Chapter Text
There's a story that parents like to tell their children, as a dulled down attempt to teach them morals without scaring them with the consequences of the real world.
It goes like this:
A frog is preparing to cross a river when a scorpion crawls out from the bushes, and begs the frog for help crossing the water ahead. A cautious creature, the frog hesitates, scared of the scorpion's sting. The scorpion assures the frog that it would never harm someone showing it such kindness, and so the frog agrees. So off they go, the scorpion atop the frog, when what do you know? The scorpion plunges its poisonous stinger into the frog, and they both drown.
Right before they die, the frog asks the scorpion why, why would you do this to us?
And the scorpion replies, I am sorry, but I could not resist the urge. It is in my nature.
It's supposed to teach you that those prone to violence can’t resist the urge to harm others; people that are known for violence, made for violence, will enact violence, even if it leads to their downfall.
Wilbur remembers being a child and wondering aloud why would the frog take the risk, why would it trust the scorpion?
And his handler replied, with the same cold, instructive tone she always had during lessons, because it was foolish enough to believe something made to kill would change. Never, ever forget that, because the only reason you exist is to eliminate the things that kill.
Ever since he could remember, Wilbur knew his purpose in the world was to scrub the witches from existence. He was just a child when he was shown the destruction they caused, black and white photos of charred bodies and buildings reduced to piles of rubble. He cried when they first sat him down in the sterile, empty room, clicking through dozens upon dozens of photos, but he quickly learned to take the fear that rose in his stomach and turn it into something cold, sharp, useful.
They taught him how to hone himself into a tool, a weapon, one forged to wipe out the witches that plagued society and caused so much misery. He was special, they told him, because they had saved him from the fate of becoming one of them. Before he could become like the others, before he could grow into just another scorpion, they had taken him and made him into something that could be good.
Which is ironic now, seeing as they refused to let Wilbur do anything besides grunt work. He’s learned every scrap of knowledge they'd given him, memorized page upon page of information, run drills until his muscles gave out, and yet the Witch Hunters refused to let him hunt.
He took every assignment with grace, despite them being beneath him and his skills. Every moment that wasn't spent doing their chores, he locked himself into the training room they made just for him, making sure that the moment they let him prove himself he would do it well.
If that moment could come sooner though, he'd be grateful to say the least.
Tonight was another one of those nights spent kicking the dust and rationing a stale cigarette, watching recruits leagues worse than him be assigned actual investigations. It was the second Saturday of the month, which meant one of the local night markets was in full swing, with vendors hawking wares and families pacing the neat rows of booths under strings of colored lights. It was also the full moon, which meant tensions were high with the superstition that tonight was a night of the witch.
There was no actual connection between witches and full moons, but seeing an official member of the Hunters Guild eased the minds of everyone. Which meant Wilbur was now stuck walking just outside the overly—cheerful lights and sneaking a drag every so often, waiting for the time to pass.
This wasn't how his life was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the solution to the problem, the poison turned back on itself, not whatever this was- banished to chore duty for the foreseeable future. He should be out there on the trail of a rogue witch, hunting them down and dragging them back in for questioning. He should be given a pat on the back and a cheer in the dining hall for gathering valuable intel and getting one more hazard off the streets.
Instead he gets citizen babysitting duty.
Just as Wilbur finishes thinking that, there's a cry from one of the darkened alleys that line the market's side street— his cue to investigate whatever trouble someone decided to cause. With a sigh, he snubs out his thin cigarette and stalks over to where the noise came from.
A crowd of boys, maybe 16 at the oldest, take up the mouth of the alley. They shout insults towards some unseen target, a few even hurling rocks and chunks of brick.
Great. A herd of vicious teenage bullies, the perfect entertainment for a dull evening.
“Boys, boys!” Wilbur shouts over their chatter. “Come on, break it up and go home. You should know better than to pick on people, and you're just asking to get tetanus from the shit that gets left around here.”
Angry eyes move on him now, and he stares back unfazed at the small crowd. One of them steps forward, his dark eyes locked on the seal of the Hunters Guild that's stitched onto his heavy coat.
“Sir,” he gasps out, breathless but still full of venom, “sir, he’s— it’s a witch.”
A witch.
Fate must be smiling at him tonight, to drop such an opportunity right into his lap. Wilbur takes a step forward, pushing past the crowd, ready for the sight of some wretched witch that thought it could hide from justice—
But that's not what he sees. Instead, kneeled on the hard pavement of the alley is another young boy. He’s breathing hard, and when he looks up at Wilbur through tangled blond curls there's blood dripping from a cut across his forehead. A streak of doubt jolts through his mind— can he really trust the words of some playground bullies? Is this just some poor kid, the subject of a cruel prank?
Before he can take another step, his vision fills with heat and light, so close that at first he thinks that he's been consumed by fire. As quickly as it comes it's gone, replaced suddenly by empty air and the image of a boy wreathed in smoke pushing past him and into the night.
Wilbur doesn't have to think about moving, he just moves. It's pure instinct, adrenaline hot and sharp in his veins, that has him pivoting on one foot and beginning the chase. The kid, the witch, only has a few seconds head start against Wilbur, but he uses it well, immediately ducking into the throngs of people, as if the crowd would work to shield him. One look at Wilbur sweeping through the street and the people part like the Red Sea, giving him a clear view of his target.
They reach the end of the street and Wilbur thinks it'll end here, but before his outstretched hand can reach the witch there's a rumble from the street, and the pavement beneath him shudders and cracks. Someone with less skills than him would have lost their footing, but Wilbur dodges the chunks of asphalt rising around him.
Two can play at that game he thinks with a smirk. With one hand raised in front of him, Wilbur curls his fingers, relishing in the power that rises to his call. Like puppets on a string the gravel around him shoots forward, a sharp cloud aimed right at his target. More slabs of the broken street from a wall in front of him, but he easily vaults over the obstacle, barely even blinking.
This is what Wilbur was made for, this— the adrenaline, the chase, it's like honey in his veins. The street twists and turns, and while the witch does it's best to lose him it's not enough. Wilbur bends the dust and sand that gather in the street corners to his will, sending volleys of stone forwards. The witch responds with equal parts fire and earth— a rare skill set, one that Wilbur will be praised for bringing in once this little game is done. With one witch there's soon to be others, information they can tease out until another coven can be wiped off the map.
The victory will be Wilburs, and he can practically taste it.
Finally, a fatal mistake is made, one wrong turn in Wilbur’s favor leading them both to a dead end, brick walls too high to scale. The witch turns, its back against the furthest wall, chest heaving with exhaustion. It looks ready to collapse— good, that will make things easier for them both in the end. Close enough now to see the blood and fear splayed across the witch’s face, Wilbur unsheathes his Guild issued knife and advances.
“It's over.” he says, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice. “I don't want to hurt you, but if that's what it takes to bring you in I will, so don't even think about it.”
“What,” the Witch spits out, “you getting tired already? I could go another couple rounds if you weren't such a little bitch.”
“Such a sharp tongue. If only it could have saved you.”
Wilbur goes to take another step, but as he goes to move there's something wrong. Something in his chest, his heart, it's like burning metal pressed into the nerves that wind through his chest, and nothing is there to catch him when the strength leaves his legs. As his knees hit the ground his heart gives a lurch, squeezing a hoarse moan from his chest. It's like nothing he’s ever felt before, a pain so intimate and horrible that he can't help but fold over forward, pressing his cheek into the cold street beneath him.
It's so intense, he almost misses two figures walking past him and into the alley. Almost. He has enough strength to grit his teeth and turn his head just enough to see the new threat.
Heavy boots stop a few feet away from his crumpled form, and Wilbur’s eyes trace upwards, following the form of a man silhouetted against the street lights. He’s tall, probably six inches taller than Wilbur, muscular frame mostly covered by a loose fitting shirt and well tailored coat. A ridiculous pink braid dangles behind him, the soft color doing nothing to detract from the utter hatred burning in the man's eyes. One hand is raised, fingers curled into a claw, and Wilbur watches as they twitch in tandem with the pain lacing through his every nerve.
It's a struggle to breathe, to even blink through it all, and he almost wishes he could just pass out already. There are voices around him, above him, and he some part of him realizes that this must be it, the very thing he'd been warned about since he was a child: Wilbur was going to be killed in cold blood by a fucking Witch.
But instead of his heart freezing in his chest, something dull thrums through him and the pain seems to melt away, replaced by a dullness that pounds with every heartbeat. His muscles go completely limp now, and he finds that it's impossible to focus his eyes, impossible to keep himself from toppling over sideways.
“How strange.” a deep voice rumbles above him. “What are you doing on their side, young one?”
All he can see as the world spins around him is the stars, cold and unyielding in the sky above him.
Were they judging him up there?
“We can't just leave him,” the stars whisper.
“I know.” the stars rumble.
And then the world lurches on its axis, and all he can see is darkness.
_____
Waking up feels like sand falling between his fingers, painfully slow and grainy, like every atom is shaking itself from sleep one by one. When the darkness fades enough that he can crack his eyes open, all he sees is a soft haze of yellow and cream. It takes Wilbur a monumental effort for Wilbur to open both his eyes and focus them enough to take in his surroundings, and the payoff is anything but satisfying.
Instead of being greeted by the cold concrete of his room at the Witch Hunters Guild, or even the red brick walls of the city side street he passed out in, he’s greeted by soft yellow walls the color of a daffodil in spring, with no windows and a single door. Pale light shines from a square of glass centered in the ceiling, and the only furniture besides the bed he finds himself in is a desk and a chair.
As quickly as he can, Wilbur pushes himself up into a sitting position, wincing at the pain that swims through his skull. It's not unusual for him to wake up with one ache or another, but to wake up tucked under a soft quilt? Something is monumentally wrong here.
The Witches hadn't killed him, despite having every opportunity too. They also hadn't left him passed out in an alley. Which meant two things:Oone, that they had some sort of plan for him; and two, they were confident enough to go against the Guild. Both things meant that for the time being, Wilbur was screwed.
The most likely situation was torture, plain and simple. He’d heard of Witch Hunters that had been taken before, returned with fewer fingers and teeth than when they’d been taken. The lucky ones came back after a day or two, a few more scars to brag about at the dinner table. But the others? Some came back as empty shells, spending the rest of their lives staring at nothing with eyes full of fear. Some came back in body bags. Wilbur had some training in resisting torture, blocking out the pain by accepting it wouldn’t end and letting his thoughts retreat to a cold corner of his mind. He knew that breaking, betraying the Guild, was worse than the worst pain he could imagine.
With a cell like this, Wilbur can't imagine anything but torture or being held for ransom; maybe even both. The walls are made of thick sheets of plastic, nearly seamless from corner to corner. The desk is firmly attached to the wall, and made of the same thick plastic albeit textured to look like wood. The chair isn't bolted down, but no amount of force does anything to snap it into sharp, usable pieces, and it's too light to break anything. Wilbur goes over every inch of the room, leaving no stone unturned; it's utterly empty of anything he could use. He even lets his magic stretch out like an invisible fog, searching for something, anything, but all he finds is the emptiness of glass and plastic. If he had any control over fire, there's a small chance he could have melted through it all, but his power is limited to the things of the earth: stone, sand, dirt. There's not even a screw holding it all together. It's the perfect prison for someone like him, made from the ground up to hold a Witch.
A knocking at the door interrupts Wilbur’s pity party, and he stands immediately, his hand twitching for his knife. It isn't there, of course, just a well trained muscle memory. But what kind of captor knocks on their prisoner’s door?
He watches it swing open, revealing a fairly plain looking man standing on the other side. His face is brightened by a smile, framed with hair that matches the pale yellow of the walls, and in his hands is a tray of food.
“Morning mate, good to see you up!” he says cheerfully “You mind if I come in and set this down? I'd hate for it to get cold before you could eat.”
What the fuck? he thinks, frozen in place. This was definitely not what he was expecting, nowhere near it, and to be completely honest he has no clue how to respond. This doesn't seem to faze the man, as he doesn't hesitate to stroll right into the cell and plop the tray down on the desk.
Now that the blond man is gone from the doorway, Wilbur can see the familiar shape of another man silhouetted against the hallway's lights. Tall, muscular, stupid pink braid— though now he can make out the details of his face, strong features as still as a frozen lake, a contrast to the ugly scar carved into his cheek. Two against one, and the pink one has already proven he can take Wilbur down easily. Who knows what the blond man could be capable of, with the company he seems to keep.
No matter what, this wasn't a fight Wilbur wants to start, so he simply stood unmoving even when the blond motioned to the tray of food now steaming on the desk.
“That's for you, help yourself— you must be hungry, it's nearly afternoon,” he says, that same smile still plastered on his face. “My name is Phil by the way, and there in the hall, that’s Technoblade. I assure you we mean no harm, we just want to…get to know you, I suppose.”
Wilbur nearly snorts at that. No harm? No harm? They knocked him out in an alley and locked him in a cell, what other intentions could they have?
“You're violating a lot of laws right now you know,” he says instead. “Unlawful magic use, resisting arrest, assaulting a Guild member, I could keep going. If you let me go now, I can put in a good word once they crack your shit open like an egg, and maybe they won't come in guns blazing. You wouldn't want the kid to get caught in the crossfire, would you?”
The two men barely even react; the only proof that they even heard Wilbur speak is a miniscule twitch in the corner of the blond man's mouth.
“I’m afraid,” Phil starts, his smile unwavering, “that that isn't an option right now. Why don't we start with a little food before we talk business?”
“How about you get me out of this jail cell and let me have a smoke before my people get here and put you in a cage?” Wilbur retorts. The food on the table, a grilled cheese and tomato soup, is growing colder every second they stand in a stalemate.
Phil takes a big breath, like someone preparing to scold a small child. “Listen, I know this must be really frustrating, but threats like that? They'll get you nowhere. But if you want to have a conversation, we can do that easily. It's your choice.”
This motherfucker. Who does he think he is? What right does he have to talk down to him, like he's a petulant child throwing a tantrum over a lost toy? Does he really think there's an ending to this that doesn't have him and his flesh Witch lackey locked in the deepest pit Wilbur can find?
“Phil.” That rough voice comes from the doorway, in a tone betraying no intention behind the word. Phil seems to share some silent understanding though, and the two men lock eyes in a wordless conversation.
“Alright,” the blond man sighs, stepping back outside the door to join Technoblade. “I’ll just leave that there for you, we can try talking again later if you feel up to it. But seriously, you are safe here.”
And with that they close the door, leaving Wilbur to rot in his silence with a plate of grilled cheese.
“ Safe ,” Wilbur scoffs, arms crossed over his chest as he sits back on the bed. Whether they were lying or just plain delusional, it brought Wilbur no peace of mind that they were trying some weird good-cop-quiet-cop approach to kidnapping him. Really it caused the opposite; at least if they went straight to hurting him, he would know what to expect. He could acclimate. But how is he supposed to predict what their next moves are when every action they've taken is against every training protocol he’s been through?
God, he wasn't joking about that cigarette earlier. The ache behind his eyes is begging him for the relief of a quick smoke, the emptiness he gets to indulge in every now and then. Hell, he would chew on a cig if those bastards hadn't emptied his pockets. He’s really up a creek without even a fucking splinter .
Time passes frustratingly slow. There's a clock built into one of the walls, smooth plastic face slotted in seamlessly with the wall, silently ticking down each second that Wilbur stays trapped here. He cycles between laying back on the bedto let the stream of thoughts blur, and trying his best to find a weak point somewhere in the cell. Both activities are fruitless, and Wilbur really does feel like something rotting under the floorboards, doomed and forgotten. The Witch Hunters Guild won't stand for this, he knows they won't; he’s an asset with far too much effort and research put into him to let it all end at the hands of a rogue coven that got lucky. But will they find him in time? Will they find him at all? The invisible timer started the moment he didn't return to his post— Wilbur just has to hope it counts down in his favor.
In the middle of a riveting session of staring at the ceiling, a tiny noise catches Wilbur’s attention. It's a quiet scrabbling sound, like something scratching at the edge of his door, and as soon as it sinks in that something is at his door he jolts upright. With a sudden click, a small window in the door slides open, and two bright blue eyes stare at him from the small opening.
“Who's there?” Wilbur asks, immediately on guard.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” a young voice states matter-of-factly. “My dad says you need alone time so you can rest. But I'm bored, and you must be very bored stuck in there, so I wanted to see who you are.”
“I— Excuse me?” Wilbur asks, taken aback by what seems to be a child lurking outside his cell. “Who are you? Why are you here, what the hell?”
“I just told you,” the child chimes sarcastically, “I’m here to talk to you, weirdo. My name’s Tommy, what's yours?”
Is this— did they send a child in to interrogate?
Wilbur squints in confusion at the half of a face looking at him expectantly, bright blue eyes and sandy blond hair feeling far too familiar for comfort. Then, it hits him.
“You!” Wilbur exclaims, “ You are the kid that got me in this mess in the first place, you little shit!”
“It's not my fault you decided to chase me over half the damn city! I was minding my fucking business— and I’m not a kid.”
A scowl forms at Wilbur's brow. “Yeah? How old are you, twelve, thirteen?”
“Sixteen, for your information.” the kid answers, as if that was the most ancient and wise of ages. Great, Wilbur gets to suffer torture by annoying teenager. Can he opt in to the regular shit, or is it too late for that?
“Anyways,” Tommy drawls, “Tell me about yourself. Like, why do you spend your free time chasing people?”
“I do not just chase people,” Wilbur fires back. “I am a valued member of the Witch Hunters Guild, and I keep people safe by keeping Witches like you off the streets.”
Tommy snorts, as if Wilbur just told him a very bad joke. “You mean Witches like you ? Because news flash, normal people can’t chuck gravel snowballs at innocent children.”
“Don't equate me to the likes of you,“ he nearly snarls. Is this kid trying to push his buttons? Or is he just stupid enough to poke a bear that really does not want to be poked. “I've trained my entire life so I wouldn't become like you. Unlike you, I have control, I work to protect people, it's what I am. You're just a monster waiting to destroy everything I've worked for.”
There's a beat of silence, and Wilbur almost thinks the kid is gone when his eyes duck out of sight. Unfortunately, he pops back up. At first Wilbur thinks the kid might be crying, the way his eyes creased and his silhouette shook, but after a second it clicked: the kid was laughing.
“Fuck man, they’ve got you good!” he chuckles, and the way he says it makes Wilbur want to wring his neck. “Do you honestly think you're their special little exception? That somehow every Witch is pure evil except you? Newsflash buddy, you're just like me except you'll start balding soon.”
“Tommy!” a voice chides from the hallway, and that cocky expression morphs into oh-shit-I’m-caught. Wilbur wants to chew the little asshole out, but he’s gone in a blink, scampering away.
Another face peers through the little window, this one having to bend down to see Wilbur through the opening. It's the tall what, what was his name? Technoblade? He's just staring at Wilbur, not saying anything, not even blinking. It's disturbing, like getting an X-ray and knowing someone is looking right at your bones with clinical precision.
Without a word, another opening clicks open at the bottom of the door, and a tray of food is slid through the gap. Both windows close, and just like that Wilbur is alone again.
The clock on the wall says it's nearing evening, so this must be dinner. The grilled cheese from earlier is sitting untouched on the desk, and Wilbur isn't allowed to start trusting what they give him now. There's two water bottles next to a tray of fries and chicken fingers, and as much as his throat begs him for a drink he ignores it completely. They may say they don't mean any harm, but he wouldn't be surprised if they slipped something in the water to keep him docile.
He needs to focus, he needs to think. If he can plan it right, he could get out of here and figure out a way to contact the Guild and get back home before he ends up in a body bag. But how? What is there to do?
Think, Wilbur, think. Clearly they're using Technoblade’s presence to keep him from trying anything, but if he could get a hold of Phil or the kid he might be able to barter his way out of here. He’d have to make sure he could keep the upper hand though, because if he doesn't have complete control over the situation when he acts they'll probably just kill him to protect their own. How can he get to that point, where he can be sure of his leverage?
He has no idea what kind of power Phil has. It's common knowledge that Witches have limits to what they can do, the things you can manipulate with unnatural power. There are people like him, whose power extends over nature and the four elements: earth, water, fire, air. Most Witches only have the skill and power to master one of the elements, but some, like Tommy apparently, can branch out and connect.
Then there are the witches whose power turns inward, who find control in the flesh and mind. Technoblade obviously can control flesh, well enough to not just explode Wilbur’s muscles and heart. That means he has practice, experience with the delicate structures of the human body; as much as it's true he can avoid outright killing someone, it's just as true that he could blink and sever Wilbur’s spinal cord. There's just no way to know exactly what he’s capable of.
And back to Phil, who seems to be some kind of ring leader to the other two. Where does he lie on the spectrum? How powerful is he?
There's no tiptoeing around it though, the man will be Wilbur’s best target if he wants to get out. If he's lucky, Phil's powers would be over the elements, and this plastic cell will be just as much of a detriment to him as it is to Wilbur. If he’s not lucky, he’d be dead before his hands wrap around the other’s neck.
It's just a risk he’ll have to take. Better to die fighting than sit here and wait for someone to come kill him.
If today was a hint at routine, tomorrow they'll bring him food and try to talk. Probably in the morning, to catch him off guard before he has a chance to fully wake up. He can strike then, and pray that his half baked plan will work. But even if Wilbur gets lucky and gets Phil where he wants him, he has to have more of a threat than just his bare hands. There's no way for him to make a weapon, not with what he has at his disposal, which means he needs to figure out some way to use his power.
There's really only one way he can see that might just work. His power is over earth: rocks, clay, concrete, sand, the very ground beneath his feet was his to command. This cell may be a plastic box, but unless they put everything and everyone through an autoclave, there's no way to ensure there aren't traces of dirt and dust hiding in the crevices. Scattered around like this, it's useless; but gather it together, and there could be enough for him to work with.
There's no time to hesitate, and so Wilbur gets to work. He starts with his clothing, working over every inch, shaking loose grains of sand from the threads. His boots have mud caked into the soles, the laces, hiding under the lining of the soles, and even his nails have a crescent of dirt underneath. The pillow case, the sheets, the corners under the bed, each has a tiny amount of dust particles woven in. It takes him hours, agonizing over each microgram that joins the little pile in the center of the floor, hunting down every single speck. His back aches, his eyes ache, and exhaustion tugs at his mind, but he brushes all of it away. After hours, he is rewarded with a handful of dirt, just enough that he can feel it move under his demand, just enough that he isn't helpless anymore.
Now, he waits. He sits in the middle of the room, barely even blinking, watching the door for any sign of movement. The clock ticks without him, silently marking the time that continues marching on; he just watches.
Finally, after hours of staying coiled like a spring, there's a click of a lock. Wilbur allows himself a deep breath, steadying himself, balancing on the knife's edge; then, he moves.
The door opens an inch, and Wilbur uses one palm to slam the edge open the rest of the way. His other hand shoots out, making eye contact with the blond standing in the doorway just as his fingers close around Phil’s neck. The little pile of dirt stirs as his fingers curl, pulling the man closer into the room, and each minuscule piece of earth shifts and sharpens until a halo of shrapnel orbits the two of them. It takes barely a second, but Wilbur has them exactly where he wants them.
The needle sharp pieces of rock and dirt form a barrier between Phil and Technoblade, and with a twitch of Wilbur’s finger the debris spins threateningly close.
“One move, even a twitch, and I make him into a pin cushion.” Wilbur threatens, eyes flicking between his hostage and the man staring daggers at him. Technoblade’s mouth does not curl into a sneer, his brows don’t furrow, but those piercing red eyes boil with something barely contained.
“Listen, mate—“ Phil tries to speak, but Wilbur gives his throat a squeeze and cuts him off.
“Shut up,” Wilbur continues, “I’m talking now, you listen to me. Or I’ll fucking kill you.”
There’s a fractic energy in his chest, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’ll break free of his rib cage any moment. It’s adrenaline, pure and sharp, that courses through his veins and lights up his nerves, egging him on even further, pushing him towards his freedom.
“You know what I want. Lead me to the door and I’ll let him go, but no tricks ,” he demands. “Any funny business and your buddy here loses and eye, don’t fucking doubt me there.
Technoblade is staring at him hard, unmoving, and Wilbur realizes just a second too late it’s not him he’s staring at—it’s Phil.
His vision goes black. His body, his hands, it feels like every molecule is trying to separate, climbing over each other, digging their claws into his nerves.it’s achingly familiar, and then it’s gone in a second. He’s still standing, frozen in place, but his arsenal has fallen to the floor in dull clumps, and Phil now stands directly in front of him.
One of the blond man’s hands is pressed gently into his forehead, his piercing blue eyes nailing Wilbur in place. Wilbur tries to fight, to move, but it’s like nothing is connected; he’s frozen in place.
“Don’t fight it.” Phil whispers, and he almost sounds kind. “You can’t win. Don’t waste energy. Just let go.”
Like hell he will. Sweat beads at his brow, that feeling in his chest rises and swells until it threatens to spill, every single muscle tries to tense into action, but it’s just…nothing.
Phil breaks eye contact, turning to look out the door. “Techno,” he mutters, and the other man steps forward, one hand rising, palm open.
This is it. This is where they kill him. He tried his best, he fought like hell, but it just wasn’t enough.
But instead of his heart stopping or his organs exploding, a blanket of heavy calm settles over his shoulders. It’s like ice flowing over his ragged lungs, soothing the buzz of energy that hums inside him. It’s soft, gentle, pulling him in close.
Hands guide him down, laying him back against something soft, and he lets his head fall limp.
“That’s it, there we go mate,” a voice above him soothes.
“That was too close,” another huffs, but there isn’t any anger behind it.
“For me, or for him?”
“Yes.”
A chuckle, soft and low. “He was never taught where to draw the line, how to ration out energy. The fact that he’s still alive right now is a miracle. I don't think he even realized how close he was to losing control.”
They’re talking about him, aren’t they? He wants to speak up, reach out a hand, but all he can feel is a blissful wash of calm. They taught me, he thinks silently, trying to blink away the fuzz in his vision, they taught me how to be useful, I need to be useful, please, please, please.
Someone runs a hand across his forehead, and without even thinking Wilbur presses into the touch. Warmth flows from the touch, and it feels like relief. Like a moth to flame, like cream on a burn, like water in summer heat, like fire in winter's cold, it fills a part of him he didn’t realize was utterly starving until now.
“Take as much as you need,” someone soothes, and he does. He lets the feeling flow over him until nothing hurts, nothing aches, the only feeling left is peace.
“I can see you getting attached, Techno. Don't try and hide it from me,” Tte softer voice chimes.
“I can admire a fighting spirit.”
“He reminds you of a certain someone, hmmm?”
“I wasn’t nearly this feral when we met, and definitely not brainwashed.”
“And you would bite.”
“That too.”
The noise fades into black, a slow wash of darkness that takes his hand and leads him into sleep, whispering rest, you are safe here .
For once, he might just believe it.