#its because he met Ranboo and thought ''his hair looks cool'' and changed his hair to match the weirdness of Ranboo's hair | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

honalele · 3 years

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Morning Run

Ever since Phil told Niki that sometimes Techno would wonder off into the woods somewhere for days or months on end to hibernate, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about his poor polar bears, all tied up with nothing to eat and no one to talk to. So, when Phil messaged her that Techno had gone missing yet again, she began her frequent visits to their tiny commune up north. She’d asked Techno before if he was alright with her ‘house-sitting’ as he referred to it. He thought it was a good idea, and even made her a bed to sleep on in the basement of the place. He had covered it with a large blue quilt for her saying that he’d made it with Ghostbur back in the day, but was too sad to look at it now. However, Niki loved the blanket. Sometimes she would even take it back to the city, because it was the only thing that helped her sleep. Now, she stretched under it. The blanket’s warm cotton cocoon begging her to stay in bed as if it were dawned with a sleeping spell. But Steve needed to be walked. Niki shoved the blanket off and tossed her feet onto the icy basement floor. She quickly threw on her day clothes and snow boots, but before heading out, she stopped and stared at the belt and sword that had been propped by the ladder. Niki had been making it a goal to one day, go out into the world without her weapons, but today was not that day. Once she could feel the worry and memories start to kick in, she could do nothing to fight them off. Not without her sword. So, she wrapped the old holster around her waist and headed out into the snowy dessert where the polar bears met her with friendly roars. “Good morning everyone.” Niki giggled at their excitement. Sometimes animals were the only good things about the server and she loved them to death for it. “Hey big guy.” She said as she came up to Steve. “Time for your walk.” She untied his lead and watched the bear race off into the snow. A spark of pure joy and excitement lit Niki’s gut as she raced after him. She did this most mornings. Romping through the snowy lands as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She’d let the wind whistle past her ears, and the cold air nip at her nose. Steve always stayed close and whenever he thought that Niki was falling behind, he’d wait for her. They’d spent probably only fifteen minutes running the grounds when Niki spotted a figure in the distance. She couldn’t quite tell who it was, but they were tall and dark, and they were standing at the lava pool of the syndicate’s entrance. Niki dropped to the ground, her spy’s instincts taking over. She watched as the figure cautiously walked around the lava pool as if they were looking for something. Then, they leapt right in and disappeared into the secret fortress underneath. Niki had seen something similar to this before. She’d seen Ranboo walking around his home in a sort of dazed sleepwalking state. A small wave of relief swept over her as she made the connection. Still, it wouldn’t be safe for Ranboo to be sleepwalking down there, so she’d have to go after him. “Steve.” She called the polar bear who’d found a pile of snow to roll around in, “stay”. She quickly headed over to the lava pool after giving the order, and just before leaping into the lava herself, she cursed for having forgotten her armor at home. A brilliant sting followed by the cool sensation of water seeping into her once warm clothes. Gods, she wished she was still in bed, curled up in that magical blue blanket. She landed forcefully onto floor of the tunnels and shivered. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness around her, expecting to see Ranboo curled up beside one of the walls in confusion and fear, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the fall hadn’t affected his sleep state and he’d gone further down. Niki started forwards, determined to get that poor boy back to his own home when she accidentally stepped on something that almost caused her to trip and fall. She lifted her foot and stared at the item below her feet. A lighter. Niki’s jaw tightened. She pulled her sword from its halter and became weary of each step. The person she’d followed down here wasn’t Ranboo at all. She held her weapon out, prepared to greet her enemy. She came close to the corner where light pooled in from the torched-up syndicate room. Then, in one breath, she turned and faced the dark figure she’d seen in the snow. He looked so different now. There was a white streak in his hair. There were wrinkles around his eyes. There was a blood soaked bandage on his left arm. But there were three things about this man that would never change. The smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. The cigarette that drooped from his lips. And the eyes that she could never read, but had always convinced herrself that she could. “Wilbur.” “Niki.” Each name falling out of the each person like a swear. Niki waited until the silence engulfed the echoes of each other’s names. She felt like her insides had become gloop. She had just broken a promise she’d made to herself when she first heard of Wilbur’s revival. She’d promised to never speak to him again. But now, here she was, stood there, frozen like the tundra. Unable to process the being in front of her. Then, “What are you doing here?” he asked. And that one question caused something to snap inside her. That question caused her blood to boil. “What am I doing here?” She repeated. Wilbur’s expression was impossible to read. If he wasn’t standing right in front of her, she could have mistaken him for a stone wall. “What am I doing here?” She repeated again, louder this time. Wilbur stood there with his hands in his pockets, completely relaxed. It made her want to vomit. But instead, she decided to untether herself, and she let her voice run loose. “What are you doing here? And I don’t mean in this room Wilbur. What the fuck are you doing alive?” “I just-” “No.” Niki started walking forwards with her sword aimed at Wilbur’s chest. “You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to be here after what you did.” “Niki-” “You destroyed our home. You left us. You didn’t have to lose anyone or anything because you left.” “Put down the sword. This isn’t fair. I spent thirteen years-” “I don’t care.” Now Niki was so close to Will that her blade hovered only inches from his heart. “I don’t care if it was thirteen or a hundred years for you, because I had to stay. I had to watch them tear themselves apart. I had to watch the light go out in their eyes. I did things. I did awful things. I was forced to become someone that I despise. Wilbur. You died. And suddenly every single day felt like thirteen years to me.” Niki burrowed her gaze into his, looking for something, anything, that resembled an ounce of regret. But all she could see was her own pain being reflected. “I’m sorry.” Were the only words he had, and they tumbled clumsily out along with his cigarette. At that moment Niki became aware of the tears streaming down her face, and all she felt was disappointment. Disappointment in the fact that this man still had the power to make her cry after all these years. And he had barely said anything. She pulled the sword away and held onto his gaze for only a few moments more before turning around and leaving. “Where are you going? Don’t you want to know-” “No!” Niki shouted over him as she stepped into the waterfall that would wash her tears and take her back to the surface.

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onecanonlife · 3 years

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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 6,567

Chapter Warnings: swearing, minor violence, manipulation/mind control, blood, vomiting, and explicit s.uicidal thoughts

Chapter Summary: Wilbur meets the Egg. It doesn’t go well. At all.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Seven: feet in the fire

A new day dawns, as per usual.

Tommy and Tubbo are waiting for him when he steps outside, shielding his eyes against the sun. They’ve got their heads tilted together, discussing something in hushed tones, Tommy gesticulating wildly, and he takes a moment to stop and smile at them. It’s just like when they were kids, the both of them getting into one mischief or another. Tommy was always the one to be blamed for it, but Wilbur knows better than to think that Tubbo doesn’t instigate his own fair share of chaos. It’s hidden better, but they’re two peas in a pod, in the end.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks, the words coming easily. Today is a good day, he thinks. He feels good, better than he has since his return. The darkness has receded, and his heart almost feels light. He can almost forget about the scar that runs across it.

They both jump, heads swiveling toward him.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, at the exact same time as Tubbo says, “Good morning!” He glances between the two of them, and feels his lips curl upward into a smile once again. It feels easy, to be smiling with them.

“As long as I’m not the victim,” he says, and Tubbo shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says, “see, we were thinking about the Egg, right? And how it’s just, like, an egg. And we assume that it’s red, because of all of the vines, but we’ve never seen it, so we don’t actually know how big it is. I think that it’s a great big egg, because all these vines are big and thick.”

“And I think,” Tommy interjects, “that there’s no way that these vines are coming from the actual Egg itself, because vines don’t hatch out of eggs. So I think that it’s a regular-sized egg, and they’ve got it on a pedestal or something like that, or a, an egg throne. But it’s gonna look so fucking stupid, because it’s literally just a little egg, and we should smash it with something and see what they do about it.”

He hesitates. “I’ve got to go with Tubbo on this one,” he says. “I don’t think it’s going to be a regular egg.”

“Psh, you don’t know,” Tommy says. “You’re dumb. Oh!” His face brightens. “I forgot, Tubbo brought you some things.”

He lifts an eyebrow and takes a few steps forward, and something in his chest warms at the way Tubbo doesn’t tense up like he did the first day, doesn’t flinch back. There is still wariness in his eyes, but he doesn’t think he’s mistaking the way that it’s lessened.

He hardly deserves it. But today is a good day, and he’ll take it for the moment.

“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “Tommy’s still dirt poor, so he asked me to do it, but here’s some gear. We thought you should have something.”

Tommy is sputtering at the description, but Tubbo ignores him. He opens up his inventory, and then takes out—gear. A couple of swords, shimmering with enchantments, a bow, an axe, a pickaxe. Wilbur feels something in him loosen just looking at them; he hadn’t realized how vulnerable he’d felt, being weaponless, and that’s probably a bit fucked up, actually. He didn’t always feel the need to keep a weapon on him at all times.

(you led child soldiers to battle when you were little more than a child yourself and can you really feel surprised, at the way the metal hums in your hand, now, the way your fingers are more secure wrapped around the hilt of a sword than the neck of your guitar?)

(you learned to play such different songs, the blood bright and accented in your eyes, every scream a crescendo)

He glances up, checking to be sure that Tubbo really does intend these for him. Tubbo nods, so he crouches down to inspect the weapons, now all laying on the grass.

“I’ve got armor too,” Tubbo says, “but I wasn’t sure that you’d want it.”

And doesn’t that carry a wealth of connotations, of memories? There is a sharpness to the words along with the question, and Wilbur

(my L’Manberg, my L’Manberg, a promise of safety you never could keep)

turns it over in his mind, poking at it.

“No armor, thank you,” he says. “I never did like it all that much. I’ll let you know if that changes. Thank you for these, though.” He gathers up the weapons, choosing a sword to wear at his waist and sliding the rest of them one by one into his inventory, and then glances up again to catalog their reactions. Tubbo seems to have expected the answer, but Tommy is frowning at him, and he has to wonder if he’s remembering something else, remembering

(the last time he refused armor, he was intending to die, had written himself off as lost, lost along with his symphony, the only possible redemption in the press of a button, the lighting of a match, and Tommy didn’t know it then but hindsight is twenty-twenty and Tommy has always been too smart for his own good)

the wars and what followed.

Tommy sees him looking, and his expression smooths over.

“Alright boys,” he crows, as if nothing at all had happened. “Egg time!”

Tubbo snorts. “Egg time,” he agrees, and Wilbur stands.

“Egg time,” he says, and then they’re off.

The day really is pleasant, a cool breeze blowing and not a cloud in the sky. Tommy and Tubbo fill the air with aimless chatter and bickering, and he chimes in sometimes and doesn’t even feel strange about doing so. This feels natural, feels right, and if he can have more days like this, days that put a spring in his step and a gentle tune in his ears, he thinks that being alive won’t be such a chore after all. Perhaps he can even learn to be thankful for it, well and truly.

He thinks that would be nice. To love life again. It’s a distant, glimmering possibility, but today it seems a bit nearer.

“It’s under Bad’s mansion, I think,” Tubbo is saying. “But they made another entrance, I’m pretty sure. Should be somewhere around—”

“Hey, Tubbo!” a voice calls. “Hey, Tommy!”

And it is a new voice. Not Tommy or Tubbo. Not Sam. A new voice, and that means a new person, and Wilbur can’t prevent the way all his muscles go taut, can’t prevent himself from fingering the hilt of his gifted sword. It’s partially a leftover instinct from the war and partially his own fear, his own aversion to being seen by anyone, to being forced into a confrontation.

He wasn’t always like this. He used to delight in speaking to people, or in a good debate, twisting his opponent’s words all around into Gordian knots until he has his victory. He’s not sure that that part of him will ever return, will ever fully recover from

(the world is against you and you are alone and you can trust no one for they will shake your hand with a smile in their eyes and stab you in the back as soon as you forget yourself and turn)

those dark days, the days that took his charisma and twisted it into spite and paranoia and manipulation. Words that once were sweet drip down bitter-sharp, or shrivel on his tongue before they can breathe at all.

“Huh—oh!” Tubbo says. “It’s just Ranboo, Wilbur, don’t worry. Ranboo!”

Tubbo can see his stress, then, and that’s bad enough. He doesn’t need anyone else bearing witness to it. But Tubbo is already calling out and waving, and there is someone approaching them from off to the side of the path, someone very, very tall, half their skin pitch black and the other half stark white, a small golden crown perched in their hair. And Wilbur thinks, I have no fucking clue who this is, and a split second later, he thinks, Oh, it’s Ranboo, and the cognitive dissonance threatens to overwhelm him before he figures out its source.

He has never met this guy in his life. But Ghostbur did. Ghostbur—liked him? He’s fairly certain. Ghostbur liked everyone, of course, but they bonded, he’s pretty sure. Over memory problems? Ranboo has memory problems? That seems right?

What a mess.

“Hi,” Ranboo says. “Feels like it’s been a while. Oh, hey Gho—ostbur?” His voice trails off on the last word, going up about an octave and a half, suddenly very uncertain.

What does he remember about Ranboo? Soft-spoken, he thinks. Kind. Generally pretty nervous. A sardonic sense of humor, if you can get to it, one that made Ghostbur laugh. That’s all he can come up with. He was with Tubbo’s L’Manberg, but he doesn’t know what happened to him after—well. After.

He steps forward, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Not really,” he says. “Alivebur is more accurate.” He pauses. “Please just call me Wilbur, though. It’s nice to meet you. In the flesh, that is.”

Ranboo’s eyes widen. He’s not making eye contact, fixing his gaze just to Wilbur’s left instead, and—ah. That’s right. Enderman.

“Wow,” Ranboo says. “Uh, yeah! Nice to meet you too, I guess? Um, has this been a thing, or…?”

“Recent development,” Tubbo says. “We’re taking it slow.”

He feels like he should object to that phrasing. It makes him sound a bit like he’s… in their care or something like that, though he supposes that’s not entirely inaccurate. He’s hardly made strides to go and do anything by himself.

“Oh,” Ranboo says. He pauses. “Well, that’s cool. Do you know how?” He seems to regret the question immediately, holding his hands up in front of him, placating. “Not that you have to tell me or anything! But it’s just, I was there when Phil tried to resurrect you that one time, I don’t know if you remember. And it didn’t really seem to work?”

“You’re fine,” he says. “We don’t really know. We’re rolling with it.”

“That’s fair,” Ranboo says, and there is a moment of awkward silence. Wilbur can tell that he wants to ask something else, but he refrains, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Um, so I was just at the spider spawner. Needed to fix some armor. What are you guys up to?”

“We want to see the Egg,” Tommy says. “Have you seen the Egg, Ranboo?”

“The Egg?” Ranboo repeats. “You mean the one with the, uh—” He gestures around them, presumably at the vines that sprawl across the ground nearby. “No, I haven’t seen it. I don’t really want to, if I’m entirely honest. Kind of creepy, how people are fawning over it. I mean, it’s just an egg. Presumably. So I’m not really interested in getting involved.”

“We’re going to draw stuff all over it if it’s small,” Tommy says. “I’ve decided that just now.”

“Oh?” Ranboo says, and then doesn’t seem to know where to go with it.

“You could come with us if you wanted,” Tubbo says, but Ranboo shakes his head.

“Nah, I should be getting home. I have to feed Enderchest,” he says. “It was nice seeing you guys, though. And you, Wilbur. Um, welcome back to life, I guess?” He hesitates. “I gotta ask, does Phil know? Because we’re neighbors, and I was wondering if I should say anything about it or not.”

“You’re neighbors?” Wilbur asks, and looks at Ranboo in a new light. Young, anxious, in need of a secure place to stay once L’Manberg was destroyed—huh. That fits the bill. That fits the bill exactly. This is the type of kid that he can see Phil getting attached to.

(his heart’s always been too big for his own good, too soft despite all the years he’s lived, though he has to wonder why Ranboo is allowed a place and not Tommy, not the child he took in as his own years and years ago)

(it’s a matter of betrayal, perhaps, perceived on both sides, and which is right, he doesn’t know)

(he’s not going to tell Tommy that he’s not angry about L’Manberg’s destruction, because that might be a betrayal in and of itself)

“Huh,” he says, instead of voicing any of his thoughts aloud. “No, Phil knows, I’ve seen him. Him and Techno both.”

“Okay, good to know,” Ranboo says, and he really does look relieved. “Good luck with the Egg.”

“See you around, Ranboo,” Tubbo says. “You should stop by Snowchester sometime.”

“I’ll make sure to do that,” Ranboo says, and then with a slight wave and a bit of a smile, he’s walking off along the path. Wilbur stares after him for a moment, which is why he sees how he stops and pulls out a book after he’s gone a few dozen meters and begins rapidly scribbling in it.

His memory book. He remembers that.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Tubbo says. They start walking again, and then they leave the path and start crossing the grass. The vines become thicker, more frequent. Something about them fills him with a sense of unease. Probably their color; outside of the nether, nothing is quite that shade of red, a dark crimson that reminds him of nothing so much as blood. Not dried blood, not the color it gets when it’s caked on like rust,

(coating his sleeves and he didn’t clean them so the blood is still there and he can smell it and the sword is in his hand and the stains are never going to come out)

but rather, it’s as if it’s frozen in time, still glistening, ready to flow again when the force holding it back gives way.

“I remember Ranboo,” he says absently. “Sort of. Ghostbur liked him. Though I guess that’s not really an accomplishment.”

And then, they’re at a short structure built into the earth, a ladder leading down. He peers over the edge, and can just barely make out a pool of water at the bottom, intended to break a fall.

“The spawner’s down there,” Tubbo says. “But I’m pretty sure there’s a tunnel that connects it to underneath Bad’s mansion, and that’s where the Egg is. Are we ready?”

“Of course we’re ready,” Tommy scoffs. He’s grinning, bright and wild. It’s the promise of adventure, Wilbur supposes, excitement without too much danger. Something new to discover, perhaps a new prank to play. His enthusiasm is infectious, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to join in fully. The sun is still shining, but something heavy weighs on him now, something that he can’t place. It’s the vines, he thinks, their unsettling nature, and he can’t bring himself to be sure that this will be without risk.

But Tommy’s on the ladder. Tubbo’s got one leg over the side, preparing to follow. There’s nowhere to go but down.

They make it without incident, and the sound of at least a hundred spiders hits his ears as soon as his feet touch the ground. He winces, trying to ignore the skittering and shrieking, but it’s impossible to do so entirely. But Tubbo is right—there are several tunnels leading out of this room, and there is a fuzzy red glow emanating from one of them. He exchanges glances with Tommy, who is still grinning, and with Tubbo, who has a smile on his face. Neither of them think this could go wrong, then. He should probably trust to that. He’s been alive again for all of five days. They know the server better than he does, at the moment.

They descend. He keeps his hand near the hilt of his sword.

He wishes Schlatt were here, just a little bit. His presence would be irritating, but reassuring. Reassuring to have another adult here, little help though he would be. Reassuring to have someone who could make fun of the situation, distract him from his mounting sense of dread. But he hasn’t seen Schlatt since yesterday, since he vanished from the prison, and he

(isn’t worried, not one bit)

can’t help but wonder where he is, what he’s doing. It’s not like anyone else can see him, not like he can touch anything. So how is he occupying his time?

It’s warm down here.

The heat is stifling, humid, like a swamp, almost, but worse, because there are fumes as well, and that acrid scent that comes hand in hand with lava. As they enter the main chamber, it is easy enough to see why: there are patches of lava and molten rock all across the floor, and vines hang down from the ceiling and cover nearly every square inch of space. The floor itself is obsidian, he notices. And there, in the corner—

It can only be the egg. He can’t tell how tall it is, can barely see it though the clusters of vines dangling in front of him. But it is very large, and very red, and beside him, Tommy mutters a curse. Too big to vandalize quickly and hightail it out, but frankly, Wilbur feels as though that’s the least of their problems.

“That is a big egg,” Tubbo says. He sounds impressed.

“I’ve seen bigger,” Tommy grumbles, stepping further into the room. He almost trips over one of the vines, and he shoots a scowl at his feet.

“No you have not,” Tubbo says. “Where have you seen a bigger egg?”

“I—” Tommy stops. “C’mon, let’s go look at it.”

“No, no, I want to know where you’ve seen a bigger egg,” Tubbo presses, even as they walk forward, picking their way through the room carefully. “Wilbur, back me up, where has Tommy seen a bigger egg?”

“Maybe he laid one,” he replies, and that response makes no sense at all, but he can’t be bothered to put in the effort. The closer they get, the more his mind is screaming at him

(get out get out get out)

that something isn’t right about this, that they’ve made a mistake in coming down here, and there is a corner of his brain that is filling with static, buzzing and distracting and uncomfortable. And then they’re standing right in front of it, and that feeling multiplies tenfold.

The Egg is several times his height and even wider across, and it is a shade of red that is unparalleled even by its vines. It is a shade of red that seems to move, that seems to scream, that seems to drip and ooze into the air. It almost looks as though it is made of blood itself, as if he could put out a hand and stick it right though, and he almost tries it before he balks at the idea, every instinct he has rejecting the urge.

No. This Egg is not for touching.

“I’m not sure I like this,” Tubbo murmurs after a moment. His ears lie flat against his head.

“It’s just an egg,” Tommy says. “Don’t be a pussy. Wil, what do you think?”

Wilbur opens his mouth and finds that he cannot reply.

“Do you think I could break a piece off?” Tommy asks. “Like a souvenir?”

“You shouldn’t do that,” someone says, and Wilbur jerks violently, his sword half unsheathed before he’s given himself permission for the action.

BadBoyHalo. It’s BadBoyHalo, only not, not Bad as Wilbur remembers him, because his face has taken on an ashen grey pallor, and his capillaries spread out like a web across his face, and they are the same white as his eyes. The same stark white, but somehow sickly, and blood shouldn’t be that color, blood should not be white, and Bad’s face itself looks gaunt and shadowed, half-starved, and his smile, once so kind and genial, is something predatory, something threatening. Bad is a demon, but he has never been a monster, and now Wilbur isn’t so sure that there isn’t a terrible thing peering at him out of those white, blank eyes, a terrible thing that isn’t Bad at all.

Antfrost stands beside him, and Antfrost’s eyes are red instead of blue.

“Hi Tommy, Tubbo,” Bad says. His voice is chipper, pleasant, and yet— “Hi, Wilbur! I didn’t realize that you were back! Have you come to see the Egg?”

Should Bad be this blasé about his appearance? He doesn’t think so. They were never friends.

(and even his friends were not his friends, by the end)

“Yeah, we wanted to check it out,” Tubbo says.

“That’s great,” Bad says. “Visitors are always welcome. It’s a fantastic egg, isn’t it?”

The question is searching, probing. He’s looking for a specific answer. Wilbur thinks that it would be a bad idea to give him the wrong one.

“I mean, it’s very big,” Tommy says.

“It is, it is,” Bad agrees, nodding amiably. “Are you liking it so far? I mean, are you having fun?”

Wilbur opens his mouth, intending to say yes, intending to say it’s the best egg in all the world, intending to say anything and everything that Bad so clearly wants to hear if only it will get them out of here sooner. But his mind is filled with static and he is too slow to the mark, so it is Tommy that answers.

“It’s fine, I guess,” he says. “Your decorations are shit, though. It’s too crowded down here. If I were a decorating expert, which I am, I’d say that you might try to clear some of this out, you know?”

“That’s—an interesting suggestion, Tommy,” Bad says, and his smile is much more strained. He doesn’t bother to hide it. It’s like a thin gash in his face. “I’ll bear that in mind.” He tilts his head. “I like it like this, though. I think it really gives life to the room. And we wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt it.”

“Hurt it?” Tommy repeats, and Wilbur’s heart is suddenly in his throat, with no reason as to why. “It’s a fucking egg.”

Bad goes very still. Very still, and very quiet. Antfrost’s eyes gleam, and his ears twitch.

“It’s a very good Egg,” Bad says. “Maybe you should listen to what it has to say. I bet it has something to offer you.”

That doesn’t—that doesn’t make any sense. Bad isn’t making any sense, and it’s a kind of nonsense that is unnerving, made worse by his apparent sincerity. Wilbur tries to reach out, tries to get Tommy’s attention, tries to get him close, but his arms won’t move. All of his limbs feel thick, heavy, and his head is spinning, airy and light and disconnected, and Bad and Ant are intimidating figures, suddenly, figures that stand between them and the exit. Wilbur thinks that perhaps, he should draw his sword. He doesn’t like the way that Bad is talking, doesn’t like the way that Ant is staring.

Instead, he turns his head to look at the Egg.

Tommy barks a laugh, loud and incredulous, and it’s like someone has driven a pickaxe through Wilbur’s skull. He moans faintly, but no one seems to notice. The room is swimming.

“Have you gone nutters?” Tommy asks. “It’s a fucking Egg. I don’t see a mouth on it anywhere. In fact, if it has a mouth, I don’t want to know about it, because that is fucking disgusting—”

“Actually,” Tubbo says quietly, “I think I can hear it.”

Tommy stops.

“You what?”

“You do?” Bad asks. He takes a step forward. Wilbur wants to take a step back. He doesn’t move. He’s looking at the Egg, and he can’t tear his gaze away, despite what’s happening in the corner of his eye, because there’s something just on the edge of his perception that he can’t—

“What is it saying to you?” Bad continues.

“It’s saying—” Tubbo’s face scrunches up. “Actually, I really don’t think I like this. I think we should go. What I can make out isn’t very polite.” His voice wavers, wobbles, like a spinning top running out of momentum.

“Really,” Bad says. His voice has gone flat. “I think you should stay and listen some more. It might grow on you.”

“Um, no,” Tommy says, “no, I think that’s a bad idea, actually. I don’t want to—is this some kind of cult? Are you a cult, BadBoyHalo? Is this Egg your cult leader? I think we should not listen to the Egg cult. This is weird. This is fucking weird. Tubbo, do you want to go? Let’s go.”

Tommy makes a motion. Wilbur can’t tell what. He’s looking at the Egg, and his vision is blurry. But he can see the way that Bad steps forward again, the way that Ant steps to the other side. Their netherite armor gleams. The message is clear: if they want to leave, they go through them, and Wilbur can barely think past the way his head is pounding, but this was a bad idea. This was so clearly a bad idea.

Was this Dream’s plan all along? Get them down here, get them into—whatever situation this is?

“Hold on just a minute,” Bad says. “I don’t think you’ve given the Egg a fair chance. The Egg wants what’s best for everyone, and that means you guys, too. How about you, Wilbur, do you like the Egg?”

He opens his mouth. No sound comes out. The room is swaying. The Egg is right there. He could touch it.

(static static static and beneath it there is)

Tommy is at his elbow, gripping his sleeve. “C’mon, big man, you feeling alright? You’re looking awfully pale.” A moment, and then, “Wilbur? Wilbur? Tubbo, something’s wrong with him. Come on, Wilbur, let’s go.”

“Do you hear the Egg, Wilbur?” Bad asks, soft and steady, and his voice slices through the fog.

Because he—

He—

(glowing and red and creeping and comforting and sickly and familiar)

He hears it.

A whisper, trailing just on the borderline of audibility. A whisper, rasping and knife-edged, and it feels like a hand, like a hand is reaching into his brain, touching his mind, dragging its fingertips on his thoughts, and he is shaking, and he can’t stop. It is a whisper, and he doesn’t understand the words, but their meaning filters through to him all the same.

It whispers to him of fire. He can hear it crackling. He can hear it burning. He can feel it on his flesh, eating him, eating up his skin and his sinews and his bones until he is ash, ash mingling with the ash of his city. He is on fire and the fire hurts and it is a beautiful pain, a pain to revel in, a pain that he has chosen, a pain that has him grinning even as his lips burn away and bare his teeth, bare his skull, a permanent smile, a smile that means he’s won. His fingers are clenched around the match, his fingers are caressing the button, his fingers are grasping the hilt of the sword as he forces Phil’s arm to drive it forward. But it doesn’t matter, because he is the fire and he is the ash, and he is eaten away and he eats everything else, a serpent consuming his own tail and screaming and laughing and choking all the while.

It whispers to him of fire. You could burn the world, it says, and dance in the ruins, dance on the flickering spark-soaked wind, and it will be of you, their destruction, because if you cannot have it then no one deserves it so why not grant them the wreckage their betrayals have wrought?

His blood sings with it, with the thrill of it, with the desperate, ugly longing for it, the beast that lives under his skin rising to the surface, and unlike the kraken it breathes and it lives and it howls.

“Wilbur?”

He comes back to himself, a bit, and finds that he is smiling in truth, his lips pulled back, his teeth on display.

“Wilbur?” Tommy says again. “Wilbur, we need to go.”

Tommy doesn’t understand. Tommy doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t hear the voice, doesn’t hear its promises, its wonderful, wonderful promises. But that’s alright. He will, in time, and until then, Wilbur can understand for the both of them.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he tells him. “You’ll see. Can’t you hear it, Tommy? The world is on fire!”

He laughs, giddy. The room is spinning, and he with it, and his head throbs in time with his heart.

It whispers to him of a song.

A song, rife with drumbeats, thudding like the steps of a hundred armies, a million soldiers fighting and dying on the field. He was one of them, once, was Ares and led them all to blood. Blood, red and flowing, and what a lovely color it is. The blood is in the song, too, a plink plink plink of high staccato notes, a thrumming bass line that goes down in steps, a celebration

(no no no it’s a ground bass it’s a lament it’s a lament)

for the life spilling on the ground, for the life that is sacrificed, for the life that is fed to the cause, to the symphony, to the symphony! It understands his symphony, can sing in harmony with it! He’s gone so very long playing by himself, and yet here is something that knows the tune.

“No,” Tommy says, his voice shaking like a leaf on the breeze, “no, no, Wilbur, Wilbur, you’ve got to stop it, you’re scaring me, Wilbur, please—”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he replies, because he must make it clear, must make Tommy understand. “The symphony’s still there, Tommy, can’t you hear it? It’s kept on without me, but I’m here now. I can continue it how I want.” He widens his smile. “I can leave it how I want. I can leave it unfinished again. I can make sure that no one finishes it.”

Tubbo makes a noise, like a small scream. Tommy is silent.

“The Egg can do it, Tommy,” he says. “The Egg can do it. All you have to do is listen. Please, Tommy, for me, can’t you hear it?”

Finally, finally, he wrenches his gaze away from the Egg. Bad and Ant have moved closer, Tommy and Tubbo farther away. Tommy’s eyes are wide, and blue, and terrified.

(blue)

“No,” Tommy answers. “No, Wilbur, I can’t hear it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“We can fix that,” Bad offers, and Wilbur turns his smile on him. “All you have to do is stay down here for a little while. How does that sound?”

“It sounds bad! It sounds very, very bad!” Tommy erupts. “We’re not fucking staying down here, not when you’ve made Wilbur go all—” He gestures, and Wilbur doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say. He feels fine, feels real, feels exultant, and he’d thought such emotions lost to him, so shouldn’t Tommy be happy for him? “We’re leaving, and if you try to stop us, then I’ll—fuck, I’ll stab the fucking thing and crack it open, and you can be all weird and cultish over the yolk.” As he says it, he pulls out a sword of his own, netherite and shining with enchantments, waving it wildly in the Egg’s direction.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Tommy,” Bad says, and then looks to Ant. “We’ll remove the obstacle. Tubbo and Wilbur can stay here.”

That sounds like a good idea. He’ll stay here, and the Egg will give him everything it promised in exchange for his devotion. And Tubbo will learn, in time, to love it. It is unfortunate, about Tommy, but those who threaten the Egg must either be brought around or they must be disposed of,

(wait)

and Tommy is never inclined to listen after he’s gotten an idea in his head. He’s terribly stubborn like that. So if he’s decided to oppose the Egg, there’s only one thing left to do.

Wilbur draws his sword, and in unison with Bad and Ant, steps toward Tommy. Tubbo shouts a denial, fumbling for his own weapon, but Tommy just stands there, staring at him, a look on his face that

(is horror and betrayal and you promised to protect him promised you wouldn’t hurt him anymore so what are you doing)

does something strange to his stomach, and—

The Egg is calling for his death, calling for his blood. But this—

This is Tommy. His little brother. He’s striding toward his little brother with his sword in his hand, and this isn’t—

The Egg whispers. Wilbur hears it. And it

(is going to hurt Tommy)

is going to hurt Tommy. He sees it in his mind: Tommy’s limbs sprawled on the ground, Tommy’s eyes gazing up sightlessly, Tommy’s shirt wet with blood, Tommy dead and Tommy gone, and a wave of revulsion washes over him. Tubbo is moving forward, is moving to protect, but Ant engages him, and Bad is too close to Tommy, and Bad’s sword is raised, is poised to strike, and Tommy reacts too late and he’s not going to get his own sword up in time and the Egg is so loud and demanding and Wilbur can hear it but he doesn’t want—

He catches Bad’s blade on his own. Interposes himself between Bad and Tommy.

“Get the fuck away from him,” he growls.

Bad’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you want to protect the Egg?” he asks, and Wilbur reels, because a large part of him wants to say yes, wants to say that he will give the Egg anything and everything it wants. But the problem is that there is another part of him, now, a part that puts Tommy’s safety above all else, and that part of him is trembling and shaking and terrified, and the Egg doesn’t feel like a soothing whisper but instead like a snarl, and there are still fingers in his brain but he can recognize them for what they are, for what they’re doing, can recognize that they’re fucking with his thoughts, yanking them around like a marionette on a string, and—

“Get out of my head,” he cries out, and goes on the offensive, and Bad must be surprised, because he allows himself to be driven back. The Egg screams, and he screams, too, because it’s loud and his head hurts so bad and part of him wants desperately to follow its commands and he feels as though he’s being ripped in half.

(it’s in his head it’s in his head it’s a violation it’s scraping off his skin hollowing him out and putting itself inside and he doesn’t want it doesn’t want it he wants it out wants it out out out)

There is a clang, a clatter of armor, and Wilbur chances a glance back to see that Tubbo’s gotten one up on Ant, somehow, and he’s grabbed Tommy’s hand and then Tommy’s grabbing his, and they’re all running. And Bad lets them go, sprints over to Ant instead, and they’re going to get out, they’re going to get out—

The Egg whispers to him of rest.

(it’s in his head and it won’t leave and it’s like worms writhing under his skin but)

He digs his heels into the floor and turns back. Tommy is shouting something and Tubbo is shouting something and they’re both pulling on his hands, but he won’t let himself budge.

The Egg whispers to him of rest, tells him, If you will not take the fire, then why not take the dark, they will be safe and unharmed without you there to burn them and you can find your peace again, that comforting nothingness that allowed you to drift, and

(yes)

yes, he wants that, wants that so badly, because he was dragged back to life, dragged back into the world that cut him down to the quick, that formed all his sharp edges, and for Tommy’s sake, he can pretend, but he doesn’t want to be here. And the red of the Egg is comforting again, its glow soothing and warm, and All you have to do is give in, it says to him, all you have to do is let go and the peace is yours and who could blame you for taking it back when it was wrongfully wrested away from you?

“Come on, Wilbur!” Tommy is shouting.

“It’s offering me rest, Tommy,” he says, and his voice is agonized. “It’s offering—I want to rest, Tommy.”

“Wha—no!” Tommy says, and from the shock in his voice, the horror, Wilbur knows that he understands exactly what he means. “No rest! You—you fucking promised, Wilbur, you told me that you were glad to be here!”

(it’s in his head and it’s using his mouth but it’s only saying what he’s been hiding, has brought these thoughts to the surface, to the light)

“I lied,” he says. “Tommy, I want to rest. Please, let me go.”

(his father stands in front of him, his sword in his hand, and his eyes are bewildered and hurt and confused and terrified, and he knows that with the way he is, it will only take a push for him to get what he wants, only a push to provoke his father into a reaction, and he is so very selfish but he is far past caring, because the symphony is unfinished and he is ready to go he is ready to go)

He looks at Tommy. Tommy is crying.

“Fuck you,” Tommy snarls. “Fuck you, we’re leaving, we’re leaving right fucking now, Tubbo, help me—”

And they are pulling him back, pulling him back and away, but he is struggling, fighting them, because

(please let me go please let me go)

the red is so warm and so soothing and as long as it’s not asking him to hurt Tommy, it’s alright, really, and he wants this, he does, and all of his earlier thoughts about fingers and puppets have dissipated and he wants this, he’s sure that he does, and Tommy and Tubbo aren’t letting him, they aren’t letting him go. And Ant is on his feet again, and he and Bad are advancing, and if he can just get to them, they will help him, they will understand—

And then everything gets very confusing. Because there is another voice, suddenly, one he doesn’t recognize. More sounds of fighting, and he doesn’t know who is fighting who, because the world is fading away around him, and his vision is just red. And then he’s being manhandled, and he wants to keep struggling, but his limbs aren’t responding, and someone is carrying him up a ladder, and then he’s being set on the grass, and the nausea hits him hard and quick, and he’s retching, bile coming up, and he’s choking on it and he can’t get any air—

And there are flashes. More nausea. His head pounding, like someone’s tried to make a jigsaw puzzle out of his skull. Water, cool and refreshing, and the red subsides, but he hurts, hurts so very much.

Tommy’s voice, yelling. A glimpse of Tommy’s face. And then, Wilbur is out.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #ranboo #badboyhalo #alivebur #/rp #cat writes fic #long post

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