Work Text:
Scott Pilgrim is dead.
A ridiculous statement. One that shouldn’t be true, not quite yet, one that you can’t imagine being true. One so powerful and contradictory to your plans and beliefs that it shouldn’t be possible. Yet it is. It is, because you watch the boy’s body fall apart, a measly pile of coins dropping on the floor following his demise. It undeniably is, even as you take your glasses off, thinking that your eyes must be deceiving you. Matthew Patel - the same one you yourself sent after Pilgrim, - jumps in triumph, loudly and happily celebrating his victory. The remains of Scott’s meaningless little existence lie on the ground, and you think, this wasn’t supposed to happen. You distantly observe as Matthew, the oblivious fool, gets rejected by Ramona and drowns in his helpless confusion, anger. It flashes right before your unblinking eyes on the monitors, and yet your mind is so foggy, shook with what just happened, that you can’t bring yourself to register any of what’s being said.
Scott Pilgrim… wasn’t supposed to die. At least, you thought he wasn’t. He was supposed to be different, supposed to be stronger, better. The best, even. Your hardest challenge yet. He was supposed to matter. To make this matter, what you’ve worked sleepless nights for. But he didn’t. You don’t know why he didn’t, and you don’t know why you thought he would be any different. And yet you hoped. You’ve let yourself be filled with hope, anticipation, of something breaking the mundane, bringing meaning into the boring slush your life has become.
And nothing did. He didn’t.
You think you’re supposed to feel anger, bright, sharp and hot. Anger, for ruining everything you’ve planned. Anger, for taking the long awaited change away from you, being deceived into thinking any of this is of any use to you. That the league is.
Instead, you feel shock. Pure and hurtful, stinging you like static all over your body, crawling into your ears and mind. And later, after time numbs the emotion, drains you all dry, all you can feel is disappointment.
Scott Pilgrim is dead. Ramona jokes that if not for that, he’d be another evil ex in the making. (You don’t disagree and confusion tastes sour in your mouth).
—————————
Scott Pilgrim is not there.
It seems like a mundane detail, something so unimportant and little that almost no one grieves, no one cares. The funeral is… scuffed, at best. There is no body in the coffin, no ceremony, nobody crying or hysteric, no overwhelming emotion other than apathy flowing in the air. You stay in the corner, unmoving and stone-like. Shaking, maybe, but no more than that, your ears occasionally clearing up to hear the snickers, smug retorts, and then filling with the ringing once more.
It doesn’t make sense to you, the black haired girl, Knives Chau, screaming at Ramona, momentarily taking the attention away from the coffin, so loud and pretentious, yet pretending to care, making it seem about Scott and not herself. It’s confusing to you how the crowd instantly gathers around the two of them, furious and yelling, instead of around what little was left of Pilgrim. It’s only when Envy Addams barges through the large door that you finally understand.
This isn’t about Scott Pilgrim.
None of it is; never was, to begin with.
As the cathedral stills perfectly quiet, undisturbed by a single soul, empty and cold, you think, Scott Pilgrim is dead. Dead, but not for the lack of a presence, the missing heartbeat of a once alive boy. Not for his defeat. Instead, he’s dead for a lack of a meaning, any impact. Pilgrim dies, and everything stays the same. He leaves you there, alone, without a chance for a change. And the world moves on. No one cries, no one cares, and no one grieves. No lips utter the boy’s name, and no impact is made by his nonexistent memory.
You approach the coffin, your hand slowly, gently caressing the top of it, brushing the dust off. And then, as you seal it shut, not daring to look at what’s inside, your face twists into a scowl.
“Damn you, Scott Pilgrim,” you mutter, and leave nothing behind as you leave.
—————————
Getting Ramona back is easy. No, not even that. It’s ridiculously easy. The effort you have to put into it is comedic, so little and useless that it’s almost nothing. Ramona doesn’t want much: not anyone else, only you. She’s loyal like that, rejecting everything just to stay with you. She’s simple, always obedient and lenient, always doing exactly what you ask of her. Sometimes, you think she wants you too much. And you… don’t want her.
Ramona is beautiful. She has cherry sweet lips, not too big, not too small, perfect for any man or woman to enjoy. Her eyes are big, shiny and expressive. She has a personality behind it, too: rebellious, confident, kind. And yet she is nothing. You can’t help but look at her with apathy.
Ramona Flowers is good, but not nearly good enough, not meaningful. With her, you don’t feel like anything needs to matter, to be different or difficult. You hate her for it. With her, you don’t feel like trying, like you have to prove anything, like you have to prove yourself. Not like with… Scott.
You like to think that with Scott, it would’ve been different. You like to think that you could’ve shown Scott who you really are. That you’re not just some rich guy asshole with enough money to buy the entire world. That instead, you’re intelligent, strong, using money only to show off and instead defeating him on your own, putting a sharp sword through the fool’s soft heart. Always the fool with the biggest heart. You like to think that Scott would’ve been unimpressed. That he would’ve looked down on you, pushing the expensive champagne off your table, his furious gaze falling upon Ramona who drank it just a moment ago. “Is that the best you can do?” you easily imagine him insulting. “You suck, man. No money can buy you a non-sucking personality!” he’d probably say, a weak retort, yet it would boil your blood so hard that you’d jump straight on him, weapons forgotten, fists and teeth becoming your arsenal, the two of you - just a mess of limbs.
You like to imagine that by the end, his breathing would be hard, rigged, louder than the ringing in your ears. You think you’d be sad to kill him, just a little bit. You think you’d miss him, if you ever knew him.
And then, Ramona’s head falls onto your shoulder in the real world as she snuggles closer to you. It makes you remember, again, that Pilgrim is dead. You push Flowers away, standing up and leaving in a rush. You think you may hate her a little too obviously, that secret of yours becoming open. But you can’t bring yourself to care, because, truly, it doesn’t matter. Nothing does, not anymore.
As your feet bring you through the crowds of the club, your club, you feel tired. Little. Small, even, in the grand scheme of things. You’ve never truly noticed before, how apathetic, uncaring the world is. You walk through your own club, squished between countless bodies, and no one seems to notice. Everyone continues to party. Scott Pilgrim died on live TV, brutally murdered and assaulted, and the world around him, too, seemed to never notice. You walk and walk and walk, until you finally reach the end of it, the exit door, and welcome yourself to the new fresh air, smelling nice, not like sweat or alcohol or vomit, all of it latching onto your skin like desperate women latch onto your shoulders. The bliss is only interrupted by the slight odor of smoke, and when you turn to face it, you find… Wallace Wells, of all people.
“Wallace,” you call out in a weak attempt of a greeting, head suddenly light. The boy seems to be surprised by your presence, exhaling shortly before answering.
“Hey, G-man,” he says. “What brings you to the dumb slut dumpster?” he then adds, seemingly completely out of it, and you’d be furious if this wasn’t so… ridiculously funny.
“Sorry to bring it to you, but it’s just the backside of my club,” you retort, tame, but not so composed as you thought you’d stay tonight.
“Yeah yeah, don’t be a killjoy,” Wells replies with a chuckle. He lifts the cigarette to his mouth, making a soft inhale, and then exhales once again, dirty air leaving his lungs. “I mean, why’d you leave Ramona? She looked like a kicked puppy,” he asks, then, and your interest vanishes immediately. Of course, you suppose, he’d care. Him and Flowers seemed to be… on good terms, not yet friends, but not strangers either. It’s only natural for him to care about Pilgrim’s girlfriend, now that there’s no one left to do that. It should be natural to you, too. It should be paradoxical for you to hate her so much and yet not willing to let her go.
“Wells,” you ignore his question, instead calling out his name again. It seems to gain attention. “Tell me about Pilgrim,” you find yourself asking, completely desperate and pathetic.
At that, Wallace’s eyes narrow and a confusing smug grin spreads around his face.
“Why, man? You got the hots for him or something?” at his suggestion, your mind fills up with shocked anger, face growing hot with fury. How dare he even suggest that?! “Sorry to bring it to you, but guy’s dead”.
You want to yell, gosh you want to, but you’re a composed, intelligent man, so you get it together.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you brush off, calming yourself internally. Wells’ stupidity is not something that should worry you, after all.
“Sure, whatever,” he finally backs down, and then quiets down for a couple of seconds, seemingly deep in thought. “Well, Scott was a total moron and loser. He was in a shitty band, dated shitty girls and was a shitty friend,” Wells finally blurts out, contrary to your expectations. Pilgrim was supposed to be… different. He was supposed to be the best one of you all, at least in some way. But, based on factual evidence, you disappointedly admit that Wallace’s description isn’t untrue.
“I mean, he wasn’t that bad. I remember I got sick once and he tried to make me pancakes,” he adds then with a chuckle, a small smirk still on his face. “God, the shit he used to cook…” with that, Wallace erupts into a quiet laughter, and once you turn to look at him, you’re shocked to find small tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. He, too, shocked, weakly brushes them away with his hand.
“Man, you’re such an asshole. Didn’t have to make me cry,” he insults with seemingly no real anger in his voice, but before you can reply, Wells sneaks back inside the club, leaving you with more questions about Scott that you had before.
Scott Pilgrim is dead. The world around him moves on, but the memory of his little existence lives on in the minds of those to whom he mattered. You’re not supposed to be one of those people. Yet somehow, you’re probably the one who thinks about Scott the most in the world.
—————————
Your resentment for Ramona Flowers is your open secret. So open, in fact, that it might not be a secret at all. Everyone knows you don’t want Ramona. You begin to think that maybe, she almost doesn’t want you, too.
You know that everyone feels betrayed by you. Matthew, Roxy, Todd - everyone. You feel their eyes, frustrated and angered, staring at your back, waiting for the right moment to pick you apart. You don’t blame them for it, because they’re right to feel that way - you did betray them, was planning to from the very begging. You don’t blame them, but it doesn’t help the small burning feeling of betrayal that you have within yourself. Betrayed by everyone, betrayed by yourself - you suppose such an ending was your only from the start. The league becomes a disaster waiting to happen, but you spend as little time thinking about it as possible. You know, logically, that whatever they do won’t affect you. None of them can defeat you, none can harm you, - not when you’re the strongest, the richest, the smartest. So you sit back and wait for it to blow.
The first one to crack, unsurprisingly, is Matthew, with months of jealousy and confusion brewing under his skin, Ramona’s rejection hitting him like nothing has before. When he calls you for a meeting, you expect nothing of it. When he challenges you to a fight, you expect the same. Matthew is strong, good enough to be useful to you, but not to win, not to maim you and stand any higher than you. As you unleash your blades, you fully believe in your victory.
Then, Matthew wins.
He wins, and you think you lose a little more than just your money and fame.
It takes you by such a surprise that it shakes your world apart entirely. When you lose, it feels like you finally wake up, wake up to your body being on fire, with no chance of being saved or helped. It feels liberating, to lose everything, to finally be nobody, like a very long time ago. It feels agonizing, to only notice how much of an arrogant fool you’ve been when it’s too late to change anything. When you sit on the bus heading for Toronto, you feel dead. Truly, dead, which feels much different than what you considered it to be before. Before, you always thought you were like a dead man - meaningless, lacking any care. Only now you truly understand what it really feels like - to be dead. To be broken, left behind, completely forgotten and useless. To really be nothing in the grand scheme of things.
And with that, comes a revelation.
Scott Pilgrim is dead.
Kind of. Not really, if you think about it.
Or actually, not at all.
Scott Pilgrim dies, and behind himself he leaves Ramona, desperate for love and understanding, searching for the unfindable in the worst person possible - you, that is. Behind himself he leaves Knives Chau - awkward, lonely and childish, but through his death, he helps her become something more. A musician. A happy girl. A little more than that, too. Behind himself, he leaves everyone else - Wallace Wells, Todd Ingram, Roxy Richter, and everyone else who was waiting for him. Todd stars in the movie dedicated to Scott. Roxy and Ramona make up, finally letting Richter’s soul to find peace, stop being torn apart by agonizing emotions. Scott Pilgrim dies, and the world around him moves on, but he leaves it moving because of himself, not in spite or around, every action in one way or another tied to him. Most importantly, he leaves you - lonely, meaningless and pathetic, never even giving the two of you a chance to meet. (You think it’s not normal, missing someone you’ve never met so much).
Scott’s grave is nothing at the graveyard. It’s barely a memorial, if anything at all. The sight of emptiness shouldn’t make you feel as emotional as it does. It shouldn’t make you feel small, guilty, but it does. You think that maybe, Scott wasn’t the fool with the biggest heart. Maybe, it was you all along. Sour tears stream down your face and your voice trembles as you say his name like a prayer.
“Damn you, Scott Pilgrim”.