Through Potions and Books it's still, you isn't it?

Chapter twenty-seven

Wilbur awoke with a gasp.

It took a while for his eyes to get used to the dim lighting. There was no proper light, only the soft red glow from the exit sign above him. Occasionally, there'd be a flickering of the light on the train rails and even rarer the brief flashing of a train's light as it passed the station at an ungodly speed.

The concrete ceiling was smiling down at him, a feral, sick kind of smile. It was mocking him. The green vines hanging from the ceiling and growing on every free spot from somewhere were laughing at him. Laughing at his failure, at his pathetic little being.

He took in another gasped breath, already feeling the familiar pressure whenever he entered Limbo. It weighed down on him, pressed uncomfortably over the worst injuries. Right now, it felt like somebody had set a barbell on top of his chest, right where his heart sat.

Everything felt heavy, his limbs were numb yet buzzing, his eyes still hadn't adjusted properly to the darkness and the dusty air made it hard for him to breathe. Eventually, the numb feeling subsided, which allowed him to get up.

With shaking arms he propped himself into a crouching position, coughing as the dry, dusty air irritated his throat. Still panting, he forced himself to his legs. Immediately, his knees buckled from the sheer pressure weighing him down, forcing him to lean against the cracked concrete wall. His fingernails scratched over the walls, splitting as they caught on to a familiar crack. It was the one he always used to support himself, fingers digging into the crack to not double over again.

He tried to take a step only to collapse immediately. Pain shot through his knees as they collided with the floor and he swore under his breath. For a moment Wilbur remained on the floor, gathering his breath and focusing on anything but the pressure that weighed him down. It felt like someone had put boulders on his shoulders. On his back. His chest. Everywhere. (Was this how Tommy had felt when the ceiling crashed down on him?)

It was painful and reminded him of the void.

Gods, he hated Limbo.

Sweat dripped from his nose. The air had gotten thicker, or rather it felt like it had. He wasn't sure whether that was actually possible or not. Though, it did feel even more suffocating now. It was hot down here, and a sudden smell of blood made bile rise up in his throat.

That was new. Usually, it only smelled like dust and rotting vines. Never like blood. Never like the distinct smell of copper.

So where-?

Wilbur looked down on himself. Immediately, he found the source of the smell.

The knife was no longer stuck in his chest, most likely staying back with his body in the mortal realm. Despite being in Limbo, despite being dead, blood kept pooling out of the stab wound. His trenchcoat was ruined, the blood would never wash out of the fabric.

Not that it mattered.

Swallowing hard, Wilbur pressed one palm against the wound. Surprisingly, he didn't feel any pain. Perhaps because of the adrenaline. Perhaps the shock. He didn't know. It didn't matter.

What truly mattered was getting out of here as fast as possible and contacting Phil. Or Techno. Or any of the heroes, Primes, even fucking Quackity would do.

They had taken Tommy. Eret had taken his Tommy. His sunshine, his hauntling, his fucking baby brother.

He gagged as the memories of the man stabbing a syringe in his brother's neck flashed in his mind. Fuck, shit, piss and balls. Gods if it weren't for this very dire situation he'd smile at the way Tommy had rubbed off on him.