Chapter Text
That Techno pig looking face stuffing stupid stupid stupid pig walked out, digits in a fist, lookin’ like he wanted to pummel Wilbur.
The feeling was mutual. What the ever-loving fuck did they think he was!? A fucking– god. Just, god. He wanted to strangle them. He wanted to break the glass, he wanted to get out, he wanted– he wanted to stop feeling feelings. That’s what he wanted. To stop feeling feelings.
He wiped his tears away. He liked the scarves. They hid his face. They hid his features. Hid his tears from the cameras he knew were there. Hid the red shame that took over his cheeks. This was pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Fuck– he sniffed aggressively, blinking. His hands shook. His head throbbed. Blue tints bit at the edge of his vision. He wished he could rip the nanos out of his system. Of fucking course he knew he needed to eat! He didn’t need their stupid ass reminders!
Wilbur exhaled sharply. His energy reserves were running out. The last time he slept was in the wreckage of the mothership. That stupid, stupid mothership. What pissed him off the most was the fact that he was never hungry on the Dreamon ship. Never.
But he gets hungry when two decently nice aliens have him in their cell. They offered him food! It was fucking bugs, but still! Shit. Shit, what was he thinking? Those fuckers kept his energy reserves up with chemicals. With injections, hazy memories of bony hands holding him down, like leather against his skin, him thrashing, thrashing, thrashing, a needle stabbing, the smell of blood, flashing red–
His nanos rejected the chemicals, at first.
But here, they offered him food. He could eat bugs. Hell, he could eat anything. He should’ve taken them. Bloody hell. Why was he such an idiot?
Fuck. And he was bored. Double fuck. And tired. And hungry. Really frikin’ hungry. Quadruple fuck. Did it ever end? Wilbur let out a sigh. He knew the answer to that. He always did. He was more than qualified to answer it.
It didn’t end until death. And death, according to the goth fucker, wasn’t an option. So Wilbur resorted to kicking the glass. Over. And over. And over and over and overandoverandoverandover–
The door opened. It felt slower than usual. Maybe they'd finally put an end to his misery.
Ah, the pig bastard once again.
His shoulders were up, tense (once again). His ugly, all-too-human face twisted to a snarl. Wilbur pressed a hand to his mouth, smothering a laugh. “I can hear you kicking the glass all the way down the hall. Cut it out.” He growled.
Wilbur slammed his foot against the glass, enjoying the way the pig cringed. “Sorry, I never got your name.” He explained. But that didn’t explain much. That didn’t explain why he felt like he was going off the deep end. Why he had given up. Why he wanted to die so bad so suddenly.
Wilbur couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Your name?”
Pig stayed silent for a second, flexing his three pink fingers(?) finger-like things. He had a sword sheath at his side. That should’ve scared Wilbur. “Technoblade. Phil’s right hand. If I hear you kick the glass one more time I swear I’ll–”
Wilbur smacked it with his hand this time. The piglin halted. It created a dull thud. Not as shrill as when he kicked it with his metal spiked combat boots. “You swear you’ll what?” Wilbur smirked. “Kick me? Slap me? Beat me? Kill me?” Wilbur damn near cackled, ignoring the blue filling his vision. “Not even the–” he clamped his mouth shut.
The pig looked him up and down. “No. I’m not going to touch you.” Technoblade responded firmly. “No one will. Stop asking for it. We’re taking you back to Mahkra.”
Wilbur blinked. His vision stayed blue. “I didn’t come from Mahkra.” He sneered. Red joined the flashing blue. He cursed, forcing his eyes open. “’m not from Mahkra. Take me to the– the– center, yeah?”
It took a solid three seconds for the words to process. “The center of what?” Techno demanded.
“The galaxy,” Wilbur muttered.
Words followed. Words he didn’t hear. Words he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. Wilbur slumped forward, eyes locked shut by his nanos.