Ranboo died.
There's no avoiding that fact. Ranboo is dead.
Yet somehow, he's still breathing.
He's still breathing and his heart is still beating and he can still see the looks on his friends' faces as they stare at him in shock because he's dead.
Something's different, though. He doesn't feel alive. He's dead, that's for certain. He's not sure exactly how he knows this, not that he cares how he knows. He knows that he's dead the same way he knows that the sky is blue and the grass is green and the trees are brown.
And it is exhilarating.
He had been so anxious over what seemed like nothing now. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been more relaxed, more happy, more free.
Who cares about some stupid books when you're dead? Who cares about anything? You're gonna disappear from the world anyways, why does it matter? Why does anything matter?
Being dead is the greatest feeling in the world.
"Ranboo?" Tommy sounds so uncertain. Maybe it's because of the whole Ghostbur situation, with him being different from Wilbur. Ranboo is himself, though! Right?
Ranboo is dead.
It didn't take long to come about this revelation.
One moment he's standing with Sam's sword pressed against his skin, the next he's sitting in his panic room with no way out.
He saw Ghostbur, briefly. Ghostbur was curled up on a train platform sobbing, his own tears singeing his eyes. He was covered in a bunch of tiny scratches that looked like they came from fingernails. Like he'd hurt himself only minutes before.
Ranboo wasn't on that train platform long enough to say anything to him.
And now Ranboo's, almost ironically, in his panic room. But he's also not? He isn't entirely sure. It's all very confusing, and he's never really researched what happens when you die. He knows that something is off, though. Like part of him is missing. Or is he the part that's missing?
He doesn't know. He can't think. The room is too small. He can't breathe. It feels like he's back when he went to the panic room before, right after he learned that he blew up the community house. The walls were comforting at first, but now they're closing in and he can't breathe.
He misses Tubbo. He's worried about Micheal. What happened to them? Are they okay? And what about Tommy? What if Dream kills him?
Ranboo, wrapping his arms around himself, slides down on the floor. He barely registers the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, doesn't notice when they slide down and burn his cheeks. A thought flicks across his mind for half a moment. I must be in hell.
Something's wrong with Ranboo.
Tommy could immediately tell this.
There's just something off about the way that Ranboo is acting. Especially the way he described death.
Tommy remembers dying. It was not freeing or peaceful or happy. It was dark. It was dark and- and terrifying. Even if he was only dead for a moment, he remembers that. It was fucking terrifying.
He doesn't understand how Ranboo (Ghostboo?) could be so carefree. It's unsettling. And so very unlike Ranboo that he almost thought it was a different person entirely. After a while, though, Tommy became convinced that it was indeed Ranboo. But he's still uneasy.
Because Ranboo doesn't act like this. Sure, his anxious demeanor was extremely annoying, but most importantly Ranboo cares. He cares about his friends and that's why he worries. To see him not worrying... Does that mean he doesn't care?
Tommy, shaking his head, casts his frets away for the time being. He can't afford to be distressing over Ranboo right now. Not when Dream's after him. He'll figure all that out later. He needs to build more walls.
Wilbur is confused.
He sits on the grass next the the river and deliberates.
He's been wondering for some time now how death works.
When someone dies and comes back as a ghost, are they the same person?
You'd think that Wilbur's the expert on such things-having personal experience with death and all-but he honestly has no fucking clue.
He has all of Ghostbur's memories. Ghostbur has all of his. They're the same person, aren't they? Wouldn't that make them the same person?
But, clearly, they must be different. Like two sides of the same coin or some shit? Or maybe like a reflection?
Wilbur only saw Ghostbur for a few seconds. They locked eyes as Ghostbur got off the train and he got on. There was almost an understanding between them. Wilbur almost felt a connection to him-like he was looking in a mirror. And then Wilbur broke the eye contact and sat down on the train.
Wilbur stares into the still water's surface. He stares back at him. He sees his cold, dead, brown-almost red eyes. He sees his tiredly hopeless face.
And then, suddenly, he sees another face staring back at him.
He lunges back, startled, breathing heavily. He tries to calm down. For a second, it'd almost seemed like...
Wilbur stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets. That's enough thinking for one day. He decides. Maybe he doesn't want to know. He walks away from the river before he goes mad again.
