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He hadn't opened his mouth in a month now. As it turns out, the shadows don't make for good company. Every time he tried to stop one or force its hollow eyes to focus on his face, they simply walked through him as if he didn't exist at all. Maybe he didn't to them. Perhaps the shadows are real people somewhere, walking to their boring nine to five jobs at an insurance agency or anxiously heading to their first date, flowers in hand and a spark of love in their eye. Wilbur was nothing to them but a hidden stalker, watching this small segment of their lives take place on the concrete floor of the train platform through the foggiest window in existence.

He wished that he could hear their stories, or at least listen to their voices. The silence was peaceful, yes, and he was grateful for it most of the time. Then there were the times where the noise would break through, and all he could hear was the ringing that has plagued his ears ever since he pushed the button, or the hiss of a distant train that never arrived at its destination scraping the tracks. It made him miss the constant stream of chatter and bright smiles that flooded the streets of L'Manburg back when it was what it was supposed to be: a sanctuary from the evils of the world.

Nothing ever changed on the train platform, and it made his eyes itch. The same smoke licked the ground, the same light pricked the air, and the same stone scratched his back day after day after day after day after day after day. He spent moments that blurred into weeks on the same concrete bench, shifting left, right, upside down, diagonal, any way that was different enough to give him a unique vantage point. If he tried hard enough, he thought, maybe he would find something new to etch into his evermore detailed carving of the station made of his brain. Today he noticed that a piece of the platform edge just to his right had chipped away, leaving crumbs of stone near the dent. He carefully let each piece burn into his mind as he fidgeted with the hem of his coat.

…

…

Wilbur felt like the pebbles have stuffed themselves into his ears, deep enough that he couldn't dig them out. His eye twitched, and he was on the verge of sneezing. He launched to his feet, boots slamming into the concrete.

"Fuck!" he screamed to nothing, beginning to pace around. Smoke and shades caressed his skin as he marched through them. He touched the left wall, then made his way back to the right. The stone felt like chalk dust. He always hated the feeling of chalk dust.

"Nothing ever happens here!" Wilbur cried. He fell to the ground, leaning against the back wall and covering his face with his hands.

Silence once again crawled up his spine, but this time it only lasted for a few minutes before being interrupted by the low beat of metal against train tracks. He lowered his hands and sat up a bit straighter, looking towards the empty tunnel at the other end of the platform. A delicate yellow pinprick of light appeared in the darkness, and slowly it began to grow. The noise crescendoed along with it. It sounded like the most beautiful melody Wilbur had ever heard.

He found himself filled with excitement, scrambling to his feet and widely smiling in the direction of the sound. The train hadn't made an appearance at the station since the day Wilbur first arrived, which meant that he would finally be able to experience something relatively new. He couldn't wait to map out the exact position of each battered seat on the train, run his fingers across the aluminum that made up its shell, and swing around the poles holding up the roof. It would be so different. Just what he needed to lift his spirits, in fact.

Soon enough, the train arrived. The compartments whizzed by, blowing a harsh wind into Wilbur's face that would have stolen his beanie if he didn't clamp his hand over it. His eyes followed each one as it moved past until it finally slowed to a stop. Wilbur practically bounced on his toes, ready to launch into the car the moment the doors opened to let the shadows out.

A monotone ding rang out, then the metal doors slid to the side. Fluorescent white light shattered the red surrounding Wilbur, and he threw himself at it as shades began to spill out. He expected to faze right through them as normal, but instead, he was met with an object as solid as the walls surrounding him.

"Fuck!" A voice yelled as Wilbur stumbled back onto the platform ground. His eyes widened as he met a person's gaze for the first time in months, eyes bright yellow and disgustingly familiar. "What the hell, man?! You tryin' to kill me again or somethin'? There's a giant gap right there, dumbass."

"What are you doing here?" Wilbur asked, old resentment dripping from his voice.

Schlatt shrugged. "Hell if I know. The door out of the office was finally unlocked, so I figured, fuck it, it's boring as shit in here. I might as well see what's on the other side while I have the chance." He took a long sip of vodka straight from the bottle in his hand, eyes still locked on Wilbur. He smacked his lips as obnoxiously loud as he possibly could and sighed contentedly. "Can't say I was expecting to see you, though."

Wilbur scoffed. "Piss off. This is my space you're barging into, you know. Just get back on the train and let me enjoy my afterlife in peace, please."

The train doors suddenly slammed shut, grabbing both Wilbur and Schlatt's attention. A whistle sounded from the front compartment, and then the train began to chug forward. Schlatt turned back around, his best politician's smile plastered across his face while the train was swallowed by the tunnel piece by piece. "Ohp. Sorry. Looks like I'm stuck here for a little bit."

Wilbur groaned, leaning back against the concrete and covering his eyes with his arms. "I don't fucking deserve this."

Schlatt sat beside him, staring out onto the tracks while taking another shot. He burped, and Wilbur wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Aww, c'mon, Wilbur. We were friends at one point if I remember right."

"Yeah, that was before I realized what a manipulative, snively, drunken waste of space you are."

Schlatt snorts. "And you're a dramatic, overly emotional jackass who can't handle losing. Don't act like you're any better than me."

"Dick."

"Theatre kid."

"That's not an insult, you know."

"Have you ever met a theatre kid?"

Wilbur raised his hand and flipped him off, causing Schlatt to laugh. The two settled into silence, the only sound surrounding them being Schlatt taking a drink from the glass bottle followed by it clanking against the floor.

Drink. Swallow. Clank. Pause. Drink. Swallow. Clank. Pause. Drink. Swallow. Clank. Pause. Drink. Swallow-

Wilbur sat up and glared at Schlatt. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Schlatt sat the bottle down once again, turning to stare straight into Wilbur's eyes. "You're kidding me, right?" he deadpanned.

"No."

"Wilbur, in case you haven't noticed, I'm fucking dead. I spend all day locked in an office working out, jerking off, and drinking. And the alcohol doesn't even do anything!" He picked up the vodka and drained the liquid left inside, scowling at the empty bottle as if its very existence offended him. "Frankly, seeing you is the most exciting thing that has happened since I started imagining Quackity in a-"

"Don't finish that sentence, for the love of God," Wilbur interrupted. "I shouldn't have even asked." He buried his burning face in his hands.

"Your loss. It's real hot." He chucked the bottle towards the train tracks, letting out a loud whoop as it shattered into tiny strands of glass confetti against the concrete.

"You are absolutely insufferable."

"Yeah, yeah, that's well established. Good to know that you still don't have a single original thought in that brain of yours." He leaned back onto the ground, moving his arms behind his head and crossing his legs. Curled horns scraped against stone, but he didn't seem to care, instead letting out a content sigh. "So tell me about you. What's been going on since you bit the dust?"

I've spent every waking moment tracing this whole place inch by inch with both my fingers and eyes, Wilbur thought. I think I know it better than my own body at this point.

Countless hours have been thrown away speaking to shadows that don't or can't care to know me, but I pretend that they are my closest friends. I give them stories, both simple and great, despite the fact that they are nothing more than a passing breeze so that they can live and breathe as they move through the walls.

Sometimes I poke and prod at the open wound in my side, just to feel a different texture than stone and skin. If I press hard enough into it, I can almost pretend that Phil is still standing in front of me with the sword. It hurts in a way, but it reminds me that at least I went out with the force of a shimmering supernova rather than a decaying black dwarf star.

Other times I just lay in the smoke and pretend that I can sleep, daydreaming about L'Manburg and what I could have done to stop you, Quackity, and all the rest of them from ripping apart its very essence. My own unfinished symphony loops in my mind, and it always stops on a note that makes me uncomfortable. Yet I find myself coming back to hear it again and again because it's the last thing that I have that is truly mine. You, ever the conman, stole the rest right out of my hands while I stood still and let it happen. What a fool I was.

"Fuck you," Wilbur said.

"God, you're so rude today. I'm just trying to make friendly conversation."

"I don't want to make 'friendly conversation' with the man that destroyed my homeland."

"You really need to let the whole country thing go, you know? I won the election fair and square, you didn't. I got to have my power trip, you had your temper tantrum and got rid of it I'm guessing, and now it's done. You just need to accept that it's done because of your own actions."

"Don't you try to pin anything that happened on me," Wilbur hissed. "You killed L'Manburg and left it out to rot. I showed mercy by burying it."

Schlatt pushed himself up so he leaned on his elbows, looking at Wilbur and rolling his eyes. "Jesus Christ, you have such a hero complex. Just accept that you were a piece of shit and made a bunch of dumb decisions."

Wilbur shot to his feet, staring down at the man that took everything away from him and still had the audacity to smirk as if they were playing the old make believe games they did as children. "What the fuck do you mean?! I spent the entirety of my exile trying to figure out how the hell I could ever fix the mess that you made, made a plan, and then executed it perfectly! You forced my hand and I did what I had to do!"

Schlatt stands up, crossing his arms and meeting Wilbur's gaze with a steely one of his own. "Sure, fine, believe that. Hate my guts if that makes you feel better about yourself. I'll even admit that I was a dog shit president if you want. But you've known me for a long ass time, Wilbur, so you at least have to say that I was a damn good businessman. And as a businessman, I know when to let bygones be bygones for the mutual benefit of both parties. At the end of the day, you and I are dead, and if you're even a fraction of who you were, you're just as bored as I am. You have to admit that it would be good for us to at least be civil with each other until someone else gets sent down here so we don't go fucking insane."

Wilbur took one long step forward into Schlatt's space and punched him as hard as he could across the jaw, sending him stumbling backwards from the force of it alone. Wilbur's knuckles prickled where they had hit Schlatt's skin. It felt like satisfaction. "Don't you ever tell me what to do," Wilbur spat.

Schlatt's hand grazed the spot where Wilbur's fist had met his face, and he laughed. "Aw man, I'll never get used to not feeling shit. It reminds me of the old fistfights that would happen on SMP Live where people would just fuckin' beat each other up until they went numb. God, those were good times."

Wilbur clenched his fists at his sides, ready to step forward and beat Schlatt until he figured out how to kill someone in limbo, only to be interrupted by the familiar low beat of a train. He and Schlatt looked towards the tunnel, spotting the yellow glow of the engine light rapidly growing until the train itself moved into their line of sight moments later. The wheels screeched as the breaks brought the cars to a stop, and the doors slid open. The all to familiar shades began to flow out onto the platform.

Schlatt clapped his hand on Wilbur's shoulder and flashed him a sharp grin. "Looks like it's time for me to head out. Wouldn't want to piss you off even more than I have already. You look like your heart's about to give out." He walked through the shadows and into the train car, promptly making himself comfortable by collapsing into the old, tattered seats and covering a whole row with his legs. "See ya 'round, Virgo!" He called as the doors closed.

As the train sank back into the tunnel, Wilbur's eyes followed. It wasn't until it had entirely disappeared from all perception that he spoke again. "See you later, Bladez."

Silence settled back over the platform quickly, along with the chill of countless shadows moving through him. Somehow, though, the whole place felt a little less empty. Maybe it was the glass shards that now littered the tracks, glittering in the burning red light of the ceiling lamps above as if they were some sort of magic crystals.

Wilbur walked to the edge of the platform, sitting himself down and dangling his feet above the tracks. His eyes stayed locked on the glass, entranced by the way they refracted the light. "At least the arsehole had the decency to give me something new to look at," he muttered.

The red glint reminded him of the stars. They were always so beautiful above L'Manburg, even if their light was muted by the streetlights lining the walls. He had always thought that they glowed with hope, promising him and his friends ever brighter days ahead so long as they hung above their young nation. They had captured his attention the same way that they did when he was a child laying in Phil's arms, lulled to sleep by the low voice that whispered their stories like secrets for only him to hear, the gentle beating of wings, and the dull glow that he swore he could touch if his father would just fly a little higher in the air. Every time he fell asleep before he could ask him to. Above all, though, it reminded him of the nights spent laying on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere next to his greatest enemy, though then he was his best friend. They would smoke cigarettes, share a bottle of stolen whiskey, and laugh late into the night, covered by the unfiltered starlight that lit up the sky just for them. Their colors slowly swirled around and wrapped them in warmth as they spoke of the great future they were racing towards at breakneck speeds.

This would be the only time that Wilbur would ever be grateful that the shades had no ability to see him, because if they could, he would have to explain why he began to cry.