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Their trying to take his nation.
Click the button
Their Trying to replace him.
Click the button.
His nation will erode away, but he can be responsible for its demise now.
Click the button.
Wilburs head was always loud. New ideas, new strategies, new thoughts, new paranoias, new fears, new everything. But that never stopped him before. He’s never second guessed himself before. He’s Wilbur goddamn Soot. Why would he need to think again about something? It’s His idea and even if it turns out bad then his friends, his citizens would help him fix it. They always did and always would. Which poses on simple question; Where are they now?
Click the button.
In a literal sense, their looking for him, their unsuspecting, their all living their individually unique lives, their all thinking. In a metaphorical sense, Wilbur knows they left him long ago. They just stuck around because they pitied him or something? Wilbur wasn’t too sure but he was very sure they had all left him in the sense of a friendship.
Click the button.
It would all be so easy. It would take a mere minute, wouldn’t it? One easy, quick, simple press then a deafening silence, noise deafening the the opposite sense, and then back to that silence. His nation would be gone. He would be gone. And it would all be over.
Click
The button is taunting him, as if it’s beckoning him to destroy his own nation. To get it over with. It’s going to be gone eventually, isn’t it?
the
Here are his current options. He could either A, press the button and absolutely demolish and annihilate this nation himself so it would have even formed and ended by him. Or B, he could stop, he could walk away like nothing happened. He could stand by and watch his own nation wither away. He could watch it all happen, he could experience his citizens fear as their nation starts rapidly declining.
Really, when he puts his options like that, the option is clear to Wilbur. He doesn’t know why he ever doubted himself.
Button.
Wilbur presses the button.
During those first few seconds of silence, everything comes crashing down on him.
He pressed the button. His nation it’s going to be over before it could even truly flourish and-
His thoughts are cut short.
Its hard to think when all he can hear is horrified screams and the sound of exploding TNT ringing through his ears.
What has he done?
Wilbur turns to Phil, his father. His vocal cords feel heavy.
“Phil, I need you to kill me.”
”What?” His father looks horrified. Wilbur did. that to him.
”Kill me.” Wilbur repeats.
“I can’t, Wilbur, you’re my son! I can’t-“
”Kill me,” Wilbur says once more, he’s begging to be murdered.
He probably looks insane, or stupid. Maybe both. Under any other scenario, any other circumstance, Wilbur would have done it himself. He’s thought about it several times. However, too many leaders had killed themselves instead of dealing with the aftermath. But Wilbur wasn’t like that, no, he wouldn’t deal with the aftermath but he wouldn’t be like them. It’s different enough that he isn’t clumped together but similar enough he’s nothing special.
”please.” Wilbur rasps out, finishing his sentence. He couldn’t possibly deal with the aftermath, his citizens,—could he even call them that anymore? They aren’t his, Not anymore.— The loss of his nation. L’manburg was Wilbur’s. Is Wilbur’s. Forever and ever.
Before Wilbur could open his mouth again to beg, a horrible pain is ripping through him. His father is saying something but he can’t understand it. It’s hard to think when your guts are being spilled by a sword. It’s hard to think when you’re bleeding out. It’s hard to think when you’re slipping away from life and into death. A smile graces his face, he really was messed up wasn’t he? He can’t find it in him to care when eternal peace was coming.
Wilbur wakes up in a panic. His body is laying on cold concrete. It hurts. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like nothing. He feels like nothing.
The memories come flooding back to him, hitting him like a ton of bricks. He really did press the button. He begged his father to kill him. His father did kill him. This was death.
Wilbur forces himself to sit up and look around. It looked like a train station, it probably was one. All Wilbur could see for miles and miles was concrete and train tracks.
Wilbur laughed. He did it. He was done. This was it. This is where he’d finally be at peace for the rest of eternity. He smiled and stood up.
It was a little dull for his liking, but beggars can’t be choosers, he’ll make it work. There’s nobody here for him to bother or to bother him. He can’t mess up here, it’s perfect.
Upon exploring his new home, Wilbur found a bench. That was about it. He had been walking for at least an hour. How long had it been? Is time different here? It probably is. He should probably figure it-
Wilbur stops his thoughts with a laugh. He would need to figure out anything. This was his new home. He didn’t need to go back to the world of the living. He wouldn’t go back. He was happy here. Everything was great. He can rest now.
Based off Wilbur’s internal clock, which probably isn’t the best measure of time, a train will come barreling down the tube line twice a day. Except a day feels shorter here, so more like four times a day if he’s using the standard twenty hour hour clock. So each day In limbo is about twelve hours? That can’t be right, it doesn’t feel like it. He must have counted something wrong. He must have had to accidentally counted-
He shakes the thoughts out of his head.
It doesn’t matter.
and it doesn’t! He doesn’t need to compare it to the overworld! What matters is that there’s trains and their loud and their fast and they make Wilbur flinch every time they come through. That’s what matters.
Wilburs sure he’ll learn to love the trains in his new home
Wilbur is sitting on the bench one day, with some hand draped around his side when the train comes through the tube line. Flinching out of his half asleep dazed state, he accidentally pressed down on his wound. Suddenly the train didn’t matter, the noise didn’t matter, none of it mattered. All of it became background noise to him, something to think about later.
He was bleeding. He still had his wound even in death. He was bleeding blue. He really is dead!
Wilbur looked as the blood trickled down his abdomen fascinated. He had bled too many times to count and gave himself some nerve damage a few times while doing it, but no matter how deep the wound was or what he used or what he did he never bled blue. And of course he didn’t, he was alive then and he’s dead now. His new home keeps surprising him!
Wilbur laid on the bench, his mind addled. He was half asleep when the train jolted him awake. He didn’t need sleep anymore. But he still craved it. This was the nth time this had happened to him! He was getting a little annoyed. Maybe annoyed wasn’t the right word, he couldn’t feel anything other than emptiness in this place. So a pale imitation of annoyance, Wilbur is almost glad he can’t feel annoyed. He felt that far too often alive. But that’s beside the point. The point is, Wilbur wants to scream, he just wants to rest.
Who’s going to stop him? Who will complain and tell him to quiet down?
Nobody. The answer is nobody.
So, Wilbur screams. He yells. Maybe it’s to hear something in this void, maybe it’s to express his emotions, maybe it’s for help. It doesn’t matter because nothing came from it. Wilbur screamed until his lungs were sore and vocal chords hoarse and nothing happened. He doesn’t know whenever or not he should be glad.
His thoughts were getting loud again. Typically when his thoughts got loud he’d go for a walk, pick up a sharp object, act on the one that wouldn’t do anything, just something. He can’t do something here! He can’t do anything! Even if he did have a sharp enough object, he couldn’t do anything with it! He’s lost a lot of his cognitive abilities, it’s humiliating.
Thankfully, there’s nobody here to witness his humility.
The train storms by and pulls him from his thoughts. A new horrible, absolutely awful thought creeps it’s way into Wilbur’s head. It’s Horrific, it’s perfect. It’ll ruin him, it’ll fix him.
Before Wilbur can think it through or second guess himself, he’s laying down on the train tracks. He knows he’ll be waiting a while. That’s ok, the time would pass eventually. And it’s like he would do anything other than wait. No harm in spending his time in a different way.
Wilbur had been waiting ages. It’s to be expected. He had just laid down on the tracks right after one had come through, obviously he would have to wait. That’s okay, Wilbur can wait a little bit longer.
four fifty seven
four fifty eight
four fifty nine
four sixty.
Before he can count to four hundred sixty one, a train startles him. Typically he would be upset at the disturbance and the initial shock would fade but now? He just got more and more scared, adrenaline coursing through his veins, he felt alive. He felt nauseous. He felt excited. He was horrified.
it doesn’t matter what he felt because the train slammed into him and would have still hit him regardless of his feelings.
it doesn’t matter what he’s feeling because it’s awfully hard to think when you’re vision is going out and your ears are ringing.
When Wilbur comes to, he’s laying on the same concrete he was on when he found out he could still bleed here. Courtesy of the blue stain, of course. Sitting up, he didn’t feel the need to groan because he wasn’t in pain. He felt fine. Scratch that, he felt wonderful.
For the first time in Wilbur isn’t actually sure how long he’s been here, his head is clear, he feels like he just reset himself. It was perfect. It fixed him. Suddenly everything made sense again. He was sent to this limbo for this exact reason. This really was his eternal home! He just needed to reset his brain every once in a while, surely that’s what he’s meant to be doing, right? Right? He’s doing the correct thing, right? This is what was intended, right?
Thats how the routine started. Whenever he was bored or needed to hit a good reset, he would lay on the tracks and wait and feel perfect just before the train hit him with the adrenaline in his veins or whatever it is making him feel that way and he felt great afterwards with his head clear. He felt like how he used to whenever he would sleep exceptionally well.
Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. Wilbur knew that all too well. He would always wake up. But the silver lining was he at least felt significantly better. That has to count for something right?
Wilbur is being pulled out of limbo and back into the overworld before he can process it. It’s all so much, so bright, so loud, so colorful, so expecting, so judgmental.
A punched breath is forced into him, his instincts flaring back to life. He was alive again. He could feel things again. However, there were a lot more places on him where he couldn’t feel that well or anything at all. Nerve damage. He wasn’t surprised, he definitely got that in limbo.
With his heart beating and lungs heaving, Wilbur stood up and forced a smile onto his face. He just had to fake it till he made it. How hard could it be? He had done it once before he could do it again, right? It’s hard to think when- Wilbur stops that thought. He doesn’t need to think right now he needs to feel he needs to process. He can do that.