(obviously discontinued) whatever, whenever

1: the broken earth

snobbery abounds in the academic world. that said, anyone well versed in the rich tapestry of english literature will be familiar with the works of edgar allan poe - and, by extension, be acquainted with the cask of amontillado.

at a glance, this well-trodden patch of prose is a simple character study and nothing more. through the eyes of our narrator (the honourable and pleasant montresor) we see the rightful vanquishing of an entitled prick with a penchant for vintage wine.

but that's not quite the truth, is it?

wilbur soot takes a good long gander at the knife in his leg, and decides in a brilliant moment of gcse literary analysis that montresor was a grade-a twat. that, or he's going into shock from massive ongoing blood loss. there's also that.

upon reflection, he almost would have preferred montresor's basement graveyard. from his admittedly disadvantaged position, our hero's best guess is one of those soul-sucking high-rise car parks that always charge more than you have in your pocket. you know the ones. he knows the ones. all he can see is stone and sky.

those, and one more thing. the lurid crimson stain seeping through his nicest jeans. that's not a good sign. his brain skirts around the issue, avoids examining it too closely, and that's not a good sign either.

it's a third foreboding omen that he can see at all, wilbur realises with a slowness that agitates him even more than the fuckoff knife embedded in his thigh. they don't take off the hood if you're supposed to live.

adrift in a syrupy solute of frazzled nerves and nearing hemorrhagic shock, he can't even twitch to safety. the effort of trying saps him dry. his head lolls uselessly onto the concrete with a resounding thump.

needless to say, wilbur soot is not doing so well. this is the secondary location, motherfuckers, and bittenbinder is long gone.

which might be why when the call comes through it takes a moment to muster even the strength to blink. even his facial muscles are starting to slacken with steadily approaching exhaustion. absurdly, he's embarrassed by the drool.

some part of him is dimly aware that time is running out. the comforting teal overlay slides down over his vision, but before he can force his lips to move-

"fuck it, last building. i'm seeing eleventh floor, i'm seeing blue zone." vaguely he registers cooper's voice, frightening in its loudness and uncharacteristically harried. "they've blown the cameras like he said, but...madi's out. ted, leave me alone, this isn't your-soot's totally down. shot or stabbed, i think. can you try-"

he wants to say thank you so goddamn bad. it's only polite. it's a thousand slights, a thousand insults, but he's moving through molasses. every sound is dulled, except a heavy thud in his ears that won't ease. he can't identify the source.

wait. a viciously triumphant whoop cuts through the soupy air, billows through his tired miasma. it reeks of chaos and concern and adrenalin and he can finally relax. they've found him. they've found him and everything's okay.

somebody's shaking his shoulders, but he's too relaxed to tell them there's nothing to worry about. honestly, it's fine. why they can't they see that he is literally just vibing, that's the real question here.

god. he summons the strength to open his eyes, if nothing else. they close soon after of their own accord, but the last thing he sees is schlatt's worried and blood-spattered face. and won't they all just get a kick out of that?

"you weren't ready." carson is more animated in real life. that's the first thing. he moves faster, talks faster, blinks more. as for the second thing, he is unironically furious - something that wilbur has never seen before and doesn't really want to see again - and paces around his basement office with menacing purpose, visibly bristling.