Wilbur snapped violently into wakefulness. Less than a second passed between his eyes opening and him being on his feet, staring into the distance. Immediately, his claws came out, clicking against smooth marble beneath him. The second he noticed the makeup of the flooring beneath him, Wilbur fell back, scrabbling uselessly against the marble.

"No no, nonono," he gasped. Panic spiked in his chest as awful images raced through his head. "No no, not here, not again. I-I promised-" He couldn't breathe. Not here again. He promised himself to never walk these marble halls again. Not after what happened- the last time-

"MONKEY."

He cried out as the shadows broke away. Every inch of him expected to see Nightmare, preparing to taunt him about his past, the things he had done, the things that had happened to him-

And yet, even as the figure became clear to him, he couldn't convince himself to relax.

"I didn't call for you," Wilbur breathed. "Why- why are you here?"

"BECAUSE," the Martyr said simply, staring calmly back at the panicking prime ape. "I CALLED FOR YOU."

"Am I dead?"

The Martyr released a harsh laugh. As he did, sparks erupted from the gaping hole in his chest. "NO."

Wilbur felt his muscles begin to loosen, but he didn't entirely relax. He had never been able to see Charlie without calling for her. The same should be true for dead Survivors... or at least, this particular dead Survivor, who apparently had the ability to dream-step like her. Although... Maxwell had been able to call him to this place without Wilbur's input. Could the Martyr do the same?

"O...kay," Wilbur said slowly. "So... I'm not dead. I haven't called for anyone. Why... are you here? And why me? Why not Tyler?"

The Martyr frowned. "YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS BEEN HERE. THIS DOMAIN RECOGNIZES YOU."

Extremely intimidating.

But okay!

"AS FOR WHY I CALLED YOU HERE..." He met Wilbur's gaze steadily. "I AM AWARE THAT YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR MAXWELL'S DOOR."

"You were listening in on us?" Wilbur let out a huff. "That's not creepy at all."

The robot seemed to almost smile at that, clearly amused. "COME WITH ME, MONKEY. WE CANNOT SPEAK WHERE THEY CAN HEAR US."

Wilbur shivered at the reminder that, at the moment, they stood in Their domain. He nervously looked around, expecting to see glowing eyes watching him from the dark. To his surprise, though, it appeared as if he and the Martyr were alone.

The Martyr turned his back to Wilbur, seemingly uncaring of whether the prime ape followed or not. He was almost tempted to stay put, conflicting ideas presenting fearfully in his head. One, he didn't know the Martyr. At all. Everything he knew about him had come directly from Tyler, who could easily be considered a biased party. Who knew if the robot would be loyal to someone he barely knew? Secondly... the Martyr was dead and yet free to roam, a luxury typically only given to Them. That hinted at something much more powerful beneath the surface, something that made this Survivor distinctly different than his predecessors, and whether that was a good thing or not was still to be decided. The only exception to that rule, as far as Wilbur knew, was the Nightmare Servant, Charlie. Even the Nightmare Captor was bound to the Throne.

(Wilbur was one of very few people that knew the truth behind the supposed 'leader' of Them. The title was proof enough. The Nightmare Servant was the primary host of Nightmare, little more than a servant to the beast. The one that Nightmare took the physical form of, given the demon's lack of physical form itself. Charlie was innocent, likely the most trustworthy and respectable creature in all of the Constant. Unfortunately, as Nightmare's host, she was often forced to do horrible things in the name of the Nightmare Throne. When someone first heard her title, it was easy to assume it was her duty to serve Maxwell.

Then, you heard Maxwell's title. 'Nightmare Captor'. He was but a prisoner in his own right.

Many years ago, Wilbur and Maxwell would spend long nights playing a game dear to Maxwell. A painfully boring board game that Wilbur always lost at. One of these nights, when Wilbur had lost his King piece to Maxwell's strategies, the Captor had lifted his own piece, the white one, and turned it over in his long fingers. "The King is the most important piece on the board. The Monarch, the one you sacrifice everything for." Wilbur had nodded, unsure of where Maxwell's musings would go. "So then, Wilbur. Why is the King the most helpless?"

"No clue what you're talking about, Max," Wilbur had said, amused at the way the Captor scowled at the nickname. Even then, though, he wasn't chastised as he usually was. Instead, Maxwell had simply continued his original thought.

"The Bishop's range covers the whole of the board, though only diagonally. The Rook, front and back, side to side. The Knight is difficult to master, but its method of attack is invaluable in its unpredictability. A patriarchal game, and yet even the Queen has more power. In fact, her power is unmatched. Yet in the end, the King, the leader, the monarch, is little more than a pawn himself." With that, the Captor tossed the white King onto the ground at the foot of the Throne. Their conversation ended after that.)

"ARE YOU COMING OR NOT?" The Martyr's voice was the only thing to snap Wilbur out of his trance. He shook his head furiously, trying to erase the thoughts from his head.

"I'm coming." What did he have to lose? If he was to be betrayed, it was a long time coming. If he was to be killed, it was deserved. The only certainty he had was that the robot would not hurt Tyler, and that had to be enough for the moment.

He tried to keep his mind free as he followed the robot, but his eyes kept drifting. First, to The Martyr's feet, heavy but silent against the marble. Then, to the hole torn into his chest, still sparking intermittently. Then, to the darkness, searching for the eyes that he knew were there.

Wilbur's King fell again.

The silence was deafening. The only noise was Wilbur's padded footsteps. In the midst of Wilbur's panic, he hadn't had the opportunity to study The Martyr closely. Now, though, he could see two cords hanging from his neck, but with his back to Wilbur, he couldn't tell what was on them.

And again.

He knew this hall like the back of his hand. He didn't even hesitate to step into the darkness, knowing full well that torches would sputter to life the second he left the safety of the previous ones. At one point, the robot looked back at Wilbur as if confirming the ape was still following. A faint red light pulsed around him, rising from a red amulet hanging from the thicker of the cords. The second was more crude, less perfect, but hung with-

seashells.

Wilbur's breath hitched as he recognized it. The Martyr said nothing, only continued onward, but now Wilbur couldn't get it out of his head. The Martyr was wearing a life-giving amulet, hung proudly alongside a familiar necklace of shells.

And again.

Wilbur's breathing sounded too loud. It was too loud. Maxwell was going to hear him. Nightmare was going to hear him. He would be struck down where he stood.

("What is the point of the Pawns?" Wilbur once asked, tipping over one of the small pieces with one claw. Maxwell had scowled.

"The Pawns are everything," Maxwell had responded, his voice touched with what almost sounded like fondness. "Did you know everything about a game can be determined by the simple movements of the Pawns?"

Wilbur gave him a dubious look. The Captor smirked, resetting the board with a wave of his hand. "Your first move will almost always be a pawn. The King Pawn opening, or the Queen Pawn opening." With knobbly fingers, he tapped the respective Pawns.

"They're just fodder," Wilbur argued.

"Maybe they are," Maxwell agreed. "But they are the reason the real strength gets to the front. The Bishop." He tapped the piece. "The Rook." Then that piece. "The Knight. The Queen. The King. Cannon fodder. But invaluable.")

Fear struck Wilbur's chest as he noticed The Martyr stepping off of the path. Torches continued to follow him, but he was no longer headed in the direction of the music. That should have been a positive sign- he wouldn't have to face Maxwell, after all- but he knew exactly where this path took them.

"Wait," Wilbur interrupted. The Martyr paused, sighing.

"WHAT?" He sounded irritated.

"I can't go there." His voice cracked. "The Prison. I can't."

Something about his features softened. If he knew enough to know that They couldn't access the Prison, then he knew exactly what it was. "THERE IS NO TELLING WHAT THEY WOULD DO IF THEY HEARD OUR CONVERSATION," the robot murmured, gazing uncomfortably into the darkness. Something rippled in the shadows, and even though the eyes were not present, Wilbur was suddenly very aware that they weren't as alone as he had thought. "IT IS NOWHERE SOMEONE LIKE US SHOULD BE, BUT IT IS THE ONLY SAFETY I CAN PROVIDE."

Wilbur took a step back, shaking his head furiously. "No. I can't do it. My old companions..."

(Wilbur had been there only twice before. The first time, Charlie had brought him there to talk. She knew just as well The Martyr seemed to know that it was the only place you could get away from Them in this domain. The details of that conversation had been lost to time by now, but he had remembered the eyes staring at him. It wasn't Their eyes, no, it was the eyes of Survivors who had already failed. They whispered to each other, watching the intruders with expressions ranging from wariness to straight up hostility.

The second time, Wilbur had gone there on his own. He had charged through the darkness, risking Nightmare's wrath several times as he moved faster than the light could catch up to him. When he finally reached the invisible doorway, he had wailed desperately for Roselyn. Begging for her forgiveness. Charlie had found him like that, collapsed just inside the Prison, hours later. Sobbing and pleading. He couldn't go any further in. He knew that his old companions would be there.

Charlie basically had to drag him away. "Roselyn isn't there," Charlie had told him. "She isn't like the rest of you. She never was a Survivor. She's moved on, Wilbur. She's safe now."

Wilbur had never believed her.)

"WE CANNOT BE PICKY," The Martyr hummed, shaking his head softly. "AND NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY, THEY CANNOT HURT YOU."

The Martyr kept walking. Wilbur was barely able to force himself to follow.

"Why are you different?" Wilbur asked, desperate to break the silence threatening to consume him again. "Why are you out here and not in there?"

The deceased Survivor shrugged his shoulders without looking back. Wilbur noticed him raise one hand to toy with one of the cords around his neck, but whether it was the amulet or the shells, he couldn't tell.

"You don't know?"

"HOW WOULD I?" He responded glumly. "I MAY ROAM FREE, BUT I AM STILL A SLAVE. A SURVIVOR. THE BOTTOM OF THE RANKINGS."

"A Pawn," Wilbur murmured.

"NO."

Wilbur tipped his head, but whether The Martyr noticed or not was to be decided. He tossed his head back, glancing at Wilbur with a grim smirk. "THE OTHERS ARE THE PAWNS. WE ARE MORE."

"Has Max gotten you into that atrocious game, too?"

"ON THE CONTRARY, I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN RATHER FOND OF CHESS." There was a moment of quiet as he seemed to think, then added: "ALTHOUGH... I COULD NEVER QUITE BEAT WEBBER IN IT."

Wilbur blinked, surprised. "Tyler knows Chess?"

"A SELF-MADE MASTER, IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF." He sounded amused.

Wilbur smiled fondly at the concept. A young child beating a literal machine at a game like Chess. Now he had heard everything.

The Martyr suddenly froze, sticking one arm out to the side to stop Wilbur as well. They had reached the end of the road. Something flickered across his face as he turned to look at Wilbur, but he quickly covered it with something more determined. "ARE YOU PREPARED?"

Not 'are you ready', because they both knew that Wilbur would never be quite ready to step in there again. Just 'are you prepared'. Are you the best you can be right now?

Wilbur took a deep breath, stared at the ground, then nodded.

"GOOD."

The Prison was cold. Not a natural cold, like the air after a heavy rain or a cool cave at night. This was a still, unnatural cold, stiff and unforgiving. Sun had never touched this place. Warmth was foreign to the darkness. Wilbur could see his breath in front of him, but it was the only air movement to be found.

"Why do you need me here?" Wilbur asked, his voice small. It was barely a whisper, but it was enough for him to sense awareness on all sides. He stared straight ahead, at the damaged form of The Martyr, unwilling to try to make out any of the shapes in the cages that surrounded them.

"DID YOU KNOW," the robot mused instead of responding. "THAT YOU FOUR ARE THE LAST ONES?"

Wilbur tipped his head, about to ask for clarification, but he couldn't quite make words. He couldn't bring himself to speak freely.

"ALL OF THE OTHER SURVIVORS ARE DEAD." He flourished his arms, beckoning to the cages all around them. Wilbur's eyes barely flicked in their direction, but it was enough for him to make out some of them. An eviscerated woman. A young girl with half of her face having been brutally torn off by some beast. A man with his arms wrapped around himself, desperately trying to keep warm. "THEIR DEATHS CAME WITHIN THE FIRST YEAR. TYPICALLY AFTER THEIR FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH SOMETHING THAT WANTED TO KILL THEM."

Wilbur gulped. "Why... are you telling me this?" He whispered.

"BECAUSE," The Martyr turned his gaze down, boring into Wilbur. "DOES THAT NOT SEEM STRANGE? THAT AT EVERY TURN, IT WAS OUR GROUP THAT HELD ON? EVEN THOUGH NIGHTMARE WILL DO ANYTHING TO DESTROY IT?"

Wilbur said nothing. He couldn't think of anything else to say. The robot chuckled and shook his head.

"IGNORE ME. IT IS OFTEN DIFFICULT TO KEEP MY THOUGHTS TO MYSELF."

"You said... you said something about Maxwell's Door." Wilbur swallowed hard, trying to prevent his dry throat from cracking. "Is that why you brought me here? Where They couldn't hear?"

"YES." The Martyr nodded, flicking out one hand. "THAT IS EXACTLY WHY YOU ARE HERE. YOU SEE, MONKEY..." He paused for a moment, then corrected himself. "WILBUR." The prime ape shifted uncomfortably. "I ONCE FOUND MAXWELL'S DOOR."

Wilbur shot his gaze up, shock painting his face. He felt his mouth drop, but he couldn't quite get himself to close it. "You... you found it?"

Something shifted around us. Not Them, not here, but the eyes that watched us nonetheless. Interest sparked among their ranks. Did they understand what Maxwell's Door did? He could only imagine that the vessel of freedom was whispered around often enough, especially among the group trapped forever in cages barely big enough for them. But even then, it had to sound like a myth. After all, if they never found it, then surely it didn't exist. The Martyr, however, seemed quite confident. He nodded one short time.

"VERY SOON AFTER WE FIRST ARRIVED HERE," he began, pacing further into the room. Wilbur followed slowly after, his eyes darting from side to side in fear of one of his old companions seeing him. "I STUMBLED ACROSS SOMETHING... STRANGE. IT WAS DAMAGED, BROKEN DOWN, AND I COULD NOT ACTIVATE IT. BUT EVEN THEN, I COULD HEAR THE MUSIC IT HUMMED. WITHOUT THE ABILITY TO ACTIVATE IT, THOUGH... I SIMPLY PAID MORE ATTENTION TO THE BOOK IN FRONT OF IT. SOMETHING THAT I TOOK WITH ME... AND EVENTUALLY, BECAME A SORT OF GUIDE TO US." He looked away, staring down one of the Survivors in the cage. Nothing flickered behind his gaze, and Wilbur couldn't help but wonder if the robot felt anything for them. Pity? Regret? Guilt? Was he amused at their predicament? Or nervous about the fact that he should have been there beside them as well? "I FORGOT ABOUT THE STRUCTURE," he said, almost to himself. "IT WAS NOT THE ONLY BROKEN, DAMAGED OBJECT WE FOUND OUT THERE. I HAD NO IDEA WHAT IT WOULD BE IN THE END."

"How do you know now?" Wilbur asked. The fur on his face was damp with moisture from his chilled breath.

"I FINALLY DISCOVERED WHAT THE BOOK WAS," The Martyr responded. "THE CODEX UMBRA."

"The Codex Umbra?" Wilbur repeated. "The Shadowed Book."

He nodded. "A TOME THAT ONCE BELONGED TO MAXWELL HIMSELF."

Wilbur tapped one claw against the floor. He heard shuffling all around him as Survivors drew themselves higher, cages swinging slightly as they leaned forward to hear the conversation. Their hope was almost palpable, even though they surely knew that it would not free them from their plight. "But... you said it was broken."

"I THOUGHT IT WAS," the robot amended. "BUT THAT WAS NOT THE TRUTH." His shoulders sunk slightly as he turned to look at another one of the Survivors. "THE TRUTH IS, THE DOOR WOULD ONLY OPEN FOR YOU FOUR. I COULD NEVER CALL UPON ITS MAGIC LIKE THAT."

"Why not?"

"I WAS NEVER MEANT TO GO THROUGH IT." His voice sounded heavy as he said it, and Wilbur couldn't quite shove down the ache in his chest. Once again, the robot started toying with the shells around his neck, threading them through his fingers with a face deep in thought.

"Can you show me where it is, then?" Wilbur asked, eager to leave this depressing place behind. He hadn't seen his companions yet, but he knew they were here. He knew that they were aware of him being here. Why they hadn't said anything, cursed at him or yelled at him, he didn't know. The Martyr nodded at Wilbur's question, but hesitated before actually answering.

"YOU SHOULD SPEAK TO THEM," he said, and Wilbur almost thought he was imagining the soft tone of his voice. "IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME. THEIR ANGER HAS FADED. THEY WOULD UNDERSTAND."

"No," Wilbur said immediately, knowing full well who The Martyr was talking about. "Just get me out of here, please."

He stared at the ape for a long period of time as if waiting for him to change his mind. When Wilbur didn't, he simply extended a hand. "I CAN DO THAT."

(And when Wilbur woke up again, he would be sure to tell Tyler everything about the dream. Everything about the Door, yes, but something more personally important than that, too. He would let the boy know that his gift had been received and accepted, and that the robot now wore a necklace of seashells proudly, even in death.)