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“You've trusted me before, why can’t you do that now, for the last time?”
Quackity chokes out a laugh. “Yes, Wilbur, I have trusted you before. And you wanna know how that ended up? In disaster. Every single time. I will not let you sabotage my country, MY Las Nevadas, with whatever self-centered plan you’ve come here to execute.”
“I’m not trying to sabotage anything, Big Q!-”
“You say that every time. And you probably think it’s true,” his lips twist into a scowl, a disgusted grimace. “Because you never think about the consequences your actions have on other people, you never did! Not in the elections, not in Pogtopia, not in the war, and certainly not now.”
Wilbur tries to interrupt, tries to say something to his defense, but he’s quickly shut down before he can get even a word out.
“Every time I have trusted you, every time anyone trusted you and your plans, they got burned. Because you only think of yourself, Wilbur. You only think about what you can gain, what you can lose, and the rest of us are nothing but collateral damage in your eyes. You think you’re the tragic hero but in reality Wilbur, you’re the villain!” his volume rises but there is unmistakable chill and level-headedness in his voice.
Wilbur knows this is what Quackity truly thinks of him. He knew that the man doesn’t think highly of him but his words sting regardless.
His thoughts wander to the banishment with Tommy, shortly after establishing Pogtopia and their resistance against the new republic of Manberg.
“Tommy, are we the bad guys?” he said that time, so so far away, yet his memories remain clear. “This doesn’t feel correct… I- Tommy, am I a bad- am I a villain in this story?” The worry in his voice was tangible, he so desperately wanted to believe he was in the right but everyone seemed so happy with him out of the picture.
The memory flickers.
“We both agree we’re right, we’re in the right here.”
“Then let’s be the bad guys. Tommy, why not? Look, our nation’s gone, our nation’s far behind us. Let's blow that motherfucker into smithereens. Let's blow the whole thing up.”
“Tommy, I say, if we can't have Manburg, no one- NO ONE can have Manburg! Tommy, let’s be villains.”
“Can I have a minute to think Wilbur?”
“I know I’m not a good guy Quackity,” No matter how hard he tries to be, he always hurts people he cares about in the process. He knows he gets too caught up in his own head, spiraling until he can’t find his way out, he knows that people would be better off without him. That’s been proven, time and time again. “That’s why I wanna do this one last thing, make amends, apologize, why can’t you understand?”
“Because you’re not doing any of this for other people, you’re only doing this to make yourself feel better about the pathetic fucked-up life you’ve led!” His hands form a tight fists, barely holding back. “I’m not going to take any part in that. Making amends, apologizing, well I’m not fucking accepting any of that. Now get the fuck out of my casino.” His last sentence is ice cold. When Wilbur turns around to leave, he doesn’t see the way Quackity’s body slumps over the countertop, his trembling fingers reaching for an abandoned glass of liquor as he finally releases a tired breath. He expects to have Wilbur standing at his doorstep in the next few days like nothing has ever happened. He doesn’t know that won’t be the case.
The doors shut behind Wilbur, leaving him alone in the night, in the blowing wind that sends sand particles into his eyes, some of it getting caught in his messy hair. Under the night sky, he’s completely alone.
But he has one last person he has yet to visit.
Tommy, whom he’s left on the threshold of the country, waiting for him to sort things out with Quackity. It’s good he didn’t come with. His presence would have only angered Quackity more. And he didn’t want Tommy to see all of what had just occured. He can at least spare both of them of that, clutching tight at the remaining pieces of dignity Wilbur has.
The brothers reunite at the top of the road leading down to Las Nevadas, and they head off in the opposite direction. Tommy doesn't immediately bombard Wilbur with questions, he can see the weary, tired, blank look in his eyes, the clouded stare he gives to the pavement.
He doesn't know what happened between the two of them and he doesn't understand why Wilbur wouldn’t let him come with. He feels a small ping of hurt. Even after all this time, after all the lies his brother has told him, he still doesn’t trust him. Tommy shouldn’t be surprised yet he can’t help but feel a tug at his heart. Yet another small betrayal, as if he hasn’t had enough of those. He opens his mouth to make a mean comment, disguised as a joke but Wilbur beats him to it.
He lets out all of his feelings, his steps faltering the longer he speaks. All of the unsaid apologies, all of the regret he feels, come pouring out of him in the most earnest of ways, his tone bordering on panicky. “Tommy, I’m not expecting you to forgive me for anything that I’ve done, I can’t ask you, who I have hurt the most, to forgive me. After tonight, I will be out of your hair, you won’t have to see me again and all I ask is that you move on. Move on from me, lead the life you’ve always wanted, the one you could have had if I hadn’t fucked it up with my own selfish desires. All I ask is that you are happy and maybe one day, think of me fondly.” He doesn’t look at him once during the entirety of his speech. He doesn’t have the strength to. He couldn't bare to see the same scornful look on his brother's face as he’s seen on Quackity.
“What the fuck?” He is snapped out of his daze, too wrapped up, once again, in his own melancholy. “What the fuck do you mean, you’re leaving? Where? Wilbur, I don’t want you to leave. Yes, you’ve fucked up so much for me and you’re right, I don’t forgive you for that, but regardless of what you seem to think, I don’t hate you. You’re my family, my brother.” His pitch is raised but not with anger. Rather with something that seems more akin to panic.
“It’s better if I leave Tommy, all of you will be better off without me, just like before.” He thinks back to Ghostbur. The version of him that couldn’t have been more far away from reality. People smiled when they saw Ghostbur, yet they only frowned when Wilbur came back. He thinks of all the people whose blood is on his hands. Either taking one of their lives, or the last one. All the people who got caught up in the crossfire of his own emotions. He mostly thinks of Ranboo. The last person who died because of Wilbur.
Tommy shouted at him, yelled and punched, but Wilbur didn’t hear any of that. It’s better for him that way, even if Tommy doesn’t realize that yet. In a few months, he will see.
He doesn’t promise to stay with him, he doesn’t say he will leave. “I’ll see you later, Tommy. I’m proud of you.”
Tommy knows that’s bullshit, there will be no
later
. But his brother is already gone. He falls into his bed and stares, he has no tears to shed, he wishes he had. Instead, he just screams. He screams and screams and screams until his voice get hoarse, until he can’t anymore. Until his voice gives out and all he can do is quietly whimper into his pillowcase until sleep overtakes him. His dreams will be nothing but nightmares.
•.•.•.•.•
Wilbur finds himself back at the ruins of the final control room. The place where it should have ended. The place where it had ended but not permanently and he is here to finish the job.
He is terrified of going back to the train station yet at the same time, he welcomes the familiar feeling of emptiness, of nothingness, that comes with it. He doesn’t want to go back, yet he craves it. No matter what he tried to do once he got his second chance at life, no matter how hard he tried to be better, he ultimately failed at it. Every single time. Quackity was right, Wilbur was the villain. He knows that better than everyone but still he wasn’t able to change the trajectory of his own fate, always leading him to his own downfall, taking so many people along.
As he takes the small blade and holds it up to his wrists, he doesn’t feel fear. He doesn’t feel joy. He doesn’t feel anything. He hasn’t felt anything for such a long time.
As his hand guides the sharp edge of the blade, sliding it across his old scars in a fluid motion, he doesn’t feel pain. Sick and twisted fascination wraps him in its chains as the blood pools all along his forearm, gently falling down like a waterfall. Almost lovingly caressing his skin. It calms him. He knows he’s on borrowed time, it won’t take long until his hand becomes too weak, too slick with his own blood to get a good grip, so he repeats the motion on the second arm.
The blade drops down onto the cobblestone with a quiet rumble.
He watches the blood trickle down, painting everything crimson. His dust covered pants, the stone and rubble beneath him, the chipped remains of wooden signs that he once hung up with pride.
All feeling is slowly leaving his limbs, growing cold with the loss of a warm liquid and he feels himself smile. He’s coming home, to the place where he belongs. The only place that welcomes him in with open arms and wishes he would stay.
He gathers the last of what is left of his breath and sings. A quiet mournful tune.
“I heard there was a special place, where men could go and emancipate,
the brutality and tyranny of their rulers,” he lets out an exhausted chuckle at the irony.
“Well this place is real, you needn’t fret,” it’s getting harder and harder to think.
“With Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, fuck Eret,
It’s a very big and not blown up L’Manberg.”
He looks up at the night sky, beckoning him in.
“My L’manburg,
My L’manburg,
My L’manburg…” The words die on his lips, his last symphony forever remaining unfinished.