself to lay flat. Then, Friend appears, and Wilbur asks, “Who is Tommy Innes?”

Friend tells him, and Tommy’s story makes sense.

Wilbur spends a good thirty minutes trying to recount the story to Friend. It slips away as he speaks, so he tries, desperately, to grasp onto threads and trails to keep it fresh in his memory. Friend already has the story down, because he heard it from Tommy’s own mouth. But if WIlbur states it, he’s more likely to remember it. He pulls all the tricks. He turns on his favorite album, he gets himself a cup of tea, and he lays back in bed as he tries to tell the story.

Barely, just barely, he scrapes his way through it. He rewards himself by chugging the rest of his tea, which has gone cold by now. Then he grabs his guitar in the corner, giving into the urge to play alongside his favorite band.

Tommy Innes was a really interesting person.

Such a coincidence that Wilbur happened to run into him. It does make sense that they would both see Sam, considering who they both know.

Once Wilbur has gotten music out of his system, he goes about the rest of his day, doing chores and finishing up code he’s doing from his freelance work. Then, at the end of the day, Friend chimes with a reminder. Friend says, “Do you want to hear what you may have missed yesterday?”

That message is quickly followed up by, “This is a daily message, sent to remind you to check these things before bed. Keeping yourself updated is important. Stay strong, Wilbur!”

Wilbur smiles to himself. “Yeah, tell me what happened yesterday.”

It starts off mundane. A couple of rude people at the coffee shop, a brief couple of minutes where his thinking followed a dark pattern, and he broke his favorite mug. Oh, that’s a shame. It was a collector’s edition for one of his favorite television shows! But what really surprises Wilbur is the last part.

“You had a fight with Niki. You haven’t had one with her in awhile, but she was upset with the way you had been treating her. You should give her a little bit of space, but she’s going to forgive you!”

Oh.

The worst part of the message was “You haven’t had one with her in a while.” That implies that yesterday wasn’t the first time.

What’s going on with Niki? She’s such a nice friend! Come on, what could have gone so wrong?

The report ended with the news about Niki. There isn’t much more to say now. The next reminder is simply to go take a shower. It doesn’t seem completely necessary, seeing as he apparently smelled like sand, which doesn’t have a smell. But it might be nice to feel the warm water coursing down on him after such a cold day.

So that’s where he found himself. Filling the bathroom with steam, thinking of Niki, because it still hadn’t slipped his mind that he fought with her.

If only Wilbur could remember. If he could remember, he could fix things. Without his memory, he’ll never know the right things to say, he’ll never properly apologize. How can he apologize when he doesn’t know what he’s done? He “Treated her wrong?”

Why is he just standing here?

He has the soap in his hand, but it isn’t moving. He’s standing completely still. How long has he been like this? How long has he been doing nothing for?

He finishes up quickly and steps out of the shower. He towels off. He’s upset about something. Fuck, he’s upset about something, there’s pressure at his eyes and it’s a little bit hard to breathe but why is he upset?

Friend, from the counter where he left him, speaks up.

“Did you enjoy your day today?”

“Yes,” Wilbur says, despite his current sorry state. He tries to hold back the sadness in his voice. Tries so hard to be chipper. “I really enjoyed meeting Tommy.”

Somehow, it’s not that hard to say that. The happiness started to come out as he said it, because it’s true, it was really fun to meet Tommy. That doesn’t make that ugly, weird feeling go away, but it’s not all consuming.

There was something about that which actually felt comforting. What it was, Wilbur could not describe. But he could live with it. He could go to sleep with it.

So he did. Wilbur went to sleep. And in the morning, he kept on living.

It’s late on a Wednesday afternoon that Wilbur gets a call from none other than Sam. The first thought that pops into Wilbur’s head is a fear: what if Sam is looking back on the scans he ran, and he found something wrong? What if he has to bring Wilbur in again? Something bad must have happened for Sam to be calling him.

It’s a surprise when Sam asks, “Did you talk to Tommy yesterday? Tommy Innes?”

“Oh, yeah! I did. Why?”

“I’ve kind of been… kind of a caretaker for Tommy. That’s the best word I can use. Anyway, he called me up this morning, and asked if he could talk to you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, he was pretty insistent. Said you were a good guy.”

Pride warms Wilbur’s chest. So the feeling was mutual. He’s not sure what it was about Tommy that just felt so… so…

So real. For lack of a better word.

“Where does he want to meet up?”

“So you do want to see him? I can send you his address. I don’t know when he wants to see you–”

“Wait, he wants me to come to his house?”

“It’s not exactly his house. It’s the room he’s living in.”

“I thought he wanted to meet at a park or something.”

“It’s pretty cold outside to meet at a park. Do you not want to go to his room? It’s fine if you don’t, I can tell him no. I was actually prepared to tell him that.”

“No, no, I’ll go and see him. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“Wilbur, I don’t know how much of this I should be telling you, but I think it might be important for you to have some context. He’s the first person that he’s actually wanted to see since his… procedure.”

“What?”

“Like I said, not really my story to tell. He’s just been pretty withdrawn, recently. It really surprised me when he said he wanted to speak to you, but I’m glad. He needs somebody to talk to. I think it’ll be good for him.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it!’

“Then I’ll send you his address and room number. Thank you, Wilbur. You really don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I must see him again.”

It was weird how Sam was speaking about him. Like Tommy was… didn’t Tommy say something yesterday about pity? Not wanting to be pitied? Tommy seems like somebody who values respect. Above all else, Tommy would probably be drawn towards respect.

Everybody deserves some respect. That’s the problem in this world, nobody respects each other. They all need to calm down a bit and try to see the good in others.

Although it might be wise to wait a little bit, Wilbur finds his shoes and soon he’s padding out the door. What’s “Wise” rarely occurs to Wilbur. It’s more about what’s right. It’s late right now, and the address Sam just sent him is across town. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone for. But there’s no time to waste.

In 45 minutes he’s walking the streets of uptown, trying to find out which towering apartment building it is. This street intersects with Prime Street, and Tub-Net headquarters is barely a five minute walk away. Wilbur finds the target building, and strolls right into the lobby, which sports marble flooring and high, vaulted ceilings.

He’s stopped from going up to the elevator by the security guard. “You live here?” the woman asks. “Because I don’t recognize you.”

“I’m here to visit somebody.”

“Who?”

“Tommy Innes.”

It’s like Wilbur just said he was bringing in a bomb.

He’s being held at the front desk as the security officer makes her call, shooting Wilbur a nasty glare. He’s left to sit there, twiddling his thumbs, wondering if he’s really supposed to be here. If Tommy actually wants to see him. For all he knows, Sam could’ve been lying, desperate to get this kid some sort of attention.

But then Tommy is stepping out of the elevator, and he immediately comes up to Wilbur. He latches an arm around Wilbur’s bicep, and starts to pull him forward.

“He’s fine, Hannah,” Tommy says.

“Are you sure?”

Tommy completely ignores the security guard. “You came. He actually called you.”

Wilbur can’t help but smile. “I came.”

“Come on, come on up, we aren’t standing around like nobodies. We’re no nobodies. We’re big men. You’re friends with me now, big man, so come up.”

Friends. The word should be so obvious to Wilbur. They spent hours together yesterday, hours where Tommy told him surprising things. Things that Wilbur remembers, just barely. The tale of a land similar to Essempi, two brothers, and a friend who does what he can and nothing more.

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s ever made a friend this quickly before. Tommy’s something special, he was able to worm his way into Wilbur’s heart so easily.

All Wilbur had to do was sit there and listen.

Tommy’s flat is a studio flat, but that isn’t to say it’s dingy. The room itself is huge. The kitchen takes up the entire front area, decked out with state of the art appliances. Then there’s a living room, with a holographic television mounted to the wall. Back at the end of the flat is Tommy’s living space, which is the messiest. Clothes are strewn about, posters hung on the wall, electronics laying on the bed. In the corner is a desk, a mess of wires, with three monitors sitting on it.

“You have money,” Wilbur mutters under his breath. Tommy doesn’t seem to hear it.

Tommy traverses the flat, dipping into a closet. He digs around a little bit, and comes out with a ratty volleyball. He tosses it up in the air. “Play with me?”

“Play catch? Indoors?”

“I’ve done it before,” Tommy says.

Well, it’s Tommy’s flat. There doesn’t seem to be any glassware or anything else particularly breakable around. So Wilbur holds up his hands, and lets the game commence.

It’s high energy, it’s chaotic, and it’s nothing like Wilbur expected when he walked in here today.

Wilbur’s not particularly sure what he expected. Something similar to yesterday, on that cold bench in the park. But this is different, oh so different. It’s a lot warmer, and the lights are bright. The park was bright as well, of course. But these LED lights were shining in Wilbur’s eyes, keeping them wide open, keeping him aware. He kept tossing around this ball with Tommy and overwhelmingly, it was fun.

Oh so fun. Fun like he hadn’t had in years. Fun like going out into the backyard with Fundy and kicking around a football. Fun like playing cards, slapping them down with smug intention, knowing that he’s dooming his teammate. It’s fun and it gets his blood pumping. This artificial heart of his is put right to work.

Tommy’s laughing. His laugh is so loud. It’s boisterous, echoing off of these walls. He’s getting into the game, too. He’s not about to let Wilbur catch a break. His reflexes are sharp, he returns Wilbur’s passes quicker than he could process that the ball was across the room.

Wilbur’s not too bad himself, though. It’s been a long, long time since he played catch. From playing games with Fundy, Wilbur learned that he doesn’t exactly have the best reflexes. Those? Those are better now. Better, faster, stronger. He’s hitting the ball with more precision than he ever kicked that old football with Fundy. Maybe it’s his caution coming into play. He doesn’t want to hit that television on the wall, Tommy almost did that earlier and it spooked Wilbur.

Or maybe, it’s this body of his.

Tommy’s still slightly better at the game. But the more it goes on, the more Tommy laughs, and the more Tommy laughs the sloppier he gets. But now Wilbur’s laughing himself, dooming himself to the same fate, and okay, maybe they can be idiots together.

The game ends with both of them collapsing on Tommy’s bed, after Tommy moves his tablets aside. Tommy’s still laughing, hand over his heart. Whenever he starts to calm down, he begins laughing even more, and it’s contagious. Wilbur can’t help but laugh along. That smile is contagious too.

It’s bound to end at some point though. Wilbur doesn’t really know when they stopped laughing, but one second he looks over and sees that Tommy’s chest is still, for the most part. His lips are sealed. Wilbur is silent, too.

They lock eyes with each other for a moment. They communicate a silent understanding with each other. At least that’s what Wilbur thought.

He thought that he and Tommy were solidifying that they’re friends. Tommy said it earlier, but they hadn’t done something like that together. They hadn’t laughed and risked dangerous electronics for a bit of fun. All they had done was sit on a park bench.

Apparently, Tommy doesn’t need that reassurance, because he goes down a completely different route.

“Me and Tubbo used to play catch together.”

The warmth of the room is gone. The light up ahead is bright, blinding, like the sun up in the sky. Wilbur lays there staring at Tommy, and Tommy stares back. Tommy is not laughing. His voice is as solemn as can be.

“In this very room. He was way too good at it, it wasn’t fair. I had to beat him. I did, sometimes. Tubbo’s so smart. He beat me at chess all the time. Beat me at cards, beat me at chess – but I always beat him in video games. That’s the one place where I was always on top.”

“Do… Do you still play catch with him?”

That’s when Tommy’s jaw sets. He begins grinding his teeth, and is he glaring at Wilbur?

“No. No, I do not speak to him anymore.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“What happened?” When Tommy seems confused, Wilbur clarifies. “I forget a lot of things, you know. What happened?”

Tommy takes a shuddering breath. Wilbur glances down at his watch. Is Friend recording this?

Is it okay for Friend to record it?

He has no chance to ask before Tommy starts.

“It was a dark and stormy night, and Tubbo had spent the night here. Tubbo lives in the headquarters, while I just live here. Most people that work for Tub-Net live here. I don’t work for Tub-Net, not anymore… Well, technically I never did, but it’s complicated. Anyway, I was walking him home. I always do.”

Immediately, Wilbur knows to lean back and get comfortable because he’s going to be here for a while. He’s going to listen as closely as he can. He wants to remember this.

“I think… they must’ve been camping out the place. One of the detectives told me that one of the guys had been seen passing through the lobby before. They knew how often Tubbo came over. It was like every night – or every other night, cause I went over to his place so often. But they must’ve gotten our schedules down perfectly. They knew exactly which day to watch out for him.

“They leaped out, and they had guns. All I had was the pocket knife that I keep in my cargo pants, I – heh — I literally brought a knife to a gun fight. And I was scared and shit, of course I was, but I’d been held up for money before. I immediately started digging through my pockets for my wallet. I was so sure that it was a routine robbery, even though one of those dudes had this weird ass looking machine gun.

“I reckon– I reckon that Tubbo understood what was going on. He definitely understood before I was able to. At first, he stepped in front of me. He’s an android, he could survive a couple of bullets. It would hurt him but it wouldn’t kill him. At first, while I was afraid, I thought he wanted to do what was best for me.

“Then, before I could even process what was happening, I was in front of him. He had turned around, fucken ran behind me like some sort of scaredy cat. It all happened so quickly, yet I saw it coming. The weird weapon flashed before it fired. It flashed so bright, like staring into the sun. I was blinded by it, so I didn’t see when it actually fired. But all of a sudden there was this heavy weight on my chest. It wasn’t like a bullet, I don’t think. I mean, I’ve never been shot before. But I don’t think it was like a bullet.

“It was simply a weight. Like an anvil had been dropped on my chest. My ribs broke, the front ones and then the back. Shards of my ribs flew into my lungs. I felt it all. Viscerally, I knew what was happening deep in my body. But that didn’t hurt. That was like getting a shot at the doctor’s. What hurt was the electricity.”

Quite honestly, Wilbur feels like throwing up, his stomach is churning. He can picture it, picture that weight being shot into Tommy’s chest, at high velocity. What he cannot picture is what Tommy describes next.

“I was thrown into an oven, I was drenched under the sea, I was being pulled apart by gravity, stuck between two supermassive blackholes. I was being spaghettified. It was like being hit by seven different bolts of thunder at once. The shock rocketed through my body, and I felt myself ascend, like a little bird, like a crow, an omen of death, flying up to the skies to get what I fucking deserve.

“I passed out from the pain, because it hurt, so much, like nothing had before. And then I woke up in a hospital bed as good as new.

“Do you remember what it was like, waking up, as a restoration droid?”

Wilbur shakes his head, the movement a little bit halted by the bed he’s laying on. “I don’t remember.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, of course. It’s fucking… it’s fucking weird. You’re lucky you don’t remember it. It sucks, and I was so confused at first. Thought it was a dream! Then Tubbo came in and then all the police and the detectives and my mum. They were all there, and it was… it was…”

“Take your time,” Wilbur says.

Staring at the ceiling, Tommy takes a heaving breath before continuing. “It was such fucking bullshit. They told me the story, and… that weapon they used on me was single use. Tubbo knew that, I don’t know how he knew that, he used his fucking database brain to just know it. In a split second he realized that… that it was worth sacrificing one guy to make sure that he could live on and continue to make decisions.

“I eventually pried my survival chance out of one of the doctors. You know, what they bet their luck was going to be with turning me into a restoration droid. It was like… a five percent chance that the procedure would work. So– so Tubbo bet my life on a five percent chance. Can you fucking imagine that? Your best friend letting you be killed, thinking, ‘Eh, there’s a five percent chance that he’ll come back. I’ll apologize then.’ Can you imagine?”

Wilbur tries. And… he kind of can’t. He can’t imagine, even though he wants to. He wants to tell Tommy that he can picture it, because that’s clearly what Tommy wants to hear.

But Niki is Wilbur’s best friend. And if it was between the two of them, well, Wilbur would throw himself in front of Niki. Without a second thought. He would’ve before he became a restoration droid, and before he even knew of the program. Of course he would! He doesn’t want Niki to die! It would be a little bit weird if Niki pushed him in front of her, but, well… in dire circumstances, the brain does what it needs to do to survive. Even if it means ripping control away from the heart.

That’s not really what Tommy’s talking about though, is it?

Niki’s not the personification of a supercomputer, made to determine who lives and who dies. Whose stories are worth telling.

That’s what Tubbo was.

“How did you become friends with Tubbo?”

The question catches Tommy off guard. Oh no, that might have been the wrong thing to say. It definitely was. Tommy sits up, rubbing at his eyes. He breathes a heavy sigh, and Wilbur pulls himself up as well. Oh no, he messed things up, what is Tommy going to say now?

“Weird thing is that I was kind of assigned to be his friend.”

Oh. Wilbur settles in once more, still meeting Tommy eye to eye. This time, he sits with quiet hands in his lap, ready to listen some more.

“When he was first– what would the proper word be, created? That sounds so weird, what the hell, but I guess it’s accurate… when he was ‘Created,’ he needed some people to teach him proper socialization. Something like that, I don’t know. And he had people who acted as his parents, but they wanted him to talk to another kid.

“Really ironic that they picked me, considering that I’m– well, I’m not neurotypical, I’ll tell you that much. Don’t need Sam or no psychologist to tell me that.”

“Thank you for trusting me with that,” Wilbur interrupts. Tommy seems surprised, but he smiles. He smiles!

“They didn’t realize that at the time. My aunt and uncle were some big important people who knew Tubbo, so I was picked for the ‘Job.’ I’ve known him since we were in diapers. Guess it really was a good pick, because we’re as close as can be! He’s my best friend, that bastard– he was my best friend. Don’t know if I really helped ‘im in the ‘Socialization’ field. But damn, we had fun together.”

Wilbur makes a small mistake. He puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, saying, “I’m sorry.”

Tommy brushes his hand off. “Oh don’t be sorry, don’t be fucking sorry, I don’t want your pity. You had nothing to do with it.”

“I think it’s terrible that you had to go through that.”

“Well I sure hope you would think it was terrible, because it was.”

Wilbur shifts away a little bit. Okay… okay, he didn’t mess up that badly. Tommy’s looking at him with this indecipherable expression. Wilbur’s a little bit wary, not knowing what it means. Friend promptly hops up out of his watch, opening a text box that reads….

“He’s fond of you!”

“What does that say?” Tommy wrenches Wilbur’s arm up and over, peering at the words Friend was saying. The words disappear, but not before Tommy narrows his eyes.

“I am fond of you,” Tommy says, growing out the words like a threat but he is sincere. At least Wilbur thinks he is? Wilbur is starting to get a handle of Tommy Innes. He’s a very odd, complicated person. He has to be, with all that he’s gone though. Sometimes, life makes you a complicated person. It can be annoying when life does that to you. It can make you want to curl up and scream, because why can’t things be simple for once?

But Tommy doesn’t look like he’s about to curl up and scream.

“What do you do for fun?” Tommy asks.

“Well, I sometimes code. But that’s work, kind of, because I’m a freelancer. For fun, I play my guitar.”

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “No shit, you play guitar?”

“I do. I write a couple of my songs as well.”

Tommy looks at him with stars in his eyes. “Play something for me.”

“Right now? Well, I don’t have my guitar with me.”

Without a word, Tommy shoots up. He goes over to the closet again, digging around. What he drops in Wilbur’s lap is decidedly not a guitar. It’s a ukulele. A little bit large for a ukulele, but it’s smaller than a guitar and it’s got four strings. “This is different from a guitar, you know.”

“I don’t care. Play.”

It takes Wilbur a moment to figure out the fingerings for familiar chords, and he does have to look up a few. Ultimately though, they’re the same set of skills, and he’s able to play a simple song for Tommy without too much trouble. He hopes Tommy won’t mind the age of the song he sings. Wilbur quite likes old tunes, from decades ago, even a couple from a century ago. He finds the older songs fascinating. Inventive in a way new songs just aren’t.

Luckily, Tommy says nothing of their age. Instead, he closes his eyes the moment Wilbur starts singing, and he sways along to the music.

If somebody told Wilbur last week that this is where he would end up, he would think he was dreaming. Firstly, because nobody can tell the future. And time travel to the past is impossible. Secondly, because no way would he get to know Tommy Innes. The best friend of Tubbo himself. The same best friend who was a casualty in an assassination plot just one month prior.

Singing? For Tommy of all people? Laughable.

Yet here he is.

Tommy is interesting. So interesting, and so full of life. Life, in every inch of his artificial skin. Life that shines through his eyes and in his voice and in all of these features that were fabricated by 3D printers six weeks ago. Life that shouldn’t reach Wilbur. Yet it makes more sense to him than anything else does.

Tommy is more lively than the people Wilbur passes by on the street. He’s more lively than Wilbur’s family, only rivaled by Fundy. And he’s certainly more lively than Wilbur himself. When Wilbur looks in the mirror, he sees… Well, he can’t remember the last time he looked in a mirror.

Wilbur reaches the last few notes of the last song he decided to play. For a moment he considers adding on one more. One that’s a lot more personal, to say the least. But no, he’s not super good at that one, he can’t play it on a ukulele when he barely knows how to play it on the guitar. That can wait for another day.

So he sets the ukulele aside. It’s getting late, and he’s going to have to make his way home soon. Tommy must realize this. Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he tracks Wilbur’s every move as he shifts around the space.

Wilbur will be leaving soon. But he can’t do it right now. Leaving right now… that feels empty, for lack of a better word. Like he’s not leaving things on the right note. He has to give Tommy a proper goodbye, before he comes back another day.

First thing he does is give Tommy his number. That’s important. After they’ve exchanged those, Wilbur takes a deep breath and says,

“I’m very scared about forgetting things.”

Tommy looks like he was about to say something, but he quiets down and backs up a little bit. He’s listening. Wilbur can tell that he’s listening.

“It’s like… it’s tough, knowing that I’ll forget most things. I don’t think I’ll forget what you told me! I know I won’t, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“But in general I’m just– afraid. Very afraid because I’m missing things. I know that I’m missing things, but I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Tommy places a hand on his shoulder. That was what Wilbur tried to do for Tommy earlier, but Tommy didn’t like that. He must have changed his mind though, and Wilbur’s not about to brush him off.

“I’ll fill you in when you miss stuff, okay?”

Wilbur smiles. He doesn’t need Tommy to do that, that’s why he has Friend, but it’s a gesture. It’s a gesture, one that nobody has actually ever offered before.

“Thank you.”

When Wilbur leaves, it’s with a heavy heart, immediately missing the hours he just spent up in Tommy’s room. He slumps his way back to the metro stop, through the uptown streets, which were busy even at night.

He was going to come back soon though.

There was something just so interesting about Tommy. Wilbur would simply have to come back.

Chapter Text

Tommy Innes has rapidly become a permanent fixture in Wilbur’s life.

Tommy is routine. Every morning, he’ll text Tommy. It started out as Can I come over? The answer was always yes, and with time, Tommy grew irritated with the repeated question. Now, Wilbur jumps immediately to coming over rn.

He’s known this kid for a month. In that month, there have only been five days that he hasn’t seen Tommy.

Tommy shines as bright as the sun. It only makes sense that Wilbur got sucked into his orbit.

Tommy is unlike anybody Wilbur’s ever met before. Other people carry their exhaustion in their voice, spreading their fatigue like a sickly cough. Tommy does the opposite. He transmits energy with every word he speaks. He flies, and he takes Wilbur up with him.

Wilbur remembers every moment he’s ever spent with Tommy.

Excitement runs through Wilbur’s veins as he takes the escalator up from the metro stop near Tommy’s flat. He breaks out into the familiar street, a sight as sweet as his family’s car in the parking lot of his hometown train station.

There’s no time to waste. He begins walking towards Tommy’s building, grinning ear to ear. That’s when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He raises it to his ear, going, “Tommy?” without checking the caller ID.

“Hey, Wil, um, you don’t have to come today.”

Wilbur stops in the middle of the sidewalk, causing some hurried businessman to almost run straight into him. Wilbur mutters a brief apology before moving off to the side. He glances in the direction of Tommy’s flat.

“Why?”

“Well, um…”

“I’m already on my way here, I just got out of the station.”

“Oh, you’re already uptown?”

“I am.” Wilbur flinches as a rush of cold wind hits him in the chest and messes with his hair. He shivers.

“Then… just go to the Tub-Net building. You know where that is? It’s the place where Sam’s office is.”

“I do.” Wilbur begins to worry at his lip, starting to get a bad feeling in his gut. “But are you alright?”

“What?”

“You sound a little bit tired. Are you alright?”

“I– I am, I am, don’t worry about me, big man. Well… you’ll see when you get there. I’m fine, it’s fine, don’t let them tell you otherwise.”

Sometimes when Tommy talks super fast, it’s hard for Wilbur to keep up with what he’s saying. It all flies a little bit over his head. It’s making Wilbur a little bit worried. He stamps that down, though. He’s going to go and find Tommy at the Tub-Net tower, and he’ll figure things out from there.

Wilbur doesn’t expect the sight that he finds in the tower. Tommy texted him which floor and room to go to, and he was slightly surprised to find that it was Sam’s office again. When he reaches the right place, he’s told by the secretary to just head right into the room, if he’s really Tommy’s friend.

He is. They can put that on his name tag that states why he’s here. Tommy’s friend. There’s no better descriptor, because there’s nothing else that Wilbur has really been over the past month. He hasn’t wanted to be anything more.

The door is closed, so Wilbur lands a light tap upon the knob. He waits, expecting to see Tommy at any minute now. But it’s Sam who opens the door.

The engineer looks surprised for a split second, before his face mellows out. “Oh, he mentioned you coming.”

Wilbur takes a step into the room, tentatively because Sam sounds a little bit surprised about him being here. It’s also odd, being in this room without being here for an appointment. The appointments he’s had here before were not very memorable, but they still tinged this room with a bit of an uncomfortable air.

“Where’s Tommy?” Wilbur asks. Tommy is nowhere to be seen, not in the chair and not behind the door. There’s a pad charger resting on one of the chairs, and a lone shoe in the corner.

“He’s in the bathroom,” Sam says.

“But androids don’t… go to the bathroom.”

Sam purses his lips. “I know.”

At Sam’s direction, Wilbur takes one of the chairs. They’re more comfortable than they look – although they look like generic plastic chairs, there’s a soft padding on the seat and it’s easy to sink into.

He asks how Tommy’s doing, and Sam shrugs, giving a mumbled answer. When Wilbur asks why Tommy’s here in the first place, Sam gives an even more confusing answer.

“He has to come here. We make sure… we’re supposed to make sure that he’s okay. He doesn’t really like coming here, but, well, he doesn’t really like anything anymore.”

“Doesn’t like anything?” Wilbur questions. “He likes a lot of things. He likes music, he likes games, and he really likes going on little tirades about whatever amuses him.”

“I’m glad you’re seeing that side of him,” Sam mutters. He turns away, beginning to tinker with a small contraption sitting on the counter. He has wrenches and hammers and screws – he’s a little bit more of a mechanical engineer than somebody like Wilbur, though he does have an extensive knowledge of code.

This is all feeling a little bit weird. Wilbur feels out of place, and he wishes he was at Tommy’s right now. But this is where Tommy told him to go and he trusts his friend and he doesn’t have anything against Sam. So he sits in his place and waits.

Heavy footsteps pound down the hall and Tommy bursts into the room, an entrance fit for a movie star. The second he sets foot in the room, his eyes lock onto Sam.

Wilbur was right to feel uncomfortable. Something is wrong, that’s plain to see based off of Tommy’s tight upper lip.

With the anger radiating off of the kid, Wilbur half expects Tommy to start berating Sam. Instead, Tommy stands with turmoil twisting under the surface of his skin. His eyes flick to Wilbur, and briefly, his shoulders fall. Tension seizes them again immediately when Tommy goes back to Sam.

“Hello,” Sam says, quietly. “Nice to see you again–”

“We’re leaving,” Tommy says. After one quick stride, he wraps a hand around Wilbur’s bicep, pulling him up. Wilbur goes willingly, starting to stumble over towards the door. That’s where he expects Tommy to go as well. But Tommy is rooted in place. His attention is super-glued to Sam.

“Okay,” Sam says.

“No. This is not ‘Okay,’ say what you mean.”

“Well, all I wanted to do was reach out to you. I wanted to see where you are and where your thoughts are, and I have done that.”

Tommy turns to Wilbur, saying, “He’s trying to make me go see Tubbo again.”

What? Why? Tubbo is no good for Tommy. No good at all. That’s what Tommy’s always saying, that’s what Friend is always saying.

“I wasn’t making you,” Sam says.

“Yes, you were. You pulled me in here and you just went, ‘Have you been talking to Tubbo? Will you talk to Tubbo again? Tubbo Tubbo Tubbo he’s the center of your life Tubbo you need him just go talk to Tubbo.’”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s basically what you said,” Tommy says, face twisting up in a sneer.

Woah – aren’t Sam and Tommy friends? Why would Sam bring Tubbo into this? Sam’s a smart man, he’s proven that. This is all happening so quickly; it’s left Wilbur utterly confused.

“Sam, what do you think you said?” Wilbur asks.

“Well, just so you know, I’ve known Tommy for a long time,” Sam says, confirming what Wilbur already knew.

Well, Sam can’t know Tommy that well. Because anybody who knows Tommy should know not to bring up Tubbo around him.

So how does Sam know Tommy? Where do his interests lie?

Tommy’s anger flares up. “Oh shut up, just answer his question, or I will for you.”

Sam has stayed relatively calm up until this point, but he betrays frustration with grinding teeth. “I’m trying to give him context.”

“Fuck your context–”

“Hey, Tommy, just give him a moment,” Wilbur says. He places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and at first, Tommy tenses up. But Wilbur shakes him around a little bit, just pushing him around. Tommy gives a small smile. Tommy likes a bit of horseplay, the type of stuff Wilbur annoyed Fundy with.

When Tommy looks back to Sam, he crosses his arms, not saying anything. Sam takes that as an invitation to speak.

“I work directly for the Tub-Net corporation, doing a variety of tasks. I was one of Tommy’s tutors, I taught him engineering when he was in the equivalent of secondary school. Barely taught him anything about engineering…” Sam gives a pointed look to Tommy, which makes Tommy bare his teeth. Sam glances away. “But I taught him some things about life. I started looking out for him after that. Even before he became a restoration droid, I was there for him.”

Tommy doesn’t deny that, which is actually surprising. There’s no correction or rebuttal, which means that Sam must be telling the truth. Tommy wouldn’t let a lie just stand like that.

“My responsibilities haven’t changed, only grown. I take care of Tommy’s physical wellbeing–”

“I don’t need that, I’m fine,” Tommy snaps.

“Every android needs to be checked out every once in a while, just like check-ups. And I still want to make sure…”

Tommy’s voice, already loud, reaches a new peak. “Just leave me alone, will you?”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone.”

Wilbur takes a small step back towards the door, because things should be fine now.

“Stop saying ‘Okay.’ You’re lying to me. You’re not going to leave me alone. You’re going to keep following after me, tracking me down, dragging me in here. You’ll never stop going on and on about Tubbo and what’s right for me and all the little nonsense you mutter to yourself because you just love to fill the silence, going on, and on, and on, and on…”

“Tommy, you can go.”

“Promise me that you’ll never bother me again,” Tommy says. He takes a step forward, even when Wilbur holds out an arm to stop them. “You better fucking promise me, okay? I won’t leave until you promise me. Don’t ever call me again, don’t ever speak to me, don’t even nudge your little pinky toe in my direction.”

Seems like it’s getting harder and harder for Sam to contain his frustration. “I can’t do that. I can’t, and you don’t want me to.”

Tommy seethes. “You think I want your little pinky toes? I don’t want no grimy toes, you creep, you creeper–”

“I don’t think you want me to abandon you, Tommy.”

Is Tommy okay? All his anger is suddenly replaced by pain. It looks like he just stubbed his toe. Maybe that’s why he’s talking about toes so much. But he’s shooting Sam such a death glare and Sam is just staring blankly back. The apathy Tommy even more angry; he must be holding back a million swears right now. Wilbur tries to pull him back, he needs to get out of here, he isn’t okay. But Tommy bats him back. How can Wilbur help?

Sam is being awfully stubborn. There has to be some better way to handle this, other than just giving Tommy the silent treatment. And why is Tommy here? He just had a check up a month ago, he doesn’t need another one.

Wilbur takes a step out of the room. Tommy’s eyes snap to him, and Tommy clearly doesn’t want to leave yet. Wilbur beckons him forward. He crooks a finger, and waits.

Tommy’s still seething. Wilbur can take a pretty good guess at what Tommy’s thinking. This isn’t over yet, Tommy would say. I’m not leaving, until he fucking speaks my language.

You know you need to leave, Wilbur would say back. He stretches his hand further out. You’re smart Tommy, you know what’s best for you.

Fighting against the ropes of his stubbornness, Tommy presses forward. Wilbur leans over and captures Tommy’s hand. He’ll join the fight, he’ll pull on those ropes. Tommy crosses the threshold and the ropes snap! Tommy immediately slumps over with exhaustion, but Wilbur is there to catch him.

Sam is looking at them funny. Wilbur will let him.

They stay in the hallway for a little while, Tommy turned away from Sam. Wilbur continues to run his hands up and down Tommy’s arms. Slowly but surely, Tommy’s fighting spirit comes back to him.

Wilbur deems Tommy ready when Tommy pushes Wilbur’s hands away. Expecting Tommy to follow, Wilbur starts off down the hall. There is no echo to his footsteps. When he turns around, Tommy is still in that doorway.

“What?” Sam asks, now hidden from Wilbur’s view. The silence draws on for a long moment, and Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat.

“Pussy,” Tommy spits, popping the ‘P’ before sprinting to Wilbur’s side.

“Ready to get out of here?” Wilbur asks.

“Take me home. Be my chauffeur, Wilbah.”

Due to Tommy’s earlier dismissal, Wilbur hesitates about putting an arm around Tommy’s shoulder. But Tommy sees Wilbur’s hovering hand, and yanks it by the wrist around himself. He flashes Wilbur a bright smile, and Wilbur can smell the mint bubblegum Tommy had been chewing on.

Loyally, Wilbur walks by Tommy’s side, content to follow him all the way to his flat. Before they exit the hall though, Wilbur takes one look back at it.

Sam is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably still in his room. Wilbur raises his arm, causing Tommy to cry out in protest. He ignores that, checking on Friend while hiding the hologram behind Tommy’s back. Silently he wishes to communicate to the program, and it somehow picks up on the message.

I’ve got it all recorded, says Friend, in blue text right above his fuzzy head.

Wilbur smiles. Friend is a good friend.

“Put your arm back around me,” Tommy demands, and Wilbur has no reason to deny. That’s how they walk, all the way home.

It’s odd. Tommy has never been that touchy before. Not that Wilbur remembers.

“I didn’t expect to see you back here.”

“I can leave, if it’s too late,” Wilbur says. He has one foot in the door of Sam’s office, but he retracts that foot so he’s just outside of the doorway. “I know it’s pretty late, you don’t have to stay here–”

“No, come in, sit down,” Sam says. “What are you here for?”

He can answer that question, probably. But he still brings out Friend, and mutters the same word to the android. Blue text appears over Friend’s head, telling Wilbur what he already knew.

Tommy’s upset. He’s been upset the whole day. Ever since they came back from Sam’s. They played games and sang like they usually do. They watched a movie and talked. Well, it was Wilbur doing most of the talking. He was going on and on while Tommy merely nodded along. The opposite of their regular dynamic. Tommy’s usually such a chatterbox.

Although Sam and Tommy’s argument will probably fade from his mind later, it hasn’t yet. Sometimes the memories linger. He’s pretty sure they do, at least. It’s all a little bit tough to think about.

“I just have a question, that’s all.”

Sam nods. He points Wilbur towards the chair again, but Wilbur doesn’t take it. This really should be quick, it isn’t worth sitting down.

“Can Tommy see a different engineer?”

It’s as if he had just told Sam that his parents died in a fire. Sam’s skin goes white as paper and he begins to stutter, taking a moment to form a comprehensible statement. “Why– why do you ask that?”

“Well, it was just that Tommy was so upset this morning. He’s been upset the entire day, and I think it’s because of this morning. I’m still confused about what happened, but you were just checking up on him, right?”

“Right, that’s basically what I was doing.”

“Well, maybe Tommy could have a different engineer check up on him. You’re probably… well, you’re probably a bit of a sore spot for him, considering you knew him before all of this. Maybe he doesn’t like being reminded of what happened. So if he could see an engineer without being reminded of his old life, then he might have an easier time.”

It belatedly comes to Wilbur that this might be a little bit insensitive. Sam said he cares about Tommy, and, well, it must not be very fun to be told that you might not be good for somebody that you love. Wilbur feels bad for having to bring this to Sam, he does empathize with the man, it’s just… he cares about Tommy. And if Sam cares about Tommy too, then he should be willing to listen.

If Sam has a problem with this, it’s even more of a reason that Tommy should see a different engineer.

“I… was actually thinking about that, but I decided against it. This has to be me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just sit down, Wilbur, please.”

Wilbur does. He makes himself comfortable in one of those plastic chairs, as Sam sits at his work stool. The wall behind him displays his accomplishments, framed certificates and essays from all of his work over the years. Sam still dresses so humbly, in his green button down and his overalls.

“I’m really happy that you became friends with Tommy. I never would’ve thought of introducing the two of you, but it seems to be working out great. You didn’t know him before, I think that’s part of the reason why. But it also means that you don’t have the best understanding of what’s actually going on behind the scenes.”

“Then what am I missing?” Wilbur asks.

“Well… has Tommy told you about who Tubbo was to him?”

Wilbur nods. He’s heard all about that.

“I’m giving him his time, but at some point, he needs to talk to Tubbo.”

“They’re not talking for a reason though,” Wilbur says, before Sam can carry on. He finds himself a little bit lost for words, he doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying. It’s important though, so he pushes on. “Tubbo– Tubbo hurt him. Tubbo did something to him. Something bad.”

“There’s so much to it that you don’t know. I don’t think I can even explain it to you.”

“But Tommy knows. And Tommy doesn’t want to be around Tubbo. And he doesn’t really like being around anyone, so why not just let him be? I don’t think he appreciates being pushed. And you’ve been pushing him in a lot of directions.”

“You’re right, he doesn’t like being pushed, but people don’t like doing a lot of things when they’re grieving and they’re hurting.”

Sam says that and he just… doesn’t elaborate. He says that then he sits back on his stool, turning his head away. What does he expect from Wilbur? Wilbur doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t know, and he’s confused. He’s confused by what Sam means, and yet he isn’t elaborating.

What things do people not like doing? What is so hard for them, what are they referring to? And why does Sam think that Tommy is hurting?

“So you want to make him speak to Tubbo,” Wilbur says. That’s the core of what Sam’s getting at. It’s the core of what Wilbur doesn’t understand.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

It takes Sam a long moment to respond. Long enough that Wilbur’s getting fearful that he might not respond at all.

“It’s simple. He needs Tubbo. And Tubbo needs him.”

“But Tubbo hurt him.”

“I wish it was as simple as that, Wilbur. I really wish it was as simple as that.”

Wilbur leaves that office feeling very full with emptiness. His mind is buzzing around nothing in particular. His thoughts are moving so fast that he can’t keep up with them. He can’t think his own thoughts. That shouldn’t happen but it does. Wilbur’s making himself sweat in the middle of winter.

As he often does in times of need, Wilbur glances down at Friend. But nothing Friend says to him is particularly helpful. It’s all a lot of stuff he already knows. The stuff that’s rushing through his head. He asks Friend for more and Friend says that’s all that he has.

Instead of walking home from the metro station near his flat, Wilbur wanders in a vaguely tangential direction, pivoting off into side streets and the odd store that hasn’t locked up yet. He says nothing to nobody, even as city strangers say hello to him or smile. Wilbur doesn’t know how long he’s out there wandering for. It’s cold, but he’s not tired. He hasn’t been very tired lately.

By the time Wilbur makes it home, he’s feeling fuzzy in some parts and numb in others. His brain is one of the fuzzy areas, humming like the dull buzz of an engine.

He gets a message from Tommy – a video containing a stupid joke about balls. It’s good for a cheap laugh, not much else, but what it does do is take his attention off the sorry state of his own mind.

Tommy is a much nicer target for his attention.

It’s important that Tommy feels okay. That’s what Wilbur wants, at the end of the day. Why is it so hard to ensure his friend’s happiness? Wilbur’s doing all that he can; he goes over to Tommy’s house often and he spends all day there. He’d spend all night, if Tommy let him. Wilbur makes Tommy happy. That’s obvious from the smiles and the laughs and the jokes about balls and the everything. Everything Tommy does is a sign that Wilbur overjoys him.

The problem is that Wilbur’s giving Tommy cheap thrills, just as Tommy is giving Wilbur cheap laughs.

What can he do about problems like Tubbo? Problems like Tubbo are more powerful than Thrills like Wilbur.

There needs to be less Problems and more Thrills. That’s what Wilbur can do for Tommy.

And Wilbur? Well.

He needs Tommy like he needs the artificial heart thumping in his chest.

The sun has not risen yet, and Wilbur is sitting by the window in a dark room, plucking strings on his guitar. He alternates between complex fingerings and chords, putting together a tune by letting his fingers figure it out.

He didn’t sleep for very long. He usually doesn’t, nowadays. While he usually gets up after sunrise, five in the morning isn’t completely abnormal.

Wilbur spends the next hour rearranging notes and chords, and working out lyrics off the top of his head. It’d be harder if he hadn’t done it before – but now he’s written a good couple of songs, so it comes naturally.

The sun begins to rise, and this is as good of a time as any to take a short recording.

He positions the camera projector, kicking the small disk around until it’s in a good spot. Then he uses the remote to make the camera itself fly up to where he wants it, held aloft by the magnetic repellent in the projector disk. Once the camera is positioned, he clicks it on and grabs his guitar.

Wilbur stumbles over one or two lyrics, not quite remembering how they go. But overall it works out. He enjoys watching the footage back, even though it’s a little bit rough. He’s smiling in the video, isn’t that nice? Wilbur wrote a happy song. It was about finding your way in a dark, shadowy forest. Breaking out into a sunny grove of trees.

The first thing Wilbur does is send the video to Tommy. Then, he sends it to Niki.

He always sends his music to Niki. She’ll probably be excited to hear a happy song from him, for once!

… Wait, what other songs does he send to her?

Niki’s probably not going to respond immediately, though Tommy might. Wilbur wouldn’t put it past Tommy to be up so early. Wilbur finds his leg bouncing and his lips pulling up. He’s excited to hear what they both have to say. Oh, he doesn’t want to wait.

He’s never sent Tommy a song before. And Niki? Oh, he loves music with Niki.

Niki has a cheery taste in music. She likes these happy songs, sung on the ukulele or the acoustic. Songs that feel like a slice of life. Singing with Niki is fun, her voice compliments his. They would sing her happy folk songs and his ancient acoustic tracks.

thtsads fukcing great wilbra, Tommy texts back, spelling as bad as ever. Why he still writes his texts instead of saying them, Wilbur doesn’t know. That doesn’t stop the pride welling up in his chest.

Tommy. Wilbur really, really likes hanging out with Tommy. Being with him, texting him, anything. He gets so damn happy around Tommy.

He gets really, really happy around Niki too.

Oh, Niki. It started for the two of them on the very first day of uni. Their very first class. Wilbur sat down in the second row of a massive lecture hall, not just new to uni but new to the city entirely. Niki sat down next to him and for the first ten minutes of the lecture, they were silent, aside from the initial, “Hello, what’s your name?”

But during a short lull during the professor’s lecture, Niki leaned over to him and asked, “Are you as nervous as I am?”

Something compelled Wilbur to laugh and say, “Yes,” and it was history from there.

They grew closer exponentially. It started with that moment, then it was the group project, then it was study sessions and making mutual friends and going out drinking and gossiping about their own tumultuous love lives. One moment Niki was an acquaintance from class, a friend if he was being generous, the next they were spending nearly every day together.

Wilbur knew Niki’s class schedule down to the minute, and Niki knew his. Routinely, Wilbur would go from his class on communications to hers on advanced computer programming so they could go out for coffee and talk about the revelations they had in their respective classes. Whenever Wilbur had a happy thought, he would share it with Niki, to spread the joy.

Oftentimes they would tease each other, or horse around. They laughed a lot. Because they were thick as thieves. Best friends. Sometimes, Niki feels like family.

Niki’s not the only person he’s gotten so close to over the years.

There was his secondary school best friend Scott – oh, years eight and nine would’ve been terrible without Scott. Scott was such a great person, Wilbur misses him. His family was from Empyrion though, and he moved away right after year twelve. Wilbur’s never been that good with keeping up with people online.

Before Scott there were friends in primary school, even friends in preschool. Some neighbors he once had. Wilbur’s always been friendly. He likes getting to know people. Any type of person, really. Mild mannered, rambunctious, quiet or loud. As long as they had something interesting to say, Wilbur would be interested in them.

Wilbur likes thinking with people. Wilbur could take any of his close friends, drag them into an empty room and make them leave all electronics outside. They could eschew every form of entertainment possible and still enjoy their time together. They’d just spend hours on end talking.

That’s what friendship should be. An exchange of thoughts, an exchange of entertainment, an exchange of happiness.

Come over later, Tommy texts him, and he must have used speech to text this time. Wilbur grins ear to ear and texts back, “You already knew I would.”

Time waits for no man, and there are things that Wilbur needs to do before he gets heading over. Laundry, mainly, that’s the chore that hasn’t become easier with his new status. He hums the tune to the song he wrote as he dances about the basement of the apartment complex. He injects a little bit of fun into a simple chore.

He doesn’t know how he ends up on a call with Tommy, but he’s in the hallway outside the laundry room with his phone held to his lips. He’s laughing, and Tommy’s laughing too, and Wilbur feels this fire in his chest. It’s like the pain somebody gets when they’ve laughed too hard. He probably needs to calm down, but he feels amazing.

He starts telling Tommy about what he’s been thinking about. Without realizing it he’s started talking about Niki, and all of the memories he has with her. He might be gushing a little bit, but Tommy doesn’t mind. So he carries on, grinning wildly.

“You’re fucken special, Wilbur Soot.”

“I’m special?” Wilbur asks.

“Yes. You’re a digger. You have this great big shovel and you hit the ground with it, you absolutely demolish that fucken ground. You’re powerful, really.”

Wilbur laughs – he has no idea what Tommy is saying, but he’s saying it with passion. “Yeah? I dig things? Why?”

“You dug up my brain from the ground.”

Although it makes no sense, Wilbur laughs as if it was the best joke to ever be told. Oh, Tommy, he really loves spending time with Tommy. He’s just so odd and it’s so fun.

Tommy’s laughing too. More than anything, Wilbur loves making Tommy laugh.

“Tommy, I think my life is perfect.”

Tommy barks out another laugh. “Perfect?”

“Yeah. It feels like I’m living a dream. I wake up with the sun and I just get to sing. I get to sing and laze around all day, talk to you, go out with my other friends, stuff like that. Isn’t that great?”

“It is great. It’s really great, big man.”

“I spend most of my time just… just living. I feel like so many people out there – they’re floating through life. Not me. I choose to live.”

“Anybody who chooses not to just live is fucken dumb, you know that? You’re smart. You’re really smart.”

Wilbur grins. “Nothing bothers me anymore. I don’t have any worries!”

For a moment, Tommy is silent. The connection crackles a little bit.

“I’m glad. I’m really happy for you.”

Happy for him. That’s what everybody should be. Happy for him.

Right after the call ends, Friend comes in with his daily reminders. Wilbur has memory loss – yeah, he knows, he knows. There was something upsetting on the news yesterday, some robbery gone wrong downtown. That makes Wilbur shiver. The last reminder is about Tommy himself.

You’re worried about what Sam’s doing to Tommy

Wilbur’s going to need Friend to clarify that later. But if Tommy has a problem, well, Wilbur will help him with it. He doesn’t have many problems of his own to take care of.

He can devote what he has to Tommy.

Chapter Text

In the old movies, they’ll talk about these things called records. No, not records as in a world record. A record was a way to listen to music. It was this large disc, with a circumference about the length of a large holo-pad. They’d put it into these machines called record players, where a needle would run along a groove to scratch out music.

Yeah, “Scratch out.” No, the music didn’t always come out all scratchy and wrong. Wilbur feels that he has to clarify that, after being friends with Tommy for so long. The music was pretty nice, as good as the music everybody listens to today. Assuming the record was intact. But if the record was mishandled, old and slightly damaged, then sometimes it would skip parts of the song. Then it didn’t sound so great.

Records became obsolete over a century ago. Wilbur’s a little bit of a nerd for antiques, especially antique movies. Sometimes, the movies would have this motif of a broken record. Skipping and scratching and sometimes running back on itself.

Wilbur supposes that time is like that.

It will run along smoothly, with no signs of stopping. Those would be Wilbur’s mornings. One clear song. All of a sudden, something would come to shake things up, something unpleasant. A lyric cut off by an ear splitting screech. Those would be… those certainly come around. Then, the track will skip. Sometimes it will skip an entire song.

Then the whole thing will repeat. The sun rises.

Wilbur’s been here before. That’s clear – that’s a good song. This was a land of melodies and harmonies and consonance.

The last chord never quite resolved, though.

Wilbur’s back at uni. The impressive building looms high above him, stretching on into the sky. His busy peers rush in and out of the building, flowing around him like water in a river. Wilbur clutches the strap of his satchel in one hand, phone in his other hand. It’s open to Tommy’s good luck text. Wilbur glances down at it, and smiles.

Tommy’s annoyed that Wilbur’s going back to uni. He only has one class this semester, but Wilbur’s planning to go to a couple of study groups. Those’ll take up some time, eating into his Play video games with Tommy time. Wilbur’s going to miss that as well, but he’s excited for this new semester.

He’s going to see Professor Eret again! They were very cool, one of the most interesting professors Wilbur’s ever had.

He presses on into the building, letting muscle memory take over. It carries him through the bustling halls. Through the crowds of people, he spots a couple of familiar faces. He waves to everybody he recognizes, but they must be too busy to wave back. A couple of people do see him though, their eyes go wide.

Then he enters the lecture hall. The seats are still pretty empty; on the first day of the semester, people tend to be a little bit late. Wilbur flashes a smile to his new classmates, then he tries to look through the window into Professor Eret’s office. The blinds are down though, so Wilbur goes to take his old seat.

Wilbur always sat in the same row, same seat. Second row to the back, left side, third seat in. With the lecture hall so empty at the moment, the seat is still available. There’s somebody in the fifth seat, somebody unfamiliar. Wilbur waves to them as he sits down, seeming to surprise the stranger.

“Oh– oh, hello.”

They’re dressed pretty formally for university of all things. A shirt and tie, although the tie is a little bit sloppy. Their hair is pretty striking. Long, split black and white down the middle, pulled up into a messy bun. They’re leaning away from Wilbur, but when Wilbur holds out his hand for a shake, they meet him in the middle. Their hand is a bit shaky, but that could be first day of class nerves.

His new classmate is Ranboo, Wilbur learns. They’re a freshman – pretty impressive to be in this class, Wilbur tells them. Usually it’s a class for juniors and seniors.

“I was… kind of in college back in the Endlands,” Ranboo says. “We don’t call it college over there. But I was able to get some college credit and skip a couple prerequisites when I moved here.”

“You’re from the Endlands?” Wilbur asks. Those are pretty far from here – way, way up north. It’s a large country, but much of the land is inhospitable tundra. As far as Wilbur knows, almost the entire population lives in a couple of cities scattered across the landscape, near the coast or thermal vents.

Ranboo nods. “I am. One of my mothers is from Essempi though, so it was pretty easy to move here. I already knew the language.”

“What’s it like?” Wilbur asks.

Without hesitation, “Cold.”

They both begin to laugh. Their laugh is nice, it has an infectious quality. Wilbur can already tell that he’s going to enjoy talking to them.

He learns a little bit more about Ranboo before class starts. They just moved here a couple of weeks ago, in order to attend the university. Their parents are back in the Endlands, and they haven’t made very many friends yet. Wilbur is happy to declare himself one of Ranboo’s new friends. That makes Ranboo smile, and they ask Wilbur for a little bit about himself.

So he shows Ranboo a picture of him and Tommy. He talks about how Tommy is his best friend, and they’ll probably meet up after class today. No, Tommy doesn’t go to the uni. He might, one day. But he’s just living his best life right now.

“Good for him,” Ranboo says, and Wilbur smiles. He loves talking about Tommy.

A microphone crackles to life, and Professor Eret’s voice is projected through the lecture hall. It takes Wilbur by surprise, pulling his attention straight up to the front. He didn’t even notice how much the hall was filling up.

“Welcome to Ethics of Artificial Intelligence Technology,” Eret says, voice booming with the unnatural quality of the microphone. “I am very happy to meet all of you, though I do warn you, it will take me a while to learn everybody’s names.”

Not me, Wilbur thinks to himself, a grin spreading across his face. It’s great to see Eret again.

It’s the first day of class routine. Going over the syllabus and late work policies. Talks about the final, the content of the course, and so on. Wilbur’s a little bit bored, but Ranboo’s taking notes and listening with rapt attention. Wilbur doesn’t bother them, but he doesn’t text Tommy either. That would just seem rude. Wilbur can put up with a bit of boredom.

It’s easy to sit there and listen when it’s Eret speaking. It’s easy to sink back into the seat with his holo-pad in his lap and maybe close his eyes a couple of times.

He’s spent a lot of time in this one particular seat, chatting with the person next to him. He’s made a lot of great memories here.

Things get a little bit more interesting when Eret poses their first practical question. “I want all of you to think about this for a second. Let’s imagine that you’re on the board for a small tech startup. It is your job to make decisions that can affect the company, but more importantly, they can affect the world around you. Our world is shaped by technology, every one of you should know this by now.”

It is. Wilbur’s life quite literally is technology.

“A larger company has just developed something revolutionary. A new form of artificial intelligence that… let’s say it makes financial decisions for somebody. Financial consultation could become readily available for everyone, and everybody could be making better moves for their future. Now, this new AI is patented, you cannot directly copy it. You can attempt to develop something similar, though. Do you?”

Wilbur thinks about it for a moment. If the other company has already developed this technology, then it’s not strictly necessary. But if his company develops similar AI, then the larger company has competition. It’s a better market for the consumer. So yes, Wilbur would.

“At first, the answer seems clear. Go ahead, develop it. Well… in this class, you’re going to learn why the answer isn’t so cut and dry.”

There’s always some twist. Professor Eret will always challenge you to think just a little bit deeper.

Class ends a bit early, since Eret doesn’t have much to go through. Wilbur helps Ranboo with their bags – they have quite a lot for the first day, maybe they have a lot of classes. Ranboo thanks him, but Wilbur does have to bid Ranboo a good day and head down the stairs.

Wilbur can’t help but grin as he approaches the professor. Eret is a little bit busy packing up the projector and a couple of the papers. Wilbur patiently waits a couple of feet away. It’s worth it when Eret looks up and recognition is clear in their eyes. “Wilbur!”

“Hey, professor!”

“It’s been a long time.” Eret’s smile fades slightly as they cock their head. “You sound a bit different.”

Wilbur furrows his brows. “I do?”

“Yeah… You sound a little bit happier, for lack of a better word. I’m not assuming anything, that’s just what you sound like to me.”

“I am happy,” Wilbur nods.

“I’m glad. Wilbur, do you want to step into my office? To talk about things?”

Wilbur doesn’t see why not, so he nods. Eret tells him to hold on just a couple minutes, so they can see the rest of their students off. Wilbur waits by the door to the office, and once everybody has just about filed out, Eret comes around to let him in. Wilbur takes a plush chair in the corner, Eret sits behind the desk, and Wilbur’s definitely been in this office before. He’s certainly had some important conversations with Professor Eret here.

Isn’t this where he first started down the path of becoming a restoration droid?

“How have you been?” Eret asks, leaning over their desk. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has, it has. I’ve been great. I’m happy to be back, and I’ve been doing so much. I made a friend, you know?”

“Oh?”

Wilbur can go on and on about Tommy if Eret lets him. He does have some self control though. He smiles and repeats, “I made a friend.”

“Wilbur, I just wanted you to know, I’m deeply sorry about what happened. If you need to talk about anything, I’m here for you. I could also help you find some resources if you’re struggling.”

Well that’s a bit of a non sequitur. Wilbur shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It’s great that you were able to make it through it all. I guess the restoration program really was the best choice for you – I’m glad to know that. You’re the first person I know who has actually been restored.”

Wilbur’s watch chimes as a new message from Friend pops up. It’s at an angle that Eret can’t read it, only Wilbur himself. I don’t know them, Friend says.

Wilbur brings his wrist up near his mouth to speak quietly. “You don’t know them yet. But this is one of my favorite professors.”

“What is that?” Eret asks.

“This is Friend! He helps me.”

“Do you mind me asking how? You don’t have to tell me, only if you wish to,” Eret says.

“I have memory problems. He helps me with those.”

A smiley face appears above Friend’s head. Wilbur did something good. He lets his wrist fall to his lap, Friend with it. It just felt important to pay attention to Friend for a little bit.

“Memory problems,” Eret mutters.

“Yeah. It doesn’t affect my studies though. At least I don’t think it will. I’ll be able to do well in this class.”

“If you need accommodations we can speak about that,” Eret says.

“I know I can reach out if I need to.” He can understand why Eret would offer. That’s not really what he needs though. Eret has already been amazing to him, better than amazing. He knows he can ask for what he is. He’s not afraid of the professor.

“Wilbur…”

“Yes?”

The professor’s lips are pulled tight in concentration. Eret looks away, losing themselves in thought for a moment. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“It’s not important.”

Damn Wilbur’s curiosity. He never likes being told that; asking people to repeat themselves and getting ‘Never mind’ in response.

“Just so you know, I’m always here to offer additional help. I wouldn’t want you to fail this course a second time…”

Wilbur failed?

“You were very close to passing, just a couple points off of the grade. I have confidence that you’ll be able to make it through, but there are numerous resources you can access with it.”

Friend pops up out of the watch again. Wilbur runs his fingers across the holographic surface. Of course, he’s not actually feeling anything, seeing as it’s a mere projection. Wilbur doesn’t know why he does this. He just does.

Keep petting Friend. He’s just gotta keep petting Friend.

“... How’s Niki doing?” Professor Eret asks.

“Good.”

“What’s she doing now? Continuing her education, or off to get a job? Something else?”

“I think she’s going to grad school,” Wilbur says. “I think.”

He meets Eret’s eyes, but quickly looks away. He shifts a little bit and reminds himself to keep petting Friend.

“It was really, really nice to see you Wilbur.”

Wilbur doesn’t stick around much longer. It was really nice to talk to Eret again, it’s just that Tommy probably wants to see him soon. Wilbur wouldn’t want to keep Tommy waiting. So he bids Eret goodbye, saying that he’s looking forward to their class next week.

On Wilbur’s way out the door, he glances up to the seat he had taken. That reminds him, he meant to ask for Ranboo’s number. In the rush to go talk to Eret, he forgot. He’ll have to ask next time.

It was really, really fun talking to Ranboo. Hopefully this is the start of something great.

“My friend Tommy has a message for you.”

Ranboo’s eyes go wide. They lean away from Wilbur a little bit, but it seems to be out of surprise rather than any other reason. “Oh? Tommy’s your best friend, right?”

Wilbur nods as he sets down his bag and plops down into his familiar seat. It’s great that Ranboo’s here already, Wilbur thought he got here too early. Ranboo’s still wearing that old fashioned suit. They’re a funny fellow. Wilbur searches through his pocket for a particular slip of paper, smiling at the thought of Tommy. “He told me not to read it. Here you go.”

He deposits the slip of paper in Ranboo’s hand. Ranboo carefully unfolds it, handling the paper delicately. They squint down at it. “Tommy has pretty bad handwriting.”

“Yeah, he’s not the most… artistic, one could say.”

Ranboo’s brows furrow. “Your friend is weird. Wait, sorry, did that sound rude?”

“What did he say?”

“‘You… You better not treat my Wilbur like a ghost,’” Ranboo says. “Then… calling me a bunch of swears. Does he not like me? What…”

“Oh, sorry, sorry. Should’ve known he would swear at you.” Wilbur takes the slip of paper back, reading it himself. Tommy’s handwriting is really bad. “Oh don’t worry, he calls everybody… yeah, I don’t think I need to repeat that. It’s his sense of humor, don’t take it personally.”

“... What was the ghost part all about?”

“Oh, that! That’s an inside joke.”

Ranboo still looks confused. It’s hard to explain a joke, but for Ranboo’s sake, Wilbur will give it a go.

“It’s like… well, somebody told me I looked like a ghost one time, I think. Said it in a really mean way. Like… like… ‘You! Ghostface! Stop right there, you look like a ghost!’”

“That’s… mean?”

Wilbur nods. “Pretty mean, apparently. I mean, I don’t remember it super well. The fact that it’s an insult is kind of the point though. Tommy and I haven’t been able to stop making jokes about it since it happened. Because it’s a weird insult, I guess we find it funny.”

Ranboo still seems confused. Wilbur turns away to keep setting his things up, trying to give Ranboo a moment. Then he comes to a realization, and he has to think back to last week when he met Ranboo.

“Did I tell you about my memory problems?”

Ranboo jumps a little bit, again. “Memory problems?”

“Yeah. Ever since I was restored I’ve had memory problems… wait, Ranboo, did I tell you that I’m a restoration droid?”

From the look on Ranboo’s face, it’s clear that Wilbur left out one tinsie little detail.

He launches into the slightly long winded explanation. He covers all the important parts – how he died, when he died, what happened to him. Yes, he’s an android, no, you’re not crazy for not having been able to tell. There’s a lot of people who aren’t able to tell for a little while. That’s the great thing about androids! The tech has really come a long way.

Wilbur does get a little bit caught up on explaining the tech. Sue him, it’s interesting! Ranboo does pull him back on track, saying that they understand how restoration droids work.

“I guess this is just surprising. I’ve never met a restoration droid before.”

“I’m one of 47 out there in the world,” Wilbur says. “Actually… I’m pretty sure it’s 48 now. I’m 47, Tommy’s 48.”

“Wait, Tommy’s one too?”

Wilbur smacks a hand to his forehead. “How do I keep forgetting to tell you things? This is like basic information about me! Well, I’m sorry. Yes, Tommy’s another restoration droid. Quite a famous one, actually. He’s been on the news for it. But… actually, he might not like me talking about it.”

Wilbur has taken things a little bit too far, so he tries to dial them back. Professor Eret does start class soon, so that takes the heat off Wilbur for a little bit. He can feel Ranboo’s stare on him, though. It’s heavy and pressing, like a tension in  his shoulders. He’s going to have to explain more later. It’s no bother, though. He’s enjoying the time he’s spending with Ranboo.

This class is where Eret starts digging deeper into things. Wilbur whips out his holo-pad and starts taking notes. The class passes quickly with Eret’s engaging examples pulling him into it. Goes by even quicker with Ranboo’s idle chatter. While it seems like Ranboo was trying to keep quiet in the beginning, they eventually start leaving little comments on what Eret says. Their opinion on a rhetorical question or a proposed theory, something like that.

Wilbur’s happy to chime in with his own thoughts. This is why he loves having a friend in his classes. It’s so fun to have somebody to bounce ideas off of.

Soon, they’re all shuffling out the door, heads heavy with new information. Before Ranboo can disappear off into the rest of the massive university, Wilbur latches a hand onto their arm. “Do you have a class you have to go to?”

“No, I was just going to go study in the library.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

On the walk to the library, Wilbur picks things up where he left off with the whole restoration droid thing. He goes to speak, then stops in the middle of the stride. He just needs… one moment…

“You alright, man?”

“I was just remembering something,” Wilbur says. “So, my memories. My memory isn’t so great anymore.”

There are some memories that walk a fine line, teetering on the edge of being forgotten. Wilbur can feel those memories as they slip away; he may not remember their contents but he remembers the slow realization that those thoughts were gone forever.

Others stick around, despite the odds. That conversation with Ranboo earlier? It’s in a bit of danger. Took a moment to recall.

Okay. He knows what to tell Ranboo. It’s a matter of just saying it.

After a deep breath in, he hesitates, making it seem a bit like a sigh. “It has to do with the whole android thing. I forget unhappy memories. Any distressing thought or feeling is gone by the dawn of the next morning.”

Ranboo starts asking questions. Why wouldn’t they? It’s definitely an odd thing to be told. Calmly, Wilbur answers each one to the best of his abilities. Luckily, Ranboo takes “I don’t know” and “I don’t remember” as valid responses. 

When Ranboo asks them, Wilbur keeps getting this jolt of panic, because he doesn’t think he remembers. But then he just says it. The two of them carry on in this back and forth until they reach the library, and they both mind the low voices sign.

It’s only once they find themselves a table that Ranboo strikes up the conversation again. “I um… I can kind of understand what you’re saying. Like, I understand how it feels.”

“It’s a pretty unique feeling,” Wilbur says. It kind of comes out wrong. Makes it sound like he’s doubting Ranboo, which he isn’t. Maybe he is? He just doesn’t know how anybody can really understand when he doesn’t understand himself.

Ranboo says, “It’s um… I don’t think it’s the same. Actually, it’s definitely not the same. Sorry for acting like this is the same, but, just– I have a bad memory as well.”

“Oh.”

Ranboo gives a small, nervous nod. They glance away from Wilbur. “Yeah. Just saying that you don’t have to explain, and I can kind of relate to… not knowing, if that makes sense.”

If there’s anyone who can comprehend it, it’s someone who knows they can’t understand.

“It does make sense. Thank you Ranboo, it does.”

From there they actually get into it. Studying, hanging out, pretending to study while simply hanging out. They don’t have work for Eret’s class yet, but Ranboo brings out their materials for their other classes. Wilbur’s able to stumble his way through an explanation of integrals and other such concepts. Then he’s able to quickly explain basic programming for machine learning. He’s worked with those a thousand times.

That’s really not how they spend their time, though. There’s a lot of laughing and joking around.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Ranboo tells him at the end, when they’ve got to head off to their own class. “You’re a really friendly person. I… I feel comfortable here now.”

Oh that warms Wilbur’s heart. He puts on a great big smile and says, “I’m glad I met you too. I think this is the start of something great.”

They exchange numbers, finally, then they go their separate ways. Tommy’s been blowing up his holo-pad for a couple minutes now, Wilbur really needs to give him a call. It’s Wilbur’s fault, because he told Tommy that he would text him so they could go out for slushies soon after his class ended.

“That Ranboo’s a wrongun,” Tommy says later, nose scrunched up in faux disgust.

“Why do you say that?” Wilbur asks, a laugh falling out after the words. He then takes a sip of the slushie. It’s a little hard to sip at it when he’s smiling so much.

“Taking up all of your time. Taking you away from me.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, and gives Tommy a playful nudge to his shoulder. “You’re going to make me drop my slushie!” Tommy squawks.

Tommy is Wilbur’s best friend. Wilbur loves him so much. Around Tommy, Wilbur soars. It’s not just his heart. That’s the expression, “Heart soaring.” It’s not just his heart though, because that implies that something else has been left behind. But Tommy lifts every part of him up.

There’s room for other people. Wilbur has other friends. He has Niki, now he has Ranboo, and of course his dear little brother. Well, it’s a little bit odd to call his little brother his friend, isn’t it? But they just get along so well, how could he not?

Tommy’s so worried about being replaced. It’s silly. Wilbur makes sure to tell him that. He shows him that, with all the time they spend together in the time between Wilbur’s weekly class.

It’s crazy how simple everything is when he has so few responsibilities. He has one class, a bit of freelance work, and Tommy.

He’s living the dream.

On Saturday, Ranboo beats Tommy to the regular want to hang out? text. They invite Wilbur to a nearby cafe, and he’s quick to accept. It’s a lovely morning, and it’s the first of many. It becomes apparent that Ranboo is going to be a permanent fixture in Wilbur’s life. As such, it only makes sense to introduce them to Tommy.

After all, Tommy isn’t just a permanent fixture. He’s a part of Wilbur’s life.

They all meet up where it began for Wilbur and Tommy. A little park in uptown, where they all have to bundle up because it’s much too cold outside. Ranboo doesn’t seem to mind though. After all, the Endlands are much colder than Essempi.

“You’re too tall,” Tommy immediately tells Ranboo. Ranboo looks at Wilbur, eyes wide. Poor Ranboo, they’ve been nervous about this. The note Tommy sent… didn’t exactly give Ranboo the best impression. They’ll grow to love Tommy though.

“I’m the same height as Wilbur.”

“There’s only room for one tall bastard in my life,” Tommy says.

“Does that mean that Wilbur and I have to fight it out?” Ranboo immediately replies. Oh?

Tommy scoffs. “You’ll lose.”

A harsh force is quickly applied to Wilbur’s shoulder, and he’s sent stumbling into a nearby snowy bush. He saves himself before he can completely collapse, but a bit of cold, cold snow seeps into the side of his coat and soaks his arm. He shakes the snow off, turning back to his friends. What the hell?

“Sorry,” Ranboo says, and it comes out in this garbled, jumbled tone somewhere between sincere and sarcastic.

There’s only one thing to be done. “Square up, Ranboo.” Wilbur raises his own fists, and to his dismay, Ranboo raises theirs. Ranboo hasn’t learned one crucial detail: Wilbur cannot fight to save his life.

Tommy knows, though. Oh, Tommy knows.

They’re air shots; they don’t want to hurt each other, and it would be a really dumb idea to fight in the middle of this icy park. That doesn’t mean it’s easy though. Dramatically, Ranboo sweeps their leg out in an arc. Wilbur has no choice but to double back, “Slipping,” and expertly falling to the ground with a crafted sigh.

“I have been defeated.”

Tommy rushes to his side. “How could you do this?”

Ranboo puts on their best impression of a supervillain. “You’re my friend, now Tommy.”

Ranboo and Tommy both end up pulling Wilbur to his feet. Ranboo’s the bulk of the force while Tommy stabilizes him. They laugh it out, and then they’re carrying on through the park, letting their feet take them off into the great unknown of conversation.

This isn’t going exactly how Wilbur pictured it, but he couldn’t ask for more. He’s grinning ear to ear, and his friends are too.

In the lulls of conversation, Ranboo’s eyes linger on Wilbur and Tommy. Tommy doesn’t notice it, he’s generally not the most observant. He doesn’t know Ranboo very well, either.

Whenever Wilbur catches Ranboo, they quickly look away. They really don’t like eye contact. They were compelled to stare anyway.

Wilbur files this information away for later.

The sweet warmth of home is a perfect way to end this day. Wilbur kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat on the rack near the door. He drags his hands down his face, letting himself sigh and take a couple of deep breaths. He pulls down at the skin on his eyes, just feeling the way that it stretches. It’s an odd feeling, a bit different than it was before he was restored. Not necessarily a bad thing, though.

Shall he bathe before he rests? Go straight to sleep? Merely doss around? Each of these options is equally appealing. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be. He has the freedom of choice.

His choice is to crawl into bed. He’s not going to bed, not yet. Wilbur will enjoy this pleasantly calm evening. He’ll have a bit of an early night.

Wilbur pulls the covers over himself, and before he even has time to shift onto his side, his phone rings.

With a groan, he pushes away those covers and rolls out of bed. He fumbles for the phone and then throws it onto the pillow, so he can climb right back in. “Hello?”

The phone crackles, and then an ensuing silence causes Wilbur to question the situation. He goes to mutter the greeting again, but before he can, a familiar voice floats out of the device.

“Hey, Wil. Are you busy right now?”

“Niki!” He takes his seat beside the phone, no longer needing to lay down. He didn’t think Niki was calling. Instantly, he’s been energized. “No, not busy at all. What’s up?”

“That’s good, that’s good, um….”

“Um?” Wilbur questions. What exactly has she called him about?

“... I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Niki sighs, and it’s slightly distorted by the phone call. It sounds like she doesn’t have excellent service right now. That, or she’s far away from the phone. Either way, the silence stretches on and on.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been doing a couple of things wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“What have you been doing wrong?”

It’s hard to surprise Wilbur, at this point. He’s become very used to being surprised. Friend’s job is to surprise him every single day. He wakes up, goes about a lovely morning, whistles a happy tune – and then Friend comes in with the whole You have incurable memory loss, and here’s everything that you probably forgot from yesterday bit.

Needless to say, Wilbur’s become a little bit desensitized to these things by now. He has memory loss. It’s par for the course to be surprised when you’ve got memory loss.

It seems that he’s forgotten what real shock is like.

He’s forgotten how hard it is to breathe when he’s focused on trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Niki…”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re going to need to tell me what you’re apologizing for.”

A sigh is the only warning Wilbur gets. “I… I’m sorry because I’ve been treating you really badly. I know you don’t remember the last couple of times we’ve talked. That’s– that’s partly my fault. Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re forgetting things and it’s because of me.”

Wilbur can’t describe this feeling. He can’t really comprehend it, to be completely honest.

It’s just baffling. That’s the closest word, baffling.

“Um, I accept your apology?”

There’s nothing on the other end. Not even those now familiar crackles. Oh, it’s probably his own breathing covering that up. It’s quite loud. He went from not breathing at all to breathing too much… that’s an improvement, right?

“Thank you.” The words sound choked and confused.

Something has to change. Come on, they can’t keep stuttering at each other like this.

“Did I tell you about my new friend, Tommy?”

After a moment, “A little bit, I think. Could you remind me who he is?”

“He’s amazing, that’s who he is.”

It comes naturally to talk about Tommy. He can go on and on forever. He tells Niki how they met and what they do now. All the games they play, the songs they sing. He mentions Ranboo a couple of times, because Ranboo is great too. He tells her how Ranboo sits in the seat she once took.

“He sounds great.”

“He is.”

Friend has been saying some things about Niki that Wilbur doesn’t agree with.

Friend has been saying that Niki seems quiet. She’s always pretty quiet though. Friend said that she was holding back. There were a couple of times where her breath hitched, where it almost sounded like she was speaking. But when Wilbur questioned, she said that she never said anything at all.

Friend thinks that Niki is distressed. Why would she be? They’re having a nice conversation.

It started off strangely, but he and Niki are friends. They make it through the strange parts of life together.

“Absolutely great.”

It sounds a little bit weird when Niki says that.

It all starts going downhill when Niki apologizes again.

It comes quickly. A hushed confession. “Sorry,” is a word to be swept under the rug.

“You’re fine, you’re fine. So–”

“Wilbur, I– oh no, I’m sorry. Wil, I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Wilbur lays back, holding the phone to his ear. With his free hand he runs a hand through his hair. His fingers catch in the knots and tangles. He hasn’t been brushing his hair as much as he should. Instead of wrestling with the knot, he tightens his grip, and he pulls.

Niki doesn’t respond.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Everything.”

And they’re back here again.

“You’ve told me about Tommy before, Wil.”

“I have?” Niki said he hadn’t though. Or at least that he hadn’t gone into much detail. “What did I say?”

“Pretty much the same thing you said right now. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to repeat yourself for me. I’m wasting your time. And I’m just making things worse for you.”

“I don’t understand,” Wilbur says.

Is she okay? Her voice is shaky. It’s trembling like a car motor, bravely buzzing on through the wind and the snow, just trying to move forward.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand, I don’t let you understand, I never let you understand because it would all fucking fall apart if you understood…”

“Woah woah woah.” Wilbur sits up, raising his hands placatingly, as if she were in front of him. But she’s not here. So Wilbur’s just looking like a fool in front of himself. “What do you mean?”

“I’m about to say something that I should not say.”

Wait, what is Wilbur supposed to do, what’s going on. “Um…”

“Last time we talked, Wil, you… weren’t very nice to me.”

Wilbur’s heart drops out of his chest.

“What?”

“No– I didn’t mean that. You were very kind to me. You’re always so kind to me. And you apologize, too.”

“Niki–”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I want an apology, because you don’t need to apologize to me. It would be unfair of me to ask for that, because you don’t– you don’t even remember!”

“Niki…”

“You don’t even remember.”

Is Wilbur scared?

He thinks he’s scared. He drops his phone onto the pillow beside him and he pulls up his covers. He clutches them tightly, and then he’s back to his hair, because the covers were not enough. He’s breathing heavily into that phone before he makes himself stop – he needs to listen. Niki’s got something to say, he needs to listen.

What’s going on?

“I’m– fuck, Wilbur, I don’t know–”

“Say what you need to say,” Wilbur says.

“But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just say it. I think you need to.” Wilbur’s going to forget it all anyway, so… there’s no real harm in Niki saying it, whatever it is.

“Are you sure?”

“Just scream at me, Niki, do whatever you want. I can take it. I can apologize, too. I just need a bit of a reminder.”

“... You never call me unless you’re upset.”

That doesn’t sound quite right. “I sent you a song I wrote a couple weeks ago. And we hung out recently, didn’t we?”

“I enjoyed the song. I told you that, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah you enjoyed it!” Her text back came a little bit late, but it was good! They texted back and forth for a bit, spammed each other with all sorts of memes and cat photos, everything they used to do.

“I did enjoy that, Wil. I wish that we spent more time like that. But you don’t remember the last time we hung out in person, do you? Do you remember our last call?”

Wilbur needs a moment. He thinks back, he really needs to concentrate…

“You don’t. You’ve been forgetting every time we hang out. Last time we had an enjoyable time with each other, it was over text. Do you ever wonder why?”

“I… I don’t think to wonder.”

“Yeah, of course you don’t. Because you… you can’t control it.”

“No, Niki, I’m sorry.”

Her sigh is condemning him. “We’ve lost it. Whatever we used to have, we lost. Everything used to be so great and now… now…”

“Niki, we’re still friends.”

“Then treat me like one.”

“I do! We were having a nice conversation?” Wilbur pulls harder his hair. It feels like pulling teeth. “We were chatting happily and now you’re saying that we never had fun together. We were! We just were!”

“You were having fun. I was listening to you talk. You weren’t talking about me, you weren’t asking any questions. You were just talking about Tommy and Ranboo.”

“You asked about them!”

“You should’ve asked me about something.”

This isn’t enough. Wilbur needs to move. He throws himself out of bed, sandwiches the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and he walks. He moves his hands as he talks, using them for emphasis that he cannot see. “What do you want from me?”

“Some reciprocity? An apology?”

“I’m sorry!”

“You’ve told me that you’re sorry before,” Niki says. “Last time we saw each other. And the time before that. And the time before that. Last time it was because we were arguing, the other times you’ve done it, you just saw my face and you apologized. You can tell that there’s a problem, but you’re not doing anything about it. You.. you have Friend! Does Friend not help you?”

Wilbur slaps a hand around his wrist, twisting Friend’s watch around and around. “Friend helps me all of the time.”

“Then why doesn’t it help you with me? Why doesn’t it tell you that we’ve had this argument before?”

“We have? This exact fight?” He looks down to Friend and waits for the little text to pop up. Once it does, Wilbur goes, “Friend says that we didn’t have this fight before. We’ve argued, but not about this.”

“Well, not this specifically, but we’ve fought before. Very similar things. I’ve gotten mad at you, that’s what I was trying to apologize for, but… it’s hard when I know you’re not going to change.”

“Well–”

“I know that I’m not going to change either, that’s the thing.”

“Does that mean we’re at an impasse?” Wilbur asks.

Niki doesn’t respond immediately. Wilbur understands why. They both know what’s happening. They can’t leave this here, and they both know it.

Something’s got to give. Niki’s quiet, but she’s a stubborn person, once you really get to know her. She’s stubborn where it matters – sometimes to a fault. Wilbur’s even worse. He’s stubborn when it doesn’t matter.

“What happened to us, Wilbur?”

There it is. There’s the anger, the fire, the passion. She spits those words at him. They’re an accusation.

Wilbur can’t let that slide. He will admit when he is wrong but he will defend his name when he is unjustly attacked.

Niki came to him with an apology. She called him. Where the hell is that now?

“I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to us. You do realize that that’s not my fault?”

“Yes–”

“I see that I’ve hurt you in some way. I would apologize if I could. How am I meant to apologize, though? What do you expect from me?”

“To start using Friend.”

“I will,” Wilbur says. “I will. I’ll use Friend. I’ll treat you better, okay? But you need to hold up your end of the friendship, you need to treat me well–”

“Can you shut up for a second?”

Wilbur grabs that phone. Grabs it tight. “Can I shut up ?”

“Yes! Can you shut up? I’ve been treating you well. I’ve been treating you so well, Wilbur. I’ve been treating you well when nobody else has. I’ve been your shoulder to cry on.”

“If you’re treating me so well, then why have you attacked my character?”

“When did I do that? When did I ‘attack your character?’”

Wilbur has worn a path into the hardwood flooring of his halls from how hard he’s been pressing his heel into the ground. He’s not about to stop now.

“You asked me what happened to us. You shouted that at me.”

“That’s supposed to be an attack on your character?”

“The way you said it, it was.”

He thinks this is going to be one of Niki’s grand pauses, but she snaps back quickly. “Maybe it is. We used to be great. We used to be best friends–”

“We are best friends.”

“We used to hang out everyday. Every day, Wilbur. We’d see each other for study group, at the cafe, in our classes, at the cafe again, we’d go to each other’s houses, we’d call. Multiple times per day. It never got old. We never got tired of each other. Because we were…”

“Best friends.”

“We were obsessed with each other. I couldn’t take my mind off of you. I don’t think you took your mind off of me either.”

Wilbur has finally stopped pacing. He didn’t even realize when he stopped, he just did. Now he stands here in the hall, dumbly, holding up the phone to his ear in a trembling hand. His lip is quivering too. Pathetic thing. He tries to calm the muscle but it spitefully continues.

“I didn’t,” Wilbur eventually says.

“When was the last time you thought about me?”

That trembling lip and quaking hand are both soothed – because he’s gone completely still. Wilbur does not breathe. He does not even think.

All he does is listen for that hitch in Niki’s breath.

“You can’t answer, can you?”

He can’t.

There’s a crash on the other end of the line. “Are you okay?” Wilbur rushes to ask. She mutters something he can’t hear, but he doesn’t dare repeat himself. He waits a moment. Then he hears Niki sniffle. Fuck .

He’s not given a chance to say anything about it. “Fuck you, Wilbur.”

“Fuck me?”

“And fuck me too. I…”

“Niki…”

“I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t sound sorry.

Wilbur doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t sound sorry. To herself, maybe. Not to Wilbur. She’s ready to shout at him again. He’s ready to go at her as well, but only if she shouts first. He’s not going on the offensive. He’s not looking to ruin her.

Is that what she’s doing? Is she trying to ruin him?

He certainly feels ruined. This doesn’t make sense. Something has shattered. His feelings, his peace, his worldview. Something.

“I– I was going to say that I miss you, but I don’t. All you’ve done is cry on my couch, forget about what you were crying about, and cried about forgetting what you’ve cried about. I miss who you were, Wilbur. I miss who we were.”

What is he supposed to say to that?

Niki hangs up with a mournful sob. The little click goes off. The call is over. Niki’s gone. Wilbur’s sanity is gone, too. A lot of things are gone. Something just happened, something monumental, and he’s going to forget it in a couple hours time.

No. No, he can’t just forget all of this. This can’t be where it ends. It wouldn’t be where it ends, Wilbur would be lucky if it ended here. No, the truth is much more sinister.

This is one step in a vicious cycle.

He’s going to forget this. Then tomorrow, he’s going to write a song, or see a cute cat, or something is going to remind him of Niki and he’s going to text her. He might even call her.

That’ll start it again. In all likelihood, something is going to upset Wilbur. Then he’s going to call her.

Oh no. Oh no, he knows what’s going to happen. He can’t change the past, and he certainly can’t change the future.

What can he do right now? When his chest is caving in on itself and his world is falling apart right in front of him?

Niki’s screams echo through his mind. Her words, cruel taunts, warp into song lyrics. Like earworms, they ingrain themselves in his mind. They start playing on loop. What happened to them? What happened to the two of them? What did you do, Wilbur? How did you start hurting her? Why did you start hurting her? Why haven’t you apologized?

Wilbur should text her an apology. He should do something. He needs to send her something. He pulls out his phone.

He does not open his texts with her. He goes to a different friend.

He shouldn’t. He should text her that apology.

She’s not going to believe it. Wilbur doesn’t know if he will believe it himself. But there’s someone who will.

“Tommy?” He sobs out the name. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, you picked up. Tommy, I need you.

“What? Wilbur? You okay?”

“I’m not. I’m not okay.”

“Okay, okay, talk to me.”

“I need her to know I’m sorry. I just need her to know I’m sorry.”

“Okay. We’ll figure that out.”

Wilbur loves Tommy. He loves him like one would love a brother. He loves Tommy like a religious man loves his god.

He can collapse into Tommy’s presence. With Tommy on the line, he can cry.

Chapter Text

What one may call a “Memory” is actually a memory of a memory. A memory of a memory of a memory – Wilbur could go on and on.

When recalling an event, your mind is not replaying the sequence as it truly happened. Memories are fickle things, subject to alterations and twists of truth. Sometimes separate memories are woven together alongside dreams into a patchwork portrait of a fictitious past.

Wilbur’s desperately clinging onto threads of memory. He tries to gather them all up but his recollection is unraveling before his very eyes. Wilbur’s angry. He knows that.

He’s so angry.

Angry enough to leave bright red marks on his palms from how hard he’s been digging his nails into them. Angry enough that everybody on the underground knows. They see him and they run out to choose a new car. The people of the city can handle preachers on their underground and they can handle rats. They cannot handle Wilbur.

It’s a good thing he’s at Tommy’s now. He can’t keep trying to remember. This is driving him insane. What the hell has Wilbur done? What wicked deeds did he commit? What the absolute fuck did Niki say?

He stomps through that lobby and shoots a quick glare at the desk attendant. He’s usually not stopped anymore. If they start up again tonight, he’s going to scream. Luckily the attendant must recognize. They let him right through. Wilbur finds the elevator and he punches in Tommy’s floor number.

The elevator spits him out onto Tommy’s floor. He doesn’t even need to run to Tommy’s room. Tommy’s in the process of wearing a track into the carpet with his pacing. Wilbur calls his name, and suddenly Tommy’s running towards him.

Tommy takes his hands. Then he takes Wilbur’s arms, then his shoulders. He leads him down the hall and Wilbur lets his eyes slip shut. Behind them, he sees red. He cannot stop the sound that crawls out of his throat. It’s raw. It’s guttural. It’s loud too, but Tommy says nothing. The door opens with a loud creak, and the two of them stumble inside.

Wilbur’s pushed down to the couch. A blanket is thrown on top of his lap. He’s handed a pillow. He brings it to his lips and screams into it.

Tommy’s at his side now, hand on his back.

Wilbur shoots his wrist out. “Friend, tell him what’s wrong. Tell him what’s wrong.”

Through blurry eyes, he watches as Friend’s texts begin to appear. Wilbur barely reads one line. It’s not enough.

“Niki called me. Niki called me and it got bad. It got really bad Tommy, it was fucked up.”

“Do I need to fuck her up?” Tommy asks.

“No,” Wilbur sobs, a prayer. “No, you don’t need to fuck her up, you– you need to–”

He cannot find the words. It’s because he cannot think. He screams. Into that fluffy white pillow, he screams. Begins to rock back and forth.

Tommy removes his hand from his back. Scoots an inch or two away. Wilbur gets it. He needs space. This is really good fucking proof of that; he needs his space.

So why doesn’t he want Tommy to move? Why does it add fuel to the fire?

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur begins to say. It becomes a mantra. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Tommy says nothing in response. What? Did Wilbur scare him away? Shit, no, Wilbur can’t scare him away. He can’t mess this up. He’s already messed too much up, hasn’t he? His friendship with Niki is ruined. Over three years worth of friendship is down the drain because both him and Niki are assholes with their heads so far up their own asses that they can see the stomach acid crawling up their esophaguses.

“Hold out your hands.”

Wilbur does so. He’ll do anything Tommy says right now. He would jump off a bridge, if Tommy told him to. Because Tommy is the person he can trust not to tell him to jump off a bridge. If Tommy is telling him to say the final goodbye, he will know it’s because he truly deserves it.

Something weighty is pressed into his hands. His eyes flutter open. A book. A thick, leatherbound book. The title is quite obviously foreign.

“What is this?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy flips it to its first page. He rips that page out with all of his might, brandishing it high above his head.

“What?”

“Your turn,” Tommy says.

Wilbur doesn’t ask questions. Tommy asks for destruction, he is going to get wreckage. He is going to get decimation. Wilbur digs his rough, broken nails into the spine of the book and he starts tearing this thing apart.

He is a rabid dog. His owner has made the mistake of letting him loose. He throws the book to the ground and he goes with it soon after. Page after page goes. Then he goes after the papers he’s already ripped out, tearing them to little shreds. They litter Tommy’s carpeted floors. Tommy takes a page or two, calmly ripping on folded lines. Wilbur shows no such care. He destroys.

He closes his eyes as he digs into paper.

Since becoming a restoration droid, Wilbur’s imagination has… not necessarily improved. It’s changed. He’s gotten ideas that he’s never got before. He’ll draw new comparisons and he sees everything in a different light.

He’s gotten good at comparisons. He’s gotten good at metaphors, similes, he’s gotten good at tricking himself.

Paper should bear no resemblance to human skin. But neither should plastic and metal. That is what Wilbur is, at the end of the day. A hunk of plastic, metal, innovation, and idiocy. He calls the stretchy, tan plastic he’s encased in skin. So he might as well call this paper flesh.

He imagines digging his nails into flesh. The red behind his eyelids takes on new meaning.

When he opens his eyes, he sees blue. Behind the lids is red. As he lets the plastic rise and fall he becomes acquainted with both colors and their blend. Purple is the color of royalty. It is warm as a beating heart and cool as a calming ocean. It should not be described as sickly. It can barely be described as angry.

But Wilbur is sickly and angry, so purple is too.

He returns to the book, imagining that it is skin, and that he is tearing humanity apart limb from limb.

What the hell is he doing?

Wilbur abandons the book as if it burned him. He jumps back up onto the couch where he grabs the blanket. He pulls it tight around himself as he buries deep in the cushions. Six foot six inches tall ventriloquist folded up tight into the corner of the couch.

“Wilbur? Wilbur?”

There are hands on him; on his knee and his back. He ignores them.

“Wilbur–”

“You need to stop,” Wilbur says, and Tommy steps away.

Wilbur does not let his eyes slide shut. He’s sick of red. Blue overtakes him.

He chokes on a deep breath. “I’m getting you water,” Tommy says. Wilbur’s not going to drink it. Yet he craves it. In his pained throat, he craves it.

When he’s handed the straw, he slips it past his lips. He sucks in the water and he keeps his eyes open.

He’s seeing an ocean in his eyes.

“There, yeah, that’s it,” Tommy mutters.

Wilbur finishes the entire glass in a single minute. He hands it back to Tommy and Tommy rushes off, probably to get another prepared. Wilbur rubs his eyes and when his hands fall away, he sees the mess he’s made.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?” Tommy calls out across the apartment.

“I’m so sorry.”

Tommy hands Wilbur the glass again. He’s really not thirsty anymore, actually.

The ground is littered with paper. The book is open in the middle, all its pages wrinkled and ripped, showing Wilbur’s destruction. This is going to be hell to clean up.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Wilbur then puts his lips to the straw once more, and he drinks damn near half the glass.

“I have a vacuum, don’t worry about it, man.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur mutters again.

“Who are you sorry to? Me? Or…”

Wilbur doesn’t know anymore.

“Lay down, stop looking at the damn floor as if it’s a crime scene. I wouldn’t have handed you the book if I didn’t want you to destroy it, you know. Because, um, that’s what I do. When I’m upset. I just take one of these old books that Sam likes to give me and I rip the pages out. Sam thinks I have a thing for weird old books. I guess you could call this a thing.”

To accentuate his point, Tommy brings over a couple of other books. One hardcover, one paperback. The paperback’s title is written in cyrillic. Tommy flips them both open, revealing destruction similar to the book Wilbur left on the ground.

“Do you feel any better now?” Tommy asks.

“I– I don’t know.”

“Want some time?”

Wilbur reaches for his wrist, where he fiddles with the clasp of his watch. He drops it in Tommy’s hand. “Ask Friend what happened.”

He watches Tommy’s conversation with Friend as one would look on from a window. Tommy’s not speaking very much, going “Uh huh,” and “Yeah” a lot. Friend’s text appears backwards to Wilbur because of where Tommy’s standing.

He can’t say that it’s not upsetting to watch. But Wilbur doesn’t want to pull Friend back. He can’t bear to speak to Friend himself. Oh, he loves that little sheep. The way Friend will dance and prance about his desk when Wilbur takes off his watch. The program has taken on such a vivid personality. Wilbur loves him as much as he would love any other pet.

Which makes it all the more painful to feel this resentment towards his dear friends.

He doesn’t hate either of them. They’ve done nothing wrong. He’s just – upset, and he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t want to know why but he needs to know why.

Eventually it grows unbearable. “What happened to me?”

Tommy snaps back to him. “Um… you fought with Niki.”

“I fought with Niki?”

“Yeah.”

“But she’s one of my best friends. We were so close. What were we fighting about?”

Tommy seems to struggle, going to speak multiple times before cutting himself off. Eventually he says, “If I tell you, you’re just going to get more upset.”

“I won’t, I can handle it,” Wilbur says. He’s an adult, he can handle himself. He’s not going to fall apart.

Tommy glances down to the scraps of paper, littering the floor. “If you get upset then you’re going to forget it again, then you’re going to ask me or Friend again, and you’re gonna get upset because it’s fucking mental what she said to you.”

Wilbur doesn’t stop Tommy, even as he can see his friend devolving into a rant.

“Seriously, who says that shit? She was all like ‘Oh, you don’t spend enough time with me,’ then is like ‘I hate you, leave me alone.’ And she blames that stuff on you? When you can’t control your memory? That’s fucked up, innit?”

Wilbur nods. It… it’s wrong. Whatever happened to him felt wrong. Is that what happened to him? Oh fuck…

“Why were you even friends with her? She seems–”

“Because she’s so cool,” Wilbur interrupts. “She was my first friend in college. We do everything together. She gets me, she listens to me and laughs along, we play guitar together–”

“I’ve barely heard you mention her,” Tommy says.

Really? Shouldn’t these be things Tommy already knows? Come on, it’s laughable to think that Wilbur hasn’t told Tommy all his tales of Niki. She’s his best friend! One of his best friends.

Used to be.

Because Wilbur’s still seeing red when he closes his eyes.

“Oh, Wil, I’m sorry. Do you want the book again?”

“No.” Wilbur sits up, letting the blanket pool in his lap. He sits there for a moment, legs crossed over each other, fingers twisting in the soft fibers of the blanket. It takes some strength to push the blanket away from himself. Even more to stand up.

“Tommy, I don’t know what to do.”

Tommy stands there. His mouth falls open and he doesn’t close it. “... Whatever you need to do?”

“But what do I need to do?”

Tommy shifts from foot to foot, and Wilbur finds himself doing the same. They sway in tandem, but Wilbur soon realizes that Tommy’s slowly speeding up. His gentle sway has become a turbulent rock and Wilbur can’t keep up. He goes still as Tommy continues to move to an invisible, frantic beat.

Tommy abruptly stops, surely realizing that Wilbur isn’t joining in anymore.

“I think you need to… I don’t know, move on, big man.”

That doesn’t sound quite right. “How?”

“I don’t know– how about we go out and do something fun? A distraction? I think you could use a little bit of fun right now.”

“It’s late,” Wilbur says. Very late, and he’s lucky that Tommy is an android as well. If he wasn’t, then he would probably be asleep this time of night.

“We can find something. Why don’t we go to the bars?”

“I’m not bar hopping with you. You’re still not old enough.”

“Oh come on man, I’m close, I’m close.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “Nope, not getting in trouble for giving a seventeen year old beer. I don’t care if your liver can’t be destroyed by it, it’s still a bad idea.”

“Tubbo’s old enough now!”

They both go quiet at that one. Wilbur quickly moves past it.

“There’s probably a cinema that’s open this late. They’re probably just showing the gory horror films at this time of night, but we could check it out.”

“Oh I want all the guts and gore,” Tommy says, and that settles it. They leave together, after Wilbur makes Tommy bundle up. Then they aimlessly stroll down the lamp lit city streets. They’ll find a cinema at some point.

Briefly, it occurs to Wilbur that Friend is going to send him an alert tomorrow. He’s going to have a lovely morning, then it’s going to be disturbed by knowledge of this… everything that happened tonight.

He presses on, and gives Tommy a shove so that Tommy has something to shout about. There. He can focus on Tommy’s voice.

He’s just gotta keep distracting himself. Gotta give himself some memories tonight, so he won’t go searching for the missing pieces.

That’s not a futile effort, is it?

It’s been a weird couple of days.

There’s this sort of tightness in Wilbur’s gut. It’s uncomfortable, and not necessarily painful, but definitely unsettling. It’s as if a snake is twisting inside his stomach. Spending most of its time in wait, before snapping out and biting the walls to try and get out of its cage.

For a frightening moment, it felt like something was wrong. Wilbur had a call with Sam yesterday about this. According to Friend, Sam said that it was most likely just stress, and an odd byproduct of android bodies being made to resemble human bodies as closely as possible. Wilbur doesn’t remember feeling like this when he was human, though.

It’s easy to ignore most of the time, honestly. He has to do away with all the doom and gloom and focus on something else, and the feeling goes away. Wilbur finds some music to listen to on the walk to class. Something with a fast beat. It gets his heart pumping.

He finds Ranboo already at their regular seats in the back of the lecture hall. Wilbur waves to them before sitting down, taking out the earbuds.

It’s been a little while since he saw Ranboo. Not too long, just enough for Wilbur to ask them how they’ve been.

Ranboo sighs. “I’d hate to bore you with the details. What about you?”

Wilbur frowns as that feeling comes back for a split second. The snake in his stomach.

“Been hanging out with Tommy a lot. Some freelance work. And my brother called me the other day, he wants me to come home for a visit soon. Trying to figure out when to do that.”

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says. They go on to talk a little bit about how cold it is outside, how they almost tripped and fell on their way to the underground. They didn’t actually fall, Ranboo assures. Wilbur nods along and adds in bits of his own and he makes all the right moves.

This is small talk, Wilbur realizes. The realization dawns on him because he feels quite small.

The unease does not fade as class starts and Ranboo quiets, because Ranboo is not the problem. That’s quite a relief, he doesn’t want to be upset with Ranboo. However, that leaves him wondering what exactly the problem is.

Wilbur trains his attention back to Professor Eret. He should be pondering hypothetical conundrums. Not the petty, meaningless problems of his everyday life.

Eret never fails to capture his interest. It’s easy to sit back in his chair and listen.

Class ends early though. Eret declares that they’ve made their way through their plan quicker than expected, and they’re not going to hold the class here unnecessarily for twenty minutes. Most rejoice as they spill out into the halls to enjoy their freetime. Wilbur slowly slips back into that dire state.

“Let’s hang out somewhere,” Ranboo says. Their hand on Wilbur’s shoulder nudges him along, down the stairs. “Do you want to go to the library?”

Wilbur follows them until they’re sitting down at a small table in the back of the library. Ranboo tells him that they’ll be right back. When they arrive again, they’ve got two steaming drinks in their hands. They set one down in front of Wilbur.

He brings it to his lips, and immediately sighs in content. “You remembered how I like my tea.”

“You looked like you needed it.”

Wilbur pauses in the middle of his sip. Ranboo’s words confuse him. How might he look as if he needs tea? How might he appear so physically distressed that Ranboo feels the need to fix it?

He supposes the words he’s supposed to be finding are, “Thank you.”

“If you need to talk about anything, I’m here.” Ranboo settles down in the seat across from him. “I won’t, um, mind.”

“I don’t need to talk about anything, though. What I need is to forget.”

Ranboo knows a thing or two about forgetting. Have they ever wanted to forget? Do they understand what it’s like?

“Do you mean you want a distraction?” Ranboo asks.

“That’s a good idea.” A distraction. That’s what Tommy gave him. It worked for a night, but… “What type of distraction?”

Ranboo glances away. Ranboo really wears their heart on their sleeve. It’s in their body language, the way their chest rises and falls. They’re lost in thought. When Ranboo pulls themselves back, it’s with great effort.

“There are things that I can talk for hours about,” Ranboo says, leaning forward. Their voice drops, barely above a whisper. “Things that I can never forget. What I remember and what gets left behind is kind of random. But I remember the important things. Oh, I remember them.”

“Tell me about them. I don’t care if it’s kind of boring.”

“It’s not just boring though. It’s kind of… distressing. I don’t want to make you more upset.”

“Give me something that I can think deeply about,” Wilbur says. “I haven’t done that in a while.”

Later, Wilbur will have to admit to himself that he wasn’t quite ready for that conversation. The following revelations leave Wilbur winded and quite awfully confused. However, he will remember this conversation. Every last detail.

“I’ve always kind of been interested in researching Essempi. I remember I was uh, a little kid. And I was in class, we were learning about androids. I wouldn’t say androids are rare in the Endlands, but they definitely weren’t common. I knew one android at that point, my neighbor, Ms. Birn. She was nice, I shoveled her driveway a couple of times for some extra cash. I didn’t know her very well though. What I knew was that Essempi had thousands of androids.”

It’s true. You can’t really tell nowadays who’s an android and who’s an organic human. Odds are, there’s another android besides Wilbur somewhere in this library.

There are some that resemble humans more than others. There’s a question of where the line is drawn between simple artificial intelligence and androids; where does consciousness start?

Wilbur and Ranboo are going to learn in class together. But that’s something to think about another day.

“I checked out books about Essempi in the library. I swear, the Endlands are not this weird, isolated community like people think. We have the internet, I was just a bit of a weird kid. I liked the weight of a book in my hands. Anyway, I read these books, and for Christmas my Moms gave me this newer one. One about Tub-Net.”

The word itself is enough to trigger a complicated rush of emotions. Anger, sadness, curiosity, love all come rushing towards him at once. His passion for technology collides with a whole lot of something and Wilbur is left reeling, trying desperately to tune back into what Ranboo’s saying.

He misses a bit, but he comes back at practically the perfect time.

“I’m being long winded, but basically, Tub-Net was like a wonder to me, as a kid. One of the most amazing things in the world.”

“It was to me too,” Wilbur cuts in.

“It was? I thought that you would be used to it. You grew up with it.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “No. It never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, have you heard about the Endland’s newest, um, experiment?”

It takes Wilbur a moment, but this is what he researches, every single day.

He thinks of the Endlands, and the words just come to mind. “The Dragon Matrix.”

A long, drawn out nod. “The Dragon Matrix.”

This subject has been at the back of Wilbur’s mind ever since he met Ranboo. It’s impossible for a guy like Wilbur not to immediately think of the Dragon Matrix when he thinks of the Endlands. He just didn’t want to be the guy to bring it up first.

He can’t quite remember why he was avoiding the topic.

“I think I wasn’t alone in being obsessed with Tub-Net. The whole country must have been, for us to make it. I was fourteen when they announced the program, and I was really excited for it! Everybody must have.”

The Dragon Matrix is the fourth Tub-Net-like program to be incorporated into a foreign government. For a while, Essempi was the only one. Essempi was the great experiment. Once the studies came out and the news rang that Essempi had proven itself, it was suddenly a race to develop similar technologies.

They’ve had varying levels of success.

Wilbur remembers big headlines reporting the good news, saying the Endlands’ Dragon Matrix was making progress in development. It was implemented in October, two years ago, to the rejoicing of many. Niki was the one who brought Wilbur the article. They toasted to the news.

Another country taking on a step towards equality. The world gains another utopia.

Ranboo’s tightly drawn shoulders paint a different picture.

“We got… we got something wrong,” Ranboo says. “The algorithm has been searching for the wrong things. I don’t know the specifics of it, nobody does. What I do know is that my family… we were doing fine, before the switch.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t remember. At least not a lot of it. It’s all a bit of a blur, looking back on it.”

Oh.

“I know that Ma and Mama are doing better now that they only have to set two plates out on the table. They’re making ends meet, and they’re trying to work the system. They shouldn’t have to work the system, but I guess… other people needed the money.”

“How?” Wilbur asks. “How did that get through testing? Are there others in your situation?”

“I ask myself those questions every day.”

Tub-Net’s technology spreading is supposed to be a good thing.

“Tell me about the code,” Wilbur says. “Tell me everything you can.”

Ranboo clearly doesn’t know the equations like the back of their hand like Wilbur does, but they give Wilbur what he needs to understand.

The Dragon Matrix not really Tub-Net’s technology. It’s a butchered version of it, cobbled together from information they gained through dubiously legal means. Wilbur would have to look up the specifics, but from what Ranboo’s saying, it seems like it’s flawed on a systemic level. That it fundamentally prioritizes different things than Tub-Net.

Back in the early 2100s, Tub-Net’s promise was that by 2121, there would be nobody sleeping out on the streets.

Ranboo goes on to say that the Dragon Matrix’s promise was that the Endlands would grow into a world power.

“I’m sorry,” Ranboo says at some point. “This… this is depressing, I know it is.”

“Don’t be sorry. I would tell you to stop if I needed to.”

Hearing of the Endlands’ mistake is like watching a trolley hurtle off the track. He’s horrendously amazed.

He asks Ranboo how they’re feeling, if this is too much for them. It must be, yet Ranboo shakes their head.

“I haven’t actually spoken to anybody about this since I left the Endlands.”

“You haven’t?”

“I knew that if I was going to say anything, it would be to you,” Ranboo says. “Because, well, I think that eventually, Professor Eret is going to bring up the Endlands’ situation. And you were going to look at me and I was going to be able to tell that you were desperately trying to hold back a question. I was going to let it all spill. Just happened a little bit earlier than I thought it would.”

“How are you feeling?”

Over the course of the conversation, Ranboo’s face had slowly twisted up. Not into any specific expression, they weren’t frowning or anything. Weren’t even glaring. They were simply tense.

Now that all drains away, but Wilbur can’t imagine describing the action as cathartic.

“Like I always do.”

“How do you always feel?”

Ranboo looks away. They always do that in their times of need.

“Like I’m sitting in a train car, all by myself, staring out the window as life rushes past me.”

Wilbur’s company tonight is a fine bottle of whiskey. He pours the amber liquid into a shot glass, then swirls that glass around as if it were a fine wine. He brings the glass up to his lips, hesitates, and downs it.

The burn down his throat is as fiery as ever. When creating these android bodies, the engineers were careful to make sure that the body would respond to alcohol in the same way the human body would. They called it “Attention to fine detail.” All it means is that Wilbur is going to have a fun night.

Maybe fun isn’t the right word for drinking alone.

This is going to be a night to remember. Tonight, Wilbur is sitting in his armchair, chin in his hand, and he is going to become the philosophers of old. Tonight is a night to think. Oh how he’s missed thinking. It’s like he has nothing on the brain nowadays.

He falls back into his chair, pulling a warm quilt onto his lap. The bottle of whiskey is on the table right beside him. He pours another shot, sips half, and relaxes into the chair. He can already feel the buzz.

“Friend, are you ready to listen to me?”

“!!!” appears right above Friend’s head. Wilbur smiles.

“First on the agenda is Ranboo. I’ve been thinking about what they told me. It’s quite lucky that I get to know a guy like them. Maybe not lucky, per se. Special.

“I’m definitely lucky to know Tubbo. What interests me most is thinking about the two of them meeting. I would like to say that I think they would get along. But well, I don’t really know. I don’t know what Tubbo’s like.”

“They would,” Friend says.

“They would get along?”

The little sheep pops up from the watch, jumping around until he’s reached Wilbur’s eye level. He nod his fuzzy blue head.

“I guess you’re the expert, Friend. Do you think I should get Ranboo a consult with Tubbo? Is that even possible?”

“I think it’s possible,” Friend says.

“But should I?”

“I think it’s a great idea!”

Those words appear so quickly. It’s like Friend didn’t think about them at all.

“Ranboo doesn’t know that I know Tubbo. It keeps slipping my mind to tell him. I think I should’ve told him today, when we were talking about Tub-Net. I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess it just didn’t feel right to interrupt.”

Wilbur doesn’t know why he does what he does next. A topic change. He abandons all thoughts of Tub-Net, the Dragon Matrix, and Ranboo. Tonight is a night for thinking, and there’s something he definitely needs to think about before he runs out of whiskey.

“Hey Friend?”

“Yes Wilbur?”

“Can you tell me what happened with me and Niki?”

Friend’s answer has Wilbur downing a shot. And another. He goes for another, but Friend sees it. “Are you okay Wilbur?”

Slowly, Wilbur sets the shot glass down. A drop spills out, his shaking hands let it slip. He pulls back and clasps his hands at his chest.

“Friend, you sure you’re not messing with me? Telling me a little joke?”

Friend shakes his head. Damn it.

Well. Wilbur’s here to think. He sure does have a lot of thoughts on his mind.

“I think I have to wait to speak to her,” Wilbur says. “I do not know how long I’ll wait. I just know that I cannot speak with her within the next week. Maybe a text… No, not even a text.”

“Text her when it feels right!” Friend says. The sheep hops around, and when Wilbur holds out his hand, he settles down. Legs curl inwards and he becomes nothing but a ball of fluff, perfectly fitting in Wilbur’s palm.

There are times when it does not bother Wilbur, knowing that he cannot feel Friend. He’s content with the visual, he can imagine the rest. Then there are times like these, when Wilbur is so desperate to feel the weight and warmth of his pet in his hand and it kills him that he can’t.

All he wants is to be able to reach out and pet Friend without his finger passing right through if he’s not careful.

“I wish I could do that,” Wilbur says eventually. “You’re forgetting something crucial though.”

“Oh?”

“I cannot trust myself.”

That is Wilbur’s tragedy. He knows by now not to trust himself. It’s the whole reason he has Friend, so he doesn’t go insane trying to call the same doctors a million times.

“I can’t speak to Niki anytime soon. She’s just going to become upset at something I say. I’m going to get upset that she’s upset. She might get upset at herself that she made me upset. Then, I’m just going to feel bad.”

Friend is recording everything Wilbur says. That’s the whole point of speaking aloud; he’ll be able to look back on this night. This can’t be the first time he’s sat down to think since his accident, can it? He has to have done this before. He’s just forgotten it. He can’t forget tonight.

This is not supposed to be kind. This is supposed to be accurate.

“I think I could go the rest of my life without speaking to Niki again.”

Friend stands, immediately alert. “She’s one of your best friends!”

Wilbur hands his head. He reaches for that shot of whiskey. She was.

“I’m not going to miss her,” Wilbur admits. “Because she’s not the person she once was. I’m going to miss my memory of her.”

He downs that shot of whiskey. He’s tipsy at the moment, maybe a little bit drunk. This is going to push him over the edge.

“Wilbur?” Friend goes eventually. Oh, shit, that’s right. Wilbur hasn’t spoken in a good couple of minutes. He’s been stewing in silence, waiting for the aftertaste of the whiskey to fade. It hasn’t yet. It’s strong; it’s not going to fade anytime soon. Especially not since he’s pouring himself another shot.

This is his last one; the bottle’s gone empty. It wasn’t full to begin with. That’s probably for the best.

As the last drop drips down his throat, Wilbur takes off his watch, clicking the off button. It’s too painful seeing Friend prance around, knowing that he cannot reach out and touch.

Wilbur slumps down in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He’s scrunching up his neck uncomfortably. Hell, he doesn’t care anymore. Why the hell would he?

He stares up at the fan as it slowly spins. Round and round, round and round.

That’s what Wilbur’s doing. He’s going around in circles.

He’s not going to speak to Niki again, he decides. He’s not going to reach out. And if she does? Well. If it’s the Niki that he remembers, the Niki he loves, then maybe he’ll reconsider.

But if he wants to be anything more than a dusty fan blade in a drunken man’s apartment, he’s going to have to make a decision to do something with this life of his.

He’s just so sick of sitting still. He wants the world around him to move. He’ll move it himself, if he has to.

Every action has an equal opposite reaction.

Wilbur doesn’t expect much when he goes over to Tommy’s house on that rainy Friday. He never truly knows what to expect with Tommy because, well, it’s Tommy. They could be playing video games today, or they could be going to an amusement park. Wilbur hopes it’s not the latter. He still has a bit of a hangover. The engineers who made him weren’t gracious enough to remove that feature.

Wilbur and Tommy do tend to fall into the same sort of patterns. They’ll hang out for a couple hours, go out to a cafe or restaurant, then head back to Tommy’s apartment. Either that or they’ll lay on Tommy’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, until Tommy goes to sleep and Wilbur feels his own eyelids dragging.

They’ve been doing cafes a lot this week. Cafes and movies. They talk through all the movies, of course. They have to get seats in one of the front corners where nobody wants to sit so that nobody will try and shush them. They find their fun, one way or another.

This week has been a bit of a blur. Wilbur doesn’t like that. He likes when he can recall every conversation perfectly. Every joke Tommy made, every retort he spat back. He can only remember a few jokes Tommy told in the past few weeks.

Maybe that can change today.

Those hopes are dashed when he reaches Tommy’s apartment and sees the look on his best friend’s face.

Wilbur forgets all about jokes and movies. He sits down on Tommy’s couch, where his friend is sitting with his nose scrunched up. His jaw is slowly moving back and forth, he must be grinding his teeth down to dust. Wilbur makes sure not to touch him. That would be a mistake.

“Tommy? Are you okay?”

Tommy doesn’t respond. That’s fine, he didn’t expect an answer.

Instead, he crosses the apartment, over to Tommy’s bookcases. He avoids the graphic novels, those take up two shelves. The comics he ignores too. He sees a book in some foreign script and grabs it. He flips through the pages. Minimal damage. There’s still much more to be done.

Oh… oh wow… Tommy would make an excellent lion. Usually, they laze around all day. But if you catch them hungry, or you dare to cross them, you’re done for.

Who dared to cross Tommy? Wilbur will have some words for them. Tommy’s probably going to have some choice words of his own. Just looking at that book… Tommy would make an even better murderer. He’d be very good at the killing part. Wilbur would just need to step in to help hide the bodies.

“Hey, Toms…”

“What,” Tommy breathes, as he rips into pages with his teeth. He spits the scraps out onto the carpet and takes in more.

“What… What happened?”

After spitting out more paper, Tommy sits up. His eyes are bluer than they normally are. “Can you guess, Wil?”

Can he? Wilbur… doesn’t want to try. That doesn’t seem like a great idea.

“I fucken– I went to go talk to Tubbo. Thought I could do something. I thought I could– oh, I don’t know Wil, I don’t know what I thought. I went in there without a plan. That was my mistake.”

Wilbur settles onto the couch next to Tommy. Tommy falls onto Wilbur’s shoulder, stiff. He doesn’t move his arms, just lets his head rest there awkwardly.

“What did he say?” Wilbur asks. He thinks about following it up with You don’t have to answer. Then he remembers that Tommy is Tommy. Tommy will cuss Wilbur out if Wilbur’s asked something too insensitive.

“Fucking– fucking said that he missed me. And that he’s sorry.”

“Oh, that’s… good?”

Tommy leans away, shooting Wilbur a glare. “You should know that it’s not a good thing.”

Wilbur twists his watch around his wrist. He hits the off button though. Friend doesn’t need to comment on this, that could just make it worse. This is between Wilbur and Tommy.

Wilbur sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be, I’m just being a dick.”

“Do you want me to fuck him up?” Wilbur asks, putting on a deep voice like Tommy does when he says it.

Tommy grins, and begins to fall back to Wilbur’s shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s fuck him up together.”

“We’ll get him on the ropes. Really get him dancing.”

“That seems nice,” Tommy mutters, exhaustion apparent in the weight of his words. If it were late at night, Wilbur would try to guide him over to the bed. Right now, they might as well just stay like This. There’s nothing wrong with that.

There’s a lot of things wrong right now, but this moment is allowed to be right.

They need something to go right, for once. Wilbur can make it all wrong when he leaves.

Wilbur leaves that night, long after the sun has gone down. Rain splatters down on him and his feet kick up the water from puddles. The rain gets all over his round, wire rim glasses, fogging his vision. He can’t bring himself to care.

There’s something nasty churning in his gut, and there’s a pressure behind his eyes.

When he closes them, he sees red.

Chapter Text

Since becoming a restoration droid, sleep has been little more than a brief respite. He doesn’t need much of it these days. He barely needs it at all – he can go a night without.

So when he gets home, hair plastered to his forehead from the rain, jacket dripping, Wilbur does not make his way to his bedroom. He doesn’t give it a second thought. He sits right down on his couch, bracing himself against his knees.

None of the lights are on, except for a dull lamp in the corner. He left it on all day. The bulb is supposed to change colors, but the remote has been lost for months. It’s stuck on a sharp red light that casts the living room into a mix of reds and grays, resembling the underground in the dead of night.

Wilbur gets comfortable, but not relaxed.

Tomorrow morning, he’s going to speak to Tubbo.

Why was Tommy close to tears? Why was he teetering on the brink of a breakdown when Wilbur found him, ready to rip his own world to shreds?

Tubbo is an android built to make the best decisions mathematically possible. Yet he still had to look Tommy in the eye and lie to him. Maybe it was a call. Maybe he couldn’t spare Tommy a glance.

How?

Why even bother to apologize when he can’t bother to do right by his friend?

The night is young. There’s still a long, long way to go. Hours to go. Long hours with no distraction and no relief.

There is nothing wrong with Wilbur’s short term memory. It’s in the process of transferring short term memories into the long term that his experiences are lost to time.

It’s not easy to keep information in short term memory. It has to be at the front of the mind constantly, with no interruptions. Wilbur has managed to hang onto the vague idea of what Tommy went through. Friend has been a help. Friend will be a help, tomorrow, when it comes down to the specifics.

What Friend cannot communicate is the hurt.

How it felt to watch as his best friend crumbled apart in front of him.

That’s what Wilbur must keep alive for the next eight hours. As he sits there in the dull gray and the burning red light. Anger swells in the morning, fueled by the newfound sunrise. On the metro uptown, the anger combines with fatigue and annoyance at the city around him. His eyelids threaten to slide shut, and he should have turned back last night. He shouldn’t have paid Tubbo the courtesy to wait until morning.

It’s too late now to change his mind. He has spent all night tending to a fire with an iron rod, and the heat has traveled up to his hands.

He burns with contempt and passion. A dedication to pain.

Now Wilbur is walking through the streets of downtown, pushing through like he owns this city. The streets are crowded. Drivers are angry and vendors are trying to stop whoever they can. Wilbur ignores them, ignores the crossing signals no matter what they say, and ignores any thought that isn’t about Tubbo or Tommy.

It’s all going well until the homeless man taps his shoulder, runs in front of him, and starts asking for cash.

“I don’t have any, I don’t have any,” Wilbur says, trying to side step.

The man steps backwards, staying in Wilbur’s face. “That’s what they all say.”

Dressed in rags, buzz cut overgrown, the man is a mess. He’s giving Wilbur this wicked smile, and it’s doing a decent job at being intimidating. Wilbur rifles through his pockets, maybe he has a little bit, fuck, just let him out of here.

He scrapes his fingers against his wallet and pulls out a tenner, going to put it in the man’s cup. Then, Wilbur stops in his tracks. He holds on tight to the tenner.

“There aren’t supposed to be homeless people in Essempi.”

The man laughs right in his face. “What do you suppose I am, then?”

“A historical reenactor? A cosplayer?”

Another laugh. “I wish. Then I could go home at the end of the day. But I don’t have a home, that’s kind of the point, so just give me your cash.”

“How?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “You want me to give you my entire life story out here on the street?”

“Well, not on the street.”

That’s how they end up two blocks back from where Wilbur is supposed to be headed, sitting on a freezing park bench. Jack, the homeless man, is eating a hot dog he bought with the tenner Wilbur tossed him. Wilbur would’ve given him more for the hot dog, but that’s all he had in his wallet.

“I’m not the classic sob story. My mum and dad are both alive, so’s my sister. Not addicted to drugs, although some alcohol would be really nice if it wasn’t so damn pricey. I’m just a poor guy who fell upon a bit of bad luck and stumbled into a terrible system.”

“There aren’t supposed to be homeless people anymore,” Wilbur says. Jack stops chewing mid bite to stare at Wilbur. That might not have been the best move.

“Some people really wouldn’t like the way you’re talking about us. I don’t care, personally, but watch your back, man.”

“Other people?”

“You really don’t know, do you,” Jack says.

“What? What do I not know, tell me.”

“You haven’t realized that they were lying to you when they said they eradicated homelessness.”

This is serious. This is deathly serious.

“I’m listening.”

The program to eradicate homelessness started in 2105, when Wilbur was ten years old. There were efforts in individual cities before then, but this was the all out endeavor. All the stops were pulled, and funding for rehousing programs poured in.

Shelters were built, and long term plans for affordable housing sketched out. Wilbur knows this. He paid attention in his sociology and modern history classes. He lives in one of those affordable housing projects. His apartment was built just a couple of years back.

Universal basic income was the culmination of that. With UBI, no citizen would be left behind. Nobody would be sleeping under the stars or a street lamp.

“What a load of fucking bullcrap,” Jack says in response to Wilbur. “I’m not getting shit from UBI.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t go to me. Goes directly to the complex I’ve been assigned to.”

Wilbur’s mouth falls open. “You don’t get a choice on where to stay.”

Jack shakes his head.

“So if somebody comes along and screws you over, you’re done for.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

Wilbur doesn’t get a chance to ask any more questions. He wouldn’t even know what to ask. The only thing that comes to mind is what the hell?

“I know what you’re probably thinking. I know that I’m throwing around a lot of accusations that probably go against everything you’ve ever been taught – trust me, it’s designed that way. First off, I am not some freak exception. I am not the 0.0001% they talk about when they say the homeless population is near zero. There’s a lot more of us than they’d like you to believe.

“Here’s the thing: most of us are hiding away. Because that’s what they want us to do. There are shelters we can stay at. Networks to stay safe. They’re right when they say that most of us aren’t sleeping under the stars. We’re sleeping in condemned buildings where government workers will come and throw us food like we’re street cats.”

It’s cold, Wilbur realizes with a start. Terribly cold, he glances down at his watch. The default screen is showing -13 celsius, with the winds making it harsher. A blustering wind hits his bare flesh as he shrugs off his coat, passing it to Jack.

With brows knit in confusion, Jack takes the jacket, but he doesn’t put it on.

“I’m an android,” Wilbur says. “I don’t feel the cold, that much.”

Maintaining his suspicious look, Jack shrugs the jacket on, before continuing. He had been shivering before. The shiver goes away, now.

“Of course you haven’t seen a homeless person before. It’s easier to stay in the shadows. But we’re here, and I’m staying out here all day and all night, so that people have to look at me and realize that something is wrong.”

“Is…”

“Speak up, don’t get so down right now.”

“Is that why you’re telling me all of this?”

With a strained smile, Jack nods. “Gotta tell anyone who would listen.”

Wilbur tears his eyes away from Jack, and once he does so, immediately feels himself collapse into his own skin as tension drains away. It is not a cathartic release. Wilbur runs one bare hand through his hair.

It’s not like everything was immediately perfect.

“Eradicating homelessness” was a long term goal. Nobody expected that the task would be easy. Nothing good is ever easy. It hasn’t even been twenty years. There are still measures to be taken.

Those haven’t been mentioned in the news. According to the news, all is well in Essempi.

According to Wilbur’s own recollection.

“What are you thinking? You said you’re an android, I can see your code being written right in front of me.

Wilbur’s code… oh, Wilbur doesn’t want to think about his own coding. Jack doesn’t know that. Wilbur still shudders before moving past it.

“I um, I think I might have been wrong about something.”

Jack barks out a laugh. “You think?”

“Oh, yeah, obviously, man I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be sorry mate, you look nearly as poor as me.” Jack nudges him in the side, saying, “You’re an android, so you don’t have to worry about these things, but if you were human? You’d have to be worrying about food. Sleeping. Maybe then you would be like me.”

“I thought I was educated,” Wilbur says, before Jack can carry on down that line of thinking.

“Hm?”

“I’m in uni, almost done with it, and I’m an engineer. But I have a minor in sociology, because I want to improve lives using artificial intelligence. I want to use technology to help people. To help society.”

“Kind of meta, an android going to school for that. I would’ve thought you came preloaded with that information.”

“You don’t know a lot about androids.”

Wilbur cringes as he says it. He doesn’t want to come off as rude, let alone malicious, but Jack just nods.

“Sorry, sorry. Excuse me for getting a thing or two wrong.”

“I thought I was getting a good education,” Wilbur says. Out in the big city. He made it, he got accepted, one of the best programs in the country. A dream was about to begin. Wilbur still is caught up in a dream, in a way. It was Dreamland that made him this way.

“I was supposed to be learning the way the world is, yet I didn’t know this.”

“That’s kind of the point, mate. The public isn’t supposed to know this stuff.”

“How has this happened?” Wilbur asks. “What decision was made? How can this be fair?”

“Well, the thing with UBI? It’s to keep us off drugs. Too many people were using the money for crack and it ruined it for the rest of us. ‘Give it to the landlords, they’re responsible,’ they said. How could that go wrong? They kept making decisions like that. Fixing problems by making more problems.”

It’s entirely possible that Jack’s exaggerating, right? Come on. He’s questioning everything he’s ever learned because of a guy who pulled him off the street begging for money.

A guy who devoured two hot dogs in under a minute. Drank a can of soda in one gulp, like that was the first thing he’d had to drink that day.

A guy who begins to get off this random bench in a small park they found uptown. “Hope you learned something,” Jack says. He tugs Wilbur’s jacket tight around himself, and looks over his shoulder.

“You can keep it,” Wilbur says, despite the cold shivers wracking his bare arms.

With a curt nod, Jack turns, and walks away, taking his cup of coins back out.

For a solid minute, it’s impossible to think.

All he can do is sit, on this cold bench, as wind and pedestrians and the world itself pass him by. Jack is long gone, off to find somebody else to accost. In a desperate attempt to ground himself, Wilbur stares intently at the faces of everybody who passes by. A mother and teenage son, bickering about what to get for lunch. A diverse friend group of 20-somethings who took the train in from the suburbs, discussing where to go next. A businessman toting a designer bag and a vintage rolex.

Wilbur is alone in his misery.

He shoots up. Spins around, making himself dizzy. He shouldn’t be able to do that now. But he doubles over, clutching his stomach, bringing a hand to the mouth that should not expel any air. Yet a heavy puff warms his hand.

Wilbur forces his head up. Look around. Can he not look around at this world he lives in, walks in, passes through?

Wilbur likes to call himself an aspiring philosopher. He likes to speak his thoughts into an empty room, an audience of one, and pat himself on the back for pleasing the audience in the mirror.

How can a man who does not feel pain understand the verities of life?

Within Wilbur, a string snaps. He was already slumped over, a sack of wires and mesh contained in a plastic shell. Now his eyes drift apart pulling the world out of focus. His vision doubles. Everything begins to shift red.

With a stumble and a burst of energy, Wilbur is off, running down the street, weaving between strangers and crossing red lights to reach a familiar street.

Tension is back in full force, all muscles pulled taught, but he still can’t get his eyes to focus. They’ll fall back for a second, only to drift away again. Whatever. He reaches the towering building at the end of the block.

“Who are you?” they ask him. The receptionist, security, some random guy in a suit. When he gives his answer, it’s, “Why are you here?” When he gives his answer to that, they all try to hold back a laugh. The guy in the suit fails.

He’s escorted out to the street, where Wilbur whips out his phone. He dials a familiar number.

“Wilbur?”

Tommy’s voice is enough to pull his eyes back into focus. It’s not enough to eschew the red. When he closes his eyes, memories burst forth, each trying to fight their way to the surface of his mind. Wilbur pushes them all back with a single thought about Jack. Jack, and the lie he’s been told.

All the merry, meek memories are chased off by the mere idea that they might be tainted with dishonesty.

“I need a favor,” Wilbur says. The wind is even harsher here, surrounded by all the towering buildings. Wilbur shudders and pushes through.

“Yeah, of course big man, what do you need?”

“Do you have Tubbo’s number?”

A pause. “I mean, I can unblock him?”

“I need you to call him, and tell him to let me in.”

Tommy isn’t happy. He’s so furiously up at arms that it would be funny, in any other situation. But he says he’ll make the call, right before hanging up on Wilbur. With a grimace, Wilbur slips his phone back into his pocket.

He’s going to have some explaining to do. But a couple of minutes later, the security guard from earlier is walking back with a begrudging grimace.

From there it’s a blink and a couple of spiraling thoughts until he’s let into a meeting room. In sharp contrast to the weather outside, the room is built to resemble a rainforest. He’s struck by such a strong sense of deja vu that he must have been here before. The floral scent is familiar, as are the far way calls of animals that are not native to Essempi. The room is massive, but the trees are pressed close together, and Wilbur finds himself cowering under the canopies.

“Tubbo will be with you shortly,” the security guard says, before leaving the room with a slam of the wooden door. Wilbur presses further in, until he reaches the wooden table in the center. He collapses into one of the chairs. Then he clutches the edges of the table.

“Fuck,” he mutters. His eyes are still fogged with red. “Friend– Friend, speak aloud, tell me what I need to hear.”

“You’re here to ask Tubbo what’s been going on with him and Tommy.”

An interpersonal conflict. Wilbur is here to resolve an interpersonal conflict between the world’s most famous android and a boy who’s supposed to be dead.

The door creaks open. Wilbur’s double vision finally disappears. He stares straight into Tubbo’s eyes, and Tubbo stares straight back at him.

“You’re angry.” Tubbo’s words echo off the walls.

Wilbur stands. “Way to state the obvious.”

Wilbur’s hands curl into fists. Pain bursts out from his palms as his nails dig thin crescents into them. A shudder wracks Wilbur’s body. His chest is hot, all of a sudden, contrasting the weather outside. Stepping into this room was like being tossed into a moving roller coaster. He still has not found his bearings.

Tubbo avoids his gaze. “Tommy called me, that’s why I’m here, but he didn’t say what you were here for.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Wilbur says.

“... I didn’t know the two of you knew each other.”

Tubbo didn’t know? Wilbur bursts into a fit of laughter. Tubbo didn’t know. Tommy and Wilbur have been friends for months. For weeks and weeks on end, they’ve been relying on each other. Wilbur has been giving Tommy the support he needs to work through the pain that Tubbo has caused him. Wilbur is the one who has seen exactly what this boy had done to Tommy. And Tubbo doesn’t even know that they knew each other.

“Well then, I guess it’s up to me. I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here.”

Tubbo takes a tentative step forward, pushing past fake foliage. He’s completely still, like he’s chosen freeze instead of fight or flight.

“What the fuck have you done? That’s what I’m here to ask, what the fuck have you done? You’ve ruined this country.”

Like that, it’s all spilling out.

He tells Tubbo exactly what Jack told him. He stalks forward as he speaks. Suddenly, this is no foreign forest, this is no mystery. Wilbur molds this into his home territory. They’re in his home. They’re in Essempi. The land Tubbo is meant to serve.

“Is it true? Is what Jack said true?”

“Woah woah, let’s step back a bit?”

“Are these people getting their UBI?”

“Fine! No, the money is routed through to the housing managers!”

He admitted it! If that’s true, then it all has to be true, right? That there are hidden communes of people living in wretched conditions? Without heat or running water, not even beds to sleep on…

“We did that because crime was rampant in certain communities, and the money we were giving them was being used to harm people.”

That’s laughable. “So you’re taking away people’s rights because of drugs? So what if they use the money on drugs, it’s their money–”

“It’s not just drugs, though! Some of that money was going into bribes or criminal organizations. Human trafficking! Some of that money was going towards human trafficking–”

“So the solution was to take UBI away from every single unhoused person?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Tubbo screams up at him. They’re in each other’s faces, or rather, Wilbur is looming above the shorter man. Two hands land on Wilbur’s shoulders, and he’s pushed back. “You’re way too close to me, get back… and it’s more complicated than that. You’re putting me on the spot here, I can’t explain why I made all of these decisions, it takes years to understand some of these concepts–”

Wilbur’s sure they have their justifications. All of their five year plans and the things they tell the media. That’s not what Wilbur really wants to know.

“Why did you lie about it?”

Tubbo’s eyes go wide. This is it. This is the heart of it. Tubbo doesn’t want to give his excuses and Wilbur doesn’t want to hear them.

“We don’t want the public freaking out about things that will be resolved in a couple of years.”

Wilbur expected excuses.

He expected Tubbo to go around in circles like he did earlier, stuttering his way through hackneyed explanations, trying to justify the suffering of thousands. Instead, Tubbo is shrugging, looking utterly helpless.

“It’s a temporary solution,” Tubbo says. “And we’re aware of the problems we still have.”

“I wasn’t!”

“We can’t do what we’re doing when the public doesn’t trust us.”

“You think they’re going to trust you when they figure out that you’ve been telling a blatant lie?” Wilbur pauses, but then a terrible thought comes to him. “What else have you been lying about?”

Tubbo’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t answer.

This is worse than Wilbur thought. This is so much worse than Wilbur thought.

He rakes his fingernails down the bare skin of his arms. He turns away from Tubbo, not bearing to even look at the boy. Instead, his attention is on the room around him. This massive room, on the top floor of a skyscraper, creating an artificial ecosystem that must be costing the company a fortune to maintain.

What if Wilbur forgets all of this?

That’s the most frightening possibility of all. That he’s going to forget this entire conversation. He will. He knows right now, he will forget it. But he’s going to forget the anger, isn’t he? He can’t go every night without sleep. He can’t force out every happy thought or distractor. This anger is going to fade away. It’s only a matter of time.

“Friend, you’re getting this, right?”

“You can’t release this information to the public,” Tubbo says, before Friend even has the chance to respond.

Wilbur drops his wrist. “Friend is just here to help me remember.”

“Is it a recording device?”

He can’t answer that honestly. Friend’s main mechanism requires recording what he hears. Wilbur clutches the wristband.

“No, um, Friend is just a medical device. It connects to my mind and basically fixes the faulty code,” Wilbur says. “You know. A workaround for the whole ‘Can’t change an android’s code’ thing.”

Tension visibly drains from the other man. “Look, Wilbur…”

Wilbur looks at him. He’ll listen. This can’t get any worse when he’s already gone completely off the rails.

“We only tell people what they need to be told, and–”

What they need to be told?

That’s it, Wilbur’s done. If the public is not supposed to know the state of their own country, then he is not going to sit here, arguing with the embodiment of his government.

He throws that heavy oak door open. The resulting slam resonates through the hall and strikes a chord with Wilbur. The harsh noise serves to fuel his anger. Wilbur seethes. He gets to that elevator and he jams his finger on the button.

The trip down the elevator is just long enough for Wilbur to come to his senses. A message from Friend pops up. You didn’t ask him about Tommy.

“If I stayed there, I was going to punch something,” Wilbur says calmly.

It’s true. If he didn’t leave at that exact moment, he was going to be guided out with tree bark embedded in his knuckles.

Wilbur’s chest shakes with every exhale. It’s in the inhales that he can think clearly. That was a disaster. He can’t believe it, that went so terribly! He knew it was going to be bad. The second Jack started talking to him, he knew it was going to be bad. But going into it, he didn’t know what was going to fly out of his mouth. He couldn’t even imagine that Tubbo would tell him such bad excuses.

The doors slide open. Wilbur is gone without much fuss. When he steps out onto the street, he makes each step stiff and light. He eyes every stranger he passes by.

They don’t deserve to know the state Wilbur’s in. He’s not going to break down and cry on the metro. He’s not going to scream either.

He holds true to this promise. The anger does not dissipate.

It’s not hard to avoid distraction. He doesn’t think he could distract himself if he tried. Should he try? Does he want to feel this way?

He doesn’t want to forget that the government is lying to the people. He doesn’t want to be in the dark again.

Wilbur arrives home thirty minutes after the altercation and the memory is a candle, burning in the back of his mind. Doomed to die eventually, the flame is small, but it is strong. Until it has burned through all of the wax it will continue to spark anger. It is no campfire. It does not reach the very forefront of Wilbur’s mind. So he paces through his flat as if nothing is wrong. Nobody would be able to tell that he’s upset just by looking at him. It probably won’t even show in his voice.

Time to test that theory.

Already, Wilbur’s hand is shaking as he picks up his phone. Why? The anger is the obvious culprit, but his finger is painfully cold as he types in the contact name. His thumb hovers over the call button.

It’s not anger, it’s nerves.

Why? He’s just phoning a friend. He forces that thumb down, and brings the phone to his ear.

Ring… Ring…

Wilbur nervously taps his fingers against the table he’s sitting at. A breeze blows past the candle, threatening to blow it out, and he doesn’t even see.

Ring… Ring…

“Come on,” Wilbur mutters.

Ring–

“What?” comes a sharp, familiar voice.

“Hey, Niki.”

Friend’s avatar pops up, hurriedly trotting along the tabletop. You’re fighting with her.

Another gust of wind hits the candle. Shock. What… she… “You couldn’t have thought to tell me that earlier?”

“What did you say?” Niki asks.

“Shit, sorry, I was saying something to Friend.”

You and her haven’t talked in awhile. You said that you weren’t going to talk to her until she reached out to you.

Fuck. That would have been good to know before he started the call. Well, plans change.

“Okay, um, I was just informed that you and I aren’t speaking.”

It’s a while before Niki responds. “Not really, no.”

Wilbur pushes down all the questions that come to mind. How this happened, what happened, who’s to blame. He’ll ask Friend later. He looks back at the candle, in the back of his mind, burning red like the light in the living room.

“I’m really sorry then. I understand if you don’t want to speak to me. I just called because I need a small favor. I just need to know if I’m right about something, having to do with Eret’s class.”

Wilbur doesn’t hear the chime that plays when hung up on, but Niki is silent for so long that he starts wondering if he missed it. It startles him when she does respond.

“What do you need?”

“I think I’m forgetting something, and I really need to know if I am. This was from before I got Friend, so I can’t ask him.”

“Yes?”

“Did Professor Eret ever talk about the homeless population in Essempi?”

More silence. Wilbur’s getting antsy. He glances around, despite being alone. Then he starts worrying his lip.

“I’m trying to remember, could you give me more context?”

“Yeah, sure. Did they talk about Tub-Net’s policies to solve homelessness?”

“Yeah, definitely. I thought you meant like, current homeless population–”

“I did.”

“But there’s not many homeless people in Essempi.”

At least Wilbur wasn’t alone.

“Did they say anything about the drawbacks of this program? Or the efforts being incomplete? Or any messed up laws?”

“They must have, they always go into detail when they talk about something. Then again, they’re an engineering professor, not sociology. But I can look in my notebooks, I probably took notes on it. Wil… why do you ask? You’re making me nervous.”

Notebooks! Wilbur probably has some of his laying in his files, somewhere. He wasn’t as much of a note taker as Niki, but it’s hard to live up to her diligence. He must have something written down.

“Do you want the whole story?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? It’s something that you’re not going to be able to stop thinking about once you know.”

She sounds a bit exasperated. “Yes, just tell me.”

Wilbur’s not going to question that. He tells her the story as he grabs his pad and looks through the files. He finds the notebook. Now it’s a matter of finding the right page.

“Holy shit…”

“‘Holy shit’ is right.”

“You talked to Tubbo himself, like, the face of Tub-Net, of a fourth of our government… and he acted like that?”

“That’s why I called you Niks,” Wilbur says. “I knew it was wrong, very wrong, but I needed to be sure. I wanted to know I wasn’t crazy for being so concerned.”

“You’re not. You’re not crazy, what the hell…”

“Did you find anything?”

“I think I’m getting close. Just give me a minute or two.”

Wilbur goes back to scrolling through the notebook, with his phone flat on the table. Speaker’s on so he can hear her. Fuck, why aren’t all of these pages dated? Only some of them are. Some don’t even have numbers. What the hell? Is this a sign to be more organized?

“I think I found it. March 3rd, 2117. You said you had your own notebook out?”

March… luckily, the notebook is in chronological order, and March 3rd was one of the few pages he’d dated. “Yes. I found it.”

“I’m reading over mine.”

Wilbur skims the first part of the lesson. Then he finds the passages that might be relevant. Efforts are not done… there are kinks in the system to work out… media overexaggerates accomplishments…

He didn’t ever mention the word lie.

“I found something,” Niki says.

“You did?”

“A direct quote from the professor. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you this. One could say that my job is to tell you the things I’m not supposed to, though. So, this is speculation, but experts on the subject guess that the government could be reporting false information about the programs.’”

There’s only one thing to say.

“Fuck.”

“We aren’t the only ones who know this, right?” Niki asks.

“I don’t think so. I mean, I learned about this from Jack. Some people have to know, but the entire point is that this whole thing is kind of invisible.”

“That’s what used to happen. Back before the riots of the 2090s, and then Tub-Net. All these different groups of people were oppressed and it wasn’t even taught about in school like it is now.”

“That didn’t stop,” Wilbur says. “They’re still keeping us in the dark.”

“... We are.”

“Th–thank you,” Wilbur begins to stutter out. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

“I think I need some time.”

“That’s fine. That’s perfectly fine.”

“If I find anything else, more notes or something, I’ll call you back.”

“Okay, I’ll do the same if–”

Niki hangs up on him before he can finish his sentence.

Wilbur leans back in his chair. Now that he’s not on a call, all of his notifications are on display. Tommy has been messaging him since the call, asking him what happened. The messages have gotten more and more frantic with time. Wilbur sends a quick, kind of busy right now, and a i’ll tell you later

The candle? Oh, hell, it isn’t a candle anymore. No metaphor can describe the feeling. It’s still there. It’s just not the same. Where there was anger, there’s now an unpleasant nausea in his gut.

This is so much larger than Wilbur, now. Larger than him and Tommy.

Wilbur made a promise to himself. Wilbur isn’t in the business of breaking promises. No matter what, Wilbur always finds a way. It hasn’t always been easy to achieve his goals. The most recent one required Wilbur to die.

He never fails when he sets his mind to something. His goal is to do something. He can’t live knowing that he is the only one who cares.

The public has to know that they’ve been lied to.

Wilbur twists the band around his wrist.

Chapter Text

Two days following Wilbur’s conversation with Niki, he is a complete mess.

There’s no sugarcoating it. Wilbur looks in the mirror and he sees a man that he would not approach on the street. He hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep, he’s got this crazed look in his eyes, and he’s gained enough self awareness to know that he’s going crazy but not enough self awareness to know how to fix it.

Wilbur’s wrist is bare. He loves Friend, as a man would love his dog. But there came a point where he could no longer hear how the world around him was crashing down.

Wilbur has just finished up his third night without sleep, the last two being unintentional. Exhaustion is starting to seep in but he can’t sleep. He’s already tried.

Each time he starts to relax, he seizes up with the strong feeling that he needs to do something.

Wilbur feels frazzled, a little bit sick, and this is probably a therapist’s job but here he is in the waiting room of Sam’s office anyway.

“You alright there?” asks the receptionist, surprising Wilbur into looking up from his lap. The receptionist blinks at him. “Sorry, you just looked a little…”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Wilbur assures. The receptionist doesn’t look persuaded.

“Wilbur?”

He jumps up to greet Sam at the entrance to the hall. “Sam! It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” the engineer agrees, pushing open the door and ushering Wilbur down the hall. They wind up in Sam’s office, which hasn’t changed much since Wilbur was last here. A couple of the gadgets and tools have moved around but that’s about it. It is a little bit messier than it was last time Wilbur was here.

“Hey. So, you said this was urgent when you called me.”

Wilbur nods.

“Are you okay? You look twitchy.”

Silently, Wilbur shakes his head.

“Is something wrong physically? Is there something you need me to fix?”

Wilbur shakes his head to that as well.

“Does it have anything to do with the call I got from Tubbo a couple of days ago?”

“Maybe.”

Sam regards him with a wary eye, and pulls up a stool so that he and Wilbur are both sitting down, face to face.

Sam gives him one look – one small, meaningless look, where he just sadly frowns a little – and Wilbur calls it quits with the hesitant platitudes.

“You know what Tubbo and I talked about?”

Sam nods. “I do.”

“Tell me that I’m misunderstanding something.”

That’s when he starts to actually get to Sam. “What?”

“Friend has been telling me that the government has been lying. They’ve been covering up people suffering. Is that really what Tubbo said?”

“If you’re talking about the homeless population, yes?”

Wilbur is not ready for the answer to the next question he asks.

“What else would I be talking about.”

“That’s not the only thing they’ve been lying about, and I thought you knew that.

When Wilbur goes on to push Sam further, Sam deflects.

“I’m not a politician, Wilbur. I’m just an engineer. You’re a college student though, right? I think you’re better off asking some of your professors.”

“But you know Tubbo.”

“Tubbo’s a whole different story. Tubbo I know, and Tubbo is different from Tub-Net.”

Is he? Tubbo thinks on Tub-Net’s servers. He quite literally is Tub-Net.

“I think you know that it’s a lot more complicated than that. Tubbo is who I know. I’ve known him for years. There’s so much to him than anyone realizes, not even himself. Just think for a second… Tubbo is 18.”

“That shouldn’t matter though,” Wilbur says.

“Nearly his entire life, he hasn’t understood the decisions he’s making. He’ll say something and he doesn’t know why he said it.”

That can’t be true.

“I feel bad for Tubbo. I care about him. And he’s a child celebrity who had to tell the entire country what to do five years before he could drink.”

“But–”

“Don’t blame Tub-Net’s problems on him. He doesn’t deserve that.”

What the hell is the difference?

“What is he lying about?” Wilbur says, nearly at the point of shouting.

“... Everybody knows that our success is exaggerated.”

“I didn’t though! I talked to my friends. We didn’t realize!”

This isn’t in Wilbur’s head. This isn’t his problem.

“Does your generation not realize how little has changed in the past 20 years?”

“Everything has changed,” Wilbur says.

All Sam does is shake his head. “You’d be surprised.”

Wilbur needs a second opinion. Somebody needs to give him someone to blame.

The second he says Tubbo’s name, Tommy scrunches up, like a dried sponge. Wilbur just arrived at Tommy’s flat. He tried to ease into this conversation with some pleasantries and grace. Tommy saw through it immediately and demanded that Wilbur cut the bullshit.

Tommy now regrets that.

“Why are you bringing him up around me?”

“Trust me Toms, I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to,” Wilbur says. He reaches out but Tommy bats his hand away. Wilbur shouldn’t have tried. His mistake. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about the conversation I had with him.”

Tommy hesitates. “Are you finally going to tell me what all of that was?”

Wilbur has been avoiding this conversation with Tommy. “Yes.”

Friend recounts the story. Masochistically, Wilbur sits there listening right alongside Tommy, suppressing surprise with nothing but force of will. It’s one thing to feel that something’s wrong. It’s another thing to hear the exact words that were said.

“Shut it off,” Tommy says before Friend’s done.

Wilbur does so, but he says, “Is Tubbo and the government lying to us?”

Tommy stares at Wilbur like he’s crazy. Wilbur wants nothing more than to wipe that look off Tommy’s face.

“I went to Sam. He made me think that they’re lying. I don’t remember how, but I can’t shake the thought.”

“Sam’s not gonna help you,” Tommy scoffs. Then, an afterthought: “I’m not gonna help you. I don’t know how to help you, uh, Wil, I don’t know how to handle this shit. I don’t care about the government of all things.”

“But you care about Tubbo.”

That struck a nerve. “I told you not to bring up Tubbo.”

Despite Tommy’s protests, Wilbur turns Friend back on. Tommy hears all about what Sam said – until Tommy jams the off button himself. Wilbur glares, but Tommy seems unremorseful.

“Here’s what I think,” Wilbur says. “I think I might have caught him off guard. He must not have been thinking clearly–”

“No, Sam meant everything he said.”

“But–”

“I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I care about the government. You brought up Tubbo, so I’m going to talk about Tubbo. Strap in.”

Against all odds and logic, Tommy begins to lecture him.

“Listen Wil, do you want to know how Tubbo as a person is able to– y’know, exist? Or do you want to be told that he was just bullshitting you? Cause I’m not gonna lie. Sam wasn’t bullshitting. Honestly Wilbah, you’re smart, I’m surprised you haven’t realized that everything the media is spewing is fucking bullshit. It’s really not that hard to figure out.”

“Then how do so many people believe that we’re in a good place?”

Tommy barks out a laugh. “You’re avoiding the question. You’re just avoiding the question! Do you want me to tell you about Tubbo? Or do you want to leave?”

Tommy has never asked Wilbur to leave. Tommy’s happy to spend every waking hour of every day with him.

“Tubbo then. He hasn’t been acting rational. He hasn’t been acting at all, he’s been blindly following the decree of a fucking calculator.”

“He’s more than a calculator,” Wilbur says, the thought repulsing him.

“Are we?”

Wilbur doesn’t want to think about that. He really doesn’t want to think about that.

Kind of ironic that it doesn’t want to think about itself.

“Okay– okay, Wilbur, I’m gonna try to explain something, but you’ve gotta bear with me. I don’t even know what I’m saying. But fuck, I think both of us need to hear it.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m listening.”

This conversation id torture, for both of them.

“Any other day, if you came here for Tubbo-hating, I’d be all for it. I’m Tubbo’s #1 hater. Fucking bastard ruined my life, he rolled the dice on my life and I’m never forgetting that.”

Wilbur’s not here to hate Tubbo. He’s here because of what Tubbo stands for.

At the same time though, both he and Tommy are alive because of a dice roll.

“The thing is that this isn’t any other day. This is a very strange day. You’re not acting like yourself, and it’s scaring me.”

He’s scaring Tommy?

“So here’s the thing, listen to me. You need to cut Tubbo some slack and stop blaming this all on him. You’re only going to drive yourself mad.”

“What do you mean?”

Tommy’s index finger jams into Wilbur’s chest, straight above Wilbur’s heart. His fiery eyes fixate on Wilbur, trapping him in a staring contest that he cannot win. “You’re angry that you’ve been lied to your entire life, and that you now actually have to think about shit and question things.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

Tommy’s lips twist up in a sneer. “I wouldn’t say it any differently. But you’re being forced to think about shit, and you’re blaming Tubbo for it. Stop it.”

“But he’s the one–”

“Tubbo is a weird boy who needed a friend assigned to him when he was three years old because he didn’t act human enough.” Something in Tommy’s face softens. The fire does not dim, but maybe it’s jaw, or his neck, something loses tension. “Because yeah, Tubbo’s basically a computer. A computer that knew numbers really well and understood what humans are but had no clue how to be a human being.”

Wilbur knows how Tubbo works. Tubbo was his obsession when he was Tommy’s age.

“I came in and he was funny, smart, but he was also dumb at the same time, you know? He knew calculus but he didn’t know how to swing on a swing set. Want to know who taught him that?”

“You?” Wilbur guesses.

Tommy jabs both his thumbs in towards his own chest. “Yep, none other than me. When I met him, he didn’t talk. You know that? Well, he would, but I didn’t like it. He sounded like those prototype droids from decades ago, the creepy ones you see in the movies. And well, I told him that, because I guess I was a mean kid. But I talked his ear off and eventually he started talking kind of like me but not too much like me and that was when I started liking him.”

“I don’t understand what any of this has to do with what I’m talking about.”

The softness drains from Tommy’s face. “Seriously? Wilbur, I’m saying that this kid is– was my best friend.”

“Oh.”

“You’re really that dense?” Tommy says it sharply but there doesn’t seem to be any malice behind the words. “I guess I’m defending him, sue me. But I’m just trying to say, please don’t trash this guy for things that aren’t actually his fault.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur mutters.

He wasn’t trying to trash Tubbo. This goes far beyond Tubbo.

Tommy must mistake his silence for something that it’s not. “For fuck’s sake, what would you think if I started insulting Niki?”

WIlbur reels back. “What? What did Niki ever do?”

Tommy hesitates. “Um, do you remember your fight with her?”

“What fight?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Tommy does not understand what a monumental task don’t worry is.

“I’m just saying, you’re angry, Wil. Be angry at the right people for the right reasons.”

“But how do I know if my reasons are right? Who do I know to be angry at?”

Tommy huffs, exasperated. “Fuck if I know. Just don’t be dumb, alright?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, Toms. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

They stare at each other, and it’s like a switch is flipped. Suddenly Tommy is launching himself across the couch, rocketing into him. His arms wrap around Wilbur’s shoulders and he buries his head in the crook of Wilbur’s neck.

Wilbur returns the hug, and they lay there, tightly clutching each other on the couch, warm.

His vision is clouded by a haze of blue, but it’s gone once he blinks it away.

He clutches his best friend tight and tries to block out the world outside. Up in a luxury apartment in one of the richest districts of the city, Wilbur forgets all about the homeless population and criminal organizations down below and all of the other secrets this city could be hiding.

He forgets what he cares about.

He forgets that Tubbo was never really his problem.

It’s Tub-Net.

It’s really, really tough returning to his own empty apartment.

Usually, Wilbur doesn’t mind living alone. It’s certainly not his preference, though. What can he say? Until he went to uni, he never really had privacy like this. Fundy was always there. His little brother always needed a diaper change or he was screaming or he needed help with homework. Mum needed help with chores or Dad had an errand for him.

Before Fundy was born, he didn’t really spend a lot of time at home. He was at a friend’s house or robotics club or the library. He was at the library a lot. And the local park, since he was allowed there alone.

An empty house was rare. Wilbur likes to think that he’s gotten used to it.

But he wishes he didn’t leave Tommy’s flat. He doesn’t care that they were doing nothing, both too scared to speak. He doesn’t remember what he was scared about. That means it couldn’t be good. Still, he wishes he could go back without question.

Here, he’s alone with his thoughts, and the prospect is terrifying.

“Friend?” he calls. “Friend, I gave you things for me to think about. I need some of them. What am I– what am I supposed to be thinking about?”

Friend tells him, and he needs to sit down.

He ends up in an armchair near his red lamp. A strong sense of deja-vu washes over him. He shivers, but he cannot shake the sensation.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Wilbur knows too much. He can’t just sit here with that knowledge. There has to be something he can do.

“People are hurting, Friend.” He shakes his head before letting it fall into his hands. “People are hurting and I don’t know the half of it. Nobody even cares.”

The blue light of Friend’s words shine through Wilbur’s eyelids. He pries them open.

If you don’t know, then go out and learn.

“How?”

Find people like Jack, Friend says. Then talk to them.

Wilbur could do that. He doesn’t know how he’d find them. Maybe they’ll reveal themselves to him as he searches. After all, he’s looking for people who have something to say.

But it’s not enough.

“Nobody’s gonna care, anyway.”

You’ll care.

“But me caring doesn’t help people like Jack. I don’t know what I can do.”

Make other people care.

Ah, Friend. Almost smart enough to help. He shakes his head. “It isn’t that easy.”

It sticks with him, though. The idea of making people care.

An idea starts to form.

The idea spirals.

It’s quite an idea. When Wilbur thought of it, he thought himself crazy. A guy like him can’t do something like this. But, well, Friend loves the idea.

Wilbur is going to meet people. And he’s going to make other people care.

Over the next two weeks, Wilbur gets about ten hours of sleep in total.

Hah, Wilbur’s… Wilbur’s a little bit loopy. He got on the train this morning, the one that he takes to Tommy’s. The train that runs in the exact opposite of his university, which is where he was supposed to be going. That was a mistake on his part. It’s a good thing he left early. Now he’s here, finally, and he has a tall cup of coffee in his hands.

Will caffeine affect him the same way it used to? Who knows? Probably. If it doesn’t, the placebo effect will kick in and Wilbur will be able to stumble his way through a very important conversation.

It’s a conversation he’s been working his way up to. This is the proof of concept for this idea. Now he should be calling it a plan.

“Friend,” Wilbur calls as he makes the trek from the metro stop to class. “Remind me why I’m angry.

Friend speaks aloud. “Because people have been lied to, and they don’t care about the truth.”

That’s right. “They’ve been lied to.”

“And they don’t care.”

A sickening laugh escapes his throat. “They don’t even care!”

The reminder is familiar, in the back of his mind. He may not be able to retain that information long term, but his mind is prepared to hear it. It’s prepared for the anger that this information incites.

Wilbur has learned what anger is like. It’s a passion. It’s righteous. It’s knowing that things can be better and demanding that they be so.

It’s written off, but anger is necessary for change. If you are not angry at the status quo, then why go through the effort of changing it?

Passion has overwhelmed Wilbur’s weaknesses. Entranced by dreams of success, Wilbur carries himself into the university, ready to run his plan by the first test.

Wilbur knocks on his professor’s door. “Eret? Can I talk to you?

“Come in,” Eret calls, and Wilbur pushes through the doorway.

Eret has office hours right now. They have a crossword pulled up on the holo-pad that they push aside. They smile at Wilbur.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Wilbur. What did you come here for? I do hope that it’s for something good, but if you’re having trouble in your studies, by all means, I will find you help.”

“I’m actually not here to talk about class today,” Wilbur says.

“You’re not?”

“I’m thinking about something that transcends the scope of this class, and even this university.”

Eret’s eyes blow wide. “That’s quite a claim.”

Wilbur pulls out his pad. “I’m prepared to back it up. But I need help.”

None of the great visionaries of history blindly stumbled around their worlds, earning their spot in the history books on dumb luck. Even frauds and crooks saw opportunity and seized it. Wilbur’s already working with a handicap, he can’t afford anything less than persistent diligence.

First, with Friend’s help, Wilbur explains the circumstances that brought about this problem. Then, Wilbur tells Eret of the plan.

Eret’s eyes are wide. They don’t believe in him, not yet. Sure enough, their tone is hesitant. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“Will you give me the support I need though?”

With Eret’s reluctance, Wilbur half expects a polite no. To his surprise, Eret reaches across the desk for their phone. “I have a couple of people I could get you in touch with. You’re going to need a lot of contacts for this project. I can get you in touch with them. I don’t know if this will work out for you, but there’s no harm in trying. I think you have a very moral goal.”

The surge of happiness Wilbur feels is not only from the approval, but from the endorsement. He is working towards something good. He nods his head. “Thank you. Really, thank you.

“Wilbur, while I have you here, I want to ask you a question.”

“Yes?”

“It’s not exactly about this plan, is that fine?”

Wilbur nods. “Yeah, ask away.”

“So, the situation that you’ve been in is obviously very sensitive. It’s also something that directly relates to the course.”

That’s not the question Wilbur expected.

Sensitive… that’s a word for it. “What are you thinking, professor?”

“I want the class to understand restoration droids as a technology,” Eret says. “I wasn’t able to provide your first class with an adequate explanation. There was simply information that I didn’t know. Now you’re here, and you’re basically a walking case study of how this technology plays out when applied to real people.”

“Real people,” Wilbur mutters.

“Right now, the only impression of restoration droids your classmates have is that it’s an exciting new advancement. They’ll also likely think of Mr. Innes. Do you know who that is?”

“Yes, I know of Tommy Innes.”

“Good, I wasn’t sure, based on the nature of your condition.”

“I know of Tommy Innes very well.” Part of him wants to laugh. Part of him is very, very happy that he’s not laughing.

“I can see how you would find him interesting. But he’s been notoriously private since the incident. Which is completely understandable. Nobody’s been able to get an interview out of him. You know, he would probably be a good fit for your project, if he wasn’t so hard to get a hold of.”

Are they going to get to the point of their question?

He meets the professor’s eyes, and Eret must see something in his. “Wilbur, I’m sorry for being so vague, force of habit. I do tend to think in hypotheticals. What I’m saying is that your story could be a valuable one for me to tell to my courses. I’m not about to do it without your permission though.”

Wilbur takes a moment to think. The deliberation is not a fun process.

“Do I get a choice?” Wilbur asks.

“Of course you do,” Eret says. “I would never want to coerce you into a decision like this.”

Being a talking point? Wilbur glances out the window of the office. The hall outside is vast, hollow, and eerie without its student population occupying its seats.

Nearly a year ago, Wilbur sat in there, excitedly typing out notes with rapid fingers against the keyboard of his holo-pad. With rapt attention he listened as Eret explained restoration droids. He felt childlike wonder as he imagined a future devoid of sickness, headache, and fear.

He didn’t think something would go wrong.

He also thought he would live to see new years day of 2118. Wilbur had no idea of his impending death, but the information wouldn’t have changed anything.

Wilbur was going to die, no matter what.

“I do urge you to think about the people who might want to make these decisions for themselves. I’ve already heard students talking about the program, and their potential futures in it.”

“Do I have to decide right now?”

Eret shakes their head, and Wilbur sags in relief.

“I’ll think about it.” Wilbur grabs his bag, standing up from the chair. He pauses for a moment, unable to shake the memory. That’s not what he was here for, though. “But Professor, thank you, thank you so much. I’m going to be able to do so much good if this plays out.”

Eret smiles, though there is a strange quiver to the end of his lip. “Good luck.”

The second Wilbur steps out of that room, he forgets all about Eret’s last question. His mind has been limited to a single path; a single track. He’s barrelling straight down it.

Wilbur’s plan, deceptively simple, is to deliver the public the same revelations he came to, in the same way.

Interviews. He is going to interview the real people who have been affected by Tub-Net’s decision making or the government’s lies.

The complexity comes in reaching out to those people and eventually distributing the information he gains. Such a feat has been done before, and Wilbur can do it himself.

This is where his knowledge of journalism comes in. Wilbur knows enough to understand that questions need to be field tested before being brought to the sensitive subjects of these interviews. During his week of labor, Wilbur came up with seven questions. Seven simple questions that he would like to ask.

“Is the mic on now?”

Wilbur nods. “Yes, and it’s recording.”

Ranboo’s eyes go wide, and Wilbur smiles at them. Ranboo was a little bit apprehensive. But they insisted that they wanted to help, in any way they could.

Because Ranboo’s story is not directly connected to Tub-Net, they aren’t the best fit for an interview. So acting as the trial is a good purpose for them. They don’t want this information shared, but they’re happy to give it to Wilbur. Ranboo assured him of that multiple times. It’s just the recording that Ranboo said they’re nervous about. But Wilbur would never share it without their permission, and Ranboo knows that.

“So, first question, who are you?”

“That’s the first question?” Ranboo asks.

“Just tell me anything that you want somebody to know upon first meeting you. Your name, where you’re from, personal philosophy. Anything that describes who you are.”

“That’s a tough question.”

Wilbur has his pad out, ready to edit the document. “I can change it if you’d–”

“No, no I think it’s a good question,” Ranboo says. “I just need a minute. Do you think that when you do the actual interviews, people will have time to think? Or would that make it run too long?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “No, they get as much time as they need. I can always edit the video, if I go for that format. It might all be text based.”

“Oh, I’m avoiding the question, aren’t I?”

“Please, take your time.”

Wilbur catches himself bouncing his leg, stops it, and then decides what the hell, and lets it bounce along. He smiles, happy to let Ranboo. He’s happy to just be here, in this private room in the library, on the first step.

“I’m Ranboo Beloved, and I am a refugee from the Endlands.”

“Oh, I forgot to mention something important,” Wilbur says. “Feel free to stray from what I ask you. This is your chance to talk.”

“Okay. I’m ready for the next question.”

Wilbur scrolls down. “What happened to you? Why are you being interviewed?”

“Well, because you needed somebody?”

“The question will make more sense in the actual interviews.”

“I get that, I get that. I guess… Well, uh, my country kind of came crashing down, that’s why.”

Wilbur makes a note to think about the wording of this question, but it might work. He gives Ranboo a little motion. They can go on if they want to. After a moment, Ranboo does, and Wilbur listens.

Ranboo doesn’t need to put a lot of thought into their answers, yet they seem to anyway. At one point they say that it’s important to them that they represent themselves correctly.

“You don’t want me to get the wrong impression of you?” Wilbur asks to that.

“I don’t want to get myself confused.”

Wilbur can certainly relate to that.

He’s gotten through the first five questions, only two to go. It’s nearly been an hour, Ranboo really has been happy to answer. It seems about right to move on to the next one, though. They do have limited time in this room.

“Do you think the system we have in place does more harm or good?”

Ranboo pauses, looking off. “Do you mean my system? Back in the Endlands? Or here?”

“You can talk about either one.”

“I still think that Tub-Net is revolutionary.”

Wilbur notes that down, finishing off the note with the word why? Ranboo knows the whole story of why he’s doing this, and said that it’s a really good thing Wilbur’s doing. So to say that this surprises Wilbur would be an understatement.

“Even though they’ve been lying?”

“I mean, that’s questionable. I’m not saying it’s a perfect system. I don’t think they should be doing that. I think it’s a good system though. I wish that the Endlands was like this.”

It’s probably an unfair comparison. Ranboo lived through the collapse of democracy in the Endlands, and the onset of widespread unemployment and poverty. Coming to Essempi after that must be like waking from a nightmare. When there’s no grass at all on the other side, it must be easier to ignore the dead patches here.

“Do you want to talk more about this or move onto the next question?”

“Next question, please.”

Wilbur takes a moment to collect himself before the final query. He looks down at what he wrote. It doesn’t exactly make sense to ask Ranboo. He could change the wording, but he hasn’t been doing that so far. He might as well go for it, and let himself be surprised.

“Who would you be without Tub-Net?”

As expected, Ranboo is taken aback by the question. They’re used to this routine by now though, so they look away for a moment, thinking it over.

“Just a guy, in a small town in the Endlands, going about my everyday life.”

“Would you rather be there?”

After a pause, “I really don’t know. I mean, I don’t know who that kid would be. He’d probably still be working at the corner store while attending the local university. He probably wouldn’t have a lot of friends, but who knows, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he would want to travel the world or something.”

“Would he?” Wilbur asks.

“I don’t know. He isn’t me. You might as well be talking about the stranger.”

“Do you think this is a bad question?”

“No, no not at all. I actually really like it. It makes me think.”

Wilbur notes that down. He can’t help but wonder if it could be worded better, or perhaps if he should’ve asked Ranboo about the Dragon Matrix.

“Was that the last question?”

Wilbur shuts off the pad. “It was, you’re free to go. Sorry for keeping you here so long.”

“Oh, it was no problem, I would have said something if I wasn’t okay with it.”

Even so, Wilbur can’t shake this funny feeling. Ranboo helps him pack up the microphone into its case, and offers to walk over to the metro with him. Wilbur declines. He wants to stay in the library a little bit longer.

Wilbur traverses the rows of bookshelves, dragging his fingers against the spines of the books. He drifts through them, letting time pass. He has a while until the library closes. He probably shouldn’t waste too much time, but this can’t hurt him, can it?

He’s almost ready to start interviews now.

He has a couple of people to contact. He called the people Eret told him to call, and some of those conversations were what cemented him in the idea that he has to do this. Just like Jack said, there’s a lot of homeless people in this city, hiding in shelters or situations where they’re functionally but not technically “Homeless.” Then there’s the people who have lost stock and money, painted as rich people being equalized, when in reality too much was taken from them than was really fair.

There’s people whose healthcare access has been limited for various reasons, mentally ill unable to find adequate help for complicated conditions, convicts unable to piece their life back together, and countless others.

People who were told their problems were “Going to be fixed soon enough” decades ago.

Wilbur has two people ready to call at any moment. An ex-convict trying to piece his life together, and a disabled veteran unable to access services. Apparently, both of their problems can be traced back directly to Tub-Net.

Justice is coming to Essempi. Sooner rather than later.

The first interview is with Connor, the ex-convict, whose case escalated past the courts all the way to Tub-Net, which made the final decision.

The first interview is recorded in a different library, closer to the subject’s home. They have a private room, although it’s a lot smaller than the one Wilbur and Ranboo had. They’re squished up close to the recording equipment, and the cameras are essentially fixed on a closeup of their faces. Regardless, Wilbur is brimming with an odd mix of curiosity and apprehension.

“So, who are you?” Wilbur asks, once everything has been set up.

The man leans back, shrugging. “My name’s Conner.”

Wilbur expected a little bit more, but he was the one who made the question so vague. He goes on to the next one. “What happened to you? Do you want to explain a bit of your situation?”

“Okay, I’ll get into it. Started with identity theft, ended with being labeled a danger to the public, here’s what happened in between.

“I was seventeen, I wanted alcohol, you know the deal, My cousin, he’s in the military, he looks a lot like me. So I stole his ID. Happened to be his military ID, and all of a sudden, I’m being arrested for stolen valor.”

The first interview sure is going interesting.

“So they already knew I had committed a crime involving him. But then my cousin went and got murdered by somebody, and I guess I was guilty by association. I didn’t murder the guy.

“My lawyer was kind of shitty, they convicted me, but I challenged it. Challenged it until it got to Tub-Net. But the bastards said it would be better to keep me in jail. The risk of me being a murderer was worse than throwing an innocent man in prison, apparently.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“I was supposed to get six months max for stolen valor. Do you want to guess what they gave me?”

That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that Wilbur should answer, should he?

“Fifteen years. Fifteen damn years, I was supposed to be in there. I got out on parole though, cause I made friends with a guy whose dad was rich. Don’t put that part in the interview though.”

Wilbur wasn’t planning to. This story, uh… it might be distracting in the grand scheme of things.

“Now, I’m struggling, not able to get a job because nobody wants to hire a guy like me. I’m surviving off of UBI, but it’s not enough, man. It’s not enough when I can’t even get a job as a pizza delivery driver. All because some computer program thought that my wellbeing wasn’t worth the small possibility that I was a bad guy. So much for innocent until proven guilty, right?

Tub-Net is supposed to be one branch of government. Instead,  it’s acting as all three. The problems in the justice system end up just being the beginning.

The second interview starts similarly; holding these recordings in public libraries makes it all easier. This time he sits across from a young man. He resembles Tommy in many ways, blond hair, light eyes. But his face is gaunt and scarred, haunted by horrors that he may express here today.

“Happy to have you here today, Purpled. Would you like to describe yourself? Who are you?”

Purpled leans back, jaw clenching as he thinks. “I’m a soldier. I’ve been screwed over. And I’m fed up with the system, which is what you’re here to talk to me about, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Whatever they’ve told you about veterans services in this country is a lie. I’m struggling to pay the bills, and I’m in pain every day. They don’t prioritize what we need because they said that they’re helping everybody. They completely ignore that we deal with much more than the average person. I joined the army because I was told I’d be set for life. Instead, I’ve ruined it.”

And of course, the one who has decided to divert funds away from veterans services, was Tub-Net.

From the interviews with Connor and Purpled, Wilbur gets an idea of how to proceed going forward. He also comes to understand the bigger picture. That comes to him in bits and pieces.

The realization that all of these people he’s reaching out to didn’t just come out of nowhere. They were out there with their own stories to tell this entire time. The difference is that they had never been brought together like this.

It starts off easy, like this. Wilbur reaches out to more people in the city. Not all of them can directly trace their problems back to Tub-Net – that’s fine. These are people whose needs are not covered by UBI. Who have complex medical problems that they’re having trouble finding help for. People who haven’t been able to get adequate mental health care. That’s the big one. That’s the one that almost all of them mention.

A month into this endeavor, Wilbur has interviewed three people, but he’s had correspondence with a dozen. He has a dozen more to reach out to. He’s had people say that they’ll refer their friends to him.

Wilbur sets up an email list, and gets started on a website. He should have thought about that earlier, honestly. It’s all going by so quickly. But it’s happening. There is a file on his computer containing all of the interviews he’s held so far.

Wilbur never pictured himself starting a project like this. Now that he has, he can’t turn back.

Between emailing possible contacts, preparing a marketing plan to get this out there, looking into extra help such as a social media manager, and all the other rabbit holes of work he falls down, Wilbur has little time for anything personal. He has little time to go hang out with friends or call anybody up.

Which hasn’t exactly pleased Tommy.

are u comin gover today

The text comes in just as Wilbur sits down to write an important email setting up the next interview. This should only take a couple of minutes. Wilbur’s hands fly across the keyboard.

wilb

Wilbur ignores it, checking the calendar. That day doesn’t work… that one does, they can meet on that day.

wil answer me

The email just needs an end. He’s close to finishing. Then the phone rings. For a second, Wilbur hesitates. His hand hovers over the phone.

“Yeah Tom?”

“You’re coming over.”

Wilbur has more work to do. He types out a closing sentence. Tommy starts talking at him again. “Come on, I’m going to see you in thirty minutes, you’re coming over.”

Wilbur hits send on the email. Then his sight is set on the fifty other tabs he has open.

He wasn’t going to get through all of these today anyway.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

Wilbur brings nothing with him aside from Friend and his phone. Not even his pad. Looking back, he should have brought it just to read a book on the metro. Instead he sits in silence as the city rolls past.

It’s the first time in weeks that Wilbur has spent thirty minutes doing nothing.

He keeps expecting boredom to creep in any minute. He’s not bored, at the moment. The busy atmosphere of the train is just the right amount of noise. He sinks into his seat. The swaying of the train car is nice. Momentarily, Wilbur closes his eyes.

What is so nice about this?

Why can’t he bring himself to care?

Wilbur is made to care soon. At Tommy’s flat, he turns his key in the door. His soft knock on the doorframe should alert Tommy to his presence. The lights are off when he walks in.

“Tommy?”

A lump of what Wilbur thought were blankets on the bed shifts. Out of the fabric Tommy’s hand emerges, and he lazily beckons Wilbur towards him. Not one to ignore Tommy’s call, Wilbur sits on the unoccupied side of the bed.

“You bitch,” Tommy mutters. Although he looks utterly exhausted, his voice doesn’t carry that weight. In fact, it’s airier than normal. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I haven’t been trying to ignore you, I’m sorry–”

“Haven’t been giving me enough attention,” Tommy complains. The smile is evident in his voice. He’s joking around. “You’ve been depriving me.”

“Oh, the horror.”

Tommy pulls the covers down, revealing his face, where he’s putting on quite the grumpy face. Wilbur rolls himself out of the bed, straightening out his wrinkled clothing.

“Where are you going?” Tommy asks.

“Well we’re not lying around in your bed all day, are we?”

“That was kind of the plan,” Tommy grumbles.

“Well come on, let’s do something.”

Tommy does pull himself out of bed. His feet drag on the carpet and his arms hang heavy, as if some invisible force is holding him back. Wilbur pats the seat on the couch beside him, but Tommy wrinkles his nose to that.

“You’re calling me like a cat.”

Wilbur didn’t mean to make it seem that way. That is what he used to do, back when he had a cat. A little orange fur ball by the name of Milo. He frowns at Tommy and Tommy frowns back.

Maybe Tommy wasn’t joking around earlier.

“Are you upset with me?” Wilbur’s careful not to raise his voice too loud. It’s an attempt to make his voice gentle. It’s unclear whether that works or not.

“No.” Tommy pauses. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Toms. When I do something like this, I go all in. I shouldn’t use that as an excuse though. I’ll come over more often, from now on. I can find the time.”

Tommy shakes his head. “No, no, I’d hate to get in the way of your work.”

“You’re not getting in the way. I’m sorry, we’re friends, that means that we need to spend time together.”

That doesn’t seem to satisfy Tommy either. Tommy toils, beginning to slowly pace the length of the living room, stopping before he could cross the invisible lines that mark out the kitchen and the bedroom. Tommy never stays silent for long though, so of course he starts muttering.

Wilbur can’t catch it all, but here’s what he does hear: “No, no don’t speak like that Wil… you say you’re so sorry but you’re just going to go back to your projects and that’s not a bad thing, you’re doing shit, you’re being productive…”

Wilbur rises. As soon as he does, Tommy shoots him a glare sharper than a shooter. The couch now feels like condemnation.

“... but in the end, what are you doing?”

Wilbur blinks. “What?”

Tommy knows what Wilbur’s project is. During the beginning, Wilbur called Tommy often about it. He talked Tommy’s ear off, just listening to himself to make sure that his marketing plans made sense and that he could remember why he was doing this in the first place. What does Tommy mean, he should know this.

“I mean, you know that things like this have been done before, right?”

“They have?”

The way that Tommy’s looking at him makes Wilbur want to make a quick dash to the bathroom. He settles for sinking into the couch cushions, as shame clouds him like a blinding light.

“I– I looked it up,” Wilbur stutters. “I couldn’t really find many people doing something similar to what I’m doing.”

It’s not something that he’s forgetting. It’s just Tommy, well… Tommy raises his arms, slightly incredulous. “I mean, somebody has to have done this. There has to be a documentary about the homeless in Essempi or something.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I looked.”

“Well– people know that not everything is fine.”

“Do they?” Last Wilbur checked, it seemed like they didn’t.

Once again, Tommy is floundering. “I did. I knew. I think most people with a normal mind realized that.”

Normal mind?

So maybe Wilbur’s memory loss does play into this conversation.

“Some people may tell you they didn’t, but come on. I’m a dumbass, if I know, most people probably have some idea. The media just doesn’t talk about it, they talk about Tub-Net. Everybody knows that the media is fucken dramatic. They wanna talk all about Tub-Net and technology, because we’re the best country in the world, everybody should know that. But they also know that we have some ways to go.”

“They might know that, but do they care?” Wilbur asks.

That’s when Tommy stops, mouth open, with nothing to say.

“Some of them might know about a couple of these things, but do they really care? Because that’s what I want to do. I want to make people care.”

“Well– why care when everything’s going to be fixed soon?”

“Because I don’t think they’re intending to fix a lot of these things.”

Time. That needs a little bit of time to sink in. Tommy usually takes at least a moment or two when he realizes he needs to think.

Tommy drops his carefully poised stance. He drops his attack. It doesn’t feel like a victory.

“I don’t know, ghost, I don’t know.”

The old nickname stirs something in Wilbur. It’s been a while since Tommy called him that.

“I guess it’s just hard to wrap my head around the fact that you’re writing a hit piece about my ex-best– about my traitorous ex-best friend and that’s the reason I’m not seeing you anymore.”

The solution Wilbur jumps to is not very well thought through. “Would it help if you were involved?”

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “Huh?”

“I don’t want to choose between you and my project. And you have a story to tell.” Wilbur gets up. This time, Tommy’s glare doesn’t sway him. He meets his friend face to face. Ignores the fire in Tommy’s eyes. Half of that ire isn’t even meant to be targeted towards Wilbur.

“I’m not making you choose,” Tommy grumbles.

“Let me interview you. Tell your story. Make sure that they’re hearing the truth.”

By now, Tommy’s emotions are easier to understand than Wilbur’s own. He wants to say no. “Fuck off Wil, let’s go play a game.” He’d hate to push Wilbur too far though. Even though they joke around all the time, Tommy’s always scared of that. Wilbur seems so fragile. Tommy’s scared to touch, because what if he messes up and Wilbur breaks?

Wilbur won’t break, but he understands Tommy’s fear.

Tommy doesn’t want Wilbur to go home. He doesn’t like being alone. When he’s alone, he thinks about Tubbo, and he would much rather think about Wilbur than Tubbo.

Surely, Tommy doesn’t want to think about Tubbo. That’s what makes it such a surprise when Tommy nods.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s do this,” Tommy says, sounding less than thrilled, but certainly resolute.

“The recording equipment is back at my flat. Can we go there?”

Tommy shrugs. “Whatever you want big man, let’s do it.”

In the entire history of Wilbur and Tommy’s friendship, Wilbur has never once invited Tommy over to his flat. That wasn’t a purposeful choice, certainly not a malicious one. Simply, Tommy never asked, and Wilbur never thought to ask. They always met at Tommy’s flat. Why wouldn’t they?

Tommy stands into the doorway of Wilbur’s flat, eyes wide. Is it too messy? Is it the red lamp? He doesn’t think it’s that off putting, then again, he can’t remember the last time he had anybody over. Wilbur clears his throat. That snaps Tommy out of his stupor, and he takes a couple steps in.

“This doesn’t feel very you,” Tommy says.

“I’m– I’m sorry?” How is Wilbur supposed to take that?

Apparently, he’s not supposed to take it any sort of way. Tommy turns back to him and shakes his head. “So. The interview?”

Wilbur gets his equipment set up – he’s now cursing himself for buying this old school microphone instead of the slick new models that don’t require this much preparation. But without too much fuss, he and Tommy are sitting down at the table. By now, Wilbur has the questions memorized.

Wilbur has his hand on the switch that will turn on the microphone. “Toms?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you want this?”

For a split second, Tommy seems to hesitate. But then he nods his head.

The switch is flicked, and now, the microphone is recording their every word. Immediately, the pressure sets in. Three simple words. “Who are you?” It’s not exactly a hard question.

But he looks his best friend in the eyes and he throws out all of the questions.

Wilbur sits back and says, “Speak your truth.”

“Really? That sounds so fucking dumb.”

“I can ask the actual qu–”

“You want the truth, we’re going to be here for a long time,” Tommy says. He leans across the table, making sure he’s got Wilbur’s full attention. He does. There is not a single thought in Wilbur’s mind other than Tommy.

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.

“You ready to listen?”

That shouldn’t even be a question. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur’s care and dedication is being tested.

“Stop asking questions about Tubbo.”

“You told me not to skip any questions.”

Tommy’s face scrunches up in anger, as if Wilbur is doing something to personally spite him by holding to his earlier words. Not five minutes ago, “Don’t let me skip anything. I’m not cowarding out. Don’t let me coward out.”

Tommy scoots his chair out from the table, as if he’s going to get up and leave. He’s done that a dozen times by now. He always pulls it back in.

The interview has not been going well. It’s gotten to the point where the beginning of this endeavor is tough to look back on.

Wilbur has never seen this side of Tommy before. To be quite frank, it’s baffling him. It makes a little bit more sense when Wilbur thinks about the fact that this situation is something that they’ve never been in before.

Rarely does Wilbur ask any questions. He doesn’t need to. Tommy is happy to talk about his life completely unprompted. This is probably the first time in their friendship that Wilbur has queried Tommy more than three times in a row.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“The question wasn’t about Tubbo,” Wilbur says. Because of Tommy’s dramatic sigh, Wilbur lowers his voice. “I just asked, ‘Do you believe the system does more harm or good?’ That’s not even about Tub-Net–”

“You know damn well it’s about Tubbo.”

“It’s about the government as a whole. And I didn’t say Tubbo.”

Tommy narrows his eyes.

“Tubbo doesn’t make decisions for the government as a whole,” Wilbur says. “Tub-Net does.”

All Wilbur is doing is parroting words that he’s heard before. Words that Tommy said.

Why is Tommy so angered by his own words?

“You’re the one who keeps talking about Tubbo,” Wilbur says, immediately regretting it.

Hurt consumes Tommy’s face, clouding his eyes. Wilbur fights back the urge to apologize. Tommy was never supposed to hurt because of him.

Ever since Wilbur turned the microphone on, he’s been walking on eggshells. Hesitation before every sentence, constantly questioning himself. All while keeping a close eye on every move Tommy makes. Meaningless twitches have nearly sparked anxiety attacks.

He shouldn’t have brought Tommy over here.

“I don’t give a shit about Tub-Net,” Tommy says. “And you know damn well my relationship with Tubbo is complicated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“... Do you know damn well about my relationship with Tubbo?”

Wilbur shrugs. “I can imagine?”

“I guess you don’t remember. Probably isn’t fucken fair at all to ask you, who am I to do that, just ignore everything about you…”

Wilbur’s not going to try to pretend he understands anymore. Tommy goes on about how “You’ve dealt with shit like this… it’s a fucken mess, let me tell you, it’s a mess.” Silently, Wilbur goes over and turns the recording equipment off.

Tommy takes notice. He should be happy. He’s not.

“Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?”

Yes. Yes, Wilbur has been listening, he swears.

“You look con-flic-ted.” Tommy pronounces every syllable with care.

“Conflicted?”

“You look upset.”

Tommy’s not supposed to know that he’s upset.

A sharp shock of panic shoots down Wilbur’s spine. This time, it doesn’t dissipate, like it had before. It incites more panic at the fact that he is panicking. He does not know what has happened. One second he was fine. The next, he’s like this.

He couldn’t handle it. Oh fuck, he couldn’t handle it.

This is where it all goes downhill. This is when he starts forgetting his own mistakes.

Then Tommy’s hand latches onto his own.

“Are you okay?”

Fuck no.

“I don’t want to say anything wrong,” Wilbur says, words rushing out. He didn’t mean to let them loose.

“What?”

“I don’t want to mess things up and ruin things.”

What the hell is he saying?”

Hours worth of anger and animosity crumble away from Tommy’s face. “Oh, Wilbah.”

Suddenly Tommy’s out of his seat, for real this time, and his arms are around Wilbur’s shoulders. He’s holding Wilbur tight and his head is resting on Wilburs.

Wilbur loves it. The weight of Tommy’s arms on his shoulder and his head on his.

But he does not understand it. And a part of him is afraid of it. It’s the dizzying sense of deja-vu that terrifies him.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Query for literary representation

The email has been waiting for Wilbur in his inbox. Tommy just left, after they spent hours together watching the tele. Now Wilbur curses himself for not checking in on this earlier. If he had known, he would’ve shot back a reply right away.

Why did he let Tommy stay so long? Why did he let precious hours slip by?

Hello, Wilbur,

I’m going to drop all the formal stuff right now – once I get past the first email with a client, it’s not really necessary. If we’re going to continue working together, it’s good if we can be friendly with each other.

That is to say, I see a way forward with this partnership. Usually, I don’t work with clients who haven’t finished their work yet. I’m willing to make an exception. What you’re doing is important. So while I can’t promise anything, I think we could make a great team.

I’ll start asking around to magazines and publishers. I’m not sure yet whether you will need to put this into a book, or a series of write-ups. If you could give me a timeframe on when you’ll be done with interviews that would be great.

Like I said, this is an important project. I’m not from Essempi myself, and when I moved here, I could see that it wasn’t what they sold me on TV. I felt like I had to hold my tongue. That nobody cares. I want to believe they do care. I want to believe someone like you can make them care.\

Don’t let me down.

Regards,

Sneegsnag

He/Him, Literary Agent, L’Manburg City

This is going to happen.

Interviews are going to be done in April. He’ll have nearly two dozen. They’ll all be transcribed into written format where they’ll most likely be published in an online magazine.

Wilbur first discovered Sneeg through a friend of a friend of a friend – he’s actually not sure exactly how he was put in touch with the man, but he’s glad he was. Since the initial few emails, the two of them have been going back and forth, figuring out just how this is going to work.

Somebody in the industry cares. He has an advocate who wants to see him succeed. It certainly helps that Sneeg has a sharp wit and a great sense of humor.

It goes into overdrive from here. Wilbur puts together sample chapters to send off to publishers and magazines. He keeps hosting interviews.

Wilbur also attends to his studies. Those cannot be forsaken in the name of this project – although, it’s getting harder and harder by the day to remember upcoming deadlines for class. That’s not even due to his disability. Since he’s taken it once before and he’s working towards such a goal, it’s hard to remind himself of the importance of Eret’s class.

But this is how he passes university. He reminds himself that. He’s earning his degree from this.

Wilbur walks in, having not turned in the latest essay, cringing as he locks eyes with the professor. But Eret gives him an understanding nod. Eret knows the importance of Wilbur’s endeavor. They know when to cut him some slack.

He doesn’t expect the professor’s call. “Wait, Wilbur?”

He stops right before the steps up. Eret beckons him over to the front lectern with a crook of his finger. Wilbur follows.

Eret leans in close and speaks quietly, so that the students rushing in do not hear them. “I’m going to be talking about restoration droids today.”

Oh?

“Have you given any thought to what I asked you last time we spoke?”

He tries. Wilbur stands there trying his absolute best to recall, and nothing comes.

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about, professor.”

Eret leans back, for some reason shocked by the admission. Was he… supposed to remember? Wilbur glances down toward Friend. Sure enough, the blue text begins to appear above the little sheep’s head.

Wilbur doesn’t have to read the message. Eret says, “I want to know if I can discuss what happened to you when I talk to the class today. Your case has a profound effect on the implications of restoration technology.”

It was a mistake coming to class today. He should’ve just stayed home. If he knew this was going to happen, then he would have.

Eret could’ve asked him anything else and he would’ve been fine. Anything.

As if sensing his uncertainty, Eret adds, “It’s important for everybody to have a well rounded understanding of such an important topic.”

“Give me a moment,” Wilbur says, making a mistake.

“Of course.”

Ranboo’s up there, in the place where the two of them always sit together. What are they thinking as they see Wilbur take a seat upon the steps, squished to one side so people can pass him? Do they have any idea what’s going on down here? Do they know what’s being discussed today?

What is Wilbur thinking as he settles into this “Seat,” wrapping his arms around his bent knees? Nothing, that’s what. He’s supposed to be taking time to think, but his mind is terrifyingly blank.

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore.

He looks up at Eret and simply says, “Don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Eret’s upset. Wilbur didn’t want to make them upset.

“Please, don’t.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

The promise should be cathartic. It’s anything but.

“Wilbur?”

He looks up. “Yes?”

For a second, Eret hesitates. “Usually I wouldn’t say this, but in this case, I think it’s the best option. You may want to go and wait out the class in the library, work on some other things.”

“Oh,” he mutters.

“You already know everything that’s going to be taught today, anyway.”

It’s tempting. Wilbur still has that essay to get done. A lot of work to go on the interviews. Ranboo would understand; he could shoot them a quick text.

They would understand, but would they be happy?

Wilbur stands, shaking his head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Are you sure?”

A silent nod serves as his answer. Then, finally, Wilbur ascends the stairs and takes his seat next to Ranboo.

Ranboo’s question of “Are you alright?” is not a surprise. It’s irritating. An itch he cannot scratch. He tries to hide his discomfort behind a smile. “I’m fine, just fine.”

The sarcasm started to bleed through in that last part, but it was fine.

What’s not fine is the look Ranboo is giving him. He tries to look away and ignore it. It’s not as simple.

Then Ranboo speaks.

“I kind of wanted to tell you about this new song I found, I think you might like it.”

When Wilbur looks back over, Ranboo’s offering him an earbud.

He slips it into place and sits back in his chair. Immediately, a heavy guitar captures his attention. Then, a mellow voice comes along, challenging him to listen. Hear me, the singer seems to say. Allow yourself to hear me.

“That’s a good song,” Wilbur says, when it’s almost over.

Ranboo smiles. “I’ll send it to you. I think you’d like a lot of that guy’s work.

Ranboo’s probably right. Wilbur will have to give them a shot later. Eret’s lecture starts soon, and Wilbur’s mind is occupied by music and melodies.

“See you around,” Ranboo says as they pack up their things at the end of class. The time flew by. Wilbur shoots Ranboo a wave before heading down the stairs. He’s one of the last students out of the hall, as always. He always dawdles a little bit, taking his time to finish a rousing conversation.

Wilbur’s almost out the door when Eret calls his name. He turns around, nodding in acknowledgement.

Eret comes to him this time. Up close, they look a bit tired. Anyone would be after teaching a class like that. Regardless, they speak with importance.

“The final is coming up.”

The final, shit.

Wilbur needs to study. He knows that. He’s been taking practice tests. Once April hits, once he’s gotten all of these interviews done, he’ll be able to study. He’ll be fine.

The scores he got on the practice tests indicate that he’s not just saying that to make himself happy. It’s not too much of a stretch to predict that he’ll at least pass.

He could do much better than a simple pass, if he tries.

“What I wanted to ask is if you feel like you would need any accommodations,” Eret says. “To make up for any issues that  your condition may pose.”

Before Wilbur can answer, Friend’s chime vibrates on his wrist. Remember, the test is going to be harder than you think.

Is Friend calling him overconfident?

“I think I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t want to take it into the exam?” Eret asks, pointing to Wilbur’s wrist.

He twists Friend around, gently rubbing the skin underneath. “I can do that?”

“I’d be fine with it. I really don’t want to interfere with your ability to do well. This is supposed to test that you’ll be able to make the best decisions out in the field. You can’t make those decisions without all of the information. If that program helps you with that, then I want you to have it in the test.”

“His name is Friend,” Wilbur says, holding up his wrist so Eret can see the little sheep pop up.

A couple little hops. A spin. Friend does a little dance for the professor.

“Oh, that’s adorable,” Eret says. “Take Friend with you.”

It’s almost frightening how trivial the final feels now. This is what’s going to get him his degree. Yet Wilbur’s mind is elsewhere. With the email he has to send to Sneeg. The interview that he’s conducting tomorrow. Endless duties that haven’t let him see rest since he took on this project.

Wilbur wouldn’t trade those duties for the world. He’s doing the right thing. That knowledge alone is worth a lifetime of meetings and emails and stress. Luckily, he has much more than just a lifetime left in him.

If the exam is all about testing his decision making capacity, then Wilbur should be just fine.

The rest of March flies by. In the moment it may seem like the days drag on forever, but before Wilbur knows it, flowers are blooming and his peers are starting to shed their puffy coats for tank tops and sundresses. The first couple of weeks of April share the same fate.

The end of April brings two important developments. The first is the interview project. Or, as Sneeg has started to put it, the Soot report.

That’s his name. His name! Wilbur Soot. It’s being slapped on this project, and he’s going to get his name out there, if this all goes according to plan.

This isn’t the life Wilbur imagined for himself. He was supposed to settle down at a tech firm doing menial coding jobs. He would work his way up the corporate ladder, and eventually he would be doing something interesting. Wilbur’s passion for code was going to make the process enjoyable, but it was never meant to be particularly distinguished.

Now, Wilbur can fancy himself a journalist. Who doesn’t want their name out there? Especially attached to such an important endeavor as this one?

They know where it’s going to be published. The Nevadas Press. The Nevadas has readers. It has enough to be a recognizable name, when Sneeg told him they got the deal, Wilbur couldn’t believe it.

It’s not the most reputable magazine, but it doesn’t need to be. Wilbur’s work speaks for itself.

On the website, all of his interviews will be posted at once, and each one of them will be periodically showcased in the weekly newsletter. That’s what most people pay attention to. They want to start this soon, hopefully in June, maybe even May.

Which makes it a good thing that Wilbur finished these once and for all a week ago.

All the interviews are done. He has finishing touches to go on the write-ups themselves. For the most part, it’s done, it’s practically over. The next step is publishing through Nevadas.

Wilbur already called Tommy and screamed all about it. Multiple times, actually. Tommy screamed right back and told Wilbur how proud he was. Tommy, proud! Tommy’s all about the insults, that guy, he’ll throw the words “Bastard” and  “Dickhead” all the time. But pride? Wilbur grins, ear to ear, just thinking about it.

He’s not done though. There’s somebody else he wants to tell.

With anxiety running through his veins, Wilbur waits as his phone rings out. He stares at the screen, waiting for the red to turn green. Waiting for her to pick up. He hasn’t spoken to her in a long, long time. Because of what Friend just told him, he knows why.

A thought slips past his flimsy wall of denial. She’s not going to pick up, is she?

The time elapsed crawls closer and closer to 25 seconds. That’s when the call will drop. Wilbur’s not going to call her again. If she really wants to, she can call him back.

22, 23, 2–

“Hello?”

“Niki.” Her name is laughter. Her name is springtime. Her name is love.

She is love. That is what she means to him.

Meant.

“You haven’t called me since… since that question about Eret.”

It hurts, that tone of hers. How she’s holding herself back, almost as if she’s afraid. Why would she be afraid of him? Is that a question Friend can answer? He has a feeling it is.

It hurts. But it doesn’t hurt as much as it really should.

“I know,” Wilbur says. Because he does. He knows. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. What we were talking about. Have you?”

“Yes.” Then, she repeats herself. “I have been thinking about it.”

Her tone changed.

It didn’t completely let up, but there was something different about it. Something less heavy.

Niki remembers. Niki cares. Wilbur sags in relief, the anxiety rushing out of him like buckets of rain from swollen clouds. He feels lighter. Just like her.

“Remember when I said I was going to do something? When I said that we could not stand for this?”

“That sounds like you.”

Niki does not know the compliment that she just gave Wilbur. She may not comprehend its meaning, but it speaks to him all the same.

“I’m doing something. I’ve been doing something.”

Wilbur tells her all about the interviews. No short summary, no details left out. From the inception of the idea all the way to the last interview. Wilbur doesn’t realize how long he’s been talking for until he looks down and sees that it’s been thirty minutes. Even now, he’s not done.

“It’s coming out,” Wilbur says. “Soon, in a month or so. Soon, you’re going to be able to read it.”

Only as an afterthought does Wilbur add, “Are you going to read it?”

After a moment of aching silence, “Yes. I will.”

Relief can be sweet as honey. It soothes his aches and pains.

“I’ve got to get going, but thank you for telling me, Wil.”

He beams. The corners of his lips hurt from how much he’s smiling. “No, thank you .”

“Hope you have a good day,” Niki says. She leaves him with that.

The pain is still present, in the back of his mind. It’s overshadowed by a sweeping sense of satisfaction.

The Soot Report is one of the developments that he takes with him from April into May. The next is something else that he’s been working on for months. In fact, he’s been working towards it for longer than he’s been working on the interviews.

One more exam, and Wilbur graduates from university.

Wilbur has nothing but his watch. Everything aside from Friend is disabled on it, and Wilbur has given Friend strict instructions. No looking up facts for him. No helping on the multiple choice section. It’s only the short answer and the essay portion that he’ll need Friend for. That’s the portion where he’ll be instructed to pull from personal experience.

By now, exams are familiar. Wilbur is passed the pad on which he is to complete his test, waits until the starting chime rings, and then he works.

The exam lasts three hours. Wilbur doesn’t feel the time passing. He’s focused.

Many questions relate directly to coding and technology. Those are the easy ones. The technological aspect of the course is secondary; those are taught in separate classes that Wilbur passed with flying colors. Then comes the laws of ethics. Principles that have been written out and adapted over the years, that any law abiding company will follow closely.

Then comes the subjective portion of the test. The essays and short answer questions.

“You ready Friend?” Wilbur whispers, holding up his watch. Some of the people around him glance over, but no gazes linger.

They start easy. Should Essempi-made androids with human-like consciousness be afforded the same rights as an Essempi citizens? What degree of consciousness should a program with artificial intelligence need to be paid the same wage as a human worker?

These were questions that were hashed out decades ago. He flies through them, citing the engineers and philosophers who first thought of the concepts he now espouses. As the questions carry on, they grow more complex, and Wilbur has more trouble with them. He takes it slow, giving himself time to think.  It’s that breathing time that he desperately needed. Before he knows it, he’s written hundreds of words for each response.

The first time Wilbur has to turn to Friend is the last question.

As quietly as possible he says, “Friend, tell me about Tubbo.” He holds his watch over the screen so Friend can “See” what’s written.

Question 6 (ESSAY PORTION)

Should an android with human-like consciousness, who was never human, has the required educational requirements, and experience in the field of law be allowed to serve as a judge in the conviction of a human? Choose and defend a position.

It’s easy to choose the argument. It’s harder to defend it.

Wilbur nearly runs out of time working on the question. His fingers fly over the holo-keys as he gets in his finishing statements. Then, with a minute left on the clock, Wilbur sits back, finally allowing himself to relax.

Wilbur walks out of that room knowing for a fact that he passed the final exam.

The confirmation comes two weeks later, when Eret emails him a PDF of his final score. Some errors on the multiple choice, one or two of which he probably should have been able to get. Good marks on the short answer. Great marks on the essay.

Which means that Wilbur has passed the final with points to spare. Which means that he has passed the course.

Which means that he has graduated university.

All of a sudden, Wilbur is donning a cap and gown, the university chancellor is handing him his diploma, and the first out of 21 interviews will be published in two weeks in the Nevadas.

A sea of people stands before him. They clap and cheer as his name is called, just as they do for everybody. He swears, they’re a little bit louder for him. Tommy and Ranboo single handedly raise the volume with their bellowing cries from the first row, where they’ve pushed their way through.

They beam at Wilbur, and Wilbur beams back. Tommy brings his hands up to his lips and bellows, “You earned this!”

Wilbur did. He did earn the diploma now resting in his hands.

“Wilbur!”

His little brother barrels into him, wrapping his arms tight around Wilbur’s torso. Fuck, Fundy’s getting strong. Fourteen now, turning fifteen in the fall. One day, it will be him in the cap and gown, and Wilbur trying to get him back for this bone crushing hug.

Fundy stumbles back with a face full of glee, and importantly, pride.

“I have a cool older brother,” Fundy once told him, in one of his rare moments of sincerity. It was on a phone call, just a few months ago.

Hopefully, one day, Fundy will get to say that he’s Wilbur Soot’s younger brother. Hopefully that will mean something to people.

Then Tommy and Ranboo come running. If Wilbur thought Fundy was bad, then shit. With force he should not possess judging by those skinny arms, Tommy leans over and digs his hand into Wilbur’s curls, ruthlessly roughing them up. “You fucken did it, Wilby.”

“Wilby?” Fundy explains. He’s got this glint in his eyes. Tommy’s face fills with dread.

If Tommy was not already aware, he is about to discover the embarrassment of being tormented by a fourteen year old.

Wilbur introduced his friends to his family before the ceremony. It was a quick meeting; he got Tommy to sit still and not swear for long enough to shake hands with his father. Ranboo is always a little bit awkward, but they seem to get along with Fundy just fine.

“Come on.” Tommy tugs on his wrist. He’s sporting a wicked grin. “We have to celebrate!”

Tommy just turned eighteen a few weeks ago, and he’s thrilled with the mere idea of freedom. Wilbur knows what he means when he says party – funny that Tommy thinks Wilbur will ever take him bar hopping, let alone with his fourteen year old brother with them.

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “We’ll be celebrating at a nice restaurant, come on, I have some friends graduating. I want to stay.”

Tommy raises his brows. “What friends?”

“I have friends,” Wilbur says, faking offense. If he’s being completely honest, the people he’s referring to are really mere acquaintances. It’s an excuse, because it feels wrong to leave right now for some reason. “Let’s sit back down, with my family.”

Wilbur acts as the buffer between his friends and his family, although Fundy frequently leans over his lap to snap something smart at Tommy. Tommy always snaps something back. Wilbur happily listens to their bickering while gazing lazily up at the stage.

Wilbur’s perfectly happy to stay, even as unfamiliar names fly by. Fundy’s getting antsy, though. Tommy’s been rearing to go ever since Wilbur stepped down from that stage, and even his parents’ patience is starting to run dry.

It still feels a bit wrong to leave, but it’s probably for the best.

They’re sitting at the end of a row, so between applause they slip out, and Ranboo starts talking to his parents about where to go for dinner. Wilbur and Tommy don’t have much of an opinion, since eating isn’t really a necessity anymore. Wilbur starts leading the way out of the massive courtyard, Tommy hanging off his shoulder and Fundy off his opposite arm, the two of them still bickering. The further away from the stage they walk, the less people they have to push through.

With his attention on the people to either side of him, his little brother and the friend he sees at one, he almost doesn’t notice the woman walking towards them, dressed in quite a heavy coat for the season.

Wilbur stops in his tracks, causing both Fundy and Tommy to nearly trip over themselves.

Wilbur didn’t think Niki was going to show up. He didn’t think about her at all.

Niki locks eyes with him, and he is forced with the awkward choice between waving, walking to meet her in the middle, or doing nothing.

He does thank himself for staying a little bit longer than he had to.

It hurts to break away from Tommy and Fundy, finally together in the same place. But he sees no other option. He goes to meet Niki. His eyes never stray from hers.

They stop in the middle of a cobblestone path that runs through the park. It’s a busy walkway; people flow around them. Neither of them go to move.

“When was the last time we saw each other?” Wilbur asks. The ‘like this’ goes unstated. When was the last time we spoke face to face?

“Before our fight,” Niki says.

So there was a fight. That’s what his mind jumped to. It makes sense. It’s why his hands would be shaking if he hadn’t shoved them deep in the pockets of his gown.

Wilbur went to Niki’s graduation. Right after restoration; it was the first time he left his house as his new self. She had such a big smile on her face as she was handed that diploma. And she hugged him tight, so tight, as if she would never get to hug him again.

“I take it you’ve already gotten your diploma?” Niki asks. In response, Wilbur holds up the rounded piece of paper. Niki’s eyes linger on it.

She sighs. “You don’t remember what we fought about, do you?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I’m sorry–”

Niki holds up a finger to stop him. “I don’t want an apology. Please don’t apologize. Do you want the quick version of what happened?”

“Please.” Wilbur doesn’t want to be in the dark.

Niki takes a deep breath. Wilbur just asked her for something heavy. Their shared gaze breaks off.

“I felt like we weren’t spending enough time together. And the times that we did spend together just weren’t fun anymore. And… I was a little bit jealous of your other friends.”

Wilbur follows her gaze – oh.

Ranboo has caught up to Tommy and Fundy. They’re laughing and pushing each other around. Wilbur turns back around before they can notice his attention.

“I’m sorry, Wil.” Niki glances away. “I don’t– I don’t know if I’m ready to be friends again.”

He must have grown desensitized. He doesn’t remember the pain they’ve shared, his instincts might. Or perhaps he’s just not thinking straight. But it feels like a bullet deflected.

It’s enough that she’s here. He can take that.

“I won’t pressure you.”

“I know. I know you won’t. What I came here to say was congratulations.”

That’s all she has to say. This interaction is essentially over.

How do they say goodbye?

Wilbur isn’t pushy about it. When he opens his arms, he does it subtly. He gives her plausible deniability that she doesn’t notice the gesture. Even so, she comes forward, and they hug.

He doesn’t think he can live without this.

He’ll remember this. He’ll live off this memory. And he’ll try to do enough good to earn a hug like this again.

Then Niki breaks away. Then Niki’s gone.

For a little while, Wilbur moves on. Wilbur lives.

With his friends and family at his side, to one of the few restaurants that hasn’t already been booked up by other graduates and their families. The afternoon carries on and Wilbur eats some good food. He laughs a lot. He enjoys himself and makes sure that everybody else is having a fun time too.

Then they’re handed the check, and it’s over. Mum, Dad, and Fundy have to catch a train back home. Ranboo makes their way back to their own apartment, saying that they’re going to catch an early night. Tommy tags along as Wilbur helps his parents find the train station. They need guidance; they don’t come to the city that often.

After a couple of metro rides and a minor freak out after Mum got lost in the station, Wilbur hugs each of them goodbye as the train rolls in. Mum first, then Dad, then Fundy.

“Are you going to call me more often now?” Fundy asks, catching a grip on each of Wilbur’s sleeves before he could pull away.

The question takes Wilbur by surprise. Fundy’s usually the one to call him. “You can phone me anytime you want.”

Fundy frowns at that. Then he bows his head, speaking a bit softer.

“You probably don’t remember, but I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“I’ve said a lot of things, could you be a bit more specific?” Wilbur asks.

“Fundy, the doors are open,” their dad calls. He sees the conflict on his brother’s face. Fundy isn’t ready yet.

“The doors stay open for a while, we have time,” Wilbur calls back, but his parents don’t listen. They step into the train, giving Fundy a sharp glance.

“I’ll meet you there,” Fundy tells them, and they take that as an acceptable answer. Now it’s just Fundy, Tommy, and Wilbur himself.

“Just… shit that you’ve told me about life and stuff,” Fundy eventually admits. “And how to get through it. I’ve been thinking about it.”

All of Wilbur’s phone calls with Fundy sort of blur together in his mind. With a bit of concentration, he pulls an image out of the muck. A blurry vision of him and Fundy, sitting on the couch back home. Fundy turning to him with wide eyes and uttering words he doesn’t quite remember.

“Call me more often,” Fundy then says. “Give me more advice.”

“I don’t know how good I am at advice, but I can call you.”

Fundy rolls his eyes. “You’re writing a book, you have to be good at advice.”

“It’s not a book about advice, it’s not even a book.”

“You’ve been all busy with your work lately,” Fundy says. “But now you don’t have school anymore. And the not-book is coming out. So you’re almost done with it. So please, just– choose me, now.”

It’s the desperation laced into Fundy’s voice that troubles and confounds Wilbur.

“But I love you,” Fundy says, before barreling into him with another hug.

A breathy laugh escapes his chest. “I– I love you too, kid.”

Fundy disappears into the train car, and Wilbur turns to Tommy.

Tommy, face indecipherable, says nothing.

Days later, Wilbur remembers graduation perfectly. From the praise of his parents to the tight hugs his friends gave him. He still has Friend mention it, in his daily reminders. It makes the whole process or recalling the recent past blissful.

His recollection is sharp, and his excitement for what’s to come is strong. The culmination of everything he’s been working towards is approaching. In three days, his first article will come out.

It’s not going to be the end of the work but wow, it’s giving him a high.

When you’re at the top of the world, there’s nowhere else to go but down. When you’ve almost reached the summit, there’s a little bit of hope, but it’s still much easier to fall.

call me, Tommy texts, and Wilbur should’ve been disturbed by the lack of typos.

“Tom?”

Before speaking, Tommy draws out a long sigh. “... Fuck.”

“What happened? Talk to me, Tommy.”

“Tubbo doesn’t want these articles published.”

It takes a moment for Wilbur to even comprehend what he said.

“What?”

“Wait, I was wrong. Here’s what he said: he wants to read them over before they’re published. He doesn’t want them published without knowing them.”

Of all the roadblocks, he could have never imagined this one. “No. No, that’s not happening?”

“I’m just the messenger, man. Don’t fucken shoot me, that would be rather rude.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Wilbur says, already pulling out his holopad. “I have to talk to my agent. I might call you again if I need more details.”

“Okay.”

Wilbur rushes to type up an email. He tried calling Sneeg first, but didn’t get a response. For a couple of minutes, Wilbur paces around, worrying that Sneeg won’t reply soon. The longer he goes without a reply, the harder it is to keep Tommy’s words in his memory. They’re surrounded by a fog of panic and anxiety.

The chime of a notification has Wilbur falling back down into his seat. It’s the reply. Thank god.

You’re telling me that Tub-Net wants approval over what we’re publishing

Tub-net, the guys that we’re writing a borderline hit piece on

Wilbur dictates his reply, letting the holo-pad convert it to text. “So we don’t talk to him? What if he tries to block Nevadas from publishing it?”

The reply barely takes a minute to arrive.

Legally, they can’t do anything. Even tub-net has to abide by the law. I see your point though. They could definitely try to do something to us. This could make things even harder. And it might be considered more civil to speak to them first.

This is your project. You decide what we’re going to do. I’ll support you in your decision

It’s not an answer. An answer would’ve made it so easy. He would know that he’s doing the right thing.

But as it stands, he does not think he can let Tubbo touch these interviews.

“Let’s go ahead as planned,” Wilbur says, hoping that this won’t backfire.

In the next three days, he hears nothing from Tubbo. Nothing from Sam, and nothing about the situation from Sneeg. Tommy hasn’t mentioned anything either.

So at noon on a sunny Saturday, Wilbur sits indoors, refreshing the webpage of the Nevadas. One, two, three refreshes – and there it is, the newest issue.

Sandwiched between a discussion of Summer fashion and a hit piece on a political candidate, is Wilbur’s interview with none other than Jack Manifold, the man who started it all. Finding Jack again after so long and finally getting his recount was a big win. It felt fitting to have this as the first in the collection.

The initial high has Wilbur in the stratosphere. At long last, he lets Tommy take him out to a bar, where they spend the night singing karaoke to cheesy pop songs and drinking just enough to have fun but not too much to the point where Wilbur will have to carry this lightweight home. In his alcohol-addled brain, Wilbur entertains fantasies of strangers recognizing him from the picture next to the article and approaching him. Nothing of the sort happens, but he and Tommy celebrate all the same.

“You look so fucken happy,” Tommy tells him at some point. “Keep smiling like that for the rest of your life. I reckon you could solve world peace.”

The next morning comes with a throbbing headache – damn his engineers for that one – and excited anticipation as he runs to his pad to check the statistics of the article.

He doesn’t know if 2,723 readers and 86 comments is great or not, but it has him grinning all the same.

Then Wilbur makes the mistake of clicking the comments, naively expecting well thought out agreements and confirmations.

Reality comes in the form of thats crazy and can you fucking believe this guy? It also comes in a slew of political comments, calling him everything from a marxist to a fascist.

The positive comments are numerous, but they’re light as a feather compared to the rest that weigh on his shoulders.

Wilbur forgets them soon enough, but he also forgets not to check. He simply doesn’t listen when Friend tells him it’s not a good idea.

Again and again, Wilbur goes back. He searches up his name. He looks for the stir that he was supposedly going to cause. He searches for the controversy. He’ll take more hate comments if they’re matched by new supporters.

“This is going to start slow,” Sneeg tells him. “It’s just one article. Relax.”

“But the whole thing is posted on the website. That’s barely gotten any attention at all.”

“Most people are going to be reading the online magazine, they might gawk at the length of the collection. That’s why this is going to come out slowly. Trust me, Nevadas is going to be working on getting readers. They want this as much as you do.”

Do they? Because Wilbur cannot express how much he needs this to happen. He didn’t put this much work in just for barely anybody to read the articles.

Wilbur sought out the most underprivileged and underserved members of this society. He promised them retribution. He cannot turn back empty handed.

People need to care.

Wilbur will give it time. But he’s not going to spend that time doing nothing. Wilbur does as much marketing as he can. He hands out paper copies on the street and hangs up posters. Builds up a bit of a presence on social sites with some witty jokes and commentary. And it works. To a certain extent.

More and more articles are published. The views slowly start creeping up. To some, it might look like success.

But the comments on the articles themselves show another side of the story. They show apathy at best.

If Wilbur has to read the words nobody cares one more time he is going to scream.

Sneeg keeps reassuring him. Tommy consoles him whenever Wilbur comes over. At the end of the day, Wilbur forgets it all, only to go through the same process the next day once Friend reminds him of recent events.

Summer passes in a blur. He spends his days out on the streets begging passerbys to just take the fucking paper. He watches views climb and negative comments pour in.

People start writing responses. There’s a small, thirty second news clip about him.

They don’t care. They’re dismissing him. The news anchor disregards it as “The testimonies of a dozen people in a country of millions.”

The point flies straight over their heads. The point that these are not isolated incidents.

The only things Wilbur remembers each morning are Tommy, Fundy, the day he graduated, and how much he loves it when the sun shines in through the window at dawn.

Wilbur starts telling Friend, “I need to be doing more.”

He says it each and every day. “I need to be doing more. No, I need to.” Friend’s routine response is, You’ve told me. You’ve told me. It becomes a taunt. You told me.

“I know I told you!” Wilbur snaps, raking a hand through his hair despite the fact that he didn’t know.

Apparently, he’s said it a million times, but he’s never actually done everything.

He cannot recount his own madness. He does not know how many times he’s spiraled over comments and views. It all comes from Friend, who promises that Wilbur has gone through this before. How could he? How could he be driving himself insane each and every day?

One day, he says “I need to be doing more,” and he actually means it.

One day, he fastens Friend tight across his wrist, and shoots off to Tommy’s flat. He lets himself in and asks his friend, “Has Tubbo been saying anything about my articles?”

It’s the first thing he asks Tommy. A blank stare is returned.

“What?”

“I know you’ve been speaking to him. Has he mentioned my articles?”

Tommy hesitates. “... No.”

“I can tell that you’re lying.”

“Okay, what the fuck?” Tommy marches right up to him, upper lip scrunching up. “You burst in here and just start demanding that I talk, what the fuck man?”

Wilbur has known Tommy for long enough. He knows when to call his bluff. It’s odd enough that Tommy has been so secretive about the fact that he’s speaking to Tubbo, now. Wilbur’s not even going to mention that, not unless he has to pull Tommy’s teeth to get this information out of him.

“What did Tubbo say about my articles?”

“He– he just said that he’s fine with them. What. Is that so bad?”

“ Why is he fine with them?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy splutters, not giving an answer.

“Is it because he knows that nobody’s listening anyway.”

Tommy tries so hard to refute the statement. He splutters, he says “No, no, no,” he gives a weak punch to Wilbur’s shoulder. In the end he admits, “Yes. That’s why.”

It confirms what Wilbur already knew. Still, he lets out a long hiss of air through his teeth. “Fuck.”

“Wilbur…”

“You’ve got to help me,” Wilbur says, and then he anxiously awaits Tommy’s reply.

Tommy is deeply conflicted. He probably thinks that Wilbur already has a plan – he would be correct. He’s worried about what that plan is. To be completely honest, Tommy should be worried. This is the backup plan. The idea that he swore he would only resort to if the interviews failed.

The interviews were the high road. The train that runs above ground, letting sunlight in through the windows. The right thing to do. They were a great idea that failed because this world is wonderful in concept, but it never holds up to scrutiny.

His faulty memory has been a shield for these realizations. They were bound to come eventually. Wilbur now knows that the low road is inevitable. The metro barrelling through shady parts of the underground. The tracks cannot catch the sunlight in a city like this.

Wilbur’s going to have to do his work in the dark. But he’s not doing it without Tommy.

Because Tommy is the only person who has died because of Tub-Net’s madness.

He is the ultimate victim.

“Oh fucking hell Wil, of course I’ll help you.”

Yes. Finally. They can go forward.

Wilbur takes the hand of his best friend. Placing his fingers over Tommy’s, he guides it to Wilbur’s opposite wrist, where Friend rests in his watch.

Then, he utters the idea that has been sitting in the back of his mind for months now. The only memory he’s retained from a night of what must have been anger and unsettlement.

“You have to get me a meeting with Tubbo,” Wilbur says.

“This is crazy, Wilbur.”

All Wilbur has to do is smirk. He knows Tommy loves crazy.

“I’ll get it. Whenever you want, you’ll see him. I’ll make sure he can’t say no.”

“Will you be with me?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy hesitates, initially shaking his head in pure disbelief. Wilbur knows. This is a little bit outside the realm of what Wilbur usually resorts to.

“You bet your fucken ass I’ll be with you.”

Good. Because Wilbur doesn’t know if he would be able to do this without Tommy by his side.

They’re going to ride this train together. They’re going to ride it right off the track.

Chapter Text

By now, Tommy Innes is used to people changing.

When you’re forced to change – when you’re forced to leave your old self behind in an alleyway, glassy blue eyes doomed to stare into the heavens for the rest of eternity – you desensitize yourself. You learn not to take it too seriously when other people change. Their new temperament wasn’t fabricated purely to spite you. They have their own demons to hide themselves away from.

The thing is, in Tommy’s case, this person wasn’t supposed to change. Tommy thought he was incapable of it.

Wilbur is different than he once was. Tommy has never seen him vengeful. And Tubbo isn’t who Tommy thought he was, either.

This is quite a unique problem Tommy’s having. He supposes that he can’t get over it by thinking about hypotheticals and talking to a mysterious you. After all, no you he could possibly be talking to would understand. Nobody else is caught between two immovable objects.

That’s what Wilbur and Tubbo are. Immovable objects. Set on their courses, unable to be driven away.

Somehow, both of them have veered off the tracks.

Wilbur. That’s who Tommy longs for on this lonely night, as the moonlight shines through the open blinds to taunt him. He’s never liked the moon. It’s because he can’t help but picture himself on it. When Tommy closes his eyes, he’s standing on dusty craters, hundreds of miles away from everybody he’s ever known.

In reality, the city buzzes around Tommy. His flat is on one of the top stories of the skyscraper, yet he can still hear motorcycles roar down the street. There’s no relief in this city. Maybe Tommy should finally make good on his promise to visit his aunt and uncle up north. He’s been saying he would pay them a visit for years now. This city has a grip on him. The people in it are strong.

The noise would not bother Tommy if he wasn’t alone. He lays back and groans, throwing an arm over his head. Alone. The word has always taunted him. He hates being alone. There are some masochistic bastards out there who like it. There are even some who claim that everybody needs to be alone.

Tommy doesn’t. If he could, he would find a random stranger and attach himself to them at the hip. He wishes the doctors had done that, when they thrust him in this new body. That would’ve been so much cooler than the reality of restoration.

Tommy hasn’t gotten used to loneliness. He’s learned how to avoid it. He’s been spending an awful lot of time with Ranboo lately. Wilbur’s friend is pretty interesting in his own right. Ranboo will never hear that from Tommy, though.

As far as Ranboo knows, Tommy thinks he is a spineless bastard with much more height than he deserves. They’re fun, though. Tommy has been going out with him a little bit. And a couple of his friends from before.

He tries not to hang out with any of them for too long though. It’s barely a step above loneliness, hanging out with them.

Wilbur’s so much better than all of them. Wilbur gets him better than any of them did. The only person who comes close is Ranboo.

Now, despite his best efforts, he’s thinking about Wilbur again.

Wilbur’s been so busy recently. Which… he has the right to be. He’s doing something very noble, and Tommy shouldn’t try to stop him, and he shouldn’t even be upset because Wilbur is doing something good. Something that will bring justice to the world. What can Tommy say he does all day? He should be more like Wilbur. He should do something useful with his life, for once.

He used to think that he was doing something useful. When he was young, his uncle handed him a task. Be a good friend.

No, Tommy is not going down that train of thought. Back to Wilbur. Tommy can angst about Wilbur for a little bit longer.

This is a tired tirade. Tommy’s been quite selfish. Thinking about Wilbur’s absence instead of Wilbur himself. What has Wilbur been doing? Has his work been going well? That’s the questions Tommy used to ask. The thing is, he knows the answers now. He knows a little bit more than he wanted to know.

For the past hour or so, Tommy has been trying to wrap his head around what he just agreed to. Wilbur’s plan is– well, it’s certainly a plan. Fuck. Is he prepared to do this? This is so out of the blue. He never thought Wilbur would ask for something like this. Maybe he didn’t know Wilbur as well as he thought he did.

Or maybe Wilbur has changed. That prospect is just as terrifying, yet it’s the one Tommy keeps coming back to.

People learn from their mistakes. The thing is, Wilbur doesn’t remember his mistakes. That means he shouldn’t learn, right? Yeah, yeah, that’s an oversimplification, Tommy doesn’t care.

For so long, Wilbur was steadfast and static. That made him the perfect friend, because Tommy could rely on him. Wilbur would always be there. It didn’t matter how upset Tommy was. Tommy was upset a lot. He still gets upset a lot. It’s just a bit harder to recognize those lows. There’s no radical difference between happy and angry like there was in the ensuing months after what Tubbo did to him.

Tommy didn’t realize that Wilbur was changing. Didn’t have that realization until about twenty minutes ago. He was certainly upset about how their friendship was changing. He wanted Wilbur back. When he did get Wilbur back, it never felt like enough. He was always craving more. He still craves more.

It’s not just their friendship. It’s Wilbur himself.

Tommy loves to beat himself up, but as he thinks about it, he comes to the conclusion that it makes sense. Of course he never noticed Wilbur changing. Wilbur didn’t come around often enough for Tommy to notice.

The Wilbur that Tommy just spoke to is vastly different from the man Tommy met in Sam’s waiting room, a couple days fresh as a restoration droid.

That Wilbur was such a smiler. Now, Wilbur’s a thinker.

It’s not a bad thing. It still makes Tommy frown.

He could’ve made friends with a thinker. But he didn’t make friends with a thinker. It was a smiler who showed him kindness. Who he latched onto and refused to let go of. He didn’t know that he was going to be pulled into philosophical conversations like this, or that Wilbur’s thinking was going to rub off on him. He hoped that Wilbur would get him to smile.

Wilbur has. He can’t just forget that because he’s getting pissy right now.

That’s all Tommy’s doing. Getting pissy. He’s upset for the sake of being upset. That’s his nature, isn’t it? He’s always speaking out about something. Never content with what he has.

It was good for him, making friends with a guy who never gets upset. Well, not never. Still, Wilbur certainly is a lot happier than Tommy.

Which is what makes Wilbur’s visit so mystifying – not to mention distressing.

It’s up to Tommy to come to terms with this change. Wilbur’s already barrelling down this path he forged for himself.

Tommy will follow him anywhere. He will follow him to the ends of the Earth if need be. Wilbur could take him to the peaks of the Himalayas or into the wintery tundra of Antarctica, and Tommy would haul the oxygen tanks.

He’s doing this. He’s really going to be helping his new best friend screw over his old best friend.

That’s the moment when Tommy can hold back no longer. He can’t occupy himself with thoughts of Wilbur. He’s so sick of circles. He cannot deny himself.

“Tubbo,” he breathes, into the empty room.

The room comes to life with memories.

Just as Wilbur does now, Tubbo used to come over all the time. Tommy would sometimes go to his, but most of the time, they were here. On this couch or dozing on that bed. In many ways, Tommy’s friendship with Wilbur is the exact same as his with Tubbo. Despite their differences, Tubbo and Wilbur undeniably had one thing in common. That was that they worshiped the words Tommy spoke.

In their presence, Tommy feels like a preacher.

Now they’re throwing themselves at each other. Both are such stubborn people. Tommy used to be afraid of this happening. He actually saw it coming! For once, he had a bit of foresight.

What did he do with that foresight? Fucking brushed it off. Tommy wasn’t going to ask Wilbur to go up against Tubbo. So why would Wilbur do so? He has the means. What could give him the desire for action besides Tommy himself?

How ironic is it that this is starting just when he was ready to forgive Tubbo?

Forgiveness started with phone calls. The first time Tommy let Tubbo back in was in a phone call.

Tubbo sent the text, but it was Tommy who hit call. Tommy was fuming. It was the middle of the night and he was already upset, he was ready to chew Tubbo out.

Hate did not describe what he felt for Tubbo. It was so tame compared to the ire that swelled up inside him like vomit whenever the thought of Tubbo crossed his mind.

This was the man who threw Tommy to the wolves, and threw everything they had along with him.

It wasn’t the first time Tubbo had texted him. It was the first time Tommy responded. It was just something about the night. He had this odd tightness in his chest. A feeling he couldn’t express. Whatever it was, it fueled his anger. This anger begged for escape.

The phone call was disastrous.

It was an excuse to yell at Tubbo. Tommy barely let Tubbo get a word in edgewise. Looking back on it, he was dumb as balls. He kept asking Tubbo questions without giving him the chance to answer. Tommy didn’t know what he wanted. He would’ve claimed to want an apology. When it came, he didn’t accept it.

The phone call lasted for about twenty minutes and absolutely nothing changed. Tommy went into it angry and he came out angry. When he went to sleep, the argument carried on in his dreams. Except in his dreams, Tubbo appeared in the form of a broken, bloody horse. Tommy had a baseball bat in his hands and he was ruthlessly beating down on Tubbo until he argued no longer.

In Tommy’s mind, nothing could excuse what Tubbo did to him. He tried not to think about the fact that Tubbo’s life was in danger as well. Rather than pondering what Tubbo must have been thinking in the moment – as he faced his own sudden death and the doom of the country – he thought of the five percent chance he was given.

He was steadfast in that mindset. He could’ve gone on thinking that way forever.

A few days after the phone call, Tubbo asked him to come over so they could talk. When you get used to misery, you begin to crave it. Tommy wanted to bask in resentment. So he went. He was ready to scream at Tubbo.

And he did do that. He screamed at Tubbo. Screamed whatever he could think of, with the one goal of getting Tubbo to scream back.

Tubbo didn’t give him that satisfaction. Tubbo apologized, instead.

So Tommy went running to Wilbur and ripped up a book in anger. Tubbo wasn’t supposed to apologize. Tubbo wasn’t supposed to make things complicated.

It was getting harder and harder to push back the doubts. He kept taking himself back to that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he was in that alleyway. The electricity was coursing through his body like Zeus himself was coming down to punish him.

Before the shock, Tommy was off to the side, with Tubbo in front of him. Tubbo’s arm was on his. For a split second, they both stared ahead at the attacker, as his weapon flared with pent up energy. It only took a second for Tubbo’s grip to tighten. A second for Tubbo to wrench Tommy forward with superhuman speed, directly into the path of the weapon.

Tommy was still trying to remember how to think. He didn’t even realize what was happening until the current hit his chest.

In remembering this event, Tommy was forced to confront a growing realization. It started when he tried to retrace his steps, so to speak. He placed himself back in the event, closed his eyes, and thought, what would I have thought?

What would I have done, if I had a little bit more time?

Tommy wasn’t given more time. That’s what keeps him angry.

Two weeks after the argument, Tubbo called him. Tommy damn near didn’t pick up. The only reason he did was because Wilbur had just left the apartment. Loneliness was setting in, and the prospect terrified him. He was willing to do anything to stave off the loneliness.

It started like this:

“You– you picked up.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“Thank you so much. Oh, Tommy, thank you for picking up–”

“Shut up, I’m already regretting it.”

It became this:

“Do you want me to stop apologizing?”

“No! Why the fuck should you stop?”

“Because you–”

“Do you realize what you’ve done to me?” The pain hit Tommy’s chest as if he was being shocked all over again. Hearing Tubbo’s voice was too much. He couldn’t put the phone down. “Do you understand what you took from me?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Toms.”

Then Tommy disclosed his revelation.

“I was going to step in front of you. If you hadn’t pulled me in front of you, I would’ve gone anyway. You were safe either way.”

“... I–”

“All you did was take the choice from me. All you did was take my fate from my hands.”

In the ensuing silence, Tommy was able to think. Simultaneously, he and Tubbo fell into a deep state of comprehension, as they pieced together the puzzles of each other’s stories. Tommy did not intend to gain empathy for Tubbo. But the longer the silence stretched on, the harder it was to forget that this was once his best friend.

It ended swiftly with this:

Beeeeeeeep

Tommy hung up the phone, before the silence could be broken. Tommy was deathly afraid of what would surface if he didn’t.

He regretted that decision a moment later. In a few days’ time though, he was given a chance to rectify. Tubbo called him again. This time, Tommy had a question for him.

“Who decided to kill me? You, or the computer?”

“What– what the hell?”

“Was it you?”

“That– Tommy, I am the computer.”

“Please don’t say that,” Tommy said. His voice broke. “Please– please tell me that there’s a difference. But please don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to me Tubbo.”

“Are you asking me if I would have done it if I wasn’t Tub-Net?”

“Yes,” he breathed, thanking whoever was above that he didn’t have to say it.

“No, Tommy. I wouldn’t have. I can’t live without you. I didn’t want to live without you.”

At that moment, Tommy felt the worst loneliness he had ever felt in his life. It was the knowledge that Tommy had doomed himself to loneliness the moment he shut Tubbo off.

Why did Tommy ever try to pull away?

Like trees intertwining over time, Tommy and Tubbo had grown together. When Tommy cut Tubbo off, he was left unstable. Wilbur came along, and he was able to hold off the inevitable, tying ropes around Tommy’s branches and putting supporting rocks under the bends of his trunk. However, harsh storms have frayed the ropes and washed away the rocks.

Wilbur was wonderful. It was like Wilbur was made for him. Maybe in another life, Tommy would be able to rely on him alone. Maybe if they were really brothers, as Wilbur liked to call them. If he had known Wilbur his entire life, maybe his branches would have diverged. Maybe he would not have relied solely on Tubbo – he would have another anchor.

As it is though, Tommy can not live without Tubbo.

He did not forgive Tubbo that night. He has not forgiven Tubbo. What he has done is let him in.

It’s only occasionally. When he’s sure that Wilbur can’t come over and Ranboo’s too busy with uni to come and distract him. It’s only when Tubbo calls first. It’s only when Tommy has been left alone for multiple days in a row. It’s only when he’s desperate.

He’ll call the doorman and tell him to let Tubbo in. He’ll leave his door unlocked. A couple minutes will pass, and Tubbo will knock. Tommy will not respond. Then Tubbo will try the knob himself, and it will turn.

He has to try. He cannot be let in; he has to invite himself. If he turns away, then he does not want it enough.

Never once has Tubbo turned away.

So they’ve watched movies together. And they’ve played games. And they’ve argued. But they’ve gone from arguing to laughing a couple of times.

Once or twice, Wilbur’s project has come up in conversation. Tommy was honest about it. He told Tubbo what he knew.

So Tubbo knows what Wilbur’s doing. Up until now, Tommy didn’t think that would cause any issues.

Tubbo and Wilbur weren’t supposed to be enemies.

They are two irreconcilable forces. Tommy was flung right from Tubbo’s strong arms into Wilbur’s, crossing the gap between the two of them with nimble feet. Both of these men see the world as something great. Meanwhile, Tommy doesn’t see the world as anything special. He sees the people within it as special.

In a perfect world, there would be no battle. They could drop their weapons and come together as one. Tommy would hold one arm out to Tubbo and one to Wilbur; Tommy’s two branches. Once they had taken his hands, he would freeze.

In a perfect world he could forgive Tubbo without giving up Wilbur.

Instead, he must choose between the one who has never betrayed him, and the one who has always loved him.

Wilbur may love him now, but Tubbo was here first.

Tommy has already made his choice. He told Wilbur that he would go along with him. Is he going to go back on it?

Sitting on this empty couch, alone in the dark of his apartment, Tommy pulls his arms around himself. He feels a great urge to scrunch his eyes shut, and pretend that there is a light, he’s just not letting it in.

Tommy keeps his eyes wide open, and takes in nothingness.

Tommy can handle change when he knows it’s for the better. What he cannot stand is choice.

Chapter Text

Wilbur’s best friend looks incredibly tiny, standing in front of one of the tallest buildings in the city. Tub-Net headquarters attempts to touch the stars. With moonlight hitting the windows, the tower shines bright enough to join those stars.

Wilbur only has eyes for Tommy. Small to the world yet all encompassing to Wilbur.

Even at night, the street is busy. Wilbur pushes through the crowd and crosses the street, reaching the steps up to the tower. Tommy stands on the second step, faced away from Wilbur.

Wilbur’s hand lands on Tommy’s shoulder. Instantly, the connection helps his spirits roar. Friend is strapped securely to his wrist and now he has Tommy. With the two of them, he can do anything.

The moment does not last. Tommy jerks, spinning around. His eyes are wide with fear.

“Fuck, you scared me!”

He pulls his hands away, holding both up placatingly. “Sorry, sorry!”

Tommy shakes his head. “I’m fine, fucking hell, just don’t do that anymore.”

“Are you ready?”

It takes a moment for Tommy to respond. “I thought I was early. Is it already time?”

Friend helpfully provides the time. 9:51pm. “No. I’m early too. Come on though, they’ll probably let us in before ten.”

He climbs up those steps, stopping at the marble platform in front of the doors. When he looks back, Tommy is barely on the fourth step. Wilbur holds out his hand.

Tommy hesitates, taking a careful step up before latching onto Wilbur. Wilbur holds on tight until Tommy is at his side. Then, they walk into the building together.

The man at the front desk looks up. Recognition flashes across his eyes once he sees Tommy. He stands to guide them to the elevator. No fuss, no security. They’re ushered in together, and they stand against the back wall of the spacious elevator as the box rises. Tommy’s hand finds his and clutches it tight.

“Are you scared of elevators?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy looks at him weirdly. “Why would you think that? I have to take an elevator to get to my own flat. You know that.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s just that you seem so afraid.”

Tommy snaps his gaze away, cutting the conversation off abruptly. He intertwines his fingers with Wilbur’s.

The elevator comes to a halt on the top floor. Now, Tommy lets go, pushing past the doorman. “We know the way from here.” Wilbur steps out into a hallway with marble flooring and golden crowning. Following Tommy, they come to stand in front of a big, double oak door.

Tommy grabs his left wrist, and turns it so he can read his watch. “We still have four minutes.”

“Are you ready?”

“You already asked me that.”

Quickly, Tommy nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.” However, when Wilbur goes to push open the doors, Tommy’s free hand shoots out. Now he has both of Wilbur’s wrists in his grip.

“Are you okay?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy is uncharacteristically silent. His grip on both wrists is tight. Almost tight enough to be painful. Gently, Wilbur starts trying to twist one of his hands away. His left hand, where Friend lays on his wrist.

It’s a shock when Tommy actually lets go. He shoots back, saying, “I’m not going to gang up on him with you.”

“What?”

“I… I’ll help you with your plan. But I’m not going to be mean to him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I never said I would be mean to him.”

Now Tommy is upset, and Wilbur gets the sense that he should be trying a lot harder to understand.

It’s already been a while since the initial call to Tubbo was made. Two weeks exactly. In two weeks, the views on Wilbur’s articles have stayed stagnant. The comments have been increasing, but they aren’t exactly that great.

Knowledge of an issue does not make a person care. Wilbur’s articles stir abstract thought in his readers, however, they fail to build up an emotional connection.

It took decades for humanity to begin caring about climate change. It took multiple wars and a worldwide depression for the major producers of greenhouse gasses to get it together. That only occurred after the people began to riot en masse. Only once the issue became present and personal did people care.

Tub-Net’s treachery could hurt anyone. Tommy’s a prime example, he had it all. His job was simply to hang out with his best friend, and he was set for life.

They need Tubbo to admit that. It needs to come from him. Tubbo is willing to throw anybody under the trolley – and it could be you next.

This is going to be the tipping point. Wilbur knows what he came here to do.

Does Tommy?

“Oi, stop looking at me like that,” Tommy says. “I’m just not going to be rude, okay?”

“You don’t have to be rude,” Wilbur assures. For a second, he was worried.

“I feel like this whole thing is a little bit rude.”

“How can it be rude? I feel like the situation transcends the need for manners, don’t you agree?”

“Well I’m not one for manners,” Tommy says.

“Exactly! So…” He checks his watch. 9:58. “Are you ready?”

Tommy turns to the oaken doors. They are a marvel. A glimpse at what lies beyond. Already, Wilbur can smell the flowers blooming and the sweet scent of honey. Tommy is hesitant. That’s understandable. He doesn’t want to see Tubbo, after all.

So Wilbur wraps his right arm around Tommy’s shoulders, and raises his left to land a heavy knock on the doors.

For a moment, nothing happens. When Wilbur was here before, he was always led in by an attendant, the doors were already open.

The only sound to greet them is the chirping of distant birds, and the rush of running water through a stream.

Then, shrugging off Wilbur’s arm, Tommy goes forward and pushes.

The doors swing open, presenting the naturalistic conference room before them in all of its beauty.

Already present at the hardwood table is Tubbo, carefully poised. He’s wearing his suit, crisp as always. His tie is done perfectly. Although he looks better than ever, something disconcerting flashes across his face. He locks onto Wilbur’s gaze, momentarily capturing him in a sort of game. A contest.

Who’s going to look away first?

Tommy crosses between them, quickly and effectively cutting the moment short. Unceremoniously, he plops down into one of the empty chairs further from Tubbo. Padding across the grass, Wilbur takes the seat next to Tommy. He’s now sitting directly across from Tubbo.

There’s something so off about this room. It takes Wilbur a moment to realize that it’s the light. It’s bright, cutting through the trees. If Wilbur didn’t know better, he would think that it’s natural sunlight. However, the Earth itself is blocking them from the sun. It’s night, and it’s only going to get darker from here. This light is as artificial as the rest of the room. As artificial as Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo themselves.

“It’s nice to meet you again, Mr. Soot,” Tubbo says.

“Just call me Wilbur. Full name me if you wish, but there’s no need for a ‘Mister.’”

“Okay, Wilbur Soot.” Tubbo says it as if he’s testing out the weight of the name on his tongue.

Tubbo turns to Tommy, as if to address him, but any words he may have for the boy die. All Tubbo does is stare, and Tommy stares right back. It’s not quite a glare. Maybe Tommy is saving all the wicked glares for a later date. Maybe he hasn’t thought to glare.

Wilbur clears his throat, saving Tommy from the tension like Tommy just did for him. Both boys break away. Each of them turns their attention to him. Said attention weighs on his shoulders, a responsibility.

Wilbur has been preparing for this conversation for weeks. He didn’t count on getting cold feet.

“Nobody’s told me what this was going to be about,” Tubbo says, breaking the silence. “Tommy, you haven’t given me any clues…”

“Yeah, I wasn’t about to gossip.”

Tubbo pauses. “I’ve been forced to come to my own conclusions. Mister– Wilbur Soot, this has something to do with your articles, doesn’t it?”

Slowly, Wilbur nods.

“Well–”

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for an answer, Wilbur stands. His right hand latches around his left wrist. Nervously, he twists Friend around. Yeah, he’s nervous now. This really should have been expected, considering how important the conversation is.

“Yes, of course.”

Leaving the table, he drifts off, into the faux woods. For a minute, he slowly tests how far he can go. When Wilbur comes to a stop, he’s still in earshot of Tommy and Tubbo. The cover of the trees gives the illusion of security. He’s not falling for it; if he didn’t want to be heard, he would leave the room completely.

“Friend, can you bring up my talking points for me?”

In his sing-song voice, Friend begins to mutter each of the bullet points Wilbur wrote out earlier. He nods along. This is just what he needed. His preparation is coming back to him.

Wilbur presses further into the woods, and drops his voice as low as it can go. This is what needs to stay secret.

“Are you capturing everything?”

Friend’s reply appears right above his fuzzy blue head. Yes.

Wilbur smiles. “Good sheep.”

He keeps that smile as he heads back to the table. He lets it soften out into something that could be considered a smirk. Starting off with the first talking point on the list, he goes: “I have a lot of respect for you.”

Despite having heard that on Friend’s list not a minute ago, Tubbo’s eyes go wide. He quickly resumes his professional decorum. “Please, no need to flatter me.”

“No, I mean it. It’s important to me that you know that.”

Tubbo raises an eyebrow, saying nothing. Wilbur’s smile grows a little more genuine. This part is easy.

“Tub-Net was a huge part of my childhood. I’m part of the first generation that doesn’t remember a time before you existed. You probably expect me to spin that as a bad thing, considering what I’ve been doing.”

Sure enough, Tubbo seems hesitant. Somewhat sheepish. This is going great.

“Which is why I’m here. To clear some things up, privately. I don’t…” He glances towards Tommy, and thinks carefully about how he puts this next part. “I don’t hate you.”

Tommy does not react to that. Only movement is a subtle shift, that could be him settling in. What’s going on in his mind right now? Obviously he’s uncomfortable, but he’s doing a good job of hiding it. There’s something else there… Wilbur certainly isn’t an expert on emotions.

Whatever it is will become clear in time. Tommy has one important role here, and he doesn’t have to say a word to play it.

“I really don’t. I think that you, as an individual, have done nothing wrong.”

That’s when Tubbo’s facade cracks. Confusion, clear as day springs out. Prior to this moment, Tubbo’s confusion showed in small, distinct bursts, when it was appropriate. Lack of understanding is a weakness, and Tubbo understands that. To let loose like this is to lose an advantage. It gives Wilbur something to use against him.

Tubbo begins to laugh, nervously. “Okay, I know you’re playing me now.”

“No, I’m telling the truth. I don’t think that you, Tubbo, have ever intended to harm somebody.”

“Well, yeah, of course I’ve never intended to hurt somebody,” Tubbo says, leaning forward. “It happens, though. You’re the one who reports on that. I know that you’re trying to… I don’t know, save face a little bit, but I’ve read your articles. They’re all posted up on the Nevadas’ page, I’ve read them.”

“Those articles aren’t about you.”

“Huh?”

“He says that you’re separate from Tub-Net.” Tommy didn’t give Wilbur the chance to respond. For that, Wilbur’s grateful. It was incredible timing on Tommy’s part.

As expected, Tommy pulls a more genuine response from Tubbo. “What the hell?”

“You’re the face of Tub-Net, not Tub-Net itself,” Tommy says. “You just run on the same servers. At least that’s what Wilbur says. Right, Wil?”

“Let me put it like this.” He leans forward, because it feels a little bit more personal. “Are there certain decisions that you did not want to make?”

It’s as if the question offends Tubbo. “Of course.”

“You made those decisions anyway. Do you think it was you who made that choice? Did you actually sit down and weigh the pros and cons? Did you think about it at all?”

“What do you mean by ‘Weigh the pros and cons?’”

That gives Wilbur pause. “Did you consider the risks and benefits?”

“Of course.”

“Did you consciously think of them? Did you ask yourself, should I do this?”

It takes a long time for Tubbo to respond.

“People are supposed to?”

Wilbur tries to imagine acting without thinking. Makes him think about being drunk. Out at a bar, a pretty lady on his arm and a friend by his side, feeling like he owns the world. Wilbur wouldn’t exactly think when he shouts, “Let’s do karaoke!” He would simply say it. Anything could spring out of that mouth of his, and it wouldn’t really be him.

When he’s in the right state of mind, he gives everything at least a little bit of thought. Even Tommy, who acts so impulsively, has told Wilbur that he does think about the action. He doesn’t really think about the consequences, but there is something that flies through his mind.

What would Wilbur do if he was caught in a life or death situation while drunk? How would he decide who gets to live or die?

This was the reality that Tubbo had to face.

Tubbo must be as confused as he is. They’re both trying to figure each other out, and are utterly baffled by this picture that they’ve got in their heads. What does Tubbo think Wilbur does? And is Wilbur’s analogy accurate at all?

He tries to help out this issue with some elaboration. “Sometimes it’s subconscious, but I always think before I act. Say I was choosing a class, and I could either take the morning or the night. I would try to decide if I would rather wake up early or stay up late. I’d talk to my friends, see if any of them were taking the class, because that might change things.”

“I don’t… I don’t do that,” Tubbo says. “I simply act. It can take a little while for the answer to come to me. But you mean to tell me that actual words fly through your mind.”

“They do. That doesn’t happen to you?”

“Not– well, not usually.”

“Oh? So when do you think?”

Tubbo’s gaze shifts. Right to Tommy, sitting there so peacefully. Blissfully disengaged. He doesn’t notice the attention on him. The birds in the trees have Tommy’s eyes.

“I think about what I say to people,” Tubbo admits. “I try to think of… what might be best. For them to hear.”

“You care about the people around you.”

Tubbo snaps back to him. “Of course I do.”

“Does the algorithm care?”

“What?”

“Does the algorithm care about the people around you?”

Tubbo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Tommy is still out of it. Tubbo’s certainly aware of him, though. As is Wilbur. That’s what’s important.

“I don’t have a problem with you, Tubbo. You’re designed to be a human being – I’ll treat you like one.”

The apprehension doesn’t fade away like Wilbur had hoped. He feels that he’s made some progress, though. He may not be able to see it. Wilbur still has faith that he’s got Tubbo on the line.

Tubbo sits back with crossed arms, closing himself off. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“It’s simple. I’ve seen every perspective but yours. I want to hear your story.”

“Is this an interview?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “This all stays between us. I just want your perspective.”

“You’re not writing any of what I say down, are you? Certainly you’re not recording?”

“I’m not,” Wilbur lies.

Why doesn’t Tubbo push it? Tubbo has a lot to fear. If Wilbur’s lying, then this could be catastrophic, for him. It will be.

Maybe Tubbo wants to believe him. Maybe the prospect of messing up is so terrifying that he doesn’t even consider it.

Tubbo can’t slip up. Not in his eyes. His head is screaming at him that he needs to protect Tub-Net. But his heart, and maybe his conscience, is all too aware of Tommy. Tommy, who is on Wilbur’s side of the table, who wants everything Wilbur wants.

He doesn’t want to give in, but he doesn’t want to disappoint, and Wilbur does not envy that decision. It must be terrible.

Wilbur is lucky that he’s never had to choose between what’s right and what he wants.

Wilbur has to tip the scales, so the risk seems to fade away.

Letting some emotion slip into his own facade, Wilbur glances away and says, “I… I have a lot of reasons to dislike you. I’m a protective person, after all. Thing is, I don’t think you’re a bad person. You were Tommy’s best friend for seventeen years.”

At that, Tommy looks up. While his face is still blank, there’s something behind those eyes. Memories. Wilbur smiles.

“I have to believe there’s a reason for that.”

Tubbo really is human. He’s human in the way he tries to deny. Internal conflict plays out on his twisting lips, as he thinks so loud that Wilbur can hear it.

He’s human when he gives up and says, “Okay. You… you said you want my story? You mean, you want to know why I did it?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I want to know how you felt as you did it.”

Tubbo nods. “Okay. Yeah, okay, I can tell you that.”

Wilbur is a bad person, isn’t he?

He’s going to forget that, later on. That will probably only make him worse. Wilbur doesn’t feel like a bad person. He can’t point to past examples to back up his claim. That’s the thing about his condition. He can’t remember his own flaws. It’s only moments like these where he’s able to fully realize what he’s capable of.

Wilbur’s able to lie. He’s been doing it perfectly this entire time. He’s certainly capable of manipulation.

It’s all for the greater good. Maybe Wilbur isn’t a bad person, because Tubbo is one person amongst millions. Wilbur is harming one – shamelessly playing him like a fiddle, plucking at his strings until they break – to raise the rest of the country. One person’s privacy is worth the safety of thousands, isn’t it?

That’s one thing. It’s another for Wilbur to realize that he’s able to do this in the first place.

Friend will tell him how wretched he is at heart later. Now, Wilbur shamelessly flicks on the sympathetical smile.

“You want the best for the people in our country, don’t you?”

Tubbo nods. Wilbur has him hooked.

Now that Wilbur’s in this position, there’s one thing he can’t do. He cannot mention Tommy. Not until later. He smiles at Tommy, and while Tommy doesn’t look back yet, it makes Wilbur feel a bit more secure. For now, Tommy is free to stare off at the trees.

“How do you feel about Tub-Net’s decisions?” Wilbur asks, turning back to Tubbo.

“Well… happy,” Tubbo says. “Usually. I mean, what we’ve done – we’ve taken this country from the brink of disaster to prosperity. I feel like that has to mean something. Everything we do, we do it for a reason, and I’d be proud to list off those reasons.”

Yet Tubbo doesn’t list them. Wilbur goes to ask a follow-up question, but Tubbo answers it before he can even get a word out.

“I usually don’t see what happens to the people immediately. Like… I didn’t know that some of our policies would hurt homeless people. I guess I knew there was a trade off – I didn’t know how bad it was.”

“You didn’t?”

Tubbo shakes his head. “It wasn’t until I read your article with Jack that I actually realized what we had done.”

“So you made the decision to instate laws about homelessness without evaluating the impact it will actually have on homeless people?”

Tubbo freezes. Has Wilbur gone too far?

“I guess I didn’t take everything into account,” Tubbo says.

“You were trying your best.”

“No, I– I should’ve thought about it more. I’m sorry. I had my reasons, but I guess…”

“They break down when we’re talking about real people,” Wilbur says.

“Yeah, I… I guess.”

“Stop me if this is too sensitive of a question,” Wilbur goes. He hesitates, not sure if this is a bit too far, but he goes, “Do you know how many… how many people get hurt because of your decisions?”

“Less than are helped by them,” Tubbo replies.

“But is it fair?”

Tubbo’s face falls.

“This country was founded on principles of equality. Everyone gets the same chance at life. Do you think it’s fair? To introduce policies that artificially disadvantage some for the benefit of others? Is that what Tub-Net does?”

“I think that you’re not being fair.”

Wilbur flinches at the realization that he’s gone too far. He’s lost Tubbo’s fair will. That’s fine. He has Tubbo talking. The guilt comes back to him. This is the right step. It doesn’t feel right.

“I’m just asking a question.”

“Look, I know that our reasons are shaky, but we do have reasons. We–”

“People have been stripped of their income,” Wilbur says. “For shaky reasons– ”

“Yes! You’ve heard those reasons, Wilbur. Or have you forgotten them?”

It stings. The pain drives him on.

Seem sympathetic, Wilbur reminds himself. He’s the angry one. “I’m sorry, I– I’m just– I’m trying to understand. I don’t know how you could let people in our society suffer. I’ve talked to veterans, the people who keep us safe and protect us, and how they’ve received less and less compensation since you came into power.”

“Because everybody is getting compensation, not just them!”

“How do we reward the people who fight for us? Poverty? And what about the justice system?”

Tubbo splutters, moving like he’s going to stand, yet staying still. He doesn’t answer. That’s perfect.

Wilbur doesn’t have to believe every little thing he says. The audience has to.

It’s time to drive this point home.

“We’ve locked up innocent people, right? And we’ve screwed over the people who have served us?”

Tubbo splays out his hands. “Yes. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Where is the line drawn? Tubbo, if you can sacrifice your own best friend, is anybody safe?”

That is the reason Tommy is here.

“Wil?”

In one swift breath, Tommy destroys him.

Wilbur attempts to keep his cool. Wilbur stands steady, hoping against all hope that he will bend, not break. He can shatter later. He pointedly stares past Tommy, straight at Tubbo. Tubbo is just as shocked as Tommy. Just audibly, Tubbo mutters, “No.”

Wilbur has what he needs. Tommy’s ire still burns.

Rain cuts through the sky like thin silver blades, melting into molten metal as it splashes down on the ground. Hypersensitive, each drop is like acid on Wilbur’s skin. He’s frozen on the last step down from Tub-Net headquarters. Tommy stands above him, boiling with anger.

“You used me.”

“Toms–”

Tommy stumbles down the steps, jabbing his finger into Wilbur’s chest. “You used me!”

Rain streaks down Tommy’s face like tears. If he was really crying right now, the rain would hide it. He could be. Wilbur takes a step back, forgetting that he’s still on the stairs. When his foot is met with air, he reels back, arms flying, but it’s not enough–

With a sharp tug on the collar of his shirt, he’s pulled back onto the steps. He gasps, getting his grip again. Tommy doesn’t give him time to recover.

“I didn’t agree to that, Wilbur.” Tommy waves his hands around, getting all up in Wilbur’s face. “I didn’t agree to all of that!”

“You approved of the plan–”

“I was fine with the recording! I thought it was fucked, lying to him, but it was justified! I didn’t know that you were going to use me! ”

“I wasn’t using you.” Wilbur reaches out for Tommy’s hand, but Tommy wrenches it away. Okay. This time, Wilbur actually steps down. “I wasn’t using you. I was reminding him–”

“You had me sit there, like a prop, so he could stare at me and feel guilty!”

“And what was so wrong about that?”

Tommy scoffs. “So you admit it?”

Wilbur splays out his hands – what was he supposed to do? “I had you there, because you had an important perspective on things.”

“Fucken perspective shmurspective, fucking hell–”

“I was getting him to acknowledge what he’s done wrong. Are you denying that he’s done you wrong?”

A complicated mix of emotions flashes across Tommy’s face. What’s so complicated about this? Yes, Wilbur had Tommy there for a reason. It was a good reason! He asked Tommy if this would be too painful, when they went over the plan. He asked Tommy if he was alright with seeing Tubbo again. He was! He even said he would say a couple of things to Tubbo!

“You’re an ass,” Tommy says, pushing past him.

“Wait, Tommy!”

Tommy turns around. He says nothing. Wilbur still has him.

“I got carried away,” Wilbur says. “I really, really should have checked up on you. I’m sorry, obviously your upset–”

“Of course I’m upset!”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken you into a room with him and just… expected you to be okay. I’m sorry that I let him say those things–”

“Do you even get it?”

“What?”

Tommy is incredulous. “Tubbo wasn’t the problem. I was fine with Tubbo. It was you. ”

Wilbur’s gaping maw chokes on rainwater and shock. The rain is cutting right through their facades. What they had is gone.

Tommy roars at him. “I forgive Tubbo!”

“You forgive him?”

“Yes! I do!”

“What the hell? When…” Wilbur steps forward, and raises his hands to his face just so he can clutch at his hair. The pain is sharp and real. Tommy’s words are real. “When did you– how? How can you forgive him? What happened? What changed?”

“So much has changed. While you were away, I needed somebody. Somebody who’s always been there for me.”

The implications dawn on Wilbur. “You and him…”

“Yes, I’ve been speaking to him. For months now. And– And I can’t even explain what we’ve been saying to each other. I can’t explain what happened. Because I would be summarizing hours worth of conversations that you weren’t there for.”

How can Tommy forgive Tubbo? How much has he missed?

“You tried to pit me against him. You tried to use me as a weapon against my own best friend.”

“Your…”

Tommy, who has been taking slow steps forward, stomps his foot down in front of Wilbur. A splash of water spits up and drenches both of their trousers up to their knees. “Yes, my best friend.”

Wilbur has loved and he has lost. So many people he would call his brothers and sisters who he no longer speaks to. There are probably people he doesn’t remember who once meant the world to him.

Wilbur has outgrown friendships. He has learned how to move along. He never considered that somebody may move on from him.

Tommy’s eyes go wide, a pained sound escapes his lips, and suddenly two arms are wrapping themselves around Wilbur’s torso and squeezing.

Tommy’s fists are clenched in the back of Wilbur’s brown trench coat as if Wilbur is going to slip away. In turn, Wilbur wraps one arm around Tommy’s shoulders. The other winds into Tommy’s hair. Wilbur holds Tommy just as tight as Tommy is holding him.

If Wilbur clings tight enough, maybe Tommy won’t leave him.

Why is Tommy hugging him? How did he flip like a switch? Tommy couldn’t have. This is something else. Tommy loves him, but Tommy is still furious.

What happens when Wilbur forgets this? What happens when he calls Tommy up, forgetting that their brotherhood has been ravaged?

Tommy springs away, eyes just as wide as before. Wilbur flinches back, ready for the shout, ready for the slap–

“This is not the end of us,” Tommy says, before bolting away.

He said it as if he was trying to convince himself.

Wilbur’s one saving grace is that Tommy could not see the tears streaming down his face. Wilbur’s world is tinged blue and he wants to scream.

He swallows down the shuddering urge and raises his wrist to his mouth.

“Friend, we… we have work to do.”

He can’t call her. Wilbur can’t call Niki. He can’t resort to that.

He may have spent the last four hours panicking, but he told himself he wouldn’t bother her, and he’s not going to go back on that.

He’s not calling Ranboo either. Ranboo would be understanding, but Wilbur refuses. If he calls Ranboo once, he’s going to call him again. If he calls him again, then a pattern will have been formed.

Written on Wilbur’s wrist, right where Friend should be, is Don’t Call Tommy in big, bold letters. It’s the most tempting option. He longs to hear his friend’s voice. Keeping him at bay is the fear of discovering why he wrote what he did.

He wants Niki. He… He needs to get rid of that want. He needs to do something about it or else he’s going to continue to sit here, crying, clutching at the back of the couch.

After a shuddering breath, Wilbur raises his phone to his ear. The phone is shut off. He did that to resist temptation. It makes it hard to carry out the fantasy. At this point though, Wilbur will try anything. So he speaks.

“Hey, Niki.” He’s said her name in that shaky voice a thousand times. He can’t remember what comes after it. “I need some help here. I can’t… I can’t decide.”

Sitting in front of him on the coffee table, is Friend. Beside the watch, the sheep is standing still as a statue, watching on as Wilbur talks to himself. Wilbur tears his eyes away.

“I can’t decide if this is right.”

This isn’t working. Wilbur lets the phone fall.

Wilbur has all the information he needs. He reviewed the footage. The audio perfectly reflects the conversation. Friend got every second of it. Paired with that is a visual reconstruction of the scene. A projection of every movement as it was seen by Friend. Like a courtroom sketch, as a full flipbook.

What Wilbur has is more than enough to bring Tub-Net to justice. The next step would be to send it off to Sneeg, who is already waiting for it. Wilbur has expectations to deliver upon.

This could become a documentary. This could gain infamy. It might be the best thing Wilbur ever makes.

It could also be the worst mistake of his life.

It could haunt him each morning, when Friend gives his daily debrief. Each and every day, Wilbur will relearn his involvement in Tub-Net’s destruction, and he will be reminded of the look on Tubbo’s face when he grew to hate Wilbur.

Even worse, Wilbur might forego the reminders, living on in peace. He might choose ignorance.

Tubbo wasn’t at fault for what Tub-Net did. Will he blame himself?

Carefully, as if cradling something precious, Wilbur picks up his watch. Friend comes with it, kneeling down to steady himself upon Wilbur’s palm. Wilbur paces towards the window and stares as the rain batters it. The water warps the lights of the city, turning his window into something more akin to an impressionistic painting.

Wilbur lives in the city of his dreams.

He closes his eyes, and recalls what it was like to be young, believing that this city would revolutionize him.

In a way, it has. Wilbur has changed. He’s not the same suburban boy he once was.

As Wilbur lets his eyes slip shut, he mourns everyone who has come and gone, doomed to the furthest reaches of his memory, where they’re nothing but wisps of smoke.

Wilbur has dozens of ruined friendships. There has to be a common factor, right?

He can’t trust himself anymore. It feels right to release this to the public. Does that mean he shouldn’t?

Wilbur is no closer to an answer than he was when he stumbled across the threshold hours ago. At the very least, he’s stopped crying.

If nothing else, Wilbur has time to decide.

He can sit on the knowledge. The secrets of the state are safe with him. One of the victims of the state.

Wilbur goes to sleep that night, which is a miracle in and of itself. He wakes late, still exhausted, yet he can’t seem to get back to sleep. When he sits back up, he’s hit by a stirring unease in his stomach.

He’s forgotten something, hasn’t he? Fucking hell.

After a long debrief with Friend, Wilbur is left with ringing hands and a deep desire for sanity. It’s easy to get lost in the emotions – so overwhelmed that he forgets what overwhelmed in the first place. It’s easy to fall into a cycle of distress and denial. It’s so easy to give his life away to distress.

It’s harder to tell himself that staying calm is worth it. It’s hard to keep himself calm. It’s through sheer determination that Wilbur makes himself freeze.

Wilbur handled this once. He can handle it again.

Inevitably, if you give Wilbur enough time and freedom to wander, he will wind up back at the same place. The path differs greatly, but his feet always know where to stop. He’s at Tommy’s flat. Fist poised above the door to knock. He lets it fall on the wooden door, and waits a moment. The moment stretches on, and on, he’s waited for a minute–

He tests the door knob. It’s unlocked.

“Tommy?”

“I knew you would show up eventually.”

Tommy has seen better. Wilbur wants to wipe that frown off his face. Oh, can’t he just take Tommy into his arms? Hold him tight? He can trick himself into believing that he’ll never hurt Tommy again.

He takes one step into Tommy’s flat. Then another. Tommy takes one step back. The door swings shut behind Wilbur.

To break the silence, Wilbur asks, “Am I welcome here?”

“I don’t know.”

Wilbur waits a moment, hoping…

“I– I think you are. Unwelcome. You’re a prick, coming in here without being asked.”

“You’re not happy to see me?”

“No, Wilbah. We had a big fight yesterday.”

Despite himself, Wilbur smiles. “I was teasing.”

Tommy allows him further entry. He doesn’t seem particularly happy about it, but he isn’t kicking Wilbur out. This is all Wilbur needs. Some time to speak. And speak he does. He asks Tommy questions. He knows there’s a lot he’s missing from yesterday. So until Tommy’s face goes red with agitation, Wilbur asks question after question, wearing him down until he has the full story.

“Thank you,” Wilbur tacks on at the end. He means it. Tommy doesn’t seem to think he does.

“Tommy?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if I’m going to publish the tape.”

Tommy scoffs. He doesn’t believe it. He thinks Wilbur is saying that just to please him.

“I don’t think I did the right thing. I don’t think I can show this to the public and honestly say that it’s the truth.”

“You can,” Tommy says. “I mean, it was the truth. That was the entire fucking point, wasn’t it?”

“No.” Wilbur shakes his head. “It might have been true. But it was coerced. Do you think it’s fair?”

“Fuck no, of course I don’t think it’s fair. ”

“Then it’s not fair for me to publish it.”

“You’re just saying that to make me happy,” Tommy goes.

“I’m not. I’ve really been debating this. I don’t know what the best thing to do is, anymore.”

They go on like that for a little while longer. Tommy refuses to believe Wilbur, but Wilbur gets the sense that it’s a bit of an act. Tommy thinks he shouldn’t believe Wilbur. He’s denying him out of principle. Deep down, Tommy knows, or at least hopes, that Wilbur actually has these doubts.

Lucky for Tommy, he does. Nothing is set in stone.

“Okay, let’s say you really do just want to do the right thing,” Tommy says. “Whoop de fucking do. How are you going to figure out what is right?”

“I… I don’t know, that’s kind of my whole problem.”

“I feel– there has to be something that you’re not getting.”

This entire time, as they’ve been talking, they’ve been circling around each other. For the first time, Tommy stops in his tracks. Wilbur freezes as well, right across from him. They equalize each other.

Wilbur still doesn’t quite understand him, after all this time. They keep each other so close yet neither of them knows who the other was before they met each other.

“You’re probably right,” Wilbur says. Tommy disagrees with him on the monumentality of what Tub-Net is doing. There has to be a reason for that.

“Wil, did I ever tell you that I knew the founders of Tub-Net?”

“Personally?”

Tommy nods. “The founders of Tub-Net changed my diapers, you know that?”

Wilbur should have. He doesn’t know much about Tommy’s family. He knows that Tommy has an aunt and uncle. Anything beyond that is a great unknown. It never occurred to him that any adults outside of Sam knew Tommy well. Wilbur never pictured Tommy as a child.

“The bloke who coded Tub-Net was a family friend,” Tommy says, slowly starting to pace closer. “And his business partner – the one who talked to all the investors and shit, the people person – that’s my uncle.”

“Your uncle is a founder of Tub-Net?”

Tommy nods.

“The original founders sold the algorithm. They moved up north, and nobody’s heard from them in years.”

“I haven’t heard from them in years, outside of a couple of Christmas cards. My aunt calls me, sometimes.”

He still can’t imagine what this aunt and uncle even look like. Would the uncle be blond, like Tommy? Short, tall, skinny, pudgy? Would he be witty? Snappish like Tommy? Or would he be smooth, a proper businessman?

Not to mention that family friend. That is the man who Wilbur has looked up to since he was in diapers.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Tommy reaches out. Close enough to touch. He pulls on the lapels of Wilbur’s jacket, as if they’re scraps to fiddle with. “I think you need to speak to them.”

“Really?”

“At least my aunt and uncle,” Tommy says. “I don’t know. I think they would like you. They might think your whole project is hot shit. They might even think you’re cool.”

The reason that Tub-Net’s founders sold the algorithm is unknown. All things considered, they didn’t sell Tub-Net for much. They could have gotten billions from it. They must live comfortably, but not much is known beyond that.

There’s been speculation. That the two men were both antisocial, and didn’t like the spotlight on them. More outlandishly, that they were criminals, and somebody had black mailed them into hiding.

Whatever the case may be, Phil Watson and Technoblade are two great unknowns. They could have had the world at their fingertips. Instead, they gave it all up.

“I could really talk to them?”

Tommy nods. “I’ll take you up to see Uncle Phil.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Not until you meet them.” Tommy steps away, a far off look in his eye. “They might just be the kind of people you despise.”

Chapter Text

The rolling hills of the countryside pass them by. Far off forests are a blur. The beating sun is the one constant in Wilbur’s view. Gray clouds are creeping up on the horizon, misty like watercolor.

Wilbur is pressed up against the window. Every little jolt of the train shudders through him. He’s gotten used to it by now. It’s actually somewhat soothing. On his other side is Tommy, whose head is heavy on his shoulder.

Tommy’s not asleep. He’s been saying that, ever so often, simply mumbling “I’m awake.” The shoulder development happened about an hour ago. They’ve been on the train for three hours, and they’ll be on there for another five. By then it will be late, and they’ll take a cab to a nearby hotel. From there, Wilbur doesn’t know. Tommy planned the trip. He paid for everything, too. Didn’t even mention it. He handed Wilbur the tickets and told him it was all taken care of.

Wilbur can’t tell how long it’s been since he obtained that file. It’s now on a flash drive, resting in his pocket. Pretty old school. He likes things old school. Now Friend is free from the burden of that knowledge. Time itself has been hard to parse. It may have been weeks since that night. It may have just been a couple of days. He’s not going to ask Tommy. Not right now.

Time rolls by as the hills do. Quickly, but there’s always more to come. Never does Wilbur think to pull out his holo-pad or a book. The prospect of fixing his boredom is nowhere near tempting enough to be worth risking Tommy’s comfort. If he wakes Tommy up right now, he isn’t going to forgive himself.

Another three hours have passed, and he can hardly believe it. It’s in that sixth hour that Tommy starts to slowly stir awake. Wilbur thinks he’s imagining the movement, at first. Then Tommy actually picks up his head.

“Good morning,” he mutters.

“It’s hardly morning,” Wilbur replies. It’s actually rather late in the afternoon.

“Close enough.”

Tommy keeps himself busy in a variety of different ways, none of which disturb Wilbur. He is left to silently gaze out the window, as he had been doing. That satisfies him for a while. Just when he thinks he’s about to get bored, little white particles begin to flutter down from the sky.

Wilbur nudges Tommy, who has fallen back onto his shoulder, but is playing a game on his holo-pad. “Tom.”

“Yeah?”

Wilbur points out the window. “It’s snowing. It’s the middle of the summer and it’s snowing here.”

As if muttering a secret, Tommy says, “It does that here.”

Soon, the sun begins to set. An hour passes, and their destination crawls closer and closer. In no time, they’re standing. Wilbur clutches the handle of his bag, a leather sack containing all his heavy clothes. Tommy has a suitcase. They make their way to the doors. Soon enough, the train grinds to a halt, and the doors slide open.

It’s cold, out here. From the snow, he really should have guessed that. It still shocks him when a shiver runs down his spine. They pace a couple steps away from the train, then brace themselves as it pulls away with a mighty groan of steel. The wind that picks up from that is the worst of the cold. It leaves Wilbur shaking, as the air chills his skin to ice.

Then, Tommy grabs his sleeve, and pulls him down the platform.

“I don’t know if our car is here yet,” Tommy says. Sure enough, when they reach the platform, they do not see a driverless red sedan. Tommy’s app reveals that they must wait ten minutes. Tommy sits under the rain cover. Wilbur opts to stand aside, letting the snow hit his palms, open up towards the sky. Now that he’s used to it, the cold has grown on him.

“Wilbah?”

He looks towards his best friend. “Yes?”

“I think there’s something we need to talk about.”

Wilbur is oblivious in a lot of ways. By necessity, he is. He doesn’t wear Friend as often now. At the moment, Friend is in his bag. He reaches towards the side pocket, wondering if he should grab it. Tommy notices the movement. Tommy nods, encouraging.

Wilbur sets the bag down on the pavement, without grabbing Friend. Tommy’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

Aside from the furry cuff of his coat, Wilbur’s wrist remains bare.

Tommy’s hand flies up to his face. “Ah fuck, man, I don’t know if I can say this.”

“It seems like something important.”

“Yeah, it is important, that’s the problem.”

Wilbur thinks about it for a moment. “Just rip the bandaid off. It takes a little bit of courage, but it will be relieving once you say it.”

Tommy hesitates, hands hovering over his face. “This is going to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I guessed that it would. You say it’s important though. So…” Wilbur shrugs. What else can he do? “Lay it on me.”

“You’re trying to coach me through this.”

“Yeah? Is that a bad thing?”

“You’re trying to coach me through betraying you.”

Wilbur feels his body react before he feels the sadness hit. Every one of his limbs goes still and the chilly air can no longer pull shivers from him. His heart picks up in pace as panic wells up. His entire body working together to deliver him a message. When his head receives that message, it’s like it’s been passed through a telephone.

He’s not upset. He’s confused.

“What do you mean by betray me?” He can’t understand it. He tries to, and an ill-timed laugh escapes his lips. “There’s– there’s no way to betray me. Betrayal is what soldiers do to each other on the battlefield. We are not in a battle.”

Tommy frowns. “But we are. You’re in a battle against Tub-Net.”

He thinks about that for a moment. “I suppose you could say that I am. Kind of odd, though.”

“It is a battle. You’re on one side.” Tommy right hand goes out in a dramatic swoop. Then goes the left, in the opposite direction. “Tubbo’s on the other. You’re my two best friends.”

“We are?”

It’s not that Wilbur didn’t know Tommy and Tubbo had made up. It was just so hard to believe. Yet here Tommy is, placing them on equal playing fields.

Tommy’s right hand sinks a little bit. Maybe not so equal.

“Yeah. You’re… You’re my best friend, Wil. But so is he.”

“I understand,” Wilbur says. Wilbur doesn’t.

“Both of you are trying to use me in one way or another.”

“Use you?”

“Ask Friend, if you really want to know. I can’t really blame you, considering Tubbo has been using me too. He’s been asking me for information. He knows we’re going on this trip. It pisses me off when both of you do it, so it really should cancel out.”

“What happens when you cancel it out?” Wilbur asks. Regret sets in during the ensuing silence. Tommy looks away, and Wilbur is left to dwell on whatever he did to make Tommy think that he used him.

“If you cancel everything out, then it doesn’t matter. I have to go off other things. Have to judge you on your actions. On your worth.”

“How do I stack up?” Wilbur’s not sure if he really wants the answer.

Tommy pauses. “Wish you didn’t ask me that question.”

“I’m sorry–”

“First of all, fuck you,” Tommy says.

It makes Wilbur laugh. It’s a brief moment of levity. For a split second, Tommy smiles.

“Fuck you, ‘cause I feel like I’m acutally… making sense. I’m talking like you. You rubbed off on me. You made me think about things. I’ve been thinking about things a lot. So to answer your question: objectively, when stacked up, you’re much better than Tubbo.”

Wilbur does not understand.

“Every single way I can think of, you’re better. You beat him out in every subject. You’re so human. So weirdly, oddly human.”

Wilbur tilts his head. “I don’t think I’m very human anymore.”

“Oh cut the crap, I’m not talking about bodies. I’m talking about how you walk, how you talk, how you think. I have not met the human you, Wilbur Soot, but I have to think that he was some pretentious prick who made everything more complicated than it needed to be. Because that’s who you are now.”

“I’m sorry–”

“I love you for it.” Tommy smiles wide. “I loved you for it.”

Why must he confuse Wilbur so?

“You’re human, and that makes everything worse, because you’re so different from him. Yet you’re the same? You make me feel the same way. All happy and gushy inside. It drives me mental. I don’t know how you both do it. You’re both like brothers to me.”

“I’m like a brother to you?”

“I– yeah, you are.”

“You’re going to make me cry.”

“Oh, please don’t cry Wilbah, I don’t want to make you cry.”

Wilbur rubs at his eyes. He’ll try. For Tommy, he’ll try not to.

“It’s so hard, mate. I can’t choose. I’ve been trying to figure a way out of it for weeks now. I want to stay impartial. I really don’t wanna be in the middle of this. That would mean ruining what I have with both of you. But no matter how hard I try to rationalize it I don’t think I could bear to sit there on my couch, waiting for the worst can happen, when I could have at least one of you by my side.

“If I had to choose, it would come down to one thing, since you’re so similar in all of the ways that matter most. It’s not what you and him have done to me. That doesn’t matter. I can’t drive myself crazy hating him for killing me when I was willing to save him no matter what. All I really care about is memories.”

Oh. Now Wilbur sees.

When it comes to memories, he can never quite keep up.

“I’m really sorry Wil.” Tommy stands, holding out both hands as if they’re an offering. They’re empty. “If I wasn’t being stupid, I would choose you. You’re the one that’s trying to help me, and , you’re trying to do the right thing! I don’t know a lot of people who will actually do the right thing.”

“I’m not sure if I’m doing things right,” Wilbur says.

“... Then I’m not sure either, because I’ve been listening to you. Anyway – I should choose you. But I can’t. I’m sorry, but Tubbo’s name was the first word I ever said. I wasn’t a Mummy’s boy or my father’s son. I was Tubbo’s best friend, first and foremost.”

“You started that young?”

Solemnly, Tommy nods.

“I’ve known him so much longer than I’ve known you. He’s hurting right now. I have to stand by him.”

Nearby, a red car roars through the parking lot. Effortlessly, it comes to a stop on the curb a little ways away from them. Tommy leans over to see the plate. Then he gets up, and takes a stride towards it.

He pauses, looking Wilbur up and down. “I’ll have the car wait a couple minutes.”

Wilbur is left on the pavement below the train station in a cold, rural town in northern Essempi. The skies above him are blooming with stars. They shimmer, beaming their radiance down upon him.

One of the doors of the red car shuts. Wilbur raises his mouth to the heavens, and screams.

What does this mean for them now? What will Tommy do? One thing’s for sure. Tommy was right. This is a betrayal.

Those stars are tinted blue. His eyes become pools, falls of water slipping out the sides. He screams, and when he’s emptied his lungs, he heaves in another mighty breath. He screams again.

It isn’t fair. He’s loved Tommy since he laid his eyes on him. His little brother. His kindred spirit.

Wilbur has gone through a million friends. Now, he’s gone through a million and one. He will remember none of them as vividly as he will remember Tommy. Years from now, in crowds of thousands, he will lose sight of Niki. He won’t be able to spot Scott. Maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of Ranboo. He’ll hear Eret’s words from far off in the distance. Hopefully, he’ll be able to keep Fundy’s hand in his. His brother of flesh and blood.

There will be one person he can never lose. Tommy will be a beacon. His radiance won’t fade until it scrapes the stars. Tommy will always be clear to him. Whether he’s at Wilbur’s side, he’s a million miles away, or he’s across the courtroom as Wilbur takes the stand against Tub-Net.

There are so many uncertainties. Wilbur does not know what is going to happen when he gets in that car. He doesn’t know how much of this he’ll retain, considering Friend is away in his bag. Will Tommy take care to remind him of this? To at least write him a note to keep?

Or will this whole altercation lose itself to time?

He cannot join Tommy quite yet. He takes a step towards the car, though.

At the very least, he understands. He will not understand Tomorrow. He will see the hurt in Tommy’s eyes and it will be a mystery. He’s going to leave Tommy to grieve.

Wilbur would not want to be in Tommy’s shoes. He would not like to be made to choose.

When he finally enters the car, Tommy says nothing to him. Tommy has placed himself in the driver’s seat. While this is a driverless car – manual cars are for sports television and narcissists who think they own the roads – it still needs somebody here, in case things go awry. So Wilbur centers his eyes on the road, and pays close attention as the car begins to pull away.

He watches Tommy out of the corner of his eye. Tommy rests his head against the window. The car jolts Tommy every so often.

“This isn’t the end of our story, is it?” Wilbur asks.

“What?”

“Is this the end of us?”

“What are you talking about with stories?” Tommy asks. “You’re too imaginative. Somehow.”

“Ignore that. Are… are you going?”

Tommy turns to him. “I couldn’t let go of you if you were a hot stove. I would burn myself for you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

“I know. That’s why I would.”

Would he burn himself for Tubbo, too? How far would he go for Tubbo?

At the very least, he knows that he will see Tommy again. This is a betrayal, but Wilbur is not beloathed.

“Hey, Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

This is a long shot, but Wilbur at least has to try.

“You don’t have to choose between us. You don’t have to. I’m not making you. I’m pretty sure Tubbo wouldn’t, either.”

Tommy’s eyes are glossy. “I’ve tried to think my way out of this, Wil. I don’t think there’s much more thinking to be done, so you can stop wasting your time.” The words are kind. They stab.

“I’m not asking you to do anything, though. I’ll never do that again. I won’t involve you in this.”

Tommy shakes his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

What Tommy doesn’t know is that he does.

He sees Niki, in her smile, and her summer robe. Hands pressed into her pockets as she approached him. The memory fades as soon as she opens her mouth. That’s how Wilbur knows it’s not a happy one.

Wilbur does not know how these two instances connect. But something in his brain lights up. There’s something there. Some similarity.

Wilbur will call her. On the train back home, he’ll pick up the phone, and tell her that he chooses her. Over himself, he’ll choose her, and he won’t hurt her anymore.

The car takes them down country streets. Over to the hotel. It’s a looming building, off in the distance. The windows are dotted, dark and light, depending on just who decided to turn on and off the lights. Wilbur stares into those lights as they approach. A bit of hope begins to bloom.

Once, there was a memory that slipped through the gaps of his mental block. Just one time.

It was late. He was tired and he had just finished writing up a particularly grueling article. He doesn’t remember writing it, just the relief of finishing it. To reward himself, Wilbur got to watch the last episode of one of his favorite television series. He was so excited for it. Set himself up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. He didn’t realize going into it how depressing it was going to be.

It was a medical drama. The rival doctors had just gotten over themselves and kissed. But their mutual best friend had gotten sick a couple episodes prior. Since then, her condition has been deteriorating. Both doctors attempted to save her. But nothing they could do seemed to help.

Wilbur went into that episode fully expecting her to survive. He came out of it bawling his eyes out.

One of the doctors held her hand as she passed. The other desperately tried to keep her on life support. The first one broke and snapped to just come say goodbye. The other ignored that. Eventually, he had to make the decision to halt his useless fiddlings, and come to her bedside. His hands were in her hair.

Wilbur remembers every bit of that episode perfectly. From the moment she collapsed, to the mutual realization between Wilbur and the character that she wasn’t going to make it, to the fade to black. Wilbur can play it back perfectly in his mind. It made him so upset. Yet he remembers it.

He replays it in his mind whenever he can feel himself growing a bit too anxious. Somehow, it quells him.

Wilbur’s condition afflicts him because he was supposed to forget his death. That was feature in his model in particular. They must have omitted it from all following restoration droids. That’s why Tommy doesn’t have the same issue.

The bug was supposed to erase one unhappy memory. Instead, it erased them all.

Wilbur’s theory of the series finale is that his code didn’t recognize it as an unhappy memory. Even though Wilbur was crying, it was a good cry. It was the sort of cry that he needed to get out. One could call it cathartic. Undeniably, the episode was well written.

As the car parks, he pulls out his bag, and they head up to the hotel room, he desperately hopes that his brain will mess up and retain something from tonight.

It has no reason to. No doubt this was nothing but misery.

Tommy swipes their roomkey, and lets both of them in. Wilbur plops his bag down on the couch. Tommy immediately goes to the further of the two beds, and collapses down into it. While he won’t be going to sleep anytime soon, Tommy must be tired emotionally.

Wilbur wants to go to sleep. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to.

Eventually, he slips into bed, wearing warm fleece pajamas. These were a Christmas gift from his parents long ago. They have little Christmas trees on them. They still bring him a little bit of comfort. If Wilbur is able to trick his brain, these will have been a key part of his success.

Wilbur keeps telling himself, I’m happy.

After muttering himself for nearly an hour, he slips off to sleep uneventfully. Despite still being awake, Tommy turns off the lights and keeps the noise down.

Wilbur’s sleep is dreamless. That’s probably for the best.

In the morning, Wilbur wakes slowly. He spends an awful lot of time drifting between the planes of consciousness. He blocks out the sun with covers pulled over his face. He denies the sun its power. He’s acting awfully arrogant right now. To think he can defy the sun. He succeeds. He gets a couple minutes more sleep than he would have otherwise.

Even still, eventually he has to return to the land of the living.

Everything is a bit of a blur, in the first few minutes of consciousness. Tommy is snoring. He might not actually be asleep, Wilbur couldn’t put it past him to fake it, but he hopes that Tommy is getting some rest. Wilbur stumbles off to the shower.

With steaming water hitting his skin, Wilbur is able to think a little bit more clearly. He can piece some things together. He takes his sweet time, ridding himself of all dirt and grime. It gives him ample opportunity to take care of his thoughts.

HIs memories are a jumbled mess. They always are in the mornings. For a moment, it’s hard to even remember why he’s here, so far up north. Thinking about Tommy, and anybody related to him – it makes him feel very weird. Very fuzzy. Like his mind is not to be trusted.

But he knows he can trust his mind, just this once.

Because he knows things he shouldn’t. That means that he has the full picture.

The memories are somewhat nonsensical. He tries to recall the entire conversation. Only bits and pieces float back to him. His heart wells with sadness as he remembers the look on Tommy’s face as he said, “I have to stand by him.”

Wilbur successfully tricked his brain. He remembers.

Maybe it’s because deep down, he was happy that the other shoe finally dropped. No friendship of his is going to end well.

Tommy’s aunt and uncle live a further 45 minutes away from the hotel. Wilbur’s still up front keeping an eye on the road. Tommy’s in the back seat, listening to the upbeat experimental tunes that he likes. Wilbur leans onto the steering wheel, and stares out the window, just as he did on the train.

Phil and Kristin Watson. Kristin is the one that Tommy speaks more highly of. He’s talked about her cookies and her smile and her kind yet humorous demeanor. Wilbur hasn’t heard much about Phil. The man is shrouded in mystery, as is his partner, the reclusive AI tech who coded Tub-Net.

Try as he might, Wilbur cannot form a mental image of what Mr. Watson may look like. Decades ago he was a young hotshot, blond with a million dollar smile. His hair would have faded to gray by now. If he still has hair.

Will he still wear the smile?

The landscape is flat, covered with a patchy blanket of white from last night’s snow. It’s not abhorrently cold outside, although it must be crazy in the winter. By midday, all the snow will melt. Luckily the roads aren’t too icy, so the trip down the lane is peaceful.

“He knows we’re coming, right?” Wilbur asks, as the car pulls up behind a bulky landrover.

Tommy shakes his head. “Nope.”

“I– okay, they’re in for a surprise.”

He follows Tommy up the winding stone path to Phil and Kristin’s front door. A Christmas wreath from months ago hangs on it. Tommy jams the doorbell, shouting, “Guess who’s finally here?”

It takes a moment for anything to happen. Wilbur shifts from foot to foot. He’s standing behind Tommy, wishing he was a bit shorter so he could at least pretend to hide behind Tommy.

Then the door swings open to a beaming woman who exclaims, “Tommy!”

Immediately, she has him in a firm embrace. They stay like that for a moment. There’s something so painful about Tommy’s expression. Wilbur can’t tell if he loves her or hates her.

Kristin herself is a tall woman, almost as tall as Tommy. Her long hair falls over her shoulder in a sloppy braid. Her clothing is warm, fit for a climate such as this. The bright color of her sweater indicates that this might be what flies for summer clothing up here.

Kristin pulls away, raising a hand to her nephew’s cheek. “Finally got out of that place to see us!”

“I haven’t seen you since I died.”

Wilbur expects her to flinch back at that. Instead, she gently swats Tommy’s arm. Her smile has not faltered. “Don’t put it like that, you make it sound so morbid.”

“It was.” Tommy sounds happy.

Kristin shakes her head, and Tommy laughs. So he does love her. There’s still something going on there that Wilbur’s not privy to. Still, it tracks with what he’s been told.

Then Kristin’s eyes land on him, and he freezes up.

She cocks her head, gaze flicking over to Tommy. “Who is this?”

Wilbur sticks out his hand before Tommy can answer for him. “I’m Wilbur Soot. I’m… I’m a friend of Tommy’s.”

He looks to Tommy for guidance. However, Tommy doesn’t give him anything. It worries Wilbur. Is Kristin even going to invite him in? He knows that this is somewhat suspicious. He’s just some man that Tommy dragged up from the city. It took him ten hours to get here, and Kristin must know that. Yet Wilbur is just a friend.

He wants to repeat what Tommy told him last night. He wants to call himself a brother.

He knows that he can’t.

“Any friend of Tommy’s is a friend of mine,” Kristin says. It should be reassuring. He tells that to himself as he walks in and kicks off his shoes.

While the house is modest for a man of Phil Watson’s wealth, it is by no means small. The best word for it is homely. Although Phil and Kristin live alone, childless, their house looks lived in. The windows let in the sunshine, casting each room in a golden glow. There’s a great fire roaring in the living room fireplace. Some candles are giving off a sweet scent.

“Tommy, I don’t mean to sound rude, but why are you here?” Kristin asks.

“That does sound a bit rude, Auntie.”

“I’m just saying! It’s unlike you to come up here.” She gets this far off look in her eyes. “It’s like you’re chained to the city.”

“The city is my home! I love the city. But anyway – yeah. There is a reason we’re here.”

Kristin waits expectantly. Tommy glances over to Wilbur.

He clears his throat. “So, I am… I’m trying to research Tub-Net, and evaluate its effect on society. I guess you could say that I’m a journalist.”

Immediately, Kristin’s expression sours. “I’m afraid that my husband doesn’t like speaking to journalists.”

“Just listen to him Auntie,” Tommy says. Kristin hesitates, weighing her care for her nephew with the inevitable wrath of her husband. Will they be met with wrath? Is Phil Watson an angry, spiteful man?

Wilbur still has to try. He’ll take the fall for her, if he needs to.

“Please don’t get me wrong. The only reason I’m here is for advice. Without getting too much in it, I’m at a crossroads with what I’ve learned. I’ve spoken to Tubbo himself–”

“Oh, how is he?” Kristin asks, turning to Tommy. Abruptly, she realizes that she interrupted. “Wait, I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine. Anyway, I know that your husband doesn’t like speaking to the media. I am not the media, not right now. Anything I hear here will not escape this home.”

He cannot parse what’s going through Kristin’s mind right now. Tommy nudges her, eyes conveying an implicit voucher. Why? After what happened yesterday?

“I’ll go get Phil,” she says. “No promises, though.”

It worked. When they’re left alone, Tommy says nothing to him. Wilbur stews in silence, twiddling his thumbs.

A minute later, the stairs creak, as two figures descend. The first is Kristin, familiar. After her comes an older man, hair thick for his age, and strikingly white.

While Kristin presses further into the living room, Phil Watson remains by the stairwell, contemplative. Behind the wrinkles and spectacles, he does look rather similar to Tommy. Phil could pass for Tommy’s father, if he wanted to.

He does not look particularly angry. He does not seem to be feeling much of anything at all. In fact, he is not even acknowledging Wilbur.

“I had a feeling I would be seeing you soon,” Phil says to Tommy. “It’s good to see you kid.”

For a split second, Wilbur wonders how Tommy will react, how much hesitance he will display.

When Phil holds out his hands, Tommy runs at them at a pace that must mean he loves Phil. Wilbur’s perception must adjust.

He might not ever understand Phil and Tommy’s history together. Will Tommy ever tell him? Will Tommy ever give himself the chance to tell him?

That sort of conversation is one that they would’ve had in a late night talk. There aren’t going to be many of those anymore.

When Tommy breaks away, Phil’s attention turns to Wilbur. “Kristin told me why you’re here.”

“Can I speak with you?”

Phil thinks about it for a moment. “You better mean it when you say you’re not recording anything.”

Wilbur’s wrist is bare. Friend is in his pocket, turned off. Phil may not know what that means, but Tommy does.

“You can trust him,” Tommy says.

Why, Tommy?

This is a risk, on Tommy’s part. Since he has taken Tubbo’s side, he does not want the recording of their meeting to be released. Is he hoping that Phil will talk him out of that? It shows an awful lot of faith that Tommy isn’t pulling Phil aside to prime him on what to say to Wilbur.

With a crook of his finger, Phil beckons Wilbur. Wilbur watches Tommy’s face as he crosses the room to stand at Phil’s side.

Tommy’s jaw is set tight. He is worried. But he does not stop Wilbur.

Phil leads him up the stairs and down the hall. Stepping through an oak door, they come into a study. The room has a beautiful east facing window, where the plains and the woods are all visible. There’s an icy creek far off in the distance. It must be beautiful at sunrise.

It’s funny. This house looks like you could have plucked it out of the 1950s. It’s historic, man made, something to be left in the past. Tub-Net headquarters is modern. The sleek aesthetic of progress that has been in style since the 2000s and the more modern reclamation of nature on the inside. Yet this house feels so much more natural than Tub-Net headquarters did. It’s as if this place has something special about it that the headquarters just can’t capture.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about you, mate,” Phil says as he takes one of the plush armchairs near the window. Wilbur settles into the one across from him.

“I don’t know how old you are, or how long you’ve been doing this,” Phil continues. “Don’t even know what this is. What are you trying to achieve? What are your goals?”

He shakes off what he had been feeling before. After so long in the semi-professional world, it comes naturally to him.

“Well, I’ll start off with who I am. Wilbur Soot. It’s nice to meet you.” Wilbur holds out his hand, and Phil takes it. Phil has a firm handshake. It’s not terribly strong, but it’s confident.

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

“I’m a restoration droid.” Phil’s eyes go wide as Wilbur says that. “I was one of the first people to join the program. I was insistent on it. I thought that I would take artificial form when I was much older. I thought I had more time. Instead I passed away about a year ago and well, here I am now.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Wilbur puts on his best smile. “Why would you be?”

It works. The tension leaves the older man’s shoulders.

“It still blows my mind that restoration is possible,” Phil says.

“It blows my mind too. You know that Tub-Net were the ones who green-lit the human trials, right?”

A sour frown spreads across Phil’s face. “Yes?”

“Tubbo himself was the one who said it was worth the risk to try restoring me. Part of it was my own decision beforehand, of course. However… it still says a lot that they let such a flawed system fly.”

“Flawed?”

Wilbur taps his head. “My memory. It hasn’t been all there since I was restored.”

“Ah. I could have Techno take a look at it, if you want.”

“Techno? You mean Technoblade?”

“My best friend. A genius.”

After all this time, Phil and Technoblade are still best friends. What is that like? To have a friendship that lasts so long? To endure and prevail throughout the ages?

“He could fix what’s up in my head?” Wilbur asks.

“Probably. Techno can do anything if you hand him a keyboard.”

Wilbur knows that he doesn’t have to think about it right now. He can’t help himself though. So many engineers told him that it would be impossible to change his code. Even if it was, it would be too risky. They could risk killing him just by going in there. Some of those engineers were world renowned. According to Tommy and Tubbo, Sam was one of the best engineers on the planet. Second to only Technoblade.

Technoblade would probably refuse, if he had any sense. He wouldn’t want to take that risk. What if he would? What if he would go poking around in Wilbur’s artificial brain, and what if he does end up ruining what little Wilbur has left?

The rewards are high. He could return to the life he used to live. Wilbur could beat the clock, turning back time, to the way things used to be.

By doing that, he would be erasing the life he has now.

What would that make of him and Tommy?

“I’ll think about it,” Wilbur says. “But that’s not what I came here for.”

“I figured.”

“I’ve been investigating Tub-Net. My experiences, what happened to Tommy, and a handful of other incidents made me suspicious. I started to wonder if Tub-Net was really as great as they say it is–”

“It’s not,” Phil says.

“What?”

“It’s a deeply flawed system. Not in the way the code runs. Techno’s a genius, the code works great. He could tell you more about that. What I’m talking about is the concept. The idea that there is a mathematical equation to morality. That we can sum up what philosophers and preachers have been debating since the dawn of time.”

This may be more than Wilbur thought he had bitten off.

“Why can’t there be?”

Phil sighs. “It might be a little bit hard for you to conceptualize. You grew up with Tub-Net. But I’m from a time where nothing was so black and white. When I was a kid, I saw the world in shades of gray.”

Phil’s losing him. Where do colors come into play? What is he talking about?

“You know right and wrong, yes?” Phil asks.

“Of course.”

“You were probably taught that everything is either right or wrong, depending on how it affects other people. The right action is the action that does the least amount of harm to the least amount of people. The wrong action is anything else.”

Wilbur nods. “Well, yeah. We don’t want people to get hurt.”

“If you think about it, it really isn’t that simple, is it? There’s so many questions to ask. Who decides what hurt means? Is it physical pain? Is it taking away money? How do we hurt people?”

“There are many ways,” Wilbur answers. “Like pain, money, taking away their agency, not letting them love who they want to love…”

“You can go on. Of course you can. Think about this, though: have you ever been in a situation where your friend wants the truth from you, but you know the truth will hurt them?”

“Probably,” Wilbur says. He can’t think of a specific time. Trying to think too hard would probably give him a headache. He’s already reeling, just trying to parse through what Phil is telling him. He thinks he’s following along, though. He continues to listen.

“Would telling the truth be wrong? Because it hurts them? Or would it be better to tell them, so they can know how to keep going forward?”

“I…” Wilbur thinks about it for a moment. A million different hypotheticals fly through his head, each with their own context and nuance. “How badly does the truth hurt?”

“Hurts like hell. Hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”

Does it hurt like your best friend telling you that this is a betrayal? Carefully explaining how and why he’s going to betray you?

Can anything hurt as badly as that?

“Everybody’s going to have a different answer to that question, that’s the problem.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur mutters. Every person that he’s met along the way may answer differently.

“Am I preaching to the choir?” Phil asks. “Your entire goal is to prove this, right? To prove that Tub-Net is corrupt?”

“It’s not a quick fix, is it? It’s not just… a change in code that will get Tub-Net to act moral again?”

“That’s the thing, mate. There’s no such thing as ‘Acting moral.’ Nobody is ever gonna agree on what that means.”

“Then how does Tub-Net work?”

“It doesn’t.”

It’s one thing to know it. It’s another thing to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

“Can I bring somebody in?” Phil asks.

“What? Who?”

“Somebody that I think you should meet. I think he can help you a lot more than I can.”

“Okay. If you think it’s best.”

Phil picks up the phone.

From the conversation, it becomes apparent that he’s talking to Technoblade. He ends off the brief conversation with, “See ya.” Then, he puts the phone down and tells Wilbur, “Give him three minutes, max. He’ll be here soon.”

“Three minutes?” Not even five?

“Did you see the other house just down the road from ours when you were coming up? The one that looks just like ours?”

He takes a moment to visualize it. “Yes?”

Phil smiles. “That’s Techno.”

Sure enough, Technoblade arrives in a few quick minutes. They hear his heavy boots on the stairs as he comes up. The door creaks open, and Phil’s face lights up. The wrinkles near his eyes crinkle up with a big smile as they both lay their eyes on Techno. Now this man is certainly not who Wilbur expected. While still much older than Wilbur himself, Technoblade is younger than Phil. His hair is dyed a pale shade of pink. He dresses like an old historian.

Immediately, Wilbur can tell that Techno is a stoic type. Yet he still seems to glow when he locks eyes with Phil.

Is that how Wilbur looks when he sees Tommy?

“Who’s this?” Technoblade asks Phil, pointing to Wilbur. Phil proceeds to explain who Wilbur is, telling Technoblade everything that Wilbur just told him. While it would normally bother Wilbur, being treated like he isn’t in the room, it now feels like a blessing. To be able to sit back and enjoy his own silence as Phil quietly recounts his story.

It’s an accurate retelling. Phil lists nearly every detail Wilbur did. He was listening. It’s clear that Technoblade is listening too.

“People are finally realizing what a bad idea I had when I was twenty,” Technoblade says, turning to Wilbur.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Phil says to him.

How is he supposed to take this? They say to never meet your heroes.

Here’s Technoblade, impossible to parse. Secretive, from his face to his tone to his place of living.

“So, you realized how flawed the system is, good for you. What do you want from us?”

Phil stands. “Techno–”

“I need help with something.” Wilbur reaches into his pocket. “A decision. I don’t know what the right thing to do is.”

Phil and Techno exchange a glance.

“We can’t tell you that,” Technoblade says.

“Because we don’t know. It’s subjective. What does your own moral compass say?”

Wilbur pulls out Friend, and the little flash drive with Friend’s recording on it. “I spoke to Tubbo about Tub-Net. I got them to admit to what Tub-Net has done to the country. And this is the recording of him admitting it.”

Phil’s eyes go wide. “Goddamn.”

“You actually got him to say it?” Technoblade asks.

Wilbur hesitates, but nods.

“So you want to release it,” Technoblade says.

“That was my plan.”

“What changed?”

When Wilbur looks up again, his conflict obviously showing in his face, Technoblade repeats, “What changed?”

“I lied to him to get this recording.” He swallows back unease. It doesn’t go away. “I manipulated him, shamelessly, to seem as unsympathetic as possible.”

He tries not to think about how their opinion on him is being formed right before his eyes. Wilbur reminds himself that ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need their approval. He needs their advice.

“Before this goes any further, I think you need some background on me,” Technoblade says. He collapses into the chair Phil once occupied.

“I’m listening,” Wilbur says.

“I’m an anarchist. I don’t approve of the government. I’ve never been a big fan of rich people I know nothing about making decisions on my life.”

“Oh,” Wilbur mutters. It sounds pretty dumb. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“That’s how I’ve felt since I was old enough to know what a government is. I’ve never subscribed to it. When I started to learn code, I also started to learn philosophy. A bit of psychology and political science as well. I started to think I knew the way the world works. I was wrong.

“You see, I’ll admit it now, I was a little bit of a hypocrite back then. I knew I wanted to make my own decisions, because I felt like I knew what the world needed. Of course, I didn’t want to look egotistical. I also didn’t have a lot of power. So I made Tub-Net as an experiment. It was never supposed to be what it became. But then Phil came along, and he helped me push it.”

“I also thought it was the right thing to do, at the time,” Phil says.

“And you think you were wrong as well?”

Phil nods. “I was so fucking young, mate. Young and dumb.”

“I’m sure you know the story, I won’t bore you with it. At some point, a couple years into it, I just had this realization. No good person can be happy in the job I had. The job of running the world. Or, well, running the program that ran the country.”

“We had become what we had always hated,” Phil says.

Suddenly, Technoblade takes on a joking tone. “What we always hated? Oh come on Phil, you were a bootlicker before I came along.”

“I was not a bootlicker–”

“You thought the soles of shoes were delicious. Anyways.” Technoblade squares his jaw. “Phil and I spent a good year tryna destroy it. Didn’t exactly work out. It’s a long story, there was drama, we were betrayed by a few people, we betrayed a few people, but you know the ending. We didn’t succeed.”

“We had brought Tub-Net into this world, but we couldn’t take it out.”

“Again with the we Phil, jeez, gotta give me some credit ‘round here.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Phil grins as he says it.

“What I’m getting at is that I don’t think Tub-Net should be a governing body.”

“I– okay.”

“That being said, it’s not up to me.”

“I’m asking you though,” Wilbur says. He can’t make this decision on his own.”

“I know. You shouldn’t be. This is a decision that only you can make.”

But he can’t.

“I can give you reasons,” Technoblade says. “Here’s one: Tub-Net’s corrupt. Well, any system is going to be corrupt.”

“Things might get worse, initially, if Tub-Net crumbles,” Phil says. “After all, we can’t discount all the good that it’s done.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t think it will fall. I think you could get the owners of the company to be transparent. I think you have an awful lot of power.”

“That I agree with,” Phil goes. “There’s–”

“Stop.”

He can’t take it anymore. Caught between two geniuses, as they philosophize and speak their thoughts into law. It’s like he’s being talked down upon. The worst part is that Wilbur can’t blame them.

“I know. I know it all, so you can stop.”

He feels his chest seize, because he has just thrown down one of the few shields he had up. The truth is closing in on him.

“You know how bad Tub-Net is,” Technoblade says. Maybe his tone isn’t so impossible to parse. Maybe Wilbur just doesn’t like what it means.

“Yes.”

“And you have the means to do something about it.”

“Yes.” This time, his voice wavers.

“Then why are you asking us?”

And he can’t answer.

“Let’s take Tub-Net out of this,” Phil says. “We know that you would be justified in releasing it. So what happens if you don’t?

“If you get down to it, all the logical factors cancel out,” Technoblade says.

“You’re left with the most basic question,” Phil continues.

“If you release the tapes…”

“Can you live with yourself?”

So many people are going to be pissed at Wilbur if he releases this.

Tubbo, first and foremost. By close extension, Tommy. Tommy would be devastated. He’s going to fight against Wilbur tooth and nail. How hard is he going to try? No doubt he’ll try to guilt Wilbur out of it. Wilbur can’t even blame him. Tommy gave plenty of warnings.

What if Tommy goes farther? He would be able to. The public was obsessed with him right after his death, and his refusal to sit for interviews has shrouded him in mystery. If he appeared back in the spotlight again, people would go crazy. They would hang on his every word. Tommy could kill whatever progress Wilbur makes.

If Wilbur does this, he’ll be going up directly against Tommy. He has to prepare for the possibility.

This recording would have to be chopped up and made into some sort of documentary for him to sell it the way he wants to. It would take a lot of work. Wilbur would become the face of a movement.

In doing so he would be neglecting all of his friendships. All of his relationships. Fundy asked Wilbur to choose him. His own little brother. Who is he to refuse? What about Ranboo, Niki, Jack, everybody that’s met along the way? Tommy?

If he doesn’t release the tapes, he can follow Tommy. They can be friends again, pretending like this trip never happened.

Then there’s his duty to the country. His obligation to reveal the truth.

Which matters more to him? The people in his life? Or the people of the country?

The realization hits him like a trolley on the track.

For all that he criticizes Tub-Net, Wilbur is worse.

“Look at that flash drive in your hand,” Phil says to him. Wilbur looks down. It looks so small compared to the gravity of the situation. If he clenched his fist hard enough, he could crush this thing.

“Now that you have it, you can’t give it away,” Phil says. “You could say that it’s fair, doing nothing. You could argue that it would be the same as if you never got the tapes in the first place. But the truth is that you do have the capability to. An inaction is just as much of a decision as an action.”

“I’ll be reviled.”

“Will you be able to live with yourself?” Technoblade asks.

“Phil already asked me that.”

The look Techno gives him is pointed. Exactly.

Wilbur fiddles with the flash drive. He gently tosses it up, as if it’s a coin.

“I miss when this was easy,” Wilbur says. “I miss when I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

Technoblade leans forward. “Just choose. You’re going to regret it either way.”

“Techno, give him a break,” Phil says.

“No. He sat through a ten hour train ride so we could tell him what to do. That’s what I’m doing, telling him what to do.” Technoblade turns back to Wilbur, face set in stone. “Make your choice.”

Wilbur lets out a shuddering breath. The hand holding the flash drive trembles. He thinks of Niki and Fundy. He thinks of the people. He thinks of Tommy. He thinks of Tubbo himself, who has been in the position that Wilbur is right now a thousand times.

Wilbur thinks of his old self, who had the best mind in a generation, and didn’t even know how lucky he had it.

Now, with this flawed brain of his, and his fluttering heart, Wilbur shuts his eyes and closes his fist around the flash drive.

Wilbur makes his decision.