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There were many things Wilbur never expected of this world. For starters, he never expected to destroy the country that he had fought for, with blood and tears and documents and speeches. L’Manburg, his pride and joy, his unfinished symphony, forever unfinished, laid to nothing more than rubble and debris with the assistance of his hero, for whom he created the country to spite.
Secondly, Wilbur did not expect to be dragged from the peaceful train tracks that made up his limbo. There had been decades spent—possibly centuries, even—on that desolate platform. With an alcoholic, irritable dictator and a drug-obsessed, joke of a person as his only company, it was destitute indeed. Not quiet—never quiet—but lonely.
Then the train came into the station, and a delirious Tommy stepped out.
Wilbur was overjoyed. Finally, finally, there was someone! Someone else was there to share in his misfortune; in his loneliness. No longer would he be forced to sit there, alone, while the two idiots he shared an infinite space with bickered in Spanish.
Their fun lasted for about two months. And when the train came again, Wilbur noticed who was driving it. The conductor, the one holding the revival book in hand. His hero.
The one who yanked Tommy away from his arms.
He couldn’t find himself to be upset. It was only a matter of time, after all.
Soon enough, that train came for him, too. And his hero was there, on the train, throwing out the impostor that had replaced him. Blue tears streaked down, burning the ghost’s cheeks. The ghost—the impostor—looked up at him, clutching its hands to the rip in his stained yellow sweater, where blue flowers sprung out of a noticeable gash in the fabric. Wilbur’s own hand fell to his stomach, mimicking the pose. Where his own father had chosen to cut him down.
“Wilbur,” a voice called, heavy with impatience. “I don’t have all day.”
And, pulled from his stunned stupor, he answered. “Coming.” He stepped unassumingly over the body sprawled on the floor, and past the doors that closed immediately behind him. And then he respawned in the ruins of L’Manburg.
And his third unexpected surprise, upon finding out that Dream was locked in the prison known as Pandora’s Vault, was that he would be sitting face to face with the man himself, fingertips pressed together, observing him carefully in walls that were not encased in obsidian.
Together, they sat at opposite ends of the table in a room adjacent to the great courtroom that they would be inside in a matter of minutes. Upon hearing that Dream had not gotten a chance to meet with his defense, the judge, Tubbo, had allowed them time to meet before the trial began.
The two were staring at each other from across the table, and neither had said a word while Wilbur looked his hero over.
Slowly, Wilbur set his palms down on the table. “So. Sam’s on trial for neglect, huh?”
The sudden words seem to have caught Dream by surprise. His shoulders hitched upwards, and a hand almost shot up towards his mask, as if to adjust it. Bandaged fingers barely caught Wilbur’s eye before they were quickly tucked under the table. What had Dream done?
Or rather, what had been done to him?
His torso seemed to tremble more and more the longer Wilbur surveyed him. Chains rattled from where his wrists were shackled together, attached to the iron collar around his neck that contrasted with his sallow and pale skin—a clear sign that he had not seen sun. His hair, too, was unhealthy and matted, and had lightened, not by light, but by stress, with multiple streaks of colorless hair alongside strands of silver.
Now that Wilbur was actively watching for signs of injury, though, there were barely noticeable bandages peeking out from the collared orange jumpsuit, and indeed from the collar itself too. The prison uniform was pristine, and even crinkled in spots, as if it had just been unfolded. It looked distinctly new. Not only that, but the uniform seemed rather large on Dream, as well. Dream was by no means a small person, standing only a little shorter than Wilbur himself, but definitely built with more muscle. He couldn’t see the man’s face, not with the cracked mask placed over it, but it was enough to notice that Dream seemed way slimmer than he should have been. Prison was not a kind place, so it was only natural that he would have lost weight. This much, though…
“Dream.”
The man flinched, his head dropping down, the masked face looking at the floor. His shoulders still were too tense, too far up. He was more than just nervous. This…this seemed like another emotion.
Fear.
“Do you mind removing your mask, for a moment?” he continued, in a gentler tone. “I need to confirm something.” Confirm he did, if his suspicions were accurate. He had never, never seen Dream fearful, and it made him uneasy. Worried, maybe, but that stretched more to worry about his friends rather than his own well being. Fear didn’t even fit into his concept of Dream, and that made him wary.
The mask glanced up for a moment, then back down. So he was paying attention. Dream shook his head, almost frantically. Wilbur knew that they were definitely going to revisit that during the trial itself.
“Alright. I won’t push it. Your privacy is your own, after all.” No. As Dream would find out later, his privacy was only given when others allowed it. Wilbur prematurely thought out an apology in his head.
Dream gave a short nod. This was getting them nowhere. This was going to get them nowhere. Their timer was still ticking down. They were only given just under an hour before Quackity’s protesting for his client would grow too great for Tubbo to handle. Then, the trial would commence. No matter how prepared they were.
Not to say Wilbur had come empty handed. Not that Dream needed to know that.
“Would you happen to have a strategy for how to win this?” Wilbur asked dryly, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. “If we win this, you might be freed. At least for long enough until we find someone else to monitor the prison.”
There was a head shake, and Wilbur sighed. “I’m going to have to do this all myself, won’t I?” There was something else at play. If Dream wouldn’t talk for something to his benefit, then something was definitely amiss.
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door to their small sanctuary. “Wilbur! Quackity is demanding we start the trial. Tubbo’s trying to reason with him but I suggest you get out here. Like, now.”
Wilbur sighed again, typing a small message out in his communicator. “Very well. This was getting us nowhere, anyway.”
Within the next couple of minutes that followed, Sam entered the room, ignoring Wilbur’s glare, and unlocked the chains that kept Dream bound to the floor. He kept a tight grip on the links between his wrists, walking Dream to his seat at the bench. As he locked him there, Wilbur barely caught a hiss of words from Sam’s mouth right into Dream's ear, to which Dream responded with a shaky nod. His shoulders were trembling again.
“Might I ask, Sam, that you step away from my client?” Wilbur sidled into his seat beside Dream. “You’re on trial for neglect of your duty as Warden. I don’t believe you whispering to Dream is going to do you any favors.” He leaned back, hands behind his head, the perfect picture of relaxation, with the confident air of someone who would win. “If you have something to share, it can be shared with the court.”
“It was nothing of consequence,” Sam said easily, straightening up and sliding his key ring back onto his belt. “I was just reminding Dream to behave. This is a courtroom, after all.”
“Quite right,” Wilbur responded, “but I believe that your language might be a bit…ah…strange, for the issue at hand. One would only tell a dog to behave, yes?”
“He’s a prisoner,” Quackity covered smoothly, “and a rowdy one, at that. It’s only natural that he would try to pull something while he’s outside his cell.”
Tubbo, already sitting behind the judge’s bench, nodded, but noted something down with furrowed brows. Good. It didn’t seem that he would hold Dream’s past transgressions over their heads. “Alright. Sam, please take your seat. We can begin in a moment. Who would like to make their opening statement first?”
“I will, your Honor,” Quackity said, allowing Sam to make his way back to the table before striding up to the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I can assure you that my client is innocent.” He gave a brief nod to Sam. “My client was operating only under the legal bounds of the prison, including but not limited to documents that every visitor is required to sign, of which I have copies here.”
“Oi!” said a distinctly disgruntled voice at the back of the room. “Sam said I’d only be in there for-”
“Tommy!” Tubbo said sharply, pounding his gavel on the desk. “You can argue later. This is not a case in which you are a witness!”
“Oh, but he is,” Wilbur added, forcing the attention back to the front of the room and back onto him. “My apologies, your Honor, for speaking out of turn. Quackity, you may continue.” He leaned forward from where he sat, observing the man thoughtfully, watching the string of gold rings that glimmered proudly on his chest.
This interruption did not seem to deter him. “As I was saying, Sam has done nothing that was not for the benefit of the server. I would like to emphasize that he has performed his duties admirably, and on his own, might I add. The prisoner has not escaped under his watch, and we remain safe under his eye. That is all.”
“Very well,” Tubbo conceded. “You may be seated. Wilbur, I would like to hear your opening statements.”
“As you wish.” Slowly, Wilbur rose, pressing his hands to the table. In the corner of his vision, he watched Dream’s mask tilt slightly up. His mouth twitched into a half-smile as he made his way to the front.
“People of the court, I believe that the evidence of the neglect of Sam’s duties as Warden is extremely obvious. With me today are two members of the server who have agreed to give their testimony regarding the experiences inside of Pandora’s Vault. Furthermore, I would like to add that Sam should be charged for abuse of the prison’s sole inmate. Dream’s looking rather worse for wear, yes?” He gestured back to Dream, who quickly looked back down at the ground. Indeed, he was quivering even more. There was some truth to it.
“If you haven’t already noticed, he’s covered in bandages. He was alone in solitary confinement, which, if I may be so bold, should not have been the case for longer than a several week period, as stated directly in the Warden’s handbook. He could not have harmed himself that severely. Thus, Sam has been directly harming Dream, or allowing someone else to do so. This alone proves that he is unfit to be Warden and should be removed and arrested immediately.” He bowed his head to Tubbo. “Thank you.”
“Where in Prime did you get that idea?” Quackity spoke lightly, but Wilbur could hear the underlying malice as he swaggered back to his seat. “When would my client have the time to harm the prisoner?”
“His words merit some thought, Quackity,” Tubbo thought aloud, then turned to address Wilbur again. “Who are your two witnesses?”
“I will call up Tommy and Sapnap to the stand,” Wilbur answered smoothly, “for I do not believe you would accept my own, despite my memories from Ghostbur.”
“Will Dream not be testifying?”
“He won’t testify because it’s bullshit,” Quackity interrupted, his calm composure momentarily slipping. “Dream wrote the rules himself. He knows that nothing done was illegal.”
“Unfortunately, my client has not said one word to me, as the security cameras can attest to.” He looked to his left, to Dream, who glanced up, then turned his head away from the judge's bench. There was the flash of a scar behind his ear, and Wilbur intended to take full advantage of the visible mark, even before the rest of his plan was put into action. “Of course, I can’t excuse the possibility of it being a side effect of torture.”
There it was. Dream’s head sprung up, masked eyes watching him closely. His fingers, now that Wilbur could see them, were curling into the fabric of his pants. Wilbur noticed that the nail beds were distinctly bandaged. The smallest hint of blood seemed to bleed through.
“I would call him up to the judges bench, but alas, he is a chained man. Instead, would you mind coming down for a moment, Tubbo? I believe there is some pretty damning evidence that he has been mistreated.”
“Mistreated?” Quackity raised his voice incredulously. “It’s a prison, not a damn vacation. Your Honor, if you will-”
“Save it, Big Q. Unless you have a witness you would like to call, I would like to view Wilbur’s evidence to support his claims.” Courtroom proceedings were different with every judge, at least on the SMP, but it pleased Wilbur that Tubbo seemed annoyed enough to dismiss Quackity immediately.
Quackity bit his tongue, clearly frustrated, but there was something else that lingered in his appearance as Wilbur shot him a grin. It was almost too elusive to name.
Was that…joy? Why would Quackity be pleased that their crimes are becoming noticed?
Or rather, was it pride? Pride that people got to see his work, what he had done?
“Dream, can you turn your head, please?”
The man jolted, but did as told as Tubbo approached. Wilbur stood, reaching out for his hair, muttering a quiet apology when Dream jumped again as his fingers made contact. As gently as he could, he pulled the matted hair back, exposing that one spot just behind his ear.
Where a scarred, fancy Q was sitting.
“What the fuck,” were the first words out of Tubbo’s mouth. Almost comically, he turned to face Quackity, ignorant of the grin that began stretching across Wilbur’s face. “Quackity, care to explain what I’ve just seen?”
Worry flickered across Quackity’s expression, before slowly steeling into passive anger. “They’re both liars, Tubbo. You know that better than just about anyone. I’m sure whatever stupid thing they’ve dreamt up now-”
Wordlessly, Tubbo’s fingers ghosted over the brand. Beside Quackity, Sam stood, a hand going to his belt, where he kept his sword. Wilbur pointed out as much, letting Dream’s hair hide the scar once more. Both he and Tubbo pulled away.
“You can see that they’re both getting defensive,” he muttered, loud enough for both of them to hear. “And I do believe Quackity’s becoming a little upset that his favorite plaything is being taken away.”
“That’s it!” Quackity slammed his hands on the table, jumping up to his feet. Neither he nor Sam made any other attempt to move, however. “Wilbur, this is fucking ridiculous. What goddamned reason would I have to hurt Dream?”
“I don’t know,” Wilbur said dryly. “Maybe the revival book?”
He scoffed. “For who would I-”
“Schlatt. And really, that book gives you power, Quackity. Isn’t that something you crave?” He held his hands out, arms wide. “Isn’t it what we all crave? And it always leads to our destruction. Should I list examples?”
“You-”
“Quackity,” Tubbo breathed. “Have you been torturing Dream?”
His tone changed almost immediately. “Of course I haven’t been. Why would I?”
With that response, Tubbo turned to face Dream. “Dream. Has Quackity or Sam been torturing you?”
This seemed to make Dream’s breath catch in his throat. He looked up at Tubbo, then down at the table, his fingers tightening their grip on his pants. There was no given reply.
Wilbur’s grin only widened. Even without witnesses, this case was already going smoothly. Everyone’s eyes were full of so much truth, like the window to the soul they truly were. They were slowly swaying, slowly being pushed over to defend his hero.
“Dream knows it’s bullshit,” Quackity protested. “Like the filthy, manipulating liar he is.”
Tubbo’s foot tapped against the ground. His eyes were wide, scanning over Dream rapidly, as if he could pry secrets from just a glance. His gaze went from Dream, to Wilbur, and then back over to Quackity, before something steeled in his vision. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before speaking.
“I will take this into account. Quackity, you may continue with your defense.”
“May I object?” Wilbur said lightly. “My client isn’t exactly someone fit to stand trial at the moment, as you can quite clearly tell.” He set a hand delicately on Dream’s shoulder, feeling the muscles underneath grow tense.
“He’s a grown man,” Quackity snapped. “He doesn’t deserve your coddling.” Wilbur wouldn’t dream of coddling him. But the limited affection he had shown seemed to be very much to Quackity’s distaste. It brought a sweetened sense of victory to his mouth.
“And he doesn’t deserve to be chained to the ground in front of at least two people who tortured him,” Wilbur said, just as easily as if he was talking about the weather. “So I propose we remove him from the courtroom while the rest of us hash this out. Unless,” he turned to face Dream, “you have anything else you would like to add?”
Dream was shaking even more now, the chains audibly rattling. His mask faced Wilbur, then Tubbo, and finally seemed to settle on Quackity. A hand rose upwards, closer to his neck, and Wilbur understood, giving him a small nod.
It seemed that Tubbo got the message as well.
“Alright. Punz, take Sam’s keys and escort Dream to the room he conversed in with Wilbur. Keep an eye on him, please.”
Punz gave him a brisque nod, and started towards Sam.
“The prisoner is to remain chained. I do not trust others with him.” Of course Sam would speak up. As the one on trial, it was remarkable that he hadn’t already. Maybe Quackity told him to remain quiet.
“Sam, just hand over the keys,” Tubbo said exasperatedly. “Don’t make this difficult, boss man.”
The Warden’s hand didn’t move from his sword, and Wilbur now realized that he had remained in a defensive position, expecting a fight, while Wilbur and Quackity argued. He shouldn’t be coming to the aid of his lawyer, not if they were only acquaintances. Of course, they must have known each other better than that. Worked together, even.
Sam was a member of Las Nevadas, wasn’t he?
“I will not let the prisoner out of my sight unless he is locked in his cell where he should be.”
There was a slight shiver from Wilbur’s left, and he noticed Dream shrink down into himself.
“Come now, Tubbo, I believe that there is more than enough evidence at the moment. Please remove him from the courtroom while Quackity makes his statements.”
Wilbur cared for Dream—of course he did. But Wilbur was not a delicate man, and the others knew that. Should Quackity protest Dream’s removal, it might just be a dead giveaway to prove his point, should Wilbur poke at why he cares so much about this instance. And should Tubbo refuse to push back against Sam, it might push Dream into noticeable panic, which would also further his goals.
This was a chessboard, a game. Quackity had little platform to stand on besides his own history and the false security that the Warden brought by his presence. No matter how much the others detested the king, Wilbur, they would listen to his commands. They would listen to the reason he holds for defending a criminal, see the scars that corroborated his story as they moved like the pawns they were.
At the start of this trial, Wilbur had little more than a series of hunches and the words of his two witnesses. He didn’t even have a single spoken word from the prison’s sole prisoner, and the main object of the Warden’s neglect. All of what occured in the prison was merely speculation, merely questions into why Quackity would walk from the far East of the SMP every night, covered in blood that he claimed was from butchering animals if he was ever questioned, not that he held any kind of weaponry on his person aside from a pair of shears. Even then, the leads on Quackity’s belt seemed to confirm his words, though they too seemed coated in a layer of blood.
By the end of this trial, surely Wilbur would have more than his original support allowed for. The evidence was only stacking against his opponents. An end would be put to this, soon.
Quackity seemed to realize that he was cornered, and a scowl stretched across his face. “Those are some bold claims, Wilbur. And might I remind you, it’s innocent until proven guilty. You have not proven anything here. It’s all just a guess. You’re making a joke of this trial.”
“Wilbur has provided some of his evidence,” Tubbo said sternly, “and that includes Dream’s appearance. He holds no further significance here. Sam, hand over the keys.”
And expectedly, Sam, as stubborn as ever, did not back down.
“The prisoner is to remain here. I refuse to let him go unchained out of my sight.”
Quackity opened his mouth to reply, likely to dissuade Sam from holding his ground, but Tubbo beat him there first.
“Here, Sam, it’s my word that goes. I can make my decision now with the current knowledge I have without taking in any of your evidence. Now hand over the keys, or my ruling will stand.”
“He will hand them over,” Quackity stepped in smoothly, attempting to hide the stern glance of warning he sent Sam. “No worries.”
“Good. Now, all of you, sit. Punz?”
Regretfully, Sam passed the keys to Punz before taking his seat back on the bench. Before Punz could make it any closer, though, Wilbur leaned over to whisper in Dream’s ear.
“We’re going to do something you won’t like,” he said lowly, “but I promise you. If we do this, it’ll get you out of Pandora’s Vault. You’ll never have to go near that place again.”
There was no reply, but he didn’t expect one as Punz approached. They gave a brief, understandment-filled nod to Wilbur, and then yanked Dream upright. Dream let out a startled squeak that he just as quickly suppressed while Punz unlocked the chains anchoring him to the floor.
Punz wasn’t exactly gentle in his treatment of Dream. They were allies—friends, even—but Wilbur paid this man well for a reason. Dream paid him well for a reason. His acting even rivaled Dream’s.
As they were passing the judge’s bench, Punz froze. The prisoner at his side stumbled at the sudden halt, tripping over his chained feet. “Tubbo, how do we know that this is really Dream?”
Tubbo’s head inclined to the side, an expression of confusion flitting across his face. “What do you mean?”
“Sam took his mask the day we all arrested him, right? Why would he have it now?” The others in the background started to murmur, but Punz continued on. “From what I’ve seen, this…this doesn’t seem like Dream at all.”
The grin that sat on Wilbur’s face didn’t waver. “Actually, Punz does bring up a good point. He never said a word to me, so even I can’t confirm that this is him.” Really, who else would it be? It was a dumb point, but it was a point nonetheless.
“That’s…actually a good point,” Tubbo mused. “Dream, can you please remove your mask?” As Wilbur expected, Dream locked up immediately. “Either you remove it, or I’ll have Punz do it.”
“Of course it’s Dream, don’t be ridiculous,” Quackity scoffed, but his tone held a hint of worry. “Prison isn’t a playground. I thought we all knew that when we put him in there.”
“But it’s Dream,” Punz stressed. “He’s one of the strongest people on this server. Prison wouldn’t have affected him like this.”
This was it.
This was checkmate.
“That is the prisoner,” Sam confirmed. “He has not left his cell except for today.”
Even that, it seemed, was not enough to sway Tubbo’s decision. “Dream, take it off.”
When Dream did not move, Tubbo turned his attention to the man standing next to him. “Punz?”
On his command, Punz reached for the mask. A bandaged hand reached the surface of the mask first, slightly quivering. Punz, seeing the motion, faltered.
“Dream,” Quackity began, almost a note of warning, but by then Dream had already pushed his bound and bandaged hands up, and forced the mask off of his head. It fell to the floor with a clatter, but the clay disk was ignored in favor of scanning over Dream’s once-hidden features.
And what a sight he was.
Bruises covered half of his face, his sharp jaw, his hallowed cheeks. The corners of his mouth were slit, curving upwards in now-healed scars that etched a permanent smile onto his once-handsome expression. Still others were littered like freckles across his forehead and temples, crossing over the bruises that remained. What used to be beautiful green eyes were now dull, lifeless, and gray, dark circles ringed underneath them that could have been bruises or a lack of sleep.
And over his right eye was a clear, scabbed over wound that still barely weeped blood, made by a pickaxe swung in a fit of anger.
A perfect replica of Quackity’s.
The response was immediate. The large majority of the room recoiled, yelling words that did not reach Wilbur’s ears and calling for justice that did not exist. Even Punz took a few steps away, as if he was really, truly seeing Dream for what he was.
A starved, kicked puppy.
“What the fuck!” Tubbo exclaimed, aimed in the direction of Sam and Quackity. “Sam, Q, what the fuck is this!”
Rather than responding, Quackity rose to his feet, his hand going to where his sword rested on his hip. “What the fuck was that, Dream?”
Dream cringed, his shoulders hunching upwards, cuffed hands drawn close to his chest. Wilbur could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, trying in vain to prevent the fear from drowning him whole.
“I-”
“I fucking told you not to do anything!” The sword was drawn, and Quackity stepped around the bench, his original pretenses gone.
Dream backpedaled, tripping over the chains and falling to the floor, letting out a tiny, scared noise. “I-”
“Quackity!” came the shout from behind the judge’s bench. “Leave him alone!”
Punz was still frozen, his hand far from his weapon as Quackity advanced on Dream.
“You knew the consequences for this.”
As quickly as he could, Wilbur got to his feet. Nobody else was close enough to act but him. Weaponless, and armorless, he would protect Dream.
When he set foot in front of Dream, Quackity was already bringing his sword up, the blade flecked with long-dried blood. As if in slow motion, dangerous brown eyes switched from Dream to Wilbur, the weapon’s path already switching course. The downswing halted, instead moving in favor of a powerful thrust.
One that went right through Wilbur’s chest.
The pain did not come all at once. Instead, the sweet rush of adrenaline dragged with it all of Wilbur’s thoughts, his agony; his regrets.
What good had he done in this world? He had traumatized his younger brother, Tommy, long before the thought was even in Dream’s head. He created a nation built on a drug empire, only to blow it up like a child throwing a tantrum when things didn’t go his way. He’d created enemies of most of the people on the server. His own father had taken his life.
And where was he now? What was he doing? Causing petty disputes with Las Nevadas. Lying and manipulating others to view him as the tragic hero with an unjust past. The only good thing he had ever done was partake in this trial, not that others would view it that way.
What good had Dream done? He stopped wars. Fought others. Gave them land that he by no means owed them. He tried to stop everything falling to pieces at the root of its cause.
And where had that landed him? Locked in an inescapable prison, never to see the sun. Tortured by those he would have once called a friend. Only allowed outside of his cell on the one instance that others tried to prove the Warden guilty of neglect and abuse.
Hitting the ground seemed to throb more than the sword impaled through his chest, even as it was yanked free. He landed on his shoulder, his first thought about how that would bruise by morning.
There was the sound of a battle above where he laid. The shape of Punz lunged towards where Quackity must have been standing. A cluster of various voices shouted and screamed, the entire courtroom engaged in a heated struggle between morality and their own sense of justice.
Through his rapidly blurring vision, he saw a figure kneeling down over his body. Trembling hands pressed against his sternum, and had he not noticed the small line of metal that crossed between the wrists, he might not have noticed who it was at all.
His hero knelt above him, covering the wound in vain, blood still trickling through. A hoarse voice trickled through the mush in his ears, blocking out everything else.
“-sorry. I’m so, so sorry. T-this is b-because of me, I-I-”
“It’s not your fault,” he forced out, unable to listen to the tears that were now falling from Dream’s eyes. “I chose this.” Death was soon. Imminent. Like the warmth of an old friend.
“You revived me once,” he continued, keeping a comforting smile on his face. “I’ll see you again.”
His eyes closed once. Twice.
And reopened on the familiar train platform.
Time there was meaningless. Did it matter how many days had passed? Did it matter aside from an intangible countdown that had begun in his head? In this world, it was only his revival to look forward to. So, he resigned himself to the muttering and complaining of Schlatt, the yelling of Mexican Dream, and the soft crying of Ghostbur.
Somewhere around four months in, a train once again pulled into the station. Wilbur glanced up slowly from his game of cards, tinged blue with dye, and let them fall to the ground as he stood, ignorant to the complaining of his companions. The train’s doors slowly slid open with a hiss. Waiting.
Waiting for him.
That familiar grin stretched across his face once more as he stepped towards his salvation, where his hero was standing just inside the doors.
Wilbur never expected the outcome of this world to be so interesting. But he took the time to ponder it later. He needn’t loiter around.
Wilbur couldn’t keep Dream waiting, could he?