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When Wilbur stepped onto that train, he was holding his breath. He knew what this place was like. The purgatory that he had found himself in. It was neither kind nor merciful, and it would never send him a train just to alleviate his boredom. No, surely this was some sort of ploy—some new torture to spend his next decade in. Maybe he would step on this train and the doors would slide shut behind him and never open again. Maybe he'd just be trading one cage for another; doomed to spend eternity watching the outside world alternate between pitch-black tunnels and drab tube stations. But, frankly, after 13 plus years in this goddamn hellhole, Wilbur figured he had nothing left to lose. The smidge of hope was better than the grime on the station floor.
He watched as his tattered boots stepped slowly into the train car and when he looked up: a familiar face.
"Dream," he said. His brain was slipping sideways, startlingly off-kilter and unsure if it wanted to be relieved by the man's presence or pummel him into the ground just to feel something.
"Wilbur," the masked man said in turn. Wilbur simply nodded and, all of a sudden, the doors were closing and the train was moving and gods what the fuck was the purpose of all of this.
He did nothing but blink and, in that split second, the stiff tube benches were replaced with a deep black sky and the rocking beneath his feet ceased. In fact, he wasn't standing at all. He was laying on the ground—the chill from some stone seeping into his body through his threadbare coat. He forced himself into a seated position and looked down at his hands. They were enveloped in familiar fingerless gloves, but the tips were stained blue.
"What?" he mumbled aloud to nothing but the cawing of distant crows. He twisted around, taking in the landscape. The nearby ground was ravaged by some unknown destructive force, and the pungent scent of gunpowder permeated the fresh air. Wilbur carefully clambered to his feet. The itchy brush of harrowed wool carpet beneath his fingertips was strange. He hadn't felt anything like it in years—anything but the unyielding surface of hard tile and the waxy caress of well-worn playing cards. His eyes unfocused when he straightened to his full height, going fuzzy around the edges. He took a small stumble forward and when his vision cleared he was staring at a grave. His eyes flicked downward to an engraving. His grave.
He stared blankly at it for some time, not quite comprehending the depth of his situation. He knew he was dead. He was supposed to be dead. So, why was he here? The drone of conversation and the dull thump of blocks being placed sounded to his right. Wilbur whorled around quickly, his heart briefly pounding into overdrive. A soft "oh" was all that he could muster when he found the blue-stained, tear-stricken face of Tommy Innit staring right back at him.
Tommy inhaled shakily, a million emotions swirling in his brilliant blue eyes. "Oh no," he exhaled.
Wilbur's eyes swept around the area. To the very real buttons lining the grave. To Tubbo and the very real, strange, tall man next to him. To the very real iridescence of the stars above. And to the very real expression on Tommy's face, shocked and shuddering and horrified, as if he had just watched his brother die all over again. And the pieces snapped themselves together in his brain and, all of sudden, it was all very real.
A very real grin spread slowly across his face.
"Hello again."