All that glitters

by 0dysseas

Summary:

After years of radio silence, con-man Wilbur Soot suddenly turns up in Quackity's opulent office, singed coat and dangerous grin in place, a plan in hand:
There's a vault full of gold and glory waiting under the MCC arena and all he needs to crack it is the right crew and Quackity's benison.
It's hard to say no to so much money, and even harder to the opportunity to finally get Dream back for what he has cost them already.

aka In a bussiness that burns those who confide in trust, Wilbur's ragtag crew is standing on a pyre waiting to be lit. Too bad that their explosive history is anything but extinguished.

Chapter 1: Quackity - Patron

Summary:

Instead of relishing in a luxurious life on a tropical island like everybody thought, Wilbur Soot shows up in Quackity's life once again. And this time, hell's coming with him.

Notes:

tw: mild manipulation, mention of past explosions, mention of character death.

The person who’s brutally shoved through the elegant doors stumbles against Quackity’s office table with a groan, keeping themselves standing only with an instinctual grip on the table’s edge. “Hello to you too, Wilbur,” Quackity grumbles and fixes the beanie on his head. “I hope you’re aware of the fact that you’re still banned from my casino.”

The criminal only scoffs, pulling at the sleeves of his worn and slightly dirty shirt, glancing quickly at the owner. “You should tell your goons to be a little more careful with your business partners, Big Q.” His long brown trench coat is slightly singed at the edges and still reeks of smoke, but Quackity has known Wilbur Soot for long enough not to ask.

Instead, he laughs, a hollow thing that’s more out of formality than amusement. “Business partners? Wilbur, old friend, you’ve officially lost it after all these years. I won’t do anything that even comes close to business with you, not after the disaster that was the L’Manburg Mission.”

 “No, Q, please, listen to me, this time it’s different, I have changed, I promise, I…”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Quackity raises a single finger, successfully shutting Wilbur up. “I appreciate the visit, man. It’s been far too long. Let’s meet outside of the casino. Maybe in that one bar everyone’s talking about, this Friday, 6 pm? How’s that sound?” He leans back in his chair, drumming a familiar beat onto his armrest. “Great. See you then. Now get out of my office before I make you .”

“No, Q, hey, that’s not…” If Quackity wouldn’t know any better, he’d say Wilbur sounds desperate. “Give me a chance, okay? I know we aren’t on the best of terms because of the whole Manburg-debacle, but…”

“I’m sorry, Wilbur.” Quackity forces a somewhat apologetic note into his voice. “But I think it’d be better if you leave now.” He turns away, dedicating himself to his paperwork again, outright ignoring the rundown man in his office.

“You’re my last hope, Quackity,” the criminal confesses silently and there’s something broken about the way he says it. “Nobody wanted anything to do with it. With me. You’re the first one to let me in in the first place.”

“Well, they were probably worried you’d blow yourself up again, you know. Property damage is a pretty serious issue.” Quackity still plays the role of the uninterested casino owner, his poker face firmly in place, but he can’t get himself to go through with his threat to escort Wilbur out. He doesn’t know how the man does it, but he has Quackity captured. Curiosity kills the cat, they say, and even if Quackity likes ducks a lot more, he has a certain feeling that this time he might have to change his spirit animal.

Wilbur’s shoulders sag and he grumbles something, dragging his hand down his face. “I won’t apologize, Q, and you know it. It was a job like any other.”

Now slightly irritated, Quackity dusts off his suit and throws Wilbur a pointed look. “Well, you could have told us that you had slightly different orders.” He exhales deeply. “Whatever. You gonna tell me what you’re planning or are you gonna stand around like a lost kid all day?”

Wilbur’s face lights up and for a second Quackity questions his decision. Somehow, it feels like he’s just made a mistake, a grave one, but he can’t pinpoint why. He ignores his gut feeling and watches as Wilbur leans against his mahogany table, a spark of something he can’t quite pinpoint in his eyes. “You’ll… You’ll let me do the job?”

“I’ll listen to what you have to say, yeah.” Quackity throws him another look. “But that doesn’t mean anything. If I don’t like your idea, I won’t sponsor you.”

Wilbur doesn’t answer, a far too bright smile etched into his face and Quackity almost regrets his decision. Then, Wilbur pulls a somewhat wrinkled stack of papers out of his coat and captures the casino owner’s attention. His eyes are sparkling when he hands the files to Quackity. “I already picked my team.”

Quackity only scans over the pages, his eyebrows rising higher and higher. He finally settles on a simple “You’re kidding, right?” And gives the papers back to their owner.

Wilbur’s grip on them tightens, but his smile doesn’t leave his face, even if it seems a little more strained than before. “Never.”

Quackity leans back, putting his feet on the table, confidently making eye contact with Wilbur. He looks unprofessional like this, but this is Wilbur and he knows how much the guy loves theatrics. And he has some theater experience himself. “Fine, fine, tell me about the job then. Let’s talk about your crew later.” The golden rings on Quackity’s fingers rattle with his broad gestures.

Wilbur inhales sharply, closing his eyes for a few seconds, seemingly pulling himself together. “The arena,” he finally confesses, flashing his teeth in an aggressive smile. “I want to go after the vault under the arena. And I’ll do it during MCC. The bet and prize money will triple the amount that’s normally in there.”

Quackity’s breath hitches. “You’re out of your mind.” He nervously checks his beanie again, then his poker face is firmly back in place. “Tell me more.”

“You could get back at Dream.” Wilbur smiles as Quackity shoots up in his seat, his bored expression forgotten, his composure abandoned. Hook, line, and sinker.

Wilbur’s a con for a reason and Quackity knows there’s no going back for him now. “Tell me, how.” They stare each other down, enemies, friends, and partners in crime for years and years.

There it is again, the Wilbur smile, dangerous and somewhat wiseass. “We get a man inside, a champion for the championship, get Dream’s ego to act up and distract everyone else with a show while we break into the vault at the same time. I’m going in as a sponsor, placing a bet against Dream. That’ll get him to place a large amount on himself. Our champion will win and we’ll get Dream’s money too, even if he always transfers it online and the vault’s never part of his transactions.”

“And why are you so sure that your guy will win?” Quackity’s fingers are tingling and he can’t get himself to sit still. This could be his opportunity to take his revenge on Dream for taking his money.

Wilbur’s grin is almost too wide now, devilish and a little crazed. “Well, we need the right guy for the job of course,” he cheers and they both look down at the files. “Do I have your permission to go on, boss?”

“Do it,” Quackity grumbles. “I want an explanation for your choices.”

Wilbur does a mocking bow, somehow looking graceful despite his long gangly limbs. “Whatever you say, Q.” He spreads the files on the desk, each of them open, the first page showing a picture and a sparse profile of the crewmember. Wilbur seems to scramble for a good candidate to go first, then he settles on the one without a picture. “Well, let’s start off with the guy-in-the-chair. Underscore, hacker, known for pulling off the impossible. No one’s ever seen the guy’s face, always uses a voice changer. Pretty darn expensive, but one of the best in business. There are some nasty rumors about him, though.”

“Rumors?” Quackity tilts his head to the side, intrigued. He’s never heard of the guy until now and he’s pretty invested in that line of work.

“Some ugly things about betrayal, trusting the wrong people, a fallout with a long-term ally. There’s also something about him getting hunted down after he’s messed with the wrong dudes. Some say he got hurt really badly, but as I’ve said, nobody knows what he looks like. He hasn’t taken up any jobs ever since, but I think I know how to get to him.”

Quackity snorts. “Great. You got the best hacker of all times, but he’s off-radar?” Wilbur rolls his eyes and Q gives in. “Fine, go on. If you want to hire a goner, that's fine by me as long as you get the job done.”

Wilbur straight-up ignores him. “Next up, our safecracker.” He points at the file right next to the hacker’s, the pictures showing a tall guy in a suit, sunglasses, and a mask, face unrecognizable. “Goes by Beloved, but everybody just calls him Ranboo. Extremely talented, just very anxious and not interested in breaking the law. Lives with his roommate in a very small apartment and only takes on jobs when money gets tight. And, who would have thought, but he’s looking for something right now. Rent suddenly went up.”

“Do you have anything to do with that?” Quackity asks, even if he feels like he already knows the answer.

Wilbur only smiles cryptically. “Of course not. Their landlord was happy with a lousy forty Subs though. I think that says a lot about the state their apartment is in.”

 “Well, that’s not worrying at all,” Quackity quips, even if he feels somewhat sympathetic towards the two of them. After all, he’s been at that point in his life, too. “Who’s next?”

Wilbur points at the file with the most “normal looking” guy out of all of the photographs. It only shows an uncomfortable-looking, tall man in a large, dark hoodie and glasses, short brown hair curling around his ears. “That, my friend, is our next MCC champion. Known as Technoblade only, something like a hitman. Extremely well-equipped and talented in potion brewing and gadget making. He can wield any weapon you name, known for his relentless nature in fights. Multiple former partners claim him to be “socially awkward”, but everyone I’ve talked to assured me multiple times that there’s no one who can beat him. For him to become our perfect champion he’ll probably need a make-over, but I already have something in mind. Something unexpected. Something anime, to be honest. Oh, that’s gonna be fun.”

“Sounds like your first unproblematic pick, Wil. You have a knack for choosing the underdogs, man.” Quackity shoots him a flashy grin, but Wilbur almost looks guilty.

“Well…” He beats around the bush. “There might be one little thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Quackity buries his head in his hands. “Come on, man, at this point just tell me. It can’t get any worse than it already is.”

“Well, there are rumors that he was the one to hunt down Underscore.” Wilbur uncomfortably scratches his neck, trying not to look too sheepish. “That’s not for sure, though, I just thought I’d put it out there for careful consideration.”

Quackity sighs, fed up with Wilbur’s antics, but he can’t help but wonder what might be if the coup works. “So, you want the guy who was almost killed in an assassination attempt to work together with his attacker and some broke goody-two-shoes?” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Fine. Go on.”

Wilbur pauses a few seconds to collect himself, then he continues. “I’ll just get the elephant in the room out of the way first. The next one retired like three years ago. Yes, this might pose a slight problem, but I’m sure I’ll sort it out.” When Quackity doesn’t interrupt him, Wilbur carries on, pointing at the file of a guy in his thirties with long blonde hair and an incredibly ugly hat. “Former architect turned escape artist. Get him the blueprints of a place and he’ll get you in and out, no questions asked. He goes by quite a few names, but his friends normally call him “Philza”. After he got his criminal record erased through a deal with the government he went into hiding, officially retiring. I think I found him though. Has a nice house, nowadays, and lives there with his wife.”

“Well, apart from the fact that it’s extremely impolite to search for someone after they’ve retired, that sounds like a good bet. Do you think you’ll get him to join your ragtag crew?” Quackity fiddles with his shirt’s collar.

“Unlikely,” Wilbur confesses, but his reckless smile says otherwise. “But I’ll need a dang miracle to get the crew together anyway.”

“Fair. That all?”

“Not yet.” Wilbur brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Of course, there’s still me, the con, the actor, the coordinator. You know me, Q, there’s not much to say about me.”

“Except for your thing to not tell your teammates the whole plan, no, there’s nothing to say about you,” Quackity grumbles.

“Oh, come on, that was one time.” Wilbur makes a scene, rolling his eyes and sighing.

“Yeah, one time where you blew up everything even remotely cared for, including yourself!” Quackity can’t keep his voice down this time, hurt creeping into his tone, even if he tries to suppress it.

Wilbur notices it nonetheless. “You cared for me? Oh, Q, that’s awfully nice of you!” He tries to sound mocking about it, nonchalant, but there’s a sincerity to his words that Quackity hasn’t expected.

For a moment’s time, they just stare at each other, each of them wondering what could have been if Wilbur hadn’t done what he’d done. “Moving on,” Quackity tries to lighten the mood. “So, you’re pitching me a job with a lot of underdogs and weirdos that are either inexperienced or off radar, great. And there’s a slim possibility that they might have each other’s throats because they know each other from a failed hit.”

“Actually.” Wilbur hesitates a split second “There’s one more guy.” He takes surprisingly long to continue. Then he points to the last file, a worn thing with the picture of a rather young, blonde boy that looks incredibly bored. “Codename Theseus, but I heard he goes by Tommy while on the job. The guy’s a menace.” He hesitates again. “Highly professional thief and a good one at that. Rumors have it he had a part in every major robbery in the last six years. There is some evidence suggesting he’s worked with Philza before, but I couldn’t find anything concrete. He’s the one to get to the vault, going through with the plan of our architect. Then, he’ll let the safecracker in, while the hacker supervises everything and our hitman plays the champion. I’ll deal with Dream. In and out, the story is all over the media, the coup of the century. So, what do you think?”

Quackity slowly looks up, searching Wil’s features for some kind of humor or the hint of a joke. “Wilbur, I hate to break it to you, man, but your Theseus guy is dead.” He points at the red, ugly stamp on the file that reads “deceased”. “Not missing in action or even retired, dead. And even you can’t bring back the dead, Wil.”

Wilbur Soot flashes Quackity a dangerous grin, a smile that sends shivers down Quackity’s spine. “Oh, well,” the criminal says, “We live in a world where death is a flexible concept.” There’s something not unlike madness in his eyes when he bends over, coming eye to eye with the casino’s owner. “After all, you’re talking to a dead man right now.”

Notes:

Heist time, baby! There will be 7 or 8 chapters in total, with every single crewmember being the POV focus of one chapter. I'm trying out a more character driven plot, although the story itself is also pretty important. We'll see how that works out. Chapters will probably be shorter than I normally write them, but this is a side project.
What did you think? Any ideas what's going to happen next? Who is your personal favorite criminal right now and why?

Chapter 2: Ranboo - Safecracker

Summary:

Opportunity comes knocking at Ranboo and Tubbo's shared apartment door. It takes the shape of the mysterious yet dangerously well-informed Wilbur Soot and he's made sure to make an offer they can't refuse.

Notes:

tw: implied panic attack, implied injury by fire, scars, mentioned blackmail

When Ranboo opens the door to aggressive knocking, they expect it to be their landlord who’s demanding their rent once again. As if he hasn’t just increased the amount by just enough so they can’t pay it anymore. Glutton.

Instead, there’s a man leaning on their doorway, a polite smile on his face, wearing a formal but clearly rundown blazer. Ranboo’s first instinct is to slam the door shut and escape through the window because the guy’s clearly up to something (and most likely an FBI agent, finally finding them after so many years off-radar). Somehow, the guy’s faster than Ranboo though, his foot moving lightning fast, blocking the door so Ranboo can’t close it anymore. “Ah, ah, ah!” He reprimands, raising both his hands in an universal gesture of surrender. “I haven’t even told you what I want yet.”

“Well, we both know it won’t be anything good,” Ranboo shoots back, desperately trying to unblock the door (i.e. kicking the man’s foot in the futile attempt to get it out). “Just leave us alone, man! We don’t want any trouble, okay?” They sound more and more desperate and they hate themselves for it.

Almost effortlessly, the guy forces the door open once again, all raised eyebrows and reserved body language. “And why do you think I’d want any trouble for you?” He asks, sounding surprisingly honest.

Ranboo scans his features for some kind of malicious pleasure or the remains of a hidden lie, but can’t find anything. “Well, what do you want, then?”

“Can I come in? It’s not… something you want to discuss in the passage, if you know what I mean.” The man pulls at his sleeves, calm but strangely determined.

“I actually have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ranboo confesses. “And I really don’t know if I want you inside my apartment.”

“Our apartment!” Tubbo calls back from the inside, a joke that’s passed between them for a few years now. He sounds happy and, as always, it helps Ranboo calm down. “Come on, Boo, let him in. You know how cold the corridor is. Do you want our visitor to catch a cold?”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I’m planning!” Ranboo shoots back, already relaxing into their usual banter.

“Well, you would catch a cold, too, big man. And you know we don’t have the stuff to cure a cold.” Tubbo clatters with their cheap ikea dishes, obviously making breakfast.”Let him in. I’m sure we can settle whatever it is he wants over a bowl of cornflakes without milk.”

Ranboo shoots the man a look, then they sigh and step aside, opening the door a little wider so the stranger can enter too. “Make yourself at home,” they grumble.

“Thank you.” Ranboo watches him carefully while he takes off his shoes and his long coat and notices how observant he seems. His glance jumps from one end of the room to the other, taking in every little detail and every scrappy corner of their apartment. He strolls deeper into their home as if he’s the one who owns it, purposefully walking right to the kitchen. His blue socks make no sound on the floorboards and somehow, that worries Ranboo.

“Huh,” he hears Tubbo say. “You didn’t tell me the poor guy in the corridor was a businessman, Ranboo!” He sounds somewhat accusatory and when Ranboo steps into the tiny kitchen, he finds the stranger sitting on the table with a bowl of dry cornflakes in front of him. 

“Would it be a problem if I were to be a businessman? Because if so, I can assure you, I’m not.” The charming smile the man offers up is in no way reassuring. When neither Ranboo nor Tubbo answer, he resorts to scooping up the cornflakes offered up to him and shoveling them into his mouth with almost alarming speed, swallowing them with the ease of someone who’s used to eating them dry.

Ranboo and Tubbo exchange a few glances, silently coming to the agreement of waiting out what the stranger has to say. They both sit down, Tubbo ending up on the other side of the table, while Ranboo cautiously takes the chair next to their visitor.

The silence is getting heavier with every clatter of the man’s spoon, while neither of the actual inhabitants of the small apartment touches their food. The bowl is almost empty when the intruder realizes he’s the only one eating and Ranboo hasn’t even taken off their mask.  Surprisingly, he seems in no way embarrassed as he puts down the bowl and leans back, twirling the cutlery between his fingers. He glances from Ranboo to Tubbo and back, his eyes only barely lingering on the patches of burnt skin that mark huge parts of the right side of Tubbo’s face, stretching over his neck and disappearing under his oversized hoodie, but it’s enough to make Tubbo look away self-consciously. They hadn’t anticipated any visitors, so he hadn’t had time to put on his usual makeup to hide the scars that cover so much of his body. The urge to bend over the table and cup their friend's face with their hands, bumping their foreheads together whispering that the silver spiderwebs and red marks only make him more beautiful is almost overwhelming, but Ranboo holds back. He does not want to give something so personal away to someone like their visitor.

As if Tubbo's discomfort is enough to shake him out of his staring, the visitor’s attention snaps back to Ranboo in an instant and they can already feel how they slump deeper into their chair, almost melting under his unwavering perusal. “Well, Beloved,” he finally says, and they flinch, their breath quickening, because where does he have that name from, how can he know, how has he found them? They exchange a panicked look with Tubbo because this situation is far too familiar and Ranboo knows their roommate well enough to spot the paleness draining his cheeks of color, knows all too well that the smell of smoke long gone is clouding his nose, knows all too well that the fear flickering in their partner's eyes is all too similar to the all-consuming flames that have eaten away at Tubbo once before.

“Seems like you’re in quite the pickle, aren’t you?” The visitor continues, either willfully ignorant of the panic of his two hosts or blissfully unaware of the implications of his visit. From the knowing glint in his eyes, he is more than aware of what he is doing. “Inflation is pushing up your cost of living and no job in sight, what a pity.” His grin looks dangerously sly when he starts rocking in their crappy kitchen chair, somehow perfectly keeping balance while also keeping the chair from breaking apart. “When I heard you were back on the market, I just couldn’t help myself to make the offer in person.”

“I never said I was coming back,” Ranboo says, keeping his voice low but leveled, pushing his panic down in favor of the poker face Tubbo has helped him train, pushing and pushing at his bubbling emotions until they feel far away and somehow disconnected from them, until they can fit them into the neat little space under his heart, lock them up and throw away the key. They find the numbness that follows comforting, even though he knows how much they’ll regret ignoring his true feelings later. “You could have saved your little stunt for someone who would actually appreciate it. I hate it when someone pokes their nose into my business, especially if that poking involves turning up on my doorstep uninvited and ruining breakfast.”

“Our doorstep.” Tubbo has seemingly found back to himself, hiding his probably shaking hands in the pocket of his hoodie, a hardened look on his face, the ice in his gaze enough to freeze the Mediterranean sea over.

The stranger doesn’t seem particularly intimidated by Tubbo’s angry staring, a delighted smile flickering over his features as he realizes that Ranboo is no longer the broke college student in whose apartment he has borderline broken into but the professional safecracker and highly valued crew member only the best-paying customers know. Somehow, they feel like that’s exactly what the intruder wanted. “The name’s Soot. Wilbur Soot. You know who I am.”

Ranboo flinches at that. If the man were anyone else, he’d take it as pure inflated ego to talk like that, to not formulate that as a question, but they do indeed know him. Everyone does. And now, they want to kick themselves for not noticing sooner. His theatrics, his way of talking, the knowledge of things he’s not supposed to know. The thin golden glasses framing his face into something more delicate while directly opposing the almost mad fire burning in his eyes, the excess, manic energy radiating off of him even when almost sitting still. It’s all there, the contradiction those who have worked with him talked about, the mysterious air, the inscrutability. It’s almost scary how accurate the stories about Wilbur S. Soot are.

Seemingly satisfied with Ranboo’s reaction, the infamous con-man leans back a little more, and once again, Ranboo is questioning how he hasn’t fallen off the chair yet. “I’m here to offer you a job. And I think you’re in no position to refuse.”

“If you’re trying to blackmail me, you’re going to fail miserably. If I were to announce my comeback, I could have anyone I want, whenever I want. I think you’re the one who’s going to have to do the bargaining.” Ranboo can feel his lips extend in a small, thin-lipped smile, his eyes crinkling just above the black and white mask they put on just before opening the door, and for the first time in this entire encounter, they are glad that they’re not wearing their usual sunglasses. “So get to groveling, Mister Soot.”

The harsh thud the chair makes when Wilbur Soot suddenly stops his rocking and leans forward does not, as it usually would, scare Ranboo into making a surprised sound. He’s always better at controlling himself when he’s Beloved, even if the panic attacks after are all the proof he needs that it’s far from healthy. “You misunderstand me,” he states, calmly. “Blackmail is far below me. I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Greed looks ugly on his face, contorting his already stretched smile into something not unlike a grimace, anticipation, or even pride written in the lines around his mouth only serving to make it more grotesque. “No more jobs. No more crappy apartments. This one coup could make you enough to never worry about money again.” He sends a carefully calculated glance in Tubbo’s direction. “In fact, it would be enough for the both of you.”

Tubbo snarls at that, knowing far too well what Soot is doing, what he’s trying to accomplish with his honeyed words. As if Ranboo doesn’t know that themselves. The problem is, though, it’s working. And all of them know it. “Don’t listen to him, ‘Boo.” Even though he tries to downplay it, Ranboo can hear the desperation in Tubbo’s voice. “There is no final job. You know that!”

Ranboo’s grip around the back of the chair tightens until the blood drains from his knuckles and he can’t help but dig his fingernails into the old wood to calm himself. “You still haven’t told me what that phenomenal job of yours is about.” It’s not quite defeat yet, but it’s far too close to agreement to soothe Tubbo’s worries. They have a deal, after all. No more jobs. No more risks. Whatever happens, they will never go back. Not after what happened to Tubbo.

It’s almost unsettling, how fast the smile that has never left his face until now vanishes as Soot gets more professional. “You’ve always wanted to be a part of MCC. This is your chance.”

Ranboo’s breath hitches. The silence that settles over their kitchen is almost tangible, and for a few seconds, they are sure the others can hear their heartbeat speeding up. “You want to go after the vault.” It comes out more like a question than a statement, but the very moment Soot nods, a terribly foreboding feeling slams into Ranboo. This is it. This is the moment that he will think back upon his entire life. This is where his fate is decided. And all they have to do is say yes.

“Nobody has ever cracked the vault,” Tubbo argues, and Ranboo has never felt worse, because, for a few seconds, they’ve forgotten that their platonic partner is still in the room. That Tubbo is still there, still desperately trying to keep them out of the trouble the criminal undoubtedly brings. “There’s no one who has even gotten close before! MCC is the best-guarded event in the history of L’Manberg and the vault is famously uncrackable. They’ll arrest you before you even set foot into the building.”

“Only if they see us coming.” The pointed look Soot shoots in Tubbo’s direction makes the young man obviously uncomfortable, but he holds eye contact. Soot's lips twitch as he, this time more openly, stares at the scar tissue on Tubbo’s cheek, skillfully conjuring up a business card out of nowhere and putting it on the table. “You would never have to break the law again,” he whispers conspiratorially in Ranboo’s general direction, but by the way his eyes flicker towards Tubbo repeatedly, they all know that this is something that appeals to both Ranboo and Tubbo.

“Get out.” Ranboo doesn’t know when Tubbo got up, the chair he sat on discarded behind him, but even though he’s still comically small, the fury radiating off of him makes him an imposing figure nonetheless. There’s murder written in his eyes as he stares Wilbur down. “Get out of our lives, Mister Soot, and never come back, or so help me Prime, I will make you regret it.”

It’s almost impressive, how well kept together Wilbur Soot appears under the burning gaze of feared hacker Underscore, how he makes it look deliberate as he stands up and shoots two of the most talented criminals of their time a small, knowing look as he leaves the kitchen, both Tubbo and Ranboo coming after him to escort him out, Ranboo especially towering over him as he slips into his shoes and dons his mantle in an almost theatrical fashion.

The icy silence is only pierced by the squeaking hinges of the door Tubbo throws open behind the criminal that has somehow managed to worm his way into their lives, and a gust of cold, sour air enters the apartment, making Wilbur Soot’s mantle drift in the breeze, flowing around him like a living, breathing being. It’s still early enough to be dark out, the winter nights almost frighteningly long, and the hallway behind the con man is illuminated only by the old flickering lights that their landlord hasn’t replaced since they were put there.

It’s almost hypnotizing, how the light plays with Soot’s features, hiding them in darkness, then catching itself in his glasses, making them look almost white and opaque, how his hair is getting entangled with the wind while its color changes from the richest brown to an almost reddish-golden tint.

He steps into their doorway without turning his back to them, ending up in almost exactly the spot he’s stood barely half an hour earlier. The smile is back on his face, even though Ranboo can’t quite remember when it found its way back onto his lips. It’s almost genuine too, this time softer, kinder than ever before, an as yet unfamiliar sincerity reflected in his dark eyes.

“The offer stands,” he says, his tone undecipherable, his stance wide open. “For the both of you.” Ranboo can feel Tubbo go rigid next to them and without a second thought, they protectively wrap an arm around him. The visitor’s smile widens. “I look forward to working with you, B.” His eyes wander to a still-frozen Tubbo. “And U.”

He does not wait for them to reply. Instead, he turns in an almost too-grand gesture, the mantle billowing behind him like a too-big shadow, and strides down their hallway with long, silent steps. 

The light flickers again.

For a single moment, it looks like there’s a halo warped around the con man’s head, yellow light illuminating his hair, his mantle, and his tall figure, making him look almost angelic, holy, and otherworldly in a way Ranboo has never seen before. 

Then the light bulb finally dies with an angry hissing sound and the darkness sinks over the corridor once again, swallowing Wilbur S. Soot whole like a shadow devouring its own origin without mercy.

Notes:

Does Wilbur repeat Quackity's "ah, ah, ah"? Yes. Is that a sign that these two were very well acquainted back in the day and started to copy each others manerisms? And is there a meaning behind him doing it still, so many years later, after their fallout? Who knows, you tell me.
Is that Tubbo backstory I wrote there? That's not even half of it, to be honest. Much more to come.
What do you think of atg!Tubbo and Ranboo? Should they trust Wilbur? Any general chapter opinions?

Techno's up next. Is it a glow-up montage? Partly, yes. The pink hair has to come from somewhere, after all.

Notes:

First impressions? What did you think?
The Wilbur POV (should the general outline come to fruition) will be the very last one, so I'm trying to characterize him through the other characters, which paints this very unreliable-narrator-esque picture of him. What are your thoughts at this point in time? Is he to be trusted? And whose POV are you the most excited for? I'm personally looking forward to Tommy.
If you have any theories about what's going to happen or what has happened in the past, leave them in the comments! Very curious as too what you guys think.

Big thank you to my beta reader Blursflames too! Couldn't have done it without you.