Chapter Text
Stage 1: Unconscious incompetence - Ignorance.
In this stage, the learner isn't knowledgeable about the required skill set and information necessary for a role. They're unaware of their need for the skill or its benefits. Unconscious incompetence also describes the situation where learners are unaware that they're not performing a task efficiently.
***
The sun feels harsh against the skin that hasn't absorbed its warmth for a long time. After spending weeks in the Nether, surrounded by netherrack, lava, and despair, nothing can truly warm a body but the product of hell itself. Therefore, despite standing directly under the sunlight, bathing in its heat, Spoke can't help but bury his face in the collar of his hoodie, rubbing his cold nose against the fabric.
Behind him, Jumper and Mapicc are facing the same issue, Spoke is sure of it without looking. Mapicc rubs his devil horns, presumably to clean them, but actually to warm up his shaking hands. Jumper wraps her arms around herself, her body covered by layers and layers of clothing. Spoke can't pity them; he's sinking in the same boat as them.
Which is the reason he really hopes Wemmbu will let him in.
The devil in question looks at them unimpressed — one hand on the doorframe, the other on the handle and is ready to slam the door in their faces. He actually does that — the fucker — but before it fully closes, Spoke puts his foot in the gap, wincing slightly at the pain.
"Hey!" Spoke exclaims, trying to school his expression into something less pathetic. "You didn't even let me finish!"
Wemmbu doesn't dignify him with a response, preferring to kick Spoke's foot to finally shut the door and probably forget the entire interaction. But Spoke is stubborn; he refuses to budge, even when Wemmbu's kicks turn downright violent and tears prick at his eyes.
The shuffle behind him indicates that Mapicc is about to interfere, but Spoke calmly raises his hand, signaling him to stop. Him and Wemmbu go way back, Spoke can handle anything the guy can offer him, therefore he knows that the strength of the kicks is nowhere near the potential he possesses. That means he is either holding back or it's everything he's capable of right now.
Eventually, Wemmbu stops, his boot digging into Spoke's foot. His face isn't properly visible, but Spoke can guess the expression — something between his usual whiny self and stubbornness that can rival his own.
"Did you finally let it all out?" Spoke says, his voice rough even to his own ears.
There's nothing but heavy breathing on the other side of the door. Minutes pass like that, until Wemmbu seems to calm down enough to open the door again, almost hitting Spoke in the face. Judging by his expression, that was his plan.
"What do you want?" Wemmbu grits out. His entire body slumps against the doorframe, as though holding himself up is an impossible task.
Now that they are face to face properly, with nothing in-between them — except for palpable silence and a heavy past — Spoke can fully examine Wemmbu's face. As he'd guessed, the guy is not okay, his weak form barely holding itself together. His skin looks sickly pale, losing its vibrant purple color, with blotches all over his visible body, the rest probably hidden under the clothes that hang loosely on his body. His previously long, purple, shiny hair, which he'd use to slap Flame's face, is chopped off and thinned, with some bald spots visible on his scalp.
Overall, he looks terrible. Frankly, Spoke is in no position to judge.
"I've already told you what I wanted!" Spoke says, though his excited tone does not match his mood. "Now all you need is to answer me!"
"Yeah, right." Wemmbu huffs. "I did answer though. I'm not training you. Now get lost."
"Nuh-huh," Spoke drawls, wagging his finger in the air. "You can't refuse it."
"Really? And why is that?" Wemmbu asks, pressing a palm against his forehead.
Were this interaction in any different circumstance, Spoke would have felt bad for pushing Wemmbu. Well, he'd still push him, but he'd feel guiltier. In the current situation, Spoke has to prioritize himself and his two best friends shaking behind him.
"Listen man," Wemmbu says tiredly, finally separating himself from the doorframe, slowly approaching Spoke. "I don't train anyone, especially not now. So, please, pack your friends and stuff and leave—"
Before he can properly finish the sentence, Spoke uses wind charges to launch himself in the air, equipping the mace. He's sure he's going to land the hit, with Wemmbu being a bit out of it, but a warrior is a warrior even in a tired state.
Wemmbu jumps away quickly, his body acting purely out of instinct before his brain can comprehend what happened. The mace hits the ground powerfully, causing it to shake under them as Spoke barely lands on his feet. His feet hurt from a harsh landing, but at least he didn't fall over in front of his — hopefully — new teacher.
There are gasps from behind him, Mapicc moves closer until Spoke can feel his naturally warm body against his back. The sound of a sword being unsheathed cuts through the air while Spoke tries to awkwardly remove the comically big mace from the soil. He's created a huge hole in front of Wemmbu's house. Hopefully, it can be fixed or else Wemmbu is going to refuse training him.
When Spoke finally gets it out with a triumphant ahah! he quickly stores it in his inventory, feeling strangely protective over the weapon. Wemmbu looks shell-shocked, his hand gripping the doorframe roughly and causing some cracks in it. He looks down at Spoke, then at Mapicc behind him, his eyes slowly go back to their usual calculated state. As though he's counting through the possibilities and picking between the safest ones.
"You have a mace," he states, nodding. "And you want me to train you."
Spoke nods excitedly, locking his hands behind his back. "You are the best mace user and my friend! Of course, I'd want to be trained by you"
"You can literally ask anyone else."
"Not really," Spoke shrugs. "Flame is too scary. I barely know that Jaden man. Minute is… it's complicated with him, okay?"
In other words, Spoke isn't sure that the bad blood between them completely washed away.
"So you are my best bet!"
Wemmbu looks even more unimpressed and maybe even dead inside. His fists clench and unclench around nothing, eyes rapidly examining both Spoke and his friends.
"And you were so sure I would train you?" At Spoke's nod, he continues. "And you thought so why?"
"Well…" Spoke trails off, looking back briefly at his friends. Jumper sends him a shaky smile, as Mapicc grips his sword tighter. "I have the best mace ever, so I need the best teacher!"
Wemmbu blinks at him. "Brother, what kind of logic is this?"
Spoke falters for a second, but quickly resumes his reasoning. "You owe me a favor!"
At that, Wemmbu simply raises an eyebrow, as if done with this entire ordeal. He looks at Spoke like he hit his head as a child.
"Since when?"
"Since I freed you from the prison and helped get Egg out of the End! You swore your undying loyalty to me!"
"Wasn't this favor repaid when I helped you kill Leo?"
"Uhh… I can swear my undying loyalty to you?"
"I really don't need it, but thanks for the offer."
Well, Spoke's hit a dead end.
With no other ideas, he turns to look at Jumper, who catches his thought immediately. She nods weakly at him and starts pulling some objects out of her inventory. Mapicc moves too, though to the side, his eyes never leaving Wemmbu, as though waiting for a sudden attack.
Jumper places some armor stands in one straight line. When she's done, she nods at Spoke to do whatever he need to do.
His last shot is embarrassing, and he can tell from the look on Mapicc's face that he doesn't want to be involved in the circus Spoke is about to pull. Because after all this convincing — that didn't sound convincing to anyone, including Spoke himself — his last resort is… questionable at best.
See, he's not ashamed of doing whatever it takes to survive. He's ready to lie, manipulate, break and play whatever role to dig his way out of any hole. He faked begging guards to give him some food, he genuinely begged Jamato to just kill him. It's not his first time; it's definitely not his last one either.
But what he's about to do is not playing a role — no, that would have been much easier, shoving a mask onto his face and calling it a day. Instead, he's about to show vulnerability and possibly embarrass himself in front of his best friends and a guy who will remember all his failures until the day he perishes.
So, his last chance at persuading Wemmbu to train him is to show how weak, pathetic he is to make Wemmbu pity him and accept the offer to be his teacher. Mapicc and Jumper looked at him like he was stupid when he was describing the plan, because in what world would one of the strongest warriors on the server take him in as a student just out of pity. They don't look so sure of the plan even now, Jumper hunches into herself and Mapicc is ready to strike if necessary.
But they don't know Wemmbu like Spoke does. He's sure the plan is going to work.
"What is this? An exhibition?" Wemmbu jokes humorlessly.
"You can call this a last-ditch effort!" Spoke says, trying his best to mask his nervousness.
Spoke equips his mace, turning fully towards the armor stands. He approaches them hurriedly, wanting to get this over with. Jumper goes to stand next to Mapicc, burying her face in her hands, unable to look at the scene before her. Mapicc doesn't look much better, already cringing as if he's taken a bite of a juicy lemon.
Well, when life gives you lemons, you eat them and pretend to like them.
Using wind charges, Spoke launches himself into the air. Aiming at one of the nearest armor stands, he raises his mace higher, expecting to hit it!… But misses horribly, his legs buckle and he falls face first into the mud. There's a worried shout from Mapicc, but he waves him off.
Spoke pushes himself off the ground, preferring not to look at the deathly silent Wemmbu, and tries it again. This time he manages to land a hit, launching himself too high into the air. He misses his second shot, but at least this time he doesn't fall.
He does drop the mace on his toes though.
The sound that tears through his chest is inhuman — he basically glitches to the side, stomping his injured foot against the ground in rapid succession. It's hands-down the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to him, and he's pretended to have both his legs broken and half dying to lure people into his trap. Maybe he should have told Mapicc and Jumper to sit this one out, because his soul is really about to leave his body.
But even after all that, it's still not enough. Perhaps he needs to drop his mace on his head and get a concussion to make Wemmbu train—
"Okay, okay!" comes a broken shout from the side. "I get it! You are so bad at this! Oh Ender, what did I just witness?!"
Spoke turns to look at Wemmbu, who has color coming back to his cheeks from either second-hand embarrassment or from how hard he's gripping the lower part of his face. Honestly, he looks more horrified than shocked, looking at Spoke as if a monster is in front of him and not that of a living person.
"So…" Spoke starts, but humiliation burns at his face. He tries to swallow down the shame the same way he's swallowed his pride.
Wemmbu finally rips the hand off his face, but the action looks like it's physically hurt him. He shakes his head and murmurs a quiet, "Is this how he felt?"
A heavy hand lands on Spoke's shoulder, roughly turning him around. He's face to face with Mapicc now, who seems to be seconds away from a stroke, his head bowed slightly and face burning. Spoke bitterly thinks that the whole humiliation ritual has at least warmed Mapicc up, so it wasn't completely useless.
"Spoke, bro," Mapicc whispers, but then bites his lip to stifle his laugh. "I know you said you were bad, but not this bad."
"Yeah, Spoke," Jumper says, approaching them quickly. "I don't remember you being this bad during the Null fight. Was it just the adrenaline boost or something?"
"Okay, okay!" Spoke mumbles and steps away from them, clutching the mace defensively. "I know I'm kinda trash at this, but hey! I'm gonna learn from Wemmbu himself! And then everyone's going to fear me!"
He can almost imagine it, right in his palm. Standing on top of the mountain, his mace propped against his shoulder as he faces the entirety of the Null army. They see him standing there — tall and proud — and instead of attacking, they cower in fear, dropping to their knees in a sign of worship. Then Jamato would fall through the hole in the ground and drop in the void, forever ridding Spoke of all trouble.
The entire daydream is, however, shattered by Mapicc's voice, "Lowkey, wouldn't want you as my student."
"Yeah, me neither."
"Hey!"
Someone claps behind them, and Spoke turns to look. Wemmbu is clapping as he's coming closer, his face still covered in purplish blush. He stands directly in front of Spoke, looking at him, then at the mace, and then back at Spoke.
"Where did you even get it? Aren't maces like super rare?" he asks.
"Well, call me a rare occurrence itself because I never miss!" Spoke says proudly.
Behind them, Mapicc whispers to Jumper, "What does it even mean?" She just shakes her head, equally confused.
"Oh-kay," Wemmbu drawls.
They stand in the silence for a moment, Spoke fiddling with the mace's handle anxiously, while Wemmbu stares at him, looking past him and into his soul. The wind around them feels cruel against his skin, and he can't stop the clattering of his teeth caused by it. Wemmbu seems to snap out of his thought by the action, and nod slightly, more to himself than anything else.
"D'alright," he says, exhaustion slipping back into his voice. "I will train you—"
"Yay!" Spoke cheers immediately, only to get interrupted by Wemmbu.
"—but! You do everything I say. Your little friends don't interfere with training. And we have roughly a month or so to make you a mace master."
Spoke nods excitedly at each point, bouncing slightly. "Oh, my friend, you're not going to regret this!"
Wemmbu just shrugs at him and goes back into his base — a treehouse? Really? — signaling with his hand for them to come over. Spoke looks over at Mapicc and Jumper one last time, before nodding at them and following Wemmbu into the house, already knowing they are going to follow him.
***
Air in the treehouse is buzzing with dense electricity, the only noise interrupting the heavy silence being a pot on a stove and a tune Eggchan keeps humming absentmindedly. The scent of chicken broth and vegetables filling up the space does little to soothe Wemmbu's racing mind and anxiety, even with Spoke falling asleep on the couch, his cheek pressed against Mapicc's shoulder in search for warmth. Jumper — the previously feared leader of the spies — is pressed against his other side, with warm clothes covering her entire body instead of armor.
The three of them look worn down, with barely any equipment, but with enough bruises and half-bandaged wounds to indicate recent fights. Wemmbu knows he doesn't look any better himself, the weeks he's spent in a cave with no sunlight damaging his health enough to demobilize him. Damn his human part.
Typically, he wouldn't need sunlight, there isn't any Sun in the End after all. However, with everything in his life going to shit, all his friends turning their backs against him — well, he betrayed them first, but at least he had a reason, okay? — and with constant stress of Egg getting killed, prickling under his skin, his health had no other choice but to tank.
Wemmbu sits on the floor, his back against the crafting table and Egg to his side. Even having him this close doesn't reassure him. The opposite, actually. Now that Wemmbu's hands lack his main weapon, he isn't sure he's capable of doing anything, but bring havoc to Egg's life with no ability to protect him.
Gambit broke. Maybe something in him shattered alongside her.
His hands ache from either the callouses that heal for the first time in years or the absence of warmth that used to be his only comfort. Gambit has been with him for the longest time, even when Wemmbu was nothing but a weakling, watching his teacher's back then the sign left by him. When times were rough, when Crucible was absent, when Egg was gone from his sight, the only thing grounding him was the weight of Gambit in his hands and the thought that not everything is lost.
Now though? He doesn't have Gambit. His strength. His friends. Anything.
A small push rips him out of his thinking. Wemmbu looks up to see Egg smiling at him, his skin as deathly pale as usual, yet still somehow carrying a sickly tune. There are bandages all across his face, covering everything except his mouth and right eye, a red spot blooming over his left one.
"Hey, you," Wemmbu whispers softly, nudging Egg's knee with his shoulder. "How does your eye feel?"
Egg shrugs slightly. "It's fine. The dude attacking me didn't know which one is a faux, so he aimed at the non-working one."
It's clear that Egg is saying this in a comforting manner, but the parasite stirs awake in Wemmbu's stomach all the same. Nausea hits him full force, and Wemmbu stumbles all over his words, desperate to— to what? Apologies won't heal Egg, and they definitely won't bring Gambit back. His stunted self can't even offer comfort to Egg, all the words melting on his tongue like cotton candy, yet the sweetness does little against the bitterness of his saliva.
"It's okay," Egg reassures him, turning to look at the pot again. "You got way more injuries than me. I should be the one saying sorry."
How Egg can say this with a straight face is beyond him. Wemmbu can't find a single reason why Egg should be apologizing to him, when it's him who's been the core of all their troubles. With all the enemies he's made, his one true soft spot is the one being constantly abused — his best friend is always taking responsibility and punches for his actions.
Everyone knows the length Wemmbu is willing to go to protect Egg, and no one shies away from using it against him. Wemmbu has spent only a short amount of time being used as weapon, but how long has Egg spent being nothing but an object to be used against the most powerful player on this server?
"Don't," Wemmbu grits out, bringing his knees closer to his chest. "Don't even think about saying sorry."
Egg stills for a second, before hitting him weakly with his knee. "Same goes to you then."
Silence settles over them again, as Wemmbu stares back ahead at the sleeping trio on his couch. He did mention having enough rooms for all of them somewhere on the second floor, yet all them strictly refused to leave each other's side. Wemmbu can't blame them, he doesn't know the details, but with the way Egg is constantly being ripped away from him, he understands the fear of separation that comes with getting someone you care about back.
Spoke looks way worse than he did when they last interacted. Wemmbu remembers hearing his psychotic laugh all over the battlefield as they took down The Law. Sure, there's still that restless energy buzzing from him, but it's dimmed down, buried deep enough that only weak spurts of it can break through the surface. His void black skin has an unhealthy grey hue to it, rainbow freckles that used to litter the entirety of his face are gone, not visible to Wemmbu from where he's sitting, at least.
But somehow that's still not the worst of it.
When Wemmbu first saw Spoke after months of not talking, he almost didn't recognise him. Not because of his sick look, or a mace bigger than his entire head. But the lack of the infamous red-trimmed chestplate that Spoke used to prize. It used to have all the forbidden enchantments and Spoke refused to ever take it off, even when it was barely hanging with minimal health.
Wemmbu remembers being the cause of all other pieces of the set breaking, yet seeing Spoke without it… feels wrong on so many levels. Like seeing a Skeleton without a bow, or an Enderman unable to teleport.
Distantly, Wemmbu wonders if the chestplate means to Spoke what Gambit means to him. Something engraved into his soul so deeply, that the absence of it feels almost physical. Like a piece of him is being ripped away, and no matter how hard he tries to hold on, there's no use in it.
Gambit is broken. So is Alt.
"Why did you agree to train him?" Egg asks softly. He bends down a little to hand Wemmbu a bowl full of chicken soup. He accepts it; his stomach grumbling loudly, but eating right now feels too much. He doesn't think he can digest anything. "I thought you were against training anyone, especially with a mace."
Egg sits down next to him. Wemmbu leans his head against Egg's shoulder, basking in his quiet presence. He takes a sip of the soup, his taste buds flaring up at the amazing flavor after weeks of eating nothing but golden apples. Egg has always been a good cook, he's missed it. Missed him.
"So?" Egg pushes gently.
Wemmbu mumbles something unintelligible, making Egg laugh slightly.
"Brother, I didn't understand a single word."
"I don't know," he answers truthfully. "Guess he reminded me of myself."
Memory comes easily to him, despite a year of suppressing it cruelly. Fresh, green Wemmbu with his mace and not a care in the world begging Mane to train him. Failing pathetically to land a proper hit on him, and getting laughed at for using Wind Burst III.
Spoke is just like him — overexcited to train with someone he looks up to, and the thought makes his chest tighten in searing pain. If past him would feel proud at being someone's hero, then Wemmbu barely thinks he deserves to be called anything but a lost cause.
"I thought we agreed to never bring that back?" Egg muses.
"Yeah, we did." Wemmbu agrees, taking a sip out of soup again. "But I just, you know, wonder."
"About what?"
Wemmbu tries to collect his thoughts, but the words lost cause echo in his head. Mane's image won't leave him alone, especially now that he's all alone again, with no weapon to support his name, and no friends to have his back.
"What Mane felt when he… you know, left." he pushes out, the words scratching at his throat, old wounds reopening once again. "Surely, after all the time, leaving shouldn't have felt easy for him, yeah?"
"You think so?" Egg asks. "I don't know man. If he ever regretted it, why didn't he come back?"
"Come back to where?" Wemmbu laughs humorlessly. "We burned down his tree."
Egg sends him an unimpressed glare. "I don't believe that multiple armies can hunt us down but not Manepear himself. Stop making excuses for him."
His logic is valid, but Wemmbu guiltily thinks about ways to excuse Mane, to make him less of a villain in this story. The abandonment cut him deep, but in his current circumstances, he wonders how much of Mane's leaving was actually his fault. After everyone has left him, is it plausible to blame the one who was the first to do so? Or should Wemmbu take responsibility and face the truth head-n?
His eyes drift to Spoke — a mirror Wemmbu can't help but look into. His mind wanders through the possibilities of seeing through the prisms of Mane's perception. To finally understand why he abandoned him, leaving nothing but skills he'd taught him and a sign behind.
Maybe Wemmbu can teach Spoke a lesson or two.
Or maybe he can be the one to learn something new.