Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is no end to the train line. 

It’s an infinite loop of flickering LED lights, dirt-covered mosaic tiles, and concrete paths. The tracks that run alongside the platform endlessly extend into the far off tunnels. And the scent of rust and rot fill every spec of the air.

It’s stifling, understimulating and overstimulating all at the same time. 

Wilbur’s lost how many times he’s walked his afterlife’s paths and tracks, doomed to finish right back where he started. Idleness and boredom are an illness that seeps into his very marrow. He would give anything for a smoke. Or a train. Or even half a dart. 

He deeply breathes in the stench of the station and tries not to lose his mind. 

(It’s too late. It’s been months and he’s already lost it.) 

He tries to entertain himself by counting the mosaics on the walls. It’s a game he’s played since he’s arrived. He’s never finished– always getting bored and starting over once his counting reaches into the thousands. 

He gets further than ever before ( white mosaic 2,408) when he hears it. 

The sound of wheels screeching along a metal track– sounds of a train. 

Wilbur turns around just as an impossible sight graces him. The lights flicker as a hulking machine whirrs past him. 

He almost can’t believe it. And if it weren’t for the sounds gracing his ears, the feeling of the slight updraft, and the vision of the passing empty cars he wouldn’t have. It’s a train. The one that he’s been waiting on since he died. He stumbles closer to it in a daze. Why now? Why-? 

It’s then that he realizes that the train is actually slowing to a stop. And he lets out the breath he was holding. The internal fear of all the cabs passing by slowly decays just as the doors automatically open with an electronic ding . 

Wilbur is stumbling into the open frame before he can even blink. 

There’s no clue that tells him where the train is headed. No maps. No electronic displays that flash the next stop. But Wilbur can’t even bring himself to care. It could drag him to a worse layer of hell, and Wilbur will gladly go, happy to trade the boredom and mindlessness of the white tube line for any source of engagement. The logical part of his brain argues that it might be better to stay in the train platform, that he doesn’t know what he’s trading it for, but he’s too tired to even care.

Anywhere is fine. As long as it isn’t here. 

The cabin door connecting it to the other car opens, and Wilbur turns around to face it-

Green. Green. Green. Green enters his vision. 

And everything around him fades away. 

In a start, Wilbur jolts awake. 

He takes a big gasp of air as his lungs start working. The rest of his body– getting the memo that they’re back in business– quickly follows that lead. His heart begins to race. Thoughts enter his head at a rapid speed. And his hands shoot out in front of him to feel the grain of soft wood and velvet cushion. 

He’s alive. Wilbur’s alive! He lets out a psychotic laugh before it quickly dies in his throat. He’s alive. 

But he might not be soon. 

He’s in a box. It’s hard to see because it’s completely dark, but Wilbur can feel the inside padding coating the sides and bottom of his confinement. He pushes on the walls and they don’t budge. Nothing moves. 

He takes another breath of air only to realize that there is none. There is no air in the box. He’s suffocating. He chokes and panic grips his heart. He just woke up and he’s going to die again. He’s got a second chance– just to end back up at the train station–

No. He has to focus. Panicking isn’t going to help him now. He’s got to stay calm. Not only to think, but also so he doesn’t waste any more oxygen. 

First things first, he needs a way out. He pushes on the top of the box he’s laying down in and grunts as it barely budges. 

But it is budging a bit. And that’s all Wilbur needs to know that it’s possible to break through it. He grunts as he braces his arms above his head and brings his knees up to push against the top. His back strains against the weird position but he pushes through as the top begins to creak.

He flinches and uses his hands as extra leverage. The wood under his fingers bends and it takes all of his dwindled strength to push through the wood. 

Crkkkkk. The wood falls apart under his fingers, soft from rot and time. His fingers touch something soft and moist. Immediately something grainy starts to trickle into the hole he’s made. 

Dirt. 

Everything begins to click in Wilbur’s mind. 

Dirt means he’s underground. The velvet cushion around him is too nice to simply be an inside of a regular box. (It obviously holds meaning to the person who made it.) Wilbur’s been dead for quite some time. 

This is a coffin. 

And Wilbur is buried six feet underground. 

Good deduction Sherlock. A snide voice enters the back of his head. It sounds like him but distorted– more mocking. Now how are you going to get us out of this mess? 

He’s working on it. 

Thankfully whoever buried him (Oh god- Phil-) gave him a lot of moving room for his arms. It’s not the worst conditions he’s worked in. And isn’t that a thought for another time? But the situation definitely isn’t the best either. 

Wilbur shrugs off the suit jacket he’s wearing and holds it around his mouth. Hopefully it’ll be enough to keep himself from drowning in dirt. That doesn’t sound like a fun way to die. And that’s coming from a guy that got stabbed to death. 

Idly, he wonders if he still has his stab wounds. Despite the burning in his lungs–his chest isn’t aching in pain. So he’s assuming that whatever weird supernatural force brought him back also healed his wounds. But it could also be the state of shock that’s keeping him from feeling any pain. 

Either way, it could wait until he’s outside his own grave. (And yeah. Not thinking about that anymore.) 

Pushing his arms through the gap, he scoops out dirt and pushes it towards the room around his feet. He’s thankful again that his family had brought him a spacious enough coffin to move around in, because if he had been stuck in a tighter space, it would’ve been such a pain to move the dirt downwards. 

As he worked, he had to push his knees up and pack in the dirt with his feet. It’s slow going but it works. And it gave his hands room to pull apart the planks of the coffin and let the loose dirt rush in. 

Blind panic fills his thoughts as the wall of brown moves in.. Then he buries those thoughts and enters a glassy state of focus. His moves are methodical. Trained. 

Before he died Wilbur was a hero. One of the best. He likes to think all that training he made his younger self go through wasn’t for nothing. He can do this. He can. 

It takes forever, but as Wilbur pushes dirt into his coffin, he gets more and more room to sit up and then blessedly– stand. 

His nails scream in pain at the amount of earth he’s clawing through, but the feel of fresh air he feels when finally breaks through the surface is worth it. 

When he pulls himself to the surface, he gasps like a fish out of water. Fresh air enters his lungs and he swallows it greedily, laying out of the grass in a coughing fit. The oxygen feels too rich. But it’s better than the opposite scenario. 

A laugh bubbles from Wilbur’s lips as he falls onto his back and looks up at the sky above him. For a second he’s scared he’ll see white mosaic tile or concrete pillars. But no– for once, the open sky greets him. 

There are so many stars.

Something settles in Wilbur’s mind. A puzzle piece that falls completely into place. And, for the first time since he’s died, he knows peace. 

Wilbur doesn’t stay down forever. But it’s a tempting thing. Eventually though, the ground becomes cold and hard, the air a bit too chilly, and the sound of cars passing nearby are edging him closer and closer to a migraine. 

He exits the graveyard, not even once looking back at where he clawed his way from the ground, and finds himself in the nicer district of L’manburg. He passes by pristine shops and thriving business centers. The kind of places that wouldn’t last a week down in his home in the Pogtopia district. Phil and Techno nearly had a conniption, the first time he claimed the small crime-filled alleyways as his main source of operations. 

But they shut up quickly when they realized how much they needed him. 

All the other fancy sections of towns had their pick of heroes. But Pogtopia? They only had Snaketongue. He was theirs. Just like they were his. Those streets are his home. They were all he had before Phil and Techno took him in. He couldn’t abandon them. Even after he raised his lot in life. 

Wilbur can’t wait to go back. He drums his fingers idly on wrist as he walks towards a small safe spot Techno and Phil use to stash loot. It isn’t a safehouse. It’s a glorified closet more than anything. But it has money. And a change of clothes. And the passcode is thankfully the same when Wilbur types it into the doorlock. 

He grabs only a duffel bag, pre-packed for an emergency, and is hesitant to grab any of his weapons. It feels wrong, somehow, to grab the dusty pile left of his own costume and spare weapon. It’s tucked in the corner, almost forgotten, like some kind of irrevocable relic lost to time. 

A part of him wonders if Phil and Techno just forgot to clean it out. They have a lot of safehouses and stashes like this one. It would take forever to sweep over every one. 

Another part of him wonders if it’s left because they couldn’t bring themselves to throw it away. It leaves a warm feeling in his stomach. He’s almost ashamed of it. Almost. Wilbur, of course, doesn’t want his family to grieve. But it’s nice knowing that his memory has been mourned. That he is missed. 

Wilbur leaves the stash with a smile ghosting his lips. 

With the new change of clothes and some cash, he makes his way to the closest diner. He’s starving. And while he wants to head back to his family’s manor as soon as possible, the pains gnawing in his stomach are sure to slow him down. 

Plus, he just really wants a burger. 

He thinks he deserves it. It’s not every day that one gets brought back to life after all. 

Wilbur sits down in a greasy, family-owned diner called Bad’sPlace on the corner and orders the first thing he sees on the menu. He doesn’t even check the description, quickly and mindlessly tacking on a soda and a milkshake onto the end.  

Oh prime. It’s been too long since he’s had food. Actual genuine food. He wants to eat everything. But that’s probably a bad idea considering it’s been a while since his stomach’s had anything in it. He’s probably even pushing it by eating solids. But hell, he wouldn’t know if he could until he tried. And a burger is worth trying for. 

He idly hums as he drums his fingers along the table to a beat he can’t quite remember. The chatter around him brings a solace to his ears. While his head feels like it’s still on the verge of a migraine, hearing others is nice. It’s better than the silence of the train station-

Don’t think about it. 

His headache pounds as he grits his teeth and stops drumming his fingers. A throbbing pain builds in the base of his neck and he exhales as he tries not to fall back into memories. He’s in a diner. It’s a pleasant occasion. He wants to enjoy it while it lasts. 

Not remember his own personal version of hell. 

The waiter- bless him- brings out his food quickly. The burger and fries slightly steam from being freshly made and it takes all of his willpower to give his thanks to the waiter and not begin stuffing his face. He picks up a single fry, dipping it in a liberal amount of ketchup, before eating it. 

It’s the best thing that’s ever graced his tastebuds. 

He has to hold in a sound of delight as he quickly begins to scarf down each one. He’s embarrassed to find the back of his eyes burning from unshed tears. Fuck. He’s missed this. Tasting things. Eating things. Feeling the hollow in his stomach slowly fill. 

He’s so focused on his order that he almost doesn’t notice the chatter dwindling down around him. And isn’t until he hears a jingle play over the tv in the corner that he cares enough to tear his eyes away from his fries. 

‘Breaking News’ flashes across the screen in bold letters. Everyone stops eating to eye it wearily. Except for Wilbur. Nothing but Prime, the goddess herself, could tear him away from his burger. He takes a giant bite just as the news anchor begins to talk. 

“This is just in,” He begins with a heavy tone of voice. “The Angel of Death and the Blood God have been seen spotted in the downtown Manberg Shopping District.”

Oh fuck. That’s not far from here. Wilbur thinks idly as he chews on his burger. He notices a child staring at him oddly from another table, and Wilbur wiggles his fingers at him in greeting. 

“They’re fighting none other than the escaped prisoner, Jschlatt. Citizens are advised to stay inside until city officials drop the current ‘villain warning’ in affect. Thankfully however damage has been minimal so far.” 

Wilbur watches with an interested eye as Phil and Techno appear on screen. He nearly halts eating. 

His father and brother don’t look too good. They look… tired. Thin. Phil’s wings appear dull and lackluster, even in the morning sun when they would usually shine. It’s as if he hasn’t preened in weeks. 

Techno isn’t better off either. His hair is tangled and not in its usual braids. His skull mask looks haphazardly thrown on. And his precious red cape, the one he never went anywhere without, has dirt clinging to its furry white hems. 

Is that because…of Wilbur? 

Guilt crawls through his spine as he finishes the rest of his burger and picks up his milkshake. Thankfully it’s in a styrofoam to-go cup. He drinks through the straw as the battle progresses on screen. He has time to kill until the battle’s done. 

Then he’s heading straight back to the manor. 

Apprehension lines his stomach as he thinks about seeing his family again. Will they be happy to see him? Would they even believe that he’s the real Wilbur? Would they think he’s a clone? 

Strawberry flavor explodes along his tongue, and he almost drains the entire milkshake right then and there. He’s not too worried about the battle occurring. Phil and Techno are the strongest heroes in the city. They could handle themselves. 

“It looks like the Angel is fighting Jschlatt one-on-one as the Blood God tries to corner him. They’re fighting blade against gun- Wait- Look at that! The top-duo’s new sidekick just arrived on scene.” 

A scrawny red-suited hero with a black face mask in a red hoodie jumps beside Techno. 

Wilbur’s stomach drops. The milkshake slips from his fingers and falls against the table, spilling pink icy slush across it. Everyone is staring at him, but Wilbur’s eyes burn into the screen. 

The top duo’s new….. what?! 

Static fills Wilbur’s ears. He couldn’t have heard the news anchor right. A new sidekick? Already? Has Wilbur been gone that long? He slowly stumbles out of his chair and stands wobbly to his feet. 

“Ummm, your check?” 

“Keep the change,” Wibur mutters, thrusting a handful of bills at the man. He stumbles out of the cafe, the throbbing on the base of his skull growing with each step. His head pounds. 

It’s almost as if the world is underwater. He can feel his movements become sluggish and harsh. He mindlessly bumps into someone with a half-uttered “Sorry.” 

“You okay?” The stranger asks, sounding genuinely worried. 

Wilbur must look like hell if people in L’manburg, who are known for their frosty demeanor, actually sound concerned. He shrugs. “What date is it?” 

“What?”

“The date,” Wilbur clarifies again, his voice sounding clipped. 

“The thirtieth of October.” The man blinks owlishly. “Two-thousand and twenty three.” 

Fuck. It hurts worse than when he was dying with a handle sticking from his chest and lying in his own pool of blood.

Wilbur barely manages to mumble his thanks as he walks away, his mind clouding over with guilt, regret, and then finally steeping into a low-boiling anger. Green fills his vision as his feet start to walk back to the safe stash where his old weapons lie. 

It’s only been a month since he’s died. 

Wilbur grabs the first gun he sees when he opens the door. Green, green, green, green fills every inch of his mind. And for the first time since he’s risen, he gives into the anger that’s stewing in his blood. 

He’s not being memorialized. He’s being forgotten. He eyes the uniform in the closet before sliding that in his duffel bag as well. He’ll need it if he’s going into the city after dark. Especially if he’s going to be tracking down the little punk who replaced him. 

He grins as he kicks the door closed and places the gun in his trench coat. 

He has a sidekick to go find. 

Chapter Text

It’s all too easy to find the kid. 

Pathetically easy, really. It’s an insult to all heroes how easy it is. 

All he has to do is wait outside the manor, and then follow the kid-shaped shadow through the city. The newly-minted sidekick doesn’t look around his environment. He doesn’t double-check to see if anyone is following him. He doesn’t grab Techno or Phil before heading to one of the most dangerous districts in L’manburg. 

It’s like he’s stalking a baby fawn rather than a hero. 

Wilbur watches the teenager’s creeping form amongst the dark cityscape. 

What is Techno teaching him? He’s wearing bright red for Prime’s sake. Sure it’s armored and has darker tones. But it’s still a target against all the grays and browns of the city buildings. Wilbur huffs. When he was a kid his older brother wouldn’t have let him anywhere outside wearing that bright of an outfit. Techno would’ve locked all the doors before even letting him take a foot out of the mansion. 

But of course it’s fine if it’s his replacement that does it. 

Replacement. For what else could the teenager be? He was probably handed an outfit before Wilbur’s body was done cooling in the ground. Did they even wait for the funeral to end before giving new gear to a teenager.
Were they that eager for another kid to die-

Wilbur flicks his dagger up in the air and snatches the handle. 

Don’t do go after him. He thinks to himself as he takes a step closer to the edge. 

He goes after him. 

Silently, he climbs down the brick siding of the building. Out of the three heroes in the L’manburg mansion he’s always been the best climber. He’s more flexible and agile than Techno. And Phil just uses his wings like a fucking cheater. 

He hops onto the ground when he’s close enough to not get hurt and ducks into a roll. 

The game is on from there. 

He trails the teenager like a shadow. The proper way. The way Phil painstakingly taught him all throughout his childhood. (“Heel first, then slowly roll the sides of your foot forward. Keep it slow and steady. Come on Wil, you’ve got this.”) Not the clumsy rendition that the teenager is doing. 

It’s too noisy. They would have to work on that. 

They?  Wilbur freezes. Where the hell did that thought come from? He’s not going to teach the brat anything. If he’s failing at learning what Phil was teaching him, that isn’t Wilbur’s problem. He should have listened to his teacher better. His da- Phil is an excellent teacher. 

Or the old Phil was. 

He’s starting to think that maybe he didn’t know his adoptive family as well as he thought. 

The boy drops into a warehouse, making too many mistakes along the way. It’s painful to watch him be so loud. He’s going to get himself killed. 

He’s making it too easy for Wilbur. 

He descends. 

Tommy curses as he hops into the warehouse. 

This is all fucking Techno’s fault. Saying Tommy can’t train because of his foot. Well screw that pig bastard. Tommy is the king of heroes…well sidekicks. He isn’t about to let something as simple as a sprained ankle keep him down. 

Fuck the rules. 

Tommy grins as he looks at the wide, empty abandoned warehouse. 

He hit the jackpot. 

There’s lots of room to train in here. And there isn’t a nagging crow trailing behind him squawking about everything he’s doing wrong. He gets that Phil’s a pro hero. And it’s really nice of him to take Tommy in after finding him on the streets. But after listening to him ramble on and on about safety for an hour– Tommy zones out. 

There’s only so long he can pay attention. 

It’s easier when Techno teaches him. Then piglin brute throws him into training headfirst. They don’t talk. Just fight. It’s an exchange of blow after blow as they both let off steam. Tommy channels his anger from not making progress. And Techno… well. 

It’s only after Tommy’s lying on the ground in aching pain that Techno instructs him with a play by play of their fight. He picks him back up and moves him through techniques that could’ve countered his.

It’s a brutal pace. But at least Techno doesn’t look at Tommy with that look in his eye. Like he’s somebody else. 

Replacement.

The word burns in his stomach like an acid, but there’s no use denying it. That’s what he is. Tommy’s known that’s what he’s always been to them. 

Hell. The heroes literally picked him off the street one week after Snaketongue died. 

It wasn’t like it was exactly hard to connect the dots. 

Especially since Phil sometimes messes up in the middle of the fight and calls him Wilbur. It’s fine. Really. Tommy doesn’t care or anything. He’s a big man. The biggest. He can be empathetic to a man who lost his only son. 

He doesn’t wish that Phil would look at him and only see Tommy. 

He doesn’t. 

Tommy shakes his head and begins to stretch. He needs to train to get out of his thoughts. That path of thinking only led to heartbreak. He raises his arms above his head with a grin. 

He couldn’t wait to try out that new techni-

Woosh. 

A sound comes above him. Before he can look up, he jumps forward, barely dodging a pipe that misses just where his head used to be. 

The fuc-

The stranger doesn’t wait for him to recover, already running after him, and appearing with his pipe in a second. How are they so fast? Tommy ducks below another swing of the pipe, rolling on the ground and stumbling away. He’s not proud to admit he almost trips and falls. 

“Rule number one,” A metallic voice rings out through the stranger’s mask as he turns and tilts his head at the boy. “Always be ready for a fight.” 

Tommy staggers to his fighting stance, his hands going to his thighs were he keeps his knives. His hands pat empty material. He gapes. 

Standing a few feet away, the stranger holds them up. “Looking for these?”

How did he get those? Internally trying to recount when the enemy grabbed them.  

“You fucker. You messed up now.” Tommy yelled, crouching and grabbing the spare he had from his boot. 

Schhiing. 

One second, he’s holding the handle of his knife, and the next there’s a knife impaling his hand in a splatter of blood and flesh. 

Tommy screams. 

The metallic voice speaks over him a mocking tone. “Rule two, don’t give your weapons away so easily. Idiot.” 

“Who are you?” Tommy gasps out. Now that the man’s close, he realizes that he doesn’t recognize him. The man is wearing a trench coat, with a black gas mask over his face. Under it is an armored black turtle neck with combat pants and black boots. 

The stranger tilts his head again. “Don’t worry about that.” 

Then his foot collides with Tommy’s sternum and he’s pushed into the ground. He looks over and sees the knife. Still in his hand. Still bleeding. 

Techno said something once about handling pain right? They went through a mediation practice or something. What did he say-

“Pay attention.” 

The boot lifts off his sternum and digs into his ribs with his heel. Crack. Tommy screams again. Tears burn along the corner of his eyes. And he starts to gasp in pain. 

“Really? This beat up and you’re already acting like you’re dying.” The man scoffs and Tommy flinches as the heel digs in deeper. He cries out. “Come on, this is what they replaced me with?”

Replaced. 

There’s that word again. Only this time it isn’t coming from Tommy. The surprise jolts him from the hazy cloud his mind is descending into. Thinking is starting to get difficult. He’s going into shock. Phil’s drilled him with the symptoms enough times that he’s memorized all of them. 

But the burning question is: Why would this stranger think Tommy’s replaced him? IT doesn’t make sense. Tommy doesn’t even know him. And, the only stranger that Tommy’s replaced is dead. 

Like dead as in stabbed twenty-three times dead. 

There’s no coming back from that. 

Or at least. There isn’t now. Not since Tommy came and ruined everything. 

“Who-?” He mutters, feeling blood begin to trickle down his mouth. That isn’t good…he thinks? Yeah. He’s pretty sure it isn’t supposed to do that. 

“Does it matter?” The stranger sneers. 

Something tingles in the back of Tommy’s brain that it is important. But that thought fades away back into the cloud of haziness. The boot picks up off of his ribs and Tommy takes in a deep breath-

Before it comes back down. 

Numbness fills Tommy’s head as the pain overwhelms him. Is he going to die? Like this? In a warehouse by a stranger with a grudge? 

(Maybe he and Wilbur had more in common that he thought after all.) 

As his injured hand bleeds out, both his arms and legs start to grow numb. Cold. Ah, there’s the vasoconstriction. Tommy was wondering when that would set in. 

The stranger snarls and grips his head, brown curls sticking through the gaps of his fingers. “I don’t get it! I don’t! You’re here. But the train’s here. And you shouldn’t be here! It should’ve been me! I never should’ve landed on that hellish platform.” 

He must be insane. The stranger’s spewing nonsense. Oh Prime. Tommy’s going to die to an insane nobody. This isn’t how he wanted to go out. He wants-

He wants Phil to call him Tommy. 

The man hauls him to his feet by his red hoodie, and Tommy’s body dangles lifelessly from his hold. Slowly ever so slowly the man reaches up and unclapses the belt holding his gas mask in place. 

It falls to the floor with a clatter. 

Tommy’s eyes widen. 

No. That’s impossible. His heart starts to rapidly thump against his ribcage. He can’t breathe. Oh Prime, he can’t- “It can’t be. You died. I’ve been to your grave. You’re-” 

“Surprised to see me?” Wilbur Craft stares down at him with brown eyes laced with a sickening green. “Because I can say, I’m surprised to see you.”

He looks just like the giant paintings of him up in the manor halls. Just crazier and more unkempt. Older too. There are dark bags under his eyes that age him decades. But despite that,  his face isn’t one that Tommy would easily forget. 

It’s him. A broken laugh bubbles out of his throat. Holy fuck. It’s actually Wilbur. 

Wilbur doesn’t let him go, instead hefting him up higher, until Tommy’s looking down at him. “Quit laughing. It’s only been how long since I died… A month? And they’ve already stripped Snaketongue of his outfit and gave those resources to someone else.” 

Tommy opens his mouth to deny it but doesn’t get the chance. 

In one motion, Wilbur throws him to the ground. The air bursts from his lungs. His back and cracked ribs jar with the motion. A sob breaks from his lips. He’s openly crying now. It’s only then that Tommy realizes he’s never been this injured. Phil and Techno stopped most attacks before they hit him. Not even from really strong villains 

Though…Wilbur isn’t a villain. He’s a hero. Like– a proper one. Not the mimicry that Tommy’s become. 

But the question is how is he alive? He died- died . And he didn’t get brought back by Phil or Techno. (They tried. They were still trying. They never stopped. Everyday it was a new spell. A new lead.) 

Wilbur kneels beside him– a hand coming up and grabbing Tommy’s throat. It’s not tight enough for him to stop breathing, but it applies pressure as a silent warning. 

Wilbur could kill him at anytime. And Tommy would be powerless to stop him.

A maniacal grin stretches across the mans face. His eyes waver like a shaking leaf. “And you- you- look at you! A toddler in a hoodie thinking he can be a hero?” He laughs. “That’s the icing on the cake. Didn’t they learn from last time that teenagers don’t belong in this business?” 

“ Please,” Tommy croaks. 

“Please what? Aren’t you old enough to use your words?” Wilbur mocks. Tommy flinches in his hold and he hears a scoff above him. “Jumpy thing.” 

“You would be too if someone cracked your ribs, you fucker.” Tommy spits out. 

Something cold and full of steel enters Wilbur’s eyes and his smile drops. His voice sounds woeful. “Oh, so you do have a bite. What never get pushed around before? Never take the heat from the battle? No, you haven’t. Have you? I bet you stick behind Techno’s and Phil’s back like a good little soldier.” 

Tommy whimpers when the hand around his throat squeezes. 

Oh now he can’t brea-

“I bet you love the attention huh?” Wilbur drawls. “Do you love the praise they give you? The nights after a mission when you all have a meal together? Do you love it when he tells you ‘good job.’ I bet you do. I bet you love it all. I did.” 

Tommy almost misses the last part, but he catches it just as the edges of his vision swarms in black. Oh shit. He’s passing out. He recognizes the signs. He has to- Has to stay awake somehow. But that’s so hard. 

“Take a nap replacement. You’re not going to die. But it’ll be a different world when you wake up.” Wilbur’s voice drifts in and out of his head as he tries to keep his eyes open. 

“It’s good to be back home.” 

Chapter Text

Tommy wakes up to pain. His back screams about the awkward twisted position it’s in, and his legs and arms protest any movement. The teenager gasps for air. He quickly tries to sit up, and panics when he can’t. 

Shit. His hands are tied above his head to a beaten bedframe. His legs are in a similar state, though they’re just tied with rope. 

What the fuck happened? He was- 

Wilbur. 

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. 

He looks around. This isn’t his room in the manor. Or his bed. He doesn’t recognize the room, but it’s very clearly a low-star hotel.The phone on the wall is straight from the eighties. The wallpaper is peeling. There’s a sound of something dripping coming from the corner. And, there’s a stale smell of dust and mold.

Shit. 

He hears the sound of water running in the bathroom and quickly takes stock of his situation. Wilbur must be the one in the shower, so he has time to think. There’s no weapons in sight. And Tommy’s been stripped of his armored hoodie and is in just his black undershirt that slots up to his nose and cargo pants. 

He won’t be able to reach down to his legs, so there goes the backup weapons in his hidden pocket. And the one he had in his boots were clearly gone from the fight before. 

He yanks his hands and frowns when there’s no give in the rope. 

No luck. It looks like Wilbur actually paid attention when Phil went through their rope knots lesson. 

Next time I’ll won’t nap through a lecture. He thinks to himself. Then his stomach drops at the following thought– there might not be a next time. 

Wilbur can very well kill him. 

He’s stuck in a room with a homicidal zombie. 

The sound of running water stops and Tommy quickly starts to struggle in his bindings, trying to find any weak point. There is none. His heart plummets when he hears the bathroom door open. Oh fuck. He’s out of time. 

He ceases moving, falling completely still, and closes his eyes. Carefully he evens out his breaths as Wilbur walks into the room. He’ll pretend to be asleep, wait for Wilbur to leave again, and then he’ll find a way to sneak out. 

A light humming fills the air as Wilbur walks closer shuffles around. The older man sings under his breath. The lyrics are to a song Tommy’s never heard, but it’s catchy. Then he hears a suitcase opening. 

“It really is astounding how one shower can make you feel human again,” Wilbur says out loud. It’s an offhanded comment, but Tommy’s pulse quickens. Did he figure out Tommy’s faking? Wilbur pulls something out of the suitcase that makes a soft rustling sound. 

Shit. Is he bringing out a weapon? Is that why Tommy didn’t see any? He was hiding them? Should he look? 

“You don’t know what it’s like being dead,” Wilbur’s voice comes right by his bed and Tommy jumps, his eyes shooting open and his heartbeat quickening. Wilbur looks down at him, his brown curls damp from the shower with a towel thrown haphazardly around his neck. 

His eyes are…warm? And completely brown? Tommy could have sworn that he saw green lacing his irises before. 

“Jumpy thing,” Wilbur says almost fondly. “Then again. That’s probably a good thing. Those reflexes will help you react on the field. But there are times that you’re going to need to dull those senses. Like now. Or else you’ll give yourself away. Didn’t Phil or Techno teach you how to meditate?” 

“How’d you know I was awake?” 

“If you’re going to pretend to be asleep, commit to the bit before I walk outside the bathroom, idiot. I heard you tossing and turning before I even opened the door.”

When he said it like that it seems obvious. 

“I’ve only been doing this for a month you know.” Tommy retorts. 

Wilbur grins. “ Child.” 

“Oye! I’ll beat you up!” Tommy snarls. “Just wait until I get out of these ropes!” 

“I’m quaking in my boots just watching you,” Wilbur rolls his eyes and throws the towel over his damp hair. “Now if you excuse me, I have some adult things to do.” 

Wilbur walks over and pulls up a duffel bag that was hidden from Tommy’s sight. He throws it on the table and opens it revealing Tommy’s comm unit attached to his hoodie. The one that has a line directly to Phil and Techno. Oh shit. 

“What do you think you’re doing with that?” Tommy asks, struggling against his bindings. The ropes start to chaff his wrists, but he ignores the pain. 

“Calm down.” 

“No! You psycho! Leave Phil and Techno out of this-” 

Wilbur is back by his side in an instant. Now Tommy knows he wasn’t imagining Wilbur’s eyes before, because a sliver of green outlining the man’s iris. 

“Calm…down.” Wilbur seethes. His irises expand with the command as his eyebrows start to furrow. 

“Make. Me.” Tommy bites out. 

“Trust me when I say,” Wilbur leans over slightly, a drop of water rolling off one of his curls onto the bed cover. “You don’t want me to. Besides it’s for your own good.” His hand reaches over Tommy and he flinches. Surprisingly though, the man doesn’t hurt him. Rather his hand taps lightly at the ropes. “I spent hours fixing you up yesterday. You’ll mess up the bandages.” 

Wait. What?

“You? You fixed me up?” Tommy asks incredulously. 

Wilbur hisses and very pointedly doesn’t look at Tommy. He tugs on the ropes, slipping a finger underneath and checking to make sure they weren’t tight enough to cut off his blood circulation. His next words are so soft Tommy barely hears them. “I don’t usually hurt kids.” 

And…Tommy knows intellectually that Snaketongue has never hurt a child. Even when they were the people he had to capture or talk down. Both in the media and out of it, he’s always been described as gentle and patient. 

Nothing like the madman that’s standing next to him now. 

Tommy would ask about what happened to him. But it’s obvious what happened to him. He died. Not any old death either, no, no . He died to a knife that carved him open like a pumpkin– pulling out his guts and organs on display. That had to change a person. Or at least, it wasn’t the type of event you got over in day. Or a month. Or, ever really. 

There’s no telling who the person in front of him really is. He could be the same Wilbur that Tommy’s been told about, just a little bit crooked. But at the same time…he could be some one different entirely. It’s a possibility. And it’s not one Tommy is quick to sweep under the table. 

The teenager gulps as Wilbur straightens up and goes back to the communicator. The man starts fiddling with the gadget, and Tommy hears a serious of beeps and clicks as the room falls into silence. As Wilbur tinkers with the communicator, Tommy tries to look up at his hands, straining his neck to peek at them. Like the ex-hero had said, there are the tell-tale signs of white bandages peeking through the ropes. 

As he stretches he feels something stretching across his ribs. More bandages? Did Wilbur bundle him up after kicking his ass? Why? That didn’t make any sense. Unless he felt guilty– 

Tommy frowns. Nah. That couldn’t be the reason. Whatever. He takes those questions he has and pushes them deep down into the recesses of his mind. He could focus on those later. Right now he needs to plan. 

He quickly scans the room and frowns when he sees Wilbur staring at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“What did I say about moving around?” Wilbur asks. 

“Oh come on dickhead! It’s not like I can move. What else am I supposed to do? Stare at the back of your head?” 

“Exactly that,” A grin teases Wilbur’s lips. And for a second, Tommy can ignore the fact that Wilbur is his kidnapper. Instead, it almost feels like the friendly banter that Techno sometimes graces him with. 

“Hate to say it man. But you’re hair’s not all that entertaining. Except for the top of it where it’s balding.” Tommy huffs, inwardly cackling. 

Wilbur blanches. “I’m not balding. Take that back.” 

“Make. Me.” Tommy repeats, this time actually showing his shit-eating grin. Wilbur rolls his eyes. 

“You know what? Do whatever. If you pull something, it’s not my fault.” The man turns back to the communicator, rolling it over in his hand. He doesn’t look up when he starts speaking again. “But, you know…. You don’t need to worry about Phil and Techno. I just sent them a message. That’s all.”

“You what?” All source of joy fades from Tommy as he tries to sit up in his bed. “What did you say?” 

“The exact same message they heard me call out before I died.” He looks up, his lips twitching from a frown to a grin maniacally. “I wonder just how much they’re freaking out right now. They’re probably running themselves to the ground trying to find where the signal come from. They’ve probably already noticed your absence as well. I just wonder.” 

Totally green eyes shine in the hotel’s flickering light. “Do you think they won’t be too late this time?” 

Wilbur’s head aches. It feels as if someone ran over his head with a shopping trolley. His brain pounds against his skull, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Even the over-the-counter pills haven’t pushed back the constant thrumming behind his eyes. 

And it had all started with the kid. 

Wilbur grips his hair as he tries to quell the urge to vomit. He had already emptied his stomach three times the previous night. Dragging the boy’s broken body back to the hotel brought back bad memories. Of him waking up in a small box and having to crawl his way through wood and dirt- 

Wilbur had never meant for him to get hurt that bad. 

Spook him? Yes. Scare him so he’d regret ever becoming a sidekick? Sure. But throwing a knife through his hand? Breaking a rib? He didn’t want the kid to get maimed. 

Yet when his eyes first landed on his replacement his mind filled with green-green-green. And by the time the insanity and anger cleared away there was a bloody kid underneath his feet. 

Phil is never going to forgive him for this. 

Most parts of Wilbur doesn’t have the heart to blame him either. 

It’s fine though. Who cares what Phil thinks? Wilbur’s been a disappointment since the day Phil took him in. Too slow. Too manipulative. Too filled with rage. The older blonde always overlooked Wilbur’s joy and leadership and just saw the anger and bitterness left behind from a cruel life. 

What’s one more incident to throw onto the pile of mistakes he’s made? If Phil only wanted perfect children, he should have stopped at Techno. Because Prime knows, that the piglin hybrid’s always been Phil’s golden child. 

Wilbur huffs as he exits the hotel, a small huddling shadow following behind him. 

And he isn’t forgetting about his… replacement. 

He’s apparently not the only child who Phil’s let down. 

He eyes the brat who’s glaring at him underneath one of Wilbur’s old hoodies. If looks could kill, Wilbur would be six feet under. (Again.) 

The boy’s been stripped from all his weapons and gear, but Wilbur won’t put it past him to try and run. That’s why he placed a small black device around the boy’s ankle. He sees the green light blinking just above his sock. It had been a doozy getting the boy to stay still long enough for Wilbur to secure it on. 

But even though he’s weak from being revived, Wilbur’s been in this game a lot longer than his replacement. Holding down a teenager was a piece of cake. 

They make eye contact and his replacement draws back his lips in a full-tooth snarl. 

This is going to be a long evening. 

“Let’s go replacement,” Wilbur says, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder and steering him between Wilbur’s point of view and the buildings. The boy goes rigid under his touch, but thankfully keeps walking– the device on his ankle acting as a deterrent for bad behavior. 

“I have a name you know,” The boy huffs. “It wouldn’t kill you to use it.” 

“Yeah, and it won’t kill me not to either,” Wilbur replies. “But you know what will? Getting caught before we make it to my safehouse. It’s going to be a long walk to the Pogtopia district.” 

“Did you say walk?” The teenager asks incredulous. “Fuck man. That’s like an hour away. Can’t we just take the tra-” 

“No trains.” 

A mocking tone accompanies the sneer. “What are you scared of the tube line?” 

Yes. “The less we stay away from public transport, the harder it’ll be to track us. Bloody hell kid, did Phil teach you nothing?” 

“Phil’s teaching me just fine.” For once, the boy’s voice drops into a tone that’s colder and more serious. Wilbur must be toeing the line. 

Oh kid. Somebody needs to tell you not to make things so obvious. Wilbur thinks as he tightens his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “Says the kid who got kidnapped.” 

“I’m not a kid!” He hisses. 

“Look at me, my name’s Red and I’m not a kid,” Wilbur raises his voice into a high-pitched mimicking whine. 

The boy’s shoulders stiffen under his hand. “Who told you that was my hero name?” 

“Shove off, no it isn’t.” A laugh bubbles out of Wilbur’s mouth before he can stop it. “I was pulling that out of my ass.” 

Under his fringe of blonde curls, Wilbur could see the tips of his ears turning red. “Red is manly.” 

“Who names their hero persona after a color?” Surprisingly, the grin on Wilbur’s face is easy to keep. 

“Phil liked it!” The boy counters. 

Wilbur snorts. “Phil will like anything you do.” 

The air between them falls silent and Wilbur can’t help the ugly curl of content he feels when he sees the boy’s eyes cast downward. He loosens his grip on the boy’s shoulder, slinging his elbow around the boy’s neck and drawing him close. 

“Miss them?” For once, his voice doesn’t sound mocking. “Are you starting to realize how spoiled you’ve been.”

Red’s voice dips down low, almost a whisper. “I’m not you. I know I’ve been spoiled. I’ve never deserved this chance. They rescued me. And I will be damned before I regret it.”

“Huh?” Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “What do you think they did for me?” 

Red’s eyebrows furrow. “Aren’t you Phil’s biological son?” 

A laugh bubbles up from Wilbur before he can stifle it. Oh, that’s grand. He doesn’t know anything after all. “Puh-lease. I’m just another street rat they decided would be good cannon fodder.” 

“Don’t talk like that. That’s not– They wouldn’t— Do you really think they wanted you die?” 

Green tints the edges of his vision. “If they cared, they wouldn’t have picked up another street kid and put him in the first line of fire. It’s like they’re trying to get you killed. They don’t give a fuck about what happens. Not to you. And definitely not to me.” 

“You’re wrong!” Red’s voice hitches at the end. “They love you.” 

“No, they loved the idea of me. The symbol. What I built from my bare hands in the shadow of their successes. Trust me kid. You’re just one more domino in the line of their child soldiers.” 

The kid wrenched his shoulder from Wilbur’s arm. Shaking from fury– or disappointment– or denial– maybe all at once. 

“I’m different,” The boy spits. “You think I don’t know what they’re doing? You think that I’m here because they love me?” A hollow laugh follows, filled with a vicious sneer. “Because I can promise you, it’s not.” 

Wilbur grins. “You might not be so clueless after all.” 

“Not as clueless as you are. I said I’m different. But they love you. They’re still grieving you and trying to revive you. You know that?” 

Wilbur will never admit to the hesitation that lines his entire body. Nonsense. He’s a pro hero. He doesn’t let information shock him. Not at all. He frowns and reaches over to the kid to harshly yank him forward a step. 

“Like I’d believe some kid,” Wilbur huffed. “Keep walking.” 

The rest of the trip to Pogtopia falls into a tense silence. And it isn’t until they’re in a safehouse, and the kid is thrown into the first cell that’s open, that Wilbur finally lets himself relax.  It’s only the first step into his plan. 

But he can feel confident that this won’t go astray. 

Phil and Techno are going to regret ever thinking he’s replaceable. 

And then they’ll see what happens to little sidekicks who get dragged along into the fight.