Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    “When the heroes tell our story, they’ll tell the story of tonight.” - The Story Of Tonight, Hamilton: The Musical

     Across a dry, sandy desert that had been suffering a drought for god-knows-how-long, a few, mostly abandoned houses were scattered around, with the occasional gas station - including a tired worker asleep at the front desk. In the middle of the desert, hidden behind dusty hills with the only inclination that it was there at all being a dirt path carved by the tires of a car, was a square, tall concrete building with little to no windows.

     Surrounded by a wire fence and a large parking lot with only a few cars parked, askew, the building was visible only to those who knew it was there. A large, crumbing sign sat by the road. In green letters, three simple words were written upon it:

      Sorry Boys Prison.

     A car pulled up to the parking lot.

     The door swung open with a clang. A person practically fell out of it, making no effort to stop themselves, though their hands weren’t restrained in the slightest. Two officers stepped out behind them, and one jabbed at the person with a baton. “Get up.”

       The prisoner raised their head slowly. Brown eyes narrowed, glinting in the sunlight, and messy brown hair fell over their face. Their orange jumper was both bright and accusing. They stared at the officers. Still, they did not move.

       “Did you hear me?” The officer jabbed at them again. “I said, get up.”

       The prisoner didn’t move, only looking at them with a blank stare.

     “You don’t have a choice.”

     Finally, unwillingly, slowly, the prisoner pushed themself to their feet. Surprise flashed across the officer’s face, instantly masked by sternness. Although scrawny and quiet, the prisoner towered over both of them by at least five inches.

       “Now walk.” The officer pointed towards the building with his baton. Surprisingly, the prisoner turned around without a fight, walking towards the concrete building, followed by both officers. They looked around, observing their surroundings. Their eyes drifted to the wire fence.

       “Better get used to it.” one of the officers chuckled. “This is your home now. Take a good look.”

      “Okay.”

       The prisoner’s voice was quiet, raspy, with a little bit of a British accent.  They turned around, making eye contact with the officer, an insidious, crafty look shining through. “Okay.”

       “What did you say, asshole?” The officer scoffed.

       “I said, okay.” the prisoner shrugged.

       “I’ll get a good look.”

       With that, they sprinted.

       “HEY!” Both officers took off running after them, one pulling out his gun and aiming it directly at the prisoner’s head. “STOP!”

      The prisoner didn’t stop. Instead, they kept running. Surprisingly agile, they leaped onto the hood of a car, rolling off the other side and sprinting towards the wire fence at the other side of the lot. Practically throwing themself onto it, the runaway scrambled to reach the top of the fence. A bullet whizzed past their head, striking the fence with a clang, sparks flying. The prisoner hoisted themselves up to the top of the fence, swinging halfway over.

       “STOP.”

       The officers had reached the fence. One of them had grabbed onto the prisoner’s wrist, iron-clad grip tightening as he pointed a gun directly at their head. “STOP RUNNING RIGHT NOW.”

       The prisoner slumped.

       “Get down.”

       For a moment, they hesitated, remaining on top of the fence, halfway over it already. Eventually, they gave in, swinging back over and dropping to the ground below.

       “There.” Instantly, the second officer clasped handcuffs around the prisoner’s wrists. They didn’t struggle, even put up a fight. “Enough of this. You’re here for a reason. Act like it.”

       “Now walk.” The officer jabbed the runaway with the baton, and they reluctantly started walking back towards the building.

       The doors flew open with a bang.

       “OFFICER PHILZA!”

       One of the officers yelled into the room, the words ricocheting off the walls with an echo. The two officers had marched through the door, the prisoner following behind them, staring at the ground.

       The room itself was an extensive open-plan, concrete-walled place. It was two stories, although this was accomplished by metal platforms and stairs leading up to the doors that lined the walls. The doors - the rooms - were visible from the ground floor. Easy to access, easy to reach.

       Easy to shoot at.

       “OFFICER PHILZA MINECRAFT!” The officer shouted again, and the prisoner leaned backwards as to not be in direct shouting range. “OFFIC-“

       “Calm your horses.”

       Stepping down from the stairway, a middle-aged man with matted bleach-blond hair crossed his arms, blue eyes raking over the prisoner’s disheveled hair and dirty uniform with disdain. “Certainly took your sweet time getting here.”

       “My apologies, sir.” The officer stated, glaring at the prisoner with a look of fierce contempt. “There was an… incident on our way. We dealt with it.”

       “Mhm.” Philza, whoever he was, did not seem impressed, nor that interested. “Dismissed. Return to your posts.”

       “Yes, sir.” Both officers saluted and marched off, leaving the prisoner to glance around the room.

       Philza whistled, turning to look up at the metal platforms. “Officer Ranboo!”

       “Yes, sir?” Another person, a tall, lanky strawberry-blond, leaned over the railing, wearing a classic police uniform with a modified tank top, and a stuffed pig perched in their pocket. They wore a dark mask over their face, with sunglasses perched on their head. “What can I do for you, sir?”

       “Bring the other prisoners down here.” Philza ordered. “At once.”

      “Immediately, sir!” Ranboo disappeared into one of the rooms. The prisoner, shifting, handcuffs tugging at their wrists, did not look at Philza, staring at the walls instead.

       For a moment, it was silent. Then the doors banged open again.

       “Here they are, Officer Philza!” Ranboo practically ran down the stairway, followed by a short brunette and a slightly-taller, younger blond, both wearing the orange jumpsuits that marked them as prisoners.

       “Wonderful.” Philza turned to the brunette prisoner, still staring at the ground. “Welcome to Sorry Boys Prison. I’m Officer Philza. That’s my partner, Officer Ranboo. These are our two other current residents, Charlie Slimee-“ he gestured to the shorter brunette, who waved and grinned, “and Tom Simons.” This was directed at the awkward blond teenager, who attempted to wave, as well.

       “And you would be?” Philza smiled, the fake niceties behind it incredibly evident.

       It was all fake, every bit of it.

       Ranboo, who was bouncing up and down on the soles of their boots. Philza, with his wide grin and haunting eyes. Tom Simons, his awkward shuffling and quiet demeanor. Charlie Slimee, waving, smiling, cheery and welcoming.

       Fakers.

       A building built on lies.

       But the prisoner, alone in this world, simply tilted his head up to look at them, shielding his true thoughts with a blank, thinly veiled expression that he’d gotten good at perfecting over the years.

       He smiled, inside.

       “I’m Wilbur Soot.”

Chapter Text

“Life doesn’t discriminate, between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes” - Wait For It, Hamilton: The Musical

       Wilbur woke up to the sound of a metal baton slamming into the wall.

       Outside the cell- his cell- the two officers, Philza and Ranboo, marched through the hallways, banging their batons on the rails, walls, and doors, making a dreadful clanging noise that made Wilbur want to claw his brains out.

       “AWAKEN!” The booming voice of Philza Minecraft echoed through the walls. “GET UP. OUT HERE, NOW!”

       Now, if Wilbur Soot had any beliefs or opinions at all, it was that the orders of authority figures should rarely be followed unless they have a direct purpose or meaning.

       And in this place? Wilbur had absolutely no intention of following them. So, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

       Okay.

       That was a lie.

       There would be a lot of lies, here, Wilbur suspected.

       Grudgingly, Wilbur stumbled out of bed and pushed open the door of his cell, which was unlocked, for some reason.

       Wilbur noted that down in his mind.

       As he walked out into the hall, he noticed both officers, Philza and Ranboo, leaning against the rails and glaring at the prisoners. Ranboo attempted a small smile, but Philza glanced at the other side of the room. “YOU TWO! OUT!”

       Across the platform on the other wall, the other two prisoners, Charlie and Tommy, ventured out of their rooms, rubbing their eyes and glancing around sleepily. “Whas’ going on?” Tommy mumbled, looking up at Charlie. “Last thing I r’member was the…” he paused, noticing Wilbur listening carefully, “violent crimes.”

       Wilbur almost laughed at that.

       But that would be silly.

       “We’ve got some fun activities for you all today!” Philza announced, gleefully. “Thought it’d be a good way to get to know each other.“

       “I got here because of some activities, actually.” Charlie smirked, nudging Tommy in the side, who snorted. “Yeah. Activities.”

       Ranboo didn’t get the sarcasm, leaning forwards in curiosity. “What kind of activities?”

       Charlie shrugged. “Serial.”

       “Cap’n Crunch?”

       “No.”

       “Well, I stole some guy’s sausage roll.” Tommy declared proudly. Philza looked slightly put off by this. “Did you eat it?”

       “Of course I ate it.” Tommy crossed his arms. “Who do you think I am?”

       “Tommy’s the kind of guy-“ Charlie began, but Tommy kicked him in the shin, and he shut up.

       Wilbur’d been listening attentively up to this point, which was why he was completely taken off guard when the four turned to look at him. Clearly, they expected him to share his story next, which Wilbur was adamantly against. But for some reason, words began to spill from his lips anyways.

       “I was a construction manager. Liberal demolitioner, to be exact.” Wilbur explained, shrugging. “Burned things that needed to be demolished.”

       Ranboo sighed from across the platform. “Arson. You were an arsonist, Wilbur.”

       “I had all the legal papers to do what I did.” Wilbur retorted sharply. “Some people just didn’t understand what things needed to burn.”

       There was an awkward silence, until Philza coughed. “Right, that’s enough of that. Come on, this way. This way, now.”

       Wilbur followed Philza and Ranboo down the stairs, with Charlie and Tommy close behind them.

       “Although we’ll be doing many things while here- such as icebreakers and fun activities-“ Philza announced, “you must remember that the purpose of this center focuses on rehabilitation. You are all here for serious crimes.”

       It was pathetic.

       Wilbur rolled his eyes, muttering out a quiet “I shouldn’t even be here.” under his breath. It was an impulsive statement, which nobody was supposed to hear, but Philza did, turning to him with curiosity clear in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

       “No- I- I didn’t-“ Wilbur stuttered, caught off guard. “I didn’t mean-“

       “Do you think your actions were justified?”

       And there it was.

       The truth, the honest meaning behind this place, behind Philza and his stupid, concerned expressions, shone through like sun through a cloud, and Wilbur’s entire mindset shifted in a matter of seconds. Stupid, stupid. Don’t trust these people. Don’t say things. Don’t break.

       So Wilbur, his expression cold, laughed.

       “Perhaps. But that church deserved to burn, Philza.”

       “Church?” Ranboo stuttered, glancing down at his clipboard. “You’re in here for fifteen counts of burning government buildings and residential lots. Not a church.”

       “All of them.” Wilbur repeated. “Every single one. Burned. Deserved.”

       Tommy coughed awkwardly. “You know, I think some of us are gonna be in here longer than others.” He meant it as a joke, but Wilbur turned to him, sharply. “You shouldn’t be here, either.”

       “Huh?” Tommy glanced at him.

       “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

       “Actually, he’s here for five counts of  thievery-“ Ranboo tried to step in, but Wilbur grabbed Tommy’s shoulders and turned him away. “Listen to me, Tommy. You didn’t do anything . They’re liars, every one of them. Do you understand?”

       For a moment, realization flashed in Tommy’s eyes.

       For a second, Wilbur thought he’d gotten through.

       But then Tommy blinked and stepped back, away from Wilbur. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

       Wilbur felt a hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough.” Philza muttered. "Enough."

       "Come on, Tommy." Ranboo led Tommy over to where Charlie stood, confused, on the other side of the room. "I'll show you around!"

       Philza tilted his head towards them, and Wilbur followed, because he didn't have another choice. Tommy looked dazed, like he wasn't sure what was going on, and Wilbur cursed himself for not trying harder, but what else was he supposed to do?

       There was only one thing Wilbur knew, as Ranboo led the three of them around the building, as Philza watched from the platforms, as Tommy stared at the ground in a conflicted state, as Charlie tried to climb the walls and failed, and it was the most disheartening realization that Wilbur ever had.

       Sorry Boys Prison was hell.

       And for the life of him, Wilbur didn't know how to crawl to the surface.

Chapter Text

“God, I wish there was a war! Then we could prove that we’re worth more than anyone bargained for…” - Aaron Burr, Hamilton: The Musical

       Wilbur wasn’t sure why Tommy and Charlie were screaming downstairs, but it wasn’t any of his business.

       After the tour of the prison was finished - it wasn’t anything special, and Wilbur found the stone architecture incredibly unappealing - Charlie and Tommy had gone with Phil to pursue ‘extracurricular activities’, and Wilbur was led upstairs by Ranboo for a ‘meeting’.

       There were a lot of euphemisms used in this prison, and Wilbur wasn’t a fan.

       At all.

       “Please, take a seat.” Ranboo gestured to the concrete floor of the room they were in, and Wilbur glanced at him questioningly.

       “We’re renovating.” The blond shrugged. “Serious lack of chairs around here.”

       “I can see that.” Wilbur took a seat.

                  THE INTERVIEW

       “So, what were you in here for again?” Ranboo glanced at his clipboard, tapping their pen on the floor in a repetitive manner. “Liberal… politician?”

       “Liberal demolitioner .” Wilbur corrected.

       “Right.” Ranboo noted that down. “Ar-son-ist.”

       Multiple high-pitched screams echoed from downstairs. Wilbur flinched. “What are they doing?”

       Ranboo shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I’m new here.”

       “Okay!” Ranboo flipped through the pages on his clipboard. “So, Wilbur, were you involved in the Notre Dame burning?”

       “ What?” Wilbur almost choked, the sudden onslaught of pressure hitting him directly in the face. “I- what?”

       “It was all over the news.” Ranboo explained. “A guy burnt down Notre Dame. Was that you?”

       Internally, Wilbur began to panic.

       Of course , he wasn’t the one who burned down Notre Dame. That was a big job, and Wilbur wasn’t anyone important- just a liberal demolitioner.

       To say he wasn’t involved , however, might not be the entire truth.

       “What the fuck are you saying?” Wilbur stuttered. “I- I don’t speak French.”

       It was the lamest excuse he’d ever come up with, but Ranboo seemed to take it well. “Alright, then. But you did burn churches, right?”

       “Correct.” Still a little shaken from the first question, Wilbur responded almost automatically.

       “How many?”

       “Forty-three.”

       “ Forty-“ Ranboo gaped at him. “That’s insane, Wilbur.”

       “You didn’t know that?” Wilbur blinked, confused for a moment. “It’s in all my legal papers. At least the recent ones.”

       Ranboo hummed. “Is it? I wouldn’t know, I’m new here.”

       Wilbur breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, the number was in most of his legal documents- but it fluctuated from place to place. Nobody’d noticed the inconsistency yet, for which Wilbur was thankful- the prison sentence for forty-three counts of arson was a lot lighter than the sentence for ninety-four.

       “I believe that’s all I need to know!” Ranboo grinned at Wilbur, who attempted to smile back, although that wasn’t something he was used to. “Thank you for your answers, Wil!”

       “No problem.” Wilbur deadpanned. “Can I go to sleep now?”

       “It’s-“ Ranboo glanced at their watch. “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”

       Wilbur stared at him blankly. “And?”

       To put it frankly, Wilbur was tired.

       It was his first day in prison, and it was already ridiculously boring.

       Maybe he was a little too attracted to chaos.

       So perhaps, in another world, the ‘rehabilitation’ factors of the Sorry Boys Prison would’ve done something for Wilbur, up until he inevitably escaped (and he would, by the way.)

       Yet in this world, that didn’t happen.

       In this world, there was a singe stray match lying beneath Wilbur’s bedframe, that somehow, someone had missed.

       In this world, there was always a reason for things to burn.

       Every piece of furniture that Wilbur had in his cell, stacked upon each other in the center, crumbled and bent in the flickering rage of the fire he’d set.

       Wilbur stood in front of it all, the heat brushing against his fingertips, and he grinned .

        “HEY!” The door swung open, and Ranboo stormed in, furious. “WHAT THE HELL? STOP-“ They grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and frantically began putting out the fire the best they could. Wilbur watched with a blank stare.

       Ranboo threw the extinguisher down and stomped on the few remaining flickers of fire that scorched the ground. “God, fuck- shit- crap .”

       Wilbur nudged a burnt chair with his foot.

       Ranboo glared at him. “You do realize you just got yourself moved to solitary confinement, right?”

       “Yep.” Wilbur knelt down, gathering some of the ash in his hand and letting it fall through his fingers. “Perfectly aware.”

       In all honesty, Wilbur thought to himself, as Wilbur was brought to a room away from all the other cells, and Ranboo followed behind, fretting about the furniture and the insurance costs, there really was nothing to be upset about. He didn’t like people. He didn’t like noise. The furniture was ugly.

       And he’d be gone soon, anyways, if the universe allowed.

Chapter Text

     "Every action's an act of creation! I'm laughin' in the face of casualties and sorrow; for the first time, I'm thinkin' past tomorrow." - My Shot, Hamilton: The Musical

     “Another day, another dollar.” Philza muttered as he stalked through the halls, slamming his baton against the railings. “Right, Ranboo?”

     Ranboo blinked. “You’re getting paid?”

     Phil sighed. “Never mind. Wake everyone up for me, will ya?”

     “No problem.” Ranboo slammed his own baton against the wall. “Wake up! No more sleepy time! Sleepy time is over, now.” the blond singsonged. “It’s time for games!” Phil added. Grudgingly, the tired inmates emerged from their rooms and began marching down the stairwell.

      Wilbur was the last to arrive at the group, as always. As he approached them, he noticed Tommy hurridly trying to hide a fistful of toothbrushes inside his pockets, while Charlie distracted the guards.

     Phil did not look impressed.

     Wilbur almost laughed.

     But that would be risky.

     “Welcome to the yard!” Ranboo announced, gesturing in front of him as they exited the building. Wilbur’s eyes were automatically drawn to the sky above. The yard was open-air – the first time Wilbur had seen the sky since entering the prison.

     It was just as it had been two weeks ago.

     Just more motivation for Wilbur to escape.

     In fact, even as he tried to focus on the courtyard they’d been led to, with basketball hoops on one side and benches lining a square of plants, Wilbur couldn’t ignore the stabbing feeling in his chest as the sky – freedom – loomed above them, just too far for any of them to reach.

      God, he needed to get out of here.

     “For me?” Charlie’s eyes widened as he glanced around the courtyard, startling Wilbur out of his funk. “Woahhh.”

     “Hey, Charlie, slam dunk!” Tommy yelled as he ran up to the basketball hoop and chucked a toothbrush at the net, missing by an inch or two. “Aw, man.”

     Charlie moved to follow Tommy, but Wilbur reached out and grabbed his shoulder, turning against the wall. “Talk with me for a minute?”

     The brunette stared up at Wilbur, uncertainty and the slightest bit of fear flashing in his eyes, before he swallowed that down and nodded, chin held high. “Of course, man. What’s on your mind?”

     “Him.” Wilbur jerked his head towards Tommy, who was still attempting to toss the toothbrush through the basketball hoop. “He’s soft. Supple.”

      “A-and?”

     “You’re not.”

      It wasn’t entirely true. Yet, Charlie had more gusto – more courage – than Tommy appeared to display, and Wilbur didn’t have time to get to know either of their weaknesses. The statement seemed to buff Charlie’s ego up a bit, and he clenched his jaw before grinning. “Well, of course I’m not. But- Tom’s my boy, though. He’s- I could never betray him. He’s my friend.”

    “Oh, you’re not going to betray him.” Wilbur feigned surprise. “I would never ask you to do that, Charlie. I want to help you both. Tom, he just needs to harden up a bit. Make him stronger. You get it?”

     Charlie nodded. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

     “So I want you to go up to him,” Wilbur explained, “and-“ he feigned a punch to Charlie’s stomach, “just- bop. Bop.”

     “Just punch him?” Charlie blinked.

    “Yep. And then once you do, just stare at him.” Wil shrugged. “Just fucking stare. And wait for him to react. His reaction will prove a lot about- “

     “I never really had a father figure before.” Charlie inturrupted, staring up at Wil.

     Wilbur blinked.

      “Okay?”

      “Um- yep.” Charlie coughed, then shrugged, glancing away. “Whatever. Cool. So, we’re good? I just go punch him and all that, and we’re chill?”

     “Absolutely.” Wilbur clapped him on the shoulder, a faint grin forming on his face as Charlie ran over to where Tommy was. Everything was finally working out, and that was something Wilbur hadn’t felt since before he got arrested.

      “I think I’m going to go for a run.” Wil announced to the guards, and he took off running around the yard.

     Across the pavement square, Wilbur noticed Charlie approaching Tom. He slowed down a bit, watching as Charlie delivered a swift punch to Tom’s stomach. The blond collapsed to the ground with a yelp, and Charlie leaned over to stare at him for a moment before stepping back and kicking him in the ribs.

     Wilbur winced, raising his eyebrows. That wasn’t something he’d said to do. Maybe Charlie was tougher than he seemed.

     The guards, although lackluster in their hurry to stop the fight, arrived there eventually after hearing Tommy’s anguished noises, and they shoved Charlie away from him. “Stop that. Cut it out. No fighting. Do you want solitary confinement?”

     Charlie spat at their feet.

     Wilbur decided to interfere. “Hey, Tom.” He walked up to the blond, who was leaning against the chain-link fence, hand pressed to his ribs. “You good?”

     “Yeah.” Tommy bit out angrily. “What the hell’s his problem?”

     “Who knows.” Wilbur responded, brushing it off. “Look, kid, prison changes people. He might have been your friend before, but he probably has different goals now. Everyone has goals. Wishes. Reasons to get what they want.”

     “Do you?” Tommy glanced over at him.

     Wilbur shrugged. “I did. Once. What about you, kid? You’re young.” Wil ruffled the blond’s hair. “You’ve gotta want something.”

     Tommy hummed. “I wanna be rich. And marry someone. And have a Lambourgini.”

     The brunette whistled. “You’re gonna need a lot of money for that, Tom. Where you gonna get it?”

     “I dunno.” Tommy furrowed his eyebrows. “Figured I’d get a job when I’m out of here. Something that pays well. Start off with a shitty apartment, do odd jobs, learn piano.” He glanced up at Wilbur, a faint smile on his face. “Get a dog.”

     His statements hit Wilbur hard, for some reason. It was all so… simple.

     The kind of life Wil wished he could have.

     But he never would, of course.

     “You gotta get out of here, then.” Wil shrugged, playing it off as if it was a statement as simple as going to the grocery store, or walking across the courtyard. “I got to.” Tom agreed. “What do you think I should do, man? I mean, you’re old. And you have a bad hairline. And you’re ugly. You know stuff.”

     Wilbur tried not to be offended by this.

     “You know what’s cool?” Wilbur offered. “And sexy? What women love? And gets you a bunch of cash?”

     “What?” Tom’s eyes widened.

     “Robbing a bank.”

     “Robbing a bank?”

     “Simple as that.” Wil explained, leaning back against the fence and staring across the courtyard. “Now, I can’t tell you how to break out. But I will tell you this. The guard over there? The- the lanky one, with the tank top?”

     “Yeah?” Tom seemed interested now.

     “He’s got a gun.” Wilbur said, and Tom’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh. Oh, that’s epic.”

     Wilbur found it hard not to agree. A gun was kind of epic.

     “Okay. I’ll work on it.” Tommy nodded determinedly before clapping Wilbur on the shoulder. “After I rob that bank, I’ll burn down a church for you, old man. Promise.”

     Wilbur laughed, then, the first real laugh he’d had in a long while. “Alright, kid.”

     “I’ll count on it.”

Chapter Text

       “In New York, you can be a new man” – Helpless, Hamilton: The Musical

       Typically, Wilbur hated talking to the guards. Having a long conversation with them was his idea of hell.

       Without the fire.

       Which made it even more boring.

       But today was Wilbur’s parole hearing, so he had to be on his best behaviour – if he wanted any chance of getting out of this place. And in Wilbur’s eyes, best behaviour meant expert manipulation tactics. His favourite thing.

       “In here.” Ranboo, who’d walked him from the confinement area to a smaller room down the hall, pushed open the door. “Phil’s gonna be here soon. Alright?”

       Wilbur stepped into the room, scanning the walls. A rusted metal chair stood in front of him, facing a glass wall with another chair on the other side. Phil hadn’t arrived yet, so Wilbur let himself collapse onto the chair, leaning back and resisting the urge to rest his legs on the ledge in front of him.

       The door on the other side of the window opened.

       “Hello, Wilbur.” Phil smiled – fake – as he sat down in the chair across from him. “How are you today?”

       “Just great.” Wilbur deadpanned, avoiding his stare. “Can I put my feet on this ledge or is that unprofessional?”

       “Whatever you’d like.” Phil shrugged. “Remember, Wil, this isn’t a court hearing or anything. This is your parole hearing. Don’t worry about it.”

       Wilbur, focused on balancing his chair on its two back legs, nodded. “Yep. Got it.”

       “So you’ve been here a bit.” Phil glanced at his clipboard. “Almost a month now.”

       Had it been that long? It was all a blur. Ever since Wilbur’s last conversation with Tommy, he hadn’t seen much of the boy. Tommy spent his days carving maps and numbers on the walls of the cafeteria with a rock, and Charlie followed Wilbur around like a lost puppy for about a week before he learned how to make oatmeal and became preoccupied with kitchen duties.

       “And have you learned anything?” Phil asked, tapping on the corner of the clipboard.

       “More fuel, less getting caught.” Wilbur mumbled, staring at the ground.

        “What was that?”

        “Nothing.” Wilbur grabbed the edge of the table in order to not lose balance, tipping the chair forwards again. “Uh… that burning things is wrong. I could’ve hurt people or… caused forest fires.”

       All the buildings were empty.

       Everything he’d ever done was controlled.

       “I want to improve as a person.” Wilbur continued, his words dripping with fake sincerity. “If I ever want to be released, I understand that I need to prove myself as a valued member of society – not a criminal.”

       He did it for good.

       He wasn’t a criminal.

       Phil grinned at him. “That’s a very good mindset to have, Wilbur.” He jotted something down in his notebook. “So, if you do get out, what are you planning to do? Any ideas on a job you’d like to have?”

       Wilbur shrugged. “I don’t anticipate I’ll need much money. Perhaps I’ll sell things.”

       “What kinds of things?”

       There were loud noises echoing down the hall. Someone hit a wall.

       “Food. Plants. Furniture.” Wilbur listed off everything he could think of on the spot. “Ligh- uh, lichen. Like the moss.”

       Phil leaned forwards, intrigued by the mention of moss.

       “I can play the guitar.” Wilbur added, drumming his fingers on the side of the chair. “I could join the music business, play a few gigs or something.”

       “That’s a fine goal.” Phil scanned his clipboard, flicking through a few pages. “You know, Wilbur, you’ve been here a while, you’ve passed all your examinations, and you seem to have a sound mindset of what you want to achieve in the future. Parole is typically mandatory, but not this early – yet you check all the boxes for it to be considered. I-“

       Wilbur shot up from the chair, pressing his hands against the glass. “Please. Please, Phil. All I want is to be able to go outside again. I know I haven’t done great so far, but I want to prove I can do better. Please.”

       Phil chuckled. “You’ve warmed my heart, kid. I see no reason not to submit your results to my boss.”

       “Thank you.” Wilbur let his head fall against the glass. “Thank you so much, holy shit.”

       “Can’t promise anything, but we’ll see how it goes.” Phil smiled warmly at him. “We’ll have to do some paperwork.”

                          Two Weeks Later

       Wilbur stood at the door of Sorry Boys Prison, staring out into the orange sands of the desert and the blue sky above, and he’d never felt so free.

       Phil patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve done good, kid. I’m proud of you.”

       “I’m free?”

       “Well, it’s parole.” Phil explained, shrugging. “You’ll be supervised by one of our officers for the next month – and there’ll be weekly check-ins afterwards. Sound alright?”

       “Sounds great.” Wilbur breathed out. “Absolutely perfect.”

       And it was.

       In fact, it was so perfect that it only took Wilbur one week to escape.

       His parole officer was absentminded, figuring Wilbur would be easy to keep track of – and as his history didn’t include any violent actions, nobody thought otherwise.

       Wilbur ended up knocking him out with a brick around day 7.

       Then, he was off – his disguise consisting of a ridiculous-looking trench coat and a pair of dark sunglasses – riding a bus to the nearest hotel, where he planned to stay for a while and see if he could find a long-distance ride.

       Wilbur breathed in deeply, the musky air of whatever-city-this-was filling his lungs and making him cough. Across the road, a motorcycle drove past at top speed, careening through a puddle and splashing mud onto the bottom of Wilbur’s coat.

       “Freedom.” Wilbur muttered. “Shitty freedom, but still.”

       In all reality, his bitter attitude was mostly joking. Every time Wilbur glanced around, he realised how simplistic and pleasant the outside world was.

       Or perhaps it was just that anything was better than prison. At least his dusty hotel room didn’t have cold grey walls and a bullet hole in the cafeteria table.

       Although it might have had one in the mattress. Wilbur wasn’t sure about that yet.

       Leaning back against the bed-frame, Wilbur clicked through the TV channels with a hum. Nothing good was on, except for the Legislative Channel, which Wilbur liked to watch, sometimes.

       For someone with a long criminal record, he definitely enjoyed legal television.

       But as Wilbur tried to relax and focus on the interviewer speaking on the TV, he couldn’t think straight. All his thoughts kept drifting back to Sorry Boys Prison.

       You’re out of there now, idiot, Wilbur told himself firmly. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about them.

       Charlie Slimee.

       Tom Simons.

       Don’t think about them. You’re moving on, not going back. Changing your name, buying a house. Living.

       Surviving.

       And suddenly Wilbur felt like throwing up. Because it wasn’t right, wasn’t okay, what was going on there. These… people, who ran the prison, who’d been following Wilbur his whole life, they were dangerous.

       At first, Wilbur had thought he was crazy.

                       Two Years Earlier

       March 14, 2021.

       A church used as the meeting spot for government organisation SOOCT has recently burned down. Police are still investigating whether this was an intentional crime.

       March 17, 2021.

       The burning of SOOCT church has been declared to be arson – a purposeful crime. The perpetrator has not been identified.

       March 20, 2021.

       A series of buildings across the southern coast have burned to the ground in the past few days. Police say these were clearly orchestrated by the same people.

       March 27, 2021.

       The group of arsonists targeting our cities continue to leave their mark. Their main target? Churches. They have also burned down a multitude of government buildings. Surprisingly, the mortality rate is low. Most of these buildings were empty upon attack.

       March 29, 2021.

       Police have begun arresting suspects.

       In July 2021, William Gold watched as people off the streets – innocent, good people – were arrested in broad daylight for the attacks against government organisations.

       His colleagues told him it was nonsense. The police had no leads, and they were trying to cover for their failure. He shouldn’t worry about it.

       In August, the trials were recorded and published. Every single one of the suspects pleaded guilty, handing made-up evidence to the judges on a silver platter.

       Will knew it wasn’t real, of course.

       But he didn’t know why.

       Why would these people – completely innocent, with normal, average lives – claim they had committed a series of crimes and willingly go to jail for it? Were they threatened? Forced?

        Convinced?

       Still, the government wasn’t full of complete idiots. Aside from the innocent, they began identifying and arresting members of Will’s group, one by one until there were less than half of them left.

       So it was all up to Will, and he took his job very seriously.

       Church after church, building after building, Will burned them all. Without their computer whiz (he’d been arrested a couple weeks earlier) Will learned coding from the fellow interns.

       When he wasn’t working (which was rare, as he was almost always busy) Will retreated to his downtown apartment – with his roommate and best friend, Tim.

       Will liked to pretend he had a normal life.

       That didn’t last long.

       In September of 2021, Will Gold arrived at his apartment to find that his roommate – completely innocent – had been arrested by the city police, and that they were already on their way to arrest him as well. Confused and infuriated, Will had absolutely no clue what to do.

        Except run.

        In October, Will watched the news come out with a series of new trial recordings. A majority of them were petty crimes that somehow traced back to the fires. All of them were robotic and fake.

       Will’s roommate pleaded guilty to being a part of the arsonist group.

       That day, Will stopped trusting anyone at all.

        In November, 2021, William Gold changed his name to Wilbur Soot and moved to Utah, leaving his past behind for the final time.

       And then he got arrested.

       And then he decided he didn’t care anymore.

                               Present

       William Gold, for all his good traits, was a quitter.

       He worried about himself, his own safety, and… really nothing else.

       But, although it was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever done, Wilbur Soot decided he would not, under any circumstances, leave Charlie and Tommy to spend their whole lives paying for something they didn’t do.

       So, Wilbur decided, however long he had left, he would use that time to do something good. For once in his life.

       He just wasn’t sure how to do it.

       Scanning the room for anything he’d left behind, Wilbur shoved some money into his pockets and moved to walk out the door.

       His eyes raked over the room one last time, locking onto the long beige trench coat tossed haphazardly onto the corner chair.

       Wilbur’s hand closed around the sunglasses in his pocket, and he smiled.

Chapter Text

“So what happens if we win? I go back to France; I bring freedom to my people if I’m given the chance” – Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down), Hamilton: The Musical

     Tommy, for all his faults, prided himself on one thing – he was smart. If something was different, something went wrong, he was always the first to know.

     Which is why it royally pissed Tommy off when he could not, for the life of him, figure out what was different when he woke up in the morning.

      At first, he thought it was just because Wilbur was gone.

     But that couldn’t be it. Wilbur’s parole had been two weeks ago. Although Tommy missed the guy, he’d gotten used to it being quieter around the prison.

     So, what on earth was different?

     “You okay, man?” Ranboo asked, concerned, after Tommy had been staring at the wall for over fifteen minutes. Tommy startled, glancing at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Is breakfast a little late today, you think?”

     Ranboo shrugged. “Is it supposed to be at a specific time?” Tommy stared at him blankly. “It’s always been at 8, Ran. It’s 8:30 right now.”

     “Oh.” Ranboo hummed. “Then I guess it’s late.”

     “Are you feeling alright?”

     “Yep. Why’d you ask?”

     Tommy pondered this himself. In all reality, he had no idea why he’d asked. “I dunno. Never mind.”

     “WAKE UP!” The telltale pounding began outside, finally. Philza and Charlie stalked through the halls, slamming their batons against the door. “IT’S MORNING TIME, WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

     Ranboo and Tommy dragged themselves out the door, where officers Charlie and Philza were waiting. Charlie pointed the baton at Ranboo. “You. Stop making that face.”

     “I’m not making a face.” Ranboo huffed. “This is just how I look.”

     “Well, cut it out.”

     Ranboo sighed. “Aw, man.”

     “You-“ Charlie stopped, stared at him. “You know that’s forbidden, right?”

     “So was that fruit in the bible, but they still ate it.” Ranboo responded automatically. “It’s almost like your job is based entirely on some guy who ate an apple.”

     “Damn.” Charlie seemed to be rethinking his existence.

     Tommy laughed. “Technically, you wouldn’t have a job without bitches like us, either. Crime-committers and all that.”

     “I don’t think you can talk to me that way.” Charlie scoffed. “Philza, hit him with the bat.”

     Philza blinked. “We’re not allowed to do that.”

     “Yes, we are.”

     “No, we’re not.”

     “Yes.”

     “No.”

     “Who the hell is that?”

     The officers paused their bickering for a moment, and Tommy glanced up from where he’d been carefully inspecting a crack in the wall, to see Ranboo staring down the hallway in confusion. Tommy turned around.

     Across the room, rhythmically slamming a baton against the railings, a tall, brunette man wearing a light beige trench coat and dark sunglasses stalked towards them. He stopped in front of the group, Charlie squinting at him through his glasses. “Who’re you?”

     The man slammed the baton against the wall again, making Ranboo flinch. “Alright, listen up. I-“ He stopped, staring at Tommy and Ranboo. “Mr. Watson, why’re they out of their cells?”

     Philza shrugged. “It’s a new day.” “Just the way we’ve always done things!” Charlie added helpfully. “8:30 is breakfast time, on the dot.”

     No, it’s not, Tommy wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut.

     Trench Coat Guy narrowed his eyes, then gestured towards the cells. “Improv cell inspection. Get in.”

     Inside their cell, Ranboo and Tommy strayed behind one of the walls, trying to stay as far away from the strange new inspector as possible. Ranboo poked his head out from their hiding place. “Woop. Woop.”

     The brunette pointed his baton at them. “That’s fucking cute.” He then returned to inspecting the beds. “Mr. Cicle, is this regulation?”

     “Hmm, I don’t know.” Charlie leaned over the bed with a hum. “Perhaps if I knew what regulation was…”

     There was a sigh. “Is this allowed?”

     “Is what- oh shit.” Charlie gasped. “Is this mud? This is mud.”

     “LEFT BED!” The inspector slammed his baton above Tommy and Ranboo’s heads. “Which one of you?”

     Ranboo pointed wordlessly at Tommy.

     Tommy was going to kill that motherfucker someday.

     “Are you aware that having mud in your bed is forbidden?” Charlie glared at him. Tommy nodded quietly. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I don’t know how it got there.”

     “Sorry,” the inspector scowled, “is not good enough.” He turned to Philza. “Take this one to solitary confinement.”

     “Right away, sir.” Philza nodded, dragging Tommy out of the room. “To solitary with you, Simons.”

     “What the fuck’s solitary?” Tommy yelped as he was shoved out of the room.

     Philza led Tommy into a long, dark hallway, filled with empty cells and solid steel doors. Tommy glanced around apprehensively. “What the hell is this?”

     “Solitary confinement.” Philza explained, walking down the hall. “A punishment even I wouldn’t want to bare.”

     They stopped in front of a small, pitch-black cell with a singular bed and a tiny window, and Phil shoved Tommy inside. “There you are. Good day, Simons.” With that, he closed the door. Tommy threw himself against it, face pressed to the window. “NO! PHILZA- PLEASE- please!”

     Philza was gone, and Tommy was alone in a dark room. “It was just MUD!” He screamed, but nobody was there to listen.

     Had it been an hour? Two hours?

     For a while, Tommy had listened for noises.

     Ranboo started screaming bloody murder a few minutes after Tommy’d been locked in the cell, and hadn’t stopped – although his screams did turn from fear to anguish. What was that about?

     He was quiet now, though, which was curious. Tommy didn’t remember a time when Ranboo had been quiet.

     Which was strange.

     Ranboo was a very quiet person.

     The loud one was Charlie. But Charlie was the officer, not Tommy’s roommate.

     Right?

     “Yoo-hoo!” The sound of keys rattling from outside Tommy’s door shook him out of his stupor. Someone unlocked the door, pushing it open. Tommy ducked behind the wall in the corner, leaning against it and sliding down to the ground.

     Please, don’t hurt me?

     “Mr. Simons?” The inspector from earlier stepped in front of the wall. “Hello?”

     Tommy covered his mouth with his hand.

     Heavy boots stepped in front of him, then the man kneeled down to look him in the eyes. “Tommy?”

     Tommy blinked, looked at him. The two stared at each other for a moment, then the man reached up, took off his sunglasses, and put out his hand to shake Tommy’s. “It’s me. Remember me?

     Yes, he did.

     “Wilbur?”

Chapter Text

“We’ll need some spies on the inside- some king’s men who might let some things slide” – Right Hand Man, Hamilton: The Musical

     “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

     Wilbur leaned against the wall of the cell, pointing his baton casually at Tommy. “That’s why I’m here. To help you. But you’re gonna need to follow my every lead. Understood?”

     “Yes, of course!” Tommy nodded excitedly. “Holy shit, Wil, this is crazy! How’d you get in here? How’d I not recognize you? Are we gonna get Charlie and Ranboo out too? When- “

     “Alright, calm down.” Wilbur sighed. “I’ve got a lot to explain to you, Tommy, but I'll need to do it fast, since we don’t have much time. So, listen to me.”

     Tommy nodded.

     “This place,” Wilbur gestured around them, “is not what it seems. Do you remember when I first got here?”

     He did, sort of. “A little.”

     “Of course you don’t remember much.” The brunette sighed. “They wouldn’t let you remember everything. Obviously. What am I thinking? Okay, Tommy, let me tell you something.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You didn’t commit a crime to get here.”

     “Yeah, I did.” Tommy frowned. “Petty theft.”

     “Of what?”

     “Food.”

     “When?”

     “I dunno, maybe seven months ago?” Tommy shrugged. “Why are you asking me this?”

     “Because it never happened.” Wilbur hissed. “You never stole food and Charlie never killed anyone. i don't- whatever Ranboo said he did, he didn’t do that, either. They plucked you off the streets, planted fake memories in your heads, got you to plead guilty, all so they could pretend like they’re doing something right.”

     Tommy tried to make sense of this in his head, but it was difficult. “Oh. Wait, are you innocent, too?”

     Wilbur tensed. “Not… exactly. Like I said, Tommy, I’m supposed to be here. That’s why I want to get out. Get you out. I’ve seen what happens to people like you, and it’s not good.”

     “Then let’s get out of here.” Tommy declared. “You, me, Charlie- maybe Ranboo- Phil if he wants- “

     “Okay, that’s not really how it works.” Wilbur rushed to say. “I don’t know how to get them out. I don’t even know if I can. They’re too far gone, Tommy, too far into the organization’s madness. Did you notice that Ranboo and Charlie switched places?”

     “What?”

     “Charlie was our roommate,” Wil stressed, “and Ranboo was an officer. It’s the opposite now. I don’t know what happened.”

     Tommy tilted his head. “Why would the ‘organization’ switch their places?”

     “Who knows.” Wil sighed. “I don’t know why they do what they do, Tommy. All I know is that I can get you out of here, and I plan to. At least I can do one good thing before I’m dead.”

     Tommy thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. How do we get out?”

     “Like this.” Wilbur stood up, glancing at Tommy. “When we get out there, I’m going to hold Mr. Cicle – or Mr. Slimee, as we used to call him. Then, I want you to grab his gun.”

     “Okay.” Tommy nodded.

     “And then I want you to shoot me.”

     “WHO’S READY FOR SOME FUCKING GAMES?” Wilbur stalked down the stairs, Tommy in close pursuit.

     Stay calm. You know what you’re here for.

     Ten. Nine. Eight.

     “Did he beat you senseless?” Charlie asked Tommy curiously, and Tommy – smart as he was – nodded firmly. “Yep. Very painful. Worst experience of my life.”

     “Interesting.” Charlie hummed, and Tommy stepped closer to him. “Would you like to hear about it? I’ll tell you all about it.” Charlie seemed interested.

     “How badly did you beat him?” Philza asked Wilbur as they walked over to where Ranboo was standing, and Wilbur dragged his baton against the floor with a scraping noise. “Within an inch of his life, Mr. Watson.”

     "Good job." Philza nodded in approval.

     Four. Three. Two.

     “NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME!” Tommy, gun in hand, shoved Charlie to the ground, pointing the gun directly at Philza and Wilbur. “WHO’S IN CHARGE HERE? STEP FORWARDS!”

     Wilbur, hands raised, stepped in front of him. Tommy pointed the gun at Wilbur’s face. “I’m in charge now, bitch. This is SIMONS’ prison!”

     “You don’t have to do this.” Wilbur told him, and Tommy laughed bitterly. “I’ve been pushed around too much to back down now, man! I will not stand for your bullshit any longer.”

     Behind him, Philza and Charlie stared at each other, confusion and realization in their eyes.

     Good.

     Here we go.

     One.

     “Tommy, put down the gun.” Wilbur walked forwards, and Tommy shot him in the head.

     Zero.

     Wilbur Soot fell, and Tom Simons ran.

Chapter Text

“I am the one thing in life I can control, I am inimitable, I am an original…” - Wait For It, Hamilton: The Musical

     Philza knelt over the dead body of Wilbur Soot, previously a prisoner, once an inspector, now nothing at all. “This is fucking crazy.”

     “Tell me about it.” Charlie sighed. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

     “Yep.” Phil stood, almost slipping on the pool of blood surrounding Wilbur’s head. “Say, man, do you even work here?”

     “I-“ Charlie stopped. “Uh, I’m not sure. I think so? I mean, I’m wearing the outfit.”

     “Yeah, but-“ Phil frowned. “Never mind.”

     The brunette glanced at the ground. “If I don’t, then... then who the hell am I? D- do you even remember anything before this year?”

     Philza walked over to the window, leaning out to stare at the sky. “Uh, yeah. I remember a little. I had a house. I have a wife, I think.”

     “Where is she?” Charlie asked, curious.

     “I dunno.” Phil shrugged. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am, or who you are, or that kid over there on the bench, or the dead one, or the guy who ran away. Where even are we?”

     Charlie had no answer for him.

     Far away, the sirens began approaching.

     Tom Simons ran.

     To where, he had no idea.

     He ran across the prison yard, through unlocked doors and past non-existent security, out the gate and across the desert. For miles, Tommy walked through sand dunes and dying plants, with no clue to where he was going save for an old dirt road that led him to freedom.

     Well, it didn’t lead him there, exactly.

     Yet, it brought the blond to a gas station, where a tired attendant with red sunglasses pointed him towards the nearest town.

     Was it freedom?

     The town was abandoned, mostly.

     It had no council, no police, only a few people living near a small supermarket.

      And a church.

     The church was empty, completely empty, had been for years, by the looks of it.

     So, Tom Simons burned it to the ground.

     Nobody was there to stop him. Nobody gave a shit.

     Tommy knelt down in front of the flames, dropping a single sunflower and a rock in front of the doors.

     “Hey!” An old man stared at him from across the street. “What the hell are you doing?”

     Tommy glanced at him. “Told someone I’d burn down a church for them. Long time ago.”

     The old man blinked. “Oh, okay.” He walked off, muttering something about ‘kids these days.’

     The church crumbled under the weight of the flames, and Tommy watched it burn.

     In a desert on the southern coast of America, the police interviewed two confused officers with no clue they had been part of a nationwide governmental scam, one of which didn’t even remember being a prisoner, and one of which who just wanted to go home.

     A prisoner, who had also been an officer once, wandered the streets, trying desperately to catch a bus to somewhere.

     A boy watched a church burn to the ground in memory of the person who saved his life.

     And somewhere completely different, in a laboratory far, far away, Wilbur Soot woke up.

     Wilbur Soot woke up when he was supposed to be dead.

     He blinked himself awake, staring at the ceiling of a cold, grey room. He sat up slowly from a cot he’d been lying on. His eyes met those of a strange person in a lab coat.

     “Hello?”

     The person stared at him, surprised, and then they smiled. “Hello, Wilbur Soot. Welcome to our social experiments.”