#ccrime

I think they deserve so much softness and joy :[

The fabric is starting to look a bit frayed around the hole. The damp, and the wet, and the constant wear as days stretch into weeks into the unknowable amount of time born of too much of a life lived in a cave without a day/night cycle. A wet hell, a chilly nether. The humidity of breath, and sweat, and tears condensates on the walls, a sticky sort of moisture that refuses to be wiped off on one's trousers. It's miserable. He says you're going to take it all back. At least it won't be like this forever, but he refuses to let you mend, and he calls your concern pity, and that damn coat is looking worse as the days wear on. It reeks.

Of cigarettes, and the greasy scent of unwashed hair, and grime, - And would he just take it off long enough to let you fucking wash it, Wil?

The whole cave reeks. Of torch-smell, of coal, of damp stone, and somehow it couldn't be further from the scent of warm cobblestone and sun-washed earth and fresh summer grass. Even the potato farm, a one-note bit of starchy green in among everything else. Somehow it's almost worse, to be faintly reminded of the overworld up above, and to feel the lack of it. Oak leaves, and dandelions, and carrots, and birch, and every other scent that you'd taken for granted. You'd figured it'd always be there, surely. But you'll get it all back, and things were hard for awhile there, but the sun will still be shining; L'Manberg will be okay, your brother will be okay. It's going to be okay.

There's a great, terrible, devastating quiet after the bombs go off.

Somehow, it feels like it might be your fault. / You were supposed to mend the holes.

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Your name is Wilbur Soot; and it feels like Catharsis. Chekhov's gun finally fires, and in the crackle of fireworks as pained and uneasy allies turn against their own, L'Manberg goes off with a bang. You hadn't expected your father to turn up. But then: You hadn't expected to survive, either. So dear old dad runs you through with a sword you hand him, and you call it poetic justice. You kill your daughter, your firstborn, and so you turn to stare back up your bloodline and hang yourself on the family tree. It's a cheap trick, but then, this whole thing was flashy and obvious, anyway. You had wanted to be seen.

It was poetry, and it was as though the world bent to your whim as a hole was blown into the side of room, and sunlight hit your face once more. You were a character on a stage, and the sun your spotlight, and this was your Big Finish. You are Wilbur Soot; and you are Ozymandias; and you are king of kings, destroyer of your creation.

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The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The train tracks rattle with a train that hasn't arrived. If it ever does. If it ever does, you believe it won't stop for you. Who would come to visit you, anyway?

Maybe Tommy. And you find some mirth on your lips at that. Rueful, and it falls, soon enough. He always would follow you. You'd tried to build walls to protect him; and what sort of a leader were you? It'd been an underhanded trick, but you'd been ousted all the same, and violence begot more violence.

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For anyone seeing this post in the main tags, here (embedded link) is an updated version of this post with more writing and commentary.

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more specifically, the idea that someone else posted, that wilbur could have removed himself from the loop by leaving for utah.

(edit: the persons url is @/idkwatthehec !!)

see, i think this could go one of two ways.

one, maybe his fate was always to be from somewhere else, to appear and burn bright, so incredibly bright, but burn out fast, only to be revived months (granted, years for him) later. to eventually leave it all behind in a bittersweet goodbye. maybe there’s no real escape, maybe he’s just as much a part of this as everybody else and he has his role and he’s always going to fucking play it.

but maybe he really did remove himself from all of it. maybe he’s no longer part of the loop, and that’s why, like the original poster said, he didn’t have a room in mizu(?) from tales of the smp.

this can mean so many things.

L O A D I N G   M I S S I O N   F I L E . . .

TIER REQUIRED: TWO

LIKELY AUTHORITIES TO RESPOND: LOCAL POLICE

MISSION REPORT:

Founded in 1949, by the original Miss Mayhem, the Teen Terrors have been a staple of the villain community for decades. With members spanning the ages of 14-19, the Teen Terrors is considered a safe haven for those underage superhumans, who find themselves needing a home and a few friends to call family.

Many Teen Terrors go on to join the Collective after they turn of age, and are often idolized by those members who are still among the younger squad’s ranks. The Collective is not officially connected to the squad, but often provides it with assistance when needed.

It was earlier this week, when three senior members of the Teen Terrors reached out to the Collective, and asked for aid involving some trouble they were experiencing with a local corrupt police detective. According to the young villains’ complaint, a Detective Clive Pierce of the Vice Division, has been blackmailing the group into carrying out various illegal deeds for him, threatening their arrest should they not comply. It is their hope that the Collective can help them with the threat Detective Pierce poses.

PERSON(S) OF INTEREST:

Feline, Hematoma, Miss Mayhem: The three senior members of the Teen Terrors who reached out for help. Hematoma is a blood manipulator, Feline possesses the ability to transform into any cat species, and Miss Mayhem has the ability to learn one’s deepest secrets through a single look. All three will likely be Collective members within the next two years.

Det. Clive Pierce: Vice detective, and a recent cause of concern for the Teen Terrors. Clive has a checkered record, and appears to be continuing his past misdeeds- although this time through the Teen Terrors.