Work Text:
THE CENTRE SPOTLIGHT IS ON
WILBUR IS PACING TO AND FRO, THROUGH THE SPOTLIGHT–THE REST OF THE STAGE IS PITCH BLACK, ALL LIGHTS OFF EXCEPT THIS ONE. HIS SHADOW FALLS LONG AND DARK. THERE IS ONLY ONE AND IT POOLS DIRECTLY BENEATH HIS FEET. WILBUR’S EYES ARE OBSCURED BY THE SHADOWS ON HIS FACE, ACCENTUATING WHAT HAS ALREADY SUNKEN IN.
WILBUR
(V.O. – OUTSIDE THE SPOTLIGHT, ONSTAGE)
Are you always here? Watching– watching me? I haven’t even pressed it- it’s not even here!--
WILBUR STEPS PARTIALLY INTO THE SPOTLIGHT, ONE FOOT IN THE WORLD AND THE OTHER IN THE HARSH LIGHT. THE STAGE UNDERNEATH CREAKS LIKE AN OLD HOUSE THAT SHOULD HAVE SEEN BETTER DAYS BUT MAY NEVER.
WILBUR (cont’d)
It’s unfair, don’t you think? That I talk, and I talk– this isn’t reciprocal. You watch when I’m alone. I know there’s someone who knows what I’m supposed to behave as-
HE LOOKS UP, THE SHADOWS LIFTING OFF HIS FACE IN THE TERRIBLE EPICENTER OF HALF-LIGHT. WILBUR TRIES TO STEP IN FULLY, BUT MOVES BACK INTO THE GRIPS OF THE DARKNESS AT THE LAST SECOND AS IF SCORCHED BY THE LIGHTNESS.
WILBUR
(V.O., a creeping desperation in his voice)
I’m not there anymore, you can talk to me now! I can be all ~sotto voce in there, but here, we can talk freely. It’s just us.
[SILENCE]
No? Nothing at all?
THERE’S A SMALL ORANGE SPARK IN THE DARKNESS, A CIGARETTE BEING LIT. AS HE CONTINUES THE SPARK BRIGHTENS AND DIMS ERRATICALLY, UNFIXED TO A SINGLE POINT, AND SMOKE SLOWLY POURS INTO THE EMPTY SPOTLIGHT.
WILBUR
(V.O., cont’d)
Dirty habit. I’m not proud. [A pause, waiting] Well– you must have something to say about it, right? A reprimand– is this even real– can you cough? A little one-two [he coughs to demonstrate], just like that.
[SILENCE. IT IS DEAFENING. INESCAPABLE.
THE SPOT OF ORANGE MOVES AROUND FRUSTRATEDLY.]
come ON! Just a sound– something!... fucking– fine. Fine! Will this help? It fucking– [inaudible murmuring]
THE SPOT IS DROPPED TO THE FLOOR IN THE DARK, AND IT DIMS COMPLETELY, PRESUMABLY CRUSHED UNDERFOOT. THE SOUND OF HASTY FOOTSTEPS COMES FROM THE STAGE, MOVING TOWARDS THE WINGS.
IT STOPS MOMENTARILY, THEN CONTINUES TOWARDS THE CENTRE, PUNCTUATED BY THE SQUEAKING OF WHEELS CLOSE TO IT. THE SPOTLIGHT IS NO LONGER EMPTY, BUT OCCUPIED AGAIN. WILBUR’S LANKY FIGURE IS SLIGHTLY OBSCURED BY A GREAT BIG BOARD ON WHEELS, NOT PARTICULARLY DIRTY, BUT MADE TO LOOK LIKE CRACKING BRICK AND STONE, A SINGULAR BUTTON JUTS OUT IN THE MIDDLE.
WILBUR
That’s it,-- that’s the fucking button. Connected to the TNT, gonna make a big bad boom, and that country is nothing but ash. That’s what I’ve been threatening, right? That’s what Tommy and Quackity prevented.
aside: tried to, anyway.
I know you can see it. I know– I know there’s an opinion here. I know that you know there’s a right answer and a wrong. What do you want me to do!? Am I the villain? This story right here, am I the Villain?
HE LOOKS BACK AT THE BUTTON. THERE’S AN ODD FAMILIARITY IN THE WAY THAT WILBUR TRACES THE RIDGES OF THE FALSE CONCRETE ON THE BOARD. BACK TO THE AUDIENCE, THE TATTERS OF THE COAT ARE VISIBLE, THE TORN EDGES, ALL THINGS ON THAT STAGE, IN THE SPOTLIGHT, FALLING INTO DISREPAIR.
WILBUR (V.O.)
The thing– the thing is, [a chuckle] I don’t even know why I’m asking. I don’t know where else this story leads me. If not, you know, imminent villainy. Creation meets its end at the hands of its creator.
[HIS HAND MOVES FROM THE POSITION IT IS IN, THE SHADOW MOVING TO GHOST OVER THE BUTTON. LIGHT ONLY SHINES ON IT THROUGH THE SLIM GAPS OF WILBUR’S FINGERS.]
So even if you don’t answer, I know what you want to see. I know. I know, I know, I know. It’s full circle, it’s what’s narratively coherent. Nothing else really makes sense, now does it?
HE TURNS AROUND, FACING THE AUDIENCE ONCE MORE. WILBUR LOOKS UP BRIEFLY, EXPRESSION CONFUSED LIKE IN SEARCH OF SOMETHING — A PRAYER?
HE SLUMPS DOWN AGAINST THE BOARD, THE BUTTON RIGHT ABOVE HIM AS HE SITS. HE LOOKS UP, AND FROWNS AT THE BUTTON, AS IF BEING TAUNTED. WILBUR SITS, AFFIXED TO THE SPOT, WHAT THE PAST NEEDS HIM TO BE WHEN IN CONTEMPLATION— STOIC, UNMOVING, BARELY BREATHING. THE ONLY THING THAT CAN ACTUALLY BE HEARD IS HIS SOFT BREATHS, CLAIMING THE ENTIRE CHAMBER AS BREATHING SPACE.
A MOMENT PASSES, THEN ANOTHER. WILBUR’S BREATHING CONTINUES UNERRING, AND THE BROKEN SILENCE GROWS ALL THE MORE UNCOMFORTABLE.
THERE IS NO SHIFTING OF THE SEATS.
THE AUDIENCE DOES NOT SEEM TO EXIST.
WILBUR
(soft, confessional)
…If– [long sigh, another pause] If I don’t finish this, it’s unsatisfying. None of what I’ve done makes any sense. I– Me becoming this, it won’t make sense. You have to understand, when I got here, there was this way that everyone fit. Nobody else really understood what I meant. I mean, I didn’t really tell anyone anyways, but it– really, it made sense. And now we’re here, and things stand muddier, I suppose. The button seems the logical end to everything, but– I thought everyone else understood what I was saying implicitly. A rather odd assumption, yes, everything fit before– now I’m this and, people– people keep trying to talk me out of it. If I’ve built that city, doesn’t it make sense that I get to decide how it ends? In the grander scheme of things. No one seems to like how it is right now anyways!
Rid the problem at the root.
Then we get to start again: lights, camera, action.
Boom.
[pause– a beat]
I’m a necessary evil. You and me, we both get that. Right? Like– I started all this [gesturing to the sky] L’manberg and the camarvan and everything in that– and it’s, well, it is my thing, but I didn’t do it all that well, did I?
Now do you get it?
Logically, that’s not a villain. But– but, trying to take away the good of it after someone’s done it well– that’s a fucking villain. It’s cyclic. I’m supposed to be the villain. The usurped. I’ve apologized– to L’manberg, mostly. The City That Once Was Mine But Isn’t Anymore. Got better under [a bleak chuckle] new management, there’s not much I can really do about that now, is there?
Now do you get it?
Boom.
You’ll see.
[HIS VOICE FADES SLOWLY.
A CHOIR IS SINGING: LOW, HAUNTED.
IT’S UNTOWARD AND DREADFUL.
THIS IS NOT THE END OF THIS STORY.]
THE SPOTLIGHT SHUTS OFF, THE STAGE IN COMPLETE DARKNESS.
THE TRAGIC CURTAIN CLOSES AND
THE WORLD GOES ON.