Pyrotechnics (Willow X Wilson) (A Don't Starve Fanfiction)

~Prologue~

     He knew he had it this time. Hours upon hours of work he'd put into this, and he wasn't about to let it go to waste. He leaned the skinny glass tube over the top of another beaker and felt a jolt of adrenaline as its contents dropped from the lip of the glass. Not even a split second later, a large puff of black smoke enveloped his face and both jars of liquid. Wilson was disappointed- he'd failed, once again. As we wiped his face and smoothed his black locks back into place, he flopped down into his chair. He contemplated what had gone wrong, tearing at onyx strands of his hair.

     "Say, pal," a disembodied voice sang, velvety smooth. "Looks like you're having some trouble!" The voice read Wilson's very thoughts. For a moment, Wilson pinched his forearm, doing nothing but leave aching bruises on his pale skin. Wilson stood, still questioning his own sanity. He noticed that his radio was buzzing. The source of the voice- this was no coincidence. This was real, and Wilson was ecstatic at the fact that he had a chance to succeed. "I have secret knowledge I can share with you," Wilson took the radio into his hands, grinning from ear to ear. A hearty laugh could be heard through the receiver. "If you think you are ready for it." Wilson nodded frantically. "Okay then!" Wilson held the radio to the sky and closed his eyes against the brilliant light radiating from his radio. His mind was filled with equations, diagrams, ideas, and secret knowledge that the voice had provided. He grinned, a new energy flooding through his limbs. He could feel the otherworldly light around him fade- he opened his eyes, knowing he'd finally be the successful scientist he'd always wanted to be. 

     For the next few days, Wilson slept much easier. All of his experiments were working, and each success made Wilson even more eager. He spent whole days typing out new discoveries, working on his machine, or using unethical testing practices on innocent creatures. As his work neared the end, he worked faster, with more precision and guile. He had just a few more pieces to put in place- weld the metal together here, tighten a bulb there. He'd even done testing with his own blood, adding it to one of his mixtures. He'd finally finished- a tall, shiny machine, with all sorts of lights and metalworking. He stood and admired his work while simultaneously catching his breath, and the voice returned, pride evident in its tone. "Excellent!" The voice praised him. Wilson felt his own burst of pride- finally, somebody appreciated his work. "Now throw the switch." The voice demanded. Wilson thrust his hand out to obey, but hesitated. What was this machine even for? What does it do? The voice on the radio returned.

     "DO IT!" The voice boomed, making Wilson jump. All of his misgivings melted away. Why would they have given me all this knowledge, if it wasn't to help me?  Wilson placed his hand on the lever, taking a shallow breath. The pulled it downwards.

     Click.

     Immediately, gears began turning and the top of the machine extended towards the ceiling. Wilson was happy- his dreams had finally come into fruition. He was already planning what his signature for fans would be and dreamed of giving speeches about all of the knowledge he now possessed. Lightning struck outside, but Wilson didn't care. His childhood dream was coming true right before his eyes. 

     "Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" the voice bellowed. Wilson's heart lurched- he's been tricked. He stared down at the ground in shame, but two shadows of hands were circling him. He let out a scream, hoping the hands would dematerialize, but the hands were caging him. He made an attempt to flee, jumping in vain from the grasp of the shadowy hands, but he leaped short and one grabbed him by the ankle. He screamed in terror, grasping for the metal on his machine, but the shadows were holding him too tightly. He caught nothing but air in his now balled fist, and his screams were abruptly cut off as he disappeared into the floor of his small home.