Chapter Text
Losing his last life was nothing like how Wilbur had expected it to be. He had thought that it would hurt, or maybe it would simply be nothing. Maybe he would have gone back to see Phil’s wife (a truly lovely woman, especially for a goddess of death), or maybe he would have floated in the void for the rest of eternity. None of that happened. As Wilbur heard the frantic questioning from his father, asking him desperately--
“How many lives do you have left? Wil! How many?!”
The world faded from his vision as darkness consumed it, the burning pain from his wound-- caused by his own sword --dissipated with it.
The darkness, however, only lasted for a few moments. He was quickly yanked back into awareness by the feeling of wind rushing on his skin, and the feeling of tiles below his feet. When his eyes opened, he stood in a train station, a train rushing by only a few inches from his face. The train screeched to a stop, the doors opening right in front of Wilbur. With little hesitation, he stepped on.
The train ride was probably one of the worst experiences of Wilbur’s life. It moved a break-neck speed and there were no seats on board, only poles and hand holds secured in the ceiling. He held on for dear life (hah), and Wilbur was already feeling like perhaps he should not have gotten on. It didn’t help the steadily building anxiety that he had no idea where the train was going. Not that it really mattered, he tried to reassure himself, he was dead . It didn’t matter where he went. But what if you stay there for eternity? Another voice whispered, and Wilbur clutched the hand hold tighter, knuckles whitening.
It felt like an eternity in itself until the train finally stopped moving. It skittered to a stop, the force of it wrenching Wilbur’s hand from it’s hold and sending him crashing to the ground. He groaned, pushing himself to his hands and knees, reaching a hand up to feel at the blood now steadily trickling down his face. What kind of ghost bleeds? He thought grumpily, head snapping up quickly when he heard the pressure release of the doors opening again.
In what was probably another moment of stupidity, he scrambled out the doorway, not wanting to spend another second on that hellish train. He was met with yet another fall to the ground, as the grass he landed on happened to be several feet below the edge of the train. What kind of bastard builds a station like that? The fall seemed to spur on the flow of the blood, filling Wilbur’s mouth with the substance. Gross.
He glanced in front of himself, frowning as he took in his surroundings. He seemed to be in a park. Just, a random park. Not one he recognized from Dream’s Essempi, but one that clearly saw foot traffic regularly. Wilbur glanced behind himself, frown deepening as he saw no trace of a train, or even tracks for one to have come and gone on. Fucking Prime, Gods. He spat out a mouth full of blood and pinched just below the bridge of his nose.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Was he still on Dream’s Essempi, or had death server hopped him? Did his communicator still work? Well, that last question he could try and answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the boxy device, fiddling with the charms attached to the antenna. He hit a couple buttons, attempting to power it on.
Wilbur frowned. It didn’t seem to be working, which was strange. He had heard of maybe one server that forcibly closed communication pathways, rendering communicators useless, but that server was private and had extreme measures against glitch-hopping (which could be the only explanation for what had happened to Wilbur, how else would he have left Dream’s Essempi?)
He attempted to stand, spitting out another mouthful of blood as he did so. He wobbled a bit, his legs still shaky from that Prime-damned train ride. He stumbled over to a bench that sat only a bit away from the place he had landed, slumping down onto the seat. As Wilbur let his hand fall from his face, he was relieved to find that the blood seemed to have stopped.
He leaned his head to rest on the back of the bench, wincing as he felt the familiar pull of dried blood on his skin and clothes. Letting out a sigh, he brought his head back up and looked down to take in the state of his clothes. Well. It wasn’t pretty. His shirt, once a pale grey, was brownish red, and had a large singed tear down the center of his chest. Blood seemed to have coated most of the thing, even reaching his pants and pieces of his coat. His nose also seemed to have bled more than he realized, as there were much fresher stains on the collars of both his shirt and coat. Wilbur lifted a hand to feel at his face again, the sticky feeling of blood on his neck and below his nose coming into focus.
Well that was… fun. If any of the players on this server found him they’d probably assume he was either dead, or a serial killer. He laughed. It’s not funny , he tried to tell himself, but that didn’t work to stop the near hysterical laughter coming from his throat. Once that pettered off, Wilbur was hit with a wave of exhaustion. His head once again fell against the back of the bench, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Oh well, he thought, I might as well get some sleep before I get player-killed or taken to whatever authorities this server has .
“--e fuck?!”
Wilbur blinked open his eyes, immediately squinting as they met a much brighter sky than he had fallen asleep to. His body was still heavy with sleep and his brain felt foggy, but he’d like to at least get a look at whoever was going to take him to probably his death (again). As he tried to lift his head and sit up (he appeared to have slid down to be laying on the bench at some point during the night), he was met with a hand gently pushing him back down.
“Whoa there, mate. Seems like you could use a hospital.”
He knew that voice. That was his fucking father’s voice. Wilbur’s eyes tracked over to the open side of the bench and blinked hard. There stood Philza fucking Minecraft, and a nervous looking Tommy and Tubbo standing a few feet back.
“...Phil?” He muttered, frowning. “You dead too?”
“What the fuck, Phil,” Tommy cut in, “How does he know your name?”
Wilbur watched Phil purse his lips, glancing from Wilbur to Tommy, and then back to Wilbur.
“Alright, mate. No hospitals, then.”
“Not hurt.” Why were the words so hard to get out? It felt like his tongue was numb, and his lips wouldn’t form the proper shapes.
“We’ll figure everything out, don’t worry,” Phil turned to Tommy, “Toms, call Techno and tell him to bring the car.”
“Phil! What- do you know this fucker?”
“I’ll explain later, Tommy. Right now we gotta focus on helping this kid.”
Wilbur’s lip twitched into a small smile at Tommy’s grumbling. The longer he watched the three of them, the more he realized how different they were to his own versions. The most obvious difference was the lack of animal features gracing them; Tommy lacked the darker patch of skin around his eyes, Tubbo the horns he had grown during the reign of Schlatt, and Phil was missing the large black wings Wilbur was so used to seeing him with. The second took him honestly a bit more by surprise, Tommy and Tubbo were clearly younger . Maybe 13? 12?
Fuck, did the server hop mess with our ages? The thought penetrated the fog clouding his brain, Why do they not know who I am? A lump settled in his throat. Something was very wrong here. He blinked hard, trying to stop the tears from building and making their way down his face.
“You’re gonna be okay, mate. We’ll get you fixed up and back on your feet.” Phil was smiling down at him and it hurt . Where were those words when he had begged his father to kill him? Fuck, if he had heard that maybe he wouldn’t have pressed that Prime-damned button.
Wilbur couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, but luckily he was spared the embarrassment of sobbing loudly. He could feel the liquid run down his face clear a path through the build up of grime that sat there. End, when did I last shower? It had to have been before Pogtopia, the day of the election? Prime, he must smell disgusting.
He was brought out of his musing by the sound of a slamming door. The fog that had started to clear began to wrap itself around his brain once more, making it hard to think. He did see a familiar head of pink hair making it’s way toward them. It was hard for him to follow the conversation happening above him, but he managed to catch a couple things.
“--not bleeding anym--”
“--ows my name, probably heard it fro--”
“--ke him home--”
He blacked out again as he felt himself being lifted from the seat of the bench.